#talked about but just this line above in particular stepping away from the book for a minute | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

charsal24 · 9 months

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Fan Autoethnography

In summary: This autoethnography summarizes the various ways I interact with fandom and how each one has shaped me differently. My relationship to every media is fundamentally different, as this will share. I've learned that while in style and talk I haven't been effected by fandom, creatively and the themes that carry with me, has.

Note: My peer review partners did not suggest changes, so I've kept it as is with the summary above added.

My experience as a fan ebbs and flows between deeply engrossed in the tv show/book/series, etc. to casually enjoying. With the former, I’m on Tumblr reblogging GIFs and fanworks like a madman, occasionally rambling in the tags about x character’s arc and y’s characterization and — fuck, tumblr user Kinegg, you must be a prophet from the Gods. Modified the actual user’s name there, but their take on Collector from The Owl House? Absolutely immaculate. Even in my fandom spaces, I can’t escape my writing-major-ness, and I really search for those users who share my love of analysis of characters/themes/subtext. It’s crazy the amount of essays that will be poured out over what could be a single line, a single painting, a piece of clothing.

In the Owl House (spoilers —albeit somewhat vague — ahead!), users poured essays over the tapestries in the Archive house and what they meant for the Collector’s backstory. I had found myself following along with their detailed descriptions and theories in such a way that I rewatched the scenes they mentioned and found myself nodding along to their takes: of course Collector is an orphan of war! Of course his siblings didn’t like him mixing with the titans! Of course this parallels the segregated magic system!

Surprisingly, despite the glory and beauty of anonymity, and my deep love of character analysis, I’ve never actually thrown my hat — or, well, a post — into the void, into my fandom community. Instead, I stay to the tags or rambles in friends’ DMs.

Here’s a particular long example about the game Dredge, another fandom favorite of mine taken from a friend’s DMs.

Massive spoilers ahead for the game!

Just the fact that like… it’s been Y o u and it’s always been Y o u just augghhhhhhhh when hands of love become hands of destruction and you burn away every piece of yourself resisting the natural course of grief because goddamn !!!!! You *will* bring them back !!!! But if you do, they can’t recognize you anymore, and if you can’t, then you destroy every part of yourself trying and just aughhhhhhhhh aughhhhhhhh just the way grief warps every part of you until all you can think of is *them* I just augghhgghhhhhhhh and then you can’t move on because to move on would be to leave them would mean it was all for nothing and you’ve come so far to stop and it’s just another step and then they’ll back and just another step until they’ll be back and just another step until you have buried yourself neck-deep in the ocean and still you will go one more step because you’re !!! So !!! Close !!! But !!! You !!! Can never!!! Be close !!! And just aughhhhhhhhh

Okay so there’s like three main colors, right? This sorta dark purple red — raspberry-esque — this sorta slightly darker sea foam green and I think there’s either like a yellow or another green, can’t remember. I think it’s another green. There’s also the colors of different fishing areas: coastal, shallow, dredge, abyssal, hadal, but not important I’m taking about the dialogue and some item colors

So — and as you can guess — the colors coincide with their usual associations: red is bad, green is good, etc. now what’s interesting is that parts of the horror elements come with that color association that “oh red is evil/corrupt” and so there’s a really neat sorta psychological element of like when a text reads “be careful” and it’s in red and those color associations tell you that “oh no something bad” and the like. But what’s really really fucking cool and sorta subtle is that during the game this “Collector” guy — so cool lore around this guy but won’t spoil anything if you wanna play/watch — asks you fish up some relics for him and in exchange he compensates you very nicely with some nice power ups that are very much Monkey’s Paw-esque.

So, you fish up some of the relics: necklace, ring, music box, key, watch, and other stuff and when you put them in your inventory, the items are *red* whereas usual items like wood or metal or non-relic rings are just like grey or whatever. Now what’s also red you may ask? Four things, but let’s talk about the first two first. One: mutant fish. Sometimes when you’re fishing you’ll pull out an oddity like a bass with three heads or its spine out—something mangled and warped beyond recognition. And that, too, is *red* in your inventory whereas regular fish are like grey

Two: panic. So, if you stay up too late you start to get this thing called “panic” and it presents itself as an eye appearing under the time looking around worried and not only that but everything gets red like a red fog and rocks may appear out of nowhere or scarier creatures start to chase you—it’s a lot like a gameplay mechanic of “oops you’ve stayed up too late now you’re paranoid and seeing things that aren’t there or are they” kinda thin

Three: crimson and silver book, which is the source of corruption happening in this place and causing all the auroras to turn red and shit to get warped and corrupted and stuff

Four: infection. One of which you never actively see so much as much as you just see a dialogue of a package you can deliver saying that it’s “squelching and wet” or something like that

And so back to relics and mutant fish! If you notice those colors when the mutant fish appear, you can start to notice that hey !!!! These relics you are fetching are fucking cursed !!! And not only that but like when you use the “power ups” that fetching the relics gets you, they come with a cost

So like the power-ups you get are: haste (move faster, but increase panic), manifest (teleport back to the first island, increase panic/time speeds up), atrophy (catch a whole area of fish in one go, fish rot and get infected faster), and I thiiiiiiink one has to do with like sounding a signal to scare fish away or something like that

But like all of them are strengths that come at a cost!!!!! Which feeds into the narrative of “everything has a cost/you cannot get what you want without sacrifice” and just that theme of time and madness and aughhhhhhhh power comes with sacrifice and you are losing a piece of yourself for every “power-up”

And like!!!!!!!! Everyone knows more about you than you do!!!! And like they are just watching you spiral once again and once again and once again and just aughhhh aughhhh everyone knows of the madness except for you

And then you have green!!! Green is like the stuff that’s good, that’s helpful!! And like you see certain characters who dialogue highlights some words in green !!! And you can tell “oh yes this is friend, they are good” like the lighthouse keeper who is wearing green and has green dialogue occasionally !!

And then you have the other green as like “location for you to go” and again it’s like you can use these colors to 1. Make things easier to remember 2. Have a psychological impact 3. Associations !!!!!!!! And it’s just such a subtle thing to impact how you intake and receive information and hints to the overall corruption of the items you’re fetching and the corruption of the book itself and just aughhhh aughhh aughhh aughhhh

God and just the eye imagery is so cool fucking love eye imagery !!! But god yeah just the fact that it’s you and it’s always *been you* AND THE POCKET WATCH!!!! One of the relics is a pocket watch whose hands cannot move forward because you !!! Cannot !!! Move forward !!! You cannot move on !!! And you keep finding pieces of your life you can’t remember and aughhhhhhh!!!! Aughhhhhhhh

God. Just….. unable to move forward without That Person in your life, unable to move on, the need to rewrite what was written, to grab death by the bones and shatter them until your beloved has returned, until your beloved has returned and sees not a shadow of who they knew and just…. God.

You were always bait……. You were always the hook on the fishing line going to and fro… all to see her again, all to see her again…. And everyone knows except You that she isn’t coming back and will never come back and still you will burn yourself to pieces to try

*Goddamn* just unable to go back, unable to play god, unable to bend the forces of nature to your whims. Aughhhhhhhhh

As the above long example suggests: I love the deep analyses and most importantly the emotional core of any given work. As I said, couldn’t escape my writing-major-ness even if I wanted to and that dips into my main fandom experience: fanfiction writing.

Surprisingly, it’s only Gen loss and Gravity Falls I’ve written fanfiction for. Gravity Falls was the first, of course, and I still remember the cringey Wattpad “Author Notes” — a staple of the ol’ era of a 12-year old’s writing in 2013. I haven’t revisited those old Wattpad fics and I never will, but I know for all their cringe, they’ve been stepping stones for my writing.

Gravity Falls, especially, hugely influenced what became of my writing style and interests. The show introduced a world that balanced its lightheartedness with moments that had you staring at your screen like “what the fuck just happened?” and it balanced those moments beautifully. Not only that, but the premise of “normal kids move in to weird town but everyone who lives there just kinda deals with the weird stuff so it’s normal to them” has become one of my favorite things to write. I think what I like the most about that kind of premise is that it challenges the idea of what normal even is. Especially since “normal” means something different across cultures and what I, as an American, may find completely normal (let’s say, steering wheel on the left instead of the right), completely boggles the mind of someone who’s never seen that. To them, I’m the weirdo, and to me, they are the weirdo, but neither one of us is wrong or right and that’s the beauty of it.

This lends itself into the question of “us” vs. “them” — again, thinking about the “what is normal?” — that appears in some spaces in fandom. I think an “us” vs. “them” in fandom comes from the lack of acknowledgment that no one is right and that’s okay. There’s definitely a huge “us” vs. “them” in fandom spaces when it comes to shipping. Personally, I’ve never really understood why some people feel so personally to certain ships, and I’ve never really cared, but maybe it has something to do with what Jensen talks about: compensating and parasocial relationships.

For me, I find myself less compensating and more so either exploring pieces of myself through the other (a lot of this with grief narratives as found in Dredge) or examining other people. Characters and studying them and their actions is fascinating for me and I find that understanding characters allows me to be better at understanding people in my own life. After all, what is the self if not a character we all play?

@officeofdocmalone

#255fandom #the office of doc malone

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erodasfishtacos · 3 years

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Not Your Charity Case

prompt: Harry is a frat boy - who doesn’t need sympathy from anyone. He makes Y/N feel a sense of home when they’re together. But is Harry just like every stereotypical frat boy?

word count: 6.2k

warnings: minor violence, language, deaf!harry, smutttt

other: when Harry is talking to Y/N or any other characters - it is to be noted that he is signing. When Y/N talks to Harry - she is also always signing

Let me know if you’d want to see anything else from this verse:)

+++

You were rushed - you really shouldn’t stop at the local coffee shop for a sugary, delicious mocha chip frappuccino.

Despite what people say, professors are much more lax and carefree in college.

It was about two weeks into the new semester, - your third here- and the seasons were changing - becoming autumn.

Chilled breezes, falling leaves, and vivid colors of nature made you happy.

When you arrive in line, there are two people ahead of you. A girl currently in front of the cashier and a tall male with a red and black flannel on behind her- typing away on his phone.

When she moves to the left, the broad man steps forward. His snapback facing backwards, brown curls dancing around his neck. You can’t help but notice how tall and lean he is, shoulders broad and straight.

You definitely haven’t seen him before on campus. You’d remember.

From what you can see, he shows the young girl behind the counter the screen of his phone without saying anything at all.

The raven-haired girl’s face pinches in annoyance. “We don’t accept orders like that. You need to tell me what you want.”

You’re a little surprised by both the rude cashier but also the man who doesn’t respond right away.

He attempts to show her his phone again but she shakes her head - annoyed.

You become interested in the situation when I watch him sign, a few gestures before pointing to his ears. In the most obvious form of saying “I can’t hear.”

The clueless girl gives him a blank look, “Listen, there’s a line. I don’t have time for this.”

You hoped you weren’t overstepping your boundaries when you slide up next to him, tapping him on his shoulder to get his attention.

It is a bit startling how gorgeous the boy is. He was tanned with bright green-eyes and a defined jawline that was currently clenched in frustration.

You sign, “What are you trying to order?”

He studies you for a second with hesitance before his long slim fingers begin to move, slowly as if he thinks you may be inexperienced in the form of language.

He replies, “Large coffee with a little cream and two sugars.”

You squeeze in front of him, “It is not only rude but illegal to not serve based on disabilities. Refusing an order from a deaf person isn’t moral or acceptable.”

The girl has enough decency to mumble an apology and turned bright pink, “Sorry, he doesn’t look deaf. “You roll your eyes - how can you tell that someone is deaf based on solely appearance? This girls a fucking idiot, you think.

You repeat his order to her, along with yours - sliding your debit card towards her and give her your name for the order.

The man trails behind you to the small waiting area. “Thank you,” he signs simply. You nod and return the pleasantry. The. hand him his steaming hot coffee.

“Thank you again. I’m going to be late to class, so I have to go,” he tells me, seeming a little out of place signing with a stranger.

“Go ahead, I’ll see you around.” It was the first time in a long time you’ve signed to anyone outside your family.

+++

Sipping your drink as you are only five minutes late and the class hasn’t even started yet. The man you just helped was sat in the back of the classroom, unloading his laptop.

With a little bravery, you wriggle your way through and plop into the wooden chair easily. Letting your backpack fall to the ground. Curly looks over at you with a frown, he signs, “Why are you sitting next to me?”

You blush, “I don’t know? Thought it’d be good to have someone to talk to.”

His hands are tense as he replies, “I’m not a charity case, so you can leave me alone.”

“Never said you were,” you huff when you tell him. Not appreciating how rude he was being. Signing had its own tones and expressions so to speak. For example, when someone is happy their signs and movements are different than when they’re sad or frustrated.

Harry seems to be the latter. You wrestle out your laptop to the PowerPoint that was going to be discussed today in class. You noticed Harry stared very intently at the professor to read his lips and expression.

You was surprised he didn’t have an interpreter with him but you’re sure he got special accommodations elsewhere. Even though that was absolutely none of your business.

His shoulders are tensed and he makes sure your arms don’t brush like you have cooties for the entire two hours. The nameless boy is up and out of his seat as soon as the professor shuts off the projector and turns on the lights - signaling class to be over.

Well fuck him then.

***

You don’t make the mistake to sit next him again. But that doesn’t mean you could ogle his strong muscular back and big hands.

It wasn’t your place to care but you felt twinges in your tummy when you noticed him struggling to keep up with the fast-speed class on certain days.

You were in the large, rustic library that smelled of old books and damp wallpaper. It was dead silent as people furiously studied or worked on papers due.

As you paced the shelves, you could not find the book you needed for your American Literature class. Fuck the Dewey Decimal System.

Part-time uni students probably just stuffed returned books in any open space they saw fit. But you need this book in particular, a discussion board post due by midnight and it was currently eight-thirty. They had ran out of copies at the on-campus bookstore.

After a valiant effort, you trudge up to the checkout counter. A little sign reads, “ring me if no ones here!”

You impatiently ring the silver bell. But no one comes. You give whoever is working a minute or two but nothing. Another ring it is.

Silence. No one. Of fucking course, luck is not on your side tonight.

You dramatically clunk your head onto the high counter top in front of you - groaning at the fact you may fail the assignment.

A tentative pat on your shoulder makes you snap your head up. To see the boy you’ve been constantly avoiding standing behind the checkout desk.

“Are you okay?” He asks. He had a name-tag on - Harry. He honestly looked a bit out of place. Harry appeared to be a frat boy. He was still had a boyish air about him but an intensity that was unmatchable.

He didn’t look like he would work in the library. He looked like...well he looked like he would be a beer pong referee or something.

You couldn’t see below his torso but he had a plain black snapback on and a vintage Elton John concert tee. A cross necklace dangling over the worn shirt.

You smile, embarrassed, but reply, “Just being dramatic. I can’t find a book and I was waiting here.”

There’s mirth in his eyes when he points to the bell,”Did you ring the bell?”

Your brows furrow, “I did.”

“Well I can’t hear it, I’m deaf,” he deadpans with a straight face and a dry sense of humor.

You roll your eyes, laughing nervously, “I didn’t know you were working!”

“What do you need?”

He helps you locate the book in two minutes flat before checking you out and you rushing home to finish the homework.

You felt bad ignoring your little sister’s FaceTime calls but you promised to call her back tomorrow.

***

Though once again, you hadn’t interacted with Harry since last week - you constantly found yourself studying his stoic profile or fast moving fingers.

You would never befriend Harry because you feel bad for him - like he presumed. You enjoyed American Sign Language and it actually made you feel back at home.

You’re little sister was born completely deaf. She was much younger than you - eight years old. Fifteen years apart to be exact. You learned the language along with her and your parents.

When you were at home and your sister was there - you guys tried to only sign so she didn’t feel left out. So Harry felt like home - a little despite his completely off-putting demeanor. It made you a little bit more persistent than with any other frat boy.

***

The bulletin board in your advisor’s office caught your eyes. None of the little tabs ripped off in interest.

‘Student with ASL experience and above a 3.5 GPA needed for tutoring sessions - twice weekly. $16 dollars an hour.’

After your meeting, you tugged the little scrap of paper off and tuck it into your pocket. You couldn’t know for sure if it was Harry but you didn’t know of any other deaf students in the program.

You say ‘fuck it’ and type out an email to the advisor of academic affairs and accommodations to throw your hat in the ring.

***

You don’t hear back for three days - nearly forgetting about it in the mean time. Your eyes scan quickly over the email to grant you the position. They include contact information for no other than Harry Styles.

After psyching yourself out a little and a few paces across your kitchen tiles - you text him.

Hey! I’m your new assigned tutor. Would you like to set up a time and place? As well as what kind of help you’re looking for.

The reply text comes shortly after

Hello, thank you very much. I am just in need of hearing ears. I am deaf and have a hard time keeping up with the my professor. I have begun recording the lectures in hope that you can sign then to me.

Sure thing. That won’t be a problem!

I live in Alpha Sigma on 3rd street. I have my own room. I’d rather not have the tutoring session in public. However, if that makes you uncomfortable - we can figure something out.

You take a minute to debate. You understand why this would be a task too loud for the library and why he’d want privacy. You didn’t feel like I’d be uncomfortable with him.

I saw twice a week so does Tuesday and Thursday at seven work?

Sounds great. Thank you again x

Did he know it was me? Was he expecting it to me?

***

He was definitely not expecting you. You automatically knew that by the way his friendly smile dissipated into a frown when he opened the door for you.

You attempted to look nice today without trying too hard. A loose crop top with the university’s name, a pair of tight black leggings, bulky white socks bunched at your ankles, and white sneakers. Very 80’s.

You try to keep your composure, “Hi Harry, I’m going to be your tutor.”

He slowly nods at you, huffing out a breathe of irritation before inviting you into the frat house.

You’d only been here once or twice for a party so you had no idea what the house actually looked like when there weren’t bodies and booze everywhere.

He’s walking you past a group of boys playing FIFA on the flatscreen in the living room, white claws open everywhere.

“Y/N! Hey babe!” You look over to see Niall - one of your good friends from your part-time job at the bookstore - trotting over to you guys.

The blonde pulls you into an overexcited hug. He reminded you of a cuddly, soft puppy dog most of the time.

“Are you Harry’s little tutor?” Niall coos, leaning over to pinch Harry’s cheek.

Harry- who was observing the conversation, focusing in on our lips, immediately bats his friend away. A small scowl forming on his face.

It automatically turns into a playful brawl where Niall tugs Harry into headlock. But he has no strength on the brunette.

Harry turns out of it quickly and pushes Niall to the ground. He straddles his stomach and begins to jokingly pinch and slap at him.

Niall hisses, “Ouch! You motherfucker! Big oaf!”

Then you don’t know why you find this endearing but Niall signs the word, “uncle” a few times to signal he’s accepted his lost.

The fact that they wrestle so much that Niall learned to sign how to give up made you giggle more than it should.

Harry crawls off of him, running a hand through his messy curls, his face a little flushed.

“I’ll talk to you later!” You tell Niall as your trailing behind Harry up a flight of stairs.

His room is extremely neat. A fluffy navy comfort decorated his bed with a few photos of flowers and nature on his wall. A tidy desk tucked away in the corner that had all of his school work loaded on top of it.

He chooses to sit in his desk chair, motioning for you to perch on his bed. You look at him expectantly when he pulls out the tape recorder and sets it on the surface.

He pulls his laptop into his lap and begins signing, “I need you to transcribe the lecture for me so I can follow it. We can skip through the bits where he is rambling or off topic.”

You nod, letting him know to begin whenever he’s ready. He presses the side button and the recording starts but it super unclear and garbled.

“Did you record this from your seat?” You ask, the professors words nearly inaudible and fuzzy.

“Yes.”

“You need to bring it to the front of the room. Ask Dr. Morrison to lay it on his desk before class. I can’t hear anything but static and mumbles,” You tell him.

He laughs and shakes his head. His movements rough and angry, “Of course its fucked up. I get you as my tutor and then the recorder is shit.”

You glare at him, offended as you haven’t done anything to this boy. “Excuse me? I’ve literally been trying to help since I’ve meet you. What is your fucking issue?”

“I’m not a charity case! I don’t need you to feel bad for me. I’m not helpless! You’re probably just a silly little girl who took ASL in high school because it was cool and trendy. Go back to focusing on psych.”

“Fuck you, Harry,” Your gestures getting sharper and your face sour, “You know nothing about me so don’t act like you do. I don’t feel bad for you or think that you’re helpless.” You put up a hand and tell him to not talk.

“I was just being nice because I thought you were handsome and at first, seemed friendly. It turns out you’re just like every douchebag frat boy I’ve met. What a disappointment,” You chuckle, swinging your bag on your shoulder and storm out of the room without another look.

***

The cafe was jammed packed - it was Waffle Wednesday. You had said waffles in your tray and were about to plop down on a stool when you hear your name being called.

“C’mere, come sit with us!” He hollers over the commotion of the crowd. Niall.

You’re about to decline when some dude slips behind you and snags the stool. Shit.

A bit unwillingly you slide into the booth next to Niall, cracking open your sparkling water. “Mates, this is Y/N, we work at the store together and she’s Harry’s tutor,” he tells them. “Y/N, this is Liam and Louis.”

“Hello,” you try your best to come off as friendly even though you can feel Harry’s glare on the side of your face. You ended up falling to easy conversation with the boys. Niall has a very limited ASL vocabulary but tries.

The boys are also trying to talk slower and more pronounced so Harry can watch and understand. A couple of times he taps Niall on the wrist to repeat what was going on.

Your phone begins buzzing and you apologize for the interruption. It’s your little sister, Mazie, FaceTiming.

You answer the phone with a frown, signing “Aren’t you suppose to be in school?”

Mazie looks upset, eyes a little watery. She gestures back, “I left early. I’m sick.”

“Are you really sick or where you getting bullied again?” You asks her.

Your sister hesitates before sniffling, “You already know. I hate my school.”

Mazie has had other children bully her for her disability since she started preschool and it as still happening in fourth grade.

“What can I do to help?” You frown, never wanting to see your baby sister cry.

You chat for a few minutes to help her calm down. When the phone call ends, you don’t realize that all the boys were watching you in interest. Harry in particular, keeps his focus on you with a wrinkled forehead.

“My sister’s deaf,” You tell them. The whole time you’ve been sitting with them you’ve been signing and verbally speaking to help everyone be able to be included in the conversation.

“That’s sick!” Louis says, smacking Harry’s arm. “Just like our lad Harry.”

Harry grumbles when Louis shakes him a little. It seems like the boys loved to physically interact with Harry which was endearing.

Harry allows him to for a moment before he flicks his cheek hard and laughs when Louis flinches. The conversation goes back to normal.

***

Harry jogs up to you after your group shares farewells and a few punches. You pointedly ignore him as you trek to the class you two have together so it’s not like he can’t walk this way too.

“Please, wait,” Harry asks. He walks in front of you.

“What do you want?” You huff, keeping my glare firm and directed alley at him.

“I’m sorry. I made the wrong assumption.”

“You made a lot of wrong assumptions. The fact that you think of me so lowly is sad. I’ve been nothing but nice,” You try not to focus on his large palms that curve over the caps of your shoulders.

“I’m not very trusting of people.”

You snort rather unattractively, “No kidding”

“Can we please start over?” He asks, stepping back to give you space. He didn’t realize how close he’d been standing to you until your hair wisps across his nose.

