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tempestuous-lush · 11 months

Text

ramble on | chapter 1

summary: This is set within an episode. Specifically, season 1 episode 15. I just changed pieces of the plot to fit in our character. You're Bobby's daughter, seeking answers for your half brother going missing years ago after seeing a missing persons report come up for the county he disappeared in. You come across Sam and Dean by chance, not having seen them for two decades now. And Dean? Well, he couldn't help himself, and neither could you.

warnings: unprotected sex, creampie, beginnings of a soft and fluffy dean that we all know him to be.

tags: @ambassadortotrilliusprime

misc: I have a fun little easter egg in here where Dean days the line of this may be my favorite song now. He says Ramble On is tied for his favorite song in season 4. Also, I was going to include more of the episode, but honestly, for this, I wanted to focus on reader and Dean. Most chapters will be original plot. But there will be a few that are woven in with existing episodes.

Also THIS gif is the boyish grin I picture/reference a couple times.

Lovin’, touchin, squeezing…each other. You’re tearing me apart…

Dean couldn’t take his eyes away from you.

He and Sam had rolled into this small town to look into some strange disappearances in the area. They checked into a motel before heading to the local bar to ask some questions and there you were. Even as Sam asked another question, Dean didn’t hear the answer. Instead he watched as you hustled some poor sap at a game of pool like you’d been doing it all your life.

His eyes fell on your ass as you leaned over the table to set up another game, those jeans of yours looking awfully tight. Oh yeah. He was having indecent thoughts about you alright. Until Sam elbowed him in the side and muttered, “Dude.”

Dean turned back to who they were interviewing. A local that had witnessed the disappearance. A sob racked her body as she continued, “He just disappeared. I looked away for just a minute because we had gotten into a fight and I didn’t want to see his stupid face. Next thing I know he was just…gone.”

She sobbed again, clearly worked up further by alcohol.

That was when you walked over and interrupted, “Hey, what’d you two assholes do? They bothering you, sweetheart?”

You pushed yourself between the two brothers and the girl. Part of you felt bad. She had gotten much worse with the drinking after you had sidled in and questioned her just a few days ago. However, part of you didn’t trust the two of them either. You were more than willing to bet your right arm that they weren’t law. No, they were hunters. No way they weren’t. And this was your damn case. No one else’s.

Dean huffed, “We’re just asking some questions. That’s all. You know, our job.” He flashed a badge at you, your brow lifting in doubt considering you had a glove box full of those.

The way he looked at you, eyes lingering in places they shouldn’t, made you want to take him down a peg, “Really? Because last time I checked, officer, your job wasn’t to harass women in bars over their missing boyfriends. Nor was it drinking on the job. So leave her alone.”

Sam ran a hand through his hair before clearing his throat, “Right, sorry miss.” He looked towards the girl, Mia, and smiled softly, “We will reach out in the morning, yeah?”

Mia collected her bag and headed towards the door. However, as you turned away and Dean reached out and grabbed your arm, the motion spinning you back to face him. He stared at you a little bit longer before commenting, “Before we go, I couldn’t help but notice you playing pool earlier. Care for a round?”

A pout that suddenly had Dean aching worked its way to your lips as you spoke softly, “Sorry officer, I only play for cash.”

You watched as his lips tilted up in a smile that suggested he had nothing innocent on his mind as he pulled a wad of cash from his back pocket, “This enough to catch your interest, sweetheart?”

Sam’s eyes grew and he groaned, “Dean, that’s o”-

“It’s fine Sammy. She isn’t gonna win, if she even takes the challenge.” Dean was trying to bait you.

Well, you had names. Dean and Sam. John’s boys. Hell, you hadn’t seen either of them in nearly two decades. It’s no wonder you didn’t recognize them at first. Let alone them recognize you. They definitely grew up. Dean in particular.

You decided you’d take the bait.

You laughed a little bit before commenting, “Yeah, that’ll be enough. Care to rack while I get a drink?”

“Absolutely. And, uh, get me one of whatever you’re having?”

Dean held $30 out to you as he said it, and you took the invitation for a drink from him happily. Less money coming out of your pocket. By the time you made your way back to the pool table, he was ready to break and you placed a whiskey neat in front of him on the side of the pool table, right by his cash.

He held it up to you and took a sip, “Well you’re full of surprises.”

“That so?”

As you took a sip of your own, tongue rushing across your bottom lip as though savoring the taste, Dean commented, “Yeah, usually when I use that as a pick up, I get the world’s weakest beer.”

“Well, it’s probably because it’s a terrible pick up.”

“It’s a way in.” And god did he want in.

“Well, standard rules apply. I’ll let you break. You might need the advantage.” The smile that took over your features as you said that, before downing the rest of your whiskey with zero hesitation had Dean speechless. Fucking hell.

You watched as he lined up his shot to break, his eyes flickering to you momentarily first and smirking when he saw your eyes were on him. He took his shot and landed two stripes right off the bat. Dean popped up with a grin and went to line up another shot just to be distracted by you taking his glass of whiskey and taking a sip, the same time your free hand pulling at the laces of your top to loosen it.

His shot barely kissed the ball he was aiming for before spinning helplessly off to the side. You handed him his drink before grabbing your own cue and lining up your shot. You sank it with zero hesitation. As you did with every shot after that, until Dean realized you didn’t take his bait. He took yours.

“Ah hell,” and he knocked back the rest of his drink you left him. You picked up the money and counted it out before him as you sat on the pool table smugly, legs crossed.

As you finished counting you looked up at him, “Wanna tell me why you have this much cash on you, handsome?”

“Would you believe me if I said my brother and I got it running pool?”

He watched as you tried to hide your laughter from him but eventually it won out, Dean’s ears turning red from the slight embarrassment. You peeled a few twenties off of the bundle before holding it out to him, “Your brother, yes. You? No.”

As he reached for the money, his fingers brushing your own with their warmth, he groaned, “You’re killing me, beautiful. I need your name. Please?”

A part of you hesitated.

He tucked the money away in his back pocket before swiftly uncrossing your legs and finding his way in the middle of them. A frustrated sound escaped him before he encouraged you, “C’mon. You know mine.”

Your senses came back to you, “Only because your brother happened to say it. Otherwise I still wouldn’t.”

As you stood up and effectively pushed him back he added, “You’re right. Let me fix that. Dean. Winchester.”

You gave him your first name only. He stood there waiting for the second half but you didn’t give it. The second you did, he’d realize just who you were. After all, your dad used to give you shooting lessons together, and Singer wasn’t exactly a common surname to just throw around.

Dean pushed for more though, “And what? No last name?”

Singer.

“None that concerns you.”

With that, you headed outside and Dean shot a look at Sam that suggested don’t wait up.

By the time Dean caught up, you were to your car. He let out a low whistle at the sight of it. He couldn’t help himself. You came to a slow halt, the gravel beneath your feet crunching as he spoke up, “Is that a ‘71 Hemi ‘Cuda?”

“I see you know your cars.”

“The only one I’ve seen is as a heap of junk years ago at a family friend’s. Never seen one in such a good condition.”

You swallowed your smile, fully aware that your car was the heap of junk he was referencing. Not to mention you were technically the family friend. You held the keys in your hand, hesitating ever so slightly, before nodding to your car with a look of mischief that could have stolen Dean’s breath, “Wanna go for a ride?”

“I don’t know…my car is also pretty damn nice.”

“Hmmm let me guess. From how much you like my car, is yours the ‘67 impala I spotted?”

Dean chuckled shyly before looking at the ground, not believing his luck in this tiny town. He looked back up at you and it was your turn to feel your breath escape you, followed by an inability to breathe. Those eyes were settled on you, his voice gruff, laced with something else that made you feel a bit weak, “C’mon beautiful”- and what he said next ruined the magic and made you laugh instead -”I’ll show you mine and you show me yours?”

You covered your mouth to smother your laugh before growing a bit more serious, “Did you talk to the boy yet, Evan? About what he saw?”

Dean drew up short before commenting, “Yeah, kid had good taste in movies. Godzilla vs. Mothra.”

“Not about the movies…about the man getting pulled down under his car. People going missing in this county, it’s rough. A high rate of disappearance. Makes you question things.”

When it had popped up on your radar that someone had gone missing here, you apologized profusely to John before saying you had to go. And he understood. Your half brother had gotten pulled near here a few years back, disappeared with no trace. Just like you were helping him pursue the yellow eyed demon to avenge his family, he knew that this was important to you. Dean got closer to you in your silence, lost in your thoughts, and pulled you from them by resting his thumb beneath your chin and tugging up. His eyes were imploring yours, that boyish grin gone and replaced with something else, “Who are you?”

Shit. You had said too much. He was suspicious. You would be too. Everything would be screaming at you that you were a hunter, if you were in his shoes. You should tell him who you are. But at this point, it would make things a bit more complicated, since they knew you were working with their father. They’d have questions that you couldn’t answer.

You smiled softly, “I’m no one, Winchester.”

“Mhm, yeah”- he leaned down slowly before whispering -“I truly doubt that.”

And, before you could register, Dean closed the distance and his lips found yours. Everything in your body came alive in that moment- responding in ways you weren’t expecting. You’d had the childhood crush, sure, but this? Your hands snaked up his chest and around his neck, pulling him towards you. Everything about him felt so good, down to the way the warmth of his hands traveled down your back through the thin cotton of your shirt until you felt him grab hold of your ass and lift you up, your legs wrapping around his torso and opening your mouth to his tongue at the same time.

Dean groaned into your mouth as he felt the strength of your muscles in your legs, clinging to him, a slight rock of your hips inviting him to get closer. He walked you the few short steps to your car, sitting you on the hood but not breaking contact. God, you felt amazing. He wasn’t sure what to expect but it wasn’t this. Every nerve in his body felt like it was on fire. His fingers wrapped around the back of your neck and pulled you ever closer and you broke the kiss to barely get the words out, “I think we shoul- should take that ride, Dean.”

He kissed you again before huffing, “Let’s take yours…it’s closer.”

“Let’s.”

As he broke contact, you craved for the warmth he took with him, before clambering off the hood to get in on the driver’s side. Starting the car, you backed out of the parking lot. As you hit the gas pedal, you suddenly felt braver, feeling nearly high from the contact you’ve had. Your hand found his thigh, and a smile crept to your face as you heard a sharp inhale from him at the movement. Dean commented, “I gotta say, beautiful, this is not where I saw my night going.”

You pulled over on the side of the road and looked towards him, “I didn’t either.”

You put the car in park and left the engine running, music playing softly as you moved across the space and straddled his lap. You smiled before teasing, “Know my favorite thing about older cars?”

“What’s that?” His hands grabbed hold of your thighs without thinking, body running on instinct as he pulled you to move against him. You fell forward, the floral smell of your shampoo washing over him from your hair and he marveled at the sweet scent before his cock reacted to your even sweeter moans. You nearly whispered in his ear, since if you spoke any louder, you’d break and not be able to form the words, “More room.”

You rolled your hips again against him, picking up your speed as you pulled your thin cotton shirt over your head. Dean wasn’t sure what to expect, but the black balconette bra you wore was not it.

His eyes scanned over your body hungrily, his rough fingers trailing in their wake. The pads of his fingers glanced over your pebbled nipples beneath the thin black lace and he was rewarded with a catch in your breath, your eyes flickering open wider if only for a second. His fingertip trailed over your stomach, lingering on a scar along your stomach. You had gotten it on a hunt years ago. Claw marks. You remarked, “Grew up out in the mountains for a bit. Got too close to a black bear.”

If a black bear was a wendigo.

“Makes you even more beautiful,” Dean commented as he reached around and unclasped your bra, and as you removed it his hands immediately kneaded into the flesh, teasing and pulling at your nipples further. Thrusting up against you, his hard cock pushing against his jeans, his mouth fell on your tits one at a time before his tongue lapped at one of your nipples and sucked hard. You cried out for him and he groaned, his mouth still full of your flesh, tongue hot against you.

Quickly, you flipped to sit in his lap, unbuttoning your jeans and pulling them down, Dean helping you push them past your knees and to your ankles. You quickly returned to your spot, the bare skin of your thighs now exposed for Dean to admire with his touch. And you? You were desperate for more, now. So, against your better judgment that had long since left, you unzipped his jeans and freed his cock.

You panted, “Can you feel what you’re doing to me?” You guided your soaked lace underwear along his cock, leaving no doubt of just how aroused you were.

“Well you just keep getting better and better…” That was when Dean realized something. Something very important. He grimaced at the thought of stopping, “Any condoms I have are in my bag in my car.”

You dragged your hips again against his length before whispering, “I take birth control, Dean.”

It was all the permission he needed. Lifting you just enough, pulling your underwear to the side with one hand, he grabbed his cock and dragged the tip along your pussy. As he lined up with you, you lowered yourself once again and your head rolled back at the feeling of him stretching you near your limits until finally you were fully seated atop him. Dean latched onto one of your nipples again, the feel of you tightening in response making him want to fuck you into oblivion, the heat and wetness of your bare walls almost too much for him to take.

You leaned forward and rested your forehead against his, and when he slightly moved his hips beneath you the two of you shakily whispered at the same time, “Fuck me.”

The motion stilled as you looked at each other, his boyish grin breaking out as you laughed slightly before biting your bottom lip. His thumb pulled your chin, freeing your lip and you couldn’t help yourself, “If you insist.”

At that you rolled your hips and lifted your ass a couple of inches before coming down on his cock again. Dean’s hands grabbed the thick meat of your ass and used his hands to guide you along impatiently, eager to see and feel you cum around him as he was buried deep inside of you. The sound of skin slapping and the wetness of your arousal mixed with grunts and groans of pleasure from him, your name falling from his lips like a prayer, moans and pants for more from you filled the car.

All the while, the music of your 8 track continued playing in the background. I'm goin' 'round the world, I got to find my girl. On my way I've been this way ten years to the day. Ramble on. Gotta find the queen of all my dreams.

Dean found himself thinking about how that was you. It was as though you were pulled straight from his dreams. And he’d do anything for you at this moment, and any moment in the future.

He was pulled from his thoughts as you reached down to the side of the seat and pulled the lever, slamming him back into the present as you followed him and used the new angle to ride him into further pleasure as you kissed him once more. Dean’s hands found a new home, one tangled in the back of your hair and the other caressing your cheek. Your hips slowed instinctively, wanting to savor this moment.

You broke the contact first, your hands resting under the hem of his t-shirt.

You wanted to feel your skin against his. The more of him that touched you, the more sated you would be. You tested the fabric before settling on your next course of action. You grabbed fistfulls of it before pulling and ripping the fabric up and up until the planes of his chest were exposed to you. You smiled wickedly at him as he looked at you, “M’wanted to feel you on me.”

Without further explanation you leaned forward again and the heat of skin was flush with yours and Dean’s arms wrapped around you and pulled you tightly to him, using what space he had to buck up inside of you at a punishing pace. You cried out for him, pussy spasming around him as you tried to fight off the feeling fast approaching, until one arm freed you to reach around and slap your ass and grabbed it to further hold you in place, his gunts falling swiftly and mixed with soft curses as he also bit back his pleasure. His gruff voice commanded, “C’mon beautiful. Cum on my cock. Make that pretty pussy messier for me, yeah?”

“Oh fuck, Dean” - you were so close - “m’gonna” -

Dean cut you off with a growl, his fingertips nearly bruising your back, “Yesss.”

“M’fuck!”, you screwed your eyes shut, focusing on the feeling building in your core, threatening to break any moment. Again your name fell from his lips, this time mixed with soft commands - “cum for me beautiful” - another grunt - “cum on me baby” - your name followed by a hiss of pleasure - “gonna cum inside of you and let you know what it’s like to be full” - a cry escaped you and Dean realized exactly what you wanted - “like the idea of me dripping out of you beautiful” - your hips began quivering as he fucked you more - “gonna ruin that pretty pussy with my cock” - another snap of his hips with a change of angle hitting your g spot instead - “you’re gonna feel so good full of me that you won’t want for anyone else.”

Your nails dug into the skin of his chest as the rest of you let go, your walls spasming and a bit of white in your vision as you screamed out his name. You came hard and fast. Dean thought of what his cock must look like driving into you, covered in your cream and he kissed you again as he bottomed out and held you down, spilling his warm cum inside of you. He relished in the feel of filling you, always using a condom or pulling out. But cumming inside of you? As he held you there against him, he couldn’t help but think of just how right it felt. The two of you lay there, catching your breath and thinking of what just transpired. Your eyes wide at what just happened, you buried your face into the skin of his chest. Meanwhile, Dean’s face was glazed over with pleasure and hints of what anyone who didn’t know him would think would be love.

Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah. I can't find my bluebird. I listen to my bluebird sing. I can't find my bluebird. I keep rambling, baby.

Dean lazily spoke up, his voice a low and crackly timber, “I might have a new favorite song now, beautiful.”

Much to his disappointment, you kissed him and slowly pushed yourself up before finding your shirt in the driver’s seat. You pulled the shirt on, not bothering with the bra, and sat up to meet you before playfully biting and sucking one of the perfect nipples through your shirt.

As difficult as it was, you chastised him and commented, “We should get back. I hope you have a spare pair of jeans in your car because if not…sorry about that.”

You opened the car door and pushed yourself off of him, already aching for him to fill you once again. Your underwear slid back into place though as you stepped out of the car and pulled your jeans back up, zipping them and buttoning the two buttons. A shiver raced through you as you felt his cum leak against your pussy. By the time you turned to face him and the open car door, he had put himself as together as he could. His cock was tucked away in his jeans, his black torn shirt bundled in his hands and clearly what he used to clean up, flannel buttoned up with the top two undone. Another shiver as you met his eyes, those beautiful eyes looking at you with near possession. What you said next made him huff, “Thank you.”

“Mmm, beautiful, if anything, I should be thanking you.”

The two of you drove back to the bar in silence and when you pulled up next to the impala he leaned across the space and kissed you bye, lingering after to ask, “Why won’t you tell me your last name?”

“Now? Because it’ll ruin the night, Dean. But, I’m sure I’ll see you later, yeah? Go find your brother, go to the motel, and get some sleep. And maybe a shower.” A soft laugh escaped you and why? Was it nerves? Were you nervous at what his reaction would be when he realized the truth of who you were? A little. After all, your dad could scare away just about anyone with his surly demeanor and that shotgun. However, the difference was, Dean would know that when Bobby Singer threatened someone with his shotgun it wasn’t a threat. It was a warning. One he would follow through on.

His thumb traced your bottom lip before commenting, “I better see you later.”

He kissed you once more before getting out of the car, just for you to see him falter slightly as he got to the impala. You rolled down the window and called out, “Dean?”

When he didn’t answer you, you got out of the car and walked behind him, hand on his back, “Dean?”

“This is Sam’s.”

Realization dawned on you. Sam disappeared in the parking lot, at night, just like so many others had. You grimaced and gave his shoulder a squeeze, “We’ll find him, yeah? We’ll find what took him, hunt it, and kill it.”

That’s when you caught his attention, and he turned to face you, studying your features before his eyes grew a little larger with realization, your old childhood nickname falling from his lips and you looked down at the ground, “The one and only. Nice to see you again, Dean.”

“We” - he pointed his finger at him then at you before giving you a stern face that made you want to almost laugh - “are gonna find Sam and then have a bit of a talk. Get in the car.”

