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oneatlatime · 2 months

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The Painted Lady

Air Bison, Sea Bison, and now Sludge Bison.

I have no idea how Aang is swimming through a solid. Must be an Avatar thing.

I bet there would be time for more potty breaks if Sokka hadn't spent 100+ hours of their time drawing up the schedule. A very Sokka thing to do though.

Because hills often have horns. Great disguise.

You can't tell me that a factory that close to their town wouldn't also become the town's primary employer.

That is a lot of town.

I sense a return of preachy Katara. This episode is going to suck.

I'm with Sokka on this one. Buy fish, move on, defeat Firelord, return to help with environmental remediation if time permits.

I like Doc. And Shu. Nice people.

Writers: if you have to make one of your characters an entirely different person to set up the episode's lesson of the week, maybe the lesson doesn't fit your chosen characters. This is the Warriors of Kyoshi all over again. Funny how that's happened to Sokka twice.

We are all Sokka.

And where exactly did this mysterious painted lady get the food to deliver to the village, if the reason the Gaang stopped in the village in the first place was because they needed food?

Let the record show: I lost the last of my patience with this episode 8 minutes and 9 seconds in.

Waterbending healing has never thrown off that much light before. Even the spirit oasis water wasn't that bright.

Also where is the water she's healing with? Usually she has a big bubble of it.

Impersonating a religious figure. That won't end badly.

"Well I hope she returns every night otherwise this place would go right back to the way it was." YES!!!!!! THAT'S THE POINT!!!!!

What was Katara's plan? Forget about the eclipse, forget about fighting the Fire Lord, we're going to stay here for the rest of our lives so that the painted lady can put in a nightly appearance. THIS IS WHY SOKKA DOES THE PLANNING.

Spirit magic is more doing the worm than doing the wave. Good to know.

Bold of a kids' show to advocate for ecoterrorism.

Aang's like "Hey spirit lady! Here's my resume! Here's my connections on LinkedIn!" Why did Katara think that faking being a spirit within two feet of the bridge to the spirit world would be consequence free? Actually that presupposes that Katara thought. Which she didn't. Sokka does her thinking.

"I don't get to meet many spirits. But the ones I do meet, not very attractive." I am OFFENDED on Yue's behalf. And Sokka's. I guess Aang doesn't like Water Tribe girls after all.

"I guess I just became her." No. That's an excuse and a deflection. I don't want to hear it.

What was I saying about Aang and Katara enabling each others' bad tendencies?

Sokka is horribly out of character this episode, but Aang is as well. In what universe would Aang be so unbothered by Appa being sick, and then so unbothered by the reveal that Katara had been faking Appa being sick? Like, this is Appa. He nearly skinned a bunch of sandbenders over the guy. And he finds out Katara's been messing with him and calls her 'great' and 'a secret hero.'

So this factory, despite being operational 24/7, has no night staff, not even a night guard? Because if it does (which it absolutely does - automation is a problem for factories in our world, not the ATLA one), Katara and Aang just killed A LOT of people.

And so she follows up one short term solution with another short term solution, which causes a third problem she will no doubt solve with a short term solution. You think there won't be reprisals for the only obvious suspects to this industrial sabotage? You think they won't rebuild the factory?

Sokka was kidding when he said that the Spirit Lady had better blow up the factory, but not in the way Katara thought he was kidding. Katara thought he wasn't being serious. But Sokka was serious, in that blowing up the factory is as short term a solution as appearing every night. He thought the joke - exchanging one bad solution for another - was obvious.

Somebody's enjoying himself a little too much.

Unfortunately, serving as Exhibit A is the most Toph has had to do all episode.

It is cathartic to see someone finally call Katara on her nonsense. But I'll bet everything I own that the narrative is going to side with her anyway.

Welp. I won that bet.

"You need me." Correct! Katara unsupervised needs bailing out after five minutes. "And I will never turn my back on you." A much more realistic goal than never turning your back on anyone who needs you, and also Sokka summarised in one sentence. Impressive for an episode where they had to Flanderise him beyond recognition to make Katara somehow the good guy.

Oh for fuck's sake. It's not about having a heart. This late in the game it's pure damage control.

So that's where the Painted Lady's food came from. I guess Fire Nation factories count as pirates?

I like the jetskis. The seem far more stable than actual jetskis.

It never occurred to Katara to obscure the evidence even a little bit? At least rub some dirt on the emblem. Look at me assuming Katara has thoughts.

Actual reprisals for once. About time.

This kid is annoying.

Toph gets to be a haunted house sound effects machine.

That's awfully waterbendery for a Fire Nation spirit.

I don't buy for a minute that anyone would be able to stay perfectly upright and balanced after an air blast from below without extensive trampoline training.

This won't work. His superiors, or the next shift change, or the first recruit wanting to climb the ranks quickly, will rise to the challenge presented here by the "painted lady." And as soon as one FN attack goes unchallenged by the "painted lady," the village is toast. I give them a week, tops.

Kudos to some clever in-universe bending special effects. Doesn't save the episode though.

Katara's preachy speech here makes absolutely no sense in light of the rest of the episode. Scolding them for not saving themselves, when waiting around for someone to save them appears to have worked perfectly? And having little miss I-must-save-the-whole-world-on-a-weekly-basis-otherwise-my-sense-of-self-implodes deliver that scold?

Who are these people wearing the Gaang's skin?

Yeah, nothing screams undercover in enemy territory like an entire village knowing that you're a waterbender. Good thing the only competent tracker in the Fire Nation is Zuko, otherwise these kids will absolutely be dead long before the eclipse.

Hi Bushi! You're about the only part of this episode that doesn't drive me nuts!

At least the animators had fun with this one.

Is this guy mopping the river?

Exactly how many days did they take out of Sokka's schedule to restore the ecosystem? I don't care how overlevelled these kids are at bending, you cannot mechanically separate an entire river's worth of dirt from water in an afternoon.

Well that's just he piss icing on the shit cake, isn't it? It wasn't enough for Sokka to lose all reason and come around to Katara's very flawed way of thinking, it wasn't enough for Aang to call her a hero, it wasn't enough to have a village worshipping at her feet, Katara needs affirmations of how right and special and correct and perfect and morally justified she is from the spirit world itself. This is Mary Sue stuff.

Final Thoughts

This is the first time an episode of Avatar has felt like a waste of my time.

It's also the first time I've felt like an episode has gone out of its way to insult the audience.

Katara talking about how she knows what she's doing is wrong is worth absolutely nothing when a) she goes right back to doing it; and b) literally every other part of this episode trips over itself to assure Katara that she's in the right.

Katara is downright punchable this episode. Sokka is Flanderised; Toph is non-existent; Aang is just there; poor Appa is an unwitting accessory to crime; and Momo has as much impact as a housefly.

So the execs forgot about the existence of The Spirit World Part One and demanded a save the environment special episode. The writers responded by forgetting that they'd already established that Katara was ride or die for literally anyone with a pulse in Imprisoned, and gave us this to remind us of that fact. They also forgot that they'd already established that Katara has no moral code whatsoever the minute her personal interest is involved in The Waterbending Scroll, so they decided to recycle the "narrative sides with Katara endangering them all over Sokka being reasonable" plot from that episode and hope we wouldn't notice. We did.

At least with Imprisoned, Katara kind of sort of caused the problem that she fixed. She was super tangentially involved in that kid's arrest. Here, she causes problems by trying to fix problems that she didn't really have any business getting involved in.

The more of this I watched, the more I wanted someone to slap Katara. What I wouldn't give for an episode where she is wrong (has happened a lot) and the episode doesn't pretend otherwise (has never happened). For god's sake, LET HER BE WRONG AND FEEL IT. How else is she going to progress past being self-righteously fourteen? Why is she being so consistently insulated from consequences? Aang chooses power over family at the end of season two and gets actually murdered for it. Katara steals, lies, skirts dangerously close to being a false prophet and does a nifty little ecoterrorism (with Aang's help), and she gets villagers being a bit shouty before big brother comes in and fixes it. Then she gets divine sanction for her actions so even the shouty bit is negated.

There's an interesting contrast in Katara's "I will never turn my back on people who need me" and Sokka's "I will never turn my back on you." It shows which of the two doesn't have their head in the clouds, and has actually formulated realistic expectations of how much a single person can do. It also speaks to the fundamental difference in how they operate. Katara acts; Sokka mitigates. Sokka does Katara's thinking for her; Katara outsources her thinking and then gets pissed when rational thoughts don't conform to her emotions' view of the world.

Why haven't the villagers moved away? If the water was poisoning them this much, why are they still here? Was the early 2000s too early to have a theme of climate refugees? Or the pollution equivalent? That would have been more interesting than this.

I hated this. Why isn't this the episode that gets hated on like the Great Divide? Its sins are nothing compared to this.

Doc, Shu, and Bushi were the only good thing in this episode, but they weren't enough to make this one remotely rewatchable.

One out of Three so far on season three episode quality. No other season has had this bad a ratio this early. This does not bode well for the rest of this season.

#atla #avatar: the last airbender #avatar the last airbender #the painted lady

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starrixle · 4 months

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simpbur headcanon dump ♡

a bunch of random headcanons for simpbur that i thought of !! (all under the cut because there is a lot...)

his birthday is december 11 and his height is 5'4 (this is actually canon but im including it anyways)

he goes by he/they/she (in order of preference). he's genderfluid, but more masc aligned. he is also bisexual and horribly closeted (the closet is as clear as glass)

he is neurodivergent, he also suffers from lots of anxiety. he is very anti-social

he and liliana (the e-girl) were both just not great for each other. it was not just simp being toxic to the e girl, but she was toxic to him as well to a certain extent. she isnt a bad person, and neither was simpbur, they were just a pair that wouldnt work out

part of the reason why simpbur is so insecure abt himself is bc liliana tends to be a judgemental person. she has standards that simp didnt meet, and that made him go into the mindset of changing himself to suit what she liked. however, this failed and they ended up breaking things off instead

his breakup with liliana destroyed simpbur's mental health, especially with him being a very fragile person to begin with. this is where his obsession began due to still having a very strong attachment with what he once had with her, along with having extreme jealousy over the thought of her being successful in life with someone other than him

his favorite vape flavor is bubblegum. he would smoke cigarettes, but he doesn't like the smell, and he just prefers vapes

he is horrible with being responsible with his money. even though he struggles to pay rent and works a minimum wage job, he usually spends his money on games and anime stuff

types with stuff like uwu, owo, :3, :<, XD, ^_^, (*≧з≦), etc.

used to live with his mom, but now he lives in a tiny apartment on his own. it's not very well kept or clean, and he often just throws his junk around everywhere since he never has the energy to clean the place up. the only place he bothers (kinda) decorating is his bedroom

cries over small things easily, like when he gets a paper cut, stubs his toe, when his food order is wrong, etc.

can't handle spicy foods whatsoever

he has a shoe box full of random stuff he stole from liliana, such as pens she used, her clothes, trash, hair, etc.

kicks ass at competitive games, such as first person shooter games. he is a chronically online gamer and he lowkey acts toxic sometimes while gaming

he sometimes just goes "gg :3" in the chat whenever he manages to dominate the game. he doesnt like using vc bc he doesnt really like his voice, so he usually sticks to typing, esp bc hes a pretty fast typer (100+ wpm)

he collects a ton of anime figures. usually leaves things in their packaging. he cringed whenever liliana took them out of the packaging, since she didn't understand why he left them in the box instead of taking them out

he blasts music at full volume, especially while gaming. he listens to a lot of vocaloid, breakcore, krushclub, hyperpop, indie rock, etc.

his diet consists of fast food, take out, ramen, microwaved food, soda, snacks, anything that's unhealthy

he usually hides his figure with thick, oversized clothing

he doesn't usually express his style much outside in public, but he likes experimenting a lot with outfits at home, especially ones that aren't typically masculine

he's secretly a furry and has a fursona. he usually acts as if he thinks furries or cringe, but he would have anon alt accounts where he'd look at furries online and talk about how cute they are

his feelings towards his body changes depending on his mood. although he doesn't completely mind being assigned amab, he does wish he looked more feminine, or at the very least androgynous

at a certain point in his life, he denied his femininity and attempted to retain a super masculine appearance and personality. it didn't make him happy, instead it made him more insecure

coming to terms with being not cishet was extremely difficult. he was in denial that he was bisexual, and even more in denial he wasn't a cisgender man. altho he's grown to slowly be more comfortable with his identity, he's still struggling to accept himself

he switches from being masculine and feminine a lot. other times he simply just does not want to be perceived and would avoid people

he loves the idea of romance and intimacy, but the actual act of doing romantic/intimate things freaks him out. he craves for love, but he's terrified to act on it, especially with his last relationship with liliana failing

he posts rants/vents about his thoughts anonymously online on places like reddit

he grew to be good at stalking, even learning strategies to keep himself hidden or quiet, along with learning how to unlock windows or doors. he thought he was insane for doing it at first, but he's grown more used to it being a routine

his eyes are actually dark brown. i just draw them pink because it's just an artistic choice i like in his design

he has sharp canine teeth

he says "im gonna kms :3" and makes all kinds of self-deprecating jokes very often

he often writes random songs in his diary and sings to himself/plays guitar in his room. it's very comforting for him, as its a form of coping

even tho he dislikes his voice, he's very good at singing (insert the entirety of the e-girl trilogy here)

if i ever come up with more headcanons i will make another post as a part 2 !! this guy is constantly living rent free in my mind 24/7 i am so perfectly sane about simpbur i swear. completely. 100%. *eye twitching*

#simpbur #incelbur #bursona #bursonas #wilbur soot #starrixle talks

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dragonfirerogue-writes · 1 year

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One Chance More

Wednesday x Reader

Part One

Eyes flutter open, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. You sit up, confused. Last you remembered, you were dying with a bouquet in your mouth. You give yourself a cursory pat-down but notice nothing abnormal. Standing up, you take a glance around.

