#but even beyond that just liking something that gets dunked on can be considered 'Forced Positivity'

[girlbob-boypants]

I use my likes as a bookmark function so I like personal posts to show people support and then unlike said posts a few days later so that's the context otherwise this might come off as more random. anyways. thinking of what you've said about toxic positivity and I have to say being in those circles, it does also get to the point where it feels like you cant even talk about the things you do like and why, because the mentality of just of "if you dont have the same views 1:1 to me then it's a personal attack" so it's more of a personal anecdote but those spaces are severely allergic to any serious discussion even if its positive criticism and analysis lmao

Listen I've got ADHD. "This might seem random but" is about how I start 90% of tangents.

As for the actual discussion, 500% yeah. While I mostly rant about toxic positivity cause it's most of what I deal with, toxic negativity can be just as prevalent. It's the main reason I even mentioned reddit in the tags of the post I think you're talking about. When the changes for the daily system in my current mmo came out, anyone who talked about the good things got accused of "forcing positivity" for the act of not making yet another post about how awful the bad parts of the system were (which they were but also the good parts were just as good as the had parts were bad. Its a fascinating duality)

But honestly go onto any internet connected multiplayer game reddit after a change and you'll see what I'm talking about. Criticism skews towards hateful and positivity is accused of being forced.

I just find that small fandoms within tumblr tend towards being very insular groups that expect positivity. Like to the point where someone in my main mmo apologized for saying "hey do not buy this because charging $20+ for this is downright predatory" because it was "negativity." The act of letting people know a business is trying to steal money with a pretty cosmetic you'll never see for more than 3 seconds at a time being considered negativity in a fandom is insane to me, frankly.

Which if I wanted to argue a cause with nothing but anecdotes, I'd say it likely comes from the way criticism of big name fans within small fandoms will often be met with a response of "Ugh I don't need this negativity in my happy place" regardless of the context or validity.

At the same time tho I 100% know what you mean by pushback against positive criticism even within those same spaces that I find toxic positivity to be prevalent in. Just look at the fact that "im a hater" posts get so many notes. No post about a personal belief can be rb'd on tumblr without easily influenced people altering their personas to fit it here (see: the way funny bitchy posts between friends getting popular and resulting in being rude to strangers). Saying you like something thats (fandom) universally accepted to be bad can be grounds for mockery etc.

At the end of the day it does boil down to what you said at the end, people hate any serious discussion of their favorite media, regardless of whether it's positive or negative. And any variance from the (perceived) fandom universal belief will result in pushback of some kind.

[crusherthedoctor]

Maybe it’s because I’m the one with said opinions, but whether you agree with them or no, I don’t think they’re all that complicated in terms of logic.

“Why don’t you like Popular Game, Popular Story, Popular Gameplay Style, etc?” Because I don’t think it’s fun or don’t think it works that well. Not hard to understand.

“Why don’t you wait and see what they do in the comic?” Because I’ve been doing that for over five years now. I think it’s safe to notice a pattern by that point. Not hard to understand.

“Why do you criticise the perfect stories of the older games?” Because they’re not perfect, and pointing out their glaring issues is part of my hope to see them learn from those issues and make their future stories even better. I like my character moments, I like my deep themes, but what I really like is when they’re actually executed well. Not hard to understand.

“Why do you dislike Eggman’s relationship with Sage?” Because no matter how they choose to interpret it, Eggman is still getting compromised to an extent for the relationship’s sake, and the fandom have pounced on it and made it very hard to find Eggman content that doesn’t involve Sage. Not hard to understand.

“Why do you criticise Eggman’s badass role in SA2?” Because he was reduced to being Shadow and Gerald’s tool throughout the whole game and was doomed to fail even if he won, and is subsequently forced to team up with Sonic, which would become a trend afterwards. Not hard to understand.

“Why did you not cheer for Eggman getting revenge on Starline?” Because one brief moment does not make up for all the shit that came at his expense beforehand, and I knew he’d go right back to getting dunked on afterwards anyway, which is exactly what happened. Not hard to understand.

“Why do you dislike Metal Sonic’s role in Heroes?” Because it’s just as much a disservice to him as it is to Eggman, and they do nothing interesting with Metal’s identity crisis beyond using it as an excuse to turn him into another usurper and then another giant monster. Not hard to understand.

“Why do you think they did not fix Tails in Frontiers?” Because using reviewer terminology, and vowing to do something he’s already done before, only serves to appease people who want you to think Baldy McNosehair has become Sonic’s catchphrase. Not hard to understand.

“Why have you not exiled yourself for liking the Pontaff games?” Because they’re video games, and because I have enough of a healthy mindset to acknowledge their faults yet still enjoy them despite that. Not hard to understand.

“Why do you consider SatAM a Sonic cartoon in name only?” Because you could change Sonic, Tails, and Robotnik into original characters, and very little would need to be changed. Not hard to understand.

“Why do you like the movies if you care about being faithful to the source material?” Because unlike IDW and Prime, they never claimed to be canon, and I’m still capable of appreciating a not-entirely-accurate adaptation if I feel the elements still work for the most part. Not hard to understand.

“Why do you think Ian Flynn is overrated?” Because someone who is commonly regarded as the Best Sonic Writer of All Time should not be making the same rookie mistakes over and over again after a decade. Or getting so many basic facts wrong in the Encyclospeedia. Or acting unprofessional along with other Archie leftovers. Not hard to understand.

“How is Sonic/Shadow showing emotion a bad thing?” Because that’s an exaggeration of what I’m actually saying; they can be sad, angry, whatever else, but not every character works the same, and it needs to be done in a way that makes sense for them specifically. Resorting to ocular gushers is not in-character for either of them. Not hard to understand.

“Why do you dislike IDW Sonic?” Because he’s a preachy and hypocritical cunt. Not hard to understand.

[sketching-shark]

LMK fandom: Oh, what do we do about this guy who has nothing but hurt Xiaotian, tried to replace Sun Wukong and his crew, hurt Tripitaka and ordered servants to cannibalize a monkey? Oh I know! We’ll turn him into our little meow meow~ he’s so innocent and Sun Wukong is obviously the villain!

What doesn’t help is this idea is perpetuated by multiple fan fic writers and artists for some reason. Especially some aus they make that turn SWK into a bastard for the sake of the story rather than considering cultural context and thinking they should be respectful.

And almost everyone lets them get away with it just because the art or fanfic is good and they get so popular that no one can point what is actually wrong without feeling like they’re going to get attacked.

I'm starting to feel like my blog is the one anons go to specifically to vent their frustrations about the Six Eared Macaque in his lego monkey show form & the associated fandom lmao. But I guess this makes sense, as I’ve had fun quasi-dragging him before & will in fact use this anon submission as an opportunity to have my own, to put it academically, bitch fest about not just this fandom's favorite protagonist-traumatizing meow meow, but about the way villains are often treated in not just fanon, but increasingly in canon works as well. But same policy as with the last anon; I'll post my opinions below the cut, and as fandoms love to say, don’t like don't read if you don't want to see me dunking on the six eared simian & common fandom tendencies towards villains.

Oh man I would say where would you even begin with this but anon you’ve pretty much started yourself with my main gripe with a lot of ways that the Six-Eared Macaque is portrayed in fandom; there seems to be this unspoken agreement that his acts of violence towards Sun Wukong, Qi Xioatian, and Qi Xioatian’s loved ones are either to be framed as somewhat or totally justified, to be immediately forgiven/excused, or to simply & completely be ignored. Like friends maybe this is just me not seeing the proper posts but while the fandom is inundated with art and fanfics of Macaque as a generally decent individual & a true member of team good guy, I have yet to see one person address the fact that this monkey literally kidnapped & mind-controlled Xiaotian’s best friend and father figures & forced them to brutalize Xiaotian while ol’ Six Ear looked on and laughed (X_X). Like this kind of fandom villain treatment is definitely not something that’s solely at work for Monkie Kid, but it is kind of nutty how fandoms will swing between yelling that people should be allowed to like villains without even mild critique, and then will just flat-out not address the villainous behavior, and will even bend over backwards to frame even characters who committed genocide as just poor innocent widdle victims who need a hug. At its worst, I’ve even seen tons of people in a fandom get really angry at other people who don’t like a villain, and will even start accusing those people of hating real-life mentally disabled or abused individuals all because they don’t like the fandom’s favorite literal war criminal. The Monkie Kid fandom is FAR more chill & better than a lot of other fandoms I’ve come across in that regard, but that is an exceedingly low bar, & the tendency to woobify certain kinds of villains-- as with Macaque and the extreme emphasis on his bad boy/sad boy thing--is very much at work.  

 I’ve also talked before about a kind of monoculturalization of certain character interpretations and story beats in fandoms, and one of the more popular ones that seems to be applied to Macaque a lot is the “hero actually bad, villain actually good” cliche, as observable from the general fandom assumption that Mr. Six-Ears he wasn’t even slightly lying or remembering things through a rose-tinted or skewed lens when he gave his version of his and Sun Wukong’s past. Like at this point it seems the possibility that people WILL NOT even consider is that Sun Wukong never did & still doesn't care that much about the Six Eared Macaque (in JTTW they weren’t sworn brothers & in Monkie Kid the only thing the monkey king really said to Macaque before attacking him was a pretty contemptuous "Aren't you ever going to get sick of living under my shadow?," & responds to his "beloved friend" getting blown up with "You did good, bud" to Qi Xiaotian, who did the exploding), or that their original fight may in fact have mostly been instigated by Macaque. After all, to repeat what this anon summarized & what I've said before about their original JTTW context (& in an example of the things that do feel like it's often lost in translation) is that the Six Ear Macaque was a villain not just because he beat up the Tang Monk, but because he wanted to take over Sun Wukong's entire life and identity so he could have all that glory, prestige, and power for himself. To quote the macaque himself from the Anthony C. Yu translation, "I struck the T'ang monk and I took the luggage...precisely because I want to go to the West all by myself to ask Buddha for the scriptures. When I deliver them to the Land of the East, it will be my success and no one else's. Those people of the South Jambudvipa Continent will honor me then as their patriarch and my fame will last for all posterity." And in order to do this, the Six Eared Macaque had apparently made Sun Wukong's "little ones," his monkey family, his captives through either trickery or force, and gotten a number of them to take on the appearance of Tang Sanzang and the other pilgrims. It's also made clear that in very direct contrast to Sun Wukong, he doesn't care about these monkeys beyond how they might serve him. In fact, after Sha Wujing kills the monkey posing as him the Six Eared Macaque not only all but immediately replaces him with another, but also "told his little ones to have the dead monkey skinned. Then his meat was taken to be fried and served as food along with coconut and grape wines." So this monkey is not only willing to risk the lives of a lot of other monkeys for his own personal benefit, but is also a literal cannibal. And yes yes, I know a lot of people have argued that Monkie Kid shouldn't be considered a direct sequel to JTTW & that's fair enough (for example, Sun Wukong probably shouldn't be smashing anyone into a meat patty in a children's cartoon lol). And of course, it needs to be noted that there are a buttload of really out there & really cursed pieces of media based on JTTW & that were created in China. Yet the above description is the oft-ignored in the west original facet of the Six Eared Macaque's character. And it is this selfishness, entitlement, and treatment of other individuals as tools for his own self-serving ends  that is, from where I’m standing, still very much present in Monkie Kid. Like besides repeatedly going out of his way to physically and psychologically traumatize Xioatian, with the last episode Macaque seemed to be going right back to his manipulative ways. I’ve seen people frame their last conversation as Macaque softening to Xioatian a little bit, but personally that read a lot more like that common tactic among abusers where even after they’ve hurt you they’ll dangle something you want or need over your head (in Macaque’s case, the promise of desperately needed training and information about a serious looming threat), with the implication that you’ll only get it if you do what they want you to, such as, in this case, Xioatian going back to Macaque as his student even after having been so terribly hurt by this monkey, which would give Macaque power over Xiaotian and probably Sun Wukong as a result. And it is this violence and manipulation that it seems the fandom at large has tacitly decided shouldn’t even be addressed, instead leaning more towards a (and this is an exaggeration) “Six-Eared Macaque my poor meow meow Sun Wukong has always been bad & has always been wrong about literally everything” reading. 

And while it is the case that I am not Chinese and feel that as such it would be best left to someone who actually comes from that background to provide more context into how common interpretations of the Six Eared Macaque from China may clash really badly with the stuff the western fandom creates, it also must be noted that, as much as we all want to have fun in fandom & in spite of all the out-there versions of JTTW from China, we westerners should recognize that there is a very long and very ugly history of western countries stripping other cultures’ important religious and literary works for parts & mashing them into their own thing while implying or even insisting that what they present provides a true understanding of the original piece. And while I trust most individuals in regards to Monkie Kid are able to step back and think “this is a lego cartoon and not a set guide for how I should understand JTTW” (especially given the insistence that JTTW and Monkie Kid should be considered there own separate works) there does nevertheless seem to be something of a tendency to take the conclusions people come to, for example, about Sun Wukong’s characteristic in his lego form & then assume that’s just reflective to Sun Wukong as a totality. I imagine a good portion of this is due to people not reading JTTW & especially to not having easy access to solid information or answers about JTTW’s many different facets (like geez awhile ago I was trying to get a clear answer on what is considered the most accurate translation of the names of Sun Wukong’s six sworn brothers & got like 5 different responses lmao), but that tendency to take a western fandom interpretation & run with it instead of doing any background research or questioning said interpretation is still very much at play. As such, & as made prominent in the way people have been interpreting the dynamic between Sun Wukong and the Six Eared Macaque in the lego monkey show, tbh it does seem kind of shitty for western creators & audience to sometimes go really out of their way to ignore all of this original cultural & narrative context for the sake of Angst (TM) in Macaque's favor, demonizing Sun Wukong, and shipping the monkey king with his evil twin (X_X).

And speaking of which, even beyond the potential inherent creepiness & revulsion that can be inspired by this specific ship given common interpretations of the og classic's original meaning (again, it's my understanding, given both summaries of translated Chinese academic texts I've been kindly provided with, my own reading of the Anthony C. Yu translation of JTTW, & vents from a number of Chinese people I've seen on this site, that the Six-Eared Macaque is commonly interpreted in China as having originated from Sun Wukong himself as a living embodiment of his worst traits, hence why only Buddha can tell the difference between them & why the monkey king is much more slow to violence after he kills the macaque), I'd argue that in the face of all the uwu poor widdle meow meow portrayals lego show Macaque is, especially if you include JTTW's events, still in the role of “Sun Wukong but worse” as he is very much a violent & selfish creep. Like he was basically running around in JTTW wearing a Sun Wukong fursuit, but there he had the sole reason of wanting to replace Sun Wukong wholesale so he could have all the good things in the monkey king's life without actually having to work as hard for them. But if you combine that with Macaque now claiming that he used to be best friend with Sun Wukong in his pre-journey days (something that's made funny from a JTTW context given that that status actually belongs to the Demon Bull King lol), his original violence has now blown into this centuries long and really unhealthy obsession with the monkey king. Like he's apparently gone from wanting to literally be Sun Wukong to being so obsessed with getting revenge on Sun Wukong that he's got basically nothing else going on in his life. Like he's only appeared in two episodes but...does he have any friends? Any family? A career or even a hobby that DOESN'T center the monkey king? Anything at all outside of his "get revenge on and/or kill Sun Wukong/use his successor as my personal punching bag” thing? Like dude! That is extremely creepy and extremely bad for everyone all around! As I’ve said before, this seeming refusal to see beyond the past or to do something that doesn’t involve Sun Wukong in some capacity is a trait that makes Macaque an interesting and somewhat tragic villain--he even seems to be working as Sun Wukong’s reflection in a mirror darkly, with lego show Sun Wukong pretty clearly not being able to heal from his own past which is hinted to be defined by one loss after another, and with Monkie Kid even kind of having these two characters somewhat follow their JTTW characterizations in that in the latter half of the journey Sun Wukong often gets sad & starts crying in the face of what seems insurmountable odds (& Monkie Kid Sun Wukong does seem to be hiding some serious depression behind a cheerful facade), whereas the Six-Eared Macaque retains a worse version of Sun Wukong’s pre-journey characteristic of getting pissed and lashing out if things don’t go his way--but it’s also what would make any current friendship or romantic relationship between these monkeys horrific. Although to be fair even the fandom seems to recognize this in an unconscious way, in that a lot of the art & fanfic seems to swing erratically between them kissing & screaming at each other in yet another example of bog-standard fandom adulation of romanticized toxic relationships lol.  

At the end of the day, of course, this is nothing new. You'll find versions of this dynamic across a ton of fandoms and now even canonical work. And as such, I can only look at this kind of popularized relationship dynamic with a kind of resigned weariness whenever it pops up, & my frustrated question with the popularity of this kind of pairing is the exact same one that I have for a multitude of blatantly toxic villain/hero ships, given common fandom discourse & the tendency to either ignore or justify the villain's actions & demonize the hero: if you're THAT convinced that everything is the hero's fault, if you believe THAT much that the hero is the one in the wrong for the villain's pain and their subsequent actions, then why are you so set on them not only becoming a romantic pair, but framing this get-together as a good thing? Like I know we contain multitudes but that's waaay too many contradictions for me to wrap my head around. And it definitely doesn’t help that one branch of underlying reasoning behind this kind of pairing seems to be the ever-present “you break it, you fix it” mentality, where the assumption is that if you’re in a failing, abusive, and/or generally toxic relationship (platonically or romantically), if you put in enough time and effort & attempts to compromise, you’ll be able to restore/have the relationship you dreamed of, even with someone who hurt you really badly. And this assumption isn’t limited to fandom: I’d even argue that it’s everywhere in the culture, hence why a lot of people feel like they “failed” if they have to get a divorce or make the choice to leave an unhealthy friendship. Personally, I feel like people could really benefit from more stories about how it is not only the case that the people you hurt don’t owe you their forgiveness & you can still become a better and happier person without the one you hurt in your life, & that while it can be really hard it can also be a good thing to leave a relationship, even if it’s one that once meant a lot to you. 

  But in all honestly, from my own perspective this kind of pairing is starting to read far less like enemies to lovers and far more like a horrible fantasy where you can pull whatever shit you want, even on the people you "love," & never be held accountable for your terrible behavior or even have to consider that maybe you were in the wrong. It's another facet that makes me larf every time I see people insist that fandom is an inherently "transformative" or "progressive" form of storytelling like friends you are literally just taking status quo toxic monogamy & rebranding it as somehow beneficial & romantic (X_X).

But as to anon’s last frustration, it is hard to know what is the appropriate response with this kind of thing...like for my own part I’m keeping my frustrations to my blog & now increasingly to posts that you would have to click on the “read more” button to see what I have to say, but I totally get the hesitation to give even a mild critique to big names in a fandom. Like I've now seen it happen repeatedly where someone who has a big name in a fandom will make something that's kind of shitty for one reason or another, someone will message them with some version of "hey, that's kind of shitty, you shouldn't do that," and the typical response is either to blatantly ignore the issue completely, or more popularly to make a giant crying circus that seems deliberately geared towards stoking emotions on both sides of the, for example, fiction does/doesn't affect reality issue so that something that didn't even have to be that big a deal gets blown out of all proportion, with the big name often framing what often started out as a very mild critique into a long crying jag about how the initial response to their kind of shitty thing was so mean/cruel and they're just a poor innocent & that YOU'RE the true racist/sexist/bigot etc. if you don't agree with their opinion. It must of course be noted that there have also been numerous instances of people taking it too far the other way & sending not just big names but smaller creators literal deaths threats over stuff like innocuous ships which like holy hell bells people that’s a horrible thing to do. But for the big names at least, the end result of all this fighting is usually that once the dust has settled they have more attention/fame/money/power in the fandom than before, and with anyone who might have a problem with their stuff feeling afraid to voice their opinion lest they be swarmed by that person's fans. In that way fandom does often seem to increasingly be geared towards presenting an “official” fandom perspective about various facets of a piece of media instead of allowing for a multitude of interpretations, and with criticism, no matter its shape or form or how genuinely warranted it may be, being hounded out of existence. I feel like a lot of this could be made less bad if there wasn’t this constant assumption & even drive to think that a different interpretation of or criticism of your favorite work of fiction or your fanwork isn’t a direct claim that you are a thoroughly loathsome individual (& maybe also if people cultivated an enjoyment of learning things about important works from a culture outside their own, even if what you learn clashes with your own initial understandings), but I guess we’ll see if that ever happens. 

