#towards the end it dawns on him that he's become the kind of twisted cruel corrupt person he used to fear and despise | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

makoodlesarchive · 3 years

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when i was young i fell into a river

pairing: kirishima x reader

word count: 5k

warnings: none, really! a bit of angst, a bit of fluff i guess?

notes: hello, it's me, back again with some writing! it's been a long time and i'm very sorry about that, but i've finally gotten around to writing and posting my spirited away au! i'm v stressed with college so this turned out more vent-y than i had originally intended, but hopefully it's enjoyable anyway! thank you all for being so patient with me, i am endlessly grateful for you

The dream is the same as always, comforting in its familiarity.

A salt-scented breeze cools your sweat-soaked brow as you pause behind one of the sliding screen doors, the rice paper windows doing nothing to block out the chatter of the other workers. The bubbling noise of the bathhouse is constant, and the quiet little moments you steal away for yourself in the middle of the working day is the only solitude you’ve gotten since you came here. The work is physically back-breaking, but you know that you’re working towards a goal. It’s just a shame that you can’t remember exactly what that goal is.

One of the other girls calls your name, and you sigh as your unofficial break comes to an end. You slip back into the room, ignoring the way the frog spirits snicker and hold their noses as you pass. They like to complain a lot about your human stench, but it doesn’t stop them from threatening to eat you every time you make a mistake. Fear, you’ve found, is an uncomfortably successful motivator.

The days bleed into one another, full of scrubbing dark wooden floors and the rich earthy scents of the herbal mixes they use in the baths. The spirits that frequent the bathhouse, that once inspired so much awe and fear in your heart, become so commonplace that you hardly spare them a glance anymore. From the cackling masked spirits that always travel in threes to the grinning cat spirits to the sombre, unspeaking river spirits, you only go as far as to offer them a polite bow before scurrying out of their way. They never spare you any attention, anyway -- most of the time, the spirits’ eyes seem to look right through you.

All but one, that is.

He looks to be a boy around your age, but appearances can be deceiving around here. His red eyes are often dull and blank, but even so they have a certain ageless quality about them that no human twelve-year-old could ever possess. His scarlet hair sticks up in gravity-defying spikes, and his skin is as smooth and clear as running water. His face is often stuck in a carefully cultivated blank expression; the only thing about him that doesn’t seem intimidatingly otherworldly are the deep purple shadows under his eyes.

He helped you once, when you first came here. The rare act of kindness had stuck in your head, made even more remarkable in the face of the following weeks and months of harsh work and cruel co-workers. You wonder if he remembers; he doesn’t often look at you, but sometimes when he does you swear you can see a flicker of something in his eyes.

Two of the girls start yelling at each other, arguing heatedly over the way the work is being divided. A foreman appears to break up the fight, but then they both start shouting at him instead. You take the moment of distraction to relax, wincing at the pull of your tired muscles in the back of your neck. All the other girls working at the bath house are older and bigger than you, which means you need to work twice as hard to keep up with them and prove that you’re worth keeping around.

In the brief moment of rest, your eyes are drawn slowly to the corridor, where guests and workers alike bustle past as they travel to the treatment rooms and bathtubs deeper into the bathhouse. As if you’ve conjured him just by thinking about him, the boy stands in the doorway.

You straighten up on instinct, suddenly self-conscious of your sweat-soaked body and dishevelled uniform. He’s not even looking your way, preoccupied with the two girls who are still yelling at the frog foreman. Slowly though, his eyes began to travel the room, and you take a deep breath and hold it as his dull ruby gaze lands on you like a physical weight. You crack a nervous smile, feeling the muscles in your cheeks that have gone unused for weeks ache at the strain, and raise a hand to give him a tiny wave.

For just a moment, that blankness in his face seems to quiver and fall away. He smiles back.

You jolt awake, breathing heavily and coated in a light sheen of sweat. You’ve had the same dream, or some variation of it, regularly ever since you were twelve years old and while it’s become familiar to you, you still find yourself feeling vaguely panicked when you wake up after it, as though you’ve forgotten something very important.

Once your heartbeat has calmed down a little, you pull yourself out of bed and trudge into the kitchen to make yourself some tea. The weak, milky light of dawn filters in through the windows, lighting your apartment up just enough so that you don’t have to turn on a light to make your way around. You take your tea out to the balcony and sit, gazing out at the purplish early morning sky.

Most of the time when you wake up from those dreams you feel blessedly lucky to be living alone with no one to question or bother you, but sometimes you can’t help but be overcome by overwhelming loneliness. The dreams are silly and most of the time they don’t even make any sense, but in the aftermath of them you’re always left with a vague sense of unfulfillment, though you can’t put your finger exactly on what it is you’re missing. You always end up exactly like this; sitting outside on your balcony in the early morning light, drinking tea alone and desperately wishing for something more.

You sigh, and go back inside.

The dream is the same, but different.

The garden is in full bloom, greenery overlaid with bursts of beautiful bright colours. Camellias, rhododendrons, and oleanders wave and shiver gently in the warm breeze, and apple blossoms hang heavily from a nearby tree. The flowering garden is enormous and maze-like, and you have yet to see it in any state other than fully flourishing.

It’s a beautiful place, especially after the hot, cramped working quarters of the bathhouse. You inhale the sweetly fragranced air and feel the knot of tension in your spine unfurl; it feels like the first time that you’ve been able to breathe all week, but that’s not the only reason that you’ve found yourself outside.

At the bottom of the garden, the grass drops off into a sheer drop. The cliff face overlooks a seemingly endless ocean, and you perch a safe distance from the drop before leaning back in the grass. The sky is an almost surreally deep blue and you watch as enormous fluffy clouds float by, looking as though they’ve been painted on a jewel-blue canvas.

It’s not the first time you’ve had this dream, and you know what you’ll see if you keep patiently watching.

It doesn’t take long — it never does. You time your lunch breaks precisely, all so you get to see this sight.

The clear blue sky makes it so much easier to spot the shiny white scales, flashing jewel-bright in the sunlight. The dragon writhes in the sky, streaking through the air like a great serpent caught in the wind. Even from this distance, you can see the knife-like teeth, the great sharp claws that gleam like pyrite, and the twisting horns that erupt from his head like daggers made from calcified bone. He looks deadly, a living weapon that swims through the air like a salmon in open water, but the sight of him makes something settle in your stomach.

You wonder what it would feel like to fall through the air with nothing but the wind to break your fall. You imagine it must feel like freedom.

The dragon flutters through the air, buoyed by the gentle sea breeze. If you didn’t know better, you might almost think that he was showing off — his movements are hypnotic, dreamlike, more like a dance than anything. His scales glow pearlescent in the midday sun, otherworldly and earthly all at once.

You could happily stay and watch him skim through the sky forever, but already the bell is being rung to call all workers back into the bathhouse. You heave a sigh so deep it feels as though your chest is about to crack with the force of it, before hauling yourself to your feet.

Your break is over, and now it’s back to work.

Sometimes you find it difficult to tell when you’re dreaming and when you’re awake. It feels as though everything is always happening all at once, in the present tense, forever. You don’t get to rest when you close your eyes and drift off to sleep, because the dreams just keep coming and coming. Sometimes you don’t feel like your life is real when you’re awake.

Riding on the train has always been therapeutic, especially at this time of the early morning. The sun rising lazily over the horizon sends milky threads of purple and pink across the cloudy sky, and you cradle your chin in your hand as you gaze out across the moving landscape. You love these little trips, feeling more at home in the creaky, overfull train carriage than you do in your own bedroom sometimes, though you can’t quite work out where that particular feeling comes from.

You know sometimes that stories end with “And then I woke up — it was only a dream”, but in your experience the story simply doesn’t end. You cannot fully wake up without the tail-ends of your dreams clinging to you for the rest of the day, and you never fully sleep. You just dream, dream, dream.

Sighing, you lean your head back against the seat that you’re slumped in. The train carriage is too full, and you were lucky to get a seat in the first place — from your vantage point, you watch as people sway in tandem with the motion of the train. It’s almost hypnotic, how they undulate back and forth with every turn, brushing against each other only to be pulled apart again by the lurching train.

Through the sea of bodies, you catch a man’s eye. It breaks the monotony of the morning commute and your own spiralling thoughts, and your spine straightens unconsciously. He quirks an eyebrow briefly, slightly, in such a way that no one would be able to safely accuse him of having done it.

You look away, startled for no good reason. Do you know him? He feels familiar in a way that you can’t quite put your finger on. The train rattles on, and it takes several long minutes before you work up the nerve to glance the man’s way again. He’s still watching you, but you’re ready for it this time. His attention isn’t such a shock, and you allow your eyes to wander over his face properly.

You must know him, you think. Your eyes track over his features as though they’re winding over a well-worn path, admiring the curve of his nose and the fullness of his lips and the arch of his eyebrows over his intense, watchful eyes.

He smiles at you, and it feels as though you’re sharing a secret from across the crowded train carriage. You smile back — it’s just a small tug of the corners of your mouth, but it’s the most you’ve smiled in months. Longer, maybe.

In the middle of the carriage a woman laughs at something her friend has said and sways backward, blocking your view of the stranger. It feels like a loss.

The train trundles onwards, and the carriage gradually empties out. You watch people step off the train with friends, with their heads ducked low, lost in thought, arguing over the phone, distracted with their book bags. By the time it comes to your stop, the man is gone.

You try not to feel disappointed as you step off the train — it’s silly, after all. You don’t know the man, and whatever you thought you felt as you looked at each other was surely all in your own head. Your head has been awfully full, recently.

As you step off the train you grapple with your bag, side-stepping a businessman who is busy shouting down the phone at some unfortunate coworker. You’re distracted, which is the only reasonable explanation for how long it takes you to realise that the man from the train is standing in front of you.

“Oh.” You blurt, startled. You had already begun to resign yourself to never seeing him again, so you can’t help but feel distinctly caught off guard at the sight of him standing before you. “Hi.”

“Hello.” The man says. He’s looking at you expectantly, but you have no idea what he’s waiting for — as it is, you get completely distracted by his eyes. You hadn’t noticed on the train, but now that he’s up close you see that they’re a truly unusual deep burgundy. He tilts his head when you remain silent, and bites his lip. Now that you’re really looking, you notice how sharp his teeth are. “You’ve barely changed at all.”

You blink at him. “Er…” You trail off nervously. You don’t recognise him, but you feel like you know him. Clearly, he thinks that he knows you.

“It’s fitting, isn’t it? Meeting again on a train?” He smiles, and it’s an impossibly knowing expression. You don’t think you’ve ever been on the receiving end of a look that intimate in your life, though you have no idea what he’s talking about.

Someone collides hard with your shoulder and you stagger for balance. You only look away from the man for a mere second, but it’s enough; when you look again, he’s gone.

You take to walking. There’s a wooded area behind the town, and you enjoy traipsing idly through the trees. Ancient roots erupt out of the dirt and fan over the ground like hairs, and the moss that covers the trunks of the trees is such a deep green that it almost seems like paint pigment. It’s soothing, being surrounded by nature like this. It reminds you of childhood — the simplicity of being able to jump over tree roots under a canopy of pale green leaves, of being able to leave all your thoughts and stress at the boundary of the forest.

It’s where you come after waking sweat-soaked and disoriented from a dream that clings to you like a burr, where you walk among the ferns and the needle-leaved weeds until you manage to shake the last vestiges of memory from your mind. You need it, especially in the mornings where you wake up with the acrid scent of herbal cleanser stinging in your nose or the bite of hard calluses on your palms from non-existent rough cloths. On mornings like that, you walk and walk until you no longer feel as though you’re more alive in your dreams than you are in reality.

Deep in the forest is a great red facade, painted a flaking, faded red. You wander by it frequently, admiring the overgrown greenery that crawls up the walls like reaching fingers, the mossy stone guardian that stands sentinel amongst the cracked flagstones that lead into the tunnelled entrance. You’ve asked around in the town, curious about what exactly this building was for, but most of the locals either don’t know what building you’re talking about or admit that they’re not sure. One man told you that the facade was built for a theme park in the 90s that had ended up going bust in the recession, and that the building only looked old.

You remain unconvinced on that front. The building has the kind of presence that only very old things have; it feels like it’s watching you.

For the most part, your walks in the forest are peaceful. Recently though, you’ve found yourself plagued by an insistent, irritating sense of deja vu. You don’t know where it’s coming from, and it hits you at the strangest of times — when you’re making tea, or in the bath, or cleaning your apartment, or on the train, or admiring the sky on a cloudless day.

The man from the train is the boy in your dreams. It takes you weeks to come to that realisation. You just wake up in the middle of the night on a random Tuesday, with wide eyes and clammy skin and his name slipping from the forefront of your mind.

It shouldn’t be possible, but once it dawns on you, you’re certain of it.

Even stranger is that once you realise it, it feels as though you see him everywhere. You see flashes of red hair when you’re walking down the street, when you’re grocery shopping, when you’re walking home late at night. It’s only ever the barest glance out of the corner of your eye, just overt enough for you to know it’s him, but subtle enough for you to question yourself immediately after.

One night, you travel to a local city to meet some old school friends. At night, the city seems to pulse. The music from seedy clubs spills out into the neon-lit streets, muffled shouted arguments echoes from alleyways and apartments alike, and the streets are peppered with people either scurrying or stumbling home, with very little variation. Though the perpetually overcast sky hides any trace of the moon or stars, the streetlamps reflect in the ever-present stagnant puddles littering the street, lighting them up in varying shades of sickly yellow.

At night, the city seems alive. Chronically ill and struggling to breathe, maybe, but clinging to life all the same.

The way the neon lights flicker in the gloomy darkness, just barely illuminating the shadows of people hurrying through the streets to get in out of the rain, reminds you of something you can’t quite remember. It sits in the back of your mind like a sour taste, but no matter how much you reach for the memory it remains just out of reach.

You spend most of the night staring out of the steamed up window of the pub, entranced by the sight of the night streets and frustrated by the memories that seem to dangle just out of reach. You know that it doesn’t make for good company, and you feel guilty for that. Your friends don’t seem overly surprised at your detachment. You’ve been drifting away for years, and though tonight was supposed to be all about reconnecting it seems clear that it’s not going to work.

When you eventually stand up to leave, with forced smiles and awkward goodbyes, you can’t help but feel melancholy settle over you like a second skin. As you slip out of the pub and onto the dark streets, the thought crosses your mind that you’re not used to being alone like this. It’s a silly thought, really; you’ve been alone for years. But sometimes, in those liminal moments between waking and sleeping, you swear you can hear the gentle drowsy breaths of dozens of people sleeping all around you, as though you’re surrounded on all sides. On those nights you wake up hot and claustrophobic and uncomfortable, but never feeling lonely.

It is probably your own fault, you reflect as you drift down the sidewalk like a ghost. It’s difficult to make an effort to know people when you feel as though you don’t know yourself. You don’t know how to bridge the distance between yourself and other people. You think sometimes that you’re missing chunks of yourself.

You pass an open shopfront that’s serving street food, and glance briefly in at the kitchen. The cook is illuminated only dimly in the smoky room, standing out as a shadow figure more than anything, and for a split second you could swear that he has six arms. You look away quickly and carry on walking — you don’t want to look again only to be proven wrong. You want to preserve that little second of magic strangeness for as long as you can.

The puddles on the street seem like they’re glowing with the light reflected from the neon streetlamps, and you weave your way carefully around them to avoid getting your feet wet. The night has a strange quality about it, almost as though it’s holding its breath.

Considering the combination of your pensive mood and the expectant air of the evening, you don’t feel surprised at all when you look up from the wet cobblestones to find the man standing only a few feet ahead of you.

He smiles like he’s nervous, his gaze tracking carefully over your face. In his hands, he’s holding flowers. Camellias, you think. It’s the first time since you first saw him on the train that hasn’t been a fleeting glance out of the corner of your eye— he’s here in front of you and he’s real and solid and sturdy. He seems more substantial than the streets around you, than your friends back at the pub had been.

“Do you remember me?” He asks, voice soft as though he’s afraid of the answer.

“Remember you?” You croak. It feels as though the words are catching inside your throat. “No. But I’ve seen you every night in my dreams for years.”

If that’s the answer he’s expecting, he doesn’t show it. He just keeps looking at you, your face, your body. You wonder exactly it is that he’s seeing. “These are for you.” He says eventually, holding out the flowers. “I didn’t- I wanted to bring you something, when I saw you again. And I know that you always liked the garden.”

He’s talking as if the places that you’ve dreamed about are real. It doesn’t come as the earth-shattering surprise you might have expected — rather, it feels like a key turning in an old lock. A click, and then a sense of yes, that’s right.

You take the flowers, and clutch them to your chest. They’re a fleshy pink, with a vibrant yellow centre. The petals are as soft as velvet. Holding them feels like holding a safety blanket. “Thank you.” It’s the only thing that you can manage to say right now. Your thoughts are too full, and nothing else makes it out of your mouth.

It’s rather startling, the feelings that bubble up in your chest. It feels like something has just been unlocked, as though you had stored away all this emotion somewhere deep in your ribcage and then forgotten about it only for it to resurface at this precise moment, for this precise person.

“Eijirou.” You croak. “Kirishima Eijirou.”

His whole face brightens, and his eyes sparkle. “Yes. That’s me. You do remember!”

They’re not quite memories, you don’t think. They come in dreamlike flashes — the garden, an ocean, train tracks, the feral snarling of a dragon with sharp teeth, hard work and hot food, friends.

“I’m sorry I took so long,” Kirishima is saying, his face open and earnest. “But I told you that I’d come and find you again, remember?”

You do remember, sort of. A flash of a warm hand holding yours, pushing you forward over a boundary between one world and another, and a goodbye whispered behind you that sounds like a promise.

“You saved me.”

Kirishima laughs, though his eyes look a little shiny. “It was the other way around, actually. I would have stayed trapped in that bathhouse forever, if it weren’t for you.”

“The bathhouse.” You murmur, wide-eyed. It was real, real, real.

“Things are different now.” He edges closer to you. He’s large and imposing and taller than you, but he’s hunched slightly in an attempt to make himself unthreatening. “That’s why it took so long for me to come for you. Things were changing. Me and Katsuki run the bathhouse now.”

Katsuki. In your mind's eye you see a boy with wild blond hair and a dangerous look in his eyes, a boy who gives you extra rice when he can manage and takes over parts of your chores when you get so tired that you’re fit to pass out.

“I didn’t mean to make you wait.” He says quietly, and the tide of emotion that you had just barely been holding at bay comes crashing over you. Before the first tear has welled over the edge of your eyelids, Kirishima has stepped forward and wrapped you in his arms. The flowers are crushed between your chests as you cry.

“I didn’t even know what I was waiting for.” You cry into his silk suikan.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers into your hair. “I’m here now. I’m not going to leave again.”

You don’t release your grip on him. You’re not willing to take the chance.

After a moment, Kirishima speaks again. “Are you ready to go?”

“Go?” You echo, finally pulling away. “Go where?”

“Home.” He says, and he means the bathhouse. He means the spirit world.

“You want me to work for you?”

“I want you to help us run it.” He corrects. The distinction is important for both of you — though the memories are distant, you both know what it feels like to have your names and voices erased so cleanly that it makes you wonder if you ever existed fully at all.

“I don’t know anything about running a bathhouse. Especially not one for spirits.” You say, but Kirishima just laughs.

“You were always a hard worker. You’ll learn as you go. That’s what we’ve all been doing.”

You want to say yes. The word beats in your head like a drum, and you can’t think of a good reason to say no. The bathhouse. Home. The chance to feel real and awake at the same time.

“Okay.” You say on a breath, staring at him with wide eyes. “Stay with me, this time.”

When Kirishima’s face lights up in a smile, it’s the first time that you think you can accurately describe someone as incandescently happy. “Good luck getting rid of me again.”

You laugh, feeling nearly delirious with relief and joy. It’s real. He’s real. He’s come back for you, and now you’re going back with him. You think you should probably feel nervous or hesitant, but this brief encounter has felt more solid and right than the rest of the night spent with distant school-friends made uncomfortable by your silences.

“So, how do we get there?” You ask, but Kirishima just grins at you like you should already know the answer.

The train station is tucked away down an alley just off a busy main shopping district.

“It’s easy to miss if you don’t know exactly where you're going.” Kirishima tells you with a sharp smile, and it’s easy to believe. The red brick building that housed the train station is unmarked, and the trains couldn’t be seen from the main street. The alley itself is home to many curious sights -- paper lanterns bob overhead (though they don’t seem to be suspended by anything in particular), a yellowed flyer from the 1950s advertising Marlboro cigarettes drifts along on what seems to be a breeze despite the noticeable lack of wind, and three magpies sit on a wall wearing little golden timepieces on chains around their necks and caw in time with the ticking.

“Ready to go home?” Kirishima asks quietly. In his hand, two train tickets flutter in a non-existent breeze.

A family of mice scamper past your feet, pulling a miniature suitcase between them. A tall, thin woman wearing a blank white mask assists them onto the train.

You laugh at the whimsy of it all — it feels as though you’ve stepped into a fairytale, into a dream, into your childhood. “Yes,” You grin, “I’m ready.”

Kirishima beams back at you, and holds out a hand to help you onto the train. Finding a seat was easy — despite all the passengers you had seen boarding, the carriage was oddly empty. As soon as you’re seated, you sigh. It feels as though you’re sinking into an old overstuffed armchair, comfortable and familiar. When the whistle blows and the train starts moving, you turn eagerly to watch as the train begins to pick up speed. Within moments, you find that you can barely recognise the landscape blurring past the window — It seems that you’re zooming passed a beautiful sea-view, despite the fact that the city the train station was located in was conspicuously land-locked. You sigh happily and lean against your seat.

You still don’t remember everything about your experience in the spirit world all those years ago, but you think you remember hearing someone telling you “Once you meet someone you never really forget them. It just takes a while for your memories to return."

You make eye contact with Eijirou, who smiles back at you so fondly that it nearly hurts to look at. He’s changed so much from the boy in your dreams, in your memories. His eyes are no longer glassy and distant — now they’re shiny and expressive and so bright. His hair is longer too; still spiked and wild, but longer and curling softly over the curve of his neck and shoulders. He’s the boy your remember from all those years ago, but he’s also a man now. Grown, like you have, but smiling at you gently just like you’re ten years old again.

Through the window behind his head, the sunrise begins to bathe the water in delicate pinks and yellows. You’ll wait for as long as you need to for the memories to return, but even if they don’t that’s alright. You can just make new ones.

#this is so cheesy lol but whatever i've been staring at this doc for too long and i want it out of my sight #kirishima x reader #bnha x reader #kirishima eijirou #ghibli au #kirishima eijiro fluff #kirishima x y/n #mha x reader

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fanficsandfluff · 3 years

Text

The Wake-Up

Finally, I've crossed a fic idea off my daydream checklist! Enjoy!

Fandom: MCU, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier

Characters: Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, some Cass and AJ, a smidge of Sarah

Words: 2,010

Bucky hadn’t felt as well-rested as he had on Sarah’s couch, even despite being woken by her two boys. So, yes, maybe he did keep accepting offers to stay over. It helped his mental well-being, so what? He sought the rest and relaxation. Sam hadn’t even been there a few times, but it was still as welcome as ever. Sarah cooked great food. He brought her flowers the last time he slept over, and he loved the bright smile that sprung to her face.

“We need to clear a guest room all for you,” Sarah joked at the dinner table on one particular summer night.

“You can take Uncle Sam’s room when he’s not here!” Cass announced through a mouthful of grits.

Bucky grinned at all the jests and he knuckled Cass’s shoulder, “Oh, I’m sure Uncle Sam wouldn’t mind at all,” he always smiled whenever he heard ‘Uncle Sam’ being used to address the new Captain America. Brought a lot of nostalgia back, and even turned it into something positive.

But on the couch he remained, at least for the upcoming night.

Sam pulled up at 3 am, the whole house asleep. He had to get used to seeing Bucky on Sarah’s couch, but it was finally starting to become less surprising. As long as he was on the couch and not in Sarah’s bed, all things were fine by him. Sam tiptoed in after shedding his boots at the door, easing into the comfort brought to him just by being in the house. He adjusted the blanket by Bucky’s feet and pulled another corner over his bare arm, non-metal.

