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meltwonu · 3 years

Text

| 🍒 CH-CH-CHERRY BOMB! 🍒 | [CHAPTER 𝟙𝟛]

pairing; dom!seungcheol x camgirl!reader

this chapter’s notes; camshow, breeding kink, sir!kink, pet play(kitten), v small amt of anal play, dirty talk!!! HAPPY FRIDAY THE 𝟙𝟛TH! 😗💕 Here we are with ch 13 on Friday the 13th, I didn't even realize it but man my ✨brain✨just planned that out so perfectly LOL 💕 I just wanna apologize for any grammatic/spelling errors in this one and it’s a bit shorter... I tried to proofread this all day but I'm also watching unus annus’s livestream at the same time and my peabrain cannot multitask but I TRIED!! let it be known 😩😭 Anyway, I hope ya’ll have a great weekend, stay hydrated and safe! Enjoy~! 🍒

chapters; 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10 - 11 - 12 - 13 - ?

alphagyu97: oh fuck oh fuck

alphagyu97 has donated $100

hoshi_tiger_xx: oh??? Cute lil kitten ears????

A moan floats past your lips as you sit in Seungcheol’s lap; his cock already snug inside of you before you’d even turned the camera on. “Ah, ye--yeah, we thought we’d, mmh, try--try something n-new…”

Seungcheol smirks although neither you nor the camera catch it as he holds you still. Much like before, he’d started working you up before you got on camera and this time he’d asked you to sink down onto his cock and wait patiently until it was time to begin; neither of you saying a word or moving an inch as he peppered kisses along your shoulders and neck. “Why don’t you show them your cute ‘lil tail, kitten? It’s getting squished between our bodies...”

universe_WZ: yes yes yes

tangerine_kwan: show us your cute tail princess

therealchan99: thank u for the pics btw i scream abt them every 30 minutes

therealchan99 has donated $50

You reach a shaky hand behind your back for the fluffy material as you show it off to the camera to the best of your ability; making sure to not move it around too much or else you knew you’d cum too soon. “I, ah, it’s--it’s keeping me s-so full…” He makes you answer a few more comments as you sit on his cock; blunt nails digging into the skin of your waist when he feels you trying to get him to move.

artist8hao: so so so pretty baby

kitty_junjun: cute little kitty

kitty_junjun: should come and play sometime ;)

xcaliburDK has donated $75

The way Seungcheol has you in his lap is a little uncomfortable for you and he quickly takes notice of the way you start to squirm more and more with each comment or question you reply to. “Kitten, it looks like you hit your donation minimum already. Should we start?” He coos.

You can only nod in return as you squint your eyes to check the laptop screen to see how you were doing. “Ngh, p-please… I--I’m so f-full I can’t wait any l-longer…” Whining, you clench around his cock and the toy as he chuckles lightly behind you. He’d purposely asked if the two of you could sit further back on the bed and further from the camera and laptop and you’d raised an eyebrow but agreed.

“Sorry, the angle’s not going to be very good for this but you’ll understand why.” Seungcheol comments.

The laptop screen is full of questioning comments and donations that beg Seungcheol to hurry up and fuck you.

His grip on your waist tightens a little before he’s slowly lifting you off of his cock and you let out a disappointed noise when he’s completely pulled out. “Nooo~ I w-want--”

“Ah, ah, I know what you want, kitten. But you need to get on your hands and knees for me. Facing the camera.”

Oooh, that’s why he wanted space.

You nod frantically as you easily get comfortable on your hands and knees in front of the camera and laptop; fluffy tail resting against your spine as the bell on your collar jingles.

alphagyu97: oh god please breed her

angelhan: yes god please

Seungcheol kneels behind you; already easing his cock back into your tight pussy as you mewl straight into the camera. “Our cute little kitten is already squeezing my cock so tight…”

You feel his fingertips on your skin before he’s reaching for the fluffy tail and he gives it a small tug as you whine and whimper in return.

“No, no pl--please, sir, I’ll cum if, ah, you p-play with my--my tail!”

Your eyes clamp shut just as Seungcheol starts to play with the anal plug; tugging on it and moving it slightly in order to get you to squirm a little more before he gives you want you wanted. He smirks at your back as he hears the sound of donations and comments flooding the screen in rapid succession.

“Oh? But they seem to like when I play with you like this.” You clench around Seungcheol and the toy, small cries on your lips when your sensitive body already wants to give in to the pleasure. “So fuckin’ pretty with your cute tail and ears and your pretty ‘lil collar on.”

chwenon: shes gonna cum so fast lol

gentleman_josh95: i kno, u can already tell she wants to

hoshi_tiger_xx has donated $50

xcaliburDK has donated $50

sleepy_wonu: look at her cute fuckin face while she tries to not cum haha

Seungcheol draws his hips back slightly before slowly thrusting into you from behind; fingertips still playing with the tail as he moves it around in tandem with his slow thrusts. “Oh kitten, you’re so fuckin’ wet for me, baby~” You can only moan back in response as you resist the urge to meet his slow movements with your own, much quicker ones.

“Ah, s-sir, please…”

tangerine_kwan: so cute when she's whiningggg

angelhan: dont give into her so easily~ make her work for it ;)

kitty_junjun: aww but shes so cute like this

Your fingertips dig into the bed sheets and you peel your eyes open as you attempt to read off the comments flying across the screen. “Mmh, ‘m so full… and sir won’t s-stop playing, ah, with my--my tail…” You can see Seungcheol’s form behind you on the screen, hips slowly moving as he plays with the tail.

You slowly find yourself moving with him and meeting his thrusts; chasing your pleasure as Seungcheol seemingly takes his time.

“Ngh, s-sir, can I c-cum?”

Seungcheol grins at your back, suddenly picking up the pace as he finally leaves the anal plug alone. “I don’t know, can you? Why don’t you ask them?” You blink your hazy eyes at the camera before flitting towards the comments section of your camshow.

“P-please tell s-sir to, mmh, let m-me cum…” You beg; unintentionally sending the comments section and donations into a flurry of yes’s and no’s.

artist8hao: let her cum but dont let it be the only time

alphagyu97: aww princess dont forget he still needs to breed your cute lil cunt

universe_WZ: she can cum but she still needs to be a good girl and let sir get what he wants

“Mmh, of--of course I, ah, w-want sir to b-breed my pussy… I, hah, want his--his cum i-inside of m-me…” You start working your hips back as you meet Seungcheol’s pace that speeds up at your words and the two of you fall into a rhythm as he works to get you off first. His hands grip your waist as he angles his thrusts to tap your g-spot and you mewl and whine in response; careful to not accidentally call Seungcheol’s name in the midst of the moment.

“Fuh--fuck, sir, ‘m g-gonna cum… please…”

“Cum whenever you want, kitten.”

You nod shakily; head falling forward as you let yourself get lost in the pleasure.

Your eyes flutter shut as various thoughts flood your mind. The main one being how seamlessly Seungcheol fit into your camshows and how much easier it was to film with him than you ever anticipated. The two of you easily forgot that the camera was even rolling most of the time, whether it was live or pre-recorded for your channel and now that he was always with you, it was hard to imagine filming without him.

“Ah, kitten, your cute ‘lil cunt is, ah, sucking me in deeper… You must really want my cum, huh?”

His words bring you out of your thoughts as you bite your lip. “Mmhmm, I w-want sir to c-cum, hah, inside my p-pussy and b-breed me… wanna be, ngh, filled with your---your cum…”

“Why don’t we cum together then, hmm? Bet you wanna feel my cock throbbing in your cute ‘lil cunt, huh, kitten?”

The warmth blooms inside of you as you nod; cheeks hot as you peer straight into the camera. You readjust slightly, the bell on your collar tinkling as the set of cat ears on your head slip slightly. “Y-yes, sir… Please cum w-with me…”

Seungcheol doubles his pace and you quickly feel one of his hands leaving your body as he wraps his hand around the fluffy tail again. He starts to move it around again, slightly tugging on it as you cry out. “Ah, s-sir!”

chwenon has donated $75

angelhan has donated $50

universe_WZ has donated $100

artist8hao has donated $75

“Fuh--fuck, sir, please! P-please breed me, please, ah, c-cum inside m-my little cunt and--and fill m-me up with your c-cum!”

Tears blur your vision as you’re quickly thrown over the edge and into an orgasm; ears ringing when your entire body goes rigid. Seungcheol finds it harder and harder to thrust into you as your walls flutter around his cock and he soon finds himself cumming with you too; cock throbbing as he unloads all of him cum inside you. “Oh, fuck, kitten…” He moans; eyes rolling to the back of his head as he lets the pleasure wash over himself as well.

The sound of donations and comments drown out your soft cries and Seungcheol’s deep groans and you’re almost positive that you’d made at least a couple thousand off of tonight’s show.

alphagyu97: holy shit look at her face, fuck

kitty_junjun: is she crying?

hoshi_tiger_xx: damn, shes so drunk on cock shes crying

therealchan99: aww poor kitten~

You let out a stuttered breath as your body starts to relax; soft sniffles following right after. “Ngh… sir…”

Seungcheol smiles softly when he hears the way your voice trembles and he’s gentle to slide his cock from inside your cunt; groaning when his cum immediately drips down onto the sheets from how much he’d cum inside you.

“Ah, kitten, what a waste. How am I supposed to breed your ‘lil cunt if you’re letting my cum spill out of you already?”

You lick your lips and despite the tiredness, a new wave of arousal pours over your body at the thought of Seungcheol cumming inside of you a second time. You shake your hips; foggy eyes staring straight into the camera.

“You’re just going to, ah, cum inside me again… and let e-everyone watch...”

The next morning, Seungcheol drives you over to the diner to start your first real day at work and you feel downright nervous once the car stops. You’d gotten so used to camming and being alone that this new foray into normalcy was making you think twice, even just momentarily.

“You gonna be okay?” He turns to you, concern obvious on his face when your eyes meet his. “I can always take you straight home or take you back to the roller rink with me if you d--”

“No! No, I wanna do this... I know we made a lot of money off of the show last night but... But I think this’ll be good for me. Both of us working so we can afford rent ‘n stuff!”

“We should like a married couple.” Seungcheol jokes.

Your cheeks burn hot at his comment as you bite your lip. “Ehehe~”

Seungcheol grins at you, hands still on the steering wheel. “Just let me know if you need anything, okay? I always have my phone on me anyway, Namjoon doesn’t really care.”

The two of you share a laugh as you slowly reach for the door handle.

“I will, I promise!”

“I still do not get why you want to work here.”

Jun laughs, hands on his hips as he watches you adjust the short dress uniform you’d put on, moments before.

“It’s just... something to keep me occupied, is all.” Smoothing down your uniform, you do a small spin for Jun who nods back in approval. “And I wanna make friends! Aren’t we friends?”

Jun’s eyes twinkle with playfulness as he gestures you over to the front of the diner. “Of course we are! Which by the way...” He pauses, looking over the relatively full diner to make sure nobody caught your conversation. “Is... Seungcheol-hyung okay with y’know... You working here and me... Being one of your viewers leaving comments ‘n stuff?”

A genuine look of concern crosses his features as he waits for you to respond.

You puff your cheeks as you think, “I think so? I mean he hasn’t...” Memories of Seungcheol saying he’d kick Jun’s ass immediately flood your mind as you laugh nervously.

“Y-yeah, he didn’t say a word!”

After two hours, you decide to take your 15 minute break; waving to Jun before you head towards the employee backroom to grab your phone.

You check your notifications, surprise on your face when you see Seungcheol’s already messaged you a few times.

cheollie ✨: have a good day!

cheollie ✨: u okay over there, baby?

cheollie ✨: dont feel pressured to answer asap lol

You laugh under your breath, typing up a response as you take a seat in the break room.

‘It’s been going okay! I’m taking a short break right now tho!’

Shockingly, Seungcheol response only after a few seconds.

cheollie ✨: oh, thats good! I take it no issues?

‘Nope! my feet kinda hurt tho lol’

He asks you a few more questions; one about Jun keeping his distance, to which you shake your head and laugh.

cheollie ✨: you never showed me your uniform btw 😏

You let out a noise of realization, fingertips already swiping through your phone to get to your photos as you send him one that you’d taken earlier.

‘How's it look? 🥺’

It goes quiet for a couple minutes and you half-wonder if Seungcheol got in trouble for having his phone out.

‘Cheol, u ok?’

cheollie ✨: is it bad I'm already thinking about lifting that cute little skirt up

cheollie ✨: fucking you nice and hard with your panties just pushed to the side

cheollie ✨: fuck, and making you go back to work with your pussy filled with my cum

A shiver rolls down your spine at his words; gulping as you check the time for how much you had left before you had to get back out onto the floor.

‘what if I bend over and someone sees my panties all wet n soaked thru with ur cum...’

cheollie ✨: then they’d know you’re mine.

cheollie ✨: I mean most of your viewers already know that

cheollie ✨: but I want everyone to know, yknow?

cheollie ✨: god the way I wanna fuck you on the hood of my car

cheollie ✨: your cute little whines while you try to keep quiet

You let out a shaky, quiet moan; thighs rubbing together when you notice you only have about three more minutes before your break was up.

‘Cheol... I have to get back to work 😭 how could you get me horny before I have to get back...’

You pout your lips at your phone screen as you wait for his response.

cheollie ✨: 😈

cheollie ✨: I have an idea

cheollie ✨: for later

cheollie ✨: I hope you can wear your uniform home

cheollie ✨: see u in a few hours baby

#cherrybomb!cheol #seungcheol smut #scoups smut #seventeen smut #svt smut #scoups scenarios #seungcheol scenarios #scoups imagines #seungcheol imagines #svt imagines #svt scenarios #seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #scoups #seungcheol #svt fic #seventeen fic

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lloydskywalkers · 4 years

Text

any port in a storm

Pixal and Lloyd and the evolving nature of friendship, as highlighted by the regular burning down of your city.

(desperately trying to break through writer’s block and classes again, this was supposed to be under 2k and it is...very much not hdfjkgh but! i’ve been meaning to write for Pixal and Lloyd for a while so here are a whole bunch of feelings about the two of them and s8)

Pixal meets — truly meets — Lloyd Garmadon shortly after his brother’s been blown to pieces.

She says truly, because if you ask her, Pixal will tell you she met Lloyd Garmadon at exactly 8:48 in the evening outside his father’s monastery, moments before a horde of nindroids led there by Pixal herself descended upon them.

But Lloyd argues that since they said about two words total to each other, it doesn’t really count as meeting, and by the time Pixal’s spending the better part of her day with him running high and low around Ninjago City, she’s learned that it’s easier not to press the point.

Lloyd can be stubborn, like that.

She’d first learned that when she’d met him, just after they’d lost Zane. That loss hadn’t lasted long, especially for Pixal, but the immediate aftermath of it had been devastating. She’d watched with blank eyes as the team had fractured, splitting at the seams as they all fled their separate ways, too heartsore and dizzy with grief to do much otherwise.

All of them had fled, save Lloyd. She hadn’t paid him much attention before that point, the surprisingly small bearer of the Golden Power. Of course, he wasn’t the bearer of that power anymore, but his eyes alone had shown the experience of it. There’d been a brief, lost look that had crossed his face as the others had mentioned leaving, before it had been swept under a mask of stubborn, determined blankness. He wouldn’t be leaving. Someone had to stay behind and watch out for things, he’d claimed, even as the loss had bled through his voice.

Pixal hadn’t quite grasped the concept of empathy at that point, but she’d felt something dangerously close to it.

At any rate, the only interaction they’d had alone was brief. In fact, the only one Pixal can truly remember — and her memory never fails — is the quick exchange they’d had in the hospital lobby directly after the battle. The hospital was for Mr. Borg, and for the ninja’s minor injuries.

There was nothing any hospital on earth could do for Zane.

Pixal had found herself next to Lloyd in the waiting room, trying to distract herself from those thoughts while Lloyd stared at the stark white tiling with dull eyes.

“They never mentioned what your power was,” she’d asked him, almost absently. Collecting data, processing information — anything she could do to distract from the crushing grief.

“Oh.” Lloyd had blinked, startling back into awareness. He’d suddenly looked painfully young. “It’s, ah, I guess it’s just green, now.”

It had been Pixal’s turn to blink. “Green.”

“Yeah.” Lloyd had bit his lip, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly, two habits he’ll never quite lose. “I mean — it’s more than that, but it’s like — energy, I guess, is the best way to put it?”

“Interesting,” Pixal had remarked.

“Yeah.”

They’d stared at each other in silence after that, before they’d both been called off to other errands — and then they were having Zane’s funeral and then Pixal was making realizations she never got to tell anyone, and that had been that in her early introductions to Lloyd Garmadon. Quiet, awkward, and possessing an incredible power he hardly even knew the name of.

Looking back, Pixal figures her introduction hadn’t gone much better.

They’d continued as passing acquaintances as time went on, separated by danger and the confines of Zane’s head, and Pixal had figured that’s all they’d ever be. But then their Sensei goes missing and, despite Pixal’s increasing disappearances on Zane as she rebuilds her own body, she’s been given the role of watching out for Ninjago city along with Lloyd.

She quickly learns that quiet is not a term fit for Lloyd Garmadon when you’re trapped alone with him.

************

“How is there not a single station playing actual music?” Lloyd seethes, flicking through the channels almost manically. “It’s two am, who’s gonna be listening to your stupid commercial for toothpaste now, are you kidding me?”

“Statistically speaking, this is the prime time for long-distance driving near Ninjago City,” Pixal supplies, her voice a hint scratchy where it comes through the his car’s radio speakers. “Or, if you factor in the construction in the east district, there could still be traffic from late-night bars.”

Lloyd groans, thunking his head against the steering wheel as another ad screeches through the small space. “Wonderful.”

“Your vocal tones suggest you find it otherwise.”

“Dont trust ‘em, my vocal tones are traitors.” As if to solidify his point, Lloyd’s voice cracks in the middle of his sentence, shooting up an octave higher. Lloyd goes bright red, and thunks his head against the steering wheel again.

Taking pity on him, Pixal aims for reassurance. “It is normal for your voice to break, Lloyd. It shouldn’t last too long.” She pauses, momentarily scanning through another article. “On second thought, this one suggests it could also take two to three years for your voice to stabilize.”

Lloyd gives a strangled moan. “End me.”

“Unfortunately, that would defeat the purpose of why I’m here in the first place.”

Lloyd tilts his head, cracking an eye open as he glances at the camera feed he knows she’s watching him from. “Unfortunately, huh,” he muses. “So you’re saying if Zane hadn’t made you promise to look out for me, you would end me?”

“That — no, that is not — of course I wouldn’t end you,” Pixal backtracks. An odd feeling flickers through her, almost as if she’s lost her place, floundering.

Or embarrassed might be more accurate, she thinks wryly. She briefly considers projecting a a glaring face at Lloyd from the monitor. This is his fault. She rarely stuttered before Lloyd started teasing her at all hours of the morning.

“I mean, you wouldn’t be the first,” Lloyd continues, conversationally. “And if we’re being honest, I’d definitely rather you be the one to off me, instead of like, random bad guy number eighty-five—”

“I know you think you are funny,” Pixal cuts over him. “But casually planning for your death is something Kai listed I was not to let you do. Also, it is not nearly as funny as you think it is.”

“Ouch,” Lloyd mutters, though he looks chastised. “Never mind, you just took me out in one sentence.”

Chastised might be the wrong term.

Pixal studies him through the monitor, then sighs. “I am, however, honored you think highly enough of me to offer the right to murder you,” she gives in.

She’s rewarded as Lloyd breaks into a bright grin.

He still looks painfully young these days, but it’s less obvious. His voice is pitching lower and he wears his hair different, and he’s gained a whip-like tendency to quip at people, as Pixal’s experienced firsthand. Kai calls it sass in grumbling but fond tones, and Nya calls it snark somewhere between the fourth book series she’s sent for Pixal to try.

The ninja have been kind like that, sharing the interests they have in an attempt to make her feel…well, more human, she supposes. Less confined to a voice in a computer. Of course, Pixal isn’t confined to a voice in a computer anymore, but they don’t know that yet. She’ll tell them someday soon, she promises herself. Any day now.

In the meantime, it’s easy enough to keep up with Lloyd by lurking in his car radio, as he spends half his time in there anyways.

************

“You’d think we’d have found their hideout by now,” Lloyd notes, as they wait in a darkened alleyway again. It gives them an excellent view of the major highways, so if the rumored biker gang does show up, they won’t miss it.

If they show up being the key point.

“Whoever their leader is, they certainly know how to keep a low profile,” Pixal answers, closing out another dead end police report in frustration.

“It’s weird,” Lloyd says, propping the notebook he’s sketching in on his knee as he squints at the paper. “Normally the boss types aren’t this quiet. They like to show off, y’know? Make a big scene, dramatic speeches and all.”

“Are you referring to the villains, or yourselves?”

“Touché,” Lloyd snorts. “But still, you gotta admit it’s weird they haven’t even made any demands. What’s their end game here, elaborate advertising for motorcycle design?”

“I would hope not,” Pixal says. “Their color coordination is lacking.”

Lloyd fights back a smile, his pencil scratching as he shifts his notebook again. “I don’t know, I kinda like the punk look.”

“I noticed that, when you tried to redecorate the car.”

“Hey, skulls are cool.”

“They are also conspicuous, especially when they come in acid green colors.”

“Everyone’s a critic,” Lloyd sighs, making a face as he scrubs the eraser across the paper. Pixal tries to tilt the camera further, to see what he’s drawing tonight, but the angle he’s holding it at remains just out of sight.

She could probably guess what he’s drawing, if she tried. The notebook is one they’ve been steadily working their way through on these late-night patrols, the pages filled with little hangman games and Lloyd’s sketches of animals and his teammates. He’s drawn her a few times from memory, and she’s been tempted to ask him to draw her in the new Samurai X armor more than once.

Soon, she tells herself.

“What are you drawing?” she finally asks, curiosity getting the better of her.

Lloyd’s cheeks tinge pink, and he quickly plasters the notebook to his chest, hiding it entirely from view. “Nothing.”

Pixal waits, letting the silence fill with her judgement. “Lloyd, I have seen your drawings before.”

He doesn’t reply, and Pixal tries again. “It gets boring, being stuck with the car monitors for eyes.”

“I know you can hack other cameras,” Lloyd mutters, but he sighs, relenting as he turns the notebook over. Pixal’s eyes rake over the detailed sketch — it’s a comical little thing of her and Lloyd, jammed together on a tiny lifeboat in the middle of a darkening ocean. She can spot the smudges where he’s redrawn her head several times, and the numerous attempts he’s made at his own hair. Pixal studies Lloyd’s portrayal of himself, which is noticeably lacking in facial features. While Lloyd draws the others plenty, it’s a rare occasion that he draws himself, and she can’t help but be curious.

