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thefirstempress · 5 months

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Appendix C: the Tollesian Calendar

So the final appendix for The First Empress: Book I discusses the calendar that the Tollesian peoples use. Technically, the Imperial calendar doesn't exist yet in the story, as it begins in 6 BE, just three days before the New Year, and 205 years before the calendar was created. Appendix B and Appendix C both started as notes to help me organize my thoughts and help keep track of both chronology and world-building. Eventually, I thought these might be helpful for readers, as well, and decided to clean them up and edit them for publication.

Appendix: the Tollesian Calendar, discussion and analysis by Zahnia, the Chronicler

As most know, the Tollesian year is divided into three-hundred and sixty-two days, the year beginning and ending with the Spring Equinox. Ferra’s Month and Arr’s Month, the first and last months of the year, have thirty-one days. The remaining ten months contain thirty days. Though the system of years changed in 200 AE, to the best of our knowledge the names of the months have stayed constant since before recorded history.

Imperial Calendar Years

The Imperial System of calendar years was established in 200 AE (After Empire) by Emperor Valashna II to commemorate the bicentennial anniversary of the unification of the Tollesian Empire under Empress Viarraluca I in what is now regarded as 0 AE. All years leading to unification are labeled BE (Before Empire) and count backward from year 0.

Though self-congratulatory as the move was, it was highly endorsed by scholars and historians across the empire at the time—and not just the ones the emperor’s cronies paid off to endorse it. The move quickly became popular among the citizenry across the Vestic and surrounding lands because it offered them something concrete to latch onto and identify with. The previous Tollesian calendar, now referred to as the Founders’ System, counted up from a mythical date allegedly seventeen-hundred and fifty-eight years prior to the establishment of Viarraluca’s Empire.

According to legend, the Tollesian peoples descended from refugees from a collapsing empire. Historians tentatively identify the dying empire as the Bronze-Age kingdom of Manarce, to the northwest, along the western shores of the Tornis Sea. These refugees settled three major cities: Aneth, Thornic, and Venetesh—the latter of which fell into ruin around 600 BE and was located near the modern city of Arr Patuna. The Founders’ System allegedly dated from the landing of these settlers and the construction of these cities.

While surviving literary evidence from these time periods sort of corroborates the Founders legends, archeological evidence does not. The earliest known major settlement at Aneth dates to around 1100 BE, while Thornic and Venetesh couldn’t have been settled before 900. Moreover, artifacts and human remains from these archaeological sites don’t match those of the Manarcean Empire or any other contemporary Bronze-Age empire of the time. And even by Viarraluca’s time, many scholars and skeptics had come to doubt the validity of these tales.

Naturally, plenty of traditionalists from Aneth, Thronic, and the surrounding regions balked at the idea of instituting a new set of calendar years that undermined the importance of the founding of their cities. Yet most citizens of the Tollesian Empire and its client nations were quite content to accept the new system. It gave them a more tangible and exciting chronology to tie themselves to, culturally, and it was relatable to peoples outside of the traditional core Tollesian poleis. The Imperial System exists to this day throughout the Empire and many of the nations it maintains relations with.

Seasonal effects

Unlike more northern climates, the Vestic and Istartus Seas have relatively mild summers and winters. Their summers are hot and frequently humid and winters rainy and cold, with moderate rainy seasons in between. As well as effective growing seasons, the fairly minimal snowfall allows for the limited growth of winter-crops, in particular winter-wheat and winter-barley. More pertinent to Classical Tollesian culture was how the four cardinal seasons affect agriculture, travel, and warfare.

Agriculture

During Queen Viarraluca’s time, only spring and autumn were thought of as agricultural seasons in Tollesian and other cultures on the Vestic and Istartus Seas. Landowners and their douloi and hired hands tended to plant and work ground during the early- to mid-spring and harvest during the late-summer and early fall. Once the campaign season began in late spring, the geomoroi and aristoi farmers traded spades for spears and left the day-to-day tending of the farm to their douloi and hirelings. The regular rainfall around the Vestic Sea helped facilitate dryland farming, though a few areas, particularly along the northwestern rim, imported Kossôn gravity-irrigation techniques in 108 BE to supplement less dependable rainfall.

Even today, the relatively mild winters with their steady rains and infrequent snows allow farmers on certain parts of the Vestic to plant winter-grains. The discovery of winter-crops by farmers in Messya in the 600s BE allowed poleis to better supply armies during the early campaign season or stock cities besieged by invaders.

Travel and trade

Only the northern and more mountainous regions around the Vestic Sea receive an annual snowfall, but travel is still severely limited in the wintertime due to frequent rains on land and violent storms at sea.

Though ancient cities and townships managed to offset this somewhat with cobbled roads, rural roadways were nearly untraversable during the rainy season. Occasional efforts were made to cobble some of the major trade roads, but winter rains tended to cover up their efforts within a few years. While travelers on foot or on horseback could generally traverse the roadways with moderate-to-considerable difficulty, the mud rendered wagons completely unusable, reducing overland trade to almost zero.

The regular winter storms and squalls rendered the seas similarly unusable. In addition to the heavy rain and treacherous waves, the overcast skies significantly compounded navigation. Warships, merchantmen, and courier ships, no matter how sturdy, were forced to cling to shorelines for safety, and even then are risked a great deal by setting out. Island city-states, meanwhile, received virtually no travelers or trade during the winter months.

Warfare

The reliable rainfall and prevalence of douloi and workmen allowed geomoroi farmers and wealthy landowners plenty of free time over the summer months to wage war. Leaving their children, workers, and douloi to tend the farms after planting, geomoroi and wealthy hoplites donned their armor and shields either to plunder their neighbors’ land or defend their own. Farmlands’ vulnerability to raids from rival city-states influenced many farmers to thus take up defensive arms, while the promise of gold, luxuries, slaves, and other spoils encouraged others to invade their rivals.

Though skirmishes and raids could continue until well after the harvest season, this was when the bulk of hoplites put up their spears for the winter. Campaigns and sieges had to take harvest into account, in terms of travel times and food supplies. Many a besieged city spent its summer counting the days until the attacking hoplites were forced to return home for the harvest season.

This was the norm for Tollesian city-states for over seven hundred years, but the increased presence of Gannic, Verleki, and other non-agricultural invaders necessitated a paradigm shift in military organization. Unhindered by planting and harvest seasons, more and more encroaching barbaroi increased their raids during spring and autumn. And being from northerly climates, the Gan in particular lacked the Tollesian reluctance to fight during the cold, rainy winters. These non-seasonal attacks forced many city-states, particularly along the northern coastlines, to keep standing armies year round, paying eleutheroi, apeleutheroi, and disenfranchised geomoroi to patrol the trade roads and protect the borders during even the coldest, wettest winter months.

This in turn led to a class of semiprofessional soldier in some poleis, with down-on-their-luck geomoroi selling or renting out their farms to buy hoplite panoply and restless nobles using their savings to buy top-line weapons and armor. While many of these fought for the defense of their polis, many others took up as sell-spears, fighting for whoever offered coin. Even by Viarra’s time, more than a few military experts argued that with agricultural seasons and farming schedules no longer dictating troop availability, farther-reaching conquests lay in the future for the Tollesian city-states.

Months

The Tollesian calendar year is divided into twelve months. Most months have thirty days, except Cibades and Arr’s months, which have thirty-one. Ferra’s Month is also unique in that every seven years a Leap Day is tacked onto the end. The day is generally celebrated with feasting and libations, and children born on Leap Day are often considered good luck for their polis, town, or village.

Ferra’s Month

Named for the goddess of rebirth, medicine, and fertility, the first month of the calendar year begins on the Spring Equinox. Around the Vestic Sea, Ferra’s month is mostly rainy, but the first two weeks also see the final tapering off of the winter storms that make sea travel on the Vestic potentially suicidal for nearly four months of the year. Early crops are typically planted by the Feast of Ferra on the 20th, and planting season is usually in full swing by the end of the month.

Suvie’s Month

Suvie’s Month is the second month in the calendar year and is named for the hermaphrodite deity of the forest and wilderness. The last of the summer crops are typically planted by the end of the first week. The Tollesian campaign season generally begins by the third week, the geomoroi hoplites having finished their planting and the seas generally safe enough to transport soldiers. The second week is considered the beginning of the ‘Dry Season’ on the Vestic’s northwestern islands and rim, typically only getting a few inches of rain until autumn. Most of the rest of the islands and surrounding mainland continue to get sporadic showers throughout the summer, however. Feast day is on the 16th.

Zupor’s Month

Named for the Tolleisan god of warfare and slaughter, the Tolleisan campaign season is typically in full swing by Zupor’s Month. As such, the month tends to see more battle and bloodshed than any other month of the year. Additionally, the previous year’s winter crops are close to ready to harvest, often providing a plentiful food source for besieged cities or for raiding and besieging armies. Zupor’s month ends on the Summer Solstice. Zupor’s feast day is on the 8th.

Nyrus’s Month

Named for the patron god of the Vestic, Istartus, and Tornis Seas, the Month of Nyrus begins upon the Summer Solstice, which is also the Feast of Nyrus. Many island city-states maintain a tradition of blessing ships built during the springtime during the first week of the month. Summer raids, skirmishes, and sieges are still ongoing. Most winter crops not stolen or destroyed are harvested by the second and third week of the month.

Avilee’s Month

Named for the goddess of protection, fallen soldiers, and bereft families, Avilee’s month marks the winding-down of the campaign season and the start of the harvest season. Most armies are withdrawn from enemy territory and disbanded to allow the farmers in the army time to return home for the harvest. Avilee’s Feast Day on the 28th is a feast of mourning, commemorating the soldiers and civilians killed or missing during the campaign season.

Cibades’s Month

Dedicated to the god of agriculture, farmers, and the harvest, Cibades’s Month is when the bulk of the harvest is conducted. By this time most raiding and skirmishing and all but the most belligerent of sieges have been called off to allow the geomoroi farmers who make up the bulk of hoplites to return to their fields. The Feast of Cibades is technically on eve of the Autumn Equinox on the 30th, but many city-states put it off until the last of the harvest is hauled in over the next few weeks.

Andiva’s Month

The month of the goddess of order and justice begins on the Autumn Equinox and marks the end of the harvest and transition to winter. Though post-harvest raids and skirmishes between belligerent city-states aren’t uncommon, there isn’t a dedicated season, and most blockades are kept short and sieges are almost nonexistent. Regions able to support winter crops tend to plant them around this time. Andiva’s Feast Day is the 16th.

Kralor’s Month

God of knowledge, science, and art, as well as father of the Muses, Kralor’s month marks the beginning of the winter season. The regular rainstorms on land and sea compound both aquatic and overland travel. Though rural villages and townships continue to send out hunters to supplement their winter supplies, most city-states rely primarily on their harvest food-stores to get through the winter. Trade tapers to almost nothing, and few battles or skirmishes occur. The Feast of Kralor is on the 18th.

Orova’s Month

As goddess of darkness and shadows, it’s fitting that Orova’s month is the darkest of the year. All of the Vestic Sea remains mostly overcast and rainy while frequent storms wrack the waves and coastlines. The mountains around the Vestic and islands with high enough elevations receive most of their snow during this time. Orova’s Feast is on the 30th, during the Winter Solstice when the Tollesian world is darkest.

Vepu’s Month

God of the afterlife and the Underworld, Vepu’s month begins following the Winter Solstice. As with Orova’s month, the Vestic Sea remains mostly overcast with frequent rains and storms. Higher elevations continue to receive more snow. The Feast of Vepu is on the 24th.

Thanusa’s Month

Mother of the gods and patron of death and rebirth, Thanusa’s month is marked by a gradual warming in the Vestic’s climate. Storms become noticeably less violent, and the higher elevations may experience cold rains that lead to early melt-offs. Thanusa’s feast is on the 10th.

Arr’s Month

Father of the gods and patron of fate and destiny, Arr’s month is the last in the Tollesian calendar. Marked by warmer rains and less-frequent storms, Arr’s month ushers in the coming year and rebirth of spring. His feast on the 31st is a celebration of the Spring Equinox and well as the possibilities of the coming year.

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eldritchsurveys · 6 months

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1152.

💻 Laptop Computer 💻 Do you own a laptop? >> I do. its name is Dorian Gray because it's grey, lol

Are you on a laptop right now? >> I am

How many laptop computers have you owned in your lifetime? >> eight, I think

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What color is your current laptop? >> well, silver, technically

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⌨️ Computer Keyboard ⌨️ Are you a fast typer? >> I am

Do you enjoy typing on a keyboard? >> very much so

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What color are the keys on your computer's keyboard? >> black

🖨 Printer 🖨 Do you own a printer? >> I do not

What was the last thing you printed off? .

Have you ever printed anything off in a library? >> many a time

Do you prefer to use black ink or colored ink? .

Do you know how to change the ink in a printer? >> I assume every printer is different and I'd have to look it up 🖱Computer Mouse🖱 Can you see the computer mouse emoji? 🖱 >> I can

Do you wonder why they made this emoji, when it's hard to see because it's white? >> I wouldn't have thought about it at all Do you own a computer mouse? >> I do

Do you use a computer mouse? >> only for my desktop. I used to hate trackpads but I just hate certain kinds of trackpads. Dorian's trackpad is fine and way less hassle than a mouse would be If you own one, what color is your computer mouse? >> it's just black but it does have coloured lights

Do you prefer to use a mouse or a trackpad? >> see above

Have you ever used the computer mouse emoji? >> haven't

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Do you own any floppy disks? >> I don't

When was the last time you used a floppy disk? >> I assume it was sometime before the turn of the millennium

What are three things you like (besides floppy disks) that are floppy? >> 😏

Have you ever cried because you lost something that you had saved onto a floppy disk? >> I don't know, man

💿 Compact Disc 💿 Have you ever burned a CD? >> many a time

Have you ever made a mix CD? >> many a time

Have you ever done a craft project using old CDs? >> haven't Do you own any CDs still? >> I don't. I don't even have anything to play them in except, like, game consoles (can game consoles play audio CDs?)

What was the last CD you listened to? >> lol

What was the first CD that you purchased? >> I don't remember the first CD that I bought, only the first one that I stole 💽 CD in Plastic Case 💽 Did you burn CDs and then put them in a plastic case? >> sometimes, but mostly I put them in those binders with the sleeves

Do you own any plastic CD cases? >> I don't Have you ever written on a CD with a permanent marker? >> sure

Have you ever used this emoji? >> haven't Do you still own any of the mix tapes or mix CDs you made when you were younger? >> absolutely not

📼 VHS Tape 📼 Do you own any VHS tapes? >> absolutely not

Did you used to watch movies on VHS tapes when you were younger? >> I did Do you remember the orange Nickelodeon tapes? >> I do

Do you have any home videos that are on tapes? >> I don't

Do you own a VCR? >> lol no Do you remember having to rewind VHS tapes? >> well, yeah 📞 Telephone ☎️ Do you remember a time before cellphones? >> I can barely remember my childhood and I don't remember exactly when my father got his first cell phone but I'm pretty sure it was still the nineties when he got it

How old were you when you got your first cellphone? >> seventeen

Do you work in an office with a telephone? .

Do you have a home phone or just a cellphone? >> just a cell Do you still remember your home phone number from when you were growing up? >> I remember my father's phone numbers because he always got unique ones that were easy to remember. well... I remember one of them. the one from childhood I've forgotten now

Have you ever made a prank call? >> haven't

📠 Fax Machine 📠 Do you own a fax machine? >> hell no

Have you ever worked in an office with a fax machine? >> haven't

Have you ever owned a fax machine? >> absolutely not Have you ever used this emoji? >> didn't even know it existed

What are three things you like that rhyme with "fax"? .