He opened up the trunk and took his jacket off, then his flannel, and pulled on another soft t-shirt. As he went to tug on his flannel and jacket you commented, “Yes, sir.” As you passed him, you slapped his ass before climbing into the passenger side. Dean shook his head in disbelief. Of all the people, in all the towns. And no wonder he didn’t recognize you. His tongue ran across his bottom lip before he sucked on his teeth. Slamming the trunk shut, he caught a glimpse of you through the back glass and thought of everything that had just happened and how he would gladly do it again. Speaking under his breath, he commented, “I’m going to hell, and Bobby is gonna be the one to send me there.”

As he got in the car, he noticed you staring out the window at something, “What’s got your attention?”

“We might have caught a break.” You nodded upwards, “Maybe that camera caught something. Think you can get the owner to offer up the tape, Dean?”

“If it’s the same burly guy from earlier tonight, you might have a better chance than me.”

“Oh come on Dean.”

He looked at you, that sly smile on his lips despite the predicament, “Yeah, gunner?”

There it was, that stupid childhood nickname. All because you could outshoot him as a kid, and you smiled knowing you still could. You huffed and resigned for one reason only. Needed to find Sam. Opening the door, you sighed, “I’ll be right back.”

Famous last words.

Dean waited until the last car left, feeling more and more uneasy until then, and decided to go and check. Pulling on the door, it didn’t budge. It was locked shut. Where the hell were you? He muttered a few curses under his breath before the realization set in. You gave him a really nice lead. It was obvious someone that worked here was involved in some way or the other. He needed to find both of you now. Which meant one thing, and only one thing, he was gonna have to go to the cops.

You opened your eyes, gasping for breath as you came to. The first thing you saw was metal bars. Everything was ringing. With a wince, you felt your forehead and your hand came back sticky with blood. The next thing you registered was a voice. Your voice answered the muffled noises, “S-Sam?”

Things began to clear in your vision and you realized just what you were in. It was a cage, bars of wrought iron and from the looks of things, heavily locked. You looked towards him and commented, “Been a long time Sam. Sorry I didn’t recognize you at the bar earlier. I don’t know if you remember me but”-

He interrupted you by saying your name, questioning. You nodded and chuckled, “In the flesh.”

Clearing your throat, your fingers wrapped around the bars to test them. You lifted your legs up and swung into the gate and Sam sighed, “I wouldn’t bother. Already tried like hell.”

By the time Dean found out where you were taken to, along with Sam, he was running on adrenaline. Sam being taken was already a dilemma. You being taken? It was making his nerves wrecked in a way he couldn’t understand. The damn cop that was helping him had left him cuffed to her damn car but he had managed to free himself. Barely. He fell back and followed the slow moving truck to a house that had seen better days and made his way to the back, just to venture into a barn to find Sam. Though, his breath didn’t release till he also heard you crack a joke, “Had to send me to talk to the owner, huh, Dean?”

“Well”- Dean came into your view and crouched down to smile at you -”I was right about one thing. He definitely liked you.”

“Nah, it wasn’t the owner. It was just some asshole out by the back exit that found me as I was looking around. I mouthed off and he said he’d have fun coming after me with an attitude like that. Knocked me out cold.”

That’s when Sam chimed in, “It’s just people.”

“...h-hello?”

“That’d be the cop that brought me here. Hey officer, gonna head back out and look for the key to this switch box, get the three of you out of there and get the hell out.”

You were quick to respond, almost too quick, “Dean, be careful. Not sure how many the”-

“Aww c’mon gunner, I got this, yeah?”

Well, the four of you stood outside of the house a little while later, the police officer telling the three of you to clear out before the FBI and the police showed up. You looked at Dean and asked, “You said they had cars out back. Any chance they brought mine in?”

“Thankfully, yeah. We’d have to find the keys though.”

You smiled, “I have a spare in the glovebox.”

The three of you rode in silence back to town, and you pulled up next to their car, parking. With a smile you looked in the backseat at Sam and commented, “It’s been fun, guys. Really. Call me on the next run that involves killers that keep it in the family, yeah?”

Sam smiled before responding, “Yeah, see yah. Thanks for the ride.”

As he and Dean both got out, you stayed in the car, your thumbs playing with the leather wrapped wheel. Sam walked over to the impala and turned to see if Dean was coming. Dean stopped and stood there, debating. With a grimace of uncertainty, he turned back to your car and leaned down so that he could see you through the open window. You glanced at him, and he opened his mouth to speak, “Lo”-

-“it was a one time thing, Dean. I already know that. And I get it. It works out better this way.”

Dean stopped himself from what he was saying. Look, I don’t know what that meant to you, but I’d like to maybe do that again. In bed. On purpose. A soft smile tugged at his lips, contrasting with what he felt inside at your words. It hurt. But, also, you were probably right. It would work out better this way. And, he’d get over it. So, instead he nodded softly before tapping his hand on the door frame and opening his hand in a wave, “I was just gonna say, tell him hi for me.”

“Yeah, yeah okay Dean.” You put your car in drive, and Dean took his weight off of it and stepped back, watching you drive off until he couldn’t make out the details of your car. A frustration washed over him when he realized this didn’t feel right. Not at all.

He sighed and shook it off, knowing that you were right. He couldn’t give you what you deserved. Though he wasn’t fully sure exactly what that was, he wasn’t in a position to give.

Dean turned to Sam who had an incredulous face, "Please tell me you didn't."

Dean cleared his throat, "Shut up and get in the car, Sammy."

"He's gonna kill you if he f"-

-"then let's keep it so that he doesn't find out."

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester smut #supernatural fanfic #supernatural story

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startrekfangirl2233-writes · 9 months

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Better Than Revenge

Part 4 of You Play Stupid Games, You Win Stupid Prizes

Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x Reader, Past! Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x Reader

Description: It's been a year since you fell in love with Jake Seresin. You'd be a fool if you didn't count yourself so incredibly lucky to know and love him. You adore Jake for everything he is and everything he tries to be for you. But you're not above proving to the world, shouting from the rooftops that Jake is the man for you. You finally get your chance while at a wedding in Italy when Bradley Bradshaw makes a nuisance of himself yet again.

Disclaimer: Female!Reader

Warnings: Sex. Sexual Themes. This chapter is mostly smut, okay?

The content presented in this story is for audiences age 18 and over only. MINORS DNI. I will not be accepting taglist requests from Blank or Ageless Blogs for this story.I do my best to portray adult relationships in this fic. Please do not interact with this story if you feel you are not ready to read about these themes.

Word Count: 4147

A/N: Here is Part 4 of You Play Stupid Games You Win Stupid Prizes! Jake and Bitsie have been through a lot together and I love them so much! This is the scene that started this whole series. This is the scene I first dreamed of and I've been working up to it for months! I really hope you all love it!

AO3: Cross-posted here!

My Masterlist

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You’d think that a girl who’s been deployed all over the world for the US Navy and to a certain capacity travels for her job would know how to be packed and ready far sooner than right before you leave. You’d think, anyhow. It’s currently 1 pm the day of your flight and while Jake is all packed with one itty bitty rolling suitcase and his uniform and a tux in their dress bags, you’re running around like a chicken with its head cut off. At least you’ve managed to get your dress laid out in its bag with Jake’s tux and uniform. You’ve also got your shoes packed in a corner of the suitcase in their special bag. It’s everything else to pack that you have no idea what you’re bringing. Jake’s no help. Every swimsuit you try on gets the same result: hungry eyes and fingers that try to paw the suit right off.

Finally you settle for two bikinis, one in a classic black and the other a purple shade which looks amazing against your skin, as well as two one-piece suits. You weren’t expecting Jake to like the one-piece suits more, but with their plunging necklines and high leg, he hadn’t let you go for at least half an hour.

So, a part of your struggles in packing are Jake. The other part is how nervous you are. This will be your first time meeting Jake’s other friends, his other colleagues. You're not sure if they truly like him or not, but damned if you're not resolved to like them and make them like you. It's the only thought in your mind as you finish slotting underwear, t-shirts, shorts and sundresses into your bag. You add a few more pairs of shoes and a cardigan for if it ever gets chilly and stand back in satisfaction.

With your bag packed, it's easy for you to collect everything else. By the time Mickey's pulled up, you're ready to go. Jake's vibrating out of his skin the entire drive to the airport. After a year of dating, a year of loving him, you think you know exactly why he's so nervous. Pilots don’t generally like flying when they’re not in the cockpit themselves. Seeing as how you’ve never flown with Jake before, you guess you’ll see when you get on the plane. Check-in and security are smooth and before long, you’re on the plane. Before the plane even takes off Jake is white knuckling the arm rests with his eyes closed. You take his hand in yours and settle in for the ride.

Halfway through the flight, you wake up from a nap to see Jake staring broodily out of the tiny airplane window. You push up the arm rest between you.

“Darling?” Normally calling him your darling makes him grin unabashedly. Today, he’s barely responding. You press a kiss against his knuckles, staring at his star-streaked profile as the moonlight seeps into the darkened cabin.

“Jake?” You tug gently on his hand until he turns to you.

“Sweetheart?” His voice is hoarse and deep. It sends shivers down your spine as you tug him towards you, kissing his lips gently. When you pull away, his eyes stay closed for several long beats. You examine his face, cataloging the new dark patches under his eyes. He hadn’t slept well the night before, when you were home either, and normally he loves your bed.

“What’s going on Jake?” You cup his cheek, tugging him down until your forehead is pressed against his.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Bitsie-girl.” You scrunch your nose before pecking his lips again.

“Uh-huh. Suuure.” You cuddle into his chest, drawing one of the thin, scratchy airline blankets up over his lap and yours.

“Something’s eating at you, Jakey.” He kisses your forehead, breathing a little raggedly. “What’s going on? I thought you were excited beyond words to be Arrow’s best man?”

“I am excited for him.” He inhales deeply, tugging you in closer. "But I also don't know how I'll face him again."

"Why?" You snuggle closer to his broad chest.

His voice drops to a whisper, barely audible over the plane engines and the ambient cabin noise. "Because I'm the reason why he doesn't fly anymore. If I had been a little bit faster, I would've saved him and he wouldn't have to wear crutches to stand at the altar."

Your voice is vehement as you press a kiss over his heart. "You saved his life, Jake. You did. He wouldn't be getting married at all this week if it weren't for you. This is something to celebrate."

"Then why doesn't it feel like it, darling?" You can hear all of the emotion clogging his throat. "All of my old squadron members are going to be there. I haven't seen any of them since Arrow got sent home. What if they blame me for what I did? What if they hate me for not being fast enough? For being too cautious up in the air?"

It hurts your heart when you feel wet warmth smattering against your forehead. You just hug Jake to you tighter. You can't imagine what it's like to have to make snap decisions like that. All you can do is be there for Jake. You fall asleep like that, curled up in his arms, waking only when the flight attendants bring around the breakfast service.

Jake looks like he's feeling a little bit better, at least. He's back to being your very own ridiculous Texan puppy-dog of a man. Jake spends the remainder of the flight flirting unendingly with you and making you flush from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. There is no way you’ll ever be able to hide how he makes you feel.

He’s still a bit off, you can tell, though his mask is near impenetrable. He smiles the same, laughs the same, but there is a part of what makes Jake, a special spark that is missing. The Hangman mask, his armor is back up. Indeed, if he were a castle, he’d have the drawbridge up and the moat filled with hungry crocodiles. When he’s in his own head like this, you know there is no way you’ll be able to get him to open up to you. You can only pray that he’ll work himself out of the funk, pray that you won’t lose him to his own intrusive thoughts.

It’s been about a week since you landed in Italy and you can’t be more in love with the experience if you tried. The food is amazing, the scenery takes your breath away and you adore waking up bare in your obscenely expensive cottage surrounded by wild roses with your boyfriend wrapped around you. Jake’s happy, it seems, so long as you are. He’s gone out of his way to make you smile this trip, but his nerves from the plane, the nerves he’s been hiding the entirety of your trip thus far, come out in full force when you’re at the wedding, specifically at the reception.

The entire function is happening in a gorgeous old villa in the countryside, with the reception taking place on the sprawling grounds. There are clusters of fragrant night-blooming roses perfuming the air with their delicate fragrance and with Jake by your side, now dressed in a perfectly fitted black tuxedo, you rather feel like Cinderella at the ball dancing with Prince Charming for the first time.

Jake had been taciturn, his face a mockery of a smile the whole night, at least until he caught up with the groom. Arrow, Carson, as you’d learned was his given name, didn’t hold a grudge towards Jake at all. He’d hugged Jake after the ceremony and the two men had shed manly tears while you chatted with Amanda, Carson’s new wife, getting to know her.

Indeed, it seemed like none of Jake’s old squad held a grudge to him. He’d been greeted with smiles and bro-hugs all night long, slowly but surely untensing with each affectionate greeting and smiling face. In fact, he’d even danced with Mandy while Carson had swept you away in a dance later that night.

“You make him really happy, you know, Bitsie?” You smile at Carson, not minding the shuffling sway he’s got you in on the dance floor at all.

“He makes me really happy too, Carson.” You grin, seeing the way Mandy laughs, throwing her head back at what Jake says to her.

“Jake looks at you the way I look at my Mandy.” You giggle nervously at his words.

“He does?” You’re sneaking besotted glances at Jake the entire time you talk to Carson on the dance floor.

“Yeah, he does. I haven’t seen him this happy, ever, I think, Bitsie. You bring out something special in him. Something which makes him glow in a way I’ve never seen before. You make him a better man.” You’re gaping at Carson when the song ends, pulling away from his polite grasp on your waist and hand to clap for the live band. “Take care of him, Bitsie. And thank you for getting him to come to this wedding. There was nobody else I would want to be my best man.”

You carefully hand Carson over to Amanda, not even minding when Jake gets pulled into the crowd of men around the groom as he does the garter toss. You meander your way over to the bar, and it’s as you grab a glass of Prosecco when you encounter Bradley Bradshaw again. You knew he was going to be at the wedding, so it’s not a surprise. You’d evaded him, time and again, from the moment you’d sat down on the groom’s side of the aisle. Having Jake as a six-foot-tall glaring guard dog certainly helped. So did having the insulatory presence of Amanda and her bridesmaids, all of whom were Jake’s ex-squad members’ partners and wives. The group had easily adopted you as one of their own and now you have a whole new set of girlfriends to get to know and keep up with when you’re all stateside again.

But now, as you take in the all too familiar scent of patchouli and cedar wood emanating from the man next to you, you can’t help wondering what he wants. All of your fond memories of your time with Bradley have soured. It’s like the curtains were pulled aside, letting daylight in. You finally see all of the flaws, hidden in plain sight.

“Hey, Bitsie.” He sounds oddly subdued, sad and very lonely. You’d half expected him to have Britney or Natasha on his arm tonight, but he’d come alone and stayed mostly alone the whole night through.

“Bradshaw.” You sip on your Prosecco, exuding your disinterest with everything you have.

“Thank you, Bitsie.” At your little questioning hum, he continues. “Thank you for finding my mom’s wedding ring in that pawn shop.”

“Oh, you got the ring back?” Your tone is still light and half-disinterested. But you can’t help but feel a little rush of relief. In truth, other than the old woman at the pawn shop and her son, the only person you had told about what you did with Carole Bradshaw’s ring is Jake. He hadn’t been pleased, exactly, but he’d come around to your way of thinking after a little bit. You couldn’t in your right mind keep Bradley's mother’s wedding ring from him. The urge for revenge has long ago faded to dust.

“Yeah. A kind stranger tracked me down via the pawnshop owners. Britney,” He spits her name with disgust, “sold it to them complaining about how her ex was abusive and she was pregnant and needed money to run away from him to keep her unborn baby safe.” He chuckles mirthlessly, flagging the bartender down for another whiskey. “She then walked right into the liquor store across the street and bought a bottle of vodka which she drank right in view of the cameras.”

He’s tracing absent-minded circles on the bartop in front of him.

“How did I go so wrong, Bitsie?” He drags his hands distractedly through his curls. “I wish I’d never met her. She fucked up my entire life. I lost everything I’ve ever had because of her.”

“She single-handedly tanked my reputation, lost me my friends, and destroyed my relationship with the best girl I’ve ever known.” Now this, you weren’t expecting.

“You, Bitsie. She destroyed my relationship with you.” You're not sure how to respond. In your shock, he's even closer to you, so close you can smell the whiskey on his breath and see the glassy sheen in his eyes as he looks at you.

"I'm so sorry for that. Is there any way? Is there any way, at all, that you can forgive me? Is there any way you can give me another chance?" He's looking at you with puppy dog eyes, the brown orbs nearly glowing in the light.

"No, Bradshaw. I'm sorry. That door, that relationship between us? It's done. I've moved on. I wasn't lying when I told you all those months ago that I found somebody better. The best part is, he makes me better." Around you, the party erupts in cheers and whoops as the man who caught the garter is paraded around. To your happy surprise, it's Jake. He's grinning widely from ear to ear with the lacey garter hanging lopsidedly out of the breast pocket of his suit. His expression changes the minute he sees who you're talking to, though.

"Bradshaw." If your tone was cool, Jake's is like a glacier swept through the party. A crackling tension sets up between the two men looming on either side of you.

"Seresin." Bradley's got an evil glint in his eyes. "What's up? Afraid your girl will leave with me?" He chuckles. "Well, she picked me once. Who's to say she won't do it again?"

Jake's tense against your side. Rather than respond, you leave your glass on the counter, order a pair of shots and down both. Then you take Jake's hand and drag him out of the tent and into the garden. This is exactly why you would never even consider being with Bradley Bradshaw again. He goes from having a nice-ish moment to being a complete dick in seconds.

You know Bradley's following you. You can hear quite clearly how he calls your name over and over. There's a maze on the grounds and you lead Jake there, pressing him into an alcove watched over by a greek-style statue of Venus. The marble is festooned in flowers and shines palely in the moonlight.

Jake's jaw is still clenched as you press him into the cool stone and kiss him like you want him to forget everything but your name. His lips are spit slicked and swollen when you pull away and his hands are hot against your waist as he paws absently at the fabric encasing you.

"What, Bitsie-girl, was that for?" He sounds wrecked already, a sizeable bulge in his pants as you drag your hand over his crotch.

"That was because I love you. You. Just you. Nobody else." You smile up at Jake, cupping his jaw in your hands, relishing in the soft pinpricks of his stubble against the pads of your fingers.

"I love you too, baby." He tries to drag you in for another kiss, but you're cognizant of eyes on your back. So, you drop to your knees in the gravel, letting your gown pool around you as you nuzzle against Jake's cock, staring coquettishly up at him through your eyelashes.

His gasp as you drag the zipper down and free his hard length is like music to your ears. Jake's length already glistens in the moonlight, the tip dribbling precum as you draw it between your cherry red lips. You struggled with blow jobs a lot in the early days of your relationship with Jake, never knowing how much suction to use or your own limits. But after a year of tutelage, you can suck Jake off in minutes now. He always feels like sin in your mouth, hard and velvety soft against your tongue.

Tonight, you're not in the mood to tease. You take him to the root, relishing the choked off gasp and how he grabs the edge of the alcove to keep from bucking into your face. You tease him, treating his cock like a popsicle, licking and sucking until he loses his control and actually begins fucking your face. You thank Venus herself for waterproof mascara as the insistent pace sets tears welling in the corners of your eyes. You know Jake's close to coming by the moans spilling out of his mouth. You glance up at him again and moan around his length as he cums. When he drags you up for a kiss, you stop him, showing off his spend coating your tongue before swallowing and parting your lips again to share how good you are.

