#he was giving a little bitter and hurt and perhaps even resentful - maybe he only learned of misha's gf | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

jakekiszkaenthusiast · 2 years

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i see it- j.m.k

warnings: SMUT, lil bit of degradation never hurt nobody, enemies to lovers, semi public sex??

anger. resentment. indignation. rage.

whatever you wanted to call it, it was clear and profound. your leg bounces against your chair, while your fingers tap a quick, messy beat into the glass you’re holding.

the silence within your group of friends was stiff, and tired. they were so used to these pauses- the ones where no one feels as if they can speak, while a quiet battle wages on before their eyes. a standoff between two people, tense and unforgiving, for all to see.

“you got no response? no shitty little remark to make?”

josh’s voice captures your attention, but you refuse to look at him. instead, you shake the glass, the rattling of the ice being the only sound for a moment. he scoffs, leaning back into his seat and crossing his arms over his chest.

“that’s what i thought.” he mutters, catching the roll of your eyes and mirroring them.

“are you guys gonna keep doing this all night, or can we all-”

“-i just think it’s fucking funny that you actually, genuinely believe you have any say in what i do, or wear.” you cut jake, always the mediator between you and josh, off with a hand and a bitter tongue.

jake merely shakes his head and nurses his drink, defeated. he was fighting a losing battle, and would be a stupid man to get in your way when either of you were like this. he knew, maybe better than anyone, that his twin brother was a force no one could reckon with, and secretly thought that perhaps his brother had met his match in finding you.

“maybe stop dressing like a slut, and i’ll shut up.” josh shoots back, and you laugh without mirth.

“oh now joshua, don’t tease.” you say, because there’s really nothing you’d want more than for him to stop talking.

“i’m just saying, if you’re dressed like a whore, you can’t expect people to respect you. i know i don’t.”

“who says i give a fuck about respect, or you, for that matter? all you are is my friend’s asshole brother. you don’t matter to me, and i wouldn’t be shocked if no one cared about you.”

“god, you’re a bitch and a slut. no surprise you’re single- no one can stand to be around you for longer than a minute. does it ever get lonely?”

usually his words would bounce off of you, and you’d shoot back with a remark even more harsh than his. you’d both end up with ugly scowls across your faces and one of your friends changing the subject in poor attempts to keep the peace. usually.

maybe you had drank too much, the alcohol taking control of more than just your words. maybe it was because josh was incessant and cruel, and you no longer had the energy to fight back. either way, you found yourself slamming your glass against the table and your legs carrying you in the direction of the bathrooms before you could stop to think.

the door slams behind you. you’re cold and hot at the same time, shivers taking over your shoulders while your body overwhelms with heat from the inside of your chest. looking up at yourself in the mirror, you sigh. maybe you were dressed provocatively. josh was right.

you feel even more angry at that thought. you hated that tiny possibility of josh being right, hated when he managed to catch you off guard and make you feel meaningless and small. he was a raging asshole.

the door behind you flies open with a crash, revealing a red-faced and thoroughly pissed off josh. he stormed into the tiny room, getting too close for your liking, invading your space with his cologne.

“you’re really that sensitive?” he speaks just barely above a yell, his fists clenched.

“i don’t want to speak to you right now.” your eyes meet in the mirror.

“too bad. you really can’t take what i give you, huh? you want me to walk away just so your feelings don’t get hurt?”

josh steps closer, glaring so hard his eyebrows almost touch, his breath ragged with barely contained rage. you grip the counter, refusing to give him an answer to pick apart and spit back out at you.

“i don’t give a fuck about your feelings.” he whispers, and you’re suddenly aware of just how close he is. you feel the warmth of his body, feel the brush of his white shirt against your back.

you manage to twist your body to face him, leaning back against the counter with a startled breath catching in your throat. his eyes flick down to your lips for a brief second, before finding your eyes again.

“fuck. you.” you spit out through gritted teeth, staring defiantly into his face.

“i bet you’d love that, whore.” he murmurs.

you open your mouth to shoot back something cruel, but his hand stops you. he silences you, watching as your eyes widen and you try to pull away, but to no avail.

“shut up for once.”

you wrestle against him, thrashing your head from side to side. your hands grab his wrist, digging your nails into his skin and tightly squeezing, trying your hardest to pull him away from you. josh laughs at your efforts, using barely any of his strength to render you immobile and frustrated.

when you still, slumped against the counter with a deep sigh, he removes his hand, ghosting it across your cheek to hold you there, his other hand joining soon after. he tugs your face closer to him, and you can see all the specks of gold in his eyes.

you’re silent, staring at him with dumbfounded surprise. he’d never been this close to you, nor had he ever laid a finger on you. this closeness, the strong, sturdy weight of his chest pressing against yours makes your throat tighten, and you can’t seem to find your breath.

without warning, you’re leaning in, chasing his mouth with yours, just barely grazing his lips before he pulls away. he looks at you with a smirk, a quirk in his eyebrows betraying that this was his exact plan.

“you wanna kiss me?” he says quietly, his fingertips pressing into your cheeks.

you nod embarrassingly fast, letting go of his wrists to grab at his jaw. he breathes a laugh, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip, before leaning in just close enough to run his lips against yours.

“you want me?”

to answer his question, you tug on his neck and crash your lips to his. you don’t let either one of you come up for air, and quickly slip your tongue into his mouth, deepening the kiss.

he groans into your mouth, sweeping his hand across the back of your neck and tangling his fingers with your hair. you can’t get him close enough, it seems. your fingers scrabble at his back, his shirt, his neck, his hair- anywhere you can touch you’re digging your nails into, gasping into the kiss and pulling him tighter.

josh pulls on your hair to break the kiss, laughing breathlessly when you still try to chase his mouth. your hands are still wandering anywhere you can reach, dancing across the unexplored and new territory that was his body. you’d had the displeasure of knowing him for years, and yet you’d never been given the opportunity to touch him. you privately wished you had never been denied such a delectable chance.

“where’s this been hiding all these years, hm? how long have you wanted to do that?” he asks, smirking at your flushed cheeks.

“how long have you wanted to do that, joshua?” you bite back, tugging on a curl and watching his eyelashes flutter.

when he rolls his eyes and kisses you again, you laugh into his mouth. he lost any ounce of secrecy the moment you felt how hard he was against your thigh.

this time, josh is the one who grabs and pulls you into him. his fingers are tight and desperate against your hips, and he doesn’t have to say a word to order you to jump, effortlessly sliding you onto the counter and slotting himself between your legs.

“if anyone catches us, i swear to fucking god” you groan, suddenly remembering exactly where you were, and horrifyingly, how the door did not lock behind josh.

“let them watch” he mutters against your lips.

you can’t help the sound that rips out of you- the combination of his filthy implications and the pressure of him against your soaked panties was enough to make you crumble, fully submitting to his touch. he pulls away, replacing his mouth with his hand once more.

“if you make another sound i’ll stop, and you’ll have to sit out there with our friends with a mess between your legs. we don’t want that, do we?”

rapidly you shake your head, breathing heavily against his hand.

“that’s what i thought. good girl.”

another noise escapes you. your eyes flutter shut when you feel his fingers pressing between your legs, gently smoothing circles into your underwear.

“you like me calling you that, good girl?”

you nod so quickly you fear your head may fall off, ignoring any ounce of humiliation you know you’re supposed to feel.

“it’s a shame. a dirty slut like you could never be a good girl.” he speaks low into your ear, sending shockwaves through your chest to your toes.

“you dress like a whore. you like to pretend you’re all innocent, but i know the truth. i know you.”

his fingers change from their languid, calm actions, shoving your underwear roughly to the side and sliding between your folds. the corner of his mouth twitches, noting how wet you are.

“i know that you like when we argue, because i get you all worked up- you always rush off to touch yourself in secret, don’t you?”

swirls around your clit force your eyes to the back of your head. your body sags, slumping down as he deftly works over you, occasionally running a finger against your entrance, but never slipping inside, no matter how badly you conveyed you wanted it.

“wishing it was me, wishing i would take all my anger out on you with my cock, yeah?.”

you feel like you’re on fire, you’re that worked up. he slides his finger inside of you and you almost unravel then and there- he has you so tightly wound, practically wrapped around his finger, you could explode at any moment. he curls his finger into your sweet spot, and you think you’re going to evaporate into nothing.

“it’s almost funny how badly you want me. you know i can see your thighs squeeze together when i call you names, right? i see what i do to you without even laying a finger on you.”

a second finger finds its way inside of you, and he finally gives you the movement you’ve been silently begging for, sliding in and out of you with a sweet pace that makes your thighs shake.

“prove you’re a good girl and cum on my fingers, okay? be a sweet little princess and give it to me.” he commands in such a gentle voice you could almost believe it was a request; that he was asking for it and not demanding it from you.

embarrassingly, you’re almost there already. the manner in which he spoke to you, soft voice with filthy words, and the speed and skill of his fingers felt more perfect and right than anything you’ve ever experienced. you try to remind yourself that he was someone you hated, someone you’d rather hit with your car than fuck, but you involuntarily shut those thoughts out with a carnal, unstoppable chanting of his name. you aren’t sure if you’re speaking out loud or in your mind, and you aren’t bothered enough to care either way.

your orgasm hits you like a wall, crashing into you and setting you on fire. you just barely hear josh’s voice coaxing you through it, floating away into the feeling of pleasure coating your body. he brushes his thumb over your clit, and you almost scream at the sensitivity, arching your back and whining softly.

“such a good little girl, you did exactly what i told you to do. so obedient.” he observes the wetness covering his fingers with lust-blown pupils, biting his lip.

despite the haze of your orgasm, you reach out for the button of his pants, tugging and pulling at the fabric until you find what you’re searching for, the object of your needs. you waste no time wrapping your hands around his cock, pumping him with a tight fist, running your thumb over the sensitive spot just under the head. he squeezes his eyes shut, letting his mouth hang open for a second.

“spread your legs again, need to fuck you. ‘m so hard-shit.” he commands with far less composure than the last time, his eyes half-lidded and soft while his hand grabs at your knees to open you to him again.

you take his cock with no effort, watching with wide eyes as his face scrunches up, barely able to control it. the very moment he fills you up is one you’d love to live in forever. the slow glide of him stretching you out, his fingers grabbing at the sides of your thighs, that delicious, burning end to all the anticipation- it was overwhelming, too much and not enough all in one fell swoop.

watching the furrow in his brow, hearing the catch in his throat when you clench tightly around him, feeling his tip brush against that sweet spot buried deep inside of you was intoxicating- dangerous and electrifying in the same way watching a fire dance and stumble with no control is, engulfing everything in its wake- you knew you’d forever chase this high, knew you’d never get it again. he was addictive.

josh tips his head back and groans into the air, a deep and throaty sound that makes you clench around him. he rocks his hips forward, his eyes rolling back momentarily, before repeating the action again. and again. and again. soon, he’s thrusting into you with no control or hesitation, squeezing your thighs so tightly you hope they’ll bruise.

you hold his head in your hands, running your fingers over his cheekbones, and pull him close to you. your mouths touch, but you never kiss. neither one of you feels the need to extend the contact into anything more- frankly, moaning against each other’s mouths, panting and whining openly for just the other to hear, is more intimate than kissing.

“fuck, you feel so good.” he whispers, in a voice far more soft and desperate than you’re sure he wants, his hips speeding up.

“please don’t fucking stop.” you gasp out, clutching the back of his head with shaking fingers.

“wouldn’t even if i could.” he replies, so far gone he can’t control the speed of his hips or the words coming out of his mouth.

lost in the moment, you both lose time. the feeling of him everywhere, his lips grazing your jaw, his fingers on your hips and between your legs, his cock sliding in and out, the smell of his skin- everything. it makes you dizzy and warm, and you’re not sure how long you’re both lost in the swirls of pleasure floating around your heads, but you know you’d pay disgusting amounts of money to stay like this for a lot longer.

josh pulls you back to the present with a loud cry, his eyebrows knotting together and his mouth hanging open. just knowing what was about to happen was enough to push you over the edge, and you’re suddenly both careening into your own personal heaven, handcrafted and made just for you.

his hips still roll into you as you both cum, and you whine. you’re so sensitive, you can hardly cope, pressing your head against the wall behind you while loud sounds are forced past your lips. you push a hand against his stomach, begging for a reprieve, but his eyes are closed.

“can’t stop, feels too fucking good. can’t stop cumming- fuck.” he pants.

tears brim beneath your eyelids, your hips lift up and twist, trying their hardest to escape the overwhelming sensation as he keeps moving, driving his cock deeper and deeper into your sweet spot.

an inhuman noise leaves him, and he’s cumming again. his abdomen flexes, while his cock throbs so hard inside of you, you almost expect him to explode. he hisses when you clench down on him, warning him to stop, and he quickly pulls out, taking hold of himself and sighing deeply.

he’s still twitching when he helps you clean up, tenderly wiping between your thighs with one hand, while the other still cups his cock. you run a teasing finger along his length, and laugh when he practically jumps away from your touch, tensing and glaring coldly at your amused face.

“what you gonna do, yell at me? you’ll just get hard again.” you challenge, watching his eyes darken for a brief moment.

“i see how much you like calling me names, joshua. you’re not as subtle as you think.”

#greta van fleet #fanfiction #josh kiszka #greta van fic #josh kiszka fanfiction #josh kiszka fanfic #josh kiszka smut #josh kiszka x reader

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sinisterexaggerator · 2 years

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The Existential Crisis of an Elder Duros; or, "Had too much to drink."

Notes: Mind-blowingly amazing art by @deepbluespace4, which her original post can be found here and I am SO, SO honored she was inspired to draw this based on this drabble I wrote and I am forever in awe and grateful.

I normally write smut, so this is very different. Was feeling sad one day, so this came out. Stream of consciousness/character study bullshit from the PoV of Cad Bane. Though, as I said earlier, "don't know if this would be something that would ever happen to him. He seems pretty solid in his outlook and way of life," so it might be somewhat out of character? Didn't edit too much. Oh well. Enjoy ( or not ).

Warnings: None except there are many negative thoughts and feelings involved.

Word count: 2.1k +

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World-weary. No. Galaxy-weary. That’s a word you might put to it. The overwhelming, all-encompassing feeling of just being over it. Over everyone’s kark and banthashit. Over the mediocre day to day; the politics spanning distant star systems; the heat of a too bright sun. Even the smell of blaster scoring. Blood, death, decay, Tibanna. Chasing money and chasing tail. Women and men all wanting a taste of infamy.

Everyone was always out for themselves, and so was he, but perhaps it was that very thing that made him this way. The lack of trust in another person, the emptiness residing in this all too big universe. That hole that was never filled. A black one that devoured any and every positive emotion he ever had; sucked into the void to never see the light of day.

It was anathema. All of it. Sand in his boots, dry scales, cracked lips, scarred skin; who was he but an accumulation of every terrible thing he had ever done, or every horrible thing that had ever happened to him? Bitterness, hate, envy, jealousy. A feeling of being too good, or not good enough. Whose dreams were these? Were they his? Did he have any dreams? He had forgotten what those were; what those felt like.

Sleepless days and nights, or maybe sleepless nights and days. They all ran together, couldn’t tell one womp rat’s tail end from another’s. One job after another, one face after another – all the same, didn’t matter the species, all the same except …

Red eyes strained and sore, muscles tired, limbs aching, stomach empty, heart … hurting? What was life, and what was death? How many times had he escaped the outstretched hand of the devil to still wind up in hell? How many more times would he look down the barrel of a blaster to come out on the other side unscathed? Who could say they were better than Cad Bane?

Loneliness, regret, anger, contempt. Friendless. Drifting, aimless. Credits are credits. They bought… things. Things that wouldn’t matter in the end, but that’s all he had.

It was a good life; a rotten life. Left rich in the eyes of man but destitute during this … dark night of the soul. Did he have one? Was there a Maker? Was he going to burn?

No peace and quiet even in the emptiness of space, thoughts forever racing, a testament to his calculating mind. A blessing, or a curse? Both? An irritation?

Who or what could quiet this raging inferno inside him? This resentment, this rancor, yet also this … apathy. To care about everything all at once while at the same time not caring about anything at all.

Was he crazy? He had to be. In his line of work everybody was a little off their rocker. Maybe that’s how he had survived this long - if you could call it surviving. Living on the cusp of normalcy while at the same time failing to be normal. Turning every head in the room while at the same time shutting everyone out.

Cold, conniving, scheming… vacant. His stare, and his entire self. What meaning did anything have that wasn’t stripped away within minutes, hours, days?

He had tried. He had tried to really give a shit. It wasn’t in his cards. Or was it? Was he afraid? Too… proud to open up? Ever since …

Oh, and the agony. A droid could only do so much, but perhaps it was enough. Companionship was never what he wanted it to be.

Paranoia, delusion, anxiety, dread, cynicism, suspiciousness. These never amounted to anything other than his own dark truth. The truth he was alone and always would be. The only thing he had to cling to were adjectives, negativity, deep-seated vitriol; vehemence. A feeling of being wronged. A feeling of being right. A feeling of restlessness, agitation, neuroticism … His bark was worse than his bite despite him having sharp as kark teeth.

To be like everyone else, to be able to breathe, to be able to see clearly when his vision was so precise. He hated that nothing made sense, yet everything seemed so simple.

Eat, shit, piss, sleep, die. How could one go on? How could one know the answer if they didn’t even know the question? What perverted, sick son of a bitch put him here in the first place?

