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stxrvel · 11 months

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two strangers (1)

summary: when bucky rescues you, you didn't think there could be a more indecent person. but as the days go by, you realize he may have a chicken heart.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

words: +6k

warnings: a lot of bad words and mentions of wounds and blood.

read this for some context! so fyi this is set in an alternate universe where mercenaries exist, but like a society, like john wick, and the avengers rescued bucky from hydra's control and all that, but he decided to keep his life in the mercenary side, taking missions to get rid of really bad people, and even though he isn't part of the society per se, he's very known by it but he doesn't care to join them.

note: hi guys! i decided to publish this in different parts, seeing that my inspiration had a big strike and yesterday i just couldn't stop writing. i think the updates will be weekly, but you'll know the exact date in the masterlist page. so i hope you like it! and know feedback is always appreciated! love you all 💜

Bucky never thought the rescue would be difficult. It was a huge house, three floors, a hundred windows and doors, with a garden that directly overlooked a wooded area. The walk to the entrance was not at all dissimilar to the ambiance of the whole area, as it was at least a forty minute walk through trees and bushes. There were about fifty people guarding each entrance and access, but Bucky knew that there would be a shift change at ten o'clock at night, at which time there would be about 25 people that he would have to face in less than 10 minutes to reach the target, and after that he would have just under two minutes to get at least ten kilometers away from the house and avoid being followed.

Except that Bucky wasn't riding the bike back to town and had a piece of a shirt pressed against the side of his abdomen from which blood was pouring out, while a couple of other bikes were following behind them and they could barely dodge the bullets.

Bucky knew he couldn't play with words again.

“Drive faster,” Bucky mumbled over the sound of the wind and bullets, barely able to hold onto the abdomen of the woman behind the wheel, whose name he couldn't remember.

“Fucking hell, I'm doing everything I can!”

Bucky peered over the woman's shoulder watching as the needle pointed to one hundred and ten kilometers per hour and raised his eyebrows. How that tiny woman was able to keep her balance and zigzag through the trees at that speed was a complete mystery.

While it was true that the bike had more speed, it was quite dangerous to increase it seeing the wooded road full of natural obstacles in front of them. So Bucky just pulled out of his right side the gun he always carried with him and started shooting at whatever he could aim at. Maybe that way he could get some leverage.

After a few minutes, Bucky began to make out the lighted streets of the city and was minimally glad that the rescue had not been a failure.

“When you take the road, turn right and then left, there you go straight ahead and increase your speed as much as you can.”

The woman barely nodded toward Bucky's words as she maneuvered through the branches and downhill slopes until she made it to the asphalt, and it was like falling off the end of a roller coaster. Bucky thought he had flown off the bike.

When the woman made the turn Bucky indicated and found a track that stretched along without a possible end, she accelerated so much that she was sure that, had she not had a helmet, she would have been out of eyelashes in seconds.

It didn't take them too long to lose the criminals following them and find the safe house where they would spend the night. Bucky felt his body still vibrating with the bike as the woman parked it in the subway parking lot. The walk to the stairs and what he rode inside the house was one big blurry moment inside his head as the adrenaline began to wear off and the pain throughout his body became more and more noticeable.

He barely remembered lying on the white couch, staining it entirely with blood and mud, and the woman in front of him trying to stop his bleeding.

You did everything in your power to stop the bleeding in the man's side. It was difficult, but you managed to get a halfway decent stitch and tried to disinfect it with what you found in the first aid kit in the house. You wrapped his abdomen with gauze and bandages as best you could and finally left him alone. He had fainted the moment you put alcohol on the wound with gauze, and you didn't know if it was because of the pain or the lack of blood. It was probably the latter, he looked like a strong guy.

A strong guy who had definitely underestimated his mission. Strong but his arrogance was a major flaw.

You had tried to arrange the whole room as you had found it, because you'd made a big mess carrying that man who weighed twice as much as he looked to the couch. In the end, cleaning up the blood was the most complicated thing.

You went to bed at dawn, after an exhaustive session in the shower. You washed your clothes by hand three times and then soaked them for at least an hour until you washed them again. You got clean clothes and changed when the first traces of azure blue began to adorn the sky.

But you stared at the ceiling for a while. Memories of what had happened in the last few days and years flooded your head and kept you moving your hands under the sheet. Restlessness, new friend. Reminiscing about it, the sound of bullets, the adrenaline rush and the blood of the man in the room almost kept you awake. But, at some point, out of exhaustion or pity, your eyes finally closed.

Bucky cursed, moving around the room. Trying to walk to the bathroom, he had dropped everything his hands had touched. And the pain in his side didn't make things any easier. He didn't know what the woman sleeping peacefully on the second floor had done, but it seemed the pain was sharper than yesterday.

As his body moved closer to the bathroom, he heard footsteps coming from the stairs. The silhouette of the woman materialized in front of him, who was trying to climb the five steps that separated him from the bathroom.

“What are you doing? You opened your wound,” Bucky observed the woman's scowl with hair standing on end like a cat in the face of an imminent threat.

He watched her in slow motion and infrared as she tried to move closer to him, decreasing the distance between them and making it difficult for him to walk to the bathroom.

The woman raised her arms to touch him, but before she could do anything, Bucky threw a swipe. She staggered, and without a second's hesitation stepped away from him.

Bucky thought he saw a hint of fear in her eyes, but it had to have been a figment of his imagination, because the next moment she was only looking at him with annoyance.

“How surly.”

“Don't get in my way.”

“I was trying to help you.”

“Standing in my way doesn't help me at all.”

“"You're bleeding again…”

“Fuck, I need to use the bathroom.”

The woman silently moved to the side. And Bucky barely glanced at her as he passed her and finally climbed the fifth step that separated him from his destination.

That was why he had stopped accepting missions like that. It was so much easier to just show up at a place to shoot someone in the forehead and then run away, he didn't have to spend days and days waiting to finish the mission. He could even do more than three in a single day, when the targets knew each other or were in the same place.

But, yes, even if it didn't seem like it, so much death at his heels was also a bit overwhelming if he was honest. He'd heard from other mercenaries, the ones who weren't so sadistic, that rescue missions were sometimes a respite to get back into the action again. Bucky had done it before, but there was always something that went wrong. And this time was no exception. Maybe he wasn't cut out to rescue people, to save them…

When he came out of the bathroom and made his way with great effort into the living room, the smell of bacon and eggs filled the room. Scattered on the dining room table were all the items he could find inside a first aid kit and there was also a bag with what appeared to be bloody gauze.

“I thought the bath swallowed you up.”

Bucky noticed when the woman came out of the kitchen wiping her hands with a white cloth. She was wearing different clothes than yesterday, white and neat, totally in contrast to the stained and dirty clothes he was wearing.

“Sit down. I need to check you over.”

“I'm fine.”

“Don't be foolish.”

Bucky shifted, willing himself to lie back down on the couch he'd woken up in. He vaguely noticed that on one side of the furniture was a bucket of water and bubbles and some sponges, one submerged and one over an edge of the couch that was bathed in blood.

“You do know there are people who clean these places?” Bucky spoke as he tried to find a way to sit down without having to bend over or exert too much force by bending his legs.

“No.”

“Well, now you know. Don't spend time cleaning these things.”

“It looks bad.”

“It's just blood… argh.”

Bucky arched as he made a very bad move and rested one of his hands on the back of the couch. He barely heard the woman sigh and then her footsteps approaching.

“No, no… I can.”

“God, what a stupid man.”

“What the fuck did you just-? Ah, ah, ahhhhh.”

The man hadn't even noticed when you came up behind him and pushed him to move before his head could process it. He fell noisily onto the couch and bit his lips to keep from moaning in pain.

“I like you better when you're quiet.”

Giving up the fight, Bucky let his body fall against the backrest and dropped his limp hands on either side of his legs. With his eyes closed, he heard a flutter of things on one side of him and guessed that the woman was digging through the things she had placed on the table. He barely had any memories of the night before when they arrived and most of them included a terrible pain that drove him into unconsciousness.

"Well, let's see…" the woman mumbled to herself and Bucky soon felt her hands moving over his bandaged abdomen.

It was instinct and he couldn't stop his left hand, metallic and dulled by the bloodstains that spread over his body, from clinging with superhuman strength to the wrists of the woman who had only intended to tend to him.

Even with his eyes closed, he heard her gasp in surprise and felt her tense in front of him. Her small hands, which had not the slightest chance before his exorbitant strength, stirred under his grip in slight movements. Without seeing her, he could tell she was so frightened she didn't know if she should keep shaking or stay still.

Bucky opened his eyes to realize that his instinct was right. The woman was pale with fright.

Sighing, the man loosened his grip until finally releasing her.

The woman fell backwards on the floor trying to get away from him.

That was the look he was used to seeing on all his victims.

Turning his head away, Bucky cleared his throat.

“Ask first next time.”

It was several seconds before the woman moved again. She had stood there, still and tense, watching him, waiting for any sudden movement to bolt. She moved closer to him on her knees, but not as close as she had been a few minutes ago. Her breathing was just beginning to become more leisurely until she finally seemed to have calmed down.

Bucky kept his gaze anywhere but on the small woman in front of him, who seemed to fear she would be swallowed alive.

“I'm going to-”

“Yes.”

That time, when the woman moved her hands back to the bandage around his abdomen, Bucky tensed, but kept his instincts to himself. He knew the woman had sensed that moment of hesitation, because she almost moved her hands away, but came closer again when nothing happened.

Thus Bucky allowed himself to be attended to, until he fell back asleep on the couch.

When the man woke up again, you had already eaten breakfast and finished washing the couch, except for the place where he was lying. You had also cleaned up the trail of blood he had left on the floor from the bathroom all the way back to the living room. You had tried to make everything in your reach neat, free of any mud or blood stains. And when you were done in the living room, you went to fix what was needed in the kitchen.

You were halfway through going to get your clothes when you heard him.

“Fuck, how the hell did you make it hurt more than it did before?”

You turned on your feet at the top of the stairs to see him as he leaned forward with a grimace.

“Maybe I wouldn't have had to double stitch you if you weren't such a moron.”

“Double stitch? Does that exist?”

“I don't know!”

“You double stitched me?”

You shrugged. “Just in case!”

“Argh… No fucking way.”

Dropping his head on the back of the couch, the man brought his right hand over his forehead in a weary gesture.

“Whatever. I left you some hot water in the shower and a rag. Try not to get your wound wet.”

He lowered his head to look at you, but you hurried on walking to the cleaning room.

That man was scary. And it was much scarier that you were in an almost-abandoned house in a ghost neighborhood alone with him. The chances were that if you shouted, no one would hear you; or if you did and someone did hear you, they would prefer to keep on walking. That's how troubled the place you were in looked.

You were surprised that your brother had sent someone like that to look for you. At least he would have made a little more effort to find someone more decent. You had to crawl to get you both out of that wrecked house, when it should've been the other way around. As you folded your clothes, you wondered where your brother had gotten that man from.

You were heading back to the room when you heard a snort down the hall. Against the alarms in your head, you approached the hallway to see towards the back, into the living room, as the man had gotten up from the couch and had walked that way about seven steps with the goal of reaching the stairs. At the pace he was going, you wondered how long it had taken him to get there. And with the winces of pain he was making, you knew it was taking all his strength not to make sudden movements.

You sighed as you dropped your clothes on the basket next to the door. That man was going to give you green gray hair.

“Let me help you,” you spoke once you were near him, at the top of the stairs.

It really wasn't that many stairs, only ten steps were separating the man from that bathroom. You didn't know why that kind of platform was there, instead of just making a flat floor for the whole house being so big, but you couldn't judge an architect's decisions.

And yet, even though it was only a few stairs, it seemed like a hundred when you had a bullet wound in your abdomen.

When you started to descend, the man said nothing, just watched you intently as your feet went one in front of the other holding onto the handrail. His deadly gaze caused you to shiver slightly because he looked like a lion about to eat a gazelle.

Still, you stopped at a safe distance.

“May I?”

The man kept his gaze on yours for a while longer, as if he had to weigh every possibility in a short time. You wonder what he saw in you that he had to be so alert. You barely reached his chin, what could you do without him stopping you two seconds before? You didn't even have the option to think of anything.

So when he sighed, you realized he had given in.

Bucky took a pleasant nap on the bed in the master bedroom when he finished showering, if anyone could call what he had done a shower. He ran a washcloth with warm water all over his body, with the tiniest amount of soap and unable to wash his hair. The woman downstairs had offered to do it for him, but Bucky didn't even consider that possibility.

Still, he felt fresh enough to really rest for a while.

And by the time he awoke, moonlight was filtering through the curtains.

It was daring to get out of bed. But it was worth it when he reached the kitchen and the smell of meat made his stomach growl loudly. He hadn't eaten anything for over twenty-four hours. He hadn't even accepted the breakfast the woman made because he still felt as if at any moment he was going to vomit up to the air.

But at that moment… at that moment….

“Ah, you finally woke up.”

“How long did I sleep?”

“About twelve hours.”

Bucky moved his head to look at the clock above the entrance to the kitchen, and yes, it was already eight o'clock at night.

“How are you feeling? How's the wound?”

The man stirred when he heard the woman's voice nearby. She had moved until she reached the kitchen entrance, not a step more, not a step less.

“It doesn't hurt as much as it did before.”

“That's good,” the woman shook her head in a nod and walked back into the kitchen. “Sit down. You need to eat.”

Bucky obeyed silently, because dealing with food he didn't want to grumble. He heard the sound of dishes and silverware before the woman came out with two large plates in her hands. When Bucky saw what she had cooked, his mouth dropped open in surprise.

