#I'll probably write it a dozen times more by the end of the year alone tbqh

[optiwashere]

Also Shadowheart/Asheera, B9? I swear you did write something like this before but hey, new angles,

I have written something to this effect before, but like you said - new angles and all that. Plus, it's not like it's something that Shadowheart just "gets over" you know? Either way, thank you for requesting this one!

Let's end the prompt bash with my two favorite ladies 💜

---

B9. Convinced that their past makes them irredeemable, Character A struggles with Character B's affections (This technically takes place after Chapter 2 of one of my ongoing fics, Blades in the Night, but all you need for context is that it's post-canon)

Night fell on the Trade Way, stars in haphazard patterns that Shadowheart couldn't read for any constellations.

All she saw were dots of light in the sea of darkness. Seams in the black fabric of night, none of them strong enough to light the world. The moon was dim that night. All was dark save for the small fire she and Asheera built together.

Stargazing kept her mind from staring at the shadows of the trees around them. Yet another forest.

More trees. More hiding places for the Sharran assassins set on ruining what future Shadowheart thought she could have. Each of the shadows in those trees, distant enough that her darkvision couldn't reach them, could have been a shifting figure with a nocked arrow.

"Quiet tonight," whispered Asheera near her.

She was sitting next to Shadowheart by the fire. When she sat down, Shadowheart didn't know.

"I suppose it is. Not much reason for most to travel this way, I assume." Shadowheart glanced her way, then returned her gaze to the sky.

"I meant you."

"Oh."

The low hunting call of a nocturnal bird was the only sound on the road for a handful of breaths. Shadowheart couldn't keep her eyes off the stars.

All around them they were bathed in darkness, yet still they shone. Did the stars too, then, understand what it felt like to consider the darkness? Think it preferable? Did whichever god that hung them in the sky know the feel of its creator's blood on its hands as Shadowheart felt of her parents? Had that god ever heard its parents scream as it worked the interrogator's techniques on them in ignorant devotion to some other, greater god?

It must have. Its work showed in the sky. On some mornings, the sky bled red, and the clouds were stained the same way Shadowheart knew her hands were stained.

Tainted.

"Love, are you all right?" asked Asheera, her voice so soft that Shadowheart shivered at its softness. Her hand fell on Shadowheart's shoulder, thumb rubbing gently. "You've been quiet for hours."

"Have I?" Shadowheart turned to stare at the hand on her. When she tilted her head up to look at Asheera, her tusks glinted in the firelight. "If I said I was contemplating the night sky, would you laugh at me?"

"Depends on why. I have a feeling it's not exactly a humorous occasion."

Waiting a moment, Shadowheart sighed. She didn’t know how to word this. "When you see a star in the night's sky, what do you think of it?"

Asheera shifted her jaw, grinding her tusks against her lip as she thought. Her brows knitted together above the bridge of her nose. "I see a forge weld, like pieces of a breastplate stitched together. Each of those stars keeps the world from falling into total darkness. They're beautiful that way. Why, what do you see?"

"Naïve children that think they can fend off eternal darkness. Destined to die, fade away. Become nothing."

At once, Asheera sat closer, her arm shifting to hold Shadowheart at the waist. Her arm wrapped around Shadowheart and pulled her tight. She was warm. Warmer than the fire. Instinctively, Shadowheart rested her head on Asheera's shoulder. Despite the distance - perhaps because of the oath Asheera swore to protect her - Shadowheart swore she could hear the echo of her heartbeat.

She was so damn warm, and Shadowheart could only think of the darkness blanketing the light in the sky. How a star could be snuffed out in an instant, replaced instantly by shadows.

Shadowheart's breaths hitched. For a moment, she worried her thoughts mingled with Asheera's mind. But the tadpole was gone. Her thoughts were her own, completely free from unfortunate sharing or melding of emotions.

The warmth of Asheera's body enveloped her deeper as Asheera slid her palm down Shadowheart's arm. Close, covered in that palm. Fingers slipped between hers. Held tight.

"You have no reason to fear that," whispered Asheera. "You are not that darkness."

"I broke people for decades. Including my own parents."

"You didn't know—"

"And that absolves me? That's meant to stop me from remembering what I've done?" Shadowheart growled, lifting her head to meet Asheera's gaze. "And what would you know of such loss?"

The words tasted like poison, specifically the extract of carrion crawler innards that could paralyze and trigger violent spasms in its victim. Acrid like burnt flowers. Disgust welled at the bottom of her throat, and she meant to turn away from Asheera, but she could only stare into the deep, ruddy brown eyes that searched her face.

She expected Asheera to pull away.

Instead, she reaffirmed her grip on Shadowheart's hand.

Instead of pulling away, she smiled weakly.

Instead of leaving Shadowheart to wallow in that darkness, Asheera said, "It's not meant to do anything. It's a reminder. But I understand. I understand, though if you think I'm going to sit idly while you compare yourself to the empty night sky, you're more clueless than I expected."

"You think me clueless, then?"

"Let’s just say that I remember hearing the zealot that I met on a floating squid ship regurgitate Sharran dogma." Asheera lifted the corner of her mouth in a curved half-smile. "She was so very different from the smiling drunk that said she cared about refugees."

And somehow, Shadowheart smiled again. She nearly laughed too.

Rather than say a word and ruin what Asheera offered with open arms, Shadowheart nestled back into her embrace.

The two of them watched the stars until the fire became a glimmering, constant light that refused to die. Though they were wrapped in the dark for a moment, darkvision revealing the world in grayscale again, the stars still shone.

#bg3 fanfiction #shadowheart #shadowtav #shadowheart x tav #oc: asheera #my fic #anotheropti prompt fics #I'm addicted to this sorta fic concept in a way that's certainly pathological #I'll probably write it a dozen times more by the end of the year alone tbqh #have these ficlets that take place in other fics been my attempt to get myself to write more of those moments? #who can say - surely not I #I'll also eventually add this to BitN like I did for Scenes! #Probably tomorrow when I have some spare time

[revelale]

TOA Anniversary Munday!

Celebrating TOA and the people who contribute to make our group what it is.

Repost, don't reblog. Only fill in what you feel comfortable sharing!

Happy anniversary, TOA! Here's to many more years spent together.

tagging: you? :0)

Name: lilly!

Pronouns: she / they, big they though!

Birthday (no year): april 4th!

Where are you from? What is your time zone? pst, lmao. gmt-8, i think?

Roleplay experience: roughly like 20 years now? lmao, cringe.

Got any pets? yeah, my little buppy, max. he's a demon.

Favorite time of year: winter!

Some interests and things you like: cooking, baking, rhythm games, sleeping, lmao.

Some funfacts & trivia about you: i'm double-jointed in one hand; i tend to only bake cookies in batches of like 7 dozen or more; i've killed at least like six different succulents this year alone; every so often, i'll think about spider-man and its various iterations and fully forget what i was doing before i started thinking about it.

What non-Fire Emblem games do you play? the more recent persona games, a truly insane number of otomes, i still have not finished yakuza 0, pokemon, dress-up games, lmao,,,,,

Favorite Pokemon type & Pokemon: dragon, dragonite!

How did you get into Fire Emblem? ......... wanted another dating sim real bad and my friend told me to play awakening please do not judge me—

What Fire Emblem games have you played? everything post-awakening, lmao,,,,, except for sov, which continues to elude me in completion for reasons beyond my understanding

First Fire Emblem game: awakening!

Favorite Fire Emblem game: would it be bad if i said none of them—well, okay. technically, i think an awful lot about fates, but i don't necessarily think it's my favorite? ..... but i do think about it a lot.

Any Fire Emblem crushes? nnnnnnot that i can think of?

If you’ve played the following games, who was your first S support? wwww, awakening was chrom ( by accident ), then olivia ( intentionally lmao ); fates was takumi; three houses was claude lel; engage was pandreo, to no one's surprise.

Favorite Fire Emblem class: KINSHI KNIGHT NATION RISE!!!!

If you were a Fire Emblem character, what would be your class? villager, and i would have died four times before you recruit me.

If you were a Three Houses character, what would be your affiliation? golden deer, probably, lmfao.

If you were an Engage character, which Emblem would you Engage with? none, i'm firmly of the belief i'm an ultra npc.

How did you find TOA? chuu! had severe 3h brainrot, and chuu already was in the group and told me it was like full of people who didn't need me to be Online All The Time! it's funny because i ended up not even apping for someone from 3h either, lmao.

Current TOA muses: pandreo!

Who was your first TOA muse? If you don’t have them anymore, could you see yourself picking them up again? cynthia, my silly little horse girl, lmao. i always think about picking her up, but it's always a debate of if i've done enough on her or not. easily my favorite character to pick up and start running with, though.

Have you had any other TOA muses? shigure, lon'qu, CONSTANCE VON NUVELLE, m!byleth, shiro, kiragi,,,,, i think that's it, actually? i don't remember any of my other ones, oopsie, lmao.

Do you think you have a type of character you gravitate towards? i tend to generally write characters in my wheelhouse, though i think i have deviations now and again lmao. like, who would think i'd write shigure, right? but, mostly cheerful characters, i think. mood-makers, the kind of people who would set a scene, but also be enough of a backseat player to the driving force where any protagonist or antagonist would take up the reins more comfortably? i think they tend to get written off as genki or filler characters, so i like kind of prodding at their insecurities and seeing what makes them tick instead.

What do you believe you enjoy writing the most? lmao, lbr i'm made for the clown show. nonsensical moments, increasingly strange meet and greets? but, i like doing big establishing moments that suspend what you know about my characters at face value to explore what's deeper in there. i'll slowburn friendship, idgaf; that's my shit.

Favorite TOA-related memory: lel, team justice is still a highlight in my memory from l&k, but i also remember this very specific combat sequence i wrote with rai in the first major lore event with felix and cynthia that was sick as hell to do! ....... also, probably every piemageddon. it is funny seeing even the serious characters fear for their lives / get uber maniacal in a ridiculous situation.

Got any delusions that didn’t see the light of day in TOA that you’d like to share? do not look behind the curtain, lmao.

#✞ ` ‣ 【 OOC 】 #this was cute to do thank you neffi :softsmile:

[meowww-ffxiv]

Bozja was won, Werlyt was liberated, and Gaius van Baelsar had buried four of his wards by the time Theodore met G'raha Tia in the flesh.

He was...shorter than he had imagined, yet very familiar all the same. It took Theodore a moment to realize it was because G'raha was the same height as Mordred. Except where Mordred would stride right up to him and with the sound of his name -- "Theodore." Spoken like he was born with that name in his mouth, sure as a statement, something softer than a command and stronger than a request; guaranteed an acknowledgement from the one it belonged to, always -- G'raha Tia took a step back and tilted his chin down. He smiled, ears and tail flicking, all nervousness and rubbing at his wrist.

Theodore had known this man in the abstract. He had known him through the dozens of letters Mordred stayed up late to write in the worst days of our lives and the best. He had known him as the anchor Mordred hung his hopes on for a future so immeasurably out of his reach that he could easily fantasize about. But in that moment Theodore knew him well and truly for what Mordred probably did too, because they were very similar in thinking in some ways: Oh, dear.

Or perhaps 'Oh, my dear' would have been more accurate. But that was unbecoming conduct towards a stranger, no matter how much you knew your best friend loved him. No matter how much of every fiber in your body felt the sudden and total pull of wanting to say something to cheer this stranger up.

"I..." G'raha cleared his throat, then deflated. He was an open book. Probably worse than Mordred. "I think I owe you an apology. 'Tis my fumbling that pulled the Scions into the First. And Mordred too."

Theodore hadn't even gotten a name from him. He knew it was G'raha because Mordred had, ten minutes ago and outside this door, gripped Theodore's wrists and said, Be mean to him and I'll fucking end you. He saved my life. And he knew it was G'raha because the sight of him, tinted blue and awash in grief, shuttered behind a pair of heavy and despised doors, haunted some corner of Mordred's heart that Theodore's Echo failed to spare him from.

This was where they really started, then: an apology.

There were so many things Theodore could say. He could act the full force of his anger. He could say something gracious and point out that what G'raha did was necessary. He could...thank him. For being one more impossible miracle of a lost friend who returned to Mordred instead of leaving him behind.

Instead he said, gently and because it was true, "He came running when he realized it was your voice in those visions. He actually ran so very fast that he left me behind. For Mordred at least, I do not think you bear fault."

Theodore could have been bitter. Oh so bitter. He had a right to be, he'd think, and maybe even some kind of obligation to. He'd known Mordred for...not long, all told, but had weathered the most eventful years of their lives at his side. He'd been the one to forbid Mordred from participating in conflicts that would've only worsened his old wounds, in soul and body alike. Out of everyone, he had been Mordred's protector. Partner. Companion. And at the sound of a voice long since lost to choices made and borne, Mordred had thrown it all away to chase it -- chase G'raha Tia -- through the void between realities.

And that wasn't counting the whole...everything that happened on the First. The place that was still only available to Mordred, and he alone. The world Theodore had not the means to follow him to.

(They'd screamed at each other when they first got back together. Theodore demanding, Why did you leave me behind?! Why didn't you wait for me? Why did you accept your death? Why did you not fight it until there was someone else's life at stake? Why did you not fight for you, when we all bled and wept and prayed for your life?

Mordred had no answer for him, face bloodless with too much-- too much everything. He wrung his hands like G'raha Tia wrung his hands but in Mordred it wasn't a nervous tic, it was because he was going to punch something and break his own knuckles if they weren't clasped together like self-made manacles.

Maybe it was better that way. That Mordred didn't put his real answer into words even though Theodore knew. In the span of seconds, as their emotions ran high and their Echoes overlapped memories and thoughts and fevered dreams, Theodore knew the answer.

It would have been its kind of sickening relief, release, if Mordred did die there on the First. At some point between the bloody banquet-- no, between the Calamity and the worst of Ghimlyt Dark, Mordred had feared whether he could even die. He saw the path laid before him and refused to yield but for months had forgotten that there was joy behind the briar, poetically speaking. Plainly speaking, the way Mordred's thoughts collided with Theodore's, messy and bleeding-sharp and ruthlessly Mordred's, he'd wondered if he was still human. If he could even die. If there could be an end to the journey and the suffering and everything he must bear.

While the Scions frenzied themselves with Urianger's false portent and the Exarch's very real one, Mordred sat in a field of flowers in a place called Il Mheg and mused about being able to go to sleep and...leave it alone. He'd be alright with it when the light started eating through him because he knew Theodore was still on the Source. The truth Theodore perceived now, back on the Source, was tainted in guilt and regret. For the selfishness. But it couldn't erase the damning knowledge that Mordred had entertained it. Had entertained leaving-- leaving.

The problem with the Echo was that you felt as others did. And in knowing another's heart, it became almost impossible to hate them.

Theodore almost managed it. Not quite. Because as his volume had increased, Mordred's had decreased. Anger gave way to memories. To red hair tinted in blue light and a turned back, a promise. To a blinding sky and prayers answered. To an unreasonable, senseless love that had propelled Mordred from endurance to action, to the bottom of the sea, hand outstretched, reaching--

"I chose to live," he told Theodore then. "And it was a choice I had to make for myself, Theodore. It had to be me."

"Would you have left me behind?" Theodore asked. "You would have been so relieved to die then." It was an accusation from a raw throat and rawer nerves and more hurt than Theodore could ever imagine himself capable of feeling. After everything.

"So I thought," Mordred agreed, refusing to flinch from the uncensored view of himself hitting rock-bottom even as Theodore flinched in his stead. But there was something smoldering in his eyes, something even Theodore did not quite remember ever seeing. He stopped wringing his hands, letting them fall to his side.

"It would've been noble to say, 'I choose to live on for others' sake, because they want me there'," Mordred said. "But I'm not that hollow. I can't fill myself up with others' goodwill and prayers for my health and have that be enough reason to survive my own suicide. I love you, I love all of you and I'd risk a lot, everything, for you and this star. But the choice to live -- I made it for me. I'll keep making it for me, 'cos for awhile I forgot and I lost grasp of the will to live so badly."

The truth, crude as a just-unearthed gem, put plainly and without pretense. Without velvet or honey to soften it, not even for Theodore who felt his throat closing -- this was what he had sent Mordred way from the frontlines for. Had sought to protect him from. A depression so dark it had eclipsed even the mood during their earliest adventuring days when Mordred was still struggling to keep his head above the riptide of survivor's guilt.

And still it had festered. Yet now it was gone, in remission. Mordred tilted his chin up and looked at Theodore then, his expression grave but calm. Certain.

And outside the door, the door of that room in the Rising Stones where they'd screamed and argued and then spoken their cruelest truths, with sensitive ears and a voice that had reminded a Warrior of Light so suddenly what it was like to want, there was a red-eyed, red-haired old young man.

Theodore wondered how much G'raha heard. But Alisaie's eyes were puffy and red when he got out of that room, and she sat further than G'raha was, so he must've heard.)

Maybe with that backdrop, their first proper words to each other being an apology on G'raha Tia's part made sense. Even now he seemed both relieved and doubtful when Theodore told him the truth. That it was Mordred who'd run at breakneck speed to the Syrcus Trench, chasing his voice...and not really just G'raha and his devious scheme abducting their champion for problems on a distant shard.

If you stripped this tale of all its sharp edges and messiness -- because it was a true tale, and very personal -- Theodore could even say that this was one of the most epic, moving tales he'd heard of in years. The hero, brought low in spirit by the soaring heights of his victories, throwing it all aside to seek just the ghost of a lost love. To rekindle a friendship so nebulous yet so self-defining it had formed the will of that hero.