He had never asked to be hatched. He had never asked for this life, this path, this finite space between birth and whatever the hell came next. Nothing? Something? Purgatory? Damnation? Salvation? Heaven… ? A rotting corpse below a tombstone with his title on it? “Here lies …”

Who would be kind enough to bury him?

Concepts, ideas, man-made dribble, infuriating nonsense. Won’t buy in. Won’t succumb to the need for something else. Something bigger. Something unobtainable or out of reach. The Force, maybe? The thing that held men’s minds together and the galaxy at large? The thing that destined him to be what he was, is, and forever will be?

A Duros. No. More than that. But what? If he hadn’t made a name for himself he would be nameless.

The way he saw it time was money, and without money he wouldn’t give his time, but now he had more money than he had time. All the money in the universe couldn’t buy more time, and he was getting old. He was old. And there was nothing he could do about it.

The hat. It was a defensive measure, a defense mechanism in more ways than one. If eyes were viewports to the soul, then what better way to hide the fact that his was empty than beneath the wide brim of an almost too self-indulgent accessory?

Maybe he was scared. Scared everyone would see straight through him – through those soulless eyes that were as red as the blood he often spilt, though looks could often be deceiving.

Who’s to say he didn’t have more lurking than the average man up there in that big head of his? Under that big hat of his? Who knew better than himself all his ins and outs, his weaknesses? The unmentionables, the banes of his existence, the things that could buy him a one-way ticket to the afterlife.

But not only that – philosophical ponderings, longings, astronavigational coordinates, conversations long since passed, every face he had ever laid those soulless eyes on. It wasn’t his fault he had turned out the way he had. He had never been asked to be ripped from null and placed in this gangly body - this body that suffered, hurt, endured because it had to.

What was the alternative? What had he ever known besides pain in his seventy some odd years walking around, talking, saying empty words, vicious threats, snarky insults, and not hardly a kind thing to anyone? A bit of sage advice maybe, a story that made himself look good, an order or a command, but not a single notion that might brighten someone’s day.

It wasn’t his fault. He was blameless, wasn’t he? Life at every level was a competition and free will was supposedly forfeit. Plants competed for the best spot in the shade or sun, insects competed for the best nectar or scraps of food, birds and reptiles, which he could relate to at a genetic level competed for the tastiest insects, the best materials with which to make their nests. Animals competed for the flesh of other animals. Sentients competed for land, water, shelter, credits, mates, knowledge, power – the list went on, and on, and on...

How was he in the wrong? Had he ever been? It was a game, and he had decided long ago that he would win. One wrong move on the Dejarik board meant hell or high water, jail or freedom, the end … but never any new beginnings. Not for him.

Maybe that was what he was missing. That desire to sail off into the sunset growing ever more powerful. This idea he had to never to look back. Retirement. But wasn’t that a form of death in and of itself? Bidding his time, waiting around for the inevitable, admiring the flowers maybe, watching a cool mountain stream drift by, or the birth of a star, the slow rusting of his droid… That was a thought. Who would upkeep Todo when he was gone?

He supposes nobody. He had been so loyal. And who cared if he divulged his secrets or told tall tales of Cad Bane once he was rotting away in a gutter somewhere? He only hoped if the droid outlived him, which he would, that he might have a decent word or two to say. Chances are he’d put his own spin on things, but he had never known him to be a backstabber.

And then there was the issue of his pride … his all too big ego. He was well aware of it, but it was also easily justifiable. He was the best. Always had been. There was only one other man out there who might come close, and that thought ate at him, day in and day out, though he let it lie.

Perhaps that was how he’d go. It would be poetic. The mentee killing the master, who was in turn the mentee of the man whose DNA covered entire solar systems, galaxies, spanning time and space and parsecs and the memories of people he had never met …

People that had never met Jango. That man occupied his thoughts more times than he was willing to admit. No one needed to know, and they never would. No one needed to know that he had …

One might think he was beyond emotions. Callous, cruel and unusual, but he could truly, keenly feel things if he allowed himself to. Cad Bane could cry.

Oh, but he was good at pushing others away. Far away. To truly know someone, to care for someone, was weakness through and through. You let them in, and then they die on you, or they betray you for a bounty, or they leave you high and dry expecting them to return to only go out and meet their untimely end at the edge of a blaster or the blade of a lightsaber, though not so much anymore …

The time for that was gone. And maybe his time would soon be over too. What was the point of even contemplating, questioning, second-guessing himself now? It was too late for all of that. He was no longer a Duros in his prime. He had nothing to look forward to. Nothing except silence, darkness, the long sleep that maybe couldn’t come quite quick enough.

If he was smart he would search it out, though he didn’t exactly have a death wish. Everything was just becoming somewhat overwhelming. The galaxy was changing, he realized that evil would also run rampant in these parts, and he was part of the problem, not the solution, but even a certain degree of enlightenment couldn’t help him, couldn’t change him, couldn’t teach an old hound new tricks, as it were.

He missed his rivals, the real ones, the people that gave meaning to his profession. Spice users, petty crooks and criminals – they were just a way to make ends meet. The thrill was gone, the rush of the hunt. It was all too easy. It was… sad.

And maybe that’s what he was – sad. Perhaps loathe to admit it, but it wouldn’t change a thing.

But what’s the point of changing things, anyway? If it isn’t broke, don’t fix it. But what if it’s so broken it’s beyond repair? Maybe that was the real issue here.

He’d have to live with it. And he wouldn’t bother to feel regret. Regret, in this instance, was the mind killer. Remorse was something he had never felt, and he wouldn’t start to feel it now.

All in all, he had made it out. He had lived. He had found a way to make things happen. It was a dog-eat-dog galaxy out there, and to get out of the Descent Ghetto at all had been some kind of miracle. To survive to adulthood had been some kind of miracle. To live to old age had been some kind of miracle.

And so he sits. He basks in the fading light of the sun. He drinks his whiskey. He forgets his problems. What problems? There weren’t any problems that credits couldn’t solve as far as he was concerned. But that doesn’t keep him from sighing. He lets loose his frustrations to the clouds in a single exhale. He clinks the ice in his now empty glass but will stay here long enough to watch it melt.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” as the saying goes. He felt that one in his bones.

#Cad Bane #Fanfiction #Writing #Duros #Star Wars #Clone Wars #Bad Batch #Book of Boba Fett #existentialism #character study

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biosurvive · 10 months

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@rescuefield from here

His suggestion that she stay the night had been a genuine one, a grasp, an olive branch, a desire to capture how they were once. Chris couldn't even recall the moment where they became so strained, where laughter, teasing and love had turned to... regret, anger, sorrow. When they were together nothing was like it was, Jill had even commented on it and it did very little to help mend whatever issues they were having, and the shared virus had only deepened the negative feelings they both were clearly feeling. The entire dinner was like walking a tight rope, the thread two seconds away from snapping, just the scrape of silverware against the plates and the occasional hum as they chowed what little they could down with the very low appetites they both had.

He wanted space, that was the main reason he didn't want her doing the dishes, perhaps they could talk after dinner, yet Claire tarried in the room, sat at the table as he glared down at the sudsy water and after the silence, he just... broke. He couldn't do this anymore. Her explanations didn't help the anger and.... he wasn't sure what the feeling was, but it was heavy. A vice in his chest that stopped him from taking a deep breath ever, and with a huff he shuts the water off, turning with towel in hand as he dries his hands.

Claire's following statements flood him with conflicting emotions and all he could do is glare, scoffing as he finishes his task with the towel. The thing was... she was correct, he did try to send her away, and it wasn't because he didn't think she was capable, but the truth of the matter was far deeper, far more deep seeded than he was willing to dig in the very moment and so he just shakes his head, dismissive. " How could you even think that I would think that about you? " He asks, defensively. It hurt, knowing she thought that when all he thought about when it came to Claire was how much she meant to him, she was his world, and he was proud of her and she deserved way more than what he could ever give her. Perhaps they should cut ties? Let her get away from him before she became yet another mangled corpse.

" But hey, glad that's out in the open, Claire. You think that I have a low opinion of you, absolutely fantastic, to hear that confirmed. " His tone is bitter, the perfect stone statue of a soldier crumbling just after a single conversation off the mission. He was notorious, a legend, titles that rang hollow and filled him with so much bile, and yet he dealt with them knowing he couldn't focus on such prestigious compliments when he had a war to fight. And yet once the tactical vest was off and he was just a man, a human being, a brother, a complete out of body-fuck up. The weight tumbles down on him and the look in Claire's eyes constantly told him that she resented him, and his desire to push her away from the work he did continued and and round and round it went.

Despite the shattered image of himself, the fact that Claire believes she wasn't enough nearly sets him off, it hurt, the one thing he was sure about was that he loved her and if she didn't believe that. What even was he? A toy soldier? No other personal relationship of his really lasted, everything he talked about was for the damn cause. She was his last tether and he failed at every opportunity to show her the truth. Why the fuck couldn't he just voice his thoughts correctly?

" Maybe I'd want you around my work more if you didn't have that resentful look in your eye. You think just like they all do, parroting what they all say. Look at your brother, Claire. I get the job done don't I? Ignore the corpses beside me, just look at the soldier. Ignore the man behind it, he doesn't exist, he's not worth the effort to get to know or listen to because he got himself into this life. You think you're not enough? Guess it runs in the family. I'm nothing but a gun and someone who fucks the people I love up. Someone who fails constantly to protect what I actually care about. So yeah, maybe the resentment I know you have for me is warranted, maybe I do want to send you away.. Maybe I don't want you around when I work... because... "

He stops, tears prickling his vision, and with a grunt he tosses the towel onto the counter, already beelining for the door. " Just go. I don't want to talk about this anymore. "

#dear god pls get therapy you two #F*IUGHFKJn #rescuefield

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fanfic-inator795 · 1 year

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Adore your writing! Any thoughts on what you think Sho and Yoshi's relationship was like (at any point in time)? How they viewed one another?

Aww, thanks so much! ^v^

Honestly, I feel like it was always kinda complicated. They never completely resented each other, but they were both pretty stubborn in addition to having different priorities that just weren't compatible with each other.

It's obvious that Yoshi's trauma regarding his mother played a huge role in how he saw his family/clan as well as the duty forced upon him. Beyond the general immaturity of a teenager/inability to see the Big Picture, it's hard to truly believe in the 'greater good' when all it's brought you is pain - and if someone only felt like the next link in a chain, only born and trained so they could give their life for 'the mission' or to 'save the world from some boogeyman', it wouldn't surprise me at all if they ended up pushing HARD against that, wanting to not only stand out as their own person but to also just find their own happiness if they felt like their own family didn't care about that. As far as Yoshi knew, Sho barely cared about him and only saw him as another clan member who needed to be molded into what the world needed, regardless of what Yoshi needed to sacrifice to be it.

At the same time though, we know that Yoshi regretted his mistakes - he regretted not giving his grandfather a proper goodbye back when he was still Lou Jitsu, and he regretted not doing his part in defeating the Foot/Shredder once he realized that he inadvertently put his sons in danger. That's something I feel a lot of people forget - once he realized that the danger WAS real and not just an old myth that had no basis to believe in, Splinter IMMEDIATELY stepped up. So, perhaps if Sho had been able to understand where younger!Yoshi was coming from (i.e. incorrectly believing that any sacrifice would've been for nothing) and show a bit more sympathy instead of just scolding or nagging him, maybe things could've turned out differently.

BUT, at the same time, I also can't completely blame Sho for how he handled things. Yes, he absolutely could've been more empathetic and a bit more flexible, but at the same time - Sho was at the end of his life. He KNEW what would happen if he died and Yoshi wasn't properly prepared for the Foot's return - it would literally be the end of the world. From that perspective, I can see why he was so stubborn about getting Yoshi to listen to him, as well as why he didn't see much value in Yoshi's acting - because, yeah, when compared to the safety of the world, he would just be seen as something silly and without value (even though there obviously WAS value). As far as Sho knew, they BOTH failed in their duties and the world was going to pay the price for it. Makes sense that he'd be more than a little bitter about that.

We also have to remember that Sho likely grew up in a time where he was taught traditional, group-focused values while Yoshi was exposed to more modern, individual-focused values. So yeah, between the clashing perspectives/different priorities, the trauma that Yoshi suffered, Sho not knowing any other way to prevent the end of the world, and just a boat-load of miscommunication and misconceptions, it just resulted in a lot of resentment and hurt.

...But I don't think they ever hated each other. Far from it, in fact. I mean, Yoshi wouldn't have cried over Sho's final goodbye if he did hate him. But, unfortunately for the two of them, Yoshi's story is very much 'tragedy with a happy ending', and just given the circumstances, I'm just not sure if it'd be possible for them to reconcile until after the fact - after the Shredder has been defeated for good, after Splinter has gained some additional perspective, and after Sho is able to risk being a bit more flexible and a bit more emotionally available.

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rinstars · 3 years

Text

𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘔𝘐𝘎𝘏𝘛 𝘓𝘖𝘝𝘌 𝘏𝘌𝘙 𝘕𝘖𝘞, 𝘉𝘜𝘛 𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘓𝘖𝘝𝘌𝘋 𝘔𝘌 𝘍𝘐𝘙𝘚𝘛.

PAIRING: Gojo Satoru X Reader

GENRE: Angst

TAGS/WARNINGS: Hurt/Comfort (or not you decide hehe). Break-up. Falling out of love. Just hurtful shit. He loves someone else now but he didn't cheat. Can't explain shit omg just read sorry

NOTES: Listen to Madison Beer's new song Reckless while reading, the title is from the lyrics of this song !!

Hard as you try, there seems to be no anger in your heart. No burning rage that makes you want to set the whole world on fire. The urge to inflict the same kind of pain he's caused you not even making an appearance in your heart and mind. If it's resentment on the other hand, maybe you do bear some. Pain, too, if you're being completely honest. But you don't really feel like acting on it. Don't feel like looking for ways to release the negative emotions bubbling inside you. You just wanted to be at peace, wanted to cry everything plaguing your heart.

Maybe it's because he said it in such a soft voice, like he didn't want to hurt you but then not telling you at that moment will only make it worse, so he decides to. His palms were rubbing the back of his neck, eyes looking anywhere but you when he announced the feelings he's been desperately trying to contain.

"I'm in love with somebody else."

He wouldn't cheat on you. To the very bitter end he endured for you, and you knew that. He must've seen how desperately you were trying to save the relationship. How you still try to melt the cold that blankets over your relationship with your warm hugs, kisses lingering on his cheeks just a little bit longer than usual so you can make sure he feels the love that still blooms so beautifully in your heart.

"I understand." No matter how hard you swallow, the lump in your throat doesn't seem to go away, straining your voice. "I'll pack my things tonight and leave tomorrow."

"You don't have to go right away, Y/N," He looks at you sadly, almost pitifully, and you hated it—the fact that you're faced with the reality that it's all beyond saving.

He wouldn't run after you. Not this time.

You realized your high school days were over. He's not going to chase after you, hands on your waist saying sorry and kissing your neck under the rain every time you run away after an argument. He's no longer going to bring you flowers, thrusting it straight to your chest when he gets home because it makes him too shy to be even more sentimental than he already is.

Gojo Satoru is no longer yours.

"It's fine, Gojo." you smile at him, not missing the way he winced at the mention of his last name. Nothing like the usual "Satoru" he's been used to hearing for years. No baby's, no love's, just Gojo. Perhaps he deserved that. He's always been stupid with words, constructing sentences doesn't seem to be a thing of his. Yet this one request he was sure he would beg you for, if you were ever to refuse.

"Will," he begins, closing his eyes shut shortly after then taking a deep breath. "Will you share the bed with me?" He smiles at you sadly, guilt plaguing the beautiful frosted eyes you've always loved. "For the last time?"

Biting your lip to prevent it from shaking even more than it already it, you nod at him, heading to the kitchen as he looks at you with a confused expression. A sigh escaping his lips when you turn around to answer him.

"I'll cook us dinner before bed."

That night in bed, when you couldn't keep bottling it up anymore, you ended up crying in his chest. His arms around you as he runs his fingers through your hair. None of you spoke a word. After all, what do you say to a lover you'll be losing tomorrow? To another woman you think you probably will never be.

He assures you, though. It's not the fact that she's prettier, not that she's kinder, sweeter, or more well-spoken than you could ever be. It's just that he doesn't feel it anymore, doesn't hear his heart beat with you the way it did before—and he hates it, God, does he despise the realization. Yet, while he couldn't imagine his life without you, he thinks he also couldn't imagine a future without her.

You look up at him and he stares down at you, with eyes full of warmth and melancholy—but no longer of love. His frosted lashes almost a painful reminder of what your relationship has gone to—cold and unforgiving. His eyes speak to you the words he somehow couldn't bring himself to say.

He's sorry for hurting you, but he's not for loving her. After all, he just loved. Just started to harbor the same feelings he once did for you.

The morning was both harder and easier than last night. The closure you got before the separation more than you could have ever asked for—a temporary solution to your breaking heart. However, the pain persists as you get closer and closer to leaving the house you've spent so many years with him so he can stay in it and make new memories with her.

The door is heavy, heavier than the luggage he's helping you to carry. Turning back to him when you've stepped a foot outside, your eyes catch the sight of the necklace hanging around a chain on his neck—your present to him for your first anniversary. He must have noticed, delicate fingers suddenly wrapping around the ring.

"I'm not taking it off," Gojo Satoru smiles, goodbye dripping from every syllable of every word coming out of his mouth. "So never take yours off too."