“I hope you like meat,” the woman commented in a light voice, but at Bucky's silence she began to perspire. “I also cooked a vegan option if you-”

“No,” Bucky cut her off, moving his hands to grab the silverware. “I definitely like meat.”

Bucky didn't notice how the woman's shoulders relaxed as she watched him savor each thing on his plate nor how she kept her gaze fixed on him to make sure he didn't choke on how quickly the food was being stuffed.

And when they were both finished eating, the woman pulled out a bag that had been sitting on a chair and set it on the table, bringing it closer to Bucky, but not too close.

At the man's arched eyebrow, she said, “Medication.”

Bucky's eyes lit up, but he shook his head quickly.

“Why the hell didn't you give this to me before?”

“Because there was none before.”

Bucky frowned. “And where did you get this?”

As she answered, the woman got up to pick up the dishes and carry them to the scrubber. “There's a store about five blocks from here. I had some money so I bought it. It seemed necessary.”

The woman went to grab the silverware Bucky had used, not noticing the man's steady gaze on her, when his metal hand stopped her from taking the silverware away.

She unconsciously cringed at the sudden movement, and sought the man's gaze in alarm. Bucky felt such overwhelming anger make its way inside his chest that he didn't even think twice before letting his body act first.

“You did what?”

The woman sputtered a couple of times, like a fish out of water, before replying, “I just went for meds. So you won't get the wound infected.”

“You left this house alone? Are you out of your mind?”

Bucky raised his voice as he rose suddenly from his chair. His metal hand pulled the woman's wrist and slammed it against her chest in one violent motion. She barely managed to take a deep breath before tears welled up in her eyes.

“Do you even have any idea what I had to go through to get you here? And you're telling me you walked out of this house like it was nothing? Alone?!”

Still cringing at the tone of voice Bucky was using, the woman replied shakily, “But nothing happened. I'm fine…”

“Ah! Right! And how can you be sure that no one followed you here? How can you be sure that you didn't compromise our location?”

“I swear I took a good look when I left and arrived. There was no one… There wasn't… Please just... let me go.”

Bucky pursed his lips and took one more detailed look at the woman's contracted face. He angrily let go of her.

She didn't hesitate for a second to start up the stairs.

“Just take the fucking meds,” she spat from afar, and the next thing Bucky heard was the slamming of a room door.

Staring at the empty space through which the woman had disappeared, Bucky took a few seconds to calm his breathing and emotions. Now he had to make sure they weren't going to be ambushed by surprise while he slept and the two were distracted. He could go stay all the rest of the night in the camera room after placing a motion bomb over every entrance to the house… but he was too tired to do that, and he most likely wouldn't be able to find the necessary items in that house to make those traps as invisible as possible. The only thing he could do was to sit in that armchair with a shotgun in his hands and wait. Hope that it was true that no one had followed her.

Bucky sighed. Fuck, he had to learn to manage his attitude.

His eyes fell on the bag on the table and he felt the tiniest whip of guilt inside his chest. It disappeared as quick as lightning. He picked up the bag to rummage inside to find four boxes and a piece of paper.

He shook the bag on the table and the medications fell free. He grabbed the paper with a frown and the whip of guilt returned as he read what had been written in black ink:

“Stranger,

I'm writing this note to tell you how you should take these medications.

The blue one is to prevent infection, so you should take it every 12 hours.

The red one is for pain. If it hurts too much, take it every 6 hours, and if it doesn't hurt too much, take it every 12 hours.

Yellow is an analgesic, it will most likely put you to sleep. Take it when the pain is unbearable.

And the green box is vitamins. Take one after each meal.

These boxes will last for at least a week. Hopefully by that time the wound will have healed much more.

Take them judiciously.”

Bucky stared at that piece of paper as if it were to blame for all his misfortunes. In spite of everything, the woman did try to care for his wound, even if he did nothing but reject the support she gave him.

The sound of something similar to a bell brought Bucky out of the depths of his head.

It was the satellite phone.

Bucky moved to the kitchen, where the sound was coming from. There, beside the blender, was the phone. He wondered if the woman had used it before.

He picked up the device and held it up to his ear in silence.

“Barnes?”

“Jacob.”

“Fucking shit. Why are you answering until now? I've been calling for a while now.”

So she hadn't used the phone.

“I was asleep.”

“What?”

“Long story.”

The man on the other end of the line barely took a deep breath.

“Are you with her?”

“Yes.”

“And she's okay?“”

“Yes.”

“Ah,” the man exclaimed in relief. “When are you going to bring her in?”

“You know I have to wait at least five days before I leave the house.”

“Argh, yes, yeah, right. And have you two got enough? Food? Clothes? Has she eaten well? Have you seen her take care of herself?”

“She's fine. She's more than capable of fending for herself. Stop worrying.”

“It's easy for you to ask me that when it's not your family member who was kidnapped.”

Bucky twisted his lips. “Why are you calling me and not Alejandro?”

“He left early. Seems there was a problem with the New York headquarters.”

“Ah, the troubled mercenary society.”

“Yeah, you should have seen the look on his face from these brats again,” Jacob let out a short laugh that was not reciprocated by Bucky. “Well,” he throat cleared, “let me know if there's any news.”

“Okay.”

And Bucky hung up.

His gaze lingered on the white kitchen wall before returning his attention to the colorful boxes on the dining room counter.

Fuck he was going to apologize to the woman.

You were stunned when you woke up the next morning and breakfast was ready and there was no sign of the man anywhere near the kitchen. The same thing happened at noon and at night.

You wanted to meet him somewhere to thank him, but at the same time you wanted to never see him again. However, what you thought about most was his wound and that you should've changed his bandage more than six hours ago. But the man was nowhere to be found. He would only show up to cook something and then vanish.

Still, you tried to comfort yourself with the thought that he had taken the gauze and bandages, because you couldn't find the first aid kit anywhere either.

At some point you thought that would be a good thing, not to find him even by accident for the rest of the days you had to spend in that house. You didn't think you would be able to keep up with his temper, clearly driven by emotions he couldn't control. You'd better take that time to take care of yourself and try to process everything that had happened instead of continuing to repress it, as always.

But… every time you tried to think about what had happened, what it had been like to be in that mansion in the middle of the trees, in the middle of nowhere, a suffocating sensation would make its way from your stomach to your chest and throat, and suddenly you felt short of breath. You couldn't spend more than a minute trying to cope with those emotions and memories you kept locked up in your memory because bringing them up made you feel like you were choking on air.

Maybe it was still too soon.

Yes, maybe it was.

It was already close to midnight when you finished organizing the kitchen. It seemed like the meds were kicking in if the man could spend so much time on his feet cooking and then washing dishes.

Remembering the anger that had sailed across his face the night before still gave you chills. You were trying to get that image out of your head.

You were on your way to the yard when you heard a sound down the hall. There were a couple of doors in that house that you had seen around but had no idea what was behind them, and now you were hearing a sound behind one of them.

Thinking of the man, you moved and walked to open the door, encountering stairs descending to the left and a light at the bottom of the stairs. The sound repeated, and with the door open you could also identify music.

You carefully descended and followed the hallway to the left after descending. Whatever it was you were expecting to see, a gymnasium opened up in front of your eyes. And in the middle of it all, the man, punching a large sandbag as if he didn't have a bullet wound in his abdomen.

You didn't know if you had made a noise or he had a sixth sense, but suddenly he moved his head and his eyes met yours. His expression denoted nothing but indifference and he promptly hit the bag again.

“You do know you have a large wound in your abdomen?” was the first thing you said as you stepped through the glass door.

The man didn't even turn around.

“You could open up the wound.”

“I've been here all day and nothing's happened to me.”

“Yeah, lucky you. Watch how you stretch to hit that.”

The man stopped to look at you when you got too close trying to see his injured side. Feeling prey to his intimidating stare, you backed up a few steps.

“Check it out if you want to so badly,” he turned around to face you and raised his arms waiting for you to come closer. You had barely noticed that he wasn't wearing a shirt.

“No. Did you change your bandages?”

“Yes. The wound is fine. I haven't even had to take the pills.”

You frowned at him as he went back to focusing on his sandbag. “Not even the vitamins?”

The man gave you a sidelong glance before striking again.

“Oh, c'mon,” you exclaimed in annoyance. “At least make my act of recklessness worthwhile.”

His gaze traveled to your face again, his expression incredulous and somewhat angry. He shook his head as if he didn't credit your words and went back to focusing on his blows. One after another. One, two, three, four.

“It really doesn't hurt?”

This time he hit the sack so hard with his metal arm that it flew off and crashed against the wall in a thud.

You barely cowered in place.

“Take off the bandages so you're sure.”

Again he turned his body toward you, his posture nonchalant even though his features were hard, like polished marble.

“Stop,” you raised your hands, “I'm sorry.”

The man sighed, lowering his shoulders for the first time at will. The only times you had ever seen him relaxed had been when he slept.

He began to untangle the bandages around the knuckles of his right hand as he approached the sack he had pushed out of its holder.

“What's your name?”

“Huh?”

“Are you deaf?” the man turned with a frown, but quickly turned away taking a deep breath. “What's your name?”

“Uhm… Y/N. Didn't you already know that?”

“Yes. But I'd forgotten.”

“Ah.”

“I'm sorry, Y/N.”

“Why?”

“I'm not used to… whatever it is you do,” he waved his hand vaguely as if trying to clarify a point.

“You mean help you?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Don't you get help very often?”

“I work alone. That's what I mean.”

“Ah, that makes sense.”

“Well, anyway. I'm sorry I yelled at you last night. I shouldn't have lost control.”

“Yeah…”

“And you shouldn't have gone out on your own like that. Don't ever do that again,” his accusing index finger pointed at you.

“Okay. I'm sorry.”

He sighed and turned around again to look at the sandbag on the floor. He had already removed his bandages and his knuckles looked somewhat swollen, the red color standing out against the olive of his skin. If he'd been like that all day, he must have at least some pain in that hand. You frowned watching him there, not moving.

He couldn't bend over.

Maybe he wasn't so sincere in saying it didn't hurt.

“I can lift it,” you spoke before you even thought it through.

The man, whose name you hadn't asked yet, turned to look at you with an ingrown eyebrow. You tried not to think too hard as he swept his eyes over your figure and then looked back down at the sandbag on the floor, probably taller than you and certainly heavier. But you could do it. Besides, you couldn't allow him to make that effort if there was a chance of once again opening up the wound.

When he took a step back and turned to look at you, your palms sweated. Maybe you really couldn't…

No, you could. You definitely could. It was a piece of cake.

Under his watchful eye you approached the sandbag. You looked at it with narrowed eyes, like your nemesis. You moved your arms, wanting to loosen your shoulders a bit before overexerting yourself lifting the thing, and at that moment you heard a short, thinly disguised laugh through a cough.

When you turned to see him, he kept coughing like it was nothing and turned to walk to another side of the gym.

Ha, how funny.

You turned around to focus on your task and, well, it was crunch time. You felt so determined to shut him up that you didn't even think it was the first time you'd seen an emotion other than indifference and anger in him.

You hugged the sack and gathering all your strength you moved back.

Nothing moved.

You tried again.

Nothing.

You snorted as you stood up for the fifth time and saw that the bag had barely moved less than a foot from its initial state. You rounded the object and sat down in front of it. You swung your legs over and planted your feet on the side of the bag and began to push hard.

You could move it. Not much, but you could move it.

You kept doing it until it was under the support where it had been hanging before the man's anger sent it flying. You put your head up and realized that the support was too high for you to push the bag up. It was impossible.

“Leave it,” you heard the man say.

You found him across the gym in front of you with a bottle in his hands. He took a big sip as he watched you in amusement.

Then, without a word, he moved a little to his left and pressed a button on what appeared to be a joystick. There were many other small buttons and levers that you had absolutely no idea what they could be for in a gym.

Then, you heard something over your head. You watched in amazement at what the man's button was doing.

The bastard had let you try to do something he knew was impossible for you to do, knowing that there was a stupid button that could do it for you. From the back of the gym, a sandbag was moving from the ceiling to where you were, guided by the mechanical system above your head. You barely noticed then that, in the shape of a circle, there was a kind of rail along which the brackets hanging from the ceiling moved.

You wanted to choke someone.

When you looked back at the man, he had his lips cocked in a smug smile. Damn him.

“I'm not going to offer to do anything for you again,” you exclaimed as you stood up and proudly decided to walk out of there with what little dignity you had left.

“Oh no, you should keep doing it. It's very entertaining.”

You stuck out your middle finger at him as you walked in the direction of the exit without turning to look at him. You heard more real laughter when you were far enough away.

It was quite late at night when Bucky came out of the gym. It had only been a few hours since you had left and he thought maybe he should follow in your footsteps and go rest, but for some reason he decided to stay a while longer.

On his way out, he saw the sandbag on the floor again and was too surprised by the urge he had to crack a smile. But he restrained himself.

In the house the lights were still on. It was almost midnight. Bucky had prepared dinner with the goal of getting you to eat and go to bed, because it seemed that every time you ate you had to go to sleep afterwards, even if it was just a short nap. But it looked like that wasn't going to be the case this time.

When he came into the living room he found you lying on the big couch in front of the TV on. Some news channel was playing in the background and it looked like you were deep in concentration listening because you didn't move when he approached.

“What are you doing awake still?” Bucky spoke with a frown before he could repent. “It's almost-”

You were asleep.

