#also why is the egg Easter egg gone now
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SPOILERS!!! REFERENCES AND EASTER EGGS IN F&C ep. 10: CHEERS
The finale!
Pawn Swan! This was another character who first appeared in Steve Wolfhard's post-finale loredump about the 1000+ world. I never expected to actually see him in the show.
Nuts how this is like the third time we've seen Simon's ass. I love how Shermy is just chilling and playing video games while GOLB lets this random old man take a turn at the wheel.
This establishing shot of Fionnaworld shows that it's very small. By the time it is restored at the end of the episode, this ominous white border is gone and there are more buildings, implying that it became a complete world.
I can't believe Gary was thirsting after Scarab in this situation.
There is a shop called Evergree Flowers; likely a reference to the episode Evergreen.
This shop window advertises that you can learn to kick bugs. Appropriately enough, Cake kicks Scarab through this shop window while in her Godzilla form.
The Betty statue has become GOLBetty.
It should be clear by this point that Casper and Nova are a parallel to Simon and Betty, with all of their decisions being made by Casper with little consideration for Nova due to their unbalanced power dynamic. This is why Simon realises that he should have been more considerate of Betty's dreams, rather than single-mindedly chasing the Enchiridion and the crown.
The credits confirm that genderswapped Ash is named Ashley. I wonder what happened to her after she fell into the void. Probably nothing good.
Poor Marshall never gets to finish his songs. Truly he is the genderswapped Marceline.
The name "GOLBetty" is now canon; Simon uses it in this scene.
I'm not sure what's happening to GOLBetty here. A loose thread to pick up if this story ever gets a continuation, perhaps.
Simon steps through several different universes, including all the ones we saw during this miniseries. I'm not sure what this world full of tiny bears is meant to be.
Some kind of industrial capitalist hell universe.
This is the Water Park Prank artstyle, implying that Water Park Prank takes place in a separate but canon universe. So Water Park Prank is now canonically canonical! (what a ridiculous phrase)
Some kind of Jake universe.
A universe featuring Magwood and his volcano lair, from the episode Evergreen.
The snail! It's not dead after all. And it's a great way of symbolising a return to regular Ooo, as is the reappearance of the smiley butterfly.
This was a strange selection of characters. I hope Jay hasn't left his younger siblings on their own if their dad is dead. At least baby Finn won't have to grow up in Vampworld, though part of me liked imagining what that would have been like.
Fionna mentions that his is her top fantasy. The other two of her top three fantasies were Cake being able to talk and a kingdom made of candy.
She gets a hammer, like she had in the dream sequence at the very beginning of the miniseries.
Kheirosiphon goes back to working in a teashop, just like he did on The Drift before he was imprisoned by Scarab. Also Marshall's outfit here is incredibly gay, it's great.
There is an ad here for a daddy issues themed comedy night. Sounds like Marceline's kind of place.
Prismo's face glitches for a second. Ominous.
Simon definitely needs to move out. This is probably an even more important realisation than coming to understand his influence over Betty.
In the credits of this episode, Simon is finally at peace.
And with that, the miniseries is over! Back to the long wait. Will this be it for Adventure Time? Or is there yet more to come...
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Serendipity; Invisible String
series masterlist
i was going to include this in chapter seventeen to break up the angst a bit...but then i thought i'd just do it as its own separate piece so that they have a chance to explore their love without there being as much (because i couldn't help myself) angst overshadowing this pivotal moment for meadow and matty....there is also an important (not very subtle) easter egg regarding the storyline that will be delved into in a later chapter....anyway this takes place between chapter 16 & 17 xxx
warning: 18+ content, fingering, piv, soft smut, declarations of loooove!!
~∞~
After the Order members had left, with plans of meeting privately to discuss Professor Dumbledore's funeral and what they were supposed to do in the wake of the harrowing battle, Madam Pomfrey had made her way over to you to check on the wounds that littered your abdomen, and with a flick of her wand, they became faint lines of jagged silver as they scarred over. Shortly after that, she'd declared you okay and insisted that you get some rest in a proper bed. It was probably also to make space for the students, part of Dumbledore's Army, who had also been injured in the battle.
You and Mattheo left shortly after that, but not before Ron came up to you and wrapped you in a hug, tears leaking from his dull blue eyes. No words were needed, you knew what his actions meant. You held him tighter, even as his parents beckoned him to his brother's bed.
The castle halls are eerily silent as you walk hand in hand with Mattheo. Even the portraits don't stir at the harsh glow of his lit wand, as if they were grieving for the loss of Dumbledore in their own way. The two of you are the only disturbance in the still atmosphere, your soft breathes and light footsteps echoing loudly on the stone floor.
Neither of you had wanted to venture near the Astronomy tower again, afraid that the sight of the now spotless hallways would spark harsh reminders of the bloodshed and carnage that had swept through them like a petulant disease only hours before. So wordlessly, Mattheo had begun leading you towards the dungeons, his body heat sheltering you from the chilly bite in the air.
The Slytherin common room was mysteriously desolate when you entered behind him. Not a soul to be found under the dim glow of the Black Lake's murky waters; only the sound of the crackling fire in the hearth and the gentle ripple of the current against the windows could be heard over your mingling breathes.
"Where is everyone?" You ask, cringing instantly as your voice becomes agonisingly loud in the silence, despite your words being spoken with quiet cadence.
"In bed I assume, or gone." Mattheo responded with a low rasp. "It wouldn't surprise me if news has already spread and parents are collecting their children to return home."
You respond with a soft "oh", as you follow him up the stairs to his dorm.
"Draco's gone." He continued as he unlocked the dark oak door leading to his dorm. "So are Blaise and Pansy. Enzo and Theo are still here, but they'll leave soon too."
"Why didn't you tell me anything before? I deserved to know that my friendships started out as a means to an end." You ask him as you enter his room. He's silent as he observes you from the threshold, brows creased in thought.
"I would've told you eventually. There was never a good enough time though. And it wasn't a means to an end, love." Your about to retort but he continues as if you hadn't opened your mouth to speak. "It felt like the right thing to do, to tell you when I did."
"To gain The Order's trust?" You ask, running a hand through your hair.
"Exactly. Though I doubt it's done much to sway them."
"What happens now?" You ask hesitantly, reaching and squeezing his hand.
Mattheo gently guides you to where his bed sits in the corner of his room, allowing you to find a comfortable position before he finds his own one behind you. He pulls your back to rest snugly against his chest, cradling your body to his own with strong, protecting arms as your heartbeats synced as one.
"I don't know, darling. But we'll face it together." He says as he presses a soft kiss to the crown of your head. The two of you rest in stagnant silence, unsure of what tonight's happenings meant for the world as you knew it.
~∞~
A little while later, you turn to face him, restless anxiety clawing at your insides. Mattheo's curly, deep brunette hair has fallen haphazardly across his forehead and his onyx eyes, framed by glorious lashes, shine bright, despite all that they had witnessed in the past few hours. He has a soft smile painting his face as he admires you in tandem, although you can see his poorly hidden concern for you reflecting behind the tenderness. Each breath you take, he mirrors and your racing heart slows to a relaxing lull in your ears. Unhurriedly, you bring a hand up to his face and brush the loose curls away from his eyes, a tender look overtaking your fatigue.
"I meant what I said in the ward." He mumbles, voice betraying how exhausted he was, too.
"Yeah?" You ask, your smile widening imperceptibly. You fingers caress his face with featherlight strokes as you trace the freckles and scars that are scattered across his cheeks. Your eyes are now alight with teasing mischief as if daring him to say the words aloud, all sense of tiredness having left your face in the wake of it.
"Yes, Meadow." He responds with a quiet snicker as he pokes your side. His eyes glow with serene happiness as he watches you squirm and giggle, watches the despondency leave your pretty face. "Did you ever take me for a liar, sweetheart?"
"No." You say breathlessly as he continues to stroke at your trouser covered hips. "Never."
I want to hear you say it. You implore wordlessly. Please.
He kisses you then. It's not hard and rough and passionate like his caresses always are. Instead, it's soft and slow and entirely all consuming, like the very first time, but infinitely better. Every emotion he's ever felt for you coarses through your veins as his tongue clashes against your's.
"I love you." He says breathless and low against your lips. You kiss him with a newfound fervour, pouring your every thought and every emotion, intertwining your soul with his. Your magic practically explodes around you, casting a warm indigo glow about the dorm room, illuminating his features; guiding shadows in a dance across his face.
He looks at you in awe as you both admire the way his own magic seems to tangle seemlessly with it. Whorls of indigo and silver flicker in pretty patterns that seem to pour out around you like a smattering of a million tiny stars.
My incredible, smart girl. He tells you with a wide smile on his face as he looks at you, admiringly. You flush under his intense stare.
You undress each other with practiced fluidity until you are both blissfully nude; no barriers separating you from the other, all vulnerabilities splayed out in the open. He rolls on top of you and presses your hands above your head with one of his as his other trails lightly down your stomach, tracing the new lines of scars which seem to twinkle under the faux starlight. He presses soft kisses to the marred skin, words of love and adoration melting into you as he presses away the new insecurities without even trying.
He eventually works one finger, and then two inside you as his thumb strokes idle patterns against your clit. You mewl at his practiced ministrations as he fingers you, slow and rough, in the way he knows you love, despite never having said it out loud before.
The noises you make bring a delighted smirk to his pretty lips and he speeds up his movements almost unnoticeably to bring you close to release; teasing you through one orgasm before letting a second rush through you, all while drinking in every sound; every expression that you let overcome your flushed face.
It feels like an eternity later that he finally sheathes himself inside you, every ridge of his cock brushing sensually against your most sensitive spots as he sets a leisurely pace – starting slowly before he finds a particular rhythm that has the both of you moaning in unison. His arms are braced at either side of your head, careful not to snag on your hair which is haphazardly fanning out on the pillow beneath your head. The muscles in his biceps flex with every push and pull of his body, his core tense with the exertion of making you feel like you're walking on clouds.
Your own hands are on a journey of their own, travelling along the defined muscles of his abdomen and across his strong hips, until a particularly deep thrust from Mattheo causes you to claw at the soft skin of his back, willing him to come closer to you. The scars that litter his skin are blissfully joined by marks of your making, marks that he wishes could stay there forever in place of the others.
Where he's left love bites on your skin, you eagerly return the favour as best as you're able. Leaving deep purple marks across his chest and clavicle with your kiss-swollen lips that happily migrate from his body to his own lips as much as possible.
"I love you." You whisper against him and he lets out a barely restrained groan as he thrusts even harder into you at your admission. Satisfaction thrummed through his veins at the whiny sound you let out in response.
"Say that again." He says, pressing hard kisses to your chest, leaving more delicious marks in his wake.
"I love you, Mattheo Riddle." You repeat, a moan catching in your throat as you begin to reach your peak for a third time. "You have my whole heart. Break it. Crush it. Decimate it. Do what you must, but please know that it's yours. It will always be yours. I love you."
The both of you are pushed over the edge at that, clinging to eachother's bodies, which are slick with sweat. The euphoria causes your intertwining magic to surge around you again, and you both feel how it sparks at your very souls, the feeling never ceasing, only growing as you allow your love to manifest and flourish like its very own entity.
Neither of you want the intoxicating feeling to end, content in basking in the sensation, if only to prolong the immense amount of love that radiates from your magical cores.
"I love you, darling." He mumbles into the skin of your shoulder, exhausted and spent, breathing in the scent of you; the soft floral hint of your perfume that seems to linger despite the raging battle you'd been in and the musky scent of the sweat that clings to your skin.
You press a kiss to his own shoulder as his body flops to land beside your's on top of ruffled emerald sheets. Your interwoven magic still permeates the air, seemingly in no hurry to dissipate any time soon and you can feel it, along with Mattheo's deep in your chest. By the look on his face, he's feeling its affects too.
"That was–" You mumble with a breathless giggle, fingers trailing patterns across his marked skin.
"All consuming." He agrees with a lethargic chuckle of his own before he's pulling your body into his again, magically rearranging the sheets so that the two of you are modestly covered.
"Can you feel something-" You start, but are unable to put this new sensation into words as he gazes down at you with soft eyes. "I don't know how to explain it."
"Different? Like my magic isn't entirely my own anymore?" He wonders aloud and you find that he's voiced your exact feelings.
"Yeah. Precisely like that, actually." You say. "It's like I've unconsciously absorbed your magic again. I'm sorry-"
His lips against your's prevent your apology from fully forming and he's looking at you with such a tender expression that makes you melt.
"I'm not sure it is your siphoning, love. It's different. I can feel your's too." He says with lightly furrowed brows.
"How strange." You mumble, a yawn escaping your lips. Mattheo manoeuvres you so that you're practically chest to chest as he lies on his back, letting your aching nipples brush against his strong pecks as he wraps his arms around you.
You breathe out a content sigh that causes a shudder to rush through him as it ghosts over the sensitive skin of his neck. The impact of your shared love and intertwining cores feels like a supernova swirling inside you.
The fate of the wizarding world, and your own fate, is a haze of unknown territory, but you were entirely certain of one thing; Mattheo held your heart in his hands, and he had no intention of ever letting it go.
~∞~
taglist:
(striked out users are ones that i couldn't tag)
@camille-1019 @lovelyygirl8 @xluansstuff
@babeylover @thejadeazalea @undercover-smutlover @adhxmoony
@dreamingofonceuponatime @thepassionatereader @urmomsgayforme5 @aphroditeisamilf
@devotedlycrookeddonut @purplegirls-posts @nofacenonamelikekira @foxboyapologist @lafrone @lovely-maryj
@nromanovaswife @leeknows-wife @dracygf @wildlyobserving @ravenclawprincess33 @melllinaa @vellicora @lantsovheiress @emiliahoward @stunkbiggu @vcosette
@prongsprincessworld @mattiesgirl
@rachmmb @x-kermit-x @sun-fiower-seed @cas-planet @certaindreampost
@weirdowithnobeardo @mikalovesicecream @benwadsworthsgf
@rainy-darling @faeriepigeons
@lovely-blackinnon @hiireadstuff
@gimalo135 @elsafromcabinsix @moonlightreader649 @blueshome
@nopedefe @spencerreidsthings
@navs-bhat @agent-tempest
@magimtz23 @y0urm0m12
@sbrn0905 @leona-hawthorne
@whatsupb18
#serendipity series#mattheo riddle x you#mattheo riddle x reader#mattheo riddle smut#mattheo riddle#fluff#smut
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Will Murder Drones get a Season 2?