But it wasn't just some tale. It was what Theodore's best friend and stupidest catboy from here to Alabathia's Spines had dared to tell him. It was Theodore who was among the "it all" that was thrown aside in the hero's reckless search for his old friend.

And yet.

"Still," G'raha said now, in the present, voice low. "Still, I... Things could have gone a lot better had I more wisdom, I think."

"More self-preservation," Theodore corrected. Not quite gentle but without spite or resentment because he couldn't find it in himself to have those things. He wasn't Mordred who would rage and roar and scream when he was relieved. Still, G'raha flinched. So Theodore added, "A quality you will find the Scions sorely lacking in, overall. So please, do not let them bully you about it. Yes, even Alisaie. She had her moments."

"What?!" snapped the girl from behind the closed door she was supposed to not be eavesdropping behind.

Theodore ignored it. G'raha was also gracious enough to do likewise. "You do not owe me anything," Theodore told him and meant it. "But please, if you would, stay this time. For as long as you can. For his sake if you are able, but preferably your own."

G'raha blinked, crimson eyes wide. They were a startlingly intense hue, but the way his whole expression softened around them... Theodore understood almost immediately why Mordred, who couldn't see well and generally didn't want to, would lean very close to G'raha sometimes.

"I do not know if I deserve to," G'raha said, a confession. "But...he had made it clear that I ought to stay, as you said. And I think that I do owe him to, this time."

"Don't talk about debts around Mordred. He hates it," Theodore advised. Then he smiled, lopsided and relaxed as the relief that had been sinking his bones for the past few days finally settled in, made itself at home. "But you should learn that from the cat himself, I think."

Mordred would be alright.

By that extension, they would be too.

#mon writing #meowdred surana #theodore pentaghast #ue ue ue sound of crying #suicide cw #just in case

[awritingcaitlin]

About me!

My name is Caitlin! I love cats, and they're my writing buddies often. When I'm not writing, I'm curating one of dozens of playlists, making aesthetics for my WIPs, or playing a video game. Currently it's still Tears of the Kingdom because there's just so much to do!

More under the cut!

I've been writing since sometime in elementary school. I completed my first manuscript in high school (a YA magic school novel) and tried to query it. It did not go over well, largely because I didn't actually edit it! (But also because I was floundering with no idea what I was doing with subgenres, similar titles, if my opening pages were the issue, if the query was the issue, if the agent I queried actually repped that category and genre... etc.) (Do not be me.) I may one day return to it, but for now I'm content to let that one stay on the shelf.

I ended up burning myself up over the project unfortunately. After that, I was in college where most of my writing was fanfiction for one of five different fandoms. (Kingdom Hearts, Final Fantasies 7 and 8, Dragon Age, and Undertale.) I did NaNo a couple of stories, but never actually made it as far as querying again until much later.

Currently, my co-writer and I are revising an adult epic fantasy about marines on a mission, magical brainwashing, and a sorceress who walks the line between trying to stop the religious fanatics but also not painting a target on her back.

I had been trying to revise that alongside my fantasy heist novel, but there's too many different plotlines (not to mention characters that are in both but 5 years removed from each other) to keep track of for that to work. I can do edits and draft at the same time, but I can't draft two things at the same time unless they're a different genre. Or heavily revise two things at the same time.

I first dipped my toes into writing in elementary school. I would take composition notebooks lying around the house and fill them with stories. I vividly remember my first written story about two girls from a medieval time who got sent to the present day, but they kept trying to go back in time so they could save their mom. I've since lost that composition notebook, but if I ever wanted to rewrite that based on vibes alone I probably could.

My mom always supported me and wanted to read what I wrote. It was really easy to share stuff with her as a kid and a teenager who didn't feel particularly embarrassed about my work. Even as an adult, writing adult books with adult themes, I kind of just go "fuck it." She's an adult, who makes her own choices.

I've always been drawn to writing fantasy. I love the appeal of swords and magic (mostly magic.) I like writing epic motifs where the characters are up against seemingly impossible odds and are able to overcome. I like interweaving "real world" issues into fantasy too. Because queerness and disability is not something that only exists IRL.

I love writing characters who are bigger than themselves - people who find their magic spark; people who rise to the challenge; power so deep it's barely understandable but people try anyway; a pantheon of gods who doesn't know what they're doing and end up as characters in their own right. I love weaving in storylines, making connections, dropping in references. Etc.

I am really good at dialogue. I love writing it and it shows. Exploring how characters interact with each other is honestly one of my favorite things to do and dialogue is one of the biggest extensions of that.

To be honest, sometimes, all I have is dialogue that I throw up on a page and have to fill it out with actions and descriptions later. Sometimes, it all comes at once. A lot of it depends on where I am when the dialogue strikes me. If I'm on a bike ride or in the shower, I'll get a back-and-forth dialogue in a vacuum that I have to flesh out. This can also happen when I'm on the computer, but usually, if the dialogue is coming to me while I'm already at my computer, it's also coming with actions.

As far as outlining and researching goes, I usually start drafting and then come up with an outline of where I want it to go or plot points I want to include. At one point, I did an entire zero draft for a YA contemporary, which contributed to me writing 80k in five weeks. Still not 100% sure how I manged that in the end. But, for the most part, I have an outline that I'm drafting from, then I get a shiny idea and work to include it, so I adjust my outline and begin writing again... and then this process repeats near-on indefinitely until the end of the book. So my project folders start looking like this:

I'm one of those people though who, more often than not, will come up against a question I have while drafting, and be unable to continue until I've answered the question. I probably should get better about putting notes in brackets or footnotes and coming back to it, but at the same time, I don't think it's terribly detrimental to my process to take an evening off as a research evening. I've learned some pretty interesting stuff this way. (That said! I'm better about footnotes this current draft as me and my co-writer figure things out.)

One of the best things about writing is when I have readers telling me that they loved it. Or that they laughed. Or that they felt things. I might enjoy drinking readers' tears as they tell me I'm a terrible person for doing horrible things to their favorite character.

Writing scratches that creative itch. It makes me feel whole and complete. On the flip side, when I'm having trouble writing because of real life... I feel upset and anxious.

If I could manifest anything into the publishing world, it's a nine-book series out of this with spinoffs to expand the world indefinitely. (Why worldbuild more than once?) It might not be the most feasible thing ever, but I can dream.

If you've made it this far, have some writing advice. Which is basically... find what advice works for you and do that. Also, what works for you might not work in six months. Don't be afraid to change it up. If writing 2k words a day is super feasible because you cleared the whole month of November, great! But come December if you're feeling burnt out, it's okay to only write 100 words a day... or even take a break altogether and let your creative juices refill. If writing in the mornings works great in the summer but writing in the afternoons is better in the winter, do that! You, the writer, the creator, is more important than some arbitrary goal. (Unless you have a contracted deadline, in which case, may all the motivation be at your disposal!)

#about me

[autumnalwalker]

Empty Names - 2 - Back From The Looking Glass

Author's Note: The second chapter rough draft and second core cast intro for Empty Names. The previous chapter can be found here. Masterpost with table of contents here. Word Count: 3,043 Content Warnings: Violence/combat in the form of a wizard duel. What might qualify as mild body horror as a part of said wizard duel. Frostbite. Probably nothing in here that would be worse than a PG-13 rating. Once again, if anyone reads this and sees something that I should have included a content warning for, let me know and I'll go back and add it. Here goes my first attempt at writing a fight scene.

<-Previous Chapter Masterpost Next Chapter->

“I hate anime,” Ashan grumbles to himself for the second time that day.  

No, that was not quite fair.  He had some vague recollection of enjoying some show or another as a child.  What was it called again?  Something with magic cards and a girl on roller skates.  An interesting concept for quick casting of spells, but unlikely to be practical with its reliance on bound spirits.  There was also the one with the talking hamsters.  That one had been fun.

Perhaps it is not so much anime itself as anime conventions that bother him.  Even after being back on the world of his birth for a few years now, he is still not used to the sheer density of the crowds.  And the novelty of convention goers stopping to ask him who he is supposed to be wears thin quickly.  Even worse are the ones who mistake him for a favorite character and ask for a picture.  And while he is used to being mistaken for a woman - and even finds amusement in it so long as the mistake is not repeated after correction - the well-intended compliments mistaking his white robes for a dress are beginning to test his patience.  

All that is secondary though to the fact that such concentrated escapism and suspension of disbelief makes for a Masquerade breach waiting to happen.  Coupled with the sheer number of cosplayers making it easy for outsiders to blend in, it was no wonder that there is nearly always an incident at these events.  

An incident like one in one hundred event pamphlets listing an event in a room that the other ninety-nine in one hundred mark as not being in use.

At last, he finally extracts himself from yet another group wanting a photo - this one with costumes unsettlingly similar to his own raiment - and waves them off with a practiced smile.  Almost always best to play along and blend in.  Alone in the crowd once more, he double-checks the pamphlet.

Room 322.  2:00pm. Get Isekai’d!: An interactive panel to kickstart your magical journey to another world (without being hit by a truck).

Just around the corner and several minutes to spare yet.  

Turning said corner feels like stepping into a new building.  Empty and unadorned, save for two doors flanking the terminus of a dead end hallway.  Through some quirk of acoustics the constant background noise of the crowd fades to a distant murmur after only a few steps down the hall.  Even the lighting is perceptibly dimmer without the floor-to-ceiling windows of the main concourse.  Room 322 has no sign outside to proclaim the event yet the door remains cracked open enough to catch a glimpse of the small audience already seated inside.  

After a quick glance to verify no one else is coming down the hall, Ashan stretches to touch a finger to the top of the doorframe and begins tracing esoteric symbols.  Wherever he touches, the surface takes on a glassy sheen.

Tapping the center of his work a final time, his breath mists in the air as he makes a quick chant with no literal translation.  The drawn symbols shimmer in response then fade, now invisible to the untrained eye.  

He blinks, observes his ward, finds it satisfactory, and rubs some warmth back into his hands before stepping into the room.  

The room is a small one by convention standards.  Only a few dozen plastic chairs lined up facing a small stage set against the far wall.  Less than half the chairs are occupied, making for a lower attendance than Ashan had feared.  Good.  Fewer people to worry about getting hurt.  

Up on stage a tall man in a turtleneck that strains against his bodybuilder proportions paces in front of a freestanding wooden door with a polished white stone inset into the top of its frame.  The stage rattles with the weight of his every step.  As Ashan takes a seat near the front the presenter checks his phone then walks over to a podium with a laptop.  A projector comes to life and throws the title of the panel across a screen next to the stage.  

As the presentation begins, Ashan only halfway pays attention to the words being said or the slides on the screen.  Watching for signs of hostile spells and workings takes up too much of his focus for that.  And besides, the history and greatest hits of a genre about normal people going on adventures in other worlds can only hold so much interest for one who has actually lived it.  Although in his experience the real thing involved significantly fewer women of dubious proportions in impractical and revealing outfits.  

Twenty minutes into the scheduled hour-long panel, Ashan begins to wonder if this is simply a case of a magically-inclined nerd using his abilities to skip out on paying the panel booking fees.  True, the presenter’s body is obviously modified, but it would hardly be the first time a new mage transmuted himself in an ill-conceived attempt at “improvement,” and he has not really done anything incriminating yet.  Still, the “interactive” portion of the panel’s title is worrisome and the door’s function remains forebodingly elusive.  

“Show of hands: who here wishes you could get away from this life and start over as a hero in a new world?”

The sight and sound of a score of hands going up around him jolts Ashan’s focus back to the speaker’s words.  

“Well then, do I have the chance of a lifetime in store for all of you.”  The presenter saunters over to the door in the center of the stage and leans on the frame.  A murmur of anticipation goes through the crowd.  With a theatrical flourish, the presenter knocks four times and the door swings inward.  

The door does not come out from the backside of the frame.

On the other side of the doorway everyone in the audience can see a trail coming out of a forest and meandering over rolling grassy hills.  A castle can be seen in the far distance, white walls gleaming in the sunlight.  A breeze blows into the room carrying the scent of flowers.

Several people gasp.  Others start whispering, asking what is going on.  Someone starts clapping at what they think to be a clever trick.

“Yes, yes, it’s amazing, I know,” the presenter says.  “And to answer the question I’m sure you’re all asking yourselves right now,” he steps in front of the door and begins walking backwards, “this is very real.”  To drive the point home he steps to the right, disappearing out of sight entirely before coming back into view from the left before coming back through the door and walking a circle around it on stage.

“So, who wants to go first?” he asks with a smug grin.

Hands shoot up.  Chairs get pushed back as audience members jump to their feet.  The questions of what is going on get louder.  A couple of people with stronger survival instincts start edging toward the door.

Ashan sighs, gets to his feet, and calmly climbs onto stage before any of the over-eager fools can beat him to it.

“Now that’s what I like to see!” the presenter says as Ashan approaches the door.  “Can I have your name miss…ter?”

“My name is mine to keep,” he replies, “but perhaps you would not mind answering a few questions?  I imagine it would set the rest of the audience at ease to know more precisely what awaits them.”

“I’d be delighted.  Although I assure you all that this is perfectly safe.”

“As we saw with your demonstration, I am sure.”  Threshold wards rarely affect their casters.  “But what about language?  Will we be able to understand the people we meet on the other side?”

“Obviously.  The portal auto-magically applies the standard multiversal translator spell used by all  travelers.  Would you believe I’m not even speaking English right now?”

“Fascinating.”  Ashan mentally runs through the signs of the seven different translation practices common in this local cluster that he can recall off the top of his head.  This man is showing none of them.  “And what of the Autogenesis Principle?  Do you have any advice for those here wanting to escape their failures from physically manifesting their own internalized inadequacies?”

The presenter’s smirk falters.  “I’m not sure what fandom you’re roleplaying at right now, but that’s not anything anyone here needs to worry about.  So either go on through or get out of the way so everyone else can get their adventure underway.”

“Just one more question, if you would kindly humor me.”  Ashan places a hand on the doorframe and closes his eyes for a moment.  He opens them and asks “Does this essence siphon function on infernal or necromantic principles?”

The presenter’s smile disappears altogether.  “How did you - ”

“Necromantic then.  I cannot imagine a patron willing to aid a novice who would fail to even recognize another mage in this blunder of a Masquerade breach.”

The necromancer regains his composure and shrugs.  “Okay, you got me.  But hey,” he snaps his fingers and spikes of bone erupt from the floor, barring the mundane exit from the room, “it’s not a Masquerade breach if the witnesses are all dead.  So what do you say we split the haul seventy-thirty and you look the other way.”

The room goes silent for a moment before the dawning realization of the situation finally breaks and the audience starts shouting and rushing the barred exit, trying in vain to escape.  Except, of course, for the handful of stubborn skeptics mocking them for freaking out.  

Ashan looks at the crowd pressing themselves into the bars of bone and makes a tsk sound.  He should have noticed that on his way in.  Returning his gaze to the necromancer he says “I shall never understand people like you.”

“Fine, sixty-forty and that’s the best you’re getting unless you wanna help me herd the sheep in here.”

“I shall never understand those who believe the possession of knowledge and power makes the lives of those without expendable.”

The necromancer begins to back up.  “So that’s how it is, huh?  Fancy yourself some kind of hero?”

“No one has yet been hurt.  I shall give you one chance to leave now and never try this again.”

“How very generous of you,” the necromancer replies.  The words drip with sarcasm and venom.  “With an offer like that I can only say…” he reaches the edge of the stage.  “Get boned!”

The surface of the stage splinters and cracks.  With a flick of the wrist Ashan has his pearlescent wand in hand.  An ivory spear hurtles up at him from below.  A quick looping motion with the wand and a transparent shield appears in the air.  The spear is deflected through the portal.  As are the next three after.  Ashan follows up with drawing another, larger shield over the door.  It would not do to fall in himself.

That precaution proves timely as the necromancer lets out a bellow of pain and rage and his right arm explodes into a tendril of muscle and bony spikes that darts across the stage before slamming into Ashan’s side.  He manages to get his free hand up, palm out, in time to keep the tendril from making direct contact but now finds himself squeezed between two of his own barriers.  Stabbing the wand into the barrier holding back the tendril he wills his conjuration away and up.  The tendril swings away from him and out over the heads of the audience before retracting back into a semblance of an arm.

The audience is screaming now.  Even the most skeptical have been made believers.  The bars on the door still hold.  Ashan’s breath mists in the air grown cold around him.

The necromancer wastes no words as he charges the wizard.  As he runs, his other arm shreds its sleeve as it bulks up and grows talons over its fingers.  A morbid parody of dance ensues back and forth across the stage.  The necromancer rains down crushing blows and Ashan casually deflects them with shields that flicker in and out of existence.  More spikes erupt from below and Ashan gracefully sidesteps.  The necromancer’s face twists in rage and Ashan’s remains placid.

Eventually, the necromancer grows frustrated with this game and changes tactics.  He extends the tendril of his right arm once more, sending it plunging toward the one audience member still seated.  Ashan makes a slashing motion with the wand followed by an upward flick and a wall of what looks like glass rises to cut the stage off from the rest of the room.  The tendril crumples on itself as it slams into the newmade wall.  

The fact that the seated man in the yellow vest did not so much as flinch at nearly being impaled distracts Ashan enough that the followup swipe from the left claw manages to graze his cheek.  Enough playing around to wear the brute down then.