Sam smirked to himself. He always assumed Bucky possessed superhuman senses, so someone who decided to even step too close while he slept would be pulverized immediately. But no. The guy needed the sleep, he supposed. Bucky’s breathing pattern didn’t even change when Sam adjusted the blanket. Hmm… he could use this.

~~~

“Shhh, shhshh, hey guys,” Sam kissed his nephews on their foreheads when he woke them purposely later that morning. Dawn was just creeping over the bayou, shimmering the lights on the water.

“Wait, shh, you gotta stay quiet or you’ll ruin it,” Sam had his hand atop AJ’s head and he ruffled it around, making the older boy giggle.

“Ruin what?” Cass whispered.

“We’re gonna wake Bucky. The guy’s just always sleeping, isn’t he?”

Both boys shared identical grins, “Yeah, totally!” AJ slipped his glasses onto his face, Cass following suit.

And so the plot begun. Sam went to the bathroom with his nephews and gathered shaving cream after Cass had pulled a feather from his animal project from school. Sam explained what they’d be doing with these tools, since they’d never pulled this prank before (wow, Sam felt old).

AJ and Cass were practically vibrating with anticipation and giddiness. The trio snuck their way to the couch. Sam sprayed the shaving cream on Bucky’s metal hand since he knew how to not make the spray noise come out so loudly (and his human arm was tucked behind him on the couch so he couldn’t get to that one, okay? He didn’t go for the metal on purpose, he isn’t that cruel).

Sam pointed to Cass first as the three of them stood by Bucky’s head, hiding behind that edge of the couch, crouching. Cass stood and swiped the feather across Bucky’s forehead. No reaction. He gave it to AJ. AJ, more methodical, wiggled the feathered tip on the bridge of Bucky’s nose. Now he got his nose to scrunch, brow to furrow, but his arms stayed put. Sam next. He got the feather to move closer to Bucky’s nostrils.

“So close…” Cass whispered in the smallest voice, hands covering his mouth. AJ also put his own hand over Cass’s hands covering his mouth because of the comment.

Sam kept it up, even swiping around Bucky’s cheeks, when-- WHAM!

The boys both exclaimed, Cass jumping up and down excitedly while giggling. Sam laughed loudly, holding his stomach. The noise was a loud metal clang when metal arm connected with skull. It was hilarious.

Bucky shot up with a start, feeling his eyes covered in some kind of gook, and he practically gave himself a headache. He heard all the laughter and he sighed deeply.

“Gross…” he grumbled and wiped his eyes, not realizing his hand was the cause. He ended up smearing more shaving cream across his eyes.

“You got a little something…” Sam spoke, holding back more laughs. Anything to mess with Bucky was the highlight of Sam’s day.

Bucky got enough shaving cream off his face and wiped onto his pants to see again. He eyed the boys first, knowing he could scare them off quicker. He growled.

“Go go go!” AJ directed his younger brother, ushering him back towards the bedrooms, the two shoving each other and tripping over each other along the way.

Bucky’s eyes went to Sam immediately after.

Sam had to think quick. Run from a super soldier and inevitably get caught, or wake Sarah because there’s no way Bucky would do anything to him if Sarah was--- yeah, nope, not willing to face Sarah’s wrath either. Sam bolted out the front door, hearing the screen door clatter behind him. Not two seconds later he heard it clatter again, meaning Bucky was hot on his trail.

Sam ran through the yard, weaving between trees, feeling the dewy grass get kicked up under his bare feet.

Bucky threw himself at Sam when he had the shot and they both propelled forward, rolling in the grass for a few feet.

“Ow! Shit, Buck!” Sam exclaimed, groaning, feigning more pain than he was actually in.

Bucky was atop Sam, not falling for the act for a second. It took Sam a moment to look up and he burst out another laugh, unable to help himself. Bucky still had a white-painted face full of shaving cream, just now looking more smeared than goopy.

“You know you’re so dead and you’re still laughing? Where’d you get the balls…” Bucky tried to sound menacing, he really did.

“Nahah, no, you--” he cleared his throat, buying time so he could formulate a way out from under the Winter Soldier, “It’s good for your skin. Moisturizing. You look good.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes and his metal hand snapped to Sam’s when he tried to move, wrenching it up above his head. Sam was pinned. Now was the time he was getting nervous.

“It was all AJ and Cass, I just thought you should know.”

“Mmhm,” Bucky, man of few words, looked up and down Sam’s torso. He had him pinned. Now what to do. Bucky poked at Sam’s protruding rib. He did it again to the few above that one, making a little path of pokes.

Sam shifted under him, uncomfortable. His face looked much less jovial now. Annoyed. Good.

“Oh Sam, buddy, you never told me you were ticklish,” he drawled.

“I’m not--I mean, just stop. I’m sorry,” Sam apologized.

Bucky’s eyebrow actually raised. That was the whole fun of the game. Coaxing the apology. But of course Sam went and ruined that. Nice guy.

“For what?” Nice recovery, Barnes.

“For waking you up.”

Bucky allowed himself to quirk the corners of his lips, “Gotta be more specific than that,” and his one hand dug into the ribs on Sam’s right side. His fingers groped for the spaces in between and massaged his way in. Sam bucked and laughter was torn from his chest.

Sam was ticklish and only Sarah knew. Of course she knew, being the older sister. But dammit, he was never planning on Bucky Barnes figuring it out. And this was exactly why! The guy would be devastating!

“No! NohohoHO BUCKY!” Sam twisted side to side since that’s all the mobility he was allowed.

“What else are you sorry for? Here, I’ll give you the list,” as Bucky spoke, he had to raise his voice over Sam’s desperate giggles, hand switching to clawing at the other’s belly, “You woke me up with a prank. So there’s that. You lied and blamed AJ and Cass for something you 100% planned. You ran from the scene of the crime. Am I missing anything, Wilson?”

“Screhehehew you!” Sam got out before laughing louder as Bucky’s hand scratched at his armpit, “Stop! Stoppit, you fuhucking cyborg!”

“Oho! I’ll add that! Aaand, oh, and you lied to me about you not being ticklish. You said ‘I’m not,’” Bucky imitated Sam in a very stupid voice, “when clearly you are. Very. Very ticklish.”

Sam was pulling on his arms as much as he could without injuring himself. His veins popped, muscles straining. He was useless like this. Defenseless.

But he was laughing.

That was kind of nice.

Bucky contemplated letting go and allowing Sam to squirm. He liked having him at his mercy like this, though. Made him feel powerful… Hm.

Bucky kept Sam pinned with his vibranium appendage, and he wiped as much of the remaining shaving cream off his face as he could with his right hand.

Sam coughed as he sucked the humid morning air into his lungs. By now he didn’t know if the moistness he felt all along his back was from the dewy grass or from his own sweat.

“No, man, dohon’t,” he saw the absolute mischief painted on Bucky’s gleeful face and his raised shaving cream hand. Bucky planted his palm on the side of Sam’s face, chuckling to himself after the act.

“Aw, you-- you’re real gross, Barnes, you know that?” Sam spit out the imaginary shaving cream that got in his mouth.

“I think I’m just being fair,” Bucky pushed up Sam’s sleep shirt with his free elbow and he started tracing patterns with shaving cream along Sam’s belly. That got Cap giggling all over again.

“Buhuhucky, noho!”

“Keep giggling, Sam, it’s only gonna make me want to keep this up.”

Sam would swear up and down that that particular comment didn’t make him blush, but oh boy he felt his cheeks get warmer.

“I don’t g-gihiggle, asshole!”

“Oh, no?” Bucky switched to scratching at Sam’s taught tummy, the shaving cream making the experience extra slippery, causing Sam’s laughter to jump in pitch.

“I”m sorry!” Sam squeaked out before Bucky could even change tactics again.

Bucky chortled, “For…?”

“Everything! Eheverything you sahahaid!”

“Aww,” Bucky smiled. He pulled his metal arm back and just sat on Sam’s waist, still basking in the glow of winning like this.

Bucky leaned his head down closer to Sam’s, “I forgive you,” he said curtly. He watched the last few huffs and breaths of light laughs leave Sam’s lips. He could get headbutted being this close to Sam’s own face. Or kissed. Wait--

Bucky climbed off of Sam, sitting beside him in the grass. He pulled up the bottom of his shirt and wiped the shaving cream fully off his face.

Sam jabbed Bucky’s abs when the shirt came up and the Winter Soldier twitched.

Sam smiled wide. Bucky, eyes squinted at first, soon relaxed his face and allowed himself to smile back.

“Don’t do that again,” Bucky pointed a vibranium finger at Sam.

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

“You made Cass and AJ very happy.”

“Yeah, well…. They don’t need to prank me to be happy.”

“Yeah they did. Being mischievous. It’s all part of being little kids,” Sam sat up, head tilted Bucky’s way.

“Still.”

“Okay, I was trying to be thankful, jerk. Thanks for handling it like a good sport.”

Bucky looked over at Sam and he held his gaze for a few seconds. Did Sam like what just happened? Or was that just praise for him for not ripping Sam’s nephews limb from limb? Restraint?

“Oof, that brain malfunctions a whole lot, doesn’t it?” Sam was right back to teasing, “Code red!”

Bucky chuckled, head bowed. Sam, proud as ever to get that smile from the Winter Soldier, nudged him.

“You’re so stupid,” was all Bucky could think of saying. Sam laughed.

102 notes · View notes

geckosong · 3 years

Text

Anime Recommendations

Here lies even more shows that are worth watching

Demon Slayer (2019)

A family is attacked by demons and only two members survive - Tanjiro and his sister Nezuko, who is turning into a demon slowly. Tanjiro sets out to become a demon slayer to avenge his family and cure his sister.

My Rating: 8/10

Death Parade (2015)

After death, there is no heaven or hell, only a bar that stands between reincarnation and oblivion. There the attendant will, one after another, challenge pairs of the recently deceased to a random game in which their fate of either ascending into reincarnation or falling into the void will be wagered. Whether it's bowling, darts, air hockey, or anything in between, each person's true nature will be revealed in a ghastly parade of death and memories, dancing to the whims of the bar's master. Welcome to Quindecim, where Decim, arbiter of the afterlife, awaits! Death Parade expands upon the original one-shot intended to train young animators. It follows yet more people receiving judgment—until a strange, black-haired guest causes Decim to begin questioning his own rulings.

My Rating: 8/10

Noragami (2014)

In times of need, if you look in the right place, you just may see a strange telephone number scrawled in red. If you call this number, you will hear a young man introduce himself as the God Yato. Yato is a minor deity and a self-proclaimed "Delivery God," who dreams of having millions of worshippers. Without a single shrine dedicated to his name, however, his goals are far from being realized. He spends his days doing odd jobs for five yen apiece, until his weapon partner becomes fed up with her useless master and deserts him. Just as things seem to be looking grim for the god, his fortune changes when a middle school girl, Hiyori Iki, supposedly saves Yato from a car accident, taking the hit for him. Remarkably, she survives, but the event has caused her soul to become loose and hence able to leave her body. Hiyori demands that Yato return her to normal, but upon learning that he needs a new partner to do so, reluctantly agrees to help him find one. And with Hiyori's help, Yato's luck may finally be turning around.

My Rating: 9/10

Yona of the Dawn (2014-2015)

Princess Yona lives a life of luxury and ease, completely sheltered from the problems of the seemingly peaceful Kingdom of Kouka; however, the sudden murder of the king and betrayal of her beloved cousin Su-won places Yona's life in mortal peril. Forced to escape only with Son Hak, who is both her childhood friend and bodyguard, the naïve princess soon discovers that Kouka is not the idyllic place she envisioned it to be. Poverty, strife, and corruption run rampant, making reclaiming the throne nothing more than a wishful fantasy given the kingdom's current state. With only a mysterious legend to guide her, Yona must discover a way to restore Kouka to its former glory while being pursued relentlessly by the forces of the new King of Kouka.

My Rating: 8/10

Haikyu! (2014-Present)

Inspired after watching a volleyball ace nicknamed "Little Giant" in action, small-statured Shouyou Hinata revives the volleyball club at his middle school. The newly-formed team even makes it to a tournament; however, their first match turns out to be their last when they are brutally squashed by the "King of the Court," Tobio Kageyama. Hinata vows to surpass Kageyama, and so after graduating from middle school, he joins Karasuno High School's volleyball team—only to find that his sworn rival, Kageyama, is now his teammate. Thanks to his short height, Hinata struggles to find his role on the team, even with his superior jumping power. Surprisingly, Kageyama has his own problems that only Hinata can help with, and learning to work together appears to be the only way for the team to be successful.

My Rating: 9/10

The Devil is a Part-Timer (2013)

Striking fear into the hearts of mortals, the Demon Lord Satan begins to conquer the land of Ente Isla with his vast demon armies. However, while embarking on this brutal quest to take over the continent, his efforts are foiled by the hero Emilia, forcing Satan to make his swift retreat through a dimensional portal only to land in the human world. Along with his loyal general Alsiel, the demon finds himself stranded in modern-day Tokyo and vows to return and complete his subjugation of Ente Isla—that is, if they can find a way back! Powerless in a world without magic, Satan assumes the guise of a human named Sadao Maou and begins working at MgRonald's—a local fast-food restaurant—to make ends meet. He soon realizes that his goal of conquering Ente Isla is just not enough as he grows determined to climb the corporate ladder and become the ruler of Earth, one satisfied customer at a time!

My Rating: 9/10

The Promised Neverland (2019-Present)

Surrounded by a forest and a gated entrance, the Grace Field House is inhabited by orphans happily living together as one big family, looked after by their "Mama," Isabella. Although they are required to take tests daily, the children are free to spend their time as they see fit, usually playing outside, as long as they do not venture too far from the orphanage—a rule they are expected to follow no matter what. However, all good times must come to an end, as every few months, a child is adopted and sent to live with their new family... never to be heard from again. However, the three oldest siblings have their suspicions about what is actually happening at the orphanage, and they are about to discover the cruel fate that awaits the children living at Grace Field, including the twisted nature of their beloved Mama.

My Rating: 8/10

Toradora (2008-2009)

Ryuuji Takasu is a gentle high school student with a love for housework; but in contrast to his kind nature, he has an intimidating face that often gets him labeled as a delinquent. On the other hand is Taiga Aisaka, a small, doll-like student, who is anything but a cute and fragile girl. Equipped with a wooden katana and feisty personality, Taiga is known throughout the school as the "Palmtop Tiger." One day, an embarrassing mistake causes the two students to cross paths. Ryuuji discovers that Taiga actually has a sweet side: she has a crush on the popular vice president, Yuusaku Kitamura, who happens to be his best friend. But things only get crazier when Ryuuji reveals that he has a crush on Minori Kushieda—Taiga's best friend! Toradora! is a romantic comedy that follows this odd duo as they embark on a quest to help each other with their respective crushes, forming an unlikely alliance in the process.

My Rating: 9/10

Hypnosis Microphone: Division Rap Battle - Rhyme Anima (2020)

In a world overtaken by war and conflict, "Hypnosis Microphones"—devices through which a user channels lyrics that can affect the listener's brain and even cause physical damage—were introduced to the masses by the Party of Words. Revolutionizing warfare, Hypnosis Mics have transformed words and music into the sole weapons used by gangsters, terrorists, and the military, with physical weapons having been banned from use. As a result of swooping in during the chaos, the all-female Party of Words rules over the Japanese government. Women in Japan now live in Chuuouku, while men battle over surrounding territories outside the ward through rap battles. With intentions unknown, the Party of Words begins to gather the former members of the now-disbanded legendary rap crew The Dirty Dawg to fight not for territory or war, but for their respective crew's pride and honor in the greatest rap battle of all time. The first Division Rap Battle is about to commence, and practice isn't something these rappers are going to need.

My Rating: 6/10

Kamisama Kiss (2012)

High schooler Nanami Momozono has quite a few problems of late, beginning with her absentee father being in such extreme debt that they lose everything. Downtrodden and homeless, she runs into a man being harassed by a dog. After helping him, she explains her situation, and to her surprise, he offers her his home in gratitude. But when she discovers that said home is a rundown shrine, she tries to leave; however, she is caught by two shrine spirits and a fox familiar named Tomoe. They mistake her for the man Nanami rescued—the land god of the shrine, Mikage. Realizing that Mikage must have sent her there as a replacement god, Tomoe leaves abruptly, refusing to serve a human. Rather than going back to being homeless, Nanami immerses herself in her divine duties. But if she must keep things running smoothly, she will need the help of a certain hot-headed fox. In her fumbling attempt to seek out Tomoe, she lands in trouble and ends up sealing a contract with him. Now the two must traverse the path of godhood together as god and familiar; but it will not be easy, for new threats arise in the form of a youkai who wants to devour the girl, a snake that wants to marry her, and Nanami's own unexpected feelings for her new familiar.

My Rating: 7/10

My Roommate is a Cat (2019)

Subaru Mikazuki is a 23-year-old mystery novel author, major introvert, and an awkwardly shy person. He would much rather stay home to read a book than go outside and interact with others. Further exacerbating this life of solitude, his parents tragically died in an accident many years ago, leaving him alone in the world. One day, while giving offerings at his parents' grave, Subaru runs into a small black and white cat named Haru, which he ends up taking home with him. Subaru, however, has never taken care of anyone else in his life—can he even take care of a cat? Haru is grateful toward Subaru, as he gives her all the food she wants—a luxury for a cat who is used to a rough life on the streets. But she notices that Subaru can't even seem to take care of himself! Will she be okay with this dunce?

My Rating: 7/10

#anime #anime recommendation #demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #death parade #noragami #yona of the dawn #akatsuki no yona #haikyuu!!#the devil is a part timer #hataraku maou-sama!#the promised neverland #toradora #kamisama hajimemashita #kamisama kiss #my roommate is a cat #hypmic #hypnosis microphone

56 notes · View notes

reyescarlos · 3 years

Note

YES!!! 14 “Please don’t tell me you filmed that.” “Of course I filmed it.” for tarlos and maybe a little bit of that yeehaw firefam if you would be so kind thank you i love you

omg the shenanigans! thanks for getting me to branch out and attempt writing the rest of the crew! oh how i love the 126 🤠

#14 “Please don’t tell me you filmed that.” “Of course I filmed it.”

It’s become something of a custom for the 126 to gather outside of work. Where most people would be tired of seeing their co-workers constantly, the station’s team never seems to shy away from any excuse to extend their days. Even after a long shift, just the mere mention of plans gets the crew excited.

Owen affectionately calls it family time, an opportunity for the crew to get together periodically after shifts and try different activities together. TK can’t actually say he minds the opportunity to bond even further with the team. In a lot of ways, in almost no time at all, the 126 has come together and formed quite the family, one that TK is sincerely proud to be a part of.

As an only child, he’d spent a great deal of time on his own, admittedly curious about what it would have been like to have a big brother or sister looking out for him or even what it could be like to be an older brother himself. Life was funny in the way it brought the various members of the crew into his world. Now he knew precisely what it was like to be surrounded by siblings and all the highs and lows that came with that. They could bicker amongst themselves but at the end of the day, there was nothing but love between them all.

Outings like this, bowling on a Friday night after their shift, were moments that TK has quickly come to cherish. It’s made all the more special with tonight’s guest joining in on the fun. TK’s relationship with Carlos is still new, just a month and a half underway but without question the man’s presence is always a welcomed thing at any and all times.

Owen and Michelle head over to the stand to get food and drinks for everyone, the rest of the team piling into their seats. Marjan commandeers the center console, her eyes glossing over the buttons for a moment.

“I’d just like to go on record saying that bowling is not my thing,” Paul announces the second he flops into his seat.

“Josie still hasn’t managed to teach you?” Carlos asks.

Paul smiles and TK can’t help but to do the same. He was all too happy when Josie and Paul amended things, the two of them meeting up and having a serious conversation. It had been a tentative road, one that TK had worried Paul wouldn’t care to repair. He certainly wouldn’t have faulted Paul if he decided not to but TK had easily picked up on the chemistry between them and had been hopeful that one day they’d be able to reconnect.

It’d taken a few weeks for Paul to be open to the idea of putting his heart out there with Josie again and it seemed to be paying off now.

“We, uh, kinda get distracted during lessons,” Paul says with a shrug and a smirk.

“Alright, so you’re definitely not on my team then,” Marjan quips, double checking her laces on her rentals. “How about you, Carlos? Are you any good at bowling?”

“Yeah, I’ve been playing since I was a kid.”

Marjan grins. “Excellent, you’re with me then.”

TK raises a hand in protest. “Wait, wait, wait. You can’t just start stealing all the best players for your team.”

Marjan looks to the left, then the right, then back at him.

“Says who? That’s the whole point of calling dibs,” she says. “It’s not my fault you guys are just slow.”

TK jokingly narrows his eyes at her. “Alright, then we get Judd. We need at least one solid player on our team.”

Her mouth twists to one side in thought. “Fine, I’ll allow it. Judd, I wish your back well. It’s going to take a lot to carry your team.”

“What else is new?” Judd muses.

Paul places a hand over his heart. “Ice cold, Marwani. I knew you were competitive but damn, is it really like that?”

“Oh, that’s precisely how it is.”

Carlos laughs and shakes his head. “Who knew firefighters could be so vicious?”

“Marjan is the worst of all when it comes to games,” Mateo says. “But she’s pretty much undefeated so she’s doing something right.”

TK wishes he could argue the point but Marjan’s competitive nature always gives her an extra edge over the others. Sometimes he gets to bask in the warm glow of victory if they’re paired up. Other times he has to admit defeat.

“Alright, so what are the two teams looking like?” Mateo asks Marjan.

She starts typing in her name first. “So it’s me, you, Carlos, and I think we’ll snag Cap.”

“Pitting me against my father and my boyfriend? A little cruel, don’t you think?”

Marjan laughs. “Clearly I’m out to get you today.”

She continues typing in everyone’s names until all eight are on the board. “Cool, we’re good to go.”

Judd stands up first and gets his ball from the ball return. It’s a weighty all black ball that he sends flying down the lane without much buildup at all.

TK watches it streak down the lane, tipping over eight pins.

“That’s how you knock ‘em down,” he proudly boasts, turning back to the others.

Marjan rolls her eyes but TK can see she’s actually impressed with how well Judd has done right out of the gate. Mateo has his phone out, taking pictures and videos as he always does during their get togethers.

TK sits beside Carlos, placing his head on his shoulder as they all watch Judd set up his next frame. He can feel the press of Carlos’ lips against the crown of his head and he smiles to himself at the move. TK shifts and steals a kiss, a hand resting on Carlos’ chest.

“No fraternizing with the enemy,” Paul grumbles. “Don’t make me get a hose for you two. You know I can make that happen like that,” he says, snapping his fingers for emphasis.

The crew takes turns and before long, Marjan is calling TK up to take his turn. It strikes him how odd his feet feel inside of his rentals. The floor is so much smoother than he was anticipating and he glides a bit as he heads to the ball return.

“You alright there, Happy Feet?” Judd calls out, earning a few laughs from the team.

“I’ve got this,” TK assures, placing his fingers into the holes.

“Famous last words,” Marjan says at the same time as Paul who says, “Dead man walking.”

TK picks up his ball and draws in a breath as he raises in front of him. Bowling is not his forte. The last time he stepped foot in a bowling alley had to have been when he was in high school, if not junior high. He and his friends didn’t know or care to learn the rules and that suited him just fine. This was as simple a concept as any. Even little kids were capable of knocking over pins. Surely he, an adult, could do the same too without incident.

He studies the little arrows on the floor before him all pointing towards the pins as if he needed reminding on which direction to go. TK rolls his eyes at them and lowers his arm, swinging it back. As he goes to release the ball, his wrist locks a bit. His body tugs with the momentum and it dawns on TK that this is not about to end well for him.

The ball slips from his hand clumsily and in his haste to try and maintain control, his left foot slips. It happens in the blink of an eye, the time it takes for the ball to hit the wooden floor and for his butt to do the same.

Marjan’s cackle is the loudest of them all, practically filling every square inch of the bowling alley.

Carlos is beside him quickly, holding out a hand to help him up. TK’s face burns hot with embarrassment, his backside already aching. He looks to where his friends are, Mateo’s phone angled a little too perfectly at him.

There’s only one conclusion to draw from such a sight and TK, as foolish as it is, hopes against hope that he’s wrong.

“Please don’t tell me you filmed that.”

“Of course I filmed it, are you kidding me? I’m totally making this into a boomerang. That was gold,” Mateo laughs, shoving his phone towards the others and tapping the screen.

Judd is wiping away tears from his eyes, Marjan’s cheeks are flushed, and Paul is doubled over in his seat as they watch the video. To his credit, Carlos is doing his best not to join in but his cheekbones are raised so highly on his face, his lips pressed tightly together in a valiant effort to suppress a laugh.

“You too?” TK jokingly reprimands.

“I’m sorry but if you saw it go down like we did…,” he trails off, placing a kiss against TK’s temple.

TK groans and buries his face against the side of Carlos’ neck as he wraps an arm around his waist.

“What’s going on here? We leave you all for five minutes and you guys are falling to pieces,” Owen says, Michelle just a step behind him, their hands filled with packed trays of nachos and drinks.

“I got you, Cap. Look at this,” Mateo says a little too eagerly, surrendering his phone to Owen.

