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antiibow-a · 10 months

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Sheva Alomar

Completion of Chapter 3-2

APPEARS IN:

Resident Evil 5

Location:

It will appear in the library upon the completing Chapter 3-2.

Transcript:

Listed within this file is a general background information overview of BSAA agent - Sheva Alomar - as pieced together from various sources. The information listed here is neither complete nor should it be used as a psychological analysis of the subject.

Sheva Alomar was born into an impoverished family situation in a small factory town situated in Africa. This particular town being home to Umbrella Plant 57.

As with most factory towns, the plant was the lifeblood of the town, bringing in much needed revenue and steady employment for its populous. Almost 80 percent of the town's adult population was employed at the factory in some facility, including Sheva's parents. While pay was low by most nation's standards, it provided a steady income for the townspeople and a happy childhood for Sheva.

This happiness was short-lived however.

While only eight years old, Sheva's peaceful life was brought to an abrupt end by the sound of sirens erupting from the factory.

As the sirens pierced the air, an ominous plume of black smoke poured out of the factory.

Even as a child, Sheva knew something was terribly wrong. With dread in her heart she ran toward the factory.

Arriving at the factory, she soon discovered the entrance blocked.

In place of the kind old man who used to stand guard at the entrance, strange adults in protective suits were everywhere. Their faces hidden by masks. Sheva could not understand what was happening.

"I realized years later that they were wearing anti- biohazard protective gear. They were part of Umbrella's Special forces."

She may have not understood the muffled voices emanating from beneath those masks at the time, but the assault rifles they leveled at her more than made their intentions understood. The country was not a very stable place to begin with, and near her town resided members of a large anti-government guerilla army. Although only a child, Sheva knew all too well the violence that often accompanied those with guns.

The adults in the village that remained were promptly executed by these gunmen.

Sheva was spared this same fate thanks to the vigilance of a neighbor who was able to get her back to her parent's home unnoticed.

Thus began the longest night of Sheva's life. Crippled by fear, she could only wait and pray for her parents' return. The night passed, and a new day dawned, but still, they did not return.

As night on another day fell she sensed a presence outside her home. Unable to contain her relief and joy, she ran to the door to greet her parents.

As she swung the door open, crying aloud with joy, she was soon met with disappointment and confusion.

For at the door, were not her parents rushing to embrace her, but her uncle, with a look of shock and horror painted upon his face. His words crushed any hope she had left…

"Your parents are dead. There was an accident at the factory."

Taking anything of value left in the house, her uncle then took Sheva to live with his family. Taking her away from the only home she had ever known.

Her life with her uncle would be brief.

Not only was her uncle's family extremely poor, but he also had seven children of his own to care for. Even thought Sheva was a blood relative, he probably never would have come for her if he hadn't thought he would receive financial compensation from the factory.

That compensation never came. Umbrella never gave out any payments. And soon, her aunt and uncle were unable to feed her.

Life was hell for Sheva, not only was she on the verge of starvation, she yearned to be with her parents again. In her grief, she became fixated on the notion that they were still alive.

As the days passed, this belief grew so strong to the point where she could think of nothing else. She knew she had to find them.

So one night as the moon bathed the savanna in silver, Sheva ran away from her uncle's house and headed back to her hometown and the life that was stolen from her.

The thought of her parents drove her on.

But the expansive savanna is a harsh environment for one so young and small. During her second night, she began to feel the effects of malnutrition. Unable to find food, Sheva soon collapsed.

A night in the savanna is not a quiet affair. The sounds of animals plodding along, beasts howling at the moon, insects chirping and buzzing about, and the dry wind soughing through the grass. Sheva considered them all with wonder. She had grown up in a town and was unaccustomed to her new surroundings.

Through the cacophony of strange noises, Sheva picked up a sound that was quite familiar to her. She heard the low rumbling of an engine and the sound of tires cracking over the dirt.

A truck pulled up next to Sheva and a stranger got out of the passenger side and spoke to her. If she replied to him or not, she couldn't recall, but the man picked her up and placed her in the bed of the truck.

The man that found Sheva was an anti-government guerrilla fighter. He provided her with food, shelter, and a place to call home. Unfortunately for Sheva, this good turn was accompanied by some bad news.

She was told that the incident at the Umbrella factory was not an accident. That the factory manufactured bioweapons and Umbrella was carrying out the final test on one of its newest weapons at the dilapidated factory.

The regular employees who worked there were unaware of what Umbrella was actually creating, and they paid for it with their lives, including Sheva's mother and father...

After concluding the test, Umbrella took measures to conceal the entire affair. With the assistance of the government's army they destroyed the factory along with the entire town, effectively wiping the town Sheva had called home off the map.

At this news Sheva was filled with rage. She hated Umbrella and blame them for her parent's deaths, and she hated the government for just rolling over at Umbrella's behest.

It was at this moment she decided to join the guerrillas in their fight against the government.

Sheva started out by doing laundry, cooking meals, and taking care of other chores. After only a few years with the guerrillas, she was given her first gun. She doesn't like to talk about her time with the guerrillas. Perhaps the memories are too painful, or maybe she's too ashamed of what she did there.

One of her main duties with the guerrillas was to go into town and purchase supplies for the group.

For seven long years Sheva stayed with the guerrillas.

By this time she was a teenager, and had spend most of her known life with the guerrillas. Perhaps due to her age, when she went into town, the townspeople never suspected her of being a guerrilla fighter. It could be for this very reason that she was the one they sent.

It was on one of these occasions while she was in town that a man approached her. He looked like a local, but spoke with a strange foreign accent. Handing her a piece of paper and speaking in a hurried voice, he stated:

"Read this. If you believe what it says, come to the church in the back alley in two hours."

After speaking these words he disappeared into the crowd as quickly as he appeared. Sheva turned the paper over in her hand, and her eyes were drawn to one word - Umbrella.

It was the same pharmaceutical company whose selfish aims took her parents from her. If that incident had never happened, perhaps her life would have been different.

The message on the paper said that the guerrillas were planning on using bioweapons to conduct a large- scale terrorist attack that would overthrow the government. Umbrella was going to make a deal with the guerrillas to provide them with the bioweapons. The man wanted Sheva's help in stopping the deal from going through.

At first Sheva thought it was a government trap, but deep down she knew the note spoke the truth. When asked how she knew, she had this to say:

"My country was strongly influenced by France, and many government officials spoke in French patois. But this man was different. I couldn't place his accent at the time, but somehow, I knew I could trust him."

Sheva followed her instincts.

She went to the church and met two men there.

One of them had given her the note earlier. The other wore a suit with no tie and said that we was from the U.S. government.

What the man in the suit wanted seemed straightforward enough - the apprehension of the representative from Umbrella. From what he said, this particular person held the key to causing an irreparable blow to Umbrella. But in order to arrest him, they needed Sheva's help. As long as they got their man, they wouldn't do anything to her or her fellow guerrillas.

Even if they did not succeed in arresting the man in question, they promised not to turn her or her companions over to the authorities.

The man in the suit's offer seemed credible. But could she betray those who had been like a family to her? The man seemed to understand Sheva's apprehension, so he asked her one simple question: "Don't you want to see Umbrella punished for what they've done?"

Sheva quickly nodded her head.

"That's why we selected you. But if you want to help us fight Umbrella, then you are going to have to leave your so-called friends."

"And then what? What's in it for me?"

"Look around! You know these guerrillas you are with aren't doing this for some greater good. They'll do anything to topple the government, including things you know are wrong. Help us, and you can finally do some good for the people of your country."

"And what makes you think a 15-year-old girl can help?"

"Some day you'll learn that age matters very little. A person's life is not defined by age, but by the choices they make. You have the chance to fight for something here that goes beyond just you, something that affects the entire world. Can you really walk away when so much is at stake?"

Sheva would never forget these words...

Three days later the special forces team arrived at the location where the deal was taking place. Sheva had left the door to the building unlocked, and she wore a wire so the team on standby could hear what was taking place.

The operation was a success. The target from Umbrella was quickly apprehended and taken away.

Sheva and the guerrillas were taken to the American Consulate, there to be release two days later with no charges pressed, just as promise. Recognizing Sheva's abilities, or perhaps moved by pity, the man in the suit offered Sheva the chance to start life anew in America.

With nothing left in Africa for her, Sheva decided to take him up on his offer.

Shortly after arriving in America, Sheva's high intelligence and drive quickly became apparent. She surpassed any and all expectations, even learning English to a native level in a mere six months. Within two years of arriving in the U.S. she enrolled at a university.

After graduating with high honors from her university, her legal guardian (the man in the suit) suggested that she join the newly formed BSAA to help others as she had been helped. Umbrella had already been dismantled many years prior, but Sheva had not let go of her hatred toward them and all others like them.

After completing basic training, she was assigned to the unit led by Josh Stone. There, she trained with his unit for eight months, learning everything she would need to know to survive in the field. After the completion of her training, she was hand-picked to become a BSAA agent. She is currently involved in operations throughout the world.

#bio #fancy tag later #shits LOOONG #damn #a bitch gotta link this lmao

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onlinevampire1898 · 3 years

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𝐈’𝐌 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐎𝐊𝐀𝐘

↳ 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘂𝗲

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀: 1K+

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 || the back story of ivar and y/n before they met eachother.

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 || car accident, trauma, ptsd, domestic abuse, violence, swearing

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 || modern ivar x reader

𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲 || this story will contain triggering subjects, if you are easily triggered this may not be the story for you, if you can relate to any of the topics this series is/will be discussing I am so sorry, just know you are not alone and it’s okay to ask for help. Also, if you want to be tagged, feel free to let me know.

𝗶 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗺𝘆 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸 𝗯𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗰𝗼𝗽𝗶𝗲𝗱, 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗻𝘀𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱, 𝗼𝗿 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗴𝗶𝗮𝗿𝗶𝘇𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝗻 𝗮𝗻𝘆𝘄𝗮𝘆

It was a well known fact that the Ragnarsson family were infamous, with Ragnar and his second wife Aslaug being the owners, of the biggest law firm in Kattegat. As well as their sons Ubbe, Hvitserk, Sigurd, and Ivar who pretty much ruled over their school. Guys wanted to be them, and the girls drooled over the thought of even being looked at by one, even though it was a well known fact they were fuck boys, the only one who didn't flaunt it was Ivar.

Ivar enjoyed his privacy but, don't kid yourself just because he liked his privacy, didn't mean he wasn't just as bad as his brothers when it came to women, if he was being honest the attention made him feel like a king.

That was until one horrible night, a night that would change his life forever. He had just turned 16 when, he decided to get in a car with his best friend, who was very obviously too drunk to drive. Given Ivar was also hammered, in his inebriated state he thought it was a great idea.

It wasn't until he woke up in the hospital, with his family asleep in chairs around his bed, had he realized what had happened. When he asked his mother about what happened he felt like he was going to cry, he had learned that they hit another vehicle while drunk and Ivar was the only survivor. As if things couldn't get worse from that point, the doctor informed him and his family that the injuries sustained during the accident, may have caused permanent paraplegia but they would have to wait and see.

Aslaug just wanted what was best for her baby, the look on his face when the doctor told them of his injuries, told her everything she needed to know. She took immediate action, getting him the best doctors, getting him on the right medications, getting him the best treatment money could buy. He never really was the same after the accident, I mean who would be but, it was a very dramatic change that his whole family noticed.

Sure, they worked enough but Ivar didn't want "enough."

He knew he should've been happy with the outcome, of being able to walk again but, it came with a cost. He needed braces on both his legs, crutches and if he walked around for too long he needed his wheelchair. He hated the wheelchair, it had made him feel weak, made it harder for him to forget that night.

It's not like he'd forget that night anyway, the ptsd he developed was enough to drive anyone with a healthy brain insane, the nightmares he had were so vivid that even after he woke up, screaming and crying in a family member’s arms, he still couldn't decipher if it really was reality.

It didn't just stop there, no. Why would it? He went from the popular, bad boy, player that everyone either wanted, or wanted to be to the angry, violent cripple who everyone was scared to look at. Even Ivar noticed the changes, he saw the looks of pity the kids at school gave him, he heard the whispers behind his back, noticed how girls who once so desperately wanted his attention, now wanted nothing to do with the "poor cripple" brother. So he didn't care if they were scared of his new found anger, in his eyes being feared was better than being pitied.

It was then that he decided that's how he was going to live the rest of his life, closed off, angry, violent and definitely never sharing his feelings with anyone other than family.

After all, you can't get hurt if you don't let anyone in.

When college came around Hvitserk met Y/n, if he was being completely honest he wasn't looking for a friend when he saw her, in fact his first words to her had been "has anyone ever told you, you look like a goddess?" He had said with a smirk.

The response he had got was a soft giggle which he had liked, but what shocked him was how she replied.

"That's a good one, how many girls have you said that to?" She said with a smirk of her own.

From that point on he genuinely got to know her, Y/n had become his best friend. The person he went to for advice on girls, the person he went to so he could vent about his family to, the person that never once judged him or gave him bad advice. In fact, Y/n had even been introduced to his mother and older brother Ubbe, Meeting Ubbe was no big deal for Y/n because he was all around a pretty friendly person, his mother however was a different story.

Hvitserk was pleasantly surprised when his mother fell in love with the girl, saying that one way or another she was gonna find a way to make the girl her daughter in law, he tried to tell his mother that it would most likely never happen but she wouldn't listen, Aslaug was gonna find a way to make it happen.

Y/n was one of the few people in his life he could actually depend on, well at least until she met her boyfriend Lucas. She began to slowly pull away and at first Hvitserk understood, he knew that new relationships took up a lot of time. He only began to get worried when she cut him off completely, she no longer came over for movie nights, she avoided him in public and she didn't answer his calls or texts anymore.

He knew her better than anyone else, this behaviour wasn't normal, not from her. She was a social butterfly, always texting, calling and visiting him, and her suddenly switching up scared the shit out of him, he talked to his mother about it and she told him to give her some time.

She said that perhaps she was going through something, and wanted to handle it by herself, even though his gut told him it was the wrong decision, he chose to listen to his mother. He would eventually find out that he should've listened to his gut, it was something he would blame himself for not seeing sooner…..

#ivar lothbrok #ivar smut #ivar fanfic #modern ivar #ivar au #ivar fluff #ivar angst #triggering content #fucklucas #hvitserk #ivar x reader #ivar x y/n #ivar xreader modernau #modern ivar x reader

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prettyspence · 3 years

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Hanging in the Inbetween

Summary: Moving to DC proves to be the right move when you meet Emily Prentiss, finally come out to your brother, and feel like you have a happy future with somebody you could actually love.

Tags: 18+, smut, reader-insert, coming out, internalised homophobia, getting together, smut/kink tags under the cut

Pairing: Emily x Reader

Word Count: 4.2k

Read on AO3

Smut/Kink Tags: top!emily prentiss (but the lines kinda blur), light dom/sub, fingering, sex toys, dirty talk, kink negotiation, first time

You moved to DC for a few reasons, the first of which was that you wanted to get the fuck out of Virginia.

The move to Richmond from Manassas hadn’t even helped much: you were working in your dream field and had some distance from your family, sure, but Virginia’s still the South. And after you came to a very poignant realisation about yourself earlier in the year, you wanted to get as far away from the bigotry that defined your lived experience there as possible.

The second reason was that you missed Aaron. Your brother had moved away when you were only little, but you’d always been close and he was the only family member left that you felt you could genuinely trust with your secret, even if the idea of telling him that you liked women still left you frozen with fear.

So when he invited you to brunch with his colleagues at the FBI you agreed in a heartbeat, it seemed like a great way to meet new people in your new city and spend time with your incredibly busy older brother simultaneously.

If you had any doubts about your sexuality, Emily Prentiss would have eradicated them. As soon as she’d walked into the cafe, her enigmatic presence had captivated you and you were hooked, addicted, obsessed. She smiled warmly at you but all you could do was stare dumbly at her as you shook her hand, eventually managing a weak smile in return. It was as if she was glowing, the others dimming in comparison as you took in her breath-taking beauty. Every time she spoke your breath caught, aching to bask in her voice for the rest of your days.

It felt so dramatic, childish almost. You’d never understood that ‘take your breath away’, ‘at first sight’ kind of love, but you knew it as soon as you met Emily.

But Emily was this gorgeous, confident woman. You knew she was a lesbian, she didn’t hide that from anyone and frequently made jokes about it, and while you shared her identity, the way you approached it couldn’t have been more different. Sure, if anyone looked hard enough, they would catch the adoring looks you sent Emily at every get-together, the way you blushed at any interaction with her. Hell, even she probably knew.

But it could never happen. After years of conservative indoctrination and being surrounded by people convinced of your ‘sin’, you were still on your journey to accepting yourself, still sometimes sick to your stomach every time you remember that you weren’t ‘normal’, that your parents wouldn’t see you as their daughter as soon as you told them. So you hide under layers of facade, wear a mask of confidence over your crippling insecurity and internalised homophobia, pretend that everything’s fine when it feels like you’re crumbling under the surface.

You thought you’d crumble further when Aaron inevitably discovered the truth about you, but really it’s the moment where your foundation starts to rebuild itself. It happens completely accidentally one evening, you don’t mean to come out at all. You’ve been so careful at using gender neutral language for so long. You always talked about a future ‘partner’, said ‘they’ when talking about prospective relationships, the kind of words that don’t attract questions or attention. But you slip up.

“Have you thought about getting back out there, Y/N?” Aaron asks one evening, when you’re both sitting on his couch having a much needed catch-up. “I know it’s been hard after you and Samuel broke up, but maybe you should think about putting yourself back in the scene.”

“God, Aaron, you are not talking about my love life, please,” you groan, swatting his arm lightly. He’s not usually interested in what’s going on in your romantic relationships as long as you seem happy, but it’s been pretty obvious how low you’ve been recently. It’s sort of sweet that he’s talking about something he feels so awkward about to try and make his sister smile.

“I’m serious,” he smiles fondly. “I want to see you happy again, like you were with Tom, remember?”

You were not happy with Tom. You’re not sure you’ve ever been happy in a relationship (for the obvious reason that none of them were women) but you’re pretty damn good at pretending, so you can hardly blame him.

“Ahh, I don’t know, Aaron,” you grimace. You can’t think about anyone but Emily right now, God you’ve tried to move on but everyone seems to pale in comparison at the moment. “When I finally get a girlfriend I want it to be real, you know. An accidental meeting, nothing manufactured…”

You trail off as you see his eyes widen and face contort in surprise. Immediately, your stomach sinks and eyes brim with tears as you realise how badly you’ve fucked up. Jumping up from the sofa, you run to the bathroom and lock yourself in, barely able to contain the sobs as you feel your world implode around you. Fuck, you’re out. Aaron knows.

You sink down to the floor and fold yourself as tightly as possible, trying to hold yourself completely as you feel your walls crashing down, anxiety taking over. It’s only minutes after you’ve barricaded yourself in the bathroom that you hear the knocks at the door.

“Y/N,” Aaron says softly. “It’s okay, I’m not angry, I was just surprised. Why don’t you come out and we can talk about this? I’m not mad, I promise.”

It feels like it must be some sort of trap. Surely Aaron isn’t really okay with it? Choosing to trust your brother despite your scepticism, you peel yourself out of your protective position and splash some cool water on your face in an attempt to calm yourself down a little before unlocking the door.

You must look utterly miserable because Aaron’s face immediately softens and he envelopes in a warm, protective hug, the kind that used to reassure you in your childhood and still has the same effect today.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Y/N?” he asks as he guides you to the sofa, voice gentle.

You take a deep breath before you explain everything, finally unloading the emotional turmoil that’s been whirling around inside you for months, connecting with another person properly since you realised yourself. You weren’t lying anymore; Aaron knew the truth.

Aaron basically forces you to stay over that night, tucking you in the way he used to do before he left for college, left for Washington to be a big bad FBI agent. You don’t fight him. It’s nice to be taken care of again, to feel really close to your brother for the first time in a long time.

Instead of crumbling, your foundation is firmer. You genuinely feel like you can do this, like you have a happy future ahead of you again.

⭐️

It’s a Tuesday evening and you’re running across town, butterflies swimming in your tummy. An excited smile is playing over your face on the metro, in the taxi, while you run down the road towards Aaron’s apartment. You keep checking your phone to confirm this is really happening, but the text message isn’t leaving; it isn’t a delusional mirage borne from isolation and desperation.

Hi Y/N, how would you feel about grabbing coffee with me later this week? ;) Feel like we haven’t had a chance to properly get to know one another! Let me know - Emily

You pound on the door as soon as you get there, knowing Jack is at a sleepover with his friend tonight, squealing as soon as Aaron opens the door. He smiles amusedly as he lets you in, practically bouncing with excitement as you thrust your phone in his face. “Is this what I think it is?” you ask eagerly as he reaches a hand to steady your shaking ones so he can read the message.

“I don’t know, Y/N,” he says. “It could be. I’ve seen the way Emily looks at you, this looks like an invitation on a date to me, especially with the winky emoticon, but equally, she might just be asking you as a friend.” He smiles sympathetically as he says that, hating to temper your excitement. He’s never seen you this happy over a prospective partner and he doesn’t know how he missed how unhappy you were with men.

You giggle at Aaron speculating over the message as you would’ve done with your girlfriends back home. “She doesn’t know I’m gay,” you reason. “But I’m pretty obvious so she probably guessed. Maybe she really does want to go on a date with me!”

“Well, why haven’t you messaged back?” he asks.