Wielding his wand like a brush, Ashan visualizes the chains running from the floor to the necromancer’s limbs and then paints them into being.  The next blow comes to a rattling halt midair.  The necromancer has just enough time to look at his wrist in surprise before Ashan makes another gesture and the chains pull him down, forcing him to his knees.

“You have lost,” Ashan says in an even tone.  He is no longer the only person in the room whose breath is condensing into mist.  Every surface in the room now bears dewdrops from the rapid drop in temperature over the past few minutes.  Ashan resists the urge to shiver before continuing.  “And still, no one has been hurt.  Come along quietly and I imagine you can still negotiate a lighter sentence than you deserve.”

“Who the hell are you?  Some kind of cop?” The necromancer pants heavily, pausing for breath between sentences.  “How did you even know I was here?  And why is it so damn cold in here?”

Ashan cocks his head at finally hearing a question from the novice mage he might deign to answer.  “Tis but a slight twisting of thermodynamics.  Absent a local concept for ambient energy such as aether or mana, one must needs improvise.  Only the inexperienced and the foolhardy draw from their own metabolism,” Ashan nods toward his shaking opponent, “as you seem to be.”

“Oh really…”

“Indeed.  Although I would not advise such a technique to the untrained.”

“Cocky bastard, bragging about your secret techniques when you think you’ve won.”  Frost begins to form on the stage around the necromancer.

“It is hardly a secret.  And really, you should not attempt it.  Especially in your current state.”

“You know.”

The spikes of bone scattered about the stage begin to shake.

“Where you.”

The necromancer begins shivering violently.

“Can take your advice.”

The spikes rise into the air.

“And shove it?”

The spikes all turn to face Ashan.

“‘Cause I’m about to show you!”

The spikes begin to move in on Ashan, gathering speed.

The necromancer falls over with a thud and the spikes clatter harmlessly to the stage.  Ashan walks over to him and notes the white and blue patches of frostbite covering the fallen man’s skin.  He bends down and checks for a pulse.  He finds one.  Unconscious, but alive.  Beginner’s luck.

Ashan stands back up, exhales, lets his remaining conjurations dissipate, and allows himself to shiver.

A slow clap from the sole remaining audience member disrupts his reverie.

Wait.  Sole remaining?  When did the screaming stop?  Where did everyone go?  He whips around to see the man in the yellow vest leaning against the wall next to the exit door.  The bars of bone now lay shattered on the ground.

“You certainly live up to your reputation, Ashan Glassheart.”  The man stops clapping and looks around the ruined stage.  “Well, maybe a little more collateral damage than I expected, but credit where credit is due, the rookie knew what he was doing with stashing unenchanted raw material for his trap.”  He pauses to stroke his goatee in consideration.  “Or maybe just dumb luck on his part.”

“Do I know you?”  Ashan asks.

“I should hope not,” the man replies.  “I try to keep out of the spotlight.  The name’s Sullivan Bridgewood.  At my service.”  He gives a flourishing bow as makes the introduction.

“I thought the sorceress Bridgewood was a woman.”

“That would be my dearly departed wife, Void rest her soul.”

“My condolences, but that still does not explain what you want with me.”

Bridgewood puts a hand to his chest and feigns an offended gasp.  “So suspicious.  And after I helped and set all the normies free while you were giving your lecture.  Nice job on the amnestic ward by the way.  Always fun to watch them go from running for their lives to milling about confused.”

“You are avoiding the question.”

“Oh, lighten up will you, I’m getting to that.”  He walks over to the stage and leans an elbow on it, looking up at Ashan.  “Have you ever heard of the individual known as Road?”

Ashan arches an eyebrow in surprise.  “The guy who runs around in purple armor fighting subway dragons and saving goth kids from vampire cults?”

“Among other things, yes.”

“From what I have heard they are a noble fool who just happens to be skilled and lucky enough to back up their reckless actions.  But a fool whose heart is in the right place.  Supposedly they used to be a big deal before disappearing several years ago.”  Ashan stops himself and gets back to the still unanswered question.  “Why?”

Bridgewood chuckles.  “Because,” he drags out the word, “said noble fool just so happens to be an old friend of mine and recently got back to town.  They’re looking to put a team together and could use a proper spellslinger.”  He smiles just a little too widely and reaches up a hand.  “So, interested?”

Ashan feels a shiver go down his back that is only partially related to the cold.

“Help me clean up in here and get this villain to the authorities in Crossherd and I shall consider it.”

<-Previous Chapter Masterpost Next Chapter->

#writing #original fiction #urban fantasy #Writeblr #WIP #Empty Names #serial fiction #writing practice #writers on tumblr #creative writing #literature #prose #writers #web novel #novel #fantasy #fiction #my writing #emptynameswriting

[professorspork]

If you're accepting non-superhell prompts, I'd love to see a conversation between Nora and Emerald! I've been REALLY loving these microfics, I've subscribed to you on Ao3, I'll read whatever else you write

[Gahhh that’s so nice you’re so nice!! thanks for being patient on this one, finding my Nora took some doing]

It’s occurring to Emerald that she’s never had a close female friend before.

You say that like you’ve ever had any friends before, the voice in her head that sounds suspiciously like Mercury needles her, but she brushes it aside. Like—okay, yeah, she’ll concede the point when it comes to Cinder. In hindsight, whatever they’d had going on between them may have been... super intense... but it probably had never been friendship, in the usual definition. But she and Mercury were friends, no matter what the judgy little shitstain version of him who lives in her head has to say about it. They’d always gotten along. Told each other stuff. It’s not like there’s more to it than that, right?

It had always been like that. Been—instinctive somehow, with guys. Before Cinder, on the street, it was always the men who’d been easiest to manipulate; who would empty their pockets for a smile and a sob story. And then she and Merc had been two sides of the same coin for so long, and then... well, Hazel’d liked her enough to die for her, apparently. (Which—that’s a door that she keeps closed, thanks. She shuts it firmly again, now.) Oscar seems fond of her, in a sweet, uncomplicated sort of way that she really doesn’t know what to do with, seeing as he shares headspace with like a trillion year old man and the idea that anything to do with that kid could be “uncomplicated” is batshit. Ren vouched for her once, and then again, and now he keeps doing it, like it’s habit, like she should just be used to the fact that people are going to have her back, to ask her if she’s eaten, to turn to her with a raised eyebrow in conversation like her opinion would be constructive.

Anyway.

Now that she’s noticed the pattern, it seems like the kind of thing she should probably… work on, or whatever. And Nora seems like an obvious place for Emerald to start. They’ve been thrown in together a lot, lately, Emerald and Oscar expected to fill in the gaps of what’s left of the old JNPR by default. Not that they’ve ever really had a conversation about it—Emerald can’t think of the last time Nora said two words to her that weren’t combat warnings like “more Grimm coming” or “on your left,” but. That’s probably just because things have been tense. She remembers Nora being friendly, on the whole of it. Off-puttingly friendly, even, back at Beacon.

How hard could it be?

The answer, it turns out, is absurdly hard. Nora’s barely ever in the temporary barracks they’re all living out of, instead always checking on the refugees, going on supply runs over esoteric requests, volunteering for extra patrols. Emerald used to find that kind of dogged do-goodery gag-inducing, but now that she’s been the helping hand herself a few times, she’s starting to see the appeal. The way people look at you when you’ve been of service, it’s—nice. Really nice. But Nora works utterly thankless jobs, the kind most people don’t even notice, let alone appreciate. And when they have their insufferably long leadership meetings and they’re talking about distribution of resources or whatever, Nora’s a fierce debater—jumping in to advocate for the people from Mantle sometimes even before May can. As far as Emerald can tell, she does this stuff just because... she believes in it. Because it’s the right thing to do, and someone has to.

She can’t imagine what it would feel like, to have the attention of someone like that turned on her. She’s craved it from the wrong people for so long, but now that she has her pick of options... she’s letting herself actually want the right kind, for once. She thinks.

Which is all to say that largely through no fault of her own, Emerald unexpectedly finds herself sitting with a profound, fervent desire for Nora Valkyrie to think she’s cool.

She hates that.

-

Fighting with Nora is easy.

(—er. Alongside. Fighting alongside Nora is easy. Emerald’s done fighting with these people. Very done.)

It’s weird, because Emerald’s finding working with a full team to be a real adjustment. When battles get big enough to merit it, she’s used to keeping to the sidelines to use her Semblance for nefarious purposes, or, in a jam, used to having Mercury’s six—literally, because all the forward momentum from his feet-first style always left his back wide open. Figuring out where to put herself so that Oscar can use her shoulder as a fulcrum as he dodges, or trying to aim for the Grimm Ren isn’t already shooting (ugh)—it’s taking work.

But somehow, it’s not work for Nora. Nora seems to anticipate with perfect ease how Emerald will move or what she’ll be doing; Nora bobs and weaves around their ragtag little band with her war hammer like it’s breathing.

It doesn’t bother Emerald until it does, and she means to bring it up casually but there’s never a good time. So it just… stews, and stews, until she can’t keep it bottled up anymore.

Which means that instead of the earnest question she intends it to be, it comes out like this:

“Okay, seriously? It’s creepy how you do that.”

It’s just the two of them, plus the handful of dweeby Atlesian tech-types they’re escorting back from their foray installing some fancy hydro-filtration modules on the outskirts of the camp. And it’s not like Emerald had felt outmatched by the half-dozen Ravagers that had decided they looked like lunch—she can shoot Ravagers in her sleep, at this point—but still. The way Nora had moved around her, it was like they’d been fighting side by side for years.

Nora just cocks her head to the side. “Do what?” she asks, like she hadn’t just basically read Emerald’s mind in front of the water nerds.

Emerald does a complicated gesture with her hands, wrist over wrist, and then flicking two fingers—trying to evoke the way Nora had flipped over Emerald’s back and then kicked off, just trusting Emerald would reel her back in with a chain in midair before a Grimm could fly away with her sorry ass. “That.”

“Oh!” Nora laughs and rubs at the back of her neck, looking sheepish. “It’s nothing. I guess it’s just not a big deal for me? Like—I was there when Ren built StormFlower. The cables are newish, but we practiced so much back in Atlas… I dunno. It’s just reflex, when your weapons are so similar. Fighting with you, it’s almost like fighting with him. I don’t even have to think about it.”

Nora swallows, then, and makes a face Emerald can’t interpret—disappointed, maybe, or ashamed. Which: good. She probably should be, taking things for granted like that.

“Well—just—” Emerald’s not even sure what she wants to say. Ask, next time? Don’t? “You shouldn’t make assumptions. I’m not your boyfriend, okay?”

The venom she puts behind the word is directed more at herself than Nora—frustrated, again, that she’s put herself in the position of wanting so desperately to be liked.

Pathetic.

Nora just nods, looking glum.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, cheeks pulling in a bitter smile. “You’d think I’d be able to keep that one straight, huh?”

She says it with such pointed irony that for a second Emerald wonders if she’d gotten it wrong somehow, but like—Nora and Ren are a thing, right? That’s—everyone knows that.

“Hey, what—?”

“Let’s just go,” Nora says, and Emerald automatically falls into line behind her.

They make the rest of the walk back in silence.

-

Sometimes at night, when she can’t sleep, Emerald likes to climb up to the roof of the barracks and look out over the refugee camp.

It’s—peaceful, is all. A good reminder of where she is; how far she’s come. The night sky in Vacuo has more stars than she’s ever seen, and being able to watch over all these people who have somehow become her responsibility… well.

A part of her will always be standing on the rooftop at Beacon, looking down on pure chaos as a queasy, frightened sensation twists in her gut and its noxious voice whispers you did this, you did this, you did this. What did you think was going to happen, you stupid little girl? You don’t get to feel sorry for it now.

But she does.

Weird how the only thing that’s helped is actually doing something about it.

She hears a scuffling noise over her shoulder, and she’s got Thief’s Respite drawn and ready before she can even really register what she’s heard. She relaxes when she sees it’s Nora at the other end of the barrels, unarmed and hands raised—a funny little smile on her face, like yeah, fair enough, I should have known better than to try and sneak up.

“Just me,” she says, unnecessarily.

Emerald holsters her guns. “Can I help you?” she asks, and—what is it about her voice, that makes sentences that would be nice if any other human said them come out straight-up hostile?

Nora shrugs, hands dropping to her sides. “I was hoping we could talk; I figured you’d come up here if I waited long enough.”

Well, see—what kind of lesson is she supposed to take from that? She’s been hoping for Nora to talk to her for weeks, and acting like a bitch is the thing that gets her what she wants? Good guys are supposed to know better.

And there’s the way she said it, too. Like everyone knows Emerald comes up here to brood; like it’s a big open secret. The knowledge sits uncomfortably in her stomach, makes her feel watched. Even now, even here, she can’t get a moment alone. Not really.

“What, so you’re spying on me now?”

Nora’s eyes narrow. “I have a pretty bad track record when it comes to losing people. Makes a girl want to put in a little hustle when it comes to keeping tabs on her friends.”

And Emerald would snark at that, or maybe apologize, or something, only—

Nora thinks they’re friends?

“Well, take a seat, I guess,” she mumbles, scooching to the side as though she needs to make room on the massive, empty roof.

Nora walks over and joins Emerald on the asphalt, letting her legs dangle over the edge. Seemingly unsure of where to start, she stares at her hands. Emerald stares too, but her eyes can’t help but wander—tracing the way scars, silvery in the moonlight, spiderweb up Nora’s bare wrists and forearms to fetter her shoulders, clavicle, neck. Like cracks in a pane of glass, right before it shatters.

(Only that’s not it at all, is it? It’s not a sign of weakness, but a warning of strength. I care this much, her scars announce to the word. You wanna try me?

Hazel’s arms always looked like that.)

Emerald doesn’t want to be the one to break the silence, sure that whatever she’d say would be incredibly stupid.

Luckily, Nora has no such qualms, and opens with: “I really admire you, you know?”

Emerald stares, jaw slack, certain she’s heard wrong. “I—what?” She’d say something defensive, like yeah right or you don’t have to make fun of me, only Nora’s eyes are so wide and so guileless they don’t leave any room for argument.

“I mean it,” Nora adds. “I know we don’t know all that much about each other, but… here’s what I do know: I can’t remember a time I saw you without Mercury right behind. Just like me’n Ren. And the way you fought for Cinder…” Nora smiles a sad, private little smile. “You don’t fight like that unless it’s personal; unless someone means something to you. Just like me’n Ren. And now you’re here. All on your own. And you didn’t have to be. That’s—don’t you think that’s crazy brave? I sure do.”

Of course she fucking doesn’t. Crazy brave would have been walking away the first, tenth, hundredth time she had a flash of panic about what she was doing. Or, better yet, doing something about it. Crazy brave is taking thirty thousand volts to get to your friends; it’s flooding your veins with pure crystalline power and saying Go, I’m doing what Gretchen would have done, it’s—

She closes that door.

“It’s not like I really had a choice,” she sighs, dodging the question.

“Oh, you know that’s not true,” Nora scoffs dismissively, tilting sideways to nudge Emerald with her shoulder.

And Emerald jolts, because—look, it’s not like no one touches her. They have to manhandle each other all the time in battle, and… and Oscar gives her high fives sometimes, which makes her embarrassingly pleased. But what Nora’s offering now, that kind of buddy-buddy casual contact…

… it’s been a while, is all.

“So, why did you want to talk to me?” Emerald asks, overwhelmed and suddenly desperate to find a way to get this conversation over with. She feels like she’s sprinted five miles; like she’s had the crap kicked out of her and she has to go somewhere to lick her wounds. Too much, too fast.

Nora laughs—a chuffing, cynical noise that doesn’t sound at all like her. “Looking for pointers? See, I’m trying this thing where I do things on my own, but I just—I suck at it. Like today; you saw. Even when I’m not with Ren, all I do is… is act exactly the same way I do when I’m with Ren. Like I literally don’t know how to exist without him, whether he’s actually there or not. And I know that’s not fair to anyone; I didn’t mean to treat you like—” She shakes her head, biting her lip. “You’re not just some stand-in. It’s not you at all. I’m just—broken, or something. One trick pony.”

“No, hey—”

“But you figured it out,” she barrels on, which is good, because Emerald doesn’t actually have a clue what she would have said there. “You don’t have anyone and somehow you’re just, like—good to go!” Nora says it cheerily, like it’s a compliment, but has the grace to balk a little when she hears how it sounds. “…sorry. That’s—sorry.”

Emerald shrugs, drawing her knees to her chest and resting her chin there. She feels like an idiot; building it up for weeks like spending time with Nora would solve all her problems when, surprise surprise, Nora’s just as fucked up as she is.

“Hate to disappoint you, but I don’t have any hot tips,” she mutters into the crooks of her elbows. “I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. Like—you want to know the really sad part? I was just following your lead.”

“My…?” Nora can’t even finish repeating it, which: Emerald can’t blame her. It’s so dumb. “Huh?”

“Come on. You know.”

“I don’t,” Nora says, voice thick with exhaustion. Like she’s sick of herself. “Ask anyone—I’m not the brains of the operation.”

Hearing Nora talk about herself that way makes Emerald’s chest feel tight; like her ribs have locked in place so her lungs can’t expand. She doesn’t know how to explain it; not without sounding like a starry-eyed fangirl or a moron with a crush and that’s not what this—it’s only that—

She chooses to start a different way.

