#warning: vengeance incoming

[sgt-seabass]

𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒃𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒅

✧˚ · . a collaboration between @navybrat817 and sgt-seabass

I just wanna see you bleed. Open you and set you free. (x)

pairing — bucky barnes x fem!reader w/c — 9.7k this is a dark fic. 18+ only. listening to —♫disaster

part of the Vengeance AU previous part - 𝑬𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝑷𝒆𝒓𝒇𝒆𝒄𝒕 𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅

warnings — bucky barnes is going through it, dark fic, the reader is having a hard time mentally (.... totally not self inserting heh), violence, slapping, spanking, use of a gun to threaten, non-consensual connotations and threats (nothing actually happens), mild mention of blood and injury, captivity, forced drugging via injection a/n — sorry this took so long. depression is a bitch. thank you navy for putting up with my delays!

The thing about love is that it comes with risks. And the biggest risk of all is loss, for a heart that does not yearn for another never truly knows the meaning of catastrophic loss until grief visits them. 

Love was still worth it to Bucky. Even with his wrenching heart and endless tears, the tenderness he shared with you was something that no one could steal or decimate. While the assailants had trashed your shared home, they could never take the memories - the feeling of your deft fingers brushing across his skin, the bright smiles you’d gift him, and the unwavering silent support that always held him upright. 

Bucky was a man because you motivated him to be his best self. He was no longer a ghost, a nightmare, a mirage of misery - he was human. 

You were gone. And there would be nothing stopping him from getting you back. 

It had been three days since you’d been taken, and frustratingly, Bucky felt no closer to finding you than the day when he’d first found the ruins of the apartment. He’d moved back into the tower with Alpine, taking up refuge in his old compound apartment. It was kept the same, like he’d never left. And he felt the same as when he’d lived there last – lost.

The whole team had become involved in finding you. You were family to all of them. And no one gets away with fucking with the family of the Avengers.

Bucky sighed and impatiently tapped his foot against the floor as he waited in the meeting room with Steve, Natasha, and Sam. Tony had been working on a reconstruction of what happened in the apartment since the security cameras were somehow turned off before the assailant’s arrival.

It was a planned hit; that much was clear. But they needed the rest of the details of what happened to know what they were looking at.

The room was silent. What could anyone say that hadn’t already been said? Bucky’s friends had already assured him they’d get you back safely, but those were empty promises said just to stop him from throwing himself off the top of the compound.

Bucky stared at the blank white wall ahead of him while his mind spiralled. This was his fault. If you were dead, that blood was on his hands. He should have known of the threat – had some inkling that this was coming. But he was completely blind-sighted. There was no indication that there was an incoming attack.

“Move the table to the side so we have room,” Tony commanded as he entered, his usual quips missing – quips that always made you laugh and smile, brightening the room with your aura.

“Hello to you too, Tony,” Sam said, assisting Bucky and Steve in pushing the meeting room table to the side so there was some floor space for Tony’s visualisation tool.

“Do you think she’s alive? Could she have survived the attack?” Were the first words out of Bucky’s mouth, his voice strained from the amount of crying he’d been doing.

“Yeah, I think she’s alive. Are you sure you want to see this, Barnes? It’s… It’s pretty brutal, even for your standards,” Tony sniped, earning a stern look from Steve. Bucky didn’t care, though; it was a fair enough jab when he’d been the one to kill Tony’s parents.

“Real smooth, Tony,” Natasha scoffed, crossing her arms.

Bucky set the awkward air aside. They weren’t going to get anywhere otherwise. “I need to see it.”

“Maybe you should wait outside, Buck—” Steve started, but Bucky raised his hand to shut him up.

“Don’t coddle me. I need to see it.”

Steve just put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze while Tony set up his small projection device.

Nothing could have prepared Bucky for the image that greeted him. There you were, or at least, an apparition of you. He wanted to reach out and touch it, but he held himself back. What he couldn’t stop were the tears that welled in his eyes. What if this was the last time he ever saw you? You already looked like a ghost in the odd blue hue of the technology.

Bucky gulped, his breaths coming out thick as you started moving from the bedroom to the shower. It played out like a macabre movie. Three assailants entered the apartment through the front door.

“They had keys?” Natasha asked, and Tony nodded in response.

Sam partially looked away when the assault began, Natasha and Steve’s faces hardening while Bucky had tears tracking down his cheeks. You fought hard, and Bucky couldn’t feel any prouder. You were his light – his fire, and you fought with every morsel of energy you had.

Tony was right – the ordeal was brutal and cruel. These men didn’t just kidnap you; they tormented you. This was personal.

“Any forensics?” Steve asked, his voice shaky.

“None. Whoever they are, they’re professionals,” Tony leant against the table. “And they clearly have a vendetta. Any enemies that stand out, Barnes?”

“Hydra is always top of the list.” Just the mention of the name had everyone in the room shuddering. Hydra had already done so much damage.

“Hydra fell when S.H.I.E.L.D did. They’re gone,” Sam reclined against the wall, hand rubbing nervously over his jaw, the same spot Rumlow had got a good hit on him during their fight at the Triskelion.

“You’re naive if you think that would get rid of them.” Natasha walked up to the projection, zooming in on the word you’d written on the ground. Blonde. “Although I don’t remember any of our known enemies being blonde.”

“Pierce was blonde.” Steve suggested.

Tony shook his head. “He was grey. And I highly doubt he’d be breaking into an apartment, seeing as he’s got a bullet-sized hole in his chest. Plus, he was an old fucker.”

Bucky forced himself to watch the whole recreation, eyes not straying for a moment as he searched for anything he was missing. It was a carefully executed but merciless attack. Tony was right; it seemed you’d survive physically, but what about your mind?

Bucky could hardly bear to think about what they were doing with you now they had you alone.

With you passed out on the floor, Bucky watched as the men bundled you up in a sheet to carry your bloody mess of a body out in. “There were no drag marks?”

Tony shrugged. “Nope. They carried her.” 

“Did no neighbours report anything?”

“It was early morning, so most had already left for work, and anyone who did see something aren’t coming forward. People these days aren’t keen on being a snitch since that puts a target on their backs,” Sam delivered sadly. To a degree, Bucky understood, but at the same time, he wanted to question every person in the damn building.

Realistically, his efforts would be better placed searching through viable intelligence sources. The more reliable the information, the better. These guys would have had to make some noise somewhere, and Bucky intended to find where.

“I’ll ask Maria to get the analysts onto where they might have gone. They’ll check every car that was spotted in the area if they have to. And we’ll see what we can get off the surrounding cell towers. If we’re lucky, they pinged off one of them. They can’t have just disappeared with her,” Natasha’s voice turned clinical. It was easier to be strategic without the emotional strings attached.

Steve nodded, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Check all private flights and airspace as well. I expect they’ve left the country and gone somewhere harder to track. The fact they went to this effort and didn’t kill her outright means they have a use for her, which means she’s still alive.”

“Until that use runs out,” Bucky cut Steve off, his jaw twinging with how hard he clenched his teeth. “Then they’ll kill her.”

“We’ll find her before then, Buck.”

“We have to. She’s taken my heart with her.”

You’d been lucky in your life that you’d been sheltered from physical pain. You’d known grief, sadness, all the usual trials of life. But this level of absolute anguish was new. 

You were thankful you’d gone this long not knowing what it felt like to fear an impending death.

What even was death? An endless nothing? A light at the end of the tunnel? A world where you’re reunited with all those souls that had already left? Either way, it was the cessation of suffering. You can’t suffer when you don’t exist. 

Days had passed since your capture, and a routine had set in. In your dank, mossy-smelling cell, you ate, stretched, slept, shit, and brushed your teeth - a macabre rinse and repeat that had your mind dulling. You prided yourself in being creative, so having no stimuli apart from grey walls and odd smells was a special kind of torture.

Your captors left you alone for the most part. You only saw them when they delivered meals and your toothbrush, and even then, sometimes, they’d just slide the items through a small hatch in the bottom of the door, expecting you to return the items promptly.

Damien or Maddox would often leave with some snide remark, while Kage never said anything.

The thought of fighting back had crossed your mind, although you couldn’t do much with them watching, the blinking red light of a camera in the corner of your room a constant reminder that you were not alone.

Bucky would be closing in by now, right? Each time you heard steps coming to your enclosure, a morsel of hope would flourish like a blooming flower. And each time, those beautiful flowers had their heads sliced off. The disappointment was clear on your face each time, and a small whine would escape, normally ending in you devolving into a pit of tears.

Crying was the only solace. 

As the days had passed, you began to fear the opening of the door, because you expected death with his scythe and billowing black mist to be there waiting to cut off your head, like the way your hope had been deflowered.

Today was the same as all the others. Pain, tears, and acute loneliness all present. You sat on your cot with your legs to your chest, bandaged feet resting on the mattress so you could cry against your knees. Your wounds were healing slowly, bloody bandages changed by Kage each day, while your heart continued to break.

The wall vibrated subtly as music began playing upstairs, the reverberations traveling all the way down to your cell. You were underground, that much you had gathered. After your dinner, you would hear the music begin to play. You weren’t sure what they were doing up there, but you never heard any additional voices, so you assumed your captors were alone. Although, there could easily be a thick layer of concrete separating your roof from their floor, so you just might not be able to hear it.

All you did know was the music normally meant it was time to try and sleep. You had no sunlight, so you had to rely on the meals and music as your clock. You could have an opposite sleeping schedule for all you knew, but the men never said anything of it, so you assumed your intuition was right.

With a heavy sigh, you lay down, covered in an oversized t-shirt and cotton panties. It was cold, but with nothing more than a thin blanket, so you had no choice but to shiver and bear it.

The vibrations in the wall made a white noise that filled the room, and you preferred that over the silence. You couldn’t hear the music, so you liked to try to imagine what song it might be based on the tempo. 

You smiled to yourself as you placed your hand against the wall. Whatever it was, you knew Bucky would hate it. Deep bass beats were never his style. While you liked to imagine your boyfriend as John Wick, fighting along to electronic music, you knew the reality was far more grim. 

Thinking of Bucky, your eyes started to get heavy, and you slowly fell asleep.

It wasn’t a peaceful slumber, but it was rest - something you tried to get every chance you could. You didn’t know when you’d need your strength, so you tried to reserve it. 

And as it turned out, a situation requiring your strength was around the corner much sooner than you had expected.

The door to your cell swung open, and the loud sound had you shooting up with a squeak and wide eyes, no remnants of sleep in your mind as adrenaline surged through your veins. 

Nothing could have prepared you for the sight you’d be met with.

It was Damien who spoke first as they entered. “We caught ourselves a new pet. I have to say, this one seems much less fuckable than you.”

“Bucky,” you gasped, mostly in disbelief.

It wasn’t the rescue you’d dreamed of. Bucky hadn’t come in guns blazing and a smile of relief on his face.

No, Bucky was slumped, his metal shoulder being carried by Maddox and the other by Damien, while his legs dragged across the floor behind him and his arms were secured behind his back. He was dressed in his tactical gear like he’d come with the intention to save you. His face was bloodied and ashen, his hair sickly sticking to his forehead, and to your horror, there was a muzzle placed over the lower half of his face. You’d seen a picture of Bucky from when he was a soldier when you’d accidentally walked into a briefing room in the compound, his face scattered among others you didn’t recognise. But seeing him like that in the flesh was something else entirely.

You jumped up from the bed, ready to run to him, but Kage was by your side before you could act. He placed his hand on your collarbone, warning you to stay in place. “Your face is priceless.”

You couldn’t even feel the pain in your feet, as if the wounds were never there, as you whimpered at the sight of your lover.

“Bucky, are you alright? Bucky. Oh god.” You tried to move, but Kage’s hand gripped your forearm painfully, his digits digging in and leaving divots. Bucky tried to speak beneath the mask, but only muffled sounds came out. “No, please, don’t hurt him.”

“Bit late for that, don’t you think?” Maddox grinned, the pride clear as day on his face. “The mutt put up a fight, I’ll give it that. But it failed. That must really suck for you.”

They spoke like he wasn’t even a man. Not even a dog. Just an annoyance - a hindrance.

Damien and Maddox dumped Bucky on his knees a few steps from you. And that’s when he finally looked up. It was like he hadn’t wanted to accept that was your voice he heard, but once he set eyes on you, that was it. 

The dams broke, and both of you resolved into tears. “No, this isn’t real. This can’t be happening.”

“Oh, it’s happening.” Damien kicked Bucky’s back, sending him lurching forward, his cheek painfully hitting the concrete floor. The pained sounds that came from your boyfriend would haunt you for the rest of your life.

“Stop it!” You yelled, Bucky’s whimpers too much for you to handle. He was trying so desperately to speak, to move, but they’d beaten him badly and secured his metal arm away with vibranium cuffs. 

It didn’t stop him from trying though. Bucky rose to his feet, swinging his weight around so he could roundhouse kick towards Maddox and Damien. Maddox was faster though, pushing Damien out of the way and catching Bucky’s leg. 

There was a sick crunch when Maddox tripped Bucky’s stable left leg, his body buckling to the floor while Maddox held his right leg, allowing the joint at his hip to fold into an odd position before Bucky hit the floor on his side. He withered with a pained groan, while Damien took the chance to kick him in the stomach. It was like watching the most morbid film play out in front of you, and all you wanted to do was hold Bucky and tell him it was going to be okay. But the thing was, you never lied to him. And you had no plan to start now.

You tried desperately to wrench yourself from Kage’s grip, but instead he yanked your back to his chest, placing his arm across your belly so you were held uncomfortably against him. “He failed you. Do you think he still thinks this is all worth it? Or do you think he should have just left you to rot?” 

It was the most Kage had ever spoken to you, as if Bucky’s mere presence brought out a vitriol he kept hidden.

You shook your head, desperate to reject the baseless accusations. Even with his mouth covered, you could see in his expression alone the love Bucky held for you. You would never stop believing in him, even in death. “He hasn’t failed me,“ you gritted out, tears tracking down your cheeks. “He could never fail me.”

A sense of realisation took over you, the cogs turning as you looked upon your beaten lover. You’d wished for him to rescue you, to take you away from the pain and shield you from any further torment. But in doing so, you’d denied that Bucky was vulnerable - that he was the human you so dearly loved - made of flesh and blood and so dearly mortal. By placing him on the pedestal of a hero, you denied him his sensitivities, his feelings. You’d made him impuissant through your view of him as an impregnable force. You forgot that he is but a thing of atoms and material, so easily broken.

It was due to your expectations that he lay on the ground before you, bleeding and crying. Because he knew you were waiting for him. And here he was - just not in the way you had hoped. Now, hope was but a bird with broken wings, ready for death and the conclusion of existence. It was time for it to be put out of its acute misery. And it was time for you to mature and take responsibility for your future. 

“The only person who can save me is myself. It’s my path to take, not his,” your words came out shuddered, your hand raising to cover your mouth to try and hide your sob. It did little to muffle the sound as your eyes met the familiar cerulean blues. “Bucky. It’s fine.”

Damien pulled the muzzle from his face, and Bucky allowed a deep breath for what seemed like the first time in hours. “You have me, just let her go.”

Maddox laughed, shaking his head as he ruffled Bucky’s hair. “Trying to be noble, huh?” His fingers looped in the sweat-drenched strands, roughly pulling Bucky’s head back as he whimpered. “Do we look like we’re going to let her go?”

“She’s innocent in this, please,” Bucky begged, blood trickling down from his hairline as he squirmed on the cold floor. It was a painful, pitiful sight. “Keep me, but let her go.”

“Why would we when we can have some fun? She’s so pretty when she cries. The perfect toy for us to play with,” Kage husked, the hand on your stomach starting to dip lower towards your dignity.

You slapped his hand, an action which gained you a violent response. Kage threw you to your knees, the impact causing your bones to quiver and your cries to fill the room. You had to be strong, you had to be strong - the mantra didn’t help much as Bucky snarled protectively. “You touch her, and I’ll fucking kill you. I swear I’ll–”

“You keep running that mouth of yours, and it’s her we’ll punish,” Maddox gripped Bucky’s chin between his fingers, before spitting in his face.

“Please, I’m begging you. She’s just a normal girl, she’s innocent–”

“She’s not going to be so innocent when she has our cocks shoved down her throat.” Damien approached you, eyes raking your barely covered form. You stunk after days of not bathing, but that seemed like the least of their concerns.

“I can see why you picked her. She’s so much fun to have around.” Maddox forced Bucky’s viewline to you, arching his head on an awkward angle with the fingers tangled in his locks.

“You don’t own her,” Bucky rasped. “No one does.”

Maddox hummed with a shake of his head. ”That’s where you’re wrong. We all have our masters. Now we’re hers.”

"I will fucking kill you," Bucky snarled, trying to get off the floor, trying so desperately to fight. But he was easily subdued by Maddox in his weakened state.

Damien turned to your boyfriend with a smirk. "Not before we fill up each of her holes. So why don't you sit back and enjoy the show? Be a good boy now. Wouldn't want to have to muzzle you… again."

"We're going to enjoy breaking her," Maddox teased, his face getting close to Bucky’s, a staring contest of will beginning between the two. A contest that Bucky quickly lost when Maddox punched him in the gut. ”While you have your own appeal, I don’t fuck mutts.”

It was hard to process the scene playing out in front of you - the taunting, the threats, the hurt. It was too much to bear. You just wanted to be in Bucky’s arms again and have him tell you it was all okay.

But no, you had to be strong. “Please, don’t hurt him anymore. I’ll… I’ll do whatever you want.”

Kage held you firm, his free hand reaching up from behind to grab your jaw painfully. He didn’t speak, but you could feel his hot huff of breath against your ear, the remnants of a growl in it.

“You’ll do whatever we want regardless,” Damien commented, searching your face and soaking up all the emotion he could find.

Maddox left Bucky battered on the ground, but not without one more kick, this time to the underside of his jaw. Bucky’s head snapped back, a crack sounding as his teeth slammed together in the forced movement. 

You screamed, Kage and Damien’s hands beginning to roam across your body, feeling you like you were theirs. But it was like you couldn’t even see the three men anymore - just Bucky. Your vision had tunnelled to the focus on the one thing you cared about.

“Bucky! Are you alright? Bucky, please!” You couldn’t look away as his head lolled sickly, blood pouring from his mouth and nose. 

The hands keep moving over you, nausea roiling in your gut with each passing moment. But you still only focussed on Bucky. “Bucky, please. Bucky. You’ve got to get out of here. Somehow. Just go, please.”

The cell door was cracked open. He could logically make a run for it. But you knew he wouldn’t, not in his current state, and not without you. Maybe Steve was on his way? But you knew Bucky wouldn’t look so crestfallen if help was coming. 

“Please, Bucky.” You cried, not even sure what you were asking for at this point, all you could do was scream his name.

The more you yelled for him, the more you chanted his name like the only prayer you knew, the more the world began to warble. 

Bucky’s form began to waver, as did the rest of the room. Maddox, Damien and Kage had frozen in their assault, their skin rippling as your breath suddenly fell short.

What was happening? You couldn’t scream for Bucky anymore - you couldn’t do anything, as if your mouth had been glued shut.

As your tears fell and sobs bubbled from your throat, the world dissolved.

The nightmare was ending, allowing leeway for the real horrors to become apparent.

You woke for real this time with a jolt, your sounds muffled by the tape over your lips. You were sobbing just like you had been in your dream, and as you took stock of the room you quickly realised Bucky wasn’t here. It had been a horrible nightmare.

What was real, was Maddox towering over you, a roll of tape discarded on the ground and his gun to your head. He looked the angriest you’d ever seen, salivating and almost frothing at the mouth. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

The tears started falling faster as you screamed against the tape, but it did little to quell Maddox. He forced each end of the tape down, the gun in his hand coldly pressing against your cheek. 

“Say his name again, I dare you. I'm not going to cut your tongue out. I'll fucking rip it out,” he growled, his words mouthed against your face and over your bound lips. His spit smeared over your skin, the heat of it warming where the metal of the gun had cooled.

All you could smell, see and hear was him. It was an overwhelming sensation that had you wanting to escape.

You writhed, but you couldn’t get away from him as he caged you in, kissing over your mouth again in a show of control, not endearment. He could take what he wanted from you whenever he wanted. You screamed and squirmed, but Maddox held you in place before ripping the tape off, allowing you to finally breathe in the musky basement air. “This fucking mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble.”

“W-What did I—“ Your heart nearly broke through your ribcage with how hard it was beating as Maddox forced the barrel of his handgun into your mouth, the metal sitting against your tongue and leaving a horrible taste. 

The struggle stopped, and you looked into Maddox’s eyes. The malice was pertifying. It wasn’t the same look he’d had during the assault in your apartment; no. It was worse. He was going to kill you.

His thumb moved in one swift motion to click the safety off, his finger resting on the trigger. “Say goodbye.”

You closed your eyes, fear clutching your heart and what felt like concrete in your lungs. You didn’t want Maddox’s face to be the last thing you saw, so you thought of when you and Bucky had adopted Alpine.

She had been found on the streets as a stray, only a year old with matted hair and a little injured paw. You’d both fallen in love with her, and nursed her into the ball of chaotic floof she was today. You thought of the moment where you first brought her home. She stayed in her carrier after the door had opened, too scared to venture out. So you and Bucky sat on the floor, cuddling and talking while Alpine slowly came out, before sitting next to you both. It was so peaceful. Such a small moment changed the trajectory of your life. It was those pockets of happiness you cherished the most.

You waited for the bang, the flash, the quick pain before the nothingness. But it didn’t come.

Instead, you heard rushed steps and yells before Maddox was hauled off you, the brunette slipping the safety back on as he let the other two pull him back. 

“What the fuck?” Damien snapped, a commotion starting.

But it was like water was in your ears as you stared up at the ceiling from your bed, the chain secured around your ankle rattling with the way your body couldn’t stop shaking. Your arms covered your torso, and it took you what felt like forever to open your eyes.

“She was calling for him! For that bastard!” Maddox yelled, and it was then you turned your head to look at him.

“What, so you were going to kill her? Mads! Stop! We just got her!” Damien grabbed Maddox by the shoulders, shaking him like it would bring him to his senses.

"One simple fucking rule. Don't ask to go back to him. She was wailing like a fucking banshee."

Kage was the only controlled one, ushering Damien out of the way so he could take Maddox’s face into his hands. “You’re not back there. You’re not being compared to him, not being tested on. Stop. You’re here, and you almost just killed her.”

“She. Called. For. Him,” Maddox said through gritted teeth.

Damien glanced over at you, and it made you curl a little closer to the wall. "She didn't mean to, Mads. You know she didn't. Just breathe. Come on.”

