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shoshiwrites · 3 months

Note

I shall join you in the trash can my dear. For Jo & Bucky from the NSFW prompts (because I am unhinged about this):

[ UNZIP ] sender unzips/unbuttons receiver’s dress/shirt - s l o w l y 🫠

Emaaaaa! Thank you so much for this prompt, and for entertaining my Jo/Bucky ramblings at any time of day. It means so much that you're in the trash can with me on board. This was......... supposed to be a smut prompt and we ended up with............3200 words of Scenes I Really Needed To Write For Them Actually, comma mildly spicy 🙈 Bucky Egan x War correspondent OC. Also on Ao3!

leading with my heart again

She’s read the same page three times.

The coffee’s drained, and the cup of tea, and maybe she ought to stop now, now that her hand is shaking a bit holding the pencil, from the caffeine or everything she hardly knows.

A hotel bar with a hole in it. When she blinks she can still see the smoke. A few stragglers at the end of the night. Even though the nights don’t end here, they haven’t for years. Local drinkers. Society usuals. A handful of correspondents. Al Stern, a friend of Marian’s. She’d broken out a fresh bottle of gin in his honor. Blanche Aurand, narrowly escaped from Marseilles, her photographer friend. Salim? Jo’s met them all.

You’re scared, she wants to say. Like it’s not her own self sitting here, the ticking of the clock and the tap of her foot, her toes in her shoes. She reaches up to fidget with the tiny gold hoop in her ear.

The bar is gone now, and so are they.

She hasn’t heard much by way of Thorpe Abbotts lately. She’s trying not to let that bother her.

If Kay were here, she'd tell her to sit up straight and quit looking like a gargoyle. If-

“Thought I’d find you here.”

His voice is a momentary shock, and still familiar, like a sun-drenched room. He leans against the bar, nods at the man polishing glasses to let him know about an order — the bartender who looks too similar to the last. If she closes her eyes, she sees a white jacket covered in brick-dust, or blood.

She smells the major’s aftershave, through the smoke of the bar and the bitter coffee.

He dips his head, an explanation to what she imagines is her still-bewildered face. “Rang your office.”

She really does try to sit up straight, now. Suddenly ashamed, or something like it, of herself next to his freshly-cleaned uniform. Her slacks with a broken crease, a blouse with a wrinkle or two. Her hair’s a mess, or feels like it. “Oh.”

She blinks again, sees that he’s holding a metal tin in his hand — barley sweets, nestled in waxed paper — and a small bunch of torn green stems attached to white-petaled flowers.

“No cherry,” he says. He looks fondly annoyed, almost. “I told them a few packs of smokes oughta change their tune, but I think they were really out.”

He surveys the space in front of her, the rings of coffee and the scattered pages and the folded newspaper, the front splash of the dead. Her people, his people, their people. Everyone belonging to someone. She hears him clear his throat. Like he already knows the answer to the question, the one he doesn’t ask. Did you know them? Yes.

The barkeep’s looking at the two of them expectantly. “What can I get for you?”

She replaces the cup on its saucer, places the little spoon next to it and slides the whole operation towards him. “I’m alright, thanks, Louie.”

The major orders a whiskey, doesn’t let her put it on her tab. He’s not too insulted about it though, he knows her. The question’s silent again, when he’s got his glass, the nod of his chin. Who’re we drinking to tonight?

But she knows now, she knows you don’t ask. His eyes are dark here, in the fading light. The mask-marks, the circles under his eyes. The stray curl always out of place.

“So,” he says, gathering himself, setting the glass back on the bar with a dull thud. “How much time do you need?”

“Time?”

“To get all…” he gestures with his hand. “Unless you’d rather we sit around here all night.”

She taps her fingers on the bar, watches her watch and chain catch the light. Looks up at Major Egan standing there, wondering just how much Kay will kill her if she walks back out of this hotel in a plain black dress. “Depends if you like a girl’s hair with only a few knots or none.”

He makes a noise of dismissal. “I hope Kay won’t be too sore about me whisking you away.”

A remark about Captain Demarco takes shape on her tongue, but she swallows it. “Make it twenty, but I’ll be quick.”