“One more chance, Styles.”

Harry lays a hand on your upper arm and squeeze lightly before signing the simple gesture of ‘thank you.’

***

It turns out Harry is very handsy and physically affectionate. It wasn’t creepy though or something that ever made you feel uncomfortable.

You were still tutoring him but you hung around the frat with Harry nearly everyday. The days you just wanted to lay in bed resulted in a grumpy FaceTime from Harry.

Harry once stated during a tutoring session, “It is easier for me to show how I’m feeling with touch than words. If I ever make you uncomfortable - please tell me and I will stop.”

You smile slyly at his words that sounded more like a question, asking if he can touch you. “I guess I’ll let you feel me up every now in again.”

He giggles and looks down wolfishly - like an entertaining thought is dancing around in his mind.

You tuck your finger under his chin to gaze at you. “In all seriousness, I give you my consent to show your feelings with physical touch. I trust you and know you won’t do anything to make me uncomfortable.”

The curly-haired brunette smiles happily, his hand cupping the side of your neck and brushing over your pulse point.

He hadn’t touched you here before and it seems like it was his first goal to do so once he got permission. You can’t help but take in a deep gasp of air. You prayed he didn’t notice but by the small lift of his lips he did.

The simple touch made a flame of arousal swirl in your lower stomach. You felt like you were about to start sweating.

“Anyways,” You clear your throat and snatch back up the recorder. It now had better quality after Harry listened to you about placement.

***

The frat house was ridiculously full of drunk college students. Everybody on the dance floor was sweaty and sticky with a variety of different substances.

Niall had invited you - so you were searching about for him. Pushing through the crowd and nobody was able to hear you say ‘excuse me.’

You finally found fresh air in the backyard where beer pong and cornhole were set up. Niall was tossing his ball across the table, trying to splash in Liam’s red solo cups.

Harry was sitting on a cushioned patio chair, watching the game commence. Maybe he was a beer pong referee after all.

He looked so fucking good tonight. He had a yellow snapback taming his curls - backwards of course. A black Rage Against the Machine shirt and his signature black skinny jeans. **

You made eye contact and were about to wave when a girl plopped down in the seat across from him.

Awkwardly you turn away, greeting the other boys and taking a seat in a lawn chair to watch them start their third round of the game.

Your eyes keep darting over to Harry who is staring blankly at the girl. She starts stroking his biceps and tracing across the tattoos like they belong to her.

Harry is attempting to let her know he’s not interested. His signs uselessly as she’s staring at his lips and not hands.

You’re moving before you know it, without another thought, you squeeze in between the two - separating them. You dramatically slide into his lap, funnily enough one strong arm wrapping happily around your middle.

The pretty blonde pouts out her lips, “Is he your boyfriend?”

Before you’re able to reply, Harry signs the obvious signal for ‘yes’ to the girl. Then rudely makes the shooing gesture. She’s up with a huff and stomping back towards the house.

Harry turns you sideways on his lap so that you two can see each other’s hands, “You saved me.”

“You’re just such a stud, have to protect you,” You joke - but not really.

He raising his eyebrows and smiles, “You were jealous.” It was a statement not a question.

You blush wildly, avoiding eye contact which you know he hates. He hates anytime you cut off ways of communication.

Harry taps your lips until you look up at him, “it’s really fucking sexy when you are.” A perk of sign language. He could dirty talk just about anywhere and mostly no one would ever know.

His thumb drags on your full bottom lip, signing clumsily with one hand so you had to use context clues to piece it together “Don’t think I forgot when you called me handsome a few months ago.”

“I don’t remember, doesn’t sound like me,” You boldly lie, snickering and nipping at the top of his thumb

His eyes become a shade darker when your teeth meet his skin. He presses his thumb further in until it’s in-between your teeth. The moment is broken when Niall screams, “Styles! You’re up next!”

You and Harry become separated after you spent nearly two hours watching all these drunk boys play beer pong. Harry was ridiculously good at the game and only had to drink two cups from the table.

You had wandered back into the house where the party had died down. There were only a handful of stragglers left but mostly just the fraternity brothers and their close friends.

With a fresh alcoholic seltzer in your hand - you didn’t trust open bottles at parties like this - you gaze at Harry through the back window.

Harry was being jumped by Liam and Niall. He was snarling playfully as Liam toppled them all over into the grass. Niall tries to stand up but Harry’s hand wraps around his ankle and makes him fall right back on his bum with a girlish squeal.

Niall leans over to give Harry a wet-willy but Liam manages to throw a plastic cup directly at Niall’s forehead. Harry and the other boys dissolve in childish giggles. Faces red from laughter and liquor. You feel a smile painted fondly on your lips from watching them.

“Hey, Y/N right?” A voice interrupts from behind.

You spin to face a guy you barely recognize from a previous class you shared. You smile nonetheless, “Hi...”

“Jake, Jake from Social Constructs and Society last semester.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right,” You smile and allow him to talk your ear off because you struggle to say ‘no.’ He was fine, nothing special, typical business major who thought he was hot shit because his daddy owned a golf course he wanted to take you to.

It was a normal conversation until his voice gets lower as if he’s trying to be more seductive, “Want to head to a room with me?” He nods towards the staircase.

You chuckle in disbelief at his bold and forward question. “No thank you, I’m good.” You really had eyes for one person right now and he was currently cussing out Niall in sign language in the backyard before tackling him once again to the ground.

“C’mon, I can really show you a good time,” He persuades persistently, stepping into your space - causing your nervousness to spike.

“I said - no thank you,”You bite out, starting to feel scared when he blocks your way out of the kitchen and presses himself against you and the counter.

“You’re really something gorgeous, you know?” He asks, ignoring my struggles to get away from him.

“Stop touching me!” You scream, hoping Niall or one of the boys would hear your wail. He puts a hand up to your mouth to muffle you but that only results in you biting him.

“Fucking bitch!” He cries out, pulling his hand back and winding up to either punch or slap you right in the face. You prepare for the impact.

Then in a blink off an eye, it becomes a blur, a muscular figure is crashing into Jake with full force and knocking him straight into the linoleum floor with a loud crash.

It’s Harry. Broad shoulders and thick but lean tattooed biceps. He’s standing over the harasser and drops on top of him. It shouldn’t look as graceful and tactful as it does.

You’d never seen anything like this from Harry before. Once you really got to know him - he was a gentle giant who liked romantic comedies, soft blankets, and vanilla cupcakes with rainbow sprinkles.

Harry’s fist is repeatedly connecting with the dark-haired boy’s jaw with full force. The only noise is from Jake as Harry is dead silent but his eyes zeroed in on the target.

When blood begins gushing from the man’s nose - Niall and Liam decide it times to physically pull Harry up. Harry had a slight red mark on his jaw when Jake had managed one punch before being defeated quickly.

Harry signs to Niall, “Tell him.”

Niall places his foot on the dude’s chest to keep him down, “My mate wants to let you know if you touch her again we’re not going to pull him off and he’ll gladly beat you to a fucking pulp.”

Jake groans, clutching his nose to stop the bleeding, “Fuckin’ asshole.”

You were still blown away as you watch Harry’s heaving chest as he glares down at the boy. His fist clenched and knuckle bloody and swollen. Harry’s attention turns towards you. His furious expression melts into worry. You can read his face so clearly. He’s afraid he’s scared you off.

It was hard to believe you had this drop dead gorgeous frat boy defending you past midnight on a Friday night. A boy who didn’t need to hear but just to see you needed help to step in.

All your desires and lusts after the man in front of you burst like a rubber-band and the urge to have him felt uncontrollable. “Take me upstairs,” you demand quickly, arousal creeping up your spine.

He doesn’t understand you’re extremely turned on. Instead he looks like a kicked dog who’s about to get in trouble again.

Nevertheless, he takes your hand and maneuvers out of the kitchen and up the stairs until his bedroom door is closed.

Harry lips are turned down unhappily as he begins, “I’m sorry, love. I...” he pauses a moment before continuing. “I just wanted to make sure you were safe. I hope you don’t think less of me.”

You look him dead in the eye and sign, “Kiss me.”

He blinks slowly at you like he just hallucinate the gestures.

So you repeat your motions, slow and with intent, “Kiss me, touch me, do something.” No more time is wasted as he is stepping in front of you and cupping your face in his hands.

Without any hesitation now, he pressing a bruising kiss to your lips - taking your bottom one between his and sucking.

Your hands are immediately tugging at the hem of his vintage shirt, pulling apart to bring it over his head. Dark ink decorates his torso, for some reason something you weren’t expecting. A butterfly on his abdomen, two fern branches, tattoos on his side.

Harry chuckles, “This is new to me.”

Your eyes go wide and you sign, “You’re a virgin?”

Harry snorts and rolls his eyes before telling you, “God no. I mean I’ve never been able to really communicate during sex.”

Then before You can speak, he cuts in a bit frantically, “I’ve always gotten consent - not like that. I mean-“ You cut him off with a kiss - knowing he would never do anything you didn’t want.

You wanted everything from him.

“If you’d believe it, I like a bit of dirty talk when I fuck - but no one understands what I’m saying,” He tries to crack a joke but for some reason seems insecure and nervous.

“Hey,” You take his chin so he shyly meets your eye, “I can’t wait to hear it - you’ve already made me so wet.” His eyes light up like a kid on Christmas.

“You’re such a good girl,” he signs before tugging off your shirt and instantly finding your lips again. His hands are skillful as they unclasp your bra without any struggle and tosses it.

You tugs a bit as his hair to show your enjoyment as his tongue finds your nipple - lapping before taking it between his teeth. As good as it feels, you want him to feel even better.

You push him back until he’s sitting in the edge of the bed, legs spread and hands behind him on either side holding him up. Jaw clenched with arousal and restraint.

He’s pressed against the zipper of his jeans. And all you wanted to do was see him in all of his glory. You’re quick to undo the button and determined to get the finicky zipper down as well.

His fingers come beneath your chin until you’re looking at his sparkling eyes, a look of lust made his lids a little droopier and his mouth slack from heavy-breathing.

“Are you sure you want to? You don’t have to - I want to eat your pussy either way, pet,” He signs, leaning in for a slow, wet kiss.

You sign back with a pout, “Shut the fuck up.” He huffs out a laugh, letting go of your chin and wrapping a hand in your hair to keep it out of your face.

As soon as he’s helping you wriggle his briefs and jeans down his narrow hips, you’re met with the prettiest cock you’ve ever seen.

When you make eye contact with Harry, he raises a eyebrow and grins cockily, “Is it nice enough for your liking, love?”

You nod breathlessly - wasting no more time before ducking down to take him to your mouth, a slight burning in your throat from how big he is.

His hands keep ahold of your hair, thumbs pressed against your temples as you bob down his length with sloppy, warm licks.

Harry’s moaning as you pop off to kiss and suck at the underside of him, hands coming to cup and roll his balls. It is a few moments later when he taps your cheek to get your attention, one hand leaving his hair to sign that he’s close.

Your mouth speeds up, wanting to give him all the pleasure you could. Your hand coming to stroke at what couldn’t fit in your mouth, pumping quickly.

Before you know it, Harry’s rutting his hips upwards and coming with a long, deep moan from the rumbles of his chest. He’s pulling you up into his lap, pressing appreciative kisses to your cheeks and jawline.

Big hands palming at your breasts before slipping down into your leggings, brushing softly over your mound.

You whine and hitch forward to grind against his palm as soon as he cups you. He smiles widely at your desperation, pressing the heel of his palm harder against you to create more pressure.

You were already so wet and turned on that it wasn’t going to take much. The ball of your climax was burning low in your tummy. However, you wanted him to taste you like he said he would.

You sign, “I’m close. Please, I want your mouth on me.”

With that, he’s flipping you until you’re laid out on the bed. His hands tugging off your leggings and underwear with no further ado. “Holy shit,” He gestures, gazing all over your body and not stopping on one spot for too long.

“What?” You ask, fishing for the compliments you know he’s about to shower you in.

“You’ve got such a pretty pussy,” he signs, dimples popping in his cheeks and a curious finger traces your entrance before dipping in.

You lightly kick at his stomach, “Get on me.” He pouts, crooking his finger against your spot before pulling it out. Fucking tease.

Then his face is disappearing between your spread thighs and a strong lick is delivered from your clit all the way down to your bum.

Since he can’t hear you, you grabs handfuls off his hair. Tugging at the roots, scratching your nails into his scalp to let him know how good he is. So fucking good.

When you accidentally buck your hips hard against his mouth, you curse and run a apologetic hand through the locks. He doesn’t look up at you but lift a hand and signs, “Again.”

You absolutely whine, begging to ride him with determination - climax on the brink. He hums causing vibrations on the sensitive nerves. With that, your hips are meeting his tongue and you’re coming. His face dampening with your release - happy as a clam when he pops back up.

You can’t remember the sign for condom, so you sign, “Protection?” Harry understands right away, rustling through the drawer until he finds a stray packets, “It’s been awhile.”

“Same,” You gestures - watching as he slides it down his length and crawls overtop of you. He was pink and swollen - having to be a bit sensitive from just coming a little while ago.

“Ready, love?” He asks, pressing soft kisses to your jawline. You nod, reaching down to guide him in.

And you weren’t lying, it had been a while and he was big. The stretch wasn’t uncomfortable, just a lot. But his wet, open-mouth kisses made you stay grounded.

Harry’s moans were absolutely obscene as he slide all the way in before stopping to give you a moment. His arms strong, holding himself over you. The cold metal of his necklaces brushing against your tight nipples.

When you have him the okay, he begin giving you deep, hard strokes on each thrust. His noises so loud they had to be able to hear them downstairs. They were deep and low - rumbling in his chest with pleasure.

Then his hand is coming to your throat. For a wild moment you thought he was going to choke you but instead he rest it lightly, palm flat.

It takes you a moment - then it hits you.

Holy fuck. He is feeling the vibrations of your moans - erupting from your vocal cords. Feeling out the movement from your throat so he can feel how much you’re enjoying it.

You should be embarrassed but you can’t find it in you when you come again right on the spot. His fingertips nudging into the skin to feel the intensity as it wracks through you.

When you’re done riding out your orgasm, he reaches for the headboard behind you with his other hand, gripping it tightly as he begins to pound in with all his strength.

The bedframe is hitting the wall so loud that the whole house must be able to hear it. Hitting with every directed thrust until his mouth is dropping down into a long, timbred moan and he’s coming.

---

Later, when the two are you have settled for the night in the warmth of his bed. Harry seems a little nervous, once again. It takes him a moment to meet your eyes and brushes a strand of hair off your forehead.

“What is it?” You ask, tucked into his side. His body so solid and comforting.

“It’s corny,” Harry frowns, eyebrows furrowing as his eyes flash across your face.

“Tell me,” You insist, bringing his hand to your lips to kiss his fingertips.

“I feel like you were made for me. Like...we were meant to be together,” Harry signs, hesitant to share his thoughts. But it doesn’t scare you away. You can’t help but agree.

“I think so too,” You reply before pressing another kiss to his puffy pink lips.

2K notes · View notes

sunder-soul · 3 years

Note

1- Love your writing it’s *chefs kiss*

2- Can you write about how Tom is trying to get the attention of Hufflepuff reader by actually being nice like buying them flowers,telling them they look nice, always offering to help them. But he does it in a grouchy way and at the end it’s just fluffy. 👉🏽👈🏽

Holy shit this is just the most. Yes. Yes yes yes.

･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

An Easy Mistake

Summary: Tom keeps trying to be nice to Hufflepuff Reader, but somehow it always seems to go wrong...

Wordcount: 1.6k

Content warning: none

･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

“Is that Riddle?” Sebastian asks in sceptical disbelief.

Your whole group look around at once to see that yes, indeed it is Riddle coming towards you where you’re set up at a large table in the corner of the library, chatting more than you’re studying.

“What in Merlin’s name does he want?” Cecil mutters, shaking his head incredulously, the golden frames of his glasses gleaming against his dark skin.

“Maybe he’s going to tell us off for talking in the library,” Ethel giggles, blushing nearly as red as her hair as she glances Riddle’s way again.

“He’s quite pretty, isn’t he,” you say under your breath, giving Sebastian a cheeky look, “shame his face is hidden by a book half the time –”

“ – and kissing Slughorn’s arse the rest of it,” Seb interjects.

You both descend into giggles and Cecil pointedly thumps your shoulder right as Riddle arrives before you.

“Hello,” you say loudly, ignoring Cecil completely as you grin widely at Riddle.

Riddle blinks once at the odd display, looking supremely unimpressed. “Hello,” he says smoothly as he stands tidily beside your table.

Sebastian kicks you under the table and you kick him back so hard that he chokes on a laugh. Riddle shoots him a sharp look and Seb attempts to school his expression into something composed (with very modest success) as you continue to grin blandly at Riddle.

“Might I have a word?” Riddle says coolly, his gaze swivelling back to you. He looks like he’s already regretting approaching you.

The other three immediately duck their head to hide their snickers as you gawp at Riddle, utterly bemused. “I suppose...” you say as you slowly stand.

He nods and walks off down a nearby aisle. You follow, giving your friends a baffled look over your shoulder – they shrug back theatrically, and then you turn the corner to find Riddle pulling something out of his bag.

“Here,” he says smoothly, handing out a small stack of parchments.

You take them automatically, scanning the first one. “Notes? On Delphi’s Brew?” you ask slowly, raising a questioning brow as you glance up at him.

“Yes,” Riddle says, sliding the clasp of his bag back into a place with a sharp click, “my notes. I heard that you’re attending Slughorn this weekend whilst he makes it.”

You stare at him a moment, unable to fathom how he knew about your extra credit assignment. “And… and why exactly are you giving me these…?” you ask, confused.

“To make sure that you do so correctly,” he says curtly, looking irritated.

You narrow your eyes and hold his notes back out to him. “Thanks,” you say coolly, “but I think I’ll manage.”

Riddle stares at you blankly. You hold them out a bit more and raise your brows. Something hard falls across Riddle’s face and he snatches them back. “Is there a particular reason you’re refusing my guidance?” he snaps.

“Very bold of you to assume I need guidance, Riddle,” you say sharply. “Is this because I’m a Hufflepuff?”

“No, it’s because Delphi’s Brew is an incredibly complex potion that only the most proficient Potioneers attempt,” Riddle says, just as sharp.

“Is that so?” you say, crossing your arms, “And why exactly did you assume that I’d need extra assistance rather than just raising your estimation of my Potions skills?”

“I was trying to help,” Riddle hisses.

“Perhaps you should offer Slughorn your notes then,” you say loudly, “considering I’m the one making it and Slughorn’s attending me.”

You wheel around and stalk back to your friends, sitting down angrily.

“What did he want?” Ethel asks quickly.

“To condescendingly insult my intelligence,” you grumble, returning to your work. “Merlin, some of those Slytherin boys really think they’re a cut above the rest of us, don’t they?”

“Ignore him,” Sebastian declares loudly.

“Shame he’s so pretty if he’s rude,” Cecil says casually. “What a waste.”

“You don’t have to talk to him,” Seb smirks. “You can just admire him from afar, like Ethel.”

“He’s much better from afar than up close,” you mutter.

“Like a Monet painting,” Ethel sighs dreamily.

“Or a Flesh-Eating Slug,” Cecil deadpans.

You all descends into giggles again.

･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

“You’re joking,” you say disbelievingly.

A bouquet of flowers has just appeared in front of your breakfast plate, a huge bouquet of flowers. The garish, impractically large blooms are packed together and tied with a lavish green velvet ribbon, all wrapped in what looks like silk – it even has a few fairies clinging to the stems. It would have cost a fortune.

“Who sent that?” Seb laughs, picking them up. “Merlin’s beard, it’s hideous –”

“Is someone trying to buy your affection?” Ethel giggles.

You eye the bouquet disapprovingly. “I sure hope not, they must not know me at all.”

“This is hilarious,” Cecil says dryly, taking the bouquet from Sebastian and running his fingers across the ribbon. “To think, they could literally walk outside, pick a single weed and hand it to you, and you’d like it more than this.”

“That’s because that would take effort and time,” you say exasperatedly, “this is just...”

“Showing off?” Sebastian smirks. “Bet it’s from a pureblood whose whole personality is their family name…”

“Can I have the ribbon?” Ethel asks quickly, leaning forward. “It’ll look nice in my hair.”

By the end of breakfast you’ve given nearly everyone at the Hufflepuff table a flower from the horribly exorbitant bouquet – though the fairies linger around your head for a few hours before floating off out the door during Herbology.

･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

That Saturday, you step into the Potions classroom for your advanced assignment and just about turn around and leave again – Riddle is sitting at Slughorn’s desk, his eyes flashing to yours when you enter.

There’s a tense silence.

“Riddle,” you say evenly, stepping forward and letting the door shut behind you, “how… unexpected.”

“Slughorn was called away on business,” he says, calmly shutting the book he’d been reading and setting it on the desk. “I offered to attend you instead.”

“How generous of you,” you mutter, dropping your bag by the desk and collecting your cauldron from the cupboard before returning to set up.

“You look…”

You slowly look up, barely able to believe the words you’ve just heard come out of Riddle’s mouth. He’s looking at you with a supremely frustrated expression on his face, his eyes fixed heatedly on yours. “Yes?” you prompt disbelievingly.

“Different,” he finishes flatly.

You arch a brow. “I’m not in my uniform, Riddle, could that possibly be the difference?”

“No,” he snaps, “I meant…” he waves at you, his lips a tight line. “You look nice.”

You round on him fully. “And that’s a notable difference, is it?”

“Have I offended you somehow?” Riddle snaps, leaning back in his seat. “It seems that no matter what I do, you’re displeased.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I offer to help you with this potion and you act as if I’ve snapped your wand in half,” he says angrily, “I give you flowers and you pull them apart and give them away –”

“That was you?” you ask, dumbfounded.

Riddle’s eyes flash and he stands swiftly. “This is pointless,” he breathes, seizing his book off the desk. “I’m leaving. I trust you can handle this by yourself.”

He strides away and you watch him go in shock. The door slams a little too hard behind him.

You look back at the cauldron on the desk, your mind picking over your last few interactions with Riddle – and a horrible realisation dawns on you.

“Oh my god,” you whisper to your cauldron, mortified. “He was trying to be nice.”

Your head whips around and you dash across the room as fast as you can, wrenching the door open and skidding into the corridor as you frantically look around. You only just see a sliver of him disappearing around the corner and you sprint after him full speed.

You round the corner precariously, heart lurching at the sight of him about half-way down the corridor in front of you –

“Tom!” you shout, hurrying forward.

He stops at once, and slowly turns back to you as you slide to a halt in front of him, panting. “You – you were trying to be nice,” you gasp, leaning your hands on your knees.

Tom arches a brow. “Yes,” he says caustically.

“I didn’t realise,” you say, squinting up at him. “I thought you were being a condescending prick – you may want to examine why that was an easy mistake to make –”

Tom’s jaw tenses and he looks away. “Did you want something?” he asks through clenched teeth.

“Go to Hogsmeade with me,” you blurt out.

Tom’s eyes flash to yours, his tension melting into surprise at once. “What?”

“Hogsmeade. Go with me,” you repeat, standing up. “On a date.”

He stares at you. To your equally strong surprise and delight, you can see the faintest pink on his cheeks. “Alright,” he says quietly.

“Okay,” you say breathlessly, before giving him a cheeky smile, “just – no more ridiculously expensive bouquets, alright? Not really my style.”