Alrighty. So, after GLITCH's post yesterday of Digital Circus that also mentioned "We're also working hard on Murder Drones & will be releasing final episodes soon!", which sent a lot of the fandom (including yours truly) into a panic that this meant these are the final episodes for the SERIES and not the 1st season. However, that felt off to me since GLITCH has been promoting MD as Season 1 and not a short series, which, if it had always intended to be only 8 episodes, it would've been. That's just how it goes in the industry for online series. And I believe GLITCH wouldn't make that kind of mistake in marketing. It'd be different too if it was only promoted as Season 1 for the teaser, but it's been that way up until that Digital Circus post. Hell, here are some of the things Kevin and Liam said during GlitchX:
"I remember when we were coming up with the, uh, this is like way before when, you know, Murder Drones was really, like we were really going for a smaller, smaller show-" - Kevin
"The whole oil thing that was getting set up in the pilot, that was gonna be like a MASSIVE sort of plot thread throughout the season." - Kevin
"Because in terms of importance to kind of where I want the story to go, it just ended up being less relevant." - Liam
"We, um, did the opposite of that. I think the series as it progressed, which I think is - it is intentional, I would say. We have gone from, I think, supremely silly to supremely kind of self-serious." - Liam
"There's so many dog easter eggs if you go and watch through the entire season." - Kevin
"We are announcing the finale of the season." - Kevin
With everything they said, none of it sounds like Murder Drones was intended to be a single season series. Now, this leaves two questions myself and I'm sure some of you have, "Why haven't they announced a S2 yet then and why are they barely posting MD?" I decided to enter analyzation mode and went digging through GLITCH's Twitter and YouTube. What I found was that this isn't GLITCH's first time handling their series like this.
Meta Runner Season 1 (Animated Movie Cut) was released on Aug 28, 2020 and in the description Season 2 was immediately announced since they already had it done.
Meta Runner Season 2 - EP 1: Hard Reset released Oct 16, 2020. The final episode for S2, "EP 10: Fatal Error" was released Dec 18, 2020 and there was no mention of the 3rd and final season.
Want to know when they announced it? Not until Nov 29, 2021. Over a YEAR later.
And before that they barely posted anything of MR. At first it was Sunset Paradise, and then once that series was about to conclude they started posting about MD. A lot. Way more than they have for DC. And when they announced S3 for MR they didn't even mention it was the series finale! That wasn't announced until May 6, 2022, 6 months after S3 was even announced.
However, once they did they made it VERY clear it was the final season. 99% of their posts of MR after that mentioned it was the final season.
So, to conclude my thoughts. I don't think we should be worried. I wouldn't suggest getting our hopes up TOO high, because despite GLITCH handling MD the same way they did MR, there's always the chance MD doesn't get a second season. That way we're not deeply disappointed if it doesn't, but after looking into it I personally feel a lot more confident MD will get a S2. Just be prepared that if GLITCH doesn't say anything, it could be up to a year before they do, but if MR fans could hold out for as long as they did, we can too. Don't forget either GLITCH isn't only working on the first season of DC. They're also working on the pilot for Gaslight District.
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tbh my biggest gripes with totk is the fact that they did it beginner friendly new comer friendly... like i know this is gonna sound mean but genuinely I wish it didn't try to cater to new fans who want to get into tloz cause totk's story failed cause it needed to cater to new zelda fans
idc abt the lore getting rebooted, sure im going to miss the triforce being an essential piece of the story and lore, only to become the Hylian symbol and game's logo (which tbh is strange its like pokemon using the pokeball as their logo/symbol but pokeballs becoming obsolete in new pkmn games). But because it wanted to be new comer friendly botw's story and lore aspects are long gone and only to be referred to as easter eggs to ppl who played botw know. When characters talk about things that happened in botw as if it was a long time ago like the attack of the Calamity 100 years ago but things that actually happened a very long time ago make it sound like its pretty recent.
I don't like how the new sages just don't remember the champions at all. If you get the divine beast helms through sidequests and read their dialogue they speak in this way as it is their first time seeing it like?? Which is so strange cause totk would gladly reference Sidon and Link's companionship with a statue when trying to access Vah Ruta in BotW, but Mipha gets barely a mention from him? My biggest hopes before we got the title of the game was to let go of the champions, as in we don't need them to be back as they already have done what they need to do. But also I didn't want them to be completely gone from the game and only know them through easter eggs and references.
Like yeah TotK is a sequel to BotW but its more so "ok botw was a rough draft, THIS is the story we wanted to do" and it turns out to have inconsistencies. Zelda mentions the Calamity a few times, there are tombstones to placed around Hyrule commemorating people who lost their lives by the Calamity. But the Sheikah technology is completely gone, the towers that were there for eons are gone. I feel like the towers could've been an easy fix to explain why they are gone like "oh these chasms appeared and collapsed the towers, so now we built these new towers in replacement."
Like with Majora's Mask being separate but also a follow up to Ocarina of Time works because. While yes they are using the same characters and same game mechanics. They are using a whole different world/setting that is different from OoT. Where it excuses using the same characters and same game mechanics, cause it has a complete different story but is consistent on where it left off with Ocarina of Time. I honestly thought TotK was going to take place mostly in the skies than in the surface. Since they kept hyping people up with the teaser trailers and then we had SkSw HD being released. Like yeah it will be like some glorified version of SkSw
When I was reading the interviews Nintendo uploaded a few days before TotK's release and saw Fujibayashi say ,"We put in some effort to make sure that it feels comfortable for both first-time players and those with experience of the previous game." In the back of my mind I questioned a bit this cause I mostly asked myself "isn't this a sequel?" but then I reassured myself that they'll probably would reexplain certain things about the previous game and what happened in the story for new comers. But not to this extreme
#when i was looking for that quote i was like 'did Aonuma said this?' and I see it was Fujibayashi and went THIS FUCKING GUY-#totk#txt#was gonna tag it as spoilers but im not saying anything spoilery i think#but i'll tag it as that if anyone needs to
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Hii!! Thank you for writing my shy teen writer request! I wanted to ask for a sequel for that fic, where there was an accident which managed to send the characters back in their world. The reader thought that the bsd cast were back to normal (non self aware) but they were wrong. After that happened the bsd cast tried to open the portal again but it took a few years for the portal to open again. When they were able to go back to the real world the reader was already 17 years old (14 when they 1st met) and they had published more books throughout the years. Some of them became a best seller and reader was finally known as a professional writer at the young age of 17. Now their parents want them back for the money and tries to guilt trip them. Reader leaves some habits of the bsd casts in their books like an Easter egg. They also were able to become more open with people and make friends. I'm just wondering how the bsd characters would be proud of the reader lmao
Srry if it's too long and ty for writing my request, I love your fics! ❤️❤️
Hello! I am so glad, that you liked, how I do your request.
Here you go, second part. I hope, you like it. Hope, you are having a great day!
Reunion
Self-Aware! Platonic! BSD Characters x Teen! Reader
Description: Because of an accident, BSD gang is back to their world. You are sure, that they have lost their self-awareness. You have to move on.
Three years later, your family is finally back to you.
Hurt/Comfort. Reader, miss BSD gang. Reader, become a writer.
Sequel to Your dream matters
Warning: Elements of angst. Gold diggers for Biological Parents. OOC. English is my second language.
___________
You don't know, what happened. One moment you were having fun with your new family. Celebrating the six-month anniversary of their arrival and your adoption. Celebrating your achievements.
The next moment, the bright light fills the room.
When it fades, your family were gone.
You were searching for them. You called, you cried.
But no one came.
When you check the BSD Mayoi app, you saw, that they were back in the app.
But why they aren't coming back?
Did they lose the self-awareness?
That night, you cried as never before.
You begged them to come back. You begged them not to leave you.
For the next few days, you feel terrible. Thankfully, Alcott and Fitzgerald made sure, that your biological family will never get custody over you again. Besides, thanks to Fitzgerald, you won't have money problems. And that your parents will never touch that money.
You knew, that you can't spend the rest of your life crying about your friends. You need to move forward.
After one week of crying, you open your laptop and start writing.
To honor them. To honor their love. To honor their belief in you, you will be a writer.
___________
In the BSD world, your family were panicking. The portal glitches and send them back there. And now it can't be turned on. Worse of all, they lost their access to your phone and app. They can't even leave a message for you.
But they can hear you...
Your tears, your pleas.
"G-guys? A-are still there? P-please, answer."
"Work! Start working, you damn portal!" Poe hits portal with his first. Nothing.
"D-did you lost it? H-have you lost self-awarness?"
"No! [Y/N] WE ARE STILL THERE!" Oda was screaming, hoping, that you will hear them.
"Please... Just one message... Guys..."
Fyodor was nervous. He tried to hack the app again. So they can leave a message for you.
Nothing.
They were separated from you.
The work on trying to find the way to you start all over again.
_________________
Three years later
________________
"So, when will the new book came out?" asked Mary, looking at you with anticipation. "And what the book will be about?"
You chuckled and answer.
"Can't tell. You know pretty well, that I don't like giving spoilers for my books. Even to a friend. Sorry."
Mary pouts. Her brother, Arnold, rolled his eyes and playfully solve her.
"Told you, that [Y/N] won't answer. They value their work and won't spoil it to others."
Mary glared at her brother, but quickly look back at you.
"Fine, keep your secrets. But, I hope, that the detective who liked adding jam to grape pie will be in the book. Or writer, who loves raccoons. Right, Arnold?"
Arnold nodded.
"Yea. But I also would like to see a thief, who liked to hum old songs, and a postman, who cared about orphans. Anyway, want to hang out today?"
Your smile faded for one second, but you quickly compose yourself.
"Sorry, guys, but not today. Today I will be busy."
Siblings nodded in understanding. You are a professional writer, you must be busy with writing a new book.
You say goodbye to your friends and start walking home.
They didn't know, that you won't be busy with writing.
____________
You have changed for the last few years.
You became seventeen.
You were no longer shy, you had friends. You start going out with them. Not only that, but you could stand for yourself.
And you have become a writer.
Some of your books became bestsellers. And all of your books had good reviews and people liked them.
You became a known writer in seventeen.
Life was quite good.
But today you won't do any writing or fan meeting.
Today you had a special day.
That day, three years ago, your family got back to their world and loose self-awareness.
You moved forward. But you still missed them.
After they got back, you stopped watching and reading BSD. You don't want to see your family been hurt. You didn't read any spoilers. They weren't characters for you anymore. For you, they will always be your family.
You didn't delete BSD Mayoi. It serves as a reminder of your family.
Your books were a way to honor them. You add BSD Cast's habits to your characters.
For Ranpo it was a detective who liked adding jam to grape pie.
For Poe, it was writer, who loves raccoons.
For Fyodor, it was thief, who liked to hum old songs.
For Oda, it was a postman, who cared about orphans.
And so much more.
You miss them. Today you will have a small dinner to honor your lost family. You were preparing for that dinner for the last week.
_______________
Meanwhile, in BSD world
________________
Three years.
It takes them three years to open the portal again.
Tonight, they will be back to you.
BSD cast were ecstatic. They can't wait to return to you. Their Precious Guiding Light. Their child, siblings, grandchild.
The Cast gather in a Meeting Room. Fyodor Dostoevsky, finally hacks the app and get access to your phone.
They want to see how much has happened while they were away.
They found an interview with you. About been a young writer.
They were so proud of you.
Poe, who was mentoring you three years ago, had tears in his eyes. You achieved your dream.
Oda also has tears in his eyes. He was so glad, that you manage to prove others wrong.
Fyodor, while he wasn't crying, were extremely proud of you.
All of them were proud of you.
They can't wait to tell you about that in person.
____________
You finally get home. And you didn't like, who you saw on the doorstep.
You glare through the window at two people who were standing at your doorstep. Your biological parents. You can hear them talk. Once again, they were talking about getting a custody over you again.
They wanted to have an access to money, that Fitzgerald has left. And to the money you get from your books.
"[Y/N], dear, we have missed you! Please, let us inside. Let's talk!"
"[Y/N], stop running! We want to have our baby back!"
"[Y/N], you are our flesh and blood, we deserve your gratitude!"
"[Y/N], we are your parents! These people, who took you away from us, don't care about you! Where are they now? Where were they for the last three years?!"
You walked away from the window. You called the police. They took your parents away for been on your private property without permission.
You were left alone with your thoughts. Their words hurt. You tried to hold back tears. You need to prepare dinner for tonight.
____________
In the evening, you set up a table in the dining room.
Your family favorite food. You were careful with it, it still was packed. There was nothing, that will spoil soon. Tomorrow you will treat your friends. But right now, it is dinner to honor your lost family.
You place your phone on the table and open BSD Mayoi app. You start talking.
"It's been three years, right? O wish you were there. I miss you all so much... What?"
And, once again, the bright light fills the room. The same light, that shined three and the half years ago, when BSD cast appeared in your room.
________
They were looking at you. You were looking at them.
All of you were silent. You can't believe it.
And, once again, like three and the half years ago, Ranpo walked forward and smiled.
"Hello, Guiding Light, nice to see you face to face-e-e"
You crashed him in a hug. You were crying. Because of happiness.
"You... I missed you all do much... Family, my family... You are here again. You won't disappear again, right?"
Ranpo, with tears in his eyes, whispered.
"No, [Y/N], we won't. This time, we are here to stay."
__________
The next hour was full of tears and hugs. They didn't let you be alone for one second. After you finished with one hug, you were quickly pulled into another. After all of you were 'calm', at some extent, Oda place his hand on your shoulders.
"[Y/N], there are something important we must tell you. We are so proud of you, our little writer."
"Odasaku is right, We are so proud of you!" grinned Dazai.
"You manage to capture my intelligence in this character. I am so proud to be an inspiration for him" smile Ranpo, petting your head.
"I am glad, that my lessons come in handy. I am proud of been your teacher" Poe's voice was soft.
"Little Bird, you rocks. I am proud, that you make your dream come true" Nikolai's eyes shined with pride
"I am proud of your success, [Y/N]" Fyodor squeezed your hand.
One by one, your family told you, how proud they were.
You feel, like you were in heaven.
The life was good before. Now it was perfect.
You were a writer. Your dream come true.
You became confident.
You had friends.
And, most importantly, you had your family back.
_________
Bonus.
"Dad Fitzgerald, Brother Ranpo, Uncle Ango, how came that my bio parents, has lost everything and now charged with stealing and fraud?"