It seems like you were in some sort of forest clearing, not unlike where you last ended up. Trees and fog block your sight after several feet. Past that, it's like an endless void stretching out into the ether. It feels like you're in a dreamscape, like nothing feels quite real. When you move to look forward again, there's a sudden figure in front of you.

"GAH! JEEZ!!" You yelp and fall back, landing back on the ground. Looking up, you see a blonde figure in an outfit reminiscent of Pilgrim World. As you stare longer, you notice the similarity to someone you once held dear.

"Wednesday? No... You can't be." You take a moment. "Definitely an Addams, though. It's uncanny."

The figure holds her hand out to help you back to your feet. "You are correct. I am Goody Addams. The one you speak of is of my bloodline." She continues to speak as you stand. "You are tied intrinsically with her. Though she views it as a weakness, you are her strength."

You let out a scoff. "That's a lie. Wednesday doesn't need me. She doesn't want me. Not anymore, at least." You look around, refusing to keep Goody within your sights. "If I'm here with you, that means I'm dead. That's proof enough.

"Not quite." The spirit enters your view once more. "You are in between the Veil. There is a chance for you to return."

"Why would I want to? I'll just suffer again. I'm not keen on coughing up flowers while the love of my life frolics with someone else."

You suddenly feel someone grab your wrist and you find yourself in a familiar clearing. When you find your bearings, you see Wednesday sitting with your body. Her knees are drawn close to her and she has a hand hesitantly holding yours. You glance at Goody and she brings a finger to her lips, gesturing you to watch.

"Is this my fault then?" You hear Wednesday say in a quiet voice. "Because I..."

The goth wasn't audibly crying but tears were streaming down her face. Her eyes stay on your face as if she wanted you to be the last thing she ever sees.

"When did you draw your last breath, my love?" The pet name makes you frown. "Was it right when I kissed him? Did you feel it in your heart?"

You turn away. Reliving your death wasn't an appealing idea. Especially when it was tied to getting your heart broken.

"Or did you remain for a moment longer?" She continues. "Did you feel my guilt and regret after?" That piques your interest. "Tyler is the Hyde. I saw it in a vision. When I realized that, I went straight to you. And now we're here.

"I'm not even certain you would want me here. I certainly couldn't blame you if you didn't. I've been horrible to you. You suffered while I strayed. Now, you're gone and I'm alone. The emptiness you left me is near unbearable."

A single sob escapes from her mouth and it startles you. You watch as she grasps your hand desperately and you swear you feel it yourself. Goody watches your reactions with interest.

"Mi amor... Mi vida. If by some miracle you return to me, I promise to show my devotion to you. I will turn into my parents if it means I'll feel your beating heart once more." She brings your hand to her lips. "Even if you want nothing more to do with me, I will love only you..."

You look away once more. This intimate moment felt too private to intrude on. The emotion Wednesday was releasing was almost too much.

"Have you heard enough?" Goody touches you once more and you appear back into the wooded void. "You have the choice now. Will you leave and doom the Raven with her sorrow or stay and live with her once more?"

A sigh sounds from your lips. "How do you know that I'm tied to Wednesday? Is it really so clear that we're to be together?" The spirit stands before you and places a hand at your heart.

"I can see the connection you share. It's strong, even now. Look past your doubts and you can feel it too."

You let your eyes close and focus on your heart. Its strong beats resonate through you and when you follow the pulse, it leads to Wednesday. When your eyes open, you're smiling at Goody.

"Thank you."

The outcast fades away with a smile, followed by your surroundings. With a deep breath, you close your eyes once more and prepare yourself to live once more.

-----+++++-----

A loud gasp and coughing draws Wednesday's attention. The sudden movement of the formerly still body left her stunned. You had drawn in a breath, only to take in the flowers in your mouth. You flip over and hack up the flowers, clearing your airways. As soon as the assault was over, you let your gaze fall onto Wednesday.

"One more chance, yeah?"

Almost immediately, Wednesday draws you close, keeping your face in her hands and your foreheads together. "The only chance I'll need," she replies. She stares into your eyes with conviction. "I love you. You will never suffer like you did again." She pulls you close and presses her lips to yours. The passion was so intense that it almost overwhelms you. "I will be with you like a shadow. You will never feel loneliness again."

You grin and kiss her again. "I look forward to it."

#a dragon tries to write #wednesday addams x reader #wednesday x reader #wednesday (netflix)

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iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia · 1 year

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hey i was wondering how would the main 6 react/deal with an mc who can be a half dragon form like this one https://www.pinterest.ph/pin/34480753384518754/

(p.s ever since you popped in my "for you" I've been following your blog and your head canons are very good :) )

The Arcana HCs: M6 with a half dragon MC

~ thanks for the love anon, and here are your headcanons! I'm sorry if it took a while, I work through requests in the order they come in and I'm still figuring out how to do that without getting overwhelmed lol

Enjoy! - brainrot ~

The picture in question:

Julian

The first time he sees you take this form is after you've had a few drinks with him and the wrong person ticks you off

Three different parts of his brain are having three very different responses all at once and he doesn't know which one to listen to

Julian.exe has stopped responding

The drunk part of him doesn't even know what's real anymore, is that actually you?

The doctor part of him is fascinated, how does that work? Why is it coming out now? Why didn't it come out some other time? Is it voluntary?

The third part of his brain, the one that's flustered by you 24/7, is very confused. He knows he's attracted to this, but he has no idea why and he's not sure he's ready to reflect on what that says about him

He will very respectfully request that you do this again, when he is sober, and he can have all his questions answered

Asra

They have a snake familiar, this just confirms your status as Faust's other best friend

His biggest weakness (after you) is new and unconventional things, and it shows

Can you use your wing as a bellows? How much more strength do you gain with that talon arm? Is it strong enough to open the jar of kool-aid pickled garlic they bought the other day and still can't get open?

Very excited to see what magic he can teach you/you can develop using it

If you cast a spell with your wing can you aim it at an object farther away?

The stove salamander adores you

Will ask you to volunteer to try something to double check if it's safe for Faust

"MC, there you are. I made something to help Faust shed her skin but I need you to see if I made it too strong."

This has gone horribly wrong once or twice

Nadia

Oh my

She's not sure exactly what this is, but she's into it

First things first though, what unique circumstances lead to this and how best may she love you with that in mind?

Is it inherited or developed? Did you steal it from a mighty beast after defeating it in battle? What other secrets are you hiding?

Does the skin need any special products? Would you like anything added to your diet?

She's already got a mental sketchbook pulled up in her mind's eye to plan an outfit that would not only accommodate the physical shift but accentuate your striking appearance

She commissions a piece of jewelry to wear on your horn that matches her hair pieces

She will ask if she can kiss the affected side of your face, because she's curious about what it feels like

She would also like to know if you can fly in that form, and if so, if you can take her flying with you and Chandra

Muriel

He's not that shocked, he lives in the woods, he's seen weirder

But having observed wildlife for so long, he is now very intent on observing you too

Your form is dragonlike, do you have reptilian traits? Does it affect your body language? Are you able to speed up and slow down your metabolism and experience of time at will by adjusting your temperature?

He will begin acting on the conclusions he draws. Dragons hoard treasure, so he starts bringing you little gifts to see what you do with them

You received them from him, so you're not going to throw them out

Now there's a growing pile of pretty rocks and leaves and carvings in the hut

But he never sees you act protective of the collection, he knows you smile when you look at it, but aren't you supposed to sleep curled around the thing you consider your treasure?

You don't sleep with your things, you sleep snuggled up to him - oh. Oh.

Portia

She first sees this form come out on an ambassador trip, when an extremist group in the country you're visiting makes an assassination attempt

It's a pitiful attempt, really, she could've easily beaten them without any help at all

But there was an archer involved who let an arrow loose just before they were tackled by a pile of guards, and hey, that's the woman you love

Next thing she knows she's being held firmly against your human side, the armored dragon half on full display between her and her attacker as the arrows bounce harmlessly off

She is both intimidated and impressed

Now whenever you're in that form next to her she'll be walking around with her cheeks puffed out in pride

Because yeah, that's MC, that super badass dragon person is all hers, that's her best friend, that's her bullet proof sweetheart

Lucio

He doesn't want to admit it, but he's kind of jealous

He thought he was the coolest with his clawed golden gauntlet, and here you are with half your body covered in scaly armor

He really, really wants to spar with you in that form now

Initially it's because he needs to prove to himself that he'll be able to win against you and maintain his status as the strength to your brains

But once he gets you to agree all he can do is admire you

As a natural-born fighter himself, he's drawn to anything that shares that nature with him, and yours is on full display like this

The way you're able to use your wing both offensively and defensively, the way your talons act as extra blades, the way the horned side of your face glares back at him

He's in love, he's so in love

He keeps getting distracted and messing up, so you let him call it a tie since you didn't really want to fight him in the first place

He can and will bring it up in every conversation he has, regardless of who it's with and what the context is

#the arcana headcanons #the arcana hc #the arcana #asra the arcana #julian the arcana #nadia the arcana #muriel the arcana #portia the arcana #lucio the arcana #the arcana shitpost #the arcana game #asra alnazar #julian devorak #nadia satrinava #portia devorak #muriel of the kokhuri #lucio morgasson #ask arcana brainrot

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buckyarchives · 1 year

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The Domestic Life of Living with a Runaway Assassin. [chapter two.]

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x soulmate!reader

Summary: you hate many things in life. you hate soulmates. you hate the avengers. you hate guns. you hate loud snorers and complicated relationships.

Bucky Barnes is associated with all of those things, yet you can't find yourself hating him

w.c: 4.6k

Author note: not proud of this chapter, lightly edited and i’m simply to lazy to go over again and again

Masterlist | playlist

“Dude, I understand you’re going through a lot right now but can we tone down the grimacing a little?”

It's been one month since the field trip to the Smithsonian, it was hard to say exactly when it clicked in Bucky’s head he had a pseudo-permanent place here. Especially with the recent development of the free bedroom since your roommate moved out. His appearances before were minimal, only ever breaking into your apartment late at night when the weather was too shitty and he decided he wanted a warm meal or cereal. Bucky would usually leave before you left for work and left almost no trace of him even being there.

For the most part, you stayed at arm's length. Made it very clear that just because you two were destined to be by the universe, didn’t mean you had to act like it. Bucky looked like a kicked puppy when you explained that to him, but he kept his feelings under wraps. If he even had any.

You weren’t sure if he trusted you yet, considering his past. But you can assume ever since he finally slept on your couch rather than the hardwood floor next to it – he's started to trust you. And by trust, you mean beginning to stay at your house for more things than just 3 hours of sleep or cornflakes. If bucky wasn’t wanted by both Nazis and Captain America you'd be asking him to pay rent by now.

Bucky also had a horrible staring problem.

“I’m not grimacing,” he mumbled.

“You literally look like the grinch right now.”

His eyebrows furrowed, “who?”

“Oh my god.” you dragged out, rising from your seat and heading towards the kitchen. 6:31 pm glowed green on your stove. “Are you hungry?”

Bucky hums to himself, his metal hand grazing above the soft fur of your cat's head. “I’m always hungry.”

“Why do I even ask? Penne or rigatoni?” you shuffled through your unhealthy amount of pasta stored away.

“I don’t care.” you heard Bucky’s footsteps trail into the kitchen, you noticed pretty early on that he chose when he wanted his presence to be known. Bucky called you perceptive for figuring that out. you thought it was pretty obvious.

You already had pasta sauce leftovers from a few nights ago, good enough.

Something else you had noticed over the few weeks, being in Bucky's presence made you feel weirdly at ease. A part of you hope that it wasn’t something destined to be pulled towards each other that the universe made up, you weren’t mentally prepared to admit the universe was right. For all you know, Bucky is a pity case and you're just trying to keep him alive.

It also didn’t help the fact you had to keep reminding yourself of this all the time.

But silence followed Bucky like it was made for him, he communicated with short (and usually quite rude) sentences or just his various facial expressions. Which were mostly confused and scared. Every once in and while he’d smile, but it was barely there and half the time Bucky would have already bit it back or turned the other way so you wouldn’t notice.

Sometimes you forgot you were harboring a runaway assassin, your wanted soulmate. Like this, faint sounds of pots clinking and the smell of simple Marianna cooking. Bucky sitting a few feet behind you, bouncing his leg and petting Alpine. Speaking of…

“Hey! Alpines not allowed on the table!” You grabbed the scruff of the Snow White cat's fur and tossed him on the floor, he hissed at you the entire way. Bucky watched with judging eyes.

“You're just jealous.” Bucky mumbled under his breath, monotone as ever.

“Pardon?” You were sure if you tried it, the spoon in your hand would break upon hitting his forearm, but it was still held heavy and ready to strike. “What did you say?”

“He likes me more.”

You blinked once, twice at him. Giving him a moment to take back his words. “Watch your next words.” You grumbled and turned back to your sauce, stirring so it wouldn’t burn.

From behind you, Bucky grabbed the cat by the scruff again and set him in his lap. A smile danced on his face when the cat nuzzled into the metal palm. Until you noticed him out of the corner of your eye, mid-straining the pasta.

“Okay, maybe he does like you more.” You painfully admitted through gritted teeth, “stray to stray, I guess.”

Bucky looks up, confused.

You sighed, “he used to linger outside the apartment complex, but anytime anyone tried to pet him he’d hiss and attack. I finally womaned up because his fur was getting horribly matted and it was getting cold out. He's domesticated a little, but still pretty angry.”

Bucky listened to you intently, still gently brushing the cat's back. He only purred and leaned in closer to the super soldier. If you were going to be honest — the sight pulled at your heartstrings

After making a plate, Bucky finally put down Alpine and set him gently on the floor, more gentle than your way of doing it. You checked your email as you ate, silence enveloped the room beside the sound of silverware clinking. Your cat still lingered around the table, brushing his tail around your ankle. For a moment you let yourself wonder if Bucky would actually —

“More.”

