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leclsrc · 1 year

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a certain romance ✴︎ cs55

genre: fluff!, humor

word count: 4.5k

A love affair is never an easy thing to keep under wraps. Or, the four times your two brothers almost catch you and Carlos together, and the one time they finally do.

notes... reader is a leclerc, one sexual allusion but it’s not bad, french that is basically translatable thru context clues

auds here... req’d, sort of twice! was gonna make this a full fledged fic but i went with the short route to keep it brief. i hope u like this anon/s :) title from a song of the same name by the arctic monkeys. also there is use of y/n which i generally don’t like using in fics bec i feel it disrupts the flow, but it wouldn’t have fit any other way so. must b all... enjoy!

If you told Carlos Sainz that he—a full grown, mature, twenty-eight-year-old man—would be tiptoeing on the balcony of a hotel in Monaco (shirtless and fully terrified, no less) eight months from now, he would laugh at you. But he’d be doing so anyway, fearing something in the room behind him rather than the alarmingly high distance he’d be possessing over the road below. He’d inhale, exhale, recites a few proverbs to keep himself calm. But now, if you told him, he would mumble something along the lines of estúpido, because really, how the hell would he get himself into that situation?

Don’t worry. He’s going to find out.

“I’m not really looking to date,” he says wisely, taking another swig of his beer. “I think racing is the number one thing on my mind. And it’s difficult to maintain a balance of both.”

Lando clears his throat, tipsy from having exhausted his drinks and then some. “Mate, quit being a pessimist. You Spaniards, I swear. That’s not necessarily true. I made it work.” He presents two thumbs, pointing them toward his beaming, dopey face.

Carlos stares. “Luisa broke up with you.”

“Right then, you arse, twist the knife,” Lando mutters exasperatedly, his thumbs drooping down and his smile dropping. Carlos can’t help but throw his head back in amusement, eking out apologies in between bouts of laughter. The younger just mocks the laugh, finishing the beer he’d been drinking.

The two are on the balcony of Lando’s flat, overlooking the expanse of Chelsea. The subject of girlfriends and looking for love had been between them for a while now, seeing as they were both single; they’d often greet each other with a Got a girlfriend yet, cabrón? And, while the conversation was generally harmless, it did tend to push Carlos into a state of introspection regarding his own love life.

“But honestly, really.” Carlos says. “I just don’t know if a girl is what I need right now. Unless somebody perfect drops on my lap.”

“I’m going to ignore how pervy that sounds—but I get it. I guess the career thing’s just the priority, huh, mate? And speaking of career”—Lando rifles through his jacket pocket and fishes his phone out—“we’re going to be late for dinner if we don’t leave in the next fifteen.”

Ah, dinner: the only reason Carlos had chartered a jet to London earlier today in the first place. Proposed out of sheer fun and then carrying on because it actually seemed like a doable idea, Lando had texted a few drivers and invited them and however-many-pluses they wished to bring to an upscale restaurant in the city as a way to get in touch.

It didn’t seem ideal, until they realized that 1. Lando, George, and Alex were already in London, and 2. Charles was with family and had a meeting there, too, and—well, at that point Carlos had basically succumbed to peer pressure and gotten on a jet straight to the UK. Lando always had a penchant for making these plans and spending the entire time making dirty jokes and/or getting tipsy and/or using his camera to take pictures of any and everyone, which really just made the dinners all the more fun.

They clean up the bottles of beer they’d drank from, and Carlos pulls his coat on by the door, still unused to the overcast British weather. “Who’s there later?”

“The boys, Arthur… Lily, Carmen. I think. I mean nobody brought their mums or whatever. That’s all of ‘em, I suppose.” Lando inspects his outfit in the mirror by the entryway and swaps out his jacket for a different one, ushering Carlos out the door and into the waiting car. Something about I’d rather be driven around than drive a pretentious sports car around the city looking like a daft prick.

They’re halfway to the restaurant, both on their phones, when Lando suddenly gasps softly and goes, “Right, and Charles’ sister is going too.”

Carlos looks up, interest piqued. He hadn’t heard much of Charles’ sister before—you’d dropped by a few races, and had always been present for the entirety of the Monaco weekend, but you weren’t engaged in racing as much as Charles’ other siblings. He’d shaken hands with you and made the polite, necessary, albeit totally rushed small talk. “Y/N,” he recounts. “Right?”

“Yessir,” Lando says, letting Drake filter through the AUX of the car. “The one in law school.”

He nods, trying to pick out specific memories. None really come to mind—it’s all introductions that repeat themselves. Hi, Carlos Sainz, Charles’ teammate. Oh, hi, I’m Charles’ sister. He faintly recounts finding you pretty, but having not seen you at the paddock for quite a while, he considers his memories dubious at best. He leans back and listens to Lando rap Rich Flex with an obnoxiously posh accent instead, and figures if he dies now, at least he wouldn’t have to keep hearing this.

The restaurant is nearer than they anticipate, so the Drake rap-along session is cut blissfully short, the pair being ushered into the private seating area, coats taken and wine served. They join George, who, at his insistence, had made the reservation in the first place even if Lando had suggested the restaurant, and Carmen.

“Charles and Albon?” Carlos asks when he takes a seat, greeting the couple.

“Charles and Arthur are on their way, but Alex is stuck in Harrods with Lily and Y/N. They got busy looking for shoes or something. Poor guy,” George says, half-laughing.

“I so wish I met up with the girls beforehand,” Carmen mopes, “the sale at Harrods is amazing.”

The conversation descends into a multitude of different topics, as they always do when Lando and George lead the way—racing (obviously), Carmen, Daniel Ricciardo even, dogs, any plans of adopting dogs, and then, because George Russell is a little shit, he says: “Feels nice being the only guy with a girlfriend at the table right now, innit?”

Carmen pinches his arm but he persists with a smile. “No, but really. You two are just about the most eligible bachelors ever and still single. What gives?”

“I for one am not into monogamy at the moment,” Lando says matter-of-factly. “I’m twenty-three, mate. I’m trying to have fun. But Mr. Almost Thirty here is a different case.”

“Ay,” Carlos gripes. “It’s not an involuntary thing. Just want to focus on racing.”

He prays then for this topic to come to a close so he won’t have to explain himself all over again, and reprieve comes in the form of Charles and Arthur entering the room. Already Charles is talking, before he even takes a seat, and Arthur is nodding along—something about how London traffic sucks, how are your streets so small, mate, oh my God Harrods is so full, Lily and Y/N have been at it for hours, poor Alex, he volunteered to stay. The guy spouts words quickly and easily, in an accent that sounds both English and French.

The rest of the wait time happens fast—Lily and Alex rush through the entrance, apologizing for being late. The lines are so long, Lily explains, taking a seat and leaving the other side empty. When her boyfriend tries to sit there, she swats him away, goes, babe, no, that’s for Y/N. So her boyfriend sits woefully across her and beside Carlos instead.

“Where is Y/N?” Charles asks. Carlos is also curious, albeit inwardly. He didn’t even know you were arriving until late, and still he hasn’t seen your face.

“Sorry, I had to check something with the valet,” a voice goes, and then you’re sliding into the seat across him.

The thing is, Carlos has been stunned before.

It’s sort of a non-negotiable when you go into such a demanding, high-risk sport. If he’s careening into another car, or the side of a circuit—obviously, it stuns him. Everything spins into slow motion for a few nerve-wracking seconds. But he’s also been stunned in all the good ways: when he can tell he’s in the lead, when he overtakes the car in front of him, when he bounds past the flag and realizes it’s a podium finish. So, yes—Carlos is fully familiar with the gut churning, belly spinning delirium of being stunned. So familiar, in fact, that he’s grown familiar with it, developed a second skin for it, welcomed it with open arms.

Which also explains the way he sees you laughing quietly at something Lily says and subsequently realizes, with apprehension and dread, that he is stunned.

—

The first time it happens is after the dinner—not just the dinner, but the drinks and the London walk that followed, accompanied by three noisy and drunk tour guides (read: Lando, George, Alex). Charles and Arthur, almost as drunk, follow the tour with loud jabs of their own, and Lily and Carmen are filming everything on their phones. You’ve been on your phone checking an email, and Carlos takes a call from his cousin, which naturally leads both you and him to trail behind the group.

So, when you’re both done taking calls and checking emails, it’s the two of you left to your own devices. You swing within the awkward few moments of deciding whether to rejoin the group or just keep trailing behind, your shoes clicking softly against the cobblestone pavement, accompaniments to Lando’s loud singing of Piano Man.

“What’d you think of the wine?” You ask, your accent sliding easy into the syllables but not losing its distinctiveness.

He pretends to ponder, even if he’d given Lando a full-scale review when they first left the restaurant, and turns back to you. “It was okay. A bit too sweet for my taste.”

“Exactly! That’s what I told Arthur, but he found it perfect. I guess kids these days just don’t have taste.”

You both laugh at your sarcastic use of “kids”, knowing you’re just two years older than your younger brother. Carlos opens his mouth to speak, trying to find footing, the perfect suave thing to say to possibly land himself in a position to flirt.

Right then, Lando reaches the crescendo of Somebody to Love (he can’t ever finish a song), and then Charles is turning around to find you and Carlos engaged in conversation. His lips stretch into a mischievous smile.

“Aye, Carlos! Back off the baby sister, mate!” He slurs, clapping Arthur on the back to catch his attention.

Arthur’s eyes narrow playfully, darting in between you both. Carlos just raises a middle finger in response, sending the brothers into unnecessarily extensive bouts of laughter. You roll your eyes, blowing a raspberry. “Putain. These fucking shitheads never leave me alone.”

George is in the middle of teaching Charles to say sod off instead of back off when Carlos purses his lips and, on a whim, turns and goes: “Is there a rule against dating drivers?”

You try and fail to hide a smile. “Hmm. None, I don’t think.”

Silence. Then you speak again, coy. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” Carlos says. London is suddenly a place of magic. “No reason at all.”

—

It’s at an afterparty, the second time it happens—and technically the first where you and Carlos actually connect properly. In hindsight, it might’ve been stupid to flirt with him in the middle of the dance floor—something he thankfully realized in the moment, taking your hand and guiding you through the throng of people into the back exit.

Nobody said first kisses had to be remarkable in the romantic sense. Sometimes they’re in seedy European alleyways, with a fist bunched into his polo and a hand on your hip. It had to happen this way, because how else would two months of beating around the bush culminate? Because even if you’re drunk, you can’t stop thinking about how much you want to kiss him again. Tomorrow morning. And the next.

You pull away, but he speaks first, voice rushed and semi-sobered. “Let’s not.”

Humming, you try to swallow the lump of distress in your throat. “Why?”

“Because,” he says, nervous now, gulping. “Because—of the bro code.”

You stare. “Is that a Spanish thing?”

“B-ro c-ode,” he says again, enunciating the syllables; the Spanish accent doesn’t go away, and neither do his hands, hot and big on your hip and waist.

You move your hand from where it’s fisted into his shirt, cupping his neck. Then you burst out laughing, much to Carlos’ confusion. “That is so not a thing,” you press, unconvinced.

“It is. Bro code. I just crossed that line, dios mio,” he says, clearly way more stressed than you are.

“Bro code isn’t upheld for boys over twenty-one,” you say haughtily. Right then, you hear Arthur’s voice through the door and it swings open a few seconds later. In the span of those moments, you shove Carlos away nervously and attempt to look like you weren’t doing anything.

Arthur’s on the phone, speaking in quick French when he sees you and Carlos at a respectable distance. He tilts the phone away, mouths What’s up?, pointing at the both of you.

“I felt like vomiting and he was nearby,” you reply, nodding. He’s out of view, exiting the alleyway within seconds and back on the phone.

You exhale, and turn back to him. “Okay, so maybe the bro code is a thing.”

He looks at you as if to say no shit. “I don’t think we should do this,” he says, but his tone betrays himself.

“Okay,” you say. “Okay.”

“Right, yes.”

A beat. “Can you kiss me again?”

—

Against all odds, you and Carlos had managed to successfully start dating under your brothers’—ergo the majority of your mutual circle’s—noses. You’d only let it slip to a few close friends and family, and in Carlos’ case, Lando, because Lord knows the guy could not keep his mouth shut for the life of him. And even if it was stressful, and it often felt like any moment would be interrupted by somebody catching the both of you on the phone, or even together, neither of you could deny how good it was.

It’s five months later—five months of pure bliss, for the most part. Save for multiple close calls, you and Carlos had enjoyed each other’s company. You’d tried to navigate how everything would work once you realized you both wanted something more out of the relationship, but neither of you wanted to deal with the hassle of your overprotective siblings yet. You’d resorted to hours of FaceTime, everyday texts, and if the world was on your side, the occasional date.

The last method is easily your favorite, you both—and when the drivers get three weeks off and Carlos spends it in Las Vegas, that’s how it happens, the third time. Carlos visits you at your hotel, relishing in the eleven-thirty emptiness of the communal area, swimming in the jacuzzi and giggling about something into Carlos’ neck. You barely remember the joke; you’re honestly just welling up with enthusiasm and an endless supply of laughs that your boyfriend is finally with you.

Your head is still dug into Carlos’ neck, laughing about something else now, when you hear faraway footsteps. Having grown used to being a pseudo-patrolman, your eyes dart up immediately, and your stomach drops when you see, seriously, of all fucking people—Charles and Arthur.

“Oh my God,” you mutter, dumbfounded. A hand wet with jacuzzi water taps frantically on your phone; sure enough, you’d gotten texts from the both of them about dropping by your hotel for drinks. “Oh my God, oh my God.”

You disembark from your position on your boyfriend’s lap, hoping the hickey he sucked onto your neck won’t be visible from meters away. Your eyes shoot up again, and they still haven’t spotted you. Holding your breath and bracing yourself, you turn to Carlos, place two hands on his shoulders, and shove him underneath the water.

They spot you then, waving enthusiastically. “Drinks!” Arthur shouts, mimicking a beer bottle with his hand. You chew your lip nervously, raising one hand and waving back.

“Don’t wait up and I’ll just meet you at the bar!” You holler, watching as they pass through the entrance at a truly leisurely pace.

Once they’re in, you haul your boyfriend up and he breathes deeply, anxious. “Puta madre.”

“I think we should tell them soon. I don’t want you literally dying just for the sake of keeping us a secret,” you say, maintaining a safe distance and constantly turning toward the entrance just in case. You reach for his hand underwater.

“It’s thrilling, actually,” he winks.