“You wanna know why I switched sides? Like, really why?”

Nora softens, and reaches out to touch the back of Emerald’s left hand, where it dangles over her knee. “Sure,” she says, but Emerald barely hears it; it’s taking all of her concentration not to clench her fist or pull away in response.

“I overheard Oscar—or, Ozpin, I guess, I don’t know—talking to Hazel about Salem, about her goals. And… listen. No one joins under Salem because they’re trying to kill the world, okay? I mean, no one but Tyrian, anyway. We were all just trying to… find ways to get by. And when Cinder found me, she—” Emerald swallows, hard. This cuts too deep, too close. It’s not something she can just say. “I wasn’t trying to be some big villain, or something. I was just—looking out for the people who were looking out for me. And why wouldn’t I? No one else ever seemed to think I was worth it.”

“Of course you are,” Nora cuts in, quiet but vehement. “Everyone is.”

“See, the worst part is that you mean that when you say it,” Emerald grumbles, scrubbing at her face until smears of color kaleidoscope behind her closed eyes. “I figured people like you didn’t exist, and then Cinder and Merc were glad to prove me right, and—I let them. You know? And maybe if I’d just held out a little longer…”

“You’re not the only one here who’s ashamed of her past. Harriet tried to blow up Mantle, like, a month ago.”

“That’s not—forget that. I’m talking about you. Nora.” It’s the first time she’s ever said her name like that—addressing her, in conversation. It feels… astonishingly intimate, for so small a thing. Emerald powers past it. “Every day, I see you do something ridiculous, like double back on a patrol because you forgot you promised some kid a candy bar, or something, and that—matters. To me. It’s so stupid, but it’s not, because… argh! I want—it’s—” She tries to get her mouth to form the words, that’s the kind of person I want to be, but they stop in her throat.

Still, Nora seems to get the message. Her eyes seem suspiciously shiny for a moment—but when she blinks, it’s gone. “I… thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Emerald grumbles. Saying it like she means it: seriously. Don’t mention it.

“I understand what you mean, though. For years, the only person who looked out for me was Ren. And if he’d said…” Nora trails off, then, cocking her head to the side as she works through something. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing, just. I remembered something. I was about to say that if Ren told me the only way for us to get by was a life of crime, or something, I would’ve taken his word for it, but—the opposite happened. We decided to enroll at Beacon. And that wasn’t his idea; it was mine. I always wanted to be a Huntress. To… to be the one strong enough to help people, instead of always needing the help. He wasn’t sure if we would make it, but I was. We were together, right? How could we lose?” She chuckles, a little, shaking her head at herself. “Get a load of that. He followed me.”

They smile at each other, then. Like they’ve figured out something profound. Maybe Nora has; Emerald hopes so.

“I’m glad you’re here, Emerald,” Nora says, and—there it is again. The frisson of electricity that comes with being referred to by name.

Of course, then Emerald ruins it by blurting out:

“Of course you are, all your other friends are dead.”

Which—“Fuck!” she sputters, because she didn’t mean to say that. What is wrong with her? “Sorry! Sorry.”

Nora only grins at her, feral and incisive. “Yeah, well. Yours are evil, so. Pick your poison. At least I’m proud of mine.”

Touché.

“Still glad I’m here?” Emerald jeers, because her first instinct is still to press on the bruise to see how much it hurts.

Nora laughs, and gets to her feet. “Believe it or not, yes. If putting your foot in your mouth was all it took to get booted from Hero Club, I’d have been kicked out a long time ago.” She reaches down to offer Emerald a hand; Emerald takes it, letting Nora pull her to standing. “Now go and get some rest, huh? None of us can ever sleep when you’re up here thinking so loud.”

“That an order?”

“Advice. Friends give it, from time to time.”

And—yeah. Maybe they do. 

#typeoneninja #emerald sustrai #nora valkyrie #rwby #emerald and nora #fic what i wrote

[shadowsinger11]

Adult Fun

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Requested by @theweasleytwinsgirl: hi love, can i request a fred fic in which it is quarantine then reader and fred try do it but their baby keeps on crying, thanks love!

Warnings: smut in case you haven't figured this out, pouty Freddie is adorable af

A/N: My god, I actually loved this request a lot! And I really enjoyed writing it lmao

Gif is not mine

Masterlist

Having a child with Fred was a blessing. The war was merciful enough to let you leave unharmed and years later you were lucky enough to have a baby of your own as you had dreamed for such long time.

Fred was an incredible father, no doubt, he was extremely caring and loving, showing a much softer side to your kid; one you'd never guess he had. But with the responsibility of raising a child came very limited time for you and Fred to relax, and it was understandable to say that your husband had become unusually moody over the past year since your baby was born.

Fred truly loved being a parent, but he really missed those passionate, intimate moments he used to share with you as his wife. He missed having your body trembling beneath him, he missed the feeling of your heated skin moving against his.

His need for you was growing stronger overtime and it had become terribly obvious when he started to walk around your house shirtless more often, pants hanging a little lower and hair messier than usual. But you couldn't really blame him; you'd been craving some adult time with your lover just as much as he did.

When quarantine struck, you handled it surprisingly well.

It was unpleasant to not be able to meet your loved ones for awhile, but at least you and Fred had more time to spend with each other. That's when his touches became lingering, more urgent and even slightly rough. Gentle caresses of your thighs and hips would turn into squeezing the soft flesh and chaste kisses would end with his tongue between your lips.

You hated to admit that the lack of intimacy was taking a toll on you as well. And unfortunately, baby naps weren't of enough time for you to catch up with what you both desperately wanted.

And that's why you tried very hard to keep yourselves busy while being stuck at home with your baby asleep upstairs.

Dozens of movies, TV shows, board games and even some poor cooking attempts which ended in a disaster, did nothing to help you and Fred in the months of a global pandemic and you ended up lying on the couch in your living room with absolutely nothing to.

"Merlin, I cannot possibly watch another episode," grumbled Fred, tossing the remote aside. "My head's about to explode."

You chuckled at his antic, but couldn't help but agree, "Honestly, mine too."

Your legs were nestled between Fred's long ones, head resting peacefully on his chest as he lazily ran fingers through your hair. You buried your face into the cotton of his red T-shirt and inhaled his characteristic scent of coffee and cedar, not planning to move away anytime soon. It had been exceptionally rare to be able to spend entire days simply cuddling your lover, but once quarantine happened, you often found yourselves snuggled up on the couch in your pajamas and you cherished those moments of seemingly eternal peace and security.

The way Fred tenderly caressed your sides up and down nearly caused you to fall asleep and you hugged him closer.

"You know what we haven't done in awhile?" Fred's low, groggy voice brought you back to consciousness. You slightly pulled away to look at him and sat between his legs.

After months of not having to run the shop, Fred didn't find it as necessary as before to make himself that presentable and his wild ginger hair now nearly reached his shoulders. But at the end, it was you who most enjoyed his messy, laid back look.

You lifted a hand to caress his cheek, thin stubble tingling your fingertips, and asked timidly, already having a vague idea.

"What?"

Fred involuntarily licked his lips and reached a hand to the collar of your thin shirt, gently slipping the hem down your shoulder to expose your bare neck and collarbones. His thumb traced patterns over the sensitive skin, causing goosebumps to rise upon it, and you looked into his eyes, dark brown irises blown with desire which you hadn't encountered in a long time and made you shudder under his touch.

"It's been awhile since I last had you," he purred, the corners of his lips curling up in a dark smirk that immediately sent you into submission and had you craving. "Will you let me have you now, little girl?"

Your mind immediately wandered to your child.

"What about the baby?" you asked, worried.

"Nothing will happen as long as we're quiet," Fred shrugged, then switched back to his dominant persona and caressed your bottom lip with his thumb. "Can you be quiet for me?"

A strangled moan tore from your throat before you managed to stop it, and you eagerly placed your legs on either side of your lover's lap, wrapping hands around his neck. Fred's grin grew wider at your neediness and his hands came down to greedily squeeze your hips and ass. He slammed his mouth onto yours, devouring your desperate whimpers and causing you to grip the hair at the nape of his neck. 

You rolled your hips against Fred's, hinting at how impatient you were, and he was more than happy to carefully lay you back on the couch and slip off your pajama shorts. His eyes stared at your black panties, undoubtedly damp at that point, and you could tell by his furrowed brow that Fred was already recalling all the things he'd planned to do to you for quite a long time.

"Darling, we have a lot of catching up to do," he breathed and ran a finger over your clothed core. It was warm and positively soaked, and Fred's mind went wild with uncontrollable hunger. His fingers tugged at the hem of your panties and slowly slid them down your thighs and legs, aiming to savor the moment before finally getting what he wanted.

The desire growing in his pants made it very clear that Fred needed release just as much as you did, so you let a hand wander down your body, giving him a show of your exposed pussy. You knew your game had worked when you earned a low growl from Fred, and he crawled between your legs, tongue wettening your swollen lips with one long lick.

"Fred..." you sighed and your head fell back, hands coming down to fist his ginger locks once again.

A cry from upstairs caused Fred to pull away.

You shared a knowing, slightly disappointed look. Fred groaned quietly, but rose to his feet nonetheless.

"I'll get it."

You lied back with a heavy sigh, staring up at the ceiling for the few extremely long minutes in which Fred was gone. You were relieved when the crying soon ceased, and you grinned widely as your lover crawled up to you, looking at you up and down.

"Where were we?" he asked smugly, smiling against your lips. You giggled into the kiss, arms grabbing onto his shoulders for support as his hand slipped between your thighs, fingers slyly playing with your folds and getting coated in your juices.

You bit back a low moan, buckling your hips up to create more friction. Fred's pace turned more urgent and he slipped two fingers inside you, thumb rubbing your swollen clit in rapid circles. Your sighs turned into choked gasps and your thighs began to quiver.

That was exactly what Fred had missed so dearly. He missed seeing you in such a pure state of pleasure; the rising and falling of your chest, your puffed parted lips, your eyes squeezed shut from the unbearable euphoria. Fred had terribly missed being the one to make you feel ecstatic.

Soon the spark in your belly ignited and you came hard around Fred's fingers, biting into the back of your hand to muffle the filthy moans that threatened to escape. That was the moment when he found you most beautiful; natural, radiant and happy.

His patience was wearing thin at that point, his erection aching from the lack ot touch, and Fred quickly took off his pants and underwear. His thick cock was painfully hard, the red swollen tip already leaking precum, and the prominent vein from the underside had you longing to taste it.

Fred gave his length a few slow strokes and your mouth began to water.

You eagerly spread your legs, inviting your lover to take you, and he nearly did, holding your thighs open to position himself at your entrance.

But the baby cried out again.

Fred cursed under his breath, the frustration finally taking over him for not being able to make love to you properly.

"I don't understand!" he whined, pulling back to sit on the couch. "It's not hungry, nor does it need a change of the diaper. What am I doing wrong?"

You moved closer to him and brushed a strand of ginger hair behind his ear. His pouty face both made you want to laugh and be sympathetic, and you gave him a sweet, apologetic smile.

"Chances are, it probably only needs a bit of some motherly charm to fall asleep."

Fred still seemed unsatisfied with having been interrupted after finally getting some alone time with you for the first time in what seemed like forever, but he didn't object as you put your clothes back on and left to check up on the baby.

However, before you walked up the stairs, you glanced at Fred over your shoulder with a mischievous smirk that immediately replaced the scowl on his face with a hungry expression.

"Give me a few minutes. And then I'm sucking you off."

@self-ship-love @susceptible-but-siriusexual @hufflexpuff @neovannii

Message me if you want to be added to the tag list, babes

Reblog my work if you enjoyed it!

Masterlist

#fred weasley x reader smut #fred weasley x reader fluff #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley smut #fred weasley fluff #fred weasley #fred weasley headcanons #fred weasley headcanon #fred weasley imagines #fred weasley imagine #george weasley #weasley twins x reader #weasley twins #weasley twins headcanons #harry potter imagines #harry potter imagine

[imerdwarf]

Love At First Crash

Summary: your car gets taken to the repair shop where you meet the man who will repair it for you.

Prompt:

Pairing: Mechanic!Bucky x Reader

Warnings: flirting, mild angst, idiots in love, happy ending 🥰

Word Count: 2,128 (I AM SO SORRY)

Author's Notes: This is for @the-ss-horniest-book-club's Drunk Drabbles 💜 my first time writing for mechanic!Bucky, thank you so much @jobean12-blog for checking it and giving me your thoughts 💜

It's been just a few days since you've visited the repair shop and met the owner Bucky Barnes. His charming smile made your tummy feel like you had a swarm of butterflies fluttering around inside.

His tight white tank top was pulled so tightly across his chest that his pecs could be seen. His black jeans that sculptured around his thick thighs to show off those thigh muscles, his mechanical outfit was matched perfectly with his black boots.

Your footsteps echoed off the bare concrete walls and floors as you entered the repair shop back from the back entrance. The metal shutters with a dangling chain link was rolled halfway up and a dozen of motorcycles parked next to the doors.

The distant quiet music from the digital radio did very little to quieten your footsteps. Bucky had heard you and rolled himself out from underneath your car. He smirked up when he saw you approach him.

"Hey there doll." Bucky showed off his perfect pearly whites and that was the same smile that gave you the butterfly feeling.

"Hey Bucky," you smiled back and sheepishly shoved your hands in the front of your pockets. You had originally opted to call him James, but he beefy man insisted on Bucky since his close friends and family called him by that name and James had sounded so foreign to his ears.

Bucky stood up, his biceps flexing under his movements and you couldn't stop the creeping flush. You cleared your throat and looked at your car.

"She's looking good!" Bucky's smile grew wider by how excited and happy you were.

"Yes you are," he muttered under his breath but you heard him say something. Your head snaps towards him and grin.

"What did you just say?" Bucky blushed and now it was his turn to clear his throat and rub the back of his neck, unknowingly with his greasy padded fingertips which left a black streak.

"I said she is, she won't be too long in here actually, a few more days." He wanted to exhale his sigh of relief when you nodded your head and looked back at your car.

"Great, you're the best Bucky!"

Bucky was absolutely beaming from the praise but it wasn't a lie, Bucky really was the best. He was so the best in fact that you found yourself daydreaming about the beefy mechanic days after you visited him at the shop.

You were laying on your couch listening to the birds singing outside and staring up at the white ceiling with your hands resting on your stomach thinking about that gorgeous smile of his. You loved the way his hair was always slicked back into a bun and how his shirt was always grease stained, a sign of a hard working man. You knew he was working hard to get your car back on the road as soon as possible, he kept in touch to let you know how everything was going.

You were falling for him, fast and hard. He was all you could ever think about, he was all you dreamed about and he lived rent free in your head.

Your gut clenches from the thought that realistically, he is probably in a serious long-term relationship with a much more beautiful woman, one that must make him happy because he was always in a good mood and always smiling.

Your chances of ever being with him were really slim, and it was such a bitter pill to swallow. He was just a crush and that is all he would ever be. But it didn't stop you from creating scenarios in your head with him. What your evenings would look like cuddled on the couch watching movies, listening to music or just talking to each other. What kind of food you'd cook him, would he kiss you as a compliment? In your head he does.

You wonder what it would be like to have him underne—

"Y/N!" Wanda's voice suddenly breaks through your thoughts and you blink back to reality. You mumble a response and Wanda finds you laying on the couch staring up to nothing, again, "still daydreaming about your hot boyfriend?" She teases and you scoff, sitting up to glare at her.

"He is not my boyfriend. Never was, never will be." Your face drops when you said it out loud, as though it suddenly dawned on you.

"But you have a crush on him right?" Wanda pushes and you regret ever spilling the beans to her in the first place, of course she is never going to let this go.

"No." You lied.

"Then why does he make you look so sad?" Damn it Wanda, "look, I'm not here to pressure you but my brother is back in town and we are meeting at the bar tonight! He misses you and wants to see you!"

"Bucky misses me?!" You may have zoned out again thinking about Bucky. Wanda rolls her eyes and laughs lightly.

"No! Pietro! But I'm sure Bucky does kiss you... I mean miss you!"

You smiled, great now another thing to add to your scenarios.

"What time?"

"8pm sharp! Don't be late!" She kisses your cheek in a friendly manner before skipping out of your door and leaving you alone with your thoughts. You had a few more hours to lay here and do nothing but think about him.

***

The bar was crowded when you arrived and you headed towards the bar to order a drink when Pietro came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist. You screeched out when you turned around and saw it was him, pulling him into a tight hug and keeping your hands on his forearms as he kissed your cheeks.

It might have been innocent, but from where Bucky was stood, it seemed like the two of you were an item and his heart dropped into his stomach and his mood turned sour.

He had no idea you were with Pietro, he knew him because he's a well known lawyer with a lot of successful cases under his belt so he couldn't blame you for being with someone with a clean job while he went to work everyday in a greasy repair shop.

He's only met you a dozen times but he doesn't remember you ever smiling that brightly at him when you were in his repair shop.

"You're brooding." Natasha, one of Bucky's oldest friends told him as she sipped her dry red wine. Bucky rolled his eyes and swished his beer around in his hand.

"I'm fine." Bucky scoffed and turned his angle away from Natasha.

"You're in love." Bucky again rolls his eyes and tries to ignore her. He tries to ignore you both, he tries to contain the jealousy that desperately wants to come out and say something about the way you're not even pulling away from Pietro.