You reach up to him for a last hug, arms wrapping around his neck as you let your tears fall the moment your face is out of his sight. He was your best friend, your anchor, your life support. He was everything to you and you like to believe that once upon a time, you were too.

You whisper your last I love you before driving off in your car, the response you were used to hearing every single time not echoing in your ears this time.

Gojo Satoru was more than a lover to you. He's taken up more memories in your mind than the thoughts you have for yourself, your heart filled with nothing but a space for all the love you would have given him for the rest of your life, had you been given the chance. You spent years experiencing the beautiful kind of love he could give and maybe, this time, it's time for others to experience it too.

The same fantasy you once did.

The sun shines down through your windshield, reflecting on the ring shining on your finger as it grips the steering wheel. The shimmer a bittersweet reminder that while he might love her now, he still loved you first, and you guess—no, you believe, that it's enough.

To be loved by Gojo Satoru and bask in the affection he once offered.

#gojo satoru x reader #gojou satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojou x reader #gojo angst #jjk x reader #jjk angst #gojou angst #jjk fic #it is #the fault of none other than #SINCERELY NOT #HEKGSKAHSKS ITS LIKE I GONE THRU 56 DIVORCES READING THAT #the pain and anger still lingering #BY AI #AS IN SAINTOBIO #read it if u havent :D

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yesimwriting · 3 years

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Would you write a Kaz Brekker request where the reader is a bookworm and a crow and basically Kaz asks the reader to read to him as his way of apologizing after a argument that was his fault?

it a/n i did something kinda similar in a 'promise of rain' blurb,, but this concept is so cute to me:)) love it sm i moved it up my request cue lol

also IM IN COLLEGE NOW!! WHAT?? AND IVE BEEN TO A PARTY! AND IM JOINING A SORORITY AND I DID DRAMA AUDITIONS AND AHH !! SO DIFFERENT! I MISS MY MOM AND SISTER AND DOG AND EVEN MY DAD BUT IM HAPPY HERE!!

also im a little worried this might not portray kaz superrrrr accurately bc it's been awhile so just let me know,, feedback leads to improvement:)) also kinda set this up for a part 2 bc...well youll see

They've always said a lot of things about him, and I've always heard them. But I've never quite believed them. Sure, I get why the dark things that have flourished in the poisoned soil that is Ketterdam consider Kaz Brekker the darkest thing of all. I understand the nickname 'Dirtyhands' for the gloved criminal who has fooled each crime boss at least once. I understand each terrible thing they've said about him.

But I've never agreed with them. I've never even considered agreeing with them. Until today.

The thought that maybe everything people say about him is correct in a simple context struck me worse than the silence after our argument. It made me feel like both a fool and hypocrite. Kaz and I have had our fair share of spats over the relatively short time we've known each other, but never like this. Never so badly he stormed out of the room before I could. I squeeze the book in my lap even harder, desperate to focus on the words on the pages.

You didn't hurt him. He walked away because he decided you weren't worth the cost of his expensive time. I repeat those thoughts in my mind over and over again, letting them bitter me further. It's a lot easier to be mad than hurt. A lot easier to fuel your pain than try to understand your mistakes. Besides, tiredness is already dredging around in my chest and if I don't calm down a little I won't be able to fall asleep.

I had escalated the fight more than I should have. Knowing Kaz is like performing in a tightrope act. One must always be aware of where they're going. Watching what's in front of them without ever thinking too much about what's beneath or behind them. Today though, when I needed my balance most I chose to fall. I chose to dive, and apparently there was no net.

"Oh, you're doing that thing."

I roll my eyes at Jesper's voice as I fight down a yawn. I wipe my face with the back of my palm before turning. The burning behind my eyes never resulted in full tears, but I feel better after doing so. "What thing?"

"That terribly noble thing where you find it in yourself to take full blame for every single conflict you and boss man fall into." The slight humor in his voice is enough for me to roll my eyes again. "Between you and me, I'm sure the reason he's so angry now is because you didn't do that for once."

I press my lips together as my chin angles itself upwards slightly. "I never do that." He raises an eyebrow. The slight sympathy that colors the look is more offensive than his accusation. "If I pick and choose my battles, it's for good reason."

"Clearly."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He shrugs once before further entering my room. I say nothing when he sits at the foot of my bed. "Oh, you know," Jesper stretches back casually, resting his back against the wall and extending his legs, "You and Kaz--Kaz and you."

Has he been drinking? Perhaps he's not here because of my unusual absence from downstairs after my fight with Kaz but because he's already too tipsy to think right. "What?"

At my confused look he grins, flashing all of his teeth with an arrogance that outshines the whiteness of them. He taps the still open book in my lap. "Let me put it in terms you'll understand." Jesper sits up a little further, amusement clear in his features. "You two make a shameful Elizabeth and Darcy--"

"Oh, shut up," I groan, glaring at him, "This isn't Pride and Prejudice. And Kaz and I," Jesper's smugness returns when I can't quite think of what I want to say, "We're barely friends--we're barely anything, let alone what you're implying."

Jesper pulls his legs up and shoves me gently. "Dearest, y/n," he ignores my glare, "You should know better than anyone that 'barely friends, barely anything' with Kaz is more than it is with anyone else?"

"That doesn't mea--"

"You two say goodnight to each other." Once. Kaz and I said good night to each other in front of Jesper once. How dare he assume it happens regularly? He's right, but that doesn't mean I'm okay with it. "You play cards with him. Not for money, not for skill--"

"It's for practice." The look Jesper gives me is enough to tell me that my defense didn't land.

Damn him for ever finding Kaz and I on one of those strange nights. One of those nights in which he lurks at the stairwell...the one that divides my room and his attic. One of those nights in which it feels like he's a phantom and I'm the only one that can really see him. A night in which we both silently find each other.

I couldn't quite believe it the first time it happened. I'm not exactly a Crow--I don't feel enough a connection to the Dregs to join them without some kind of guarantee--but I was needed for some obscure job. but I was needed for some obscure job. The Crows needed an insider who could blend into high society, and I needed a place to stay away from my father.

It worked. I worked. And with each passing day I found myself enjoying the Crows more and more. That's why I stayed. That's why I started checking the stairwell practically every night, a set of playing cards in my hand.

The first time had been awkward. I couldn't sleep and my room felt too quiet, but the rambunctious club felt too loud and a little unsafe considering the hour. So I settled for the only space in between. When Kaz found me sitting on the steps and playing a solitary card game I had been so stunned by embarrassment I just offered to deal him in. I had been more shocked when he silently accepted my offer.

"Practice?" Jesper repeats. "You were laughing, I heard you."

"That was one time--how do you know we didn't just happen to play cards together the one time you saw it?"

"Because you laughed about a play you considered 'predictable'."

Sighing, I sit up a little straighter. "I'm not having this conversation. Occasionally saying 'goodnight' to someone who lives in the same space I live in and sometimes playing cards with said person because we both happen to be up at a certain time doesn't mean anything."

"And the way he looked at the contact that was flirting with you?"

Oh...this conversation again. "For the last time, the contact wasn't flirting with me. We had to dance to blend in and when he leaned towards me to whisper in my ear...it was to tell me the intel Kaz just had to have."

"And when he tucked that strand of hair behind your ear?"

"He just wanted to sell our cove--"

"Y/n, he kissed your cheek and I'm fairly certain he would have kissed you if Kaz and I hadn't made it to the corridor at that second."

Why is everyone so obsessed with what would have never happened? The contact had been attractive, tall with fair eyes and hair. But it's not like I feel anything for him, nor would I have been so foolish during a job. A fact that Kaz refuses to believe. I'm tired of this argument...I'm just tired. This job required me to start getting ready early in the morning and lasted long into the night.

"I wouldn't have kissed him and even if I had, the fact that Kaz is so mad about feels...sexist." A stupid argument, considering that Kaz couldn't care less if the person he's working with is female, male, or anything in between because the only thing he cares about is profit. "It's a stupid thing to be mad about, but you hit on anything with a pulse at any time and--"

"I resent that--"

"For the first two weeks I was here I thought you might've been a prostitute."

I can feel him holding in a laugh. "Did you at least think I was a good prostitute?" When I glare again, he finally actually laughs. "Not the point--got it."

"Then what is the point? You're bored and obsessed with gossip so now you're shaking me for information you don't need."

"The point is you're oblivious." Rude...I move my leg in a weak attempt to push him off my bed. Jesper catches my ankle easily, ignoring my attempt at a fight. "You thought the contact was only doing his job and you don't know the real reason that Kaz blew up at you for the first time the way he blows up at everyone."

"Okay, well since you know everything, tell me why he's mad."

He lets out a sigh like he can't believe I even needed to ask that. "It's not the best look that the first time you let him pick a fight with you happens to be about some guy."

...Maybe he is drunk? "Don't be so cryptic. I don't like you enough to put up with that."

Jesper half-sighs again before pushing himself off my bed. "I'm going to pretend I think you're smart enough to piece things together from that."

"Asshole," I mumble instinctually as he walks towards my door. "Are you not telling me because I tried to push you off the bed?"

He turns when he reaches my door in order to lean against my door frame. "It's not not because of that." I should throw my book at his head. "In all seriousness, think about it. If you don't you'll either kill each other or kill me."

Ugh...he's so confusing. This time, I let him go. He leaves he door open, which is beyond annoying. I stand up to close it, promising myself I will focus on my book the second it's in my hands again. As I walk back towards my bed, my eyes land on the deck of cards on my nightstand.

Does it send a signal I don't want to send if I don't go the stairwell tonight? Do I want to send a signal? I don't know...actually, the only thing I know is that I don't want to think about this a second longer. I don't ease as I read, but my eyelids become heavier with each word they cross. I feel the weight of them as my focus slips, farther and farther away until I can no longer focus. When my eyes fall shut I can't bring myself to think or force them open.

I notice my surprised before I register that I've just woken up. Falling asleep feels so far and yet the crick in my neck confirms the obvious. Rubbing the eyes with the back of my hand, I push my book from my lap and sit up. The only indication of how much time has passed is how much my bedside candle has melted.

How long have I been asleep? How did I manage to fall asleep? I thought I was too mad at Kaz to manage anything but pouting in my room. I hadn't even decided if I wanted to talk to him.

I stand even though I haven't decided anything. I should at least change if I want to go to bed. But is leaving this alone for even longer a bad idea? I think Jesper thought so...though my conversation with him is far from clear. It's not the best look that the first time you let him pick a fight with you happens to be about some guy. I'm going to pretend I think you're smart enough to piece things together from that. What does he want me to do with that?

Maybe he was partially intoxicated and felt the need to play the role of a good friend. Or maybe this is his idea of a joke.

Whatever--regardless of Jesper, I have a choice to make. A tiny part of me hopes it's insignificant, but I know Kaz enough to know that nothing is insignificant to him. He holds onto things the way he holds onto his kruge. Perhaps I'll seek out Inej, she seems to be the best at rationalizing. Though she might be asleep by now, or on a job or...I don't even know.

How late is it? Is it late enough to be one of the few hours Kaz claims to reserve for sleep? Maybe my bad luck is still around and he's already in bed for once. Does that mean his anger will extend to tomorrow?

I shouldn't care. It's not like I'm in the wrong. Did I escalate things? Maybe a little...but I won't apologize for defending myself. Even though that makes everything a little easier. I feel stuck, like in some kind of place of half sleep. A single knock at my door is enough to make me want to jump. I rub my eyes a little more firmly in hopes of waking up more before someone sees me.

I approach the door without worry. Maybe it's not as late as I assumed. Or maybe it's really early? I open the door while still fighting against my slight disorientation. I'm so focused on acting normal, I almost don’t register the person standing at my door.

I don’t know who I expected, or what--maybe Jesper, much more tipsy than he was before, slumped against the doorframe, only knocking because he’s too tired to push the door open. Maybe even Inej, on her way here to deliver some kind of job or notice of dismissal. But it’s nothing I could expect. It’s...Kaz.

The Dirtyhands stands at my door, expression as hard as ever yet something behind his eyes that burns the sleep away from me. “Uh--hi.” I bite my tongue to avoid cringing at that very awkward beginning. “Are you here to kick me out yourself?” The only response I get is the slightest shift of his gaze off of my face. “No? Well then I think I’m going to bed. It’s late.”

My tone and words are clear. Get out of my doorway, I’m in no mood to go back to arguing. When he still doesn’t say anything, I’m emboldened by my nerves. I push the door between us without breaking eye contact.

Before the wood can meet the doorframe, he moves his cane, wedging it between us. “Y/n.” I don’t understand the way he says my name, but I’m certain he’s never said it like that. “I...” When he’s not prompted by the uncomfortableness of silence, I raise an eyebrow, my grip on the door tightening. “What I said shouldn’t have been said.” Wait--is he admitting fault? I’m so thrown I almost melt entirely. “Not to you.”

The addition leaves him so lowly a part of me wonders if I’ve imagined it. I’m so thrown by it I don’t even think to reply until a long second has passed. “You seemed to believe the opposite a few hours ago.”

His lips press together for a moment. “You didn’t ask me to play cards tonight.” He took that as intentional? At least that got me some kind of apology? I keep my mouth shut, greed making me want more information. I guess he must sense my silent tugging because he head inclines slightly. “Don’t push.”

I fight down a grin. “Push what?” His only response to stiffen further. “I’m going to tell you something as a peace offering.” That seems to intrigue him in some way. I can’t tell if it’s a good kind of interested, but I note the slight raise of his eyebrows and his intentional silence. “I didn’t chose not to ask you to play cards.” He gives me no indication of anything, which is fair...considering my vagueness. “I was mad, obviously, and in the middle of deciding on a course of action...and then I fell asleep.”

A long pause of silence. “You fell asleep?”

I’m not sure if his incredulous tone should offend me or not. If I wanted to lie, I’d like to think he knows me well enough to know that I’d have thought of a better excuse than that. Or at least a less embarrassing one. “Yes, it’s not that difficult to believe. Today had been long and all I wanted to do was read, but then Jesper came in to say the oddest things and then leave me to...”

Oh--oh. I guess there’s a reason people say to ‘sleep on’ something. Because now, actively remembering Jesper’s words for the first time since I fell asleep...I understand what Jesper was implying in the oddest way possible. He meant that Kaz and I...that perhaps there is a Kaz and I in a context that’s more than just grammatical. Wow. I really had to realize this with Kaz right in front of me.

My face feels warmer than it did before, an irrational bout of anxiety forcing me to consider that me might be able to read impossible, embarrassing thoughts from my expression alone.

“What did Jesper say?” I’m too lost in my own spiral of confusion and panic and some feeling I can’t recognize to register how Kaz asks his question. There’s an edge to it, an odd one, but that could easily just be Kaz.

This is most definitely the last conversation we need to be having. I’m still mad at him for his earlier dramatics. So I just shake my head, feigning an exhaustion I could lose myself in. “Nothing and everything all at once.” I resist the urge to rub my eyes again. “I’m pretty sure he was drinking, and I wasn’t really listening. I was just trying to read.”

Kaz’s expression hardens briefly as he takes in my words, and then he exhales, nodding once with the breath. “What were you reading?”

My lips part instinctually, ready to spew off details about the latest novel that’s captured my attention. But before I can let myself take off, the reality of the situation strikes me directly in the chest. This is not Nina, or Inej, or even Jesper after what he considers a ‘good night’. This is Kaz Brekker, the man believed to not have a soul. I’ve spoken to him before about casual things, though most of the nights in which we end up playing cards or just sitting near each other are spent in silence. But he’s never prompted me before. Not in the one topic he knows is guaranteed to turn me into an overenthusiastic, gushing fountain of poor summaries and character analysis.

I guess this is his peace offering. This shouldn’t warm the way it does. He was still unbelievably dramatic and treated me like I’m some kind of unreliable fool. “It’s late, and you know how I can be. I’d hate to keep you for nothing more than a poor summary and honestly, an embarrassing rant about plot or characters, because there’s just nothing as frustrating as when two people so clearly care about each other and both are too stubborn and oblivious to acknowledge it.”

Kaz’s eyebrows draw together just enough for me to be able to make out a shift of expression in the poor light. Perhaps his lingering irritation is preparing to rear its ugly head. The corner of his mouth seems to threaten to tilt upwards as Kaz angles his head to the side slightly. “I can’t imagine that position.”

No kidding. I bite my tongue to keep the sarcastic comment and awkward laugh that would sure follow it away. “Who can? That’s like half the point of reading.”

How can interaction feel so over and just at its beginning all at once? I press my lips together to avoid filling the silence with things I’d no doubt instantly regret. It’s easy to be mad at Kaz in the moment. Too easy. But to stay mad at him when his temper has passed and he returns with some kind of begrudging and admittedly awkward and uncertain truce is another task entirely.

“I’ve never understood your attachment to written words.”

“It’s not about understanding, it’s about everything else.”

“And you say I’m cryptic.” Is he...kinda almost joking? I straighten my spine, too tired to fight and too wounded to forgive. “There’s understanding in everything, nothing can survive on sentiment alone.”

“If you read the way I did, you’d understand.”

His lips press together as his expression remains unwavering in its hardness. “Read to me.”

...Interacting with Kaz in any way often leaves me feeling like I’m wandering through unknown territory. But this, this is undeniably different. So different I can’t even think of a way to react. I watch his expression as cautiously as possible. He’s purely reserved, no distinction from the look he wears during business propositions. Except there’s a tightness I can’t quite understand.