“I’m sorry if it’s a bother.” You say woefully, guilt eating at you a little bit. But he takes your hand, squeezes it among the jacuzzi bubbles.

“Nothing’s a bother with you.”

—

Charles knocks on your Monza hotel room door when it happens the fourth time, opening it once he finds it unlocked—and then freezing when he finds you buried in your duvet ’til your shoulders. You’re in your silk pajama top, arms and mouth outstretched into a yawn when your eyes meet, hair disheveled. You blink.

“Charles.” You say confusedly, letting your arms drop. “Tu vas bien?”

“Mmm, ça va.” He pauses. “Et toi?”

“Moi aussi,” you say casually. “Any reason you came into my room without waiting for me to answer the damn door?”

He smiles, as if remembering why he invaded your privacy. “Right, I came in here to ask if you’ve seen Arthur.”

“I’m clearly by myself in bed, so no,” you respond cuttingly. “Last I checked he was walking around with Lando.” The two had become fast friends after the London dinner.

Your elder brother hums, then moves to take a seat on your bed, to which you quickly reach over, grab a complimentary soap bar (on the bedside table and not the shower, which you’d found weird), and toss it square at his face. “Ah—ay! What the fuck?”

“Don’t come near me,” you say. “I’m sick.”

“Sick? What rubbish. You were literally at the paddock hours ago totally fine.”

“Don’t be daft. Not that kind of sick, you arse—”

“Not that kind of sick,” he mocks, exaggerating his accent and raising his voice a few octaves to sound like a silly version of you. He raises an accusatory finger. “You lie, you lie!”

“I am not lying,” you insist irritably, sitting up a little and cocking your brow. “Tu es insupportable!”

You slide into a flurry of angry French and Italian in your valiant efforts to defend your innocence, and Charles is infected into doing the same. Eventually the room is just filled with indistinguishable insults and scoffed phrases of merde, ah bon?, and immensely accented What thuh helliz your problem?s. You even chuck another hotel soap at him for extra measure, but he manages to catch it this time. It’s childish, like many of your petty fights born out of irritance.

“I’m on my period, you prick,” you say as a last resort, once the insults have run their sufficient course. “I couldn’t be arsed to find Arthur.” His eyes narrow, doubting you, but ultimately he admits defeat, walking back to the door to exit your room. The door’s out of view of your bed, so you brace yourself, waiting for it to open and click closed.

“You better not be harboring a fugitive in here!” He says, but only half of here is heard before the door clicks shut and drowns him out. The tension leaves your body and you heave a deep sigh, relaxing backwards and biting your lip.

The thick silk duvet flips upward and Carlos surfaces, face flushed from being in hiding for so long.

One arm is still curled around your thigh, the inner part of which is rubbed raw from his facial hair being against it. You stare at one another with dopey smiles on your faces, relieved that you’d managed to act fast and flip the huge blanket over Carlos—although he had conveniently been in that position to begin with.

“Do either of you ever shut up?”

“One more word and I’m kicking you,” you say, reaching an arm out to stroke his jaw. You smile, laughing a little. “I’m not bluffing.”

“Scary, princesa,” he teases, hauling himself up to press a lasting kiss onto your lips. You smile into it, out of relief that your nosy elder brother didn’t catch you, but also out of the way your heart swells when Carlos smiles.

—

“You’re absolutely sure it’s the right room number?”

“100% positive. 613, Y/N Leclerc.”

“And not any other Leclerc.”

“Mate, I just said Y/N. Get a grip,” Lando scoffs. “My investigative skills pay off. Still don’t understand why you couldn’t have just asked her yourself, seeing as though you two are, I dunno, dating.”

“It’s a surprise, man,” Carlos says cuttingly, facing the lobby of the Hôtel de Paris. “Alright, thanks, cábron. I’ll see you soon.”

“Get some!” The Brit whoops, and then Carlos is taking the elevator to your room.

He didn’t think of himself as much of a surprises guy, but then again—he didn’t think of himself as much as a flowers and teddy bear guy, but he’d gotten you those every month since you became official; he didn’t think of himself as much of a physical touch guy, but he was always the one initiating hugs and cuddle sessions. The list goes on.

He knocks, fiddling with the rings on his fingers.

Much to his relief, it really is you who answers, with the face of surprise he wanted out of this. Before you utter a word, he’s dipping down to kiss you, and you find yourself returning the kiss, knowing you’d lost your boyfriend’s presence for so long. It quickens fast, and Carlos wedges himself in, kicking the door closed behind him.

You pull away. “Wait, I—”

He kisses you again, and you can’t resist, laughing at his persistence. He pulls away to tug his shirt off, and that’s when you crash back to reality. “Mmmm—Carlos, this isn’t my room!”

Everything happens fast after that.

The door starts opening and Carlos hears Charles on the other side of it, talking about there was a room mix-up, Y/N, this is mine and 615 is yours—he misses the rest of the sentence, clutching his singlet to his bare chest and allowing himself to be pushed by his girlfriend out the door of the balcony. Thinking he’s safe if just for a moment, he turns, but finds he still sees the room—the curtains don't cover him enough.

And if he can see the room, he figures, the room can see him. And if the room can see him, Charles will see him when he’s fully inside.

You’re gesticulating wildly with your hands, trying to find a way to distract your brother, turning away from Carlos briefly to maybe just accept your fate. Charles shuts the door, facing you and, consequently, the balcony doors. Your heart seizes. Surely, Carlos must be there—there’s no other place left for him to hide, unless he miraculously fit his blocky, broad frame behind a random potted plant.

“Something wrong?” Charles says, and you whip around. The balcony’s blissfully empty.

“N…othing.” You say. “Nothing.”

“D’accord,” he says promptly. “So. Dinner?”

Your head spins, unable to formulate a reply. Where could Carlos have hidden?

The balcony is a bit wide, but the entirety of it is visible, and, well—Carlos is clearly not. There’s one lawn sofa, and one plant, neither of which seem to harbor your favorite Spaniard, so where the fuck is he? Because of course, he’s not stupid. Surely. He’s twenty-eight, you think.

What kind of guy would climb onto the banister of the Hôtel de Paris just to hide from his girlfriend’s older brother?

Carlos cannot believe he’s on the banister of the Hôtel de Paris just to hide from his girlfriend’s older brother.

In the scurry of it, he hadn’t even gotten properly dressed. So here he is, braving the frigid sixth-floor air and the harrowing height at which he stands, brandishing his shirt like it’s a flag and standing like he’s on a podium. He feels like he’s about to die for love. Like some Shakespearean hero.

But when he digs deep he figures he doesn’t actually mind at all. Sure, he feels like he’s on the brink of death, but he realizes it’s for you in the end, and that comforts him. He never thought he’d do this, ever, not even if he was paid, or bet on, or for a Real Madrid win. He leans back and ignores the asphalt below. He’ll stay here as long as he needs to.

“Mate, get down from there.” Carlos looks up to see Charles and Arthur going absolutely mental, even taking a few photos for good measure. Relieved, scared, and just glad his stint on the banister is over, he climbs off and pulls his shirt back on, crossing his arms. He spots you inside, smiling but also insisting they delete the incriminating evidence.

In the end, seriously? This is the reaction you and he hid from for eight months? You walk over to place yourself beside Carlos, watching your brothers. Two fools laughing at everything, each other, their sister, and her boyfriend. “Jig is up,” Charles says. “But we’ve known since you two kissed outside that club.”

You roll your eyes; clearly, you’ve already been told this information. But Carlos is slack-jawed with shock—they did all that on purpose. How fucking cheeky, really. He figures they gave Lando the wrong room number through the grapevine, too.

“But,” Charles says, wiping real tears from his eyes, “I know you love my sister, mate, so I’ll be the first to say I approve. Arthur will be the second.”

“I approve,” says Arthur dumbly.

“We approve,” they say in unison, then they’re laughing all over again. You swat both of their arms in retaliation, which causes the teasing to subside.

“Now, cábron,” Charles says gleefully, “we do have a couple of questions for you…”

You squeeze his hand. Even if he prefers the banister, your presence is comforting all the same, and he’d answer any totally unnecessary, pointless, silly question from your brothers if it means he gets to hug you again later. If you told him eight months ago he’d be this in love, he would’ve laughed in your face. But here he is anyway.

It’s comforting.

#f1 #carlos sainz #carlos sainz drabble #carlos sainz smut #carlos sainz imagines #carlos sainz fanfic #carlos sainz imagine #carlos sainz x reader #f1 x reader

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bestworstcase · 12 days

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Could you elaborate more on if Summer and gylinda (sorry if that's spelled wrong) were narrative foils? That sounds really interesting!

right so from what little we know about what glynda’s been up to since the fall of beacon is that she is, to all appearances, the ONE member of the inner circle who took a deep breath after ozpin died and kept her shit together. the others:

lionheart, already a traitor, continued to ask how high when salem said jump

ironwood exacerbated the global crisis by withdrawing his troops and closing the borders, thus inflicting deep economic pain on mantle and eroding international trust

qrow imploded and had to crawl back up from rock bottom after his faith in ozpin was destroyed

theodore refused to act until it was almost too late to prevent the crown’s coup because he was preoccupied with the more distant threat of salem

but glynda? she took point on the effort to reclaim beacon academy from the grimm and whenever she wasn’t doing that she was personally rebuilding vale. the last we see of her in v3, she’s on the brink of collapse working herself to the bone in vale. but in ‘after the fall’ she’s holding things together, even if just by her fingernails; she’s on top of it enough to have team CFVY’s academic transcripts and a letter of recommendation ready for them when they decide to apply for transfer to shade. in v4, half a year after beacon fell, port and oobleck seem optimistic about the situation at the beacon (“there is still much work to be done at the school” says busy and difficult, but the mood isn’t dire). and when we glimpse her again in v8, it’s apparent that normalcy has been restored in downtown vale; the dust shop is open for business and the streets outside are not overrun by grimm.

glynda had a hellish nightmare situation thrust into her hands as the de facto new headmistress of a fallen school and the person all of vale turned to for protection and guidance in the wake of this horrifying tragedy, and within a year she managed to pick up the pieces and restore peace and safety within the city, even if she couldn’t take back her school. that is astounding, and especially striking in context with the rest of the inner circle crumbling.

what made her different?

this is speculative. but i think that glynda, like summer rose, is a true believer in the ideals that huntsmen are supposed to uphold: compassion, mercy, cooperation, striving for peace, defending those who cannot defend themself. she trusted ozpin, but unlike the others, her loyalty was not for him but for the things he claimed to believe… so when everything fell apart and the burden of leadership landed on her shoulders, she acted in accordance with those ideals. reached out, brought people together, trusted in those who offered their help, and kept widening the circle until the great burden had been shared between many hands. and after salem razes vale? she does the same. goes to find help.

(i don’t think she told anyone about salem, but rather she put her faith in humanity’s capacity to pull together rather than try to shoulder everything herself. this is in contrast to qrow during the haven arc and ironwood, who bring new people into the loop but see the world as hopelessly divided and riven by distrust.)

if i am right about this and also on the mark with regard to summer rose, this would position them as reflections of each other: both huntresses who believe in and embody the true ideal of what they are supposed to be, both guided in their choices by this staunch moral conviction. summer discovers that she is complicit in enacting a horrific injustice and without hesitation turns around to stand with the victim against even her own family; glynda weathers a catastrophic tragedy and stands tall while every other pillar of ozpin’s circle collapses because she puts herself among the people and inspires them to keep pushing with her. both of them Do What’s Right.

which makes it very narratively compelling to juxtapose them with each other, because they are opposites—fighting on opposite sides—but they are also the same.

furthermore, summer has been holding beacon academy against glynda’s siege for the last year-and-a-half or so; either summer has been able to avoid notice during this time, in which case glynda is due to be hit by a freight train of a moment of realization, or glynda has seen her and knows that her opponent is summer rose—a woman who may once have been her student or her classmate, depending how old glynda is supposed to be, and certainly someone she knew and worked with fourteen years ago when they both believed in ozpin.

if that isn’t grounds for a very personal enmity in the vein of cinder and winter or qrow and clover, i will eat. my. hat. summer was there the night beacon fell—she’s the one who left ruby alive when she scraped cinder off the tower—fighting on the side of the grimm. she’s the one who’s been steadily drawing grimm to the school on salem’s behalf! that is glynda’s home! those were her students who died that night! and in reverse, it is almost certainly glynda who knows the secret of the vault’s location, glynda who remains steadfastly loyal to the divine cause of subjugation-or-annihilation, glynda who upholds the system summer fights to tear down. DO YOU SEE MY VISION… the disciplinarian and the revolutionary…

#mumbles in ozlem fractal also. 😐

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irisintheafterglow · 10 months

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Request for an aizawa angst to comfort fic ❤️

Safe & Sound (Aizawa Shota x you)

summary: you have a quirk that heals people as long as they focus on the people they love; it becomes a struggle when the man you love is fighting to stay alive (1.3k words)

cw: CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR LoV WAR ARC, angst to comfort, happy ending but really stressful beginning, descriptions of injuries and blood, profanity, arguing, mentions of ambulances

note: hi anon! thank you so much for your request, i hope you like it! this is my first time writing for aizawa, so my sincerest apologies in advance if he's a little ooc. also this takes place during the initial battle between the heroes and the villains after shigaraki wakes up to give a little context for when this takes place <3 thanks so much again for the request!

as always, likes/reblogs/feedback is appreciated!!

“I need you to look at me, Shota. Shota, Shota, please.” You cupped his face in both hands, urging him to stay awake. The scorching temperatures of Dabi’s wild blue fire breathe down the back of your neck and particles of dust rub against your throat, but all you can see is him. A blinding ache throbs in your forehead and your limbs were covered with scrapes from pulling people from the rubble. It didn’t matter; nothing else mattered but him.

“Stay with me, darling, stay with me.” Exhausted, bloodshot eyes blink back at you and a calloused hand brushes up to cover yours. You push your quirk to work faster, faster, but Aizawa’s fading consciousness made it difficult as you could only heal while the recipient thought about something they loved. He’d coached you through powering your quirk solely on your own thoughts, but the progress was nowhere near what was needed to heal his broken body. For his survival, you needed him to stay awake. He’d lost dangerous amounts of blood after severing his leg, and you silently cursed him for his selfless heroism. “Damn you and your commitment to justice,” you sob, voice breaking but unable to muster any tears because it would break your concentration.

“Ambulance ETA five minutes; just hold on a little longer,” Manual reports, kneeling at your side and pulling beads of sweat from your face and out of your eyes. You nod in assent and whisper your gratitude to him before he leaves again to search for survivors in the city’s rubble.