"God, Sweetheart." Jake's voice is all drawl as he turns to cage you against the statue. "Look at you. All pretty, dressed up in a gorgeous gown with your mouth fulla my cum?"

"How did I get so lucky? How did I get you to be mine?"

You shrug cheekily in response, gasping as you feel cool stone against your bare back. Your gown gapes forward, baring your breasts to your heart's hungry gaze. You don't know when Jake unzipped you, but right now you could care less.

Each longing glance from your boyfriend sets flames alight under your skin. You can't hide your moan when Jake mouths at your nipples. Your eyes nearly close in pleasure, but you still see Bradley Bradshaw, because who else would it be, standing just behind another statue looking right at you.

Your leg is wrapped around Jake's waist, the skirt of your dress rucked up around your waist. His hips grind his length up into you. You're just wearing panties under the dress and you wish you hadn't worn anything at all under it now. Jake's mouth is hot and wet over your peaked nipples as he leaves hickeys over the tender skin and makes you babble his name.

"My pretty Bitsie-girl. D'you want my dick, baby? D'you want it buried deep in that wet little hole?" He sucks harshly on one of your nipples, using your mewl of pleasure to bury two of his fingers into your cunt. Each thrust of his long fingers combined with the constant assault of his mouth on your tits has your head lolling, mind fogging with pleasure as you stare right into Bradley Bradshaw's eyes.

"Yes, Jakey. Yes, please. God, right there." You feel wicked and so turned on, staring into your ex boyfriend's eyes while your current boyfriend reduces you to a wet, drooling, mindless mess with his mouth and fingers. "Mm, you feel so good. Gonna come, Jakey. Don't stop! Don't stop."

You come with a scream, your back arching as you positively gush around Jake's fingers. He's grinning wickedly at you, his teeth trapping one perky nipple between them before he kisses you.

"There y'are. My wild, wild, Bitsie-girl. My sweetheart. God, you look so pretty like that, coming for me. I'm going to marry you, one day, pretty girl." You moan into the kiss he presses to your mouth, open mouthed and sloppy. "I'm gonna marry you and fuck you in your wedding dress, just like this."

Your voice is cheeky as you trace your fingers over his hard length. "Mmm… you're putting a lot of stock into your dick game, Cowboy. You haven't even fucked me yet. You gonna put your money where your mouth is?"

His groan is musical as he turns you around, pressing your bare tits into the cold marble and buries his cock in you with one swift thrust. It lifts you several inches, dragging your sensitive nipples across the marble and makes you moan so loud the sound echoes. Each thrust has you grasping the statue with shaking hands. Jake always feels so good, especially like this when he's all over you and he's all you can think about. Well, not everything. Despite your ragged breathing and the way Jake's hands and mouth are all over you, a wicked part of you hopes Bradley likes his show.

You hope he gets the picture. You're done. You've moved on. Jake gives it to you better than he ever could. But it's a fleeting thought, quickly driven away by the cresting wave building in your gut and the way every fiber of your being is screaming for Jake. You feel all strung out, like your skin is too tight and you're shivering as a cool breeze blows over the garden. You're surrounded by the scent of Jake's cologne and hundreds if not thousands of roses blooming in the late night air.

The combination sinks into your skin, turning your arousal up a hundred-fold, making you thrust your hips back to meet his. The additional stimulation has you even closer to your second orgasm of the night, and you can hear Jake's groan in your ear, the special one that he always lets out when he's about to come himself. You grab your skirt in one hand, rucking it up higher, and drag Jake's hands up with the other to fondle your tits.

The new angle when he reels you against his chest has your eyes crossing as every thrust hits your g-spot. You can already feel your pussy fluttering, spamming around his length as your orgasm builds and builds. You come with a scream when he pinches and tugs at your nipples, rolling them against his calloused fingers as you writhe in his arms. He follows after you with a bitten off curse shortly after.

Your face is hot and you can't help your whimper when Jake pulls away. He kisses your bare shoulder softly, murmuring, "I know, sweetheart, I know. Let's eat some cake and then you can have this cock all night, okay? My pretty Bitsie girl. My sweet slutty baby. You’re mine, Bitsie, baby. Mine."

You shudder when he settles your panties back in place, the lace quickly becoming sticky as your mixed cum drips out of you. You turn in his arms easily, kissing him until you're breathless. Jake lifts you up onto the base of the statue, grinning at your pout when the cold marble meets your hot, mostly bare ass. When he peppers kisses across your bare tits, you surreptitiously look for your voyeur.

Surprisingly, or well, maybe not, Bradley Bradshaw is still where you saw him last. He's flushed, blushing profusely, so red he could glow like a neon sign. Did he get the message? You tug Jake closer, kissing him as you wrap your arms around his neck. Just in case Bradley didn't get the message, you flip him off with both hands behind Jake's head, soon losing yourself to the kiss.

It's about a quarter of an hour later when you walk back into the party. You'd cleaned up as best you could in one of the bathrooms, but you're sure nothing can actually hide your blissed out, well-fucked glow. Jake's not even trying to hide it. He walks up to Carson and you can't hide your giggle as all the men take one look at him and start smirking and laughing at him. The one man in the group who can't meet Jake's eyes is Bradley. He got the message, then.

You, of course, are bombarded with questions from Mandy, questions you can't help answering, all the while grinning mischievously at your new friend as she tells you she covered for Jake earlier. During her Bachelorette party a few days earlier, you'd actually told her the whole saga of Bradley and Jake and you. So she knows, and Mandy has never doubted your choice. It makes you happy to know that Jake has such good friends.

It's not long at all before you and Jake make your exit from the party. The night, still perfumed with rose, seems filled with promise. So much so, that you can't hide your tears when Jake leads you into the small flower festooned gazebo in the garden of your rental cottage and asks you to marry him.

You say, well actually, scream "YES!", of course, and then promptly drag your fiancé into the bedroom for a 'she said yes' fuck. Bradley Bradshaw isn’t even a thought in your head. Not anymore. You can’t wait to hear what Jake says when you tell him you had an audience in the villa garden. Knowing him, you won’t be able to walk when he’s done with you.

Taglist:

✈️ @greenbaby12 ✈️ @mayhemmanaged ✈️ @desert-fern

✈️ @roostersforevergirl ✈️ @cassiemitchell ✈️ @eli2447

✈️ @the-romanian-is-bae ✈️ @luckyladycreator2 ✈️ @lunamoonbby

✈️ @daphne-turner ✈️ @callsign-athena ✈️ @angeliccks ✈️ @dakotakazansky

✈️ @daisydaisygoose ✈️ @inky-sun ✈️ @fighterpilothoe

✈️ @pulisvertz ✈️ @wildxwidow ✈️ @angelbabyange

✈️ @chaoticassidy ✈️ @genius2050 ✈️@sarahsmi13s ✈️ @roosterforme

✈️ @lavenderbradshaw ✈️ @bobby-r2d2-floyd ✈️ @lovinglyeternal

✈️ @bradleybeachbabe ✈️

I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN HERE OR ON AO3 BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN HERE OR AO3, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.

#star writes #you play stupid games you win stupid prizes #top gun fanfic #top gun fanfiction #top gun maverick fanfic #top gun maverick fanfiction #hangman x reader #jake hangman seresin x reader #jake seresin x reader #past rooster x reader #past bradley bradshaw x reader #past bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster is a dick #he's not the greatest in this #top gun imagine #top gun angst

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pomplalamoose · 6 months

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Can we please have some luke fluff hc’s?🙏 from any era idc i just love your writing💗

Thank you so much, anon!!! <33

I'm so on board for more lighthearted Luke content to warm our hearts, it's what he deserves🤝🏻

Also I veered into kinda new territory for me; while many of these take place in the Star Wars universe as normal, I included some modern day AU ones too

• the Jedi are taught to take extra care of their clothing and appearance because whenever they're out and about they take on a mostly representative role, whether they want to or not

• this also includes learning how to correctly mend and take care of their belongings

• I don't think that this was at the very front of Luke's education though, Obi-Wan and Yoda really had more pressing conditions to work with

• however, as everyone can clearly see, nobody had to specifically tell Luke about this

• (just look at the man)

• not only did he grow up with maybe one (1) relatively good fitting outfit, I'm also sure that because of this he was taught how to fix holes and re do seams as well as sewing his buttons back on himself

• I'm even convinced he's able to make a simple pair of pants and a shirt from scratch should it be really necessary

• something about the picture of you and Luke sitting together on a warm summer evening or during a winter night and you watching him silently working away is just the peak of domesticity

• he enjoys fixing clothes, especially if by doing so he can do a favor to those he loves

• I think in a way it calms him too

• he'd definitely help out his Padawans with it as well

• I firmly believe he owns a small sewing kit, complete with a thimble

• (maybe two: one he's actually using and a second hand made one out of porcelain because he thinks it's really pretty)

• maybe, in addition and if he has the time, he'd try out similar activities like crocheting, knitting, stitching, etc.

• I don't think he'd be very good at it but everything he crafts is made with love and there is no one around who doesn't appreciate his efforts

• imagine him knitting little socks and hats and scarves for all of his students

• for some reason he really struggles with online tutorials though

• they're always going too fast, he can't see what exactly it is they're showing, and often times they're just overcomplicating really simple steps

• he finds this to be very frustrating

• he probably uses a very (very!) old fashioned book to learn instead

• its margins are full of scribbles of its previous owners and Luke adds his own

• he draws smiley faces next to the patterns he likes most

• Luke is a DIY king

• something that really comes in handy as a Jedi master

• at the very beginning, just at the start of his own academy, he definitely did most of the occurring tasks himself, also including preparing the meals for everyone

• he's a decent cook but I think he'd get really into baking

• baking bread is one of his favorite free time activities

• my sister insists upon the fact that he'd make the absolute best focaccia

• (or its Star Wars equivalent at least)

• he really likes trying out new recipes, especially those he never heard about before

• with varying degrees of success, as some of them are not meant to be made by humans

• but worry not, nothing is getting wasted

• Luke's collection of little fish friends is always happy to eat the remaining crumbs

• (for those that don't know what I'm talking about, check out my other random Luke headcanons if you'd like)

• he has special outfits for his training sessions, including many different shoes

• depending on what or where it is he's practicing, he chooses them carefully

• inside he's wearing soft slippers and soft slippers only, boots are a no go

• it's very much established that Luke is wonderfully emphathetic and always ready to stand by your side, may it be during your period or when you're struggling mentally

• he's still wonderfully emphathetic and caring when you're sick but like, only from very far away

• he'll refuse to come near you if you so much as mention you're not feeling well

• if you have to sneeze or cough even a little bit he's immediately asking whether you've fallen ill or are about to

• just say you feel like you're getting a cold and he's on retreat immediately

• he can't get sick as well!

• he's working with children!!!

• at least one of them is always sick anyways, he can't be contagious under any circumstances!

• he'd feel so bad if he were to be responsible for even more of them suffering

• he feels horrible for not being there for you too though

• so he still does his best

• he prepares warm meals and tea every day and let's R2 deliver them

• he always checks in on you when you're asleep

• he changes your bed sheets while you take a shower or a bath

• he'd totally make a doctor's appointment for you if you're too scared to make the phone call yourself

• he makes sure you're taking your medications

• he pats your back and strokes your hair using the Force

• Luke would absolutely hate quarantine

• at first he'd still be pretty optimistic, thinking it won't be that bad, maybe even fun?

• he'll just meditate a lot, right?

• after all he has mastered his temper now, his patience renowned among his friends and students

• this mindset works at the beginning and for a while he's happy to sleep in for as long as he wants to

• however he forgets about the concept of time quickly enough and soon has no idea what day it is

• when was the last time he had breakfast?

• since he's a very outdoorsy person, always on the move, always doing something, it wouldn't take long until he's getting kinda antsy too

• and while he does enjoy the calm and quiet, he's mostly used to being the center of bustling activities

• soon he takes desperate measures to pass the time, even trying out things he before swore to not be interested in in the slightest

• I see him taking lots and lots of Buzzfeed quizzes

• he texts you about every single result

• one of his first ones was about what kind of animal he'd be and he absolutely hated the outcome

• he eventually ended up making his own quiz because of it

• he likes watching you play video games more than playing them himself

• it's very relaxing to him, especially after a long day at work

• plus he gets to hold you extra close under the pretense of being very interested to see what's going on on screen

• he dozes off pretty quickly though

• while he's happy to let you play whatever you want, I think he has his favorites as well

• Animal Crossing being at the very front

• he loves when you show him your town or island, how you decorated your house and which villagers you're best friends with

• he too would have the newest game, simply because you were missing a few items and he was determined to get them for you

• it would totally escalate during quarantine though, and suddenly he'd have a fully decorated five star island

• (Luke Skywalker plays Animal Crossing with a passion and I'm ready to fight anyone about it)

• for some reason he gets really competitive during Mario Kart and Just Dance

• he unapologetically wins at every single Wii Sports mini game and no matter what you do and how much you practice, he's always better and not in the least bit sorry about it

• he is a Macher™ (please let there be some German fans who know what I'm talking about)

#ask #luke skywalker #luke skywalker x reader #luke skywalker x you #luke skywalker fanfiction #star wars #luke star wars #star wars fanfiction #fanfic #star wars a new hope #star wars empire strikes back #star wars return of the jedi #star wars headcanons #luke headcanons #fluff #lots of fluff

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gofancyninjaworld · 7 months

Text

The List of Predictions for OPM Webcomic Chapter 146

Thank you to everyone who has made a bet. I was hoping that in a great irony, ONE would have put up a continuation, but so far, so bad.

Here's the list! Keep your numbers safe, and we'll see what shakes out!

Number

Prediction

1 Dr Bofoi is already dead. Bonus: Genos gets framed for his death.

2 Who's ex-hero hunter ex-jobhunter Garou hunting now?

3Dr Kuseno is not dead (light edition): Saitama did take him to get medical care after all.

4 Dr Kuseno is not dead (dark edition): Destro and Erimin have done a touch of 'recovery' work

5 Overgrown Pochi remembers that he was a guard dog, hulks out and incinerates the invading robots. All 4 million of them.

6 Tatsumaki returns triumphant and not a moment too soon. Man, what would you guys do without her?

7 Blast finally deigns to show up in this version. Bonus: he meets Blue.

8 Metal Bat gets out of jail.

9 McCoy finally finds some ethics.

10 Turns out that Saitama did follow Genos after all.

11 Saitama goes home and arrives just in the nick of time. Bonus: Somehow King still gets the credit for destroying the robots invading the HA.

12 JOKER: ONE declares that he's ending the webcomic.

13 Webigaza is toast. :(

14 Watchdogman is finally no longer mysterious.

15 Tank Top Master puts on an extra tank top and wades back into battle.

16 Accel gets a reality check.

17 Dr Bofoi has some explaining to do.

18 Zenko is real!

19 Saitama saves the day. Somehow.

20 Lightning Max (and other wounded pro-heroes) find the tender mercies of the Neo Heroes to be far from tender.

21 King shows off his muscles!

22 What's Drive Knight up to?

23 Pig God and robots. Are they tasty?

24 Black Sperm discovers his inner Dimple.

25 Garou and Metal Bat meet for the first time. Bonus: they hit it off!

26 Genos finally has a showdown with his nemesis.

27 Zombieman comes back in style, showing us his hard-earned abilities.

28 Webigaza is saved! Phew! :)

29 Never mind the robot apocalypse, what about Flashy Flash versus the Abandoned Masses? Fight!

30 Saitama gets a new hero name at last! Bonus: it's also naff.

31 My kingdom for a sword! Atomic and his disciples are back, all blazing fury and blades.

32 Darkshine finds his courage to fight.

33 Suiryu saves Suiko.

34 Mr. Fuzzy is pleased: this is all going according to plan.

35 Just because the suits aren't sold to you doesn't mean they're free: the Neo Heroes find out what their organisation really wants from them.

36 Mental health break: Saitama's cactus did survive after all!

37 JOKER: The OPM webcomic is set to be collected and commercially published as a spin off.

38 Saitama and Blue come to an agreement.

39 ONE is extra evil: time skip to the aftermath. How long can this man keep teasing us?

40 The Organization formally makes its demands.

41 The most reluctant hero in the world, Speed o' Sound Sonic, does something about the apocalypse. Bonus: he rids the world of A.

42 Mr. Fuzzy never saw this turn of events coming.

43 For once, Flashy Flash gets to play the main character to his heart's content. He isn't, but let him have it. :)

44 We catch up with Child Emperor and find what he's realized.

45 Raiden gets humbled anew.

46 God cube, God cube, getcha God cubes right here! No bets on who has one or how they're using it.

47 Bang stops clipping his nails long enough to do something about the pesky robots. The HA really owes him one now.

48 Genos discovers the secret of strength. This one really should have been a joker, but I could only have two.

49 Puri Puri's infinite receptacle of love versus a thousand robots. Who wins?

50 Genos gives Dr. Kuseno the decent burial he deserves.

51 One small bright spot: all is well in City Q.

52 Amai Mask comes out of hiding to help.

53 The easiest bet: there is a giant fight between Genos and Metal Knight's robots.

54 We finally find out who the Rampaging Cyborg is.

#OPM #webcomic #predictions #chapter 146 #so many ways ONE could go #I hope one or two come to pass

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factorialsotherfandoms · 4 months

Text

And, done! Please enjoy 5 chapters of xcom au nonsense, specifically that mission I keep referencing where many people get fucked up. (Unfortunately Pac gets 2 PoVs and Roier none because... *gestures* I suck at writing Roier?). Also god I want to write Forever's PoV but its 9pm and I started this at like half 11 and shhh.

TW: blood, explosions, major injuries, near death experiences, head injuries, possession, hosptials, nausea, violence, panic, player-on-player violence, really stupid life choices, *hand waves medicine with scifi excuses*

Chapter 1 - Pac

It’s a long flight from Canada to Norway. Even with the emergency call coming through as soon as it did, Pac knows there is likely little they can do to help. Mike sits beside him in the helicopter, adjusting the settings on the Rats for the terrain. Nobody imagines there’s much to hack, but the team is a mess of people who could be scrambled that fast - himself and Mike, Roier, Missa and Philza. Philza is nominally in command, but stuff like this…

Once they get to the ground, it’s just a case of going wherever there’s civilians still alive and hope for the best.

Mike nestles in his brain, and Pac takes a breath. He unclenches his fingers from his trousers, and checks over his own kit instead.

Knife, gun, potion in place of a grenade. They hadn’t been able to scrape many together - Philza has the rest, loaded into his Crow for easier distribution - and they hope it’s enough.

Check inside your gun

A reminder from Mike - it was jamming on the training range a few days back.

Pac nods and sends a vague acknowledgement back along the bond, pulling out his screwdrivers. A couple of the parts he oils, but otherwise everything seems fine. He’s satisfied, and so is Mike, so Pac closes his eyes and nestles himself in the back of Mike’s brain, and lets his body catch some rest.

“We don’t have a map of the camp,” Philza’s voice pulls him into the present, though he remains where he was before. “We’re unlikely to have much cover. Missa, if you want to get up on a roof as soon as we land, I’ll join you when I can.”