"Um... We don't know, right, Fitzgerald?"
"Yes, Ango, we don't know... Ranpo?"
"No, we don't. Hey, [Y/N], want to play Cluedo?"
"... You know, what, fine. I won't question that. Get the game, Ranpo"
#self-awareau#self-awarebsd#bungou stray dogs au#bsd#bungou stray dogs#bsd x gender neutral reader#gender neutral reader#bsd anime#platonic
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✧ 𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐫𝐚𝐬 𝐓𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐭. 𝟏 || flowers au ♔
the eras tour thoughts/headcannons with bedsy and v
welcome to the eras tour! there will be two parts of this, one is the one you're reading now which is just an overview with some extra thoughts and the other one will be a fic + insta edit
➺ so violet is a big taylor swift fan, like huge. any chance she gets she's listening to taylor
➺ she doesn't have an all time favorite, it varies depending on the mood she's in
➺ she does have a favorite song and it's mary's song
➺ as we know, connor does everything for this girl, including buying her tickets to the eras tour... twice
➺ he is so desperate to take her on this tour because as much as she's wanted to, she hasn't gone
➺ he initally got tickets for the august 7th date but then he started getting all of these fan theories about how taylor might be announce 1989 on august 9 so he really wanted to take her to that one too, becuase he's whipped
➺ they've only known each other for about a month at this point but they instantly clicked so yeah
➺ for august 7, they are in the upper level towards the middle because connor never heard the end of it from violet about hwo they were the best seats
➺ then, for august 9 he went all out and got the vip package because like i said, he's whipped af
➺ when he surprises her she is intially worreid about his bank account because even though he tells her all the time he plays in the nhl, she's like 'you don't just get money right off the bat'
➺ she never finds out how he pays for it and neither do we
➺ after he assures it's okay she's really happy and nonstops thanks connor for the tickets
➺ the day after she finds out connor got her tickets, she finds out that adam and luca also got her tickets becuase they wanted to give her a gift before they weren't able to be there for her as much anymore
➺ it's for the august 8 show and she's just like, 'wtf i went from going to no shows to having three back-to-back-to-back'
➺ they do not want to go but they also didn't want her to go alone so he got cole and luke tickets as well and made them go instead, which they are more than happy too
➺ she knows she has camp in a few days but she couldn't care less
➺ this is the one time she allows something else to take priority over school
➺ before the shows violet makes connor study religiously for this concert
➺ she wasn't about to show up to her favorite artists concert with someone who doesn't even know 'you belong with me'
➺ she pulls out the set list and calls connor, telling him which songs to listen to and and in which order
➺yes, he could've just added the playlist that was already made for the tour but he created his own with a description and everything
➺ he listens to it every day in prep for it not wanting to disappoint her
➺ he prioritizes certain songs, the ones that are her favorites because he knew that would mean more to her than the other ones
➺ he definitely takes the time to learn all too well and memorize it
➺ he's caught up on all the taylor easter eggs because violets been sending them nonstop for the past to weeks
➺ he learns new romantics too just in case because if he was going of impress her he needed to know at least one of the surprise songs
➺ even though i know it was taylor being a mastermind, new romantics being on of the surprise songs for them is just golden
➺ connor loved watching her all throughout both shows because she just had this permanent glow on her face the whole time
➺ she turns him into a swifty
editor's cuts ~ my random thoughts that popped into my mind while making this or thoughts that i made but didn't actually like enough to put in the main portion (*)
➺ boy is so whipped for her and they aren't even dating
➺ this man literally does everything for her/will do everything for her so we should not be suprised
➺ connor pulling money out of his fucking ass for this one but anything for 'his flower' (gag, i don't know why i wrote that)
➺ why did i make them so cheesy
➺ i think connor should go to somewhere where they teach people how to save their money
➺ connor you do not have money to just blow through
➺ violet hates when connor buys her stuff*
➺ violet secretly thinks her brothers are trying to one up her 'mystery man'*
➺ adam and luca do not like the fact that connor buys her everything even though they don't know who he is*
𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻 ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
if your name is crossed out it means i couldn't tag you
@ivy-34 | @itsnotgray | @daisysnhl | @love4ldr | @dancerbailey3 | @love4lando | @thescooby-gang | @biscuit-muffin05 | @toasttt11
#sunny lune writes#sunnyluneflowers#connor bedard#connor bedard x reader#connor bedard x fantilli!sister#connor bedard x fantilli!reader#cb98#adam fantilli#adam fantilli x reader#adam fantilli x sister!reader#hockey#nhl#luca fantilli#luca fantilli x reader#luca fantilli x sister!reader#fantilli!reader#fantilli!sister
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drops of blood [2/4]
SYNOPSIS: Bucky Barnes has some wires crossed. He fixates on a barista at a coffee shop near his apartment, and tells himself it's fine as long as he keeps his distance. Except you keep making that distance smaller.
Rating: M
Word Count: 9k
CONTENT WARNINGS: Canon-typical violence. We have officially dipped our toes into the angsty guilt-ridden stalking territory, and also into the beginnings of the 'yknow what I'm fine with that' realizations. consensual-but-not-safe-or-sane vibes all the way down. fruit metaphors abound. I am single-handedly forging the grayfic genre, please clap. For easter eggs you can check my AO3 chapter notes; for additional content check my tag "fic; drops of blood". Thanks for reading!
Read on AO3
[ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 3 ] [ 4 ]
Barnes is waiting outside of the building when you lock up, and it startles you; it’s dim, and the lights in the store are off, and he’s standing so still that you nearly don’t see him.
What you should probably say; why are you still here? Why was there blood on the ground outside? What happened to those men? What did you do?
What you say instead–
“You waited for me?”
He blinks. His eyes are the brightest thing about him right now, the blue of them a violent shock of color with his face in shadow. There’s no moon tonight, just the faint pinpricks of stars, like holes in some great stretch of fabric pulled over the sky, made perpetually gray from the light of the city. It never gets truly dark, here. You wonder if it’s always been like that, if it was like that for him, back then.
“Yeah,” he says. “I, ah, I didn’t want to leave you here alone, in case–” he makes some vague gesture, the movement jerky and halting.
You get about a third of the way through another thank you before he grimaces and looks away and cuts you off, says, again, “Don’t.” Like there’s nothing to thank him for. Like you should maybe even be doing the opposite of that.
You scuff your shoe against the sidewalk. It’s late, the street eerily quiet; the thing with those guys had kind of set you on edge, and something twisty and hypervigilant and uncomfortable churns in your stomach at the thought of walking home alone.
(You wonder if maybe that’s not what you should be wary of.)
“What part of Brooklyn are you in, now?” you ask, not looking at him. Looking at the ground. You’d swept out here earlier, and there are already new cigarette butts, discarded, stuck between the edge of the sidewalk and the street. Never-ending. Worse, now that half the world’s population came back.
“Uh— near the bridge,” he says, haltingly, “I should probably—“
“My apartment’s that way,” you blurt out, not entirely sure if you’d meant to say it. It is; an old pre-war building on Jay street, a straight shot down. “Do you want to—we could walk together, maybe?”
“You—“ his voice is hoarse, and it cracks, and he stops and clears his throat and starts again, “You want me to walk you home?”
You look up, at his face, what you can see in the washed-out perpetual twilight of the city. There’s that flicker of emotion, a burst of red, overripened and bittersweet and something that seems like it might be distraught, but it’s gone so fast you can’t hold it still long enough to figure out what it is or why it’s there or if it even had been, in the first place.
“I mean— unless you were going to catch the train, I thought– we’re going the same direction anyways, right?“ Your voice wavers, uncertain, “Sorry, I didn’t— we don’t have to, if that would be weird—“
“No, it’s— it’s okay,” Barnes says, choppy and strangled and so quiet that you’re not sure he’d even spoken at all, not until your eyes are open again and you can actually see his mouth move, “Don’t apologize, you didn’t do anything wrong, I–“ He shrugs, helpless, and then shuts his eyes for a second; his brow furrows, pinching together a little, curving up, this kind of plaintive look that flattens back out as quickly as it came. A raindrop ripple across a still body of water.
He opens his eyes. His expression is controlled and inscrutable again.
“Yeah,” he says, hoarse, “Yeah, I can– I’ll walk with you.”
~
The walk is silent; Barnes says nothing, the whole time, barely even looks at you. He keeps to the side closest to the street, and he never veers closer, that gap so constant that it coalesces like physical barrier, like if you were to try to move into the middle of the sidewalk you might hit some invisible wall of glass. You have to walk a little faster than you normally would to keep pace with him, and you still keep falling a few steps behind; he’s taller than you, and you’d known that, but most of your interactions have been either sitting down or separated by a few feet worth of counter space, so it’s different, this time. Your awareness of it.
The stiff, impenetrable silence– it feels like how it did those first couple times, before the pomegranate, when you’d try to talk to him and get brooding one-word answers and an impassive stare and nothing else, and it’s weird enough that you wonder if maybe you’ve made a mistake. Messed up, somehow.
“You’re still gonna come Friday, right?”
Barnes is ahead of you, and you can see the line of his shoulders stiffen under his jacket. He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Yeah,” he mumbles, after a while, his tone stilted and flat, “Contractually obligated, right?”
“Oh, that– I was joking, I mean, I don’t– if you don’t want to–”
“No,” he says, before you can finish, “No, I– I do.”
“Oh– okay,” you say, pleased, and not thinking too much about why. “Good.”
He makes some choked off noise that sounds like a laugh, or maybe just a caricature of one. “Good,” he repeats.
You try to catch up, but it’s like he won’t let you. Which– okay, fine. Guy likes his personal space, you suppose that’s not so surprising, so you settle to just walk a few steps behind him, the angle rendering his expression just out of sight. “Yeah,” you tell him, “I spent like, five dollars on this thing, so if you don’t come it’s totally just a waste.”
Barnes glances back at you, something like alarm flashing across his face, “Five dollars?” he asks, incredulous, and then a frown tugs at his mouth and he shakes his head and turns from you again. “Sorry, it’s– inflation, I’m still not used to it, I guess. That’s– it used to be a lot of money.”
“It’s kind of still a lot of money for one fruit.”
He glances back at you again and there’s something soft in his expression, but he’s looked away before you can decide whether it’s just a trick of the light, the slow flash of the glow from streetlamps passing over his face as you walk underneath them.
You lapse into silence again.
Soon, your apartment building is ahead, the light from the lobby through the plain glass door carving knife-sharp across the sidewalk, splitting the crumbling cement into pieces. “Mine’s up there,” you tell him, only a block away.
Barnes stops dead in his tracks.
It takes you a second from when you realize to when you stop yourself, and in that time you end up in front of him, looking back. His expression is the same as ever, flat and impenetrable, but there’s something in his eyes. Wavering.
“Okay,” he says, and then he swallows, and he clears his throat, and he says it again. “Okay.” His hands are still in his pockets, the leather stretched over them, pushed out like he’s got them tightened into fists.
“I– I’m down this way,” he says, after a moment of strangely charged silence; he tips his head towards the side street, one that heads towards Brooklyn Bridge; it’s a grid system, though, so it’s not like he couldn’t just take the next one after your apartment block.
Whatever, though. Whatever. He’s always been kind of strange, so you think nothing of it. He doesn’t want to actually walk you to your door, whatever. That’s– fine.
“Yeah, alright,” you tell him. “I’ll see you Friday, then, and– thanks for–”
“Don’t,” he says, before you can even finish. “Please don’t.”
You blink at him. In your jacket pocket, you fumble for your keys, but you don’t move. “Okay,” you reply, hesitating, “Okay, well. Goodnight. Get home safe.”
Barnes looks at you like you’d just said something absurd. Because you had. Kind of. You think about the knife you know he keeps in his boot and the blood in the alleyway and what you’d read of what happened to him– what he’s done, what he was made to do– on some internet blog at like three in the morning. He doesn’t need people to tell him to get home safe.
“Dunno, force of habit,” you say with a shrug. “Take care, though.”
He laughs. It’s sharp and brief and hoarse and exactly like every other time. Disbelieving, unintentional, like he’d meant to keep it controlled, but hadn’t quite been able to. “Yeah, you– you too.”
~
You’re not afraid of James Buchanan Barnes.
Sometimes you wonder if maybe you should be.
~
It’s called pitaya, technically, but every store you’ve ever seen carry them just has them labeled as dragonfruit. It’s fitting; the way the little leaves encasing it overlap, bright, vibrant pink that tapers to green at the ends, all facing the same direction, laid over one another like scales. It grows on cacti down in South America; Mexico, Guatemala, Costa Rica, El Salvador. The grocery store only ever has it in stock sometimes, and you can’t find any mention of it being available in the 40s when you google it, though you’re not sure how much that actually counts for anything.
“I have to wipe down the tables still, but you—“ you dump it out in front of him, having to shake the bag to jerk it free of where one of the little spines had torn through it and gotten caught in the flimsy plastic, “—cut this up, with your definitely illegal knife that I’m sure you still have.”
Barnes blinks at it. “What the fuck is that?”
You’re already one table down, scrubbing at a stubborn ring left over from somebody’s leaking coffee cup, but you still glance back when he says it, grinning, triumphant. Absently, you’re glad that he seems back to normal, now, whatever’d been bothering him last time apparently resolved. “Dragonfruit. Cactus fruit, from South America.”
You see him in your periphery as you shift down to the next table, leaning to draw the knife from his boot; a part of you wonders if it’s the same one. If he’d kept it. There’s a muttered what the hell and then the quiet thunk of the blade, long and flat and military-grade sharp, cutting clean through the skin, the flesh, the bone of the laminate surface underneath. The sound comes twice, as he carves off both ends; one after another, like a heartbeat. Then once more, when he splits it in two.
You think about the pomegranate.
(You think about the blood.)
“This is— weird,” he says, out of your line of sight, now, as you wipe jelly donut filling off of the corner of the last table. “How do I— what am I supposed to do with this?”
“People just eat it from the skin, with a spoon. Like a kiwi,” you tell him over your shoulder, “I should’ve brought some from home, but I forgot— we have plastic spoons, in the back, but I don’t know how well that’d—“
“Hold on,” Barnes cuts you off. “Hold on, wait a minute. Like a– what?”
“Oh, my god,” You straighten and turn back and fix him with a flat, disbelieving stare, “You– do you not know what a kiwi is?”
He shrugs, nonplussed.
“Next time,” you say, moving back to take the seat across from him, “That’ll be what I bring— don’t google it.”
“Okay,” he says, hands held up. Mock-defeat. “I won’t.”