"I'm leaving," Bucky tells Natasha, chugging the rest of his beer before slamming the bottle down on a nearby table, he turns to Nat and points a finger in her face, "and don't follow me."

The catch-up with Pietro was nice, it's been a few years since you've seen each other and he was telling you about his new wife when you saw Bucky storm out of the bar over his shoulder. Your eyes widened, never even noticing he was here and oh god, how this must have looked. Your heart sunk when you saw a redhead follow in his direction, that must have been his girlfriend.

Your mood to stay in the bar any longer was diminished and now all you wanted to do was go home and be by yourself.

You excused yourself from Pietro's grip and bid Wanda a quick goodnight before making a quick exit out of the bar and heading straight home.

Your thoughts kept you up the whole night. You couldn't sleep and tossed and turned throughout the cold night. You kept thinking back to the way he stormed out of the bar, if only you had seen him sooner.

Wanda entered your home early the next morning to find you already sitting up at the kitchen table nursing a hot cup of coffee. You looked exhausted and she could tell you haven't slept.

"Hey." She whispers, putting her hand on your shoulder, "are you okay?" You nod your head and sigh, not being in the mood to talk about things right now.

"I'm fine, just tired from last night." It's a lie that Wanda seems to accept for now.

"Barnes called." Wanda sighs and your head snaps up, "your car is ready to be picked up. I'll go and get it for you so you can rest." You feel upset that he couldn't or didn't want to call you but called your emergency contact instead.

"O-kay."

"I'll be back in a bit!" Wanda leaves quickly, jumping into Pietro's car and rehearsing the conversation in her head before she confronted Bucky.

Bucky was wiping his dirty greased up fingertips on the rag he had stuffed in his back pocket when Wanda arrived with Pietro. He saw him drive off shortly after she got out and Bucky refrained from rolling his eyes.

He was probably going home to you. He thought selfishly to himself. He mustered the biggest smile he could but it didn't fool Wanda.

"Wanda."

"Barnes, you called?"

"Yeah, Y/N's car is ready."

"And you couldn't inform her why?" Wanda queried, noting the disappointing look that swam in his eyes.

"I didn't think Pietro would like that."

Wanda bent over and held her stomach as she laughed. Bucky's eyebrows pinched together in confusion, "What's so funny?" He snapped, angry at how this whole thing was completely unfair.

"I'm sorry- it's just- it's just- oh god- Pietro is my brother and he's married." Wanda said between breaths.

This only infuriated Bucky even further, "good for him but I don't need to know how happy they are together!" He needed to chill and calm down. Jealousy was not a good look.

"He isn't married to Y/N. She's single, has a crush on you, maybe even hopelessly in love with you but that's fine if you want to-"

"She's what?" Bucky asks shocked, there's no way a pretty dame like yourself could love him. He's too basic, too plain.

"Why don't you drop me home in Y/N's car and take her car back to her yourself and you'll see what I mean." It was an offer he couldn't refuse. If Wanda wasn't pulling his leg, and you really were single, he needed to get to you before someone else did.

***

It's been well over an hour since Wanda left to pick up your car. In that time, you managed to take a shower to release your tense muscles, take something for the pounding headache and change into an outfit.

You were really excited to get your car back, making a promise with yourself that you'll be a lot more careful this time and try not to get into more car crashes.

You heard the engine in your driveway and you leapt towards the front door with a smile on your face, your smile growing even wider when you saw it wasn't Wanda behind the wheel, but Bucky. You couldn't put your finger on why you were so happy to see him, maybe it was a little hope he didn't hate you after all.

He got out of the car and strolled up towards you with a matching smile on his own face. His hands were in his front pockets and he looked amazing dressed in all black with a black leather jacket.

"Hi!" Your dam almost breaks, you were awake the whole night worrying about what would happen and then he didn't call you himself this morning about your car, it was easy to jump to conclusions, "I'm so happy to see you."

"Doll, I'm sorry I didn't call- my thoughts- well, I mean my feelings got in the way and I let my jealousy shine brighter than the sun." He chuckled shyly.

"Please you don't need to explain, it's me who owes you an explanation. You see, Pietro and I are—"

"No need doll. Wanda told me everything. It's a pretty warm day, Steve is covering for me back at the shop and I wondered if you'd like to head down to the beach with me?"

You grinned and looked down to your feet before looking into his eyes again, "I can make a picnic?"

"Sounds like a date!"

"A date it is."

Taglist: @smokeybluebrooke-lyn @pinkdiamond1016 @whatrambles @bestofbucky

#hbc drunk drabbles #hbc drabbles #mechanic!bucky x reader #mechanic au #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes drabble #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes fluff #bucky x you #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky fic #bucky fanfics #bucky fanfiction #bucky fanfic #bucky fluff #fluff #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barns x you #bucky barns x y/n #bucky barns x reader #bucky barns fic #bucky barns fluff #bucky barns fanfiction

[alirhi]

...goddess help me...

This fucking episode. *deep breath* This... This episode is where I'm expecting to get some serious hate. Let me just get this out of the way right up front:

I. Hate. Zemo.

I do not find him sympathetic, or funny, or charming. I find him creepy and annoying. I did not like him in CA:CW and I do not like him in TFATWS. If you are pro-Zemo, you are not going to like my version of this show from here on out. Just find something else to read and don't bother me about it. You've got the actual canon, so go enjoy that.

Got it? Good. Now, on to the main event!

Episode 3: The Power Broker

First of all, Sam doesn't let Bucky walk in there alone. No matter Bucky's (flimsy and nonsensical) argument, Sam's like "hell no. I go in with you, or you don't go in." The main reason for this isn't to keep Bucky from breaking Zemo out of prison (with decent writing, he would never do that) - it's so that Sam witnesses Zemo taunting Bucky with/about the trigger words. because Zemo is a piece of shit.

Since he doesn't know the full story, Sam is confused, but he files this interaction away to ask Bucky about later. He's listening to Zemo acknowledging that Bucky was "not conscious for most of [his] imprisonment" (which, yes, clearly refers to the time he spent frozen, but can also mean while he was under their control as TWS/"The Asset" - also, key word: imprisonment) and when he calls Bucky a means to an end, Sam scowls, looking ready to go off on him, but he waits. They've got more important issues.

Neither of them entertains the thought of breaking Zemo out for even a nanosecond. He does that shit himself. And literally the only reason I'm sticking with him getting out at all is because I want to address some truly egregious moments linked directly to him in the show. Zemo makes them think he's setting them on the trail when really he's just sending them to his motor pool. Bucky and Sam are confused until they see Zemo in his stolen guard uniform, then they're both angry and want to ship him right back to prison, but he strikes a deal with them: "My help for my temporary freedom. Creating super soldiers cannot be allowed to continue; let me finish my work, and then do with me as you will." He has no intention of going quietly back to prison, obviously, and they're not stupid enough to believe otherwise, but they believe they can keep him on a short leash, so they agree for now. Anything to bring down the Flag Smashers and whoever created them.

After the title, we cut to Raynor on the phone in her office. She's agitated, fiddling with things on her desk. "No, sir," she's practically growling, "it was disrupted. - Walker did! - It's not my fault your new attack dog got off-leash!" She pauses, huffs, and says more calmly, "No. Of course not. I'm sorry. - Well, I don't see how, with the new Cap strutting around barking orders! - What am I supposed to do? Tell Captain America in front of a dozen witnesses that he can't have his predecessor's favorite pet because we're not done reprogramming him? I didn't see that going over too well. I made a call. - No. No, no, no, we can still use him. The work's not finished, but he still trusts me. He'll be back." A pause as she listens. Angry again, she snaps, "What do you want me to do, shove a tracker up his ass? He'll be back, and we'll pick right back up where we left off! - Don't worry, sir, the Asset will be fully compliant and ready to use soon. I'll make sure of it. - Yes, sir. You, too." She hangs up and tosses her phone on the couch, grumbling, "Dick."

Cut back to Sam, Bucky, and Zemo getting going on their trip to Madripoor. On the plane, Sam wants to talk to Bucky about what he's learned so far, but doesn't want to bring it up in front of Zemo... until the notebook incident reminds him that Zemo already knows more about Bucky than he does.

After Zemo's line about the list, Sam angrily corrects him: "You mean people HYDRA used The Winter Soldier to hurt." When Zemo shrugs and his response is basically along the lines of "what's the difference" Sam is like "oh hell no."

"Those words you were reciting at him," he reminds Zemo, "what were they, Russian? They clearly meant something. They were supposed to do something. What are they?" "Sam, let it go," Bucky pleads, unable to look at either of them. "It's nothing." "You wanna drown in your guilt, that's fine," Sam snaps, "but make sure it's for the right reasons." He turns back to Zemo, who's smiling at this exchange because he's a monster and thinks Bucky's suffering is fucking funny. "I asked you a question, Zemo. What did those words do?" "They activate the Winter Soldier programming," Bucky grudgingly admits. He doesn't want to talk about it, but he's sure as hell not going to let Zemo speak for him. "Or, they did, before the Wakandans got all that shit out of my head." "It's a shame," Zemo says with a smirk. "Imagine the possibilities that come with perfect obedience." "I think you mean 'slavery'," Sam growls, "and I think you're in the wrong crowd to be looking so pleased about it. Remember that we can send your ass back to prison any time." "Of course," Zemo agrees, but with an arrogant smile that shows he doesn't believe for a second that these two have any real power over him. Still, he bides his time and sits back quietly, watching Bucky fidget with the notebook. Sam turns back to Bucky, seeing his discomfort; he won't let the topic go, though, not yet. He just softens his tone. "So, they 'activated the Winter Soldier'? What exactly does that mean?" Bucky shrugs, still not looking up. "Pretty much what he said - perfect obedience. What little consciousness they left me between cryo and the chair was squashed down, locked away. And I did whatever I was told, exactly the way they told me to." It finally clicks. He'd had his suspicions before, of course, but now Sam gets it. Visibly horrified, he stares at this quiet, broken man, and finally sees the truth of what he'd been through for 70 years: "They stripped away your autonomy. Shit, Bucky, they didn't even let you be a person. That's..." He swallows, looking like he'll be sick any minute. "That's awful, man. I'm so sorry." When Bucky tries to shrug it off and downplay it again, Sam gets angry. "Look at me!" He waits; it takes a few seconds, but Bucky reluctantly looks up and is surprised to see just how upset Sam is on his behalf. "It wasn't your fault. None of it. When Steve said you didn't have a choice, I had no idea... You really, truly had no choice; not even the ability to choose. That's horrifying." "I doubt it would make much difference to the people he's killed," Zemo points out snidely. "Or their families. Let's ask Tony Stark, shall we?" "You shut the hell up," Sam growls. He watches Bucky flinch and make that face - the face he's starting to really fucking hate - that says he agrees with Zemo. Bucky still can't see things the way Sam does; he still feels the guilt and shame, and even when he himself pointed out his lack of agency under HYDRA, it didn't click for him that Sam is right, not Zemo.

It's too much, too soon. Sam sees that and decides to change the subject, to give Bucky some time to process. He nods at the notebook, and they have their little Marvin Gaye debate, where Sam is over the top about it on purpose, because Bucky needs the distraction.

Of course, Zemo ruins it by opening his big mouth again and reminding Bucky of more trauma: his time fighting in WWII. That's why Sam latches onto the bit about Madripoor; to keep the focus not only on the task at hand, but off of Bucky's past that he clearly still can't cope with.

"James... You will have to become someone you claim is gone." Sam is officially ready to throw Zemo out a window. 😂 The only reason he doesn't jump to Bucky's defense again and basically tell Zemo to fuck himself (in a PG-13 way 🙄) is because Bucky's, as Sam pointed out in ep2, a grown-ass man, and because he's just learned how few decisions this poor man has been able to make in his life. Sam doesn't want to come across as another "handler," deciding everything for him, even if he does think this plan is stupid and needlessly cruel.

At the bar, when asked if he wants "the usual", Sam just casually waves the bartender off like "nah". Zemo already said they had business to attend to, so it's not like anyone would be suspicious that now's probably not a good time to be doing weird shots lol. (wtf even was that? I'm not sure I want to know, but...what part of the snake did he drop into that drink?)

Sam's not an idiot (I'm really so sick of this trend of turning intelligent characters into morons because the writers can't think of any other way to move their plot along) so his cell phone has been off this whole time. No sudden call from Sarah to put them all in danger. There was really no point to that, anyway; Sharon likely would have killed Selby for talking about Nagle with or without the excuse of "saving" Sam and Bucky. I mean, it's not like they know who fired that shot, ever.

"They cleared the Bionic Staring Machine," Sam still jokes, but he follows it with, "and they think he's a mass-murderer." "They think?" Sharon stares at him incredulously. "Didn't he kill pretty much everyone he's ever met?" "Wow." Sam glances back at Bucky. "She really is awful now." To Sharon, he adds, "You met Steve; do you really think he'd have defied 117 countries to protect someone evil?" "He did it for Bucky," she points out. "Let's face it - Bucky could blow up half the planet, and Steve's loyal-to-a-fault ass would still take a bullet for him." "You know I'm sitting right here, right? I can hear you." "Look, I don't think you're evil, Bucky," Sharon assures him. "But I know you killed a lot of people for HYDRA." "I'm not denying it." "He didn't have a choice," Sam snaps, glaring at them both. "But we're not getting into that right now. My point is, the government's afraid of Bucky, and they still pardoned him. All you did was steal something. I'm sure they can be persuaded to see reason." "The day the US government sees reason," Sharon quips, rolling her eyes, "is the day I sprout real wings and fly off into the sunset." "Careful, Icarus," Bucky mocks with a smirk, "the sun and brand new wings don't exactly go together." Then he shrugs and glances at Sam. "But she's not wrong."

At the party that night, it takes a few minutes (grumpy old man Bucky's not sure how to feel about the music lol) but a peek of pre-war Bucky comes out to play: they were told to "blend in", so he dances. At first he's just bobbing around alone looking stoic and out of place, but soon he's smiling and dancing between two attractive people - one male, one female. Sam is surprised, but before he can tease him for it, Sharon comes to get them all. Even she's a little "wait what?" at Bucky having a little fun lol. (recovery is not linear, guys. trauma doesn't mean "perpetually miserable, no fun, doesn't even know how to smile." in my TFATWS, Bucky gets his lighter moments; real ones, not humor at his expense)

When they find Nagle, Bucky's the one who notices and opens the secret door, while Sam keeps an eye on Zemo. Bucky catches Zemo trying to grab that gun; closes the drawer on his hand before opening it and taking the gun away. "Nice try." Nagle tries to get away while there's only one person watching him, but Sam catches him and forces him back into his seat. With a bruising grip on the back of Zemo's neck, Bucky drags him back over to where he and Sam can both keep an eye on him. Nagle is killed in the shootout as they're trying to escape; Zemo still runs off, blows shit up, and comes back with the stolen car so he's not totally useless.

I had no problem with Zemo being the one to kill Nagle; Nagle was the worst and def had to die, and Zemo has never had an issue killing anyone. Where I took issue with this scene was Bucky and Sam being dumb enough to let Zemo wander and get his hands on a gun. Nope. Not happening.

Anyway, shootout! Explosions! Funny banter! The seat thing, which is my favorite nod to CW ever lol... And then the conversation on the plane...

"You okay?" "Yeah." Sam sighs. "Just thinking." "About how to get Sharon that pardon you dangled in front of her?" He shakes his head. "About how Nagle referred to 'The Winter Soldier Program" like it was some kind of after school club; like you weren't standing right there. And 'the American test subject' like... Like Isaiah wasn't even a real person." He turns to face Bucky, looking angry and weary. "Makes me wonder how many times... How many times are we gonna run around in the same circles before people learn? And how many people need to get crushed underfoot in the meantime?" "Did you really just equate me with Isaiah?" Bucky frowns, not sure how to react to that. "That man is a hero." Sam opens his mouth to say something, but his phone goes off and Zemo approaches at the same time, effectively cutting off their conversation.

When they get to Riga and Zemo tries to guilt trip them over Sokovia, Bucky deadpan reminds him, "Neither of us were involved in that fight." "I doubt you'd have been much help if you were." He shrugs. "Probably not. But I like to save my guilt for events I was actually present for. It's a thing." Zemo laughs. "Fair enough."

Bucky goes on his walk, and meets up with Ayo.

#how it should have gone #tfatws #tfatws critical #if i'd written it #episode 3

[thinkdrinkandsink]

"Why do you like The Weeknd so much?"