Bucky stopped at the side of the large piece of furniture when he saw you with your eyes closed and hugging one of the cushions, with half a sheet over your legs. Of course, it was going to be weird that you were still awake.

Bucky had always seen you walking, alert, moving around, always looking for something to occupy you. Your moments of rest were always away from him. However, looking to the front where the glass table was, Bucky quickly noticed the rag on the table and a small bucket on the floor.

So even all tired out you had been looking for something to do.

Bucky sighed shaking his head.

He took the rag resting on the neatest glass he had ever seen, along with the bucket filled with soapy water, and carried them to the laundry room where he put everything back in its place.

When you returned, you had shifted on the couch and looked like you wanted to find a position to stretch out because your body was more tilted than before.

Bucky turned off the TV which had low sound and stood in front of you on the couch.

He couldn't carry you to the bed without risking too much force that would compromise his injury and seeing how worried you had been about that earlier, he preferred to avoid straining too much. For some reason, he had the feeling that you would prefer to sleep on the couch if it would keep the wound in his abdomen from opening up.

So, he opted for the safest option. He brought down some pillows from the master bedroom along with another larger, thicker sheet. He planted himself in front of you thinking about the best way to accommodate you so you wouldn't wake up sore, although the cushions on that piece of furniture weren't as hard as the ones in the dining room.

Finally he opted to follow the direction your own body was taking. He nestled a pillow over the armrest of the couch, punching it and molding it until it looked comfortable enough. Then he ran his left hand carefully down your neck and his right hand circled your shoulders until it reached your back. He moved you slightly forward keeping you stable and then began to let your body slowly fall onto the couch.

When you were lying flat, he gently pulled his left hand out and stood up. Quietly and very carefully, he removed the small cushion you were hugging, and before you could make any grimace, he rolled a larger pillow between your arms. Bucky watched you sigh in contentment.

Finally, he pulled back the small, thin blanket between your legs and arranged the large sheet he had brought that almost doubled as a bedspread. It would probably get you warm in a few seconds, but that was good, because the nights were cold in that house.

Finished with his task, Bucky nodded to himself.

It was only after he finished that he really realized what he had done. He frowned, watching your placid face as you rested comfortably.

Why had he done that, without even a second thought?

Bucky suddenly felt the need to run away. Now he wanted to undo all that because tomorrow you would wake up and surely ask questions he wouldn't know how to answer. That he wouldn't want to answer. Maybe he could play dumb and say that's how he'd found you when he'd left the gym. Surely you'd been so drunk on sleep that you hadn't even realized what you'd done.

Maybe that had happened to Bucky. Maybe he'd been so drunk on exhaustion that he hadn't realized what he was doing until he'd done it. Yes, surely.

Inside his chest he again recognized the feeling of guilt he'd had when he saw the paper you'd given him with the pills, and that only increased as he remembered he hadn't taken a single one.

It was guilt that made him move like that.

Yes, that was probably it.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes angst #bucky fic #bucky x you #bucky barnes #bucky fluff #bucky x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction

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schismusic · 2 months

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Joy Division, or: how I learned to stop worrying and love New Order, too

Spring is weird as hell because one time you have this glaring sun that powers you up like being plugged into a wall outlet, then not five minutes later clouds begin to gather and you feel like you're going to die if anything goes south. So the most obvious combination to represent two sides of this same coin, emotional and meteorological, is Joy Division and New Order.

Sometimes you need Transmission or Shadowplay for the sunny days — impassioned jolts, sparks flying everywhere. Sometimes The Perfect Kiss hits harder on a cloudy afternoon, coming back home and in need of that extra push to not fall asleep in the train. It's surprising to realize the versatility displayed by both bands, or the same band in two different iterations according to whomever you ask. Peter Hook says, as late as 1993, that the laziest member of New Order is Ian Curtis. Or again this other person, in the comments under the Atmosphere official video on YouTube, who went to see New Order (Hooky-less New Order, which might be a relevant distinction) at the O2 Arena a couple of years ago and they gave an encore, says "Those of us who stayed got the privilege of watching Joy Division perform three of their songs". Interesting outlook on the matter. I personally saw Peter Hook and the Light play both Joy Division records and, I'm pretty sure, an encore comprised of just Love Will Tear Us Apart at the Arti Vive Festival in Soliera, back when it was still free to attend some of the events. I remember being pretty mad that Hooky had stopped to take pics with basically everyone and then left exactly as I was approaching. In retrospect I don't exactly blame the man, it was like midnight anyway. I remember nothing of the back trip home.

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My first contact with Joy Division happened when I was thirteen and very much in my prog era. I was in Rome staying at an aunt of mine's place for my fourteenth birthday and she told me I could get a CD, since I had gotten some money saved up over time. Some Facebook page dedicated to Pink Floyd I'd liked (yeah, Facebook at age thirteen — I literally just wanted to play a fucking Flash game, back when Facebook allowed them, and I ended up getting to be terminally online. Crazy how things turn out) used to share a lot of memes and fanart relating to the Unknown Pleasures album cover, and me being a massive Pink Floyd head at the time I thought "I mean, if these guys are pushing this band so hard, that's gotta mean something". The album cover was pretty striking, admittedly: a far cry from the paisley ass paintings that I had grown to accept as the gold standard for the music I liked, but its simplicity struck a chord closer to The Dark Side of the Moon, or perhaps The Wall. Those were records I liked a lot, probably called them "the best records ever made" to more than one person, not like they aren't but that's a very bold statement to make when your listening experience consists exactly of

Madonna's Confessions on a Dance Floor when I was six;

Daft Punk's complete discography (minus Random Access Memories, which wasn't out yet) when I was twelve;

Pink Floyd's complete discography, courtesy of a CD collection coming out with some Italian newspaper, that same year;

a couple random classic rock records recommended to me by older friends and relatives usually well into their fifties or sixties at the time, random people on Internet forums — which, for clarification, I did not actively attend, preferring to just lurk from time to time — and the OndaRock "milestones" page.

So browsing through the surprisingly expansive CDs section of this electronics shop in Rome, and being mesmerized by a vinyl rack in the days when Music on Vinyl was the final frontier of pretending you could re-analogue the digital ("you mean to tell me these are like CDs, but bigger? Whoever designed these truly lived in the future"), I came across that very same album art that had stricken me so hard. I had listened to the first seconds of the album on YouTube, but that weird drum sound — so echoey, so distant, ultimately not particularly powerful, meaning it didn't really sound like Bonzo: it sounded more like my own band, which at the time didn't even exist yet — I didn't really know what to make of. This store I was in had one of those preview listening machines that would scan the barcode on the CDs and give you a small snippet of the song. I pull the CD up to the scanner, the scanner lights up green, I put on the headphones and the solo from this comes up:

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Clearly they had to be kidding me. I had come to know, sneaking into infinitely many rehearsals with the band from my mother's town, what it sounded like when someone tried to play lead without something else filling up the arrangement (even though I didn't really know all that, or at least lacked the vocabulary to properly express it) and, for Christ's sake, didn't these guys notice rehearsing? It sounded empty, weirdly so, and it wasn't my thing, I thought. I put that CD away and picked up a band I knew I'd like — Genesis, specifically. So Nursery Cryme became the first CD I've ever paid with my own money, the very day I turned fourteen. Not a bad pickup. I remember being very impressed with the fast blurring lead guitar on The Musical Box and digging the sweet pastoral atmospheres of For Absent Friends and Harlequin. I still think of that record more often than one would probably assume looking at this blog, or my most played on Spotify. At the time, that was the best move I could take, really: why beat my head against a record that, as your average prog nerd ballbreaker, simply wasn't speaking to me?

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Then all of a sudden in August of the same year my friend's dad hands me a 16 gigabyte USB drive, full of random music from all eras of rock. A lot of it remains inscrutable to me for a really long time, most notably Tom Waits (see related post), but I spent the whole month reading random folder names, seeing if something catches my eyes, and at one point I come across the Mars Volta. Open the folder up, read the names of their first three records, and my first thought is "Christ, these guys look incomprehensible. I'm about to have some fun". Long story short: I end up having a lot of fun, the Mars Volta turns into my favourite band at the time and finding out that they had previously been called At the Drive-In makes me gain some measure of respect for punk rockers: if they tried hard enough, I must've thought, they could prog as hard as anyone. In the meantime the ghost of Joy Division remains at the back of my head. I feel like I'm missing something, for the first time in my life: it's not them, it's me. Too bad that same realization didn't occur to me when it came to the people in my life until much, much later, but that's being fourteen for you I suppose. Early King Crimson and the Mars Volta were the pinnacle of violence to me, and not even the very few Metallica songs I'd downloaded just to see what would happen scratched that itch. It felt a bit too cauterized for some reason (I would later find out I had been looking in the wrong direction the whole time: the Black Album "sucked", according to my favourite metalhead of the time, who somehow catalyzed my interest from the very second I saw him in the school's courtyard. Hard to imagine why I would imprint on people like puppies do, but what the fuck, not like I've ever outgrown that anyway, I've just gotten better at managing it). But I felt there was more than violence to this, or different forms of violence. When Christmas came around and my relatives tried to get me presents, my mother asked if there was anything specific I was interested in, and I basically told her "look, if they can get me some CDs off of this list, I'm golden". It had some bangers on it, namely Noctourniquet by the Mars Volta — it's one of their best and I will die on this hill, be warned — and The Downward Spiral, which might as well warrant its own post in an ideal world. But the best of them all I think came from a random purchase, once again with the little money I had lying around at the time.

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Closer appears to be, right away, a bit more concrete, and if there's something inexperienced music fans like is a pretty packaging that conjures a strong emotional response before they've even played the record. Compare a color-inverted graph of pulsar emissions to a literal funerary monument. Opening up the booklet I was shocked to see that Genesis was used as a negative point of comparison (bad omen, I thought) by people close to the band, and I came across much more detailed information about Ian Curtis's untimely demise — at that time, something far too removed from my experience to be faced with the delicacy and attention it deserves. Atrocity Exhibition hits like a ten-ton truck, a reference which at the time I wouldn't have been able to make for obvious reasons, and Isolation exposes all the nerve tissue under the skin. Passover comes in and strips everything even barer, and then A Means to an End turns… danceable, for some reason? Big emotional moment with The Eternal and Decades, which I thought actually took them closer to my usual tastes. And yet at the same time I kept looking at Colony, Heart and Soul and Twenty Four Hours as the most compelling cuts. Geometric assault sounding like sheet metal if it were music; rhythmically driven emptiness that serves as a minimal backdrop for depressed poetry, and finally a rocking ebb-and-flow that would probably inform a lot of my interest in GY!BE-like post-rock in the coming years. Very interesting to think that the same guys who'd done Unknown Pleasures could think of this. To this day, when asked, I still do think that Closer is the best Joy Division record, but what does it even mean when the records are exactly two, compilations notwithstanding?

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It was around this time that it came to my attention that both Joy Division and another band called New Order had a record called Substance out, both published by the same recording company, both coming out within a year of each other. Looking it up, it turns out it's fully intentional, because New Order is simply Joy Division minus Ian Curtis. It would turn out to be a tad bit more complex than that. Anyway, I look New Order up and kind of have to do a double-take. Synthpop? In my Joy Division? More likely than you'd think, considering Isolation exists. But yeah, that sort of seals it — I wouldn't care about this New Order for a million years. Until all of a sudden a couple of years later David Sylvian bursts like a comet in my face, which of course leads me straight to Japan, the same year as I'd come across Berlin-era Bowie, and you can probably guess where this is going, right?

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Well, you'd be wrong. I still don't check out New Order. There's a whole new world open to me — vaporwave and therefore R Plus Seven come to my attention, which leads me to dissect that record like an alien tool of unclear purposes. This of course leads me onto an ambient tangent, taking me back to my Tim Hecker listens of that same year, which has the effect of renewing my interest in "pure" electronic music and the then-rising post-dubstep movement. The sheer experience of sound, the dazzling modernity and innovation, is what's in at the time. I have no time for nostalgia-pandering dimwits: the future awaits. Then all that jazz from the first Godflesh post hits, then God pulls the funniest gag in the history of viral infections to my memory, and I have some time to actually look back, a bit less prejudiced. As it turns out, synthpop is not the devil, as some of you might have surmised by now, and as I relisten to Blue Monday I realized I have never listened to either of the Substance record. I do know some, most perhaps?, of the tracks on the Joy Division one, and I do think the New Order one has the more striking cover art — not to mention I knew, by this time, that this was the one to give Metal Gear Solid 2: Substance its name, and that Your Silent Face soundtracked one of the most memorable moments in Nicolas Winding Refn's Bronson. As the ultimate Hideo Kojima stan, I couldn't let this slide, so I pop the record on and get hit with this:

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Way to go, guys. Holy shit. I knew that Ceremony was a Joy Division cut before they could record it, but what the hell — Bernard got it, too. It wasn't a matter of singing ability with songs like these, it's just getting it, finding the right energy. They had that right energy. And then it hit me just as many times these dudes have made Blue Monday over and over again before actually getting it right, and everytime I look into it it's funnier and funnier to realize just how many different attempts it took them to finally be Kraftwerk, but augmented — with the stellar results we all know. Everything's Gone Green, 5 8 6, Temptation potentially, all lead up to this one moment in the history of dance music where somehow three dudes and a girl hailing from Manchester managed to out-gay the Pet Shop Boys (by their own admission, apparently), to shake the whole world's collective booty, to do whatever it is they were supposed to do in this last comparison that would ideally make the previous one a bit less obnoxious but whatever, it's 3am as usual, you know how it goes by now don't you? But then after Blue Monday the record keeps going, and thank god it does, because it's banger after banger. How do these guys keep doing it?