Your head shot up. The image before you was utterly laughable. Small amounts of red sauce at the corner of his cheek, ruffled hair from his shower earlier, and both hands grasping around his silverware. And a wiped-clean plate.

“What—“ your eyes furrowed. “You, what the fuck.”

Bucky just bored his stupidly gorgeous blue eyes back at you.

“It’s only been five minutes! I gave you enough to feed two of me?” You shouted. “Are you a fucking vacuum?”

“Please.” Bucky wiped the Mariana from his lip.

You stopped, and an overdramatic smile grew on your face. “That’s the first polite thing you have said to me like. Ever.”

Bucky just rolled his eyes and nudged his plate toward you.

“Go make your own plate. I obviously have no grasp of how much you can inhale.” You snarled, Bucky grabbed the plate and got up. He towered over you, Bucky made himself look as small as he could most of the time that you’d forget how big he actually is. Your eyes shamefully followed his body as he walked towards the stove.

“Oh, and actually chew this time, sergeant.”

You began eating again, making a mental note to up the amount you buy at the store next time

Bucky’s heavy boots trudged through the house. He had learned soon enough you were a heavy sleeper and no matter how much he tried to avoid the creaky wooden panels, it just wasn't worth it. The familiar bright light on the living room television flashed, the light creeping its way into the hallway. You were sat in the corner of the couch, curled up so tight, like you were trying to make yourself disappear. Bucky made himself known but your head didn’t snap in his direction like usual.

He coughed, “why are you still up?”

No response, your eyes stayed trained on the television. Bucky craned his next to see another one of your reality shows. If Bucky remembered correctly, this was the one where a group of people try to survive on an island.

A sigh escaped Bucky's lips as he sat down his duffle bag with a thud, “are you okay?” he asks, sitting down on the couch, keeping a good foot and a half distance from you.

“No.” is all you mutter out.

“Do you wanna talk?”

You don't respond again.

“Well, I’m heading out. Thanks for the bed and food.” Bucky says. Awkwardness poured out between you two, bucky felt out of place right now.

You let out an exhausted sigh, “it's snowing.”

Bucky hummed in response, his eyes glancing toward the window. Pitch black dark beside the New York street lamps giving the world a yellow-orangish glow. Bucky noticed the snowflakes falling gently onto the fire escape railing. “Yeah, I know.”

“Gosh,” you groaned. “I feel guilty knowing you’re out there freezing your ass off and scavenging for food, just out there hiding in general.”

“It's not that big of a d-”

You interject, and your voice sounds exhausted. “Stay. please, Bucky. Just stay.” your gaze leaves the television and meets his, and suddenly Bucky’s stomach feels funny.

“If I stay too long, I’m scared someone will connect us and I don't want you to be dragged into my mess.” Bucky sighs.

Bucky had already stayed here for a few too many nights, you had offered him the empty room across from your own. It took some convincing from you, but he stayed. Bucky didn’t sleep, didn’t even touch the bed, he had rustled it up to make it look like he slept.

Maybe he was just scared of getting too attached.

You hum. “I’m sure I’m a lot safer with the world's most feared assassin in my house, rather than out prancing around the city.”

“I don't prance.” Bucky scoffs, and he notices the way your lip quirks up slightly as you turn back toward your show.

A silence falls upon the two of you, Bucky's shoulders feel lighter at this moment, like your presence just takes the burden of the world off him. Bucky’s also scared that might mean you're taking some of it on your shoulders too.

His eye flicker back to the large television, fully illuminating the living room and casting a shadow over your feature. Mabe Bucky needed to stop his habit of staring at you, when will you notice that he does it because it feels impossible to tear his eyes away from you? That it’s not just some lasting effect from the 70 years of torture. Snap out of it, Barnes. Bucky hears the small voice in his head yell, he looked back at the tv. Survivor is playing again, you only watch this when you’re upset.

“Why do you even watch this show?” Bucky asked.

You snicker silently, Bucky can’t hold back the amused smile on his face. “It's horrible, really.” god, he can hear the smile on your face.

“Tell me.” Bucky breathes out.

“Besides, it is just entertaining–” you say, laughing. “watching these people suffer through all this makes me feel better about myself, like what I’m going through isn't that bad– wow, I’m horrible.”

Honestly, the response took Bucky off guard. He finds it hard to grasp a response.

“You are an interesting person.” Bucky laughs. Settling on that.

“Good, or bad?”

“Good.” Bucky says firmly. You nod your head. “I mean you are housing a criminal of the state.”

You laugh, a genuine laugh. “As long as you keep me safe. Mi casa es su casa.”

Bucky might have scooted his way closer to your side of the couch, closer to you. “Yeah, I’ll keep you safe.” he smiles to himself, because at least he can do that. His arm falls to the back of the couch and above your head, you'd be disappointed to know Bucky wasn't really paying attention to the show.

Your eyes began to droop, leaning into Bucky's touch. He was warm. Bucky tensed when your head fell onto his chest, but after it was the easiest thing to melt into you. Like it was second nature, puzzle pieces finding each other. Bucky doesn't remember the last time he was touched like this, a time when being touched wasn't bad and painful. Even if he remembers a time before that, with girls or Steve, Bucky sure doesn't remember it feeling this good.

Bucky wonders if you could hear his heartbeat too. Feel how fast it beats for you, would you get scared and push him away? Bucky decided he would rather stay quiet than find out.

“I bet you could survive this show so easily.” you sound delirious, barely awake as you fall heavier into his chest. Bucky hums and you feel it, it's quite nice.

“Probably, how much is this prize money?” he asks, knowing too well you are too tired to answer that.

You snort, “thinking about joining? That'll blow your cover, sergeant.”

It was so weird when you called him that. It felt so right and it made Bucky feel normal. He wished you'd call him that more, Bucky always feels a nostalgic and warm feeling swell in his chest that makes him feel normal. Like everything he's faced all those years simply disappeared and he's been in this house with you all alone. Maybe that's how it was meant to be.

“It would be one hell of a reveal though.” he mutters, but you don't respond.

Bucky’s eyes fall down to your face, your limp against his chest and eyes closed, mouth parted slightly, and breathing softly. It would be impossible to bite back the smile that grew on his face, you look so peaceful. Bucky knows you deserve it. And he knows he’ll stay awake all night to make sure you can keep it.

And he… almost did that. Bucky made it a few more hours of keeping watch on your sleeping form, you moved your way fulling into his lap and Bucky wrapped a heavy blanket over you to shield you from the cold New York weather. Bucky got himself used to the tv remote, very high tech – too high tech.

Confusing remote yet still no flying cars, what a disappointment the future was. Bucky watched a show called Modern Family for a while, it didn't take long for his eyes to get heavy as well.

And then it was morning, and the sun was showing through your curtains and it warmed his exposed skin. You were gone and a fleeting feeling of panic shot through him. But then the sound of banging and many familiar curse words that belonged to his one and only.

Bucky blinked the tiredness out of him, running his hand through his outgrown hair, and craning his neck to see into the kitchen. The large blue blanket he had draped over you last night hung from your shoulder, you were hitting and glaring at your coffee pot like it had personally offended you. Which it literally has.

“You stupid fucking machine, I paid 130$ for you, motherfucker. Work, I swear to god I will–”

“Stop yelling at the machine.”

You turned to him with the devil in your eyes. “Says the one who was whisper-yelling at the remote to ‘go back’ last night.”

“You heard that?” Bucky asks shyly. You just hummed and nodded, giving up on banging on the Keurig and plopping down next to him. “No coffee? Are you going to turn into a monster if you don't get caffeine in the next hour?”

With a deadpan face and droopy eyes, “yes.”

Then, like a fucking lightning bolt withdrawing from caffeine. You shot up abruptly and rushed into your room with heavy footsteps, followed by the loud sound of your hangers clicking together. “Grab your cap and glove that you’re so convinced makes you look invisible. We’re going to get coffee.”

Bucky didn’t really feel like arguing with a monster right now, so he lazily stretched his limbs and shook out the lingering sleepiness from his body. Going to his designated corner and grabbing his many layers and hat.

Bucky still kept his head down like usual, you weren't very good at doing that. Even after Bucky’s constant worrying. He assumed you took his word the night before a little too seriously. Yet, you guided him to the farthest corner of the shop, “what do you want?”

“Coffee.” Bucky stated plainly.

“What kind of coffee?”

Bucky’s eyebrows furrowed, “there are different types of coffee?”

You inhaled an annoyed breath, nodding to yourself. “Nevermind, I got it.” you sighed, trudging off to the counter and greeting the woman with a bright smile. Ordering your usual and getting Bucky a tall, plain black. Decaf because you weren't dealing with a jittery supersoldier. the barista asked for a name, and your and Bucky’s almost left your lips as before you realized who he was. Glancing back over to Bucky, his hair had grown out long and so had his beard.

You were beyond amused with yourself when you gave him a new name and walked back to your seat.

Bucky had the same aura as a small child. Except with broad shoulders, a permanent grimace and a few knives shoved up his pants. His gloved fingers tapped on the table, eyes hitting every inch of the building. Tap, tap, tap. What made it worse was the excessive bouncing of his knee that vibrated the already old, wobbly wooden table. You glared holes in his head, frowning but he gave you no mind.

Grasping around a peoples magazine, and simply throwing it at him. “Read that, the tapping and bouncing are getting annoying.” Bucky looked down at it, a little disappointed at first. But soon started flipping through it, the tapping stopped. Thank god.

For a moment, you leaned your head back, closing your eyes and just letting a heavy breath out. That you were somewhere else, anywhere doing anything. Just for a moment. But the sound of people speaking, the loud and arguably annoying city life of cars and horns, the sounds of espresso machines and mugs clinking. No escaping this. Your eyelids flutter open, back to reality, and Bucky is looking at the magazine as if it called his mother a bitch. Eyebrows furrowed and dark, narrowed eyes.

“What is it?” you scoot over to his side of the booth, lining your thighs with his. Bucky tenses at the touch, you don't notice. In the magazine is a picture of Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, and Clint Barton at a charity event. Next to the pictures were long articles of their bullshit excuses for whatever damage they caused to some city miles away, or even home.

“I don’t recognize him.” Bucky mutters under his breath, he sounds so sad.

“It's probably all the photoshop.” you say, in an attempt to make him laugh. But as the words left your lips you realize Bucky probably has zero idea what photoshop is, and seals that thought after he shot a confused look up at you. “Doesn’t matter, I promise it will come back to you.”

Bucky looks up at you, an unrecognizable emotion playing out on his face, lips parted slightly as if he was about to speak. Too scared to let anything out he doesn't fully recognize, you're confusing and warm and gentle with him and it makes his brain short circuit. Just your thighs and shoulder touching him makes his body burn, and the feeling of you so close taunts him, is Bucky that touched starved? All he knows his violence at the end of anothers hand, is it so bad to want more –

“L’Oreal! Y/N!” The loud and shrill voice of the barista echoed through the cafe, and a wild amused smile grew on your face as you shot up to get the coffee.

Your warmth left Bucky’s body, cold now.

Chop, chop, chop…

Bucky stood hunched over your counter, a small fruit knife with little lemons painted on the blade. Bucky thought it was beyond weird but it worked. Chopping away at strawberries, for you, because he doesn't really understand how to show gratitude towards you any other way. The super soldier wasn't very good with words, and he has no money to pay you for the warm food and roof over his head. Strawberries will due.

Chop, chop, chop

Alpine sat on the counter next to the cutting board, he definitely wasn’t supposed to. But you were in the shower and well, you didn't have to know. Bucky scratched the place between his ears, the metal again the soft, snow-white fur was weird.

Chop, chop, chop

Then, Bucky's worst fear came true (other than living in New Jersey). A loud, shrill, and blood-curdling scream from you. Bucky almost sliced his own hand when he flinched, shooting up to go to you. HYDRA? SHIELD? CIA? Fuck, fuck, fuck. He was careful, no one should know. Bucky rounded a corner, almost taking the trim out with his shoulder. His metal hand grasped around the handle of your door, not taking any time to knock before throwing it open and off the hinges. Expecting to see blood, men in tac suits, guns… not you wrapped in a towel, dripping water as you stood on the toilet seat.

“Bucky…” you whispered, eyes wide with fear, gaze not leaving the shower. Until they set on him, when you jumped down (bucky finches– scared you'd slip) and scurried behind his back. Balling his shirt in your fist as you hid behind him, dampening the white fabric. “It's still in there.”

Bucky sighed, just glad to see you weren't dead. “What? What is?”

You just let out a high-pitched and arguably pathetic whine, pointing at the tub, eyebrows knitted together tight. Bucky tried to pay no mind to the fact you were pretty much naked, hair stuck to your neck and face. Slowly, craning his neck to see a small, stink bug crawling at the bottom.

“Really? A stink bug?” Bucky asked.

“Get it!”

Bucky leaned down and grabbed the bug between his metal thumb and index, crushing it. Flipping up the toilet seat and flushing away the stinky bug, taking a piece of paper and wiping the excess dead bug off his finger. A righteous death, as much as it can be.

Turning around, Bucky fought back a blush. The curve of your neck, and collarbone. Your exposed thighs taunt him. He needs to snap the fuck out of it, if anything you two are just roommates. No amount of universe bullshit would change your mind. But oh, oh god. You turned slightly and he caught a glimpse of the words written on your body, his words. Bucky almost fainted.

“Thank you. You have been crowned official bug killer.” you teased, still just standing there.

His ears tinted pink and probably stuttered, “uh-huh, go- go get dressed.”

“Sir, yes sir.” You made a stupid military salute, turning back to the door. “Also, you’re fixing that.”

Bucky fidgeted with his hand, trying to avoid his eye from your chest. “Yeah, yeah, I will. Don’t worry.”

You smiled big, took a few steps towards Bucky, and pecked his cheek. It happened so fast, Bucky didn't process it until you had scurried away and into your room, the door shutting behind you. Bucky's hand ghosted the spot where your lips lay, utterly stunned.