He nods wordlessly, still staring at you.

You look back down the corridor behind you. “Listen,” you say slowly, turning back to him, “I… could use a hand with this potion… if you still want to.”

Tom blinks, and there’s a long moment before he replies. “I did bring my notes,” he says smoothly, a very small smirk building on his lips as he turns fully towards you. “In case you changed your mind.”

You snort. “I’m sure you did,” you say wryly, shaking your head.

#tom riddle #tom marvolo riddle #tom riddle x oc #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle x you #tom riddle fanfic #tom riddle fanfiction #tom riddle fic #tom riddle fluff #fluff #anon #prompt #minific #FIL #An easy mistake #hufflepuff reader #soft tom #gn reader

1K notes · View notes

wkemeup · 3 years

Text

Sunrise (3)

summary: After an explosion takes his arm and his only sense of belonging, Bucky is content to live out the rest of his days in the hollow comfort of the dark. This is, until Sam drags him down to the local VA and he meets you. (Modern AU) pairings: bucky x reader chapter word count: 5.2k warnings: none 🧡 series masterlist / series playlist

Bucky stared down at the fresh coffee stained on the sidewalk; a caramel puddle nestling into the cracks and stretching along the lines until it spilled out into the street. He could smell the bitterness and the sweetness in the cream, the steam of it still warm as it filtered up into the cold, autumn air. He cursed at himself under his breath.

You’d looked so beautiful, even with your eyes wide in shock and lips parted in a gasp as coffee spilled to your shoes. Dressed under an army green overcoat, a sliver of a burnt orange sweater peaked out from underneath. He’d seen that particular shade before, cast over a forest of evergreens and reflecting into the clouds, just above the sun as it set over the tree line.

But he’d made a fool of himself in front of you and he could still feel the burning in his ears. He felt hot under his jacket and he found himself glancing down the street, wondering if he could make a run for it. Only, you were waiting for him inside and Bucky couldn’t stand the idea of disappointing you.

Gathering what remained of his courage, Bucky parted the double doors and stepped inside. It took a minute to let his eyes adjust, but when the dim lighting came into view, he noticed you were standing by the entrance waiting for him like you’d known he’d decide to follow. You beamed as he caught sight of you and his stomach twisted straight to knots. You were still clutching the donut box to your chest, almost as if you were afraid he’d knock that out of your hands, too.

“Come on, you can help me set up.” You gestured down the hall to the room he met you in a few days prior. The library with no books on the shelves and cobwebs in the corners. “We’ve got to get you a book before the others show up.”

Bucky nodded, though he didn’t say anything as he followed you. It was pretty quiet without so many people lingering around, but everyone seemed to smile as you approached; perking up from under their clouds and called out your name until you waved back at them. It was like you carried sunshine in your pockets and comfort in your presence, breaking away stormy skies as you passed by.

Before you could reach the library door, Bucky rushed out ahead of you and grabbed a hold of the knob. You paused, eyes catching his for a moment and a pink filtered into his cheeks. He cleared his throat.

“Figured I could do one decent thing today after I ruined your shoes,” he explained, pulling open the door for you.

“You showed up, didn’t you?” you added with a wink. “I count two decent things today, James Barnes.”

He chuckled at that, nodding. “Y-Yeah, okay.”

You set the donuts on the coffee table and began to push the furniture around into a circle. You shouldered most of your weight into the couch to get it to budge and Bucky couldn’t help the smile that formed on his lips just watching you. Concentrated frown on your face, determination in your eyes, staring down the couch as if it were your sworn enemy.

“You need help with that?” Bucky asked, gesturing to the couch that barely moved a few inches while you were out of breath.

You glanced up at him over the spine of the couch, nodding gratefully. “This one always gives me trouble.”

“I’m sure if you waited for the others to show up, they’d help you move these around,” Bucky said as he placed his right hand on the back of the armrest, his knee digging into the center of the back. You stood next to him, hands on the frame to help push despite the fact that Bucky was strong enough, even without his left arm, to move the couch on his own. But he liked the idea of you beside him, so he didn’t say anything.

“Oh, I’m sure they would,” you exhaled as they couch slid perfectly into place within the circle. “They all work so hard though, you know? It’s nice to have them just walk in and sit down for a change. Don’t need them thinking I’m expecting work out of them, too.”

“Ah, so that's why I’m here, then...”

He was surprised by the teasing in his own voice. When was the last time he made a joke? He couldn’t even remember. But you started to smile, that brightness shining right up into your eyes, and it didn’t matter anymore. He’d make a thousand jokes if you would keep looking at him like that.

“Careful now,” you warned, a glimmer in your eye. “I might need you to help move this couch every week...”

“Wouldn’t be such a bad thing, would it?”

He didn’t know where this was coming from or how it slipped off his tongue so easily, but he liked the way it seemed to catch your off guard. You stilled for a second, a nervous laugh under your breath as you quickly tucked away a few strands of fallen hair. You were flustered. Shit. He was done for.

“Haven't even seen one meeting and you’re offering to move couches for me on a weekly basis? Consider me eternally grateful, James Barnes.” You plopped down on the couch, reaching for the strap of your bag, though it was a few inches out of reach.

Bucky leaned down and picked up the bag, surprised to find it as heavy as it was, and gently set it in your lap. He took a seat on the couch on your left, though he left considerable room between you. You started digging through the bag, pulling out book after book and setting them on the table.

“We’ve got to pick your book of choice,” you explained, smiling at him and clearly eager to see what he would select. “Anything you want. I can get something else from the library for next week if you’re not interested in these. I’ve got some guys reading Harry Potter for the first time. Lang’s on the second Twilight book. Romanoff is halfway through The Odyssey. Barton’s about a few pages to the end of a murder mystery he guessed the plot twist of within the first ten pages, which is just downright infuriating...”

Your nose was all scrunched up and it was the damn near cutest thing Bucky had ever seen. He must have been staring for too long though, because you raised a brow at him.

Bucky cleared this throat, quickly looking away. He scratched nervously at the back of his neck and tried to steer the conversation strictly away from how adorable he found you.

“Isn’t the point of a book club to read the same book?”

“I suppose,” you shrugged, “but not my book club. The whole point is just to help these guys feel comfortable, give them a moment of peace, even if it’s for an hour once a week. Sometimes we’ll sit around the circle and talk about what we’re reading. Lang’s working really hard to sell the Twilight books to the rest of the group despite being about a decade late to the game. Most times though, we just read, listen to some music. It’s quite nice, actually.”

So that was what Sam meant by unconventional.

“I don’t know the last time I read anything,” Bucky admitted slowly. He could barely get himself to concentrate on a single newspaper article these days, let alone an entire book. He often caught himself staring at the TV and realizing an episode later that he didn’t have a clue what had happened.

“A lot of the guys take breaks,” you offered, seemingly reading his mind. “That’s what the donuts are for. Oh, and the coffee, of course.”

You jumped up, making your way over to the pots sitting on the table lining the wall. The pots were already filled and he wondered who took the time to do that for you before you even arrived. You were so well liked around here, Bucky found himself wondering if he wasn’t the only one who felt like you could tell him to do just about anything and he’d oblige without question.

“You want some?” you asked, holding up an empty cup, but Bucky shook his head. He was already starting to get warm and adding coffee to the mix wouldn’t help things.

You didn’t seem to mind as you shrugged off your jacket and draped it by the door. The orange sweater he’d caught a glimpse of under your jacket turned out to be a cardigan. It flowed long down by your thighs, draped over a simple, white tank top and black jeans. Gold jewelry sat over your collarbone and you had a sudden glow about you, like that hour just before sunset.

Golden hour, he realized. That’s what you reminded him of.

“It’s warm in here, isn’t it?” you asked, fanning yourself as you set the coffee on the table. “It’s not just me?”

It’s definitely you, Bucky thought. He’d never met anyone who carried such a presence as to melt the icy cold shards planted defensively around his chest. You were the epitome of warmth and kindness and the sweetest damn thing he’d ever seen... but a trail of sweat lined his hairline and he could feel the heat trapped under his jacket.

“Not you,” Bucky confirmed, brushing at his brow. “It’s hot.”

“Here,” you stood up, holding out a hand to him, “I can take your jacket for you.”

Bucky froze, jaw clenched. He became painfully aware of the empty sleeve on his left side. He wasn’t a complete fool. He knew you must have noticed by now, but taking the jacket off made it obvious that a piece of him was missing, the stub at his shoulder the only thing left in place of an arm he could still feel most days.

“I’m, uh, I’m okay,” he stuttered out, his eyes falling to the ground, hoping you didn’t notice the flush in his cheeks. He could feel your eyes on him and he was almost certain that if he dared to look up at you, you’d be fixated on his empty sleeve.

Shame started to burn hot in his chest when suddenly he felt a cool breeze on the back of his neck. When he looked in search of you, he found you setting up a fan at the edge of the room, angling it just enough so that it was sure to reach him on every rotation.

He swallowed as he watched you. You didn’t ask questions or push him to take the jacket off despite being clearly too warm to keep it on. Instead, you offered him a short smile as you sat back on the couch beside him, a little closer this time.

“Any better?”

He nodded. “Yeah, that’s, uh, that's really nice. Thanks.”

You smiled for him and he wondered if he could stay inside that moment forever.

***

Bucky selected The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Gilman from the stack of books on the table. It surprised you as his hand ghosted over the cover before flipping it over in his palm, a curious look on his features. It was one of your favorites, one not many would choose to pick up in fear of the publishing date in the late 1800s, but it was a short story, one he could finish within the span of the meeting today.

As he stared down at the unusual yellow pattern on the cover, a frown pushed at his lips as he started to see the strange images hidden under the surface. You found yourself struggling to tear your gaze away from him. With such a reaction to the cover, you couldn’t wait for the end of the meeting just to hear what he thought of the story.

Soon, the usuals started filtering into the room and you noticed that Bucky had barely said a word as the low hum of small talk and chatter filled the empty space. He kept to himself, perched on the very edge of the couch cushion like he might run at any second as you talked with one of the oldest VA members by the door.

Upon sensing his discomfort, you quickly made your way back to the couch and you were surprised when you felt the cushion dip a little as he leaned in your direction as if he was using you as anchor; something familiar amongst an unknown. You tried to suppress a smile when he looked at you, but you really liked the idea of being something familiar to him.

“I’m glad you decided to stay,” you told him quietly, nudging his side playfully with your shoulder. It drew a soft laugh from under his breath and he nodded, gripping tight to the book.

“Yeah, me too.” He sank back into the couch and relaxed the tension in his body.

Six on the dot. You turned to the group.

Tony Stark sat in his usual throne, legs draped over the arm rest, sitting sprawled out over the single chair. Heir to Stark Industries, he’d enlisted himself in rebellion against his own father. He’d ended up in the Air Force for three tours and prided himself on the tattoo on his chest he’d gotten drunkenly off base in his early twenties.

Natasha Romanoff found her place sitting cross legged on the floor, leaning up against the seat of Tony’s chair. She was a sort of a mystery to you, never spoke a word about her position within the military and how long she served, but she was exceptionally perceptive. Part of you wondered if she was some sort of super spy. Despite becoming a close friend, there was still so little you knew about her history. She rested a pillow in her lap.

Then, there was Scott Lang. He’d found himself in some trouble after his discharge, but he was turning his life around. He had a little girl to stick around for and he was trying desperately to find a job. You suspected his fascination with the Twilight books stemmed more from an unbreakable bond with his daughter than anything else. He took his place on the bean bag chair.

Clint Barton sat on the table outside the circle. He was a sharp shooter in his time and found more comfort in the distance. He kept to himself and had an exceptionally entertaining habit of making quick remarks under his breath few were fortunate to hear. You were determined to hand him a book with a plot twist not even he could see coming. You resided to put Defending Jacob by William Landay on hold.

A few others filled out the circle; familiar faces of men and women most would look past on the streets. Dark circles under their eyes, a hardened look about them. Some with tattoos and long beards, other’s draped in leather. Some, you could see the ghost of their former selves in their eyes, but they all seemed to lighten as they sat around the circle.

A moment of peace. It’s all you could offer and they took it gladly.

“Hey everyone. We’ve got a newbie in today.” You gestured to Bucky and he slowly lifted his hand in an awkward wave. “This is Bucky. Bucky, this is the group. Play nice.”

“What’s your rank, soldier?” Tony quipped from his chair; legs kicked out over the side. He never had much of a filter, or a sense of restraint. You shot him a glare he didn’t seem to notice, or rather he didn’t care.

“Sergeant,” Bucky clarified, though you could hear the strain in his voice. He said it as though it burned him, like the very act of the title was painful just to speak.

“Where’d you serve?”

“Tony, we’re not grilling the new kid today,” you warned, but Bucky cleared his throat.

“Afghanistan mostly.” He curled his hand into a fist, pinching at the pages of The Yellow Wallpaper in his grip. A hardness had swept over most of his features, almost in a protective layer, and you wanted to whack Tony upside the head for stealing the soft undertones in his expression.

“And the rest?”

Bucky paused, releasing his fist. “Classified.”

Tony pursed his lips, staring Bucky down over the top lens of his thick rimmed glasses. A testament of wills. A challenge. Then, he nodded, satisfied.

“Great,” you groaned, rolling your eyes playfully. “Now that Tony here has finished interrogating our newest member, we can get started.”

“Hey, consider it my welcome to the group!” Tony hands thrown defensively in the air. Scott nodded from his couch, remembering his own initiation the day Tony demanded to know the extent of his robbery charges following his discharge.

You shook your head, smiling spreading back to your lips and you were thankful to find that Bucky had sat back into the couch, relaxing as the attention moved back to you.

“I think we’ll just spend today reading,” you said. “I’ll put on the playlist Tony recommended – and don’t worry, I did browse through to make sure he didn’t slip any rock anthems in again. We don’t need to give Dr. Selvig down the hall another heart attack when Back in Black starts blaring directly after Yiruma.”

The room laughed and you were purposeful in glancing over at Bucky to see if a smile caught on his lips. It was small, a little uncomfortable as his eyes flickered around the room at the other group members, but he seemed to soften as he landed on you again. You nodded at him.

“Alright kids, hush up now.” You pressed play and the gentle strokes of a piano began to fill the room. “I’ll wake you in an hour.”

You waited until everyone settled in and opened their books. One of the older gentlemen in the back with a long and burly white beard and a leather vest draped over his shoulders set the open novel on his chest and promptly closed his eyes for his weekly nap. You smiled to yourself as you watched the heavy rise and fall of his chest – the man deserved one decent hour of rest a week, anyway.

By the time you made your way back to the couch, you noticed Bucky had tensed up again. He was staring down at the book, harsh breaths pressing through his nose as he tried to keep the book propped open with on hand, losing his place as he tried to turn the page. His jaw was clenched so tight you wondered if he’d bite it clean off.

He didn’t dare ask for help or so much as look in your direction, but it was a determination you’d come to expect from the people you met in these halls. It didn’t mean you couldn’t offer it anyway.

You quietly opened a drawer at the edge of the room, pushing aside knick knacks and old ketchup packets until you came across a small wooden clip. One of the older members had used it when he was going through extensive PT for his hand and couldn’t pinch his fingers enough to grip the thin slip of the page. You pulled it from the drawer and quickly skirted your way back to the couch beside Bucky.

“Here,” you offered, extending the clip to him as the book fell closed on his lap for the fourth time. He looked up at you, confused. You wondered if he realized how cute he looked when his brows pinched together like that; made him look about ten years younger and wiped the evidence of the war clean off his face.

You smiled at him. “It holds the pages down for you. Look.”

Gently pulling the book from his lip, you opened to the first page and set the clip at the bottom of the binding. When you released it, the pages stayed open, giving him free range of motion to turn the page without losing his place.

He blinked a few times as he stared down at the book. It was clear he’d never considered a tool like this and you wondered how many times he had sat down with the intention of reading only to find he couldn’t even turn past the first page. He might have been able to figure out the skill in it if he’d had the patience, but you imagined his own frustration got in the way of that. He seemed to have little patience for himself, as soldiers returning home often did.

There was a brief moment when the tips of his fingers brushed over yours as you pulled away. His hands were warm, almost feverish in comparison to the chill in your own. A blush warmed his cheeks and his eyes quickly darted down to the pages. Your stomach was in pleasant knots.

“Thanks,” he replied quietly, a soft semblance of a smile rising sweetly at the edges of his lips.

You nodded, settling in on the couch beside him and pulling your own book up into your lap. You listened to the gentle strokes of the piano carrying softly through the room until a page turned on your left and then, you let yourself sink into the bindings of the book perched upon your lap.

***

“So! What did you think?!”

It was the first thing you said as the final group member exited the room. Barely even a footstep out the door and you were already anxiously awaiting his reaction. Bucky was busy pushing the couch back into its original position and he glanced back at you to see you biting nervously on your lip, hands wringing out in front of you. You were swaying onto your tip toes like a kid hyped up on sugar. It was the cutest damn thing he’d ever seen.

“It was... a little creepy at the end?” Bucky chuckled, glancing down at The Yellow Wallpaper as it sat on the coffee table. “The woman went completely mad.”

You nodded vigorously, the smile on your face beaming and he had to watch himself to keep from mirroring your excitement.

"It’s a critique on how women’s mental health was perceived in the nineteenth century!” you explained with that giddy look on your face, reaching down for the book and flipping the pages through your fingers, the soft brush of wrinkled paper touching over each thumbprint. “Women were believed to be weak minded and frail, unable to handle more than two hours of mental stimulation. The woman in the story was prescribed ‘rest’ by her physician to treat her depression, essentially restricting her to little more than staring at the walls.”

You rolled your eyes, groaning dramatically, and drawing a smile to Bucky’s face that ached into his cheeks. “Slowly, it drove her to seek stimulation in impossible places, like the image of a woman she saw in the wallpaper! By the end of the story, that’s who she became. Wild, right?”

You shook your head, seemingly lost in astonishment. There was a slight crinkle in your nose when you smiled that wide, Bucky realized, like even the features on your face couldn’t hope to contain the joy bursting from your smile. Radiated like the fucking sun. Bucky was helpless in his stance, frozen, as he listened to you.

“You know the author once said, ‘it’s not intended to drive people crazy, but to save people from being driven crazy,’” you continued, setting the book down with such a gentle touch, almost as if it were a living, breathing thing. You handled it with such care and Bucky began to wonder if you’d ever touch him like that – if he was worth such tenderness.

The thought startled him and he quickly swallowed it back. Jaw clenched, right hand pressed to a fist in the pocket of his jacket. Stone cold expression. And yet – you were still talking about that book, all starry eyed and adorable, and a smile managed to crack through his lips. It was his new favorite book, he decided. Whatever could make you smile like that was his favorite. He’d sit there and read the fucking phone book if you asked him to.

“She wrote it in retaliation of her own experience of a physician disregarding her depression. It's actually quite remarkable when you think about it. It's one of the earliest American Feminist works of it’s– ” You froze suddenly, hand clamping over your mouth. You winced at him, slowly pealing your palm away. “Oh God, I’m rambling. I tend to get a little excited about these things... You must be so bored right now.”

Bucky couldn’t help the smile as it rose in his cheeks. He liked seeing you so flustered, caught up in a passion he so rarely saw these days. He didn’t know the last time he cared about anything as much as you cared for books. He could have easily listened to you talk like that for hours without interruption.

“No, no, not bored at all,” he reassured you and you visibly relaxed, relief sweeping through your shoulders. You started to fold up the chairs when Bucky cleared his throat, drawing your attention back. “I, uh, I did like the story, though. Has a lot of relevance today. I see why you like it.”

If he thought you were going to burst before, he should have waited to see how you were looking at him now. Chewing on the inside of your cheek in hopes of suppressing it, though it clearly did little use. You planted your hands on your hips.

“Watch what you say, Barnes. I’ll talk your ear off.”

Bucky shrugged. “I’m already down an arm, what’s an ear, too?”

The second the words left his lips, it felt like a bucket of ice water had been poured over his head; drenching his clothes, goosebumps on his ice, sinking into his veins and freezing him to stone. He woken up from a pleasant dream by the harsh ringing of an alarm. He'd been pushed off a cliff, stomach churning in the freefall.

You knew. Obviously, you knew.

You weren’t blind and he was certain you could tell there was a startling absence where his left arm should be, even with the poorly camouflaged sleeve hanging off his side. It wasn’t fooling strangers on the street and it certainly didn’t fool you either, even if it gave him an ounce of peace, like maybe he could pretend he was whole again.

But you’d brought him that book clip for a reason.

You knew.

At yet, this was the first time he mentioned it aloud. Actually said the words. Drew attention to the fact that he was a broken mess of who he used to be and now he was waiting for you to flinch, for the familiar shades of pity and embarrassment to cloud over your starry eyes, but he waited and waited and – it never came.

Instead, you started to laugh.

It filled the room and washed away whatever panic was surging inside of him within a matter of seconds. The most beautiful sound he’d ever heard and he wished you didn’t shield your hand over your lips in an effort to contain it because – God – he could have spent his whole life sitting in that moment. Tears in your eyes, a smile on your face, looking at him like he was the man he was before the war, like he was something worth looking at.

“You’re funny, James Barnes,” you said after you caught your breath again, a whisper of a laugh still lingering in your voice. You brushed the tears from your eyes.

Bucky’s chest felt instantly lighter. His right hand was swinging down at his side and he brought it up to his hair to brush it from his face.

“I could use a new book for next week,” he started, a little surprised at himself, and judging by the look in your eyes, it surprised you too. But you were smiling at him and it gave him the courage to continue. “Thought maybe you could help me find something?”

“Really?” you asked, practically glowing. “You’ll come back next week?”

He’d do anything if you kept looking at him like that.

“Yeah,” was all he said, but you looked as though he told you he’d just told you he won the lottery. Maybe he had.

“Well then, I’d be happy to! Just, um, hold on a second,” you scrambled around the room, looking for a pen and paper. You clicked a pen a few times before doodling in the corner to get the ink moving. When you were finished, you handed it to him. “These are my hours at the library. Come by anytime, okay? If I’m not up front, ask Mrs. Jefferson to page me. She’ll know who you are.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, staring down at the scribbled numbers. Did you talk about him at work? Butterflies swarmed in his stomach at the thought. He wondered what kinds of things you would say about him.

“Walk me out?” you asked, grabbing your coat from the rack and gesturing to the door. Bucky looked up, not even realizing the room was already set back in its original formation, the empty box of donuts discarded.

He nodded, following you to the door.

“You know, I’m really happy you decided to come today,” you said as you passed into the hallway. Bucky kept an even pace at your side and tried not to let the butterflies in his stomach escape to where you could see.

“Almost didn’t,” he admitted with a tired chuckle.

“Figured by the staring contest you were having with the building before the coffee incident.”

Bucky winced, but you were smiling as he looked over at you and he felt the tension slip from his muscles instantly. “I am sorry about that...”

“Maybe you can just owe me a coffee,” you suggested casually, as if the prospect of spending time together, just the two of you didn’t make the butterflies crawl a little further up into his chest. “A real one. Not the shitty stuff we serve at the VA.”

Bucky swallowed, pushing the creatures back into his stomach. His throat was dry. “I can do that.”

He pictured sitting across from you at a café, watching your hands curl around the outside of a mug, the steam of it brushing on your nose. Glistening in the reflection of the sunlight peaking through the windows, draped in the glow of the sunset. He’d buy you a thousand coffees.

