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artsninspo · 2 months ago

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012 | Richmond Inc.

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♠ summary: Lorence goes back to work and Terry shows up like never before.

♠ pairing: Terry Richmond (Aaron Pierre - Rebel Ridge) X Lorence Cole (Black Fem OC)

♠ word-count: ~2.7K

⌖ - Richmond Inc. HQ

I feel like I’ve been thrown into a pressure cooker. I don’t know how Terry has managed an entire organizational overhaul after spending the weekend rearranging my insides, and then traveling extensively all week. But then again, Mr. Richmond the Boss never ceases to amaze me. I maintain the smile on my face as my colleagues file out of the conference room. We’ve just spent five grueling hours scrutinizing every aspect of our new recruit training program. It got tense on more than a few occasions. Thankfully, no one found any faults in my proposals. Unfortunately, that led to a long Q&A period that I took standing. As much as I want to pretend I’m at a hundred percent, I still have a ways to go.

Joel comes into the conference room with a wheelchair, and it makes me smile. I guess someone wasn’t fooled by my ruse. I walk over and sit, grateful for the reprieve.

“You did great, kid,” he says, patting my shoulder as he wheels me toward the accessibility route, giving us some privacy.

“You think?” I ask.

“I know you did. After those proposals you put forward during the others’ presentations, I’m positive they would’ve ripped into you if they could.”

“I don’t know. After this past week, I was thinking maybe it was favoritism,” I mutter, and Joel laughs.

“Definitely not. You really are one of one, Lo,” he smiles, wheeling me in. “Campus is gonna kick your ass though—maybe use the favoritism to come in less. Work from your home office while you rebuild your strength and endurance.”

As much as I hate the idea, it’s solid advice. We get to my floor and find Emerson waiting at my office door. I stand, not wanting to show blood to a shark. He blinks a few times, registering that I’m still injured, and his expression shifts.

“Emerson, what can I do for you?” I ask, noting how his eyes flicker toward Joel.

“I didn’t realize you were still recovering…” he mutters.

“Just limited mobility,” I explain, and he nods.

“I’ve got a meeting, Cole. See you later,” Joel says, giving me a look that clearly says be careful. I keep my guarded expression in place as I unlock the door. Emerson follows, folding the chair and tucking it into a corner. I smile at all the flowers in my office—until I feel Emerson beside me. He steadies me under the arm as I walk, then pulls out my desk chair.

“Thank you,” I say, nodding politely. He steps back in front of my desk.

“So, how can I help you?” I ask.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry for what happened in Monaco. And if you need anything… reach out.” He smiles to himself. “Though Joel’s clearly got your back.”

“Pardon me?” I ask.

“You probably won’t call,” he says, just as a knock on the door grabs our attention. Terry’s expression tells me he’s been standing there long enough. I know that angry simmer of his, even though I haven’t seen it in a while.

“Cole, Cassandra didn’t see a meeting in your calendar,” Terry says, entering without invitation. Emerson’s usual cavalier expression is nowhere to be found. It catches my attention how he tries to shrink into his seat.

“I don’t. I was just going to look over a few things. Emerson stopped by,” I explain.

“It can wait,” Emerson says with a forced smile more typical of him. “Nice to see you, boss,” he adds, standing.

“Cole, I’ll have my EA check your schedule and get something on the books,” he says, giving Richmond some distance. I nod and send him a tempered smile. As the door closes, I feel Terry’s stare burning into me. I meet his blue eyes.

“That was odd,” I mutter. Richmond locks the door, triggering the smart glass to frost over.

“Hi baby. How’ve you been? Haven’t seen you in a few days. I missed you,” he murmurs, giving me a buffet of options before parting my lips with a kiss. His jealousy and complete disregard for workplace norms stirs something in me. But when the kiss deepens, I press a hand to his chest—knowing where this will lead.

“Terry,” I whisper, breathless. “We’re at work.”

“I own the company,” he reminds me, just as there’s a knock on the door. I glance up and silently thank my choice of transfer-proof lipstick. I un-frost the glass to reveal one of my junior agents. Her excitement fades when she sees the boss.

“I’ll come back!” she says, clutching her folder to her chest. It makes me smile.

“Five minutes,” I mouth, holding up a hand. She nods before offering Terry a sheepish glance. He frosts the glass again.

“Your entire team’s afraid of me,” he mutters.

“You have a reputation. And… I did miss you,” I admit with a smile. I notice the growing bulge in his pants and shake my head. He’s always ready, and while it’s been perfect... this isn’t the time or place.

“No Terry. I told her five minutes,” I warn, pulling away. He groans, standing upright and wiping his mouth, checking for lipstick.

“Next time, I’m not wearing transfer-proof makeup,” I tease, and he smirks, knowing I’ll follow through.

“I’ll remember that tonight,” he replies, dirty. I pretend to be unphased, but the threat definitely hits. I want us to hold hands, kiss, melt into each other.

“How’s your schedule?”

“Clear, once you walk out,” he says.

“I want to talk. Monaco. All these changes.”

His face switches to full Mr. Richmond mode. “What about it?”

“There are a lot of changes, and I’ve been gone for two weeks. I feel like I’m missing things. There were a lot of people absent from today’s training—excellent reconnaissance officers.”

“It’s been five minutes,” he says, trying to shoo me out. I withhold a laugh but can’t stop the smile.

“I guess a tense work relationship is one way around things.” I mutter.

“The only conversation we need to have about Monaco is the one where I tell you everything’s been handled. That happens when I have all the answers,” he says, calling the shots. I cross my arms, annoyed, then decide to let it go and head for the door.

“Lorence,” he calls from behind me.

“Mhm?”

“I see Emerson touch you again, and he’s getting a write-up for misconduct,” Mr. Richmond says. “Sit. I’ll tell the agent you’re ready.”

His jealousy shouldn’t be amusing, but it is. “Thank you,” I say, conceding.

“What do you want to eat tonight?”

“Pasta. Italian.”

“Alright. I’ll see you later,” he says, dipping to kiss my forehead.

“You might want to hide the situation happening,” I note, gesturing downward to his pants.

“Lorence, this isn’t the first time,” he say, heading into my bathroom. I glance at the clock, amused and wondering—but he’s out quick and looking normal. I don’t ask. He doesn’t tell. I snicker as he leaves. His tall stature, defined back and commanding presence has me silently swooning. It’s like he knows I’m watching and turns back to me with a small smile before his posture goes back to ridgid business as usual.

The rest of my workday is spent behind the safety of my desk until the car service is ready to take me home. It’s Beau’s last week at Joel’s, and it’s about damn time. I miss walking into my house and being treated like royalty. I head upstairs, pack a bag, and take a quick shower to freshen up. I’m not naïve enough to think Italian food is the only thing on the menu.

Terry shows up about an hour later, jogging up the stairs, dressed down and relaxed. He opens the car door and pulls me into a bear hug, lifting me off the ground. Professionalism is out the window. When he kisses me, I lean in instead of pulling away.

“I missed you,” I tell him again.

“I missed you more,” he replies, making us those corny people.

“Are you cooking here?” I ask, noticing his casual look.

“Nah. But I’ve got to run an errand before we eat.”

“Okay. I packed a bag,” I say, motioning to the edge of the staircase. He frowns when he sees it.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to lift anything.”

“It’s no more than ten pounds. Stop fussing.”

He shakes his head, and I wonder if we’re already those people—bickering like my Ma and Pa do. He takes the bag, and we head out. His car smells freshly detailed, and he’s got a new haircut.

“Your haircut looks good,” I say, running my fingers along the fade. He doesn’t tense up.

“Thanks, Lorence,” he says, pausing at my name.

“What?”

“Nickname might be a slippery slope at work,” he mutters, backing out of my driveway. I smile at him, always thinking steps ahead of everyone else. Once we hit the freeway, his hand finds my thigh. I place mine over his – happy to have him back. The silence is peaceful but I can tell he has a million things on his mind.

“Any leads on Monaco?” I ask.

“Lorence…”

“Terrance…” I tease.

“I have almost everything I need.”

“And?”

“No one’s in imminent danger. It was a colossal fuck-up. Everyone’s tucking tail and running scared. Nothing you need to worry about. It’s handled.” he assures me once again. I rack my brain for anything else.

“Then why the overhaul?”

“Because if everyone was as focused on their jobs as you are, you and Cassandra wouldn’t be in recovery.”

“So that’s what the workshops are about?”

“Yes. I’m benching all Executives and pulling travel perks until they start acting like agents again.”

I sigh. It’s the kind of move I hate—but I get it.

We end up at the private airport, and I sit upright. When the car stops in front of his private jet—not the employee one. I blink.

“What the...?”

“You asked me to take you on a date. I hope you didn’t think I forgot,” he says, putting the car in park. It’s the most extra thing anyone’s ever done for me.

“I don’t have my passport or clothes.” I start.

“Cassandra packed some things. And you can authorize your digital passport from your work phone.”

I look into his eyes and see how serious he is. There’s depth—like he’s worried I might say no. A smile creeps onto my face, and I kiss him quickly. This is what has had him on edge the entire drive.

“I didn’t think you forgot… I just didn’t expect this.” I beam.

“Pleasant surprise?”

“Mhm,” I nod, and he steals one more kiss before signaling to the valet to open my door.

The moment I step into the jet, I’m struck by the ambiance. It’s not sterile or corporate like I expected — it’s like his home. Cream leather seats, soft ambient lighting, and a familiar scent I can’t quite place but instantly associate with him. There's a chilled bottle of wine resting in a bucket of ice, and fresh roses on the side table.

Terry steps in behind me, his presence immediately soothing. He doesn't rush me. He just watches.

“You did all this?” I ask, voice softer now.

He shrugs. “You ask, I will make it happen.”

His assurance makes me smile again and I take a step back into him. Terrance wraps his arms around me instinctively as I admire the scene he’s set for me. I know there’s a tremendous amount of thought behind it and it fills me with so many emotions. When I relax I smell Italian food. Terry motions me to sit and I do. I have to definitely watch what I say around this man. He smiles and I can tell by the glint in his eyes he’s enjoying my reaction. It should be too much. It should feel overwhelming. But instead, it’s grounding—like someone finally seeing me in a way that doesn’t require explanation or translation. I settle into a seat and accept the glass of wine he pours. He takes the one across from me, even though there’s room beside me.

We’re wheels up before a flight attendant emerges with plates of food from my favorite Italian restaurant. I smile to myself knowing it isn't something I told Terry - but something from my mom’s food blog. I feel seen in a way that’s hard to explain or express. I know how much his time is worth and I understand what it means to have him here now treating me to a first date we need to fly to.

“Thank you Terry, I’m sorry if I’m quiet but I’’m so-”

“Are you happy?” he asks.

“Yes” I nod, unable to hide my smile. He smiles back giving a shallow nod.

“That’s all I want to do Lorence, keep you happy and make you happy”

“Why-” I immediately regret the words when they escape my lips.

Terry’s patience with me is infinite and he doesn’t seem upset by my question. His body language welcomes it. He lets go of his form laying his large hands flat on the tabletop.

“Because Lorence you're my person.” he says and the feeling is unlike anything I’ve ever felt. So is how sure he is. We sip our wine in companionable silence as the jet cruises mid air. He drapes a soft blanket over my legs, adjusting it with such care it squeezes something in my chest. This isn’t the boss who takes no prisoners. This is the man who buys flowers in my favorite shade and searches my mother’s food blog for my favorite things, gets his sister to pack me clothes.

“You’re very thoughtful when you want to be,” I murmur resting my head on his shoulder as he comes to sit beside me.

“I always want to be. I just don’t always know how.”

The honesty in his voice slices through the atmosphere like a thread of gold. Vulnerable. Earnest.

“I’ve misjudged you Terrance” I admit. He leans back, staring at the ceiling like he's holding onto something tightly. Then, slowly, he reaches for my hand.

“I was terrified when we got the call that something was going down in Monaco, the thought of losing you like that before getting to know you did something to me.”

The words come out quietly, like they cost him something, like there’s more to them.

He pauses, collecting himself. “I didn’t let myself care about anyone for a long time. And then you came out of nowhere, challenging everything. I gave you every reason to judge me the way you did, so I’m not afraid to earn your trust. I don't need you to rush or play to my feelings Lorena just keep being honest with me.” he says.

I swallow hard, feeling the weight behind every syllable. I turn my hand in his, lacing our fingers.

“I do trust you Terrance.”

That pulls his eyes to mine. Blue and sharp, but softened now. “And you don’t have to pretend you’re not scared either.”

“I am,” I admit. “Not of you. Just… of this.” I admit feeling relieved.

He nods. “Me too.”

Silence stretches again, but it’s not empty. It’s rich. Full of the words we haven’t found yet and the ones we don’t need to say. We both know loss, and so we both know the value of a person's presence and how to honor it – and it feels safe.

“Where are we going?” I ask after a moment.

He smiles. “Somewhere warm. With a view. And a beach.”

I blink. “Are you taking me on a cliché romantic getaway?”

His brows raise. “You should know I don’t do cliches. I only deliver the best of the best.”

“When did you have time to plan this elaborate date?” I ask.

“I make time for the people I care for. And for the record, it’s not a date. It’s the date, Lorence.”

I narrow my eyes. “The date?”

“The one where you finally believe I’m not going anywhere.”

The words slip out so easily, but they land with a thud in my chest. I stare at him, speechless for a beat. Then I lean in and kiss him—slow and grateful and steady.

“I’m starting to believe it,” I whisper, seeing there’s so much more he wants to say.

authors note: Lorence and Terry are settling into each other and 'flying high' literally and figuratively. What do you think happens next? Thanks for reading, don't forget to reblog, comment and like.

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#aaron pierre imagine #aaron pierre fanfic #aaron fics #aaronpierre #aaron pierre #terry richmond fic #terry richmond imagine #terry richmond #rebel ridge #rebel ridge fanfiction

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scariusaquarius · 5 months ago

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rehab. 8.

Avenger! Bucky Barnes x Winter Soldier! Fem! Reader

Summary: While on a mission to find any more possible super soldiers that were a part of the Winter Soldier program, Steve and Bucky make a discovery in an abandoned HYDRA base that was cleared out a few years prior to their mission. They discover the Reader, a long-forgotten soldier that was still asleep within a functioning cryostasis pod; still awaiting orders. While Bucky isn't happy about it, he is put up to the challenge of helping to rehabilitate the soldier in Wakanda where she may be able to become a person again.

A/n: I hope that you guys are enjoying the story so far! Please don't be afraid to comment or sends asks about it. I am a bit worried about the pacing, and I don't know if I like how this is playing out rip If you would prefer to read Rehab on Archive, you may do so right HERE! I also wrote this to Abe Parker - It Is what it Is, Sam Barber - Indigo, and Jonathan - The Garage

This is an au where Bucky joined the avengers but still rehabilitated in Wakanda (sometime before Infinity War [canon divergent cause NOPE]). I am NOT fluent in Russian, so I did use google translate cause I couldn't find a good translator that I trusted. If anything is wrong, PLEASE let me know!! Also, I tried to list as many warnings as possible so you know what the story will contain as chapters are posted. Stay safe!