So these are my general thinks about the Six Eared Macaque’s current fandom meow meow status & some of my bigger gripes with fandom tendencies as a whole. I stand by my idea that the most interesting & beneficial route for Macaque moving forward would be a kind of “redemption without forgiveness from the ones you hurt” arc--as I think was done pretty excellently with the character Grace in Infinity Train--and if for no other reason than gosh dern this monkey really needs to cultivate some sort of identity beyond his “Sun Wukong but worse” persona. 

[pollylynn]

Title: Unexcogitable WC: 2000 Episode: Watershed (5 x 24)

There’s a little mystery to solve when he emerges from the lost weekend—the lost . . . however many days it’s been since he slammed himself into the high gear necessary to not just finish Deadly Heat, but to finish finish it. And he has been determined to finish finish it: is crossed, ts dotted, and every sentence Gina-proofed.

He wants a summer with her. A normal-for-them, no suspension, no secret relationship, no . . . immediate threat of a Bracken-sent assassin. There’ll be book tour stuff, of course. He’ll be in and out of the city. But he’s gotten good at coaxing her away for two days her, three days there. He has high hopes for on-the-road summer adventures with Kate. 

But first there is a mystery to solve, almost right when he emerges. 

He is rank. He has jeans and a shirt with buttons that’s deeply unfamiliar to him. He’s clutching potential cover art, and he cannot imagine where it came from. So it’s definitely been more than a lost weekend. None of that is the mystery, though. That's all part of high gear. It’s part of him being head down and dedicated to finish finishing the book. 

The mystery is Kate related. There’s a text on his phone. When he pulls himself out of the Costa Rica funk—the funk of no one caring how many poisonous things and seasonally aggressive murder birds his daughter might encounter—he has a body drop text. It’s old, but not that old, and it’s not from her. He can tell at a glance from the random capitalization and arbitrarily missing letters that it’s from Esposito, and that’s odd enough to warrant calling her, even though he’s pretty sure he has already called . . . a lot. 

Some number of minutes ago—or could it have been hours?—he remembers that he called to leave an almost certainly incoherent victory message as he’d hit save on his final final draft. And then . . . didn’t he call her to ask if he’d already called her? He’s more or less certain he called again, or maybe again again, to confess that he still had acknowledgments to write. And then one more time to ask in one high-anxiety run-on sentence if he thought it was okay to change his book jacket bio to say that he lives in New York City with his daughter, his mother, and his lady love, who wishes to remain mysterious . 

But even though that’s all a lot, Esposito being the one to text definitely warrants one more call, doesn’t it? He decides it does. He’s stripping off his rank clothes and swapping the phone from hand to hand as it rings on speaker, as he tries to decide if a shower will suffice for detoxifying him, or if he might need some kind of industrial dunking combined with medical-grade abrasives. 

The phone juggling is unnecessary. It’s five rings to voicemail again. It’s sticking his head out of the shower every twenty-two seconds, because he’s pretty sure he heard it ring, and why has in’t rung? But it hasn’t rung. It doesn’t ring, even though he’s washed and dressed and on his way. And that’s a bit of mystery.

It’s a bit more of a mystery when she shows up late and disheveled, when she looks as if she’s been caught in the act. Of what, he doesn’t know, and that’s cause for consternation. It’s cause for his guilt reflex to kick in. He can be a beast when he’s kicked it into high gear. He can be a boor and a bore and all kinds of unpleasant things starting with all the letters of the alphabet, so he wonders if he’s done something or if he’s failed to do something. He wonders if he’s managed to get on her nerves to the point that the only thing for it, apparently, is for her to take one of her psychotically long runs, where time and space fall away. 

He looks her up and down. He takes in the blazer she’s still trying to button and the comparative disarray of her still-perfect hair. He is not getting psychotic-run vibe off her. He’s not sure what vibe he’s getting off her, and that calls for investigation 

Or maybe it doesn’t call for investigation? Maybe it calls for space. Maybe it calls for butting out. Maybe it’s him or not him, and maybe she’s been to see Burke. 

He wishes the prospect didn’t terrify him. It’s a problem that the prospect terrifies him, and he knows that.  He kicks himself for it every time the name comes up, every time he over-the-shoulder snoops an entry in the calendar on her phone. 

He wishes that he could get his brain to think of it as her going to her therapist, not him driving her to see a therapist. But he’s kind of not there. He’s kind of caught up in the little mysteries of what she’s thinking, feeling, considering at every second, and he’s kind of quite problematically caught up in the idea that she wouldn’t need a therapist if he didn’t occasionally disappear into his writing, if he weren’t more than occasionally a doofus who unwittingly hurts her, if he could be better across the board. 

It’s foolishness, he knows, and damaging foolishness at that. 

Moreover, it’s a lot for eleven in the morning. It’s a lot to read into a slightly wrinkle blazer and hair that only scores a fifteen on a scale of one to ten, so he consciously dials it down.  He takes a deep breath and reminds himself that this a lot and it’s unnecessary. It’s a text from Esposito, rather than her. It’s a few missed phone calls and her running the tiniest bit late. 

It’s trivial. It's a minor mystery at best. He reminds himself that he has the whole summer work on the first one hundred mysteries of Kate Beckett. 

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

There’s a little mystery to solve when he walks out on her into the welcome heat and riotous noise of New York in not-quite summer. Its solution might be beyond him. His meager powers might not be be up to solving the mystery of how he could have been so fucking stupid. 

She lied to him. She’s been lying to him and he’s going to need a calendar to figure out how long that’s been going on. Since Stack, he realizes he steps, unseeing, into an intersection and pounds a fist into the hood of the car that nearly mows him down. Since the moment he asked what the man had wanted to talk to her about. It goes back at least that far. 

And farther. He weaves like a drunk through traffic, human and not human, cars and not cars. He comes to the realization that her lies must stretch back so much farther, because she had that spin on this right at her fingertips. She had a ready-to-go narrative that he is the monster, he is the self-centered diva who would dare to be upset, he is the Neanderthal who would stand in the way of her career. He’ss the one who makes her lie, and that’s not something one comes up with on the fly.  

She’d gone to the It’s my life well again, and that’s a fucking annual celebration. And that means she’s been lying since last summer. It means she’s been lying since the moment she swore that it wasn’t the storm, it wasn’t the dramatic gesture of quitting the force, it wasn’t almost dying that had brought the two of them crashing together at last. 

She has been lying since day one. She has had one foot out the door all this time and deep down he fucking knew it.

He knew it when she ran off after Bracken solo the very morning after she’d sworn she was done. 

He knew it when she lied to him and everyone and hid the letter from Bracken’s patsy would-be assassin. 

He knew it when it was five rings to voice mail all morning. 

He knew it when the text was from Esposito. 

He knew it when she rushed in, disheveled, when she lied to his face about her phone being off, about Gates wanting to talk to her about nothing, when she crept out of his bed before dawn just this morning because she couldn’t stand lying there next to him for one second longer. 

There has never been a moment when he hasn’t known, deep down in his sad-sack romantic soul, that this has always been one-sided. He has always known that she is his soul mate and he is not hers, and he has prayed for time, for mercy, for change. The pain of it is paralyzing, but the only mystery her is how the hell he has managed to be this fucking stupid for so long.  

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

There's a mystery to solve when the rage breaks. It is not a little mystery and he may not have it in him to solve it. 

He is the mystery. Who he has been, what he has done, what he has failed to do. He is the mystery. 

She is not an innocent her. He does not—cannot—absolve her of the lies she’s told, the maneuvering she’s done to arrive at that outcome she’d already decided was inevitable. And if he loved her less, he wouldn’t want so badly to shake her for that, for all of the ways she has sold herself short, sold them short, counted what they are to one another short. 

She has lied to him. She has lied to herself. There’s little he can do about that, save solve the mystery of himself. 

He has held back. With her, he has always held back, the universe, with its whimsical sense of humor, has delivered that epiphany straight from the acid tongue of the least sympathetic mother in the world. 

He would like to crawl away and lick his wounds. He would like a day, an hour, goddamned minute to just think through this realization. He has held back. 

He has spent a year terrified that he’ll slip and tell her that he loves her, because they don’t say that, do they?. 

He has spent a year manufacturing weekends when he needs to write, needs quality time with Alexis, needs a gaming night with the boys. He has spent a year conjuring space from the ether—a break from him—because he’s spent a year believing this is what she needs, this is how he doesn’t drive her away by being too much, too soon, too often. 

He has spent a year not making a single comment on how stupid it is that there’s a his place and her place when they are together nearly every night

He has spent a year not letting himself wonder where they’ll be in another year. 

He has spent a year telling himself This is enough. This has to be enough. 

He has spent a year being a coward, letting the most damaged parts of himself insist on inertia, on silence, on asking nothing of the relationship that she was not actively, glaringly, eye-lollingly giving. 

He is not responsible for her lies—for the caricature of him that she has manufactured to justify them. But he is not innocent of them, either. He, with his black certainty that everything between them is one-sided is not innocent at all. 

He is a mystery he does not have time to solve right now. He is a mystery that he’ll have to wait to solve, he’ll have to work at solving. 

He is a mystery with a ring in his pocket—a tiny weight that anchors him to what might be his one moment of bravery in the whole of the last year. He is a mystery on a mission. 

A/N: Alternating rage and boredom—asymptotic to morphousness. 

images via kissthemgoodbye

[poisonredheadedlover]

Unpopular Opinion

I don’t mind Helvitas’s ending in A Sky Beyond The Storm. Their relationship always made me uncomfortable considering the first time they meet is him beating her for five days and beating her so bad her father was horrified upon seeing her. It wasn’t a light beating either, even made a joke out of it, and her family ended up having to nurse her back to health afterwards.

- “He was your ally. Your friend.” The Northman pulls something from his pocket. It clinks, but I can’t see what it is. “The moment he was to be executed, a series of explosions nearly leveled the school. Do you expect anyone to believe that was a coincidence?”

At my silence, the Northman motions for the legionnaires to dunk me again.

- The legionnaires yank my head from the bucket, and I draw a deep gulp of air. The interrogator tips my face up with a firm hand, forcing me to look into green eyes that glimmer pale and unfeeling against the silver of his mask. 

-  “Very good, Aquilla.” His words are deadly quiet. Immediately, I think of the Commandant. The softer she spoke, Elias once said, the more dangerous she was. I can finally see what the Northman pulled from his fatigues. Two sets of joined, metal rings that he slips onto his fingers. Brass beaters. A brutal weapon that transforms a simple beating into a slow, bloody death

“Why don’t we begin there?”

“Begin?” I’ve been in this hellhole for hours. “What do you mean, begin?”

“This”—he gestures to the bucket of water and my bruised face—“was me getting to know you.”

-  I try to answer him, but I’m in too much pain to do more than moan. The legionnaires dump me on the floor. I lay curled in a ball, a pathetic attempt to protect my broken ribs. My breath escapes in a wheeze. I wonder if death is close.

- “Aquilla.” The Northman sounds … different. Tired. “You’re out of time. Tell me about the girl.”

“I don’t—”

“Otherwise, I have orders to beat you to death.”

“Emperor’s orders?” I wheeze. I’m surprised. I thought Marcus would visit all sorts of horrors upon me himself before killing me.

“Doesn’t matter whom the orders come from,” the Northman says. He crouches down. His green eyes meet mine. For once, they are less than calm.

“He’s not worth it, Aquilla,” he says. “Tell me what I need to know.”

“I—I don’t know anything.” The Northman waits a moment. Watches. 

When I remain silent, he stands and pulls on the brass beaters.

- “Father?” What in the bleeding hells is he doing here? Is Marcus using him as leverage? Planning to torture him until I give up information? “Your Majesty.” My father’s voice as he addresses Marcus is smooth as glass, so uninflected as to be uncaring. But his eyes flick to me, horror-filled.

- “Six broken ribs, twenty-eight lacerations, thirteen fractures, four torn tendons, and bruised kidneys.”

Helene was even so traumatized by it that when Avitas so much as moved his hands she would flinch. Then as time progresses he never brings it up again. Never apologizes. Never sits down and talks about it with her. Granted that still wouldn’t magically make everything okay. I’d still find it very problematic but at the very least it still should’ve been acknowledged. That’s not to say he’s a bad guy. As all masks had to do horrific things in their life. So I don’t think Avitas is evil or anything like that. I actually think as a friend he’s fantastic. I do not hate him. He’s done many good things and has been there through some of the roughest times to help out and battle through. He clearly is kind and does believe in the cause he’s helping.  It’s just this concept of their relationship is not okay to me. As well as the fact that the reason she caught his eye in the first place was because he realized that she was close to his brother so that peaked his intrigue. They just started off on the worst foot that I can’t look past it. It feels wrong to romanticize a relationship that had started with trauma and assault and try to pass it off as okay cause he ends up deciding to team up with her and be nice to her afterwards.

Its very triggering actually.

It’s just a very sensitive topic for me.

He crossed a line when he brutally tortured her and that’s something he can’t undo. The damage has been done and it took a huge toll on Helene afterwards. Both physically and mentally. It also doesn’t feel right to me that instead of talking about it together Helene just justifies the situation for him to herself so she can accept him as an ally. No matter how nice he was to her afterwards it doesn’t erase or lessen the grief he put her and even her family through. She wasn’t able to feel trusting or comfortable around him for months and not in an enemies to lovers sort of way but because she genuinely felt threatened and would remember the interrogation torture whenever she saw him.  I’m not saying this means his character is completely ruined and no one should ever like him. I still like him enough. Just not as a love interest. Avitas by himself? Perfectly fine. But pairing him up with the girl he tortured, traumatized, and whose mere presence had her on edge and would make her shudder and recoil whenever he was near, not so much. So I’m satisfied with their ending and glad Sabaa ended it that way.

[myblueeyedbuggers]

My Boys

Chapter 14

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13

Pairings: Steve Rogers X Reader (Best Friend) Bucky Barnes X Reader

Word Count: 1620

Warnings:  Swearing, bit of violence if you looking very closely

Summary: After being abandoned by her parents in Brooklyn in 1929, y/n makes a living for herself by working for the Црни лабуд gang until she meets two boys in a back alley and her life slowing begins to change.

So Hi again everyone! one more chapter to go then we're on the first Avenger, I just wanna say thank you to each and everyone of you all for taking the time to sit down and read this, it means the absolute world to me! Anyways I'll shut up, enjoy chapter 14 everyone <3

Now don’t ask me how they did it, but somehow my idiots managed to open my front door without a key, if I wasn’t so pissed at them for getting into a fight for the 5th night in a row, I’d be tearing them a new one for that alone. Completely and uttered annoyed with the pair of em, I may of opened my door with a bit more force than necessary and twatted the back of it on the coat rack, not my best moment but at least nothing broke. I was fully prepared to lose my shit with both of em, but one look of them both sat at the table, covered head to toe in bruises and cuts made all my anger disappear, I can’t be mad at them when they both look absolutely exhausted.

Wordlessly I crossed the landing into the bathroom, grabbing the first aid kit and spare clothes I kept for the boys, setting em down on the dresser just outside my room before heading off to change into my satin pyjamas. It’s times like this that make me so frustrated with them both, I know why they do what they do, they’re trying to make the world a better place in their own way, but I just wished that they wouldn’t do it in a way that put them in danger. Coming back out into the kitchen was almost like walking into a morgue, neither of them said a thing to each other whilst I was gone, the looks their faces absolutely shattered my small, minuscule heart to pieces.

It was pretty easy to see from the slumped shoulders and the way they both avoided eye contact that they were ashamed of what happened tonight, and that made me feel like the biggest piece of shit ever, I trusted these boys with my life, and I know that they would never start a fight if they didn’t have a reason for it. Hell, I didn’t care about the reason why anymore. Without saying a word to them, I went over to the sink and filled a bowl with warm water, I knew that one of em would have got the rags out already, more than likely Buck cause Steve’s short ass can’t reach the cabinet…I’m joking I love him really, but he’s soooo fucking short it’s unreal..

I’d barely had time to put the bowl on the table before Steve started to speak.

“We’re sorry Y/n…Those guys were erm..saying some pretty messed up things about you and I couldn’t help it, I saw red and lost my temper. Be angry with me, not a Buck he was just lookin’ out for me”.

The sigh that left my body couldn’t be helped, as much as I love Steve he couldn’t lie to save his life, though normally I wouldn’t put it past him to start a fight over me, the way Buck reacted made it pretty clear that the hot-headed love of my life started this one, the sharp look he gave for Steve was about as subtle as a sneeze in a silent library. The sudden ache that settled over my chest wasn’t foreign to me one bit, it happened every time I looked at Bucky, as much as I wanted to tell him how I felt I knew it wouldn’t be a good idea, he loves me like a sister and I should be happy with that, I’d rather have that than nothing at all…

“Steve…it’s not that, it’s the fact that you guys would start a fight over something so silly, I love you both to the moon and back, but I don’t care about what people say about me, I’m upset that you put yourselves in danger over me. I’m not worth the trouble it would cause and after the shit I’ve done, it’s not like I don’t deserve it.”

Bucky was silent the whole time, at times he looked like he wanted to disagree but a look from Steve shut it down, we all fell into a comfortable silence after that, which for the 3 of us is pretty fucking weird considering Steve and I are normally annoying the hell outta Bucky, what can I say me, and Steve have amazing singing voices. I stole a quick look at the pair of them, considering they both looked like shit it was actually a very difficult choice about which idiot I should clean up first, then I remembered that Steve has the immune system of an asthmatic grandma, so I dunked his cut-up hands in the warm water a little bit harder than I meant to, but I’d be lying if I said the squeal he let out wasn’t funny.

It really didn’t take me long to get him cleaned up at all, then again I do this like 8 times a week with the moron, you’d think after about 10 split lips the kid would learn his lesson, but apparently not cause he’ll be back at it in the morning. I need to start charging him for medical supplies, I’m practically a hospital at this point. As Steve stood up to leave, he paused and looked towards me with his sad puppy eyes, and I’m no monster so of course I gave him a hug, thank god he’s not as short as when were kids or his face would be right in my chest region, I don’t think an accidental motorboat is on his list of top 10 things to do. With one final look from Buck, Stevie boy took his clothes and went into the spare room, leaving us both to talk which could take a while cause we’re both stubborn asses. Que the awkward silence….

“I am sorry Doll…I just couldn’t stand back and hear those assholes talk about you like that. I love ya too much for that…”

Okay ouch, the sister zoning wasn’t necessary Barnaby.

I knew in my heart I meant every single word he said, Bucky was never the one to start the fights unless it was over his family and I understand that I do, if I were in the same position I’d do the sae for them. The dejected sigh that left me wasn’t missed by him, I chose to ignore his reaction to it and moved closer to him, the cuts on his hands were a little deeper than Steve’s, not that it stopped me from slamming his hands into the hot water as a tiny bit of revenge. Because I’m such a nice person, I chose to ignore the hiss of pain and glare directed at me from my good ol’ Bucky boy, plus I was focusing on cleaning his cuts.

“Buck…I don’t need you to say sorry, I understand why you did it, I just hate that you can be so careless about your own safety, what if you get into a fight whilst I’m working, and something happens? I’d never be able to forgive myself that I wasn’t there for you when you needed me most, I love you and Steve so so much, but it hurts me to see you do this to yourselves….”.