“I thought you were drawing the others again,” she admits.

“They’re on the ship,” Lloyd says, absently. “I’ll draw them when they remember to pull us back in.”

There’s nothing bitter in his tone to suggest it has any bearing on their actual lives, but the lost expressions Lloyd ends up giving their tiny caricatures feel familiar nonetheless.

“Zane has assured me they will be back as soon as they can,” Pixal speaks ups quietly.

Lloyd finally looks up fully, and flashes the monitor a smile. “I know,” he says. “So we better have this thing busted by the time they do, or they’ll never let us run a city on our own again.”

“If only we were truly running the city,” Pixal grumbles. “I could do a better job in two days than the current leaders could do in a year.”

“I’d vote for you,” Lloyd says, sincerely.

It’s a sweet gesture, but Pixal is unable to resist. “You don’t know how to vote.”

“Yes I do, it’s not hard!”

“Really? Then why are you not currently registered in the Ninjago voting system?”

Lloyd makes a strangled noise. “That’s a thing?”

She’s unable to keep the smugness from her voice. “I make my point.” Lloyd scowls, and scribbles a mustache on his drawing of her in revenge.

Pixal thinks it looks nice nonetheless.

************

She can’t really hold it against Lloyd for talking as much as he does, considering she does the same. It gets dull, sitting on patrol for hours on end, and there are only so many hours of light reading they can do before the silence begins to drive them both insane.

Pixal finds herself talking about more useless things with Lloyd than she has in her existence, pointless conversations in circles with each other. She also finds she doesn’t entirely mind. She’s become quite good at quipping back and forth with him, at least. It’s different than the kind of talk she has with Zane, lacking in the depth of feeling with the love they share. Her exchanges with Lloyd are lighter, though that’s not to say they’re less sincere.

For example, Zane hasn’t tried to teach her how to redesign a gi in poor lighting in the early hours of the morning because he’s bored out of his mind, that’s for sure.

“I’m teaching you how to sew,” Lloyd corrects, wincing as he accidentally stabs himself with the needle. “And I’m not redesigning the whole thing, I’m just adding some designs to spice it up.”

“I did not know you were allowed to wear colors other than green,” Pixal comments.

Lloyd pauses, squinting at the monitor. “You’re teasing me,” he finally says. “You’re making fun of how much green this gi has in it.”

“I would never,” Pixal replies, her tone flat and even. “The intricacies of your human humor evade me—”

“Human humor, nice—”

“—unlike the unusually bright shade of green you’ve chosen will fail to evade any eyes of your enemies.”

“I knew you were making fun of me!” Lloyd accuses, then flinches as he stabs his finger again trying to point at her. “And bright colors are our thing. Being subtle is, uh…not. Usually.”

Pixal is losing the battle to laugh at his expression by the minute. “I am shocked.”

Lloyd glares at the monitor, shifting his sewing to rest on his knees as he slouches in the car seat. “How’d you even get so good at sarcasm, anyways,” he mutters. “Zane still doesn’t get it half the time.”

“Perhaps it is part of my glowing personality,” Pixal says. Lloyd gives a huff of laughter, relenting.

“Fair enough,” he says, shifting in his seat again. “Fine, you win. The green is probably too bright, but that’s not the point. I’m gonna show you how to do a backstitch."

Pixal falls quiet, letting Lloyd gesture with the needle as he explains. There are a hundred, a thousand tutorials she could pull up online, digitized knowledge instantly learned on all the countless types of stitches she could use, sorted and categorized in neat columns of use and effectiveness. All of them more detailed, more easily understood than Lloyd’s absent rambling and unsteady hands as he struggles with the end of a knot.

Not one of them will care whether or not Pixal learns the odd way Zane likes to loop his stitches, or will quietly add which stitches knit skin back together quickest.

So Pixal ignores her programming, and does her best to follow Lloyd’s rambling instructions, watching as his scarred fingers tug another thread of dull gold through the green mess of fabric, the city quiet around them.

“You never did tell me where you learned how to sew,” Pixal says, as Lloyd starts up a new thread of black on the other side of the gi. “Was that something the others taught you in training?”

“They’d have to know how to be able to teach it,” Lloyd snickers. “And, uh, no. I taught myself to back at Darkley’s.”

“Oh,” Pixal falters. She’s heard about Darkley’s, both from Zane and the legal reports she’s read online. Neither gave a positive impression of the place. Her mind is suddenly filled with images of a younger Lloyd trying to give himself stitches, and her heart twists.

Lloyd starts, seemingly having picked up on her train of thought. “I mean, I did it for fun, mostly. I like sewing,” he explains. “It’s useful. You can pull things back together, and fix ‘em.”

Pixal is quiet, but she hopes Lloyd takes her silence as agreement with his motive. She likes to think he knows her well enough for that, by now.

************

Pixal finds, somewhere during their fourth month alone, that she’s glad the team elected to stick her and Lloyd together. Not because she doesn’t want to be with Zane — there’s never a moment she doesn’t miss him, and with every day that passes her resolve to keep her secret from him grows weaker, as the longing for actual connection grows stronger.

But there are conversations she can have with Lloyd that she can never have with Zane, and the dangerous thing about spending time with Lloyd, Pixal finds, is that they’re more similar than she’s realized.

“Sometimes I think I’m jealous,” Lloyd whispers to her one night. It’s one of the bad ones, the ones where their enemies struck too sudden to stop, and the mission ends in the hospital. “I think I’m jealous of Zane, and I hate myself for it.”

Pixal is quiet, trying to pick apart the tone of his voice in the words he’s just spoken, and factors in the victims they’ve just left behind at the hospital. She finds herself no closer to an answer.

“Is it the metal skin part?” she finally asks, though she knows that’s wrong. “The, what was it, technical immortality?”

“No,” Lloyd shakes his head. “I’m not afraid of dying,” he says emphatically, his fingers fluttering at over the steering wheel, tapping incessantly with unspent energy. “I don’t want to, but that’s — it’s not what I’m scared of. I’m more scared of how I go out.”

He swallows, and his fingers move to dance over the woven bracelet on his wrist instead, twisting at the tiny beads and tracing senseless designs in constant, steady movement. It’s a motion he does often, and it had puzzled Pixal at first. She’d decided to write it off as an odd tick, a way to spend excess energy.

Now, she recognizes the desperate kind of reassurance that movement gives. She understands too well the need to remind yourself that you can move — that your body will obey you and you alone.

Pixal thinks back to the other factors in tonight’s accident, of the way the drugged man’s eyes had cleared when they’d finally turned him over to the police, the way he’d sworn he’d never do such a thing in his right mind. She thinks of the way the first victim had thrown themselves over their companion.

That victim hadn’t made it to the hospital.

“Ah,” Pixal says, quietly.

She’s silent again, and she thinks back to when she’d met him, the very first time. She recalls the way her programming had rebelled against her in favor of the Overlord, corrupting her body and forcing it against her, twisting everything she was and wanted to be into something different.

She thinks back again, to the searing-hot anger, the terror, the despair as she was torn apart, piece by piece like a machine, burning out at the whims of another. Her end purposeless, her demise belonging to someone else, just like every other part of her.

She thinks of the last glimpse she’d caught of Zane, bright and beautiful as a supernova. Burning with the terrible brilliance of his own, determined choice. Terrible, because the death of something always is. Beautiful, because it was his own. Zane died, not a machine, not a weapon, not a tool of anyone or anything, but as himself. Zane died to save the ones he loves. Pixal could’ve died for spare parts.

Never again, she promises herself. If she goes out, she goes out on her own terms. This time, they choose the end of their own destiny themselves.

In hindsight, it’s the kind of promise they’re both too young to make, but neither of them have ever seen themselves as such, and promises like that are easy.

“Love can be terrible, sometimes,” Lloyd murmurs. Pixal watches him scrub at the blood on his uniform, and thinks how ironically well-timed it is that he finished the stitching on his new gi this morning. “Sometimes I forget how ugly it can be.”

************

The end of their nighttime stakeouts begins with a break-in at Mr. Borg’s tower. Lloyd argues that she should get to call it her father’s tower, if she wants, but the ninja aren’t the only ones Pixal’s hiding herself from.

And then Lloyd gets very tense at the thought of fathers very fast, and they never finish the conversation.

They stay at the edge of the bridge long after the parachute, emblazoned with the unmistakable visage of Lloyd’s father, disappears from sight. Pixal wonders if it’s burned into Lloyd’s eyes, like the way she’s read black spots linger in humans’ vision after they’ve looked at something too bright. The way Lloyd stares at the river, his shoulders tense and his teeth worrying at his lip, she thinks she might be right.

They’re waiting on the report from the commissioner —they’re waiting for anything, anyone who can offer them any explanation of what’s going on. Pixal’s reminded of how much she loathes this kind of waiting.

“It could be—” Lloyd begins, then breaks off, his voice wavering. He swallows, and Pixal can see the way his fists clench tightly from the cameras they’ve put in his car. There’s a fierce part of her that longs to reveal herself, to meet his eyes herself and offer some semblance of comfort. But there’s a time and place for things, and Pixal isn’t ready.

“It could be anything,” Lloyd finally continues, his voice small. “It could — it doesn’t mean anything. It could mean nothing, right?”

Pixal is silent, her mind racing. She’s run the calculations over and over in her head already, scouring the internet for anything related to the bikers. She’s been foolish, she realizes — they both have. Letting the gang go unnamed for so long, thinking nothing of it. Now, with the name flashing vibrant across Pixal’s vision, a part of her wants to let them go nameless just a bit longer.

Before she can answer, Lloyds phone goes off with a sharp ping, just as Pixal’s sensors alert her to the message from the commissioner. Lloyd snatches for his phone like it’s on fire, and Pixal’s already scanning the message frantically, as if she can salvage this if she’s fast enough, save Lloyd from this one pain.

Lloyd’s gotten much better at reading quickly though, these days.

She can pinpoint the moment he reaches the last paragraph, because his breath hitches. There’s a long, pressing pause of silence, Lloyd’s hands trembling as they clutch weakly at his phone. Then it’s punctured by a reedy, wheezing gasp, and Pixal’s suddenly wishing she’d revealed herself after all.

Instead, all she has is her voice as Lloyd crumples, crouching over in visible distress. Pixal’s mind races, recalling everything Zane’s ever told her about his team, the way their panic manifests in different shades. Lloyd’s is quiet but desperate, rapid breathes that stutter as his eyes slide more and more into a frightening kind of blankness.

“Lloyd, please, listen to my voice,” she begs, trying to reach him in the only way she can. “Please, you have to breathe—”

“He’s gone,” Lloyd rasps, unhearing of her words. “He’s s’posed to be gone, it’s supposed to be over, I’m supposed to be done—”

Pixal fights back the sense of overwhelming helplessness. She knows loss. She knows how to finish his sentence. He’s supposed to be done grieving, done mourning, done clinging to false scraps of hope that his father isn’t lost forever only to be met with heartbreak.

And now, to be met with the possibility of something so much worse.

“We’ll stop them,” she tells him, unflinching. “We won’t let it happen.”

Lloyd’s eyes are a vivid green where they stare at her through the monitor, almost ghostly in the misting light reflecting from the river.

He’s silent, but Pixal is, too.

Pixal remembers the way her head had spun when she’d first picked up the traces of Zane in the system, how the world had rushed then steadied, flooding with color as she’d realized he might not be lost after all. She remembers the surging, overwhelming flood of joy, that someone she’d thought she lost might live after all. She remembers being so happy, at even the smallest chance to get him back, because the voice was Zane’s, without a doubt.

She watches the color seep from Lloyd’s expression as his shoulders shudder, the words from the commissioner’s message almost echoing through the air. Watches the terror as the both of them fill the silence.

Will we?

The radio scratches, as if echoing Pixal’s anxiety. Love can be terrible, sometimes. She’s underestimated how it also be so cruel.

************

She’s also, apparently, underestimated how the universe on the whole could be so cruel.

She should’ve revealed herself to them from day one. That way, when Harumi’s corrupted programming suddenly ravages through her like an electric shock, she could be reassured they’d at least be familiar with the person they were fighting.

Instead, she doesn’t even get to scream. Pixal’s only able to force out a desperate, broken warning before she’s lost again, drowning in her own body as she’s forced under. Furious panic grips her as she screams without lungs, bashing herself against the overwhelming helplessness that’s taken over her.

Not again, not again, not again—

Her limbs creak and jolt against her will, lashing out at the people she cares most about, and Pixal can’t even rage back in her own voice. She’s sworn, she’s promised herself she’d never let anyone do this to her again — she’s sworn she’d die before she let someone reach into her head and snatch control away, and yet here she is, frozen as her body’s used to target her friends.

If she could cry, she might.

There’s not much more to say than that. She breaks free, her body her own once again, but by then it’s too late.

************

If Pixal had the same gift of foresight that Zane did, maybe she would have seen it coming. Maybe she’d have remembered how similar her and Lloyd are, and that this kind of pained desperation always yields impulsiveness and mistakes.

She doesn’t, though. She barely even manages to do what she’s trying to, which is convincing Lloyd to join the others while they celebrate their victory. Their off-key singing is something he normally wouldn’t hesitate to join in on, she thinks, and she hates Harumi a little more.

Maybe she’ll try his mother next. The expression on Lloyd’s face screams unapproachable, and remains fixedly sullen.

Almost to her surprise, he meets her eyes as she draws near— it’s odd, being able to meet his back — and his own eyes are dark, from despair over Harumi or despair over his father, Pixal isn’t sure. She’s thinking it might be both, when his eyebrows crease, and a flicker of concern cuts through them instead.

“You good?”

It takes her a moment to realize why he’s asking, but the answer is obvious. Her head tilts downward, and she watches as her fingers curl and uncurl. Her movements, her choices. She lets out an even breath.

“As I can be,” she replies. Lloyd nods, and his eyes are understanding. His lips twist in a scowl.

“She shouldn’t have done that to you. That was a low blow.”

Pixal’s mouth curves into a humorless smile. “That it was. She’s rather good at those, isn’t she.”

Lloyd’s eyes shadow again, and he looks away, crossing his arms. “This isn’t supposed to be about me,” he mutters.

“Yes, it is,” Pixal counters. “It is why I came over here, in the first place. She hurt—”

“All of us, and who’s fault is that,” Lloyd snaps, his arms crossing tighter.

“I would hope you know it’s hers,” she says, holding firm.

Lloyd looks away again, biting his lip, and Pixal shifts anxiously, rolling her wrists. The sensation of control sliding away still haunts her, worse than it had the first time. She should be better than this, she tells herself hotly. She’s lived without a body long enough that losing it so briefly shouldn’t effect her this much.

Curse her programming, she thinks, tapping agitatedly at the banister. She knew she should have reinforce it sooner.

“Hey, um.” Lloyd is looking at her again, hesitant. He twists at his bracelet, and his eyes lose a fraction of that darkness. “Kai made this for me, after Morro,” he says. “I kept shredding the sleeves of my uniform, so he told me to mess with this instead, when I needed to remember that…that I was in control.”

He shrugs, hesitant. “We could make you one too, if you wanted. It helps, having something.”

Pixal lets out a steady breath, despite not actually needing to. The action is grounding, she’s found. “I would like that.”

Lloyd gives her a ghost of a smile in return. “Soon as this is over, then.”

There’s a heavy weight to his words, and Pixal’s eyes narrow.

“Lloyd,” she says. He looks at her, his eyes dark. “Don’t do anything foolish.”

He’s quiet, not meeting her eyes, and this is where Pixal should stop him. This is when she should see the end of the road they’ve been on since they started this, and force him to turn before it’s too late.

“I know what I’m doing.”

She doesn’t.

************

Lloyd is battered and bleeding by the time they drag him onto the ship, a gruesome portrait of cruelty. Pixal is frozen as she watches him writhe in Kai’s hold, his screams cracked and wet as he thrashes erratically like a broken thing.

Nya is already barking orders before they’ve even gotten Lloyd fully on the ship, and Zane is running scans with a horrified, wavering focus. Pixal follows Cole as he carries Lloyd to the medbay with a blank numbness, the rush of wind streaming past the Bounty sails thunderously loud in her ears.

This isn’t Lloyd, she thinks, staring at his crumpled form. Lloyd isn’t this battered, broken shell of a person. Lloyd isn’t hazy eyes that fail to recognize them and frantic murmuring through bloody lips. Lloyd is bright-eyed and gentle and would rather die before he screams the way he does when Cole moves him to the table.

Lloyd is her friend, and this is where that promise they made has led them. She knows why Lloyd set out for the prison, hot on the collapse of his own star. She also knows he wouldn’t have chosen to burn out like this.

Cole calls out for Zane, his voice ringing in panic as Lloyd screeches in pain again. Pixal thinks of quiet words in the safety of his car, and she feels sick. This is the ugliness of love, the terrible, hideous side of it.

And Lloyd would hate it, if he could see himself, if he were any semblance of lucid. He’d hate to know just how much better he was at breaking himself than Morro ever was.

Zane is gentle as he pushes past her, but Pixal can feel the tremble in his hands. He’s every bit as rattled as she is, if not more so — Zane’s heart is larger and softer than hers has ever been, and he cares about each and every one of them with a painful intensity. It’s a cruel thing, to have to pull those same people back together with your own hands.

Kai’s eyes are streaming as he clutches at Lloyd’s wrists, pinning him in place. Zane’s hands waver again over one of the jagged wounds near Lloyd’s ribcage, the green of his uniform already dyed dark in blood, soaking over the careful stitches Pixal watched him put in himself.

Pixal finally finds her footing, reminding herself of the solid wood beneath her feet. She recalls the steady, smooth stitch Lloyd’s scarred fingers traced out for her.

“Here.” She takes the needle from Zane’s hands, squeezing his briefly before letting go. “I can do it.”

She sets the needle against Lloyd’s skin and wonders what kind of stitch it’d take to pull your heart back together.

************

Pixal cannot cry. It’s one of the features Mr. Borg spent hours debating, weighing the pros and cons of giving her the ability before he was truly sure how rust-proof she was. He’d never gotten the chance to, as the Overlord had interrupted him, then Pixal had lost any body to give the ability to cry to, which had eliminated the need entirely.

She cannot cry, but she can hurt, and the rain that streams through her hair, dripping down her forehead spotting raindrops on her cheeks, could be tears if she pretended.

She doesn’t, though, because tears are a waste of water and overall useless in the grand scheme of things. She doubts they’d have helped her fare any better in the battle with Colossi, either.

Tears won’t bring anyone back.

Lloyd cries anyways. She can’t see him, but she can hear it in his voice, the way it wavers and breaks over the radio, nasally tones pronounced.

He’s barely able to gasp a few coordinates to her before he cuts the radio off abruptly. Pixal’s spent enough time with him to envision his scarred fingers snapping it off with a particular desperation, green sparking from his hands in distress.

She reminds herself those sparks are gone, now, bled away into nothing like the vivid green of Lloyd’s eyes had. The thought makes her sadder than she’d expected. She had a joke, about his eyes, she had wanted to make. Now that she has a body, and her own set of glowing green eyes, she’d — there was something he would’ve laughed at, she thought —

It doesn’t matter, now. Neither of them are likely to laugh anytime soon.

The coordinates blink brightly in her vision, and she’s almost surprised she managed to key them in. She’s running on autopilot, she supposes. It could be ironic — she’s been so desperate for control, it’s been so important that she’s the one feeling. Now, she’d give anything not to feel at all.

She lets out a shaky breath, dispelling the mist in her vision left from the rain. She leans forward, just over the edge of the building she’s crouched on, and her loose hair falls forward, silvery and synthetic and horribly tangled. Irritated, she reaches for another hair tie, and her hands falter around her wrist.

Lloyd had promised her a bracelet there. But he’d promised Kai would make the bracelet, hadn’t he, and Kai couldn’t make the bracelet if he was dead, could he.

Pixal blinks, her breath hitching. She’s been so numb to the pain of Zane’s loss, it hasn’t yet occurred to her that she’s losing Kai, too. And Jay, and Cole, and—

She sucks in the same shuddery kind of breath she’s seen Lloyd do, and carefully fists her hand in the area of her uniform above her chest. Her fingers dig in tightly, clutching in a hopeless attempt to feel some sort of comfort she knows she’ll never find.

But perhaps, for these few seconds, she can pretend the action is holding her together.

************

“It was inevitable,” Pixal tells Lloyd blankly, as he rasps out his third apology in the dark cover of their small hideout. “That one of us would fall, eventually. It had nothing to do with you.”

Lloyd swallows thickly. “It could’ve — it should’ve been—”

He doesn’t finish, but he doesn’t need to. Pixal’s hand shoots out, clamping tightly around his wrist, and there’s a beat of gratitude that she doesn’t need to rely on her voice alone anymore.

“Don’t.” Her voice is strung tighter than the tension in their shoulders. “You cannot change anything. You can’t, Lloyd, and you should not wish to — to change it that way.”

Lloyd jerks his hand free, wiping miserably at his eyes. He sets it back down within her reach, though, and if Pixal were any different, she’d take it.

But Pixal isn’t that different from Lloyd at all in the end, and neither of them reach for the other’s hand, no matter how desperately they crave the contact. Fear is more familiar, and it’s easier to give into it than it is the clawing need for comfort in your chest, after all.

“Still,” Lloyd finally whispers. “Still.”

Pixal swallows. She doesn’t disagree. If one of them had to fall, she knows she gladly would have taken it upon herself. She knows the others care for her, certainly, but she also knows her place in the grand scheme of things. They were six before she came along, and even now she’s kept far too many secrets to be fully counted among them.

She listens to Lloyd’s quiet, cracked voice, and she wonders if he’s thinking that they were five before he came along, younger than Pixal got to know him as.

Now they’re three, hollow and heartbroken. Though counting herself as one whole feels like cheating, right now.

Pixal squeezes her eyes shut, and wonders what it’s like to cry. Perhaps it helps, though Lloyd doesn’t look any less miserable.

************

“I was thinking,” Lloyd tells her, during one of the precious few quiet moments they have while trying to overthrow Garmadon and Harumi. Pixal’s turning the tiny tea flower he’d given her over in her hands, a part of her mind already marking articles about flower-pressing, another part wondering if it’s already too late to save the blossom. “About that promise we made, before all this.”

Pixal finally tucks the flower into the pocket of her uniform, pressed close to her chest. If anything, it can be a reminder of the lives that are safe — the life that’s coming back to her, if she has to drag him back from another realm herself. “And?”

Lloyd’s hands twist together. “Maybe we should focus more on staying alive.”

Pixal coughs out a laugh, breathless and startled. Lloyd wrinkles his nose at her, but his eyes are amused, even with their light lost. “I mean, the emphasis would be on keeping everyone else alive, but it’s kinda hard to do that if we’re dead, so…yeah. Priorities.”