Upstairs, she does what she can with her curls, washes her face and tries to shape her brows, reapplies her lipstick. The deep cherry color is hardly forgiving, and she has to concentrate to be careful enough with the lines of her cupid’s bow. For a brief moment she thinks of it smudged, on her teeth, on his mouth.

The dress she’d brought over is indeed black, cocktail-length, collared, with a little piped pocket, a bit of detailing. Maybe it’s a little dated, she’ll acknowledge that, but she’s tried to keep it tailored to the current style, fitted, hemmed shorter. Kay would try to send her out in something bright, rose-colored or teal, never mind that it’s October in London. She admires Kay’s boldness. Loves it, in fact, but it’s not for her.

The bracelet stays, the watch, her earrings, her mother’s medallion beneath the collar of the dress. Heels with thin ties wrapped ‘round her ankles, and her coat.

Hastily, she’d put the flowers in an empty bottle of Fernet-Branca, figuring Kay wouldn’t mind. He’d had less of an explanation for them than the tin of sweets, something about passing them on his way, something like a boyish smile. Just as quickly she plucks one, laces it into the back of her updo. It’s already been cut, anyway. She wonders where he’d got them, wonders if she’ll ask. She remembers the florist down the street from her apartment in Philadelphia, the spring flowers outside Pittsburgh. She can’t see it, but he will, standing above her.

Back down in the lobby, the tips of her fingers brush his shoulder at the low armchair, the last of his drink still in front of him.

“Now, aren’t you a sight.” It’s not the same voice as usual — quieter. Like he’s drinking her in, like the whiskey at the bottom of the glass. “Too pretty to be out with me, that’s for damn sure.”

She smiles, and she doesn’t even have to try, sure that her cheeks are a little pink. “Kay won’t be sore about me leaving, but she might have my head about this dress.”

He looks truly confused. “Why?”

Her hand gestures without thinking at the simple sweep of the skirt; she’s suddenly very aware of her legs. “Too boring.”

He makes a face. “Hell with that.” A small sniff, as he reconsiders. “Sorry.”

For the first time, she laughs. “I won’t tell her you said that.”

“Tell her whatever you want, you still look too good to be true.”

Now she’s really blushing. “A sight for sore eyes, huh?” The pendant rests in the dip of her collarbone, beneath the neckline of her dress. She feels it, feels the clasp at the back of her neck and the chain.

“You don’t know the half of it.” He stands, taking the glass, polishes the last sip of his drink.

She lets herself put a hand on his jacket. “Let me buy your next one?”

He reaches for her hand, for her wrist under the sleeve of her coat. “Now, I’ll have no more of that talk, Josephine.”

The streets are dark outside, an excuse to stay close to him. A door materializes, a small place with small tables, glowing candles and bottles of liquor and wine. It’s all very respectable, the twirl they take around the floor, and then the next, his hands at her waist, hers up around his neck. A bead of sweat works its way down the back of her neck, between her shoulderblades. He dips his head to ask if she’d like to sit, his temple damp and tacky before her mouth, in the warm room. They do, after another dance, sit and watch the couples sway from a table on the side, listen to the jukebox. I need no soft lights to enchant me-

She lets him buy her one drink, and then two, the dark rum color catching the candlelight at the bottom of the glass. She doesn’t feel under watch here like she does at the base. Though, there’d been plenty of moments there that maybe they shouldn’t have been allowed. They. She doesn’t know what that means, here in this war. You dance one night and find an empty space the next. Or someone else. His ankle nestles against hers under the table. She wants to kiss him.

What’s stopping her?

His eyes are so blue, and she knows she’s staring. “Got something for you. If- if you want it.” It snaps her out of it a moment, her brow furrowing as he reaches into his pocket. A small gold pin in his palm, the Air Corps insignia. The kind he wears on his collar. “Since I made off with that scarf of yours.”