The time we spent sat together was lost to me, Bucky didn’t say anything after that and left me to clean his hands whilst he got lost in his thoughts, not that I minded. It’s the times like these that help me realise just how much pressure he puts on himself, it’s like he has to be the one to hold up the weight of the world, but he doesn’t realise he doesn’t have to do it by himself and it breaks my heart. But I wished that he didn’t tilt his head down when he’s feeling sombre and sad because I can’t see his fucking face, it kinda makes cleaning his cuts a bit hard ya know ? Reluctantly I stood up and went back to the sink, the rag I used to clean his hands was beyond filthy at this point and I don’t really fancy wiping ouch juice all over his face, by the time I’d turned back around Buck had his head in his hands.

You know it’s bad when he’s like this, Buck never lets anyone see just how much stress he’s under, the only other person that’s ever seen him in this state is Steve, I moved back over to him and placed the rag back down on the table, my main focus now being cheering up my Bucky. As it turns I didn’t have to do much, once he saw my shadow in front of him, his head lifted automatically as his eyes searched mine, the level of exhaustion in his eyes was almost enough to make me cry, I couldn’t help the hand that reached out to cup his cheek, nor the other hand that began to run through his hair. It was almost like I put him under a spell, Buck’s eyes closed in relief as his head fell forward to rest on my upper stomach, at some point his looped his arms around my waist to pull me closer to him, I couldn’t help but pepper the top of his head in small kisses to try and cheer him up.

This is the part of him I love the most, the moments where he isn’t afraid to let his guard down and for once let someone help him, to take the burden off his shoulders and relax for a while, even if he doesn’t love me the way I love him, I still wouldn’t trade it for the world.

He has and always will be my home….nothing can or will change that.

And that's Number 14 done and dusted, let me know what you all think, thank you for reading!

All My Love,

Rose xxx

@purelydarling

[rhysismydaddy]

Felons pt. 1 (Nessian)

Nessian multichapter. Next part out probably Monday. As always, this one just sets up some stuff so it’s kinda boring. This one’s probably going to be long. And an emotional roller coaster. Just letting you know :) 

Lightly based off the book The Witness. I say lightly because I’ve actually never even read this book, but my mom told me about it. ALSO no offense to anyone who’s from/lives in Nebraska lol.

Cassian swiveled around in his chair and looked at his partner with raised brows. “She’s in Nebraska?”

“That’s what I just said, isn’t it?”

Someone’s a little testy today. He ignores the tone and repeats, “But... Nebraska? What the hell is she doing there? And why did it take us so long to find her?”

Azriel gives him a tight look, and he realizes the reason for his pissy attitude. He’s annoyed it took him so long to track her down. 

Before he can tell his partner it isn’t his fault, he says, “She isn’t doing much. She’s completely off the grid. Which answers your second stupid question, too.”

“Okay... how off the grid are we talking?”

The woman had grown up in a penthouse, for fuck’s sake. He couldn’t imagine her living in the middle of nowhere without any of the comfort she’d lived with her entire life. 

“No cell phone or bank records for the last two years. The last time she was seen by any sort of traffic camera was before that, and it was in Atlanta.” He scrolls through something on his desktop with a frown. “From what I can tell, she took all her money out in cash and hoped on a bus.”

Nothing about that sounded like the woman he’d been reading about, but he wasn’t about to argue with Azriel in such a bad mood. “So she went straight to Nebraska?”

“I don’t know.”

His least favorite answer. “How’d you find her, anyway?”

“Well, I figured that unless she was sleeping under a bridge, she had to be paying rent somewhere. So I went state by state, looking at new property purchases under her known aliases.” Azriel sighs, running a hand through his dark hair. “But that didn’t pull up any results, so I looked at all the IDs on new renter’s insurance purchases until I matched one to her.”

His eyebrows rose. “That’s...”

“Tedious as shit.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s why it took so damn long,” he mutters. “She’s been careful, Cass. I mean really, really careful.”

A laugh bubbled out of him at that. “Well, she should be. She’s a felon.”

~Nesta~

Nesta’s breath clouded in front of her as she ran up the hill, panting like crazy. Even though she’d taken up running after the move, she still fucking hated it. Especially when it was cold. 

Which, in Nebraska, was somehow year round.  

Even the summers here were cold compared to back home-

No. Not home. 

This was home now. 

California was slowly, painfully becoming a distant memory, and she had to constantly force herself to remember that Mackenzie Brooks had never lived there. She was born in Michigan. She has no family or friends. Her hobbies include reading and running (the last of which was a definite mistake to include). 

And she was her. 

God, it honestly was a miracle she hadn’t slipped up yet. 

Maybe it was still the fear that drove her. Maybe it was just that she knew she could never go back to her old life. No matter that she wanted to.

No matter that she’d picked up and left without a word.  No matter that her sisters probably thought she was dead. 

Thankfully, she made it to the top of the hill before she passed out or died, and she bent over, sucking down the freezing air. It was only October, but it was already cold enough to force her to wear three layers and a beanie. 

Despite being miserable and cold, she forced herself to go through her training course. 

Because it couldn’t just be enough to be fit enough to run away anymore. If the person chasing her was faster... 

Nesta punched her hand through the target, satisfied when the wood cracked down the middle. Her knuckles luckily had gotten used to the abuse, so when she ducked under the branch and struck again, another target went flying. 

By the time she was done, her hands and arms were tired and her body was aching for a bath. 

Or two hours on a warm, sunny beach. 

Since only one of those things was bound to actually happen, she trudged back to her cabin, praying the hot water would hold out long enough for a full bath. 

One thing about Blair, Nebraska was that somehow, the less than ten thousand people who lived here were always experiencing a water shortage. 

It rivaled the cold ass weather for her least favorite thing about the place as a very close second. 

Noticing who was parked in front of her small little house, she grimaced and amended her statement. Lack of hot water was actually third, second only to the one and only Sheriff Marks. 

He spun around when he finally heard her steps, smiling a big, ugly, fake smile. “Miss Brooks.”

“Marks.”

According to small-town social guidelines, she was being beyond rude for not calling him Sheriff. But he was a short, ugly, annoying man, and she didn’t hold an ounce of respect for him. 

And because she wasn’t completely fake, she didn’t bother hiding it. 

“What are you doing on my property?”

His smile dimmed as his eyes beady eyes narrowed slightly. “I wanted to see how you’re doing. You never come into town. And here in Blair, we take care of each other.”

That right there was the reason for her dislike; Sheriff Marks was an insatiably curious man. 

And ever since she’d shown up a year ago, he’d been trying to put together the puzzle of why a moderately attractive young woman would move to the middle of butt-fucking nowhere. 

“I’m fine.”

She wanted to walk by him and go inside, where she could blissfully lock him out, but she had a list of rules now, and not putting her back to people she didn’t know or like was at the top of it. 

“Okay, sure, but-”

“Listen, Marks. I appreciate this... gesture, but I moved here to be left alone. I’d appreciate it if you would respect that.” It was the most she’d ever said to him, and he looked a little shocked. “I think I’ve made it more than clear.”

His face went somehow even ruddier, and for a split second, she regretted the harsh words. 

She couldn’t have people caring about her, though. When people cared, they stopped by more and felt entitled to know your business. Neither of which were things she wanted. 

So she just raised a brow and shot a meaningful glance to his cruiser. 

“Yes. It’s perfectly clear exactly who you are.” 

She almost rolled her eyes at the attempted insult, thankful when he finally turned to leave. As he was pulling away, she united her muddy shoes and got her house key from her sock, grimacing at how tight her back was when she stood up. 

Inside, she went through and made sure every door and window was locked, a habit she’d picked up two years ago and hadn’t been able to shake. 

God apparently was looking out for her today, because when she finally made it upstairs, there was enough hot water to fill the tub. 

When she sunk down to her shoulders and closed her eyes, enjoying the moment of peace. But then images of her sisters’ faces, the ocean, and her old home popped up uninvited in her head. 

It was always quiet moments like these when she found it the hardest to shake the memories of who she used to be. And since Nebraska was always fucking quiet... 

Nesta reminded herself of why she was here; why it had been necessary to leave. She reminded herself that her family was safer with her gone, that she was safer. 

But the hole in her chest refused to listen and close up. 

A tear slipped down her cheek, and she was too tired to even brush it away and chastise herself. Because for the first time in twenty-five years, she admitted she was lonely. 

She’d been alone for most of her life, but there was a difference between alone and lonely. Even when she’d isolated herself from her family and friends, they’d still been there for her. 

But now... she had no one here. And she’d never felt so alone in her life. 

It was horrible enough to make her consider going back, despite the risks. 

This is home now, she told herself, dunking under the water to wash away the thoughts hounding her. You didn’t work your ass off to get safe just to bitch out after a year. 

Coming up and gasping for air, she went through her cover, just like she did every night. 

“My name is Mackenzie Brooks, nickname Mackie. I’m from Michigan, but I moved to Nebraska last year to start over. I like to read and run. I’m twenty-five.” Taking a deep breathe, she finished, “I don’t have any family.” 

No amount of time under the water could ebb the sting of those words, though.

~Cassian~

Cassian was honestly a little surprised he hadn’t gotten fired. 

He absolutely hated his orders, and he’d made that more than clear. They’d come straight from Command and “weren’t negotiable,” but that didn’t mean he hadn’t tried. 

Calling his boss a two-faced asshole might’ve been a bit much, but it felt justified in the moment.

Because in all the time he’d spent searching for Nesta Archeron, he’d always pictured the day he’d finally track her down and slap some cuffs on her wrists, haul her away to jail.

He’d never imagined he’d be given orders to find out what she knew first. 

And he’d also never imagined having to do so in fucking Nebraska. 

An hour in the state, and he already hated it. He was from Boston, so he didn’t mind the cold weather, but the lack of buildings over thirty feet was a shock to the system. 

That, alongside the fact that everyone here was wearing some form of plaid, only worsened his mood. 

It wasn’t like he cared about her or anything, but he’d never really liked undercover work. Deceiving a woman--no matter that she was a criminal--never felt right to him. 

But orders were orders. 

He had to find out why she’d run, what she knew about what had happened, and if she had any proof. The goal was to get it all recorded, so he had to carry around a stupid little tap recorder in his jacket pocket. 

Maybe she’d meet him and just spill her guts immediately. That’d be ideal, but it seemed pretty fucking unlikely. At the very least, he’d have to get her to trust him enough to talk about the events of two years ago.

He drove the crappy old truck Azriel had gotten him through the small town, gaining the eyes of pretty much every person he passed. 

Not a lot of new people, apparently.

Ignoring them, he drove to the address of a small house on the outskirts of town. Or home for however long it took him to get close to her. 

Gods, I hope she’s talkative, he thought, walking up the creaky stairs and shouldering the door open. 

Quiet and small, but at least it was clean. 

Throwing his bag down, Cassian grabbed his laptop and started to get to work. 

~

Three hours and a trip to the grocery store later, he’d learned absolutely nothing Nesta--or Mackenzie Brooks, rather. 

There had been nothing online, and no one in the store had much to say besides, “She moved here a year ago. Keeps to herself.”

Great. 

Luckily, he had a reason to go see her. They were neighbors. Kind of. 

Her house was further out of town than his, and she owned the land around it, so she didn’t actually have neighbors. But he lived within a two mile radius, so he counted it. 

Which is why he found himself sitting in her gravel driveway, eyebrows high on his forehead, staring at the place.

And for the first time, he questioned if Azriel was right. 

Because the woman he’d read about... she definitely didn’t seem the type to live here. 

The porch was missing floor boards, the roof was caving in on one side, and the paint on the outside of the house was peeling off. The only thing that looked somewhat new was the front door. 

It had three locks and seemed to be a little heavy duty compared to the house, which made it stand out in a pretty obvious way.

Stepping out of the car, he walked up to get a better look, avoiding the holes in the floor. The house was quiet, and he knocked on the door, finding it to be solid and heavy. 

No answer. 

He knocked again, waiting a few minutes. Then he decided to be nosy and peek in the window. 

A couch and dining table were all that was visible, furthering his opinion that she couldn’t actually live here. 

She’d grown up in one of the nicest apartment buildings in California. Her father had been a wealthy real-estate tycoon. She’d gone to private school and sailing camp, for Christ’s sake. 

There was no way she lived here. 

That theory was proven very soundly incorrect a second later when he felt something tap the back of his head. Repressing the jump that rose from not hearing anyone sneak up on him, he straightened and turned around. 

And found himself looking down the barrel of a shotgun into the surprisingly beautiful, angry face of Nesta Archeron. 

“You have five seconds to get the hell off my porch.” 

Shock ran through his system like lightening. For a few reasons, the least of which was the gun. 

For starters, pictures didn’t at all do her justice, because she was probably the most attractive thing Cassian had ever laid eyes on. And that was with mud splattered on her face, hair in a ponytail, and athletic clothes covering her thin frame. 

Then there was the fact that Azriel had been completely correct. Nesta Archeron, pampered little trust fund princess, was living here. In Nebraska. Completely off the grid. By herself. 

The gun was also a surprise, but not as much as the way she was holding it. Her feet were squared, her shoulders lined up to absorb the kickback if she fired. She looked... she looked like she knew what she was doing. 

She raised a brow, reminding him of the fact that he still hadn’t spoken. 

And remembering who he was supposed to be, what he was supposed to do, he ignored the gun and smiled broadly. “Or what?”

“Or I will shoot you,” she responded calmly, hand pulling back the fore-end to load the gun with a snap. 

“You aren’t going to shoot me,” he assured her. “I brought you a pie.” He held up the baked good and grinned. It was from the grocery store, but it still counted, right? “It’s blueberry.”

“What? Who the fuck are you? And why are you here?”

Sticking out a hand that she ignored, he said, “Cassian. I’m here because I just moved in to the place about a mile from here, and I wanted to meet my neighbors. I gotta say, I’m loving the hospitality.”

Nesta ignored the joke and asked incredulously, “You moved here?”

He nodded. 

She just narrowed her eyes, not buying it apparently. 

Good God, “stand-off-ish” didn’t begin to cover it. 

He was having a difficult time wrapping his head around the fact that this was the same woman who’d gone to UC Santa Barbara, liked to surf, and had dated a movie star.

“But what about the-”

“I hate pie.”

He scoffed, leaning against the crumbling wall of her house like he was unbothered by the rejection in her voice. “No one hates pie.”

Nesta shrugged, jerking her chin towards his truck in a clear get the fuck out manner. 

“I’ll leave if you tell me your name,” he bargained, acting like he didn’t know who she was already.

There was a pause of silence, and a bit of sadness seeped into her bright blue eyes. “Mackenzie.”

Mackenzie Brooks, one of her aliases.  

“Pretty name.”

“Leave.”

“Sweetheart, I honestly can’t believe you’re trying so hard to get rid of me. I’m the best looking guy around here.”

That might very well be true, considering he hadn’t seen a single person under the age of fifty when he’d gone out earlier. 

“And what if I’m not looking for a man?”

“I have a female cousin you could date instead.”

Her lips twitched, and it made him a little too happy to see. “If I take the pie, will you leave?”

“Counteroffer. We split the pie, then I’ll leave.”

Her eyebrows go up. “Who the hell offers someone half a pie?”

“I was planning on giving you the whole pie, but I didn’t know you’d be so beautiful. And feisty.” He ran his eyes over her slowly. “A quality I never even knew I liked.”

“The urge to shoot you just increased.”

Cassian waggled his eyebrows. “So passionate.”

Nesta just sighed, finally lowering the gun. She engaged the safety and leaned it against the door, then snatched the pie from his hands and walked to the porch railing. 

He noticed she didn’t turn her back to him the entire time, and she she kept the gun in arm’s reach. 

What the hell had she been through?

His train of thought was cut off when he heard a splat. Nesta came back to him, one crumpled half of the pie lying upside down in the lid, the other in the original container. She shoved the crumpled half toward him. “Now leave.”

“How did you even cut it? Do you have a knife hidden between your breasts?”

It was a miracle she didn’t slap him for that one. She just narrowed her eyes again and said, “Yes.”

He honestly believed her. 

Cassian sighed, knowing he had to actually leave now. “Well, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, but it’ll do. It was lovely to meet you, Mackenzie.”

“Please just leave.”

Ouch.

He laughed and walked to his truck, calling out, “I’ll see you soon, neighbor!”

Nesta frowned at that, but he ignored it and grinned back. 

She stood on the porch watching him drive away until he was a certain distance, then picked up her stuff and unlocked the door. 

Well, Azriel had definitely been right: she was being very, very careful. 

But why? 

Cassian had no idea, but he was definitely going to find out. 

_____________________________________________________

Part 2

@sjm-things​ @santas-dwynwen​ @thebitchupstairs​ @sayosdreams​ @perseusannabeth​ @cursebreaker29​ @a-bit-of-a-cactus​ @elriel4life​ @girl-who-reads-the-books​ @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln​ @highqueenofelfhame​ @tswaney17​ @rowanisahunk​ @superspiritfestival​ @studyliketate​ @over300books​ @justgiu12​ @maastrash​ @aesthetics-11​ @bamchickawowow​ @b00kworm​ @sleeping-and-books​ @musicmaam​ @hizqueen4life​ @maybekindasortaace​

[infinitegalahad]

JOYQUEX NOËL À TOI MON ANGE 

Summary: It's Christmas in Bastogne and you make Eugene's world feel normal for a moment. 

Word-Count: 1.6k 

A/N: I wrote this, running on a cup of dunking as I listened to French Christmas songs. Literally the one thing that sucks about being the youngest sibling out of three older siblings (big age gaps) is that everybody can get drunk but you and it’s hella awk🥲 anyways this not very original but it’s something I’d love to share. Gender neutral reader. Happy holidays! 

The Holidays were always a pleasant memory in your mind. Leading up until Christmas day, the thrill of December made your cheeks warm. You closed your eyes, and as it flashed in the darkness, children laughing, the smell of pinewood and hot chocolate, a small gust of wind hitting against the window during a snowstorm, wrapped paper spread all over the ground. It was like that every year in your home with your overbearing parents, thousands of gifts that you didn’t need, and your siblings running around with their new toys. What you didn’t know is that you took that for granted.

Fluttering your eyes back open, you jumped back into your unfortunate reality. Instead of opening gifts and overeating, you were scrunched into a wet, dirt-filled foxhole. Not only were you cold, but your hand ached. There was an extended cut in your palm, but it had dried and frozen over. You ignored it to the best of your ability. Heavy flurries rained down onto the sky, finessing against your exposed skin as you shivered. You held your rifle close to your body, but nothing was keeping you warm. Snow used to be a pleasant memory, and it was now something you despised. You were beyond drained, emotionally, and physically. There had been so much blood and loss in the past few hours, and it was hard to follow along. Men you considered family died left and right as the guilt tug at your heart.

It seemed like a Christmas Miracle that the trees were exploding. It was eerily calm in Bastogne. You were far away from the company, nestled in a foxhole that was opposite to the Germans. The only noise that you heard was the wind and the muffled melodies coming from the Germans. You zoned out as your eyes stayed on the line, your gun by your side. A shell could hit you, and you’d be gone. It could be long and painful or short and quick. It was bittersweet, but if you were going to die, you wanted it to be over with—a flash of your life between your eyes and then darkness. Death wasn’t something you ever imagined yourself thinking about, especially at a young age. But here you were in Bastogne, freezing as you waited for an occurrence.

Instead of a shell, you heard distant footsteps walk towards your foxhole. Whoever was next to you plopped right next to you as their more prominent shoulder cuddled against your shaking one. You didn’t think much of it and just stared into the distance as everything became blurry and your eyes stung with tears. You would do anything to be back at home right now.

“Everything okay?” The voice said-a thick Cajun accent. You could hear it intrude into your thoughts, but you couldn’t move. Your eyes swelled as you sniffled your nose, shaking as you watched the tall trees and snow fade into mushy colors of black and white.

The Thick, Cajun voice came from Eugene. He softened his expression as he looked at you, shaking and trying to hold in your icy tears. Your lips quivered as your nails, bloodied and jagged, dug into the cold metal of your gun.