🗄 Filiing Cabinet 🗃 Do you own a filing cabinet? >> I do not

Do you enjoy organizing things? >> I do

Are you a very organized person? >> I could always be more organised

Is there an office in your home? >> there isn't

When was the last time you shopped at Office Max? .

What was the last thing you bought at Office Max? . 🗂 Manila Folders 🗂 Do you own any manila folders? >> uh, no. I do have regular folders

Do you organize your computer files into folders? >> I do, meticulously

Did you ever use Lisa Frank folders for school when you were a kid? >> I don't think so, my father didn't like stuff like that Do you still own any of the colorful folders you used to use for school when you were a kid? >> absolutely not

What are three things you have stored in folders (in real life, not on a computer)? >> birth certificate, marriage license, artifacts from Easton Mountain workshops

📌 Thumbtack 📌 How many bulletin boards are there in your home? >> zero Have you ever spray-painted a bulletin board, and if yes, what color? >> haven't

Do you own a set of colorful thumbtacks? >> I don't own thumbtacks

If you own a bulletin board, what are three things you have pinned on it? .

Have you ever stepped on a thumbtack? >> possibly

✂️ Scissors ✂️ How many pairs of scissors do you own? >> I think there are two pairs in this house. or three. idk

Have you ever ran with scissors? >> probably

What color are your favorite pair of craft scissors, if applicable? .

What color are your hair-cutting scissors, if applicable? . Do you cut your own hair? 💇♀️ >> I do, but I use clippers because I have a buzzcut

Do you have a special pair of scissors that you use to open boxes? 📦 ✂️ >> I use boxcutters for that

Do you have different pairs of scissors that you use for different things? >> I don't What color was the last pair of scissors you used? What was the last thing you used a pair of scissors for? >> grey, cutting open a microwave meal

Do you know how to do a scissor kick? >> I don't

When was the last time you did a scissor kick? .

🧷 Safety Pin 🧷 When was the last time you used a safety pin? >> I don't know, probably the last time I wanted to pin a patch to something Have you ever used this emoji? >> haven't

What was the last thing you used a safety pin for? >> see above

Have you ever ran a race and had a number pinned to your shirt? >> maybe as a child Do you own a box of safety pins? >> what self-respecting goth doesn't

📎 Paper Clips 🖇 When was the last time you used a paperclip? >> many moons ago

What was the last thing you used a paperclip for? .

Do you remember Clippit, the Microsoft Word paperclip? 📎👀 💬 >> he's a meme now, even people that don't actually remember him at least know of his existence (but yeah I do remember him)

Have you ever received a piece of advice from Clippit? >> sure

Do you own a box of paperclips? >> I do not

📏 Rulers 📐 Do you own a ruler? >> I don't, but I do have measuring tape How many rulers do you own? .

What was the last thing you used a ruler? When was the last time you used one? .

Do you know how to draw a straight line without using a ruler? >> idk

What does your favorite ruler that you own look like? >> are there actually people out here with favourite rulers. fascinating

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What color ink pen do you write with the most? >> black

Where do you normally buy pens? >> just, wherever What was the last thing you wrote down? >> probably a list of whatever transmog pieces my ESO character was wearing before I changed the outfit, so I could change it back if I ever wanted to without having to figure out what the fuck pieces were in it Do you enjoy writing? Do you enjoy how it feels as your hand glides across the page? ✍️ >> not so much anymore, now that I'm out of practice. was really into it when I was a child

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📋 Clipboard 📋 Do you own a clipboard? >> I don't

When was the last time you had to sign a paper that was attached to a clipboard? >> idk, the last time I went to an appointment somewhere

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📆 Calendar 📅 What is today's date? >> November 28

How many months are there until your birthday? 🥳 >> exactly 6 How old will you turn on your next birthday? >> 37

Do you have a calendar on your wall? If so, what is this month's calendar picture? >> I don't Are you counting down the days to anything? >> am not

What is your favorite season? >> summer 🗒 Spiral Notepad 🗒 When was the last time you used a spiral notepad? >> when I was writing down the stuff I mentioned in an earlier answer

Do you own a spiral notepad? >> I do

Would you rather write or draw? ✍️ .

Do you make to-do lists? >> I don't have enough things to do to warrant making a list, but if I did I would

What are/were three items on your to-do list for today? .

What is something you did yesterday (or today) that you really enjoyed? >> 😏 oh you know. but also video games.

What is something that you've been putting off, if there's anything? >> well I'm about to put off doing my laundry until Thursday (I usually do it on Wednesdays) because I got robbed of the all-day gaming session I had planned for today (game was down for maintenance and then the maintenance got extended... didn't come back up until fucking 18:00 😒) so now I have to have it tomorrow or else I'll have a fit. and since I have to change my bed linens this week I'm not gonna feel like doin all that when I'm also trying to game (on that very bed) so... yeah. Thursday. Have you ever used this emoji? 🗒 >> I've used the one that has a pen on it too, to convey the idea of taking notes on what someone was saying

What is one thing you think of when you look at a blank piece of paper? >> I don't have any particular associations with blank pieces of paper

Are you thankful that your life story is still being written? >> lmao ⏰ Alarm Clock ⏰ What time do you usually wake up in the morning? >> there is no "usually" anymore, there are so many factors that dictate what time I wake up

Is your bed made right now? >> I don't make my bed Do you wake up to an alarm, or do you wake up naturally? >> I don't have to wake up at a particular time so there's no reason to use an alarm Do you normally follow a schedule, or are you more spontaneous? >> I just do what I want

Do you prefer to follow a schedule or be spontaneous? >> ^

Do you have a clock on your wall? >> I do but it's purely decorative (it's a vinyl record that's had a Dark Tower design cut into it). I hate the ticking sound so I don't put batteries in it

What do you normally use to tell time? Do you use your phone, computer, wristwatch, the sun ☀️, a wall clock, a bedside alarm clock, or something else? >> phone, or taskbar if I'm on the computer. in the summer I can usually just go by the Sun

💡 Lightbulb 💡 How many lamps can you see from where you're sitting right now? >> one When was the last time you changed a lightbulb? .

Have you ever used your phone as a flashlight? 📱 >> many many times

Do you own a flashlight? 🔦 >> I think we do but I never use it so I can't be sure

How many lightbulbs can you see from where you're sitting right now? >> like a billion, because of my string lights 💿🗄💻 📆🗂 Final Questions! 🗃📋🖇📠💾 Do you work in an office? >> I don't work Have you ever had an office job? If so, did/do you like it? If you haven't had an office job, do you think you would like one? .

What is your favorite thing to do on a computer? 💻 >> like. fucking everything lol

Would you rather own a desktop computer or laptop computer? 💻 🖥 >> I prefer owning both, they serve different purposes for me What is your dream job? .

Do you prefer writing something down or typing something up on a computer? >> typing, always Do you own a desk? If so, what does it look like? What do you have on top of it? >> I do but I don't use it as a desk anymore because I have learned that I hate sitting at a desk and I'm not gonna put myself through that anymore it's a big ugly L-shaped thing and right now it just holds my monitor and peripherals and other random shit

What do you think is your favorite emoji among the ones on this survey? >> hm.

#survey #surveys #category survey

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brennan42connor · 2 years

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Hermes Replica Constance For Handbags On-line Retailer

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gatheringbones · 3 years

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["Meth gave me a boundless energy and a feeling that I could do anything. Take a child of parents with their own substance abuse issues, sprinkle that with gender confusion, and you have a recipe for a speed freak. I was unconsciously numbing the pain for which I had no words. Looking back, I believe I was literally androgynizing my body with meth, which is the ultimate appetite killer, stripping my body of fat and thereby taking my breasts along with it. Plus, with each snort or injection my dopamine skyrocketed to twelve hundred times its normal level. To put this in context, cocaine only raises the user's dopamine by 300 percent. What this means is that I got skinny and felt a thousand times more euphoric and my body began to align with my self image. I got thinner and thinner and my breasts disappeared! My jaw and cheekbones emerged, and I couldn't believe the person I saw looking back at me in the mirror. I saw a man, not the boy of my childhood. And everyone else began to see a man too. I started playing with facial hair at Halloween and began packing a sock on occasion.

That was the cool part. But life on meth was completely destructive and unsustainable. I stayed awake for days at a time in a drug-induced psychosis in order to avoid the real discomfort lurking just below the surface. I studied reincarnation in the wee hours of the night as a way to make sense of the jarring truth: that my fantasy life and body identity were solidly fixed on the male side of this gender system I was working with, but my genitals told another story.

(...) Once back home in Texas, I slowed down just enough to realize I felt like shit. It was 1986, the year that HIV was named HIV, and I knew I needed to get checked out. Remarkably I dodged that bullet; instead I was diagnosed with a dangerous case of Non-A, Non-B Hepatitis, which is now called Hepatitis C. Even after this diagnosis, I had some fits and starts towards sobriety. By then I had been using meth for weight control for years. Getting clean off of speed "gifted" me with eight pounds of breasts. I was miserable. Of course the addict brain wants to turn to something at that point to numb the pain. Alcohol would be a bad choice given the liver is compromised with Hep C. But denial had never let me down, so alcohol it was. Since I had eaten only sporadically over the past five years, the pounds began to add up. With every bra size increase, I felt increasingly miserable in my body. I assumed my misery was related to the weight gain. I wore very tight one-piece gymnastic leotards in an attempt to flatten my chest. This only managed to push them down and take the breast shape away, making me look like my belly was ten times bigger. After much begging, my reluctant mother paid for a partial breast reduction. I went to Dr. Wong at the Rosenberg Clinic. Unbeknownst to me, I had ironically walked into the oldest gender clinic in the south, but my visit left me none the wiser about my identity.

I didn't realize that gender dysphoria was a thing until the mid-1990s, when I moved to Austin and met a queer artist named Venae Rodriguez. Venae had made a short film called Male Identified. As we talked about our childhoods and compared notes, I began to feel like parts of myself, formerly buried, were beginning to emerge. We became closer friends, and the next year we took a trip to San Francisco Pride. At the Dyke March, I met my first out trans man in Dolores Park. He talked about how he had always marched, but now he had to stay back during the march itself. I was taken by the physical transformation, and the power of testosterone. I felt excited to meet someone who identified similarly but had taken another path towards physical transition.

It was around this time that I was finishing my master's in social work. The influence of Venae and the chance meeting with the trans man at the march had left me hungry to know more. I began to learn about transgender communities, trans men, and the whole diverse spectrum of gender identities. I read everything I could find on the subject and plunged to the depths of my psychological pain in therapy. I came out as transgender in my classes at school and found this to be very exciting. I had a name for my experience, and I felt the power that comes with language. I looked around and found no therapy resources for transfolks in Austin, so I decided to learn as much as I could and eventually start a private practice that would serve the community. It was life changing to read Leslie Feinberg's Stone Butch Blues, Roxxie's Dagger: On Butch Women, Riki Anne Wilchin's Read My Lips, and Kate Bornstein's Gender Outlaw. As an emerging caregiver, it was helpful to find True Selves: Understanding Transsexualism— For Families, Friends, Coworkers, and Helping Professionals, and Randi Ettner's Gender Loving Care. I also found the crown jewel for trans men at the time: Body Alchemy: Transsexual Portraits by Loren Cameron. Across town at the University of Texas, Sandy Stone herself handed me a copy of the movie Gendernauts so I could show it to my transmasculine support group."]

CK Combs, from What Am I?, from Non-binary: Memoirs of Gender and Identity, edited by Micah Rajunov and Scott Duane, Columbia University Press, 2019

#ck combs #gender stuff #trans literature #lesbian literature #book recs tag #cw medical #cw self harm #wasteland radio

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myckicade · 3 years

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Prompt: OMG. Love the Taza imagine! If you're OK with that, would you be OK with a Bishop one? I'd love to see him jealous!

A/N: Uhm. Yeah. So. This is now a thing. This one is a little different, in more ways than one. (I have a feeling I’ll be doing a second part). I should warn about some ugly language in this one, just in case. I want to wish you a happy read, and to apologize, at the same time.

Title: Bottom of the Bottle

Teaser: Your world has gone on, as normal. You just haven’t included Bishop in it.

Two days.

It’s been two days, Bishop reminds himself. Two days since he’s heard from you. Two days since you left his bed, his home, his life. It’s dramatic as hell, and he knows so, but the bottom of his bottle is whispering ugly thoughts in his face.

(Y/n)’s cheating.

(Y/n)’s dead.

No, (y/n)’s definitely fucking another man.

Groaning, Bishop pulls the bottle away from his mouth, and scrubs his free hand over his face. “This is insane,” he growls, snatching his phone from his nightstand.

Two. Fucking. Days.

Opening up his recent calls, Bishop stares at the screen. He’s made fifteen calls, in the last forty-eight hours. Two to Taza. One to Marcus. The other twelve all have your name on them. All twelve, no answers. All twelve, unreturned voicemails. He scowls. He’s sent more text messages than that, even. Those haven’t been returned, yet, either.

Fuck, he has it so fucking bad.

You’re fine, he knows that much. He’s been by your apartment, more than once. The cat is fed, and content. Litter box has been changed. There are clothes all over your bedroom floor, coffee mugs on the kitchen counter. Mail hasn’t piled up. Your world has gone on, as normal.

You just haven’t included Bishop in it.

He doesn’t understand it. What went wrong? He can’t remember being that big a dick to you, before you left. He’d teased you about the smudge of mascara under your eyes, from the night before, but that was it. You’d given him a kiss, and one of your brightest smiles. There was no indication, not that Bishop can see, that you wouldn’t be coming back.

See you soon. That’s what you’d told him. See you soon.

Forgive him. He doesn’t consider fifty-four hours, and some change, to be soon.

Heaving a sigh, Bishop abandons his stare-off with his call records in favour of a swig of vodka. He can’t call, again, he just can’t. It’s getting pathetic. He’s getting pathetic. He can’t remember the last time he was like this, even before his divorce. Lovers come, and lovers go, in his life. That’s just a part of the life. But, you… God, you’re something else, entirely. You don’t intermingle with the Club, very often, but there’s no tension (that he’s aware of) over how he earns a living. It’s refreshing, he has to admit, both halves of his being playing so nicely, together. (It’s so damn close to harmony, he won’t look at it, too closely, for fear of disappointment). He can work the whole day away, and come home pissed off, and worn out, and ruin every damned plan you have for the night… And, somehow, you adapt. You. You. Bishop swears, there’s nothing you won’t alter. A nicely-set table becomes plates in front of the television. A night out drinking becomes shots at home, cards and conversation filling the spaces between. And, on those rare nights he’s too tired to pleasure you? He hasn’t heard a peep about it, by way of complaint. You just accept that he’s going to shower, and hit the hay, and that’s the end of it. Sometimes, Bishop feels like he takes advantage of your good nature.

Oh, good nature, hell, you’re a fucking Saint.

He really should have seen this coming, this all blowing up in his face.

Is that it, though? Has he really driven you away, by not paying attention to your needs? He hasn’t seen the signs. You’re such a damned sweetheart, there probably haven’t been any signs to miss, at all. You’ve just smiled, and smooched, and carried on as normal, until it got to be too much.