The sniper nods, tying back his hair despite it already being under his hood, “you’ll be okay?”

“We’ll be fine,” Philza glances around the rest. “Whatever building Missa picks - you guys take the right, Roier and I take the left?”

So long as Pac is with Mike, he doesn’t mind; he gives Mike that vague impression, and lets him speak for both of them.

“Do you want us to focus scouting or clearing?” Mike asks.

Philza looks at Roier, who shrugs.

“If you see people, focus on getting to them. Otherwise, make sure there’s nothing to sneak up on you.”

Pac stretches just enough of himself back into his own body to give a thumbs up. Then, under Mike’s nudging, he slowly drags the rest of himself back.

There’s only o much to do in the helicopter, so he reaches down and stretches out his back. With the limited space available he does his best to prepare his body, working his muscles out of the cramp from the helicopter seats. Around him the others do the same.

No but seriously what is up with those two

Huh?

Pac looks up - Mike steals his body a second to slam his face back down. Instead he shows him an image of Missa staring at Philza, doey eyes. And a return, of Philza’s attention a little too taken by the man’s shoulders while he stretches.

Pac knows the smile meets his lips.

I’m not sure he answers Mike but Fit says Phil’s wife has been trying to get them in bed together for years, so it’s nothing new.

I knew that, it’s just painful

They’ll work it out.

What, like you and Fit?

Hey!

There isn’t time for Pac to be more than indignant; no sooner as he snapped to glare at Mike than Niki’s voice comes over the intercom.

“We’re two minutes out,” she says. “There’s no clear landing zone, so you’ll have to use lines to get in. Once you’re there, you’re on your own - they’ve got MECs out, so I can’t loiter, and I can’t collect you until they’re taken out. Will park up as close as I can and I’ll be back as soon as you give me the all clear. Stay in contact, okay?”

While she’s in the pilot’s seat, there’s no good way to reply to her - Philza sends a text message of acknowledgement through on the comms.

Roier is already up and working on prepping the lines; Pac goes to help, and leaves the others to the fine print.

---

Everything is on fire.

That’s an exaggeration, but not by a whole lot. Almost everything is on fire, and Pac pulls out a mask to protect him from the smoke. He sees the others do the same, taking it in turns to cover each other.

And by the time they have masks on, filters so they can breathe the air, already the aliens are there. At the edge of his vision, Pac spots one harassing an older gentleman. Mike knows where he’s going before he does, already shooting at the stun-baton wielding Federation Guard as Pac slides into place.

He gets his knife between the baton and the gentleman, and tells him to run.

The man doesn’t need telling twice, taking the distraction to get himself out of the fight.

With a glance Pac spots Missa signalling to a building. He acknowledges, and shows Mike how to loop behind.

They don’t get very far. Pac feels the familiar headache of someone else using psionics nearby, and a sickly purple glow covers the corpse of the guard they just killed.

He backs away, finding the security of Mike, as they watch the corpse reanimate. It holds itself wrong, strangely, stumbling and lopsided and still very, very much dead.

One of the Lost - a zombie.

Across the car park they see Philza and Roier contending with more of the same, all glowing purple. Missa, already up one storey, turns and kills one of them. There’s not…

A Sectoid can raise one zombie at a time. But five? Five is not a Sectoid, that’s…

He looks at Mike, finds his eyes.

What is that?

I- I- I don’t know

Mike’s eyes are wide and wild, Pac’s sure his own are much the same.

Greetings

Another voice - not Mike’s - pierces into Pac’s brain. His fingers grabs onto Mike, latches tightly, tries to breathe and breathe and breathe as he continues firing on anything dangerous in his line of sight. Maybe he isn’t a sharpshooter, but he has a gun, and he knows how to use it.

The Elders have chosen me, and I shall not spurn their blessings. Humanity’s destiny lies only at their side, to bring their vision to this world and beyond. Come, allow yourselves to be reclaimed for the glory of the gods!

Pac thinks the voice might intend to say more; dizzy under an array of images, visions of the speaker’s view for the world, he feels Mike’s mind pull on his. Grab him, hold him, pull him back through the bond.

As soon as he makes it to Mike’s mind, mental shields are thrown around him. He’s unsteady too, breathing heavily in a way the smoke does not account for; Pac grabs his hand, and takes a moment.

One breath, two breaths, throw his own shields around himself.

“Pacy?” Mike whispers to him, in voice and bond.

“I’m here,” Pac takes a sharp breath. “Thanks.”

“Be more careful, idiot.”

Mike lets go, and leaves Pac to find himself. He does - and quickly - for there are more civilians here to save.

He eases himself back into his own mind. He feels Mike follow and check his shields, before the bond fades back into a dull presence. It’s harder to feel Mike when they’re both shielding their minds, but with something that powerful present… It’s not worth the risk of leaving the hole for each other.

Philza’s Crow circles them. Pac looks up, finds its owner’s eyes and gives a shaky thumbs up. He gets a nod back, and a gesture to be safe, before Philza jogs after Roier.

They should leave too; Missa’s already in place, and whatever the fuck that was it’s already here. There’s a few people hiding inside the building - Pac gives them directions somewhere safer, back into the area the group have already killed. Mike briefs another pair, sending them along.

Across and outside there’s some commotion. An explosion.

He watches the end of the two zombies exploding - stood next to Roier, already scratched. Roier has the presence of mind to cover his face, but it’s… The explosion is psionic, Pac feels a twinge of it against his shield. Roier takes some shrapnel, but what it’s done internally is more the worry.

Roier’s standing, though - Roier is still standing, so he’ll live.

There’s another shout - through another window he sees Philza stagger under some… Some creature they’ve never seen before ramming a gun straight into head. Roier turns back and shoots it, but it takes another shot from Philza to go down.

He gestures through the window, asking Philza if he’s okay.

Their mission commander is clearly /not/, but Roier is there, and seems to help him shake it off.

Pac looks back to Mike.

Mike looks over to Pac.

They’re careful as they make their way outside.

Outside is a gas station, a counterpart to the car park on the other side. There’s a woman hiding terrified between a surprisingly functional looking car - the fuel tank has been leaking, but that’s an easy patch job if the rest of it is as okay as it seems.

There’s also a fucking MEC leering around, just the other side of the car, seemingly looking for her - like she just ran, just escaped.

Missa is already swapping buildings for a better line of sight, abandoning his current hiding spot for the gas station roof. Lower, but better lines of sight.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Mike hisses at him.

Pac dares.

He leaves Mike cursing behind him, and hops out through an already shattered window. He sprints over, and around, getting to the woman as Mike’s Rats move towards the MEC.

“Hi,” he smiles at her. “Are you hurt? It’s going to be okay.”

She doesn’t reply.

She instead stands to her full height.

The skin peels away from her flesh, an oozing, pulsating glob of tissue and sinew pushing it’s way out of her corpse, and to its height twice as tall again.

Pac doesn’t have time to scream as she - it - raises one hand. It forms claws of metal, absorbed from else where, and brings them down.

There’s not even time to shield his face before the claws drag down. He can hear himself screaming - hear Mike screaming too. And then, an ungodly screech, as metal claws catch on the car behind him.

As soon as it’s over he grabs at his face, putting on pressure, trying to stem the bleeding as he hears Mike scream for him, and Philza.

Right, right, Pac has a potion, he should… Probably use that - ah, fuck, there’s a lot of blood.

It’s one of the last thoughts he has; he lifts one hand to look for his potion, only to see the fuel beneath the car alight.

Metal on metal.

Sparks.

There’s no real time to do anything as it catches to the engine, catches on what ever experimental fuel this complex has been using. Pac manages to angle his flesh leg away from the oncoming explosion and pull his arms up to protect his head.

That’s it.

Fire and shrapnel hits him full force. He doesn’t even have breath to keep screaming as agony sets every nerve on fire. He reaches out mentally, scraping, searching for Mike - but Mike’s shields are still up, and he’s just clawing against a wall, begging to be let him.

He can still hear their joint screams - one of agony, one of pain.

The force of the explosion has him prone on the floor. The flesh monster is still there, looking battered but still standing.

And the MEC, standing for now, but full of fuel and explosives and some of it’s been caught by the fuel explosion and Mike’s Rats manage to run but Pac’s on the floor and he knows, he knows that this explosion is going to be bigger than the last.

Some of the explosives catch.

Pac can’t even move well enough to protect his head as, a few feet from him, a MEC full of gunpowder and explosives goes up in flames.

Somehow Pac, despite everything, is still conscious, just conscious enough for just long enough to realise that this is how he dies as he feels his body burn and the concussive force slam his very being into his skin.

It’s not a state that lasts long.

Chapter 2 - Philza

With the zombies exploding on Roier and his own head wound he’s pretending very hard is not a concussion, Philza knows this mission has already gone to hell. The addition of one of what can only be the third of the Chosen, from how it implanted messages into their minds, from how sick Pac and Mike looked, puts it all in the handbasket.

But he can see well enough to read his screen, direct the Crow, and shoot, and they don’t /have/ an escape from this mission - he’s not going to ask Niki to get herself killed, especially not when it means abandoning the civilians to die.

So, he pushes on.

He first knows something is even worse when he hears Pac and Mike /scream/. Mike’s calling for Pac, and Pac’s just screaming, so he flicks the touchscreen embedded in his gloves to showing him the team’s vitals. The suits read them, and it’s not entirely accurate, but fuck it it’s good enough. Pac’s still screaming, and he hears Mike calling now for him - for Philza - so he leaves Roier to the aliens this side and runs around the wall.

And, oh god, running is making him feel fucking ill.

A bullet whistles past him, embedding itself in the one Federation Guard who thought to follow him. He tracks the bullet’s path, looks over to the petrol station roof, and offers Missa a brief hand of thanks.

He doesn’t see if he gets an acknowledgement, because that’s when the first explosion happens.

Right next to where he /thinks/ Pac was.

He checks his screen - Pac’s still breathing, and his heart rate is only panic levels of elevated, even the suit beneath his armour is showing heavy damage to its own structure.

Philza puts the Crow into heal mode, and is about to order it to go spray a splash potion where Pac’s wounds seem worst when there’s another explosion.

How can he not look up?

This one is larger, worse, heavier - it catches the roof of the petrol station. He hears Missa shriek as the heat catches him, only for the roof to collapse and his friend go tumbling with it.

Philza joins with Mike’s screams as he scrambles through readouts and screams, trying to work out what’s going on.

Somehow - somehow - they’re both alive. The explosion hasn’t helped his headache, but he ignores it as he squints, focusing on the numbers.

Missa’s aren’t great, but they’re holding steady.

Pac’s…

Pac’s blood pressure is dropping fast, his heart picking up as it tries to compensate.

Philza runs the numbers, and, fucking shit - he directs the Crow towards Pac, and is already running himself. There’s not a /lot/ he can do for burns and blunt force injuries in a firefight, but he can at least check if the potions worked and get him a fucking shock blanket.

Or he would, and the Crow would, except that Mike gets in their way.

His eyes are glowing green - expected, they have been since the message from the third Chosen, presumably shielding his more sensitive brain from further intrusion - and panicked - not wrong, but a problem

Doubly so when he points the gun at Philza.

Fuck.

“Mike,” he tries to be calm, keeps glancing at his glove, checking the numbers, seeing if he has time left. “I need to treat Pac.”

He gains a string of angry, sobbing, terrified Portuguese. Philza recognises Pac’s name, stop, something about death, and the rest of it’s too garbled.

Mike has some medical training - everyone running the bots does - but his are designed for hacking, not healing. He doesn’t have access to the potions, or the readouts.

“He’s not dead,” Philza tries to impress upon him. “He’ll live, if you let me fucking treat him, Mike!”

And he doesn’t speak Portuguese, so he can’t even use that to try cut through Mike’s panic.

When it doesn’t work, he tries to step forwards.

Mike’s finger twitches on his trigger - Philza stops.

Philza can see the readout on his screen; Pac’s heart rate is continuing to skyrocket as his blood pressure continues to drop. He doesn’t have long, his chances are counted in seconds, seconds Mike is stealing and Philza knows it’s a panic attack he knows it isn’t on purpose but he doesn’t have fucking /time/.

“Mike!!” He yells. “If you don’t let me past right now, Pac /will/ fucking die!”

Mike still hisses as him, the gun pointed out, tears streaming down his face. Philza doubts he can even hear him at this point, cursing under his breath as he glances between the readouts of Pac’s vitals and the gun.

There’s a clatter.

Mike turns his gun to the noise - just Missa, pulling himself shakily from the rubble. Philza takes the opportunity as he can. He orders Crow past Mike, ducking around and potions already loaded. He has them dropped around Pac’s head and his torso, praying the application is enough to stabalise him.

It takes a moment, but with the sealing of the major wounds his blood pressure stops dropping. It won’t last more than a few hours - potion work never does - but he can hope it’s enough to get him home, and to Aypierre, where their resources aren’t great but they’re a damn sight better than a burning wreck of a town. They’ve dealt with severe burns before, they’ll deal with them again - even the helicopter has better resources, with access to the IV fluids and possibly blood which Pac desperately needs.

And Pac will live to get to them, if Mike just lets him past.

“Mike!” he tries again, trying to quell the anger, trying to sympathise with what has to be terrifying because oh, Christ, Missa was caught too and Philza needs to treat Pac first but /Missa/ and, yeah, maybe he /can/ sympathise a bit. “Try feeling for him - he’s not fucking dead, so god help me!”

Something seems to get through to Mike; his eyes flicker. The green glow drops for a few seconds. His breathing evens a bit and he twists to Pac, his voice softer as he calls out “Pacy…”

Philza isn’t having more of this; he sends Crow to use the last of the potions to stabalise Missa’s injuries, and hurries over to Pac’s side.

Up close, Pac looks even worse. In places the heat has burnt bits of his clothes into his skin, and said burns coat much of his exposed skin. His leg - prosthetic, thank fuck - seems to have taken the worst of the damage. It’s dented, melting in places from the extreme heat, bits of shrapnel embedded in it. The reinforcement in Pac’s hood and armour seem to have protected him from the rest of the shrapnel, but not the heat or the flames. It’s battered, and torn, and Philza would put good money on a head injury from how he fell. Dislocated shoulder, broken ribs would not surprise him. The data he gets from the suits to his screen doesn’t tell him shit like that.

Mike hesitates, Philza does not. He shifts Pac onto his side, and unpackages a foil blanket to drape over him. The fluids are on the helicopter and - fuck, they can’t just evac Pac now, it’s still unsafe for Niki to approach.

There’s one potion left in Pac’s belt.

Philza grabs it, and hands it to Mike.

“Keep him safe,” Philza instructs - and, fuck, Mike’s in no state to be doing more than that. “If his lips go blue, he starts shaking, or he gets any fainter in your head, or something fuckingshoots him, pour this on him and /scream/. Understand?”

“Can I move him?” is the first English Philza earns from him.

Philza considers it a second, looking around. Here is… Moving him anywhere other than the helicopter isn’t ideal, not with his injuries, but the other option is leaving him here. Open, in the middle of an active firefight, near more barrels of extremely flammable material.

And that’s not going to /help/.

“That petrol station has a shop. Hide in there - make sure he stays warm and keep him on his side.”

Simple instructions, Phil, simple instructions - the man’s scared out of his mind. It’s all shit Mike should know, but reminders help.

Mike nods, blinks hard to stop his tears, and scoops Pac up. Philza covers for them as they duck inside the building, hopefully away from the glass.

And then he turns back, looking at the two remaining people. Missa is also covered in burns, and Philza would put money on his ankle being broken. Roier is still covered in claw marks from the zombies, but at least those have stopped bleeding.

Thank fuck, as they’re all out of potions.

Tubbo’s going to kill him for using all of them, if they even get out of this.

Because there’s still the fucking Chosen somewhere around here, and a good few Federation Workers left.

Philza takes a step to press on. His vision swims, and he grabs at the wall.

When he opens his eyes, Missa is there, grabbing his arm and worries. Philza smiles at him, waves him off, pulls himself back up.

“It’s just a long day,” he says, ignoring his pounding head. “Mike’s looking after Pac, let’s just… Get this over with.”

No sooner does he say that than he curses himself. There’s no enemy in sight but Missa /screams/, dropping to his knees and clutching at his head. It lasts a second before it stops.

“Missa?” Philza kneels beside him. “Are you good?”

Missa’s pistol is pressed against his forehead.

Fuck.

Missa’s face twitches up, almost glitching into a smile. His eyes - his eyes are consumed by glowing purple.

Just like the zombies. Just like…

Oh, crap.

Philza might not bring knives to gun fights any more, but he was a melee specialist long before he was a healer. He knows this, like instinct, it’s in his blood and is his reality. He shoves up with one arm, pushing Missa’s hand aside.

The pistol fires, but only hits the wall.

Fucking mind control.

Not-Missa laughs, and gets up. Philza can hear the crunch of forcing weight onto a broken bone as not-Missa steps away, pulling out the pistol and -

And it was a civilian. A civilian who was alive and now dead, and Philza prays and prays that Missa won’t remember any of this once they break the control.

To break the control they need to kill the controller, and looking…

There’s the obviously psionic Chosen, laughing in time with not-Missa from one of the nearby rooftops.

Philza flags down Roier, and points it out, and makes a warning about not-Missa too.

Roier nods, and jumps into action, and clutches at his head in turn. Philza’s terrified for a second - terrified of having to face two possessed comrades alone while his nausea and his headache are growing steadily worse - but rather than control Roier just… slumps.

A quick check at his screen and… it looks like he’s under a sedative? But clutched at his head?

Either way if it’s psionics getting the Chosen away will break it, and if it’s an actual sedative then clearing out the last of the danger serves the same.

Philza pulls out his gun, shoots at the creature.

And then…

And then the roof the Chosen is standing on collapses beneath its feet.

Confused, Philza looks around only to see… There’s Mike, in the doorway of the petrol station shop, face stained in tears and fury in his eyes and the pin of a frag grenade in his hand.

It doesn’t free Missa, nor does it take out the Chosen, but it does free Roier.

Who staggers to his feet, and joins in the attack.

Roier pulls out his knife, and hacks at the creature while Mike stays in the doorway, and cleans up the last few guards.

The knife seems to do a lot, but not-Missa is raising the pistol again - thank fuck its his pistol not his sniper rifle to be honest - and Philza knows he doesn’t have time.

A wave of dizziness, of darkness washes over him.

Philza Minecraft swallows it down, points his gun, and fires.

Chapter 3 - Missa

The Warlock teleports away, and Missa can breathe again. Missa can breathe, and seconds later Philza also collapses. He’s closest - Missa runs for him, picks him up from the floor, and holds him in his lap.

His wounds smart, his body is in ruins and - oh, fuck, what do they do now. Where’s Mike, where’s Pac, he didn’t- What did-

“Missa,” Roier’s voice snaps him out of it.

All six of his once-friend’s eyes blink at him.

Missa takes a breath, meets the largest two, and says, “Roier, he-”

“I’ve called Niki,” Roier says. “She’ll get us out, then send someone else for the civilians. Have you got him?”

Civilians, civilians, oh God what did he-

“Missa!”

Right. Philza is not a heavy man, nor is he tall, but between wings and armour he’s still awkward to carry. Awkward to carry, and Missa’s body shakes under the weight of even his gun. He moves an arm, he tests it, and he shakes his head.