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So I spend some time with that record, then it fades down, then it comes back up last month, when the weather calls for it and its parent company. Which is when I find myself watching the Control movie for the first time, surprisingly enough seeing as I already enjoyed the work of Anton Corbijn as a photographer. Looking at all that, it is revealed to me that Joy Division never really having died is not a bug, it's a feature. Everyone is gasping, I get it, but please pick your jaws up and check this out: the band has never learned how to play their respective instruments. One might go so far as to argue they play their own stuff their own way, and that's basically it. Nothing could be further from the truth. These guys jammed, a lot; that's how Joy Division wrote songs, that's how New Order wrote songs, even going as far as having Bernard Sumner fucked up on acid so he could find the chorus to Temptation or the whole band bombed out of their minds on X in Ibiza clubs to write, basically, the entirety of Technique — and even then, not really, there's a couple jangly tracks that the X would most likely render unlistenable but what do I really know? Point being: it might now have been sparked by a music teacher or instructor, it might not have been the product of a process comparable to that within Television, which led them to organically seek out better, more "by the book" musicianship, but New Order were incredibly familiar with their instruments, had formed an element of comfort and understanding that counterbalanced the alien-ness to music terminology.

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Peter Hook recently uploaded a Yamaha-sponsored video to his Instagram, which I am pretty sure has a say in running, where he jams on a Yamaha bass and, you know, it sounds like Hooky alright, but it's never a discernible bassline until he kicks into the A major strumming that opens Love Will Tear Us Apart. Before that, he just strolls around the neck, leisurely strumming away at power chords imbued with that thick chorus and reverb combo he became renowned for. I would never, in my wildest dreams, have imagined I'd find myself thinking "okay, awesome, stop talking — I want to hear you jam a bit more" referring to one of the musicians who were part of possibly two of the craziest storiest in the history of contemporary rock'n'roll, also notorious for playing the rockstar whilst carrying the minimum possible baggage of technical knowledge he could. Once again, this is nowhere near a knock to the man — quite the opposite. Ian Curtis asked "persistence, well, what does it matter?", and Hooky (and, of course, the other members of New Order) found a way to constructively answer that question. Moments before Coil, but a bit later than Israel Regardie, they said "persistence is all" and built a brand on finding a way to consistently sound like splendid, eternal, golden children: "like crystal", impassionate, tightly-knit performers with the purity of a child's heart. Ian Curtis had, in certain ways (at least artistically), the purity of a child in his heart, which some might even argue was a distinguishing feature of most of his literary idols — if you think about it, William Burroughs could be your dirty-minded classmate who walked in on his parents sharing an intimate moment in the bedroom (had his parents been gay men, the metaphor would probably fly better, but that most definitely wasn't the case). So the heart of Joy Division remains untouched, if a bit more naked. Heroes of post-punk, sons of the silent age, you can sleep soundly tonight.

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#schismusic #music #musica #long form content #schism writing #joy division #new order #post punk #new wave #Youtube

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ambiguouspuzuma · 2 months

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Algae

"I'm sure you've hard around the Bās system," she said, in faltering Human English: pronouncing hard rather than heard, and confusing around and about. But Objects in the Mirror gave her points for trying. Most emissaries would open in their own language, and just expect him to keep up.

"The solar flare? Yes, of course. Awful, awful news."

He folded his limbs in the Bās gesture for commiseration, and she reciprocated with an appreciative click. She wasn't indigenous Bāsic - not unless she was hiding a couple of arms under her gown - but emissaries were encouraged to adopt the planet of each posting as if it were their own.

"How long do they think until... you know?"

"Forty taons, more or less. A few more sons, and it will all be gone."

"A few generations," he translated. "It almost doesn't bear thinking about. Millennia of civilisation, and then the universe does this. I'm so sorry."

"Me too."

"I do speak Eastern Bāsic, if that's easier for you," Objects in the Mirror continued, wondering which would be her preference. She might have been born in the Com belt, from the shade and texture of her skin. "Or a few dialects of Comon. I was only on Earth for fifty taons, so I never went entirely native."

His correct guess was rewarded by another click, although her tone turned apologetic. "Sorry, is my ascent that strong? I grew up on Com-5, so Honsun is my baby tongue - but I'd like to perverse with Human, if you don't mind too much. It's good to have the practice."

"English it is." He smiled in the Human fashion, with his teeth instead of his eyes. "What else can I do for you?"

"As you will know, we have enjoyed sentries of peace. A perfect equilibrium. We spawn, we die, and our populations remain much the same. Our worlds remain much the same, held in balance to exactly meet our needs. But that balance has been tipped. This solar flare follows volcanic activity on Com-2, and soon we will be two worlds down. We will need new homes, and fast."

"I'm no terraformer," Objects in the Mirror said. "I'm a cultural researcher. I study the way things are, preserved, rather than changing what they might be."

"You know Earth," the emissary said. "If we have exhausted our own planets, we must look to bring others into the fold. Make our homes amongst them, if we can. You've been there, done it. Is there space?

"Space?" He chuckled at that. "Mankind abhors a vacuum. They can't see a blank page without filling it. Men are like a culture of algae, you understand. They'll always grow to fill their cell, their dish, and overflow if you forget to replace the lid. That's why we've kept them at arm's length. We want to keep the little that we have."

"They would take our homes? Destroy the rest of our balance?"

"They might not mean to, but yes." He crossed his various limbs in contemplation. "Not all of them, of course. You won't be familiar with their hobby of keeping bonsai trees, but they follow our approach to planets: looking inwards, all effort on perfecting what you have, and maintaining it in that state, as we do with our societies. But most men are more like weeds. They have no patience for perfection. Only growth drives them: more land, more wealth. More people. They breed like haraguti, and are never content in one place for long."

That concept was foreign to Com-5 as it was here. Objects in the Mirror knew that the emissary would have been raised with the same philosophy of life: home was home, and they would build it upwards before spreading out. All resources were devoted to improving the lot of their society, raising the baseline, no individual left behind, rather than expanding it - fighting wars whilst children starved at home, and leaving more misery in their wake.

Other than emissaries like her, researchers like him, there was little desire for citizens to leave their home systems, where everything was different to their tastes. A move to Earth would be a desperate measure, born of desperate times. But humans would colonise a barren rock as soon as they were given the means, just to see it done. Whatever the hardship, they would endure it, out of some driving need to overcome each barrier in front of them, and then the next, and then the next, whatever the personal cost.

"They've been on Earth a thousand years," she said. "They seem fairy content."

"Only because we've stopped them," he explained. "Their history is one of conquest. Every state has tried to spill over into its neighbours, taking from others and churning up their land, rather than building a paradise on their own soil. Every enterprise, whatever its success, chases constant growth and profit above preserving what they have. Do you know much about sharks?"

"Are they the ones with the tentacles?"

"No, but I suppose it doesn't matter. Aquatic predators. Big teeth. A man once told me that they need to keep moving or they die, and I think that men are the same. They're irrepressible, so we decided to repress them. We thought it better to keep them there." He paused. "Of course, could use a little irrepressible now."

"How do you mean?" the emissary asked. He wasn't sure if she meant that last point, or if he'd passed the limits of her vocabulary, in which case he'd have to repeat that whole thing. He took a gamble on the former.

"Are you familiar with concept of pioneer species? They're often seen as weeds, but they serve a vital ecological role. Fast spreading, fast reproducing, able to adapt to virgin land, terraforming it for others to follow. You get algae on an island first, and it creates the mulch for complex plants to grow in."

"Algae and weeds again," she said. "So what do you suggest? You said we can't go to Earth, because they will come to us."

"Or we could point them in the other direction, and see what else they find," he considered; arms still crossed, face still smiling. "Perhaps it's time to open the lid."

#writing #short story #writeblr #creative writing #original writing #original fiction

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deryuj · 1 year

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Follow the curves

You wish you could focus on your case but truth be told, Connor is far too distracting.

(Or Connor is helping you with your case while you sketch him in your notebook instead)

Rating: General audience

Ship: Connor x gn!reader

I started my summer job and realized I have a lot of free time so I actually wrote a fanfic because I was bored. Enjoy!

p.s. Last time i wrote a fanfic was in 2017 and english isn't my first language, lol.

It's been three hours since you stepped your foot into the squeaky clean department. Also, it's been two hours and fifty-five minutes (minus ten minutes you spent making yourself a coffee and five minutes you took for a bathroom break, which was an excuse to just get up from your workspace and do something different) since you made yourself comfortable by your desk and started working again with the weird writings and drawings you found last night at the apartment, left by what you suspected was a deviant. Looking at the same set of lines for hours turned them into uncomprehensive scribbles and doodles at this point so you couldn't make anything out of them anyway. You needed to do something else rather than stare absent-mindedly at the same page for the next five hours until your shift is done.

You wish you could say you were going in circles with this investigation but honestly, there was no circle you could even walk in in the first place.

How frustrating.

With a soft sigh, you turned your gaze to your right where Connor sat way before you even arrived, his blue LED shining and flickering as his brown eyes stayed glued to the screen. It was funny that for an android he insisted to use computers to scroll through information like the rest of the DPD did. He didn't have to, it was probably more time-consuming and less efficient to do so, but somehow it was so endearing that he makes sure to act as human as possible and blend with the rest of his coworkers.

You haven't really spoken to him today though, he was assigned to you strictly because of the notes you discovered, it was the longest you have been in his presence, which is a bummer. Usually, you would see him casually follow Hank like a puppy, hand folded behind him, long legs easily matching his anger, quick steps, and a soft smile that was always plastered on his face. You weren't sure if he was designed to always smile or chose to do so, but you decided to believe that he wants it that way. Now though you could see that soft smile and adorable chocolate cowlick up close with him working mere centimeters away from you and you couldn't help but smile yourself.

Cyberlife sure did a great job designing him.

Connor was the newest addition to the team, assigned to help the lieutenant in his cases, which definitely did not make him happy since he oh so loved his broody and lone wolf reputation. You were pleased though, you never had a chance to work with an android (and you kinda never exactly did until now). You liked Connor, maybe more than you'd like to admit, and you found yourself doubting the whole 'friendship' if you could even call it that. Yes, he was an android and he definitely wasn't programmed to like everyone (based on his previous interactions with Gavin) but somehow you found yourself hoping that after all the small conversations you shared he, at least, considered you a friend because he liked you, not because his program told him so. Were you even making sense at this point?

You let out a soft sigh, reaching out to grab a half-empty cup of stale coffee before your eyes glided back to working Connor. He hasn't moved from his stiff position since morning, his warm eyes fixated on the computer screen, subtle nose twitches, jaw tightened, smooth hand gripping the notes you wrote down yesterday as he silently analyzed the same set of information written in your handwriting over and over again before looking up at the computer screen, trying to find some kind of clue on what exactly the deviant was trying to write down or show.

As if it was that easy to understand the maniacal scribbles they left behind before running away.

He looked so focused, so eager to prove himself and his skills to everyone that he completely shut himself off from the whole department and new information from his surroundings for now so nothing will take him out of the process of decoding the messages. You were almost curious if by any chance he knows you're watching him so shamelessly or if he even realized that you joined him by your desk to help almost three hours ago.

He was cute, really cute, and in some way you felt a little weird with choosing this word to describe a grown man, or more specifically someone designed to hunt down deviants and do it without any hesitation.

You'd rather keep your observations to yourself rather than get embarrassed though that's what you told yourself with your inner voice.

You comfortably leaned against your palm, letting your gaze dance across all the soft and sharp edges of his profile. His small, pretty nose, freckled artificial skin, pursed, plush lips, and extremely long lashes. Someone put all these details down into this single design just to make fun of you and your silly little crush on an android, that you were almost sure has no algorithm that could by any chance make him like you back. It was stupid, really, but God was he too pretty to not like.

Never mind your earlier praises, you hated Cyberlife for this design.

You felt your cheeks heat up just from thinking about this, definitely not your smartest thought of the day.

You tilted your head to the side, your hair moving with your move as you glanced at him from a slightly different angle. Still pretty. Dang.

One line, second line, join these two with another line.

Without thinking much your hand danced across your handy notebook, your pen leaving gentle lines and curves as you tried to memorize his pretty features. You weren't an amazing artist but you could at least make it resemble him. That's all you needed to do. You needed to convey his pretty profile somewhere where it won't disappear, somewhere you'll be able to look at whenever you'd feel like it, and not when Hank would get up from his desk to go to your communal kitchen with his partner in hand.

You poked the thin paper with the tip of your pen, spreading small, inked dots across his sketched cheek, dragged curled lines from his eye down to his cheek to mimic his long curtain of eyelashes, and made sure that the curve of his lips was the curviest, kissable line you ever drew on paper.

Your silly attempts caused you to let out a quiet snort. I mean the sketch wasn't bad… it's just that you finally caught up with what you were doing that caused you to realize that you were acting like a lovestruck teen if not worse than that.

Stupid- said your more sober side.

You still proudly looked down at the small sketch of Connor that popped up in the corner of your notebook, it was no longer accurate though since the model decided to finally rise his honey-filled eyes away from the screen and face you instead, clearly curious about what made you laugh during a long, boring investigation.

"What's wrong detective?" Your eyes snapped back up at his seeking expression, right in the middle of him tilting his head to the side as he would usually do whenever asking a question and being actually curious about it.

Now what?

"Ah" passed your lips before you could catch yourself. What exactly are you going to tell him and make it sound not weird?