The white one, he means, with flowers and Swiss dots. She’d worn it up. He’d taken it as a joke afterwards, smiling, a crack about it being prettier than the one he’d got, but not as pretty as Major Cleven’s. Buck’s. A joke, or so she’d thought. Her mistake to think a pilot’s lucky charms weren’t the most deadly serious things of all. She knows, now. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to think he meant it.

She could wear it, here in London. His pin. A person would know she had someone. Someone. She doesn’t know how to explain him, for all her words. Brave, like all of them. Brave and funny and flirting, the fiery death or the pretty girl. A heart she wants to curl up inside of. And he’s here in front of her, fidgeting, waiting for her to say something. Here, hands and shoulders and knees. It hurts to think of anything else. She would know who she had.

“See,” she says softly, meeting his eyes. She feels like a schoolgirl, watching him. “Knew what I was doing, wearing black and gold.” She reaches to touch his palm, about to take it and pin it on. He moves to do it himself, leaning forward. She shivers, the touch of his fingers at her throat, under the collar of her dress.

If you would only grant me the right-To hold you ever so tight-

Maybe it’s the light, or the drinks, or the music, or the fact that staying ten minutes past last call could have put her on the front page of that newspaper too. Every mission, the odds go down.

Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at her, like he’s hoping she’ll ask him for something he can give.

He’s so close to her now. Maybe-

“Mmph-” He tastes like spice and alcohol, the sweat of his upper lip pressed to hers. He releases the pinch of fabric in his hands, the pin now fastened to her lapel. It hardly takes a second for his hands to find her jaw. His touch loosens the tension of her shoulders, sparks warm and firelit in her belly. She stays, lets the kiss grow sloppier until her tongue is pressing against his teeth.

They only stop because she needs a second to catch her breath, to watch him smile at her like she’s somehow surprised him.

“Why are you smiling?”

He doesn’t stop. “I’ll give you one guess, Josephine.”

She thinks better of a retort, lets her cheeks go red and leans forward again, a noisy kiss against his mouth.

A voice in the back of her head sounds a warning, something distorted, through the sound of the music and the smoky haze. The singer’s own shines through, the brassy big band music that always makes her think of him. There I go, leading with my heart again- She ought to head back to the hotel now, before the night calls for another bar, another drink or three, a bed. And there I go, acting not-so-smart again-

She stands, smooths her skirt, adjusts the soles of her feet inside her shoes. “One more spin?”

Something falls out of his eyes; he looks like he wants to argue with her, but he doesn’t. A few seconds before he answers. “Early morning?”

She nods, and it feels like the worst lie. Even though it isn’t, she’s got a briefing with the Ministry of Information tomorrow, and plans to meet another source for coffee. Probably more drinks, she thinks. It would hardly be the first time someone showed up for a meeting hungover.

But though it’s unwise, I can’t disguise my love-

Afterwards, they walk back out into the cold night, the smell of his aftershave still in her nose. He touches the flower at the back of her hair. “You got your last dance, can I get a last kiss?”

It surprises her, the forlorn note in her voice. “Where did I use the word last, Major?”

He sighs, or something like it. “Don’t have to, it’s written all over your face.”

Her fingertips find his lapels, the top of her head nuzzled under his chin. “I would hope I’m less readable than that.”

A laugh escapes him, though it’s hardly full of humor. “You’re really not.”

Like you, right? “A shitty pokerface, remember?”

“‘Cept this time it’s not about the coffee.”

“What’s it about, then?”

He doesn’t answer, leans down and kisses her and steadies her with his hands, what she imagines is her own lipstick tacky against the sides of her mouth. He doesn’t stop, and neither does she. His hand burrows between her coat and her dress, hugging her waist. She presses against it.

They should be walking, or ducked under an eave, not out here like this after dark. This corner.

Her back automatically straightens when they hear a bicyclist go past, a little huff from his lips and hers as she breaks away.

“I can still bring you back-” he says belatedly, “if-”

He’s offering her this. Maybe she can admit it to herself now, wanting it too much to refuse.

She shakes her head. “It’s alright, John.”

There’s something in his eyes at that, no Major, just John. “I’m glad.” His voice is heavy when he answers her. Low. His fingertips press against her waist. “I’ve been thinking about this damn dress all night.”