Genre: Slowburn, Enemies to Lovers/Friends to Lovers, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Humor, Drama, Dark Content Rated: Explicit Warning: Angst, Dark Content: Graphic Depictions of Sexual Assault, Blood and Gore, Mentions of Manipulation, Kidnapping, Canon-Typical Violence, Body Horror, Nonconsensual Body Modification/Scarring, Emotional and Physical Abuse, Mentions of Murder, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts/Ideation, Graphic Depictions of Human Remains, Mentions of Sexual Coercion/Manipulation, Death, Misuse of Drugs/Forced Drugging, Self-Harm (Graphic Depictions and Mentions), Nightmares

Author: ScariusAquarius

rehab masterlist. chapter 6 / chapter 7

Shuri sighed as she watched the soldier from behind the glass of the lab doors. The soldier hadn't moved since Shuri and Bucky had left her by herself; simply sitting at the table where her empty bowl of Isidudu sat. The soldier seemed emotionless, simply staring ahead as if she was waiting for orders, and Shuri knew that in a way, she was.

While Shuri knew that HYDRA was a terrible organization, especially when she first treated Bucky, but she never anticipated it to be bad in this way. If Shuri could scrub her mind of the images of the dreams of memories about the torture the soldier endured during her time at HYDRA, Shuri would trade all the vibranium in the world to do so.

The sexual torture, the flagellation until the ground colored itself red and her vision tunneled, the drowning in disguise as training, burning her skin before peeling away the burnt flesh...it was no surprise that the soldier was simply a conditioned tool.

How could a person continue to be human when subjected to such animalistic torture?

It made Shuri angry and determined. While Shuri felt guilt for the soldier being able to remember such horrible things, she knew that it was needed. It was needed for the soldier to understand that she was more than what HYDRA made her and what they had done was not right.

In a way, Shuri hoped that the pain would somehow remind the Isithunzi that she was, in fact, human; that while she was a super soldier, she was still capable of being a human and she was still capable of bleeding and pain and that was okay.

Of course, it was easier said than done and there was a ton of work that needed to be done to get the soldier to that point. However, Shuri was determined to see this through.

She just wasn't sure if her method was truly humane. Was it right to manipulate the soldier in the way that she was? Nevertheless, Shuri knew that her intentions were good; would it even pay off in the end? Would the soldier still hold herself to completing the mission even after everything had been made clear and she could make that assumption on her own?

Shuri jolted when Bucky greeted her, making the princess hold a hand to her chest as Bucky stared at her with a raised and amused eyebrow.

"My goodness, don't scare me like that, colonizer!"

"Downgraded back to colonizer, I see."

Bucky joked gently, and though he wore a gentle smile on his face, Shuri could see the exhaustion on his face.

"You never upgraded."

She replied sassily, and Bucky snorted. At the sound of his laughter, Shuri chuckled as well before she sighed and looked back into the lab at the empty-looking soldier. Bucky carefully watched Shuri's face, observing as a slight shadow came across her features, and he pointed out to her.

"You look like you've got something on your mind."

Shuri pursed her lips slightly, wondering if she should open up her mind to the White Wolf before she allowed her shoulders to fall slightly.

"I cannot get the images of what they did to her out of my mind. I am certain that there is more than what we have seen...but it...it's horrific. There is just no other way to describe it."

Shur swallowed thickly, her voice quieting softly as Bucky listened intently; his gaze slowly turning back to the empty woman within the lab.

"My soul hurts for her. I know she is supposed to be our enemy right now...but all I see is another victim of HYDRA and their horrible, horrible ways."

Shuri shook her head, crossing her arms and glancing down at the ground.

"I am a scientist. I dabble with technology and science in hopes that I discover something new that may help to advance human knowledge and create a better world...because I enjoy this. I enjoy being able to discover and to change and to experiment. It is within my blood..."

Her voice trailed off, and Shuri shook her head.

"When my father was killed, I felt such unfathomable sadness and rage...but to be forced to lose ones self...their memories, their hopes, and their dreams...it must truly feel like death."

Bucky didn't know what to respond with. He continued to stare at the woman before he whispered softly, shaking his head before Bucky looked over at Shuri again.

"She's not our enemy...because you're right. She's another victim who was stripped of her whole entire identity and humanity because of an organization that wanted to further their cause no matter the cost."

Bucky bit his lip slightly as he began to think of what he wanted to say next, and he was thankful that Shuri was patient enough to let him think before Bucky settled.

"It's hard to want to help her because its like being placed in front of a mirror...it's one thing to be it and another to see it. Every time that I look at her, I just see me...I see what I was forced to do...forced to endure, and it makes me angry all over again."

Bucky swallowed thickly, whispering with a slight shake to his voice.

"I know that she can't control her own thoughts and actions because of the brainwashing...and that's what makes it hard."

Bucky gazed hard and long at the woman, and he was almost forced into silence when the soldier glanced over at him. They held eye contact, even as he began to speak again.

"When she told me that I was her mission...I was afraid. I was afraid that somehow HYDRA was going to burst through the doors and take me back...and I still feel that way...and I'm conflicted because I know it's not her fault...it's just easier to blame the next closest thing."

Shuri was quiet for a moment before whispering.

"Do not blame the one who is forced to lie with someone else's sins. She is lost and broken...just like you were. She needs salvation...she needs someone to reach down into those waters she is trapped beneath instead of pushing her down further."

"How can you be confident that I won't push her down either?"

Bucky didn't want to look at Shuri because he could already feel the disappointed stare, and he almost winced when Shuri clicked her tongue disapprovingly.

"You have come too far to become that person you were before. You are free...but she is not. She is still chained by and to what they have done, and if there is someone that can help her, it is you."

Shuri placed her hand upon Bucky's shoulder, emphasizing her words carefully.

"You can show her that you are more than just the Fist of HYDRA and she can be too, but it is up to you to take that first step, James Barnes....she can't make that decision for herself...not yet."

Bucky couldn't help but to whisper.

"I'm afraid of hurting her somehow...more than she will hurt herself when she realizes what she's done in the name of HYDRA."

"Then you must promise to keep her safe...to be kind to her just like we showed you. She is your cub now, White Wolf. Please protect her...from HYDRA and herself."

The lab doors opened, and Shuri gestured with a nod of her head silently. Bucky nodded, and he walked into the lab. The soldier had looked away from him, staring forward again, and Bucky swallowed thickly before he hesitantly asked.

"призрак?"

Her eyes flicked to life for a moment, her fists clenching slightly, and Bucky sat down before her, asking her with a raised brow as he observed her down to the last detail.

"When you said that I was your mission, what did you mean?"

The soldier's body language displayed her annoyance to the question. Her head tilted slightly, face screwing up into a nonchalant sneer before looked at him with a frown, stating as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"You are my mission."

Bucky couldn't help the frustration that went through him, taking a calming deep breath before he asked.

"I understand, but what I would like to know is what your mission is exactly? Why does HYDRA want me back?"

Soldiers were never supposed to question mission objectives. They were only meant to receive orders and deliver results, and so the soldier could not provide him with a good answer. However, that didn't mean she didn't mull over the thoughts quietly to herself.

"You are not authorized to know."

Bucky pursed his lips and he replied with furrowed brows.

"Given that I'm the one you're after, I think that I should know why."

The soldier frowned before she looked away from Bucky. There was a perplexed look on her face, almost as if she was confused, and Bucky almost gave up until the soldier asked in a quiet voice.

"...Before...you stated...you stated your name as James...did HYDRA...did they give you...that name?"

Bucky couldn't help the surprise that crossed his face from the question. Tilting his head slightly, he pursed his lips before he shook his head.

"No, HYDRA didn't give me that name. It's the name that I was born with...that my mother and father gave me."

She asked further, her gaze unable to meet his own as she nervously drummed her fingers against her knee.

"What did you mean when you said that you left?"

Bucky shrugged slightly, stating.

"Exactly that: I left HYDRA after I began to remember who I was before HYDRA kidnapped me."

The soldier became distressed slightly, a haunted expression coming across her face, and she whispered in a panic.

"I...I...Flaws Detected. Reprogramming required...!"

Tears welled up in her eyes, and Bucky was perturbed. He reached out a hand to comfort the soldier, but the soldier flinched and jumped back from him. The chair skid across the ground, creating sparks from the sheer intensity of the glide, and Bucky carefully stood up.

"Easy, призрак. I'm not going to hurt you. I want to help you, okay? I need you to allow me to help you."

Her eyes flickered slightly, a tear falling down her cheek, and she braced herself against the far wall.

"Нет! Нет! Не понимаю...не понимаю что происходит."

Bucky held his hands up carefully, calling firmly.

"Солдат! послушай меня, пожалуйста."

Her breathing was erratic, refusing to look at him, but Bucky could see her ears pricking up to focus on his words.

"Посмотри на меня."

Her eyes slowly looked over to him, her pupils pin-points in an ocean of terrified (e/c) waves, and Bucky whispered softly.

"I'm not upset that you are questioning these things...that you are asking questions at all. My intention is not to hurt you. See?"

Bucky spun slowly, lifting his shirt to show that he wasn't hiding a gun or knives, and her eyes flicked to his arm. Bucky hummed, shaking his head.

"Can't exactly fix that."

The soldier glanced back at his eyes, and she whispered shakily.

"I...I don't understand what is happening...you are my mission...my orders were to take you to Gützkow...but...but you are being..."

She couldn't seem to find the correct word, but it didn't matter. Not only did she just reveal where Rollins possibly was, but she was starting to recognize and feel things outside of the programming.

To Bucky, it was a good thing.

"Because I need you to know that I am not the enemy...surely you know that...deep down somewhere in that head of yours, you know that we're not the bad guys. You're remembering things...seeing memories of the things that HYDRA made you do and what they did to you."

Bucky was inching closer to her, his words becoming firm as he reassured her.

"We're not going to take those away from you...and we aren't going to punish you for that. We want you to remember...we want you to see that you are more than just a Winter Soldier."

"This does not help my mission."

Bucky was then put into a dilemma. Did he lie and try to manipulate her into thinking that it did, or did he be honest and risk retriggering her programming? Clenching his fists, Bucky closed his eyes for a moment before clenching his jaw. Taking a leap, Bucky replied.

"No, it doesn't. What we talk about doesn't help you in completing your mission...but understanding why they want you to complete it could help."

The soldier's lip was trembling, and she was desperately trying not to cry. The sight made Bucky feel horrible, but then the soldier slowly slid down the wall until she was huddled in the corner. She whispered softly.

"I...I dream...of a woman...who looks like I do...она красивая."

Bucky carefully lowered himself down to the ground, sitting across from the soldier as he asked her carefully.

"Do you know who this woman is?"

The soldier clutched her knees to her chest, hiding her face as she whispered.

"I don't know. Her face...is my face...but she is pretty...and wears a coat like the scientists that...come to see me do."

Bucky nodded, and he pressed further, giving the soldier a patient look.

"Does she have a name?"

The soldier didn't answer for a moment. Instead, she began to chew on her lip to the point she began to bleed heavily. Bucky moved to grab a cloth to hand to the soldier when he paused at the sound of her whispering voice.

"Да. Да, она делает."

Bucky glanced back at the soldier, and the soldier was looking at him; a desperate look within her eyes as she asked with a small and anxious voice.

"Will...will you...will you punish me?"

Although Bucky had understood her to be asking if he was going to punish her for remembering, he couldn't help but wonder if she was actually asking him to hurt her.

"What? No, of course not."

"Why? I am...flawed. My programming is malfunctioning, and I am...I am vile. I am an abomination. I am nothing if I cannot complete my mission."

Bucky became assertive, shaking his head as he refuted her words; a feeling of anger and disdain beginning to grow within his chest as he watched the woman become torn and confused and afraid.

"You are not any of those things. That's what HYDRA made you believe, but you are more than that. You don't have to follow their orders. You don't have to keep trying to prove your worth. You are more than the missions and the orders and the punishments. You can be free. Do you understand?"

The soldier shook her head, and Bucky sighed heavily, his shoulders collapsing for a moment before he stood and grabbed a cloth from a random desk within the lab. The soldier watched before flinching slightly as Bucky knelt before her, and he slowly held the cloth out for her.

"You don't have to follow HYDRA's orders. You can do what you want to do...like I have."

"I do not know how to be free. It is not in my programming."

She was clutching onto the cloth now, her expression anxious and hesitant, and Bucky gently held her hand within his flesh one. The soldier's eyes looked startled by the feeling of his hand on hers, and he affirmed.

"Yes, you do. Somewhere, deep down, you have always known that you could be free...HYDRA just didn't like that...they tried so hard to wipe that part of you...to rid you of the pretty woman in the labcoat because they knew that she knew this wasn't right. What they were doing wasn't okay."

The soldier wasn't sure what to say, pausing for a long moment before she asked in the ghost of a whisper.

"May I...have...a beverage?"

Bucky blinked in surprise before he nodded and stood up. The soldier did not move from her spot on the floor, and she watched him like a hawk as Bucky grabbed a random and clean beaker before pouring water into it.

Walking to the soldier, he handed it to her, and she immediately snatched the glass to gulp it down. Bucky was almost started by her behavior before he sighed. She must have been extremely thirsty. Hell, in all the time that the soldier had been here, Bucky hadn't seen her drink anything at all.

"I will be back soon."

The soldier paused before she began to drink again, and Bucky took that as affirmation that she had heard him. Walking out of the lab, Shuri was waiting with a proud smile on her face.

"See? That was not so hard?"

"That's what you think."

Now that he was out of sight from the Soldier, Bucky could feel the disdain and anger for HYDRA taking over. His metal arm whirred; plates shifting to reinforce the arm as he clenched his fist, and Bucky sneered out as his chest constricted and his mind began to fog slightly.

"When we go after Rollins, I want to be the one to engage."

"I won't stop you, but I also didn't hear you tell me this either."

Shuri winked before the two of them began to walk to the throne room within the Citadel where T'Challa and Okoye were waiting. T'Challa, Shuri, and Okoye all greeted each other before the king asked.

"Did you make more progress?"

"Yes! White Wolf, tell my brother what you were able to discover."

Bucky nodded slightly before explaining, crossing his arms as his brow furrowed.

"The soldier was supposed to take me to Gützkow, which I'm guessing is where Rollins is. Not only that, but she's starting to remember bits and pieces of her past. She wouldn't tell me what her name was though."

"I will inform the Avengers of our discovery, and we will leave as quickly as possible."

Okoye then asked, tilting her head.

"What about the soldier? She cannot be left on her own."

Shuri shrugged, saying.

"I am capable of watching over her. She has not exhibited hostile behavior as of yet, and with how much progress we have been making, I don't foresee her being an issue."