“Okay, well, I’ll see you soon then?”

Bucky looked around and realized suddenly that he was standing outside. The cold breeze had turned into a frigid autumn chill with the sun nearly set behind the skyline. Peaks of orange remained at the horizon, mimicking the colors in your sweater. When he looked down, he could still see the stain of coffee on the sidewalk.

“Yeah,” he confirmed, determined to push past whatever doubt etched into his way. It faded in an instant as he saw your lips curve up high into your cheeks. “I’ll see you soon.”

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you

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after-witch · 3 years

Text

Sketch Memory [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Title: Sketch Memory [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Synopsis: Chisaki lets you indulge in your little hobbies. But he’s starting to suspect that you’re taking advantage of his “generosity.”

For request: @hello-lucky-luka said: Remember that one ask about overhaul’s angel having a boyfriend? Can I request a scenario where she misses her boyfriend a lot that she draws pictures of him to the point where overhaul got his attention and get jealous?

Word count: 2700ish

You’re not lying, you reason. You’re not, technically speaking, hiding anything. Overhaul never asks to see your sketchbook. And he never said you couldn’t draw someone you know. So the fact that you have been drawing your boyfriend every day since your captor gifted you the hefty, nicely bound thick sketchbook is something you force yourself not to worry about.

Sometimes you find yourself sketching just a bit of him--his hands holding onto his favorite coffee mug, the profile of his face, looking up, staring at a movie marquee on a date night.

Sometimes you draw his face in all its glory--smiling, frowning, annoyed. When you have lots of energy, lots of drive (which is not often, you feel so tired now, all the time; the lack of movement and weariness of captivity is getting to you) you draw an entire scene. Your favorite is the one you’re doing now, though to be fair, every new drawing is your favorite because it’s new. This one, you admit, is exceptionally special. You’ve drawn him sitting in the park, with a book in his lap.

The park, like everything else, is from memory. You wavered on where to put the tree behind the bench, because you can’t quite remember if it’s off-center or not, and whether or not it had a knot in the trunk towards the bottom or the middle. But it’s realistic, and that’s enough for now.

It’s your boyfriend that gives you the most pride in this piece. You’ve outdone yourself, you really have. He looks… alive. Weighty. Real. Real enough that you wish you’d done this in color and not just with your sketch pencils. Real enough that you close your eyes and imagine you’re in the park, that he’s sitting there with his book, engrossed in a story, so engrossed that he doesn’t see you coming. You stop in your tracks and admire his face, preserve the way he looks so focused, so far-away, to memory. You admire the way the breeze gently blows his hair, and a hand absentmindedly pushes his bangs (he needs a trim, or a style) away from his face before he flips a page.

Finally you can stand it no longer, and though you hate to break his concentration, you glide up to the bench and sit next to him. He jumps, but once he sees its you his body tension melts away and he slides closer until your thighs touch. “Good book?” You ask. He nods, then looks ahead. He looks concerned. Or focused. You’re not sure. “Are you okay?” He gives you a look of surprise, of worry, then a smile. “Of course. I just…” His hand fiddles in his pocket. There’s something there, something bulky and square. “Wanted to ask you something…” Your heart is hammering because you know what’s in his pocket and his hand is moving and he’s about to ask you and you’re smiling--

“Who did you draw?”

You’re not in the park--you’re not in the park--and your boyfriend is not here, and Overhaul is looming above you and he’s looking right at your sketchbook.

You slam the book closed and you know in the instant that you do that it was the wrong move. Defensive. Obvious. Shit, shit, shit shit.

You stare ahead and will yourself not to shake.

“I asked you a question, angel.”

“I…”

You don’t know where it comes from, but the courage to lie comes from somewhere, and you deliberately, slowly reopen your book to the exact page.

“Sorry,” you say, finally, looking up at him. You laugh, breathy and light. His face is impassive, as always. “You scared me. I was really focused, trying to, you know, think of what’s missing.” You pick up a pencil and fiddle with it, make a line here and there, useless things really, to make it look like you want to keep going.

“Mm.”

Your heart is beating so hard that it almost hurts.

“You didn’t answer my question. Who did you draw?” To anyone else, his tone might seem casual, neutral. Bored, even. But you know there’s something simmering underneath, the low threat of perceived bad behavior, the low threat of him sitting you down for “a talk,” or the distant promise returning to a particular small room and confinement.

You force yourself to smile, nervously. No point in hiding the anxiety that he knows is there, after all. “Oh! It’s,” and in a split second the idea comes to you, genius--”just a character from that book I was reading the other day.” You set your book down and casually--you hope it looks casual--reach up to the shelves installed along the walls behind your desk to pluck the book out. “The one about the guy who came home from war and no one remembered him, so he starts a new life in a new town.”

You set the book back in place and glance up at Chisaki, who stares down at you. You’re about to blurt out something, anything, to fill the silence when he nods. It’s a tension-cutting nod, a nod that tells you you’re okay, you haven’t fucked up, he believes you and you can stop feeling like you’re going to throw up now.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying the book.”

He’s fine. You’re fine. It’s fine. For now, you think, for now. You want him to leave before he starts asking more questions.

“Kai?”

“Yes?” His eyes crinkle ever-so-slightly. A smile, you think, behind the mask. Maybe.

You smile in what you hope is a sheepish, not nervous, expression. “Could I take a nap today? I’m feeling kind of tired.”

He doesn’t answer right away, which makes your fingers curl on the hard back of your sketchbook. Does he know?

He reaches out with a gloved hand and there’s a split second of fear--you’re done for--before he simply brushes your cheek. One of his rare, yet increasingly common, touches.

“Of course you can. I’ll set a timer so you don’t sleep too long.”

He turns and leaves your room through he unassuming door that connects to his office and you mumble a quiet thank you as it shuts. He’ll know if you don’t nap--you swear he has cameras in the room, though he denied it when you asked--so you tuck your sketchbook into the drawer of the desk and decide to hop into bed. A nap might help you feel less anxious, anyway. Your captor doesn’t let you nap long enough to dream, so you’ll be spared a nightmare.

You wake, almost jerking up, to the sudden, loud beeping of Overhaul’s watch--which is strange, because he usually sits in his office while you nap and wakes you up in a condescendingly gentle manner.

You open your eyes and Chisaki is standing silently next to your bed.

“Um?” You rub your eyes, the gentle rest of the nap falling off you abruptly as you take in the unusual circumstances.

You sit up and oh.

He’d holding your sketchbook.

He’s flipping through your sketchbook.

And he’s really, really pissed off. The air suddenly feels heavy and there’s nothing of the cold staleness that usually permeates your mundane interactions with your captor, the awkwardness replaced instead with the gravity of your situation. For the first time in a long time, you remember who has you captive. You remember what he can do. He could hurt you. He might hurt you. Did you anger him enough to break down whatever barriers that have kept him from hurting you so far?

He flips another page and another and lets out a sarcastic hum of approval. You feel your heart beat faster at every sound.

“Is that his hand? Remarkable shading, but…”

He rips the page out and crumples it, tossing it into the large trashcan before flipping the page. “Ah,” he says, voice low and cruel. “Another one of his face.” He rips that one out with particular gusto but it doesn’t crumple--it explodes, pieces of paper flying into the air. Some of them land on you, in your hair, and you furiously bat at them and your heart hurts and you know you’re tearing up and you don’t care.

“Stop,” you say, weak. A whimper. “Stop it.” Fat tears roll down your cheeks and it’s hard to see.

“Don’t argue with me.” His tone is quick and curt, and you know there will be no mercy, no coddling. No soft hushes and shushes. Only coldness. “You’re already in enough trouble.”

At the word ‘trouble,’ you wrap your arms around your chest. Trouble, trouble, trouble. The word carries memories and connotations. Isolation. Anxiety. Boredom. Helplessness. All things you experience on a daily basis, amplified, rolling together in a thick ball that rests at the bottom of your stomach. You can’t go back in your punishment room.

“Look at me,” he says--and you do. You want to get out of trouble. If that’s possible.

Chisaki doesn’t glare at you, not precisely, but his eyes are stern and unforgiving. You wonder if he’s frowning behind the mask, but maybe it’s better not to know. Once he’s satisfied that you’re paying attention, he continues.

“You are going to get out of bed. You are going to stand next to me. And then you’re going to rip out every drawing you’ve done of this… trash. And you will throw them away.”

You can feel the bitter, acrid taste of your lunch threatening to rise up to your throat.

“Please.” You’re whispering. You don’t have the strength to talk. “Please don’t make me do that.”

Somehow, you know--you know that if you rip up these pages, you’ll start to forget what your boyfriend looks like. The earliest drawings have the strongest features, the ones you flip to when you’re not sure about something. If those are gone, if every study you’ve done from memory is gone, you’ll forget. Just like you’ve forgotten the combination to your locker at work and the street your favorite bakery was on. You’ll forget, without the pages, without the reminders.

You know this. And Chisaki knows this, too. He always knows what you’re thinking, somehow, someway. If you could get a few steps ahead of him for once, keep yourself guarded, maybe he wouldn’t be able to effect you so much.

“If you don’t want to destroy drawings of this garbage, I can always pay him a visit.” Your entire body goes rigid and you want to cry out and beg him--no no no--but nothing leaves your throat, thick and tight and trapped. Chisaki’s eyes practically glint as he continues. “It might be more satisfying to destroy the real thing, now that I think about it.”

Something in your throat loosens and you stand up, nearly tripping over your own feet. You grab the book and he lets you, lets you hold it out in front of you like a burden. “I’ll do it,” you murmur, your body trembling. “I’ll do it, just… just don’t hurt him. Please. Please?” You look up and there’s no softness in his eyes, no agreeable smile that you sometimes see when he’s agreeing to give you a treat (because that is your life now, your captor agreeing to let you watch a movie is a special treat to be celebrated)--just passive coldness.

“Do what I told you, and we’ll see.”

It’s a start.

But now you have to do it.

Your drawings. Your work. Your memory of him. All pages and pencil and smudges and tears. Your entire body is trembling--you feel like the ground is moving, swaying beneath your feet. Your hands shake as you flip open to the nearest page.

An early sketch. One where your boyfriend’s face was so clear in your mind that if you had the skills to make photo realistic work, you might have been able to do it. You try to capture it to your memory but the second your hand moves, rips just a little, it seems to fly away. You pull harder and quickly wrinkle the paper in your hands before tossing it towards the trash bin.

You pause too long, apparently, because Chisaki speaks up.

“Keep going. I won’t tell you again.”

And you do. You tear out page after page, your tears flowing freely. You begin to feel numb, after a while, even as you rip out drawings that took you hours--drawings you poured your soul into, whatever is left of your soul after months and months of captivity.

One more to go.

Your hand gingerly touches the sketch that you’d been so proud of earlier. The last page. The last visual memory left--the only one not ripped apart or crumpled or shredded and nestled in your hair.

You want to lose yourself in it again. You want to close your eyes and pretend you’re at the park and he’s about to propose and your life will be nothing but sweetness and planning for the future. But the air is too thick and Overhaul is staring and he can’t read your thoughts, but he’ll figure it out anyway.

So you rip the page out of the book and tear it in half, jagged and uneven, before throwing it into the garbage.

Your hand recoils from the ghost-like memory of the paper on your fingers and you press them against your chest, above your heart.

Your boyfriend has probably moved on by now. Maybe he’s months deep into a rebound relationship, finding himself brushing away tears at new firsts with another woman, a woman who can’t replace you but who will heal the wound you left in his heart. Who will heal your wounds?

Chisaki is staring at you, you realize, and you drop your hands. You don’t want him to think you’re fondly reminiscing. He could always change his mind about leaving your boyfriend--your ex? What do you call him? What does he call you, you wonder?--alone.

“We’re going to have a long talk about this later,” he says, voice leaving no room for argument. He pauses, and your chest feels tight. Will he tell you that you’re being sent to the quiet room? The thought of being there for days, alone, unable to do anything, barely able to move in the tight surroundings makes you shake and you dig your nails into your arm.

“You can stay in your room. You listened well.”

You swallow, throat tight, and nod. You almost want to smile. You don’t have to go back there, if you listen. You know how to listen, when it comes down to it.

Chisaki glances down at the trash bin and picks it up with his gloved hands, dragging it towards the door.

“One more thing,” he says, glancing back at you.

“Go wash your hands. They’re filthy.”

#yandere overhaul #yandere kai chisaki #overhaul x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #afterwitch writes

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turtle-go-brrrr · 3 years

Text

4 times Leonardo was a dork and the time he wasn’t

Heya! I adore the "strong stoic character does something embarrassing or dumb" trope, and Leo has been left behing from that one. Also, my fervent Leo Simp Friend said these were all good ideas and I trust his judgment completely, so it's also for him. Enjoy, you Dork-ass Looser (affectionate) @weird-flex-but-ok

I have one of these "4 times ______ and 1 time ______" stories for each of them, I just got really inspired by him all of a sudden. But they're coming!

There might be a few typos here and there, but I really don't wanna wait any longer to post it :3

Requested: No

Pairing: None, platonic

Word count: 2500 +

Triggers: cursing, injuries, blood, intrusion

Summary: You were always sort of intimidated by the leader in blue, but a series of events shows you he might not be as serious as he wants you to think.

__________________________________________

First time

It took you a while to get along with all of them.

Not because you didn't trust them, or because they made it difficult, and certainly not because they're mutants. You're just not that good with new people, and you tend to shy away. Especially when you have New York's heroes in front of you.

So yeah. It took a while. But soon enough, you warmed up to your new friends, and you had a great time. Mikey was the first who made you feel welcomed, always asking questions about you and insisting you came to the lair in the first place. Donnie followed soon, after you started asking about what he was working on. It took a bit more work to get closer to Raph, but it turns out sarcasm was the way to go.

If only their leader was as approachable.

He never made you feel unsafe or unwelcomed, don’t get me wrong, he just kept a professional distance with you, which started to become quite painful as time went on. You tried not to take it personally, thinking he maybe was as shy as you were.

You had time anyway.

It was early in the evening when you made your way to the lair. For the first time since you met the turtles, you went there alone. You were a little nervous, thinking you might get lost in the maze of tunnels under the city, but figured you could just call someone if anything happened. Lucky for you, you found your way to your friend’s place, but not without hustle.

As you entered, you realized it was uncharacteristically quiet. The only sounds you could here were the faint music and the not so faint curses from Donatello’s lab. The smart decision seemed to be leave him alone, which is exactly what you did.

You haven’t been here long enough to know where to find the others, and as you didn’t exactly felt like staying alone in the living space, you tried finding your way to the dojo, as it was one of the other places you knew well.

Of course, now you got lost. Venturing into the sewers was fine, but walking into your friend's home wasn't, apparently.

You found something else, however. This particular tunnel led to a room you could identify as someone's room. You could see the large bed in the middle of the room, a small table with a bottle of water, a book, and a makeshift alarm. A set of twin swords were hanging on the right wall, just above a small bookshelf.

On your left was another table with a (healthy, you noted) bonsai tree, and next to that was Leonardo, facing a mirror. He had his right arm lifted up to his head, and was looking right to you through the mirror.

He looked absolutely horrified.

What the fuck.

He slowly rubbed his face in his hands, let out a long sigh, and turned to you, more tense than you've ever seen him. He cleared his throat as you pince your lips in a thin line to hold back a smile.

"Hello, Y/N. I... didnt think you'd come in so early."

Despite the badly lit room, you can see him bite the inside of his cheek.

"Yeah, uh, I didnt mean to... interrupt you," you say. Your voice is slightly shaking as it takes all of your willpower not to burst out laughing. And he definitely notices.

"You didn't! I uh, wasn't doing anything anyway. So, tell me- what brings you to the lair?" He asks, avoiding your eyes.

"Oh, Mikey invited me, he said I wasnt allowed to skip on movie night. You know how strong willed he is," you smirks, unable to handle it much longer.

Stiff as a board, you see the corner of his mouth twitching and hear him whisper, "... I wasn't flexing."

Silence.

You snort laugh hard enough to choke on it as you quickly turn around to hold yourself against the wall, the insanity of the situation crashing on you. Leo sat at the foot of his bed, head in his hands, and you could see him shake in repressed laughter once you wiped your tears away.

You sit next to him after finally calming down from the hysteria. He sighs, straightens his back and gives you a side glance.

"I'm not judging."

"You're still laughing, though."

"Yeah, but like, I guess I just wasn't expecting that. Still not judging."

He nods, still smiling. His voice is at least 3 octaves higher when he asks, "Please, don't tell the others."

"And what, give them the privilege of knowing about your little... ritual? Nah, don't worry about it."

_______________________

Second time

The second time your assumptions about the leader were subverted happended only two weeks after the... incident.

You had invited the whole crew to your place for the very first time, and they were all excited to come. You made a copious dinner: a few veggie cakes, chicken wings and a bowl of roasted potatoes. They were supposed to bring the drinks and movies, and April and Casey were in charge of the desert.

A perfect night, it seemed.

And it would have been if they could decide what to watch first without jumping at each other's throats.

"You guys need to grow up."

"Leave me out of thi-"

"Donnie's suggesting Velocipastor of all things and you think we need to grow up? Come on, Y/N, I thought you were better than that."

"Okay, first of all, how dare you. And second, this movie's a masterpie-"

"Yeah, because everyone knows that his supremior intellect means he's the only one who gets to choose a dumb movie. Why won't you guys watch Sharknado?"

"Supremior isn't a word. And it's because unlike you, peasants, I have taste." A devilish smile creeps up Donnie's face. The bastard is doing it on purpose.

"Peasants?!"

"You ugly-ass son of a-"

"Hey! Leave Dad out of this!"

"We could watch Shrek instead?"

You decided to go get some glasses in the kitchen, leaving the children to their stupid fight. Searching through your cupboard, you hear a crashing sound, quickly followed by utter and complete silence.

Oh no.

In insight, leaving them alone was maybe not the best idea. You were reconsidering bringing glasses into the mess as you made your way to the origin of the sound. And what a mess it was.

Your friends were all expressing shock in some way, Casey (surprisingly) being the most dramatic of them all with his hands right in front of his face and his jaw hanging open. They were all looking back and forth between you and another direction near the table.

The really cool bowl that held the delicious potatoes you made was broken on the floor. There was glass and potatoes everywhere, but the biggest shards were in a neat pile, right behind Leonardo, who looked like a deer in headlights.

"... nothing happended."

"I'm... starting to think it's a habit of yours," you say as you watch him not so discretely try to hide the broken pieces behind his foot.

"Look, if you keep putting your foot in there you're gonna hurt yourself. Just, step away a bit, will you?"

"I'm sorry I broke it. Let me help you clean up, I don't want you to cut yourself."

"It's okay! Don't touch it, I'll get a bag," you say as he starts to gather the biggest shards.

Won't even listen for one second, will he?

Raph was already picking up the untouched potatoes to put them in the plates on the table, and April went to the kitchen with you to retrieve the bag and cleaning supplies.

"Ew, Mikey don't eat that."

"Thirty seconds rule, baby."

"It's five seconds, you moron. And it's way over thirty anyway. Spit it out."

The rest of the night went on without further issues, but Leo still looked apologetic during the movie. Which is probably why he was standing before you as his brothers were leaving.

"Thank you for the evening. And I'm... sorry again for the bowl."

"Hey it's okay, man. Don't worry about it. As long as no one gets hurt it's not that big of a deal."

"I'll get you a new one." He doesn't wait for your answer and ruffles your hair before taking off.

"Text me when you guys get home!" You scream into the night, hoping one of them heard you.

______________________

Third time

It's surprisingly easy to mess with Fearless.

You were in the living room, getting your ass beat on Mario Kart by Mikey, when you decided to take a break for your stomach (and ego)’s sake. You made your way to the kitchen, where Leo and Raph were in a heated discussion. Raph looked

“I’m telling you, 4 inches is too small. What do you get from 4 inches ? Nothing. But 10 inches ? It really makes you feel something.”

…

What?

You looked down on the table and saw multiple ingredients lined up on the table, with a long piece of bread on the side.

Oh, sandwiches. Got it.

Leo’s back was facing you, but Raph gave you a knowing glance, one that said ‘do it’. So, you did. Not without a smirk, first.

“Oh, wow, Leo ! I didn’t think you’d be so open about that kind of conversations.” You open the fridge, hoping you can hide your smile behind the door.

“What ? What do you m-” His face falls. Raph starts chuckling next to you and it looks like Leo’s brain is rebooting.

“I mean, I’m not judging. You do you, buddy, I’m happy for you. Just surprised you choose lunch time to talk about it.” And in other circumstances, you’d mean every word. But right now, messing with your friend is too good to pass on.

“No, hold on- I didnt mean- It’s not what you think ! I’m talking about sandwiches !” He tries to show you the ingredients currently on the table, but Raph decides it’s time to join the fun.

“Lying isn’t vey Bushido of you, Honor Boy,” he winks at you and you can’t repress a giggle.

He puts his face in his hands, knowing very well that the both of you ganged up on him but unable to save face. He just smiles, goes back on his chair and hides his head in his arms, hoping you won’t see how embarassed you made him.

“Hey, you like what you like. Have fun with your sandwiches.” You give him an innocent smile, pat him twice on the shoulder, and join Mikey back on the couch with a plate of grapes.

You could hear Raph’s light chuckle from the kitchen.

______________________

Fourth time

Mornings are hard.

And they’re even worse when you spent the whole night sewing an arm back together after a sword gave it a nasty cut. And getting glass shards off of your friend’s shell. And putting a bone back in it’s rightful place after a particularly bad fall.

Yeah. Long night. And a tense one, too.

Because with the physical pain came the chock and residual fears, the anger and blaming. Everyone was stil on guard, and all that tension was exhausting. You barely slept, too worried that one of your friend’s state would degrade if you didn’t keep an eye on them at all times. Which didn’t really help you get the rest you needed.

If you were hoping the morning would be kinder on all of you, you quickly realized that it was a mistake. While, luckily for the turles, the mutagen was already healing their physical wounds, the emotional exhaustion of the previous night was still heavy. Of all of your conscious friends, not one dared break the eerie silence.

It was weird, seeing them like this. But you couldn’t force yourself to say anything, strangely scared of what could happen. You resumed to making breakfast for everyone and bringing clean towels to the still sleeping feverish turtle in the medbay. Splinter and Mikey were at the kitchen table, quietly accepting your offering, when Leo came into the room from the medbay.

He was still half asleep, and in his drowsiness didn’t see the wall he accidentally ran into.

“Oh, sorry. Didn’t see you there.”

Everyone turned to Leo, who it took a solid minute of staring blindly at the wall to realize what just happened.

Donnie was the first to laugh. It didn’t take long for april and Mikey to join, soon followed by Splinter affectionately patting his son’s arm. Leo smiled and shook his head, as their lighthearted laugh was contagious.

The leader in blue was more of a goofball than what you first expected, and you were grateful for it in the fading tensions of the morning.

______________________

One time he wasn't

When someone intrudes your home, especially at 4 am when you were sleeping in the next room, a lot of things go through your head.

Did they take anything?

Yes. Your bag with your wallet, some cash, your credit card, your ID, and a few fidelity cards from various stores. Your laptop. A set of keys. That one blanket Raph made you (probably to carry everything without making too much noise).

Why you?

Why not? Your apartment isn't isolated, but it's not exactly on a main street either. It was probably practical for them.

Were they armed?