Something felt wrong from the moment you parted ways with Shota, who refused to let you accompany Team Endeavor when they raided the hospital. In all the years of your private relationship, you’d never fought over something as significant as this, so significant that you’re screaming at the top of your lungs at him. You’d shook your head in disbelief when he turned his back on you, arguing that Team Endeavor needed to have a healer with them. You’d seen the damage Nomus had done firsthand, both to the city and to the man in front of you. Frustration met indignancy in your mind like tectonic plates, slamming into each other and lacing venom in your voice.

“You don’t think I can do it, can you?”

“Stop it–”

“No, I won’t. You don’t think I’m strong enough to be out there with the pros,” you continue, hissing the word like it was wrong to have in your mouth. “God forbid you forget that I’ve healed every single one of those assholes at some time or another, whether they knew it or not. And you still think that I can’t handle this, Shota?”

He won’t look at you. He still won’t fucking look at you. “Darling–”

“Don’t ‘darling’ me. I’ve proved on two fucking thousand occasions that I can heal at a level pros need, so why don’t you think I can do it? Because you’re embarrassed by me? Because you’re embarrassed by us?” His head finally snaps to look at you, eyes glistening.

“Because I need you safe!” His blank face finally breaks, twisting in emotional anguish. “I need you safe; I need you alive. I need you to be okay because I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t.”

He’d held you so tight on the last night you spent together, like if you two just stayed there, time would stop and the morning wouldn’t come. Then, he was gone, slipping on his boots and wrapping his shoulders with binding cloth. You watched him get ready from your bed while the sky was still dark outside, and he kissed you on the forehead before walking out the door, whispering a promise to come back to you. Halfway between sleep and awake, you didn’t tell him to promise to come back in one piece.

And now, here he was, missing the lower half of a leg and still losing so much blood that the ground beneath your knees was starting to soften. Your shoes dig into the earth, tattered and bloody after your desperate sprint from the backline evacuating citizens to the heart of the conflict. You risk a look over your shoulder and see Best Jeanist straining against Gigantomachia bathed in the light of red and blue fire. The Nomus continue their assault on Best Jeanist, but you barely make out Lemillion and Nejire pushing them back. You caught flashes of blue, recognizing it as Shota’s student with the engines in his legs, and made note of a boy with a mop of green hair who looked in worse shape than his teacher.

“Ambulance! Clear out, clear out!” A hand came to your shoulder, ushering you back and away from Shota. You dodge the arms guiding you toward a separate ambulance, limping across the battlefield to the kids you recognized as Shota’s, the green-haired one, the spiky-haired blonde, and Endeavor’s youngest son; you push your quirk past its limit, conjure an image of Shota feeding a stray cat a potato chip, and heal the three boys as much as you can before paramedics catch you as you lose consciousness.

You’re awake much sooner than the rest of those involved in the battle and within hours can visit hospitals and heal others critically injured. When you receive word from Hizashi that Shota was finally conscious, God help any hospital staff that tries to stop you as you storm into the lobby and insist on seeing him. One more “Visitation is only permitted for family members, ma’am” away from throttling the lady at the front desk, someone calls your name from the hall, waving excitedly. It’s Sero, who spouts some bullshit story about being yours and Shota’s adopted son and drags you down the hall before any of that information could be verified.

“He’s in here, Miss Aizawa.”

“Oh, no, we’re not–”

“Oh, right. Well, not yet at least,” Sero smiles and then leaves you to enter Shota’s room.

And then there he is.

He’s wrapped head to toe in bandages and his eyes look a little worse for wear, but he’s alive, and the corners of his mouth turn up when he spots you frozen in the doorway.

“Hey, baby–” is all he gets out before you stumble forward and bury your face in his bandaged shoulder. His arms wrap gently around your waist and he takes a deep breath, more at ease than he had been since he woke up. You pull away slightly and scan his face through watery eyes, mentally verifying that he’s real and that he’s okay. Brushing a stray hair from his face, your fingers linger on his stubbly cheek and he leans into your touch.

“You promised to come back, but you didn’t come back in one piece, you foolish man.”

“Would you have preferred that I not come back at all–” he deadpans, but you place a finger on his mouth to shush him. “Right, touchy subject. I’m sorry, love… for everything.” His voice trails off and he looks away from you, face taut with guilt. “We lost. The heroes, the people, the students. I can’t express how angry I am at you that you dodged an ambulance and went to heal my students, and how grateful I am that you still healed me too.”

“Of course, love. And I’m sorry that I thought you didn’t believe in me. I know you do, and I’m sorry for lashing out. Plus, your students are really good kids, but if some of them are already starting to call me ‘Miss Aizawa,’ I think we might have to talk about going public with this whole thing sometime soon,” you reply, pressing your lips softly to his forehead. He closes his eyes and sighs, looking back at you with so much exhaustion in his handsome features that you wanted to murder anyone who got close. You must have looked terrible too, you realized, as Shota drew his eyebrows together in concern and moved you to lie with him on the hospital bed.

“Rest now, darling, I promise I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

“You better be, or else I’m dragging your dumbass out of the beyond and killing you myself,” you whisper before putting your head on his chest and relaxing into safety.

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

#aizawa x you #bnha x reader #mha x reader #mha x y/n #aizawa x y/n #eraserhead #aizawa shota x reader #aizawa shota x y/n #aizawa shouta

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stxrvel · 10 months

Text

two strangers (1)

summary: when bucky rescues you, you didn't think there could be a more indecent person. but as the days go by, you realize he may have a chicken heart.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

words: +6k

warnings: a lot of bad words and mentions of wounds and blood.

read this for some context! so fyi this is set in an alternate universe where mercenaries exist, but like a society, like john wick, and the avengers rescued bucky from hydra's control and all that, but he decided to keep his life in the mercenary side, taking missions to get rid of really bad people, and even though he isn't part of the society per se, he's very known by it but he doesn't care to join them.

note: hi guys! i decided to publish this in different parts, seeing that my inspiration had a big strike and yesterday i just couldn't stop writing. i think the updates will be weekly, but you'll know the exact date in the masterlist page. so i hope you like it! and know feedback is always appreciated! love you all 💜

Bucky never thought the rescue would be difficult. It was a huge house, three floors, a hundred windows and doors, with a garden that directly overlooked a wooded area. The walk to the entrance was not at all dissimilar to the ambiance of the whole area, as it was at least a forty minute walk through trees and bushes. There were about fifty people guarding each entrance and access, but Bucky knew that there would be a shift change at ten o'clock at night, at which time there would be about 25 people that he would have to face in less than 10 minutes to reach the target, and after that he would have just under two minutes to get at least ten kilometers away from the house and avoid being followed.

Except that Bucky wasn't riding the bike back to town and had a piece of a shirt pressed against the side of his abdomen from which blood was pouring out, while a couple of other bikes were following behind them and they could barely dodge the bullets.

Bucky knew he couldn't play with words again.

“Drive faster,” Bucky mumbled over the sound of the wind and bullets, barely able to hold onto the abdomen of the woman behind the wheel, whose name he couldn't remember.

“Fucking hell, I'm doing everything I can!”

Bucky peered over the woman's shoulder watching as the needle pointed to one hundred and ten kilometers per hour and raised his eyebrows. How that tiny woman was able to keep her balance and zigzag through the trees at that speed was a complete mystery.

While it was true that the bike had more speed, it was quite dangerous to increase it seeing the wooded road full of natural obstacles in front of them. So Bucky just pulled out of his right side the gun he always carried with him and started shooting at whatever he could aim at. Maybe that way he could get some leverage.

After a few minutes, Bucky began to make out the lighted streets of the city and was minimally glad that the rescue had not been a failure.

“When you take the road, turn right and then left, there you go straight ahead and increase your speed as much as you can.”

The woman barely nodded toward Bucky's words as she maneuvered through the branches and downhill slopes until she made it to the asphalt, and it was like falling off the end of a roller coaster. Bucky thought he had flown off the bike.

When the woman made the turn Bucky indicated and found a track that stretched along without a possible end, she accelerated so much that she was sure that, had she not had a helmet, she would have been out of eyelashes in seconds.

It didn't take them too long to lose the criminals following them and find the safe house where they would spend the night. Bucky felt his body still vibrating with the bike as the woman parked it in the subway parking lot. The walk to the stairs and what he rode inside the house was one big blurry moment inside his head as the adrenaline began to wear off and the pain throughout his body became more and more noticeable.

He barely remembered lying on the white couch, staining it entirely with blood and mud, and the woman in front of him trying to stop his bleeding.

You did everything in your power to stop the bleeding in the man's side. It was difficult, but you managed to get a halfway decent stitch and tried to disinfect it with what you found in the first aid kit in the house. You wrapped his abdomen with gauze and bandages as best you could and finally left him alone. He had fainted the moment you put alcohol on the wound with gauze, and you didn't know if it was because of the pain or the lack of blood. It was probably the latter, he looked like a strong guy.

A strong guy who had definitely underestimated his mission. Strong but his arrogance was a major flaw.

You had tried to arrange the whole room as you had found it, because you'd made a big mess carrying that man who weighed twice as much as he looked to the couch. In the end, cleaning up the blood was the most complicated thing.

You went to bed at dawn, after an exhaustive session in the shower. You washed your clothes by hand three times and then soaked them for at least an hour until you washed them again. You got clean clothes and changed when the first traces of azure blue began to adorn the sky.

But you stared at the ceiling for a while. Memories of what had happened in the last few days and years flooded your head and kept you moving your hands under the sheet. Restlessness, new friend. Reminiscing about it, the sound of bullets, the adrenaline rush and the blood of the man in the room almost kept you awake. But, at some point, out of exhaustion or pity, your eyes finally closed.

Bucky cursed, moving around the room. Trying to walk to the bathroom, he had dropped everything his hands had touched. And the pain in his side didn't make things any easier. He didn't know what the woman sleeping peacefully on the second floor had done, but it seemed the pain was sharper than yesterday.

As his body moved closer to the bathroom, he heard footsteps coming from the stairs. The silhouette of the woman materialized in front of him, who was trying to climb the five steps that separated him from the bathroom.

“What are you doing? You opened your wound,” Bucky observed the woman's scowl with hair standing on end like a cat in the face of an imminent threat.

He watched her in slow motion and infrared as she tried to move closer to him, decreasing the distance between them and making it difficult for him to walk to the bathroom.

The woman raised her arms to touch him, but before she could do anything, Bucky threw a swipe. She staggered, and without a second's hesitation stepped away from him.

Bucky thought he saw a hint of fear in her eyes, but it had to have been a figment of his imagination, because the next moment she was only looking at him with annoyance.

“How surly.”

“Don't get in my way.”

“I was trying to help you.”

“Standing in my way doesn't help me at all.”

“"You're bleeding again…”

“Fuck, I need to use the bathroom.”

The woman silently moved to the side. And Bucky barely glanced at her as he passed her and finally climbed the fifth step that separated him from his destination.

That was why he had stopped accepting missions like that. It was so much easier to just show up at a place to shoot someone in the forehead and then run away, he didn't have to spend days and days waiting to finish the mission. He could even do more than three in a single day, when the targets knew each other or were in the same place.

But, yes, even if it didn't seem like it, so much death at his heels was also a bit overwhelming if he was honest. He'd heard from other mercenaries, the ones who weren't so sadistic, that rescue missions were sometimes a respite to get back into the action again. Bucky had done it before, but there was always something that went wrong. And this time was no exception. Maybe he wasn't cut out to rescue people, to save them…

When he came out of the bathroom and made his way with great effort into the living room, the smell of bacon and eggs filled the room. Scattered on the dining room table were all the items he could find inside a first aid kit and there was also a bag with what appeared to be bloody gauze.

“I thought the bath swallowed you up.”

Bucky noticed when the woman came out of the kitchen wiping her hands with a white cloth. She was wearing different clothes than yesterday, white and neat, totally in contrast to the stained and dirty clothes he was wearing.

“Sit down. I need to check you over.”

“I'm fine.”

“Don't be foolish.”

Bucky shifted, willing himself to lie back down on the couch he'd woken up in. He vaguely noticed that on one side of the furniture was a bucket of water and bubbles and some sponges, one submerged and one over an edge of the couch that was bathed in blood.

“You do know there are people who clean these places?” Bucky spoke as he tried to find a way to sit down without having to bend over or exert too much force by bending his legs.

“No.”

“Well, now you know. Don't spend time cleaning these things.”

“It looks bad.”

“It's just blood… argh.”

Bucky arched as he made a very bad move and rested one of his hands on the back of the couch. He barely heard the woman sigh and then her footsteps approaching.

“No, no… I can.”

“God, what a stupid man.”

“What the fuck did you just-? Ah, ah, ahhhhh.”

The man hadn't even noticed when you came up behind him and pushed him to move before his head could process it. He fell noisily onto the couch and bit his lips to keep from moaning in pain.

“I like you better when you're quiet.”

Giving up the fight, Bucky let his body fall against the backrest and dropped his limp hands on either side of his legs. With his eyes closed, he heard a flutter of things on one side of him and guessed that the woman was digging through the things she had placed on the table. He barely had any memories of the night before when they arrived and most of them included a terrible pain that drove him into unconsciousness.

"Well, let's see…" the woman mumbled to herself and Bucky soon felt her hands moving over his bandaged abdomen.

It was instinct and he couldn't stop his left hand, metallic and dulled by the bloodstains that spread over his body, from clinging with superhuman strength to the wrists of the woman who had only intended to tend to him.

Even with his eyes closed, he heard her gasp in surprise and felt her tense in front of him. Her small hands, which had not the slightest chance before his exorbitant strength, stirred under his grip in slight movements. Without seeing her, he could tell she was so frightened she didn't know if she should keep shaking or stay still.

Bucky opened his eyes to realize that his instinct was right. The woman was pale with fright.

Sighing, the man loosened his grip until finally releasing her.

The woman fell backwards on the floor trying to get away from him.

That was the look he was used to seeing on all his victims.

Turning his head away, Bucky cleared his throat.

“Ask first next time.”

It was several seconds before the woman moved again. She had stood there, still and tense, watching him, waiting for any sudden movement to bolt. She moved closer to him on her knees, but not as close as she had been a few minutes ago. Her breathing was just beginning to become more leisurely until she finally seemed to have calmed down.

Bucky kept his gaze anywhere but on the small woman in front of him, who seemed to fear she would be swallowed alive.