He has more stubble today than any other time you’ve ever seen him. Bags under his eyes, too, like he hasn’t been sleeping well. You want to ask, but you’re afraid you might upset him, so you don’t. On the table between you, the dragonfruit is halved, ends cut off, the bright pink skin and the white insides and the black seeds, the colors all so uniform and flawless that it almost looks drawn. Imaginary. Like something from a dream.
“I can just cut the outside off,” Barnes is saying, “The white stuff, that’s the edible part, right?”
You make some vague noise in affirmative. He folds the halves together on a spread-out napkin, upright on one blunt end, holds the pieces still with one hand and the knife with the other. You watch, silent, as he carves the skin out from the flesh in clean, deft slices, the scales dropping to the table, curved stretches of pink like rose petals. Like the curve of a mouth. The blade moves with a quick and hypnotically familiar ease, even with how close it is to his fingers, the tips of them where he holds the fruit steady from the top. He never hesitates, or flinches. Not even once.
Barnes lays the pieces out and splits them lengthwise, into eight slices, and then wipes the flat of his knife on his jeans and slides it back to the sheath.
“There,” he says, when he’s done.
You only realize then, like being brought out of trance; you’d been staring.
More than that. You hadn’t even blinked.
~
The dragonfruit is soft and white and bland-tasting. Pure. When the pieces are gone, the napkin is wet, but the juice is clear, like water. Nothing to stain. Nothing on your fingers.
No blood.
~
Kiwis, as it turns out, used to be called “Chinese gooseberries”. They were native to China, as the name would suggest, but the fruit was grown commercially in New Zealand in the early 1900s, and became popular with American and British soldiers stationed there during World War 2. It wasn’t until after– sometime in the 50s– that they were called kiwifruits, after the bird, and it was little more than a stroke of marketing luck that the name ended up sticking. Fast-forward to the 60s, and the first exports started arriving in the US; fast-forward to 2024, and you can buy like, twelve of them in one of those little snap-closed plastic bins from the grocery store for just six dollars.
That’s what you bring to work, the next week. Or– it’s what you plan to bring, Friday.
He’s there Wednesday, again.
You’re not closing, this time, only pre-closing, which is a totally arbitrary term for the person who leaves at 9:30 instead of sticking around to lock up at 11; you hadn’t seen him come in this time, only notice him as you’re leaving, in the corner of the room, out of the corner of your eye–
You had the door open, and you stand there for a moment, frozen, indecisive, unable to see without turning to look if he’s staring at you, but still sure of it, somehow. Like you just know.
You let the door fall closed.
“Hey,” you say, stopping in front of his table. He has a cup of coffee; your coworker must have made it for him, when you were doing the dishes.
(You wonder if he knew you were working tonight.)
“Hi,” he says. He looks uncomfortable. He always looks uncomfortable, but it’s– worse, now. “Leaving?”
You’d taken off your apron, your uniform sweater, too, had them folded up in your hands, shrugged on an actual non-coffee-shop-related hoodie and your winter coat over it, and you’d been halfway out the door when you’d seen him, so it’s not really a question. “I– yeah, I’m off at 9:30, so.”
He stares. It’s something about how he does it, you think, something about how focused and unrelenting his gaze is, how his eyes never move or waver, just stay there, trained on yours, perfectly still. A shiver, a tiny one— it works down your spine before you can quell it. You blame it on the cold.
Barnes still hasn’t looked away.
“Are you here in case those guys came back?” you blurt out, and then wince, not entirely sure you meant to ask.
He blinks, finally. Drums his fingers against the table. You think you might be able to tell, now, which hand is which; the metal one is louder. More solid. “They’re not going to bother you again,” he says. Like he knows that for sure.
You stand there for what feels like a long time, not saying anything, not sure of what to say; a part of you, your gut, maybe, is saying he’s here for you, and then another part that’s probably your actual brain is saying that that’s really presumptuous and verging on self-absorbed. He could just prefer sitting in a coffee shop to sitting at home, and maybe even prefers it enough to say no if you ask him to walk with you again.
You do it anyways.
“Are you— heading out, soon? We could walk together. If you are. If— if you want.”
His eyes go wide for a second, wide and glossy and wavering, and it gentles his whole face— transforms his perpetually neutral expression and eases the tension out of the sharp planes of his features and makes him look suddenly so much younger than you know him to be; young and soft and boyish. Not like those photos you’d seen of him, though, the ones they’d had in your history textbooks and in the movie posters for the revamped docudramas everyone made when they found Captain America; you remember those, and you remember how he’d looked in them, confident, self-assured, a little bit cocky. It’s different, how he seems right now. Nervous. Vulnerable. Kind of— wild.
Just like all the other times, it’s only a second, and then he’s calm, expression controlled, reaching for his coffee cup with one gloved hand.
“Yeah, I—“ his voice is hoarse and he has to clear his throat to get it to even out again. “You want me to?”
“If you’re done,” you gesture at his coffee cup, as much as you’re capable of doing so with the bundle of your folded-up apron and uniform sweater tucked over both hands, “Then, yeah, I mean, I just thought— y’know, since we’re both on the same side of DUMBO.“
He’d already been standing as you spoke, the chair scraping against the tiled floor as he pushes it back in, and you purposely push down the beginnings of some small reflexive smile at it, how it seems like he wants to. When you say DUMBO, he gets the same look that he did when you’d said kiwi— flat and blank and disbelieving—and your repressed smile becomes a full-blown one, teeth-showing and wide, asking before he can even speak, “You don’t know what that is, do you?.”
“No idea,” Barnes says, with something pleasantly close to a wry smile, “Figure you’re not talking about the Disney movie?”
You’re sure your answering grin is fucking goofy as hell, but you can’t be bothered to care. “You’ve seen Dumbo?”
Barnes grabs his coffee cup and rounds the table and gets to the door a half-second before you do; “I saw it in theaters— came out in 1941. Year before I deployed,” he says, once it’s just the two of you in the vestibule. He pushes on the second door, and when he holds it open for you, it occurs to you that he’d beat you to it on purpose, wanted to do this. Whatever weird and nervous kind of warmth you feel at that realization, you determinedly shove somewhere into the recesses of your subconscious, where you won’t have to think about it.
“I think they remade it, a few years ago,” you tell him, pulling one hand free of the bundle of your work clothes to flip the hood of your coat up over your head; it’s gotten cold again, and it’s snowing tonight, just a little, the flakes glittering in the beams of the streetlights. “In 3D, so, like, it’s supposed to be realistic-looking, or something.”
His expression briefly wrinkles in distaste, and something remarkably close to a giggle escapes from you before you can contain it.
“Anyway,” you say, working your winter gloves free from your coat pocket and pulling them on one after another, taking care not to drop your apron or sweater on the wet, dirt-streaked sidewalk, “Anyway, no, not the Disney movie—it’s just what everybody calls that part of Brooklyn.” You go to zip up your coat with the bundle of your work clothes tucked under one arm. “DUMBO stands for Down Under Manhattan Bridge Overpass, it’s just a nickname. Like how there’s SoHo and NoHo and Bed Stuy.”
Your nametag dislodges from the apron, jostled by your moving, and skitters out across the asphalt; Barnes bends to grab it for you before you can so much as move and fixes you with this look as he presses it into your outstretched hand; don’t say it.
You don’t thank him. He looks strangely relieved.
“It was just part of Vinegar Hill, when I lived here before,” he says, as you affix it back to your apron. “DUMBO. Christ, that’s stupid. I’m not calling it that.”
“Really sounding your age, today,” you tell him, grinning wide, again; his expression brightens even more at the jab, and you find yourself hoping that he’ll stay like this, for the walk, that it won’t end up like last time, with him shut down and closed off from you again. Well— more closed off than usual, because you think he’s probably always a little closed off from you. From everyone, probably. Maybe even from himself.
It’s cold, you realize belatedly, too cold, and even with your coat zipped and your hood up and your gloved hands shoved in your pockets, you’re starting to shiver.
“C’mon,” you tell him, forcing your limbs out stiff and jumping up and down, trying to generate any amount of body heat, “I can’t stand still, I have to get blood moving or I’m gonna freeze to death.”
He’s still got his coffee, and he finishes it as you watch, then crumples the empty paper cup in his gloved hand and tosses it into the trash by the door.
When he moves to follow you he’s a little bit closer than last time. There’s still this barrier between you, like a dividing line splitting the sidewalk clean in two, and he’s still sticking firmly to the side nearest the street, but the distance—it’s shrunk. You don’t talk much, and he still stops short of the actual block your apartment is on, but you don’t mind.
(He’d been closer, this time, too. Just a little.)
~
You can’t sleep.
Something inside of you is thrumming and alive, like a second heartbeat; even in the dark of your room, blanket pulled up to your chest and your eyes shut, you can still feel it, a restless energy that quickens your pulse and the pace of your thoughts and keeps pulling you back from the edge each time you get close to drifting off.
It comes up in a stupid fucking video compilation you end up watching on Youtube titled Top Ten CRAZIEST Road Rage Incidents of ALL TIME!! which autoplays because you’d watched or at least zoned out for the entirety of Top Ten CRAZIEST ‘Florida Man’ Arrest Reports OF ALL TIME!!, neither of which, you’re pretty sure, are helping you fall asleep, but they’re at least alleviating your boredom.
You stare mindlessly at the screen for incidents ten through two, and then for the last stretch of the video you watch grainy, low-quality dashcam footage of the Winter Soldier landing on the rooftop of a car on the freeway. He breaks through the window of a black 2000s sedan like the heat-tempered reinforced safety glass is as thin and as fragile as a translucent sheen of ice across a pool of water. The video blurs out when the man inside the car is dragged through the jagged hole, but you know what happens, even with the shapes just foggy splotches of color. He throws him across the concrete barrier and into oncoming traffic and the video cuts to black.
Whatever the narrator is saying about it— you’re not listening.
You don’t know why you’d never thought to do it before, to go looking for what’s out there about that other side of him, the part you didn’t learn about in history books or documentaries on streaming platforms.
In 2014, Captain America fought the Winter Soldier on route 695 in Washington, DC; the highway cuts right through the neighborhood, a main artery shuttling commuters in and out, lifted some hundreds of feet in the air on these massive pillars of concrete. At two in the morning in your pitch-black bedroom you find a video of it on youtube; the creator had released it in 2015, nearly a year after. He’d had to track down all the pieces, he says in the introduction, his home-studio mic setup crackling over your phone speaker; bits of what’d cropped up online in the aftermath and what he’d gotten of private video recordings and security footage. The resulting tangle of evidence had been fact-checked and verified and pieced together, spliced into one cohesive event, and you watch the whole thing with this kind of sick fascination.
The beginning is replay; the dashcam footage, the driver whispering, oh, what the fuck, the tires squealing against asphalt, the crunch of glass, a scream cut short. The other video had faded out after that, but in this one it just cuts to another angle; a dashcam from oncoming traffic, congesting around the body thrown over the barrier. You can see him, Barnes— just a glimpse as the sedan passes in the opposite lane, the long, dark hair, his arm, the muzzle. He’s staring down, anchored to the car rooftop with the fingers of his metal hand. The stitched-together snippets don’t show everything, there are pieces missing, but you watch as he’s sent tumbling over the concrete, the split second of him slowing to a stop, the pixelated shadows of the rivets he’d dug into the asphalt with just his fingers.
The video cuts down to Fourth Street southwest, under the overpass; Barnes had shot Captain America with a grenade launcher, or something, sent him crashing through the steel frames of two city buses like they’re made of paper mache. The fight between the two of them in the street is half grainy security footage, half the shaky phone camera of some bystander either too scared or too stupid to run. It’s the brutality of it, you think, that’s what gets to you, makes your heart feel like it’s stopped and your throat constrict until your breathing gets caught; or maybe it’s the speed, all of it happening so fast that it feels like by the time your brain has comprehended anything he’s done there’s already something else. Maybe it’s the knife, how he handles it, how similar it looks to the one you know he still carries. Maybe it’s the strength of him, how his fists dent cars and leave craters in the street.
Maybe it’s none of that.
You watch the video through until the end, and then you shut your phone off and you stare at the black, empty screen, unseeing, your mind running endlessly, frenzied and wild and beyond your conscious awareness, whatever thoughts you have occurring somewhere you can’t reach them.
It takes you a really fucking long time to fall asleep.
When you finally do, you dream of the coffee shop, the long, gently sloping stretch of pavement leading down to the bridge district. There’s nobody around, no lights on in any buildings, no people, no cars; the perpetual city twilight is gone, and there’s darkness pressing in, full and all-encompassing, except for the streetlamps spaced along the sidewalk. In the dream, you walk the length of the street, alone. Below you, there are holes in the concrete, like footprints; they lead all the way down to the block just before your apartment, and then disappear.
~
On Friday you bring the kiwis and two spoons from home and you rush through the checklist of store-closing tasks and you end up having pretty much everything done by 9:30, which means you have an hour and a half to sit with Barnes at that back corner table in between customers and eat Fruit Of The Week and talk about whatever.
“The skin on these things is— weird,” he announces, dragging the edge of the spoon around the emptied husk of a halved kiwi, scraping the last of it clean. He’d cut them up with his knife— you’d kind of hoped that he would, had even left yours at home, maybe on purpose— and he’d done this thing with it when he’d pulled it from his boot that you’ve never seen him do before, the handle moving between his fingers and the blade spinning out in this dizzying and dangerous-looking arc against his flattened palm, the whole thing only a couple of seconds, done so easily it seemed thoughtless. Like it was instinct. You’re still thinking about it. He hadn’t worn his glove, today, not on his right hand, and you’re thinking about that, too.
You clear your throat and force your eyes to focus on— something. Anything. “I— yeah, it’s controversial. Some people love them, other people, not so much.”
Barnes picks another kiwi from the little plastic tin you’d bought them in. “I might just cut the skin off this one,” he says, “Dunno how I feel about the spoon thing.”
You swallow. Your mouth is suddenly dry. You’d made yourself a coffee today, since it’s free while you’re at work- decaf, because it’s late— and you reach for it, fumble with the snap-lid, and take a cautious sip. It’d been too hot when you’d brought it over, but it’s at a comfortable temperature now; where you’re sitting is right next to the windows, and it’s colder here than it is behind the counter, especially with the sun gone, and the drink warms you from the inside. It gives you something else to focus on besides the other, markedly more dangerous warmth, simmering somewhere lower. Barnes has the kiwi held up and he’s peeling it with that same unnervingly rapid precision, even with how much smaller this is than the dragonfruit, the knife moving in this fluid and effortless rhythm a hair’s breadth away from his own hand. He’s so calm like this, as calm as you’ve ever seen him, that perpetual tension he always carries melted out as the blade works around and carves the skin from the flesh. He makes quick work of it, and then there’s a beat of stillness, before he splits it into four neat slices.
