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firelordsfirelady · 1 month

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II. Banishment

Author: @firelordsfirelady

Imagine: When Y/N—a princess of one of the Water Tribes—is told she’s leaving her tribe, she never expects that she’s to be betrothed to the Fire Lord’s son, nor was she prepared to be exiled the very day she arrived at the Fire Nation. With her life in the hands of her new fiancée, how will life change for the princess?

Pairing: Zuko x F!Reader

Trigger warnings: arranged marriage, feelings of fear, banishment, mentions of burns/abuse, frustration, violence, betrayal

Word Count: 2119

Destined to be Yin and Yang

I own no rights to Avatar the Last Airbender or any of the characters/story.

Author’s Notes

The characters as all aged up so Zuko’s banishment happens when he’s 16

Keep in mind I am bringing a unique world with inspiration from ATLA in their characters, some of the events that happen, bending, etc. Not many things may align or occur with what happened in the show. It’s intended that way, so I hope you enjoy it regardless.

See Y/N's inspiration here.

I had been fearful my first week or so aboard the ship to practice my waterbending. Since I now had no regular practice, I feared losing the knowledge of my element. As the full moon approached, the urge grew strong to waterbend, and I couldn’t stand to deny myself further. I devised a plan to sneak out on the night of the full moon to practice my waterbending.

The night of the full moon, I put my plan into action. Using small amounts of oil to grease the hinges of the door, I silently opened the door and peered into the hall. When silence greeted me for a satisfactory amount of time, I tip toed into the hallway and pressed my ear slightly against the door across from me. Once again, silence greeted me, and I crept away from the room containing the Fire Lord’s son. Sticking to the shadows, I crept through the corridor and peered through the little window of the door. None of the crew was on the deck, so I slipped out of the door.

The cool breeze of the open seas at night greeted me as I leaned against the wall as I faintly picked up the sounds of laughter and drunken shenanigans happening below deck. The crew had settled for the night to relax, and I felt some tension leave my shoulders. With light feet, I crept to the center of the deck and glanced up at the sky. The clouds parted to reveal the moon in all of its beautiful glory as I smiled at the display. Glancing around once more, I was satisfied to see no one else.

Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes as I let the pull to waterbend flow through me. Taking a small stream from the ocean, I water whipped the air over the railing on the other side of the boat. I slid my feet horizontally across the deck as I turned the stream to an ice sculpture before closing my fist to rupture the sculpture I just made. A genuine smile settled on my lips as relief flushed my system. Fighting back a small laugh, I danced with streams of water and ice as I embraced the power of the full moon. A sound from below brought my moment of joy to an end as I returned the water back to the ocean and quickly made my escape to my room. I slid into my bed with a smile on my face.

Closing my eyes, I made a promise to myself: I will be doing that every full moon.

The next morning, I was surprised to see Zuko present at the table for breakfast. I gave a polite nod to Iroh as I sat down at my usual spot and fixed a plate of some eggs then made a cup of tea. Zuko sat at the table quietly eating his own plate of breakfast, but he never looked at or acknowledged my presence. Iroh cleared his throat as he gave Zuko a certain look. The loud clatter of Zuko’s fork roughly hitting the ceramic plate as he let out an annoyed huff.

“Good morning, Princess.” Zuko practically growled as his face twisted in annoyance. My former title didn’t sound well coming from the former prince, so I gave him a soft smile.

“Y/N. You can just call me Y/N.” The young man across from me scuffed as he crossed his arms across his chest.

“Father cannot seriously expect me to marry someone as improper as you.” The soft smile on my lips wavered slightly at the prince’s harsh words, but I maintained my composure as I looked at Zuko’s scar. It looked fresh, but healing the best it could. Whatever caused the burn must’ve caused serious damage to his eye, and I speculated the wound had caused some problems for his sight; however, I kept my gaze only briefly on the scar as I shifted my gaze back to my eggs.

“Forgive me, Prince Zuko.” Iroh shook his head as I spoke, but the Prince did not look at me as I continued. “I was just trying to--”

“I told you that you won’t distract me from my mission.” Zuko let out in a burst of anger. “I don’t care about whatever you were trying to do. It won’t help me find the Avatar!” My heart sank to the bottom of my chest as I forced myself to take deep, calming breaths. I could feel tears threatening to gather in my eyes, but I excused myself from the table before retreating out of the room.

“Nephew--” I heard Iroh’s voice as I left the room.

“Do not nephew me! I am not wrong! She’s no use to me in finding the avatar.” Zuko’s angry words caused my eyes to burn more. I blinked away the tears in a desperate attempt to clear my blurry vision as I made haste to my bedroom. Once safe in the four walls I shared with no one, I collapsed on the bed and cried into the pillow.

A series of soft knocks sounded on my door a few hours later. I sighed heavily as I granted permission to whomever was on the other side to enter. The door opened to reveal Iroh standing there holding a tray of hot tea.

“Would you care for some tea?” Iroh had a soft smile on his lips as he spoke in a gentle tone. I closed the book I had been reading as I gave the older man a soft smile.

“Only if it’s jasmine tea.” Iroh let out a belly laugh as he set the tray down on the small end table next to the bed.

“I am glad to have met someone else who has an appreciation for jasmine tea like myself.” His jovial tone immediately set my nerves at ease. “It is also Zuko’s favorite tea as well.” My heart clenched in hurt at the mention of the prince’s name, and Iroh’s eyes softened at me.

“I must apologize for my nephew’s comment earlier.” I looked at Iroh as he continued. “Not that it excuses his behavior, but would you like to know why Zuko was banished?” I raised an eyebrow at the older man with the long beard as he sipped on his cup of jasmine tea.

“Yes. No one on the ship seems to know why he is banished.” I admit quietly. “I’ve been curious since we boarded the boat.” I sipped on the warm liquid of my cup of jasmine tea, and sighed in content as the warmth spread within my chest and down to my stomach. The older man smiled as he took a seat on the small chair in front of the desk.

“My brother has quite the reputation for military conquest. There is nothing and no one he wouldn’t sacrifice if it meant meeting his ultimate goal—to be the sole ruler of all the nations.” I nodded along as I listened to Iroh. “Zuko—being the next in-line for the throne—was present at this council meeting with Ozai and his generals. They were discussing a plan to invade and attack, but the crew was made of fresh recruits.” Iroh looked out of the window as he continued.

“When Zuko mentioned that the new recruits were not able to handle the task and would die in the battle, the general merely agreed while Ozai said that war comes with sacrifices.” A heavy sigh left the older man, and I felt I knew where this was going. “Zuko challenged the order, and his father said it would need to be settled with Agni Kai.”

I knew a little about the Agni Kai from the book I had just been reading. Even though Zuko was banished at this moment in time, I had wanted to learn more about the Fire Nation and their customs. Agni Kai were traditional firebender duels that occurred when one’s honor was challenged, and they only ended when one opponent burns the other. I felt the color drain from my face as the reality of how the burn got on Zuko’s face dawned on me.

“Zuko was prepared to fight the general, but when my brother stood across from Zuko at the Agni Kai….” Iroh’s voice trailed off as I closed my eyes.

In my month aboard the ship, I had learned that Zuko was the same age as me. I couldn’t imagine how he felt when his own father challenged him in a battle of honor, nor could I imagine how he felt when his own father burned him. My heart ached for the young man, but I opened my eyes again to look at the older man who watched me with saddened eyes.

“Zuko hesitated one moment in the Agni Kai, and his father burned him for his weakness.” My thoughts briefly moved towards my own father, and how different mine and Zuko’s upbringing had been. My father would never have challenged me to such a fight, nor would he have caused physical harm to me. I couldn’t imagine what he endured as a child, nor the pain he must feel now. “His father exiled him and told him the only way to restore his honor is to return with the avatar.” Iroh and I exchanged knowing expressions.

“What a cruel punishment.” I spoke without thought, which caused Iroh to chuckle. “Forgive me. I spoke without care.”

“Oh no.” Iroh smiled at me. “It is quite alright. I fear that I share similar thoughts.” His eyes softened at me. “Forgive me, my dear, for it appears that you too have been unfairly punished by this situation as well.” I shifted my gaze down to my hands as I fiddled with the empty cup.

“I had no clue what was happening the day I was told that I was to be betrothed to the Fire Lord’s son.” I started off in a low voice. “Mother and Father looked hesitant to tell me what terms the Fire Lord had accepted for peace.”

“I barely had time that morning to say goodbye to everyone before I was rushed away to the ship and on my way to the Fire Nation.” My eyes blinked away tears as I recalled my parents’ somber expressions as I left, and I let out a humorless laugh. “I honestly had no idea what awaited me when the ship docked that day.”

“Part of me wondered—based on the stories they’ve told of the Fire Nation—if I was even going to be alive once I set foot on Fire Nation soil.” I played with a strand of my hair that dangled into my lap. “Lord Ozai said only to follow him, or I’d miss my boat.” Looking up at Iroh, I found more sadness in his eyes.

“I was so relieved to not be dead upon arrival, but I had a new fear that I wouldn’t survive three seconds on the boat.” I gave a small smile at the memory. “I am glad that my fears were just that—fears. I couldn’t imagine what Zuko must be feeling or what he’s thinking about.”

“You are far wiser than most adults are:” Iroh said with a smile. “The Prince does not yet know how lucky he is.” My cheeks felt hot at the comment, but I shrugged away my embarrassment.

“Mother and Father always told me to never judge someone before you get to know their story, and to always try your best to show kindness to strangers.” I shrugged as I looked out of the window in the room. “I was to be a ruler one day, and I wanted nothing more than to be a kind ruler like my father.” Shaking my head, I looked at Iroh. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”

“You’re welcome.” Iroh nodded. “I know it doesn’t excuse Zuko’s behavior—“

“No, but it does help me understand this situation a bit more.” A sad smile found its place on my lips as Iroh gathered his tea tray. “Thank you for the tea and conversation. I really enjoyed it.”

“If you ever need tea, I am always willing to make some.” He sent a small wink my way before he left, closing the door behind him.

As I sat in the silence of my room, I felt a heavy feeling sink in my chest. The Fire Lord probably sought out the engagement as a source of embarrassment to place upon his son—as if he hadn’t been embarrassed enough. Instead of wallowing in self pity, a new idea slowly crept into my head, and I smiled at the thought.

I need to speak with the cooks.

Tag List @chevysstuffs @puttyly @hypnoticbeing

#avatar imagine #zuko imagine #zuko x reader #avatar the last airbender #prince zuko #destined to be yin and yang

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be-compromised · 8 months

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Promptathon 2023 Masterlist

Promptathon 2023 is now over, with a grand total of 647 comments and 41 fills - which is the most fills we've had for the summer prompthon since 2014, wow. Thank you to everyone who prompted, created, beta read, commented, cheered, and took part. We hope you had fun! It's been an absolute delight to see our corner of fandom so active. We do plan to keep the momentum going, so please watch this space (or the comm dreamwidth or discord) for updates on a friending meme coming later this week, sign ups for the Secret Santa fic exchange coming soon, and a revial of All The Things Friday...