T'Challa looked uncomfortable, but he was unsure of voicing his concerns. Shuri was a stubborn woman, and it would be no use to try to refute her. Instead, T'Challa turned to Bucky, gesturing.

"We should prepare for this mission while we inform the Avengers of our discovery."

Bucky nodded before he pulled out his phone to call Steve, T'Challa discreetly turning his head slightly to listen from over his shoulder as Bucky greeted his old friend.

"Hey, Buck, anything new?"

"Yeah, I was able to get through a bit to the soldier. Found out that she's supposed to deliver me to Gützkow, Germany."

Steve hummed, praising the man.

"Good work, Buck. I'll let the rest of the Avengers know."

Bucky could feel his throat close up slightly, and he wondered if he should tell Steve to let him handle Rollins. However, Bucky wasn't sure if he should say anything. His head was full of images, of the things that he wanted to do to Rollins, and he clenched his fist. Steve asked slowly.

"What's going on, Bucky?"

"I want to kill him, Steve."

Steve hesitated, unsure of what to say, and he simply stated.

"I know that you do, but he's going to pay for what he did. I promise you that."

Bucky shook his head, taking a deep and calming breath. His chest was becoming too tight. His breathing was becoming irregular. His mind was fogging, and he said quietly.

"It won't be enough."

"I know. But you need to keep a level head about this. If I have to sit you out, I will."

Bucky couldn't help the annoyance that filled him, but the man understood where Steve was coming from. If Bucky wasn't careful, he could royally fuck up the mission beyond repair. Shaking his head, Bucky rubbed his hand against his face as if to wipe away the distress that he was feeling.

"She told me that she dreams of a woman who wears her face and a labcoat...she knows that she has a name, but she wouldn't tell me what it was."

Steve hummed thoughtfully, and Bucky could hear Natasha reply in the background with a thoughtful tone.

"She's probably protective of her name because she's so worried that she's going to be punished for remembering."

"You mean being wiped?"

Natasha hummed in agreement, and Steve sighed slightly.

"I'll let Tony know about the new development with Rollins. I'm pretty sure he's with Peter and Dr. Banner in the lab right now."

Bucky asked with a quirked eyebrow.

"Is he planning on bringing the kid?"

"I'm not sure. I think they're currently working on a new suit for him."

Bucky just stayed quiet for a moment before he replied.

"She also mentioned that there were flaws detected and that she required programming. I never experienced anything like that, so I think that HYDRA implemented some type of system that forces her to alert her Handler when there are issues with the programming."

Natasha muttered with annoyance.

"So, there's not even a real chance for her to be able to hide when she starts to remember things. HYDRA gets the alert, and they start all over again without even needing to lift a finger."

"Exactly. The important thing is that she is remembering and is slowly starting to realize that we're not her enemies and we're not going to punish her for remembering things and thinking and acting on her own volition."

Bucky then added as he slipped on some fingerless gloves.

"I don't think she meant to reveal to me where she was supposed to deliver me...but I'm taking it as a good sign."

"I'm right there with you on that one. Natasha's been translating the book for me-"

Natasha cut him off with a playful tone.

"-teaching him, but he sucks at rolling his r's-"

"-anyway, with the knowledge that they had to regularly wipe her more than they did with you, I think there's a part of her that remained untouched by the programming that kept breaking out-"

"-They weren't sure how to erase that part, and so they installed that safeguard system to alert them when she began to remember too much."

It made complete sense, Bucky had to admit. Shaking his head, Bucky stated.

"What matters now is that we know where Rollins might be."

"Right. Once we inform Tony, I think the best thing would be for all of us to meet in Gützkow and go from there."

Bucky nodded, and the two men bid farewells. Bucky glanced at T'Challa, who had been waiting patiently and listening in. The King was looking at him with a knowing look, making Bucky raise a brow at him in question.

"What?"

"You're not going to wait for them, are you?"

Bucky pursed his lips, looking away from the king. His shoulders dropped slightly, and T'Challa shook his head slightly.

"Your anger is justified, but do not let it cloud your judgement. This man will get what is coming to him, I will assure you of that."

"It's hard."

Bucky admitted, and T'Challa nodded, activating his Black Panther suit and giving the man a gentle look.

"It won't be easy, especially when you are finally getting an outside look at the result of HYDRA's treatment."

Bucky wouldn't argue with that at all. As he had thought to himself before: it was an entirely different perspective to be on the outside just as it was to be on the inside. Bucky glanced at T'Challa, and the King nodded to him quietly.

"Let's get a move on. The sooner, the better."

Bucky shoved a magazine into his rifle roughly, nodding with a determine gait.

"Right."

STORY NOTES: Shuri is observing the soldier from outside the lab, lost within her thoughts. She reflects on the torture that the soldier was subjected to by HYDRA, revealing how upset she is by what she has seen. She becomes determined to rehabilitate the soldier, and when Bucky startles Shuri, Shuri opens up to Bucky about the way she is feeling about the situation. Bucky reveals that he thinks it is hard to help the soldier and to rehabilitate her because how much of himself he sees in the woman. He also reveals that he is still afraid of HYDRA and somehow falling back into their hands. Shuri tells Bucky that he cannot blame the soldier for what HYDRA did to him and expresses how unfair it is to do so.

After speaking to Shuri, Bucky goes into the lab to make contact with the soldier and asks her to elaborate on what her mission is. After some resistance, the soldier switches the conversation back to Bucky, asking him about his name and how he obtained it and what he meant when he said he 'left' HYDRA. Bucky answers the soldier truthfully, and when the soldier ruminates on his answer, her programming suddenly kicks in. The soldier reveals to Bucky that there is a flaw within her program, and Bucky tries to comfort the soldier by showing her that he is not going to hurt her. The soldier begins to panic when she is unable to understand what is happening, and Bucky becomes assertive with the soldier to get her to calm down.

The soldier then reveals that her mission was to bring him to Gützkow, Germany, and that she does not understand why Bucky is being kind to her, though she is unable to find the correct word to use. Bucky then tries to make the soldier understand that HYDRA is the bad guy and that she doesn't have to keep answering to the organization nor honor their orders. When the soldier states that talking to her in such a way doesn't help her with her mission, Bucky is honest with her that it doesn't serve a real purpose. However, he implies that understanding why HYDRA wants her to do these things could help. The soldier then reveals to Bucky that she dreams of a woman who wears her face, and though Bucky tries to get the soldier to reveal more information, the soldier becomes reluctant in fear that he will punish her for remembering.

After a few more exchanges, the soldier asks for water, and after she is given a glass, Bucky leaves the lab to tell Shuri and T'Challa what he has learned. He reveals to Shuri that he wants to be the one to interrogate Rollins when the Avengers find him, but Shuri does not confirm nor deny his request. Bucky then calls Steve to tell him the news, and it's revealed that Natasha is also listening in.

After a few exchanges, Steve reveals that Natasha has been translating and reading digital cans of the black book to him, which reveals that HYDRA was continuously unsuccessful in completely wiping the soldier of her memories and so they installed a fail-safe system to force the soldier to alert them when she begins to remember too much so they can begin reprogramming. Afterwards, T'Challa and Bucky have a conversation where T'Challa warns Bucky against acting upon his anger and tells him that Jack Rollins will answer for his crimes. Deciding that the sooner they could start the mission, the better, Bucky and T'Challa begin their journey to Gützkow, Germany. End Scene.

TRANSLATIONS:

Isidudu - a popular breakfast porridge made with mealie meal. It is a staple in Xhosa and Zulu households

Isithunzi - Xhosa for Shadow

призрак - Shadow, Spectre, Ghost

Нет - No

Я не понимаю что происходит. - I don't understand what is happening

Солдат - Soldier

послушай меня, пожалуйста - Listen to me please

Посмотри на меня - Look at me

Gützkow - A city in Germany

она красивая. - she's pretty/beautiful

Да, она делает - Yes, she does

TAGLIST: @mgchaser @tilldeathripsusapart @vicmc624 @aash3

#bucky barnes x reader #james buchanan barnes x reader #james bucky barnes x reader #winter soldier x reader #the winter soldier x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #the winter soldier #winter soldier #marvel #marvel x reader #captain america #captain america x reader

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nebrasska-alasska · 2 months ago

Note

What's your opinion on the Ao3 being scraped? Will you lock your fics?

Eugh as I'm sure you can imagine, I'm pretty annoyed about it.

I think mainly because fic authors don't get paid diddly-squat for their efforts. Every story on the archive is a labor of love that is posted there for nothing more than the joy of creation and sharing our works. And to just have it stolen to train some AI program is honestly so insulting and sucks the heart and soul out of author's creations.

I cracked a few jokes about it in 'The Secrets of our Quills,' but being from the Bay Area, I genuinely loathe tech culture. Like actually hate it. This whole surge of AI from tech bros and its infringement on creative spaces is so obnoxious. Like just because you (these tech yahoos) don't have the capacity to create doesn't mean that it's okay to steal from those who DO have that ability and have your stupid program spit out some hollow, soulless, cheap replica. And like, to take free works and use them to generate profit and revenue is so stoopie and infuriating because like dawg, I also hate business bro grindset culture, something that is prevalent with a lot of boneheads in my class so idk I'm kind of being a hater rn so I'll stop HAHA

Anyways, in response to locking my fics, I won't. I think a significant portion of my reader base are people who don't have accounts, and I don't want to punish people for tech/business bro buffoonery. But yeah, thanks for caring enough about my opinion to ask!

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kingkruell · 2 months ago

Text

PULSE MEMORY | CHOSO KAMO

SYNOPSIS - in the aftermath of the shibuya incident, a researcher finds herself sifting through the remnants of cursed bloodlines, her focus now fixed on the death paintings. under the watchful gaze of choso kamo, the last of his line, the weight of history presses against them both. as the layers of the past unfold, so too does something quieter, more fragile: a bond between two souls bound by secrets— a bond created between the crevices of the mundanity that blurs into something soft, slow, and inevitable.

CONTENT- researcher!reader x post-shibuya arc! choso, post-shibuya au, canon divergent au, very slight angst, insecure choso, found family-type, intimacy, mutual pining, friends to lover, lingering trauma, hurt/comfort, soft choso, awkward choso in love, major fluff.

WORD COUNT 5335

[read in dark mode]

now playing: risk-deftones, i'm not in love-10cc

LATE DECEMBER

cursed energy lingers like mildew.

that’s one of the first things you learned as a junior field researcher working under the tokyo jujutsu tech archives division. not a sorcerer, not even a grade 4 semi-trained assistant; just one of the “non-combat staff,” as they put it. the ones who combed through bloodstained scrolls and transcribed fragmented oral histories from battered curse victims. you studied patterns. names. and the way those names persisted.

your current assignment isn’t just an anomaly, it’s practically sacrilege.

you're assigned to the death painting wombs.

or what’s left of them.

after the shibuya Incident, what began as basic post-conflict documentation turned into a high-level classified program under a new special division, one that suspected the death paintings were more than just failed cursed womb experiments.

you were the youngest non-sorcerer granted access.

and choso kamo, the only one left alive, was placed at your side.

“he won’t talk much.”

that’s what ijichi told you, escorting you through the ruins of the old auxiliary training center. It was converted into a temporary lab space, walls still warped from residual cursed energy. the makeshift archive/research room isn’t built for comfort. the air is cold, stale, and smells faintly of old blood. shelves lean with age. cursed scrolls line the walls in crooked rows. each one hums with a faint, leftover energy — like a breath held too long.

you walked in expecting a monster

you found him instead — choso.

the request actually came from yuuji’s end: someone to assist with lingering questions about the death painting wombs. your job, as far as anyone can explain, is to help verify claims that a fourth womb — never accounted for — may have existed. you’re not even sure you believe it yourself.

arms crossed. eyes dull like old ash.

he didn’t look at you when you introduced yourself. didn’t move when you explained your research: tracing the cursed bloodlines used in the death paintings to determine the origin of their hybrid nature.

you’d expected hostility. Instead, you got apathy, and you don’t know if that is any better.

“there might be a fourth womb,” you said after the deafening silence, voice barely louder than a whisper, “unrecorded. or sealed. somewhere they didn’t want anyone to find.”

cursed wombs aren’t born.

they’re built.

that’s what your research implied. a jarring contradiction to what most jujutsu records claimed: that the death paintings were failed organic hybrids of human and cursed spirit cells. you dug deeper.

noritoshi kamo had created the first three wombs using the blood of women impregnated by curse energy-infused embryos. a violation in every sense. but what you had found in the sealed texts was stranger.

there were four original subjects.

one disappeared from the records mid-process. redacted. scratched out in black ink, even in the most secret archives.

at that, his eyes flickered, just for a heartbeat,and he shifted his weight. “i’d know,” he said, voice flat and low.

you tilted your head, brushing back a strand of hair. “maybe not,” you replied, offering a small, sympathetic smile. “they didn’t want you to.”

for a moment, he seemed about to retreat into silence again. instead, he uncrossed his arms, hands opening at his sides. “i have fragments,” he murmured, gaze drifting upward as if recalling a distant memory. “dreams that aren’t mine. faces i can’t place.”

you leaned against a battered table, chest hollow with curiosity. the flicker of lamplight traced the curve of your cheek. “that’s why i think you’re resonating with something,” you said gently, tapping your pen against your notebook. he blinked slowly. “resonating?”

you nodded, warmth creeping into your tone as you explained. “in cursed memory theory, when an object or being is near a fragment of its origin, the memory responds—like a tuning fork.”

his lips parted, as though he wanted to argue, but the pause stretched into silence. finally, you asked, doubt threading your words, “and you think if we find the fourth, I’ll remember?”

his shoulders loosened fractionally. he met your eyes, and for once, there was something in them beyond ash. “no,” you added softly, letting the words settle between you, “i think you’ll feel.”

BLOODLINES, TEA STAINS, SOFTNESS

he doesn’t talk much, not at first. you spend your days parsing through old scrolls, obscure court records, kamo family history — most of it half-burned or politically redacted. he stands nearby, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded. You’re not sure if he’s observing you or guarding you.

then it becomes a routine.

you spend your days bent over ink-faded scrolls, tracing the jagged lines of kamo genealogy with a trembling fingertip. he stands just behind you—silent sentinel—arms folded, every muscle coiled like a spring. when a passage trips you up, you clear your throat and read it aloud, voice echoing against the chipped concrete. sometimes he hums under his breath, the note low and uncertain, as if testing how sound lingers here. other times he simply watches, eyes softening ever so slightly at the curve of your concentration.

one evening, the lamplight blinks out mid-sentence. your eyelids flutter shut before you can register the darkness. when you wake, your cheek is glued to the spine of a cursed register, and the room’s edges glow faintly in the after-hours lights. a paper cup blooms warm against your elbow.

“you were drooling on the 19th-century register,” choso says, voice hushed like he’s reluctant to break a spell.

you sit up with a soft groan, brushing crumbs of parchment from your sleeve. he’s cross-legged on the floor across the table. candlelight flickers across his face, revealing the barest lift at one corner of his mouth.

