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eggtoasties · 3 years

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Pairing: Eventual Osamu x Reader

Rating: E for fucking Samu in the car :-)

Word Count: 4.4k of Miya twin shenanigans, fluff, then eventual smut

Summary: A hopeful love and a blossomed love; years of wishing on candles and they’re both content.

a/n: @powderblew ur the hopeful love my beloved

Contrary to popular belief, Miya Atsumu does not speed. Yes, he nearly loses his mind on the interstate every other day but his road rage is completely contained to cursing in the confines of his car. Most people think Atsumu’s the reckless driver with his loud personality and penchant for pulling off risky moves on the court, but surprisingly, it’s his counterpart who fully believes that the actual speed limit is at least ten above the posted signage and weaves through lanes with one hand on the wheel and the other on her thigh.

Atsumu got Osamu the car as a birthday gift—black, sleek, and quiet. He had been dropping hints for weeks but Osamu had brushed them off, figuring his brother was spewing incoherent nonsense.

It was the weekend before their birthday. They decided to take a trip to the mountains—it was rare at this point in their young adult lives to have the free time to spend with each other. Osamu was busy with the shop: serving customers, preparing food, and trying new dishes. Getting Onigiri Miya off the ground was a seven day work week with early mornings and late nights. Atsumu on the other hand, had regularly scheduled practices and travel matches with the team. Although his schedule was incredibly hectic, there was a sort of rhythmic regularity to it.

So, for the first weekend in a long time where it would be just them, Atsumu wanted it to be special. Afterall, it was their birthday. Atsumu was the one who drove them to the campsite, taking in the scenery with appreciation, going slowly on the winding roads while mindlessly tapping a beat on the steering wheel. As they got closer and closer to their destination, Osamu could tell his brother was antsy.

His eyes would flicker from the road, to Osamu, then back again. His mindless tapping to the music turned into an incessant drilling and he kept readjusting his legs and changing his hand position on the wheel, fidgeting in his seat.

“Wouldya’ quit that, yer gonna crash the fuckin’ car,” Osamu said, exaggeratingly clutching to the grab handle at the top of his window.

“Yer really gonna yell at me on ma’ birthday that’s jus’ like ya’ Samu—”

“It’s ma’ birthday too ya’ idiot!”

The sound of his brother’s bickering quelled Atsumu’s nerves and he settled in the driver’s seat, humming along to the song playing on the speakers. In response, Osamu turned up the volume, but Atsumu just grinned.

“You will arrive at your destination in .2 miles,” the smooth voice of the GPS chimed.

Atsumu began fidgeting again and Osamu swore he was gonna punch him the moment they made it out of the death trap.

They pulled into the winding driveway and Osamu banged his head against the dashboard.

“Please tell me ya’ didn’t screw up the reservation,” he said quietly.

“What kinda idiot, do ya’ take me for, Samu?” Atsumu whined. Although Osamu couldn’t see with his forehead pressed against the polished wood interior, Atsumu was smiling.

“Then why is there another car parked in our spot?” Osamu deadpanned, turning his head to his brother, still pressed into the dash.

“Look again an’ eat yer words ya’ scrub.”

Driving slowly forward towards the car and parking next to it, Osamu realized that a bright red bow was tied to the hood. He stilled in his seat and stared dumbly out his window, slowly turning towards his brother.

“Do ya’ like it, Samu?” Atsumu nearly whispered, leaning in close to his brother, eyes wide, committing every micro reaction to memory.

Osamu blinked once. Twice. Then turned back to the car.

“Yeah, Tsumu,” he said shakily, “I really do.”

Against the burning in his throat and the tightening of his eyes, Osamu willed himself to remain composed when he heard rustling. Atsumu took out a crumpled and worn piece of notebook paper, its edges frayed and torn and began to smooth it out in his palms.

He cleared his throat and stared at the empty space across Osamu’s shoulder.

“So, uh…” he began, uncharacteristically shy and Osamu sent a prayer that this wasn’t a speech about how Tsumu had somehow accidentally razed Onigiri Miya to the ground in the short period that he wasn’t there and this was all an elaborate apology.

“I know that this year’s been tough with Onigiri Miya jus’ startin’ out an’ everythin’ but I jus’ wanted to say,” Atsumu trailed off and scratched his ear before suddenly, startling Osamu, squaring his shoulders and directing a piercing stare into his brother’s eyes. “I’m so proud of you Samu!” he nearly yelled, face flushed with embarrassment.

Osamu felt the heat prickle against his neck and all he could do was blink owlishly at his twin.

“What on Earth are ya’ goin’ on about?” he questioned incredulously.

“Okay, okay, wait I wrote it all down,” Atsumu said quickly, smoothing the worn paper once again. He cleared his throat a few times before reading.

“Osamu—”

“Oh my god is this a proposal, why is this so formal?” Osamu asked out loud.

“God, shut yer big ol’ trap wouldya I am tryin’ here,” Atsumu bit back to the amusement of his twin. “Anyways,” he grumbled. “Samu. I’ve been thinkin’ for a while and I jus’ wanted to say thank ya’ for always bein’ there for me.”

Osamu did not often feel stupid. Well, that’s a lie, he thought. It’s been a year since Onigiri Miya’s opening and he was only just beginning to feel as if he was able to call his job stable and that he had a solid understanding of how things should be ran. However, it was not often that his brother made him feel stupid, but here he was, at a loss for words at this uncharacteristic show of appreciation.

Yes, high fives and hugs had always come easily after a particularly clean hit or a perfectly executed pass, but they never sat down like this and talked about how much they appreciated each other. Osamu figured it was unsaid in the little things—how the clothes Atsumu stole in high school always ended back clean in Osamu’s closet, how Osamu usually ended up making two bentos when they still lived together, or how Atsumu had always tried to include Osamu in team bonding even when Osamu was in college.

“I think,” Atsumu said, breaking Osamu out of his thoughts. “That you were what made me work so hard at volleyball. Not because you were the only one that could challenge me,” Osamu scoffed at this. “But because you were the only one I cared to play with for a long time.”

Tears pricked at his eyes and Osamu nodded at his brother to continue.

“An’ thinkin’ back, yer probably the only reason why ma’ teammates didn’t excommunicate me like they did to Tobio-kun,” Atsumu joked and Osamu cracked a smile despite the burning of his throat.

“An’ I know we’ve talked about this before, but I am still really sorry when I went off on ya’ when ya’ told me you were quittin’ volleyball. I don’t mean to beat a dead horse or anything—”

“You sound like Baa-chan,” Samu choked out, still trying to hold back tears, hands balled into fists on his lap.

Undeterred, Atsumu continued to read. “But the fact that fer the first time, ya’ wouldn’t be by my side on the court was jus’ never a possibility I’d considered. So ‘m sorry ‘bout the fuss I made even though I know that’s all old news.” He paused and nodded at Osamu, noting his fists and drew in a shaky breath.

“’Samu, I jus’ want to let ya’ know that I am so endlessly proud to be yer brother and all the work ya’ put in in college and startin’ Miya Onigiri honestly scared me a little,” he said chuckling. “The way you really focus in on somethin’ when yer concentrating was always so intense, but I’d only really seen it with volleyball. But ever since you went to college, and especially with this past year, I can’t believe I fought you to go pro with me because I’d never seen ya’ more fired up or intense than ya’ have been this past year.”

The sides of Atsumu’s paper begin to tear with the force of his grip, and both twins are mirror images of each other. Red in the face, hands in fists, and willing the other to cry first.

“Basically,” Atsumu drawled on, hands slightly shaking, “thank ya’ for bein’ the best brother and teammate I coulda’ ever asked for and I’m so, so, proud to be the brother of the founder of Onigiri Miya.” He lowered the paper from his line of vision and accidentally crumbled it with his hand as he blurt out, “And I love you!” turning even redder in embarrassment. “Even though ya’ never respond to my texts and make fun a’ me when I bring my teammates ‘round,” he quickly added in.

Osamu undid his seatbelt and forcefully opened his door. He heard Atsumu’s confused “huh” and watched as he fumbled with his seatbelt through the windshield as he crossed to the other side. Atsumu stumbled out of the driver’s seat and Osamu captured him in a bone crushing hug. One hand wrapped around his back and the other held Atsumu’s head as he cried into his neck.

He thought back to the first semester of culinary school when he questioned himself every single day if it was the right choice to have made. Learning and practicing different techniques that felt foreign was a hurdle that had seemed impossible at the time. Then, when he graduated and he figured he knew almost everything there was to know about the food industry after hours and hours of lab, internships, and class and began preparations for opening Miya Onigiri, he realized once again that he knew nothing. Even a year after founding Miya Onigiri and he still found himself doubting his success.

But, hearing his idiot brother tell him he was proud—was all he needed. Because Miya Osamu also pushed himself to the upper limits of his physical and mental abilities because his brother was the only one he wanted to compete with. It didn’t matter who else might try and challenge them, at the end of their finish lines, the only person they wanted to see was each other.

The autumnal air was incredibly crisp and although the forest surrounding their luxury cabin was teeming with life, time around them seemed to still as they both cried.

“This is too much, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu sniffled out. “My gift ta’ ya’ was literally like, two hundred dollars.”

“It’s okay,” sniffled Atsumu. He paused. “What’d ya’ get me?”

Osamu pulled away and wiped his face with the bottom hem of his sweater.

“I got ya’ a signed copy of that book you were yappin’ on about with yer favorite author and I got her to make a video for ya’ sayin’ happy birthday and all that—”

“Oh my god,” Atsumu said excitedly, “Yer tellin’ me ya’ got Sonia Barnes to write me a handwritten message and a private video!?”

Osamu grimaced at the snot Atsumu had dripping down his chin. “First of all don’t say it like that, an’ second of all, wipe yer nose or somethin’ ya’ scrub.”

Completley ignoring his brother’s complaints, Atsumu lunged at Osamu, begging him to show him the video. Osamu tapped at his phone, opened up the email attachment, and watched the myriad expressions of surprise, admiration, love, and happiness flicker across Atsumu’s face during a 20 second video while red eyed and swollen. He mused that this was possibly the best birthday they ever had.

“Let’s take this baby on a test drive,” Osamu said, eagerly waiting by the door as Atsumu watched his birthday video for the umpteenth time.

That Sonia Barnes was a very pretty lady, Osamu reasoned, but if he had to hear her chirp, “Happy Birthday Tsumu!” one more time, she was going to be the cause of fratricide.

Settling into the leather seat, Osamu pressed the start button and nearly cooed at the soft rumble of the engine.

Throwing himself into the passenger’s seat Atsumu said, “Let’s figure out how ta’ connect to Bluetooth so I can hear ma’ angel on speaker,” fiddling with the touch screen.

Osamu grabbed Atsumu’s phone and threw it in the backseat and put the car in drive just as Atsumu started to clamber in the back for it. He peeled down the driveway as Atsumu screamed and picked up speed down the secluded road as Atsumu managed to get back in his seat and secure the seat belt.

The pretty autumn foliage was a blur of orange and reds and Osamu breathed in the smell of new leather and wood polish.

“S-slow down!” Atsumu yelled, quickly activating the lock function on the seatbelt and gripping the grab handle with both hands. “I-is this b-because I told the whole team you’d giv’ em’ free food if they said they were my teammate,” he screamed, “I’ll tell ‘em nevermind!”

Osamu rolled down the windows and the sun roof and laughed as the wind ran through his hair while his brother cried for the second time that day.

A year later and Osamu’s still in the driver’s seat of his car, but this time, she’s in the passenger’s seat. They have all the windows down and he’s speeding along the coast of Hyogo, sea breeze whipping through their hair and the sound of waves breaking in the distance.

She had planned a full day for his birthday: brunch at their favorite restaurant, a walk through the shopping district, and a homemade dinner with a fruit tart from his favorite bakery. Now that he had two years of experience running Onigiri Miya, he could afford to step away from the shop every so often. Unfortunately, his counterpart was on the other side of the world for a match, but they managed to squeeze in a short videocall despite the time difference.

“’Samu!” Atsumu screamed from the other line, “Happy Birthday!”

Wincing, Osamu turned the volume of his phone down as she giggled and wished his brother a Happy Birthday.

“What’d ya’ plan for Samu’s birthday,” Atsumu asked her, “good luck beatin’ ma’ gift from last year—”

“Tsumu!” Osamu berated.

“Unfortunately, my research job doesn’t pay as much as being a pro-volleyballer,” she rolled her eyes, “but I do have some fun things lined up,” she said, smiling softly at Osamu to which Atsumu gagged.

“Ya’ scrub, just ‘cause yer jealous—”

“Tsumu!” she interrupted, “did you get our gift? We were a little nervous about the international shipping but your hotel said they got it so—”

“Yes!” Atsumu exclaimed, screen blurry as he shuffled around his hotel room. He set his phone down and propped it up, showing them the neatly packaged box. “I can’t believe ya’ got me another signed copy of Sonia Barnes’s book—I couldn’t even get this one off preorder, it was so popular—”

“Did ya’ open the envelope yet?” Osamu asked impatiently.

“Of course I did! I always open the letter before the present, what do ya’ take me for, Samu?” Atsumu whined, but the duo noticed how Atusmu’s hands were off screen and they could hear quiet tearing noises in between pauses.

Rolling their eyes, they patiently waited for Atsumu to unsubtly open their envelope. They watched as Atsumu quickly scanned the contents of the letter and Osamu hit screen record as his brother’s mouth dropped open.

“T-tickets to a live reading and meet and greet?” Atsumu whispered to himself. He pulled the letter closer to his face and read it over and over again before gingerly setting the cardstock down and gently looking into the envelope to produce two ticket stubs. Carefully placing the tickets back into the envelope, Osamu failed to cover his snickers as Atsumu’s lower lip trembled.

“I know it’s no car,” she said, “but I do happen to know people who know people, so I hope you like your gift, ‘Tsumu” she said kindly.

Atsumu suddenly held the phone close to his face and Osamu could see his brother’s ears turn pink.

“Yer the best sister in law I coulda’ ever asked for, I don’t know why yer with that good fer nothin’ scrub—yer not married yet, so ya’ still have time to run away, but ‘Samu, ya’ better not mess it up,” he rambled, roughly wiping his nose with the sleeve of his jacket.

Osamu scoffed and she placed a placating hand on his shoulder.

“I can’t believe I get ta’ meet ma’ angel,” Atsumu mumbled to himself in disbelief, pacing in his hotel room, running his hands through his hair. “Angel, angel, angel—I gotta bring ma’ copy of her books with ma’ notes! I have so many questions for her, like how she came up with the storyline—didya know she went to school in New York City? Isn’t that the coolest? And she made a video for me for ma’ birthday last year,” he broke his monologue to gasp. “Do ya’ think she’ll remember me—”

Osamu put him on mute and groaned.

“Maybe we shoulda jus’ gotten him those fancy mugs,” he complained, leaning heavily into her side.

She rubbed the sides of his neck as she watched with amusement as Atsumu continued his ramblings, completely unaware that she and Osamu were having a side conversation.

“But look how happy he is, Samu,” she crooned, giggling as Osamu pinched his nose bridge. But she knew that Osamu was the one who spent hours scouring the web for those tickets and sent several emails to Sonia Barnes’s manager for a signed copy.

Watching his brother run his mouth with no regard to himself or his girlfriend, Osamu clicked the unmute button and nearly yelled, “We get it ya’ scrub, we get it!”

“Let me be happy why dontcha!” Atsumu retorted.

“Alright well I’m gonna spend ma’ birthday with ma’ real girlfriend,” Osamu taunted, finger hovering over the ‘end call’ button.

“Once Sonia meets me she’s gonna fall in love, just ya’ wait!”

She yelled one last, “Happy Birthday!” before Osamu disconnected the call and tackled her into the bed.

For the end of his birthday, Osamu requested a car ride. It was just past sunset; the sky’s vibrant pinks and oranges faded into a cool indigo and the stars were extra bright in the rural area they were driving through.

They rode in comfortable silence, listening to seagulls call their good nights and the wind beating against the car. The supple leather of the seat underneath her contrasted with the rough pads of Osamu’s fingertips on her thigh and she stared out at the horizon, perpetually in awe of the beauty of the coast line. Here, twinkling city lights were hardly discernible specks in the distance and the only tall structures were the trees dotting the cliffside.

They rose higher in altitude until they were surrounded by lush forest—rustling underbush and singing cicadas took over the sound crashing waves. He pulled into a secluded nook that overlooked a cliff and she couldn’t believe they were only a forty minute drive from the main city.

He killed the engine and unbuckled her seat belt while she was still leaning forward, face close to the windshield, taking in the scenery.

“I’m feelin’ a bit neglected over here,” Osamu said, soft grin taking over his face as he watched her, lips parted and eyes wide.

“Sorry Samu,” she said, still looking out the glass, “it’s just so incredible here.”

“I told ya’ I knew a spot,” he teased and she intertwined her hand with his.

He pulled her arm towards him as leaned over the middle console so his lips caught her neck when she lurched towards him. Her surprised chuckle turned into a content hum, fluttering her eyes closed as he kissed the pulse point of her throat, her exposed shoulder, then where her neck met her clavicle. From there, he dragged his lips slowly to her ear and grinned when he felt her clutch at his sweater.

Nipping her ear and tracing the shell with his tongue, rough palms kneaded her thighs and his fingers played with the hem of her skirt. He let out a heavy breath when she brushed against his tightening pants and he smirked when she involuntarily shivered.

“Do ya’ like this?” he asked, mouth kissing down the expanse of her chest, pulling the hem of her shirt low.

She arched her back into him and guided his hand under her shirt and he grinned when she impatiently unhooked her bra and took it and her shirt off in one swift motion.

“Does that answer your question?”

Eyes half lidded, lips slick with spit and plump from his repeated ministrations, she had one leg folded under her and the other anchored to the floor. Fully facing him, she cocked her head to the side and dragged her eyes down his body, lingering for a moment before directing her heavy gaze at him. She leaned back against the door as he leaned forward on the middle console and she ran a hand slowly from her knee, teasing a peek under her skirt, tracing a finger around her navel, then making her way upwards, rolling a nipple with two fingers while slowly rocking her hips.

Osamu’s lips parted and his eyes flickered from her hands to her face as she brought her other hand to rub at the cotton beneath her legs. Gaze hungry, he licked his lips and rolled his neck, languidly leaning back against his door, mirroring her.

“Gonna give me a birthday show?” He rasped, slowly unbuttoning his pants and palming his length through his boxers.

Skirt bunched at the waist giving him an unhindered view of the growing wet stain between her legs and Osamu felt himself tighten at the sight. He wanted to press his nose against the ruined fabric and lap at her through her pink panties, he wanted to curl a finger in her and listen to her keel for him, he wanted to—

“Take your shirt off,” she demanded.

“I thought it was ma’ birthday,” he chuckled but does as she asks, pulling the fabric from the back of his neck. He tossed the garment to the backseat and lazily looked back at her.

The tops of her cheeks are flushed and her breasts shake with each pant. She’s worked two slender fingers from the side of her underwear and Osamu watches with rapt attention as her pretty folds are presented to him.

“Touch yourself, Samu.”

“Again with the demands,” he complained but freed himself from the confines of his boxers and matches the pace she’s set on herself.

“Fuck,” she whined, moving faster. The hand teasing her nipples moved south to pinch at her clit and Osamu couldn’t wait anymore.

He nearly launched himself to her, abdomen uncomfortably resting on top of the center console and she seemed all too satisfied with the result. He buried his face between her legs and groaned with her as he sucked and lapped at her overstimulated bundle of nerves through soaked cotton.

“Itadakimasu,” he growled and she rolled her eyes at the line.

Long languid licks interspersed with quick flicks of his tongue, he took her right to the edge of her orgasm. Her thighs clenched around his head while her nails dragged through his gray hair and she rocked her hips against his mouth. Toe curling heat had her buck helplessly against his tongue, rough hands gripping her in place as she reached her peak, but at the last second, he pulled away.

Her gasp was lost with the loud bang his head made as it slammed against the car ceiling and he let out a string of curses as he tried to fit in the passenger’s seat with her. She half stands, leaning back on the glove department as he sat down and she couldn’t help but giggle when he cursed at how slowly the seat was reclining back.

But just as quick, he grabbed her by the hands and has her straddle him. The seat is narrow but neither of them mind as he slowly entered her. She gripped at the back of his head as he teased a nipple and sucked constellations across her chest while her other hand gripped the grab handle, giving her more leverage.

Osamu slowly rocked into her and he captured her moans in a kiss. He gave her a second to adjust to his length before slamming into her, head falling back into the headrest as he watched her bounce above him.

Beautiful, was all he could think. Hair wild around her shoulders, a glistening sheen of perspiration across her forehead and chest, and the incredible sound of her slick around him. He was in heaven.

He slid his thumb between her parted lips and she immediately began to suck. She bobbed her head back and forth while giving kitten licks at the tip and nipping the underside of his thumb.

“Good girl,” he cooed as he pressed his finger further back in her throat and watched as her eyes rolled back and she rocked her hips even faster against his.

Removing his thumb and making a show of putting it in his mouth, he pressed the wet digit against her clit and grinned as her moans became louder.

The sweet call of his name as she begged him to make her finish led him to snap his hips up, rubbing against the spongy bit of her inner walls and he held her close to his chest as they came undone together.

Breathing heavily, he rested his forehead on her shoulder and watched as a rivulet of sweat ran down the valley of her breasts and he shifted his hips forward, just now noticing the dull ache in his thighs. She shuddered against him and he kissed her shoulder, her cheek, then her other cheek.

“We really have to thank Tsumu for the car,” she said, chuckling.

“Yeah?” he questioned, running his blunt nails across her back, “should we tell him what we used it for?”

She scrunched her nose and Osamu’s heart clenched too. Wrapping her arms around his neck, soaking in the warmth of his warm body, her lips ghosted the side of his cheek and he shuddered at the tingles running down his back with the contact.

“Happy Birthday, ‘Samu,” she whispered sweetly.

Rocking into her again just to hear her breath tick, he nestled his head into her neck and smiled.

#osamu x reader #osamu x you #osamu x y/n #osamu fluff #osamu smut #hq x reader #hq x you #hq x y/n #osamu scenarios #osamu fic #atsumu fanfic #atsumu fluff #miya twins #atsumu x oc #hq smut #haikyuu smut #deviled.egg #miya osamu #hq osamu

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secret-engima · 3 years

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Lunafreya Nox Fleuret DoTF Characterization Rant

OKAY, ME RANT RAMBLING ON LUNA’S CHARACTERIZATION IN DAWN OF THE FUTURE IS A GO.

This is … likely going to get messy, but I’ll try to keep it at least moderately coherent. Lemme start by saying that- for the most part- I did actually enjoy Luna’s chap. I’ve been enjoying the book (kinda-sorta-mostly, I really liked Aranea’s chap at least) and I don’t think it’s like- a BAD book? Necessarily? But I feel like it is extremely telling in regards to how the characterization/lore is treated that my brain is automatically filing this thing under “fanfic that’s not my HC but is okay-ish” rather than “canon I will be gleefully tweaking as I please”. My brain is literally looking at this officially licensed book and equating it to fanfic. To fanfic that NEEDS EDITING.

With that out of the way, lemme attempt to summarize my (main) issues with Luna’s Characterization and then I’ll expand on them from there. Get ready for the salt.

1. Luna’s backstory is inconsistent. She herself states multiple times that Oracle training is grueling and involves both physical and mental trials as well as things like fasting for long periods of time WHILE doing said training, yet she is mostly treated like a well-meaning but overall pampered, naive princess who is only now being forced into hard circumstances and has to adapt accordingly. She is also treated like she doesn’t know “common people” that well and doesn’t know how to interact or pick up things like lies (????). A common example is how she treats Sol as trustworthy but reserved when according to Sol’s POV she is literally debating shooting Luna as a possible threat. And Luna supposedly doesn’t pick up on this danger. But we’ll get back to that.

2. Luna is characterized as being oblivious to how people outside Rich Oracle Circles live. That despite traveling all over the world she has never really seen it’s “ugly” sides because she’s always traveled in fancy guarded processions with the sick brought to her. Pretty sure the book specifically mentions at one point that she’s never “considered” what it would be like to be anything other than an Oracle. Admittedly this issue could go under number 1 or 3a but I’m putting it here because I’m salty.

3a. This and the next problem are heavily intertwined and, not going to lie, I could make an entire rant just about these two issues all by themselves, not just in Luna’s context. The first is that Luna is portrayed as not being able to make her own decisions, not even wanting to make her own decisions, until she is forced to or has her “eyes opened” by Sol, our jaded Long Night survivor character. The author treats Luna’s sense of duty as some form of social brainwashing she needs to “get over” and spoiler alert I hate it with every fiber of my being.

3b. Playing right off the whole “Luna is incapable of making her own decisions and that’s why she does her freaking job until someone ‘opens her eyes’” is the idea that Luna’s faith is a character flaw. Lemme reiterate. The story treats Luna’s faith. As a character flaw. Rather than the entire cornerstone to her character and one of the big reasons she’s as amazing as she is. Her faith is treated as foolish and shortsighted, something that has only survived for this long because it has never been challenged and, heads up, the rant I am going to go into on this one specific thing is going to be long and extremely salty.

Alright I think I’ve covered the basics. Starting from the top, BRING ON THE SALT.

…

1. Luna is pampered, well-meaning but naive and bad at reading ulterior motives of people.

….*slow, deep breath* Luna. The Oracle. Who became the youngest Oracle in history. Because her mother was murdered in front of her while her home was burned down and conquered by the people who then proceeded to rule her country, subvert her brother to their cause, and generally control and monitor every aspect of her life that they could. Luna, who was fully prepared to take a single suitcase and escape her own home and run off alone to get to Altissia and had to be stopped by her own brother (who you’ll note brought a bunch of soldiers with him, which indicates he did not expect a submissive response if he came alone).

This girl who was canonically physically abused as a child by a Niflheim officer (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iZHzBtIfpdg slow this down if you need to confirm, but she is grabbed and manhandled and hit by an adult man when she only looks to be twelve, around the age Tenebrae first fell), who has spent twelve years living under the rule of a nation that is not only aggressively atheist but has willfully attempted to kill one of the very beings she serves and openly plans to do so again. The woman who successfully survived the fall of Insomnia with only one magic-less glaive as her backup for most of the event, then evaded the search efforts of an entire empire with only her own wits, a dog, a Messenger who has only ever been shown to talk rather than fight, and the extremely grudging on-off help of her brother who works for said empire. All while waking up the Astrals and forging covenants that were slowly killing her from the strain, which is the exact thing the empire was trying to prevent her from doing. Then, when it became necessary to complete the last covenant, turned herself in to the very same empire that has imprisoned her since she was a child and has been actively hunting/trying to stop or kill her since Insomnia’s fall.

That girl. Is pampered. Is naive. Is bad at reading people and telling when they have ulterior motives or are lying.

Pull the other one. I’ll kick you.

But seriously, how are we supposed to believe this? Luna’s life post Tenebrae’s fall to Niflheim is only pampered in the sense that she was given fancy clothes and fed regularly (outside the grueling fasting periods mentioned in this same book). She had no freedom, no privacy, her guards were all either men who wore the same uniform as those who killed her mother or were monsters infected with the very scourge she is sworn to purify. The Oracle is famous, is revered by the people. To keep the people on their side, the Empire would have flaunted her, would have taken her to all the shiny events. Luna would have had to dine with, converse with, even dance with the very same people who ordered and condoned the murder of her mother, her own imprisonment, and the brainwashing of her own brother to the enemy side. She would have been the epitome of a bird in a gilded cage or a dog on a silk leash and humans are not meant to live like that.

Am I really expected to think she survived a situation that oppressive, that toxic, that actively hurtful, for years by being naive and bad at reading people? Am I really expected to believe that she cannot tell when people are out to use her or hurt her or are lying to her? Am I really expected to believe that she is pampered and doesn’t have, at the very least, PTSD from seeing her mother murdered and her brother join the very people who did it, let alone everything else that would have followed over those years?

Really?

Luna didn’t have a pampered life. She suffered abuse. Longterm emotional abuse, likely sporadic physical abuse until she learned to play along well enough to escape such punishments, and almost certainly gaslighting (again: religious leader being held captive by an aggressively atheist nation that wants to kill the pantheon this religious leader communes with).

Luna would have learned to navigate the canonically cutthroat politics of Niflheim while being at best an outsider and at worst a target because of her beliefs, her nationality, and her loyalties to the Lucians (nobody was surprised when Luna went on the run. Nobody. Her continued devotion and loyalty to the Lucians -Niflheim’s enemy- was absolutely a well known factor). She would have learned to pick truth from lie and when to pretend she hadn’t noticed in order to survive. She would have lived twelve years knowing that any mistakes or misplaced moments of trust would be paid for in either her suffering of the suffering of the people close to her like her servants, or just the citizens of Tenebrae in general.

And none of this is taking into account her Oracle training, which the book does not elaborate on but repeatedly states was hard and grueling and she completed it years earlier than any Oracle in history.

There are a lot of words I would use to describe Luna, but pampered and naive are not among them.

…

2. Luna is oblivious to how people outside her rich circles live and has never considered being anything else but an Oracle until Sol specifically points it out.

The book states that she mostly travels in procession (ie, with tons of servants to serve her every need and bodyguards to keep the masses at bay) so clearly she can’t go anywhere too dangerous, otherwise her servants wouldn’t be able to come. Right? Oh boy where do I start with this.

I know! Let’s start with the fact that Luna canonically maintains the blessings on Havens! You know those things. They’re your only safe place to camp at night and they can be found in all sorts of nifty locations like the middle of the wilderness where cars can’t go, chocobos won’t go, packs of wild animals will literally leap out of the bushes to eat you (Voretooth packs can get up to twelve or more members all trying to eat you at once, fun fact), and poor choice in clothes will lead to broken ankles at best? The ones that can be found in the depths of locations so dangerous that even the Hunters are leary of going inside and are actively forbidden from approaching unless they are a very high rank?

Off the top of my head some of the Havens that come to mind is the one in the middle of Malmalam thicket, the top of an active volcano, multiple spots in the middle of the voretooth and coeurl infested desert, two up in Vesperpool aka the home of all demon crocodiles and flocks of cockatrice that are bigger than the average car and can literally turn you into stone if you aren’t careful.

Yeah those places. She maintains those. Depending on how often Havens need to be maintained and if the weather/nature shortens that time then she might also have to periodically enter the dungeons Noctis explores in game that also have Havens hidden inside where it is always dark all the time and infested with daemons.

The book also states that the sick (who are highly infectious and not supposed to be touched by people who can’t heal the scourge and in the later stages of sickness become extremely violent and prone to biting in order to infect other people) are … brought to her…

By whom? Exactly?

Moving on from that giant and obvious plot hole to the “never seen or considered other lifestyles” bit: Luna has traveled literally all over the world. In her duties of healing the otherwise incurable she has gone all over Niflheim, Tenebrae, and Lucis. She has walked through the streets of cities filled with lights and glamor and stood on the dirt roads of towns so small they have to go to the next town an hour or more away to buy groceries or check their mailbox and who’s royal hotel suite is just a caravan with a new coat of paint and “welcome Oracle!” sign. Luna’s work is to cure the Starscourge, which is a disease that I can almost promise the rich don’t get. Because the rich and fancy do not risk their lives by going into daemon territory (Prompto, a middle class Insomnian, didn’t even know what wild animals would be like, you expect the rich and famous to be any better?).

The vast majority of Luna’s patients would be people like Dave the Hunter, or Sania the scientist who wades into the wilds. The truck drivers and the farmers and the electricians risking their lives to repair power lines in the middle of nowhere. She wouldn’t be going to cities except to talk to the refugees who fled there from the outside and thus picked up the Scourge. Her only two social circles would be Niflheim’s cutthroat nobility and the “unwashed masses” who come to her for healing. Guess which ones she’ll be more invested in getting to know on a personal/friendly basis and interacting with.