TK groans yet again and Carlos merely pulls him in a little closer as the team watches the two captains view the video. It’s mortifying but the crew relishes in it, watching eagerly. TK can hear the bowling ball thud and a second later himself. The laughter of the crew plays back, only this time with his own father’s laugh and Michelle’s joining the mix in real time.

“Is this online? That’s just what this station needs, another firefighter going viral.”

#tarlos #tk strand #carlos reyes #marjan marwani #paul strickland #judd ryder #mateo chavez #the 126 #pauline pocket #kimmy writes

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megalony · 4 years

Text

There’s my girl

This is my first Peter Dawson imagine from the movie Dunkirk which I am in love with. I hope you will all enjoy it, feedback is always appreciated.

Taglist: @lunaticspoem @butlegendsneverdie @langdonzvoid @jennyggggrrr @rogmeddows @radiob-l-a-hblah @rogertaylorsbitontheside @chlobo6 @rogertaylors-lipgloss @sj-thefan @omgitsearly @luckytrashgooprebel @scarsout @deaky-with-a-c @killer-queen-ofrhye @bluutac @vousmemanqueez @jonesyaddiction @ambi-and-sunflowers @milanosaurus @httpfandxms @saint-hardy @7-seas-of-fat-bottomed-girls @mrsalwayswritex @rogerina-owns-me @peterquillzsblog @im-an-adult-ish @crazylittlethingg @allauraleigh

Masterlist

Summary: (Y/n) goes to Dunkirk with Peter on his father’s boat to save the soldiers but when a fight breaks out, she ends up falling overboard.

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"We're going to war."

Those words seemed to spin round in (Y/n)'s head like a needle scratching on a record causing the same lyric to revolve through the air on repeat and (Y/n) couldn't seem to turn it off. Those words just hit her differently for some reason and she couldn't forget them or ignore them.

She knew it was where they were going, of course she did. She knew the moment she got on the boat with her boyfriend Peter, his father and their mutual friend George that war was their destination. They were going right into the heart of the war to save those that were lost and stranded, they were saving those that had no other way to get back home where they belonged. But it didn't feel or seem like they were going into war until now. It felt like they were taking a daring trip out on the water that could envelope them at any second if the tides turned.

But the moment the soldier scrambled over the side of the boat and collapsed in a puddled heap on the floor, it dawned on them all that this was it. They had reached the outskirts of the war and it was only going to get worse from here.

(Y/n) didn't think before she moved towards the man who was dripping water like he was melting on the spot. When his head snapped to look up at her and their eyes locked, there was too much terror and unspoken horror in his eyes for (Y/n) to even begin to comprehend so she decided not to. Her movements were slow and cautious when she reached out for him to try and help him to sit down rather than kneel on the floor like this and the moment he was sat down she moved to grab a blanket. The blanket was made of a rough scratchy material but it would soak up the excess water and keep him a bit more insulated.

Once the blanket was wrapped around his shoulders and pulled tightly around his back, (Y/n) stood up properly and took a few steps back until she was standing next to Peter, not wanting to overwhelm the man.

George came over to him and handed him a steaming cup of tea which he cradled so delicately in his hands like they had given him a bar of gold to protect, but he didn't move to drink any. He was shell-shocked, huddled up in a corner of the boat wanting to watch the waves roll by so he felt safe and no one dared move him if he felt safe where he was.

(Y/n)'s eyes danced over to Peter stood at her side when he quietly slipped his fingers into the groves between her own and gently pulled on her hand, tugging her off the deck and down into the cabin where there was a small kitchen in the corner.

"He needs some space." Peter knew crowding round the poor man when he was in such a state wouldn't be the best idea. Mr Dawson was making sure they were sailing in the right direction, George was keeping an eye out for any other survivors and drifting soldiers they could pick up. It was best to let the soldier have a moment to compose himself out of the way of prying eyes.

Peter leaned his back against the counter as (Y/n) rested her head on his shoulder, smiling when she felt his lips pressing to the top of her head. But they could both feel the nerves radiating off of one another, things were about to change.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(Y/n) locked eyes with Peter as she folded one arm over her chest and started to bite her thumb out of nervous habit.

The man looked like he was about to have a heart attack or let his rage loose whilst still being afraid of their destination. It felt almost cruel to make him go back to the place he had escaped from, but what else could they do? They were here for a reason and one man simply wasn't going to make much of a difference when there were still hundreds upon thousands of men waiting at Dunkirk for a way home.

They had come here to try and they couldn't turn around and go home without being able to say they had tried.

"I'm not going back. Turn it around." There was a laughable smile on his face as he felt like they were playing a joke on him or just messing with him to see how he would react. He had barely made it out of Dunkirk alive, there was no way he could go back and risk his life again, he just wanted to go home.

"We have to go, it's our duty." Mr Dawson was solemn even though his face was grave because he did understand even if he didn't agree.

"What? You're a pleasure boat, not the navy! You're made for weekend sailing not going into war!"

George leaned his weight back onto his hands that were braced on the side of the boat as Peter dragged his nails through his hair, his eyes still focusing on (Y/n) stood beside him, still biting her thumb out of habit. They all had their own opinions but it didn't feel right to voice them. They knew this wasn't a navy boat and they didn't look or seem like a rescue team but if the boys at Dunkirk were as desperate as they seemed, it wouldn't matter what kind of boat they got on as long as it came and found them.

"Alright son, take it easy-"

"No, no turn it around now. We're not going we have to go home!"

The shell-shocked man tried his best to lunge forward and get inside over to the wheel but Mr Dawson was stood in his way and both George and Peter tried to pull him back. They didn't want to hurt him or pin him down or contain him but they couldn't have him trying to turn the boat around when their destination was Dunkirk and they had a job to do.

The man clearly felt like he was under attack because he became very defensive whilst still trying to move and get to the controls. He flung his right arm out at his side and knocked George backwards onto the floor with a huff which caused Peter to stop for a split second to check on George. Leaving the soldier a few seconds to try and get past Mr Dawson once he knocked Peter off of him with another violent shove.

"Now come on son, we can't leave men behind, someone has to rescue them." Mr Dawson managed to push the man out of the cabin and away from the wheel he was desperate to turn but his words didn't have the desired effect.

"I'm not going back."

"Calm down, it's okay, you'll be home by morning and so will everyone else if we go and help them." (Y/n)'s words caused the man to falter for a moment but he spared her one glance before something overtook him, whether it was a memory or a fear, no one was sure but it unsettled him. He didn't want to go back into the face of torture, he wanted to go home into the face of safety.

When it looked like he was about to throw a punch (Y/n)'s way, Peter quickly placed himself in front of her before he lurched over to grab the man's wrist, trying to twist his arm out of the way but it only made the soldier struggle move.

Peter kept a tight hold over the man's wrist and arm and tried to hold his arm as still as possible behind him so he couldn't hit any of them or fight them but it wasn't enough. The soldier managed to knock Peter down to his knees and rip his arm free from the younger boy but Peter's ocean blue eyes watched in fright as the soldier moved much too quickly and unevenly.

No words left Peter's mouth but a look of horror overtook his face as he watched everything happen it what felt like slow motion.

(Y/n) gasped when the man's arm fired into her chest and stomach even if it was unclear whether he meant to hit her or not, just as the boat tackled a rather uneven, large wave that sent everyone's steps stumbling. The rocking of the boat and the man's force pushed (Y/n) back but she didn't realise how close to the side she was until her back forcefully hit the side of the boat. But she had no time to focus on the sudden pain in her back when the boat seemed to capsize to the left and with the side of the boat being so small, (Y/n) found herself falling overboard.

She tightened her arms to her chest, unable to stop herself from screaming as her eyes could only see the red of Peter's jumper before the icy water suddenly surrounded her. For a second or two it was as if (Y/n) didn't know where she was and she couldn't feel the water until her eyes opened and the salt was suddenly scratching at her eyes. When her eyes came into focus despite the salt and the odd sensation of peering through water, (Y/n) could see the side and bottom of the boat through the magenta blue water that was swaying awfully around her.

As soon as (Y/n) noticed the boat slowly becoming misshapen and distant and she realised she was sinking, she suddenly felt how cold the water was. It was as if she had fallen into a bucket of ice and her thick woollen jumper and warm winter leggings were doing nothing to prevent her from the cold that was seeping into her bones.

She couldn't move. The water's icy tentacles had wrapped around her and seeped into her bones until she couldn't move them anymore no mater how badly her mind screamed to move and save herself.

"(Y/n)!" The name tore from Peter's lips before he had a chance to stop himself but screaming her name did nothing to stop her from falling into the water. The thought of detaining the shell-shocked man in front of him vanished from Peter's mind completely as he scrambled to his feet and roughly pushed the man out of the way so he could lean over to see if (Y/n) was floating or sinking into the depths of the ocean.

Peter collapsed down on his knees and leaned over the side, feeling the edge of the boat cutting rather uncomfortably into his lower chest and stomach but he paid no mind to it as all of his concentration was focused on the water.

"She's not coming up." The fear in Peter's voice overwhelmed the urgency he was feeling when he could see (Y/n)'s body under the water but she wasn't becoming any clearer meaning she wasn't rising to the surface yet.

"Peter no!" Both Mr Dawson and George hurriedly grabbed one of Peter's arms each to stop him from diving down into the water himself after her. They couldn't let him dive straight in like that because it was dangerous and the water this far out had a very unkind temperature. But the way that Peter looked up at his father was not an expression that Mr Dawson had ever witnessed before in his younger son.

"She isn't coming up to the surface-" Peter writhed in his father's grip. It was his fault (Y/n) was here, he allowed her to step onto the boat and stay just like he did with George. He let them both on the boat and didn't tell them to leave, it was his fault she was in the water.

"Just give her a few seconds, Peter."

The hesitation in Peter's eyes was clear before he tore his gaze away and looked back down at the water he submerged his hands into. He wasn't going to dive right in but he needed his arms in the water to reach out for her when she did start to come up to the surface so there was something for her to reach for and hold on to.

(Y/n) couldn't decide whether she was starting to float or sink when the image of the boat above her was moving but it wasn't clear if it was becoming distant or just distorted. But the moment her burning lungs in-took a flood of water, it seemed to kick-start everything else and her paralysed body slowly became unstuck. If she weren't in the water (Y/n) was sure she would have been crying in fear, she was fine going in a boat and being on the ocean but being in the ocean was something else entirely.

She wasn't the best swimmer out there and the thought of drowning always scared (Y/n). To breathe in water until she went unconscious and drowned was a terrifying thought and if she didn't blackout she would be awake for several minutes until the water killed her and dragged her down to the depths of the ocean like she was a shipwreck destined for the sea bed.

When a sudden flash of red submerged into the otherwise deep blue water (Y/n) knew it had to be Peter's jumper and she tried her best to reach her arms up to the sky in order to reach for him and her legs kicked out to give her a push up in the right direction.

She felt Peter's familiar hand glide against her own but she wasn't high enough to grasp it properly and the water made it much harder to try and grip his hand that was like a lifeline held out to her. With another kick of her feet, (Y/n) tried to move through the water that just laughed and enveloped around her before she thrust her hand up and felt for Peter's hand.

The moment Peter felt (Y/n)'s hand in his own he deadlocked his fingers around her hand, digging his nails into her skin for added grip when it felt like he was going to lose her. As soon as their hands were secured together, he leaned further into the water until it was smothering his chest and reaching his neck and chin so he could grab (Y/n)'s elbow with his other hand in order to hoist her up to the surface.

It felt and looked like a miracle when Peter leaned up and (Y/n) suddenly broke through the water, with her hair folded back on her head and clinging to her shoulders and a burst of water spluttering from her pale lips that were almost turning blue. Peter's lips curved into a relieved smile that was full of nervous tension when (Y/n) was finally above the water and within his sights again.

There's my girl.

Peter pulled (Y/n) up a bit more before he let go of her hand so he could wrap his arms around her waist to help pull her back up onto the boat again. (Y/n) dug her fingers into Peter's shoulders, reassuring herself he wasn't going to drop her back into the water or let her slip through his fingers as she moved her feet to press them against the side of the boat so she could get up a bit easier.

When her foot slid from the edge of the boat and her frame slipped down, Peter's name escaped (Y/n)'s lips in a choked whimper and she forced her head into Peter's neck as his arms tightened around her to assure her he wasn't letting the water take her again.

Peter could feel her teeth chattering against his neck and her frozen skin was making him shiver and feel the cold but he paid no mind to it.

"I've got you, I won't let go I promise." He whispered the words against the shell of (Y/n)'s ear so no one else would hear. He could feel the panic in her shivering body but he wasn't letting her fall again. He straightened up so he was no longer leaning over the side of the boat and pulled (Y/n) up and over to him.

Mr Dawson and George reached out to hold onto (Y/n) for added precaution so she didn't slip back into the water, a mixture of worry and relief in their eyes when they watched her collapse onto her knees on the floor in much the same way the soldier had done a few hours previous.

The moment (Y/n) felt her knees firmly on the floor she felt tears of relief falling from her eyes before she started to shake. Her hands stayed firmly on Peter's shoulders who was kneeling in front of her and his arms tightened around her when she pushed her face into his chest wanting comfort and to stop herself from choking on the water she had inhaled. Peter tilted his head down so he could press his lips to her hair, breathing in her scent that was now tainted by the saltwater smothering her and he moved one hand to hold the back of her head, keeping her firmly encased to his chest.

"I-is she alright?"

"Does she look alright?" Peter didn't mean to snap and when he looked over at the solider he was curled up in the corner with such sadness in his eyes that made Peter feel guilty.

(Y/n) lifted her head enough to look up at Peter but she couldn't say anything or tell him she was alright because she still felt like there was water in her lungs that she needed to cough up. She knew she was okay and she would be perfectly fine in a little while when the shaking subsided and her breathing felt more natural, she had a lucky escape from the water, all things considered.

A small, tight-lipped smile pulled at (Y/n)'s lips when she felt George draping a blanket around her and Peter who was also shaking but she couldn't tell whether it was because of the water or because she was shaking so violently in his arms.

"She'll be fine in a little while, just like you, son. Peter, take her down to warm up and get a drink."

"Come on, love."

Pushing himself to his feet, Peter kept his arms around (Y/n) and carefully helped her to her feet, noticing the way she was still shaking and looked like she wasn't going to be walking very well or far. (Y/n) kept her arms around Peter just in case her knees gave way beneath her and when they passed the soldier, she gave him a small nod and a smile to let him know she knew he didn't hurt her or mean to hurt her. (Y/n) couldn't have the solider worrying he'd hurt her when it wasn't his fault, he was in shock and they had unintentionally made it worse for him.

The moment (Y/n) felt the small soft bed beneath her in the little cabin room, she felt like she was going to pass out. The shaking in her system seemed to double for a few seconds when she sat down before gradually tapering off until it was starting to become subtle.

Moving her head, (Y/n) leaned her cheek on Peter's shoulder when he wrapped his arms around her and gently pulled her into his chest whilst keeping the blanket tight around her to try and fight the cold out of her system.

(Y/n) took a moment to scan her eyes around the tiny room that on any other occasion would have made her feel claustrophobic but right now simply made her feel warmer and more connected to Peter. Being mindful of the pile of life jackets on the other end of the bed, (Y/n) slowly curled her legs up and rested them on the bed before she laid down and rested her head and shoulders on Peter's lap. She was cautious and slow in case Peter didn't want her to lay over him but his arm instantly laid over her shoulder and his hand held hers whilst his other hand near her head started slowly carding through her hair that was dripping water.

"You're alright, love." Peter spoke quietly before he leaned over her so he could kiss her cheek and tuck his face into her neck. He was thankful they'd gotten her out in time and that she seemed to be okay, he didn't know what he would do if he didn't get her out in time.

#peter dawson #peter dawson x reader #peter dawson imagine #dunkirk #dunkirk imagine #tom glynn carney #tom glynn carney imagine

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detectiveupstead · 4 years

Text

Coming Back [Upstead One Shot]

A/N: my little take on what happens after 7x18 “Lines”. Jay is the first person Hailey talks to after Voight tells her of her New York FBI assignment.

He was waiting for her at Molly’s, wondering what was taking her so long to show up. The rest of the team was around him, the buzz of the bar familiar as those who just got off work congregated to the local bar. Jay noticed something off about Hailey during the case, knowing her well enough at this point to pick up on any subtle shift of her demeanor to know something was going on in that quick-thinking head of hers. But she hadn’t told him, probably hoped he didn’t notice. Jay smiled wryly into the lip of his beer bottle, giving an absent shake of his head. She should know better at this point.

Jay glanced towards the table where the rest of the members of Intelligence were, mostly trying to keep Vanessa distracted from the outcome of the case that resulted in her losing a relationship she held close. Jay felt for her, aware of how rough the past few days had been for Vanessa. His gaze slid past the table just as the front door of Molly’s swung open, and he straightened where he sat on the stool at the bar when Hailey walked in.

There was a blankness in her expression as she entered, and Jay’s eyebrows furrowed together slightly as she walked past the table with their team members, returning their greetings with a brief smile but never pausing to stop by them. Instead, her blue eyes met Jay’s green, flashing seriously, and Jay knew immediately something was going on.

As soon as Hailey reached him, she said, “I have to tell you something.” She gestured towards the door, ticking her head towards it, and Jay nodded.

Silently, he got up and followed her, briefly exchanging a confused glance with Kim as he went. He shrugged his jacket back on as they made their way through the busy bar, walking out after letting a few people in. The sidewalk wasn’t busy, cars driving past occasionally on the street Molly’s was located on. Two men stood a few feet away leaning against the building, sharing conversation and cigarettes. The sidewalk was illuminated by the streetlights, and the music and chatter from the bar was muffled as they walked a few feet down the path.

“What’s going on?” Jay asked once they stopped, hands shoving into the pockets of his jacket as the familiar Chicago chill bit at him.

Hailey glanced away from him for a moment, the muscle in her jaw working, and Jay recognized this as her trying to find the right words. His eyebrows drew together, an uneasy knot forming in the pit of his stomach as he waited. Finally, her eyes met his, bright blue even at this time of night. “Voight’s sending me to New York for a few weeks as a loan officer for the FBI. I leave tomorrow.”

She spoke factually, trying to keep her voice monotone and flat, and yet her reluctance to following a direct order seeped through the longer she stared at Jay. He, in turn, looked right back at her, her words taking a moment to process, silently hoping that she was kidding, unable to say anything. Because panic had instantly flared in his head, feeling as though the universe was repeating a cruel joke—and Jay wasn’t sure if he was surprised that this time, it felt a hundred times worse.

His lips parted, yet no words came out, a tight lump in his throat making it difficult to speak. The Chicago weather had nothing to do with the way Jay stood frozen, all too aware of his heart beginning to pick up its pace, the panic slowly but surely increasing and threatening to take over every cell in his body.

History was repeating itself with a twist. He’d already lost one partner to New York—to the FBI. What kind of shit cards was he being dealt with to have another one leave, too, even if it was temporary? Jay knew the situation wasn’t the same. He knew he and Erin were done before she left—knew that leaving was her choice. She wanted to be gone. To leave Chicago. And leave him. So she did, without a word or a goodbye. Gone just like that.

And that had hurt. It hurt so damn much, to the point where Jay started spiraling in a way that frightened him, only allowing himself to get help, to get better, after Voight and Hailey gave him the push he needed. Hailey.

He knew she didn’t want to leave—hell, he could see it in her eyes, swimming with distraught and reluctance and absolute loathing for the assignment she was given. This wasn’t her choice—a difference from when Erin left. Another major difference: Hailey was giving him the respect of letting him know instead of merely disappearing.

Yet, Jay still felt as though he couldn’t quite breathe easily. Like someone had reached into the cavity of his chest, wrapped an iron fist around his heart, and was squeezing until there was nothing left to squeeze. And maybe that was a bit of an overreaction, but it seemed appropriate. Jay was too used to losing people, whether it be of their own doing or to death, but Hailey—she was someone Jay never thought would leave. She was someone he counted on never leaving him, even if the idea of it may seem wishful.

Jay appreciated and respected the partners he’d had in the past, whether it be in the military or as a cop, but Hailey was someone Jay was desperate to have at his side forever. A voice in the back of his mind teased him every time that thought came across—wondering if he meant it in a professional sense or more personal, more intimate. Jay tried his best not to dwell on it too much, not wanting to dig himself into a hole.

Was he even aware the hole had been dug, and he was already a good few feet in?

But now she was going and Jay didn’t get a say in the matter, and it foolishly pissed him the hell off.

“No—what the hell? Not happening,” he scoffed with a shake of his head, refusing to accept what he already knew was a done deal.

Hailey’s expression fell, like she expected him to react this way, eyebrows drawing together in an almost sad frown. “I don’t have a choice, Jay,” she rasped quietly, giving a shake of her head that had her blonde ponytail only slightly swinging. “Voight signed off on it himself.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Jay groaned through a clenched jaw, turning away from Hailey as he ran a hand through his hair. His back was to her, staring out into the parking lot, letting out a few heavy breaths as he tried to calm himself down from the anger mixed with panic running through his veins. He ran his hand down his face before turning to look at Hailey. With a shake of his head, he demanded, “Why the hell is Voight sending you?”

Hailey was silent for a moment, lips pressed together, as if she didn’t want to tell him. But Jay kept staring, green eyes clashing with blue, until she let out a breath, the air fogging in front of her, before admitting, “He says they run things differently there. By the book. Thinks it’ll be a good lesson for me.”

The frown of Jay’s face disappeared, chin lifting as understanding dawned on his features. The uneasy knot in his stomach only tightened, willing his fingers not to curl into tight fists as he looked down at the blonde woman in front of him. In a quiet voice, Jay asked, “This is because of what happened to Darius Walker, isn’t it?”

Hailey’s throat worked, instantly telling Jay that his thought was right, blinking once as she added, “And then some.”

Jay gave a disbelieving shake of his head as he broke their gazes, looking away as his jaw clenched together tightly. Darius Walker’s death was brought on by what Hailey did, talking to those gangbangers who had no problem seeking revenge for their dead brothers. He knew it and Voight knew it. Jay knew, the moment he talked to her after she’d done it, that Hailey was turning towards a road he didn’t want her going down. Ever since her CI Cameron’s death, there was a cloud hanging over Hailey that Jay had been trying to figure out how to get rid of. He certainly hadn’t helped matters when he ended up in the hospital, he knew, and Hailey was crossing lines Jay knew only Voight to cross.

And it terrified Jay, admittedly, to see Hailey like that. She was one of the best detectives he knew, a hell of a cop, and he didn’t want her to lose any of that because of some bad choices. As much as he hated to admit it, Jay saw the motive behind Voight’s decision of sending her to New York. The lines were clear there, no doubt about it, and he understood Voight wanting Hailey to take note of it, to work along with it and bring it back home.

Jay just hated that it had come to this in the first place. Hated that he could’ve helped her, been there for her, more.

“You’re pissed.”

He hadn’t said anything for a few moments, and Hailey uttering those two words reeled Jay back into reality, a sharp huff escaping him as his eyebrows lowered into a glare. “Damn right, I’m pissed. I think I have a right to be, given that my partner just told me she’s leaving.”

So many things—so many things he was pissed about. Deep in his heart, Jay knew this move would prove to be important for Hailey, understood Voight’s reasoning for it. But his chest still felt heavy, weighed down by the ghosts of the past that never seemed to entirely leave him, unable to completely ignore the sinister voice in the back of his head that taunted him with Hailey leaving for good. Away from Chicago. Away from him. He’d recovered from his past heartbreak. But looking at Hailey, at the woman who’d become his partner, his best friend, his confidant—Jay just knew if his fear came to light, this would be a heartbreak he wouldn’t recover from.