Maybe it’s because I don’t want to fight anymore. Maybe it’s because exhaustion is leaving me partially delirious. Or maybe it’s the weird feeling in my chest that I can’t quite place. That I don’t want to place. “Okay.” I shift carefully. “If for no other reason then to prove you wrong.”

Never did I think I’d end up in the position of sitting in my bed, book in hand, with Kaz Brekker sitting next to me. But here we are. I’m so tired, I almost let out a nervous laugh when he first walked in. So brooding and tall, gripping the head of his head cane as he sits at the foot of my bed, on my pastel quilt.

I’m glad for the excuse to keep my gaze away from him and on the words in front of me. I read out loud, feeling more and more comfortable with each page I finish. But as my inhibitions slip away, so dos my hold on consciousness. My eyelids seem to grow heavier with each word that I read.

“You’re falling asleep.”

I straighten my spine on instinct. “Am not.” I’m not sure why I feel the need to deny something so simple.

“You’re impossible.”

From him, that statement is laugh worthy. “I’m impossible? Do you not remember earlier today?”

From the way his jaw locks, I realize that he’s in no mood to be light about this topic. I don’t understand why. It’s not like I’m the one that wronged him. “I remember your lack of focus.”

Keeping my hands at my side to avoid rubbing my eyes, I frown. “If you want to have this argument again, fine. Jesper is more ‘distracted’ than me half the time and you’re much more lenient on him. It’s not like I was flirting with someone or gambling or doing anything but having a two second conversation. One that I needed to have to get information that you wanted.”

The last time we fought, I had more energy to restrain myself. This could be atomic. I hold my breath, waiting for Kaz’s retaliation. He exhales, eyes not meeting mine. “Arguing with you when you’re present is exhausting enough. It’s not worth it when you’re half asleep.”

This angers me further. I hate that he’s right. “I’m not half asleep.” He leaves it at that. I glare even harder at him, slumping further into my bed. “But for the sake of argument, I’ll drop it. Something you’re incapable of doing.”

At that, his eyes meet mine. I try to hold his gaze, but the harder I think about not seeming tired the more exhaustion slips in. A yawn escapes me before he looks away. Great. “I know when to lie in the grass in wait.”

Rolling my eyes, I shift back slightly. He’s incapable of being less dramatic than this. Still, I can’t imagine the effort it’s taking on his part to not start an argument. Maybe this is why Jesper spent so long implying that there may be a Kaz and I in any capacity beyond a vague kind of friendship. “I’ll admit you’re tactful.”

“Resourceful people recognize that trait in other people.”

Blinking twice, I lower my book slightly. Am I truly exhausted, or did he just compliment me in a way? “Careful, I may start to think you find me tolerable.”

“Let’s not exaggerate.” Okay, now I know I’m exhausted because I think he might have just attempted a joke. Rolling my eyes, I decide not to acknowledge this lightness in fear that I’ll scare it away. “Y/n?”

I press my lips together, worried about the destruction of our peace. “Yes?”

“What did Jesper say to you? Earlier?” I pause, slightly unsure why we’re moving backwards.

We’re in a decent place now, and I’d hate to ruin it. I’m too half asleep to lie eloquently. And it’s not like he’s an easily convinced man. “Oh, he said it so cryptically it took me longer than it should have to understand. And it didn’t help that it was something so...well, you might find it funny. As funny as you find anything, anyways.” Wow...I’ve spent such a long time talking. Rubbing the back of my eyes, I avoid his gaze. Exhaustion and awkwardness mix in my stomach oddly. “It seemed like he was trying to imply that you and I...me and you...” Why is this a difficult thing to say? It’s not like I was implying it and Jesper’s known for his oddness. “I think Jesper was implying that there was a you and I, or at least that there could be.” I’m too lost in a haze of almost sleep to watch his reaction. I let my head rest against my headboard even further. “Isn’t that odd?”

He’s quiet for a long second, and then he finally speaks again. “Odd, even for Jesper.” The response doesn’t satiate me...what’s that about? I exhale, deciding that feeling is tomorrow’s problem. When I blink, I decide to let my eyes stay closed. Just for a moment. The sound of something shifting is what makes my eyes squint open. Kaz is standing, his expression unreadable as he straightens. “Goodnight, y/n.”

At that, I sit up slightly, ignoring the exhaustion behind my eyes. “I haven’t finished the chapter.”

“You’ve convinced me of enough.” A concession? How exhausted do I seem? My lips press together as I think of my next argument. Before I can get it out, Kaz leans forward. He grabs the quilt at the end of my bed and tosses it onto my legs casually. “Goodnight, y/n.” The meaning of his repetition is clear. His word is final.

I find enough energy to manage a glare, but I pull the quilt over my legs anyways. “Goodnight, Kaz.”

#kaz brekker #kaz brekker x reader #kaz brekker imagine #kaz brekker x you #shadow and bone #shadow and bone x reader #shadow and bone imagine #shadow and bone fic #shadow and bone netflix #shadow and bone imagines #six of crows #six of crows x reader #six of crows imagine #six of crows show #shadow and bone show #six of crows netflix

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reciprocityfic · 3 years

Note

#5 for amylaurie

5. that emotional moment that you can't find a plot for.

He’d never had a particularly happy life.

From the beginning, it had been marked with tragedy. He adored his mother, from what he can remember. But his memories, unfortunately, are few and far between. He tried to keep her smile, her laugh, the feel of her hugs and her hand wrapped around his tiny one locked away in his brain and his heart, but over the years, they inevitably began to fade. Before he knew it, he couldn’t quite get the tenor of her voice right, couldn’t remember the sweet words she used to whisper in his ear. She was like a beautifully painted picture, rather than a human being.

If there was someone who adored his mother more than he had, it was his father.

His father took her death the hardest. He tried to find a salve for his broken heart in all the wrong places, began gambling too often and drinking too much, frequently leaving his son alone late into the night to go out and drown his pain in whatever way he could. When his father was home, he could hardly stand to be around him. Everything about Laurie reminded him of her - his eyes, his hair, his nose, his smile. He reached his breaking point eventually, and then he sent Laurie away.

School had never been particularly hard for him. He was smart, he supposed, and he didn’t mind the company of his tutor. Boarding school was different, though. He never quite found a way to fit in. He was too quiet, not quite as rich, and Italian, which mattered in a way he didn’t understand. He always found himself at the center of negative gossip, the butt of too many jokes. He hated it, so he stopped trying to assimilate and let himself fade away into the peripheries of his peers.

When his father died, it was almost a relief; at least the man wouldn’t suffer any longer. But again, it threw him into a world of uncertainty and unfamiliar territory. It sent him to America, into the hands of a grandfather he had never met. As he grew older, he’d come to subtly resent his extended family for disowning him and his parents, and wondered if this grandfather would resent him back.

He didn’t. But his grandfather also wasn’t warm, a product of living so many years alone, Laurie supposes. He knows Mr. Laurence has experienced his share of heartbreak as well; there’s a beautiful piano that sits untouched, that the servants tell him belonged to the old man’s late granddaughter. The few times he tried to play it he’d catch his grandfather looking at him in a way that wasn’t particularly pleasant, so he stopped.

John Brooke - his new tutor - was pleasant enough, earnest and determined to please his grandfather by giving him the privilege of an excellent education. They often butted heads when Mr. Brooke tried to teach him; he couldn’t find him in himself to care much about learning anymore. Couldn’t find it in himself to care about much of anything.

Then, he met Jo March.

His grandfather had noticed his melancholy and sent him to a party to try to lift his spirits. He doubted it would work - how exciting could a party in Concord, Massachusetts possibly be, after all - and quickly found an empty side room to disappear in for a while until he’d spent enough time there that he could plausibly tell his grandfather he’d made an effort to be sociable.

It was there that Jo literally stumbled into him, and changed his life forever.

He’d never in his life met a girl like Jo March, one that was so boisterous and bright and unapologetically herself. In his world, every girl was trained from an early age to be prim and proper and polite, so that someday she might make a good wife and a fine young woman. Jo was anything but, and when he met the rest of the March family, he learned that they all were, in their own way - whether it be Meg and her unabashed love for dramatics and pretty things, or Beth sitting at her piano, playing until her fingers ached.

Or Amy, marching around in a pair of fairy wings and declaring that one day, she would be the best painter in the entire world.

His childhood memories of the Marches were all Jo, her fire and harsh edges and iron will, but Amy was always there at the edges, making herself known. She always seemed to be at odds with her older sister, but he thought that was because the two of them were the most alike in a way, like two opposite ends of the same string. He would always take Jo’s side when she recounted their latest feud, of course, but he couldn’t help his amusement at some of Amy’s antics. He remembers, when Jo told him that Amy had burned her novel, how his sympathy for Jo had existed right alongside of his wild amusement that little Amy March had the gall to even come up with such a thing, let alone follow it through.

But even though Amy was there, along with Meg and Beth, Jo was undoubtedly the main attraction, the sun at the center of his universe. His world was filled with her, with her smiles and laughs and hair and voice, with her words and her thoughts and ideas, and soon his heart was, too. He didn’t know much about love, but he knew he loved her. He knew he wanted her to be a part of his life always.

So, he’d asked her to marry him. It was the only thing to do, wasn’t it?

When she turned him down, he almost hadn’t been surprised. A part of him almost expected it; he hadn’t been particularly excited to ask her, after all. Rather, he’d dreaded it, dreaded the moment that the delicate balance they had built would have to tip one way or the other. He’d always known there was a chance she’d reject him.

That didn’t mean it hurt any less, though. He thinks it hurt even more when she left; he’d always known Jo to dive into every challenge head-first, but then she ran away to New York. She ran away from him. So he followed her lead, as he had learned to do so well over those years with her.

Heading back to Europe was much more bitter than it was sweet, and even the grandeur of cities like London, Paris, and Rome couldn’t stop the vibrancy from slowly bleeding out of his life. What had become a kaleidoscope of colors was now just grays and blacks and whites.

So he drank, and smoked, and gambled, and fucked his way through life, and in a macabre way, never felt closer to his father. Except he wasn’t heartbroken, not anymore - he realized more and more that he never expected her to say yes, not really. That she was right, as she usually was - it would have never worked.

He just felt lost. Unmoored, with nothing to anchor him. And he started to believe that maybe he was simply supposed to live his life this way, alone and adrift and apathetic.

Then, Amy March came barreling back into his life.

She was different, of course - namely, she was no longer little. She had traded her fairy wings and braids for beautiful gowns and carefully coiffed updos, and all her lofty childhood wishes had been replaced with a stoic, resigned realism. It would have worried him, that the world had taken her and hardened her, but he knew that the woman that threw her arms around him and happily shouted his name on that Parisian street, the world around her momentarily forgotten, was the Amy he had always known and cared for, however proper she might be now.

And she was proper, but he found it didn’t bother him like he thought it would. Instead, he admired her for it, that she had managed to grow up so gracefully. She was lovely, he decided. Lovely and refined and determined, so much so that it got him in trouble with her, sometimes. She was constantly after him to be better, to stop his drinking and laziness and make something of his life.

She wanted him to respect himself. He’d never really done that; all his life, he’d known himself to be a bother or problem, a thorn in someone’s side. He didn’t really know how to respect himself, but for her, he wanted to try.

The problem was, it was getting harder and harder to leave her side. She painted in his life with strokes that were insistent, but soft, and he found that her world was just as colorful as her sister’s. It was her own, of course; if Jo had been a red flame, then Amy was a golden glow, like sunshine. But he found that he didn’t mind the differences, that he maybe even preferred Amy’s version. It made him warmer than anything he’d known before.

He doesn’t know exactly when he fell for Amy. It happened slowly, gently, and before he could stop it, she’d taken up all the emptiness in his heart, filled it with light and life and love. Not that he would’ve wanted to stop it; he found he was quite content belonging to her. Even when she rejected him that first time, he didn’t try to remove her. He didn’t resent her, as he had temporarily resented Jo. He knew it was futile, that he was irreparably hers, and he decided that if he couldn’t be with her, he would at least make himself someone she could be proud of. He wanted to be someone she could respect, if he couldn’t be someone she loved.

But then, God had smiled upon him - for perhaps the first time - and she’d changed her mind. She loved him, she wanted him, she loved him. And when he kissed her that first time, she ignited something in him that no woman ever had before. He loved her, he wanted her, her and her only, he loved her, he loved her, he loved her.

His heart sang for her with its every beat. Every breath she took gave him purpose, every smile gave him joy, every kiss and moan and tug on his hair made his blood run hot through his veins. He was so full inside, wanted for nothing. He felt like all his life he’d been trying to shove himself into places where he didn’t fit, whether it be at school or with his father. With Jo. But there was a spot beside Amy, one in which he fit perfectly, like it was created with him in mind. And as long as Amy was beside him, he could do anything, be anything, survive anything.

One of the things that he loves most about her is her beauty. He can’t help it; he is only human. A weak one when it comes to Amy. When she hugged him that first time in France, he’d noticed how the autumn sun had caught the strands of her blonde hair, her cheeks flushed from the way she ran to him. He first let himself realize it in her studio, when she went off to meet Fred Vaughn. There was something about the way her cream-colored blouse laid against her pale skin, the way the blue accents brought out her eyes. How her pinned-up hair showed off her neck. He could do nothing but smile shyly at her, any coherent words suddenly caught in his throat. And every time he saw her, he noticed something else that added to her beauty, whether it be the delicate way she sipped her tea, her lips a pretty pink against the white china, or the way she blushed when he complimented her. Eventually, in a room full of women, she was the only one he could see, as captured as he was by her.

Almost three years later, nothing has changed.

He wakes up in the middle of the night to find her side of the bed empty. He’s almost positive he knows where she is, and almost rolls over and closes his eyes. But he can’t get her out of his head, so he gets up and throws on his robe. The moon shines bright enough that he doesn’t need a candle, and he leaves their bedroom, creeping to the next door down the hall. It’s ajar just slightly, and he slips inside.

And there she is, just where he thought she would be. Standing at the window, staring out into the night. She’s barefoot, dressed in a white nightgown, long hair cascading down her back. The moonlight illuminates her hair and skin. She’s breathtaking. More beautiful than any painting he’d ever seen.

Cradled in her arms is their newborn baby girl.

He doesn’t want to startle her, so he knocks gently against the door. She looks over her shoulder and smiles at him, but quickly goes back to gazing at the newest addition to their family.

He walks over to the two of them, placing a kiss on the top of her head before wrapping his arm around her shoulder and embracing her. There are a multitude of reasons why she might be in here - the baby could’ve been crying, it could’ve been time for a change or a feeding, or Amy simply could’ve missed her, could’ve wanted to hold her and watch her breathe. He suspects it’s the last one, but he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t want to disturb the peaceful scene in front of him.

He reaches a finger down to their baby, taps at her hand, until she opens her fist and wraps all of her tiny fingers around that one of his. Amy turns her face and nuzzles his shoulder, relaxing against him.

He’d never had a particularly happy life.

But standing here now, both his wife and his daughter in his arms, he knows nothing but.

send me a number and a pairing (preferably laurie x amy) and i'll write you a mini fic!

#amy x laurie #laurie x amy #little women #little women 2019 #amy march #theodore laurence #idk if this even fits the prompt?????#idk i've wanted to write this for a long time and finally took the opportunity #hope you like it anon!#anons are beautiful #thank you for the ask!

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yoonpobs · 3 years

Text

bad boy good thing ix.

pairing: jeon jungkook x oc

genre: angst, smut, fluff, miscommunication (we hate her lol), pining

warnings: smut, jungkook is really an asshole, the angst hurts a lot tbh, unhealthy relationships (?)

words: 3, 844

summary: a series of drabbles where you're confused and jungkook's confusing

Jungkook recognises that it’s, to a fault, extremely unhealthy for him to pretend like his problems don’t exist and bury them under a blanket of social interactions that were meaningless to him and excessively working out at the gym so he could get his mind off things.

Granted, it was always how Jungkook dealt with things and he was a creature of habit. He was stubborn and irrational at most times, and usually pretending like his problems didn’t exist did him relatively well. Because like most things in life, problems passed and if people were his problem then he’d just not talk to them. Simple, really. Jungkook had it figured out right to the o.

Well, until he realised that a huge chunk of his problems, though irrationally, was working out right beside him.

“You almost done?” Namjoon grunts, finishing his last rep as he drops the weight to the ground as it sounds through the empty gym.

Only because Namjoon and Jungkook were the only people that were crazy enough to work out at eleven o'clock on a school night. But realistically speaking, Jungkook only asked the football group out of formalities and did not expect his own captain to have responded.

Maybe because you’re too busy hanging out with _____, came Jungkook’s bitter thought. But surprise, Namjoon was very much sweaty and engaged in the workout session that has Jungkook’s head spinning.

“Yeah.” Jungkook huffs, dropping his own weight before he dabs the hem of his tank top to his forehead to catch the bead of sweat before it drops.

Namjoon walks over to pick up his own bottle and toss Jungkook his own before he chugs the liquid in one go.

Jungkook has half the mind to be a petty motherfucker and rejects it but he was way too parched to deny the tempting object. Besides, he could pretend like Namjoon wasn’t the bulk of his many problems. Even if he knew Namjoon was unsuspecting of everything, it was easier to blame him for the fact that you weren’t keen on hanging out with him than himself.

“The circuit today was intense.” Namjoon points out, shooting a raised eyebrow expression in Jungkook’s direction. “You nearly killed me, man.” He finishes with a teasing tone.

Jungkook huffs dryly, “Maybe that’s a sign for you to work out more.”

He’s being bitter, he knows that. Because Namjoon was huge and hit the gym as frequently as Jungkook did.