“I wanted to tell you first,” you say, a little shyly. It was just nice to share in your truth with somebody. You couldn’t help feeling so eager about it.

He smiles fondly down at you. “Why don’t you make your message back a little more flirty?” he suggests as he makes his way to the kitchen to get you both a drink.

“Ooh, okay,” you muse. Subsequently, the next half an hour is spent agonising over the appropriate response, giggling and squabbling together in the way you used to before life got in the way.

Emily, I’d love to! It would be a great pleasure to spend some more time with your gorgeous self ;) How does Thursday at Cooper’s work? Maybe late morning?- Y/N

As long as we don’t get a case, I’m there :) - Emily

(If Aaron does his utmost to ensure there isn’t a case, well that’s nobody’s business but his own.)

⭐️

After agonising all morning over the perfect outfit, you hurry across the city to get to your favourite cafe in time to meet Emily. You arrive first, ordering yourself a coffee and a pastry and finding a cosy seat in the bay window, your favourite spot. Thankfully, it’s not overly busy and Emily spots you as soon as she walks in not long after you’ve sat down, grinning widely as she approaches.

“Y/N, I’m so glad we could finally do this,” she says earnestly as she gives you a hug.

“I know,” you smile shyly, returning her hug and revelling in having her so close, feeling the warmth of her body against yours, catching the gentle notes of her perfume.

“I’ll just go order a mocha and I’ll be right back,” she smiles, heading over to the counter.

You sit back and just watch her, how graceful and powerful she looks as she moves, how assertive and confident she is. Her gorgeous raven hair frames her face so perfectly and her body looks so strong under her smart, professional but stylish outfit. She smiles beautifully as she comes back over, holding a pastry in her other hand.

“Ah, another pastry addict,” you say, still a little shy and flustered.

“Oh, don’t you know it,” Emily chuckles self-deprecatingly. “Nothing better than a buttery pastry mid-morning, right?”

“Mm, I’ve got a huge sweet-tooth,” you confess. “I’ll do pretty much anything for a sweet treat.”

She laughs loudly at that, looking at you with so much warmth you think she might light you on fire. “I don’t blame you,” she agrees. “The team knows that if I’m grumpy, all I need is something sugary and I’m back on track.”

“You’re so lucky to have such a wonderful team,” you tell her, smiling back at her. “I’m so jealous of you and Aaron, surrounded by all these amazing people.”

“Oh, I know it,” she says. “Found family is important, and I rely on them a lot. I never thought getting into the FBI would change my life this much.”

“Oh, really? What led you to the academy?” you ask, gazing at her adoringly, not bothering to hide it. If you’ve misread the situation, so be it. You’re fed up of hiding, you’re going to take this risk, dive head first into it.

You chat amicably over coffee and pastry for over an hour, and when she frowns and tells you she has to get back to work, you can’t help the raging disappointment inside you. You’ve never felt this connected to somebody, ever. Maybe it’s just that Emily is the first woman you’ve allowed yourself to crush on properly, but it feels like more than that. It feels real, reciprocated even. You can’t help the burning excitement in your chest as you think about what it might be like to be close to her, to call her your girlfriend, to kiss her, to come home to her.

She gives you another hug before you part ways and the smouldering imprint of her body against yours keeps you warm the whole journey home.

⭐️

It’s nearing 7pm when you hear the knock at the door. You uncurl yourself from your cosy position on the sofa and put down your hot chocolate, leaving the movie you’re watching playing quietly in the background as you get up to answer it.

“Emily?” You’re a little bewildered to be honest. Wrapping your cardigan a little tighter around yourself, you send her a puzzled look, but you’re curious, too. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to tell you something,” she says, face serious. “I’m done screwing around; we’re not children, so let’s talk about this like adults.”

Right on cue, butterflies start swimming in your tummy, partly nerves, partly warm fuzzy hope. “Okay,” you say, still a little confused, but you guide her to the sofa and gesture for her to speak.

“I like you,” she says, taking a deep breath. “I’ve liked you since I met you and you intrigue me. I want to know more about you. I think you’re absolutely gorgeous, inside and out, and I’d love to take you out for dinner, on a proper date.”

You’re stunned for a moment, not entirely sure you’re actually awake. “Yes,” you say as soon as you reboot, reaching out to grab her hands gently. “Yes, please, that sounds amazing. I like you, too, I’ve liked you since I first met you.”

Her face lights up at your admission as you share a heated look before leaning in for a gentle kiss. You scoot a little closer to her and place your hands tentatively on her waist, only feeling emboldened when she leans a hand up to place on your neck, the other finding your hip. As you melt into her touch you feel her melt into yours, a mutual melding; a coming together.

It doesn’t stay chaste and gentle for long, however, quickly finding a rhythm that properly conveys the intense passion and amour filling the room, Emily eventually leaning forward and pushing you back slightly on the couch so she can lean more of her weight on you. This must be heaven. No kiss has ever felt like this, not even with your long-term boyfriends, no-one has ever made you feel the sparks that are flashing in your tummy right now.

“Hey, is this too fast?” she asks as she pulls back a bit, breathing heavily as she reaches a hand up to brush some of your hair away from your face. “Do you want to slow down?”

“No, no,” you deny, desperate to continue. “I don’t want to stop, I just… I haven’t been with a woman before.”

Your confession is shy, tentative; you don’t want to scare her off, but she simply smiles softly down at you, continuing to gently caress your hair. “Don’t worry about that,” she says. “We’ll see where this takes us and if you want to stop or slow down just tell me, alright?”

“Yeah,” you agree before leaning back in to continue the kiss, pushing your hand up under her shirt slightly and feeling her toned abs, the soft curve of her waist. It only serves to make you wetter, the feel of a woman under your palms more euphoric than you ever could have anticipated.

She moans as you explore her midriff, pushing your shirt up to do the same, and if you thought feeling a woman was amazing, being felt by one feels incredible, shivering under her touch as she runs her fingers up and down your waist, pushing your shirt up even more to caress the sides of your breasts.

“Off.” You obey and sit up a little bit to shrug off your cardigan and t-shirt as she does the same, both left only in your bras and pants, pressed skin-to-skin on the sofa. “Fuck, you’re so gorgeous, Y/N,” she moans, kissing you deeper as she tangles her fingers in your hair, tugging a little at the strands.

“Emily,” you whine as her other hand comes to your breast, teasing you with a finger slowly before running her thumb over your nipple through your lacy bra, squeezing gently. You’re already a dripping mess for her, this is already the best sex you’ve ever had, and you’ve barely started.

“Let’s go to the bedroom,” she suggests, pulling back a little to sit up before taking your hand and letting you lead the way. “Take your bra off and lie down on the bed.” Her voice is soft but there’s an authority to it that calms you slightly. You may not know exactly what you’re doing but Emily does and she’s going to take care of you.

“I have a few toys,” you confess shyly as you follow her orders, watching her with blown pupils all the while. “They’re washed and clean, and there are condoms and latex gloves, too.”

“Oh?” Emily asks, quirking an eyebrow slightly.

“They’re in the bottom drawer,” you say, blushing wildly as you share your sex toy collection with the woman you’ve been crushing pretty hard on for a while now.

She immediately lights up and rummages through, a playful smirk colouring her face as she pulls out a few options. You take in the fairly sizable dildo -- a favourite of yours -- the finger vibrator you’d bought only last month and a butt plug you’d had for years with hungry eyes, excited for what she has in mind.

“Before we really get going, let’s talk,” Emily smiles gently, leaning over to kiss you softly before pulling back. “What are you into, up for, wanting to try?”

“I’m not really sure,” you say, blushing awkwardly. This kind of discussion is fairly foreign for you. “I’ve never enjoyed sex before because it was always with a man.”

Emily pulls a face to make you laugh before nodding in agreement. “Okay, well how about I tell you a few of the things I like and you can tell me if you’re comfortable with them? And if you do try it and you’re not into it we’ll just stop, yeah?”

“That sounds like a plan.”

“Great. I like to be on top mostly, I’m quite a dominant person but I can tone that up or down to whatever you like, too,” she starts. “I’m very into dirty talk -- a little mild verbal degradation etcetera -- I love clitoral stimulation and don’t get much from internal simulation so maybe you could use this finger vibrator on me while I tell you what to do? And I could use this dildo on you if you’d like, the butt plug, too?”

“With my boyfriends the only time they could make me cum is if they got really into dirty talk, calling me names and stuff” you confess, “so that works for me, especially if you alternate with praise. And I’m happy for you to top and be more dominant, that sounds… good. All of what you said, I want, except I think the butt plug is a bit adventurous for today?” Your face must be fire engine red but Emily is looking at you fondly so you clearly haven’t turned her off with your inexperience or bashfulness.

She grins at you before leaning in to kiss you again. “Perfect. If I say or do anything you don’t like, tell me immediately. I won’t be offended, okay? I’ll do the same.” You nod in agreement, blush calming down as she settles her body over yours, a comforting, reassuring weight in an unfamiliar scenario.

She quickly gets the lube and condoms out and once she’s ready, Emily trails latex covered fingers down your waist, tickling slightly and revelling in the shiver she elicits, before slipping beneath the waistband and pressing gently, teasingly against your clit. She presses another kiss to your lips, deepening it against your moans as she moves down to push a finger inside.

“Emily,” you cry, panting as the initial pressure against your walls makes you see stars, warm wetness helping to ease her fingers inside. She slowly works you open as she alternates between kissing you, sucking on your neck and whispering dirty, encouraging platitudes in your ear.

“Do you think you’re ready to take my cock, princess?” she asks, tone dripping and sultry as she whispers directly into your ear, licking a stripe over the shell as you moan loudly. She holds the condom-covered dildo directly in your line of sight as she presses her own heat against your thigh, rutting slightly to ease her own immediate arousal.

“Yes, Emily, please” you beg, pushing your thigh up so she can use it properly, getting an appreciative moan in response.

“Good girl,” she praises, kissing you again as she lines up the dildo, easing it into you gently, pausing when your aroused moans betray a hint of pain. “God, you took that so well. You are a dirty little slut for me, aren’t you? Built to take my cock.”

“Yeah,” you whine, writhing as you feel the fullness of the dildo inside you, moaning again as Emily starts to fuck in and out. She starts out slowly before speeding it up, fucking you hard with your own dildo as she murmurs absolute filth into your ear. “Stop, stop.”

She stills her hand immediately, but you quickly ease her mind. “I’m close, don’t want to come yet.”

At that, she beams down at you. “Good girl. I think it’s my turn to get off, don’t you?”

Technically, she’s been grinding down on your leg the whole time she’s been fucking you, but you get what she means and reach for the finger vibrator, dildo still wedged firmly inside you, while she rolls onto her back. You fit the vibe onto your first finger and turn it on, thankful you recently changed the battery recently as you slide on a latex covering over your finger. She smiles encouragingly as you maneuver her hips to the right angle before teasing her a little with your middle finger to ease her into it before pressing the vibe to her folds first, thoroughly enjoying the jerk her hips make at the pleasure, before working your way up to her clit.

She throws her head back and moans wantonly as you work her over, running your other hand up her side before making your way to her breasts, leaning down to suck and bite gently at them as she cups her hand against the back of your neck, keeping your mouth where she wants.

“Keep going,” she moans as she approaches her orgasm, rutting against your finger as you swallow her nipple into your mouth with renewed vigour, desperate to bring her off. She shouts your name as she cums, squirming around your finger as her hips writhe with pleasure, eyes screwed close. It’s a beautiful sight, seeing a woman cum, and it’s so much better than whatever you’ve seen in porn, because you did this. Emily’s orgasm is your work of art and you couldn’t be prouder to sign your name against it.

“Good girl,” she sighs as she comes down. “You did so well. Now, shall we finish you off, baby?”

You’re virtually there already, seeing Emily’s pleasure had been getting you closer and closer to your own orgasm. It only takes Emily rolling you onto your back, kissing you again and fucking you a few more times with the dildo that’s stayed inside you the whole time while fingering your clit just teasingly enough to get you over the edge, powerful orgasm crashing over you as Emily whispers praise against your ear. It takes you out for a minute, lost in the haze of pleasure and its aftermath, feeling so right in that moment that you never want to leave it, wrapped up in Emily’s arms while you hang in the inbetween of a dreamy daze and reality.

Eventually, you blink your eyes open, meeting Emily’s glassy ones and smile up at her, working the energy up to roll her over and kiss her again in earnest, knowing exactly what she likes by now.

“What was that for?” she asks after you break apart, chuckling a little at your eagerness.

“A thank you,” you murmur, smiling fondly down at her.

“The best thank you you could give me is a dinner date later this week,” Emily grins. “And I’ll thank you afterwards with another mind-blowing orgasm, how does that sound?”

You stare down at her for a moment, wondering how on earth you managed to win somebody so perfect, before shaking out of it and smiling softly again. “That sounds perfect.”

#emily prentiss x y/n #reader-insert #criminal minds reader-insert #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss smut #criminal minds smut #criminal minds #emily prentiss #my writing

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halfapoem · 3 years

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atypical love

i read a book the other day,

of a dystopian future,

where love was a foreign notion.

where one couldn't turn red,

as they held their lover's gaze,

from across the room.

where, it was forbidden

to touch and to kiss.

i was scared out of my wits,

oh to lose such a beautiful sentiment,

that masks and stacks

so many other feelings under it.

but i'm afraid that day,

isn't far away,

when love comes with a rulebook

citing the do's and don'ts

of your compassion to another.

i'm petrified of the days,

when love would come in default modes,

when there's one above all,

that dismisses all the other ones,

mongering hate, in the name of love.

when you try to tell me

which mouths i can kiss,

which mouths i couldn't,

enlighten me, as to when

it dawned upon you,

as to what is natural and what isn't.

as to when one is a man

and when one isn't?

your snowflake ego,

and the crippling fear

of not being able to oppress,

isn't going to stop anyone,

from finding comfort

in the arms of their lover.

they say love blinds you,

literature about romance, in abundance

talking about love and its mysterious ways

of controlling us,

it baffles me, to see you control love.

love is pain, love is happiness

and it is whatever i want it to be,

and to contain such a complex emotion

in a pamphlet, in a book, in a rule,

is sowing seeds of oppression,

and harvest hate for centuries to fuel.

how dare you tell me,

my love, tinted with colours of the rainbow,

is any different than the 'default',

monochrome of black and white.

oh i'm afraid that say isn't far away,

in fact, that day is today.

it was yesterday and all I wish

is for it to not be tomorrow.

for my heart, it's capable of loving

in ways, your small mind

can never comprehend.

and as i wake up everyday,

and think of the time when

i, among millions of people,

don't have to wake up

and fight for the right to simply love,

everyday.

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wonderfulworldofmichaelford · 4 years

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Psycho Analysis: Huey Emmerich

(WARNING! This analysis contains SPOILERS!)

The Metal Gear franchise is known for its hammy and despicable villains, villains with complicated schemes, giant robots, and awesome boss battles. But what if I told you that, out of all the villains in the series, the most disgusting, vile, reprehensible, and cruel one had the same face and voice as the kindest man in the series.

Huey Emmerich is, in short, a piece of shit. There is absolutely nothing redeeming about this worthless ass. This may seem a bit shocking if you’ve only played Peace Walker, where he seems little more than a clone of his son Otacon, or Metal Gear Solid 2, where he is mentioned as having committed suicide after catching his wife taking advantage of Otacon. But play through The Phantom Pain, and you’ll soon see that Huey is perhaps the most morally reprehensible monster in the entire game, and maybe the entire franchise.

And you will absolutely, without a doubt, love to hate him.

Motivation/Goals: Huey is motivated by one thing and one thing only: cowardice. He sells out Big Boss to Cipher to for a job offer and then lies out his ass to Venom, Ocelot, and Kaz when they eventually come and get him. Huey is just always in it for himself, and is perfectly willing to screw over any person who gets in the way of his research; even back in Peace Walker, he was strangely happy about cheerfully being able to continue developing WMDs for Big Boss and company after betraying his (admittedly crappy) former boss Hot Coldman, and after that he abandoned his wife to die for daring to hide their child Hal away from him before he could use the kid as a living battery in Metal Gear Sahelanthropus.

And while being a megalomaniac is nothing new for A villain in this franchise, Huey takes it to the next level by never once accepting any responsibility. He constantly shifts blame onto others, denies doing anything bad ever, and lies, lies, and lies to the point of insanity. At one point he straight up continues to insist his wife Strangelove committed suicide even when irrefutable evidence was shown that he left her to die inside the Mammal Pod. The man is a pathetic, nasty little weasel through and through, and his complete and utter lack of honor just makes him stand out as reprehensible even when compared to an absolute lunatic like Skull Face or even a violent brute like Eli (AKA Liquid Snake).

Performance: Christopher Randolph, the actor for Hal, somehow manages to turn everything good, sweet, and heroic about Snake’s best pal Otacon and turn it on its head for Huey. Huey has the same voice and the same face as his son, but his actions and deeds show that, no, this man is absolutely nothing like his son, and is in fact the very antithesis of who Otacon is. Props to Randolph for using the same voice we’ve come to know and love and delivering a performance so twisted that even if it is the same voice, there is absolutely no way you would ever confuse Huey dialogue for Otacon dialogue.

Final Fate: The best part about Huey is that he is constantly, constantly getting his ass handed to him. In The Phantom Pain, after he unleashes a virus onto Mother Base which forces Venom to put down some of his own soldiers, with Huey blaming him all the while, Huey is put on trial and found guilty, because… of course he is. Literally the only person who believes Huey is innocent is Huey himself, and that is because he outright rejects reality and all of the evidence against him. Venom casts him adrift on a dinky life boat, one that begins leaking and causes Huey to ditch his precious robotic legs to the sea, turning him into little more than a miserable cripple once again.

But if you thought that Huey would go out in any other way other than making the world a more miserable, bitter place, you’d be wrong. Years later, he discovers his second wife having an affair – that is to say, statutory raping – his son, Otacon. Rather than being a good father and trying to do anything about this sexual abuse of his child, Huey decides to do the world a favor and kill himself… but unfortunately, he drags his stepdaughter Emma along with him, causing her to nearly drown and giving her a crippling fear of water as a result.

And when you first play Metal Gear Solid 2, this seems like an awful, depressing tragedy… but after playing The Phantom Pain, it becomes abundantly clear that Huey’s suicide was one final, spiteful act., and Emma nearly dying was almost certainly on purpose. His final act in life was to try and spite his own son and the woman who was abusing his son by taking away the person they loved most in the world. He saw his own son as having cuckolded him and took his son’s sexual abuse as a blow to his own masculinity, and so went out of his way to hurt and traumatize him in the only way he knew how: by dragging innocent people down with him. Huey Emmerich couldn’t even kill himself without ruining everything.

Best Scene: Pick a scene where Huey is abused or forced to face consequences, be it Hot Coldman or Skull Face pushing him down the stairs and causing him to piss himself, Ocelot torturing him brutally, or Venom banishing him from Mother Base and sending him back to the world to be revealed as a fraud, and you’ve got yourself a good time. The sound of Huey suffering is music to the ears.

Best Quote: I think the quote that truly defines how much of a despicable two-faced hypocrite Huey is would be the vicious verbal berating he gives you as you kill the Diamond Dogs infected with the parasite that he released. He berates Venom for doing this despite being fully to blame for the situation. It is the culmination of this snivelling little bastard’s arc, and he’s only revealed to be worse from there.

Final Thoughts & Score: Huey is perhaps the ultimate hate sink in all of fiction. There is absolutely nothing likable about the guy; he’s a pathetic coward, he constantly lies, he’s an utter prick to everyone around him, and he causes untold amounts of suffering all while whining and crying about how it’s totally not his fault! He commits atrocity after atrocity, heinous act after heinous act, and spreads so much misery, and he does it all without ever once looking cool or intimidating like just about every other villain in the franchise. You’d think this would make him the bottom of the barrel and a terrible character… but it does the opposite.

Huey serves as a dark contrast to his own son and helps to highlight how much of a better man Otacon is. Both came from similar backgrounds and both have similar roles, with both developing Metal Gears and befriending a Snake. The difference, though, is that Hal has a moral courage that allows him to own up to his mistakes, accept responsibility for his actions, and dedicate himself to doing better. The man is so utterly selfless that he basically blames himself for his stepmother raping him; Hal is beyond humble, to an almost martyr-like degree, and truly lives up to the ideals of The Boss more than anyone in the series. His mother would be so proud of that. Meanwhile, Huey lacks that, and as shown throughout The Phantom Pain, his lies eventually pile up to the point where even he can’t escape the truth, and he suffers for it. Huey is a cautionary look at what would have happened if Hal didn’t have the spine to stand up for what was right and own up to his mistake, and this is nowhere more evident than Hal having a long-lasting relationship with Snake that went until the day he died whereas Huey was cut out of the life of Venom with extreme prejudice after Huey again and again stabbed his so-called friends in the back.

But aside from this wonderful contrast, I think how awful Huey is becomes more acceptable because he constantly, constantly suffers for it. The man gets constantly put through the wringer for his lies and schemes, and is despised and treated like garbage by Ocelot and Kaz. His own wife even hated him and considered Hal her kid with The Boss more than with him. Huey’s own moral failings catch up with him, and while it doesn’t lessen how evil it is, it does give you a sense of catharsis when that son of a bitch gets kicked, literally or otherwise.