It didn’t stop Maddox from spitting on the ground, his breaths coming out in adrenaline fueled shudders. “That piece of shit. I bet he bragged to her. I bet she fucking knows everything he did and is playing stupid.” With Kage holding him, his sightline turned to you. ”You’re pretending like you have no idea what he’s done, aren’t you? You dumb fucking bitch!”

“You know that’s not what’s happening,” Kage quickly reasoned with Maddox’s face still between his palms. It was clear there was a brother-like bond between the three of them. It would be nice, if the context of the situation didn’t exist. If anything, it made you more scared of them.

The fear had your body feeling frail, and it took you a few tries before you could sit up on your cot. “W-Whatever I did… I’m sorry. I don’t k-know what’s happening.”

Even you were caught off guard with the weakness in your voice, but the apology did nothing to appease Maddox. In fact, it incited the flame again. He broke free of Kage’s hold, and you didn’t have time to defend yourself before he smacked you hard across the face, the sound resonating like a sick echo in the cell.

The pain came a few seconds later, a sharp sting spreading across your face as you sobbed.

“You fucking bitch. You think this is funny, don’t you? Playing the innocent act just so you can fucking laugh at me once I’m gone.” He was trying to goad you into something you weren’t. You wore no mask, obscured no part of yourself. You were just you. And in a world where so many people lied and deceived, you could understand where the line of thought had come from. But Maddox couldn’t be more wrong about you.

What was it he had against Bucky anyway? There was clearly history you were missing, some big piece of the puzzle that had been hidden.

You didn’t get a chance to respond before Damien was tugging him back, taking the gun from him and pulling him away. “Mads, you’re triggered. That’s enough. You’re not yourself.”

For a moment, you could swear there were unshed tears in Maddox’s eyes, but didn’t get the chance to tell before Damien had pulled him from the room, leaving you alone with Kage.

There was a long silence for a moment, just your cries as your hand rested on your throbbing cheek, with Kage standing by in thought. He looked to you, his icy stare not helping you calm down. “I’m going to have to punish you.”

You could still hear Maddox yelling as you rubbed your cheek, and when Maddox’s voice finally faded you curled your knees up to your chest, your sobs shaking you. Maddox would have killed you if they hadn’t intervened, but now you were going to be punished. It was cruel. “What did I do?”

“You broke a rule. You called for him. Subconscious or not, every part of you has to learn the consequences.” Kage rolled up his sleeves, crossing his arms. It was clear his conviction was settled, and there would be no point bartering. “First, you’re going to shower. You’ve pissed yourself.”

Fresh tears filled your eyes when you looked down and realised Kage wasn’t lying. The sheets stuck uncomfortably to your legs and panties, the hem of your shirt soaked. You weren’t even sure when it happened, having been so caught up in the nightmare and then Maddox’s rage. Your fingers gripped the edge of the mattress, head hanging so you didn’t have to look at Kage.

Part of you wasn’t even sure if you were humiliated. They’d stripped you so bare you didn’t have much left, not even the dignity that would be hurt from something like this. More than anything, you cursed yourself for not being braver.

You had to hold your own if you were going to survive.

Words failed you when Kage took your arm to stand you up, and you didn’t say a word as he released your chains started to lead you from the room. 

It was a slow walk as you hobbled on your injured feet, but it was clear Kage had no intention of carrying you as he walked a few steps ahead. He’d let go of his hold, so confident that you’d follow him that he didn’t even look back. You knew he’d overpower you without even breaking a sweat if you tried anything, and you didn’t have the energy to fight.

You were surprised to see the underground was more than just your room, with a small hallway connecting you to a large shower room. You assumed there must be more cells, because there were multiple shower heads and a few random lockers. Almost as if it was a prisoner gym shower. It was odd, and you cautiously stepped forward.

Kage just ushered you towards the shower, crossing his arms as he watched you limp onto the tiled surface. You went to take off your bandages, but he cleared his throat and shook his head. Flustered, you moved to your shirt and underwear instead, turning away from him as you stripped bare and dumped the soiled clothing on the floor.

You cautiously stepped forward to turn the shower on, shuddering when the cold water began pouring out. There was only one tap, and no indication that the water was getting warmer, so you turned back to your captor. “There’s no hot water?”

There was no response from Kage, just a stare that told you all you needed to know, as if he was silently saying ‘get on with it’.

You shivered as you stood under the cold stream. When the water washed over your face, it was like you were back in your apartment all over again, and you let out a panicked gasp before stepping back.

The way your body shook wasn’t only from the cold.

With a bated breath, you glanced back at Kage. But he was no closer. He wasn’t going to pull you out, going to attack you, it seemed. The danger still loomed, memories of your assault fresh in your mind.

You returned to the water, washing yourself off as you could feel Kage’s gaze burning into you, as if he was studying each of your movements. He finally moved when the water shut itself off, pointing to a grey towel that was the same dull colour as the rest of the basement.

The last remaining water droplets blinked from your vision as you stepped forward, taking the towel and beginning to dry off. You glanced around, frowning when you saw there were no fresh clothes. 

“Uhm… clothes?” You asked hopefully, to which Kage shook his head. It wasn’t surprising, but it was upsetting.

As you ran the towel across your skin, you couldn’t rid of the nagging question that was plaguing your mind. “Why didn’t you just let him kill me?”

“He doesn’t need the guilt,” Kage finally spoke, but his answer only made your brows furrow.

“Why would he feel guilty for getting rid of someone who doesn’t matter?” It was conflicting information. They’d said you were nothing while in your apartment, and had treated you as such. But of course, you weren’t given an answer. Instead, Kage began leading you back to your room, your waterlogged bandages making it hard to walk. “What’s my punishment?”

Kage doesn’t answer, instead leaving you alone in your cell. “Strip the bed. I’ll be back.”

You gently rubbed your cheek where Maddox slapped you as you stared at the open door. You could run, but that would just worsen the situation. And you were in no condition to make it far.

Your gaze shifted to the blinking red light in the corner, staring into the black lens before snapping out of it and beginning to strip the bed as you were told. You kept replaying the events in your head, but it just didn’t make sense. You didn’t know why Maddox was so furious, and why Kage and Damien stopped him before he did any real damage. There was clearly something you were missing, but you were too fatigued to notice.

You used the sheets to soak up any remaining moisture from the mattress, which was covered with some sort of dark waterproof fabric. Unsure of what else to do, you placed the sheets by the bed.

With the sheets on the floor, you sat next to them on the cold concrete, waiting until Kage came back in with fresh bedding. He held it out to you, waiting for you to approach him with an air of impatience. You hoped your punishment was a simple as making the bed, but you knew you were in for worse at the hands of these men. 

It didn’t take Kage commanding you to put the fresh sheets on the bed, his eyes not leaving you for a moment. He let out a hum when you finished, before taking a seat. “Come here.”

You let out a shaky breath before you approached him. There was something so ominous about the blue shine to his eyes, like a full moon bearing its magnetic energy onto you. You couldn’t help but feel pulled towards him, like your legs moved before you could even think. When you got close enough, Kage took your wrist into his grip. There was a beat of silence for a moment before he yanked you down. You yelped as you fell, your stomach hitting his thighs as he bent you over his knees. It was a humiliating position. As if they hadn’t caused you enough shame.

As naked as the day you were born, you lay across his legs, your ass raised, and shoulders slumped. There was no escape. You were under no illusion that there was no way you could reasonably get out without help. And without Bucky, or any of your friends, you were stuck.

You felt as if you hadn’t slept at all, and tiredness nipped at the back of your eyes as you resigned yourself in his lap. He seemed pleased, a near silent grunt sounding as he rubbed circles over the globes of your ass.

When the first slap landed, you yelped, a sharp pain on your ass from the impact of his palm.

“One.” You heard him count under his breath, before the second spank hit. “Two.” Tears gathered in your eyes, small droplets hitting the ground below as the third hit landed. “Three.”

“Why?” You croaked out. “Why are you doing this?”

“Four.” Kage uttered, another slap hitting you and causing your body to jolt. Four. The counting continued despite your pleas, the pain worsening with each hit. He wasn’t holding back, and the pain began to elevate to the point where you felt as if your bones may shatter. Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

“Please, I don’t understand. I’m sorry- I’m s-sorry I said his name. But I didn’t do it on purpose,” your words are mottled with sobs, and you turned back to look at him despite the way you had coiled around his thighs. “I don’t understand. Why do you hate him?”

Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty.

Kage’s icy glare met yours. In just a look alone he conveyed so much emotion, far more than words could ever express. There was anger and hurt all broiled up in a stew of self-pity. Twenty one, twenty two, twenty three, twenty four, twenty five, twenty six, twenty seven, twenty eight, twenty nine. His spanks didn’t stop, not even when your cries resounded off the walls like a ghoulish orchestra, your begs garbled with the agony coursing through you.

“Thirty,” he coldly said, his hand once against slapping against your abused ass. When he brought up his hand for another hit, he stopped. On his palm was little dots of blood. You whimpered at the sight of it, and his eyes narrowed. He’d been hitting you so hard he’d broken skin with the impact.

“Please, why? What’s going on?” You lamented, growing weary of his silence. “Just tell me. Why do you hate him? What did he do?”

Kage hit you again, more aggressive this time. You howled in pain as he held you still. His breaths came out in a huff as he calmed himself down. “Don’t act dumb. You’re his girlfriend. You know what he’s done.”

“I don’t!” You rebutted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Kage’s steel blue eyes flashed with something dangerous, his hand rubbing circles on your skin and smearing your blood across your flesh. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.” You were genuine, and Kage’s eyes narrowed as he considered you. “I’m sure you did some research before taking me. I’m just a girl.”

”What, your boyfriend didn’t brag of the lives he ruined? How he ruined our lives. We’re orphaned freaks because of him. Because the Asset couldn’t just do his fucking mission. But he had no problem doing his job just fine when he trained us, when he beat us to a bloody pulp making us wish were dead. Over and over and over again. Hydra’s fist hits fucking hard. And he leaves behind nothing but lost souls.” It’s the most you’ve heard Kage speak, but what he’s saying makes no sense to you. “The Asset doesn’t care about the wreckage he leaves behind as long as he’s happy – as long as he can continue on with his pathetic life.”

Bucky ruined lives? The surprise and confusion on your face said it all. From what you knew, he didn’t do anything. He was a prisoner of war, he was a soldier, but his involvement with Hydra was news to you. The most you’d heard of the organisation was from reports when the triskelion fell. It was broadcast everywhere. “He didn’t tell me anything. I only know who Hydra are from the news.”

Kage let out a dark, mocking chuckle. "Stop lying."

"I'm not! I swear. He never told me. He doesn't tell anything about his missions either. H-He said he couldn't. That it was safer that way." You remembered the first time Bucky came home from a mission. He was covered in soot and a mess. Being naive, you asked him what happened, and it was then you realised it was better for you not to know. The horrors of the world were not for your eyes… until now.

Kage’s fingers gripped into the plushness of your ass. ”But you’ve been to the compound.”

“As a guest - a friend. Never when a mission was happening.” You sobbed, your brain spinning in circles at the new revelations. “I’ve been there for dinner or parties. Nothing else.”

His nails made divots in your skin as he gripped you. "You really had no idea?"

"No, I didn't. And I'm sorry. For all of you," you hiccupped. You couldn't lie about that. Losing family is never easy. "I didn't know."

Kage didn’t seem convinced. ”But you know of Hydra?”

You shrugged best you could over his knee. “Sort of. N-Not really. I just saw the news when those big helicopter things crashed - uh, helicarriers?” You let out a shuddered sigh. “The news said Hydra was behind it.”

His fingers eased, moving to rub over the sensitised skin. ”Did you read the documents that were leaked?”

You shook your head, tears dropping to the floor. “No, why would I do that? I didn’t need an existential crisis. I get stressed enough about everyday news, like a mugger or a cat stuck in a tree.”

"So he kept you in a bubble," he said after a moment, more to himself than to you. "If you're lying—"

"I'm not," you promised, almost dissolving into more tears. "I swear to you. All of you. I have no reason to lie to you."

There was a beat of silence while your mind ran a million miles an hour. Bucky was a prisoner of war, you knew that – the world knew that. But… he was with Hydra? You pursed your lips. There was no way he would have been with them willingly. He was a prisoner of Hydra, you surmised. He’d made comments in the past about never being in control until now – always being ordered around by someone else. Admittedly, you hadn’t taken it as literal. A soldier takes orders, but this – this seems entirely different. There’s no way Bucky would hurt someone unprovoked, not unless he was being controlled. The man you loved was no villain.

Kage broke the silence. ”Do you resent him for not telling you?”

A heavy sigh left you, pain still flickering up your spine from your abused ass. “It’s his story. I’m not the one who can decide when it’s time to tell it.”

"But he's the reason you're here,” Kage said as his hand ran up your back before reaching your shoulders, pulling you up and guiding you to sit in his lap.

You whimpered at the pressure on your bruised skin as you sat on Kage’s thighs. "Better me than another innocent person."

Kage’s face was close to yours, his breath fanning across your skin. ”You wouldn’t trade places with someone else?”

You tried to move back, to get some distance, but Kage held you firm. “No. I couldn’t bring myself to subject someone else to this kind of pain.”

He seemed to be searching for something in your eyes. "You don't like others hurting, do you?"

The question surprised you. "No, I don't. I've always tried to help others if I can."

Your answer has the air in the room changing, some of the coldness turning a bit warmer as Kage brushed away some of your tears. Your blood was still on his hands, and you eyed the redness of his fingers as he touched your face.

A tremble coursed through you when you heard footsteps approaching, and your attention turned to the doorway, where Damien emerged with a salve, some wipes and fresh clothes.

His expression had changed too. Where there was anger was now a new understanding. They really thought you knew what they’d been through, you realised. You glanced between the two men, uncomfortable and distressed. Their anger was ruthless, but you feared whatever this was more. Kage’s hands over your waist were firm, but with an edge of gentleness.

You didn’t want them to like you.

Maybe you should have just lied and said you knew. But that wasn’t you. You weren’t deceptive.

Kage lifted you easily, placing you face down on your cot, your face wetting the fresh sheets below you as you cried. The overstimulation of your body and mind hit like a freight train, and you sobbed like never before.

“Jesus, try to calm down. You’ll make yourself sick,” Damien tried to placate as he sat next to you, wiping away your blood before beginning to apply some ointment to your battered skin. “You really did a number, Kage.”

You glance over at the blonde, and he didn’t seem proud of himself. Quite the opposite. His jaw clenched. “Shut up.”

“Hey hey, I’m just trying to break the tension here.” Damien kept applying the ointment until your welts were covered. “You took your punishment well.”

You think he’s trying to compliment you, so you respond with your head buried in the sheets. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he quickly responded before finishing up.

Your mournful cries didn’t stop, and they only got worse when Kage and Damien finally left, leaving you alone. You dressed yourself in the plain tshirt and panties, before it all became too much and returned to the bed.

All your bottled-up emotions spilled out into the mattress. You screamed, your sounds muffled by the bedding, not stopping until your throat hurt and your voice was course.

The more emotion you let out, the more fatigued you became. And slowly, you began to pass out, crying yourself to sleep. All you could hope was this sleep was more restful, and less eventful than the last.

Thankfully, you didn’t dream this time. Your rest was no more than a limbo between horrors – horrors which seemed very intent on continuing, with Maddox stood with his arms crossed, watching you slumber as he leaned against the open doorframe. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You nearly jumped through the ceiling in fright at the sight of him, your whole body flinching as you sat up, your bruised ass instantly sore from the movement. “You didn’t.”

“Good.” He tilted his head, the anger he’d been sporting gone behind his normal demure expression. “So, I had a chat with the guys. Look, we thought you knew all about us. And now we realise you really are innocent in all this. We feel a bit bad about the whole situation, so we’re going to let you go home.”

It sounded like a foreign language as Maddox spoke, your heart skipping a beat. “You’re going to let me go?”

“Seems only fair. I think we’ve put you through enough,” Maddox shrugged nonchalantly.

“But you were so angry,” you cautiously observed Maddox. It felt like a trick, and it likely was one, but you couldn’t help the desire that smouldered in your heart. You could go home. More than anything you just desired to be comfortable in your own bed again, with your cat and the love of your life.

Maddox pushed himself off the doorframe and approached, the movement making you shuffle back on the mattress. He chuckled, shaking his head at your scurrying. “I have no intent of hurting you.”

“Surely you can’t blame me for being afraid,” you squeaked as he towered over you.

“Oh, not at all. I’ve given you more than enough reason. But here, truce?” Maddox offered his open palm for you to take, to help you stand. You stared at his hand for a moment, taking in the scarred skin. It looked like he held the sharp end of a knife more than once. They weren’t kidding about having been through pain.

Anxiety was a thick sludge in your throat as you placed your hand in his, allowing him to be a crutch for you as you got onto your feet. Your entire backside hurt like something fierce with each movement, but you tried to not show it too much on your face.

“Kage really let you have it, huh?” Maddox grinned, leading you out of the door and to the left, where Kage and Damien stood at the bottom of concrete stairs.

“Ready to go home?” Kage said as Damien took your free hand in his.

“Yes,” you blurted out honestly. “Are you… are you really going to let me go?”

“Of course. We may be assholes, but we’re not liars,” Damien chided, the warmth from his skin heating your hand.

“What about Bu– I mean, my boyfriend?” You questioned, making wobbly steps up the stairs towards what looked to be a basement door. Your suspicions were right - you were underground.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about him. That’s our business to attend to,” Maddox grinned, but it was akin to a shark showing their teeth. There was danger in the way he spoke.

Distracted, you missed a step, but they were quick to catch you, all giving out a soft laugh before you made your way to the top of the stairs.

You had guessed that you were underground. What you hadn’t expected was that you were under a house. You emerged into an open-plan living room and kitchen with a rustic aesthetic. 

“Do you like it?” Damien asked proudly. Clearly, he owned this place.

“... It’s nice.” You placated, taking your hand out of both Maddox and Damien’s grip. “I can.. just go?”

“Yes. Off you go. There’s a car outside waiting for you,” Damien said, and you could feel the soft rumble of a running engine through the floorboards.

You glanced back at the men, each of them looking expectantly at you. There wasn’t a moment of hesitation before you turned around and bolted for the front door, despite your body hating every moment. Your feet were still healing, and with your bruised muscles, it was torture. But you wanted out. No, you needed out.

You reached the front door quickly, and when you turned the knob, your eyes went wide. It was locked tight. There were multiple bolts on the door, which all seemed unlocked, but when you looked down, you realised the front door had a finger scanner. 

Reality began to set in when you placed your finger on the door and were met with a red flash and beeping. Access denied. “No... No, no, no. Not like this.”

You went to turn, but before you could, there was a sharp prick to your neck as one of the men plunged a needle into you. It became clear Maddox was your assailant as your legs went numb, and you tumbled to the ground with a gasp, seeing him standing behind you with dark eyes. Whatever the contents of the syringe were acted quickly, an odd floaty feeling spreading across your body as you lost control of your functions, your body stuck on its front on the cold hardwoods.

Their laughter became distorted as your brain fizzled, but you didn’t pass out. No, whatever they’d given you was keeping you awake, forced to watch as they circled your limp body. “She made it further than I thought she would with her injuries,” Damien smirked as he poked your side with his shoe.

“It’s cute in an utterly pathetic way.” Maddox used his boot to roll you onto your back before leaning down near your head. “Aw, is someone feeling a bit sleepy?” Unable to coil away, Maddox spit in your face with a cruel laugh. “C’mon, wake up, it’s playtime.”

Kage was next to torment you as you tried to roll yourself back onto your stomach to crawl away. His boot pressed painfully into your stomach, the steel tip digging in just below your ribcage. “Knock my foot away. Try it.”

You whined as you tried to use your arms to push him away, but you couldn’t. Your arms were like jelly.

“Mm, as fun as this is, we gotta move.” Maddox sighed as he straightened up, discarding the used needle out of your sightline.

You managed to get onto your stomach with Kage backing off, but all you could do was whimper as hands gripped your ankles, dragging you across the hardwoods and out the front door, your nose banging on the solid surface as you tried to dig your nails into the floor, but you had no strength left.

Your drool and blood from your now bleeding nose created a trail across the floor. At least if anyone found this home, there’d be evidence that you existed, your DNA staining the wood.

“Should we change her?” Damien asked, and from his voice, you could tell he was the one dragging you.

“She’ll be warm enough,” Maddox watched from the side as you were dragged to the porch stairs.

“God, she’s not going to piss in my car, is she?” Damien complained as Kage slung you over his shoulder, your body like a ragdoll, as he lifted you with scary ease.

“Just wrap a towel around her ass. It’ll do.” Maddox began putting bags in the back seat of the SUV parked outside.

Damien began to help him, but not without continuing to complain. “Just watch it. She already bled on my floor.”

Maddox laughed. “She bled all over her apartment and you didn’t even blink.”

“But that wasn’t my apartment,” Damien argued, a playful irritation in his tone.

They were having fun while tear droplets hit the gravel below you.

Maddox wasn’t giving up, though. ”You’re so materialistic sometimes, Dami.”

”When you pay for shit you can be too, Mads. Oh wait, you don’t pay for anything.”

”I’ve saved your ass enough times for payment.”

Kage sighed, his hand resting on your exposed ass. ”Would you two just shut up and help me get her in the car? I can do it myself, but then I’ll make sure blood and piss gets everywhere.”

Maddox sighed, too. "Yeah, yeah. Gimme a second. You leave the present in her cell?"

"Yeah. They'll find it."

You tried to speak, but only a groan came out. 

"Try not to talk. It won't do you any good.” Kage said as Maddox helped him haul you into the trunk of the car.

”At first, we couldn’t get you to talk, and now you won’t shut up.” Maddox started to wrap a towel around your lower half. "Just put some music on and drown her out."

“You… lied…” You managed to get out amongst your drooling whimpers.

Kage leaned in, his hand caressing your cheek. “We didn’t. You are going home.”

“Just not to the home you hoped for,” Maddox chimed in, derisively patting your thigh. “Rest up, babydoll. There’s a long journey ahead of us yet.”

Kage and Maddox pulled back, and their faces were the last thing you saw before the boot was slammed shut, and you were covered in darkness.

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[ghost-proofbaby]

TEN MINUTES (a barista!eddie x barista!reader au)

summary: eddie has a bad day, until you show up on your day off. after that, all it takes is ten minutes and the promise of a bagel to make it all better.

warnings: fem!reader (use of she/her pronouns), eddie is being a pessimistic hater (just like me fr), quite a lot of siren vocabulary here ('peak' references the morning rush, 'drive' references the position where you take orders on the drive thru, and 'customer support' is the person who just restocks everything and keeps the store as clean as possible. in simplified terms.)

wc: 4.2k+

the full menu

If anybody asked Eddie, he’d lie through his teeth and say that hate is a strong word. That he isn’t capable of hating anyone; that he only really, strongly dislikes a select few. But no one is really asking Eddie about that right now. So, he can be a hater all he pleases.