If you still have prompt fills that you’re working on, or feel inspired by prompts now or in the future from any of our community events, please do keep creating. Now that promptathon is over they won’t be included as part of the event or masterlist, but they will always be appreciated :)

Promptathon 2023 Masterlist

A Different Call | AO3 by @inkvoices (PG13; Endgame, may or may not be considered an AU) Prompt: And it's been so long But if you ever think you got it wrong I'm right where you left me

A Little Less War Torn by @poppypickle (PG-13; no warnings apply) Prompt: “You touch me and suddenly I feel a little less war torn. I'm not sure what peace is supposed to feel like but I think it may feel a lot like you” — anatomy-of-rains

A Tourist's Guide To Amsterdam by @chaed (T; some language and violence) Prompt: nothing good starts in a getaway car

Building Tensions | tumblr by @quietlyimplode (PG; swearing) Prompt: Just because I love you doesn’t mean I’ll let you win in Mario Kart. Fuck off

Burn | AO3 by @alphaflyer (M; no warnings apply) Prompt: ‘I’m intrigued; the last three attempts on my life were much better funded and prepared.’ (Same Time, Next Hit: Part 1)

bye-bye bikinis & boxers & briefs | AO3 | tumblr by @cassiesinsanity (M; no warnings apply; OT3) Prompt: "Are we sure about this?" Clint says. "I mean, he shot you. Just putting that out there." (Probably Clint/Natasha/Bucky)

Endings and Beginnings | AO3 by ultra_fic (PG/K+; no warnings apply) Prompt: Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. Lady Lazarus - Sylvia Plath

faking it by @quidnunc-life (T; no warnings apply) Prompt: Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. Lady Lazarus - Sylvia Plath

Heat | AO3 by @alphaflyer (M; movie-level violence) Prompt: Doing a mission in, or coping with, excessive heat. (Bonus: mission related to doing something about the climate change problem.) (Same Time, Next Hit: Part 4)

Hold | AO3 by @alphaflyer (T; no warnings apply) Prompt: enemies with benefits (Same Time, Next Hit: Part 5)

Honorary Cat | AO3 by @firlalaith (Teen; no warnings apply) Prompt: Nat (or Nat and Bucky) owns / works at a cat cafe. Clint, being Clint, spots this place and thinks it's just a pet friendly cafe, so he goes in with Lucky. (Bonus: Clint becomes a regular it just becomes too late to explain the mistake...) AND Maybe if he was a little less fuckable we wouldn’t be in this mess.

"It looks like someone threw a train at you." by @chaed (T; no warnings given) Prompt: "It looks like someone threw a train at you."

Just Another Saturday Night by @cassiesinsanity (PG; no warnings apply) Prompt: "Do you wanna get dinner when we're done here?"

Just Come Home | AO3 by @poppypickle (PG13; swearing, slight mentions of past violence) Prompt: "come home and shout at me. come home and fight with me. come home and break my heart, if you must. just come home." - cruel prince

Kiss Me | AO3 by ultra_fic (PG/K+; no warnings apply) Prompt: An accidental brush of lips followed by a pause and going back for another, on purpose.

Last to Know | AO3 by @cloud--atlas (T; no warnings apply) Prompt: "Bet you fifty dollars you can't get a date with the Black Widow."

Leap | AO3 by @alphaflyer (T; canon-type violence) Prompt: it IS a gun in my pocket and no I’m not pleased to see you. (Same Time, Next Hit: Part 2)

Let Me Tell You a Story About War | AO3 by @poppypickle (PG-13; no warnings apply) Prompt: Do I really have to tell you how he brought me back to life?

Let’s Show ‘Em | AO3 by @poppypickle (T; no warnings apply) Prompt: "All I heard was 'it will be funny' and then we were in jail."

Lightbulb Moment | AO3 by @cloud--atlas (M; various kink mentions) Prompt: Honeypot mission but Clint is the bait AND Discovering a kink at the worst possible time.

Lounge | AO3 by @alphaflyer (M; no warnings apply) Prompt: Stuck in an airport (due to delayed flight, cancelled flight, mission...). Shenanigans ensue. (Same Time, Next Hit: Part 3)

Love Means Never Having To Say ‘I Love You’ | AO3 by ultra_fic (PG/K+; no warnings apply) Prompt: via tumblr creativepromptsforwriting: "Shut up, I'm trying to confess my love to you."

Making A Different Call | tumblr by @caiti-creative-corner (T) Prompt: Hawkeye goes undercover to a Red Room auction where 'retired' Black Widows are sold.

morning, his place | AO3 by fadedwings (PG13; no warnings apply) Prompt: morning, his place burnt toast, sunday you keep his shirt he keeps his word and for once you let go of your fears and your ghosts one step, not much but it said enough

Overture | AO3 by @alphaflyer (T; no warnings apply) Prompt: When the circus/carnival stops in Ohio, a young Clint Barton meets a young Natasha. Or met, and this is now in the future...

playing yourself | AO3 by fadedwings (PG; no warnings apply; Clint/Natasha/Bucky, Kate/America) Prompt: "Is it weird to play as yourself in a video game?"

quiet my fears with the touch of your hand | tumblr by @quietlyimplode (PG; panic attacks) Prompt: quiet my fears with the touch of your hand

Rodeo Man | tumblr by @chaed (T; no warnings apply) Prompt: When they told me what you were doing, I wanted to stay in bed. And now that I’m here, I’m thinking that maybe I should have.

Run Away Now Part 1 & Part 2 | AO3 by @poppypickle (PG13; choose not to warn) Prompt: speak now or forever hold your peace

The Girl of His Dreams | AO3 by ltra_fic (Rated PG/K+; mentions of Natasha's canon death in Endgame) Prompt: "Didn't you hear? You're dead."

The Last Testament of Steven G Rogers by chaed (T; no warnings given) Prompt: Pick an AU and go wild - 1940s mafia AU

The Laundry Day Incident | AO3 by kiss_me_cassie (PG; no warnings apply; OT3) Prompt: The Laundry Day Incident

The Rub | AO3 by alphaflyer (T; no warnings apply) Prompt: I Dream of Jeannie AU: Clint is the Genie and Natasha is the Astronaut.

The Yelena Belova Checklist For Ensuring Your Sister Is Not Dating An Asshole | AO3 by alphaflyer (M; no warnings apply) Prompt: The Yelena Belova Checklist For Ensuring Your Sister Is Not Dating An Asshole

this is a very old story | AO3 by inkvoices (PG13; aftermath of canon character death) Prompt: Someone has to leave first. This is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.

Unlike me by quietlyimplode (PG; trauma/shower scene though non graphic) Prompt: One so traumatized that the other has to take care of them and tell them what to do.

Untitled Fill by quietlyimplode (no rating/warnings given) Prompt: Walking the city at 3 am because they can't sleep

Untitled Fill by quietlyimplode (no rating given; no warnings apply) Prompt: The bed is soft and safe and they don't want to get up

No Shelf Control | AO3 by franztastisch (T; no warnings apply) Prompt: Nottinghill (inspired) AU - Clint runs or works at a bookshop, Natasha is a famous actor.

Vormir Took My Soul | AO3 | tumblr by iriel3000 (Teen; no warnings apply) Prompt: "i spent half of my time loving her and the other half hiding how much i loved her." - the seven husbands of evelyn hugo

Whatever It Takes...to Get Her Back | AO3 by iriel3000 (T; language; fix-it fic, happy ending) Prompt:"Remember, you have to return the stones at the exact same moment we took them or you're gonna open up a bunch of nasty alternative realities."

#promptathon 2023 #promptathon 2023 masterlist #clintasha #clint barton #natasha romanoff #hawkeye #black widow #and friends #fanfic #fic recs #marvel fic #be_compromised

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changingplumbob · 2 months

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York Household: Chapter 9, Part 3

In this part Reece swings by to visit Deanna and Kelly throws his final child sleepover.

The Yorks are Italian so if you see them using words that don't look like English it's Italian, or what google assures me is Italian. Caro/Cara: Dear Buongiorno: Good morning Piccolo: Little one Tesoro: Treasure Nonno: Grandfather Nonna: Grandmother Si: Yes Grazie: Thank you Per Favore: Please Buon Compleanno: Happy Birthday

Devin: But why are you going to make nectar

Calista: I’m a maker cara, I like to create. Plus we’re Italian. If there’s an opportunity to make nectar, how could we not embrace it

Devin: Well sure but do you really have to stomp in it

Calista: If you want it done authentically, si

Devin: Do you like… wash your feet first

Calista: Si but the acidity of the juice and the fermentation kills anything troubling

Devin: Well if you give me any it better have gone through extra fermentation

*doorbell*

Paris: I’ll grab it

…

Paris: Reece! Come in. Deanna is pretty busy with coursework but I’m here

Reece: Oh right! We’re doing different majors, I forgot the programme she wanted to get into was starting this week

Paris: Yeah she’s swamped but she’s bound to take a break in the next hour. How have you been

Reece: *smiles* Happy. What about you?

Paris: Still waiting for inspiration for the future

Reece: What do you mean

Paris: Why are you doing a biology degree

Reece: Me? Well I love nature

Paris: So you’re not just doing it because your sisters did it

Reece: *somewhat offended* No Paris, I’m not. I’m capable of making my own decisions

Paris: How did you pick it? I’m not trying to be snarky, honest, I just don’t know how critical thinking works

Reece: Oh. I thought about what I like, what I enjoy, who I am. Biology seemed the best path forward

Reece: But higher education isn’t for everyone. Like my sister-in-law doesn’t have a degree, neither does my sisters fiancé. And who knows if Samir will ever feel like studying

Deanna: What are we talking about

Reece: How we picked degrees. Let me guess, you looked in to the eyes of a robot and “knew”

Deanna: Come here you goof, I’ve not seen you in ages

Reece: I’m a genius actually, I just be a goof because I know you like comedy

Deanna: I am taking a comedy elective

Reece: Shut up, you are not

Devin: She needs something to break up the big brain classes

Deanna: There’s far more pre homework than I realised

Reece: You’ll handle it, you’re a problem solver

Deanna: Not always. Devin, you want to tell the story about-

Devin: YES. So there we were, a teen and her two kid siblings, berated by the constant crying of our newborn brother. When he finally fell asleep ma also had to sleep, and pa had an important case, so who was in charge of our dinner? The three of us

Devin’s story is of course filled with drama, chaos and problem solving so poor it leaves Reece speechless.

Paris: But you’re older now babe, you can make better decisions

Deanna: Maybe. I’ve got some free time now if you’d like to test out my decision making…

Reece: As an understander of innuendo I’m going to take my leave

Devin: Right behind you. Have fun you two, I’ll see you for family brunch

Kelly’s friends arrive at 5. Unfortunately the clouds are still hanging around so it’s hard to see the meal Aaron cooked for them.

Fergus: Is this chicken

Kelly: Of course it’s chicken, the roast is right there

Anya: Will we watch a movie tonight

Chasity: I want to do more scary stories

Drake: I’ve thought of one that’s going to blow your old one out of the water Kelly

Kelly: *scoffs* dream on

Atlas: Thanks for dinner Mrs York

Calista: Kelly’s pa cooked it but I will tell him you appreciated it

Calista: They’re movie watching, should be mostly quiet for a while

Aaron: Good. I need to do more cooking to get us through the week

Calista: I was thinking by Kelly’s birthday most of the plants should have sprouted. Maybe we should take the day off work and try out nectar making properly

Aaron: Sounds like a plan captain

Calista: *giggles* I’m going to go stargaze for a bit, if I can see anything through these clouds

Anya: Yes, a space one, they’re the best

Kelly: It’s called sci-fi ninny

Anya: Bite me

Atlas: Shh you lot, I want to watch

Chasity: You did put on the subtitles right

Kelly: I did

Drake: I hate subtitles

Kelly: Well I hate your face and I survive seeing it

Fergus: Chin up Drake, it’s good manners to make sure everyone can understand what the characters are saying

Chasity: I do appreciate having them

Anya: We know Chasity, and I don’t mind them

The kids mostly quieten down as the film starts. Fergus pulls out a toy to play with mid movie but ends up bonking himself in the head.