Huey gets a 10/10. No, I’m not exaggerating. He isn’t the most impressive villain in the franchise. He’s not flashy, or hammy, or over-the-top and exciting. Huey is a very real, very miserable type of person who is cowardly, self-serving, and loathsome, and it is just so much fun to watch him suffer for his own sins. He is the epitome of “love to hate” villains; it’s just such a blast to despise this man and attribute everything awful to him, even if it isn’t really his fault. He’s a dark deconstruction of the lovable coward, he’s an utterly evil reprehensible bastard, and I hate him oh so very much… but it’s the kind of hate that I’m happy to have.

Fuck you, Huey.

#Psycho Analysis #Huey Emmerich #Metal Gear #Metal Gear Solid #The Phantom Pain #Peace Walker #Christopher Randolph

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inspired-by-the-music · 3 years

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For You: Stand By Me

Taglist: @jineunwootrash

If you would like to be added to the taglist of any of this blog’s works, please ask!

Recommended Reading: For You: 4 O’Clock; these works have separate, independent, but deeply interwoven timelines.

Chapter 5: The Boy Who Said ‘Always’

Lei’s POV

Thirteen is a landmark age for everybody, I think. When I was thirteen, my life took off in a positive direction, but there were some drawbacks.

Sehun finally made his debut as an idol, attracting the attention and admiration that he always deserved. This wasn’t such a bad thing in itself, but I had seen less and less of him in the weeks leading up to his debut, and I almost stopped seeing him altogether once he was officially a member of EXO. It was a little sad, only being able to see him from the opposite side of a screen when he had been before my eyes for all those years, but I was happy that his dreams were being realized.

Maybe missing him would have been more crippling had I not been so busy with my own projects. Every morning, Amber and I sprinted through the halls of studios downtown to catch idols for interviews before their promotional stages. By the afternoon, I was back in the training studio with people closer to me in age and experience, working toward our shared goal of becoming real idols too.

Why I Experienced A Surge In Happiness At Thirteen:

I spent most of my time with Amber, who I admired deeply.

Speaking to such a vast collection of idols every morning taught me what I was training for: the opportunity to entertain others and express myself through art.

Johnny, Mark, and many of the others who would go on to form NCT took me under their wing on co-ed days.

Joy looked out for me on girls’ training days.

With Johnny, Mark, the rest of NCT, and Joy on my side, the mean girls were much less vocal in their bullying.

I know that this is kind of silly since I swear I believed Sehun when he taught me that others’ approval (or disapproval) didn’t define me, but I remember smiling from ear to ear when Amber showed me all of the supportive comments from people who called themselves my fans just from watching me interview idols with her. So many people cheered for me even though I hadn’t debuted or shown any hint of talent yet.

Even then, it occurred to me that Amber had carefully combed through all of the comments only to show me the uplifting messages, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to dwell on criticisms that I couldn’t see— especially not when she had gone to such lengths to inspire me. Besides, having just been freed from my braces, I embraced almost every opportunity to smile and boast my lack of a gap.

Those days weren’t necessarily easy or perfect, but they were simpler (at least in part) because I did not yet have to manage my image on social media. In my dealings with the public, I followed Amber’s lead and trusted that everything would work out. Now that I am older and I better understand those responsibilities, I hope that I wasn’t a burden to her.

The thing is, Amber never treated me like a burden. In many ways, she almost acted as if we were equal— as if she didn’t outrank me in age and experience in the industry. Still, she was responsible, protective, and considerate of me, all without ever boasting about what she did for me. Those days of following her lead shaped me more than I can ever explain.

If you imagine the perfect older sister, I promise that Amber was better in every way. She proved that every day and especially when we went to Japan for the S.M. showcase and she coordinated that belated surprise for my birthday.

Because that week in Japan marked my first break from training since I started a year prior, the trip was something like a vacation for me. My only responsibility was to help Amber vlog backstage. Once I was done with that, I reported to Super Junior’s dressing room, where Mom had set up a big screen for me to watch all of the performances without getting in anybody’s way.

I was alone, but I had long since learned to entertain myself. When a song I especially liked played through the speakers (spoiler: being first and foremost S.M. trash, I liked every song), I would set my popcorn down at my feet to stand and emulate the choreography while singing along.

Suffice it to say, then, that I was having the time of my life before the morning Amber tiptoed into my hotel room to tug me out of bed before the sun had emerged from its place tucked behind the clouds.

I knew that we were going somewhere special when she gave me a gift bag containing a pair of bubble gum pink overalls. To avoid waking Mom, who was sprawled out and snoring into her pillow, Amber whispered, “Happy Late Birthday! Hurry up and change into that. They’re waiting for us downstairs.”

Amber had been careful not to name who was waiting for us downstairs, but I wouldn’t have believed her if she had. Never in a million years would I have dreamed of meeting Key and Minho in the hotel lobby. They stood, bickering, by the front doors.

I guess Amber wasn’t expecting to see Key either. Furrowing her brows at him, she demanded, “What are you doing here?”

Key scoffed, “Good morning to you too,” but I caught the ghost of a dimple in his left cheek and figured that he was one of many who had a thing for Amber.

She seemed a little oblivious, wrinkling her forehead as she crossed her arms. “Where is Taemin?”

“Yeah.” Minho hurled fire at Key with his eyes as he repeated, “Where is Taemin?”

Key shrugged. “Fast asleep, I guess.” And Minho rolled his eyes.

My face, red enough from being so close to members of my all-time favorite group, darkened with the repeated references to Taemin, who must have been my ultimate bias. I breathed, heart pounding as I was trapped somewhere between relief and disappointment at the realization that he wouldn’t be joining us.

Too overwhelmed by Key and Minho and Taemin’s mere name, I didn’t even notice that Sehun was standing in a darkened corner until he said, “It looks like it’s going to rain soon. Shouldn’t we try to beat the rain?”

Something I can’t understand washed over me. Never in the years of knowing Sehun had I ever embraced him before, so I don’t know what I was thinking when I ran to him and threw my arms around his waist. It couldn’t have lasted for more than a second. As soon as I realized what I was doing, I released him, blushing harder than I had in my entire life.

Thankfully, Key and Minho were too focused on Amber (who was too busy trying to figure out where Taemin was) to witness my utter humiliation. The only witness was Sehun, who only blinked at me. A corner of his lips flicked upward as he waved. “Hi.”

He must have been in a good mood that day. When I finally gathered the courage to meet his gaze, he wasn’t glaring at me. Maybe because I was embarrassed enough without his lecture, he didn’t bother to correct my behavior.

I imitated his tiny smile and waved back. “Hi.”

And then I felt it all at once: how much I missed our everyday interactions— that I was no longer the only one who thought he was the most handsome person— that while I had naturally memorized his every word and every expression, while I had appreciated our every scattered moment, something about Sehun was past tense.

And I had never known to prepare myself for the feeling that I was saying goodbye to something that I couldn’t name but loved nonetheless. I probably couldn’t have prepared myself anyway, and I wouldn’t have wanted to risk ruining the days that are now memories by anticipating the end, but I was so caught off guard by the influx of emotions at the sight of Sehun that (all day) I struggled to catch my breath.

I couldn’t quite hear Minho tattle to Amber that Key had stolen Taemin’s ticket to Sanrio Puroland— I couldn’t quite smile about the surprise destination or mourn the missed opportunity to meet my ultimate idol— over the screaming thought that they were slipping away — or maybe (deep down I knew) they were already gone: the days of sitting by Sehun’s side.

It’s sad that so many details of what could have been our last golden day are lost in my memory. Even as I sit here, trying to dust off the memories off with my pen, all I can recover is the all-consuming fear that I was losing him who was never mine.

There is something sad about the passive love I had for Sehun. No matter how we changed, no matter how many days passed, no matter how the trees and flowers wilted and blossomed, come rain or shine, whether we spoke every day or never again, I would always want to see him just one more time. Always, even if one of us should try to strike it dead, even if one of us should try to forget, my one hope would be to see him happy.

The sad part is: I never willingly gave him my heart. Sehun had it from the moment we met. While something about that is very sweet and childlike and beautiful, it is cruelly unfair. Had my heart ever been mine to give, I probably would have given it to him anyway, but that’s not the point.

I read once that you don’t get to choose if you get hurt in this world, but you do have some say in who hurts you. I never got a say in who hurt me. If I had gotten a say in who hurt me, though, I probably still would have chosen Sehun. Like that book said, I probably would have liked my choice.

Anyway, here is what I remember. Here is what I can never forget:

Minho and Key, in their competition for Amber’s attention, had trampled on Sehun’s last nerve, so he wordlessly gestured me away from the group, toward a cotton candy stand.

Nobody noticed the almost childlike smile that grew on his face as he asked, “You like the little bunny, right?” He pointed to bright pink cotton candy shaped in My Melody’s image, and I nodded, too stunned that he remembered my favorite Sanrio character to speak.

When you love somebody the way I loved Sehun, you imagine that there is some deep significance to everything they say and do. Maybe that’s foolish. Or maybe something perceived or imagined is somehow real too. I don’t know.

Even on the most superficial level, I appreciated the smile he concealed behind the tall cotton candy before he entrusted it to me.

Chest heavy and aching for reasons even his apparent happiness couldn’t drive away— wondering if it was normal to want to cry even in the presence of someone who makes your heart flutter— wondering how it was possible to miss somebody right in front of me, right in arm’s reach— I started to say that the candy was too cute to eat.

Then, feeling like that was a weird thing to say, I decided to ask Sehun to take a picture so I could remember this moment later when my thoughts weren’t quite so bitter and only sweetness remained, but I never got the chance.

Dark storm clouds rolled in overhead and spilled cold rain on us without warning. By the time Sehun pulled me under some pastel pink and blue umbrella, much of the candy had dissolved into a shapeless pink blob.

“Sorry,” Sehun muttered as if he had caused the rain. He held his hand out, and I don’t think I would have given him the spoiled candy had I known that he would toss it into the trash bin without hesitation. He promised my devastated expression, “I’ll buy you another one once the rain lets up.”

Frowning, but not quite on the verge of tears, I mumbled, “I didn’t even get to take a picture.”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “What a weird thing to say. You were never meant to photograph it. You should be whining, ‘I didn’t get to take a single bite.’”

I said, “People mourn tragedies differently, Sehun,” and I know he wanted to laugh at my dramatic reaction, but he was kind enough to bite back his snickers. And although I had forbidden myself from saying so, when I glanced over at him, and my heart tremored, I blurted, “I miss you.”

Again, he remarked, “What a weird thing to say.” Often when we spoke, Sehun looked away from me, toward something in the distance, but he had been eyeing me strangely since I hugged him in the hotel lobby. I always regretted hugging him. “How can you miss me when I’m standing right beside you?”

Why couldn’t he ever just accept how I felt? Always, always, always, I was embarrassed after revealing my feelings to him, but no shame was ever enough to remind me to bite my tongue. Something about him always compelled me toward honesty.

My face flushed, and I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re just not the same person you used to be.” Sehun grunted as if I had knocked the breath out of him, but I knew that I wasn’t strong enough to do that, especially not with words. “Maybe I loved—”

I hadn’t meant to say that. I meant to say ‘liked,’ but ‘loved’ came out of my mouth instead. I carried on as if I had made no mistake (and maybe I hadn’t), “— who you were as a trainee, and now—”

Why had I said anything at all? I made no sense. My gaze fell somewhere around my feet, somewhere in a shallow puddle. “Well, we never really were equals, huh?”

“I’m not different,” Sehun claimed instantly as if he somehow understood my gibberish.

I argued, “I’m not saying that you tried to change. You just have because that’s what people do.”

“Not me.” I watched Sehun shake his head, but I didn’t look too closely at his face. “And not you either. I’m still me, and you’re still you, so I don’t know why you’re so upset.”

“You really don’t think I’ve changed at all since we met?” I don’t know what I expected. I had always suspected that Sehun would only see me as the nine-year-old he met by the vending machine, but I was somehow disappointed.

Fidgeting under my skeptical stare, Sehun conceded, “Well, obviously some things are different. You’re older and taller. You sound a little different. You don’t look at things with little stars in your eyes anymore, and you don’t walk with your head down like you did last year, but—” He rolled his eyes when I raised my eyebrows to say ‘I told you so,’ — “what matters hasn’t changed.”

Because I didn’t know, I asked, “What matters?”

Sehun shook his head, finally looking away from me as he stuffed his fists into his pockets. “If you don’t know, there’s no point in telling you.” His voice, usually so calm and collected, burned me. I gasped at his temper, and he swallowed his frustration to say, “Words can’t convince anybody that you care about them.”

My jaw dropped. “You care about me?” The answer must have been obvious from the way Sehun cut his eyes at me.

When my cheeks turned red and I looked away, he quietly said, “I don’t like saying these things, Lei, so you’re going to have to put two and two together to realize that I’m always going to look out for you.” I didn’t think it was possible, but his voice dropped even lower when he breathed, “You’re going to have to realize for yourself that it hurts my feelings when you accuse me of changing.”

I almost choked on the humid air. “Your feelings?”

He frowned at my reaction, a thin line forming between his eyebrows as he drew them together. “Yes. I have them too, you know, even if I don’t spill them everywhere.”

Apparently, I had accidentally touched some nerve, but I didn’t think that justified Sehun’s harsh words. “I don’t spill my feelings everywhere.”

I glared at him, thinking that I would have apologized for hurting his feelings if he hadn’t set out to hurt mine too. “I only spill them to you because—” He gave me that warning stare, but I wasn’t going to say anything bad, so I frowned at him for always expecting the worst from me— “I trust you.”

Sehun seemed surprised that I could admit something so nice in the midst of what had become an argument. His eyes widened, and his expression softened as he reminded, “You shouldn’t trust boys.”

Almost teasingly, I lied, “I don’t really see you as a boy, though.” Sehun snorted, so I maintained, donning my most solemn expression, “Really, I don’t! I see you as more of a guardian angel.” Even when he was mean for the briefest second, I only thought good things about him.

“A guardian angel?” Sehun repeated, chewing on his grin. “I should warn you that the more you expect from somebody, the likelier they are to disappoint you— even if they really don’t want to.”

“You can’t disappoint me,” I said, “because I don’t expect anything from you.” Even while living in the moment, I knew that Sehun didn’t believe me, but I promised anyway, “I won’t get mad at you even if you get tired of looking out for me. I get that most people don’t mean words like ‘always’ and ‘forever’ and ‘never.’”

“I wish you didn’t know that,” Sehun said so quickly that I almost thought I imagined is voice. “I mean those words when I say them, though.”

That was the first time that I didn’t believe him wholeheartedly even though I wanted to. I didn’t think that Sehun was purposely lying or anything; I just think that some words are too big— too infinite— for people to understand well enough to use truthfully. It’s an accidental dishonesty. It’s enough that somebody wants it to be true. Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.

“Okay.” I nodded as if that would bridge my unbelief and the growing ever-present distance between us that he couldn’t feel yet, that he would probably (hopefully) never feel.

With nothing left to say, we stood together under the umbrella, waiting for the storm to pass so we could step back out into the day, but it rained for as long as I can remember. It rained even on the way home.

Yes, I’m still sad that I didn’t get a picture of that moment when I held the cotton candy in those seconds before the storm, but I think it’s sadder that I don’t have a single picture of Sehun from those days. I guess I should take comfort in the fact that the details still haven’t been forgotten; maybe that means they never will be.

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self-proclaimed-chaotic-good · 4 years

Text

Survivors of Unfair Choices (13) | FirstOrder!Poe Dameron x Reader

Words: 1638

Warning: SW-verse typical violence, minor swearing

A/N: Not sure if these updates are showing up under the tags, especially when I add a link in the post. Also, I’ve finished up the writing for this series, so there are four chapters left in this series

Series Masterlist

The room was in disarray at the news. How are they going to escape this one? A weapon bigger and more powerful than the Death Star had already targeted the system. Does the Resistance stand a chance alone?

Poe squeezed your hand tighter. It was the only thing grounding you right now, preventing you from being swept away in all of this panic. You looked over at him with fear in your eyes, searching for some glimmer of hope in his. He frowned, sifting through his memories about the Star Killer. There were some things that were above his station that General Hux and Kylo Ren had refused to tell the commanders. He was mainly in charge of flight operations and training the stormtroopers on how to fly with the occasional pillaging. The details of the Star Killer base’s integrity and structure were something he didn’t have to be concerned with. If the Death Star could be taken down, surely this one could, too…

“Han!” you called out, catching the former General’s attention.

“What is it, kid?” he asked, frowning.

“Surely, there’s a way to blow this thing up, right?” you said, waving a hand over to the hologram of the Star Killer.

Han’s eyes widened. He snapped his fingers and pointed at you. “You’re right. There’s always a way to do that.”

The room began to settle down, all eyes on him. Several of them shook their heads, looking at each other if they had any ideas on how. Leia sighed in frustration, crossing her arms.

“Han and (Y/n) are right,” she finally said. You smiled, feeling the fear being replaced by hope again.

Admiral Statura stepped forward hesitantly. “In order for that amount of power to be contained, that base would need some kind of thermal oscillator…,” he said, looking over at the General.

“There is one!” Finn piped in.

The attention was once again back on Finn as he moved the hologram around, zooming in on the StarKiller Base until he found what he was looking for. You leaned forward as Finn pointed at a giant black hexagonal structure.

“Precinct 47,” Poe said.

Admiral Statura hummed in contemplation. “If we can destroy that oscillator, it might de-stabilize the core and cripple the weapon.”

“Maybe the planet,” Major Ematt added.

“There’s a defensive shield that the ships cannot penetrate through, but we can disable them,” Poe said, adding to Finn’s plan and raising people’s spirits, “Once that’s done… We'll go in there and we'll hit that oscillator with everything we got.”

“I’m assuming that that Dameron kid and (Y/n/n) will help lead the charge on that end,” Han said, nodding over to Poe before turning to Finn, “Kid, you worked there, too. What you got?”

Finn inhaled sharply, then nodded with dead set determination. “I can do it.”

Han grinned. “I like these kids.”

“I can disable the shields. But I have to be there, on the planet-”

“We’ll get you there,” you assured him before Han could say anything that would upset Leia even more.

You extended a hand out to Finn so you were holding both his and Poe’s hands, showing him that he wasn’t alone anymore and that you won’t let Rey be alone either. You knew that he was just as antsy to be on that Base and rescue Rey than anyone was on stopping the First Order.

“So we disable the shields, take out the oscillator and we blow up their big gun. All right. Let's go!”

The room disperses, everyone heading to their respective stations to ready for the mission. You went ahead with Snap to ready your squadron, checking in with the mechanics on your X-Wing that they’ve managed to retrieve and the types of repairs and upgrades they had added. You had decided to go with Han, Chewie, and Finn on the Millenium Falcon, but you wanted everything to be in working order for Poe to use it as acting Black Squadron Leader, via your request.

“So, Poe Dameron…,” Snap began.

You rolled your eyes. “How many times do I have to hear this today?”

Snap smirked, then said, “He’s an okay guy. Talented, possibly a better pilot than you-” You let out a dramatic gasp “-but, I think he’ll do better in the Resistance than he’ll ever will with the First Order, that’s for sure.”

You placed your hands on your hips and gave him a teasing smile. “You like him, then?”

Snap shrugged.

“He is pretty great, isn’t he?”

It was Snap’s turn to roll his eyes. “I’ll check on my X-Wing now,” he excused himself before you start gushing about your new boyfriend.

“I am pretty great,” you heard Poe said behind you.

You spun around and really liked what you saw. Your eyes roamed up and down at Poe’s new Resistance pilot uniform with a helmet tucked under his arm. Maybe he can be the Resistance’s new poster boy.

“You look good,” you said, grabbing his vest to pull him closer.

“Yeah? Orange looks good on me?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as he inched towards you until there was barely any space left.

“Oh, yeah. Very good,” you muttered, your lips brushing against his.

“A-hem!” Finn coughed.

You reluctantly pulled away from Poe, who pouted, before walking over to your pack next to your X-Wing. You pulled something out and tossed it towards Finn. He caught it and held it out. It was a brown leather jacket with red and black accents, slightly worn, but well looked after.

“My lucky jacket that I wore since I first joined my squadron,” you explained.

“You’re giving this to me?” Finn asked in disbelief. You nodded before gesturing for him to try it on. He couldn’t help but smile as he slid the jacket on and adjusted the collar. He spread his arms and looked at the two of you. “Well?”

“Looks good,” you said.

“Not as good as Poe in that bright orange jumpsuit, though, right?” Finn teased.

“You’re just jealous,” Poe laughed.

Finn smiled. “But we do look good here, don’t we?” he said to Poe, gesturing around at the base.

Poe nodded. “Hell yeah we do.” He grabs your hand. “Can I talk with you before you go?”

You noticed how the smile faded as he said this. You nodded slowly. “You can go on ahead, Finn,” you said.

“Alright, see you later, Poe.”

Poe slapped his shoulder as he passed before turning back to you. He furrowed his brows as he tried to get his thoughts in order. His eyes landed on the ring that you still wore around your neck and his smile appeared again.

“Anything can happen while you’re there,” he said, “and I just want you to know… I always… It’s just… Ever since our first encounter, I’ve always… there was something about you. You were the enemy, yet I had some type of respect and admiration for you. You were a good fighter and a pilot, skills that rivalled my own. I’m just glad that we don’t have to fight anymore.”

“Well, if you’re staying and we want this,” you gestured to the two of you, “to work, there might be a few fighting here and there. Let’s hope it doesn’t escalade, though. We might end up like Han and Leia.”