Of course Luna has interacted with and understands “common folk”. Luna is a caregiver, not just physically, but emotionally. She is beloved by the people because she is kind. That means she talks to them. More importantly, she listens. She has held the hands of the farmer as he begs her to heal him, because the harvest season is so close, and if he can’t work, if he dies, then what will become of his wife or the people his farm feeds? She has embraced the sobbing refugee mother as the other breaks down in gratitude for a child who’s skin is a healthy shade and who’s veins no longer bulge a sickly purple. She has met people who are not rich, but who are content. Who have lives that do not hinge on the razor thin dance of staying true to self and not exposing weakness to those who want to eat her alive. Who can laugh with their neighbors and kiss that nice boy down the street just for the fun of it, who can defy curfew to dance in the rain with the person they love and risk, at most, a lecture and a weekend grounding.

And no, they aren’t rich, no, they aren’t influential or powerful, but they are peaceful. They are happy.

Am I really expected to believe that Luna has not looked on these people’s lives from afar, listened to their rambles as they try to distract themselves from the sickness she is drawing from their veins, and not yearned to be the same? That she hasn’t thought over and over again about running away and being free from her gilded cage? That she doesn’t know anything about the lives of the people she heals even as she walks down their streets and steps into their houses so she can heal those who are too sick or too violent to be safely taken out of their room? That she has never thought about what life could be like if she wasn’t an Oracle as she watches the landscape roll by and walks through the wilderness to find the lonely farmsteads that the townsfolk tell her has sick children that cannot be let out of the shed for fear they will bite?

Setting all of that to one side, what human hasn’t thought of being someone else? What person on this planet, hasn’t looked at another person’s life that is so very different from their own and gone “huh, I wonder what that would be like” even if only for a moment before moving on and forgetting about it? Humans are creatures that dream by nature, that are curious by nature. To assume that Luna is not just because she gets to have the fancy dresses and servants is stupid.

…

3a: Luna is unable to make her own decisions and is only the dutiful Oracle because she doesn’t know any better and needs a “wiser” rebellious character to “open her eyes”.

Okay buckle up. I have tried to suppress the salt until now but over these last two points I don’t care. I will be salty. I will be sarcastic. I will be mean. I will reference Real World faiths (tho I’ll try to keep that to a minimum).

Both 3a and 3b are actually systemic issues in storytelling (particularly noticeable in movies/shows but maybe that’s because I’m pretty lucky with my book choices) that I despise with a passion. Specifically 3a relates to the chronic issue writers seem to have with characters not being allowed to be happy with their role in life. There’s this persistent thought, this narrative push, that if a character is following in the footsteps of their family, is entering the “traditional” profession that their parents (or grandparents, or entire generations of predecessors) have been in before them then they must be unhappy with their lot in life. That this is clearly the character being “repressed” and that if they are content then they are either a bad guy (see: every antagonist from a proud military family or every ruler who thinks they are better than everyone because of bloodline ever) or they are just blind to their own unhappiness.

Now, the basic idea of “character discovers they are unhappy in current role and seeks a new one” can actually be done really well. But those stories that do it well have a lot of internal conflict, a lot of self-reflection and searching and choosing to take a new path after really giving it some thought. Maybe they have help along the way, or encouragement, or another character to show that it’s possible by example and that’s okay.

What is not okay is infantilizing a strong, intelligent character by saying “oh it just never occurred to them until they are told that they are unhappy by this much more worldly wise character and then they went and did it”. That is not okay. It not only trivializes the efforts of every real person who has proudly followed in a parent’s footsteps to become something (a doctor, a missionary, a soldier, an actor, even an electrician, pick a life goal and I promise someone has been inspired to do that by their parent being one before them) but it also takes an otherwise strong, dedicated character and implies that they are too stupid to think for themselves or have any free will until the plot and a Shinier Character demands it.

Lunafreya Nox Fleuret is an Oracle, as her mother was before her, and her mother before her, and all the way back two thousand years to the very first Oracle we see in canon. Possibly back even farther, depending on if any of Aera’s ancestors were Oracles too. That isn’t a suffocating tradition, that is a heritage, that is a culture, that is a necessary, life-saving service that canon proves literally kept the world from falling into eternal darkness (Luna was the last Oracle, the day after she dies is literally the last time we players see sunlight until the end of the game when Noctis dies to restore it). Luna is not stupid or repressed for following in those footsteps, she is breathtakingly strong for shouldering her heritage as the Last Oracle with pride even when the forces controlling every other aspect of her life want her to be ashamed of it and give it up.

The empire that took over her home when she was twelve are actively anti-magic and anti-Astral. Luna is someone who speaks to the Astrals and is born with a magic that can heal the very sickness they want to weaponize. They couldn’t outright forbid her from training to be the next Oracle because that would cause the people to riot, but they could and absolutely would try to make her give up in any way they could. They would have insulted her, demeaned her, hurt her, and imprisoned her. They wouldn’t have wanted a “real” Oracle, they would have wanted a puppet who said pretty promises and then did nothing to stop them.

It would have been so easy for Luna to go down the same path her brother did. To give in to the empire and it’s propaganda that she would have been forced to listen to every single day of her life for twelve whole years. It would have made her life so much easier to be a puppet Oracle who didn’t have to walk miles through the wilderness to maintain Havens, or defy the empire by maintaining loyalty to Lucis, or leave her manor home to heal the sick that could not come to her themselves. As a puppet Oracle she could have stayed in the Manor and only treated cases that could reach her doors and were vetted by the empire. She could have eaten the finest foods and worn the best dresses and never had to worry about a pack of hungry Voretooths or a rogue Behemoth tearing her apart. Most of all, Niflheim wouldn’t have been nearly as oppressive or violent. They would have gladly given her the illusion of freedom and control as long as she played along rather than been fully willing and prepared to run into the jungle with a suitcase just to escape as seen in the movie.

Luna was not blindly fitting into a mold and she was not and has never been incapable of making a decision. The fact that she shows up in canon as a strong, dedicated woman who is in control of her emotions and not afraid to face down a giant sea monster with the power to summon tidal waves with just her words and a glorified pointy stick proves that. The idea that she needs a “wiser” character to come alongside her and “free her” from her own duties is not only stupid, it undermines one of the key things that makes Luna such a strong character despite her relative lack of screentime.

Furthermore, canonically, one of Luna’s main reasons for sticking with her duty as Oracle isn’t because it’s tradition, it’s because of what Niflheim did. In the Kingsglaive movie, when Nyx Ulric is getting angry at Luna for doing really reckless, life-threatening things, she tells him quote:

“I do not fear death. What I fear is doing nothing and losing everything.”

That’s not a woman who is blindly following a path laid out for her. That is a woman who is desperately, furiously fighting against the people who killed her mother in front of her the best way she can: by being the Oracle they cannot stand for her to be.

But sure. Luna is only the Oracle because she doesn’t know better and it never occurred to her to be anything else until some jaded kid with a shotgun made a snide comment about it.

3b: Luna’s faith is a character flaw that has only survived this long because it wasn’t challenged by a worldly wise character who knows better.

Not going to lie but words cannot express how much I hate this trope. This is another thing that shows up a lot in television/movies but also in books too, and that is that a character is not allowed to have a faith in something/religion unless they are 1. Foolish, 2. Brainwashed/tricked into it, 3. A crazy fanatic, or 4. It’s a character flaw they have to overcome by becoming more jaded and atheist and hateful.

Because … that’s not how it works. There are- millions (billions) of people all over the real world who are intelligent, well educated, thoughtful, kind, and religious. And no I’m not just talking about Christianity (tho I am Christian so you can see why this trope grinds my gears so hard). There’s Hinduism, there’s Islam, there’s Buddhism, there’s Judaism, there’s so many faiths and belief systems okay. And no we don’t tend to play well with each other or accept the validity of the others but that doesn’t mean we’re fanatics or brainwashed or stupid. And no we really don’t appreciate it when media introduces a character who follows a religion (even fictional ones!) only to make them an antagonist or rip it away from them in the name of “improving their character”. Just like every other cultural group ever who really doesn’t like their heritage and culture being used as a butt of jokes or is turned into a caricature or used as the basis for the antagonist being Evil™.

But no. We can’t possibly have a character who’s faith makes them strong or gives them comfort in times of hardship unless they are deluded. We can’t possibly have a character who is both intelligent and faithful. We can’t possibly show a character who is breathtakingly courageous and selfless as well as religious unless we point at their faith and go oh look a horrible character flaw to overcome by having non-believer characters open their eyes via sarcastic commentary.

And look. Look. I am well aware that the plot of Dawn of the Future has Bahamut as the Bad Guy™. I am fully aware of that. But if you want to be purely honest and technical, that doesn’t invalidate Luna’s faith because (spoilers) the other Astrals fight Bahamut to save the world. They hear her cries and the come to fight on behalf of Lucis and Noctis and all of Eos and they kill Bahamut even when that ensures their own destruction.

But we’re not actually here to talk about whether the Astrals deserve Luna’s faith in them, we’re here to talk about why insisting Luna’s faith is, by nature of being a faith, treated like a flaw and why it is treated like something so weak it only survived to this point because Luna didn’t face anything “bad” enough to “snap her out of it”.

Spoiler alert, it’s not a flaw and it’s not weak.

Going back to something I have mentioned several times already: Niflheim is an empire run by people who actively want to kill the very beings most of the planetary population worships. The very same people in charge of Luna’s life for twelve years, starting from when she was twelve and very emotionally vulnerable and traumatized, hate the Astrals. I repeat: They hate the Astrals. They have devised weapons to try (and spectacularly fail) to kill them. Half their continent is a winter nightmare-land because they tried to kill Shiva the Glacian and she went “haha, nice try, lemme leave a fake corpse here that constantly pumps out freezing temperatures and blizzards”.

Am I seriously, honestly, supposed to believe that these people didn’t try to tear down her faith at every single opportunity? That Ravus wouldn’t have tried to bully and cajole and harass her into abandoning her faith because he knew that her faith was what kept her walking her chosen path as Oracle and that said path was destined to kill her? Am I seriously supposed to believe that Luna didn’t spend those twelve years having to sit there and bite her tongue to keep from raging at these cutthroat nobles as they gloated and sneered and spat on the names of the Astrals who gave Luna the very magic she uses to heal those in need?

Luna never needed Sol to come along and say “what have the Astrals ever done for you?” because I promise that she’s heard some variation of that exact phrase from everyone in her life. From her own brother to the Emperor himself she has heard some form of this question, this taunt. In the Kingsglaive movie, General Glauca even says something to the order of, “To what god do you pray? The gods do not listen.” Right before he kidnaps her.

Luna’s faith isn’t something blind, and it is not a flaw. It is a cornerstone of her character. Luna’s faith is a bloody, stubborn, tenacious thing that she has nurtured and shored up and been steadied by through twelve years of emotional abuse and physical imprisonment. Luna’s faith is an unshakeable thing that can only come from long nights spent crying into the silent dark of the room and asking “is this real? Am I right? Should I give up? This hurts so much, what do I do?” and finding the answer to be “yes this is real. Yes I am right. No, I won’t give up even though it kills me. Yes it hurts, but what I believe in is stronger than this pain.”

Faith is not optimism and it is not fanaticism. Optimism can be broken by hardship and fanaticism has no room for selfless kindness or acceptance of other people not being as devoted as they are. Faith is personal. Faith is a bedrock, and maybe it’s a bedrock that makes no sense to people on the outside, but it is a bedrock and it can make mountains move.

Just as Luna proves when she runs rings around an Empire to win the respect and cooperation of Titan and of Ramuh, to stand amid the rain and tell an enraged TideMother that “it is in mercy that men offer praise, and in shedding grace that the gods solicit worship” and not flinch because she knows she is right.

Luna’s faith is a fierce, scarred thing that has taken every kind of suppression and propaganda and poison the empire could throw at it and kept on going.

Furthermore. Luna’s faith is treated by Sol as something empty. Because when did the Astrals ever help her or comfort her or save her?

I can answer that. They helped her when they gave her Umbra and Pryna, who kept her company through her life and gave her a way to talk to Noctis. A way to reach out to a person who was not either imperial, warped by imperial propaganda, or too afraid to speak out against the empire for fear of dying. They comforted her when Gentiana became a second mother for Luna after the death of Queen Sylva. A physical shoulder to cry on, a sounding board to bounce fears off of, a well of advice when it was asked of her, a rock to retreat to when Ravus turned away from her and the empire continued to control as much of her life as they could.

Gentiana, who is really Shiva in disguise, has been with Luna since she was a small child.

One of the Astrals themselves has been with Luna for almost her entire life. Has guided her, has comforted her, has led her to safety as she fled Insomnia’s ruins.

Shiva had no reason to do that. The Oracles have done their duty since the time of Aera without her help or company. Shiva didn’t have to stay. She didn’t have to linger and offer comfort and become Luna’s friend. She didn’t have to listen to the last words of a scared young woman who wanted only to see her fiancé one last time and promise to carry them to Noctis in the event of her death. Shiva didn’t have to cry on behalf of Luna. Shiva didn’t have to help Luna remember what it was like to be an ordinary woman (“Yet others need not hide their grief. Is she [Luna] so different from them?”), and in fact, if Shiva had played up to most of the stereotypes, she would have done the opposite and done her hardest to suppress any part of Luna’s personality that wasn’t her Oracle duties.

But she did. Shiva was there, and she remembered. Shiva loved and we as a fandom may yell at the Astrals a lot for not doing more to take care of the Starscourge, but of all of them Shiva gave the most because she came down and she lived, and walked, and loved this Oracle, this scared child, this frightened, weary woman who couldn’t even turn to her own family for comfort. Shiva’s husband Ifrit was betrayed by humankind and yet Shiva still defended them, she kills Ifrit to protect the man (the king) that Luna loved.

And at the end of the game, in those final moments outside the Citadel, when it’s just Noctis and his Retinue against all of Ardyn’s armies of daemons, when Luna calls out to these Astrals whom she has remained faithful to her entire life, even unto her death…

They answer.

Every. Last. Astral. Who is not corrupted like Ifrit, comes down at her prayer and fights. Even Leviathan who’s only voiced lines are screaming wrath against the humanity that forgot her, even Bahamut who otherwise remains aloof in his plane of magic beyond the concerns of the mortal world. Luna calls, and they answer her.

“What have the Astrals ever done for her” indeed.

Luna’s faith is a driving force of her character, it is irrevocably intertwined with her duty, with her choices, with her desire to help people and save the world even if it costs her own life, and in the end her faith is rewarded. Not in the way we want for her, because we love the ultimate happy endings where everyone lives and nobody dies. But Final Fantasy XV was never a story about happy endings. It was a story about coming of age, and tragedy, and sacrifice. Of holding onto hope against all opposition, and of having faith that someday the dawn will return, even if bringing about that dawn requires personal sacrifice.

…

Okay this is over 5k words, I’m tired, and I’m extremely salty so I can’t really figure out how to wrap this up but there we go, my salty personal rant about why I think Dawn of the Future messed up some really critical parts of Luna’s characterization and why it’s Really Bad that they messed up those specific things.

Also I kinda despise them making Bahamut the bad guy in DotF because yes he’s a jerk and yes he really could have done the whole Prophecy thing a ton better, but in the original FFXV one of the things that made the game so heartbreakingly tragic to me is that most of the characters involved weren’t pure evil. They could be greedy, and flawed, and crazy, but in the end the source of the problem was too big to pin on one character.

Do you pin the entire thing on the god of war for his mistakes in trying to bring about peace, or the god of fire for trying to destroy humanity and no longer being there to do his job and purify the plague? Do you blame the Astrals for their hubris or humanity for theirs, because Ifrit loved humanity until they betrayed him so deeply he went mad? Do you hate Ardyn for causing the Long Night or pity him for being a victim of Somnus’s greed? Can you blame Somnus for everything even though the Scourge was going on long before him and kept spreading long after he sealed Ardyn away? The whole thing is a tragedy because at this point it’s a problem too big to fix without someone paying a price too heavy and we hate that because the characters who pay that price are the ones we grow to love over the game.

But that is an entirely different rant for an entirely different day when I am not so tired and my hands no longer hurt from writing this much in one sitting. Thank you and good night.

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wordstro · 4 years

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[3:56 PM] + avatar: the last airbender au

it’s only been a few years since the first colonies were established in the earth kingdom. it’s only been a few years since the air nation was completely wiped out and, presumably, so was the avatar. you remember hearing of the change in school curriculum after the fire nation invaded your village - how they taught children of the supposed evils of the air nation, how weak they were, how fire lord sozin defeated a nation that felt they were above and beyond the laws established by the fire nation, how they would have spread their lawlessness and ruined the entire world. colonization came with the red outfits your siblings had to wear to school and an influx of fire nation soldiers passing through your little village, wreaking havoc as they went. it came with a food shortage and a steep rise in prices, with sneering soldiers, too many burn injuries, and your parents warning you to keep your head down, especially when you’d go into town.

the fire nation instilled the belief that the air benders were gone.

they should be gone.

yet, here one was.

he’s cross-legged and floating in the air as he reached for a ripe apple-granate. he has fluffy dark hair - nothing like the bald monks you were told about in your younger years - and delicate features, all pulled together tight in deep concentration. you can see a bit of blue on his forehead, along his hands, the air nation tattoos your parents told you stories of when you were a child.

still, you didn’t mean to or want to catch his attention, because the one thing you’ve learned over the past few years of experiencing war and occupation was that it was really best to just keep your head down and pretend like you didn’t see some of the things that you did.

except you back right into something fluffy and large and you spin, only to come face-to-face with a large beast. you scream, you can’t help it, and the beast roars back and oh god, oh god, it’s going to eat you and you’re going to -

you’re wet and sticky and oh.

you realize quickly that the large white beast just licked you and, “gross.” you mumble, trying and failing to shake the slobber off you.

“don’t call him that!” an unfamiliar voice snaps.

your head snaps to the side and the boy is standing there, quite literally hovering over you, dressed in yellow and orange robes. you’ve heard stories of the airbenders, before the fire nation spread their own stories, of how they were always kind, child-like almost, but this one has a gaze that is anything but. he looks at you with sharp eyes, fiery almost, and the intensity there could rival a firebender’s. still, there is a delicate sweetness to him, a regality that reminds you of the stories your parents told you. he stares at you, head held high, challenging almost, and you think he is not someone you should ever want to anger. but, his eyes are gentle, despite the fire, and they remind you of the airbenders the stories spoke of, not the ones the fire nation belittles.

“it is gross, though.” you mumble, glancing back at the white beast, who just breathes heavily, tongue lolling all about. its eyes are huge, and it has a dark arrow on its head shaped just like the boy. it must be an air bison, you realize. you thought those were wiped out, too.

the boy lands in front of you, so gracefully, you can’t help but stare. he spins his hands, once, twice, and you yelp as he uses wind to siphon the slobber off you, leaving you looking like a wreck.

“thanks...” you look up at him expectantly.

“yeosang.” he supplies, perhaps a little too easily.

“yeosang.” you repeat a few times, getting used to the sound of his name on your tongue. you tell him your name, despite him not asking. he doesn’t repeat it, just stares.

his eyes are still so intense as he says, “i’m just passing through. that’s all.”

his words are pointed, biting, his eyes flickering over your shoulder. you glance back as well - there’s a column of smoke coming from the fire nation watch towers in your village and you can see a bit of the fire nation emblem peeking through the tops of the trees, always looming, always watching.

“where are you going?” you’re not sure why you’re asking, you’re not supposed to care and you’re certainly not supposed to endanger your entire family by exposing yourself to information that will clearly get you killed, or worse. you bite your lip, add a quiet, “you don’t have to tell me, it’s just…i was just wondering since…”

you trail off, cutting yourself off.

something changes in his eyes - like a sadness, a longing, that makes you pause. his air bison whines softly from behind you. he sighs, glancing up at the sky, before he shrugs, “somewhere safe.”

you don’t tell him that you think such a place does not exist, not anymore. you just nod. you just say, “good luck. really.”

his eyes snap down, settling on you, and he looks...surprised. after a moment, he tosses you the apple-granate in his hands. you fumble, nearly dropping it.

he waves, says, “thanks.”

then he disappears into the trees.

~.~.~.~.~

it’s hard for you to assimilate the way the fire nation orders you to, but you’ve seen what happens to dissenters - your friend and neighbor, choi jongho, was taken away when he tried to crush a pair of fire nation soldiers with a boulder. the memory of him being taken down, of fire engulfing him, dancing in the darkness of his eyes, before he was completely knocked out and dragged away remains vivid, haunting you. no one knows where jongho was taken or whether he was dead or alive. still, it’s hard for you to wake up in the mornings and dress in fire nation red, hard for you to watch as your village succumbs to the rules of another nation, hard to see so many of your people cower beneath hands ablaze with flames. many of the old festivals are forbidden, and the silence that lingers in the streets is a deafening kind.

it's hard for you to forget what it was like before, though your memories begin to fade. hunger and fear turns your village more complacent than ever and you think it’s a clever move, on the fire nation’s part. you're meant to forget, you know, but you still remember things, still remember that encounter with the airbender yeosang, still remember the dances and the festivals and the stories. with the fire nation growing more heavy-handed, more oppressive, with the rumors that the avatar has abandoned the world for one has still not appeared, despite how long ago the air nation had been wiped out, with the way you’ve seen some of your friends dragged away from their families for even whispering of rebellion, you decide you cannot stay in your village any longer.

“it will be one less mouth to feed.” you reason with your mother. you do not tell her the longing you have to be free, because that’s dangerous. “i can find work and send you money. it'll be okay.”

and, you think, your mother knows more about your true intentions than she lets on. she had looked at you strangely the night you returned with your hair sticking up in every direction and the faint smell of animal saliva radiating off of you. she had mentioned that the soldiers were looking for a fugitive in the woods, scolded you for wandering off without telling her where you were going. even now, as you try to soothe her with carefully crafted words, she just stares at you. she doesn’t refuse, though. she just hugs you tight and tells you to be careful.

~.~.~.~.~

you find work on a ship – it’s a fire nation ship because you can never really escape them, not really, but they pay well enough for you to send home a decent amount of money every month and you find that you coming from a fire nation colony makes it easier for you to get such a job in the first place. they called it a privilege on your first day and no one batted an eye at the statement.

“come on, put your fucking backs into it!” the captain of the ship shouts, his whip snapping loudly against the metal floorboards, almost as loud as the thunder and lightning crackling up above.

the sea churns angrily and you push down the urge to vomit as you yank at the sails. you've been on this ship for half a year, yet you’ve never seen a storm this bad. it was unexpected; the skies were clear as day just a click back.

rain drenches you and you lose your grip on the ropes when the boat lurches forward. you land on your back hard, so hard you see black spots in your vision, just before you get a face-full of seawater.

then the captain appears in your spotted vision, snapping his whip. the pain on your leg is unbearable and you have half a mind to kick him off the boat yourself (you’ve had these thoughts since the moment you joined this crew and the captain seemed to make it his personal mission to make the lives of every single colony member’s life a living hell) when lightning cracks behind his head and you swear you see the outline of a gigantic beast in the clouds, your eyes widening in horror.

“have you broken your brain, idiot? get up.” the captain shouts, spitting everywhere, hand splayed, fire growing in his palms.

you hear screaming on the boat. the captain turns at the sound. instinct tells you to grab something and hold on tight. so you do, stumbling to your feet, lunging at the metal mast and ropes. there's a roar – you’ve heard the rumors of a sea monster roaming the seas, destroying ships as they pass, but you believed them just to be rumors – and you watch, with the slightest bit of satisfaction, as the captain gets swept overboard by an unnaturally large tidal wave. it drenches you in saltwater and your eyes burn when you try to keep them open, even as you hug the metal mast like a koala-cat.

something big lands onboard, roars so loudly, you let out a small whimper. you blink, eyes wide, as the mist clears, as the storm seems to settle, too, and your eyes widen because –

it’s an airbison.

you know it, despite the black cloak it has wrapped around it, it’s eyes and tongue is familiar.

mist still lingers around the ship and you are acutely aware that you are the only one still on board. from the mist, a dark shadow looms, until metal clangs against metal and you realize, oh, they’re hijacking the ship.

someone emerges from the mist, followed by a couple more people, and maybe the captain had been right about you breaking your brain, because you hadn’t even thought to hide until now.

you slowly back away from the metal mast, only to bump into something – or someone.

“it looks like we missed a spot.” someone calls, making you flinch, and you try to run, you really do, but the person is faster, easily yanking your hands behind your back and securing you. all you can do is let them shove you to your knees and sputter nonsensically, cursing under your breath.

the mist dissipates quickly from the deck, clearing, and you look up, first at the person who caught you – a boy with sharp, angled features and a dimpled grin dressed in various shades of blue. then you look ahead, at the people cautiously stepping towards you.

one of them has dark hair, wears familiar green – you almost forgot that your village used to dress like that, before the invasion – and another is also dressed in blue. there is someone, also, dressed in all black, as if he is in mourning. your eyes flicker to the airbison and back to him, a small voice at the back of your head whispering nonsensical conclusions. you know it couldn’t be him, because the fire lord emphasized that he had killed them all, even the nomads that managed to get away. days after he left you with that apple-granate, rumors spread quickly of soldiers finding an airbender hiding in the woods, of how they killed him on the spot and left his body for the animals to feed on.

“please don’t kill me.” you blurt out, the minute they come to a halt in front of you. “i'm too young to die.”

there's a long pause. you open one eye, peeking up at them. the one in green lets out a small snort. he looks a little familiar, “we don’t kill people like you.”

“you don’t?” you blink, in disbelief. you nod at the air bison, “i mean, you have the perfect opportunity to feed me to that?”

“he’s a vegetarian.” the boy who captured you says, from above you.

you only eye them with more disbelief, “you sure about that?”

“do you want us to feed you to Tiny? it really seems like you want us to.” the other boy in blue crosses his arms over his chest. his voice is deep and he’s tall, his nose distinct.

“wait.” you make a face, “you named your giant air bison with teeth bigger than my head Tiny?”

you focus on their faces, one by one, settling on the boy in the green for a moment longer, because he looks incredibly familiar. it takes you a moment too long, only because there’s a scar marring his face, a burning streaking from his nose down his jaw. your eyes widen –

“jongho?”

the memory of flames, of them dragging jongho away so long ago remains vivid in your mind, even now as you look at him. it takes him a moment to recognize you – it was so long ago, and you’ve both changed a lot. but, he recognizes you, his voice unfamiliar around your name.

“what – what are you doing on a fire nation ship?” he sounds…offended.

you shrink a bit at the edge to his tone, at the way his friends seem to look down at you, literally and figuratively. “i needed to find work. this was the best i could find.” you pause, throw back, “what are you doing…out?”

you never expected him to get away from fire nation captivity.

“i broke out.” he says, quite simply, before he gestures around him, “they helped me and a friend get out.”

you notice, however, the boy dressed in all black watching you from the back of the group. his gaze seems particularly pointed and it makes the hairs at the back of your neck stand on end. you stare back at him, have half a mind to snap what because the staring is making you uncomfortable.

he speaks, though, after the lull of silence stretches on longer. he says, “how did you know this was an air bison?”

“what?” that catches you off guard.

“he’s covered up.” his voice is quiet, musical almost, but so heavily weighted. “it could be giant mutated polar dog bear for all you know.”

“i…it flies?” you blink. he doesn’t say anything – doesn’t believe you. “i mean, i remember the stories from before.” the silence keeps going. you fumble with your words, somehow compelled to keep talking, even though no one is prompting you. you say, “i…fine. i saw one – up close – a few years ago.”

jongho blinks, “you did?”

you nod, “yeah, i met…an airbender.” you glance at the boy, note how he freezes in place.

“who?” his voice is sharp as a knife. you think you can detect the hint of desperation. he hurries forward, each footstep light, barely audible, though he moves fast, nearly floating, until he, too, is hovering over you. he lands in front of you with a gust of wind, his hood slipping from his face. he’s sharp and pretty, but it’s not delicate, it’s angular, full of fire in ways you expected of a firebender. A blue arrow peeks out from beneath his long fluffy hair, but he isn’t yeosang. “who was it?!”

you flinch at the loudness, the way it booms all around them. the boy who captured you reaches out, puts a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back just a bit as he says, warningly, “hongjoong.”

you stare at the boy, hongjoong, and you’re disappointed, you realize. you think you may be looking at him with the same type of disappointment that he is looking at you with. for a moment, you both share a look of understanding. he definitely knew yeosang longer than you, but the boy has lingered in your thoughts for years, became something of a symbol of freedom, of the old days, to you. to hongjoong, he must represent his entire culture. he’s no longer alone. for a moment, you both seem to understand each other a bit too much for mere strangers, so you look away first, your gaze settling on his feet.

“his name was yeosang.” you say, quietly. “he said…he said he was going somewhere safe.”

hongjoong slumps in his spot and it’s as if the other boy’s hand is the only thing holding him up. “oh.” he whispers. “oh. he…he…he survived, too.”

the vulnerability in that one sentence makes your chest hurt. you tell it affects his friends, too, their brows curling with concern. you don’t know how you’re supposed to tell him of the rumors after you met yeosang. you don’t know how you’re supposed to remind him that you saw yeosang years ago. there's no guarantee he’s still alive.

but, as you look into hongjoong’s eyes, you think he knows that already.

hongjoong straightens up, his black cloak flapping all around him. he says, “let’s grab the supplies we need and get off this thing.”

you stare as the boys start to move, following his orders, leaving you on your knees, still tied up. only jongho hesitates, but he still leaves you alone. hongjoong stares down at you, for a long, long moment.

“can you bend?”

“what?”

he sighs, “everyone in the crew can bend. can you?”

you shake your head.

“then, what’s stopping me from tossing you overboard like the rest of your fire nation crew?” hongjoong bites out, then, still staring.

“your pacifism?” you squeak.

his expression twists into annoyance. “get up.”

“to your ship?” you ask, a little too hopefully, as you stumble to your feet.

“unfortunately.” he mumbles. “don’t make me regret the decision.”

you nod, quickly, “i won’t, i promise.”

he just watches your enthusiastic nodding carefully before he sighs, turning his back on you.

#ateez #ateez scenarios #ateez angst #ateez fluff #hongjoong #yeosang

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sunmoonandeddie · 5 years

Text

respectable work

pairing: 40s!escort!bucky barnes x reader

word count: 4,220

summary: Bucky and you met a little unconventionally.

prompt: “Look, you’ve gotta understand what it’s like, Baby. You come from the streets and suddenly you’re up here, and these women are throwing themselves at ya, and they smell so good, and they really take care of themselves. I mean, I never knew women could be like that, you know? And they’re so rich, they’re so goddamn rich, you think they must know about everything. And they’re slipping their room keys in my hands, two and three times day, different women. So here I think I’m scoring big, and for a while you think, ‘Hey, they wouldn’t be doing this if they didn’t care about me, right?’”

warnings: swearing

a/n: This was written for @interestedbystanderwrites 2K Dirty Dancing Challenge! Congratulations!

“Why do you do this, Bucky?”

The question was simple enough, yet it held the weight of the world.

How was he supposed to answer that? How was he supposed to give you the answer you deserved without also revealing just how bad life had gotten?

You were one of the few bright spots in his dark universe, his Northern Star, and he couldn’t bear to lose you.

And that was how he knew that he was truly, and thoroughly, fucked.

He rolled over to face you, tugging the blanket up further around the two of you. The silk of your nightgown brushed against his bare chest and he had to suppress a shiver. The little slip of fabric cost more than two months rent in his little dingy apartment that he shared with his sisters.

Your bright eyes were blinking up at him innocently, and he was reminded of how sheltered you truly were from most of the world, from the horrors that the stock market crash had caused. “Bucky?”

“It’s complicated, Baby,” he murmured, taking your hand in his and kissing each fingertip. Your hand is soft and tender in his calloused palm. It was a stark difference to the women he knew and had grown up with. The skin on their hands was tough from physical labor, marked with burns and pricks from sewing needles.