“Don’t you dare pass out too, idiot,” Roier’s words catch as he speaks. “Throw some flares for Niki. I’ll grab Pac and Mike, you watch him. We’ll work it out.”

“I’m grabbed.” Oh, and there’s Mike, really close by. “I’ll be with Pac. Yell when the helicopter’s here.”

Roier will work it out, but that’s fine. So long as somebody is.

There’s a slap against his face. “Get your shit together, man, or they’re actually going to die!”

Missa takes a deep breath and his shit is far from together, and everything hurts, but Roier is also terrified and Mike is terrified and, yeah, he can throw the flares.

He takes a deep breath, and does exactly that.

Roier seems to crumple when he sees that, sitting down on the ashy tarmac. Missa can’t blame him - even with the aid of a mask, it’s still a struggle to breathe.

They don’t say anything as Niki comes by. She seems to hesitate a bit, hovering for a moment.

Missa… Missa looks at Philza in his lap, then across at Roier, then at the shop where Pac and Mike are sheltering, and he knows they aren’t managing to climb a ladder or take the ropes up. Niki must realise it too when they make no move to stand - she lands the helicopter on the ground nearby. Missa can see her check around before pulling out her pistol, unstrapping herself, and slipping down.

In his lap, Philza stirs. Missa tries to nudge him to consciousness, and it kinda works… Ish. His eyes won’t focus and he doesn’t seem able to make sense of words, but he lies against Missa and keeps those eyes open and breathes with intent.

Niki spies Missa first. She walks over to him, and he - exhausted, shaking, burnt - gestures her over to Roier.

It doesn’t take much wrangling; she gets stretchers for Philza and Pac. Roier runs on ahead to get medical stuff set up, while Mike helps with the stretchers.

Missa… Missa lets them take Philza, and then… And then he doesn’t know how to get up.

He closes his eyes for a second.

When he opens them Roier is there, shaking his shoulder and dragging him up.

Missa puts weight on one leg, and it buckles. Pain shoots through his spine, and it’s everything not to scream.

Roier doesn’t bother waiting for another stretcher - he scoops Missa up, and carries him inside.

He’s sat down in one of the seats. Missa manages to strap himself in, only for Roier to grab his arm and stick something under his skin.

Needle - he looks up, and sees a bag of saline attached.

“Roier?” he asks.

“You’ve got burns,” he replies. “And spacing out - you’re getting fluids, idiot.”

There’s other things, important things, “is Philza alright?”

Roier pauses, “head injuries. He’s awake, but not coherent. You?”

“One of my legs is broken,” Missa replies, because that’s the other thing and it’s easier than worry, in this place where worry won’t help them. “I don’t… I think that’s it.”

There’s a tap on his head, and Roier hesitates then says, “it isn’t your fault.”

“It was my hand and my gun.”

He’s not the first of them to get mind controlled, and he doubts he’ll be the last, but still. He… He remembers the realisation on Philza’s face, the look in the civilians’ eyes as he killed them, the-

His nose is flicked.

“Dumbass,” Roier says, as the helicopter takes off. “I need to help Mike with Pac - I’ll check on you in a bit.”

Missa waves him off, puts his head in his hands, and starts crying.

---

It’s not a long trip back to the Avenger, for all it feels like it takes an eternity. Missa feels like he should be helping more - he knows he should help more - but every time he tries, Roier forces him back into his seat with a snap and a ‘just sit still’. Mike manages to gather himself enough to radio in their injuries, and both of them are monitoring the rest, and Missa…

Missa is just there.

Some missions are just shit, he knows some missions are just shit, but God he feels awful in every way possible.

When they arrive, they take Pac first, and then Philza. Mike goes with them - you could never convince Mike not to - while Roier lingers. Jaiden, just about awake, brings a wheelchair. Missa doesn’t have a choice about using it, or letting someone push it, but he feels he should have a choice about how Roier lingers by his side.

When they get there, Aypierre’s lab has been cleared. One of the research assistants and Bad are with Philza, keeping him lying down as they check over his head. There’s a few chairs left to one side. Roier is forced next to one, and Missa is parked next to it, and she goes over to one of the trays to bring antiseptic, needle and thread.

Mike is sat on the floor, off to one side, taking forcibly deep breaths as tears stream down his face.

“Can’t do much for the burns,” she apologises. “And you’ll have to wait for Aypierre. Don’t want to mess things up for him. And as for you,” she turns to Roier. “This will sting.”

That’s all the warning Roier gets before she pours antiseptic onto gauze, then shoves it against one of Roier’s many cuts. She holds it there a minute, before pulling it away and starting to sew.

There’s the sound of fast boots on the stairs outside. Missa looks up just in time to see Forever, more stressed than he thinks he’s ever seen him, and Felps enter into the room. They make a beeline for Mike, his sobs becoming audible in a hailstorm of Portuguese.

Missa looks at his hands, and finds them empty.

Philza is being treated across the room. Kristin is an ocean away. Spreen…

Spreen’s still missing.

Roier is right next to him, he’s right there, right in grasping range, but his flesh is being stitched back together and even if it weren’t…

Even if it weren’t, Missa isn’t sure he would accept his hand. It’s been ages, and it was Spreen’s fault, but Missa is also at least partially to blame.

So Missa curls over, and holds his own hands, and ignores the ice creeping up his spine.

Chapter 4 - Mike

It’s been hours since they returned. Mike’s the only one who came out of the mission unscathed, but he doesn’t feel like it was a victory. He’s sat in the common room now, clinging to Pac’s hand. It’s the only room with multiple beds, and the medical equipment is limited, so…

Well there’s now only five free beds for everyone not critically ill, and three of those involve wading through medical equipment to get to a top bunk.

Pac is all wires and bandages, smelling of antiseptic and not his proper cleaning oil. There’s monitors, and fluids, and antibiotics, oxygen and food… The sedatives from surgery are being continued, Aypierre said, to make sure his body gets a chance to heal.

It’s the same for Philza, he was told, and Missa isn’t being kept in a coma but his surgery was last and the sedatives are still wearing off.

Mike just doesn’t… He doesn’t understand what went so wrong, nor how fast.

He’s not injured, not like everyone else, but he is very much still in a state of shock.

Everyone seems to be. Mike has the chair - he’s not /allowed/ on the bed - and Pac’s hand, but Felps is also at his side, crying silently into Mike’s leg. Forever was at his other side earlier, but Bad managed to drag him away. Something about a contact who might have more medical equipment and-

And Bad should have fucking said something earlier, because they’ve been /trying/ to get an actual hospital together for weeks, and they’ve even got the space cleared for it, but where the fuck do they get the equipment? They haven’t even been able to track down some beds high enough that someone can treat a patient on them without hurting their back.

Mike is angry, Mike is furious, he’s got nowhere to send it though. It wasn’t even the stupid Chosen - Warlock, whatever. The flesh monster and the MEC both also died in the blast and there’s nothing to blame but physics and dumb luck and perhaps Pac for running off but…

But sooner or later /someone/ would have checked on that civilian, and the same shit would have gone down.

The blanket on him shifts as he leans forwards, clinging to Pac’s hand with everything he’s worth. Aypierre said it might help, because of their bond, because of the way their souls merge. So he takes it, he takes whatever excuse he can to stay with Pac, to hold him in the one place he’s allowed to touch, to reach out along their bond and cradle him.

It’s usually Pac cradling him. It’s usually Pac - older, louder, quicker - protecting him. Not exclusively - Mike protects him too, pulls him back when he runs too far, shields him when he forgets, helped him through his exams when the anxiety of the papers caused the world to crash in. It’s a balance, it’s an equilibrium, but Pac doesn’t need cradling so often as he needs someone to remind him to /breathe/.

There’s not so much of that, now. Pac’s not conscious enough for Mike to remind him, and anyway there’s a machine in place just in case he stops being able to.

The fact that’s an option?

Mike is terrified.

And Felps is doing his best, but Felps is also terrified, and it’s all Mike can do to worm his way into Pac’s head, and wrap him up. Mike can’t even go completely, lest the sedative catch him too. He has leave enough of himself behind to stay conscious, even as he curls around Pac’s soul and keeps him tethered, keeps him safe.

Sometimes he can feel Pac’s mind try to respond to him, only to be prevented by the drugs. It terrifies him, it horrifies him, even as the others theorise it’s probably a good thing.

And then there’s Felps, who reaches up to fix Mike’s blanket then carries on crying into his leg.

But there’s nothing to say and nothing to do except to hesitantly take one of his hands from where it’s clenched around Pac’s, and wrap it around Felps’ shoulders.

---

It takes ten days, every single penny and barter good belonging both to the Order and to every conscious person on the ship, and what Mike is pretty sure is the last of Forever’s sanity to complete the infirmary. They even find a doctor, via a chain of eight or nine contacts of contacts. Mike isn’t sure he trusts the woman, but he doesn’t really trust Aypierre either, so he does his best to pretend.

She’s got everyone safely under her care and proper monitors hooked up and Mike checked her working on medication dosages and it all seems to be proper, at least. Roier has mostly healed by now, which leaves her with three patients - ones she lets wake up one at a time, assessing their conditions.

Mike had been removed from the room for that - Forever was allowed to stay and translate, but Felps couldn’t either - and he’s not sure he’ll forgive her for it. Pac had reached out and latched onto him, confused and terrified and Mike couldn’t even calm him down before he was forced back to sleep.

He doesn’t think he’s going to forgive her for doing that to Pac. To him, maybe, but not to Pac.

So he stays closer, and cradles Pac harder, and while he acts on her words he does not always accept them. Pac was terrified, and scared, and a medical ward is indisputably better than their fucked up common room - it’s clean and there’s space both for equipment and access for treatment and all the supplies are on hand and if needed the surgery is just there - but Pac was scared. Pac was scared, and afraid, and the doctor would not let Mike /help him/.

It’s something about needing to assess Pac’s mental state, not Pac-and-Mike’s mental state, and Mike gets it, but doesn’t she understand Pac was /terrified/?

He can only hope his soulmate was too out of it to remember when he wakes again.

Mike and Felps are back again, now, a few days after that, one on each side of Pac’s bed while Forever shifts between holding Pac’s other hand and hovering by Philza at random. Philza’s awake, just about, but still out of it enough his object permanence is hazy. Missa is sat up on his own bed, chatting to him quietly. Roier lingers by Missa, but not quite at his bedside, too far to join the conversation, and that’s possibly even more fascinating gossip he needs to find from someone.

Pac will be able to dig it up once he wakes, he hopes.

He’s sure.

The doctor has stopped with the sedatives now, and Mike can feel it in the bond. Pac’s still suppressed by sleeping, but no longer is it under a false, oppressive haze.

Mike… Mike wraps himself around Pac, and tries to relax. He holds him, has comfort right there and ready, and presses himself deeper in.

And Pac - cautious, hesitant, scared, still half asleep and half drugged - finally, finally presses back.

Chapter 5 - Pac, again

Pac wakes, and the world is hazy, but Mike is there. There’s a memory that never quite formed, one of Mike being gone, but Mike is here, so it must surely be okay.

It hurts, it hurts so bad, but Mike is here and is calling and Pac will wake up for Mike, if it’s what Mike demands.

If he slips more of himself into Mike’s body than he usually would, an attempt to escape the pain… that’s their business and theirs alone.

Still, he does have to wake somehow. He hides in Mike and puppets his body, opening eyes, twitching fingers, searching for answers. Mike’s conscience holds him tight, praises him, cries on him and reminds him to listen to more than his soul.

Right, ears, eyes, touch…

There’s a hand on his forehead and another in his hand - both hands. His prosthetic is missing - his breath catches as he realises he can’t run, and Mike soothes him, promises he’s somewhere he won’t have to - and voices are calling his name.

Mike, Felps, Forever.

He finds Mike’s eyes first - of course he does - one blue and one green as they both cling to each other. It doesn’t feel like Mike is visiting, though - between them they must have three blue eyes.

And the next to Mike is Forever, Forever who sees the eye contact and takes it as permission for a hug, leaving no room for anyone but for Felps - on the other side - who tugs the hand he’s holding free and hugs Pac’s arm.

Pac doesn’t know what to do, but does know that it hurts - he wants the hug, but cannot stop the whine.

Forever pulls back, horrified.

“It’s okay,” Pac tries to say.

The words come from Mike’s mouth by mistake, and maybe he should pull back but he doesn’t want the pain.

“No it’s not that hurt you,” says Mike, also with his own mouth.

Felps catches onto what’s happening first, his confusion twisting to a smile.

“Hi Pac!”

Pac waves with Mike’s arm, and then Forever gets it.

Forever’s laughter sounds suspiciously desperate, but nobody says anything about it.

“Can I scold him yet?” Forever asks Mike.

Mike tries to say yes, Pac tries to say no, and the jumble of words is enough gibberish to knock Pac back to his own body.

His own body, where the painkillers might be helping but he’s now hit with the full force of pain. He chokes off the scream with a sob, the hand held by Felps weakly trying to move up and cover it.

Felps lets go, and looks heartbroken.

Pac uses what strength he can find to reach out, and grab that hand again.

Felps thumb runs over his knuckles.

Pac smiles at him, and remembers there’s more friends in the room.

He turns his eyes back to Forever, whose fingers still rest on his cheek.

“Can I help?” Forever asks.

“I thought I was going to die.”

It’s not a reply to the question, it’s not even close to one, but they’re the words that escape Pac’s lips. Tears begin to drip with them - slow, quiet tears which leave trails on his face and he can taste on his lips.

Mike freezes up and Pac… Pac prods him with a question.

The question is turned away, but Pac isn’t - he settles a little of himself in Mike’s brain, leaning against him in an attempt to comfort.

Mike wraps metaphorical arms around him; Pac closes his eyes in body and seeps into the comfort.

“You didn’t,” is what Felps says, covering for the room. “It was bad, but you didn’t, and now you’re here.”

Pac opens his mouth to ask where here is; Mike answers before he can ask.

“Medical,” Mike says. “We… Got the medical ward finished. And found a doctor.”

That bad. However bad Pac’s injuries were, they were bad enough that what should have taken at least another month was done in… less than that.

“Don’t worry,” Forever smiles at him, and the smile is twisted, in pain himself. “Just get better, and we’ll fill you in later. When you’re less fuzzy.”

It’s true, Pac is very fuzzy. He closes his eyes and settles on Forever’s hand, and clings to Felps in flesh and Mike in mind.

At times like this, Cellbit’s absence is like a gaping wound.

Pac focuses from the hands and the holds to his body and traces it over. The pain is everywhere, all over, dimmed by the same painkillers that must be clouding his mind. It’s hard to focus, but he does, searching out for something they can do, they can fix.

Throat. They could fix that.

“Drink?” he asks. “Can I…?”

“I’ll get it!” Forever leans down, kissing Pac’s cheek before letting go.

He goes to speak to an unfamiliar woman, then vanishes through a door. Pac watches him go, turns back to find Mike speaking.

He closes his eyes and mentally leans on his soulmate, letting him know he’s too tired for a single word that was said.

“... Okay,” Mike sighs. “But I am still yelling at you later, bro.”

Pac nods - of course Mike is going to. It’s just going to happen, after something like this.

Felps kisses his other cheek, and Mike his forehead.

“Do you want us to let you sleep?” Felps asks.

For a moment Pac wants to agree, and then terror seizes him again - the dark, and the pain, and fire shoots through his veins and-

And Mike, inside his mind, grabs him, pulls at him, tugs him from the smoke and the sharp, sharp pain.

In Mike’s panic Pac sees other things - sees Missa with a gun to Philza’s head, sees Philza collapse, sees Roier bleeding all over the helicopter, sees Missa covered in bones and with a break in his leg that pierces the skin.

Sees himself, mostly dead, surrounded by ash and debries and if he’s breathing it’s imperceptible.

Mike shutters that memory quickly, and gently turns Pac aside.

“They’re fine,” Mike says. “You were the last to wake up.”

Pac’s eyes still skim the hospital, and find them - find the rest of them.

They don’t look good, he’s sure he looks worse; he breathes, and squeezes Felps’ hand in a silent request to be held onto tighter.

Felps gets it.

He always did.

Even when he didn’t want him to.

“Will I…”

Pac doesn’t know how to end the question, and it turns out he doesn’t need to - Forever returns not just with a glass of water, but a tray with some soup, too.

“Doc said you should eat,” Forever places the tray on the bed. “Do you…?”

Pac doesn’t want it, but he will. On instinct he tries to lift himself up, only for both Mike and Felps to grab him.

That turns out to be a good idea; there’s no way his arms would have held.

It’s a little awkward but he gets comfortable on the cushions. Felps helps him with the cup while Mike blows on the soup, and Forever perches on the end of Pac’s bed and pats his good foot.

“You’ll be okay,” Forever promises, even as Pac has to take a break from the water when he breathes some in by mistake. “I know it’s scary, but we won’t let anything bad happen to you, okay? Just eat up, and heal.”

The something bad has already happened, but Pac sees the fear in Forever’s eyes and…

And he can’t.

So he clears his throat, and offers Forever a weak smile, and sips on the offered water some more.

“He kept me, so I’m sure you’ll be no trouble,” Felps offers, with a small grin.

Mike does actually lean over the bed and slap Felps for that comment. Seconds after, and Felps has Forever wrapped around him. Impersonating an octopus.

Pac strongly suspects he’d be the victim, if he weren’t held together with bandages and struggling with even just water and soup.

“You can’t get rid of any of us,” Mike says, and it sounds like it should be directed at Forever, but he echoes the words in their bond and looks Pac dead in the eyes.

Pac reaches out, entwines his fingers in Mike’s, and whispers only for his soulmate I don’t want any of you to go.

#qsmp x xcom #qsmp fanfic #qsmp tazercraft #qsmp pac #qsmp mike #qsmp philza #qsmp missa #qsmp roier #sorry for not really closing off phil and missa's bit it ran away with me #I'll ao3 this... god only knows when its late and I'm getting cake and /finally/ watching phil build

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oakandgumtrees · 1 year

Text

The Lady in the Library, Part 1

It was a dreary November Thursday that the call came in. I was the only one in the office at the time, since the others were out sick or doing inspections, so I was the one who answered the phone.

“Berkshire Library Effect Professionals, how can I help you?”

At first, I assumed it was another fucking bookshop owner trying to organise their annual certification - it seemed like that was all I’d been doing for a month and a half. (When the phone rang, I’d been writing up the assessment of a shop with twelve shelf metres per square metre. Twelve.) So maybe I wasn’t paying as much attention as I should have been.

I was opening up a booking form for an estate assessment when the words “twenty thousand” lodged in my brain.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

The fancy lawyer on the other end did not seem impressed. “The late Mr Stockton’s collection contains an estimated twenty thousand volumes,” he repeated primly. “It has been built up by several generations of Stocktons, in the library at their family home.”

Oh.

Oh no.

Oh fuck.

-----

John and I went out that same afternoon to do a preliminary assessment. It was already four when we left, but the solicitor hadn’t cared about paying for overtime, and had cared about getting things started quickly, so we loaded up our kits and set out for Alderford Manor.

John had been doing this job for nearly forty years, and had gone through cynicism and out the other side. It didn’t surprise him that we were going to a country house where the library was probably going to have spatial, temporal, and eccentric distortions. He’d seen it all before.

I, on the other hand, had been a library effect professional for about eight years, and was at the peak of my cynicism. “Twenty thousand, he said, and it’s never been assessed!”