“I'm going to-”

“Yes.”

That time, when the woman moved her hands back to the bandage around his abdomen, Bucky tensed, but kept his instincts to himself. He knew the woman had sensed that moment of hesitation, because she almost moved her hands away, but came closer again when nothing happened.

Thus Bucky allowed himself to be attended to, until he fell back asleep on the couch.

When the man woke up again, you had already eaten breakfast and finished washing the couch, except for the place where he was lying. You had also cleaned up the trail of blood he had left on the floor from the bathroom all the way back to the living room. You had tried to make everything in your reach neat, free of any mud or blood stains. And when you were done in the living room, you went to fix what was needed in the kitchen.

You were halfway through going to get your clothes when you heard him.

“Fuck, how the hell did you make it hurt more than it did before?”

You turned on your feet at the top of the stairs to see him as he leaned forward with a grimace.

“Maybe I wouldn't have had to double stitch you if you weren't such a moron.”

“Double stitch? Does that exist?”

“I don't know!”

“You double stitched me?”

You shrugged. “Just in case!”

“Argh… No fucking way.”

Dropping his head on the back of the couch, the man brought his right hand over his forehead in a weary gesture.

“Whatever. I left you some hot water in the shower and a rag. Try not to get your wound wet.”

He lowered his head to look at you, but you hurried on walking to the cleaning room.

That man was scary. And it was much scarier that you were in an almost-abandoned house in a ghost neighborhood alone with him. The chances were that if you shouted, no one would hear you; or if you did and someone did hear you, they would prefer to keep on walking. That's how troubled the place you were in looked.

You were surprised that your brother had sent someone like that to look for you. At least he would have made a little more effort to find someone more decent. You had to crawl to get you both out of that wrecked house, when it should've been the other way around. As you folded your clothes, you wondered where your brother had gotten that man from.

You were heading back to the room when you heard a snort down the hall. Against the alarms in your head, you approached the hallway to see towards the back, into the living room, as the man had gotten up from the couch and had walked that way about seven steps with the goal of reaching the stairs. At the pace he was going, you wondered how long it had taken him to get there. And with the winces of pain he was making, you knew it was taking all his strength not to make sudden movements.

You sighed as you dropped your clothes on the basket next to the door. That man was going to give you green gray hair.

“Let me help you,” you spoke once you were near him, at the top of the stairs.

It really wasn't that many stairs, only ten steps were separating the man from that bathroom. You didn't know why that kind of platform was there, instead of just making a flat floor for the whole house being so big, but you couldn't judge an architect's decisions.

And yet, even though it was only a few stairs, it seemed like a hundred when you had a bullet wound in your abdomen.

When you started to descend, the man said nothing, just watched you intently as your feet went one in front of the other holding onto the handrail. His deadly gaze caused you to shiver slightly because he looked like a lion about to eat a gazelle.

Still, you stopped at a safe distance.

“May I?”

The man kept his gaze on yours for a while longer, as if he had to weigh every possibility in a short time. You wonder what he saw in you that he had to be so alert. You barely reached his chin, what could you do without him stopping you two seconds before? You didn't even have the option to think of anything.

So when he sighed, you realized he had given in.

Bucky took a pleasant nap on the bed in the master bedroom when he finished showering, if anyone could call what he had done a shower. He ran a washcloth with warm water all over his body, with the tiniest amount of soap and unable to wash his hair. The woman downstairs had offered to do it for him, but Bucky didn't even consider that possibility.

Still, he felt fresh enough to really rest for a while.

And by the time he awoke, moonlight was filtering through the curtains.

It was daring to get out of bed. But it was worth it when he reached the kitchen and the smell of meat made his stomach growl loudly. He hadn't eaten anything for over twenty-four hours. He hadn't even accepted the breakfast the woman made because he still felt as if at any moment he was going to vomit up to the air.

But at that moment… at that moment….

“Ah, you finally woke up.”

“How long did I sleep?”

“About twelve hours.”

Bucky moved his head to look at the clock above the entrance to the kitchen, and yes, it was already eight o'clock at night.

“How are you feeling? How's the wound?”

The man stirred when he heard the woman's voice nearby. She had moved until she reached the kitchen entrance, not a step more, not a step less.

“It doesn't hurt as much as it did before.”

“That's good,�� the woman shook her head in a nod and walked back into the kitchen. “Sit down. You need to eat.”

Bucky obeyed silently, because dealing with food he didn't want to grumble. He heard the sound of dishes and silverware before the woman came out with two large plates in her hands. When Bucky saw what she had cooked, his mouth dropped open in surprise.

“I hope you like meat,” the woman commented in a light voice, but at Bucky's silence she began to perspire. “I also cooked a vegan option if you-”

“No,” Bucky cut her off, moving his hands to grab the silverware. “I definitely like meat.”

Bucky didn't notice how the woman's shoulders relaxed as she watched him savor each thing on his plate nor how she kept her gaze fixed on him to make sure he didn't choke on how quickly the food was being stuffed.

And when they were both finished eating, the woman pulled out a bag that had been sitting on a chair and set it on the table, bringing it closer to Bucky, but not too close.

At the man's arched eyebrow, she said, “Medication.”

Bucky's eyes lit up, but he shook his head quickly.

“Why the hell didn't you give this to me before?”

“Because there was none before.”

Bucky frowned. “And where did you get this?”

As she answered, the woman got up to pick up the dishes and carry them to the scrubber. “There's a store about five blocks from here. I had some money so I bought it. It seemed necessary.”

The woman went to grab the silverware Bucky had used, not noticing the man's steady gaze on her, when his metal hand stopped her from taking the silverware away.

She unconsciously cringed at the sudden movement, and sought the man's gaze in alarm. Bucky felt such overwhelming anger make its way inside his chest that he didn't even think twice before letting his body act first.

“You did what?”

The woman sputtered a couple of times, like a fish out of water, before replying, “I just went for meds. So you won't get the wound infected.”

“You left this house alone? Are you out of your mind?”

Bucky raised his voice as he rose suddenly from his chair. His metal hand pulled the woman's wrist and slammed it against her chest in one violent motion. She barely managed to take a deep breath before tears welled up in her eyes.

“Do you even have any idea what I had to go through to get you here? And you're telling me you walked out of this house like it was nothing? Alone?!”

Still cringing at the tone of voice Bucky was using, the woman replied shakily, “But nothing happened. I'm fine…”

“Ah! Right! And how can you be sure that no one followed you here? How can you be sure that you didn't compromise our location?”

“I swear I took a good look when I left and arrived. There was no one… There wasn't… Please just... let me go.”

Bucky pursed his lips and took one more detailed look at the woman's contracted face. He angrily let go of her.

She didn't hesitate for a second to start up the stairs.

“Just take the fucking meds,” she spat from afar, and the next thing Bucky heard was the slamming of a room door.

Staring at the empty space through which the woman had disappeared, Bucky took a few seconds to calm his breathing and emotions. Now he had to make sure they weren't going to be ambushed by surprise while he slept and the two were distracted. He could go stay all the rest of the night in the camera room after placing a motion bomb over every entrance to the house… but he was too tired to do that, and he most likely wouldn't be able to find the necessary items in that house to make those traps as invisible as possible. The only thing he could do was to sit in that armchair with a shotgun in his hands and wait. Hope that it was true that no one had followed her.

Bucky sighed. Fuck, he had to learn to manage his attitude.

His eyes fell on the bag on the table and he felt the tiniest whip of guilt inside his chest. It disappeared as quick as lightning. He picked up the bag to rummage inside to find four boxes and a piece of paper.

He shook the bag on the table and the medications fell free. He grabbed the paper with a frown and the whip of guilt returned as he read what had been written in black ink:

“Stranger,

I'm writing this note to tell you how you should take these medications.

The blue one is to prevent infection, so you should take it every 12 hours.

The red one is for pain. If it hurts too much, take it every 6 hours, and if it doesn't hurt too much, take it every 12 hours.

Yellow is an analgesic, it will most likely put you to sleep. Take it when the pain is unbearable.

And the green box is vitamins. Take one after each meal.

These boxes will last for at least a week. Hopefully by that time the wound will have healed much more.

Take them judiciously.”

Bucky stared at that piece of paper as if it were to blame for all his misfortunes. In spite of everything, the woman did try to care for his wound, even if he did nothing but reject the support she gave him.

The sound of something similar to a bell brought Bucky out of the depths of his head.

It was the satellite phone.

Bucky moved to the kitchen, where the sound was coming from. There, beside the blender, was the phone. He wondered if the woman had used it before.

He picked up the device and held it up to his ear in silence.

“Barnes?”

“Jacob.”

“Fucking shit. Why are you answering until now? I've been calling for a while now.”

So she hadn't used the phone.

“I was asleep.”

“What?”

“Long story.”

The man on the other end of the line barely took a deep breath.

“Are you with her?”

“Yes.”

“And she's okay?“”

“Yes.”

“Ah,” the man exclaimed in relief. “When are you going to bring her in?”

“You know I have to wait at least five days before I leave the house.”

“Argh, yes, yeah, right. And have you two got enough? Food? Clothes? Has she eaten well? Have you seen her take care of herself?”

“She's fine. She's more than capable of fending for herself. Stop worrying.”

“It's easy for you to ask me that when it's not your family member who was kidnapped.”

Bucky twisted his lips. “Why are you calling me and not Alejandro?”

“He left early. Seems there was a problem with the New York headquarters.”

“Ah, the troubled mercenary society.”

“Yeah, you should have seen the look on his face from these brats again,” Jacob let out a short laugh that was not reciprocated by Bucky. “Well,” he throat cleared, “let me know if there's any news.”

“Okay.”

And Bucky hung up.

His gaze lingered on the white kitchen wall before returning his attention to the colorful boxes on the dining room counter.

Fuck he was going to apologize to the woman.

You were stunned when you woke up the next morning and breakfast was ready and there was no sign of the man anywhere near the kitchen. The same thing happened at noon and at night.

You wanted to meet him somewhere to thank him, but at the same time you wanted to never see him again. However, what you thought about most was his wound and that you should've changed his bandage more than six hours ago. But the man was nowhere to be found. He would only show up to cook something and then vanish.

Still, you tried to comfort yourself with the thought that he had taken the gauze and bandages, because you couldn't find the first aid kit anywhere either.

At some point you thought that would be a good thing, not to find him even by accident for the rest of the days you had to spend in that house. You didn't think you would be able to keep up with his temper, clearly driven by emotions he couldn't control. You'd better take that time to take care of yourself and try to process everything that had happened instead of continuing to repress it, as always.

But… every time you tried to think about what had happened, what it had been like to be in that mansion in the middle of the trees, in the middle of nowhere, a suffocating sensation would make its way from your stomach to your chest and throat, and suddenly you felt short of breath. You couldn't spend more than a minute trying to cope with those emotions and memories you kept locked up in your memory because bringing them up made you feel like you were choking on air.

Maybe it was still too soon.

Yes, maybe it was.

It was already close to midnight when you finished organizing the kitchen. It seemed like the meds were kicking in if the man could spend so much time on his feet cooking and then washing dishes.

Remembering the anger that had sailed across his face the night before still gave you chills. You were trying to get that image out of your head.

You were on your way to the yard when you heard a sound down the hall. There were a couple of doors in that house that you had seen around but had no idea what was behind them, and now you were hearing a sound behind one of them.

Thinking of the man, you moved and walked to open the door, encountering stairs descending to the left and a light at the bottom of the stairs. The sound repeated, and with the door open you could also identify music.

You carefully descended and followed the hallway to the left after descending. Whatever it was you were expecting to see, a gymnasium opened up in front of your eyes. And in the middle of it all, the man, punching a large sandbag as if he didn't have a bullet wound in his abdomen.

You didn't know if you had made a noise or he had a sixth sense, but suddenly he moved his head and his eyes met yours. His expression denoted nothing but indifference and he promptly hit the bag again.

“You do know you have a large wound in your abdomen?” was the first thing you said as you stepped through the glass door.

The man didn't even turn around.

“You could open up the wound.”

“I've been here all day and nothing's happened to me.”

“Yeah, lucky you. Watch how you stretch to hit that.”

The man stopped to look at you when you got too close trying to see his injured side. Feeling prey to his intimidating stare, you backed up a few steps.

“Check it out if you want to so badly,” he turned around to face you and raised his arms waiting for you to come closer. You had barely noticed that he wasn't wearing a shirt.

“No. Did you change your bandages?”

“Yes. The wound is fine. I haven't even had to take the pills.”

You frowned at him as he went back to focusing on his sandbag. “Not even the vitamins?”

The man gave you a sidelong glance before striking again.

“Oh, c'mon,” you exclaimed in annoyance. “At least make my act of recklessness worthwhile.”

His gaze traveled to your face again, his expression incredulous and somewhat angry. He shook his head as if he didn't credit your words and went back to focusing on his blows. One after another. One, two, three, four.

“It really doesn't hurt?”

This time he hit the sack so hard with his metal arm that it flew off and crashed against the wall in a thud.

You barely cowered in place.

“Take off the bandages so you're sure.”

Again he turned his body toward you, his posture nonchalant even though his features were hard, like polished marble.

“Stop,” you raised your hands, “I'm sorry.”

The man sighed, lowering his shoulders for the first time at will. The only times you had ever seen him relaxed had been when he slept.

He began to untangle the bandages around the knuckles of his right hand as he approached the sack he had pushed out of its holder.

“What's your name?”

“Huh?”

“Are you deaf?” the man turned with a frown, but quickly turned away taking a deep breath. “What's your name?”

“Uhm… Y/N. Didn't you already know that?”

“Yes. But I'd forgotten.”

“Ah.”

“I'm sorry, Y/N.”

“Why?”

“I'm not used to… whatever it is you do,” he waved his hand vaguely as if trying to clarify a point.

“You mean help you?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Don't you get help very often?”

“I work alone. That's what I mean.”

“Ah, that makes sense.”

“Well, anyway. I'm sorry I yelled at you last night. I shouldn't have lost control.”

“Yeah…”

“And you shouldn't have gone out on your own like that. Don't ever do that again,” his accusing index finger pointed at you.

“Okay. I'm sorry.”

He sighed and turned around again to look at the sandbag on the floor. He had already removed his bandages and his knuckles looked somewhat swollen, the red color standing out against the olive of his skin. If he'd been like that all day, he must have at least some pain in that hand. You frowned watching him there, not moving.

He couldn't bend over.

Maybe he wasn't so sincere in saying it didn't hurt.