Who knows. Maybe. Maybe not. Probably. Statistically, most likely.

What could have happened if you had tried to confront them?

A lot of things. Maybe, if you let them know you were awake and knew what was going on, without necessarily confronting them, it would have been enough to make them run away. Or maybe there were multiple armed people, and they wouldn't hesitate to use force if necessary.

Who knows.

Can the police find this person?

Statistically? No. At least, that's what Casey told you when you asked him. Unless they got really lucky, they won't find anything.

Or at least the stuff they stole?

Again, unlikely. Unless they can trace your laptop back to the guy, or someone can give a physical description and a direction, there's not a lot they can do.

What can you do now?

Call your bank. And your insurance. And your landlord. Let them know what happened and follow their directive, they'll guide you through their procedure and help you soften the blow.

Casey was the first person you called when you woke up this night, and he was at your place within minutes with two other colleagues (the closest he could find). He spent the rest of the night reassuring you, helping you with the phone calls, asking around for witnesses, but nothing.

It's weird, feeling unsafe for the first time in a place you had called Home for years. It's disturbing. You can feel the nausea your anxiety is giving you, and a headache starts to grow at the back of your skull.

You don't really like this feeling.

So when your turtle friends dropped by the next evening without telling you and you welcomed them with a swing of your favorite pan, let's just say reactions were split.

"I can hack into your computer to find its location if you want. Wouldn't be the first time."

"What?"

"What? I mean, I didn't do it for your location last time. I know all about your search history, though."

"We're gonna have a talk about boundaries and privacy once we're done dealing with that," you sigh. You crash down on the couch next to your friend and mindlessly watch him work.

Leo comes up to you and gently nudges your shoulder. "Hey, do you have a toolbox somewhere? We brought locks to put on your door and windows. You know, just in case."

You nod, quiet, and lead him to your room where you keep most of the most useful stuff you own, including but not limited to a toolbox and a first aid kit.

Your movements were almost mechanical as you retrieved the box and handed it to him, and you decided to help him put up the locks to keep your mind occupied.

He was concerned. You looked like you were still in choc, which he could completely understand. Getting robbed is awful in itself, but getting robbed while you're sleeping in the next room? Horrific, in his mind.

He was also furious. He couldn't be there for you. This person had the nerves to go after his friend, and what if you got hurt? He wouldn't have been able to do anything about it.

He noticed he was staring when your eyes met his.

"Hey. We're gonna do whatever we can to find them. We're also gonna focus our patrols in your neighborhood for at least a few weeks, until you feel better," he puts a hand on your shoulder. "It's gonna be okay Y/N. Trust me."

You look up to him, and when you look into his eyes, you know he means it. You let your head fall against his plastron as he holds you against him, a silent promise for safety.

"Hey shorty," Raph pulls his head into the crack of the door to address you. "Wanna learn how to fight? I can turn you into a death machine."

You heard the faint "Raph, what the fuck" coming from Mikey who was still in the living room.

You gave a small laugh as you got up, Leo following you closely to the living room.

"Hey! Fighting isn't for everyone. But I could make you a really cool taser, if you want."

"What's with you and tasers?"

"They're efficient."

The bell ringed and April came in holding 4 boxes of pizza, that Mikey assisted her with as soon as she set a foot inside.

You looked around at your friends as April brandished the pizzas like a trophy while Raph and Donnie went back and forth trying to decide who, between man power and electricity, would win in a fight.

And you realized that yes, Leo was right.

It's gonna be okay.

#bayverse tmnt #tmnt #tmnt x reader #tw: injuries #tw: blood #tw: break in #tmnt leonardo #tmnt donatello #tmnt 2k16 #tmnt michelangelo #tmnt raphael #tmnt casey #tmnt april #tmnt splinter #OOOOOOOF #took me a while #hope you like it!

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 3 years

Text

De Amore

My fic for @aceomenszine is finally available on AO3!

Aziraphale has come to Paris to find the answer to an important question: What's it like to be in love? Crowley's not sure why he wants to know, but he's willing to discuss it to make his angel happy. Full text below!

“What’s it like to be in love?”

Crowley stumbled to a stop on the Paris street, glaring at the angel beside him. Aziraphale stared straight ahead, walking with his usual expression: calm, poised, slightly arrogant. As if he were talking about the weather.

“Dunno. S’a human thing, isn’t it?” He scowled at a few gawking peasants, hurrying to catch up. “Romance. Lust. Sex. Nothing to do with us.”

“You could say the same of hunger, or exhaustion, or boredom.”

“Yeah, and I’d be right.” Crowley held out an arm to stop Aziraphale from walking directly into a produce cart. “Neither of us gets exhausted. You’re never tired, and I just like a good nap sometimes.”

“Really?” A flicker of that mocking bastard smirk. “How many nights did you sleep this past week?”

“Nrrg. Five or six, but that’s not the point.” They started walking again, Crowley tossing an apple he’d snuck from the cart. “I could stop if I wanted to — I’d miss it, but s’not the same as being tired. Same with you and eating.”

“But if I desire a food, so strongly I can already taste it, surely that’s…if not exactly hunger, a close approximation?”

“Don’t think so.” Crowley offered the apple, but Aziraphale shook his head. “Spend a couple days in the city, you’ll see what hunger looks like. S’not about pleasure or wanting a particular food. It’s need, desperation. And we just don’t experience that.” He tossed the apple towards a group of children, and a girl in a ragged dress caught it. “Boredom I’ll grant you. I’ve definitely been bored.”

“So, we might enjoy things as humans do, but never desire them the same way,” Aziraphale mused, smoothing his hands down the front of his stolen jacket. “But is love the longing for a connection with another, or the pleasure of that connection?”

“Doesn’t really make a difference to us, does it?”

He waited for Aziraphale to respond, but the angel simply continued walking, hands folded behind his back, eyes more distant than usual.

“So?” Crowley prodded after nearly a block in silence. “What brought this on?” Aziraphale shrugged. “Let me guess. Reading novels again? Sappy poetry? Getting…ideas?” He stepped ahead of Aziraphale and walked backwards, to ensure the angel saw his suggestive eyebrow wiggle. No response. Crowley shrugged, falling back into step. “Look, f’you want to try falling in love with a human, s’your business. Let me know how it goes. Just do it back in London, I don’t need that…drama getting back to my bosses.”

“That’s not it,” Aziraphale snapped, wringing his hands. “It’s not — it doesn’t even work that way, Crowley. Humans don’t just decide to fall in love!”

“They don’t cross an ocean and charge through a revolution for a snack, either.”

“Oh, never mind. Clearly you’re the expert here.” Aziraphale froze, glaring at a shop just ahead, and threw his hands up in disgust. “And now they’ve closed my favorite creperie! Why do I even bother? Might as well return to England and feast upon whatever lumpy brown bread the first tavern I pass serves.”

“Stop being dramatic,” Crowley hissed, turning down a side street and gesturing for Aziraphale to follow. “If you get locked up again, I’m not rescuing you a second time.” The angel’s lips twisted sourly. “Look, gourmet crepes aren’t really in demand right now, but I know a place. Might still be open.”

“I suppose that will have to do.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and glared at the sky, thin grey clouds veiling the sun. He should probably just let Aziraphale stew in his own sullen displeasure. Might even give him an advantage — a distracted angel was easier to outsmart.

But Crowley hadn’t been in the business of thwarting Aziraphale for over a thousand years. Why oppose each other, when they could work…not together, but in tandem? Ensuring all their duties were fulfilled, their paperwork properly filed.

It was better this way. Less fuss all around, less inconvenience. Pleasanter conversation. More time for trips to the theater or quiet meals, either of which was a far better way to spend an evening than any sort of elaborate espionage.

He’d been looking forward to griping about his job over a mug of cider while Aziraphale worked his way through a plate of crepes, smiling and wiggling in his seat. Watching Aziraphale get excited over something was, in Crowley’s opinion, one of the best ways to pass the time.

Only the conversation had left Aziraphale annoyed, pouting and…Crowley studied him carefully, dark glasses imperfectly hiding his eyes. More than anything, Aziraphale looked hurt. A sight that always made Crowley’s stomach twist painfully.

He sighed, tossing back his head. “‘Love is an inborn suffering, proceeding from the sight and immoderate thought upon the beauty of another, for which cause above all other things one wishes to embrace the other and, by common assent, in this embrace to fulfil the commandments of love.’”[1]

“I beg your pardon?”

“Look, I don’t know. You asked me—!” Crowley walked faster, face growing hot. “It’s from some old treatise, right? Love, he says, is seeing someone beautiful and wanting sex. Then, when you have your fill…” he waved his hand vaguely.

“I see.” Aziraphale adjusted his sleeves. “I suppose that…makes sense.” But he still looked grim.

Up ahead, not quite along their path, stood one of Paris’s parks, gates now open to the public. Apart from some rubbish cluttering the entrance, it seemed well-maintained. Crowley tipped his head, inviting.

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up and he nodded, the first hint of a smile on his face. It always made Crowley feel light, that smile, however briefly it appeared.

They wandered in silence up the path, lined by trees here, flowerbeds there. Leaves had turned yellow and the grass was edged with brown, but the roses were still in bloom. Crowley paused to pluck a particularly well-formed bud.

As they crossed a bridge over a small watercourse, Aziraphale suddenly said, “Do you think it’s true, though? That — that treatise? Because it rather sounds like he didn’t see any difference between lust and love.”

“Mmh.” Crowley paused, gazing downstream, where a group of ducks swam contentedly. “As a demon? Yeah. Fits the party line. Humans don’t think of anything but their own pleasure, always wanting what they don’t have. Jealous, possessive, until something better comes along. Then it starts all over. If love and lust aren’t the same, well, they’re pretty close, right?”

“I see.” Aziraphale stepped beside him, holding out his red cap, now filled with grains of barley and cracked corn. They each took a handful and tossed it down. The ducks swam over eagerly, bobbing to catch the seeds before they drifted away.

“But as a being who’s been in the world nearly six thousand years?” Crowley threw another handful, then leaned against the railing, crossing his arms. “Not so sure. Humans do too much that can’t be explained by simple pleasure. Besides, I’ve seen what they do when overwhelmed by lust, and what they do when overwhelmed by love and…dunno. S’not the same.”

More handfuls of grains as a second group of ducks approached.

“What d’you think, Angel?” Crowley prodded. “Must be something in all those books you read.”

“Oh, quite a lot,” Aziraphale assured him. “Much of it contradictory. Many poets will only talk about their beloved’s face, or eyes, but if it were simply a matter of beauty, surely everyone would fall in love with the same beauties.”

“Sometimes they do.” Crowley rolled some seeds between his palms. “S’where the jealousy comes in. But yeah. Gotta be more to it than that.”

“I hope you’re not planning to make those poor ducks sink.”

“What? Nk — no. Course not.” He threw the grains down and the ducks quickly swarmed, turning bright shades of pink and blue and violet as they ate.

“Crowley.”

“Oh, it’s not hurting anyone.” He glanced sideways to see Aziraphale pressing his lips together, struggling not to smile. Grinning, Crowley tossed down more enchanted grains. “Go on then.”

“Hmm? Ah, yes. Well, the overall impression is that love is…transformative. Changes the way one thinks and feels at all times. They speak of, oh, the sun shining brighter, foods tasting sweeter, winter blossoming into summer. Metaphors. Others speak of — of attraction, quickened pulse, sudden heat and so on, but that’s a passing thing, part of a — a particular moment of closeness. Surely, no human could maintain such a state for an hour, never mind weeks or years!” Aziraphale offered Crowley the last handful of grain in his cap. “And once that moment passes…”

“Back to the metaphors.” The ducks below were now spotted, striped, every color of the rainbow. One bore pure white wings, beside another with midnight black. Aziraphale chuckled, very softly, which made Crowley feel immensely satisfied. Dusting off his hands, he circled the angel and continued walking.

“Yes,” Aziraphale hurried to catch up, cap twisting in his hands. “I get the sense that the feeling is so obvious, so…universal, they never think to describe it.”

“How inconsiderate.” Crowley thought it over. “So, flash of heat, racing heart, sun gets brighter, then ten pages about the color of their eyes? That about it?”

“I suppose so.” Aziraphale rubbed a finger across his lip. “Not always beauty, though. Some appear drawn by their partner’s clever mind, or acts of kindness. Some praise stories of bravery or great deeds, others fixate on meaningless symbols of wealth. But still, those only tell why one falls in love, not what it feels like.”

“Sounds like a sort of obsession.” Crowley furrowed his brow. “That treatise had a list of…sort of rules of love. Mostly about jealousy, really, don’t think the author thought much of women, but… ‘Every action of a lover ends in the thought of his beloved.’”

“I see…so that, together or apart, one cannot help but think always of the other. That certainly aligns with the evidence.” He started to replace his cap, then paused, looking inside. “Anything else of use?”

“‘Love can deny nothing to love.’” Beside him, Aziraphale turned pink and a brilliant smile broke across his face, like the sun after a storm. He pulled from the cap the bright red rosebud Crowley had hidden within.

Crowley watched as Aziraphale slid the flower into his buttonhole, drinking in the way the delighted shiver ran across his shoulders. Then the angel looked up, hitting Crowley with the full force of his smile.

Stunning. Blinding. It stole Crowley’s breath away, wiped every thought from his mind.

One day, that smile would destroy him, and he wouldn’t mind at all.

“So, this creperie — are we close?”

“Ngh. Smh. Unh. Nearly. Another block or two.” The park’s gate stood just ahead, half shut, the bustling street beyond. Crowley quickly stepped ahead, pulling it open for Aziraphale. “You, ah, find the answer you needed?”

“I…think so, yes.” He rested his fingers on the gate — so close to Crowley’s he could feel their warmth — then quickly pulled away, folding his hands behind his back. “I’ve been trying to work out…well…whether I’m in love with you, Crowley.”

“Oh.” What was he supposed to say to that? “Oh.”

“Indeed.” Aziraphale’s eyes darted nervously and he began to pace. “I-I want you to know, I don’t desire you. I’ve never felt that sort of attraction. And I’m not jealous by any means. I’m not even certain who I’m meant to be jealous of. But…” He turned back, tugging his jacket. “I think of you. Constantly. Every action, every experience reminds me of you. I go to a concert, and I can’t concentrate on the music, only whether you would enjoy it. I hear a joke and I imagine how you would laugh, or roll your eyes, and I can’t know a moment’s peace until I’ve shared it with you. And last month…when I was reprimanded…for days afterward I could think of nothing but how I wished you were there. When I finally found the strength to venture out, it was only from my determination to come here.”

“For…crepes?” Crowley offered stupidly.

“No, you silly creature, for you.” He stepped forward, reaching up as if to straighten Crowley’s lapels, but once again his hands dropped. “I hear your voice and no matter how dark my situation — no matter how absurd you look in the current fashion — I just…feel happy again.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath and lifted his eyes — hopeful, fearful, vulnerable — to meet Crowley’s.

“Oh.” Something more was probably needed. “Yeah.”

That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say.

“Well.” Aziraphale’s eyes dropped and he turned, trying to hide his expression. “Yes. I thought you should know.” He ducked his head and hurried through the gate. “Where — where is this creperie? We should try to arrive—”

“Me too.”

Crowley hadn’t meant to say anything. His mind was still ten minutes behind, struggling to catch up, but the pain on Aziraphale’s face hurt him like a blow to the chest.

The two words stopped Aziraphale in his tracks.

“I…I think about you, too.” Crowley stepped halfway through the gate, gripping the bar so tight it began to bend. “When I wake up, or fall asleep and…and away from you, here, I just…I miss you…but you — you idiot, with your crepes and your — your execution and…and then you smile and I just…” Blast! How could Aziraphale be so eloquent? Crowley swallowed and started over. “Look, m’trying to say…don’t think I can deny you anything. And. If that’s love…yeah. Me too.”

All this time, Aziraphale stood perfectly still, his back to Crowley. But now he turned, blue eyes furiously blinking. “That’s…ah…thank you. I know y-you hate being thanked but…” Aziraphale took one step closer, then another, until only inches separated them. “Thank you.”

“Nh.” He could so easily reach across that last bit of distance. Crowley didn’t know what that would accomplish, what he’d even do, but he wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything. “Now what?”

“I don’t know.” Aziraphale’s gaze fell. “It…doesn’t change anything, does it? You’re still a demon, and I’m—”

“I don’t care,” Crowley hissed, shocked at the fervor in his own voice. “We don’t need to play by their rules. We could — run off, or—”

“We can’t. Crowley, both our sides would — they’d find us, they’d destroy you.”

“I’m willing to risk it.” He reached for Aziraphale’s hand.

“I’m not.” The angel jerked back, putting more distance between them, eyes wide. “Crowley that’s — that’s not a chance I’m willing to take. I’m sorry, but no.”

“Fine,” Crowley growled, pulling away. “What do you want?”

“I want…” Aziraphale shut his eyes, taking a shuddering breath. “I want a shop in London, where I can surround myself with books and foods and everything I enjoy. I want my superiors to trust me, let me bring good into the world my own way, without sending me all over Creation at a moment’s notice and — and punishing me for a few miracles to make my life easier. I want us to go to plays and gardens and balls together, not for clandestine meetings but because we enjoy them. To be openly in each other’s company, without fear of reprisal. And…I’d like you to visit my shop and bring me flowers or sweets. I’d serve my very best wine and…we’d talk all night about…everything and nothing. And laugh together.” His eyes fluttered open and for the first time Aziraphale looked sure of himself. “I want what we already have. Only I want more of it.”

This time he didn’t move as Crowley reached out. Long fingers carefully adjusted the rosebud, standing it straighter in its buttonhole. “Yeah. I…I’d like that, too.”

“And you don’t want anything…physical?”

Crowley snorted. “M’not a human.” But he wondered if Aziraphale’s cheek was as soft as the rosebud’s petals. “I’d like to touch you. Your hand, your face. Your wings. Hear your voice as I fall asleep. Feel your fingers in my hair. Is that…too much?”

“No.” Aziraphale smiled gently. “That sounds perfect.”

“Maybe…” Crowley fidgeted with his glasses, shuffled his feet, but refused to step away. “If we’re careful…”

“The Arrangement is already dangerous enough. You must understand…”

Crowley closed his eyes. “I do. Nothing changes.” Except there were words now, to the feeling he had when he thought of his angel. And that changed everything. When he looked again, Aziraphale nodded, as if he felt the same.

“Right then.” Crowley circled around Aziraphale, sauntering back to the main road. “Let’s see if these crepes are worth risking the guillotine.”

“My dear fellow,” Aziraphale easily kept pace. “One bite of true Breton crepes will silence your doubts forever.”

“Breton, huh?”

“Oh, yes, far superior to any others.”

“If that’s so,” Crowley smirked, remembering Aziraphale in his cell, “s’a wonder you came to Paris. Particularly in such a…controversial outfit.”

“The city has…certain other attractions.”

Something warm and heavy wrapped across Crowley’s shoulders, invisible to his eyes, though he could feel the individual feathers tickle his neck. Aziraphale strolled beside him, hands clasped behind his back, eyes forward, as if nothing were amiss.

Carefully, trying to look natural, Crowley scratched his shoulder, brushing his knuckles down a long flight feather, softer than any mortal bird’s.

Aziraphale smiled ever so slightly and flexed his wing, holding Crowley a little more tightly. An embrace that no one could see, no one could know about, except them.

“Dunno,” Crowley said. “Still seems pretty risky.”

“Yes. But I’m an incorrigible old fool. Sometimes I can’t help myself.”

“Suppose I can understand,” Crowley said as he extended his own wing, wrapping it around Aziraphale’s waist. The angel’s composure broke as he wiggled, burying himself in invisible feathers. Crowley smiled, heat running through him, a warm spring day after a long cold winter. “After all, we’re not so different, you and I.”

[1] De Amore, Andreas Capellanus, c. 1190

So happy to finally share this!

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ace omens #ineffable husbands #asexual ineffable husbands #ace omens zine #aziraphale #crowley #love confessions #feeding the ducks #aziraphale loves crowley #crowley loves his angel #what even is love #ace fanfiction #qpp #banter #my writing #ao3 link

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shini--chan · 3 years

Note

I have an idea! What would Allies do after finding out that their s/o have (another) stalker? It can be another yandere, a creep, ex, jealous coworker with bad intentions or even a serial killer.

And a good idea it is, my dear anon.

Yandere Allies – Feindling America

You were already fast asleep, snoozing away under the covers in your shared bedroom. He, on the other hand, was still wide awake and had decided to settle down in the living room to do some light reading. His insomnia was due to the usual reasons – too much caffeine, too much stress, too much curiosity to just let the day finish.

And because he was worried, intently, about you. There was somebody else trying to stick their grubby fingers in your shared life, and pry you apart. That was something he was absolutely sure off. After living so long, and becoming paranoid due to his position on the global stage, he knew very well when he was being watched.

There was something after you in particular, he didn’t like it.

Out of his peripheral vision, he caught sight of somebody moving in the bushes. A spike of adrenaline shot through his body, and for a moment he was tempted to storm about side and give that creep a hook. Yet a better idea came to mind – first to fire a warning shot.

He net his book aside and sauntered to one of the glass door to the balcony and gave the pane a few sharp knocks. It was enough to catch their attention. It was almost comical how the figure froze, and the hood swivelled in his direction. Alfred couldn’t identify them in any capacity – they wore non-script jeans and a grey hoodie along with a pair of gloves. But this was about digging up the war axe.

Grinning, he flipped the bird at them, and then proceeded to draw a thin line across his throat in an unmistakable message.

Alfred would see this as a chance to play hero. He would finally be able to prove to you how capable he is at protecting you, how attentive he would be when it would water down to your safety. Of course, he would make sure there would be a lot he wouldn’t catch wind off – it would be the instances where he would come off as an evil master mind or as a control freak that he would skilfully hide from you.

He might or might not elect to torture the fool that would be stalking you. For him, waterboarding that creep would be a method of stress relief. It would also drive home the point that nobody should dare try to get between him and his sweetie.

Canada

Besides you, your phone beeped for what must have been the twelfth time in the span of one minute. You sobbed harder and buried your face in his chest. Matthew calmly stroked your back, making quiet soothing noises as he held you close.

“(Ex) will have to leave you be someday. This can’t go on forever. One day that jerk will have to accept that you’re gone for good”, he told quietly, while cautiously shifting his position to a more comfortable one.

You were both on the backseat of his car, having sought sanctuary there after you started panicking upon seeing the messages. All the memories had started to overwhelm you, and you had gripped his arm as if it was the only thing that was preventing you from drowning.

“No, that won’t be the case. Before I met you, I tried to leave so often only to be lured back into it. It was only because I met you that I haven’t gone back”, you cried, gazing up at him with a tear-stricken face.

“Shh, I will think of something. There shall be hell to pay.”

Matthew would be concerned about your wellbeing first and foremost. He would cater to you, cuddle with you, sooth you. But don’t think that would mean he would go easy on you should you step out of line and try to flee from him. When he would say he would never let your ex take you back, he would be indirectly saying he would never allow you to leave him.

Naturally, he would be careful and avoid any explicit rhetoric stating that your place in the world is at his side, but the message would be there, hidden between the lines.

With the legal sway he would hold, he would easily have your ex punished in some capacity. This could range from a fine to a restrain order to spending some time in jail.

China

A scream pierced the silence of the night, followed by a yell as the attacker was swept off his feet. Yao didn’t hesitate to continue beating the culprit up, even though he was on the ground.