Chasity: You okay Fergus

Fergus: Absolutely

Kelly: Maybe you have a concussion and you’ll die

Fergus: Then I’ll haunt your house

Kelly: Oh I’m pretty sure there’s already ghosts all around us, just waiting for the chance to possess us

Paris: Did you remember to eat

Deanna: Huh?

Paris: Did you have dinner while I was having a shower. Please tell me you didn’t go straight back to work

Deanna: *laughs* Don’t worry, dinner has been eaten

Paris: This is good. Your pa is a great cook

Deanna: Always says he picked up his skills traveling with ma but I think my nonna and nonno taught him a few tricks first

Paris: Well I’ll be watching some TV. When you’re ready to sleep come grab me okay

Deanna: Sounds good

Joey: What’s happening back here

Deanna: Shh! Studying

Joey: *whispers* hey ma

Calista: *whispers* caro, what are you doing here so late

Joey: I thought I’d crash Kelly’s sleepover again but he really didn’t want me this time

Aaron: No kidding. I went in to get a book I’d lost and he glared daggers at me until I left

Calista: It’s his last chance to meet his slumber party aspiration, it matters to him. Now Joey, are you bringing anyone to brunch *raises eyebrows*

Joey: No ma, I do not have a girlfriend I’m bringing to brunch

Calista: It doesn’t have to be a girlfriend, I know you don’t want one

Joey: Thanks but I don’t think my one night stands are the kind of women who enjoy a family brunch with a guy they just met

Inside the sleepover continues. The kids exchange banter now and then while the film runs but eventually it ends. At that point the scary stories start! Kelly has not prepared one this time but he enjoys listening to what the others think is scary, and periodically yelling interruptions to scare everyone. After the stories they put some kids pop on the stereo and have a dance battle. The sleepover reaches gold level and Kelly smiles at his success! (so does Bun Bun) Kelly has officially completed his childhood aspiration!

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#sims 4 #the sims #the sims 4 #simblr #my sims #ChangingPlumbobStorytime #R0901 #DevinVillareal #CalistaYork #ParisPearl #ReeceFoster #DeannaYork #KellyYork #AaronYork #JoeyYork

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ragnarokproofing · 1 year

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this post is going to be under construction for forever, basically.

i haven't decided on my fake name yet. i am a full-time creative writing MFA candidate in chicago. late twenties. male. i hold a BA in game development.

i write fantasy, primarily dark fantasy, but am also interested in urban fantasy and historical fantasy. i have a decade of experience writing and posting fanfic in many different fandoms.

my writing focuses on themes of masculinity and homophobia, transness, sexuality and kink, disability, and gay love/romance.

i speak english and have a questionable grasp of french and czech. i am studying norwegian and old norse/icelandic.

i'm open to tag games and the like but it will probably take me a minute to get to them.

fiction: i'm really passionate about YA lit, even though i'm not writing any right now. my favorite YA authors are laini taylor, alex london (yes, the one plagiarized by james somerton), and margaret rogerson.

my favorite (adult) fiction authors are cathrynne m. valente, ursula k. le guin, and brandon sanderson. my favorite nonfiction authors are neil price, richard preston, and lindsey fitzharris.

film: my favorite directors are masaaki yuasa, robert eggers, and the wachowski sisters. my favorite films are cloud atlas (2012), ravenous (1999), mind game (2004), pom poko (1994), and trick or treat (1986).

i love B movies, and i have a growing collection of DVD movie packs and vinegar syndrome special editions. i have the oversized "champagne and bullets" poster hanging on my wall, and i own the miami connection soundtrack on vinyl. i am one of the only people on earth unironically interested in the history of shot-on-video movies.

music: anything in the "alternative" sphere, but i have a special fondness for folk punk and psychobilly/horrorpunk. my favorite bands are the mountain goats, AJJ, florence + the machine, aganst me!, editors, and baroness.

study/academic topics: my thesis is largely inspired by my passion for viking/medieval scandinavian history and culture. i am studying old norse/old icelandic, in the hopes of being able to read the sagas in their original language.

i love medical history and know everything there is to know about WWI-era facial reconstructive surgery, and plan to write a story about it someday (i was into it before the fitzharris book, goddammit!). i will read any nonfiction book about a part of medical history, whether it's a specific disease or a technique or field.

other: lake superior and the minnesota north shore, minnesota public radio, food culture and food writing, candles and incense that smell like the woods, tattoos that look like woodcuts, collecting enamel pins, travel patches, and mosser cats, fiber arts.

my thesis: a grand-scale dark fantasy novel about a misanthropic wizard academic and an alcoholic viking mercenary trying to save the world. main themes: cultural homophobia, misogyny, and machismo and the way they affect gay men, fascism and surviving under hostile systems, sacrifice and what makes a world worth saving, languages and the way they affect our lives, romance.

vampire story: a short story about a vampire that works at hot topic befriending a community college student in 2007. main themes: being suicidal and what makes life worth living, connection, romance.

viking story: a short horror story about a viking that gets stuck in a cave while searching for his unrequited love, who may or may not be dead. main themes: homophobia and machismo, grief and mourning.

i don't like naming things.

i don't care who follows me.

this blog is occasionally NSFW.

if you post a lot about political issues, i will not follow you. this is because i am here for fun, not to be angry, depressed, homicidal, or suicidal. if you do not like that, get bent. it will not change.

if you are weird to me, i will block you.

if you, under any circumstances, refer to me or any of my male characters as baby, baby girl, girlie, bitch, princess, or any other infantilizing, misogynistic horseshit, i will block you.

that's it.

#my posts #writeblr intro #about me #writeblr

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rin-bellatrix · 2 years

Text

U. N. I.

"You and I were meant to be more than friends." - Mating Ritual

Fiona couldn't be happier. Her new boyfriend is not in love with her sister. They've got a piece of the vault key under their belts. And Rhys isn't too bad of a kisser. But he's a bit too preoccupied with other matters to take up space on cloud nine beside her...

Written for @admiralsweko 💕

Header art by @sanzosin (bc this piece was the inspiration for a scene in the fic hehe 🤭💕)

Written for prompt #3 "A breathy demand: "Kiss me" - and what the other person does to respond."

From this kiss prompt list

Takes place a few months after "It Takes Two" so I guess this is technically the second part/chapter to that? 🤔

Bottom white heart divider is from this post and the white star divider is from this post

Fiona relaxed back into the large, expensive office chair at Rhys' desk. She had occupied this seat before, but now that she was the "official girlfriend" of Atlas' president, it felt more like a throne in this moment than a simple piece of furniture. Then again, she could just be riding the whimsy of being up on cloud nine.

Everything was going right for her lately, and she was determined to enjoy it while it lasted. Because life had taught her that things could only go so good for so long. There was a hurdle in her near future, an obstacle that she'd have to overcome. She didn't know what it was, just knew that it was coming.

That, however, was something to worry about when it came to her doorstep. Right now, she could relax and recline back into her boyfriend's overly expensive office chair.

Kicking her feet up on the edge of his polished desk, she knew that he'd be torn when he finally entered his office. On one hand, he'd be thrilled to see his lady love (she had left for a couple of weeks to run several errands for Sanctuary, only returning about an hour ago). On the other hand, he'd surely complain about her using his desk as an elevated foot rest.

But a pouty Rhys was just too cute to pass up, plus ruffling his feathers every now and then was still her favorite pastime. Two birds, one stone as the saying goes.

The entrance to Rhys' office open with a depressurized hiss, the two large metal doors unlocking and sliding away from each other to allow entry. In walked the man himself, coupled with Zer0, a once former assassin, now primarily an elite bodyguard.

"-And I just think that maybe, we can revive that old department and see what good can come of it, ya know?"

The hologram in front of Zer0's high-tech headgear flashed a ? quickly, followed by a nod and a :). The alien vault hunter easily kept pace with Rhys' long legs, the two tall men crossing the office floor in no time.

"What old department?" The female vault hunter asked, her voice making Rhys jump.

"Fiona! Oh my God I didn't see you- when did you get back?"

She snickered, trying to curb the instinctive urge to be smug. "Oh, a little while ago~"

Atlas' CEO shook his head and turned to his friend at his side. "Zer0, why didn't you tell me she was in here?"

The alien assassin shrugged his lithe shoulders and responded in his usual structured inflection. "𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝. 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚢. 𝙽𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚖."

At Rhys' reddening cheeks, Zer0 donned a bright ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) across his sleek visor.

Fiona stifled a giggle, watching as Rhys shooed his lanky bodyguard out of the office before turning back around to face her, his hands on his hips. As the electronic doors shut behind Zer0, the former vault hunter flash a quick ;) at her from behind his employers back, until the doors sealed and she could see him no more.

Smiling at the assassin's playfulness, Fiona raised her eyes up to meet Rhys'. She found him avoiding her gaze and frowning, an overall agitated vibe coming from him. "Hey, what's wrong...?" she asked, lowering her boots down to the floor and sitting forward to examine his facial expression.

Atlas' head sighed deeply, running his human hand through his hair in a show of frustration. "Nothing... And everything, just- it's a lot. And none of it is going my way and I'm trying to find the best outcome to every scenario and I keep getting stuck-"

"Hey hey hey, it's okay, c'mere Rhys..." Fiona stood, walking around his large desk to take hold of his arm, guiding him to his chair. She pushed him gently down into it and stepped to the side, settling her hands over his broad shoulders and digging in. Her boyfriend sighed again, this time in pleasure as she worked at his tense shoulders.

"Tell me what's wrong, one thing at a time. We'll figure something out together, okay? Two heads are better than one, after all."

Rhys reached up and patted her hand, showing his appreciation silently. "Well, first off... We have a lead on the second vault key piece."

"Already?" Fiona couldn't hide her shock - it was rare to find even one piece, nevermind two pieces within such a short amount of time. Atlas' research division was truly something else.

"Yeah..." he answered, sounding much less enthused about the fact than she was. "Problem is, now that we're getting closer to forming a full vault key, the commander of the Crimson Raiders wants to take possession of the pieces we find." He lifted his cybernetic arm, turning his palm up and pulling up an ECHO recording of Lilith, head of the ship Sanctuary where she had just come from.

"Hey Atlas, my name's Lilith but you might know me as The Firehawk. Word around the block is you've been collecting vault key pieces. Yeah, I'm gonna need you to stop that and hand over everything you have pertaining to the vault key. Can't have a warmongering corporation claiming a vault for themselves, or all the other weapon companies are gonna wanna ride that train too. Look, Athena is vouching for you and all, but to be completely honest, I just don't like her. And I'm not sure if I can trust her word, you know? Especially considering that at one point, you both worked for Jack... So yeah, you have twenty-four hours to comply or we're gonna have problems. Big problems."

The recording ended there and Rhys dropped his metal hand back into his lap. Fiona rubbed his back soothingly, trying to dispel the dark cloud hanging over his head.