“you stayed?” you manage, voice thick with sleep and something like relief.

he shrugs, eyes shifting to the steaming cup. “didn’t want you to freeze.”

you tuck the scarf around your shoulders, careful not to disturb its pristine folds.

is this his scarf?

a gentle warmth settles in your chest, part gratitude, part something you don’t understand yet.

in daylight, you begin to fill that space with small curiosities. one afternoon, you twist in your seat and ask, “do you like sweet tea, or should i steep it longer next time?” your lips curve in a hopeful smile.

he glances at the scribbled teacup chart you taped to the wall—your makeshift flavor guide—and presses his lips together before answering. “sweet. just enough.”

you mark it down with a flourish, humming in approval.

another morning, you find him folding parchment scraps into neat piles. you lean over his shoulder, brushing a loose strand of hair from his braid. “what do you do when you’re not… here?”

his breath catches, as if surprised by the ease of the question. he pauses, fingers stilling on a corner of brittle paper. “train,” he says quietly. “or—” he hesitates, then adds, “think.”

you chuckled in amusement, , eyes bright. “thinking can be hard. sometimes it helps to talk it out.”

he doesn’t meet your gaze. you keep talking anyway, describing the way the sun falls across your favorite reading spot, the taste of your grandmother’s rice crackers. eventually, he looks at you again, each syllable of your stories turning the angles of his face a little gentler.

and then one afternoon, you offer him one of those rice crackers — golden studded with sesame seeds, cupped in your palm like an offering. he studies the simple snack, brows knitting, before lifting it to his lips and tasting. his shoulders loosen as he crunches softly, and a spark, uncertain but genuine, flickers in his dark eyes.

in that moment, the room feels smaller, warmer.

THE MOUTH OF FEAR

you don’t rush the research. you take your time. you go through the files together. on the nights it gets too heavy, choso makes tea without being asked. you cook plain meals and leave half out for him, knowing he probably won’t eat until hours later.

choso, on the other hand, is terrified, paranoid.

choso doesn’t sleep much. when he does, it’s never for long. he dreams of blood, mostly. the kind he understands: spilled, dried, humming with the memory of violence. it coats his hands, his mouth, his lungs. sometimes he wakes up choking on it, the taste of copper on his tongue. but lately, something’s changed.

the dreams are shifting. still fragmented, still dreamlike, but warmer. quieter. a thread of gentleness instilled through the carnage. there would be images of hands that cradle rather than crush. voices not screaming, not commanding, just… saying his name like it means something.

and always, he wakes feeling worse.

“i think your discomfort near certain artifacts isn’t coincidence, but resonance.” it was in the middle of the afternoon, another day in the research room.

he stares at you, pulse flattening under his skin like a drum caught in mid-beat.

“you think my body remembers things i don’t?”

you look at him then. steady. not like you’re trying to solve him, but like you already have a few pieces of the puzzle, and you're simply being patient with the rest.

“i think your soul does,” you say, voice careful but clear.

he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t let it show that the word hits like a curse.

he wants to laugh. wants to sneer. wants to disappear into the walls. but you’re still watching him, not flinching, not mocking.

soul. like he has one. like what’s left of him could be more than muscle and memory stitched together by blood and rage.

he crosses his arms, not out of defiance, but defense.

“you think i’m incomplete.”

it’s an accusation and he means for it to push you away.

but you don’t retreat. you soften.

“no,” you say, and it’s gentle in a way that guts him. “i think you were never given the full story.”

he looks at you, really looks — and for the first time, choso feels seen.

not as a cursed object. not as an echo of noritoshi kamo’s violence. but as a being caught between memory and blood.

and it terrifies him.

you terrify him

he tries not to watch. fails.

he tries not to listen. fails again.

he tells himself he’s just observing — staying alert. just in case.

but that’s not the truth. not even close.

the truth is: something about you terrifies him.

not because you're dangerous. but because you aren’t.

because you look at him like he’s more than a weapon. like he’s a question you want to understand. like he’s not beyond saving.

then, he starts walking you home.

it’s not official or discussed. it just begins one night after the cursed spirit incident; when it cornered you near the station, and you froze, and he stepped in like it was instinct. because it was. and ever since, something in him refuses to let you go alone.

you’d tried to laugh it off at the time, said it wasn’t a big deal, that you had it under control. you’d said it with your head tilted up like you believed it, but your hands had told a different story. shaking, tucked into your sleeves. he noticed. he notices everything.

he couldn’t sleep that night. not because he was afraid of more spirits or some unseen threat. no, what kept him awake was how his hands had trembled, not out of fear for his own life, but because something had snarled in your direction and he hadn’t been fast enough.

he didn’t know what that feeling was. not then. but it unsettled him more than anything else had.

so now, he walks beside you.

you argue the first few times, lightly, like it’s routine. “you really don’t have to do this,” you say with a little wave of your hand. “i’m not made of glass.”

“you’re not a fighter,” he replies, blunt as ever.

“you’re not a babysitter.”

the third time, you roll your eyes and say, “this is overkill, you know.”

the fifth time, you mutter, “you’re going to get bored of this.”

the seventh time, you sigh and say, “you could be doing anything else.”

you expect that to make him leave.

it doesn’t. he shrugs, barely looking at you, and says nothing more. but the next night, he’s there again, waiting at the same spot near the back exit of the research room. he’s always there now.

you get used to it faster than you expect. you even start adjusting your pace so he doesn’t have to slow down as much. sometimes you fill the silence with odd facts you picked up during the day. sometimes it’s a story about a cursed object someone mishandled or an old scroll that smelled like vinegar and regret. and sometimes… you don’t talk at all. just walk together, your steps syncing without effort.

he listens more than he speaks, but when he does speak, it’s real. not empty filler. when he hums in agreement, it’s because he’s thought about what you said. when he corrects you on an old name or a bloodline detail, he does it gently, never to embarrass, just to help.

he’s never been good with softness. not with receiving it, and definitely not with giving it. but it’s different with you. slower. quieter. and it scares the hell out of him.

tonight, it’s colder than usual. you blow into your hands and mutter something under your breath about forgetting your gloves again. he hesitates, wants to offer you his, but doesn’t. not because he doesn’t want to, but because he’s not sure what it would mean if you accepted.

you walk slower than normal, and he matches your pace without thinking. when you reach your apartment building, you dig through your bag for your keys, muttering about how you always lose them at the bottom. he waits beside you, silent.

and then, without looking at him, you say it—like it’s nothing. like it doesn’t land sharp between his ribs.

“you don’t have to walk me every time, you know.”

he doesn’t hesitate.

“i know,” he says. “but i want to.” he looks away, blushing.

you go still. fingers frozen on your keyring. you don’t look at him, but your breath catches just slightly, and he catches it. he always does. you unlock the door, but you don’t go in right away. your hand lingers on the knob. just for a second. maybe two.

he says nothing. he doesn’t ask for more. but when the door finally swings shut behind you, he lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

then he turns around and walks back into the dark. his hands are shoved deep into his coat pockets, shoulders hunched slightly forward, like he’s bracing against the cold—but it’s not the cold that unsettles him. it’s not fear the way he used to know it. not the kind that comes from danger or death or memory.

no, this fear is quieter. it waits behind his ribs and curls around the edges of his thoughts.

it’s not the fear of being haunted anymore.

now, it’s the fear of wanting to stay.

CHANGES AND THE SHAPE OF QUIET THINGS

they've shut down the fucking research.

all that time and energy was for nothing, wasn't it?

when they shut down your research, you weren’t surprised. not really. you'd been waiting for the day someone told you to stop digging.

they didn’t even try to hide behind bureaucratic pretense. not fully. the committee’s statement had been thinly veiled, draped in language like “too dangerous” and “ethically irresponsible.” some claimed it disrespected the dead. others said your work “blurred the line between reverence and obsession.”

but you weren’t naive. you knew exactly what this was.

it was political.

it wasn’t the theory itself that scared them. not the part about residual memory or cursed bloodlines. no, it was what your findings implied. the idea that choso and his brothers were not aberrations, not tragic footnotes, but the intended outcome of something far uglier. something deliberate.

they didn’t want to rewrite history. didn’t want the sorcerer world questioning what it meant to be “man-made.”

you were supposed to pack it all up. leave quietly. pretend it had been an academic misstep. write something more palatable next time. something soft and unthreatening.

instead, you found yourself standing in front of choso in the archives, holding out a worn, overstuffed folder.

“i have nowhere else to take this,” you said, voice low, hands steady. “but i think you do.”

he didn’t take it right away. just looked at the folder like it was burning in your hands. like it was both too heavy and too familiar. his eyes were hard to read — they always were. not because he was cold, but because he had learned to keep his grief folded inside, like a letter he didn’t dare open. but you’d been around him long enough to know the silence wasn’t disinterest. it was consideration.

finally, he said, “you’re coming with me.”

you blinked. “sorry?”

he looked up then, brows drawn. not annoyed, just confused, like he couldn’t understand why that needed clarification.

“you know too much,” he said. “they’ll come for you. you’ll need someone to protect you.”

you opened your mouth to argue, to tell him you could handle yourself, that you’d lived among cursed records and forgotten truths for years without needing a bodyguard. but the words didn’t come. because the truth was, you hadn’t felt scared until now.

on that night, you packed what you could into a duffel bag and followed him.

he didn’t rush you. just stood by the door, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, eyes somewhere distant. not impatient — just alert. like he couldn’t let himself settle until you were out of that building, and out of their reach.

the apartment he brought you to was in the outer edges of shinjuku — the kind of place no one paid attention to. third floor walk-up. rusty balcony. cursed energy traces so low you had to actively search for them. the front lock stuck if you didn’t jiggle it just right. the water pressure was terrible.

choso didn’t say much as you unpacked. he stood near the door like he’d only just arrived too, arms folded, eyes scanning the walls like they might shift. like he was still waiting for something — someone — to come crashing through. even in stillness, his body braced for violence. you didn’t mind the silence. you filled it carefully, humming under your breath as you shelved your books, folding clothes into corners, trying not to disturb the odd peace that hovered between you.

your mind is going insane. you don't know how you had agreed to this living situation; to a guy you know you are weak to. you're used to being calculated, never taking chances impulsively. but with him, it feels like everything will be alright. it's because of him.

just like you, he wasn’t used to sharing space. but somehow, it worked..

choso didn’t crowd. didn’t hover. didn’t ask why you sometimes left notes in the margins of your own research like you were talking to yourself. he just started sitting at the edge of the table while you worked, arms draped over the back of the chair, watching the way your brow furrowed when you were deep in thought.

sometimes he’d pick up a page and study it in silence. his fingers were gentle with the paper, as if it might bruise.

“what does this part mean?” he’d ask, voice low, thumb resting on a line like it mattered.

you explained patiently, even when you were tired. even when the words felt too big or too broken. he listened like listening was a form of worship. like your theories were scripture and he was trying to relearn the world through them.

you started noticing the little things.

the way he always washed his cup after using it, even if it was just water. the way he swept the balcony without being asked, even though no one could see it. the way he never slammed a door. like loudness made him ache.

and slowly — clumsily — he started trying.

one morning, there was a piece of fruit on the counter you hadn’t bought. another night, a pair of slippers had appeared beside yours. he never mentioned them. just looked away, a little too fast, when your gaze lingered.

one evening, as you sat hunched over your notes, your head aching, he returned from a grocery run and set down a small, beat-up box in front of you. inside: a cheap heat pack, a pack of those terrible-but-comforting convenience store cookies, and a bottle of green tea.

“you were frowning yesterday,” he said, like it explained everything. “i thought maybe this would help.”

it was stiff. awkward. but...painfully sincere.

you just looked up at him and smiled — soft and slow.

“thank you,” you said.

he blinked. then nodded. once. briskly. like he wasn’t used to the words being for him.

after that, he got bolder. in his own way.

a hand resting on your back for a second too long when he moved past you in the kitchen. a folded towel left on your desk after you spilled tea on yourself. once, when you fell asleep on the couch with your notes still in your lap, you woke up tucked under a blanket that wasn’t yours.

he pretended not to notice when you smiled at him the next morning.

you didn’t push. didn’t name it. love, for people like you and choso, had never come loud. it arrived in pauses, in half-gestures, in the space between breath and language.

and choso — for all his quiet, all his grief — began to soften.

not all at once.

but slowly, gently.

like winter learning how to become spring.

he said goodnight once. whispered it when he thought you were already asleep. the word caught in the air like it had startled even him.

you heard it. didn’t move. but the next morning, you left him half a mug of coffee, black, just the way he drank it.

he didn’t say anything. just drank it quietly. and stayed close the rest of the day.

you stopped keeping your research in piles. started keeping it in a single binder marked with both your names. he noticed. didn’t say anything. but you found him flipping through it that night with the softest expression on his face, something like reverence, something like fear.

the apartment was still falling apart. the ceiling still leaked when it rained. the wind still howled through the thin walls like a curse waiting to return.

but when you looked over at choso, shoulders finally unbowed, eyes soft with something he hadn’t named — it didn’t feel haunted anymore.

it felt like home.

spring has came, but still, the nights felt almost as cold as winter.

you’d been living there for weeks now. maybe months. it was hard to tell. time moved differently when survival wasn’t the first priority.

choso had softened in increments. it didn’t come easy, not when he was built from grief and blood and the weight of too many memories that weren’t entirely his. but he tried. in his own way.

he brought home groceries when you forgot. set your favorite mug on the table when you looked tired. asked if you’d eaten, but only when you weren’t looking at him. and sometimes in the rare, quiet moments, he’d sit across from you at the table and just… be there. in the same room. breathing the same silence.

you, on the other hand, had grown louder. not obnoxiously so but lighter, easier with your words. you joked more. nudged his shoulder with yours when he was being too serious. sometimes you sang under your breath when you were cooking, just to see if he’d react.

he never did. not really.

tonight, the draft through the cracked bathroom window had gotten worse, and the space heater choso kept in the corner of the main room clicked uselessly when you tried to turn it on. the landlord didn’t respond to messages. not that either of you had expected him to.

still, the apartment had taken on a strange kind of warmth, not from anything mechanical, but from the rhythm of two people learning how to be around each other without armor. your socks drying by the heater. his jacket hanging by the door. mugs left out on the counter in pairs, not one.

the living room had become a shared space, half cluttered with your research, half overtaken by whatever scraps of domesticity you both allowed yourselves to claim. choso never said it, but you’d caught him fixing a broken table leg once, muttering under his breath. he still refused to take the bed. insisted the couch was “fine,” even though he barely fit on it.

you didn’t argue anymore. not with words, at least.

and still — still — it ached. the feeling you’d been carrying. this soft, constant wanting. the kind that didn’t ask for permission. you’d grown used to the sight of him, tired and thoughtful and quietly kind, but never enough. he’d brush past you to reach a book, and your breath would hitch. he’d glance at you during breakfast like he wanted to say something, and your chest would tighten.

you loved him. you knew that now. and you weren’t sure when it had happened — only that it had rooted itself in you like a quiet, stubborn bloom.

tonight, the power flickered once, then died entirely.

you lit a few candles and found the emergency blanket. choso was sitting by the window, arms folded, staring out into the dark city. the glow hit the side of his face in soft orange, and for a second, he didn’t look like a weapon. he looked like something quieter. something tired and beautiful.