That’s it. He’s forced you away, and that’s why you’re ignoring him, and fucking another man.

A low roar forces its way from Bishop’s throat, and, a second later, glass is shattering against the bedroom wall. Shards are sticking up out of the carpet, vodka streaking down the wallpaper. Fuck, he hates that wallpaper. He can’t remember why he put it up, to begin with. He’s been asking you to pick a colour to paint over it with, any colour that isn’t white, and you’ve been finding it in yourself, each and every time, to remind him why he shouldn’t paint over wallpaper. Sometimes, he brings it up, just to make you laugh. Just to hear the explanation, on repeat. Now, he’s never going to hear it, again.

Fuck, he needs a fucking cigarette.

And, of fucking course, the pack is empty. Crumpling the paper in his hand, Bishop tosses it to the carpet, beside the growing vodka patch. He’s in no condition to be driving, a rarity, these days. (He won’t admit it, under pain of death, but he’s been drinking considerably less with you around, too). Probably why he’s two steps from sloshed, now. He should just stay home, yes, he should. There’s no need for cigarettes, not at this hour. He should keep himself calm, and go to bed. Wait for your call.

Standing to his feet, Bishop grabs his keys, and his wallet, and heads for the door. Without you around, what is he saving himself for?

Well… Okay, so, that’s decidedly not the convenience store.

Bishop stares at the apartment building – your apartment building – in something akin to wonder. He has no recollection of how he ended up here, parked in front of the entrance. It’s been twenty minutes, easily, that he’s been staring up at your living room window. The lamp beside the couch is on, the soft glow almost inviting to his impaired senses.

He really should go knock on the door.

He really should have stayed home, too.

So, you’re definitely home. Looking around at the parking lot, he doesn’t see your car. But, you never leave lights on, not on purpose. Whether you’re paranoid about fires, or worried about an expensive light bill, Bishop can only guess. Right now, he’s thankful. It gives him something to focus on, something to calm him… Something to entice him closer to your front door. Step by step, he tries to talk himself out of it. But, he can’t stand this, living this way, not knowing where you are, or what you’re doing, or who you’re doing, if it’s not him. It’s distracting, and he truly can’t afford to be distracted, not even by you, not like this. He has to go up, he just has to. He has to know, to figure this shit out, face-to-face.

Knock, knock, knock. Bishop finds himself comforted by the solid connection of your door against his knuckles. He could use his key, but it doesn’t feel right, not now. He could scare you, or piss you off, neither of which is on his list of desires. You’re a civil person, peaceful to a fault, so he might get away with it, sure, but… But…

This has to go right. He has to do this right. Whatever he did, or hasn’t done, Bishop’s confident he can fix it. You two have a good thing going. Sure, he’s got a few years on you, and there are gaps in understanding one another, every now and again. And, yeah, you’ve had a spat or two, in the last few months of your relationship. He’s always seen that as a sign of things getting comfortable, though, not a warning of bigger problems. Your arguments aren’t dire, anyway.

Who the fuck is ‘Nicki Minaj’, and why is she on my speaker system?

Why is your toilet paper on the roll, the wrong way?

How the hell can you be a Mets fan?

No, I’m serious. Who the fuck is ‘Nicki Minaj’?

That’s not enough for you to be screwing around on him, right?

As your door opens, and Bishop gets a good look at what’s been going on… Well, apparently, it’s enough.

“Who the fuck are you?” Bishop spits out, before the man at the door can even get out a greeting. Not exactly his nicest choice of words, but all Bishop can see is young, and tall, and handsome. If this motherfucker is a day over thirty, he’ll go vegan for a fucking year. Well-dressed, smells decent (he’s close enough to tell, okay?), without a frown line, or a speck of grey on him.

He’s not insecure. He’s not fucking insecure.

Handsome smiles, albeit a bit forced. “Oh, ah, hi! Are you looking for (y/n)?” He’s so polite, it stings. This kid – kid – is the poster child for Ivy League education, for all the right things in life. So clean-cut, his creases have creases. Meanwhile, here Bishop stands, in yesterday’s jeans, boots, kutte, and a wrinkled shirt he can’t swear is fresh.

He can’t stand this, either. As a result, in the blink of an eye, he has Handsome backed against a wall, hands fisted in his now-not-so-perfect shirt.

“Hey!” Handsome shouts, trying – and, failing – to shove Bishop off of him. Bishop can’t really fathom how, must be from sheer force of rage, probably fueled by his liquid indulgences. He can’t help it. His heart is in his throat, rhythm a little sketchy, at the thought that this is what you’ve chosen, over him? This? Some kid with a million-watt smile, and fucking Dockers? What fucking year is it, anyway?!

The idea forces an extra shove into the wall. Bishop hopes something cracks.

“What the fuck are you doing, here?” He hasn’t raised his voice, not a bit. If anything, it’s probably dropped an octave, settling into a low, dangerous growl. He’s two steps away from redecorating that perfect little face, just for the sheer joy of it, make it something you definitely won’t like, anymore.

That’s when he hears it.

“Obispo!”

It’s you. Even through the deluge of seething rage threatening to consume him, Bishop knows your voice. He looks over his shoulder, finding you standing in the still-open doorway. There’s a duffel bag slung over your shoulder, a bag of groceries in your other arm. You look surprised, but who wouldn’t be surprised to be caught, red-handed?

“What are you doing?” you ask, setting your bags down.

“I could ask you the same thing!” Bishop finally shouts, hands still twisted in your little boyfriend’s shirt. “Where the fuck have you been?”

Your confusion seems to be growing. “What the hell are you talking about?”

He sneers. “You know what I’m talking about. I’ve been trying to get hold of you for two days!” Bishop points back to your unwanted visitor, ignoring the way his hand shakes. “You ignore me, to whore around with this prick?!”

“The fuck did you just say?” Bishop nearly has a coronary, as a second guy steps into the doorway, behind you. Where the hell did he come from? This one… He’s just as tall, but he definitely doesn’t miss a day at the gym. If Bishop tries to put this one against the wall, he’ll find himself pile-driven into the floor. His arms may be full of groceries, but the look on his face is threatening bodily harm, and worse.

Doesn’t stop Bishop’s mouth from running, though.

“Oh, wow,” he chokes out, forcing a laugh from somewhere that feels wrong, cut-up and bloodied and wrecked. He shifts his eyes from Muscles, to you. “You running a whole thing outta’ here? Taking ‘em, two at a time?”

Muscles puts his bags down, advancing on Bishop, who lets go of Handsome, and takes a step back. Muscles puts himself between Bishop, and everyone else. Defensive. Protective. And, does that ever fucking hurt. If this guy is so ready to go to bat for you, he’s known you a lot longer than two days.

How did he fucking miss this?

Again, Bishop’s eyes find yours, and the sight of your beautiful face completely destroys the bravado. He feels his shoulders droop, chest deflating, defeat slowly creeping in. He’s still angry, he’s still hurt, but the devastation, the thing he’s worked so hard to avoid having to feel, in his life, ever again, is beginning to win.

“How?” he asks, arms spreading out to either side of him. “How could you do this, (y/n)?” He shakes his head, slowly. It’s been so good, everything has been so damned good. He’s trusted you, all this time. How could he be so stupid? “No, you know what? I should’ve known.” His words are blending with his thoughts, a little mismatched, but he doesn’t much care. A finger is suddenly pointing your way. “You’re full of shit, just like every other cunt out there.”

Instantly, he knows he shouldn’t have said it. He can’t take it back, no matter how hard he prays on it. Your expression is one he’ll remember for the rest of his days, coming back to haunt him in his darkest moments. Hurt, betrayed… Heartbroken… Oh, but, your words. The quiet murmur that follows that look, voice teetering on the edge of tears, will put the final nail in his coffin.

“This… This is my cousin, Alexander…” You gesture to Muscles. “And, his husband, Curtis.” A nod to Handsome.

Those… Those names sound awfully familiar. A recent conversation, if memory serves. And, shit, as he thinks about it, you did mention them, didn’t you? Which means that, all this… The last two days, no calls, no texts… It means that you were-

Is it really possible for blood to ice over?

“We just got in from that music festival…”

Music festival. The one Bishop hadn’t wanted to go to. The one you’d had your heart set on. Who the hell went into the desert to listen to music? How the fuck did instruments even work, in that much heat? He remembers asking those questions, remembers telling you to go with whoever you wanted, but to leave him out of it. You… You’d laughed, thanked him for his permission. He’d found your snark so damned cute.

Now… God, now, there’s nothing he won’t do to get that wet shimmer out of your eyes.

He just can’t get a single word to come out of his fucking mouth.

Silence stretches on, uncomfortable, no one knowing what to say, what to do, and with good reason. As the tension reaches its peak, you clear your throat, gently. “Sit down, Obispo…” You instruct, quietly, before he can even try to offer anything. You’re already heading for the kitchen, not looking at anyone, any longer. “I’ll make everyone some coffee.” You want him sober up, and he knows it. Won’t let him drive back, so obviously drunk, even after what’s just transpired. A Saint, to the fucking end.

Fuck, what has he fucking done?

Masterlist | Request | Tag List

#mayans m.c. fanfiction #mayans m.c.#Bishop x reader #Bishop x you #obispo bishop losa #anonymous request #fanfiction requests #ask box fic #Jealousy Thursday

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qqueenofhades · 5 years

Note

Re: the post you reblogged about Bush. I'm 21 and tbh feel like I can only vote for Bernie, can you explain if/why I shouldn't? Thanks and sorry if this is dumb or anything.

Oh boy. Okay, I’ll do my best here. Note that a) this will get long, and b) I’m old, Tired, and I‘m pretty sure my brain tried to kill me last night. Since by nature I am sure I will say something Controversial ™, if anyone reads this and feels a deep urge to inform me that I am Wrong, just… mark it down as me being Wrong and move on with your life. But also, really, you should read this and hopefully think about it. Because while I’m glad you asked this question, it feels like there’s a lot in your cohort who won’t, and that worries me. A lot.

First, not to sound utterly old-woman-in-a-rocking-chair ancient, people who came of age/are only old enough to have Obama be the first president that they really remember have no idea how good they had it. The world was falling the fuck apart in 2008 (not coincidentally, after 8 years of Bush). We came within a flicker of the permanent collapse of the global economy. The War on Terror was in full roar, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan were at their height, we had Dick Cheney as the cartoon supervillain before we had any of Trump’s cohort, and this was before Chelsea Manning or Edward Snowden had exposed the extent of NSA/CIA intelligence-gathering/American excesses or there was any kind of public debate around the fact that we were all surveilled all the time. And the fact that a brown guy named Barack Hussein Obama was elected in this climate seems, and still seems tbh, kind of amazing. And Obama was certainly not a Perfect President ™. He had to scale back a lot of planned initiatives, he is notorious for expanding the drone strike/extrajudicial assassination program, he still subscribed to the overall principles of neoliberalism and American exceptionalism, etc etc. There is valid criticism to be made as to how the hopey-changey optimistic rhetoric stacked up against the hard realities of political office. And yet…. at this point, given what we’re seeing from the White House on a daily basis, the depth of the parallel universe/double standards is absurd.

Because here’s the thing. Obama, his entire family, and his entire administration had to be personally/ethically flawless the whole time (and they managed that – not one scandal or arrest in eight years, against the legions of Trumpistas now being convicted) because of the absolute frothing depths of Republican hatred, racial conspiracy theories, and obstruction against him. (Remember Merrick Garland and how Mitch McConnell got away with that, and now we have Gorsuch and Kavanaugh on the Supreme Court? Because I remember that). If Obama had pulled one-tenth of the shit, one-twentieth of the shit that the Trump administration does every day, he would be gone. It also meant that people who only remember Obama think he was typical for an American president, and he wasn’t. Since about… Jimmy Carter, and definitely since Ronald Reagan, the American people have gone for the Trump model a lot more than the Obama model. Whatever your opinion on his politics or character, Obama was a constitutional law professor, a community activist, a neighborhood organizer and brilliant Ivy League intellectual who used to randomly lie awake at night thinking about income inequality. Americans don’t value intellectualism in their politicians; they just don’t. They don’t like thinking that “the elites” are smarter than them. They like the folksy populist who seems fun to have a beer with, and Reagan/Bush Senior/Clinton/Bush Junior sold this persona as hard as they possibly could. As noted in said post, Bush Junior (or Shrub as the late, great Molly Ivins memorably dubbed him) was Trump Lite but from a long-established political family who could operate like an outwardly civilized human.

The point is: when you think Obama was relatively normal (which, again, he wasn’t, for any number of reasons) and not the outlier in a much larger pattern of catastrophic damage that has been accelerated since, again, the 1980s (oh Ronnie Raygun, how you lastingly fucked us!), you miss the overall context in which this, and which Trump, happened. Like most left-wingers, I don’t agree with Obama’s recent and baffling decision to insert himself into the 2020 race and warn the Democratic candidates against being too progressive or whatever he was on about. I think he was giving into the same fear that appears to be motivating the remaining chunk of Joe Biden’s support: that middle/working-class white America won’t go for anything too wild or that might sniff of Socialism, and that Uncle Joe, recalled fondly as said folksy populist and the internet’s favorite meme grandfather from his time as VP, could pick up the votes that went to Trump last time. And that by nature, no one else can.

The underlying belief is that these white voters just can’t support anything too “un-American,” and that by pushing too hard left, Democratic candidates risk handing Trump a second term. Again: I don’t agree and I think he was mistaken in saying it. But I also can’t say that Obama of all people doesn’t know exactly the strength of the political machine operating against the Democratic Party and the progressive agenda as a whole, because he ran headfirst into it for eight years. The fact that he managed to pass any of his legislative agenda, usually before the Tea Party became a thing in 2010, is because Democrats controlled the House and Senate for the first two years of his first term. He was not perfect, but it was clear that he really did care (just look up the pictures of him with kids). He installed smart, efficient, and scandal-free people to do jobs they were qualified for. He gave us Elena Kagan and Sonia Sotomayor to join RBG on the Supreme Court. All of this seems… like a dream.

That said: here we are in a place where Biden, Bernie Sanders, and Elizabeth Warren are the front-runners for the Democratic nomination (and apparently Pete Buttigieg is getting some airplay as a dark horse candidate, which… whatever). The appeal of Biden is discussed above, and he sure as hell is not my favored candidate (frankly, I wish he’d just quit). But Sanders and Warren are 85% - 95% similar in their policy platforms. The fact that Michael “50 Billion Dollar Fortune” Bloomberg started rattling his chains about running for president is because either a Sanders or Warren presidency terrifies the outrageously exploitative billionaire capitalist oligarchy that runs this country and has been allowed to proceed essentially however the fuck they like since… you guessed it, the 1980s, the era of voodoo economics, deregulation, and the free market above all. Warren just happens to be ten years younger than Sanders and female, and Sanders’ age is not insignificant. He’s 80 years old and just had a heart attack, and there’s still a year to go to the election. It’s also more than a little eye-rolling to describe him as the only progressive candidate in the race, when he’s an old white man (however much we like and approve of his policy positions). And here’s the thing, which I think is a big part of the reason why this polarized ideological purity internet leftist culture mistrusts Warren:

She may have changed her mind on things in the past.