"Rhys, don't worry about it. I've met Lilith a couple times, she's way more chill than that. She was just... Casually threatening you to try and scare you into submission. Look, I'll talk to her and let her know that you're not some evil, scheming corporation out to use the vault's contents for taking over the world or whatever."

Her boyfriend turned to look up at her, still looking hopelessly dejected. She tsked and ran a gloved hand through his wavy hair, using the motion to keep him facing her.

"I'll talk to her," she repeated, meeting his eyes this time as she made a promise out of her words. "Don't worry. Worst case scenario, she takes our vault key pieces and the Crimson Raiders open the vault, in which case at least we can be assured that no evil syndicate is putting the vault to evil use. And maybe we can get some treasures out of it seeing as how you were the one to find two-thirds of the vault key. Best case scenario, she let's us open the vault! Wouldn't that be great?"

Rhys pulled back from her touch, but before Fiona could feel the faintest hint of rejection, he took her hands in his and looked up to meet her clear jade eyes. "Fiona, to be honest, I personally don't care about the vault or its contents, I was doing this to help you out."

Properly confused, she furrowed her brow at his revelation. "Rhys, what are you talking about?"

"Well, you're a vault hunter now, and I wanted to help you find a vault." Here he squeezed her hands, looking elsewhere for a moment before gathering himself and locking eyes with her again. "I know...that I haven't been a super amazing boyfriend lately because we've both been so busy, and I just wanted to make it up to you. I just wanted to make you happy. And what makes a vault hunter happier than opening a new vault! So... I tried everything to secure this key for you and it looks like you might not even get much of anything from it... I'm sorry, Fi..."

Fiona couldn't believe her ears. Rhys, sole owner of one of the major weapons manufacturers, wanted a vault but not for the betterment of his company, but because he felt guilty about their lack of interaction lately...? It was one thing to get the first piece of the vault key to impress her and ask her out. It was another to say that he wanted her to have the entire vault all to herself. Every time she thought that he couldn't surprise her anymore, he always managed to do just that.

"Rhys, you idiot..."

"Huh?"

She swiveled his chair around until he was fully facing her, before reaching up and cupping his bewildered face in her hands. Leaning down, she slanted her mouth over his and ignored the sound of her hat tumbling off and hitting the floor. She kissed him firmly, her persistence making him respond after a moment of surprise. His touch grazed her shoulders, before gripping her firmly and trying to pull her down onto his lap. She braced her hands over the arms of the chair, nibbling his bottom lip which made him elicit the softest groan she had ever heard.

Smiling slightly against his mouth, she pulled back to look down at him. He gazed at her with open affection, reaching up and smoothing his mechanical hand down her short hair, his other hand reaching up to cradle her face. Fiona looked over him, taking in the adoration clear in eyes, the faint rosey tint to his cheeks, the sheen of wetness over his parted lips, down to the way his Adam's apple bobbed on his tattooed neck. She had never felt an infatuation like this for anyone else before, and she counted herself lucky to have been the one to steal away his heart.

"Rhys... I don't need a vault to be happy. As long as you and Sasha are safe and happy, then I'm happy too. I can't believe you'd try to give me a whole vault as a gift... Unbelievable."

The young CEO grinned bashfully, charmed at his girlfriend's sentiment and utterly in love with the way she was looking at him right now. To him, this was worth all the trouble he recently had and then some. If Lilith wanted the vault key pieces, he'd give them over no problem. As long as Fiona kept looking at him like this, then everything was okay.

"Hey Fi?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

The vault hunter, who seemed in this moment more interested in the president of Atlas than in hunting for vaults, grinned happily and straddled her boyfriend's lap. He eagerly wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer to him.

"Hey Rhys?" she purred, sliding her arms around his neck.

"Yeah?" he replied avidly, his loving gaze never leaving hers.

"Kiss me..." she ordered, and he wasted no time in slotting their mouths together again.

His hands slid up her back underneath her jacket, reaching up to tug the outerwear off her body. As soon as she shucked it free from her hands, she reached forward and started unbuttoning his vest. She made quick work of that and began on his shirt. He squeezed her hips and she hummed into his mouth, slanting her face in a different angle to deepen the kiss. He sighed pleasantly against her, his hands shifting up her arms until he was able to get a firm grip on her shoulders, pushing her back until they broke away.

"You didn't say it back..." he groused, his petulant attitude softened by his pink cheeks and kiss swollen lips.

Fiona could play this game, if that's what he really wanted. "You never answered me when I asked about what old department..."

Rhys blinked, as if the moments before she had sat in his lap were far off distant memories. When the confusion cleared in his heterochromic eyes, he brightened up and looked almost boyish in his excitement. "Oh, that! Well it turns out that Atlas used to run a pet food division, like a really long time ago, and I was just futzing around with the idea that we could, ya know, maybe bring it back. I think it'd be nice to be able to produce things other than weapons, right? What do you think?"

"Huh, that would be interesting. I never knew Atlas had something like that, seems kinda off-brand for a weapons company."

"Yeah, that's why I'm kinda excited about it. We could expand to so many different projects! Imagine, Atlas apartments... Or an Atlas hospital! I was even thinking maybe a grocery-"

"Rhys."

"Yeah?"

"As adorable as it is watching you get so hyped up for future endeavors, I'm trying to threaten your chastity here."

"Oh..."

"Yeah..." Fiona pushed aside his partially open shirt, letting her fingertips graze over the curved edges of his blue chest tattoo. "Is that okay...?" She kissed him sweetly, just long enough until she felt his hands settle on her hips again.

Atlas' president smirked up at her. "You trying to score a... Touchgoal?"

"Oh shut up and kiss me already...!"

"I will, after you say it back..."

Fiona rolled her eyes, but her obvious affection for him kept her expression playfully frustrated. "Okay, fiiine... I guess you could say that on a good day, if I'm feeling generous and benevolent, and you're not being too annoying..." He was nodding along, trying to encourage her to continue. "...Then, yeah... I love you too..."

Rhys was positively beaming. "See? Was that so hard?"

"I believe I already told you to shut up, Strongfork."

"Geez Fi, it's almost like you have a crush on me or something," he snickered, leaning in to kiss her with a smile on his lips. He was pleased at the embarrassed flush over his girlfriend's face. It was rare that he could get one up on her but oh so worth it when he did.

Fiona, on her part, fell eagerly into their kiss, mostly for the fact that she knew it was probably the only way she could actually get him to shut up. And also for the fact that yeah, she really was trying to score a touchgoal.

Fun fact, in case you didn't know: in the first Borderlands game, there's a mission you do where you have to collect dog food for someone and the company that produces that food is actually Atlas!

Here's a post where Andaxay and I talk about it if you wanna see photographic evidence of the dog food can and read Andaxay's short head canon about Rhys' possible new business venture 💕

BTW if you want more rhyiona fics, I really ✨ H I G H L Y ✨ recommend Andaxay bc her writing is SO in character that she's literally one of my all time favorite writers 💖 Here is her pinned post with links and summaries to her collection of Rhys x Fiona fics

©rin-bellatrix 2022

☆ borderlands masterlist ⋆ main masterlist ☆

#rhyiona #rhyiona or bust #rhys strongfork #rhys the ceo #fiona borderlands #fiona the vault hunter #borderlands #tales from the borderlands #tftbl #tftb #rin's fic

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utilitycaster · 11 months

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I spaced on sending this when you initially made the post, but if you were ever so inclined to make that full list of recommendations on metafiction/the liminal space of tangential genres, I would be very interested to see it! (the original list was 100% some of my favorite books/media)

Oh man I've been uh. bad at reading as regularly/much as I'd like for the past few years, something I'm attempting to remedy, and I've never been the biggest of film buffs, and as such that covers a lot of the high points.

(obligatory reminiscing): Truly the the most "not actually a real problem" tragedies of my life is that I was a teenager before the Goodreads era and so I was shaped, indelibly, by whatever Collected Science Fiction Anthologies of the Latter 20th Century my local library had circa 2004. As a result there's like a thousand 70s and 80s sci fi stories the titles of which I cannot remember but which are etched deep within the recesses of my brain. Occasionally I have enough details to go to some thread on the internet and say "pretty please can you find it," but often I don't. There's definitely one I'm thinking of in which a group of scientists keep doing an experiment to change the time line and they keep believing that it fails, but as a reader you clearly see the list of names and various details is changing. This is not super helpful to anyone other than to say "go read short speculative fiction." ANYWAY here's a few more.

On the topic of short fiction, Sword Stone Table is a collection of short stories inspired by Arthurian legend which I read last year, and not all of them worked but there were enough to make it worth it (and it's a quick read). Hilariously, the coffee shop AU was one of the more metafictional examples.

A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan. I don't remember this well but I own a copy and might re-read it; I distinctly recall purchasing it because she made a chapter in the form of a PowerPoint presentation and got interviewed by NPR about it since she could see how many people quit reading at that chapter thanks to eReader data, and I was like "sounds cool". I love when authors are hostile to their audience in a way that's good for them, and I remember enjoying that chapter very much.

I mean your bio quotes Calvino so I'm assuming you're good there but like...I have not read all their work, but I trust Calvino, Borges, Le Guin, and Susanna Clarke to always deliver.

Jules Feiffer's A Barrel of Laughs, A Vale of Tears; Diana Wynne Jones' Fire and Hemlock (among other Diana Wynne Jones books); The Phantom Tollbooth; and the various works of Ellen Raskin (best known for The Westing Game but I read so many of her books) are middle-grade or YA but they are in fact a big reason why I eventually became a college student who would read House of Leaves and Calvino for fun and why I became an adult who devoured Piranesi in one sitting.

The Diamond Age by Neal Stephenson

It's also been a hot minute since I read Possession by A. S. Byatt but I do remember loving it at the time.

For...the best I can put it is "popcorn reads?" low postmodernism? mass-market metafiction? Fun shit? Jasper Fforde is your guy.

Technically The Princess Bride is metafiction. Fun fact: a good friend of mine in college did not realize it was not legit a translation when he read the book. His undergrad thesis was in part about translation. We made fun of him for this.

David Mitchell's literary universe, notably Cloud Atlas. David Mitchell is a very good writer who does tend to have a pretty dark interpretation of our world's future and so I sort of fell off following his works because they were particularly depressing but like, that's a me problem because he's immensely talented. (note: did not see the film adaptation, cannot speak to that.)

I am also going to plug the Teixcalaan books (two so far, starting with A Memory Called Empire by Arkady Martine which is a bit of a stretch but I'm doing it anyway because I think it’s underappreciated (it occupies the same space in my mind tbh as Ada Palmer’s Terra Ignota and to an extent Yoon Ha Lee's Machineries of Empire, both of which I’ve mentioned before, of an incredibly intelligent SF story with queer characters and relationships that was well received but just doesn't have the buzz of some other modern sf series). It’s not metafictional per se, but it does have an incredibly strong theme running through it of engaging with narrative and controlling it (honestly? Similar to Black Sails in that regard.) The Teixcalaan Empire is hyper-aware of language and legend, naming patterns are a number and a word, and the cool thing to do is write complex forms of poetry. The second book also has a character purchasing an indie comic and drawing all sorts of interesting comparisons to her ongoing situation... a little bit like Tales of the Black Freighter within Watchmen.