There’s nothing wrong with the people he’s opening with. It’s what he tells himself from the moment he wakes up, as he brushes his teeth, as he forces his curls into a half-assed bun and during the entire drive into work. There’s nothing really wrong with the two people. They’re not you — that’s not a crime. 

But he was being a pessimist. Sue him.

“What would you rather open?” Corey, the other barista he was opening with, asks him as they walk into the store. Eddie isn’t even clocked in yet and he’s counting down the hours.

If you were here, there’d already be an unspoken rule that he’d open food and you’d open drive. “Either one.” 

“Cool,” except it’s very much not cool as Corey says, “I’ll open food, then.” 

Fuck me. 

Eddie struggles through the tasks you normally fly through with half lidded eyes and an ache in his bones that he tells himself is just fatigue, but he knows is really him missing you. It’s been there since that day the two of you took the nap in his van, since he’d had the privilege of curling up and unwinding with you. He’s pretty sure the blankets in the back still smell like you, sweet perfume clinging to the material with a vengeance. 

Peak isn’t any better.

Too many people, too many tasks, too many drinks, too many expectations. And not nearly enough clandestine smiles or subtle inside jokes. Not a single bump of a shoulder against his or an adorable little snort when he messes up rather than the well-deserved glare. He’s in a constant frazzled state, opening with the store manager rather than just another shift. Terrified he’s going to fuck up. Terrified that he’s one wrong move away from being fired. Terrified that he’s one ill-timed joke away from being scolded. He hates it; he hates spending his morning so tense and on edge when he’s grown so accustomed to spending them with you. 

He’s in the back doing dishes with his headset beginning to slip off, just after peak when he’d been awarded the mercy of being reassigned to customer support, when he finally heard it — his sweet relief, the first ray of sunshine to break through the stormy clouds of the day.

“Hello, hello!” the annoyingly chipper voice of Corey greets the newest car in the drive thru, “How’s it going this morning?” 

The only person he can stand being so positive is you. Anyone else, and he’s nauseated enough that he has to take actual, dramatic, deep breaths.

“I’m good, how are you?” 

He knows that voice. God, he knows the voice that replies. He’d recognize it anywhere — in sleep, in life, in death. Stronger than any shot of espresso. 

Nicole had just come in, taking over for the store manager. She didn’t even glance up from where she was writing in the books at the back desk as she heard the clatter of the dishes Eddie was holding echo through the backroom, only smiling to herself as she listened to him take off for the window and she says over the headset, “Metalhead incoming.” 

He nearly falls on his ass twice, and scares the shit out of Corey, but it’s worth it when he peers into that small corner of the screen and sees you in your Jeep. Relaxed, smiling knowingly, as if you’re just waiting for him. 

Corey seemingly knows better than to get between Eddie and answering this call, immediately backing off.

He has to catch his breath before he plays it off cool, “You know, most people don’t come to their place of work on their days off.” 

“What can I say? I’m a caffeine fiend.” 

You recognize his voice, too. It had been the one you’d prayed for as you drove up — you’re glad your sore disappointment didn’t last long.

“Yeah? Going into withdrawals not even, what, twenty hours after your last shift?” he teases with the dumbest grin, until the ache in his chest turns to an ache in his cheeks. There’s no room for him to even be embarrassed about how quickly his mood has turned around at your appearance. 

You threw back your head in laughter, and he watched through the camera, “Maybe I just missed you guys.” 

Maybe I just missed you. 

He has to bite back an echo of the sentiment, still smiling wildly as he begins to type in your usual before even asking, “You want your usual?”

“Aw, you know my order, Munson?” your teasing has him blushing. Has something blooming deep within the pit of his stomach that he cherishes, “Cute.” 

He doesn’t reply, only spins on his heels and begins to queue up your shots on the bar that’s closest to the drive thru corner. The current bar partner watches in confusion — he really doesn’t care. He’s not trusting anyone else with your drink. As if he has to make a point to everyone that he’s your friend, that you're his, even outside of these four walls (technically more than four, but Eddie hates technicalities). 

He pauses halfway through pumping your ridiculous choice of syrups you always get, “You pullin’ up or what?” 

Your laughter is cut short as you abide by his request he chose to politely poise as a casual question. The drive thru is in the rare state of empty, and you appear outside of that window rather than merely on the screen immediately, smile still gleaming in the late morning light. 

Just like that, all the hate leaves Eddie’s body.

The automatic window slides open at the motion of Eddie stepping up to it, haphazardly popping the lid onto your drink as he glances up through his lashes, trying to force nonchalance rather than reveal just how giddy he is in your presence. It’s nice. A full breath of relief after the most suffocating of mornings.

“You makin’ me pay or what?” you ask, leaning ever so slightly out your window, voice pitched to clearly mimic Eddie’s. 

With your head leaning out like that, the sun catches your nose ring just right, turning it into a blinding weapon as it blinks at Eddie. It makes your entire face look like it’s sparkling. It kind of reminds him of Twilight.

He kind of hates it. Kind of makes his stomach sick. Kind of makes his chest feel like a fizzy soda can, ready to burst at your command.

“It’s Nicole’s floor,” he shrugs, passing you the cup. Your fingertips brush his, and he tries to pretend like it doesn’t light a fire right through his core, “You already know she’d throw a fit if I made you pay.” 

“And corporate would throw a fit if they knew that-“

“You wanna pay?” Eddie interrupts, squinting at you, picking up the card reader as he threateningly shoves it your way, “Because, by all means, I can take your card right now. Be warned, though. There’ll be a twenty percent tip added automatically.” 

You whistle lowly, setting the cup aside somewhere in your car’s center console before you prop your chin up on your window to stare up at him, “Twenty percent? Have you earned that much today, old man?” 

He promptly points to the mocha splattering his apron, “Absolutely, Sunshine. These coffees don’t drip themselves.” 

You laugh at his nonsense, and he swears he can’t remember what reasons he even had to be in such a sour mood that morning. All his grumbles, all his woes, evaporate at the sound of it. Like a bandaid, like a balm, like an elixir — just under a minute with you, and all his problems have been solved.

Corey runs off to do other tasks, or maybe sit on their phone, Eddie isn’t sure. He doesn’t pay attention as the two of you somehow run off track into a conversation of the errands you spent the morning running. Washing your car, doing laundry (specifically washing your aprons), making a grocery list. He doesn’t get how all those mundane and trivial things can incite such exciting conversation between the two of you, but it does. He loves it — he loves hearing about your day. All your complaints and all the stupid things that get you excited. When you end up on some tangent about how you have never and will never separate your clothes by color because you haven’t ended up with any pink shirts yet, he can only imagine how terribly boring it would all sound to any eavesdroppers. When he laughs a little too loud at your recount of how you struggled to make your own coffee at home this morning, he knows he looks insane. It truly wasn’t that funny; but it was you, and when you started giggling to yourself halfway through the story, it was just infectious.

He spends so long draped halfway out that window, watching your fluttering lashes and pinching his eyes half shut at the reflection of the rising sun bouncing off your vehicle, that his ribs grow sore. A little indent appears on your chin, skin wearing a visible mark from leaning it against your open window all that time. And yet, neither of you make any move to end the conversation, to carry on with your day.

By the time another car pulls up, the window times are atrocious. Downright ridiculous. Probably bad enough to warrant a visit from corporate. 

“I’m not insulting your baking skills, I’m insulting the fact that you just said oatmeal raisin is your favori-”

Eddie is cut off mid-tirade against your comment on your favorite cookie by the shrill ding that signals a car has pulled up to the order box, Corey’s voice following not long after.

“Hello, hello! What can I get started for you today?”

Eddie’s face twists up in disgust he can’t be bothered with hiding, and you bite your lip from bursting into laughter at his reaction. He didn’t like Corey. He didn’t have a good reason to hate them, but he didn’t have a good reason to like them. You always compared him to a feline when he’d explain it, poking fun at his pickiness when it came to which coworkers he would tolerate at best. 

There was a reason that his nickname wasn’t Sunshine. 

A hand comes down on Eddie’s shoulder just as your playful smile falters, and Nicole is practically dragging him out of the window.

 “Okay. I’ve let you two ruin my drive times long enough,” she pauses, still holding back Eddie as though he might leap back into the window when she lets go of him. Her eyes narrow on you, “And you. I love you, but please, get the Hell out of my drive thru.” 

A snort leaves you, “Fair enough. What are the times looking like?”

“Bad,” Nicole says flatly, “Very, very bad. So please, for the love of God, go.” 

Eddie sneaks a glance up at the screen displaying the stats, and his eyes bulge immediately. You’d been sitting at the window for ten goddamn minutes. It wasn’t long in the grand scheme of things, the two of you had wasted far more time when on the floor together, but most people would spend less than two minutes there. 

Nicole was going to kill him.

But it was worth it. He doesn’t care, isn’t worried about the lectures from Nicole or the shady comments that will surely be made by management regarding times and this random jump in the recap. All that matters to him is that the weight in his chest is a little lighter, that the noise in his head has gone a little quieter. 

Nicole glances back at him and then you, and only sighs deeply, resembling a disappointed parent, “He literally gets off in five minutes. Just go park and wait for him if you really want to spend an unreasonable amount of time debating cookies.” 

Your eyebrows lift, and you look right past the most relaxed of the shift leads to stare right at him. Eyes gleaming, smile brightening. 

Yeah, the weight in his chest didn’t even exist now. 

“See you in five,” is all you say before your car jerks forward, and is quickly replaced by an actual customer. 

He doesn’t believe you’ll be waiting. Spends his final five minutes offering to help Nicole however he can, which she just scoffs at and waves him off, giving him the pity task of ‘wiping down everything’ before he clocks out. There’s a shocking lack of a lecture, and he doesn’t notice it, but everyone continues to side glance at him as he walks with a little pep in his step. 

They can all see it. Even if he can’t, even if you can’t, they can. 

The end of his shift arrives, the counters are clean, and Eddie nearly launches the wet rag he was using to wipe everything across the store into the bucket of sanitizer. Tosses it hard enough to splash some of that murky water that desperately needs to be changed anew onto Nicole’s sneakers, gets a joking glare from her out of it. It doesn’t phase him; he’s got one thing on his mind, and it’s you. You, who he really hopes is still waiting outside the store for him. You, who he is begging the Universe to have stayed around and parked your car so he could have ten more minutes. 

Ten more minutes. If anyone in Hawkins knew he’d been reduced to begging for ten more measly minutes with some coworker at a coffee shop gig he claimed to hate, they’d mock him endlessly. 

“Don’t trip over yourself on your way out,” Nicole teases him as he stumbles up to the counter and begins to clock out on the iPad, fumbling with typing his employee numbers in correctly twice before the screen that lets him finally free himself of his shift pops up.

“Ha, ha,” he monotonously replies, brows furrowed deeply until the virtual time card officially reads that his shift has properly ended. He doesn’t even glance up at Nicole. His mind can’t register her words or poking fun. 

Just you. You, who made the weight of his existence something bearable. You, who could make ten minutes feel like ten seconds.  

You, who’s standing in the parking lot, leaning against the driver’s door of your car, arms crossed and lips fighting their widest grin yet.

“Took you long enough,” you comment as he crosses the asphalt in record time, feet beating against the ground beneath him in a pace just shy of breaking into a jog.

“It took forever for the iPad to load,” he tries to excuse himself, chest heaving not from his speed but the anticipation of being close to you again, “I think Nicole rigged it as revenge.” 

“Ah, yes, the sweet revenge of a whole two extra minutes-”

Your sarcasm is cut short by him reaching out and yanking you towards him. You collide roughly with his torso as he squeezes his arms around you, nose instantly burrowed into soft hair that still smells like your shampoo. It took even him by surprise; to be so careless, so driven by touch that he wasn’t even sure you’d accept.

But you do. You accept it, pressing your temple against his sternum without missing a beat, arms struggling to release from where he’d trapped them in front of your own chest so that they could wrap around his waist to return the tight squeeze. You all but melt into his embrace, and he’s glad he didn’t overthink it this time. 

He had missed this. Ever since that afternoon in his van, with the rain and the unspoken words, he had missed you. 

“Rough day?” you mumble against the fabric of his work shirt, still reeking of coffee and probably a bit of sweat. 

He tries to ignore any embarrassment at the thought of smelling gross as he nods, “So rough. I hate when Corey is on drive. Too positive.”

“Yet you love when I’m on drive?” your laugh echoes, vibrating against his bones, “They are not that bad.”

“They’re fucking terrible. I hate how cheery they are. Also, it’s so annoying when they try to joke how we’re busy, or just joke in general-”

“Edward Munson, you are the world’s most pessimistic barista.” 

He loves the sound of his name on your tongue. He’s never heard those syllables pronounced so beautifully, so lovingly. Every restless component of his body settles, and when you finally start to peel away from him, he nearly holds you tighter. 

He should hug you more often. 

“I can’t help that people are annoying. Maybe if they weren’t, I’d be less pessimistic,” he mutters, looking down at you with half-lidded eyes. 

Home. You were starting to feel like home, and he couldn’t begin to understand it. Miles away from the trailer, from Wayne and his ridiculous mug collection, from the sanctuary of his bedroom, and he managed to feel more at peace than he’d felt in years. 

You’re shaking your head, blissfully unaware of the effect you had, “You say that about everyone.”

“Everyone but you.” 

It was true. Everyone – classmates he’d left in the dust after graduation, his loyal friends, his passionate bandmates – found a way to annoy him at some point. It was fine; he could live with the little habits of others that irked him when he loved them enough. A fair trade off if it meant filling his life full of people that made it something worthwhile. But there was no trade, no catch, when it came to you. He was still sort of waiting for that other shoe to drop. 

“Is that a challenge?” you take a step back, and he almost follows, like a lost puppy, “Because I can totally start trying to find ways to annoy you. I’ve just been playing nice these last few months.” 

Funny how the months had flown by like mere weeks, and still managed to feel like years. It almost feels as though he’s known you since he was a child, like you were a residual comfort of his youth he’d managed to carry with him into adulthood. 

He can’t say that, though. He can’t risk scaring you off, or scaring himself away. Maybe he would tell you all the ways his soul has started to yearn for you, all the ways you bring a tranquility in his life he’d spent far too long seeking out, only to find it in the most unexpected and inconvenient circumstances. Maybe those words will just tumble out some day. On a sunny day, or a stormy one. Hell, it might even be the day he finally calls Mordor as you had done days before. 

“Try all you want,” he shrugs, shoving his hands into his jean pockets, avoiding fumbling with them like some foreign objects, “But I’m pretty sure that’ll be impossible.” 

You tsk, “No, see, this is the part where you tease me about how if that was me playing nice, you’d hate to see my mean, or some dumb shit. I didn’t wait a full seven minutes for you to not know our script, Munson.” 

“Sorry, some of us didn’t take a class on quick wit,” he rolls his eyes, but his cheeks still ache where his dimples rest. Ever present indents when he was around you, “What are your plans for the rest of the day?” 

He’s being brave. Sticking his neck out and handing you a knife. You could cut him down, tell him you’ve got too many errands to run still to spend any more time with him as he was implying. Or, you could do the opposite.

It should be predictable at this point, but it isn’t.

Your eyes widen as you tilt his head curiously at him, “I… Nothing important. Why?” 

You’re gonna make him say it. Force him to ask for your time outright. 

“I don’t know, I was just thinking…” he sheepishly starts, simultaneously lifting a hand to scratch at the back of his neck as he nods to your empty passenger seat, “Maybe you’d… I mean, you might want some company? If not, I totally get it, but errands can get lonely and-”

“Yes.”

“-I know it’s just nice to-” he stops mid sentence, looking up at your sunny disposition as he processes what you’ve just said, “Wait, did you just say yes?”

“Yes,” you repeat, “I would love for you to join me for my boring errands, Eddie,” The excitement nearly consumes him, the realization that the two of you were finally going to hang out away from work. Something he’s worked towards for months, daydreamed about for more nights than he will ever admit. All those long mornings are coming to fruition. Ten more minutes, and then some. “On two conditions.”

“Oh?” he asks, voice squeaking the tiniest bit. If it were anyone else, he might have been ashamed of that stupid crack in his dialect, “Do tell me these conditions.”

“One,” you hold up a stern finger, putting on the most serious face you could muster, “I pick the music.”

He pretends to ponder it, but he already knows his answer. “I suppose I can allow it. What’s the other one?” 

Your hand falls slowly, dropping all your serious demeanor inch by inch. You were smiling with your eyes – he hadn’t thought that was possible until he met you, and fell in infatuation with those ever present creases at the corners of yours. The way they lift your cheeks, the way they make your irises sparkle. He thinks the term was actually invented for you and only you. 

“You buy me a bagel.”

Your face is full of mischief, but your tone is dead serious. It doesn’t matter, because you don’t have to sell him on the idea. He’s done pretending he’s not desperate for your time, for ten more minutes. 

“Done,” he says, “As a matter of fact, I’ll buy you twenty bagels to save me from my boredom.” 

“Slow down there, passenger princess,” you shake your head, “I only need one. You’re absolutely welcome to order yourself nineteen, though. But you’ve gotta vacuum up any crumbs you leave in my ca-”

“Yeah, yeah,” he stops you, waving his hand, “Got it. You choose the music, I buy you a bagel, I don’t leave behind any crumbs. Let’s go.”

You raise your hand, beginning to jingle your keys jokingly between the two of you, but Eddie is already rounding the front of your Jeep to get to the passenger door. “I didn’t even say where we’re going, old man!”

“Didn’t need to, Sunshine,” he calls out, grabbing at the still locked handle and tugging for emphasis. It earns a glare from you that makes all his insides twist in bliss, “Unlock this obnoxious ass yellow death trap on wheels so we can make it to the nearest bagel shop while they’re still fresh.” 

“It is not a deathtrap,” you argue as you unlock your door first, hopping in and having to lean over to manually unlock his door. The moment it swings open, you’re still leaning over, settling your gaze on him, “And I happen to like the yellow, thank you very much.” 

He’d never tell you, but he does too. It’s the most migraine-inducing shade he’s ever laid eyes on. He would never even consider buying a car for himself in the same color, and would mock any other driver on the road for it. But it was you – bright, vibrant, impossible to miss. 

“You’ve got bad taste,” he says just for the sake of watching your faux annoyance, “Yellow’s the ugliest color.” 

“And metal’s the most annoying genre.” 

You’re both lying through your teeth. It doesn’t matter. 

Because then he’s in your passenger seat, buckling up as you turn your key in the ignition, whatever upbeat songs you’d been listening to before begin to trickle out of the speakers, and everything just feels right. His shitty morning is forgotten entirely. As if it never happened. As if Corey hadn’t given him the worst headache of his life before you’d arrived. 

When you turn your head to look at him, moving to turn down the music, you ask, “The nearest bagel shop is about ten minutes away. Is that okay?” 

More than okay. It meant he gets more than just ten minutes. It means he gets more of your time than he’s deserving of, gets to watch you sing along to at least two songs he’s never heard of and would have no desire listening to when not with you, gets to feel a little more weightless a little bit longer. 

Thank you, Universe, he mentally whispers at his wish of ten more minutes being granted, and then some. 

“Perfect.” 

You turn the music back up, lurch the car forward, and Eddie smiles when the sun catches that damn nose ring in a blinding manner yet again. 

Perfect, indeed.

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[drabblesandimagines]

Sweet & Salty

I'm feeling a bit sad today so wanted some comfort... Sebastian x (afab) reader, Stardew Valley, Fluffity fluff Warnings: Mention of recreational drug use

-

It’s been a day. You’d sat down heavily on your porch steps, trying to keep the tears at bay. You should probably go mope in your bed, instead of staring at the land that is causing you so much distress. Despite your carefully placed scarecrow, you must’ve miscalculated the distance because the crows have still had a go at your most recent plantings and that’s hard-earned money down the drain - again. You’ve been here two months now and, surely, by now you should know better. The farm has been somewhat transformed since you arrived - a mass of weeds, stone and dead branches - but it’s nowhere near how you remember it in your grandpa’s heyday. He would’ve never made such a rudimentary error in his scarecrow placement.

Some of the fences around your crop patches have started to erode too – it won’t be long until they need replaced, but you’re trying to save up your wood supplies to put in a coop from Robyn. You desperately want to add chickens to the farm as eggs would be steady income – or at least you reckon – but you also don’t want them pecking at your crops alongside the crows, so having a fence seems important too. Your endless to-do list swirls around your head again. Why’s everything so hard?

It's not just your failings on the farm on your mind, but also your lack at making any real friends around here. Shane glared at you this morning as he headed off to work. That’s not unusual, despite your best efforts of a smile and a friendly greeting. Then Haley looked you up and down, judging your dirty dungarees. You’d only popped into town to get some seeds from Pierre’s. It didn’t make sense to get changed… Elliott is sweet but locked away in his cabin most of the time, Emily in her own little world… Sebastian, Sam and Abigail have invited you to play pool with them, but they’re such a tight-knit group and you always feel like you’re missing out on the joke, especially when you were partnered up with Sebastian. He’d been teaching you how to hold the cue correctly, leaning over you, his breath tickling your ear. Sam and Abigail kept nudging each other and whispering, but you couldn’t catch what about and it was clear Sebastian was becoming irritated. You’d begun to think they were making fun of your abysmal pool skills.

Ugh. Your emotions are a rollercoaster and the twisting pain in your stomach reminds you why – stupid period. It emerged with a vengeance this morning. It had stopped in your last months of JoJo Corp. There was no chance you were pregnant, your last intimate relationship fizzling out a year previously, though you’d taken tests just to be sure. The doctor in Zuzu City said you were stressed, burnt out… that it would return once you were feeling better in yourself. So why had it returned now, of all times? You feel more stressed and burnt out than ever before, regretting ever moving here. Why did you think you could become a farmer…?!

The barrier finally breaks and you let out a sob, hugging your knees.

To your shame, there’s a scuffing footstep and your heart stops as you look up, worried who’s seen your breakdown.

“Sebastian?” You sniff. You’re tempted to rub the tears from your cheeks but maybe he hasn’t noticed in the evening light. The black-haired man is standing there looking sheepish, a brown paper bag from Pierre’s clutched in his hands.

“Er, hey…” He’s not meeting your eyes. Poor boy probably wants to run. “Sorry, I… I was just leaving Sam’s and I didn’t want to go through town and see everyone, so I thought I’d take the scenic route back home through your farm…”

“Oh.” You mumble, waving him on. “That’s okay. Go ahead.”