Scary, right? I sound like I’m being facetious, but I’m not. An argument I had to read with my own two eyes on this godforsaken hellsite was that since Warren became a Democrat around the time Clinton signed Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, she sekritly hated gay people and might still be a corporate sellout, so on and etcetera. (And don’t even get me STARTED on the fact that DADT, coming a few years after the height of the AIDS crisis which was considered God’s Judgment of the Icky Gays, was the best Clinton could realistically hope to achieve, but this smacks of White Gay Syndrome anyway and that is a whole other kettle of fish.) Bernie has always demonstrably been a democratic socialist, and: good for him. I’m serious. But because there’s the chance that Warren might not have thought exactly as she does now at any point in her life, the hysterical and paranoid left-wing elements don’t trust that she might not still secretly do so. (Zomgz!) It’s the same element that’s feeding cancel culture and “wokeness.” Nobody can be allowed to have shifted or grown in their opinions or, like a functional, thoughtful, non-insane adult, changed their beliefs when presented with compelling evidence to the contrary. To the ideological hordes, any hint of uncertainty or past failure to completely toe the line is tantamount to heresy. Any evidence of any other belief except The Correct One means that this person is functionally as bad as Trump. And frankly, it’s only the Sanders supporters who, just as in 2016, are threatening to withhold their vote in the general election if their preferred candidate doesn’t win the primary, and indeed seem weirdly proud about it.

OK, boomer Bernie or Buster.

Here’s the thing, the thing, the thing: there is never going to be an American president free of the deeply toxic elements of American ideology. There just won’t be. This country has been built how it has for 250 years, and it’s not gonna change. You are never going to have, at least not in the current system, some dream candidate who gets up there and parrots the left-wing talking points and attacks American imperialism, exceptionalism, ravaging global capitalism, military and oil addiction, etc. They want to be elected as leader of a country that has deeply internalized and taken these things to heart for its entire existence, and most of them believe it to some degree themselves. So this groupthink white liberal mentality where the only acceptable candidate is this Perfect Non-Problematic robot who has only ever had one belief their entire lives and has never ever wavered in their devotion to doctrine has really gotten bad. The Democratic Party would be considered… maybe center/mild left in most other developed countries. It’s not even really left-wing by general standards, and Sanders and Warren are the only two candidates for the nomination who are even willing to go there and explicitly put out policy proposals that challenge the systematic structure of power, oppression, and exploitation of the late-stage capitalist 21st century. Warren has the billionaires fussed, and instead of backing down, she’s doubling down. That’s part of why they’re so scared of her. (And also misogyny, because the world is depressing like that.) She is going head-on after picking a fight with some of the worst people on the planet, who are actively killing the rest of us, and I don’t know about you, but I like that.

Of course: none of this will mean squat if she (or the eventual Democratic winner, who I will vote for regardless of who it is, but as you can probably tell, she’s my ride or die) don’t a) win the White House and then do as they promised on the campaign trail, and b) don’t have a Democratic House and Senate willing to have a backbone and pass the laws. Even Nancy Pelosi, much as she’s otherwise a badass, held off on opening a formal impeachment inquiry into Trump for months out of fear it would benefit him, until the Ukraine thing fell into everyone’s laps. The Democrats are really horrible at sticking together and voting the party line the way Republicans do consistently, because Democrats are big-tent people who like to think of themselves as accepting and tolerant of other views and unwilling to force their members’ hands. The Republicans have no such qualms (and indeed, judging by their enabling of Trump, have no qualms at all).

The modern American Republican party has become a vehicle for no-holds-barred power for rich white men at the expense of absolutely everything and everyone else, and if your rationale is that you can’t vote for the person opposing Donald Goddamn Trump is that you’re just not vibing with them on the language of that one policy proposal… well, I’m glad that you, White Middle Class Liberal, feel relatively safe that the consequences of that decision won’t affect you personally. Even if we’re due to be out of the Paris Climate Accords one day after the 2020 election, and the issue of climate change now has the most visibility it’s ever had after years of big-business, Republican-led efforts to deny and discredit the science, hey, Secret Corporate Shill, am I right? Can’t trust ‘er. Let’s go have a craft beer.

As has been said before: vote as far left as you want in the primary. Vote your ideology, vote whatever candidate you want, because the only way to make actual, real-world change is to do that. The huge, embedded, all-consuming and horrible system in which we operate is not just going to suddenly be run by fairy dust and happy thoughts overnight. Select candidates that reflect your values exactly, be as picky and ideologically militant as you want. That’s the time to do that! Then when it comes to the general election:

America is a two-party system. It sucks, but that’s the case. Third-party votes, or refraining from voting because “it doesn’t matter” are functionally useless at best and actively harmful at worst.

Either the Democratic candidate or Donald Trump will win the 2020 election.

There is absolutely no length that the Republican/GOP machine, and its malevolent allies elsewhere, will not go to in order to secure a Trump victory. None.

Any talk whatsoever about “progressive values” or any kind of liberal activism, coupled with a course of action that increases the possibility of a Trump victory, is hypocritical at best and actively malicious at worst.

This is why I found the Democratic response to Obama’s “don’t go too wild” comments interesting. Bernie doubled down on the fact that his plans have widespread public support, and he’s right. (Frankly, the fact that Sanders and Warren are polling at the top, and the fact that they’re politicians and would not be crafting these campaign messages if they didn’t know that they were being positively received, says plenty on its own). Warren cleverly highlighted and praised Obama’s accomplishments in office (i.e. the Affordable Care Act) and didn’t say squat about whether she agreed or disagreed with him, then went right back to campaigning about why billionaires suck. And some guy named Julian Castro basically blew Obama off and claimed that “any Democrat” could beat Trump in 2020, just by nature of existing and being non-insane.

This is very dangerous! Do not be Julian Castro!

As I said in my tags on the Bush post: everyone assumed that sensible people would vote for Kerry in 2004. Guess what happened? Yeah, he got Swift Boated. The race between Obama and McCain in 2008, even after those said nightmare years of Bush, was very close until the global crash broke it open in Obama’s favor, and Sarah Palin was an actual disqualifier for a politician being brazenly incompetent and unprepared. (Then again, she was a woman from a remote backwater state, not a billionaire businessman.) In 2012, we thought Corporate MormonBot Mitt Fuggin’ Romney was somehow the worst and most dangerous candidate the Republicans could offer. In 2016, up until Election Day itself, everyone assumed that HRC was a badly flawed candidate but would win anyway. And… we saw how that worked out. Complacency is literally deadly.

I was born when Reagan was still president. I’m just old enough to remember the efforts to impeach Clinton over forcing an intern to give him a BJ in the Oval Office (This led by the same Republicans making Donald Trump into a darling of the evangelical Christian right wing.) I’m definitely old enough to remember 9/11 and how America lost its mind after that, and I remember the Bush years. And, obviously, the contrast with Obama, the swing back toward Trump, and everything that has happened since. We can’t afford to do this again. We’re hanging by a thread as it is, and not just America, but the entire planet.

So yes. By all means, vote for Sanders in the primary. Then when November 3, 2020 rolls around, if you care about literally any of this at all, hold your nose if necessary and vote straight-ticket Democrat, from the president, to the House and Senate, to the state and local offices. I cannot put it more strongly than that.

#politics for ts #long post #anonymous #ask

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outerbankspreferences · 3 years

Text

I don’t know why you love me - Rafe Cameron

Word Count: 3080

WARNINGS: I went into a bit of detail with his drug problem. If that makes you uncomfortable it’s all italicized so you can skip that part and you shouldn’t be confused.

REQUEST: Could you write an imagine where Rafe's long time girlfriend says that she sees herself marrying him to Sarah and Rafe overhears. He is super damaged thanks to Ward so he doesn't believe it really and starts to distance himself. A sweet ending please?

MASTERLIST

It was a Sunday afternoon in the Outer banks. Things had calmed down a lot. You were over at the Cameron household helping Sarah make decision on her engagement party. John B had finally popped the question to Sarah with your help. You helped him make sure the ring was the right size and helped narrow down spots. You were so happy for the two of them. You and Sarah had grown close over the years of dating Rafe. She was always there to support you when things got hard with his withdrawal in the beginning. She was your shoulder to cry on when you didn’t want to break in front of him.

“Rose wants to know who were inviting. Apparently, she wants to have it at the country club.” Sarah sighed slamming her head down on the table. John B had just walked through the door. “Oh god, what did I just walk into.” He asked wondering if he should try and dip out.

“Your fiancé is trying to narrow down the guest list. Who do you want to invite John B?” You ask him to look through the list you already started. It only had Sarah’s family and extended family. “If you don’t want to have it there Sarah you don’t have to. It’s your engagement party not hers.” You look at her.

“I know but I don’t know where I want to have it, and we can’t wait to long.” She told you as John B came over rubbing her back trying to be comforting. “If you want to babe, we can look at some places tomorrow. Take your mind off the planning for a bit.” John B suggested trying to be helpful. Honestly, he knew nothing about planning a party and just left it up to you guys. If it were up to him, they would be partying on the beach like old times. “That’s a great idea, did you put the pool cover back on when you were done? I don’t want dad getting pissed again. I listened to him complain about it for like a week.” Sarah asked him. “I did not cover the pool, because your brother is still in there swimming and I didn’t want to drown him this time.” You all laugh. John B and Rafe’s friendship had always been rocky but has gotten better in the last couple of years. He even asked his permission to marry Sarah which you thought was adorable when Rafe told.

Rafe was no longer swimming he got out of the pool and was putting the cover on it. He had started to collect the things from outside. You guys hung out there all the time because your apartment didn’t have a pool and the beaches were always crowded this time of year. He was walking towards the door when he stopped dead in his tracks when he heard his name.

“I can’t wait to plan all this stuff with Rafe.” You say more to yourself but both Sarah and John B hearing you. “Did he propose to you?” Sarah almost yells out loud. “Say it louder Sarah, I don’t think they heard you across the street.” John B scolds her. “No, he hasn’t proposed. I wish he would though. After everything we’ve been through, I’m ready for the next part of our life. I just don’t want to freak him out.” You say gushing to Sarah all about the plans you wanted to have with Rafe.

Rafe couldn’t believe this. He thought he was the luckiest man on earth when you agreed to go out with him. He was still recovering from his addiction, but you were there for him. You knew about his drug addiction, everyone on the island knew about it. You never brought it up to him though. You knew he would tell you when he was ready to let you into that part of him.

~FLASHBACK~

It wasn’t until Sarah called you one day saying that Rafe was in the hospital. You’d never driven faster in your life. When you got there, he was thrashing around screaming. You asked Ward what happened, and he told it that he must have gotten a bad cut of drugs. He had been clean for a while and you couldn’t understand what would cause him to relapse, as far as you knew things were going great, you guys just started talk about getting a place together.

“I don’t understand what would cause him to relapse?” You ask looking at Ward. He shrugged his shoulders, it looked like he could careless about his son. “I don’t know, that’s what addicts to Y/N, they relapse. You should have thought about this before you started dating him. He’s not worth it. You’ve got so much going for you, don’t let him hold you back.” You couldn’t believe what he was saying. Rafe was in danger and he didn’t even care. “He wouldn’t be damaged if it weren’t for you Ward. You broke him. All he ever wanted to do was make you proud. You pushed him to this. What kind of father pushes their son over the edge like this? He needs help because of you. I will not leave him the way you did, because where I come from you don’t give on family like that.” You tell him in front of everybody in the waiting room. You knew it wasn’t your place to say these things, but you were so upset. You tried to walk away when Ward grabbed your arm, “you don’t understand what its like Y/N, on this side of island we have a reputation to uphold.” You look him dead in the eyes. “Clearly you want the wrong reputation.”

You sat by Rafe’s bed all night holding his hand. The nurses gave him some medications to calm him down and finally took the restraints off. He looked so peaceful sleeping, you wondered what he was dreaming of. The doctor had come in to talk to you about what happened. He explained everything that had happened and that they found traces of LSD in the coke he took. It was a new mix on the island, and if it had been a while since Rafe last used his body probably wasn’t used to it.

Rafe finally woke up looking around, taking in his surroundings. That’s when he saw you in the chair next to him. You had a blanket covering you with a book in your lap. He couldn’t remember what happened. He only remembered the fight he got in with Ward. He just lost it. Ward was telling him that he wasn’t good enough for you. That Rafe needed to get his life together. He told him that he was holding you back, and you deserved more then a low life drug addict like him. He cursed himself for changing his emergency contact to you when he broke his arm last summer. He moved his hand, and it woke you up. You eyes flutter open adjusting to the brightness of the room. You smiled at him.

“Hey handsome, how are you feeling?” Even after everything you just watched he was still the most handsome person ever. You were quiet waiting for his answer. “I have a headache, what happened?” He asked you. He was confused and groggy from the medications they gave him. His voice was hoarse from all the screaming. “You had a bad reaction to some drugs you took. They were laced with LSD, Sarah called me, and I got here as soon as I could. It was bad Rafe, you were scream and thrashing around, but it’s okay now. The doctors took care of you they gave you some meds to help counter act the drugs in your system.” You explained to him.

Just then the doctor comes in. “Mr. Cameron, glad to see your back in order son, how are you feeling?” He looks through Rafe’s chart. “It’s just Rafe, Mr. Cameron is my father, and I feel tired, I have a headache too.” Rafe told the doctor you got up to leave, but he grabbed your hand. “I’m not going far love; I’m just giving you guys some privacy.” You put your hand on top of his. “I know, I just want you to stay please.” He looked at you with scared eyes. You couldn’t imagine how overwhelming this was on him. You sat back down, and the doctor continued talking. “I have looked into some rehabs on the mainland Rafe. You’re still young, you can turn this around. I have a friend who runs one for men your age. I can get you in if you want.” He looked at the both of you. Rafe looked at you as if looking for confirmation. “You need help Rafe, they can give you the help you need. I’ll help you as much as you want but I’m not a professional.” You tell him your honest opinion. You would support him with whatever he chose. “If I go to rehab when do I leave?” He asked the doctor. “I can get you on the ferry in the morning. The sooner the better. You’re normally there eight weeks but you can stay longer if you need.” The doctor looked at the two of you.

Rafe agreed to go to rehab with your support. It was the longest eight weeks of your lives. You stayed in a hotel over on the island paid for by the Cameron’s to make sure you could be there for him. It broke you to watch him go through withdrawal. He was sick all the time, but the treatment center worked, and he got clean. You guys ended up getting an apartment together afterwards and Rafe kept up with his required therapy.

Looking back on it, Rafe couldn’t believe you stayed with him. He didn’t know if anyone else would have. So, when he overheard you talking to Sarah about getting married to him, he couldn’t believe you. All those times Ward told him he wasn’t good enough for anyone he believed him. He figured you were just staying with until you found someone better.

Rafe was distant the whole way home. He didn’t say much in the truck, but you just figured he was tired from being outside all day. When you guys got back to the apartment, he went straight to take a shower. You knock on the door, “Babe you want me to join, I could use a shower too, I smell like chlorine and it’s giving me headache.” When you go to turn the knob its locked. “I won’t be long Y/N, you can shower after me.” He responded through the door. You heard the shower running, it was weird he said that he loved showering with you. He always said he loved the intimacy of it.

This behavior continued on and off for weeks leading up to the engagement party. Rafe was always making excuses that he busy, he was with Topper, he had something to do with his dad, Wheezie needed to be picked up. It got to the point that you guys only talked at night and even then, things were different. He would cuddle you, but it wasn’t the same. You thought maybe it was the engagement party, he hated getting together with extended family because his father always brought up the business.

