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wildernessuntothemselves · 5 years ago

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Prey for You | Part 4

Genre: Smut, angst, and some fluff this time

Word Count: 4.4k

Summary: It has come to this. After your landlord kicks you out, you’re at Chan’s mercy. Turns out, he might not be as bad as you thought he was.

Warnings: enemies to lovers, switch!reader, switch!chan, wolf!hybrid chan, fox!hybrid reader, thigh riding, really unheathly dynamics

A/N: this part is like the opposite of a tootsie roll soft on the outside hard on the inside

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4 Part 5, Part 6

“This is just for a short while.” You say, swallowing the bile that has risen up in your throat as you look at the smug wolf sitting in front of you on his couch.

“Sure.” He shrugs nonchalant, but the cocky arch of his brow says otherwise and you have to squash down your pride with everything you’ve got not to jump on him. Like it or not, you’re at his mercy now that your landlord has officially evicted you. Without his gracious help, you’d now be on the streets. “I’ll find another place as soon as I can.”

“You can take all the time you need.” He opens his arms wide, going for a welcoming vibe but the stupid grin on his face counteracts it.

“No. I’ll be out of here soon.” You deadpan, not wanting to owe him more than you already do. God knows he’ll hold his over your head forever. "And I don't feel comfortable living here for free so from now on until I leave, I'll be taking care of things around the house."

“Oh, how domestic.” He chirps sweetly.

"More like a live-in maid." You mutter under your breath but he easily hears it, the stupid grin finally dropping from his face as he sits forward and looks at you sincerely. "Don't say that. I meant what I said. You’re here as a friend."

"Yeah, sure." You snort. “You’re basically high from gloating.”

A smile tickles his lips again as he leans back. “I always enjoy the chance to one-up you, but that doesn’t mean I’m lying.”

“Wow, you really are a saint.” You jeer, grabbing your bag and heading towards the room that is to be yours.

_________________

To your great surprise, living with Chan was actually kind of nice. Aside from the obvious perk of living in such a comfortable, beautiful house that had everything you could ever need. Chan himself was proving himself to be a quiet congenial roommate. Most importantly, he left you the hell alone for the most part, staying cooped up in his studio the majority of the day so that you barely even saw him. And despite your agreement that you’d take care of things around the house, he still did most of his things himself, picking up after himself and washing his clothes before you got the chance to. He fed himself too as indicated by the boxes of takeout from every possible fast food place filling out the trash. So you were barely wasting any time on taking care of the house, and spending most of your days following up on your studies like you so sorely needed.

All in all, this whole arrangement was working out positively in your favor. Too positively, that you have to wonder what he was getting out of this. He can’t possibly really be doing this out of the goodness of his heart, especially since no one is even aware of this kind deed for him to gain any morality points off of it. He hasn’t even made a move on you for the whole three weeks you’d been here, seeming content to just coexist with you that you were starting to feel like you were taking advantage of him somehow. Even though this whole thing was his idea.

Maybe that, your momentary self-doubt, is what prompted you to do what you did next.

“Hmm, something smells nice.” Chan remarks, walking into the kitchen where you were making yourself some food. He stands behind you to take a look at what you were cooking, and you feel your heart skipping a beat at the now familiar scent of him filling your nostrils and his body being so close to you. And when he speaks, his voice deep and calm next to your ear, it makes your skin tingle. “Looks tasty too.”

And like a teenager who had the great fortune of being noticed by the popular jock, you twist your head around to look at him, dewy-eyed as the words stumble out of your mouth before you can think them over. “Would you like to have dinner with me today?”

He pauses, looking at you curiously and you turn back to the food and continue nervously, “I mean, that junk food you eat everyday can’t be good for you.”

“Aw, are you worried about me?” He asks cheekily, and your shoulders tense. “Never mind.”

“No, no, I’ll have dinner with you.” He rushes to say, plopping down on a seat resolutely. “No take backsies.”

“Idiot.” You mutter, finding yourself wearing an involuntary smile because of him once again.

__________________________________

You’re not the best cook, you’ll be the first to admit it, but Chan praises your food like you are a world class chef.

“Fuck off, Chan. It’s not that good.” You protest awkwardly, not really used to being complimented. But he insists, mouth full of food, “It is! It’s sublime.”

You look down at your food to avoid eye contact with him and put on your best snooty voice. “Poor thing. Your habit of eating exclusively junk food must’ve ruined your palate to the point where you think my cooking is anything but decent.”

“You sell yourself short. These hands--” He suddenly grabs your hands suddenly, startling you as he kisses them. “They’re magic.”

You yank them back to your lap, flustered, the adrenaline pushing your poor fluttering heart into overdrive and making you panic. You quickly grab your fork and shove some food into your mouth trying to distract yourself from the conflicting emotions clashing in your chest, and regretting it almost immediately as your nausea swells up.

“Is that how you woo prey?” You snark, taking a big gulp of your wine to wash down the piece of food you barely chewed. “Blatantly lie to them about their cooking skills?”

The atmosphere fully changes as Chan drops his cheery attitude. “Can we not talk about… that? It’s just you and me here. We don’t have to let the outside world in, do we?”

You still, your sense of danger rising up exponentially at his suggestion, and once again you find yourself wondering why he was doing this. What was his endgame here? Was he just messing with you? He puts on an honorable performance but you’ve seen him slip before. It must get tiring for him. Maybe he wants to see you hurt; it’s in his nature and he’s been repressing it for so long. You’d be the perfect victim too. No one even knows you’re here, and even if they did, they’d never believe your word over his.

Or he could be genuine. Maybe he’s as nice as he tries to be. But that just scares you more, because how do you deal with that? You’ve never had a relationship with someone that was open and trusting. You’ve always hid behind your games. They kept you safe. No one has ever truly hurt you because you’ve never allowed someone to get close enough. But if you trust Chan, if you let him in and he betrays you… you don’t know how you’d even recover from that.

You want to believe though. Everyone always says how much of a good person he is, how loyal, how selfless, how supportive. They can’t all be blind, right? And you’ve seen it too, in the way he always strived to protect his friends from you. He wanted the best for them. Maybe he could want the best for you too.

“Okay.” You answer in a small voice, heart pounding.

His answering smile is bright and big, but it does nothing to assuage your fears so you settle for taking another sip of your wine. That’s what it’s made for, right?

“So, what do you actually do? I never asked.” Chan makes conversation as he gets back to his food.

You clear your throat. “I’m a waitress.”

“Oh, and… um, is that what you want to be doing?” He asks unsurely.

You roll your eyes at him, feeling a little at ease at his naivety. “No. Nobody wants to work in the service industry. It’s basically slavery and all your costumers are either rude or crazy. I hate it.”

He pauses, looking like he’s thinking very hard for a moment, before he asks, perplexed. “So why do you do it?”

“To eat?”

“Oh. Right. Of course.” His ears turn red and it’s his turn to take a big gulp of his drink. “I’m, uh, apparently an idiot. Yes, people work to afford living. Of course.”

“I guess you’ve never had to think about that.” You note, surprised that you don’t feel any bitterness as you say it.

“No.” He stares at the food on his plate. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for? It’s not your fault.”

“Yeah but--”

“But I don’t have money so you feel sorry having money in front of me?” You grin, tone light, and he smiles back, face flushed as he obviously chastises himself in his head.

“So…” He starts again, and it’s a little endearing how nervous he is. “What do you really wanna do?”

You regard him for a second, wondering if you should really cross that line and let him in. Well, here goes nothing.

“I’m studying to be a doctor.”

His jaw drops to the floor. “You?”

“Yeah, shocking right?” You quip, taking another sip from your glass.

“I mean, yeah.” You would take offense at his words if it weren’t for the--you begrudgingly admit--endearing confused frown on his face. “Isn’t that a traditionally prey profession? Don’t you get, like, weird looks or something?”

“Yeah.” You snort, feeling the bitterness rise to the surface. “I get more than just weird looks. People feel the need to tell me every moment of every day how I’ll never be a good doctor. How no one will trust a fox with their life. How I should just quit and get into business or law or whatever other profession that can use my no-doubt nefarious skills.”

“That sucks.” He says then immediately cringes at his lame comment.

“Yeah, no shit. And guess who says it the most? Prey hybrids.”

A light bulb suddenly clicks above his head. “Is that why you dislike them? They’re really not all like that--”

You interrupt him sharply, already knowing where he was going with this. “They’re not like that to you because you’re powerful and rich and you could do whatever you want, but they’re ruthless to me. They’ve always been. So yeah excuse me if I don’t care too much for your prey apologism. It’s pretty infuriating actually.”

“I really think you should--”

“What about you?” You ask pointedly, clearly wanting to change the subject. “I mean, I know that you’re a producer. I suppose this is what you’ve always wanted to be doing.”

“Ah, yes.” He coughs, straightening in his seat as he reels back from the change of topic. “I’ve loved it since I was an angsty teen listening to hip hop and pretending like I’m so cool and gangsta.”

The thought of little rich boy Chan swearing it up and down and acting like a thug brings an involuntary and sincere laugh out of you. It doesn’t bother Chan though. If anything, he looks content to have made you laugh.

“Did you…” He begins after your laughter dies down, fiddling with the stem of his glass as he looks at you from under his lashes, “Have you ever listened to any of my tracks?”

“No.” You scoff, the word coming out automatically. I mean, why would you? It’s not like you like the guy.

His face falls at your flippant answer. “Ah. Of course.” He says flatly, bringing his glass to his mouth.

You feel a pang of guilt in your chest. Logically, you know you have no reason to feel bad. You two were never on the best of terms and you have no obligation to listen to his songs. And yet, as you look at his crestfallen face, the guilt still eats at you.

“How about you show me some after dinner?” You find yourself suggesting and his face immediately brightens up. “Yeah! I mean… you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” He interjects quickly, even though he clearly wants you to.

“I want to.” You say firmly, and he smiles. ___________________________________

“I’m a nice guy who just has a lot of money?” You wheeze, cracking up and face flushed from the intoxication. You were somehow on Chan’s lap as the night progressed from him showing you his proudest works to his most regrettable ones.

“I know. I know. What was I thinking, right?” He laughs along with you despite his obvious embarrassment.

You lean in close to his face, humming, "I think it's endearing." You kiss him.

"You just like embarrassing me." He protests weakly, mouth opening against your lips.

“Guilty.” You pull away to take his shirt off. Caressing his exposed muscles, you grin, “Hmm...yummy.”

He bursts out laughing, “You like it?”

You shrug, “It’s not what I usually go for but I can get used to it.”

He scoffs at that, and pulls your own shirt over your head. Tugging your bra over your breasts, he cups them in his hands and murmurs against your skin, “Well, I don’t need to get used to these.” before his mouth latches onto them. He sucks marks onto the sensitive flesh while his hands grope and knead your breasts.

Looking up at you, he pushes your breasts together and laps his tongue over the nipples. Your arousal spikes as your gaze locks with his challenging one, and you start rocking yourself over his thigh.

"Fuck that's hot." He mumbles, lightly tugging on your nipple with his teeth as he pulls away, making you moan out and your hips swivel down to push your core harder against his thigh.

"Wait, wait," He pulls you to your feet, and you whine, protesting the loss.

“Hush, baby girl.” He soothes, yanking your pants down your legs along with your underwear before he slips his hand between your legs to drag a finger up your slit, hissing when he feels your wetness. "That's what I want." He groans, pulling you back down on his thigh and using his grip on your hips to make you move over his thigh again. "Want you to ruin my pants with your cum, baby girl. Show me how much you need me."

"But I don't need you." You retort, though your hips don’t slow down.

“Are you sure about that, my little fox?” He flexes his thigh under you, pushing it up more against your core.

“Uh-huh.” You breathe, squeezing your eyes shut and throwing your head back. He takes the opportunity to get back to sucking on your breasts, which only makes your movements more frantic.

“Come on, baby, tell me how good I am and I’ll help you.” He gasps between kisses. You tug on his hair, almost bouncing on his thigh now. “Why don’t you beg for it, pup?”

“Unbelievable.” He growls, pulling your head down. “You’re still so prideful even as you hump my leg like bitch.”

Whatever stinging remark you would’ve hurled at him is muffled against his lips as he pulls you into a hungry kiss. You let him push his tongue into your mouth, taking him in and caressing it with your own before you put your hands to his chest and push him back.

“You really want it? Want me to say how good you are for me? How wet you make me?"

He nods eagerly.

“What a sweet pup.” You praise, “Striving so hard to please me. You’re doing so well, baby. You’ll make me cum real soon.”

“Do it, please. I wanna see what you look like cumming up close.”

“Keep tensing your leg like that and you’ll have me cumming in no time, puppy.” You bite your lip, small but needy moans flowing out of you. “What a good boy you are, so good.”

“Please,” He whispers, his hands helping you move faster on his thigh. “Please, please.”

“So close---ah---oh god, so close...baby!” You gasp, grabbing onto him tightly as you finally cum, the orgasm surprisingly potent. He beams up at you, soaking up every little moan and shudder you let out. “So pretty.”

Gradually, your panting breaths turn into airy giggles as you get down from your high. You give his lips a peck before your hands fall between you and starts pulling his dick out from his sweatpants. You grin against his lips, feeling giddy. "I can’t believe I’m gonna let you fuck me in your studio. How cliche.”

His answering chuckles are punctuated with little moans as you glide your hand up and down his hard dick. “If it--ahh-- makes you feel any better, t-this is the--ahh, yeah like that, baby-- the first time I fuck anyone here.”

You giggles increase in pitch, “You’re so full of shit, Chan.”

“I’m serious.” He whines, leaning up into your touch as you swipe your palm over the leaking head of his cock. “This is kind of a... sacred place for me."

“Yeah, right.” You roll your eyes, “It can’t be that special if you’re here with me now.”

“It is.” He insists with a pout, and continues casually as if it was nothing, “Because you’re special.”

Your hand stills on his cock, your face turning to stone as you try and make sense of what he just said. He's messing with you. He has to be.

Fear and uncertainty makes your stomach churn and your skin loses all color, your face getting cold and sweaty as the bile rises up in your throat. You thought you could handle this but you can’t. You’re too much of a coward to risk it and your sense of self-preservation rears its deformed head once again.

Standing up abruptly, you croak through your suddenly dry mouth, "I think I’m gonna go. I need to lie down"

Chan gets up too, not letting you go. "Oh, is everything okay? Are you sick?".

"I’m fine. I’m just..." You explain weakly, wriggling yourself out of his grip as quickly as you can in your intoxicated state. "I gotta go."

“Hey, wait!” Chan calls after you, but doesn’t try to stop you. You hear him curse out just before you get out of earshot.

____________________

You wake up with a huge headache and an even bigger feeling of dread. The events of last night coming back like a bullet shot through your chest, and you’re even more confused now with the hangover shattering any hope of a coherent thought forming in your head.

You stumble out of bed and head to the door, resolving to get some water and some painkiller so you’d maybe start to feel like your head wasn’t likely to explode at any moment. But as you slide the door open, you hear bickering voices just outside in the living room.

"Chan, what the hell are you doing man?" You hear a familiar voice ask but your brain is too scattered to pinpoint the owner of it right now. Luckily, you don’t need to as Chan speaks up in reply, "It's fine, Jisung. It’s all under control."

"No, it's not. Isn’t that what you used to tell me? That no matter how much she makes it seem like she cares, she could flip the table on me at any moment and that I shouldn’t trust her. That’s what you said!”

You quickly pick up that they’re talking about you despite how much you don’t want to believe it. But that’s the kind of language that has always been directed at you, there is no mistaking it. Yet, against all reason, you hope it’s not true. Or at least, you hope Chan would deny it.

He doesn’t, of course. They never do.

“I know what I said!”

“And? Do you trust her now?” Jisung asks incredulously.

“Of course not.” Chan vehemently denies, the resoluteness in his voice piercing straight through your heart.

Of course not. Of course he doesn’t trust you. What a ridiculous question.

“Jisung is right, Chan.” A new voice adds and you focus on the sound of it, trying not to break down just yet. “You’re letting her sleep under your roof, man, and you didn’t even think to tell us. Has she been messing with your head?”

They are talking about you like you are some kind of monster, some wild beast that would pounce on you the second you turned your back to it. You’d find it amusing coming from anyone else, but not from Chan, because for once in your life you wanted to believe that someone could see you as something other than what the world thought you were. You blame yourself for this one.

“My head is fine.” Chan retorts angrily, letting out a forced sigh. “I’m just.... She was in trouble and I had to help her.”

“Oh, you had to?” The new guy interjects mockingly, “Tell me, would she have helped you if you were in her position?”

“That’s irrelevant.” Chan protests.

“No, it’s not. She would’ve let you suffer and laughed about it. She’s bad news, man.”

“I think you guys are being a little harsh.” Another voice speaks up, deeper than the rest. “Maybe she’s not as bad as you think. I’m sure Chan has a good reason for trusting her.”

“Yeah, I’m sure his dick does.” Jisung scoffs, “You know, I can’t believe you’d do this after preaching to me for hours about how I need to stay away from her and how stupid I am for letting her get to me. But hey, I’m just a stupid squirrel hybrid, right?”

You’ve heard enough. Pushing the door the rest of the way open, you plaster a smile on your face and step into the living room, the four boys’ head snapping around to look at you.

“Chan, you didn’t tell me we had guests.” You ponder theatrically, ignoring Chan’s dismayed exclamation of your name. "Oh hey, Sungie. I knew you'd be back for more." You wink at him and he immediately ducks behind the dark-haired stranger.

“Please go back to your room.” Chan asks, equal measure pale and tense.

“But aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?” Your eyes flit over the three guys, stopping when you get to the blonde, freckled one. “Especially this one. What’s your name, pretty boy?”

The boy blushes at the unexpected flirtation but extends his hand out to you nonetheless. "I'm Felix." He greets you unexpectedly cheerily, and you’re even more surprised to find out that he’s the one with the deep voice.

But before you can take his hand, Chan steps between the two of you.

"I need to talk to you." He grits, pulling you to your room and shutting the door behind you. “What are you doing?”

You shrug, feigning ignorance. “Saying hi to the guests?”

“Now is not the time for your games.” Chan rakes his hand through his hair, stressed out, but you keep up your innocent facade and he sighs in defeat. “You know what? Just stay in your room until they leave and then we’ll talk.”

“No, we’ll talk now. Are you ashamed of me or something?" You wonder, cocking your head to the side. “I thought you said I was special to you? But apparently you say a lot of things.”

“Baby--”

“Why, Chan?” You finally let your facade drop, letting the full extent of your disappointment and sadness break through. “If you don’t want me here then why did you offer in the first place?”

“I do want you here. I just wasn’t planning on anyone finding out about this.”

You laugh in disdain, “How do you always know what to say, Chan?”

“I’m sorry but you have to realize how bad this looks for me. I worked fucking hard to get to where I am today. There are so many people waiting for me to make the slightest mistake so they can watch me fall. And here you are… well, you don’t exactly have the best reputation. If people find out about us then--”

“Wow, you really are an angel, aren’t you?” You bite, venom lacing your every word.

He laughs cruelly. “Oh, yes, and the judgement comes out. You’re such a fucking hypocrite. You can judge everyone and treat them like shit, but as soon as someone does the same to you you’re suddenly the poor misunderstood victim that everyone bullies.”

You reel back at the harshness of his tone and words. He’s never spoken to you like that before, no matter how much he was upset at you. It was jarring. “Stop it.”

“Why? It’s what you’re best at, darling.” He sneers, continuing to ruthlessly attack you. “You judged me before you even knew me and went about treating me like a feeble predator because that’s what you decided that I am. And now you want me to take responsibility for your actions and stand up for you when other people treat you the way you’ve been treating them? But here’s the thing, baby; maybe if you had actually been a decent person and treated others with respect, you wouldn’t be in this situation right now. Hell if you'd been a decent person, you wouldn't be having such a hard time anywhere, not with me, not with school, not--"

"No, fuck you, chan. Don't you dare tell me this is all my fault. You know nothing about my life! I can't believe I actually--never mind.”

“No say it. You actually what? Liked me? Cared for me? Don’t make me laugh, fox. You don't give a shit about me. Every time I try to get close to you, you pull back like I make you sick. If it weren’t for me offering you a place to stay, you wouldn’t even be talking to me right now. You only care now because I have something to give you, but the second you’re done with me, you’ll throw me in the trash like you do everyone else. And I’m not going to sacrifice all that I’ve worked for to entertain you until you’re bored.”

“You may be right. I may be as awful as you all say I am.” You smile, tears falling down your face. “But at least I'm honest with myself. You on the other hand? Under all your pretense, you're just as fucked up as I am. And one day, everyone will see you for how ugly you really are. ”

_______________________________

A/N: sorry guys she (me) had to do it to you. leave your feedback uwu

#bangchan smut #chan smut #stray kids smut #bangchan angst #stray kids angst

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cal-kestis · 4 years ago

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You Will Never Be Alone Again | Din Djarin x Fem!Reader

(Epilogue of The Aftermath of Losing Everything)

moodboard/sketch/gifs made by me, please don’t repost :)

Summary: Each morning, he’s there, holding you with his smiling lips pressed against your neck and his heart beating against your chest. (Set after S2) Rating: M Word Count: 3018 Warnings/Tags: Soft!Din, FLUFF, no use of ‘Y/N’, suggestive content

[PART I] // [PART II] // [PART III] // [Read on AO3] // [Series Masterlist]

xi.