Hailey’s eyebrows knitted together, taking a step towards him, eyes never leaving his. She seemed to have read his thoughts, as always. “I’m coming back, Jay,” she reminded him pointedly, her sharp voice contradicting the softness in her blue eyes, desperate for him to believe her. It was enough to get his muscles to relax, to let some of the anger burning his blood to disintegrate. “It’s a temporary assignment, just a couple of weeks. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Despite himself, Jay scoffed, shooting her a flat look. A car drove by, its headlights illuminating Hailey’s face, and something softened in Jay’s chest at the glow of her features. Bright blue eyes glowing with reassurance, and a gentle smile successfully calming him down. With a raise of an eyebrow, he retorted, “You say that like I’m not gonna notice that you’re gone for a few weeks.”

Hailey raised her eyebrows. “You better,” she replied, her light tone cracking the tension. A ghost of a smile curled at her lips as she added, “I gotta have something to come back to.”

Jay’s throat worked at her words, though he still smiled, a warmth spreading through him as he nodded, “I appreciate you telling me, Hailey. You know, before leaving.”

“Of course,” she responded, as if not telling him hadn’t even been a thought that crossed her mind. “We’re partners, and even though I haven’t been completely straight with you, I wasn’t going to leave the state without telling you,” she continued with a gentle laugh.

A wry, almost bitter smile curled at Jay’s lips. Without thinking, he muttered, “You’d be surprised how many people would.”

What did it say about Jay that he felt more pain when people merely walked out of his life on their own accord as opposed to leaving by death, even if slightly?

He looked away as soon as the words slipped past his mouth, teeth clenching together as he focused his gaze on anything but Hailey. It wasn’t as though Jay was embarrassed by what he said—with Hailey, there was no room for that. Being openly vulnerable wasn’t exactly one of his strong suits, but his blonde partner was slowly changing that over the years for the better. And despite moments of morally gray decision making, Jay had a feeling it was mutual.

“I’m not any of those people,” Hailey spoke up, drawing Jay’s attention towards her once more. She looked at him meaningfully, a softness in her beautiful features that always stole Jay’s breath. Hailey was, without a doubt, so effortlessly stunning and if Jay wasn’t so damn good at his job, if he was someone else, he’d probably get distracted by her in the field. It didn’t mean he didn’t try to steal glances at her whenever he could, though. Jay watched as Hailey took a step towards him, gaze never leaving his as she peered up at him. “This is my home. I’m not leaving it. Or you.”

Jay’s heart leaped into his throat as he stared down at Hailey, the truth weighing down her words meaningfully, hanging between them in a silence not even the business of Molly’s could disrupt. And as Jay looked at Hailey, there was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to tell her—thoughts and feelings he’d been holding in for longer than he’d care to admit. But he was going to wait for when Hailey got back, to tell her when she was finally back home—back with him.

So he swallowed the emotions bubbling up, and instead he smiled, adoring the sight of her own small grin, before asking, “What time’s your flight?”

“9:15 A.M.,” she told him with a slight tilt of her head.

He smirked gently. “I’ll drive you. And I’ll bring coffee.”

Hailey raised her eyebrows, a teasing tilt in her voice as she asked, “You’re not gonna cry, are you?”

Jay gave a serious nod as they both began making their way back into Molly’s. “I’ll be sobbing on the inside.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder as they walked inside, a smirk dancing on her own lips as she approved, “Good.”

He wouldn’t be sobbing, of course. But as soon as Hailey would walk through the terminal gates at the airport, Jay knew he would be counting down the days until he could see her again.

#writing #upstead #hailey upton #jay halstead #cpd #chicago pd #chicago p.d.#hailey upton x jay halstead #jay halstead x hailey upton #hailey x jay #jay x hailey #jay halstead one shot #hailey upton one shot #jay halstead fanfic #hailey upton fanfic #jay halstead fic #hailey upton fic

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cicada-bones · 3 years

Text

The Warrior and the Embers

Chapter 2: Hunting

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

Rowan soared out, over the turrets and bridges, and towards that faint pulse of dark power he could still sense within the palace.

He shifted and landed lightly on the pads of his feet in a small interior courtyard with a central fountain, then turned quickly down the hall to his left and pushed open a plain stone door that sat halfway down the passage. Inside, he was greeted by a bare space that held only an immaculate bed, a cold fireplace, and a wooden desk at which sat a tall, dark, brooding figure facing away from him, studying a worn piece of paper.

“Whitethorn,” Lorcan said without turning to look at him. “What in rutting hell do you want.”

It had been nearly a year since Rowan had seen the male, and yet there was no greeting, no warmth from him. Not that Rowan expected anything else.

In earlier years, when he had first encountered Lorcan, Rowan had pitied the male. Had wondered what had happened, what had been taken from him as a child on the streets of Doranelle, for him to be this way.

Now…he no longer needed to.

Rowan and Lorcan were the same. Two sides of one coin, black granite and solid ice. Perfect killing tools. A match made in hell.

Exactly where Lorcan got his magic – straight from the fiery pits of hell. Blessed by Hellas, god of death, Lorcan’s power was that of will – of death and thought and destruction. Perhaps that was why he was so attracted to a queen who collected the wills of others as if they were her own.

When Rowan did not reply, Lorcan turned around, revealing features hewn from granite and piercing onyx eyes. “What.”

Rowan hesitated slightly, unsure how to ask the questions he harbored. Lorcan would not take well to questioning their queen. “I assume you know why I was called back from the east.”

“I didn’t even know you were in the east. But yes, I know why you were called to Doranelle. What of it.” The words were blank and empty, and Lorcan’s features barely moved from their cruel cast as they escaped his mouth.

Rowan’s voice was hardly any warmer. “Why.”

Lorcan finally seemed to actually see Rowan. “Gavriel is in the north, Vaughan off with another garrison on the other side of the world. Fenrys is already in Varese, and Connall is upstairs somewhere doing gods know what, and isn’t allowed to leave.” Lorcan’s voice was hard.

“I have been called to the fleet, heading south along the coast and then east through the southern inlets, to send aid to the Erriagti people. I’m set to leave in the next few days, but I should be back before the end of the season. I do not have time for other errands, and you are the next in line.”

Rowan pursed his lips slightly. “There’s still something different about this one. It feels almost as though Maeve is…hiding something.”

Lorcan’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “What are you insinuating.”

He sighed. “Nothing specifically. This just feels – off.”

“I assumed it was a roundabout method of punishing Fenrys. He’s been pulling at the leash even more than usual lately.”

That explanation didn’t sit well with Rowan, for some reason. “She didn’t reveal anything to you indicating why she wants the girl so badly?”

“I’m sure you remember tell of her power.”

Rowan’s silence was answer enough.

“Well then, there’s your answer.”

Rowan clenched his jaw. “She really seeks to recruit?”

“So it seems.”

“A fire gift for the Queen of the Rivers.” Rowan’s statement was wry, almost skeptical.

Lorcan narrowed his eyes again. “And why would you say that?”

“Maeve built this city of stone and water. She fears fire.” Rowan was almost surprised at his daring for voicing these thoughts aloud. “Why would she covet it so?”

Lorcan’s words were merciless. “Perhaps, all those millennia ago, if our queen had acquired Brannon, we would not watch over a kingdom but instead an empire.”

“So she seeks to conquer.”

“I do not know, Rowan. And frankly I don’t understand where this sudden desire to question our queen’s motives is coming from.”

Rowan didn’t know either.

So he moved on. “What do you know of the girl? I was in the north, fighting in that useless excuse for a war, but you were here when she came to light.”

Lorcan sighed. “She’s demi-Fae. As far as I remember she had shifting abilities – human and Fae forms. Rare, but not unheard of. We don’t know how well trained she is in her powers.”

“So they could be formidable.”

“They could be. Another reason for Maeve sending you.”

Rowan turned his head and narrowed his eyes slightly, considering. Magic had been absent from the western continent for nearly a decade, meaning that the princess wouldn’t have been able to train her powers in her homeland. But her master, Arobynn Hamel, could easily have sent her to a foreign nation to do so.

“And what about as the assassin.”

“Not much had been known about Celaena Sardothien, other than that she was a col-blooded killer. Ruthless and arrogant. Rumors were rampant, and if our queen could divine fact from fiction, she isn’t sharing.”

“But obviously proficient?” Rowan pushed.

“At least against mortals.”

“But she isn’t fully mortal.”

“No she is not. And we do not know if the assassin’s guild trained her in her Fae form.”

As Fae, the princess’ speed and strength would rival even theirs. But only if she had been trained to use it. Rowan’s blood thrilled. “This could be quite the fight.”

Lorcan’s answering smile was brutal. “I’ve never known you to shy from a challenge, Whitethorn. Don’t disappoint me now.”

Rowan’s grin was small and cold as he responded. “And what about you? What are you going to face in the southeast?”

“A royal has turned, and the people have revolted against him, burning wherever they go. Maeve sends aid to the foolish king, setting the price of winning his kingdom back for him that he must lay much of his authority at her feet.” Lorcan grimaced. “At least its more interesting than an errand run to Varese.”

“We’ll see.” Rowan goaded, even though he knew Lorcan was probably right. The princess would likely be as much a pain in his ass as Fenrys was. All royals were the same – spoiled, selfish, and entirely useless. Especially the powerful ones.

Lorcan just huffed a laugh. “Sure. We’ll see.”

“Who knows. Maybe the princess will be so completely useless that Maeve disposes of her the moment they meet at Mistward, and I’ll be able to join you in the southeast.”

Lorcan’s brow furrowed slightly. “Mistward? The western outpost?”

Rowan nodded.

“Maeve is leaving Doranelle?”

“Yes.”

Lorcan’s lips tightened as he turned his head to face the wall. Their queen did not leave her city lightly. Rowan hadn’t been wrong, something had shifted. This meeting was more than just a formality.

Lorcan turned back to face him, and they reached an understanding.

The male’s eyes were dark. “Regardless, your mission remains the same. Go, collect the princess, and leave the future to the oracles.”

Rowan just nodded, and left.

···

The dawn sun stretched its comforting hand out to brush Rowan’s feathers. He hadn’t bothered to transform back into his Fae form to sleep, choosing instead to perch on a convenient branch until morning.

The trip would normally take him three days. Now, with Fenrys waiting for him in Varese already, he’d hoped to half that. So he’d flown through the previous day, pushing his body to its limit. But he hadn’t had even a moment to rest while in Doranelle, meaning he couldn’t move as quickly as he wished. No matter how it irked him, he’d had to sleep last night.

Rowan opened his eyes quickly, jerked from sleep by the sudden warmth while his nightmares slowly faded, the familiar images leeching from behind his eyelids. He sat on the oaken bough, waiting for the screams to dissipate. Lyria.

Rowan sighed into Mala’s embrace. The sun goddess had always favored him, and now she seemed to smile lightly upon his skin, a promise of some kind. Tomorrow, he would reach Varese, and begin the hunt.

Rowan let out a screech of anticipation. He could be walking into the fight of his life, and his blood thrilled to the challenge.

Aelin Galathynius very well could be a considerable threat, one trained in both Fae combat and fire magic. Whose power at nine years of age had people across the world worried about their borders and their futures.

Even in Doranelle they had feared that the princess would one day take her magic beyond Terrasen's borders and across the sea to the city of water and stone. Where she might be powerful enough to pose a threat. But then the world had twisted, and Terrasen fell, like so many other kingdoms in the west this past decade, and Terrasen’s heir was no more. Or so he had thought.

Now the princess was nearing her second decade. She was still young, but a child no more. And her power will only have grown with the passing years. Then, somehow she had come into the service of Adarlan’s King, the man who had overthrown her country, who had murdered her family. And she was in Wendlyn to kill for him.

The princess of Terrasen had abandoned her nation and become a killer. Had become Adarlan’s assassin, Celaena Sardothien.

Even on the other side of the world, rumors of that girl had reached him. She would disappear for a time, and then violently resurface, carnage and destruction in her wake. Rowan had never paid much attention to the stories, rejecting them as fanciful tales. But now he wished he’d paid them more heed.

The girl was obviously proficient in combat. Just the fact that he had heard of her, had noted her existence, attested to that. Even if her strength as a mortal couldn’t hold a candle to any well-trained Fae. But would he be facing her as a mortal?

As it always did before a test, his blood spiked with adrenaline. But this time, the eagerness was tinged with something else. A thought he couldn’t contain. Particularly as the date, the dreaded anniversary, loomed over him like a guillotine blade.

Perhaps today he would see her again.

Rowan violently battered at the hope that yawned its tiny head with the unwelcome thought, a futile attempt to strike away the agony that followed surely after. Lyria.

He shook himself, shuttering the pain away behind walls of ice, and took off into the light of the rising sun.

As Rowan flew, he calculated.

His quarry was a princess of Terrasen, descendant of Brannon and gifted with his fire magic. Once Rowan was in close proximity to her, he would probably be able to sense her power just as he did with any magic wielder. But from a distance, he wasn’t familiar enough with her to sense a gods-damned thing.

Her scent could possibly mark her as Terrasen royalty, but she had spent so many years as another person, in foreign nation, that he couldn’t rely on it alone to track her down. Her scent might not have any traces of Terrasen left.

She would most likely have an Adarlanian accent, or perhaps a Terrasen one. But then again, she had been trained as a spy and assassin, she could be adept at disguising her accent, as well as her distinctive appearance.

But the spy’s information had been predicated upon the princess’s golden hair and turquoise-and-gold eyes; meaning Rowan could be assured that at least within the last week the princess had retained those features.

He couldn’t easily ask around after her either. With the name Aelin Galathynius, or Celaena Sardothien for that matter, she wouldn’t provide any names that would be recognizable at bars or inns. He had to rely on description alone.

There was also the chance that she had found sanctuary with her relatives, the Ashryvers, and he would have to spirit her away under the noses of royal guards.

This was proving to be even more of a challenge than he had originally supposed. From a distance, he would be forced to use that which she could not easily change about herself. Namely, her eyes, her age, and the feeling of her power.

···

The day waxed into night, the miles dissolving beneath his wings. Then the sun rose once more, bringing with it the promise of contest.

Where to look for a princess in the city of Varese? Rowan mused.

The city’s sprawl came into view beneath the clouds, a hilly expanse of red terracotta tiles and white stucco walls. The sun had fully risen now, and was baking the city streets and its many colors into a white-bright haze. In the evenings, the streets would glow golden, falling into lovely streaks of yellow and orange. But during the day, the capital scorched and blistered under Mala’s heavy gaze.

The vegetation that survived the sun’s glare was hardy and tough, but still a dark and vibrant green, contrasting well with warm tones of the capital. Outside the city walls, the evergreens gathered into a thick forest that spread towards the distant mountains and the city of rivers hidden among them.

The buildings were all piled on top of each other, climbing onto each other’s shoulders and resting on each other’s backs, a pile of limbs. It was haphazard and chaotic, a mess of noise and color and scent.

A perfect hiding place.

He swooped down low, heading past the centrally located palace and towards the northwest section of the city, making sure to avoid the gazes of keen-eyed castle guards. Varese was a city of magic, housing a substantial Fae population in addition to the many Fae nomads that regularly came through the city. The palace guards would know how to recognize a Fae in animal form, and he had no desire to be spotted and stopped.

The northwestern part of Varese was the oldest part of the city, and underneath all of the carelessly stacked additions you can still find the original ancient courtyard that the capital city was built around. It now housed a small market that teemed with magical trinkets, potions, fortune tellers, spells and tools, as well as gifted street performers and defected mercenaries that now traded their powers for a few coins.

This district held the highest concentration of Fae, and unsurprisingly, it was the area of the city Rowan was most familiar with.

He remained in hawk form, soaring high above the market stalls and avoiding any watchful eyes. In his Fae body, his presence would be noted wherever he went. He was too powerful, too recognizable, and far too memorable.

Rowan swooped down a familiar alley and towards a secluded doorway. Without hesitation, he soared through the open curtain and transformed, moving to sit on a plain wooden chair. The space was painfully small and almost entirely bare, the consequence of so much time traveling.

The apartment was one of many spread throughout Wendlyn, all inconspicuous, tiny, and sparse. Kept by Maeve’s blood-sworn warriors as outposts, ready to be used whenever needed.

Rowan could feel a familiar presence in the only room adjoining the main space.

Good, he was here.

Rowan let out a grunt of annoyance. There was no way that his presence hadn’t already been sensed. He was being ignored. But before he could break down the door and pull the male out by his teeth, it opened and Fenrys lurched out, a wild look in his eye and a short dagger in his hands.

Rowan snorted, his eyebrows raising. Or maybe not.

“Pleasant sleep?” Rowan asked, his voice laced with derision.

Fenrys only grunted, and sat in the only other available chair. The male was disheveled; there were heavy bags under his dark eyes, his golden curls were matted, and his bronze skin was ashen. Rowan had obviously just woken him after a late night.

Rowan’s jaw tightened. At least the male was where he was supposed to be – even if he hadn’t actually achieved anything other than debauchery in the days since his arrival.

But Fenrys just frowned back at his icy glare. “Took you long enough.” His words were muddled with sleep and leftover drink.

Rowan’s eyes narrowed still further. Barely anyone in the world would dare to speak to him like that. Unluckily for Rowan, Fenrys was one of those very few. “Have you done anything other than drink yourself to death since you got here?”

“No. And I promise, I did it just to annoy you.”

Rowan blinked, while his muscles tensed.

“Now now Rowan don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m not that stupid.” Fenrys’ grin was wicked, his eyes bright enough to set the apartment on fire.

Rowan just sighed, leashing his anger and dredging up that well of patience hidden beneath it. It wasn’t particularly deep. This time of year, early spring, was always the hardest for Rowan. He wished he could just leave, could fly into the waiting winds and rage at the waning sun. Instead he was trapped here with this male and his infuriating mouth.

Fenrys spoke up. “I’ve been here nearly a week now. I wasn’t expecting you so soon – you must have hauled ass from Doranelle.”

Rowan just grunted.

“I’ve spent the past three days and nights almost entirely in the palace. Galan Ashryver, the crown prince, is honorable – he will be a benevolent ruler. He spends most of his days in council, or with his army. Adarlanian forces venture closer every day – threatening outright war. And he’s become a blockade runner.”

Fenrys grinned at that, his eyes warm with respect for the young prince. Rowan nodded, waiting for him to continue.

“The people love him for it. Maeve will probably have a hard time with him in the coming years – he’s intractable. Stubborn. And righteous to a fault. The king however is different story – you’re familiar with him, I’m sure.”

Rowan grimaced.

Fenrys cursed. “Bastard. Can’t shine his shoes without checking in with at least three advisors, and even then, he’d probably still avoid going through with it. Her majesty has wrapped him utterly around her finger. There is no way that he is knowingly hiding Aelin Galathynius under Maeve’s nose, absolutely none. And with the princess’s eyes and age…she’d probably be discovered within days if she tried to infiltrate the court.”

Rowan agreed with the assessment. “But?”

“But there’s a chance that Galan Ashryver is hiding her. A small one, but still a chance.”

Rowan nodded again.

“His patterns are very regular – and much of the time he is in company. He only rarely has time alone, and even more rarely is he out of the palace grounds. Their security is fairly tight – enough so that even Adarlan’s Assassin couldn’t easily slip through.”

“The princess was ordered to assassinate the Ashryvers – ”

“Yes,” Fenrys interrupted, causing Rowan’s frown to deepen, “and that is why my focus these past few days has been on the palace, and not on tracking the girl down.”

“And?” Rowan spoke through his teeth.

“Nothing.”

“No threats, no attacks, no one scouting them out?”

“Absolutely nothing. I’ve mentioned the possibility of a threat to his guards, and they are planning on upping his security. Not that the assassin is likely to get a shot at him before we track her down.”

“Not that that is going to prove an easy task.”

Fenrys’ eyes glinted. “You doubt our ability to overpower a teenage princess?”

Rowan scowled. “I am cautious when that teenage princess has a power great enough to attract the attention of our queen, and of nations across the world.”

“Oh Rowan, what a worrier you are turning into in your old age.”

Rowan’s anger pulled on its leash. He sighed. “That wasn’t what I meant anyways. The girl has every reason to stay out of sight, and as an assassin, she must have been trained to disguise her appearance. She could prove very difficult to track down.”

Fenrys frowned, and nodded.

Rowan shifted in his seat. “What did Maeve tell you before you left?”

Fenrys cocked his head, his eyes dancing once again. “What? Are you thinking I may have received more information than you, oh-great-immortal-warrior?

“Just tell me.”

The male relented. “Only the princess’ description, her purpose in Varese, and her identity as both Celaena and Aelin.” Fenrys’ eyes darkened slightly. “Maeve also said that she was sending for you, and you were to collect the girl and ferry her back. I was ordered to stay away from her, which I’m sure was intended as a punishment. Instead I have to stay in Varese to ensure that the Ashryver prince doesn’t get any ideas about attacking Adarlan before Maeve decides it’s necessary.”

“From what you said, that might also prove a challenge.”

Fenrys nodded. “You know how these royals are – still upset about Maeve ignoring Terrasen’s call for aid all those years ago. Slow to trust. Just got back from a long night of ingratiating.”

“If that’s what you call it.” He eyed the undergarments strewn through the apartment.

Fenrys grinned wickedly. “Nothing wrong with enjoying a few nights of freedom.”

Rowan’s lips tightened slightly. No matter how infuriating the male was, Rowan still sympathized with Fenrys. He bore the brunt of Maeve’s attentions, shielding his twin from her. Fenrys was still young by Fae standards, but the twin wolves had still served Maeve for nearly a century. And all that time, Fenrys protected his brother from Maeve.

Fenrys hadn’t sworn to Maeve out of devotion, or desire for power, or even out of desperation as Rowan had. He had sworn out of his love for his brother, and his need to protect him.

Maybe as a result of that, out of all of them Fenrys chafed the most under Maeve’s rule. He never betrayed her, never undermined her, but he was the only one of Maeve's blood-sworn who perhaps truly regretted taking the blood oath.

But it didn’t matter – now that it was done, he would serve for the rest of his life or die in dishonor. There were no other options.

Rowan shook himself from those pointless thoughts. “How long will you be here?”

“Her majesty bade me stay till the end of the month.”

“Good.” Rowan paused. “Well you'd better not have any other plans for your day – we’re going hunting.”

Rowan waited for a rebuttal, but none came. Fenrys was just nodding his agreement, a wicked light gleaming in his eyes. “Getting worn-out, old man? Need some assistance on your little chase?”

Rowan growled as the words cut through him. He pushed the fury away through sheer force of will, snarling, “You know why I asked.”

Fenrys grinned wide. “What, the ancient, all-powerful warrior needs my help interrogating barmaids?”

“You’re less conspicuous than I am.”

“Friendlier, you mean.”

“A bigger pain in the ass.”

“Better at flirting with the barmaids though.” Fenrys laughed outright, ducking to avoid Rowan’s swipe at his left cheekbone. “Don’t worry Rowan, I’ll ask around for your missing princess.”

Rowan closed his eyes briefly, strangling the fury that threatened to break through his icy walls.

“Aww I’ve got you all hot and bothered now – care for cool drink little birdie?”

Rowan’s nostrils flared warningly. If he could manage to avoid slaughtering Fenrys, this male would put him in the ground one day.

Fenrys just laughed again, letting go for the time being. “I’ll start by checking the tabernas in the old parts of the city, see if anyone’s spotted someone that fits her description. Maybe she’s more comfortable around other Fae. Then I’ll check the slums. Easiest place to hide in a city of this size.”

Rowan nodded.

“You?”

“I’ll scout from above.”

“I knew you’d be useful someday.”

···

The day passed slowly, dully.

The rhythms of the capital had not changed since Rowan had last visited, and were unlikely to change for centuries to come. It was peaceful, and the city guards were calm, collected, and reliable. There were no threats to be uncovered, no spies lining the rooftops or assassins in the shadows. Nor was there any scent, any hint, of wildfire.

The fight he had anticipated, had almost longed for, did not materialize.

Still, Rowan catalogued every unusual figure that passed below, marking every person that could conceivably fit the princess’s description, and many others besides. Even so, there were not many.

When dark fell and the streets began to empty, Rowan returned to the apartment to meet with Fenrys.

He stewed in silence, forced to wait for the male to reappear. The walls of the apartment were close, confining. He was claustrophobic in the tiny space. Even so, the anxiety was less to do with the apartment and more to do with the thoughts trapped inside his head. He couldn’t get away from them, had no escape. The date loomed over him, a clock running out in his head, an anvil waiting to drop.

Even after all these centuries, his grief was still the weight of the world on his back.

The burden of his anguish and his guilt, his endless shame, had not lessened by one single drop. He could still feel the rough wood of the shovel between his fingers, still taste the copper of her blood on his lips. Could still sense the heat of the mountain home burning before his eyes.