“no update from the grid,” you said, settling down beside him on the floor. “could be out for hours.”

he grunted in response.

you sat in silence for a moment. the kind that wasn’t awkward, just heavy. full of all the things neither of you had said.

then, after a pause — “come here,” he murmured.

you blinked. “what?”

he didn’t look at you. “you’re freezing.”

you hesitated. then crawled under the blanket he’d opened, tucking yourself beside him. your knees touched. then your thigh. you felt his breath falter the second your shoulder pressed to his.

you didn’t move away. neither did he.

you turned to look at him, your face too close. his eyes flicked to your mouth for the briefest second — so quick you almost missed it.

“you’re shivering,” he murmured.

“no shit,” you replied, but it came out softer than you meant it to.

and maybe that was it. maybe the softness was what broke something open. because the next second, his hand rose, tentative, slow and brushed your cheek.

his fingers were cold. and you leaned into them anyway.

“you don’t have to—” he started.

“i want to,” you said.

the look he gave you then made your stomach twist. like he’d been holding his breath since the first night you showed up with a duffel bag and tired eyes. like he was scared touching you might undo him completely.

you kissed him first.

it was clumsy. a little too fast. his nose bumped yours, and your teeth clicked, and you laughed against his mouth because of course he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

but then he kissed you back and everything slowed.

his touch was reverent. unsure. like you were something he’d found, not something he could keep. he held you like a question he didn’t know how to ask.

but you answered it anyway.

you tangled your fingers in his hair, pulled him in again, and felt the way he exhaled like he’d been waiting years for this.when you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. quiet. breath warm against your skin.

“you’re still shivering,” he said.

you smiled. “then maybe we should get even closer.”

his ears turned red.

choso sat stiffly beside you, arms still tight around himself like he didn’t quite believe what had happened. like he was worried you’d disappear if he looked at you too long.

“you okay?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

he nodded once. then again, like he had to convince himself. “yeah. just… thinking.”

you let the silence stretch.

he was always like this, heavy with thought, cautious with words. you’d learned to read the quiet between his sentences. to wait. so you did.

he shifted a little, turning toward you, eyes flicking to your face and then away again. he was blushing, you could see it even in the dim light, the faint red creeping over his cheekbones like warmth he didn’t know how to hold.

“i’m not good at this,” he said suddenly. “this—” he gestured vaguely between you. “being close to people.”

you smiled gently. “you’re doing fine.”

he huffed. a little sharp. but not annoyed ,embarrassed. “you say that, but you’re�� easy to be around. and i’m—”

“a little weird,” you teased.

he blinked. then, to your surprise, he laughed. soft and low, the sound curling in your chest like a match catching flame.

“yeah,” he admitted. “a little weird.”

you nudged his shoulder. “i like weird.”

his smile faltered, just a little. and when he looked at you again, something unguarded flickered across his face.

“when you first moved in, i thought it’d be temporary,” he said. “that they’d come after you. that i’d have to protect you, then… send you somewhere safer.”

your heart clenched. “and now?”

he hesitated. swallowed hard. “now i don’t want you to leave.”

the words landed with a kind of softness you hadn’t expected. just honest.

he ran a hand through his hair; nervous, a little twitchy. “you make the apartment feel different. lighter. like… i don’t know. like it’s not just a hiding place anymore.”

you felt your chest tighten.

“you make me feel different,” he added, quieter now. “less like a curse. more like—someone.”

your fingers reached for his without thinking. he didn’t pull away. just stared, wide-eyed, as your hand slid into his.

“you are someone, choso,” you said. “you always were.”

he looked down at your joined hands. blinked slowly.

then, clumsily, awkwardly, he said, “i think i like you. i mean, i know i like you. but it’s not just that. i think about you a lot. not in a weird way. okay, sometimes in a weird way. but not bad-weird. good-weird. like… i want to make you tea before you wake up, kind of weird.”

you snorted. actually snorted.

he groaned and dropped his face into his hands. “fuck. that was so bad.”

“no,” you said, laughing now. “that was...adorable. you want to make me tea before i wake up?”

“not anymore,” he grumbled into his palms. “now i want to evaporate.”

you leaned into him, rested your head on his shoulder.

he froze.

but only for a second.

then slowly, carefully — he tilted his head until it rested against yours. not perfect. a little stiff. but real.

“i like you too,” you said softly. “even when you talk about tea like it’s a grand confession.”

he let out a shaky breath. “it kind of was.”

you smiled into his shirt. “i know.”

outside, the wind howled down the narrow alley. the broken heater clicked once and gave up again.

but inside, everything felt warm. maybe not from the blanket. maybe not from the tea he swore he’d never make now. but from him. from the way his pinky hooked around yours. from the way he pressed the tiniest kiss into your hair like it took everything in him to do it.

and from the quiet that followed: not awkward, not tense.

just full.

like a silence you could live inside.

and maybe you would.

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rottenpumpkin13 · 27 days ago

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Lazard, Day 1 at Shinra: I'm honored to begin this position. With subtle sabotage and financial subterfuge, I'll dismantle this corrupt empire from the inside. Fortunately, the SOLDIER program is full of disciplined professionals. Managing it will be easy.

Lazard, Day 754 at Shinra: Every single one of you is a disaster. You're all the reason why I've formed a rapport with the local liquor store employees. ZACK, GET DOWN FROM THE AIR VENT. SEPHIROTH, IF YOU REQUEST "ACCESS TO THE ARCHIVES" ONE MORE TIME I'M CALLING YOUR FATHER. GENESIS, I SWEAR TO GAIA IF YOU QUOTE LOVELESS DURING A MEETING AGAIN THE NEXT BUDGET CUT WILL BE SHAVING YOUR HEAD. ANGEAL GO TO THERAPY. STOP BLOWING UP THE MULTI-BILLION GIL VR TRAINING ROOM AND ACTUALLY GO OUTSIDE LIKE NORMAL PEOPLE.

#ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #final fantasy vii #sephiroth #genesis rhapsodos #angeal hewley #zack fair #lazard deusericus #crisis core

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someone-writing · 3 days ago

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Today's menu:⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ Headcanon 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Pleasure to meet you, Doctor Spencer Reid gender neutral!reader

Spencer Reid... is a man who, in my eyes, eats the raisins from the mix of dried fruits and nuts. (In that “no one else wants them, so I will” sort of way... this may not be just about raisins.)

Spencer Reid... is not a bad cook, but he religiously holds to the recipe, so in case he is missing something extremely specific, he doesn't know how to work around it.

And he neither knows for how long to mix some things to not over-mix them, nor how much boiling is too much, etc.

Give him a recipe that requires measuring to micrograms and cooking for exactly 17 minutes, 25 seconds and 4 milliseconds, and he is a Michelin chef.

Give him your granny's recipe with 'Bake for 12–17 minutes and add a spoon of salt', and the man will be screaming in despair over how big that spoon is supposed to be, and he burns the thing to a crisp because he's scared to underbake it.

Spencer Reid... who would love to share clothes with his partner, but only under the condition that he will still know where to find them later.

Spencer Reid... who supports the academic rebellion against the publishing companies because research should be accessible to everyone. (Ehm... he would maybe even be one of the archive donors under a fake name...)

Spencer Reid... was a kid who took his time and learned sign language the moment he found out that one of his old neighbours back in Vegas had hearing problems.

Spencer Reid... is not a picky eater because of his childhood, but he avoids some types of food because of their texture when he can (for example: dried dates, soggy cornflakes, overripe bananas, and pears).

Spencer Reid... never really played any games, but Penelope made it her crusade to teach him how to play Mario Kart. (He is surprisingly good at it.)

Spencer Reid... has one pair of shoes he’s been buying for several years in a row at this point (those black sneakers), and he no longer even bothers to try them on in the shop. The moment they have a hole at the bottom, he just walks to the shoe shop, grabs the box in his size, checks that they don’t have any manufacturing defects, and pays for them.

Spencer Reid... is a man who smiles and waves back at smiling children when they wave at him first. Because they deserve to meet happiness and goodness while they still can. And hey... it’s just a smile. That’s the bare minimum.

Spencer Reid... is a man who cannot watch medical dramas with his partner—or unsupervised either. Because that man yaps about the medical inaccuracies and has to bite his tongue every time to not scream “Chest compressions! Chest compressions! Chest compressions!” when one of the characters whips out a defibrillator in a case where the patient's heart has stopped.

Spencer Reid... who is a cat person, but if he had a dog, it would be an English Cocker Spaniel called Remi, who was supposed to be trained as a search and rescue dog.

But she was too sad when she didn’t find the training figurines alive, so they had to remove her from the program and offered her for adoption. And so... the search and rescue dog found the man who needed to be found.

Spencer Reid... takes his time when the day of 'Bring Your Kid to Work' comes. He always hangs around to speak with the kids who are left behind—too shy to ask anything, or in general not really included—and answers every question they may have. (He is surprisingly the favourite agent, but he himself doesn’t know about it.)

Spencer Reid... who would crawl on his knees up the stairs from hell to heaven for his partner, but at the same time doesn’t need them to be with him 24/7.

Just the idea of sharing a flat with them makes him happy. Just the idea that behind that wall is the one person who loves him is enough. (He is like a turtle—he is hidden most of the time, but he loves the idea of closeness that is not completely obvious.) Being near them, letting them sleep on his shoulder, watching them move around the shared space, or hearing them hum from the living room—and the man is a puddle on the ground.

Spencer Reid... in my eyes, is a man who doesn’t mind dog-ears and broken spines on books. He wouldn’t do it purposefully to destroy the book—no, he has respect for the thing. But for him, those are the signs that the book was read again and again, and that it was well loved.

When he gets his hands on old antique books, he lingers a bit longer on the places where the spine is broken, trying to figure out what might have caused the previous owner to stay on that particular page longer than the others.

In his eyes, books are supposed to be worn down by time, by the hands that held them and turned their pages. Books are supposed to be read and loved.

Spencer Reid... is a man who appreciates those whimsical designs you can find on canned fish and boxes of matches, because he knows that even something so... useless and mundane got enough care from someone.

Something small for today :] And this may or may not be the canon for Spencer that exists in my stories so... yeah, maybe we will meet Remi one day And I'm definitely planning to write more of those head canons Hope you enjoyed! Underline note for the recipe: I'm not a native speaker, 'pardon my French' and any mistakes, but we're cooking in freestyle here

#criminal minds #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #dr spencer reid

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ekvan · 1 year ago

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zero day cast bios (archived through wayback machine) :

Andre Kriegman – Andre Keuck

A classically trained, tri-lingual actor who specialized in Shakespeare, Andre Keuck has held roles such as Oberon, Hamlet, Orsino, The King of France, Astrov, and a young Edwin Booth. For his role in the regional hit, "The Countess", Keuck won an award for his outstanding performance as the dutiful butler Frederick Crawley. Andre, who is 17 years old, is currently editing his first original short film, "Answering Machine", which he plans to submit to numerous festivals. Keuck plans on pursuing a variety of roles in filmmaking and theater. Andre enjoys working with computers, playing video games, pole vaulting, driving, and politics. Andre will start college this year at The George Washington University in Washington, D.C., where he will study International Conflict & Security and International Economics.

Cal Gabriel – Calvin Robertson

At age 8, Cal Robertson was already studying Shakespeare and had his first taste of acting in Stratford, Connecticut community theater. Originally from Minneapolis, Cal is currently a home schooled Junior focusing on the writing programs at NYU and Wesleyan University.

In addition to Zero Day, Cal can be seen in a soon-to-be released indie film [what year], Pursuit of Happiness, with Peter Riegert and Isabella Rosalini and in a new episode of the Sopranos. Cal, 16 years old, enjoys spending time at the New Haven Zen Center, at his family’s bookstore and climbing mountains. He is currently repped by Gersh.

#zero day #zero day 2003 #zero day movie #andre kriegman #cal gabriel #calvin gabriel #cant get andres photo to load

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mostlysignssomeportents · 1 year ago

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AI “art” and uncanniness

TOMORROW (May 14), I'm on a livecast about AI AND ENSHITTIFICATION with TIM O'REILLY; on TOMORROW (May 15), I'm in NORTH HOLLYWOOD for a screening of STEPHANIE KELTON'S FINDING THE MONEY; FRIDAY (May 17), I'm at the INTERNET ARCHIVE in SAN FRANCISCO to keynote the 10th anniversary of the AUTHORS ALLIANCE.

When it comes to AI art (or "art"), it's hard to find a nuanced position that respects creative workers' labor rights, free expression, copyright law's vital exceptions and limitations, and aesthetics.

I am, on balance, opposed to AI art, but there are some important caveats to that position. For starters, I think it's unequivocally wrong – as a matter of law – to say that scraping works and training a model with them infringes copyright. This isn't a moral position (I'll get to that in a second), but rather a technical one.

Break down the steps of training a model and it quickly becomes apparent why it's technically wrong to call this a copyright infringement. First, the act of making transient copies of works – even billions of works – is unequivocally fair use. Unless you think search engines and the Internet Archive shouldn't exist, then you should support scraping at scale:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/17/how-to-think-about-scraping/

And unless you think that Facebook should be allowed to use the law to block projects like Ad Observer, which gathers samples of paid political disinformation, then you should support scraping at scale, even when the site being scraped objects (at least sometimes):

https://pluralistic.net/2021/08/06/get-you-coming-and-going/#potemkin-research-program

After making transient copies of lots of works, the next step in AI training is to subject them to mathematical analysis. Again, this isn't a copyright violation.

Making quantitative observations about works is a longstanding, respected and important tool for criticism, analysis, archiving and new acts of creation. Measuring the steady contraction of the vocabulary in successive Agatha Christie novels turns out to offer a fascinating window into her dementia:

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2009/apr/03/agatha-christie-alzheimers-research

Programmatic analysis of scraped online speech is also critical to the burgeoning formal analyses of the language spoken by minorities, producing a vibrant account of the rigorous grammar of dialects that have long been dismissed as "slang":

https://www.researchgate.net/publication/373950278_Lexicogrammatical_Analysis_on_African-American_Vernacular_English_Spoken_by_African-Amecian_You-Tubers

Since 1988, UCL Survey of English Language has maintained its "International Corpus of English," and scholars have plumbed its depth to draw important conclusions about the wide variety of Englishes spoken around the world, especially in postcolonial English-speaking countries:

https://www.ucl.ac.uk/english-usage/projects/ice.htm

The final step in training a model is publishing the conclusions of the quantitative analysis of the temporarily copied documents as software code. Code itself is a form of expressive speech – and that expressivity is key to the fight for privacy, because the fact that code is speech limits how governments can censor software:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2015/04/remembering-case-established-code-speech/

Are models infringing? Well, they certainly can be. In some cases, it's clear that models "memorized" some of the data in their training set, making the fair use, transient copy into an infringing, permanent one. That's generally considered to be the result of a programming error, and it could certainly be prevented (say, by comparing the model to the training data and removing any memorizations that appear).