“I can lift it,” you spoke before you even thought it through.

The man, whose name you hadn't asked yet, turned to look at you with an ingrown eyebrow. You tried not to think too hard as he swept his eyes over your figure and then looked back down at the sandbag on the floor, probably taller than you and certainly heavier. But you could do it. Besides, you couldn't allow him to make that effort if there was a chance of once again opening up the wound.

When he took a step back and turned to look at you, your palms sweated. Maybe you really couldn't…

No, you could. You definitely could. It was a piece of cake.

Under his watchful eye you approached the sandbag. You looked at it with narrowed eyes, like your nemesis. You moved your arms, wanting to loosen your shoulders a bit before overexerting yourself lifting the thing, and at that moment you heard a short, thinly disguised laugh through a cough.

When you turned to see him, he kept coughing like it was nothing and turned to walk to another side of the gym.

Ha, how funny.

You turned around to focus on your task and, well, it was crunch time. You felt so determined to shut him up that you didn't even think it was the first time you'd seen an emotion other than indifference and anger in him.

You hugged the sack and gathering all your strength you moved back.

Nothing moved.

You tried again.

Nothing.

You snorted as you stood up for the fifth time and saw that the bag had barely moved less than a foot from its initial state. You rounded the object and sat down in front of it. You swung your legs over and planted your feet on the side of the bag and began to push hard.

You could move it. Not much, but you could move it.

You kept doing it until it was under the support where it had been hanging before the man's anger sent it flying. You put your head up and realized that the support was too high for you to push the bag up. It was impossible.

“Leave it,” you heard the man say.

You found him across the gym in front of you with a bottle in his hands. He took a big sip as he watched you in amusement.

Then, without a word, he moved a little to his left and pressed a button on what appeared to be a joystick. There were many other small buttons and levers that you had absolutely no idea what they could be for in a gym.

Then, you heard something over your head. You watched in amazement at what the man's button was doing.

The bastard had let you try to do something he knew was impossible for you to do, knowing that there was a stupid button that could do it for you. From the back of the gym, a sandbag was moving from the ceiling to where you were, guided by the mechanical system above your head. You barely noticed then that, in the shape of a circle, there was a kind of rail along which the brackets hanging from the ceiling moved.

You wanted to choke someone.

When you looked back at the man, he had his lips cocked in a smug smile. Damn him.

“I'm not going to offer to do anything for you again,” you exclaimed as you stood up and proudly decided to walk out of there with what little dignity you had left.

“Oh no, you should keep doing it. It's very entertaining.”

You stuck out your middle finger at him as you walked in the direction of the exit without turning to look at him. You heard more real laughter when you were far enough away.

It was quite late at night when Bucky came out of the gym. It had only been a few hours since you had left and he thought maybe he should follow in your footsteps and go rest, but for some reason he decided to stay a while longer.

On his way out, he saw the sandbag on the floor again and was too surprised by the urge he had to crack a smile. But he restrained himself.

In the house the lights were still on. It was almost midnight. Bucky had prepared dinner with the goal of getting you to eat and go to bed, because it seemed that every time you ate you had to go to sleep afterwards, even if it was just a short nap. But it looked like that wasn't going to be the case this time.

When he came into the living room he found you lying on the big couch in front of the TV on. Some news channel was playing in the background and it looked like you were deep in concentration listening because you didn't move when he approached.

“What are you doing awake still?” Bucky spoke with a frown before he could repent. “It's almost-”

You were asleep.

Bucky stopped at the side of the large piece of furniture when he saw you with your eyes closed and hugging one of the cushions, with half a sheet over your legs. Of course, it was going to be weird that you were still awake.

Bucky had always seen you walking, alert, moving around, always looking for something to occupy you. Your moments of rest were always away from him. However, looking to the front where the glass table was, Bucky quickly noticed the rag on the table and a small bucket on the floor.

So even all tired out you had been looking for something to do.

Bucky sighed shaking his head.

He took the rag resting on the neatest glass he had ever seen, along with the bucket filled with soapy water, and carried them to the laundry room where he put everything back in its place.

When you returned, you had shifted on the couch and looked like you wanted to find a position to stretch out because your body was more tilted than before.

Bucky turned off the TV which had low sound and stood in front of you on the couch.

He couldn't carry you to the bed without risking too much force that would compromise his injury and seeing how worried you had been about that earlier, he preferred to avoid straining too much. For some reason, he had the feeling that you would prefer to sleep on the couch if it would keep the wound in his abdomen from opening up.

So, he opted for the safest option. He brought down some pillows from the master bedroom along with another larger, thicker sheet. He planted himself in front of you thinking about the best way to accommodate you so you wouldn't wake up sore, although the cushions on that piece of furniture weren't as hard as the ones in the dining room.

Finally he opted to follow the direction your own body was taking. He nestled a pillow over the armrest of the couch, punching it and molding it until it looked comfortable enough. Then he ran his left hand carefully down your neck and his right hand circled your shoulders until it reached your back. He moved you slightly forward keeping you stable and then began to let your body slowly fall onto the couch.

When you were lying flat, he gently pulled his left hand out and stood up. Quietly and very carefully, he removed the small cushion you were hugging, and before you could make any grimace, he rolled a larger pillow between your arms. Bucky watched you sigh in contentment.

Finally, he pulled back the small, thin blanket between your legs and arranged the large sheet he had brought that almost doubled as a bedspread. It would probably get you warm in a few seconds, but that was good, because the nights were cold in that house.

Finished with his task, Bucky nodded to himself.

It was only after he finished that he really realized what he had done. He frowned, watching your placid face as you rested comfortably.

Why had he done that, without even a second thought?

Bucky suddenly felt the need to run away. Now he wanted to undo all that because tomorrow you would wake up and surely ask questions he wouldn't know how to answer. That he wouldn't want to answer. Maybe he could play dumb and say that's how he'd found you when he'd left the gym. Surely you'd been so drunk on sleep that you hadn't even realized what you'd done.

Maybe that had happened to Bucky. Maybe he'd been so drunk on exhaustion that he hadn't realized what he was doing until he'd done it. Yes, surely.

Inside his chest he again recognized the feeling of guilt he'd had when he saw the paper you'd given him with the pills, and that only increased as he remembered he hadn't taken a single one.

It was guilt that made him move like that.

Yes, that was probably it.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes angst #bucky fic #bucky x you #bucky barnes #bucky fluff #bucky x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction

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matchnightt · 2 months

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🎸6 F1 drivers and their government assigned Mitski song🎧

Logan - I bet on losing dogs

A very obvious choice for logie bear. Fighting for his 2024 seat and not doing great in races in general. Through all of that he has this charm that makes you root for him and makes you want to see him succeed (I might be biased)

Charles - Drunk Walk Home

This is in the context of Charles’ career at Ferrari. How unlucky his is and how much he’s screwed over with failed strategies and other issues. Yet how much he’s gone through with Ferrari he still races with them.

“You know I wore this dress for you

These killer heels for you.”

Dress = famous Ferrari red suit… Killer heels = killer race car… do you see where I’m getting at.. it’s not a perfect match but can you see the vision?

Max - I don’t smoke

This is more in the context of his personal life.

“So if you need to be mean

Be mean to me

I can take it and put it inside of me.”

We all know his relationship with his father so do I need to explain? It’s not a perfect match tbh. There could be different songs that are more similar to him, but I can’t think of those right now

Lewis - Brand New City

“I think my fate is losing its patience

I think the ground is pulling me down

I think my life is losing momentum

I think my ways are wearing me down”

He’s REALLY fighting for that 8th WDC buts difficult.. also his move to Ferrari next season? His brand new team? His brand new CITY??

Daniel - My body’s made out of crushed little stars

I’m just promoting my web weave idk how to explain this one it’s just this is his song yk. “I’m not doing anything” and “I should tell them I’m not afraid to die.” Those are like things he would just say.

Carlos - Jobless Monday

I mean it’s in the title… okay besides that-

“He only loves me when there's a means he means to end. Oh, I miss when we first met. He didn't know me yet.”

He = Ferrari… (I’m reaching.. I’ve been writing this for at least an hour.. I’ve gone crazy)

⚠️these are BIG misinterpretations of mitski songs⚠️ I know they have deeper, more meaningful contexts… I’m just doing a little silly post!! Reblog or comment with mitski songs you think are similar to drivers!! I’m looking to make a part 2 and need ideas bc my brain is fried

#f1 #formula 1 #logan sargeant #charles leclerc #carlos sainz #lewis hamilton #daniel ricciardo #mitski #max verstappen #f1 shitpost #kinda #This made me insane

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homoeroticbetrayal · 1 year

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Iconic Homoerotic Betrayal: Round 1

Round 1 Directory

Context for TWEWY below. Beefleaf fans, drop your summary in the reblogs.

You play as Neku Sakuraba in this video game, who is in the Reapers' Game, fighting for survival and partnering up and with amnesia. Turns out you're dead! He doesn't remember how he died. His first partner gets taken from him so he ends up partnered with Joshua for week two. He's an asshole and rude but also has hidden depth to him, and really connects with Neku (who remembers everything EXCEPT how he died, now).

At the end of week 2! Joshua dies for you! Takes a blow to save Neku's life!

And then at the end of the game he shows up a-okay and says HEY IM THE ONE WHO KILLED YOU, I PUT YOU IN THE GAME, YOU HAVE TO SHOOT AND KILL ME OR IM GOING TO DESTROY THIS CITY YOU'VE COME TO LOVE, AND ALL YOUR FRIENDS TOO, KILL ME OR I WILL RUIN EVERYTHING

(AND NEKU DOESN'T SHOOT, AND NEKU DOESN'T KILL HIM, AND JOSH CHANGES HIS MIND BECAUSE NEKU CARED ABOUT HIM ENOUGH TO SAVE *HIM* TOO)

Josh is also very flamboyant and teases neku gayly. I love them your honor

Extended summary for Josh/Neku. Excellent read:

Okay, buckle in, because we are going on a ride. Player One: Neku Sakuraba. Dead kid extraordinaire. He woke up in the Reaper's Game, a game hosted in Shibuya's Underground, or UG (essentially the afterlife, it's a plane of existence on top of the Realground, or RG, which is the plane of the living), where freshly-dead souls partner up and compete for a second chance at life, with no absolutely no memories of who or where he was, much less how he died. Still, together with his first partner, he managed to win the Reaper's Game... but was denied a second chance.

The Conductor, who runs the Game, told them that the Composer, essentially the god of the Underground, had decided only one of them could return to life, and that was his partner, so Neku re-entered the Game for a second week in a row. Enter Player Two: Yoshiya Kiryu, but Mother and Father call him Joshua and, well, he supposes Neku can call him Joshua, too, seeing as he's his dear, dear partner. Joshua is annoying, grating, the manifestation of all of Neku's worst traits, the thing he could be if he refuses to grow, and he's constantly giggling and flirting with Neku. He's definitely hiding something, and eventually admits that he's still alive, playing the Game of his own accord. His ultimate goal is to become the Composer, as whoever defeats the current one takes their place and Joshua's status as a living Player makes him significantly more powerful. Plus there's the issue of the current Game Master, who seems to have taken an interest in Neku and causes headaches whenever he's around.

Partway through the week, Neku receives a flash of memory, the memory of his death. He was shot, and Joshua was behind the trigger. This information leaves Neku in a difficult position, as he can't win the Reaper's Game without a partner, and in fact, if his partner is erased, so is he. And he needs to win because his partner the previous week was taken as his entry fee, he's playing for her and he doesn't know what will happen to her if he loses. So he has to get along with his murderer for the rest of the week. Joshua, meanwhile, gleefully dances around the subject, never quite confirming or denying whether he killed Neku, even when confronted.

On the final day, they have to defeat the Game Master in order to win, and just before the fight, Neku receives the same flash of memory as before... but this time, it continues. Joshua pulled the trigger, but Neku didn't die. He didn't shoot Neku; just behind him lurked the Game Master, holding up a gun of his own. Joshua never killed him, Neku realized. He had spent all week distrusting his partner, when all along, he had been trying to protect him. And after they defeat the Game Master in the present, he releases one last attack, one that would certainly erase both of them. But Joshua pushes Neku out of danger, taking on the full force of the attack himself, leaving Neku alone with the guilt, of his distrust having pushed Joshua to figuratively take the bullet for him.

And once again, Neku is forced to play the Game again, but this time, he teams up with his new partner to use the clues Joshua left them with to find the Composer themself and bring an end to all this. And they do! As the city falls into chaos around them, denizens of both the UG and RG falling victim to mind control that must be the Composer's doing, Neku and his partner fight until the last day, until the only thing standing between them and the Composer Himself is the Conductor. And just as the fight is about to begin, Neku hears that familiar giggle. Joshua is alive. He calls the Conductor by name. But Neku barely has time to process this, because the Conductor fuses with Joshua for one final battle. And in the rubble of that, as the Conductor teeters at the edge of erasure, he asks Joshua what will become of the city. It turns out, one month prior, the Conductor made a deal with the Composer, who thought Shibuya had become stagnant and needed to be destroyed before its negative influence spread elsewhere. The Conductor had a month to prove that the city wasn't worthless, to turn the people into something more suitable - thus the mind control. To make it fair, the Composer decided that He was going to play with a hand-picked proxy in His place. But the Conductor failed. As he dissolves, erased, Neku finally gets to ask Joshua what's going on. "Hee hee... It was me, Neku," Joshua says. "I'm Shibuya's Composer." And Neku was his proxy. Finally, he returns Neku's memory of his death in full - the Game Master raised his gun, but he wasn't aiming at Neku, he was aiming at Joshua. And every bullet he fired was frozen mid-air, until he was turned to turn tail and flee. Then Joshua turned his gun on Neku once more, and shot him.

And now, Joshua, the Composer of Shibuya, decides to give Neku one last chance. They'll have a duel, and whoever wins gets to decide the fate of Shibuya. Neku doesn't get the chance to agree or disagree; Joshua gives him a gun, and the countdown begins. 10... 9.... Joshua raises his gun, smirking. Like he doesn't care. Like their time as partners meant nothing. 8... 7... Neku cries. He just stares at the ground, gun in his hand, and cries. 6... The sorrow turns to rage, and Neku raises the gun, aiming at Joshua with shaking hands. His eyes squeezed shut. 5... 4... He can't do it. 3... 2... Despite everything Joshua has done, despite killing Neku, lying to him, manipulating him and forcing him to play his sick Game, faking his own death, forcing Neku into this situation, planning to erase the entire city... Neku can't shoot him. Joshua is his partner. And Neku trusts him. 1. He lowers the gun. BANG. A single gunshot rings out, and Neku falls to the floor. The last thing he sees as his eyes close is Joshua's smiling face.