The most physical labor you’d done was carrying your shopping bags.

“Please, Bucky?” You nuzzled closer to him, your head finding it’s place right underneath his chin. Your breath was hot against his skin and goosebumps littered his arms. “I wanna know.”

“Look, you’ve gotta understand what it’s like, Baby,” he said, his fingers running through your hair absentmindedly. “You come from the streets and suddenly you’re up here in Manhattan, and these women are throwing themselves at ya, and they smell so good, and they really take care of themselves.” He let out a soft laugh. “I mean, I never knew women could be like that, you know?” The words ‘like you’ go unspoken but they’re heard loud and clear. Your Chanel perfume clings to all of his clothes now, all of the clothes that you buy for him. “And they’re so rich, they’re so goddamn rich, you think they must know about everything. And they’re slipping their room keys in my hands, two and three times day, different women. So here I think I’m scoring big, and for a while you think, ‘Hey, they wouldn’t be doing this if they didn’t care about me, right?’” He swallowed down the lump in his throat as his mind wandered to Brooklyn. “And I got my sisters to take care of. Becca wants to go to college but there’s no money for that, Grace needs new school supplies, and Georgie… Well, she keeps growing out all her clothes within two months of getting them.”

“I wish you’d let me take care of you,” you said as you sat up, pulling the blanket around you to ward off the winter chill. “Of all of you.”

Not that there was one, since your apartment had a state-of-the-art heater that he knew most of his neighborhood would cut off an arm for.

“Baby—”

“No, I know.” You pushed his hair back, a sad look in your eyes. “But I don’t like knowing that you’re struggling to get food on the table for your family and I… I have all this.”

And fuck. When this first started, when your little thing began four months ago, he wanted to hate you. He really did. Because here was this little rich girl with daddy and your brother’s money, almost completely unaffected by the stock market crash because most of your family’s assets and money were in foreign countries. But you couldn’t just fuck him and then leave, could you? No. You were too kind for that, too pure. You weren’t like some of the women, who didn’t even bother to learn his name. Hell, even now, four months into your little arrangement, and the most that had happened was a few kisses and cuddling when he stayed over.

“Baby, you do more than enough,” he said as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. “You… You’re my best girl.” He tapped the end of your nose playfully. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed the money you slip into my pants when I’m not looking. I thought we agreed that you’re not going to overpay me.”

“It’s not… It’s not payment!” You insisted, though your cheeks went pink. “It’s… a gift.” You suddenly got up, padding your way over to the closet. “Also, I went through my clothes and got everything I don’t wear anymore. I thought…” You glanced back at him anxiously, your lip drawn between your teeth. “I thought maybe your sisters would like them.” And even though it’s a statement, your voice rose at the end like a question, and it hurt him.

It hurt him because he didn’t want you to think that he didn’t appreciate you and your efforts.

He did. He really did.

He was just… independent to a fault. And he was raised believing that the man was meant to take care of the woman—a belief that he had lost rather quickly, though sometimes he still had trouble with it.

And that could sometimes be a problem considering the nature of your relationship.

Bucky slid out of the bed, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close. “Baby, they’ll love them,” he said, pressing tender, open mouthed kisses to your shoulders.

He’d never thought he’d be lucky enough to have a girl like you, especially not after he started working the streets. Girls didn’t want boys like him, poor and desperate to make money. They wanted the men up on Wall Street, even after everything that happened.

But then again, he’d known you were different the moment he saw you.

And sure, you weren’t actually together, but when he got to stay the night, he could pretend for at least a few hours. He could pretend that the dates you paid him to go on with you were real, that you two were actually in love. He could pretend that it wasn’t an arrangement, a ruse to keep the revolting men that worked at you and your brother’s lab at bay.

At least until he had to go back to Brooklyn, or back to the different hotels to find more clientele.

And he knew he had to end it. He had to, for both his sake and yours. He’d gotten in too deep, and he needed to get himself out before it was too late.

But a voice in the back of his mind whispered that he was already way past the point of no return.

“Hello.”

Bucky took in a deep breath, prepping himself for what was about to happen. He’d sweet talk whatever woman had just approached him, she’d buy him a drink, and then she’d slip her room key into his hand. He’d spent the next two hours with her before she slipped him the money, and then he’d be gone.

Back down here and waiting for another.

He plastered on his charming, boyish smile and turned in the bar stool, though his resolve faltered when he saw who had approached him.

A pretty little thing. No older than twenty-one. The fine silk of her dress said money, and the string of pearls around her neck only backed up that theory.

“Hello, there,” he purred, a smirk settling on his features.

“Can I… Can I sit next to you?” You asked, glancing over at the empty bar stool next to him.

“It’s all yours,” he said, swiveling his seat so that he was almost entirely turned to you. The key to getting women to want him, to… use his services, was to make them feel special. Like they were the only woman he’d ever seen. “What’s your name?”

You gave him your name, but then you quickly added, “But everyone calls me Baby.”

“Baby?” He raised his eyebrows at you as he tested it out. It was smooth as molasses on his tongue and truth be told, he liked it. “Why do they call you that?”

“Because I’m the youngest in my family. My brother is… kind of famous.”

“And what would his name be?” He asked as he took a sip of the whiskey he’d been nursing for thirty minutes.

“Howard Stark.”

And, swear to the good Lord above, he almost spit his drink all over you. But he swallowed it down with a bit of a wince, his blue eyes going wide. “Howard Stark? You’re… You’re part of the Stark family?”

Fuck, if he managed to get you into bed, he could up his price and have his rent paid for the next three months. He could convince you to lay there cuddling with him afterwards, and charge you for that, too.

You were the jackpot.

He just had to get you upstairs.

“Yeah, he’s… He’s the genius,” you said with a weak laugh, your gaze falling to your hands.

Bucky’s lips pulled down in a frown. “You don’t seem very happy about that.”

“It’s nothing!” You insisted. You looked down at your drink. “But… When people come into the lab, they automatically assume that I’m the secretary. And when they find out that I’m Howard’s sister, they just… assume I’m there to look pretty. That I have no idea what’s going on.”

Fuck. He couldn’t… He couldn’t finesse you like he did all those other women now. Not when you were being vulnerable with him, and the look in your eyes was so… sad.

You cleared your throat, hooking your feet in the bars of the stool. “Anyway… What do you do?”

“Uh…” He froze, his blue eyes going wide as he had a mini internal crisis. Should he tell you? He should. He should be honest. But would you keep talking to him if he did? After all, pretty girls like you could get any man they wished, and they didn’t choose the men working the streets, waiting for the next client to take upstairs and fuck. And, to be honest, it’d been a long time since he’d just talked to a girl because he wanted to. Because she had a cute laugh and bright eyes.

But before he could make the decision, it was made for him.

“Meet me upstairs, sugar?”

He looked up as a room key was slid across the dark wood of the bar, his eyes meeting one of his regular clients. Virginia Braddock. Her husband was a businessman in Chicago, but they often traveled to New York. And while he was off at some gentleman’s club, she would always find Bucky and bring him upstairs for a quick fuck. It was always rough and dirty and impersonal, but she knew he knew what she liked and always ended up sated.

And she paid handsomely.

“Uh, I can’t tonight. I’m sorry, Virginia,” he said, his cheeks going red.

It was only then that the older woman saw you, her eyes narrowing. “I see. Well… If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

When she finally walked away, he stared down at his drink, not sure if he wanted to meet your eyes.

“This is perfect!”

He looked at you in surprise, brows furrowing. “What?”

You were rummaging through your purse, practically buzzing. “I need someone to be my date to this benefit my brother is throwing.” You suddenly pulled out a wad of cash, pushing it towards him. “Will this cover it?”

Bucky stared at you with disbelief. “Will that cover… Baby, this is four months rent, easy.”

“So it’ll cover it?”

And you were looking at him with such hopeful eyes, he just couldn’t say no. “Here,” he muttered, taking sixteen dollars from the pile. “This is more than enough.”

And technically he was undercharging because benefits could last all night, and his rate was eight an hour, but he couldn’t bring himself to take any more.

“Fantastic!” You gushed, putting the rest back in your bag. “It’s tomorrow night at six. I can pick you up!”

“But… Why?” He asked, shaking his head. “You’re… Pardon me, but you’re a beautiful woman. I’m sure you could get anyone to go with you. Why me?”

“All those other men would only want me for my money,” you said, raising your hand up to call over the bartender. “They’d pretend to like me. At least you’re honest.” You took a sip of the wine he passed you. “And besides, I feel like we’d get on famously, don’t you?”

And when you smiled at him, he knew he was a goner.

“Hi, is James Barnes here?”

Bucky froze as he heard the familiar voice. His breath was coming out in soft clouds in front of his face.

“Yeah, he’s thatta way. Dock four,” his boss, Charlie said.

“Fuckin’ Charlie,” he muttered under his breath.

And then he heard it. The soft click clack of your heels against the wood of the docks.

“What are you doing here, Baby?” He asked with a huff, tossing another barrel into the belly of the ship.

“I came to see you,” you whispered, taking a few steps closer so you were just a few feet away. “You… You left without saying anything.”

“I left you a note.”

“That doesn’t count, James,” you bit back, and for a second he was shocked at how angry you were. The only other time he’d seen you angry was when you’d heard some of your brother’s friends shit-talking him.

You also used his first name. You never used his first name. Not unless you were upset.

“Didn’t realize you wanted to hear in person that your fake boyfriend didn’t want to play pretend anymore,” he said, grunting as he picked up another barrel and tossed it. “It was time for me to stop anyway, Baby. I gotta do respectable work, if only so the girls’ reputations aren’t ruined.”

“Is that all it was to you?” You asked, your voice shaking. “Playing pretend?”

He finally turned to look at you, his hands going to his hips. Normally, he’d try to clean himself up, try to appear presentable, but he didn’t give a shit at the moment. He was covered in dirt and sweat, despite how cold it was outside. His hair was sticking to his forehead. “What? Do you want me to sit here and tell you that you were more than a paycheck? A way to get rent money?” He knew what he was saying was harsh, cruel even, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. He had to push you away. Had to save himself from the inevitable heartbreak of you finding someone better, someone from your side of the river, and leaving him behind. He took slow, measured steps toward you, and had to steel himself against breaking down at the sight of your wobbling lower lip. “Did you think I was in love with you, Baby?”

And the way he said your name broke you. You’d never heard it said with such malice.

“I…” You swallowed, trying to not cry even though you could feel it welling up in your chest. “I love you, Bucky.”

“You’re in love with a fantasy,” he said, towering over you even in your heels. “You’re in love with the thought that a man could actually see you for something other than your money, but think about who I am, Baby. Think about what I do and how we met.”

You took a step back, your heel wobbling on the uneven ground of the docks. “Why are you being so horrible?” You asked, a few tears escaping.

And even though everything he had said was like a stab in his own heart, he let out a laugh. “Just being honest. That’s what you wanted, right? Honesty?”

He turned back to his work, tossing another barrel into the ship. The crack in his heart deepened as he heard your soft sob, muffled by your hand, and the rapid click clack of your heels as you left.

“It’s for the best,” he whispered to himself, though he wasn’t sure if it was meant for you or him.

That night, when Bucky got home, he wasn’t surprised to hear three familiar giggles coming from the kitchen.

What he was surprised about was the male laugh that accompanied it.

“Becca? Grace? Georgia?” He called out as he set his lunchbox by the front door. The apartment was cold as ever, the winter air drifting in from the crack in the window and the space underneath the front door.

“In the kitchen!” Becca called out.

What he saw made his heart stop.

Howard Stark was sitting at his kitchen table, surrounded by his precious little sisters. “Hello, James,” the man said, brushing off his pants as he stood. “I thought I’d come pay you a visit.”

“Bucky, you didn’t tell us you had a girlfriend!” Becca said with a knowing smirk, her hands resting on her hips in a way that reminded him of their late mother.

“I don’t,” he said, clearing his throat.

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about,” Howard said. The smile on his lips was venomous and Bucky knew that he knew.

And he was out for blood.

“Becca, take the girls and go get some gloves,” Bucky said, taking out a few crumbled up dollar bills and handing them to the eldest of the girls. “Georgie’s are getting too small.”

She shot him a suspicious look, but took the money and the girls anyway.

The two men were completely silent as they stared at each other even after they left.

“So, James,” Howard said, his voice light and innocent even though they both knew he could kill him and make it look like an accident, “Do you want to share with me why my sister has locked herself in her apartment since she got home from visiting you at the docks?”

The look in Howard’s eyes told him that he already knew what happened. After all, you had a bodyguard, and even beyond that, he was a powerful man. He no doubt had people everywhere looking out for you. “I—”

“No, no. I’m not done,” he said, shooting him a look as he began to wander around the tiny apartment. “Because, you see… My sister is the most important person in the world to me. I would give up everything, my entire empire, if she asked me to.” He stopped in front of a framed family photo from when his parents were still alive, and knew that the man felt for him at least in that aspect. You and your brother were the only Starks left. “So I hope you don’t misunderstand me when I say that I will rip you limb from limb and feed you to my dogs if you’ve hurt her.”

“I… I understand.”

“And I know what the nature of your relationship was,” he said, surprising him yet again. “I’m not stupid. I have eyes and ears everywhere. And, I can’t lie, I was worried about what it would do to her representation. After all, she’s a woman of society.” His dark eyes slid over to where Bucky was still frozen in place. “But then I saw how happy you made her, and I thought to myself, ‘At least he sees her for who she is.’” His rings glinted in the late day sun streaming in through the kitchen windows. Rings he knew would leave a mark if Howard decided to take a swing at him. “So I’d like to know why the fuck you did what you did.”

Bucky’s eyes were staring resolutely down at the ground. “I… I’m not the type of man a girl like her ends up with.” His hands were shaking down at his sides as he felt the sorrow well up in his chest again. He’d spent three hours after you’d left the docks convincing the other men he worked with that the tears were from the harsh wind. “She’ll find some man that can give her everything she wants, that can take care of her the way she deserves to be taken care of. I shouldn’t be holding her back.”

“She told me you were intelligent, but I think you might actually be the most idiotic man I’ve ever met,” Howard scoffed, his arms crossed over his chest. “She doesn’t give a shit about money. She never has. She would be with you for real if you just asked.”

“But—”

“And she doesn’t need to be taken care of the way you’re thinking of. She has more than enough money to last her four lifetimes,” he said, cutting him off. “What she needs is a man who sees beyond all that. She found that in you.” He began to head for the front door, glancing back at him right before he left. “Fix this. You know what I’ll do if you don’t.”

As soon as the door shut behind him, Bucky crumpled to the ground, sobbing his heart out. He’d never felt so confused… so lost. In the short amount of time he’d known you, you’d become his Northern Star. His light in the dark.

Howard was right. Howard was right, and he needed to fix his mistake immediately.

Wiping his eyes, Bucky pulled himself to his feet. A sense of urgency came over him as he scribbled out a note for his sisters before bolting out the door.

He’d never hated the Brooklyn Bridge and how long it took to get across it more. The cab driver was no doubt getting more and more pissed off with his impatience, if his eye rolls were anything to go by.

He finally dug out a few dollar bills from his pants pocket and shoved them towards the driver. “Keep the change,” he said, before jumping out of the vehicle. He wove through the automobiles that had congested the bridge, making it to the Manhattan side of the bridge in just a few minutes.

His breath was coming hard and fast as he ran through the streets of Manhattan, ducking and weaving through the crowds as he got closer and closer to the heart of the city. The only reason he made it to your building was the adrenaline rushing through his veins. His entire body screamed at him to find you, to hold you in his arms.

The doorman that stood at the front of the shining, gleaming building you called home tried to stop him as he raced through the doors, but Bucky didn’t pay him any mind.

“Pardon!” He shouted to a couple that was just coming out of the elevator, a tiny dog in the woman’s arms barking hysterically at him. When he was finally in the little box, he took a chance to breath as the doors shut, hitting the button for the forty-ninth floor. The floor right underneath your brother’s penthouse.

Once he stepped out of the elevator, he knocked rapidly on the only door there, the gold 491 glaring at him.

He stopped knocking, listening intently for any sign of you approaching the door. When he didn’t hear anything, he knocked again, calling out, “Baby? It’s me, Bucky. Please, open the door. I’m sorry. I—”

He was cut off by the door opening just a crack, and he was greeted with the sight of you half-hiding behind it, the door chain preventing it from opening any further.

And it broke his heart.

Your eyes were red and puffy, your lips swollen from being bitten so much. Your usually perfectly done hair was in disarray. “Bucky? What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, his heart pounding against his ribs as he stared at you. “I’m so sorry, Baby. I didn’t mean it. I was being stupid and insecure and I’m sorry. I love you. I love you so much.”

You shut the door again, and his heart sank, only to hear the sliding of the door chain. You opened the door all the way, and his heart skipped a beat when he saw you. “You love me?”

“I do,” he said, rubbings his clammy hands against his pants. He was suddenly hyper aware of just how dirty his work clothes were. “I do. I love you so much and—”

He was cut off by you throwing yourself into his arms, your sobs wracking your body. “I love you, too. I love you so much, Bucky.”

He held onto you tightly, his own eyes watery. “I’m so sorry, Baby. I never should’ve left you. I didn’t mean those awful things. I just thought I was doing what was best for you, and I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have made that decision for you.”

“You’re damn right,” you sniffled as you pulled back, your hand cupping his face. “Just… Just don’t do it again, you… you wet sock!”

He let out a laugh, pressing a tender kiss to your lips. “If you think I’m ever gonna let you go now, you got me all wrong, Baby.”

#interestedbystander2kmilestone #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n

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need-a-new-hobby · 4 years

Text

Lessons Learned

Aaron Hotchner was dreaming about his family; his beautiful wife, Haley, and their beautiful son Jack, on a picnic, little Jack kicking a ball around, Haley smiling at him. He reached out to hold her hand but a ringtone broke the fantasy. Sighing, he reached for his phone instead.

"Hotchner…When?…Did they raise the terror alert?…No, that's probably best…All right, get everybody in now. I'll be there in a minute." He hung up and Haley slowly got up next to him, combing her hair behind her face.

"What’s going on?" She yawned, folding her hands over her face and pulling her knees close to her body.

"Nothing, I just have to go to the office."

"It’s 6:15, and you're talking about a terror alert? It's bad, isn't it?" She rubbed her face and Aaron got dressed behind her.

"I don't know yet."

"Please don't lie to me." She knelt her chin on her shoulder.

"It might be. I may not be home tonight. I mean, I might be home late."

"I know."

"Shoot. I forgot. Tomorrow is the day we scheduled to take Jack to have his pictures taken."

"Don’t worry about it. I'll reschedule."

"No, no, no. Go ahead and take him, and I'll do my best to be there, okay?" He grabbed his belt, tie and jacket.

"Just come back safely," she pleaded.

"I will," he promised her, taking his wallet, gun and badge. "Bye," he whispered before kissing her softly. Her doe eyes followed him out the door.

^-^

The ladies of the BAU were already setting up in the conference room when the men walked in.

"Everybody meet Agent Prentiss?" Hotch asked his team.

"The other day," Garcia piped up.

"This morning getting coffee," Piper voiced.

"I’ve been filling her in on protocol." JJ distributed the case at hand. The woman with black hair and matching suit jacket rose to shake Morgan’s hand.

"We can make nice later," Hotch reminded them and turned to JJ. "What do we know?"

As Garcia grabbed her flamboyant yellow pen, JJ attended to the screen. "The DEA raided what they thought was a hardened meth lab right here, in Northern Virginia, but they found this instead."

Morgan and Gideon stared at the image on the screen. "That could be a dispersal device for a chemical weapon," Derek suggested. "Sophisticated."

"Homeland Security is thinking of Al Qaeda."

"They’ve developed devices that span the spectrum of sophistication," Reid explained, glancing at Prentiss. "Some as simple as soda bottles and paint cans."

"They’re called al ikhteraa, literally 'the invention,’" she said, pronouncing the word perfectly.

"They are," Spencer muttered softly to Derek while shrugging quickly. Piper grinned, despite herself. She’d met the agent this morning and was already impressed by her fluency in languages.

Hotch broke Piper’s thoughts asking,"Do we know what the biological or chemical agent is yet?"

"No, not yet," Morgan replied.

"The cell members bailed out through a tunnel," JJ said, glancing at her file. "The DEA recovered a Nextel 2-way and managed to intercept a message." She placed the message on the table between Reid and Prentiss. As the new agent picked the message up, JJ clarified, "No, that’s not the transcript, it’s in-"

"It’s in Arabic." She proceeded to translate the document ad-lib. "Our friends surprised us and eloped." Garcia looked up at her from the her laptop screen. "We can no longer wait for the wedding as planned." Piper was sure that Gideon couldn’t stop staring. "We can deliver our gift at the next crescent." Emily looked up from the paper at her new colleagues and heard a low whistle from Piper.

"You’ve been holding out on me," she snickered. Penelope just smiled at her. Derek’s forehead was about to stay wrinkled forever.

"I lived in several middle-eastern countries growing up," Emile explained.

"Next crescent?"

"Muslims sometimes use a lunar calendar," Bishop informed the group. "We’d have to look it up-"

"Next crescent moon is in two days," Garcia added.

"So whatever they're attacking, it's happening in less than 48 hours."

"Payment for the Nextel is linked to this man, Jind Allah."

"Literally 'soldier of God.’"

"I don’t like the sound of that," Bishop muttered.

"That’s pretty poor operational security for a sophisticated plot," Morgan remarked.

"Two months ago, Jind Allah was captured leaving the U. S. using a forged Pakistani passport via Richmond International Airport. He's been held as a ghost detainee in Guantanamo Bay ever since," JJ noted.

"So technically, he doesn't exist," said Garcia.

"Soldier of God isn't a name."

"No, it's most likely a name taken on for the Jihad. Extremists claim it's a holy war, yet the words "holy" and "war" never appear together in the Quran," Piper replied.

"Do we know his real name? CIA interrogators have gotten nothing out of the guy."

"They need us to break him."

"We do know from past intercepts that he's a recruiter. He came into this country to assemble the omega cell, a sleeper cell with an unknown mission," JJ sighed, shaking her head.

"We have 48 hours to do what the CIA hasn't been able to manage in two months?" Morgan looked at the team.

Piper flipped through the report and sighed. Under her breath, she murmured, "Easy, right?"

"We could be looking at the first attack on our soil since 9/11," Gideon thought aloud.

Yikes, that’s dramatic.

^-^

"Hey," Hotch greeted Gideon in his office. The profiler was packing his go-bag in a hurry.

"Car here? I told Reid and Bishop 5 minutes."

"I think you should take Prentiss with you to Guantanamo." Gideon looked at the unit chief.

"Excuse me?"

"She could be of help."

"I don't know enough about her abilities," he said raising his shoulders. "There’s plenty for her to do back here." He barely looked back at Hotchner.

"I don't know what she's capable of either, but we've got to find out sooner or later." Gideon walked past him, out the office.

"It’s an interrogation, not a training exercise," he said, looking back at Hotch.

"She’s the only member of the team fluent in Arabic."

"There are other translators."

"Yeah, but they haven't studied behaviour," Aaron persisted.

"She even have her ready bag yet?" Emily watched the two senior agents, slowly lifting her ready bag onto the desk.

"My guess is there isn't much this woman's unprepared for." They glanced at the younger agent. Sighing, Gideon rushed down the steps.

"Car leaves in 4 minutes," he said aside to her as he rushed past.

"Yes, sir," she said, smiling and looking back at Agent Hotchner. Piper glanced at the fellow agent excitedly. She was just glad to have another girl to talk to.

^-^

Dale Turner mused: "Some of the best lessons are learned from past mistakes. The error of the past is the wisdom of the future."

^-^

Emily sat near Gideon and Reid on the sofa, watching them play chess. "Excuse me, sir. I just wanted to let you know how much I appreciate-"

"Do not thank me," he cut in.

"Sir?" Reid glanced between the two of them awkwardly.

"It’s not a favour."

"Of course. I know that."

"You’re coming to do a job."

Reid asked his mentor, "Do you think the interrogation of Jind Allah will work in time?"

"Interrogation is the most dynamic form of profiling."

"That’s not an answer," she scoffed. "Sir," Emily enunciated.

"He’s been locked away in Gitmo, he doesn't know we raided the cell's safe house, that’s an advantage for us. The main thing is to get him talking about anything, then his language and body movements will betray him." He focused back on the game at hand. As Reid picked up his pawn, Gideon continued. "It’s like this; you focus on the way your opponent holds his piece, how quickly and firmly he places it." Reid became flustered hearing his mentor and Piper giggle quietly behind him."Then you watch his face and body. It'll telegraph a player's strategy, his training, maybe his motivations."

"Is that what you need us to do?"

"No, I need you to listen." He glanced at Emily. "You’re fluent in Arabic. I won't know the nuances like you. Every word, every phrase. Be on the lookout for subtext, ulterior meanings." Emily subtly straightened. "Reid, I want you to watch for tells. Non-verbals, micro-expressions. Watch him when he's comfortable and relaxed, then note the behavioural changes when he's under stress."

"You got anything specific for me?" Gideon looked up at his appointed consultant as she handed him a cup of coffee. "Where’s mine?" Spencer mouthed at her. "You don’t get any, you’ve already had 5 cups in the past hour," she reprimanded him.

"Absorb the information we gain about him. I want you to understand who he is, his character, his background, those timelines you make. I need you to create a profile on the spot." Piper nodded thoughtfully. "If we can establish a baseline, we'll be able to read him once I challenge his belief systems. Before I can get him to give up where or how they'll attack, I'll first have to cause him to reveal something of himself."

Piper pulled Emily to the other side of the plane, "Did you see Morgan’s face when you translated the Arabic." She threw her head back as she laughed. "Priceless! You blew them away." She glanced back at the boys before motioning for Emily to take a seat. "Ugh, you have no idea how happy I am that you could come."

"Really?" Emily was confused at Piper’s excitement. "I thought you were close to them."

"Please, Gideon is the only reason I’m here, and this is like my second week."

"But you fit in so well." Emily leaned forward.

"Bah, Gideon will warm up to you." She raised an eyebrow and Piper. "Trust me, the only reason he’s a little icy is because he doesn’t know you yet. I guarantee, you do what you did this morning, you’ll be the most valuable member here."

"So tell me about the team." Piper glanced at her watch.

"Okay, Agent Hotchner, we all call him Hotch, may secretly be a robot. I don’t think I’ve seen him crack a smile or blink. Jason Gideon basically built the BAU. He’s like a genius at this behaviour stuff but he never lets on to what he really thinks. Personally, I think he uses it as a shield from the team but he pours his heart into every case we get, treats each victim like a personal wound. Spencer Reid," she said, glancing behind her discreetly before continuing. "He’s like a super genius, graduated high school at 12, 3 PhDs before he was of drinking age, 2 B.As in psychology and sociology. He has like an IQ of 187 and can read 20 000 words a minute. If that’s not enough for you," she said, pointing a finger up. "The guy has an eidetic memory." She laughed at Emily’s face. "Moving on to Penelope Garcia, the girl has the weirdest relationship with Derek I have ever seen. They have like this rule to never call each other by name. You’ll see. Anyway, she’s like a wizard with technology, it’s crazy. I heard she got the job by hacking into the FBI but I can’t name my sources, obvi."

^-^

"What do you think they’re talking about?" Spencer asked, tugging softly at his scarf.

"Probably about the team," Gideon said softly before glancing at his terrified expression. "Reid, I wouldn’t worry about it. That girl has nothing bad to say about you. Your turn."

^-^

"Derek is like the biggest softie I’ve ever met but never give him any ammunition against you. He is relentless."

"What do you mean?"

"For my housewarming party, Reid got me a potted hyacinth which happens to be my favourite and he wouldn’t stop teasing him until Spence stabbed him with metal tongs." Emily laughed at the mental image.

"So you’re like a family?"

"In every way fathomable," Piper said, sipping on her coffee. They got up to join the boys, partly because they’d run out of things to talk about, partly because Emily was curious to see which genius was going to win.

Emily glanced at her watch. "You should put a lid on your coffee by the way," she said to her new friend.

"Hmm?"

"We’re almost there. Hold on." Gideon fell onto the seat next to him, as did Reid. Bishop and Prentiss were unlucky as they had nowhere to fall. They clung onto their seat and Piper prayed her coffee wouldn’t spill. Unfortunately for the boys, the twist of the plane meant their chess game fell to the floor.

"Gitmo’s runway is perpendicular to cuban airspace, so approaching aircraft have to negotiate a last minute 90 degree right turn in order to land. They call it the Gitmo twist."

"That twist almost cost me my coffee," Piper grumbled. "Hotch wouldn’t have talked to me for a week if he found a stain." Spencer gazed forlornly at the tumbled black and white pieces.

"I was winning," he said wistfully.

"Actually, he would’ve had you in 3," said Emily, casually flicking the hair off of her face. Reid and Bishop both looked at the new agent and then at Gideon, who looked completely neutral.

^-^

As soon as they landed in the detainment centre, Derek had called Piper. She’d let the others go in first while she took the call. "You better not be the harbinger of doom."

"You tell me, sweet cheeks, we have a preliminary profile for you."

"Talk to me."

"The tubes surrounding the device could be the explosive charge and the cylinder's gotta be where they put whatever bio or chem agent they plan on dispersing."

"Bio meaning some kind of disease?"

"Dunno yet, we’re still working on that. It looks like a 4 sleeper cell, they’ve assimilated into the community. Hotch says we’re looking at middle-eastern males in their early twenties."

"Anything else for me?"

"You know it. The size of the device suggests they're looking at significant targets; military installations, government buildings."

"Could be some kind of symbolism. Alright, thanks Morgan, I’ll let the guys know."

"Hey, Pipes. How’s the new girl doing?"

"She’s brilliant and that is all I’m telling you."

"Rude. See you when you get back." She put her phone away and motioned the guard to go first.

^-^

"You must be the BAU boys," boomed the slightly balding man before noticing Bishop and Prentiss. "And gals, pardon me."

"I’m Jason Gideon."

"Andy Bingaman, FBI."

"Agent Prentiss, Dr. Bishop, Dr. Reid," introduced Gideon.

"I'm the intelligence supervisor here at Gitmo."

"You guys having a hard time getting Jind Allah to talk?"

"Not only can't they get him to budge," he started, leading them to the workspace, "but 2 weeks ago, word got out that one of the other detainees was spilling secrets. Jind Allah managed to have a 3 minute conversation with him in the shower line. That night, the other detainee committed suicide."

"Charming," Piper murmured. The agents looked at the multiple TV sets. "Hell of an interrogation strategy," Piper said. "How long has he been kept like this?" The man had chains on his arms and feet and was nude except for a pair of white briefs with dark purple bruises.

"2 months."

"He's reciting the Qu'ran from memory,” Reid noticed. “He's most likely a hafez."

"He must have done it a dozen times since he's come to this facility."

"Some Muslim children are able to do it since age 12," Piper voiced.

"Two months of interrogation, that's all the CIA's been able to get out of him."

"There are cuts and bruises under his right eye socket," Reid noted before Piper asked.

"I have to ask, Agent, what kind of tactics are they using?"

"I control the actions to the detainees, but I can assure you, my protest about their methods has been ignored."

"Let the interrogation proceed normally," Gideon demanded. "I’m gonna interrupt and demand they stop harassing. There a bathroom here?" Bingaman motioned for a security guard to take the agent.

"It’d be easier if I just tell them to stop now."

"I wouldn’t," Piper warned the FBI agent. "That man has been in severe conditions for the past 2 months. He’s more likely to trust Gideon if the reaction is more…" she paused, searching for the right word, "visceral, more believable," she finished.

Go ahead with phase 2 as planned.

Copy that.

They watched the CIA interrogators circle around the detainee, like a falcon does his prey. Bingaman was confused."You really gonna put a show on for these guys?"

"No, not for them, for Jind Allah, he needs to see me as a complete contrast to what he's come to expect from his captors."

"It’s the best way to jump start him into talking," Reid added. "Do you have a glass board by any chance?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, right here, have at it agents."