“Mind the tractor.”

I slowed down so the aforesaid tractor could squeeze between us and the hedge. “Bloody self-important, over-confident bastards,” I muttered. “It’s probably all crammed in there, too. Private owners never give a shit about book density.” Not that density would make much of a difference with that many books. Mild library effects started kicking in around a thousand books per room, usually. Twenty thousand almost guaranteed trouble, especially with pre-Edwardian architecture.

“Does that mean you want to be site manager while I do the walkthrough?” John teased. “Next left now.”

If I hadn’t been driving, I’d have glared at him. (Which he definitely knew.) “Of course I want to do the walkthrough!” I snapped. Pacing out large libraries was the riskiest part of our job, but it was also the most exciting, and the chance didn’t come around every day. Who knew what we’d find? “...I just want to be able to bitch about stupid clients when we’re out of earshot.”

He smirked at me.

I checked the mirrors and pretended I couldn’t see him.

-----

Alderford Manor was the sort of eighteenth century country house that was scattered all over England, and like many of them, it was starting to look a little shabby. Nothing drastic, but the curtains were a little worn, the upholstery faded, and I could tell whatever staff worked here, they were falling behind with the dusting and polishing. In short, exactly what you’d expect from a house that was going to be sold because it was too much trouble to whatever distant relative had inherited it.

Its library was anything but ordinary.

Long aisles of shelving stretched from the entrance into shadow, dividing a seemingly cavernous room into narrow passages. There were no windows to relieve the gloom, and the inbuilt lights illuminated little but shadows and the occasional gilded label. Every vertical surface was packed with books, some as old as the house, some purchased in the last few decades.

I exchanged looks with John, and began to pack my vest and kit bag.

Phone. Spare phone battery. Notebook. Pencils. Chalk. Voice recorder. Film camera. Mechanical stopwatch. Digital stopwatch. Compass. Plumbline. Light meter. Altimeter. Water. Emergency food rations. First aid kit. Emergency blanket. Radio. If I was lucky, I wouldn’t need most of it. If I was unlucky, it might not be enough.

Anchor rope hooked to my belt, radio around my neck, and surveyor’s wheel in hand, I ventured into the library. “From the door, ninety degrees left, following the wall,” I reported quietly. My footsteps were nearly silent on the rug, and the space had the deadened atmosphere of noise cancellation. Who knew, if there had been bells like a monastic library, if I would have even heard them?

Deeper and deeper I followed the wall, calling out measurements to John as I went. His voice was steady on the other end, if a little crackly, anchoring me as much as the rope did.

And then I turned a corner, and saw a silhouette that definitely shouldn’t have been there.

“John?” I asked carefully. “Didn’t Mrs Jones say everyone was accounted for?”

The figure in the shadows stood, and moved towards the light. “Good afternoon,” she said warily - definitely a woman’s voice, low and refined. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”

She stepped into the light, revealing an outfit straight out of an Austen novel.

“N-No,” I stammered, dipping into an utterly mangled half-curtesy out of some bizarre instinct that the gesture would help. “I don’t imagine you have.”

Part 2

#the lady in the library #original #inspired by discworld L-space

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lololollywrites · 4 months

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Let's debunk Zionist arguments.

I made this original post a week ago, and have since added one major point and refined some of the language; there are also some timely updates, as things get worse by the day. So let's do this again.

There are some things I'm getting really tired of hearing from Zionists. Not only are they just blatantly wrong, but - even if they were right - their actions would STILL be against international and humanitarian law.

Let's break it down, shall we? (This is incredibly long, but so so important. Please hear me out). Text that is green, bolded, and underlined links to its source. Here are some classic Zionist arguments - if you're looking for your go-to defense, scroll down to the appropriate orange header. Things in red are just things I am really, really angry about or important points that need a bit of extra emphasis.

1. Hamas will never settle for peace nor a two-state solution - all they want is violence. (This is what U.S. reps just argued as they voted against a ceasefire. Again.)

Setting aside the fact that October 7 wasn't the beginning of the conflict as well as the fact that Israeli officials publicly proclaim not to want a two-state solution and instead wish to take over all Palestinian land, shoddy rockets built from discarded missiles (ones that had already been fired upon them), thrown rocks, and car bombs (in the 90s) aren't exactly a match for a military backed by the USA. We're also going to (temporarily) set aside the fact that Palestinians welcomed Jewish refugees post-WWII. I'll get there.

Let's pretend that they're right. Hamas - instead of being a few thousand or so young, traumatized men mostly in their late teens and early 20s who have never known a life outside of Israeli persecution - are vicious killing machines. Let's say that preposterous lie is true. Guess what? COLLECTIVE PUNISHMENT IS STILL A WAR CRIME. Bombing civilians, almost half of whom are children, hoping that Hamas will surrender is a WAR CRIME. Cutting off food and water and electricity and internet is a WAR CRIME. AND THIS IS THE DEFENSE THEY USE OUT IN THE OPEN. IN FRONT OF THE UN.

You. Can't. Do. That. (But I guess they can, can't they?)

Also? A two-state solution only works if the other side is acknowledged as an independent state, and the West refuses to acknowledge as much (though the overwhelming majority of other countries do). You cannot claim to want a two-state solution if you do not acknowledge two states. Let's start there.

2. Israel has a right to defense.

Generally, I'd agree with this on principle alone. But... guess what? According to international law, an occupying power has NO right to defense from their own occupied territory. Why? IT'S NOT A WAR IF THE OTHER SIDE IS NOT A COUNTRY. IF THERE IS NO MILITARY TO FIGHT AGAINST. At that point, it becomes a massacre. So no, Israel actually has no right to defense. (Killing in the West Bank and Lebanon is also a bit contrary to that surface-level lie - Hamas aren't there).

Even if they did have a right to defense, the word "disproportionate" comes to mind. We're at at least 17k dead and 46k wounded in TWO MONTHS. An average of 200 children have been killed every day for the past month. Civilians make up at least 61% of deaths from airstrikes, which is a higher proportion than all world conflicts in the 20th century. A minimum of 1000 children are missing limbs (I linked just one story, as those tend to pull more at the heartstrings than statistics, but also check out Bisan on TikTok and Motaz Azaiza on Tiktok - both on Instagram as well- for news from the literal ground in Gaza. They are just two of many; Hind, Saleh, and Plestia are also so important to follow... they come up when searching). About 26 thousand more are orphaned. Premature babies were found decomposing in hospital beds during the temporary ceasefire because armed IOF soldiers forced doctors and nurses to leave but promised they'd send the babies elsewhere for care. They didn't.

None of this is even touching upon the blatantly illegal use of white phosphorous. AGAIN: THIS IS A WAR CRIME. It’s meant to cause suffering and pain.

And what do they have to show for it? Failure and death. The loss of hundreds of millions of dollars. Worldwide hatred. How does that benefit Israeli citizens? How does it help the Jewish cause? Where is the evidence that Hamas has been stopped? Evidence that hasn't been fabricated, I mean. We've all seen the fake "list" - the calendar on the wall. The small pile of guns that changed in number from one video to the next (and why the hell would Hamas leave behind weapons they could use to defend themselves?) The arrested, stripped-naked men and boys as young as 15 blindfolded, brought to their knees at gunpoint (and even just filming this violated the Geneva Convention). Claims they were members of Hamas were quickly disproven by those on social media who could identify doctors and journalists and shopkeepers. Another lie. And another war crime. I've seen claims that 60 members of Hamas have been killed. 60, hm? Sure, sure. That's completely proportionate.

Worse than that, against a **belligerent** and illegal occupying force who has violated territorial agreements by violently occupying land meant to be granted to Palestinians, imposing sanctions, killing civilians, arresting civilians (including minors and the elderly, who are often beaten and raped in captivity) without charge or trial, etc. - AN APARTHEID STATE WHEREIN PALESTINIANS ARE LITERALLY TRIED BY A DIFFERENT COURT AND MUST ADHERE TO DIFFERENT LAWS than Israelis and have no freedom of movement - Palestine actually has a legal right to RESIST. Imagine that. Why do people never say "Palestine has a right to defend itself"? Why is it just Israel?

Israel is so afraid of Palestinians appearing human that they forbade families welcoming back their freed children and family members (falsely incarcerated by the IOF) from showing emotion - THIS WAS DURING THE HOSTAGE EXCHANGE. October 7 didn't happen in a vacuum. Israel has long held thousands of hostages of their own. Children's bones are broken as they're beaten in jail. They're sexually assaulted. Denied food. Never presented with charges nor granted trial. How easily the demands of Hamas for them to be released were swept under the rug. How blatantly the crimes were covered up by saying "Palestinian teenagers 18 years old and younger" were returned in contrast to the Israeli "children" that were also released. They were afraid to use the word children in reference to Palestinian captives.

3. Nothing ends until all of the Israeli hostages are freed.

I am not undermining the fact that the Israeli hostages were traumatized and terrified (though videos of recent hostage releases wherein they're hugging and shaking hands and smiling as they say goodbye to Hamas - and one girl was even allowed to keep her dog - say that at least some of them escaped such anguish)... Because sure. Yes. It's not okay. But they were fed. Medications were administered. Connections were forged as the plight of Palestinians was explained to Israelis.

And guess what? I've seen interviews with more than one released hostage who said that their biggest fear was Israeli forces. Who witnessed IOF soldiers raiding where they were held and shooting and killing their own hostages. Who were just as vulnerable to the bombings as any Palestinian. AT LEAST 60 OF ISRAEL'S OWN HOSTAGES HAVE BEEN KILLED BY THE IOF. THEY DO NOT CARE ABOUT THEIR HOSTAGES. Would you bomb places where your hostages were meant to be kept?

Israel was so terrified by these testimonies that they have edited the interview footage and cut interviews short. The hostages are a convenient excuse for genocide. It's why it took so long for them to agree to any exchange at all; what would be their reason for indiscriminately killing Gazans?

IF YOU STILL DON'T SEE IT: If Hamas were hiding in Israel, do you think Israel would bomb their own hospitals? Carpet bomb their civilians? They should, after all, after spouting the necessity of their actions for so long - what would the difference be? Ah. Yes. They only see one set of civilians as human. They've said as much. Openly.

When you're trying to capture an armed militia, you send specialized teams. Reconnaissance. You do not just try to destroy everything in sight (and destroying places where hostages may be held goes extremely contrary to their claim of caring about said hostages).

If you don't agree with the following statement, then you should not support Israel: "The school shooters might still be inside. Let's bomb the whole school to make sure we get them. The kids and teachers are collateral damage."

4. Supporting Palestine is anti-Semitic.

There's so much wrong with this. 13% of citizens across Palestinian territories (Gaza, the West Bank, and East Jerusalem) are Jewish. Orthodox Jews have held and attended multiple protests. Jewish Voices for Peace occupied Grand Central Station to call for a ceasefire. Thousands, perhaps millions, of members of the Jewish diaspora have shouted "NOT IN MY NAME" to the rooftops. Through the streets. "Never again," they say, "means never again for ANYONE."

Are you calling thousands of rabbis at protests anti-Semitic? Bold of you. I dare you to say so to their faces.

Do you know what puts Israeli lives - Jewish lives - in legitimate danger? Creating enemies of neighboring Middle Eastern countries and starting an international war. Weak Hamas rockets could NEVER lead to a genocide of Israelis. Lebanese missiles, however (because right - Israel has also been bombing Lebanon, despite it being solidly free of Hamas) - have a lot more ability to cause damage. Good thing that Israelis have freedom of movement - over 370k of them have already fled, many of whom to awaiting homes back where they came from in Western countries.

Zionism was not founded with Jewish rights in mind. Balfour was wildly anti-Semitic. Many Christian Zionists supported the creation of an Israeli state so the Jewish people could just... go away. Somewhere else. They also believe it fulfills biblical prophecy of a rapture that will kill a huge proportion of Jews, but that’s a topic for another day.The largest motivator of an Israeli state was a Western presence in Middle Eastern oil fields and natural gas reserves; Argentina was considered prior to Palestine, so the "ancient claim" is nothing more than a farce. They would have settled anywhere that made financial sense. Zionism itself is a profoundly anti-Semitic concept, goes against the Torah/divine will (there should be no ethnostate, it states), and does nothing more than CREATE MORE ANTI-SEMITISM.

Israel has perverted the very real issue of global anti-Semitism and generational trauma post-WWII to make Jewish people worldwide feel unsafe (doing so recruits citizens, after all). They've claimed birthright to the land - appealed to spirituality - and proclaimed that those who deny this hate them and want them dead (forgetting that the land is ancestral and significant for Muslims and Christians as well). They made their citizens feel attacked and persecuted so they could massacre Palestinians with impunity and call them barbaric terrorists and extremists. Many Israelis are brainwashed. Terrified of Arabs. That suits the Israeli government. They call everyone who hates the notion of the Israeli state around the world anti-Semitic. In the process, of course, they create actual anti-Semites who fail to distinguish between a beautiful religion and a settler-colonial, white supremacist political ideology. Conflating the two terms is an injustice to Jewish people.

Doing so is also horrifically disrespectful to Holocaust victims and survivors. Plenty of them have protested Zionism, in fact. Using perhaps the worst atrocity in modern human history to justify very similar dehumanizing, indiscriminately violent practices against another chosen "other" of human beings is so twisted and evil that it makes me sick.

Additionally, Netanyahu is far from popular in Israel. There were protests of HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS just prior to October 7. Are they anti-Semitic for not supporting his rule and judicial takeover?

5. Israel is the only safe place for Jews.

Really? It doesn't seem very safe. Requiring youth to join the IOF - having a continuously armed and trained militia - doesn't reek of peace and prosperity. Imprisoning Israeli teenagers who refuse to partake in the atrocities (and subjecting them to potential abuses in prison) does not seem very safe. Building walls around Palestinian territories guarded by soldiers and cameras doesn't seem safe. Was the music festival safe? No. And we'll get to how that's even more insidious than it seems.

This "war" isn't safe. Won't it just create more resistance? More members of Hamas? More enemies of Israel? Doing so feeds into their victimhood, however, and actually suits their purpose of killing without repercussions or regard for international humanitarian law.

People often laugh at wealthy white western Jews who make TikTok videos from their homes far away from the conflict who claim to feel unsafe now due to Hamas and the resulting world response against Israel. But it's not funny; this is all part of the plan. Propaganda is MEANT to make all supporters, especially Jewish people, feel unsafe. It's also actively leading to REAL lack of safety as it riles up and inflames those against Israel. All the easier to justify their cause.

(ALSO, this doesn't need stated, but it's Palestinians and pro-Palestinians who are unsafe. Palestinians who are being killed even in the West - even children - for wearing keffiyeh and speaking Arabic. Those who speak against Israel who are losing their jobs). It's Jewish people who are being protected by the West, but not out of respect for their religion. It's about money. Oil. The paying off of politicians.)

6. Palestine never existed. Israel is a land without a people for a people without a land.

This is perhaps the dumbest argument of them all, because it just doesn't matter. Zionists are wrong - completely - but even if they were right... PEOPLE. STILL. LIVED. THERE. If you care more about legal technicalities (the intricacies of which are decided upon by Western powers) than you do about the notion of literally kicking entire families out of their generational homes and giving the house keys to a newly-minted Israeli from Southern California, then something is broken within you.

Palestine was on the maps. There were Palestinian passports. Sports teams. Early Zionists acknowledged the existence of Palestine in their very rhetoric. Don't believe me? Look it up. Click on my links so far. I'm tired of citing every source for easily verifiable facts. For once, challenge yourself to obtain your information from somewhere other than the news. Millions of people live in Palestine and have for thousands of years.

THE WEST DOES NOT GET TO DECIDE THE LEGITIMACY OF EVERY STATE AND COUNTRY IN THE ENTIRE WORLD. Who the hell are they to do so? Who put any legal weight into the Balfour Declaration or to the UN's proposed land distribution for the two-state proposal? Why do these foreign white men get to carve apart land they've never stepped foot upon? Nationalism is fairly new as well; empires reigned for centuries. Italian peasants in 1850 may have had no idea they were in Italy. Empires rose and fell and borders changed so often that they'd be altered within someone's own lifetime; look at the Eastern Bloc. No one says that Ukranians don't have a right to freedom from Russia despite Russia's historical claim over the land as the Soviet Union.

I have a few questions for you, if you're reading this and still a Zionist: Do you believe European settlers had a blanket right to land in the New World (pre-United States) because the Native American tribes did not receive nationhood approval by some Western governing body? Because there was no unifying flag or established Native country? Do you somehow also believe that American colonists had no right to fight for independence against Great Britain despite the lack of parliamentary representation, exorbitant taxes, and continued occupation that limited their sovereignty? They weren't a country yet, after all. Just a colony.

I'll bet you ANYTHING you argued the opposite in your American history classes. That you saw the barbarism against and genocide of Native Americans for what it was. That you teared up yourself upon learning about the Trail of Tears - the ethnic cleansing of 60k+ people who were forced out of their homes and land and into reservations despite being promised safety just prior. Who died on the long and arduous journeys on foot. I'll bet you that you understood the Native American attacks on colonists and violent enslaved people's rebellions against their white masters, even if you also understood the horror of the resulting violence... that you could see reason behind the uprisings. Do you condemn Nat Turner? Do you condemn colonists inciting a war against their occupying power in order to form the United States?

Hypocrisy. Western Zionists are hypocrites. Acts of uprising are only righteous in their minds if a) they are/were done by white people or b) are far enough back in history that it suits their current narrative and allows them to seem like a champion for justice. Nelson Mandela was also called a terrorist for protesting against apartheid. Do you see him as wrong, or have you checked out a book on him from the library to read to your children? Don't hurt yourself doing those mental gymnastics.

Bombing Gaza with thousands of tons of bombs - including incredibly damaging bunker-buster bombs - at a rate more than the carpet bombing of Germany in WWII and with more bombs dropped in six days than any one month of the U.S. fighting ISIS - is akin to building a wall around Native American reservations in the US and Canada and deciding to just... drop bombs on them. When they can't escape. Who in their right minds would justify that?

GAZA IS AN OPEN-AIR PRISON, but even worse because they've committed no crimes. Gaza is a CONCENTRATION CAMP.

7. This is war. Civilians die in war. This is called collateral damage.

Let's briefly forget the facts mentioned above that 1) this isn't war, as wars require an opposing military, and 2) collective punishment is a war crime. Do civilians die in war? Yes. They do. But more men, women, and children were killed in the first month than in any other conflict ANNUALLY since 2019. As the New York Times reports, almost 1 in every 150 Palestinian children has been killed; this is the equivalent to half a million American children.

Read THIS ALJAZEERA ARTICLE and look at the pictures. Tell me this is justified with a straight face. Look a member of the Palestinian diaspora in their eyes as you tell them so. Stand before someone who has lost their entire family. Look AlJazeera journalist Wael Al-Dahdouh in the eyes as you say that the killing of his wife, daughter, son, and grandson were justified, and that him learning about it on-air (REPORTED BY CNN, if your loyalty lies with Western media) is just "what happens during war". He's currently hospitalized with wounds to his hand and abdomen sustained during bombardment as he reported from the ground. Even despite his loss, all he wants to do is broadcast the truth.