The following is a list of defining lyrics of my favorite songs by The Weeknd, which have heavily influenced my writing, and my way of being. Among the thousands of people that I've come across, few are capable of uncovering the real me. Those who willingly cross beyond the superficial layer of perception, will more than likely feel the same vibes from this collection of words that define who I am - and words are all that I'll ever have. Tears In The Rain They all feel the same Adjust to the fame Cause no one will love you like her It's pointless Like tears in the rain. So now that she's gone Embrace all that comes And die with a smile - Don't show the world how alone you've become - This song is arguably the biggest influence in my writing. I've written countless paragraphs of excruciating grief, that will never reach my intended target audience - and that's the point. To cry for something that will never be heard, is like producing tears in the rain. Not everyone will ever truly grasp the severity of how alone I can be, because I'm not trying to be seen nor heard by everyone. Angel And even though I sin, maybe we are born to live But I know time will tell if we're meant for this, yeah if we're meant for this And if we're not, I hope you find somebody I hope you find somebody to love - This song epitomizes the one time that I've been told, "I hope you find somebody to love," several years ago. Never in my life did I think that I'd be on the other side of the equation, and repeat that same line to another. It's strange when you're in a situation where you feel like you truly want things to work with someone, yet you find yourself telling them anyway that you hope they'll find someone else to love. Often times, life forces us to do the things that we don't want to do. I’ve definitely shed a few dozen tears to this song. In The Night In the night, she hears him calling In the night, she's dancing to relieve the pain She'll never walk away (I don't think you understand) In the night when she comes crawling, Dollar bills and tears keep falling down her face She'll never walk away (I don't think you understand) - This song is probably the most played song out of the bunch. I've a complex relationship with strippers and naked strangers that have kept me from ever revisiting the industry. Having a conversation with a woman who felt like she didn't have a choice in becoming a sex object, shaped my averse hesitation in succumbing to my own sexual desires with others. All I ever think to myself when seeing an attractive woman is, she's a person too. Professional So you're somebody now But what's a somebody in a nobody town?

- Sometimes chasing after external sources of happiness will only ever get you so far, before you're lost in a world that will never truly make you happy. Like the fame that Abel (The Weeknd) received, it's not as fulfilling for those of us who have always been unhappy from within. Echoes of Silence Baby please Would you end your night with me Don't you leave me all behind Don't you leave my little life. - Echoes of Silence is not a song that I'll play too often, but it's definitely one that defines the yearning that I've felt over the decade. There was a year where unrequited yearning was all I could ever write about. Twenty Eight Baby if I knew you'd be living in my sheets I wouldn't have shown you any love I would have left you in the club You said you don't belong You keep saying there's no one And there's no where to go But who keeps calling on your phone? I'm so wrong, I'm so wrong, I'm so wrong - One of the more complex songs that I don't relate to as much anymore, but it certainly speaks volumes to those who have regrets in opening up to another. For almost a year, being vulnerable has been one of the most difficult battles that I've faced. It was only recently that I could do so again with a stranger from Brooklyn. As You Are Show me your broken heart and all your scars Baby, I'll take, I'll take, I'll take, I'll take you as you are, I'll take you as you are Show me your broken heart to know your flaws Baby, I'll take, I'll take, I'll take, (you'll know I'll take you) I'll take you as you are

- This song used to be one of my favorites. It's one of the few Weeknd songs that revolve around the theme of loving someone wholeheartedly without deception nor bad intentions. It's a song that represents a time that doesn't exist for me anymore. I can never finish listening to this song, because it sparks sensations that are still far too heavy for me to process and walk away from unscathed. It’s rare to come across someone who will truly accept us as we are. There are few, if any, who would ever read all of this, so to those that have - thank you for your time in unraveling a layer of my soul.

#theweeknd

[lebrookestore]

Thank You and Presents?

Welcome to this semi-chaotic, passive aggressive post. I spent a good hour on this, so you mfs better read.

I've decided to combine these two posts, considering they go hand in hand, so bear with me.

I've been here for a month, and I've made so many new friends, read some amazing fics, and actually made friends with some of my writing inspirations themselves, which I cant even begin to comprehend so I won't try.

I've released four fics, two were shorter, but the ones I'm really proud of- Little Princess and Poison and Petals-i still can't believe I sat my ass down and started writing. This year has been a shit one, but never would I have thought I would start writing fanfiction. Let alone the long ass fics I write please.

So hitting 100 followers is even more of a foreign concept, but thank you so much! I'm bewildered that people actually ready my shit and the fact some want to be tagged in stuff, and the fact it's only been a month? What is reality-

And some of y'all see my shit posts and deal with me- to that I say God bless you and your patience. You have to be some sort of heavenly being amen.

Honestly, some of y'all actually helped me through a lot of shit, and some even encouraged me with my first fic, which was the start of these shenanigans( whether this was a good idea or not, we shall never know)

Basically, thank you so much, it means a lot to me, it really makes my day when I see w new follow, or a reblog, or someone liking my shit posts about simping (I am sorry my dude) .

Now, since the year is ending, thank god, I've decided to give my moots presents, since I've seen a lot of people do this (originality went ✨yeet✨) and it's also like a thank you and appreciation message of sorts. Also because I'm nice.

Let the chaos begin:

@alicanta77 my first moot, and literally one of my biggest inspirations fir writing, she was with me when I was writing Poison and Petals, and encouraged me with everytime I hit a roadblock, or was feeling tired with it. She's such a talented writer, and her series are very well thought out. They deserve so much more love, because the effort, the plot, everything is immaculate, and felix, babe, I love you to death.

@danishmiilk my second moot on this hellhole and I hate you but I love you so I guess pemdas cancels that out. She is an amazing writer, her fics too deserve more attention. I honestly don't know what I would do without this bitch, we run the culture cafe together, and I'm such a dumbass at coding, but she does it(even if she does forget to add the https, but we won't talk about that okay) and she matches my chaotic energy perfectly. She's definitely not annoying (I wrote that with a straight face my dude, be proud), and I would do anything for her so yeah ily bye

@astroboy-lele furOU THE 40 YEAR OLD MAN ON FACEBOOK- I'm sorry, not really, oh well. Another underrated writer, her fics are really good too, and she was the one who encouraged me to start the net, and gave me the idea of a dark cafe aesthetic. She helped me with a lot of shit there too, and is a really good listener.

@orange-nimon-cross I scared as fuck of yunha, but I also love her. Shes honest and blunt af and I love that about her. She always gives me honest, actually helpful feedback a d if probably the first person I'd go to for said feedback. She deserves way more credit for her writing, its amazing, and her poetry? They're beautiful and deep and ineish I could write like that.

@rouiyan MISS REE ANOTHER WRITING INSPO AND A GREAT FRIEND honestly I met her and we just vibed tbh. She too helped me with my first fic by encouraging me, and I love her to death too. Very happy ahes back from hiatus, all my fists of love for you babe!

@yvezs mila I have no fucking clue what your posts mean half the time, but I love you anyways okay, you already know so I'm not gonna bother writing a long ass para, I'll annoy you later

@heartyyjeno ALESHA! honestly, she's so sweet, and her asks literally brighten up my day. Her writing is also amazing and just ugh, I love you and get very happy everytime I see you.

@moonbeamsung HANNAH BBY YOU'RE SO CUTE I LOVE YOU SO MUCH OMG you're the sweetest bean ever and your writing is the bomb.com. I hope we can get closer, because you never fail to make me feel better, or brighten up my day with a message or an ask.

@radiorenjun angie my fellow simp and hard stan letS GO- I know she's not always online, but she's always there when I need to simp, or when I need help with important descisions (what pic I should chose fir my lockcreen, for example) she's always there to simp for ten with me and our convos are questionable (she's seen my dark dark gallery man. If that's not friendship idk what it) . If you do want to summon her though, I suggest typing renjun or ten in a message, all caps.

@channoticedmeuwu kai. *heavy sigh* this bitch is honestly one of the best people, like she deals with ny shit posts, replIES TO THEM and even deals with my excessive simping like damn what angel are you (the fallen one, jK-) she also likes simping with me, even called for help once(it failed, but it's the thought that counts. She even tried helping me when my laptop fucked me over, which, surprise, it still is, but we barely even knew each other at the time?? How amazing is that?? But bitch stay the fuck away from taeyong thanks hyuck is the waiting.

@loonacitys I MET YOU TWO DAYS AGO BUT I ALREADY LOVE YOU WE LIVE I'M THE SAME DAMN CITY BYE OMG and she matches my crack head humour *cough* tHe gRoUp *cough* so yes another amazing hooman bean.

@sweetlyjaem she SIMPED WITH ME AMEN-

@ppangjae literally one of my biggest inspos for writing, I read seven letters and was inspired to pick up little princess again after it was sitting dying in a dark corner of google Docs for three days. Alex is so sweet, she didn't mind my chaotic awkward ass, and dealt with the long ass asks and the dozen of messages I sent her.

@kdongyoung ro is so sweet and chaotic I love it. Her edits are *chefs kiss* and she made my beautiful header which I will flex everytime I get the chance. We've not talked that much, but I still love you okay.

Moots I wanna know better-@jungwooisms @du0tine @moonttaeil @fruityutas @ooyoungs

I LOVE YOU ALL AND THANK YOU BYE

#thank you! #cant believe it tbh #ots only been a month of me being here #so getting this far is like what #anyways i appreciate all of you

[astorytotellyourfriends]

M and Q, please? 👀

M: already answered!

Q: Do you have any discarded scenes/storylines/projects?

i do have a folder in my google drive labeled "abandoned" but there are only 2 docs in the jatp subfolder, and both of them are previous drafts of fics i've posted! (the 1d folder is a whole other story...)

i'm very much the type of writer who edits as i go so i don't normally cut out scenes unless they just aren't working. even then, i'll usually copy/paste them into that story's plot doc and save them just in case i end up needing it later. the only one that currently comes to mind is a section i cut out of chapter five of a mouth that i would kill to kiss because it wasn't flowing the way i wanted it to. @where-you-go will probably yell at me if i dangle this without posting it, so there's about a thousand words under the cut lol

Luke hasn't written a thing in over a year. Not one note, lyric, or anything even resembling a song since before the band went on hiatus. It was strange at first, because he's always been the one to constantly scribble down ideas for songs all day, every day. The pages of his song notebooks were covered in all sorts of notes in his chicken scratch handwriting. He's got dozens of notes on his phone that have half-finished lyrics, or voice notes that are comprised of him humming half a melody that came to him in the middle of the night.

Writing felt like a part of him, ingrained in his soul. Music is what he loves and he made it his whole life. But when he cut Bobby out of his life, he lost that side of himself. He didn't want to write anymore. He'd spent years writing songs about Bobby, even if he never admitted it aloud.

It's been almost five months since Bobby showed up on his doorstep and while things are better between them, Luke still doesn't know how to feel about Bobby most days. They text a little more often now than they did at the start of all of this, and they've seen each other a handful of times since the twins' birthday party.

But never alone. There's always at least one other person around, and Luke prefers it that way. Ever since Bobby told Luke he was in therapy, Luke's felt conflicted. On the one hand, he's glad that Bobby is finally taking steps to better himself. But on the other, he can't help but worry if it's all just some ploy to get him back.

Luke still doesn't know what he wants from Bobby, or if he even wants anything at all. Five months isn't enough time to undo twenty years of damage, no matter how often Bobby's seeing his therapist. But even Luke can't deny that the feelings he fought so hard to destroy are slowly creeping back into him.

He's missed Bobby. He'd spent the last year so angry at Bobby that he'd forgotten what it's like to just be around him. It almost feels like the old days, back before anything happened between them. Luke tries not to let himself get caught up in nostalgia, but sometimes he just can't help it. Even with all the shit they've been through, he still considers Bobby one of his best friends.

And slowly, Luke starts to write again. It's nothing like what he used to be capable of, and that's okay. He doesn't need to spend all day and all night writing songs anymore. The band's still on break and everything is fine. Luke doesn't even know if anything he's written lately would even make it onto a new Sunset Curve record, if that's something they'd even want to do again.

Things are different now. Everything is different. Luke's just trying to adjust to the new normal in the only way he can: one step at a time.

So he lets himself write when he wants to write, and doesn't force himself. He doesn't make himself feel guilty on days when he's not inspired. There's no pressure on him to write a full song. He could write a dozen half-formed songs and it would be totally fine, because at least he wrote them.

Luke tries not to think about Bobby when he's writing. He spent so many years writing song after song about Bobby that it feels weird not to think about him, but Luke keeps reminding himself that he's trying something new. His therapist was right: he still needs to figure out who he is without his attachment to Bobby. It's sort of funny how he went from not thinking about Bobby at all over the course of a year to thinking about him almost as often as he used to.

At least he doesn't feel that same mania he once did. The sort of magnetic pull to Bobby where if he wasn't the center of Bobby's attention at all times, it felt like he might wither away and die. It wasn't healthy then, and at least now Luke knows better. He had to learn to be okay with himself first, to be comfortable enough in his own skin without needing validation from anyone else.

In a strange way, Luke felt that cutting Bobby off was one of the best things that ever happened to him. Up until that point, he'd still been fooling himself into thinking that they could be together. Before that, he'd thought that all he had to do was get sober, and then Bobby would want him again. When that didn't work, Luke just concentrated on trying to remind Bobby of the good times they'd had together, even if Bobby wasn't willing to reminisce.

Maybe what Luke needed all along was just to accept that he and Bobby weren't as meant to be as he thought they were.

The distance between us, it sharpens me like a knife

Luke sighs softly as he reads back the few lines he's written, his eyes going further up the page to reread one in particular: I took too many hits off this memory, I need to come down.

He sighs sharply and tucks his pen into the notebook, shutting the cover before he sets it aside. Thoughts of Bobby had wormed their way into his mind, even when he was trying so hard not to think about him.

Maybe, Luke thinks, shutting him out is the wrong thing to do. He spent a year not speaking to Bobby and he couldn't manage to write anything in that time. Now that he's writing again, maybe it's because he's let Bobby back into his life. As much as he wants to tell himself that he's fine without Bobby, that he's better off without him, maybe it's not that simple.

But Luke still can't come to terms with giving Bobby another shot. Or rather, a real shot. They've never had anything close to a real relationship because everything they did was always kept a secret. It was hard enough going through the ups and downs all on his own, Luke can't even imagine what would happen if he had his heart broken again, only this time in the public eye.

#answered #Anonymous #thank youuuu

[wreckofawriter]

Revenge

Pairing: Fred Weasley x reader

Word Count: 2,545

Request: Hi love, can I get 82 and 78 with Fred Weasley? I love your writing btw 💕💕💕

78: "This is illegal isnt it?"

82: "I will face god as I walk backward into hell."

Summary: After her boyfriend cheats on her Fred and George help reader get revenge

A/n: I am so sorry this is so late. My summer has been shit, my bestfriend started dating the guy I have liked for over a year, and my other friend is pissed at me rn sooo yeah life is great. Anyway, sorry again and I'll try to catch up on some writing. Hope u guys enjoy!

You woke up to a blinding light turning your eyelids from a dark peaceful space to a bloody red one. You groaned opening them slowly and painfully squinting against the sunlight filtering through the large windows in the common room. 

Groaning in confusion you began to gain your senses back, along with memories from the night before. You remembered winning the quidditch game by barely a second then the raging party afterwards, and the number of shots you had taken quickly and painlessly to celebrate your win. 

And now you were tangled in limbs with someone on a couch not daring to move because of the pounding in your head that felt like someone was hitting it with a hammer every other second.

Finally the sting slowed to a dull throb and you sat up trying to ignore the intensifying pain once again rising in your head. You looked around to find your legs wrapped around your best friend's. Your head had been in the crook of his arm and you had to push his other arm off your shoulder. 

You slid your legs off of Fred and stood up causing the red headed boy to stir but not wake. You then began to take in your soundings. 

The floor was littered with red plastic cups and garbage. There was red and gold confetti everywhere and red streamers across the balcony above. 

You sighed and headed up to your dorm pressing in on your temples. You quickly got changed at went down to the common room. You and Cormac were supposed to meet up for breakfast -you had agreed to do so before the match- but now he was probably passed out and hungover. 

You sighed and decided to go check. If he was asleep you would just wake up Fred to go with you. 

You headed up the stairs your headache fading away thanks to the healing potion you had downed upstairs.

You pushed open the door and was met with two pairs of eyes. One was the hazel of your boyfriend and the others were the deep brown of Katie Bell. 

You stumbled backwards at the sight in front of you. Your eyes became blurry with tears. Why was Katie here? Why was she half naked? And why was SHE ON TOP OF YOUR BOYFRIEND?!

"You asshole!" You spat out tears streaming down your cheeks. 

Cormac pushed Katie off of him and started towards you. 

"Shit y/n, I-I didn't mean for you to see that." 

"No shit." You gritted out fury and sadness budding inside you.

He tried to step towards you but you took a step back, "Y/n I-"

"Eight months," you scoffed the comfort you had seen in his eyes gone. "Eight fucking months!"

He flinched at your words as if each one was a slap to the face. 

"You threw away eight months to fuck a slut like Katie Bell?!" You screeched not caring that you had just woken a dozen hungover teenagers.

"Hey!" Katie yelled clearly offended. 

You turned to her with fury in your eyes that made her cower, "You don't get to speak."  You hissed. Katie shut her lips tight and retreated into the corner.

"Don't take this out on her." Cormac said.

"You're defending her!" Your words were sharp and haunted. 

"Your one to talk of being a slut when your sleeping with Weasley!" 

You let out a sour laugh, "Who? Fred?" 

"Yeah Fred, you're all over him!" 

"You know what McLaggen?" You scoffed. "I should have been with Fred."

"Yeah, you think you should have been with him?!" Cormac yelled taking a step toward you, "Then go! Go fuck Weasley!"

You looked up at him tears leaving shimmering trails down your cheeks. Your eyes filled with a dark fire, "Go fuck yourself McLaggen." You seethed before turning on your heels and darting down the stairs. 

You were met with 11 pairs of eyes each showed emotions ranging from anger to pity. The latter more common than the former. 

"Shows over." You murmured angrily. 

Most eyes darted away from you and you scoffed before walking towards the portrait hole. You were stopped by a hand catching g your wrist. 

It was Fred, he tried to pull you into a hug while murmuring comforting words but you pulled away angrily. You left tears dripping from your chin as your crimson robes billowed behind you.