It was finally the night of the engagement party, it was going to be a nice dinner, and photos then back to the Cameron home for an after party. You had picked Rafe’s suit up from the dry cleaners along with your dress. You were wearing a simple form fitting dress. You didn’t want to outshine Sarah on what was supposed to be her night. You were finishing the last bit of your makeup hollering out to Rafe. “Alright babe, I’m all ready to go.” You walk out of the bathroom putting your earrings in. Rafe was sitting on the couch flipping through his phone. He looked up at you and normally he would tell you how beautiful you looked but he just stood up heading to the door.

The drive was quiet, music playing softly in the background. Rafe didn’t look over at you once. It was making you insecure, did you wear the wrong thing? Did you go overboard? Was it the wrong suit? You guys made small conversation the rest of the way. When you got to the restaurant you sat next to Wheezie, and Rafe sat next to John B. They talked all night but Rafe didn’t say anything to you. When you tried to put your hand on his thigh, he moved it off. You didn’t understand what had gotten into him.

The pictures didn’t go any better. They did some family ones and then just some of John B and Sarah you took that as your opportunity to pull Rafe a side and mention something. “Is everything okay Rafe?” You ask as soon as you guys are way from listening ears. He gave you a confused look. “Everything’s fine.” He replied not saying anything after. “Oh really because you’ve been distant for weeks. You’ve barely said two things to me all day, did I do something?” You ask concern lacing your voice. You looked in his eye searching for any kind of emotion. “Look can we not make this about us Y/N, its Sarah and John B’s night. We can talk about it later.” He snapped at you. He walked away not saying another thing about it.

Once you guys got to the party you went your separate ways. You were talking to Kie and Sarah laughing about something they said. You looked around for Rafe and didn’t see him anywhere. “Where’s Rafe Y/N? I haven’t seen him all night.” Kie asked looking at you. You looked around, “your guess is as good as mine. He’s been distant the last couple of weeks, I don’t know what’s wrong with him.” You explain to the girls. They both agreed it was weird for him to be acting that way.

The DJ started playing some slower songs. Kie went off with Pope dancing and Sarah left with John B. You scanned the room looking for Rafe. You feel someone’s hand on the small of your back and it causes you to jump. You turn around and it’s just him, “sorry didn’t mean to scare you.” He laughs a little. You lean into his touch. “That’s okay, are you enjoying yourself?” You ask him. “Yeah, it’s not that bad of a party.” It was the stupid small talk again.

That’s when the DJ started playing your guys song. “Rafe it’s our song, let’s go dance to it.” You grab his hand pulling him out to the dance floor before he could protest. You wrapped his arms around your waist, yours going around his neck. He kept distance from you though. You had finally had it.

“For Christ sakes Rafe, what is going on with you. You’ve been avoiding me like the plague. Did I do something? I don’t know what I did but I’m sorry I didn’t mean to upset you. Are you not attracted to me anymore, is there someone else?” You start to ramble on. Rafe couldn’t believe you thought you were the problem. “It’s not you Y/N its me.” Rafe cut you off. “Well, that’s just great Rafe. Real cliché of you.” You said to him walking away. You walk onto the porch with him following. You prepared yourself for what you were about to hear.

“Just tell me Rafe? Is there someone else?” You ask him looking down tears forming in your eyes. “What? No, there’s no one else.” He said to you nonchalantly. “Then what is it?” You ask, ready to break. Rafe took a deep breath. “I overheard you talking to Sarah. When you told her that you were ready for the next step. You told her you wanted to marry me, and I don’t know why. For the life of me, after everything I’ve put you through, I can’t understand why you love me. I don’t know why you want to throw your life away on a count of me.”

He wasn’t looking at you anymore. He was looking out onto the water. Watching the moon bounce of the waves trying to calm himself. You walk up behind him placing a hand on his back. “I love you Rafe, that’s why I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” You turn his head so he’s looking at you. He had had to see you meant every word you were about to say.

“I love that you remember my coffee order, even though I change it every week. I love that you make sure my shows are recorded when I forgot them. I love that bring me coffee when I’m working. I love the look in your eye when you just wake up in the morning. I love the sound of your voice when you tired and hung over. I love spending lazy days in bed with you. I love all these things and more. I’ve grown to love your faults, and your positives Rafe Cameron. And I’m sorry if I freaked you out with what I said to Sarah, but I’ve never loved someone like I love you. I love you so much it scares me sometimes. But then I look into your beautiful blue eyes and I’m not scared anymore, because I know when I have you, I can do anything.” You told him with tears in your eyes. He was almost crying too; he took you into a bone crushing hug. You guys stayed like that for while just swaying to the music softly playing the background.

He finally pulled away you. Looking into his eyes you could tell he had cried a little. When he spoke, it was a whisper even though you were the only two out there. “I love you too Y/N. I want to marry you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I don’t want anyone else.” He kissed you with all the passion he had in him. You kissed him back with just as much emotion. “Okay, but I want to elope because I can’t plan another party.” You tell him after pulling apart. He laughed looking at you, “Deal.”

TAG: angelreyesgirl100

#rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron #rafe x you #rafe cameron x reader #rafe angst #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron outer banks #rafe outer banks #outer banks

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pencilofawesomeness · 2 years

Note

About your Fairy tail au of htryds, I can't understand the tittle of 'The Eighth Tower', I know about the R-System is called the Tower of paradise, but I still don't get it. Why did you choose that title?

Ah yes, titles! Pencil loves to talk about titles! :D

So, the main layer to it is that I was being very literal. The Tower of Heaven that we see is the eighth attempt at constructing the R-System. (That we know of, at least.) The Council had found seven of them eight years ago and tore them down, but they had missed that there was an eighth, hence why our peeps went unnoticed for so long.

(Issue 78. I actually thought this was a great detail to add, because it shows that the Council wasn't actually completely incompetent, and it gives an explanation as to why it wasn't found despite so many obvious kidnappings and raids. They did find towers and people, but with so many deaths in the midst of it, it would have been reasonable for them to miss a whole other chunk of missing people, and therefore, the last tower.)

There is a big emphasis on ending things in the The Eighth Tower. Acnologia wants to destroy the tower as soon as he hears about it, both to remove the threat and to put an end to the suffering it was causing. Erza wants to end the stalemate between her and Jellal and save her friends. Erik wants to put an end to his own decent and bring himself closure. Here, I use 'eighth' as a metonym for 'last,' since it was the last of the series of towers. It is the final one, and with its resolution, there is a chance to move on past it.

The main reason why I ultimately went with it though was the meaning of eight itself. In some uses or cultures, eight can be used as a symbol of new beginnings. Seven is the completed work, so to move past it is to start anew. Obviously this is just a little literary thing, mostly from my own background, but I have enjoyed employing it in this series nonetheless, because seven is a keystone number for Fairy Tail so I thought it was fitting. There were seven core dragon slayers, but to bring Acnologia into the fold, it makes eight. (Yes I am aware that there are more than eight rip Serena lol but it's a matter of focus.) For instance, the story starts in the year X588 when Acnologia realizes that his friend hadn't actually betrayed him and he killed him (and countless others) with false understanding of the situation, thus putting him on a new path forward—the new beginning, if you will. (I thought it was funny/clever, at least.)

While the 'goal' of most characters is to put an end to the Tower, the bigger underlying theme of new beginnings in TET. Erza starts a new chapter in her arc, gaining confidence and the resolute knowledge that she's stronger when she fights for her friends. Erik and Jellal get some obvious fresh starts, transitioning from their past situations to being able to follow a brighter path in Fairy Tail. The other Tower kids get to start their lives as well. More subtly, this also marks the true beginning of Zeref's arc as well, as Acnologia drives home to him that things can change, even them. Everybody can have a fresh start, but sometimes they just need to be given the chance. The Tower—a monolith but literally and emotionally—falls to mark the end of one (emotional) era and the start of another.

So yeah. That's why I named it that. That arc was the finale to my prelude, marking the transition from the build up to the "main events," so to speak. (Though Twinkle Little Star was like the prologue to the main events, so I still dragged my feet on that. Admittedly when I was starting TET, I planned to brush over the Eisenwald stuff and go straight to Demon Tales, but I realized that TLS was a great opportunity to hound in on some emotional stances, especially for Natsu and Gray and their relationship.)

I hope my mental gymnastics and lingering literary training makes sense to you, haha. Thanks for asking!

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coldmilkcreamery · 3 years

Text

𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐨𝐟𝐟

~ 𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 ~

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: xiao dejun x male reader 💋

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 2965

𝗱𝗲𝘀𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗽𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻: following a heart-wrenching break up with xiaojun, you leave the country—and reunite with him 8 years later at the grand opening of a friend's restaurant.

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴/𝘀: smut hahah lmao

𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 𝗯𝘆 ⭐️

𝗮/𝗻: this might be my favorite (and longest 😅😅) story out of all the ones i’ve written, like idk if it’s because xiaojun’s my bias in wayv but i really enjoyed writing it and am really proud of how it turned out hahaha, i put my blood sweat and tears into this story so i hope you guys enjoy 🥺🥺and happy valentines to you all and hbd to who is also my first bias, jaehyun haha have a great day and a great valentines <3

> 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 <

Outside, the sun has dipped below the horizon and behind wisps of clouds and falling snow, the sky has turned dark. Compounds of snow and bits of ice lie on the streets and dress stoplights as you wait at the entrance of a newly opened restaurant in town.

A miniature landscape greets you at the entrance. Artificial river water ricochets off of artificial rocks, onto the chiseled marble paths that you step over on your way to the dining area.

You make glances around the restaurant. Crowds of people are cobbled together, flowing like river water around tables and floral displays. Looking around, a familiar face emerges from the congested crowd.

“You seem to have gotten quite popular.” You tap on the hem of Doyoung’s blazer, looking around the crowded facade of the restaurant.

“You made it!” Doyoung says. Like a jack-in-the-box, he springs out of the crowd, jumping onto you and engulfing you in a tight embrace.

“I am very much here.” You reply, muffled by the confines of his arms.

“My god, I haven’t seen you in years!” He squeals, tightening his grip around your torso. “You’ve aged. A lot.” He snickers, crimping his face into a faux scowl.

“You're not looking any younger yourself.” You spit back with squinted eyes.

“Still bitchy as ever.” Doyoung pats your head, lips forming a snarky grin. “Come in.”

“How did you get here so early? Weren’t you set to fly in about a week later from now?” He eagerly questions, excitement very much visible through his puffing chest and eye-squinting smile.

“Simple, I booked an earlier flight.”

“And lost my first class seat.” You seethe, holding up your economy class boarding pass.

“You’re the best.” Doyoung giggles.

“I really am.” You gripe, narrowing your eyes. “New York is one far place.”

“You’re one to hold grudges aren’t you.” He pats your back with one hand, prying the boarding pass from your finger’s grasp with the other before tossing it into a nearby trash bin.

“Follow me.” Doyoung grabs your wrist and he escorts you into one of the private rooms, briefly passing by the reception desk. “This is Karina, one of my staff.”

“Hi!” She waves.

“Where are we going?” You question as he pulls you towards the first sliding door from the right of the reception desk.

“Those rooms over there are the rooms for the VIP reservations.” Karina says.

“VIP?” You ask, shooting them an amused expression.

“I have a heart my guy, I didn’t cost you your business class upgrade for nothing.” He ruffles your hair.

“First class.” You scornfully correct Doyoung, squinting your eyes at him, pushing his hands off of your head.

“Have a seat.” He reaches his palm out to point to the cushions resting on the floor and the recessed floor in front of it.

You slip your legs into the recession, eyeing a few floral vases and intricately patterned stems of miniature cherry blossom trees.

“Seems like you really went all out on decors.” You slip your phone out of the pocket at the sides of your chinos that are in the light’s path, which shine olive green against the moonlight. “Selfie?”

“My dining area should look just as good as my food tastes.” Doyoung obnoxiously chuckles before smiling into your camera.

“1, 2, 3.” You say in unison.

“Aren’t those at least a hundred dollars each?” You raise a brow at him, resting your phone beside your plate after a click sounds from it. “Is that not expensive for you?”

“Not if they look this good.” Doyoung winks.

“Good lord.”

“Oh, uhh, by the way.” He whispers, sounding much more subdued than he had been the minutes before, his voice now softer than swinging doors and the sprinting servers.

“What is it?”

“I’ve told you the restaurant is offering discounts if—” He pauses intermittently in between words.

“For the last time, I did not and will not be bringing a date.” You groan, cutting him off, well aware of what you were going to hear next.

Doyoung breathes out a shaky sigh. He parades a look of pity, brows furrowed and head tilted at an angle with a frown.

“Hyung.” You slur your words. “I’m fine.”

“And hey it’s 2021, being single is the trend.” You object.

“I’m just looking out for you.”

“I know you are.” You try to reassure him with a smile. “But if you don’t mind, I want to continue eating the dinner that my friend prepared for me because he cost me a 12 hour business class flight.”

“Didn’t you say first class?”

“Either way, I had to sleep sitting down because of you.” You scoff.

“Alright, I’m going to check up on the other tables.” Doyoung nods, pressing his lips into a toothless smile. “Let’s catch up more over coffee after we close?”

“Sure.” You hum as he turns his back to tend to more customers. Going seat to seat, he greets them with a smile, shaking hands with the occasional occupant.

You rub your temples and look down slightly, resting your chin on the collar of the honey brown crew neck wrapped around your torso. The loosely tucked out hems of your denim shirt hang under it, fluttering in the air.

Behind the strands of hair being blown into your eyes from the air conditioning, your eyelids drop. You’re tired, exhausted, fatigued and everything else you can think of. Conversations around you seem to morph into buzzes of static.

Eyelids your field of vision as your upper body rests on the table top. Footsteps tap against the floor adding to the sound of clinking cutlery, sizzling meats and conversations muffled by the sleeves of your sweater.

A man waves in front of the reception desk as he struts into the restaurant. “Excuse me.”

“Good evening sir.” Karina greets, with a smile. “How may I help you?”

“I have a reservation.”

“May I have your name please.” Karina looks down on a monitor, tapping on a keyboard with one hand, brushing hair behind the shoulders of her blazer with the other.

“Xiao Dejun.”

“Ahh Mr. Xiao, you have a VIP reservation am I right?” She beams, looking back up at the man who briskly nods back.

“Your seat is in the first room to my right.” Karina reaches her palm out and points to the door.

Xiaojun utters a soft ‘thank you’ and looks over his shoulder to give Karina a small wave as he walks towards the room.

A restaurant attendant opens the door for him. Inside, it slides open, rustling like paper as its bottom grinds against the glistening wooden floor. Producing an exhale, you let your breath get sucked out through the openings of your nostrils and lips.

Behind your forearms, the big tsunami-like waves and tangerine colored koi painted on the door disappear into the wall. You squint your eyes close one last time, sprawling your limbs to stretch, terminating the sleep left in your system.

Your eyes flutter open, catching a man in its path, the figure becomes clearer the wider they open.

“X-Xiaojun.” You quiver in place, saying his name for the first time in eight years.

“Y-Y/n.” Behind the auburn strands of hair in his face, his gaze meets yours. He timidly waves at you through a nervous smile. “H-hi.”

Was he good looking? Definitely.

Was he a good person? Oh god yes, and your breakup didn’t change your opinion on that.

Though not your first relationship, Xiaojun was definitely your first true love. But as some people say, life just happens. Months after your break up, you left for New York for a job opportunity.

It had been a considerable while since you had last seen or heard from him. Nothing aside from the occasional mention in phone calls with Doyoung and appearance in pictures with your other friends.