Look at the faces of children crying and missing limbs on hospital beds and tell yourself it was for the greater good. Of patients who were unable to flee Al Shifa hospital for the South on cots outside of the building, languishing with their injuries and unable to move. Of orphans, shaking and in shock, desperately searching for their dead parents. Of kids covered in dust and blood and pulled from the rubble. Or children whose intestines are spilling out of their bodies as doctors without supplies seek to save their lives. These things are all on video, by the way. Don't believe me? Look it up.

This is not the normal consequence of war (though we shouldn't normalize civilian deaths at all in any conflict, this goes far beyond the expected harsh reality). Wars should allow civilians to flee. Permit humanitarian aid (at more than just trickling rates for either). All Israel has to do, it seems, is say "We're not targeting civilians" while clearly targeting civilians. "There's safe space in the South" while bombing the South and evacuation routes to get there. All they have to do is say "Muwasi is a no-fire zone! It's safe!" despite it being a "narrow patch of barren coastline" with no buildings, water, facilities, etc. that is much too small to house thousands, let alone millions.

Since the end of the temporary ceasefire, deaths have increased by 40%. Due to bombardment, yes, but also due to starvation and disease. Reports of Hepatitis A are steadily growing, and potentially deadly cases of diarrhea among children have increased by 400%. Hundreds have to share one toilet. Gazans desperately collect dirty rainwater streaming down their tent shelters, grateful to relieve their thirst and unaware of the danger the contamination presents. 360,000 cases of infectious diseases have been reported in shelters, made worse by intense flooding the past few days that has also attracted mosquitos and brought out rats. Is this okay?

But still, Israel can say (at least upon the first bombing of Al Shifa) "We're not targeting hospitals - that was Hamas!" (despite having bombed hospitals for decades and video clearly disproving their claims; another shows sound bites recorded by Israelis cut together to try and reveal a plot - those claims have since been removed from Israel's official X account).

"Gazans have rights!" they shout, despite bombing them every few years or so and calling it "mowing the grass". "Journalists are safe!" despite literally mowing down American journalist Rachel Corrie in 2003, who was protesting the demolition of Palestinian homes, with a bulldozer and annually celebrating her death by eating pancakes. Additionally, at least 64 journalists have been killed since October 7. Their propaganda campaign is failing globally but upheld by Western governments.

They have also stolen dead Gazan bodies from various places, including Al-Shifa, raising concerns that these bodies were falsely claimed to be Israeli corpses for propaganda videos as well as that they might be being used to harvest organs.

7. Why haven't Hamas and Palestinians tried peaceful protest?

They have. Look it up. Hundreds have been shot and killed doing so (so claims that October 7 came out of nowhere and was just an example of random terrorism are preposterous). I have nothing else to say about it. TAKE MEASURES TO ELIMINATE YOUR OWN IGNORANCE PLEASE. We are TIRED of explaining things to you. Do I condone killing and hostage taking? No. Do I condemn Hamas for their desperation? Also no. No more than I would condemn the rebellion of enslaved peoples in early America. THIS IS A RESULT OF OPPRESSION. HAMAS IS A SYMPTOM, NOT A DISEASE.

Additionally...

8. October 7 was an unjustifiable atrocity. 40 babies were beheaded! Gazans elected Hamas, so they deserve to die.

First of all, no. Hamas did not behead any Israeli babies. Biden and the western media had to walk back those claims when Israel refused to provide evidence. Do you really think there were just... 40 babies at a music festival? The only babies who have been beheaded (by bombs) are Gazan. I saw a photo of a Palestinian father holding a headless child up in front of a crowd, and that was far from the only example of children being dismembered.

Israeli propagandists tore apart a photo of another father carrying a dead infant with the claim it was just a doll, not a dead baby. They had to retract the article when it was proven that the baby was, in fact, real. And deceased.

Was October 7 horrific? Yes. Did innocent people die? Also yes. My heart hurts for Israeli people too; for families who lost loved ones. Whose grief was utilized to support a genocide. But here's another HUGE confounding factor: Israel has admitted to killing MANY of their own in the "chaos" of the event from Apache helicopters. ONCE MORE: ISRAEL FIRED UPON THEIR OWN CITIZENS DURING THE MUSIC FESTIVAL AND ADDED TO THE DEATH TOLL.

Egypt has claimed that Israel knew about the planned Hamas attack days before the festival, and the event was even extended a day later than planned. Odd… was this so the attack could happen? How were armed members of Hamas able to overcome the most secure border in the world and take so many hostages? How did Israel fail to prevent this (and, in fact, add to the death toll - initially blamed on Hamas?) Listen, there's no solid evidence that Israel planned everything as a neat justification for their assault on Gaza, but it's the simplest explanation, isn't it?

It's important to note that ISRAEL CREATED AND PROPPED UP HAMAS to foster political disunity with claims they were helping establish a stable governing body.

FURTHER: Though Israel has denied this, there are reports of suspicious trading on the Israeli stock exchange in the days leading up to October 7. *Note that this is still unconfirmed, but:

"The preliminary research, which hasn’t been peer reviewed, found in the days before the Hamas attacks that bets against the value of the MSCI Israel Exchange Traded Fund (ETF) “far exceeded” the short selling activity that took place during the Covid-19 pandemic, the 2014 Israel-Gaza war or even the 2008 financial crisis.

“Our findings suggest that traders informed about the coming attacks profited from these tragic events,” the authors wrote." (CNN).

Did Gazans elect Hamas? Sure, in 2006. With no measure of foresight, of course, and despite them being controversial even then (though, remember, they were supported by Israel - don't you think the election was already set into motion?) MOST GAZANS WERE NOT YET BORN AT THIS TIME OR WERE CHILDREN. Even if they had been, have we ever justified killing civilians based upon who they elected into office? America has had its fair share of corrupt politicians who commit overseas atrocities. Do we deserve to be carpet bombed? That's the justification of the 9/11 attacks; that there are no innocent civilians. That's also called TERRORISM.

9. Hamas are using civilians as human shields.

I can't believe I forgot this rote talking point in my original post. Let’s just forget the fact that Israel has yet to produce any evidence of this being true. There is absolutely no proof that hospitals and schools are a cover for their headquarters.

But let’s be magnanimous, shall we? Let’s assume this is and always has been Hamas' goal: to use civilians as cover. Employ some critical thinking skills. Why would anyone do this? Ah. Yes. Because they’d assume that doing so would provide some measure of safety; that no military, no matter how brutal, would mow down civilians to (only potentially) kill their target.

Israel saying “We don’t care - we’ll kill thousands of civilians anyway!” isn’t the win they think it is. On a smaller scale, if an armed bank robber physically hid behind a single civilian to avoid gunfire, would you shoot through the chest of said civilian to kill the robber? If you would, I’m sorry… I’m afraid of you.

I also saw a new argument today that doesn't quite merit its own numbered point: Hamas is restricting humanitarian aid and stopping food and water from reaching civilians. And... no. Just... no. I think those of us with functioning brains realize that this makes no logical sense - Hamas does not want to kill Palestinian civilians - but HAMAS DOES NOT CONTROL THE BORDER WITH EGYPT. ISRAEL DOES. There's enough evidence in the sources linked above that prove this, but additionally: ISRAEL HAS LONG (since 2007) CONTROLLED THE AMOUNT OF FOOD - DOWN TO THE CALORIE - PERMITTED INTO GAZA. The "tunnels" so often talked about with fear were really just used to smuggle in necessary goods.

(Also, the IOF have just flooded these tunnels with sea water to "drown" Hamas. With all due respect, Israel - which is none - isn't that where you keep saying the hostages are being held?)

10. Jewish people have a birthright and claim to the land.

First of all, nothing has ever stopped any Jewish people from moving to Palestine. They were initially welcomed after WWII, too, as there were already (and are still) Jewish Palestinians. (Christians, too - this is not a religious war. Churches have also been bombed). Though really, Zionist settlers should have considered (and I'm sure they did) that being granted unfamiliar land after surviving an atrocity at the hands of their own governments rather than being encouraged to go home should have warned them that no small measure of anti-Semitism was behind the Zionist project.

3,000 years ago, a civilization known as Israel - comprised by a racially and ethnically different population than modern-day Israelis, of course - lasted a brief 150 years. Shockingly enough, however, religious claims and historic occupation ARE NOT LEGALLY BINDING. Were the lands open for immigrants? Open to those who wanted to visit religiously significant land? YES. Were they fair game to be taken and colonized? NO. Did the UN have any power to designate the land? NO.

This would be like saying Muslim people as a diaspora have a claim to Spain due to their long historical stronghold over the Iberian Peninsula. It would be like Italians trying to take back the modern countries formerly a part of the Roman Empire. It would be like Catholics creating an ethnostate in Germany and massacring Protestants due to their historical control of the land. IT WOULD BE RIDICULOUS.

Look up the 1948 Nakba. Tell me that it doesn't make you think of the Trail of Tears. That forcing people out of their homes is okay because of some ancient claim or suggestion from white politicians that "Hey, you can move there as part of your divine right." I thought the notion of divine right ended with the rise of democracy and resistance to tyrannical historical monarchs such as "Sun King Louis XVI." That Manifest Destiny was just something we learned about in World History.

Nope.

Could you live in a Palestinian home still decorated and furnished with familial artifacts, knowing that the former family was forced to leave and forbidden from returning? No? Then don't support Israel.

11. Palestinians are barbaric! They'd kill you for being gay.

This is another silly argument due to its complete irrelevance. If you find yourself struggling to justify genocide and coming up with these sorts of answers - answers that imply that ALL PALESTINIANS are the same - check yourself and where that notion might be coming from. Stereotyping is bad, isn't it? Should we bomb the American South for being homophobic, as much as we may hate that fact? Um. No.

This perspective is fueled by Israel's long-standing pinkwashing campaign against Palestine, which both ignores the presence of LGTBQ+ Palestinians but also claims Israel to be a safe, modern haven in comparison to barbarism… it’s a means of dehumanization (AND ONE MORE REMINDER: NOTHING JUSTIFIES GENOCIDE).

Have you been to Gaza? Have you spoken to someone who has? Have you watched Anthony Bourdain's episode of No Reservations that highlights the humanity and kindness of Gazans? Have you watched the countless videos of Westerners, including women, who claimed they felt safer in Gaza than back home?

Could it be dangerous? Of course. Any place can be for women and members of the LGBTQ+ community. Are there extremist Muslims? Of course. Would you want the Westboro Baptist Church to represent all of Christianity, however? Avoid sweeping generalizations whose only goal is to make you see millions of people (complex individuals with rich lives) as inhuman. As worth killing. See it for what it is.

Who tortures their prisoners, records it, and posts the videos to social media for people to laugh at? Israel. Who kills journalists, doctors, and bombs UNRWA schools using illegal white phosphorous? Israel. Who forces teenagers to join the military and jails them for refusing? Israel. Who routinely shoots Palestinian civilians to keep them living in fear and arrests them randomly and without charge? Israel. Who sets up chairs on a hilltop so they can watch bombings with popcorn and snacks? Israel. Who calls for the extermination of all Palestinians? Israel. Have you ever seen a Palestinian person call for the extinction and massacre of all Jews? No? You haven’t? Yep. Think about that. (And no, Hamas’ charter does not call for the death of Jews; they revised this in 2017 and specified that the enemy is Zionists, not Jews).

OVERALL: THE SIDE WITH THE PROPAGANDA CAMPAIGN IS IN THE WRONG. THE SIDE LOSING THE CULTURE WAR DESPITE POURING MILLIONS INTO THEIR PUBLIC IMAGE AND PAYING INFLUENCERS TO MAKE VIDEOS FOR THEM IS IN THE WRONG. THE SIDE FREQUENTLY CAUGHT IN LIES SO EMBARRASSING THAT THEY ARE MEMED AND RIDICULED ON THE INTERNET IS IN THE WRONG. THE SIDE WHO ACCEPTS BILLIONS YEARLY FROM THE UNITED STATES THAT GOES TOWARD WEAPONS AND FREE HEALTHCARE FOR ISRAELIS (That Americans without this pay for with their own tax money) IS IN THE WRONG.

If you don't see this now, I can't help you. In ten years or so, however - when Israel's atrocities have finally been recognized and its leaders have been prosecuted for war crimes - have fun hiding evidence that you were on the wrong side of history. It's inevitable. On Friday, 153 countries voted for a ceasefire during an emergency meeting of the U.N. Security Council. 10 countries voted against. Guess who? Guess why? THEY ARE IN THE WRONG. AND THE WORLD AGREES.

Free Palestine.

#palestine #free palestine #watermelon #israel #israel hamas war #israel palestine conflict #i know this is long as hell but please read it all and spread it around

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pearl484-blog · 7 months

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I've been reading Journey to the West for Fire Opal (its an old ass book that she apparently struggles with. My obsession with classical lit FOR THE WIN!)

Now, for background, we started off our knowledge from a summary given to us by Overly Sarcastic Productions. It's great. You should watch it.

Then, we watched Lego Monkie Kid, a TV series designed to be a sequel to the book with a lot of references to the series in a high energy action series with great animation. It's great. You should watch it.

But, if you're not familiar with Chinese folklore (or Japanese if you're a needy anime fan like me who liked Inuyasha and a few other series with Buddhist references (kinda did not realize how often those get in these shows, seriously)) you're going to miss a few jokes/references.

(The one about Mei, the dragon/pony descendant getting excited to meet her dragon/pony ancestor who must've been super helpful on their journey (He was FREQUENTLY forgotten by the authors of being a mother friggin DRAGON, they kept getting hung up on the whole acting as a horse thing) is HILARIOUS when you know how BADLY she's about to be disappointed.)

Anyway, back on topic, when we were checking out our book at the library, it was divided into several books (not surprising considering how big it is) and the first book was missing, so we picked up an abridged copy (only 700 pages. Yeah. Journey to the West is a door stopper at a whopping 20,000 pages.) It leaves out a lot of details, but even with OSP's summaries of each adventure, it was a LIFE SAVER.

Why?

Each friggin' character has like 8 names. You'd think the translators would give a quick rundown ahead of the book too, you know as a refresher for those who didn't have book 1, but NOPE!

The abridged version keeps each character with their easiest to recall nickname at all times and simplifies and explains a lot of mythology that English Speakers may not know as well.

Did you know that a winking wish is secretly a human? Because I did not. I've heard of talking carp, and wish granting carp. But not winking carp secretly being human.

Then there's the fact that the underworld can ask for bank loans from wealthy families on behalf of the emperor? What? Like, how does that work? Do you get a vision in a dream and your money's gone? Does a spirit collect it for you? Is it a blink and you miss it fortune? I am way too invested in these freaking underworld money lending deals.

Both are in Tang Sangzang's complicated backstory, and even with the abridged version walking me through it step by step, I can see why OSP shortened it into "basically He's the reincarnation of the Golden Cicada, former pupil of the Buddha and the goodness boy ever"

Anyways: a few comments

Why OSP did you call the spell that tightens the circlet on Monkey King's head a migraine spell? I mean, that is REALLY underselling the horror of that little do-dad. I was completely unprepared for the description of it squeezing Monkey King's skull until it resembled a vase as he begged for Tang to stop. That's a teeeeeny bit more than a migraine.

2. Also, why in the heck is Tamg so obsessed with his friggin' alms bowl?

For reference, Buddhist monks are not allowed to carry money, so to eat, they carry around a bowl you can leave food in to feed them, allowing you to support your local Buddhist monks and earn good karma. This is completely socially acceptable and is seen as a good thing to do. For this reason, most monks serve in urban environments so they can serve a large enough community to support this.

Tang Sangzang is in the middle of a pilgrimage with DAYS of rural country where there may be no one to beg from around. And YET, he seems adamantly against foraging.

One of his detractors' major complaints is that he's so gullible and soft-hearted he keeps falling into obvious traps, but honestly. That's forgivable compared to sending your companions to scoure WHOLE MOUNTAIN RANGES for some rinky dink little cabin that may or may not be there and may or may not be willing to part with their food and may or may not be able to accomodate a vegetarian diet when they are living by themselves ON A MOUNTAIN.

Is foraging REALLY against Tang Sangzang's brand of Buddhism? Is it too much to ask for him to just...asks his companions to forage and make him a meal? He doesn't mind making them beg for him.

OSP keeps describing it as Monkey going to get him food, but I genuinely thought he was using his skills to forage, not cloud hop around till he found a house to beg from.

Granted, the group would have probably gotten attacked/tricked/captured/etc. another way, but SERIOUSLY?

3. OSP describes the fight against White Bone Lady as Monkey King just hits her and she dies, but Monkie Kid makes a BIG deal out of her. So, I figured this was one of OSP's jokes. NOPE!

Ivory white bone demon or whatever is literally one-hit KO-ed THREE times by Monkey King. Her special ability appears to be illusions and the ability to drop her body and escape into an immaterial form at the last second.

However, narratively speaking, her fight is what drives Monkey King away to leave the first time, so apparently adaptations love upping her abilities so she's more of a legitimate threat.

This DOES however make her line that she's grown stronger since Monkey King last fought her VERY funny. Because I don't think there's another major demon who gets KO-ed that quickly, especially one that has that happen 3 times! (You'd think she'd have learned and called it quits by the third time. Or at least distract the freakishly strong evil-detecting bodyguard somehow, but no.) So, yeah. You survived a single punch. You leveled up girl!

Honestly, rewatching her scenes knowing this makes all her talk of being powerful very funny. She's terrifying, yeah, but also it's funny.

Edited 9/25: forgot to add a read more line. Whoops

#journey to the west #monkie kid spoilers #lego monkie kid #monkie kid #lady boss #overly sarcastic productions #Abridged book

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1016week · 7 months

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1016 Week 2023: Day 1 - Monza

Hello fellow Piarlies 😍❤️💙 We are SO excited to kick off 1016 Week with you!! For our first day of this fanweek, the prompt we're all going to be using is "Monza." We can't wait to see and share all your creations!! 🇮🇹🏆🎉

Before we get into it, just a quick reminder of how this event is going to work:

You make your Monza-themed creation(s), and when you're ready to go, post or link to Tumblr for all the Piarlies to share the love!

Make sure to tag us @1016week somewhere in your post, and use #1016 week 2023 within your first five tags so we can find and reblog your post.

For our writers and artists who'd like to add your work to AO3: we've created an AO3 Collection where you can post all your creations for this event! You can find it on the Archive as 1016 Week 2023 (1016Week_2023). Be sure to post to Tumblr as well, because we'll be reblogging all 1016 Week content to this blog too! 💙

A gentle reminder that while we are accepting any and all kinds of content & themes for this event, please place any dark, explicit or potentially triggering content under a read-more cut, and tag it clearly so that people who want to avoid it can do so.

We will reblog and share all Piarles content that we're tagged in! However, please note that your post might not show up on our blog immediately. This could be because:

This blog uses a queue, which is set to release 1 post every hour. It's quite possible that your post is queued up already, but just hasn't released yet. For this reason, we ask you to please wait 24 hours before you message a mod to check if we've seen your post. The chances are that we have - it's just still waiting for its release turn in our queue. ❤️ If after 24 hours your post still hasn't been reblogged, then please do shoot one of the mods a message! We will make sure it gets reblogged ASAP.