Bucky needed to sit down.

Your steps echoed through the apartment hallway, with the feeling of hundreds of pounds on your shoulders. Your legs were wobbly and weak after a long 10-hour shift. You'd been nursing a headache for the past few hours and despite working in a hospital, you hadn't had time to get some ibuprofen. The key to your apartment jangle in the lock and you let out a sigh as the door opens. Alpine takes no time to greet you at the door, the apartment is dark and quiet and if it wasn't for the boots by the door and empty mugs or coffee on the kitchen table, you'd say it was empty.

Alpine jumps onto the table in front of you, you swat him away quickly and scratch at her head. “Is Bucky home? Hm, where is he?” you coo at the cat. Your eyebrows knot as he jumps off the counter and trots away from the kitchen and towards your bedroom.

The door to your bedroom that's usually closed is now cracked open and Alpine nudges his way into the room, cracking the door open more. On the opposite side of the bed, in the far corner is a pile of blankets and a pillow. The comforter raised up and down quickly, faintly you could hear the sound of Bucky's grunts and gasps.

Slowly, not to startle the seemingly always ready-to-fight assassin, you walk towards him and pull at the comforter. “Bucky?”

Bucky’s chest heaved up and down, sweat dripped down his face and made his hair stick to his face and neck. His eyes slowly look up at you and all you could see was panic and terror in his eyes, his lips stained red with blood and bruises.

Crouching down to him and reaching out, hoping he’ll let you.

“Hey,” you whisper quietly, gently so as not to startle him. Bucky’s eyes avoid yours and he's still gasping for breath like he's being choked and suffocated.

You crane your neck to meet his eyes, tears brim but they don’t fall and you bring your hand up to his face slowly. Giving time for him to swat your hand away before you caress his cheek with your thumb. “Breathe, buck. Please.”

He opens his mouth to speak, a whined croak comes out. “I can’t, — breathe. I’m so-” he chokes out a mess of words.

“Hey, hey, no. it's okay.” you shush him and he brings his palm up to your shoulder and forearm. “What do you need? Show me?”

Bucky looks at you for a faltering moment and the sheer emotions on his face stun you, he looks so broken and vulnerable in front of you. He hesitates for a moment, but you notice the way he's looking at you and the subtle tug on your arm.

You fall into his arms, pushing the pillow barricade he's made around himself. A sigh escapes his lips at your warmth and you've realized your headache has seemed to fade and a sense of comfort is found in Bucky's arms.

A few minutes pass of your head laid comfortably on Bucky's shoulder, both your arms tangled around his. Bucky's chest slowed to a normal, slow pace and he was breathing normally. Bucky groans as you pull away from his chest. His grasp is still tight around you but you're just far enough away to see his face.

You notice the dried blood and splits on his lips, you scoff and bring a thumb up to wipe away the blood. “And you always lecture me about biting my lip,” you said, almost teasing.

“M’ sorry.” he blinks. “I didn't realize I was even doing that, I just got so overwhelmed and everything just happened.”

You hum, as you brush his hair back and behind his ears, his skin is still damp and sticky. “It's okay,” you speak, rubbing at his arm. You look down and take notice of the blankets around you once again. “Is this what you do?”

Bucky's head perks up towards you, “what?”

“Make pillow forts when you get overwhelmed.”

Bucky looks down, but you notice his smile lines grow slightly and see the way his lip quirks up. “It's so childish, I know.”

You shake your head, a similar smile creeping up on you as well. Bucky continues, “As a kid, Steve and I, we used to build forts out of anything we could find when Steve used to sleep over. It's a comforting feeling, helps me calm down.”

You nod and bring your hand to meet his, feeling the rough skin under yours as your hand moves against his. You tug slightly as you slowly bring yourself to your feet, Bucky wishes to pull you back into him and never let go.

“Come on, now,” you say. “You’re all gross and sweaty, I gotta wash my blankets now and you have to take a shower.”

Bucky’s face softened and he realizes, despite the current circumstances, he’d be okay with feeling like this forever. As long as you were there.

tag list; @i-l-y-3000 @ivywasmaroon @waywardcrow @alana4610 @ozwriterchick @slytherinambitious @wintermischief @tarotwitchy-main @silelda @zizzlekwum @iv3t

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #james bucky barnes #bucky x reader #marvel #marvel fanfiction #bucky fic #sebastian stan #bucky x female reader #bucky fluff #sebastian stan x reader

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666writingcafe · 4 months

Text

Barbatos' Birthday Surprise (Part Five)

"Barbatos?" I poke my head out of the hotel suite's bedroom and find that he's starting to unpack his belongings in the living room area. "What are you doing?"

"I figured you would have the bed," he explains, merely glancing up at me. "I'm fine sleeping on the couch."

"Barbatos."

"Yes?"

"You can't get a good night's sleep on a couch."

"It would be improper to have you sleep here." I can't help but roll my eyes at him. He still is in butler mode, even though he's supposed to be on vacation and, more importantly, relax.

"You know, we don't have to sleep separately." Thankfully, that makes Barbatos stop moving around and focus his attention on me.

"I..." He clears his throat and swallows, and I wonder if I've made him nervous. "Are you sure, MC?" I sigh.

"If I didn't feel comfortable with the idea of the two of us sharing a bed together, I wouldn't have suggested it in the first place."

"You're right." He sets the stack of clothes he's holding down on the couch, walks up to me, and gently grasps my hand. "You'll have to forgive me, MC. This sort of relationship is...new to me. I don't want to overstep any boundaries." I can tell he's being earnest. It's quite sweet. And adorable.

"Don't worry." I squeeze his hand and smile softly at him, trying to reassure him. "I'll let you know if you misstep." I lean in and gently kiss him on the cheek; pulling back reveals a slightly blushing Barbatos.