He takes a step as if to go on his way, but then hesitates. “Are… Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah,” you plaster a smile on, which you’re sure makes you look ridiculous as the stupid tears are still flowing. “I’m just being silly. Don’t let me keep you.”

He stares at you for a moment, before a sympathetic smile graces his lips. “You’re a terrible liar, you know?”

“I’m not ly- Ow!” You flinch as your stomach cramps terribly and you squeeze your arms around it, hoping in some way it might alleviate the pain.

Sebastian is suddenly at your side – the paper bag from Pierre’s dropped to the ground. He’s kneeling down on the first porch step with a frown on his face. “Whoa, are you hurt? I can get Harvey…” His hand hovers over your arm,

“No, honestly, I’m fine…” You try and wave him off again with one hand, the other arm still wrapped around your stomach.

He stares at you, a raised eyebrow. He seems to be putting the clues together – the wincing, clutching your stomach, the tears… He nods, making up his mind and gets to his feet, picking up the discarded bag from Pierre’s as he does so.

“Come on, let’s get you inside.” He offers you his free hand.

“Thank you, but I’ll be okay. You get on home…”

“Farmer, I know I’m probably not the person you want to see right now, but let me help you out, okay? I can’t go home and just leave crying on your porch.” He waves his offered hand again. You look at Sebastian, hesitantly. He looks genuine, at least, but there’s something a little off about him tonight… Heck, you’ve already made a fool of yourself enough, so what’s one more thing?

This time you accept his hand and he easily pulls you to your feet and leads you up to your door. He opens it – you’d easily adapted to the habit of leaving the front door unlocked since moving to Pelican Valley.

You go to open your mouth, to tell Sebastian thank you, but he can go now. You’re inside, you’ll go to bed and pretend this never happened.

“Sit down.” He orders, pointing at your bed. “You like hot chocolate, right?” You wonder how he knows that, how he knows you have a stash. Had you mentioned it at the saloon before? “I’ll make you a cup.”

“But you don’t know where…”

“I’ll find it. Sit!” He pushes you gently towards the bed and you do sit, keeping a wary eye. To be honest, it is quite easy to find your cups and kettle. Robyn had advertised an extension to you but you don’t even want to think about the price and the materials needed. For now – perhaps even for the rest of your life - you’ve got a cupboard filled with crockery and silverware. The fire’s roaring away, you’re thankful you’d lit it earlier to try and make it cosy ahead of going to bed later on. The cabin always had a slight chill at night. Sebastian retrieves a mug and spoon, scooping the hot chocolate powder into the mug, fills the kettle with water from the jug you keep besides the cupboard, before taking it over to the fire to heat.

“Do you have a hot water bottle?” He asks over his shoulder.

“Huh?”

“Hot water bottle.” He enunciates.

“Y-yeah, I think it’s under my bed. Let me…” Before you can bend down, he drops to his knees and Sebastian is now crawling under the bedframe to retrieve it. You pull your legs up off the floor to the bed, not sure what to say.

He reverses back out, holding the fluffy hot water bottle in the air triumphantly, and gets back to his feet. “Finally, where do you keep the snacks?”

“I don’t have any. Sorry, I wasn’t really expecting to entertain.”

“Not for me,” a chuckle – it sounds a little odd coming from him - “..for you!”

“For me?” He’s acting so weird.

But he’s not listening, already rummaging around the brown bag from Pierre’s. He walks over to the sofa and empties the contents besides you – there’s a couple of packs of chips, cookies and candy. “Ta-da!”

You look at the assembled junk food and back up at the black-haired man, noticing his blood-shot eyes.

“You’re high.”

Sebastian laughs again, rubbing the back of his head. “Guilty. Is that a problem?”

“No, it just… explains a lot.” You wince again as the kettle on the fire whistles. Sebastian grabs the mitt you keep nearby for that exact purpose and places it on his hand, removing the kettle from the fire and placing it down on the hearth. Methodically, he pours some hot water in the hot water bottle, tightening the cap, before pouring some in in the cup he retrieved, stirring the hot chocolate powder until it dissolves. Once he seems happy with his work, he brings the two over to you on the bed.

“Okay, since you worked out my thing, it’s my turn. Time of the month, right?” He flops down next to you on the bed, ripping open a bag of chips. “My sympathies.” It feels surreal as he holds the bag towards you and you take a handful – maybe junk food would make you feel better, and the warmth of the hot water bottle is soothing too now against your sore tummy.

The only sound for a few moments is the rustle of the chip package and the crunching of said chips. You take a sip of hot chocolate, probably a weird combination at that moment in time, but it’s working.

“Sebastian…”

“Mm?” You’ve caught him with his mouth full.

“How are you so good at this?”

“Erm…” He swallows. “Well, I guess cos I have a sister and a mom… and a friend named Abigail.” He replies in a teasing tone. “Maru and Abi usually just get super pissy though. Mom’s the crier.” Sebastian leans forward and grabs the blanket off the end of your bed, throwing it over the both of your laps in a smooth motion. Who knew he could turn into a right chatterbox? “Wanna watch some TV?” He picks up the remote control and turns it on without waiting for a response, flipping through the channels. “Do you have a preference? Nothing deters Abi from horror, Mom and Maru go chick-flick mad…”

You burst into tears again.

“Whoa, okay, no TV! That’s fair too.”

“N-no, it’s n-not that.” You let out a shuddering breath. “Why are you being so nice?”

“Because we’re friends…?”

“No, everyone hates me here.” You know you’re being irrational now, but the floodgates have well and truly opened.

“Come on, you know that’s not exactly true.” His face looks serious now.

“It is. I don’t know what I was thinking – I worked in customer support, why did I think I could farm the land? I’m going to be broke by the end of winter if I lose another batch of crops and this town is so tight-knit that they’re never going to like me being here.”

“I like you being here.”

“No, you’re just saying that because you feel sorry for me.” You go to take another handful of chips, but he snatches the bag out of your reach indignantly.

“I am not.”

“You are.” You clip back.

Sebastian lets out a huff in frustration and he acts before he can even consider the consequences. He puts a hand on the side of your face, turning it slightly and presses a gentle kiss on your lips for a moment or two, immediately causing your tears to cease.

“Would I kiss you if I didn’t like you?”

“I…” You don’t have any words.

He swipes his tongue over his lips. “Mm, salty. That’s not how I expected our first kiss to go, I’ll be honest.”

“Our first kiss?” Your face is on fire. It has to be on fire, why else would it feel so hot?

“Yeah, well, I told you I like you, didn’t I?” He grins, before it drops. “Though I’ve just realized that you probably don’t like me like that, I’m high, and now I’ve made this a hundred times wor-…”

You cut him off, caressing his lips with your own for a moment.

“No. I like you too.”

“Well, that’s that settled, then, isn’t it?” He leans back, a smug look on his face before he grabs the packet of candy. “Shall we see what a sweet kiss tastes like next?”

-

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Ko-fi I'm also running an event for x reader fics to celebrate 200 followers, so please check it out and send in your requests.

#ghostdogwrites #sdv sebastian x reader #sebastian stardew x reader #sdv x reader #sdv x farmer #sdv sebastian #sdv sebastian fluff #sdv sebastian x you #stardew sebastian x you #stardew valley fanfic #stardew imagines #stardew valley x reader #stardew valley x you

[on-leatheredwings]

i've found your account only a few days ago but ever since then I've been STUCK here rereading your fanfics, especially ones with damian. i wasn't even a dc fan (heard about some stuf, watched some films and cartoons, but that's it) but now im reading comics since im Obsessed and need more batboys in my life (rip my productivity😔)

Anyway, after Sleepover i'm curious what will Bruce (and maybe even Thalia) think of batboys strange behaviour towards reader. He's smart, so he definitely notices it early on, but how he'll react....

I can see him being weirded out (like he was by Jason's anger issues, before his death), but he also can be an enabler, since Robin (literaly any of them) had a hard life, so if those relationships can help him why not pretend that everything is normal? you'll be safer in a Wayne's Manor anyway

All in all, thanks for a new hyperfixation 💞💞

P.s. About games:

1. Boyfriend to death 1&2 - since you're into yanderes you might want to check this game out. I prefer the second game, but the first is also fun. But beware the trigger warnings!!

2. Long live the Queen - more of a raising sim than dating sim but you still can romance some guys and girls.

,3. Hatoful Boyfriend - mostly a comedy, but there is a yandere.

4. The Royal Trap - it's been a long time since i played it, but it used to be one of my favorites so i'll just mention it.

5. Higurashi - once again not really a romance sim, but its an interesting horror mixed with a slice of life

;A; AWWWW THANK YOU IM SO HAPPY YOU LIKE MY STUFF.... THAT MAKES ONE OF US GIJSDOFAFGHFOJDSD

and yes yes get into DC!!! (girl who hasnt even read a full run since like. injustice)

damn now you got me thinking and excited. incoming spiel

i agree entirely about bruce just knowing how Bad things can get, so to make things simpler, he's like "yes, your darling(s) can stay in the manor, boys. 🙄"

mmm yes..... when it comes to bruce noticing the batboys are yandere, i think it's always sinfully delightful to just have him be reluctantly okay with it. 😈 it's also easier narratively ngl but i also like the idea that the batfam is all just corrupted.

bruce's thoughts are that they (his sons) fight for vengeance and justice but this is where they could use some leeway.... we all need our vice... they fight so hard for gotham, they deserve a little treat (getting rid of your human rights)... it's very "Dad who wants his sons to have happiness even if its not healthy" of him. in fics where bruce is a yandere, well, he's the exact same way so he can't judge. although if that's the case, i like the idea of bruce just being like "yes what we do isn't right. let's not talk about it. just don't kill <3"

still wondering what i like more. a yan!bruce who's self aware what he's doing is wrong but he just refuses to think about it. or a yan!bruce that justifies it all because of his paranoia, Tower of Babel style (if you don't know, that's when it's revealed batman has plans to subdue/kill the justice league just in case they go rogue.)

for the batboys depends on their personality... for damian, he's so resolute in things that i prefer when he just believes 100% what he's doing is okay, if not actually righteous. ^_^

hmmm talia.... I'M STILL UNSURE HOW I PREFER THAT AS WELL... i think talia being a you-arent-good-enough-for-my-son mom is a little cliche but also. she kinda would say that. you'd have to prove your worth somehow but idk how tf darling would do that LOL. in the end, i think talia is just relieved/comforted that her son indeed feels desire and wants love and will continue the family legacy (regardless if youre afab/can biologically have children.)

no THANK YOU FOR THE ASK!!! AND THANKS FOR RECS!!!! heheh yeah ive checked out btd and im not averse to the warnings its more like im not that most of into the designs ngl. fox guy seems cute? AND LMAO FUNNY BC IM ON A HIGURASHI REWATCH (never played it tho)

#yandere batfam #ask

[insomniamamma]

Threefold: Ezra x F!reader w/Cee

A/N: I am still working on my kiss prompts for @yearofcreation2023. Yeah yeah. I know we are well into 2024. But I am determined to finish these prompts. The prompt for this fic is "Kiss as a lie." This does not connect to any of my other Prospect fics, even though some terms may overlap. Enemies to reluctant allies. Reader is disabled and relies on body mods to assist her breathing. This one really got away from me. like 6K away from me.

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of injuries and medical procedures. Alcohol and drug consumption. Vomiting. Smut but nothing super graphic. Mentions of bodily fluids. This is not my usual Ezra. He is a shit in this one.

 “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t splatter your brains all over this bar.” You jam your thrower into the curls at Ezra’s nape. You watch him in the bleared bar mirror, watch the color drain from his face even as he smiles, starts to turn his head and you dig the barrel of the thrower in deeper, feel your finger tightening involuntarily, your need for vengeance vying with your need for satisfaction, for some sort of answer for what he did, finger curls slightly and releases again, Kevva knows you never expected to see him again, Kevva knows—something cold jams beneath the angle of your jaw and you snap back into the present. The bar mirror shows a slight girl with a halo of pale hair and thundercloud eyes, a small, freckled wisp.  “Put it down,” her voice is soft and steady, “I don’t want to hurt you but I will.”   “Well if this isn’t quite the predicament,” says Ezra, “How but you ease up on the trigger and we talk this out like civilized folk.”  “Your time for talk ended five stands ago,” Your eyes flick towards the bleary girl in the bar-back mirror, “I don’t know what he promised you, kid, but he’ll fuck you over the second it makes sense. You’re what, fifteen stands? When he ditches you on some no-name moon what’re you gonna do?” The barrel digs deeper into the flesh at your neck. Ezra says your name, not darlin or kitten or sweetheart or any of the slew of names he gave you down on The Green, but the one you told him, the one he murmured against the sweaty column of your throat while you arched beneath him, quivered around him, felt like a blessing from his lips as he spilled fever hot inside you.  “I did you wrong,” says Ezra, “You weren’t the first and you certainly weren’t the last, and, if I’m being honest, I did not think on you overmuch—“ The little girl in the warped mirror shakes her head--  “Ez--“ You feel the gun held against your throat tremble.  “But these past stands have not been kind,” says Ezra, “To either of us, I imagine.” His eyes flick up towards your reflection and you know exactly what he sees, and how could he not? Paired auto-breathers clipped to your collarbones, metal and plastic welded to meat in an a scarred seal, ports that can be used for a filter-hookup with the right adapters.  “So what? That’s the Fringe, isn’t it? That’s what you told me then—“  “How, exactly, do you imagine this plays out?” says Ezra, “You kill me, she kills you. Both of us dead here on the deck-plating and what’s the point of it? Revenge? Satisfaction?” You dig the barrel of your thrower into the meat at the nape of his neck, even as his girl shoves her weapon tighter against the angle of your jaw.  “Or let’s say I kill you,” Ezra purrs, and you become aware of a buzzing, like a neglected data pad with incoming message against your inner thigh, but that doesn’t make sense, data pad’s in your left breast pocket and he grins in the mirror, flick your eyes down and damned if he doesn’t have a laser scalpel pressed into the meat of your leg, blood corona already spreading, “Think you can make the shot before I clip your femoral artery? You didn’t crawl out of Bakhroma’s well to bleed out in this dive, did you?”  “Damn you, Ezra. You owe me. You left me to die down there.”  “I did indeed, and if you ease off the trigger for a tick, I can offer your recompense.You think it’s an accident? You and me nested into the same ring? Show her, Cee.”  “Ez, I don’t think-“  “Show her. And I’ll get us some drinks. I think a toast may be in order.”

“You know what we need to do, when we meet up with the others, right?” You cling to him despite the sticky heat of the tent, air thick and heady with the smell of sex, his come smeared between your bellies as you lay half atop him, head on his chest, his arm curled around your shoulder.  “I stay on one,” you say, yawning, drifting as he traces aimless patterns up and down your arm, “You switch to two. Give them the talk. You fake a comms error and go for your channel box. You take the big one and I pick off the leader. The one with the red. Then we get,  we get out of here.” He squeezes you tight as sleep takes you, his heart slow and steady beneath your ear.

 Cee sighs, rolls her eyes, pulls her thrower off your throat.  “Fine,” she says, and reaches for a bag slung at her side. 

 Ezra hails his crew, and hiss of static on your ear when he switches to two, your thrower in hand, trained on the leader, brilliant red plast pauldron over his exosuit, waiting for the signal, for Ezra to go for his channel box, what is he waiting for? He looks animated, smiling through the fog of his helmet, this is wrong, you think, and he turns, thrower in hand and shoots and the world whites out for a tick, your leg collapses under you and when you lift your head there’s Ezra, tucking his thrower back into his holster, the press of his boot against your shoulder rolling you on your back from where you curled around yourself, broken nerves screeching around the path of cooked flesh just above your knee. You know what’s happened, but part of you can’t believe it—  “Help me!” You say, met by the hiss of an open channel, he grabs your trophy case and tosses it to his friend, the big man with the railer he was supposed to kill, leans in and reaches for you and for a moment you think this is all some mistake, something that can be made right and he wrenches your filter out of it’s clip, cuts the hose so it’s you and the dust laden atmosphere.  “Why?” You ask and know he won’t answer, makes a big pantomime of tapping his helmet and shaking his head. Your eyes scrim over with tears, the cooked nerves in your leg screaming a wordless anthem, “Please.” Ezra bows his head but still smiles, presses his gloved fingers to his helmet and  blows you a kiss , that’s the fringe, girl, even with comms cut you can make out the words, and then he turns away, walking off into the brush with his crew. 

 “Carom-burned pearl,” you say, mouth taking over while your brain runs wild, this gem is trash, sure, but the size— “So what?” You drop your thrower back to your hip without even thinking on it. Impossible to tell the quality with the membrane half-burned into the surface, but still—  “Don’t play stupid.” says Cee, “You were on The Green. You know what you’re lookin at.”  “I know that I am looking at a botched pull,” you say, “I’m also looking at a little girl who thinks she’s found a friend way out here in the ass-end of the Great Arm. Did he give this to you, spring-sprite? Spin you a tale of buried treasure? He promise you an even split—“  “60/40. My way. 16th per point garnishment to clear his debt,” she says, “Ezra works for me.”  You laugh, a real one deep from your belly and the intake fans, your intake fans whir faster to make up for the perceived oxygen debt, vibrations through your bones that you can’t seem to get used to even after all these stands,   “Oh, honey, I was gonna kill him, but now I don’t think I will. Think I’ll let you reap the consequences here. Me and Ez? We’re done.”  “It’s the Queen’s Lair,” says Ezra, and you stop cold, half-way up off of your stool, seep back down like your legs have forgotten themselves. “I know. I know you’ll never believe me, but we were there.”  “You just happened on it right? Just happened to drop right down in the place that every fool and their brother went hunting for on that Kevva-forsaken rock.”  “Not me,” says Ezra, “Cee’s father.”  “So why isn’t it him making the pitch?”  “He didn’t make it,” says Cee. And you nod. Spacer’s phrase for a constellation  of mishaps. A blown hull. A dust infection. An altercation in some shit station bar over points or pussy or any number of things. An invitation to not ask. “It wasn’t even really him that found it—“  “Cee—“  “My father was contracted to harvest for Karoclan. Group of mercs found the Lair by accident. Probably digging a shit-pit. We landed bad. By the time we made it to the site it was just me and Ezra, and things got complicated.”  “Complicated.”  “We had to fight our way out. We barely made the sling.”  “You couldn’t do the job,” you say, “And you know I can.”  “That’s not-“  “She never learned the trick and I was trying to cut the blisters weak-handed,” says Ezra, “That’s why we need you.”  “You went back there. Even after all you took from me. You could’ve gone somewhere better with your cut but you didn’t. You got addicted to the rush.”  “I did,” says Ezra.  “Me and Ezra and now you are the only people that know the Queen’s Lair is even real,” says Cee, “We go there, we get a good pull and we can live off it for years. Now that the line’s dead the value’s just gonna go up. We get the pearls and trickle them into the market—“  “How’re we gonna get there with the line dead? No one makes the BG sling anymore. They just route everything around Ikhar and—“  “Got a hot-jumper willing to take us for a cut.” Says Ezra, “We ride the line till just after the Ikhar sling and then unclip and burn. Gets us in orbit in 6 stand months.”  “Risky,” you say, tapping you index and middle fingers against your right breather, vibration passing from metal into bone, a nervous habit born out of a rerouted urge to scratch at the healing skin.  “Yeah. But if we do it right, if we play it smart, none of us will have to drop down some Kevva-shunned well for a hand of points ever again. We can have the lives that sharp-toothed bitch moon took from us.”  “Like you didn’t have a part in it—“ Ezra reaches across the sticky bar and folds your hand in his—

 He grabs you under the arms, woah there girlie, this is bad ground, yanks you back, so focused on the pull that you didn’t feel the ground shifting beneath you, grab your gear and hold it to your chest even as you’re pulled back from the rapidly forming sink-hole in the loamy dirt, draw your thrower and whirl on the stranger, your gear scattered all around your feet. Don’t fuckin touch me.  Is that anyway to talk to someone who just saved your life? What’re you doing out here all alone anyway?   who says I’m alone?  You got crew? Raise ‘em on coms. Yeah that’s what I thought. Gonna get killed out here all alone.

 “I had every part in it,” says Ezra. “The breath of your lungs, Cee’s only living kin, and the arm from my own body. All victim to my greed and stupidity and short-sightedness. I used you and I duped you and robbed you and left you to die and Kevva rightly and thoroughly kicked my ass for it. If not for Cee I would have breathed my last in that forsaken jungle-“ You yank your hand away as if burned.  “You do not touch me,” you say, “We are not friends, we are not lovers. That part is over. Forever. We clear?”  “Clear,” says Ezra, that infuriating little half-smile crawling up his cheek, “That mean you’re in?”  “Maybe.”

 Didn’t realize how loud those fans were gonna be.  Maybe you’d like me to suffocate about it.     Does she ever turn that player off?  Do you ever turn your breathers off?  Not the same.  To her it is.

 What’s with you and her? You aren’t kin. You said you cost her only kin. In that pretty speech you gave me so I wouldn’t shoot you.  That is a complicated and lengthy tale.  We’ve got time.

 “Ezra? I don’t like this.” Cee eyes the blue gel pack in her hand.  “Once the bolts release Jada’s gonna burn hard,” says Ezra, “She’s got mods to deal with the pain and sickness, but we don’t. If we don’t dope down, we’re gonna be in a world of hurt.”  “People’ve died,” you say, and Ezra shoots you a dark look that you give right back, “They go into shock sometimes. Don’t wanna risk that right?”  “It’s not addictive, if that’s what you’re worried about,” says Ezra, “We’ve got a sixteenth to take it and have it work. You go past that and it’s your choice, Little Bird.” Cee’s eyes flick from your face to his, and you wonder how you’ve slipped into caring for this girl, this orphan of Ezra’s making, how you became someone she’d look to in a place of indecision.   “I’ve never hot-jumped myself, but I was crew with a man who was on a prison transport that did,” you say, hoping the grain of truth in the story will be enough to get Cee to chomp down on that gel pack when the time comes. You heard the story second hand on over drinks on Leylan bench, but Cee doesn’t need to know that. “They didn’t bother doping down the prisoners. Guess they didn’t want to spend the points. Aggie said him and most of the others exploded from both ends. It wasn’t nice. Hallucinated on top of that if I remember right. Hot jump fucks with people.”  “Heard some of those tales myself,” says Ezra. “Jada’s a professional. She’s so modded up she can’t handle a drop down a well anymore. She wants her cut we’ve got to be her hands. It’s not in her interest to lead us wrong.”  “We got a sixteenth?”  “Yeah, but how bout we get ourselves secure and do it all together?”   “Okay,” says Cee. The three of your wordlessly prep, following the instructions Jada gave you on boarding. Wear something soft. No jewelry, nothing rigid. These, Jada had flicked a finger against Cee’s music player, are a no-go. The crash beds have plenty of give but I’ve seen people come out the other side with holes in em from fancy buttons on their pants. These gonna be a problem?  Jada eyed your breathers and poked at one with a questing finger. How long’ve you had em? Bout five stands. Should be fine then. Bone’s had time to remodel and deal with the extra mass. You’ll be sore though. You remove the ring your mother gave you before you left the well, remove the studs from your ears, don the softest clothes you have. Cee wears an over sized shirt with Puzo in his space suit, long, coltish legs and bare feet sticking out. Her toenails are painted an alarming sparkly green, and your heart squeezes a little. She may have shoved a thrower into your neck but she is still very much a little girl.   “We ready?”  “This is gonna taste bad isn’t it?”  “Most likely,” says Ezra, “We bite down on a three count, yeah?” Cee scrunches her face, tucks the gel pack into her cheek and you and Ezra do the same.  “Ready? One, two, three-“  “Oh that is nasty-“ says Cee. You crunch down and swallow the drug in a convulsive gulp, bitter medicinal taste beneath something that is supposed to taste like bananas. Not that you’ve ever seen or eaten one.  “That is just—wrong.” You feel sleep sucking at your bones, and you can hear the sound of the hot-jumper’s engine’s spooling up, a bright spike of anxiety tries to lodge itself in your chest, familiar whir of your breathers kicking up as your heart rate rises and then the drugs take you down. 