It had been a week. A week of the glances and the whispers. A week of the pitying looks and pointed fingers. A week of anger and sadness.

Fred watched you suffer for a week and he was done. He couldn't stand watching you fall apart over a boy who you should've been with in the first place. He tried to comfort you but his attempts failed each time. So he decided you needed the next best thing. 

Revenge.

Fred and George had a special talent when it came to revenge. So when they found you drunk and alone on the dock to the Black Lake, they decided to take action.

It took the twins two days to come up with the perfect prank. They wanted something that would humiliate him to no end but not physically hurt him. 

Well, George to remind Fred of the last part more often than not when the older twin came up with ideas that could seriously injure their target. 

Finally they struck gold on a plan. 

You sat in the library trying to focus on your potions essay instead of the group of fourth years that were giggling behind their hands pointing at you every so often. You finally snapped whipping around to face the group. 

"You point at me one more time and I will cut that finger off." You threatened your voice low and menacing. 

The younger students flashed red, eyes widened before mumbling an apology and quickly exiting the library. 

"Well you scared the shit out of them." George laughed taking a seat next to you and snatching the quill from your hand. 

You sighed, "What do you what Weasley?"  

"This is about what you want, what you need." Fred stated sliding on your other side and throwing his arm around your shoulders. 

"What's that?" You grumbled visibly annoyed. 

"Revenge." Both twins voiced at the same time smirks taking over their pink lips. 

And for the first time in weeks you felt a smile across your lips, "Alright, what are we talking?" 

You stood in front of the portrait entrance watching as the twins set up the trip wire. 

You giggled, "This is illegal isn't it?" 

"Nah," Fred smiled back at you he had missed the sound of your laughter. 

"It does break about 30 different school rules though." George shrugged. 

"Good." You grinned flashing your white teeth. "That means it's going to be brilliant."

"That also means we need a getaway plan." Fred pointed out, sighing and backing away from his masterpiece. 

"We could make a run for the closet in the charms room." You suggested. 

"Good idea but all three of us won't fit." George explained. 

"Okay, we'll go there and you make a run for the astronomy tower." Fred offered smirking at his astounded brother. 

"What! Why do you get to go to the easy spot?" Goerge asked visibly annoyed. 

"Because I called it." Fred replied, clearly proud of himself.

"The only reason you want to hide in a closet with y/n is because-" George was cut by a particularly cold glare from his twin.

"Because what?" You asked looking back and forth from the boys. 

"Nothing." Goerge grumbled rolling his eyes.

You mimicked his actions and sighed, you weren't going to get an answer out of the two any time soon. 

"Ok so y/n your going to lead him out then we will let the magic happen. " Fred grind.

"This better work." You mumbled. 

"It'll work." George asherrd you. 

"Hey McLaggen, I want to talk to you." When those words left your mouth everyone in the common room snapped their attention to you, as usual they had nothing else to do but wait around like vaulters for something interesting to happen.

Cormac smirked looking up at you, "Alright sweetheart."

You almost slapped him, you managed to take a deep breath and force a smile on your face as you walked towards the exit with him. 

Just before you exited the portrait hole you looked straight up at him and punched him square in the jaw. Your fist connected with his face and he stumbled backwards clutching the spot where he had just been hit. 

Gasps were heard from behind you as some people stood up to get a better view of the scene unfolding in front of them.

"You bitch!" He shrieked, " Your gonna rot in Hell. Rot!" 

You sprinted away from him as he started after you. You were sure to step over the tripwire as you darted out of the way. 

You turned just as he tripped over the thin wire sprawling to the ground. 

"I will face god as I walk backward into hell!"  You yelled at him flipping him off as you walked backwards. 

You watched with a satisfied smile as the boy who had caused you so much pain was dumped in black ink. 

The second the rotten smelling ink covered him George cast a Bedazzling hex and seconds afterwards Fred cast a bat bogey hex and an Antler jinx. 

You burst into laughter watching as the boy stumbled around blindly covered in vomit scented ink growing antlers as his own mucus grew wings and attacked his face. 

"Come on y/n!" Fred yelled snatching your hand and darting towards the East wing. 

The two of you burst into the Charms classroom and darted for the closet. Fred shoved you inside before following and slamming the door behind him. 

You were still laughing the hilarious image of your ex-boyfriend dancing in your mind. 

Fred was smiling too, how could he not be happy when the sound of your laughter filled his ears? 

The two of you stood in the dark closet chests brushing for 4 minutes before your laughter died out, well was more cut off.

Fred heard voices and promptly slapped his hand over your mouth. Your laughter had still been to loud and as much as you tried to stop it you couldn't. So you did the next best thing. You buried your head deep into Fred's chest to muffle the sound. 

Fred had never been more thankful for the dark. He swore he was on fire when you had nuzzled into his sweatshirt, wrapping your arms around him. 

When you laughter finally did die you just stood there buried deep into his chest, hugging him tightly as you breathed in his sweet scent. 

"Thank you." You mumbled, voice barely audible.

"For what?" Fred asked face still hot. 

"For everything." You murmured, tried to snuggled deeper into Fred's soft sweatshirt. "You've done so much for me." 

"Y/n I would do anything for you." The red headed boy whispered wrapping his arms around you and burying his head into your y/h/c hair inhaling its signature floral scent. The scent he would recognize anywhere. "I love you y/n." 

The words tumbled from his lips before he could stop them. His eyes went wide as you pulled away from him in shock. 

You felt your breath speed up, "What!?" You cried attempting to back up only to hit a shelf directly behind you. 

Fred felt like his whole world just came crashing down on him. He stumbled over his words trying to recover only to realize there was no going back. 

"You love me?" You asked eyes wide, eyebrows knitted together as confusions etched itself onto your face. 

Fred sighed looking helplessly down at his hands. He finally looked back up at you and exhaled loudly. "Yes." 

You stumbled falling against the wall coving your face with your hands. This was too much too soon. Your boyfriend cheats on you and your best friend says he loves you all in one week. This was way too much. 

"Look y/n I'm really sorry to spring this on you but it's about time I tell you I've loved you for 4 years." Fred declared. 

"FOUR YEARS?" You gasped mouth dropping open, eyed the size of golf balls as you ran your hand through your hair. 

"Yeah but it's all your fault." Fred snapped suddenly feeling angry at the girl for putting him through years of unrequited love.

"My fault!?" You yelled anger conquering your features. 

"Yeah!" Fred scoffed, "Your the one who had to be all pretty and smart. It's not my fault your perfect! Your the one who made me fall in love with you!" 

"What could I have possibly done to make you fall in love with me?!"

Fred's mouth now dropped, "Are you kidding?" He scoffed. 

"Do I look like I'm kidding?!" You asked impatiently. 

"What made me fall in love with you? Well let's see, how about the fact that you stand up for yourself no matter what, or the fact that you are smarter than the rest of the kids in our year combined. Or maybe that you make the best jokes and you are clever and witty in the best possible way. Or the fact that you are so stupidly beautiful I can't even look at you without imagining what it would be like to run my hands over your-!" 

His ranting was cut off when your reached up and grabbed his tie, roughly slamming your lips onto his.

His eyes widened in surprise before shutting slowly as he leaned into the kiss. 

One of your hands found their way to the back of his neck while your other ran through his fiery red hair, tugging lightly making him moan. When his lips parted you slipped your tongue inside them tasting butterbeer and chocolate, rich and sweet. 

His hands found your waist and pulled you close for a second until you pulled away. 

The two of you stood in the dark panting for a few seconds before Fred spoke. 

"Why did you do that?" He gasped eyes wide from surprise. 

"I don't know!" You yelled, "I just really wanted to kiss you all of the sudden!" 

"Well it was good." Fred replied 

"Yeah it was." You breathed out. 

Another few seconds of silence past. 

"Can I do it again?" Fred asked hope inlayed into each word.

"Yeah." You nodded before your lips were connected.

The ginger pushed you against the wall kissing you desperately, his tongue running over your lips before you opened them, pulling him impossibly closer to you by the neck. He started to unbutton  your shirt when you were unfortunately interrupted. 

Light flooded the closet and you both turned to see a disgusted twin. 

"I'm proud of you Fred, but stop before I puke." George grimaced. 

"Sorry." You mumbled pulling away from the boy and straightening your shirt. 

George began to walk away mumbling "The coast is clear." 

Fred brushed past you to follow him but before he could pass you grabbed his hand turning him towards you. 

"Hey Fred?" You asked 

"Yeah?"

"I think I love you too."

Masterlist

#fred x reader #fred weasley imagines #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley x oc #fred weasley #fred weasley x you #fred weasley x reader #fred x oc #fred x you #george wealsey x reader #george weasley x oc #george weasley imagines #george weasley imagine #george weasley #harry potter imagines #harry potter #hogwarts #harry potter au #draco malfoy #sirius black imagine #sirius black x reader #draco imagine #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x you #harry potter imagine #imagine #jk rowling #sirius black imagines #fred and george #fred weasley deserved better

[rixxy8173571m3w1p3]

Fruit And The Work Of Geniuses

Another wip that had been sitting for months that I finally finished. I'm tagging @ravenousscorpian because of a conversation we had a few days ago.

In this fic Doofus Rick wants to solve the problem that concerns the love for a certain kind of fruit.

____________

A glance at your kitchen pantry said a lot about your dietary habits. Having lived alone for several years, you only bought what you'd eat and wouldn't go bad under your neglect. Therefore, you had amassed a collection of canned food and had only started eating a little better when Zeta-7 came along; gently and carefully introducing foods you'd like and would buy if you came across them. With his influence, you found that instead of just going through meals, you now had to give it a little more effort, and was happy when meals did taste good. However, there was something that he couldn't deny you; the love you had for the taste of canned pineapple.

There were about two shelves full of only canned pineapple and you enjoyed about a can or two a day depending on your mood, but this worried Rick because raw pineapple was obviously better for your health. You thought that who could beat sliced pineapple in 100% fruit juice? Well, he had a few ideas. There was jackfruit, but it was expensive. Rambutan, which wasn't acidic enough, and dragon fruit which wasn't enough. You began to feel a little hurt and just wanted to pop open one of those cans when he came up with an idea.

Let him jar some for you. You were skeptical, which he understood, but you followed him towards the garage where he had everything set up and covered. Oh boy, he was certainly prepared. “Rick, I think it's great that you want to do this for me, but I don't see how it's going to be cost-effective.”

“If y-you buy them at the grocery store,” he began his explanation, his gestures making it more exciting than it actually was; his hair moving about as he tilted his head to glance at you and various items on the room. “then maybe not, but if you get them straight from the fields then th-they are. However, I-I-I know that's not practical for you. So, I-I-I thought of a solution.”

“Which is?”

Pulling out a blue cube from one of his inner lab coat pockets, you saw as his eyes light up with excitement, eager to show you his new, fresh little baby of an invention. “Th-this. Here,” he brightened, “y-you can hold it if you like, it's completely safe.”

Hmm, a blue cube; hadn't you seen that in a movie somewhere? Though, nonetheless, you took it from his hand and found it weighed as much as a pen. “How do you know its safe?”

“I ugh - I-I-I dedicated several weeks to testing it. I had help of-of course.”

“Let me guess, was it from a little blue man?”

“No,” he confessed; his smile warmed by a familial affection. “but from a-a friend. He tends t-t-to travel a lot, but I enjoy his company when he stops by. Luckily, he's doing well, though I hope he visits again while you're here. I think y-y-you would like him.”

“Is he a Rick?”

“No, but he - he's smarter than he's given credit for.”

It couldn't have been that one Morty could it, the one with the eye patch? Impossible. Zeta-7 was a dear, but he didn't have any friends as odd as him, did he? You could only wonder.

“I can see you value it, his intelligence I mean.”

“Mhm, but I'm sure it - it doesn't mean much coming from me.”

“It probably means more than you could ever know. Let's hope that it does.”

“Th-thank you m-mi corazón.”

“No problem. So, what is this thing?”

“What you're holding, it's - it's a dehydrated storage cube. Do y-you want to know how it works?”

“I don't see why not?”

“Gee, I-I don't know, I guess I want t-t-to be sure. I don't want to bore you.”

“Nonsense, you could never bore me. Come on, tell me how it works. I've been dying to see the blackboard. Unless it's been replaced.”

“Gosh, I-I-I didn't. It's right over there behind th-the shelves.”

“Good, then there's no reason for you not to explain it to me. Come on, I know you want to.”

Scratching the back of his neck, he nodded and did as he was told and retrieved the blackboard while you slipped into your own labcoat which had been hanging in the hallway closet. By the time you popped back into the garage, he was only halfway done scribbling the mathematical equations involved. You heard him sigh, and groan as he worried about writing it all down correctly. Now, you weren't much of a math wiz, never had been, but you were highly skilled in flustering him when he was being extraordinarily pleasing or any other time. With his back facing you, there was only one thing you could think of doing.

Wrapping your arms around him, he gasped in surprise, but regardless, he kept on scribbling. “Rick?”

“Mhm?”

“Ricky, the science bean,” you giggled, “just relax. You're not explaining this to a room full of people, but only to me.”

“I-I know, but it's - what if it doesn't work?”

“Then you'll try again, and I'll be there swooning over you as you fill the garage with sparks and sci-fi noises. There's no need to get anxious, because it's going to be great. Don't ever doubt that. I don't.”

Setting down his chalk, he turned around and pressed a soft kiss on your forehead. “O-o-okay.”

For the next hour he into a brief explanation of where the idea came from, which was definitely technology based off sci-fi as well as the process and what other functions the specialty ray gun could do. Your comments and questions in turn took up another hour, and in the end, instead of going into how amusing and delightful it was, you allowed him to demonstrate it. Giving the cube back to him, he took a deep breath before he dropped it into a large washtub full of water. At first, there was nothing, but then it glowed for a few seconds, before expanding and revealing several dozen pineapples which were stacked nicely in a pyramid. “Wow, now that's pretty.”

“It - it worked.”

“Of course, because you're a genius.”

That endless smile which you thought would fade if it failed was as large and goofy as ever. “Th-thanks for believing me.”

“You're welcome. You know, I don't think I've ever seen this many pineapples in one place. I don't know much about them, except that it takes forever to grow them.

“A-about two years, but longer in colder climates.”

“ Rick, I know I've said it earlier, but I really appreciate this. You never cease to amaze me.”

“Gosh, I'm so glad. I-I really hoped you would. I-I-I-I picked all these at the peak of freshness where th-they will be their sweetest, and I can cut them up and jar them in a jiffy.”

“Question, how do you plan on doing that? It'll take hours, days maybe. Trust me, I've tried it before and it's such a pain.”

“Now, th-that's the fun part.”

Guiding you towards the workbench, he pointed towards a silver toaster. Goodness, this was going to be quite a show, but you couldn't help but smile at not only the effort, but at the excitement; another reminder that above all else that he wasn't only a sweetheart of a boyfriend, but an adorkable mad genius. You only hoped this contraption wouldn't attempt to enslave the human race, or worse, mess up his adorable hairdo.

Fin

#doofus rick #Doofus Rick x Reader #J19Z7 #Rick J19Z7 #rick sanchez x reader #Rick x Reader #Rnm Fanfic #rick and morty fanfiction #my writing #my works #rick j19zeta7 #j19ζ7 #j-19-zeta-7 #rick j-19-zeta-7 #j19zeta7 #rnm #Rick and morty

[bakugou-ou]

Ik I'm anon and all, but I don't wanna get off it because the embarrassment would probably make it worse. I'm just tired of life… mines is pretty useless if you ask me, and according to everyone else who if ever met, I'm ugly too, I wouldn't kill myself because I'm too much of a coward to do that, but I don't know what I wanna do with my life and I can never be happy without someone ruining it That's why you and other creators' story helps me, it makes me think about my dram life I'll never get

Listen, friendo, whoever you are, you’re not ugly, and not useless. You don’t need to come off anon if you don’t want to, I get it. This is gonna get v personal here in a sec, so I’m putting the rest of this down under a cut in case no one gives a shit about my personal life and doesn’t wanna see my tragic anime backstory, but I’m sharing it with you because you said that you like my writing. This is the story of how I ended up running this blog, it’s got lots of talk about suicide, mentions of rape. It’s not pretty, so read at your own risk. Also, it’s long.

When I was four years old, I tried to jump off the balcony of my apartment, I wanted to die. It wasn’t a kid doing a stupid thing, I literally thought if I fall from this height and hit my head on the ground, I will die and then went for it. I fell onto a 7ft tall cinder block mailbox on the way down, four feet below my balcony, crawled off of it, and walked back upstairs to my parents like nothing had happened. 

What was wrong that someone barely past toddlerhood wanted to kill themselves over? I don’t know, maybe it was just that my parents were fighting all the time and hated each other, maybe it was because I have the genes for it. More on that last bit later.

When I was six, I tried to throw myself in front of a car, thinking that if a small child like myself got hit by a car going 25+ mph, I’d die. The driver hit the brakes, I played it off like I’d tripped into the road, no one knew how I really felt. When I’d told my parents I wanted to die, they thought I was being dramatic, they didn’t think a kid my age even knew what that meant, the finality of it. But I knew, and I craved it.

When I was eight, I tried to hang myself in my older sister’s bedroom with her sheets. She found me, took me down before I blacked out, and we never spoke about it again after that night. I was pissed with my sister for saving me, I cried and punched her as she held onto me.