“Staying alive should always be a priority,” Pixal corrects him, but she tugs the edge of his armor out of place with a smile.

“Why didn’t you teach me how to graffiti?” she nods at the designs on the green leather. “Or was this another Darkley’s tradition.”

“This is a refined art, called whatever I had on me that showed up on dark green,” Lloyd grumbles, fixing his armor. “I’ll teach it to you when we get out of this.”

“Another reason why staying alive would be a more productive focus,” Pixal points out. “I’ve heard teaching is easier when you’re alive.”

“And I’ve heard you’re a real riot,” Lloyd mutters. “It’s a promise, okay? I promise to teach you how to do cool armor design if you promise not to disappear into another realm on me.”

Pixal nods, adjusting her own armor tighter as screams ring out from a street nearby. “A promise, then.”

She keeps both the promise and the flower, the tiny blossom dried and faded by the time she’s escaped from the prison, heart racing with leftover adrenaline as Zane sweeps her into his arms. She clutches back every bit as tight, listening to his breathless laughter as cheers rise from the streets behind them, the smoke drifting across the early morning sky above them pale against the lightening blue. Pixal buries her face in his shoulder and breathes, tucking the moment away in her heart where it won’t fade. There’s a future stretching out before her, and she’s got the limbs to walk her path on her own, but all she wants right now is the steady ground beneath her feet and the bright laughter of what she’s managed to keep.

Lloyd meets them shortly after, his own promise kept as he tears his gaze from his father, handing him off to the authorities before sprinting for the others. Pixal barely snags a moment alone with him, and even then no one’s particularly keen on letting him out of their sights.

He meets her eyes as they pick their way through the wrecked streets, the city more alive around them than it’s been in weeks. In the dark of the early morning, Pixal’s eyes glow a bright green, reflecting oddly in the windows they pass. It’s always been her preferred color, in contrast to Zane’s bright blue. Lloyd glances at her, his own eerily green eyes glowing back. He bites his lip, but it’s to hold back real laughter this time.

“My eyes were green first,” she tells him.

“Sue me,” he shoots back, before Kai’s throwing an arm over his shoulders again, tucking Lloyd neatly in between him and Nya. Pixal smothers a laugh at the look on his face, and tightens her own arm further where it’s linked firmly in Zane’s.

It’s going to be an easy promise to keep, she thinks.

#lego ninjago #ninjago #lloyd garmadon #ninjago lloyd #pixal #there was a point to this but it got lost in pix and lloyd do arts and crafts #either way i'd die for both these characters #ninjago where is the pixal love i miss her #my fic

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vodkassassin · 3 years

Text

This turned out longer than I intended! @k-l-ng

—

“Where are you going?!” Shang Qinghua demands, voice breaking on the very verge of hysterical.

Liu Qingge pauses in the door. “... Leaving.”

“To where?”

He glares over his shoulder at the An Ding peak lord. “A hunt.”

“No!” Shang Qinghua slams the scrolls in his arms down on the (rarely used) writing desk of Liu Qingge’s (also rarely used) office. His open palms slap loudly against the wood. “Liu-shidi, you can’t! There’s paperwork that you have to fill out for this quarter! Forms I need you to sign!”

Liu Qingge waves a hand dismissively. “Will do them when I get back.” He says.

Shang Qinghua blinks, watching as the taller man once again turns to leave. The An Ding peak lord clenches his jaw and releases a low growl, pushing against the desk. “No!”

A burst of qi enhances the movement, and sends the desk flying across the room to slam into the wall beside the door, barely an inch away from where Liu Qingge is standing. The scrolls and inkwell loll about but come to rest without being much disturbed.

Liu Qingge jerks back. His hand flies to the hilt of his sword, and he whips his head around to scowl incredulously over at his fellow peak lord, whose head is bowed.

“It’ll be too late then, we’ll already be well into the next quarter when you get back. Shidi has to go through the forms now.”

The words come out through gritted teeth. Shang Qinghua, head still bowed and shoulders tense, gripping at his own sleeves as he trembles, sits himself down on the cushion that had once been set before the desk. He lifts his head up, then, to stare at Liu Qingge expectantly, expression dull and flat.

“Shidi has to go through the forms now.” He says again.

“Okay,” Liu Qingge agrees, voice low. He removes his hand off his sword, even though he can still feel the tingling resistance of his fellow peak lord’s qi turning in the air of the confined space of the room.

He reaches out with a foot to prod at the desk that now sits beside him. Nothing happens, so he peers over at the silent Shang Qinghua warily before nudging the furniture a little ways over and sitting down beside it on the hard floor.

Liu Qingge eyes the assortment of scrolls and files with distaste, but he can feel the ceaseless stare of the An Ding peak lord boring holes into his back, so he grabs the first one of the pile and rolls it open.

It takes three hours to get through the whole stack. Shang Qinghua stays for the entire time, not once moving from his cushion, like he thinks that Liu Qingge will give up and leave without finishing the paperwork if he doesn’t stay and watch him to make sure. Which is ridiculous. Liu Qingge would never.

He glances down at the financial statement of the Bai Zhan sect allowance coffers for the last few months and curls his lip as he’s forced to dig around in the papers for the correct corresponding audit report, brush clenched tightly in the white knuckled grip of his other hand.

… Liu Qingge might.

Once he’s finished, he hangs his brush on its hook and glances regretfully at the window. The light of the day is already beginning to dim, giving way to the evening, and the optimal time for setting off on a journey has already passed. He might as well just stay the rest of the night in the sect and leave early the next morning for his planned hunting grounds, at this rate.

The Bai Zhan lord sighs, cracking the knuckles of his hand against his palm, and turns back to look at his uninvited guest. Shang Qinghua seems to have fallen asleep sitting up, somehow, while he was waiting for Liu Qingge to finish. He’s slumped down, head bowed toward the floor in a way that can’t be good for his spine, but nothing a little qi circulation won’t fix.

Liu Qingge climbs up from the floor and rubs the feeling back into his legs. They’re sore, after having been knelt upon for the past three hours without any sort of padding underneath him. Like a cushion. He leaves the desk where it is and crosses the room to nudge Shang Qinghua awake with his foot. He keeps one hand curled loosely round the hilt of his sword, in case the other man decides to blow up at him like he had earlier when Liu Qingge had suggested postponing the paperwork.

Instead, Shang Qinghua goes along with his nudge, falling almost bonelessly back against the cushion. He lifts his head drowsily, and looks up at Liu Qingge with some sort of confusion in his eyes. His gaze is distant, like he’s not quite seeing him yet.

“Did you forget where you are?” Liu Qingge asks coolly.

Shang Qinghua blinks slowly. “... Shidi?” It comes out in a mumble.

“The paperwork is done. Leave.”

“... Mmh….”

Liu Qingge feels his brow tick in irritation. He reaches down and grabs the squirrelly man by the collar of his robes, roughly lifting him up and onto his feet. It’s a harsh but efficient method to wake someone up and have them become fully alert quicker. He uses it on his peak disciples all the time.

Except, Shang Qinghua does not become alert. The moment Liu Qingge releases his collar, the man’s legs buckle beneath him, and the swordmaster is forced to catch him around the waist before he can go sprawling in a heap on the floor. Shang Qinghua’s head falls forward limply, like a doll’s, coming to rest against Liu Qingge’s chest.

It’s in that second that Liu Qingge realizes that something is wrong. Beyond Shang Qinghua having a sudden temper that is incredibly out of character for him, he’s running much too warm. Liu Qingge only wears a modest four layers, but his robes are thickly and tightly woven, purposed for battle and sparring. They’re great for the cold months, as they trap heat in, and work well in the hotter seasons because it takes the sun a bit longer to seep through the weave.

So, Liu Qingge should not be able to feel the heat pulsing from Shang Qinghua’s forehead when the man’s face has only been pressed against his robes for barely a handful of moments.

He fists a hand in the back of Shang Qinghua’s robes and pulls the man back slightly in order to get a look at his face, and curses. Rivers of cold sweat bead down from the An Ding peak lord’s brow, which is creased in pain. His eyes are closed, and from the added weight Liu Qingge is registering, the man might actually have fallen unconscious in his arms.

Liu Qingge glares across the room at the stack of paperwork he’d just finished, as if they are at fault for all his current problems, and then reaches down to scoop up Shang Qinghua’s legs. He hauls the smaller and much lighter cultivator over into his private rooms and lies him out on Liu Qingge’s bed.

Shang Qinghua curls in on himself, a tiny, breathless whimper escaping his mouth as he pants and gasps into the sheets. The cold sweat decorating his face soaks the pillow almost immediately.

Liu Qingge turns on his heel and heads out of the house. He marches down the path until he catches sight of a gaggle of disciples likely wandering from one training ground to another. Or maybe the eating hall, how the hell would Liu Qingge know. What time is it, dinner?

“You!” He calls, and something inside him curls, pleased, at the way all five of them jump at the sound, scrambling to stand at attention the very second they realize it’s him. “One of you go and summon Mu Qingfang. Immediately.”

“Shizun?” One of them asks, confused but nonetheless hurrying to unsheathe his sword and climb upon it before the others have a chance to do so.

Quick wits, that one. Liu Qingge might have to take him out on a hunt sometime. He commits the boy’s face to memory, and turns back toward the house.

“Make it fast,” he throws over his shoulder as he climbs back up the path.

He finds himself standing over Shang Qinghua, staring down at his fellow peak lord as the man lies curled up on his side on top of the covers. Shang Qinghua has his arms wrapped around himself like he’s somehow cold despite the raging fever that’s coursing through his body. Now that Liu Qingge is getting a better look at him, he can see that the man is incredibly pale, paler than can be healthy, and there are smudges beneath his eyes so dark that Liu Qingge isn’t sure how he missed them before. It’s almost as if Shang Qinghua had dipped his finger in soot and drawn them under each eye himself, they’re so distinct.

It makes something uncomfortable twist in Liu Qingge’s stomach. Shang Qinghua looks weak, in this moment, and usually the thought would make Liu Qingge scoff at him, because that is par the course with the An Ding peak lord, but he’s never seen any of his martial family look so… sickly, before.

He’s kneeling stiffly beside the bed when the door is thrown open to admit a frazzled looking Mu Qingfang, who takes one look at them both before marching over and kneeling directly on the bed to hover over Shang Qinghua.

“What happened?” The doctor demands, searching the unconscious and listless peak lord for injuries, his fingers roaming from pulse point to pulse point in an examination of his qi.

“He came to make me do paperwork,” Liu Qingge begins gruffly. “Stayed to make sure I’d do it. I did, but he fell asleep while he was waiting, and when I woke him up…” The swordmaster glares down at his knees, hands clenched in the fabric of his pants.

“What, shixiong?” Mu Qingfang asks, impatient. He’s got his palm pressed over Shang Qinghua’s heart, and the expression on his face isn’t a reassuring one.

“He couldn’t stand,” Liu Qingge grumbles, glare becoming more fierce for all that it doesn’t have a target other than his own hands. “He fainted, so I laid him on my bed and sent a disciple for you.”

Mu Qingfang sits back, both hands now pressed against Shang Qinghua’s chest. The low glow of his qi encircles them as it pours forth and into the An Ding peak lord’s channels.

“Did he seem at all off to you, before that? Was he perhaps acting in ways he normally does not?”

“... Yes.”

Mu Qingfang frowns at him, distracted as he is by his examination of his patient. “That doesn’t really give me any information, shixiong.”

“....” Liu Qingge shifts, like he’s some sort of junior disciple kneeling in punishment for disobedience. It’s what it feels like, almost. “He threw the table at me with his qi.”

The doctor actually pauses. His hands lift off Shang Qinghua as he stares over at Liu Qingge in surprise. The unconscious peak lord groans, and Mu Qingfang quickly returns to channeling him qi, but he still stares at Liu Qingge in shock.

“He… threw furniture at you? Why?”

Liu Qingge clears his throat. He turns his glare back to his knees. “I was leaving, for a hunt.”

“But didn’t you say he had paperwork for you?”

“... Yes.”

Mu Qingfang frowns in confusion. “Then what—” His eyes widen. “Liu-shixiong! You were going to leave without doing it?”

The Bai Zhan lord scowls defensively. “I would have done it when I got back!”

“From what I can recall, it’s almost time for the quarterly reports. If you’d left without doing your share, you would have made Shang Qinghua have to finish it all for you.” Mu Qingfang pins him with a narrow-eyed look. “How irresponsible of you, shixiong, trying to foist your duties off on our already clearly overworked martial brother. No wonder he reacted so violently, especially if…”

The doctor trails off, glancing down at Shang Qinghua as the man shifts under his hands. The An Ding peak lord whines softly into the pillow that’s been soaked in his own sweat, twisting under the covers as if he’s in pain. From how he’s been acting since Liu Qingge woke him up, he… probably is.

“If what?” Liu Qingge demands, rising up part way from where he kneels, eyes locked on the man currently taking up his bed.

But Mu Qingfang’s surged to his feet, distracted now. His patient is waking.

Shang Qinghua blinks up at them with bleary eyes. He only takes the time for a single, confused, wheezing breath before he’s trying to sit up. Both peak lords place a hand on either of his shoulders and guide him back down to the bed. Immediately, the An Ding peak lord looks stricken.

“No, no,” he says, eyes wide and face pale. “No, no, no, no! I need to — I need to go work! I don’t have time to… I—I’m gonna fall behind!”

“Lay down, shixiong,” Mu Qingfang gently insists.

“I’m gonna fall behind,” Shang Qinghua whimpers, tears leaking out of his eyes.

He takes a shuddering breath and brings both hands up, as if he’s contemplating fighting the both of them off, but then he scrubs at his face with them instead and releases another sad, hurt sound that makes Liu Qingge’s stomach tie itself in a knot.

“I’m gonna fall behind,” Shang Qinghua repeats, voice cracking. His eyes are glazed over and tearful.

“Shh, shixiong,” Mu Qingfang soothes, brushing back their martial brother’s sweat-soaked bangs with his hand. “It’s going to be okay.”

Liu Qingge is useless, helping to hold Shang Qinghua down and watching helplessly as the Qian Cao peak lord does his best to comfort him. It doesn't really work, but Mu Qingfang does eventually manage to coax Shang Qinghua back into a fitful sleep.

Liu Qingge crosses his arms over his chest. His hands shake with intensity, and so he clenches them into fists so tight that his knuckles turn a mottled white. He turns to stare at the doctor as the other man finishes tucking the blanket securely around a quietly sniffling Shang Qinghua’s shoulders.

“So?” He demands.

Mu Qingfang is silent for a moment, gazing down at his new patient with an unreadable expression. Slowly, he shakes his head, and Liu Qingge unclenches and clenches his fists as he waits for a response.

Finally, Mu Qingfang sighs and runs a hand through his hair, disrupting its previously neat style. “This should not have happened,” he says quietly. “This should not have been able to happen.”

“What shouldn’t have?” Liu Qingge grits out.

“Any of this!” Mu Qingfang exclaims, and sits back down on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb its sleeping occupant. “He should not have even gotten to this point! His workload shouldn’t be heavy enough to cause any of this, and yet…”

“It has,” Liu Qingge says, and uncrosses his arms in order to wrap his hands around the hilt of his sword. “He’s doing his own workload, in addition to much of the work of the other peaklords, including…” He struggles not to unsheathe his sword, because the only enemy in this situation is himself. His voice lowers a pitch out of shame. “Including me.”

“And me,” Mu Qingfang is quick to add, looking down at his fitfully slumbering patient with a sorrowful expression on his face. “I cannot deny that I have also pushed some of my own responsibilities onto his shoulders, upon occasion. Alone, it wouldn’t be much, but if I and ten other peak lords are doing it, then…”

“The workload grows exponentially,” Liu Qingge finishes, scowling. He gestures with his chin at the unconscious peak lord in his bed, and says, “What else, then? He’s been shouldering it for decades now. If he was going to break under the strain it would have happened before now.”

Mu Qingfang gives a slow nod, reaching out to press the back of his hand against Shang Qinghua’s forehead to check on his fever. The grimace that decorates his face makes Liu Qingge glare at the floor, especially when the doctor gently grabs Shang Qinghua’s too-thin wrist and once again begins circulating qi through the connection.

“His cultivation level is much too high to allow for any natural sickness. His core would flood his immune system and destroy any disease that attempts to take hold. For him to even get sick in the first place, let alone this terribly — his core would have had to face a tremendous imbalance.”

“A qi deviation?” Liu Qingge pushes off the wall and begins to pace furiously. “Impossible. We’d have noticed.”

Mu Qingfang turns his head away, passing qi into his patient in silence.

Liu Qingge stops, and glares at the man. “Someone would have noticed,” he says tightly.

The doctor doesn’t respond. The tenseness of his shoulders, however, speaks for him.

Liu Qingge turns on his heel and storms out of the house.

#svsss prompts #scumbag system #shang qinghua #liu qingge #Mu qingfang #vodka answers #vodkassassin fanfiction #k-l-ng #pre slash #MuShangLiu #mushang #liushang

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viridiave · 3 years

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NARUMITSU <ATTEMPTING TO READ THE SUBTEXT PLATONICALLY>

*Wrote all this some time last month so I might be off- really really off- also full disclosure I too am a Narumitsu shipper- this is just me giving myself a bad time doing the impossible and having fun XD

-I am going to fail sooner or later. Looking at you, Bridge to the Turnabout.

FIRST GAME >Turnabout Samurai -Yep. We're jumping right in with 'unnecessary feelings'. I'm going to be put on a stake for this. -This is going to become the main argument with any and all homoerotic subtext present in the first game- that it was unintentional. They didn't actively start making it gay until the second game, and even before then the producer for the games had to warn the development team not to try and insert these themes for fear of getting it wrong and lose the fanbase they'd accidentally caught the eye of. I can still create arguments for why this specific, hilariously meme-able line could be read romantically of course- but as far as the game development team at the time was concerned this interaction was never meant to be read as romantic. -Unease and uncertainty are... very valid feelings for Edgeworth to feel at this very moment and as much as I'd like to joke that he was feeling uncertain about his sexuality after seeing his childhood friend as an adult, this line was really just likely meant to lead up to the conclusion of Turnabout Goodbyes and Edgeworth's character arc for this game. His perfect win streak had just been shattered in a case prior. In this case, he was meant to persecute the lead actor of his favorite show- and in some ways his helping the defense can be taken as his biases getting the better of him. His sense of justice and his entire worldview is about to be overhauled, and I can see how he would regard this budding doubt in himself as an unnecessary (heh) distraction from what he believes is his true purpose in life.

>Turnabout Goodbyes -Edgeworth wanting to keep him away from DL-6 has its own section mostly because of how stubborn he becomes when it comes to Phoenix's insistence in particular. It's clear that this stubbornness is a front, I will concede with that- but there are merits to his initial reluctance in accepting Phoenix's defense. It's evident that Phoenix himself has grown over the course of the game so far, but in both of the times that he faced off against Edgeworth in court, his victories were... a tad bit contrived. For instance in Turnabout Sisters, Phoenix really only wins because Mia was being channeled and blackmailed White as he was about to leave the stand. Turnabout Samurai is a little better- but had him rely on quite a lot of coincidences (proven later to be substantiated) that surfaced during the trial. This is nothing to say of the deeper reason Edgeworth has over dissuading Phoenix from taking his case ("You in particular I cannot ask to do this.")- where I can make an argument for his pride and/or concern over Phoenix's career as an attorney. The stakes are relatively high here as well- if Phoenix fails, Edgeworth is incarcerated, Manfred von Karma goes free, DL-6 goes cold once again with no hope of getting re-opened, and everything that Phoenix has been working towards as an attorney would have been in vain. DL-6 is a case that has ruined many lives- it'd make sense if Edgeworth himself felt as though it would be a waste of time and effort to take this case because of how convinced he was of murdering his own father prior to Gourd Lake. He'd grown up for the past 15 years with a nightmare and a death sentence over his head- I wouldn't be surprised if he simply gave up and accepted that he was going to die at the hands of his prosecuting mentor. Even if he were acquitted for the murder of Robert Hammond, his perceived involvement in DL-6 would have thrown a wrench in his freedom- any lesser attorney would have given up on that. And this is unloaded BEFORE Phoenix tells him about the true reason as to why he became an attorney. -Phoenix's insistence to defend Edgeworth in this case can easily just be read as platonic- his complete, unfettered faith in Edgeworth's innocence is heavily influenced by that class trial, for better or for worse. While I'm perfectly happy to imagine that Phoenix's attachment to his idealized version of Edgeworth grew into something deeper sometime in the fifteen years that he hasn't seen him, I do believe that Phoenix in particular really is just that much of a sentimental person. This is to say nothing of his nature as a defense attorney- and what little time he's managed to spend with Mia has taught him that unbridled trust in his client is what gets him through the day, and he's putting it to practice here. Edgeworth was what he has been working towards the moment he decided he would practice law- as Phoenix at this point in time still believes that he could do no wrong despite seeing what Edgeworth is truly like in court. -Cutting into the meat of Phoenix and Edgeworth's shared past, I made a point earlier to say that Phoenix's perception of Edgeworth as a person is idealized. Every memory that Phoenix has had of Edgeworth prior to the events of the first game were from their childhood- and they had 4-8 months (plus one year if we're generous with the retconning some of the official art gave us) MAX to develop a friendship so strong that Phoenix makes major life decisions just to meet with this man. The fact that this time spent together was ENOUGH for Phoenix in the first place is... really hard to skirt around. To quote Dan from GameGrumps "this is something that you would only do for someone you're trying to marry" and if one of them was a woman I guarantee this ship would be canon already. But then again- since this is Phoenix Wright in particular somehow I can believe that he really is just that sentimental- and that isn't always a bad thing. He'd managed to save Edgeworth twice with this conviction after all. When Phoenix sees Edgeworth, he doesn't see a demon prosecutor, he sees his childhood friend who aimed to become a shining example of justice following in his father's footsteps. They address how shaky his foundations for becoming an attorney were in the Phoenix Wright Files once actually- going through a mini-existential crisis because he'd become an attorney with the main goal of saving Edgeworth from what he'd become, and now that he's accomplished that he's just kind of... lost. Edgeworth himself manages to pull him out of this, though. -man that hurts my case a lot actually but to be fair I was banking on failing -I just didn't expect it to happen so early even with the first game -in fact ESPECIALLY with the first game -though I cannot for the life of me wonder how I can come up with a heterosexual explanation for why the buildup towards Edgeworth telling Phoenix and Maya about his nightmares reads so much like a stunted love confession. I'm serious- just read any high school shojo manga ever. You'll find that it hits a lot of the same beats.