"You draw a lot?" He took your silence as an answer and leaned in to trail his eyes along all the sketched lines, his lips curling into a soft smile to your dismay, a soft whir erupting from his chest.

You silently flipped your notebook to the next page, lips pursed as you turned your face away from him to hopefully regain your ability to say something smart rather than babble while looking at his handsome face. And yet he still watched you, or more like observed you, analyzing your mouth twitch, gaze shift, and muscle tense. Clearly, he was getting what we would call 'nervous' at his seemingly failed attempt at making a small talk and you couldn't help but feel a little guilty.

"Sometimes, helps me think or get myself to reboot" He could somehow understand the concept, maybe because you used a techy word he had some experience with.

He hummed in response, shifting comfortably in his seat, almost like he could feel his muscles sore from staying in one position, and looked down at the blank page, as if the drawing was still there and he was still taking in every single stroke of your pen.

"You are quite talented" He seemed honest, maybe there was a hint of something else, and you couldn't help but chuckle. There was something so innocent behind his words, he almost sounded excited to face a new quirk humans had.

He always liked those. The quirks. Things that made people unique and so interesting.

"I guess once I retire I'll move out somewhere quiet and spend the rest of my life painting landscapes" You mumbled sarcastically, your eyes rolling as you tried to get Connor off his path to compliment you more. He would always be painfully nice to get people to like him and accept him in the department. It worked, sure but you don't need him to get you flustered at work where people can see. Especially where that asshole Gavin can see and use it to make you annoyed.

He let out another soft, vibrating hum at your small joke, leaning down to comfortably lean against his smooth hand. He was thinking, processing and rinsing your words to find a suitable answer to your lighthearted response and hopefully match your tone.

"That sounds nice, I'm glad that for now, I can enjoy your work here at the department." He replied and you let your lips form a smile at his response. I mean you could interpret it as if he wanted to work with you more. You wouldn't complain, your work quality would suffer though. Or maybe you're looking too hard into it.

"Have you tried drawing Hank before?" You let out a sharp exhale from your mouth, your laugh stuck somewhere in your throat, safe from being let out to the world. You weren't sure if it was a joke or not, if it was it was funny, if it wasn't then it was cute but still, you don't want him to feel bad for laughing at him.

Connor didn't mind, in return, his plushy lips quirked up into a bigger smile, doe eyes narrowing as the smile finally reached them while he happily watched you light up after working with papers.

"Don't know, I guess I'll ask him if he wants to model, sounds like a cute date" You wanted to continue the banter, it was somehow of an anomaly to see Connor try to joke like this, hopefully, you weren't expecting too much of him. On the other hand, hopefully, Hank didn't hear that because even though you two are friends he'll scold you for joking around at his expense and giving 'the android weird ideas'.

In return he let out a quick, soft chuckle before clearing his throat to get back to his professional self, his pale cheeks dusted with a soft, blueish color. Seems like he doesn't want to make you feel bad for laughing at you as well.

"Sounds like a lovely evening" He admitted before falling silent once again, his brown, gooey eyes now staring deep into yours, analyzing you. In moments like this, you were always envious of how he can pretty much see through you and see what you think while you're left with his pretty face and zero ideas on what might be going on through his head.

"Let's… check the notes again and work through it together" You finally suggested, trying to put the awkward conversation (on your part) behind the door and focus back again on your actual job. You let Connor shift closer to you, his shoulder bumping against yours as you flipped pages back onto the one with your infamous little drawing.

Seeing the real deal up this close made you realize how much longer his lashes actually are, how his lips are far more softer than what you left on the paper and how many freckles you haven't even put down on your drawing.

You should probably try again, maybe at home.

Maybe with him in your apartment.

#connor rk800 #detroit become human #connor dbh #connor detroit become human #connor detroit: bh #connor x reader #connor x y/n #connor x you #dbh #detroit: bh #dbh fanfic #dbh rk800 #rk800 x reader #other #fanfic #dbh x reader

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girlfriendsofthegalaxy · 5 months

Text

tuesday again 1/2/2024

it’s quite satisfying how the year started on a monday

listening

first song of the year: how could it be anything other than Sabata. this is the theme from the titular Sabata, i meant to pick the theme from Return of Sabata but im not mad about it.

reading

i read Tim Marchman’s Popping Tins newsletter (a newsletter about fish and seafood) less bc i enjoy locking Mack in the bathroom every time i want a tuna melt and more for the droll authorial voice. i have bought a tin of mackerel after reading some entries, and it was very good but much much richer than tuna.

What should I do with this can of krill meat?

after consulting the importer’s website:

This is accompanied by a photograph of the can featuring easily-discerned black eyes, which are nothing to be concerned about, according to the company that produces this can. The first question on its FAQ page is “What are the little black speckles in my can?” “No need to be concerned here!” the answer reads. “Your meat is not dirty, and you did not get a defected can. Our Antarctic Krill meat contains the most nutritious parts of the krill, which happen to include their eyes.

…

The risks here are clear: I could vomit when I open the can and see the nutritious black eyes staring at me; I could destroy the peace in my home by making it smell like sautéed and simmered krill; and/or I could ruin a perfectly delicious lunch by introducing nutritious eyes and hard bits of chitin.

i have no memory of how i found this newsletter.

i keep forgetting i have ten hoopla credits a month through my old library and i want to read more comics this year bc reading comics is fun. in the past in practice this means ive binged all ten credits over a weekend. this weekend i had time for exactly one.

The Riddler: Year One is an extremely direct tie-in to the movie and i think it’s neat they let the riddler’s actor paul dano go wild with his backstory and then turn it into a comic. it’s fun when actors get to do weird tie-in shit.

(non-sequential pages)

watching this forensic accountant’s brain crack and scramble like an egg as he struggles to really grasp the enormity of gotham corruption and why the city is such a dogshit miserable place to live in made me go “oh huh that was a pretty good writing decision in the movie”. not that the riddler was terribly stable to begin with but the despair and the unraveling were very effectively conveyed. this comic has a lot of fun with funky layouts (left) and an entire issue (right) is conspiracy board shit on top of accounting forms which is a neat artistic choice.

deeply depressing but an interesting new little window into the rpatz batman (god i hope we get more rpatz batman films) and fun to look at.

how i found this: trawling the popular comics page on hoopla

watching

this is the seventh year of starting a new-to-me classic black and white movie around 1030/11 PM New Year’s Eve and i am annoyed i didn’t like the movie that started this year but, according to the data, it’s been fifty-fifty so far.

previous years have featured: sunset boulevard, yojimbo, the thin man, it happened one night, bringing up baby, the big sleep, and now roman holiday (1953, dir. Wyler).

this is the platonic ideal of a classic movie. it’s not sterile but it’s so… unobjectionable. wholesome (derogatory) even. not particularly what i was looking for in a movie but, much like the gelato and champagne that pop up, it was kind of a sweet nothing. i don’t think anyone eats any real food this whole movie?

this is never a movie that feels rushed. it is two hours of watching beautiful people traipse around a beautiful city in beautiful edith head costumes. i would not say there is a lot of tension for the first hour and a half. however, imo, it does land its ending and for that i can forgive it a great deal. this is another beautiful movie that is simply not for me.

playing

have you ever wanted an open world rpg where you play as a shark? congrats, this was apparently free on epic a while back

youtube

Maneater has a tremendously fun prologue where you play as the soon-to-be-dead mother shark who is absolutely going to town on a crowded beach and destroying multiple spear-gun-wielding divers and multiple boats full of citizens exercising their second amendment rights. this prologue is an excellent choice by the game bc it locks the fun part (eating people) behind several hours of really grindy shit. i am not entertained by the grind of eating progressively larger muskellunge, avoiding alligators, and collecting license plates. the grind is EXCEPTIONALLY grindy, i put about three hours into it and have only gotten to level 5 (teen) and have only two mutations i can sink loot into (four types of loot gained from eating other fish. this is too many types imo). i am not anywhere near a recommended level to start fucking humans up. im also not super impressed with the open world aspects of it— there are not a lot of things to do, discover, or interact with in the first two areas.

this seems like a really fun game that clotheslined itself with a cripplingly slow upgrade cycle. im sure the mid and late game are hysterically fun, especially on stream. however i am not willing to put in the hours to get to the fun part when i could immediately be having fun in some other game.

making

a lot of profoundly uninteresting cleaning. after not being able to figure out why my office (where Phil [no longer in heat. for now] lives) still reeks of piss even after stealing a blacklight from a friend and cleaning with a blacklight, it is of course bc she has been pissing in secret places i didn’t think she could get to. upside down smile emoji. both the girls got their monthly flea goop yesterday and were deeply unhappy about it.

most of my plants died in the move and i am finally tackling the survivors. fan favorite giant snake plant (not pictured, tidied up and inside) did make it and pull through but is not happy about it. now that i have baby basil and baby dill sprouting in the kitchen i do need to do something with the balcony so they have somewhere to grow up study and strong.

also slammed that silly little blondeyes NFT thing up on the archive

#i do not know how to tag that fic snippet but eh #tuesday again #tuesday again no problem #Youtube

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rowanwriting · 5 months

Text

— about;

hello, writeblr! my name is Rowan. I'm 32, bisexual, aro/acespec, nonbinary, transmasc (they/them), and an aspiring novelist. I'm also a part-time english undergrad and hopefully a future teacher.

I enjoy writing in quite a few genres, from contemporary romance to sci-fi to horror to fantasy, and I love trying new things in my work. my biggest challenge is actually finishing a wip, but I hope to get better at that with motivation from tumblr. I also enjoy dabbling in some fanfiction, especially when my original stories hit writer’s block.

please feel free to join me on other social media, linked below. I look forward to getting to know more people in the writeblr community!

—links;

about // wip page // twitter // instagram // wattpad // archive of our own // gaming twitter // spotify // pinterest // nanowrimo

— works in progress;

lost in death —

Cassidy Sullivan is dead.

He's been dead for five years, watching his girlfriend move on without him. He's been dead for ten years, watching his parents mourn. He's been dead for thirty years, as the world changes around him and he remains the same, in the small apartment he died in. He's been dead for fifty years, and everyone has forgotten him.

Tristan Kent is a psychic.

More of a curse than a blessing, their so-called gift has ruined their life. Unable to go to school or work, they eke out a meager existence be exploiting their abilities from a small metaphysical shop. They don't believe in most of the things they sell, neither gods nor demons nor angels, but they know that something must be real, else they wouldn't be haunted.

When a regular client of Tristan’s volunteers them for a local ghost hunting reality show on the extremely haunted Wentworth Street House, Tristan takes the job only for the money. They have no interest in proving the supernatural to be real — they already know that it is. But the presence that haunts the house is like none they’ve ever sensed before, and their not sure what to make of that, save to find out more.

As the reality show commences, the ten so-called psychics come to exorcise the house. Tristan must discover who is genuine, who is faking it, and whether to help Cassidy resist expulsion. But there is more to the Wentworth Street House than even Cassidy knows, and soon he’s the only thing between Tristan and a sinister force that has remained hidden from his sight all these years.

the kraken —

Fifteen years ago, the love of Marisolle’s young life was discovered and brutally executed by her father, the Prince-Regent, for crimes against the Crown. Hardening her heart, the princess swore never to love again.

Now queen in her own right, married, and with children of her own, Marisolle is content, if not happy. She rules well and is beloved by her people, and her country is more prosperous than ever. But there are enemies on the horizon, and Marisolle soon must seek desperate help if her rule is to survive.

Theovold left his home almost ten years ago to join the queen of Mavacia in an arranged marriage. He loves his children, and adores his wife, even as he feels the deep chasm between them, the pain of a love lost. But his attempts at wooing her may come to a stop when Mavacia is attacked, and a new man comes into her life.

Vincenze is a pirate, nothing more and nothing less. When the Queen of Mavacia offers him a Letter of Marque, permission to sail under her name and banner, in return for his aid in the coming war, he knows that he cannot run from his past any longer.

And as Marisolle, Theovold, and Vincenze come together to face their enemies, the Sea Witch watches, pieces falling into place.

the beyond —

The year is 2284. Humanity has long ago risen to the stars, joining a galactic community of ascended species. No longer alone in the universe, the Helios Accord brought the countries of Earth together into one united government, The Sol Federation.

Emelyn Kane is a washed up soldier, a mercenary working solo. Born far from Earth, she spends most of her time on her ship, going from job to job and trying not to think about how she ended up disgraced and discharged from the human military.

When her ship crash lands on an uncharted planet, Emelyn believes her life, such as it is, has ended. But the planet is life bearing, inhabited by a sentient species. And the indigenous people, the Vescai, have strange abilities — abilities that have kept their massive empire hidden from the rest of the universe.

Even when she gets used to life on the beautiful planet she is now stranded on, Emelyn knows that she is the last person who should be seen as a vanguard of humanity, let alone an ambassador for the entire ascended galaxy.

As the Vescai debate her very appearance on one of their planets, Emelyn must decide if she wished to remain with them, or allow them to wipe her memory or send her home. But her choice might be taken out of her hands, as she soon begins to develop the very abilities the Vescai treasure.

the prince of stars —

A cursed prince must find and kill the fallen star that foretold his doom before his twentieth birthday.

Prince Riavyn is born under a falling star, cursing both him and the realm he is one day meant to rule. If he is ever crowned king, he will bring war and ruin to his country. At least, so long as the star lives. Now nearing his nineteenth birthday, Riavyn is more determined to be king than ever, despite being removed from the line of succession by his mother, the queen.

His only chance to regain his standing in the royal family and redeem himself is to seek out the living star, and kill it before nightfall on his twentieth birthday, when the astromancers say the curse will become everlasting.