But here you were, back in Korea, the commandeer of your late night thoughts, seated beside you at the grand opening of Doyoung’s restaurant almost a decade later.

“It’s been a while.” You sheepishly smile.

“It really has.” Xiaojun agrees, reciprocating the smile. “You look great.”

“Thanks.” You sit up straight. “You do too.”

Outside, Doyoung continues to hop from table to table, tending to customers.

“Here is your order for extra noodles and a pot of tea.” Doyoung smiles at a woman. “Enjoy your meal ma’am.”

“Boss, you told me to inform you of the arrival of someone named Xiao Dejun was it?” Karina calls out for Doyoung, as he carries an emptied tray onto a free tray stand.

“Yes.” Doyoung breathily replies. “What about it?”

“He came just a few minutes ago, I’ve been looking for you to tell you.” She says with heavy and speedy breaths, resting her palms on her knees.

Doyoung’s eyes widen. “Which private room did you tell him to go to?”

“The first one to my right.”

“No-n-no oh no.” Doyoung strings his fingers into his hair.

“What’s the matter?”

“I needed you to tell me because I wanted to ask you to make sure they wouldn’t end up in the same room.” He rambles, vigorously rubbing his temples.

“Why?” Karina blankly questions. “Is there anything between them?”

“Xiaojun is his ex from 8 years ago.”

“Oh no.” She bows her head, covering her face with both of her palms. “Did it end badly or something?”

“You really ask a lot of questions don’t you.” Doyoung snickers. “Well, not exactly.”

“They broke up on good terms actually, the only problem was that it was so obvious that they still loved each other.” He says, sighs ballooning out of his lips.

“Wait,” Karina interrupts. “And yet, they hadn’t gotten back together since then?”

“Y/n left for New York before they could say anything to each other.”

“Don’t worry, it’s not like you knew.” Doyoung sees Karina frown and pats her head. “I just hope they can at least talk.”

And that you did.

Alcohol clouds your minds as you sit beside each other splitting sides at exchanged stories. The sting of the drinks fry the back of your throats and hiccups intermittently shoot up from you, cutting your sentences.

"It’s 12:30 A.M.'' You wheeze, making glances around the pretty much empty room.

"No way." Xiaojun spits out raspily, taking another sip of his cocktail, peering forward to get a glimpse of the watch on your wrist.

“Speaking of which, remember that time, about 11 years ago.” You playfully nudge his shoulder. “It was around this time when we went to get groceries and you attacked someone over a cut of steak.”

“I did not!” Xiaojun manages to speak up amidst the laughter drowning out proper communication from you two.

“Xiaojun, you pushed her so hard that she fell.” Your hand flops onto Xiaojun’s shoulder to prevent yourself from rolling over, letting out a prominent wheeze.

“She pushed me first!” He sternly objects. “Plus, if I didn’t, we wouldn’t have had those amazing fajitas.”

“That was a good early morning snack.” You agree.

“A good date too.” Xiaojun smiles back at you.

“Our first actually.” You add, looking down as a smile creeps into your lips. “That was such a long time ago.”

Which it was.

“Time just flies so fast doesn’t it?” Xiaojun replies as his palm slides up your fingers before settling on the knuckles at the back of your hand.

A rosy flush burns on your cheeks and your eyes go from your linked fingers and eventually trail up to him. You two momentarily lock eyes. He promptly jerks his away, withdrawing his hand from yours.

“S-so, wait, a-are you back here for good?” Xiaojun says.

“I guess so, things are getting pretty crazy over there.” You shrug, shooting him a crooked smile. “And the food’s too greasy, can’t eat any of it.”

“That’s good.” Xiaojun chuckles weakly. “You always hated greasy foods.”

“I’ve missed you.” You look into his eyes again and gently stroke his shoulder before going down to his arm and producing a sharp exhale. “A lot.”

“I-I have too.” He stutters, shivering slightly, his posture stiff under your touch.

“You know, every time I think about it,” You look down, and fiddle with your fingers. “I wondered why you never tried chasing me down the airport the day I left.”

“Y-Y/n.”

Deep down, part of me was actually hoping that you’d come after me and convince me to stay.

“So many times, I’ve wanted to fly out there to just try and pick up where we left off and—” He rambles, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists on his sides.

“What stopped you then?” You mumble. A frown stemming from your lips.

“I-I don’t know.” He voices out softly, with a furrowed expression.

“I do like someone Xiaojun.” You sigh.

“I figured.” Xiaojun stands up from the seat, slipping his shoes on and making his way out of the room.

“They’d be lucky to have you.” Xiaojun chokes on his words, his sentence growing weak.

“It was nice meeting you again.” His voice echoes into the empty room, his words ricocheting off of the walls and the soy sauce stained bowls before coming back to you.

You frantically jump up from the recessed floor. As his fingers cling onto the door’s handle, you grip him by his shoulders as he slides it open. “I never said it wasn’t you.” You call out to him, stopping him in his tracks.

Xiaojun turns his head, looking over his shoulder, slivers of tears in his eyes twinkling against the lights.

“So tell me then,” You whisper huskily, staring back into Xiaojun’s eyes. “Where were we?”

Tonight felt familiar.

The laughs, the fond glances, the touching. Being able to talk to each other and having good laughs while doing so. Being able to hit it off just like you had 11 years ago when Doyoung introduced you two to each other.

Being with Xiaojun just felt right even after a decade.

Enough was enough, you thought.

You dash towards Xiaojun, gripping the sides of his neck with both hands, pulling him closer to you. The tip of your thumbs slide over the tears sitting at the sides of his irises. Your eyes mirror his lidded gaze before wandering to the lips that you’ve longed for the past eight years.

Before your mind could even begin to process, your lips were on Xiaojun’s. Your eyes shut close as his palms land on your chest and slide up to tug at your shoulders.

You push him back against a wall, bruising the tips of some fingers between it and the back of his head. It dips to the side, as you press your face even deeper into his.

Slowly opening your eyes, your puckered lips hover over Xiaojun’s as you gasp for air. You tenderly stare into each other’s eyes for a second, bringing a hand away from the side of his neck to brush strands of hair away from his glittering eyes.

Soft moans escape from between your adhered lips as you reconnect them, further muffled by the contact of your tongues. Xiaojun’s forearms cross over your nape as you burrow your lips down to his neck. He lets out a breathy gasp that tickles your ears as his chin falls onto your shoulder as his mouth goes agape.

You bring your arms up as Xiaojun hastily pulls your sweater over your head and catapults it over the table of food. Your fingers scramble for the collar of his shirt as he undoes the top buttons of yours.

“Good work today, I’ll just make one last check around the place and I’ll get going.” Doyoung says, wiping sweat off of his forehead as he sprawls onto a couch in the waiting area. “See you tomorrow.”

“Thanks boss! Bye!” Karina waves as she exits the restaurant.

Doyoung walks over to the reception desk to see a patch of light coming from the opened door to the private room you were in.

“Is he not done eating?” Doyoung raises a brow, looking at his watch. “Was my food that good?”

“Hey Y/n, we’re closed for tonight, let’s go get some—” Doyoung’s eyes widen upon peeping through the opened door. “—coffee.” He continues his sentence weakly.

In a pushup position over Xiaojun, your hands are on either side of his neck, head buried under his chin, disheveled hair laying over his chest like a puddle. His fingers digging into the wrinkled back of your shirt as his knees wrap around your hips.

“You little—” Doyoung croaks amidst the pants, moans and heavy breathing. His eyebrows dipped as the lids of his twitching eyes vigorously vibrate.

“Th-that wasn’t on the menu!” He softly yells. But ease seems to wash over him however, his agitated expression quickly morphs into one of relief. His mind wanders to the memory of the last time walked in on you two in the compromising position you were in.

Though not a pleasant sight to see, a second time at that, it does offer him the same kind of closure that it did for you. He didn't exactly like the thought of you two doing what you were doing, more so in his restaurant’s VIP room, but he’s happy for you. All those years of pent up regret and brooding, finally over.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he walks the other direction, pulling out a chair and taking a seat at one of the tables in the dining area.

“You’re still not getting that discount.” Doyoung closes his eyes and breathily mumbles.

“And you’re paying for coffee.” He grunts, glaring at the door. One thing he knew for sure was that you two were going to one really expensive café.

𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙚𝙙: 02.04.21

𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙙: 02.14.21

#xiaojun x male reader #wayv x male reader #nct x male reader #xiao dejun x male reader #kpop x male reader #nct male reader #kpop male reader #male reader #nct #nct 2020 #karina #aespa #doyoung #wayv male reader

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mosylufanfic · 3 years

Text

Baby I’m Not Moving On

Trufax - it took me about a week to write the first 90% of this, and a couple of years to write the last ten percent.

Anyway have some angst and emotional constipation. Title from “Gone Gone Gone” by Phillip Phillips because I fricking love that song.

Baby I'm Not Moving On

The base was sleepy and quiet - not completely, of course, because it was still an Alliance base in the middle of a war. But it was well after midnight local time, Cassian knew, and he'd been up for twenty-some hours himself. Exhaustion dragged at him as he walked through the halls, his go-bag over his shoulder. His feet hesitated before he took the turn into the hallway that ran through the civilian quarters.

Most of them were empty. People who used them were generally only on base for a short period of time before either leaving or enlisting. Jyn was probably the longest-term resident.

"Your quarters are the other direction," Kay said peevishly, chunking along after him.

"It's a shortcut," Cassian said.

"It is approximately fifty meters longer to cut through here."

"It's quieter. Faster."

"There is a ninety-four percent chance that Jyn Erso is asleep at this hour, and a ninety-eight percent chance that she will curse at you if you wake her."

"I know that." He wasn't going to stop and knock on her door, just so he could see her face after a week of being off-planet. She probably would curse him out, and she'd be within her rights, because it was ridiculously late.

He wasn't going to stop.

(But if her light was on -)

He wasn't going to knock.

(Sometimes she had insomnia. Or bad dreams. Or both.)

He wasn't -

As he neared the end of the hallway, his head automatically turned toward the last door, her door. It sat open. He went still.

"It appears that Jyn Erso is no longer in residence," Kay observed.

He took the last few steps toward it and stopped on the threshold, staring in.

The bed sat bare, stripped of bedding. The shelves were empty, the desk folded up into the wall. It looked like every other vacant room in the civilians' wing. As if she had never been there at all.

He didn't know how long he stood, the toes of his boots on the line between the darkness in the empty room and the washed-out lights of the corridor.

Kay said, "Cassian, you should continue on to your quarters. You have duties tomorrow. You are operating at a considerable sleep deficit."

"RIght," Cassian said. "Right."

He turned and continued on his way to his quarters, where he dropped his bag on the floor, kicked off his boots, and dropped face-down on his bunk to sleep for ten hours solid without moving.

When he woke up, his body registered its protests at such treatment. He ignored it and lay with his face mashed into his pillow, thinking, Jyn is gone.

He had been waiting for it since she'd opened her eyes in the hospital wing after Scarif. Why would she stay? She'd had a purpose here, for a time - get the plans - and now she didn't. Her father's evil creation had been destroyed.

He'd read her dossier over and over again. It was spotty and incomplete, not because of poor intelligence work, but because she had moved around so much that holes peppered it like grapeshot. Since the age of sixteen, she'd slid in and out of groups and teams and alliances, usually staying for one or two jobs before she was gone again. It was her pattern; it was how she worked.

Cassian was very good at seeing patterns and predicting behavior from them, and this wasn't even that complex of a pattern.

Jyn Erso was somebody who needed a purpose, and after all it had done to her, Cassian felt sure that the Rebel Alliance wasn't going to fit the bill. She wasn't part of their fight. She'd been snared like a fish, kidnapped out of prison, hauled all over hell's half-quadrant, made to confront every screaming ghost of her past all at once. Why would she stay?

But she had.

She hadn't gone with Baze and Chirrut when they'd left. She'd evacuated Yavin with the Rebellion, come to this temporary base with them. He kept asking himself why, and the only answer he could come up with was one he was afraid to believe in, because it didn't fit her pattern. So he prepared himself for the inevitable.

Every day had been the day he was sure he would see her packing up a bag (probably with things she'd lifted, or talked out of the quartermaster) or see her name on a transport list, or just see the empty space where she wasn't.

Somehow, she was still here. But every day that passed made him more sure that the next day, she would be gone.

He had been gone for a week himself - a short recon to get his feet wet after his injuries from Scarif. While he had done the job, Jyn had sat in the back of his mind like a stone. She would be gone when he got back, he'd told himself in quiet moments. She was certain to be gone when he got back.

And she was.

The stone had migrated into his chest, hard and cold, beating out, gone gone gone.

He peeled himself out of bed, shed his clothes like too-tight snakeskin. He stood in the shower - a water shower, a small luxury due to this planet and his rank - resting his head against the plastic wall. Water beat against his back as he taught himself how to breathe around the stone, learning how it shifted and rolled when he moved.

At least it was done, he told himself. At least he didn't have to dread it anymore. At least now he knew how bad it would be. That was the worst part of any injury, that first shock of pain before you knew how bad it was going to be. After you knew that, you could focus on getting through it.

He thought of how he would glance across the room from now on and not catch her eye, and the stone lurched and choked him. He shut his eyes and breathed some more.

Out of the shower, drying off, putting on clothes, unpacking his go-bag. He focused tightly on what he was doing, not allowing himself to think.

He checked his datapad for messages, sifting through base chatter and announcements. Kay had reported to the droid center for maintenance and repairs. He had a meeting with Draven in two hours. That seemed right. He'd sent a brief, encrypted report once he was out of Imperial space, and this was just to fill in. It hadn't been high-priority, his recon, and nothing he'd seen would change that.

He wasn't actually hungry, but given that he hadn't eaten anything more substantial than half a ration bar in at least a day, he decided he should go to the canteen. They'd be serving lunch now, anyway. He should start getting used to seeing the empty space next to Bodhi.

The canteen was crowded and noisy, and he slid silently through the packed bodies, the close-set tables, letting the din wash over him like waves on the beach.

"Cassian!" Bodhi called out, bringing his head around. He was getting used to that, now - Bodhi just yelling for him, saying his name right out loud like that.

And there, in the space next to Bodhi, the space that was supposed to be empty, Jyn lifted her head and looked at him.

Every nerve in his body lit up with alarm. Adrenaline dumped into his system, fight or flight pricking at his toes. Like he'd been caught out, like his cover was an inch from blowing, like -

Like the wound that he thought he'd understood was about to be torn open, even deeper.

He turned around and walked out.

He came back to himself three halls away from the canteen. She was here. Jyn was still here. All that preparation he'd done, everything, it was for nothing, because she was still here.

The stone had cracked open and it was all hot lava on the inside, searing his lungs, making it hard to breathe.

Why wasn't she gone?

He walked back, careful and slow, breathing the adrenaline out of his system. His fingers were still shaking when he walked back into the canteen, but he could blame that on low blood sugar.

Bodhi was still at the table. Jyn was gone.

For a moment, he thought maybe he'd hallucinated her being there in the first place. That she really was gone, like he'd known she would be, like he'd been forcing himself to accept -

Then Bodhi said, "Jyn took off. Said she wasn't hungry anymore."

Cassian looked at the half-empty plate next to Bodhi. Jyn ate like a starving lothcat. He'd never seen her leave food behind.

He said, "Oh."

"What was that?" Bodhi wanted to know.

"I forgot something," he muttered. "In my room."

Bodhi looked at him for a moment or two, then shook his head. "I don't know why I thought a spy would be a better liar."