Not every seeming act of memorization is a memorization, though. While specific models vary widely, the amount of data from each training item retained by the model is very small. For example, Midjourney retains about one byte of information from each image in its training data. If we're talking about a typical low-resolution web image of say, 300kb, that would be one three-hundred-thousandth (0.0000033%) of the original image.

Typically in copyright discussions, when one work contains 0.0000033% of another work, we don't even raise the question of fair use. Rather, we dismiss the use as de minimis (short for de minimis non curat lex or "The law does not concern itself with trifles"):

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/De_minimis

Busting someone who takes 0.0000033% of your work for copyright infringement is like swearing out a trespassing complaint against someone because the edge of their shoe touched one blade of grass on your lawn.

But some works or elements of work appear many times online. For example, the Getty Images watermark appears on millions of similar images of people standing on red carpets and runways, so a model that takes even in infinitesimal sample of each one of those works might still end up being able to produce a whole, recognizable Getty Images watermark.

The same is true for wire-service articles or other widely syndicated texts: there might be dozens or even hundreds of copies of these works in training data, resulting in the memorization of long passages from them.

This might be infringing (we're getting into some gnarly, unprecedented territory here), but again, even if it is, it wouldn't be a big hardship for model makers to post-process their models by comparing them to the training set, deleting any inadvertent memorizations. Even if the resulting model had zero memorizations, this would do nothing to alleviate the (legitimate) concerns of creative workers about the creation and use of these models.

So here's the first nuance in the AI art debate: as a technical matter, training a model isn't a copyright infringement. Creative workers who hope that they can use copyright law to prevent AI from changing the creative labor market are likely to be very disappointed in court:

https://www.hollywoodreporter.com/business/business-news/sarah-silverman-lawsuit-ai-meta-1235669403/

But copyright law isn't a fixed, eternal entity. We write new copyright laws all the time. If current copyright law doesn't prevent the creation of models, what about a future copyright law?

Well, sure, that's a possibility. The first thing to consider is the possible collateral damage of such a law. The legal space for scraping enables a wide range of scholarly, archival, organizational and critical purposes. We'd have to be very careful not to inadvertently ban, say, the scraping of a politician's campaign website, lest we enable liars to run for office and renege on their promises, while they insist that they never made those promises in the first place. We wouldn't want to abolish search engines, or stop creators from scraping their own work off sites that are going away or changing their terms of service.

Now, onto quantitative analysis: counting words and measuring pixels are not activities that you should need permission to perform, with or without a computer, even if the person whose words or pixels you're counting doesn't want you to. You should be able to look as hard as you want at the pixels in Kate Middleton's family photos, or track the rise and fall of the Oxford comma, and you shouldn't need anyone's permission to do so.

Finally, there's publishing the model. There are plenty of published mathematical analyses of large corpuses that are useful and unobjectionable. I love me a good Google n-gram:

https://books.google.com/ngrams/graph?content=fantods%2C+heebie-jeebies&year_start=1800&year_end=2019&corpus=en-2019&smoothing=3

And large language models fill all kinds of important niches, like the Human Rights Data Analysis Group's LLM-based work helping the Innocence Project New Orleans' extract data from wrongful conviction case files:

https://hrdag.org/tech-notes/large-language-models-IPNO.html

So that's nuance number two: if we decide to make a new copyright law, we'll need to be very sure that we don't accidentally crush these beneficial activities that don't undermine artistic labor markets.

This brings me to the most important point: passing a new copyright law that requires permission to train an AI won't help creative workers get paid or protect our jobs.

Getty Images pays photographers the least it can get away with. Publishers contracts have transformed by inches into miles-long, ghastly rights grabs that take everything from writers, but still shifts legal risks onto them:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/19/reasonable-agreement/

Publishers like the New York Times bitterly oppose their writers' unions:

https://actionnetwork.org/letters/new-york-times-stop-union-busting

These large corporations already control the copyrights to gigantic amounts of training data, and they have means, motive and opportunity to license these works for training a model in order to pay us less, and they are engaged in this activity right now:

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/12/22/technology/apple-ai-news-publishers.html

Big games studios are already acting as though there was a copyright in training data, and requiring their voice actors to begin every recording session with words to the effect of, "I hereby grant permission to train an AI with my voice" and if you don't like it, you can hit the bricks:

https://www.vice.com/en/article/5d37za/voice-actors-sign-away-rights-to-artificial-intelligence

If you're a creative worker hoping to pay your bills, it doesn't matter whether your wages are eroded by a model produced without paying your employer for the right to do so, or whether your employer got to double dip by selling your work to an AI company to train a model, and then used that model to fire you or erode your wages:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/09/ai-monkeys-paw/#bullied-schoolkids

Individual creative workers rarely have any bargaining leverage over the corporations that license our copyrights. That's why copyright's 40-year expansion (in duration, scope, statutory damages) has resulted in larger, more profitable entertainment companies, and lower payments – in real terms and as a share of the income generated by their work – for creative workers.

As Rebecca Giblin and I write in our book Chokepoint Capitalism, giving creative workers more rights to bargain with against giant corporations that control access to our audiences is like giving your bullied schoolkid extra lunch money – it's just a roundabout way of transferring that money to the bullies:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/21/what-is-chokepoint-capitalism/

There's an historical precedent for this struggle – the fight over music sampling. 40 years ago, it wasn't clear whether sampling required a copyright license, and early hip-hop artists took samples without permission, the way a horn player might drop a couple bars of a well-known song into a solo.

Many artists were rightfully furious over this. The "heritage acts" (the music industry's euphemism for "Black people") who were most sampled had been given very bad deals and had seen very little of the fortunes generated by their creative labor. Many of them were desperately poor, despite having made millions for their labels. When other musicians started making money off that work, they got mad.

In the decades that followed, the system for sampling changed, partly through court cases and partly through the commercial terms set by the Big Three labels: Sony, Warner and Universal, who control 70% of all music recordings. Today, you generally can't sample without signing up to one of the Big Three (they are reluctant to deal with indies), and that means taking their standard deal, which is very bad, and also signs away your right to control your samples.

So a musician who wants to sample has to sign the bad terms offered by a Big Three label, and then hand $500 out of their advance to one of those Big Three labels for the sample license. That $500 typically doesn't go to another artist – it goes to the label, who share it around their executives and investors. This is a system that makes every artist poorer.

But it gets worse. Putting a price on samples changes the kind of music that can be economically viable. If you wanted to clear all the samples on an album like Public Enemy's "It Takes a Nation of Millions To Hold Us Back," or the Beastie Boys' "Paul's Boutique," you'd have to sell every CD for $150, just to break even:

https://memex.craphound.com/2011/07/08/creative-license-how-the-hell-did-sampling-get-so-screwed-up-and-what-the-hell-do-we-do-about-it/

Sampling licenses don't just make every artist financially worse off, they also prevent the creation of music of the sort that millions of people enjoy. But it gets even worse. Some older, sample-heavy music can't be cleared. Most of De La Soul's catalog wasn't available for 15 years, and even though some of their seminal music came back in March 2022, the band's frontman Trugoy the Dove didn't live to see it – he died in February 2022:

https://www.vulture.com/2023/02/de-la-soul-trugoy-the-dove-dead-at-54.html

This is the third nuance: even if we can craft a model-banning copyright system that doesn't catch a lot of dolphins in its tuna net, it could still make artists poorer off.

Back when sampling started, it wasn't clear whether it would ever be considered artistically important. Early sampling was crude and experimental. Musicians who trained for years to master an instrument were dismissive of the idea that clicking a mouse was "making music." Today, most of us don't question the idea that sampling can produce meaningful art – even musicians who believe in licensing samples.

Having lived through that era, I'm prepared to believe that maybe I'll look back on AI "art" and say, "damn, I can't believe I never thought that could be real art."

But I wouldn't give odds on it.

I don't like AI art. I find it anodyne, boring. As Henry Farrell writes, it's uncanny, and not in a good way:

https://www.programmablemutter.com/p/large-language-models-are-uncanny

Farrell likens the work produced by AIs to the movement of a Ouija board's planchette, something that "seems to have a life of its own, even though its motion is a collective side-effect of the motions of the people whose fingers lightly rest on top of it." This is "spooky-action-at-a-close-up," transforming "collective inputs … into apparently quite specific outputs that are not the intended creation of any conscious mind."

Look, art is irrational in the sense that it speaks to us at some non-rational, or sub-rational level. Caring about the tribulations of imaginary people or being fascinated by pictures of things that don't exist (or that aren't even recognizable) doesn't make any sense. There's a way in which all art is like an optical illusion for our cognition, an imaginary thing that captures us the way a real thing might.

But art is amazing. Making art and experiencing art makes us feel big, numinous, irreducible emotions. Making art keeps me sane. Experiencing art is a precondition for all the joy in my life. Having spent most of my life as a working artist, I've come to the conclusion that the reason for this is that art transmits an approximation of some big, numinous irreducible emotion from an artist's mind to our own. That's it: that's why art is amazing.

AI doesn't have a mind. It doesn't have an intention. The aesthetic choices made by AI aren't choices, they're averages. As Farrell writes, "LLM art sometimes seems to communicate a message, as art does, but it is unclear where that message comes from, or what it means. If it has any meaning at all, it is a meaning that does not stem from organizing intention" (emphasis mine).

Farrell cites Mark Fisher's The Weird and the Eerie, which defines "weird" in easy to understand terms ("that which does not belong") but really grapples with "eerie."

For Fisher, eeriness is "when there is something present where there should be nothing, or is there is nothing present when there should be something." AI art produces the seeming of intention without intending anything. It appears to be an agent, but it has no agency. It's eerie.

Fisher talks about capitalism as eerie. Capital is "conjured out of nothing" but "exerts more influence than any allegedly substantial entity." The "invisible hand" shapes our lives more than any person. The invisible hand is fucking eerie. Capitalism is a system in which insubstantial non-things – corporations – appear to act with intention, often at odds with the intentions of the human beings carrying out those actions.

So will AI art ever be art? I don't know. There's a long tradition of using random or irrational or impersonal inputs as the starting point for human acts of artistic creativity. Think of divination:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/07/31/divination/

Or Brian Eno's Oblique Strategies:

http://stoney.sb.org/eno/oblique.html

I love making my little collages for this blog, though I wouldn't call them important art. Nevertheless, piecing together bits of other peoples' work can make fantastic, important work of historical note:

https://www.johnheartfield.com/John-Heartfield-Exhibition/john-heartfield-art/famous-anti-fascist-art/heartfield-posters-aiz

Even though painstakingly cutting out tiny elements from others' images can be a meditative and educational experience, I don't think that using tiny scissors or the lasso tool is what defines the "art" in collage. If you can automate some of this process, it could still be art.

Here's what I do know. Creating an individual bargainable copyright over training will not improve the material conditions of artists' lives – all it will do is change the relative shares of the value we create, shifting some of that value from tech companies that hate us and want us to starve to entertainment companies that hate us and want us to starve.

As an artist, I'm foursquare against anything that stands in the way of making art. As an artistic worker, I'm entirely committed to things that help workers get a fair share of the money their work creates, feed their families and pay their rent.

I think today's AI art is bad, and I think tomorrow's AI art will probably be bad, but even if you disagree (with either proposition), I hope you'll agree that we should be focused on making sure art is legal to make and that artists get paid for it.

Just because copyright won't fix the creative labor market, it doesn't follow that nothing will. If we're worried about labor issues, we can look to labor law to improve our conditions. That's what the Hollywood writers did, in their groundbreaking 2023 strike:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/01/how-the-writers-guild-sunk-ais-ship/

Now, the writers had an advantage: they are able to engage in "sectoral bargaining," where a union bargains with all the major employers at once. That's illegal in nearly every other kind of labor market. But if we're willing to entertain the possibility of getting a new copyright law passed (that won't make artists better off), why not the possibility of passing a new labor law (that will)? Sure, our bosses won't lobby alongside of us for more labor protection, the way they would for more copyright (think for a moment about what that says about who benefits from copyright versus labor law expansion).

But all workers benefit from expanded labor protection. Rather than going to Congress alongside our bosses from the studios and labels and publishers to demand more copyright, we could go to Congress alongside every kind of worker, from fast-food cashiers to publishing assistants to truck drivers to demand the right to sectoral bargaining. That's a hell of a coalition.

And if we do want to tinker with copyright to change the way training works, let's look at collective licensing, which can't be bargained away, rather than individual rights that can be confiscated at the entrance to our publisher, label or studio's offices. These collective licenses have been a huge success in protecting creative workers:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/26/united-we-stand/

Then there's copyright's wildest wild card: The US Copyright Office has repeatedly stated that works made by AIs aren't eligible for copyright, which is the exclusive purview of works of human authorship. This has been affirmed by courts:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/20/everything-made-by-an-ai-is-in-the-public-domain/

Neither AI companies nor entertainment companies will pay creative workers if they don't have to. But for any company contemplating selling an AI-generated work, the fact that it is born in the public domain presents a substantial hurdle, because anyone else is free to take that work and sell it or give it away.

Whether or not AI "art" will ever be good art isn't what our bosses are thinking about when they pay for AI licenses: rather, they are calculating that they have so much market power that they can sell whatever slop the AI makes, and pay less for the AI license than they would make for a human artist's work. As is the case in every industry, AI can't do an artist's job, but an AI salesman can convince an artist's boss to fire the creative worker and replace them with AI:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/29/pay-no-attention/#to-the-little-man-behind-the-curtain

They don't care if it's slop – they just care about their bottom line. A studio executive who cancels a widely anticipated film prior to its release to get a tax-credit isn't thinking about artistic integrity. They care about one thing: money. The fact that AI works can be freely copied, sold or given away may not mean much to a creative worker who actually makes their own art, but I assure you, it's the only thing that matters to our bosses.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/13/spooky-action-at-a-close-up/#invisible-hand

#pluralistic #ai art #eerie #ai #weird #henry farrell #copyright #copyfight #creative labor markets #what is art #ideomotor response #mark fisher #invisible hand #uncanniness #prompting

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captainsophiestark · 7 months ago

Text

Nothing Wrong With Emotions

Platonic!Anakin Skywalker x Reader

Masterlist - Join My Taglist!

Written for Fictober 2024! Requested by Anon! Hope you like it, Nonnie, and thanks for being patient through the delay!

Fandom: Star Wars

Day Twenty-Six Prompt: "You were the first."

Summary: Anakin's at the beginning of the worst two days of his life. Thankfully, his best friend is there when he needs them, and they're more emotionally intelligent than some of the other Jedi.