>Rise From The Ashes -It's in this case that we observe some of the consequences that the intial upheaval of Edgeworth's worldview in Turnabout Goodbyes causes him; distrust in the enforcement of the law. Not exactly the time for him to be dabbling in another, meme-able brand of unnecessary feelings. Several things like the Prosecutor's Office's relationship with the Police Department starts to waver with the murder of Bruce Goodman, and this becomes the final nail in the coffin for Edgeworth's worldviews and values as a prosecutor. His and Phoenix's teamwork in this trial becomes prevalent- the story behind the King of Prosecutors award represents this best despite it's currently incomplete state. The backstory behind this award paints an ideal of justice in the courtroom wherein the truth comes out as a result of the efforts of contradictory forces. A broken halberd that can cut through any shield (the prosecution) and a broken, unbreakable shield (the defense). Read as representation the text becomes something of a metaphor for the ideal justice that manifests itself in the best parts of Edgeworth and Phoenix respectively- the duality of their opposing professions rather than something that is limited to their relationship. -The same argument that I've used for Phoenix's unwavering belief in Edgeworth's innocence in Turnabout Goodbyes can be used for this case as well. -Though Edgeworth still goes M.I.A for a year after this case, it does grant his disappearance a bit more context as to why exactly it is that he left- and I'll be taking a tiny liberty with this and apply the interpretation that the Miles Edgeworth Files grants us, and that he left in order to better himself and grow as a person, a prosecutor, and as a friend to Phoenix Wright. It's... difficult for me to want to read this as anything but romantically-charged because the narrative beats are NOT lost on me (the dialogue makes this especially hard. send help.)- there's a possibility that Edgeworth at this point in time realizes the value in having a better, more functional dynamic with the one defense attorney who he considers a true equal in court. This dynamic will allow for less chances to encounter missteps and errors in any verdicts handed down in court, and if Edgeworth is to pursue his ideal of justice- Phoenix Wright is undoubtedly essential to this endeavor. The aftermath of Rise From The Ashes is indicative of this newfound goal of his- the symbolism behind the old King of Prosecutors award and the two halves of the evidence list certainly helps this case. -<"It seems all you do is worry about me." -Miles Edgeworth, Rise From The Ashes> For good fucking reason Edgeworth. You were accused of murder and have implicated yourself on the stand for DL-6 just a few months ago- and if the Investigations games are anything to go by, you're more of a danger magnet than PHOENIX is. I had to say it. The first Investigations game takes place over the course of 2-3 days and the sheer amount of shit that Edgeworth had to deal with in between that interval truly makes me wonder how Phoenix Wright ended up with the title of danger magnet. And THIS time- Edgeworth's car becomes a crime scene because his corrupt superiors needed a convenient way of transporting a corpse. There's VERY good reasons to worry about the livelihood of Miles Edgeworth. -Okay I... can't believe I forgot about the chessboard. Here's the kicker- the one we see from his office isn't even the only one he owns. I... legitimately cannot give you ANY purely heterosexual, platonic explanation for why Miles Edgeworth has THREE (THREE. I CANNOT OVERSTATE THIS. HE HAS T H R E E OF THESE FUCKING THINGS. GOOD GOD. HE CAN'T BE ANY MORE EXTRA.)(there exists a similar, portable set in the Investigations games- and he has a new set by the time of Dual Destinies) sets of custom-made chessboards with personalized, highly-specific red and blue designs made purely to depict his rivalry with Phoenix Wright. I fold. I give up. I forgot about the chessboards I wAS NOT EXPECTING TO FAIL THIS E A R LY- -You know what the real kicker is with Rise From the Ashes? The main argument that I have introduced back in Turnabout Samurai does not apply here. Rise From the Ashes was made as a DS-exclusive case and did not exist in the original GameBoy version of the Trilogy. Which means if there is homoerotic tension written in for this case (and there happens to be a lot. the chessboard is proof enough.), then we can safely assume that the writers at this point were well-aware. So yeah- maybe don't feel TOO bad about the unnecessary feelings line- because ever since then the writers have been playing off of that and it SHOWS. -Is there really a point to this I'm just- everything is stacked against me tryna interpret this platonically -Like I know I make a point to say that a romantic relationship isn't the end-all of all relationships because this franchise LOVES pushing the Found Family dynamic and I'm an absolute sucker for that -good god by the time Dual Destinies rolls around I'll probably just give up and happily say they're happily married -that's literally what they act like don't even pretend

#narumitsu #wrightworth #ace attorney #gyakuten saiban #phoenix wright #naruhodou ryuuichi #miles edgeworth #mitsurugi reiji #i'll probably write more once school blows over #so have the first game for now #trust me i tried #maybe i'm just not an anti-shipper and that's why i failed #uh feel free to set the comments on fire #but like civilly #we're all here to have fun okay #even if fun means shipping

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gffa · 4 years

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SO WHAT THE HELL IS THE MORTIS ARC? After about the second time I watched this arc, my thoughts ran towards the idea this was Star Wars in a microcosm, the story of Anakin Skywalker’s fall in miniature form, as so many things in Star Wars basically come down to being about Anakin, whether literally about him or an echo and rhyme of the story that he is the very center of. Which I think still has a good amount of merit to it, but in the rewatching of this arc yet again, there’s a bigger arc that jumped out at me so much more clearly, now that I’ve spent more time with the structure and lore of Star Wars. That this arc is entirely a metaphorical extension of Anakin’s internal struggle between the light and the dark. It’s a manifestation of the Chosen One struggling to choose between good and evil. Now, to be clear, the Father and the Son and the Daughter are all real beings that really existed, Dave Filoni has said that pretty clearly on podcast interviews, as well as said more than once that he and Christian Taylor specifically decided not to answer What The Fuck Was That!? about this arc, because they felt it would rob the viewers of speculation about it, as well as the questions that you’re meant to ask after watching it. There are so many, many moments in this arc that are call-backs to important moments in Anakin’s life, major events and choices he makes along his path in life, as well as commentary from the Father and the Son and the Daughter about who and what they are, what influences them. In “Overlords”, Obi-Wan and Anakin and Ahsoka find themselves stranded on a mysterious planet, immediately approached by the Daughter and asked if he is indeed the Chosen One. All three of the Mortis lords are intensely interested in Anakin, each of them try to protect him, seduce him, or just try to understand if he really is the Chosen One. While he’s staying in the Father’s sanctuary, Anakin has a vision of his mother, which he’s deeply affected by, but realizes it’s not really her. He storms out of the room and goes to confront the Father, thinking that these are Sith Lords. But the Father says, no, we’re not Sith or Jedi, we’re bigger than that, like you are. His explanation is: “We can take many forms. The shapes we embody are merely a reflection of the life force around us.” In other words, they take the shape that Anakin’s presence imbues them with. They’re real on their own, but their forms here are shaped by the Chosen One.

But the Chosen One is a myth, right? Well, the Father would very much like to know. So, the entire rest of the episode is about hurtling the characters--hurtling Anakin, as the Chosen One--towards a test. A test that isn’t just about “hey, are you the Chosen One or not?”, but almost every single time the Father says what he has to do--face your guilt and know the truth, you have to release the guilt and choose, only you can do this. It’s about trying to make Anakin look within himself, look at his guilt and fear and pain, and acknowledge them, face them, and choose whether he will embrace them or let go of them. Which is E X A C T L Y how the Force works, how the Jedi have always said the Force works. It’s Luke having to face his fears in the cave on Dagobah, it’s the Jedi younglings having to face their fears on Ilum, it’s Ezra having to face his fears in the Lothal Jedi Temple, it’s Rey having to face her fears in the cave on Ahch-To. [x][x] FACE YOUR FEARS, YOUR GUILT, YOUR ANGER. FACE YOUR DARK SIDE.

The planet is the Force and that’s how the Force works. Anakin uses the Force to make the Daughter and Son let them go, but refuses to stay on Mortis (and, honestly, doesn’t really do any self-examination or releasing of his guilt, he hasn’t changed internally at all), so they try to leave, but they’re still trapped there. Which is where “Altar of Mortis” picks up. Because Anakin is still giving shape to the manifestations of the Father, the Daughter, and the Son.

“You’ve chosen the dark side and allowed it to feed your anger and desire for power,” the Father says. “By bringing the Chosen One here, you’ve shown me my potential,” the Son answers. And then moments later, he kicks the Father down the stairs (because he’s HOLDING HIM BACK! by not dying fast enough) and screams:

Even aside from time not being linear in Star Wars, we’ll see later that this trilogy of episodes is very aware of Revenge of the Sith and other important moments in Anakin’s life. This moment, screaming in rage, “I hate you!” cannot possibly not remind us of Anakin screaming the same thing at Obi-Wan in ROTS. Which is yet another moment that’s about Anakin, just as so many other moments are about him, cool little moments of echoes and rhymes, that Star Wars likes to make references and homages to itself, but there are enough of them done with such clear purpose here that I don’t think it’s just Rule of Cool, but instead an intentional narrative purpose behind them.

There are more, but those ones are the ones that really jumped out at me, important moments in Anakin’s story, ones that reflect his fall into the darkness. The moment he caught the saber and attacked Dooku as a choice he couldn’t take back (and was itself an important moment because it was a mirror to Luke’s choice to not kill Vader in ROTJ, even after cutting off his arm in a rage, as Anakin did to Dooku as well) and the moment he very much intended to kill Obi-Wan on the Death Star, these are classic moments that evoke our knowledge of Anakin’s path. And what does all this do? It further feeds what’s going on with the Mortis lords.

Everything pretty much goes pear-shaped at this point, Ahsoka dies, the Son accidentally stabs the Daughter instead of the Father-- Which, in and of itself is an interesting parallel to Anakin, his sister the only one he professes to truly love, he’s the one that winds up killing her, despite his intentions, but then we see he also very much loves the Father, he doesn’t want him to die, he’s distraught when it happens, even though he was the one who engineered it, just like Anakin being the thing that really breaks Padme’s heart/causes her death even without his intentions to do so, just like Anakin in “There is Another” in From a Certain Point of View where his heart explodes with loneliness after Obi-Wan dies, so powerfully that Yoda feels it from literally all the way on the other side of the galaxy. --but Ahsoka is saved through Anakin being the one to channel the last of the Daughter’s energy into Ahsoka, while the Father guides him, the Son fucks off to who knows where, and “What the fuck do we do now?” knowing that the Son wants their ship to leave with. This is where “Ghosts of Mortis” starts up, and the announcement furthers our themes:

“A great weight has been placed on Anakin’s shoulders, for it is now that he must face who he really is.” Not just that he has a choice to make, about what to do about the Son or Mortis, but that this still has to be about discovering who he himself really is. Because Anakin has never yet really looked inside himself or faced his guilt and pain. Which is when he runs into Qui-Gon’s ghost, as he’s trying to find the Son, and wham does it deliver on all of this:

Qui-Gon’s words aren’t just “bring balance to the Force”, but specifically this is indicated to be done through facing his demons will he save the universe. Anakin, sliding right by that point, asks if he should just kill the Son or just leave? And Qui-Gon’s answer is that Anakin’s not looking at this in the right way, that there’s another way to deal with this and it’s exactly the one that the Jedi have been teaching for as long as we’ve known them, that the Force has constantly been throwing into the paths of the Jedi, because it’s so necessary to becoming a Jedi: Face the dark parts of you and work past them. This is why Qui-Gon’s words are so important--it’s not just that this is an echo of Empire Strikes Back where Luke has to face the inner demon of the specter of Darth Vader (it wasn’t an external threat in that cave on Dagobah, that was all about “what you bring with you”, as Yoda says, that was all about Luke’s fears surrounding him), that it’s not just that Qui-Gon says Anakin has to go to a place strong in the dark side but he has to remember his training. Qui-Gon’s ghost visited Obi-Wan earlier, asking, “Have you trained the boy as I asked?” And now he says, “Remember your training.” because this is what Jedi do, this is what they train themselves for, and why Qui-Gon says it to Anakin here. This is what you’ve been taught to do--go to the dark place and face your demon. That’s the Force, that’s how it works. And further to that, how the Force works, how Star Wars works, is that it’s about choice in those moments. When you’re at the crossroads, it has to be your own choice. You can ask others for advice and guidance, those things can be incredibly important, but at the end of the day, Star Wars is about “only Anakin can choose”.

So, Anakin does indeed go to face the Son in the place strong in the dark and the Son forces him to look within himself. To know himself.

He sees his future self and actions, he’s so distraught by them, that instead of being able to face them and pass through those fears, he’s consumed by them, he agrees to help the Son, falling to the dark side--poison yellow eyes of the fully embraced dark side and all--to try to avoid what’s coming. The thing is, Anakin never really confronts his fears, demons, or guilt. He’s consumed by them instead. It happens because he’s trying to avoid it, but he still falls to the dark side all the same, because he listens to the Son dripping poison in his ear, because he sees an easier way out than the hard work of disciplining himself against the dark side (which George Lucas says is how you resist it, the only way to resist it), because the other way seems too impossible and too scary. Anakin’s story has always been about how he can’t bear to look at himself and his choices and then make the choice--and stick to that choice--to do and be better. His story has always been about his fears ran rampant inside him because he didn’t want to let go of the feelings that made him “special”, he didn’t want to listen to the Jedi when they told him to get a grip, he wanted to listen to Palpatine who told him his feelings should be held onto instead of let go, that they made him special, made him better than those other Jedi, that his hate and rage and fear were justified in being held onto. And that’s exactly what the Mortis arc is--a reflection and shape of Anakin’s story, that each of them were about the internal struggle he faced. That Anakin didn’t make these choices in one bad day. He made this choice over and over again. When he chose to dig his fingers into his feelings and hold onto them, listening to Palpatine’s poisonous words. When he chose to do a monstrous thing on Tatooine to the Tuskens and their children, but ignored what that said about him. When he killed Dooku, unarmed and for the sake of revenge and his rage. When he chose to maim Mace Windu and lead to his death, choosing Palpatine and the Empire instead of the Jedi and the Republic. When he chose to attack the Jedi Temple and kill the younglings, leading him to feel unable to ever go back, that his actions had to be justified or else he murdered innocents for nothing. When he chose to Force choke Padme, which lead to broken heart and her inability to live, after the terrible things he’d done. When he chose to attack Obi-Wan again and again, despite being warned, leading him to the Darth Vader suit. When he chose to refuse to accept the vision the Force put in his head in Dark Lord of the Sith, that Obi-Wan still would have forgiven him and helped him, when he rejected that and said, “No. [The dark side] is all there is.” When he, again and again, chose to reject acknowledging that all these Jedi took different paths that he himself could have done (Jocasta Nu, Ferren Barr, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Eeth Koth, they were all paths he could have walked instead, even then). When he chose to kill Obi-Wan, despite that Obi-Wan had stepped back and refused to fight anymore. Anakin Skywalker desperately wanted to be good, there wouldn’t be a struggle or a story there worth telling if he weren’t. The ending of Return of the Jedi wouldn’t have the power and impact it did, if Anakin hadn’t had embers of goodness in him that couldn’t be snuffed out, no matter how hard he tried. But I think Mortis is an arc that’s about manifesting the internal struggle, that these Force Lords took the shapes they did because they were feeding off him, as the Chosen One, the center of this massive web of destiny. And that’s why Anakin’s choices on Mortis, his struggles and the warnings he receives, are the same ones that are part of the bigger themes of Star Wars’ Skywalker Saga, and just what the hell was going on. It was Anakin Skywalker’s struggle with the dark and the light--including that the dark won, with small pinpricks of hope and light left alive--literally made manifest and acted out with these players.

#obi wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #ahsoka tano #qui gon jinn #mortis #mortis arc #the father #the son #the daughter #meta #long post #really long post

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tvpeongsstuff · 3 years

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Supreme Emperor Obiwan Kenobi

New story idea.

After Mustafar Obiwan and vader do not have another run in for a few years. But, the first time they do Obiwan makes one of his distract my enemies while fighting comments. Vader gets distracted and loses again and Obiwan runs away. It keeps happening.

At first vader does not realize what this means until he and one of his henchmen (inquisitors?) get into a fight with Obiwan and Obiwan starts flirting with the henchman like he does when he is fighting his enemies and turns to vader and flirts with vader like he does with his enemies.

Anakin Skywalker, Obiwan Kenobi's padawan/brother/son, realizes that he is now just another sith obsessed with Obiwan. And, that to Obiwan he is no different than Ventress, or Dooku, or Grievous!

He doesn't handle that knowledge well. He goes even more crazy looking for Obiwan. He cannot handle being just anything to Obiwan. He starts looking for ways to increase his power tenfold. He starts training like crazy.

He pays top dollar for holorecordings (old or new no questions asked) of Obiwan fighting against other darksiders, criminals, and imperials. There are a few new videos. If any of them get in a lucky strike, vader makes them fight him. Inquisitors, the criminal underworld, and officers start getting chopped to pieces or killed. The imperials that survive get cybernetic parts. There are also a lot of older videos of Obiwan fighting with other Jedi, especially Anakin Skywalker. Those were supposed to be destroyed after the fall of the Republic. They make him feel...

Unbeknownst to both vader and sidious, the rebellion realize what's happening and start using vader's obsession to get vader to turn his sith fury on the complacent core worlds. They were the ones comming the info lines saying that Obiwan was on X planet or Y planet. Then when vader and his troops show up, they would broadcast the carnage. And, they carry out covert operations on other planets as they know those planets are vaderfree. For example, creating a spy network on Naboo, moving ammunitions through planet A.

The Rebellion recruits Obiwan to their cause. Bail reaches out to him, tells him the plan. They need him to distract vader. It's twofold: They don't want vader getting suspicious and they need vader to keep destroying coreworlds. He needs to be filmed looking heroic, walking through rich districts, passing by Core senators mistresses second homes, in the same are as a new important imperial's kept man (misters?). He is going to be their Katniss Everdeen (an ancient hero). People are going to get hurt but every jedi knows that the good of the many outweighs the good of the few or the one.

It works! If there is a rumor that Obiwan is on a planet, vader shows up with squadrons and tear the area apart, torture people for information, etc. This backfires on him because he razes so many places the empire can't completely censor the videos before they get out. People stop calling in as much, no matter how good the bounty.

Palpatine is at first happy with vader's obsession. He's all, "Give in to the power of the dark side" and he loves cyborgs. But, vader is single minded in his pursuit. It's like he transferred all of the love he had for Obiwan into this chase. Palpatine knows how much Anakin loved Obiwan so...on the one hand let vader find him and kill him, cementing palpatine's rule and ensuring vader's complete loyalty. On the other hand, vader is wrecking core planets and undermining his hold right now.

Sidious orders vader to stop and concentrate on other things. Vader does not listen. He receives a holo showing Obiwan on Naboo visiting Padme's memorial. He freaks out, goes to Naboo, takes the entire 501st and the 212th. He questions the queen. He rips apart members of Naboo's ruling class. He breaks public monuments. His purge troopers pull people out of their homes and beat citizens in the street. All of this is being broadcast galaxy wide.

Naboo's gentry are comming palpatine on his private line complaining and asking him to control his maniac. The rebel broadcast and the regular broadcast are wondering if this new empire is going to keep infringing on the rights of citizens? Are the people hurt by the rampaging vader going to have any recourse? Perhaps they should return to a republic? Sidious can't let this stand. He looks weak. Vader is destroying his home planet and ruining his image.

He leaves Coruscant and goes to Naboo. This was all part of a plan by the rebellion and it worked perfectly. They sneak Obiwan into Coruscant. They needed both vader and the emperor off planet so that no one powerful would be around to sense Obiwan. The rebellion are going to rally support to their cause, build up the capital's spy network, and film holos of Obiwan on planet to play at a later date to embarrass the empire.

On Naboo, vader is mourning at Padme's tomb when sidious catches up to him. The rebellion have set up holo cameras to spy on vader's every move. Breha told them to set up low tech motion detector cameras at the tomb. When the emperor comes in he berates vader and shoots force lightning at him while Vader writhes on the ground and screams in pain. It all gets captured on holo.

S: "I do not care about these morons, Lord Vader. But, you need to get yourself together and stop embarrassing me. Use your grief to channel the power of the dark side!"

Vader (gasping and panting): Yes my master

S: You have been letting Kenobi make a fool of you. Perhaps he is better than you? Perhaps you do not truly want to kill him? Did you forget how he turned on you and cut you down? Do you not want your revenge?

Vader: Yes I want my revenge

Sidious: Good good apprentice. When next you meet pull on the dark side of the force. Show Kenobi what you are capable of. Let him be the one to suffer.

V: Yes master

S: Good we leave at once for Coruscant. Gather your men.

Meanwhile Obiwan had met with senators and businessmen sympathetic to the rebel cause. He's gone down to the lower levels and spread hope amongst the poor and downtrodden. He's used the force to heal. He's filmed at the barracks and the senate. Finally, he's at the jedi temple. Obiwan has been making poignant propaganda films. Now, he has to make one about the fall of the republic and the murder of the jedi. He does. It's heart wrenching.

He talks about life in the jedi temple. He talks about the camaraderie and love all the jedi are raised with, how he didn't realize people thought jedi were baby stealers. He explains that the jedi only took unwanted children, or children whose parents could not help them with their powers. Every jedi who wanted to could leave the order. No one was kept by force. All jedi were educated on their culture and traditions. And, he talks about that final day, the murder of the jedi in the temple, the slaughter of the younglings. . He talks about finding all their bodies after, the futile search for survivors, the desperate he harboured. He cries.

The rebellion thought that they would have more time. The emperor was supposed to stay on Naboo as is his wont and make nice with his fellow men. They did not expect him to come back immediately with vader, two starships full of clone purge troopers, and 7 inquisitors. They realize they cannot get Obiwan off planet. It's too late. Vader and sidious have sensed his presence.

Obiwan makes a decision. He could die trying to escape or he could make a heroic last stand. He has the rebellion set up holo cameras all around the area and go into hiding. He tells them to broadcast his last recording. Hopefully it will rally people to their side when he diies. They have to get themselves to safety. Obiwan knows he has to push vader into killing him quickly. He hides all of his most sensitive information deep behind his strongest shields. Then he meditates. He is as ready as he'll ever be. He has to trust in the force.

Sidious knows that this is the perfect PR opportunity. He has to counteract Obiwan's emotional appeal. He sends Vader with all the troops and inquisitors after Obiwan. Vader knows better than to fail him but back up couldn't hurt. Obiwan must die! He also orders all the empires holos to broadcast the fight throughout the galaxy. He goes to the senate and announces that "there have been reports that the jedi terrorist Obiwan Kenobi has been spotted on Coruscant. Not to worry. Not to worry. I have sent Darth Vader to deal with him. At long last we will be rid of the jedi menace and our glorious empire can finally know peace." This is also broadcast throughout the galaxy from the senate cameras.