“The dress?”

He smiles, the scratch of his mustache against her cheek. “Alright, the zipper.” He laughs softly, what he imagines her face must look like in the dark, under the cloud-filled sky. “Just bein’ honest.”

Her mouth hovers at the corner of his jaw. “I’d expect nothing less.”

“What else do you expect?” Her chest feels like it’s full of butterflies, when he asks.

“That…you won’t stop talking.” She kisses the spot under his ear. “Please.”

He snorts. Maybe she’s imagining it, the slightest breathiness to his voice. “Now tell me what you really think of me, Josephine.”

Can I? she thinks. “Well, what do you expect?”

He pauses, considering. “That you’ll keep kissing me. Makin’ me blush.”

“I make you blush?”

“Like a tomato, Josephine. ‘Least it feels like it. One flash of those knees and-” She smacks him lightly across the lapel. “Hey.”

“I guess I told you not to stop talking.”

“Yes, you did. Now where was I-”

“My knees.”

“Right.”

A few more couples make their way outside, swirls of perfume and rum and sweat, almost bumping into them. She knows what she’s asking, now. “Maybe we should, uh-”

“Maybe you’re right.”

His hotel is closer, they’d walked by it on the way. She tries not to duck her head in the lobby. He kisses her on the landing of the stairs and again outside the door, forehead lingering against hers.

It’s a large room, larger than she expected, certainly not the little thing she and Kay share at the Highgate, the wallpaper peeling by the radiator. There’s not much of him here besides a bed that’s half-made, a garment bag by the front leg of the desk.

“It’s a nice room,” she says, trying to banish the wobble in her stomach.

He makes a noise that sounds almost like a laugh. “They know how to charge officers around here.”

“Still.” She reaches back to fidget with the clasp of her necklace. “I uh-”

“Something wrong?”

No. “It’s been-” She’s suddenly embarrassed, left ignorant as to how this is supposed to go. Not ignorant, just-

“Can I get you a drink? We could get something sent up.”

“No, thank you.” It’s probably too late, anyway. He takes off his jacket, drapes it over the back of the small chair at the desk. She takes a deep breath. “I suppose you should kiss me again.”

He smiles, deep and wolfish. “You suppose, huh?”

“Yes.” He does, lets her thread her fingers in his hair. “Suppose I should let you sit, too,” she says.

“However you want, sweetheart.”

She wants to slap herself for what comes out next. “Really?”

He looks at her like she’s a little bit crazy. His eyes are gleaming in the low light, dulled against the closed curtains. “You say jump, I say how high.”

She shakes her head before she can stop herself. Her voice is small, and wanting, and she feels suddenly like she’ll fall apart if he doesn’t keep holding her. “Please, just kiss me.”

Don’t make me think. Let me forget everything except you.

“Just say the word,” he says, but he’s already got his mouth on hers.

She’d stopped caring about her lipstick hours ago, and to hell with everything else now. She’s in his lap, here in a locked room, his hand high up her thigh and her own pressed on top of it.

Soon, her dress is around her hips, and he’s got his hands on the top of the zipper, stopping when it catches. He presses a sloppy kiss to her neck, the dip of her collarbone, exposed. She helps him open the rest of the dress, awkwardly, twisting an elbow. He stops, and looks at her with a hazy stare; two kisses, one above each breast, and one to St. Christopher between them. She undoes his tie, not quite an easy task when he’s lavishing kisses on her shoulders. Keeping his promise. She ought to, too. She presses her mouth to the freckles dotting his chest, and one for his crucifix, another for the medallion. Maybe, she thinks, they should use the rest of the bed.

“I’m glad I stopped by,” he says, quiet and rasping and a little bit breathless, his cheeks a shade of coral in the light.

“You found me,” she says, and it sounds like thank you.

He seems to consider this, his hands stilled under her dress. She can feel him, underneath her. It sends a rush of sparks through her chest, her stomach, her hips. “I did.”

“You did.”

I trust you, she wants to say. But she doesn’t, doesn’t know what to say next. Only brings a hand to his cheek, and his curls, only kisses him again.