Run Lola Run/Lola Rennt (I watched it as a non-German speaker with subtitles and enjoyed it)

#answered #playerkingsley #long post

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vintagerpg · 2 years

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Shadow World! This is overdue and kind of thematically appropriate because Terry K. Amthor’s Shadow World seems to me to be unfairly overshadowed by other fantasy campaign settings. It is, however, wonderfully detailed and wildly weird, so perhaps after this week of posts you’ll be inspired to check it out.

The world was technically first introduced in 1980 in The Iron Wind for Iron Crown’s Rolemaster system, with further entries in the Loremaster series of modules, Vog Mur and Cloud Lords of Tanara (1984) adding additional locales, but it wasn’t clear until the Shadow World Atlas box set (1989) that all these places were part of the same world. In the box you have an overview of the world in one book, a look at the various (very Tolkien-esque) races in another, a final book detailing monsters and conversion notes and, of course, a big old map. Tony Roberts’ cover painting gives an immediate sense of the world, while Jennell Jaquay’s interior illustrations relentlessly underscore its weirdness.

From this material you get a sense of the world. Many aspects of it align with Middle-Earth, but made strange by civilizations running through rapid cycles of golden ages and collapse. The first societies of the world had access to fantastic technologies, many of which continue to malfunction into the present, causing weird weather patterns and other dangers — the very land, peppered with archipelagos, seems broken and a strange energy barrier cuts off access to half the planet. Magic is strong, to the point that it inhibits the development of other technologies (though the societies of Kulthea strike quite a range, from bronze age tribes to steampunk style groups with flying ships), a fact that the college of Loremasters seeks to counter by spreading knowledge. There are five moons and the gods live on them. Unlife is a constant and unambiguous threat, but there are many subtle evils in the world too. There’s a lot going on!

#RPG #TTRPG #Tabletop RPG #Roleplaying Game #D&D #dungeons & dragons #Shadow World #Terry Amthor #Jennell Jaquays #Iron Crown #Rolemaster

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divinegrey · 2 years

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𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐚 / 𝐯𝐢𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

got a few requests to write a second part to 'repeat until death' which you can read here because this doesn't really make too much sense without prior knowledge. title inspired by 'pareidolia' by tsuki.

prompt: sabine saved your life, and it leaves you at a crossroads.

words: 1800

warnings: grief, angst with minimal comfort

pareidolia [noun]: the tendency to perceive a specific, often meaningful image in a random or ambiguous pattern.

— — —

You awake, alone, behind glass.

This in itself is not strange.

You wake up, and you’re alive.

That is strange.

You search through the foggy hazy of your memories for the last thing you can find. It’s blurry, the words distant, but you make out the face of Sabine— the Sabine not of your world and instead of Alpha Earth, as they like to call themselves. Sabine, who had carried you away from danger despite you being the enemy.

You hold your side, waiting for the pain of where the knife once sat in your body, but you find there is only soreness and a slight pinch. You feel disorientated from every angle, like the world is spinning around at your feet and you can’t even begin to catch up. There’s a weariness in your bones you’re not used to, and a strange sort of sickness in your stomach that you do recognize.

The kind from being healed by Sage. A lot of healing.

“You’re awake.”

You turn your head to the voice, the warm voice that speaks to you like the sun breaking through the clouds.

“Sabine,” you say breathlessly. Getting to your feet proves to be a bad option; you’re woozy and before you know it, you’re falling back onto the floor.

“Oh, for fuck’s—” Sabine sighs, coming through the door hurriedly and pulling you upright, settling you back on the infirmary bed that you’d been sleeping on. She places her hand on your cheeks, her thumb on one side and her fingers on the other. She looks into your eyes, raising her hand. “Follow my finger.” You do, and then she flashes your eyes with a mini light from her pocket. After you groan, Sabine says, “No signs of a concussion. Still some sluggishness from severe blood loss. I— we almost lost you.”

You blink at her. “We? Sabine, I shouldn’t fucking be here. Why didn’t you let me fucking die?”

Sabine’s gaze steels over. “Because.”

“Oh my god.” You throw your hands up. “You’re so fucking stubborn. Just like you us—”

Your words die out in your throat.

For minutes, only minutes, you’d forgotten the truth of your reality. This woman beside you isn’t your wife, it’s her carbon copy from another planet that you’re currently on. This isn’t the Legion, this is the Protocol. This is a place you shouldn’t be, and this is a woman you shouldn’t be talking to. By all means, you should be killing her.

Never could you bring yourself to hurt Sabine. Never.

You’d rather die before doing that.

You turn your head away. “Should’ve just let me bleed out, Sabine. It wasn’t smart to keep me here.”

Sabine scoffs. “Not even a thank you? Somehow, I feel as though I should’ve predicted that.”

“What did you think I was going to say? Thank you for taking me away from my home planet?” You shake your head, curling your body in on yourself. “Bullshit.”

“Atlas,” Sabine says. “You don’t exist here on this Earth.”

Wait. What?

“At least, not anymore,” Sabine continues, rubbing her hands together on her lap. “Cypher searched high and low for a name to match your face, and we found one. Belonging to a kid, ten years old, by the name of Y/N, child of Dr. Callum Hanover, one of my former employees at Kingdom. Your body was found at the bank of a river, and the case was closed.”

Your heart thunders in your ears. That is your father’s name…

“I’m… dead? What about my twin? Does it say anything about her?” You turn to Sabine, grabbing her arm. Sabine meets your gaze.

“You don’t have one,” Sabine says. “You were an only child.”

Only child?

“I don’t understand,” you say, blinking at the floor. “I don’t— I don’t understand.”

“Neither do we. This is one of the first major discrepancies between our two Earths, one that seems too suspicious to look over,” Sabine says. From your lap, she takes your palms, prompting you to look at her. “I know that if the same thing had happened to your Sabine, if she had run into you dying in the hallway, she would’ve done the same thing. There’s something going on here, Atlas, something that I intend to find out. I don’t give a goddamn fuck about what the others say. There’s something here that needs to be uncovered, and you’re the key to it.”

Your head aches from all of the confusion, all of the words Sabine has just said. You stare down at her hands, rough and dry in the way that they always are because of how much time she spends in the lab. The glint of the ring sitting on your finger, the one that bound you to the Sabine from your Earth (or perhaps, not your Earth at all), shines into your eyes.

The simple truth is that you have nothing left on Omega Earth. There is nothing for you there. No one.

Here…

Here there is Sabine.

“Stay, Atlas,” Sabine whispers. “Stay, and I promise I will do everything I can to figure out why there’s a discrepancy.”

You don’t say anything, not for a few seconds. Your grip on Sabine’s hands grows ever so slightly tighter.

“Do you know—” You force the knot down your throat. “How hard it is to be here? Next to you? Next to the woman that I loved and watched die in my arms? To—”

You cut yourself off. To want to kiss you and hold you and apologize for everything I should’ve done? Grief is something that pulls you headlong into the abyss, roaring up with vitriol and anger that leaves your body dull and aching. You don’t realize it, but a splash of your tears have landed on the back of Sabine’s hand. You wipe it off, muttering a small apology that can’t even begin to rid you of your sins.

“I can’t say I do know,” Sabine whispers, bringing her hand to your face. “And I won’t pretend that I do, Atlas. And I certainly won’t make you stay. I’ll send you off to the nearest teleporter if you so choose— safely— and let you go. But the choice is yours, and yours alone.”

Everything in your body wants to stay. You can be close to Sabine again, but even through your haze of grief and pain, you understand that this Sabine will never be your Sabine, and this Earth isn’t yours to call home. No, your Earth is on the brink of destruction.

“I can’t stay here, Sabine,” you whisper, and the words are like a knife in the air. The small glimmer of hope in Sabine’s eyes is dashed, but there’s an understanding there that cannot be so uniquely explained in the terms of the human language. No, it’s an understanding recognized and forged from years of a relationship. Years of which you did not spend with this woman, but with her copy.

Sabine nods; you don’t miss the disappointment that flashes across her features. Part of you yearns to stay, but you know it would only cause you further heartbreak to be near Sabine but not love her the way that you did.

The way that you do.

“Okay.” Sabine is quiet. “Give me a few minutes, I’ll go tell KJ to boot up the teleporter.”

Sabine doesn’t look at you when she leaves, sealing you behind glass once more, and it hurts in its own strange form.

You’re taken to the teleporter with a bag over your head, but Sabine’s hand on your arm is calming.

Once your veil is removed, you see the blue hue of the teleporter whirring away in front of you.

You exhale softly, pulling the ring off of your hand.

“Keep this,” you say under your breath, pressing it into Sabine’s hand. You turn your head to the scientist, and in any other world, this ceremonial passing of the ring would’ve been something better; something where you would’ve seen Sabine in a white dress and your friends gathered all around you.

But this isn’t your world, this isn’t your place.

Sabine thumbs the ring, looking at the small line of emeralds and green stones embedded on the side and enclosed in silver. Then, she says, “This teleporter is wired to a location in New York City.”

“That’s fine,” you say, stuffing your hands into the pockets of your torn up jacket. “Thank you.”

Sabine stares at you for some time, and you wonder what the repercussions would be if you did what you wanted to do.

But before you can think any more on that train of thought, Sabine wraps her arms around you tightly, knocking the air out of your chest. She hugs you with her arms around your back, and you thread yours around her neck. The smell of her perfume clings to her shirt and for a moment in time, the grief is gone, dulled by Sabine.

You turn your head to the side, feeling her breath on your cheek, and in the whirlpool of emotions stirring in your body, you make a mistake.

You kiss her.

It becomes so very clear that this isn’t your Sabine, this is her copy, but she doesn’t pull away. Sabine allows the kiss to happen, allows for you to imagine that your life hasn’t fallen apart to shreds.

Tears slide down your cheeks. You wipe them away when you step back out of Sabine’s hold. The woman stares at you with something you don’t recognize in her eyes, and that alone terrifies you.

“Sorry. That was not cool of me,” you say, scratching the back of your head. Your voice is thick with emotion. You jerk your thumb to the teleporter. “I should— I should go.”

“Will I see you again?”

Sabine’s question is a weight that is pressed onto your shoulders, and you’re reminded keenly of your namesake; Atlas, the man who held the world on his shoulders.

Sabine was your world. She was all you had, and now she’s gone.

“Sure. Don’t shoot me on sight,” you say, but the words aren’t even close to the truth.

But Sabine doesn’t know how you lie— placated by your answer, she nods, stepping away from the teleporter with your ring in her hand. You give her a salute, forcing your body to step back in the teleporter so that Sabine’s face is the last thing you see.

— — —

New York City is loud.

It always has been, especially since the Dome was made around it.

But it’s a good place to start.

You’re done with the Legion. You’re done with a past that you have no claim to anymore.

You simply are.

Every now and then, as you walk in the streets of New York City, moving from place to place, taking the pain of those who need healing for a pretty penny, you swear you see Sabine’s face.

Maybe in another lifetime, you can try again.