Poe chuckled. “I don’t know. Looks like we’re halfway there.” You smacked his arm. “See? But I’m serious, anything can happen while you’re in the Star Killer base. You’ve got Finn to help navigate, but there are areas and protocols that are above his station. They change the codes often, but officers like Phasma will have them. Find a way to get them and enter them into a workstation. From there, you should be able to disable the shields. Be careful. I just got you back. I don’t want to lose you.”

You pulled him closer until your foreheads were touching. “You won’t. It’s okay. But if something does happen-”

“(Y/n)-” he began to protest.

“I’m just glad you chose this. Despite everything, you chose to leave the First Order and join the Resistance. I’m sure your parents would be happy about it.”

“I chose you. And I would do it again. My mom and dad would have loved you.” He lifts the ring with a finger. “Keep that. You might need to use it later.”

Your heart fluttered. Being in a serious relationship had never crossed your mind, not when the war was waging on. You have seen it before amongst your fellow Resistance members, but you never thought it would happen to you, let alone have it be your rivalling commanding officer of the First Order. But here the two of you were.

Will your relationship with Poe last? Would it affect your work? It was uncharted territory for the both of you. It felt right, but you worried that this war might take a toll on the both of you or make your relationship stronger. It was like planting a garden, not knowing what to do, but you wanted to try. The rain comes, and the plants grow, but the bugs eat it up. Then, maybe, you both will find a way to fend off the bugs and plant again. You just keep trying and trying. And then the rain comes.

Destroying the Starkiller base brings you one step closer towards the war ending and taking down the First Order. If it doesn’t work, you’ll just have to find another way. The important thing was to keep going, keep fighting. Maybe there were others like Finn who didn't want to follow orders. Maybe there were others like Poe who only chose to stand with the First Order just to survive. As long as there’s hope, the Resistance will keep fighting.

Taglist: @megzdoodle @psychoticobsession @thescarletknight2014 @marrypuffsstuff @theoralpha @daniellajocelyn @badwolf-212 @gleigh42 @ella-solei @roserrys @behindmyeyes-insidemyhead @juliaguliaa

#Survivors of Unfair Choices #poe dameron x reader #First Order!Poe Dameron x Resistance!Reader #First Order!Poe Dameron #Poe Dameron #Star wars imagine

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oblivious-embodied · 4 years

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Immovable Object Meet Unstoppable Force

Summary: Adrien Agreste is Chat Noir. Chat Noir harnesses the power of destruction and bad luck. He is an unstoppable force.

What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?

Stupid shenanigans is what happens.

(Read it here on AO3!)

((Beta’d by the amazing @xthreeravensx!!! Thank you for putting up with the craziness that is my brain and the fics I conjure into this world!))

(((They are aged up 10 years, so 24-25 years old, in this fic)))

It’s a stare down.

Determined green battling the bored creme yellow.

An old western song plays somewhere in the background, prompting Adrien to narrow his eyes, twitching his fingers in nervousness.

He’s Chat Noir, one part of the Protectors of Paris. A wielder of one half of the two most powerful forces in the universe. He was chosen to temper the unyielding, unstoppable force that is Plagg; a being made of pure energy. The bringer of destruction and harbinger of chaos.

He has lived with the melodramatic cat for ten years.

He has been through Hell and back, and has come out alive (if smelling like cheese).

This is no match for him.

Slowly, he crouches down, his body bending and coiling like a spring. He rolls onto the balls of his feet, slowly raising his coiled arms up, ready to pounce.

He waits a second, two seconds, making sure his target is unaware of his presence. And when he’s satisfied that he is unnoticed, he pounces.

Faster than the blink of an eye, he flies at his target, and his fingers clamp down around the cool plastic of the container as he rolls mid air to land in his back on the hardwood floor, eyes never leaving the mocking words “easy open” that are slapped on the paper wrapped around the offensive jar.

“Easy open,” it says. HA. Tell that to his tired, crippled hands that have been slipping and sliding on the edges of the lid of the jar. Tell that to the knife that had tried to get under the rim of the lid, only to bend in unfix-able ways as it slipped and slid around the lid.

It’s been an hour since he’s tried to open this jar containing the oh-so-precious cargo that is Plagg’s favorite cheese, which has been “marinating” for the last year. He’s almost relieved by the fact that he can’t open it, for he shudders at the smell that must be trapped within.

Almost.

But seeing as Plagg will not cease his horrible whining and moaning (something about how he cannot continue to live in a world where his most favorite delicacy is unavailable) Adrien cannot just simply give up.

He almost resorts to throwing the jar at his wall when an idea strikes him. With a wicked grin, he slowly turns to face the unsuspecting Plagg, his gaze glinting with predatory glee. “Oh Plagg~” he says in a soft, eery sing-song tone.

Instantly, the cat’s ears perk up as the tiny being whips around, his eyes wide and fearful. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.” Adrien replies, his grin growing ever wider

“No, I ref-“ he barely gets the words out before Adrien is cutting him off with “Transform me!”

Where an instant before stood a weak, skinny man holding a jar of incredible strength now stands a man of equal strength in black leather and cat ears.

He turns his neon green eyes down at the jar, his slightly oval pupils expanding until they nearly envelope the entirety of his irises. He clamps a black, leather glove down on the stubborn lid, knowing that the anti-slip material on the palm of his glove will do the trick, he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and twists.

For a moment, his hand doesn’t move, but with a “pop” his hand moves and Adrien nearly shouts with glee! His eyes snap open, and he removes his hand to find...

That the lid has not moved a millimeter.

“GAH!” he shouts as he finally throws the jar behind him, not caring where it lands, just as long as he doesn’t need to spend anymore time trying to open—

There is no shattering of glass.

Why is there no shattering of glass?

Surely, if it landed on the floor, or against the side of a desk or drawer or nightstand the glass would have shattered, or there would have at least been a crack!

Slowly, fearfully, he turns around, and falls to his knees with a terrified cry as he finds that the jar has somehow made its way onto his bed, the center of his bed, without a scratch on it.

He is certain beyond any shadow of a doubt that the jar is sentient, and can move on it’s own, and is thus mocking him with the way that it is just laying in the center of his bed, crooked, with the lid facing him.

Daring him.

“Fine” he growls out as he gets to his booted feet. “Fine, I didn’t want it to be like this, but you leave me no choice.”

He grabs the jar with his left hand and glares at it for a solid minute, putting the fear of God into it. Nothing can escape the wrath of a god, especially the wrath of a hungry Plagg.

With a downright evil laugh, Adrien whispers “cataclysm” and revels in the energy rushing to pool around his right hand, the crackle of black lightning and the way black bubbles appear and disappear silently.

“Say hello to Satan for me, will ya?” He says as he brings his hand to the jar, a sinister laugh bubbling up from the inner workings of his throat as the jar’s impending doom comes ever closer.

He closes his eyes, and touches the jar, feeling the energy rush from his hand and into the jar, and his grin grows wider, wider, wider and he opens his eyes.

...only for his grin to drop off his face at the speed of light as he catches the paper around the jar crumbling to dust, the glass untouched, and the lid still fully intact.

He falls to his knees with a pain filled “Nnnooooooooooooo!” Before resting the jar on the ground.

He has been bested, by an object that is infinitely younger than the powers he has been granted.

What the kids are saying is true. The new outgrow the old, and the old are forced to bow down before their new ki-

“Adrien, what are you doing?” comes the voice of an angel and he whips around to face his lovely, beautiful wife. Her midnight blue hair pulled back into a braid that rests on her chest, she’s wearing a loose black shirt that accentuates the glow of her skin, the light grey sweatpants she’s wearing the height of fashion.

And the barely-there baby-bump on her stomach is the light of his life.

He instantly shoots to his feet and steps in front of the damn jar, hiding it from view, his tail swishing with nervous energy.

“Oh, nothing, dear wife!” he says with false cheeriness as he silently plots the demise of the jar. Maybe a drop from ten stories will break its impenetrable glass?

Marinette quirks an eyebrow at him, seeing right through his lies. He curses their ten years of experience learning each other inside and out, forward and backward. And the jar. The jar is clearly the real reason his wife saw through him so easily. The jar is omniscient and omnipotent, and is out to destroy him. But he will beat it. Nothing can keep Chat Noir from his goal.

“Adrien,” she says in that specific tone, and he hangs his head. So much for being the all mighty Chat Noir.

“...The jar won’t open,” he says, defeated.

Marinette lets out a startled laugh and his spirits are lifted instantly. “Oh kitty,” she says, amusement and love clear in her voice and he can’t help but melt a little.

He watches her walk over, bend down to pick up the jam jar, turn to him, and scratch him under the chin. He doesn’t even fight the purr that escapes his throat.

“Did you forget again?” she says, laughter barely concealed. “These aren’t twist lids.” And with a beautiful, slender, all powerful finger, Marinette pushes down on the circular button that only now shows itself to his eyes and with a near silent “pop” the plastic lid is removed, and the stench that is emitted nearly blinds them both as it permeates the air around them.

With a flash of light, Chat Noir is no more and Adrien is on his knees, hugging his wife’s legs, singing her praise, planning songs of how the most powerful warrior to exist defeated the fear inducing plastic container jar.

Plagg’s joyful cries of triumph and Marinette’s laugh fill the house and Adrien can’t be happier.

The new, plastic container jar will have to meet it’s ultimate demise some other day, but for now, he’s just gonna be happy that he doesn’t have to worry about it any longer.

#miraculous ladybug #ml crack fic #my writing #Adrien is a big dumb sometimes #but he is an adorable lovable big dumb #slightly sleep deprived #only slightly #Adrien agreste #aged up by 10 years

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cetaceans-pls · 4 years

Text

A Piña Colada, Heavy On The Piñas (Bru&Jay)

Charity commission for @setsailslash who is both charitable and a massive enabler. Thank you for being kind as you empower the neurotic middle-aged man within me

Through costumed vigilanteism, Hawaiian shirts, and corned beef dinners, Jason and Bruce rebuild a relationship one day at the beach at a time.

Batman - All Media Types, Bruce Wayne & Jason Todd

On AO3 here.

Charity comm info here.

And away we goooooooo.

It doesn’t happen often, that Batman needs to work a case outside of Gotham for long enough a stretch that Bruce Wayne has to announce an impromptu vacation and actually follow through with it. There are whispers that human traffickers in the Caribbean have decided to crawl up the East Coast, with Gotham now a hotspot of terrible activity, and after months of trying to put the fear of Batman into the gangs with little abatement, it’s time for a vacation right at the source. Things are getting tumultuous, and time’s of the essence. If he doesn’t step in now, he won’t be able to for months, probably, and that settles it.

Bruce Wayne is going to be in the Bahamas, baby, and Batman’s going to be busy in Cuba while they’re down there.

As has become tradition by now, any longish-term work trip abroad means that someone has to come with him. You almost die of three gunshot wounds and a side of dysentery one time in Zambia while hunting meta-animal poachers, and suddenly you aren’t allowed to travel internationally without a chaperone. If the villains of the city could see him now, oh.

(He still hares off on missions that are far, far too dangerous for any of his brood, despite their vehement protests about how he defines their competencies and his need for support, but that is one of the many, many hills Bruce would be happy to die on.)

Bruce clears his schedule for a good two weeks and sends a memo off to the League, before pulling up the family chat group up on the mainframe. The single most secure and heavily-encrypted messaging service in the world, more impenetrable even than the system outfitted for the Justice League, and the five most recent messages have Dick spamming eggplants and Damian growing increasingly incoherent with rage while maintaining perfect punctuation.

It’s in response to a photoshoot Bruce did earlier in the year for a charity event. He’s mostly naked and it’s mostly tasteful, right up until Dick drops the eggplants, but better to get phallic symbols from his children than from the spam his corporate Twitter gets, probably.

Maybe.

Time to recruit a chaperone; it’s only 3 in the morning, he imagines everyone’s awake, except for Alfred. Alfred never goes on his trips with him, anyways, so it doesn’t really matter.

(Tim had said it was like how countries don’t let their presidents and vice presidents fly in the same plane; losing one is unbearable, losing both is apocalyptic. Bruce thinks it’s terribly flattering to be the vice to Alfred’s stoic leadership, even if he would never say it.)

B: One week trip to Cuba to look into the Contreras trafficking ring. Pick amongst yourselves who will be joining me.

Every single time he lives in the vain hope that all of them will have a serious discussion to figure out schedules and weigh the merits and demerits of their skill sets against what’s needed for the mission at hand.

Every single time, the person who accompanies him is the person who replies first.

Bruce is completely and utterly unsurprised to see Stephanie, Tim, Dick, Cass, and Damian typing, even though Damian at least should have been asleep hours ago.

Bruce is surprised by who’s first past the post.

J(ustin) T(imberlake): FIRST FUCKERS

That is, indeed, a first.

Maintaining his calm is touch and go for a minute there, but peace comes back, eventually, along with the absolute revelation that Jason has willingly chosen to accompany him for the next two weeks. He would think it was an emergency signal, a call for help, but Jason hadn’t used the monkey-with-its-hands-over-its-mouth picture, so.

It’s so idiotic, they’ve been somewhat reconciled for years at this point, but in the dark of the cave Bruce cannot resist the giddy, hysterical smile that takes him by the mouth.

They plan to take the private jet to the Bahamas, and a couple of hours before departure Bruce takes great care to be seen having lunch obnoxiously at a luxury hotel. He’s kitted out in a Hawaiian shirt and flipflops despite the grey miserable snow decorating the streets of Gotham, all for maximum annoyingness. According to their agreement, Jason will be squirreling himself aboard the jet as the pilot; he’s likely already there. Bruce, meanwhile, jovially requests a takeaway neapolitan baked Alaska despite the fact that:

Le Chevalier does not do takeout

The concept of a baked Alaska is probably offensive enough for the head pastry chef to consider ritual disembowelment to preserve her honour

Ice cream is far, far too pedestrian for such an establishment

For better or for worse, billionaires do tend to get their way, and after tipping the wait staff four times their monthly income to see them through the near future, Bruce wades through dirty snow to get to Alfred and the car waiting to take him to the airport.

It might have been meant as an insult, that his dessert order is in a beautiful glass container wrapped up in aluminium foil to look like a crinkly swan from a dodgy buffet, but he mostly just thinks it’s charming.

He hopes Jason will, too.

“You took your sweet ass time.”

Bruce doesn’t dignify that with a response, placing the ice cream-laden swan on Jason’s lap. He looks painfully normal in a crisp white shirt and dark slacks, hair neatly tucked under a pilot’s cap. Not for the first time, nor for the last, Bruce wonders what it would have been like to successfully raise a single child to be happy and normal. If Damian or Tim called him tomorrow and said they wanted to become accountants, even his experienced investigative mind can’t predict how he’d react.

“It’s dessert,” he says, instead of talking about accountants. “It’s good to see you, Jason.”

Jason squints at him, before tipping his jaunty little hat. “Welcome aboard, Master Wayne. It’s a pleasure to have you flying with us.” He’s pitch-perfect as a courteous pilot, though the feral does come out a little when he rips the swan’s head off and eats the ice cream meringue like it’s a hamburger, held in his hands and staining his pristine white gloves.

Bruce is very proud of himself. An entire 3 minutes already, and they haven’t argued yet. “Thank you for agreeing to help on this mission,” he says with studied casualness as Jason bites off a hearty chunk and makes a pleased sound when he hits ice cream. He doesn’t ask why are you here , because Alfred taught him better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Collaboration is an important part in crime-fighting, and-”

Jason’s laughing, and Jason’s definitely laughing at him, but that is still not them screaming at each other, so it’s still a win. “Old man, I’ve been up to my literal goddamn eyeballs in cocaine cleaning out the Escabedos this past month, the universe owes me a break. Nothin’ like crippling a trafficking ring, you know how it goes.”

It can’t be helped; Bruce’s eyes drop to Jason’s legs, as he tries to figure out if the slim cut is capable of hiding a couple of Jerichos. Jason catches him doing it, and his grin turns into a bright show of teeth. “If you’re looking for my friends, they’re stowed in cargo. C’mon, Bruce, as if I’m gonna roll through security with thigh holsters.”

The slacks hide no guns, but there are distinct lines where the fabric draws taut across Jason’s thighs. Bruce quirks an eyebrow.

“Loaded thigh holsters,” Jason corrects himself, rolling his eyes. “Now go and have a seat, I’m gonna lose my fuckin’ mind if I don’t have a welcome drink in a hollowed-out pineapple in like 5 hours.”

That’s all right; Bruce has a box full of rubber bullets that fit perfectly into any of Jason’s top 3 preferred guns. He’s got a whole host of techniques to counteract Jason’s less savoury habits, and the baked Alaska is merely the start of it. When Batman puts his mind to trying to kill with kindness, it’s a fearsome sight, and Bruce is putting everything on the line for this trip to both 1. Address the kidnapping and distribution of Cuban doctors into the world of black market medicine, and 2. Get Jason sweet enough on him that Bruce can extract a promise for weekly dinners home at the Manor.

It’s a big task, but he’s got the Caribbean and the family chat group on his side; Bruce feels closer to invulnerable than usual, as he nods brusquely at Jason and leaves the cockpit.

He’s brought plenty of reading material for the flight; a solid fifth of it are notes on Jason’s likes, dislikes, and peccadilloes. As the jet begins to taxi, Bruce neatly writes down ‘Welcome drink in pineapple (alcoholic?)’ in the Like column, and takes a moment to appreciate this littlest of little victories.

They separate on arrival, Jason disappearing with the ground crew, Bruce going through the rigmarole of being very loud and very attention-grabbing in the airport terminal. It’s all been cleverly planned; after the flight, they would get some time to themselves. Jason can head straight to the beach villa, if he wished, while Bruce will be going around Nassau like a very visible, very good-natured, concussed idiot.

By the time they meet up for dinner, the sky’s gone dark, Jason’s gone a deep glossy brown, and Bruce is nursing the standard headache he gets when he has to pretend he enjoys being a billionaire playboy. Bruce had considered splurging on a fancy seafood dinner for their first night here, but Jason isn’t and has never been the type to be moved by money, so instead he comes back to the villa with a bag full of corned beef and conch stew.

Jason takes a look at the selection, and snorts. “Did you for real not get us any rice or fries or anything?” He peels the lid off the stew before the answer comes, and is slurping it right from the lip like it’s a glass of milk.

Bruce is horrified but also a little amused. It’s likely a rite of passage for a lot of parents, learning to buy separate servings so that when your children inevitably grubby up the food, you still have a plate to turn to. He goes at his own meal with as much dignity as an exceedingly bendy plastic spoon can afford.

It’s delicious, and sitting on the darkened balcony nibbling on a worryingly tough bit of conch while his dead-not dead son guzzles soup like a garbage disposal come to life, Bruce feels exceedingly human and quietly, deeply happy.

Maybe Jason hadn’t been the only one who had needed a bit of a break. There are some crises that are hard even for (especially for) the Batman.

He melts into the feeling and just listens as Jason, who seems to be in an unusually chatty mood, talks about all the little things that he had filled the evening with: how the Caribbean felt on his ankles then his knees then the whole of him, the taste of soursop ice cream on a hot day, and the absolutely atrocious carving of a monkey made of coconut that he’s bought for Damian.

Bruce can’t remember the last time he’s heard Jason sound this casually at peace with anything; it must have been many, many years ago, when Jason was in the dreamlike sweet spot between being newly-adopted and so sure that it was all a cruel joke, and when he was Robin and the desire to make the world just and fair had him baring his fangs. He knows he did wrong by Jason, but it really would be nice if he could figure out where it was he had misstepped, instead of just when.

All children should be able to sit on a beach with their parent and almost choke on beef when they start laughing so hard a bit of it goes down the wrong pipe as they recount Dick’s latest quest to be Tinder’s most popular ass shot.

“Dick’s great loves are his family, being a good man in a bad world, and the entire region of his body between his nipples and his knees,” Bruce says, mostly an honest observation of his eldest, which makes Jason choke in earnest now, wheezing and laughing and potentially dying of corned beef.

It’s one of the better dinners Bruce has had.

Nips2Knees: Okay there’s no need to go changing usernames just because you two are having a great bonding experience!!

Nips2Knees: What is this even supposed to mean?! Alfred’s gonna shame me next time I show up for breakfast Jay honest to God

A few hours after that , and the Batwing is skimming the waters breaking against the sea walls of Malecón, Havana. People are still up and about despite it being the wrong side of midnight, but the jet is also a submersible, so as soon as Bruce and Jason have clambered across the low barrier the entire ship just quietly, ominously sinks into the water.

“That’s never gonna not be creepy,” Jason says, shuddering theatrically in the warm breeze of the late night.

“You never used to have a problem with the sea,” Bruce hears himself saying, and wonders why his brain hadn’t seen fit to stop that dumb little observation.

Miracle of miracles, Jason just shrugs. “There’re just a hell of a lot of ways to drown, what can I say?” He tugs his leather jacket to sit more neatly on his shoulders, looking strange and a little alien for a whole host of reasons. The white streak, the imposing build, the strange luminescence of his green eyes, just.

Jason Todd is a magnet for attention, which Bruce is glad for right now because it gives him an excuse to very carefully not think about if rebirth in the Pit counts as a drowning, and if blood flooding the lungs counts as a drowning, and if-

He fixes his wig, fusses with his fake, full beard. “Your disguise isn’t exactly Havana at night, Jay.” Leather jacket, linen shorts, a neon pink shirt. When a breeze comes by and the pant legs flutter, the gun holsters flicker in and out of sight.

They’re loaded, clearly, and not with rubber bullets either despite Bruce’s considerable efforts.