Namjoon, however, is oblivious to this. “Maybe.” And Jungkook hates that he accepts it so easily.

Jungkook’s mind is all over the place and never mind that he’s burnt enough calories to last him his workout quota for the next two weeks, but he has the urge to pry. To ask Namjoon things that he no longer had the privilege to ask you anymore.

But before he can say anything, Namjoon beats him to the first word.

“You and ____ are close right?”

Jungkook pauses, fist tightening around the bottle before he clears his throat. “Um. Kind of.” Because he wasn’t sure anymore, so he settled for that instead you conveyed otherwise to Namjoon. But he knew that you wouldn’t, you weren’t petty like that. “Why do you ask?”

And Jungkook doesn’t like the way that Namjoon looks nervous. Call it his sixth sense, but he just doesn’t like the insinuation behind the way Namjoon fiddles with his fingers.

“Well, you, Jimin and Tae are, right?” Namjoon asks. “And Yena, but I already had this conversation with her anyways.”

“What conversation?” Jungkook immediately asks, eyebrows furrowed.

“I think it’s pretty obvious to most people that I’m into her.” Namjoon snorts, but Jungkook can’t find it in himself to laugh.

“Right.”

“Things have been going well and so far all the hangouts we’ve had were friendly,” Namjoon says with a small smile.

Jungkook doesn’t know what to do with the information he was receiving or why he was even receiving it in the first place. Sure, Namjoon and he were close because they were under the same football team and chemistry between players was definitely a prerequisite when it came to bagging wins.

“That’s nice to hear.” Jungkook grunts.

Namjoon nods absent-mindedly as he plops onto one of the workout benches, swinging a towel over his shoulder. “I told her that I wouldn’t rush into things with her but I really do like her. And I want to ask her out. Officially, that is.”

Jungkook quite literally freezes all his limbs when the words tumble out of Namjoon’s mouth.

“And because you’re important to her, I just wanted to know if you were okay with that? I mean—she has to be okay with it but you’re someone she cares about so your opinion does matter to a certain extent. Either way, I’m going to do it but I thought it was just courteous of me to let you know.”

And damn you for being courteous, Jungkook curses to himself mentally.

“What?” Jungkook croaks because that’s all he can manage.

He’s heard it from Jeonghan, Yugyeom and Jaehyun when it came to locker-room talk but he’s brushed it off because what did they know, right? Even if Yena was heard whispering to Jimin conspiringly, he’d pretended he hadn’t heard a single word just so he could delude himself into thinking that it wasn’t real.

But for Namjoon to directly confirm it to his face, Jungkook feels like he’s been punched in the gut.

“I don’t know, man.” Namjoon sighs, “She’s really something else, you know? I’ve been kind of admiring from afar for a really long time because someone wouldn’t introduce her to me”—he shoots a playful glare to a stone-faced Jungkook who can’t even respond—“and getting to know her personally just really solidified the fact that I really like her.”

Jungkook is a level-headed man, most of the time at least, but there were things that threw him off. Overly salty food, flash mobs, microwaves; but most of the time he was able to recover.

Most. Not all.

“No.”

Namjoon freezes, and so does Jungkook. But for two very different reasons.

“I’m sorry, did you just say no?” Namjoon asks dumbfounded.

Jungkook can’t stop his mouth. “Yeah.” He swallows. Stop talking. “No.”

Namjoon furrows his brows, “Yeah to you saying no or, yeah to literally the context of this conversation?”

Jungkook has never resented Namjoon more than right now, even when he’d made the team run extra laps as a warm-up.

“You can’t.” Jungkook deadpans. “You can’t ask her out.”

And for as long as Jungkook knew Namjoon, he knew that under the calm and collected exterior that he took most of the time because he was the captain of the football team, and diplomacy was necessary. He was petty, and to a certain extent, immature. But he did a far better job and conveying his displeasure compared to Jungkook.

“Okay, and who are you—her dad?” Namjoon scoffs.

Even if it was made explicitly clear by Namjoon that he was doing so out of respect for you, Jungkook still felt the need to defend himself.

“Her friend.” Jungkook snaps. “And you’re my captain. That’s just—weird.”

He knows his excuse is lame, and so does Namjoon.

“Really,” Namjoon says dryly. “That’s your excuse?”

“Not an excuse. Facts.” Jungkook retorts childishly.

Namjoon snorts before raising an eyebrow at Jungkook who is all but making eye contact with him.

“Does this have to do with why you weren’t keen on introducing her to me in the first place when I asked?”

Jungkook nearly drops his water bottle when he swings around, face scandalised in a way that shows that he’s been caught but attempting to deflect.

“What the fuck are you even saying.” He splutters.

Namjoon is as calm as ever, “You tell me, Jungkook. I don’t see a legitimate reason as to why I can’t ask her out.”

Jungkook scoffs, cheeks red. “I told you. It’s weird. What if you guys break up? How’s that going to be for Jimin, Tae and I?”

Namjoon blinks.

“I can be civil.” He shrugs. “The question is, can you?”

Jungkook narrows his eyes into slits as he observes Namjoon. He’s never gotten into any conflicting situations with Namjoon, purely because he never had a reason to. He never knew his captain could be so … retort-inducing, but here he was. Ready to snap back, for a very childish reason he wasn’t ready to unpack just yet.

“Look. How bout’ you think about it a little more?” Jungkook feigns disinterest when he fiddles with his gym bag as if he was looking for something. It was an escape to this conversation. “The two of you just started hanging out and she’s not the type that likes it rushed, anyways.”

“I’m not asking her to marry me, Jungkook.” Namjoon blinks.

Jungkook rolls his eyes, “I know. If you were I think I’d have a stroke.” He mutters. “Thing is, there’s probably a lot of things that you don’t know about her yet so you may as well just … wait.”

His excuses are getting a lot more pathetic by the second, and Namjoon clearly feels the same because he shoots a frown at Jungkook.

“That’s the point of asking her out … to get to know her.” Namjoon drawls slowly, stating the obvious.

Jungkook lets out an exasperated sigh and he wants this conversation to be over because he’s already let out more than what he’d like.

“She’s just not the type …” Jungkook lamely defends.

Namjoon purses his lips. “And that’s coming from you?”

Jungkook glares at Namjoon who doesn’t look like he’s going to back down.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Namjoon rolls his eyes. “It means—you’re not her so you have no right to be assuming shit about her. I don’t care if you’re her best friend or whatever the hell you are to her that makes you think you automatically know what she wants or doesn’t. The reason why I’m telling you all of this is purely out of respect for her, and her only. Frankly—I couldn’t give a rats ass about your opinion on this.”

Jungkook gapes at Namjoon because this is the first time he’s seen him anything less than cool and collected. But perhaps this was why he was always taken so seriously in every context he’s found himself in. Namjoon was diplomatic when he need be, and firm when necessary. This was one of those occasions and Jungkook hates that it’s him on the receiving end under the context of you being the topic of conversation.

“Well—”

“And, if you have something you want to say to her.” Namjoon sighs, throwing his gym bag over his shoulder and levelling a look so serious that it sends a shudder down Jungkook’s spine, “Be honest to her. She doesn’t deserve anything less than that.”

Right before Namjoon turns around to leave, Jungkook has to ask—

“How did you know?”

He doesn’t have to say what, because Namjoon clearly knows what he was talking about. The stiff chuckle he releases is enough to prove that.

“I’m not stupid, Jungkook.” He says. “First it was not introducing us to each other and now it’s the unwarranted possessiveness. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.”

Jungkook purses his lips, feeling his blood run cold because if Namjoon knew then …

“So what? You’re going to tell her?” He accuses.

Namjoon scoffs. “Jungkook, I like you. You’re a good friend of mine. I’m not going to fuck you over like that. That’s your own issue to deal with.”

“Sure doesn’t feel like it,” Jungkook mutters dryly.

Namjoon sighs, turning his body to face Jungkook as he offers him a blank expression that he can’t quite read.

“I don’t know about you but I’m not the type to conflate my personal life with my friend's personal life. Sure, we like the same girl—” Jungkook winces, but Namjoon continues anyway. “—but life goes on. I’m a big boy and so are you, right?”

Jungkook tongues the inside of his cheek when Namjoon offers a slight smirk with a raised eyebrow.

“So you’re backing off?”

The slight hopeful tone that Jungkook has is naive, and he knows that. But a selfish part of him just wished that Namjoon would so he could figure out how to solve and fix things between the two of you without the interruption of his own football captain in the mix.

Namjoon snorts, “No way. What did you take me for—a pushover?”

Jungkook gapes, “Then what—?”

“I’m still going to ask her out. Your feelings are your own and it’s not my responsibility to look after them for you.” He shrugs, turning on his heel to leave the gym. His hands are on the knob when he turns around. “She’s single. Nothing’s stopping you or me from doing anything.”

And he leaves, not before he adds: “Don’t be late for training tomorrow. We have circuit training.”

It’s been a week since you’ve last spoken to Jungkook and two weeks since he’s apologised to you at your apartment. You still remember the ghost of his lips, the heat of his hands when he held you close.

You still had moments in between where you were distracted, but there was something oddly compelling about a person you were trying to forget for the time being that haunts your every thought. And you hated yourself for it, for still wondering if he was okay or how he was doing when you were the one that put distance between the two of you.

Maybe that’s why your hand reaches out to your phone, but it’s as if God had sent you a Guardian Angel when a hand grips your wrist.

“I thought we weren’t touching our phones?” Namjoon has a teasing tilt to his voice when he murmurs the words.

You flush, meekly retracting your hand as you send him a playful glare.

“What are you? The exam invigilator?” You scowl.

Namjoon snorts before rubbing a thumb between your furrowed brows. You can’t help but flush harder, pouting at him when all he does is grin at you.

“I’m meant to be the person you’re paying attention to.” He returns, voice husky and you feel yourself grow flustered.

Obviously, because Namjoon was attractive and he told you on occasions that he’d intentionally raised the pitch of his voice because it was way too deep for people to understand.

“Grow up.” You mutter, but your tone is light when you roll your eyes at him.

You’ve grown much more comfortable with Namjoon in the recent times you’ve hung out with him, purely because there was something very welcoming about a person like him. He was understanding and calm, yet he was absolutely hilarious without even needing to try. There were moments where he’d make you laugh until you cry which resulted in the librarians shooting you glares from their desks.

“Penny for your thoughts?” He hums, definitely recognising the way you were a little out of the loop even throughout your study session.

The library is quiet during this hour because it wasn’t exam season and rarely were students willing to spend time on a school night at the library against their own will.

“Just … stuff.” You sigh.

And Namjoon frowns ever so slightly because you were always like this, tucked away in your own compartment as if you were afraid to reveal anything more.

“You can always talk to me, you know?” He whispers, eyes focusing on your face when he leans down.

You purse your lips and you nod. You knew you could, but your problems were far more complex than what you could describe in words. Besides, you knew that Namjoon had some … form of feelings to you—so how the hell were you supposed to explain the fact that you’ve allowed your best friend to touch you in a way that a lover is meant to?

“I know.” You sigh, fiddling with your fingers when you bring yourself to look up at him through your eyelashes. “It’s really complicated and I don’t want to unload onto you.”

Namjoon smiles at you so gently you feel even guiltier for feeling the way you do.

“And I’m a pretty simple guy. Say anything and I’ll take it at face value.” He jokes.

You roll your eyes at him and shove at his chest. Only then do you realise how close the two of you are. When did his face get so close to yours? Why were you only realising his breath on your cheek?

It’s late, and you’re tired from the copious amount of studying so maybe that’s why your eyes involuntarily dart to his lips that were much closer to you than you’d realised.

“Can I do something?” He murmurs, and you watch his lips move when he asks.

You find yourself blindly nodding, too caught up in the moment.

Namjoon reaches a gentle hand around your jaw, cradling it so softly as if he was afraid to hurt you. A touch you’re familiar yet new to, enough for you to remember and think of Jungkook even if it’s Namjoon in front of you.

The logical part of you tells you to push Namjoon away, to not subject him to this unfair treatment when you know your heart lays elsewhere. But you’re human and you’re selfish because you’ve never been doted on like this—never looked in a way that shows you that he wants you.

Namjoon tilts your head up so that he’s looking straight into your eyes and you’re positive your face is on fire. It feels … nice. But that’s it. You don’t feel exhilarated like you did when Jungkook held you, and you curse yourself for always comparing the two.

He leans in so slowly that you’re quite literally gripping the edge of your seat. You realise this, though.

Namjoon is strategic when he maps out the journey to your lips, both careful and calm when he brings you closer like he’s been preparing for this for a long time. What you remember, is Jungkook—a spontaneous lover who smirks against kisses and tugs you closer in a rush that makes your head spin.

The two are so different, and you’re inclined to want Namjoon too. But you’ve always been a sucker for adrenaline.

But you push those thoughts away and try to focus on the way Namjoon is treating you so tenderly.

“Can I kiss you?” He whispers against your lips and you feel your response before you say it.

“Yeah.” You breathe, fingers digging into your seat.

And Namjoon looks stunning up close, suave and handsome like you always knew him to be when he closes the distance.

He presses into your lips so softly that you barely feel it at first, not until he’s tilting his head to bring you closer and his other hand cups the other side of your face.

Your face is hot because he’s the second person you’ve ever kissed and it feels … it feels. You like it. That’s what you think.

You don’t dare go further than return his kiss, and Namjoon is far too gentlemanly to prod at your lips.

Your hand instinctively reaches out to wrap them around his neck, but a voice interrupts your movements.

“______?”

Immediately, you pull away—remembering where you were and how easy it was for you to be spotted locking lips with Namjoon.

You flush, turning to the source of the voice to mumble a sheepish apology until you realise who it is—and your face pales.

Not only because is it Jungkook, who’s staring at you and Namjoon with a hardened gaze. But because of the company he has.

“Cute,” Jennie smirks, arms looped around Jungkook’s and you feel your throat clam shut.

Namjoon notices the drop in your expression that you try to hide, and he reaches out to squeeze your hand in an attempt to offer consolation. He doesn’t need to guess why.

“What are you—?”

“We were about to leave, right?” Namjoon murmurs so softly that you barely catch him. Not until you realise that Jennie has her eyebrow cocked, awaiting your response.

You blink before you turn to Namjoon who’s still looking at you so gently.

He didn’t deserve this.

“I’ll go.” You say curtly, softly taking your hand back from where he’s squeezing it as you offer an apologetic look to him. All while Jungkook is still staring at you.

“Wait, ____—” Jungkook reaches out to grab at your elbow, and you immediately pull away as if you’ve been scathed.

You knew you didn’t have a right to feel this way, not when you made it explicitly clear that you needed time away from him. But you also thought you made it clear how you felt about him and he was around her … again. It’s like a bucket of cold water that’s been washed upon you and you feel like utter shit when you see Jennie smile up at you, completely oblivious to the conflict you were having in your heart.

“I’ll walk you back.” Namjoon stands up, even as you attempt to protest. But Namjoon levels you with a firm expression that has you snapping your mouth shut and sighing to yourself, begrudgingly allowing him to stand by your side; almost towering over you and even Jungkook when he shoots him a withering glare.

“I’ll do it.” Jungkook snaps back, shaking Jennie’s arm off of him.

Before Namjoon can respond, you’re doing it for him.

“There’s no need, Jungkook.” You say softly, avoiding his eyes.

You don’t have to look at him to see the fall in his face.

“I just wanted to talk—”

“There’s nothing we can’t talk about with them here, right?” You smile stiffly at him.

Jungkook pauses, hands too as they reach for your shoulder.

“It’s not what it—”

You’re cutting him off again, tired of hearing the same thing fall from his lips, “you don’t need to say anything.”

But your heart wants to stay even if your mind knows it’s a bad idea. You’re lucky Namjoon was there because he’s tugging you aside with his arms.

“Let’s go, okay?” He whispers into your ear, soft enough so only you can hear.

You nod your head, turning to leave when you feel your heart break for the same reason again. You hate that your first instinct is the hotness behind your eyelids.

“So you’re with him?” Jungkook huffs, and you can tell he’s exasperated.

You’re about to retort, but Namjoon shakes his head—turns around to mouth something to Jungkook you can’t be bothered to see before he’s leading you out the library, leaving Jungkook and Jennie there.

Right before you step out, you hear Jennie say:

“We should do a double date.”

Namjoon hears this too and wraps an arm around your shoulder as he squeezes. He’s nice enough that he doesn’t ask why you were sniffling on the walk back to your home.

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cinnamonest · 3 years

Text

Rewriting my Diluc housewife thoughts but I saved it in my notes this time, but I made it infinitely more sexist than it already was before bc 1) I was in the kink mood and 2) the spirits of writing gods possessed my body and told me that is the way all Diluc content should be, so, this is major 1950s-ish housewifey horrendously misogynistic shit, you've been warned. Like, even *I* looked back over this and was like "wow this is vile" which is kinda saying something for me so, putting the nastier parts under cut for the sake of my followers' eyes ----------- I was thinking about the post a while back about Diluc reforming a criminal darling - a thief around Mondstadt that's been on a crime spree and of course he catches wind of that and goes to defeat the perpetrator (surprisingly very easy? How is a thief this weak?) and haul the bastard off to jail except... What's this? Said criminal is actually just some girl and not a gross ugly bastard?? This changes things. Clearly, this was not an intentional act of malice or greed, but rather, he, master of criminal psychology™, rationalizes that the world is far too cruel for unwifed girls that have no one to depend on, a cold terrible place, so you must have been driven to these actions out of desperation. You had no provider, no caretaker, which are needs. How could you possibly be expected to provide a means of living for yourself?? This is just the consequences of the unfairness of the world. However, things all work out in the end. You need to be taken care of and restrained from these self-destructive choices by force (since you cannot recognize how bad it is, not that you're expected to, it's natural that you have poor perception, that's why you need a man to make choices for you), and he needs a wife. This solution benefits all parties.