"Give me a few moments to reorganize, and I'll meet you back there," he replies, his voice softer than usual.

~~~

August 23

Unsurprisingly, by the time I wake up, Barbatos has long vacated the bed. He usually ends up waking up at the crack of dawn to begin his duties for the day, so it's not like I expected him to suddenly be able to sleep in while he's on vacation.

What is peculiar, however, is the fact that he's not in the suite's kitchen, but instead appears to be in the bathroom.

The one time he got tickets, he ended up with a horrible stomach flu that knocked him out for the entire week of the concert.

Oh no. Did he end up sick again?

Trying to keep my nerves at bay, I walk up to the bathroom door and gently knock.

"Barbatos, are you okay?" I ask. The sound of things clanking answers me. What exactly is he doing in there that would make that much noise? From what I heard, he normally doesn't take that long to get dressed.

"Yes," he responds back. "I'll be out shortly. I didn't anticipate taking so long in here, but I'm almost done." Part of me still feels uneasy as I head over to the living room area and sit on the couch. While he didn't sound sick, the fact that he mentioned taking longer in there than he expected...what is going on?

My question soon gets answered when the bathroom door opens and Barbatos steps out. To put it simply, he doesn't look like the butler that I've come to know. His hair flows down past his chest, his bare arms are covered with tattoos, his short-sleeved shirt accentuates his muscles, and his black jeans are actually ripped.

He looks...well, hot. Until this moment, I never fully understood why Asmo was so obsessed with Barbatos, but if the Avatar of Lust has seen him like this, then it all makes sense. Not that Barbatos is bad-looking by any means when he's in his usual attire, but this brings his appearance to a whole other level.

Which makes me incredibly nervous.

"MC?" Barbatos is suddenly kneeling in front of me, his hands grabbing my own. "What's wrong?"

"You look great," I answer, my voice a bit croaky. Quickly realizing how wrong that sounded, I add,

"Not that that's a bad thing, of course. It's just that...well..." I can't finish my sentence. Incomplete thoughts are racing around in my head, and I can't put any of them together to say anything coherent. Barbatos leans in and places a hand on the side of my face, as if sensing what I'm worrying about.

"I like you exactly as you are, MC. You have a very beautiful soul, and I find that attractive."

"Because you're a demon."

"Well, yes, but I've found that all beings are drawn to souls like yours, not just inhabitants of the Devildom." He rests his forehead on mine, making my heart begin to beat faster. "I am beyond grateful that I get to do this with you, MC. This experience wouldn't be the same without you." He kisses me gently before leaning away and standing back up.

"However, if you are worried about what people might say when they see us together, then I can help you get ready. That is, if it would help you feel better about your overall appearance. I personally think you would look fine in whatever you wanted to wear, but I know that me saying that may not help quiet the voice inside your head."

#obey me shall we date #obey me mc #obey me barbatos

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inlocusmads · 3 months

Text

Nora Can't Draw For Shit ~ trystan x nora, crimes of passion

A really really quick drabble I wrote with a half-baked idea haha

wc: 698; teen and up for strong language, you get the idea

_____

The after-party was in full swing and by swing, there were actual swings involved. You’d expect some sort of an orgy under such circumstances, but it was more along the lines of a fashionable extravaganza.

Trystan was ever so graciously invited, on account of his sister’s collection being put up on display and honoured. Suffice to say, the after-party was entirely for networking purposes. Glossy champagne, lush couches, suited-up beautiful people-- what more could someone ask for? Trystan had a list though. Tacky parties were quite right up his alley but this one was no fun. Not even a chicken fight over Uno, how sad.

He watched across the bar to find Nora who was caught in a group conversation. For a second, he assumed she was enjoying herself - being around people, so many people and their chitter-chatters about how much they had to starve to fit into a dress, their sad stories of switching between diets according to their fitness coach and oh the horror of giving up a specific kind of cheese because they were partially lactose intolerant - not fully enough to milk it (pardon the pun) for all its worth - as their publicist intended. The worst part was Nora didn’t even have a roll of blunt to help her get through this. Most parties would be kind enough to distribute them so she didn’t have to be sober for this conversation. Would help her relax her anxieties. Stop fussing over her blazer so much. Go through five existential crises whilst someone’s talking to her about etiquette school.

Trystan assumed she was more than happy to talk to people and go “haha, totally get you about those damn porcelains!” but he appeared to have misinterpreted her. Nora met his eyes and was pointing subtly at herself and another finger at the exit.

Trystan gave her a perplexed expression. What?

She tried to mouth her words.

“Kate Mihir is out of the -- eggs?” Also who the hell was Kate Mihir?

Nora shook her head. Trystan threw his hands up in the air, exasperated. She then proceeded to put her arm on the table, make a stickman with her index and middle finger and moved her hand across- in a swift motion to the exit.

“You need two more of what?”

Nora buried her face in her hands. She gestured her hand at him. Wait. Trystan watched as she proceeded to take a pen from her pocket and grabbed some rolls of tissues. It was remarkable how well she did so without earning people’s attention. She then drew a face, an arrow pointing at a square - a door - in the most horrible caricature known to mankind. The face was lopsided; the door was not even a door and looked more like a shot glass. She didn’t care. She held it up like a billboard sign. Trystan had to take a couple steps closer to see what she’d drawn. And even then, the dimly lit area didn’t do her drawing much justice.

“Erm.” One of the people she was talking to, tapped on Nora’s shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to tell a guy with blurry eyeballs that I need to go. It’s nothing personal. I -- really cannot have another conversation about porcelain plates. I just don’t care about plates, okay? I’m sure someone else out there knows a lot about them.”

The person gave her a disgruntled look before walking away. Trystan, still perplexed, approached her.

“Subtle stuff.” Nora sighed.

“That is not a stick figure. What were you drawing? A potato?” he laughed. “Why does that -- thing look like a skirt?”

“It’s a door.”

“Remind me to never encourage you to pursue art, by the way.”

“I briefly dabbled in sketch artistry for my precinct back in the day, okay?”

“And how did that go, hm?”

“Like I said. Briefly dabbled.”

“And what was that -- action? It looked like you were signalling the bartender for two more of your potato skirt shots. Potato skorts.”

“What is this? Be Mean To Nora day?”

“I read somewhere that honesty is the most valued trait among friendships, partnerships- among human beings. It’s okay, Nora. I love your potato skorts.”

“Stop.”

***

not tagging people cuz, it's a quick drabble and not my most polished work if that makes sense lmao

tagging @choicesficwriterscreations

#w:inlocusmads #trystan x nora #crimes of passion #my drabbles

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naamahdarling · 2 years

Text

Cannot BELIEVE I lived on this earth for 45 years without knowing that Mary Oliver, whose poetry I love, was in a relationship with a woman for 40 years. I have no idea how the hell I never knew about this when it was so central to her life and when she apparently always talked about her. How? How did I not know this?

Her name was Molly Malone Cook, and she was so many things. Molly is on the left, Mary on the right. Look how beautiful they were together.

I wanted to show you some of her work but this is the only one I could find for sure:

It is of Jean Cocteau, a legendary figure in the world of the arts who was openly homosexual in an era when society as a whole was very unfriendly to that. Molly appears in the mirror, taking the photo, both subject and observer.

The bohemian and brilliant Molly was a pioneer, opening what was probably the first East Coast photography gallery at a time when it was largely dismissed as art, she was one of the first staff photographers for the Village Voice, and acted as Mary's agent.

When the photography studio didn't earn enough money to keep them and the gallery afloat she opened a bookshop, too.

She could sail a boat, which I find deeply impressive, and would often take Mary and their friends out for conversation and companionship. She was friends and associates with many fashionable people, and many more unfashionable ones.

She was a steady person with a gruff demeanor and iconic shock of white hair, respected and loved by those who knew her, seen sometimes as a kind of parent. She remained an important figure in the arts even when her lungs began to give out from the darkroom chemicals.

Disabled and eventually in poor health, she still lived to be 80 years old, and though Mary gave very few interviews she never stopped speaking and writing of her love for Molly.

(And yet somehow I MISSED THIS and feel really foolish about it. In my defense, I often don't read much about artists I like from that era; I would rather not learn they were terrible people or friends with terrible people. I can't stomach the idea of rejecting large parts of art and literature history because a lot of important people did awful things, but nor can I quite separate artist from art, so I just....stay mostly ignorant as it is the least exhausting option. Horrible people can make beautiful and important things, and I wish more people could make their peace with that. Separate discussion.)

Interestingly to me, as someone who hates the phone and delegates everything I can, Molly was literally Mary's voice. She would answer the phone as herself, and if the caller asked for Mary, she would walk away and come back pretending to be her with no effort made to disguise her voice. She did this to give Mary the space, unbothered, to do poet things, and pretty much nobody had the nerve to challenge her on it.

I just wanted y'all to know a little about her, as she is part of our history. This is all from just a couple of hours reading, so if I got something wrong, that's why. I'm going to hit the library for her photography books and more about her life.

#i really do miss the days of livejournal #where this kind of thing was much more common #people just...talking about stuff in short essay form but it was all really personal and fights in comments were so rare

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suffersinfandom · 4 months

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A Summary of The OFMD Meta (Part IV)

This is part four of an incomplete summary of A Meta-Discussion Of The Subtext by meratrishoslee (Mera) on AO3 (linked to, as the author requests). I’m trying to stay impartial and present the content fairly and with context. Like, I started reading this 140K beast after I saw a wild screencap and thought, "Surely there's context that makes this make sense," so I do want to provide at least that much.

This part includes interviews and a response to one of the “concern trolls that couldn't quite manage to wipe the foamy froth from their mouths long enough to keep it from dripping on their keyboards.”

No more chapter numbers because they keep being reordered.

Other posts Part I Part II Part III

Chapter The Vanity Fair Article - A Wondrous Fuckery

Here’s the article that chapter is about.

Mera suspects that the interview happened via text, giving David Jenkins time to sort out what he was going to say. They note that they’re “going on vibes and subtext, which is really more [their] wheelhouse.” You’re welcome to disagree with them.

“First off, I was trained in the House of Moftiss/BBC Sherlock fandom, where we just assumed that every word the showrunners spoke in an interview or on social media was a shameless distortion at best, and an outright lie at worst -- so that's where my mind goes first. [...] Having said that... so much of the Vanity Fair interview is an actual gift. You do have to cherrypick somewhat... but again, DJenks just released an episode with a major character death. He can't go back and reverse himself and suggest on any textual level that the death was less than permanent.”

VF mentions the happy endings in the finale, and Jenkins says, same-sex relationships end on a dour, downbeat note, where one of them dies and it’s unrequited or it’s unrealized; something horrible happens and they’re punished in a way.

“That's not a happy ending -- and that's exactly what you apparently fucking did with a central character. Gosh, how weird of you to bring it up here. So why? Is it... is it something you left open for a third season? That the horrible death of an unrequited love isn't what it appears?”

Jenkins says that Izzy is kind of a mentor to Blackbeard and that he is kind of a father figure. Mera says that “this is the closest he gets to queerbaiting us” because Izzy is definitely not Ed’s father figure.

“Notice we are still given the subtext here: mostly dead is slightly alive, and "kind of a father figure" feels like a limp gesture in the direction of explanation. The rest of it... if you feel insulted on Con's behalf, that Izzy Hands was reduced to an old dog being put down at the vet's office here ("beautiful arc", "does a lot of things", "it's time", "full meal" -- god, a day at the dog park and a last fucking supper with cheeseburgers and pie and all the human food he never got to have otherwise she says sarcastically) -- YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO.”

Jenkins keeps mentioning “magic, love, turning, losing, changing, rebirth, resurrection, present tense about Izzy Hands, ghosts/life after death, or anything of those flavors.” He is “legitimizing repetition” in order “to prime your mind to see the subtext. You can only look for something if you know what it looks like: he is giving you the key to the season.”

Jenkins reminds us that “he was not a straight white guy alone in that writers room, and he's telling you the story worked for everyone in that room of all queerness/genders.”

“And then he brings our head back around and goes ‘hey, look at Izzy again. It's almost like he's the key to everything. Hey, look at me using present tense on a character that's supposed to be dead and gone which would be past tense. God I love Con O'Neill, and I need you to hear that in every single interview I ever give EVER. His character IS a joy to write.’”

Mera mentions all of the “subtextual queer references and coding” put into Izzy. “You don't create a Queer Avatar by fucking accident. And these professionals certainly did not.”

Mera encourages their readers to read the Q&A that wraps the article “with the mindset that we will have an S3 where a queer self-sacrificing man rises from the dead in a damn near explicit Christ metaphor and our Izzy Hands is safe and whole and loved.”

“The Vanity Fair interview, as far as I'm concerned, is not some painful/cruel gloat. It is a subtextual love letter back to the fans, published just in time to be ready to soothe our hurting hearts -- if we know how to parse it.”

Chapter "Who Do Ya Trust If You Can't Trust God?"

“I'm finding myself tired at being the point of the spear. No one prepared me for how exhausting it is to be among the first to realize a massive truth.”

This chapter is about coping with fandom and contains some solid advice: “The block button is our friend. The unfollow button is our friend. The mute option is our friend. If someone's relentless negativity hurts your feelings or drags you down, mute/unfollow/block them as needed.”

But then:

“I choose to believe my daily-growing mountain of evidence that Izzy Hands is alive and that the writers intend that he be hollered home from the gravy basket.

“Furthermore? If I can be painfully real for a minute? I am amazed at the trust the writers have given us.

“Because we the Unseen Crew have been put into the position of Izzy's future lover -- to be to Izzy what Stede was to Ed. We are called on for our audience participation now, to hold his hand and beg his return -- not for a minute, an hour, or a day... but potentially for the next several months, over a year or more, until we get Season 3.

“I do tend to have this fatal flaw of wanting to uphold others' trust in me, and to be loyal to those who show loyalty in return.”

Mera reminds us that her word is not canon. She isn’t affiliated with the show and is just trying to provide hope and positivity.

“Even though I often will get tired... I am determined to stay positive. When I can't say something nice, I close the window or the app and say nothing at all. You will find me on my social media being as unrelentingly kind as I know how to be.”

Next: interviews and what we can take from them. “Interviews have exactly two purposes: pocket money for the subject of said interview, and promotion for the show. I was trained to never fully trust what is said in interviews.” Engagement and getting people clicking is more important than imparting useful and truthful information, and nothing engages people like anger.

That’s how we get the early “interviews that are half touching and half enraging, with seriously tone-deaf seeming self-conflicting statements from the writers/showrunners [...]. We can trust that if the interviews are live/verbal, they'll be more irritating rather than less. The showrunners would much rather say too little or say something wrong than give away something too big or too true accidentally, and in the pressure of the moment they will fall back on phrases they've memorized as safe to use.”

Don’t trust that interviews are telling you the truth (but they might be saying something truth-adjacent).

Mera has doubts about Jenkins telling O’Neill about Izzy’s death mid-season. She doesn’t think that Jenkins is that stupid. “It's not too far a stretch to think that this "mid-season" conversation occurred in the middle of filming the first season, and all DJenks is prevaricating about is the timing thereof.”

Jenkins realized mid season one that Con is an amazing actor, so he takes him out for dinner and says, “Next season I want to kill Izzy 3 times. The first time will be Stede's dream sequence, and the next two will be actual Passion Plays, because we're setting Izzy up to be Jesus and Westley from The Princess Bride and Han Solo from Star Wars.”