And the images rent him through just as thoroughly as they had that first day.

He longed to move, to escape, to allow the wind and moonlight to coat his body in ice until he no longer had to breathe – no longer had to think. Until his very bones were made of ice. But he couldn’t, so he sat and waited. Not for his brother to walk through the door, bearing news of the princess they sought, but for the foe who would finally best him, and send him back to his love.

It was late into the night when Fenrys finally reappeared.

The moon was full, and a soft white light illuminated the space through the open window. Pale blue curtains ruffled as the front door clicked open and shut.

Fenrys moved through the room efficiently, grabbing a dirty bottle of some amber liquid and collapsing into the chair opposite Rowan. He took a long draught, then handed the bottle over to Rowan, who drank without hesitation.

“So I asked around.”

“Hmm.”

“And I’m not sure how reliable the information I managed to get is.”

Rowan grunted.

“It’s not that people were unwilling to talk – its more that the description we have to give is so sketchy. In Varese, Ashryver eyes are common enough, even when paired with golden hair and aristocratic features.”

“Bastards.”

“Yep. It seems that over the years the Ashryvers have managed to spread their line pretty far throughout the city.”

“So, nothing.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Rowan waited.

“I managed to find a few possibilities. All new to the city, all young women, traveling alone, matching the description. One is staying in a wayhouse in a southern section of the city, arrived three nights ago. I visited her earlier this evening.”

“And?”

“Beautiful. Great taste in furniture. But unless your princess is planning on marrying a merchant’s son and eloping to Fenharrow anytime soon, she’s not your girl.”

Rowan raised his eyebrows.

“I take it no dice.”

“Just keep talking.”

“Another was just passing through, heading for a ship to the southern continent. I managed to catch her before she left. Not her. Great flirt though.”

Rowan frowned at the cocky male.

“There were a few others, all shaky matches, not really worth checking up on unless we get desperate. And the last one was a bit of a mystery. Apparently, there’s been a young woman showing up each night in tabernas around the western edge of the city to gamble. Always keeps her face covered.”

“Hmm.”

“Yeah. I ended up talking to a few guards and barkeeps, and last night a city guard finally got a good look. She’s young – at the latest in her mid-twenties, with light hair and the right eyes. Stood out to him – she’s quite pretty apparently, but the man didn’t want to pursue any of his bosses’ cousins.”

Rowan frowned.

“She’s a shit gambler though, plays dice all night and ends up robbing back what she loses. Started a few big fights the past couple nights. The guards are looking for her, but she doesn’t seem to have an address in the city, and she isn’t renting a room anywhere. She’s a ghost.”

Rowan’s lips twitched.

"Doesn’t sound much like royalty – but since she’s successfully hidden from Adarlan’s soldiers on her own all these years, I wouldn’t put anything past her.”

“Any leads?”

“Nope. Whoever she is, she’s good at hiding her tracks. But I can give you the names and locations of the bars she’s been spotted at the past few nights.”

Rowan nodded as Fenrys relayed the information, then asked, “Would you purchase a couple of horses for me in the market tomorrow? Whether or not this girl is the princess, once I do find her I don’t want to let her out of my sight. I’m going to need a way out of the city, and I would prefer it not to be on my feet.”

Fenrys frowned, but agreed, and Rowan nodded his thanks.

Then the male’s eyes seemed to shift, and he hesitated for a moment, considering something. His lips pursed, brow furrowed. Worried. Rowan found himself automatically tensing in response.

Fenrys shook his head as he said, “Why this girl Rowan? I was in Doranelle, with nothing to do. The girl is powerful, yes, but she is young. And mortal. Any of us could probably take her. But Maeve still took you from another assignment and asked you to collect her.”

Rowan turned to look out the window.

“And now she’s going to leave Doranelle to meet with her. Leave Doranelle. I don’t think she’s done that this century. Why?”

“I don’t know.” Rowan’s voice was hard.

Fenrys frowned and nodded, parsing his real meaning from the non-answer.

Something had shifted.

Change was on the horizon. Aelin Galathynius had reappeared, the lost princess found. And their queen was intent on acquiring her. War was stirring in the west, coming ever closer to their shores. Adarlan was poised to attack, had even schemed to murder royalty, a risky and underhanded ploy. The chess pieces were moving.

The two males said a quiet farewell, Fenrys still lost in thought.

Rowan took off into the darkness, the wind tearing at his feathers.

···

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PREVIEW: All I Ask - Chapter 2

NEW CHAPTER: JUNE 20, 2020

There’s a crackle as Steve’s body collides with the ground, but whether it’s from the gravel he’s landed on or his bones cracking from the force, he’s uncertain. Between the pain radiating from the gash on his leg and the deafening ring in his ears, he’s unable to focus on anything other than how heavy his body feels. The desire to stay down and succumb to the darkness that’s lurking in his periphery washes over him suddenly, becoming far too tempting as he struggles for breath, and as his eyes begin to fall shut, it’s almost irresistible.

But staying down isn’t an option. He knows it’s not, even when it feels like he has nothing left to give. It takes a Herculean effort, so much so that he can’t stop the wince from breaking out across his face, but he wills himself to roll ungracefully to his side.

“In all my years of conquest… violence… slaughter,” he hears Thanos say from yards away. “It was never personal.” The Titan takes a pause, and when Steve looks up, the smile on the monster’s face is nearly audible as he continues, “But I’ll tell you now… what I’m about to do to your stubborn, annoying little planet… I’m gonna enjoy it very, very much.”

The ground rumbles with the force of thousands of footsteps approaching, of ships landing, and weapons being drawn. His gaze sweeps across Thanos’ army filling the other side of the terrain, and he swallows hard at the sight. On his flanks, Tony and Thor are still out cold, and he can’t bring himself to think about what else has happened to everyone else. Whoever else they’ve lost.

He lets out a groan, loud and guttural, as he forces himself to his feet. He huffs out a breath, gritting his teeth as he fastens the strap on what’s left of his shield and begins to limp towards the fight. He’s all alone, all that’s left. One man with nothing more than half his weapon and his will to fight.

And it’s going to have to be enough.

“Steve,” he hears a voice whisper, soft and saccharine. “Can you hear me?”

He pauses, letting out a tired chuckle. The metallic taste of blood in his mouth must only be the tip of the iceberg as far as his injuries go. His mind must have gone long before, because there it goes, the one voice he wants to hear, drowning out the ruckus of the battalion before him. Perhaps this is a kindness - a gift from the world he had given his life to save once before, and, as it stands, again in this moment. If its demise is here, then so be it. But at least let this voice be the last sound he hears before he perishes along with it.

“Steve, it’s me. Can you hear me?”

A smile grazes his lips. You’re all I hear.

“Turn around, Steve.”

A spark cuts through the gloom of the battlefield when he looks back, growing bigger and glowing brighter by the second as he stares in astonishment. A figure emerges from the light, slowly and torturously so, and vaguely, he’s aware that the portals have multiplied, lighting up the field as if the sun has shone over them. But as he focuses on the shadow coming towards him, his heart stammers in his chest. Neither pain nor delirium could keep him from recognizing the poise and confidence in its gait. And as it moves forward, revealing itself, he’s filled with something he thought he’d never feel again – relief.

In the midst of the ruins of what was once their home, Natasha’s onyx suit gleams, and the light of her batons is as fiery as the one illuminating her emerald eyes. She turns to him, her smile as sweet and mesmerizing as the one she had sent his way before this nightmare had begun. “Hey, soldier.”

Steve bolts up in bed, his chest heaving as cold sweat drips down his temple. He feels around him, and when his hands land on nothing but the softness of the sheets, he inhales deeply in an attempt to get his breathing in order. It was just a dream. He repeats the words in his head, mouthing them silently. It was just a dream.

When his breathing slows, he takes in his surroundings. Even in the dark, he makes out the fading yellow of the walls, and the pictures in the frames littering the shelves before him with the faces of three young children remind him that he isn’t on the battlefield, but in the guest bedroom of Clint’s home. With a sigh, he rises to look out the window. The light of dawn lingers low in the Missouri sky, painting the landscape of the Barton family farm in tones of rich purples and oranges. But in spite of the impending sign of a new day, he feels his hands clench into fists at his sides, and before he can let his emotions get the better of him, he finds himself dressing and swiftly making his way out the back door.

The barn is empty, and he searches frantically for something – anything – to do, as if what’s left of his sanity might just slip if he keeps still, and he doesn’t even think twice when he sees the axe on the workstation. He picks it up, heading towards the pile of firewood on the side of the room, and as he strikes the blade against the wood, he can no longer keep his thoughts from running amuck. Now more than ever, he feels like there is a heartless irony to his existence. When they’ve come as close as they have to not witnessing another day, the opportunity to live a new one shouldn’t bother him and make his heart feel like a weight in his chest, but they do. And it’s without a scintilla of a doubt that he knows that it’s all to do with the costly price they’ve had to pay to forge this reality.

The end was supposed to justify their means. And in many ways, it does. Families are reunited. The Earth remains in orbit. Half of the galaxy’s life has been restored. But even so, their losses haven’t felt minimized to any degree. The world could sympathize with the fact that Tony would never see Morgan grow up or that Natasha would never get to live the life she fought arduously to deserve, but they won’t hear Pepper’s sobs at night. They won’t hear the anguish in Clint’s voice when he reminisces with Nathaniel about his namesake. And they most definitely won’t hear his screams when he dreams of the life he and Natasha could have had, only to have it ripped away time and again by morning.

The last thought causes him to grip the axe more tightly. It’s been days since their time heist and since they’d defeated Thanos and his army for good, and though sleep has been difficult to find, on the off chance that he did, he’s been haunted by this recurring dream and the subsequent affliction of waking up to find that it was indeed just that. The sacrifice hadn’t been undone. Natasha hadn’t come back to them, to him. And in a world where stealing time has become a possibility, it’s a cruel, twisted joke that just having another minute with her, is not.

Tell me after. When we get our family and friends back. When we’ve restored half the universe. When we’ve won.

Her words from that night echo in his mind, her voice as sweet as it is in his dreams. But it only fortifies the bitterness coursing through his veins, intensifying the effort he exerts as he brings the axe to the wood over and over again. They were foolish to think they could leave the words they wanted to tell each other for a better time – as if they knew for certain that they had more than what they had at that very moment. And now here he was, back in his own fresh hell, alive if only to relive the vicious cycle of losing the person he loves. Though this time, he’d lost much more than the promise of one dance.

A pained groan slips from his lips as his restraint crumbles, and he sends the axe flying towards the wall, the blade embedding into the wooden panel. He brings a hand up to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fuck.”

“Might just be me,” he hears someone say, “but that’s looking a little too fine for the fireplace now.”

He looks down at his feet, and he has to blink away the tears he hadn’t realized had filled his eyes to see that he had turned the log into mulch. With the back of his hand, he wipes his tears away before turning to find Clint lingering by the work bench, his sweat-drenched shirt a reassurance that he’s not the only one that sleep has alluded. He sighs. “You can’t sleep,” he says, watching as Clint stares at him for a second, unsure if he should be surprised or impressed that his words had come out as a statement of fact instead of a trite question, but he only shrugs. Preamble meant little to him now.

“Every time I close my eyes…” Clint says, “I see her falling.”

He looks back down at the ground. He knows better than anyone what that’s like, to have a horror movie play in your head repeatedly without the power to shut it off. The image of Bucky falling from the train haunted him for years, and some nights, even when he knew his best friend had survived, it still did. But he doesn’t dare offer Clint any advice - damn if he knew how to make it stop.

“I think I’d be better off with nightmares,” he says, his voice steady even when his gut feels anything but. “Because at least they wouldn't be a lie. But all I keep getting are dreams that she’s not really gone.” He does not even look up to see Clint’s reaction as he adds, “I can deal with the pain of reality. I think it’s all I’ve ever really known since I came out of the ice. But this… hope? This feeling like there’s got to be some way to bring her back and I’m just missing it?” He shakes his head. “It’s a demon I don’t know how to slay.”

“It can’t be undone,” Clint says softly. “You know it can’t, Steve.”

“Do I?” he says heatedly. “God, what do I know? What do any of us really know? Every goddamn thing we thought was impossible turned out to be possible!” He steps forward. “So, tell me, Clint, after everything we’ve been through, everything that’s happened, what do we really know anymore?”

“I know she’s not here,” Clint says, throwing his hands up in frustration. “My best friend isn't here!” He scoffs. “She didn't choose to become what they made her, didn't get a say in any of it… But she atoned for those sins all the same.” His voice falls to a tormented whisper. “She deserved this win more than anyone I know."

His expression softens at the agony that pains Clint's face. "She fought to own her choices,” he says. “You couldn't have stopped her. Even I know that."

"Yeah, she fought for it,” Clint says, his chuckle devoid of any humor as he looks back at him. “You're right, maybe we don't know a fucking thing anymore, but what I do know is that she is not here."

“It had to be her.”

His head whips in the direction of the barn’s door, as does Clint’s, and they both share a look when they find Stephen Strange leaning against the frame.

“But I have reason to believe there is more to her sacrifice than previously thought,” Strange says.

Click here to read Chapter 1 on AO3.

#romanogers #all i ask #steve rogers #natasha romanoff #natrogerfics #endgame fix it

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katehuntington · 4 years

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Title: Changes - part four Word count: ±5600 words Summary “Changes”: Huntress Zoë Sullivan (OFC) crosses paths and swords with the Winchesters, when the brothers stumble on a case she’s already working. When complications arise, they are forced to work as a team. Summary part four: With reluctance Zoë decides to patch up Dean, but when the older Winchester tries to find out why she became a hunter, tension rises. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures. Demon possession, supernatural creatures/entities. Smut, swearing, alcohol use/addiction. Kidnapping, mentions of torture and murder, illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Music: Heartbreaker - Led Zeppelin Author’s note: I couldn’t be more excited to share Supernatural: The Sullivan Series with you. There are quite a few people I want to thank: @coffee-obsessed-writer, @soupornatural & @mrswhozeewhatsis, who edited the early drafts, and my girls @girl-with-a-fandom-fettish & @winchest09 who are deciphering the recent version. Everyone who encouraged me to go for it, you are awesome!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist 01x01 “Changes” Masterlist

The thunderstorm has passed on, a low, grumpy rumble sounding from twenty miles away, as the midnight rider pulls over at Motel 6. Red and orange colors of dawn paint the horizon in the east; the sun will rise within an hour or so. As Zoë puts her bike on the centerstand, Sam parks the black Chevrolet next to the Harley. Swiftly, he gets out of the car and walks around to help his brother, but Dean already managed to get out, muttering that he can do it himself.

The Winchesters approach to the entrance with Zoë on their tail, who keeps a sharp eye, more a habit than a necessity, trained to always be aware of her surroundings. But when she glances at Dean - who keeps a tight grip on his shoulder as he stumbles towards the door - she sighs, annoyed. It’s a guy thing, isn’t it? Feeling so sorry for themselves about ending up with a scratch or a bruise. And they truly believe they are the superior gender? She would like to see either one of those whiners live through childbirth. Without warning, Zoë walks up to Dean and smacks him against the back of his head. “Ah! You b--” “Don’t you dare call me that, or it will be your face my hand hits next,” she warns. “What’s your fucking problem?!” he snaps. “You’re acting like you're already seeing the white light. Stand up straight, let go of your shoulder and stay behind your brother,” she barks at him, while passing the two men on their way to the foyer. “Just don’t make a scene, okay?” “Do you have any idea how much this hurts? You put a bullet in my arm!” the older Winchester exclaims. “Be glad I didn’t put it in your heart, darling.”

Narrowed eyes flashing with sarcasm land on him, before Zoë grips the door handle. She’s about to push it open when Dean challenges her again. “You can give me all the attitude you’ve got, sweetheart, but you do realize you’re a fucking amateur for shootin’ another hunter, right?” he chuckles mockingly. With an eye roll, Zoë turns on her heels, fiercely glaring at the older Winchester brother, while biting the inside of her lip. This guy is seriously starting to piss her off. Does he really believe he can outsass her? That’s adorable, actually. “Let me tell you something, Winchester. Firstly, it’s called a warning shot, since you’re not dead. Secondly, I believe I was the one you didn’t see coming inside that house, I was the one who shot you and not the other way around. So tell me; who’s the amateur here?” She arches her eyebrows at him victoriously, then turns back to the door, whipping her hair round as she twists. The door falls shut behind the huntress before Dean can even think of a good counter. Sam huffs, shocked and yet impressed with her accomplishment. Who would’ve thought it was possible? She just shut up his brother. With his lips pressed together in a thin line, trying hard not to laugh, the younger Winchester follows Zoë, but Dean notices his suppressed smirk anyway and gives him a push in the back as they enter the lobby.

The door closes just as the thunder roars louder than it has all night. Dean, although reluctantly, does as told and stays in Sam’s large shadow, so the man behind the counter doesn’t notice his injury. The old man looks up from his magazine. He hasn’t done much, because the paper wrappers and the soda bottle still lay scattered across the desk. He did have coffee, though, probably to get through the quiet night. “At least I’m not just sitting here to become part of the furniture, thanks to you, Mrs. Johnson,” he comments, as it’s the third time in a few short hours she’s entered the lobby. “It won’t happen again tonight,” she promises, taking the room key after he hands it to her. “That’s easy for you to say, considering it’s morning,” he responds, unimpressed.

The man is not wrong. The clock on the wall is about to strike seven AM and she hasn’t had a minute of sleep in the past thirty six hours. While yawning, she continues her way to her room, leaving behind the Winchester brothers. Sam clears his throat loudly and Zoë looks over her shoulder, only then realizing she’s forgetting something. “Oh, right. These are colleagues of mine, they need a room,” she adds. “Sorry, no can do.” The manager flips the page, not even bothering to look up. Sam and Dean await an explanation with confused looks upon their faces. “Why not?” Sam asks. “Lots of folks coming for that Texas Hold’em Poker Tournament this weekend; I’m fully booked,” the old man explains. “Great…” Dean sighs, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. Sam pleadingly glances at Zoë, but she doesn’t blink. “I guess we have to find ourselves another motel then,” he concludes and intends to turn around. “Good luck with that, but you won’t find a bed at this hour. I think your best option is to take a few hours sleep in your car,” the manager advises, without looking up from his magazine. “Well, you heard the man; good luck with that.” Zoë walks on, not feeling even a bit responsible for the two men. Dean follows her to have a word, as Sam tries to talk to the manager. “Sir, isn’t there some sort of arrangement we can make here? Me and my brother, we’ve been on the road for quite some time and we haven’t slept on a decent bed in days,” Sam explains politely. Puppy dog eyes and a friendly smile; Sam’s secret weapon to get what he wants. His words are calm and friendly, but this time they are not enough to do the job. The hundred dollar bill the hunter slips the manager is, though. The man stands up and leans on the counter, biting on the plastic spoon from his empty coffee container, thinking through some kind of option.

“I don’t have any rooms left, but I tell you what,” he says as he turns over to Zoë and Dean, who are arguing down the hallway. “Room 82 has a double bed and a couch. If Mrs. Johnson doesn’t mind, I will allow you two to spend the night,” he suggests, while looking between the boys and the owner of the room. “What? Like... share?” she returns, her nose crinkling with disgust. “That’s what social people do,” Dean whispers, so only she can hear him. Ignoring his snarl, she looks over at Sam. There they are again, hazel eyes begging her. Her gaze trails back to Dean who hints at his shoulder. The blood is coming through his denim jacket and has started to drip down his arm; he needs treatment. No matter how much she detests sharing a room with the Winchesters, Zoë can’t let him sleep in the car. That would be a little too cruel, even for her. Although she doesn’t like Dean’s attitude, she was the one who did this to him. And so she sighs and nods, approving.

“Alright then, that’s settled. Now, I don’t want any trouble, this is off the books, so if anything happens…” the manager warns. “We understand. Thank you very much.” Sam gives him a grateful smile before he joins his brother and the huntress. The three of them walk through the hallway together, but as soon as they turn the corner, Zoë smacks Sam against the shoulder. She would have rather aimed for his head like she did with Dean a minute ago, but she doesn't, simply because he's too tall for her to reach. Sam puts his arm up in defense. “Hey!” “Why do you think I let you walk in the middle?” Dean comments. “What were you thinking!” she hisses with a lowered voice. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll sleep on the couch,” Sam offers when they halt by room 82. Zoë huffs, unlocking the door. “And let him sleep next to me? Not in a million years.”

She enters the room and switches on the lights, but before she can turn around, Dean claims the bed. With a sigh of relief, he settles against the backboard and props his feet up on the sheets, not bothering to take his boots off first. “Get off,” Zoë barks, the moment she catches sight of his actions. “I’m actually quite comfortable,” he nags, pressing the drenched, bundled scarf on the injury in an attempt to slow the bleeding. “You are fucking up my research,” Zoë persists. “I’m tired, hungry, and my shoulder hurts like hell, thanks to you. So if you have a problem with me crashing on the bed, you can bite me.” As Dean rants, the huntress raises her brow and cocks her head back. What did he just say to me? “Excuse me? Whose room do you think this is again, you ungrateful little shit!? Because I could’ve sworn that--” “My God, woman! Can you tone it down and cut me some slack here?” he interrupts agitated, hinting at the shot wound. “You’re giving me a headache on top of all this.” “Do I look like I care?” she snaps, turning back at Sam. “You two are either sleeping on the couch or on the ground. Figure out who sleeps where.”

She drops her helmet down on the table and takes off her worn biker jacket, which she hangs to dry on the back of the chair. Dean’s eyes follow her as she crosses the room, but then land on the metal briefcase, swallowing apprehensively when he beholds what’s inside. Right, getting shot was the easy part. Meanwhile, Sam takes a look at the Macbook Pro on the bed, kneeling down in front of it to observe the piece of technology. “This is cool,” he comments, letting his finger glide over the touchpad, enlarging the icons at the bottom of the screen. Zoë, who has started cleaning her surgical equipment, warns him. “Hands off. I just got it.” Cautiously, Sam backs away from the laptop. He’s not surprised by her hostile response, though. He barely lets Dean touch his own computer, let alone allow a stranger to work it, so he understands where she’s coming from. “You know, it just occurred to me -” Sam sits down on the side of the bed facing her, clears his throat and puts his hands together, leaning forward, “- I don’t think you ever answered my question.” Zoë doesn’t even look up, apparently not intrigued. “What question is that?” “How did you two meet?” Sam asks, curiously. Before she even says a word, Zoë looks up at Dean. Clearly, she doesn’t feel like answering herself. Dean keeps a hold of her gaze, his brow slightly furrowed. She nods, approving; he can tell Sam what happened. “Zoe was a case, about four years ago. Right after you left for Stanford,” Dean starts off. “A case?” Sam repeats, stunned. “She was possessed by a Diligo Vesco demon. Nasty son of a bitch, believe me,” Dean elaborates. “I read some lore on those. Don’t they feed on the loved ones of their host?” Sam recalls. “Sure do,” Zoë answers shortly, obviously not happy about the fact she’s the subject of this conversation. “We hung out a bit while Dad was working the job. He took care of it,” Dean tells.

Abruptly, Zoë gets up from where she was seated, gritting her teeth. Tension a little more evident in her walk, as she moves over to the kitchenette. After activating the electric kettle, she opens two cabinets. “Fuck.” Dean, who just wants this day to be over, sighs annoyed. “Now what?” “I’m out of whiskey,” she declares, closing the cabinet doors. “Well, I don’t know ‘bout you, but a beer will do just fine,” he comments. “Not to drink, brainless,” she responds, placing her hands on her small waist as she shifts her weight on one leg. “To fix you up.” “Right.” He clears his throat, but then suddenly realizes what she’s saying. “Wait, you’re gonna fix me up?” She can read the doubt in his facial expression, even though he tries to hide it. Before she can answer his question, Sam intervenes. “I can patch him up if you wanna get some sleep,” he offers. “Can you stitch up an axillary vein? Because I blasted his into oblivion,” she responds with an attitude. “No. Can you?” Sam counters. “She can, annoyingly enough,” Dean answers before Zoë can. “She studied medicine.”