After all, this was a man that had just been a few milliseconds away from dragging you away and murdering you, after doing unspeakable things to you, things that couldn’t be lightly talked about in any context.

“So, you’re the vermin that has been butchering people left and right for the past four months. You’re just as disgusting as I expected”, Yao commented as he brought his foot down on his back in a harsh stamp.

You had taken seat on a tree stump that was standing by. The near death experience and the fight going on in front of you had utterly rattled you. You were numbly staring at the scene playing out, heads in your hands, whole body trembling and eyes wide blown.

He kicked the killer in the side and was rewarded was a grunt and a hiss: “And I’ll fucking kill you too.”

“Sure you will”, Yao drawled sarcastically and pressed the criminals head into the dirt. “Get used to the taste of it.”

Contrary to expectations, Yao would approach the situation of serial killer being after you calmy. Not because he wouldn’t care about you, but rather because he would be far to old to be surprised by such a – in his eyes – trivial thing. And because he would know that letting himself drown in anger or panic would just result in him making grave mistakes – ie. losing you.

Nevertheless, he would never be far off, lurking behind corners, just out of sight of you and the murderer. He would also scoure your online activity, searching for any suspicious doings from other users. Furthermore he would use the opportunity to learn more about you and your strengths and weaknesses.

England

“Ah, ah, ah. Keep your dirty paws off that”, Arthur chided Jane and firmly grabbed Jane by the ear, harshly tugging there. It wasn’t the most humane treatment of a mortal, that England knew very well. However, he was in a sour mood, your infuriating co-worker being one of the contributing factors to it. Besides, he hadn’t made it one of his life maximas to be nice.

“You dare”, she hissed. When he gave another sharp tug, she yelped and dropped your phone, showing one of your social media profiles. Jane Smithers was persistent, he would have to give her that. Yet that would just be her downfall because she had decided to use that trait to try to ruin your life.

“Oh yes I dare. I dare to not tolerate your disgusting behaviour. Between you and me, we’re going to have a very long talk about your morals.”

She snorted and grabbed his hand.

“I could sue you for sexual harassment. We’ll see if you’ll still be laughing then.”

Oh, he had expected such a threat to come from such a vile person as her. He chuckled lowly – did she really think she could best him when it came to anything.

“And then spend some time in the nick for lying to judge and jury. Don’t think you’d be able to weasel your way out of this. I’m the one here that can have your framed and believe me, I could get you a bloody life sentence.”

She stared at him, uncomprehending, before realisation dawned and she let out a harsh laugh.

“So that is how (l/n) did it. Slept the way to the top.”

“No. (Y/n) has talent, impeccable talent. So unlike you, my dearest never had to resort to the methods you were so kind to mentioned.”

Arthur would see it as his duty to protect you – your physical & mental wellbeing as well as your reputation. So of course he would go after any jealous co-worker that would try to ruin you to any extent. And as mentioned in the snippet above, he wouldn’t be exactly nice about it. Any means would do for him, as long as the risk of his machinations backfiring on him and you would be relatively low.

During the whole process, he would letting you know about everything. It would be his point of proving that the world is a horrible place and that you can only find solace in his company and attention.

France

Francis was in the kitchen when you came stumbling in, frazzled and panting as If you had just run a marathon. By the way your extremities were trembling and sweat dotted your forehead, he wouldn’t be surprised. The only question was why.

Aside from that, fear danced in your eyes, and that was the only further information he needed to know that something was wrong. Rushing forward, he scooped you in his arms, ignoring the coffee that he had been preparing, and asked you:

“What happened, ma cherie?”

Instead of answering, you leaned your head against his shoulder and wrapped your arms around his torso, taking heavy, laboured breaths, as if you were crying. That was when he realised that you were. It worried him.

Was this something that he had done? What had caused you to become so distressed? Was it something he could fix.

“You don’t have to talk about it now if you don’t want to”, he offered shakily, unsure about what he should do to cheer you up. How could he, when he didn’t know why you were in such a state?

Thankfully, you supplied him with an explanation, one that caused his concern to freeze to ice cold anger: “There is some creep following me. He grabbed my butt when I got off the bus.”

Whoever that devil was, he was going to have hell to pay,

Francis would be enraged that somebody would be so disrespectful of your boundaries and of the fact that you’re already taken. In the brief moments of his more intense bouts of fury, he might do something as rash as to track the creep down and bludgeon him with something, probably a newspaper.

However, his preferred method would be character assassination (this would work especially well if the culprit in question would have a high social status) and verbal abuse. In this case, his revenge could be long-winded and very elaborate.

Russia

The temperature of the corridor had dropped since the last time he had visited – a testimony to the bad insulation and the approaching winter. Ivan thought it did her justice. After all, she did deserve this after nearly kidnapping you.

Speaking of her, she was sitting near the bars when he approached and when she glimpsed him, she quickly scooted away. Clever; she had learned from what had occurred the last time.

“Come to taunt me again?”, she seethed, curling into a tight, haggard ball of fury. Understandable in her case, however he wouldn’t shed any tears or have any sleepless nights.

“As is customary. I have to elevate your boredom somehow”, he confirmed, grabbing a chair and seating himself opposite her.

She stared at the door at the end of the passage, hungerly tracing it and searching the shadows for any sign of you. Ivan derived pleasure from mocking her: “How foolish are to think I would have brought my lover with me? I didn’t the last few times so why should it any different now?”

“You’re so very attached to (y/n), so I had my hopes.”

“Then I’ll have to forever dash them. That I owe you.”

She snarled at this; face twisted to a nasty frown.

“You know, you and I aren’t so different. So it is even more hypocritical of you to claim the moral high ground. Does (y/n) know even half of the things you’ve done in the name of your love?”

“I detest the comparison. I walk free while you rot in solitude, unloved and unwanted. While you have done everything wrong, I have done what was right where it counted most. You go very far by suggesting anything else.”

Russia would be the one to act the most intense of all the allies. He would have had people that were dear to him ripped away from him in the past, so he invest a lot of energy in insuring that wouldn’t happen to you and him.

That would mean he would go up to 11 in this case. As in, he would either kill this person and dissolve their body in acid or feed it to the pigs. Or he would leave this other yandere to rot somewhere after having dragged them before court for a very showy trail to break their spirit.

#yandere hetalia #yandere allies #yandere america #yandere england #yandere russia #yandere canada #yandere china #yandere france

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thesoftdumbass · 3 years

Text

somethin' to think about

Frankie Morales x reader (feminine pronouns)

word count: 3,800

warnings: caffeine dependency, cheesy movies, the beginning of one curse word but no more. platonic Santiago x reader and Benny x reader. very fluffy and kind of silly but that's how I like it.

summary: Frankie and his daughter have found a home in Stars Hollow, and the single father/diner owner has to admit that he's found a soft spot in his heart his favorite customer.

> my masterlist

Francisco Morales, a newly single father, wanted to settle down and start a new life for himself and his daughter. After stumbling onto Stars Hollow, a quaint and quiet, friendly little town just a little ways away from his hometown, he decided that it would be the perfect place to begin again. The old hardware store that closed down years earlier was priced well and had an apartment above the shop, so with some hard work, Frankie turned it into a diner to sell the food he grew up learning to make from his mother, as well as the stereotypical diner food that he and his brothers in arms missed while they were serving overseas. Life was good in Stars Hollow, Frankie and his daughter being accepted by the welcoming if not nosy townspeople, and now he and the diner had become a staple in the quiet hamlet.

The bell above the door chimes with the entry of another customer and Frankie looks up from writing in his order book to see you heading his way, already grabbing an overly large mug that he keeps on hand just for you.

“Coffee coffee coffee,” you demand lightly and Frankie huffs.

“You sound like you’ve had plenty today already,” he says, filling the mug anyways and sitting it in front of you at your usual seat along the counter.

“Oh nonsense, there’s no such thing,” your tone and face both hold a smile and Frankie can’t help the way his heartbeat jumps in his chest at this.

“One of these days I’m going to start slipping you decaf.”

A gasp leaves you, faux offended at the threat. “You wouldn’t dare!” Frankie’s affirming hum distracts you for just a moment before you start mixing your coffee just the way you like it. “You would lose a very loyal customer, Morales. I’d have to start getting my coffee at Weston’s.”

Frankie’s scoff brings the smile back to your face, as it’s obvious that neither of you will live up to your threats. “Besides, you know I can’t survive a day without the elixir of life, and yours is the best in town.”

“Of course it’s the best, I’m just saying that your heart may soon explode from caffeine intake.”

“And what a sweet, sweet death that will be, my friend. Keep’em coming.”

Frankie has to bite his lip to hide a smile, distracting himself by adjusting the cap on his head so it sits backward. The former pilot may maintain a grumpy exterior at times, but you’ve become a bright spot in his day and your bickering never holds any heat. Another customer needs a refill so he leaves you to your ‘elixir of life’ and heads over, making rounds about the diner to make sure everybody’s happy. When he comes back to the front of the counter, there’s a mop of curly brown hair sticking up behind the thing, a rustling noise being heard from beneath.

“Evie?” At her father’s questioning tone, there’s a bump against the underside of the counter, a muffled “ouch” making its way to his ears. A sigh leaves his lips as his daughter stands from her crouched position, brown eyes locking with his. “You alright, mija?” A quiet “yes” is his answer, so he has to ask the question on his mind. “And why were you crawling around on the floor of the diner?”

A quiet chuckle leaves your lips as the young girl looks shyly at her father, then at you, before answering. “I was looking for my book. I can’t find it, and I thought I might’ve left it back here.”

Evie has so many books that Frankie can’t keep up sometimes, but before he can ask which one she’s looking for in particular, you pipe up beside him. “I think I saw The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy in the library at the inn. Is that the one you’re looking for?”

“Yes!” She brightens, eyes wide. “I must have left it when I was doing homework there the other day.”

“If you want you can come to the inn and grab your book after school, and I can make some homemade hot chocolate just for you. If your dad is okay with it, of course.”

Two sets of eyes turn to Frankie questioningly, and he couldn’t say no even if he wanted to. “Of course you can go, sweetheart.”

“Thank you, daddy!” She leans across the counter and kisses him on the cheek. “Thank you Y/N.”

“Anytime, sweetie,” you giggle, her cheery attitude infectious.

Frankie looks at the clock on the wall above the counter before addressing his daughter. “Why don’t you go grab your backpack and I’ll walk you to school?”

Evie hums in affirmation and makes her way into the apartment that she and Frankie live in above the diner to continue getting ready for the day. Frankie watches her go before turning to you, only to notice you down the rest of your coffee.

“Do you want one to go?”

“Do you even have to ask?” Your teasing smirk turns into a grateful smile as Frankie steps back behind the counter and pulls out a styrofoam cup with a lid, filling it with the caffeine that you crave. “You’re too kind to me, Francisco.”

“It’s not on the house if that’s what you’re gunning for,” he teases and you fake a pout.

“It never hurts to try, does it?” You stand from your stool, pulling your coat tight around you and reaching for the full cup in front of you. “I’ll settle my tab later. Do you want me to walk Evie back here, or do you wanna pick her up tonight?”

“You’re gonna be here for dinner anyways, I know you’re too tired to cook for yourself after the Friday brunch special. You can just bring her with you if it’s not too much trouble.”

"Your daughter? Trouble? Please,” you laugh it off. Evie was really a perfect child, you and her have gotten along famously since the beginning. Frankie chuckles, nodding along because of course you’re right. “I’ve gotta head to work. I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah, have a good day,” he waves you away with a small smile, picking up a cloth to wipe down the counter as he waits for Evie to return downstairs.

A long sigh escapes you as you sink into your seat in the diner, your back relieved to sit after running around the kitchen most of the day. Evie settles into the chair across from yours, copying your sigh and both of you make eye contact before bursting into giggles, smiles on both of your faces. Frankie finds you like that, and he can’t help the way his lips twitch up at the sight.

He makes a show of pulling out his order pad and pencil, rolling up his sleeves in the process. “Ah, my two best customers. What can I get for you?”

You hum thoughtfully, opening the menu and observing it as if you haven’t eaten here multiple times a week for years now. “I’m not sure, what would the chef recommend?”

“Well, the daily special is-”

Frankie is cut off as you snap the menu shut, placing it on the table before folding your hands overtop of it decisively. “On second thought, I’ll have the lobster. What say you, madam?” You look toward Evie still across from you, an eyebrow raised and she plays along.

“I believe that the filet mignon and foie gras will do for tonight. And we shan’t forget a chocolate souffle for the table.” The eleven-year-old provides an astounding performance, a posh accent accompanying her words.

The two of you make eye contact for a split second, and your pretenses drop as you once again dissolve into laughter. Frankie only rolls his eyes, accustomed to your antics, though he doesn’t bother to hide the chuckles you elicit. “You two are ridiculous. Burgers and fries it is, then?”

“Why of course, my good sir. And a diet coke for me, please.” He nods and walks away, putting your order in the window and checking on his other guests.

When he comes back to the dining room after speaking with the line cook about another order, there’s someone occupying one of the seats at your table. Your laugh rings out through the diner as Benny, one of Frankie’s old friends, occupies your attention, and Frankie overhears the story being told as he approaches.

“-and suddenly we have to book it out of the river and leave our clothes on the bank. We end up stranded in the jungle, every one of us buck a-”

“Not in front of the kid, Miller,” Frankie chastises as he claps a hand on his friend’s shoulder in greeting.

Benny just laughs as you lean in and murmur conspiratorially, “but you’ll fill me in on the rest later, right?”

“You know it,” and he sends a wink your way as you lean back in your seat, a satisfied smile on your face.

Frankie hears a call go out from the kitchen window that order’s up, and after returning to your table with two plates of food, he takes the last empty chair. You and Evie dig into your food as he talks with his old friend for a few minutes. “When is Will coming in?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. I tried to get him to drive in with me tonight but he decided not to leave his new fiancee until he has to,” Benny rolls his eyes at his brother’s sappy attitude but you and Frankie can tell that he’s happy for him.

The pilot nods, “Pope texted me a little while ago, he’s on his way now.” With a thought coming to him, Frankie grabs your attention with an utterance of your name. “Are you still good with girl’s night?”

With an eager nod, you take a sip of your drink before answering. “Absolutely. I’m already set up for snacks and drinks, and I’ll be scouring my movie collection tonight to find something for us to watch.”

The boys hum in acknowledgment but Evie just laughs softly. “You know we’ll just watch the same thing as always.”

It’s sort of a tradition. Frankie’s best friends from the service don’t live that far away from each other, so every few months they meet up in one of their towns. While they catch a fight or simply hang out and get drinks, you offer to watch Evie, and your weekends together have evolved into binge-a-thons of junk food snacks and cheesy old horror movies.

“And what about it? You know we both have a soft spot for the classics.”

You finish your dinner, fully entertained by the lively conversation, which is only heightened when Santiago arrives at the diner. He and Benny end up eating as well and keeping Frankie on his toes between tables with stories. You might have heard them a half-dozen times before over the years, but you still enjoy the hell out of them, the reminiscences getting even spicier after Evie goes to bed for the night.

Your long workday gets to you eventually and by the time you’re stifling your fourth yawn in five minutes, your company starts to notice.

“You look like you’re ready for bed,” Frankie points out softly.

You hum in acknowledgment, shrugging your shoulders. “I could just drink a cup of-”

“You are not getting any more coffee today, and that’s final.”

“Fine, fine,” you assent to his good-natured firmness.

“C’mon hermosa, I’ll drive you home on my way to the inn. You reserved a room for me, right?” At Pope’s question, you nod.

“‘Course I did, Santi. Can’t have you sleeping on the streets, now can I?”

Santi snorts and stands from his chair, grabbing his jacket off the back of it and tugging it on. “I think if it came down to it, I’d rather bunk with you for the night.” His comment is paired with a cheeky wink and you roll your eyes with a laugh.

“As if you would be invited to bunk with me, sweetheart.”

Santi clutches his chest with mock hurt. “You wound me!”

You smile before bringing a hand up to hide another yawn, and Santiago nods his head to the door. “Alright drama queen, let’s go before I fall asleep on my feet.” You turn to address the rest of your small group, “I’ll see you guys tomorrow! Benny, you didn’t forget your room key again did you?”

A momentary look of panic crosses the man’s face as he pats his pockets before finding the object. “Ah! Got it,” he says proudly, showing it to you.

You shake your head with a laugh at Benny and his forgetfulness. “Alright, goodnight everybody.”

Frankie makes sure the kitchen is clean and everything put away before sending the staff home for the night, the last remaining customer his sometimes-pain-in-the-ass friend. He’s just finished wiping down the other tables and grabbed the salt and pepper shakers to refill, taking a seat across from Benny when the other man looks up from his phone.

“So when are you finally gonna boss up and ask Y/N on a date?”

Frankie’s head bobs like a toy as he looks up at the unexpected words, his brow furrowing a second later. “Pardon?”

Benny stretches his legs out, leaning back in his chair in a relaxing stance. “You heard me. You two would be perfect together, and it’s not hard to see that you’ve got it bad for her.”

Frankie just stares at Benny, unamused eyes fixed on his face for a moment before he sighs, taking the cap off his head and rubbing a hand down his forehead tiredly. “I don’t have time to kill you right now Benny, come back later.”

“She’s got it bad for you, too.” Frankie’s head whips up at this, a hopeful gleam in his eyes, and Benny continues talking. “Look, you both have feelings for each other, you see each other every day, and her and your kid get along famously. And everybody knows you’re going to end up together. Last time I was here I even heard her neighbor and that Kirk guy making a bet on which one of you would make the first move.”

Frankie mutters something about “town gossips” under his breath.

“I want you to be happy, man,” Benny says genuinely, the mood shifting.

“I am happy,” Frankie defends gently.

“But not as happy as you could be. I just think you should go for it, tell Y/N how you feel.” Benny stands from the table, clapping Frankie on the back and pulling his friend into a hug when he does the same. “Somethin’ to think about. I’ll see you tomorrow, man.”

Frankie locks the door to the diner behind Benny as he leaves, flipping the old-fashion open sign to closed. Turning around to lean his back against the door, he closes his eyes, considering the possible outcomes for doing exactly what his friend said. It could end awkwardly with neither of you knowing how to act around each other and you avoiding his diner like the plague. Or, the more attractive prospect, it could lead to something he had only imagined, a life with you by his side.

“Somethin’ to think about,” he repeats to himself, making his way to the apartment upstairs to get ready for bed.

“Everett Amaya Morales, I cannot believe you just said that!” When she only shrugs at you, a brow raised with as much sass as an eleven-year-old can muster, you scoff and cross your arms over your chest in slight indignation. “So you would rather wax Bigfoot’s legs than give Frankenstein’s Monster a makeover?”

She looks at you as if it’s an obvious answer, but to you, it’s anything but. “Yeah! Aren’t you curious how much there is?”

“Oh, there’s twelve pounds of leg hair at least, but I would be afraid for my own safety! One bad rip and Squatch could rip my arm off. Frankenstein’s Monster, on the other hand, has daddy issues and no friends, and I for one think that doing his makeup would be a very good bonding experience. Besides, how do you know that Bigfoot wants their legs waxed?”

“How do you know they don’t,” is her rebuttal.

You sigh theatrically, shoulders deflating in defeat. “Ah, yes, the Sasquatch don’t live by societal gender roles.”

When Evie simply laughs at your reply, you stick your tongue out at her and she returns the gesture before collapsing back against the arm of the couch.

“How could I eat so much takeout and still want ice cream?”

“Well you’re in luck, my friend. I went by the ice cream section when I was at the market earlier, and since I know it’s your favorite, I happened to grab a tub of cookies and cream.”

She looks up at the mention of her favorite flavor. “Extra chunky oreo?”

“Only the best for you, dear,” you respond and laugh as she only throws her arms over her face dramatically.

“But I’m still so full!”

“Eh, the ice cream melts in your stomach and fills in the cracks between all the other food. You’ll be fine.”

Poking her head up from the couch, she looks at you disbelievingly. Or like you’re crazy. Or both. “Yeah...I don’t think the digestive system works like that.”

“Oh it definitely doesn’t, that’s just something my great uncle used to say so we wouldn’t judge him for eating ice cream after a big dinner. That side of the family is obsessed with frozen treats. I, unfortunately, inherited that gene.”

“So…..ice cream?”

“Ice cream,” you concur, getting up to grab some bowls of the sweet stuff for the two of you to eat on the couch as you resume the movie that was interrupted by your earlier disagreement.

You must nod off because you wake to your phone alerting you to a new text. It’s Frankie, telling you that he’s on his way to your place to pick Evie up. Door’s unlocked, you reply as an invitation to come inside when he gets here.

You’re only half paying attention to the television when Frankie lets himself in, shutting the door quietly behind himself so as to not disturb movie night. You meet his eyes and nod your head toward Evie, who fell asleep in a pile of blankets on the floor a little while ago, and in the dim light from the tv, you see his eyes soften with a smile.

“She’s out cold,” you murmur when he gets closer to you. You pat the couch next to you, noticing the way he seems a little tired after his night out. “Boys night end early?”

Frankie looks at his watch, squinting to read the time in the low light. “It’s two am.”

“Ah,” you yawn. “That must be why I’m so sleepy.”

Frankie chuckles quietly, accepting the silent invitation to sit down with you. When you scoot closer to him on the couch bringing your fuzzy blanket with you, he can’t help but breathe you in, enjoying this moment, Frankie reaches for your hand that’s now wrapped comfortably around his arm, rubbing circles across the back of it with his thumb.

You watch the movie in comfortable silence for a little while, only half paying attention, before you break it. “D’you have fun tonight?”

Frankie hums an affirmative, leaning his head over on yours against his shoulder as he does so. “Did my two favorite girls have a good time watching terrible movies?” Your comment about bad movies being the backbone for modern cinema dies in your throat when Frankie’s words sink in. His two favorite girls? Plural?

You look up at him, eyes soft, and you know that if he looked down at you right now he would be able to see the adoration on your face, so you press your head further into his shoulder. “The two of us always have a good time.”

Unbeknownst to you, Frankie is watching you with the same adoration on his face, as he can’t help but thank whatever higher powers that he and Evie found you in this little town. As he feels his chest swell with warm feelings, he thinks once again of what Benny said. If Frankie confesses his feelings for you and you don’t reciprocate, things may get awkward, but if you feel the same and he never finds out, he could hardly live with it. Besides, as he spends time with you, Frankie has a suspicion that your feelings may be on the same plane as his.

Frankie’s hand that’s been moving circles across yours stops, and instead, he grips your hand in his, surrounding it with warmth. You turn your face back to Frankie’s and meet his eyes, and the breath hitches in your chest at how close the two of you are. “I think you and I would have a good time too.”

His deep voice in your ear sends a shiver down your spine and your lips turn upward in a gentle smile. “Yeah?” Your voice sounds breathy to you, but you can’t find it in you to care when he’s looking at you like that.

“Yeah,” when Frankie’s nose brushes against yours, you can’t hold in the sigh that leaves your lips, your eyes closing in contentment. When he speaks again, Frankie’s breath ghosts over your lips, and warmth fills you.

“The guys were asking about spending the day with Evie tomorrow, they wanna have some time with their niece before they leave.” You hum softly, prompting him to keep talking. “I was thinking that while they do...it would be nice for the two of us to do something together.”

“Like a date,” you ask, your eyes opening once again. You’d hate to bring that up and be wrong, but your need for confirmation outweighs the risk of possible embarrassment.