Word Count: 4,903

Category: Angst, Fluff

Putting work into an AI program without permission is illegal. You do not have my permission. Do not do it.

My mind whirled as I marched through the halls of the Jedi temple, the length of my to-do list rapidly creeping towards overwhelming. This war had been going on for far too long, and even worse, there'd been a growing disturbance in the Force that had been nagging at the back of my mind for days. I kept glancing outside, expecting to see dark storm clouds through the windows to reflect the storm I felt coming with every fiber of my being, but the bright blue sky was unobstructed.

Something was wrong. I knew it, and so did the entire Jedi Council and then some. But none of us could quite figure out what.

Until anything more concrete could be figured out, we all still had mountains of work to accomplish. I needed to visit Jocasta in the Archives, check out five different books, bring a few to the Creche, meet with Master Windu-

My mind and body came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the hallway like I'd physically run into a wall. My to-do list, the lurking low-level disturbance in the Force, and just about everything else in my mind had just been shoved violently to the side by the feelings being put out by my best friend, who was apparently just down the hall from me.

Anakin Skywalker and I had met when he became a Padawan. We'd crossed paths regularly enough and spent enough time together that we'd bonded quickly, and now, he was probably my closest friend in all the worlds. As a result, I could usually read and feel him through the Force better than anyone else. But with the knot of negative emotions he was putting out right now, I was betting a Jedi in the Outer Rim would be able to notice.

I frowned, dropping my data pad on the nearest table and turning to go after Anakin. I had no idea what could've caused the hornet's nest of energy my best friend was putting out, but there was no way I was going to go about my day and ignore it.

I had to jog a little to catch up to him, since he was walking away from me. I caught him at the end of one of the Temple's hallways, seemingly headed for the hanger. I grabbed his elbow before he could round the corner, and he whirled on me with such a fierce scowl that, had it been anybody else, I would've flinched.

"Ani? What's wrong?"

Anakin practically growled, his shoulders up by his ears and his jaw clenched. Still, he had the gaull to say, "Nothing."

I scoffed. "My friend, I've never seen a more obvious lie in my life. I know you much better than that, although you apparently don't think so."

That negative air around Anakin instensified. He was clearly hanging on by a thread. I glanced around the hallway, and although no one else was around, I knew from first-hand experience that the Jedi Temple wasn't always the best place to process strong emotions.

"Alright, how about we go somewhere else?" I suggested, gently taking Anakin's arm again. He kept his glare trained on me, the swarming storm still clearly raging, but he didn't try to pull away from me either. Gently, slowly, I led Anakin away from the Temple, and thankfully, he followed.

"Where are we going?" Anakin barked, the first words he'd managed since his lie in the hallway. I glanced back at him with a smile.

"A place that's good for processing shit. Just trust me for a minute, okay?"

Anakin didn't respond, but he didn't make a move to leave, either, and the dark cloud centered on his chest didn't get any bigger. We climbed into my speeder, and after a short ride, parked at the top of one of the tallest buildings on the planet. The sun had just started to set, painting the sky in beautiful colors that didn't match the lurking darkness at all.

I hopped out, and when Anakin didn't immediately follow me, I motioned for him to do the same. After another moment's hesitation, he slowly climbed out of the passenger seat, glaring doubtfully around us.

"What is this place?" he asked. His tone had lost some of its gravel, which was a relief. I smiled and spread my arms wide, gesturing to the rooftop before us.

"This is paradise," I said. "A smaller, separate loction to the Coruscant Gardens. I made friends with the gardeners here a while ago, and they agreed to let me come up here and hang out whenever I wanted, as long as I don't hurt the plants. It's become my favorite place to be when I need... space. From the rest of the Jedi, to process things, from the war and the senate and whatever else... for anything, really."

"What do you mean, when you need space from the rest of the Jedi?"

I turned back to Anakin with a raised eyebrow. The set of his shoulders alone told me he knew exactly what I meant by "space from the Jedi", but they also told me he might not be in the mood to be teased about it.

"Well... you know, sometimes the Council and everybody can get a little... stuffy. And they taught me a lot of great techniques for managing my emotions, but meditation takes a lot of fucking practice and doesn't always work for me, especially in the middle of a storm. So, I've found other strategies for when the regular Jedi ones don't work. And from the energy you're putting out into the world right now, I thought you could use something like that."

Anakin frowned, but he took a few steps closer to me, away from the speeder. I gave him a tentative smile.

"Are you saying meditation doesn't work for you? That... that what the masters have taught us doesn't work for you?"

I shrugged. "A lot of the time, it does. More and more the more I practice. But sometimes, no, Ani, it doesn't work for me. The feelings are too strong or get too built up, and I need another way to bleed off steam before the kettle boils over, so to speak. Like this!"

I turned from Anakin and raised my hand, using the Force to start the program I'd put together up here years ago. To the side of the garden, in the empty parking space next to my speeder, a plate shot up and into the air. I used my blaster to shoot it before it could come back down, and I grinned as the thing shattered to pieces. Then, I turned back to Anakin with a smile.

"It's more satisfying to smash the plates by hand, but I can't do that from a distance, and I wanted to show off."

Anakin just stared at me for a long moment. To my relief, his surprise and confusion seemed to be taking over some of the space his anger had been occupying before.

"Are you really telling me that when you're angry... you come up here and smash plates?"

"When I get angry enough, yeah. It's not a fix, though, it's just a pressure vent. When I really feel like I'm going to lose it—like when I heard about what General Krell did, and all I wanted to do was go kill him in his cell—I come up here and let some of that rage vent off. Then, it's easier for me to use other, less destructive strategies to manage things. But Ani, I don't think I need to tell you, trying to mediate when you feel like your blood is boiling and every nerve in your body is screaming? It's... not the easiest thing to do."

"No," he said, voice grim and the scowl back on his face. "No, it isn't."

"So then let's smash some plates! Come on, I promise it'll help. And then maybe you can tell me a little bit about what's wrong. Talking usually does wonders for strong emotions, too."

Anakin looked dubious, but we'd been through so much together that he trusted me enough to try.

Anakin moved into the space I'd specfically designed as a sort of protected area for plate-smashing, picking up the first thing he saw. He held it up, but paused briefly and turned back to me. The rage swirled around so strongly, I swear it almost manifested physically around him.

"And you won't tell the Council about this?"

I snorted. "No! Fuck the Council! Smash some plates!"

Anakin huffed, then didn't wait another second to do as I said. He moved like lightning, grabbing one plate and then another, hurling each one into the ground. He kept going, getting more and more worked up, the anger rising up and around him as he let it all out. He became more and more frenzied, then slammed one last plate into the ground so hard that parts of it became dust, before letting out a long, loud scream.

I just watched him, being careful not to let my emotions bleed out through the Force too much. Watching my best friend clearly in so much pain was tearing me up, but I knew Anakin would hate the pity, so I needed to move past it for both our sakes.

Finally, as the scream died out with the last of Anakin's air on that breath, he slumped forward, breathing hard. Still, his shoulders were lower than his ears for the first time since I'd found him in the hallway, and that roaring wave of anger had quieted a little, being joined with frustration and sadness.

I gave him a second, then slowly approached when I was sure he wasn't going to reach for another plate. I put a hand gently on his shoulder, and when he turned to face me, I found him with tears streaming down his face and the same fierce scowl he'd had earlier.

"Anakin," I said, trying to strike the right balance of calm and firm. "Talk to me."

"I can't," he ground out. "I can't talk to you!"

"Why? I swear, everything stays between us. But the plates are just the first part, Ani. The second part is talking things out and finding a way to move forward-"

"No!" He'd been shaking his head for most of my speech, but he broke in when he couldn't take it anymore. "There are things you don't know, that I can't tell you!"

I studied his face, trying to figure out what exactly he might be referring to. I had a couple of theories, but Anakin still didn't seem to be in a good place to respond to theories, so I decided to take a different approach.

"Okay... is there any part of what's bothering you that you can talk to me about? Even something smaller, that's been part of the buildup? Or you could just tell me about the feelings without talking about the cause."

Anakin took a few deep breaths, clenching his jaw as he took heavy breaths in and out. He looked to be at war with himself, so I just concentrated on putting out calm, non-judgemental energy and hoped for the best.

Slowly, Anakin straightened. I let my hand drop back to my side, but I didn't take a step back. A lot of the manic energy had disappated from Anakin, but none of the emotions had yet.

"Master Windu doesn't trust me. I- I found the Sith Lord."

"What?" I cried, leaning forward and grabbing Anakin's forearm. "Anakin, are you serious?"

"It's Chancellor Palpatine."

I just blinked at him for a few moments, trying to take that information in. Then it was my turn for some fear and negative emotions to take root in my chest.

"Shit. Are you sure? Of course you're sure. Oh, this is the absolute worst-case scenario. Anakin, did you tell Windu? What did he say? If he's not going to do something, we-"

"He's going to confront the Chancellor with Masters Fisto, Tiin, and Kolar. I told him that the Chancellor is very powerful, and that they might need my help. I offered to go! But he refused to let me come. Told me to sit and wait for their return in the Council Chambers."

I frowned again, my mind racing a million miles an hour. I didn't let go of Anakin, and I could feel just how carefully he was watching me. Knowing that Windu and other Jedi had gone after the Chancellor was simultaneously scary and a relief, but in both cases, it meant he was currently someone else's problem. I could put that on the backburner to pay attention to my best friend, at least for now. I took a deep breath and shook my head.

"You think Windu told you to wait in the Council Chamber because... he doesn't trust you?"

"I know it. He told me himself I'd earn his trust only after he returned from confronting the Chancellor, only if I was correct."

I narrowed my eyes and huffed. "That's fucking ridiculous."

"You sound angry."

"I am angry. You've been here for a long time, Anakin, and you've done so much for the Order and for the galaxy as a whole. If Windu has a problem, he at least could've put it a little more diplomatically."

"I don't think I've ever seen you angry before."

The shock of that statement was enough to shake me out of my thought. I met Anakin's eyes with surprise.

"What? Yes you have."

"No, I haven't," he said, a bit of irritation in his voice. Thankfully, it was the kind I normally heard from him whenever we bickered, not the more serious kind. "Jedi don't get angry, just like you, and just like Obi-Wan, and just like every other damned Jedi but me!"

"Anakin... what? Of course Jedi get angry! Do you not remember me threatening to kill Kenobi when he threw out the Outer Rim delicacy I tracked down while we were out there because 'he thought it looked spoiled'? I literally almost punched him in the nose!"

"No, I don't remember that!"

"Kriffing hell! You must've been training or something with Ahsoka. Whatever. The point is, Anakin, everybody gets angry. Everybody humanoid, at least! It's emotion, which all of us have. Even Obi-Wan, who I'll admit, is remarkably good at not letting anything get to him."

Anakin just stared at me, looking absolutely thunderstruck, so I continued.

"We also, like you and everyone else, get sad and scared and exhausted and irritated. And happy and excited and impatient! It's normal to feel, Anakin. I'm sorry if somebody made you believe otherwise."

He started shaking his head, slowly and then much more quickly and frantic.

"No. No, that's not the Jedi way. The Jedi aren't supposed to feel, we aren't allowed to feel."

"If that were true every last one of us would've been kicked out years ago! Anakin, you can't control your feelings. You can control how you handle them, and that's what they're always trying to teach us at the Temple. But there's no amount of training or pratice or meditiation or whatever that can just magically make you not feel anger, ever again."

I saw Anakin's mind working as it processed what I'd just said. He seemed to accept it, at least, before I could feel his attention shift in the Force, and his fierce scowl returned.

"Even if you're right, no amount of 'handling' would help me."

"What are you talking about? Come on, Ani, I'm your best friend! If you can't tell me, who can you tell?"

"No one! I already told you, no one! I'm... I'm running out of time..." The sharp storm of anger changed abruptly into one of fear as Anakin's attention shifted away from me and back to the city. "We've been here too long. I need to go, now!"

He started taking off for the speeder, and it took my brain a few moments to catch up to his 180 degree shift. Once it did, I ran after him.

"Anakin, stop! Please, talk to me!"

I caught the edge of his robe and pulled it back. The moment I did, Anakin whirled on me, his expression a storm that threatened to bowl me flat. Still, I didn't flinch, and I didn't give up an inch.

"I can't be here! I'm running out of time! Padmé-"

He stopped abruptly and scowled even deeper, but the name was already out of his mouth.

"I knew this had something to do with her! Come on, Ani, talk to me. What's wrong? Is she okay? Is she mad at you? Is somebody coming after her again?"

"It's... It's none of your concern!"

Anakin whipped around again, pulling his robes out of my grip, but I called after him.

"If something's wrong with my good friend and my best friend's wife, then it's absolutely my concern!"

That got Anakin to stop dead in his tracks. He turned back around to me, his expression wild as the wind from up here blew his hair. I just stared back with a raised eyebrow.

"How do you know about that?" he demanded. I scoffed.

"Anakin, please! I'm your best friend, and the two of you are absolute shit at hiding it! I literally walked into the kitchen on one of the Cruisers and found you guys making out."

"When?" he demanded, sounding indignant.

"You'd know if you'd had an ounce of awareness! You were so busy making out with your wife that you literally didn't even notice I was there. I turned around and walked out because I did not want to see that for another second, and you clearly wanted to keep it a secret on some level. But this was months ago."

Anakin looked like I'd just shoved him over. I put a hand on my hip and raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to recover from his shock enough speak again. When he'd just about got there, I continued.

"Now seriously, Ani. If something's wrong with Padmé or your future child that you conveniently forgot to tell your best friend about, I want to know about it. I want to help you."

Anakin blinked a few more times, then finally sighed. He took a few steps towards me (and away from the speeder), his shoulders slumping.

"I... I've been having these dreams. I haven't been able to tell anyone but Padmé about them, and she keeps telling me they're nothing. But they weren't nothing when I was having dreams about my mother."

I closed the rest of the distance between us, putting an arm around Anakin as I eased him into sitting on one of the garden's benches, close to the edge of the parking lot. His hands shook as he held them up to emphasize his speaking, and the second he noticed, he shoved them between his legs.

"I keep having nightmares about Padmé dying with our children, as she's having them. There's something very wrong, but she won't believe me, and I can't talk to anyone else about it without telling them about our relationship. It's on me to save her. The Chancellor seemed to know, seemed to want to help me... and I don't know that I have another choice anymore."

"...Anakin. You just told me yourself that he's a Sith lord."

"But what other choice do I have?" he cried, exploding again. "I won't lose her. I won't let her die! I was too late to save my mother, I won't be too late to save Padmé. Master Windu says he doesn't trust me because he can feel my fear, but how else am I supposed to feel?"

I nodded, taking a deep breath as I put my hand on Anakin's shoulder again. He was seething, but he tolerated it.

"Your fear is valid, Anakin. If I had recurring nightmares about losing you, I'd be sticking to you like glue on missions. And that's without the factor of children! But if you starting taking rash, drastic actions as a result of that fear—like trusting a Sith lord who's been lying and manipulating his way through the Jedi for years—it might just cause exactly what you're scared of in the first place."