Eugene froze for a second as he grasped his thoughts, all eyes on you. He was usually distant from the group. Not because he didn’t want to be friendly, but the thought of losing another person with the gut-wrenching feeling wasn’t worth taking. It had been put into his mind since day one. You, however, were different. Kindness was something that war wasn’t associated with. You were a warming force in the cold night to Eugene; your smile or laughter with a snort would make him melt. But instead, you were holding back tears, and it was tearing Eugene up.

Licking his chaps lips, Eugene scooted over and bumped your shoulder. He sunk into the collar of his jacket as he looked into your [y/e/c]. “Y/n?”

Once again, you jumped back into reality as Eugene’s voice jumped out at you. It wasn’t even loud but a small call of your name. Fixing your position, you wipe your red nose and crystal eyes, nodding your head. “Yeah?” You managed to spit out as you held back tears.

You moved your hand away from your face, moving it downwards to your gun. Instead of feeling the cold metal brush against your skin, your hand was caught by a soft and warm hand. You turn your head over to Eugene, who is furrowing his eyebrows at your bloodied hand.

“Hey, hey…” He interjected as he exclaimed in your tiny hand with a long cut in the palm in his bigger one. His index finger stroked your tiny one as you looked at him with a blame expression. “How’d you do that?”

Freezing for a second, you thought about how you got the cut. It was all so blurry to you but involved a bunch of screaming, blood, and pain. You had caught your hand onto a barbed wire while with Eugene. You looked at your hand, which rested above Eugene’s, as you saw the large cut. You shrugged your shoulders and let out a sigh, “I forget. I think I was rushing.”

Eugene remembered it. Shells were going off left and right, and you grunted as hot blood spilled from your hand. He tried to run back to you, but he had to aid dying men. Biting his lip, he responded as he grabbed his bag, digging for supplies. “I’ll fix it up.”

Pulling out a cloth, Eugene held up a blue cloth. Out of the black trees and white snow, the Olympic blue headscarf shined. It reminded him of the kind nurse that he had formed a friendship with it. The last time he ever saw her, she smiled at him as he went back into combat. Renee was her name-an an angel from heaven. Like y/n, she was a kind soul. Caring. Her touch made men and women soften. Both of you had bloodied hands, talking about how you never wanted to see a dead man again. Renee was a nurse; you were a soldier. Both of you lead different lives, but you had one thing in common; you were angels.

Eugene sat there, holding the cloth up. You noticed him freeze and turned over, nudging his shoulder back. “Gene?”

“It’s for you, a gift...Joyeux Noël,” Eugene said, putting the cloth in your hand, “I was gonna get ya’ somethin’ for you in Paris, but we never got ‘dere. I know I’m doin’ this wrong, but-”

A smile grew on your face as you admired the scarf. You looked at Eugene and hid behind the scarf, concealing your blush. “It’s perfect...thank you” You thanked, “I had no idea you would do this, or that for the matter. But thank you, Eugene.”

Eugene watched your every move as you took off your helmet and tied the scarf on. He didn’t know how to word it, but you looked gorgeous. You were one of the most beautiful people Eugene had ever seen, and you didn’t even have to try. From your kindness to your natural beauty, Eugene knew he was in love with you. That warm feeling with his heart racing, cheeks growing and softened expressions. You softly smiled, turning to Eugene. Your smile was his weakness.

“You're perfect, y/n.” He muttered as he scaled your body, his cheeks redder than his nose. Your hand-sculpted perfectly into his bigger one as he squeezed it. You didn’t even need to respond as you smiled, holding out your bloodied hand. In Bastogne was the angel and medic in a foxhole on Christmas day, smiles exchanged as they held hands.

Eugene held your hand and nearly forgot that you had a large cut. The two of you shared a small moment of peace before jumping back into Bastogne. You threw your helmet back on as Eugene found a dirty bedcloth and tore it, still holding your hand.

You sat there quietly as Eugene worked on wrapping your hand. A smile was spread on your face. To be fair, Eugene had that same smile. Eugene and your shoulders collided as he slung an arm to pull you closer. For body warmth, obviously.

“Hey, doc?” You mentioned.

He turned over, raising an eyebrow, “Yeah?”

“You called me y/n again.” Eugene wasn’t one for nicknames. He always addressed you by y/r/n or y/l/n, never y/n. He did this to everyone, but this time was different. The two of you were different around each other. The way Eugene said in his accent made you weak in your knees. You wanted to hear him say your name thousands and thousands of times.

Eugene’s lips curled as he continued to wrap your tiny hand. “Yeah…” He looked down before looking back into your eyes. You’re big and gorgeous [y/e/c]. The headscarf matched well with your [y/h/l] [y/h/c] and soft [y/s/c}. Everything about you was perfect in Eugene’s angel. Y/n, the perfect angel.

“Y/” You playfully mimicked, deepening your voice. You chuckled when Eugene nudged your hip side.

“Y/r/n” Gene said in loving exasperation, a smile on his face as well.” “Watch the godamn line.”

You and Eugene sat in the foxhole together as he wrapped your hand while you watched the line. The Krauts sung Christmas carols as Eugene pulled you close to him. You leaned into his shoulder as sung you Les Anges dans nos campagnes.

And the world felt calm in that little moment you shared with Eugene of stolen bunny kisses, a headscarf, and Eugene’s soothing singing voice. You didn’t understand the words he whispered into your hair in French, but you did understand one word.

“Joyeux noël à toi mon ange,” He murmured as he left a small kiss on your cheek.

You still kept your eyes on the line as you once again buried yourself into his shoulder. “Merry Christmas to you too, Eugene.”

[maria-scribbles]

shadow skating

y/n kicks off her holiday season in a way she never expected: teaching the king of hawkins high to skate in an endearing attempt to impress a girl. the good news? steve's a surprisingly good student, despite his infamous reputation and terrible balance. the bad news? y/n finds herself falling for him and his stupid hair, even when she knows he'll never be hers. after all, she couldn't possibly be the girl he wants, right?

fandom: stranger things

ship: steve harrington x ice skater!reader

word count: 3.6k+

featuring: swearing, holiday fluff, general cheesiness, steve being a clumsy himbo, gratuitous use of figure skating jargon

a/n: holiday challenge day 1: ice skating. this is my first time publishing anything i’ve written for this fandom so apologies in advance if it’s terrible. as always, unbetaed so all mistakes are my b.

come join my holiday challenge!  

December 1984

"You okay?" Y/N's voice echoed through the empty rink as she skated over to the boy sprawled flat on his back, spread-eagled like a snow angel, and it took everything in her not to laugh at the withering glare Steve sent her way when she came to a stop at his side, her toe pick dragging faintly through the ice.

"Just peachy."

"Hey, at least you didn't fall on your face this time," she fired back with a cheeky grin, finally giving into her laughter when he rolled his eyes, muttering "yeah, yeah" under his breath as he took her outstretched hands and let her help him to his wobbly feet. He managed to stand on his own for only a second or two before his arms started flailing and she quickly reached out to steady him once again, her hands wrapped securely around his wrists.

"This is harder than it looks," he said with his own fingers gripping tight to her forearms and Y/N shrugged off that weird feeling she got in her stomach when she felt the warmth of his palms through the thick wool of her sweater.

"Well," she replied, casually starting to skate backwards and pulling Steve along with her, "Those weak ass ankles of yours don't really help, you know."

His laugh rang loud throughout the vacant arena and Y/N's smile grew as she patiently guided him around the ice for a few laps, watching his strides become more and more confident with each left turn.

If someone would've told her she'd be teaching Steve Harrington how to skate, she'd have laughed right in their face. Her, the weird girl who spent way too much time alone at the rink working on her axel, willingly helping him, the king of Hawkins High who had a reputation of only thinking about himself? Fat chance of that.

But there she was, gliding alongside him now as he slowly skated on his own, one hand hovering near his elbow just in case those weak ankles of his decided to give out again and send him into another face plant. 

When she agreed to let her neighbor Dustin and his friends come in after closing for a private skate two weeks ago -the rink's owner always let Y/N do whatever she wanted, considering she was both her best employee and customer- she had no idea one of those friends was the infamous teenager himself. Seeing his car roll up that night, Dustin waving enthusiastically from the passenger seat and the others crammed in the back like sardines, instead of Mrs. Henderson's mini van had thrown her for a loop, one that took her an embarrassingly long time to recover from as she let them in through the back door and slipped behind the counter to pass out pairs of skates. 

It wasn't until he was standing in front of her asking for a size ten did she look up to acknowledge his presence, instantly noticing the small, almost shy grin he offered her that she awkwardly returned. The two weren't quite friends -never had been, really, despite having at least one class together since the fourth grade (not that she was keeping track or anything, no)- but as Y/N laced up her own skates and led the group out onto the ice, she wondered if maybe, just maybe that could ever change. This Steve was so, so different from the one she knew from school: laughing as he and Dustin both instantly fell to the ground in a heap, a real, genuine smile on his face instead of his usual cocky smirk and she found her eyes following him and his clumsy self throughout the evening, her mind racing as she tried to figure out exactly which version of him was the real thing.

The next afternoon had only confused Y/N further when he showed up unannounced at the rink after school and the sound of his sudden enthusiastic cheering when she successfully landed a double Lutz startled her so badly that she lost an edge and fell on her ass right in front of where he stood by the bleachers. 

"Holy shit, are you okay?" He was on the ice before she could protest, shuffling along the glass in his tennis shoes until he reached her and offered a hand. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you-"

"It's fine, I'm fine," Embarrassed beyond belief, she waved off both his apology and outstretched hand and hauled herself to her feet, first brushing snow from her leggings and then the blades of her skates, one at a time. "That happens a lot, don't worry."

"Oh," He said, letting his arm return to holding onto the boards in an effort to keep himself upright. "Still, I'm sorry-"

"Seriously, Harrington, it's fine. No worries," She smiled, ignoring the stinging pain in her butt and leaned against the glass next to him. "Why are you here, though?"

It was his turn to look embarrassed as that same semi-shy grin from the night before appeared on his face before he blurted out in a rush, "Can you teach me how to skate?"

Y/N blinked. Of all the things to come out of his mouth, that was definitely not what she expected; to be fair, though, anything he could've possibly said would've been pretty damn unexpected, considering the circumstances. "You want me...to teach you...no offense, Steve, but why?"

He shrugged at her question before glancing around the empty arena and leaning close like he was about to spill a secret. "Would you judge me if I said I was trying to impress a girl?"

That was more like the Steve she knew, she thought as she breathed a quick laugh with the shake of her head. "Only a little bit. This girl, she likes to skate?"

He grinned again, this time wide and pretty damn smitten, and nearly lost his balance when he tried to keep one of his feet from slipping out from underneath him. "She's the best skater I know. You should see her out there, gliding around like a freakin' angel or something."

That was...surprisingly sweet coming from the boy she once thought she had all figured out, sweet and sincere and downright adorable and Y/N found herself nodding without any idea why. "Okay."

"Okay what?"

"I'll teach you, alright? I don't mess around when it comes to skating though, so you better be ready to work your ass off."

The smile he sent her way was so bright it was almost blinding, like sunlight dancing off freshly fallen snow. "You're the best, Y/N. I owe you one."

"You got that right, Harrington." She said, wrapping her hand around his elbow and tugging him toward the door that led off the ice. "Let's go get you some skates, first lesson starts now."

Ten lessons in and despite a few nasty falls and a bad habit of tripping over his toe picks, he wasn't doing that badly; not only was he a surprisingly quick learner and good listener, he took her playful teasing like a champ -to be fair, she did tell him she dished out tough love when she taught so he knew that was part of the deal- and threw it right back without a second thought. Never before had she felt so...at ease around someone who wasn't her sister and it was both exhilarating and just a bit scary.

As they finished up their Friday night lesson and stepped out of the rink into the biting wind, Y/N found herself wishing for Monday because the idea of parting ways for the weekend rested heavy on her heart like the big, fat snowflakes that were falling from the dark sky. Becoming friends with Steve was something she never expected -making friends was never an easy thing for her to do- and yet slowly, surely it had happened, and she realized that she would stop the world from spinning if it meant she could spend just a little more time with him. When he lingered by his car, twirling his keys around his finger as white started to dot his stupid, wonderful hair, she hoped he was thinking the same thing.

"So..." She spoke first and broke the comfortable silence that had settled over the parking lot like the falling snow. "I was wondering if you could maybe give me a ride? My car's in the shop and I really don't feel like walking home in this."

"I do owe you," He grinned at the disdained wrinkle in her nose and unlocked the car, climbing inside without a word before reaching over to push open the passenger side door. "Get in, we're getting fries first."

She smiled widely, cheeks stinging from the cold and hope bursting in her chest like New Year's Eve fireworks. "You're buying."

That's how they ended up in a corner booth of the local diner, sharing a basket of fries and sipping on milkshakes despite the snow blowing outside the window.  

"Honestly, you're doing pretty well for someone with such weak ankles," Y/N laughed as Steve rolled his eyes and dunked a fry in his shake with more force than necessary. 

"You're never gonna let me forget that, are you?" 

"Nope." She popped the 'p' of her breezy answer before plucking the cherry from the towering mound of whipped cream on the top of her drink. "Just like you won't let me forget that time I fell on my ass after you scared me and then had the audacity to ask for lessons!"

"Hey, you," He pointed a fry in her direction and laughed when she instantly ripped half of it out of his hand and lobbed it at his chest, "had the audacity to agree to them!"

Y/N pressed her lips together in an effort to keep a straight face as she joked, "You know what? I take back what I said, you haven't improved at all. You're a fucking skating disaster, Harrington."

The gleam in his eyes reminded her of the Christmas lights strung up above their heads, sparkling and bright and full of something that filled her whole body with a lovely warmth she never wanted to lose. "Well, Y/N, hate to break it to you but me sucking just proves you're not that good of a teacher."

"How dare you," She gasped in mock offense and lightly kicked him in the shin, the last of her composure dissolving completely when he fell back against the cracked vinyl seat like he'd been shot. "Good luck impressing your mystery girl without me."

If all her focus wasn't already on the boy sitting across from her, she would've missed the way his grin faltered for just a moment as he turned away to look out the window. Her brow furrowed at that, as well as the sudden bitter taste in her mouth at the mention of the girl he was trying to impress, the girl whose identity was still unknown to her and at this point, she wasn't quite sure if she even wanted to find out.

"Steve?" Her hand moved on its own to lightly touch his wrist, the warmth of his skin bleeding into her cold fingers. "You okay?"

"Why did you do it?"

"Huh?"

"Why did you agree to teach me how to skate? And for nothing, even." He gazed at her over the tall malt glass in front of him, brown eyes searching hers until she looked away, down at her hand still resting on his beside their shared fries as her cheeks started to flood with heat.

She'd been asking herself that question for two weeks now, since this whole thing started at the beginning of December. Two weeks later, with only eight days left before Christmas, she was starting to think she might have an idea why; too bad she was too scared to even admit to to herself, let alone say it out loud. 

"I don't know." She answered after a too-long pause in which she pulled her hand back to her lap -with her eyes still cast down at her melting shake, she missed the disappointed look on his face at the loss of her touch- and shrugged her sweater-clad shoulders. "I love skating, okay? It's my favorite thing to do in the world but, honestly, it gets kind of lonely being out on the ice all by yourself. I...I guess I just couldn't pass up an opportunity to share it with someone else...and um, not be alone for once. You can't put a price on that."

When he didn't reply, she glanced up from watching a bead of condensation roll down the stem of her glass only to find him still looking at her, the corner of his mouth turned up in that same soft smile she'd fooled herself into thinking was just for her.

"Even if that someone is me, Y/N?"

She smiled back and bumped her boot against his sneaker under the table. "Even if that someone is you, Steve. You're not as bad as that reputation of yours makes you seem."

A comfortable silence fell over the two teens as they went back to their food, the diner around them becoming busier and busier the later the night went on. Someone switched the radio to a Christmas station and in between bites of fries Y/N softly sang along to Wham!'s Last Christmas, an ear worm of a song that'd been stuck in her head ever since it was released at the beginning of the month.

"This year, to save me from tears, I'll give it to someone special."

"Have you ever been afraid of not being good enough for someone?" Steve asked suddenly, causing the girl to look away from the snow still falling steadily outside the window.

"More times than I'd care to admit," She answered honestly, finishing her milkshake and pushing the empty glass to the side. "Why? Is this about your mystery girl?"

"I think I'm realizing that she's way, way out of my league. Like, she's a pro in the MLB and I'm...playing tee ball with five-year-olds." He said as he dragged a fry through the glob of ketchup on his plate, back and forth, over and over until Y/N once again reached across the table to put her hand on his.

"Listen to me and listen good 'cause I'm only gonna say this once," She said quietly, just loud enough for him to hear over the noise of the diner. "If this girl doesn't see how absolutely wonderful you are, she is -and I'm saying this from the very bottom of my heart so you know it's true- a total fucking dumbass. Got it?"

That whooshing feeling in her stomach came flooding back at the sight of the bright blush slowly spreading across his face at her words and as his pinky moved to link with hers, one crazy, impossible thought popped into her head: she'd do anything, absolutely anything to stay in that moment forever.  

But that's the sad thing about fleeting, promising moments: eventually, no matter how hard you try, they still come to an end. With their fries gone and milkshake glasses empty, they had no reason to stay and so they ventured back out into the cold night, walking closer than they ever had before to Steve's car. It wasn't until he pulled into her driveway did he speak, turning to face her in the passenger seat and breaking the warm, comforting silence that had wrapped around them like a blanket on the short drive from the diner.

"Thank you."

Y/N quirked an eyebrow. "For what?”

"Everything. Teaching me, what you said back there...being my friend." He said simply and she felt her heart skip a beat when that smile of his appeared on his face and lit up the whole car. 

"I should be thanking you," She replied, picking at a loose thread dangling from the sleeve of her coat. "I don't have many friends but I'm really, really happy you're one of them."

"Me, too."

She smiled softly and reluctantly reached down to grab her bag from the floor. "I'd better get inside before my grandpa sends out a search party. Thanks for tonight, I, um, I had a lot of fun."

"So did I, even after you ever so rudely threw that fry at me."

"You deserved it." She said in a sing-song voice as she opened the car door and placed one foot on the snowy ground outside. "I'll see you Mon-"

"Wait." It was his turn to touch her hand, his larger palm folding over hers and stopping her from leaving. "Would you want to do it again sometime? Maybe over Christmas break?"

She hoped all the effort she was putting into keeping her cool was paying off as the butterflies exploded in her stomach at his words. "I'd like that."

He squeezed her hand once before letting go and sending her off with a bright grin. "Goodnight, Y/N."

"Goodnight, Steve."

He waited until she disappeared into the house before driving off into the night and she watched him go through the living room window, falling back onto the couch with a giddy smile after his car turned the corner. 

The next morning found Y/N alone at the quiet rink, the only sound coming from her blades smoothly cutting through the ice as she skated through her practice routine; triple toe loop, Biellmann spin, double Salchow. It was methodical and soothing, her body running through the maneuvers it knew by heart while her mind thought ahead to the one move that she'd never been able to successfully land: the double Axel. Today was her day, she could feel it and no matter how many tries it took -she'd already bit it twice- she was going to land that jump.

Approaching the move head on, she picked up speed until she was flying across the ice, cold wind whipping through her hair and stinging her cheeks; she bent her left knee, lifted her right foot, and leaped from her left outside edge before spinning two and a half times and landing, albeit a bit shakily, on the outside edge of her right. 

"Yes! Holy shit!" The girl's shouts echoed throughout the arena as she spun to a stop, excitedly punching her fist in the air, and she was so caught up in celebrating that she didn't notice when the door opened and someone stepped out onto the ice with her. 

"I have no idea what that was but it looked impressive and scary as all hell." 

Y/N spun around to face the owner of the sudden, familiar voice and couldn't keep herself from smiling when she noticed no trace of unsteadiness in Steve's skating as he slowly came to a stop at her side. "It's called a double Axel. What are you doing here?"