Gideon left to make his dramatic entrance while Piper shifted the board into position, grabbing markers and cleaning fluid from her bag, and Spencer started setting up. Emily noticed Piper smiling while setting up. "What’s up?"

"Hmm?"

"You’re smiling."

"No, I’m not. We have a terrorist in a cell, why would I be smiling?"

"She’s answering a question with a question, Emily, she’s lying," Reid tattled.

Huffing, Piper leaned in and whispered quietly. "He thought I was an agent." She grinned and turned back to her board. Emily rolled her eyes as she focused on the detainee on the screens.

^-^

Agent Gideon shuffled into the interrogation room, glancing at both CIA agents, holding an orange jumpsuit. The interrogator that was leaning into Jind Allah’s face straightened. "Who the hell are you?"

"Supervisory special agent Jason Gideon, I’m an FBI behavioural analyst. It's time to show this man some respect."

"You gotta be kidding me."

"You have orders from Agent Bingaman to leave so I can speak with this detainee alone." The two men, having sighted Bingaman, edged out of the room. Gideon slowly placed the jumpsuit on the chained man’s lap.

"I’m sorry for the treatment you've suffered," Gideon apologised before the man reciting in front of him. "If you don't mind, I'd like to spend some time with you."

The man bowed his head to his hands.

"He’s stopped reciting," Emily remarked. Piper turned from her board and leaned in to see the screen. "He’s sizing Gideon up."

"The man hasn’t been treated with civility in months. The reaction was predicted." They looked back at the consultant. "He’s wondering if there’s some ulterior motive, which is understandable."

^-^

"If I don't mind?"

"I’d like to get to know you as a person, your faith, your ideology."

"To what end?"

"Studying human behaviour is what I do."

^-^

Piper split the board in half and started scribbling Morgan’s information on the cell in one column, started examining the prisoner’s personality in the other, while Spencer scrawled in his notebook.

^-^

"I'd like to believe, with greater understanding one day, we can come to a peaceful resolution of our differences."

"Is that so?" The man smiled.

"Look, I don't know what you've done or what you may have planned to do." Gideon walked over and pulled up a chair. "But unlike the other detainees here, you have the education, intelligence to convey the nuances of your culture. That's what interests me."

"Until, I don't give you what you want. Then you will resort to other tactics."

"I swore an oath to uphold the United States constitution, no matter where I am, no matter who I deal with."

^-^

Piper’s phone rang again. "Sorry, guys. It’s Morgan." She raised the phone to her ear. "What do you have?"

"We found a list of chemicals. Garcia said it’s a list of additives that could weaponize Anthrax."

"Jesus, just when you think the worst is behind you. Thanks, Morgan." She relayed the news to the others.

"Could they get enough anthrax?" Emily turned to Spencer.

"The letter sent to senator Tom Daschle's office in 2002 only contained two grams of purified spores."

"That doesn’t sound that bad."

"Two grams is enough to kill 25 million people if effectively distributed."

"Dear God," Piper said, running a hand through her short hair. They turned back to the video stream.

"Are you willing to have a chat with me?"

"Go ahead. Gideon, let’s chat." Emily leaned forward, resting a hand on a chair.

"What is it Em?"

"He’s from Egypt, Cairo."

"You sure?"

"No, he could be Yemeni, but odds are he's Egyptian."

"What type of name is Gideon?"

"American."

"I often forget that in your culture, you put your country first and your god last."

Emily picked up the radio. "Sir, he was born and raised in Egypt. They pronounce 'J' sounds as a 'G.’"

"You don't consider yourself Egyptian as well as Muslim?"

"Egyptian. In two minutes, you know more about me than those thugs found out in two months."

Reid smiled at Prentiss.

^-^

"They and I have very, very different motives and methodologies."

"And yet your country relies on them to protect you from us."

"Sometimes they're their own worst enemy."

"Who is your worst enemy, agent Gideon?"

"It’s not a who. It's a what; ignorance."

"You’re a very honest man. And you? Must have become a hafez by what, age 10?"

"9."

"You must have had tremendous discipline and dedication to memorise the entire Qu'ran by age 9."

"Perhaps," he said, as Gideon rose from his seat. "We are through already?"

"No, not at all, the sun is about to set. Mecca is in that direction. I'll have a prayer rug and water bowl sent in."

^-^

"What do we have?"

"Hotch and Morgan found the back up location, they’re planning the raid as we speak," Emily started. "For now, all we know for certain is he was born and raised in Egypt, likely in Cairo, memorised the Quran by the age of nine."

"Why?"

"I have a few theories. The more probable one is a life of discipline passed down from his parents to him since generational tradition is a staple of Islamic culture. It could be all he’s ever known. The other is that he was inducted at a young age into a strict Islamist society. But his anti-American sentiment is definitely rooted in loss. That kind of quiet hatred suggests the violent death of someone he cares about."

^-^

"Can I offer you some water?"

"I offer you some first." Gideon drank, then passed the bottle to the man in front of him, just before taking one himself. "They only kept it there to show me what I could not have."

"I’d like you to explain something to me. How can you ignore the fact that Muhammad preached passivity while he was in Mecca? 'Do no violence.'"

"His later message from Medina was perfectly clear. 'When violence come upon you, you must fight back with violence.’"

"He's quoting from the Hadith, not from the Qu'ran. It's called the verse of the sword. They argue that it cancels out earlier teachings," Reid spoke from the radio.

"Verse of the sword. Just someone's spin on the words of the prophet. It's not even part of the Qu’ran."

"But it does say in the Qu’ran, fight and slay the infidels wherever you find them and seize them in every stratagem of war."

"Unless they repent. Establish regular prayers and practice regular charity."

"Is it your intention, Mr. Gideon, to become a man of faith and revert to Islam?"

"I am a man of faith. I have repented, I pray regularly, and I practice charity. I have never committed violence against you, so how is it that my faith would allow you to live and worship as you please, and yours would take my life and snuff it out?"

"You are simply misguided people of the book. But if you revert to Islam…"

"He’s cocky, Gideon,"Piper spoke into the radio. "He keeps repeating the word revert, as though everyone has inherently converted from Islam."

"A billion muslims, one billion muslims manage to practice their faith in peace. For Allah is surely merciful."

"You…inquired about my childhood earlier. I will tell you...that it was a happy one until... one day... A bomb fell out of the sky and levelled the bazaar that I was in with my family. I was only 8."

^-^

"He’s opening up about himself."

"Maybe," Reid said. "We need to verify what he's saying, though."

Piper leaned in over Spencer’s shoulder. "Can you rewind it just a tiny bit?"

She watched it closely this time. "What are you thinking Pipes?" She grabbed her marker.

"Something not fully formed yet. Get Garcia to verify, I’ll get back to you."

"Speak."

"Garcia, I need you to check something for me. I'm looking for a stray bombing in a bazaar somewhere in Egypt approximately 30 years ago."

"Okay, great. That's not too obscure."

"I don't need you to get any details. We're just trying to set a baseline for Jind Allah's truthfulness. I need to know if it happened at all."

"When I know, you'll know."

"Thank you."

^-^

"When the rubble was cleared...half...of my family was dead. It was on that day that I swore my life to vengeance for Allah."

"And for that very reason, those holding you here can never let you leave. Your only hope is to tell me so I can hopefully one day share your struggle with the world."

"Your government won't even admit that I exist. How possibly can you tell my side of the story?"

^-^

"Okay, hear me out." The agents swivelled around to face her, just as Gideon walked in. "There was something bugging me about that story of his childhood. It’s his hesitation." She pointed towards the board. "That’s his story, right. He’s 8, in the bazaar with his family. All of a sudden, bomb falls from the sky and half his family is dead. Right?"

"Yeah," Gideon agreed. "What’s your point?"

"He keeps hesitating in bits he shouldn’t be. The only aspect he doesn’t hesitate about is the bomb. He enunciates," Piper circled some of the words, "with his family. Probably true. But I don’t think he was 8. I think he lost someone in his adulthood, someone he was responsible for." Piper walks over the screen and rewinds the tape. Once its cued, she pauses it. "See that pain. Watch his forehead wrinkle when he talks about the bomb. An 8 year old who loses his parents, that has serious self-esteem issues, but this guy is a leader, he’s arrogant. He says half of his family is dead which would mean he could have siblings except he’s independent, no personal attachments. This man may have memorised the Quran at 9, but his behaviour completely changed when he was talking about his childhood. He was calmer, more rational than he should be."

"Tell Garcia to look for more recent bombings." Reid’s phone rang.

"Hey Hotch, you got Bishop, Gideon, Prentiss, and me."

"We're at cell location number 2. No cell members, no lab, no dispersal devices and we’re still looking for escape tunnels."

"Got it," Reid replied, turning his phone of and turning to the others. "We’re running out of time. The attack's supposed to take place in less than 24 hours."

"So getting Jind Allah to talk is our only chance of finding them," Emily sighed.

"Time I confronted him with the truth. Show him my hand."

^-^

"I'm going to give you the respect of telling you what just happened. A team of agents raided an omega cell location, both of them. Our men are in place in Annandale as we speak. You gain nothing by remaining silent," Gideon informed him as he entered the room. As he spoke, the prisoner’s fists turned to open palms, rubbing slowly against his leg.

"Gideon, something's wrong. This guy seemed relieved by what you just told him." At that statement, Gideon excused himself politely. He walked calmly out the room, then told Reid to call Hotch.

"What’s the problem?" Aaron’s voice was calm and even. Piper felt her heart about to burst.

"It’s a trap. Get everybody out of there. Now! Now! Now!" he yelled into the phone.

^-^

Emily was pacing. Reid was staring at his phone. Piper blinked at the board trying not to imagine the worst, trying not to break down in front of anyone. Gideon kept wringing his hands. Piper’s ringtone jolted her. "It’s Bishop." She closed her eyes. "Thanks Pen." Taking a deep breath, she turned around. "They’re okay. But…" She exhaled shakily. "But they lost a S.W.A.T agent. Kenny. He was a friend of Morgan’s."

"Was anthrax involved?" Emily asked

"No."

"That wasn’t the final target then," Reid exhaled.

^-^

"You look troubled, my friend."

"You killed one of my men."

"I was here with you."

"The second location was a trap. One of my agents was killed in the explosion."

"This is war. We expect casualties. Shouldn't you?"

"He was a good man."

"If he would convert, there would be no reason for him to fear death."

"What do you say to his family?"

"Is he crying, Gideon?" Piper spoke softly. "Look at his hands."

"I say: Where were you to mourn when my son was murdered?"

^-^

"He was lying about the first story. He didn’t hesitate at all here," Piper gently spoke.

"And this time when he mentioned his son," Reid continued, "he looked at his hands, like he had to concentrate to control his anger."

"Which means it must have been more recent." Emily added. Spencer reached for the phone.

"Garcia. What do you have on that bombing.”

"Okay. I'm cross referencing bombings and child victims. Seven years ago, in the heart of Cairo, Egyptian government blamed Hezbollah, but conspiracy theories on the street claimed it was a joint US - Israeli strike that went astray. Your ghost detainee's name is Jamal Abaza."

"How about his son's name? Do you have that?"

"Amir Abaza. 8. Killed in the blast."

"All right. Find out everything you can on that. I'll get back to you soon."

Emily grabbed the radio. "Sir, we know his real identity."

^-^

Garcia spun in her chair, JJ looking on. "Reid, I got something for you."

"You’re on speaker."

"Jamal Abaza's been in the U. S. for a while. He volunteered as the prison imam at the Dearfield correctional center three years ago."

"How could the CIA not know that?" Piper asked.

"They’re focused overseas," Emily replied. "We’re domestic."

"Yeah, they probably sent a request for a domestic information search, and it's somewhere making its way through channels."

"Thanks, Pen, you’re a legend,"Piper praised her.

^-^

"If he was a prison imam," Spencer got up and started pacing, "he must have recruited militant islamic society members. M.I.S is an atypical prison organisation. They pick up an amalgam of ethnicities, those that slip through the cracks, the ones that traditional groups won't accept. It's made up largely of American citizens, citizens with a reason for hating the government," Reid finished

"We’re looking at homegrown terrorists," Gideon noted grimly.

^-^

The four profilers found the two CIA agents sitting with empty coffee cups. "What the hell do you want?"

"The name Jamal Abaza mean anything to you?"

"Abaza was an imam in Cairo. He preached Jihad to his followers, but he fell off the grid seven years ago."

"That’s because when his son died, he took the Jihad name: Jind Allah. He came to America to recruit sleeper cells." At Gideon’s words, the agents stood up.

"You’re telling us that that detainee in there is Jamal Abaza?"

"He was also a prison imam in Virginia three years ago," Reid interrupted. "Are you familiar with the Militant Islamic Society?"

"They’re homegrown?"

"We know the cell that Abaza put together has access to anthrax," Emily added, "but we can't find any reports of any going missing in the States."

"We have protocols that we have to follow."

"You really going to allow a terrorist attack on U. S. soil because of protocols? I told you what I learned in there because you and I, FBI, CIA, right now we have the ability to break through all the protocol and share information."

"Let me see what we have."

"Coordinate with Agent Jareau and Penelope Garcia at Quantico," Gideon said irritably, marching back into the office.

"You think it’ll work?" Reid asked.

"I don’t know."

"CIA’s tough, They play it pretty close to the vest."

"Well, if we don't all work together, more people are gonna die."

15 minutes later, Piper walked back into the office.

"I just got a call from Garcia. Whatever you said must have worked, Gideon, because Penelope found a Dutch firm called Genimmune reported that they may have had a security breach involving anthrax last week."

"May have?" Emily asked.

"Apparently, they’re still doing a security and inventory sweep, but the real kicker is that they may be missing up to 20 grams of lab grade anthrax."

"That could potentially kill a quarter billion people."

^-^

"We have less than ten hours before the new crescent moon rises," Emily worried.

"Nine," he corrected.

"Aren’t you worried?"

"I’ve been with him long enough to trust him." He smiled at Emily.

"Well, you can worry slightly less. Hotch just texted me that they have a lead. Someone called Tariq Muhammed. Dutch citizen, Islamic convert. Traveled here 4 days ago under his original name, Andre Janssen. Perfect for a sleeper agent.”

^-^

Hotch and Morgan stepped out of their vehicle in front of Janssen’s house and walked over to the agents in blue.

"Infrared scanning still shows no one inside. We're doing a soft entry in case it's booby trapped." The agents in biohazard suits barged through the door, separating, many clearing the house quickly, except for one.

"Sir, get in here!"

Half an hour later, their chief walked out to the two BAU agents. "We have 5 deceased males and what looks to be a crude lab, all shot in the head execution style."

"Any anthrax on the scene?"

"Only residue. There's also packing and tags from 4 new backpacks."

"Backpacks?" Morgan looked to his boss.

"They’re already on the move. We're too late."

^-^

"Okay, thanks, Morgan." Spencer looked at his team. Piper was on the verge of breaking. His mentor was staring intently at Abaza. Emily was pacing. "The lead went cold. They were too late."

He saw them all break a little more. Gideon slammed his fist on the table and walked out. Emily said she needed a coffee. Spencer watched as Piper reached her breaking point. She looked at the blue marker in her hand, and flung it across the room. He didn’t even see it bounce off the window and barely heard it clatter to the floor. Before he knew it, the consultant was crying into his shoulder. Spencer didn’t say a word. There was no need. She just needed to be held. He felt her calm down, felt her squeeze for a heartbeat and then felt her step away. "Sorry," she spoke softly, like a mouse. She sniffled and he saw her push the pain away. This was what he hated about his job. The tension hanging in the air, the tantalising steps before a break in the case and seeing the tangible traces of a hard case linger in someone’s soul. "Tell me Gideon has a plan. That we’re not just waiting for a magical sign."

"I think he has a plan."

"5 people are dead, Spence. Because I can’t figure that psychopath out."

"This isn’t on you."

"Isn’t it, though? He said it, very clearly on the plane. Emily was meant to figure out the nuances, you were meant to see the behavioural tics. I was meant to predict it, but he’s just sitting there. Calm and iridescent. As though he doesn’t know that 5 people are dead." She closed her eyes.

"We have time, Piper, just stick it out." She still didn’t open them.

"Calm." She opened her eyes. "He’s so calm, why? He created the sleeper cell, which means he planned it didn’t he?"

"Yeah, so?"

"So we only have 8 hours left until sunset, why isn’t he more worried?"

"Overconfidence, arrogance? You profiled that. Where are you going with this?" He saw your eyes widen.

"We need to overload him. Let’s see what happens if we give him a power trip."

^-^

When Reid and Gideon walked back in the interrogation room, he was still praying. "Have you finished?" Gideon asked.

"As you said, the sun is set."

"Yes. I'd like you to meet a colleague of mine. Dr. Reid." He gave an awkward wave.

"May we speak?"

"Of course. I have a little time." When the agents stared at him blankly, he clarified, "That was a joke. I have all the time. Please."

"A joke, well, we're making progress. Is there no way for this thing to end? This Jihad?"

"The Jihad will end when Allah wills its end."

"Then how will you know that it is Allah's will?"

"When the Jihad ends."

"Right. I have been lying to you. My colleague has been outside watching us as we talked on monitors. Watching your body language, trying to figure you out."

"Were you successful?"

"Somewhat," Reid stated, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Your name is Jamal Abaza. Your son Amir was killed in 2003 in the bombing at the Mahfouz bazaar in Cairo. Since then, you've been recruiting M. I. S. members in prison by convincing them that U. S. economic policies are exploiting third world nations and turned them into extreme fundamentalists by promising a better existence with Allah."

"I would say that you were more than somewhat successful."

"But I did not learn where your M. I. S. cell was going to make an anthrax attack in the U.S. at the new crescent tonight. I have no knowledge of such a thing. "

"Yes, you do, Mr. Abaza. And there is still time." Gideon’s face went slack. He raised a hand to his earpiece. "What?…Are you sure?" Slowly, the profiler lowered his hang, his throat dry. As he slumped away, Reid followed him into the other room. Abaza started praying again, reciting the Qu’ran, only for Gideon to come back in, the news playing in the background

"Something has happened?"

"How could you? You choose to contort Islam into an excuse for a life of violence. You have perverted your faith to justify murder."

"Now we are finally chatting, Gideon," said Abaza, ignoring the three young profilers behind Gideon.

"You accuse Americans of being puppeteers of the third world, yet you used your own people's faith tonight to make them dance for you. Why? Why is it always those who profess to be the most fervent believers in this war? They always manipulate other people to die for them." Abaza stood up, eye blazing.

"Does your president go into battle? Or does he send your children?"

"Tonight… All those innocent people."

"There is no such thing, Gideon. They were infidels. And they were engaged in activities that spread American policies over the entire world. Your incessant need to own things, material things. Your capitalism rests on the back of third world countries. No one's hands are clean. No one is innocent. "

"Those people tonight, they were innocent. They never hurt you," Gideon emphasised.

"They hurt me by existing. Yes, the infidels shall fall at the hands of the righteous. And that is when the Jihad will end."

"So you are ready to murder 4 billion people."

"America has learned nothing from the past. You harden targets like your power plants, but you leave the soft root for our taking. What has happened tonight will affect your economy for years, the way September 11 affected air travel. And maybe the next time a giant shopping centre opens," he said as Emily walked back inside,"people will think twice before going. And maybe next it will be a school. Hey!" he called to the retreating agents.

"You can shut the video feed down now, Garcia, thanks."

"Has the sun not set yet?"

"No," Reid said, closing the door behind him.

"A shopping centre, a mall," Emily spoke into her phone. "It’s a grand opening tonight not long after sunset. That gives you about an hour."

^-^

Back at Quantico, Morgan and Hotch rushed to the elevators right when JJ caught them.

"Grand opening of the USA mall today,"JJ informed them. "It’s the third largest in the country, and it's right smack in the middle of McLean, Virginia."

"Let’s move."

^-^

As Hotch ran into the mall, he yelled back, "Morgan, I'm going to find the security office." In that moment, the profiler was called by another agent, motioning towards a van. The doors opened to the sight of young man in uniform, shot, execution style.

"Looks like loading dock security."

"Should we evacuate?" the agent asked.

"No, no. We'd have mass panic. Let's go."

"Morgan, I've got 4 guys on the east end of the roof. Morgan, it’s the air vents"

Derek put his mask on as he relayed the message to his team. "Move!"

The team moved upwards to the roof, scanning for activity. After a few minutes of walking, Morgan spotted 4 individuals near the air vents. Gaining sufficiently close, he yelled out, "Don’t move! Put the devices down and put your hands where I can see them!"

The member closest to the far end pulled out a machine gun. "Gun!"All he saw was the spray of bullets, three down, and one fleeing the scene. As Derek gave chase, the man turned to face the agent with a gun. Two shots rang out and the man fell through the glass, into the mall below.

^-^

Aaron came home to a seemingly empty house, save for the faint sound of a broadcast. "Haley?" He called out.

"Hey, in here," she replied. "You’re home. Did you see that there was an attempted robbery at the new mall? I'm glad I cancelled Jack's photos. I just decided I wanted you to be there. It's better if we do it as a family. Is everything ok?"

He looked at his baby boy and his wonderful wife. "Yeah, everything's perfect."

^-^

Ralph Waldo Emerson once said in order to learn the most important lessons of life, one must each day surmount a fear.

^-^

On the jet, Emily decided to ask the question that was bugging her."When did you know you were gonna have to trick him?"

"The first time I talked to him." Piper looked up from her Bertram Stoker novel.

"You realised you couldn't break him?"

"Well, I realised he was too smart to have had that nextel phone registered to him accidentally. He drew us there. He wanted our presence at Gitmo to confirm that he was successful.

"And that's when you started moving up the time of his prayers."

"If I'd used an actual clock, he might have caught on."

"So when did you figure it out?" Emily turned to Piper.

"I knew Gideon had a strategy and it was bothering me how relaxed Abaza was. That’s when it clicked for me."

"So it was all a chess game," Reid chuckled.

"We won this round, but you heard him. Jihad never ends."

Reid moved his queen to the corner. Gideon moved his rook into position.

"Mate."

"I quit," Spencer smiled. "Yield. Surrender. Capitulate. I'm gonna take a nap." Piper turned the page of her book.

"Prentiss."

"Sir?"

"You play?"

"Yes, sir, I play." Emily smiled as she moved into Reid’s seat.

#spencer reid #jason gideon #emily prentiss #criminal minds #spencer reid x oc #gideon #bau #hotch #aaron hotch hotchner #jj #jennifer jareau #penelope garcia #derek morgan #baby girl #chocolate thunder #bau x oc

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that-damn-girl · 4 years

Text

His

(Oneshot)

Pairing: Stucky (Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers) (MCU)

First part of my collection of oneshots/drabbles for Stucky in the same universe in chronological order - His. Could be read as a STAND ALONE since ‘His’ is NOT a series.

Type: Fluff, mutual pinning, best friends to lovers trope.

Words: 3800+

Summary: Steve couldn’t grab his hand once and lost Bucky for 70 years. Now that he had an opportunity, he wasn’t about to let go.

Warning: Ignore anybody’s death in ‘Avengers: Endgame’.

A/N: This is my first story ever! It is also a submission. I am really thankful of @the-omni-princess for giving me the chance to take part in her 1K writing challenge.

The world was greatly different than from what it was a decade ago. Progression through seven decades was a whole another story. One that the two hundred year old super soldiers were greatly overwhelmed with.

Bucky had accidentally clicked a few extra buttons when he was trying to navigate through Netflix on Tony’s why-the-hell-is-a-TV-curved-and-ridiculously-large-and expensive television screen. Instead of various Disney movies that were displayed earlier, he saw a live feed of Gerald, Tony’s alpaca, grazing in the backyard.

He didn’t know until then that one could use the TV as a monitor to view feeds from different surveillance cameras. A few decades later they’d make it a fucking portal to go through, he thought. In all honesty, although confused, Bucky was throughly amused with all the new advancements he had witnessed so far.

He tried clicking a few more buttons to revert back to Netflix, but all that he saw was different parts of the house through the cameras. He kept it up until the feed from the kitchen pulled up, revealing Steve and Morgan making homemade cheeseburgers. Because ofcourse, this was Tony Stark’s house, with never-ending supply for making cheeseburgers, and they were dealing with Tony Stark’s child, a never-ending blackhole for cheeseburgers.

From after the “Blip”, who the fuck calls the most strangest event in the history that, old relationships were being mended while new ones were formed. Things between Tony and Steve were still rocky until everyone was brought back; until their final mission. They weren’t perfect by any means, but surely they were starting to get better with time, effort and understanding from both the sides.

In order to reduce the emotional distance between his former family members and his new ones, Tony wanted them to spend some quality time together. He wanted Morgan to have good people to look up to, good people to learn from, good people to guide her. Moreover, he wanted her have a good big family and to feel the love and adoration he always wanted as a child. And, as per Tony, what was better than babysitting for this?

Pepper and Tony would enjoy date nights once or twice a month, while one or few of the team members would babysit Morgan at their cabin. This time, Steve volunteered. Bucky, who wanted nothing more than to make up for the lost time with Steve, volunteered to tag along.

At the cabin, as Tony and Pepper prepared to leave for the night, Morgan was a little anxious. She knew Steve, but she hardly knew this metal armed stranger who accompanied him. She had seen various documentaries on all the avengers and she knew of Bucky as Caption America’s childhood best friend who fell off a train but was saved by some fellow human beings. Tony had shielded her from the dark parts in everyone’s stories for now. Although she didn’t know Bucky personally, she trusted him because Steve trusted him.

Bucky watched their dinner being prepared by Morgan and Steve…his Steve…

How he wished he could say that.

The domesticity of the look fluffed up his heart; it mesmerised him. Steve mesmerised him.

Back in the day, every young gentleman had more or less the same goals. A beautiful girl to wake up cuddled with, a decent enough job to support their family, unforgettable fun times with their girls in their arms, a lively brownstone with their kids laughing and running in the backyard, and never-ending happiness in their lives. Like all others, Bucky wanted it all too. Except, he wanted it all with Steve.

At the moment, however, he wanted to go back to Netflix. Cursing for not thinking of it earlier, he asked Friday to do so just at the moment Steve and Morgan joined him.

“What, I made dinner for three and you couldn’t even choose a movie to watch?” Steve said with humor in his eyes as he set the food tray on the center table and sat on the couch.

“Just wanted the little princess here to have her choice. Again.” Bucky flashed a toothy grin to Morgan. She giggled at that.

“A princess, yes,” she said flashing her own toothy grin with one incisor missing, “but hey, not little! I am almost six years old. Mom and dad say I am a growing girl. A growing girl, not a little girl.” She tried to make a face as serious as an ‘almost six’ year old could with her hands at her hips. Both old men laughed at that.

“I apologise for the incorrect words used, my lady. How about I rephrase it? What would our brave and beautiful growing princess like to watch tonight?“ Bucky sat on the other end of the couch.

“Frozen, please!” She squealed with excitement as she sat between them. And so, ‘Frozen’ it was.

The movie progressed and the cheeseburgers had met their fate. All three of its occupants were slumped down on the couch, enjoying the movie and munching on fries. Bucky straightened his posture a bit and extended his arm to rest behind him, bent at the elbows, on the head rest of the couch as his body curved a bit towards Morgan. Having not seen the movie before, he was so engrossed in it that he failed to notice that another arm had already claimed the spot. The back of his fingers touched those of Steve’s, palm facing each other, a little proturded behind the couch.

Normally, he would would have retreated his hand like all the other times he had. This time though, he wanted to know what would happen if he didn’t. The need to explore the boundaries rose within him. The want to rebell, to ignore the illogical age old stigmas, and act on what he wants, what he thought was right. He didn’t know if he was defying society’s unnecessary made up rules. He had wanted a chance to be with the love of his life since forever. He planned on taking the chance. The realisation made him nervous.

All of a sudden he became too aware of his surroundings. The movie was forgotten. His heart beat loudly in his chest. He panicked, didn’t know what to do further. Would it be fruitful, he thought. He was very unsure of his newest decision to have what he had wanted all his life. He wanted to shift his arm, but at the same time, he did not.

Acts like these were considered scandalous in his time when men did it with other men. He was conditioned from his childhood days to not seek comfort in a man's touch. However, the twenty first century was different from the twentieth. The beliefs and practices in this age were different than those in his.

Peter, the rookie, along with Shuri, the genius, tried to keep him updated with the changes that had happened in the world while the time his freedom had not been his. He was slowly coming around to using gadgets on his own.

As time passed, HYDRA advanced it’s technologies. The Winter Soldier was not taught about using them though. He was the deadliest soldier in the history of mankind, and their greatest asset. The possibility of him going rogue anyhow was too risky for any of his handlers to entertain.

His teenage friends had introduced him to internet and many spects of it. The nerd in him was overjoyed. He learnt about vines and memes. Caught up with the new movies and all time classics he had missed. Got to know about PRIDE.

He loved how people were expressive in this new era. Although not totally eradicated, social biasey regarding gender, racial and religious discrimination plagued a much smaller population than in his time. People were more logical and radical with their thoughts in this regard atleast. One could be with whoever they wanted, live a life however they wanted. People were supportive and respective of other’s preferences and choices. Bucky loved it all. But he didn’t know how to talk about it with the man he loved with all his heart.

Although he suspected it, he didn’t know for sure if Steve felt the same way about him. Sure there were lingering touches here and there and hugs that lasted a bit too long for best friends, but it was hard to decipher the intentions behind them. He knew he had to talk to Steve about it at some point or the other. Then why not take a step towards it then? That’s why he decided he would take charge then.

Slowly and meekly, Bucky took a deep breath lightly and nestled his little finger in the crook of Steve’s little finger. He remained as still as possible as he sensed Steve stiffen. He cursed at himself loudly in his head. Surely Steve didn’t want him like that. Bucky was just Steve’s childhood bestfriend, who had been with him through thick and thin, literally. He was a reminder to Steve of what his earlier life was, not the desire to look forward to a future with better improvements.

His thoughts paused when he felt a movement against his ring finger. He realised Steve had nestled his own third finger against his. His heart rate picked up again. He felt little spurts of confidence break inside of him which led him to join their middle fingers. His heart did a happy lil jump when when Steve moved forward his own index finger, soon their fingers were interlaced.

Warmth seeped through Bucky’s arm. He felt full in his heart, in a way he couldn’t describe. Just holding hands like this, the simplest of gestures of affection, was a big deal for these two men when doing it with each other. The only times they’ve held hands is to when one needed to drag the other or needed help being pulled up during mission. Bucky finally felt how it was like not holding hands for necessity but just because his heart desired it.

He felt a sliver of hope. His mind though, felt full and empty at the same time. Maybe his suspicions were correct, maybe not. He couldn’t think straight with the weight of the Steve’s hand encompassing, encircling, enveloping his. He preferred not to think too much and just enjoy it while he could.

Little did he know that Steve considered him as his childhood bestfriend, his buddy, the driving force to want to be better both before and after the war, and so, so much more. Steve couldn’t grab his hand once and lost him for 70 years. He wasn’t letting go now.

They were in the same position throughout the movie. Too afraid of any change changing the other’s mind.

As the movie ended, Morgan was hungry again. She wanted to have a chocolate milkshake before she could go to bed. Both men were hesistant about it, but couldn’t say no to her puppy dog eyes. Again.

As the men prepared it in the kitchen, she busied herself with finding a stuff toy she forgot where she last kept it.

After the movie, both men weren’t happy with not having any physical touch anymore. Since they had had a taste of it, they longed for more. But both were too unsure of themselves to initiate.

Bucky once again saw Steve tinkering with the ingredients in the kitchen as his hip leaned against the counter. The domesticity of the look fluffed up his heart once again. He wanted to hold his hand once again, forever and never let go.

Steve lined the inside of Morgan’s cup with chocolate sause just the way he had seen Wanda do it once. A bit of it dripped on the back of his palm just below his thumb on the hand he was holding the cup with. So focused on the task at hand, he didn’t notice it.