Sam snaps his head to her now, surprised by the revelation. He expected Zoë to be smart, considering she managed to ambush them, but somehow he can’t picture the biker as a student. She is a hunter after all, and hunters don’t get to go to college, let alone university. He has first hand experience to prove that theory. “You’re a med student?” “Was a med student," she corrects, walking to the bathroom to get a towel and a bowl. “Sam, do your brother a favor. Go down the 52 into Rochester and take the first right. You’ll find a 24 hour shop with a liquor department on 55th Street.” “Got it.” Sam needs no further explanation and heads for the door. “Johnny Walker Black Label. If I take a sip it might as well be good,” she adds. “And while you’re at it, bring me a cheeseburger,” Dean also requests. “Extra onions.” “Make that two.” Zoë’s hollow voice sounds from the bathroom, but then she walks out. “There’s a Wendy’s around the corner.” “Anything else?” Sam grumbles, feeling used. “Yeah, I’d like fries with that. And if you deliver in ten minutes or less, there’s an extra tip in it for you,” Zoë answers smartly.

Dean smirks while his brother shakes his head. When the door slams shut, Sam leaves what should be an awkward silence, but Zoë doesn’t seem even a bit intimidated by the Winchester brothers. Without a word, she fills the bowl with hot water. With a clean towel in one hand and the bowl in the other, she walks to the bed and spots Dean’s grin. “What?” She frowns at his expression. “I have to say, you are way more of a smartass than you were back then,” Dean recalls, as he removes the bloody fabric from the entry wound. She sits down on the bed next to him and dips the towel in the sterile water. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, you’re still the same smart ass you were back then. Take off your shirt.” Dean looks at her sideways, pleasantly surprised by the sudden authorial demand. “Don’t get any ideas,” she responds with an icy stare. “Alright, but I normally don’t do this until the second date.” He opens the buttons with one hand, then takes off his flannel. A grunt leaves his throat when Zoë carefully rolls up the short sleeve of tee, the fabric comes loose from the wound. The huntress feels his pain, although she will not admit it, of course. It seems like a pretty clean shot, but there’s too much blood for it to be that simple. She presses the towel against the wound, letting it absorb the crimson red. Dean swallows thickly and looks away, grinding his teeth. He feels uncomfortable.

“This is fuckin’ embarrassing,” the hunter mutters under his breath. “Why is that?” Zoë takes away the towel, flips it over and presses it firmly against his shoulder again. “I got my ass kicked by a chick and guess who’s patching me up,” Dean admits. She grins now. “I can see how your pride got damaged.” “You’re enjoying this, aren’t ya?” he notices. “Totally,” Zoë chuckles. “But I would much rather be sleeping.” “That makes two of us.” Dean flutters his lashes, fighting the fatigue which decided to team up with the pain; blood loss probably has something to do with it. “You could have ended up far worse,” she remarks. “Dead, perhaps? You won’t get rid of me that easily.” He smiles cocky. “That’s not what I mean.” Zoë takes a closer look at the wound, careful not to touch it without gloves. “Sam might be the clever one, but my guess is that he couldn’t have fixed this vein.”

He looks aside for a moment, examining her. He remembers her hair being a lighter shade of brown, when the Californian sun still dyed her locks with gold. Now the color is more intense, darker, much like her eyes. Her skin seems soft, but there’s something about her that gives her a tough appearance. It’s a vibe he didn't pick up last time he saw her. Back then she was this innocent rich kid from Orange County; naive, nice, cute, clueless. Quite the opposite of how she comes off tonight. She grew up delicately, left the girl in the Sunny State and became a woman. If he’d spotted someone like her in a bar, he would make a move. Why didn't they end up between the sheets together? Now that he thinks of it, a previous boyfriend comes to mind, not that something like that ever stopped him from reeling women in. He came on to Zoë while working her case back in 2001 - despite her relationship status - but she declined, the good girl. Something tells him she’s anything but a good girl these days, which makes her even more interesting.

“Thanks,” Dean says, barely audible, somewhat out of the blue. Zoë glances at him with her brows curved, clearly not expecting any sign of gratitude. “Did Dean Winchester just thank me?” “Don’t push it.” A subtle smile pulls at the corner of her mouth. It’s the first time he sees a glimpse of the O.C. surfer girl he met back then. “Here, hold this.” She lays his hand on the towel still pressed to his shoulder and gets up. “It’s way too quiet in here.”

When she walks towards the radio on the small table next to the bed, Dean checks her out and nods approvingly without her seeing it. Definitely. He would definitely make a move on her. Heartbreaker by Led Zeppelin comes on the moment she turns on the radio. With a swing in her walk, clearly liking the tunes, she moves to the small kitchen and opens the fridge. “Beer?” He nods and she hands him a bottle. Waiting for Sam to return with the good stuff, she doesn’t open one herself, needing a steady hand for the procedure. Instead, Zoë searches the small fridge for something to eat, bending forward to shove some cans and bottles aside in the back, fortunately for Dean. He can’t help himself. Whoa, you could bounce a quarter off that-- “Dean, do me a favor and stop staring at my ass.” Zoë surprises him with a sudden and piercing glare as she closes the door. He quickly averts his gaze. “I - I wasn’t staring at your--” “Yes, you were.” With a grin she tears the wrapper from a chocolate bar. “Like I said: you haven't changed one bit.” He looks up at the huntress and can’t help but chuckle. She used to be so shy. Past Zoë would’ve felt embarrassed if she caught him checking her out. She would’ve kept quiet and certainly wouldn’t have called him out on it. But not the new version of herself. Zoë 2.0 doesn’t take any shit.

His eyes roam over her features as she sits down next to him and takes a bite of the chocolate treat. A few scars add to her tough appearance without taking away any of her beauty. Typical combat injuries: small white lines run down her eyebrow, barely visible scar tissue on the corner of her full lips and her chin. She puts away her midnight snack and dusts off her hands, after which she cleans them in the bowl of warm water, washing up thoroughly with betadine before attending the wounded hunter. Long lashes frame her brown eyes as she focuses on her hands as she scrubs them; they obviously have seen their fair share of fights, knives, and rifles. She has been hunting. It’s not just her skin that gives her away, it’s the tainting darkness lingering over her. Zoë has seen the worst. “You’ve changed.” She looks back at Dean, then averts her gaze, not knowing how to act or behave. His gaze penetrates her thick armor, the hint of pity in it confronting. She only spent two weeks with him, but she knows these moments are rare for Dean Winchester. The guitar solo of the Led Zep song sets in and gives an awkward feel to the moment, which Dean decides to break up. “So…” he starts off, nodding at the research on the bed behind him. “Hunting now, huh? Finished med school?” “Nope. Dropped out.” Again an unpleasant silence, the tones from the guitar strings echoing through the room as Dean searches for words. “That’s a shame.” Dean takes a swig from the bottle and continues. “What I understood from your sister, you were the best student in your class. I never thought you would--” “- end up like you?” she interrupts him. He nods. She ponders. “Too much happened to ignore and continue with my simple little life.” Zoë looks away, her gaze fading into a thousand yard stare for a few seconds. She doesn’t think about that period of her life very often. “Bullshit,” Dean argues while shaking his head. “You were on your way to becoming a top surgeon; there is nothing simple or little about that. You could’ve helped people your way, y’know, without the motel-to-motel lifestyle, a life expectancy of thirty and no pay.” “Where’s the fun in that when you know what’s really out there?” the huntress bounces back. “Big ass salary, white picket fence, a perfect career,” he fantasizes. “Don’t get me wrong, I dig what I do. I just never thought this would be the life for you.” Neither did I, Zoë thinks to herself, but she doesn’t admit it out loud. Instead, the woman who should have been a doctor bites on the inside of her cheek as she begins to clean the surgical equipment for a second time, trying to get rid of the frustration building inside her. Dean is poking the bear, but trying to provoke her to talk might not be his best move. Fact is, though, his question is spot on. The hunters’ world isn't her scene, yet she got stuck in this loop of endless cases.

“How’s Abigail doing these days?” Dean picks up the conversation again, when the silence drags on too long. Zoë shrugs, seemingly careless. “Wouldn’t know.” “You girls aren’t talking?” He raises his eyebrows at the information, remembering the bond between the Sullivan sisters well. Witnessing them was bittersweet, because the two reminded Dean so much of him and Sam, who had just bailed for Stanford at the time. Abi and Zoë couldn’t be close to one another while his dad was working the case, the risk of the demon manifesting and claiming even more lives too large. It hurt them both, like neither of them knew how to function without the other by their side. Much like how he felt while his brother was gone.

“You were thick as thieves,” he recalls when Zoë remains quiet. “Seriously, what happened after we hit the road?” Again her reaction lacks both compassion and emotion. “I became a hunter.” Dean narrows his eyes, reading her. “Yeah, but why?” “Why? Like being possessed by a demon wasn’t enough?” she returns. “No, most people would try to forget it ever happened and move on with their apple pie lives,” he claims. “Well, I’m not like most people, am I?” A deadly glare comes his way, and Dean is caught off guard by her sudden change of character. He’s making her feel uncomfortable, all the more reason to dig deeper. “You used to be.” “People change.” Annoyed, she drops the surgical instruments on the sterile sheet, the metal clattering. Dean keeps an eye on her, carefully observing her reaction. There’s more to this and she’s not telling him. “What happened?” he asks directly, but calmly. “Jesus Christ, Dean! Could you just fucking drop it?” she snaps, as the door of room 82 opens. Sam walks in and detects the tension between the two. Dean keeps looking Zoë in the eye with determination in his expression; he’s not planning to let this go. The huntress on the other hand, stares back at him and doesn’t need words to tell him to shut the hell up. “Okay… awkward.” Sam closes the door behind him and breaks the silence by holding up the bags. “I have booze and burgers.” “Ah, good, I’m starving.” The presence of food has Dean snap his eyes away from the hunters, reaching out for the paper bag, but Zoë snatches it away. “You’re not eating anything ‘til I’m done with you,” she decides, obviously trying to get back at him. Dean watches her walk away with the burgers, his jaw slack and mouth watering from the smell of grease drenched fast food alone. She’s got to be kidding him, right? “Ah, come on! That ain’t fair!” he complains, frustrated. The hunter frantically looks over at Sam who has trouble hiding his grin while watching the scene play out. He’s not going to back up his brother, though; he has learned quickly that Zoë doesn’t appreciate being countered. Not giving Dean’s objections any attention, she leaves the Wendy’s bag on the table, sits down next to him on the bed and pulls the chair by the wall in position to set up her instruments. First, she takes away the soaked through towel. Sam frowns when he sees the pierced skin where the bullet entered, pulls the whiskey out of a bag and places it on the chair. “Good luck with that,” he comments, glad he’s not the one going through it, nor being the one having to patch him up. That shot wound is no joke. “Yeah thanks, bro,” Dean returns sarcastically.

Zoë takes a serious look at his shoulder, making an unsatisfied sound with her mouth. “Sam, get me an empty glass,” she orders without shifting her eyes. Items are shoved in the sink cabinet as Sam tries to find what Zoë asked for. The noises from the kitchen disturb the music on the radio, but also the silence between Dean and Zoë. He hesitates; shall he continue his questioning? He decides to wait. After all, she still has to patch him up. As Sam comes back with clean towels and a glass, she checks in with his brother. “Do you want a local anaesthetic or are you gonna bite the bullet?” He sighs reluctantly. Although a sedation does sound tempting, he decides otherwise. “I’ll bite the bullet,” he replies. “I’ll be honest with you,” Zoë starts off, the tips of all five fingers gently pushing into his chest, beckoning him to lean against the headboard. “This will hurt like hell, but I need you to keep completely still. Without an X-ray I can’t tell for sure where the bullet is. It could be holding a damn finger in the dyke.” As the hunter lays back, he gulps. By now, her patient is getting somewhat nervous. “You do know what you’re doing, right?” Dean questions carefully as she puts on a pair of latex gloves. “Of course I know what I’m doing. You just need to hold still and shut up,” she replies, agitated. When he looks aside at his brother, Sam sees doubt and a slight trace of fear in his eyes. He decides to jump in to help. “Have you done this before?” Sam asks calmly, just as she takes a set of forceps in her left hand.

She stops, but doesn’t look up at him; this time her reaction isn’t as rapid as previously. Of course she could tell them she dug a bullet out of her own flesh only hours ago, but that would involve admitting she got hurt. Besides, a shallow shot wound isn’t comparable to this injury; the bullet tore his shoulder to pieces. The Winchester brothers wait for her to respond, but she decides to ignore the question all together and intends to go to work. Dean pulls away, looking her straight in the eye. “Before you stick that thing in my arm, answer the fucking question,” he demands. “I did this before, chicken shit. Happy?” she answers, annoyed. “On a human being?” Sam wonders, on to her. Again silence. After rolling her eyes, she sighs and shrugs. “On a dead pig, okay? What’s the difference?” “Hey!” Dean says, insulted, until he realizes what she’s actually saying. “Whoa, wait… You’re actually gonna do some difficult procedure on me that you’ve never done on a human being before?” “It’s not that difficult,” she claims, not even a bit worried. “I know what I’m doing, you just have to trust me.” “Trust you?!” Dean exclaims. “You shot me!” “Dean, calm down,” Sam tries, without result. “I am calm!” he argues, raising his voice even more. “Hey, asshat!” Zoë calls Dean back to reality, forcing him to face her by grabbing his chin and turning his head. “You listen up. I don’t see another option here, unless you wanna go to a hospital.” “What do you care?” he returns. She scoffs and cocks her head back, staring at him stunned as she lets go of him. “You know what? You’re absolutely right! I don’t give a fucking shit.” Mad, she gets up and throws the instruments back in the briefcase and tears the gloves from her hands. She slams the lid and heads for the door, which she pulls open and holds for them. “Zoë, come on. Wait a minute,” Sam says, desperately trying to repair the damage. “Nope. Now get the fuck out,” she orders. “You’re kicking us out? You’re fucking kidding me, right?” Dean says, dazed. “Do I look like I’m kidding?!” she returns the question angrily. “Maybe if you would stop being such a fucking jerk, I--” “Okay, fine.” Dean grabs his jacket and his shirt next to him and gets up, while Sam looks over from one to the other, startled and completely helpless. “Can’t we talk about this, guys?” he tries. “No!” both Dean and Zoë answer at the same time.

Dean shuffles towards the door, pressing his shirt against the wound. It’s clear he isn’t feeling well, but neither he nor Zoë even flinch, too proud to ever admit they have crossed the line. Despite his injury, they are about to go separate ways, purely because they are both so arrogant, that they can’t tolerate each other. “Okay, this is ridiculous!” Now it’s Sam who gets frustrated. Dean turns around and Zoë frowns; finally the younger Winchester has their attention. “Listen to her, Dean,” he claims. “Seriously? You’re on her side now?” Dean reacts, betrayed. “That’s not what this is about, damn it! There are no sides, we’re all hunters and we have a job to do. Fighting like cats and dogs isn’t helping!” Sam responds. “She has a point. We’re in Minnesota, remember?”

Dean needs a moment to think, but then recalls the case they worked about five years ago, in Lafayette, a little over a hundred miles west from here. The local police caught him and his father with the victim of a poltergeist, they had a clear view of his face before he escaped. When they started digging, they found a list of scams, carjacking, robberies, suspect of several more crimes and now murder to top them all. If Dean walks into a hospital and is listed as a patient, it won’t be long before the cops take him in. Even if he uses an alias, the chance of getting busted is a reality. “Fuck,” he curses, realizing Sam is right; he has ‘wanted’ written all over him. His brother looks over at the woman in their company, who leans against the doorway, her arms crossed in front of her. “Can you fix him up?” he asks, calmly. “Of course I can. I don’t get myself into shit I can’t handle,” she replies snippy. He nods approvingly and looks deep into her eyes. “Please,” he pleads. “I know you won’t do this for him--” “Obviously not,” she interferes pissed, shooting daggers at Dean. “Then do this for me. Please, fix him up?” Sam begs. The huntress watches Sam, still mad, but her mind settling down. Dean realizes that for his best interests, he better keep his mouth shut. Then she sighs and steps away from the door, which she closes. “Cut it out with the puppy dog eyes. I’ll do it,” she mutters.

Dean slowly sits down on the bed while Zoë opens her briefcase again, getting out the things she needs. “Thanks, Zo,” Sam says, grateful, words that Dean can’t possibly get out of his mouth. “Don’t mention it.” She puts on a fresh pair of gloves and takes her patient’s arm, as he leans back against the headboard again. His eyes tell her he would’ve rather gone to the hospital and figure out a plan to bust out later, but at least he isn’t saying it out loud. Considering it’s Dean Winchester, that has to count for something. “If you fuck up, I’ll kill you,” he warns. She glares at him, but finds a coy smile on his face. “Not if I kill you first,” she returns, a slight grin on her lips. He swallows apprehensively and mentally prepares himself. She steadies her hand, the forceps an extension of her fingertips. Both take a deep breath; here goes nothing. And she goes in...

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page)

Read part five here!

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efrmellifer · 4 years

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Hope Springs

how to describe this AU... it’s part “less-good Aymeric” and part “Etien kind of takes Estinien’s place in the Post-HW stuff?” either way, hope you enjoy.

It kept Etien awake at night sometimes, knowing how much Aymeric had changed since… since she’d come back from Azys Lla.

Nothing changed about his demeanor towards her; he was still ever the gentleman and a doting lover, and moreover, he governed Ishgard with a lovingly paternal hand.

But… there was something darker in him now, something that maybe had lain dormant and never germinated until his father was gone.

It was hard to admit, when she rolled over—having been invited to stay the night, and since both he and House Fortemps would vouch for her honor—and looked at him, and her heart clenched and swelled with love.

She loved him. How could she have missed this bitter seed in him that had now blossomed into… whatever this was? She knew was perhaps a little free with her trust, but this was excessive.

After all he had to say about action and beliefs. She thought herself a better judge of character.

But the only judgment she had now was for herself, for how strong the flow of her love was still.

It was a lot to have laid on her shoulders, this knowledge. After all, a skilled and surprising snap-decision tackle in the Singularity Reactor was the one thing that had blessedly prevented the blood magic being catalyzed, by knocking Nidhogg’s second eye out of Estinien’s hands.

Etien shuddered to think what sort of way they would be in if she hadn’t hit Estinien hard enough.

But without the reaction, there lived only one great wyrm, and he kept his solitude.

With that fact, the other dragons stayed in the Churning Mists.

They weren’t wiped out, just cowed. And with that, the Dragonsong War was ended, in an uncomfortable stalemate.

And easy lay the head who wore the metaphorical crown, it seemed. She brushed back his bangs, wondering aloud but to herself what had made him become so much like his father when he had once been so gentle.

Still, when dawn’s first light came, she dragged herself from the bed, making sure there was no one wandering the paths she had to take, tugging down her hat whenever she did have to pass someone, squashing her ears underneath it more tightly.

There was no shame in her walk, but there was insecurity.

Even if she were to try, the Echo couldn’t help her fix a divide that stretched so wide.

She’d be swallowed in its depths before she even made any progress.

When it became clear that the Scions had no need of her today, she made her way to where Aymeric was in his meetings, slotting herself in a special seat of her own—primly perched on his left thigh, tail draped just above his knee and his arm around her lower back.

If she felt slovenly, she could rest her head against his chest, her low purring only just casting a warmth at the edges of Aymeric’s mind.

Otherwise, she sat up, her own mind wandering no matter how hard she tried to focus on the discussion around her.

It made her head swim. She wasn’t suited for the cold game of politics, where the chill winds changed on the edge of a gil.

Even so, she had been trying this whole time to return Aymeric to that softness she had so loved.

Couldn’t her warmth melt the ice that was slowly forming?

That was, she regretted to think it, the most apt comparison. In accepting the role of ruling, he had begun to slowly freeze over, no longer hearing the cries of anyone outside Ishgard.

The only mercy was that he wasn’t even listening to the Ascians.

But she was trying to change that, to remind him about how much the Alliance was trying to do at the borders, how the dragons deserved better than they were getting right now, burned twice by the mortals below.

She wasn’t seeing much progress, but he never stopped hearing her out, so there was hope yet.

By some twist of cruel fortune, she had a little extra help in her next attempt when Vidofnir came down, risking a little too much to petition Aymeric directly, one last time.

“By thy swords, lances, and bows was my sire’s brood-brother slain, but I hath come to beg of thee that the Dragonsong not end in this uneasy silence. Where once our voices joined in the throng together, and then we sang our own choruses, now we lay silent both. Never shall man know the Mists, nor we these… frosted lands, for fear of reawakening a thousand-year feud never laid to its proper rest. Wilt thou not consider a peace? With Nidhogg no longer present to enact his thoughts of vengeance, thou shalt harbor no threat by welcoming the talon of dragons into thy hand.”

Etien wanted to step forward, to offer her hand for Vidofnir to take.

Aymeric, however, did not. His step forward was accompanied by drawing Naegling.

Etien gasped, knowing the sound well enough from the times she had fought at his side.

It was going to kill her—possibly literally—to be fighting with him in a different sense this time, but it was as if the gods themselves were telling her she had to do it, to prevent the spilling of any more dragon’s blood.

Compelled by the divine, by her own foolishness, by her hope for peace, she darted, sliding to her stop just in front of Vidofnir’s heart, doing her best to stand tall so she could guard the dragon’s throat as well.

She may have been a fool, but she wasn’t blind. She saw the fire and the fury in Aymeric’s eyes, and swallowed, chest heaving as she shut her eyes, prepared to die on the end of her lover’s weapon.

There were worse ways to go.

In her head echoed, Hydaelyn, Llymlaen, Halone, guide me to my eternal rest swiftly, and absolve me of my sins, which I apologize for, before I make my final journey.

She heard the blade hit something, but she wasn’t in any pain. She opened her eyes slowly, shocked, to see Aymeric stricken and Vidofnir lifting her head, shaking it as if she had been struck.

“I wonder on whom thou wouldst have exacted thy vengeance, had she died by thy hand, Son of Thordan,” Vidofnir said calmly.

Naegling had clattered to the ground, Aymeric looking at his hands now in horror.

It would seem that the ice glazing Aymeric’s heart had cracked, finally. A dragon had saved a mortal, in light of being just as likely to be pierced by the sword.

Worse, he knew better—it took more than one stab to kill a dragon. Not so for a tiny Miqo’te staring down the man she had pledged herself to.

He reached out a hand—slowly, shaking just a little, gaze on the stones under his feet.

Etien wasn’t sure if it was for her or for Vidofnir.

She’d started to stretch out her hand, too, but hesitated, thinking she should let Vidofnir go first.

“Nay,” the dragon said, almost with a laugh, in response to that. “He needeth thy forgiveness more than mine.”

Tears started streaming down Etien’s cheeks, but she finished extending her hand, dropping it into Aymeric’s, then holding tight.

His eyes welled. “Will you ever forgive me?”

A fresh wave of tears rolled over her cheekbones. “Stop this.”

He squeezed her hand, feeling her starting to shake. “Vidofnir, I too wish for peace.”

“How curious that thou seest how simple it is when thy kin is the one so near the end of their days. Warrior of Warriors, pray remind him of this agreement between us when next the question ariseth. Thou hast already taken my claw in friendship.”

With a thunderous cry and a gust of wind, Vidofnir had taken off for home.

The crowd was beginning to disperse, but Aymeric pulled Etien close, wrapping his arms around her. Finally, he let the tears flow.

“How many times must you save Ishgard? From the dragons, from my father, from me?”

Etien returned his embrace, her grasp on him tight as she replied, “As many times as I have to, especially if it means saving you, too.”

#Aytien #fic #just another angsty AU

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ruoyeming · 4 years

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My Fav Books, another chaotic list

Another quarantine review fest! I know I ranked my top anime but this is seriously too hard so I’m just going to list them to avoid hours of debate. Enjoy!

1) The Skulduggery Pleasant series

This whopper of a series (now at 15 books jesus christ I didn’t know there were that many I’ve only read about twelve) has a special place in my heart. I was FULLY obsessed with it throughout my tween - and teen - years, and for a reason. This shit just butters my bread like nothing else. The story follows a young girl Valkyrie Cain (who eventually becomes a young woman through the series) and her partner in crime, a fashionable living skeleton called Skulduggery Pleasant. They’re MAGICAL DETECTIVES!!!! Bitch!!! They use elemental magic - water, earth, fire, air - to fight off magic-wielding bad guys and look good doing it. The duo is hilarious and seriously shaped my sense of humour, the dry wit and comedic writing style stuck with me and influenced my own writing style to this day! As the series progresses we get a massive cast of characters but to me they’re all memorable, likable (mostly) and well-developed so that’s not an issue. I have no fukcing clue how Derek Landy comes up with his stories because every book in the series has an absolutely wild (yet unique) plot with its own twists and turns. It gets REALLY dark and depressing at times, gory, brutal etc etc especially in the later books I have no idea why this is labeled as a kids series.

10/10 for badassery, humour, and MAD codependency issues

2) The Feverwake series