"Well," He said, cheeks flushed not just from the cold, taking another step closer until his skates bumped against hers, "last night I realized I didn't do something I really wanted to, so I came to fix it."

"And what was it?" Her voice was breathless and full of unbridled hope as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "The thing you didn't do?"

"This."

And with that he cupped her face in both hands and leaned down to press his lips to hers. Y/N responded immediately, kissing him back with everything she had and then some, like she'd wanted to do ever since that first night. That first night when she started to see him for who he really was, not the reputation given to him by their classmates. Ever since that next day when he accidentally scared her and then asked for lessons so he could impress a girl -shit, mystery girl.

Her hands, having found their way to his chest, gently pushed him back at the thought that popped into her head and the loss of his warm touch made her shiver; opening her eyes, she found him looking stricken a foot away, an apology written on his face clear as day.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-"

"No, no! It's not that," She said in a rush, skating forward and all but crashing into him in a desperate attempt to keep him near, to keep that euphoric, heavenly feeling being close to him brought her. "That...that was, shit, that was perfect, okay? But what about her?"

"Her?" His hands gripped her waist as hers settled on his chest once again, gloved fingers curling in the soft cotton of his green sweater. "Who's 'her'?"

"Your mystery girl, the skater!"

The look on Steve's face was the perfect mix of exasperation and affection and she felt her cheeks burn as he replied, "Y/N, it's you. It's always been you."

Oh. Oh. Holy hell, she must be the dumbest bitch on God's green earth. This whole time, it wasn't just wishful thinking: every lingering stare, every lasting touch, every time he smiled that soft smile, they were all real and she could finally say, with certainty, that they were just for her, like she'd always hoped they'd been. 

All she could think about now was kissing him again so she tugged him down to her level, fully intent on picking up where they left off and she'd almost reached his lips before he slipped and sent them both tumbling to the ice in a tangle of limbs. 

"Maybe I still need more lessons after all," He said, propping himself up on his elbow and smiling down at the laughing girl lying beneath him. 

"Hey, I finally thought of something you can do to pay me back!"

The ice was cold through her leggings but she didn't even notice as she slid her fingers into his hair and pulled him down so they were barely an inch apart.

"Yeah?" 

"Kiss me."

tagging some moots who might be interested ❤: @sinkbeneathwaves​ @cordeliascrown​ @alexa-playafricabytoto​ @perkeusjackson​ @chrlsgillespie​

[fascination-street-writing]

In the Gathering Gloom | Leone Abbacchio x Reader

You think you might want him to hold you, but you refrain from crossing that line. It is a game that lovers play – and he is not yours. To love him, for what he has done and more, is sacrilege.

A continuation of Stealing Past the Windows

Content Warnings: P-TSD

You never cared for bruttiboni very much, but you do not mind the ones that Leone purchases from the bakery down the street at La Torta e il Coniglio. In truth, you are thankful for anything he brings home, for you remember what it was like to nearly starve so clearly that it might have been an old habit of survival. It has made you appreciative of the dry almond biscuits. Besides, they are far better dunked in hot coffee.

Leone takes the seat across from you at the breakfast nook. Laid out in front of him is nothing more than a ceramic mug of sweetened tea. You have learned, in your time living together, that he seldom eats in the morning – something to do with luncheons with his coworkers and not wanting to spoil his appetite. You finish your meal but before you can rise to carry your emptied plate to the sink, he has already taken it from your grasp and placed it within the basin.

Water hails from the spigot. “Thank you,” you tell him. He nods.

You fasten the apron to your torso. You have taken up a job at a local café, though not out of a monetary incentive; Leone provides for you plenty. Anything you request, he brings to you on a hypothetical silver platter – so you have stopped asking. But you understand his sense of obligation. You suppose that, in his situation, you would do anything for the child of the man you might as well have killed with your own hands. Bruttiboni will not bring back your parents; though, you appreciate the gesture.

Truthfully, you work because you need the distraction. There are only so many books to read in a day until something miniscule reminds you of the circumstances you escaped in the not quite so distant past. Perhaps it is the turning of a page in a romance novel – the scratching of parchment to parchment – that reminds you of pattering mice in the rafters. Or, the air coolant system that sounds like the rusted box fan of your former abode; to call it that – an abode – is an underserved gratuity. On several occasions, you have had to remind yourself that the gunshots on the streets below are truly nothing more than the thumping of life and movement in the apartments around you. 

Regardless of it all, the verbal silence is the worse, because it is akin to the loneliness you once felt. It is unbearable when Leone is away. And so, you press espresso shots for underpaid businessmen and lattes for mothers who rush to work after dropping their children off at school – just as your own madre had used to do every morning. Occasionally, the businessmen congregate together and stay for at least an hour; they are always cordial enough, and never leave too much of a mess to clean. The mothers, on the other hand, are gone the moment their overpriced beverage meets their grasp. You are glad that you are neither a businessman nor a mother. But you wish you still had yours.  

Leone sets the cleaned plate atop the drying rack. Water splashes on the plates that have already dried. Somebody ought to put them away, you think. Although, it is convenient to leave them there for next use. What good is it to stack a plate in the cabinet when you are going to pull it back out for dinner?

You sling your purse over your shoulder. “I’ll see you later,” you say to Leone. Taking a quick breath, you leave the sanctity of the apartment, not quite ready to face the new day. You suppose you should be beholden to the predictable, albeit boring, cycle that has become your new life.

After all, you have found exactly what you wanted.

“Didn’t I?” you ask to no one in particular but yourself.

You did.

You settle onto the couch and twirl the fork through the mound of pasta. The tender trofie, complimented by the simple addition of pesto and cream, is the embodiment of comfort; content, you sigh and prop your sore legs upon the ottoman. It is a simple dish, to be sure – and Leone has perfected it. It has become a favorite of yours. He prepares it once a week now.

Seated beside you, he eats. The low hum of the television resonates throughout the room. It is nothing more than meager accompaniment to the words leaving your mouth. Between bites of your meal, you mutter unrepeatable expletives regarding incompetent coworkers and rude patrons. Regardless of the grievances that leave your tongue, you are relatively – though not quite entirely – happy.

Leone reaches for his wine glass, bending his wrist to swirl the nectar. Threads of red velvet flush the edges, only ever for a fleeting moment. He raises the Castello Silenzioso to his mouth. It will be his only glass tonight. It is plenty, for he drinks your soliloquy as if your words are a sweet wine poured from a from a bottle of blush – insobriety without consequence.

He enjoys listening to you complain about work far more than he should.

Once in your hand, the fork now rests against the plate, still. You catch Leone’s gaze, unexpecting to see the look of adoration that sweeps across his ombre eyes; perplexingly so, it fills you with a pang analogous to guilt. It is true that he is indebted to you. But that does not mean you cannot feel like an extortionist.

“I’m sorry,” you sigh. “I shouldn’t rant about work, especially considering that I don’t even need to be there. Mio Dio, I just feel like . . .”

A burden.

“You’re not a burden,” he interjects, as if he can peer through your clouded mind and devour the thoughts pulsing within. “If you ever say that again, I –” He cuts himself off, takes a second to breathe, and continues: “It’s not good to keep things bottled up inside. You know that.”

He is right; but the bottle has saved you once before. “You say that, but you don’t ever talk to me about your work, which is obviously something stressing you out. Perhaps, you should practice what you preach: pratica ciò che predichi, Leone.”

“No, because telling you would be a burden.”

You have no doubt that it assuredly is. And yet, your final threads of distrust for this man cling to the uncertainty of his identity. Leone gave you a home after he destroyed your first, and a family of two to replace that which he stole away. With each passing day – each morning spent in cool silence and evenings shaped by dinners of trofie – your once-steady flame of hatred for him extinguishes ever so slightly.

But forgiveness lies in the lavender fields still beyond your reach.

“Don’t I at least have a right to know what you do for a living?” you inquire, practically teetering on the edge of the soda. “Or how you came up with the money to pay off the debt?”

“No.”

You pout and desist. Perhaps he is right – perhaps it is better that you continue to dwell in the perpetual state of innocent ignorance of which you have lived in for so long now. Better that than to be the judge of something you cannot understand. Conceding is never easy, yet you do it anyways.

“Forget I asked.” You trail off, pausing before seeking an exit to the conversation. “It’s my night to do dishes; I should get started.”

Maybe tonight, you will put them away.

“Wait,” Leone says with a heavy sigh, catching you in mid-stance. “Just wait.”

You sit down. He supposes it would not hurt to tell you about his day – barring the incriminating details, of course. The smile upon your face when he begins to speak is confirmation that he has made the right choice.

Because you look at him as if his stories are as interesting as yours.

“That’ll be ₤11,500.”

“Grazie. Keep the change.”

The handle of the grinder is stuck again. The stray coffee bean catches betwixt the blade and the stainless-steel cup. You jerk the handle back and forth in an attempt to jostle the wedged apparatus free. It cracks under the tension of your grip, so much indeed that it might break at your touch. You would rather not be the one to break the stubborn coffee grinder, and it certainly would not be pleasant to have to pay for a new one. You decide that it might be best to leave it for the next person to find.

Pausini is scheduled to work after you. Though you would never say it to her face, you find her to be terribly boring and a klutz. Better her be the one to break it than you. Besides, your boss would not be surprised if she were in fact the one to do it.

“Hey, signorina.” The cramped space of the café smells of stale cigars and a peculiar cologne with the inclusion of the latest customer. It is a familiar blend that makes your palms clammy and your knees shake. “Seems like you have your work cut out for you, eh?”

You look to the man before the counter. Although a fresh, healing scar adorns the corner of his lip to the highest crook of his eyebrow – the stitching is so crude that it looks as if his torn skin had been zipped back together – his is a face you recognize in nightmares: the man, your former procurer, who murdered your mother and forced you to work the corner.  

With plenty of grit, fixing a jammed coffee grinder is easy. But confronting your past is as arduous as Atlas holding the globe with his own two hands. Regardless, you are not paid enough to do either.

The coffee grinder falls from your slackened grasp and shatters on the floor. You do not have the chance to meet the fearful look in his eyes, for you have already fled by the time he can process your face. He remembers you from nightmares as well. He remembers the man with sleek bobbed hair who split his cheek in half with the mere swipe of his finger, too. And the dirty ex-cop who nearly pulverized his kneecap with the heel of his shoe in the process, as if his bones were no more than fiberglass.

He leaves the café without bothering to place an order and finds himself glancing over his shoulder more often than not. Meanwhile, you push past street patrons and venders alike, ignoring the angry shouts thrown your way. Your cellphone vibrates in your pocket as your shift supervisor attempts to call you, to coax you back into work. But you cannot go back there right now. You will not. Instead, you squeeze your palms and bite your lip to ward off the ever-growing panic in your chest.

Never before has Leone’s apartment door looked so enticing – so welcoming – to you; not even on the night he first brought you home. You throw yourself inside and slide against the wall of the foyer, hand raised to your mouth to stifle your own sobbing. In the living room, Leone stands. You had not realized that he would be home. You are torn between running into his arms for comfort or running away. He makes the decision for you, catching you as your knees buckle and nearly cast you aside. 

He holds you flush, your head to his chest and his hand through your hair. For a moment, you are back in the alleyway with your skirt bunched around your ankles and a chill to your spine. Broken bits of green glass lie on the cobblestone and catch the fleeting glimmers of moonbeams. You stop and listen to the beating of your own obstinate heart. It tells you that you do not want his help – you simply do not. You need it.

“Hey,” he coos as you quake in his embrace, like a newborn fawn. A fawn with wings perhaps, for you feel your lungs inflate, as if you have been cast into the sky. To anywhere other than Napoli. You suppose the world will stop for a moment if only you just close your eyes. And so, you do. Though your teeth gnaw at your bottom lip, and your chest might split in two, you keep your eyes shut, to salvage that which has mended and threatens to unravel if you should let go.

The trouble of it all, you know, is that you had never really healed. You simply had not given enough thought to it.  You are young – trapped in what are supposed to be the grandest years of your life. But life is not forgiving, and you despise her all the same.

You feel only loss. And it is suffocating.

“Sei al sicuro, [Y/N].”

Leone does not ask why you have barged home hours before the end of your shift. But it does not matter.

“You’re safe.”

You do not believe him – you cannot even speak. You clutch him tighter and realize that he has been drinking. The scent of wine shrouds him like a perfume. Now you are dizzy and leaning on him is not enough: second-hand intoxication. He carries you to bed instead, for despite your shuttering of breaths and your gasps for air, you have asked him to do so. In the fortitude of a rumpled comforter and sheets, you lie awake, clutching the pillows that smell like his shampoo – honeysuckle, leather, and cedar. Admittedly, Leone has not slept in the comforts of his own bed in months, ever since he took you in. The couch is good for him, because you deserve the bed more, he thinks.

“You’re safe.”

But the pillows still smell like him, of course.

“I saw him, Leone.”

His hand brushes your back, hesitant, before it rests along your spine.

“I’m sorry.”

You meet his sunset eyes. He looks different without his makeup – he looks as tired as he truly is. And so do you.

“Please, just say you’ll protect me,” you bed, hushed. “Even if it isn’t true. Just give me something.”

Something to cling to, because the buoy is out of reach.

“Always.”

A wave knocks you adrift.

“Don’t leave me.”

You are pulled asunder.

“Never.”

You must be drowning.

He had not meant to fall asleep next to you. In your infectious exhaustion, you had succumbed, and he felt the temptation to do the same, soon enough. Though he promised himself that he would leave once you calmed down, he could not follow through. Your dampened cheeks had felt slick and sticky beneath his palms as he wiped them away. He lingered, admiring the way your lashes kissed the soft skin of your cheekbones, before he lied down. On his back, he memorized the pinprick holes of the ceiling, lost in thoughts of you.

He also promised that he would not fall in love with you – Leone never was one for keeping good to his word, was he? Feelings are harmless; if he does not act on them, he is content with longing. Alas, he settles in and away.

Hours later, you wake to the sound of gentle breaths next to you. Leone sleeps, caving after months without sleeping in a bed. Despite the additional blanket draped over both your bodies, you still shiver. You notice, too, that he has kept his distance. You think you might want him to hold you, but you refrain from crossing that line. It is a game that lovers play – and he is not yours. To love him, for what he has done and more, is sacrilege.

The daytime blues have blended into the nighttime rift of Napoli. The dark sky outside confirms that you have slept well into the evening, as if the analog lock on the bedside table was not telling. You glance over to Leone, who sleeps as if to forget the obligation of your existence. He looks younger this way, though you suppose that he is only a man of twenty, after all. He ought to look his age. 

Your stomach churns into knots as you begin to recollect the events of this afternoon. Your phone has several missed calls from your boss, and a text from Pausini informing you that you have been fired for your transgressions. No questions, no inquiries: just fired. You wonder what did it. Fleeing before the end of your shift, or the broken coffee grinder – perhaps the culmination of both. Realizing that you are still wearing your apron, you untether it and throw it into the darkness of the room. If you never find it again, you will be better for it. Never mind the emblems of your mistakes. They will only make you grieve.

It is an undeserving punishment, and one that will tar your resume forever. It feels as if your dreams have slipped past your fingers yet again. Groaning, you bury your face in your hands, unaware of Leone’s stirring behind you. You wish to escape to the place where no one you have ever known will come – to start anew, wherever that may be anymore. Alone, with no husband, no baby in a bassinet, and no lavender fields.

You crave solitude to wallow in your shame. Leone sits up, casting the blanket aside.  “I lost my job,” you mutter through your palms. “They fired me. I lost my fucking job.”

“You don’t need it,” he tells you. You suppose it is his way of reassuring you, though it does you little good. “The job, or the trouble it’s caused.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Sit in the living room all day eating bonbons, reading books, and watching television, like a princess in a castle?”

“Would it really be that bad?”

“For me, yes,” you affirm.

He sighs. “Alright,” Leone begins, “then we’ll start job searching tomorrow. In the meantime, it would do you good to take some time off.”

You shake your head. “I don’t want to take any time off. I can’t, Leone. You don’t understand. I need a job.”

“What do you want me to do about it right now?” You have no answer. “Conjure up one out of thin air?”

Until you do: “What about at that restaurant you always go to? Il Libeccio, or whatever. Do you think they’re hiring?”

He stiffens beside you. A cold look sweeps his face. You know that you have said something wrong.

“No,” he tells you with little room for debate. “And even if they were, I wouldn’t let you.”

But it is not your folly. To Leone, the rationality behind his refusal is simple: he wants nothing more than to keep you away from Passione. Even from his closest comrades. And even from Il Libeccio. Perhaps, it is that he fears what you will think of him should you discover his occupation – or his self-professed fall from grace, to go from being a poliziotto alongside your father, to a soldato of the most powerful gang in Italia. Indifference, anger, trepidation; he cannot fathom, and he does not wish to. He tells himself that, by keeping you away, he is keeping you safe.

But you do not understand that. And yet, how could you? In your ignorance, you scoff, irked by his insistence. “Why not? Are you afraid that your friends might see the consequences of you’ve done to my family and hate you for it? Maybe they should, if that’s what you’re so worried about.”

You have wounded him, though still he will not tell you the truth. You regret the words before they leave your mouth. His face morphs into a scowl, for your accusation has struck him, as if a knife has been placed to his belly. Your heart grows heavy with regret even as he exits the room, long overdue, with nothing else to say. The door slams so hard that it rattles on the hinges, and it makes you flinch. You are certain that your neighbors have heard it, for in the distance, a woman shouts, and a dog begins to bark; you feel like a proper idiot and a child, sitting there in the remnants of your work uniform. You wish the bed could swallow you whole. You wish to be anywhere but here.

Leone was wrong – you understand that now. A new wave of tears spills from your eyes, and you hastily wipe them away with the corner of your polo shirt. You know that you are a burden to him, indeed. You wonder what kind of apartment you will be able to afford with the money you have saved up. Perhaps it is time for you to fly the nest that you and Leone have both built together.

Perhaps it is time for a new start. 

| 3492 Words |

Tagging: @honeytea8​ @gloomygoregirl​ @idontlikerisottounlessitsnero​

[novantinuum]

Fandom: Steven Universe

Pairing: Steven/Connie

Rating: Teen Audiences 

Words: 2.6K~

Summary: In which Connie’s subconscious, innocent touch helps Steven realize just how nice the sensation of gentle fingertips gliding across the surface of one’s gem can be. (Just a bunch of teen romance fluff, + first kiss)

This is set like... a few weeks before Steven leaves Beach City. I imagine he’s been recovering from what happened in I Am My Monster for at least 6 months by this point.

His days aren’t always great- there’s a lot of ups and downs- but thankfully, today is a markedly pleasant one.

_____

His house is still for once. Impossibly so. No Diamond business, no new arrivals to Earth, no disgruntled Gems kicking down his front door. No more battles, beyond his own internal ones. Admittedly, a part of him is happy for the peace and quiet. He’s appreciative of the way all his family and friends rallied around him in support months back after... erm- after his breakdown, but every guy needs some space eventually.

‘Some space’ never has to mean alone, of course.

Steven sneaks a doe-eyed glance at the girl flopped next to him on the living room couch, her mind lost in the pages of her own fantasy world. It’s a new series, something about a human accidentally falling into the world of the fae. (It’s only been like, half an hour, and she’s almost a hundred pages in already!) A pliable smile teases his lips as he watches her eyes flicker back and forth, digesting each passage with a voracious hunger. Sighing in content, he turns his attention back to his own book, externally making as if he’s busy exploring the world of fiction to hide the sappy fact that instead he’s been thinking about her all along. Honestly? He adores quiet days like these. Even if they’re not doing anything special, it’s just nice to get to spend time alone together. It’s a comfortable together.

Connie shifts, instinctively curling closer, her free arm slung against his side. With a soft hum of content he leans into her welcomed embrace, trying his best (and— caught in her innocently bewitching presence— failing abysmally) to focus on the wandering lines of text.

Everything is peaceful.

No hard knocks, no frenzied phone calls, no family disruptions. The domestic warp hasn’t even activated once this whole lazy afternoon. In recent days, he’s pretty sure that’s a record.