He had an ithy feeling at the junction between his moustache and slight beard. Placing the cup at the counter he went to scratch the itch with the same hand smeared and the chocolate sause at the corner of his mouth rather messily. He noticed it now. Bucky did too.

While Steve looked around for paper napkins, Bucky leaned off the counter, turned fully toward Steve and wiped the mess with his metal thumb in two slow strokes as his metal palm lay against his cheek.

Steve stiffened again. Bucky cursed at himself again.

He shouldn’t have done that. Holding hands was one thing. Cupping cheeks was another. Not removing your hand when the requirement for the said action was fulfilled, was a whole another level.

Again Bucky wanted to remove his hand, because he feared he was stepping over Steve’s boundaries, but he didn’t want to at the same time, because his heart just wanted to do so.

His eyes moved from Steve’s lips to his eyes, oceanic blue just like him. Someone said the truth about being able to look into one’s soul through their eyes. Because right at that moment, he saw himself in Steve.

Both were simple men before the war. Both wanted someone to love, to be with them through their highs and their lows, to be with them and support them at all times, to trust and confide in them, to share the silliest and most important things with them, to remember them and be remembered by them. Both wanted this 'someone’ to be each other. Both longed for each other.

As they affectionately looked at one another, Bucky glided his thumb over Steve’s lips once, then twice. Despite it being his cold metal-arm, all Steve felt was sweet warmth.

Bucky’s eyes moved back to his lips. He leaned forward after gulping. Steve followed right after him.

Earlier, the societal norms were against them, then time. Right then, both were in their favour. However, they forgot an almost six year old factor.

Right before their lips could touch, just a centimetre apart, Morgan came back in the kitchen yelling, “I found it. Finally!”

Shocked to the core at sudden intrusion, both men jumped apart is they had touched lava. A slight tinge of pink could be seen on both their faces. Suddenly feeling slightly embarrassed and not wanting to make eye contact, both looked at Morgan.

She held a cute red and gold teddy shaped Ironman. Steve let out a sigh and a small laugh simultaneously, dipping his head low. Bucky smiled.

Steve went back to making her milkshake and handed her the finished product. The hungry child drank it one go. They then took her upstairs, made her take a bath and brush her teeth.

When they tucked her under the cover and proceeded to leave, she quietly asked them to tell her a bedtime story.

“Sure princess,” Steve sat on one side of her bed, leaning against the head rest, legs half down and one hand behind her pillow.

Bucky just stood there, unsure what to do. Morgan looked at him expectantly. Steve nodded at him and he went to sit on the other side of her bed, copying Steve.

“What kind of a story do you want to listen?” Steve asked combing through her hair.

“A love story!” She looked excited.

Steve wasn’t great with stories for kids. He looked at Bucky, intially for help, but then he looked into his eyes and immediately smiling down at Morgan said, “Once upon a time, there were these two people, two friends, Stephanie and James. Best friends actually.”

He looked up at his best friend. It took Bucky a moment before he caught onto Steve’s play. He could only stare at his friend, with eyes a little wide and surprise on his face. He understood why there was a female character alongside James and not a male. He was anxious to hear what Steve had to say next.

Steve continued, “They had been so for as long as one could remember. Always playing together, running together, being together, no matter what. They cared for each other, always had each other’s backs.

“They protected each other, even from the meanest bullies. They took hits for each other if it meant the other stayed out of harm’s way.

“If someone needed to find one of them, they could as well search for the other since they always stayed by each other’s side.

“Where one went, the other followed. A friendship like theirs was so rare. Luckiest were the people who had even a fraction of what they had.”

Steve took Bucky’s hand behind Morgan’s pillow in his and interwove their fingers. He looked at him with a fuzzy feeling inside his chest as he said, “Their love for each other unparalleled by any other.” He squeezed his fingers.

Bucky’s heart swelled. He squeezed right back. Something burst inside of him. He didn’t know what, but it made him feel giddy like never before.

“Stephanie idealiesed James for his bravery, his confidence-”

“And James idealised Stephanie for her goodness, innate goodness.” Bucky intervened with a smile brighter than the stars.

Lost is the beauty of Bucky, both inside and out, Steve took a while before he continued, “There was a group of bad people who wanted brave men like James for their own cruel intentions. They kidnapped him and Stephanie couldn’t stop them.

Like any other close friend, she missed him dearly. She was angry at herself. She hated the day James was taken from her. She hated her inability to save him. She regretted not trying harder.”

Steve was looking at his lap. Bucky tightly squeezed his hand and said, “She didn’t know that there was nothing that she could have done to save him. It wasn’t her fault by any means.

“There was Fate which played it’s tricks. Nobody is stronger than the turn of events undertaken by it. Nobody could be above Destiny, no matter how much they wished. Their pair was just an unlucky lot, unfortunate enough to be under Fate’s wrath.”

Steve stared at Bucky, not believing what he said. To an extent, he knew he couldn’t have saved Bucky from falling off the train all those years ago, but the guilt of not just trying harder ate him alive everyday. He replayed every decision he made that morning, every action he did. The 'what if’s never ended…

Nevertheless, Steve said with eyes on Morgan, “After a very, very long time, Stephanie found a way to rescue James from those bad people. She didn’t believe there was finally a chance she could be with her long lost companion again. She was determined to take that chance and make it happen anyhow.

“She did succeed in rescuing him. She had never been as happy as that day before. He returned to her a little broken and damaged, but she didn’t mind it since he was stronger in his own right more than ever. When she had said she would be with him forever, she meant during both his highs and lows.

“Even time was not able to break their preciy bond. Her affection for him had never faltered. Instead, it had increased tenfold.

“The sudden detachment, the longing, the way she felt after their reunion, it all made her realise…” He stopped speaking and looked at Bucky again, lower lip shivering.

He took a deep intake of breath and said, “She realised she had loved him all along. She loved him in every sense of the word, in every possible direction, in any possible way. Together, they fought their way through the bad men, making sure they’d never take him away from her again.”

“Did he love her back?” Morgan asked him. Steve looked down at her before raising his questioning eyes at Bucky, who just beamed down at Morgan and said, “Of course, princess. That’s why it is a love story.”

Smiling then, she asked again, “Did they live their lives happily after?” Now it was Bucky’s turn to look at Steve, who replied, “It took a little while, yes, but their happily after was the most beautiful one out there.”

Content with the story, she thanked them. “It was beautiful.” She had said. Indeed it was.

Exchanging their good-nights, they made their way downstairs. As Morgan slept peacefully, they were left alone with their racing hearts.

The big question arose then. What would they do now? They didn’t need to hide or be evasive from anyone. They were away from prying eyes and judgmental minds.

Neither Bucky nor Steve knew how to proceed, still overwhelmed.

Daring to initiate, Steve softly called out to the other man in the house as they stood near the stairs on the ground floor. Bucky turned around towards him. They stared intently at each other without saying anything. Nervousness clogged their nervous systems.

Bucky knew now was the time to come clean. Everything was out in the open already. Their feelings were mutual. There was hardly anything to be afraid of.

Repeating 'You can do it, you can do it’ in his head several times, Bucky took a step closer towards Steve. “About upstairs,”

“I meant every word I said, Buck.” Steve quickly ushered before he could say anything else. “I-”

Bucky took a step forward, cupped his cheeks and crashed his lips with Steve. He didn’t need to hear anything else.

It was the same man for whom he had pledged to be strong and brave, to help and to protect at all times. To stick with forever. Steve had left his newfound family of superheroes for him, defied over a hundred nations for him. If it wasn’t for what Bucky hoped it was, he didn’t know the workings of the world anymore.

Steve responded in kind. He grasped the back of his neck and laid a hand on the small of his back, pulling him closer. His heart thumped in his chest. They kissed and kissed and kissed, releasing years of pent up emotions.

When they parted, Bucky rested his head at the crook of Steve’s neck, breathing his scent, basking in it. Even cloud mattresses could not make him as comfortable as he had felt in that moment.

Softly but confidentaly, without any doubts, since They were way past liking each other, Steve whispered in his ear, “I love you, jerk.”

Goosebumps rose on his skin. “I love you too, punk.” Grinning madly, he kissed him again.

Steve pulled back a little to look at his love of his life. He was smiling too. Finally, finally Bucky was his, and Bucky could call him his. However, Bucky’s insecurities were still ever prerent.

“Hey, you… you’re… you’ll be with me, right?” He looked at the floor.

Pecking his lips strongly, Steve said, “Never apart.” He knew Bucky needed more assurance. Who knew him better than Steve?

“Yes Bucky, it’ll always be you. You’ll be in my heart. From this day on, now and forever more.”

With amusement in his eyes, Bucky said, “Don’t do anything stupid”