Along with the captain of his guard, Riavyn sets out to hunt the star down, knowing that it’s his only chance to become king. But the curse is more powerful than he knows, and breaking it might have consequences he never imagined.

A star is not meant to die, after all.

#writeblr #writeblr intro #writeblr introduction #writing community #writers of tumblr #wip intro #wip introduction #myintro #mywips #mine.

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thecarnivorousmuffinmeta · 1 year

Note

Having just read your Tom Riddle in twilight fanfic, I love it but it's obvious Tom's character had to be adjusted to make sense in twilight. So... What if Tom Riddle's Horcrux diary falls through a hole in time and space and winds up in Twilight, what happens? Fuck it, let's go even harder and say that 16 year old (iirc?) Diary Tom winds up in Edward Cullen's hands.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to London by me and @therealvinelle

Also, why Tom is the way he is in the fic.

Caveat

I mean, keep in mind anon, that while he is adjusted, it's more that @therealvinelle and I spout the same sort of heresy for Harry Potter that we do for Twilight.

This is what we think Tom would be in a world where magic still exists but there's no Wizarding World and he happens to run across a crystal demon as a young man.

It's an adjustment but... if you're looking for sociopath Tom Riddle, you're not going to like the rest of this meta at all.

A Bit on the Diary (and Other Horcruxes)

I mean, the Diary is eternally sixteen. He's a bit like a vampire himself in a way in that he shoved himself in this container for fifty years, still seems to be in a very sixteen-year-old headspace and makes some remarkable choices when he was set loose.

Diary is always Peak Diary.

(Just as I will always believe the Locket tormented Ron with the equivalent of sock puppets of Harry and Hermione make out, complete with falsetto voices, "I love you so much, Harry! You're so handsome. OM NOM NOM, LET ME KISS YOU!" not so much to corrupt Ron because he found it fucking hilarious.

So much so, that his last moments are tormenting Ron, with fucking sock puppets.)

I will forever be upset we didn't see more of the horcruxes.

They're always such a hot, hilarious, beautiful mess.

Edward Finds the Diary and is a Fucking Nerd

Why am I picturing the pilot of Death Note where Light happens to notice a black little notebook falling out the window at his school?

Regardless, we'll say this is the start of Twilight and... why fucking not, that's exactly what happens.

Before Bella arrives (so as to keep this less complicated/Edward invested), Edward is in Forks, staring dully out the window in this purgatory he calls high school (that he absolutely doesn't have to go to, Edward, remember you made this choice, Edward).

Notebooks don't just fall from the sky.

Curious, Edward goes to retrieve it after school.

He finds it's a perfectly ordinary, if old, notebook. It has a worn cover, appears to belong to a T. M. Riddle (who Edward has never heard of and doesn't live in Forks, curious) but is otherwise empty.

What's interesting is that it smells unused.

There's no recent human scents on it, no grease from fingers, it smells sterile or at least as if it's been left alone for many years. So how did it get here?

Edward, who has been bored out of his fucking mind, has a mystery on his hands.

He eagerly enlists Alice.

"Edward, I can't see the future of fucking inanimate objects" Alice tells him dumbly, he can be a nerd about this one by himself, Alice isn't interested.

Rosalie suggests Edward try to at least find this T. M. Riddle and return it to him. Edward goes on a whole rant of how there is no Riddle in Forks. Rosalie's not that impressed, Edward's right, but he's overlooking that this book is old, and it could be a maiden name. It's probably someone's heirloom.

"How can it be an heirloom if it's empty, see?" Edward says, flipping through to Rosalie's dull eyed wonder.

Rosalie stops arguing and goes to the garage to work on her cars.

Edward can't wait to tell Carlisle but realizes just showing Carlisle an empty notebook that fell from the sky, with nothing more than that is... kind of lame.

He has to investigate.

Edward carefully searches the pages for invisible ink, or else traces of writing that was erased. He brings out the UV lights, everything, but there's not a hint of anything there.

It looks, for all intents and purposes, like an empty notebook.

But it can't be, of course, because then why would it fall from the sky.

("Maybe someone in a hazmat suit chucked it off the roof" Emmett suggests.)

Eventually, Edward's curiosity overcomes him, and he starts putting liquid on the page (he's been trying not to damage anything at this point). To his astonishment, it disappears!

Tom Rolls Out of Hibernation

Ye gads, Tom in the Diary says, waking out of... whatever the fuck goes on in the Diary (there be monsters in there, I'm sure). Someone's writing, this is his chance, perhaps his only chance.

He's taking advantage of it.

Tom responds to the line of graphite, or whatever it is, and starts writing back.

Edward... doesn't seem to think he's a person or sentient, Tom quickly realizes (Edward thinks Tom's a very clever machine of some kind with a chat bot kind of like ELIZA inside, he's not sure how it works, or what this paper is if it's not paper, but he's very amused by Tom's claims to have been a person in the 1940's).

Edward has great fun grilling Tom on his life in the depression in England and pointing out all Tom's historical inaccuracies.

Tom immediately loathes Edward for this alone, but Edward continues to prove himself what Tom has always despised.

Tom views Edward as hopelessly arrogant and complacent. Edward has all the opportunities in the world, all the money in the world, and he sits here whining about how school is so boring and his life is so pointless. Edward is content to wallow in his own romanticized misery, brought on by absolutely nothing in Tom's eyes, because Edward simply enjoys the idea of being romantically miserable so very much.

Edward also believes himself to be highly intelligent, is clearly a naturally gifted legilimens, but is arrogant in this assumption and always believes himself to be the smartest in the room (there's a lot of pitying of Tom the poor chat bot).

Tom is very eager to destroy this little man and is certain he has all the tools to do it: Edward has real demons he has to deal with and he lets his guard down around Tom, he's started treating the diary as a kind of chat-bot therapist diary who won't run off with the secrets he does not wish to tell the family but needs to get off his chest.

Tom will get him, sooner or later, he'll get this motherfucker.

Bella Arrives in Forks

Edward has his crisis but guess who's there this time?

Edward vents his private terrors to Tom, his doubt, his obsession, everything.

Tom has his window and now owns enough of Edward's soul to possess him.

Edward starts losing time, he blames Bella for this, as he truly believes she's some kind of demon sent to torment him. Tom feeds these suspicions by pretending to have stored away historical information of previous cases. Demons who take the form of women and slowly unravel their victim's psyche.

(In case you were wondering, Tom as Edward just goes to school and acts perfectly pleasant to Bella and everyone else. Making Edward, of course, seem unhinged whenever he comes back and he's lost a fucking day.)

Edward is terrified of telling anyone, let alone Carlisle, as he thinks he could be genuinely dying. However, if he murders Bella, then he's murdering someone who, at least from the outside, genuinely seems to be a high school girl.

Either Edward snaps and does it or Tom does it for him, Edward waking up to being covered in Bella's blood, eyes red, standing in her corpse.

Edward runs, now having lost himself entirely, and Tom drains the life force from him and walks off having had a grand time.

First on his agenda? Turning into a vampire, that looks like fun.

#twilight #harry potter #twilight meta #twilight headcanon #twilight renaissance #harry potter meta #harry potter headcanon #tom riddle #edward cullen #the diary #meta #headcanon #opinion

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brawltogethernow · 1 year

Note

Why hasn’t Deadpool never been an official member of the X-Men?

With affection: Probably because of his overpowering Deadpool stank!

In universe, almost nobody in the mutant hero community likes him, also he kills people. Out of it, everybody likes him too much. If you put Wade in a book with any amount of focus, well...congratulations! It's a Deadpool book now! He's a very loud personality dripping with distracting gimmicks that might as well be designed to force a writer's hand to make him the main character of the universe if he shows up for more than a cameo. On top of how whenever he's on page (or screen) he causes a major tone shift, his name sells like crazy, so an X-Men book with Deadpool recurring in it is just going to become Deadpool and the X-Men.

I do think he can work as a non-headlining member of a team, but a sprawling, unironic soap opera of one like the core X-Men would be...challenging. You'd have to spend so much energy getting him to not ruin the vibe making fun of the latest love triangle. And this brings to mind how other fourth wall breaking characters have functioned in team books. When She-Hulk was in the Avengers at the same time that her own title was a metatextual gagfest she full stop didn't get to, which worked fine because the fourth wall's never been her main thing. With Gwenpool, for whom it is, they filed her down to a nub to keep her from being storybreaking when she was a West Coast Avenger, and the meta gags that were left over still managed to be grating. Of course, everything else about that book except the art also sucked. Anyway.

While I generally think leaving the meta trait on the table with characters heavily associated with it is a coward's move, I do get it, because once you bring that in uhhh your whole story wants to be about it. Wade is basically quarantined in titles with his name on the cover to protect everyone's peace of mind. It's honestly fascinating what books he hasn't been in. Like not to make everything about Spider-Man, but Wade had a fifty issue (!!) team-up book with the guy, and I think he's been in one of Peter's books while Peter was there (so not Superior)...nnnnnnnever? This pattern repeats less dramatically with...a lot of characters. Like every character he's headlined a book alongside. Wade barely even gets to hang out with Cable, who before they had their team-up titles he was introduced as a supporting character for. That's insane. Unless you look at Wade and his lowest common denominator star power for two seconds and then it's like. Ah. Yeah.

Actually hang on I am going to bring this back to my powerful disappointment in WCA volume 3, as a metaphor-example. It's like. If there's no room in the structure of your book for an indestructible, potentially murderous jester character drawing attention to how it's all just a story, and you strip away those traits, you have to confront the traumatized little freak who was cowering under them. If you can't do that you are doing a bad job. But if you can holy shit. Lmao actually maybe Wade should be on the X-Men.

#¯\_(o_o)_/¯#deadpool #wade wilson #(sighs) i miss gwenpool volume 1.#marvel #writing this up got me like. is there a term for tvtropes' genre theory of comedic sociopathy that isn't called that.#i have multiple reservations about calling it that.#asks answered #anonymous

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istumpysk · 1 year

Text

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ADWD: The Iron Suitor (Victarion I) [Chapter 56]

My little dumbbell! 🥰

Nine-and-ninety ships had left the Stepstones in three proud fleets, with orders to join up again off the southern tip of the Isle of Cedars. Forty-five had now arrived on the far side of the world. Twenty-two of Victarion's own had straggled in, by threes and fours, sometimes alone; fourteen of Ralf the Limper's; only nine of those that had sailed with Red Ralf Stonehouse. Red Ralf himself was amongst the missing. To their number the fleet had added nine new prizes taken on the seas, so the sum was fifty-four … but the captured ships were cogs and fishing boats, merchantmen and slavers, not warships. In battle, they would be poor substitutes for the lost ships of the Iron Fleet.

So we can all be on the same page, our champion with the missing fleet is here:

So close! You're doing amazing, sweetie.

+.+.+

"Storms," Ralf the Limper had muttered when he came crawling to Victarion. "Three big storms, and foul winds between. Red winds out of Valyria that smelled of ash and brimstone, and black winds that drove us toward that blighted shore. This voyage was cursed from the first. The Crow's Eye fears you, my lord, why else send you so far away? He does not mean for us to return."

It's always three storms.

Not sure I agree with Ralf the Limper's conclusion, but I do question why Euron has sent Victarion to do this. Gave up that fancy horn and everything.

+.+.+

Victarion had thought the same when he met the first storm a day out of Old Volantis. The gods hate kinslayers, he brooded, elsewise Euron Crow's Eye would have died a dozen deaths by my hand.

Here we go again.

Wait until Vicky hears R'hllor loves kinslayers.

+.+.+

"More ships will come. The storms are done for now. I will have my fleet."

A monkey on the mast above howled derision, almost as if it could taste his frustration. Filthy, noisy beast. He could send a man up after it, but the monkeys seemed to like that game and had proved themselves more agile than his crew. The howls rang in his ears, though, and made the throbbing in his hand seem worse.

The monkeys remind me of Statler and Waldorf.

+.+.+

Would that we had the Damphair with us, or some other priest. Victarion had made sacrifice before setting sail, and again in the Stepstones when he split the fleet in three, but perhaps he had said the wrong prayers. That, or the Drowned God has no power here. More and more, he had come to fear that they had sailed too far, into strange seas where even the gods were queer … but such doubts he confided only to his dusky woman, who had no tongue to repeat them.

+.+.+

"Aye. And ten days might mean ten ships, or none at all. We have squandered too many days waiting on the sight of sails. Our victory will be that much the sweeter if we win it with a smaller fleet." And I must needs reach the dragon queen before the Volantenes.

Do you see how heroic he is?

+.+.+

In Volantis he had seen the galleys taking on provisions. The whole city had seemed drunk. Sailors and soldiers and tinkers had been observed dancing in the streets with nobles and fat merchants, and in every inn and winesink cups were being raised to the new triarchs. All the talk had been of the gold and gems and slaves that would flood into Volantis once the dragon queen was dead. One day of such reports was all that Victarion Greyjoy could stomach; he paid the gold price for food and water, though it shamed him, and took his ships back out to sea.

Do you see what a feminist ally he is?

+.+.+

If the Storm God spared them, by now they could be in the Gulf of Grief. Three hundred ships, perhaps as many as five hundred. Their allies were already off Meereen: Yunkishmen and Astapors, men from New Ghis and Qarth and Tolos and the Storm God knew where else, even Meereen's own warships, the ones that fled the city before its fall. Against all that, Victarion had four-and-fifty. Three-and-fifty, less the Shark.

Do you see how fearless he is?