This bitch is one hell of a YA series. It’s actually only a 2 book-series which is rare, but that’s not the only thing that sets it apart from other creations of its genre. It’s hard to explain the setup without waffling so I’ll just quote the blurb of the first book: “In the former United States, sixteen-year-old Noam Álvaro wakes up in a hospital bed, the sole survivor of the viral magic that killed his family and made him a technopath. His ability to control technology attracts the attention of the minister of defense and thrusts him into the magical elite of the nation of Carolinia.

The son of undocumented immigrants, Noam has spent his life fighting for the rights of refugees fleeing magical outbreaks—refugees Carolinia routinely deports with vicious efficiency. Sensing a way to make change, Noam accepts the minister’s offer to teach him the science behind his magic, secretly planning to use it against the government. But then he meets the minister’s son—cruel, dangerous, and achingly beautiful—and the way forward becomes less clear.”

As you can tell from this, the series is heavy on its politics but in a grounded, realistic and relevant way which is different to many other YA series. Marxist theory is brought up, and you can make some pretty strong links between the books and real events. The magic also has a semi-scientific explanation which is cool and adds to the realness. Anyways this series is action packed and full of twists, plus there’s a bisexual main character and queer romance at the core!! Wig!!! Very good for moral debate - how far is it acceptable to go to protect the oppressed before you become one of the oppressors? Dark and exciting series.

10/10 queer representation and political themes.

3) Spin the Dawn

It’s probably obvious that I’m biased towards YA books but they’re just so exciting and cool! Anyways this is about a girl living in a kind of alternate universe ancient China where magic exists. Maia Tamarin is a skilled seamstress who dreams of being the Imperial Tailor, a position that can only be held by a man. She poses as her brother to go to the royal palace and enter a competition full of skilled tailors, all vying for the role of imperial tailor. She also meets Edan; a mysterious, annoying, but SEXY mage who seems to know her secret identity? Oho? IMO this would be an elevated book if Edan had been a girl but that’s just me being gay. As the final challenge Maia is tasked with making 3 dresses from the sun, moon, and stars - a mission that takes her to the ends of the world in search of these magical materials (obvs Edan goes with her and they kiss kiss fall in love). It’s a fairly classic YA plot and characters but the combination of Project Runway, Mulan, and kind of Lord of the Rings(??) vibes makes for a very entertaining read. It’s also really fun to imagine what the clothes look like, plus the romance between Maia and Edan is very cute. Second book is yet to be published but sounds lit.

10/10 magic fashion and romance (despite its heterosexuality)

4) Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe

Usually I steer clear of angsty gay stories because I’ve consumed too much of the depressing narrative which is all about suffering because of being gay, but fuuuuuuck this book is like the definition of bittersweet. Mostly bitter to be fair but it has a happy ending which was lovely after the emotional torment of the book. It’s about two teen boys - Aristotle is angry and repressed, Dante is eccentric but kind, and the two eventually form a strong friendship after meeting at the local pool. It’s kind of obvious that Ari is in denial about a few things, which leads to some real sad boi hours. There’s also a devastating moment around halfway (not sure) through with a car accident which makes the whole thing 10x heavier. Despite all this, the book has its sweet moments - parents play a big role, but not in the way they usually do in queer stories - and like I said the ending is the bandage for your broken heart. I’m not sure what it is about the writing style, maybe the way it just cuts between scenes randomly or perhaps the way the dialogue and actions are so realistic, but it’s so different to any other book I’ve read that it’s stayed in my mind for a while after reading it.

10/10 really good philosophy plus supportive parents

5) The Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue

Okay if this was a ranked list, this bad boy would be on its way to the top spot. It’s got everything: historical setting, gays, pirates, alchemy, humour, adventure, angst, character development, and some healthy second-hand embarrassment. It’s not complicated or philosophical but reading this book all in one go is like taking five shots and diving into a pool. It’s exciting and witty, but deals with darker themes like child abuse too. One of the MCs also has a disability and doesn’t treat it as something to be cured, which is a lesson our protagonist has to learn. Speaking of protagonists, Henry ‘Monty’ Montague is a great main character. He’s obnoxious, oblivious, and hedonistic yet quick-witted and passionate, and he has a good heart. Sometimes you just want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him for being such an ignorant idiot, but throughout the book he grows and learns to open his mind more (as well as becoming more humble). He’s a great example of a flawed yet likable main character. He is also a bisexual icon.

Oof forgot to even talk about the story. Monty embarks on a tour of Europe, usually taken by lads his age to get all cultured before they settle down and inherit the family company or whatever. With him are his younger sister Felicity, a girl with a brilliant mind for science who isn’t taken seriously by anyone because of her gender, and the lovely Percy, Monty’s lifelong best friend (and crush). Monty ends up stealing a very valuable object that turns the Tour into a manhunt across Europe, and drags the trio into a big ol’ conspiracy involving something that may or may not be the philosopher’s stone????

Issues of race, gender, and disability in historical context are really well done, and it’s an absolute banger of a book.

10/10 very exciting adventure, plus GREAT GAY ROMANCE

6) Heaven Official’s Blessing

HOOOOOO BOY. This is probably my absolute fave on this list. It’s a webnovel (originally Chinese but the full translation is online). Set in ancient china in the cultivation world (difficult as shit to explain if ur not into all of that but I’ll try), basically there’s three realms - the heavenly realm, the human/mortal realm, and the ghostly realm. If a mortal reaches a certain point (good deeds, power etc), they ascend to become a god - or if they fall far enough, they become a ghost.

I’ll just quote the author’s description again cause I don’t have the brain cells required:

“Eight hundred years ago, Xie Lian was the Crown Prince of the Xian Le kingdom. He was loved by his citizens and was considered the darling of the world. He ascended to the Heavens at a young age; however, due to unfortunate circumstances, was quickly banished back to the mortal realm. Years later, he ascends again–only to be banished again a few minutes after his ascension. Now, eight hundred years later, Xie Lian ascends to the Heavens for the third time as the laughing stock among all three realms. On his first task as a god thrice ascended, he meets a mysterious demon who rules the ghosts and terrifies the Heavens, yet, unbeknownst to Xie Lian, this demon king has been paying attention to him for a very, very long time.”

It’s hard to describe the enormity of this story and all the emotions it encapsulates, you really have to read it for yourself. But bitch the undying, pure, Hozier-devotion-level LOVE is by far my favourite part of this story. If you’re looking for an epic, god-tier gay romance, then this is it baby!! This story has comedy, action, and downright harrowingly depressing moments, but throughout is this achingly beautiful love between fallen god and last believer.

I don’t wanna give too much away cause there are some big ol’ plot reveals, but oooh this shit made me cry. The protagonist is MY FAVOURITE EVER I didn’t think it was possible to like a protag so much!! He’s legit my fave character! At first he seems oblivious and carefree but he’s just doing his goddamn best after all he’s been through and he’s so fukcing kind and just wants to help everyone for fuckcs sake excuse me I need to go have a breakdown.

Okay I’m back, anyway there’s a great cast of characters, even the background characters are all incredibly memorable and all given their time to shine and develop. My faves include Quan Yizhen, a rowdy himbo who just wants to fight, and Shi Qing Xuan, a friendly genderfluid god who controls the wind. Read this shit I’m not joking it’ll change your life.

10/10 for everything

#book review #book recommendations

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mbti-notes · 5 years

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How can I, an INFP, help an ENFP in a loop? He's been looping for months, it happened after his gf ended the relationship. He's very judgmental, hates humanity, has violent fantasies towards his ex. He often talks about winning/losing, dependence/domination in his relationships, projects his feelings of dependency and weakness into his friends and is sometimes very disrespectful to them. (1/3)

[con’t: (but he isn’t always like that. (!) He can be very friendly and respectful and then suddenly change w/o a visible cause). He says he never ever felt happy for another person, that he never feels pity, never is emotionally touched by something. When I talk to him, I’m sympathetic. He is in a lot of pain and can’t see a way out. But I also tell him when his behavior is childish or low or cruel. I try to give him advice and he genuinely listens to me (and he wants to talk to me about his pain)but can’t apply it (I know it’s very difficult for a looping person). He used to be a creative, charming, sweet and very amicable and optimistic person. He did feel happy for people and he did feel pity, I know this. But now he says he feels like he can’t change because his feelings of contempt and despair are his identity. How can I help him? (we’re all in our early 20s).]

When NFs turn their pain into their identity, there’s not much you can do to help them because all of your suggestions will sound to them like you are disrespecting their individuality and that “you don’t really understand” them (therefore, they shouldn’t listen to you). It’s a difficult situation to deal with. He still hears you out and is not so far gone as to dismiss you outright, which is good. It’s good that he’s known what it’s like to be healthy. Unhealthy NFs tend to suffer self-esteem problems and are extremely sensitive to criticism, so your words should carry a tone of positivity, encouragement, and hopeful possibility. You’ve already got the empathy, make sure it comes out in everything you do and say if you don’t want him to become defensive towards you.

The way he indulges his pain is a defense mechanism (tertiary loop). Anger and vindictiveness provide the illusion of strength and control. When a person is forced into a powerless and vulnerable position (as is often the case with romantic breakups), it is natural to want to stabilize oneself by grasping for any form of power and influence. Why do you think many divorces get so nasty? For enfps, this unfortunately takes the form of Te loop, which essentially means becoming an asshole, as you’ve witnessed firsthand. But this is just a flimsy way to hide from the pain of feeling helpless and the hurt of feeling discarded. Ideally, a person should embrace their vulnerability, take the hit and face the facts of the negative event, i.e., to exercise proper self-care and graceful acceptance. When they can’t, the negative emotions remain unresolved, just left to fester, escalate, and turn into something ugly. This can be particularly difficult for men who have been socialized to believe that they are entitled to what they want and that they should never have to feel helpless and vulnerable, so their low emotional intelligence leaves them with no healthy recourse to release their negative feelings, which unfortunately promotes anger and violence as last resorts.

Issue 1: He takes the breakup much too personally, which most people are prone to do; it is the rare person who can remain on good and amicable terms with all their exes. Relationships end for a variety of complicated factors and reasons, sometimes for good reason. It seems that he doesn’t understand the real reason why this relationship had to end, which means that he still holds on to the idea that it “shouldn’t” have ended. “End” doesn’t have to equal “bad”, especially when it opens up the possibility of finding a better relationship. Being dumped feels like someone stabbed you on purpose when, actually, the person is simply realizing that it’s not the path they should be on, which automatically means that it’s not the path you should be on, either. When FPs get vindictive, it is because they believe they’ve been “wronged” and they want to even the score. This is not the right way to look at the situation because it means you’re holding on to something that’s dead, you’re wasting time and energy on something that’s dead, you’re harming yourself terribly by filling your heart with hate and spite about something that’s dead. Oftentimes, forgiveness is not even about the other person and what they did/don’t/didn’t do, it’s really about exercising self-care and not wanting to be a hateful and spiteful person.

Issue 2: He turns pain into his identity, which is easy to do when one’s identity is fluid or poorly defined as is usually the case with lack of proper auxiliary Fi development. One of the great things about being NF is that a person genuinely believes they can be whatever they imagine they can be. In the best case scenario, this means that they strive to achieve their true potential and they work towards becoming a better version of themselves. In the worst case scenario, this means that a person can get totally stuck when they can’t imagine that anything better is possible. In other words, in terms of their self-image, belief often becomes reality for NFs. With inferior Si, it is common for enfps to jump to the conclusion that “hope is false” when their ideals/dreams are proven wrong/empty by a painful setback or failure. When mired in Te loop, enfps don’t have to take responsibility for being their worst self because they are able to pin the blame on something/someone else for “making” them turn bad. But a person can only be “made” to turn bad when their moral foundation was weak to begin with (Fi). Anger feels good when you’ve convinced yourself that it’s “righteous”, and he’s thusly motivated to indulge and perpetuate it. I think he fails to accurately envision where this road really leads him and he seems willing to destroy himself to prove a moot point that only he knows and cares about, which speaks to weak Fi. By indulging the false and twisted power of cynical anger, he can convince himself that he is not bad but rather it is the world and other people who are bad and he’s “forced” to be a part of it, that he is somehow better than the gf. But the reality is that his negative behavior basically just proves that she was right to leave him, and if this ever dawns on him (though it probably won’t), it can create an even bigger blow to his self-esteem.

Whatever other people do or don’t do, if you’re truly a good person, you’ll at least always try to make good moral decisions no matter what problems and challenges you encounter in life. If you can only be a good person under certain, shifting, very conveniently defined conditions, then it’s not real, is it? This is what he doesn’t understand because of weak Fi. At the end of the day, you have the final say about what kind of person you choose to be. If you choose to be full of spite, then it is you who has chosen to close the door to everything good in yourself - it is self-sabotage. Choosing one path often means that you can’t choose another: choosing negativity means that you close the door on positivity, choosing to harp on the past means that you close the door to a better future, choosing anger means that you close the door on feeling love. He needs to understand this truth so that he can accept responsibility for his life, then he can practice self-care and move forward.

#enfp #te loop #si grip #revenge #anger #forgiveness #emotional intelligence #ask

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elliepassmore · 5 years

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Heir of Fire Review

5/5 stars Recommended for people who like: fantasy, magic, Fae, training montages, brewing rebellion, enemies-to-friends,Throne of Glass, strong female leads, multiple POVs I'll admit right now that Heir is my favorite book in the series, followed closely by Blade. I'm pretty sure this is the one I've reread the most, so I've pretty much have it memorized at this point (it's also the only one I also have in German, even if I haven't read that edition yet). Just, be prepared for lots of 'I love's. Keep in mind, the reveal from the ending of Crown of Midnight is going to be addressed in this review, so be warned. I love that, like in Blade, we get to see more of the world ToG is set in. Celaena goes to Wendlyn and hangs out in the mortal capital city, Varese, for a little bit. During the brief bit of time she's there, we get an understanding that it's a hot city that's pretty similar to Rifthold, only without the history of oppression and fear (read: it and its people are a lot happier). We also get a nicely painted picture of the misty, tree-covered valleys and mountain sides as well as some of the fishing towns. Mistward, the fortress she trains at, seems like it would be an awesome vacation spot if it weren't so close to Maeve, and that was honestly what I thought about most of the time when I deemed to analyze it. One place I definitely wish we got to see more of, but understand why we don't because of plot reasons, was Doranelle, the Fae capital city. Maas painted it as a city island of stone and water. The way she stone and the palace was described makes me think a little of how Ahdieh describes the palace in Wrath and the Dawn, while the waterways make me think of a more magical Venice. The monsters and creatures throughout the realm were also pretty cool and seemed to have well-developed lore. In terms of character development, I love Chaol in this one. If you've read my other reviews, you know I'm not the biggest fan of his character or his relationship(s) with other people. However, we get to see him questioning things he knows, questioning what he thinks he knows, and even getting questioned by other people. Dorian flat out calls him out on his beliefs regarding magic and gives one of the best (and I think one of the most quoted) lines of the series: "You cannot get to pick and chose which parts of her to love" (344). Aedion also questions Chaol's beliefs, pointing out that Chaol is avoiding choosing a side and still has a bit of that blind obedience going through him. Both of those instances, combined with some of the other stuff Chaol learns and sees in this book really helps him start to question what the fuck he's been doing these past ten years and the man he's been serving. Chaol actually starts becoming a likable character in this one, despite his lingering prejudices about magic and even some reservations. This is definitely peak Chaol, at least until we reach Tower of Dawn. Another character who goes through a big change is Celaena. She starts of as Celaena, the assassin, and is dragged to see Maeve where, for the first time in the book, she is instead addressed as Aelin, the princess. Rowan, the person assigned to train her, calls her Aelin throughout the book, but you can tell there's a division in her, not just because of the way she feels and acts and what she says, but because of what she calls herself when it's her 'turn' to narrate. Rowan calls her Aelin, but she still calls herself Celaena. There's a lot of rage and desperation and fear in her, from her far- and recent-past, and it runs her. She's obviously depressed for most of the book, something that Maas wrote wonderfully and portrayed as something human and real and painful. That's the mindset she starts in, and we see her descend further into it before rising back up, but it takes a while.

During that time, it's clear she still has some hope, still has some sense that she wants to live for something, again because of her name. Rowan calls her Aelin, she calls herself Celaena, but she has the other demi-Fae living and training at Mistward call her Elentiya, Nehemia's name for 'spirit who cannot be broken.' Names mean something to her (and to the other characters, they are a motif throughout the book that I could probably write an entirely separate review on), and they signal where she is in her journey. From an arc perspective, Aelin struggles and fights and becomes, and by the time the book is over, it really does feel like Celaena and Aelin are two completely separate people. As a bonus, we get a lot of background information about Celaena/Aelin and SO MANY Easter eggs. As a side note, not really related to character development, but this is the first time since ToG when I felt that when Celaena/Aelin got beaten in a fight it was an actual testament of the other person's skill rather than Celaena/Aelin getting watered down a bit (not counting when she was poisoned in the duel w/ Cain). In Blade, we saw her strength and abilities, and then in ToG and CoM, they were kind of a let down and I felt she got beaten too easily, but here it feels more like an even show of power like it would've been in Blade.

I felt Dorian was a more stagnant character during this book. He slowly worked on his powers and tried to hide them, but for the most part he was shut out of the scheming and major events that were occurring in the book. That's not to say he doesn't have an arc, he does, I just think it was mostly set up and completed in the first two books, with this one serving as the conclusion for his Part 1 arc (in terms of development, ToG is pretty evenly split with Part 1 arcs going from ToG to this one and part 2 arcs going from QoS to the end, with both parts serving the overarching Arc for each character). Dorian really feels like he could become king in this one, with the way he talks and the decisions he makes, especially regarding things he doesn't 100% understand or get. Though, to be honest, he's always been the character out of Celaena, Chaol, and him that handles big reveals and twists best. Anyway, his behavior has markedly matured, even when it comes to his romantic relationships. We saw that he was mopey in ToG and even parts of CoM after the whole thing with Celaena went down, and how he was willing to give frivolous gifts, but here we see a shift to him understanding, or at least starting to understand, why certain things occurred the way they did as well as a shift toward him working more seriously when in a romantic relationship. He's also quicker to disavow the king and what he's doing than Chaol is, which is both unexpected and probably difficult. But like I said, these changes are subtle and small compared to the changes in the other characters, which is why I called his arc mostly-stagnant, even if I like his character. Manon is an awesome character. I think I tended to skip her chapters the first time I read this book, but ended up really liking them in Queen, so I started paying attention during my rereads. I think my main issue with her was that she was new and didn't have a connection to the other, already established characters, because she's a really bad ass character. She's an Ironteeth Witch, like Baba Yellowlegs, only she's colder and more hardcore. Manon is brutal and beautiful and dangerous and knows it. More than that, she knows how to use it to her advantage. Every move is about clawing her way up and eventually getting back to the Witchlands (now known as the Western Wastes). Manon has some stunning development in this book, going from cruel and cunning and uncaring to cruel and cunning and caring a little. I like how her relationship and leadership roles within the Thirteen was established, and enjoy the power-house that group is. I also really like her dedication to getting Abraxos up and in the air. In terms of who mirrors Manon, I think it's Abraxos. No one really thinks Manon is the underdog, but their similarities throughout this book and the rest of the series are, I think, probably too many to be coincidental (or they are and it just works out really well). Aedion Ashryver is a fun addition to this book. Cousin to Aelin, he too has been serving the king for the past however-many-years. He's a lot like Aelin, only more male and with a different kind of darkness. Where Aelin's darkness is quick and wicked, Aedion's feels slower and honey-like. Either way, I thought he was a funny character and it was nice to get up close and personal with someone who has been actively working against the king for some time (and who has narration). He can be a bit misguided re: Aelin at times, but his heart's in the right place and it's obvious he not only cares for her but for his country. Can't really say much about character arc here, since I think his comes more in Part 2, but I have really liked his character since the first read-through. Rowan's another good addition, even if I hated him the first time I read the book. He's a mirror to Aelin mentally and developmentally, similar to how Aedion is Aelin's mirror physically. Both Aelin and Rowan are in dark places when they meet and they both have to deal with hauling themselves out of that space during the book. Rowan's brutal, but once Aelin (and we as an audience) warm up to him a little, he's a much better character. He's not the sadistic bastard someone (I think it was Luca) claims him to be, again, once you get to know him, he seems downright playful. He opens up to Aelin and begins his own ascent from darkness, and I think that comes through in the moments when he is playful, when he is caring, when he does look out for the people around him. I think he has the bond with Maeve weighing pretty heavily on him, and I have to wonder if some of his coldness and distance isn't because he doesn't want to get close to someone and have that taken away by Maeve, either directly or indirectly. I also think he's seeing Celaena grow into Aelin and realizing that Maeve is not the kind of person she should be, not the kind of person Rowan really believes in. Some other characters of note include Sorcha, who has a pretty good (and then a pretty bad) twist in her story. I liked her interactions and relationship with Dorian, I thought they were cute together. Emrys is another good one. He's a demi-Fae who works in the kitchens and is the story-teller at Mistward. He proves to be a good friend and ally to Aelin, as well as a god catalyst for Rowan. I wish we got to see more of him and Malakai (his mate) together. Luca was cute, sort of like a chattery younger brother type. The Cadre were intriguing, even if we didn't get much of them. Ren and Murtaugh we met in Crown and we see again here. I like Murtaugh and I like his and Ren's relationship, but I don't like Ren (at least until a bit later). I love the Thirteen and their loyalty, and I can't wait until I can talk about them more in the next review. Overall (obviously), I like the book. I think there's some great character, world, and plot development going on here that incorporates previous things and brings in new ones. I know ToG is a cohesive series, but, as mentioned a bit above, I tend to think of it in parts, and Heir closes out Part 1, both plot-wise and in terms of character development. I think this book rivals Blade for how many hints and clues about future things/events were dropped. So, five years later and it's still my fave.

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itsclydebitches · 5 years

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RWBY Recaps: Volume 6 “So That’s How It Is”

This is a re-posting from Nov. 17th, 2018 in an effort to get all my recaps fully on tumblr. Thanks!

Real talk: that episode was 100% not what I wanted to see and honestly not what I thought we’d be getting after the tone of “The Lost Fable.” Yet here we are.

We start off with the gang having just finished Jinn’s vision, which surprised me a little bit. RT tends to delay gratification—Want to know how people will react to this plot point? If that person survived? Gotta wait a while longer!—so I was expecting to begin with the villains, if not push this confrontation an entire episode. Yet we kick things off with a voice over from Yang, highlighting the exact part of the story we knew she’d hyper-focus on:

Yang: “Salem can’t be killed. You all heard her too right?”