“How can’t I? We’re together till the end of the line, love.”

~~~

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elementsbyksorbe · 3 years

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Homeowners Jump Into Home Improvement Projects

“There’s nothing like staying at home for real comfort.” – Jane Austen

We all have something in our home that we would change if given the opportunity. Or had the time. The last months have given homeowners the time, and a lot of it. And in that time, as most spent quite a few more hours in our homes, many homeowners decided it was time for a change.

“With social distancing requirements, changes in work style and recommendations to stay home, the pandemic really put the focus on our living spaces,” says Kathy Sorbe, owner and lead designer at The Elements in Storm Lake and Ankeny. “Homeowners quickly recognized the limitations in their homes, and many decided it was time for a change.”

Sorbe says some of these projects were do-it-yourself with homeowners armed with a paintbrush and social media inspiration. But many took this opportunity to think about their home, how they use it and live in it and what they can do to improve it on a bigger scale with The Elements’ Design Team.

“The first question that most homeowners ask when undertaking a major remodel or renovation is whether it’s worth it,” says Mishelle Lalone, a designer at The Elements in Storm Lake. “Some changes can really add value to your home. Others may not add dollars to the appraisal, but these updates and upgrades can add intangible rewards like comfort and convenience. In these cases, the homeowner’s goal is simply to make their home more enjoyable.”

A pool is a perfect example. It’s not an inexpensive upgrade, and some real estate professionals even believe that it can decrease the value of your home or make it more challenging to sell. However, a pool can add hours and hours of family fun, even in the limited time Iowa’s season allows and is an additional space to entertain and relax.

Will a pool bring you a dollar-for-dollar return on your investment? No. Will you ever see wider smiles on your children and grandchildren when you tell them there will be a pool? Probably not.

Sorbe and her team help homeowners balance these two goals.

Homeowners are heading downstairs in a new way. Rather than just extra space, lower levels are great for entertaining, games and sometimes even a quiet getaway. A wet bar and game table equipped with roller chairs are adjacent to an enviable home entertainment system, making this lower level a favorite spot in this home.

According to Zillow, more Americans are interested in renovating their kitchens than any other room, which isn’t surprising to the Design Team at The Elements. Kitchen remodels are the most popular home improvement project in America. Along with bathrooms, they’re one of the priciest, so input and assistance from a design professional can save you time, money and a lot of headaches.

“It’s commonly held belief that remodeling your kitchen will increase the value of your home, matching the investment on the project,” says Lalone. “Spend $20,000 on a remodel and add $20,000+ to your asking price. While not always the case, there is an opportunity to add real value to your home with an updated kitchen.”

Sorbe says that not only do homeowners frequently add the cost of the project to the value of the home, a well-thought-out, timeless and functional kitchen can add more value than the dollars invested in the project.

Kitchens are easily the most-used room in a home, and they can tend to show wear, which can quickly make the space look dated, worn and tired.

“A timeless and simple kitchen that’s functional for the homeowners is the best option,” says Sorbe. “Lots of detail, like an elaborate backsplash, decorative painting or even intricate flooring will get busy and tiresome. We like to add details in artwork and the accessories, which keep the space fresh.”

Three large windows dramatically transform this from a basement bedroom to a lovely guest room. The bed has very few frills and notice how the large artwork makes the space seem even bigger.

We all love our families, but whether you’re a youngster, teenager or parent, we all need our privacy, and many homeowners look to create this solitary space in the primary bedroom.

“Creating a primary bedroom suite with an attached bathroom – double sink a must! – and walk-in closets is not always as challenging as some homeowners think,” says Lalone. “Moving away from dressers and chests and toward well-designed storage in walk-in closets can free up space and create a more restful, soothing bedroom where you can relax and recharge.”

The Design Team also recommends moving away from elaborate bedding, instead choosing more simple styles in natural fabrics like cotton and linen. And just like most other spaces, the designers add energy, color and whimsy in the artwork and accessories.

Most importantly, outdoor living furniture and accessories must be durable and able to stand up to everything Mother Nature tosses out. Homeowners are expanding their usable space outdoors. Defining the space with a patio, deck or even pergola, homeowners find these outdoor living spaces used and enjoyed frequently.

An extra amount of time indoors over the past few months has many homeowners looking to maximize the amount of living space in their homes, and to do that, many are looking down.

“Lower levels offer a lot of opportunity to expand,” says Lalone, “adding valuable square footage and usable space.”

The Design Team has added extra bedrooms, theatre spaces and home offices, as well as transformed this frequently unused space into man caves, bar areas and even game rooms. The potential in this often-overlooked space is limitless.

“In many new constructions, builders are taking a very different approach with the lower level,” says Sorbe. “They are using larger windows, finer details and, probably the biggest change, raising the ceiling height in the basement to 8, 9 or even 10 feet. The bigger windows and elevated ceilings completely remove the ‘basement vibe’ from these spaces. Gone is that underground feeling that some basements can’t avoid.”

What if you don’t have 9-foot ceilings in the basement? Can you still convert it to a lively, usable space? Sorbe says yes. The Design Team can help select colors and even furniture styles that help create the illusion of a more spacious area without a major construction investment.

The Elements loves working outdoors. Spring will be here before you know it; now is the time to plan your outdoor space. There’s time for your custom outdoor furniture to arrive and be ready for the first nice day!

Homeowners aren’t just thinking about the spaces with four walls and a roof; the outdoors offers an abundance of opportunity to expand. Stamped concrete patios and composite deck materials mean these spaces have little to no maintenance, and the setting is pretty amazing.

“I know it’s still cold, and we see far more white than green now, but spring is closer than you think,” says Sorbe. “Now is the perfect time to plan for warmer weather and your outdoor room.”

Outdoor kitchens … even weatherproof televisions with surround sound … mean that relaxing and entertaining outdoors has evolved to a new level of comfort and convenience. And while many people can’t shake the memory of the “lawn chair” that was far from comfortable, Sorbe says their outdoor living furniture doesn’t sacrifice comfort for durability.

“People laugh when we tell them that some of our outdoor lines are more comfortable than the furniture they have in their living room,” says Sorbe. “We get to chuckle when their eyes get wide as they settle into some of the most comfortable seating in the market today!”

The Elements features outdoor living furniture from O.W. Lee, Lexington and Summer Classics, all carefully chosen lines that offer stylish and comfortable pieces that can hold up to even the roughest weather that an Iowa summer can serve up. Sorbe says outdoor living furnishings have to hold up, and you have to love using them.

“Planning an outdoor space can be daunting because homeowners often don’t know where to start,” says Sorbe. “We don’t just work inside … working with homeowners to envision, plan and furnish their outdoor space is one of our favorite things to do. Whether it’s an in-home or in-store consultation, we can help homeowners create the outdoor space of their dreams!”

Gold accents in the lighting and the hardware look fine and smooth so The Design Team used a textured runner on the floor and raw wood and metal accents for contrast. The white-on-white kitchen is the perfect canvas to update in this clean and timeless space.

If your project is bigger than what your paintbrush can handle, learn how The Elements’ Design Team can help you with your remodel, addition or just to refresh your space with a signature Consultation or House Call. Visit them in Storm Lake or Ankeny or online at elementsbyksorbe.com. Like them on Facebook and Instagram and be sure to explore The Elements’ profile on Houzz.com.

#theelements #elementsbyksorbe #interior design #design tips #classic #stormlake #iowa #ankenyiowa #prairietrail #thedistrict

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mxrcayong · 4 years

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the avatar series: 01.16

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chapter sixteen

It seemed as everyone was walking on broken glass today; creeping around as if the very words to even address the events of tonight were venomous. To replace the topic of great anticipation, discussions regarding the weather and newest music favorites echoed throughout the island.

The White Lotus Society hasn’t had to prepare for an event similar since even before Avatar Aang passed away. Consequently, even the most experienced society members are unsure how to help out Tari and her companions. Everyone, even Sukiara, has been walking around the island as if one wrong move – one misstep will cause the ocean to swallow Bak Mei whole.

The only society members who seemed to know what today needed were the chefs, as they produced what seemed to be an endless amount of food from all four of the nations in order to give everyone a little bit of home before the event of tonight.

Yuta was focused on the plate in front of him, his utensils digging deep into the series of dishes he chose from the buffet. “This reminds me so much of home.” He moaned, biting into the Komodo Chicken prepared for lunch.

“Okay but would you rather know every native language known to man or have all the knowledge, except languages, from Wan’s Library?” Sonan asked, ignoring Yuta’s praise, as she gulped down her Mango and Lychee tea.

“Wan’s Library, 1000%.” Doyoung insisted, furrowing his eyebrows and flinching his head back. The answer was obvious to him, he’d bet his extra bowl of tofu and mung bean curry.

Yuta hummed, “I agree.”

“I’d say languages.” Jisung shrugged as he finished his side plate of octopus fritters. His answer made Yuta and Doyoung turn their heads harshly to face him in shock. “What! Native languages allows you to speak to everyone in this world, you can learn relevant knowledge from them!” His voice increased in pitch as he defended his opinion.

“No yeah, I agree with Jisung.” Kilari jumped up to defend him, despite her mouth still being full of smoked sea slug pieces. “I rather be able to talk to everyone living than know everything about the past.”

Yuta faked disgust, before turning to Johnny who was drinking his favorite cherry-berry smoothie. “You?”

“I would say languages so I can translate my articles and even reach out to larger audiences.” Johnny shrugged, “But, I would love the information on fighting techniques from the library.”

“You have to pick one!” Sonan challenged.

“You haven’t picked yourself!” Johnny teased, his head leaning in mockingly. Sonan remained tight-lipped as a result, playfully rolling her eyes as if she was annoyed.

Jisung furrowed his eyebrows, “Anyways, wasn’t Wan’s library a myth?”

To Tari’s surprise, it wasn’t only her who shook her head. Tari’s past life witnessed the sinking of Wan’s famous library, but she can’t be certain that he addressed it to the public. From Johnny, Doyoung, and Sonan nodding – she can tell that others have heard the tales. Sonan, however, might’ve been told the stories as a bedtime story as her father was actually there and one of the causes behind the sudden flooding of sand.

Tari smiled. Although the terrible events of tonight are ahead of them, they are able to relax for a while. Yes, through the last few days – they haven’t always been talking about the upcoming battle, but this is the first time Tari relished in this distraction. Despite her recent thinking she’d be better off alone, she can’t be happier with the people she was with now.

She felt overflowing with gratitude. Eventually, she dazed out of the conversation and observed the smiles on their faces – the laughter, the light-hearted conversation. For once, everything felt normal. Everything felt like it had been before the attacks. Tari ended up grinning at anything and everything. Right now, Tari can’t care less if her friendships with them doesn’t transcend lifetimes. What she cares about is that she’s with them now, and there’s no place she’d rather be.

“Tari?” Sonan waved her hand in front of Tari’s eyes, successfully breaking her out of her trance.

Tari’s eyes widened, her eyebrows lifting and humming as if to ask her to repeat what she said. She couldn’t say it with words – her mouth was full of five-flavor soup and she knew if she’d talk right now, it’d look disgusting.

“She said…” Yuta nudged Tari’s knee with his own, a small smirk playing on his lips. “…would you rather live in the Fire Lord’s old beach home or in a home Ba Sing Se?”

“Modern Ba Sing Se or past as in with the Dai Li?” Tari asked, knowing that’ll completely impact her answer. It’s all about being decisive, but like Aang said – the situation matters.

Climbing onto the bison felt like heaving a million rocks to the top of the mountain.

Maybe it’s the knowledge that there is a possibility they’ll die, or they’ll lose something about themselves, be it bending or a sense of carelessness about world events. Maybe it’s the knowledge that after tonight, the city will completely change.

The day full of distracted dialogue and varying conversations has long been forgotten with the sunset ahead of them. They have four hours until the bending event starts, which means around three hours to get there and get on the attendance sheet. It takes an hour and so to get there, but they need time to get out of their White Lotus robes, pajamas, and hand-me-down clothes.

Tari’s companions seem to have never flew a flying bison without the heaviness on their shoulders and the weights in their feet. From travelling there to travelling home, every moment on the bison was thick with tension. The Avatar only wishes that they could experience a ride free of worries. “Shall we sing a song?” Johnny joked, nudging Doyoung who took that as a sign to immediately start singing.

Tari looked at her friends’ faces - all smiling, singing and humming. Despite the anxiety coursing through her veins, she wished this moment never ends.

“I forgot how buff Johnny was.” Kilari gasped, spotting Johnny approach the meeting spot with his sleeveless V-neck black vest and tight black tactical pants Tari recognized from their adventures rock climbing. His muscles were practically bulging, taking everyone’s - particularly Kilari’s - breath away. “Why doesn’t he show it off more often?” She whispered to Sonan and Tari, making the two roll their eyes – although they’re both truly impressed with his figure.

Sonan chuckled, “Don’t check out our friend, oh my gosh.” She rolled her eyes, “Plus, I thought you liked Yuta.” Kilari shrugged with a small smirk.

“Nothing wrong with checking out the views.” She commented off-handily before moving to look at Yuta, who like Johnny, was wearing a sleeveless shirt although more loose with the top buttons undone. “Yuta is definitely not as buff, but still, hot damn.”

Doyoung furrowed his eyebrows. “Why aren’t I getting any comments?” He playfully pouted. Tari immediately brightened up at that comment, chuckling, before going to lovingly hold his arm in a hug.

“We love you really.” Tari smiled up at him, resting her chin on his shoulder.

Sonan nudged Doyoung, “It’s just you came with us so we can’t comment discreetly about what you’re wearing.” Doyoung, unlike Johnny and Yuta who were flaunting their biceps, was wearing a windbreaker over his shirt.

“How we feeling?” Jisung asked through gritted teeth as everyone formed a circle, his anxieties and concern obvious to everyone. “I think we can do it.” Tari had a feeling he was saying that due to the Law of Attraction rather than his own belief.

Tari lifted her hand up and rested it on Jisung’s shoulder, “You can go home.” She smiled sadly, knowing what it’s like to be so young and forced into a dangerous situation. Her arm slithered around his shoulders and brought him to a tight hug, hoping to calm down his nerves. “You’re on the attendance sheet, but it won’t matter. After tonight, it’ll be over.”

And she means it. She’ll die before she lets anything happen to Jisung and her friends.

Jisung shook his head. “I can hold my own.” He insisted, his lips forming a small pout that Tari understands was supposed to be intimidating. Kilari, as a result, reached over and pinched his cheek and chuckled – making Jisung flustered.

“He’s the Mouse.” Yuta winked at Tari - an action Johnny didn’t miss. “Don’t underestimate him.”

Tari sighed. “I’m not,” she explained, “You guys can all go home. This is my fight.”

If Kilari wasn’t held back by Sonan, she would’ve slapped her. “This isn’t just your fight. We love and care about you.” Kilari basically barked, “You don’t have to be alone.”

But being alone is all I know, Tari wanted to respond. You guys deserve better, she wanted to let them know.

“Stop being stupid.” Johnny sighed, “You’d do the same for us.”

“And not just because you’re the Avatar.” Doyoung seemed to read her mind.

“I know I’ve been mad at you recently, but,” Kilari let out – obviously reluctantly. She always hated admitting her mistakes. “I love you more than you know, and I’ll do anything, anything, to protect you.”

Sonan let out a chuckle, “Sounding like a real Fire Sage there, Kilari.” She winked, before reaching out to the right and grabbing Kilari’s hand. Her left hand went to grab Jisung’s. “Tari, we’re in this together. You aren’t forcing us. We’re here because we love you…and because this affects us too.” She teased lovingly. Jisung and Kilari were quick to continue reaching to their sides, holding the hand of whoever is next to them.

Her heart felt elated as she noticed everyone nodding, and slowly start to hold hands. How am I so lucky? A smile graced her face before even realizing.

“Are we really doing this cliché?” Doyoung basically groaned, earning himself a punch from Johnny. “Fine.” Doyoung did the final connection – interlacing his fingers with Tari.

“I would say put our hands in the center and scream ‘Team Avatar’, but that’ll give away our position.” Johnny whispered loudly so that everyone could hear him, making everyone chuckle. Tari could always count on him for lightening the mood.

Sonan smiled at Tari, without Tari noticing. She smiled at how Tari finally looked comfortable in her own skin, how her smile didn’t seem forced. The oldest girl felt proud for how far Tari has gone over the last few days. Tari’s smile even was present when they let go of their hands and huddled closer together. But she had to get back on track. Sukiara wasn’t here and she was the one who knew the plan best. “Okay, Johnny and I will have to sneak in cause we aren’t benders.” She reminded, “so we need at least two of you guys to cause a bit of a scene – Kilari and Yuta, right?” The attendance was sorted out by gender, therefore Yuta would help Johnny sneak in while Kilari would help Sonan in. “But we need to spread out to cover more ground.”

Everyone nodded. “Everyone ready?” And the question was met with seven thumbs up.

Almost in an act of further disrespect, the government decided to hold the event at the NCT theater. The entrances were flooding with security, and Tari was so glad that The White Lotus society created pole weapons in the shape of pens.

The reason for pole weapons? Tari insisted on avoiding causalities. The supporters of the cause may be forced into it rather than wanting to do it.

Making her way through the crowd, her heart was racing miles per second. What if something goes wrong? She thought, What if I’m not a good enough bender?

But eventually, she got to the attendance paper. And Johnny was right. As soon as she said her name, the security told her to go to a ‘special’ area after giving her a stamp on her hand. As soon as she stepped foot inside, she noticed that the shrine for the bender killed in the attacks was ruined – the candles gone. His lights have been dimmed and Tari was infuriated. Her heart hurt for his family, for his children who may forget his legacy of fighting against wrong-doers.

I will die for this cause. She reminded herself. I cannot back out now. This is for the good of everyone. So, she started looking around and memorizing the stadium as organized by the government. She needed to have an upper hand, and that meant making sure they don’t have any upper hands they think they have.

The crowd felt like an overpacked can of tuna – everyone pressed against each other, unable to have their own personal space. They are cattle, stuffed together in one big cage to be slaughtered. But there was one easy way to make through the crowds – evident through the Equalist guards, who were wearing an all-black outfit with hoods and metal masks with green eyes. They looked like they’d be ready for anything, especially as they were armed.

Tari scanned each of the routes, trying to memorize their layout like the back of her hand. The stadium was divided into four parts – ordered like the Avatar Cycle. Water and earth on one side of the stadium, while fire and air on the other side. There were guards circling the stage where boxing would happen, and even more guards marching down and up the divisions. She, herself, was standing in the box where close friends or family would sit to watch the fighters.

She knew whoever was in charge must be in the underground room, where Yuta and Jisung explained most of the training and preparation happens before a fight. I need to find escape routes, she thought as she knew she needed to make sure her friends get out of the arena if needed once the fight starts.

Eventually, her inner voice hushed down as the entrance doors had shut after an hour of waiting. This is where it starts, she thought, no turning back. Tari focused on the sounds of the doors amongst the loud noises of the crowd talking to each other. No one seemed to notice the sound of harsh locks on the door.

She continuously searched the environment, her heart thumping viciously as if it’s trying to break out of her chest. In her smaller box, she recognized four other names from the list. Jaemin and Jeno weren’t there, although they were born the same year and from the North Water Tribe. Then again, they were cancelled out as they ‘showed no signs of being the Avatar’ when visiting Roddie’s house, according to the sheet.

And within minutes, the stage went dark.

“Good evening.” A haunting voice echoed off the floors, bouncing off each body. “I am the leader, Amon.” It sounded almost ghostly yet mechanical. “We are creating a society where no one will have to live in fear again.” From the voice, Tari could describe them as confident, regretless, and eerie.

Suddenly, the lights went back up. A man wearing a mask stood in the center, where the shrine was, with G-Dragon and the Big Bang Crew chained. At every side of the square box, there was a table with someone there. Hundreds and hundreds of metal bands rested there. But dead center - just right behind the man, was a large box that looked like a soundproof booth. “We will be implementing measures to ensure your bending goes to check.” She heard groans from the audience, people trying to push through. “This is a mandatory change, and you will be arrested as soon as you leave the building.” The movement in the crowd stopped.

“Now,” Amon paused for dramatic effect, “are you ready to be equalized?”

She knows it has to be now, she knows this is it. But she wanted to make sure everyone is okay. She felt the breath leaving her chest when she realized she won’t be able to see Doyoung and Johnny – her usual peace of mind.

Tari looked across the crowd to look at the earth nation section. She saw Jisung and Sonan standing within a feet of each other, looking over to her.

You ready? She mouthed.

Jisung closed his eyes and nodded, she turned to Sonan who gave her a look that reminded Tari to do what she needs to do, to do whatever it takes.

And then with the click of the button, the stadium went dark and the only thing she could hear were thousands of screams.

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solacefruit · 4 years

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Hi Grey, I struggle a lot with world building and I think it's easiest for me to learn by example. I was wondering if you had any books or series you'd recommend that you thought did particularly well in the world building department or that you found inspiring. I'm trying to start building a list of things to read, could be any genre

Hello there and thank you for your patience! I’ll be honest, this one’s a challenge to answer, but I’ll do my best. I’ll put it all under a read-more, because I’m going to talk a lot about why I feel these books are good places for thinking about world-building.

Northern Lights, by Philip Pullman. (fantasy)

This one comes up a lot when I’m making recommendations and that’s because I love it. For me, it was deeply formative in many ways, and especially when it came to world-building, because Pullman uses a style of world-building which really clicks for me--which is basically throwing your reader into a world and not explaining much at all, leaving many things gestured at but never explicitly said. Things just happen, things just are, and the reader has to keep up. There’s a lot that goes unsaid in this book, and it means you as a reader have to start thinking and “solving” the gaps in the world yourself. There’s room for speculation and I thrive in that environment, and lean on it heavily in my own work.

A great example of that comes in the first chapter of the novel, on the fifth page and then again on the seventh:

“As Lyra held her breath she saw the servant’s daemon (a dog, like almost all servants’ daemons) trot in and sit quietly at his feet...” - page five. “... and said something to his daemon. He was a servant, so she was a dog; but a superior servant, so a superior dog. In fact, she had the form of a red setter.” - page seven.

That’s good oblique storytelling, because you are told so much and simultaneously so little. From these two tiny pieces, you now know that:

servants usually have dog-shaped daemons

some daemons, even within a family, are “better” than others

daemons mean something about their person

But these pieces tell you enough that you can now speculate and question the world as you read on. Things like:

why do servants have dog daemons?

what makes a red setter daemon better than another dog daemon?

what does a dog daemon mean?

what is the hierarchical system of daemons, who is better than whom?

are people sorted because of their daemons, or do the daemons reflect where the person is sorted to after the fact?

what do other daemons mean?

are these meanings innate or cultural?

The book itself will directly answer maybe one or two questions, hint at a few others, and leave many completely unresolved. But that’s not bad world-building. For me, that’s the kind of world-building I love best. The book can now say, “this person’s daemon is a butterfly,” and you will be primed to read symbolism and significance into that, even in moments where the book itself doesn’t give you any. You’re a participant in creating the world as you read. A little goes a long way.

The Discworld novels, by Terry Pratchett. (fantasy, comedy) If you’re trying to pick a first book, start here.

And now for something completely different. Pratchett’s Discworld is an absurdist world, created to satirise fantasy tropes and play as the stage for social and political commentary. What makes Discworld so interesting as a place to learn about world-building is that it is a world that doesn’t take chronology or “consistency” or “authenticity” seriously. Where a lot of fantasy writers will stress over making sure every detail lines up, and their fans will often get very upset if they find anything “inconsistent” or “incorrect”, Pratchett’s world entirely rejects that way of doing things. Pratchett commented:

“[S]ometimes I even forget [...] where things are ... I don’t think [...] even the most rabid fan expects complete consistency within Discworld, because in Ankh-Morpork you have what is apparently a Renaissance city, but with elements of early Victorian England, and the medieval world is still hanging on. It’s in a permanent state of turmoil, which is very interesting for the author.” (quoted in Hills, Guilty of Literature).

There’s something very liberated and fluid in how Discworld forms, because it’s such a committed pastiche, but it doesn’t at all (at least, for me) undercut believing in the characters or story. I adore Discworld and its characters. I think it’s very valuable to read if you’re in fantasy writing (or speculative fiction in general), because it’s easy to fall into thinking that unless you make everything Perfect and Realistic and Consistent, your world-building isn’t good.

Something else about Discworld worth noting is that, despite being absurd and fluid, it is also grounded in the real. Pratchett’s world is in turmoil, but it includes sewer systems, passages of trade and commerce, and a pervasive sense of the civic life happening and living outside of the plot-line: it’s not just a diorama to be walked through, but a place where people exist and do mundane things and have everyday needs. I personally find it fascinating that the story manages to exist sort of balancing at oppositional ends of the “realism” spectrum at all times, but I think that’s also the key to why it is so successful at what it does.

(Side note: Matt Hills’ chapter in Guilty of Literature is a great read if you want to know more!)

Ancillary Justice, by Ann Leckie (science fiction)

I’m not a big reader of science fiction, because my heart is with fantasy, always. But this series was super interesting and I can recommend it, especially if science fiction is more your flavour! It’s been a while since I’ve read it, so I can’t give the same amount of detail as I’ve done above, but it was thoughtful and intriguing and I loved the ways this trilogy defamiliarised and refamiliarised ideas through the world and characters.

“The Ones who Walk Away from Omelas,” by Ursula K. Le Guin. (short story)

It’s only four pages long, but it’s haunting. I’ve put this story on the list because I feel like Ursula K. Le Guin belongs in many conversations about world-building; her work, in her time, was often radical--and remains so, in many cases. She didn’t flinch away from making her worlds alien, not in the sense of writing about space and people out among the stars (which admittedly she did also do!), but truly questioning and challenging cultural and societal norms and creating new ones, even (and especially) when they were uncomfortable to the status quo.

To me, that’s a core part of good world-building. You can just recreate the world we live in, with all the biases we’re raised to have, with the beliefs and expectations of conduct we have, with all the same bigotry--or you can push yourself to pull it all apart and pick from it the pieces you want to play with. You can push things to their extreme limits, or erase them entirely, or just... slide things a little to the left and make the whole world slightly off. Being able to be flexible in your thinking is vital for making vivid, interesting worlds, and Ursula K. Le Guin's work is a place you can start exploring that kind of thing if you’re unfamiliar with it.

For instance, in her novel Left Hand of Darkness, there is only one pronoun (a theme you’ll notice in Ancillary Justice) and the people of the planet Gethin change sex regularly. In her collection of short stories, “The Birthday of the World and Other Stories,” she writes about sedoretu, a four-way marriage she invents, as well as exploring gender, religion, culture, and society. Any of these are worth taking a look at, if you’re feeling a little boxed in.

However, despite saying all this: I don’t really enjoy her writing! I don’t have fun reading Le Guin’s work in practice; it doesn’t mesh with me beyond my delight at the conceptual elements she discusses. I often feel about reading her work like how kids think about medicine: tastes kind of awful, but it’s good for you. I’m grateful to her for paving the way, but I don’t read her work for fun.

The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of her Own Making, by Catherynne M. Valente.

I’m throwing this one in the ring for a few reasons. One is that I am heavily indebted to nonsense; I grew up on Dr Seuss, Roald Dahl, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland + Alice Through the Looking-glass, Edward Gorey, A. A. Milne, H. R. Pufnstuf, and a little later, A Series of Unfortunate Events and Discworld. This book feels representative of that big love, and taps into what I love about nonsense.

Another reason is that it’s a good example of what I think of as delightful lawlessness in storytelling. It feels--as respectfully and lovingly as I can say this--like a game of mad libs turned into a book, because of how free and wild it is with what is allowed to happen. I think it’s very difficult to do something like this well, but I also think it’s a great place to play around when you’re first beginning to get to grips on world-building. Spin a wheel of options and go, “okay, so there’s a manticore in the basement, what now?” Make up reasons for things on the spot as a game for yourself. Ask and answer questions, just for fun! “Why is there a manticore there?” “It got in through the magic portal.” “Where’s the magic portal?” “It’s an old picture of the protagonist’s grandmother.” “Why is it a portal?” “The grandmother is secretly a witch and the ex-queen of a fantasy land.” “Why is the manticore here?” “Come to retrieve the queen, but accidentally takes the protagonist by mistake.” “Why does the manticore want the queen?” “Extreme Trivia Night at the Castle has really sucked lately. Also she misses her.” And just like that, you’ve got the start of a wacky but not impossible-to-tell story.

My final suggestion isn’t a book, but a podcast!

Be The Serpent (a podcast of extremely deep literary merit).

A fortnightly podcast by three charming writers who discuss a different theme or topic each episode (using a couple of texts as reference material), and will also make media recommendations. I love listening to it and it’s a great place to think about writing, both as a reader and as a writer. I don’t have a lot of writing friends myself, unfortunately, so it’s honestly so valuable to me to be able to hear them discuss their process and ideas on topics I care about.

I hope this helps! Best of luck to you, and please feel free to write in if you have any other questions.

#reply #advice #world-building #book recommendation #tumblr automatically put my reply under a read-more and i can't undo it?? what on EARTH is going wrong with this website

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thesagedahlia · 5 years

Text

🌑 New Moon in Scorpio ♏ what is to come? 🌊💧

This new moon is setting our focus on our individual journey, & the ability to be in union with ourselves & others. While some will be coming to terms with what is truly their emotional understanding of themselves or others, others will be putting their creativity into good use as they continue to find the truth within themselves. Progress & goals are swiftly approaching at this time, & it is high in potency. There may be events that happen abruptly that cause uncertainty, or maybe even loneliness, as some may be experiencing sudden losses in their relationships. This shouldn't alter your peace, harmony or prosperity, for even though burden may weigh upon these issues, you still have the ability to persevere regardless of what financial or material changes are abound for you. Control any feelings of weakness or becoming jaded at this time, & enact your courage, compassion & determination to subdue & soothe hostile forces within yourself & others. Keep tight hold of your principles, as they may be under attack by any adversaries that try to bring illusion to your judgment.

♏: it is important to work through any fears or heartache that may come up for you this new moon. You must be strong enough to look opposition in the face & work through any anxieties that you may have over a situation that you could possibly be obsessive over or have worries about. It's time you choose power over your emotions & don't allow yourself to be bound to what you feel is holding you back. Sorrow & disappointment may come up for you, so be prepared to let go of anything hostile when it comes you way. Don't be tempted to hold grudges, & allow compassion to be a shining trait for you, rather then having opposition to cloud your judgement. It is a work in progress, but somebody's got to do it since it won't be done for you.

♐: emotions may run high for you at this time. There may be situations in which you some clarity has come in very grand ways. You may be getting out of some painful times or circumstances in which gave you some interrealization that may have been difficult to face. You may be needing to be strong in order push forward, but it may be a wobble on your balance. It's important to know that any opportunity that comes to you happens for a reason, even if it is something that brings a realistic sense of self that comes in a painful way. This was brought to you because it was meant for you to learn. This new moon will help you come out of a brutal battle or situation that may have been nagging at you all this time.

♑: it maybe that you have to work on looking at the bigger picture with something that you may feel confident about. You probably think you are capable of doing things yourself & that you may not need others help. Be careful in revealing this out loud. You are not seeing all of the angles here, as you may not realize that the only way to new beginnings is with your confidence paired with the help of others. You may feel like all you need is yourself sometimes, but that isn't always true. In fact, too much confidence may be your downfall. You are able to achieve all you need to, but shutting others out at this time will more than likely backfire on you. Be more open to other people & show them you care to build with them.

♒: the energy around you is gaining momentum. You are beginning to feel like you are onto the right path & are in the beginning stages in taking charge in your situation. You may want to travel or take on creative endeavors, but whatever dreams that you're seeking out, you know that it is the right direction. Now is not the time to look back, at this point you must keep moving forward. Know that your dreams can come true, so long as you commit to what you want & go after it. More effort may be required for you to get to where you need to be, but as long as you can give it all you've got, you can close the cycle of preparation & manifest your dreams. The energy is building like a drum roll that is continuous, so work it to your advantage.

♓: this new moon may show or teach you it is best to surrender to the divine. A climax is approaching for you in a situation that may have been building for a while. It is possible a misunderstanding in a relationship or friendship may cause struggle for domination or power, or it is possible you may be wanting to express or assert your authority. It is also possible that you feel in full command that can strike a nerve in others. Forgiving, letting go of the past, & moving on, will allow you to release any negative energy that you may have harbored for some time. There could be madness in the air around you at this time, so be sure to check in with yourself; take in deep breaths & stay calm. Remain in your power & don't let anyone's ego (even yours) get the best of you.

♈: by this new moon, you may start to see your hard work paying off. A new start is upon you, specifically professionally, & while one door or cycle in this field in your life may have closed, another is opening. It is time to become disciplined in wherever you are determined to reach your goals, & begin to make a proper plan & execute it well. You may be returning to where you were once working at before, as people you are familiar with have a spot reserved for your return. Remember that your hard work will make your dreams a reality. You're about to start a new work cycle, & it is time to be ambitious about what it is that you want to achieve for yourself, & in life.

♉: you may need to be reminded, or need to remind yourself, that you are good enough. It may be something about having yourself stable & completely okay with the place that you are right now, & the person you are in this moment, even with all that is happening around you. There may be a lot of fog you are working yourself through, as the wheel of life continues to turn. It's important to find a balance between the cosmic & mundane conditions that seem to shift in your daily life. Second guessing yourself may be an issue here, & worry may creep up on you. Remember that worrying too much will attract more things to worry about. Be kind to yourself & others, & don't be too critical at this time. Life is happening as it comes, so learn to be more adaptable to it.

♊: you are to expect powerful change either during, or after this new moon. Take note that this is an important turning point in your life. Things may seem to be crashing around or right in front of you, but it is all for new beginnings & opportunities to come into fruition for you. In order to let new energy in, you must allow what is old & not working to fall away completely. Faulty foundations are being highlighted, so whatever is happening now is happening for your highest good. Life is evolving every day, so let go of the past at this time. You're being pushed towards your life purpose, so take the necessary steps & actions that are going to make it happen. Be fearless in this regard, because things may happen abruptly for you.

♋: it is time to show the world the real you. You can be leaving a lot if grief & loss behind you & stepping into new beginnings in your life. However, the fog of what you've dealt with in the past may be upon you. It is important for you to be aware of your feelings, but also be prepared to move on. Mentally, you can be all over the place, but that only means you are spending too much time in your head. Get into your heart & feel what you feel. If someone is keeping you at arm's length, don't presume this to be a bad thing. If you need to let go, or someone feels this way about you, this is only intended for the best. You may find a situation to take an unexpected turn, but don't cling onto it. Allow what is meant to happen.

♌: this new moon may prompt you into meditation & contemplation. You can be seeing things for what they are & it could bring out the forceful side of you. Rather than letting things go, situations may bring out the tyrant or even the bully in you. You have to have more control over your emotions, no matter how hard it may seem. Compassion is best achieved when you're grounded & able to let go of coldness & detachment. Don't allow yourself to be willingly deceived, but also don't give into being deceptive. What you fear in this situation is exactly what is holding you back. Let what you're feeling in the moment guide your way, since logic isn't able to work here. You may need to practice surrender as well. If you're emotions become too much, manage them through meditation. Get a hold of yourself.

♍: at this time, all that lies ahead for you is prosperity. You may have been in the beginning stages of your ideas & are rightly ready to charge forward & claim it for yourself. Whether you're situation is financial or not, it is possible that you may be held back by your own self-worth. You can certainly have whatever it is that you want, you just need more belief in the fact that you will achieve it. If you've been wrestling with something for a long time, this is a sign not to give up just yet. Get clear on what you value most & it will help you to find peace. If you need to, take some time out to pamper yourself. Know that even if you don't have what you desire yet, you will obtain it soon enough. It is never a time to look at things as the glass being half full.

♎: it is important that you don't let your past hold you back. Whatever you're going through & whatever you may be facing, there is a chance that age old programming & conditioning is stopping you from achieving all that you might. It is possible that the situation or relationship you're asking about has become suffocating, maybe even toxic. Someone (you, even) needs to be released, as there may be an addiction or unhealthy attachment that needs to be sorted out. You're being challenged to make some changes & this may be a fear you're facing. Even if staying where you are feels easier & safer, your attraction may be verging on the obsessive & you need to gain control over it. You may fear what is unknown about letting go, but it is important to release the past.

*this reading is intended for sun, moon, rising, & venus placements, & is intended for entertainment purposes only, energy is fluid not linear, roles are interchangeable, take what resonates, leave the rest*

#Scorpio #scorpio moon #new moon #new moon in scorpio #scorpio new moon #cosmic witch #witchblr #tarot community #tarot reading #tarot conversations #scorpio season #tarot #cosmic witchcraft #witch community

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miairviin · 4 years

Audio

Spíti

I had planned so many different posts to gradually close out my time in Europe. I had the clever idea to stick with my theme of learning a new word, and for my final post, I was going to string together the word goodbye in the language of every country I visited. I could still do that, but it doesn’t feel right to me now. I’m leaving behind so many cities I wanted to keep getting to know, so many cities I didn’t even get to say hello to. A goodbye would be too sudden, too early. This was my first time in travelling outside the country other than visiting our neighbors to the north and the south. Though I’m not sure how much either of those count, as the touristy spot in Mexico I visited felt like Southern California and where we visited in Canada, you could spit and hit New York.

This was truly a trip of firsts. First international flight, first time in Europe, first legal glass of wine, first time staying in a hostel, first time grocery shopping in a foreign language, first time going out to a bar, and so many other firsts I cannot recollect at this moment, but that will live in my heart forever. This trip was composed of a collection of highs and lows. I am grateful for every single one. The lows taught me so much about myself. What I’m capable of bouncing back from and what I’m capable of enduring. The highs are much easier to be grateful for. They carried me to the happiest moment of my entire life, and I will never forget it.

I only have words of gratitude to give back in exchange for this. Thank you. Thank you a million times over. Thank you to Madeline who quickly became my personal trainer, therapist, wingwoman, chef, travel buddy, and everything in between. I do not know what I would have done without your jokes, hugs, and calming presence at the various airports, bus stations, train stations, and anywhere else I found myself stressed. Thank you to my incredible roommates for their kindness, smiles, patience, generosity, jokes, intelligence, grace, and of course, for cooking for me so many times. Thank you to all the friends I made along the way. I am confident that these friendships only would have grown as the semester went on, but I am thankful for the time I had with these amazing people. They all brought fresh perspectives to life I had never considered. You don’t realize how much of a bubble you grow up in until you are thrown halfway across the world from it. I’m grateful to all the people I met here who challenged me, engaged me, opened up to me, and allowed me to open up to them. When I came here, I was told NOT to discuss politics or religion under any circumstances. I don’t know what it was, but it seemed as though at least once a week and sometimes more, I found myself engaged in a discussion in which our respective beliefs and values were being dissected and mulled over. I am grateful for all of these conversations. They opened me up to new things I had never considered. They forced me to really look at my own beliefs and decide whether or not they held up in my eyes after being questioned by someone else. I am so grateful for the new perspective I will take home with me.

The reason I didn’t name this blog with the goodbyes of every country is because I’m not saying goodbye. I know I will be back. I have to come back. There are so many cities that I will be leaving behind. Most immediately, Barcelona. Today, I would have been catching a flight for a fun weekend trip with Madeline where we planned to make Paella and drink sangria. There are so many cities I want to return to. I want to be awestruck at the elegance of the Trevi Fountain and the Belvedere Palace. I want to stand underneath the iconic Brandenburg Gate with its tumultuous past and its untapped future. There are so many dishes untasted and so many experiences unhad. I know I will come back, so goodbye is unfitting for this blog post.

I named this blog post spíti because that translates to home in the Greek language. If you would have told me on night one that I would describe Athens with this word, I would have had my doubts. It was so overwhelming stepping off that bus into the unknown. I was across the sea from everything I had ever known. There was a different alphabet that labelled buildings and streets riddled with drivers swerving in and out of their lanes, honking their frustrations to one another. I had no idea what these next two months were going to be like.

Now that I’m here, two months later, I call Athens home. The signs that once inspired confusion now make sense, and have become favorite dinner spots or a frequented bar or a trusted supermarket. The chaotic streets that sent anxious tremors throughout my body when I approached an intersection have become a game to play and win. It’s funny how doing the most mundane things like grocery shopping, doing laundry, going to the gym or classes have the power to turn a place into a home in a matter of weeks. Perhaps it is the kind woman at my favorite cafe who remembers me, and asks me about my classes and what it’s like in America. Or maybe it is the fact we saw an empty lot graduate into a pasta restaurant, and as Madeline says, this makes us true locals. Whatever it is that allows us to settle into an alien place and call it home, I am thankful for it. I am thankful for Athens, and specifically, Agia Paraskevi.

Thank you so much for keeping up with me these past two months! It means the world to me to know people took time from their busy days to read about what shenanigans I was getting myself into overseas.

I am excited to see my beautiful family, my supportive friends, my reliable Panda Express, and of course, I cannot wait to flush my toilet paper again. What a luxury that was! I will surely never take that for granted again.

I have learned so much about myself while I was in Greece. I have learned how big and beautiful this world really is. It is ripe with possibility. It is ripe with opportunity. It is ripe with adventure. It has placed a thirst for exploration in me that I fear will never be entirely quenched. But at the same time, I am filled with joy and excitement of every sort that my adventure will never end. I know I will never see it all, but you can bet I will try.

I will be forever for the 72 days I spent in Greece. It taught me that home is wherever you settle in. Home is both where you find your favorite restaurant and the pages of history textbooks become tangible. Home is both where you are humbled by the beauty of the world around you and where you grocery shop. Home is where you explore, where you cook your dinner, where you meet your friends, and so much more. I have learned that spíti can be anything and anywhere, and I am so unbelievably comforted by this.

Perhaps, years from now, I will find my spíti in Berlin or Rome.

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webcricket · 5 years

Text

Looking Glass

Chapter 24 - Heaven is a Place on Earth

Pairing: CastielXAU!Reader

Word Count: 1611

Summary: The seraph and his love settle into the relative normalcy of life in the bunker - how long will the honeymoon last? Warning for a suggestively erotic non-explicit adult situation. One more chapter remains before we bid adieu. Parting is such sweet sorrow.

Miss a chapter? Have a Masterlist Link!

Staring into the two by two crate repurposed as luggage overflowing with stuff set on the end of the bed, the surge of a smile crests your cheeks. The gladness arises not from the realization the relatively small container holds more superfluous crap than you’ve owned in years – most of the items totally unnecessary for basic survival and impractical for travelling light – it’s the notion of putting down roots, calling somewhere home, and having the comfort of someone with which to share the physical and emotional space such a home represents that draws out the manifestation of pure delight.

Grasp sliding along the sides of the wooden box to lock into the notched handles, ginger on the roughened surface to avoid splinters, you drift a final glimpse around the stripped bunker room where you first woke up in this strange and wonderful world – the very same day you met a seraph who challenged your beliefs about celestial beings and whose kindness and persistent, although not always patient, concern changed everything.

It was Cas’ idea, moving in – air quotes implicit – with him. Practically speaking, since you spend whatever free time you have together, well, together, the proposal made sense; especially considering other refugees live crammed into storage cells sleeping on stacks of dusty file folders in lieu of mattresses and stowing their sundries on shelves lined with lore books in languages too ancient to comprehend.

“Oh, uh, sorry-” a voice pitched to tinny heights by nerves meekly announces itself from the shadow of the hall door standing ajar.

Your glance shifts to a girl burdened beneath a backpack and shrouded in stained jeans and a tattered olive-colored jacket ringed by a dingy faux-fur collar. You recognize the youthful porcelain features and furtively darting eyes of the young woman and smile warmly. “Hi, Maggie. Come on in.”

In an undertaking of momentous effort given the weight strapped to her shoulders, she strains a step inward and bends, nearly buckling to the floor with it as the backpack lands inside the threshold with a dense thud. Evidently she never caught on to the adage of packing light. Nevertheless, she survived. “Sam said this room would be open in the afternoon-” She peers at a non-existent watch on her wrist, rubs the bare flesh in self-conscious habit, and hides the whole hand in her pocket. “I-I guess I’m a little early.”

“Right on time,” you reassure. Without the fallout filtered shine of the sun, you’re not yet used to reckoning time here in the artificially-lit depths of the bunker either. “I was just clearing out.” Focus flitting to the hole in her pocket where her buried fingers fidget, you remember a magenta jacket worn once mixed in amidst your surplus bounty of belongings. “Hey, I have something you might like.” Rifling through the box, you yank out the article and toss it in her direction.

She dives to catch the fabric projectile, strokes the satiny finish, admires the color, and stares up at you; an unuttered – Are you sure? – glimmers in her wide-eyed gaze.

“I don’t really need two coats, you know?” You resettle the rumpled contents of the crate. “And the color compliments you.”

“Thank you!” She beams; the gift, along with the compliment, opens the proverbial floodgates of sociability. “You’re with the angel, right?”

Right. The skin on your nape crawls – the bunker’s a tiny place these days with so many people occupying it and every single one of them damn well knows you’re with the angel. Sam made it a point to involve you in aiding the other survivors as they adapt to this world in order to break down the barriers of your angelic intimacy inhibiting them from trusting you. You get it – once upon a time you thought all angels were dicks, too. Defensive instinct kicks in at her comment. “His name is Castiel.” You direct the grit of the answer into the tenseness of the fists grabbing the edges of the box. A sliver punctures your pinky.

She looks at her feet, blushing, apologetic. “I didn’t mean-” she mumbles, meets your eyes to express sincerity– “I meant, what’s it like? Being with-”

“An angel?” you finish the query, biting the inside of your lower lip in self-recrimination for getting riled over the friendly conversation of a curious and grateful girl. “Sorry, I just … I’ve heard some of what the others say about us. He’s a good guy and what we have, it feels really … normal.”

“Normal-” She smiles, irises wistfully glazing and rolling upward in reflection– “that sounds nice.”

Heaving the box up to balance on the slope of your hip, you clasp her arm commiseratively as you shimmy past, ignoring the shard of wood stinging your skin. “I’ve learned anything is possible in this world. You can have that now, too – normal, nice. It’s safe here. I promise.”

“Safe.” She mouths the word, swallows the syllable in wonderment as you disappear into the hallway. Spinning to study the barren beige walls of the room, seeing possibilities in the blank canvas, bending to pick up her pack and drag it toward the dresser, she says the word again, imbuing the sound with confidence of truth. Of belief. “Safe.”

Perception perked, smile snagged at the corner of his mouth, Cas follows the sweetly noted treasure of a song to the yawning entryway of his quarters; his, he reminds himself, and as of today, yours, too. He stops to watch your figure swaying in front of the dresser, humming an unidentifiable and melodic tune as you fold pieces of clothing and tuck them into the drawers.

With you inhabiting the space, the light of the room glows significantly warmer; the cold décor seems somehow cozier. The room was never one he sought out before, never a place he felt a particular connection to aside from the fact Dean deemed number 15 as officially in angelic possession when it became clear the heavenly dispossessed being had unofficially blessed the bunker as his official home base; Dean happened to be half in the bag drunk that night and the bestowment of the bedroom may have been purely so the hammered hunter could slur some smirked joke about an Inception-style movie meta of an occupied vessel occupying a room.