 Come to with a raging headache,  Ezra and Cee are already awake and at the controls.   “Here,” says Cee and tosses you a pack of stim-chews, “Just do one. It’ll kill the headache.” You crunch one, sickly fruit and bitter and you feel a little more alert, but not in a pleasant way, like remembering the last bits of a long and unpleasant dream, not sure exactly what happened, but there was blood and horror and pressure.  “Something happened—“  “That’s the drugs,” says Ezra, “Telemetry’s good. We’re right down the line. Five by. Took you a little longer to come out of it, that’s all.” You try to sit yourself up, and your pectoral muscles scream, your clavicles ache where the breathers are clipped to them. You must make some sound, because Ezra turns to look at you, those dark eyes locked on you and you want to slap that concerned face right off his skull—  “You okay?”  “Yeah. Gimme a minute. Jada said it would hurt.”   “Should’ve said something, Kitten, I would’ve gotten you a patch—“  “I’m not your kitten, and it’s not your business.”  “You’re right,” says Ezra, “it’s not my business. But we go hot in a sixteenth and I’ll need you sharp. You know what you need to do?”  “Do you?”  “How bout both of you shut up and focus on the drop,” says Cee, “You can fight it out once we’re clipped back in and bench-bound.”  “Fair enough, Little Bird,” says Ezra, “You take the conn, Cee. Your controls.”  “My controls,” echoes Cee.   “Where’s the pain?”   “Clavicles. Achy around the breathers. I don’t think anything’s fractured-“  “Here,” says Ezra. He hands you two pain patches. “Peel these and I’ll stick em.”   “Fine.” You open one patch and then the other, stick them to your fingertips and hold up your hand for Ezra to take them. Scoop your hair out of the way and Ezra smooths the gel-patch on to the join of your neck and shoulder.  “There you go. Let’s get the other side.” His hand lingers, brief and warm and before you can tell him not to touch you he withdraws. “That should keep you creamy until we’re dirt-side. Don’t be shy about takin what you need from the kit. Need you steady downworld, we clear?”  “Clear.”

 This feels nothing like a normal drop, not the warning alarm and dull thump of bolts retracting. Going hot means a hand of solid fuel boosters will push you screaming towards the Green Moon, igniting as soon as the clips let go, push you away from the hot-jumper without slowing, vibration shaking the dropper in a sick two part resonance that hurts your ears and churns your stomach—  “Oi! chute status” Lock your eyes on the jittering screens.  “Bolts are go. Drogues are go. We’re go.” You flip up the toggle guards and hold your fingers above the switches. The thrusters fire and the dropper rocks, flipping itself so the engines face down, watch the numbers on your screen go green and listen for the callouts—  “Heat shield sep!—“  “Tracking?”  “We’re clear! Go for drogue deploy on your mark—“ The switches vibrate beneath your fingers, you feel the vibrations in your skull, in your bones, strange resonance in your ears that churns your stomach, crush your eyes shut so you don’t have to see the way the screens jitter in and out of focus.   “That’s atmo—“ says Cee.  “Blow the drogues in 3..2…1…mark—“ You flip the toggles and lurch forward hard into your harness, and then back into your crash-couch as the landing burn starts. “Where we at—?”  “Transonic,” you say, numbers blearing green on the scope, “we’re green.”  Hook a bag from where its stickied to your seat and wretch into it, smell of fake chocolate half-digested Bitz-Bars and jump drugs. Grav and spin enough to fuck your inner ears, and the engines burn hard,   “Landing gear deploy—“ calls Cee. There’s a hard thump and you’re down and stable but your roiled stomach and pounding skull and tight neck betray you and you dry heave while the others gear up.  “Gimme a minute,” you say, pressing your eyes closed, trying to get some sort of control over yourself, “Haven’t done much well-work since— since—,” heave helplessly over the bag but nothing comes up, there’s nothing too come up. Ezra rests his hand your arm.   “Hey. Look at me—“ You try to lift your head, and the world starts spinning again, too much time station-side, too much time in the gentle, predictable spin of bench-rings, your body’s forgotten the suck of the world on your bones, on your blood on your lungs  “Can’t,” you crush your eyes shut, welcome dark nulling out some of your screaming nerves.   “Okay,” says Ezra in the roiling dark, “Okay, Baby, I need you to breathe real deep through your nose for me.”  “Not your baby—“  “I know,” he says, “Deep breath. Through your nose. One, two, three--“  You breathe in, left over bitz bar chunks making their presence known, irritation followed by something numbing and cool and slightly spicy, you stomach calms but sweat breaks out all over your body--  “Is this even gonna work?” Cee glares, hands on hips, mostly suited.  “Finish kitting up and start scouting the perimeter,” says Ezra, “Stay on two unless I tell you different. We’ll be out shortly.” Cee narrows her eyes, but does what she’s told, seals her helmet and clips her filter and steps through the hatch, brief breeze of equalizing pressure, scrubbers kicking up to deal with the dust as do the fans clipped into you. When the seals cycle Ezra hands you a styrette.   “This’ll kill the nausea. Also you won’t be able to shit for a half-hand or so. It’s intramuscular”  “I’ve given myself hot-shots before,” you slide your pants down and jab the styrette into the meat of your thigh. Ezra’s eyes flick away.  “Cee’s funny about chemical help,” says Ezra, “Her father was an addict you see. He’d dope down and then stim awake and it scares her so-“

 “Let’s just suit up and do the job,” you say, baring your back to Ezra so you can don the compression garments that go under your suit. The suit’s a custom-job to accommodate your breathers, filter clipped into a hose split and spliced three ways, clean air for your breathers to pass on to your dust-scarred lungs, and another than clips in to your helmet. Settle your mic-rig over your ear.  “Channel two how read?”  “Channel two clear,” says Cee.  “Two clear,” says Ezra, odd doubling of his voice through your rig and through your helmet. And then the channel goes dead. Hollow thump of Ezra’s fishbowl pressed against yours.   “Can we do a suit check right quick?” His voice muffled by his helmet and yours, “I think i’ve got it, but I’d like—“  “Turn around.”  “Cee usually—“   “I’ve got it.” He turns his back to you and you lift the loose fabric off the back seal, two twist catches with hook and loop for the outer seal. You tighten the right side catch and smooth everything else into place.  “Thank you,” he says, “You need checks?”  “No, I’m green.”  “They’re still here—“ Cee’s voice loud and overdriven through your rig and Ezra bolts for the hatch. You shove yourself into the nacreous light, Bakhroma hanging above, it’s curve spanning the sky like a diseased rainbow, pulsing through thick clouds and the endless fall of dust.   “They’re dead, Birdie! Look! They’re just bones in suits. They can’t hurt us, okay?” You turn your back on them. Cee’s breath loud and ragged on two.  “Okay,” says Cee, “M’okay—I just”  “What the Kevva be-cursed fuck?” A plast box rises out of the tall grass, curled around in flowering vines inside and out, a skeleton inside seated on a small bench, glints of gold and bones stained a livid, unnatural pink.  “He got back in the box,” says Cee, “Why would he do that? He let us go and then he got back in the box.”  “Karoclan,” says Ezra, “An oblation I suppose.” Your neck prickles.   “Those folk are fuckin crazy,” You press the back of your hand to your helm and push away, palm out, a gesture to dispel bad luck, can’t rightly remember where you picked it up.  “Look,” says Cee,” standing in a bare, cracked circle of dirt, “This is where we boosted from. Must’ve baked out the soil.”  “Hey. Let’s get the pull. We can get all nostalgic once we boost.” Ezra gives you a dark look, but Cee, bounds past and into the trench.   “Ezra,” she says, her voice flat, even over coms. You and Ezra catch up to where she’s frozen, stone still, “He’s still here. Why is he still here? Why are they still here? It’s been almost a stand.” You push past Ezra and examine the sprawled and sagging suit, nudge the boxy helm with you boot, rotted breather hoses crumbling, dust floating up.  “Are you gonna get your shit together or not?” Cee flinches. Glares at you through her fishbowl. Ezra scowls.  “I hardly think—“  “I’m here to harvest,” you say, “And I will harvest, but I am not doing it alone unless you alter the split.”  “You’re out of line, Kitten,” says Ezra, “You seem to have forgotten who’s hired you on for this venture—“  “It’s okay,” says Cee, “I’m okay. Third time pays for all, right?”  “Third time pays for all,” says Ezra, “Clear.”  “So lets dig,” says Cee, “Fuck these guys, right?”  “Fuck ‘em.” you say, “We’re gonna get rich while these fellas feed the bugs for the next stand and change.”

 The kips that came before you exposed the leading edge of the deposit, oxidized crusts shimmering in Bakhroma’s murky light.   “They didn’t prime any of this?”  “They didn’t know to do so,” says Ezra. “That one over there—“ Ezra jerks his head towards a blood colored suit with faux gold adornments glimmering through a twisted clutch of creeper-vines, “Got himself acid burned for his troubles.”  “Dry breach.”  “Something like.” 

 This is no hurried dig, this is no quick pull and boost, Jada has her heart set on atmo-skimming around the outer moons before hooking back up. Trying to break some record. Ezra hovers at first, flitting around the perimeter you’ve established, light poles stabbed into the boggy ground, and then gets drawn in to the excitement of the pull, peering over your shoulders as you and Cee work. Cee is a quick study, follows your instructions to the letter, and between her hands and yours? The size and clarity is like nothing you’ve seen.  “This makes what we got last time around look like pea gravel,” you say.   “We’re going to have a weight issue,” says Ezra.  “Do we stop?” asks Cee.  “Absolutely not,” says Ezra, “We keep pulling and take the highest grade with us. And then we chem-burn what ever we leave behind.”  “That’s crazy!” says Cee.  “Think on it,” says Ezra, “We burn it behind us and no one else can get ahold of these gems ever again. Not at the size and quality we’re pulling.” You split the fibrous outer husk and Cee squeezes in the diffuser without being asked, and you feel yourself smile.  “The scarcity sets the price,” you say, “We’re the only folk who know about this deposit. No one will ever know we scorched it.”  “But all these pearls—“   “No one knows about them,” says Ezra, “Only us and Jada and she can’t ever drop down here herself. And some hot jumper hits a bench blatting about buried treasure on a world they can’t touch? Only ads to the mystique and rarity, and the points in our accounts.”  “Enough to get me into the Academy? You’re laughing,” she frowns at you, “why’re you laughing?”  “Because this is fuck you money,” you say, “We play this right you can probably buy yourself a station-ring or five somewhere in Central. This is do whatever we want forever kind of money if we keep our heads.”  “She’s right,” says Ezra, “We play the long game and there’ll be precious little we can’t do.”  “Still want to go to the Academy” says Cee, peeling the outer husk away just like you showed her and backing off so you can cut the carom blisters, but there is a tub full of the biggest pearls you’ve ever laid eyes on hardening in the fazer.  “And so you shall,” says Ezra.  “You do this one.”  “You sure?”  “You’ve been watching me excise blisters all cycle. Give it a go.” Cee turns the pinkish mass one way and then another, jaw clenched in fraught concentration, trying to grip without touching the blister, the trick is to slide the blade under and cut it free from beneath, go in at the wrong angle and the cillia react, defensive mechanism.   “What’re you gonna study at the academy?” You ask, and her face loosens up some, her hands do the work they’ve been trained in, pulls the inner husk tight and slides the blade under the blister.  “I’m thinking a botany/anthropology double major,” she says, flicks the blister into the weeds like she’s done it a million times before.  “Huh,” you say.  “Interesting combination, Birdie,” says Ezra. “What ties the two together?” Cee slices another blister and flicks it away, brief curl of steam where it sizzles in the grass.  “What doesn’t?” says Cee, “Why do people bring certain plants from one world to the next? You remember the orchard we saw on Verres? Someone planted those trees there. Don’t you wanna know who and why?”  “Guess so,” says Ezra, “It was a bit creepy seeing all those trees in lines. Verres being classed unihabited and all.”  “I’ve seen stuff like that too. Folks’ve been screwing around in The Great Arm for a long time-“  “Hey! Fazer!” Cee barks and you squeeze the fluid into the cut, watch the husk curl and shrink away.   “There she is,” says Ezra and the three of you look at Cee’s prize, held aloft in the murky daylight, Bakhroma’s ruddy arc taking up most of the sky.  “Not the best one we’ve pulled—“  “This one’s mine,” says Cee, snatches the squeeze and coats the pearl before tucking it into her suit pocket, slow smile creeping up her face, “This is my fuck you pearl. We make it out of here and I’ll use it as a paperweight if I get into the Academy.”

 “When you get into the Academy,” says Ezra, and Cee rolls her eyes, and you feel yourself smile a little. You like Cee.   “You should do one, Ezra,” says Cee, “You peel it down and I’ll hold it for you.”  “I don’t think—“  “Give it a go,” you say,  “Get yourself a fuck you pearl.”

 Ezra eyes the exposed deposit, an irregular honeycomb of aurelac pores, dirt darkened to mud, sprayed water from the onboard tanks to rinse away the caustic slime.   “In for a penny in for a pound,” he says, just loud enough for the mic rig to pick up and shoves his arm inside. His breath comes ragged over two.  “Ezra?”  “I’ve got it, birdie. It’s a big one,” he says, and Cee slices through the dirt flecked umbilicus. Ezra cradles his prize like a kitten then sets it on the tray. Cee gives it a good rinse like she’s been trained to, pinches the outer husk and rolls it between her gloved fingers, loosening it up from the inner husk so Ezra can cut.   “It’s thick,” says Cee, “You got wiggle room. We got time. It’s not like before.” Ezra’s breath steadies and he cuts, splitting the fibrous husk, slow, careful movements, beads of sweat popping out on his brow.  Cee peels the husk away, like taking off a sock and you douse everything with the diffuser. Ezra primes the blade, waits for it hit the right setting and then freezes, sharp edge glinting in the ugly light as his hand shakes. Cee wraps her hand around his wrist.   “You’ve got this.”  “Okie. Yeah. Let’s give her a go. Third time pays for all, right?”  “Third time pays for all.”

 One half-stand later…

 Pain is the first thing, deep, sprained ache in your chest, thirst is second, thirst and taste in your mouth and nose like burnt rubber, third is a warm hand holding yours. Squeeze your fingers around a warm palm, around a plastic handle with a button on top that you press and then there’s no more ache, no more thirst, no more light shining blood ugly through your closed lids.

 Later. You come back to yourself. The pain is less and the thirst is more. Slit your eyes and cram them shut, dark blob leaning over you haloed in screaming light, the hand holding yours lets go.  oh, shit, let me douse the lights.  And the bloodshine through your eyelids stops. Blink the tears out, and Ezra’s face resolves out of the dark his face pinched with worry.  “Oh Kevva, I’m dead.” His eyes go big and then he brays laughter.   “Fraid not, Kitten. Might not feel like it right now but the head nurse assured me that you’re healing well.”  You close your eyes, and press the button that will kill the pain.   “Why’re you here?”  “Cee was worried. She keeps tabs on both of us. She couldn’t make it herself, she’s up to her eyeballs in her new school, she tested in and—“ Sleep is calling, the ache in your chest dying to a low hum.  Why’re you really here? not sure if you say it or think it, and the drugs call you down before you can figure it out.

 thirsty.  “Can you sit? I’ve got you.” His arm curls warm around your back and tilts you up, plastic straw pressed against your lip and you drink deep, frigid water against your raw throat.  “Slow sips,” says Ezra, “Don’t want to shock your stomach.” One arm holds you up, a hand offers you a cool drink. You blink your eyes open, confusion  and cool water against your dry  tongue wake you some, close your lips around the straw and drink deep before Ezra snatches it back, plastic bottle gripped in an intricately articulated prosthetic hand, burnished metal plating like the scales on a snake's belly, telltales and indicators winking, etched over with decorative grooves, circles and curves. Looks a bit like a nav map.   “Slow,” he says. You narrow your eyes at him and swish the water around your mouth, trying to wash the dryness, the foul taste away before swallowing.   “You didn’t go for a regrow?” Your voice sounds lower than usual, ratchety. Ezra shakes his head.  “Too much nerve damage for that,” he says, “Scarring and time passed.” You reach for the bottle and he puts it in your hand  “Slow,”  you say before he can, “I know. Ezra, why are you here? You got your new arm, I got my breathers out and Cee’s got her schooling. We got the agreement set. Third time pays for all, so why are you here?”   “Cause I did you dirtier than that cache of pearls could ever pay for,” says Ezra, “And you shouldn’t be all on your own right now.”   You want to say something back, but you’re so tired, even the act of speaking has made you tired right down to your bones, chest and throat screaming in protest, and your eyes scrim over with tears. One escapes and Ezra strokes it aside with the pad of his thumb.    “I pushed the call button, Kitten, they’ll be here soon.”  “Not your fuckin Kitten,” you say as Ezra folds your hand warm in his, “Not your friend.”  “I know.”  i know.     

#year of kisses #year of themes 2023 #yeah yeah it's 2024 #what am i supposed to do time travel about it? #ezra x f!reader with cee #prospect 2018 #prospect fanfic

[dkakapizzaboy]

Camouflaged (Part 1/3)

Masterlist|| Taglist Form

Words: 1.1k

Category: Angst (Suggestive Af- MINORS DNI)

Pairing: Corrupt Politician DK x PR Rep Fem Reader

Warnings: Suggestive AF, a bit of a toxic dynamic, DK is a bad bad man(lmk if anything else needs to be added)

A/n: Thanks to @drunk-on-dk and @multi-kpop-fanfics for proof reading this and their vote of confidence! Also a big thank you to @onlymingyus @angelwoozi @wonwussy for their inputs on the banner 🥰🥰

Taglist: @junhui-recs @drunk-on-dk

Feedback always helps!

You knocked on his door, he'd called you in for something. It's funny, when you'd both first started, you as a journalism major wanting to work in politics and him, as a political science major wanting to give a voice to the youth of the country, neither of you imagined that your lives would turn this way.

Nowadays, your relationship with him was a mix of pure professionalism and snarky comments from your end, and feigning ignorance and patronizing words on his. Long gone were the days where this room, now his private office, the only one you both could afford at that time, was filled with mischievous laughters and stolen glances. He'd kept it still, to keep up the image of your average young Joe with average income who could only afford this stingy place.

It all probably began to go downhill when he had started gaining traction on social media as a handsome young politician who knew what he was saying for a change. The constant phone calls, along with people hogging him on the streets became too much for just the two of you and he wanted to bring in external help. But neither of you could afford it but then one day, suddenly, money wasn't an issue. He'd jokingly said that he found a generous old lady who had a thing for pretty boys. You later found out he'd taken money from a coal company, which went completely against the climate change agenda he'd been preaching.

He'd cried when you found out about it, saying that it was a one time thing in exchange for attending a few of their board meetings to give an impression to the public that they were doing something about their gas emissions.

You'd forgiven him then, it was his first time making a mistake and his tears had made you weak. Having a crush on someone's for over four years does that to a person.

Fast forward a few months, you overhead him on the phone, making a shady deal, promoting some snack company which had been heavily linked to an FDA official's bribery charge.

He'd denied it when you confronted him, saying that you probably heard it wrong. You trusted him again.

One day, while he was away on an interview, you'd accidentally stumbled upon the documents of the deal he'd denied making.

You felt foolish, for trusting him, and betrayed.

But hey, fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me,right?

Since that day, you'd started collecting evidence, for the day you expose his true face. Your friendship had deteriorated significantly, you kept the PR rep job out of spite and vengeance.

His demeanor had also changed behind the scenes, from being the sweet, joking boy who shined so brightly to a wicked, patronizing dictator who manipulated people like they were puppets. He was pretty good at it too, blessed with the kindest eyes and the most beautiful smile, it was hard not to immediately fall for such a sincere looking face.

There was also another dynamic that had evolved between you two. It was much more beneath the surface, something that others weren't privy to. Innocent stolen glances of early twenties had turned to heated, despising looks filled with lust. It hadn't gone beyond eating each other with your eyes, your hatred and his ego stopping both of you. But the tension had been rising subtly, ever since that one time you'd caught him staring at your ass in a bodycon dress at an event.

Anyways, enough of a back story, you made your way into his office, annoyed that he'd called you in just as you were going home for the day. Well actually, you weren't really going home, you had plans to meet up with some college friends, Mingyu being one of them. He was sweet, and nice and everything Seokmin wasn't anymore. Back in college you'd rejected him because you were so in love with Seokmin that you hadn't really looked at Mingyu. But as you reconnected at one of the reunions, you'd hit it off with him and who knew, it could actually lead to something healthy.

Seokmin saw you come in, and raised a sharp brow at your attire. You had a black low-cut top on exposing enough cleavage for him to involuntarily swallow, with wide legged leather pants and high heels. His first thought was to pin you against the wall and test with his mouth if the skin of your breasts was really as soft and supple as it looked. His second thought was where you were going and more importantly with whom, as his possessiveness took over.

You saw him, sitting on the emerald green suede armchair, his strong thighs pulling the fabric of his dress pants.

Fuck, why the fuck was he so hot.

"You wanted to see me?" you asked, with as much sincerity as you could muster. You just wanted to get out of there as soon as possible and see Mingyu's pretty face and nice eyes and have a good time.

Seokmin, for the life of him, could not remember what he'd called you in for. It seemed like all the blood that was in his brain had suddenly rushed down elsewhere seeing you all dolled up.