If you got here, know that I was very tempted to put joshneku in a threeway duel with komahina and akeshu but decided to split things up a bit.

#joshneku #beefleaf #joshua kiryu #neku sakuraba #he xuan #shi qingxuan #twewy #tgcf #polls

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holdinbacksecrets · 2 years

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Hi hi

Hope you’re doing good!

I read your hoshi boyfriend headcanons and they are so adorable and heart fluttering, I was hoping if I could request one for wonwoo and mingyu ( technically these are two requests but I just love your writing so much I can’t hold back sorry 😭)

- Taylor Swift anon

hello ts! thank you. i hope you're doing well too🖤

thank you for reading the soonyoung boyfriend things🥺 and sharing kind words! another anon requested mingyu as well, so i will be posting wonwoo's here! boyfriend things: wonwoo edition

♡tapes encouraging notes or your favorite words of affirmation around your apartment, but he throws in some funny lines too bc it’s important to hear your own laughter. his father told him it’s good for the soul

♡your favorite author is hosting a book signing downtown, and he takes you. at first, you’re too shocked to approach her, but he squeezes your hand and pulls out the bulleted list of talking points you wrote down the night before, smiling. “i promise she’ll find it endearing”

♡he takes you to the countryside to practice driving, and you end up seated criss-crossed in your spacious trunk with your head in his lap and random thoughts on your tongue

♡he joins you for the lunch you planned with your dad. he wasn’t supposed to go, but your hands were shaking as you stood in front of the bathroom mirror fixing your hair. you hadn’t seen your father in five years, but he was in the city on a business trip. your mother passed along your phone number. he holds your hand the entire time and talks when he notices the energy has left your eyes, which isn’t easy for him. he’s quieter than you, but knows what you need, can feel it too

♡you lay on the bed while he plays video games, falling asleep to the sound of remote clicking and his voice speaking into the headset, sharing words with meanings you don’t understand in this context. he’ll have to teach you, but later. you’re exhausted. as a dream nearly consumes you, you promise yourself to ask for a lesson once you’re well-rested

♡there’s a shop with notebooks, bound in vegan leather, and you go together twice a year when it’s time for a new one. the bedroom bookshelf is filled with your collections. his are all black while yours are grey

♡he asks for your opinion when he’s making difficult decisions. he asks you to listen when thoughts are overflowing and sifting through them alone feels overwhelming. you always make it visual, and seeing them written in your handwriting is not only helpful but comforting. it’s a reminder that he’s not alone, that it’s ok to rely on someone he loves and trusts

♡sometimes when he’s especially exhausted after a long day, he finds you after slipping off his shoes and lays down with his head in your lap. he reaches for your hand, guiding your fingers to his hair. he told you once it’s something he looks forward to. sometimes the thought alone makes him smile to himself. he never noticed until joshua asked

♡there’s one blue journal on your dresser, reserved for dreams. at the end of every month, it’s taken off the shelf, and you make a whole night out of sharing them. it’s created inside jokes. it’s left you blushing. it’s brought you closer. it’s made life sweeter

♡“is it strange to admit i appreciate the sky more when i’m admiring it with you? i want to point out clouds that resemble ladybugs. i want to pinch the moon between my fingers and blow its dust on your cheek. i want to text you in the mornings with distance and ask for a picture of the sky as if it’s my i love you.”

#wonwoo scenarios #wonwoo reactions #wonwoo fluff #wonwoo imagines #wonwoo blurbs #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo comfort #seventeen scenarios #seventeen reactions #seventeen blurbs #seventeen imagines #seventeen fluff #seventeen comfort #boyfriend things #taylor swift anon

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recitedemise · 4 months

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So, to experiment, I did the sacrifice ending for my origin!Gale run, and I never saw the scene explored or, well, even posted before. It offered quite a few things to think about, namely Gale's place in the afterlife and what path should lay before him.

I have so many thoughts surrounding this. Canonically, by being shown love, being shown that people care for him, that this friends hold him in high esteem simply for being the man he is, Gale would never sacrifice himself simply for Mystra's forgiveness. In fact, as I mentioned earlier on this blog and as reflected through my canon interpretation, Gale comes to battle this war within himself, for SELF forgiveness, for redemption, for understanding his value as a person, and makes it out all the better. He DOES not choose the sacrifice ending. He chooses to fight and live.

But in this angle, I like to believe, perhaps at first he might have considered sacrifice for Mystra, but in time, he realized very much what she asked of him was simply too much, too unfair, too cruel. Moreover, that choice of self-sacrifice was made as Gale thought it most logical. He looked upon the Netherbrain, saw his friends so weary, the city and the world so under duress, so battered, and thought, what is my life in exchange for everyone else's? Gale battles a lot with self worth issues, and he hides this behind a wall where he rationalizes his death in the context of sparing the heartache of those he cares for most.

This line is an interesting line. Mystra having already plucked Gale's thread from the tapestry of fate... as in, remove his essence altogether? I recall a line where Gale, if romanced and sacrificed, would say something along the lines of lingering there, there in the Weave to watch over them until the last sundering of the stars--or something to that effect. This line from Withers could be literal in that Mystra's ultimatum ultimately led to Gale removing himself from the physical world, but I can't help but to wonder if she, too, would have 'plucked his thread' from the Weave itself as well, ergo erasing the very last parts of him. Mystra doesn't strike me as particularly malicious. Absolutely cold, absolutely toxic, and absolutely callous, yes, but after promising him redemption, to but erase the lest vestiges of his Weave would seem quite the insult to injury. So, I don't believe that's the implication, BUT. It is a thought.

Another interesting line. Gale's life in his death has only just begun. I haven't yet looked into much of the afterlife in Forgotten Realms lore, but this could be something to look into. What could Gale achieve in death?

If anyone could achieve anything, even here, I wager it'd be Gale.

But what could the implication be? While Withers says this, however... the pain on Gale's face. The way he lost everything. Be that as it may, this potential for a different role or not, the idea that death is not the end is one he finds extraordinarily difficult to accept quite yet. Regardless, Gale remains very much like ambition itself, still a man with drive, dreams, desires, even there as he wades in the cold chasm of the afterlife. If there is something to be done, to achieve, to twist and make malleable in his hands, he will find a way. He cares so much for his friends, those he has left behind, those he couldn't properly say goodbye to--Gale, even here, would not content himself to simply lay and have his memory waste to the passing of the seasons. He will ease their path. He will do as best he can to protect them even with this infinite veil between them. He will long to touch them, hear them, laugh with then, but he will have to make peace that that is simply not his domain anymore. Perhaps, if yet intermingled with the Weave, he can feel the pulls of those spellcasters in the party, feel them like song, even all the way beyond. Or, perhaps, as my head likes to twist around, he does dabble more seriously in those pulls of necromancy, some sort of vessel of death, though perhaps a white one, not bitter, not angry, simply the cold touch of it, present and constant and there to lend aid when possible.

Gosh, Gale........... This was painful.

#CHARACTER EXPLORATION.#Yeah new tag. Idk what it is cuz it's not quite meta and it's too harried to be a proper headcanon. But... Wow. Lots to think bout.#Haha anyway. (reloads and has him stay alive.)

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strawberry-barista · 3 months

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"What, me? Pfft... All right. I'll tell you a little. The name's Sanae Hanekoma. Born March 4, blood type A. I'm a Pisces, and one hip café barista, mista. I'm a big gambler. My favorite word: "windfall." "Natto" gets my tummy rumbling. As for my physical dimensions. . ."

★ Disclaimer: Unlike many, I do not assign specific years to TWEWY or to my own Hanekoma and his universe. Personally I feel each game is simply a representation of the time in which it was created and do not attempt to use technology or similar context clues to determine the year. Therefore, such elements are based on whatever reads best at the time, and Hanekoma's zodiac is based on his personality. ★

⚅ — TLDR — ⚅

Sanae Hanekoma is an angel that watches over Shibuya as its acting Producer. He’s laid back and doesn’t often lose his cool, but he takes his job very seriously.

⚅ — Table of Contents — ⚅

Use this to skip ahead to information you want to read.

⚀ General Information

Name

Nicknames

Age

Date of birth

Zodiac

Gender/Pronouns

Orientation

Race/Species

Hair/Eye Color

Height

Weight

Scars

Body Modification

Style

⚀ Personality

Positive Traits

Negative Traits

General Mood

Greatest Joy

Greatest Fear

Motto

General Description

⚀ Habits and Hobbies

Likes

Dislikes

Favorites

Spending Habits

Tics

Hobbies

⚀ Background

Childhood

Adolescence

Young Adulthood

Adulthood

Death and Afterlife

⚀ Abilities

Angel

Noise

Human

⚀ Relationships

Overview

Romance

Family

Important individuals

⚀ Canon Events

No subcategories

⚀ Links

Headcanons

Musings

Desires

Aesthetics

— ★ ⚄ ★ —

⚅ — General — ⚅

⚀ Name: Sanae Hanekoma

⚀ Nicknames: Mr. H, H-Man, Fuzzface, Coffee Man, Pops, Tito

⚀ Age: 152 (physically 36)

⚀ Date of Birth: March 4

⚀ Zodiac Signs: Pisces, Wood Horse

⚀ Gender/Pronouns: Male, He/him

⚀ Orientation: Panromantic Demisexual

⚀ Race/Species: Japanese Human-ascended Angel

⚀Hair/Eye Color: Black/Black

⚀ Height: 175 cm (5'9")

⚀ Weight: 120 lbs.

⚀ Scars/Marks/Etc: Hanekoma has very small, mostly unnoticeable scars over the majority of his body from regular bumps, scrapes, and accidents that occurred during his life. One feather on his wings is smaller than the others from where it had been pulled out many times over. He has a sizable scar on his leg from being shot by Apichisi.

⚀ Body Modifications: Hanekoma has a blue and red tribal tattoo wrapping around his upper left arm resembling his noise form. He also has regular ear piercings.

⚀ Style: Hanekoma visited a casino once and was so enamored by the uniforms there he decided to just start emulating the dress. But doing so properly was still a little too restrictive, so now he wears oversized shirts and doesn't button anything all the way. For shoes, he always wears sandals for maximum comfort. He's always got an expensive watch on his wrist, but these days he's taken to wearing earrings as well.

⚅ — Personality — ⚅

⚀ Positive Traits: Compassionate, loyal, creative, affectionate, brave, intelligent, open-minded

⚀ Negative Traits: Selfish, impulsive, impatient, stubborn, obsessive, greedy

⚀ General Mood: Relaxed, content

⚀ Greatest Joy: Creation, meeting people

⚀ Greatest Fear: Losing the city/his loved ones

⚀ Motto: "Enjoy every moment." and "The world ends with you."

⚀ General Description: Hanekoma has an easy-going personality and a generally happy disposition. It’s incredibly difficult to rile him up in any regard, and he will often simply let insulting or hurtful comments roll off of his back. He may come off as if he doesn’t take anything seriously, but in fact he is incredibly perceptive and analyzing. He has a tendency to take people under his wing, especially if he can see in them the potential for a lot of personal growth. This most often comes in the form of protecting players from shady dealings during the Reaper’s Game. He can sometimes have a parental attitude towards others, but he has no trouble at all with pushing people to their limits if it means they might reach a breakthrough in their character.

⚅ — Habits and Hobbies — ⚅

⚀ Likes: Coffee, gambling, new experiences, meeting new people, long conversations, Shibuya, art in all forms

⚀ Dislikes: Close-mindedness, extended isolation, threats to the city, a lack of personal growth

⚀ Favorites: The colors red and black, jazz and hip hop music, Haruto Abe's house blend coffee, the word windfall, natto, money, poetry

⚀ Spending habits: Excessive spender, but very careful with his money. Gambling can sometimes be the exception, but these days he leaves his cards at home to limit his gambling.

⚀ Tics: Rubbing/holding the back of his neck, rolling a pair of dice in his hand, running his fingers through his hair, tugging his chin

⚀ Hobbies: Hanekoma seems to run a café as a primary business, but in fact this is a hobby of his. He also works as a multi-talented artist that dips his hands in almost every form of art from graffiti to music to fashion design. Hanekoma takes a deep pleasure from being an active source of growth and change in his city and does so primarily through his work as CAT. More recently, Hanekoma had learned how to tattoo, and had a tattoo parlor that he runs as a hobby as well. Appointments can be made by anyone, but the business is not advertised at all.

⚅ — Background — ⚅

⚀ Childhood: Hanekoma was born and raised in Shibuya by two loving and supportive parents. His family was always lower income, though, so they never had a glamorous or fruitful existence. During summers Hanekoma would go into the country where his grandparents lived. Death was introduced early in life with the passing of his grandfather, and he was taught to accept the natural course of life. As a student, he was charismatic and did well on his work, but he would skip out unnoticed when he thought he could get away with it. He never caused a lot of trouble, but he always bent the rules as much as possible.

⚀ Adolescence: Hanekoma was a stressed teenager, but he never showed it to those around him. He began to live to please his parents and teachers, but he yearned to experience life his own way as well. Both of his grandparents now passed, he no longer took summers in the country and instead spent his free time exploring and learning Shibuya in and out. He fell in love with the city, but he also instilled in himself a wanderlust.

⚀ Young Adulthood: As a young adult, Hanekoma began to fear the retaliation from his parents for not going into a university, and so he quickly moved away from home as soon as he could. He lived by himself and spent his days living a fairly closed in life until the day his mother called him to inform him his father was dying. He rushed home immediately, and finally he made amends with them just a few days before his father's passing, learning that he'd never had any reason to fear in the first place. He lived with his mother afterwards, but she passed mere months after his father. After this he began traveling with a gaggle of friends he'd made over the years, eager to fill the void his parents left behind. It was through this venue that he was introduced to casinos, and he became addicted to gambling. He visited a casino wherever he went and lost more and more money, until he couldn't afford to travel anymore. Still obsessed with gambling, he began spending his money in pachinko parlors and illegal gambling dens.