— — —

Sometimes I see you in the streets

Or at least I think I do

Strangers begin to resemble you

Oh, how I wish these sights were true

~~~~~ A/N: Atlas's story isn't quite done, as it seems.

#viper x reader #valorant viper x reader #viper #viper valorant #viper imagines #valorant fanfiction #valorant x reader #valorant #valorant imagines

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revelisms · 10 months

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Book Recs

Thank you @ravenkinnie for the tag! :-)

This list is a bit all over the place, since I've never been a consistent reader (which I'm trying to be better about...slowly lmao). I tend to find things I really like and keep them as referentials for when I need to feel inspired.

Sometimes A Wild God — This poem put breath back into my soul after a huge creative slump years ago. I adore Tom Hirons's prose. It captures such a mystical flavor of dark, ancient, old-magick beauty. Absolute stylistic bookmark for me; I always come back to this when I want to evoke something otherwordly.

Residence on Earth — Favorite poet, favorite poetry collection (Spanish/English version). Neruda's been a staple on my shelf for years. Everything in here connects back to the elements in some way, and how the human experience coalesces in them all.

On Fairy Stories — I have to include Tolkien somewhere on here (The Hobbit and The Silmarillion are close runner-ups), but I'm opting for his essay on what defines fantasy as a genre. I've been inspired by his writing forever, and this piece is just a treat. Plenty of etymology breakdowns, as you'd expect, and analyses of historical fae-stories and myths.

On Trails — Getting into the nonfiction scientific prose side of things, this was my first real introduction into the genre. It's part-memoir and part-research study on the behavioral evolution of trail-making and its connection from ants to cities.

Voices of Chernobyl — Anthropology major coming back to bite me, but I love oral histories. I fell into a big rabbit hole with global nuclear disasters a while ago, largely thanks to HBO's podcast for Chernobyl, which was significantly based on this book.

A Constellation of Vital Phenomena — One of my favorites, for plenty of reasons: falls in the vein of historical fiction (set around the events of the Chechen Wars), multi-character POVs, protector-dad and rebel-daughter found family, and overall just a haunting, beautiful novel.

Cloud Atlas – In the same vein, this is also one of my favorites, for a similar set of reasons and more: multi-POV historical fiction plus time travel (jumps everywhere from 1800s to dystopian future), set around a murder mystery. Tons of humanistic themes in here on what it means to find purpose and connection through time.

The Return of the Native — Hardy's my Victorian-era author of choice, and this book is so damned broody, I love it. Basically just 1000 ways to describe how the English countryside will pick her teeth with generation upon generation of lonely souls in woe with their lovers—and I eat it up every time.

Red Dragon — Hannibal as a whole is just a solid top-of-the-list for favorite series—books, movies, show, everything. But there's something about how this book introduces it all that is just captivating. Something I always think about is how Harris writes in past-tense 90% of the time, but will switch to present-tense when talking about certain characters. It's downright eerie, and creates this sense of infinite presence you can't escape from. AGH. I just love his writing a lot.

I tag @bucky-yes @zkyfall @karnaca78 @the-blue-quetzalcoatl @cherryblossomssoda and anyone else who'd like to join!

#tagging game #book reqs

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inkvoices · 4 months

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2023 Fic Year in Review

Please feel free to join in if you'd like. I love to see what other people have written, and often spot fic I'd love to read that I missed!

So, every year I aim to publish more words on AO3 than the year before, just as a nudge. (The great thing about a low word count year is that publishing more the following year is easier!) This year I published about 21,600 words compared to 13,190 words in 2022! I say about, because unusually for me I had to do a bit of maths on a group project and a multi-chapter fic...

In January I contributed to the 31 Days of Winter project, organised by @cassiesinsanity in honour of the lovely and missed @crazy4orcas First time I've taken part in any kind of large collaboration for a long time and Cassie made it all run smooth. I wrote one happy chapter, one somewhat less happy with deaf!Clint, and enjoyed cheerleading on a few others.

In May I posted a second chapter to the only live WIP I have: these are the days. (Because of this fic I now can't make myself start posting any WIPs until the draft is actually complete.) I found the second chapter mostly written on my laptop, tidied it up, and went for it. Amazingly what you can do when procrastinating on other fics, ha.

I wrote two short and sad/angsty fics for the @be-compromised summer promptathon: A Different Call and this a very old story

And finished the year with Windows to the Soul for the @be-compromised Secret Santa. (I meant to meant the minimum word count for this, but @lostemotion's prompts grabbed me and I ended up with over 8k. Oops?)

Unsurprisingly all Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff or Clint Barton & Natasha Romanoff and all AUs I think, unless one or two could be classed as missing scenes in canon. And overall a bit darker in tone than last year it seems.

Behind the scenes, WIPs I actually worked on in 2023 (as opposed to added notes to or stared at in hope) were:

a festive fic for @cloud--atlas that ended up being published in 2024 instead

a space AU that will be the longest thing I have ever written if I actually get around to finishing the thing (currently at 24k)

a PWP currently at 10k that is maybe nearly done?

a sequel to The Kindly Ones, currently at 6,800 and fighting me ever step of the way

Let's see what I can get inspired to finish this year...

#WIPs #inkvoices #writing

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aeaean--bliss · 2 years

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tui la | part one: the unforeseen consequences of arbitrary decisions

summary: the clock hits midnight, and it’s time to run. this story is about the race.

pairing: bucky barnes x bender!reader

genre: atla!au, strangers/enemies to lovers, pining, slow-burn

word count: 6.2k

warnings/tags: this one’s a bit tame, but things will kick off and get a bit gorey/violent later on. canon level stuff, though. loneliness, depression, all that good stuff. later tags include, fire, burns, death (not main character), amputation (it’s a bucky fic lads), icky wounds, would not recommend reading if overly squeamish. lmk if i’ve missed any.

a/n: been working on this for a while now, really excited to have it up. please consider telling me what you think about it!

masterlist

chapter index

part one | part two

part one | the unforeseen consequences of arbitrary decisions

First, there were Spirits.

They manifested in mortal realms, roaming the uninhabited territories of the Spirit Wilds with a fervour only the unworldly can muster.

When mankind appeared and sought refuge from these dangerous territories, its protector granted them sanctuary. Isolated from each other, these communities of men developed distinct cultures and forwent their common origins.

When necessity forced men to wander beyond the boundaries of their asylum, their protector granted them the ability to command and bend one of the four great elements to their will. This power was reserved for protection, and was to be returned upon re-entry to the sanctuary.

And so, man and his protector had established an amicable relationship. When the Spirits were driven into the Spirit Worlds, mankind’s protectors renounced their titles, leaving mankind to go about its business as it pleased.

What followed developed sporadically. Some learned the art of bending the elements from the natural creatures, such as badgermoles, dragons, and flying bison. Some stole it from their protectors. Others learned from observing the forces from the moon on the ocean tides.

Push, and pull.

Tuī lā.

Tales of the battles of warlords, avatars, benders, and Spirits were the bread and butter of any child’s upbringing in the Realm. Awesome, unfathomable, terrifying, and inspiring great reverence, they formed the intricately woven history of the fabric of the world, centred around the four pivotal elements:

Water,

Fire,

Earth, and

Air.

It’s strange how the heat can play with your mind.

It makes fleeting images flicker across your eyes, vision blurred by the waves of fever emanating from the ground like a contagious sickness, poisoning your reality.

The silhouettes of dead trees scattered along the golden horizon morph into figures resembling moving spirits, shifting and swaying in the waves radiating from the dust. Here, they constitute modern folklore, their names unspoken yet painted in the whispers of children after dark. The fields they stand in have laid untouched for thirty-seven years, smouldering still.

In their ashes, you can see the clouds of black smoke. Weeping with tar and oozing with a stench so palpable it threatens to empty your already-depleted stomach, it spreads across a pine-clad land, devouring every organism in its path and leaving behind an all-consuming sinkhole.

As though vibrating against your eyes, the air seems to push into you, submerging you in pressurised heat. Up here, from the modest room that constitutes your current lodging, your view extends all the way to the edge of the town; past the fields, to the ascent where the ground disappears and meets the azure.

You’ve been feeling faint lately. You’d be forgiven for attributing your ailment to the persisting climate, but this doesn’t feel like the bouts of sunstroke you used to endure as a child. In an effort to soothe your nausea, your subconscious conjures phantom scents of aloe vera jelly and boiled ginger, but it only makes your stomach turn.

Nonetheless, the world does not stop on your behalf, and you have errands to run at the market before it is time to open. The metal hook that locks the panels in front of your window creaks shrilly as it slips into its loop, and the floorboards groan as you make your descent to the lower level. Everything feels slow today. Tired, unmoving, and reluctant. The seven tables stationed throughout the room stand undisrupted from where you left them yesterday evening, and yet they have an unnervingly strong presence in the quiet room, as though the ghosts of their occupants have decided to linger. Delicate cloths, carefully pressed and uniformly straightened, line the heavy wooden surfaces. You can’t put your finger on it, but something about them comforts you; like a tapestry hung straight and even against a wall.

The sweltering air hits your face like a fur swung against your head with the force of the opening door. It stings in your nose, forcing your eyes shut as you shift the handle of your woven basket from your hands to the crook of your elbow. The coarse reeds chafe against your bare skin, dry and golden as the sand and dust that coats the stone under your feet.

If anyone asked, you would be convinced you eat, sleep, and breathe that dust. Morning, noon, and night. It weighs heavily in the air. Invasive. Foreign. Sometimes, on days like today, you’re reminded of your mother. Gentle fingertips through hair, smell of cured fish in the air, and the sun beating down on your skin.

Not like here, not this kind of heat. A softer heat. The type that disappears temporarily when you step into the shade.

Not like here, where there is no shade to step into because the heat doesn’t come from the sun, it comes from the earth; pounding.

The walk down to Market Square is heavier than usual; your lungs feel small and weak, your mouth feels dry, and your head throbs in tune with your footsteps. It seems, however, as though you’re alone in being bothered by the climate. Foot traffic in town has been unaffected. If anything, it seems even busier than usual. You’re not exactly certain how long it takes migrants to acclimate to their new settlements, but you suppose it must be longer than five moons, seeing as you’re not even remotely close to operating at your usual pace.

Fortunately, you don’t attract any particular attention. So many migrants have settled on the merchant island of Andaar over the course of the past one hundred and seventy years that traditional fire nation attire is only ever really worn by the official guards who patrol the town. Even those patrolling the coast wear different uniforms to indicate their rank.

As for your uncomfortable demeanour, people have more important things to care about. Food is scarce. Despite being a regional hub for trade, the benefits of these practices are reserved for a few. Goods flow through the ports, but they never stay for long.

By the time you return to your humble abode, your skin is layered with dust. There is no water for a wash. So, you begin to organise your purchases of the day into the brown clay pots lined along the wall, on the table that serves as a counter at the far end of the room. The scents of their contents are faint and weak, barely lingering on your fingertips as you strip the dried stems of their needles and leaves.

Then, you wait.

Many arbitrary decisions led to you finding yourself here, in a small tea shop in the Western quadrant of a Fire Nation merchant island, waiting for your first customer of the day. You don’t earn a profit; any income goes directly to your landlord. In turn, you receive accommodation and a small allowance.

You find yourself here, hoping it will be the last place they look.

It’s days like this that make you feel nauseous. The profound vista of the setting sun devours you, reminding you of your inherent insignificance. The beauty of its colours taunts you, teasing you with temporary luxuries that evaporate with sundown.