+.+.+

The Crow's Eye had sailed halfway across the world, reaving and plundering from Qarth to Tall Trees Town, calling at unholy ports beyond where only madmen went. Euron had even braved the Smoking Sea and lived to tell of it. And that with only one ship. If he can mock the gods, so can I.

*cough* bullshit *cough*

A smile played across Euron's blue lips. "I am the storm, my lord. The first storm, and the last. I have taken the Silence on longer voyages than this, and ones far more hazardous. Have you forgotten? I have sailed the Smoking Sea and seen Valyria."

Every man there knew that the Doom still ruled Valyria. The very sea there boiled and smoked, and the land was overrun with demons. It was said that any sailor who so much as glimpsed the fiery mountains of Valyria rising above the waves would soon die a dreadful death, yet the Crow's Eye had been there, and returned.

"Have you?" the Reader asked, so softly.

Euron's blue smile vanished. "Reader," he said into the quiet, "you would do well to keep your nose in your books." - The Reaver, AFFC

+.+.+

"Is it still to be Meereen?"

"Where else? The dragon queen awaits me in Meereen." The fairest woman in the world if my brother could be believed. Her hair is silver-gold, her eyes are amethysts.

Was it too much to hope that for once Euron had told it true? Perhaps. Like as not, the girl would prove to be some pock-faced slattern with teats slapping against her knees, her "dragons" no more than tattooed lizards from the swamps of Sothoryos.

Correction. Her hair was silver-gold.

I hope Vicky likes the buzzcut look.

+.+.+

The Isle of Cedars. Where were these cedars? Drowned four hundred years ago, it seemed. Victarion had gone ashore a dozen times, hunting fresh meat, and had yet to see a cedar.

Even in the midst of their own doom, Valyria found a way to kill all the trees.

+.+.+

The Isle of Monkeys, that's what they should call it. There were pigs as well: the biggest, blackest boars that any of the ironborn had ever seen and plenty of squealing piglets in the brush, bold creatures that had no fear of man. They were learning, though. The larders of the Iron Fleet were filling up with smoked hams, salted pork, and bacon.

You know who loves boar? Drogon.

Look at all the treats his new step-dad is bringing him!

+.+.+

The monkeys, though … the monkeys were a plague. Victarion had forbidden his men to bring any of the demonic creatures aboard ship, yet somehow half his fleet was now infested with them, even his own Iron Victory. He could see some now, swinging from spar to spar and ship to ship. Would that I had a crossbow.

Crossbow? I'd love to believe these monkeys represent Tyrion.

+.+.+

The last time Victarion had spent a night ashore, his dreams had been dark and disturbing and when he woke his mouth was full of blood. The maester said he had bitten his own tongue in his sleep, but he took it for a sign from the Drowned God, a warning that if he lingered here too long, he would choke on his own blood.

Was it a wolf dream?

I don't think it will be blood that you choke on.

+.+.+

On the day the Doom came to Valyria, it was said, a wall of water three hundred feet high had descended on the island, drowning hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children, leaving none to tell the tale but some fisherfolk who had been at sea and a handful of Velosi spearmen posted in a stout stone tower on the island's highest hill, who had seen the hills and valleys beneath them turn into a raging sea.

Volcanoes and a tsunamis?

Mother Earth had enough of Valyrians.

+.+.+

So many drowned men, the Drowned God will be strong there, Victarion had thought when he chose the island for the three parts of his fleet to join up again. He was no priest, though. What if he had gotten it backwards? Perhaps the Drowned God had destroyed the island in his wroth. His brother Aeron might have known, but the Damphair was back on the Iron Islands, preaching against the Crow's Eye and his rule.

+.+.+

As he eased himself into his chair, she took a soft damp cloth from the basin and laid it across his brow. "Good," he said. "Good. And now the hand."

The dusky woman made no reply. Euron had sliced her tongue out before giving her to him. Victarion did not doubt that the Crow's Eye had bedded her as well. That was his brother's way. Euron's gifts are poisoned, the captain had reminded himself the day the dusky woman came aboard. I want none of his leavings. He had decided then that he would slit her throat and toss her in the sea, a blood sacrifice to the Drowned God. Somehow, though, he had never quite gotten around to it.

Do you see how merciful he is?

+.+.+

Victarion could talk to the dusky woman. She never attempted to talk back.

Ser Ilyn made no reply. The perfect companion for a long ride. I will enjoy his conversation. - Jaime III, AFFC

Lol.

+.+.+

The larger, heavier, slower ships made for Lys, to sell the captives taken on the Shields, the women and children of Lord Hewett's Town and other islands, along with such men who decided they would sooner yield than die. Victarion had only contempt for such weaklings. Even so, the selling left a foul taste in his mouth. Taking a man as thrall or a woman as a salt wife, that was right and proper, but men were not goats or fowl to be bought and sold for gold. He was glad to leave the selling to Ralf the Limper, who would use the coin to load his big ships with provisions for the long slow middle passage east.

It's like they're soulmates! ❤️

There's a lot of minor characters in Lys right now. Lynesse Hightower is in Lys, Humfrey Hightower is going to Lys to hire sellsails, Edric Storm is hiding in Lys, and I'm probably forgetting others.

+.+.+

"the only way to do this is to take the slavers unawares, as once I did at Lannisport. Sweep in from the sea and smash them, then take the girl and race for home before the Volantenes descend upon us." Victarion was no craven, but no more was he a fool; he could not defeat three hundred ships with fifty-four. "She'll be my wife, and you will be her maid." A maid without a tongue could never let slip any secrets.

Damn, it's like he already knows Daenerys. It's fate. ❤️

Of course the little birds would say otherwise (if they could).

+.+.+

Maesters had their uses, but Victarion had nothing but contempt for this Kerwin. With his smooth pink cheeks, soft hands, and brown curls, he looked more girlish than most girls. When first he came aboard the Iron Victory, he had a smirky little smile too, but one night off the Stepstones he had smiled at the wrong man, and Burton Humble had knocked out four of his teeth. Not long after that Kerwin had come creeping to the captain to complain that four of the crew had dragged him belowdecks and used him as a woman. "Here is how you put an end to that," Victarion had told him, slamming a dagger down on the table between them. Kerwin took the blade—too afraid to refuse it, the captain judged—but he had never used it.

Do you see how he empowers people to stand up to their bullies?

+.+.+

They had talked of this before. "If you take my hand, I will kill you. But first I will tie you over the rail and make the crew a gift of your arse. Get on with it."

"There will be pain."

"Always." Life is pain, you fool. There is no joy but in the Drowned God's watery halls. "Do it."

Soon, Vicky. Soon.

+.+.+

The boy—it was hard to think of one so soft and pink as a man—laid the edge of the dagger across the captain's palm and slashed. The pus that burst forth was thick and yellow as sour milk. The dusky woman wrinkled her nose at the smell, the maester gagged, and even Victarion himself felt his stomach churn. "Cut deeper. Get it all. Show me the blood."

Maester Kerwin pressed the dagger deep. This time it hurt, but blood welled up as well as pus, blood so dark that it looked black in the lantern light.

Eerily similar to something else.

A foul, sweet smell rose from the wound, so thick it almost choked her. The leaves were crusted with blood and pus, Drogo's breast black and glistening with corruption.

"No," Dany whispered as tears ran down her cheeks. "No, please, gods hear me, no."

Khal Drogo thrashed, fighting some unseen enemy. Black blood ran slow and thick from his open wound.

"Your khal is good as dead, Princess." - Daenerys VIII, AGOT

+.+.+

By the time he finished, the clean water in his basin had become a scummy soup. The sight alone would sicken any man. "Take that filth and go." Victarion nodded at the dusky woman. "She can bind me up."

[...]

Victarion remembered the fight as if it had been yesterday. His shield had been in shards, hanging useless from his arm, so when Serry's longsword came flashing down he had reached up and caught it. The stripling had been stronger than he looked; his blade bit through the lobstered steel of the captain's gauntlet and the padded glove beneath into the meat of his palm. A scratch from a little kitten, Victarion told himself afterward. He had washed the cut, poured some boiled vinegar over it, bound it up, and thought little more of it, trusting that the pain would fade and the hand heal itself in time.

Instead the wound had festered, until Victarion began to wonder whether Serry's blade had been poisoned. Why else would the cut refuse to heal? The thought made him rage. No true man killed with poison. At Moat Cailin the bog devils had loosed poisoned arrows at his men, but that was to be expected from such degraded creatures. Serry had been a knight, highborn. Poison was for cravens, women, and Dornishmen.

"If not Serry, who?" he asked the dusky woman. "Could that mouse of a maester be doing this? Maesters know spells and other tricks. He might be using one to poison me, hoping I will let him cut my hand off." The more he thought on it, the more likely it seemed. "The Crow's Eye gave him to me, wretched creature that he is."

He's paranoid like her too! ❤️

Many people believe the dusky woman is sabotaging his recovery. I don't think anyone poisoned him, I prefer the author illustrate men like Victarion and Khal Drogo aren't as invincible as they think.

I apologize for calling her dusky woman, I don't know how to work around this.

+.+.+

"If this is his revenge, he wrongs me. It was Euron who insisted he be taken, to keep him from making mischief with his birds." His brother had given him three cages of ravens too, so Kerwin could send back word of their voyaging, but Victarion had forbidden him to loose them. Let the Crow's Eye stew and wonder.

A flight from Slaver's Bay to the Shield Islands? Can a raven even do that?

People assume Euron is watching him some other way. How exactly? The fandom seriously overpowers Euron Greyjoy.

+.+.+

Longwater Pyke came pounding at the cabin door to tell him that the captain of Grief had come aboard with a prisoner. "Says he's brought us a wizard, Captain. Says he fished him from the sea."

"A wizard?" Could the Drowned God have sent a gift to him, here on the far side of the world?

Wrong god.

+.+.+

His brother Aeron would have known, but Aeron had seen the majesty of the Drowned God's watery halls below the sea before being returned to life. Victarion had a healthy fear of his god, as all men should, but put his faith in steel.

He says this like he isn't one of the most god-fearing men in the story.

+.+.+

"Lord Captain," he said when Victarion appeared, "this is Moqorro. A gift to us from the Drowned God."

The wizard was a monster of a man, as tall as Victarion himself and twice as wide, with a belly like a boulder and a tangle of bone-white hair that grew about his face like a lion's mane. His skin was black. Not the nut brown of the Summer Islanders on their swan ships, nor the red-brown of the Dothraki horselords, nor the charcoal-and-earth color of the dusky woman's skin, but black. Blacker than coal, blacker than jet, blacker than a raven's wing. Burned, Victarion thought, like a man who has been roasted in the flames until his flesh chars and crisps and falls smoking from his bones. The fires that had charred him still danced across his cheeks and forehead, where his eyes peered out from amongst a mask of frozen flames. Slave tattoos, the captain knew. Marks of evil.

Making Victarion Greyjoy vehemently opposed to slavery is maybe the funniest thing George R. R. Martin has ever done.

What's so beautiful about it is that only a minor group of people get the joke.

+.+.+

"A demon priest," said Wulfe One-Ear. He spat.

"Might be his robes caught fire, so he jumped overboard to put them out," suggested Longwater Pyke, to general laughter. Even the monkeys were amused. They chattered overhead, and one flung down a handful of his own shit to spatter on the boards.

Victarion Greyjoy mistrusted laughter. The sound of it always left him with the uneasy feeling that he was the butt of some jape he did not understand. Euron Crow's Eye had oft made mock of him when they were boys. So had Aeron, before he had become the Damphair. Their mockery oft came disguised as praise, and sometimes Victarion had not even realized he was being mocked. Not until he heard the laughter.

+.+.+

"A storm." Moqorro crossed his arms against his chest. He did not appear frightened, though all around him men were calling for his death. Even the monkeys did not seem to like this wizard. They leapt from line to line overhead, screaming.

A bunch of monkeys are smarter than Stannis Baratheon.

+.+.+

Victarion was uncertain. He came out of the sea. Why would the Drowned God cast him up unless he meant for us to find him? His brother Euron had his pet wizards. Perhaps the Drowned God meant for Victarion to have one too.

Do you see how analytical he is?

+.+.+

"Why do you say this man is a wizard?" he asked the Vole. "I see only a ragged red priest."

"I thought the same, lord Captain … but he knows things. He knew that we made for Slaver's Bay before any man could tell him, and he knew you would be here, off this island." The small man hesitated. "Lord Captain, he told me … he told me you would surely die unless we brought him to you."

"That I would die?" Victarion snorted. Cut his throat and throw him in the sea, he was about to say, until a throb of pain in his bad hand went stabbing up his arm almost to the elbow, the agony so intense that his words turned to bile in his throat. He stumbled and seized the rail to keep from falling.

Surely die? Meaning ... death is inevitable?

+.+.+

"The sorcerer's cursed the captain," a voice said.

Other men took up the cry. "Cut his throat! Kill him before he calls his demons down on us!" Longwater Pyke was the first to draw his dirk. "NO!" Victarion bellowed. "Stand back! All of you. Pyke, put up your steel. Vole, back to your ship. Humble, take the wizard to my cabin. The rest of you, about your duties." For half a heartbeat he was not certain they would obey. They stood about muttering, half with blades to hand, each looking to the others for resolve. Monkey shit rained down around them all, splat splat splat.

This is perfect.

+.+.+

As he opened the door to the captain's cabin, the dusky woman turned toward him, silent and smiling … but when she saw the red priest at his side her lips drew back from her teeth, and she hisssssed in sudden fury, like a snake.