He is, however, a rather dense man, and doesn't really think to like, tell you that. Or tell you anything. He's too lost in thought in his planning -- gonna get you new clothes to replace your ragged ones, gonna have to rearrange the guard schedule so they can watch the house better, all that -- and just kinda slings you up and over his shoulder without a word. Ignores you kicking and hitting because it doesn't really hurt or anything, you're too weak for that. Just says he’ll explain in detail later, but don’t worry, you’re not going to jail. He’s just taking you home. This is better, he says. Stop struggling so much, what, you want to go to jail? No? Then be still. And you don't recognize that it's good for you yet, but again, that's expected. In a better time or society, you would have been married off sooner, and prevented from ever falling victim to your own decision making to begin with, but the world isn't perfect and you can be forgiven for it. You're not responsible for your own actions since you can't comprehend them. It's frustrating and he sighs a bit over it, but that's just the way things are. You'll be happy in the long run, even if it takes a while, you're naturally programmed for a better lifestyle he has in mind. And, really, he's glad you weren't married off, because if you were then he never would have had you, so even though it was technically unideal, the stars align and the universe works out things perfectly. It's all the more of a sign that this was fate and you were made for him. The issue is that a hardened criminal darling is... Not the ideal candidate for a housewife. To some extent, he's right that the criminal underworld hardens a person, you can't survive in that realm if you're submissive or weak willed. And criminal darling certainly is not. Loud mouthed, opinionated, argumentative, bad attitude, defiant and aggressive and very much unafraid. A complete loose cannon. All very unfavorable traits. Worst of all, very much unaccepting of and ungrateful for the privilege of a second chance and being graciously granted the opportunity for a better life. Lots of bad behaviors.

The cursing is a problem. It's not very... Wife-like. Gives off a bad image, you know. Especially since said cursing is usually directed at him at a very loud volume with a snarl and getting all up in his face to tell him he's fucking insane and a bastard. To be honest, the worst part isn't the words themselves, it's the fact that you are so unafraid to be defiant and so fiery that is the primary issue. You disobey very deliberately. Little acts of pettiness. Being mean to the maids who are so graciously trying to teach you how to cook (at his direction), since you had no idea how to (and nearly burned his house down as a result). The first time you were mean and bitter and that's how you learned they report back to him about how you behaved. It did not go over well.

Intentionally burning food. Once you somehow found a bottle in a cabinet somewhere in the mansion and put rat poison in his food, made him sick. Muttering a sarcastic whoops and shoving a vase off to crash and shatter on the floor. Early on you refused to wear all the nice dresses you were generously given and even tried to go through his clothes to find something to wear, which was kinda cute since it was way too big, but still. You mutter and grumble under your breath every time you're given a command. The most important thing is sex, though. You know, your job. One of your only real responsibilities. He has a very stressful job. It's only reasonable that he can expect to come home to his sweet, loving little wife with open arms and equally open legs. You've probably fucked around a bit right? For money, for favors, for intel, you get the idea, lots of ties to criminal gangs to earn their trust. So, if you do it for something so insignificant, how much more does he deserve it for taking care of you fully? You should -- and you will, with time -- drop to your knees the second he walks through the door. But instead, sigh, you fight and whimper and cover your face in shame after you spasm and cum, and worst of all, you actively try not to cum. You shouldn't feel ashamed of that, it's good, he says. Sure, you may not be officially married (since the laws of Mondstadt unfortunately require that whole "consent" thing for both parties, ugh), but, he's basically your husband right? So, it's perfectly normal, you're supposed to cum for him. Maybe once you're all knocked up you'll be even hornier, and less shameful. He actually wasn't expecting you to be this bad. Incredibly stubborn and prideful. Literally the exact opposite traits of a good wife, you know, submissive and humble and obedient. He kinda thought that it was like... automatic. That once he just kinda shoved you in the right environment, it would be like flipping a switch right? Apparently not. But no matter. It can be changed, with effort and time. You're worth it. See, you're not supposed to backtalk him, you're supposed to smile and do what you're told without question. You're supposed to submit and obey, and instead you seem hellbent on pissing him off out of spite - and frankly, you're doing a good job of achieving that. Every time you defy him it sparks an irritation he can't describe, worse than he'd normally get from just being snarled at by anyone - no, something about being disrespected by someone he feels is beneath him makes him much, much angrier than it would be if it were, say, one of the business partners who get snappy and argumentative very frequently. He could break you and it would be easy, don't you know that? You stomp and you hit him and you yell, but clearly you process that you have to look up to look him in the eye, you have to realize how much smaller you are. You hit him even though you have to know by now he'll just grab your wrists, and like always you'll be unable to even hope of pulling out of his grip, the strength difference between you two is so great. There's no way you don't realize all that, yet you continue to behave the way you do. The inferiority is so blatantly obvious, but you act as if it's not. He spends a lot of time contemplating the source of this, the cause of your behavior, it occupies his thoughts. It's like... You resent him for something. Could it possibly be kidnapping you and keeping you as a glorified sex slave? No, no, that's not it. It's something else, yes. Are you just bitter about being inferior in, you know, every conceivable way? Is that it? The criminality for you was compensation to make you feel powerful, perhaps. You have a complex. You resent him not for anything he's done, but because you know he's stronger and smarter and generally superior to you. You don't want to accept it. You're prideful when you shouldn't be. You're supposed to be humble and content with your inferiority. Yeah, that's it. You just have a negative perception of the lifestyle you're supposed to have. Maybe some event in your life or someone else warped your view of things. You don't realize how happy you'd be if you just accepted it. Yes, if you submitted to it, if you swallowed your pride and actually accepted your place, you'd find you would be very happy, you just don't know that. Or maybe, your brain can't grasp something like that. After all, that's the reason you're supposed to be the submissive party of the two of you, you're not as bright or perceptive (says the densest man alive). You have to be... Led. Guided. So he says it. He is, again, a dense man. He does not really think about the fact that perhaps blatantly confronting you with the epiphany he thinks he's had and specifically using the words inferior and weak and small is probably not going to make you very happy. You get bitchy and bratty and try to hit him and he sighs because, see, this is exactly what he's talking about. You reacting the way you did only confirms you do have a complex, he says. So, how could he go about... reconditioning? He is not the most creative man, but thankfully it's a rather easy problem to solve. If you're reminded of a reality often enough, you have to accept it. For starters, using physical strength against you. Maybe that will metaphorically open your eyes. Holds you down in place when you're hitting him like you do, firmly bending you over a counter or whatever and just holding you in place. Come on, try to get up, try to push him off. You snarl and claw at the marble and push will all your strength, but he doesn't budge, not until you politely apologize and ask him to let you up. If you're being difficult and not going where he tells you to, well, he can just sling you up over his shoulder and carry you. If you're fighting being fucked he can just flip you over and press your face into the mattress and hold you still, and you can't help but take the brutal reality that you're basically a ragdoll to him, that is, physically overpowering you doesn't even require trying. It helps to knock you down a peg, remind you of your place and maybe get you to swallow that pride a bit. The orgasms and fucking have a similar effect -- every time you can't help but feel like he has a power over you. And really, he kinda does. Every time you lay there still panting and shivering in aftershock, the shame comes swarming in, all the obscene noises you made and the way you came undone under the person that treats you like property. Even if the rational part of you knows better, you can't help but feel like in a way it's like you let him win, allowed yourself to more or less prove him right. Maybe you'll learn better if you're in more humiliating positions. Stuck getting rammed from behind, hand forcing your face down and ass up. Actually correcting bad behaviors requires more direct approaches, so he takes the... Old fashioned route. After all, it's pretty much guaranteed to work. You don't listen to words, you don't listen to reason, but you'll certainly listen to handprints and belt welts on your ass. It's the first time you really, truly break, and that brings him a lot of satisfaction. The first time you really cry and whimper and beg and apologize so profusely it feels like you mean it for once. Granted, for a while you just persist in your bad behaviors and even try to run when you see him sigh and take the belt off, but you never get far. And, most notably, you actually fix your behaviors, with enough reminders. At one point, the next time you start being bad and get to bitching and snarling and putting up a fight, you catch the look on his face and, for once, you shut your mouth and look down and mumble an apology by default. See, you're learning. Speaking of, you still have that major issue with backtalking him. You're supposed to submit to him and acknowledge his authority over you. So he gets firm. Grabs you by the jaw and forces you to look him in the eye and reminds you that you will *not* get an attitude with him. You *will* show some respect. You say yes sir and no sir and do what you're told. And if you forget, he can give you a reminder, if you want that. But you shake your head with fear in your eyes, say you don't want that. It makes you mad. You want to lash back, but you swallow your pride and mutter a fine - before realizing the mistake, violating the rule you were just reminded of. You stammer out a yes sir but it's already too late. He has to control himself too, not let his anger get the better of him. He speaks in a way that isn't snarling and mean, but rather firm, cold, a flat tone that asserts dominance and demands respect. But... still wants you to like him. So he has to be nice, too. After all, you'll learn better if you're rewarded for being good, right? So you can get little rewards. Words of affirmation. A pat to the head. He'll buy you something you want, let you drink a bit (since, as a thief, of course, you had a problem with that before you came home, but that had to be corrected too, since drunkenness isn't very befitting). And sooner or later he does have a really good little wife. He's proud of you. You smile and obey commands without complaining. He can come home every day, and rather than hearing a long report from the staff about how much trouble you caused that day, instead you have food and smiles and sweet affection waiting on him, you hug him when he walks through the door. You're polite and sweet to the various business partners and guests that come through -- you don't speak to them without permission though, of course, and you look down at the ground so you don't make eye contact with another man. People say he's lucky and how they wish they had a wife that was so outwardly affectionate to them as you are to him, always clinging to him physically. And you don't complain or every object to anything, you just smile and say yes and do it. It makes him happy in a weird way he can't quite articulate. A warm swell of pride, a feeling of success. You have vague memories of a time when you were breaking into houses just to scrape by, not knowing when you'd eat next, not knowing where you'd sleep. It's kind of a fuzzy memory now. You don't have to worry about those things anymore, and you're a lot happier this way.

#this is vile im sorry #tw: ff #tw: misogyny #.dl #yan.txt #q

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hello-nichya-here · 2 years

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Excluding the comics, did Zuko hurt Azula more than she ever hurt him overall? Coz I've been hearing that argument all over the place a lot lately...

Before I can even begin to explain my point of view on that, we need to take a look at how their dynamic works (and how it changed over the years)

In “Ember Island Players” Zuko says their family was happy - a long, long, LONG time ago. We don’t know how exactly Zuko and Azula acted towards each other, but looking just at that line we could maybe assume they behaved more like normal siblings.

In “Zuko Alone”, that family is already miserable 90% of the time and no one was even disfigured yet. Azula is the typical bratty little sister, and while she says some fucked up shit, she doesn’t really do anything that “evil” towards him - her worst offense would be sounding way too happy while telling Zuko their dad is going to kill him, but she did warn him. Even though she’s not really doing much bad shit to him, she’s not really being nice either, except for a ONE SECOND scene of the two of them playing with each other in the garden (we don’t know who asked who to play, or if their mother told them to play together) and that scene of their mother reading them the letter Iroh sent. Zuko deliberately avoids his sister and even though her teasing is usually pretty mild, he quite clearly takes it all very seriously and personally because their father favors Azula, but ignores him. However, Zuko does act a like a proper older brother once or twice (and basically does Ursa’s job of communicating things to the literal 8-year-old better than she did) by saying things like “How would you feel if cousin Lu Ten wanted dad to die?” or “He’s probably just sad that his only son is gone. Forever” when Azula is being insensitive about the idea/reality of their relatives dying.

In “The Storm” the show has a flashback with Azula seemingly enjoying seeing her Ozai burning Zuko’s face. We don’t really know if that reaction was genuine, a result of fear of the consequences if she didn’t react positively to it, or both, but it’s pretty fair to assume that if Zuko somehow found about that reaction, he’d probably be very hurt - but again, we don’t even know if he is aware this happened. What we DO know is that the trauma of that Agni Kai and of his three years of banishment made Zuko very bitter, angry and frustrated, to the point that he is lashing out at everyone (including Iroh, who we know he cares for) for the smallest of things, and he very clearly resents Azula for being their father’s favorite - to the point that he is angry at her for being “perfect”, instead of being pissed off at his father for his unfair standards (which makes sense considering Ozai basically brainwashed him into believing all of his misery is Azula’s fault)

On “Avatar State” Zuko instantly reacts negatively the second he sees his sister. Since she’s there on a mission to capture him, they spent pretty much the entire season being openly hostile to each other. The ONE TIME Zuko says something that might, maybe, perhaps indicate that, on some level, he believes it isn’t right for them to be at each other’s throats since they’re family is when he goes “Uncle, I know what you’re going to say: she’s my sister, and I should try to get along with her” implying someone tried to give him some sense of obligation to his sister (likely Ursa, considering she did agree with Azula’s “We’re brother and sister, we should spend time together”). Iroh then responds not with a understandable warning for Zuko to be careful since the idea of family quite clearly isn’t stopping Azula from trying to capture them, but instead with the infamous and terrible “No. She’s crazy and needs to go down.” Zuko doesn’t argue at all.

In “Crossroads of Destinity” however, Azula genuinely offers Zuko the chance to go home, he only joins the fight when Aang and Katara are cornering her, and she even gives him some emotional support after the battle is won. Unfortunately, in “The Awakening”, because Zuko doesn’t trust her for many reasons (some less valid than others) he lies to her about there being no chance of the Avatar having survived. Azula recognizes that as a lie, feels threatened, and tells Ozai Zuko was the one to kill Aang, so he will be the one who will be punished if he really is alive.

However, during the rest of his short return to the Fire Nation, Azula is being much, much nicer to her brother than she ever did before, warning him to be careful if he’s going to visit Iroh, asking the guys at the beach if they’re not going to invite both her and Zuko to their party, not letting him sulk on his misery at their old beach house, offering emotional support in the form of arson, answering his question about Sozin’s death, and pointing out to him that OF COURSE he’s welcomed at the war meeting - he’s the freaking prince. She still crosses a few lines every now and again and can still be a little bratty, but mostly she seems to have matured quite a lot, and to have no ill will towards him despite their recent conflict prior to Ba Sing Se. Zuko on the other hand, quite clearly still resents her and doesn’t trust her after all that happened, and his behavior is now the reverse of what it was like in “Zuko Alone” - he doesn’t really go out of his way to avoid her anymore, but never really tries to initiate any interaction with her, and he surely doesn’t offer any guidance, however limited.

On “The Day Of Black Sun” Zuko leaves the Fire Nation without so much as leaving a letter to Azula, and he tells Ozai that she was the one who failed to kill Aang - he does it for the sake of honesty, but the result still is that he carelessly told Ozai something that could make him furious at Azula simply because he didn’t understand that there’s a difference between being his favorite and being safe from his wrath. Since they’re on opposing sides again, they go back to constant fighting. In “The Southern Raiders” Azula attacks Zuko with the explicit intent to kill him, yet when he sees her falling “to her death” he looks a bit conflicted... only to then have a 100% negative reaction when she saves herself. In the finale, while the idea was not his, but Iroh’s, Zuko still does not hesitate for a second once given the mission to kill his sister, and while he shows no mercy, the music makes it all sound like a tragedy. The message is pretty clear: while he might not personally want any harm to come to Azula, Zuko sees her as a problem that needs to be solved - all that changes is what kind of problem she is (his personal rival or yet another soldier of the enemy). He also dismisses Azula when she says that she is sorry things have to end that way (she’s also in “battle mode” so to speak, and he is an obstacle to be dealt with), and she was quite clearly being sarcastic... but that line sounds a lot more genuine than even she had probably meant it to be when you consider the context of it all.

It basically comes down to what would be worse for you personally: someone who will (intentionally) do both good and bad things for you, which can be confusing, disappointing, hurtful, and maybe even make you a little paranoid/overly-defensive, or someone who isn’t really putting in any effort, and thus giving you no expectations, but also being frustrating if YOU are putting in effort in bonding with them, and who will also make dumb (but genuine) mistakes due to being too absorbed in their own problems and not understanding that said mistakes also affect you (which leads to them repeating said mistakes, which can be quite infuriating).

This dynamic is part of why I want Zuko to be the one to help Azula. He was too focused on his own issues to notice that his sister was begging for help AND genuinely trying to connect with him, so now that his life is more stable and he has undeniable proof that Azula’s life was NOT the easy, perfect life their father made him believe she had, it is the perfect time for him to open his eyes and try to correct his mistakes - but now Azula is in a position where she doesn’t trust anybody, especially not the older brother who left her, defeated her, and took her crown after she legitimately tried to help him. It’d lead to conflict, growth, and happiness after the storm is over and they manage to make things work at last, and I fucking live for that kind of story.