"Sorry, I didn't know you had plans. We can talk tomorrow." He wanted to inquire more but didn't really know how to breach the subject.

Let's just say you were more than mildly offended by his lack of questions. An irrational part of your brain wanted him to care, to ask where you were going so late at night, and wanted to see his reaction when you mentioned Mingyu. Fuck, why did you care so much about what he thought.

That dumb, hormonal part of your brain took over and you blurted," Yeah I have a thing, a date actually, with Mingyu, remember him? From college?"

If there was a third party in this room, they wouldn't have been able to catch the way Seokmin's jaw tightened, his hands gripped the armchair a little bit more firmly, and his eyes narrowed, only by a few millimetres.

Yup, you were satisfied now. It was really immature, and you knew that, but it felt good, you didn't really want to think why.

What you really didn't expect was for him to get up from his chair.

He walked towards you, surety in his step, confidence in his eyes and smugness in that wicked smirk.

The hair at the nape of your neck stood up as he started coming closer and closer, as you started taking steps back, only to be entrapped between him and the wall. His mildly scented perfume was attacking your senses now, as his strong body towered over you and you felt a blush rise up to your cheeks.

He bent down, and brought his lips next to your ear, his breath deliciously caressing your neck as he whispered,

"It's a pity, if it were me, you would've been spread out bare on my table by now."

#svthub #svt smut #svt fic #svt angst #dokeyom #seventeen #dokyeom fic #dk #dokyeom x you #dokyeom x reader #dokyeom x y/n #lee seokmin #lee seokmin smut #seventeen smut #seventeen fic #seventeen angst #sam writes svt

[funficwriter]

Killer Hangover (Gin Ichimaru x Reader)

A/N: My childhood show! TBH This is so self-indulgent but I guess that's what makes it fun. Enjoy :p

Warnings: Cursing, Gin being a bit of an asshole/tease/bully (and by a bit I mean a ton), Reader likes alcohol too much and is paying the price. Fluff.

Not even a minute after you opened your eyes, you have decided, and I quote: "This... Fucking... Blows...".

As anyone would in your position. You woke up to a raging, pounding headache, and a body sorer than you were used to. You haven't felt a hangover in years, and now here it was, biting you in the neck after recklessly surpassing your already high tolerance. So much for winning that drinking contest against Abarai.

You blushed as soon as you took notes of your surroundings. For one, there was a small table with dried persimmons right next to you. A note nearby, in handwriting you knew well: "These are good for your headache. Eat as soon as you wake up.". The Edo-style painting of a giant snake. Across the room, a small library with absurdist literature. There was no mistaking it; you were in your captain's inner office.

He didn't often come to parties. You jogged your memory to remember that against routine, he did last night, fashionably late. At some point he even witnessed the drinking contest: "Arara, all that alcohol... I hope my officer will be okay next morning~".

All of this means that he had to carry you here once your drunkenness was reaching a bad point. You felt embarrassed thinking of the potential annoyance to your captain, who probably just wanted to have a fun, hassle-free time.

You didn't need to hear the incoming steps towards the room; His spiritual pressure was increasing with each. You laid back down on the couch and closed your eyes, pretending to be asleep. In all fairness, you sold the image well, being as tired as you are.

He closed the door behind him. You felt his grinning gaze upon you: "Y/N? Are you awake yet?".

Him addressing you made it hard to keep it up, but nevertheless you did, even after he kept circling around the couch to be sure.

"Aww... After all that time, you're not awake?".

His tone, which grew more annoyed by the minute, amused you. It's not that you were a slacker. On the contrary, you got along with your captain, as you were a great partner in exchanging quips, banter and mockery. Except he almost always started it, so you were trying to turn the tables.

"Hmmm... Seems like Y/N is sleeping, after all...".

You could hear him crouching down right next to you.

"So I guess they won't mind if I do... This?".

The poke on your side was enough to make you squeak.

"I'm awake!!".

He chuckled: "I'll remember this trick next time you fake out on me~.".

"My head's still hurting, that's not faiiir!".

Despite the whiny tone, there was a ghost of a smile on your face. You never understood how so many others found him creepy; You loved throwing back his own banter at him, getting on his level. That became the basis of your good bond, even if it often meant one of you two (actually, just you) would end up a bashful mess.

"You haven't been awake for long, have you?".

"Nope...".

You grabbed a persimmon and decided to shoot for it: "By the way, who won the drinking contest? And how far afterwards until I blacked out? I remember staying up some more and- Ouch!".

It felt like your body was punishing you for inquiring; The headache came back with a vengeance, causing you to almost slap your hand against it.

He snickered: "That's what you're worried about now? Talk about priorities...".

He got up quick to check something over his desk. As soon as his eyes laid upon a document on it, he sighed and looked up at you: "...While you were passed out the whole morning and I ran around the Seireitei...". You felt that he was probably referring to the work that you could have aided him in this lost time. Once again, you felt abashed at being so useless. All because you decide to ignore your blessed tolerance for shows.

Much to your disdain, your captain loves to throw gasoline on that fire.

"Now I see why you try to avoid hangovers! You should have seen yourself when I brought you here...".

He walked over to sit next to you. Despite that, he was still taller, which gave you a better view of his grin: "You were clinging on to me like a baby! I've seen lieutenants grip their swords lighter than you gripped me-".

Deep down, you knew he wasn't making this up. But to restore whatever little pride you have, you cut him off: "I do not cling! Are you sure you remember the right person?".

"...Or heard yourself: 'You're so comfy, Gin! Why can't I just stay in your arms forever? I'm gonna get more drunk just so you can carry me!'".

The heat on your face and his ensuing laugh indicated a point of no return. Now you didn't know who to hate more: Him for flustering you about your drunken state, Renji for being such a good drinker, your friends for cheering you on, or yourself for being so stupid with alcohol. Perhaps all of these.

You looked away while munching on your persimmon: "You're such a jerk...".

"Aw, c'mon, I can't help teasing if cuteness is involved, you know that.".

You choked on the next bite. You knew he was going to use moments like these for that purpose, but man, why did he have to word it like that? Your only chance was to change the subject.

"These are good.".

"Aren't they? We lucked out this spring, the trees were in top condition.".

Though it still hurt like hell, you already noticed a small improvement. You were determined to make up for the lost time and productivity: "Taichou... I'm really sorry about blacking out. Tell me what I missed and I'll make it up twofold, and-!".

Back onto the pillow you went; He wrapped his arms around you, laying his own thick hair onto your ribs. Though the heat couldn't cure your stomach pain, it felt nice.

"Of course you will. But for now, recover. I need my third officer to be capable of functioning.".

High noon was approaching. Yes, Gin was an asshole who loved to fluster you, but you couldn't imagine your days without these little quips. Life would probably be a hell lot more boring, and possibly unsafe while partying. Technically speaking he doesn't have to watch out for you outside the job; You're a grown adult, capable of handling yourself. But he did.

"Thank you, Ichimaru-sama..."

"Certainly. Besides...".

He looked up to meet your eyes, and you knew he wasn't letting you off the hook just yet: "You don't need tons of sake to prompt me to hold you. You could have just asked~"

"H-Hey!".

-------

#bleach x reader #bleach fluff #gin ichimaru x reader #gin ichimaru fluff #bleach fanfiction #gin ichimaru

[wishesofeternity]

Daemon Targaryen rant, incoming

(Warning: it’s really long)

To begin, this is how Daemon Targaryen is introduced in the story:

“Over the centuries, House Targaryen has produced both great men and monsters. Prince Daemon was both. In his day there was not a man so admired, so beloved, and so reviled in all Westeros. He was made of light and darkness in equal parts. To some he was a hero, to others the blackest of villains.”

The problem with this sort of narrative is that is conflates morality with fundamental human nature. The latter is the capacity for good and evil, and the ability to choose, that exists in every human being. However, it means absolutely nothing without morality, which is defined as a system of values or principles of conduct, and is used to understand the extent to which an action is right or wrong. Grey morality is the blurring of those lines, where motives and contexts are so complex that you cannot pin down whether an action or a person is purely good or purely bad.

Daemon Targaryen, like every other character, possesses the capacity for good and evil and the ability to choose. But morally? Daemon was a child groomer and a pedophile who had physical relations with his teenage niece and a 17-year old girl (he was 50 at the time), and enjoyed sampling young virgins at brothels. He was a warmonger and war criminal who began a conquest of the Stepstones, taking all but two islands, ensuring that the people there "learned to fear" his dragon, before abandoning the entire thing because he got bored. He was a child murderer responsible for the brutal murder of a 6-year old boy and the threat of rape to a 6-year old girl. He encouraged the continuation of the Dance and vengeance against his enemies, dismissing his Hand's proposal for peace. He had the selfishness of Aegon IV, the brutality of Maegor, and the tyranny of Aerys II. And that’s just scratching the surface of the things he did, both before and during the Dance. This man was not morally grey. He was not “light and darkness in equal parts”, because that implies a moral balance or moral complexity which does not exist. He had the innate capability to do both good and evil, yes. No one is denying that he could potentially be a decent person, or potentially make better choices. That is true of every human being. But the fact remains that Daemon was repeatedly and consistently awful throughout the overwhelming majority of his life, to the detriment of the people close to him and Westeros as a whole. Nor does he have a Tragic Backstory(tm) to contextualize his actions: he was a prince born to the most powerful family in the continent with an immense amount of privilege that allowed him to get away with virtually everything. Daemon isn't "morally grey", he's just an entitled asshole who does what he wants and suffers absolutely no consequences for it. There's nothing particularly complex or compelling about that.

I think there is also a conflation of grey morality with unpredictability. Daemon was unpredictable, with his sudden elopements and kickstarting of wars and general mercuriality. The moral complexity of this, however, depends on his motives, and none of his are particularly complicated or difficult to morally pin down: he is primarily and consistently motivated by self-interest. If they happen to benefit others, it’s purely coincidental, and always secondary. Unpredictability does not automatically make someone morally grey, and it certainly doesn’t with Daemon.

(And since lots of people have brought this up, I would also like to point out that love is not inherently virtuous. Kevan Lannister loved his family, does that balance out the cause he served and make him morally grey? The Greens also loved each other and fought for each other till the bitter end, does that mean they should be excused in a similar manner? And contrary to what people believe, Daemon has not been explicitly or singularly loving to any family member in canon except for Laena Velaryon, which was more convenient than purposeful. Was he a good father? Maybe, but nothing in the text emphasizes or denies anything. I would also like to point out that his last act in life was literally to abandon Rhaenyra and his children to settle a personal score, directly leading to her downfall and two of his children’s imprisonment. I don’t understand how people bring up his “love” for his family as his redeeming factor at all).

If the narrative had leaned into his awfulness, he could have potentially been a fun villain. But ultimately, the problem lies in the fact that while Daemon is constantly shown to be an all-around terrible person, the narrative repeatedly paints him as someone who is both a monster and a great man, and who is made up of both light and darkness "in equal parts". Thus, all his atrocities are absorbed into a narrative mythos of glorified grey morality rather than outright condemned. In order for him to be a truly morally complex character, a balance needed to be maintained, and in this case, it was simultaneously one-sided and non-existent.

Basically, GRRM’s version of grey morality is deeply flawed. This one in particular was a classic example of telling rather than showing, and a classic example of an author having a particular characterization in mind but executing it very differently in the text, because Daemon is nowhere near as complex or as compelling as GRRM or his stans seem to believe he is.

It is also necessary to remember that Daemon is one of GRRM’s all-time favourite Targaryens, which explains quite a bit of my frustration regarding the way he’s written. Namely, it explains why the narrative of the Dance was single-handedly ruined by the prioritization of Daemon and Daemon's storyline at the expense of virtually every other character.

His wives are all overshadowed by him and primarily defined by their relationship with him. Rhea Royce is an unfeatured non-entity who exists solely for him to hate, and conveniently dies in time for him to remarry. Laena is a beautiful, fiery, perfect companion who dies tragically young and in a conveniently gendered manner, once again in time for him to remarry. Rhaenyra is sidelined and eclipsed in her own war and her own story in favor of him. Nor should we forget his lovers: more time is spent describing Nettles and Mysaria’s relationships with Daemon than actually telling us more about them as individuals. Once he’s out of the picture for good, the former completely retreats from civilization, and the latter is gruesomely murdered by his enemies. Once again, all I can say is: Convenient.

Perhaps the most damning aspect of this blatant favoritism is how Daemon is turned into the essential protagonist of the Dance of the Dragons. He is the “wonder and terror of his age”, with a legendary sword and a famous, fearsome dragon. He is the one driving the events that lead to the Dance and the events of the Dance itself; thus, he completely usurps Rhaenyra, the actual claimant of the throne. While she is being dismissed by their enemies, he is singled out as the most dangerous threat. While she is being berated for refusing to risk herself or her sons in battle and thus costing her allies their lives, he secures a spectacular and bloodless victory by taking over Harrenhal. While she collapses after hearing of the death of her son, he promises vengeance and enacts Blood and Cheese, kickstarting the war for good. While she is unable to maintain control of the city, driving her reign to the ground and dying an ultimately defeated and gruesome death, he achieves a final triumph by killing his enemy and leaves the singers wondering if he ever died at all, while his abandonment of her and role in her downfall is not emphasized in the slightest. Nor is Rhaenyra allowed a single moment of singular glory: her takeover of King’s Landing is explicitly with him by her side, and culminates in his crowning of her. And I really cannot say this enough: none of this is propaganda or based solely on in-universe sexism. It is simply GRRM’S clear narrative bias that favors Daemon at Rhaenyra’s expense. The misogyny of it all is embarrassing.

Narratively, the Greens suffer the most from this. All of them are caricatures meant to oppose the Blacks rather than individual characters in their own right. While this is evident with every single one of them (particularly Aegon II, the other claimant of the throne, and Alicent, the most important woman on her side), nowhere is the bias more evident than the manner in which the narrative depicts Daemon compared to his nephew, Aemond Targaryen. Both of them are clearly meant to be narrative parallels: second sons, dangerous swordsmen, the heavy-hitting wildcards of the war, one of them claiming Visenya’s dragon and the other one possessing Visenya’s sword. Both of them committed heinous atrocities on equal proportion, the only difference being that Daemon lived longer and thus had the time to commit more. Yet the way they are portrayed could not be more different: Aemond is rightfully depicted as war criminal and a murderer, and is both one-dimensional and over-the-top in his awfulness; Daemon, on the other hand, has far more pagetime, is explored in far more detail, and has all his crimes contextualized as part of his glorified and non-existent “grey morality”. (And while this is not a direct criticism, it’s also a little weird that while Aemond is justifiably called Kinslayer, Daemon is not, despite the fact that he was responsible the death of his young grand-nephew, a suspect for the death of his good-brother, and the eventual killer of Aemond himself.) The narrative rightfully condemns one while painting the other as someone who was “made of light and darkness in equal parts”. The bias is very, very evident.

This culminates in Daemon’s final scene: The Battle above the God’s Eye. I get the symbolism: he killed a younger allegory of himself, Satan slayed his son, the vicious circle has ended, etc, etc. It makes symbolic sense. But the fact remains that this gives Daemon a final triumph and narrative glorification that he of all people did not deserve, that no other player of the Dance received. This is emphasized by the way the duel was described: two important people fought, two important people died, and yet it was called “Prince Daemon’s last battle”, which really tells you all you need to know. The duel was meant for Daemon; Aemond existed solely to be his mirror and his final opponent.

(I’d also like to point out that a 50-year old man challenging his barely 20-year old nephew and winning against him is nowhere near as glorious or awe-inspiring as the book or its fans make it out to seem, but is in fact one of the most pathetically embarrassing things I've ever read about. I also don’t think it was realistic at all, and would have made more symbolic and literal sense for both of them to mutually kill the other. But that would result in GRRM’s favourite character getting the equal end of the stick for once, which is probably why it didn't happen)

Basically - Daemon Targaryen was the Gary Stu of his age, and I despise everything about him

#asoiaf #hotd #fire and blood #anti daemon #anti daemon targaryen #anti daemon stans #kinda #fire and blood critical #queue #aemond targaryen #it's so frustrating because i really enjoy morally grey unpredictable characters (especially when they're charismatic) #but daemon is not one of them lmao #mine

[mariana-oconnor]

The Three Gables pt 2

A little late, because life and Christmas are just... it's a lot.

Last time we had a lady who wanted to sell her house and someone who really wanted to buy it and everything in it. Including the remaining possessions of her dead son. Who had died of pneumonia? I think, but also been involved with some sort of woman his mother did not approve of.

And a servant was fired after everyone was kind of terrible to her, even if she was spying for some bad guys.

And there was a lot of racism, which I expect will increase.

Anyway

"Now, Watson, this is a case for Langdale Pike, and I am going to see him now."

Ah, it's another randomly referenced character that it sounds like we should know and yet we do not. Unless I have forgotten him. I don't think I've forgotten him.

Langdale Pike was his human book of reference upon all matters of social scandal. This strange, languid creature spent his waking hours in the bow window of a St. James's Street club and was the receiving-station as well as the transmitter for all the gossip of the metropolis. He made, it was said, a four-figure income by the paragraphs which he contributed every week to the garbage papers which cater to an inquisitive public.

OMG, he's the paparazzi!

Well, the Edwardian equivalent of it.

Holmes, I thought better of you than this. You're really feeding this guy information. Ugh.

'Please come out at once. Client's house burgled in the night. Police in possession. — Sutro.' Holmes whistled. “The drama has come to a crisis, and quicker than I had expected."

Really? You must have known you sped up their timetable a little. They knew you'd gone to see the place and they were worried enough about you they tried to warn you off. It makes sense that seeing you there would move up their plans.

“Well, they don't seem to have got much. Mrs. Maberley was chloroformed and the house was— Ah! here is the lady herself.”

She was chloroformed and it's just an ordinary burglary? I hate to see what you call an odd burglary.

Just going to skip over the extra racism.

“Well, I don't think there is anything of value missing. I am sure there was nothing in my son's trunks.”

You hadn't even looked in them and Holmes told you that he thought there was something in them. Why are you so confident in this, lady?

"It is in my son's handwriting.” “Which means that it is not of much use,” said the inspector. “Now if it had been in the burglar's—” “Exactly,” said Holmes. “What rugged common sense!"

Please allow me to use my Holmes-English dictionary. I'll just check... yeah... Mmhm.

“I never pass anything, however trifling,” said he with some pomposity. “That is my advice to you, Mr. Holmes."

Oh, oh no. Oh poor boy. You are being set up for the biggest of falls. You have no genre savvy. I'm sorry. This will hurt.

“Seems to be the end of some queer novel, so far as I can see.”

Please, tell me more.

“Why should they go to my son's things?” asked Mrs. Maberley.

Clearly they wanted the manuscript of his magnum opus of homoerotic literature, Mrs Maberley. I can see no other possible reason.

And honestly, relatable.

"Man must live for something. If it is not for your embrace, my lady, then it shall surely be for your undoing and my complete revenge.”

🔥VENGEANCE!🔥

So it's not a homoerotic bodice ripper, at all. It's a tell-all memoir.

"I hear that she is about to marry the young Duke of Lomond, who might almost be her son."

Refreshing to see an older woman-younger man romance portrayed for once. Usually it's the older man preying on the sweet young ingenue. This time the sexual predator is the woman. Although... honestly, nothing that's been said so far makes me think she's doing anything but having a good time.

“Not at home means not at home to you,” said the footman.

RUDE!

The lady had come, I felt, to that time of life when even the proudest beauty finds the half light more welcome.

Also rude!

Come on, Watson. You're not exactly young yourself at this point. And you're still apparently marrying people left right and centre. Do you hide in the shadows?

Pah.

...two wonderful Spanish eyes which looked murder at us both.

I know what he means by this, but also I am imagining her irises being the Spanish flag.

Beautiful.

“I need not explain, madame. I have too much respect for your intelligence to do so—though I confess that intelligence has been surprisingly at fault of late.”

Holmes is in such a bitchy mood in this one. He's just insulting everyone as much as he can. I kind of love it.

"I feel that I may be frank with you, Mr. Holmes. You have the feelings of a gentleman. How quick a woman's instinct is to find it out. I will treat you as a friend.”

Wow...the bullshit is strong with this one.

“No doubt it was foolish of me to threaten a brave man like yourself.”

You should totally stroke his bicep and ask if he works out. That's clearly where this is heading. Lolol!

“No, no, you would not. You are a gentleman. It is a woman's secret.”

Wow. Just... wow. Weaponising femininity indeed.

✨ Gaslight. ✨ Gatekeep. ✨ Girlboss. ✨

So roguish and exquisite did she look as she stood before us with a challenging smile that I felt of all Holmes's criminals this was the one whom he would find it hardest to face. However, he was immune from sentiment.

That's because unlike you, he is not ruled by his horny brain, Watson. Please, take some deep breaths, drink a glass of cold water and come back when you've calmed down. You were literally just saying you thought she was too old to stand in proper lighting, my dude. Down boy!

"Because I had given he seemed to think that I still must give, and to him only. It was intolerable."

OK, fine. I'm on her side now. She's still the most ridiculous person ever, but this is a valid and correct point. Douglas needed to take no as an answer.

Barney and the boys drove him away, and were, I admit, a little rough in doing so.

I'm torn. On the one hand, Douglas needed to understand that just because his sense of entitlement told him she owed him something, he really didn't. On the other hand, don't hire people to beat people up. Maybe just hire bodyguards to keep turning him away and save the beating for if he escalates?

I feel like everyone sucks in this story.

This... this is the same story from Charles Augustus Milverton except the female character is rich and has agency. And yet we're supposed to not side with the people who stole back the blackmail material that would ruin her? Because she's promiscuous?

Yeah, she's kind of terrible, but her crime was getting people to beat him up. The theft seems fair, honestly.

“Very good. I think you will sign me a check for that, and I will see that it comes to Mrs. Maberley. You owe her a little change of air."

Yeah, she was chloroformed and it's possible that the beating led to her son's death. She definitely deserves something for all of this.

"Have a care! You can't play with edged tools forever without cutting those dainty hands.”

Weird line to end on, but okay. Basically 'fuck around and find out' in Holmes speak, I guess.

But yeah, this is just a different version of Charles Augustus Milverton and A Scandal in Bohemia only this time the lady is the bad guy. And she actually has done some horrible things. But if she'd come to you and said 'Mr Holmes, I had an ill advised dalliance with a young man and I need the evidence before it ruins my upcoming wedding!' Holmes might have done the burglary himself.

Well, probably not if he found out about her having Douglas beaten up.

But it's a weird change of perspective.