The muffled shutting of the top drawer and scrape asunder of the one below tugs Cas into the present. He worried asking you to stay with him so early in your relationship might be perceived as presumptuous on his part. This world may be novel to you, but as an angel the navigational nuances of a loving liaison exist in a land foreign to him – one discovered, explored, and mapped out piece by piece with every moment you share. There’s no doubt in his heart and mind he loves you; and yet, he is also learning how to love you day by day.

Heeding to the guidance of the naturally arising – albeit frequently hedonistic in origin – impulses afflicting his vessel when in your presence has proven useful. He succumbs to one such an urge now, treading noiselessly across the threshold to slot his body against yours; skimming his hands over your stomach, he sinks his stubbly chin to your neck to stamp a kiss upon the delicate skin. “How was your day, my love?”

Laughter of surprise lilting your tongue, folded tee held aloft in your fingers tumbling to the floor, you relax into his rigid physique and stretch your neck to give his ticklish affections ample and unrestricted access. “Good – great, now that you’re here. How’d it go with the ghoul?”

He groans, a vibration of breath ghosting your ear.

“That good, huh?” you tease. In the mirror mounted above the dresser, you observe him nuzzle the sensitive spot below your ear until, lashes lowering in delight, you shudder and squirm, weak-kneed with a knot of anticipation forming in your belly.

They – he, Sam, and Dean in a tag-team trio – have tried to set a routine of hunting to keep Jack distracted, to train those of the refugees who are willing to fight a different foe. No one is talking about the impossibility of returning to the apocalypse world to take Michael to task. Deep down, for all the speeches and good intentions, no one really wants to go back; and without an archangel, that door is mercifully closed.

When he lets up in his worshipful ministrations, your eyelids flutter open to meet the eclipsed blue of his reflected gaze. “I missed you, angel.”

“I missed you, too.” His fingertips test the heated waters of flesh beneath the hem of your shirt, sparking grace where they caress and a blissful aching in your nethers. “I heard you praying – perceived your longing.” The digits wander below your navel, lifting the elastic band of your shorts to stray further still. “Those prayers – they’re inappropriate as far as holy entreaties go, don’t you think?” Arching a brow, the smile brimming to scrunch his eyes and nose tells you he enjoyed every licentious word.

“Yes, Cas,” you purr, less acknowledgment of impiousness, more yearning. Fingers wrap the seraph’s wrist and push his pursuit of your pleasure permissively toward its goal.

“Dean found another case,” he murmurs and nips at the shell of your earlobe, “we leave in a few hours.”

“So soon?” You gasp the last word, thighs trembling as his fingers and their tingling grace glide home to sheath your senses from all but the seraph’s touch.

He groans again into your neck, softly speaks in a gravelly choked cadence you’ve come to comprehend is Enochian. You don’t know the precise meaning; you can guess.

Next: Ch. 25 - Corollaries

#castiel x reader #castiel x you #castiel fluff #castiel reader insert #spn x reader #castielxreader #castielxyou #cas x reader #cas x you #castiel fanfiction #castiel fanfic #spn fanfiction #reader x castiel #you x castiel #spn fanfic #spn reader insert #castiel x au!reader #cricket writes cas

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pikapeppa · 5 years

Text

Fenris/f!Hawke feels: Standing Still

In which Hawke duels the Arishok, and Fenris finally gets his head out of his ass... but the timing is less than ideal.

A longer one, again (~6600 words). Here is a clumsy link to the AO3 post, since I don’t want the fancy new Tumblr anti-porn-bot algorithm to hide this post from tag searches: tinyurl.com/fenhawke

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Fenris did not consider himself a particularly fast learner.

Hawke would heartily disagree, and he supposed she was right when it came to some things. Fenris was a skilled combatant, and he could master a weapon in the space of a few sessions. And Hawke had said he’d learned to read even faster than she’d thought possible.

Even so, when it came to life-changing realizations - things that shifted his way of thinking like an earthquake, tilting the ground beneath his feet and forcing him out of the confines of his own beliefs - Fenris was unforgivably slow on the uptake.

Revelations. They always seemed to bash him in the face with the devastating force of a Qunari warhammer. Escaping Danarius had been like that; it wasn’t until Fenris had looked upon the aftermath of his own horrific mass murder that he realized that he couldn’t live under the yoke of Danarius’s control anymore.

And it wasn’t until he was clutching Hawke’s crumpled body on the ground outside the Viscount’s Keep that he realized he couldn’t live without her.

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

A few hours earlier...

“Should’ve stopped by the Hanged Man and grabbed a bottle of whiskey,” Hawke panted as they ran up the steps to the Viscount’s Keep. “I could use a drink right about now. A little liquid courage never went amiss, wouldn’t you say?”

“It’s probably best we didn’t,” Fenris replied. “Falling over drunk is not a defensive strategy I’d recommend.”

“But we could have offered some to the Arishok!” she said. “Friendly drink to loosen him up, persuade him to change his mind about converting or killing everyone… It’s a classic negotiating strategy, right?”

“I think we’re a little past the talking-over-drinks stage by now,” Varric called breathlessly from behind them.

Hawke paused at the doors to the Keep and threw Varric a rueful grin. “And that, my friend, is what’s really wrong with politics. Hardened enemies become fast friends with the power of a drink.” She pointed playfully at him. “You can quote me on that for that damned novel of yours.”

Fenris smirked and shook his head, but beneath his amusement, he was worried about her. She’d been cracking jokes nonstop since they’d found Isabela’s farewell note on Wall-Eyed Sam’s body. To Fenris’s eyes, her incessant humour was a clear indication of how upset she was about her best friend’s abrupt disappearance.

Hawke took a deep breath, then raised her eyebrows at their little group. The whole crew had insisted on coming this time, despite the obvious danger. “All right, kids,” she said. “Last chance to go home and hide under your beds. Anyone having second thoughts?”

There was a general murmur of negations and readiness, and Hawke grinned at them all. “Oh good. Then you lot can go on in for me, because I’m definitely going home to hide under my bed.”

Aveline shot her a desperate look. “Hawke, we have to hurry-”

Hawke laughed brightly, then shoved open the doors to the Viscount’s Keep.

They were instantly set upon by a small contingent of Qunari warriors. Fenris immediately phased through the nearest one, materializing inside of him and blowing his innards apart in a shower of blood.

The next few minutes were a blur of clashing weapons and explosive magical attacks, of battle roars and shrieks of pain. Once their final enemy was felled, Fenris straightened and looked around the room.

It was a scene of blood and disarray, but his gaze skipped carelessly over it all until he spotted Hawke, upright and hale at the top of the stairs. Her face was as serious as it always was in battle, but when she met his eyes, she smiled and blew him a kiss.

He shook his head in mock exasperation, then jogged up the stairs with the others to join her. Panicked screams were emanating from the grand hall, and Hawke jerked her head in the direction of the ruckus. “Let’s join the party, shall we?”

They all ran toward the grand hall, and Hawke didn’t hesitate this time before pushing open the doors.

They stepped into the room, and a familiar face stared up at them from the base of the stairs - a face that was separated from the rest of its body: the Viscount’s decapitated head.

Merrill gasped.

“Maker save us,” Sebastian breathed.

“Shit,” Varric muttered, and Hawke huffed. “You can say that again,” she whispered.

Fenris merely twisted his lips in rueful acknowledgement of the Viscount’s death. Frankly, he was unsurprised. It was only logical for the Qunari to dispense of the existing authority before imposing their own.

“Shanedan, Hawke. I expected you,” the Arishok rumbled. He slowly made his way down the stairs, ignoring all of them except for the dark-haired mage. “Maraas toh ebra-shok. You alone are basalit-an.” He opened his arms expansively and glared at the assembly of terrified hostages. “This is what respect looks like, bas,” he announced. “Some of you will never earn it.”

Then he returned his austere gaze to Hawke. “You know I am denied Par Vollen until the Tome of Koslun is found. How will you see this conflict resolved without it?”

Hawke offered the Arishok a sickly sort of smile, and Fenris suppressed a wince. He could practically see the quip gathering itself at the tip of her tongue, but he had to agree with Aveline: this was not the time for jokes.

Before Hawke could speak, a sardonic voice called out from the door. “I believe I can answer that.”

Hawke’s face slackened in surprise for a split second before lighting up with joy. “Bels!” she exclaimed.

Isabela sauntered over to Hawke’s side with an enormous tome in her arms, and Fenris watched her approach with no small amount of surprise himself. He’d been just as shocked as Hawke at Isabela’s abandonment, given how close she and Hawke were, but he was even more surprised at her return. Isabela had many fine traits, but it was clear from her antics with this blasted relic that loyalty was not among them.

After a moment’s hesitation, Isabela handed the huge book to the Arishok. “I’m sure you’ll find it mostly undamaged,” she said.

The Arishok took the book reverently, and Isabela shot Hawke a small sideways look and rubbed the back of her neck. “It took me a while to get back, what with all the fighting everywhere,” she said with a shrug. “You know how it is.”

“You fucking tart,” Hawke said happily. “Showing up at the eleventh hour. You trying to steal my place as the heroine of Varric’s book?”

Isabela folded her arms. “This is your damned influence, Hawke. I was halfway to Ostwick before I knew I had to turn around. It’s pathetic.”

“Yes, coming back to help your dearest and most attractive friend in the whole wide world,” Hawke retorted. “How very pathetic.”

Isabela tutted and rolled her eyes, and Hawke beamed at her until the Arishok spoke again. “The relic is reclaimed. I am now free to return to Par Vollen.” He turned his stare to Isabela. “With the thief.”

Hawke stiffened, and Isabela instantly dropped her confident stance. “What?”

Fenris couldn’t help himself. “You thought you could strand them here for four years without consequence?” he drawled.

Isabela glared at him over Hawke’s shoulder. “Hey. Whose side are you on, anyway?”

The Arishok ignored them and addressed Hawke. “She stole the Tome of Koslun. She must return with us.”

Hawke folded her arms, her face and posture now utterly serious. “Sounds like you have something very specific in mind,” she said cautiously.

“She will submit to the Qun and the Ben-Hassrath,” the Arishok said. “More than that, I will not say.”

Hawke narrowed her eyes. “Well, I don’t like the sound of that, whatever that means,” she retorted. “You have your relic. Isabela stays with us.”

“Then you leave me no choice.” The Arishok lifted his chin, then proclaimed, “I challenge you, Hawke. You and I will battle to the death, with her as the prize.”

“No!” Isabela blurted. “If you’re going to duel anyone, duel me!”

The Arishok finally deigned to look at her - a very quick dismissive glance. “You are not basalit-an,” he said. “You are unworthy.”

Isabela opened her mouth to protest, but Hawke held up one hand. “I accept your challenge,” she said.

“Oh no!” Merrill squeaked, and Aveline took a concerned step forward. “Hawke, wait-”

Fenris stepped away from Hawke’s side and gestured for them to back away. “Don’t interfere,” he said, primarily to Aveline; the Guard-Captain looked ready to pounce on the Arishok herself. “It will be fine.”

He took his place among the other spectators that lined the walls, and Anders stormed over to him. “How are you all right with this?” he hissed. “She’ll be killed! You would just stand back and watch her face off against that - that beast?”

Fenris didn’t bother to look at him. “She will be fine,” he repeated firmly. “Hawke is strong. Unlike some mages I know,” he added waspishly. He folded his arms. “Besides, it is her choice. She wishes to resolve this with as little bloodshed as possible, then I am happy to stand here and watch.”

“I can’t believe this,” Anders snapped. “You argue with her at every turn, yell at her for every other decision she makes, and now that she decides to face off against a two-meter tall horned warrior with battleaxes in both hands, now is when you just stand back and watch?” He leaned away from Fenris in disgust. “Why do you even follow her? Do you even care about her at all?”

“Shut your mouth,” Fenris snarled. “You know nothing of this kind of respect. You are unworthy to follow her, not me.” He stared venomously at the scowling mage. “Don’t speak to me again unless you wish to have your heart torn out of your chest,” he spat, then stalked away from Anders to stand beside Sebastian instead.

And then Hawke’s battle with the Arishok began.

Fenris had been fighting at her side for years now, but as he watched her fingers tapping slowly on the smooth handle of her staff, he realized that he’d never really had a chance to watch her in combat before. He was always at the forefront of a fight, while Hawke threw up barriers and rained fire and lightning on their foes from behind.

This was different from any other fight Fenris had seen her in. A single foe in close quarters, one who wouldn’t be tricked by some of her more discombobulating magical attacks: it was a duel in the truest sense of the word, and despite his confidence in her skill, Fenris was curious how she would adjust.

Her posture was tense and nervous, but her first dodge was perfectly timed when the Arishok lunged at her, and the fireball she threw at his back was swift and unerring. Fenris relaxed slightly as Hawke played to her strengths, maintaining a careful distance and striking from behind when the Arishok couldn’t deflect.

And then she didn’t dodge quickly enough, and the Arishok ploughed into her with a powerful lunge.

Fenris flinched as Hawke slammed back against a pillar with a sickening thud. She slumped to the ground and sat frozen for a second, then drew in a gasping breath and clenched her fist.

A glow of green healing magic shivered over her skin, and she was on her feet a second later, rolling clumsily away from the Arishok’s swinging battleaxe.

Fenris released his breath, then continued to watch her intently, feeling a bit more nervous than before. The battle went on for minutes that seemed to stretch like hours, and Fenris tried to quell his growing anxiety as she took a number of strikes from the Arishok, recovering each time with the help of her own healing spells.

She struck the Arishok multiple times as well, and soon he was limping from a bleeding wound to the thigh. But Hawke was slowing down. Her dodges and evasions were becoming less timely. She didn’t have a warrior’s stamina, and if Fenris could see her fatigue, then the Arishok certainly could.

That’s when the Arishok grabbed her by the neck and hauled her off her feet.

Fenris’s entire body went tense. Everything was frozen: his lungs, his heart, his tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth - he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe as he watched Hawke kicking her feet ineffectually, scrabbling to grab hold of the Arishok’s armoured wrists, then his bare forearms -

Smoke began to rise from the Arishok’s skin where Hawke grabbed it. Finally he snarled with pain and released her, and she dropped to the ground like a rag doll.

Fenris moved - a slight step forward, he knew he shouldn’t but he couldn’t stop himself - but someone was holding his hand and keeping him in place.

It was Isabela. She looked just as horrified as he felt, and her fingers were clutching his own in a death grip.

Hawke drew in a desperate scraping of air, and Fenris whipped his head around to look at her. She was on her feet again, the glow of her healing spell fading already and her lips drawn in a snarl.

She twisted her left hand in a vicious gesture, and the Arishok was encased in a cage of pure magic.

The huge Qunari warrior tried to slam his way out of the cage, but the snapping bars of light threw him back. Hawke heaved a huge exhausted sigh and ran a hand through her hair. “Friendly drinks would have been the way to go,” she said, her voice rough with fatigue. Then she slammed her staff on the ground.

A crackling pattern of ice appeared on the Arishok’s belly, crawling and thickening across his abdomen, and Fenris held his breath, knowing what was coming next -

Hawke jabbed her staff in the Arishok’s direction, and his frozen organs exploded along with the magical cage, scattering grey-and-red chunks of frozen flesh and viscera across the floor.

The Arishok fell to his knees. He lifted his eyes to Hawke’s face. “One day, we shall return,” he rasped. Then he collapsed on the ground with a limp finality.

For once, Hawke didn’t instantly reply with a clever quip. She bent over, hands on her knees and her long hair falling forward to hide her face.

In silence, the remaining Qunari began to file out of the room. Fenris pulled away from Isabela’s grip and strode toward Hawke, but she was standing upright again already before he could reach her side.

She smiled tiredly at him. “Remind me to bake them a cake if they do return,” she said to him. “A chocolate one. With icing. Everyone likes chocolate.”

Fenris gripped her arm and peered at her face. “Are you all right?” he demanded. She certainly looked fine; tired, of course, but there wasn’t even a hint of bruising on her neck, thanks to her healing magic.

She nodded. “I’m fine. Really, I’m fine,” she repeated hastily as the others all hurried over with worried faces. “Let’s just get out of here before-”

“Is it over?” A ringing, authoritative voice cut her off, and Hawke pulled a little face. “Too late,” she muttered.

Meredith strode into the room with a handful of Templars at her back, and Hawke squared her shoulders before turning to face them. “It’s over,” she replied. She gestured at the Arishok’s half-frozen body. “One chilled Qunari, as ordered.”

Her irreverent words seemed to break the tension in the room; someone laughed, and then the noble hostages were cheering and applauding.

Hawke cringed slightly, and Meredith narrowed her eyes. “It seems Kirkwall has a new champion,” she said.

“Oh Maker’s balls, please don’t call me that,” Hawke begged. “‘Champion’ is such a heavy word, it carries so much responsibility…”

But it was too late: the nobles were already calling her name, calling her the Champion, and Hawke rubbed her face and shot Meredith a half-hearted smile. “Thanks for that,” she said.

“I look forward to seeing how you will serve your city with this new… title,” Meredith replied, her tone positively dripping with subtext.

“I’ll be serving myself a drink or three first, if you don’t mind,” Hawke quipped. “Now if you’ll excuse us…” She edged around Meredith cautiously and headed for the door at a brisk pace.

Fenris and the rest of the group followed at her heels. Once they’d stepped out of the clamour of the grand hall, Varric chuckled. “The refugee mage from Lothering defeats the Qunari chief in single-handed combat,” he said, with much relish. “Oh, this is good. Nobody will believe it. That’s what will make it so compelling.”

Hawke groaned. “Please, Varric, give me one single day without having to make…” She trailed off and rubbed her face. “...without making editorial comments,” she finished faintly, then headed for the stairs.

“Hawke?” Anders’s voice was sharp as he called her name from the back of the group.

She didn’t reply, reaching instead for Isabela’s arm as they approached the stairs. “Now you,” she said pointedly. “I can’t decide whether to punch you or hug you. I knew you’d come back, you know. I knew you wouldn’t really leave.”

Isabela rolled her eyes. “You’re reading way too much into this.”

“Wrong,” Hawke said as she tottered down the stairs. “I know exactly why you came back. You know you love me, you tart. You wouldn’t really-”

She stumbled on the bottom step, and Fenris and Aveline grabbed her arms. “Kaffas,” Fenris swore. “Hawke, are you-”

“I’m fine, I promise I’m fine! I just need some air, let’s - we’re nearly…” She seemed to run out of breath, and her feet were dragging as she tried to keep on walking.

“You’re not fine!” Aveline exclaimed, her voice tense with worry. “Are you hurt? Where are you hurt?”

“I’m not,” Hawke insisted. “I’m just… need some air.” She tried feebly to twist away from Fenris and Aveline’s hands, finally wresting one arm away from Aveline to push open the door to the Keep.

Fenris kept a steady hand on her arm, and it was a good thing; as soon as she took two steps into the smoke-scented nighttime air, she seemed to lose control of her legs, and Fenris caught her before she could hit the ground.

“Venhedis,” he hissed. Her eyelids were at half-mast and her eyes were unfocused as they drifted vaguely across his face.

“Fenris,” she murmured, “you’re so… Have I ever… told you…?”

Her smile was lazy, and he glared at her. “Hawke, what’s wrong?” he demanded. “Where are you hurt?”

“I’m not,” she mumbled. “I’m…” She trailed off into silence, her body going limp in his arms.

Fenris stared at her stupidly, struck dumb by her sudden stillness. She couldn’t be - no, it was impossible. Hawke was never seriously hurt. She was too lively, too full of vitality and optimism. She couldn’t be…

A yawning terror suddenly opened inside Fenris’s belly, a pit of sucking fear the likes of which he’d never felt before, and he fought to breathe as he stared at her precious face. Wake up, he thought with rising desperation. Wake up, or nothing will ever be right again.

The words sat frozen in his brain. He was unable to speak. He was paralyzed by this new and petrifying terror. Then suddenly Anders was there.

“Move, you idiot,” he hissed, then shoved Fenris roughly until he shifted aside. Anders hovered his hands near Hawke’s temples and closed his eyes, muttering under his breath as a cool green glow emanated from his palms.

“She’s overextended,” Merrill whispered tremulously.

“What does that mean?” Isabela demanded.

“She pushed herself too hard without help,” Merrill explained. “No lyrium, no blood magic to supplement -”

“Her mana is almost depleted,” Anders interrupted brusquely, his hands still glowing with restorative energy. “Please, be quiet while I…” He trailed off, and the rest of the group fell into a tense silence as he worked.

Fenris was completely still. He could barely breathe, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Hawke. Her magic force was almost depleted - that force that he hated on principle, but which Hawke controlled so well and which was such an integral part of who she was. Of course Fenris didn’t hate that part of her, because it was her, it was Hawke, and he didn’t hate Hawke. He hated nothing about her, not a single thing, not her constant flirting or her pro-mage tendencies or her teasing the Templars or her inability to take most things seriously - he didn’t hate anything about her, of course he didn’t, because he loved her.

Andraste save him, he loved her. He fucking loved her, and if she died…

An interminable eon later, Anders leaned back opened his eyes. “She’s stable now,” he said, and Fenris’s heart thudded with a painful squeeze of relief. “She needs to rest. And she needs lyrium supplements, carefully controlled. But she’ll be all right.” He looked at Aveline, his manner brisk and clinical. “Aveline, will you-?”

“Of course,” Aveline said, and she carefully lifted Hawke into her arms.

They made their way to Hawke’s mansion as quickly as they could, ignoring the disastrous mess that the evening’s battle had made of the city. Fenris ran at Aveline’s side, oblivious to everything except the knowledge that Hawke would be all right.

She would be all right. The world wasn’t a complete ruin.

Sebastian banged on the door to Hawke’s mansion, and Fenris wasn’t sure if it actually took longer than usual for Bodahn to come to the door or if it just felt like it, but by the time he opened the door, the entire party was so impatient that they poured inside like an unstoppable tide.

“Guard-Captain Vallen? Brother Vael? I - what has - Serrah Hawke! Is she - what’s happened? The Qunari, did they-?” Bodahn was completely flustered, and Fenris was vaguely aware of Sebastian pulling him aside to explain the situation while the rest of them followed Anders and Aveline up to Hawke’s bedroom.

Aveline laid Hawke tenderly on the bed, and Anders immediately began issuing orders, sending Merrill to fetch some lyrium and Varric to get some cloths and a basin of water before resuming his treatment.

Fenris prowled restlessly at the foot of the bed, his eyes scanning Hawke’s face and body almost compulsively. She was so limp, her breathing so slow and her face so pale, and he couldn’t stop staring at her as though the force of his gaze alone would revive her.

Anders said she’ll be fine, he reminded himself firmly. He didn’t trust Anders’s ethics or motivations or his companionship, but he did trust the man’s healing skills.

“Would you stand bloody still?” Anders snapped at him. “You’re distracting. Stay still or get out.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes, his temper rising instinctively at Anders’s tone, but he forced himself to comply. If standing still helped Anders to help Hawke, then he would do it. He would do anything.

Merrill eventually returned with an armful of bottles from Hawke’s medicine cabinet, and Varric came back with the basin and the cloths, and Anders continued to tend to her, giving calm and quiet directions to Merrill and Varric as needed. Aveline, Sebastian, and Isabela stood at the sides of the room, waiting and watching as Anders worked. Orana drifted in and out, bringing extra chairs and glasses of water as they all settled into their sickbed vigil.

Finally Anders sat back on his heels with a tired but satisfied sigh. “All right,” he said. “I’ve done everything I can for tonight. The best thing for her now is rest, so I’d suggest you all go home.”

“Are you staying?” Merrill asked shrewdly.

Anders frowned. “Yes,” he said. “I have to monitor her, check on her every hour. But you should all go.”

Merrill folded her arms obstinately, and Varric chuckled. “I think you’ll be finding yourself on the losing side with that order, Blondie,” he drawled. “No one’s going anywhere.”

Anders scowled more deeply. “Well… You all need to leave this room, then,” he said severely. “Give her some space.”

There was a general grumble of protest, but eventually everyone drifted out one by one, with Bodahn’s fervent promises to set up accommodations for them in the other rooms of the mansion.

But Fenris refused to move. He remained at the foot of the bed where he’d stood for the past hour.

Anders frowned. “Go on, get out of here,” he said. “You’re not helping anyone by standing there.”

“No,” Fenris said simply.

Anders gave him a hard look, but Fenris calmly returned his stare. “I am not leaving,” Fenris said quietly. He shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other before speaking again. “You should get some rest. You… worked hard tonight.” He broke off and swallowed hard. This was the closest he could get to expressing his appreciation for Anders, and he hoped that the mage would accept it for what it was worth. “I can rouse you if she seems unwell. But you deserve the rest.”

Anders stared at him for a moment longer. “Fine,” he finally said, then rose to his feet. “If she spikes a fever, or stops breathing, or does anything at all except for sleep peacefully or wake up peacefully, then you fetch me immediately. Do you understand?”

Fenris nodded, and Anders gave him one last suspicious look before heading for the door.

“Thank you,” Fenris said, to his own surprise.

Anders frowned. “I’m not here for you,” he retorted, but with a little less heat than usual. Then he left the room.

Fenris returned his gaze to Hawke’s sleeping form. She looked peaceful and comfortable now, less like an unconscious invalid and more like her usual sleeping self. For the first time in hours, Fenris felt his muscles starting to relax.

Slowly and cautiously, he approached the bed and pulled up a chair, then sat close to her head. He’d been in this exact position a mere week ago, sitting at Hawke’s side after her mother had died. How strange and terrible for them to be here again so soon, and under such dire circumstances.

He gazed at her tenderly. Anders and Merrill had removed her armour and cleaned her face and neck of the majority of the night’s dirt and sweat, but her long dark hair was in disarray, a mass of sweat-dampened waves that smelled of acrid smoke. As Fenris studied her, his eyes tracing the delicate lines of her cheekbones and her lips, he realized he wasn’t alone.

He turned toward the door and found Isabela standing there, looking deeply uncomfortable.

She caught his eye, and they stared at each other in silence for a moment.

“Would you really have given me over to the Qunari?” she asked suddenly. Her tone was belligerent, but she was holding herself very still, like a rat in a cage.

Fenris frowned. “No.” He turned his eyes back to Hawke.

“But you said… that thing you said,” Isabela muttered.

“I don’t think you should have gone with the Qunari,” Fenris said. “But maybe you should act with some forethought on occasion.”

Isabela scoffed and took one step into the room. “Oh, like you should be giving advice.”

Fenris tore his eyes away from Hawke to scowl at her. “What are you on about?”

“Fenris, look at you!” Isabela exclaimed. She waved an exasperated hand at Hawke’s sleeping form. “You’re in love with Hawke,” she said bluntly. “Everyone knows it. You’re the only one who won’t admit it. Just do something about it already, won’t you? It was kind of cute two years ago. It’s not anymore.”

He didn’t bother to reply, because she was right. Silence settled over the room again as he watched the comforting rise and fall of Hawke’s ribcage.

After a long, quiet moment, he spoke. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

He raised his eyes to Isabela’s face, and she glared at him. “Don’t look at me like that,” she snapped. “I know you almost left after you dumped her.”

Fenris flinched at her scathing words, then calmly replied. “I was not judging you. I was just… asking.”

Isabela looked at him for a long moment, the defensiveness melting from her expression until she dropped her gaze to her fidgeting hands. “You’ll look after her, won’t you?” she muttered.

Fenris nodded. “I will be here,” he said. There was nowhere else he could imagine being than by Hawke’s side. It was a truth he’d been fighting for years, but the possibility of losing the chance - of losing her...

Fenris was a slow learner, but he’d learned this much: his life would mean nothing without Hawke in it.

Isabela lifted her eyes back to his face. Then she gave him a small smile. “I won’t be gone forever,” she said. “Just until this all… you know… blows over.”

Fenris nodded a silent acknowledgement. Isabela took a tentative step closer, then leaned over and pecked him on the cheek. “You two had better be fucking again by the time I come back,” she said playfully.

He studied a lingering smudge of dirt on Hawke’s cheek. Isabela was waiting for a lighthearted response, he knew, but his heart felt so damned heavy, weighed down by the night’s revelations, and he didn’t quite have it in him to dig up the expected reply.

Isabela sighed. “Oh, Fenris. Someday you’ll get that pretty head out of your ass and then you’ll be happy, I’m sure of it.” She shifted, then made her awkward way toward the door. “I’ll… I’ll see you, all right?”

“Safe travels, Isabela,” he replied. Then he smirked. “I hope you do not die.”

She scoffed at his use of the Qunari farewell, then threw one last regretful look at Hawke’s slumbering body before leaving the room.

Fenris returned his attention to Hawke. Her hair really was a mess, and it was sure to get even more tangled if she moved around in her sleep.

He wanted to stroke it. Run his fingers through the dark mass of waves and rinse it clean of the sweat and smell of battle.

No, that was the least of what he wanted. What he really wanted was the reassurance of her heated and hedonistic body in his arms. He wanted the privilege of crawling into this bed and curling around her like he had when her mother had died, when his unconscious body had deigned so boldly to hold her when they’d both been asleep.

Fenris dragged his fingers through his own sweat-matted hair. Did he dare to admit, finally, that he wanted something? To tempt the cruelty of his life into taking something more away from him?

But this felt like so much more than wanting. This - her, the woman in this bed, Rynne Hawke - she was what he needed. He needed her as badly as he needed to be free of Danarius. Hawke had torn a hole in the fabric of his life, patching the tear with levity and humour and trust, and worst of all, with hope - with blasted, poisonous, fucking hope.

The realization was blinding: bright and bruising, brilliant and difficult to look at directly. Acknowledging that he loved Hawke - he, Fenris, loved someone: it was like tearing away a blindfold he’d always worn, like breaking the shackles he’d always maintained around his heart. It was another kind of freedom: freedom to want her, to need her, to… to feel something other than anger and hate and resentment.

But Fenris had never been particularly good at making the most of the freedom he already had. He’d run away from Danarius only to trap himself in the limbo of the present. For years he’d sat in a precarious kind of balance, with Hawke on one shoulder and his unknown past on the other. He’d refused to take any risks, refused to tip the uncomfortable but familiar balance of his stagnant life by launching himself wholeheartedly into either his past or his future, and thus he’d simply… stood still.

For the second time in his life, Fenris was free. And for the second time in his life, he didn’t quite know what to do with this freedom.

Suddenly Hawke inhaled, a deep draw of breath through her nose, and Fenris snapped out of his roiling reverie to look at her. Her eyelids were fluttering, and as he watched, breathless with anticipation, she lifted one limp hand and rubbed her cheek.

Finally she opened her eyes, her gaze roving slowly over the canopy of the bed as she slowly came awake. Then she turned her head and met his gaze.

She blinked at him with those beloved bronze eyes, then smiled slowly. “Fancy seeing you here. Yet again.”

She was cheeky as always, with a smile on her face as always, and Fenris thought his heart might thump clean out of his chest if it beat any harder.

He released an unsteady breath. “I was thinking the same thing,” he said. “You are devastatingly unlucky.”

She chuckled tiredly, then stretched her arms. “Well, I don’t know about that. I’m alive, aren’t I?”

It was true. She was alive, and Fenris had never been more vehemently grateful for Anders’s healing abilities than he was tonight.

Almost as though she’d heard his thoughts, she suddenly lifted her head and looked toward the door. “Was Anders here? He must’ve looked after me, didn’t he? Is he still here?”

Fenris nodded. “He is. They’re all - well.” He broke off, then decided against telling her for now that Isabela was gone. “The others are sleeping here tonight,” he said carefully. Then he hesitated before going on. “Do you want Anders? Should I fetch him…?” Fenris didn’t want anyone else to interrupt this time with her, but he would if it’s what she wanted.

Hawke shook her head, then rolled onto her side to face him. “No. Let him rest. He’s probably almost as exhausted as I was. I…” She grimaced. “Damn, Fenris. I was not prepared for that fight. The bloody Arishok, for fuck’s sake?” She shook her head in wonderment, then smiled at him and tucked her hands under her cheek. “See, this is testament to how lucky I am.”

He returned her smile, his throat throbbing with a potent combination of fondness and retroactive fear and incredulity. She’d almost died multiple times tonight, and her mother had died a mere week ago, and she called herself lucky…

Of course she did. That was Hawke. Her pain was inked on her back in twisting black lines so she could maintain that beautiful smile.

Fenris swallowed hard. He had no idea it could hurt to love someone this much. “Yes, well,” he said gruffly. “Anders said no more adventures for at least a week, so your luck can have some time to recover.”

She groaned. “Bedrest? Not having to run from Lowtown to Sundermount to save everyone? What a pity. Shall I gnash my teeth and wail in despair?” She yawned deeply, covering her mouth with her hand to hide the yawn.

Fenris smirked. “Go back to sleep, Hawke. You need it.”

She smiled again. Her eyes were drifting closed already. “Bossy,” she slurred. “You can use that bossy tone with me anytime.”

He huffed with amusement, but the smile was already slipping from her face, her cheeks relaxing back into the easy rest of slumber. Moments later, she was asleep again.

Fenris quietly studied her sleeping face, that residual smear of dirt on her cheek, the tangled ropes of her hair that coiled around her head and neck. A few minutes later, when he was sure she was deeply asleep, he reached toward her.

With this thumb, he carefully wiped the dirt from her cheekbone.

He hesitated. Then, very carefully, he lifted a lock of hair away from her neck. Gently, so gently, he ran the edge of his thumb along the delicate line of her jaw, then reluctantly lifted his hand away.

Fenris had to be with her. There was no question about it. But that meant that he had to act.

There was no excuse anymore for the suspended state in which he’d lived his life. If he wanted to be with Hawke, he had to know everything about his past. He had to make sure he hadn’t left any skeletons behind - figurative or literal - that would rise up to steal his future. He had to know if he’d once had a family, if he’d once been capable of caring for someone without hurting them constantly the way he’d done to Hawke.

Fenris had to be whole and good and strong, so he could stand beside Hawke and support her the way she supported him.

And there was only one way to find out everything he needed to know.

He had to find his sister.

#fenris #fenris fic #fenhawke #fenris x hakwe #fenris/hawke #fenris/femhawke #fenris x femhawke #fenris/f!hawke #fenris x f!hawke #pikapeppa writes #gearing up for the writing of Act 3!! who's ready?? JFC I AM I CAN TELL YOU THAT

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hoe-imaginess · 6 years

Text

Part 4

She moves her general directly into a compromising spot. An amateur mistake. With a simple move, he adds it to his captured pieces.

“You’re not thinking this through,” Madara murmurs.

She doesn’t reply.

She should be drawing back rather than advancing. If it were gall and confidence making her moves so impulsive, he might have been able to admire it a little, maybe enjoy it. But he doesn’t admire her mindlessness.

They would usually play on days their workload was at a low. Now, the mundane comfort that shogi is meant to offer is replaced by prolonged silence. They both know normality is a far reach at that point.

Not that she can boast at a winning streak, or any winning of any kind when it came to playing Madara, but she usually presents compensation in the form of a decent challenge. But it’s hardly satisfying for him now.

When he had asked her outside the academy if she planned to come to the library, it had been completely antagonistic in nature, just meant to remind her that he was aware of her little ruse to evade him, and that he didn’t find it at all entertaining.

Fine. I’ll be there.

Words spoken with such bitterness, but the conviction to validate those words did not reach her face. He could see the unease swimming in her eyes. The same unease he assumes keeps her in the constant, annoying state of equivocation, where all she does is avoid him.

She puts one of her generals back into play, but it’s by no means a calculated move. He doesn’t comment that time, only moves a piece to counter it. At that point he’s certain he could wear a blindfold and she would still pose no better a challenge.

“What is it, _____?”

“Nothing.” She looks at the board without seeing it. No amount of strategizing will do anything for her. She just needs to bide her time away from his scrutiny.

"Look at me.”

She stiffens. Then after a moment’s hesitation, obeys.

His eyes are dark, unforgiving. “You were very clear when you told me that your absence was a result of work. Nothing else. That what happened between us did not trigger this behavior. ”

So, he’s not going to beat around the bush. “Maybe it’s just taken me time to understand.” She looks away from him then, unable to hold the thick gaze.

His eyes narrow. “Understand what?”

“What you’re doing.”

She moves one of her pieces again, to a much more perceptive place. Sharpness surged by swelling frustration, he assumes. How interesting.

“Then tell me what I’m doing.” He puts his next piece down with punctuated force, and she looks at him.

“I think you’re just antagonizing me.”

He scoffs arrogantly. “If you’re still referring to that day after the academy meeting, then forgive me if I didn’t convey my intentions correctly. My plan was not to antagonize you.”

She scowls, but shivers when a ghost of his touch slides across her thighs, like his hands never left. There’s even a blush on her cheeks as she thinks carefully about his words. “No, that’s not what I’m talking about. You can’t stand that I’m on good terms with the Senju now, can you?”

He wins the game, again. With no lament of defeat, she stands from her seat and moves over to a bookshelf. Anything to get away from his deep glare.

“Interesting theory,” he says. “Then would it be fair of me to assume you’re more frequently collaborating with them on purpose?”

“Why would I be doing it on purpose?”

“To antagonize me, perhaps. Or to prove me wrong about everything I’ve told you. Why else choose to mend a broken bond with Tobirama, of all people?”

“I’m just discussing policies with him,” she says as she idly searches book titles, “and assisting when necessary.”

“Assisting,” he scoffs. “Don’t you think you’re being a little too generous? Given that he did next to nothing for you and your clan when you needed it most.”

“That’s not true,” she insists. And the defensive tone surprises her.

She realizes then that Madara isn’t aware of the negotiating Tobirama facilitated between the Shimura and Sarutobi, all for the sake of accommodating her clan. She hadn’t disclosed that fact, not previously. And something tells her she shouldn’t at all. He would probably refute it, and convince her that Tobirama had ulterior motives, that it wasn’t genuine. She’s half-afraid she would believe him.

But he’s impressed, nonetheless. "Oh no? Then tell me how magnanimous and understanding he was.”

She doesn’t like the way it’s spoken with such condescension. “Forget it, Madara.”

“Do you know what he plans to do with your clan?”

She looks at him now, eyes narrowed. “What?”

Glad he’s caught her attention, he doesn’t beat around the bush. “Your clan is not contributing to the academy. Not as much as Tobirama would like, at least. He will not stand for that. You get what you put in, that’s how he sees it. Because you will not sacrifice your resources, your clan loses out on opportunities in the academy.”

“What are you talking about?” she counters automatically, as if it were ridiculous. But it reels her in, nonetheless. She carefully returns to the table, drawn in by his words.

“Think about it.”

And she does. What he’s implying certainly is by no means unfathomable, but would Tobirama do that to her? After they had finally managed to appease tension? After she started trusting him?

She looks at him. “Are you doing it again?” she asks.

Annoyance sharpens his features. “Am I doing what?”

“Trying to instigate me.”

“Of course I am,” he says with no hesitance whatsoever. “So you clear your mind and start thinking straight. But what I’m saying is no lie. He gives privilege to clans that conform to his needs. Your clan does not. Therefore, your rights to in village are limited. Ask him yourself.”

“Is that what you want? A confrontation? To create more tension between the Senju and my clan?”

“No,” he grunts sharply. “That’s not what I want.”

He stands from the table and walks to her. After so many chilling and unnerving encounters, she wants to step away. But she’s swept up in confusion and concern. She doesn’t even flinch when he comes close to her.

“I want you to know what exactly you’re getting yourself into by trusting him.”

“I know what I’m getting myself into, Madara. Don’t act like I’m naive.”

“You are if you trust him.”

She scowls. “By what he’s told me, I shouldn’t be trusting you either.”

“So that’s what he’s been doing? Filling your head with—”

“No. That’s not what he’s doing.” She sounds exasperated. “If anything, you are the one trying to manipulate me and fill my head with lies.”

He remains silent when she says that. For what reason, she doesn’t know. But the air is subdued then, still lingering with distinct tension, but the aggression weathers away.

“I don’t want to argue with you,” she continues. “Don’t do this again. You’re only stirring tension where it doesn’t need to be stirred.” It isn’t what she wants. It was never what she wanted. To be so combative every time she was with him, when she truly considered him to be one of, if not her closest companions... It didn’t feel right. “Where is this coming from, Madara? Is it just because I’ve been spending time with Tobirama? Is that really it?”

“Yes,” he snaps. It’s the truth. He doesn’t care to deny it. “In the beginning you bore the brunt of Tobirama’s negligence. For weeks on end, all you did was complain. And now? To put faith in him? To open yourself and your clan to disaster so easily?” Something changes in him, something dark and morbid. She can see it in his face, in his eyes. “Every clan, yours included, cannot be expected to relinquish all resentment from decades of war. It’s just not possible. You see the tension that surrounds us. Are we supposed to just forget? How can you be so trusting?”

“How can you be so doubtful? I was always cautious, Madara. You don’t think I felt the same way about the Uchiha when we first joined the village?” Her eyes plead with him, though she wonders if it will do any good now that they’re both so passionate about their conflicting beliefs. “Don’t think I didn’t. Because I did. Then I met you. Here. In this very library. And when we spoke for the first time, you were kind to me, and nothing like I expected. I learned to trust you. Just as I have learned to trust Tobirama.”

He scowls and scoffs, like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “Even after what I’ve told you? That he plans to punish your clan for not yielding to his demands?”

“How do I know that’s the truth, Madara?”

“You really think I would lie to you?”

“To aggravate me? Yes. You even admitted it yourself. That’s all you’re doing, trying to antagonize me.”

“I would not steer you in the wrong direction,” he snaps. “But he will. And when your clan is facing the consequences of your naivety—”

“You’re not concerned with my clan,” she says sharply. “Or me.” The bands that held her anger together break under his ignorance. “This is just part of your own agenda, using me for your animosity. You’re not doing this for my benefit.”

“Then for whose?” he counters angrily. “Mine?”

“Who else?” She sounds afflicted. And in the tangle of emotions suddenly attacking her, she reaches for whatever counter she can, and regrets it immediately.

“Is this because of your brother?” she says. “Is this for Izuna? Has it been for him all this time? Some twisted desire to avenge him—”

A hand twists into her collar and pushes her back roughly against the shelves, hard enough to knock scrolls loose from their place and tumble to the floor.

“Do not bring Izuna into this.”

His voice is threatening and cold, cold as the pits of his dark, intense eyes.

The sting of impact floods her back, but it’s not the pain that’s disconcerting, not the fact that he physically acted out on the aggression. It’s the pure malice in his words. It’s the first time he’s raised his voice to her like that.

She would twist away from his grip, but her veins are ice cold, her body unresponsive. She imagines that it’s exactly what it must have felt like to fall to Madara Uchiha in battle. It must be the same sense of urgency, the same dread. He might as well have a kunai pressed to her throat.

Seeing her like this, anxious, frightened, looking at him as though he’s the enemy, the way everyone looks at him... it disgusts him. His grip subsides, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, his hand flattens and gently rests against her collar bone, like the tender contact will atone for what he’s done.

She peers up at him, expectant but frightened. Imperceptible tremors run through her body, which he feels under his palm. He closes his eyes and gathers his thoughts. He doesn’t want to apologize. Not for his intentions. He might apologize for his emotions, since for the first time, he realizes what she’s done to him.

In the beginning, he admittedly toyed with her emotions, though not for malevolent reasons. It had only been out of a need to gauge her temperament and her judgement, toward the Senju, mostly. Toward Tobirama. It was all so much easier when he thought she shared the same ill will toward the man. Now, Madara is painfully aware that she doesn’t. Not anymore. He’s losing her to the Senju. Just like he lost his brother.

But it appears that nothing he said would change her mind. The cycle of frustration and pain and desire would only continue. Nothing could be done about it.

“Do whatever you please,” he says finally. And he walks away.

There’s no ultimatum. No threat. No admonition. All things she had come to expect. Now whatever tie they had stands irrefutably cut. She can feel it, can feel the depravity as he grabs his belongings and departs.

“Madara,” she tries to plead. But there’s no reply, not even a parting glance.

The comfort leaves with him, and she feels alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Do you need anything from me, ______-san?”

“No. You’re free to leave. Thank you for sorting these scrolls for me.” She waves the assistant off, wishing he would just go away, but the young man looks unconvinced. It’s only after she gives him an earnest, regrettably forceful look that he bows and leaves. Then she turns back to her work.

The suspicions Madara implanted in her mind had been supplemented in a matter of days. She’s dubious. Dubious, worried, anxious—and almost convinced of Tobirama’s plot.

It started directly after her altercation with the Uchiha, when she wandered over to the Senju office. She couldn’t think straight. She just needed to be somewhere else, and found the promise of being with Tobirama, or even Hashirama, for that matter, compelling her toward their side of the village.

When she arrived, it was a relief to see the younger Senju sitting at Hashirama’s desk. Comfort found her, in a desperate, cynical sort of way.

“I’m conducting a meeting soon with two clan heads. We’re discussing the academy,” he had said when he saw her.

They had discussed the academy with advisors before, but never with the private audience of a clan head, not since the initial meeting. She had been excited at the idea, hopeful that they could offer more to their cause now that higher-ups were involved.

“Alone,” he had clarified as soon as he saw the eager smile on her face.

Even now, she remembers the awful sting in her body as a flood of uncertainty hit her, shattering the denial she had built since hearing Madara spew his libel.

Usually, she would have argued and inquired as to why she could not attend the meeting. Did he not know that she would be interested in what the clan heads had to say? Especially when she had been collaborating with him all this time? They were both advisors. He had no higher authority than her that dictated whether she should be involved or not. It was insulting. She had every reason to question him.

Yet she did nothing of the sort. She just apologized, an uncharacteristic gesture he didn’t seem to catch, and left.

Then the next day, an envoy had come to her home with an offhand message from Tobirama, simply stating that he would be busy, occupied with more meetings that he needed to settle on his part. And that it would be best if she left him to his work.

A clear statement. She needed to keep away. She was not invited, or wanted.

Is this how he would do it? she thought. How he planned to move her out of the picture? Tobirama had yet to call on her clan heads to hold any sort of discussion pertaining to the academy. Not just that, but through the hours spent planning and brainstorming, he had not mentioned her clan’s involvement once. Madara’s words seemed truer with every cumulative thought.

Of course, she could write it off as an unnecessary discussion. The fact she collaborated with him at all surely meant he was keeping her clan in mind. Yet what prompted him to exclude her from his meetings? Why had he not requested an audience with her clan heads like the others? Did that really mean that he planned to penalize her clan...? No. It couldn’t be. It was just Madara’s words twisting her rationality.

But the idea of not knowing the complete truth hinders her concentration, and the Uchiha’s voice at the back of her mind persists as a reminder of the unknown.

One of her assistants is suddenly calling to her and kneeling outside the room, waiting for entry. She accepts, and the young girl who looks crossly disheveled doesn’t look her in the eyes.

“Madara Uchiha wishes to speak with you,” she whispers. “He asked to be escorted here.”

Her mind draws blank. She would prepare herself for whatever it was he sought out, but she doesn’t see the point in guessing. If there’s anything she’s learned from Madara, it’s that he’s unpredictable.

She tells the girl to let him in, and waits in fretful anticipation. With a slide of the door, the Uchiha is there standing in front of her.

It’s silent.

She watches him closely for any signs of acrimony, but there are none. He spares only an expectant, but impatient glance to the young assistant that shadows him.

The woman understands immediately, and dismisses the girl. “Thank you. Go home now. It’s getting dark.”

This assistant is much more obedient than the last, likely unsettled by Madara’s strong presence. She forces herself to bow, then scurries away, leaving them alone at last.

His calm is remarkable, but inside, a swirl of emotions he hasn’t quite tethered. He hadn’t considered what he would say to her, only that he needed to say something. Hours of enduring the waves of regret and anxiety crashing over his train of thought, and he couldn’t stand it anymore.

“I leave today,” he begins, almost methodically, “to meet with the daimyo. With Hashirama.”

She nods slowly. “I know.”

“I need to explain something,” he begins, hesitantly. But earnestly, nevertheless. "What I said that day. I was irrational. Paranoid, as of late. It was wrong of me.” That morning, he had taken some of those same fears and unleashed them onto Hashirama.

This visit to the daimyo would finalize the village as a permanent settlement in the Land of Fire. It should have been a good thing to be progressing like they were. Finally, their childhood dream would come to fruition.

But he couldn’t see it that way. Not when he could still feel the friction between clans. Not when Tobirama was already moving to cause strife. It pushed him to the edge of doubt, and triggered a long suppressed outrage.

Hashirama had been unprepared for his friend’s anger. Fortunately, an argument that took the better part of the day finally put Madara at ease. Hashirama may not have been a diplomat at heart, but all he had to do was remind Madara of what the village stood for, of the violence and mayhem that could be avoided by uniting the shinobi world, and the Uchiha yielded.

The reluctance Madara felt is no longer potent. It still remains, however, somewhere in the depths of his heart. He expects it won’t be the last debate he and Hashirama have about the matter.

But for now, he knows how agonizing those doubts can be. The possibility—more like fact—that he left her agonized in the same way, and for so long, is what brings him to her. To alleviate the dilemma, because he knows it’s his fault.

"I want this village to work.”

He hadn’t anticipated her voice to be so soft, so vulnerable, so hesitant. It makes the searing guilt even worse.

"So do I.” Despite the complications. Despite the doubt. He really does. “I want it to work.”

“But it can’t if you keep acting this way,” she adds, and immediately, his civil composure threatens to fall. He closes his eyes and exhales deeply, trying to persevere as she goes on. “You need stop trying to fill my head with lies that will get me into trouble, Madara.”

He steps closer to her, through the door until he’s fully inside of her home, all in one swift motion.

She doesn’t realize how close he is until her feet hit the wall and he’s in front of her, solemn, tense, determination swimming in his charcoal eyes. “I am not lying. The only thing I’m trying to do is help you, _______.“

He’s so close that her scent floods him. That tint of warm sugar and fresh flowers that has always seemed so calming and pleasant to his senses. He reaches out to touch her face, and she stills. She never realized how large and slender his hands were, fingers stretching along her cheeks to caress her lightly in an effort of apology.

She stares fretfully over his shoulder, outside the open door where the sun is peeking out above the trees surrounding the village, descending for the night. If anyone were to come across the compromising situation, it would be difficult to conjure an explanation.

“I know,” is all she says.

There’s nothing else she can think of to subdue the rising pressure. She understands what he means. But she can’t accept it. Maybe it’s because she can’t abandon the progress she’s made, or what she thought she had made so far, with the village, and with Tobirama.

There are no changes in his expression. He examines her. Her eyes, her lips, her hair. Everything. Like he’s focused on nothing else but drinking up the sight of her, accepting the pain he had brought her, owning the regret.

“Did you ask him?”

Her eyes return to him, confused, but she thinks she knows. “What?”

“Tobirama,” he clarifies, voice so soft and quiet she doesn’t recognize it as his. “Did you ask him about his plans?”

Then she’s looking away again, reminded of the suspicion that has persecuted her all this time. She doesn’t want it to be true.

“No.”

“Ask him,” he says, retracting and staring down at her, almost expressionless. “You deserve to know.”

She only stares, and he doesn’t waver from her gaze, letting her swallow down the severity of his words. It’s by no means deceit. He’s honest. He’s doing it for her. She thinks she realizes that now.

And when he pulls away and leaves, the dismay returns, like his presence kept her grounded.