The fight starts. It's epic. Obiwan battles Vader and the Inquisitors from the jedi temple to the senate rotunda. He knocks out 3 inquisitors and badly injures 2 more. He catches blaster bolts and directs away from him back to his enemies. He keeps flirting, and making jokes and puns. Vader is enraged. He starts fighting horribly. He loses focus and jumps in the way of his inquisitors. (They already know he's obsessed with Obiwan Kenobi and the suspect if one of them land the killing blow vader will destroy them.) He chops off one of vader's hands.

Obiwan: Did I unhand you? That must burn.

Vader becomes apoplectic. How is Obiwan beating him? Again? He remembers what sidious said and starts pulling on the dark side of the force. Vader is literally pulling all of the darkside energy on Coruscant into him. Here's the thing, there is no true dark side force energy. There is only the force that can be used for dark purposes or light purposes. The way the force is used taints the force around the user. Vader is actually pulling the force away from darksiders like the Sith.

Vader begins the drain Coruscant of its dark energy. He pulls the force out of all the inquisitors that surround him, draining them. This knocks all of them unconscious. He needs more power! He pulls on the dark energy around him that has been clouding the force on Coruscant. He pulls even harder. Several weak dark side senators fall unconscious. Dark side users around the planet start passing out. Still Vader needs more power!

Palpatine feels a drain on his powers. Too late he grasps what's happening; he tries to reach out to vader. "Stop! Stop!" he screams, " Stop this at once Lord Vader!" He tries to raise his shields but he and vader share a connection, sneakily placed there by him while vader was still a child. Usually the connection goes one way. He pushes doubts, fears, dreams, and pain on vader and sits back and enjoys the emotional turmoil. Today vader has blasted that connection wide open and is taking all of the force from him. He falls unconscious.

Obiwan Kenobi can see dark energy flowing into vader. Dark energy from teh inquisitors on the ground, dark energy swirling in from the air, an ocean of dark energy coming to him from the senate. Vadear is swarming in dark energy. Obiwan can feel the turmoil, rage, and hate. It feels like....anakin skywalker throwing a tantrum when he didn't get his own way as a child.

Obiwan knows how to deal with this, probably Anakin's biggest darkest tantrum. He opens the bond he has with anakin a little, looks into anakin, puts the right amount of force into his suggestion and says "Sleep." Vader collapses and Obiwan catches him with the force.

The flow of energy into vader immediately starts to slow down. From their connection Obiwan can sense all the people vader has been sucking dry. If vader stops draining them they will wake up, so Obiwan keeps the flow going.

All this time the battalions have mostly been standing by idly. They were ordered to take shots to incapacitate or distract the jedi, unless he somehow won. Then they were to kill him. They start firing immediately. With Obiwan's focus and the energy of all the darkside at his fingertips Obiwan is able to catch every single bolt blast. He starts moving towards the senate following the ocean of darkness, parting bolts in front of him like he is parting water. Some of the troops try to run up to him to fight him but they get caught and stuck. He is floating vader and the inquisitors behind him. The caught troopers start floating along with them also. As they pass, the bolts fire.

In the senate, chaos reigns. A few senators and the emperor have collapsed. Medics have been called for them. On their screens, Jedi master Obiwan Kenobi has bested Darth Vader and his inquisitors. He is walking through the blaster bolts of thousands of troopers. He has proven himself unkillable and now he is coming straight for them. Some of the weaker members of the senate try running away. Others call out to the Coruscant senate guards to protect them. An enterprising member orders the doors sealed. It makes no difference.

Obiwan Kenobi enters the senate. and jumps to the emperor's hover chair. Vader is hovering behind him still but he has left the inquisitors and the clone troopers at the entrance to the senate. The troopers are still firing at him indiscriminately. He is catching the bolts and directing them to the walls. He looks down at the emperor who is being treated by a medidroid, throws the droid away with the force, and closes his eyes for a few seconds. All the cameras are on him. Every household in the galaxy is watching. This is being projected to every screen on every warship. Imperial officers the galaxy over are watching from their posts.

He opens his eyes

Obiwan: By the ancient laws of this senate, and pursuant to charter 9 as set forth in the old republic, I name myself the vice chair of the senate Obiwan Kenobi. Alpha Tango Abera Cadebera Seven Five Thirteen.

There is a pause. Then a flurry of sound as all of the technology in the senate updates at the same time. The ancient code of the senate computers accepts Obiwan's passcode and turns the full power of the senate over to him. All connected systems update also.

Obiwan: Commanders execute order 4. Cancel order 66 and stop shooting.

All the clones stop shooting.

Obiwan: All powers are hereby handed over to me and whatsoever remains of the Jedi order. I declare myself Supreme Emperor Obiwan Kenobi.

Part 2

#Supreme Emperor Obiwan Kenobi #star wars #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #au #star wars fanfic #fixit #post order 66 #obi wan kenobi #darth vader #sheev palpatine #bail organa

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iaintyourbro · 4 years

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Imo Tifa is Cloud’s real catalyst. Some people say it’s Aerith... yeah sure... she is in some way, but only on soldier Cloud in OG. Like, in the first place he wanted to be someone strong hence why he became soldier, cuz of Tifa. She saved & brought real Cloud back in the lifestream. She vented and knocked some sense into him to bring him out of his misery. Why does everybody sleeps on Tifa’s efforts like 🤷🏻‍♀️

Hey anon.

I honestly have a very difficult time comprehending it myself. Generally when I play these games the first time, I take them at face value. I think most people do that. From a logical standpoint, the first time a person plays OG, they probably do think that Aerith is meant to be the love interest because she’s pink and cute and a white mage type of character.

This is the fun thing with stereotypes... Whether or not there’s any romantic interaction between Cloud and Aerith, people automatically assumed the moment he wakes up in that church that she’s the love interest. I think this was also done on purpose to further the whole illusion thing. It used people’s preconceived ideas about romance against them.

In Remake, they make it much more obvious that Cloud has an issue with his memories and personality, and that his subconscious is heavily attached to Tifa. He stares at her constantly.

Aerith then dies. In real life we do not continue to pursue dead people that we knew for a very short amount of time. That seems... ridiculous. They also don’t really dwell on it in game. After her death, she’s not mentioned again until they’re trying to figure out what to do with meteor. This is well past her death.

You first go snowboarding and through all of the Icicle Area, then up to the Northern Crater where you’re slammed with the line from Cloud that Tifa’s opinion is the only one that matters to him, then Cloud falls into the Lifestream. Then we get Tifa who is very upset about everything, almost gets executed, has to slap a bitch a few times, gets back on the Highwind, and her number one priority is to save Cloud. You get him back and go on some more Huge Materia missions, can do side quests, and then when you actually start to go down the what to do with Meteor path, is when she’s brought up because of Holy.

But for the whole Lifestream thing...

Tifa is mostly selfless throughout the game. She puts others before herself constantly. I honestly thought her turning to what she felt and what she wanted was a good character building moment. I think her one desire to find Cloud was the most selfish thing she did during the entire game, and it was about her feelings. And about Cloud. She knew nobody else was going to look for Cloud - she didn’t want him alone.

When they do find him, she’s done. She’s staying there no matter what. At this point I think she’s already lost everything else, and finding Cloud somewhat alive, the last thing she really has from her past, she’s not letting it go. She sticks by him. She helps him find himself. She continues to stick by him.

She almost dies sticking by him. She saves him from himself by helping him rebuild who he truly is. All is revealed, it’s obvious he has feelings for her that go way back, and that’s that. At this point, I think most people who played the game with no preconceived ideas realize what’s mostly going on. I do think FFVII requires multiple playthroughs to get everything, but the jist of things is there.

So most people don’t question this - Cloud loves Tifa, okay - let’s mosey.

The ending I think is where people start to argue, even though it’s not supposed to be romantic, I don’t think. He says the line “I think I can meet her there” which people take as he’s going to meet Aerith there. Tifa doesn’t react badly to this. This is after the Lifestrem, after the Highwind, and then suddenly he’s just gonna drop her? No. This is about them realizing they’re probably going to die.

Some people couldn’t accept she died, they can’t accept what happens after that, so they shit on Tifa. They know she’s the catalyst for him, she’s the reason he wanted to join SOLDIER (he tells us this himself), she’s the reason he finally snapped at Sephiroth in Nibelheim (after everything else), she’s the reason he comes out of his first bout of severe mako poisoning, and ultimately she’s the reason he survives the second bout.

After all the shit that happened, after almost killing their friend twice, ultimately causing Meteor to get summoned, after it all, she still stuck by him.

Then we get AC. Now AC is interesting because people think Cloud acted like he did in AC the entire two years after FFVII ends. He doesn’t. He’s happy - the devs came out and made sure people knew that he was very happy with Tifa and the children. He runs from Tifa for a week or two. People think he took off for months. He runs off due to getting Geostigma, and can’t bear to have Tifa and the children watch him die. He knows what happens to Tifa when people close to her die - she starts doing really stupid, drastic things. So you have Denzel dying already and now Cloud has the same problem. He ran, but it wasn’t to go find Aerith or get away from Tifa because he didn’t love her - he ran because he did love her, and in his mind.. well... he couldn’t deal with the fact that he was going to ultimately hurt her. Badly.

Cloud realizing Tifa is injured and knocked out in the church shows how much he cares about her. The second Tifa that he yells is fully of emotion. Geostigma also acts up when he has high anxiety or an emotional event. Right after this, he has a major Geostigma episode and passes out. You can’t say he doesn’t care - deeply - about Tifa. He’s scared out of his mind here. He thinks she’s going to die. And he blames himself because she came to the church looking for him.

Cloud sees Tifa is alive in the simulation here.

After he thinks she dies.

A lot of people think that Tifa is attached to Cloud and useless without him, but I think it’s the other way around. Tifa could live a normal life without Cloud. Cloud wouldn’t be able to live a normal life without Tifa with the story of the game. You can’t say what if he didn’t get experimented on, because he does get experimented on, he’s injected with Jenova cells, and has severe mako poisoning. Which she can at least get him out of to function. Tifa was literally created for Cloud so he actually has a shot at life and doesn’t die in the gutter of the Sector 7 train station.

FFVII had a main theme of life and death and learning to live after death.

And that learning to live wasn’t just about Cloud.

It was about Barret who lost his wife, hometown, and ultimately ends up losing his best friend when he thinks he found him. He deals with his loses by channeling his passion for revenge. He vows to care for Dyne’s daughter. He does blame himself partially for the entire thing even happening, since he agreed with Shinra, but ultimately doesn’t let it consume him. He goes back during AC to help rebuilt Corel to make amends.

Tifa also learns to live after heavy loss. Tifa loses her mother as a young child. Her entire hometown is burned down, her father killed, she’s almost killed. In both cases of her parent’s death, she makes very irrational decisions to cope with it. She thinks going up Mt Nibel will allow her to see her mother. She thinks she can take on Sephiroth after he kills her father. She also does this after she thinks Cloud dies. She decides she can go to a brothel and question a crime lord to give her info... Not a good choice. I’m sure at this point, most of the folks reading this have had to deal with somebody they loved dying. The first few days really is bizarre. You’re in a daze. Your decision making skills are shit. You’re tired. Tifa ignores the fact that she’s in a daze and makes decisions anyway to cope with it. But she lives. She rebuilds her life in Midgar, she has a job, has a place to live, and then decides to go the Barret route and get revenge.

Vincent is the most similar to Cloud in how he deals with loss and guilt. He sleeps. For 20 years. Vincent goes from Turk Viincent to Eternal Sin Vincent. He blames himself for all that happened to Lucretcia. He’s alone. Sleeping. For 20 years. This probably would be a good example of what would have happened to Cloud if Tifa wasn’t there. He would have spiraled in to guilt and - ultimately - would have died. Vincent couldn’t die, so sleep it was.

As for Tifa and Cloud, specifically. Cloud probably wouldn’t have joined the military if Tifa never fell down Mt. Nibel. He probably would have stayed in Nibelheim (or followed her wherever she went, he did have it pretty bad for her) and then they all would have perished. It’s to be assumed that Sephiroth would have still come to Nibelheim and burned it down. Cloud and Tifa had nothing to do with him doing that. All of the catalysts for that were from before those two were even born, so nothing was going to stop that.

Without Tifa, Cloud probably would have died at the Sector 7 train station. I think the flashback with Zack in the OG (even though its optional) is to show how bad of shape he was in. The guards say to leave him because he’s pretty much done for. Somehow he does make it to Midgar, but I don’t think he would have lasted much longer. Zack got him 90% of the way back. Tifa did the rest and ultimately brought him back to “human status” even though it wasn’t really him at this point.

People start to shit on Tifa because she doesn’t come out and tell Cloud right away that somethings wrong with him. She doesn’t correct him about the flashback in Kalm. She keeps it going. The thing is, she admits this was wrong. That it’s a character flaw. Literally right after Cloud falls in to the Lifestream after giving Sephiroth the Black Materia, she tells the story of finding Cloud at the Sector 7 train station, and how she’s always been this way... She’s non-confrontational. She didn’t want to upset him. I think she thought that something bad really would have happened to him.

And ultimately, she saves him again.

Nobody else could have helped Cloud rebuild himself. Nobody.

Tifa is the only person in the world at this point that knew Cloud prior to the events of the Nibelheim Incident. She is the only one that could guide him. She’s one of the only survivors from the Nibelheim incident. Nobody else could have done it. Cloud’s subconscious is almost entirely made up of things about Tifa. The Promise, Tifa’s mother’s death and the Mt. Nibel incident, the reactor and how he hid from her because he was ashamed he didn’t make First Class SOLDIER. Every piece of his subconscious has to do with Tifa somehow.

#cloti #cloud x tifa #ff7 advent children #ff7 #final fantasy 7 #final fantasy 7 remake #final fantasy 7 spoilers #ff7 spoilers #cloud strife #tifa lockhart

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themoonlitsojourner · 3 years

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Chapter 7: Uncertainty and Exploration

Through starry nights and music lessons, Wanda and Vision rediscover themselves. And begin to discover each other.

Despite the early hour and the fog clouding her brain since she found herself alone in this world, Wanda knows immediately who waits outside her room. Taking a deep breath, she prays for the energy to face this day. She opens the door.

“Good morning.” Her attempt at a smile barely counts, but at least it’s friendly. Anything to soothe her visitor’s nervousness.

“Would you care for a morning beverage?” Vision asks at the exact same moment, his words colliding with hers. He winces, and she’s sure he would blush if he could. “P-pardon me. Good morning.”

Focusing on the mugs in his hands, Vision starts again. “It is customary to consume a heated, caffeinated beverage in the morning. This seems like a practice that would appeal to you, so I have secured two options. I- I am not aware of your preference.” His blue eyes flick to hers. They are skittish, like the eyes of a deer. “Would you prefer green tea or filtered coffee? Or a different product, perhaps?”

“No, no, the coffee is fine.” She wraps her fingers around the warm ceramic and Vision shifts his hand away as soon as she has a secure grip. He is so careful to keep his fingers from brushing against hers. So careful to avoid making contact.

If it were anyone else, Wanda would think it was because of her, a fear of the storm of red that boils just below the surface of her hands. But she has seen inside his head. He is not afraid of her. He is the only one in this building who isn’t.

No, Vision is avoiding human touch, just as he does in the hallways, entering them only when there are fewer people who might brush against him. And the entire time, he keeps his shoulders curled forward, as if to make himself as small as possible.

Why does he avoid even the chance of contact? Why does he fear it so?

Wanda focuses on the mug in her hands, soaking in the heat and the familiar comfort it provides. Steam rises to her nose, but it does not carry the rich, dark scent of fresh coffee. Instead, a burnt and bitter odor greets her. Feeling Vision’s gaze on her, she dares to take a cautious sip.

If Vision made this himself, she knows the first thing they’ll work on.

Wanda’s wrinkled nose must give away her disgust. Vision rushes to assure her, “I have also procured cream and sugar for you to add, if you so wish.” He ducks into the library down the hall, returning with a wooden serving tray.

Wanda pours most of the cream from the little pitcher into her mug, stirring it with the teaspoon he holds out. “Did you get all this yourself?” Her second sip, at least, doesn’t make her cringe. She might have outgrown watered-down coffee years ago, but the cream makes this drink halfway palatable. And if nothing else, the cup will keep her hands warm.

“I retrieved the tray and its implements from the breakfast bar in the dining hall. The teaspoon I selected from the kitchen drawer. The spoons that had been set out for beverage use were not of the proper sort,” Vision explains, expression solemn. “A pot of coffee had already been brewed, but perhaps I should have prepared a new one…” He falls silent, brow furrowed as he watches her sip from the mug.

“It is good,” Wanda lies, and Vision’s shoulders drop in relief. He nods and turns to set the tray down. His golden cape, reaching almost to the floor, ripples around his boots with every step. Wanda follows its lines up his shoulders, frowning at the metal collar joining it to the tight fabric of his suit. None of it looks very comfortable, especially for more than a couple hours.

She looks down into her coffee, idly stirring the pale liquid in slow circles. “You still want my help, yes?” Out of the corner of her eye, she watches Vision turn around slowly.

“Yes.” The river of his thoughts speeds up, tumbling and rushing like rapids over rocks. Anxious. About what, exactly?

Wanda realizes her intrusion and pulls back from his mind, refocusing. “Okay. So...” She takes a deep breath. “Um... the outfit. It is fine for fighting and such, but otherwise you might want something more… relaxed?”

Brow furrowing again, Vision peers down at his clothing. “I must always stand ready to defend.” The phrase is flat. Automatic. Scripted, maybe? His eyes meet hers as he speaks his next words urgently, striving to convince her. Or himself. “It is my purpose and honor to defend and serve.”

Did Stark decide that for him? Is it something S.H.I.E.L.D. told him?

Wanda nods slowly. “It is admirable of you to think that. But there is more than one purpose in life. And things change. Always.” Suddenly, she cannot watch him any longer. Staring down into her coffee, she wills her blurred sight to clear. She has cried enough. “And when they do, there is no other option but to adapt.”

Vision watches her solemnly, eyes soft with sympathy.

Wanda takes a deep breath and forces herself to try another smile. “So. Daily clothing.” The mundane topic is awkward and alien on her tongue. There wasn’t much talk in the last few years about anything other than matters of life, death, and survival. The normal and the everyday belong in her memories. In another lifetime.

Nodding thoughtfully, Vision stares past the wall, irises swirling from one direction to the next.

Is he considering his options? Searching the internet, maybe?

“What would you suggest?” he asks.

Wanda purses her lips. Where in the tower could they find extra clothes… There is nothing she can remember seeing during her brief tour, but she remembers little of that first day. We could ask the Captain. She clenches her sweatshirt sleeves in her fists at the thought of venturing into the floors below.

Then suddenly her musings are swept away. Wanda blinks, brain scrambling to comprehend what she sees as Vision’s clothing seems to ripple and shift, both in style and color. Soon, a loose, plain cotton T-shirt and dark jeans drape his tall form. Not a trace of the suit or cape remains.

Her mouth falls open in astonishment. “How did you do that?”

“I am equipped with a thin layer of nanobots, easily controlled through a mental-cellular interface. I assume their purpose is the formation of clothing.” He holds his arms out to the side. “Do you think this attire will suffice?”

Wanda frowns. Vision’s old-fashioned, formal speech looks jarring alongside the modern style, and his perfect posture disrupts the loose fit. If anything, he stands even stiffer than when he wore the battle suit.

She tilts her head. “Is it… comfortable for you?”

“It is casual, is it not?”

“But are you comfortable? Do you like it?”

The corner of his mouth curves down. “Not… strictly speaking.”

Wanda nods. “Try something else, then. You will want it to fit you.”

Vision’s irises begin twirling, starting with the opposite direction this time. When he does that, what exactly goes on behind those blue eyes? She’s sorely tempted to look.

A moment later, his clothing shifts again.

Wanda examines the dark gray vest and tie over a long-sleeved white shirt with neatly buttoned cuffs. Pressed charcoal slacks and black dress shoes complete the simple, yet elegant outfit.

Vision looks to her, waiting

Wanda bites her lip. Maybe he should loosen the tie. Then again, he is obviously more comfortable dressed formally. His body language alone speaks loudly to that. She nods once. “This is good.”

“Good,” Vision repeats. She wonders if he’s aware that he mimics her nod and tone almost exactly. “Excellent.”

----------

During those first weeks after Pietro’s death, the intensity of the searing, screaming pain had not surprised Wanda. Neither had the crushing cloud of grief, or the red haze of anger that fogged her mind and numbed her senses during those dark nights she spent alone, hiding in the Bartons’ spare room.

Wanda has been through it all before. She knows loss well.

But now the grip of those feelings has started to fade, and what does surprise her is the boredom. The restless, irritable energy, the listless lack of focus. Every day is just the day before, completely identical in every way. Get up, train, meals, train, sleep.

There is no purpose. No drive. No one to hunt down and make pay for her brother’s death. No revenge to lie awake and plan.

She already ripped out the killer’s heart, but it was too late to save her own.

Not even the intense combat training, progressing as rapidly as she can handle, holds her attention. No matter how hard she throws herself into it, how carefully she blocks out everything but the red in her hands, she cannot lose herself in the movements. All the fighting does is bring the memories of her last battle rushing to the surface. Pietro’s last battle. And when each session finishes, it leaves her fighting to hide her pounding heart and the shaking that spreads from her hands.

There is no forgetting for her. No distraction.

Fortunately, Vision seems to have found some direction, or at least something to fill his time with. He must have read every book in the library on their floor once, if not twice, and frequently he phases through the floor with an armful pilfered from elsewhere in the building. Made-up stories, real stories, textbooks, manuals, encyclopedias, he reads them all. His desire to learn is insatiable.

If only Wanda could muster even half that enthusiasm for something. Anything.

Today, the late afternoon sun seeps through the library’s full-length window, illuminating the book in Vision’s lap. Wanda flips through the channels on the TV in the corner, jaw clenched in frustration.

It is Monday, the fifth (or maybe sixth) afternoon in a row they’ve spent in this room, and by far the quietest. They train every morning and evening except for Sunday, but the hours between are their “free time.” It’s a good thing the time is “free” because she has done nothing but waste it.

Wanda drums her fingers petulantly on the arm of her chair, restlessness coiling in her chest. She jabs the remote buttons again.

There is nothing on TV. Even worse, there is nothing to do, and she needs to do something. With a growl, Wanda hits the power button and tosses the remote to the table.

“Did you know mantis shrimp are equipped with sixteen different kinds of cones?” Vision suddenly says.

Wanda turns to look at him.

“That’s thirteen more than humans possess,” he remarks thoughtfully, eyes still tracing the page of the encyclopedia.

This was another new thing, his habit of sharing random facts. There is an unspoken understanding between them that they spend the afternoons here in their library because neither dares venture into the mob of noisy people and hectic thoughts that awaits them downstairs.