It’s strange not waking up by yourself, strange to feel blanketed in a kind of warmth and comfort, not even the early morning suns could radiate.

Sometimes, you think this must be some wild fantasy, a sweet sublime dream that could evaporate into smoke if you dare open your eyes.

But each morning, he’s there, holding you with his smiling lips pressed against your neck and his heart beating against your chest. It’s no secret you love him, it’s written all across your face even with a peripheral glance. Falling for him happened fast and a long, long time ago. Yet in these quiet moments when you’re in the place between wakefulness and sleep, you think you’re still cascading over the crest — falling for the tiniest pieces of him that others would need a magnifying glass to see.

Like those delicate wrinkles that frame the corners of his brown eyes when he looks at you, the way they deepen as he smiles. It’s hard to describe how beautiful those lines are… what they mean. Wrinkles don’t develop overnight. No, he’s smiled enough times for those creases to permanently etch themselves into his skin. It makes your heart soar knowing that, despite all he’s been through, he’d allowed himself those sparse moments of happiness. You’ve hopelessly fallen in love with the lines beside his eyes, evidence that a bright side can exist even in the darkest of hours.

And still, perhaps something you love even more is the way he kisses you until you forget every night you’d ever lay awake feeling alone in the universe.

It’s all so strange in the best, most beautiful way.

Din has given you so much and you only hope he can see your heart, the words carved on it — poems about him, his eyes, the charming lines that tug at the corners. You hope he can see how you’ve kept every word he’s every whispered against your skin, how you’ve inscribed them onto your beating soul: secrets and promises only the two of you will ever get to know, your own name scribbled by his lips a thousand times. You’ll treasure the invisible markings forever. Your heart’s covered in him and you just hope he can see.

With Din, life seems more meaningful, peaceful, beautiful… full. And though frightening shadows still lurk, you know you don’t have to face them alone.

Of course, there are times you worry, moments when he still seems trapped in his head, sinking into deep waters with that silver ball clutched in his hand. But he has you now, his liferaft, one with patched up holes and dents that will always come to pull him back up to the surface.

On those nights when he gets lost in the treacherous tsunami of his mind, you try to give back to him everything he’s so generously offered you. And even as you draw rasped sighs and choked cries and broken moans from his lips, your fingers painting patterns across his body… you know what heals him most are the moments after: the way your breath slows down to match his, how your lips press so gently over his eyelids until they close and project dreams of you as he sleeps.

Meant for me, he’d once said. Or maybe, meant for you.

—

xii.

In the sacred moments you and Din have to yourselves — no quarry to chase, no demons to face — you find yourselves on beautiful secluded planets like this one, surrounded by towering trees and lush rolling hills and long blades of grass and calm creek cadences. Somehow, each new system is more stunning than the last, and every time he opens the ramp to his ship, he intently watches your wonderstruck reaction as your eyes take in a fantastical new planet and gorgeous environment.

Visiting new planets off-duty comes with its own routine. He walks with you as you explore with wide eyes, sits beside you when you find a colorful plant to draw, lifts his helmet ever so slightly when the desire to kiss you — your cheek, your temple, your shoulder — becomes too overwhelming. And when night falls, you both retire to his ship, where he can freely remove every piece of armor and kiss every inch of your skin until it’s all you can dream of.

Since the confrontation at the Imperial base, Din’s also taken it upon himself to train you. Not in the ways of the Jedi, of course. That, you’re learning to study on your own. Din trains you like a Mandalorian — a zealous approach to weapons and warriorship. He’s a patient and compassionate teacher, and it only ties your heart to his in a tighter knot. With his gentle guidance, handling a blaster is hardly an obstacle and it only takes a month or two before you become well-acquainted with the darksaber he’d hidden in his storage cabinet for so long.

When he’d finally told you the story of the ancient weapon of legend, gravity had seemed to press harder against his back, making his shoulders slope and his head hang even lower. Because, on the day he’d parted with his son, he’d not only removed the mask of his Creed, he’d also acquired the crown of a cursed planet. And he still doesn’t know which one weighs heavier atop his head.

After that, you’d dedicated yourself to training with renewed vigor — wanting to be prepared if ever the target on his back brought upon old Imperial enemies or new ones who sought to usurp him from the throne he never wanted.

Today, much like the other times you’d trained with him, it’s mostly just chopping at trees and bushes. You can’t deny how much stronger you feel just holding the Mandalorian weapon and knowing you can defend yourself even without the Force.

There’s a part of you, however, that feels like Din’s holding back. Whenever you’d asked when you’d be ready to spar with him, eager to test your newfound skills against something that can actually fight back, he’d simply readjusted your stance with gentle hands and asked you to show him the different sword strokes he’d taught you.

“Very good,” Din praises as you step forward and swing the darksaber through the air, slicing clean through a thin branch.

“Well, that tree had it coming,” you scoff, crossing your arms with over-exaggerated toughness. “I’ve had enough of your bark, tree. It’s about time you leaf.”

“Puns. You’re upset,” he says, not a question.

“I’m not upset,” you lie, trying to put on your best sabacc face. But his helmet tilts in a way that’s far too knowing for a darkened, T-shaped visor, and you sigh in defeat under his scrutinizing stare. “Fine. I just… I just think I’m ready to up the ante here. And I feel like you’re holding back.”

He stares at you for a moment, studiously looking you up and down.

“Your posture is too slouched,” he explains, changing the subject again. “Go back to ready position.”

“Don’t do that,” you heave out another exasperated sigh.

“Ner kar’ta...”

“No, don’t ‘ner kar’ta’ me. Just because you’ve got this shiny sword,” you argue, the glowing saber humming in your hand as you brandish it back and forth, “and you’re technically a king or whatever—”

“Mand’alor,” he interrupts. “And I’m not.”

“—doesn’t mean everything you say is law. I want you to fight me. I’m ready,” your voice softens, stepping closer to him as your pleading hands wrap around the back of his neck. “I want to really learn from you.”

“We’re not doing this,” he answers, despite willingly staying trapped in the cage of your arms.

But you don’t back down. Instead, you lean forward, lips barely a hair's breadth from his helmet before you boldly kiss the spot where his mouth would be, lingering and watching how the tinted panel fogs up. The print of your mouth marks the dark visor and it makes you grin.

“Fight me, Mando,” you whisper, all sultry bravado laced with a tease that prickles the skin beneath Din’s armor.

“Ready position,” he rasps like he’s annoyed at himself.

A metallic, musical sound rings in the empty forest as he unsheathes the beskar spear behind his back. And like a giddy child, you bounce on your feet and step backward, swinging the darksaber in your hands before taking your stance.

Din stands sturdy just a few feet away, spear gripped tightly in his gloves. He slowly lowers himself, knees bent just slightly, an air of strength and confidence surrounding him. Then, hardly perceptible, he nods.

You dig your heels into the soil, your boots squashing the grass below your feet. With your legs spread wide, you draw the darksaber up to the side of your head, the blinding glow casting a white halo on your cheek. Narrowing your eyes and taking a deep breath, you charge forward at lightning speed, zeroing in on the shiny armor in front of you.

At the last second, Din dodges your attack, stepping to the side and watching as you rush past him. You somehow manage not to trip over your own feet and hastily twirl around to face him again. But Din’s already got the point of his spear aimed at the side of your throat.

“You’re relying too much on your speed,” he explains, spear hovering just below your ear. “Size up your opponent first. Figuring out their weakness is more valuable than using up all your strength. Go again.”

You huff at him but get back into ready position, breathing deep in through your nose and out through your mouth. This time, you take a moment to assess him for weak spots. There aren’t many of course, not visible at least. But you decide the side of his stomach is your best bet.

The moment he nods his head, you take a leap forward and twist your wrist, swinging the blade toward his waist. His spear spins swiftly to block the strike, your weapons meeting in a clash of sparks and high-pitched whistles. You summon all your strength to push the saber against his spear, watching as the silver metal turns orange under the intense laser’s heat. And just when you feel like you’re gaining the high ground as Din’s body bends under your advance, he sweeps his boot beneath you and you fall backward, losing grip of the darksaber.

“That was better,” he says with approval, scanning your body as you lay on the ground and groan loudly. “You okay?” He gently wonders, coming closer and extending a gloved hand toward you.

With shaking fingers, you reach for him. And the moment you feel his grip tighten around your hand, an idea sparks. Without another thought, you yank him forward onto the ground beside you. He lets out a surprised grunt when he hits the dirt and you take full advantage of his shock, straddling his hips and trapping his arms beneath your legs. You extend your hand out to the side and, within seconds, the darksaber comes flying back into your fist. With a bright flash, you ignite the laser blade near his throat.

“That’s cheating,” he says, but you can hear the proud smile in his voice.

“I simply assessed my opponent’s weakness,” you grin, retracting the saber into its hilt and leaning down until you’re nose-to-nose with his helmet. “Just so happens, his weakness is me.”

“Good girl,” he says, and you can’t fight the way his praise sends a fluttering warmth to your belly.

You kiss his helmet again with an exaggerated smacking sound before getting off of him and saying, “Let’s go again.”

Din spars with you for nearly two hours, offering gentle advice each time he bests you (which is most of the time) and showering you with praises whenever you find a way to get the upper hand. It fills you with unmatchable strength and confidence.

“That’s enough for today, verd’ika,” he says, slightly breathless as he brushes dirt off your clothes. “It’s getting dark. Let’s head inside.”

You smile at him, filled with an intense urge to kiss him. So, you reach for his helmet, slowly, just in case. His head turns left and right, checking if the coast is clear, before nodding. You lift the beskar slightly, just enough to reveal his mouth and his neatly-trimmed mustache, and press a gentle kiss to his lips.

“Thank you, Din,” you whisper as you set his helmet back in its place. You can almost see the bemused look on his face as he stares at you.

And as you walk back to the ship, a re-energized bounce in your step, you decide to tease him one last time, turn around, and smirk. “Meet you in the fresher.”

—

xiii.

Din’s hair hangs in waves over his forehead as he gazes down at you, leaning on his left forearm to stay suspended over your body.

He smells delicious, like his herb-scented soap and the delicious meal he’d cooked for you tonight. His skin is glazed in a radiant sheen and his eyes somehow glow in the dim lighting of your shared quarters.

You’ve learned to appreciate rare nights like this, when there are no jobs to keep him away from you for days at a time. When your eyes get to unabashedly roam over the golden expanse of his skin, without heavy armor or layers of cloth in your way. When you get to listen to his voice for hours on end as his hand traces lines and circles into your skin.

“What are you thinking about?” You ask him, noticing how his entranced stare focuses on your lips when you speak.

He strokes a calloused finger over your cheekbone, then under the curve of your lips, until his thumb finds a resting place over your chin and gently swipes back and forth.

“You,” he answers honestly, leaning down to kiss you, tasting your smile on his tongue. He lingers there for a long moment, hanging from your lips like a man on the edge of falling though he’s already fallen countless times before.

“That’s all?” You whisper, feeling his hot breath brush against your mouth.

He rests his forehead against yours, his nose rubbing along the side of your own.

“And how much the kid would have loved this planet,” he continues wistfully. “Running through the grass and catching frogs or whatever he could eat.”

Your soft laugh is bittersweet as he reminisces over his son, the corners of his eyes wrinkling mere centimeters from your face.

“Thinking about how he would have liked watching us train together. He’d probably cheer for you to win,” Din chuckles when you scrunch your nose and shake your head doubtfully. Then, his face softens and his eyes glisten. “Grogu would have loved you.”

An errant tear falls from Din’s lashes and drops onto your cheek, and there's little you can do to keep your own from getting mixed in — a tiny melancholy river forming atop your skin. Your hands cup either side of his face, and you lean forward to kiss the spot where the tear had left a small trail right below his eye.

“In some ways, it’s like I know him now,” you murmur against Din’s cheekbone. “Because I know you. I can feel it — the pieces of you that will be part of him forever. I would love him too. I already do.”

He whispers your name again and again, and each time, it’s like he’s making a wish on a star.

“Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum,” you whisper, kissing his lips sweetly.

When you draw backward against your pillow, he latches onto your mouth once more and kisses you until you’re breathless.

“There aren’t words, ner kar’ta, ” he says quietly, fingers brushing gently over your hair. “Nothing can explain what you mean to me.”

When Din makes love, you can feel nothing else but him — his body, his soul, his heart. Every touch and movement is energized by a deep intention to let you know what he sometimes struggles expressing in words. But you’ve become fluent in him, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt how each kiss translates to: I love you.

Each thrust of his hips means: I want you.

Each ragged moan reveals: I need you.

Each soft caress says: I’d do anything for you.

And each time his forehead meets yours, he declares: I have found my family.

As you both try to catch your breath, he flops back down onto the bed beside you. He hums happily when he feels you hold tight to him, squeezing his middle with your arms and placing a kiss over his heart.

“Good night, Din,” you mumble, yawning as you nuzzle your face against his chest and bury yourself deep beneath the covers.

“Sweet dreams,” he says, pressing his lips into your hair.

You tilt your chin up just slightly, wanting the last image you see before you drift off to be his beautiful face. But his stare is far away, lost in thought once again. You follow his line of sight, beginning at his shining eyes and landing on the collection of drawings hung beside his door. And the pictures that reflect in his glossy irises are the finished portrait of him beside the sketch of you and Grogu displayed proudly in the center.

Someday, you swear to yourself, those images will be more than just pencil scratches on parchment. Someday, your small chosen family will be whole.

When you close your eyes — your head resting over the warm skin of his chest, his heart marching steadily under your cheek — you dream of the day Din and his son finally reunite, with you standing by his side. And even if that’s still a far-off fantasy, you can rest easily knowing two things for sure:

Tomorrow, you’ll wake up wrapped in Din’s arms. And, for as long as you live, neither of you will ever be alone again.

End Note: Thank you to anyone who's read this story. It's been a labor of love for me and I'm especially grateful to readers who left encouraging feedback. As for me, I'll be around. I'm working on another Javi x Reader story (inspired by yet another TS song — off evermore this time). If you haven't read my other one, please check it out! It's called "If I Could Never Give You Peace." Talk soon! Mando’a Glossary: Ner kar’ta = My heart (kar’ta = heart [kah-ROH-ta]; ner = my [nair]) Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum. = I know you forever [nee kar-TILE garh dah-RAH-soom] ⎿ “It's the same word as 'to know,' 'to hold in the heart,' kar'taylir. But you add darasuum, ‘forever,’ and it becomes something rather different.” — Republic Commando: Triple Zero Verd' ika = Little Warrior (affectionately) [vair-DEE-kah]

Please reblog & comment to show your support! I’d love to hear your thoughts!!

Taglist: @sarahjkl82-blog @pedro-pastel @mavendeb @tailormotelkamzoil @unexistant @karkii @hwjdykqueillmjwkqu @httpwale @chiara-cannot-sleep @niiight-dreamerrrr

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star-consultant · 4 years ago

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Bright are the stars

You need a Beatle song that perfectly encapsulates your sign? Of course you do. (Spotify playlist)

Aries—“I Saw Her Standing There”

One two three FOUR! An eager and intense song for an eager and intense sign. Aries falls hard and fast, with a tendency to rash vows that everyone doubts they mean—but Aries doesn’t doubt. Paul (who later styled himself as a "ram” at a key point in his creative development) makes good on the Cardinal Fire vibe with his exuberant vocals, and John of the Aries rising contributed the street-smart innuendo that utterly makes the song: And you know what I mean. Fittingly, this song kicked off the group’s first album, which itself has plenty of Aries “HELLO I AM HERE TO MAKE A MARK ON YOUR WORLD! (like me plz ok? this is my heart and i am Doing My Best??)” energy.

Taurus—“All I’ve Got to Do"

A song that takes its sweet time but burrows deeper than the average ear-worm into your consciousness. It’s a patient song that is unassuming but knows exactly what the hell it’s doing. The intensity builds bit by bit, so that you’re unaware when the power of the bridge comes crashing down. Describes the Taurean romantic ideal: lazy, loyal, cozy, constant, tender, and ever-so-true. Also, “All I’ve Got to Do” is featured on the second album, With the Beatles, which has plenty of other Bullish touches, noticeable even with a casual glance at the tracklist: “Don’t Bother Me,” “Not a Second Time,” and “Money (That’s What I Want).”

Gemini—“She Loves You”

Paul is a Gemini Sun, and throughout his catalogue it shows. But perhaps he never topped the Twinniness of this energetic, optimistic, breathless, gossipy classic. It was composed “eye-to-eye” with John, a truly dual-authored song, and one the rare Beatles numbers where the two lead vocalists double up on every single line, in true (Nerk) Twin fashion. Also the first but definitely not the last of their many “third-person narratives,” Paul’s novelistic instead of confessional slant being distinctly a Gemini thing. The speaker in this one couldn’t be more enthusiastic about this relationship if it were already repaired, and he couldn’t be more enthusiastic about it if it were his. Love is great! People reconciling is great! You should be glad, dumbass! But the real corker? What makes this so Gemini that it hurts? Yoko has confirmed that in the early 70s, during her separation with John, she actually had Paul play agony aunt. Then, during that meetup in L.A. where they were last photographed together, Paul urged John to “apologize to her” and get back together... which he did. That’s right. "She Loves You” is not merely a Gemini’s song: it’s a Gemini’s life.

Cancer—“Octopus’s Garden”

Ringo the Crab’s musically-complex fantasy about an underwater sanctuary where children are “happy and safe,” he and his lover can be together, and there’s “no one there to tell us what to do.” George (a triple Water sign himself, probably not-so-incidentally) always insisted that his best mate’s song Had Depths, and he himself supplied a lot of them: check out his lead guitar lines. They function as emotional counterpoint. When Ringo’s vocal line is especially wistful, the guitar is bright; when Ringo ends on a confident note, the guitar is quirky, ironic, even stiff-upper-lip pessimistic. Result: a shifting kaleidoscope of FEELS. The Moon approves.

Leo—“Good Day Sunshine”

Paul perfectly expresses his own Leo moon with a sublime, vibrant ode to laughter, love, and pride on a cloudless summer day. The bit in the lyrics about she knows she’s looking fine and I’m so proud to know that she is mine? That’s not marring the high tone of the song: that is part of the tone. Hear us roar! And by “roar” I mean "laugh and canoodle, coz Leo is about living the good life, bitches.”

Virgo—“Please Please Me”

What’s fair is forkin’ fair, mate! A exemplary blend of Virgo’s Mutable passive-aggressive sensitivity with its Elemental directness... half-critical, half-begging... plus the very sign-typical humblebragging. About their sexual prowess. Damn, Virgo. People forget how Earthy you really are sometimes. But here we are. In very Virgo fashion, instead of ditching the girl he’s decided to harangue her. On a more meta note, the Beatles were still studio virgins when they first began crafting this song, and it took several passes and incorporation of George Martin’s feedback before it became the bursting pop hit as we know it now. There’s that Virgo work ethic paying off.

Libra—“Strawberry Fields Forever”

The imagery of the title suggests an eternal harvest. But the star sign resemblance goes deeper than that: Always, no, sometimes think it’s me, but, you know, I know when it’s a dream. I think, er, no, I mean, er, yes, but it’s all wrong... that is, I think I disagree. Did you just hear your Libra roommate rambling after a joint, or did you listen to verse three of “Strawberry Fields”? Same difference. The song is absolutely lovely, as anything associated with the child of Venus should be, and innovative, as befits a Cardinal sign. Most of all, even in all of Libra Sun John’s weighing and weed-wandering, he knows one thing: he’s got to take someone else along with him. A companion, stat!

Scorpio—“While My Guitar Gently Weeps”

George of the Scorpio moon and Scorpio ascendant had to really lean into this side of his nature to even get this damn track properly recorded. He resorted to the social power play of inviting Eric frickin’ Clapton into the tense post-India studio just to get Lennon, McCartney, and Martin to give his song proper Beatle recording magic. Which it deserved. The dark drama of the hard-won arrangement is the perfect Scorpio accompaniment to the moody, reflective lyrics about “all the love there that’s sleeping” in this weary world. There’s tender, horrified pity here for those who are stifled into inauthenticity: I don’t know how nobody told you how to unfold your love. I don’t know how someone controlled you; they bought and sold you... Bonus points for the Watery ‘just can’t even’-ness of not being able to so much as pick up a damn broom.

Sagittarius—“Something”

You’re asking me, will my love grow? I don’t know, I don’t know! A deeply instinctual lover knows that Cupid has done hit a bullseye. He remains emphatically ambivalent about the future, but he knows what he feels in this moment, and in that moment is romance and wonder that is as deep as the earth is from the heavens. Sags are intense, but of all the Fire signs they are most far-seeing and detached (due to their Mutable quality, which makes them see the world a bit more like an Air sign does). “Something” keeps trying to capture that je-ne-sais-quoi, and despite the speaker’s happiness he can’t help but circle back again and again to take another shot at that the mental target. A philosopher even when in love. Ultimately, however, he doesn’t want to leave her now... which for a restless Sag is already saying a ton.