#Letters from Watson #The Three Gables #Sherlock Holmes #long post

[trashcanalienist]

Alright fellas I watched the 3pac movie again and now that I've refined my thoughts I am going to share them (tornado warning)

Let's start with Miguel. Or really, with Nueva York. Beautiful, futuristic utopia, endless green grass and distant white skyscrapers against the blue sky, and for all of that there is not a single note of life within it. It's empty, just a hollow monument to "good", like Miguel himself. And like Miguel, its underbelly is dark and chaotic and unknowable - sunless tunnels cluttered with motorways and nothing else, the grinding gears of some unbearably massive machine that doubtless keeps the whole city running in its blind pretense of life, the gears of which visually threaten to crush Miles. Because Miguel O'Hara is a fucked up guy who is not only willing to be so violent against a 15-year-old child, but NEEDS to be. In true vampiric fashion (disclaimer: he's not a vampire) Miguel has an obsession beyond obsession, a predatory drive which must be fulfilled - but not for blood. For vengeance. Because he's already killed an entire universe of human beings. He's stolen a family he was never supposed to have, and then killed them all through his selfishness. And he has to make that someone else's fault. He has to be the Good Guy to live with himself, but inside he is the most detestable of monsters.

(Miguel and Uncle Aaron have a lot in common (inverted) especially with their emotional impact on Miles. He thought he could look up to both of them - but Uncle Aaron failed in regret, and Miguel seeks to amend his failures through more damage. Important that Miguel's theme is distorted synth, the same distortion which they used to create the Prowler theme)

Meanwhile Uncle Aaron acted the monster, but as Miles puts it he was a genuinely good guy underneath. He had no interest in being the kind of black man that Jeff is - slotting into white society, that is - and inevitably that got him pulled into being the Prowler. Everything's contained in what he said to Miles in his last moments. Every single Uncle Ben says the classic line, "With great power comes great responsibility", etc etc, telling Peter Parker to knock off the ego and be the kind of hero the city needs. But Miles is already that person. Uncle Aaron says "You're the best of us. You're on your way up. Just keep going."

Before he became Spiderman, Miles actively did not want to go to Visions Academy because he WANTS his ghetto friends, he WANTS his low-income Black Spanish life. He was perfectly happy to waste his intelligence and talent because he never figured he'd get anywhere to begin with. But now he's got a greater purpose in helping people, in being the best he can because no one else has the power to be Spiderman. When Uncle Aaron says "You're the best of us", he doesn't just mean their family. Miles managed to escape the pull of gang violence and the twisted honor-and-glory appeal of thug life and the oily black tendrils of poverty entwined around his legs. He shook off everything that we now know was supposed to be his destiny, and he has never looked back.

But in doing so he doomed Miles G to that very fate. The first movie didn't touch much on that aspect of urban blackness, likely because white audiences would not care. But now you love Miles! You ain't got a choice now! They tricked you, man!

42 Miles, or Miles G. Morales as he's credited, has experienced a greater loss with nothing to hold on to besides the structure of gang violence within a falling, burning city. His father is dead, both stripping him of that moral figure and discounting all the ideas that Jeff tried to instill into his son - because those are the beliefs that got him killed. If you don't wanna get killed, you better get some power and some respect, and never let go of either. Uncle Aaron, still the original Prowler, steps in as Miles G's father figure, making sure Rio's financially okay and not too stressed, reassuring her that "We're family". Family is everything, it's the only bond they have, and Miles G would do anything for his mother. Anything at all. The voice actor leans more into the Puerto Rican accent, rolling the R's and accentuating S's, whereas our Miles talks more black even when he's speaking Spanish - his father's absence, and his love for his mother above all else.

He's the man of the house now. He's gotta provide, and he's gotta take care of his mother. 15 years old, Miles G has design schematics for the current Prowler gloves posted on the wall of his room - it's a far more active part of his normal life than with our Miles, who keeps his Spidermanning entirely separate (for now). It's bleeding into his everyday, infecting his soul with every heist, collection, and murder that he carries out. It's not Uncle Aaron's fault. He loves his nephew, and without his father around, he wants the kid to have respect, to not have to work his way up from nothing, so he passes him the mantle. Uncle Aaron was undoubtedly drawn into that life by something similar. That's how the cycle self-perpetuates. The result is a 15-year-old kid with the eyes of a combat veteran.

Here is a kid who does not hesitate, who does not forget or make mistakes, who jumped into this life headfirst because he knows there is no other choice. For him there is no way out, and he is far from the only one.

Ain't no love in the heart of the city. Red light pouring in from the fires outside and the soul-death inside, the bloody inevitability, the need to protect themselves and their own because no one else will. This violence is the only pathway. Violent death will come whether or not you follow it. And staring into his own face and yet much older eyes, our Miles is just beginning to realize exactly what he's escaped and what Liv's collider portal doomed this kid and this world to, all because of a tiny little spider. And he has switched fates, as in the first film his Spidey-Sense started out as green and purple, then turned red and blue as he vibed with Peter. Over the course of a few seconds, we witnessed his destiny change. The colors of this interplay between worlds are green and purple, green and purple, the Prowler's colors.

And red, as Miguel tried to ensure that fate (execution) is carried out. Miguel blames Miles as the "original anomaly", yet he conveniently ignores the spider, or Doc Ock who brought it over and started this whole mess, or Kingpin who funded her. Miguel is willing to physically attack a black child for his own misplaced regret and self-loathing. Beyond that, I genuinely believe that if he had reached Miles in the Go-Home machine, he would have killed him. The madness in those ripping claws is not something stopped by the sudden softness of flesh. It's only Spider-Byte who stops him - she (black female tech-heavy Spiderman, vibed with Miles instantly on those principles and others) could have shut down the machine and trapped Miles. But he looked at her, and she saw that he was a terrified child, and she knew that Miguel is incapable of mercy or critical thought, and maybe she wanted to believe in him. So she hesitated, most important savior Time.

Before we move on too far, back to Miguel and Miles. Miguel's fangs secrete a paralyzing venom - probably he was trying to incapacitate Best Vulture using that, although with the bestial transformation of his silhouette perhaps he didn't care if he ripped Vulture's throat out by accident. Regardless, he only seems to use this as the definitive way to End Fights. Miles has a similar ability in his venom blast or whatever he calls it. I swear the word "static" was in there somewhere. The difference is, Miles uses it as a defensive mechanism, not offensive (Armadillo guy aside). He uses it to get out of bad situations and continue the fight, to break down barriers and temporarily stun his opponents so he can break free and recover. We see him preparing to do this at the end of this movie, too.

Again, Miguel needs to view himself as the superior protector of all universes in order to pretend like his mistake is in any way acceptable. Beyond that, he blames Miles for it, so that he does not have to forgive himself/Miles, he can just eliminate the problem and pretend it's all over. Miguel the controller uses his ability as the be-all end-all, whereas Miles uses it as just one method among many in his arsenal.

Now. The only named black Spider who doesn't vibe with Miles is Jess Drew, but that's explicable by the following reasons. First of all, she's pregnant - Miguel destroyed his stolen kids by breaking canon, and neither Peter B nor Jess want to risk their own new families by going against Miguel's canon laws. Secondly, she's a black woman who is basically Miguel's right hand (within the fact that he cannot and will not ever trust anyone else with this "responsibility" he claims for himself), and there's not much to be gained from abandoning that, especially in context of the first point.

You know who does vibe with Miles?

HOBIE

MOTHERFUCKING 

BROWN

Hobie fucking loves Miles right from the start. He's only in the Spider-Society because he knows Miguel's insane and his actions and orders are inhumane and all kinds of fucked up. But Hobie's basically alone in that knowledge, as even Gwen still wants to believe that it could be a good thing, and so he's just infiltrating, learning more and stealing shit to recreate Miguel's technology without Miguel's restrictions. And when Miles comes along and starts speaking out against that shit, he loves it. He encourages it. And he uses Miles' distraction to slip off and put his own plan into action.

From the second he meets Miles he's looking out for the kid. Part of that's because he's true punk (incredible to see, especially with him being black and this movie being so commercialized by its marketing/sales teams) but part of it is that he recognizes Miles. Hobie probably also has a static venom ability, since he's the one who tells Miles that it works better using the whole hand (and reminds him, later, while everyone else is telling him to calm down or hang in there and only Hobie is still on his side telling him silently to fight back). It's possible even that since he used his guitar to break the forcefield barrier, and since it is not plugged in to anything but still makes electric guitar noises, that the guitar acts as a sort of amplifier for that power.

He never tells Miles what to think, he just encourages him TO think. And he's always there with his own laconic opinion to point out how fascist Miguel's little Spider Utopia is to anyone not a Spider - and anyone who disagrees with Miguel the Controller. More personally he indirectly asks if Miles has a safe home to go back to, and he STAYS THERE when Miguel's being a dick to a 15-year-old kid.

There's more to recognition than that, though. See, Hobie Brown also escaped the fate of becoming the Prowler. The original Prowler, since inception and for most of the comics' runs, has been a black man named Hobart Brown. Hobie as Spider-Punk is and always has been a subversion of the black male stereotypes that led to the creation of the Prowler (very normal and not racist name there by the way), and without losing any of his Blackness or masculinity or Black masculinity. Hobie and Miles have more in common than any other Spiders, because they've both beaten that expected fate of black men to fall eagerly into violence and gang warfare and criminal careers. And Miguel wants Miles to feel unworthy of that escape - he wants Miles to believe that he does not belong in a chosen betterment; that all he was ever meant for is poverty and wasted talent and endless violence.

But Miles won't let that happen! "I'ma do my own thing," and he's got that confidence in himself now. And Hobie's got his back cause things are finally moving, he's not alone in trying to dismantle Miguel's fucked up utopia with the gears of that great machine beneath grinding up anomalies and black children to keep it all running so flawlessly on the surface. Miguel lives in "Nueva York", he's never had to subvert much, the darkness within him is not that which he keeps at bay via that injection, it is the monstrosity which he lets fester and flourish under the name of "dedication". Miles comes in and disrupts that perfect lie in about ten minutes, he's already boiling and he won't accept a fate he does not want when he's already escaped it once before.

Hobie's been hanging around for some time, making himself appear lazy and carelessly destructive to hide his far greater intentions. As long as Miguel "just can't" with him, he's being underestimated, and as long as that is the case he is free to undermine and plot and replicate as much as possible. That's black intelligence. "Man like Miles!"

Good movie basically

#atsv #spiderman: across the spiderverse #3pac #hahaha #miles morales #spiderman #miguel o'hara #spiderman 2099 #hobie brown #spider punk #aaron davis #the prowler #42 miles #miles g morales #prowler miles #jess drew #words i speak

[50spoetics]

ok im going a bit insane connecting assassins creed lore with the lore laserhawk is setting up. if bullfrog is the last member of the assassins brotherhood, maybe ramon will end up being the last member of the templar (albeit unknowingly)? (long post incoming)

i think im relying a lot on my own views of ramon/rayman and bullfrog but hear me out. the brotherhood believes through free will, humans can rise against oppression and selfishness to free society. however the order believes humans are inherently corrupt, and only people who are “enlightened” can free society, that society must be rebuilt by these individuals (aka them) and the concept of free will is a hinderance to them. with rayman becoming aware of eden’s sins and becoming ramon, this is him becoming “enlightened”, so maybe he will find out about the templar and believe that’s the way to go, which unwittingly pits him against bullfrog????

the assassins order doesn’t try to force people to comply to them and leaves people to manage the truth in their own way, which bullfrog is seen to do by warning pey’j and laserhawk of the path to vengeance. when they aren’t convinced and things go south, bullfrog doesn’t say “i told you so”. ramon literally murders the entire board of directors even after making them call of bullfrog’s execution. see what i’m getting at?

what if ramon falls down this rabbit hole of the templar’s beliefs, convinced that this free will is what made the board of directors carry eden’s message, that people like red raptor were specist through free will? that rayman ignored any warning signs of eden being corrupt because he had the “free will” to do so, considering he was its poster boy? he already blames himself for letting their power go unchecked, after all.

essentially the templar and assassin order both have the same fundamental belief but go after it in a vastly different way. i hope for parallels between bullfrog and ramon more present in season 2!

or perhaps ramon will be another member of the fallen brotherhood, with both him and bullfrog rebuilding the order. i have high hopes

#captain laserhawk a blood dragon remix #captain laserhawk theory #captain laserhawk #assassins creed #clabdr #bullfrog captain laserhawk #rayman #yes i watched the hour long essay on bullfrog #im so normal about it #assassins creed has been my shit since i was 6 #so you can imagine this show is doing numbers on me

[scaly-freaks]

A question.. how do you think amara would be if she were in the shoes of helaena and b&c would kill Jaehaera in front of her ? And would aegon react the same or different in this senario? Just very curious so i had to ask;)

Long answer incoming.

So I think Aegon would react pretty much the same in terms of the dead child as she is his, and his desire for vengeance is still very much a thing in this fic.

In the book, we're told Aegon and Helaena stop sharing a bed chamber, which obviously suggests that before they did, so whatever bond existed between them wasn't strong enough to withstand the loss of the child. For Targs there'd obviously be a romantic bond and a sibling bond within this same marriage, but it seems the latter wasn't strong either because even if the first element disappears, she was still his sister and they're still family. But it just felt like they spiralled apart and Aegon made the mistake of many fictional (and irl) men of only appreciating the women in his life in retrospect (he did claim only Alicent and Helaena could be termed "true queens" but that was also to take a dig at Rhaenyra so idk).

Granted Amara is a resident of King's Landing herself and there might even be a chance she knows B&C just from afar. I think she'd do her level best to talk her way out of it, which is something I don't blame Helaena for not being able to do because 1) she doesn't encounter people like B&C 2) they definitely were getting a sadistic thrill out of holding power over a royal family member. Amara is a commoner though, and despite whatever "lineage" she has, she was raised like one. I think she'd be ready to let them SA her just to keep them distracted from Jaehaera, but she also would immediately know that's not what they risked their lives to come here for - they're doing it because it's thrilling, and also obviously they've been paid by someone. She'd offer money, a dragon egg, anything on hand to give to them because at the end of the day, if she can outmatch the price offered by someone else, she might still get out of it.

B&C are an interesting case because they show inklings of being genuine psychopaths who took the money for funsies and stretched out the agony because it gave them sexual pleasure. If they didn't have a time constraint, I genuinely believe they would have followed through on every possible scenario of torture against everyone in that room which is horrific to think about.

And I think once Amara clicks onto that, it'd be over. She'd have a mental break at first, like just completely refusing to let them take Jaehaera's corpse from her, and it'd be a fresh layer of trauma for Aegon having to get the guards to pin her down just to rip the dead child out of her arms.

But I'll say one thing -

They made a mistake leaving her alive. It removes her only reason to play nice at court, and suddenly she's using her influence over Aegon as a way of violently retaliating against anyone who pisses her off even slightly (think Cersei's power is power scene but with a retinue of guards that Aegon won't let her walk around without after B&C). I think she'd probably find B&C way faster than they did in canon once she has someone display Jaehaera's bloodied dress in one of the town squares. Upon seeing it, the people of KL go into a frenzy to hunt them down before they can escape the city and lo and behold, she's got them.

Okay warning for graphic violence here -

But let's just say sodomy with barbed objects is very much a torture Amara would come up with for Blood, the man who threatened to rape her before he killed her child. She's also an Uller, and canonically, they're not much nicer than the Boltons, so there's that seed of creative violence in her blood.

Cheese, being the cleverer of the pair, and the one who was more focused on psychologically breaking her down, gets death by a thousand cuts, but each cut gets faeces smeared into it. Whose excrement you might ask? Blood's (and you can imagine why he's shitting himself).

I think in the end she'd probably manage to unsettle even Aegon with the sheer detail and patience it takes her to completely break these men apart and her refusal to let them die. It comes to a point where he's the one who has to suggest that they do die since they've given up the name of the person who paid them and now it's just Amara going to the black cells every day to watch with a blank face as they shriek themselves hoarse.

In terms of her relationship with Aegon, he rages and drinks obviously and starts making up those plans to go to war (obv in this fic Daemon is dead, so we'll just have to assume someone else sent B&C, though I don't know who else would be vile enough to). Amara's anger is colder and simmers for a lot longer - she quite literally can't go back to normal and has a period of extreme guilt because she has sex with Aegon with the express desire to have another child and replace the agony of losing Jaehaera by holding a new baby. But she does eventually realise it's not going to work and that this is just how life is going to be now. She'll never go back to who she was before she lost her daughter.

#the god of wine and rainbow lamps #aegon x amara #my oc: amara

[claudia1829things]

"BLEAK HOUSE" (1985) Review

"BLEAK HOUSE" (1985) Review

In less than I year, I have developed this fascination with the works of Charles Dickens. How did this come about? I do not know. I have seen previous Dickens movie and television adaptations in the past. But ever since last year, I have been viewing these adaptations with a vengeance. And one of them turned out to be "BLEAK HOUSE", the 1985 adaptation of Dickens' 1852-53 novel.

Adapted by Arthur Hopcraft, this eight-episode miniseries conveyed the affects of Jarndyce v Jardyce, a long-running legal probate case involving the existence of more than one will. The heirs and their descendants have been waiting decades for the court to determine the legal will, for the sake of a large inheritance. Among those affected by the Jarndyce v Jardyce case are:

*John Jarndyce - a wealthy English landowner, who happens to be the proprietor of the estate, Bleak House. Jarndyce had inherited it from his uncle Tom Jarndyce, who had went mad waiting for a verdict on the case before committing suicide. *Richard Carstones - Tom Jarndyce's grandson and John Jarndyce's cousin, who also became one of the latter's legal wards, and a potential beneficiary of the Jarndyce v Jardyce case. *Ada Clare - Tom Jarndyce's granddaughter and Mr. Jarndyce's cousin, who also became one of his legal wards, and a potential beneficiary of the Jarndyce v Jardyce case. She and Richard, also cousins, became romantically involved. *Esther Summerson - one of the novel's main characters and orphan, who became Mr. Jarndyce's ward following the death of her previous guardian, Miss Barbury, who had also been her biological aunt. She joined the Bleak House household as Ada's companion and Mr. Jarndyce's housekeeper after he became the guardian of Richard and Ada. *Honoria, Lady Dedlock - the wife of baronet Sir Leicester Dedlock and a beneficiary of the Jarndyce v Jardyce case. She is also the younger sister of Miss Barbury and Esther's illegitimate mother. *Captain John Hawdon aka Nemo - a former British Army officer, who became an impoverished law writer and drug addict. He is also Lady Dedlock's former lover and Esther's illegitimate father. His penmanship on one of the Jarndyce v Jardyce affidavit attracts Lady Dedlock's attention. *Mr. Bill Tulkinghorn - Sir Leicester's ruthless lawyer, who noticed Lady Dedlock's reaction to the affidavit. This leads him to investigate her past and possible connection to Hawdon aka "Nemo". *Miss Flite - An elderly woman living in London, whose family had been destroyed by a long-running Chancery case similar to Jarndyce v Jarndyce. This has led her to develop an obsessive fascination with Chancery cases, especially the main one featured in this story. She quickly befriended Esther, Richard, Ada and Mr. Jarndyce.

As one can see, these characters represented plot arcs that connect to the Jarndyce v Jarndyce case. As one of the beneficiaries of the Jarndyce case, Richard becomes obsessed with the verdict. He seemed more interested in depending upon the Jarndyce verdict to provide him with an income rather than pursue a profession. This obsession eventually led to a clash between and Mr. Jarndyce, who has tried to warn him not to get involved with the case. Another clash formed between Lady Dedlock and Mr. Tulkinghorn, due to his determination to find proof of her past with Nemo and the conception of their child. A clash that proved to create even more damaging for a good number of people, than the one between Mr. Jarndyce and Richard. In the midst of all this stood Esther, who served as an emotional blanket for several characters - especially the inhabitants at Bleak House, a potential romantic figure for three men (ironic for a woman who was not supposed to be a great beauty), and the center of the Lady Dedlock-Nemo scandal.

For years, 1985's "BLEAK HOUSE" had been viewed as the superior adaptation of Dickens' novel. The first novel aired back in 1959. But a third television adaptation that aired in 2005 had managed to overshadow this second adaptation's reputation. But this is not about comparing the three adaptations. I am focusing only the 1985 miniseries. If I might be blunt, I believe screenwriter Arthur Hopcraft and director Ross Devenish created one of the better Charles Dickens I have personally seen. Granted, one might use the source material - the 1952-53 novel - as the reason behind the miniseries' top quality. But I have seen my share of poor adaptations of excellent source material . . . and excellent adaptations of poor or mediocre novels and plays. And I would find this excuse too simply to swallow. Hopcraft and Devenish could have easily created a poor or mediocre adaptation of the novel. Fortunately, I believe they had managed to avoid the latter.

With eight episodes, Hopcraft and Devenish did an excellent job in conveying Dickens' exploration into the chaos of the legal landscape in 19th century Britain, especially cases involving the Chancery courts. One might consider the longevity of Jarndyce v Jarndyce rather exaggerated. However, I speak from personal experience that an extended length of time in such a case is more than possible. But what I thought the effect of Jarndyce v Jarndyce and similar cases in Dickens' story seemed very interesting. In Richard Carstone's case, I suspect his own hubris and upbringing had allowed the case to have such a toxic effect upon him. He had been raised as a gentleman. Which meant he was not expected to work for a living. But since he did not possess a fortune or an estate - like Mr. Jarndyce - Richard never lost hope that the court would rule the Jarndyce v Jarndyce case in his favor, allowing him to inherit a great deal of money. Although it took another case to send Miss Flyte mentally around the bend, I found it interesting that her obsession with Chancery cases led her to attach her interest to the Jarndyce case beneficiaries.

The Jarndyce case also produce a group of leeches in the forms of attorneys like Mr. Tulkinghorn and his obsession with assuming control over the Dedlocks and Mr. Vholes, who had sucked a great deal of money from Richard in exchange for his legal services. The series also featured the vicious moneylender Mr. Smallweed, who helped Mr. Tulkinghorn in the latter's campaign against Lady Dedlock; and Mr. Jarndyce's "friend", Harold Skimpole, who had not only encouraged Richard to pursue a greater interest in the Jarndyce case, but also had accepted a "commission" from Vholes to recruit the young man as a client. Would I regard William Guppy as a leech? Sometimes. I had noticed that one particular story arc was missing - namely the story arc regarding the philanthropist Mrs. Jellyby, her daughter and Esther's friend, Caddy and the Turveydrop family. This did not bother me, for I have never been a fan of that particular arc.