Wanda could take the solitude a step farther and stay in her room. Completely cut herself off from the noise. But somehow her room is too quiet. Too empty.

She wonders if he feels the same about his.

So they end up here, sharing each other’s company but rarely speaking. Not knowing what to say is another thing they have in common. Vision wants to talk, though. She can see it in the way he glances up from his book every once in a while, eyes darting to her, just briefly. And she tries to start the conversation sometimes, she really does. But it is frightening to realize how little she remembers of how. This is why Vision breaks the silence and she does her best to keep the conversation rolling.

Wanda tilts her head. “Cones? What cones?”

Vision straightens. “Oh, pardon me for the lack of context. I see this topic requires a little elaboration.” Enthusiasm brightens his eyes as he ponders how best to explain. He really does have nice eyes.

“The organic eye perceives light and color due to a thin layer of neurons and receptors covering its posterior wall. This layer is called the retina. The superficial layer of the retina is composed of photoreceptors, which come in two different varieties, cones and rods.”

Most of the words fly over her head, but Wanda cannot hide an amused smile as Vision adds his hands to his demonstration.

“The rods line the distal edges of the retina, providing sharp vision, while the cones cluster in the middle and supply color vision. Humans have three types of cones, each perceiving a different wavelength of light. Mantis shrimp, on the other hand, have sixteen different varieties.”

“So they see more colors?”

Vision purses his lips. “Oddly enough, no. They can see ultraviolet light, however, and a property of light called polarization. The latter is sort of the orientation of the light waves.” He holds his hands up side by side, first vertically, then horizontally.

“Hmm.” Wanda considers this, searching for a good question to ask. Her mind remains blank. It’s harder to think now that Pietro is gone, like trudging through knee deep snow with every thought.

After a few moments without a reply from Wanda, one corner of Vision’s mouth lifts. The other remains stubbornly flat, allowing him to offer her only an awkward half-smile before he ducks his head and returns to his book. It is the one expression he hasn’t figured out yet, likely because he always seems so unsure about it. As if he’s afraid to commit and show the wrong reaction.

Wanda bites her lip as silence returns to the room.

“It is quieter than usual.” She glances toward the hallway. Normally they can hear the murmur of activity floors below, but today there is an uncanny stillness. It is far quieter than even the weekend, which is only minimally less hectic than the rest of the week.

“Today is President Washington’s Birthday, a federal holiday,” Vision promptly replies.

Wanda stares at him.

He lifts his gaze and clears his throat, a little sheepish. “By which I mean no one except Agent Romanoff is working today.”

“No one else.”

“Correct.”

Wanda fiddles with her sleeves, tentatively reaching across the compound to confirm this. The only minds besides theirs are those of the security guards.

“Would… you be interested in exploring?” Vision traces the cover of his book, stealing a quick glance at Wanda’s face. “I haven’t had the chance to investigate most of the ground floor.”

Wanda looks around the library. There is nothing to do here. And the building is completely empty…

She shrugs. “I guess.”

Vision nods and stands, wiping his hands on his slacks. Despite the formality of the outfit, he looks comfortable in his vest and dress shirt. Still, he does not seem to completely grasp the idea of clothing. He hasn’t switched outfits since picking this one, choosing instead to just change the color every morning.

The moment they step from the elevator into the huge, empty lobby, Vision tenses. His eyes dart across the abandoned floor without seeming to actually see it.

“Let’s, um… Let’s go this direction.” Wanda tips her head toward the right, and Vision nods, blinking a couple times. They walk without talking, resisting the urge to tiptoe as their footsteps echo off the walls.

Most of the doors on the ground floor lead to bland offices, and the two floors above aren’t much better. The rooms are either locked, more offices, or storage.

Her flicker of anticipation for this journey has long died out and Wanda is about to give up, when they stumble across yet another storage room.

Vision examines the label on the door. “Prop storage.”

Wanda lifts an eyebrow. “Props for what?”

With a shrug, Vision opens the door, gesturing for her to enter first. The room isn’t nearly as large as some they’ve found, but it’s stacked floor-to-ceiling with boxes, totes, and assorted junk all the same. For a building only recently built and occupied, the Avengers wasted no time filling it.

Seeing only junk, Wanda turns to exit. But when she doesn’t hear footsteps behind her, she glances over her shoulder to see Vision wandering deeper inside. With a sigh, she follows, fingers trailing idly over the shelving units.

“Theatre props is the first possibility that comes to mind, but I can see no logic in it,” Vision muses, still stuck on the room name.

Smooth leather meets Wanda’s fingertips, and she stops.

Is this…?

Reaching into the shelf, she slides out a black case and sets it on the floor. Her hands find the latch by memory, and she can’t hide the triumphant smile that crosses her face as the lid opens to reveal an acoustic guitar.

“Do you play?” Vision asks, peering over her shoulder.

“I did.” Wanda traces the wooden grain and gives the steel strings a gentle pluck or two. Glancing up, she catches Vision watching her expectantly. “What?”

“Are… Are you going to play it now?” Curiosity gleams in his eyes.

Her arms ache to hold it, her fingers to slot the notes and strum the strings. The need to play it winds together with another familiar ache, just as strong. The memory of her instructor. Her mama.

“No.” Wanda shuts the case.

“Oh.” Vision frowns. “Are you sure? I don’t think anyone would mind.” He glances around the empty room.

Wanda lifts the case and slides it back onto the shelf. “I’m sure.” Her curt tone keeps away any questions.

A few minutes later, they return to the library. But Wanda’s thoughts linger in the cramped props room all day.

The next morning, she is greeted by a black leather case outside her door. Frowning, Wanda eyes the case and searches for Vision’s mind. His thoughts echo from downstairs. Wanda shakes her head and sighs. She told him she wasn’t going to play.

For a moment longer, she stares at the smooth leather, picturing the instrument inside. She bites her lip. Kneeling beside the case, she flips open the lid. The guitar lies there quietly. Inviting. Promising. A soft brush of her fingers breaks the silence with a low hum. It needs to be tuned. Wanda pulls the case into her room and closes the door behind her. Before she can change her mind, she lifts the instrument into her arms.

The guitar is lighter than she expected, than she remembered. Yet it feels just as right. The strings are strong and familiar under her fingers and the ring of the notes resounds in her chest. The ache, the itch to play becomes louder than the need to avoid digging up old grief.

This floor really does belong to her and Vision, so no one will hear if she plays a few chords. None of the other rooms have ever been used, not even the offices, and not a single employee dares journey up here. Wanda feels the frantic spikes of fear in their minds on the rare occasions she enters their domain downstairs; it doesn’t take much to put two and two together and realize she has been isolated on purpose.

Normally, it would anger her. Normally, she would give them a piece of her mind. But she’s tired, and she is grateful for the solitude. For the quiet.

Especially today, when there is no one to hear her and ask questions, such as who taught her to play, or what the song is, or why she chose such a “sad” chord.

Wanda frets a D minor. She strums the waiting strings.

And finally the world fades away as she falls into the music.

----------

If the days are long and suffocating, the nights are worse. Darkness falls and Wanda lies awake, sleeping fitfully or not at all. The nightmares are fewer, but still she can’t sleep. Insomnia, Vision calls it.

But she avoids the subject, because she can’t talk about how her sleeping mind seeks out the comfort of his, diving into the ocean of gold when the nightmares start. Or how even her few good dreams take place on the seashore now. It’s too much, too close. Too personal to put into words.

There’s something about Vision. Wanda doesn’t understand it, but his mind and soul glow brighter than any she’s ever seen before. And somehow he and she are connected.

Yet every morning, she wakes and reminds herself she can’t lean on the comfort and reassurance he so willingly offers. What if she grows to need it? What if she begins to need him, and like everyone else in her life, he is taken away? She’ll be left behind again. Left alone.

She always is.

Wanda stares at the ceiling, her own breath too loud in her ears, nearly as loud as the thoughts burning in her mind. Flinging the covers aside, she slips from bed. There will be no sleep tonight.

The digital clock reads 2:11 AM. She walks just to move, to do something. She can’t outrun her own mind. But she can try.

Wanda tiptoes down the darkened hallway. The elevator looms ahead, and she stops. Down? No. The last thing she wants is to run into an obsessive employee working late into the night.

So up, then.

The doors open onto the rooftop and Wanda steps blinking from the harshly lit elevator. Slowly, her eyes adjust to the gentler light of the night. One by one, like frightened children, stars surface in the sky above, outlining a figure stationed at the building’s edge. His cape swirls softly in the brisk February wind.

She does not have to guess who it is.

Always, she and Vision end up together. In the library. Here. Are they really so similar that they seek the same places? Or did she search for him subconsciously? (She suspects it wouldn’t be the first time.) Or was it the invisible thread pulling them, a connection she can’t comprehend born from the moment she looked into his mind as he lay dreaming in the cradle. Part of him was still Ultron then. But Vision was there. She felt it.

Wanda steps quietly across the concrete. She stops just behind Vision, unwilling to disturb him but reluctant to go inside.

“I was disappointed to hear the New Avengers team would not be based at Stark Tower,” Vision says suddenly.

Stark. Wanda bites back a scoff. His disappointment is not mutual.

“It has nothing to do with Mr. Stark,” Vision continues, guessing her thoughts. “It is only that I have a certain… fondness for his view of the city lights.” He stares out over the dark countryside and she joins him, standing a couple feet from the edge. “They represent the life of the city, spread across the streets below. Still bright despite the hour, shining on both those awake and those peacefully slumbering. Pushing back the night like guardian angels. Providing a sense of comfort and safety.”

Vision’s words have the rhythm of poetry. His eyes glow softly like the light he paints such a reverent picture of. Wanda watches the serene blue spill over his pensive expression. In his light, she sees comfort. Safety. Just as he says. She looks away.

“There are more stars here, though.” Wanda nods toward the sky above. “You can’t see them in the city.”

Vision cranes his neck, searching the galaxies spread across the darkness. “But they’re so very far away,” he whispers. Curling his long legs beneath him, he sinks to the concrete, his head still tilted back to stare above.

Wanda stands in silence. She doesn’t know how to answer. Why his expression is so sorrowful or how to fix it. She doesn’t understand the source of his pain. But the ache of watching stars at night… This she understands. No matter how brightly, how beautifully they shine, they always burn out.

Wanda traces a meteor as it streaks across the sky and disappears from view.

Some stars even fall.

After a moment, Wanda sits beside Vision and pulls her knees to her chest.

The brilliant, glimmering show of the galaxies unfolds above them, millions of light years away. They watch until it melts before the threat of the morning light. Until every trace fades as if it were never there.

They do not say anything.

----------

Knock knock.

Stifling a groan, Wanda rolls out of bed and stumbles to the door.

“Hello.” Vision offers her a smile and a mug of coffee. The smile is as tentative as always, lifting only half his mouth. But a new light in his eyes makes up for it. “Good morning, Miss Maximoff.”

“Wanda,” she reminds him, accepting the steaming cup. She barely remembers to mumble her thanks before taking a long drink. Vision, as it turns out, is a much better coffee brewer than whoever made the burnt, bitter monstrosity.

Vision nods his acknowledgement. Is it just her grogginess, or does he hold his shoulders higher? Not with tension but with… confidence. He meets her eyes eagerly, boldly. As if he truly wants to be here. With her.

But maybe it’s just her imagination.

Vision’s gaze flickers past Wanda and into her room, just briefly. A sudden twinge of guilt twists in her chest. She didn’t join him in the library yesterday. In fact, after he delivered her morning coffee, she didn’t see him at all until nighttime. When they met on the rooftop under the stars.

She had spent all her time with the guitar, letting it pull her in and awaken an all-consuming desire to relearn the sound of the notes and the feel of the rhythm. To reclaim a piece of herself. And to be honest, she has no desire to share something so personal with anyone else. But Vision brought her the instrument. He gave her the push she needed to actually play it. It is only fair she let him hear a little.

Wanda takes another sip of her coffee to hide a sudden smile. With eyes as lively and curious as his, how could she say no? Lowering her mug, she clears her throat. “Also, thank you. For the guitar. I would not have gone back for it myself.”

“You are most welcome.”

She shifts from one foot to the other, suddenly nervous. “Would you… want to hear it?”

“Oh, yes please! If you don’t mind.” Those blue eyes Wanda can’t stop noticing glimmer with childish enthusiasm, and some of her hesitancy fades. She opens the door a bit wider and returns to her seat on the bed. Vision follows, gaze darting across the room, hands wringing. He stops just inside the doorway.

Breathing deeply, Wanda bends her head and focuses on her breathing. With each inhale and exhale, another piece of the world around her fades. Vision’s presence, the hum of activity floors below, the heater’s droning buzz. Her fingers slide down the polished fret. The strings bite into her sore fingertips, but the notes she plucks are clean and crisp.

They ring slowly and distinctly at first, each with a bold and individual voice. After a few measures the melody begins to grow, building and expanding beat by beat. Notes find their places, melding with their harmonies in a tune mounting in complexity. The volume, the tension builds until all the notes weave together, their voices joining in a single resounding chord that ends the song.

Wanda smiles to herself. The hours spent perfecting that piece and her red, aching fingertips are well worth it. Glancing up, she falters at the sight of Vision’s face. His eyes are wide and awestruck, as if she just performed a baffling magic trick. Though quite proud of herself, she must admit the tune isn’t particularly difficult or beautiful. But Vision’s expression says he thinks otherwise.

His gaze leaps from her, to the guitar, and back. “How did you do that?”

“I just… press my fingers here...” Surely he knows how guitars work.

“No, how did your hands move with such swiftness and precision? And in perfect coordination with each other?”

Her face reddens. “It wasn’t perfect.”

He stares at her hands. “It was entrancing.”

Wanda fidgets with the tuning pegs, embarrassed by his unabashed honesty and admiration. “Anyone could learn that.” The image of Vision poring over encyclopedias and old novels jumps to the front of her mind. “You could.”

His eyes snap to hers. “Oh, I truly don’t think so...”

“Would you like to try?”

“I-I wouldn’t want to impose.”

Giving him an encouraging smile, Wanda nods toward the bedspread next to her. The guitar looks small and delicate in Vision’s large hands as he carefully accepts it from her, propping it against his knee in an imitation of her posture. Awkward and uncertain, he looks to Wanda for guidance.

“Alright. The basics are mostly form and knowledge of the notes. The first string is an ‘E.’” She nods to him. He finds and plucks it. “Good. By holding the string against the board there at the top of the neck, you will make another note.” The “F” Vision plucks twangs brassy and flat. “You’ll have to press harder.”

He nods, brow furrowing as he applies more pressure and tries again. The note rings clear and musical.

“Good. To make a chord, press with more than one finger. The E minor is your second and third fingers on the second fret, fifth and fourth strings.” Her fingers curve around the empty air, miming the placement.

It takes her a moment to notice the wide-eyed look he gives her.

Wanda’s about to suggest they stick with single notes for now, when Vision cranes his neck and stares at the fretboard. “Second and third fingers,” he whispers to himself. His long, elegant fingers are strangely clumsy on the strings, fumbling to find the position.

“Second fret,” Wanda reminds him. She bites her lip as she watches him struggle. “Here.” She reaches for his hand. And just a moment too late, she remembers his aversion to touch.

Her fingers brush his and he jumps as if struck by electricity, the instrument nearly slipping from his grasp as he yanks his hand away.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Wanda apologizes, face flushing bright red. Vision set a boundary through his careful actions, and she crossed it. It’s no way to repay someone who has been nothing but overwhelmingly kind to her. I didn’t mean to, I am so sorry-

“No, no, I must apologize. I honestly didn’t mean to respond in such a manner.” Guilt and horror at his own reaction chases the shock from Vision’s face. He looks just as sorry as she feels.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s my fault. I should have asked.” Her entire face burns. He’s so new and inexperienced, more frightened and unsure than she probably knows.

“You only surprised me. I-” Vision stares down at the instrument in his hands. He takes a deep breath and his shoulders loosen downward a fraction of an inch. “I actually would like you to show me. The chord, that is.”

Glancing nervously toward his hands, Wanda bites her lip again. “M-may I?”

Vision’s irises rotate just once. She sees the moment he chooses to trust her. “Yes.”

His fingers are rigid and cold as she gently nudges them in the right direction, trying to keep her own hands from shaking as she explains how the notes fit together. He follows her guidance as best he can, the stiffness never leaving his hands. When Wanda checks out the corner of her eye, his jaw is just as tense as his arms. But then he glances at her, just briefly. And his eyes are soft and open. Longing, almost.

There is so much she does not understand about him. His sorrow the night before, his fear of people and touch. The hidden shame she’s just starting to hear behind his words. But there are some things that make sense now. There are some things she knows.

He trusts her. The realization startles Wanda in how sudden and obvious it is. He talks about his interests to her, lets her see the nervous and scared parts of him. He lets her guide his hand across the strings, despite the measures he takes to avoid even casual contact in the hallway.

Vision trusts her. But he doesn’t trust anyone else, and she knows exactly why. The few instances she’s seen him interact with others flash through her mind. Yes, he chooses to keep his distance, even during conversations, and never once has she seen him shake someone’s hand. But now that she thinks about it, she’s also never seen anyone offer him a handshake.

The people of Sokovia had avoided touching urchins such as Wanda and Pietro like they carried a disease. And isn’t Vision just like they were? Isn’t he new, and uncertain, and afraid, just like a child? Sent into the world alone just like an orphan?

Anger burns in her chest. S.H.I.E.L.D. was supposed to take care of Vision, but they handed him off. Dropped him at the doorstep of the compound, where he is ignored and avoided by every employee. Where he is nothing to the Avengers but another recruit to whip into shape.

Wanda may not know them well, but she is certain the Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. would not abandon a child. No, if a child was placed in their care, they would guide and nurture him, providing whatever he needed as he struggled to learn and develop. As he tried to discover who he was. And if they could not provide this, they would place him with someone who could. They would not fail a child the way they have failed Vision.

Do they really not see him?

“Perhaps I am capable of learning to play an instrument,” -Vision’s voice pushes Wanda’s thoughts aside, pulling her back to the present- “But I think I shall leave the music to one with more skill.” He gives her the half-smile, and her heart breaks a little.

She shakes her head slowly, trying to refocus. “You are not so bad.”

Vision passes the guitar to her. “Could I hear another song?” He asks so shyly, and a soft affection fills her heart.

Wanda shrugs, settling the guitar in her lap. “I guess it is not yet time for training. One more.” Her fingers move almost on their own as a flurry of thoughts continues to tumble through her mind. She feels Vision watching her contentedly, open admiration written across his face.

He is so young, so eager and afraid all at once. So desperate to make a connection and find something to hold onto. He needs more than someone to ask questions of and tell unusual facts. He needs direction, to be introduced to experiences and the world outside this building, just as he so strongly desires.

The Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. have failed him, completely. Forgotten him.

Wanda will not.

#scarletvision #wanda maximoff #vision #fanfiction #ao3 #fanfic #mine

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dwellordream · 3 years

Text

“Relations with real parents, of course, provided the context and often times much of the subterranean content of girls’ socialization. As the age of marriage increased, middle-class daughters resided for a longer and longer time with their parents. The historical literature has appropriately stressed the dependence of Victorian daughters, yet it has disagreed on how to interpret it. Historians of medicine and of the prescriptive literature have tended to stress the costs of such training in self-discipline, seeing girls’ exercises in self-suppression as the origins of a range of psychosomatic ailments.

With a more positive emphasis, historians of domesticity have emphasized the health of girls’ gradual socialization into the world of their mothers and grandmothers, depicting daughters and mothers ‘‘lolling [together] in placid domesticity.’’ The legacy of the Victorian home was more variegated than either vision allows, though, with maternal dependence often suppressed in accounts of actual lives. In some sense, the object relations theory of gender socialization was designed for the Victorian family. Nancy Chodorow’s argument about the ‘‘reproduction of mothering’’ assumes an asymmetrical family structure with mother at home and father at work. Unlike her brother, the theory goes, the girl learns gender behavior through imitating her mother, often blurring her own sense of self with her mother’s.

In this environment, affiliation and nurturance emerge naturally at the center of her identity. (Her brother needs to learn masculinity from a largely absent father and must therefore break abruptly from his nearest love object, his mother, in order to assume an abstract masculinity.) This insight about the blendedness of female identity in late-Victorian America helps to explain the anomalous position of mothers in many of the documents of girlhood. Frequently mothers simply did not appear in their daughters’ daily accounts of their lives. The absence of a mother in a diary often did not reflect her real-life absence. Instead, it was likely to suggest that she was omnipresent, part of the assumed background of her daughter’s life rather than its figure or pattern.

Even fictional accounts of girls and their journals acknowledged this absence. Mothers frequently emerged in diary accounts only to depart or to return or to get sick. In diaries from three different years in the 1880s, Mabel Lancraft, daughter of an oyster grower in Fair Haven, Connecticut, mentioned her mother scarcely at all. Her mother took an active role only in regard to three separate events: a contentious shopping trip, a trip to school as her daughter’s advocate, and her rare absence from home, which required that Mabel herself prepare dinner. It is in such moments as the last that daughters paid tribute to mothers and to their particular and often archetypal qualities.

When Bostonian Agnes Garrison was in New York and got an earache, she realized how much she counted on her mother in the normal run of things: ‘‘I don’t know when I have had such a hard time or when I have missed my dear Mamma so much. Cried as much for her as for earache. . . . There is nobody like Mamma when one is sick.’’ Southerner Lucy Breckinridge ‘‘spent the day’’ watching for her mother to return, and noted that when she finally arrived, ‘‘The house is much brighter now.’’

Literary critics have often noted the propensity of nineteenth-century female authors to ‘‘express hostility toward their mothers by eliminating them from the narrative,’’ in contrast to twentieth-century authors, who dramatized the conflict. One such contemporary observer was Florence Nightingale, who during her own crisis over her life purpose commented on how the novels of her age featured a heroine who ‘‘has generally no family ties (almost invariably no mother), or, if she has, they do not interfere with her entire independence.’’ According to the critic Carolyn Heilbrun, the removal of familial impediments represented wish fulfillment—a magical, fictive freeing from real-life constraints, especially those imposed by families. Girls’ diaries seem to have shared in both the plotting templates and the psychological bedrock which underlay such portrayals of familial displacement and liberation.

…So what do we make of girls’ frequent decisions to leave their mothers out of the record? We might conclude that a mother’s absence from journals and diaries represented the same thing as a mother’s absence from novels—an easy resolution to the need for imaginative space, without yet the daring demonstrated by such writers as Virginia Woolf, who confronted and considered killing the smothering, maternal ‘‘angel in the house.’’ The potency of the maternal ideal became especially apparent when mothers had died. Indeed, the death of a mother might be the initial inspiration for a daughter to write. Grief over a loss that often seemed equal to a loss of self found a ready outlet in one strand of girls’ autobiographical writing in which the spirit of the ‘‘angel of the house’’ was described, memorialized, and apotheosized.