When he nods, your fears dissipate and a smile lights up his face in the dark. “Definitely like a date.”

You bite your lip, looking down as your face warms, but Frankie reaches a hand to cup your chin, a silent encouragement to meet his eyes. The heat you find in them permeates you, and you find yourself nodding shallowly. “I’d love to go on a date with you, Francisco.”

“Yeah?” Frankie finds himself asking this time, his heart picking up speed at your affirmative repetition.

With a kiss placed oh so delicately to your forehead as if he’s reassuring himself that you feel the same way, Frankie turns back to the awful movie currently flashing across the tv screen. You follow suit, content to discuss the details of your date with Frankie later, a smile spreading across your cheeks even as you try to suppress it. With Frankie’s hand now back to holding yours and your head on his shoulder, you doze off, the presence of your two favorite people a comfort. And even in your dreams, you can’t wait to go on a date with your grumpy diner owner.

Me, writing another single father AU with one of my favorite characters even though I don't want kids? It's more likely than you think! This idea has been bouncing around in my head for a while (a la Luke and Lorelai except a little different) and I'm glad I finally let it out for y'all. If you enjoyed it, please let me know! And I'd love your recommendations for which Pedro or Oscar character I should write for next. Thank you lovelies for reading!

If you’d like to be notified when I post something new, message me or send an ask and I’ll add you to any one of my tag lists 💜 (I'll be reforming my tag list, so I'm not tagging anybody this time!)

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heliads · 3 years

Text

Goodbye in C Minor

Luke Patterson was dating this incredible girl, Y/N, until he died along with Alex and Reggie. Now that he’s been stuck in the present day, he doesn’t know how to move on from the girl he left behind in the 90s.

masterlist

A girl leans against an open doorway. She takes in the band playing around her, the black and white Sunset Curve banners streaked with color. Her eyes flash over all members of the band in turn, but they tend to linger on the lead singer, a boy with a shock of brown hair and enough passion for an entire band of his own.

In fact, he doesn’t even notice that the girl has arrived until the song ends and he looks up, finally snapped out of his reverie. Instantly, a smile shoots across his face and he jogs over to her, unslinging his guitar strap from around his shoulders and setting the instrument down on a nearby stand. He picks her up and twirls her around in the air. The girl laughs, and her eyes meet his again once her feet touch back down on the ground.

One of the boys from the band shouts something to her from across the studio, his voice hopeful. “Did you bring us lunch?” The girl turns to face them, attention finally diverted from her boyfriend. She holds up a plastic bag full of boxed containers. “I did! Takeout, hope you don’t mind. And yes, Bobby, some are vegetarian.” A light-haired boy, Alex, does a silent fist pump. “You’re the best, Y/N. Honestly.”

Y/N hands the bag of food over to the hungry bandmates, and all except one hurriedly dig in. Luke stays, interlacing his fingers with Y/N’s. “You didn’t have to do that, you know.” Y/N waves his concern away. “I absolutely did. You’ve gotten me into the Orpheum for your upcoming show, the least I can do is make sure you’re all properly fed. If I can’t help with music, I can at least help with this.”

Luke grins. “Trust me, I think the food is the best thing ever. By the way, Reggie wants me to tell you that we’ll invite you to every show on the planet if it means he keeps getting free lunch. Although technically you don’t have to worry about that- I want you by my side every step of the way, lunch or no lunch.” Y/N laughs. “That’s one of the most romantic things I’ve heard all week. Maybe you should put that into a new song. ‘I’ll love you even if you don’t bring me takeout.’”

Luke pouts, and Y/N giggles at his mock sadness. “I’m kidding. Mostly.” Luke leans forward to kiss Y/N. “You had better be.” From across the room, Alex yells something at them. “If you guys keep making out in the middle of practice we’re going to ban you from the studio.” Y/N waves her hand at him. “I brought you food, you can’t ban me! I’m too important to the future of the band.” Reggie shrugs. “She’s right, you know. We might starve.” Alex swats him on the shoulder, and Y/N turns back to Luke with a slight smile.

“I can’t believe you’re playing at the Orpheum in a week. That’s so exciting!” Luke nods fervently. “Sometimes it doesn’t even feel real. Like I’ll wake up and find out we were actually booked to some other place, not the actual Orpheum.” Y/N smiles at him. “You’re going to do great, and that’s final. I can’t wait to see you guys perform.” Luke absentmindedly runs his fingers over Y/N’s knuckles, tapping out the beats of half-written songs. “I know we’ll do great. I’ve got my muse. All of my songs are about you, you know that.” Y/N raises an eyebrow. “Even ‘My Name is Luke?’” Luke groans. “Okay, maybe not that one. Almost all of my songs are about you. How about that?” Y/N beams at her boyfriend. “That sounds perfect.”

Luke jolts back to reality. He’s still standing in that same studio, but he’s back to the present day. He’s not in the 90s anymore, and it’s been decades since he was writing songs with Sunset Curve, preparing to take on the Orpheum for the first time. He’s standing in the exact same place as that one memory, when he’d been talking to her. They’d both been so happy, so exhilarated at the prospect of Sunset Curve’s Orpheum performance. Neither of them had known that Luke, Alex, and Reggie would die that night, permanently taking Luke away from everything he knew best. Away from her.

There’s a slight motion next to him, and Luke freezes before remembering that he’s not alone in the studio. Alex has just walked up beside him, although his friend’s gaze softens when he sees the troubled look on Luke’s face. “You’re thinking about her, aren’t you? You’re thinking about Y/N.” Luke sighs. “Yeah. I just- I can’t believe that all this time had passed. She isn’t here with us, and she didn’t eat those street dogs, so she must not have died. That means she grew up and she’s probably older now. I don’t know what to think about that.”

Alex nods slowly, placing his hand on Luke’s shoulder in a show of comfort. “We left so much behind that it’s hard to think about. If you ever want anyone to talk to, you know we’re all here. Julie too, although that might be more of a difficult conversation.” Luke blows out a slow breath. “That’s the problem. Things are going so well with Julie and the new band and everything that I feel like I should be happier, and I am, and then-” His voice trails off. Alex finishes the sentence for him. “And then you remember what life used to be like.”

Luke walks over to a photo tacked onto the wall. Julie had found some old snapshots of Sunset Curve and set them out in the studio. They were nice to see, but sometimes they tended to hurt instead of inspiring fond memories. One in particular catches his eye- the band and a couple of friends, mere hours before the Sunset Curve show at the Orpheum. It’s a faded Polaroid, showing a group of beaming teenagers pointing up at the Orpheum’s sign glowing in neon lights above them. Look what we’re about to do, they seem to say, look what we never got to finish.

Luke’s eye strays on the far right corner. He’s standing there, arm wrapped around a girl. Y/N. They’re both smiling, although in this shot neither of them are looking at the camera. Instead, they’re both turned towards each other, as if delighted by the simple fact that both of them are together. Luke remembers the details of that night in perfect clarity. They’d all arrived at the Orpheum and taken the photo, and then the boys had headed back to begin their sound checks. Y/N had watched them perform, making friends with a girl who worked at the venue. Rose, who Luke now knows is Julie’s mother.

Y/N always had this easy way of making friends. One smile, a few words, and it was like she’d known a stranger all their life. She and Rose had both cheered when Sunset Curve had finished their warmups, and then looked down at her watch in surprise. She’d said something about how she had to run and do some final checks with the venue staff, and she’d be right back. Y/N had kissed Luke quickly before dashing out the door with a promise that she’d be back in a second. Luke, Alex, and Reggie had disappeared down the block to get some street dogs. By the time Y/N had gotten back, papers and signatures held triumphantly in her hand, it was too late.

Luke doesn’t know what happened after that. He’s not positive that Y/N was there when he died, maybe arriving a few minutes after the fact. He’s not sure if that makes it better or not- although she’d be furious with herself for not being there to save him, Luke knows there was nothing she could have done. Would it have hurt more to be next to him, unable to do anything but watch as he breathed his last, or to have missed the entire thing? He supposes Y/N has had years to think the issue over.

Luke turns away from the photograph. His legs are itching to take him away, his heart racing to find something to do. The band doesn’t have practice today, so there’s nothing to distract him from the awful loneliness beating against his chest. He has to do something to get away from all of this, from the memories and the photographs and the knowledge that he had left the girl he loved behind and there was nothing to do to get her back. Luke mumbles something to Alex about how he’s going to take a walk, then poofs out of the studio, no clear destination in mind.

Luke reappears in the middle of a path. At first, he’s not quite sure where he is. There’s a line of pavement under his feet, leading away in front of him. Spring green boughs wave overhead, framing the way before him. The trees eventually clear out to form a clearing, and only then does Luke realize where he is. It’s the local cemetery, the place where all of Luke’s family have been buried. The place where surely he, too, lies at rest. His head must have some twisted sense of humor to bring him here.

Luke wavers one last moment, then decides to take off down the path. He’s never actually visited his own grave, as it seemed too morbid an activity to actually set out and do, but if he’s already here he might as well see it. There’s some sort of curiosity affixed to seeing your own headstone, weird as that may be, and at least now he can glance at it once and forget about it.

Luke passes between the long lines of gravestones, reading through the names. It’s late afternoon, and there’s almost nobody here at all. At least, there isn’t anybody here except one woman, who’s crouching before a headstone in the middle of the cemetery. On second thought, she appears to be around the place where Luke’s family is buried. As he walks over, he realizes that this woman is actually next to his grave.

She’s speaking quietly. “Nothing much happened today, but it’s a Saturday, so I had to drop by anyway.” Her head drops. “You’ve been gone for 25 years. Can you believe that? 25. I miss you still.” A bittersweet smile cracks her lips, and Luke’s heart twists at the pain in her voice. “I have children now. They’re just beginning to enter double digits. At some point, they’ll be older than you. I wish you could have met them, Luke. I think you’d like them a lot.”

Luke’s head flies up when she says his name. The way she said it sounded so familiar, like he’s heard this woman before. Like he knows her, and knows her very well. The woman freezes slightly- she must have seen his small motion out of the corner of her eye. But that doesn’t make sense, because lifers aren’t supposed to see ghosts like Luke. Yet the woman still stands, lightly brushing dirt off of her legs. “Sorry, I’ll get out of your way. Didn’t see you there.”

The woman turns to face Luke, and her eyes widen. She stands for a moment, staring, and then her voice comes again, faltering and weak. “Luke?” She looks away from him, studying her own hands as if expecting them to be ghostly and translucent. “But you’re dead. How can you be here- Am I dead?” Luke shakes his head. “No, you’re not dead. I mean, I am, but I’m a, uh, ghost. You’re not a ghost. At least I don’t think so.” Luke’s voice trails off when the woman looks at him again. When she’s finally turned towards him, her face seems so familiar. It takes him a moment, and then he realizes who she is. “Y/N.”

It has to be her. There’s no way around it. Indeed, the second her name passes through his lips he knows it’s true. The Y/N standing before him is far older now, maybe in her late thirties or early forties. That would make sense, wouldn’t it? They were teenagers when he died, and if it’s been 25 years since then, she would have to be older. A slight lump forms in Luke’s throat. What would it have been like if he hadn’t died? Would he have been like this too? Would they have grown old together?

Y/N rubs a hand over her face as if in shock. “This makes no sense. I mean, you sound just like yourself and everything but-” Luke laughs quietly. “But ghosts aren’t real.” Y/N gestures loosely with her hand. “Exactly.” Her eyes flicker over him again, taking in every detail of his face as if committing it to memory. This small action itself is so strange to see- Luke remembers Y/N doing this at shows and practices, and it doesn’t feel right to see this similarity in a version of Y/N that is so much older, especially when Luke himself is still a teenager.

Luke’s voice is quiet. “Do you always visit my grave?” Y/N nods. “Every other Saturday. I think your mom and dad come all the time too. I try to give them some space.” She looks back at him, as if she can understand what he’s thinking. “We haven’t moved on so easily. There was a time right after you died when I thought we never would. I didn’t see how the earth could keep turning without my boys. And then the years kept passing by, and although the pain never got any easier we learned how to be happy too, how to keep the grief but remember you with brighter memories instead.”

She smiles, although her eyes are tinged with pain. “I’m married now.” She holds up her hand, and Luke’s gaze is drawn to the ring on her finger. “I think you’d like him a lot. We have two children, a boy and a girl. They know your parents well, we get together all the time. They supported me when I was in over my head, they pulled me out of a well when I was drowning in grief. I check in on them, and they check in on me. We were trying to do right by you.”

Luke feels like his legs are about to collapse underneath him. To see Y/N like this, so much older and calmer, feels like an earthquake tearing him apart. He doesn’t know why, but some part of him had almost assumed that she wouldn’t grow old either, that if he looked hard enough he could find her and they could be the same again. He knows now that he was wrong, although the sight of Y/N is still so reflexively exhilarating that he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Luke forces himself to speak. “Are you- are you happy? Now, with your family?” Y/N nods, a radiant smile breaking out across her face. “I’m incredibly happy. Things are good now, and they’re going to keep being good for a very long time.” She looks at him, seeing the questions he’s too afraid to ask. “I’m sorry that things happened the way they did. I would have liked nothing more than to see you shine on that stage and have your star career the way that we always planned. I have a feeling that you’ve got a new chance now, a way to move on. I’d take it. You’ve always been able to stay on your feet and keep running forward. Don’t let that go.”

Luke nods. “Thank you, Y/N.” They exchange their goodbyes and then Luke disappears back into the trees. After a moment or two of walking, he poofs back into the studio. Luke walks on leaden limbs towards his songwriting notebook, flinging it open and reaching for a pencil. He turns to one page in particular, a song he’d begun writing for Y/N a few days before their performance at the Orpheum. He changes some lines, adds new chords, transposes the song from a major to a minor key. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, but when he looks up at last, the song is finished.

The title sits at the top, a blurry gray after recent erasings. ‘Goodbye in C Minor.’ The beautiful start to a love he never got to see through.

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maxwell-grant · 3 years

Text

Captain Fray: The Trash Superman

Look up in the sky! Is it a bird? A plane? No, it’s... an ugly, homeless bald man cackling evily while raining trash on the city with an army of sludge monsters, shortly before getting beaten up by a group of meddling kids. It’s just dumb old Captain Fray again getting foiled by Monica’s Gang, nevermind him. He does that every Tuesday.

Monica’s Gang are arguably the most iconic of all Brazilian comic book characters, having maintained popularity for 60 years and with unmatched worldwide recognition. They’ve had cartoons, a cinematic universe of films both cartoon and live-action, plays, a long-running manga spin-off that turned them into teenagers, crossovers everywhere ranging from The Big Two’s superheroes to Osamu Tezuka’s properties (as Monica’s creator Mauricio and Tezuka were acquaintances), at least one theme park, and much, much more. Even past Brazil’s borders, where they are a cultural institution on a scale matched only by Disney, these are some of the world’s most popular characters, starring in just about any kind of adventure imaginable and then some.

However, if you go into the world of Monica’s Gang, and look for a flying man with a chest logo, a cape and impossible superpowers, you’ll instead find their greatest arch-enemy: Captain Fray (actual name Capitão Feio, which translates to Captain Ugly), real name Feioso Araújo. Who will be happy to remind you time and time again of what a rotten, no-good scoundrel he is, even if he has to pick a fight with the Big Blue himself to prove it.

So let’s talk about perhaps the most iconic “caped superhero” of Brazilian comic books, even if he’s ultimately a long, long shot from being one.

Despite the long, worldwide spanning history of the superhero, the idea of the superhero as a cape-wearing uniformed superpowered do-gooder has remained a largely American concept, as different regions have their own unique icons. The titular 4 members of Monica’s Gang have on many occasions taken the role of superheroes, and they’ve built up a massive Rogues Gallery over decades, despite not looking like the usual idea of a superhero. Monica, Jimmy Five, Smudge and Maggy, for the most part, look and act like kids, with odd quirks.

To briefly describe the 4: Monica is the pudgy, bucktoothed ruler of the group as well as the neighborhood, being super strong and more than willing to hit people who mock her with her stuffed rabbit “Samson”. Jimmy Five has a speech impediment, and he constantly schemes to take Monica’s role as leader, best described at times as a junior Lex Luthor to Monica’s Superman. Maggy is Monica’s friend with an uncontrollable appetite, and the witty and perpetually dirty Smudge is Jimmy Five’s friend and accomplice in schemes. Smudge is defined by his complete and total refusal to take a bath or even come into contact with water under any circumstances, and some stories play up Smudge’s dirtyness to the point of superpower.

It’s Smudge in particular who’s gonna be relevant to this post, because the first time Captain Fray was introduced, he was introduced as Smudge’s good-natured and humorous uncle, a comic book addict surrounded by piles of dusty comics, particularly those of Smudge’s favorite superhero, Captain Pitoco, a sort of Superman/Buzz Lightyear analogue. Eventually, Smudge’s uncle is surrounded by dust, and out of it, he transforms “back” into a former alter-ego, Captain Fray, a megalomaniac supervillain horrified at just how clean the world is, and who decides to sully it as much as possible, flying around the city spreading dirt rays and even transforming the population into pollution-fanatics. Eventually he’s defeated and transformed back into normal, only thinking he had a weird dream.

Upon subsequent appearences, Fray would acquire things like sludge minions, underground lairs and ever increasing powers (like in the above sequence where he somehow destroys a rainbow and darkens the sky with a single gesture), although he would eventually gain a Kryptonite-esque weakness to water. Captain Fray would go on to become the most reocurring villain of Monica’s Gang for the next 40 years, as the former concept of him being Smudge’s uncle was dropped and he became instead the ruler of an underground race of sludge monsters created by him, who’d occasionally come on to the surface in order to engage in supervillain plots to take over the world and spread dirt and pollution everywhere, sometimes in stories with an environmental angle, and often when the story calls for superhero antics.

Fray’s got a very standard Grinch/Captain Hook cartoon villain personality, all cackles and snarls and shaking fists at the meddling kids who ruin his plans everytime, proud of being evil and rotten, but never too rotten to the point he betrays the kid-friendly nature of the stories he’s in, nor too rotten that he can’t do something nice for a change like allow his monsters to celebrate Christmas even if it ruins his bad guy image, or begrudingly do a nice thing for Smudge.

Although for the most part, the “mainline” comics have dropped the angle of Fray being Smudge’s uncle, the two having a particular dynamic has stayed consistent still. Sometimes, Smudge is portrayed as the only member of the Gang who’s got little to no problem with Fray, even welcoming the change of scenery he brings, although he will stick with his friends, as often he’s the only one who’s got no problem being hit by Fray’s dirt rays. While sometimes Fray singles out destroying Smudge so his claim as the dirtiest being in the universe can never be challenged, he is more often depicted as having a soft spot for Smudge, sometimes considering him a pupil or potential successor to inherit his powers, and plenty of times, Smudge has done just that, although inevitably it never sticks, partially because Fray gets jealous or misses his former life, and partially because Smudge gets bored of supervillainy and just wants to go play with his friends again.

The dynamic between Smudge and Fray has led to a lot of adventures between the two, and it’s something that’s been played up in the aforementioned manga spin-off, Monica Adventures. In it, the cast’s all been aged up to teenagers, and the adventures they get into respectively have taken much more of a shonen manga edge, much darker and weirder than anything the original kid comics could get away with, although not necessarily to it’s benefit, because I could not begin to describe just how much grimdark nonsense is in those, let’s just call it the Monica’s Gang equivalent of Jorge Joestar in terms of lunacy and leave it at that (although, to be clear, even the original “mainline” comics could get very, very weird themselves). Captain Fray has been a mainstay of said manga from the start, going through a series of redesigns, including one where he turns into a bootleg Sephiroth, and one where he tries rebranding himself into a suit-wearing gangster named “Black Dust”, which nobody really takes seriously.

It’s also granted Fray a backstory: As a kid, when he’d gone to the basement to read comics, his house was buried in a landslide. Afraid of death, he was met with a milipede claiming to serve “The Serpent” (the in-universe stand in for the devil, maybe, just bear with me here), claiming it would protec him so long as it returned the favor someday. He was afterwards transferred to an orphanage, teased by kids over his lack of hygiene and liking for superheroes and nicknamed “Captain Ugly” (again, his name, Fray is just the English translation), with rumors that his touch granted disease. After the orphanage closes, he’s adopted by a nurse and gains a step-brother in Smudge’s dad.

Years down the line, and Feioso’s managed to acquire a house and make a decent living. He spends a lot of time with his nephew Smudge, teaching him how to build toys out of garbage (a habit of Smudge in the strips) and fly kites and so on. Until one day, in an update of his original story, he’s cleaning his house packed with dusty comics, and a shelf falls atop of him. The millipede from his childhood appears to recollect the debt:

"Your mission is to pollude the Earth...rot it's soil...change it's atmosphere...darken the skies with smoke...so that the sun's rays may never again hit the surface of this planet!

"No! No, please! I-I don't want to hurt anyone!"

"You think you can refuse? You think you have a choice? Do you think you can escape your destiny? Evil does not tolerate weak servants. If you don't fill your end of the bargain, if you don't pay your debt...it will be transferred to the person you love most."

"Smudge? NO!! H-How do you know about my nephew?"

"We know of all that happens. Our eyes...are everywhere."

"Smudge has nothing to do with this. Leave him alone, please...I-I'll do anything you guys want!"

"So be it...Filthy powers will corrode your soul...This is the day of your rebirth! How would you like to be rebaptized?

"The nickname I was given at the orphanage...it's perfect! Captain Ugly strikes again!"

How “canon” the events of Monica Adventures are is a question best left unspoken, since it ultimately doesn’t change anything about the original strips. But regardless of what made Fray who he is, he would spend the following decades in many, many attempts to complete his mission and defeat Monica’s Gang, to be foiled and stopped time and time again by his nephew and his friends, little more than a dumb, cartoon villain there to be smacked again and again, too dumb to quit and too mean to stop. So he was, and so he will always be.

But something interesting’s happened recently with him. As part of the Graphic MSP initiative that’s allowed creators to reinvent the many, many characters of Monica’s Gang for stand-alone graphic novels, Captain Fray’s received one in the form of Capitão Feio: Identidade, which isn’t so much an origin story as it tells the story of a homeless man with no knowledge of his past or where he acquired the superpowers that force him to be on the constant run from society, and it tells the story of how said man eventually became the infamous supervillain, despite his many attempts to be a superhero.

The comic and it’s sequel, Tormenta, acted more of a proof of concept to test whether or not a serious reimagining of Captain Fray can work, and considering their reception and the newfound love that the Captain seems to have attained in recent years, I’d say they succedeed pretty damn well. He’s ostracized for his appearence, poverty, smell and bad manners, and there’s hardly anything he can do about it because his powers make him a toxic abomination by default. He spends portions of the book trying to create living beings with his powers, and once he succeeds in creating a Godzilla-esque monster to protect him from the authorities, he ends up having to put the monster down, before getting fed up with constant rejection and promptly announcing that, if he’s just gonna be known as an ugly monster by the people, even after he saves them, he’s gonna make it a point to be Captain Ugly Monster, the most rotten supervillain they’ve ever seen.