#asks #fire siblings #fire siblings meta #azula meta #zuko meta

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mystrangeaddiction-petra-venj · 3 years

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Petra and Crow

So, I’ve seen a few posts now talking about how people are upset about how Petra is treating Crow. I understand why these people are upset, so I’m making this in hopes of rationalizing why Petra might be acting the way she is. I would also like to preface this by saying that I do no think that 100% of Petra’s anger towards Crow is justified and that I actually really like Crow as a character. I don’t want to make anyone mad or upset, I just want to share what I personally think might be the cause of Petra’s behavior towards Crow this season.

My first point is that she doesn’t know Crow like we do. She hasn’t seen the changes he’s made and how he’s grown as a person. Most likely, all she sees when she looks at him is the man who had brought on a lot of pain and suffering to not only her, but to her people as well. She probably feels bitter because here he is with a second chance at life, no recollection of his crimes, and being treated like a friend while she’s stuck cleaning up the mess Uldren left.

The treatment of Crow by the guardians is probably something else that is upsetting her because, ever since Petra has taken the regency, she’s been at odds with much of the Reef’s High Command. The Techuns don’t believe in her, the paladins think she isn’t worthy to lead, and enough assassination attempts that warranted the Crows to open a file on them. Additionally, if you remember her in D1, she used to be the emissary for the Queen. A position that was forced to serve in for many years because of her crimes against the Guardians and the Tower. She’s probably furious that he doesn’t have to serve any type of punishment, gets a second chance, and, from what she believes, to be welcomed with open arms into a place where he caused so many to hurt. She’s most likely extremely bitter and angry because she has to suffer alone, while he gets to live a second life without having to atone for his crimes. Though I personally believe that Uldren’s death was penance enough.

Petra only treats Uldren badly for his crimes because, if you put it in perspective, he’s the only guardian who’s past she actually knows. And his past is one that again, caused her and her people copious amounts of pain. Guardians don’t know their pasts and for good reasons, but I don’t think it’s completely unreasonable for people who knew them in their past lives to be somewhat resentful, especially considering all that Uldren inflicted on the Awoken. As far as I know, the biggest slight that he committed against the guardians was the death of Cayde, but in the Reef, he did so much more. He effectively abandoned the Reef and left Petra alone to hold the regency. He created an alliance with the fallen House of Kings and led a campaign against the Reef where he killed his own people, stole from them, and caused further destruction to the Reef. Uldren figured out the Red Legion was going to invade and instead of telling Petra, he allowed the Legion in, which caused the asteroid belt that the Reef sits in to destabilize further. He also used his Fallen alliance to prevent Petra from reaching out to the city for help and the ability to perhaps collaborate together to beat back the Ghaul and the Red Legion. And, to top it all off, he released the Scorn and the Barons into the Reef allowing them to get into the already Taken infested Dreaming City and giving them the ability to slaughter their people. All of these things added an additional burden to Petra’s already heavy shoulders, so I don’t think her resentment is unfounded.

Another reason I think Petra is probably so snappy with Crow, especially when he tries to be friendly with her, is because I think she’s protecting herself from the possibility of being betrayed by her friend again. Petra feels betrayed by Uldren actions in Forsaken because not only was he the Prince of the Reef, but because he was also her friend who she greatly admired and respected. Uldren’s betrayal threw her for a loop because she believed he would help her and their people only for him to turn around, release the Scorn into the Reef, and slaughter their people. I’m guessing here, but I’m thinking that Petra was so hurt by the actions of Uldren, that seeing his face again, claiming to be someone else, and trying to befriend her is just angering to her because in her mind, that’s Uldren, the one who caused our people and me so much pain. She can’t see Crow because of all the hurt Uldren caused her, so she’s snappy and terse with him because she doesn’t want to open herself up to the possibility of being betrayed by him again. In her mind, that face has already betrayed her once, so who’s to say that he won’t do it again.

Additionally, us, who she considered to be a good friend, lying to her face when she asked if Uldren was revived I don’t think helped Crows case in the slightest. In fact, it is my belief, that if we told her the truth, she probably would have had time to come to terms with his revival. The problem is that up until know, she has only really known Uldren’s revival to be a rumor that could neither be confirmed nor denied. In Season of the Lost, she has essentially been slapped in the face with his return without any prep or planning, so she gets lost in her emotions. If we would have been honest with her, I think Petra would have at least been civil with Crow because she would have had some time to come to terms with his revival.

Uldren caused Petra and the Awoken people an overwhelming amount of pain and grief with his actions, so I think Petra being angry and bitter towards Crow not only makes sense to her character, but to the story as well. Greif takes time and Petra still hasn’t healed from the events of the following the Taken King and Forsaken. I think Crow deserves his redemption, but it’s an unrealistic belief to think that the actions of his past life won’t have some sort of lasting effect on the people he hurt and in turn cause them to hold some resentment towards him. (And listen, I’m all for Crow finally stepping out of his shell and speaking up for himself, but his dig at Petra’s devotion to the Reef was a jerk move considering she’s been fighting an essentially unwinnable war with little help for the last 5 years, so I’m a little annoyed with him right now.) But, as this season progresses, I hope that Petra can learn to separate Crow from Uldren (maybe even learn to forgive him) and see him in a new light so that they can work towards becoming allies and maybe even friends later on.

Feel free to add on to this post with your own thoughts, I just ask that you follow my rules in the tags and be respectful.

#destiny #destiny 2 #destiny game #petra venj #uldren sov #the crow #maybe they can even go to therapy together #light knows that they both need it #also i don't want to see any character hate because that's not what this post #or this blog is about #everyone is welcome #no matter who their favorite character might be #so please #just don't do it #personal

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midautumnnightdream · 3 years

Text

Family

For Cosette Appreciation Week

Cosette doesn’t remember much of the day her father died.

She has no idea how long she spent kneeling on the bare floor, her cheek pressed against the rough fabric, her hands clasping a larger one, that only recently had been stroking her head. She vaguely recalls Marius speaking to the portress. The doctor had been called back, though for what purpose, she couldn’t say. When Marius helped her to her feet, she could hardly stand without support.

Upon re-entering No. 6 Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, she had gone straight to her chambers, leaving Marius to explain matters to his aunt and grandfather. He had followed her soon, in a state of great agitation: Cosette had watched him marching back and forth, filling the air with rambling, disjointed explanations that she barely listened to, and understood even less. The flood of broken self-recriminations surrounded her like an ocean, and she knew that she should care, but her papa was gone, and she felt cold and helpless and so very alone.

At some point, Marius had turned to her, and whatever he had seen in her face had stopped him short. There was something indescribable in his expression, an odd mix of realisation and dismay. He had reached out his hand, as if to touch her, and glanced at the door, as if to flee. In the end he had done neither, instead perching on the edge of the bed, several feet away from her. They sat together in silence for a long time.

Grandfather Gillenormand had been full of effusive sympathy and condolences. He had offered to take care of the funeral arrangements, but Marius had corralled him with great care, and had cited the wishes of the deceased, that a minimal fuss should be made. In the end, the funeral party had consisted only of the four members of the household, joined by Toussaint, whom Marius had invited on Cosette's behalf. It had also been Marius, who encouraged the rest of their party to say their farewells after the church service, leaving the young couple in their privacy at the graveside; and it was Marius, who had penned the odd little verse on the otherwise unmarked gravestone. Cosette had stood silent and numb, all the words she wished she could say threatened to choke her. Only tears flowed.

The morning after the funeral, Marius had finally explained it all; slow and hesitant in a way that carried nothing of his earlier agitation. In brief words he had explained the nature of her papa’s best kept secret, the confession he had made and the facts he had left out. Without sparing a single detail, he had described Jean Valjean's actions in saving his life, and his own actions in driving him away. At times, the familiar tone of self-recrimination would seep into his voice again, but then he would break off mid-sentence, seeming more ashamed of that bitter flood of guilt than the actions themselves. Cosette couldn’t say she wasn’t relieved: she was quite sure she didn’t have it in her to reassure him.

She should be angry, she knew. At Marius, certainly, probably even at papa. Marius certainly seemed to expect it from her, but she didn’t have it in her to conform to his expectations either. Perhaps she was angry, but her heart was heavy with exhaustion and grief, and she desperately didn’t want to be alone. When Marius placed a tentative hand on her wrist, she turned, wrapped her arms around him and wept.

Marius walks on eggshells around her after that day. Where before he would declaim expansively on any and all topics with an air of authority, he now seems to hesitate on every word, his eyes searching hers for approval. He’s attentive to her every mood, fidgeting around her like a great dark guardian, and yet disappearing instantly when she gives the slightest indication of wanting to be alone. She has no idea where he goes when he leaves her. He seems lost. It is both a relief and a concern.

Right at this moment, he’s doing a poor job of pretending to read a newspaper, his gaze flickering over to Cosette in her window seat and to the long forgotten needlework in her lap. Cosette can feel the weight of his eyes on her, distracting her from her reverie.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks eventually, his voice painfully hesitant. Cosette sighs and tears her gaze away from the window.

“My mother,” she answers honestly.

“Oh?” Cautious, encouraging.

“Papa used to talk to me about her when I was little. Then he stopped. I suppose he thought once I was older, I might start asking questions he couldn’t answer.”

“Do you remember her at all?” Marius asks.

Cosette shakes her head. “I don’t remember much of my childhood. I think I remember being held and I know it must have been my mother, who sang to me and rocked me to sleep. After...” She hesitates. “I was fostered, I think, or maybe just left behind. I was terribly unhappy there. Then papa came and took me away.” It was so strange and dark and confusing, that part of her life, filled with bizarre recollections, many of which must have surely been just nightmares of her childish mind. She had never liked thinking about it and papa hadn’t liked talking about it. Now, she supposes she will never know.

“I don’t remember my mother either,” Marius says suddenly. “At least not well. I remember what she looked like, but that might be just her picture on grandfather’s mantelpiece.” He’s lost in thought for several moments, before continuing. “I remember her illness, and being taken to her bedchamber to say goodbye. We were staying with grandfather then; my father was away in the war. Afterwards, grandfather wouldn’t let him see me, and told me he had abandoned me. And then he died. My father died alone, because my grandfather lied to me and kept me away. I hated him for this. I walked out of his house, left him behind and hated him for many years. And now I’ve done the same –” His jaw snaps shut. “But this isn’t about me.”

Cosette would like nothing more than to close the subject, to turn away and let their wounds heal in peace, until such time would come when she is ready to soothe them away. She had done the same with her papa, countless times – and look how that had turned out. Every instinct tells her they are on the cusp of something that may yet define the rest of their life together. She suppresses her fear.

“Marius. What are you saying?”

The look in Marius’ eyes is full of anguish and uncertainty. “This isn’t about me,” he repeats, his voice holding a cadence of a mantra. “Your grief for your father, the relationship the two of you shared, the memories you still hold dear – none of this has anything to do with me at all, does it? My guilt and my fervent regret for how things turned out are superfluous to the issue at hand.” He hesitates, as if trying to explain some great revelation he doesn’t quite have the words for. “Your grief matters more than my experience of it. I’ve been in your place, but now I’m not. What matters is how you feel.”

Cosette doesn’t reply, unsure of what to say. She’s never heard Marius speak like that, isn’t quite sure she understands all that he’s trying to communicate.

He does that sometimes, thinking and brooding about an issue for so long that when he resurfaces, he’s bringing with him conclusions that are so profoundly simple as to be self-evident at the first glance, despite the layers of meaning visible only to him. Yet his usual ruminations tend towards the greater social questions and his own views on them. This? This feels different.

Something of her thoughts must have reflected on her face, for Marius expression grows rueful. “I suppose what I am trying to say is that I've never been very good at listening, at paying attention. I see what I expect to see, hear what I expect to hear and discard the rest. But bemoaning my foibles doesn’t help – the important thing is to do better. I will do better, for you.”

Cosette takes a deep breath. “Do you promise not to lie to me any more?”

“I promise!” Marius answers instantly, then hesitates. “I gave him my word to keep his secret before I even knew what it was.”

“You also promised he could visit,” Cosette replies quietly. “Why keep one promise and not the other?”

Marius has no reply to that.

“I swear I will not lie to you again,” is all he says.

“And you will not keep from me anything that has to do with me?”

“I swear,” Marius says. After a moment he adds. “I know it is a paltry excuse, but hurting you was the last thing that either of us wished to do. We were trying to protect you from suffering, and in doing that, we made the wrong choices. I made the wrong choices, because I failed to keep your feelings in mind, and that is something I can never make up for.”

For a long moment, the young couple sits in silence.

“Perhaps,” Cosette says eventually. “There was no good choice you could have made, because the choice wasn’t yours to make in the first place.”

“I’m your husband,” Marius says, grieved. “If I cannot do right by you, what’s the use of me?”

“Marius,” says Cosette. “Do we not, in this house, live in a republic?”

Marius huffs out a laugh. “I believe Monsieur Louis-Philippe would have something to say about that.”

“Do we not agree that it is no good, one person making all the decisions?” Cosette continues, unperturbed. “Your grandfather has made some terrible choices, both for you and for your aunt. My papa chose badly, in leaving me. I do not wish for any children of ours to live like we did, alone in their grief and helpless in their ignorance.”

“Never,” Marius assures vehemently. Cosette doesn’t meet his gaze, but she can see his expression growing horrified. “You do not believe me.”

“Marius,” Cosette answers, equal parts fond and exasperated, and perhaps just a bit resentful. “I think I need you to know, that before anything else, you are my family. The only family I have left. Do you know what that means to me, an orphan several times over, registered in my marriage documents under the surname given to me through kindness of strangers? I love you.”

“You say that you love me and I believe you,” Marius replies quietly. “But you won’t say that you trust me.”

“Marius,” Cosette says. “Do you trust me?”

“Always,” Marius replies instantly, the grows quiet under the weight of the promise.

Cosette takes his hand in hers. “Then, as long as you keep trusting me, I endeavour to trust you. How does that sound?”

Marius remains quiet and pensive for a long minute. Then, for the first time in weeks, he smiles.

“That, I believe, is what my friend Bahorel would have called a treaty.”

#Les Miserables #Les Mis #Les Mis fanfiction #Cosette Week #Cosette #Marius Pontmercy #Jean Valjean #(is not really there)#character death #post canon #The One In Which Marius Considers Someone Else's Perspective For The First Time Ever #(he's terribly unnerved by the experience)#Cosette deals

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yuurivoice · 3 years

Note

I’ve been thinking all day “what would have happened if al never left Seth and he stayed with him that night?” Any thoughts?

They probably leave Derek in a puddle of his own filth and go on the run together. Alphonse grows even more bitter and resentful towards Seth, Seth’s guilt eats at him and any explanation he ends up trying to give only sounds like an excuse to Al at that point.

Seems to me like they’d spiral. Seth’s idea of a fresh start is now tainted by blood and lies, trust is broken. Eventually they either split, or something goes south as they have to get deeper and deeper into the muck just to try and not get caught for what they did to Derek.

Maybe Alphonse gets back home, but it’d probably be too late for the shop, and he’d not have anything to fall back on. Being home would hurt, the last remaining pieces of his family would be gone. Perhaps bought out by an enterprising young baker who wanted a fresh start of their own. Alphonse would resent that cute little baking goofball, but when he finally breaks down and sets foot in the bakery, he realizes that it was the breath of fresh air the place needed. He reluctantly accepts this person as the steward of the shell of his former family business.

Seth wouldn’t feel like there was a path back to Alphonse, ironically, his time locked up gave him the space for his naive little peanut brain to think that Al might have waited for him. Knowing that Al’s heart had grown cold and even more damage had been done, he’d stay gone. Don’t know where he’d go, or how he’d turn out. It’s too sad to think about, really. It would take a special kind of situation to drag Seth out of that and I don’t know what that would really look like.

Maybe after some time running from his past and his feelings, he finds a place, goes by a different name, works at a mechanic shop that pays him under the table so he can live off the grid and under the radar. He’d have thrown away a lot of himself for the sake of not having to remember. Maybe, eventually, he finds someone who helps him reclaim parts of himself he had to throw away, the good parts. I hope that would be the case. He’d doubt himself and not think he was strong enough to make it, but he’d hang in there. Even when he could barely manage, he’d at least be a dedicated, hard worker. He’d fall wayyyy back into his introverted self, probably not talking much.

Thinking about a time where Seth actually opens up and reveals that he’s charming and funny and sharp, and his new friend expresses shock and delight at the revelation. Seth would realize that so much of that part of him was built and developed on his relationship with Alphonse, way back to when they were kids.

Healing would probably hurt. He might not want to, and he might not know how to express that pain in any kind of healthy way. Dunno where he’d go from there.

#Anonymous

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sun-summoning · 3 years

Text

part ii | part iii | part iv

after speaking to kido, sakura rushes home. when she calms down from the rage that nearly had her crush his throat, sakura can admit that she doesn’t really think this is him. he knew a lot about her for someone that was supposed to have been locked up all this time, but he seemed genuinely surprised to hear that sarada had been taken, if not disappointed. he fit the profile of what shikamaru and kakashi thought -- that someone wanted sarada for her eyes -- but sakura can’t stop the nagging feeling that somehow this runs deeper.

back in her apartment, megumi’s body is right where she left it, and sakura feels awful for having moved so mechanically. megumi was an orphan, but she was still someone’s little girl. ashamed, sakura lays a sheet over her and swears she’ll do more later.

she heads to her bedroom and begins her work. alone, she summons one of the cats she’d made a contract with shortly after her marriage. the black cat is sleek and holds himself confidently. he’s always been an efficient one, quick to do as she needs and be competent about it. he regards sakura with a cock of his head.

“sarada’s been taken.”

“your daughter.”

“yes.”

the cat nods. “i shall inform the clowder. if anyone spots her, i will let you know.”