“Here,” he says, placing two on a napkin and sliding it across the table. “Half for you.”
“Thanks,” you reply, automatic and without thinking.
He flinches. It’s almost imperceptible, but you’re getting better at it. Noticing these things about him.
Later, after working your way through a line of late-night customers, you come back to his table and you sit down across from him and you ask him to walk with you, again, and it’s like peeling the skin off a fruit or a scab off a wound, what it does to him. Just for a second, a drop of blood welling to the surface before it’s wiped clean again, but you’re looking for it. You wonder if that’s him, the real him, the part he doesn’t let anyone see. You think about splitting him open and what might be inside if you did, if it’d be sweet or soft or something else altogether. Some kinds of fruit are solid in the center, and you remember once reading about how they’re poisonous, the pits of peaches and plums and nectarines— Cyanide.
Barnes stares at you.
You stare back.
“Yeah,” he says, after a while, “Yeah, okay."
~
Barnes finishes his coffee and tosses the cup in the trash outside as you lock up, your fingers frozen and struggling to maneuver the ring of keys.
“I don’t know how you can drink that at nine at night,” you say, turning from him towards the bridge and towards your apartment, “I’d be awake for hours.”
When you glance over at him, he’s looking at you strangely. “I, ah— I can’t— caffeine doesn’t do anything. To me.”
You blink at him for a second before it clicks. “Oh. Oh! Really?”
Barnes grimaces in affirmative, awkward and obviously uncomfortable. “Yeah, I guess I just— I like the taste. Used to drink a lot of coffee— before.”
He’s not pulling ahead like last time, but that barrier between you is still there, like a dividing line splitting the sidewalk clean in two, and he’s still sticking firmly to the side nearest the street, hands shoved in his jacket pockets— but the distance has shrunk. Just a little.
“Bet you don’t get cold, either,” you say, half a question and half just an observation, the contrast between you, bundled up and still freezing, and him, just in that same jacket and gloves, walking like it’s a comfortable fifty degrees.
He doesn’t smile, but his mouth does the thing it does sometimes, curls at the edges. It doesn’t look happy. “Nah, I run pretty hot.”
Some small stupid part of your brain turns that information over in your head and conjures up other things you know, bits of himself he’s given to you; your mind brings back the image of him before, the glove off, the knife held in a loose, familiar fist, thumb splayed flat along the edge of it, pushing the blade into the flesh. His hands— rough and calloused and frighteningly agile, the tendons working under the thin stretch of skin, the veins spidering up to his knuckles, spinning the knife like someone would spin a pencil, like he knew beyond a doubt, maybe even subconsciously, that he wasn’t going to mess up. His eyes, the way that he stares, so still that it’s eerie and frightening and makes you think maybe you should feel violated by it, his shoulders, broad and straight, the stiffness to his posture, how he walks, the pace and the rhythm and the length of his stride half military and half— something else. The growing list of things you know about Barnes, the person, things you couldn’t learn from documentaries or youtube videos or history textbooks or wikipedia pages. He runs hot, and you know this now, too, that he’s warm beneath the jacket and the thin layer of his shirt and even underneath that, the blood in his veins, his arteries, filling up the chambers of his heart as it beats in his chest.
The information all slots together like puzzle pieces, only you’re not really sure what the puzzle’s supposed to look like, once it’s finished.
Something jolts you out of— whatever your brain is doing, right now.
Your own name. Because he’d said it.
(And now you have that, too; how it sounds, from him.)
“What?” you say, pushing out whatever’s going on in your head and feeling somehow like you didn’t really succeed at that in any meaningful way, maybe only managed to bury it. But it’s gone, for now, and your mind is clear, and Barnes is staring at you. “Sorry, I was— spacing out.”
His mouth is pressed into a thin, flat line when you glance over at him, his face lit up in the yellow of a passing streetlight. He’s slowed down, a little, shoved his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, his shoulders tight and bunched up. “I was just— I need to talk to you. About— something.”
“Yeah, go for it. What’s up?”
He’s not looking at you, he’s looking at the ground, eyes set and hard and jaw clenched tight enough that you can see the muscle twitch under the next flicker of streetlight, and it’s almost— weirder than the staring.
“I see a therapist,” Barnes says finally. “One a week. Fridays.”
“Okay,” you reply, uncertain, “That’s— good, probably, I mean. You’ve been through a lot.”
“I told her that— I told her you recognized me.”
He grimaces and glances away from you, out towards the street.
“Sergeant Barnes.” You say it mostly to yourself, wry and a little self-deprecating. “Yeah, I watched, like, a lot of Captain America documentaries when I was a kid.”
Barnes screws his eyes shut for a second, a heartbeat. His eyelashes are dark and long and almost brush the sharp straight plane of his cheeks. Another thing you know, a piece of him you couldn’t have gotten from the pages of a book. “That’s not what she thought I meant, at— at first.”
You prod at the inside of your cheek with the tip of your tongue. There’s nothing you want to say to that, really. You’d read the news articles, his updated wikipedia page, what parts of the court proceedings haven’t been redacted, whole paragraphs erased under thick bars of black; you could guess what she thought. She’d thought you’d looked at him and seen the Winter Soldier, recognized him for the ghost of that past, not the other one. Maybe that’s just luck; you’d stopped caring about all that superhero stuff before they’d found him, and none of that had ever really sunk in. You’d seen pictures, the hair, the arm, the expression that made you think of shell-shock, the eyes that were flat and cold and empty. How pale he’d been, like he hadn’t seen the sun in a long time. It just— it hadn’t stuck, or overridden the things you’d known, before. It wasn’t the first thing you’d thought about, the day he’d come in.
It’s not what you’re thinking of now. You really don’t think of either of them, now. He’s— something different. Something new.
“I— told her, eventually,” Barnes says. Your apartment is the next block away. Your nose is numb, the tip starting to sting, chapped and frostbitten. “She said— I should tell you that I’m— that’s not who I am, anymore.”
You’re crossing the street and he’s following you still, even though every other time he’d have veered off by now, and maybe it’s selfish of you that you don’t want to tell him. “Technically you don’t lose military rank when you retire,” you say, staring down at the pavement. That’s not what he’d meant. You know that.
There is a beat of silence. Your breath when you exhale forms a cloud of condensation in the cold, rising up like ghosts into the sky.
“No, I’m saying he’s dead,” he bites out, harsh and rough and like he’d had to force himself to say it. “And whatever I am now— it’s not— I’m not him.”
It stuns you so completely that you stop walking.
Barnes stills a few steps ahead. When he turns, the heel of his boot scrapes on the asphalt, the sound echoing in the empty street. His eyes are bright and vivid and filled with something you can’t identify.
Not empty, though. Not cold.
“I don’t think it really works like that,” you say carefully. Your apartment building is right there, the door just up ahead, the light of the lobby spilling out through the glass and onto the road, a glowing block of amber in the dark. “You don’t— the people we were before, they don’t die. We change, obviously, but it’s— we grow around it, right? It’s still a part of us.”
His brow furrows just slightly, and then goes smooth a second later, like he’d caught it. Buried it. “Okay,” he says, “Maybe, maybe you’re right, but what I’m trying to tell you is that it’s still— I’m still— part of me is—“
The knife. The pomegranate. The stare, the stiff, stilted veneer, the cracks in it, the blood. Sergeant James Barnes. The Winter Soldier.
“It’s alright,” you say. He’s staring at the ground, the spiderwebbed cracks in the concrete, rippling out through the sidewalk like veins under skin. “You don’t have to say it. I know— I know what you mean.”
Barnes looks up at you, and when you look back something trembles in his eyes and twists in his expression and for a second you can see him, underneath everything. Frightened and guilty and grateful, all at once.
You wonder why he’s afraid.
(You wonder why you’re not.)
“This is my building,” you say, after a while, jerking your chin to it behind him, rows of windows, most of them darkened, a scattered few still bright; on the third floor, all the way on the right, there’s the one that looks in on your living room, lit up a soft, pale yellow, the glow of a lamp you always forget to shut off diffusing out through the slats in your shuttered blinds. “Oh— damn it,” you mumble, mostly to yourself, again. Bad habit, the thinking aloud. “I left the light on again.”
Somewhere to your left in the haze of your periphery you notice Barnes has frozen in place, so completely that even when you look over at him you can’t tell if he’s breathing at all, the whole of his body stuck still and static like he’s been paralyzed. It feels wrong, somehow, sets off those alarm bells in some base and instinctive and evolutionarily conserved part of your hindbrain, the way people sometimes talk about uncanny valley syndrome, things that look human but not, in some essential and viscerally terrifying way. You don’t think normal people would even be capable of this, of being as motionless as he is right now. Like a shadow. Like a corpse.
He blinks and tears his eyes away from where he’d been staring at the far corner of your apartment complex and the spell is broken, he’s alive again, something like panic flashing across his face in the split second before he reconstructs that facade of flat invulnerability. You find yourself taking a step towards him without meaning to, and he flinches back from even that, like it’s— a threat.
Or— no, like he’s done something wrong.
“I, ah— I have to go,” Barnes says, stumbling over the words, a pressure to his speaking that you’ve never heard before.
It’s so abrupt that it takes a second for it to register and for your brain to fully comprehend what’d happened, that he’s leaving and that you must’ve done or said something, something bad, and when you go to speak your throat has constricted and gone tight and your voice comes out so quiet that if it’d been anyone else, you’re sure it would have gone unnoticed.
“Wait,” you call after him, and he hears it, because he’s not anyone else and his senses are somewhere outside of what’s human.
Barnes stops at the edge of the sidewalk, near the street, and he turns back to you, his hands shoved in his pockets and the line of his shoulders tense and raised and this kind of stiffness to his body that you’ve never seen. Like an animal with its hackles raised, a distant part of your brain suggests.
“Will you—,” you swallow, feeling suddenly nervous under the unwavering pressure of his stare, “You’re going to come next Friday, right?”
You say it outright, this time, no bullshit or plausible deniability, some clammy knot of worry tangling itself up in the pit of your stomach at the thought that he might not, that you’d done some miniscule unknowable thing to upset him and drive him away.
“I shouldn’t,” he says, his voice low and strained and hoarse; it doesn’t make sense, there’s something about this you haven’t figured out yet, and the thought tears at you somewhere like it has teeth and claws and a mind of its’ own, how badly you want to know what’s missing.
In the tangle of your work clothes clutched to your chest, your fingers have found the knotted strands of your apron, and you’re picking at it with your nails, trying to pry it apart.
(You want to pry him apart.)
“You know— you know I don’t think any differently of you, right?” you tell him, aware of how you must sound, nervous and uncertain, but— not because of him, not like that.You don’t want to hurt him. You don’t want to mess this up. “I— I didn’t know you, before. I’ve only ever known you how you are now, this you, and— I like you. We’re friends. We still are. Nothing— nothing’s changed.”
He doesn’t reply. Just stares. Whatever’s going on in his head is hidden from you. You think about how he looks at you, like he wants to get inside and open you up and pull all the pieces out.
(You think you must look at him the same way.)
“Please?” you say. In your hands, hidden under your uniform sweater, you’ve finally managed to work the edge of your thumbnail up under the tight bend of the knot in your apron, the strips of linen beginning to unravel. “I still want you to come.”
Finally, his expression slackens. You’re not sure what it is, the way the tension unwinds from him like a thread pulled to snap; relief or defeat or something else entirely.
“Okay,” Barnes says. “Yeah, okay. I– I will.”
He looks strangely powerless. Whatever crack in his exterior has split to allow this to surface— it doesn’t close, not like the others, not for a while. When it does it’s much slower, more difficult, like the stitching of a wound. Like skin knitting itself back together, painstaking and gradual and imperfect. The kind of thing that leaves a scar.
“Goodnight,” you tell him, turning to the lobby door, hand on the bar to pull it open. “Get some rest, all right? You— you look like you haven’t been sleeping well, lately, and I just— I worry about you, sometimes.”
Something softens in him, and he nods, his eyes flicking down, away from you.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll– I’ll try.”
~
The week drags.
Barnes isn’t there Wednesday. You’d been expecting that, but you’d still kind of hoped, and a part of you is still– stupidly, ridiculously, childishly– disappointed, when your shift comes and goes, and his table stays empty.
You spend most of Thursday thinking about Friday.
There’s something buzzing inside of you, when he comes in. Something that falters, disappointed, when the size of the line at the front counter at 7 is too long for you to even speak to him, busy making sandwiches and an outrageous number of frozen hot chocolates for a mom and her four kids when he comes for his coffee. Your coworker makes it for him and there’s a handful of seconds while he’s standing at the pickup counter and you’re on the other side waiting for bagels to toast that you’re able to look up and lock eyes with him for a second.
He seems miles more composed than he had been last week, and you hope that’s a good thing. That he’s doing better. Feeling better. “Busy today, huh?”
You heave an exhausted sigh. “Ridiculously. Nonstop, since I got here, I don’t know if there’s, like, an event, or something, but— it sucks.”
Barnes drums his fingers against the counter. Behind him, the mom is trying to corral her kids, who are making a mess of the condiments counter. One of them is eating sugar packets, spilling it everywhere; his face, his shirt, the floor. A muscle in your jaw twitches.
When you look back at him he’s staring at you, and you wonder if he’d been doing that the whole time, even when you’d looked away. You don’t usually mind, but right now you have syrup on the rolled-up sleeves of your sweater and hot chocolate powder all down the front of your apron and your hair is frizzing out with flyaways at the edges of your uniform hat, some of them sticking to the sheen of sweat starting on your forehead from the heat of all three toaster ovens running at once, and you kind of wish he’d— not. Look at you, that is. Stare. Because you look insane. You feel insane, and that kid is fucking making a mess behind him, and you’re going to get stuck cleaning it up, and—
“If you’re— if it’s a bad time, I can— next week, maybe,” Barnes says.
“No,” you tell him, maybe too quickly, “No, it’ll definitely die down at some point, I mean, if you don’t mind waiting—“
“I don’t,” he replies, stilted and awkward and said before you can even finish speaking. “I don’t, I don’t mind.”