#masters of the air oc #mota oc #bucky egan x oc #john egan x oc #rosies-riveters #i know there are typos in here i am SURE #my brain has been. an on fire garbage can for the past few weeks. i'm not entirely sure how this fill happened. but it did #and i'm very ! over them tbh #answered #jo's tag #motaverse #shoshi writes

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strawberryicemoon · 3 months

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Does anyone else feel like the Della that was set up and the Della we actually got were two different characters.

Primarily I think Della's just dumber than we were initially lead to believe. And I think there's something in one of the first things we knew about her was that she had pretty handwriting, where I struggle to believe the Della is patient enough to have neat handwriting. The last Crash of the Sunchaser implied she designed the Spear of Selene. Scrooge said someone who "sees the angles". Like I get that don't speak ill of the dead was in play. And I also get wanting Della's legacy to not match perfectly with her true self, but some of the literally flashbacks we saw implied she was clever (she figured out Dewey was from the future, again, she was sketching the Spear). Having the characters stretch the truth is one thing, but flashbacks is another. I mean we literally saw her Scuba-Diving in a flashback, but in show she hates fish.

Not helped by the fact I assumed she named her children, and was using that as a gauge of her personality. And like. Turbo is very funny. I get why you'd make it a surprise reveal. Recontextualize her personality. But we already were introduced to her in the episode before. Also I just didn't like it tbh. (And kinda like my beef with the whole April May and June thing, I'm not a duck fan, I have no horse in this race, and things can be different, but considering to my understanding the few glimpses of previous iterations of Della, she definitely named her sons, and changing one of the few things that previously existed about the character felt weird to me, cheap even. On one hand I get wanting to show just how disconnected from her son she is and how much the incident cost her. But on the other hand it was just salt in the wound at that point, for a few jokes about the boys names… which have generally been changed to be even more embarrassing than they were previously for more jokes).

I really did like Whatever Happened to Della Duck. The only "Weird' things to me was how technically and artistically unsavvy she seemed to be, when we had scene her sketching the spear of Selene. Like that was a whole ass plot point. And also how oblivious she seemed to what was happening with the Moonlanders when she was presumably "sharp". But y'know. I can excuse one misunderstanding, and she was probably just a bit crazy from being alone on the moon for so long (and any prior mental health issues) and when she gets back other characters will probably be unnerved by her a bit because she's changed. But this was apparently normal Della (aside from not liking her reflection). If someone had spelled out in show the ways she had changed while on the moon I think it would have made all the difference. (Though Ducktales in general has an issue for completely neglecting to state important information until its necessary but long after it was relevant, so the fact no one says that doesn't mean it can't be true tbh).

I think the core of the character, and thus why she caught my attention remained. She's a traumatized woman who did something impulsive (that should have been fine), that had disproportionately huge consequences. And now has to get to know her children. She has to learn to parent on the fly. She has to establish herself as an adult when she's otherwise been stuck in place. She has to reestablish herself with her family, and a new sense of identity in a world that's changed without her.

And looking some of the Della description from the pitch bible we got recently, and the Della described there is closer to the one I thought we were getting prior to her debut. It makes me wonder when that changed. I know early on, in the Moorshire episode, they realized they made Launchpad too dumb after they finished it. To me it feels like they did that with Della (and to a certain extent Donald as well), but then never made the realization about what they did. We already had launchpad as the stupid adult. We didn't need more. Also, to be honest, I struggle to name any strengths over other characters besides the pragmatic "better at flying than Launchpad". Now, don't get me wrong, I still like canon Della. She had a lot of great moments. But to be honest I think all of her best moments, would have also worked with the Della I thought we were getting. Her fears about losing the kids, so lying to them about participating in the fight. Her song. Her punishing Louie for being stupid. The bit where she talked about being unable to look at her reflection and breaking her glass. Teaching Dewey to fly. Realizing how much her kids looked up to her and to what extents they might be idiots to prove themselves to her. I don't want her not to be reckless, just more thoughtful. That said, the way the other characters treated her didn't really help. It felt like at least for a while she was being ignored. Like she wasn't being treated seriously, but also no one was trying to help or understand her. (Which we got Donald blasted off into space after being ecstatic to see her, made me feel like Donald might actually see her... but then 5 episodes in to S3 Donald gets a girlfriend and the twins rarely appear together).