Capricorn—“Revolution”

John let his unfashionable midheaven Capricorn off the leash with this blunt, pointed savaging of radical and violent revolutions. (Given the tanks on Tiananmen Square and the millions dead on the killing fields of Cambodia, I can’t say that his cautionary note about “destruction” and “minds that hate” was unnecessary.) Few things are more Capricorn than ‘Oh, you want my money? Yeah, first show me that you’ve done your fucking homework, mate.’ Bonus Earth points for the fact that he somehow worked sex—a lot of sex—into this political track.

Aquarius—“Come Together”

John of the Aquarius moon’s decidedly loony attempt to write a political campaign song in order to stop Reagan. (The result was too weird for Timothy Leary, whose reaction was pretty much ‘wtf? I don’t think even I have enough residual acid in my system for this one... ’) John invokes the ideal of collaboration, but his call to solidarity is built around fantastical lyrics that no one can comprehend: He wear no shoeshine, he got/Toejam football, he got/Monkey finger, he shoot/Coca-Cola, he say/I know you, you know me... Oh, right. The lyrics contain exactly one discernible message: One thing I can tell you is you got to be free. How Aqua. Also in true collaborative Water-Bearer fashion, the arrangement really makes the song (special mention to the tight, tight work of the rhythm section). Bizarre genius that attracts a true team effort—it doesn’t get much more Aquarius than that.

Pisces— “I Want to Tell You”

The wall of sound builds up thickly enough that soon the words seem to be traveling through the sea to reach you: I want to tell you my head is filled with things to say... But when you’re here, all those words, they seem to slip away. A gorgeously, emotionally tongue-tied song... about being tongue-tied. Written by George, a Pisces Sun, this absolute mystery of a lyric is all emotion and no logic. If he seems to act unkind, it’s only him, it’s not his mind. Okay, Fishboy. Good thing the track is compellingly lovely and utterly relatable. Which suits the Pisces life exactly: ‘I don’t know what I mean, but it’s exceedingly beautiful and I want you to share it with you very, very much.’

#zodiac #beatles

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gukyi · 5 years ago

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on the hunt for love | kth

summary: on your anniversary date, kim taehyung has two missions at hand: pet as many dogs as he can at your local dog cafe, and, if he plays his cards right, adopt one.

{established relationship!au}

pairing: kim taehyung x reader genre: fluff word count: 1k warnings: none! a/n: thank you thank you thank you to @aurawatercolor for commissioning me for this drabble and for contributing to blm. also, yeontan + taehyung forever!!!

Why Kim Taehyung works in museum curation rather than animal rescue and adoption is far beyond you.

From every dog in the park to every cat at the pet store, and every rodent, bird, amphibian, and reptile in between, Kim Taehyung loves them all. If he could do whatever he wanted with his life and not have to worry about a job, or paying bills, or other adult responsibilities, he would buy himself a ranch and live on it with hundreds of animals, rescuing stray puppies and kittens and memorizing everybody’s names.

Unfortunately for him, Kim Taehyung actually does have to worry about a job, and paying bills, and other adult responsibilities, which means that his time with animals is fairly limited and, for the most part, at a distance. Which is why he will take every opportunity he gets to spend even a couple hours with some dogs and cats, showering them in love and affection at every turn.

Now, you can’t say you’re too particular when it comes to dates and, more specifically, anniversary dates. You’re pretty easy to please, very go-with-the-flow, happy with whatever comes your way, from the classic dinner and a movie, to a night in with takeout, or anything in between. But trust Taehyung to select the one thing that has the ability to usurp you when it comes to his undivided attention: a dog cafe.

Granted, you aren’t terribly broken up about it. Sure, the coffee could do with a bit of a lower price, and you end up going through an entire lint roller after going to one of these places, but seeing the sublimely happy look on Taehyung’s face, watching as his eyes light up when he sees the puppies scurrying around, chewing on toys and play-wrestling with each other—well, that’s more than enough.

Other than his bedroom, this is probably Taehyung’s favorite place in the entire world. He would give equal amounts of his entire self to spend the rest of his life both cozied up in his room and in this dog cafe, which sources its pups from local rescue shelters, all of which are up for adoption.

You have a feeling that Taehyung may have an ulterior motive for bringing you here.

“Think about it,” Taehyung says as you’re seated by the window, waving around toys in your hands as the puppies jump to catch them with their fat little paws, chubby and covered in fur. “My lease doesn’t have any restrictions on pets. Dogs just can’t be over a hundred pounds. None of these dogs are over a hundred pounds.”

“Yeah, because they’re all puppies,” you say, scratching the stomach of what looks to be a terrier mix on your lap.

“So?” Taehyung says, either not paying attention or purposely missing your point. “Aw, wouldn’t it be so cute? To have a little dog running around. I’ve always wanted a pet.”

“A goldfish isn’t good enough?” You tease, knowing that that’s not what Taehyung meant.

He scowls at you. “A pet that will sit in my lap and lick my face,” he clarifies. You don’t mean to keep rebuking his reasonings, you just want to make sure he’s sure about this. It took the two of you three months of dancing around each other before you finally asked if you were actually dating or not. Neither of you are very sure about anything.

“Then you better pick a cute one,” you tell him as he smiles down at the puppy in his arms, fondness written all over his face.

“Oh, they’re all so cute,” Taehyung says with a sigh, looking around the room. He isn’t wrong. Puppies have this inexplicable and permanent quality of being adorable all of the time. It’s something that they and Taehyung both share. “I wish I could adopt every single one of them.”

“You know what, when you’re a famous museum president and I’m an award-winning professor and we both live in a giant mansion in the Hills, we can have as many dogs as you want,” you promise him, imagining this wonderful dream life where he is by your side every step of the way. “Which one do you think you want to adopt?”

Another dog scratches at your leg, a fluffy little thing, black and caramel brown, and you easily pick it up with one hand and place it on your lap. Instantly, the puppy begins to yap at you excitedly, jumping around until you pick it up and press it against your chest. It begins to calm down, pawing at your upper torso until you lift it high enough for it to settle happily on your shoulder. It’s so small that it fits perfectly, resting itself on a human perch.

Taehyung is enthralled. He, shockingly enough, seems to disregard all of the other puppies in the room—not that they mind, exactly, as there are plenty of other patrons and even more dogs to keep them entertained—as he turns to face you, reaching out a delicate hand to stroke its back.

“Look at its eyebrows,” Taehyung tells you.

You’re just about to tell him that dogs don’t have eyebrows when you notice two brown lines right above his eyes, like angry little eyebrow slants, and they make the dog even cuter than it already was.

“It’s right at home on my shoulder,” you comment, enchanted. Taehyung may be the more canine-inclined one out of the two of you, but you cannot resist this puppy’s charm. To your brain, it is the striking image of Taehyung. It reminds you of him in every way, down to the way the two of them tilt their heads in curiosity. “I like this one.”

“I’m in love,” Taehyung says, heart on lock. It’s obvious that none of the other puppies can compete. “I would lay my life down for this puppy.”

“And not me?” You ask, offended.

“No,” Taehyung says with a smug little grin, leaning in for what he is hoping is a kiss, “because I’d never want to leave you.”

It’s admittedly greasy, especially for him, but Taehyung is beautiful and your boyfriend and right there, so you let him press into you to place a kiss on your lips. But not a second later he’s sputtering back, finger wiping at his lips as the puppy on your shoulder yaps. Clearly you were not the only one expecting a kiss.

“Fighting for my attention, are we?” Taehyung says cheekily, reaching out to pluck the puppy off of your shoulder and cradle it in his hands.

“Always,” you muse in response, letting him kiss you for real after being tricked into a puppy lick. “You want to adopt a dog, Taehyung?” It’s not a question. You both know he does.

And you know better than anyone that Taehyung will be the best dog dad the world has ever seen. You have no doubts when it comes to him, no worries or fears. A man like him, filled with love and affection, care and devotion. He loves everything wholly, completely, fills himself up with it so he can fill everyone else up with it as well.

Your biggest problem now is going to be demanding he kiss you instead of the dog.

Twenty minutes later, Taehyung has a brand new dog and a little crate to carry him in, and is already deciding to extend your anniversary date by making a pit stop at the local pet store to buy enough food to last until next year and enough toys to last this dog’s lifetime.

But you aren’t complaining. Not when you get to spend more time with your boyfriend, with the man who lights up every aspect of your life, showers golden rays on everything he touches. He says he’s blessed to have met you, to get to love you, but you know the truth. You’re the lucky one.

You hope that your luck will never change.

↳ links are broken, but don’t forget that i’m still taking commissions!

#taehyung fluff #taehyung angst #bts fluff #bts angst #bts scenario #v fluff #v angst #v scenario #taehyung scenario #bts imagine #taehyung imagine #v imagine #bts au #taehyung au #w: on the hunt for love

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daydreamed-snippets · 4 years ago

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TW: Sorry, I’m in a mood. Talk of Suicide. Abuse of prescription medication. Underage drinking. Hints at abuse

It was quiet here in the bones of the old house. Cold. Drafty. Wildlife feasted on the general decomposition of trim. Faded tile and decaying drywall dangling at odd angles. Bricks lay uprooted by greenery. Furniture slowly losing its form was arranged haphazardly throughout the house. Winn could see her breath hang in the air, curl in a tight spiral before dispersing into the night. A single electric lantern kept watch beside a nest of her own making: a bedding of dried leaves, her favorite crochet blanket, and a little radio faintly playing an upbeat tune.

Oh, and a bottle of whiskey and every fucking antidepressant and mood stabilizer those bastards had ever prescribed for her.

Playing eenie meenie miney mo, she uncapped a half-empty bottle of citalopram and popped all of it into her mouth. She took a swig, throwing her head back to ensure she swallowed. Looking around she supposed it was a fitting epitaph. Her end would be here, in this broken mausoleum, a showcase to humankind’s fundamental need to create something sublime but ultimately fail in its maintenance. To conceive something beautiful but become indifferent and bored with it, letting it fall into ruin. Wreckage that is only redeemable by nature itself. It would be nice, she thought, if something productive, beautiful even, grew out of her decaying life too.

Then maybe everything would have been worth it.

Absently plucking at weeds poking through fractured flooring, she huddled over on herself waiting for the drugs to take effect. Her stomach turned as she tried not to think. Tried not to repeat the same question over and over in her head.

How many times did she have to lose everything to take the hint? How many times did she have to hit rock bottom before her knees buckled and her legs snapped trying to stick the landing as she broke herself to please everyone?

For her, the answer was four. Not that that matters now. Cause now it was too late. Now she finally gets it. Now she gets why her Mami was so unhappy. Why Miami's boyfriend, Leonard, wasn’t happy. Why her doctors weren’t happy. Her teachers, her friends. Everyone. Why the world was unhappy. Maybe her death would make them happy again.

A breeze picked up, whistling through the gaps. It sounded like someone was whistling and walking around the house, wooden planks creaking. That should have terrified her but her mind was starting to feel a pleasant, sleepy haziness. She took another half-empty bottle by her feet and downed the contents, choking on her own saliva and the aftertaste of the alcohol.

Thoughts continued to rush in, unabated, like a broken dam. Each empty bottle held its own story, mostly of the times Leonard lugged her to another shrink, to “fix” her while her mother sat in the car, finding solace in a glass bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. Finishing it before Winn’s hour-long appointments were over.

None of it ever seemed to satisfy Leonard. Not that he ever waited for her to finish her prescription before shoving the next pill down her throat, deeming the previous one ineffective when she would have another episode. Promising that the next drug would be it. That the next one would work. And she believed him. Each and every time, she believed. Whatever was wrong with her, these next pills would fix it.

But they never did.

Soon it turned into, why can’t you be like x? Why can’t you just do x? Your attitude is why x is happening to you. Do you even want to get better from x?

She could put anything in for x. The equation stayed the same, with one common denominator:

Her.

Winn.

She was the shared numerator whose value was always zero. And anything that is multiplied by zero forever equals zero.

Another half-filled bottle, another swig. Her heart started slowing down. So did her breathing, face becoming flush. She was having a hard time keeping her eyes open.

Another floorboard whined under stress, and a voice followed it. “That is an especially painful way to die, dear one,” someone called out to her. “Overdoses can be messy affairs when attempted through the unpredictability of drugs.”

A surge of fright course through her. Who was that? A ghost? Leonard? She didn’t know. They remained out of sight. She looked up through the smog of her mind, unaware that anyone had breached the house grounds. She curled more into her nest.

It couldn’t be Leonard. At least she didn’t think it was him. It was hard to tell right now. It didn’t sound like him. Her chest wouldn’t stop stinging, though, at war with medical sedation and her adrenaline. Trying to play it cool, she schooled her tone, wishing she had a taser on her. Cursing how stupid she was to come here without one. “You lost?” she called, scrubbing her face with the bottom of her palm, her coordination clumsy. “The main road‘s that way.” She pointed, not exactly knowing if that was the right direction anymore. “House gone to be destroyed in the morning. The bots won’t check to see if anyone’s in here before they start smashing.”

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” he asked, coming into view. It sounded more like a statement. “Because you don’t think anyone will find you before they start demolition.”

She squinted at the man in an impeccable blue suit, refusing to answer. Definitely not Leonard. But…

“Mmm, I know you,” she said scrunching her eyes, fighting to place the face, fighting to find a name. Yes, she has seen him somewhere, but her mind could only remember one location in which she encountered him. A place shrouded in metaphoric perception and youthful symbolism. A place that is both romanticized and villainized oftentimes in the same breath. A place she could only visit when she closed her eyes at night and slipped from this reality to another.

“The man of my dreams. How—?” She swallowed, thoughts tripping over themselves. Her speech started to slur. He squatted in front of her, full weight on the balls of his expensive shoes, keeping his immaculate attire away from the dirt of the house. He moved gracefully, and though his smile looked concerned it was still every bit disarming.

“Uhh, I mean man from my dreams,” she stammered. “Uh, how is this?” It dawned on her. The part of her mind that was still intact. “Hallucinations. I’m dreaming. I-I’ve passed out.”

“You have not,” he said, making no move towards her. Simply staring her down with hooded eyes. “At least, not yet. And though I am, how did you put it, ‘the man of your dreams’, I’m not some figment of your imagination, Winnifred. I am quite real, and I’m here.”

Winn barked a laugh, “Oh my gods, for real? ‘I’m here’?” she mocked. “Everything’s good, I’m here.” She grabbed the bottle, his eyes following, and took a sip. “Fo sure, like that would really matter now. You can get your damn hair swirl outta my face with that.”

She made a move for his hair, uncoordinated and choppy, catching herself when she leaned forward too much and fell onto her hands. It took a while. He remained still for her, attentive, but unmoved. She was able to ruffle his dark blond hair out of its slicked-back position, wrapping a finger around the bit of lock that fell over his brow without falling again.

Their eyes met.

Realizing what she was doing she yanked her hand back as if burned. Confusion swept through her. He raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Convinced?”

“I can touch people in my dreams, it’s just...” It’s never felt so real.

She reached for another prescription. Clearly, she was delusional. Clearly, this was a trick. She poured out the oval-shaped pill preparing to swallow it whole. It was quite possible that she was out cold, body slumped over like the furniture of this house. Quite possible she was unconscious and this was her mind’s last chance at providing her with a final comfort. A childhood sentential to keep watch as she fades away.

She tilted her head back, arm poised to sling the pills into her mouth.

The man moves.

He shifts to catch her wrist in a light but firm hold. The bottle slips out of her fingers, clatters to the floor, along with the pills, dropping between boards and out of reach. Winn curses.

“Don’t touch me,” she said pulling away easily. “You don’t know me like that.”

“Listen to me, Winnifred,” his voice held a command. “I have not moved heaven and earth—I have not rescheduled my life just to watch your throw away yours. I do know you. I’ve known you since you were four years old. I’ve visited your dreams since your first nightmare. I’ve watched over you the best I could from afar.

“When I said, I’m here now, it wasn’t meant to be crass or derisive. So many people have let you down in your life, I being the chief among them. But I am here now. Things will get better. Let me prove it.”

“That wasn’t real. And dreams isn’t knowing someone.”

He tilted his head. “I know that your father left you when you were six. I know that your mother has been bounding from boyfriend to boyfriend, looking for validation but never really finding it. Each suitor worse than the last. The current beau is a monster called Leonard.”

She gulped, running a hand over her face. Tucking a curl behind her ear. He watched, gaze overly familiar. Possessive without even touching her. Eyes extracting what he wanted. She imagined he didn't take no for an answer. She imagined he changed outcomes to fit his ambitions.

She felt unable to hide.

“I know what he’s been doing to you,” he said, voice changing.

“H-how?”

He let out a breath of air. “I know this because I’ve seen your dreams. I know you’ve been having a recurring one of Leonard assaulting you, and then ending your life. It may happen in different facets and different places, but the theme is resoundingly the same. You also have recurring dreams of your mother’s lifeless body lying on the side of the road while traffic rushes by. Sometimes hitting her, most of the time not.” He adjusted his cufflinks, before completely abandoning his position to sit on the grassy floor. “You’ve been having these particular dreams for a while. It is because you venture into Leonard’s dreams each night, before going to your mother’s. It’s not unusual for someone with your abilities since they are the closest people to you. You’re able to see what Leonard will do to you, whether he’s willing to admit to his own perverse desires or not. And you’re able to view your mother’s darkest fears. Of being abandoned by everyone.”

“You’ve always had a talent for dream wandering and precognitive dreams. You were once able to control your dreams, steer away from the nightmares with my help.”

“I can’t anymore. It’s too—” her voice cracked, and she was reminded of his face. His words. How Leonard taught her to hold her breath, to clamp down on her tongue. He taught her to hide truths, and keep secrets. To bear the scars without screaming, and conceal them. He showed her to shut up while her dignity—her pride—would rage beneath the surface while he was near.

“Those dreams are just dreams. That’s what Leonard said.” She needed to adhere to that. If anything could appease Leonard it was that. And she needed to appease him. Her mother was too weak, too afraid for her own life to safeguard Winn’s, and yet too desperate for a man to head out on her own. Besides if they ran, Leonard would eventually find them. He always found them.

“Trust me, like you once did,” his voice was soft, yet it cut through her racing thoughts like a well-crafted blade. He held his hand out to her, the gesture speaking of promise and nostalgia. Reminding her of how of a strong presence he was in her dreams. The one bit of sanity in an array of insane characters and worlds. He slew monsters, clothed her when she was naked, stopped her before she'd slip into a free fall. Laughed with her. Held her when she cried. He was kind to her. Above all, he showed her tenderness when no one else did.

“Remember me,” he went on, “as I was. I can be that for you again, in this waking land. You can still choose to come with me and leave all of this sorrow behind. Or,” he withdrew his hand when she turned her head, refusing to take it. “You can choose not to, and I will sit with you until you lose consciousness. Then I will carry you to the nearest medical facility where they will pump your stomach, and a physiologist will evaluate you. One not worth the paper their license was printed on. They will, in all likelihood, lock you away in a psychiatric ward, to be forever treated as a pariah. It’s your choice.”

Her eyes jerked back towards him. He said it like a threat. Winn supposed she was running out of time. She wanted to trust him, but… she hadn’t seen him in her dreams for two years. He said that he’s there for her, but he hadn’t been. And she’d learned that being alone felt safer.

She pulled back, making a move to stand. Maybe he’ll let her go. Maybe he wasn’t even here. His fingers didn’t act like a vice when he grabbed her earlier. She easily slipped him then. Maybe she can do it again. Maybe—

Her legs buckled under her, nerve endings on fire. She vomited, hopefully not on him. Gods, not on him. Her vision blurred, darkness edging the rim. She felt hands on her but wasn’t for sure. She was dazed. She needed to resist. Or maybe she needed to give in. She couldn’t open her eyes though was mildly aware of the feeling of being lifted, of a certain weightlessness.

Winn was heaved against a strong chest. Instinctively, her hands went up, fingers curling and uncurling around dream man’s lapel in a display of rebellion or surrender, she wasn’t sure. She wanted defiance but it was so easy to just give in. Darkness claimed her.

Like it mattered because he wasn’t really there. Right?

#My writing #writblr #not a prompt #dreams #Winn #creative writing #Relictus City

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suf-lives-rent-free · 4 years ago

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Fragments

Everything below is just my opinion; I am in no way trying to say that how I feel about this is the one correct take or whatever.

I know a lot of people like this episode and what happens in it, but I don’t. I totally understand that some people just don’t want to see any negativity, period, but negativity is not inherently bad or wrong.

Negative opinions, even about something you enjoy, can be valid too - regardless of whether you happen to agree with them or not.

Also I get very salty near the end of this, and that might be entertaining to people who stan this episode?

I am aware that a lot of people – the majority, I’m pretty sure – think that the episode is a masterpiece. And on some level, I see where they’re coming from with that assessment.

The episode is boarded beautifully, the backgrounds – especially during the training montage – are stunning as always. The music is fantastic, and the performances are great too. In these respects, Fragments is a stand-out episode; I agree.

(Like look at this. Gorgeous.)

However, something that’s bothered me since I saw the episode is the writers’ decision to write it into the story that Steven shatters Jasper.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: I just don’t get it. I’m purposefully misinterpreting the story to say it’s bad. Steven brings her back to life; and it’s not like he meant to do it in the first place. I just don’t have the capacity to understand the sublime nature of the show’s storytelling. I’m an SU crit and all I want to do is make the real fans feel about themselves for liking it.

Uhhhh... no. Nah. That ain’t it chief.