It’s as smooth a deflection as Bruce will manage. The hook lands, and Jason is even polite enough to give a nibble as he takes a once-over of Bruce’s look for the evening. “Rich comin’ from you, B, you got a dead possum on the head and the chin, and you kinda look like a depressed middle-aged man who’s gonna go home to Nantucket and splurge on a top-end sit-down lawnmower ‘stead of communicatin’ your mid-life crisis to your wife Nancy.”

Bruce self-consciously pats his padded belly, a paunch disguising enough tech and weaponry to topple most democracies. “This is top-quality virgin hair,” he defends his costume. “The Batman can’t be seen here, but what is yet another depressed man past his prime? It’s the perfect disguise.”

He can’t remember that he’s ever worn socks underneath sandals before, and this much moustache is making him want to sneeze, but a loud oversized Hawaiian shirt smoothes over the wicked angles of grappling hooks and batarangs like magic made of bad taste. It’s better than a pair of glasses, for god’s sake.

Instead of railing against Bruce’s definition of ‘a perfect disguise’, Jason just stares at him for a long while, dead-eyed and silent. “B….. B, I need you to be honest with me right now, this is some life or death shit right here. Is that, for the love of literal Christ, a wig made of your own damn hair, you absolute fuckin’ weirdo?”

“Of course. Who else’s would it be?”

Some seabirds startle when Jason shrieks with laughter, and Bruce looks around to make sure they haven’t given away their position, even if the area is pretty deserted.

“You’re a fucking leather-face cosplaying virgin , B, god, you’re killing me right now, I literally know how that’s like.”

“ Jason!” Bruce scolds him, aghast at he’s not even sure what.

Tim D: Is everything okay why is Bruce called the Virgin now

Tim D: I can go pick you guys up but one of you is gonna have to do this art history paper instead

Tim D: This better not be you two getting high I was grounded for 2 months the last time somebody in my school smoked a joint and you two are off your heads in Cuba smfh

Havana’s architecturally the stuff of dreams, if you dream of human flight powered by cables and grappling guns and dapper scarves taking the place of aerodynamic capes. Absolutely stunning buildings, built low and sturdy and pretty, festooned in ornate decorations and art deco carvings that jut out like they’re begging for a hook and a swinging man.

Bruce’s clothes are double-sided, with the outside looking as pedestrian as possible while the inner lining is really the ghost of Ghillie suit futures. Where couples make out by the sea at two AM, he’s just an amiable foreign man trotting around with socks that go up to almost his knees. When he needs to get altitude or go a little invisible, it’s a little bit of indignity in an alley somewhere, and he’s off as he hopes he remembered to turn out both socks this time.

Jason’s patrolling the docks, on assignment to trace the exit route the smugglers are taking. Bruce is reasonably sure nobody’s going to die tonight; Jason’s trigger happy tendencies are tightly correlated to the annual income after tax of the perpetrator at hand, with some allowances made for the power dynamic between the criminal and the victim. With enough time, Bruce thinks that he could come up with an excellent formula that describes Jason’s prescription of murder, but for now he’s pretty sure desperate men trying to survive by way of smuggling other men isn’t going to be a death sentence.

The kingpins in Gotham though, oh, that’s going to be a Mess.

Bruce is generally opposed to imposing justice by way of death. It’s hard to put into words exactly why that is, but it has a lot to do with lines that shouldn’t be crossed. Jason’s a lot like Diana like that; he looks at context and background and history and class, the story of a person’s life, and when he pulls the trigger, it’s with the weight of his convictions behind him. He’s the antithesis to the sort of killer Bruce would be; somebody with a checklist for a brain, and if a person passes the critical mass of allowable crime, they’ll be put down.

They’ll all be put down, whatever their motivations, whatever their stories.

He mostly wants Jason to stop killing because he worries that some trick of not-quite-genetics is going to kick into gear, and Jason’s going to become as bad as Bruce, and then where will they be?

It’s pretty standard night-time musings; it’s not the first time Bruce has thought about how not a god nor any meta-human could ever compel him to formulate a kill switch for his children. It’s not even the first time he’s done it in the shadow of a massive bronze bell in a cathedral, really. It’s a first time with a beard, though, so never let anyone say that he didn’t try new things.

A man in a crisp white linen suit cuts across the plaza in front of them, like a glowbug in the humid darkness of a Cuban night. Bruce squints, and yes, it’s Orian Contreras, right down to his glossy moustache and his leather loafers, the man to turn to if your underground fighting ring or brothel needs some illicit medicine men.

Luck’s in the air tonight; Bruce had thought it would take days of tailing the small fry before he would even clap eyes on Orian, but here we are.

The Vedado district is filled with terrible, no good, horrific crime against Bat-approved architecture. All glass and steel and the absence of cornices and sticky-out drainpipes, god. The similarity to downtown Metropolis is absolutely appalling. Orian, at least, has the makings of a classic Gotham villain, because he arranges to meet in the Colón cemetery on a moonlit night, where mausoleums and sturdy granite Jesuses are as plentiful as the streetlights are rare.

Bruce is sat on the shoulder of a particularly fearsome avenging angel who’s threatening the entire eastern quadrant of the cemetery, and the amplifier hanging around her thumb helps him listen in on Orian’s important and extremely dull meeting a few hundred feet away. Logistics, even the logistics of human trafficking, are a lot more boring than one would tend to expect.

One of Orian’s men is talking about the diesel cost per square foot of shipping container when a shadow alights on the angel’s other shoulder. A slip of pink is still visible around the hips, but Jason looks surprisingly well-camouflaged just from zipping up his jacket and sitting in the odd-angled way the youths tend to, breaking his silhouette and his shadow.

“Anythin’ good, B?”

Everything that’s being said is being recorded, Bruce reminds himself when his first instinct is to go shush. Nagging Jason for shirking the docks to come by is only legitimate after he’s checked the status of Jason’s progress.

A second taken to double-think things through is an hour saved of being angry with each other.

So Bruce just shakes his head. “A list of names of crooked export officers, some plans around next month’s shipment. No mention of the big players, or where they’re getting the doctors.”

There’s a sharp crack of a tupperware being opened, and suddenly there’s roasted corn being waved in front of Bruce’s nose. He isn’t hungry, but he takes it anyways. He’s forgotten what the metabolism of someone in their twenties is like; it vaguely reminds him of when Dick had first become Nightwing, and had kept kit-kats stuffed down his temperature-controlled gauntlets. Where in his costume Jason had managed to keep takeaway, Bruce can’t even guess.

“We-ll, it’s all quiet on the docks. Can you imagine, a legit work-life balance, with no poor underpaid dockhand unloading shit at fuck AM? Crazy. And there’s just less crime overall, too. I only needed to beat up like two muggers in the past four hours.” There’s a crisp crunching noise from where Jason’s sat; it sounds like a taco of some sort. “Got a list of ships that routinely go to ‘Canada’, allegedly, which’re probably our best lead for transport.”

“Good work, Jason.”

Jason doesn’t immediately reply, and they just settle in silence for a while. Somebody is politely asking why they couldn’t hold these meetings in their offices, or at least at a restaurant or something, and Orian starts what can only be a 20-minute diatribe into how he has standards , and how suspicious it would be to have twelve men sitting around a table whispering very quietly in the middle of a restaurant, you idiot , etc., etc., etc.

Gone to the place where Bruce is not quite part of the world, a meditative state that’s somewhat restive but leaves him ready to roll into action at the slightest provocation, he startles more than he would like to admit when Jason leaps off his perch to land with the barest of thuds on the plinth bearing their angel.

He looks down, at his son.

Jason looks around, at this little township of the long dead. “I know some really amazing poets got buried here, so I’m gonna go for a walk and pay my respects to my fellow dead. You got shit under control here?”

Bruce nods, astonished that Jason took the effort to seek him out, and is taking even more effort to check in with him. Their villain is at this point talking about how money didn’t grow on trees, and how they were supposed to be a professional outfit. The Cuban accent is lilting and sounds half-a-step away from song at the best of times; it’s a little bit of a shock to the system to hear a crime lord sing-song his way through complaining about service tax. It lends an air to the unrealness of the night, and as Jason disappears into the maze of tombstones, Bruce tries to take a guess about who he’s going to go visit.

Dulce María’s buried here, he remembers that from his deep-dive into Cuban history and culture. Her name had been familiar; he had seen some of her works on Jason’s bookshelf way back when. He had remembered her the way he remembers the things Jason likes to read and Tim’s preferred brand of rechargeable AAA batteries; he remembers because they’re important to someone important to him.

There’s a poem she had written, and it had stuck in his memory after he had consumed every bit of writing in Jason’s room in those early days of burning grief.

The corpse of a pond is the mirror:

It’s a ghost

Of a living water that shone one day,

Free in the world, lukewarm, suntanned.

Does Jason know that he has always been and always will be the pond, Bruce wonders. Will Jason ever realise that the corpse and the ghost is always, always Bruce, literal death notwithstanding.

It’s heavy thinking for this late into the night, so Bruce tucks the thought away, and returns to the cold corn given to him by a warm son.

PennyOne: @TheVirginBrucie Master Bruce I fully appreciate your concern for my wellbeing in these sickly times, and I do understand that I am at somewhat higher risk with my age, but if you do not stop making all the electrical appliances in the kitchen spritz me with disinfectant if I so much as look at them, I will be very cross with you.

St. Ephie: Yo Alfie supplexed the coffee machine when the hidden nozzle got him right in the eyes B you better watch yo back

Days two, three, and four pass by in much the same way. Jason goes out to enjoy the beach and hoard weird gifts for people, and Bruce sleeps by whichever window lets in the sound of the ocean best. They have dinner together, which feels a little more miraculous day by day, and then they take the Batwing to Cuba in the deep dark night.

It’s surprisingly restive and productive. Day three is when Bruce finds out that the Contreras recruiting campaign involves having crooked Ministry of Health officials going to medical schools and recruiting junior doctors for ‘service abroad’, ostensibly as part of the important Cuban tradition of exporting skilled doctors in times of great need. Nowadays doctors and nurses are needed more urgently than ever, and a lot of doctors are saying ‘yes’ out of a sense of duty and a wary respect of an official in uniform.

He has a list of people who have accepted bribes and done the dirty, and figuring out what to do with it is still a bit of a concern. Handing it over to the authorities is difficult when he’s not familiar with the police here and won’t be able to hold the crooks or the system accountable once he leaves. They don’t have a Cuban League member, which is a tremendous oversight, so it may come down to getting the Martian Manhunter to come by and put the fear of something into the criminals as a deterrent while they recruit somebody for the region.

Orian appears to have kowtowed somewhat to the requests of his underlings, because on night five of this mission Bruce finds himself with a Cuba Libre, light on the rum, on the rooftop of Hotel Inglaterra. Jason’s not with him tonight, away with the Batwing to a city a couple hundred miles away that they suspect is the target of a lot of the recruiting effort.

It’s a little lonely.

He’s two tables away from where the team are meeting up, sat on a comfy sofa and the very image of a beleaguered father waiting for his family to come up after him. A few days into the trip and the beard is now starting to look a little worse for wear without Alfred’s tender loving care, but it does help sell the image of somebody at that stage of their holiday where they look both quite relaxed and very downtrodden.

Today they’re discussing pushing up the shipment date, because the underground scene is all well and good but black market hospitals with an endless supply of doctors is a goddamn cash cow at the moment, on account of a global pandemic and everything. Bruce had bugged all the seats on the rooftop terrace when he’d arrived a couple of hours earlier, bumbling from end to end while ooh-ing and aah-ing as he took pictures of the city lights. They’ve got a few real estate properties that they are thinking about converting into illegitimate hospitals for the rich and the desperate, and Bruce absent-mindedly sends off the locations for all these condemned buildings to Lucius so that Wayne enterprises may step in.

If the buildings are in reasonable shape, that’s extra beds for the sick and for those helping the sick, so it’s a win-win, really. After a long, long career as the Bat of Gotham, it’s sometimes such a stupid relief when a problem shows up that Bruce can actually solve with just money.

It’s halfway through a heated battle on the importance of buying air conditioning units (“It snowed in Massachusetts just last week, Nicolás, use your brain ,”) that a text pops up in the family chat.

J(ustin) T(imberlake): Doesn’t look like the smugglers have a presence here, but look at this

J(ustin) T(imberlake):

J(ustin) T(imberlake): I didn’t know flamingos existed past sundown wtf

Damian Wayne: FATHER what is THIS I must DEMAND that we acquire THESE FLAMINGOS for the MISSION.

It’s a funny feeling, to almost get motion sickness at how Damian’s texts hit peaks and valleys over the course of getting his point across, but Bruce will be absolutely damned before he brings in yet another ill-advised animal to the menagerie haunting the Manor and Alfred’s dreams.

He’s partway through composing a long, winding explanation on how the Manor didn’t have the resources to keep a flock of flamingos healthy, the numerous legalities involved in the importation of wild animals, the embargo on Cuban goods, and a dozen other reasons furnished with references, before a soft click catches his attention.

Bruce looks out the corner of his eye, and sees that the meeting must have hit a snag while he hadn’t been paying attention, and now three of the five men had their hands suspiciously tucked under their jackets, right at their waists.

The bug is pretty damn high-tech but it’s not any sharper than a human’s ears, which would imply that the man with the slicked-back dark hair closest to it is the one who’s got his finger on the trigger.

Shoot-outs aren’t common in Cuba, all things considered, but if things go south here there are a hell of a lot of tourists and staff and people just enjoying a night out here that could so easily become collateral.

Time for plan B.

Bruce presses down hard on where the belly button would be on a chubbier man, and imagines he can hear the hiss of the smoke bombs expelling their non-toxic wares from where they’re tucked into plant pots under smoke detectors.

Over at the round table discussion, there’s increasing heat in their whispered argument, but it’s thankfully cut short when the fire alarm finally starts squealing.

Bruce obligingly follows the instructions of the staff, hustling along quickly so he can get changed and scale up the back of the hotel to tail the gang. If they’re planning to ship out the ‘goods’ soon, then they must be holding the doctors somewhere.

It’ll be a good job well done if Bruce can liberate them before he nails Orian to a wall, he thinks, as they head out from the Old Town and back to Verdado, home of shitty buildings.

They might even wrap up quickly enough that they can have a week or so just being in the Bahamas; it’s an excuse to see what he can do to shore up the islands for a more turbulent future. He’s been remiss in educating himself on the development of island economies. It’s definitely not an excuse to get more time with Jason, or at least not entirely just an excuse.

Bruce stalks them all the way to the poorer side of town, to a warehouse where heavy-duty locks on the windows and doors would prevent entrance and exit. Promising, promising. He lockpicks his way in and hides near the rafters, as gelled-hair-man goes to unlock a shipping container, and drags a young man out by his arm.

He’s close enough to make out the words; they aren’t good ones.

“So you’re the rat that’s figured out how to leave its cage, yes?” Orian drawls in standard villainy, coming in close to take the boy by the chin. “Do you know what we do when little rats like you try to hurt our important work?”

Once again, a lot of hands go to waists, and the poor, poor boy shudders and shakes and does not break his gaze . “If I am a rat,” the kid says, voice high and terrified and unbelievable steadfast, “you are a rabid dog, you bastard.”

Style points for spitting right in Orian’s eyes, thinks Bruce.

Points rescinded for getting on the nerves of a trigger-happy crimelord, thinks Bruce, as he pushes off and swoops down as vengeance dressed like a dad-bod on vacation.

He really should have listened when Alfred said that sir should consider at least a bulletproof vest under the Hawaiian shirts, please.

Jason’s still splashing around the Laguna de Leche trying to take a picture of the flamingoes that is so cute that Dami has enough motivation to badger the great Bat of Gotham into bring home a screaming shitting pink bird in the Batwing, when the call comes through on the comms.

“‘Lo, what’s up?” he answers, squatting awkwardly to get a close-up of a sleeping flamingo’s face. An absolute moneyshot, baby.

“Jason,” and it’s Cass, terse and urgent and unhappy.

Jason’s got no idea what’s going on, but it’s easy for the hindbrain to infer; Alfred not being on the comms means he’s prepping the med bay, which means an injury. This time of the night, it’s always one Bat or Bird at home with Alfred while everyone else spreads out like the good version of a plague to blanket Gotham, so that’s why Cass is there. Jason’s the one being called, which means he’s the one closest to the crisis.

It’s Bruce, it’s got to be (stupid fucking ) Bruce. Jason’s racing for the Batwing before he thinks to even answer.

“Hit me.”

“No comms contact. Injury, bad injury. Alfred says, bleed out. Jason, help .”

There’s swamp mud on the shiny surface of the ‘wing, and there’ll be more on the interior because it’s not exactly the time to stomp around on the Welcome Mat to clean his boots. “I’m gonna go fetch, Cass, so don’t worry, okay?”

God love her, Cass actually sounds reassured. “Thank you,” she says, careful and sweet as anything. “Location sent, Jay. See you at home?”

“See you in a bit, kid.”

God actually fucking damn all modern aeronautic engineers for never seeing fit to give jets some fucking accelerator pedals. It’s hard to take your aggression and stress out on a vehicle when all the thrusters are fucking hand-held.

God extra fucking damn Bruce McBatman Wayne, for having Jason over as back-up and refusing be backed the hell up.

Bruce’s location comes up, along with his oxygen level and pulse, and god only knows how Alfred sneaked a sensor onto a man so pro-secrecy he gets his flu shots undercover.

It’s Colón cemetery, of fucking course it’s the cemetery, no one can ever say that Bruce isn’t the marquis of modern melodrama, and Jason decides it’s acceptable if he just screams the whole 200 miles back to Havana. This is his penance, for being strung out on coffee at 3 AM and spontaneously deciding to try and reconcile harder with his father.

If the man has the cheek to die, Jason’s going to legitimately lose his fucking mind (again).

Bruce looks down, and sees his son.

Jason is cursing up an absolute storm, blue enough to potentially rouse the mothers buried here who will tut at him and go “Language, young man!”. What a sight that would be, an undead legion of parents scolding a dead-now-alive vigilante man in front of a different man cosplaying middle-aged normalcy on its deathbed.

Wild. Bruce laughs, and then wheezes. Blood loss does a number on your breathing, just one of those things that he doesn’t often need to think about. Does a number on your ability to think normal things too, but he’s like that even when most of his blood is inside his body, so Bruce would hate to make excuses.

“What the fuck is wrong you, there are like a bajillion hospitals you could have gone to while undercover, why are you always like this?” Jason is doing that scream-whispering thing, that skill learned by all night-time vigilantes, as he rips off Bruce’s shirt to survey the damage.

It’s not particularly pretty. Taking out half a dozen armed men in the full suit wouldn’t be enough to make him break a sweat, usually, but dressed like a casual dad with his centre of gravity a little off from the equipment strapped to his belly, it was a little harder.

Add to that trying to incapacitate without killing or even seriously injuring anyone while weaving in between gunfire as he kept the kid from getting shot, and all in all it’s a downright miracle that Bruce only has three through-and-throughs in shoulder, gut, and thigh, and maybe three cracked ribs. He eventually managed to subdue Orian and his men, cuffing them in an empty container to be dealt with later. He had also released all the prisoners while sluggishly bleeding out all over, and had barely been able to escape their confused gratitude.

Their usual rendezvous point is by the seawall in Malecón, but the cemetery was closer and more convenient for a dying man, you see. When he had ascertained that he had lost enough blood that he legitimately would pass out and bleed to death before he could get help, he had finally given up and called the Cave.

Alfred, damn him, had somehow already known that things had gotten out of hand. Bruce is willing to bet the beard wig is bugged, which is an intriguing bit of imaginative engineering, but even complimenting Alfred on his ingenuity hadn’t preserved him from being chewed out while Cassandra interjected occasionally with quiet calls of his name.

Black spots have been dancing in his sight for a while now, but he’s happy they’re around the edges and don’t obscure Jason. “I like your shirt,” he manages to groan out.

Jason doesn’t even pause for breath in his tirade, as he pulls out a nasty little switchblade from his boot and proceeds to tear his pretty lime-green shirt into absolute shreds. “Jesus, I don’t even get to keep this shirt, and for what? Dumbass bleeding out, didn’t even bring any first aid for a goddamn mission.” The blood-clotting powders that hide in little sugar sachets come out, poured liberally into the latest holes in Bruce’s body, and they froth a soft pink before they start to plug him up. “Why in the hell didn’t you call me in before you went full Rambo, you idiot? I thought I was here to be your goddamn backup. Was it so important to keep me and my guns away from your toys, B, that you’re happy to die in a fuckin’ cemetery just to keep shit quiet?”

It is, Bruce notes with some distant satisfaction, a new record. It took them 5 full days before Jason lost his temper with him. His heart is full, even if his veins are not.

He pats Jason on the cheek, as Jason wraps padding to his ribs and immobilises the arm on his bad side with a sling. Oh, that rum and Coke has gone straight to his head. “Just recon,” he murmurs, a little stern so that Jason doesn’t pick up any bad vigilante habits from him. “To find where the kids are kept.” Breathing hurts, moving hurts, talking hurts. “Warehouse, left tracer there. They were about to shoot one of the kids.” Another breath, a cough, some bloody saliva dribbling at the corners of his lips. Pity, Bruce had grown questionably fond of his loud overshirts. “No time to do anything. Kid was mouthy, got on their nerves.”

Bruce smiles, or tries to, and hopes the pink teeth aren’t too off-putting. “Reminded me of you. Wanted to save him.”