At long last, his house is still... and yet in a flash, his hormone riddled teenage mind— ever foolish— is everything but.

Because Connie’s touch is tickling him.

It’s subconscious, almost imperceptible at first. At some point her free hand has roved so that it’s no longer pressed against his side, but against his midriff— which is currently exposed, his shirt bunched up at the waist from all his slouching. Teasingly, her fingertips dance upon the facets of his gem with the pinpoint expertise of a prima ballerina, encoding an endless rhythm directly into the sum of his being, the feather-light contact sending vibrations almost too faint to notice coursing through his hard light veins. But not too faint for him. Not now, not while host to this kind of silence. Not when the girl draped on the couch next to him unknowingly commands every shard of his attention with the slightest twitch of her index finger.

It’s taking all his willpower not to squirm at this ticklish contact right now. It’s so... weird when other people touch his gem. It’s certainly not something he’s used to.

(Steven promptly buries the memory of the last time someone touched it, refusing to let old terrors tarnish an otherwise pleasurable encounter. He can feel the pink threatening to rise in his cheeks, that instinctual rush of panic he’s grown so numb to over the past months rearing its ugly head. It’s so, so hard to wrestle away from its thrall sometimes, but thankfully his therapist has been teaching him ways to mitigate these sorta reactions. His eyes clamp shut as he breathes deep through his nose and focuses on the tangible, on what he knows: the plump, lumpy cushions of the couch under him, the slight scent of garlic and cumin in the air from the lunch he cooked a few hours ago, the rhythmic crashing of waves outside the house. The warmth of his best friend by his side—)

Tap, taptaptap, tap, taptaptap...

His cheeks bloom a human red as her lulling rhythm continues.

Like he said, it’s obviously subconscious. It has to be, right? It would certainly make sense. From his observations, Connie’s always been a tactile thinker. It’s part of what made her such a quick study in sword fighting. Whenever her mind is alight, those beautiful neurons firing back and forth like a firework display, her body is in motion. Sometimes it’s her foot, tapping impatiently into the dirt as she parses through memory to find the precise words to say. Or it’s like how she memorizes facts for tests easier if she’s jogging, listening to audio recordings of the test materials she made herself. And then there’s times like now, when Connie is reading. When her fingers tap and glide with an almost impish touch across the diamond gemstone in his belly’s center as her eyes— by all appearances entirely disconnected from both her hand’s motion and his reaction— skim effortlessly across the unfolding tale on her page. Her hands... oh, those hands... calloused, warm, digits lithe and curious in their movement. They’re always shifting, always tapping, always twitching to some identifiable rhythm. Is this just another example of her sway towards more kinetic-based thinking? Or... is it something else? A silent yearning that extends its roots from the heart into object reality, innocently unaware of the power of its call?

Stars, Steven thinks, mustering with all his strength to ignore his burning face, so maybe I’ve been thinking a little too much about her lately...

Eventually, it all becomes a bit too overwhelming to handle. If this continues in silence any longer, well... well, heck. He doesn’t even want to imagine what embarrassing things could happen. Mustering up all his courage, he flips his book shut and drops it on the cushion beside him.

“Um, Connie? By the way? That’s kinda ticklish,” he squeaks out, voice high and reedy.

Upon his words, she notices where her fingers are subconsciously tapping and immediately pulls her hand away, her cheeks flushing dark. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” she says, quickly tossing her book aside and shifting upright on the couch. “I didn’t mean to goose ya’! I wasn’t even thinking abo—“

“No, it’s okay!” he interjects with an open hand. “I’m fine, really, I am. I- it’s not like, uh- It isn’t like a bother, and- well, it just—“

Burning up with such a ferocity that he’s about one impulsive decision away from high tailing it out of this fraught social situation and dunking his glowing pink head right into the Atlantic, he forces himself to hush before he says something super stupid and humiliating in front of his best friend in the whole world that he’ll regret and replay in his dreams forever and ever for the rest of his days.

Okay, Steven, stop running your mouth like a lovesick fool for one second and think. How can you say this in a way that doesn’t sound entirely stupid and/or weird?

Watching him closely, curiosity written across every vibrant feature, Connie inclines her head ever so slight, a subtle, wordless gesture— one only a Jam Bud could understand— for him to keep going.

The phantom sensation of her fingers tapping against crystal rushes through his nerves like the physical analogue to a bad ear worm. He reaches up to itch at the side of his neck, unable to fully stifle his nervous laughter.

“Honestly, it uh- it actually felt pretty nice?”

“What, me touching your gem?”

“Yeah,” he manages to croak out, voice cracking like it hadn’t since he was freshly fifteen.

She isn’t able to fully stifle her giggle at this, pressing her hand tight to her mouth far too late.

His heart nearly plummets at the sound of her teasing laughter, the constant thrumming of his hard light veins steadily quickening as a flood of energy pulses just below the surface. He knew he shouldn’t have said anything, he knew it was far too much after every other recent misstep he’s made in their relationship! Why couldn’t he have just kept his trap shut?

“Aw, geeze,” he says, voice thick and his every muscle ready to bolt, “this is so embarrassing—“

“No, no! I shouldn’t have laughed, it’s okay!” she jumps in, pressing her hand to his shoulder to help ground him “It’s just bodies, Steven. It’s not weird. It’s just how skin-to-skin contact works. It’s supposed to feel good, because we’re meant to be social creatures, y’know?”

He hums softly in agreement, taking the offered moment to ease himself down from brink of panic. He focuses intently on the weight of her hand, resting feather-light against him. It’s a small gesture, but a powerful one. More than anything, more than words alone could say, it’s a promise. A reaffirmation, moment by moment. I’m here. We’re here. It’s a truth even the sobering reality of shared trauma can’t hope to erase: that even when the going’s tough, they have each other.

Connie brushes a stray stand of hair behind her ear then, shifting on the couch. Perhaps out of a sum of bashfulness, her eyes drift, not quite able to meet his.

“I- it’s silly, but I guess I never considered that you could even feel sensation through your gem,” she admits.

“Really? But you’ve had a gem before. Well, shared a gem,” he corrects himself, though in the end it’s all semantics.

“Well, sure, but when we’re Stevonnie, they don’t tend to think about stuff like that, because you’re used to it, and I’ve never thought about it. It’s simply... normal for them, I guess.”

“Hahah, yeah. It’s always been that way for me,” he says with a soft chuckle. “I never crawled like a normal kid, d’ya know? Dad says I always used to move around by scooting on my butt. When I tried crawling my gem would scrape against the floor, and apparently? I hated it.”

She laughs for real this time, (with him, not at him), her voice ringing true and beautiful and clear like a bell. His heart swells with joy.

And then...

Connie’s lithe fingers reach towards his midsection, hesitantly at first, before— in careful consideration of boundaries— pausing in their voyage entirely.

Her eyes lock with his, her shy expression wholly giving up the chase on what her request will be before she ever shifts her tongue to ask in words. “Is it okay if-?”

“Always,” he says, gently leading her hand under the hem of his shirt and towards the gemstone at his core.

He can’t help his sharp inhale when he feels her fingertips dance across his facets once more. Even when he knows what’s coming, knows to expect this contact, it’s funny. Not funny in a ‘haha’ way, funny in an ‘I’m not used to this’ way. After all, he’s never exactly made a habit of touching his own gem beyond periodic cleaning, and (almost) no one else has ever had a purpose to. It’s for this reason that a small traumatized segment of his mind still can’t help but spiral in panic about the mere concept of any external being brushing against this treasure, this tangible half of his very essence. Given the nightmares he’s been through, he’d have every right to deny her touch. But with Connie... beyond everything else, allowing her in this way is the greatest show of vulnerability he knows how to give.

It’s his proof to her that in this moment, he trusts her implicitly, without question.

Gracefully, she traces her finger around the edge of his gem, lines each individual facet in turn. It’s ticklish at first, much like before, but as she grows more confident in her gentle exploration he finds himself relaxing under her touch. He feels warm, a faint buzz of content flooding his system through his hard light veins. With her, he feels safe.

“It really is beautiful, you know that?” she says, a peaceful expression settling across her features. “Your gem.”

“Nah, you’re beautiful...” he murmurs bashfully, cheeks flushing.

“So are you,” she replies in swift measure, eyes soft with endless adoration.

His fluttering heart extends its gossamer wings and soars. If it weren’t for her nestled at his side, lithe fingers running across each facet in even measure, her tactile presence tethering him like an anchor to this present reality, he’s pretty sure he’d have floated halfway to the ceiling by now.

Daringly, his gaze locks with hers. He swears his heart’s beating its own drum solo within his chest, but this time it’s not because of fear, not at all.

It’s the feeling of freedom.

His fingers loop around a stray strand of hair that’s fallen in front of her eyes. That seems to happen a lot, he’s noticed. As delicate as he can manage, he hooks it back over her ear.

“Can I...?” he whispers, his warm breath brushing against her lips.

She replies in wordless affirmation, leaning forward to close the narrow gap between them. Hooded eyes drift shut. Her hand still rests on his gem as they finally move to cross that final barrier, that fuzzy, oft indistinguishable line drawn between childhood sweethearts and could-be couple, and kiss.

Well, attempt to, anyways.

To be fair, despite his schmaltzy roots, Steven only has movies and books to pull from as an example.

Their noses bump against each other’s at first. Both giggling, they tilt their heads to compensate and then mash their lips together, reveling in every ridiculous moment of their joint inexperience. It’s definitely sloppy, and he doesn’t have a clue where he’s supposed to put his hands or how long is too long, or how he’s supposed to move his mouth against hers, or— stars, did he even remember to brush his teeth this morning?? He sure hopes so— but because it’s with Connie all of that doesn’t matter. It’s perfect in every way.

“OoooOOOoo, looks like loverboy’s finally gettin’ some!”

He and Connie startle at the interruption, pulling apart from each other with equally flushed faces to match eyes with their surprise visitor.

It’s Amethyst, leaning against the kitchen table with a downright roguish smirk, probably thinking she’s the funniest Gem that’s ever emerged. Of course, who else would it be? (Though, which entrance did she come in from? When did she sneak past them? Were they really so involved with each other that they just... failed to notice??)

“Crude,” he says, brows creased with faint annoyance.

In return, she cups her cheeks and serves him the most ridiculous, schmaltzy expression she can muster. “Sap!”

Connie stifles a laugh at her exaggerated antics, but on his side he can’t help but be salty that her interruption yanked the two of them away from the blissful throes of blossoming teenage romance.

“Oh, get outta here, you,” he chimes back, and playfully tosses one of the couch’s pillow straight towards her face. “Shoo!”

The quartz Gem catches it out of midair and grins, no stranger to tests of reflex these days. Adopting a fake posh voice, she fires back her retort. “Your wish is my command, Sir Sappington...”

Tucking the pillow under her arm, she turns on her heels and skips up and over the warp pad’s platform, stalking towards her room with a victorious air. She doesn’t even try to mask her lovingly teasing snickers as the door splits in two at her command and she crosses the barrier into the temple’s dimension warping interior. The last they hear from her before the passageway shuts is an overly triumphant ‘whoop.’ Steven can’t help but raise a scandalized brow at this. What, were the Gems hosting a betting pool about him and Connie, or something?

But thankfully, in time, the beach house grows peaceful again. They’re alone together, and together they’re content.

“Geeze, sorry about that,” he says bashfully, scratching at the nape of his neck. “You know how Amethyst is, heh heh.”

Connie smirks with loving, mischievous intent, comfortably cuddling up against his shoulder. “She’s kinda right, though...”

“About?”

“You can be pretty sappy sometimes,” she says fondly, and tilts her head so she can smooch his cheek. “Just one of the many reasons I love you.”

____

Notes:

So, given that I’ve also written a fic wherein Steven wakes up feeling a hand against his gem and has a panic attack, a word of explanation with my headcanons-

Ultimately, I imagine there’s a very stark difference between a trusted individual like Connie touching his gem when he’s fully alert and it’s just them, alone, safe... and him waking up and being groggy enough to not immediately realize who it is next to him.

In the end though, I just hope Steven would be able to reclaim a once-terrifying experience (someone else touching his gem) as something that is also able to be loving and comforting when it’s done with consent.

[hellowkatey]

Febuwhump day 3

Prompt: imprisonment

Warnings: medical trauma

read on AO3!

A Long Way Down

Bright lights pass in quick variables, and it takes Obi-Wan a moment longer than it should to realize he's lying on a stretcher, oxygen mask strapped to his face and wires and cuffs on every available piece of skin. He groans, catching the attention of Commander Cody who is running beside the stretcher.

"Not to worry, General, we are almost at the med bay."

That is exactly why I am worried.

He reaches up slowly to pull the mask off his face as the stretcher slows, looking up at his Marshall Commander. "Cody... what happened?"

"An explosion, sir. Tunnel collapsed," he pauses. Cody already knows his follow up question. "The men are okay. You... Force-pushed them out of the way."

Well, that explains why my body feels like it has been crushed under a ton of rocks... supposedly it has. 

Obi-Wan has no memory of this, but from the grim looks on the faces of all the troopers surrounding him he suspects he 1. doesn't look good and 2. is as bad as he looks.

"How bad?" he asks as they guide the stretcher into the med bay and stop it next to a bed.

Cody looks at Helix, the medical clone who seems to be trying hard not to make eye contact with him. With the penetrating stare of both his Commander and General, Helix finally looks up from the datapad.

"We're gonna have to dunk you, General."

He blinks, letting the words slowly settle into his discombobulated brain. Usually, he would protest. Make a fuss about being fine, because usually, he is, and medical can put their resources elsewhere. Usually, they would lock the doors as soon as he enters-- he glances over and yes, they did. What am I going to do, run? Obi-Wan is fairly sure both of his legs are crushed judging from the odd angles they are at, so he isn't sure how they expect him to make a break for it.

But today, Obi-Wan just lets his head fall back and he stares at the ceiling. He cannot protest because the tightness in his throat won't let him. He's afraid to open his mouth again because if he does his words will turn into sobs and his men do not deserve to see their General cry.

He can feel Cody and Helix's surprise. He doesn't have to look at them to know they are now even more concerned for him now that he hasn't tried to raise hell about being taken to medical. But they also seem to be relieved, so at least he can give them that respite.

He stares at the ceiling as movement begins to happen around him. Medical troopers pulling at the needles and sensors, inserting new ones. It all fades into a blur of hands touching him gently but firmly, frequent pinches and jolts of sharp pain, and the cool stickiness of applicators against his skin. Obi-Wan just stares at the ceiling.

He is fairly convinced that every medical facility has the same designer. Even the Jedi Halls of Healing have walls that are stark white. Sterile white. So bright they rival the glow of the iridescent lights, which is a design flaw in his opinion. Obi-Wan has spent a lot of time seeing these ceilings-- but not because he has spent a lot of time in medical. There is a reason he doesn't like to end up in the med bay, and the reason haunts him every time there is even a prospect of him having to go to see a healer.

Seven-year-old Obi-Wan Kenobi had feet too big for his body. It's like he began to hit a spurt, but only his feet realized that growth was the plan and the rest of his body was still figuring out how to stretch his small stature a few inches taller. It gave him the unfortunate nickname of Oafy-Wan, coined by his age-mates who he didn't exactly consider his friends. His clumsiness wasn't horrible, but it was distinctive enough to cause him a bit of trouble when practicing lightsaber katas and doing his physical activity tests.

On this particular day, seven-year-old Obi-Wan Kenobi had already had a very bad day. He fell in the middle of a practice spar in front of everyone. He wasn't even doing an acrobatic move or anything, he just fell over his own feet. The roar of “Oafy-Wan” was the only thing he could hear as he stared at the floor in shock of how quickly everything had transpired. Despite Bant's sympathetic reassurance and his other friends trying to overpower the chant, he spent the rest of the lesson trying to make himself as small as possible.

His pouting continued through the day, even to their long-awaited field trip to the Senate Rotunda. He walked with his creche mates, tuning out of their excited conversation of seeing the massive Galactic Senate chambers and instead focusing on the speeders rushing past just meters away from them. He wished to just jump into one and speed away from it all. Despite his prior excitement for this journey out of the Temple, he now wants nothing more than to go back to his dorm and curl up in his bed.

"Don't trip, Oafy-Wan," a familiar snide voice rings in his ear. He turns to see Bruck Chun, one of his age-mates that often leads the cause against him, sneering at him. "It's a long way down."

They're walking along a more narrow section of the street. Just a few meters to the left there is a deep chasm that goes into the lower depths of Coruscant. So deep he cannot see the bottom.

Obi-Wan brushes him away, in no mood to deal with him. "Get lost, Bruck." His arm presses into Bruck's side, pushing him away, which is not to the pleasure of his age-mate. Bruck's eyes narrow, and he jabs his elbow into Obi-Wan's back.

"Don't push me."

Anger surges in Obi-Wan's chest as he staggers forward. He whirls around and uses both hands to push Bruck into the wall of the building they are passing. A few initiates have stopped now to watch them, but as they stand at the back of the group the mass have not noticed their tussle.

"Funny, it seems I'm doing just that."

Bruck runs at him this time, his anger potent in the Force, and Obi-Wan suddenly has the clarity that maybe this isn't a good idea. He jumps out of the way of Bruck's charge, vaguely aware he is standing at the edge of the street now. Bruck skids to a stop.

"Coward," he spits, just as the Master leading their field trip calls for them to stop lagging.

Obi-Wan avoids Bruck's gaze as he passes by him, pointedly smacking his shoulder into his. Obi-Wan sighs, and turns to join the group.

As he turns, he finds himself suddenly caught in the air stream of a speeder that is too close to the sidewalk. He feels his small body lifted off the ground, and he flails in fear at the lack of anything for him to grab onto. A chorus of yelling erupts, most of them either calling his name or Master Vant. Obi-Wan can see the ground, and he tries to position his feet to land there, but another passing speeder sends him into a tailspin.

And Obi-Wan falls.

Even years later as a Jedi Master, Obi-Wan remembers falling down that speeder shaft. When he thinks about it he can hear the screams of his friends as they watched him fall. He can see them peering over the side. Master Vant running up and raising her hand to reach for him in the Force.

Had she reached him a moment earlier she probably could have saved him. But his downward momentum was suddenly ceased as he crashed against a speeder before she had the chance to cushion his descent. And he was met with horrendous pain and the taste of blood. Much like how he feels laying in the med bay now. Everything afterward was a blur.

"Are you ready, General?" Helix asks. Obi-Wan looks past him to see the bacta tank is all set up. Obi-Wan swallows hard, and he says nothing, but Helix takes that as a yes. His stretcher starts to float toward the tank, and he squeezes his eyes shut as the horrible memories come rushing back.

Choking. Obi-Wan expected to wake up in a reality beyond life-- he truly believed he would be returned to the Force, but instead, he woke up choking. He started to panic before he opened his eyes, and when he finally tried to find the reason for his restrictive breathing the initiate realized he can't see either.

He tries to thrash around, but his movements seem to be restricted somehow. Like he is tied up, but he can't feel bounds. His body just isn’t listening to him, which is even more terrifying. He tries to blink through the thick goo that seems to be covering his eyes, but it won't clear. It burns instead. He's trapped in a senseless prison, and he lets his panic radiate outward into the Force. He needs someone to hear him. Find him. Anything.

The Force responds with a collective feeling of shock. He repeats his plea for freedom, and finally, he hears something. Distant talking. Yelling, actually. Frantic. There is the deafening sound of suction, and then Obi-Wan is falling again. Slower than before but in his mind's eye he sees his friends staring down at him. Laughing at him. Oafy-Wan! They cackle. It's a long way down.

He hits the floor. The gel material that once encased him sloshes everywhere. His body curls into a ball and he feels many pairs of hands grabbing him and positioning him onto his back despite his protests. The touches are not comforting. Their goal seems to be to push him right back into the place he just escaped, and he begins to sob in terror. The voices are blending together as his vision begins to tunnel again.