And we’re immediately back to where we were emotionally in episode two—which frankly drives me a little nuts. The entire purpose of getting glimpses of the team throughout the vision was to see their reactions to the events: Qrow lifting a hand towards Ozma, Ruby looking ill at Salem trying to kill herself, Blake and Weiss heartbroken over Salem’s grief, Yang horrified at what the gods were doing to them. On the one hand I agree that it’s incredibly realistic to have them lashing out like this. Put a bunch of teenagers through that much trauma, chuck a now fallible mentor at their feet, and they’ve got themselves a scapegoat they can’t resist. On the other hand, Team RWBY + co. has been portrayed as staggeringly better than this in the past, so it rings as at least a little false to me that they’d go this far. Not that they wouldn’t be angry, but that out of the six of them—including Oscar now—there’s not a glimmer of empathy alongside the anger. I understand entirely that we ended on the worst note possible (more manipulation by Jinn), but that doesn’t erase the fact that this is a) a large group of b) incredibly compassionate people who c) just spent 99% of that vision witnessing traumatizing events that weren’t Ozpin’s fault and feeling for him then. Bypassing one moment of sympathy for him or even hesitation at cutting him further feels less like realistic teenage fury and more like the writers deciding to ignore a large chunk of their characterization for the sake of drama.

Because what they witnessed aside, this is still Ozpin. He’s still the headmaster/friend they adored, still the man who taught them in Haven, still the huntsmen they fought beside in one of their worst battles to date. And here he is now after having his entire past ripped from him, back on his knees and crying. That’s an image that the protectors in them shouldn’t be able to brush aside so easily, especially when each of them has been through a piece of Ozpin's existence. Weiss knows what it’s like to have people more powerful than you pulling the strings. Yang understands anger that drives you to choices you’ll later regret. Blake has already fought against unimaginable odds (see: Oobleck’s lecture about how she wants to change the world but has no idea how to do it yet. That’s Ozpin). Ruby is familiar with being the eternal outsider—“I don’t want to be the bee’s knees! I just want to be a normal girl, with normal knees”—and Qrow, as he’ll mention in a moment, knows what it’s like to have nothing and no one. Ozpin was there for him then, but he won’t do the same for Ozpin now.

Let them have their anger, but let them act like themselves too.

Yang: “There was so much you hadn’t told us! How could you think that was okay?”

Yang in particular has a lot of displaced rage. She has since she was a kid and now Ozpin has become a very easy target to direct all that towards. Still, it doesn’t change how mind-numbingly frustrating it is to see these kids twisting every piece of information that comes their way. How could he think that was okay? Ozpin already gave you his answer. He said straight out that he doesn’t want to reveal all his secrets because the last two times he did that (Raven and Lionheart) he was betrayed and, presumably, that’s happened numerous times before. Yang insists that he can tell them his secrets. They’ll stand by him! But oh look, they wrenched the secrets from Ozpin forcibly and now they're not standing by him.

The girls are liars and hypocrites in this moment. Like I get it, they're also traumatized teenagers, but that doesn't change the fact that they're pulling the same shit Ozpin is currently getting all the flack for.

I’ve mentioned before that there are a hundred reasons why Jinn’s answer to that question is complete BS. Even ignoring our audience-knowledge of how jinns tend to operate, we have the in-canon fact that she can’t answer anything about the future. Her answer regarding Salem's defeat is null and void in light of not knowing how the situation might change—how can she possibly say that Ozpin or another will never win? But even ignoring that too we have the additional fact that defeating Salem never was and never will be the true goal. Uniting humanity is. Keeping people safe from the grimm is. These are things everyone agreed to long before they even knew who Salem was. What? Did Team RWBY think they were going to wipe out the grimm in their lifetime? That they’d drive creatures to extinction that, as far as they know, have existed since the dawn of time? No. They were just planning to make the world a better place for as long as they could. They’d already agreed to a fight against an “impossible” to beat enemy. Fundamentally nothing has changed.

Yet Ozpin understands that suddenly learning that a Big Bad is immortal knocks a huge dent in everyone’s hope. He knows—largely from experience—that laying out the situation with no context or nuance (as Jinn did) will make people give up. And we already see it happening, not just in their reaction towards Ozpin, but in casual lines like Blake’s, “I just want to get this stupid relic to Atlas.” No doubt one of Ozpin’s greatest fears is that learning the truth will alienate people from fighting at all. It did for Raven. It did for Lionheart. And now it’s doing the same for the girls, with them acting like they just want to get the powerful relic out of their hands and then leave Ozpin to fight this war by himself. Though I don’t actually think the girls will give up (that would be a very different kind of story), that line is not reassuring right now and just re-emphasizes that Ozpin was right to be wary.

We also see it in Qrow’s exchange with Ozpin:

Qrow: “No one wanted me. I was cursed. I gave my life to you because you gave me a place in this world. I thought I was finally doing some good.”

Ozpin: “But you are—”

Qrow: “Meeting you was the worst luck of my life.”

No one is letting Ozpin finish. Yang demands to know why he kept his secrets and then cuts him off before he gets out more than an “I—”. They let him admit that he doesn’t have a plan, but no space to explain any context surrounding that statement. Here Ozpin tries to tell Qrow that he is doing good, he does have a place in this world, the existence of Salem does not suddenly negate everything else they’ve accomplished… but Qrow doesn’t let him get that far. At this point they’re not interested in listening to anything Ozpin has to say. This isn’t a conversation anymore, it’s an emotional witch hunt.

So is it any surprise that Ozpin eventually nopes out of there? Qrow has just punched him and, far more damaging, delivered that gut-wrenching line about how he’s the worst thing that ever happened to him. Again, context always matters. Two friends fighting and saying cruel things to one another? Not great, but survivable. Ozpin and Qrow aren’t just two friends though. Qrow is currently Ozpin’s only friend.

Let’s recap: His children are dead, his first host is dead, the original version of humanity that he knew? All dead. Who Ozma once was is gone, the gods he knew abandoned him, and the one remaining tie he has to his past is his genocidal ex-wife who’s hell-bent on killing him. Every host Ozpin has had since then has passed away or merged with him in some horrific amalgamation. His friends at Beacon are either out of reach or don’t know about his reincarnation trick and think he’s dead too. Raven sided with Salem over him. Lionheart, a friend for decades, sided with Salem over him. The children he’s traveling with are out for his blood, including the child he’s forced to share a body with. The one person he had left was Qrow… and Qrow just gave the biggest “fuck you” possible. Keep in mind the abuse coding from last episode and fill in the blanks of a couple thousand years. Then Ozpin told Salem the truth and was murdered along with his children. Now the truth comes out and he’s chucked into a tree and screamed at. Ozpin has been conditioned to expect nothing but violence when he bares himself emotionally… and people keep proving him right. He’s currently the lowest he's been in decades and there’s no one here to help pick him back up.

“Maybe you’re right," he says. Maybe I am the worst thing that’s ever happened to you all… so I’ll leave. As much as I’m able to, anyway.

The real kicker though? That’s just met with more anger. “That bastard!” Yang yells. “Tell him we’re not done yet!” Ozpin quite literally can’t do anything right in their eyes. Keep secrets to protect people? You’re evil. Spill secrets? You’re evil. Stick around to defend yourself? How dare you. Leave because you’re obviously not wanted? How dare you.

And you know what I just realized? At least one of the reasons why this arc feels so extreme to me? Because our characters are currently acting exactly like a large portion of the fanbase. For years RWBY viewers have demonized Ozpin and complained every time he came on screen, waiting for the day when the show would finally prove that he’s irredeemable trash. Except when that day came we actually learned that he’s a flawed, mortal man who was manipulated by a bunch of dick gods. Instead of acknowledging that hey, maybe we were wrong about his character, a huge portion of the fanbase has spent the last week grasping at straws in order to continue hating him. Ozpin has been sacrificing child soldiers to his war for millennia. (False). Ozpin has done nothing but lie to the cast since day one. (False). Ozpin raped Salem during his first reincarnation and was super abusive towards her. (False??)

Now we have this kind of mangled “justification” made canonical. Fans and characters alike are currently determined to make Ozpin their antagonist—no matter what.

So Ozpin basically has a panic attack while still trying to give them what they supposedly want: a world where he’s not around to mess things up. Yet the girls’ hypocrisy is revealed once more. They despise every decision Ozpin makes… but still want him calling all the shots.

Weiss: “He just left us?”

Blake: “What are we going to do now?”

Newsflash, you can’t have it both ways. Lucky for them (since no one is willing to take on the responsibility that Ozpin has been shouldering) Maria steps up and announces that they need to put off this conversation until they’ve found someplace safe. Because grimm. Which is what they should have done in the first place and would have if Yang hadn’t thrown a temper tantrum. She starts yelling at Maria too—“Lady, I don’t know who you think you are”—which just further demonstrates how Yang is willing to take her anger out on anyone and anything that crosses her path. It’s not healthy. It’s certainly not fair to those around her and I really hope someone addresses this soon.

Maria: “I’m still coming to terms with the fact that this is Humanity’s second time around!”

You tell ‘em! Poor Maria was thrown into the deep end of the pool with no life preserver and she’s the only one managing to keep a level head. God bless this woman.

(Please don’t be evil, oh please don’t be evil.)

Maria: “If we don’t move we die and I’ll be damned if I’ve lived this long just to die out in the cold!”

And how long is that exactly? Long enough to have lived through the Great War? Inquiring minds want to know…

Ruby agrees though—beginning to segue back into her role as compassionate leader—and at her word everyone packs up the rest of their stuff and heads on out of that awful spot. Salt and burn the earth, girls. Leave it behind.

Except just when I think the emotional punches are through we get this horrible moment between Oscar and Qrow. Oscar tells Ruby, in an intimate moment of confidence, that he’s afraid he’s just going to be another life of Ozpin’s. Ruby immediately showed compassion again once Oscar switched back (reaching for him when he winced from the punch) and here she’s her old self again, reassuring him that no, he’ll always be his own person. That's the Ruby we love.

Then Qrow breezes by and denies it. “Don’t lie to him,” he says. “We’re better than that.”

Wow.

That was not okay. By any stretch of the imagination. Goddammit, Qrow, you’re the adult here and honestly I don’t give a damn how much you’re hurting right now, that doesn’t give you the right to take your anger out on an innocent kid. Oscar didn’t ask for this and the idea that he exists only to be Ozpin’s host is just blatantly untrue. You’re being cruel to him for cruelty’s sake which, I’d like to point out, we’ve yet to see Ozpin do. Despite all the trauma he’s suffered, he’s never taken his grief out on the children around him like that. He’s also never claimed to be above lying as Qrow just did. With the point being only that this group is making a LOT of mistakes right now while refusing to allow Ozpin his own.

With that lovely piece of advice we turn to the villains… which frankly felt like some much needed breathing room after “The Lost Fable” and these last five minutes. The fact that the villains’ plot-line is taking place in the past means that nothing revealed to them is news to the audience. Cinder’s alive? We knew that. Ozpin reincarnated? Obviously knew that too. The focus is instead on how they react to this information… and it turns out the answer is “Pretty damn violently.”

Before that though we see Hazel, Emerald, and Mercury arriving back at Salem’s palace (the same one that she and Oz once lived in together). I’ve already come across jokes about how Hazel is now the dad of the group, and while obviously this is just meant as a silly acknowledgement of some really flimsy compassion we see from him, Emerald does look to Hazel when she gets off the ship, clearly seeking reassurance after Cinder’s (presumed) death.

Tyrian is waiting to greet them and he’s his usual, creepy self—minus half a tail. Really though, he seems to have recovered quickly from Salem’s wrath last volume. He taunts Emerald about Cinder and when she threatens him he just cuts himself on her blade. Not gonna lie, I love Tyrian more and more as the series goes on. He’s the wild card of the group and as such remains endlessly entertaining.

Mercury is supportive of Emerald, helping her calm down a bit in the face of Tyrian’s taunts, and really all of this is a nice contrast to what we’re getting with Team RWBY: the villains are supporting one another while our heroes tear each other down. Remember all those references to how Salem’s victory will be in dividing humanity? Yeeeaah.

She’s obviously displeased with the report. Hazel tries to take responsibility for the defeat and, uh, this happens:

Look familiar? I’m getting very worried about what that intro shot of Qrow and the grimm arms is going to mean.

So Hazel is tortured for a while until Emerald admits that it was Cinder’s fault they lost. It’s all some really horrible mind games on Salem’s part: ask for an answer and torture the guy who provides you with one, get Emerald to call out the one person she cares for, casually drop that this person still lives, intimidate Watts for questioning her. Tyrian is the wild card, yes, but we know now that his ramblings about his “Queen” aren’t so random after all. Salem is still playing the part of the God we saw in Jinn’s flashback and her followers treat her accordingly. They do as she says out of fear. It’s what Salem lays out in the trailer: they can have their own desires, but only if they don’t interfere with her own.

Hazel drops the bomb that, oh yeah, your ex also reincarnated already, which puts an interesting twist on Salem’s anger. Meaning, I wonder if she’ll be more forgiving of their failure now that she knows they were unexpectedly facing Ozpin in Haven. Regardless, she’s not happy about the news.

At all.

We leave her letting one hell of a draft in and return to the gang. Yang bitches about how the path hasn’t led anywhere and Maria asks if she really doesn’t have anything “better to do than harass a defenseless old lady?”

More real talk: does Yang have experiences that explain her current attitude? Hell yes. Does all this make for compelling characterization? Absolutely. But right now I don’t like her. Having a reason to be angry doesn’t excuse the harm you do when you direct that anger towards those who don’t deserve it. From her pointing her weapon at Qrow to harassing Maria, I don’t think Yang is acting like a very good person right now and I haven't enjoyed her time on screen. An understandable development? Again, yes, but that doesn’t change the fact that she’s acting like a brat and encouraging everyone else to do the same.

Of course, as soon as she challenges Maria the path leads them to a farmhouse. Not that Yang is ready to apologize for her attitude (another big difference between Ozpin’s mistakes and others’: he’s constantly apologizing for his). Weiss notes that the place looks deserted, but at least it’s better than staying out in the cold.

…Is it though? That farmhouse looks creepy as hell and I don’t trust it. To say nothing of the fact that we’ve got that sewer place from the intro right next door.

And that’s where we end up, the gang walking into this abandoned, potentially grimm-infested farm while they’re all pissed at each other and the gate squeaks ominously closed behind them. Oh yeah. I’m feeling real good about the next episode.

(Not.)

Other Details of Note

I’m intrigued by the fact that Jinn seems to have dissipated immediately after finishing her story, both because personality-wise she seems like the kind to stick around and gloat, and also because they’ve still got one question left. We saw Awful Facial Hair Oz ask his questions back-to-back, so unless Jinn streamlined things for convenience’s sake there doesn’t seem to be a wait period between each question… I don’t know. Narratively it makes sense (wanna clear Jinn out so there’s no distraction from the Ozpin bashing), but in-world the rules governing these relics seem a little murky.

So Salem knows Cinder is alive. I wonder if that’s connected to the grimm arm she gave her. If Salem has ties to Cinder that she hasn’t bothered to explain yet. Hmm. Wonder if she can control Cinder’s arm like she does the other grimm…

Salem also mentions the Sword of Destruction and intended to go after it before she heard that Ozpin had already reincarnated. Will that be the next relic on the list then?

With the exception of Ruby fighting the sewer grimm and everyone facing off against someone off screen, we’ve hit on most of the imagery from the trailer and intro already. I’ll be interested to see what the rest of the volume holds since it looks like that vast majority of that material is being kept carefully under-wraps.

Still looking forward to reconciliation. Still putting a lot of stock in that one image from the intro lol

#rwby #rwby spoilers #mymetas #RWBY recaps

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salavante · 5 years

Note

for the OC tag thing: the Helmsman!

Cat’s out the bag so here’s The Helmsman featured with his real name!

Full Name: Yawg-Ecthylion, The Helmsman, God of The Void

Gender and Sexuality: Male and eh I dunno, I’ve never thought about it, but his two romantic entanglements have been with women.

Pronouns: He/Him but I don’t think he’d turn his nose up at they/them, I think he sees himself as existing outside of human constructs of that kind of thing. He’s not really even organic.

Ethnicity/Species: Threnghelleon Deity

Birthplace and Birthdate: Hah ok, here’s a funfact that I’ll probably talk about later in something specifically about them, and that I think I talked about with Ethem-Cailo. All of the OG Threnghelleon gods were made by Jovix-Diocunigast’s experiences. There was awhile where whenever Dio had a new thought or action, a new god would spin into being. The Helmsman was created when Dio first conceptualized ‘nothingness’. I think there’s a little more to it than that, but that ball might be in my Co-DM’s court.

Guilty Pleasures: The Helmsman is cruel, bitter and sadistic, and enjoys inflicting pain on things. I think one can extract a lot from that alone. Before the hunt, he had spent most of his several millennia long life almost completely isolated, hunting eldritch abominations at the bottom of Threnghelleon’s icy ocean, which has informed a lot of his decision making in how he fights and sees his opponents. Wearing down large enemies slowly, making use of what’s left of the carcass - that’s The Helmsman’s game. Which is really a roundabout way of saying that he basically tortures his opponents and then takes trophies or makes scrimshaws, leather-working pieces, etc out of the dead gods and mortals that he faces on The Hunt. He likes to step on toes and rattle cages to get reactions out of people. Negative attention is better than no attention, and it’s certainly made him a fan favorite among Threnghelleon’s edgier viewers. I say this as a guilty pleasure because he is not incapable of guilt, and before the hunt, was a fairly honorable, lawful God, if not still violent and creepy. In rare moments of reflection, he wonders how he fell so far, but usually doubles down afterwards. The public and the rest of the pantheon saw him a certain light that gained him attention, and he, starved for any kind of connection to others, leaned heavily into it. He has allowed other people’s perceptions and opinions of him to shape his identity and sense of personhood, which I think is rather tragic, but he likes making belts out of human hair so...

Phobias: It’s hard for me to say what The Helmsman is afraid of because most of his worst fears have come to pass and have made him the bastard coated bastard we know today. Being alone, being forgotten countless times, having his expertise and hard work taken advantage of. Paranoia aimed at Jovix-Diocunigast has turned out to be entirely accurate - Dio felt threatened by how much attention that The Helmsman was getting for defending the realm and killing giant monsters, so Dio effectively cursed him so that no one could remember his name. People began calling him Yawg-Ecthylion less and less, and The Helmsman more and more. Ethem-Awnrah, Goddess of Memory, is the only one who remembered his real name.

What They Would Be Famous For: The Helmsman played pretty much right into Dio’s ploy and turned into a craven, vile weirdo, and the media circus that broadcasts The Hunt loves him for it.

What They Would Get Arrested For: Murder and turning corpses into crafts.

OC You Ship Them With: The Helmsman has had two canonical spouses which have both produced children. His first wife was mortal, a deep-sea marine biologist named Svea who came upon his ship, The Susurrant Phantasm, in her own submarine while researching the fauna surrounding the Mouth of Yawg, Threnghelleon’s entrance into the void/ether/unknown/whatever you’d like to call it. Their union produced The Helmsman’s demigod daughter Yawg-Enyion, who would later take up his mantle of defending the realm with her warfleet while The Helmsman was on The Hunt. However, between her inability to remember his name, and being torn between her own life and her duty as the wife of a deity, the two of them split. Enyion reminds The Helmsman of his ex-wife a bit too much for comfort, and the two of them have a very strained, complicated relationship.

The next one is a little bit of a doozy.

Yawg-Ecthylion and Ethem-Awnrah always kind of had eyes for each other, and were courting before he lost his name and was soft-shunned by the rest of the pantheon. This, naturally, disrupted all of that, and they would not reconnect until The Hunt occurred. In the time between The Circle going on The Hunt and The Helmsman slowly deteriorating into a monstrous douchebag, he and Awnrah clicked again and produced a son: Veth-Rawn, the mysterious god of Psychics. But Sal, you say, in that writeup you made a thousand years ago, didn’t you say that Veth-Rawn had uncertain parentage? Well, that is because The Helmsman being a nasty ass murderous bastard made The Goddess of Memory so incensed that she accidentally wiped all of the universe’s memory of their time together in a fit of passionate rage. This, unfortunately, included Veth-Rawn, leaving the God of Psychics mentally shattered, and forced to grow up utterly alienated by his would-be family, who didn’t know who he was or why he was there. It is only really recently that this came to light, and was one of my endgame plot twists.

If the team beats Dio, The Helmsman will go back to Threnghelleon with his comatose son to heal him and try to make things right with his daughter, Enyion. Awnrah is staying with the hometeam and the other defectors from The Hunt - Geeg, Derog and Wybjorn. I’ll probably touch on her sometime on her own, I’m quite fond of her, and she’s a Good Guy now so she’ll be featuring in post-Godslaughter campaigns.

OC Most Likely To Murder Them: Either Jonquil (his hometeam rival for the game), Jovix-Diocunigast or Jovix-Cailo. Jonquil spent the better part of the game trying to learn how to shove his soul into a diamond and hurl it into space. Jovix-Cailo has hated him for a very long time and enjoyed tormenting him as soon as he got a power bump. And Dio would just turn him into a smear for defecting. Awnrah could also utterly annihilate him if she wasn’t such a decent person, she could crack his psyche open like an egg.

This is where the book/movie section usually goes but I’ll be real with you, I don’t think The Helmsman bothers with either. I think he sees most things of human invention as being kind of beneath him. But he especially hates most artistic interpretations of himself, and has very seldom happened upon one that he feels gives him due diligence.

Talents and/or Powers: The Helmsman honestly has a build that I would LOVE to use as a player character. It hinges largely on stacking DOTs (Damage Over Time) and status afflictions, making him able to whittle down opponents with large health pools as well as get a trickle of HP back to himself. His whaling hooks are called Black Tongue and North Star, and they give him some pretty impressive reach, and the ability to swing large, heavy objects around. He also has a few abilities such as “Where Strides The Behemoth” that gives him heavier damage output when he’s facing an enemy larger than him, and “Like Water”, where he effectively ignore gravity and can move freely through space. His very large peepers are usually squinting, as he is not really accustomed to full light, but in darkness, they open all the way into horrible, near perfect circles. Really, out of all of the Threnghelleon gods, The Helmsman is the most biologically compatible with his environment.

Why Someone Might Love Them: The Helmsman has a very primal, intense quality that I think a certain kind of person could find attractive. For many years, he did a very dirty, thankless job that benefitted all mankind and the pantheon, which is perfectly respectable. He’s fairly witty and is good at banter, and is handy in a fight, a couple of traits that Threnghelleon folk appreciate. I also think his more tragic qualities attract a level of pity that could entice someone to desire becoming closer to him. I dunno, he has magic eyes that see in the dark, some people dig that.

Why Someone Might Hate Them: He stalks/murders/tortures indiscriminately and treats corpses of pretty much anything like someone would treat the corpse of an animal. He does not see the distinction between humanoid person and animal/monster and considers it all free game. He’s mouthy, impatient, cruel and sadistic and has set aflame 10,000 worlds. What’s not to hate.

How They Change: The Helmsman’s arc in the game was the slow-dawning horror of the fact that pretty much all of his current murderous identity has been spoon-fed to him by other people, and he just kind of went along with it because he was weak-willed and desperate for attention. This troubles him pretty deeply and makes him lose his hutzpah towards the end of the game. He does end up defecting from the Hunt to the hometeam to help take down Diocunigast, the guy who cursed him and started his downhill slope. But I really hesitate to say that he’s a Good Guy. He doesn’t feel all that bad about all the people he’s tortured/killed/made into fanny packs, at least not to the degree he should. The Helmsman will still go about his nasty ways when he’s back on Threnghelleon, but will be more judicious about who he kills and how. He’s also resolved to try and repair his relationship with his daughter Enyion, and hopefully heal Veth-Rawn. He has no intention, however, to try and re-initiate a romantic relationship with Ethem-Awnrah, though he still kinda loves her. He knows he FUBAR’d that one.

Why You Love Them: I enjoy villains! His ferocity is cathartic and entertaining and challenging to to the PCs. I genuinely wasn’t sure if he was going to be alive or not by the end of our game. Sometimes it’s fun to just have a downright fucker in the mix. I also like his design, which while not THE most inspired, is a lot of fun to draw. The Helmsman was the first of the Gods that I designed, with Ethem-Cailo being second. Also an internet stranger said he was hot once.

#psygull

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