That’s the important part, the message he absolutely needed to pass to Jason because whatever goes on with bullets and bad guys and the Outlaws and the Pit, to Bruce all things Jason and Jason-adjacent are important and good and always, always deserve to be saved and protected.

He doesn’t think he gets his point across, worries a little that this might be a self-centered way of structuring his relationship with a man who’s no longer happy to be his son, but it’s the whole truth of the matter.

On God, on the angel at whose feet he’s huddled together, on every good thing Bruce has ever managed to do either as a billionaire or a Bat, the most important things of all the important things in the world is that Bruce is always going to try-try-try for his family.

They have a moment that might be tender but is definitely quiet, Jason slack-jawed and tense, Bruce loose-limbed and punchdrunk. There’s a lot of noise over the comms right now, it’s too much to parse, but Bruce in his head thinks he’s wrapped this up quite nicely. He probably won’t die tonight, and if he does it won’t even hurt too much. As far as missions abroad go, this has to count as an out-and-out success.

Jason very pointedly isn’t looking at him when he finally continues with his triage, and isn’t particularly gentle though he is incredibly careful as he fireman hoists Bruce into the Batwing, whose paintjob will need a touch up from where it’s scraped up against the tops of the more ambitious mausoleums.

Putting on the seatbelt felt a lot like getting his ribs broken all over again, but that’s not really enough pain to make Bruce groan, which is nice. The air-conditioning and the seat cushions in the jet are also very nice.

He’s most of the way to being unconscious before Jason’s done with pre-flight checks and radioed PennyOne to forewarn their arrival.

It probably is just his subconscious letting him hear what he wants to hear, when Jason’s voice floats towards him to let him know that “You literal dumbfuck, ever think that sometimes I want to save your ass too?”

It’s a nice dream.

When Bruce wakes up, he’s on the cot in the med bay, and someone’s been conscientious enough to turn on the heating in the mattress. It feels sublime against the inherent chill of the cave, and he feels surprisingly sharp and chipper despite the close-ish dance with death. He’s hooked up to all sorts of machines, which is pretty standard Alfred, and a bag of blood transfusing back into him hangs from the side.

If the own-hair wig had tickled Jason, what must he think of Bruce’s own-blood bag?

Keeping as quiet as he can, Bruce sits up. The family had a habit of piling up in and around the med bay whenever someone was injured seriously enough to be unconscious, and it heartens him like nothing else to see the mess of sleeping children. Damian is curled up a corner, head pillowed against what looks like a shaved coconut, and Cassandra is tucked on top of a cabinet, back pressed to the wall. Dick and Tim have staked out the sole sofa in the room, and while they both would never accept it as gospel truth, they’re both snoring lightly with their heads tipped back. Stephanie’s face is unseeable, sleeping sitting up in a hard plastic chair with her mane of hair covering most of her face.

It’s a picture of chaotic peace.

“Hello, Jason,” he calls to the son he can’t see.

Right on cue, there’s the sound of boots trying to be somewhat quiet on concrete, and Jason appears from behind him. “How’d you figure I hadn’t just abandoned you?”

Bruce shrugs. “I didn’t. I just hoped.” He cranes his neck to try and look back at Jason, but it tugs on his ribs something awful. He gives up, and goes back to trying to keep them talking. “Nothing short of sedation would have everyone here asleep at the same time. I assume Alfred had a hand in this?”

“You’d guess right.” Jason appears and hops up onto the bed, crowding Bruce in the narrow space. “You’ve been out cold for three days now, and Alfred dosed up their pancakes but good this morning. Cass is just taking a nap, though, and you know me, I need a hell of a lot more ‘n that to take me out.”

Bruce does in fact know. It’s alarming that Jason is immune to any of Alfred’s numerous League-sourced concoctions. At least part of them are magic, because half of the people in this room have gone through training so brutal they’re immune to most Earthly interventions.

Jason’s got one up on everyone there. The Lazarus Pit gives a random assortment of questionable gifts along with life, it appears. At least he got to enjoy the pancakes.

“How are things in Havana?”

“Tim and Dick went in and shut it all down. Apparently Nightwing’s got contacts with some higher-ups in the Cuban policing and judiciary system, which I’m gonna assume is because his ass makes him mad popular on LinkedIn, and Orian’s crew got picked up. We cut off the snake’s head.”

Bruce knows Jason well enough to know what’s coming. It’s not going to be anything good, but there’s something there, in having Jason drop this clear of a hint.

“And Orian?”

Jason just grins at him, a vision in a leather jacket over a fluorescent orange t-shirt that just says Morón , paired with weathered grey leggings. He looks vicious and unstoppably kind. “Like I said. Snake’s head got cut off.”

Bruce shuts his eyes, and breathes. It’s that formula, yes, about income disparity and the misuse of a position of power, preying on the goodwill of people too good to get out of the way.

Orian was a snake, and if it were up to Bruce, all of his men would have been put down too, so.

Bruce groans, and massages his closed eyes to stave off a headache. “I really wish I had a hollowed-out pineapple full of something really alcoholic, right now.”

The tension that had held Jason taut and ready for a fight upon his admission of casual murder disperses, quietly and all of a sudden, and it’s so palpable Bruce wants to groan again.

“See, I had a think about that, and I have some ideas,” Jason tells him, and even without looking Bruce knows what that toothy grin looks like. There’s the warm weight of a hand resting just ever so gently on his hip, there is quite possibly a lot of affection in the air.

He finds himself smiling right back, and it’s a good, good feeling.

(And that is how the whole family ends up joining Bruce on a weeklong holiday in the Bahamas, with long, sundrenched days on the beach and some quality parkour in Cuba in the nights.

Bruce gets three straight days of everyone in the family razzing him for being the only of them, Alfred’s lily-white ass included, to have gotten legitimately, hideously sunburned.)

(It’s the best vacation he’s had in entire lifetimes.)

A/N: On God there is nothing I like better than a bit too much depressing introspection clad in bright patterns somewhere warm and humid aaaah.

Also this is not explicitly stated anywhere but 100% all the kids have to wear Black Bat style masks with built in respirators, and everyone’s got fanny packs filled with testing kits so that they can drop them around like candy.

This is how proactive vigilanteism stopped an epidemic from KO-ing asylums and penitentiaries in Gotham you heard it here first.

#jason todd #bruce wayne #batman #charity commission #despite the s in the name #i hadn't realised until i was doing this that #the bahamas were more than one island #hope y'all enjoy the topical sprinkling of covid-19 lore #sure looking forward to when mankind buries these important lessons #under capitalism come urgh june or something #whale writing

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broken-clover · 4 years

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AU-gust Day 9- Royalty

This one kind of stumped me, so I tried to do something a little more out of the box. Obviously there’s already royalty in canon GG, so I tried to to with it as well as do some different worldbuilding.

First and foremost, this is for @samarline, since I know they like Leo/Izuna (dunno how that rarepair got any fans, but as long as someone is enjoying it)

Izuna was doomed. He was absolutely, positively doomed.

Durable as a yokai was, he wasn’t foolish enough to never consider the concept of his own death. Especially given his status. The head of the yokai prince would no doubt be a priceless treasure for the armies of humanity or Gearkind. If political strife truly was where he was to meet his end, then he would have fought tooth and claw to die with dignity, and to allow as many of his people to escape as possible.

There was no dignity in the death that he stared down now. A simple run around the woodlands in his full fox-skin had drawn the attention of a pair of equally-simple hunters. The head of the yokai prince was a grand treasure, but the pale, silken pelt of a fox was worth a pretty penny on its own. Shrapnel to the leg had crippled an otherwise-effortless escape attempt, and the blood he had lost trying to outrun them sapped away his ability to perform spells, or to shed his skin back into a humanoid form.

Izuna had skittered into some nearby underbrush, leaving flecks of his own blood on the leaves as he did his best to huddle under it. Dying as a fox meant his people would never know what became of him, and they would be left without their leader, or any sort of direction. He was going to be slaughtered like common game. He could only hope that his meat would drive his murderers ill as a final act of spite from beyond the grave.

The trees shook. Izuna cowered in fear.

But instead of the hunters, he was surprised by the sight of a large man in a fancy orange coat pushing aside the leaves.

“Is someone there?” He asked, voice low and booming, but undeniably kindly. “I heard shouting, is someone hurt?”

++++++

The book of history was deeply stained in blood. No living person, except perhaps the eldest and most ancient of the yokai, could remember the times when the three races were in conflict with each other. Nor was anyone truly sure of what the conflict was for anymore, but all they knew was that it needed to be done in order to protect their people. At least, that was what they said.

In the beginning, man, gear, and yokai lived in quiet harmony, building their kingdoms and sharing what they had that the others lacked. Each race only cared for their own kind now, and interspecies trade was banned even if it were possible in the first place.

That’s how the world seemed to be for eons, but time was never static, and things always shifted. The human nation’s First King, Ky, had accidentally but fortuitously created a peace between humanity and Gears after falling in love with and wedding the daughter of Queen Justice, Princess Dizzy. Their alliance was tenuous, but the constant back-and-forth attacks had begun to quell, and the people began to have hope. Hope for peace, for calm, for kinship to replace the violence that had been constantly shaping their lives.

Ky and Dizzy seemed happy enough together, at least. Leo hadn’t much entertained the thought of marriage. His work as the human nation’s Second King kept him busy enough. He hadn’t even thought to pick up a hobby until it had been more-or-less foisted on him.

He looked down from his paperwork to watch the creature snoozing away in his lap, motionless aside from the rise and fall of its chest and the occasional twitches of its tail.

He’d named the creature ‘Rubinrot,’ for its beautiful, piercing red eyes. Leo had never met such a peculiar animal in his life. He knew what a fox looked like, obviously, but he’d never seen one with a perfectly white coat. That strange color was paired with a bizarre brilliance that he swore was too advanced for an animal, but it was endearing. He’d only taken the creature in in the first place because of its crippled leg, but he found Rubinrot’s presence relaxing.

As soon as he tried to move the animal so he could stand up, he roused, and was clearly displeased with the concept of being abandoned. Leo stepped away from his desk, only to be interrupted by a displeased bark as Rubinrot limped after him.

“I’m only going to get food. I’ll bring some back for you, too.” He tried to assure him, but it didn’t work. When barking didn’t work, the fox began snapping at his trailing coat and tugging on it.

“Rubinrot! Nein!” Leo attempted to pull the material free without crippling him further. “I’ll only be gone for a minute! What do you want from me?”

His answer came in the form of him swatting at his legs until Leo reluctantly picked him up. “Really? I could have sworn you were a fox, not a cat.” Maybe he had been wrong. Rubinrot was remarkably tranquil and easygoing for a fox, anyway.

Still, he didn’t feel like arguing with an animal. Rubinrot seemed perfectly happy with his new position cradled in Leo’s arms, even if it left the man with only one arm as he dug through the kitchen for food. He could see the way the staff looked at him. It was odd enough that a king would be searching for his own food, but carrying a fox around like a pampered puppy was a whole new level of strange.

Though he didn’t admit it, Leo was a little relieved at the concept of Rubinrot being healed and released soon. He could only imagine the image he gave off, distracted from his important political duties by a single animal. He still deeply cared for his fox and his people, and wanted to do his best to serve both.

“What should we make today?” Leo asked aloud. “Leftover meat, fruit…” He pushed something aside. “I’m not sure how the fried tofu got in here-”

The fox immediately perked up, barking in what he could only assume was excitement. “Tofu? Really? Is that healthy for foxes?” Still, he obliged, pulling the container down, opening it, and letting his companion get to work demolishing it.

“I guess you have a craving for beans.” Leo stroked the animal’s back as he ate.

“Erm, Leo?”

He jerked to attention, mentally groaning as he recognized the voice of the only man that could always make him feel uneasy. “Hello, Ky.”

The First King wore his usual pleasant smile, just real enough to be convincing. But Leo could see the way his eyes darted towards the fox on the counter, messily eating their leftovers.

“It seems you’re...having a lunch break, yes?” Ky asked.

Leo skipped straight to the point. “I’ll only be a few more minutes, then I’ll get back to work. I just wanted to make sure he was fed.”

“Of course, Leo. Of course.” Ky’s smile was forced, almost uncomfortable. “I just can’t help but worry a little bit about your new...preoccupation? Nothing wrong with a hobby, of course-”

“I don’t know why you’re making this your business, Ky.” Leo grumbled. “Shouldn’t you be more worried about your wife instead of what I’m up to?”

Ky flinched. As much as Leo wanted to be proud of that, he also knew Ky didn’t like having his weak points hit. “Dizzy is not plotting anything behind my back.”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that-”

“With all due respect, Leo,” He rubbed at his temples, still doing his best to be cordial. “I don’t want to be cross with you. I really don’t. But we are still in a tenuous political situation, and everyone needs to stay on top of their work. If you don’t start spending less time with that fox, I am going to have to ask you to release it. We can’t afford any distractions. I hope you understand.

Without another word, Ky turned and left.

++++++

With all the work he had during the day, lying in bed was one of the few times Leo was able to have a moment to sit and think. He would have rather spent it fantasizing about something nice, but his thoughts always came back to work, and to Ky.

Leo knew of the weight that rested on him. He wouldn’t have taken such a lofty position if he hadn’t understood how serious it was. But he didn’t understand why one simple distraction was causing so much fuss. His Rubinrot had only ruined a few documents, but wasn’t a problem when it came to anything else, not really. Actually, Leo liked to think he was working harder than ever when he had something less serious to help him relax.

Rubinrot was curled up beside him in bed. It seemed to be his favorite place to sleep, and Leo refused to shoo him away. He could only imagine how swiftly the fox would be torn apart as an easy meal by wild animals with his leg still injured. Would Ky push him into it anyway?

He knew there was a war going on. It was impossible to ignore it. The yokai forces in particular had grown restless recently, but the Gear Alliance was being redrafted, and prospects were high. There may have been peace between two nations for the first time in people’s lives. Yet Ky seemed more on edge than ever.

“Hmmph. Maybe that’s just what marriage does to people…” He mused, petting the fox’s back. “I don’t suppose you would know anything about that?”

The animal huffed. Leo knew he couldn’t talk back, but he still did it.

“You respect me, don’t you?” The fox butted against his hand. “I know I’m not as brilliant as Ky, but I’m still good for something, aren’t I?” It was difficult being Second King and second banana to a tactical genius that everyone seemed to adore. His marriage had done well for his public image as well, despite fears of how the people would respond to their beloved king marrying a gear, especially the daughter of a rival kingdom.

“Pfft. Maybe I just need to get married, then?” He smirked at Rubinrot. “Yeah, right.”

Leo rolled over to switch off the bedside lamp and curl up in bed. “Gute nacht, Rubinrot.”

+++++++

Izuna’s tail frisked back and forth across the silky sheets. He would need to find some when he went back home.

Ah, yes, home. He could only imagine how his people were managing without him for the past few weeks. He had gotten some information from the humans, but yokai were always the most skilled at subterfuge and trickery, so whatever the humans knew, so much more was going on under their noses. That was how the war had been. Gears and humans could throw mortar at each other’s walls all day long, but neither of them even knew where the yokai kingdom was, and were left to chase after whatever forces they could find.

Of course, that was also the reason for the state they were in. Yokai could never ‘win’ a war. They could run armies to exhaustion and strike them as easy, weakened targets of smaller groups, but in the sorts of battles that humans and gears fought, their forces would have been mowed to nothing in weeks. The yokai had only survived by being secretive. They never lost any land, but never gained any, either.

But they scraped by through ingenuity, and right now, Izuna was being an ingenious little fox.

Well, maybe that was only half-true. For all his distrust towards humankind, he had somehow managed to spend the last few weeks utterly spoiled by one. He was pretty sure his rescuer didn’t know what he truly was, but either way, it hadn’t stopped him from showering Izuna in pats, food, and cuddles while his injuries healed. It was hard not to find merit in that. Though he wondered if those loving arms would turn hostile as soon as he changed forms.

But...that was where the ingenuity lay. He had known of the union between the human king and the gear princess, and how the political climate had slowly-but-surely begun to shift. Izuna knew that if humans and gears began working together and combined their powers, then it was far more likely they would be able to pull the yokai out of their well-hidden foxholes and gradually massacre them. Peace for them meant disaster for him and his people, but what were they fighting for in the first place? And what if there was another option available?

If the gear and human kingdoms merged into one, and they became at peace, what would happen if all three nations fused?

Some part of Izuna knew the concept was almost selfish. Because he wasn’t doing this just for the politics. He had spent so much time with this fascinating human, this ‘Leo,’ how could he not form some kind of bond with him? He had learned so much about the man through their one-sided conversations, he could hardly understand why the two of them were at war with each other. The human king was a lonely man, always pushed aside as the runner-up, feeling as though he could never measure up to his fellow royals and heads of state. But he had taken his time to meticulously care for an injured animal, that for all he knew, would simply run away and never feel an iota of thanks for his kindness. Yokai and humans may have been different, but they knew how to repay debts of kindness. And nursing the yokai prince back from the brink of death was a deep, deep debt.

Izuna wasn’t sure if he had enough stored magic to turn all the way back into a human form, but he prayed that it would be good enough.

++++++

Leo had been awoken by a peculiar noise in the middle of the night. He tiredly fumbled to attempt to find a way to lie back down and nod off again, but as he tried to roll over, he noticed an ominous glow.

“What the…?” He grumbled, rubbing at his eyes. Had he left a lamp on? The color seemed too harsh to be a lamp, though...

“Leooooooooo… An unfamiliar voice whispered.

He snapped to attention. “H-hello?” He stammered. “Who said that!? Show yourself!”

“As you wish, your majesty…”

Izuna let a stream of fox-fire illuminate him in the darkness. He had only been able to manage a partial transformation, but it looked real enough for what he needed it for.

“What on earth?” The king’s eyes widened. “Those ears, you’re a- !”

Izuna fanned out a half dozen tails from his back, each tipped with a will-o-wisp. “I’m a man who’s come to offer you a deal, Leo Whitefang.”

“H-how do you know my name?!” He demanded, shuffling towards the side of the bed. “And why would I make a deal with a yokai!?”

“I hope I’ll be able to answer both of those to your liking.” The yokai slowly smiled. “Tell me, do you like my eyes? Aren’t they beautiful?”

“Eyes? What kind of trickery…” Leo trailed off, his own eyes slowly widening as he realized. He turned to his other side, and realized his bed was empty.

“This world is full of actions and consequences.” Izuna continued, internally wincing at how ridiculous he sounded. Jeez, maybe he should have prepared a script. “You took in a yokai in his hour of need. Now, our kind owes reparations to you.”

“Reparations…?” The man still seemed awestruck enough that what he’d thought was his pet was now standing over him and covered in arcane flames.

“Yes. You have shown your human kindness to our people. So we are willing to pay it back in turn."

“S-so what are these…” Leo took a nervous swallow, “Reparations?”

He placed a hand on his chest. “I am Izuna, reigning prince of the yokai kingdom. You have cared for me in my darkest days. You have saved my life. Your hands have tended to me with the care and compassion of a lover.”

Leo’s confused fright slowly gave way to a bright red blush. “Erm, lover?”

“So I wish to pay it back to you.” Izuna knelt down, taking the man’s hand. “If you would have me, may the gods smile down on our union, and bless our people with peace and harmony for a thousand years.”

“I...I’m afraid I don’t follow…”

The kitsune looked him right in the eyes. “I want you to marry me.”

++++++

To many, the concept of a ceasefire was wishful thinking, idealism that clashed heavily with how the world truly was. Nobody seemed to have ever expected it would actually happen.

Following the merging of the human and gear kingdoms, for the first time in recorded history, the location of the yokai kingdom was revealed to the world. Its sudden openness was not a coincidence or stroke of luck. Instead, it intended to follow the path its former enemies had taken, and merge together into one nation.

Tales were spun on how the human’s Second King had selflessly rescued the yokai prince, and how they had fallen in love during his recovery. Nobody was entirely sure what details were true and what weren’t, but the important thing was that the war had been called into a ceasefire, and that the two men were to be married under the elaborate roofs of the yokai palace.

It was a momentous occasion, of course, it only seemed natural. Humans and gears entered the kingdom for the first time to witness their union, to offer well-wishes or simply to just admire the sights. The more cynical would remark that the merge of kingdoms was most likely a mere tactical motion, but the expressions shared between the two monarchs held a genuine, sincere love.

“Ah, the people love us, don’t they?”

“It’s nice to see them so happy.” Leo reclined in their wedding carriage, watching the crowds vanish behind them. “I never thought I would live to see the yokai kingdom, let alone be wed in it.”

“It’s your kingdom now, too.” Izuna was sprawled across the other seat, shedding his sandals and rolling down the top of his wedding kimono. Leo found it unbelievably amusing. Underneath the stoic front he put on in public, Izuna was...well, remarkably easygoing, comedic, and cuddly. So very, very cuddly.

“So they’re taking us back to your place?” The kitsune wiggled across to lie in his lap, humming with glee as Leo began scratching him behind the ears.

“Sort of. There’s a hotel we’re going to stay in for a few days until the press dies down. I’d say we could both use a bit of rest after all this.”

“Of course, love, of course.” Izuna rolled over to wink at his new husband. “And hopefully we can consummate our new union a few times, in the process.”

"Izuna!!"

#AU-gust #writing #guilty gear #leo whitefang #Izuna #I really need to come up with a ship name for this...

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katzenkrieg · 4 years

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Headcanon - Cam’s Thoughts on Emet-Selch and Emet-Selch’s on Cam

Obviously all spoilers for ShB and 5.3! Read at your own risk.