It’s true; I am not a writer. I’m just a passive consumer of media. However, I do not agree with the viewpoint that in order to properly understand or critique a thing you need to have the expertise and/or experience in order to make something similar.

For example, if I were to put something I drew when I was 10 years old next to something I drew yesterday, it shouldn’t take a person who has had an education in fine art to tell you that the latter drawing is better-looking than the former.

That’s how I approach media consumption and criticism; when I criticise a writing decision, I am doing so as a consumer. I’m not saying I could write it better, or even that my opinion is objectively correct and the writer is wrong or bad. I’m just saying that I didn’t like a thing. Which, I would hope, is allowed?

Okay, defensive hedging over, back to the point; I don’t like that they had Steven shatter Jasper.

[I get markedly saltier from this point on, fyi]

Full admission of bias here: one of the things I really cherish about the original show is how they wrote Steven’s character; he’s a boy with interests that don’t rigidly conform to gender stereotypes. He likes ‘boyish’ things and ‘girly’ things, and that’s okay; thats just him. In cartoons when I was growing up, characters like Steven would be the butt of jokes about being ‘girly’ or thinly-veiled homophobia. I find him very relatable, and I want to acknowledge that yes, that is probably a significant part of why I have such an issue with this episode’s twist.

I am not trying to say that he’s a perfect baby angel or whatever; Steven regularly gets frustrated and angry. He does some pretty manipulative and dickish things to people around him (stop trying to make Larsadie happen, Steven. It’s not going to happen). He is a flawed character who fucks up sometimes. And he’s not 100% peaceful either; he acts violently when he defends himself against corrupted Gems and Homeworld Gems (and Crystal Gems on occasion *cough*Bismuth*cough*).

However, he has a pacifistic temperament; whenever it’s possible, he prefers that problems be solved without needless violence or hurt. And I like that; in most media, it’s rare to have a male protagonist who wants to solve their problems without jumping straight to punching things.

When he accidentally frees Centipeedle, he convinces the Gems to step off and allow him to try and rehabilitate her peacefully; he even notices that the Gems’ weapons are a trigger for her, and make them put them away. He frees Lapis against the Gems’ wishes because he recognizes that keeping her prisoner is wrong, and when she steals the ocean, he talks it out and heals her so she can leave Earth peacefully.

He tries to aid Jasper when she starts corrupting, fixes Eyeball’s gemstone when she’s cracked and tries talking Bismuth down when she attacks him with the breaking point. In all of these situations, his words and help are ignored or rejected; he’s forced to resort to violence. And it traumatises him.

We get an entire episode dedicated to the fact that he’s been struggling with processing these awful things that happened.

Even in Future, Steven shows hesitation about engaging in unncecessary violence; he gives into Jasper’s goading for a fight after what’s implied to be dozens of failed tries at making her come to Little Homeschool, and he spends an entire episode trying to keep Lapis from squashing the two rogue Lapis Lazulis.

The only time he hops into a fight willingly is after Eyeball and Aquamarine hold Greg hostage, and even then they pose a clear threat to his and Greg’s safety and have made it clear that they want to hurt him emotionally and physically. Even at that, he stops and switches tactics to talking them down as soon as they lose their focus and start bickering with each other.

(I mean, he fails. But it’s the thought that counts.)

I personally find it really jarring that the writers found it appropriate to write it into the series that this same character – over the course of three (3) days – goes from disliking mindless violence for mindless violence’s sake to happily engaging in the destruction of plants and animals* and has done a total 180 on his willingness to spar with Jasper, to the point that he instigates their rematch.

*(You best believe plenty of small mammals and birds – y’know, like the nest Steven saved in the first episode – died as he and Jasper felled tree after tree, not to mention all of those displaced by the destruction of their habitats, and the potential loss of food sources from some of those trees.)

You’re telling me that it’s a reasonable character beat for this boy to gleefully laugh like an anime supervillain at his sudden new-found joy in fighting, then pin Jasper in place, taunt her for helping him get so strong, and hit her so hard that she breaks into pieces and dies?

You’re telling me that that’s an in-character thing for Steven Quartz Diamond Cutie-Pie DeMayo Universe do to another character?

(And yes I am purposefully dancing around talking about the mental health stuff because if I did that I’d have to go on a whole other tangent about Growing Pains and fuck I just don’t feel like it right now lmao)

Going back to Mindful Education, another big thing we see Steven struggle with is the idea that his mother shattered Pink Diamond. This knowledge sits heavily with him; it makes him sympathetic to the Diamonds, even under the circumstances in which he sees them (escaping from the Human Zoo, and being on trial for said murder).

He sees their grief, and he feels awful. He questions who Rose Quartz even was. He knows, based on what Garnet said, that Rose had to do it; there was no other way to free Earth. But he still feels awful seeing the pain that Pink’s loss has caused Blue and Yellow Diamond.

In Steven Universe, shattering is clearly equated with execution/death multiple times. When Pearl and Garnet fret over the crack in Amethyst’s gemstone worsening. When Blue Diamond threatens to break Ruby. When Bismuth introduces the breaking point, and Steven recoils at the sight of what it does. If you want to take the fact that Gem shards are sentient and desperate to become whole again into account, you could even argue that it’s a fate worse than death. This particular act of violence is treated very, very seriously.

When we find out that Rose shattered Pink Diamond, there is a season and a half long arc unpacking the implications and consequences of this one action, and how this knowledge forever alters Steven’s mental image of his mother. And she didn’t even kill anyone. It was a lie!

In Steven Universe Future, Steven shatters Jasper 4 episodes before the end of the series. And it’s only brought up twice; once for a big *gasp* moment during his breakdown in Everything’s Fine, and in I Am My Monster by Pearl, when she has to fill-in Bismuth, Lapis and Peridot. Notably, it is never discussed around or by Jasper. Y’know. The person who actually died.

No indication of how (or even if) what Steven did is affecting his own self-image after his initial breakdown, how Jasper feels about what she went through beyond falling back into the Era 1 and 2 mindset. No inkling of how the knowledge that Steven killed somebody has affected how anyone in his life thinks or feels about him; when Pearl brings it up in I Am My Monster, she seems to not even really believe it’s true.

If there are any consequences or talks about this incident, they’re skipped over between I Am My Monster and The Future, and we’re expected to assume that Steven and his therapist are dealing with it, I guess?

And yes. It was an accident. He did bring her back to life. But it still happened. If you hit someone over the head and they stop breathing, just because the paramedics are able to resusitate and stabilize them afterwards doesn’t mean you never hit them.

But here, it’s shoved aside because dwelling on it would take far too much time, and risks framing Steven in an unsympathetic way when he’s meant to be on the cusp of a breakdown.

It just feels like careless writing to me. They really, really wanted their big action scene with Steven and Jasper, but didn’t think (or maybe weren’t interested in thinking) about the seriousness or consequences of what Steven shattering someone would entail.

In my opinion, Steven shattering Jasper is one of the cheapest, laziest things they could have ever done with his character (and hers, for that matter). To me, the entire thing feels entirely out of character. It’s pure shock value; nothing more.

So yeah. That particular writing decision just does not work for me. And if you disagree... well that’s fine? It’s fine. We can agree to disagree? I’ve read a lot of defense/praise for this episode, and honestly even after processing all of those opinions and all the time my thoughts about this plotline have been stewing in my brain, I still feel the same way.

#steven universe #steven universe future #negativity #cw death

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musicnoots · 5 years ago

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To Love And Be Loved

Richard Winters/Reader

Prompt “I’m in love with you” requested by anon

A/N: This took *jean ralphio voice* soooooooooooooo long! But i managed to formulate this

Synopsis: The war is almost over, and Dick needs to ask you a burning question about the future.

Tags: @gottapenny @david-weepster @curraheev @wexhappyxfew @junojelli @medievalfangirl @dustyjjumpwings @higgles123 @those-dusty-jump-wings @bandofmarvels @majwinters @inglourious-imagines @dumpofdumblings

You can’t recall the last time you’d seen clear skies.

Clear skies, a lake bluer than blueberries, and snow-capped mountain tops—to be exact. The grass somehow seems a lot greener than it usually is, Spina and Gene are playing with the kitties by meadow, ducks waddle down the road in peace, and flowers adorn the scenery, sublime. It seemed like you’d forever been living in a world in grey, quite literally.

Back in the Ardennes, you were lucky if you saw even an ounce of sunlight. It was always snow, snow, snow, a little bit of blood and piss over there, and the occasional call for medic to front lines, yet no sign of hope nor ambition. You hate to recall your time back in the snowy wasteland—to look back at all the faces you’d lost on your way here, to remember their cries of agony, to spend hours writing letters home to their families on why their brave soldiers weren’t coming home.

To see color and smiles upon the faces of your men is uplifting, electrifying. For the first time in what seemed like months, you had truly never been happier. Seeing your men laugh and smile like they were boys at summer camp lifted cargo off your shoulders, and you were standing against a beautiful view, up close and personal with nature herself.

But when you’re face-to-face with it, the sound of birds chirping, and standing next to a certain red haired Major on top of the Eagle’s Nest, you’re lost for words. Enveloped in a world out of this galaxy beside a man who captured your heart with the gentle caresses of his hands, he was glowing in a way that made him the sun of your world.

If only you could experience this with him, in another year where war isn’t the first thing in your mind but instead, marriage. A ring on your finger and his hands confidently and comfortably resting on your waist, your head on his shoulder, and his lips on your temple, soft and tranquil.

In another world, you could have everything you ever wanted with him. You could sleep in on the weekends, go grocery shopping, eat dessert on the couch while listening to Ella Fitzgerald on the radio, dance in the rain and—

“Captain L/N.”

“Yes?” you snap out of your daydream faster than the duration it played in your head. “Sorry, I was just—“

“Don’t worry about it, hun.“ He placed a hand on your shoulder and gave you a reassuring smile. He wants to kiss your forehead, you’ve been with each other long enough to notice, but you both know it’s not appropriate in the given time, especially in the army. “Just wanted to ask you something.”

Your ears perk up, and you’re actively listening, attention taken away from the breathtaking scenery. “Yeah?”

“Do you have any plans after this is all over?” he asks and grows nervous at the furrow of your eyebrow. “The war, I mean. Any plans when we go home?”

“Geez, I, uh—“ His question catches you off guard, interrupting your racing mind for the good of reconnecting with the present. “To be honest, I haven’t had a chance to think about it until you mentioned it.”

“Well,” he leans against the railing, “any ideas?”

You shrug. Going home was one thing, but what were you going to do? You had practically dedicated your entire life and soul to this battalion, to your men and somehow you were going to have to move on with your life like it wasn’t what you did for the past four years. What about Dick? The two of you had talked endlessly about life together back in the States, but when the time comes to actually figure it out, you’ve come empty-handed.

“First of all, going back home and taking a long nap,” you said jokingly. “But honestly? I don’t know. I’m not sure what I want to do.”

“And that’s okay! The men, you know how they are…” Dick shifted so that his body was facing the lake and mountains, arms crossed and resting on the metal railing. “Ever since we made it into Germany and Austria, it’s all they talk about.”

“You have any plans?”

“Me? Yeah. Yeah, I do, actually,” he says, and you’re not sure if the feeling in your chest is that of nervousness or sadness—either way waiting to hear if you were even part of his post-war ventures. “I’m going back home. You know, Colonel Sink asked if I would like to stay in the military, and I declined. I did my part in the war, I’ve seen enough. I’m ready to go home.”

You hummed. You had always known that Dick was a man of domesticity, he talked about wanting to own a farm in Pennsylvania, to build a home, and watch the sunrise amidst a sky of orange and yellow hues. To go home together and spend the rest of your days in each other’s arms—your home.

But you were still unsure if what the future meant or if it even included you. “Seems… seems nice,” you stammered.

“Y/N,” he spoke again, “I wanted to ask you—if it doesn’t seem like too much, none of us really know what your plans are—after the war’s over and we both get discharged, if you wanted to come home with me.”

Your heart leaps when you comprehend what Dick’s asking you. He’s serious—hand on the railing and the other resting on your shoulder blade to prevent the suspicion of your men in the company. In all honesty, you had expected this moment to come eventually, but actually hearing the words leave his lips like he means it makes you wonder if there is more to life than meets the eye.

“I thought you’d never ask” You step closer and place a discreet kiss on his cheek, privacy no longer something to worry about. He smiles, his cheeks reddening—a first for the Army major—and puts his hand on the small of your back before you pull back, the two of you closer than you had ever been in the eyes for everyone to see.

He pulls you closer, hand now on your waist and his lips planting a smooch right behind your ear, there’s nothing that makes Dick Winters happier than knowing a future he—the both of you—envisioned would come true.

“I’m glad,” he says, “and I’m going to be quite honest here, but I didn’t think you’d say yes.”

“Really?” You laugh and bring a hand to his cheek, thumb brushing against the skin. “I’m in love with you. And if that wasn’t obvious enough, then…”

You step forward and meet his lips with yours, feeling him smile into the kiss. Temporarily, you both forget where you are, instead feeling like you’re on top of the world.

Forget rank, forget order, forget regulations—this was the man you were bound to spend the rest of your years with. You were confidently and blissfully lost in a man that held your heart with his gentle two hands, never once daring to drop it.

When he reluctantly pulls away, resting his forehead on yours, Dick feels like the luckiest man on Earth. There’s no rush to pull apart, and a kiss on your forehead leaves you satisfied and content. “I think I know where we’re heading after the war.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do you?”

“Yeah. Nix offered me a job at his family’s business in New Jersey…”

#band of brothers #hbo war #easy company #richard winters #dick winters #band of brothers fic #band of brothers fanfic #band of brothers fanfiction #band of brothers imagines #band of brothers imagine #richard winters x reader #dick winters x reader

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ryanmeft · 5 years ago

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Ryan’s Favorite Films of 2019

A stuttering detective,

A top hat-wearing vamp

A forced-perspective war,

A bit of Blaxploitation camp

Prisoners on a space ship

Having sex with bears

A writer goes remembering

Whenever his pain flares

A prancing, dancing Hitler

A gambler high on strife

Here will go cavorting with

A mom who becomes a wife

A family plot with many threads

Three men against their own

A stuntman and his actor

A mobster now quite alone

Doubles under the earth

Two men in a tall house

Are here to watch a woman who

Is battling with her spouse

A family’s plans for their strong son

Go awry one night

A man rejects his country

Which is spoiling for a fight

A house built by his grandpa

(Maybe; we’re not sure)

Looks out upon three prisoners

Whose passions are a lure

All these are on my list this year

It’s longer than before

Because picking only ten this time

Was too great of a chore

What are limits anyway?

They’re just things we invented

I don’t really find them useful

So, this year, I’ve dissented

You may have noticed this time out

That numbers, I did grant

Promise they’ll stay in this order, though?

Now that, I just can’t

I’m always changing my mind

Because, after all, you see

Good film is about the heart

And mine’s rather finicky

There are a lot more I could name

(And I’ll change my mind at any time)

For now, though, consider these

The ones I found sublime

20. Motherless Brooklyn

I’ve got a (hard-boiled) soft spot for 90’s neo-noirs like L.A. Confidential, Red Rock West and Seven, and Edward Norton’s ‘50’s take on Jonathan Lethem’s 90’s -set novel can stand firmly in that company.

19. Doctor Sleep

There’s something about Stephen King’s best writing that transcends mere popularity; his work may not be fine literature, but it is immune to the fads of the moment. So, too, are the best movies based on that work. This one, an engaging adventure-horror, deserved better than it got from audiences.

18. Jojo Rabbit

There was a time when the anything-goes satire of Mel Brooks could produce a major box office hit. Disney’s prudish refusal to market the film coupled with the dominance of franchises means that’s no longer the case. If you bothered to give Jojo a shot, though, you got the strange-but-rewarding experience of guffawing one moment and being horrified the next.

17. By The Grace of God

I’d venture this is the least-seen film on my list; even among us brie-eating, wine-sniffing art house snobs, I rarely hear it mentioned. Focusing on the perspectives of three men dealing with a particularly heinous and unrepentant abusive priest and the hierarchy that protects him, it’s every bit as disquieting and infuriating as 2015’s Oscar-winning Spotlight.

16. Waves

You think Trey Edward Shultz’s Waves will be one thing---a domestic drama about an affluent African-American family (and that in and of itself is a rarity). Then it becomes something else entirely. It addresses something movies often avoid: that as life goes on, the person telling the story will always change.

15. Transit

You’re better off not questioning exactly where and when the film is set (it is based on a book about Nazi Germany but has been changed to be a more generalized Fascist state). The central theme here is identity, as three people change theirs back and forth based on need and desire.

14. American Woman

Movies about regular, working class, small-town American usually focus on men. This one is about a much-too-young mother and grandmother, played brilliantly by Sierra Miller, dealing with unexpected loss and the attendant responsibilities she isn’t ready for.

13. Marriage Story

There is an argument between a married couple in here that is as true a human moment as ever was on screen---free of trumped-up screenplay drama and accurate to how angry people really argue. The entire movie strives to be about the kind of realistic divorce you don’t see on-screen. It is oddly refreshing.

12. Once Upon a Time in Hollywood

Quentin Tarantino’s love letter to 70’s Tinseltown is essentially a question: What if the murder that changed the industry forever had gone down differently? Along the way, it also manages to be a clever and insightful study of fame and fulfillment, or lack thereof.

11. High Life

Claire Denis is damned determined not to be boring. Your reaction to her latest film will probably depend on how receptive you are to that as the driving force of a film. Myself, I’m very receptive. I want to see the personal struggles of convicts unwittingly shipped into space, told without Action-Adventure tropes, in a movie that sometimes misfires but is never dull.

10. Dolemite Is My Name

And fuckin’ up motherfuckers is my game! Look, if you don’t like naughty words, you probably shouldn’t be reading my columns---and you definitely shouldn’t be watching this movie. Eddie Murphy plays Rudy Ray Moore, the ambitious, irrepressible and endlessly optimistic creator of Blaxpoitation character Dolemite. Have you seen the 1975 film? It’s either terrible and wonderful, or wonderful and terrible, and the jury’s still out. Either way, Moore in the film is a self-made comic who establishes himself by talking in a unique rhyming style that speaks to black Americans at a time when black pop culture (and not just the white rendition of it) was finally beginning to pierce the American consciousness. What The Disaster Artist did for The Room, this movie does for Dolemite---with the difference being I felt like I learned something I didn’t know here.

9. 1917

Breathless, nerve-wracking and somehow intensely personal even though it almost never takes time to slow down, it is fair to call Sam Mendes’s film a thrill ride---but it’s one that enlightens us on a fading historical time, rather than simply being empty calories. Filmed in such a way as to make it seem like one continuous, two-hour take, for which some critics dismissed it as a gimmick, the technique is used to lock us in with the soldiers whose mission it is to save an entire division from disaster. We are given no information or perspective that the two central soldiers---merely two, in a countless multitude---do not have, and so we are with them at every moment, deprived of the relief of omniscience. I freely admit I tend to give anything about World War I the benefit of the doubt, but there’s no doubt that the movie earns my trust.

8. Ash Is Purest White

Known by the much less cool-sounding name Sons and Daughters of Jianghu in China, here is a story that starts off ostensibly about crime---a young woman and her boyfriend are powerful in the small-potatoes mob scene of a dying industrial town---but after the surprising first act becomes a meditation on life, perseverance and exactly how much power is worth, anyway, when it is so fleeting and so easily lost. What do you do when everything that defined you is gone? You go on living. This is my first exposure to writer-director Jia Zhangke, an oversight I must strive hard to correct in future.

7. Knives Out

The whodunit is a lost art, a standard genre belonging to a time when mass audiences could appreciate a picture even if someone didn’t run, yell or explode while running and yelling every ten minutes. Rian Johnson and an all-star cast rescued it from the brink of cinematic extinction and gave it just enough of a modern injection to keep it relevant. Every second of the film is engaging; Johnson even manages to have a character whose central trait is throwing up when asked to lie, and he makes it seem sympathetic rather than juvenile. The fantastic cast of characters is backed up with all the qualities of “true” cinema: perfect camerawork, an effective score, mesmerizing production design. As someone who didn’t much care for Johnson’s Star Wars outing, I’m honestly put out this didn’t do better at the box office than it did.

6. A Hidden Life

After a few questionable efforts and completely losing the thread with the execrable vanity project Song to Song, Terence Malick returns to his bread and butter: meditative dramas on the nature of faith, family, and being on the outside looking in, which encompass a healthy dose of nature, philosophy and people talking without moving their lips. That last is a little dig, but it’s true: Malick does Malick, and if you don’t like his thing, this true story about a German dissenter in World War II will not change your mind. For me, what Malick has done is that rarest of things: he had made a movie about faith, and about a character who is faithful, without proselytizing. That the closeness and repressiveness of the Nazi regime is characterized against Malick’s typical soaring backdrops is a masterstroke, and the best-ever use of his visual style.

5. The Lighthouse

Robert Eggers is a different kind of horror filmmaker. After redefining what was possible with traditional horror monsters in The Witch, he returned with something that couldn’t be more different: an exploration of madness more in the vein of European film than American. Robert Pattinson and Willem Dafoe are two men stranded in a lighthouse together slowly losing their minds, or what is left of them. The haunting score and stark, black-and-white photography evoke a nightmare caught on tape, something we’re not supposed to be seeing. It’s not satisfying in a traditional way, but for those craving something more cerebral from horror, Eggers has it covered.