When I was twelve, I tried to eat a bottle of Xanax, thinking it would kill me. It didn’t, it just made me really, really fucking sick. Not sick enough to go to the hospital, but very sick. I had no lasting organ damage, but I still wanted to die.

When I was fourteen, my boyfriend dumped me over the phone on a day he was supposed to come to my house, and ignored me while I cried. He had me on speaker phone, actually, and his friends were laughing about it and I could hear them. I could hear him laughing along with them. So, I decided to eat a bottle of asprin for dinner a couple of weeks later. I was stupid, it didn’t work, and I was hospitalized in the mental ward for 2 weeks.

When I was seventeen, I had just left an abusive relationship, graduated high school, and my mom told me that my ex raping me repeatedly for 9 months was my fault and that I was asking for it by continuing to date him the whole time. I was too scared to leave, I had been told by a counselor at school that no one would believe me. I tried to eat all of my antidepressants. I was hospitalized for 3 weeks in the mental ward.

When I was eighteen, I tried to do that same thing again, in conjunction to another thing my mom said about my abuser. My cousin had been raped while studying abroad, and she was talking about poor cousin, your poor cousin, it’s so traumatic, but when I mentioned that I’d been abused for three quarters of a year and no one batted an eye, she told me I was being selfish, and that my time for being the victim was over. How dare I detract from my cousin. So, again, I tried to eat a bottle of pills. I was hospitalized for one week in the psych ward.

Earlier this year, at the age of twenty, I was hospitalized because I felt like I was going to slit my wrists if I stayed home. So I checked myself into the hospital. I was there for a week while my doctor tried to find better meds for me because clearly mine weren’t working. My mom had told me that she was ashamed of my sexuality and my gender identity, and the rape issue came up again, with her saying I wanted it, that I let it happen.

I have bipolar II, borderline personality disorder, OCD, PTSD, generalized anxiety disorder, and selective eating disorder. A lot is messed up with me. I get the anxiety from my mother, and the bipolar II from my father. The PTSD was a gift from my ex boyfriend, and the rest I just ended up with.

When I was a little kid, I loved books; my father read all sorts of books to me, all the time. Artemis Fowl was the first series we read, then Harry Potter, then my mother read me the Chronicles of Narnia, then my father read me A Series of Unfortunate Events. We also read other books, things that weren’t series. I loved reading, and I wanted to write things that made people feel the way I felt about the stuff I read. 

Both of my parents are naturally talented writers. At the age of six, I began to write fan fiction for Harry Potter. I was way too young to be on the internet, but I was online writing fanfics on snitchseeker. Some of the only validation I found in my life was from random strangers on the internet, encouraging me to continue writing and complimenting my plot lines, even if my grammar and spelling were atrocious; on the internet, no one knows you’re a little kid writing Drarry fanfic.

I was a really athletic kid, so I didn’t spend all my time writing, but a good chunk of my free time was spent writing if I wasn’t surfing, playing soccer, or skateboarding. I didn’t have a lot of friends, I wasn’t likable, apparently, and I had a really hard time in school. I got into a lot of fights because people picked on me, but I was always the one who got in trouble for defending myself. It pissed me off. I developed issues with authority. I wrote in composition books to escape all the crap around me.

By the time I turned 11, writing was my life. I had just moved to California from Hawaii, my life was basically turned upside down, and I was miserable. So, I made a myspace account, wrote fanfic on there, and threw myself headlong into it. I have a fanfiction.net account I’ve long since forgotten my username and password for, but it’s out there with dramione fanfic, sasusaku, things that I liked at the time. I need to escape everything happening around me. My dad, my best friend, wasn’t anywhere near me, my mom was a bitch, and my demented grandmother moved in with us. It was miserable.

By the time I was 15, the only hobby I had outside of practicing for orchestra, was writing. I laid in bed on days off and just sat on my laptop, writing. I stopped publishing things after I got a mean comment once, my first one ever. It bruised the ego I didn’t even have so badly that I refused to publish anything for three years.

When I was 18, I published my first fanfic in 4 years. It was a Criminal Minds fanfic, featuring an OC and Spencer Reid. I was so fucking proud of it, and while lots of people loved it, a lot of people said mean shit. So, I posted Loki fanfic, which got infinitely more love, and then I did an alternate version of my Criminal Minds fic, that one got even more hate than the original. Then I published a Wallander fanfic. I haven’t touched them in 3 years, despite people asking me for more.

Up until this time last month, I never showed my writing to anyone. I kept everything to myself, hidden, I was ashamed of it. It is my only coping mechanism, but I couldn’t share it with anyone. My parents had my computer passwords up until I was about 16, sometimes they’d look through my text files and come to me later and tell me how amazing my writing was, and encourage me to publish it. But I never believed them.

On a whim, I started this blog; I love Boku no Hero Academia, it has given me something to look forward to every week. I live Chapter to Chapter, episode to episode, I track my time with it, it’s a coping mechanism. I saw that there was a decently active fandom on here, and I wanted to be a part of it. I hesitated on making the blog for a few weeks, thinking that no one would want to read my writing.

A month later, there are nearly 600 people here, constantly asking me to write scenarios and headcanons for them, telling me they love my writing, and think I’m a nice person, and that they’re glad I’m here. Every time I get a message like that, I cry. I never thought anyone would ever care about my writing, let alone write it. When I got a single follower that wasn’t a friend I know in real life, I cried. I was so excited. When I got my first request, I was so, so excited. When people began sending more stuff in, when people started talking to me and wanting to be friends, I cried. I’ve made a dozen friends on here as a direct result of their writing, and my writing.

I love running this blog, and I love writing for everyone. I have felt useless and like a waste of space my entire life, I’ve been told that my entire life, I’m made to feel like that every day of my life even now by the people around me, save for my friends, but when I log on here, I’m reminded that hey, maybe I’m not useless. If I manage to make even one person happy with what I do, that’s all I want.

So, you saying that my writing helps you, helps me. All I’ve ever wanted in life is to make other people happy, to please them, and my writing is apparently doing that. I’m really, really lucky to be in this position.

Even if you don’t have something like this, you’re not useless. You should be here. I know you said you’d never kill yourself because you’re too cowardly, but I’ve never seen suicide as cowardly, but that’s probably because I’ve tried to do it so many times. I’ve made a total of 8 attempts in 21 years. I don’t think I’ll be trying it again, though. It’s taken me 21 years to find something that I’m kind of maybe a little good at, that makes me even a tiny bit happy, and that does some good for other people, too.

Shit sucks, life is really awful, and I completely understand the plethora of reasons any given person would feel like wanting to die. I’ve never thought it unreasonable or dramatic to feel that way, it’s just how some people feel. I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life until 3 years ago, and even now I’m unsure if it’s really what I want to do with my life. I’ve got a lot going on behind the scenes that makes me feel like shite, and a lot of the time, the people around me try to ruin what little I have that I enjoy and that makes me happy…

Even with all that happening, somehow, I’m still here, and I’m writing this. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I get your feelings, I hear you, they’re valid, and I love you, stranger. Because I feel the same way as you all the time. This blog is my escape from that. It’s really the only thing I have keeping me from my intrusive thoughts.

If you never come off anon, that’s fine, but if you need to talk about things, I’m here for you, or anyone else who needs it. Really, if I can even try to help, I’ll do my damnedest to help. I hate seeing other people feeling as junk as I do on a daily basis, I want to try and make it better. If being a friend, even if I don’t know who you are, helps, I want to help. If writing things helps, I want to do it. But, for me, it’s not just helping other people, it’s helping myself. You coming into the box helped me. So, you’re not useless. You’re keeping me here, too.

#anon #not a request #chiichat #admin post #tw suicide #tw rape #read at your own risk

[juggieheadcoopers-blog]

I was wondering if you could write a fic (inspired by the Extra gum commercial) where for every momentous event that happened in their life (First meet, first kiss, etc), Jughead writes about his feelings about her and he compiles all his little notes until the end where he gives it to Betty before proposing to her Ps. if you could have it where Jughead includes his proposal note for Betty to read before he actually proposes to her, I'll probably die from the feels

Ah! Sorry this took so long, I loved the idea so much but I wasn’t sure how I wanted to execute it so I hope it does this amazing request justice!

A/N: I wasn’t sure of when they first met in canon, so I just made something up. Sorry if it’s totally wrong lol. Also, I referenced a fic I wrote about their first date so you can find that here. Hope you like it @jeemyjamz!!!

–

Betty stepped into Pop’s Chock’lit Shoppe expecting to find Jughead waiting for her in the same booth they had been meeting at since they were kids. Instead, she found the entire restaurant decorated the way it had been on their first date nearly ten years ago, twinkle lights and candles illuminating the entire room in a beautiful white light that made everything glow.

“Juggie?” Betty called out to the empty restaurant, scanning the room from one end to the other for any sign of him and realizing that he was nowhere to be found. In fact, it looked as though there was no one working in the kitchen or behind the counter either. She was completely alone. And it was starting to make her nervous.

“Okay, don’t freak out, you’re fine,” Betty muttered to herself, shrugging off her jacket and tossing it into a booth next to her. But instead of landing in the booth, the long black coat missed the seat completely and landed into a heap on the floor. Frustrated, Betty bent down to retrieve it when she noticed markings on the tile that hadn’t been there the previous day. “What’s this?”

Betty leaned forward to find that a line of arrows were drawn in thick black marker all along the tiled floor. Curious, Betty followed their lead until she ended up standing in front of the same booth she had thought she would find Jughead when she first entered the restaurant. But instead of her boyfriend, she found a thick, leather-bound journal waiting for her on the table. Picking it up, she noticed the sticky note stuck to the cover and smiled to herself, reading the words slowly as she took in the familiar slant of Jughead’s handwriting.

“Betty Cooper, if you weren’t such as grade-A super sleuth, I wouldn’t have trusted you to find this - but luckily for me, you’re a much better detective than I ever was so I suspect you have found the journal and are reading this note right now. I guess I should tell you that I’m giving this to you because I’ve been writing in this book since I was ten-years-old and every single entry is a memory of our time together. I’ve marked the ones of the most interest and am hoping that you will read them and not think less of me. Once you’ve reached the last page and you have followed the directions, you will find me waiting for you. Have fun traveling down memory lane. See you on the other side.”

Taking a deep breath, Betty opened to the first marked page and began to read. 

The First Day of Kindergarten (Age 5)

This is the day I first met you. I saw your parents dropping you off in the classroom and remember thinking that you had the shiniest blonde hair I had ever seen. All I could think about the entire day - during nap time and recess and snack - was running up to you and pulling on that curly blonde ponytail of yours. So I did. And while most of the girls in our class would have cried or screamed or thrown blocks at my head, you simply turned around, smiled that sweet smile of yours, and said, “Hi. I’m Betty Cooper. If you want, you can sit with me on the carpet during circle time. I’ll even let you touch my ponytail. All you have to do is ask.” I couldn’t believe it. A five-year-old with better manners than most of the adults in my life. My mind couldn’t fully grasp it, and I knew, even if I didn’t fully understand it at the time, that my entire world was about to change. So once I learned how to write in complete sentences without fully botching the grammar - that’s when I started this journal for you. A journal of all the times you changed my life. A journal of how my world continues to change everyday because of you.

Betty flipped to the next page and immediately noticed that the handwriting had changed. These were the entries that he had written when he was a kid. And they were addressed to her.

The Day You Let Me Sit On Your Swing Set (Age 10)

I spent most of the day crying. My dad’s drinking again. He’s so angry at mom and Jellybean is scared and I just needed to get away from them. So I took Jellybean and we just kept walking until we found ourselves in front of your house. You saw us and without saying a word, you led us into your backyard. You got Jellybean a popsicle because you saw that she was sad, and then we just sat on your swing set thinking of silly names to call the birds landing in your yard until your mom came home. It made be feel a little better. That was really nice of you and I’ll never forget it.

The Day of the Middle School Dance (Age 13)

I hate participating in school sanctioned-activities. I would rather stick a dozen pins in my eyes and beat them down with a hammer than be seen in a ridiculous suit and tie, parading through the cheaply-decorated school gym like I’m oblivious to the way everyone is looking at me like I’m the scum of the Earth but talk to me anyway because I’m friends with Archie. But anyway, I saw you sitting on the curb outside of the school, looking down at your shoes like there was a piece of gum stuck on the bottom. (But there wasn’t, I remember checking when you lifted your feet off the ground so Reggie wouldn’t run over them with his skateboard). So I sat next to you and asked you why you were sad. You said you didn’t want to talk about it, but I could see you staring at Archie from across the parking lot and I knew you were sad he didn’t ask you to the dance. I knew how badly you wanted to go. So I asked you to come to the dance with me instead. To my surprise you said yes. And we had a good time. And I think that if you wanted me to ask you to another dance, I would do it. Because I think you look really pretty in a dress. (Well, I always think you look pretty). But seeing you in a dress was different somehow. It made my heart beat really fast. And I think I liked how that felt.

The Day of Our First Kiss (Age 16)

Something has changed between us. Something I could never put into words. Something that, if I even tried to say it out loud, I would never be able to explain it in a way that would do it justice. So I climbed into your bedroom to see if you were alright after visiting Polly and I wanted to make you feel like everything was going to be okay. I wanted you to know that things had changed and you could count on me to be there for you. So I kissed you. And it was like a weight being lifted off my chest and I could finally breathe again. It felt so natural. It felt like I was meant to kiss you like that everyday for the rest of forever. And who knows, maybe I will. Although, let’s face it - we both know I’m not lucky enough to deserve that - to deserve you. I never have been.

The Day I Told You I Loved You (Age 17)

Today was the best and worst day of my life. My father’s funeral felt like it lasted an entire lifetime. It was cold and wet and gave every indication that it was recreated from a scene straight out of a Poe novel. But you were right by my side the entire time and it made it (almost) bearable to be standing there watching him get lowered into the ground. You held me when I cried. You pulled me away when I let my anger get the better of me and punched my hand through the stained glass window of the church. And when you were wrapping the bandage around my wound I felt this voice screaming at me - you have to tell her. You have to tell her before it’s too late because too late might be tomorrow and life is just too short to waste any moments. So I told you. I told you and you smiled and you said it back. And I cried again because I didn’t think anyone could ever love me like that. But you do. And I know I don’t deserve it, but I will never take it for granted.

The Day You Left Riverdale (Age 19)

I should hate you. I should be glad you’re gone and hope you never step foot on this godforsaken town’s soil ever again. I should want to wish the worst for you and hope you never succeed in anything you do. But I’m not the person I would have been if I had never met you. You changed me. So I can’t hate you. I’m too in love with you to hate you. And it kills me to write this so bluntly, but there’s no other way to put it - This sucks. And it’s you’re fault.

The Day You Came Back (Age 23)

The moment you stepped into my office, I knew I had to be having one of those hallucinations one gets when they’re stuck in the desert for days without food or water. You couldn’t be real. You couldn’t be walking towards me with your hair pulled back and your face even more beautiful than I remembered. But there you were. You were you. And I was me. And I had so much to say. So much you needed to know. But instead, I took a step towards you, and you looked at me with those beautiful blue eyes and I realized that I couldn’t stand another second of not touching you. So I took your face in my hands and I kissed you and suddenly we didn’t need words. We just needed each other. And that was enough.

Betty wiped the tears from her eyes and turned to the next page. “Flip to the last page and close your eyes,” the words read, causing Betty’s head to swim with so many thoughts and emotions she couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

Doing as the journal instructed, she skipped to the very last page and shut her eyes before she could read what was written. She could hear faint footsteps coming towards her and her palms began to sweat as she clutched the journal with both hands.

“Open your eyes and look at the journal.” Jughead’s voice made her heart skip a beat as she slowly did as she was told and lifted the book to read the title of the last journal entry.

The Day I asked You To Marry Me (Age 25)

…To Be Continued

Betty’s heart stopped as she dropped the journal onto the floor and looked down to see the boy she had loved for so many years, kneeling before her with a velvet ring box in his hand.

“Bets, there are a thousand eloquent speeches I could have written to express how much you mean to me, but I don’t think we need the fancy words or heartfelt soliloquies anymore,” Jughead began, his hand shaking ever so slightly as he held the box out in front of him for her to see. “I think that all I need to say to you is this. I’ve been in love with you since the very first entry in that journal. I didn’t know what it meant at the time, but I think the fact that I felt the need to start it in the first place is proof enough. You’re my world, Betty Cooper, and I want to be able to fill a hundred more journals just like this one with every memory that we share together for the rest of time. Will you marry me?”

In that moment, every memory she had of Jughead flashed across her mind just like the pages in his journal. The boy who loved playing with her ponytail, the boy who needed a swing to swing on and a friend to watch birds with when he was feeling sad, the boy who could tell when she was sad and needed someone to go to the dance with, the boy who lit up her world like twinkle lights and decorative candles illuminating Pop’s. She had spent most of her life with this boy - this man - kneeling in front of her and she wanted to spend everyday that came next, right by his side.

Without a word, Betty took the journal from his hands and lunged for the pen on the counter, her hand shaking as she wrote furiously in the journal. Jughead’s throat closed up as he watched in anticipation, waiting for the girl he loved to answer the most important question he had ever asked in his entire life. Betty turned the journal so he could read it and he stood from his kneeling position to scoop her up into his arms, tossing the journal onto the floor so that it slid across the tile and revealed Betty’s words to the empty diner.

She said yes.

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