Also, wow, this is 5 pages long. I knew it felt like it took a long time to write >_>

TL;DR - after 5.3, Cam is like “WHEEEE I’M FREEEEE” and running around happily being a dork and feeling good about everything for the first time since the Empire invaded Eorzea (he was somewhere between 20 and 25 then; he’s 35 now). And Emet-Selch is like, “Oh, fine. :shrug.”

Cam’s thoughts on Emet-Selch and the events of ShB and 5.3 are the first 3/4s; scroll down about 3/4s for my take on Emet-Selch’s perspective.

Emet-Selch/Hades (canon, Unsundered Ascian from the Source, founder of the Garlean and Allagan Empires, and member of the Amaurotine Convocation; likely thousands of years old) - Prior to arriving in the Tempest and defeating both Emet-Selch under his true name and, later, Elidibus (though Elidibus never revealed his true name--it’s possible he no longer remembered it), Cam’s feelings toward Emet-Selch were incredibly straightforward--he wanted an excuse to punch him in the face and be done with him. Despite Emet-Selch’s willingness to aid the Scions in the First, including bringing Y’shtola back from her second self-imposed exile in the Lifestream, Cam saw absolutely no reason to trust him. Emet-Selch showed up when it was convenient to him, took the minimum action possible to ‘prove’ his good intentions towards the Scions, and dropped just enough information to unsettle the Scions but not to truly help them. It’s not hard to catch on to manipulation that obvious, and Cam had had enough experience with manipulation by the time he arrived in the First to call a spade (or an Ascian) a spade. If Lyse had been summoned to the First instead of Y’shtola and Urianger, Cam, Alisaie, and Lyse would have attacked and subdued Emet-Selch the instant he showed up; in retrospect, as is often the case, Cam regrets not listening to himself and choosing instead to assume Y’shtola and Urianger had more of the knowledge and expertise required to make decisions surrounding near-arcanic entities.

Still, some of Emet-Selch’s behavior did genuinely unsettle Cam. Cam might have expected Elidibus to approach him and try to make a deal with him, offer him support, or direct him towards a course of action--that’s what Elidibus seems to do, after all. But Emet-Selch was something new; he didn’t seem to fully be engaged in playing the part of the Ascian manipulator. He repeatedly invited Cam to engage with him, despite a surface veneer of disinterest and contempt, without any clear motivation for doing so. He didn’t seem to be seeking friendship or to ingratiate himself to Cam; whenever Cam *did* choose to take Emet-Selch’s invitation to talk privately, Emet-Selch would quickly push him away again, dismissing anything Cam had to say or simply pulling back into apparent boredom and apathy. Eventually Cam decided this must be another manipulation technique--something intended to keep Cam unbalanced and to play on any curiosity he might have about Ascians generally or Emet-Selch specifically. By the time they reached Mt. Gulg, Cam had largely decided not to engage with Emet-Selch; Emet-Selch’s asking whether Cam remembered Amaurot and hinting at his own memories of it and grief at its loss earlier had actually managed to get under Cam’s skin, and he wasn’t interested in letting the Ascian relate to him individually any longer. Being offered a chance at ascension and survival of all future Calamities at the cost of standing aside to let whole worlds die wasn’t something Cam wanted to hear more about.

Mt. Gulg sealed Cam’s belief that he should have trusted himself and attacked Emet-Selch when the Ascian first revealed himself. It also left Cam as angry at himself and the other Scions, and as determined to go off on his own and somehow finish *everything,* as he has ever been. Cam’s not a lone wolf or someone who believes he has to do things himself to protect others or preserve his ego; in fact, he’s more apt to think he *can’t* do things entirely on his own and doubt his abilities unless he has more scholarly or politically-savvy support at his side. Urianger and the Exarch’s secret plans, the Exarch’s being taken prisoner, and Cam’s own imminent full transformation into a Lightwarden, though, meant Cam felt the end coming. If he was going to end up as a monster, something that could never again be part of the world(s) he cared about, then he wanted to end it on his own terms. And that meant rescuing the Exarch, pushing aside the Scions (especially Urianger, who, once again, had kept secrets and been complicit in enabling others’ possibly unnecessary sacrifices), and destroying Emet-Selch. And then finding some way to imprison himself so that others would have the opportunity to kill him before he could do harm.

The Scions and the Crystarium’s residents as a whole brought him up short, of course, and checked his desire to dive headfirst into self-destruction. As he worked together with the other Scions to reach the Tempest, Cam’s anger began to give way to similarly uncharacteristic despair and distancing of himself from his friends--internally, in large part, though he did also begin holding himself physically apart from them whenever he was able to, always keeping a small ways ahead of the group or off to the side, often out of sight ‘scouting.’ Rescue the Exarch, destroy Emet-Selch, find some way to imprison the Lightwarden he would then become--Cam had stopped seeing anything beyond that. It would save his friends and possibly the First--or at least give them time to save themselves. And that was all Cam could hope for.

Reaching the Tempest and the recreated Amaurot made those feelings more intense, rather than less so. While the other Scions felt the sense of loss associated with being Sundered and close to reminders of Amaurot, Cam felt it with an almost crippling sharpness--enough so that he assumed it had to be related to his growing aether hunger and impending transformation and largely just tried to force himself through it rather than stop to examine it. Hythlodaeus’ revelation that Ardbert and Cam originated from the same Amaurotine--and one Hythlodaeus had once known well--didn’t really register around all of that pain. (Ardbert, on the other hand, did pay close attention to the news and drew his own conclusions from it, leading to his offering to Rejoin with Cam later.)

When Cam and the Scions finally confronted Emet-Selch and learned the full story of Amaurot and its fall, Cam still really didn’t have much emotional energy left to care. He’d fought people twisted by grief and the desire to re-create and relive the past before; this was just more of the same on a larger scale.

Only after Rejoining with Ardbert, surviving the fight, and having time to recover back in the Source did Cam actually start to think about who Emet-Selch and the Ascians were (or had been) and about the way Emet-Selch had related to him and how Cam himself had felt around the remembered city of Amaurot. He tentatively concluded that Emet-Selch--or, more accurately, Hades--had been testing Cam the whole time, both wanting and not wanting him to be whomever Hades and Hythlodaeus had once known. Maybe being able to contain the Light of all of the Lightwardens combined would somehow have convinced Hades that Cam was enough that person to be seen *as* a person and brought directly into the Ascians’ plans as an equal. Cam also suspects that Emet-Selch’s final reveal of his true name was a last-ditch attempt to see if Cam would suddenly “wake up” to being his Amaurotine ancestor if Emet-Selch revealed a name and form that person would have been certain to know.

In any case, Cam was relieved to have failed all of those tests. Whoever his soul (and Ardbert’s) might have been in the ancient past, those people had died long ago and passed their aether down to others who went on to live their own lives and be their own people. Escaping transforming into a world-devouring monster was good; escaping the attempts of ancient demi-gods to awaken a fellow demi-god in Cam and erase the significance of his own life and existence was *also* good. Cam was mostly left feeling frustration and regret that Emet-Selch, whether due to being Tempered or due to jaded bitterness (or both), couldn’t bring himself to just *tell* Cam about the person he saw in Cam and was trying to prod him into being. If you hold grief in for millennia and feel it’s impossible to share your memories and your sorrow with anyone else, of *course* it’s going to destroy you. Cam would have been happy to listen, as long as it didn’t come with the expectation of being or becoming the person he was hearing about.

Prior to Elidibus’ reemergence in Ardbert’s body, Cam hadn’t really talked about any of this with Cid, the Scions, or any other friends or family members. Following his first fight with Elidibus in Ardbert’s body in the Tempest and Hythlodaeus’ revealing the Convocation’s memory stones--including the stone of Azem, created by Hades out of love for his friend--, Cam felt resignation creep back in. Though he’d been given the stone, he didn’t use it; it was obvious to him, though, that he would almost certainly be forced to use it to defeat Elidibus. Which meant that the fate he thought he’d escaped--his existence being erased to give way to something inhuman and immortal--was still impending. In a way, Hades was going to win and get what he wanted even in death.

Contrary to Cam’s expectations, though, the final fight with Elidibus as the Warrior of Light incarnate and finally being forced to draw on the stone of Azem and play into Hades’ plans for him *lifted* those fears from Cam entirely. When the moment came when Cam finally had to draw on Azem’s stone to survive the Void, it didn’t overwrite his own personality or memories or change his feelings towards his family and friends or towards the Ascians he had fought for so long. Instead, he only felt a conviction that who he was and the path he was walking and continued to walk were in keeping with the path walked before and that whatever the past had been, it would stay in the past and do no more than help him continue to assert the right to forge his own way forward. Even feeling Azem’s voice within him was no stranger than speaking in Ardbert’s voice immediately after their Rejoining.

And whatever or whoever it was that appeared to lend Cam the power he needed to return from the Void and defeat Elidibus--whether it was Hades’ own stored version of a previous self, like his re-creation of Hythlodaeus, or the actual soul of Hades, lingering before finally passing into the Lifestream--it *did* significantly change Cam’s feelings about Hades. Together with Hades’ final request to remember Amaurot and the lives of those who had come before (but not to re-create and *become* them), Hades’ shade in its final appearance felt different from the Ascian Cam had hated. Instead of saving Cam *as* Azem, Hades brought Cam back to finish the fight as himself.

Following Elidibus’ defeat and the Scions’ triumphant return to the Source, Cam has had time to ask Cid, Y’shtola, and Urianger about Tempering and how and when its effect ends upon a soul’s physical death. They’ve all told him that no one, scientific researcher or arcane researcher/scholar, knows for certain, but Tempering does seem to end when a soul passes into the Lifestream and returns again. This has left Cam uncertain--was the Hades he’s now seen twice after the Ascian’s physical death finally free of Tempering? Even before returning to the Lifestream? Or was the specter that saved him from the Void the memory of a younger Hades--someone who still had some faith in his friends and in the future and some ability to change?

Regardless, defeating the last (to his knowledge) of the Unsundered Ascians *and* the incarnation of the Warrior of Light in primal form; freeing Elidibus to remember, grieve, and move on; putting Ardbert’s physical existence finally to rest; realizing that he would never actually have to *become* Azem; and receiving Hades’ blessing, from whatever version of the man it was given, have left Cam almost euphoric with relief. He’s survived, as himself, everything he’s most feared--the threat of ascension, whether as primal, Lightwarden, or Amaurotine--and everyone invested in pushing him towards any of those transformations is gone--and gone having accepted Cam’s existence as himself. Of course, having defeated the Warrior of Light as a primal concept doesn’t ensure that that primal can’t be resummoned and reembodied--but, psychologically, having defeated it, Cam *feels* as though that threat is gone.

Still riding the high of finally feeling secure in his own continued existence, Cam actually feels gratitude towards Hades--and towards Azem, whomever he may have been. He’s added the Tempest to the places he visits every year to honor people he knows and cared about who have fallen, and has begun very tentatively (and always with accompaniment, in case he *does* run into any threats of being overwritten) working with Azem’s memory stone and exploring the Tempest for records of the lives of the Convocation. He’s also talked with G’raha about whether the other memory stones’ records might still exist within the Crystal Tower in the First. None of these have been things he’s pursued urgently, but he is open to learning more about Amaurot, Hades, Elidibus, Azem, and the Convocation in a way he wasn’t before. They seem very securely like people in the past now, people it would be safe to learn about and who, like Ardbert and the First’s Warriors of Light, might have a story worth hearing and one different from the tale told either by common memory or by themselves.

On Hades’ part, he *did* see Azem in Cam, and Cam was correct--that drove his hot-and-cold opening up to and pulling away from Cam. After the Sundering, Hades had run into shards of Azem several times. Hades approached his first encounter with a shard with some hope that the shard might remember being Azem and remember Hades; discovering that the only thing the shard had in common with Azem was his tendency towards not listening, making friends with and helping everyone and his brother, and undermining other people’s plans, Hades’ bitterness and resentment towards any future shards he might encounter solidified. Meeting any of these shards felt like meeting a stick figure drawing of a lost sibling; just enough of the broad strokes there to suggest the person Hades missed, but none of the substance and detail that had made that person someone who had been part of Hades, in the way a close sibling is part of someone. Eventually, Hades disengaged from anything to do with shards of Azem and deliberately kept himself from learning anything about them; the other Ascians could do what they wanted with them.

Irritated by Elidibus’ insistence on pulling him back into the struggle to force the Rejoining, Hades was more irritated by having to work again with a shard of Azem--with *many* shards of Azem, essentially, since Cam was partially Rejoined many times over. And especially since Cam was the closest any shard had yet come to looking like Azem, even down to having the Amaurotine’s mask markings as facial tattoos--and clearly had no clue about the significance of either those markings or his appearance. (It was also incredibly irritating that someone *not* an Ascian could pull a shard of one of the Convocation members across the rift between worlds; Hades wouldn’t have admitted it to himself or anyone else, but *that* degree of ownership/influence over Azem was something he considered appropriate only if *he* had it.)

Watching Cam, Hades had to deal again with the hope that maybe this time a shard would *remember* something. Along with his appearance, Cam’s behavior was incredibly similar to the Convocation member’s, to the degree that Hades kept initiating conversations with Cam to test this and then withdrawing when Cam’s answers sounded uncannily like Azem but showed no self-awareness of that fact.

Cam was also correct that, had he been able to contain the Light without transforming, Hades *had* promised himself that he’d see that as a sign the man was worth working with and had the potential to become Azem in full, even if he seemed worthless at the moment. Cam’s failure increased Hades’ disgust and anger--not just at Cam, but at himself for allowing himself to hope at all. Still, Hades would have the satisfaction of using the twisted remnants of Azem to destroy the First and hasten the eventual full reincarnation of Azem.

Again, Cam denied him that pleasure when Cam showed up in the Tempest still in human form and still in (fading but there) control of himself, with the same barely-human barely-sentient friends by his side. Hades still gave him one last chance, exposing him to the fall of Amaurot and then showing one of his true forms and sharing his true name with Cam, moments after the man’s soul suddenly became even *more* like Azem’s.

Nothing.

But Cam still won. And the weight of Tempering and the long fight could finally be set down.

Whether Cam was Azem or not, Hades had to accept that Cam was carrying on the legacy that Azem had begun--and that Hades no longer had the power to deny him the right to claim and walk that path. Whether the version of Hades that appeared in the fight against Elidibus was a memory or Hades’ actual lingering soul, Hades had accepted, before fading entirely, that the only way to honor Azem’s past existence was to allow Cam to continue his own.

#ffxiv #Final Fantasy XIV #ff14 #Final Fantasy 14 #headcanon #camille delane #warrior of light #wol #emet-selch #azem #14th convocation member #the convocation #elidibus #hades #shadowbringers #shadowbringers spoilers #5.3 #5.3 spoilers #spoilers

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akaruta-kaito · 4 years

Text

The Big Day

The day of the wedding was a flurry of activity. Kaito had an entire list of recipes to teach Hinan and to prepare for the reception afterwards. If he trusted anyone else to do it right, he would have just hired caterers; although after the meal C'arliani prepared the other night, his faith in the capability of others in the company to make a delicious meal was growing. On the other hand, he hadn't eaten much of it, and he didn't give it a proper analysis out of concern that it might seem rude. He'd just have to make a mental note to get together with her sometime and share meals.

Kaito had chosen a slow-roasted dodo recipe for the main course, since it would be easy just to leave it to cook while they worked on other things, along with mashed popotoes, gravy, and savory dressing. It was more of a traditional holiday meal, but the fact that it was easy to prepare and most likely something that everyone would enjoy made it an easy choice.

The majority of the morning and a good chunk of the afternoon was taken up by the two brothers preparing desserts once they'd gotten dinner started. That was a very necessary distraction from Kaito's anxiety. Having his brother there to banter and joke with while they decorated cookies and cupcakes to look like moogles was incredibly relaxing and fun. It also gave them something to bond over when before, they'd had little in common other than perhaps a crude sense of humor and a serious case of Cat Scratch Fever.

After all the desserts were prepared, the two of them packed everything away so that they could be easily set out without any additional preparation. Both were pleased with how everything turned out, even if some of the earlier attempts at stained glass moogle cookies and peeking moogle cupcakes looked a little funky. That was fine though - Hinan was brand new to baking, and the flaws gave the treats character.

"Nee, aniki," the Raen began, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly as he turned to the Xaela. "I actually have something for you, to thank you for helping me out, and--..." And to give your life purpose now that the Garleans have taken that from you like they did to me for so long... "And to, ya know, help you get better at your new hobby." Close enough.

Hinan raised a brow slightly, but gave his brother a sinister-looking smile. It wasn't intentionally sinister, of course; his face was just like that. "Oh, you didn't need to get me anything, otouto," he responded after a moment.

Even if that was the reaction he expected, Kaito was still slightly annoyed. This again. Thankfully, his expression didn't reflect it, and he simply grinned at his older sibling. "Yeah, I know, but I wanted to," he explained. The younger ducked under the bar counter where he'd hidden the gift, which he'd wrapped in shiny paper and ribbon, then handed it to Hinan.

Of course, Hinan's expression always looked annoyed-bordering-on-murdery, even as he opened his gift. Inside the paper was a handmade book with the words "Hinan's First Cookbook" written in Hingan, and the pages contained a number of different recipes that were sorted together as "Beginner," "Intermediate," and "Advanced" for a wide variety of dishes.

"I thought, ya know, if you wanted to try cooking more, this'd help," Kaito explained. "And I made sure to list out all the instructions in case I can't be right there with ya. Maru-chan and Ningyou-chan* can probably lend a hand too, I'm sure." [*Doll]

Hinan looked up from the book at Kaito and blinked a couple of times. "Ningyou-chan?" He paused, then snorted in amusement. "You mean Chakha?"

A wide grin spread across the Raen's face, and he nodded eagerly. "That's her!" he exclaimed brightly. "And, ya know, I'm happy to cook more with ya anytime I'm over here."

The Xaela looked back down at the book for a moment, then turned to his brother and enveloped the smaller Au Ra in a firm hug. Whatever Hinan thought of his gift, Kaito couldn't say, but he at least seemed gracious - if that hug told him anything - and not insulted by it.

There was still a lot that Kaito wanted his older brother to talk to him about, and a lot that he wanted to say, but fear, in whatever form that took, seemed to cripple them both when it came to discussing their traumatic experiences being in captivity. The younger sibling almost wanted to just blurt everything out, but a part of him knew that if he told Hinan outright what he'd been through, the elder would only take it as more reason not to complain about his own horrific encounter with the Garleans. Even saying something as benign as "I still have dizzy spells frequently" seemed like it wasn't likely to help Hinan feel any more solidarity with his baby brother. Walls had been built and fortified; there were probably only two people in existence who would be able to break them down, and neither of them were him.

"Well... guess I better go get myself all fancied up," Kaito said, giving his brother a lopsided grin once the hug ended.

Once again, a warm smile crossed Hinan's lips, and once again, it looked much darker and more menacing than the Xaela probably intended. "Just make sure to wear something over your speedo," he teased.

A boisterous guffaw escaped from the Raen. "Yeah yeah, wouldn't wanna do something so indecent when we're finally makin' honest men of each other!" he joked, giving Hinan's good arm a firm pat. "Thanks again for all your help, aniki... and wish me luck!"

"I would, but S'aeil's the one who's going to need it," Hinan quipped, clapping his brother on the back rather hard in return. "See you tonight, otouto!"

With that, Kaito took his leave, heading up to his room in the company house (well, Mhalv’a’s room) to grab his outfit - he'd kept it there so S'aeil wouldn't know what he'd be wearing. It wasn't anything spectacular, but they'd both wanted to surprise each other in a number of small ways.

The anxiety of what was about to happen was slowly creeping up on him, but more out of excitement than fear. He'd already decided moons ago that, in spite of his fears, he was never going to leave S'aeil's side. Getting married wouldn't have even been necessary, as far as he was concerned. They'd already made their promises to each other. The wedding was nothing more than a formality, a way for them to prove to the rest of the world that when they said they would be together forever, they meant it. Maybe we'll finally be taken seriously, he thought, snorting quietly to himself. Unlikely...

Before leaving, Kaito stood in the doorway, letting the memories of his first encounters with S'aeil flood back into his mind. Even though some of them were painful or frustrating - all due to outside sources or his own lack of foresight - they were wonderful, because all of that time brought them to this day. With a warm smile, the Raen pulled the door shut behind himself and made his way to the Black Shroud, eagerly awaiting the moment that he and S'aeil would be officially declared beloved husbands.

@saeils-ffxiv-hub @chocoblep

#ffxiv #rp story #kaito #hinan #chakha #mhalv'a #saeil

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sasorikigai · 4 years

Note

❛ love is so…unfair — so sad and beautiful. ❜ (( Marzena to Hanzo uwu ))

a collection of starters adapted from the blog ‘ martyrsuggestions ’ || @drecmcrcfters || accepting

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || How devious fate could be; Hanzo Hasashi once believed that the intangible energy of the universe would make him and Harumi connect; like an avalanche from the paramount height that will destroy everything it finds and how painfully correct that statement would be. For they are two souls, eternally existing in this imperfect, wretched, yet such marvelous world. They were once strangers to each other, probably even in the figment of their romantic imaginings. They have not seen the inexorability of their love link them with gentility and grace, for their love had been unusual, tragic and irreversible. Thus, he remains a prisoner of memory; imprisoned and crippled by particular loves and desires that could never be fulfilled. How he feels as if he had been crafted so delicately of glass. For life is the shelf and he will plunge the great distance if he ever moved too quickly or harshly, shattering himself into exploded fragments.