However, I also noticed that "BLEAK HOUSE" featured a few moments in which important plot points had been revealed through dialogue or shown after the fact. Audiences never saw Skimpole convince Richard to hire Mr. Vholes. Instead, Mr. Jarndyce had revealed this incident after it happened. The whole scenario regarding Dr. Allan Woodcock being a survivor of a shipwreck was handled as a past event revealed by the good doctor himself. Hopcraft's script never stretched it out in the same manner as Dickens' novel or the 2005 miniseries. Audiences never saw George Rouncewell's release from jail, for which he had been incarcerated for murder. Instead, Episode Seven began with George in jail and later, near the end, found him serving as Sir Leicester's valet without any information on how that came about.

"BLEAK HOUSE" featured a few other writing and direction decisions by Hopcraft and Devenish that I found . . . well, questionable. Why did the pair solely focused on Lady Dedlock in the series' penultimate episode and Richard and the Jarndyce v Jarndyce case in the final one? Would it have been so difficult for them to switch back and forth between the two arcs in those final episodes? I found Inspector Bucket's resolution to the story's murder mystery rather rushed. I would have liked to see Bucket eliminate suspects before solving the case. In Bucket's final scene with the killer, Hopcraft left out that moment from the novel when the latter had the last scathing word on British society, leaving the police detective speechless. This erasure dimmed the impact of Dickens' message and made the killer even more of a caricature. I had some issues with how Devenish directed certain performances. How can I put this? I found them a bit theatrical.

I have one last issue - namely Kenneth MacMillan's cinematography. I realize that in "BLEAK HOUSE", fog represented institutional oppression and human confusion and misery in society. Unfortunately, I feel that MacMillan may have been heavy-handed in utilizing this symbol in the series. It is bad enough that photography featured a fuzzy element that seemed popular in many period productions in the 1970s. But thanks to MacMillan's use of fog in the story, there were many moment in which I could barely see a damn thing. And I found that irritating.

Aside from a few quibbles, I had no real issues with the performances featured in "BLEAK HOUSE". One of those quibbles proved to be the performances for some of the secondary cast members. How can I say this? The exaggerated and wooden performances for some of the cast members brought back memories of some of the minor actors' bad performances in 1982 miniseries, "THE BLUE AND THE GRAY". I must admit that I did not care for Pamela Merrick's portrayal of Lady Dedlock's French maid, Madame Hortense. Her performance bordered and then surpassed the lines of caricature - as some British actors/actresses tend to do. Charlie Drake's portrayal of the moneylender Smallweed tend to waver between a pretty solid performance and pure caricature. Although there were moments when I found her portrayal of the eccentric Miss Flyte a bit hammy, I must admit that Sylvia Coleridge gave a well-done performance. Chris Pitt's performance as Jo, the crossing sweeper boy struck me as very poignant. Yet, at the same time, he seemed so passive that at times, I found it difficult to believe he had survived on the streets on his own, for so long. Jonathan Moore, whom I had remembered from the 1988 television movie, "JACK THE RIPPER"; did an excellent job of conveying the ambitious and self-interested nature of law clerk William Guppy. However, his portrayal of Guppy seemed to lack the character's comedic nature. Denholm Elliot gave a very interesting performance as Esther, Richard and Ada's guardian, John Jarndyce. On one level, I found his portrayal of the kind-hearted Mr. Jarndyce as first-rate. Excellent. But there were moments, including the character's famous quote following Jo's death, when Elliott's Mr. Jarndyce seemed to resemble one of those "angry young men" characters from a John Osbourne play. I found those moments very odd.

However, there were performances that did not leave me scratching my head. Colin Jeavons and Anne Reid gave very competent performances as the grasping solicitor Mr. Vholes and George Rouncewell's close friend Mrs. Bagnet, respectively. Ironically, Jeavons had portrayed Richard Carstone in the 1959 adaptation of "Bleak House" and Reid had portrayed Mrs. Rouncewell in the 2005 television adaptation. Both Suzanne Burden and Lucy Hornak gave solid performances as Esther Summerson and Ada Clare. And yet, both actresses managed to rise to the occasion with some brilliant moments. Burden's moment came, following Esther's realization that she had survived the smallpox. As for Hornak, she gave an excellent performance during Ada's soliloquy about her love's growing obsession with the Jarndyce case. Brian Deacon gave a passionate performance as Dr. Allan Woodcourt, the penniless doctor in love with Esther. Ian Hogg gave a very solid, yet commanding performance as Inspector Bucket. I really enjoyed Sam Kelly's warm portrayal of the law-stationer, Mr. Snagsby. Bernard Hepton gave one of the most colorful performances of his career as the alcoholic rag and bone shopkeeper, Krook. Dave King gave a very solid performance as the loyal, yet intimidating and conservative former Army sergeant George Rouncewell. I found George Sewell's performance as Sergeant Rouncewell's older brother, the wealthy Mr. Rouncewell not only entertaining, but very memorable. I thought Robin Bailey did an excellent job portrayed the haughty and proud Sir Leicester Dedlock.

But there were four performances that really impressed me. One came from Philip Franks, who did an excellent job of conveying Richard Carstone's emotional journey from John Jarndyce's warm and friendly young man, to the more embittered one, obsessed with the Jarndyce case. T.P. McKenna gave a delicious performance as Mr. Jarndyce's self-involved friend, Harold Skimpole, who proved to be quite the emotional (and financial) vampire. I thought Peter Vaughan was superb as the Dedlocks' sinister lawyer, Mr. Tulkinghorn. I was amazed by how Vaughn managed to combine the character's dedication to protecting his client Sir Leicester and his penchant for assuming control over others. If I had voted for the best performance featured in "BLEAK HOUSE", I would choose Diana Rigg's portrayal of the tragic Honoria, Lady Dedlock. I believe the actress gave a brilliant performance as the mysterious, yet complicated baronet's wife, whose cool demeanor hid a great deal of emotions and a personal secret. I am shocked and amazed that neither she, Vaughn, McKenna or Franks had ever received any accolades for their performances.

In fact, I am surprised that "BLEAK HOUSE" had only received BAFTA nominations (and won three) . . . and they were in the technical/arts category, aside for the Best Drama Series/Serial. No Primetime Emmy nominations, whatsoever. Was this eight-part miniseries the best adaptation of Charles Dickens' 1852-53 novel? I cannot answer that question. Granted, it had its flaws. But what television or movie production did not? But I cannot deny that "BLEAK HOUSE" was a first-rate miniseries that deserved more accolades than it had received, thanks to Arthur Hopcraft's screenplay, Ross Devenish's direction and an excellent cast led by Suzanne Burden, Denholm Elliott and Diana Rigg.

#charles dickens #bleak house #bleak house 1985 #arthur hopcraft #ross devenish #suzanne burden #denholm elliott #diana rigg #peter vaughan #philip franks #lucy hornak #colin jeavons #anne reid #dave king #george sewell #robin bailey #brian deacon #chris pitt #sam kelly #ian hogg #jarndyce v. jarndyce #jonathan moore #pamela merrick #sylvia coleridge #charlie drake #bernard hepton #t.p. mckenna #victorian age #period drama #period dramas

[tendo-64]

Doodle for the occasion because I was wrecked by the end of claus's journey so now so do y'all!

Anyway, review time, as well as screens and whatnot if you want to see the major differences without playing through 26 hours yourself lol (massive wall of text incoming). Or you can just enjoy (or not enjoy because it's sad) the angsty doodle. (I'll be drawing more and will post the doodles and this one on their own too)

(Warning for the record that I will be discussing the darkest elements of this game, which means I will be discussing suicide--more so because this romhack addresses it slightly more than the base game did as it subtly acknowledges Claus was the one who died in the original near the end.)

Claus's Journey was really fun. For anyone who hasn't seen my older posts, it's a romhack in which Claus is the protagonist and Lucas is the Masked Man (AKA the Mother 3 Swap AU, but playable). It changes dialogue in addition to sprites to accommodate for the differences in personality. Claus also has narration and isn't a silent protag so you get to see his thoughts on things.

To summarize the main differences: Claus in this version was going to still fight the Drago, until Lucas asks to come with and gets called a crybaby, which angers him and he decides to go kill it himself (knocking out Claus to keep him from following), as he's tired of everyone treating him like he's weak and helpless. Obviously, he never comes home.

MOTHER 3 is an interesting game because it sets Claus up as the typical RPG protagonist, and then kills him off in the first chapter and has his less-typical brother fill his shoes as the hero instead. In a regular game, Claus would've come home from the Drago somehow having survived and everyone would've praised him for being "stronger than we thought" or whatever, but instead he gets kidnapped and brainwashed into becoming a(n anti-) villain. He's the game's antithesis--where Lucas is patience, forgiveness, optimism, and fights only to protect his family, Claus is impulsivity, holds grudges, is unable to move past his trauma, and fought for vengeance to give himself peace of mind from his pain. The Masked Man then goes onto be the ironic representation of the dark path he was headed down: anger and violence for the sake of it, long since having forgotten his original motivations (of course, he was brainwashed against his will, but it's still worth mentioning that parallels can be drawn to those who repress their memories and lash out as a result of trauma, albeit very exaggerated)

So, if you flip that on its head, the whole thing changes. Now Claus is, pretty much a typical RPG protag. His arc is about "recklessness" instead of being a crybaby, where he has to learn to be more thoughtful and tactful.

And Lucas becomes an elaboration of a theme MOTHER 3 implies but never really went in depth with for Claus: the dangers of not taking trauma seriously or expecting someone to just "move past it." He keeps getting called a crybaby, and he snaps. But at the same time, him becoming the Masked Man feels even more disturbing to me because, instead of it feeling like a Claus who's been corrupted, had his negative traits amplified and his positive ones removed, it's not recognizable as something Lucas is at all. It's a massive stark contrast (was for Claus too, but I think Lucas even more so)

I definitely prefer the original dynamic in the original game, as it's more unique and is a big part of the game's identity, but this dynamic is interesting too, if mostly for Lucas and Claus only in the context of it being "what if Claus had a slightly more normal childhood"

At the end, at the ending monologue, Claus has something more to say. The player expresses concern for him and Claus gives his thoughts on Lucas's death: he says that he understands why Lucas did what he did, but then seems to acknowledge his own canonical fate as he's quick to reassure us that he's looking forward to his future and doesn't want to leave his family behind--that he thinks things will be okay and he's happy to be here.

That honestly hit me harder than anything else--it's so sweet hearing Claus of all characters tell us he'll never leave this world behind and he has hope in his future. But it also hurts when you realize that this ending is a blessing and a curse. Claus is happy and will continue living his life, but it came at the expense of Lucas's happy ending. If Claus knew this was a scenario where his brother suffered his own fate instead, he'd have never wanted it that way. Moreover, it's heartbreaking to see Lucas--the character who's known for being someone who can push through hardship no matter what, who can lose everything and still have the strength to go on, who can say he loves life and heals from everything he's been put through... die. It feels so wrong and disturbing--much more so than Claus's death in the original because Lucas had a happy ending, and this hack takes from him.

Claus's Journey is something one might play because they wanted to see an ending where Claus heals from his trauma and lives. But then you realize it's not really a better ending when Lucas had to take his place. It is nice seeing Claus talk about his faith in his future, but in many ways it feels worse that Lucas won't.

I think I'll go with Claus Lives AU instead if I want to see Claus live gdjgjd

But in all seriousness, I enjoyed the romhack. I recommend it, even if some of the new dialogue doesn't mesh with the original writing style perfectly, and some lines feel slightly forced, it can be overlooked.

Anyway, review out of the way, here's some screenshots.

(I regretfully didn't screenshot anything from ch1 because I wasn't posting about my playthrough back then, so I'm going to use screens from a YouTube playthrough by GreenieBoi just for chapter 1)

And here's Claus telling Flint about Lucas:

After this, changes are minor until timeskip.

I didn't screenshot most of Claus's narration, but here's some other noteworthy screens:

I made a post for Tanetane Island already, so I won't share those here

Bro called the duck toilet dumb >:(

Porky says this after Claus tells him the Masked Man is Lucas:

If Claus tries to fight Lucas:

I recorded Lucas's death and last words since there's too much to screen.

Claus monologue that hit hard

And I think that's it! This took a while to write, and probably took a while to read, but thanks for reading!

#tw: sui mention #mother 3 #mother 3 spoilers #mother 3 swap #claus's journey #tw: mild gore

[xinxiaogato]

— live to tell the tail

summary. you unfortunately lived in a universe where general gorou had found out ms. hina was… himself. and just your luck: gorou’s first impression of you was a crazed devotee of the ms. hina fan club, but you had only been in the wrong place at the wrong time. will you live to tell the tail?

love interests. gn!reader x a watatsumi general, an inazuman vagrant, the balladeer, and the kreideprinz.

warnings. infinite pet puns, referenced character death, weapons, swearing, blood, alcohol, harassment, and mentions of war.

note. in this chapter is a very rude and persistent extra character incoming! if you find yourself uncomfortable reading scenes where you are getting pursued and verbally harassed by a stranger you do not like, you can stop reading at “he caught you eyeing him…” and continue reading at “a pale, slender hand shot out...” i’ve bolded these lines for you!

word count. 1,050

chapter seventeen ⌇ in-corg-nito

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you felt very awkward.

in the past ten minutes, only one word was uttered by this stranger sitting across from you, and it was when you questioned his name.

“kuni,” he had answered with a light-hearted smile, and then he was back to staring at you, like he was critiquing a movie.

either he can’t do small talk, or the side effects of the medication are getting to me. you sighed, training your eyes on the dirt underneath your fingernails. he might just be a figment of my imagination. after all, a person can’t be this pretty in real life.

an employee emerged from the kitchen, ringing a bell to signal that breakfast was ready for the passengers. you steadfastly leaped up from your seat, thankful to have something to do now, but the purple-haired man didn’t follow suit. 

…he wasn’t expecting you to get his food for him, right?

...you really didn’t want to be around him anyway, so maybe this was for the better.

“um, i’ll just get one of everything, so wait here!”

once you left, the warm curl to the stranger’s mouth reduced to a thin line as he watched you hurry over to the buffet and start eagerly stacking your plate with inazuman goodies.

what good could some boat food be? “kuni” derided in his mind.

you eventually showed up at the rightmost station for a steaming onigiri… only to find every last one getting shoveled onto some middle-aged man’s plate!

he caught you eyeing him with an unshakable vengeance. smiling wryly, he clipped one of his onigiri between a pair of chopsticks and nodded toward it.

“i’m feeling quite generous today, so take one, sweetums,” he propounded.

you smothered a scowl at the pet name and told him that he could help himself, but the man was insistent.

“ah, come on, it’s not proper to just dismiss me like that… i thought i was being a nice person. you really should learn to smile, or else no one will want to talk to you.”

…the day had barely started, and you’ve already met two super strange characters.

equal parts concerned and annoyed, you turned on the pest with a temptation to fling your plate of food at his face. “i said i’m fine. i can go a day without onigiri.”

the man was far from over with his antics and tagged along with you to the liquid refreshments. “hey, are you alone on this boat?” he queried incessantly. “we could get to know each other. be my source of entertainment, will you? i could rent out a private massage room on this boat for—”

“screw off!” you yelled, attracting a few curious onlookers and staff members. “can you not take a hint!?”

the creep’s shit-eating grin vanished off the surface of teyvat at the realization that his advances were for naught. face blotched cherry red with fury, his hand quickly lifted into the air above you, causing you to freeze in fear.

“mind your manners, you little—!”

a pale, slender hand shot out of nowhere and captured the middle-aged man’s wrist into an iron grip, making him screech so loud that his voice rang in your ears. you fixed your gaze on kuni, who seemed quite indifferent despite having practically shoved himself between you and your assailant.

“what are you doing?” kuni asked. there was no longer any light within the striking violet of his irises.

“who are you?” the man shouted, spit flying everywhere. “and what’s with the getup?” 

kuni tightened his grasp with a chilling placidity and earned another squeal out of the swine. “...walk away.”

the man hastily wriggled out of kuni’s clutch and scrambled away as fast as his little legs could carry him—but not without some crude remarks. “could’ve just said that you had a boyfriend! you’re ugly as hell anyway!”

you and kuni quietly watched his figure become a little speck that pushed against the current of passengers heading over to the buffet. once he was finally gone, a short sigh broke free from your mouth and averted kuni’s attention to you as you placed a delicate palm over your shoulder, which felt like it was tingling. “thank you for saving me, kuni… can’t believe that guy refused to let up. it’s like he’s never been rejected his whole life.”

planting a hand on his hip, kuni spoke in a brusque manner that clashed with your initial impression of him. “are you stupid? why didn’t you just walk away from that simpleton?”

you blinked at his brashness. “me…? why should i walk away? i didn’t do anything wrong! if anything, it should be a felony to eat that much onigiri in one sitting!”

kuni analyzed your outburst—cheeks gaining color, teeth gnashing, eyebrows pulling close together. in response, kuni started menacingly walking toward you, shortening the distance every second. soon, your lower back was pressed against the food service countertop, which kuni placed his hands on to trap you in his arms. the only thing separating you and kuni was your plate.

“so you’ll willingly allow any guy to ruffle your feathers?” he whispered, his breath tickling your skin.

…

you've had enough of men’s shenanigans that day.

you picked up a tricolor dango off your dish and stuck it in between kuni’s lips, startling him into a backward step. his nose crinkled, teetering between taking a bite and spitting the food out, as you explained, “kuni, i’m going to keep believing that you’re a good person. i don’t think you would’ve helped me if that wasn’t the case.”

and off you went, not bothering to see if he would follow. you supposed that since he was up on his feet now, he could get his own sustenance.

kuni huffed a laugh devoid of amusement while twisting on his heel to stare daggers into the back of your head.

“‘a good person’?” he parroted with scorn.

“good” was not a term in the lexicon of the sixth fatui harbinger, scaramouche.

just wait, dear reader. you will be in a world of pain once you find out the truth—

scaramouche was ripped out of his inner monologue when he felt a light tug on his shorts. his eyes snapped down to see a little boy peering up at him.

“papa?”

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#genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin x y/n #genshin impact x y/n #genshin x you #genshin impact x you #gorou x reader #kazuha x reader #scaramouche x reader #albedo x reader #fluff #crack #comfort #angst #stella writes — ! #live to tell the tail

[thelextheluthor]

I have a sort of love/hate relationship with Titans (the series on HBO Max) because:

On one hand I could literally not imagine anyone better to play any of these characters like Brenton Thwaites is peak Dick energy and Curran Walters makes baby asshole Jason look easy and Iain Glen is perfect Bruce material and Joshua Orpin gives off Superman vibes and also manages to make Conner feel young and inexperienced etc. There's also a good dynamic between most of the characters and they help each other out and they showing that they're people. They're people with problems and secrets and struggles, sure, but they're people. And they care. About each other. About the world. And the series shows that.

But. It also frustrates me to no end. Incoming huge rant, btw.

(warning- lots of spoilers for the show, mostly season 3 cuz that's where I have most of my beef with, and also i haven't watched s4)

Usually because of little -mostly Batman related- things that aren't really noticable to people not really into DC but are there nonetheless like: Dick is not his fucking legal name. It's Richard. No it's not going to say Dick on legal documents. I'm talking mostly about the episode where he got fucking arrested and they pulled up his file (and showed his passport to I think). Also his middle name is fucking John, people, not that hard to look up. (I'm pretty sure they do the same thing with Jason and make his middle name something completely random, but I'm sure in most if not all canons it's Peter). Just. Richard John Grayson. It's not that hard 🙄🤚 Nobody who is either not close to him or has no sense of boundaries will call him Dick. His (adoptive) father is Bruce MF Wayne. Richard, Mr. Grayson, Mr. Grayson-Wayne, whatever that canon is making his last name, that is what they will call him out of RESPECT, if not to him, to the one name everyone in Gotham knows.

Bruce's age is another thing. I have absolutely nothing against Iain Glen, pretty amazing Bruce, but your telling me Bruce is how old? Iain is 61. Like. I'm pretty sure he adopts Dick in his 20's. It's not him being an experienced adult. He's still young. So he WILL screw up. As a person and as a parent. Same thing for the young Dick flashbacks, like, an eight year old from a circus definitely would not know how to drive a car. I do love how he started off on the path of vengeance, because as a "darker" show, Titans is meant to highlight those parts of him hidden by traffic light colors and puns, but one of his things is that he's pretty much the age Bruce was when his parents died. The kid in the show was no younger than 13 in his earliest flashbacks (again, same with Jason and Tim. These kids showed up looking like high school graduates, which, sure, is young to be starting a life of crime-fighting, but you gotta remember that Jason died at 15 in the comics, and Tim never even graduated).

Another thing is, I really do want the show to introduce Damian, but I doubt that this version of Bruce would be able to raise a kid ever again, probably doesn't trust himself enough to, plus he's like in his 50's so either he had Dami really late or he -like the rest of the bat-fam so far- is really aged up when he starts his whole Robin thing, which also kinda worries me because Tim barely got introduced in the 3rd season and I think he will be Robin in the 4th, so I heavily doubt we'll get murder baby 10 year old-ish Damian. And while being young isn't all Damian is, it's a little crucial to his story because you see an adult who was trained to be a killer and you see them as dangerous, sure, but an adult. Actually seeing, witnessing a child being a murder weapon, knowing that that is all their childhood was, that is pretty twisted.

Also I feel like Dick's whole "prison arc" schtick just wasn't him because dude's whole thing was "adopting strays" and he just up and left a whole ass kid in charge of a tower and a comatose patient & got himself thrown into prison on purpose. Nuh uh. If there's one thing that separated Dick and Bruce personality-wise, I think it's that Dick is the one who helps and loves people from the bottom of his heart. Bruce does love people, but he doesn't know communication or where to draw the line between work and personal life. Dick also has that same problem and we see it, he knows it and resents it because he knows that's a *Bruce* trait, but he on the other hand has a support system, people who care and help. Because that's what the Titans is. And Dick wouldn't up and abandon that for anything.

Again with Bruce, I know fighting crime isn't the best way to raise a child, and that giving a traumatized child deadly weapons to fight their inner demons will leave scars, but I wholeheartedly believe that Bruce was trying to be a good parent. In the show, he's really no more than a mentor. The most emotion I've seen is AFTER Dick becomes Nightwing(in one of Dick's flashbacks, he communicated through fucking letters. Dick was practically alone). Same goes for Jason. This was supposed to be another kid Bruce saw himself in, someone lost and alone. And when we saw his computer files on possible future Robins?

Keeping the roll with Bruce, he does things I feel like neither Bruce or Batman would do. Hell, when Jason died, first thing he did was kill the Joker. That is Jason's whole schtick after getting revived‼️His whole problem with Bruce is that he let the Joker live, even after everything, even after his own son died! Nothing changed to Jason! His death didn't mean anything!

#lex quacks #dc #titans #batman #bruce wayne #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #minor damian mention #this was sitting in my drafts #collecting MAD DUST