⚀ Adulthood: Hanekoma wasted away all of his money until he could no longer support himself, and he found himself on the streets and struggling just to exist. He spent many days in alleyways and abandoned buildings. Having worked up quite a debt, he often found himself being attacked and was always on the alert, though any time he could get money he usually found himself playing street craps with it or in some other gambling den. This carried on until one particular winter he nearly died from the elements alone and was approached by an old man offering shelter. As much as he wanted to refuse, he knew he didn't have that luxury and finally gave in. The man, named Haruto Abe, took him into his home and got Hanekoma back on his feet. Therapy, a job at his own café, training in learning how to support himself, and the love and support he hadn't seen since his parents. Hanekoma did pick himself back up and went on to open his own café, Wildkat, and slowly healed into a person that loved Shibuya once again.

⚀ Death and Afterlife: Hanekoma met his end at the hands of a man he used to borrow money from. In the end his old gambling habits caught up to him anyway. Hanekoma fought to the end, but his opponent was in possession of an illicit firearm and determined not to let him get away with his life this time. Hanekoma entered his Game a little bleary, but not without help. Abe, much to Hanekoma's surprise, was able to find him right after his registration into the Game and give him pointers, with the explanation that he had a sixth sense which allowed him to see into the UG. Hanekoma followed Abe's instructions expressly and was able to win his Game, allowing him to become a reaper (per Abe's suggestion). From there Hanekoma quickly rose in rank, casually raking in more and more souls. All the while Abe kept feeding him secrets about Composerhood and the Higher Plane and angels, priming him for the position of Producer. Once Hanekoma finally reached his ascension, he was offered the position of Producer in lieu of Composer and he took it. Abe disappeared directly after this and wouldn't be seen again for many years.

⚅ — Abilities — ⚅

⚀ Angel: As an angel, Hanekoma has the ability to see and interact with the RG, UG, and HP at any given time. He also has the ability to scan living humans, players in the Reaper’s Game, and reapers. He can jump from one universe to another. Hanekoma has knowledge of taboo noise and refinery. He will not use these abilities unless pushed to extremes, however. And finally, Hanekoma has the ability to imprint on both people and players. The most common way for him to do so is through his art and tattoo work.

⚀ Noise: Hanekoma has a noise in the form of Panthera Cantus, which act as two entities with separate abilities. Leo Cantus is fast and teleports away when hit directly. Tigris Cantus can create clones of herself and can only be hit through her shadow, not her actual body.

⚀ Human: Just through his physical body, Hanekoma has considerable skill in street fighting, and he often chooses to do most of his fighting through this method (genuine quarrels, as opposed to testing an individual, in which he would use his noise form).

⚅ — Relationships — ⚅

⚀ Overview: Hanekoma makes friends easily. That being said, he also tends to keep people at arm’s length without them really realizing it. He says very little about himself while working to get to know others on a deeply personal level, earning the trust of many despite keeping himself a secret. He enjoys being social and making new friends, and he understands the power personal bonds can have on society as a whole. He actively encourages friendship, but he will never seek to deepen a bond any further than that.

⚀ Romance: Romantic relationships are, for the foreseeable future, strictly non-canon for this blog. Hanekoma is in a romantic relationship with himself, literally, as far as his canon is concerned. However, non-canon ships are available to plot and write.

⚀ Family: Hanekoma has no biological children, but he has a few canon familial ships. The first is his Composer, Joshua (@kingsmedley), whom he treats like his son. The second is a young reaper named Joel (@mundanemiseries), whom teeters back and forth from being like a nephew to being like another son. There is also Sho Minamimoto (@the-grim-heaper), whom Hanekoma considers a child of his even if he has no solid, concrete evidence that Sho feels the same way.

⚀ Important Individuals: Haruto Abe (@falseapostle) is the man that took Hanekoma in and is an angel. Hanekoma treated him as a parent in his living life and as a mentor, but after his return they grew a closer, more romantic relationship. Now that they are separated, both physically and emotionally, Hanekoma has forgiven him but doesn't interact with him at all. Raizen (@fangedstories) is Hanekoma's warden angel, an angel that checks up on him and makes sure he isn't breaking angel law. Apichisi (@catncore) and Eanas (@dandybarista) are older angel counterparts from another universe. While interactions are largely non-canon, these two have played roles in significant canon events. Similarly, their Joshua (@the-composer) has also participated in some of these events. Hope (@hopeful-hugz) is a character that is entirely non-canon for Hanekoma, however is still important to some canon events. When speaking with other characters that have non-canon relationships and interactions with Hope, they may come up in conversation. Otherwise, Hanekoma's secondary therapy works much differently.

⚅ — Canon Events — ⚅

⚀ Hanekoma and Joshua have had multiple falling outs, the last of which resulted in Joshua going to therapy and learning how their codependency was making them both unhealthy. As a result, Joshua and Hanekoma almost never come into contact anymore, for the sake of earning independence from one another. To this day, however, Hanekoma has never been so close or so attached to any other person, and even now he will put Joshua over any other person in his life.

⚀ Hanekoma met Apichisi and Eanas while traveling and refused to take no for an answer when he tried getting in their business. The intention was to help, but the push resulted in an altercation with the universe's Joshua, which then resulted in a deeply traumatizing battle with Apichisi. Shortly after this he also exchanged words with Eanas which led to his being banned from the universe altogether. Over the time of his absence he healed, and he made amends with the universe, but he still occasionally has nightmares related to the fight with Apichisi. In this altercation Hanekoma was shot with an angelic bullet that disabled his ability to heal. This is where he received the scar on his leg, a mark where the bullet once was.

⚀ Hanekoma received an arm tattoo from Apichisi during one of his visits. He imprinted on the tattoo so Hanekoma now feels his presence at all times. Apichisi then taught him how to tattoo on others as well, effectively allowing him to take up the occupation in his own universe.

⚀ Apichisi taught Hanekoma how to preen his own feathers and preen the feathers of others. Before this point Hanekoma didn't touch them at all. To this day his wings are extremely sensitive because of this, but he does preen himself regularly now.

⚀ Hanekoma developed a crush on Eanas, and it helped to cause the events of the banning situation. Canonically, he has moved past this and now remains romantically involved with himself, but non-canon threads playing on this may still occasionally pop up.

⚀ Haruto Abe reappeared in Hanekoma's life, making the excuse that he'd been unable to visit beforehand. He began manipulating Hanekoma, making him believe that he was harmless and merely misinterpreted while threatening and mistreating everyone in Hanekoma's life. Abe continued this farce with the intention of isolating Hanekoma to the point of him returning to the Higher Plane for reconditioning. But the longer he stayed in Shibuya the more attached he became to Hanekoma's loved ones. In the end, he could no longer continue the ruse and chose to end it. Hoping to make Hanekoma hate him and earn his own exorcism, Abe ripped a feather from Hanekoma's wing. Joshua attempted to exorcise him, but only succeeded in cutting him off from the Higher Plane. Abe was transferred to Shinjuku of Apichisi and Eanas's universe. For a time after this, Hanekoma attempted to pull the feather any time it tried to come in, but eventually he allowed it to heal. Ever since this, this particular feather has always grown in shorter than the others of its like.

⚀ Hanekoma began going to therapy. ★ In compatible threads, Hanekoma attends therapy at Hope's medical facility STM, where therapists have multiversal licenses that allow them to work with angels. ★ In all other threads, Hanekoma attends therapy at a regular office, and he simply avoids talking about forbidden subjects, choosing to translate them into situations he can talk about legally (e.g. explaining the feather incident as pulling out a good chunk of his hair instead of a feather).

⚅ — Links — ⚅

⚀ Headcanons

⚀ Musings

⚀ Desires

⚀ Aesthetics

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astraltrickster · 10 months

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Really though I'm confident in asserting that a massive chunk of online arguments over what kinds of jokes are "okay" to make and what features are "okay" to mock assholes for are caused mainly because the internet makes it harder to judge where private speech ends and public speech begins than ever before.

Like, it's always been difficult for people to differentiate between public and private language in the first place. In private, you can say a lot more Problematic(TM) shit without being an asshole than you can in public - it's one thing to make a fat joke about a public figure who's known for being fatphobic around a selected audience of people who KNOW that it's shorthand for their hypocrisy; it's entirely another to make the same joke on stage at a comedy club, even if your intent hasn't changed a bit, because the context is missing. As a disabled person, I mock Tr*mp for his own disabilities in private, because he's a fucking eugenicist fascist who brags about his "superior genes" and regards having anything in common with ME as a source of shame; even if he won't hear it, using his own standards against him even helps reinforce the awareness of how much bullshit they are rather than counter it, to myself and the audience that Gets why I say it. As a trans guy, I mock B*n Sh*piro for his height and high nasally voice, not because I think those are Bad features in their own right, but because Mr. "Facts Don't Care About Your Feelings/Biology Is The Nature Of The Pronoun/Real Men Are Just Bigger And Stronger It's Just Nature" DOES, fails to live up to his own standards, and is...very insecure about it, which he expresses in comically stupid ways.

But I will NEVER make these jokes where they can be taken out of context, because mixed audiences won't know that it's a hypocrisy joke, rather than a regular old "lol diapers" joke or a "hehe manlet man card REVOKED" joke, made because I personally think those things are Shameful and Bad. I'm not going to dispute the comic illustrating how those jokes about public figures end up hurting random other people WAY more than they affect their targets, because...it's true, if you don't keep them to a constrained audience who knows damned well what you mean.

Now enter the internet.

Many online things occupy this weird liminal space between public and private. Many, many things are TECHNICALLY public but expected to be functionally private - e.g., a post on a blog with 5 followers - but...you never know when something is going to amplify it way beyond where you expect. To compare it to a real life situation, it's like walking down a crowded street, speaking in your private lingo with a friend, when suddenly something happens to remind you that you're in public after all - which could be anything from some outside asshole overhearing, pulling you aside, and going "the FUCK did you just say!? Hey everyone! Get a load of what this asshole just said!" before you even have a chance to explain and now any explanation looks like a hastily cobbled-together excuse, to something as impersonal as having someone fly by with an infinite improbability drive and make the air suddenly amplify your words so that the entire city can hear them.

Of course, in physical space, these things are COMICALLY unlikely. Online, where things stay around until someone deletes them (and sometimes well beyond then), and most things are searchable, as more people encounter your online presence, the probability of this happening approaches 1 at a SIGNIFICANT rate.

But because social media is largely hostile to multi-level privacy controls in favor of trying to squeeze out more ad money by forcing everyone to use any given site the same way..."never say anything in a public post that you wouldn't want on the front page of the newspaper" is a good rule of thumb, but not always practical. People always end up developing an internal function of how public they perceive their words to be vs. how much they're willing to risk those words sounding really bad without additional context. Sometimes, if you see someone making an asshole joke, the only thing they did wrong was make a calculation error.

But sometimes they well and truly are being an asshole. It's impossible to tell which at a glance.

In short, I don't have a complete solution for this. I do recommend more personal websites, more bitchy cathartic SMALL group chats with like-minded people, and of course a little bit of caution about how your words are LIKELY to be misinterpreted out of context, whether against you or others.

#internet culture #serious tag #ive been meaning to write this for LITERAL MONTHS #possibly even years #FINALLY here it is

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lizardinkart · 1 year

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Lizard Reads Ward

Arc 1: Daybreak

Lizard’s Cry Counter: 2

TL;DR: A Victoria-focused arc that dragged a bit in places but ultimately felt like everything we needed to know about her (and more). I wished it’d started closer to the fight but having the fight, the trauma, and the family drama laid out felt like the groundwork that was missing from the prologue, especially with the shifted role of Amy. Wish that we had a little more about the other characters introduced in the prologue tho. 8/10 Aight! Let’s get wormin’!

So in my brain I’ve split the arc in to 3 parts, pre-fight, fight, and post-fight, so I’ll talk about the arc in terms of those mini-arcs. Mini-Arc 1: Pre-Fight (Victoria, not Glory Girl)

Ok the fact that the city is Gold colored is hilarious to me. This is Children’s Hospital Red™ levels of awful design choices, somebody really just said color theory in context is fake. I also appreciate the later indications that most of The City is in fact shittily built but hey shitty shelter is better than no shelter I guess (also relatable as someone looking at apartments). Other worldbuilding things I was thinking about since Wildbow really wants us to see the cool world he built (but it’s not really about the world tbh)- the technology of post-GM is so weird. Like you have dial-up internet but it also works perfectly fine and technology works when you need it to. Like I’m sorry but Reddit-AOL would be so much buggier. But all that being said, it’s really funny to see the irl jump in technology from when WB was writing Worm to when he was writing Ward, because Taylor’s flip phone vs smartphone drama was so real and relatable, and now dial-up internet just works on smartphones...I’m baffled. anywho! Onto Victoria lol. So Victoria is working with the new kiddie PRT- awesome, very cool. I appreciate the focus on her wanting to still feel heroic even if she gets that massive body dysmorphic/dysphoric (yes, both) feeling from actually using her powers. Though I also appreciate the small touches we see when she’s on her way to work with a much better mirror scene than the opening of Worm, her interactions with the one hero during the obelisk incident show that she still gets heroes and feels bad for the shit being thrown their way (idk, it gave me big closeted queer energy, queer-to-queer communication in a queerphobic environment one might say). “Nice response time” really is the dorkiest shit to say tho and I appreciate it. Victoria is a dork. I also appreciate the setup with her parents, laying the groundwork for what’s to come later. Also that she enjoys working with the disillusioned and directionless kids/teens, cause that really is a thing that is the kind of selfless-selfish pull that I think Victoria is shown to be struggling with (finding the balance in the healing process is difficult!). While I felt like this part really did drag the most in the arc, I think there were some really good parts that make it worth it. And it leads into the first Wildbow fight of the story! Woohoo! Mini Arc 2: The Fight (The Trauma Hammer)

Oh boy I do love me some Wildbow fights. I felt my little storyboarder brain light up because there were some God-tier moments in here that I wanted to draw sooooo bad. But alas, too many, not enough time.

Crystalclear is cool as hell and I think he may be one of my faves of the new powers so far, he’s a very Wildbow-concept hero and I do really appreciate the man’s flare for the complex and flashy. Tempera is also cool, and Fume Hood is a snarky bitch and I love her. What a queen. She did not deserve to get shot (maybe a little tho).

But overall there was some great tension in the ticking clock leading up to the fight, and seeing how shit played out was super fun as always, I was not expecting the 18-wheeler to come out of nowhere but it was a very fun time. I gotta say tho, I know Lord of Loss and Snag are important, but I for the life of me could not keep them straight in my brain since Snag made Victoria feel Loss, but like, that’s LoL’s name lmao.