“thank you.” sakura pauses, self-conscious for needing to rely on everybody else for this part. “if you...if any of you are able to come into contact with sasuke-kun, can you pease let him know too?”

“of course.”

“thank you.” sakura promises to provide the usual exchange at a later time and the cat disappears with a puff of smoke. she heads to her bedroom and she begins to pack in silence.

her movements are as meticulous as they are automatic, done just so she’s ready to leave the moment she knows where she needs to go. her medkit is stocked. her bag has scrolls, weapons, supplies, and sarada’s favourite toy. she changes out of her days clothes and into the leggings and turtleneck of a uniform she hasn’t worn in years. her cloak is in the front closet. she needs to change her boots. she’ll put on the boots now. she leaves the armour on her bed to don later. right now, they only hinder her movements. she goes to the drawer where her mask hides in plain sight among other trinkets and knick knacks, and on the dresser she notices a flower.

sakura stills as she takes in the detail she must have missed in her earlier haste. she considers the simple glass vase and the single red flower sitting in it. its petals curl at the ends and some are even missing.

this flower has travelled and as sakura considers what it is, she knows it’s travelled far.

konoha became unbearable by the time she tuned twenty. it's so petty and selfish and she'd never say it aloud, but she hated seeing everyone else so happy. she's happy too -- has so many reasons to be -- but she couldn’t help the nagging jealousy she feels when ino declined her invitations because she was going to see sai or when naruto prioritized her almost always only to head home to hinata.

she wanted to be someone's too. she wanted to be their focus and heart and home, but sakura already knew who her someone was and knew that on some level she was his too, so all she needs to do right now is wait.

most of the time, sakura wasn’t bitter. being apart from him wasn't unfamiliar, nor the steadfastness, nor the hope that one day this will pay off one day, nor the self reminders that what she felt was irrelevant as long as sasuke knew and was comforted by the fact that she would always love him.

to suppress her frustrations rather than confront them, sakura worked. she worked tirelessly and relentlessly and by nineteen, they'd named her the greatest medical ninja konoha has ever seen for her accomplishments, ideas, and innovations.

this took her to suna at twenty and to ame at twenty-one to help establish their own clinics.

“i have a gift for you,” ino told her before she left.

sakura expected a ribbon or a piece of jewellery or that new book on poisons she mentioned she was interested in. instead, ino handed her a bag. its contents shift, imbalanced, and inside sakura finds a potted plant.

“a flower?”

“not just any flower, you ungrateful bitch.” ino pointed at her accusingly and then at the plant. its petals are a bright red with darker flecks at their base. “i made it.”

“you made it?”

“yes. you know me, interrogating and mind-reading by day, splicing plants together and making my own by night.”

“that’s sad.”

“fuck you. you’re sad.”

sakura laughed and ino laughed too but it got a bit sad because ino probably definitely knew that sakura was sad. “anyway,” ino continued, “we’ll call it the sakuino flower--”

“how creative.”

“--and i expect you to keep it alive through all of your travels.”

sakura frowned at ino, wondering if ino understood that a potted plant had no place in her travels, but ino didn’t seem to care. moreover, this particular thing didn’t seem to have the ability to survive in the desert climate she was going to be living in for the next six months.

when sakura expressed as much, ino waved the matter off. “deal with it,” she said, giving sakura one last hug. “you’re one of the brightest minds to come out of this village. you’ll figure something out.”

its common name is the fire poppy, having originated from the fire country but somehow managing to survive in the deserts of wind country as well. the flower is know for its vibrant red petals, eye-catching and jarring across the barren brown it’s normally found in. sakura had to play with the original plant’s physiology when she first moved to ensure it could survive the alternate climate. in her spare time, when she wasn’t working with the kids, she deigned to work with her plant, eventually working on cloning the original. at some point she’d given one to a nurse she worked with who much admired the first, and gaara asked if he could try planting them in his garden. from there, the spores began to spread.

“why the fire poppy?”

was this someone from suna?

sakura considers the obvious motivation of revenge, but who would even want that? there were people who didn’t appreciate her friendship with kankuro or any of his siblings. perhaps an apprentice of chiyo’s who blamed sakura for not saving her when she gave her life for gaara’s. worse, perhaps someone that once worked sasori who resented her for his demise. or maybe someone she, sadly, can’t even remember. a patient she lost during the war whose family hated her.

sakura truly cannot pinpoint a motivation for this, much less a person.

especially a person that would understand the meaning of this flower for her.

ino would never give her this flower. ino would have scoffed at it and created her own. sarada couldn’t have picked it today. and sasuke certainly couldn’t have left it for her.

someone was in her apartment. someone brought it here.

was it here before?

sakura considers the poppy and forces herself to keep calm. stay logical, she demands. stay smart. was the poppy there before? no, she thinks at first. she would have seen it. she’s certain she would have seen it.

but, she can accept, it’s possible she might have missed it. sarada was taken. her babysitter was murdered. it wouldn’t be surprising if sakura missed it. but sakura doesn’t miss things. right?

“don’t gaslight yourself,” she orders.

no, she knows. the flower was not there before, meaning in between her going to kakashi, going to the prison, and then running back home, whoever took her daughter came back.

or worse, there was a team involved and one was with her child and another came back for her.

sakura curses, wishing she’d put on her black ops armour earlier, because whoever brought the flower here is now making their presence known. she senses two people before she sees them and is unsurprised to find sudden flares of strength.

the bedroom is small and they’re in a building. she needs to take this outside, but where? there’s too much risk for others getting hurt in the crossfire. that’s why this was supposed to stay quiet. that’s why this will stay quiet.

they step out of the shadows and sakura assesses them quickly. one male, one female, both fairly young based on stature and development, maybe early twenties at the oldest. they’ll have agility on her, but they won’t have her experience.

the man holds a chokuto. good. an advantage. sakura is excellent at fighting against such a weapon. if they’re foolish enough to use her husband’s favourite sort of blade, perhaps they didn’t do enough research on her. perhaps they were hired? but if they were unprepared, then were they really here to kill her?

are they here to distract her?

that thought fills sakura with dread. is someone trying to keep her busy so she can’t get to sarada on time?

the woman shifts, one leg sliding to the side as she raises her hands. she holds no weapons, therefore she is the weapon. sakura knows all about that. she’ll need to be careful with this one. but she still has a holster on her thigh. it’s thinner that the usual styles. maybe a couple kunai, but more likely a set of sebon. this one is smart then. she’ll know precisely where she needs to hit sakura to stop her.

“haruno sakura,” the man greets with a short nod.

so it is her fault.

if this was about sasuke, about the uchiha, they would know her married name. this is about her, and for that sakura feels worse. her baby was taken and why? just to hurt sakura before killing her? sarada was who knows where with surely no one that could be good and all just to hurt sakura?

sakura snarls, furious in a way only a mother could be, and she feels the chakra pulsing around her fists.

“where is my daughter?”

their masks hide any expressions. they remain at ease in the face of her rage, shockingly unafraid of this woman that can level mountains.

good, sakura thinks. let them be brave. let them come at her like fools.

she runs through the bedroom door to get to the living room where there’s at least more space to maneuver. the man leaps and brings his blade down upon her, but sakura manages to shift to the side. careful to not be forced into a corner, she spins out of his range and into the open middle until the woman runs past her partner and takes sakura on hand-to-hand.

she matches sakura’s punches and kicks blow for blow. she’s good, sakura thinks nervously. and she’s fast. she’s small, maybe half a head shorter than sakura, so she puts her weight behind every quick jab. sakura gives most of her attention to the woman, but keeps a wary on eye on the man who sheathes his chokuto.

what as he planning?

it takes that one moment for the woman to catch her unaware.

sakura chokes on her breath as the woman thrusts a senbon into her shoulder. the shock from that slows her down enough so she can lodge in a second.

“shit,” sakura curses as she stumbles back. she rips the senbon out, but she feels her left arm begin to go numb from the struck pressure point. “what did you do--”

sakura’s eyes widen she she feels something foreign begin to course through her. she considers the senbon, dark with her blood and likely something else. there’s a metallic smell that isn’t from the weapon, and sakura knows she’s been poisoned.

however, her body doesn’t bother to fight it.

sakura watches her opponents, trying to understand how she’s been poisoned with something she’s immune to and just what poison this might be. she’s immune to everything in konoha’s own collection, as well as the ones she shares with shizune.

which poison is this?

does that matter?

sakura scowls at the two people involved in her daughter’s kidnapping and reminds herself that she can take them on one-handed just fine. she pulls her right hand into a fist and charges. the man is closest, so she lunges at him with a chakra-laden punch that sends him barreling into the wall.

she grabs the front of his shirt and as she pulls him forward, his mask falls away to reveal green eyes, cold and lifeless, and a black diamond under his left eye that makes her uneasy.

sakura stares at the man, confused, because she knows this face.

she knows him.

her fear and pain and worry makes it hard to focus, but knows him.

focus.

finally, it clicks.

“isao?”

she thinks she might have seen something like recognition in his eyes. that doesn’t long though. she left herself open, and his partner stabs her shoulder. sakura releases isao with a cry before the woman punches her in the back of the head and everything goes dark.

the sun is up when sakura begins to stir. she hears the birds chirping and people outside going about their days. but the buzz of the television is missing, as are the small thuds of sarada’s steps. where is sarada? sakura wonders hazily, lazily, not quite understanding yet.

where is sarada?

her eyes widen and she sits up so quickly her stomach rolls.

“careful.” tsunade comes into view, steadying sakura and checking her for any problems. “you’re still healing.”

she’s in her own bed. she’s not at the hospital. she got knocked out and the assassins got away. she should’ve done something to track them. dammit. was she so arrogant she didn’t have a failsafe in place for if she didn’t simply beat them? sakura punches the bed, earning a disapproving frown from shizune on her other side.

“there was poison in your system.”

“it was one of ours,” sakura admits warily.

“yes. there are very few people with access to those, much less this particular one.”

the one that the assassin used was meant to render a victim paralyzed but still able to feel. it was a dreadful thing, meant only for the worst of interrogations. or, more accurately, for torture. sakura concocted it in her darkest moments at fourteen under shizune’s watchful eye. since then, while they’ve both had small handfuls of keen students, they’ve probably shared poisons from their personal roster with only five people at most.

for this particular poison, sakura knows only two people they showed it to, and only one of those was a student of sakura’s.

“how did you find me?”

tsunade rolls her eyes. “shizune sent you off to a prison from kakashi’s office. i figured i’d have to check on you shortly after. and it’s a good thing i did, stupid girl.”

“thank you.”

“don’t thank me. i’m scolding on you.”

“did they find anything useful?”

“no one’s been able to contact your husband.”

“right.”

“and they’re still under the impression that this has to do with the uchiha blood.”

“they would be,” sakura mutters, too tired and in too good company to be anything but blunt.

shizune sighs. “do you know who came after you last night?” the flower is still where she left it on the dresser. shizune follows her gaze to the fire poppy, and all knowing with plants as well, shizune determines its origins. “how did that get here?”

“i think it was to taunt me.” sakura grimaces. “you were right.”

“about?”

“i think this is my fault.”

shizune’s eyes widen and quickly soften with sympathy. “none of this your fault,” she reminds sakura.

tsunade crosses her arms. “enemies of yours then?”

“no.” sakura looks sad. “people i once loved.”

tbc

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carouselofrats · 3 years

Text

Nothing at All and I Resent the Question

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32359684

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Pairing: Platonic Loceit (could be seen as romantic if you wanted to)

Word Count: 1120

Summary:

Deceit stood up, bringing out his hook and pulling Logan off of the screen. The logical side landed a bit roughly in his room, mirroring his usual position in Thomas’ living room.

“My apologies, Logan. I’m afraid my summoning abilities are a bit rusty and… unusual. Lovely room you have, by the way.”

aka my interpretation of what happened between Logan and Janus during POF when he was dragged off screen.

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Deceit waited patiently. The day of reckoning had finally come: April “lucky number” 13th. He snorted. Lucky. That was one of the bigger lies that Thomas had told recently.

When the reception had been less than ideal and yielded none of Patton’s treasured “good feelings'' (sigh), Deceit had expected to feel a rush of self-righteousness, an urge to say “I told you so”. He’d been right about the whole thing all this time, after all.

Instead, he’d been hit with a feeling of… emptiness. Thomas had gotten nowhere. Deceit’s own plans had only led to more damage. The fact that he’d had no other options didn’t seem to soften the blow, no matter how much he wished to remain unaffected.

All of this pontificating had brought him here, sitting on the couch in Logan’s room. He would be damned if he let all of his work be for nothing. So far, the wedding aftermath had been a bit disastrous, given what he could grasp from inside the Mindpalace. So disastrous, in fact, that he felt his mission might already be doomed before it even started. Logan, the poor thing, had been trying to contribute some much-needed reasoning to the conversation and been thoroughly and utterly ignored again. Still, there were a few things that gave Deceit hope. Thomas had at least considered his argument a bit more, going by his “made a decision with a blindfold on” comment.

So, with more determination than he’d ever felt before, Deceit had set up the skip button and waited; hoping that maybe Thomas had at least considered his argument, that the others wouldn’t immediately dismiss his words because he was a dark side, that even if they didn’t dismiss him they wouldn’t hold too much bias, that Thomas would actually just fucking listen to him for once and understand that the world wasn’t black and white. If Patton, Roman, or Thomas had actually gotten to the point of skipping logic, then he would know that things were dire. He was torn between hoping it would happen just to give him the opportunity and being horrified by what the circumstances of said opportunity mea-

It just so happened that at that exact moment his train of thought was broken by none other than the aforementioned “skip button” being pressed. By Patton. Hm, interesting. He’d expected that it would be Roman, if anyone. Deceit stood up, bringing out his hook (he definitely didn’t feel giddy about finally getting to use it) and pulling Logan off of the screen. The logical side landed a bit roughly in his room, mirroring his usual position in Thomas’ living room. Deceit winced a bit as the other stumbled.

“My apologies, Logan. I’m afraid my summoning abilities are a bit rusty and… unusual. Lovely room you have, by the way,” he said, eyeing his hook as he pushed it back up into its spot in his capelet, ready to be summoned again at any time.

Logan, who had been adjusting his tie a bit dejectedly and looking hurt, quickly straightened up at the sound of the other side’s voice. Deceit didn’t comment.

“Deceit,” the logical side spoke, his normal speaking volume a welcome contrast to the yell that typically accompanied the statement, “what are you doing here?” His eyes narrowed, quickly putting everything together. “It was you who placed the skip button, wasn’t it?”

“Indeed. Again, my apologies. I would’ve loved to devise a gentler option but, alas, it appears we’re in pretty dire straits at this point,” he replied.

“It’s no matter.” Lie. “I’m assuming you have a reason for dragging me down here?”

“I need a favor.” He hesitated for a second. “Well, less of a favor and more your permission.”

Logan’s eyebrows had progressively raised higher and higher. “Permission?” Janus nodded. “For what?”

“I wish to impersonate you.” Logan’s eyebrows were at his hairline at this point. It took him a few seconds of silence to gather his response.

“You’ve never asked for permission in the past, I’m confused as to why you feel you need to do so now.”

Deceit looked away, sighing, he hated being emotionally vulnerable. “Well, last time I impersonated you without permission it went--How do I say this?--It was a bit of a disaster. One that, if i’m not mistaken, hurt you in the process.” Logan attempted to speak but Deceit kept going, “Yes, yes, I know you ‘can’t feel’ and whatnot. That’s unfortunately a debate for another day; right now I'm requesting your permission. I’m… unsure if I'll ever get another opportunity like this.” He finished, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.

Logan stared at him for a second. “Why?”

“Pardon?” He looked back at Logan.

“Why do you believe you’ll not get another opportunity? Why choose to ask me? Why do you need an opportunity in the first place? To do what?”

Well… that wasn’t exactly what Deceit had been expecting but, then again, this was Logan he was dealing with.

“You’re the least biased out of all of them. I have the best chance with you. As for the opportunity… I feel that this little discussion that Thomas is having quite closely pertains to me.”

“How so?”

Janus glanced his eyes away again. “‘Deceit’ is an oversimplification of my purpose, just as ‘Logic’ is an oversimplification of yours. I’m also Thomas’ self-preservation. His selfishness. And well… he could use some selfishness right now.” Silence rang out for a few seconds.

“I see. Then you have my permission.”

“...”

“Wow, you put up such a fight, Logan. I’m exhausted.” Deceit snarked out, surprised by the ease of the other’s agreement.

Logan smirked a bit, adjusting his glasses. “I believe I now have a greater understanding of your presence here, Deceit. If Thomas won’t listen to me on the matter, perhaps he will listen to you.”

Logan stepped out of his spot next to the staircase, coming to stand next to the couch. He looked at Deceit, gesturing to the vacated space.

“Go ahead,” he said. Deceit saw no bitterness in his eyes.

He walked over to the spot and let his disguise wash over him. There were now two versions of Logan in the room. He turned back to Logan.

“Thank you.” He spoke with more genuineness than he’d spoken in years.

Logan simply gave him a small smile and shook his head. “No need. For your sake and Thomas’, I hope you succeed.”

Deceit began to sink down, the two sides each giving each other a mutual nod of respect as he went. If all else failed, Janus at least felt that he might have an ally in one of the light sides.

#sanders sides #thomas sanders #ts deceit #ts sides #logan sanders #ts logan #sanders sides fanfiction #ao3fic #ts janus #janus sanders #loceit

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