Cassian didn't bother glaring. He went to the food line, collected a plate, returned to the table, and ate, forcing the food down his throat, answering or deflecting Bodhi as needed.

"She probably went to hit things, in case you want to apologize," Bodhi said with tremendous pointedness.

"Since when are you the expert on - " Love, he was about to say, and bit it back. "On us?"

On consideration, us wasn't much better than love.

"I've had to watch you pushing her away ever since Scarif," Bodhi growled. "And then just when I think she's going to say the hell with you, you'll look at her like she's the air you breathe."

"You're a poet," Cassian said dryly, feeling heat crawl up his neck.

The air you breathe?

He hadn't thought he was that obvious.

Pushing her away?

He wasn't doing that. She was the one who -

Wasn't she?

"Why is she here?"

"If you honestly don't know, I'm not the one to ask."

Cassian picked up his plate.

"Where are you going?"

"Away," he said flatly, heading for the recycler.

"To talk to Jyn?" Bodhi yelled after him, and Cassian flinched. He was really going to have to do something about that yelling habit of his.

He tried three different rooms in the practice wing before he found the one she'd commandeered. He knew she heard the almost noiseless swish of the door, but she just kept at her practice, fists thudding rhythmically into the heavy practice bag, in time with the grunts that leaked out through her clenched teeth.

She'd changed out of her usual clothes into shorts and a loose sleeveless top. The hair that usually fell loose and shaggy around her face was held back by an elastic band. A fine sheen of sweat delineated her hairline and the cords of her throat. A few stray strands stuck to her skin.

She was eating better, more regularly. Her face was a little rounder these days. The lines of her body were softer, the muscles in her arms and legs thickening. She no longer looked quite so much as if she was made solely of wires, yanked taut to the snapping point.

She still had that feral look to her eyes, though. He wondered if it would ever fade, and thought not.

His hand, on the jamb of the door, clenched into a fist. Something like yearning opened up in his stomach, gaping wide, hungry, desperate.

He breathed through it until the fist loosened, until the pit in his stomach quieted. Then he moved out of the doorway. He paused a moment to remove his boots and socks before he stepped onto the mat, his feet sinking into the padding, squeaking slightly on the plastic.

He moved around her, to the other side of the bag. She paused, finally, and glared at him. "Something you want to say, Captain?"

Her hands were wrapped, but not particularly well, and the gaps exposed reddened skin across her knuckles. He wanted to re-wrap them for her. Given the look in her eye, though, and the way she'd been assaulting that still-swaying bag, she'd probably use the wraps to strangle him.

He caught the bag, stilled it, and opened his mouth. What came out was, "Why aren't you gone yet?"

Her eyes blazed up for a moment. "You want me gone?"

No swelled up in his throat. He swallowed it.

She slammed her fist into the bag, and the shock rattled up his arms into his shoulders. It shook words loose.

"It doesn't matter what I want." You. Here. Being able to depend on seeing you every day. Being able to make plans, have hopes, think for once about something besides right now - "Your pattern is clear."

Another hit that almost knocked him back a step, even with the heavy bag taking the brunt of it. "My pattern," she said. "Tell me about my pattern, go on."

"You've been here two months. It's past time."

She dropped back, rolling her shoulders, and threw an elbow at the bag that would have broken an opponent's nose.

"Two months is all you've known me. What kind of pattern can you work out from that?"

"I've memorized your dossier," he flung back. "It was much longer than two months. You're never part of any group, not really. You come in, you do a job, and you leave. The only question is when."

"When I'll leave," she said. "Well. That depends. What do they do to deserters?"

His hands slid off the sides of the bag and he said dumbly, "Deserters?"

That was a mistake. She gave it a mighty kick with the full force of her left leg. It swung back and knocked him full-length and gasping on the floor.

She glared down at him. "I enlisted, you gundark!"

Cassian had gotten up from harder hits than that, but he stayed on the mat, blinking, trying to get his breath back. She shifted her weight, her eyebrows softening. "Cassian?"

She padded closer. "Cassian," she said. "It wasn't that - oof!"

He'd lunged up, hooked a hand around her knee, and yanked her off-balance. True to her nature, she turned the fall into an attack, her shoulder driving hard into his abdomen. He let out another grunt, but rolled and flung her to one side. She twisted and landed on her knees, let the momentum keep rolling her around until she crouched on her feet, teeth bared.

He was up on one knee, bracing his hand against the mat.

They considered each other for a moment.

"You enlisted," he said. "In the Rebel Alliance?"

"No," she growled, "in the All-Coruscant Marching Band - yes, in the Rebel Alliance!"

She launched herself at him, and he blocked instinctively, flipping her over his back to the mat. She'd barely made contact before her knee knifed up, missing a fairly sensitive area by spy's luck. They grappled briefly, tangled around each other, their faces an inch apart, breath hot on each other's faces, before she broke his hold and heaved with both legs.

He went skidding across the mat and rolled to his feet in time to duck her swing.

She was a brawler by nature, relying on speed and ferocity to take down her opponents. But her hits were more focused now, and she was more balanced than she had been.

She'd been training with someone who was teaching her hand-to-hand, smoothing out her sloppy raw power into something more targeted and refined.

She’d been training, he thought, and wanted to laugh.

She feinted right, and of course he fell for it. After a breathless tumble to the mat, he found himself pinned, her hands manacling his wrists, her knees caging his hips. It was an absurdly easy hold to break. He could have demonstrated four or five ways in his sleep.

He stayed where he was, laid out in front of her.

A few strands of hair had escaped her headband and hung in her face, fluttering with their breath. Their hearts thundered against each other.

"I enlisted," she said, her face a few inches away from his. "You're stuck with me."

He swallowed. The motion moved through his chest freely, no stone to block its way. "Good," he said.

"Good," she said. "After all that? That's what you have to say about it?"

An instant of increased pressure against his wrists, and then she'd pushed herself up, let him go. She sat back on her heels, still straddling his legs, but sitting on his thighs rather than hovering over his waist. He propped himself up on his elbows, watching her intently.

She met his eyes, a challenge in hers.

"Bodhi says I've been pushing you away," he said. "Have I?"

Her eyes slid to the side. "Bodhi says a lot of things."

"What does he say to you?"

She swallowed. He watched it move down her sweat-shining throat. "That I needed to either enlist or leave."

"Is that why you hung around? You were trying to decide?"

"You said it yourself. I'm not a joiner. I don't go in for uniforms and ranks. But I - " She looked away a moment. "I wanted to stay."

"Don't stay for me," he said. "If that's why."

Her head came back around. She narrowed her eyes at him. "Why not?"

He swallowed. "Because - I - "

Her cheeks, already flushed, went a duller red. She pushed herself to her feet. "You're not making sense, Captain. First you say Good and now don't stay and would you make up your mind?"

He got up, too. "Jyn, I didn't mean - I - " He'd lifted his hand to her arm without knowing it.

"You grab me and I'll break your hand off," she warned.

He dropped his hand and let the words fall out of his mouth in an ungraceful heap. "If you're only staying for me, when I mess it up, you'll go."

Her mouth fell open. She shut her eyes a moment, then shut her mouth and nodded. "That's - yes. I get that."

Did she? His cheeks burned.

She opened her eyes again. "But you said welcome home."

"I did, but - "

"You said you were with me 'til the end."

"Yes, I - "

"Why would I leave after that? Why would you think so?"

"Jyn," he said softly. "You never said it back."

Her mouth fell a little open. "I didn't know you needed to hear it."

He let out a huff of breath - a laugh, maybe. "Neither did I."

She tipped her head back and looked up at the ceiling, as if she couldn't say this and look at him at the same time. "I enlisted because since I met you, I remembered what it was like to be part of something. Not a military. A group. A cause."

He always used silence in his work, letting people fill it themselves instead of prying it out of them. Instinctively, he stayed quiet.

“And if I have to put up with a uniform and a rank to be part of something, well, I'll get used to it, I guess."

"You don't have to worry too much about that," he said. "The Pathfinders don't care too much about ranks or uniforms either."

Her mouth fell open. "How the hell did you know that?"

He gestured at her. "The way you fought. Dameron's been training you, hasn't he?"

"Yeah, all right," she said. "Caught me."

"Before or after you enlisted?"

"Before. He told me about the Pathfinders. I thought, well, hell, I can do that."

"Yes, you can."

"I can do that and stay," she said. "That's what I thought. It's a place for me."

He could have said, There's always been a place for you here, but he didn't. Because she didn't need a place that was held for her, given by the goodwill and grace of others. Goodwill and grace were tenuous, unpredictable things. She needed a place that she made for herself.

She wasn’t staying for him, and he felt his entire body relax. Even if he messed this up, she would stay, not run, and he might have a chance to fix it.

"Stay is a relative term," he said instead. "The Pathfinders are out in the stars almost as much as Intelligence."

She shrugged one shoulder and wiped her forehead free of trickling sweat with her forearm. "A place to come back to, then," she said. "That's not a thing I've had much. Ever, really."

Her pattern, he thought. Of course she hadn't stayed anywhere. She'd never had a reason.

She wiped her face again. “You’ve been waiting for me to run? That’s why you - ”

Why he’d held himself away from her. Careful space between them. Trying to save himself.

“Yes,” he told her.

There was no saving him and never had been.

"But I had the pattern wrong." He'd been looking at it wrong because he'd been afraid to look at it right. Because it was easier to brace for losing her than it was to think she might be a part of his life. "And I was afraid. That I - “ He put out his hand again, and this time she allowed him to touch her, his hand curved around her upper arm. “That I could belong with someone.”

She didn't ask why he'd been afraid of something good. She knew.

“You belong to the Rebellion," she said.

And so did she, now.

“It’s a very big thing to belong to. It’s easy to lose yourself in it.” Her skin was warm under his, flushed with the exercise.

She pulled away and for a moment he was cut loose, spinning in space. But then she took his hands in her wrapped ones, both of them, anchoring him firmly once again.

"I didn't know you were back," she said. "Not until you walked in the canteen, saw me, and took off like you'd run into one of Kay's nastier brothers."

"I got back last night," he said. "Late. I - " He swallowed. "I took a shortcut through the civilian quarters.”

She raised a brow. "That's not a shortcut. That's longer."

"You were gone," he said. "Your room - you were gone."

Understanding moved over her face like a sunrise. Her hands tightened around his. "I'm not gone," she said.

He let himself soak in that.

She looked shy for a moment, and then covered it up with bravado, pushing her face up close to his until their noses brushed. “Are you going to kiss me, Cassian Andor, or am I going to have to do everything myself?”

It made him laugh, and the laugh was still on his lips when he pressed them to hers.

FINIS

#Cassian Andor #Jyn Erso #rebelcaptain #fanfiction #mosylufanfic lives up to her damn name #I LIVE #and I still ship these two idiots #star wars

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refuge-au · 3 years

Note

>Open the Doctor’s File

Doc: Receive an Invitation

The conference room was small and sparsely decorated, little more than a round table and a handful of chairs in an empty room. The walls were bare, the table empty, and the window that looked out into the hallways covered by blinds.

The window that looked out onto the street, to the east, may as well have been covered too. The only thing visible when you looked out was the greyish hue of smog.

Doc sat in the chair closest to the door on the east side of the table. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his feet were up on the table. He knew his attempt at nonchalance wasn’t fooling anybody, but it didn’t hurt to try.

Etho sat to his right, leaned over the table and absently spinning a rubix cube in his hands. Every so often he’d scramble it and then solve it quickly afterward, seeming slightly disappointed. His left eye was covered in a plain black eyepatch that wasn’t quite big enough to cover the extent of the scarring.

Bdubs sat on Etho’s other side, the drumming of his fingers on the table and the way his eyes flickered from one side of the room to the other every couple of seconds the only things betraying the amount of nervous energy contained inside him.

Beef sat in the last chair on their side of the table, staring at the covered interior window as if he could see through the blinds and into the hallways behind it. His face was expressionless, apparently lost in thought.

No one spoke.

It was the kind of silence they had sat in many times before- part comfort, of being around people who know you better than almost anyone else in the world, and part anxious anticipation. None of them knew exactly what was going to come next.

They had been contacted individually a week or two ago, letters that had no return address slipped under doors or through mail slots. What usually would have been some sort of threat or insult turned out to be a job interview opportunity.

Come to a certain building two weeks from now, the letters read. Tell the receptionist that you’re looking for refuge. Someone will be in to see you shortly.

The most paranoid of the group (Beef) had found out that it was sent by some sort of government official or organization before he contacted the rest of the group to see if they had received the same summons. After a brief discussion, a decision was reached. They would hear out whoever wanted to talk to them.

If things went down badly… as long as they were together they would be able to fight their way out.

Most of the invitation had been true. They found the correct address, and were taken to a room when they asked for refuge… but the person that they were waiting for had not come shortly. It felt like they had been waiting for an eternity- even though his internal clock told him it had only been about twenty minutes.

Ten more minutes, he decided, and then he would leave. If whoever the hell wanted to talk to them was going to be late, they should have told the receptionist to tell them or something. It was basic human decency- although admittedly that did seem to be in short supply these days.

The door handle turned with a click, and four pairs of eyes locked onto it immediately. There was a moment of nothing, and then the door swung open, letting a relatively tall brunette man into the room.

His hair was tied back in a neat ponytail, all brown except for a single streak of white from a large x-shaped scar that stretched across most of his face. It was an old scar, very faded, the chunks of white in his hair and his beard some of the only things left to prove that it was there.

He looked slightly winded as he smiled, shutting the door behind him. “Hello, gentlemen. Sorry about the wait. There was a bit of a… conflict. Downstairs, and I ended up having to sort it out.”

He walked over to the table pulling off his gloves and unwrapping his respirator from around his neck before sitting down across from Etho and folding his hands together. “So. You all actually came.”

“Did you expect us not to?” Beef asked, eyeing him warily, apparently not recognizing him.

“Of course not! A government official contacting you out of nowhere, asking you to come and meet them? The fact that you have enough faith in humanity to come here, despite everything, without knowing anything about why you’re being asked here… it’s amazing.” He grinned.

“Amazing is one word for it, sure.” Bdubs said, leaning forward in his chair. “But uh, who are you, and why exactly are we here?”

“If you’re going to try to kill us, we’ll give you a thirty second head start.” Doc added dryly. “But no more than that.”

The man chuckled. “We’re not trying to kill you, we’re trying to offer you a job.”

A job?

Before Doc could express his hesitation, the man continued, putting a hand to his chest:

“My name is Xisuma Void, Captain Void to most people, but you can call me X. I’m putting together a crew.”

“Like a boat crew?” Bdubs asked, brow furrowing slightly.

“A spaceship crew. I’ve been given a mission- go to uncharted territory, chart it, and start a colony on a planet outside the solar system.” He extended his hands in front of him, gesturing to the team. “I’d like you to come with me.”

For a moment, there was silence.

“…What’s the catch?” Etho asked slowly.

“Catch?” Xisuma asked.

“We’re not from here.” Etho said, and Beef chuckled. “There’s always a catch.”

Xisuma shook his head slowly. “I don’t think… well… how about I just tell you what the job would entail before we decide if there’s a catch or not?”

Doc looked across the table to the others. Bdubs nodded, Beef shrugged, and Etho set down the rubix cube for the first time since he had gotten into the room. X took that as permission to continue.

“Do you remember all those stories in the news about the government funneling money into a secret project?” X asked.

“And everybody was worried that it was gonna be another war.” Bdubs said. “We remember.”