4. Us

I have become slightly notorious in my own little circle for not thinking Get Out was the greatest film ever made, and now I’ve become rather known for thinking Us just might be. Ok, so that’s definite hyperbole: “greatest” is a tall claim for almost any horror movie. Yet here Jordan Peele shows that he can command an audience’s attention even when not benefiting from a popular cultural zeitgeist in terms of subject matter. It’s a movie with no easy or clear message, one that specializes in simply unsettling us with the idea that the world is fundamentally Not Right. I firmly believe that if Peele becomes a force in the genre, 50 years from now when he and all of us are gone, his first film will be remembered as a competent start, while this will be remembered as the beginning of his greatness.

3. The Last Black Man in San Francisco

Ostensibly about urban gentrification, this story of a young black man trying to save his ancestral home from the grasping reach of white encroachment is a flower with many petals to reveal. Don’t let my political-sounding description turn you off: the movie is not a polemic in the slightest, but rather a wry, sensitive look at people, their personalities and how those personalities are intertwined with the places they call home. Though the movie is the directorial debut of Joe Talbot, it is based loosely on the memories and feelings of his friend Jimmie Falls, who also plays one of the two central characters. If you’ve ever watched a place you love fall to the ravages of time and change, this movie may strike quite a chord with you.

2. Uncut Gems

When asked why this movie is great, I usually say that it was unbelievably stressful and caused me great anxiety. This description is not usually successful in selling it. The Safdie Brothers have essentially filmed chaos: a man self-destructing in slow-motion, if you can call it slow. Howard Ratner has probably been gradually exploding all his life; he strikes you as someone who came out of the womb throwing punches. He’s an addictive gambler who loves the risk much more than the reward, and can’t gain anything good in life without risking it on a proverbial roll of the dice. His behavior is destructive. His attitude is toxic. Why do we root for him? Perhaps because, as played by Adam Sandler, he never has any doubt as to who he is---something few of us can say. He’s an asshole, but he’s a genuine asshole, and somehow that’s appealing even when you’re in his line of fire.

1. Pain and Glory

When I realized I would, for the first time, have the chance to see a Pedro Almodovar film on the screen, I was overjoyed. His movies aren’t always great, but that was of little concern: he’s one of the handful of directors on the planet who can fairly call back to the avant-garde traditions of Bergman or Truffaut, making the movies he wants to make about the things he want to make them about, and I’d never seen one of his films when it was new and fresh, only months or years later on DVD.

It seems I picked right, as his latest has been almost universally hailed as one of the best of his long career. An aging, aching filmmaker spends his days in his apartment, ignoring the fans of his original hit film and most of his own acquaintances, alive or dead---he tries hard to put his memories away. Throughout the course of the movie, he re-engages with most of them in one way or another, coming to terms with who he is and where he’s been, though not in a Hallmark-movie-of-the-week way. Antonio Banderas plays him in the role that was always denied him by his stud status in Hollywood. It isn’t simply him, though: every person we meet is engaging and, we sense, has their own story outside of how they intersect with his. Most engaging is that of his deceased mother, who in her youth was played vivaciously by a sun-toughened Penelope Cruz. Perhaps Almodovar will tell us some of their stories some day. Perhaps not. I would read an entire book of short fiction all about them. This is the year’s best film.

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sailorgreywolf-legacy · 5 years ago

Text

A Pleasant Afternoon

The sky was an expanse of blue, and the flat horizon made it seem like it went on forever. There were a few clouds passing overhead. It was pleasantly warm to Mexico, which he knew meant that it was unseasonably warm for this time of year.

He was not used to the usual cold grey that plagued this part of the world. In his present state, he was sure that he would be acutely aware of the cold. It would hang in the air like a mist. It would cling to him like an unwanted lover, with that kind of oppressive discomfort that he was so familiar with.

But, there was no cold here to touch him, just the rays of sunlight, which felt like the afterglow of a loving kiss.

He turned his eyes away from the clouds, and looked around. He was not the only one who seemed enamored with the reappearance of the sun after the grey of winter. There were people scattered around on the green expanse of the Rembrantplein, many just sitting and enjoying the weather.

There was the commotion of voices speaking in a language he did not understand, the careless hum of causal conversation. Even if he could not understand it, Mexico enjoyed the cadence of the words. It was pleasant in its own way, a kind of music that he could still enjoy.

The occasional sound in the back of the throat was charmingly guttural. It reminded him of the growl of an enthralled lover, the kind that could send a shiver down his spine so effortlessly.

It sounded so different from the silken smoothness of French, or the comfortable familiarity of Spanish. The closest he could compare it to was German, the kind of German that Max spoke.

Which reminded him of Maximilian, and the long nights they had spent trading phrases in German for phrases in Nahuatl. The memories were warm and very comfortable. Perhaps that was why he felt a kind of natural affection for this cousin language.

He continued to look around, taking in the bustle around him. Next his eye was caught by the sun glinting off of the bicycles by the canal. Just beyond the path where bikes moved like the constant energy of a stream, there was a place where bikes were leaning against the railing, like disorganized metal soldiers.

The sun glinted off the metal of the frames. If he stared long enough at the overlapping pieces of the bikes, they started to look more and more like a tangle of metal vines. The locks almost looked like they were moving between the bikes and the side of the canal, snaking their way between metal branches.

Mexico blinked and tried to will his thoughts to focus on something else. It felt like grabbing at smoke. The thoughts kept slipping between his fingers, no matter how he tried.

He tried to focus on something tactile, and present.

He could feel the Netherland’s lap under his head. It was far more comfortable than the ground. The man was tall and angular, but his lap was proving to be perfectly soft. There was also something so inexorably comforting about him.

Mexico opened his eyes and looked up at the Netherlands. He was temporarily blinded by the sun behind the man’s head after the darkness of the inside of his eyelids.

He blinked several times, and his companion quickly came into focus. Mexico could see his fair complexion and his blonde hair, and the rolled cigarette between his lips. There was a red tinge in the whites of his eyes that hinted that it was not tobacco.

There was an easy smile on the man’s lips, and it made him look very handsome. It always puzzled Mexico to hear other people describe the Netherlands as cold. With that look on his face, he seemed positively sunny.

And every memory he had of the man was of kindness, even when Mexico had been a small boy newly arrived from the Americas. The Netherlands had been kind and understanding to him. It was so strange to think that anyone could find him foreboding.

The Netherlands took a long drag from the cigarette and then blew out a cloud of smoke. Then he said, his voice sounding slightly thicker from the smoke, “Do you want more?”

It took a moment for Mexico to even process what the man had said. He heard it, but he was more enraptured by the rise and fall of his voice on the Spanish words.

Mexico found himself wondering what he looked like through the Dutchman’s eyes at the moment. He must have been quite the sight. His hair splayed out in the man’s lap, and a smile on his face that could only come from intoxication. It was still a handsome sight, he was sure.

He wondered, would it be the same as the face he saw in the mirror, or would it be the opposite?

Slowly, the thought dawned upon him that he had not answered the question, because his mind had seized on another subject and wandered away. He focused back on the question, and answered, “Yes.”

The other smiled indulgently at him, and said, “Are you sure? You look like you’re feeling good already.”

There was a hint of bemusement in his voice. It sounded like he was repressing a laugh. The Netherlands could tell how far gone he already was just from the way he must have been looking at him with a careless smile.

The thought somehow seemed impossibly funny, and he chuckled. He said, still laughing under his breath, “I do feel good.”

He reached out to take the cigarette, which the Netherlands relinquished to him. Mexico added, with what he hoped was a cheeky smile, “But I could feel even better.”

He could feel the words in his mouth. The consonants felt round, like they rolled around on his tongue.

Trying to focus enough, he put the cigarette to his lips, and took a long pull from it. He felt the effect almost immediately, warm across the roof of his mouth. Then the warmness blended into the pleasant sensitivity of the rest of his body.

With his free hand, he ran his fingers through the grass. It felt softer than he had imagined it. It was lush. It must have been all the rain that fell constantly; it fed the grass well.

The Netherlands gently took the cigarette from him, and said, “I think that is enough for you.”

Mexico conceded that he might be right with a shrug. He only ever did this when he visited Amsterdam, so the feeling was rare. It was easy to forget what was enough and what was too much. So he could allow the other man, who was so much better versed in this to say when he should stop.

It felt pleasant anyway, being able to feel and see everything so clearly. There were even the beginnings of images dancing at the edges of his vision. He wasn’t sure what they were, but they often came when he indulged. If he went further, he knew he could see even more, and see those little bits of the past and future.

It was better to ignore them though, he had learned that many times over. Seeing the little pieces never made sense anyway.

He responded, “If you say so.” The Netherlands said, in a way that was charmingly assertive, “I do say so. I’m not letting you overdo it.”

Mexico felt himself smirk as he said, “But you are letting me do it.” There as a sparkle in the blonde’s eye as he said, “I know. I am allowing you a little indiscretion.”

An idea struck Mexico, and he felt the mischievous itch to act on it. He put on a strong Castilian accent and said, “But what would God say?”

It had the intended effect and the Netherlands immediately started laughing. The chuckle turned into a hard laugh. It took him a minute to catch his breath enough to say, “You sound just like him when you do that.”

The imitation of Spain always seemed to amuse the Netherlands, and it was nice to see the man laugh. Mexico absentmindedly twined his fingers in the grass as he said, “I had to listen to him for three centuries. The least I could get out of it is a good impression.”

He didn’t want to dwell on those years, but this was lighthearted enough, and it was much easier to laugh in this state. He added, “Tony would be quite displeased if he knew.”

He said the word “displeased” in the same strong Castilian. It made the other laugh again, and this time the laugh was infectious. Mexico laughed too, far too heartily than he knew he should. But it was so hard not to laugh when the Dutchman was laughing; his joy was too good not to join.

The blonde put out the cigarette and said, “Fuck him. Come on, let's go back to my place.”

Mexico pouted, "I am comfortable.” The Dutchman seemed unmoved. He said, “I’ll buy you something chocolate on the way.”

It was bribery, but Mexico did not care. He said, “You are good at negotiating.” The other chuckled again and said, “That’s the secret of my success.”

Mexico was sitting on the slightly worn couch in the Dutchman’s living room, eating a waffle covered in chocolate and strawberries. He was trying to be careful enough to not get chocolate on either his face or the couch.

It would have been easy if he was sober, but he needed all of his attention at the moment. It tasted fantastic, far better than it would have otherwise. He was distinctly aware of the tartness of the strawberries in contrast to the sweetness of the chocolate and the dusting of powdered sugar. The waffle was soft and subtly sweet. It all blended together well to be sublimely satisfying.

He finished off the waffle, and then felt a slight melancholy at its absence. Food was such a short lived pleasure, rather like sex. But, he knew which one he would choose if he had to.

He placed the empty container to the the side. The apartment was so cozy. It was decorated in warm colors, and filled with comfortable furniture. There were pieces of blue and white porcelain on a few of the surfaces. They were very beautiful, and delicate in a way. It showed a level of taste that one would not guess that the Netherlands had.

He looked towards the windows, where there were window boxes full of tulips. The color was a nice touch, it added something cheery.

For a moment, he saw the shadow of something. A tall man looking out the window, with a phone in his hand. The person on the other side was saying that Rotterdam would only be the first if he did not surrender.

Mexico blinked and it was gone.

It was just a shadow of the past, just a passing shadow.

He drew in a breath and closed his eyes for a moment. He felt a strange pang at the memory, even if it wasn’t his own, and he was willing it to go away.

The thought was interrupted by a voice, “I think someone wants to say hello to you.”

He turned to see the Netherlands with a large white rabbit in his arms, which he deposited in Mexico’s lap. He said softly, “Miffy, say hello to Alejandro.”

Mexico pet the rabbit and said, in the voice he usually used on his own dogs, “Hello, little one. Aren’t you adorable?”

The rabbit’s pink nose twitched in response. The shiny black eyes seemed so knowing, and Mexico wondered for a moment if an immortal rabbit was capable of understanding him. Perhaps their pets learned what they said after so long. He hoped that she knew that he was complimenting her.

He pet the rabbit’s soft head, and added, “You’re very cute. And you have a very good owner.”

The Netherlands said, “Are you happy?” Mexico looked up at him, and responded, “Yes, I’m very happy”

#aph mexico #aph netherlands #this was just for fun #i enjoyed writing it

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rawbiredbest · 6 years ago

Text

It’s All in Your Head

Contains: Fluff, Angst, Unconventional Relationships, Telepathy, Demons Fandom: Marvel (comics) Relationships: Stephen Strange/Victor von Doom Characters: Stephen Strange, Victor von Doom, Wong, Boris Word Count: 6103

Out of the blue, Stephen Strange and Victor von Doom find themselves telepathically connected.

No squealing, remember that......

Content warning for canon typical violence, profanity, implied sexual activity, and a single usage of homophobic language by a very bad individual.

Graciously commissioned by @osheets! Wanna do the same? Check my info!

Read here or on AO3!

- - -

The breakthrough comes with rapturous spontaneity. It’s like Victor von Doom has been standing on the shore of a Latverian loch, and in the blink of an eye, the grains of sand have become an orchestra, the surf their masterful conductor, and he the sole audience. He has captured their forms in glass and steel, multiplied ten million fold in the casings of complex machinery, and the entire laboratory sings the path to a bolder, brighter future. In all of his years of experimentation, innovation, desperation, he has never heard this music before. It pours from every screw and bolt, vibrates along every copper wire, thunders out of every piston and valve. The engineers below him, controlling and monitoring the device, are Gods of melody and time. Doom himself has transcended divinity, rising high on sublime notes of praise. He is Emperor, Encapsulated Universe, and his feet do not touch the floor as he glides to the heart of his machine, his veins coursing with silver beauty. Hydrogen atoms dance into the arms of their palladium partners, and their heat is love, love for each other, love for nature, love for him, and it is a primordial force unlocked from decades of ridicule and shame, and he has set it free. Genius. Monarch. Ultimate.

And then it goes. Slowly, a receding tide. It slides from his bones, leaving them aching. He braces himself against a panel, cold sweat sticking to his brow. His heart hammers in his chest, a lone drum holding a marching beat long after the band has departed into the moonless night. The engineers gape at him, oblivious to the miracle that has deafened their ruler.

Doom touches the shielding glass of the operating CMNS reactor, and its vibrations are an idiot hum. He blinks salt from his eyes, breath condensing on the machine.

Four thousand, five hundred and six miles away, a doctor and his best friend leave Madison Square Garden, wearing concert merch, beaming like loons.

- - -

To Stephen, it’s a tsunami.

He’s watching TV. The nightly news. He could tap into the Eye and view the entire world as it turns, but he doesn’t want to. It isn’t very often he feels human, let alone vegetable, so any opportunity to vegetate he takes with gusto. Stretched across his couch, he tugs down the hem of his shirt, leans his head on his hand, and waits to absorb the country’s woes.

He gets a sharp pain on the nape of his neck instead. He swats at the spot, looks at his palm. “Ow.”

Wong looks up from the email he’s writing. “Are you okay?”

Strange frowns, settles back down. “I think there’s a mosquito in here.” They’re talking about the Amazon fires. Stephen’s heart aches for the birds who will drop from the sky, their lungs full of smoke, voices forever silenced.

And then pain rips down his back, like his spine is torn out by an iron hand from his neck to his waist.

He can’t help but yell then, clutching the cushions. A heavy ache lingers in his vertebrae. Gingerly he sits up, breathing hard, eyes clenched shut. Something a bit like petrichor, a bit medicinal, a bit hot fills his nose.

Wong runs to him, but Strange raises a hand. “I’m fine,” he says, though he already braces against the thick lump rising next to his heart. As it crests, it dissipates throughout his body. He forces his eyes open, expecting to see the black trails of tiny spiders beneath his skin. Nothing but unmarked flesh.

“Should I call Doctor Carter?” Wong asks, thumbing toward the antique phone. It’s enchanted to call anywhere, anytime, any-plane.

“No, no.” Stephen leans on his knees, rubbing his temples. The pain is moving, changing. “This isn’t exactly her--”

--forte, he wants to say, but he is cut off by trees. Huge trees. Trees that consume the sky in fractal tangles of evergreen. Primordial, pristine trees, the definition of trees. The little things that crawl beneath and flit between, some carrying light, some with rigid jaws.

It’s a psychic attack. Strange has weathered them before. This one is weird. As he waves for Wong to get the Eye, he endures the spikes of pain that impale his senses to grab a closer look. This entity is lumbering, gigantic in scope yet wet around the edges.

It’s being born, he realizes. It’s waking up.

It hurts, it hurts but he’s curious. He sees New York now, its spires and streets lined up like so much circuitry. He feels the rough brush of concrete, hears the car horn concerto, smells the burn of rubber, and all throughout are rules, parameters, reasons. The thing is learning, feasting on information, and gathering more at an exponential rate. A tidal wave of green descends on the city, picking and plucking at this imaginary world.

And as it eats, thousands and thousands of hungry mouths devouring America, it hates. It hates the excess, the cruelty, the inefficiencies. It roars, barreling down the Sanctum, thousands upon thousands of tons of incomparable loathing.

Wong presses the Eye into Stephen’s hand.

“Pardon my French, dear friend,” Strange says.

The Eye bursts open, and the Sorcerer Supreme throws every ounce of his mystic might at the slavering invader. The living room cascades with dancing whorls of light as he raises his arms, funneling a solar flare, and cries a spell that every New Yorker knows by heart.

“FUCK OFF!”

Utter obliteration. When he opens his eyes, glittering motes trickle from the ceiling. The pain is gone. The TV has gone to commercial.

The phone is ringing.

Wong answers it as Stephen sinks to the couch. He slips the Eye around his neck, and its weight comforts. He thinks he’ll sleep with it tonight.

“It’s for you.”

Strange massages his ear. Vulgarity is embarrassing, but faced with an immaterial infant in the depths of an unholy tantrum doing everything in its power to cram a fork in a magic electrical socket, seemed like a good idea at the time. He takes the phone. “Hello?”

“Doctor! The master -- Victor -- something has happened, I do not know-- I--”

“Boris?” Stephen sits up. “Boris, it’s all right. Slow down. What’s going on?”

Behind the old retainer’s words, a siren wails. “The master--” He hesitates. “His newest Doombot. He turned it on for the first time. All was well, and then it exploded! And now Victor -- he is breathing this flame, this plasma! It burned through his mask! Doctor, what do I do!?”

Strange inhales deep. Counts to three. Lets it go. “He’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure? I do not mean to doubt you, but--”

“It will pass. Give him an ice pack and put him somewhere dark and quiet for a few hours.”

“I trust you, doctor, but please, when you can, come and see him. The violence of it, it scares me.”

“I know. It’s fine. Just something he ate.”

Boris thanks him and hangs up.

Stephen wishes the couch would eat him as he heaves a sigh. “Wong,” he asks, “Is it too late to rescind discovering my bisexuality at the ripe age of however old I am now?”

“I don’t know,” Wong replies, “To both parts of your question. I lost count in the five hundreds.”

Strange curses again.

- - -

“So. We have a telepathic link. Any idea how it got there?”

He may as well be speaking to a wall of granite. Doom, arms folded, sneers at him across the table.

Stephen links his fingers together. “I have nothing. It’s rather disconcerting. I don’t believe it’s malevolent, which is always a plus, but it’s unremarkable, which isn’t. So I’d appreciate any insight, Victor. Whatever you’d like to...you know. Get off your chest.”

Doom’s eyes are cold.

“Anything at all. Need to vent? I know you can get heated.”

The table weighs over three hundred pounds, yet Doom flings it at him like a feather. Strange cuts it in half with a bolt of solid light as Crimson Bands constrict around his other arm. They serpentine and splinter into smaller tendrils, their tips unhinging into fanged blooms, and a thought comes to Stephen as the king charges him: he was born in a forest. It’s nature’s fury that fills his head, a cacophony of hellish noise, the wild hunt calling for his spilled blood. Doom’s rage in concentrated, psychic form, howling down their link.

The Daggers of Denak, blades spinning, do an admirable job trimming the vines, their severed heads still snapping, and Strange summons the Winds of Watoomb to push Doom away. The gale staggers him yet he presses forward, arcane runes flashing a ice blue aegis on his gauntlet. Step by step, forcing him back towards the wall.

He lunges. Strange is ready for it. Doom’s arm comes up, Stephen’s arms fan out. Before the king grasps his throat, he calls a pair of razors into his palms. Victor’s grip is suffocating. Strange holds his head between two guillotine blades. An impasse.

Doom’s voice rasps, thin and scorched. “That. Hurt.”

Stephen sips the tiny breaths he can. Something’s pressing into his belly. Sweat beads on his brow. It’s a gun. It’s the stupid gun Doom carries in the stupid pouch on his stupid belt. Why does he even have it? For shooting idiot sorcerers, he thinks. He swallows hard, knows Doom can feel it through the metal. Not so evenly matched as he thought.

And then he notices it. Hiding deep under the screams is a layer of fire. Reaching through the link, he touches it. Color rushes to his cheeks.

“Seriously?” he ekes out, “This is turning you on?”