Liking those elements of the pitch bible might be a bit of the classic "the grass is greener" nonsense. And the fact it's just a barebones description not a full fletched character, and to be fair I don't care for every detail in it. But even before the pitch bible, I was bothered by the fact Daisy, not Della was the person who understood Donald best. (My aromantic self does not appreciate the prioritzation of romantic relationships). And here in the pitch bible. It says Della knows Donald best. We didn't get a single glimpse of "was scared to be a mom", even though I'd solidly developed the head canon that the Spear of Selene ride was a form of post-partum fear even before reading this, and I understand that might have been difficult to work into the show, the lack of support for Della in general, or any hints of empathy for why she did what she did doesn't help. Even of dealing with trauma from the instance. I can't say the "stuff just happens" angle is objectively bad. But this is still a story. A narrative. Not reality. It feels cheap as a character, for her biggest mistake to basically boil down to "oops", rather than a huge character flaw. Like yes, being reckless is a flaw. But considering what the family is USUALLY doing, it… isn't? It really isn't any worse than what they family does normally so for her to be punished so harshly for it is a bit unfair.

In the finale the fact it's revealed that Bradford told Della about the spear, also feels kinda cheap to me. I think its an interesting reveal… but considering this is information one of our main protagonists knows it feels bizarre that it is a reveal to the audience. (Or that no one asked Della before). Also it feels a bit like it's trying to absolve Della of blame, but it doesn't address the core problem of (sure the show never states there's a problem but Scrooge makes reference to Della's "one last big adventure" and it's hard not to see this as an attempt to break out of some sort of mental funk. And it again, needlessly victimizes Della. She got stuck in space for 10 years, couldn't even name her own children, loses her leg, gets betrayed, loses her plane kinda-sorta, and is kind of treated like an idiot by many of the other adults around her. Because some guy was trying to mess with Scrooge. Della's moon trip sucks, I don't think they needed to make it worse by making it not even her fault.

I wish we had gotten a scene of Donald telling the boys what Della was like from his perspective. He's her twin. And I really don't want to welcome the comparisons between DT17 and GF. But the lack of any character drawing the parallels between Donald & Della and Huey, Dewey and Louie is absurd. But they don't utilize it. Like at all. No one ever looks at Donald and goes, oh. He lost his twin. That really sucks. The triplets never go. What would it be like if I lost one of you. Like twins are sometimes just siblings. They don't need to have "super special relationship", but in a show about family it's sure awkward that they don't. I am so mad that Huey, Dewey and Louie didn't get to see another side of their Uncle Donald brought out by Della. Or alternatively a Della struggling to connect with her brother. Even better both.

I know the "is the character acting ooc or do you not actually know the character" is well, a thing. I am aware that the post-partum depression, actually clever and observant Della is mostly made up by me. But I also know where in canon it came from to me. Della never acts out of character from once she's introduced. But that character is still a bit off from the character we had come to expect in the first season and a half. She's not completely divorced from what we were told about her. But still. Do I love Della, or the idea of Della. Honestly, I don't know.

This is definitely very OPINION, and not really anything objective.

#I feel like I'm being nothing but negative #Ducktales has fantastic characters who bounce off each other really well #a great sense of humor #and some beautiful animations and moments of pure emotion #But the poor plot #worldbuilding and thematic cohesion really hurts it #I keep feeling like the Della in my head is nothing like the canon one #I can recognize when I'm not talking about the character in canon #But I think my head Della is the way she is because of how she was set up #and how the set ups weren't meaningfully addressed #I take solace in the fact that their Della seems little like previous Della's so I feel free to change her in my fics #But it is really frustrating when looking at canon #tbh I'm not even entirely sure that I didn't force myself into liking Della considering the difficulty I had getting through some of those #I really do like Ducktales #but also...#Anyway #ducktales #ducktales 2017 #Della duck

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