~~~~~~~~~~

There are footsteps approaching from outside the door, but Tobirama is hardly in the mood to be disturbed.

“Who is it?” he calls before they can even announce themselves.

It better not be Hashirama. His elder brother was already late to the congregation at the head of the village where he was meant to depart on his trip, yet he had come to wish his younger brother farewell just a few minutes prior.

“Me,” the firm voice comes from the other side of the door.

Definitely something Hashirama would say, Tobirama thinks, but it’s not his brother.

She doesn’t wait for permission. She walks in, and he only offers her a glance of acknowledgement before returning his attention to the scroll in his hands, surprisingly unruffled by her lack of courtesy.

“The amount of people who come into this office and I’m expected to know who ‘me’ is?”

“Yet you still let me enter.” She moves to the edge of the desk and draws her eyes over the heap of scrolls. “Besides, you’re a sensor.”

"I’m not charging chakra every second of the day. I shouldn’t have to.”

“That makes it even easier to sneak up on you, then.”

He tries to glare at her, but it comes across as a harmless, fatigued frown. He’s thoroughly weary from all the work on his plate, but that’s suddenly no longer his primary concern. He can’t concentrate on his own demeanor when hers is pressing his curiosity.

He hadn’t seen her once since he practically dismissed her from his presence before his academy meetings, something he regrets deeply. The calm when she left Hashirama’s office that day had been palpable. Suspiciously palpable. Which is what led Tobirama to sit and brood far longer than he cared to admit, trying to understand what could have possibly extinguished her normally fiery attitude. It made little sense that she would settle so easily with being barred from his academy discussions, no matter how gently he had tried to let her down.

Over the past weeks, there came a sinking realization that their intimate interactions would boil skepticism from others at some point. Tobirama is convinced that the key to harmonizing the village is equal discretion; favoring one clan over the other would not encourage that. It was for that exact reason he had chosen to subtly exclude her from his discussion with the clan heads, and even sent an envoy to suggest that they forgo on their seeing each other again the following day.

It had all been for the sake of discretion. Nothing else. He assumed that she wanted attention drawn to them no more than he did, and that precaution was necessary. Had she questioned him, he would have gladly explained that. But when he received no reply to his message, he knew she was likely offended. Which is why it’s so curious that he can’t find a single trace of solicited hostility in her expression now. Not even in her voice.

She’s too calm. He doesn’t know how to feel about that.

"Are these for the academy?” she asks, running her hands along the strewn scrolls.

He says nothing, but passes one over to her.

“Hashirama will have to build this, no doubt,” she notes as she examines the paper. Blueprints for expanding academy grounds, she thinks. "After he’s worn himself from the village’s infrastructure, you don’t think this is too much for him?”

“He will work with whatever I give him. He’s intrigued by the prospect of the academy, anyway. If I have to do all the administrative work, he can suffer a little manual labor.”

"And the Uchiha?” she asks, biting her tongue as soon as she says it. A stupid impulse that spills from her mouth only as impatience takes over.

Tobirama’s ability to hide his emotions is excellent when he wants it to be, but she notices the slight tug of his lips into a frown. "What about them?”

“I don’t think I ever asked. What are they planning to contribute? Will they have something to do with the academy? ”

He stops reading and exhales heavily, like he’s annoyed. “Of course they will.”

“Are you sure?”

Now he looks at her, furrowing his brows in suspicion. “Madara agreed to assist, and thereby, his clan will have input… Why are you asking? Did he send you here to pry?”

“He didn’t send me to do anything. He and I were just discussing the academy recently, and I realized you and I hadn’t spoken about his plans. That’s all.”

It’s that complacency in her demeanor that he does not like. Not at all. Something is off. “You were with him just now?”

That seems like an obvious question. It had only been a few hours since he had come to her home. Come to clarify, come to… well, whatever else he had hoped to accomplish.

“Why do you care?” she returns swiftly.

He scowls, and considers lying to snake away from the truth. “I don’t. I only ask that next time, you let me know when you’re consulting with the Uchiha about academy business.”

“The Uchiha,” she echoes quietly, wondering how it can sound so hateful spilling off his tongue like that.

The exasperated tone catches him. “What?”

“Nothing…” And she almost leaves it at that. Because the more she considers it, she doesn’t want to dig any further. Doesn’t want to find out the truth, because she fears what it will evoke. "You just make it seem as though he has no right to involve himself in academy affairs.”

Not this again, Tobirama thinks. “Of course he has a ‘right’,” he argues. “Even if I know he has more than enough grievances with my agenda. Like I said, he agreed to contribute. He will have a say in academy affairs.” For what seems like the hundredth time, he tries to focus on the last paragraph of the scroll in his hand.

She’s silent after that. Which is odd, he thinks. Usually their mild sparring persists much longer, or at least until it breaks into something more intense. But no, the silence is stretched almost uncomfortably.

She wonders whether she should say it. Madara’s words have been hammering away in her head in an agonizing way. Now it’s all the worse when she’s standing right in front of the accused.

Distress persists, and forces the words out of her.

“Interesting. Because I need to know why you’re excluding my clan from affairs, even though we’re doing everything we can to contribute to the academy. Or does your courtesy only extend as far as your mood at the time?”

He visibly stiffens, and slowly raises his gaze to her. “What are you talking about?”

"I thought we were over this, Tobirama.” There’s the bite in her voice that was previously absent. “But I come to find out that you’re displeased with what we can offer you? And because of that, you’re plotting against us?”

“Plotting?” The calm leaves his voice. “You’re the one who said you didn’t have enough resources to contribute.”

“And that means you take away my clan’s opportunity? The children’s opportunities?”

“That is not even remotely close to what I am doing.”

“Then what is it?”

“The academy will be limited in the beginning, yes, that is true.” He’s trying to be understanding, but he’s never responded well to confrontation. Her belligerence blindsides him, makes him instinctively defensive. “I’m not punishing you for what you can’t offer. There is no penalty for that.”

“Then what would you call it?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it. He actually doesn’t know. If he’s being completely honest with himself, a penalty is exactly what he had considered it to be. That had only been on account of the troublesome complaints he had received from many clans. But when it comes to hers, labeling it as something so crooked seems wrong.

“Necessary governance,” he mutters finally, unable to look at her.

“Does Hashirama know about this?” she contends; anger is simmering at the surface.

He frowns. “What does that matter?”

“I can’t imagine your brother would let something like this happen. He’s too kind. Too considerate. Too concerned for the well-being of this village.”

“And you think I’m not?”

“You’re just focused on molding the village’s authority to your liking. You’re forcing us into contributing and punishing those who don’t adhere to what you want, Tobirama. This is supposed to be a unified village. You can’t treat people like this… Madara was right.” The exasperation subsides an entire level when she thinks about the Uchiha, about the way his fingers caressed her face. She had been wrong to doubt him.

“What do you mean?” he inquires, anger replaced by frustrating curiosity.

“He told me about this. He told me what you were planning."

His face twists into something worse than a scowl. “What exactly did he tell you?”

“It doesn’t matter what exactly he told me. He couldn’t have possibly made it any worse than it is. I thought I could trust you. But all you’re doing is scheming for your own benefit. For yourself.”

“For myself?” He stands from his chair.

“Of course you are!“ Her voice transcends a volume she’s not used to, and her heart pounds at the audacity. "And if not for yourself, then for your clan. Not for the village. You preach about village prosperity, but that only applies if it’s under your conditions. This is exactly like it was in the beginning. You’re narrow-minded, and inconsiderate. I trusted you, Tobirama.” She sounds hurt, and he hears it. Then her tone welcomes malice once again. “But you don’t deserve my trust.”

The way ire thickens around her is probably enough to silence anyone. That sharp pain of disappointment in her voice, completed by an edge of regret. Her fiery glare, so close to him now that she’s leaned closer, puts him on edge.

But Tobirama is silent. He can’t fully comprehend what he’s just heard. No one has ever spoken to him like that.

His expression softens to a bleak, listless frown. Even his voice is unexpectedly calm. “Is that really what you think?”

Her tone is agitated, still marred by the intensity of her outburst. She’s almost disappointed that she received such a lenient reaction. “Yes.”

A closer examination reveals his true sentiment. It’s like pure indignation burning in his scarlet eyes, hot emotion twisting into his features. Some part of her is intimidated, but it’s a part she can’t welcome right then.

He should hate her for coming to such audacious conclusions. Mostly because they’ve been devised by Madara. He had suspect as much all along. If anyone else had done this to him, if anyone else had spoken to him with such lawless impudence… well, he would hold nothing back.

But now, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what to do.

The fervor in her expression hasn’t disappeared. The furrow of her brows betrays anger and poses what he notices for the first time now as uncertainty. Uncertainty and confusion and pain.

It’s then that he becomes aware of just how close they are, only a few inches more and they would touch. Hands, body, or lips.

His heart quickens its pace at the notion. He doesn’t know why the idea intrudes his thought process, especially when he’s searing with enough anger to choke her. He can’t handle it any longer.

"Get out,” he mutters, voice filled with a threat that he can’t form into words.

"No.” It doesn’t deter her, even if she is unsettled by the tone. It gets under his skin, she can see it in the way his face tightens into a hard scowl. "I’m tired of this, Tobirama. I’m tired of constantly wondering whether you’re going to go behind my back and—”

“I’m not going to tell you again,” he says angrily. “Get out.”

“I’m not leaving.”

They’re still so close, so close she can hear the frustration in his shallow breaths. And now, he doesn’t bother hiding it. He’s staring at her lips. She can see it. He knows she can. Somehow, she finds her eyes drawn to his own lips, lips set in a thin, angry line.

Through all the rage, she feels a drowning hope. Hope that the happiness and companionship she found in him would still be alive. That his schemes, lawful in foundation or not, wouldn’t ruin what they had. But she knows better. Feelings of sad warmth take over her, and she realizes how weak she becomes in the face of their turmoil.

Eyes still on his lips, her breath catches when he dips his head down. She prepares herself, feels her heart stop, but he doesn’t do it.

He just lowers his head, and shuts his eyes in an attempt to gather his wits. A passion he doesn’t understand courses through him in defeat.

“Leave.”

It’s difficult to readjust her concentration, especially when her body is still filled with some odd, fluttering warmth.

“No,” she manages.

He withdraws quickly, grabs a stack of scrolls and makes to leave, but she moves to block his path. He has half a mind to move her, but he doesn’t want to touch her.

“Don’t run away from this, Tobirama.“ She knows what she’s doing is completely reckless, and that the repercussions will be dire. But she can’t hold back. She didn’t come so far to receive no closure. The confusion and misplaced trust eats at her without fail. Who is she supposed to believe? "I can’t handle this anymore. This uncertainty and this distrust. I need to know why. Why are you doing this?”

His face falls in anger. “Why trust the word of that Uchiha?!” He’s yelling now, right in her face. He’ll regret his volatile temper later, but it’s his defense against the bubbling anxiety in his chest.

“Stop saying that,” she protests. “He’s been more help than you have, Tobirama. He’s been honest, and genuine—”

“Don’t call him honest,” Tobirama seethes. “If you weren’t so obsessed with him, then you would see he’s anything but honest.”

“I trust him. If not for him, I wouldn’t have even known about this little plot of yours. I would have made a fool of myself, hoping that you would take my wishes into consideration. I had to find out from him… Why is that?”

“You would see Madara for what he really is if you would just clear your head, if you weren’t so absorbed in this misconstrued idea of him.” Tobirama feels like he’s speaking to his brother. An endless argument that neither of them can ever win. But with her, it’s much more frustrating.

“Is this still about Madara?… Why, Tobirama?” She steps toward him, too close for comfort, but he doesn’t draw back. “You never gave me a clear answer when I asked you. Why do you hate him so much? Why are you punishing me now for finding a friend in him?”

He scoffs in disgust. “You’re gullible.” The intent of his words is earnest, but the spite isn’t. He would say her logic is twisted, but it makes sense. He hates to admit it. But it does.

He tries to side step and move to the door, the only destination that seems safe at the moment. She presses a hand against his chest and pushes him back. That’s when his self-restraint teeters.

“Why?” she pleads, desperately now. He can see it in her eyes, can feel it in the way her fingers tighten just slightly into the fabric of his shirt. “Tell me why.”

He doesn’t answer, only glares at her.

Attempting to step by her again proves to be a fatal mistake. A disgruntled, frustrated protest, and her hands shove at his chest, hard. Instinctively, he snatches her wrists before she can set upon him again, and all at once an endless tangle of emotion and tension and exasperation snaps like a coil.

“Because!” he yells down at her. “I don’t trust him not to hurt you. I—”

Common sense returns to him just in time. He reads the flash of astonishment and confusion on her flushed face, and briefly shuts his eyes, trying to figure out what the hell he’s just done.

And then there’s silence. He wishes the earth would swallow him up, make him disappear.

What does she say to that? Does she follow the scorn that lingers, and reprimand him? His outburst makes that impossible. She can’t even bother to wrench her hands out of his grip.

She swallows, but finds her throat dry. “That’s—”

“Enough. It doesn’t matter.”

He lets go of her, doesn’t even look at her as he moves to the door. “You and your clan will have anything you need for the academy. There will be no more complications.”

Then he leaves, slamming the door behind him.

An odd, unshakable pain of separation grips her. One that has her losing sleep every night for weeks on end.

#lots of arguing in this chapter prepare for it #it may be boring #it may be spicy #it's probbaly both #sorry #madara is so difficult to write when he's arguing bc is he gonna be mean or is he gonn abe condescending you just don't know #can i spell #arguing tobirama is always fun to write tho bc u know he's gonna fuck it up big time eventually #time skip after this chapter #i think #i gotta check #i'm stupid asf #someone told me to tag this as #madaramadrama #so that's what this is now

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giftedsupport · 6 years

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It has been my experience that gifted and talented persons are more likely to experience a type of depression referred to as existential depression. Although an episode of existential depression may be precipitated in anyone by a major loss or the threat of a loss which highlights the transient nature of life, persons of higher intellectual ability are more prone to experience existential depression spontaneously. Sometimes this existential depression is tied into the positive disintegration experience referred to by Dabrowski (1996).

Existential depression is a depression that arises when an individual confronts certain basic issues of existence. Yalom (1980) describes four such issues (or “ultimate concerns”)–death, freedom, isolation and meaninglessness. Death is an inevitable occurrence. Freedom, in an existential sense, refers to the absence of external structure. That is, humans do not enter a world which is inherently structured. We must give the world a structure which we ourselves create. Isolation recognizes that no matter how close we become to another person, a gap always remains, and we are nonetheless alone. Meaninglessness stems from the first three. If we must die, if we construct our own world, and if each of us is ultimately alone, then what meaning does life have?

Why should such existential concerns occur disproportionately among gifted persons? Partially, it is because substantial thought and reflection must occur to even consider such notions, rather than simply focusing on superficial day-to-day aspects of life. Other more specific characteristics of gifted children are important predisposers as well.

Because gifted children are able to consider the possibilities of how things might be, they tend to be idealists. However, they are simultaneously able to see that the world is falling short of how it might be. Because they are intense, gifted children feel keenly the disappointment and frustration which occurs when ideals are not reached. Similarly, these youngsters quickly spot the inconsistencies, arbitrariness and absurdities in society and in the behaviors of those around them. Traditions are questioned or challenged. For example, why do we put such tight sex-role or age-role restrictions on people? Why do people engage in hypocritical behaviors in which they say one thing and then do another? Why do people say things they really do not mean at all? Why are so many people so unthinking and uncaring in their dealings with others? How much difference in the world can one person’s life make?

When gifted children try to share these concerns with others, they are usually met with reactions ranging from puzzlement to hostility. They discover that others, particularly of their age, clearly do not share these concerns, but instead are focused on more concrete issues and on fitting in with others’ expectations. Often by even first grade, these youngsters, particularly the more highly gifted ones, feel isolated from their peers and perhaps from their families as they find that others are not prepared to discuss such weighty concerns.

When their intensity is combined with multi-potentiality, these youngsters become particularly frustrated with the existential limitations of space and time. There simply aren’t enough hours in the day to develop all of the talents that many of these children have. Making choices among the possibilities is indeed arbitrary; there is no “ultimately right” choice. Even choosing a vocation can be difficult if one is trying to make a career decision between essentially equal passion, talents and potential in violin, neurology, theoretical mathematics and international relations.

The reaction of gifted youngsters (again with intensity) to these frustrations is often one of anger. But they quickly discover that their anger is futile, for it is really directed at “fate” or at other matters which they are not able to control. Anger that is powerless evolves quickly into depression.

In such depression, gifted children typically try to find some sense of meaning, some anchor point which they can grasp to pull themselves out of the mire of “unfairness.” Often, though, the more they try to pull themselves out, the more they become acutely aware that their life is finite and brief, that they are alone and are only one very small organism in a quite large world, and that there is a frightening freedom regarding how one chooses to live one’s life. It is at this point that they question life’s meaning and ask, “Is this all there is to life? Is there not ultimate meaning? Does life only have meaning if I give it meaning? I am a small, insignificant organism who is alone in an absurd, arbitrary and capricious world where my life can have little impact, and then I die. Is this all there is?”

Such concerns are not too surprising in thoughtful adults who are going through mid-life crises. However, it is a matter of great concern when these existential questions are foremost in the mind of a twelve or fifteen year old. Such existential depressions deserve careful attention, since they can be precursors to suicide.

How can we help our bright youngsters cope with these questions? We cannot do much about the finiteness of our existence. However, we can help youngsters learn to feel that they are understood and not so alone and that there are ways to manage their freedom and their sense of isolation.

The isolation is helped to a degree by simply communicating to the youngster that someone else understands the issues that he/she is grappling with. Even though your experience is not exactly the same as mine, I feel far less alone if I know that you have had experiences that are reasonably similar. This is why relationships are so extremely important in the long-term adjustment of gifted children (Webb, Meckstroth and Tolan, 1982).

A particular way of breaking through the sense of isolation is through touch. In the same way that infants need to be held and touched, so do persons who are experiencing existential aloneness. Touch seems to be a fundamental and instinctual aspect of existence, as evidenced by mother-infant bonding or “failure to thrive” syndrome. Often, I have “prescribed” daily hugs for a youngster suffering existential depression and have advised parents of reluctant teenagers to say, “I know that you may not want a hug, but I need a hug.” A hug, a touch on the arm, playful jostling, or even a “high five” can be very important to such a youngster, because it establishes at least some physical connection.

The issues and choices involved in managing one’s freedom are more intellectual, as opposed to the reassuring aspects of touch as a sensory solution to an emotional crisis. Gifted children who feel overwhelmed by the myriad choices of an unstructured world can find a great deal of comfort in studying and exploring alternate ways in which other people have structured their lives. Through reading about people who have chosen specific paths to greatness and fulfillment, these youngsters can begin to use bibliotherapy as a method of understanding that choices are merely forks in the road of life, each of which can lead them to their own sense of fulfillment and accomplishment (Halsted, 1994). We all need to build our own personal philosophy of beliefs and values which will form meaningful frameworks for our lives.

It is such existential issues that lead many of our gifted individuals to bury themselves so intensively in “causes” (whether these causes are academics, political or social causes, or cults). Unfortunately, these existential issues can also prompt periods of depression, often mixed with desperate, thrashing attempts to “belong.” Helping these individuals to recognize the basic existential issues may help, but only if done in a kind and accepting way. In addition, these youngsters will need to understand that existential issues are not ones that can be dealt with only once, but rather ones that will need frequent revisiting and reconsideration.

In essence, then, we can help many persons with existential depressions if we can get them to realize that they are not so alone and if we can encourage them to adopt the message of hope written by the African-American poet, Langston Hughes:

Hold fast to dreams, For if dreams die, Life is a broken-winged bird That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams. For if dreams go, Life is a barren field Covered with snow.

~ Langston Hughes

References Dabrowski, K. (1966). The Theory of Positive Disintegration. International Journal of Psychiatry, 2(2), 229-244. Halsted, J. (1994). Some of My Best Friends Are Books: Guiding Gifted Readers from Pre-School through High School. Scottsdale, AZ: Gifted Psychology Press, Inc. (Formerly Ohio Psychology Press). Webb, J. T., Meckstroth, E. A. and Tolan, S. S. (1982). Guiding the Gifted Child: A Practical Source for Parents and Teachers. Scottsdale, AZ: Gifted Psychology Press, Inc. (formerly Ohio Psychology Press). Yalom, I. D. (1980). Existential Psychotherapy. New York: Basic Books.

#gifted #giftedness #gifted and talented #gifted kids #gifted adults #depression #existential #existential depression

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