“And Con takes up the challenge of being coded as an OVERT Queer Messiah (with an additional layer of subtextual HIV/AIDS)... because of course he does. Of course he fucking does. If he can pull it off -- and if anyone can, it's him -- it's the role of a fucking lifetime. It's a role for history books and media studies for the next fifty or one hundred years.

“Doesn't that sound a bit more likely? Doesn't that sound a bit more real?”

Mera predicts that interviews and articles will start publishing ideas about Izzy still being alive, and talking about how weird and off the end of season two was. Everyone involved with the show, after all, will “know we inspect every frame and every pixel of every BTS and teaser they release,” so they’ll feed us enough to keep us guessing at the truth.

“Here is my promise to you: if/when I'm wrong about any of this, I will edit this chapter only to admit I was wrong and when and how. I will not remove my evidence. I am comfortable being wrong. If I was never wrong, I would never have tried and failed and learned from my failures!”

Chapter Until You Come Full Circle

This chapter is about interviews. “We’ve had, just in the last week, two very sweet and classy interviews with Con (which I did predict, although that was about as safe as saying the sun would rise in the east this morning) – and one that seemed… less so, with Taika.”

First interview with Con.

Con says to trust David Jenkins, which immediately makes Mera think of Proverbs 3:5-6: Trust in the Lord with all your heart, And lean not on your own understanding; In all your ways acknowledge Him, And He shall direct your paths. “Now. Am I delulu, as the kids are calling it these days, suggesting that Con might intentionally be throwing some religious vibes at us?”

Con is also “earnest and intense” in his praise of OFMD’s writing. This is a good sign; that means he thinks the show is written well, and that’s further evidence that Izzy will be back.

Second interview with Con.

Con “seems to me to be very reluctant to outright lie, which is awesome for a meta writer and squares with my experience of him. Lying is easy in the moment and difficult in the future – a person has to remember what lies they’ve told in order to remain sufficiently consistent in their stories. It takes more skill to tell just enough of the truth that it's both vague in the moment but pays off later.” This makes interviews with him extra valuable.

A short analysis of one of his quotes: “Everything Izzy is in Season 2 was there in Season 1, only understated and repressed. According to the actor who played him: he didn’t change who he was. Izzy just got safe enough to let what was inside him out to where others could see it too.”

One of Con’s quotes backs up Mera’s Sacred Heart meta, namely the part about Izzy trying to serve the crew that loves him.

Now a Taika interview.

This interview bolsters Mera’s idea of Ed as Judas.

From the article: When Consequence asks writer/director/actor Taika Waititi if he’s feeling optimistic about a third season of Our Flag Means Death, his initial response is this: “Have you seen the end?”

“I think we can safely assume that Taika’s not asking the interviewer if he’s literally seen the last episode of Season 2. This feels to me like the blunt, sardonic, dry humor Taika’s evinced (and occasionally gotten into trouble over) during other interviews, aimed at the word ‘optimistic.’ ‘Have you seen the end? How optimistic did you think it was?’”

It’s not an optimistic ending. The interview mentions the inn’s renovations, but we don’t see anyone doing any renovating. Ed and Stede don’t even have food as the Revenge sails away.

From the article: For Waititi, though, the Season 2 finale “feels like a natural end to their story. Just because I feel like, you know, they’ve been through so much and then wind up in that nice place at a happy ending.”

What nice place? What happy ending?

From the article: Waititi says, though, that “I don’t want it to feel like Rambo III suddenly, you know, when you’re like, ‘Oh man, they have to leave their idyllic life again.'”

“Okay, everything else was fucky as fuck… but that feels wrong enough to be a lighthouse.” So Mera went and watched Rambo III, which is more relevant than she expected.

Rambo’s “idyllic” life isn’t that great. “We don’t see an emotional, human connection. We see a white guy who’s on tolerance in a place he doesn’t really belong, separated by a language he doesn’t fluently speak. We see a man tormenting himself with boredom and isolation.”

“When you look at John Rambo through most of this movie, you see a pretty good correlation to Edward at the start of the last episode of OFMD S2: on tolerance in a place that’s not truly his home, trying to fit a life and do a job he’s not suited to… and he gives it up without another thought because a man he cares about is in danger.” A hint to season three?

Chapter My Ridiculous Obsession With Love

In this chapter, Mera addresses one of her “haters.”

For anyone who forgot the thesis of this meta: “The overarching hypothesis I'm building in this meta-discussion is that Izzy's death was more serious because HIV/AIDS and queer grief is serious. He had to go into the grave and take the full journey of the passion play to be able to leave it behind him, and to re-emerge as someone that can touch, kiss, and love again.”

Commenter: “None of that makes this a definitive interpretation, or one that the creative team can reasonably be held responsible for.”

Mera: “... yes? Okay, sure? (Dear non-haters: just picture that John Travolta confusion gif again, because if I threw it in here every time I rammed up against an example of begging the question in this comment, there'd be like 30 of them and we'd all get tired of them.)”

Commenter: “The crew hold back because Ed is the person Izzy dedicated his life to and has not yet fully reconciled with- they're giving him space to sort things with Ed so he can go in peace. Etc etc.”

Mera: “I see a rapid parade of images and sounds. "He's a dick, but he's our dick." Jim snarling "He was your friend" up into their captain's face, even though they know for a fact that could get them killed. The crew make the unicorn's leg for him together but they leave it at his door because they know he can't (yet) let himself accept it if anyone's watching: what an incredibly emotionally intelligent maneuver. The easy way that we see Jim and Lucius and Frenchie and Fang interact with Izzy in later eps-- all touching him or letting him lean on him, just never skin to skin. The way that we see Izzy go into Wee John's arms and stay held there for a while as he commits the incredibly vulnerable act of singing for them. The way that Izzy lays his hand on Stede's knee while they're talking at Jackie's bar, and there's no real animosity from them on either side then.

“So I'll give you this one, 100%. I can't say that you're wrong or prove it in any way. Your reading is absolutely as valid as mine, no more and no less.”

Commenter: “Isn't it heavily implied that people touch him with bare hands while dealing with his leg? And if he is coded as having AIDS and being untouchable, why would the crew be so willing to dive in and get covered in his blood when they treat his leg, especially when they're also scraped up at the time?”

Mera: “I haven't had a chance to write up this meta yet, but in a nutshell: we see Jim and Archie amputate his leg (with their hands pressed together in visual union atop it). They're covered in blood and this is one of the least realistic depictions of a survivable amputation attempt in media ever, frankly... and yet Izzy lives through it! [...]

“Notably we do NOT see Fang cleaning up. I need to go back and verify, but I'm like 99% sure.

“Why? Is Fang lazy or unhelpful? No, I'd say two reasons. One, he's paralyzed with grief (and the men in this show are so emotional, as Auntie rightfully notes). But two, certain classifications of men were more susceptible to Izzy's subtextual disease. [...]

“I think it's a direct subtextual sign post to the part that lesbians/wlw/AFAB people had to play in the care of queer men dying of AIDS. [...] Jim won't catch Izzy's subtextual HIV/AIDS, ever. Jim's hands heal and comfort, with both Izzy and Auntie -- repetition (usually) legitimizes, as I've said elsewhere.”

Commenter: “...while I know I have no control over this... it's alarming to see other commenters accepting this elaborate interpretation as if it's definitive.”

Mera: “Ooooh, I'd pay a dollar to find out how many comments you leave on fix-it fics. Are they also dwelling in their delusions of a world where a fictional character in a show overcomes a fictional death in the same show? Is it a sign of mental illness to indulge in word count or WORSE -- for them to irresponsibly leave those insane words just out there online where other people can also continue their madness by READING THEM?!?! The absolute horror. We writers should be ashamed, etc etc.

“There's every possibility all the words I'm spilling over this are worth just as much as you paid for them: exactly nothing.

“So thank goodness we have you and others like you, willing to do the purely altruistic and entirely virtuous work of... leaving comments to tell us you didn't agree? I guess? Honestly I don't have a full lock on what your goal was here, if something other than trying to make people feel bad but fortunately not being very skilled at it.”

Commenter: “I wish you and every other fan nothing but the best, and for that reason, I find this hard to watch.”

Mera: “My sibling in Shiva: the 'back' button and the 'x' to close the window are available in every single web browser I have ever used in the history of the internet, ever. But I appreciate your martyrdom in staying here and nobly suffering so hard in an attempt to save me and my readers from ourselves!”

Commenter: “It seems like you are setting yourself and others up for even more rage and heartbreak than there would otherwise need to be.”

Mera: “I want to point out that I've tried to be very careful in not speculating about Season 3; I think it's reasonable for any fan to assume all characters living at the end of S2x08 will return in S3 unless real life status of the actors, scheduling, or budgetary considerations prevent that.

“I want to point out that all I have are the first two seasons, and I am telling you that Izzy Hands, inside the last second of S2x08, is "mostly dead but slightly alive" -- and he's in the house, being the cause of the smell that Edward doesn't want to recognize (as he is at least twice before shown refusing to recognize what he's done as Blackbeard after the fact) but does actually recognize all the same.”

Mera admits that there are two options: “Either I'm correctly parsing the absolute bounty of subtext available in every aspect of the show, or I'm not.”

“On the day that we get that confirmation, I will feel one of two things: either the delicious vindication that I was right -- or amazement that they could build such a wondrous sky castle of subtext, whether consciously or subconsciously, and fail to complete it satisfactorily.”

“I've been wrong before and will freely and cheerfully admit it [...]. That's also why I put in my first meta post that I had been a TJLC'er -- and why I've left it in there, actually. It's correct and it's honest. Straight off I admitted I was wrong about Something Big.

“See, it's [...] ‘hater bait,’ and it's already caught several. Lots of concern trolls that couldn't quite manage to wipe the foamy froth from their mouths long enough to keep it from dripping on their keyboards, because all of them had mentioned it... until you.”

“I've cackled my way through all of the writing of this post, even as I've tried to be very kind in reply -- you should have seen some of the shots I chose not to take due to their cruelty (even though they were fucking hilarious) -- so thank you for a most diverting morning. I even got more meta and more word count out of this, so it wasn't actually a waste of productive time!”

Commenter: “I urge you to reconsider this approach that you're taking.”

Mera: “Here's where I'm gonna get all the way real again. Because I'm not talking to [...] that poor dear any more. I'm talking to the ones who are here with me in the stinking dark of the Pit of Despair, holding onto Izzy's naked right hand with no glove between us any more or hopefully ever again, hollering him back home out of the gravy basket.”

“If one sound had been added, everyone would know what the author knows. “We have the house. We have the grave -- with Izzy's collar on it like the dog collars on the dog graves in Pet Sematary -- where whatever comes back often comes back wrong. We've got the concept of a bad smell. We've got Stede reacting to something awful with a scream [the one thing Mera’s adding in this scenario].

“DONE.

“Now the fandom is convinced that Izzy is alive, just as most of us were convinced in the last 18 months that Lucius was still alive.”

“This is part of what convinced me in the first seconds after the episode was over that Izzy wasn't dead. If I could both change the story and prove it to everyone else with just one small addition... then he's not dead.”

After Lucius was pushed overboard in season one, “I just trusted that this soft and sweet little show wouldn't actually permanently kill one of its gays. [...] And I still trust that it didn't actually permanently forever and truly kill the most gay-coded of its gays.”

#ofmd #izzy critical #not really but it's for that crowd tbh #“you don't create a queer avatar by fucking accident”#i want to type unkind things #keep not reading that meta it's way too long #and not even that fun to read #i promise i brought all the fun parts over

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isaut · 6 months

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𝒌𝒊𝒔𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒆 (autumn, day 1)— f!reader x chrollo lucilfer. 3.3k/57k. ao3

i said i wouldn't post any of ten million jenny on this blog, but i can't help but be extremely pleased with this chapter. you probably need to read the rest of the fic to understand this ♡ reader is part of the dead dad club, there's dancing, builds off this fic and this one too. oysters are paired with beer. read notes from the underground here.

Standing in front of your mirror, you take in your figure. Head cocked to the side, hair shifting. Only in fitted trousers and a bra. Your fingers ghost over your stomach, over where weeks ago you’d been fatally wounded. Not at any fault of yours. Now, not even a physical scar remains. Instead, your fingers drift over smooth, falsely touched skin.

Your blouse hangs on the doorframe behind you. Time is ticking. There’s somewhere you need to be– It’s important to your psyche. Your concealer is sinking into your skin. But you can’t pull your gaze away from the clear patch of skin that should be marred by a deep, embowling scar.

“Darling?” Kuroro calls from the bedroom door. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, caught off guard by his presence. “Are you ready to get going?”

“Almost,” You reply, “I’m just finishing up. Could you get me a glass of water?”

“Of course,” Kuroro replies, and pads off.

You turn your attention back to your stomach— fascinated by your reflection in an unfamiliar way. Your gut churns out of anxiety. You wonder if she churns because she remembers being on the exterior of your body.

“Water for you,” Kuroro calls again from the bedroom door.

You leave the bathroom to take it from him. He doesn’t follow you into the echoing tiled room anymore. Not even to hold your hair back while you vomit— He's always bringing you a trash bin to empty your stomach in. You’ve vomited often recently. Unfortunately. Undeliberately. Unattractively.

You don’t know why you still worry about your appearance.

Kuroro is dressed for the cooling weather. Trousers and a turtleneck, tattoo covered by dark fabric. His fingers slide against yours as you take the glass from him.

“I’m almost done getting ready,” You say. “I’ll be ready to go soon.”

“Take you time.” Kuroro’s words kiss your forehead. “I’ll drive us in.”

You don’t want to argue about parking, but you equally don’t want to argue about how you’re getting to work. You simply don’t want to argue.

The leaves have yet to begin falling. They hang to branches, still green from the summertime and rustle in the cooling winds. The courtyard of your university is barren. Students aren’t back yet, and professors are squirreled away in their offices doing last minute preparations. You stand outside the building that houses both your office and classes, an unlit cigarette in your hand. Your work bag is slung over Kuroro’s shoulder, and shifts as he leans into your space to light your cigarette. His frame blocks the wind from whispering to you, and you find solace in the ashen smoke that fills your lungs instead.

“I would have loved to take classes here,” Kuroro comments casually.

You turn your head to blow smoke away from the two of you. “I think it would piss you off.”

“Do you?” You can imagine his eyebrow raising.

“Mhm. You’d argue all your grades.”

“You think that little of me?”

“You argue my students grades with me,” You reply. “I can only imagine what you’d do as a student.” Late nights. Wine glasses. Glasses perched on your nose. Watching Kuroro expectantly as he reads over the essay you’d handed him in frustration.

“I see it as more of a debate,” Kuroro replies, brushing off the comment. He lets his gaze linger over you. “Are you excited to be back?”

You do. The normalcy of it all is a welcome gift after everything you’ve been through. It feels like a warm heating pad applied to horrible cramps. Just enough to wean the pain. You take a deep breath of the chilling air, letting your cigarette dangle between your fingers.

“How much longer will I get to keep doing it?” You ask.

“It’s never my intention to strip you of the things you love,” Kuroro says. He rests his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “Maybe when we’re done here we can go get dinner and drinks at the jazz club.”

The idea is tempting. You think it over through another inhale. “Is anyone performing tonight?”

“I’ll investigate,” Kuroro says.

You take one last breath of the smoke, before dropping the butt to the ground and rubbing the box of your heeled shoe into it, firmly extinguishing the cigarette. “Let’s see how I feel when I get done here.”

“Of course.”

Kuroro holds the door open for you, after you swipe your card against the reader. It’s so new, so electronic, that it stands out like a sore thumb against the gothic architecture of your building. There’s the old smell in the walls still, and the stairs still creak beneath your weight as you climb them.