Doom’s grip loosens. A minuscule amount, enough for Strange to squeeze a few more words. The fire leaps into his psychic palm, eager, aggressive.

“There’s no shame in it. You’re good at what you do, Victor. Very few people can put me in check. Look at you. You’ve pinned me to a wall like a butterfly. That’s impressive. I--”

The king leans closer. Stephen smells ashes on his breath.

“Hoary hosts.”

The gun is holstered. A steel thumb strokes his cheek.

“Reap what you sow,” Doom mutters.

- - -

The aches and bruises will last for days, but the coolness of Doom’s armor against the carpet burn on his back is soothing. He rests a hand in the king’s own. Anything else feels too strenuous. “Was that your first time having telepathic sex? It’s intense, isn’t it?”

Victor takes in the state of the room. Paintings smashed, furniture so much firewood, stone walls fractured and cratered. How much destruction is his? He has no idea. One or the other had to have held back. The castle is still standing, after all.

Neither man speaks. Stephen ventures a glimpse down their link and gets only an image of black curtains. Doom’s already set up defenses. Though some of his own are raised, he lets some satisfaction flow between them. An olive branch.

A quiet, amused huff. “At times, Strange,” Doom says, and already his voice sounds better, “Your physical merits outweigh the strenuous mental exertions you put me through.”

“I never much cared for the medieval aesthetic myself, yet here we are.” He grunts as he looks over his shoulder, thighs twinging. “How drunk were we that night?”

“Doom was sober.”

“Oh no, your golden goblet saw plenty of refills. You were, at the very least, tipsy.”

“You question Doom’s memory?”

Stephen cups his chin, looks deep into dark brown eyes. “I question, my lord, why you claim to remember, with crystal clarity, a night you could have easily decreed never happened at all.”

Nothing comes. No biting remark, no caustic humiliation. Doom only holds his gaze, and under the black curtains flashes something bright, something strong. It lasts for only half a second before the king gets up, using Strange’s shoulder for support. “This link shall be insufferable. Do your part to get rid of it.”

Stephen frowns, annoyed that his legs work. He wonders if Victor left any of his clothing intact. “Right. Ground rules. Stay out of my head, and I won’t make you cough up another star. Deal?”

“Stay out of Doom’s head, and you shall not know pain unending. You have a deal.”

- - -

This lasts for two months.

- - -

On Day 51, a current of malicious satisfaction slithers through Strange’s mind. Gooseflesh rises up his back. The half-chewed wad of pastrami and egg in his mouth goes sour. He spits it out, bracing himself on the dinner table, and without thinking of thinking, he thinks: what have you done now?

The smirk on Doom’s face reminds him of the crocodiles at the Bronx Zoo. The thing Victor is smiling at reminds him of shop class. He can’t begin to make heads or tails of it. Like many of the king’s devices, it could have come off the set of a sci-fi movie. Sleek and chrome, rigged with multicolored wires, pumps, and gauges, a porthole reveals the heart of the machine, a vile purple light. Stephen’s gut tells him that color would eat him alive if it could, tear into his flesh and drip his blood from its teeth. Stephen trusts his gut.

Strange, Doom replies, smile quickly fading into a scowl, We had an agreement.

You broke first. I felt you. My spidey sense tingled.

Victor’s gauntlets ball into fists, and he sends a wave of serrated anger barreling toward the magician. A chained wolf, barking and snarling. An executioner waiting for the condemned to dig his own grave deeper.

Stephen curses. He didn’t mean to think that out loud. Look. Just tell me what it is and I’ll leave you alone.

The black curtains rustle, then lift like a wing. Swimming in the purple light are mathematical equations, coiling around metal rods. It makes perfect sense to Doom, but to Strange it’s a form of gibberish undecipherable by any eldritch tome.

Then he hears it. It’s not coming from the machine. It’s from Doom. Subvocalized lyrics. A silent song. He could recognize the tune anywhere.

He bought its album at the concert.

This is cold fusion.

Stephen snaps back to attention. Cold fusion. Should I be worried?

Victor folds his arms. That I built a safe, eternal form of energy for myself and my people? Yes, Strange, cower and quake. Your country shall never have it so long as I draw breath.

There are many dangerous rebuttals to that he could say. Names he could drop. Yet Doom promised pain unending. Fifty-one days into their connection, Strange has no leads into its inner workings. Finding out if he could make good on his word is a risk Stephen is unwilling to take.

I don’t like this, the sorcerer thinks, but I have to believe you. Don’t misbehave.

His own mental defense is a never-ending subway express train, its doors and windows a veil of golden thorns. Sighing, he sits back down. What’s left of his sandwich has the appeal of wet newspaper.

Doom was right. The link is awful.

- - -

On Day 60, despite the blazing fire in the hearth, Victor’s feet send ripples through a puddle.

He regards it from his antique armchair throne with indifferent curiosity. Through the filters in his mask, he smells the green, pungent scent of foliage rot and seawater. In the puddle itself swim millions of plankton. A frenzy of eating, fucking, dying, and birthing unfolds beneath his alloy soles.

From the corner of his eye, he watches the puddle extend an arm of water across the floor. Sliding under a wall, a line of slithering damp turns the paint a moldy gray. Moisture fans across the entire side of the room in a pattern like falling stars, like skeletal hands trailing through a river. The scent grows stronger as the puddle expands. He rises before it consumes his chair. The leather sinks until it is a speck of mahogany in the brine. Gloom washes over it and it is gone.

Doom folds his arms. A breeze teases the tail of his cloak. Murmuring a quiet word, he puts out the fire with an arc of a finger, and turns around into another world.

It is eternal night. It has no sun, and what few stars can be seen are lucky glimpses through a lush canopy of branches and black, web-like leaves many hundreds of feet above. The grass under him has a sticky grip, but gentle. If grass could want for anything, it would like to give the king safe passage on his journey. He isn’t the sustenance it’s looking for. That comes on the wind, in the form of tiny shards of detritus falling from forest layers high overhead. It shimmers as it tumbles down, the only source of light in this hadal garden.

He doesn’t need to go far. Half-concealed behind a root far taller than he, Doom watches himself and Stephen Strange on the next mound over.

The magician talks with grand gestures, sweeping an arm over trees as dark as ink. Doom remembers himself speaking little, allowing Strange to tell him the highlights of the world. No recorded examples of predation. Negligible changes in evolution for millennia. A slow world. A place of peace.

Stephen steps into the water. Waist deep, he holds out his arm. His garb drips off him, revealing pale skin. He smiles, bare and inviting.

The other Victor undoes his belt.

“And you complain when I get you out of the house.”

Doom peers at the Stephen Strange sitting in lotus position beside him. “You drag me into your affairs with no concern for my well-being or sanity.”

“Please. The times you dig your heels in are cursory, at best. And then we end up doing things like this.”

Across the mound, the other king’s armor sits in a neat pile, and the two doctors stand in each other’s arms, their lips meeting and parting only to inhale.

Victor kneels on the grass. “Even you are capable of stumbling onto a good idea.”

Stephen’s lip curls upward. “I think about this often. This place is beautiful. This memory pleasant. I took effort not to broadcast this to you. My apologies if I disturbed you.”

Doom looks away. “You did not.”

“Oh? Your Royal Highness, we had an agreement.”

“Am I not allowed to reminisce myself?”

“Ssh. Meditate with me.”

He closes his eyes. Strange’s hand creeps into his own, and he lets it stay.

Perhaps he was wrong. The link isn’t so bad.

- - -

Wake up! Wake up, wake up, wake up!

Stephen rolls molasses slow toward awareness. The bedroom is pitch black, swimming in unholy hour of the morning disorientation.

Your wife is in trouble!

He cracks an eye open, shifting in the sheets. “Clea?”

No! Your big green wife! Get up, right now!

Those aren’t his thoughts. It’s a voice he’s never heard before, coming from inside his head. He holds very still and feels something slither over his brain.

He snaps wide awake.

I’m sorry we have to meet like this, the voice says, but we must hurry. The whole world is at stake!

In any other circumstance, Strange would interrogate the voice within an inch of its life, but its fear is genuine. Swinging out of bed, he yanks some pants on, startles the Cloak of Levitation from of its own sleep, and pulls open a portal to Latveria.

Curse me for a novice! the voice squeaks, That can’t be good!

Enormous rends in reality drape over the castle. Shimmering in the air, some bisect the stone in clean, monomolecular cuts. One vomits a steady stream of magma, causing a massive fire in the castle courtyard. Through each of them Stephen sees other dimensions. Another hole fans out from the keep itself and drops a mass of red crystals that crush an entire rampart.

Please! Hurry!

Stephen slams the portal shut, imagines his destination, and wrenches open a new one directly to Doom’s lab. The room is bathed in sunset colors and thick, acrid smoke. At its heart lies the fusion reactor, which is now anything but cold. The purple light pounds waves of energy, reverberating off its containment and magnifying a new tear in the world.

Victor stands in front of the machine. His motions are jerky, abrupt, a marionette controlled by a mob of children. He lifts a twitching hand and the tear throws itself through the castle to join the others outside.

Sister-Brother! the voice cries, Stop!

Doom’s arms drop, strings cut. The voice that comes from his mind is higher than the other.

No, I don’t think so, it says, I think I’m going to continue. You’re more than welcome to burn.

“You’re the link,” Strange says.

Just figured that out now? Sister-Brother asks, Wow, Brother-Sister. You sure drew the short straw. My host is incredible. I’ve mapped every gyri and sulci in here and it’s gorgeous. I’d stay forever if I could. It’s almost a shame he has to die.

Stephen glares, raising his hands, fingers glowing with magic. “As Sorcerer Supreme, I command you to release Doctor Doom!”

The laugh that echoes down the link is nails on a chalkboard. You have no idea what we are.

“You’re playing with fire. You’re threatening the dimensional stability of all of Doomstadt. And when I find you, you’ll have hell to pay.”

This host has already seen hell, Sister-Brother chides, What better place to grow up than in a body demon-touched? Have you considered that I’m doing him a favor? This is how it plays out. This is fate.

Doom turns around without his mask.

A bloodcurdling shriek ricochets across Strange’s mind, his hand thrusts forward with a will not his own, and a thunderbolt connects with the king’s head. Victor flies against a control panel, smashing it with the weight of his impact. Groaning and creaking, the reactor starts to power down, sprinklers in the ceiling damping the flames.

His face, Brother-Sister whispers, Gods, oh gods, what’s wrong with his face...

Stephen contains his screams until he kneels at Doom’s side, hefting his body into his arms. The scent of burning meat fills his nose. He howls for someone, anyone, to help him, royal blood seeping onto his chest.

- - -

He awakens to the beeping of the heart monitor.

Doom feels like mountainsides have taken residence on his eyelids. Slowly sliding them open, he takes inventory. The room is bright, sterile, no windows. He’s propped up in a bed. His hands are bare yet weigh like continents. He looks to his left.

“Hello,” Stephen says.

The sorcerer looks terrible. Ashen skin, reddened eyes, a frown threatening to rip his mouth off. The clothes he wears belong to any servant of the castle. The hands clasped together between his knees shake worse than Doom has ever seen.

“You’re on a morphine drip. You’ve been unconscious for the past twelve hours. You’re in the castle. We set up a makeshift triage room. For a while...” He takes a deep breath, steeling his voice. “We didn’t know if you would make it.”

Doom thinks, and his head is wonderfully quiet.

“Thank every deity you know that your skull is almost as hard as your armor. You’re going to be in a lot of pain for the next few days, but the alternative...I don’t want to think about. And I got rid of the link.” Strange picks up a jar from a nearby stand. “Meet Brother-Sister and Sister-Brother.”

Floating in cerebrospinal fluid are two worms. One is storm cloud gray bracketed by navy blue. The other is dark yellow-green with flecks of red. Flat as ribbons and only an inch long, they give each other a wide berth.

“Pineal parasites,” Stephen continues, “Stuck to the undercarriage of our minds, learning how to be through our eyes. They talked together through us. Saw magic through us. Deciphered grand machines through us. And now they’re ready to go home. That’s what yours was trying to do. They were looking for a place where nothing changes and nothing happens because all who go there are hijacked and killed. Not such a good idea after all, was it?”

Doom blinks.

Putting the worms down, Strange digs his wrists into his eyes. “Victor, I swear to you on everything I am I had no idea. I thought you’d like it. I thought you could forget being so angry, forget the Four if only for an hour, and be happy. Now you--”

He stares at the door, fist to his mouth. Swallowing his heart, he says, “I’m bringing them back. They’re not at fault. They’re just following their life cycle. Despite what they’ve done, they deserve to live.”

Birds that will choke on ashes, he thinks, Countless trees turned to dust. No more. No more death.

“The best doctors in your kingdom are here for you. I’ll be back.”

“Doom will go with you.”

Victor’s voice is quiet but steady. Stephen shakes his head. “No. You’re in no shape to get out of bed, let alone travel dimensions.”

The monarch shuts his eyes. Heavy footsteps pass through the door. A doppelganger in emerald and steel, the Doombot bows its head to its ruler.

“Doom will go with you,” Victor repeats.

Strange blows a ragged breath. By Doom’s creased brow, that wasn’t easy. “Okay. Rest now. Don’t do anything until I return.”

Victor says nothing. Stephen waits until he drifts to sleep, presses a kiss to rough lips, and departs, robot in tow.

- - -

Q-4301 is indistinguishable from the real deal, from its ramrod straight spine to its folded arms, yet there’s no look of wonder in its lenses, no human, if royally restrained, sense of adventure in its copper and silicon heart. It doesn’t care about the bits and pieces of gold falling from the alien canopy, the grass patting its boots. It stares at Strange, emotionless, and that very lack of feeling gnaws at the pit of the sorcerer’s stomach.

They’re on the same black water island mound as before. He can pick out the tree Victor pressed him against from all the rest. Had the microscopic eggs that birthed the parasite twins been attracted to their sex, or had it been sheer luck? He doesn’t know and doesn’t want to know.

In his hand is a candle made from the blood of priests. “Do you have them?” Stephen asks.

Q-4301 lifts a corner of its cloak. Sewn into the cloth is a glass vial. Brother-Sister and Sister-Brother are inside.

Strange nods. “I don’t know if Doom programmed you to feel fear. Either way, let me do the talking. If all goes well, you won’t have to do anything.”

The Doombot says nothing. Taking a deep breath, Stephen snaps a spark between his fingers and lights the candle.

The world goes silent. The wind ceases, and so does the steady fall of golden bits and bobs. The grass curls into tight nubs. The only indication that time has not stopped entirely is the gleam of flame like an undulating eel on the surface of the water. Stephen’s breath is deafening in his own ears.

The voice that speaks is low and obsidian slick. “Well, well, well. Look what the fags dragged in.”

The demon, descending from the trees, blends perfectly into the dark. Its teeth are yellowed and pitted from a diet of rot. It moves on long, soundless talons. Its eyes are cherry red, pupils like mouths.

“Doctor Strange,” the khat murmurs, “You honor me with your presence. I’ve heard so much about you. You’re a cautionary tale among khat-kind, you know. A warning about too much power in frail, mortal meat. Like stuffing a sun into a stomach, it’s only a matter of time till it bursts.”

Stephen purses his lips. “Cut the shit. I have something for you.”

The khat’s grin splits up to its ears. “A gift? Is it your heart? Your humanity? Your soul? Please tell me it’s your soul. I would so like your soul.”

“Come closer and I’ll show you.”

The demon pads on water, leaving no ripples in its path. “Is it the thing beside you?” Nostrils flaring, it sizes up the Doombot. “Not the usual breed of lost lambs you lead to slaughter. What sort of lies did you tell it to follow you? An offer of redemption, perhaps? Anything desperate enough to flaunt about in a green skirt would listen to you.”

“Desperation is for the weak,” Q-4301 snaps.

Strange swallows the ball of curses on his tongue and hopes it doesn’t show. Doombots fall for bait. Exactly like the original.

The khat stops. “Everything has weaknesses. You were once a babe in your mother’s arms, no? Look at your companion. The Doctor Strange, Sorcerer Supreme, can barely keep a friend around, let alone alive. No, no, no, there has to be a reason he wants you here.” It lies on all fours, rests its cheek on its fist. “What sort of gift was it again?”

Stephen starts to speak. Q-4301 beats him. “The only gift a demon like you deserves.”

Red eyes narrow in amusement. “Oh, it’s too much for a single khat to bear! Let me call my brothers. We shall find out together.” Rising into a crouch, it takes a deep breath.

There’s still time to salvage the plan. Strange shouts, “Do it!”

Q-4301 lunges into the water, tears the vial from its cloak, and thrusts its arm out. As predicted, the khat opens its toothy jaws and swallows the punch up to the Doombot’s shoulder. Payload delivered, they need to flee.

The portal spell is halfway done when Stephen spots Q-4301 motionless.

For a second, the khat too is still. Then, beaming around the steel in its mouth, it bites, and tears Q-4301′s arm off.

No robot could replicate the spray of blood and scream in agonized terror.

Strange doesn’t realize he’s also screaming. The khat snatches Q-4301′s shoulder and slams it beneath the surface. The water boils in the struggle. Shadows like hellish stalagmites reach for the leaf-choked sky as the sorcerer calls his magic. Black muck splatters the trees, the grass, Stephen’s legs as he gathers flame in his shaking palms.

The blast turns the water to steam as the garden sees more light than it has in billions of years. He looks for a target, finds nothing but the bare riverbed quickly flooding to fill the void.

The khat geysers up behind him, grabs his leg, and wrenches him into the water. The Cloak of Levitation has enough time to flip him face up before a heavy paw pins it down. Eyes stinging, heart hammering, Strange fends off the khat’s snapping jaws with novas in his palms. It takes all his training to anticipate where the teeth will be, vision obscured by plumes of bubbles, and not lose a limb.

Claws curl in his suit and drag him through the brine. His head connects with a tree root and all of reality goes sideways. His breath whooshes free, and sour liquid fills his throat.

The demon hauls him out, shoves him against a tree. Three blurry khats grin in Stephen’s eyes. Dozens of fangs.

“The gift is all three,” it says, “Your heart, humanity, and soul. Why were we ever warned about you? You’re nothing.”

It opens its mouth.

LEAVE HIM ALONE!

Stephen shakes water and blood from his eyes. The khat is frozen save its eyes, which widen in shock. Two voices erupt from its gullet. One, higher-pitched, screeches an incoherent string of profanity.

By the hoary hosts of Hoggoth, the other cries, I demand you let him go!

If he squints, Strange can see two ribbons in the khat’s belly. One yellow-green and red, the other gray and blue.

“What have you done,” the demon barks, “What have you done to me!?”

The claws pry open. Stephen beats a hasty retreat, flying to the unfinished portal. As he works to complete it, something moves at his feet. The grass scuttles bits and pieces of shattered human along pathways only it knows. He reaches down, grabs a fragment, and rage flows through him hot enough to make his skin glow, heat radiating from him in convection circles.

The khat breaks free of the parasites’ control, smashing its head against the tree for good measure. Screaming, it leaps for him. Strange sidesteps into another world -- home -- closes the portal, and waits until his ears stop ringing.

His anger he keeps. He storms through castle halls, eager to strike while the iron is hot.

- - -

Doom must really try this relaxation thing more often. It isn’t bad. Balcony doors open, letting in sunshine and a floral breeze, he reclines in his seat, sips his tea, and listens to the vinyl spinning on the antique phonograph.

I’m coming down, coming down like a monkey, but it’s all right Like a load on your back that you can’t see, oooh but it’s all right

The song has been in his head for months. It’s nice to hear it in the open. Doom smiles. Stephen has good taste in music.

“Bastard!”

The chair spins around and Doom is confronted by a feral magician. Strange notes the king’s simple garb: no steel in sight, just a cotton shirt and pants. He aims for Victor’s face but his quaking hands botch the throw. It bounces off his chest and lands in his teacup. “You’re not white!”

Doom looks at his tea. The blue eye in the tea looks back. “About time someone noticed,” he deadpans, extracting the orb by its optic nerve and setting it on a napkin.

The chair bucks like a bronco and Victor spills out. Stephen catches him with magic, hangs him in the air. The cup breaks into a thousand pieces and the king’s disappointed frown makes Strange want to throttle him. “Who was in the Doombot?”

“A nuclear engineer working on the CMNS reactor.” Doom sounds bored. “He tweeted about the parasite-induced euphoria I experienced. Called it an episode. Implications of weakness are illegal. Justice -- and the parasites -- were served. Two birds with one stone.”

“You killed a man for a tweet.”

“Whatever creature you encountered in the garden slew him, not I.”

Stephen drops him, relishing Victor’s grunt as a shard of teacup cuts his foot. It’s a slimy pleasure, and his face contracts. “Bastard. There isn’t an ounce of goodness in you.”

The king pulls the porcelain out of his flesh and points the bloodied end of it. “I have my ways just as you have yours. Until you grasp this concept, we shall always be at odds.”

“Be at odds? I saved your life!”

Doom brushes back his hair. Black stitches stretch from one ear across his head to the other. “You scarred me.”

They’re on thin ice. Strange dials back his fury, fists clenched. Monstrous tyrant or not, Victor is recovering from brain surgery. “You had a worm in your head.”

Tossing the shard aside, Doom sinks back in the chair in a position Stephen calls the regal slouch. “The sentence for weakness implications is community service. The engineer served his community. The sentence for injury to the royal person is death.” A scowl darkens his face. “I have half a mind to not let you leave this room alive.”