Continuing on from the previous point: we all love Tumblr, but we also all know that it's far from perfect. It's possible that your @ did not show up in our notifications, for whatever weird Tumblr-y reason, or that we just accidentally mislooked it somehow. We mods are only human, and mistakes happen. So again: if it's been 24 hours and your post still hasn't been reblogged, please let us know and we'll help you out as soon as we can 💙

If you have any other questions or concerns, please don't hesitate to contact any of the mods. Your mod team for this event is @singsweetmelodies, @boxboxbrioche, @welightitup, @duquesademiel, @wolfiemcwolferson and @river-ocean 🫶

And now with no further ado... LET'S GO, MONZA! 😍🇮🇹❤️💙

#1016 week 2023 #1016week #day 1: monza #event post

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goldilockswrites · 2 years

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Thunderstorm // Eddie Munson

╔═════ ∘◦ ☆ ◦∘ ══════╗

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader (she/her)

Requested: Yes (by my brain)

Summary: When reader has troubles going to bed, because of her fear of thunderstorms, Eddie swoops right in and saves the day... Well, the night.

Warnings: A description of a thunderstorm. Other than that all is fluff.

A/N: Hey, loves! I typed this one out at 1 AM, with my eyes half-closed, because OMG I had a dream about this and just couldn’t not write about it! Anyway here it is!

Also let’s all collectively thank my friends for being so supportive and encouraging me to post this + helping out with the cover!

All the love,

Axe <3

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It had started as a murmur that echoed through the air. Followed by a silver cloud, dragging its shapeless body through the sky. Not even a minute later, a violent downpour fell over Hawkins - lightning striking the ground, the loud growl of a thunder sneaking right after.

The deep rumble of nature send the unpleasant kind of shivers down Y/N’s back. She glanced at the clock on the wall - it was a hair past 2 AM. Even more sweat dripped down her forehead, as the sky wailed again. “You are fine.” She whispered to herself. Her tearful orbs scanned the room - in the darkness she was able to identify a wrinkled bed sheet, a guitar, an ashtray and an opened pack of condoms. In the end her eyes stumbled upon the pile of notebooks on the desk, trying to count how many were there in the stack, which occupied her mind for a while.

But just then yet another thunder echoed outside. Y/N hugged her knees to her chest, cuddling into her pillow, careful not to wake the sleeping boy next to her. Eddie was completely unaware of the panic, that the spiders in the corners of her mind seemed to thread. His chest rose and fell at a steady pace, as his eyes remained shut. Chapped lips were slightly parted, allowing a few soft (and a few not so soft) snores to slip out here and there. Occasionally he would scrunch his nose, or mutter something in barely a rasp, but that was as much as anyone could get out of him while he was asleep.

Despite wanting to crawl out of her skeleton, Y/N decided against waking up the boy. He had a busy day - driving her around town, doing school work, staying behind for extra credit and still remembering to pick her up and take her home, a Hellfire meeting and a gig with Corroded Coffin, drug sales. It felt unfair to bother him for something so little (at least to her).

That's why she chose to try and suppress the wave of fear that washed over her and sliced her open, leaving her bleeding each time. So she closed her eyes and started fantasising - about what she and Eddie will do after graduation, about their new home, their wedding, his career as a rockstar, her own job. But nature had other plans, sending yet another thunder to shake up Hawkins. This one sounded much more scary than the previous ones, as if Zeus himself had just landed a mere foot away and was now preparing to bury the whole town alive.

The sound made each fantasy crumble, leaving Y/N weeping. She didn't even realise she was crying until she brought her palm to her cheek to wipe off more sweat and as a result she couldn't bite into her palm on time to suppress the sob that wrecked her chest. The sound was so loud that it woke Eddie up.

The boy let out a grunt, rubbing his fists over his eyes. His fingers ran through the tousled mop of curls on his head, getting tangled in the mess. When the sleep was shrugged off of his body, he turned to his right to hug the beautiful girl by his side only to find her body shaking, as she bit down on her palm in an attempt to silence her cries.

“Hey, hey, hey…” Eddie gently leaned towards Y/N, slipping his arm around her frame. “I- I h-hate th-thunderstorms.” The girl nuzzled into his touch, pressing her side to his own. “I know. I know you do, baby.” He kissed the crown of her head, pulling her closer. Her cheek landed on his bare shoulder. The boy twisted around to flip the switch of the closest lamp on, breaking apart the darkness. In the process, he managed to knock the red ashtray over, letting out a harsh “Fuck!” when old butts and ash littered the floor.

Another thunder echoed through the city - getting yet another yelp from Y/N and a whole new downpour of snot and tears. The metalhead turned to the girl, pressing his lips on her slaty cheek, pulling his arms around her neck. “Do you wanna watch a movie?” Eddie wiped a few tears off of his girlfriend’s cheek. “I can put on one of those you brought.” If it wasn’t for the crippling panic that had taken over Y/N, she would be swooning over how quickly the boy was ready to drop his metal attitude for her. But for now she just resorted to trembling and nodding.

Eddie laid the girl down, covering her up with the blanket and looking for her handbag. He reached his hand inside, pulling out a journal, a camera, make-up, and… “Jesus, where is it?” “Do you-” “No, it’s fine, babe, I will find it.” After some more shuffling and producing a few polaroids and pens, Eddie finally let out a small cheer when he pulled the copy of the film out. (He never thought he’d be happy over a copy of “Flashdance”.)

He quickly turned on the TV, setting it up, before playing the movie at a low volume. Y/N sat up a little bit, cuddling into Eddie’s side when he got back in bed, looking at the screen. The boy took a cigarette out of the pack, bringing it up to his lips and lighting it. He held it out in front of the girl - his subtle way to ask her if she wanted to smoke with him. She nodded, letting him slip it between her lips.

About half an hour later, after sinking in the covers of Eddie’s bed, and watching the movie (Well, it was more listening to the boy fuss about it and planting kisses to his bare chest.), she curled up to the metalhead and closed her eyes. With a “You know, this isn’t very metal from you.” she drifted off to sleep, leaving Eddie with a smile on his lips as he finished off the cigarette. His girlfriend was back.

#eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson #stranger things #stranger things x reader #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things imagine

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cherry-froggie · 1 year

Text

the masked warrior — chapter 1

pairing — childe x f!reader

summary — Having to live by draining other people’s blood to pay your debt was already a burden to your heart, but you let your mask fall in front of the ones that were hungry to know your identity and take advantage of it. Even worse, it was one of the most distinguished Fatui Harbingers, the Snezhnayan organization you owed and killed to pay the debt. With him appearing on your balcony to offer a big deal, your world shifted radically.

tags — there are very brief mentions of blood in the first paragraph!!

notes — this is the only work i have in my ao3 account, i decided to rewrite it here first and then I'll probably go back and edit the original; maybe the original one sounds better? i guess it's very subjective, you can take a look for yourself if you want!

there are already 12 chapters released on ao3 in case you want to read more!! ALSO!! thank you so much to everyone liking "lament"!!! you made my day!!!

words — 3k

MASTERLIST || REQUESTS || NEXT CHAPTER

Chapter 1 — Dangers of the Scenery

After several minutes of shock and desperation from your enemies, the battle finally came to a close as you rest your weapon on the ground and catch your breath. You take in the destruction that surrounds you - the once vibrant landscape is now tainted by burn marks, damaged trees, and the blood of both you and your foes staining the rocks. Despite the guilt and horror of the situation, you know that it had to be done. You needed to pay off another portion of your debt so that you can finally be free of this burden. You would breathe without suffering from this problem ever again, right?

In an effort to rid the area of the fearsome atmosphere, you pluck the delicate lily from your head and plant it in the center of the field, letting its fragrance fill the air. As you gaze out at the untouched view before you, the beauty of the mountains and waterfalls brings you back to simpler, happier times. You can see Liyue Harbor in the distance, but they cannot see you - the distance is too great. The warm sunshine on your cheeks and the gentle breeze through your hair and clothes bring you a sense of peace, reminding you of the joys of everyday life. You long for those carefree days to return, but everything fell apart after your father's death. He had gone on a mission with the Millelith but was killed when his fellow members used him as a sacrifice to escape their enemies. You never imagined his job would be dangerous enough to end his life, especially when he had others to help him.

No one would tell you the truth about what had happened, but rumors spread like wildfire since someone couldn’t keep their mouth shut. Your dream had been to follow in your father's footsteps and join the Millelith, training with him every day, but those dreams were shattered. Around the same time, your mother became ill, and the money you had saved was not enough to cover the medical expenses. Desperate to save the last member of your family, you made a deal with the Fatui and the Northland Bank. Despite the doctors' efforts, your mother's condition worsened, and she eventually passed away, leaving you alone.

Tears flow from the memories and emotions flooding back to you. The only thing worse than your own death, which you fear will come at the hands of the Fatui if you do not collect enough mora in time.

How could you ever let this happen?

Suddenly, a rustling noise comes from behind you, someone or something moving in the bushes and hiding behind a golden tree. You realize you let your guard down and forgot to check your surroundings. Quickly donning your mask to conceal your face, you call out, "Who's there? Face me if you are brave enough, or run and have your life at my sake." Your voice echoes through the falls, and the world falls silent, waiting for you to take action. When no one comes forward, you decide to investigate for yourself, but found nothing. Your heart races as you fear that something terrible is about to happen. Have your actions caught up with you? Had your life come to an end as the Masked Warrior?

Your visit was over. It would be better to leave and return to Liyue Harbor, to your home, and get some rest.

In the peaceful and prosperous port city of Liyue Harbor, life is usually calm and comfortable. However, the money-hungry Fatui have been known to abuse their authority, causing problems for merchants and ruining their businesses. The Fatui have gained prosperity through their well-known Northland Bank, offering tricky contracts to the citizens. This is the darker side of the idyllic paradise.

Recently, rumors have circulated about a masked warrior who helps merchants by keeping the Fatui at bay, often through violent means. Some believe this warrior is a woman, while others think it is a man. Some people doubt the existence of this warrior, saying that the stories are just a way for people to keep their hope alive as they struggle with debt. These stories have even caught the attention of the Fatui and the Millelith. While the Fatui are not particularly concerned, the Millelith is trying to catch the warrior, believing them to be committing crimes and damaging the reputation of Liyue Harbor.

Most citizens are relieved by the presence of the Masked Warrior, but some, siding with the Millelith, want the warrior to disappear before the Fatui take more drastic action and make their lives even more difficult.

At the Northland Bank, the stories of the Masked Warrior are a source of entertainment for the workers. At the end of the day, they can be heard giggling about the absurdity of someone trying to mess with the Fatui and help traders. It was not possible to maintain a dull face with something so foolish. They believe that the exhausted salesmen must be crazy to tell such silly stories, and they are sure they could handle the so-called warrior if they were to find them. They see the tales as nothing more than a way for debtors to try and instill fear in the loyal servants of the Tsaritsa.

That was until, one peaceful day, a Fatuus arrives at the Northland Bank with a troubled and startled expression on his face. His damaged clothes show that he has been in a fight, and a serious one. Ekaterina, the receptionist, stops what she is doing to pay attention to the man, and Nadia, the guard, storms inside to see what has happened. The Eleventh Fatui Harbinger, who was previously requesting a report from the receptionist, is also present. He stood up from the countertop, ready to inquire about the Fatuus' situation, but the agent spoke faster. The words coming out of his mouth couldn't be more than what the rumors had already told - yet he swore they were real, saying that the Masked Warrior, whom he saw with his own eyes, is real, and she was someone who had the strength of the sheer cold of Snezhnaya. He describes the woman in detail. He introduced the glaze lilies to the picture, which weren't common in many parts of Liyue. In the Harbor, there were some, but not many. The second place they considered would be the Qingce Village.

Childe, the Eleventh Fatui Harbinger, is skeptical of the Fatuus' story and decides to see for himself. Still, if that warrior truly existed, then all the agents' disappearances and unusual lack of mora received would make more sense He dismisses the workers, warning them not to spread the rumors any further, and decides to investigate the matter further the following day. He is confident that he can easily lure the Masked Warrior into his grasp.

When he nearly missed a woman with what looked like a heavy bag entering a house by his side that looked a lot like the descriptions of the attacked Fatui Agent during his walk on the wonderfully light streets, he almost tripped on the pavement. After stopping, the unique perfume of glaze lilies didn't go unnoticed by him, he saw the balcony in the second-floor apartment. It contained many local flowers, including the lilies. Could it be that he had found her so soon? No, it couldn't have been so easy. Besides, it could have been anyone. Setting up the trap the subsequent day would help him decipher the code that tangled his mind for the past minutes. It wouldn't be fun at all if he didn't at least have a try at fighting this allegedly mighty warrior.

As another day dawns, you feel the weight of your responsibilities to continue collecting blood. You leave your home later than usual to buy breakfast at the Wanmin Restaurant, but you cannot shake the feeling that someone is watching you. You worry that your actions from the previous day have attracted attention, but no one had said anything until now. If people knew your true identity, you would not have been so quick to leave your apartment.

As you wait to place your order at the restaurant, you are greeted by Xiangling, the talented daughter of Chef Mao. You had been coming to the restaurant regularly since you were a child and have always enjoyed chatting with Xiangling when you can. She is dedicated to her work with her father and the two have a close relationship that warms your heart. After a brief catch-up, you place your order and Xiangling gives a chili pepper to her pet panda, Guoba, to light the fire for her.

Your order is ready quickly, and Xiangling brings it to your table, sitting down to keep you company. Guoba climbs onto your lap, requesting soft pats on his head. You thank Xiangling and begin to eat, listening as she talks excitedly about a new recipe she is working on and how she hopes you will try it. "And it's going to be super spicy! Even spicier than the last time, it's going to be perfect!" she says with enthusiasm. You both laugh at the thought of how spicy the dish will be, and you reflect on how Xiangling is one of the few, if not the only, people you can call a friend. She may not give you gifts or hang out with you all the time, but the moments you share are special to you.

Your conversation with Xiangling is interrupted by the arrival of Chef Mao, who is calling for his daughter. Xiangling apologizes and quickly leaves to attend to the customers who have lined up at the restaurant, leaving you to finish your meal. As you are about to leave, you drop some mora on the ground and bend down to pick it up. As you do, you overhear a conversation between two young children nearby, arguing about the rumors of the Masked Warrior and whether or not they are real. The kids seemed to be young, in the years of being naive and not having to worry about a thing. They were disputing the rumors of the Masked Warrior. You recalled you had seen them a few times already with their parents at the Wanmin Restaurant.

One of the children turned to the other with a satisfied look on their face. "You see, I told you it wasn't real. You owe me a thousand mora for that, you promised." The child extended their hand to the other, ready to take the promised mora into their own hands. "Oh, you wish! The Fatui got out of my father's route yesterday in the mountains, and there was blood everywhere! They just came back like they always do. The warrior is real, you'll see! I'll bet all my mora on it!"

"Yeah, right. Then I'll bet all my mora it isn't real!"

Could it be that it was the corresponding place where you had fought recently? Why would the Fatui come back so soon?

"It must have been a very delayed debt..." you assumed, hastening your pace back to your residence to get your wooden mask and your weaponry. You'd ordinarily go out and do your tasks at night when it was easier to hide in the shadows, but money was tight, and you wanted to get your life together sooner or later. Usually, you would talk to the person before deciding if you'll take the offer or not, but finding the man in the light of day would not be of many advantages to you. You would collect the remuneration at night when it was secure.

As the sun began to set, you made your way up the mountain path, fueled by the memory of yesterday's encounter. The climb took longer than you remembered, but finally, you reached the spot where you had fought the Fatui the day before. The sky was awash with the colors of twilight as you surveyed the scene, still feeling as though you were being watched. Despite your desire to avoid violence, it was the only way you knew how to get things done, and before you knew it, blood was spilled on the ground, on your clothes and mask, and in the once-clear stream that flowed through the cliffs.

You noted that your enemies did not resemble great beings today. They appeared relatively weak. Without allowing any more seconds of your valuable time to go to waste, you dived into battle and stood your ground. Today you would try to scare them and not harm them. But your plan didn't go as you had predicted. The Harbingers jumped on you, and it didn't feel gratifying to go around and spill blood wherever, but it was the only way you knew how to get things done. Blood spilled everywhere: your mask and clothes, the grass, the rocks, the plants, and the once crystalline water that flowed to the ends of the cliff.

It was over before you knew it, and the wooden mask felt heavier than ever. It felt worse than all the emotional wounds already engraved on your mind and body. You needed to take it out and breathe again, but the feeling of being observed still hadn't left you, and it was haunting you ever since you had left this place. You were ready to take your leave when you heard something falling behind you. Could it be that it was the person that had seen you yesterday? It was disturbing your peace of mind and giving you a more difficult time than the one you had already given yourself.

Panic had caused you to turn around and stand your ground again, facing the enemy. You weren't ready to fight. Did you let someone escape again? Or were they here before you? You couldn't make up your mind. There were several possibilities, too many.

In the dim light, all you could make out was the silhouette of a man approaching you. With wavy ginger hair and a bright smile, he strode confidently towards you, his grey attire standing out against the moonlight. "So it was you, the one delaying my work, correct? You've caused quite the stir," he exclaimed. He dashed in your direction with weapons in hand - he clearly had a vision -, but you jumped back, not noticing what would be the cliff that was right behind you. The thing you had found so appealing about this place, something that calmed you and assured you of all the beautiful things nature would preserve, was now deadly and inevitable. You could feel your body working so hard to recover solid ground, only to fall. Death's arms were open to you, and you would have to embrace it.

Considering you had your eyes locked on the dangers of the scenery, you didn't notice the arm that grabbed yours and prevented your fall. But it was not dragging you back to safety. It was just letting you swing, teasing your death. That boy caught your attention rather quickly after saving you from the worst ending of your life. He smiled, but was it because he had rescued you or because he was planning on letting you go and wanted to see your last moments of desperation?

"Now, listen here, 'Masked Warrior'..." Oh, what fame had brought against you. You were clinging to his arm with such strength you believed you could take it off. It was your last chance at living again, but would your fall change anything now? If he were to expose you, it would be over, wouldn't it? The Millelith would lock you up in no time. "...I was at least expecting a fight. I am almost impressed by what you can do. But I came up with a better plan than this." He reached out his hand to claim your mask, forgetting you wouldn't give him that pleasure. You let go of his arm, and the feeling of wind surrounding you came again. However, his arm had got a better hold of yours. With a simple movement, he used your arm to swing you over the cliff and back to safety. It made you collide back with the beloved ground you missed so much. But this reunion was not as expected. Your back was the first to hit the soft grass that didn't do anything when you got to the rocks, then your head, and then nothing. You couldn't keep your eyes open any longer, and the pain itself made you painless by shutting you down completely. It was like a very unexpected profound sleep.

The pain was indescribable. Every movement was a struggle, and even breathing was difficult, as if something were blocking your airways. Your head was spinning, and you couldn't tell how long you had been unconscious. It was still dark outside, but the cold wind had subsided. You were lying on a soft surface - your bed - and noticed your window was open, letting in the breeze that rustled the curtains. Your balcony, filled with blooming flowers, was visible through the window, and you saw a familiar shadow leaning against the wall. As the figure stepped forward, the moon's light illuminated their face, and you felt a sense of fear and insecurity wash over you. The person's fearless smile did nothing to ease your worry.

"Hey girlie, are you ready to listen to me now?"

MASTERLIST || REQUESTS || NEXT CHAPTER

thank you for reading!! if you want to read more, there are already 12 chapters released on ao3!!

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