There are a few papers in the wooden box attached to your door. You unlock the ancient, heavy door, the lock stuck from disuse over the summer, and it swings open.

Relief washes over you as you realize everything is the same.

Plucking the papers up, you walk into the office and immediately crack open the windows. A refreshing breeze passes through the stiff air. You sit at your desk, leaning back in your chair and closing your eyes. There are birds singing outside. Kuroro’s footsteps are silent as he crosses the room to your bookshelf, plucking one down at random.

He lets out a soft sigh as he sits, spreading his legs and making himself comfortable.

You crack open an eye to look at him. “Do you plan on simply following me around from now on?”

“You’ve never had a problem with it before, darling,” Kuroro replies, opening the book to its first page. It’s an old teaching copy of Hamlet, with hefty footnotes and bound in red. The cover sleeve has long since been lost. You gaze at it with some consideration.

“Context has changed,” You decide on.

“You’ve been made aware of the full context.”

Sighing, you right yourself. Pull yourself towards your desk. Power on your computer.

You hate how light your fingers feel as they tear across your keyboard. There should be a new ring on your left hand. There should be different memories in your mind.

Once upon a time, you were a regular at the jazz club. You used to lie to yourself and pretend you liked Old Fashioneds, when really all you cared about was the music and the atmosphere. You used to sit by yourself at a dimly lit table after a long week of classes and treat yourself to a few hours of mindlessness.

Kuroro opens the door for you, and it feels like it did years ago. A little younger, the same sparkle in his eye. It had felt like you were sharing such a secret back then, letting him into your life like this.

The atmosphere is just as sacred, just as clasping as it had been that same night. You can feel the itch on Kuroro’s mind to rest his hand on your lower back.

“Take a seat, and I’ll grab us drinks. What do you want?” Kuroro asks, too close to your ear.

“A mojito,” You reply.

The two of you peel in different directions. You, towards a familiar table with a candle in the middle of it. Him, towards the bar.

From the seat, you watch the band on stage set up. Music still plays through the speakers, easing through the atmosphere. You roll your shoulders back and try to relax into the dark room.

Kuroro places your drink on the table before you see him, startling you out of your lack of concentration. He slides into the seat across from you, taking a delicate sip of his drink. An old fashioned.

Sitting with Kuroro is pleasant, with something else to focus on. The club owners must have hired a new jazz singer, as you don’t recognize her. She’s young, with lipstick on her teeth. You wonder if she’s young enough that you’ll see her in a week, sitting in one of your classes.

Kuroro perks up at a familiar melody. “Dance with me.”

Turning your head from the entertainment, you feel resentment and want pump through your heart.

“For old times sake,” Kuroro urges, or, dare you say, pleads.

You take a sip of your mojito. You’re almost positive Kuroro slid the bartender a few bills to ensure your drink was stiffed of most liquor. Sensing your hesitation, Kuroro reaches his hand across the table and lightly rests it on yours. There’s a knowing look in his eyes.

The lights are directed at the band, so the only heat comes from your bodies. Kuroro’s hand is warm in yours. An older woman, who definitely thinks she’s being quiet, swoons as you pass her, being led to the dance floor.

It’s been a long time since you and Kuroro have danced. Weeks, even. Summer ended with no late nights dancing to accordions along the river. Unlike last year. And the year before that.

Kuroro takes one of your hands in his, the other resting at your lower back. You rest your hand on his shoulder in turn. He steps forward and pulls you close in one fluid movement. You tense, taking a deep breath.

It was the closest you’d been in weeks. Amber, vanilla and Egyptian jasmine fill your senses.

The man who stabbed you did not smell like this, your brain reminds you.

“We’re going to trip,” Kuroro murmurs against the shell of your ear. His foot taps against yours.

Your senses chase the familiar cologne, and you take another breath, letting yourself relax into Kuroro’s hold.

It’s like riding a bike. You remember where Kuroro is going to move, remember that he’s going to guide you. Memories of trying to learn how to dance flash through your mind– Kuroro’s apartment, newly invited over. Dressed in a satin button down of his, him in the matching satin sleep pants. Nothing but blossoming romance.

“What are you thinking about?” Kuroro murmurs. His hand slides lower, over to your hip to brace you before he indulges you in a shallow dip.

“Us learning to dance,” You murmur back, “And about your cologne.”

Fond memories come to Kuroro’s mind, and he smiles softly. “We have such a good time together.”

You must agree. “We do. We did.”

Kuroro makes a pitiful wounded sound in the back of his throat. “Think in the present, darling.”

“I am,” You say.

Displeased with your response, Kuroro dips you once more. You gasp and grab the back of his neck, shooting him a look.

He gives you a devilishly charming half smile.

“Are you having fun?”

“I am, in fact,” Kuroro replies. “I’m in a jazz bar, dancing with the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Not an object, you tsk at him. Reflexively.

“Apologies,” Kuroro amends, “The best person who has ever graced her presence in my life.”

You don’t move your hand from the back of his neck. “That’s better.”

Over Kuroro’s shoulder, you can see a woman watching you. She’s older, with a two piece outfit and gaudy jewelry. She’s watching the two of you with hearts in her eyes, a certain desire for what you have. To an outsider it must look quite nice– Two attractive young people dancing at 7 o’clock in the evening just because they can.

If only she knew whose hands rested upon you.

Would she still swoon? Would she still wish her husband would get off his ass and bring her out on the dance floor as well? Would she still look upon Kuroro with desire?

The last thought causes jealousy to sink her claws into your core, which unfairly feels warm.

“Ease up your grip, darling,” Kuroro murmurs against the shell of your ear.

Immediately you relax your hand, not having realized how tight your grip had become.

You can feel Kuroro smile. “Did you see our admirer?”

“She isn’t admiring me.”

“No?” Kuroro’s pinkie finger dips below the waistband of your trousers for a moment. “I am.”

You hum, casting your gaze down to your feet, watching as you move with Kuroro, almost subconsciously. You flick your eyes upwards, to meet Kuroro’s burning gaze. “You are?”

“I’m never not.”

“Double negatives confuse me.”

“I’m always admiring you.”

Warmth floods your face.

Kuroro takes a breath, exhaling slowly.

“What is it?” You ask.

“It would be foolish of me to share,” Kuroro says, shaking his head slightly.

“You love telling me things.”

“I do,” Kuroro smiles just a bit at that. When he speaks, his breath mingles with yours. “I was thinking about how badly I want to kiss you right now.”

“That is foolish,” You confirm. You get another wave of amber. Your words are caught on an exhale. “Be a fool.”

“What’s changed?” Kuroro asks, curiosity coming before desire.

You swallow. “I’ve enjoyed today.” He has you lean against him, before returning back to the somewhat simple step you’d fallen into. “I’ve been reminded of a few things.”

“Old times?”

“Old times.”

Kuroro doesn’t know when the next time is he’ll be able to press his lips against yours. There’s a firm understanding he must make this one count, must make this one better than anything penned on paper.

Old times would have this be the final straw, the moment where it’s time to leave. You’d be in some slinky number and he’d be down to his buttoned shirt, which has the top buttons loosened on it. The both of you donning a sheen of sweat, sore feet.

So, for old times sake, Kuroro grants you one final dip, lowering himself with you. He captures your lips in a kiss, pulling you back up with your lips still locked. He tastes like smoked bourbon and oranges, bitter and sweet.

You pull away, slow as you can. It feels sinful to take such solace in a kiss.

“Let’s get out of here,” You suggest. The room suddenly feels far too hot, as if summer’s lingering heat had consolidated within the club. You can feel eyes on you, which isn’t as pleasing sober as it is drunk.

“Of course, darling,” Kuroro says, a soft smile on his face. He wraps his arm around your waist. “Do you want to pick up food on the way home?”

Your fingers dance along your bottom lip. For old times sake…

It’s oysters on the balcony. A decadent treat from the restaurant across the street. The moon is rising, you’re smiling, enjoying the mood you’ve been set in. Kuroro’s dusted off the record player for the occasion— He’s placed Dvorak’s Serenade for Strings upon the turning plate. The gentle instruments wash over you.

It was the first concert you went to together, had shyly held hands and pretended not to care as you asked him to come up for drinks.

The evening, it’s charming, you can’t deny that. With how the time has passed, you half expect Kuroro to begin reciting poetry to you.

Kuroro takes in your appearance. The way the night’s lights caress your skin, the way you effortlessly slide another bite of oyster into your mouth and set the shell down with a tink. Instead of your trousers, you’re dressed in pyjamas, with freshly washed skin. He can smell the roses, cucumber and shea butter combination in the cooling air.

He poses a question. A safe one, one that he's posed a million times before. One that’s gotten him as close to you as he is now.

“Have you read any good books recently?”

You glance over at him, then shift your body towards him. Indulge him in familiar conversation. “I reread Notes from the Underground,” You say.

Kuroro’s brows raise. He matches you, turning his pyjama-clad body towards you. It’s like riding a bike, it’s like dancing, talking to you about Dostoevsky. Over beer, over oysters, in the newly-autumn air.

“You always said it was one of your favorites,” You continue, closing your eyes. “I’ve always been fascinated by it, but I can see why it would resonate so deeply with you.”

Kuroro sits quietly and listens. You flutter your lashes open. “You’re just not spiteful.”

“No?”

You sigh. “It was… It didn’t make me feel good that I resonated with the Underground Man.”

“You resonated with him?” Kuroro inquires, head tilting in interest.

“I don’t know how to describe it… But I think I finally understand the spite of Fydor’s work. I’ve done so much… Research on it, so I logically understood why his protagonists carried that tone but… Now I get it.”

“Are you spiteful?” Kuroro asks.

You swallow thickly. “I keep… Thinking. About how you just…” You sigh. “Jesus fuck, I have no clue.”

Kuroro can’t help the chuckle that reaches his lips. You pick up your beer bottle and take a pull from it.

“When he talks about romantics,” You say, setting your bottle back down on the table. Glass clatters softly against mosaic. “About the difference between a Russian romantic and a German romantic and a French romantic.”

Kuroro hums. “Hmm… something about understanding everything, seeing everything far more clearly than positive, practical minds?”

You shake your head and stand. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be right here,” Kuroro replies easily, leaning forward to pick up his own beer. He exhales into the night sky. Regret invades his senses.

You come back moments later, flipping through a hand-sized, weathered copy of Notes from the Underground, filled with tabs and annotations. Kuroro knows this copy well, he remembers the first time he found it in your office, how he had devoured all your comments, all the parts you called attention to for your own sake and your students.

Finding the page you were looking for, you clear your throat as you sit back down. “He’s a man of breadth and scope, our romantic, and the greatest fraud of all our frauds.” You close the book and set it on the table. “It has new meaning to me now.”

“Ah,” Kuroro says. “Doesn’t he frown upon the romantics?” ‘

“I think he hates himself for being a romantic.”

Kuroro laces his fingers together, looking away from you off to the skyline. “I think being a romantic, whether it’s Russian, or German, or French, is a double edged sword. If I was a pragmatic man, I wouldn’t have made the choices that I have. But… I think there’s a certain human aspect to being a romantic. It’s in our nature… The Underground Man might despise the fact that he shares traits with the romantics, but he is driven to express himself romantically. Not in the romance sense–”

“But in the literary sense,” You finish for him.

Kuroro smiles softly, smiles wistfully. “Exactly.”

“I agree,” You admit. “I keep having the same spurts of… What does he call it… these lofty spurts where I think about us. And today… Today I realized that nothing’s changed. Everything has changed but nothing has.”

A beat of silence passes.

“I think the Underground Man desires to express himself romantically too,” You whisper. “Because he’s human.”

Kuroro thinks about all the people he knows, everyone he’s come into contact with. About the relationships he’s seen blossom, about the relationships he’s cut short.

“Do you think he’s ashamed of it?”

Kuroro glances over at you. “Of viewing the world through a romantic lens?”

You nod.

Kuroro takes a deep breath. You look beautiful, half illuminated by the warm lights of his apartment, half by the twinkling nightlife. “No,” Kuroro decides on. “I don’t think he is.”

You lick your lips, nodding again. “I think he’s annoyed he can’t stop seeing the world like that. And… I think that’s where I recognized myself.”

Kuroro hopes, deep down, that you’re circumventing something he desperately wants you to tell him. He’s always admired your adoration towards the universe’s care– Or perhaps it was the guiding palm of your deceased father– that kept you upright. Perhaps this time, he’d be kept upright too.

He doesn’t know how many more months he can lose, how many more can be shaved off his own lifespan.

#chrollo x reader #saintchrolloism #i feel like im gonna get my characterization of chrollo destroyed here #or my understanding of the underground man #i havent read the book in almost a year please cut me some slack #dead dad club slay #by ophelia

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thatgirl4815 · 7 months

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I agree with you that Sand would not put up with Ray keeping him on the side if he's dating Mew, but I don't think Ray's going to give him a choice. I think that's part of why he and Sand are nowhere around anyone else while this is happening. Ray gets him somewhere he can't figure out he's setting him up to be the second guy. He's always tried to keep Sand away from Mew because for Ray they aren't anywhere near the same realm, and at this point I can't see it changing. It feels way too late in the show for that kind of shift.

I just can't see it going any other way. Khaotung has said Ray is horribly selfish and will stop at nothing to get what he wants. We've seen him trying to have both already, and there's no way the guy who's still looking at Mew like he's the best thing that ever happened to him is going to stop dating him unless Mew breaks it off. And I don't think Mew is there yet.

Besides, narratively I think it would make sense, considering Mew is so stuck on being with Ray right now because he thinks that he would never do what Top did, but then Ray goes and does something worse.

I think it's possible they'll have Mew do something with Top while being with Ray too, but that wouldn't make what Ray's doing to Sand better.

But I still think that Sand needs to confess for himself. It'll hurt more when it falls apart but he can at least move on without any what ifs.

I think Sand would also be skeptical that maybe Ray is only setting him up to be the second choice and that their isolation is the perfect way for Ray to convince him that he cares. So I don’t think that point would be lost on Sand. He can see that Ray wants to keep him separate from Mew. But this whole situation assumes that Ray is consciously thinking through his approach to both Mew and Sand, and I don’t necessarily think that’s the case. I think Ray might want to keep them separate, but I think he cares more about enjoying time alone with Sand than purely using this trip as a way of tricking him into believing he’s his first choice. All in all, I think Ray is a lot more confused about all of this than he’d like to appear. He cares deeply about Sand, and I think he wants Sand to be his first choice, but those lingering feelings over Mew are getting in his way.

Maybe I’m just optimistic. But while I think Ray still loves Mew deeply, last episode seemed to indicate that Ray is not enjoying their romantic relationship. Most of this is likely due to Mew just being a chaotic mess after things blew up with Top. But even if that wasn’t the case, I think Ray realizes that his interactions with Mew are far less enjoyable for either of them when they’re paired up romantically. That could be a catalyst for showing Ray that it’s enough for Mew to love him as a friend, but it doesn’t necessarily need to be something more to still matter. And maybe the best way for Ray to show how much he loves Mew is to let go of his hopes for a romantic relationship when it’s clearly something Mew does not want, tried and true.

#if this ship goes down I’m gonna look like a fool but I’m maintaining hope #only friends #only friends the series #ofts #sandray #raysand #sanray #raysan #sand X ray #Ray X sand #only friends theories #only friends predictions #RayMew #ask #only friends ask

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youngpettyqueen · 3 months

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ummm um fic recs….in a horrible turn of events garak and bashir have to babysit the ds9 kids?

ive been wracking my brains over how Garak and Julian would end up babysitting a bunch of the kids and I had a hard time figuring out something that would work with Jake and Nog, since theyre older and dont really need a babysitter, so I went with them babysitting Molly and Yoshi! I hope that's alright <3

Garak isn't sure what to expect when he the door to the O'Briens quarters slides open. All he knows is that Julian told him to come, and his only answer to Garak's many questions was to repeat himself with a don't ask just do it tone.