The sorcerer shuts his eyes.

“However.” Doom thinks, picking his words. “The extraneous circumstances surrounding the crime cannot be ignored. A different punishment is called for. It shall be made at a later time.” He draws a holographic display before him. A tigress pants in her den, lozenges squirming at her belly. “Three cubs were born at the Latverian Zoo this morning.” He looks at Stephen. “I find myself preoccupied with some wildlife conservation of my own.”

The sigh comes from the bottom of his heart. One day Victor will come out and thank him. Today is not that day. It will have to do. Strange rubs his eyes. “May I make a suggestion?”

“Speak.”

“Exile. A break. Another two months, or two years, or two hundred years. I’m not picky. I just don’t want to see you for a while.”

Doom looks back at the panel. “Your suggestion carries weight. So be it. Begone.”

That’s that. Another story concluded. Feeling empty, feeling light, Stephen turns to go.

“Strange.”

Fuck, so close. The sorcerer looks over his shoulder. “What?”

“When next we sojourn, for Doom knows we shall--” Victor’s lip turns up, the smallest hint of a smirk. “--I shall pick our destination.”

#doomstrange #doctor doom #doctor strange #victor von doom #stephen strange #rawbi's writes #commission a small bird

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stedes-black-bonnet · 6 years ago

Text

My Baby Does Me: Chapter 35

POV: John Deacon x reader

Notes: getting back into the swing of things, darlings; we have a tag list, let us know if you want in on that business.

Warnings: the usual swearing

Abstract: Let me take you honey, where the scene’s on fire, And tonight I learned for certain that the blues expired.

---------------------------------------------------------

Freddie Mercury absentmindedly stroked Delilah’s fur. She looked up at him with mostly love, some concern, and a dollop of annoyance; his fingers would play down her back, twirl around her tail, then creep up to her head, where he’d scratch behind her ears, and resume the whole process from the start. He was stuck in a fluffy loop of thoughtfulness tinged with avoidance. He didn’t want to think, but in not wanting to think, he was, indeed, thinking of just that which he didn’t want to think.

“Bloody paradoxes even when those rhythm and blues boys aren’t around…” he said to Delilah, all fire and dread.

She meeped in sullen agreement. Fuck those boys, she seemed to say.

“You’re right; they are fuck boys.” Freddie preened at her.

Delilah meowed back: that’s not what I said, and you know it.

But Freddie was lost in thought again. Memory has many paths, and whether we like it or not, we will walk those frosty paths forever. And Jim was a breath full of arctic air, freezing his lungs, making him pay attention.

Jim kept buzzing around his mind no matter what he did. He was metallic cold pinpricks in his mind. Sweeping little icicle jabs reminding him of earlier tonight and that absolute joke of a dinner party. This record was already a disaster and a single note hadn’t been recorded. Maybe none would be at this rate.

Delilah mewed at him again. She always understood; this is why she was his favorite. He didn’t hold with not having favorites. Favorite were his specialty. Even with pets he had a favorite; he assumed, if he and Jim ever had children someday in the far future, he’d have a favorite kid among them, too. Freddie clung to favorites like most people clutched to dreams; it was, perhaps, his never-ending drive to banish loneliness from his life. A favorite person, a favorite pet, a book, a film could erase every nagging insecurity from one’s mind. For, even surrounded by love, or by people, there he was, that gnawing wolf of loneliness lurking in the back of his mind, hunting him, waiting for a true solitary moment to make his deadly strike. Right now, he felt keenly aware of his emotions. He was disappointed in himself, which only helped to serve his feelings of isolation. An emotion worn like a cape, designed to keep others from getting too close. He couldn’t hide his feelings well—Jim would say he couldn’t hide them at all. And, as was so often the case, Jim was right. Jim was always right.

And Jim had been right earlier, too. About the fight. Well, about both fights.

Jim and Freddie didn’t fight a lot. They had discussions where honest and difficult ideas were exchanged and embroidered upon with care and delicacy--with politeness, tact, and artistic flairs. They didn’t yell at each other.

Yelling was something other people did to each other.

They didn’t need to yell to hear each other. They always heard each other. Yelling was an unknown rarity, like vintage wine from France, or fainting in front of a piece of art, or getting goosebumps from a piece of music; experiencing these everyday things, otherwise usually commonplace, but when arranged in the perfect way, in a singular way, they transcend their objectivity to become feelings; they became tangible emotions captured by space and form made always accessible, permanent, and sublime. However, when these rare events happened, it was just as profoundly shocking as finding Freddie and Jim in a screaming match. Which is exactly what had happened earlier this night. They had yelled at each other, and paused knowing it wasn’t necessary, normal, or right. Yelling wasn’t art, it was something dark.

But Jim had been right: Freddie should have done something to defend John, and the simple truth was that he hadn’t done anything for John. In the moment he had defended Jim instead, when that wasn’t what Jim needed nor how Jim had seen or understood the action. Jim didn’t need protecting; Jim wanted to protect, and Freddie had stomped all over that impulse, and while doing so he had left John to Roger’s wrath and guilt. And now here he was alone, sulking, not knowing if John was okay, knowing Roger had temporarily lost his mind, and knowing he needed to resolve this argument with Jim instead of ignoring it. John had suffered so much in the past few years, and now right when happiness was falling into his grasp once more, would it be swept away because of Roger’s impertinence and his own failure to act appropriately? But should he have let Jim have a go at Roger? If he had allowed it, wouldn’t Roger be in the hospital now? Jim was a bruiser--it was one of the things Freddie loved about him the most. And the press, god, if they heard about this incident...

Freddie knew he needed to process all of this. And to do so, he needed a friend; he knew precisely who he needed to call.

He scooped up Delilah in his arms and flitted out of the bedroom, wrapped in his sunset kimono. He left their bedroom where Jim was peacefully dozing, lost in some dream. Kittens and cats followed in Freddie’s wake, padding after him as if he were the pied piper.

“Hello little, darlings.” He called softly to them.

Delilah looked down on her fellow pack, secure in the knowledge that she was the favorite.

Retreating into the kitchen below, he picked up the receiver of the phone. He dialed a number, and waited, hoping they’d be awake, and knowing better.

A frenetic voice answered, “I hope you, whoever’s calling this number, of all numbers, knows how to use a watch, and can read it.”

“Skip it, Sharon; it’s an emotional emergency.”

“Isn’t everything an emotional emergency with you?” The voice had softened, recognizing the voice on the other end, but kept its rapid-fire nature.

“Darling, that simply isn’t fair, and you know it.” Freddie was smiling, though; he knew Sharon was smiling, too.

“Meet at the one place with the pancakes I like in twenty minutes, love?”

“The one with the sprinkles and ice cream?” Freddie asked.

“That’s the ticket, sugar bear.”

“You’re still dressed?” Freddie was trying to suss out Sharon’s state of intoxication, but it was a pointless inquiry; he knew his friend of old, and knew their scandalous and scintillating habits as well as he knew his own.

“Bold of you to assume I’ve been to bed at all.” There was that wry humor Freddie so cherished in his unparalleled friend.

“Alright,” Freddie said, quite mollified, “see you in twenty, Sharon.”

“Ta-ta, Melina.”

Freddie had picked out a booth in the back. He adjusted his tight yellow jeans, made sure his navy leather jacket was carefully folded on the seat next to him. He fiddled with the coffee cup in front of him, all nervous energy and anticipation. He straightened his white and red Flash Gordon shirt. Waiting for Sharon to stumble in, he gazed at the menu, even though he knew it by heart. This was their favorite haunt in the wee hours of the morning, in the between times when it is both night and morning simultaneously.

The bell above the door tingled, and his friend staggered through the doorway. Freddie still enjoyed some anonymity--his friend, did not. He was wearing a striped red and black blazer, with a gaudy straw hat, navy slacks with a high cuff, and a white button-down with a pearl embellished lapel so ostentatious it could only belong to one person. Freddie did like the shoes though; they were bright red jewel-encrusted oxfords.

People stared as Elton John gazed around the diner. He spotted Freddie Mercury, and headed to the back like a race car.

“Sorry I’m late, Melina.” Elton said, bending down and kissing Freddie’s cheek.

“You’re not late, Sharon.” Freddie said lightly, not critically.

“Oh, I’m not? I feel late.” Elton said, taking a sip of his coffee. “Maybe I’m remembering another time. The time before. Last time. Maybe I’m a traveler of time.”

“Nope; you were on time then, too.”

“Well, excuse me for being perfect.” Elton said, smiling at his best friend.

“You’re excused.” Freddie said, observing the man across from him. “You are coked out of your mind, though.”

“I’m always coked out of my mind, next observation, please.”

“Fair enough.” Freddie said dancing backwards from that sticky wicket.

“You’re the one that stopped using.”

“I’m the one who fell in love and realized I didn’t need it to be happy.”

“This old tune again?” Elton sighed. “Did I really come here, out of my house, away from my vodka and tonics to hear this? I was perfectly happy there. Perfectly. Happy.” He was slowly standing up.

“No, please, sit back down. Stay. I need your advice.” Freddie put a hand on Elton’s, and his face changed.

“I was only joking.” Elton said, slipping back down in his seat. “I’d never leave you, Melina.”

“I know; I just wish you believed the same about me never leaving you.”

There was a thick silence in the air. It had the stench of an old argument around it, one that wouldn’t be settled for many more years.

“What’s going on, love?” Elton adjusted his white glasses, waiting.

The waitress approached them, then, carrying a couple plates and a tureen. She started unloading her burden, and slowly backed away from the table, smiling bemusedly at the couple in the booth.

“I took the liberty of ordering for you.” Freddie explained.

Elton was pouring a tureen of hot fudge over his pancakes topped with rainbow sprinkles, vanilla ice cream, whipped cream, and caramel glazed pecans.

Freddie dug into some eggs and toast. “Jim and I had a fight.” He admitted eventually, jamming up his buttered toast.

Elton stopped eating and sparked his true blue eyes onto his friend. “Sure sure sure.”

“We yelled at each other.”

“What?!” Elton looked like he didn’t believe Freddie; Jim and Freddie yelling at each other was simply unprecedented.

“Well, it didn’t start there. It started at a meeting for the new record.”

“Ah,” Elton took a bite, “Guessing it didn’t go well, then.”

“No, it did not.” Freddie groaned. “It ended with Roger saying something unforgivable to Johnny, and with Roger getting punched out by Johnny’s new girl.”

“Okay...” Elton put his spoon down. It clanked with a final note, a gong hit, a gunshot. “You’re skipping a few important details. Rewind and play again. From the beginning. From the top.”

“So, since you missed my party, you missed everything, apparently that has led us to this moment.”

“Go on,” Elton was tapping out a tune with his spoon and Freddie’s jam knife.

“John met this girl at the party. Very smart, very stylish, very sweet.”

“Sweet but punchy?”

“Yes.” Freddie laughed. “He certainly knows how to pick them. Anyway, they hit it off in a real way, a genuine way we hadn’t expected.”

“She found the pilot of his soul.”

“Yes; and he her’s. Except, he didn’t tell her about Veronica.”

“Well, it was the worst day of his life. I was there. It was--it is still hard to discuss for him.”

“Well, Jim told her all about it.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“Fine? I guess? It doesn’t feel relevant to the fight.”

“Well, maybe not to your fight, but it is definitely pertinent to the fight Deacy and this girl are having now…”

“Right.” Freddie agreed, not having thought about that particular aftermath to be reckoned. “Anyway, darling, Roger was, unbeknownst to us, freaking out over his own feelings for this other woman, Lydia.”

“Really? Roger? Feelings?”

“I know, dear, it’s a fucking mess.”

“I’ve missed a lot; I’ll never skip one of your honky shindigs again. Scouts honor. I’ll come in kicking--spurs not optional.” Elton held up his hand and resumed eating his pancake dessert.

“Well, Roger showed up to the dinner meeting, saw this woman there with Deacy and said something about Johnny replacing Veronica already. It was truly horrid.”

Elton sat back in his seat, staring at his friend. “I can’t say I wouldn’t have punched him myself.”

“Well, that’s what Jim wanted to do and I stopped him; so y/n, Deacy’s girl, did it.”

“You stopped Jim from doing something about Roger mouthing off some trite sewage, and so y/n did what all of you should have been doing?”

“Yes, and then we--Jim and I--had a blow out over it.”

“And now you want to atone for it.”

“Yes.”

“Forgiveness is the easy part; asking for it isn’t.”

“I’m aware.”

“You don’t like being wrong.”

“Who does?” They smiled at each other.

“Well,” Elton he waved a hand vaguely in front of Freddie’s face. “I think the solution is pretty obvious. Clear as a bell. Right there in front of your very fine mustache.”

-------------------------------------------------------

Tag List: @phantom-fangirl-stuff @triggeredpossum @obsessedwithrogertaylor @groupiie-love @partydulce @richiethotzierz @sophierobisonartfoundationblr @psychostarkid @teathymewithben @smittyjaws @just-ladyme @botinstqueen @mydogisthebest @little-welsh-wonder @maxjesty @deakysdiscos @yourealegendroger @marvellouspengwing @molethemollie @deakysgirl @arrowswithwifi @tardisgrump @mikey-sway

#john deacon x reader #freddie mercury #rami malek #fanfic #Elton John #taron egerton #jim hutton #roger taylor #ben hardy #queen x reader

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aboutcaseyaffleck · 6 years ago

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Casey Affleck Is a Full-Time Flag Football Coach, Part-Time Actor

The quiet Affleck is known for soul searching performances, but mostly he's just trying to call the right play.

Looking for Casey Affleck? Head to the park. It’s where he’s doing some of his finest work — and spending a hell of a lot of time.

“My son got into flag football so I started coaching it,” says the actor and father of two. “I coach his team and then the parents of his friends asked me to coach their team. I coach three flag football teams and a baseball team.”

The last time we saw Affleck, 43, on screen, he was a burnout saddled with raising a nephew he didn’t want after his own kids died in a house fire. The sublimely quiet performance earned him a best actor Oscar for Manchester by the Sea. But it was just a performance. Despite his introverted public persona — so much for that Ocean’s 11 loudmouth — Affleck is incredibly present in his children’s lives and specifically on the sidelines of their various games. In fact, Affleck explains that he has eschewed blockbusters to ensure he has time with his sons, Indiana, 15, and Atticus, 11. He didn’t want to show up after they were already out of the house. He wanted a major role in their lives.

But don’t think that his turn as a dad is a conventional leading man part. The actor who plotted a murder as a sociopathic teenager in Gus Van Sant’s 1995 classic To Die For, the guy who gunned down Brad Pitt in 2007’s The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, isn’t what you’d call a cool dad. He says he lectures his sons, annoying them constantly. “Here’s a tip,” he laughs. “If you’re driving in a car with two kids and you turn around and see they’re both wearing headphones, you’re talking too much.”

Still, that’s not going to convince Hollywood’s most notoriously reserved star to stop talking.

“I could talk about my kids all day. Being a parent has taught me more about myself and about life than any other experience I have ever had. I want to soak up every minute of it. It’s a priority I’m happy I have,” says Affleck, who will debut Light of My Life, an exquisite yet grounded film he wrote about a father and daughter navigating a post-apocalyptic world this summer. He says the science fictional elements are sort of a metaphor for his anxieties as a parent. (Not-so-much the flag football playcalling anxieties. More the bigger stuff.)

Affleck spoke to Fatherly about being a nearly full-time youth sports coach, how parenthood changed his career, and how his sons influenced his new film.

I’m told you are quite the dedicated coach. Are you, like me, all about winning?

I’m that coach inside, but I try to contain it. I love doing it. I was never into football when I was a kid. My son got into flag football so I started coaching it. I coach his team and the parents of his friends asked me to coach their team. I coach three flag football teams and a baseball team.

Coaching to me is incredibly rewarding. To have the kind of relationship with your kid in a different way is really great. They come home and they critique my coaching style. They write plays for me. They do it with me. It’s an extra little bonding experience. Also, I get to know other kids. When you’re the coach, they give you a kind of authority you don’t deserve. There’s a lot of trust and respect. There’s a mob of kids over here at the house all the time. They don’t always listen, but when you’re their coach, it’s a different relationship.

When I talked to you a few years ago, you were wary of even revealing your first son’s name. How have you kept them out of the spotlight? I mean, look at your brother Ben Affleck. He gets it so bad.

He does get it bad. If you’re two celebrities who are married, that is just gossip and fodder and crack. It’s double trouble. Jennifer Garner being so famous and Ben… they just get the worst it. I hate it for my nieces and nephew. It’s so intrusive. It’s so awful. They manage it really well. They talk to the kids about it and explain it. With my kids, I think it helps that the paparazzi don’t care about me that much, which is amazing and thank God for that. I was really vigilant early on about protecting my private life and making choices that would keep me out of the spotlight. I didn’t do that much press. I wouldn’t talk about my kids. But my kids now give me career advice. They’re old enough.

Like what tips do they give you?

My son told me I had to get a verified Instagram account. My heart sank. I need all the help I can get. My son is 15 and knows what it is. At a certain point, you can protect from the world but then you have to move into the world with them. To me, that has meant allowing them to be online with the rest of the world.

In terms of your career, did your Oscar change things for you in a major way? I know you’re particular about what you work on.

You can be very picky and still end up in things that aren’t great. There’s no formula. I would like to rethink my strategy of being so picky. I don’t put being successful or being in a great movie ahead of everything else in my life. This summer, I wanted to spend the summer with my 15 year old. I didn’t want to be away all summer, no matter how good a project it was. It’s been tough. I’ve had to let go of a lot of professional experiences that I really wanted. I wanted to be at home more. Winning the Oscar didn’t change anything. It’s not me being regretful.

Do your kids care that you’re an actor? Have they seen your movies?

They have very little interest in watching the movies I do. They care about when I talk to them about movies. That way they can understand that I actually do something. Some parents work in banks or in schools. I act. It’s a little harder for younger kids to grasp. I ask for their advice all the time on what projects to do. When the movies come out, they’re not that interested. They don’t go to the movie theater that much. They like plays. I took my youngest kid, at 11 and two of their friends, to the sound stage when I was shooting this movie. They lasted about four minutes. They went to the hallway and played tag.

Let’s talk about the new movie, Light of My Life. The opening scene with Anna Pniowsky, who plays your daughter, is so intimate, so sweet, especially when you’re telling her the bedtime story you made up on the fly.

It was pretty easy and relaxed. For one thing, Anna is just naturally a great actress. She’s relaxed on camera. She has a lot of emotional intelligence and depth that is apparent. But also, like with any scene, the scene begins the first minute you meet them. Anna and I — I love her to death. We got along so well. She’s such a sweet kid. But the time we got into shooting that scene, she was in a groove.

This movie is about an apocalyptic future, but it’s mostly about being a dad. Could you have written it before you had kids?

I wouldn’t have written the role if I wasn’t a dad in real life. It’s about being a parent to me. All the science fiction stuff, the action, that was secondary. My experience with being a parent… that’s what it’s all about. The dynamic with me and Anna is stuff I draw on from being a dad.

How did your kids influence the development of the film?

My oldest son came to a reading of a scene and he gave me two pages of notes. They were the best notes that I got from anyone. I’ll save them forever. At the end of every movie, I make a t-shirt for everyone on the crew. On the back of the shirt, I put all his notes. Some of it was from his point of view. Some of it was objective stuff about storytelling. There’s too many moments where I’m like this or like that. They were sophisticated suggestions.

So you’re basically saying, you benefitted from child labor.

Yes, for sure. I’ll put something extra in his allowance.

On a not wholly unrelated note, I’m curious how you, as a celebrity father and well-known guy, work to ensure that your children don’t become entitled. I think it’s something a lot of parents worry about. I know I do.

Oh man. Just the fact you care is 80 percent of it. But I have to give credit to their mom. Their mom has done the best job and has an innate understanding of how to raise good kids.

I’ve been in places where there is extreme poverty. Seeing those kids can really give you a great perspective on parenting — suddenly their finicky eating doesn’t seem like such a giant problem. Our culture of fear and hyper-vigilance and media saturation can be an obstacle to giving them roots and letting them go a little bit. You have to trust that they’ll be ok.

I think that’s dead on. I also think it’s hard not to overthink and under-do.

The thing that affects them more than anything is how you live. If you’re on your phone 24 hours a day, they will be too. If you’re an entitled person, they’re more likely to be that way.

And you can’t indulge their every demand or whim, which is pretty damn hard.

My son said he should start thinking about getting a car. I told him to start thinking about getting a job. I’m not the parent that will buy them a car. They will have to earn it like I did. They give me that look like, ‘Give us a break!’ and I wonder if I am being too hard.

I do want them to hang out with me when they’re older and when they have kids.

What do you do that totally, utterly humiliates your kids? Every parent has at least one of those behaviors.

I’m overwhelmed thinking about all the embarrassing things I do. The things that make me suddenly cringe are all the dumb things I’ve said and done as a parent.

Here’s a good one: My son had a birthday party. There are these kids over here. It’s the best party I’ve had in my house in ten years. I found out that 15 year olds are really fun and I wanted to hang out. I said, ‘Let’s play some ping pong’ and I got the look. My son just looked at me like I was the least cool person he’d ever seen. He wanted me to give them space. I was trying to fit in.