The critic Elaine Showalter has observed that many Victorian women writers had lost, or were alienated from, their mothers. Showalter concludes that the resulting male-identification contributed to their careers. The diary evidence from the United States suggests another possibility—that the loss of a mother may have encouraged writing which was initially a form of communication with an absent or imagined ‘‘other’’ from beyond the grave. In such journals, the palpable agenda of the journal writer was to apply a salve of words and an illusion of communication to the intense aloneness of the orphaned or the motherless. When Helen Ward Brandreth began her journal, at the age of thirteen, she described herself (‘‘a low forehead, light hair and eyes’’), noted her age, and then recorded the next significant information about herself: ‘‘My Mama is dead, she died March 5, 1871, so my eldest sister May takes care of me.’’

The death of a mother during a girl’s childhood or youth distilled and romanticized maternal imagery. In their depictions of their dead mothers, girls concocted a powerful maternal essence which inhibited and censured with far greater impact than could any living representative. As such, dead mothers came to stand in for a potent superego—an angel in fact rather than simply in allusion. In Victorian America, the association of mothers with religious virtue, as a ‘‘channel of God’s grace’’ (according to Jane Tompkins), was a commonplace. For girls whose mothers had died, the association was fixed: mothers, feminine virtue, and an idealized but elusive better self.

…In some sense, idealizing mothers, especially dead ones, bespoke a universal urge for the perfect unity of the womb or before. In that sense, the strong identification and attachment between mothers and daughters argued by Nancy Chodorow and others was intensified by its arbitrary dissolution through death. Testimonials in diaries about lost mothers provide the words to suggest the bonds which often remained unvoiced in the diaries of the daughters of living mothers. Mothers were often absent from the record when present in fact, and most clearly articulated in the fabric and manuscript of self when they were in fact dead, sick, or away.

Whichever the case, the writings of Victorian daughters confirm the prolonged attachment of daughters to mothers with whom they shared a largely domestic sphere. Yet that primal bond of identification, encouraged by the Victorian separation of male and female spheres, was also subject to countercurrents from the culture of selfhood itself. As adults claimed a private self removed by propriety from public view or discourse, they taught those same values to growing girls. In theory, a girl told her mother all, and had no secrets. In practice, daughters, like their mothers, resisted expressing or confessing controversial emotions. In rooms and journals provided by their parents but taken for their own, girls, too, elaborated a layered culture of private secrets which sometimes pitted them against their mothers.

This was less true earlier in the nineteenth century. Parents claimed privacy for themselves but resisted giving it to children. Parents who had scrutinized their children’s writings for signs of grace earlier in the century were not indulging idle curiosity but fulfilling their highest parental responsibility to see to the spiritual salvation of their children. The substitution of character building for salvation seeking as the goal of adolescent socialization was a change in vocabulary rather than a revolution in parent-child relations. Adults’ increasing rights to privacy within their homes meant greater parental obligation to monitor children, rather than less. When parents took their children inside and closed the door, they gained sole responsibility for their upbringing.

…Yet the idea that ‘‘a secret is not a good thing for a girl to have’’ became harder to defend as Victorianism evolved to encourage the privacy of the individual. The surreptitious surveillance which we associate with Victorianism was the result of the twin beliefs in the abstract value of privacy and the responsibility of parents to monitor children. Motivated perhaps by the greater actual autonomy of their daughters, who were no longer constantly at their mothers’ elbows, and also by their own increasing responsibility for girls’ upbringing, parents were often interested in the contents of daughters’ diaries and journals. Although we think of the Victorians as inappropriately intrusive, their recourse to indirection was a sign of their deference to the idea of privacy. Earlier generations would have had fewer scruples about direct intervention.

As youths made the transition to adulthood, they at first felt guilty about secrets they kept from parents. Lucy Breckinridge neglected to tell her father about her engagement, and remonstrated with herself for the omission: ‘‘I am afraid it is deception, and yet, I cannot make up my mind to do it. I am a coward! I try to reconcile myself to it by arguing that if I am silent now, there may something occur to make Pa favor my plan and if I told him now, it would distress and anger him. . . . And then, all girls do it. Sallie Grattan did not even tell her mother! But that’s small comfort. I’ll think of it and try to make up my mind.’’ Lucy Breckinridge’s defenses of her secrecy in the 1860s lacked conviction. In resorting simply to fashion—‘‘And then, all girls do it’’—she was leaning on a reed so weak as to offend even her own sense of righteousness.

Yet at the same time, Breckinridge was offended at an incursion on her own sense of privacy. When a letter came into the house from Captain H., the man to whom she was engaged, ‘‘Pa got hold of the letter and read it and then sent for me to get it, a very bad thing in Papa.’’ When Lucy decided to break off with her Captain H., largely because of her parents’ disapproval, Lucy referred again to her father’s intrusion on her privacy: ‘‘Pa opens all my letters since Eliza’s alluding to Capt. H., and I have not a doubt was very much interested in the Capt.’s letter today.’’ It was wrong for her to withhold important information about her engagement from her father, Breckinridge seemed to feel. It was perhaps even worse for her father to pry into her mail, without her express permission, ‘‘a very bad thing.’’ The certainty of that last judgment suggests that girls were increasingly claiming a right to their own privacy.

As might have been expected between such a fiery duo, the etiquette and the morality of privacy also figured in the relationship between the feminist orator Lucy Stone and her diary-keeping daughter Alice Stone Blackwell. Perhaps not surprisingly, as in her campaign to restrict her daughter’s reading, Lucy Stone upheld woman’s self-sovereignty—as long as it did not extend to her daughter. In February 1872, when Blackwell was fourteen, her mother scolded her sharply for reading someone else’s letter. ‘‘Mama told me I had never done so naughty a thing since I was borne.’’ This strong rebuke upset Alice ‘‘utterly,’’ and she described herself going off to school ‘‘in a very low state of mind.’’ Several months later, though, the tables were turned. Alice recorded: ‘‘I accused Mama of scratching out something in my diary, and she confessed to having done so. We had a conversation which nearly resulted in my giving up keeping a diary and burning the old ones, but the affair ended satisfactorily.’’

Coming from the champion of women’s rights, Lucy Stone’s act of willful intrusion on her daughter is shocking. Not only had she read her daughter’s journal, but she had been unable to resist obliterating contents which displeased her. The conversation between mother and daughter nearly ended in a dramatic scene of destruction, with the daughter threatening to break off the edifying practice of journal writing and to burn the old ones if her mother couldn’t guarantee their privacy. Clearly, Alice had learned the lessons about the sanctity of privacy which her mother had been trying to teach her. Equally clearly, Lucy Stone was still participating in a nineteenth-century culture which exempted relations between mothers and daughters from the strict code of privacy which characterized relations between adults.

As late as the 1890s, Ladies’ Home Journal was still declaring the rights of parents to open letters addressed to a daughter, but even this conservative publication suggested, ‘‘This is seldom done where the confidence between the parents and child exists.’’ The controversy in the spring of 1872 between the women of the Blackwell family, like those of myriad other families throughout Victorian America, were skirmishes in a prolonged cultural conflict over the rights of daughters to identities separate from their mothers’.”

- Jane H. Hunter, “Houses, Families, Rooms of One’s Own.” in How Young Ladies Became Girls: The Victorian Origins of American Girlhood

#victorian #gender #history #american

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purplesurveys · 3 years

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1278

Social Media Survey

[joybucket]

What is your favorite social media site? Either Twitter or YouTube, though I never use YouTube as a social media site per se so I guess this round goes to Twitter.

Do you use...

facebook? myspace? twitter? snapchat? instagram? youtube? pinterest? bzoink? another site with message boards? tumblr? deviantart? xanga?

Facebook

Do you get on Facebook every day? Yeah pretty much all throughout the day. I used to never use it, like never ever; but back in college all announcements were coursed through Facebook so I was technically required to be on it regularly, and it was from there that I began to see memes and start to be more active. I’m a shitposter more than anything though and I rarely ever post stuff of my own. How many FB friends do you have? I have 679 at the moment but I want to get rid of like 500 of them; it’s just such a long list to go through so I never get to proceed with my unfriending spree lol.

Have you ever been on a deleting spree? HAHA I just mentioned that. I’ve always wanted to, but like I said 679 is already such an exhaustive list for me, and that’s considering I only started touching my Facebook in like 2019. I can’t imagine people who started Facebook in like 2009 and have 4000 friends aka most people I know.

Have you blocked a lot of haters? I don’t have haters; at least I’m not aware of any that I have. Not that it’s something I care about at this point.

Do you get bullied online a lot? No, but that’s also because I don’t really open the channels for people to send in hate. I don’t have Q&A handles like Curious Cat and I never pick out that option in Instagram where people can send in questions.

What's your favorite Facebook app? Oh I never use Facebook for their apps. Are those still even a thing...? Anyway, I mainly go there to be on the hunt for stupid memes I can reshare or to watch videos that are either funny or informative.

Are you a fan of selfies? I don’t mind if other people do it, but I think I’m honestly bad at selfies so I almost never take them. I’ve never figured out my angles or what filters look ok on me.

Has anyone ever called the police on you because they didn't like your status? No but I have had my posts reported because they were deemed ‘offensive.’ Which is weird because my posts that have been taken down are those that speak out against disgusting men, which says a lot about Facebook runs their shit more than anything else.

Are you in any facebook groups? I’m in nearly a hundred groups, both private i.e. for school purposes, and public.

Are you the admin of any groups? Nah. Too much time and effort needed out of me.

Do you report abuse to group admins whenever you see it? Yes. I report the post then leave the group.

What could make Facebook better? They could put more effort into detecting and banning troll farms.

What year did you start using Facebook? I made an account in 2012 because of a high school class that required us to upload this specific video-format homework onto Facebook (which in hindsight is such an insensitive homework considering that was nearly a decade ago when the Philippines was still severely behind in internet connection speeds?? Ugh). But I didn’t start actively using my account until around two years ago.

What is your current profile picture of? Myself, posing in front of the sunflowers in school during the recent graduation season.

Did you like the old Myspace better than Facebook? I was never a regular user of Myspace, so...

What are some of your favorite boards? I’ve never had a clue what the purpose of Pinterest was. I mean I have an account...but I’ve also never gotten the hang of it?? so I never touch it hahaha.

Have you ever done a craft you saw on Pinterest? Well no, because I’m terrible at arts and crafts anyway.

Do you have a Dream Wedding board? If so, what's on it? No.

If you have a Dream House board, what does your dream house look like? Ok fine this one I did start hahahah but I don’t even remember what I added on there anymore. I’m sure it was filled with modern-style houses with minimalist interior design.

Do you wish they'd bring the "like" button back? I’m not even aware of this option.

Do you have a Bucket List board? Not aware of this either.

Which do you like better: Just Girly Things or And That's Who I Am? The second one sounds less childish. < Same, and it sounds like it covers more.

Do you have a board for tattoos you like? If so, what are some of your faves? No. The only one I ever made was the house one, then Pinterest quickly became boring from there when I realized there wasn’t much else I could do besides making mood boards.

Do you have a "Random" or "Miscellaneous" board? No.

Have you ever reached the maximum number of boards? No.

Do you have any secret boards? No.

Have you ever had a Pin deleted because of copyright laws? No.

Do you have a Color board? No.

Do you have an About Me board? If so, what's on it? No.

YouTube

Do you have a YouTube channel? If so, what is it? Technically I do but I only have it so I can tailor video suggestions to my interests and so that I can like videos and subscribe to channels I like.

What kind of things do you post on YouTube? I’ve never posted any video on there, not even private ones. I’m also not the type to comment.

What do you like to watch on YouTube? These days YouTube serves as a stress reliever for me, which is to say I would typically go for humorous BTS-related compilations because there are sooooo many hilarious channels that make these great videos haha. Occasionally I’d go back to channels or series that I used to frequent, like Good Mythical Morning, Buzzfeed’s Worth It and Unsolved, Try Guys, Watcher, etc.

Are you subscribed to any channels? To so many.

Do you watch any vlogs? If so, what ones are your favorite? Hm probably Jiwoo’s, though her channel is called Mejiwoo. I find her content calming and conversational and basically fun to binge-watch when I’m not looking for anything super super particular to watch.

If you have a channel, how many subscribers do you have? 0. I’m just a lurker.

Will you subscribe to my channel? (msg me if you want a link!) Only if it’s really fit to my interests, I guess.

Do you watch music videos? Rarely; not a fan of MVs in particular. I only really ever put an exception for BTS.

Have you ever watched a TV show on youtube? Well no since their copyright team works hard and works fast lol. I do watch entire video game walkthroughs from time to time.

Have you ever worked out to exercise videos on youtube? No, I can’t care less about working out tbh.

Have you watched Amanda Todd's famous video? No. I’m scared that it might be too upsetting or triggering for me.

Have you ever looked up how to do something on YouTube? Not really, I prefer looking up articles that can teach me step by step in words.

Do you get a lot of hate comments on youtube? No, I’ve never posted anything on there.

How long have you been a youtuber? Never been.

Instagram

Do you post on Instagram a lot? I do 1-3 Instagram stories in a week, I would say. As for posts, I only have 4 in total and I don’t really feel the pressure to add more. I just post when I feel the want to.

Have you ever posted a poll on instagram? Nah, I’m not too sure if anyone would participate so I’ve never tried. If you don't have an iPhone, do you wish you could use Instagram? I’m pretty sure other operating systems can also use Instagram...

Do you have any followers? Around 50, I think.

Do you like Instagram filters? I’ll use them sometimes to make my stories appear prettier.

Twitter

Do you think twitter is stupid? Hehe show me at least one person who doesn’t think so. < Coming from someone who regularly uses Twitter, agree. It is crazy stupid but stupid is what I’m there for. Which is honestly not always such a bad thing to me - I like that people are more themselves, more stripped-down, vulnerable on Twitter. People always seem to want to show off their best selves on Facebook and Instagram, so I’m actually kind of grateful that there is at least one social media out there where people can just be their clumsy, goofy selves.

How often do you tweet? Probably a maximum of five a day. Nowadays I’m on there mostly to just scroll through my timelines.

Do you get on twitter every day? Yes, both on my personal and fan account.

Bzoink

Do you make a lot of surveys? I never make them but I try to take them as often as I can.

Do you take a lot of surveys? Haha sorry, was one step ahead of you. Yeah, I do.

Do you post in the message boards? Nah. I dunno if I’m even permitted to check the message boards on Bzoink considering I don’t have an account.

What types of surveys are your favorite? Categorized surveys like this one or countdown ones can be fun, but at the end of the day I like sticking to the classic random survey.

Do you have friends on here? Not on Bzoink, but here on Tumblr yes! There’s a number of people here I like keeping up with :)

Do you post all your secrets on here? Again, not on Bzoink; but yep I share pretty much everything here.

What type of survey do you think I should make next? Anything but basic/about me-themed ones that will ask for my name and eye color and weight.

Do you read peoples' answers to your surveys? I’ve never made a survey.

Do you think you are good at making surveys?

Do you try to make unique surveys?

What type of surveys do you want to see more of?

Random

This or That

Scattergories

Have You Ever

Are you like me?

About You

Personal, Deep Questions

Girly

Music shuffle

Would You Rather

Do you have this in your bedroom?

Long

Short

All About Your Crush

Fashion

Make-up

School

Music

Your health

Your friends

Confessions

Girl Confessions - how different is this from just confessions? Hahaha

R-Rated

Controversial topics

Myspace

Did you have a myspace when you were in high school? I started an account in like 4th grade when Myspace was ~big, but I didn’t find it fun and everyone my age was on Friendster anyway, so I was largely inactive.

Do you use myspace now? No. Is it still even around? I have no clue.

Do you miss bulletins? I didn’t get to join in on the fun so there’s nothing to miss.

Did you like customizing your profile with the old myspace? Not attributed to Myspace but I did have a lot of fun customizing my Multiply and Tumblr accounts back in the day. That was a period where I really got to learn and play around with HTML :)

Did you have music on your profile? Not on Myspace again but I did on Multiply! I had a cute little playlist that played the songs immediately as soon as you landed on my page hahaha.

Did you learn HTML when you used Myspace? Tumblr, yeah. I believe the skills are still there but I’ll definitely be a bit rusty.

Did you have a customized cursor? Oh, no. Wasn’t a fan of those as I found them a bit tacky.

Did you use glitter graphics? Also found those tacky haha no, I never used those.

Do you remember posting glitter graphics on friends' pages? Nope.

Did you make "dolls"? I don’t recall ever making those.

Did you use photo captions? Not sure what this is referring to so let’s just say no.

Did you have a photo slideshow on your profile? Hmmm nope, I don’t think so.

Xanga

Did you have a Xanga account back in the day? No. It wasn’t big here so I had never heard of it until I started taking surveys on here and heard people mentioning Xanga, actually.

Do you have a xanga account now? No.

Did you post photos and quotes on your xanga page? I never had any.

Snapchat

Do you use snapchat? I did; I was superrrrr active on there for a time. It kind of just got old at one point, though, and my feed got more and more dead until I too just left my account dormant altogether.

What is your favorite filter? There were a lot of cute ones on there that helped me be more confident with taking selfies but my favorites have to be the dog and flower crown ones.

Tumblr

Do you understand Tumblr? I had a better handle of it when I ran a fan account that required me to be more active; but now that I really just go on here to take surveys I just use the basic functions and nothing more. But yeah, I understand just enough to get by.

Do you use Tumblr? Yeah. Even on the days I don’t post surveys, I regularly go on here to keep up with friends I like keeping up with like Elisabeth, Lane, Steph, Lina, Julie :)

Other

What forum sites did you use to love that aren't around anymore? There was one message board I frequented for this girly/tween magazine I used to collect, but I won’t share the name.

Are there any other great social media sites that you recommend? I think this survey was able to cover all the main ones I use.

Do you use a photo editing site? If so, what? I use apps instead of sites to edit my photos.

Do you ever use BeFunky.com? Nope.

Do you use a video editing site? If so, what? Nah, I rarely have to edit videos in a super intricate, detailed way. Apple’s video editing features suffice for me.

Have you ever downloaded fonts? Very occasionally since it’s never necessary.

Have you ever used photobucket to upload an image? No but I remember going on there back in the day to look for images. I never uploaded any, though.

Do you use iTunes? Not anymore. I have an account on Spotify now.

Do you listen to music on Pandora? No, never used it.

#surveys #survey

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starlightsearches · 4 years

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Office Romance: Ch. 14 Undercover

General Hux and Kylo Ren have found themselves competing for the affection of a lieutenant aboard the Finalizer.

Series Warnings: Language, some violence, near-death experiences.

Masterlist

AN: Oof, some big warnings for this one, specifically sexual assault! The reader goes undercover and someone makes advances on her, so please read with caution. She also kills a man, but that’s not described.

The music was loud in your ears, the bass thumping through your entire body as you danced, performing the steps with a smile on your face, showing off for the crowd below. It was too hot, too noisy, but you had to look like you were enjoying yourself; the success of the mission depended on everything going smoothly. Besides, you should be grateful. You had fought to be here.

The first fight had been the most difficult. Convincing Allecull, the chief intelligence officer and your sworn enemy, that you deserved a spot on the ground team had almost been impossible, especially with both the general and Ren taking his side.

“You do realize that this man tried to have you killed?” Allecull had asked, like you were some kind of idiot. You had contained your anger; you knew that reacting in rage would not help your case. You had to seem calm, in control, or there was no way they’d let you go with them. It was terribly unfair, you certainly deserved to be angry.

“Yes, Major, I realize that. I’d like to return the favor.” Eventually, the ground team leader, Kane Cheepres, had convinced the others that you deserved a spot on the team, but not without three conditions. Number one: you would not engage the target; number two: you would stay under surveillance the entire time; and number three: you would leave at the first sign of trouble.

A new song started, and you forced yourself to recall the steps you had drilled into your head in the time before the mission, the movement relatively easy compared to what you were used to, even though it was a bit more lewd. You were playing the role of one of the clubs many dancers, who were spread around the area on individual, elevated stages.

The stylist had told you that she wanted you to look fun, but what she had apparently meant was loud. You couldn’t help but feel exposed in the spangled, iridescent outfit: a pair of shorts for mobility and a crop top that exposed part of your midriff when you moved. It was not skin tight, at least, and she had opted for a casual pair of tennis shoes instead of heels like most of the other girls were wearing—better for running, in case you had to make a quick getaway. However, the wig she had put on you seemed to be made for nothing but inconvenience. It was long, grazing your tailbone when you moved, violet in color, and heavy. The whole ensemble made you feel like some kind of deranged butterfly, but it served its purpose; despite the intensity of your outfit, you still blended in rather well.

“No sign of the target,” you said quietly, knowing that the stealth comm placed near your mouth would pick up the sound, even over the thundering of the music. Your eyes scanned the space below you, searching for the man who had paid to see you dead. Antibree Soar.

According to Ren, Antibree was heir to Soar Weapons Manufacturing and the man who had ordered the hit. He had squandered his newfound fortune not long after his father’s death and targeted you, hoping that taking out a First Order officer would convince the Resistance and the Republic to see him as an ally, increasing his profits.

“Can anyone tell me why there’s a Resistance pilot here?” You heard the voice through the comms, belonging to Renaia Shadhin. She was the undercover operative who had been tasked with the actual elimination of Antibree, and was on the dance floor now, waiting for a sign of him. You searched for the pilot she was talking about, finding a familiar face near one of the lounge on your right. Poe Dameron. You had read his file. He was sitting in a chair, facing the crowd, a small smirk on his face, looking carefree and confident.

“I think I see him, too,” you responded, “on my right, in the lounge?”

“Black hair, brooding eyes, ruggedly handsome?” she asked in confirmation, and you couldn’t stifle your giggle quickly enough. You liked Renaia. She never lost her sense of humor, even in serious situations. How she could work with Allecull on a regular basis, you would never understand. As if on queue, another voice sounded off in your ear.

“Stay focused. You can fawn over Dameron later,” Allecull said. He was with the observation team in the transport that had taken you to Coruscant, along with the general, and Ren—who had insisted on coming—plus a few others, monitoring the holocam feeds in the club.

“I’ll keep my eye on Dameron. You two, work on locating the target,” Kane commanded, also undercover, moving from his place against the wall closer to the bar. You tried not to think about one of the many cam feeds trained on you as you performed, transmitting the image back to the observation team, and the ever-critical Allecull. Now was not the time to worry about your reputation.

“Hey doll!” A new voice called to you from below as the song ended, and you crouched down to speak to him. The manager of the club, a rat-faced man with a cheap hair piece, Braale, was down there, waving you off the stage. You hopped down carefully and bounced a little from foot to foot, trying to stretch out your legs.