Now, when you are at your lowest, when you feel like you’re in the place farthest from anything and everything you know, the spirits strike you with yet another bolt of humiliation.

There is a woman. At least thirty summers old. She sits against the wall outside the tea shop, selling snails. She wakes at three in the morning, every morning, wraps her daughter to her chest, and walks the distance to the docks in time for the first shipment to come in. All she gets are scraps; the docks are import/export, nothing ever fully lands, but there is always a loophole for those who keep their eyes open. They’re sloppy when they load the nets off the boats for repackaging; the odd snail slips from the grasp of the net and falls with a gentle plop into the shoreline. And she sits against the wall until dusk, selling steamed snails to the officers. They’re the only people who can afford the luxury.

You catch slight glimpses of her throughout the day while you work. The way she holds her babe to her chest, lips moving in silent whispers… It strikes a pang within you.

Not because you have any desire for a child. That is a luxury you certainly cannot afford. Nevertheless, you can’t help but envy the company she must have, sitting outside those long hours. You don’t think you’ll be able to get away with muttering to your cups and pots under your breath for much longer. One of your customers will undoubtedly pick up on it sooner or later, and you’d rather it be later than sooner.

People don’t talk much here. You can’t even begin to recall the last time you had an ordinary conversation with someone. People don’t engage in small talk, or find any excuse to utter any words that aren’t strictly necessary. Your childlike urge for recognition, your desire for attention sits deep in your stomach like a pit, but it’s old now. Old and worn down.

At this stage, your suspicion for anyone who lays eyes on you is excruciating. Occasionally, a heavy gaze will follow you as you manoeuver the shop, though it never lingers for too long. Despite its temporary presence, it sparks nausea.

No, people don’t talk much here. And yet, you step one toe out of line, and they’ll all know about it.

Even standing here, lingering at the docks as you stare out at the waterfront, is risky. You have no business standing here. Men who lug nets and crates and sacks don’t appreciate you standing in their way. Their skin lies coated with sweat and grime, caked with dust that never seems to settle. From the sun breaks in the sky in the morning till it slips below the horizon at night, they work.

Part of you has no desire to stand here, either. The odour of decomposing sea creatures hangs as a heavy stench in the air, the smoke from the cast iron fire pits stationed along the coastline seeping into your lungs as you begin to feel drowsy.

But fate deals you yet another blow of humiliation as you stare into the murky, grey water.

There’s a spirit in folklore, a spirit which takes the form of a young woman of extraordinary beauty. Everything she touches, everything around her, shines like a summer’s day. Young men will scarf down anything, creatures that creep, slither, and crawl, fruits infested with rot, as though they were at the Emperor’s great banquet hall. With hijacked eyes, they are led into the deepest crevices of the wilderness, never to return.

You feel her hanging over you, slipping the stained glass over your lids as you stare into the water. It’s opaque; a dark, lifeless water that looks as though it poisons whatever it touches, but to you? To you, the waves look a crystal green. If you concentrate, you can just about see the lion crabs scuttling along the white sand below. Your skin itches with the urge to dip your toes in the water, to feel the cool waves extract your fever like a syringe.

You stand less than an arm's length away from the edge, so unfathomably close to the waves below, and yet, for all the good it does you, you might as well be sitting in your quarters, looking out of your window. It taunts you, poised and pretty in your stained glass lenses, knowing you will come this close and no farther.

Maybe things are different on the other side of the island, beyond the deep, tangled forest and the deserted plains. Maybe it’s the soot, the same chalk that stains your skin a dark black, that poisons the water that lures you to this part of the town at this late hour.

Nevertheless, the nausea that floods you in waves is a sickeningly bitter invasion of the brief, ever-so-small relief you find in the sea air that works as a cool contrast to the humidity of the shop. You feel as though your skin may never learn to breathe again.

“Hey, lady.”

The words ring in your mind with such profundity that you’re convinced you imagined them. You’ve become so estranged that the thought that someone might be talking to you does not even cross your mind until they speak again.

“Hey!”

He’s right behind you, now. Whoever he is.

When you turn, you see the owner of the voice; a man with dark features, shoulders broad and strong from heavy lifting. He carries timber across his shoulder, one arm wrapped around the load to steady it. He doesn’t look happy, though that doesn’t come as a surprise.

“Get going.”

His voice is gruff, yet oddly quiet. You can tell by the way he’s positioned that you’re not on his route; he’s taken a detour to speak with you. Judging by the way he continues to glance over his shoulder, you assume he’s not supposed to.

“The lumber yard is that way,” you say bluntly, gesturing apathetically to your right.

You turn away from him again, and cast your gaze back to the water.

“It’s getting late,” he says plainly. “You’re in the way.”

He must have taken a step closer. In the interest of not placing yourself in a position where you’d be easy to knock, you turn to face him fully. You catch him glancing over his shoulder again, this time in the direction of two men who stand by one of the huts further inland. Their features are poorly illuminated, though they don’t strike you as anything out of the ordinary. One of the men has a sack almost the size of his own body slung across his shoulders, his hands resting firmly either side. The other holds a great iron hook with three razor-sharp prongs, attached to a thick and heavy chain. The man with the hook turns it over in his hands, as though with muscle memory. It’s longer than his forearm and as thick as the horn of a ram, but he carries it as though it weighs less than a feather. Their eyes are fixed to the west, almost unmoving.

“Listen,” he speaks again, stepping even closer. You quell the urge to step backwards just in time to remember how close you are to the water’s edge. “You don’t want to be here when the sun sets. Not tonight.”

You draw yourself up until the two of you are almost even in height, fixing him with a stare designed to conceal anything he might be looking for. Although, you must admit, his eyes don’t appear to be anything less than sober.

“Hm.”

It’s amusing, how the sun sets. In the beginning, when it starts, you cannot imagine that the light might seep from the day. You cannot even picture what it looks like. Then it goes on, gradually, painting deep, entrancing colours and shapes in the heavens that seem to go on forever.

And suddenly, in an instant, it’s all gone. And when you take your eyes off the man in front of you for a split moment and dart your eyes in the direction of the horizon, you can see that the point of blindness is almost upon you.

But with this blindness comes the unmistakeable feeling that something is wrong.

“I suggest,” the man says, voice low, “you get going.”

You can’t tell quite yet how you feel about how his eyes linger heavily on you as you leave.

The scrapes on your knees and shins burn almost as hot as the petulant rage that fills you as you all but stomp back to your quarters. It wasn’t until you reached the brush, the hard, prickly remains of whatever godawful shrubs used to grow before the air became poisoned, that you began to seethe with a childish fury.

Your skin prickles with the flush of an odd mixture of guilt, regret, embarrassment, and something you can only describe as… fear. With your head in the clouds, shrouded by rainbow illusions, he took you by surprise. Like a child, told off for stepping out of your lane. It’s a foolish thing to get aggravated over, you know this, but you’ve never been known for your balanced temper.

Nevertheless, the interaction has your blood boiling. So much so that you stomp through the bristles without a second of thought, ignoring the way their shards tear at your bare skin. Anger is an excellent anaesthetic; it isn’t until you lie down on your makeshift mattress that you feel the throbbing begin.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the throbbing in your legs is matched in pace to the beating of your heart, but rather than remaining an inconvenient nuisance, it amplifies the anxiety bubbling under your skin like an echo. As you stare into the wooden beams that cross the ceiling, you realise with a start that it’s the first time anyone’s spoken to you outside of marketplace trades and orders of tea in five whole moons. You’ve become so isolated from social interaction that the slightest confrontation has you drawing your breath as though you have to force it through a punctured hole in your lung.

Curse the man from the docks. You can’t even fully remember his face; his features shrouded by the setting sun and the heavy soot and your own lack of attention to the present. That proves no obstacle for your mind, though, as it begins to transcribe page upon page of insult to hurl at him.

But they don’t do confrontation here, and judging by the quick thuds you can feel against your flesh as you press your palm under your breast, you should be grateful. So – after much deliberation and progression through the five stages of grief – you allow the slumber that’s been blossoming in your chest to consume you.

It tingles. Burns, might be a more appropriate way to describe it. Business has been so quiet this morning that it leaves you little to be distracted by. You made the mistake of subconsciously rubbing your calves together as you were waiting for your first customer, and the enraged throbbing still has yet to subside.

You afford yourself a deep inhale of the blend you’ve gathered together, picking up the pestle and beginning to grind. It’s borderline painful, handling the scarce commodity without being able to spare a single cup. The tea you serve is weak as it is, and if you want to avoid losing what little clientele you have, you have no choice but to let your mouth water.

Now that you’ve had the opportunity to reflect on the events of last night, you find yourself a bit on edge. Something in the air has shifted. The anxiety sowed with his confrontation has bubbled with ease under your skin, keeping your heart rate up and your palms sweaty. The fact that you were perceived, that he came up and spoke to you, has triggered an anxiety even deeper than you originally thought existed.

Very simply, your bubble has burst.

Because it’s not just him, you think, as you add the powdered leaves and herbs to the water and mix slowly. It’s not just him. With your increased wariness, you decided against leaving the house this morning. Strictly speaking, you don’t need to run errands until tomorrow, and as you sat at one of the few, pristine tables in your keep, you began to take note of the number of patrols outside your door.

Just in the few moons that you’ve been here, they have increased five-fold.

The air feels heavy with tension, and you feel the fool who only just noticed. It has been a steady development, and had you been more preoccupied with observing rather than just keeping your head down, you might have avoided an unpleasant truth.

No use wallowing in should-have’s and would-have’s now.

You remember his words from yesterday -

“You don’t want to be here when the sun sets. Not tonight.”

What did he mean, not tonight? What was happening, ‘tonight’?

Days trickle by, and you feel the pressing weight of your curiosity growing steadily. Things in the town remain largely unchanged, but you feel a desire to learn more. What you’d be learning more about, you cannot possibly say.

But someone else can.

Though, no matter how many times you walk past the docklands on your errands, you never catch a glimpse of him. You even make up excuses, detours you cannot afford to take, just for the opportunity to spot him because at this point – at this point, your curiosity has exceeded your anger. You pass by, at hours outside your ordinary schedule, but still, he eludes you.

And with this little to do, outside of running your errands and working the shop, you become fixated.

You must be stupid.

Why else would you repeatedly attempt to prod at the open wounds on your legs? They haven’t begun to cool yet, still red and itchy, skin swollen and tender and over-sensitive. It becomes one of those relatively mild inconveniences that is just mild and just inconvenient enough to fill you with pettiness. Bested, by your own foolishness. Your own damnable petulance, that led you to trample through the brush like a child with a tantrum rather than walk the extra stone’s throw around the hill. The fact that the prodding hurts causes greater damage to your pride than it does to the cuts.

With a heavy sigh, you pick up the crisp, thin piece of parchment you haphazardly tossed on the tabletop a few minutes ago with your fingertips and bring it to your eyes again.

“Payments outstanding.

Failure to provide adequate payment will result in eviction.

~ Lim Goro”

You sigh again, folding the sheet in half and pressing the crease meticulously. It’s no fault of yours that prices have increased; if people do not have wealth to spend, you cannot earn what you ordinarily would. It’s more of an incentive for you to earn him more gold rather than a legitimate threat of eviction, but your landlord is not beyond replacing you with someone else. There are plenty of potential replacements, after all.

You look upon the empty tables in front of you with a blank stare. There are no more chores for you to do, no more preparations to tend to, nothing to do except sit here and listen to the sound of your own sighs.