So, Garak had. He'd come. In the middle of the work day, something he's not planning on letting the Doctor forget. He'd come, and he steps inside as the door slides open, and he doesn't know what he was expecting to find here, but it certainly wasn't... this.

Julian is sitting on the floor by the coffee table, the infant Kirayoshi cradled securely in one arm. He also has what appears to be a plastic crown on his head, which is several sizes too small, and perches awkwardly atop his hair. The older of the O'Brien offspring, Molly, is sitting beside him, in what Garak would guess is a human princess costume, all shiny fabric and very, very pink.

Garak comes to pause, considering the scene before him. There are little plastic teacups and plates set out. A few larger plush toys are also around the table, with teacups and plates of their own. It's quite the little set up.

"Good morning, Doctor. Molly," He greets, turning a quizzical raised brow on Julian, "Might I ask why I was called here?"

Julian gives him a look that is very, very tired. "Good morning, Mr. Garak," He replies, "You were called here because you have been invited to Princess Molly's tea party." He informs him.

"Tea party?" Garak echoes.

"I'll explain later," Julian tells him, "Just come sit." He gestures to an open space at the other end of the coffee table.

"Wait!" Molly pipes up, quickly standing. Julian winces at her volume, quietly shushing her as he looks at Kirayoshi, who appears to be sleeping. Garak turns his attention to the child, who holds her head up high and informs him, "You have to bow first."

Garak considers her for a moment. He catches Julian stop himself from laughing in the corner of his eye. Of course, Garak knows about royalty systems, so he knows what a princess is. And he can't imagine himself bowing to one, but Molly has a very stern look on her very little face, and he has a feeling he's in for a fight if he doesn't comply.

He bows. Dramatically, with a flourish. Molly giggles, and the sound is... pleasing.

"Thank you for the invitation, Princess," Garak bids her, continuing to play along as he straightens himself, "May I...?" He gestures to the open seat.

Molly, to his surprise, shakes her head. "Not there," She tells him, "You have to sit with Uncle Julian. Miss Flutterhooves will move." She gestures at the plush sitting on Julian's opposite side- an equine, if he remembers his Earth animals correctly, except this one is... purple, and it has a shiny silver horn protruding from its forehead.

He goes with it. Why not, at this point? He's clearly not getting out of this. "Of course," He says agreeable, stepping closer. Since the plush toy can't move, for obvious reasons, he gently picks it up, "Pardon me, Miss... Flutterhooves," He shoots Julian a quick glance, who nods approvingly, and he proceeds with moving the toy to the open spot at the end of table, and then going to take his own seat beside Julian. He shuffles in as much as possible, awkwardly crossing his legs and trying to keep his knees from tucking under the table, "There we are. This is... very lovely." He compliments as he settles into a somewhat-comfortable position.

"Very lovely," Julian agrees, looking at Molly, "You've done a wonderful job, Princess Molly."

Molly gives Julian a pleased little smile. "Thank you!" She squeaks. Then she suddenly perks up again, like she's heard something, "Oh! I have to go get the tea. It's done sleeping." She stands and, tucking up her skirts like a proper lady, she hurries off to go and... wake the tea, apparently.

"Steeping," Julian offers, as Garak gives him a confused look, "She means steeping."

Garak nods. That doesn't explain... anything else that's going on here. "Tea party?" He asks. Again.

"An old Earth game, of sorts," Julian replies, "Human children commonly pretend to hold tea parties, usually with their parents and their toys involved. Hence," He gestures around the table with his free hand, "All this."

"I see," Garak says, "And I was invited, why...?"

Julian suddenly won't make eye contact. "Molly insisted," He tells him, quick and clearly not the entire truth, "And I just got Kirayoshi to sleep for the first time all day, so I wasn't about to risk Molly getting upset and waking him," He does look at Garak again, this time with a surprising amount of desperation for a man sitting in front of a plastic teacup, with a plastic crown on his head, "He cried for three. Hours. Garak." He stresses each word, exhaustion and desperation oozing from every syllable.

Garak knows of the infant's tendency towards tears. He has no idea how Kirayoshi manages to wail for so long, considering how tiny his lungs are, but he's been able to hear the shrieking from across the promenade.

"I'm not sure the Chief would approve my being here," He points out, "Or Mrs. O'Brien, for that matter."

"I won't tell if you won't. Just play along," Julian implores him, "That's all I ask, just play along. Molly is very sweet, and also very stubborn, and I promise you I'll make it up to you if you just humour her." He's very nearly begging.

Garak has seen Julian less desperate in active crisis situations. He sighs, making a point to be melodramatic about it. "Very well, my dear," He agrees, "I suppose I can find it in myself to play along with the whims of a little girl. What's the worst that could happen?"

"Don't invite that on yourself," Julian warns, "You haven't seen her when she's cranky."

At that moment, Molly returns. In her hands she carries a teapot that matches her teacups, and she proudly brings it to the table and sets it down in the middle of everything. "Ta-da!" She announces, prompting Julian to gently shush her again, "Tea time!" She does not heed his shushing, "Want the first cup, Uncle Julian?" She asks, holding the pot out to him.

Just like that, Julian is smiling again. "I would love the first cup, Princess Molly," He says. He holds the teacup up, and it's comically small in his hand, "Thank you very much."

Molly tips the teapot forward. No actual tea comes out. Still, she holds it like that for a few seconds, before she tips it back. "There you go!" She chirps. Right, pretend. She turns her smile on Garak, and offers him the pot, "Tea?"

Garak delicately picks the teacup up by the handle, which he has to pinch between two claws. "I would be honoured," He says, laying it on thick. Molly pours the pretend tea into his cup, and he gives her his most winning smile, "Thank you, Princess."

Molly goes around the table, pouring tea for the other guests. Garak resists the urge to comment on the teapot apparently being bottomless, and instead glances at Julian. "Uncle Julian?" He questions, an amused smirk curling on his face.

"I'm her favourite uncle." Julian grins.

"I'm sure," Garak murmurs. Molly retakes her seat, and he turns to her, "Ah, Princess, allow me," He reaches across the table to take the teapot, and he pours her her own cup. He's not sure of the exact method to this, but he counts to 3 and then stops, and she looks satisfied, "Could I ask you a question, Princess?" He asks as he sits back, setting the pot down.

"First, cheers," Molly insists. She thrusts her cup up into the air, and Julian raises his, so Garak follows their lead. They clink their little teacups together- literally, "Clink!" She says.

"Clink." Julian echoes.

"Clink," Garak adds. Then Molly sips, and so does Julian, so he follows. When that's done, he inquires, "May I ask my question now?" Molly nods, and he smiles, "Ah, thank you. Yes, my question is, what made you invite me to the tea party, Princess Molly?"

Molly sets her teacup down. "For Uncle Julian." She replies.

Garak can see Julian looking pointedly away from him in his peripheral. "I see," He says, "And why was I invited for Uncle Julian?" He follows up.

"Cause you're married." Molly replies, like it's the most obvious thing in the Quadrant.

Julian chokes on nothing. Garak's eyes widen. "Married?" He echoes. He turns to Julian, who's gone a truly impressive shade of red, right up to the tips of his ears, "Married?" He repeats.

"Yeah!" Molly says, apparently an expert on the subject, "That's what grown-ups do when they're in love! Like my mommy and daddy. You," She points at Garak, "And Uncle Julian are in love, so you're married."

"She's 5." Julian hisses under his breath, just loud enough for Garak to hear.

Garak needs to take a deep breath. He's not often truly caught off guard, but that... he feels like he's just been knocked flat on his back. Alright. Married. He can go along with that. He's certainly gone along with far worse things.

Suddenly he understands Julian's exhaustion and desperation a few moments prior.

"Well, it was... very polite of you to invite me, Princess," He manages to get out, trying to slot back into his role here, "It's nice to spend time with my... husband." That makes Julian turn even redder. He looks like he's about to start glowing.

"Mommy and daddy wanted together-time today," Molly tells him, looking oh-so-serious for a girl of 5 years old, "So you and Uncle Julian probably want together-time, too. That's what married grown ups want." She explains.

Garak can't help but chuckle. "You're very wise," He says. Because she isn't... wrong. When it comes to him and Julian, at least, "I did want together-time with Uncle Julian today." He admits. They were supposed to see each other for lunch today, but then Julian got called away to babysit the O'Brien children, so it was to be rescheduled. And, soft as it makes him, those lunches are truly about... the only thing he looks forward to, so, yes. He did want together-time, as she put it, with Julian.

Molly glances at Julian, and then she leans over the table. "He did, too," She whispers, except it's very loud, and Julian can obviously hear her, "He told me he missed your lunchtime."

Garak glances at Julian, who's again very much not looking at him. He can't help but melt, just a bit, just enough to soften up. "Did he now?" He hums, "Well, that's alright. We have this tea party, don't we?" He puts his hand on the table, holding it out to Julian.

Julian looks at his hand. Then looks up at him, all round eyes and surprise. And then he smiles, all warm and affectionate. "That we do." He says, taking Garak's hand and giving it a squeeze.

"Ew," Molly pulls a face, "You're being gross like mommy and daddy."

Julian snorts a laugh. Garak chuckles. They let go of their hands and go back to their teacups, following Molly's lead as she sips at air again. Then she insists on refilling their cups, and they sit back and let her.

Julian's hand finds his on the floor. Garak takes it, brushes his thumb over Julian's knuckles. They exchange a private look, a small smile, Julian still red in the cheeks.

Maybe this isn't such a bad way to spend an afternoon, after all.

#star trek: ds9 #fic bitching #elim garak #julian bashir #molly o'brien #kirayoshi o'brien #otp: I need to know that someone forgives me #wow this turned out WAY fluffier than expected #I went into this to write pure comedy and shenanigans and got all this fluff??#this is so sweet my teeth hurt #but also I like it a lot #so I hope you do too anon!#sorry for not getting all the kids involved #I tried to think of something that would work to have Jake and Nog involved #but I couldnt think of anything that really made sense #I hope I did Molly justice and made up for the lack of other kids #because I love her and she was fun to write #I had to look up her age and calculate how old she was when Yoshi was born for this dkfgjhdkfjghd #but the tea party idea possessed me and this practically wrote itself after a certain point #soooooo much fun to write #anyways this is a lot of tags now #hope you like!!!!

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ironborealis · 13 days

Text

Lineage Cousins AU pt. 3

aka Missed Connections on AO3

Part 1 and Part 2 on Tumblr

Anakin has fixed a lot of dejarik boards before.

Well... Mom did all the soldering of the broken circuit boards because she said that the fumes were bad for growing boys, BUT it was his responsibility to take everything apart and carefully label it, test the circuits and mark the ones that Mom needed to fix, and then put it back together again when she was finished. He even tested the projectors and commands to make sure everything was in working order before Watto put it in the shop's inventory to sell.

So... He's mostly fixed a lot of dejarik boards and tested them afterwards, but he's never actually played dejarik before.

He hopes Mr. Kenobi hasn't noticed that Anakin is just making things up as he goes, figuring out how the pieces move by watching the projection stall for a split second every time he tries something that the rules don't allow.

He must have fixed a hundred, a thousand boards since he was old enough to start helping -- and the boards always sold quickly because everyone and their great grandma plays dejarik...

Everyone except Anakin and his mother... he doesn't think any of his friends on Tatooine had played either.

There's something sick growing in his belly as he thinks about it all, tears pricking at his eyes -- but he's pretty sure that Jedi don't cry, and he's a padawan now so he can't cry -- if Mr. Kenobi doesn't ruin everything by telling the Jedi Council to send him back to Tatooine.

Mr. Kenobi hums after Anakin's last move, stroking his beard and appearing to be deep in thought.

Mr. Qui-Gon had explained that Mr. Kenobi wasn't his brother-brother, like Kitster and Kassu who had the same mother, but a 'lineage brother' because the same Jedi Master had trained them both to be Knights.

Anakin thinks his Jedi grandmaster must be very old, to have taught both Mr. Qui-Gon and Mr. Kenobi.

Not that it matters, because apparently Master Dooku left the Jedi after Mr. Kenobi was knighted, so that only left his great-grandmaster Yoda... The green person with big ears on the Council who had thought he was too scared to be a Jedi.

He misses his mom.

Mr. Kenobi's foot taps the base of Anakin's chair, and Anakin realizes that Mr. Kenobi is waiting for him to play, but Anakin was so busy gathering eopie chips in his head that he'd missed Mr. Kenobi making his move.

He can feel the tips of his ears grow pink with embarrassment. Surely real Jedi don't become distracted or miss their moms and of course they all know how to play dejarik --

He reaches to move the big white monster, but Mr. Kenobi purses his lips and hums.

"That's an interesting choice -- I would have used the Grimtash's -- the gray one -- special attack," Mr. Kenobi keeps his eyes on the board.

"...Why?"

Anakin uses his best sabacc face, like he's only interested in Mr. Kenobi's strategy and not desperately trying to figure out how to win a game he doesn't know how to play.

"It's special attack is powerful enough to defeat my Ghhhk, which you've been abusing," Mr. Kenobi points out the dark green creature on his side of the board.

Anakin debates for a moment whether or not to take Mr. Kenobi's advice. If they were on Tatooine, it'd be a given that Mr. Kenobi was trying to trick him -- but they're not on Tatooine and besides he's pretty sure Jedi aren't allowed to lie unless it's really important.

He makes the move that Mr. Kenobi suggests and watches as his piece battles and destroys Mr. Kenobi's.

They continue to play, with Mr. Kenobi occasionally talking about what his strategy would be. He thinks Mr. Kenobi must be a horrible sabacc player, with all his obvious facial tells and the way he literally just tells you what he's going to do.

Maybe that's why Padmé's handmaidens like playing with him every night -- he's such an easy mark they must have taken every single credit he has by now.

Anakin doesn't always do what Mr. Kenobi would do, but he starts feeling more confident about how the game works and most importantly, how to win.

Soon, it's just Anakin's Grimtash against Mr. Kenobi's K'lor'slug (the purple one), and then it's over and...

Anakin won. He won! He didn't even know the rules and he won anyway, AND he beat a Jedi who's probably been playing dejarik since he was in diapers --

"Good game, Anakin." Mr. Kenobi holds his hand out over the board for Anakin to shake. His tone is jovial, like he hasn't just lost, and he's got that same amused glimmer in his eye like he did when Anakin tried bowing to him like a proper Jedi.

The sick feeling is back in his stomach.

"You let me win, didn't you?"

Mr. Kenobi's expression falters for a second, before becoming even faker than before.

"No, I didn't --"

"Jedi aren't supposed to lie!" Anakin jumps out of his seat, his heart pounding in his ears. "Did you think it was funny? It's not my fault that I don't know the rules! Dejarik is a stupid game anyway!"

Mr. Kenobi's face goes unnaturally calm, and Anakin knows now that Mr. Kenobi has a sabacc face that could rival some of the best on Tatooine -- and he hates it. He hates being made into fool by someone who's supposed to be deciding whether Anakin is good enough to even be a Jedi, it's not FAIR!

"What's going on?"

Mr. Qui-Gon appears, coming out of their room, and glaring at Mr. Kenobi like he did something wrong.

"He let me win!"

Anakin tries to put as much weight as he can into his accusation, to convey the seriousness of the situation in a Jedi-like manner, but when he hears himself, he sounds more like Kitster's little brother Kassu whining whenever he lost at a game.

The confused look on Mr. Qui-Gon's face only confirms that he thinks Anakin is acting like a baby.

The anger, humiliation, and homesickness are all boiling away inside of him -- ready to explode at any second. Anakin can't do that here, in front of these Jedi, he's already embarrassed himself enough.

He pushes past Mr. Qui-Gon and goes into their room. He can feel electricity arcing underneath his skin, forcing him to pace the room to burn off some of the energy before he does something un-Jedi-like.

He can hear Mr. Qui-Gon and Mr. Kenobi talking outside, their voices growing louder until he can clearly hear some of what they're saying.

"...won't hold it against him..."

"Well... pretty hypocritical of me... didn't you tell me..."

"Knight Kenobi why can't... in the moment."

Anakin climbs the ladder into his bunk, trying to get away from something he knows that he definitely doesn't want to be hearing. Even the walls back home were thicker than this.

"Tell me... dangerous, they all sense... what changed?"

Anakin pulls his pillow over his head and screams to drown out the noise around him and inside of him.

#obi wan kenobi #star wars #anakin skywalker #qui gon jinn #star wars fanfiction #star wars fanfic #Dooku is Obi-Wan's master AU #The phantom menace AU #baby Anakin is going through it #Obi-Wan gets no respect from anyone thus far

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