The comic constantly grants upon Frey iconography of several of the biggest icons of comic books, from Batman and Superman to AKIRA, playing up not just Frey’s association with comic books but also the fact that he's been mired in that aesthetic from day one. He wanted to be a hero, he wanted to be like Captain Pitoco, and regardless of continuity, all that he ends up as is becoming a gross caricature of a superhero. And still, Frey owns it. He owns his grossness, his rage, his bitterness at everything that he understands to be the opposite of himself, everything clean and good and decent, and he tries time and time again to tear it down, even if he ultimately can never get far enough to accomplish his goals, or lose all of his humanity in the process.

I’ve remarked once that, to many in some regions of South America, the “traditional” superhero does not hold much appeal, and most of the more popular protagonists and icons tend to be outlaws far away from caped antics. Which is why it’s particularly interesting that, not only is the most famous caped superman of Brazilian comic books a villain, but also that, perhaps unintentionally, Fray has undergone the kind of development that most reocurring cartoon villains never get, and one that seems almost poised to last. In a current zeitgest of villain protagonists, it’s successes and failures, I could very easily see Captain Fray becoming the star of a popular film or series, one that takes a look not just at his personality and role, but also at Brazilian culture’s relationship with superheroes and supervillains. Maybe Fray as an anti-hero, trying to make the best of the horrendous powers he’s burdened with, could work.

So long as it’s not revealed that he likes dirt because his mom got pushed off a cliff by cleaning products, I could see it working very well.

#character profiles #comic books #captain fray #capitão feio #turma da monica #mauricio de souza #brazilian superheroes #brazilian supervillains #superman #monica's gang

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scrawnytreedemon · 3 years

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Neurodivergency, and Sephiroth

Right, I’m going to see if I can try and explain why this reading appeals to me.

For some background, I’ve watched a full silent LP of the OG, watched Advent Children, and am largely familiar with his characterisation in Crisis Core(though it gets a bit patchy in some areas). I am not familiar with his characterisation in KH, Dissida, or any other spinoff appearances.

I’m going to be looking at this with an autistic lens, as, hey, I’m autistic, however much of these patterns aren’t exclusive to autistic people by any means and thus are fairly applicable to other labels.

This is an explanaition on why I find this element worth considering, and while I hope that others can relate or take away something from this, in many ways it is highly personal and not intended to be a decleration on Sephiroth’s ‘true nature,’ as it were. I’m not claiming that this was intended by the writers-- Infact, I’d be very surprised if they considered it, at all --As many of the traits he exhibits could be brushed aside as due to his upbringing.

That being said, let’s get into it!

1. Alienation

A common thread in neurodivergency, autism in particular, is some form of alienation. This doesn’t necessarily mean being outcast-- I, for one, have been largely accepted by those around me, and yet there is still that sense of being ‘other‘ that’s always been there, long before I even had a word for it.

Now, of course, in Sephiroth this is more related to his lineage, and how it’s expressed in... well, everything. Even still, I find value in expanding that, and considering just how getting the sense you’re implicitly divided from your peers.

There is, of course, the matter of Sephiroth’s literal isolation-- However, as fun as those scenarios are to play around with, I don’t think Sephiroth was raised wholly, or even mostly in the labs. The reason being that it would be nigh impossible to have hid just what made Sephiroth different, especially knowing how observant he is. It’s clear that Sephiroth had had extensive contact with other children, as epitomised by the line:

“I knew ever since I was a child, I was not like the others. I knew mine was a special existence. But this is not what I meant!”

Sephiroth was painfully aware that he is different, even if he didn’t know exactly how. It is at once an oddly thrilling, and lonely sensation. Thrilling, because-- Hey! --You can do and see things others can’t and/or wouldn’t; and lonely, because it makes it hard to relate to others or have them relate to you.

2. Socialisation

I would like to start off by saying that, while I find it a tad more faithful and endlessly less grating than Sex God Sephiroth, Sephiroth is not a complete and utter social failure. While it’s clear he has difficulty articulating emotions and understanding others, it’s very clear even still that he knows how the game works, and knows how to play it.

This is going to dip far more into speculation territory, so buckle up.

A thing that, perhaps, I don’t see talked about often enough online when it comes to neurodivergent experiences, is that many things that are considered ‘normal‘ get experienced as systems that we need to actively learn and maneuver-- Socialisation especially!

Now, of course there is always some degree of social interaction being a give and take, a step forth and step back, regardless of neurotype, but it’s dialed up far more when you deviate from ‘the norm.‘

If I can give my own example, a thing I struggled with when I was little was humour! Not because I didn’t find things funny, or didn’t know what it was, but because I had issues grasping at the machinations of what made something funny. This lead to alot of nonsensical jokes that left my siblings confounded, until I picked up a joke-book, and started analysing from there. It was mostly alot of puns, which! Due to their simple structure, are a great way to learn the basics! I didn’t even know this was unusual, until my mother pointed it out to me years later.

And that method goes for alot of things.

Sephiroth, above all else, is observant. He makes efforts multiple times throughout the OG and Crisis Core to check up on others and ask how they’re doing. He asks Cloud how he feels returning to his hometown, and about seeing his mother, and urges Zack to check up on Aerith in Crisis Core, to name some notable examples. Even if you get the sense that his attempts are, perhaps, a little ungainly, it makes it clear more than anything that Sephiroth tries.

I think the reason that people have leaned alot more into the overly-awkward perception of Sephiroth in recent times, is because it humanises him. I feel there’s been far more of a shift within fandom to focus on the mundane, on relatability, on humanity. A veneer of endless, effortless confidence really isn’t that sexy anymore-- When sexual-appeal even comes into the matter, at all.

That being said, this section more than anything, I think, is very easy to brush aside due to his... interesting upbringing. Depending on how you construe the timeline, Sephiroth got sent to war as early as twelve, and wouldn’t have had much of an oppurtnity to develop these skills in a healthy and timely manner.

Even without that, a degree of social awkwardness is far from exclusive to any particular neurotype-- It’s the way it arises in him, though, that piques my interest.

3. Analysis and Obsession

This... I think, is the one where I’ll be grasping at straws the most.

While, yes, the obsessive research demonstrated in the OG during the Nibelheim incident and even before that to a lesser extent in Crisis Core could be some indication of a degree to absolutely immerse yourself in a subject in that Very Autistic WayTM, more than anything these are brought on by dire circumstance(the former especially by the question of his very humanity), and as we don’t see Sephiroth as a child, it’s uncertain as to whether he displayed these behaviours as such and to this degree under ‘normal‘ circumstances.

Even so, I get the feeling that Sephiroth is very analytically-minded, in a very Stranger In A Strange World sort of way(not in any way referring to the 1961 novel by a similar name, lmao). I get the feeling he’s the type of person to pick up some highly-esoteric text just for fun and come away with a menagerie of strange and unusual and obscenely specific factoids that he’ll remember for the rest of his life.

Like, someone might mention a topic offhandedly, and though he’d keep his mouth shut because He’s Like ThatTM, a slew of all the little bits and pieces he’s seen or read on the matter over the years would just jump to mind.

What I’m trying to say is, I think Sephiroth would take joy in painstakingly pouring and mulling over topics that not many people would have the consideration nor the mind to hold any long-term, inimate interest in.

If the last point was easily brushed aside, then this one you’d merely have to breathe and it’d fall apart. Nonetheless, I feel that within fandom’s current common framework with how we perceive Sephiroth, this wouldn’t be too much of a stretch.

I, however, want to make it clear that I can see the issue with labelling Sephiroth as neurodivergent. He could all too easily fall into the cliché of cold, emotionally and socially-inept, often rather callous depictions we see all too often in the heavily-neurotypical media that sees us as Missing Something; less than. Things have gotten better, but even still, there’s such a tendency to flatten us down to the things we can’t do, or lawd as us Potential Einsteins in spite of it-- Which, just, while it happens, on the whole it isn’t very helpful or realistic to expect this from us.

We are by no means a monolith, and while I take comfort in the idea of a neurodivergent Sephiroth, I understand that for some, it can feel like taking on a label to a character that vaguely fits the stereotype, and thus, perhaps, insinuating that to be autistic you have to look Like That-- And when it comes to villains in particular, it’s all too easy to dip into demonisation.

This isn’t even getting onto some of the issues that’d have this fall apart, were we to look at other symptoms. The first that comes to mind, and one that even I, as innocuous as I am, experience: sensory overload.

While it is entirely possible that Sephiroth learned to deal with it accordingly in life, or was forced to surpress it, because Shinra’s Science Department(cough cough Hojo) has been shown time and time again to force its subjects into little boxes and blame them for any failures expressed, the fact is that such a symptom could make fighting on the battlefield downright impossible.

Again, this is something that could’ve been given a ‘solution‘(as much as you can or even should think about long-term surpressing your basic thresholds), it nonetheless remains an issue.

I just hope that, on the whole, this served as some food for thought.

TL;DR: Sephiroth is autistic because I Vibe With It.

Also, happy Disability Pride!

#ffvii #sephiroth #character analysis #theory #scrawny speaks #ff7 #autism #neurodivergency #scrawny draws

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listless-brainrot · 3 years

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Hi! I know you love Haru and I'd love to hear your thoughts on what his personality is like? Not his bending or his ships, but just what kind of person he is. He was super undeveloped in ATLA and I'd love to understand him better and write about him!

hey, i'm glad you asked!! super flattering to have you come to me in regards to this question, and i've analyzed this guy to hell and back over the course of nearly a year now, so i'd be more than happy to give you my characterization of him

granted, it's pretty lengthy, and is heavily based on canon, hence why a lot of it ties to his bending, but i'll try my best to make it so that it's more about haru as a person, rather than his service to the plot

also makes me super happy to hear that people do want to understand and write about him!! that really does mean the world to me particularly, so thank you <3

with all of this in mind, here's a collection of my (pretty lengthy, sorry about that) thoughts:

haru being super undeveloped is actually one of the reasons why i find him so compelling- there’s so much you can do with a character of his caliber because there’s not much canon/supplementary material that can discredit your characterizations. canon, however, does actually supply a characterization of him that i’ve managed to compile and accrue over the course of finding nearly every single little detail i can find pertaining to him. this includes his canon episodes in both book 1 and 3, the videogame he appears in (which is straight up called avatar: the last airbender), and even the silly shorts.

(mild disclaimer, i know full well that the latter two i mentioned are considered non canon, but i like incorporating little bits and pieces of what they have to offer, as i don’t really have any other options. also, the videogames are the only supplementary material where he’s treated as a part of the gaang, so it’s the most personality you’ll ever get.)

i’ll start with main characteristics i try to keep in mind when writing him, and then talk about smaller, more innocuous details that i just find particularly fitting for him.

haru is:

emotionally driven. a lot of his decisions are more driven by emotion, rather than logic. this ties in with his impulsivity and morality. he’s aggravated by his position in the village as the only earthbender left, and this culminates into him still bending discreetly despite the inherent risk. he does this not only for himself, but to preserve the (possibly only) emotional connection he has to his arrested father. this is a similarity he shares with katara, who’s emotionally tied to her mother due to losing her, and haru is the one to understand what that loss really means in this interaction: “this necklace is all i have left of her.” “it’s not enough, is it?” by saying this instead of an apology or some other response, he shows that the feeling of loss she’s experiencing is mutually understood in a way that goes beyond just sympathy. there is nothing that will replace who you’ve lost other than the person themselves, and he understand that more than anyone. it’s also implied that haru doesn’t know if his father is still alive, as no one knows where the prisoners go, but it’s clear that he still holds a sort of hope that he’s somewhere out there, and that keeps him going. it just takes a little bit of outside influence for him to fully believe in that, as well as being reunited with his father again. in general, he’s also pretty receptive of other’s emotions, and is quick to come to their aid.

impulsive. not just impulsive, either- he’s got anger and resentment lying beneath his quiet composure. it’s not as bad as characters such as zuko’s, but it’s still worth mentioning. i’ll mention the impulse part first, though- generally speaking, haru reacts faster than he thinks. upon being spotted practicing his bending by katara, he runs away without pausing to consider the harmful repercussions of being found out (nor followed home). he not only runs away from danger as a first instinct, he also runs towards it in some cases, ironically enough- he’s the first one to notice and immediately run towards the mines once he hears/sees the explosion and suspects that someone’s in trouble. he does this without any prompting by katara, even if the act of actually saving the old man needed some egging on from her in order for him to accomplish. his impulsivity comes to a head in the form of his most dangerous act- him attacking the warden. i’ve already elaborated on that specific interaction here, though i will once again emphasize that haru had absolutely no plans past attacking the warden based on his body language, further fueling the idea that this was just a split second decision, one made on nothing but complete and utter impulse. to bring the anger aspect into this, he’s also unable to hold his tongue and insults the fire nation soldiers and even his town once the former leaves, and his instincts swing wildly between running and fighting on a dime with little in-between.

adaptable. instead of completely shutting down in the face of such a negative situation (and over the course of five years, no less), he brings it upon himself to practice bending, accept his role as man of the house and work in both the shop and on the farm, and other responsibilities that go unmentioned, especially when taking into account that his father is apparently the leader of his village. this is where you could start paralleling him well to sokka, which i have done before, but i will make this more haru-oriented. there is definitely a lot more to be inferred with this particular aspect of him, but i will say that it takes someone of strong will to adapt to the situations presented in his episode, and learning to live with the grim reality of fire nation occupation. to run down what we see again- soldiers freely patrolling the villages, soldiers overtaxing the villagers, soldiers entering wherever they wish unannounced, soldiers stealing away people in the night without much resistance, soldiers forcing villagers to work in the coal mines to gather the coal needed for their ships, and soldiers forcing captured earthbenders to build fire nation ships. this is all off of the top of my head, so i could be missing a lot, but again, seeing haru still be as morally oriented and determined as he is after all of this, it’s pretty impressive and telling of his adaptive capabilities. to take this one step further, he’s also extremely adaptable when it comes to working with others, as in the games he fills his role as a necessary component of the gaang without conflicting sokka or other preexisting roles, and in book 3, he finds his place amongst teo and the duke, taking the most initiative amongst the three.

lonely. a snippet from his personality bio on avatarspirit.net calls him “lonely and brave”, and i think that’s especially fitting for his character. he only had his mom for five whole years after every other earthbender was taken away, and this is without mentioning the ostracization he faced simply being one, given how the fire nation constantly demoralizes his country’s benders and likens them to savages. the village he lives in also appears to be full of old folks, so it’s not very likely that he had friends his age that were even in town, especially if we consider the circumstances of following book 2 episodes with the earth army recruiters. (it’s also unlikely that his friends are alive if they did join the army- take a gander at this line from zuko alone: Gow: Just thought someone ought to tell you, your son's battalion got captured. You boys hear what the Fire Nation did with their last group of Earth Kingdom prisoners? Soldier: Dressed them up in Fire Nation uniforms and put them on the frontline unarmed, way I heard it. Then they just watched.) furthermore, it’s not likely that haru could’ve left his little village prior to its occupation- the games imply he’d been to omashu previously, but the circumstances of the war make this unlikely, unless he was super young. given his not always pleasant attitude and sullen expression we sometimes see him with, it’s not hard to imagine that the effects of him being so alone without the connections he needs has affected him deeply.

some other things:

-he’s horrible at lying (”they’re crazy! i mean, just look at how they’re dressed” is that really the best excuse you could’ve come up with??). -he doesn’t like keeping his hands/arms still (arms are usually crossed, sometimes gestures as he talks, hands usually balled as if expecting a fight). -he’s pretty outwardly expressive (for someone who’s supposed to be hiding most of the time, he tends to wear his emotions/intentions on his sleeve). -he can’t bite his tongue (especially when it comes to something that goes against his personal beliefs). -he doesn’t know how to react to touch (katara hugging him takes him by surprise both times, and he doesn’t reciprocate often, if anything he reacts stiffly) -he’s particular about his appearance (notably in the games, he makes negative comments about people touching his hair, and there’s also. sokka’s comments in book 3. sigh.) -he’s considered dangerous/sensitive by others (note sokka’s comments in book 1, and katara’s comments in the school time shipping short) -he lives a busy personal life (works both in the family shop and on the family farm, and has probably had to work in the coal mines at some point, though this is speculative) -he’s not above poking/having fun (in the games, he’s not above making fun of sokka and his comments about benders, and jumps at the opportunity to ride the omashu mail chutes) -he’s family oriented (count how many times he talks about his parents, it is many times i assure you, it’s important to note that he’s one of the few atla characters to actually have both parents as well as a decent relationship with them) -he has a tendency to idealize. he talks about his father fighting against the fire nation even when horribly outnumbered. it wouldn’t be surprising if he idealized the ideal of rebellion (which would later bite him given that:) -he’s a part of the first successful earth kingdom rebellion. this is mentioned on the wiki, and is unfortunately not shown in the show. it should’ve been, though. -he’s dramatic. he has an entire cliff he brings katara up to just to be dramatic and spill his sad backstory. he needs to be encouraged to save the old man, but he does it in the most dramatic way possible- he really didn’t have to stop the entire avalanche AND push it back into the mines. drama king. -he is very lucky. this can apply to anyone who encounters the gaang, but honestly, given his personality and a few things i’ve mentioned above, it’s a miracle that he’d survived as long as he did without detection nor suspicion. -he’s creative. (this one is much more speculative, but he does create huge statues of katara and ty lee pretty quickly, maybe he’s done similar things before)

to summarize: he’s a lonely impulsive idealist who isn’t afraid to throw hands if necessary and is also very attached to his dad <3 his connection to his dad makes up at least 75% of his personality

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unlikely-course · 3 years

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The tl;drs of this very long post, which is about Gideon’s arc and her relationship to Harrow:

-Gideon’s arc in gtn is a corruption arc because tlt is not just goth but Gothic

-Gideon “forgives” Harrow because of Trauma and that’s definitely not the endpoint of how she feels about Harrow or their past

-The narrative knows what it’s doing

When Gideon says “For the Ninth!” as she dies, and thinks “this is the loyalty they always said I lacked, this is me making good” that’s not growth, that’s part of the tragedy of the moment. Like, the Ninth does not deserve her allegiance! It is, as Gideon was the first to remind us, rotten to the core. When she dies, it’s for Harrow, and her saying it’s for the Ninth does represent on some level that she’s come to new understanding about who Harrow is and how Harrow views herself *as* the Ninth, but like this is, I mean. Bad. Harrow herself does not deserve Gideon’s loyalty! Gideon gives it to her because it is a relief. Gideon is very good, yes, but the forgiveness is a response to trauma. The second Harrow shows even the slightest vulnerability or regard for Gideon, Gideon is eager to make amends because she has been starved for any positive association to others for her entire life, and Harrow was literally the only peer she ever had to associate with. She correctly identified that resistance to Ninth society was vital to her survival and selfhood, but also that shit is exhausting. That resistance is also partially formed by that society conveying to her: we have no place for you, we have no use for you as you are, and that makes you hateful to us.

Her response to Harrow and the cavalier role then is pretty classic! It is a relief to have a place, to be able to stop fighting, to give herself over to a structure sold to her as one in which she can support and be supported, to resolve the central conflict and most complicated relationship of her life. I maintain that you the reader are also supposed to feel initially relieved and even cheered by Gideon and Harrow growing closer and then gradually unsettled when Gideon embraces cavalierhood and the increasingly invasive demands of the trials, and has her mindset adjusted in increments toward sacrifice. To feel her thoughts turn in this direction is alarming! This is purposeful, and it is purposefully mixed in with good feelings, the same good feelings that Gideon is getting, to distract from and inoculate you against what is happening just as Gideon is inoculated against it.

In addition, Canaan House is a very particular crucible. This is not only the first time that Gideon has ever been bombarded with new people and experiences, but also the first time she’s faced these unknown external threats, which pushes her to unite with the familiar (Harrow) against them. Her past and present environments have made it so that the compassion she comes to feel for Harrow gets bound up in the idea of being loyal to her house, the ‘contract’ of her new role, and the positive interaction it gives her until the idea of her offering her life to Harrow is not simply necessary in the moment but good and right. Redeeming, even, when we as readers know she has nothing she needs redemption for.

Gideon is so very angry when she comes to in htn, and it is not merely anger at those who have wronged Harrow or anger at Harrow for endangering herself. On the First, she made a simple deal: her life for relief from the emotional state she had to live it in. Forgiveness for some kind of peace. And when she wakes up that exchange is refuted. Gideon frames Harrow’s actions as a rejection of herself out of low self-esteem but also in an attempt to deal with unresolved anger she has towards Harrow, anger that cannot fit into the cavalier role she wants to embody, anger that she attempted to trade away but in actuality can’t. Because the role she was sold, the type of relationship the cavalier and necro is supposed to be, is ultimately false. It encompasses very real and deep relationships, as we have seen, but the framework uses these real elements to its own ends, the Empire’s ends, and despite its proclamations of mutual care the relationship is always at the cavalier’s expense.

This is what it means to say Gideon’s arc in gtn is a corruption arc. It’s not that she becomes “bad,” it’s that the corrupting forces of the narrative have reached out and altered her, worn her down, seduced her even. This is Gideon’s first contact with the wider Empire, in the seat and seed of its wretched power, and it has used her goodness, her capacity for connection (and yes for forgiveness as well!) against her to further ensnare her, to draw her in line with itself. And then she dies for it, as it demands! Wow. And the we have the other side of that, which is when Gideon says “For the Ninth!” she’s signaling to Harrow that she has come to value what Harrow values, just as Harrow herself, watching in horror, has come to realize her values are very fucked up.

And Harrow has indeed realized that by that time! Harrow really does travel such a distance in gtn, but this is largely obscured from us just the same as plot details are in the book, by the limits of Gideon’s perception. And let me be clear: this is a feature, not a bug. It is not a weakness. It is vital! Integral! To the above, and all it entails for Gideon as a character and the overall themes of the series, that Gideon forgive Harrow without Harrow having “earned” it or made real amends. The fact that she does conveys to us everything I’ve just been talking about!

Furthermore, this story is in conversation with a rather particular type of Christianity, but Gideon’s Jesus parallels are even more widely applicable. Forgiveness is kind of a whole theme with that guy, and the book is also plenty interested in what it costs for a human to forgive as divinely as scripture demands (to forgive as the bond demands, as the empire demands). In some ways there are good things that may come of it, sure, but it is not a purely redemptive force for the giver or receiver. It does not necessarily resolve.

I myself can’t say that I ship Gideon and Harrow in the way people traditionally think of shipping, nor as I have traditionally shipped other characters. Still, I reject the notion that that way of relating to each other is not a central part of the questions the book is asking. Like before, when I was talking about Gideon finding something to believe in in the way the adept/cavalier bond is sold to her—although we see that bond encompass many different types of relationships it is in Gideon and Harrow’s case speaking to how romantic love (much like that forgiveness!) is not immediately and entirely redemptive. I mean, Muir does say the series is about how love can be redemptive, but I think can be is the operative phrase here, in that it’s also first demonstrating the ways it’s not, or at least not always the way we think it will be--the limits and then the power. Trying to set that aspect of the relationship aside (like a “sisters” route or something similar) is a weak and queasy side-stepping of the issue.

Remember that interview where Muir says something along the lines of like, she didn’t write it as necessarily romantic but definitely homoerotic? Yeah.

Despite all that I do want to make it clear that I hope Gideon and Harrow work it out in the end. Just don’t assume the narrative does not understand what working it out might entail. And who knows? I might have the read all wrong. Maybe Muir doesn’t understand what she’s doing. But I feel pretty compelled by the textual evidence.

#gideon the ninth #gideon nav #the locked tomb #gideon the ninth spoilers #harrow the ninth spoilers

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