The day slips by, the sun climbing high, high, high in the sky until it hangs directly over you, glaring. So far, you have had a total of one, singular customer. The old man had taken one sip from his cup, looked you up and down, grimaced, and left, leaving a few pieces of copper coin behind on the tabletop. Already, you’re formulating plans for movement. Today has been ridiculously slow, and your newfound anxiety has you wondering whether this is now likely to become the norm. You are in no mood to find yourself evicted, you know you will not find alternative employment anywhere on this godforsaken island.

You will have to travel on. Which isn’t a problem in itself, more of a mild inconvenience at this stage. It’s just tiring. And you’re already tired. The old man’s presence lingers uneasily at the table despite his having left hours ago, taunting you as you shift your weight from foot to foot. You grow restless in your boredom, picking at threads and scratching your nail against the counter’s rugged surface. Maybe you should just call time of death, move on at your own leisure and on your own terms. Get yourself the hell out of here, away from all these people, and away from whatever’s brewing on the shipyard.

Or maybe you’ve been too hasty. Because there, just outside your front door, is not the man you’re looking for – but his friend. He hasn’t donned his hook today, instead opting for a burlap sack slung across his shoulder. The sleeveless tunic he’s wearing cuts off at the corner of his shoulder, the light blue textile contrasting the deep, golden hue of his skin. You almost didn’t recognise him. You have only seen him from a distance, after all.

Your hands still as you watch. He tosses something in the air with his left hand, muscles flexing dangerously in the sunlight. Your eyes fixate on the small object as it leaps and sinks in the air. He’s talking to someone, someone out of your line of sight. His jaw flexes as he grins at his companion, tossing the object in their direction. Then, he raises his hand in farewell and shifts the sack farther up on his shoulder, before turning and heading down the street. Your eyes linger on the phantom of his presence, frozen in thought.

And you do something you ordinarily never would, but which you have found yourself doing increasingly as of late: you make a split second decision. Tossing the rag in your hands haphazardly on the counter behind you, you bolt the front door shut, and begin to follow him.

He turns left, leading you onto the path that ends at market square. It’s a long, slack street on a distinct decline, passing through the abodes of merchants who can afford the steep price of permanent establishments. The path is packed with people and the dust swirls heavily in the air from endless heels kicking up sand. Fortunately for you, he’s taller than most; deep, dark brown hair visible over the crowd. You weave through the mass as best you can, but his strides are longer than yours and somehow someone manages to get in your way with every step you take.

Your shoulders knock into passersby as you shuffle through the crowd, eyes not finding much sympathy for the endless people who come at you with baskets, sacks, carcasses, and boughs. Your heartbeat thrums under your skin. There are no back streets or paths diverging from this road; it leads directly to the marketplace, so you don’t run the risk of losing him.

That is, until you reach the end of the road. Any satisfaction you felt at having kept him within sight is immediately quashed by the throng that greets you at the square. You almost trip over your feet as you lurch to follow him, senses working overtime to process the pungent odour filling the air.

The complete absence of customers at your shop seems less strange, now; men and women with painted faces twist and contort themselves in rhythmic waves across the sands that form the outskirts of the square, near the mouth of the Southern quadrant. They’ve attracted quite a crowd, stunting the masses that charge towards the market stalls on their daily errands. There’s a commotion to your right; from the corner of your eye you see the black spears with glinting, golden tips bobbing above the heads of the crowd, manoeuvring determinedly southwards.

You’ve lost him. How have you lost him? You only looked away for a moment. You squeeze your way between stalls, eyes darting around frantically. Finally, you spot him at the seaweed merchant’s, talking to the middle-aged woman who sits cross-legged by the small stack of baskets. Retreating a couple steps to maintain some distance between you, you watch as he passes her a couple of copper coins. She lifts the lid covering the largest of the woven baskets, a small smile on her lips. Now that you’re standing closer to him than ever before, you can understand why. He is, beyond all doubt, a very pleasant-looking man. His smile is wide, eyes crinkled, and you find yourself staring at him as though-

Oof.

The sharp yells at your ear echo in your head for a moment before you register the pain in your shoulder. With wide eyes, you squat to recover the dry strips of bark that have spilled from the man’s hamper. Uttering quiet, yet firm apologies, hands moving hurriedly to save the strips from being trodden on, you feel your heart begin to race. He continues to berate you, voice nasal and high-pitched.

You stand to give your knees a rest and you’ve lost him. The man’s carping follows you as you begin to weave through the crowd in the direction of the seaweed merchant. Waving the man behind you away with an unsympathetic grimace, you move to stand directly in front of the stand. The woman eyes you unimpressed; you’ve practically stormed into an exchange between her and another customer, chest heaving and eyes wide.

Quickly, quickly, you pull away and begin to skirt the masses. You catch sight of him after a short while, near the mouth of the Eastern quadrant, reaching into the sack that used to hang off his shoulder. He hands some of its contents to an older man smoking a pipe who sits on a wooden pail near the mouth’s gate; a tall thing made of sand-coloured stone with the Emperor’s emblem carved into its top. A big, bronze gong hangs suspended from the head. The old man hands him something in return, though from this distance, you can’t see what it is.

With hurried feet, almost tripping over yourself, you move to the gate only to find him gone. You’re on the outskirts of the crowd, now, caught in the debris that circles the swarm. Squinting, you take a step back. Your eyes scan a million faces, searching for distinct braids, but you come up dry. With a heavy sigh, you move around the wall, past the gate. There’s a bit of shade there, sweet, sweet shade, though it has no affect against the heat. Instead, it feeds your imagination. Memories of cool waves and sugary fruits, sunlight that sparkles against the green ocean, salt stinging in your nose and peace pumping through your veins.

You heart catches in your throat as a firm hand latches harshly onto your shoulder and pulls you backwards. You stumble, tripping in the sand. Before you can put your feet back under you, the same firm hand grabs your arm and hauls you up, up, up, into one of the dim alleyways off the main street.

You can’t decipher the expression on his face, but the slightest trace of a sneer laces his upper lip in a way that almost makes you shrink back into yourself. But his eyes, there’s something in those piercing, blue eyes that truly makes your skin crawl.

“You wanna explain yourself?”

He’s ditched the sack. It’s a good question, actually, because when you think of it, you don’t think you could explain yourself if you tried. What were you planning to do? In all honesty, you were probably planning on following him until you saw something - anything - interesting. You have a feeling he wouldn’t appreciate that as an answer if you gave it.

His eyes look over you as the silence stretches on, narrowing as the grip on your arm loosens ever-so-slightly.

“I know you. You’re that teamaker from the Western quadrant.”

Then he frowns.

“You been following me all the way from there?”

Something in his voice puts you at a greater ease than is reasonable.

“Following you? I… who do you think you are? Why would I follow you?”

“Try again.”

You scoff.

“And how do you know who I am?” you jab, wrenching your arm loose from his grip. “By all accounts, it appears I’m the one being followed. And dragged into some dim alleyway!”

“Careful, girl, you’re not out of here yet.”

“So you admit it, you are following me.”

But his words ring a scary truth; for all the good your sharp tongue does, you still find yourself in a dark alleyway at the mercy of a complete stranger. Shouts grow louder in the square as you size each other up, followed by the unmistakable roar of a blaze.

Your assailant’s attention snaps to the mouth of the alley. You could slip past him, you think. One swift moment is all it would take. But the orange glow has reached beyond the sand of the gate, seeming so far in the distance and yet so, so close. It won’t be long until its creators follow.

You count down in your head. Three, two-

The heavy tolls of the Bells of the Gates ring through the air, causing your very bones to vibrate like a tuning fork. The shouts increase even further, both in volume and proximity. A general feeling of deep unrest spreads with the echoes of the Bells. You feel it creep through your body as you inhale, like a heavy gas.

“I have business to take care of in the Western quadrant. You either come with me, or you make your own way back.”

You blink. The deep, quiet inflection in his voice stands as a considerable contrast to just moments ago. The Bells indicate curfew, effective immediately. The square is undoubtedly in lockdown, which means that your only way home involves navigating your way through either the Southern or the Northern quadrant. At this hour, it’s not a journey you would particularly enjoy making on your own.

Should have just stayed in the shop, you think.

“Suit yourself.”

You blink again, watching as he turns his broad back on you and starts towards the gate. The thuds of feet running through sand echo from the street ahead in the walls that encase you.

“Hey- wait,” you say, scrambling after him. “Hey!”

He scowls.

“Change your mind? I don’t entertain hysteria.”

Now it’s your turn to scowl.

“I’ll show you hysteria, how-”

“Are we going or not?”

You drag your feet in the sand. You’ve not spoken two words to each other since the Eastern quadrant, with the exception of the occasion where he berated you for kicking up too much sand as you walked. It draws attention, he’d said. You’d bitten your tongue to refrain from telling him anything he didn’t strictly need to know.

You find yourselves on the outskirts of the Western quadrant, now, on a path lovingly referred to as ‘Arson Lane’. Fire nation patrols linger on its corners, keeping a keener than normal eye out for wrongdoers. You stick to the walls, pausing at every corner and listening for voices. The blindness is upon you, darkness shrouding every detail.

“I think we should get off this path,” you murmur under your breath, holding a hand out against his chest in an effort to stop him.

“This is the quickest way through,” he whispers. His voice is close to your ears, the consonants clicking loudly against his tongue. The intimacy of your situation only fuels the fire that boils your blood.

Your passage through the Northern quadrant, though in complete silence, has put you on edge. Heavy, black boots kicking bodies down the streets mar at your senses. You cannot hear any nearby patrols, no orange hue decorates your route, and yet…

“I think we should find another path,” you whisper.

“What would you know,” he grunts. “You’re just a teamaker.”

You jump at the volume of his voice. It’s not particularly loud, but it rings in the silence. You see no movement on the road, nothing to indicate anything is wrong, no…

You grab him by the tunic and pull him, with a surprising amount of force, to the other side of the road. The wall there is short, and easy to climb over. Squatting low, you listen intently. Sure enough, the muted thuds of spear shafts against sand approach in the distance. You can feel his breath on your cheek, restrained like yours, his side pressed against the naked flesh of your arm.

You hear the patrol as they pass, throwing vulgar quips to each other and letting out drunken laughs. You share a look you can’t quite place with your unlikely companion. It’s strange, seeing him so close. He’s not as young as you are, though exactly how many summers he’s seen, you couldn’t say. Maybe six, seven more than you?

You stay huddled behind that short wall for a good while after their voices disappear into the night.

“Have they gone?” he breathes.

You glare.

“How would I know,” you mouth. “I’m just a teamaker.”

His features slip back into his scowl, and he pulls himself to his feet and climbs over the wall.

By the time you reach the crossroads that leaves you on your street, you’re not speaking. You push past him and don’t look back.

But you’ve always been too curious for your own good. Standing in front of your door, you spare a glance in the direction you came. Once again, you make a split-second decision. Darting after him as quickly as you can without attracting attention, you spot him creeping against the walls of a street perpendicular to your own. Peeking your head out from behind the corner, you watch as he slips from the shadows of the walls to knock gently against a wooden window shutter. Not even a moment later, the door glides open. The little light that slips through the crack paints the figure of an old woman, shorter with her years. Without hesitation, he ushers her inside the room and closes the door after himself.

Your knees feel weak as you trudge up the steep steps of your abode.

part two

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fan fiction #marvel fan fiction #winter soldier fan fiction #winter soldier imagines #tui la #aeaean--bliss

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