He’s still standing at the pickup counter, not waiting on anything, coffee in hand, and he’s still staring at you, and his eyes are very, very blue, pale and clear and so light they’re almost gray, like the bay of the Hudson on days when it’s overcast, or like once when you were a teenager and it’d gotten so cold that the river had frozen over for the first time in thirty years.
You wonder if he’d ever seen it like that.
You open your mouth to ask and then realize you fucking can’t, there’s other people around, and you’re not trying to out him as being the world’s least-obvious centenarian just because you have a stupid, inane question—
The timer on one of the ovens goes off, followed by the second one, and the third one, the shrill sounds of the alarms overlapping with one another.
“Sorry,” is what you say instead, tearing your eyes away and fumbling for the buttons to shut them off, “I have to—“
“It’s alright,” he says, “I’ll see you when it’s calmed down, right?”
“Yeah,” you reply, distracted again, not sure if it was a question or a statement. “Yeah, ‘course.”
It does calm down, eventually, sometime around 9, which is nuts and totally out of the ordinary. Everything’s a fucking mess; there’s a puddle of coffee and sugar and half-melted ice cubes on the floor and splotches of flavored syrup smeared all on the counter by the espresso machine and you’d missed the fucking garbage can trying to empty one of the brewing baskets and dumped grounds fucking everywhere, and each fuck-up had kind of built on the others without so much as a moment’s break to even think about cleaning. Your coworker helps you get things back to some semblance of organization behind the counter, but after he leaves there’s still the absolute disaster that is the lobby, and—
God, and Barnes had been waiting for you for like, hours.
You rush through the dishes and the stocking up and finish all that shit by 10:30, and you think maybe you’ll be able to get the lobby straightened back out in about twenty minutes, which’d leave all of a deeply unsatisfactory ten minutes to talk to him.
Except—
Except when you look for the broom in the back you can’t find it, and you remember, kind of vaguely, your coworker having tried to get started on all that way back at 6 before you’d gotten slammed, and when you actually go out to try to find it and eyeball the extent of the damage and the degree of the disarray, there isn’t any. The tables are swept off and the chairs are pushed-in and the floor is free of debris and even the counter with the straws and condiments and things where that kid had spilled sugar everywhere is clean except for some dried coffee spills.
The broom and dustpan is leaned carefully against the trash receptacle.
Barnes is still at his spot by the window.
“Did you—“ you make some wordless gesture at the not-destroyed lobby, not even needing to ask, honestly. After the Blip it’d been like all the kindness and empathy people found when half the world’s population was gone had vanished as soon as they’d all reappeared, like both were fundamentally incapable of existing at the same time, and you couldn’t imagine some random stranger had seen two faceless minimum wage nobodies dealing with the cumulative hell that is the entitlement of a bunch of New York strangers and thought, hey, how can I maybe make their lives a little easier?
But of course he would. Fucking— Captain America’s best friend, even way back when Captain America was just some scrawny smart-mouthed five-foot-four asthmatic. The guy who’d stood up for him when he got picked on and protected him when he started fights he couldn’t finish and took him in when his mom passed away from tuberculosis without so much as a second thought. You still know all this, the way you think most people just always kind of know the details of whatever weird fixations they had between the ages of about twelve and fifteen, and you know, more presently, that this guy is not the same guy you know all these details about, but it’s not like people just— stop being who they were, completely, either. It’s not like Sergeant James Barnes and the Barnes that you know are these completely unrelated people, right, it’s not like one of them ceased to exist, he just— got older. Shit happened. He changed.
But— he’s not fucking dead.
Who you are is always made up partly of who you were. Like the way a tree is a tree because it’d been a seed, first. And maybe it’s just really fucking late, right, maybe you’re just really tired, maybe today had just been uniquely fucking exhausting, but your brain just— cannot cope with any of this. The kindness, any amount of it, from anyone, directed at you in any capacity, but also just that it’s from him. The fact that any part of him is like this, still, after everything.
You are not going to cry about his tragic life story and all his obvious and heartbreaking guilt and shit in front of the guy. Jesus Christ. Get a grip.
“The broom was out,” he says, “And— you were busy, and it was a mess out here, so I thought—“
“That was so nice, you’re— you’re so nice to me,” you reply, steady and not tearful but still a lot more plaintively than you intended, “Thank you, really, you didn’t have to—“
“Don’t,” he says, so abrupt that it’s jarring, “Don’t thank me, it’s— it was nothing.”
You blink at him. He shifts in his chair, looking uncomfortable.
You reach for his coffee cup like the last time, but he has a gloved hand around it before you can even get close. His mouth— the corners, they’ve started to curl up, even with the way the line of it is pressed flat and firm and like he’s trying his hardest to keep himself from smiling.
“Not allowed to thank you, not allowed to refill your coffee,” you say, rolling your eyes, good-natured and sounding a lot more flippant. A lot less in danger of being reduced to a crybaby mess because one person had been nice to you all day. “Unfair.”
“Yeah, well,” it inches closer to a smile, like he can’t help it, the upturn of his lips. “Life’s not fair.”
There’s a beat of silence. You should be used to it, by now, the pauses, the quiet, the lulls in conversation; you are, usually, but today it just feels– strange. Makes your stomach twist and your palms itch with some weird and unfamiliar sort of nervous energy. You suddenly have to fight the urge to fidget.
“I’m glad you came back,” you blurt out. “Sorry if– I know it was crazy busy, before, and I was thinking, I mean, if that’s– if it’s too stressful, when it’s like that, you don’t– I don’t want you to feel like you have to stay–”
“No,” he says. “It’s not stressful, seeing you is–” he looks away from you, just for a second, stares at his coffee cup, and the abnormality of that makes something prickle in the pit of your stomach, sparks that jittery feeling up again. “It’s– good. I don’t care if it’s busy.”
Barnes shuts his eyes, then, and his expression screws up, and he runs his hand down the lower half of his face, “Ah, sorry, that was weird.”
“No, it’s not, it’s– that’s literally normal,” you tell him, smiling, “I like seeing you too.”
He looks back at you. There’s that flash of red, again, a burst of color, something breaking through the mask of his composure. Something sweeter, this time, like maybe he’s pleased by that, just for a second, before he shoves it away.
He’s still staring at you. Absently, you scrub the heel of your palm against the smear of powdered sugar you know you still have on your cheek; his eyes flick to it, drawn by the movement, probably, and you have a weird and sudden desire to look at the ground.
“I have— something,” you blurt out, fighting the urge to fidget, “For you. Something for you to try, I mean. It’s in the back, I’m going to— I’ll get it, and I have to do some other little cleaning things, but I’m almost done.”
You think you feel his eyes on you, from the lobby and behind the counter, all the way until you disappear from view into the back room, but you don’t turn to check.
The fruit is on the table, beside an unsealed bag full of bills and change; technically you weren’t supposed to count out the register until close at 11, but you wanted to get out of here as fast as physically possible, after the way your shift had gone. There are a few straggler dishes in the sink, a coffee pot and a latte pitcher and a mixing spoon, and you kind of half-ass them and leave them to dry, snag a few sleeves of hot and iced coffee cups to stock up out front, and a new pump for the caramel syrup.
You glance at your reflection in the stainless-steel side of the ice machine before you head back out onto the floor, and use a wet paper towel to scrub the sugar off the side of your face.
There’s still one pot of coffee left. Fresh; the last one you’d make before close. You hesitate for a second at the swinging gate that divides behind the counter from the lobby, and then you pour him another coffee and you bring that with you, too.
When you set it on the table next to his empty cup, Barnes glances at it and then looks away and ducks his head with this long-suffering sigh, like he’s annoyed, like you’re being a nuisance, but you can still see the way his mouth is angled. How it’s upturned.
“Outsmarted,” you tell him, feeling pretty proud of yourself. “Thank you. You have to accept or I’m kicking you out.”
Barnes looks up at you and there it is again; in his expression, or maybe his eyes, a flash of something, less pleasant than before.
“Yeah, alright,” he says, his voice hoarse.
Your eyes track back and forth across his face for a moment, uncertain, but whatever it was you’d seen, if there’d even been anything at all, it’s clear he hadn’t meant for or wanted you to, so eventually you just decide to pretend it wasn’t there.
“Here,” is what you say instead. “Guava.”
It’s green and vaguely pear-shaped and the insides are pink and soft when he splits it with the knife; you watch him do it, his steady hands, the glove on his left, the blade, deft and sure. It’d been uneven, the fruit, so the pieces are different sizes even with how neatly he’d split it in two.
“You can have the bigger one,” you tell him.
He picks it up and moves to try it and you watch that, too; his hands, his mouth. The flash of his teeth.
The doorbell rings before he can take the first bite.
“Oh, my god,” you say, under your breath, quiet enough that Barnes can hear and the person coming in can’t. “I’ll be right back.”
It’s kind of annoying, the people who feel the need to come in at 10:57 at night when a place closes at 11, but the man only wants a standard coffee, cream and sugar, and he pays with a debit card, so he’s out in under two minutes and you don’t have to recount the drawer.
When you come back to the table the smaller half of the guava is gone.
“Changed my mind,” Barnes says when you raise an eyebrow at him, “You paid for it, so. Only–” he swallows, and his eyes break from yours for a second. Something flashes in them, like ice breaking in the frozen Hudson, the churning water underneath spilling out through the gaps. He looks stricken and ashamed and then fine; frozen over, again, the water gone still and solid. He clears his throat. “Only fair.”
“Okay,” you reply, with an easy shrug.
He watches you eat it. The juice gets on your fingers. You lick them clean.
This time, he doesn’t look away.
“I’ll be out early tonight,” you tell him, after. “If you wanted to wait, we could– walk together. Again. If– if you want.”
He swallows. Your eyes flicker down to it, the column of his throat, the movement. He’d cut himself shaving, or something, because there’s red, just a sliver of it, on the left side of his adam’s apple. Your mouth goes a little bit dry.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I'll walk you home.”
There’s barely any hesitation, this time.
~
Barnes walks you to your building, or just about.
You glance up at the windows overhead; your light is off. “Awesome,” you mumble to yourself. “Didn’t forget.”
You give him a small smile and an awkward little wave before you turn towards your apartment building. You get as far as into the threshold of the lobby before he calls out to you– calls out for you, uses your name again, only the second time you’ve ever heard him say it aloud, even though you know that he knows what it is. Has known, probably since day one; you have to wear those stupid name tags.
“Yeah?” you say, still in the doorway, the heat escaping all around you.
He’s still standing right where he had been, hands in his pockets, posture stiff and frozen and markedly uncomfortable. You wonder when that’d happened. You wish you’d been paying more attention, but work had been hell, and you’re really fucking tired. “Will you— can you do something for me? Just— make sure you lock your door,” he says, and then, as an afterthought, “Windows, too.”
“I always lock my door,” The smile you shoot back is wry and more than a little cynical. “And I’m on the third floor, so unless Spider-Man has decided he wants to start doing crime instead of stopping it, windows seem like overkill.”
He does not seem to find it funny. You think you see his eyes snap closed, his expression tighten and then relax, again, but you’re too far away to tell. Maybe he’d only blinked.
“Please do it,” he says. “I just want you to be safe.”
You stare at him for a second. Your hands are cold, your face, too. You want to get inside, where it’s warm. You want to go to sleep. “Yeah, okay,” you tell him. “I will.”
~
You don’t.
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I saw Frozen Empire, so obviously I have to talk about it. Spoilers ahead.
Also disclaimer that these are my personal feelings, so if we disagree that's okay too!
So, overall I would rate the movie as good. Not my all time favorite in the franchise, I think that will always go to the original, but I enjoyed it. The story could have used a little work in some parts, but hey, nothing is perfect.
Favorite part of this whole movie: one Dr. Raymond Stantz, hands down. He is so cute as an old man-child whose enthusiasm hasn't waned the least bit over the years. Honestly, in Afterlife he seemed like he'd become cynical, but here his true nature really rang through. And I adore him being a mentor for Phoebe and the other younger characters, while also getting into mischief with them. That little sparkle in his eye when Phoebe asks "Aren't you retired?" No, Ray is never retired, he will always be ready to suit up.
I also loved in the police station when Phoebe was standing up to Dickless Peck, Ray had this face like he was so proud, like he could see Egon in her, memories of him saying "YOUR MOTHER!" 😆
The other thing I liked about the movie was the expansion of the Ghostbusters as a business, with the research lab. First off, I love that Winston, the one who didn't even believe in ghosts when he was hired, is now almost like the CEO of the company. But also, it opens up more possibilities for this new era and allows for more playing with the world building. Though I feel like it was a wasted opportunity to put in some easter eggs for TRGB. Unless the ghosts featured were in the (*shudder*) Q5 episodes, I didn't recognize any of them from the show. Then again, I guess they're newer ghosts so that wouldn't make sense, but maybe they could have been similar kinds of ghosts. Just as a small reference.
Other favorite parts include:
-The near-lesbian romance between Phoebe and Melody
-Ray smuggling the Mini Pufts from Oklahoma (because of course he would)
-Also just the Mini Pufts in general (why are they so violent?)
-The way Ray's face lit up when Peter came to the firehouse
-Peter being proud that Ray quit smoking
-Peter's unwavering faith that Ray's idea is good and will work, and saying they all trust him
-The library ghost (did they never go back to get her???)
-Gary saying the words to the theme song
-Janine in uniform!
-Slimer eating the pizza with the posesser ghost in it
Now, onto the areas that I felt were not as strong. First of all, I found it wild that Phoebe was being ousted by everyone without any kind of fight. She's the one that started the whole thing up again, she's got the passion, she's got the brains, she's got the glasses and the curls! Her mom says a grand total of NOTHING to defend her in Peck's office, and they all just accept that she can't be a Ghostbuster anymore. Yeah, they don't want to get sued, but it's just weird to me that they don't even seem like they feel that terrible that she got benched. Callie and Trevor are very callous about the whole thing. Only Gary seems like he gives a shit, and he's not even her dad. The way Phoebe's benching ended wasn't all that satisfying either. It would have been nice for the other three to maybe struggle a little without her, realize they need her to balance the team, and try to find a way to get her back. Winston was really the one that got Peck off their backs in the end, no thanks to anyone else (also, I'm pretty sure in that scene, someone in the crowd yells 'dickless' 😆).
Side note, I really don't like Callie's character that much. I think she's self-centered and doesn't seem to care about the kids' feelings unless the situation becomes dire. Maybe she does deep down, but mostly her attitude about everything stinks. Idk, I wouldn't care if she wasn't in the movie at all.