"...sedative wasn't enough."

"How did he wake..."

"Get him back under!"

It was explained to him by one healer that his IV fell out of his arm. Another told him that the dosage was too light. A third said the adrenaline caused his metabolism to spike, making the correct dosage go quicker. Obi-Wan isn't sure why he woke up while in the bacta tank that day, but he suspects knowing the reason wouldn't have changed the panic he feels every time he has to take a dunk.

Obi-Wan grabs Helix's arm as he is about to inject his IV. The medic freezes and looks down at him.

"You have my correct doses from the Temple, correct? For the general anesthetic?"

Helix blinks before nodding. "Of course, General."

"And you know Jedi tend to metabolize quicker as well? You will have someone monitoring my consciousness?"

"Yes sir, we have detailed training from your healers on Jedi care. We will ensure you receive the right dose and don't get too much anesthetic."

He nods with wide eyes. His medic is slightly off in the reason for his inquiries, but it is comforting enough.

Even so, as the drugs begin to take him under he can't help but feel like he is seven again. Faded conversations of the medical troopers become the hushed words between Jedi Healers. The same fear of waking up within the tank again grips him with an iron fist around his already-intubated throat.

Never again could he look at a bacta tank and see it as an innovative medical advance. To Obi-Wan, it is a torturous prison that causes his fear to shamefully make an appearance.

He is positioned into the tank. The transperisteel doors close around him, and already he can feel his heart rate elevating. Why am I not asleep yet? Why am I still awake for this? Am I to do this conscious?

The bacta starts to fill at his feet slowly. He feels the urge to lift his legs and climb away from the rising gel, but his body has already separated from his mind. He cannot slam his fists against the doors and beg to be let free. Cannot scream with the tube down his throat.

As the bacta reaches his knees, he finally feels the heaviness reach his eyes, and Obi-Wan says a last plea to the Force to let him stay asleep for the entirety of his imprisonment.

[thebibliomancer]

Essential Avengers: West Coast Avengers #3: Taking Care of BUSINESS!

November, 1984

This is a sad day for the fledgling West Coast Avengers. It’s a cool cover for the fledgling West Coast Avengers but a sad day.

Not only are they falling before Graviton but they’re falling perpetually.

Anyway, last time in West Coast Avengers: Hawkeye and Mockingbird were sent by the Vision to create a west coast branch of the Avengers. Since Wonder Man, Tigra, and Rhodey Iron Man were California based, they got the nod to be the West Coast Avengers, despite reluctance from Tigra and Iron Man.

Their first case was mistaking as a supervillain and beating up a friend of Tigra who had followed her to the Avengers Compound to make sure she wasn’t in trouble. So. That’s not great. Next, the West Coast Avengers tried to chase down a bank robber named the Blank. This is really overkill for a guy whose only power is wearing a slippery anonymizing force field but he manages to get away anyway. The charger for his force field also dunks Graviton back into the world.

And as you can see on the cover, this isn’t ideal for our West Coast Avengers.

But before that, there was an event that sort of happened between issues. In Avengers #249, Vision tried to contact the West Coast Avengers but only got their answering machine. And that’s because they were dealing with the local worldwide unseasonable winter.

If Avenging and stunt work doesn’t work out for Wonder Man, he should consider becoming the new Mr. Plow.

Anyway, the forever winter is over, thanks to the Casket of Eternal Winters being reassembled and shut over in the Thor book as part of a multi-pronged plan to take down Surtur.

The West Coast Avengers are still dealing with the remaining snow because its not like snow just evaporates! Without turning into water first! Look, it would take too much time, people have places to drive, or something.

The combination of snow everywhere but normal warm South California weather leads to some people taking advantage by going swimsuit skiing, mostly so Rhodey can wryly think that weird is a way of life for Californians as an excuse to not worry about why Wonder Man has been acting weird lately.

Uh, good rationalizing, Rhodey?

Some people who don’t care for skiing decide to instead rob Radio Shack because NOBODY WILL EVER KNOW!

But Mockingbird shows up and starts beating them up when they make the mistake of believing that they outnumber her. They are mathematically right and wrong in every other way.

Hawkeye also shows up to pin some others to the wall with arrows so one of the Radio Shack robbers runs to the getaway car and tries to get the getaway driver to help him getaway.

But cat’s got their car.

It sort of makes sense why Tigra has decided on this for her winter outfit and yet I’m still baffled.

If it had just been the boots, that’d be one thing.

She’s also the only one who has made a winter weather change to her outfit.

Bafflement.

The blond robber doesn’t even try running, saying “What’s the use? Just take me away. I wanna serve my time and forget this ever happened!”

Bad day when some electronics theft gets an entire superhero team on you.

By midday, the West Coast Avengers meet by the Hollywood sign (so that the audience knows that this is set in LA). At this point all of the snow is gone, as if it’s been whisked away. So I guess I was wrong. Earlier the casket hadn’t been repaired but now it has been.

Hawkeye: “Well, whatever happened to [the snow], you can all be proud of the job you did over the past week! You put in a lot of long hours and saved thousands of lives! I’d say we’ve all earned a little time to unwind! That’s why I propose we hold the first annual Avengers barbeque... commencing tonight at sunset, back at the compound!”

Oh ho, I see that Hawkeye is going to be the fun Avengers chairman. Don’t see Vision organizing a barbeque.

The rest of the team is pretty excited about this... except for Wonder Man, who is distracted, answers without any real enthusiasm, and then takes off.

Hawkeye wonders if he’s still upset about the Blank getting away but c’mon that was weeks ago! Surely no superhero ever obsesses over anything!

When the Avengers disperse, Tigra lies that Iron Man promised her a lift as an excuse to talk to him in private about Wonder Man.

Tigra: “Something’s bothering him, and I thought maybe you could get him to talk about it! After all, you’ve known him longer than the rest of us!”

Iron Man: “Uh... not really, Tigra! I hardly know the man!”

Tigra: “What are you talking about, Tony? You fought alongside him dozens of times!”

Iron Man: “Tony -- ?! Ohhh... you think I’m Tony Stark!”

Womp womp.

This is one of the exact things Rhodey was worried would happen if he joined a team with a bunch of people who knew Tony/Iron Man!

Rhodey isn’t about to just reveal his name to her over a case of mistaken identity but he does prove to a doubtful Tigra that he’s not Tony by showing Tigra the skin on his hand.

Iron Rhodey also suggests that Tigra talk to him for reasons of it’s always flattering when a pretty cat girl pays attention to you?

I mean, sure. Yeah. True.

Tigra is also the only person on the team who actually realized Wonder Man was bummed who didn’t immediately dismiss the idea.

I guess its up to you, Tigra.

Meanwhile, in the Santa Monica Mountains, our coverboy Graviton.

He didn’t sit idle during the big snow, oh no! He took over an estate. And then sat idle!

Dammit, it was cold out!

Graviton: I prefer starting my empire in a warmer climate!

With the snow cleared up though, he can get down to business........ of recapping his recent travails.

So, Graviton.

He comes from Canada because Marvel Canada is just like that. He was a researcher in Research City, working on a teleport beam, and accidentally gave himself gravity powers by increasing the power to see what would happen. People at the lab didn’t like him because he kept throwing stuff at them so he took over.

Then he fought the Avengers. He kicked their asses. But the woman he was trying to force to date him threw herself off his floating city rather than date him (its cool, Jarvis saved her) so Graviton accidentally compressed his floating city into a super dense sphere with him as the nougaty center.

He managed to get out of that sphere, but with AMENSIA, and tried to kidnap that female scientist again but was stopped by the Thing and Black Bolt. So Graviton imploded.

He showed up AGAIN and tried to kidnap an entire Bloomingdale’s and was stopped by Thor, who dunked him into an interdimensional void.

Now here’s where it gets slightly weird.

The Beyonder’s construct passing through the void on its way to Secret Wars woke Graviton up and let him find his way back to Earth by homing in on the energy field of the force field the Blank uses.

I don’t know why that specific energy field. We may never know. The scientist who made it walked into the street without looking both ways and got run over.

Graviton is actually fairly pleased about winding up in “this most hedonistic of world cities!” He’s decided he’s all about creature comforts now.

The Blank returns from delivering message for Graviton.

Graviton gets annoyed that the guy is nervous despite having a cool dude who never fails like Graviton as a new boss and takes REAL exception when the Blank points out that the Avengers have beaten him before.

As well he should! Because technically its not true. If you’ll recall my recap, the Avengers didn’t beat him. He imploded. And then when he reappeared to fight the Thing and Black Bolt and imploded again. Now Thor, solo, managed to beat him where Thor, plus Avengers, couldn’t. Don’t ask why. That’s just a rule of comics. Daredevil beat Ultron once.

Among other ways he shows the Blank what’s what, Graviton demonstrates his force field belt ain’t so slick by switching it off through the field. Which, yes, technically gravity could work that way?

Meanwhile, over on ye private Avengers beach because if you’re going to have a sprawling compound, why not get a beach while you’re at it? Tigra interrupts Wonder Man pacing on the private Avengers beach and offers to tell her DEEP DARK SECRETS if he shares his.

Wonder Man: “There’s not much to tell... mostly, I’ve been wondering if I did the right thing in joining Hawkeye’s New Avengers team. I sometimes wonder if I ever did anything right, where the Avengers are concerned.”

He recaps his ENTIRE LIFE STORY to her, as is the style. Got powers from some Avengers enemies, turned against them, died. Came back to life, uneasy as a superhero, quit to become an actor.

He leaves out the part where he embezzled from his own company and was arrested, the part where he was a competitor to Tony Stark, and retcons in that he’s always loved acting. Rather than seeing one (1) movie and deciding he wants to be an actor now.

Apparently, Hercules’ offer to set Wonder Man up with some sweet Hollywood contacts didn’t pan out.

Then Simon worked as hired muscle for some scientific research groups but decides not to go into that.

There’s no ‘see such and such issue of book’ so I can’t tell whether this is a thing that was published or is a noodle incident.

Then a former agent got Simon that gig on the David Letterman show. Remember that one? David Letterman knocked out the villain with a big door knob? It probably made more sense at the time?

Anyway, although the show got pre-empted for a news report in New York, it did air in Cali-for-ni-a and a director reached out to Simon with stuntman work.

And its not the acting he wanted to do but it is acting and being good at it has done wonders, man, for his confidence. Which is why he jumped at Hawkeye’s offer to join the west coast team.

But then he let the Blank escape and now he’s back to feeling out of place on a cool superhero team.

So now that he shared his not so deep, not so dark, secrets, Tigra shares hers.

She knows what he means when he says he feels like a blunderer. Her stint on the New York Avengers team was a disaster (although she managed to get Molecule Man to go to therapy! By calling him a big loser! That’s something!). And she feels like most of her life is just things happening at her without her ever really feeling in control.

She also demonstrates that she can use that little tiger amulet (a gift from the cat people that turned her into Tigra) to look like her old self but she’s more comfortable as Tigra.

Hm.

That’s two whole characters who can technically transform but prefer to stay ‘powered up’ at all times. Tigra and She-Hulk.

It’s almost a pattern.

Anyway, Wonder Man and Tigra both try to be the insecure one on the team complimenting each other and deprecating themselves but Tigra decides fine. Wonder Man is hung up on losing the Blank? They’re going to track down a goddamn the Blank.

SHE MOONLIT AS A PRIVATE DETECTIVE SHE HAS A TRENCHCOAT SHE CAN DO THIS!

Tigra: “All right, Mr. Wonderful, come on!”

Wonder Man: “Where are we going?”

Tigra: “To see a man about filling in the Blank!”

Damn, good turn of phrase. You really do have this private eye patter down, huh?

She takes Simon to the Cat’s Jazz Club, Shroud’s hangout, to see if he has a lead on the Blank but they find the joint has been busted up.

The club employees are reluctant to talk at first but the Shroud shows up and tells them its cool, the Avengers are his friends. Also: he would like to know himself.

Club employee Mouse says that the Galeno Gang hit the club but they had a message that they were under new managment and that anyone that wanted to do crime business in town had to do it with said management.

So they hit the Cat’s Jazz Club because Shroud is pretending to be a crimelord to infiltrate all the crime.

So far, its working out really well for you, huh?

Anyway, Shroud says it’ll be easy to track down the Galeno Gang and find out who the new boss is but Wonder Man insists that he tag along to help. Call it payback for cracking Shroud’s ribs in issue #1.

Shroud doesn’t want all the crime to think he associates with the Avengers but Wonder Man has a STUPENDOUS IDEA!

So at the former home of Lucky Max Galeno, where some people are getting down and maybe even boogieing, the Shroud’s black fog fills the room and out strolls Shroud and Definitely Not Simon Williams.

He used his extensive acting experience to put on a wig and a jacket, that wily Wonder Man!

(Also Tigra is hanging upside down outside the window so its a good thing that Shroud and NotSimon are drawing all the attention)

Simon hoists one of the Galeno Boys and tells him they want to see the boss so the Blank comes out from the back room.

Its a testament to Simon’s INCREDIBLE ACTING TALENT that “he doesn’t look any more surprised than the rest of the crowd” according to Tigra.

The Blank justifies having the Shroud’s people beaten by saying that he had to establish credentials to consolidate all of the West Coast mobs so Shroud tells Simon to rough him up.

I like Simon’s like BOING here.

‘Sick ‘im!’ BOING, hah.

Also, the Blank has been smoking on and off throughout this whole issue but like. How does the force field work if he can just stick things into it? I mean, obviously, its permeable to air since he can breathe and... oh I think I just explained it. Dammit.

The boing stalls out midair leaving Simon hanging there.

Obviously its Graviton. No surprise to the audience. But very alarming to the characters who must think the Blank suddenly has more powers.

Off-panel Graviton hits Shroud with Wonder Man, knocking off the wig which wasn’t even secured in place. Dammit Simon, I thought you were an actor!

The Blank recognizes him as Wonder Man so the cat out of the bag, Tigra jumps through the window and onto the Blank’s back.

Graviton finally shows himself, exasperated with how much hand-holding the Blank needs to do basic things like fight several surprise superheroes.

Wonder Man: “Tigra! Get back! That’s Graviton! He’s one of the most dangerous men the Avengers ever fought!”

Graviton: “Nice of you to acknowledge that, Wonder Man!”

See, all he wanted was some acknowledgement. And to crush Wonder Man under a localized gravity field.

The Shroud tries to obscure the room under the idea that Graviton can’t fight what he can’t see. But the guy just grabs everything in the room and spins it around.

Then he pins Tigra, Shroud, and the Blank to the wall. The Blank because he managed to get captured off-panel.

Wonder Man KRUNKs up from the floor and tries to grab Graviton, alarming him that Wonder Man is fighting through the effects of so much gravity, having to block him with a “column of gravitic energy.”

The Blank complains about being stuck to the wall when he’s supposed to be Graviton’s partner.

Graviton: “Wrong, Blank! Very wrong! At beast, you were a go-between, a figurehead in my plans to organize California’s criminal element!”

The Blank: “D-did you say... ‘were?’"

And then he yeets Blank, Tigra, and Shroud out the window and into the ocean.

That certainly is a way to deal with some party crashers.

Meanwhile, the barbecue is going on without Tigra and Wonder Man.

Imagine being dunked into the ocean instead of eating Hawkeye’s steaks.

Hmm. I like that apron but I can’t help but feel that a modern comic would have a hilarious apron extremely specific to Hawkeye. Something in the genre of Quentin Quire’s shirts.

I also like Rhodey realizing that he’s not going to be able to eat any of this barbecue through his mask and deliberating revealing his identity to his teammates SPECIFICALLY to eat a steak.

Priorities.

Mockingbird points out that Tigra and Wonder Man are late and she can’t reach them on the radio but Hawkeye dismisses her concerns since they’re both so capable.

Meanwhile, Graviton dunks Wonder Man into the pool and holds him underwater so he can watch him slowly drown.

He’s also acquired some sexy swimsuit ladies from somewhere. This is LA so I guess they just spontaneously generated.

How will our heroes get out of their various water-based predicaments??

I assume swimming will be involved.

Next issue is last issue of the limited series and for the West Coast Avengers for a while.

And since the West Coast Avengers show up in Avengers #250 with the limited series wrapped up, expect me to schedule posting the posts in that way too.

Follow @essential-avengers​ because I know the recipe to Hawkeye’s secret steak recipe and I’ll tell you if you follow. Here’s a hint: take meat, set it on fire for a while. Also like and reblog and I’ll tell you how many potatoes Captain America’s potato salad contains.

[amelialincoln]

Can you do a part 2 of your latest fic but they decide to have the baby and maybe a little of Amelia’s pregnancy during the pandemic? Like a time jump idk.

You and I Amelia stepped into the scrub room and peeled off her protective equipment. The inside of the hazmat suit was lined with condensation and she felt sweaty and gross. The hot flashes, her newest pregnancy symptom, were not helping. She washed her hands, enjoying the rare moment of peace and quiet though she wasn’t complaining. Most of her co-workers, even the ones that were chief of their department, had barely seen the inside of the OR in months. However, the extra layers in the midsummer Seattle heat were almost unbearable and in a stuffy operating room, it became a little too much. Link burst through the door as Amelia was drying her hands.

“Hey, how did it go? Did you have lunch? Are you feeling okay today?” He was practically breathless. Amelia’s hand flew to her forehead as an overwhelmed feeling washed over her.

“Link, I’m fine.”

“Have you had your temperature taken? You look flushed.” Amelia wasn’t sure why the concern in his voice was pissing her off beyond belief.

“We get our temp taken before every shift and it’s like eighty six degrees today.”

Link nodded, pulling her into a sticky, relieved hug. “You gonna take a couple hours off? Might be good to get a nap in.”

“No, I have patients to check in on.” She tried to keep herself calm. Link had been almost unbearable lately. Of course it was Amelia who’d end up pregnant in the midst of a global pandemic and she was stressed enough as it was. Link’s constant concern wasn’t helping anyone. She grabbed a new mask and secured it around her face.

“Let’s just get you something from the cafeteria.” He tried to pull her in that direction.

“Link!” Amelia had lost her temper. “I have about a million things that are more important than getting a stupid snack from the cafeteria!”

“I just find it funny how you seem to put everyone’s health over your own!” They were yelling now. The exhaustion was wearing down on the overworked couple and Amelia rubbed her temple to soothe an oncoming headache.

“Link, if I go get something to eat I’m just going to end up throwing it up anyways,” she tried to explain calmly. He raised an eyebrow at that.

“What have you eaten today?” He hadn’t been at the apartment that morning and was genuinely curious as to if Amelia would’ve eaten anything at all without him there to force her to. The look on her face told him everything. “Amelia!” She let out a groan of exasperation in response as she glanced around at the surrounding hospital staff that were starting to stare.

“I can’t be throwing up at work,” Amelia hissed. “I can’t risk taking my mask off around patients.”

“Well then maybe you shouldn’t be working at all!” This was brought up frequently in conversation between the two.

“This pregnancy could not even be viable. You honestly think I’m going to sit at home and put my health over hundreds for a baby that might not even make it into this world?” She knew she’d crossed the line when Link took a step back. Amelia hadn’t planned on getting pregnant again after the miscarriage. An anencephalic baby followed by a miscarriage had Amelia convinced that pregnancy was not for her. Apparently the universe had other plans. She was surprised by how hard Link had taken the accident. Not knowing that the sight of her curled up on the floor of their shower, her pants stained with blood, was forever ingrained in his mind. He scoffed at her before turning and walking away. She got a text from him a few minutes later that read, “I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt right now considering how pumped you are with hormones but I’m gonna try and give you some space and when you’re ready to act like an adult you can come find me.” She tried to ignore how much that stung.

On days like today Link enjoyed being an orthopedic surgeon more than anything. Owen raised his eyebrows as he watched the guy aggressively set another person’s bones into place. Link had never reminded Owen of the woman he’d taken the department over from until today. The man was obviously going through something and Owen couldn’t help but wonder if it had to do with Amelia. Suddenly, his eyes flew open and he raced over to a crouched Link.