"So what are you saying? You're telling me I should do nothing, too?"

"No! Just... take a few deep breaths, and make your decisions with as rational a head as you can. From what I remember you telling me, Anakin, the dreams about your mom were actually visions happening in real time. And I'm sorry to remind you of that at all, but that means they were different than your dreams of Padmé. I saw her walking around the senate chambers today. She's not already dead."

Anakin took a deep breath as, to my relief, my words seemed to manage to get through to him, at least a little bit. When he spoke again, it was at a normal volume despite the words being a bit strained.

"That doesn't change the fact that she's in danger. Just because she's alright for now doesn't mean that she won't be-"

He broke off, clenching his fists and squeezing his eyes shut tight. I moved my hand from his shoulder to take both of his hands in mine.

"Has Padmé gone to her doctor lately? To check out whether anything is wrong? She's due soon, isn't she?"

"Yes. She's due soon. I don't know if she's been to a doctor since the dreams started. The Jedi... things have been keeping me from her recently."

"Well, okay then. For Padmé's sake and your own, let's sit up here and take a few deep breaths. I know that sounds like what everyone else in the Order's been telling you, but we did smash plates earlier, so I'm hoping you'll trust me. Then, once we're acknowleding the fear but making it take a backseat on decision-making, we can go see Padmé. We'll talk to her, and go see her doctor, just to check everything out and make sure it's all okay. I'll go with you to maintain the 'friendship' cover as much as possible. With all of the technology and medicine available to us, Anakin—especially since Padmé serves in the senate and you're a Jedi—any complications should be completely treatable and preventable. Then, once you're feeling alright about that, we can make a choice."

Anakin narrowed his eyes, then raised an eyebrow at me.

"And what choice is that?"

"If you want to stay with Padmé, we stay with Padmé. If you want to talk to Windu, we work together and come up with a plan for you to talk to Windu. Hopefully, by the time we get back to the Temple, he and the others will have defeated Palpatine and we can put all this behind us. But one way or another, we can practice and work out a conversation starter for you to discuss with him why he doesn't trust you, and how that makes you feel. It might not change his mind, but I really think it'll make you feel better to get it out there and talk about it with him. Calmly, though. As much as you might want to yell at him, and as nice as it might feel in the moment, it'll only make you worse off in the end. Which is why we come up here to smash plates first."

To my immense relief, that last part made Anakin crack the smallest of smiles. The knot of fear and lingering anger was still there, but much smaller, and confined to just a part of my best friend. That overwhelming knot I'd noticed earlier was almost entirely gone.

"I... think I like that plan. At least the first part of it."

"Good, then let's go do it. Just remember, Ani: I'm here for you. Odds are good that you're going to feel really scared and really angry again as we deal with the next few days. And that's normal. We just have to practice managing it, and I'm here for you whenever you need help with that."

"...Does that mean I officially get access to this place whenever I want it?" He gestured to the garden and smaller plate-smashing station around us, and I smiled.

"Sure. But you're gonna have to do some shopping for cheap plates before you come up here again. Believe it or not, I'm just about out."

"Seems like a pretty low number of plates you had up here. Aren't you supposed to be more prepared than that as a Jedi Knight?"

"Plate shopping was on my long list of errands for today. But... I ended up having more important things to do with my day."

The two of us shared a smile, and although Anakin's was weak, it felt like the sun shining down on us to me. We weren't out of the storm yet, but looking at my best friend in that moment, I knew we were both going to get to the other side okay.

****************

"Oh... my stars."

I grinned, my feeling echoing Obi-Wan's as the two of us and Ahsoka were led into the delivery room. Padmé laid in the bed, a baby cradled in her arms, and Anakin stood beside her with the other baby in his.

After Anakin and I's long talk on the roof, and after getting through some of the immediate aftermath of dealing with Chancellor Palpatine being a Sith lord, he'd finally decided to share his and Padmé's "secret" with Obi-Wan and Ahsoka, along with Rex, Cody, and a few of the other clones we'd been to hell and back with. Literally all of them had already known, but everyone other than Obi-Wan pretended to be surprised for Anakin's sake, and the knowledge meant a lot more to all of us now that Anakin had voluntarily shared it with us.

Even after all the doctor's appointments and support from his friends, I could feel the weight that had lifted from Anakin's shoulders with Padmé sitting in bed now, tired but healthy, their babies just as healthy and delivered in their arms.

"Wanna hold her? Her name's Leia," Anakin said, gently holding the baby in his arms out to Obi-Wan. He looked about knocked flat, but gingerly held his arms out all the same.

"Of course I do."

Anakin smiled, gently putting Leia into Obi-Wan's arms. Ahsoka headed over towards Padmé, and I was about to follow her when Anakin caught me, taking my arm and gently pulling me aside.

"Do you have a minute?"

I nodded, following Anakin as he led me just out of the room and into the hallway. I raised an eyebrow, but I could tell from Anakin's energy and the smile on his face that this was nothing bad.

"I have something to ask you."

"Okay... spit it out then. Dad."

Anakin's smile was enough to outshine the sun, and it warmed my heart to see him like that.

"Well, Padmé and I talked, and... since both of our lives are so dangerous, and since I may or may not be able to continue in the Order depending on how well we can continue to hide our secret..."

I scoffed, but Anakin ignored me.

"We wanted to make you the honorary, support-parent of the twins. I'm not going to let anything happen to us, but if something ever did... we want you to take them. And either way, we want you to be involved in their lives as... a mentor, of sorts."

"Anakin... I don't need a title or an official invitation to do everything I can to be in their lives. Frankly, not even death could stop me. Since Force ghosts exist and all."

Anakin grinned. "I know that. But I want you to have the title anyway. I mean, who better to help guide my kids through life than the person who made sure I didn't let my fear ruin any shot at actually seeing them?"

"...Surely someone else has told you that emotions are a normal, healthy thing for you to be feeling?"

"Believe it or not? You were the first."

I smiled, then moved forward to wrap Anakin in a tight hug. He didn't waste a second returing the gesture.

"I would be honored to play a role like that in the twins' life, Ani," I said, not letting go of him as I spoke. "Thank you for trusting me with it."

"Thank you for helping me get a hold of everything. I love Obi-Wan, but... he never managed to teach it the way you did. I don't know what would've happened if you hadn't found me when you did."

I squeezed Anakin tight, letting the seriousness live on for another moment before pulling away with a grin.

"Are you kidding me? I'll always find you, whether you want me to or not. I'm your best friend. You can't get rid of me, and you can't hide anything from me. And don't you forget it."

Anakin scoffed and rolled his eyes, but I could see how genuine the smile on his face was. I clapped him on the shoulder and took a step back towards the delivery room.

"Come on. I'm honorary guardian of the twins, and I haven't even met them yet. Obi-Wan's been holding Leia for long enough, it's my turn now."

"Good luck getting her back. Did you see the look on his face? I think I'm going to have to force him to let her go."

The two of us shared a laugh as we reentered the delivery room. The past few years of the war and the past few weeks especially had been brutal, on all of us. And there was still a lot of work to be done putting things right. But some very, very good things had come out of it, too, and no matter what came next, we'd always have each other.

****************

Everything Taglist: @rosecentury @kmc1989 @space-helen @misshale21

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bibliophilesince2003 · 8 months ago

Text

Oplita Oneshot

This is based off of Transformers One. I've been itching to write something wholesome, and I absolutely adore Optimus and Elita as a couple. Normally, I put my writing on Wattpad. Then again, those are usually full-length stories. It just made sense to do this particular oneshot here. Perhaps I'll do more oneshots of my favorite fandoms in the future.

So, yeah, this is for my fellow die-hard Oplita fans.

Also... this takes place after the ending of Transformers One, maybe a few months or so after the ending. Sorry, I'm not sure what a month is in cybertronian terms; Google was unhelpful. If you have not seen Transformers One in its entirety, this one shot may not be as impactful as it could be.

Optimus ducked as he walked past the door frame, mumbling to himself. His eyes were glued to the data disks in his hands; he had grabbed far too many. A few dropped to the ground. He bent to pick them up, but only lost more in the process. Optimus shook his head and resorted to sitting on the ground, spreading out the data. Now he could read them better, though some of the works and markings were faded and illegible. He grunted, his legs getting in the way. Being taller and bulkier had its advantages in battle, but he couldn't exactly crawl through vents like he used to. Bee had joked that perhaps the Matrix of Leadership had a "switch" for shrinking, but Elita said that size didn't matter. Then, she promptly added, stupidity was sure to remain.

He was glad he didn't intimidate her, even after becoming a prime. Her suggestion to "adapt" to sudden change was both firm and helpful, though harsh. Now, it settled deep in his spark, and he began to overthink. What if he didn't adapt? Would she think less of him?

A memory flashed through his mind, eliminating his worries about Eilta. He may have been dying, but he remembered catching a glimpse of Elita leaning towards the edge of the well when he fell. It was both shocking and endearing, but he was glad Bee yanked her back. It warmed his heart before pain overtook it, pain so great that it rendered him unconscious. He hadn't mentioned it to her, and he didn't think he ever would. It would be a secret to hold on to, at least for the time being.

Optimus was so engrossed in his work he didn't hear the automatic doors open. When footfalls finally reached his ears, Optimus scrambled and gathered up the data disks to the best of his ability. Elita and a few of her soldiers in training turned the corner and walked down the hall. Elita put her hands on her hips.

"And here is our leader, on the ground and sorting through old data disks like a desperate scavenger. Don't worry; he's tougher than he looks."

"That's reassuring," said one of the trainees; a pink and white female cybertronian.

Optimus cleared his throat, gave a lop-sided grin, and backed up. He dumped the data disks on a table and apologized, though it was mostly for Elita's sake. When he returned to the group, Elita gave him an amused look, but waved a hand in front of the trainees.

"This is Arcee, Smoke, and Cliffjumper. It's part of their training to visit the archives. A tactical warrior is just as powerful as a physically strong one."

"Wheeljack was part of your training program, wasn't he?" Optimus asked.

Elita rolled her eyes, and Cliffjumper answered for her, holding back a laugh. "He got bored."

"He joked about starting his own group; a group that didn't mind going the extreme," Smoke said.

He paused, then added to his statement. "Maybe it wasn't a joke."

"It definitely wasn't a joke," Arcee said.

"I'll have a talk with him later," Elita said, and Optimus nodded.

He stared at the wall just above their heads, lost in thought. Elita straightened.

"You ok?" she asked.

"What?" Optimus snapped out of it. "Oh, I'm fine."

Elita turned to address her trainees. "Meal break. Get your energon and look over some of the data this place has to offer that you think will benefit you. I want you at the station in a couple of hours; no sooner, no later. Got it?"

They nodded and obeyed; heading down the hall and turning the corner. Silence fell as their chattering grew distant.

"I said I was fine," Optimus said, attempting a laugh.

It sounded hollow.

"What's wrong, Pax?"

Optimus' shoulders dropped in surrender. When she called him that, he always felt inclined to answer, as if he were a miner under her command again. "Pax" or "Orion" would only come from her, though, and she never used it in front of others. He was to be Optimus Prime to everyone else; a title that carried authority and a great deal of weight. All cybertronian citizens were aware that their life could never be the same; many were expected to train. Really, he wasn't the only one experiencing change.

"I don't know if I can do this," Optimus blurted, clenching his fists.

"You're going to have to be more specific," Elita said.

"I'm a prime, but I've never led. I'm expected to fight in a war that hasn't begun but haunts the future. I think we both know Megatron will be back; he will want to take my place. Maybe he should."

Elita sighed and took Optimus' hand. "Come on."

Dazed, Optimus nodded. They walked down the hall and through various rooms. Neither of them let go, fingers tightly intertwined.

"Find a place where we can talk, Pax. I haven't broken in here like you have."

"Commander's orders," Optimus said, picking up the pace.

They entered a dimly lit, musky room. Elita coughed, letting go of Optimus' hand to wave her hand in front of her face. "Couldn't you have picked a better place?"

"The worst places are often the best places," Optimus said.

"Is this vagueness going to be regular thing, now? I hate it."

Optimus braced his back against a shelving unit, though it didn't contain very many data disks. With a grunt he gave a few hard shoves, and the shelving unit moved to reveal a broken door that led to a precarious platform overlooking Iacon.

"Is this how you would get in?" Elita asked, coming closer to observe.

"No; there were more dangerous entry points with small ventilation systems. I got stuck for a full twenty minutes, once."

"And to think... if you had just stayed there, we could have avoided all this chaos."

"What... and have Cybertron miss this charm?" Optimus motioned to himself.

Elita rolled her eyes, but Optimus caught a small smile. He backed up, letting her go first, and Elita stepped onto the platform and approached the edge. She leaned forward, and Optimus sucked in an inward breath, squeezing past the door frame. She sat at the edge, legs dangling. As soon as Optimus sat beside her, she spoke.

"You won't know how to lead."

Great. Another one of her "encouraging" pep talks. Elita turned her head and waited until Optimus locked eyes with her.

"What I mean is... leading can never be mastered," Elita said. "So, you need to act like you have it all figured out. Voice your fears with the ones you trust, but don't put them on public display. You're right; Megatron is out there somewhere, plotting your demise."

"I don't like the thought of preparing citizens for war," Optimus said.

"It has to be done. The few already capable fighters we have don't stand a chance."

"I know."

"We have to win," Elita said.

Silence fell. They could both agree on that. Elita put a hand on his shoulder.

"You are nothing like Megatron."

"I... try to envision him as he was. He was my greatest friend, Elita. And yet, anyone is capable of betrayal."

"You may doubt yourself, but I would never betray you. Even when I seemed your enemy, yelled at you, and -"

"Punched me in the face?" Optimus offered.

"Yes, even then, I never hated you. You were just... too ambitious and eager for my taste."

"Interesting," Optimus said, looking upwards in thought.

Elita laughed and knocked him in the shoulder, and Optimus gasped dramatically and fell, rolling closer to the edge of the platform.

"I thought you would stop punching me," Optimus groaned, finally sitting up when Elita's eyes widened, no doubt worried he might fall, or perhaps having PTSD of when he had, in fact, fallen.

"Oh, come on! That wasn't a punch," Elita said.

Optimus laughed and stood up, offering a hand. Elita took it, and he helped her up.

"What were you doing rifling through the data disks, anyway?"

"I'm trying to find what remains of Alpha Trion's wisdom. The Matrix of Leadership offers many surprises, but I'm without a mentor. I wish he were here."

"You have everything and everyone you need," Elita said.

Optimus dipped his head, and Elita placed her hands on either side of his face, lifting it back up. "I expect you to be on the training grounds this afternoon. Maybe you can convince Wheeljack to join the group."

"Would they listen to me?"

"You have an axe for a hand. How could they not?"

Optimus laughed, and Elita lowered her hands, nodding in satisfaction.

"Thanks, Elita."

"Any time, Pax."

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