Anyway, back to the plot. I liked the idea of Phoebe's plotline. I wish they'd gone all the way and had her and Melody kiss, I really thought that was coming when she separated from her body. But I have an issue about that particular moment. The decision to suddenly put herself in the chamber like that seemed to come out of nowhere, at least I thought so. They made it like Melody was supposed to be the one tricking her into doing it, but she really never said anything to convince her. Phoebe just decided on her own to try it. I know she mentioned a couple of times wondering what it would feel like to be a ghost, but it wasn't a strong enough buildup to such a risky move. Honestly, when she asked Ray about him wanting to be a ghost, coupled with Winston saying Ray was going to get himself killed, I thought they were foreshadowing killing Ray (and thank God they didn't!).
They also hint at Phoebe specifically being the one that needs to be used but why? Anyone could have been tricked into the chamber and been controlled by Garaka for the chanting.
But moving on from that, the other issue I have is with the firemaster. He was a little too good at controling the fire after what, a couple of hours of practice? I think the character could still work, he could still be a quirky weird guy, but I think I would have made him more of a reluctant inheritor of his grandma's powers. Maybe he struggles with it at first and he figures he can sell the artifacts to Ray to get rid of the responsibility. Then later he can finally accept his fate to help beat Garaka when he starts believing in himself.
Those are the only major parts that I felt could have been tweaked. Besides that, I would have loved to see Slimer and Ray get a moment, just as a nod to their friendship in the show, but I guess they want to stick to one continuity. Of all the things they could have referenced from the show, though, it had to be the Junior GB 😆 It was just a throwaway line, but still, I don't want to remember they were a thing.
Tl;dr, the movie was good and there were a lot of parts I really enjoyed. For the parts that were weak, I'm confident there will be another in the future, so hopefully they'll keep improving.
Also, who the hell voted for Peck to be mayor? I bet he rigged the election.
#ghostbusters#frozen empire#peter venkman#ray stantz#egon spengler#winston zeddemore#phoebe spengler#janine melnitz
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Why I love Ultra Violet, the one of the best indie rpgs you haven't played yet.
Ultra Violet has it rough. It is hopelessly obscure, but if you HAVE heard of it, you've likely played dozens of games like it. It's a Yume Nikki fangame, living in the shadow of the more popular games in the genre like .flow, Yume 2kki, Answered Prayers, and of course, Yume Nikki itself. And in the small community of Yume Nikki fangame fans, it struggles further to stand out. It's creative, but also leans on the existing ideas of Yume Nikki. It's extremely pretty, though nowhere near as pretty as 2kki. It gets dark and atmospheric, but not as dark as .flow. It's mysterious and tranquil, but not as mysterious nor tranquil as Answered Prayers. Between all the games in this niche genre trying to change and innovate, it seems to fail to find its voice.
And yet, I can't stop thinking about it. Ultra Violet has been occupying a spot in my brain since I first played it half a year ago, and in an effort to figure out why, I decided to 100% it. I collected every effect, and got every achievement available on Yume Nikki Online. And now I finally get it. Ultra Violet isn't just some unique worlds in an otherwise standard yume nikki game. Instead, it has a specific story it is trying to tell, and quite an interesting one at that.
Ultra Violet is the story of a young woman named Sometsuki. As is the standard with these kinds of games, she refuses to leave her room. However, going to sleep will allow her to explore her dream world. This is the basic setup most of these games follow, but Ultra Violet sets up one unique inversion. Sometsuki's room is very cozy. It's hardly the boring and barren room most of these other games have. Instead, she has an incredibly modern looking home. Where other games put static on their TVs, Sometsuki has cute cartoons she can watch.
This sets up part of the lie of Ultra Violet. This modern cute room doesn't seem to fit in the dark worlds of Yume Nikki games, but Ultra Violet tries hard to present itself as a cuter and more innocent game. This is the first impression the game creates, but it wasn't the one I was left with. There's one thing that becomes more and more evident over time as you play:
There is something wrong with Sometsuki, and she doesn't want you to know about it.
I should preface this by saying I don't know if this was intentional. I don't know what story the developer wanted to tell, but due to the interpretive nature of this genre, this was the story I got out of the game.
Ultra Violet's worlds are often extremely cute on the surface. Rabbit motifs are one of the most common reoccurring images. The game definitely wants to be cute and heartwarming, with even the game's equivalent of the Yume Nikki eyeball world, a nexus world filled with bloody body parts, being not TOO graphic compared to what other fangames have done. But the deeper you go, the deeper things get... wrong...
The nexus worlds are rather abstract. A snowy lake, a pastel forest, an ocean. But the deeper you go, the more things start to get specific. Things start to feel closer to her memories. And these are where the game dives into Sometsuki as a character. You can tell these are the areas that are clearly traumatic for her. But the game doesn't just hide the horror here, there are many horror easter eggs hidden in the cuter worlds, and the deeper worlds often contain the most comforting areas alongside the scary aspects. And this is where I think the character of Sometsuki lies. She buries and masks her memories due to her trauma, trying to hide her pain. But the trauma hasn't gone away, it's just well hidden. It leaks into the nice dreams she builds for herself, not letting her forget. The game's only horror effect, the headless effect, interacts with a surprising amount of areas in the cuter worlds. Sometsuki's dream world is lie. Her cute room is a lie. She buries her past, to avoid confronting what she's seen and is implied to have done.
One horror area is actively blocked off by boards and boxes you have to smash through, physically breaking down the walls she put up. Another requires her to continuously return to a room, similar to Yume Nikki's uboa event. But this time, every time you return to the room the woman inside is doing something different. This character appears in a variety of areas, obviously important to Sometsuki. It's like you have to go through her entire relationship with this person before uncovering what Sometsuki doesn't want to see. I think this, the way people bury what they don't want to feel deep inside and ignore the way it tears them up, and the difficulties of breaking through that habit and confronting the darkness, is the theme of Ultra Violet.
Ultraviolet: A colour you cannot see, but is nontheless present everywhere you go. This is the overarching theme of the game, how one's demons can lurk within them even when they try to suppress things. It explores how trauma can manifest even in people who seem fine. Sometsuki doesn't come across like the more obviously depressed protagonists of the other fangames, but she is nonetheless suffering through her mask of tranquility and happiness, a mask she wears so well she believes it herself. The game commits so hard to its theme of hidden scars, that some horrific imagery is only visible by going out of bounds, and isn't allowed to be seen in normal gameplay.
This doesn't make the cute stuff all a lie though. Ultra Violet has darkness lurking under the surface, but it can be very lighthearted and soft too. Sometsuki's memories contain a lot of gentle areas, maybe even more than the horror themed ones. Despite what I have said about darkness lurking under the cute facade of many of the lighthearted worlds, that doesn't invalidate the comfort they provide to Sometsuki, and the game understands that. It never frames the dark areas of Sometsuki's life as more 'real' than the happy ones. And in doing this, it pushes back on many of the theories about these types of games that interpret them entirely through suffering. Sometsuki has had a very hard life, one that she tries to bury, but as she works her way through her subconscious, she also finds a lot of buried memories of sweetness and tranquility. This game isn't a "this cute game is actually MESSED UP!" type of story. No, it is the story of a woman who has repressed her memories finally coming to terms with everything, the darkest parts of her psyche, but also the nicer places in her subconscious.
This is definitely one of the most standout aspects of Ultra Violet to me. It would have been so easy to make all of the deepest parts of Sometsuki's subconscious dark and edgy, but it doesn't. The sweet moments are just as much a part of the game as the scary ones. This gentle atmosphere carries through the game. While the eerie moments can be in-your-face, the happiest moments are often rather understated and tranquil. The peaceful areas are often as mysterious and open to theorizing as the scary ones. A bizarre shrine at the top of a hill in the countryside, helping someone in a blizzard and making a new friend, or sitting and looking out across a vast lake with the girl from the uboa analogue. The lasting image when I finished was not of a woman haunted by her past, but someone who made peace with what happened, the good and the bad. It's an unusually hopeful message for a Yume Nikki game.
Overall, Sometsuki is one of my favourite Yume Nikki fangame protagonists. If Yume Nikki is about exploring one's subconscious, then the simple act of hiding Sometsuki's subconscious makes this game stand out from so many other fangames. Sometsuki is not an open book, so while the horror isn't as groundbreaking as .flow or even Yume Nikki, Sometsuki's relationship to the horror is what makes her such a compelling character.
If you'd like to play Ultra Violet, it is free to play on the Yume Nikki Online Project. It's incomplete and lacks an ending, but nonetheless I highly recommend it. It's both a cute and interesting game that does a lot in a genre that is hard to stand out in. I won't act like it's going to change your life or anything, but if you're a fan of Yume Nikki or surreal indie rpgs with horror elements, I'd say it's definitely worth a playthrough. It's cute, a bit scary, but overall very sentimental and sweet.
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Hello, May I request a Cod Cold War ask? Specifically for Weaver x reader who’s part of the zombies strike team? I can imagine that they’re quick to figure out things (as you need to be for the Easter eggs) yet tough as they need to be? If not, I guess can I request Bell x reader (Bell may be hard to write for since they’re a player created character but I figured you do something cool with it!)
-MsPlacedHero
Ps, Chase loved the cookie I gave to him saying it was from you!
I'll try Bell as I'm a bit more familiar with them! Happy he liked the cookie even if it was a long time ago. Hope you enjoy :) Bell is referred to as They/Them as you did not specify what kind of Bell you wanted.
This is mostly rambling and may be short but it was me giving my view on the character and their potential. I wanted to explore it a bit so there's no real plot.
Yandere! Bell Concept/Overview
Pairing: Romantic/Platonic
Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Mentioned self-aware behavior but not focused, General Bell thoughts, Stalking, Brainwashing, General yandere behavior, Character death, Dubious companionship.
Bell can be both interesting yet difficult to write so I will try to keep this rather general.
Bell could be difficult since their character is primarily meant for the player to insert themselves into.
They're meant to be so the player can interact with the story and feel like a part of it.
This would be difficult to try and convey, however, it opens many different possibilities.
Bell would be like a customizable yandere.
In a story you can pick and choose how you'd want Bell to be.
Bell would work even better in a "Self-Aware" story since they'd act as a host for the player and are extremely player dependent.
Your little puppet.
A reflection of you.
Overall Bell could really have any sort of yandere personality traits due to being a blank canvas.
You could see Bell as soft or someone who follows their darling like a puppy.
Maybe you could see them as a worship yandere.
Maybe you could see them as cruel, perhaps even prior to the brainwashing?
As a result, the darling is just as customizable.
You could be a part of the CIA or know Bell prior to the brainwashing.
There's a lot of potential.
The things is, how to write Bell is you'd need to be specific.
That's why I'm mostly just looking over the character.
Honestly my favorite ideas may be the Self-Aware one and Bell with a fellow CIA agent.
The Self-Aware one is self explanatory, I mentioned it before.
But the CIA agent one could also be fun to explore.
You know you shouldn't get attached or involve yourself with Bell.
They've been brainwashed with MK-ULTRA to find out info on Perseus.
That's all, afterwards they may just be tossed away.
For now they just need to be alive until the mission is finished and over.
However, Bell appears to have some sort of adoration for you one way or another.
Maybe somewhere in their memories they seem to recall you being important to them.
It's most likely a fabricated memory to coax more information out of them, but it works.
How Bell deals with such information could vary.
They may follow you around, they may be overly protective/clingy, they could be possessive, they could be any number of things.
They don't understand why you never like being around them.
Truthfully you either don't care or don't want to be attached.
Either way, Bell would want to treat you more than a "comrade".
They either see you as a close friend they "fought alongside" or maybe even a lover.
They have no idea you and Adler just need them for information.
Bell may most likely be "gotten rid of" before they become too much of a problem for you due to their obsession.
If they are a softer and more docile yandere, it feels horrible to know Adler did them in.
If they are rougher and more intense, it may feel like a relief when they're gone.
Player created characters like Bell have potential to be interesting once you have traits decided.
Unfortunately as a result I can't really assign Bell any definitive yandere behavior for them.
They seem like a puppet, a husk, meant to follow orders due to all of the brainwashing.
Regardless... a blank slate character can still have endless potential if you have a plot to work with.
No two Bell stories would be the same, essentially.
Bell is a wild card when it comes to their darling.
Which can mean they're a dangerous yandere if you think about it.
#yandere call of duty#yandere call of duty cold war#yandere cod#yandere cod cold war#yandere cod bell
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Fanfic Writer Questions!
Thanks for the tag, @fazedlight and @thatonebirdwrites
1- How many works do you have on AO3?
I have 16
2. What's your total AO3 word count?
356,960
3. What fandoms do you write for?
Supergirl – Arrowverse/ DC Comics: Primarily Supercorp, secondarily Dansen, Brainia, and J’M’zz, and I have one AgentReign with secondary Supercorp.
4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?
PRIDE and Prejudice – Super gay retelling of Jane Austen’s classic. Every kudos equals $1.00US to a LGBTQIA2S charity I make at the conclusion of Pride month (June) each year (teen)
Tell Me It’s Not Too Late – Post-S4, Lillian believes Supergirl is responsible for Lex’s death. Lena rushes to J’onn’s for game night, to confront Kara on her identity, only to find she’s nowhere to be found (teen)
I Believe in a Thing Called Love – Full alternate Season 6 rewrite (teen)
Wouldn’t It Be Nice – 50 First Dates movie AU (teen)
How Lost We Are – Lena is placed by her Witness Protection team (Maggie, Kelly, and Lucy) in Midvale as a flower shop owner where she meets teacher Kara and coffee/bookshop owner Jess, among others (mature)
5. Do you respond to comments?
Yes, I do usually respond, though not always right away. I enjoy chatting about my fics, so don’t hesitate to ask questions, but I don’t give out spoilers though.
6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?
When She’s Gone, the Darkness Comes – Oof. It was so sad I had to write a second chapter. I much prefer happy endings (teen)
7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?
All of them have a happy ending of some kind, or they will once they’re completed. Though there are some with happy endings like Speak Now and Tis the Damn Season. Smut. I’m talking about smut (explicit)
8. Do you get hate on fics?
Yeah, though I’ve been mostly lucky. I don’t know why people leave hate on any fics really. If you don’t like something, close the tab.
9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?
Yes. It started as a small scene here or there when it was a natural progression of the fic, but now I occasionally right full smut fics and pwp like those found here (explicit)
10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?