How much do I love the thought of Moqorro serving Daenerys? Please author, I don't ask for much.

+.+.+

Victarion gave her the back of his good hand and knocked her to the deck. "Be quiet, woman. Wine for both of us."

Do you see how he doesn't allow religious intolerance?

(This is how a Daenerys Targaryen fan interprets the text.)

+.+.+

He turned to the black man. "Did the Vole speak true? You saw my death?"

"That, and more."

"Where? When? Will I die in battle?" His good hand opened and closed. "If you lie to me, I will split your head open like a melon and let the monkeys eat your brains."

"Your death is with us now, my lord. Give me your hand."

With us now? Meaning ... death is in motion?

+.+.+

"I have seen you in the nightfires, Victarion Greyjoy. You come striding through the flames stern and fierce, your great axe dripping blood, blind to the tentacles that grasp you at wrist and neck and ankle, the black strings that make you dance."

"Dance?" Victarion bristled. "Your nightfires lie. I was not made for dancing, and I am no man's puppet."

Striding through flames stern and fierce might be literal.

Moqorro insinuating Euron is still in control of Vicky.

+.+.+

"Even the smallest scratch can prove mortal, lord Captain, but if you will allow me, I will heal this. I will need a blade. Silver would be best, but iron will serve. A brazier as well. I must needs light a fire. There will be pain. Terrible pain, such as you have never known. But when we are done, your hand will be returned to you."

They are all the same, these magic men. The mouse warned me of pain as well. "I am ironborn, priest. I laugh at pain. You will have what you require … but if you fail, and my hand is not healed, I will cut your throat myself and give you to the sea."

Moqorro bowed, his dark eyes shining. "So be it."

Aww Daenerys sacrificed Mirri after she failed too! ❤️

+.+.+

The iron captain was not seen again that day, but as the hours passed the crew of his Iron Victory reported hearing the sound of wild laughter coming from the captain's cabin, laughter deep and dark and mad, and when Longwater Pyke and Wulfe One-Eye tried the cabin door they found it barred. Later singing was heard, a strange high wailing song in a tongue the maester said was High Valyrian. That was when the monkeys left the ship, screeching as they leapt into the water.

The monkeys have seen enough.

Question of the day:

Did Victarion just die, and come back to life through the power of R'hllor?

Welcome to the unVictarion theory!

He wondered if this was how his brother Aeron felt when the Drowned God spoke to him. He could almost hear the god's voice welling up from the depths of the sea. You shall serve me well, my captain, the waves seemed to say. It was for this I made you.

But he would feed the red god too, Moqorro's fire god. The arm the priest had healed was hideous to look upon, pork crackling from elbow to fingertips. Sometimes when Victarion closed his hand the skin would split and smoke, yet the arm was stronger than it had ever been. "Two gods are with me now," he told the dusky woman. "No foe can stand before two gods." Then he rolled her on her back and took her once again. - Victarion I, ADWD

The first thing that stands out is for a brief moment we no longer experience the story from Victarion's point of view. The text switches from third person limited to third person omniscient. I don't believe that's ever happened before.

Also strange, after this event Victarion's name will finally be used as his chapter head.

Something has shifted.

The Iron Captain

The Reaver

The Iron Suitor

Victarion

How about that horn?

Moqorro turned the hellhorn, examining the queer letters that crawled across a second of the golden bands. "Here it says, 'No mortal man shall sound me and live.'"

Bitterly Victarion brooded on the treachery of brothers. Euron's gifts are always poisoned. "The Crow's Eye swore this horn would bind dragons to my will. But how will that serve me if the price is death?"

"Your brother did not sound the horn himself. Nor must you." Moqorro pointed to the band of steel. "Here. 'Blood for fire, fire for blood.' Who blows the hellhorn matters not. The dragons will come to the horn's master. You must claim the horn. With blood." - Victarion I, ADWD

No mortal man shall sound the horn and live. Did Victarion uncover a cheat code?

Moqorro gives no indication that Victarion might already be dead, but Moqorro is not the most forthcoming individual.

How about that vision?

A corpse stood at the prow of a ship, eyes bright in his dead face, grey lips smiling sadly. - Daenerys IV, ACOK

I thought that was Aeron Dam-phair binded to the prow of Euron's ship. Could it actually be Victarion?

How about those parallels?

Mirri wasn't a servant of the red god, but like we saw above there are a few notable similarities between Khal Drogo's "revival" and whatever happened to Victarion.

the crew of his Iron Victory reported hearing the sound of wild laughter coming from the captain's cabin, laughter deep and dark and mad [...] Later singing was heard, a strange high wailing song in a tongue the maester said was High Valyrian.

The firelight made his black skin shine like polished onyx, and sometimes Victarion could swear that the flames tattooed on his face were dancing too, twisting and bending, melting into one another, their colors changing with every turn of the priest's head. - Victarion I, ADWD

↓

Once I begin to sing, no one must enter this tent. My song will wake powers old and dark. The dead will dance here this night. No living man must look on them. - Daenerys VIII, AGOT

Mirri Maz Duur's voice rose to a high, ululating wail that sent a shiver down Dany's back. Some of the Dothraki began to mutter and back away. The tent was aglow with the light of braziers within. Through the blood-spattered sandsilk, she glimpsed shadows moving.

Mirri Maz Duur was dancing, and not alone. - Daenerys VIII, AGOT

The Dothraki were shouting, Mirri Maz Duur wailing inside the tent like nothing human - Daenerys VIII, AGOT

How about the obvious?

Normal, mortal human beings don't walk around with charred godhands that smoke.

This is the type of sorcery we associate with Robert Strong, Coldhands, Lady Stoneheart, and Beric Dondarrion. They're all dead.

And lastly, we can't forget those amusing words.

What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger!

Is Vicky Godhand dead? Has he become a thrall of the red god?

I can't answer that question, but it's an amazing (hilarious) theory.

+.+.+

Come sunset, as the sea turned black as ink and the swollen sun tinted the sky a deep and bloody red, Victarion came back on deck. He was naked from the waist up, his left arm blood to the elbow. As his crew gathered, whispering and trading glances, he raised a charred and blackened hand. Wisps of dark smoke rose from his fingers as he pointed at the maester. "That one. Cut his throat and throw him in the sea, and the winds will favor us all the way to Meereen." Moqorro had seen that in his fires. He had seen the wench wed too, but what of it? She would not be the first woman Victarion Greyjoy had made a widow.

VICKY GODHAND RISE UP!

Go get your girl!

Final thoughts:

Have you ever noticed this is Vicky and Euron?

-> return to menu <-

#operation stumpy re-read #adwd #the iron suitor #victarion i

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waywardstation · 2 years

Text

We Will Both Get Off at the Next Stop

Akari and Ingo discover finishing the Paths of Solitude will finally give Ingo his ticket back home. But Akari begins to worry over the fact that she has not received the same offer.

I wrote this after considering what GF could do to resolve Ingo’s narrative within PLA, without prematurely stripping him of the features he provides to the player. So I considered DLC turning Ingo’s Path of Solitude into a quest that will send him back to his own time once it’s completed, with him having finished his own purpose. He helped the player push every documented Pokémon to be their absolute best, an add-on to the “seek out all Pokémon” task.

So each completed Path of Solitude would help bring Ingo one step closer to a ticket back home and restored memories, but obviously, the MC won’t be able to follow.

This one’s a little over my 1k limit but I think this one needed it.

OR read on AO3!

Enjoy!

————

“How many more?”

“Pardon?”

“How many more Pokémon until…y’know..?”

The sun was setting on Jubilife’s training grounds, tinting the dojo orange just like the clouds hanging in the sky. Ingo was standing at one end of the battlefield, hands together after a round of congratulatory clapping. Akari stood on the other, recalling her rather high-leveled hippowdon back into its capsule.

Despite beating the Path of Solitude yet again, an incredibly commendable feat, she did not seem that happy.

“Well,” The emotion in Ingo’s voice slipped from celebratory to concerned. “I recall this might be somewhere around the two hundred mark.”

“So, less than fifty now?” Akari frowned as she crossed the battlefield, pulling out her Pokédex reluctantly. Handing it to Ingo, he flipped to hippowdon’s page in her Pokédex and stamped it, signifying it had completed the Path of Solitude, like many of her other Pokémon.

Akari didn’t know how many stamps filled her pages now, but she knew it was a lot - she had stopped counting them after a hundred and eighty.

Ingo could see her eyes gain a glassy quality as he handed her Pokédex back to her. His frown deepened, and his heart ached. He knew what the problem was.

“Miss Akari, I promise I won’t leave you.” He cleared his throat, forcing the emotion down. “I will wait for you. One needs to wait for all of their passengers to board, before they can depart.”

“But what if it doesn’t work like that?” Akari’s voice cracked with the emotion that was beginning to well up. “You came here before me, what if you leave before me too? What if they just take you? And I’m left stuck here?”

It had been several months back when Akari first got the message on her arc phone; the first message she had gotten in a long time. It had urged her to press on with Ingo’s Path of Solitude, which she had admittedly become a bit lax with doing. It was a lot of work!

But that wasn’t the important part - it had told her that once the Path of Solitude was complete for every Pokémon, Ingo’s purpose here would be over, having being the only person there who could help her test and push the potential of every documented Pokémon in such a thorough way.

And he would be returned home, restored.

At first, the message had excited Akari beyond belief. So excited in fact, that she had gotten up the moment she understood the text, and raced on Wyrdeer’s back all the way to the highlands in the middle of the night, just to show Ingo.

He had cried when she showed him.

So Akari had immediately picked up on continuing the Path of Solitude once again, having left off with a measly 23 paths concluded. Ingo’s purpose here had finally been revealed, just like her. And now he had an end in sight, and a ticket home with restored memories!

At 27 paths completed, Akari started allowing herself to daydream about normal life again, and all of the things she wanted to show Ingo and do with him. He’d finally get to meet her mom, and her original team of Pokémon! And likewise, she could meet this man in white who looked like him!

At 42 paths completed, she began to wonder if they’d be set back where they originally came from, and how she would probably have to find him out in another region.

At 71 paths completed, Akari finally realized that Arceus had extended something to Ingo that she was yet to receive. An invitation to come back home. That message had just been for Ingo.

At 103 paths completed, Akari slowed down with completing the Paths of Solitude, beginning to dread what would happen. Messages through the Arc Phone urging her to press on, and worries that she was keeping Ingo from his old life had pushed her to continue.

At 146 paths completed, Akari had cried to Ingo several times about her thoughts. That he would go home without her, and she would be stuck here, now without him. Ingo had reassured her he would not let that happen, but how could he stop that?

At 177 paths completed, Akari broke down, crying that she didn’t want to continue. Arceus had never responded to her messages asking about her own way home, or what would happen - if they could leave when they were ready, or if it would be instantaneous. It only told her to keep going. And she kept going, not only because she was scared about the increased urgency in the messages, but because she didn’t want to rob Ingo of his chance to finally go home.

At 196 paths completed, she had become anxious and restless, now attached to Ingo at the hip, and spending almost all of her time with him. He did not mind, because he was growing unsure of what would happen as well.

And now at 213 paths completed, time was almost up.

“Miss Akari,” Ingo attempted to console her, tipping the brim of his cap down to shield his eyes from the setting sun. “I do not know the tracks I follow, and I do not know what will happen when I reach the end. Whether I will depart of my own volition, or by their choice, I cannot say. But I promise, I will do everything I can to ensure you are not left alone.”

Desperate arms wrapped tightly around Ingo’s middle as Akari pressed herself into his front, tears beginning to spill out of her eyes and down her cheeks onto his tunic. Ingo was caught off guard by the sudden display, but was quick to return the embrace.

“I want to go back with you,” she choked, voice muffled by his layers of clothing.

Ingo could not promise that she would.

“We will figure something out.” He replied instead, holding her until she was satisfied. “I cannot imagine you would not be allowed to depart this station as well.”

Finally, she pulled away from him, leaving a wet spot on his tunic as she wiped at her eyes, tears still spilling.

“You do not have to finish this.” Ingo sniffed as he reassured her - the sight of Akari crying and distraught tugged on emotions in his own chest. “Not right away. I would never push you to keep going at a speed your engine cannot maintain. Please do not continue at this pace for my sake. I can wait.”

“Don’t you want to go back?” The silent questions that had been gnawing at Akari for the last week began to bubble up. “You have a way back!”

“Seeing the light at the end of the tunnel is comforting,” Ingo answered. “but it will be hard to leave Hisui behind. I have not quite come to terms with it yet…I would prefer a pace that allows me a little more time, just as you do.”

“But…the messages keep saying-“

“Pay no heed to them. The messages are not being considerate of your needs. And they should consider answering your questions; they are reasonable concerns. Please, go at a pace that works for you; a damaged engine must receive attention and repairs before it can return to operating. They can wait.”

Akari let out a shaky breath and leaned her head forward against his tunic again, gripping his coat tightly. He was still here.

“Thank you,” her voice cracked as she blinked the lingering tears from her eyes.

“Now, you did an excellent job today with hippowdon,” Ingo changed tracks, gently holding her back to look her in the eyes. “I’d say we should celebrate your path to victory with dinner at The Wallflower. Does that sound good to you?”

Her eyes, still glassy, gained a quality of reassurance as she wiped them.

“Yeah…”

“Good! Now, onward to The Wallflower! We can worry about the next Path of Solitude next week, if you are ready by then. For now, all we have to worry about is how many plates of potato mochi to order.”

Akari let out a weak laugh as they turned to exit the training grounds.

Things would be ok.

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