“Yeah, boss?” you asked. You were playing peppy—eager-to-please—and it was obviously working. He giggled at the title, nudging the girl next to him, who tried to move out of his reach.

“Boss, huh? I like that. Hey, Marielle, remind me to tell the other girls to start calling me boss from now on!” The dancer nodded half-heartedly, rolling her eyes and giving you a dirty look.

“Marielle’s gonna be taking over for you here, I want you to go work the crowd. You’ve got quite a few fans already. On your first night, too!” he winked, pushing Marielle to the stage.

“You got it, boss,” you said brightly, walking past him and onto the churning dance floor. The crowd was sweaty and dense as you moved through it, bodies pressing up against you from every angle, some contact accidental and some decidedly not. You dodged the grabbing hands lithely, reminding yourself once again that you had wanted to be here. That you still wanted to be here.

“Make sure you stay visible, General,” Allecull ordered over the comm, and you rolled your eyes. Where did he think you were going to go?

You found your way to the edge of the room, to one of the less populated bars, and asked the bartender for a water, hoping to cool yourself off a little. You had a decent view of the space when you turned back to the crowd—not as good as the one from the stage—but it would suffice. The club was less a room and more a giant, indoor arena—the dance floor impossibly huge and impossibly packed with the young, the rich, and the egotistical. Corsucant’s finest.

“I’ve got eyes on the target,” you heard Kane say, his urgency interrupting your thoughts, “on your left, Renaia. Lieutenant General, he’s heading for you.” You found him on the edge of the crowd, recognized him almost immediately from the photos. He looked young—younger than you—with chubby, smiling cheeks and a crop of fluffy blonde hair, scanning the crowd with eager eyes. He saw you looking, and looked back, moving to you with enthusiastic determination. Fuck.

“Get out of there, Lieutenant.” Hux’s voice came in over the comms channel.

“I can’t, he’s already seen me. If I run it will only be more suspicious.” You took a few deep breaths, trying to calm yourself. You were in disguise—he probably didn’t recognize you—and you could use that to your advantage, but you had to make a plan now before everything went to shit.

“I’m going to turn off my mic,” you said quickly, “you’ll still have sound, but if I leave it on he might be able to hear you if he . . . if he gets too close.” Sounds of dissent poured into your ear, loud and overlapping, but you blocked them out, shutting off the speaker before you could second-guess yourself.

Turning back to the bar, you prepared for impact, hoping to look more at ease than you were. You felt his presence as soon as he arrived, and then there was a hand at your waist, demanding, insistent, pushing you playfully into the bar. A pair of lips at your ear.

“Hello there,” he whispered, and you thought you might gag. Your instincts told you to whip around, ready to fight, to shove, to scream, to get this man away from you. But you were frozen. It was him; the man who had hoped to see you dead for his own gain. Antibree Soar.

You turned slowly, and he leaned against the bar, trapping you in his arms as you faced him. You glanced down, trying to look appropriately flirtatious, and then back up through your eyelashes. It had the desired effect.

“What’s your name?” He whispered, placing a hand at your hip, holding you to the bar forcefully. It would probably bruise.

“Kaytari,” the name rolled off your tongue so easily; despite the pounding of your heart, you were slipping into your disguise like a pool of water.

“Beautiful name for a beautiful girl.” His breath was thick with the scent of alcohol, and the fog of it clouded your nose, but you smiled at him, biting your lip. It was easy to pretend when you thought about killing him. About getting him alone.

“I saw you dancing earlier,” he said, his other hand having found a place on the back of your thigh, tracing your bare skin with a light touch, and you shivered involuntarily. You tried not to think about the cams, the men on the ship who were watching these events unfold, but it was difficult to clear your mind in a moment like this one when so much had gone wrong already.

“You’re very talented.” His whole body was against yours, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe, the pressure toxic, the feeling of him worming its way into your skin. Casually, you placed your hands behind you, jumping up onto the bar, trying to escape the poison of his touch.

“Thank you,” you said, and he forced his way between your legs, the suggestive contact making your stomach roll. You needed to end this, as soon as possible. “You know, dancing isn’t my only talent.”

“Oh, really? Tell me more.” You didn’t let yourself think about it before you leaned in and kissed him.

“I’ll give her one thing,” Allecull said, throwing his comm down in frustration, “she’s a damn good actress.” The transport was rife with tension as the events unfolded, all eyes trained on the video feed of you and Antibree. Hux could feel the embarrassment of the other observation team members, and a few of the men turned away from the projection, uncomfortable watching such a heated moment between a superior officer and potential murderer. General Hux swallowed hard, but he wouldn’t let himself look away. You were sitting on the bar, Antibree between your legs, your hands on the back of his neck, his hands all over you. His lips trailed from yours, down your jaw and to your neck, and you arched into his touch, pulling yourself even closer, a low moan escaping your lips like a wet dream from hell.

“Can’t you shut off the audio?” someone yelled to Allecull, and Hux put his hand out to stop him.

“If we turn off the comm, we lose all contact with the lieutenant. Leave it as is.” A sick anger wriggled into Hux’s mind, feelings of betrayal that he didn’t deserve but couldn’t stop pricking him like knives as he heard you whimper over the comm, and then say breathlessly, “if only there was somewhere we could go.”

“Renaia, follow her,” Allecull ordered, watching closely as you slid from the bar, hand in hand with Soar. He pulled you around the edge of the club, towards a dark corner, and an exit guarded by two bouncers. Hux had seen layouts of the building; he knew what happened behind those doors.

“They won’t let me back there on my own, sir,” Renaia responded anxiously, “I’ll keep watch outside.” With a twisting in his gut, Hux watched you disappear from view, out of reach of the holocams and into the hallway, and the crackle of your comm turned to an oppressive silence. Your mic had cut out.

Ren had been silent up until this point, watchful, leaning against the wall with barely-controlled rage, but he saw no use in trying to rein in his impulses now. The general argued with Allecull, trying to formulate some kind of plan to get the audio back online, or get you away from Antibree before he found out who you really were. Hux could argue all he wanted; Ren wasn’t going to sit around and wait.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Hux interrupted Allecull mid-sentence, addressing Ren, but he ignored him, heading to the exit of the ship, saber in hand. The exit led to an alleyway behind the club—disgusting and probably foul-smelling, Ren was grateful for his mask—but private as well. Despite the horde of people inside, the area behind the club was deserted. Ren didn’t know where he was going, but he walked on anyways, determined to find a path that led to you.

“Stop!” Hux ran out of the transport, not bothering to avoid the ancient puddles of water and shit and who-knew-what-else that littered the way. Ever the annoyance, the general ran in front of Ren, trying to block the exit. Ren didn’t bother to pause, flinging Hux into a wall and continuing out of the darkness of the alley. His rage was all-consuming; it had to be, if he let himself feel anything else, he’d be paralyzed.

“If you go in there, she’ll die.” Hux’s statement echoed down the alley. Ren hesitated.

“So we should wait around here for her to die, instead?” Ren knew he had to save his energy if he was going to get you out of there alive, but the temptation to end Hux’s miserable life right then was incredibly captivating.

“Don’t pretend you’re the only one concerned for her safety, Ren,” the general stood from the ground and joined him at the mouth of the alley, just deep enough in the shadows that they would not be seen if someone passed by. “You need to trust her.”

“Like you trust her, General?” The accusation made Ren livid, “with all of your spying? Please. Tell me, what has FN-2187 found out for you?”

“I trust the Lieutenant implicitly, Ren. It’s you I don’t trust.”

“We can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

“If you walk in there, you’ll cause mass panic. There’s at least one Resistance operative inside, what would stop him from opening fire the second he sees you?” Ren hated that Hux was making sense, but he didn’t plan on listening. He needed to see you, alive. Now.

“I’m going in there; you won’t convince me otherwise. She needs my help.” He began walking forward again, and this time the general did not try to stop him.

“I don’t think you really believe that, Ren. You won’t admit it, but your motives are selfish,” Hux turned to go back to the ship, but was frozen in place when Ren seized control.

“Selfish?” The air in the alley turned cold, and Ren’s anger was like ice in his veins. He walked to the general, standing between him and the ship before letting go.

“Yes, selfish. You don’t really think she needs you. You want to save her so she’ll owe you something. It’s disgusting.” The low light of the alley turned red, and the air filled with the buzzing sound of Ren’s saber. Unconsciously, General Hux backed into the wall.

“Take it back,” Ren couldn’t speak above a whisper, his head reeling from the oppressive wrath threatening to take over, and, at least for a moment, the general seemed truly frightened.

“Go ahead, Ren. It won’t stop me from being right about you.” Hux’s voice was even but Ren’s hand shook with the force of his grip on the hilt of his saber, and for a moment, he truly believed that he would kill him.

A small cough echoed down the alley, and Ren and Hux both turned to see Mitaka at the mouth of the ship.

“Excuse me sirs, but,” he paused, and Ren reluctantly holstered his weapon, “the lieutenant general is back online. The target has been eliminated.”

Back on the ship, Hux tried to shake the fear that lingered from his encounter with Ren as he watched your image on the projection in front of him. It had been worth it, he thought, to protect you from Ren’s rash behavior, but his hands were shaking, and he held on tightly to the control panel in front of him so that no one would notice. On the holoprojector he could see the image of you wandering the dance floor, waiting for Renaia to meet up with you before leaving the godforsaken club once and for all.

“Sir,” one of the men in the transport said, and Hux looked up to see one of the ensigns gesture to a different image, “I’ve got eyes on the Resistance pilot, he’s moving. It looks like he’s headed in the same direction as the Lieutenant General.” Hux searched the scene and located the pilot, who was closing in on you from behind. He was close, much too close for comfort. How had they missed him before?

“Dameron is approaching, General. Get clear of him,” Allecull told you over the comm, and you tried to move deeper into the crowd, but your path was blocked and suddenly he reached out, grabbing you by the shoulder.

“Hey,” the pilot’s voice was loud and slurring, and he leaned in so that you could hear him over the music, “don’t I know you from somewhere?” You ducked your face towards his ear, making sure he couldn’t get a good look at you. Hux was sure that the Resistance would have your photo by now, it had been circulated pretty widely after the HoloNet caught hold of the story of your attempted assassination. But would the pilot recognize you? And what would he do if he did? You were so close to being out of harm's way and now this man could ruin it all.

“I don’t think so,” you yelled back, “I’m new here, this is my first day.”

“Oh, you’re a dancer? No shit, huh? I swear to god I know your face from somewhere . . . “ he trailed off, but his grip did not loosen. He was swaying a little where he stood; still, Hux had a sneaking suspicion that the pilot was only acting inebriated, and a rising panic crept up his shoulder blades.

“Get out of there now, General.” Allecull commanded you over the speaker, and you panicked, trying to pull yourself out of his grasp. Hux was desperate to see you do something, anything, to get away, to cause some kind of scene and escape to safety, but you stood your ground, closing your eyes and taking in a deep breath.

“You don’t know me.” The others didn’t notice the modification of your demeanor, but Hux certainly did. Your tone of voice had changed completely; you were no longer yelling, but speaking low and quiet, and you raised your other hand up to his face with a small wave, a familiar gesture. Almost immediately, Dameron let go of you, his face going slack. He blinked a few times—like someone had flashed a bright light in his eyes—and then found your face again, but there was no recognition in his expression. Hux watched the scene unfold, his anxieties from earlier compounding into something dense and heavy in the pit of his stomach. Holy shit.

“He’s completely intoxicated,” somebody in the transport yelled with a high-pitched laugh, and then another voice rose up, saying “stars, I can’t believe that worked.”

“I’m sorry, do I know y-” Dameron said, before he was cut off by Renaia, who ran up behind you, grabbing you around the waist with a squeal.

“There you are!” she yelled, remarkably good at acting less-than-sober, “It’s our song, girl, let’s go!” You followed her into the crowd, turning back to Dameron with an apologetic shrug, but he didn’t seem to notice you leaving. He was still dazed, standing in the middle of the dance floor for a moment, looking around like he had just forgotten something important, but couldn’t remember what it was.

“On our way back to base,” you said over the comms, and the men in the transport let out a collective sigh of relief. Hux scanned the room, trying to see if anyone had noticed anything odd about your escape from Dameron, but they all seemed to accept that he had been drunk. It didn’t make any sense. Last he had heard, the force was closed off to you, except in rare instances. Had you and Ren been hiding your true progress from him? Hux didn’t know everything there was to know about the force, but he knew that a mind-trick like that would be difficult without a considerable amount of training.

You and Renaia entered the transport, and a few of the men cheered, congratulating the both of you on the success of the mission. You accepted the praise graciously, but your expression showed some inner turmoil. You broke free of the group as the transport prepared for lift off.

“I need to speak with you, General” you said quietly, brushing past him casually before walking into the storage area of the transport. Ren followed closely behind as you and Hux entered the little room; you must have signaled to him silently. The space was cramped, but private, and you slid to the floor, finding a seat among the boxes and holding your head in your hands.

“What happened?” Hux asked.

“You saw what happened.” You sounded far away, dazed, and it terrified him. He didn’t understand.

“You used the force,” Ren said. Hux had already known, but hearing it said out loud was jarring. Ren kneeled in front of you on the floor of the storage room, and something moved between the two of you that Hux could not identify.

“How did you do it?” Ren asked urgently; he seemed just as confused as Hux did, maybe even more so.

“I don’t know,” your voice broke on the last word, “I knew I had to try something. I can’t believe it worked.”

“So you feel it, then? The force?” Ren asked again, and you nodded into your hands before looking up to Hux.

“I never been able to use it before, not consciously. We’ve been practicing some more simple things, like sensing emotions, but nothing has really worked . . . until now.”

“Then what changed?” He asked, and you shook your head.

“I’m not sure, but,” you paused, “I think that my father might have something to do with it. There’s something you need to know about Allegiant General Pryde.”

Tags: @acunningstargazer, @itsa-pseudonym, @ddaeing, @dark-night-sky-99, @i-jus-wanna-writehappy, @fresa-luna, @leiadelreyy

#kylo ren x reader #kylo ren x you #armitage hux x reader #armitage hux x you #armitage hux fanfiction #kylo ren fanfic #star wars fanfic #office romance #my writing

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misssophiachase · 4 years

Text

With or Without You

For Klaroline AU Week - Day 4 - Enemies to Lovers

Rebekah is diagnosed with a virus and sent to the hospital for observation. To help stop the spread, the two people closest to her in the past two weeks need to self-quarantine. The problem is her best friend and her brother can’t stand each other. Forced to live in the same house, will they kill each other or do something entirely different before 14 days is up?

(Please note: I realise this is a difficult time and the subject matter is serious but this drabble is designed to be just a bit of fun during a tough time.)

“I can’t live with or without you.”

Day 3

“Honestly, Kat, I’m not sure if I can last much longer,” she groaned. “He sings in the shower, badly. he leaves the toilet seat up constantly and don’t get me started on his remote control form. He switches channels that fast I feel like I’m at a rave.”

Caroline lived in Los Angeles with Rebekah Mikaelson, they’d been friends for years. Her brother had shown up recently from London, where he was based, only for Rebekah to develop the virus. She was going to be okay but had been sent to hospital purely for observation purposes meaning they were imprisoned together as a precaution for fourteen whole days.

To say she wasn’t coping was an understatement.

“So, you haven’t had sex yet?” She asked matter-of-factly. Even though she was currently staring at Caroline through a computer screen, she still had the annoying ability to cut straight to the awkward part.

“Kat! She hissed, looking down the hall to check he wasn’t listening. “Your inappropriateness knows no bounds even via Skype.”

“The way I see it is the sooner you have sex, the frustration you feel towards each other and the situation will dissipate. And who knows? If the sex is good you’ll not only have something to do to pass the time but you’ll also be getting your required cardio.”

“Seriously,” she growled. “Is sex all you think about?”

“About 90 per cent of the day,” she quipped. “Tell me you have a better idea?”

“Ah, not to sleep with him because he’s an arrogant asshat who thinks the world revolves around him?”

“I don’t think, love, I know,” he called out. Unfortunately, she chose that exact moment to turn around and copped an eyeful.

“Wow, does he work out?” Kat cooed, obviously she’d had the privilege of seeing him too dressed only in a white towel tied low on his hips, his bare chest and six-pack on full display. Caroline felt her mouth go dry and was struggling to form words he looked that delicious.

“If you use all of the hot water again, Mikaelson, I swear I’ll come in there and..” she paused, realising what she’d alluded to.

“By all means, love,” he murmured, the dimple in his left cheek making an ill-timed appearance. “Maybe that way we can conserve water.”

“You are unbelievable,” she muttered. “Not if we were the last two people on the planet and we had to repopulate the earth.”

“Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me, Forbes,” he chuckled, shutting the bathroom door behind him.

“You are so screwed figuratively and literally, ” Kat laughed. Caroline didn’t respond knowing her friend was right.

She should have hated him, in fact she had since they met eleven years earlier. Caroline had befriended Rebekah during sophomore year at high school. They were both cheerleaders and had bonded over music and drama club.

Rebekah was new to her school, so too her brothers Kol, Elijah and Niklaus. The first two were polar opposites personality-wise but she got along with them famously. The problem was with Niklaus, or Klaus as he liked to be called.

They’d clashed from the outset. It started with a few stray insults and developed into more insults and pranks. Apparently everyone thought it was a passing phase but it wasn’t ending anytime soon.

However, being locked up with him in quarantine was doing all sorts of strange things to her. In fact, she was experiencing all these not-so innocent urges. She wanted to blame it on Kat’s innuendo or that fact he swanned around the house barely clothed but there was definitely something bigger at play here.

Day 5

“She keeps making me watch all of these bad movies, only cooks meals with weird and unidentified grains and apparently the living room is her personal gymnasium,” he complained.

Klaus Mikaelson didn’t do roommates and there was a very good reason why. He liked his space and he liked walking around partially naked but suddenly he was thrown into this quarantine situation which was a complete minefield.

“I said I’d only take this Skype call if you didn’t complain about Caroline Forbes, Niklaus, but yet here we are again,” Enzo growled. “You two need to get a room and pronto.”

“We have rooms, in fact, we have a whole house of rooms and yet that still isn’t enough distance between us,” he muttered. “I am going to go crazy locked up in here with her.”

“And the best dramatic Oscar performance goes to...”

“You would feel exactly the same way, Lorenzo,” he argued. “Caroline Forbes is nothing but a spoilt princess who thinks the world revolves around her.”

“I don’t think, I know, asshat,” she drawled finding her way into his room while repeating his sentiments from two days earlier. No doubt just to push his buttons that much more.

What Klaus wasn’t expecting was for her to look so wet doing it. Yes, she was wearing yellow, rubber gloves but her white t-shirt was soaked through revealing a very lacy bra and some rather pronounced nipples no doubt due to the temperature.

“Holy...” Enzo murmured before Klaus shut his laptop with a bang. He figured it was the least he could do to protect her innocence and it had absolutely nothing to do with jealousy whatsoever. Or that’s what he told himself.

“You’re here in my room...wet,” he mumbled, trying to look anywhere but exactly where his eyes wanted to go.

“I’m trying to clean up after your lazy ass,” she groaned. “You do realise how germs spread right? Maybe if you took better care to clean up after yourself then we wouldn’t be experiencing our current predicament.”

“I’m aware of our current predicament, trust me,” he shot back. “Since when did cleaning end in a drenching. I know you like me, Forbes, but I can see everything.” She looked down in complete shock, his comment having the desired effect.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, pulling off her wet gloves and throwing them in his direction before leaving his room, no doubt to change her top.

“I’m the one who’s spreading germs?” He cried out, attempting to remove the dirty gloves from the bed.

Klaus and Caroline had never gotten along in the eleven years they’d known each other. Klaus decided from the outset that Rebekah truly was evil bringing her into his life and home. Caroline had this annoying ability to get under his skin and Klaus unfortunately let her.

His friends and brothers told him it was because he liked her deep down. Sure she was hot. there was no denying that, but he’d prided himself on maintaining his distance. Well, that was until he was forced to live in such close quarters for two whole weeks.

His willpower was waning and Klaus wasn’t sure he could go the distance.

Day 7

“Would you stop switching channels so fast, it makes it a little difficult to see what’s actually on,” she offered, rolling her eyes as she said it.

They were seated on the couch, the long, uneventful days were taking their toll and the fact they still had another week to go wasn’t doing much for their morale.

“There’s nothing on so it doesn’t really matter,” he replied in frustration. “I’m so bored! And if you dare suggest cleaning again I will confiscate your rubber gloves.”

“Well, what else is there to do?” She mumbled. “And please spare me from running around the place half naked again, I’d like to keep down my dinner.”

“Come on, you secretly love my naked form,” he smirked. Her tell-tale blush was giving her away instantly. “You know I’m not that bad once you get to know me.”

“Funny, the past week hasn’t unearthed any new or redeemable features that I can tell,” she answered.

“Just so you know those little insults of yours don’t offend me in the slightest bit so please just give it a break, Forbes.”

“Well, what do you suggest we do to pass the time?” She asked, obviously not realizing just how loaded her question was.

They were seated on the couch, only a few feet apart, if either of them were to just lean forward they could do something really stupid. Or really fun, depending on who you asked.

“Fine,” she said, reading his mind. “But if we do this, don’t think this means I like you in any way, Mikaelson,” she clarified.

“The feeling is mutual, trust me, sweetheart,” he agreed. They paused momentarily almost as if they were thinking about the very prominent line they were about to cross and weighing up the pros and cons.

It didn’t take much consideration as he pulled her greedily towards him so she was straddling his lap. Caroline never knew just how crimson his lips were from this vantage point, Klaus was thinking the same about her blue eyes.

He ran his hands along her cheek, his thumbs rubbing circles over her skin. Her heart was racing and given she was practically touching his chest she knew his was too.

There was no going back.

His lips found hers, slowly at first almost like he was taking his time to discover every inch of her mouth. She moaned against him as his tongue dipped into her warmth. She tasted like a heady mixture of mint and chocolate from dessert and now Klaus had tasted her once he wasn’t ready to give her up anytime soon.

Caroline grasped his neck, her fingers playing with the stray curls at the nape as she melted into his kisses. Klaus knew it wouldn’t be long given just how much he’d wanted her all these years.

He stood up, and wound her toned legs around his waist, careful not to break contact. They made their way quickly to the bedroom excited for what was in store.

Turns out the sex continued longer than seven days and also out of quarantine. In fact, the sex turned into dating and the dating turned into an engagement. At their wedding, Kat, Rebekah and Enzo regaled the guests with stories about how they got together when they were forced together in lockdown.

Who said quarantine was necessarily a bad thing?

#kcauweek2020 #klaroline fanfiction #klaroline drabbles #misssophiachase #day 4 #enemies to lovers #with or without you #this was so much fun

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