“Hey, don’t you think you could do that in an OR?” He offered quickly. “With sedation?” Link glanced up at him blankly before seeming to snap into reality.

“Oh...yeah, probably.” He made eye contact with his patient. “I’ll see you later.” He motioned to Schmitt. “Can you prep him?” Before walking away and pushing into the first on call room he could find. He was surprised to find a familiar figure hunched over the side of a bunk bed, her hand cradling a non existent bump.

“You good?” He asked, his voice was stern. Amelia glanced up at him with teary eyes and Link melted. He couldn’t help but jump to the conclusion that it was happening again.

“Crampy,” she replied through gritted teeth. “It’s kind of all over so I can’t tell if it’s radiating from my stomach or not. All my muscles are tensing up.” “I’ll page Carina.”

Amelia winced as Link dug into her shoulder blade. Usually his back massages soothed her but this one was anything but comfortable.

“You’re severely dehydrated,” Carina stepped into the ultrasound room. “Even if you weren’t drinking enough and were just getting water from food, I don’t know how it could get this bad.” Amelia bit her lip and stared out the bright window.

“She hasn’t been eating.” Link shuddered as Amelia let out a tiny cry of pain and lessened the force of the massage. Carina raised an eyebrow.

“What do you mean?” 

“I can’t keep anything down.” Her voice was quiet. Link couldn’t bear the idea of Amelia blaming herself if anything ended up being wrong with the baby.

“Baby looks okay.” Carina watched both of the surgeons breathe a sigh of relief. “There must be something that you can keep down.”

“Everything I’ve tried hasn’t. I can’t be throwing up at work.” 

“Then you shouldn’t be working.” Carina said the words that Amelia was actively praying that she wouldn’t. “I’ve already expressed my thoughts about you putting yourself at risk by being at the hospital. Pregnant women have compromised immune systems to begin with. It is not a good idea.”

“It’s the only distraction I have,” Amelia’s voice was so quiet it was barely heard. Link sighed, wrapping his arms around Amelia’s shaky chest.

“Amelia, I know it’s early but we have no reason to believe that this pregnancy is compromised.” Carina told the neurosurgeon, who was failing to meet eye contact. “However, the only thing you’re doing by working is increasing you and the father of your baby’s stress level. Not to mention putting yourself at the risk of this virus.”

The ride back to their apartment was silent. Amelia unloaded the small amount of groceries that they’d picked up on their way home while Link drew Amelia’s almost daily bath. Once the kitchen was tidy, Amelia made her way into the bathroom. She glanced at her lower abdomen, Carina said she should start showing over the next couple of weeks. Amelia desperately wanted that to be true. She slipped into the warm, bubbly water and allowed herself to relax for the first time in weeks. She tried not to replay the image of Tom’s exhausted face as she regretfully handed him her iPad and filled him in on the cases he’d be taking over. Tom hadn’t complained but it’s not like he was given the choice. Link cautiously joined her after about a half hour. He dunked his head under the water that was beginning to cool and shook his hair dry. He placed both of his hands over her stomach and breathed deeply.

“I talked to Bailey. She’s given me time off until this goddamn virus is over or until we can figure out a way to do this safely.”

“Link, you shouldn’t--”

“Amelia.” He cut her off sternly. “We’re not having this conversation. If I were to work, I’d be living in a hotel. Do you want that?” Amelia shook her head, moving her hands to cover his. Link breathed in the smell of her freshly shampooed hair and allowed himself to relax.

“What are we going to do with all this extra time?” A cheeky grin spread across his face even though she couldn’t it.

“I have a couple ideas,” Amelia laughed, rolling her eyes.

“What would those be?” 

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You love me.”

“Too much,” she replied, shaking her head. Link chuckled, his hands leaving her non-existent bump and pulling her closely into him affectionately.

“This will be good, Mia,” he said, almost absentmindedly. “I know it doesn’t seem like it but everything happens for a reason.” Amelia nodded, not ready to accept that she could be out of the OR and away from all of their friends for months.

“I won’t blame you if you want to drink.” She startled him with the topic. “All I can think about is how nice it would be to turn off my mind with a bottle of wine right now.” Link shook his head.

“If you can refrain from watching that awful reality TV when I’m around, I can refrain from a can of beer.”

“We’re going to be spending a lot of time together--”

“Amelia,” Link interrupted her. “If it really meant that much to me then we could have this conversation. I honestly couldn’t care less.”

“Okay.” The bath had just cooled beyond a comfortable temperature. Link got out first, wrapping himself in a towel before holding one out for Amelia.

“I think we’re going to need a bigger tub once the baby gets here.” Amelia nodded in response, imagining the three of them crammed into the ceramic bathtub. “You hungry?”

“Not particularly but I don’t really feel nauseous.”

“So what's the most calorie dense meal possible?” Link chuckled. Amelia rolled her eyes, a small smile playing on her lips. As per usual she let Link tend to the cooking. She changed into sweatpants and a tank top and threw her curls into a bun. Her arms ached and she was surprised by how exhausted she was from just putting on clothing. She found Link hovered over the stove, pouring pasta into a pot of boiling water. She wrapped her arms around him from behind and allowed herself to relax into his sturdy frame.

“Hey.” He lowered the heat of the element and turned to cup her cheeks in his hands. “You look tired, babe.” Amelia yawned in response. 

“You making pasta?”

“I was thinking mac and cheese cause I remember you said something about craving it last week. I was going to bake it in the oven with the breadcrumbs, since you like that best, but I think you might pass out before it’ll be done.”  Amelia nodded, sheepishly. “Well, it’ll be good just on the stovetop too.”

“Thank you.” She bit her lip trying to refrain from breaking down out of exhaustion and guilt from how she’d been treating him. “I’m sorry about--”

“Don’t be,” he put firmly. “We’ve just had a lot of bad timing.” He turned back to stir the cheese sauce. “Doesn’t make me any less excited.” The image of Link holding a newborn baby flashed through Amelia’s head and she pushed it away.

“I’m trying so hard not to get my hopes up, Link.”

“Carina had doubts about the first one from the beginning,” he reminded her. “She prepared us for the worst.”

“Didn’t make it any less hard.”

“I know, but I trust her. There’s been no indication of anything being wrong.”

“I know.”

“And you’re twelve weeks tomorrow.”  

“I know.” Link grabbed a bowl from the cupboard and spooned the cheesy macaroni into it.

“Here,” he muttered, handing it to her before grabbing one for himself. “Water,” he reminded her as she began to walk towards the dining room table.

Amelia was surprised to keep the food down. “It’s definitely the cafeteria food that’s screwing me over,” she complained as her and Link walked into their bedroom.

“Baby already likes my cooking,” Link joked as he threw one of his oversized t-shirts at her to change into. Amelia slipped off her sweatpants and let out a little gasp.  

“You okay?” Link was immediately at her side. Amelia nodded, pointing at the mirror.

“I mean that could just be mac and cheese,” she laughed. Her hand went to her stomach, pressing the extremely tiny but firm bump over her uterus.

“Nah, your metabolism is out of this world,” Link chuckled. Amelia was surprised to find his eyes teary. “Sorry,” he looked away, rubbing his face with his hands. “Can I feel?”

“Sure.” She guided Link’s hand over her own and they both glanced at Amelia’s silhouette in the mirror.

“I’ve seen mac and cheese bloating before, this is definitely different.”

“Link,” Amelia shook her head with a smile. His hands were so gentle Amelia almost laughed, she knew that Link was about to treat her like a china glass doll for the remaining six months. She tried not to tease Link about how mezmorized he was by the situation as they both crawled into bed.

“You know it’s only going to get bigger,” Amelia sighed after an hour of being kept awake by Link’s refusal to take his hands off her stomach.

“That’s my baby,” Link pointed out.

“I’m aware, babe, and your baby’s mommy needs some sleep.” Link mumbled a disappointed apology in response, patting the place on his chest where she normally lay. 

“Goodnight babymommy.”

“No.” Amelia’s voice was firm, Link grinned.

[duxhess-kryzewan]

Your fics are so excellent. Perhaps, Satine is taking care of a sick/injured Obi-Wan and he is an exceptionally difficult patient?

- medicine -

It would be pointless to pretend like she has any real experience in the art of healing. Growing up in Nobility meant that she had as many healer and handmaids to her disposal as she could ever possibly need, but she was clever enough to pick up on a few tips and tricks throughout the years. She may have had a privileged upbringing, but that hadn’t meant she was handed everything without learning how to fend for herself. Her time on the run with her Jedi protectors had proved as much.

Sand fever was what one of the locals had called it. A common illness on Tattoine; with it’s never ending sand dunes and blistering heat. How neither of them had gotten sick before this is beyond her. They had certainly been there long enough.

The water she dunks the rag into is cool and refreshing and she knows it’ll bring him some relief when she presses it against his forehead. The fever had drained him of all the energy he had and she worries that it’s going to only get worse. It’s not quite the medical training she wishes she had, but she knows enough to be concerned about his rising temperature. 

“I’m fine.” He grumbles as she wrings out the excess water from the cloth.

Satine snorts, “Clearly.”

She drapes it over his forehead gently and runs her hands down the sides of his face. The stubble scratches her skin and it’s worries her when she feels just how warm he is.

“You’re overreacting.” He mumbles, attempting to reach his hand up and remove the rag only for her to intercept his motion. 

“You’re burning up,” She says gently, pushing his hand back down against the bed before smoothing his damp hair back, “You have sand fever. The last thing you need is to be moving around or, force forbid it, out in that heat. It’ll do you no good when you feel like this.”

“I feel fine, Satine.” He retorts. To prove his point, he tries his best to sit up in his bed, but his core muscles quickly give out and he collapses backwards with a grunt. The fever had all but sucked what energy he had left from him.

She presses her hand lightly against his chest, keeping him in place before he tries to sit up again, “Your fever hasn’t broken yet. You need to conserve what little energy your body has left to fight it off, or have you forgotten that you’re not as young as you once were?”

Even in the midst of his sickened haze he musters enough energy to glare at her, “Jedi don’t get sick.”

She lets out a dry laugh, more out of annoyance with him though she’s trying her best to remain calm despite how challenging he’s being, “Evidenlty they do. Please just rest for the remainder of the day. If you sleep some and then still insist you’re fine, then I’ll leave you alone to do as you please.”

It’s a bit manipulative on her part, but she decides its a sacrifice she’s going to have to make if it would get him to stop arguing with her.

“Fine.” He says, clearly defeated. How one man could be so stubborn, she’ll never know.

“Thank you, dear.”

There’s not much else she can but settle next to him, and within minutes his ragged breathing begins to even out as he slips into unconsciousness. Even with the space between them she can feel the heat radiating off his body and her heart breaks a little more with each passing moment. What else was there to do for him? She was no healer, and while she knew that he would be fine, the lingering fear that something irreversible would occur still lingers in the back of her mind. They had survived so much. The fall of Mandalore, Order 66, the rise of Vader, she never considered the possibility of something so mundane being their undoing. 

She pushes the thoughts away before they consume her completely. Obi-Wan was too stubborn to let a bit of sickness stop him.

Her eyes begin to feel heavy, and before she can completely fall asleep she places her hand on top of his, winding her fingers around his own and hopes that by the time he wakes his fever will have broken.

After all, Jedi’s never made good patients. 

[weeniewrites]

Lost Connections

Zombie Kenma x g/n reader part 2 

part 1

1.8k words

tw: animal death (kenma eats a rat), descriptions of a panic attack, gore, general unsanitary things

____________________________________

There’s so many things to ask him. How’d you get here? How’d you get hurt? Where’s Kuroo? But 

1. How would you even make that a yes or no question? and

2. Isn’t that rude? 

For now you’ll swallow the temptation, the ever present temptation, and pretend that those thoughts don’t exist. Continuing your antisocial rat shut in of a life with the addition of a much rattier appearing friend. Speaking of,

“Kenma, do you wanna clean up? There’s a river near here and it might feel better?”

His head lifts his from his staring contest with the floor, looking blankly at you.

“Right, too much at once. It’s hard to limit what you say when you’re not used to talking you know?” A head tilt

“Yeah I suppose I’m preaching to the choir. You can’t really talk anymore can you Kenma?” Unresponsive

....

Geez. Sometimes he really does feel like a corpse, he is one but, there’s those moments he’s more expressive. It feels like he’s actually understanding you. Right now you might as well be talking to the wall.

“You still there Kenma? Didn’t decide to actually kick the bucket this time?”

A nod

“Okay that settles it. We’re going out.” There’s no point in keeping him here, tied up like some animal if he gets nothing out of it, not because you haven’t cleaned up this space in a while and his general stench isn’t helping, but because he’s just, not moving as much and the silence without him shifting around is unsettling. How you’ve gotten so used to having another  occupant in your space so quickly is beyond you.

But how to go about this. There haven’t been any mishaps besides that initial misunderstanding with the shushing, and his discomfort with wearing a gag (assuming that's what that was?), how could you travel with him and stay safe despite his slower pace... hmm...

“Actually, wait here. I’ll be out for a bit, gotta check something.”

You grab your pack of essentials, paranoidly checking that the handle of your bat hasn’t started cracking or something since the last time you used it and wave him goodbye, leaving him alone for the first time.

GOD you reek! It made sense why you couldn’t clean off last time. Somehow you haven’t turned into a human zit despite the crusted blood from the last zombies you downed. You certainly don’t smell like you’re ready to entertain company, not that Kenma cares.

You’d fallen out of the habit of patrolling, realizing how fruitless it was when as a single person you could just hide, not needing constant supply runs like your previous group. But if you were going to take Kenma out you needed to make sure no undead would get in the way. Could another zombie make him more aggressive, like those ones in the hoards? Maybe they instinctively group up for strength. How does a virus give a corpse instincts anyway? You shake your head to get those unanswerable questions out of your head for the second time today.

    The towns dead silent, absolutely nothing creeping out on your usual path. The new found knowledge that they can indeed smell has planted a new worry that you’ll somehow draw them out just by existing. Your footsteps are quiet from ages of practice and the chatter of birds easily drowns you out. Your only company is the usual animals and the corpses you’ve already dispatched, decaying at an increased rate now that they’re finally gone for good. You... really need new pants. Kenma needs new clothes too with how torn up and gore covered his own are. You shiver. It’s hard to avoid thinking of how painful whatever happened to him must’ve been, whether in life or death.

    So new clothes. The houses along the street are fairly intact, only general wear from the elements affecting them. None of them look boarded up but that doesn’t mean someone couldn’t be inside. You can handle a couple undead, a living person would be a whole ‘nother ordeal. But it’s not exactly hard to pants a zombie. A squishy squishy ooze of a previous person covered in a buzzing layer of insects. You’ve got this. Risking an encounter alive or dead by breaking into  a house isn’t worth it. So just, pants. the zombie.

Considering you crushed the head, its bottoms are fairly clean. Please don't be commando, pleaaaase don’t be commando please- you squeeze your eyes shut, grab the ends of the pants legs and pull, removing it in one surprisingly smooth go. YES, it's wearing underwear! Nothing to see besides, oh god it shit itself, god thats, ew ew ew ew ew WHY DID YOU THINK THIS WAS A GOOD IDEA! Into the plastic bag it goes. Hightailing it to the river is sounding more appealing by the second

Stepping carefully around the edge to find a shallow slow moving area is easy enough, though the rocks crunching underfoot make you cringe. Kneeling at the side, you rinse your hands off before you even dare touch your bag to grab the soap. Geez it's a relief to start to feel clean. Have you been neglecting that? First the space you sleep, now your body, avoiding going out out of fear of the few undead you ever see. File that away for later, focus on the now. Around the nail beds, under the nails, stripping off a shirt, get the pits, dunk your hair in, carefully scrubbing where the crusted blood’s basically sealed to your skin. Pants, underwear, socks, walk in fully and try to focus. Can’t get lost in your thoughts with an overwhelming full body chill forcing you to stay in the here and now, fully aware of your body and where you are. A slower moving part of a river, in a nice forested area, in the middle of the day. Surrounded by birds' songs and squirrels running around you. Bugs skip along the water's surface and twigs and leaves rush past you in the faster paced sections.

After a few minutes spent standing there, steadily getting colder, you move on to washing everything you wore there as well as what you took from the zombie. The pants look like they’ll fit Kenma? The waist is a drawstring one at least. It's calm repetitive work. There’s satisfaction in allowing yourself to be outside, clean and present.

________________________________

    Your clothes are still wet as you make your way back but they’ll probably dry before you get home... probably. It’s been too long since you’ve seen Kenma and you’re getting antsy, both from nerves and curiosity if he’ll even be willing to change into new pants. At least you’d have a spare now.

    Creaking the door open, you’re about to announce your presence but pause at the sound of rapid shuffling and creaking metal. It’s so dark compared to outside that even with squinting it's hard to fully make out what's going on inside but his limbs are scrabbling, flailing in their attempts to pull him across the floor. The rope around his neck and chest is more taught than you ever hoped to see it. The pipe he’s tied to creaks under a surprising amount of strain. Throwing caution to the wind you rush in, able to more clearly make out the growling and huffing he makes in his efforts to, scratch that, success in catching a rat that was scurrying past him. His hand latches into the poor thing, nails biting into the flesh. Before you can even react it’s between his teeth, tearing in as it squeals, flails, attempts to scratch back as its last twitches of life leave. He’s ravenous, the one pupil blown out as gore coats his face from his small feast. And then, once every ounce of gamey meat is gone, he stills, not reacting to the blood dripping off his face and fingers or to you.

    Slow breathing. Slow steady breathing. You need to stay calm. Need to either run out of here or close the door before the smell of blood attracts something else. Slow breathing, steady breathing so he won’t hear. Stay. Absolutely. Calm. One step back. Two steps back. Three-

Kenma’s returned to staring at the floor, fingers tracing patterns in the places he’d scratched before.

Four? Your heart is pounding but this behavior, it's predictable, a little different, much different with the scent of blood in the air but its, he attacked a rat. He didn’t attack you but he could but he didn’t but he hasn't, not even while you’re asleep he hasn’t. He hasn’t tried to hurt you once just BREATH.

You don’t notice him staring at you as you slide to the floor and shudder and cry.

______________________________________

The sun has started setting by the time your panic attack reaches its end, the floor wet under your ass from your clothing. Shivering from the aftershocks of adrenaline as well as the cold you stumble up to slide the door closed. The air is crisp and almost fresh inside now. Too tired to berate yourself, you cross the room to your blanket pile across from Kenma, grab two, and pull it without the motivation to pick it up, instead letting it drag behind you.

    “Kenma” you croak “I’m about to do something really stupid, so don’t, don’t break my trust okay. You don’t want to hurt me?” He nods, no hesitation. “Then hold still.”

    The blankets are dropped a few feet away from him and you kneel at his side for the first time since tending to his wrist. Palms open, approaching slowly, your arms enter his reach to undo the first knot. The rope slides away from him easily and you shimmy if off just enough to dump it on the floor beside him.

    “I don’t know if you get cold I don’t, I don’t care just, here.” You present a blanket to him and want to cry all over again when he doesn’t react. Why would he. What part of him even remembers what it's for. Idiot. He twitches as you start to wrap it around him but otherwise obeys your request. Still. He’s staying still.

    His head tilts as you wrap yourself in a blanket too, plopping ungracefully to the floor next to his good side. Energy finally running out with no dinner to speak of, you lean on his shoulder and enter a restless sleep.

______________________

    It’s always hard to get motivated to get up. Nothing to look forward to. No change, just the dull monotony of survival, fear, and paranoia. Why get up. Why wake up at all? There’s a crick in your neck and you grumble at the pain as you shimmy a little closer to whatever your head is resting on, readjusting to be more comfortable. In your barely conscious state you can’t catch the way Kenma’s eyes move from the door to you, before continuing his stare down with the one entrance inside.

You fall back asleep easily, morning can wait until later.

_______________

Taglist: @beanst0ck (hi!!!)