Kind of, but the characters are all from within the Arrowverse/ DC Comics universes somewhere.
11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?
Not that I know of. I don't understand why someone would do this. Please respect writers.
12. Have you ever had a fic translated?
Yes. I Believe in a Thing Called Love is also in Spanish Creo en una cosa llamada amor (teen)
13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?
I’m currently working on one with @thatonebirdwrites, though it's not published. It’s a Supercorp fic where Kara is a building inspector and when she goes to inspect Lena’s home, she meets Lena’s daughter to tells her the floor is lava, so naturally Kara has to ensure that issue gets resolved.
14. What's your all time favorite ship?
Supercorp. But I do love most wlw ships
15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?
I intent to finish all of my active WIPs. I have some WIP ideas that may or may not ever get going, but once I start a fic, I intend to finish it.
16. What are your writing strengths?
I have no idea… I guess easter egg type stuff or like blending canon into storylines. If your a reader and there's something you think is a strength I have, let me know.
17. What are your writing weaknesses?
Actually writing. Words be hard. And it's hard to find the time.
18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?
I do it sometimes, probably not well. I like to include the translation in the fic (unless the characters themselves aren’t supposed to understand until later). But I'm sure the translations aren't fully right as I only use google translate and the Kryptonian dictionary.
19. First fandom you wrote for?
Supercorp. I started writing fiction in Dec 2020. Before that it was all scientific research papers for uni.
20. Favorite fic you've written?
I suppose What Has Been Lost (Mature). It was what started this crazy adventure, has been the most challenging piece, and my longest (still ongoing). It truly blends lore and characters from across the Arrowverse and DC Comics into a human world and original storyline.
For Tags, if you'd like to participate: @fyonahmacnally @casualsavant @luthordamnvers @itsalliebitheway @innamorament0
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It's not that the Vex had gone away, no, no, no. They never went away, They just got... easier to ignore. For a while, anyway. Background noise, like someone having a radio on next door that's loud enough for you to hear, but quiet enough you can't identify the songs.
Not that Scar had been ignoring the Vex, mind. Definitely not. Once a Vex, always a Vex. He'd just had other work to do, and nothing the Vex were imploring him to do. They didn't need him baking cookies, after all! He did that for his own amusement, and because he loved feeding people nice things. And who doesn't like cookies?
There were things the Vex did ask for, though, in those moments when Scar was able to hear Them. Things he didn't need to be told twice to do, of course, but that was beside the point. Why was there an Evoker on Main street, able to attack anyone who got too close? Well, the Vex needed a presence in Scarland, and what better way than a fortune teller!
But it wasn't enough. It was never going to be enough. Now that the Vex were closer, more easily accessible, They whispered more intensely and Scar couldn't ignore them anymore. There were plans, oh yes, but Scar just had to wait until more of the park was built up in order to add more Vex things. Not that it was going to become Vexland or something like that, no! But, well, if he included some little easter eggs here and there, well, who could blame him?
So of course he built a Vex head backstage, shipped to Scarland all the way from ConCorp, and perhaps that was fine. It was a small reminder, a little in-joke for him and Cub. And maybe he left a cake there, too, as an offering, because it was only right to make offerings to the Vex.
Sometimes he dreamed about the Cathedral, maybe building another one, a bigger, better one, somewhere in Scarland. Somewhere worthy for the Vex to be worshipped as They truly deserved. Sometimes he was simply kneeling before the altar, offering cake, offering sweet things, offering blood, offering himself, as the Vex flew around him, Their teeth as sharp as they always were.
Maybe he also left a little blood, too, staining the wood that held the Vex head, feeling the Vex surge around him, feeding off him. And maybe Cub joined him, in the dead of night, called back into the arms of the Vex, not that they'd ever really left.
Oh, it felt incredible to feel Vex magic again, especially with Cub. Scar clung to him, overwhelmed, the magic so powerful no mobs dared approach them. The eyes glowed on the statue, the mouth gleaming white with sharp teeth. Scar dared to touch it, and the familiar feeling of possession soothed his soul as the mask attached to his face, sinking in until it was skin. It was time to feed. He took Cub's hand and they flew off, two Vexes preparing to terrorise the server once more.
#hermitcraft#fanfic#convex#gtwscar#cubfan135#tw blood mention#vex scar#vex cub#i'm very normal about the vex head in scarland can't you tellal#also i should write more vex cathedral fic#maybe for the grimoire once i'm done with the part i'm currently working on
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just binged all of redstone and skulk in one go. HOLY SHIT!!! i left some comments on ao3 but that wasn't enough. i needed to come to your tumblr too bc this fic has Changed Me A Little. it makes sense- i've been subscribed to you on ao3 for a while (remember hound's tooth? i think that was when i started following your writing. and monsters splitting hairs, although i'm not quite caught up on that one), and that was for a good reason- but tanguish and helsknight are something else! part of why i like fanfiction is because i get to see more of characters i already like- it takes a special fic to get me so invested in characters i've basically just met! and you do it so well! like. the subtle character things! the way i can pick out the hermits' (and martyn's, but i'm calling him a hermit for the sake of convenience) traits in the helsmits, but warped and twisted around like a funhouse mirror? fantastic. i love it. im eating that shit up. the ilttle differences and similarities between tango and tanguish, helsknight and wels (bc he isn't acting very knightly right now), impulse and the demon- it's so cool to see! i also saw the other ask you got where you talked about your process, and how you give your characters a list of traits as a guide to writing them- i'm definitely going to have to borrow that trick. it works! so well! it shows in your writing in the consistency of how the characters behave!
some other thoughts i had while reading:
helsknight being religious probably has a lot more to do with him being a knight than wels being a lutheran irl (which is where his name comes from and i find that hilarious), but still. if it's unintentional it's hilarious and if it's on purpose then it's a fun easter egg!
i relate to and understand tanguish, because i too would want to befriend helsknight, and also because if a bunch of big scary people basically adopted me and tried to teach me how to use a knife i would be so pathetic about it.
i relate to and understand helsknight and tango, because tanguish is the weirdest little cat ever and i too am captivated by his pathetic little freak charms, and i want to be his friend.
i neither relate to nor understand wels, because 1) if i saw my friend's presumably-evil counterpart skulking around the shopping district i would likely call them first (just seems like the polite thing to do, and also bc if helsknight showed up and the ppl who found him didn't call wels about it i feel like he'd probably be more than a little pissed), and 2) look at tanguish. he's just a little guy. he's a little guy and it's his birthday. how could you be mean to him.
tl;dr: redstone and skulk has compelled me to the point that leaving comments on ao3 wasn't enough, i needed to ramble straight into your inbox because it's just so good.
Oh my gosh! Firstly: thank you for all the kind words! I'm glad you're liking my writing so far, and thank you both for the comments and the scurry into the inbox. I love hearing people's thoughts, even if I don't have the spoons to respond to everyone all the time :'D
For your bullet points:
-- I didn't know Wels was Lutheran! I knew he was ex-military, and at least in my family's trends, military and religiosity go hand in hand, so it makes sense. But still! Learning new fun facts! I know nothing about the Lutheran Church [I was raised Baptist.] Probably gonna do some reading later.
-- I feel like Tanguish is going through that phase of "all the biker/military uncles have decided I'm one of them for some reason" and as someone who has gone through that before, for the same baffling non-reasons [used power tools in their presence once, a la Tanguish barely participating in a fight once] I sympathize. Very interesting somewhat scary people. Why did you invite me to sit at your table. Why do you keep slipping me tequila and buying me knives like I'm in on the joke.
-- Tanguish is such a specimen we all just want to look at him under a microscope. He is so scared yet so brave. He thinks knives are scary but he leaps off buildings. He's scared of getting hurt and seeing blood but he has no regard for his personal safety. How do you fit so many oxymorons in such a tiny body---
-- Wels please, he's a little guy and it's his birthday! Stop bullying him!!
Addendum: I agree Jackrabbit is very Tanguish coded. It is now on the playlist.
Want to live like an animal?
By the skin of your teeth?
Put your good face on, you're foolin' no one
You're a jackrabbit underneath
One step forward, step right back
Run for the hills, honey, run for the hills, honey
Run for the hills, don't look back
#answering asks#gumy-shark#i lied i know why the biker/military uncles like me#they know i dress like a guy and help my mom do all the guy chores when my bro in law / step dad arent available#and they think i stepped up as the man-type figure around the house when my papa passed#they dont know im trans the poor things#rns asks
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But like, Wild does 8x damage if he managed to land a sneak strike. Hello why does nobody talk about how op ninja Wild would be? And his sneaky pants, sorry I mean his Sheikah armor. I need to see more of him in that set.
I feel like it could be a really good under armour too. Like, obviously if he add stuff over it the sound muffling effect would be gone, but if he removed the pauldron/shoulder pads he can wear that under his clothes, maybe even like a arming jacket for the ancient armor? Idk I just love the Sheikah armor.
Also, I sounds like a broken record by now but imagine Time's reaction to Sheik's mask, especially when paired with the Sheikah armor. There's just so much Easter eggs in botw I can't even...
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The mashups anon is right! I questioned one switie about every single claim they made about joe and they could only say they trust her because taylor is always sending messages to fans through the suprise song and "painting themes". They're also making predictions about the new album and saying she's gonna spill tea and reveal he was abusive wtf
They really are f*cked in the head... but it's not their fault only. She started this BS with her easter eggs 🙄
And now they desperately need Joe to be evil to justify why he is gone. To confirm that all the men before him were also evil. To confirm the poor little billionaire victim narrative. Because the alternative is that she is the bad one. 🤨
They used Joe staying with her as a gotcha "see, she was never the problem, the men before him were evil" excuse for 6 years, without realizing that this only showed that Joe is special and stoic and has an extremely high tolerance to BS. I said this before, but I think Joe is a super empath.
So, now that even Joe is gone.. well they have a problem... They are back to square one. They can't use Joe as a "she is not the problem" excuse anymore. Therefore Joe must be painted as evil too, at all cost. 🙄🙄🙄
Well, I don't trust her! If anything, she is the last person on this planet I would trust with anything, really, so I don't care what she will say.. 🤷♀️
#free joe alwyn#nonnie#q&a#jalwyn#anti taylor swift#toxic swifties#shit swifties say#toxic taylor swift
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God I love everything about Yves so much he’s so powerful it’s ridiculous.
It’s like being besties with the last boss right off the bat and now you get to play life on easy mode with this cheat code of a man.
I can’t wait for the “The Court™️” arc where Yves wipes the floor with Evangeline and everyone related to her.
Also Yves always seems like such a cool character who has everything under control so those rare moments where he shows extreme emotions like when he cries or gets cuteness aggression hits so much harder. It makes you wonder how he would’ve been if he hadn’t gone through all he did and had to adapt :( Whenever he cries I wanna hug him.
Also unrelated but god I wanna play with his hair so bad. I wanna have cuddling sessions with him and start braiding little chunks of his hair while being wrapped in a blanket with him and a movie playing in front of us. I hope he likes movie nights and Ghibli movies because with me he’ll have a lot of them
An ask that mentioned about touching his hair
similar ask about watching your favorite movies
Yves would love to have those sessions very much. You would think that he knew nothing about Ghibli movies, but he researched so much about it, that you may think he was on the production team itself. Yves just likes to hear you rave about your favorite things, that is why he would be quiet and smile, expressing his interest in listening to your info dumping.
He would sit still as you weave his hair into braids, watching the wonderfully made animation in front of him. Yves has already analyzed it numerous times to know what the main themes of it were, the hidden easter eggs, and different fan interpretations of it. Yves understands why you love it so much, be it due to its beautifully expressed story or because you simply relate to the characters.
Give and take, you play and braid his hair, Yves expected to do the same to you. Of course, he is going to maximize your tingles by massaging your scalp and controlling his strength. He prefers when you're the one in his lap, where his form encases you like a crescent. That way, he could witness all those precious reactions to key parts of the movie, especially the ones he deems new or unseen before.
It's cold, so you snuggle deeper into him, pulling the blanket around you tighter. Yves would press a kiss on your head, ideally, movie nights would happen after you and he are fed, freshly showered, blowdried, and mildly sleepy. He wouldn't have any makeup on, so you don't have to worry about smudging red lipstick on your face.
Because he has a flatscreen television in front of the bed, you can fall asleep anytime you want. Soft, plush pillows will surround you, strategically placed so that you have less of an urge to leave his arms, let alone the bed.
Perhaps you would absentmindedly toy with the brush of his braids while your eyes are trained on the screen, but Yves doesn't mind, because he would similarly soothingly rub your arms or thighs, or twirl a lock of your hair out of habit. He would have numerous pillows propping his back up at the best angle, becoming your personal couch for the night.
Maybe you might yearn for more media regarding a specific Studio Ghibli movie. Perhaps you didn't like the ending, it was too bleak and sad for you. So you cope by consuming fanmade content that aligns with your ideal.
Yves knows this, he monitors all of your internet activities after all. He would pretend that he wholeheartedly agrees with your take and even sketch fanart of your favorite characters. His work would be so well made, so intricate that you would think it was an official lost chunk of the actual movie. He's been an expert in mimicry since he was a mere boy, hence, copying its art style and creating a narrative that doesn't seem too far off from the movies is simply child play to him.
You could fangirl/fanboy over the characters with him. He would gladly join you and add fuel to the fire by feeding you his own headcanons, analyses, and drawings. You might think that he's even more enthusiastic than you are with the way he is obsessively collecting observations about the works of Studio Ghibli. You knew that he would make it big in the fanbase if he published his thoughts and creations surrounding the media, but they're for your eyes and ears only.
It is baffling to you because his art is god-like. Yet, he is content with an audience of one: the love of his life.
Yves will allow you to have movie nights daily. He gets to hold you and you get to relax. It's a win-win. During days when movie nights aren't appropriate (i.g., you fall sick, and have to rest), he would just alter your environment to make you sleepier than usual. No need to tell you no, you're already dozing off with your head on his chest.
It would pain him to undo his braids. It was your hard work. But he has to take care of his hair, so he would gently pull the bands off and proceed with his regular haircare regimen. The same goes for you, he would let your hair breathe as you sleep, and he wouldn't want you to suffer from hair damage or loss either.
But that only means you get to braid his hair again tomorrow night.
#yandere#yandere male#oc yves#tw yandere#yandere concept#yandere x you#yandere oc#yandere x reader#male yandere oc x reader#yandere oc x reader#yves would hella appreciate the hug tho
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