Even as when he wore predatorily feral composure of a ferocious warrior, Hanzo finds himself being a nervous prey; wide-eyed and soft-footed. Eating little and leaving even less behind, easily crushed by the weight of the world. Lest he never will lose his unlife by the blade of a katana or a serrated tip of an arrow, but how his psyche requires warm burrows and dreams; a place of security and privacy, of reprieve and rationality. A place to look out a reality that is constantly trying to kill him with raw agony of his hollow loss and sanguine death. The harrowing frigidness of winter in his subconscious had been unforgiving and long, and it would have been even colder and longer if it weren’t for Marzena’s nonjudgmental acceptance and understanding. That Hanzo Hasashi would sempiternally spill his thoughts for his deceased wife, page after page, for the ink is his adulation and the stains are his misery.

Hanzo writes her name in the stars and he chases butterflies and fireflies, for she is the Sun and so he only confesses to the Moon, as Marzena’s reflection casts across the swollen pair of his white, pupiless gaze. He had lost count of it all; the moments when Hanzo would lose himself because he feels like he wasn’t good enough, unless he was somewhere else other than here, inside of such fragile moments. He would leave his tangible body and go straight into his mind - trapped between depression and sorrow, as his fears and worries would thrive in a place that he could not massage. His heart could not take away the beating fast enough. The broken constellations that will never form even if wishes were made upon them, as lovers know what to say to make each other feel love, but lovers most importantly, know what to say to make him feel truly alone.

Love, for him, had all been fire; and so heaven and hell would become and merge into the same place. For the torments of the damned are part of the felicity of the redeemed. Hanzo Hasashi’s Eden is a fiery city, for the Original Shirai Ryu were set ablaze with inextinguishable fire, only leaving his intangible spectre of his being and his heart intact. And just like the atmosphere of Netherrealm, Harumi’s presence would become an ectoplasmic smoke; lingering around him like a ghost, wanting to climb into his heart that once belonged to him. But there would be no home for her there; for Hanzo doubts that he will ever harbor enough courage and will of the Sasori, for grief is such an exhausting labor and even the most jubilant, magnificent happiness he’d experience with her would become metastasized cancer cells, filling every expanse of his being of every second of every pause of his heart and lungs. She would never leave him; she will only take and take.

“With love, produces the most excruciating human sorrow everywhere. My heart and soul used to be drained of all that was good; for the depth of my subconscious is nothing, but a shattered container for a disgusting mess. I wonder if my body would ache enough to be cleaned out, if my heart and soul yearns to be nourished once again,” crestfallen descend of his head looks upon the land that once would have been saturated with sanguine quagmire. How he wishes with all his heart that someday, Hanzo may be able to wash out this disgusting bowl and get the rottenness out of sight. Marzena’s heart had been the kindest he’d known, in a world that’s dripping with dark and illusive waters of irreversible evil. And how he wishes to become the lotus blooming admirably through it all; no longer, Hanzo is a stone-hearted sinner who would get stuck in the middle of his life’s desolate, frigid winter. The mysterious discordant tone and darkness of his devil can alter him only so much and only worsen the pain that he wears.

“Love is so hauntingly beautiful, secretly lonely, and causes me to become artistically strange, almost magical and disturbingly relatable. It is full of angst and splendor; and how I find myself longing for that electric, passionate touch of a faraway home I cannot return to - a stretch of ruination with no person in sight. If I could even find a patch of soil to sow the seeds of the new life, perhaps the verdant sprouts will grow and sing. I want to experience love that could be left untouched and unaltered even by the construct of time.” ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||

#✗ obsessive cathartic (headcanon)#✗ the ineffable testimony of spawned hellfire (scorpion)#✗ seeking reconciliation with his own humanity (iii)#(relationships; harumi)#(relationships; marzena)#(I lost a good chunk of a previous reply when Chrome crashed on me so this second attempt may not be as good as the first one)#(UGHHHHH)#drecmcrcfters

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starr-fall-knight-rise · 5 years

Text

Humans are Space Orcs “Apathy”

Ok everyone, this was a super big pain to try to get into four pages. I apologize in advance for any inaccuracies that you see here, but there is a lot that I cannot fit in to make it more accurate.

WARNING! For anyone who doesn’t want to see images of PTSD, violence or some self harm, you probably don’t want to read this.

This is a very important chapter for you to understand some things I have planned for upcoming posts. As always critiques, questions comments, prompts, ideas and messages are always welcome.

Krill peered around the doorframe into the captain’s quarters, he definitely planned on speaking with him about Sunny, this was the third time in two days she had slammed her head into a doorframe because she wasn’t looking: mostly because she was listening to music. To keep the integrity of her skull, he thought it might be best to limit her music time, for her health or course.

When he came around the corner, he found Captain Vir kneeling on the floor with Waffles, scratching her behind the ears with one hand and fitting her into a vest with the other. Krill was only just beginning to understand the human script but he thought he read.

Service Dog DO NOT TOUCH.

“Captain, what is that?” He wondered, completely forgetting his earlier question.

Captain Vir looked up from where he knelt rubbing the dog’s ears, “Oh, It’s her service vest.” When Krill didn’t seem to understand, the man continued, “Sometimes human’s train dogs to help people with stuff like a disability, medical condition or mental illness. The vest allows her to go into places other dogs can’t.”

“Oh…. Is that because of your leg than?”

The captain shook his head, “No, I used to have pretty severe PTSD after coming home from the war. I don’t so much now, but sometimes I have my days.”

Krill shifted a little nervously, “May I ask….” He trailed off not sure how to phrase the question.

Vir grinned at him, “Krill, you know you can ask me anything right, but I get what you’re trying to say… the war ending was actually worse for me than the war itself.”

***

Lieutenant Vir lay on his bunk in the dim lighting listening to the sound of the ship’s distant engines. His missing leg throbbed. Even with it gone, it was still destined to haunt him. Door opened a crack, he listened with apathy as the Captain spoke to one of the other officers

“How are they?”

A long pause followed, “About as good as you’d expect.”

The captain gave a long sigh, and Vir could hear the sound of his clothes shifting, “Well, we just started our descent, so get them up, and let’s get these boys home.”

***

Vir sat in the shuttle as it rocked underneath him. He looked down at his missing leg, and the shitty surplus prosthetic they had given him, the knee didn’t even bend forcing him to limp around on crutches. He had already fallen more times than he could count. He squeezed his eyes shut as the ship rocked harder trying to force down the panic as the sound of the ship’s engines grew louder and louder in his ears. His leg throbbed with the beating of his heart, and his breathing sped up.

They touched down some minutes later his head ringing as the shuttle coasted to a stop and the doors were opened. He gathered up his crutches and levered himself to his feet limping horribly at the awful prosthetic and his stupid crutches. He slipped coming off the ramp landing hard on his side. The soldiers on the tarmac rushed forward to help him up, but he angrily shrugged them off. They stepped back hesitantly as he struggled to his foot, hip smarting. He could feel his eyes growing hot with unshed tears, but he forced those down too angrily limping away from the ship head down. He didn’t want to see their faces, the pity, the cripple.

He felt so stupid angry at that idiot boy obsessed over aliens and UFOs. If he had just been normal, none of this would have happened. Even the thought of aliens made him sick, made him want to curl up, to run away, though he couldn’t even run now. His throat tightened; he felt as if a massive hand came down to constrict his chest. Still nursing his bitter thoughts, he was ushered through a door into the terminal, and there he saw them. His mother and father waiting for him by baggage claim.

They saw him too, and he watched the look on his mother’s face as her eyes widened, and her hands shot up to cover her mouth. His father’s expression never changed much, but now an expression of anger, and then horror shot though him for a small moment. Upon seeing them, the hotness returned to Vir’s eyes.

They met him halfway, his mother crying, and his father stoically silent. She wrapped him up in her arms in a way that she never had before. This time, he couldn’t contain the heat, and he felt the tears beginning to spill down his cheeks as he rested his head against her shoulder.

***

The sky above was blue, or it should have been. Everything seemed so grey these day. Vir sat on the back porch of his childhood home scanning the shrubs at the back of the yard for signs of movement. He didn’t mean to do it, it was just habit at this point. His head snapped to the side thinking he had seen a flash of blue form the corner of his eye, but no. He went back to scanning the trees acutely aware of the emptiness that so haunted him. From his new spot on the porch, he was just able to hear any conversation coming from the kitchen. He had heard a lot of conversations about him these days, about how he wasn’t himself, about how their happy boy was gone, about how he needed help, about how the VA sucked (yeah, about a thousand years later and the VA still sucked).

He would feel bad for his parents, if he could FEEL anything, anything but anger, or fear. He couldn’t go out in public anymore, he got overwhelmed in crowd, and sudden noises had him ducking for cover. The more crowded an area, the more flashbacks he got, the more panic attacks.

And he still couldn’t walk very well. That made him angry. He just wanted to run, to get away from his problems, but you can’t run from your problems when you can’t even run. He dropped his head into his hands, but looked back up almost immediately scanning the yard once again.

A hand on his shoulder, “Adam.”

The flashback was immediate and violent, the Drev looming against a blood red sky. Pain.

When his vision cleared, he was on his feet, and his mother….. she was backed against the doorframe hand to her mouth.

She was bleeding.

He stepped back, “Mom… I…. I’m.” And then he ran, as much running as he could do. He slipped on the floor barely catching himself on the wall before running into his room and slamming the door locking it behind him. He slid down the other side of the door shaking staring at his hands stomach churning in abject horror.

He was a monster.

He dropped his head against his knee biting his hand to choke back the sobs.

He could hear them knocking on the door begging him to come out, to talk to them. She wasn’t mad, she was sorry, she shouldn’t have snuck up on him, apologizing like it was her fault, when everyone knew it was his. He bit down even harder filling his mouth with warm copper.

Around the room, posters stared at him with accusing eyes. Accusing alien eyes.

Aliens.

He closed his eyes but could still feel their staring at him their accusations. What right did they have to accuse him, after taking his leg? The anger welled up inside him, until he couldn’t contain it.

With all the hatred he had pent up for them, he clawed his way to his feet, he ripped the posters from the walls throwing them to the floor, tearing them into pieces, he smashed figurines spilling glass across the floor, he ripped pictures from books, tore sketches from drawing books until his hands were bleeding.

Outside, his father hammered on the door demanding to be let in. His mother cried.

***

He lay on the floor amidst the pages and the glass removed from everything wallowing in apathy. The anger had trained away to be replaced by the nothingness. The voices outside his door ad stopped hours ago, after he had acknowledged to his parents he was still alive. They were worried, but his father hasn’t been able to break down the door. He had tried.

A soft click, the door swung open.

Adam turned in surprised to find David kneeling at the level of the door holding a set of lock picks.

He was alone.

“Hey baby brother, you look like shit.”

Adam turned his head away, “Just leave me alone.”

David moved forward standing over him, “No, Adam, you crossed a line today. I know you’re sick, and it isn’t your fault, but it’s time to get help.” David reached down and grabbed him by the shoulders hauling him to his feet with an immense amount of strength, “Come on, let’s go.”

“I know a guy, and he’s promised to get you help.”

***

They sat in the waiting room Him and David filling out the final paperwork. His brother had been a pest, but at least he hadn’t treated him like a glass sculpture. He talked to him the same, joked with him the same, and told him when he was being a jerk. It was annoying, but it was kind of nice.

As he was making the last signature something padded across the floor. There was a light pressure on his knee, and he looked down to find a large set of brown eyes looking up at him.

The dog wagged its tail. The vest glittered red and black in the overhead lights.

A woman stood a few feet away smiling as the dog shoved its snout forward forcing him to stroke its ears. It made a soft grumble crawling halfway into his lap resting its head against him as he ran a hand down her soft fur.

He smiled for the first time in months.

Waffles was a good girl, she help him during the flashbacks and the panic, the stopped him from continuing with poor coping habits, she led him away from overwhelming areas, and she kept people at a safe distance when that didn’t work.

Slowly, he got better.

***

He sat on the floor with Waffles sitting next to him, “And this is a Rundi, I saw them the most when I was out. They fought with us in the war, fast suckers, but they couldn’t take a hit worth a damn. I should have more information around her somewhere.” He shuffled through the pile of papers with waffles resting her head on his knee staring up at him with big brown eyes.

A soft knock at the door.

He looked up to find his mother standing there. He smiled at her and she beamed back walking in to sit next to him reaching over to rub waffles across the belly. The dog grumbled, “Who’s my favorite girl?”

“Mom, I think I’m ready to get back to work.”

She beamed, “That’s great Adam, what are you going to do?”

He sat running a hand over his new prosthetic, it had helped a lot over his old one. All the joints articulated, even the toes (which definitely helped his balance) after months of physical therapy, you couldn’t even tell he was missing a leg. He even managed to stand up on moving busses so others could have his seat. He took the dog out for daily runs regaining the fitness he had lost during those long months after the war.

“I’m going back.”

She looked confused, “Back to where?”

“The army, mother, I want to see the rest of what’s out there.”

She didn’t much like that idea.

She was very worried about what would happen if he were to ever meet a Drev.

#humans are space oddities #humans are weird #humans are space australians #humans are space orcs #earth is space australia #drev

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thisbitchinthecorner · 4 years

Text

1980 Day 14- Eggnog

It’s getting real between our angel and demon!! For @drawlight

1980

Crowley had grown his hair long again, not as long as it had been in the past, but long enough where it swept his shoulders when he turned his head and shook when he laughed; strands of vibrant crimson that fluttered like feathers in the wind as he walked down the street.

Aziraphale had always found Crowley’s hair lovely, but never more beautiful than how the long locks framed his angles of face. So when that telltale flash of red caught his eye as it entered the bookshop, he couldn’t help but smile.

“Hello angel! Closing early again today?” Crowley flashed a devilish grin as he locked the doors behind him with a snap.

“Suppose I am now.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “You’ve changed your hair again.”

“You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that! I rather like your hair long, it was that ridiculous mustache that was just ghastly. Made you look like one of those..” Aziraphale fumbled for words. “Patrons of that shop next door.”

“Yes, well at least I change my appearance to keep up with the times. Think I would discorporate on sight if you were to grow out your hair.”

“What’s wrong with the way my hair is now? Too much fuss for me to change it.”

“Too much fuss for you?” Crowley laughed. “You’re the fussiest being that has ever existed. Anyway, I brought you an early Christmas present. How do you feel about some spiced rum?” The demon didn’t wait for a response before opening the bottle and grabbing 2 cups from the sitting table in the center of the shop.

“That will pair well with the eggnog I purchased from the market. Been waiting for an occasion to drink it.”

“Make mine with more rum than nog. Not a fan of that frothy eggy mess.”

“Would it help if I added more cinnamon, my dear?”

“Sounds delicious angel.” Crowley snapped his fingers and the sounds of the latest New Wave band filled the space.

“You know full well that I don’t care for that bebop.” Aziraphale snapped his fingers and

Tchaikovsky’s score to The Nutcracker replaced the modern music.

“Feeling sentimental?” Crowley turned away quickly, blushing with the memory of the last time they watched the ballet together.

“I am glad you’re here though, there is a small matter I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.”

Aziraphale said as he passed the demon his drink.

“Oh?”

“Seems I’m meant to go to Greece soon and persuade them to join this new European group thingy. Seeing how my last go round in Greece ended in, well...”

“A huge fire and the downfall of an emperor?”

“Oh come now! That wasn’t all my fault. I mean, how was I to know that telling Nero to build a house of God would lead to him setting damn near everything on fire.”

“It does when I told him to build a house of gold instead.” Crowley muttered under his breath.

“I was hoping you might, you know.” Aziraphale pouted, his eyes widened as he pursed his lips; knowing full well that Crowley would never say no to him.

“Alright. I’ll do this one for you. But you owe me.”

“Oh thank you.” The angel smiled warmly, his eyes glancing at the demon.

“Bah! Just pour me another glass of rum, angel.”

They continued to drink, when something outside caught their attention. Some manner of fight had broken out in the street, and a group of boys were kicking and punching a young man.

“Oy! That’s enough!” Crowley hollered from the bookshop’s doorway.

“Piss off!” One of the younger boys shouted back.

Crowley straighten his back as he took a step on to the sidewalk. Aziraphale grabbed his shoulder, holding him back.

“I say, leave that man alone.” Aziraphale called to them, and the boys stopped.

There were 3 of them; the elder stood up and shouted. “Next time, I’m coming for you, you fat fucking pansy!” His dark eyes filled with a hateful malice, despite being no older than 15, there was already a darkness surrounding his soul. A darkness that gave Crowley, demon of Hell, cause to fear. A shudder ran down his spine as he locked eyes with the boy.

Don’t ever threaten my angel, it will be the last thing you do.

Aziraphale looked at Crowley with confusion. “Fat? Pansy?” But he wasn’t concerned with the kids, his only concern was for the battered man lying in the street. Aziraphale ran to him, and helped him up slowly, he was bleeding from a wound to his head. Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and the young man was healed, no longer unsteady on his feet and no longer bleeding. “There, there, no real damage. You hurry home now.” The angel said softly as the man ran away.

“What do you suppose that was all about?” Aziraphale asked with genuine curiosity.

“Evil lurks in this world, angel. Those boys are trouble. Best watch yourself, he did just threaten you.”

“Lots of people have threatened me, Crowley. That never works out well them.” Aziraphale chided, but the demon was not swayed from his concern.

“I mean it, I don’t like how those kids looked at you. Promise me you will be careful.” Crowley pleaded.

Something in Crowley’s voice told him that the demon was frightened, an emotion that Crowley rarely ever showed.

“I’ll make sure I keep my eyes open, dear.” He soothed. “Crowley, are you alright?”

“I don’t want anything to happen to you.” Crowley whispered, surprised by his own reaction to the threat.

Aziraphale stood up and walked over to the demon, he carefully removed his glasses. “Crowley, look at me. I will be fine. No kids are going to hurt me, believe me, I can handle myself.”

Crowley said nothing, he continued to stare into the angel’s eyes; soft, pale blue eyes filled with light. Aziraphale did something most unexpected, he wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close, against his body and holding him tightly. The angel rested his head on his shoulder, and he allowed himself to relax; to return the embrace, to revel in the soft curves of the angel’s stomach and breathe in his scent. This was the closest they had ever been, standing together in a warm embrace.

Just as quickly as it began, it was over. Aziraphale pulled away first, his fingers fidgeted nervously as he waited for the demon to say something- anything.

Neither had words, the swell of the music filled the room; the Grande Pas de Deux began and both released a sigh of delight.

“Do you remember the night we went to this ballet?” Aziraphale asked quietly.

“Yes.” Crowley replied.

“It was a beautiful night. Wasn’t it?”

“It was, angel. It was.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale began to speak, what he wanted to ask was on the tip of his tongue; the words were so close to spilling out of him, and he knew with certainty that all he needed to do was ask, and the demon would accept. What harm could one dance do? He thought to himself. As soon as the thought entered his mind, the grip of fear took root. Harm would most certainly happen, harm would come to Crowley, and he simply could not allow that to happen.

“Yes, angel?”

“Care for another drink?” He sighed, noting how the demon’s shoulders fell a bit.

“Of course.”

They sat in silence, neither able to say what they truly wanted, neither knowing how far to push the issue and neither wanting to cause the other harm.

“I suppose I’m feeling sentimental tonight too.” Crowley said as he set his drink down on the table. “Perhaps it’s the alcohol.”

“You could stay, if you’d like. Rest here, sleep off the rum and leave in the morning.” Aziraphale offered before he considered the consequences.

Crowley wanted to accept, but he knew better. They had already gotten closer than they had ever been before, that alone filled him with unbridled joy and crippling fear. “I’m afraid I can’t. Lots of work to do tomorrow. Temptations and such. Plus, I’ll have to make a trip to Greece, and that’s always nice this time of year.”

Aziraphale felt both relieved and disappointed. “Very well, but before you go, I have a little something for you.” The angel headed to his desk and produced a brightly wrapped box. “It’s not much, but....”

“Aziraphale, I told you not to doubt yourself.” Crowley smiled as he unwrapped the gift: a golden hair clip in the form of a snake, with a ruby for an eye.

“It was a pin, but I asked the jeweler to make it so you can wear it in your hair, seeing how it’s long again, seems I made the right choice.” Aziraphale said sweetly.

“I love it.” Crowley was heartfelt in his reply. “Truly, I do.”

“Mind how you go, my dear.” Aziraphale handed him his coat, trying not to show that he was reluctant to see the demon leave.

“Happy Christmas Aziraphale.”

“Happy Christmas Crowley.”

“And angel, please be careful.” Crowley turned and walked towards the Bentley. He sat in the car and attempted to process everything that had transpired that evening. A threat, a hug, an offer and a gift. He could scarcely start the car due to his trembling hands. He held me. Closer than we have ever been. He reached for me, and he held me.

He could hardly contain himself as he made his way home. The pallid light of his flat was a stark contrast against the illuminating glow of the bookshop. Crowley made his way to his bedroom and opened the chest where he kept his greatest treasures; he looked at all the times inside, and smiled. He held the serpent hair pin to his lips and pressed a kiss against the golden gift. Someday, I will share all of this with you. He says to himself. That day is coming soon. He pins the serpent clip into his hair and admirers it in the mirror. Soon, my love, soon.

#31 days of ineffables #ineffable husbands #good omens #aziraphale #crowley #justenoughofabastardtobeworthknowing

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