And on the topic of loss: oof. I did not call this the Trauma Hammer for nothing lol. This is where things went from meh to great for me in this arc, because since Victoria’s story was so ancillary to Worm, I had 1) forgotten how she triggered, and 2) didn’t really remember too much about the specifics of her story outside of the hospital interlude. But god, just sitting in her shoes through falling in love with Dean, losing him, losing her family, feeling inadequate to the rest of her family, and the ever-present looming threat of Her (that we will get to, don’t worry lol), it was just so helpful in really honing in on Victoria’s entire ish that is rattling around in the background. As someone who does characters like this, esp in TTRPGs, having that context of someone’s thought process really is helpful to have in understanding how you’re supposed to interpret the character, even if you’re already in their head (since characters and people lie to themselves, see: Taylor). But yeah, since Victoria avoids those thoughts anyway, it was clever to give them to us up front. And the fact that it happened while she was being a hero again? Kickass. Loved it.

Mini Arc 3: Post- Fight (Her)

Oh my god this family is messy. I have essays I could write on Carol Dallon and just the Dallons in general but I think I’ll get the chance to eventually cause this is already too long lol. But oh my GOD I truly was thinking “yeah this is gonna go poorly, maybe some passive-aggressive family stuff, getting overwhelmed, getting pie and then leaving”, but holy SHIT the fact that Carol really just ambushed Victoria with lawyer speak and finessed the entire narrative of what was going on- jesus. Manipulative ass snake, but in such a relatable way.

Once again, have been in that situation before and the way that Victoria goes from like a 2 to 1000 in 0.2 seconds when all the pieces come together- holy shit if that is not the exact feeling of trauma. I know the “#triggered” discourse is old hat at this point, but man I could feel myself get short of breath and panicky when Vicky got trauma triggered in this chapter (this is the spiritual Cry Point). It was so convincingly written that I wanna hold Wildbow in my hands to make sure he’s good.

But I’m proud of how Victoria handled herself, definitely snaps for that therapy working its magic, but man. The Amy Ambush (an Am(y)bush if you will, yes haha joke away), was so something I did not see coming this early, but I’m glad that it did because holy fuck. Victoria talking about moving on and then her family (mom) “moving on” but in a “forgive with an emphasis on forget” kinda way really does leave Victoria in a place that proves all that feeling of inadequacy right, and it’s crushing. But it provides that big stumbling block for her to overcome esp when she finds her new group.

And seeing how many times she was forced to confront her worst moments and she still actively avoided Amy... oh baby. As an Amy Enjoyer (less “condoning her actions” more “study her like a bug”) I am highly intrigued in how this is gonna go. This is 7 levels of Fucked Up.

I screamed with joy when Dr. Yamada showed up, I am in love with her and think she is wonderful, and also a great addition to the central cast of this story (esp in a story about healing from trauma? YES get the therapist in there). Also Crystal is wonderful and a good ally for Victoria, and I appreciate Victoria’s need to scrutinize both public and private Aesthetic (shoutout to me and Crystal vibing as 2 fun ADHD individuals).

Also a shoutout for Gilpatrick because he’s cool and funky and a good boss. Get u someone like Gilpatrick.

Bonus: The Interlude!

I would give my left kidney for Moose. I’m kicking Prancer’s ass, and I hope Velvet keeps her truck forever and ever. A better love story than her and Prancer tbfh. Also Nursery is so cool guys, she’s so neat. I love the weird shit being done with powers so far in Ward.

AND A MARQUIS CAMEO HELLO???? HUSBAND?????? Sorry I really like Marquis lol.

Final Thoughts

The only things I would criticize this arc for that lowered it a bit in my eyes is that the prologue really didn’t do a fantastic job of prepping us to only focus on Victoria. I wished we had sped things along a bit with getting to the others from PHO, even with little PHO interludes interspersed in to let us know what these guys were up to. Bc like, this really did feel like 3 arcs so I feel like we could have used another interlude or 2, just for spice and to break things up a little. Like a commercial break!

The other thing is Wildbow’s uh... underlying ish breaking through. I know Ward was written in the shadow of Worm for him, but there are some parts of these chapters that just feel very mean-spirited and pointed towards people who enjoyed certain parts of Worm. Mainly stuff that could be construed as “fandom” things, or things that fandom would like, that Wildbow seems to be very overt in saying “hey, fuck you for liking/engaging with this.” I dunno, it may just be me, but that kinda attitude cropping up often enough for me to notice the pissed-off hand of the author was off-putting and distracting from I think the greatest parts of this arc. Because it is a good story, it just feels like the occasional potshots WB takes are more coming from his own bitterness than Victoria’s, and are ultimately detrimental to the story as a whole. Idk, I will try not to bring it up so often, but it’s definitely something that’s running in the back of my head and I hope that it subsides soon-ish.

But all of that to say, I enjoyed the arc! It was a solid opening that’s got me really excited to read more (which by this point, I have, and I will be writing up my arc 2 thoughts shortly lol), and the Trauma Hammer really hit home in a way that felt earnest and really earned.

That’s all for now tho! As always, I’m happy to discuss stuff wherever, so let me know what you thought of the arc if you’ve read Ward!

Until next time: Ward out ✨

#lizard’s ward thoughts #ward #ward spoilers #ward web serial #victoria dallon #amy dallon #panacea #carol dallon #wildbow #live blogging #glory girl #antares #ward arc 1

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apoptoses · 1 year

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To Bring You My Love Armand/Daniel ~2k PG armand hates the subway/cuddling/gratuitous description of how daniel sounds and smells

@rainbowcarousels put the idea in my head to rewrite the subway ride from Pale Shelter from Armand’s pov, just to see how it would be different. Naturally I had to run and do it. You don’t need to have read the bigger fic to enjoy this but I recommend you do so anyways, for extra context.

Also on AO3.

The 72nd Street Metro Station was a monstrous thing.

Armand had a far off memory from his youth of visiting a bee keeper. He didn’t remember the finer details of it, but the experience of seeing the man reach into the wooden box and pull out a panel of honeycomb was one he could not forget. Great viscous globs of honey dripped from the panel, tantalizing and sweet, but what stuck out in Armand’s mind was the bees. The deafening sound of them as they crawled atop one another. It had been difficult to tell where one insect ended and another began, and yet none of them seemed to mind. They stepped on one another without any grace or care, entirely focused on some task the bee keeper had tried to explain. Armand had been unable to take in any of his words. He was too amazed by the swarming, writhing mass before him to hear him.

As he followed Daniel to the gates, subway token in hand, Armand felt as if he were within the swarm.

He would have held on to Daniel’s arm. He was becoming fond of doing that, even though he was perfectly capable of tracking him through any crowd. But Daniel was angry with him. It was understandable, of course- Armand remembered being so unhappy when his master took his leave of him. It was only that he couldn’t bear to explain the necessary steps of keeping Daniel safe.

Daniel had only recently begun to drop his guard around him. Less and less he was thinking about the thing Armand was. If Armand explained to him the necessity of clearing out younger vampires from the city he was in, of hunting them down one by one and dispatching them from their immortal existence and all that entailed, how could Daniel ever look at him and not see him as nothing but a monster? And then the thirst he’d begun to experience around this boy every time he got his heart rate up-

No, Armand could not think of even acknowledging that.

Instead he examined the subway token, a round gold coin not unlike those he’d used to purchase his first set of fine clothes in Venice. There was a Y shape cut out in the middle. He had the passing thought to ask Daniel why, what that meant, but then Daniel was putting his in the slot already. He copied him, watching in fascination as the coin clinked inside the box and the turnstile unlocked to allow him to pass through.

The people around them buffeted Armand about like a ship tossed around on the sea. He kept one eye on Daniel as he scanned the crowd.

Men in business suits. Ladies in bell bottoms and platform heels. Children tugged along by harried parents. A small group of nuns in full habit, chatting as they swept by. A homeless man, asleep on the cold hard floor. A man walking a dog, yes, a dog in this indoor space.

Armand had been in great crowds before, of course. Venice at midday had been a busy place and he’d had to keep the laces on Riccardo’s doublet wrapped around his hand to keep himself from getting lost. But that had been during the day, with the sun shining down and the sea breeze wafting away the smell of humanity. The artificial light within the subway was eerie in comparison. It made the people look like ghouls as they rushed from place to place.

He’d stopped to watch a jazz band play, crammed into the corner, raucous but largely overlooked. Daniel tugged at his sleeve and through the labyrinth they continued.

Together they clattered down the stairs. Down and down and down until they came to the platform at last; that dimly lit, dank place, stinking of sour water and piss. The platform was unbearably crowded. Armand could hardly imagine how they all expected to get on the train, much less where they could all be going.

“Hieronymous Bosch was wrong,” Armand said as they stood at the edge together and waited for the train to come.

Daniel gave him a curious look. “Wrong about what?”

“He painted hell as a fantastical place, lit by fire and full of strange mythical beings. He was wrong,” Armand said. The tunnel had begun to shake. Even the rats down on the tracks scampered to safety. “This. This is hell.”

The train roared like some great beast as it rushed into the station, so swiftly Armand’s hair blew back from his face with the breeze it brought with it.

Daniel laughed and took him by surprise with the way he put his arm around his shoulders. “I imagine most of New York would agree with you.”

The train doors opened. Before Armand could step aside the crowd spewed forth from within the train car, jostling even his immortal form hard enough he stumbled back against Daniel. The car appeared narrow, and covered in graffiti. Armand wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to get in but then he hardly had a choice. People were pushing from behind and he and Daniel were caught up in the current.

Perhaps this was an experience he would enjoy in the afternoon, when he could take in the sights of people on the seats and the tunnels blurring together outside the windows. But now, during rush hour, Armand was in the belly of the beast. People were packed in so tightly he could imagine it would be difficult for a mortal to breathe. It was hard for him to remember to breathe, as unnecessary as that function was for him.

And the sensation of it-

Hundreds of hearts were pounding around them all at once, the sound intermingling with their owners’ thoughts until it was deafening. There was the smell of a thousand different soaps, laundry detergents, aftershaves, all synthetic and cloying. The alcoholic tang of hairspray. The underlying hint of piss and body odor and something herbal that brought Armand straight back to the days he’d spent in a brothel smoking hemp. Around every person an aura burned, colors blending and blurring as they swam before Armand’s eyes.

Armand had learned to tune out his unnatural senses ages ago, but this was a test even for him. He was completely subsumed by the sensory experience of this narrow, miserable train car.

Somehow Daniel pushed them through the crowd. Got them over by the door, where they could lean against the filthy glass. Wrapped one arm around Armand’s shoulders, the other around his waist so that he was held close, protected from the crush.

“I hardly need protecting,” Armand murmured.

A half truth. Against any predator he would be fine, even in close quarters such as this. But against the heaving smells and sounds of the subway car?

Armand needed all of the protection he could get.

“Yeah, I’m aware of that. It’s the rest of the people in here I’m worried for, trust me,” Daniel joked and patted his back.

The doors shut with a dull thud. The monster they were within lurched to life. Around them the crowd stumbled but Armand’s feet stayed firmly planted on the sticky floor.

He couldn’t recall ever having been so close to Daniel before. Certainly couldn’t recall Daniel ever holding him so willingly, but if there was any time it would be a miracle for him to forget his anger and his hesitance around Armand it was this.

Armand rested his cheek against Daniel’s sternum. Slipped his arms around his waist and closed his eyes. Let himself drown in this boy as the rest of existence faded away into the background of his mind.

Once Armand had found the smell of cigarettes acrid. He’d hated the smoke, the nicotine that stuck to the works of art around him and stained everything hazy yellow. But in coming to know Daniel he’d come to find it a comfort, sharp and familiar as he buried his face in his t-shirt and inhaled the remnants of his evening cigarette. It blended with the smell of the cologne Armand had found for him; the cinnamon and clove and frankincense. A smell that took him straight back to old Venice, that he’d searched so hard in the dark department store to find.

You’re using the aftershave I left for you.

Yeah, well. Waste not want not, that’s what my mom always said.

Armand hardly meant to nuzzle against Daniel like some desperate housecat. It was only that he couldn’t help it, not when Daniel rested his chin atop his head and stroked his shoulder.

He was so warm. The quiet rasp of his breathing joined the rhythm of the blood that rushed through his heart. Daniel had eaten something for dinner and Armand could hear the wet gurgle of digestion within him, an old and unfamiliar sound that was delightful to his ear. Armand curled his fingers in his shirt and pressed his cheek harder against his broad chest.

Above him Daniel was wondering if he’d ever been held or comforted as a child. If maybe that was why he didn’t do such things for Daniel without being begged.

It felt as if a fist had clenched around his heart. Armand had hurt this boy and yet here he was, sheltering him from the torment of the subway. Daniel was truly better than he deserved.

His violet eyes met Armand’s in the smudged glass on the door. Armand, unable to hold his gaze, squeezed his eyes shut. He would do better. He had to do better. Daniel had no idea how much he’d come to mean to him these past months, that Armand was considering breaking every vow he’d ever made to himself just to have him for the handful of years that was a mortal lifespan. For now that he had been held in Daniel’s arms how could he not seek this out every night from this one forward?

The subway train was beginning to slow. Armand could barely hear the squeal of the breaks above the pounding of Daniel’s heart.

He kept his eyes closed as the doors opened and let Daniel guide him to step back from the rush of people exiting the car. A new flood of humanity got on. Around them the sounds and smells shifted with this new jumble of commuters but Armand paid them no mind. He was safely enclosed in his little space between Daniel’s chest and the cold metal door; in the familiar and wonderful experience of him.

“How much further, Daniel?” he mumbled.

Daniel stroked over his arm, up and down, again and again. His heart picked up when Armand turned his face and rested his forehead on his clavicle. When he swallowed Armand could hear the wet click of his throat.

“Seven more stops and then we’ll be there.”

I should have just gotten in the car with him, this is a pretty shitty way to travel even for someone who’s curious about anything and everything.

Armand inhaled deeply and ran his hands up beneath Daniel’s jacket. They came to rest on his shoulder blades, fingers spread out as he tried to gauge the width of them. Daniel was so delicate and yet so strong. For the duration of this subway trip Armand could pretend he was mortal again, just a young man curled up in his lover’s arms.

The subway was a perfectly pleasant way to travel, Armand decided. Seven stops could not pass by slowly enough.

#fun fact: from daniel's pov this scene was 719 words #from armand's pov: 1924 words #he's a verbose little shit #anyways have some extra snuggly feelings before I post chapter 2 and break daniel's heart #armand/daniel #armand #daniel molloy #the devil's minion #the vampire chronicles #vc fic #apoptoses fic

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