#casey affleck #family #interview #news #posted by us

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irrevocably-delicious · 7 years ago

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Ok ok ok I gotta get my voltron s6 feelings out so I can go to bed before I implode

So first off I’m gonna start off with saying:

This was a really fucking good season. This might be the best season. This shit was fucking great.

But let me detail

The writing is so tight my dudes, but in a way that feels fast and exciting. Not like it’s rushed. We ended the season and FOR ONCE I had no burning disappointment or questions. I was just like “hell yeah”

The plot all works? And moves together coherently? This is really the first season where the twists and turns are fun and not “wow that fucking came out of left field”

BUT SPEAKING OF LEFT FIELD: the reveal of Lotor’s true motivations and what he had done was really astounding. In the first few episodes when we see Allura helping him, I was like “Oh yeah, he’s totally using her to make his ships his own powerful voltron thing” and I knew he was gonna betray them and it was all a ruse to get access to more quintessence, but holy shit, holy shit.... the reveal that he saved Alteans and had been draining their life force??? Truly horrific. I’m shocked that Voltron went so dark. It’s the most truly evil thing I’ve seen in a long time.... it was fucking excellent.

When we learn that, Lotor becomes IRREDEEMABLE. There’s no way this will come back. And it hits Allura where it hurts the most: her people. So there’s no way this fuck boy was ever going to be forgiven. Lotor transforms into a truly terrifying villain, and his descent at the end is enthralling though tragic to watch.

Keith’s whole backstory (oh yes, oh my god voltron finally brought the food) is really wonderful. Its.... exactly what all the fanfic said it would be. I won’t lie. But i fucking gasped when I saw that Shiro’s original vest is Keith’s dad’s. That gripped me by the heart.

I...wanted....to....die when Keith and Shiro were fighting. The animation was sublime and the emotions gripped me by the asshole. I think you have to be pretty detached if that “Shiro! You’re my brother!... I love you.” Didn’t make you whimper.

Shiro is a dork who loves DND. I love him.

I’m a SHiro and Lance stan. This season was fucking painful.

Coran got to do a lot! Yeah baby! I love you, bitch.

Loved the continued Hunk and Pidge focus throughout. They’re definitely a solid duo and I liked how they always got shit done. Watching Pidge anguish over Shiro’s viruses was heartbreaking, especially when she admitted she made a plan in case this ever happened.

MY HUSBAND IS BACK AND HE IS A TRUE WHITE HAIRED ANIMU BOY

They use the word “embiggen” in the DnD episode (a desperately needed comedic break this season) and that is a fucking Simpson’s reference you NERDS.

The killing of the castle was.... poignant. It marks a new chapter in the show and feels like a graduation of sorts. The paladins have grown up now. They’ve moved out. Oh how many fanfics have I read set in that place! i will mourn thee!

I’m fucking PUMPED for earth

Some cons.... and they’re not cons? Let me explain

Hey yeah, they’re pushing allurance it feels like

This doesn’t make me mad. I promise. If you asked me WAY BACK in season 1 who i thought was gonna end up together i would have said “Oh allura and Lance, surely” and klance was kind of like.... a crack ship for me? Like I LIKED it, but i never hoped it would be a THING. But then Allura and keith interacted more in season 2, and then of course we got a LOT of klance in s3, so i was like....shit maybe klance?

Allurance does not bother me at all. It really does not, i promise. It makes perfect sense. Lance has had a crush on allura FOREVER and thinks she’s wonderful and amazing, and I think this season was really hinting that Allura is starting to see how mature Lance has become and how much he supports her. It nice.

BUT! I just.... reeeeaaalllly want some LGBT rep in voltron. And not a side character. Like a main one. And Lance always felt like the character who would fit best in something like that? Like he’s the one who’s most relationship oriented, so it would make sense. Also there’s only like.... 3 dudes around the same age so I was like “it’s gotta be two out of the three of you, because Pidge and Allura would never be a thing. And Keith and Lance have the most hints at being that so..... gotta be you two boys I guess.”

I’m not saying that if Allurance happens then Lance CANNOT be confirmed as LGBT and have some kind of arc, but I think it would be a bit harder to work in.... narratively speaking. Like I’m trying to think of a scenario where Lance and Allura are together and he just goes “Anyway, so I like dudes too!”.

Maybe the writers will find a way to give that LGBT representation that I have not thought of? Possibly? But i don’t want it to be some throwaway thing. Like Shiro just goes:

“Man I can’t wait to see my boyfriend again. ANYWAY!”

Allurance becoming canon by NO MEANS makes LGBT rep impossible, but I guess it would be from a source I would not expect. (Heith becomes canon and we are all FOOLS)

Lance did not get to do much this season

I’ve seen this going around a bit and it’s Mmmmmm debatable. I feel like his arc was really tied to Allura’s this season. So he didn’t get so much his own moments, but small moments that all kind of intermingled between Allura’s and Lotor’s. A LOT happened this season. I understand why he did not get as much screen time. But he was still there more than in season 2!

The only actual real con

“It’s been two years. We can finally continue our mission.”

What. What? This is stupid. I guffawed at this line. Why did the writer’s do this? You could have just been like “It’s been 6 months” why 2 years? That seems dramatic. Did they just want an excuse to write Keith as more mature and leaderly without having to do more development? Did they just wanna draw him bigger? Were they looking for a quick “Keith and Krolia are fine with each other now” excuse? Just have it be a few months! I’d buy that! Did the animators really just need a reason to give him longer beautiful shojo hair? WHAT? WHAT IS IT? I DON’T UNDERSTAND! THIS WAS STUPID. I dunno I feel like there’s a disparity between Keith and the paladins now. Like before it was “Keith and his school friends” and now it’s like “Keith is the young, hot, leader.... and here’s the teens he takes with him.”

I dunno. Mmmmmm not thrilled? Really just wanna know the motivation behind it.

Anyway tl:dr boss ass season. The best writing in a long time. klance crops? Not watered.

#voltron spoilers #voltron season 6 #vld #voltron #i rant

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doraspn · 6 years ago

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15x06 sort-of-coda

here it is sis, the third part @boysforpielie sorry that it’s been yet again prolonged lmfao i did NOT plan for this to get so long

Cas left. Dean is drinking his feelings away. He may or may not pray to Cas. They may or may not end up making out. I honestly wouldn’t know, I’m not from around here.

1 of 4 | 2 of 4 | 3 of 4 | 4 of 4

Cas found himself standing in the glow of a fully decorated Christmas tree displayed in one of the many store windows. It was too early for Christmas decorations but Cas didn’t mind. The colorful lights it donned shone so bright against the surrounding night. It reminded him of the time he still believed in God, when looking at his father’s creations still made him feel sublime. Things like the tree before him were still worth looking at and Cas still loved humanity, but nothing felt quite as holy as before. Especially since he left the bunker, left Dean.

Cas knew it was only a matter of time before they reached the point of no return. And this was it. Dean no longer cared for him and there was no place for him in Dean’s life anymore. Cas wished he got to see Dean happy before he was forced to leave, see him safe and for once not fighting for the sake of the entire world. He loved the brief moments of peace they got to enjoy in-between the smaller battles, on their way to the bigger battles, when Dean would wear his novelty clothing with strange designs that almost always made Sam share a secret look with Cas behind his back, eat pie and passionately explain to Cas why one thing was better than another, usually in relation to television shows and cinema.

Cas told Dean he was going to move on but he knew, even as he was saying the words, that that’s impossible for him. Soon after meeting Dean even Heaven became a strange place, a place he had to return from, and the moment he abandoned the only home he’d ever known, Dean took its place. Cas was not of this Earth, space and time to him were such narrow constructs, so the only place vast enough to compare with Heaven, the only thing on Earth that wasn’t too restricting for the angel to tie himself to was Dean, so Dean became home. Every time Cas went away and no matter how much time he spent there, this never changed. So of course he missed Dean. So much so he allowed himself to imagine for a moment a Christmas tree in the bunker. Perhaps he would have baked some pie as he did learn a little about pies along the way. Jack would have gotten the most presents, at least two from each of them. Sam would have been the one to put the star at the top of the tree, since he’s the tallest among them. Dean would have organised a movie viewing and they would have all squeezed together to watch and listen as he explained why the Christmas movies he picked were better than all other Christmas movies known to man.

In that moment a little boy rushed past Cas, dressed in a Batman costume. Cas smiled to himself as he watched him run, unburdened and free. Dean would have probably been like that, if his life weren’t written by a selfish, cruel and capricious God. Cas already decided he was going to do whatever he could to help bring down Chuck, even if all that awaited for him at the end was The Empty. Not just for Dean, although he was a huge part of the reason why. He did want to give Dean his freedom, if it was at all in his power to do so. He also wanted to avenge Jack.

Cas pulled out his phone and navigated over to the text messages where Sam's unanswered questions waited for him. Cas knew he couldn’t be around Dean like he used to but he wanted to assure Sam that he was alright and make sure he understood that Cas was there if he, if they, needed him. He slowly typed out his response in the warm glow of the Christmas lights.

And then he heard his name, a mere whisper. Turning around yielded no results - only families, huddled together and walking by in good spirits. He almost thought he imagined it when he heard it the second time. This time it sounded more like a cry. Alarmed, Cas stilled completely, concentrating all his remaining power to listen in. Was there a problem? Were Sam and Dean in danger?

Then, in what was unmistakably Dean’s voice, though decidedly broken, he heard the words he remembered well. Dean talked about that particular scene for at least one hour, and that was before they even watched the movie. Contrary to Dean’s intentions, this made Cas spend the entire scene observing Dean instead of watching the screen. He was so engrossed, mesmerized. What was it that he said?

“it sounds lame but it’s not. Alabama, the girl, she’s cool, and so is Clarence Worley. I mean, he’s Clarence Worley! And when she tells him she’s into him, they’re on this roof top and she like, bares her soul to him. It’s raw and gritty and cool. You’ll like it, Cas.”

It was a confession scene, in more ways than one, and while Cas didn’t pay attention to the screen the first time it played out, Dean made sure he saw it by replaying the entire scene a couple more times. And Cas remembered it well. As embarrassing as it was to have to contact Dean for assistance while bearing the name Clarence Worley, Cas felt better keeping these moments as close to him as possible, even at times like these, especially at times like these.

He didn’t know if he had the necessary power to accomplish what he wanted to until he found himself standing in front of Dean’s bed. Dean’s head was hanging low, his hands together in prayer.

“Hello, Dean,” was what came out his mouth, as if nothing changed.

I took a while before Dean lifted his head. The first thing Cas noticed were the tears threatening to spill out of his green eyes. Dean stared at Cas in silence for what felt like forever, Cas did not use that term lightly. Then Dean suddenly stood up and closed the space between them in a few easy strides before wrapping his arms around Cas, embracing him. He held him so tightly that Cas was sure he would have been unable to breathe were he human.

Cas remained still for the longest time, too shocked and confused to do anything. Then he grew very concerned. Was there something wrong with Sam? But Dean didn’t answer or let go, he just cried, nestled in the space between cas’ neck and shoulder. Then the I’m sorry’s came and it didn’t seem like they’d ever stop. Cas finally regained some composure and put his hands on Dean’s back, trying to soothe him.

“It’s okay, Dean” he said, “it’s okay,” but Dean kept crying until sleep took him.

#wtf even is this #lmfao #sorry #sort of coda #flamingo writes

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sickandtideeeee · 6 years ago

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By Bast - Chapter 10 (Erik x Reader)

A/N: comments as always appreciated! Happy New Year everyone!

A mediocre-looking American, a mediocre-looking American… You chanted over and over to yourself as you ran.

Normally you would berate Shuri for the language, but you could not help the smile spreading your lips as you ran through the fastest course to Mount Bashenga.

Shuri was back, and almost as importantly, T’Challa was alive! You had seen him die… had you seen him die? Despite having occurred only days ago, those events were now a blur. Thankfully so.

You ran and ran, the vacancy through the palace revealing the intensity of the fray on the outside. As you leapt over and side-stepped several slumped bodies, your heart began to race.

This was it. This was the end of this monster’s reign. It would all be over, and he would be gone. Forever.

Once you boarded the restricted two-person underground shuttle from the palace to the laboratory, you let out a sigh of relief. The moment you reached the Wakandan Design Group hub, your target was in view.

Shuri’s description hadn’t been too far off – a middle-aged white man of average stature stood pacing back and forth at the center of the room, muttering frantically to himself. So preoccupied he was that he didn’t notice you approach him cautiously until you lightly tapped his shoulder and reflexively, narrowly dodged a frantic right swing.

“Who the hell are you?!” He demanded to know, fists raised now in an unsteady defensive stance. Rather than respond, you turned to a glass workstation and laid the card you had been given against its surface. It lit up and revealed a control panel.

“Shuri sent me.” You motioned him over to your side and pointed to a hologram of an American jet’s cockpit controls, now projecting from the card. “It looks like she needed you to fly this plane, right?”

He nodded, his lips slightly parted in a mixture of apprehension and confusion.

“Y-yeah, that is correct but-”

“What are you waiting for? I don’t know how to fly planes!” You cut him off, in no mood to assuage his anxiety. The curtness in your voice seemed to spring him back into action.

While the hapless foreigner activated the remote piloting system and listened for Shuri’s further instructions, you used the card’s settings to seize control of one of Wakanda’s aerial satellites. You were hoping to get a good survey of the land and determine exactly what was going on outside the deserted palace.

Just like your vision had prophesized, you saw your people strewn across the land locked in physical struggle. For as long as you had lived, you had never seen a mere riot, much less a battle of this magnitude.

“What exactly is going on?!” You demanded to know from your new comrade-in-arms, while taking note of the exact number of ships that had been deployed, likely taking weapons overseas. Still focused on the simulated battle before him, he tried his best to fill you in.

“It seems that your new king is one of our folks, an American on our wanted list.”

It’s not that this was something you hadn’t exactly pieced together, but the statement made your quick vision of N’Jadaka’s past feel all the more real.

“Now, we just have to stop these weapons from leaving your country, and then… I don’t really know what happens from th-“

His speech was again cut off by the sudden impact of a barrage of blasts aimed at one of the immense reinforced glass windows to your opposite side.

Shit…

“I’ll try to see if we can beef up our security!” you reassured, hoping he would stay focused on his more important task. Unfortunately, this statement was a bluff given that you were minimally tech savvy, at least by Wakandan standards. Regardless, you assumed you were smart enough to have at least an idea of how Shuri would set her controls.

Floundering through her presets to figure out how to strengthen the glass, you kept an eye on the video feed of the battle. Eventually, N’Jadaka came into view, clad in a golden version of the panther suit, just at the moment he was tackled into the vibranium mine. It was so fast, you nearly missed it, but you knew the dark figure had to be T’Challa in the original panther suit. Shuri was bent over the end of the huge opening and appeared to be screaming. Screaming… but safe.

Despite reinforcing the vibranium signal on the building, you could hear the cracks in the walls begin to spread and the glass shatter and break under the impact.

Glass integrity at 15%, the overhead system warned.

“We have to consider getting out of here soon!” You alerted the trained pilot. In the meantime, you were hastily trying and failing desperately to locate a failsafe that would automatically shut down all aerial vehicles. You were sure Shuri would have programmed something of the sort if she had had the foresight to.

Then again, Wakanda was the safest place on Earth, was it not? Who could have expected their aircrafts to be turned against the people?

“How many do you still have to stop?!” You asked.

“Just.. this!” A loud crash ensued and the simulation abruptly disintegrated, leaving the man in a hard drop on his bottom. While you looked at him in surprised horror, he jumped to his feet with the excitement of a teenager having reached a new video game’s high score.

“Yes!! We did it!” he yelled.

You blinked once to process then snapped back into action. “Okay, great! Let’s move!” You announced, quickly slipping the keycard back into your pocket. This place was no longer safe for the two of you.

“Follow me.”

The two of you deserted the workspace in relative silence, considering the laboratory was under attack, for the next few minutes. The quiet may have been a tad uncomfortable for your new companion, because he soon broke the silence.

“You can call me Ross. Agent Ross.” The American stretched out his arm for a handshake but you were too heavily preoccupied with worry over the possible outcome of a rematch between T’Challa and N’Jadaka to acknowledge him.

“I think there are hoverbikes we can use to make our way out of the building faster.” You responded, disregarding his self-introduction as you lead him down to the section of the edifice designed for evacuation in emergencies precisely like this one.

Agent Ross let out a small snort of disbelief while you rummaged through a password-protected safe and handed him the key to a bike.

“Hoverbikes... really?” you heard him murmur under his breath.

“We’re going to use these to leave through the exit I am about to open up.” With that, you slammed a large red button mounted beside the entrance with the side of your fist and a wall at the other end of the chamber fell away, leading to the open air of the vast mine. The pathway looked almost like a runway into the void with how dark the outside environment was, illuminated only by the glowing flecks of raw vibranium metal.

Ross gave you an incredulous look.

“There are clear arrows for this path that we’re going to follow if we want to make it out of this mine the fastest way. They’ll show up on the dashboard of the bike,” you reassured.

You hopped on a hoverbike of your own.

“Or you could just follow me,” you added. In mere moments, you sped off and after a few seconds of familiarizing himself with the equipment, he followed suit.

Will you let this end this way?

As you and Ross rode, just minutes out from the fray, a lump began to form in your throat at the sweet, sultry voice in your ears for the umpteenth time.

Is she fucking serious? You couldn’t help but think to yourself. But you knew, deep down, you needed to know where they were, where he was.

Would T’Challa end his life this time? Could T’Challa end his life this time? Should T’Challa end his life this time?

Bast had already given you the answer to the last one. But the first two were up to T’Challa. And somehow up to you.

You pulled out Shuri’s master card once again and attached it to the dashboard of your hoverbike. You already knew the two of them were somewhere in the mines. Using the card to sweep the area around you for body heat signatures would tell you exactly where you could locate them. You came up with nothing and realized you would have to go searching.

“Ross!” You slowed down just enough to meet him side by side.

His excited grin sublimed into an inquisitive look, perhaps in response to the wistfulness plastered all over your face.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m going to part with you here but keep following the dashboard. You’ll make it to the rest in no time!”

“And where exactly are you going in the middle of a conflict?”

You swallowed hard. Interfering, yet again, would cause you more problems than not in the long run. You were well aware of this. On the other hand, you already knew the goddess would not let you continue to exist if you decided to stay out of it.

“I have to check on something.” You responded. It wasn’t a lie. “Get back safely!” You said, as you sped off full throttle in the opposite direction.

By the time you reached them, it appeared that T’Challa had already won. Yet N’Jadaka appeared to be very much alive, despite being obviously injured. T’Challa supported N’Jadaka’s weight as they rose together on a levitating platform, and you, very many feet away, watched them from afar.

The two men clad in these parallel suits, with opposing upbringings and clashing ideologies, for the first time appeared to look like family. It was a mellowing sight. Wondering where T’Challa was taking him, you followed at a distance far enough to allow them privacy.

You found yourself at a cavernous opening to the mountain, looking towards the horizon, where the sun’s rays gleamed over the untamed brush’s treetops. T’Challa lowered his cousin to the ground slowly and the latter supported himself on his knees, basking in the warm pink, orange and yellow hues of the sunset.

You dropped to your feet and muted the slow hum to your hoverboard to remain undetected, contemplating this strange development.

Had N’Jadaka had asked to see the sunset?

What could they possibly be saying?

You remained too far to hear them speak but weighed the risks of getting caught eavesdropping on the royal family to satisfying your own curiosity. It was not worth it. You knew boundaries all too well.

Backing away slowly now instead, your heartbeat began to slow, your anxiety finally dissipating. T’Challa was in control here, and N’Jadaka was still alive. Whatever Bast wanted with N’Jadaka, there would be another day to contemplate. Thankfully, things would be back to normal.

It was a good time for you to leave. Before you could turn around to leave, N’Jadaka’s voice, weak and wavering, seemed to echo into the cavern.

Just bury me in the ocean, with my ancestors that jumped from ships. ‘Cause they knew death was better than bondage.

“Nkiru, get over here!” T’Challa’s voice, stronger and clearer, boomed louder than you had ever heard in your entire life. Your heart almost stopped.

“I know that you’re listening! This is an order!”

Had you forgotten about superhuman hearing as a side effect of the Heart-Shaped Herb?

N’Jadaka was collapsed, supine and pale, with a wound on the same location you had seen his father’s decades before. In a blink of an eye, T’Challa had brought you over to where they had been talking. A little disoriented from the rapid acceleration and deceleration, you knelt over N’Jadaka’s side and looked nervously at T’Challa.

You knew from his facial expression that he wanted you to save him. But was he sure?

It didn’t matter. You placed a hand lightly on his wrist to sense a fading pulse and quickly forced your hand into his wound to re-tamponade it. If you had carried a healing bead, you could have just slipped one into the injury but as luck would have it, your bracelet had slipped off your arm at some point.

T’Challa did not need further instructions. You straddled N’Jadaka, keeping your hand firm in the injury to decrease bloodflow and somehow balanced on his body while T’Challa lifted both of you

N’Jadaka, Erik Stevens, would be spared.

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More can be found on chapter list on my page! <3

#erik killmonger x reader #erik x reader #killmonger x reader #erik killmonger #black panther fic #by bast

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