“They were building a ship for this mission. It’s been in progress for years now, but they’ve ramped up construction in the past several months. The ship will be fully built in three months, and the mission will begin no sooner than six months from now.” Xisuma stood, either ignoring or not noticing the way that the rest of the group tensed when he moved, and began to pace up and down the length of the table. “The ship- the Refuge- will exit the solar system in about one and a half years, and then it’ll be four and a half to eight and a half years til we reach Haven.”

“Haven?” Doc interjected. “That’s the planet?”

X nodded.

“Bit on the nose, don’t you think?” Bdubs asked.

X shrugged, not pausing in his pacing. “I wasn’t the one that named it.”

“So what do you want us to do?” Beef asked. “None of us have ever been to space before. Sure, Etho may have been… built for it, but…”

“You don’t have to worry about the space stuff.” X said, stopping and leaning on the back of the chair he had been sitting in. “Just the landing part of the mission. The way that this is set up, there are two smaller groups within the crew as a whole- the ship crew and the colony crew. While the ship crew will transition into being a part of the colony crew once we land, the colony crew doesn’t have to be a part ship crew. It’s unnecessary, and most of the crew mates don’t have essential skills for the trip.”

“So what does the colony crew do during the flight?” Beef asked, his brow furrowed.

“Sleep.” X responded. “We have two cryogeneticists on the crew that will be maintaining and caring for frozen personnel and assets.”

“Which one would we be?” Doc asked.

X looked uncomfortable, as if he didn’t know whether the question was a joke or not. “Personnel… in total, if you decide to take me up on the offer, we’ll have nine people frozen out of a crew of thirty six. Most of the ship can be run mechanically, but we still need the ship crew to oversee everything.”

“And what would we be doing when we get planet-side? What’s our actual job going to be?” Bdubs asked.

“Building, scouting surrounding areas, neutralizing any potential threats, whatever needs to be done, really.” X sighed. “Unfortunately, since a mission like this has never been attempted before, I can’t tell you exactly what we’re going to need you to do. If you accept, I can give you the paperwork that runs through several potential scenarios, but… there’s a lot that we just don’t know.”

“I’m not going to ask you to sign on immediately, but I’d like your responses as soon as possible.” X concluded. “There’s a packet with the receptionist downstairs that has more information-“

“I’ll do it.” Bdubs said, cutting him off.

X blinked. “What?”

“I’ll do it.” He repeated, leaning back in his chair. “It sounds exciting, it’s a chance to travel somewhere without risking being carsick, it’s getting away from everything that’s going on here… and we’re probably not gonna get another chance at this for at least six years, right?”

X nodded.

“I can’t speak for the guys, obviously, but you’ve got one.”

“I’m in too.” Doc decided, taking his feet off the table and sitting up straight. “There’s not a whole hell of a lot for me to do here, not many people that want me here, and somebody’s gotta make sure you don’t get yourself killed.” He said, pointing a vaguel accusatory finger at Bdubs, who rolled his eyes. “I still want the packet, but I’m in.”

X grinned. “Wonderful! And… I suppose, do you want to make your decision now too?” He turned his attention to Beef and Etho.

“I’ll agree… but I reserve the right to change my mind if we start getting ready and things seem off.” Etho said, picking his rubix cube back up and spinning it on its corner. “I may have been made for space travel, but they kept me grounded for a reason.”

“I agree with Etho, minus the spaceman bit.” Beef said. “Also, can we have your phone number, or some way to contact you?”

Xisuma’s grin turned into a softer, warmer smile. “Everything that you’ll need is going to be in the packets. Welcome to the team, gentlemen.”

Computer: Input Command: Show Available Files:

> Open the Pilot’s File

> Open the Doctor’s File (New)

> Continue

#the peril the wind sings to in the wires // doc #doc #etho #bdubs #beef #xisuma #long post ((read more to be added later))#refuge au #refuge arg #hermitcraft refuge arg #hermitcraft refuge au #hermitcraft au #refuge update #hermitcraft arg #command input needed #NHO #prologue

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hakutaichou · 3 years

Video

[JP] Love and Producer: Pronouns + Speech Style Analysis

This post is about what pronouns and speech style the bois used in JP version. Unlike Chinese/Mandarin and English, in Japanese, there’re many honorifics used by different people's personalities with many formal and informal social situations.

Japanese grammar, as a whole, tends to function on hierarchy; honorific stems are appended to verbs and many nouns, primarily names, and in many cases one word may be exchanged for another word entirely with the same verb or noun meaning, but with different honorific connotations. (Wikipedia)

Prepare your snack and drink, this is gonna be a very long post.

P.S I’m using Gavin vs Shaw battle in episode 6 because they cursing each other using their “speech style”.

First of all, let’s arrange some of JP word speech based on the bois...

“CEO Victor”

俺 (Ore) = I

私 (Watashi) = I [Formal]

おまえ (Omae) = You

きみ (Kimi) / あなた (Anata) = You [Formal]

バカ (Baka) = Dummy

来い (Koi) = Come here

“Prof. Lucien”

僕 (Boku) [Lucien] / 私 (Watashi) [Ares] = I

きみ (Kimi) [Lucien] / おまえ (Omae) [Ares] = You

馬鹿 / ばか (Baka) = Silly

おいで (Oide) = Come here

“Captain Gavin”

俺 (Ore) = I

自分 (Jibun) / 僕 (Boku) = I [Formal]

おまえ (Omae) = You

馬鹿 (Baka) = Silly

来い (Koi) = Come here

“Idol-Hacker Kiro”

オレ (Ore) [Kiro] / 俺 (Ore) [Helios] = I

キミ (Kimi) [Kiro] / おまえ (Omae) [Helios] = You

ばか (Baka) = Silly

こっちに来て (Kochi ni kite) = Come here

“College Student Shaw”

俺 (Ore) = I

アンタ (Anta) = You

バカ (Baka) = Silly

来いよ (Koi yo) = Come here

...

Can you see it, the different words with same meaning that used by each of the bois?

[Character Personality Description from Evol x Love JP Official Website]

CEO Victor is Huarui (LFG) Group’s CEO. He started Huarui in college, and climbed to the top of financial world in eight years. He’s also the investor of MC’s Company and the one who holds its fate. His personality is decisive and strict. He thinks rules is above all else than emotion, and he acts only for the benefit of the company. He hates spending time and money meaninglessly. He looks cold at first glance, but he also has a gentle side, such as approaching the weak things.

Since he is Tsundere, the most perfect pronouns for him is “Ore and Omae”

Hakutaichou: “I’ll explain his speech analysis with Gavin...”

Captain Gavin is a EVOL special officer. He ostensibly works at Loveland City Police Station as an ordinary police officer. He is a lone wolf and brave man. He has absolute trust in the person he admits. He has his own policy, and doesn’t mind being misunderstood by others. He has his own right and wrong views, sometimes he acts out of the rules of the world.

Same as Victor, Gavin’s pronouns is “Ore and Omae” which usually used by cold-ruthless-hold power character in otome world. but what makes their personality different is on their “Silly/Idiot” word.

Victor’s バカ (Baka) in “Katakana”, and Gavin’s 馬鹿 (Baka) in “Kanji”

Where’s the difference? its from their speech style, Victor said “Baka” with decisive personality, meanwhile Gavin said it with polite personality.

if you can't tell the difference, you can hear some dialog from both of them in Chapter 26-27 (Gavin talking to guard in facility vs Victor met Leto in cargo ship)

Professor Lucien is an authoritative scientist in neuroscientist community. He is a Elite who has returned from studying aboard. He’s known to the public as a guest professor at Loveland University. He has an amazing memory, that he will never forget what he saw once, and his IQ and EQ are high. He treats everyone politely, which in turn makes people feel that there is a sense of distance. No one knows his true nature and purpose.

Lucien is a “yasashii” gentle person with mysterious aura, he always make a smiling face to everyone, but at the same times he’s emotionless boi and had a dark personality he hides from them. His pronouns is “Boku and Kimi”, which sometimes used by intelligent/educated-gentle character in otome world.

As if a kind man with a many hidden motive (from bad thing to possessive thing) who wanted his loved one to come closer to him, “Oide” is the most “Come Here” word that used by a same character type as Lucien.

When he acted as Ares, his pronouns changed to “Watashi/Boku and Omae” or “Watashi and Anata [Anime only]” because his personality also changed to ruthless-polite person, but sometimes turned back to his “Boku and Kimi” when talking to MC only.

Lucien/Ares to MC: You (Kimi), can’t hurt yourself.

Ares to BS Member: What do you (Omae) know?

If you need more references, there’re some of gentle mysterious characters who voiced by Lucien’s JP VA, Hirakawa-san which using “Boku and Kimi” or “Watashi and Anata” for their pronouns, like Saint-Germain from Code: Realize.

Idol-Hacker Kiro is a super popular idol who has been active since childhood. He wasn’t easy on his way, but he got over it with an optimistic personality. He is as bright as the sun, attractive and straightforward personality. He is mischievous, childish, and smart. He likes a mediocre life, sometimes disguises himself to go to convenience stores, and walk around the city. In addition to his occupation as a idol, he also has multiple identities and his true purpose.

That’s why, Kiro’s “Come here” is “Kochi ni kite”, that words same as persuade people, even kids to come closer, not like “Oide” or “Koi”, you can feel the owner’s very warm tone from that words.

Plus because Kiro once lived in America, his pronouns (Ore and Kimi) using “Katakana” not “Kanji/Hiragana” like others.

*Katakana: one of japanese writing system, usually used to write words that come from foreign languages that have been absorbed into Japanese

Kiro: Always stay by my (Ore [Katakana]) side.

But when Kiro become Helios, besides swapped personality from warm innocent to cold ruthless mode, his pronouns also changed to Victor and Gavin’s pronouns (Ore and Omae).

Helios: Leave the rest to me (Ore [Kanji])

Shaw [Error 404: Not found]

Since Shaw’s encounter with MC are still few...I’ll analyzed him from main chapter side and some of Date only.

Because Shaw is a arrogant gangster with polite attitude person, his pronouns is “Ore and Anta”

俺 (Ore) is from his arrogant personality, meanwhile アンタ (Anta) is informal pronoun of あなた (Anata) from his polite one.

[Extra]

“She/Her and He/Him”

There’s no specific “She/Her” and “He/Him” pronouns in Japanese. All of japanese people calling each other using their name (except: their mom, auntie, grandma, etc). What if we didn’t remember their name? you can use “You” for calling them. And if you want to talking about someone, you can use “Ano hito”, “Ano ko”, “Ano yarou” which have one main meaning is, “That person”.

Back to the main topic. In Main Chapters, MC like to call every love interests with their name, not “You” in dialog script.

MC: Haku, Zen, Kira, Helios, Simon, Ares, Shou.

And MC sometimes using “Kare” instead the boys’ name in description, or her inner mind.

彼 / カレ (Kare) means He/Him, sometimes used for close relationship like “Boyfriend”.

Besides using MC’s name, Victor, Lucien, Kiro, and Gavin also using “Kanojo” to calling MC, meanwhile Shaw in early chapter called MC as “Ano ko” (That Girl) before changed to “Kanojo” in Chapter 19+

彼女 (Kanojo) means She/Her, usually used for close relationship such as...“Girlfriend”.

That’s why...In episode 6 (Chapter 11)

JP Shaw: Maa demo...honki de “Ano ko” wo mamoritai nara, anna tokoro totto yameru nda na.

[Real ENG] JP Shaw: Well... if you really want to protect “That girl”, you’d better leave that place (STF) immediately.

JP Gavin: “Kanojo” wo te o dasu na!

[Real ENG] JP Gavin: Don’t you dare to touch MY GIRL!

#mlqc #mlqc jp #mlqc victor #mlqc lucien #mlqc gavin #mlqc kiro #mlqc shaw #koipro2ndannivcountdown #the more you know #japanese is wider than you think #give a big applause to PaperGames JP branch translator

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taliaromanovaswife · 3 years

Text

Exothermic

Summary: Meet the original character, plagued by amnesia after an accident. But what if a certain deadly assassin is the cure for that?

Warnings: softly NSFW... like, it could be worse? Little swearing

The sound of her own, slow footsteps was her only companion on this evening's stroll through the sterile, clean corridors. Though barely audible, the noise was almost deafening to her and yet it did not manage to stop her mind from reeling. Nothing around her seemed familiar, starting with her room and ending with the smell of the hallways. There was absolutely nothing that managed to jog her memory so far, and it irked her. Apparently, she was a member of the greatest team of heroes that walked the Earth, but every time she looked into their faces, her brain could not connect the dots. And worst of all, every Avenger had told her that they were not allowed to help her; that her amnesia had to fade on its own terms and that telling her the truth could make it worse in the end. So, here she was. Eight weeks after an accident where she had been thrown through a window on the first floor, discharged from the hospital because her wounds were healing nicely, yet she still did not remember anything from her past. Nothing, except for her name, age and powers, but even that information was given to her.

Alexandra, twenty-five, defender and healer – whatever that was supposed to mean.

Pressing her palms against her temple, she scoffed and rolled her eyes at herself. Nothing happened, just like nothing had happened since the day she regained consciousness. She had no clue how her powers actually worked, but if she was a healer, then why was she unable to heal her own brain? “You're so stupid”, she cried out, banging the balls of her hands against her already aching head. “Why can't you work? I just want to know who the fuck I am?!”

She rounded another corner, walking past half a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows when she stopped dead in her tracks. Something in the corner of her eye had caught her attention, something she was unsure had been there before. Nevertheless, it was something that spoke to her and for the first time in weeks, she felt a sense of familiarity warming up her insides.

Taking a chance, the tall blonde tried the door handle, happy to find it unlocked. After light brown eyes had scanned the area to make sure that she was alone, tentative feet slipped through a small gap, still wondering if her mind was playing tricks on her now. She had been walking these halls since she was brought home, but had never noticed a piano up here, or anywhere for that matter. Not even downstairs in the bar. ‘Too expensive’, the man who introduced himself as Tony Stark had said when she had asked. ‘The last one got destroyed by Ultron’, a muscular, tall, blond guy had added before receiving death glares from the rest of the group. Alexandra had no idea who Ultron was. How could she, if she was still unable to put the pieces of her own past back together? And what about her present? Did she even go by her full first name or did she prefer it was shortened to Alex? Or even Lexi? Did she like being an Avenger? How strong was her power, how strong was she? She did not know and they did not tell her. But she felt drawn to the piano, as if it was calling out for her and that feeling eased some of her frustration.

Carefully lifting the fall board and locking it in an upright position, shaky fingers pressed down a combination of keys that her brain did not remember, but her muscles certainly did. Muscle memory, she sighed. How could she remember this but not even the bare minimum of her life? Her most important muscle was not working the way it should. Slender hands pulled the matching black piano bench out from under the instrument and she sat down, her fingers gliding over the keys like second nature as her feet hit the pedals.

Suddenly, her mind flashed to a different time. A different piano was in front of her and perfectly manicured short, red-painted fingernails produced a tune she could not hear. But if Alexandra had to guess, she was reliving a tiny bit of her memory. Maybe, hopefully, this was the pivotal ingredient that she had been missing.

Closing her eyes, she allowed her fingers to work the way they knew how to, her vision not providing much help anyway. And as the melody filled the air and cautious fingertips became more confident of their skill, so did her feet. Alexandra was no expert in how muscle memory actually worked, but she could not explain what was happening right now any other way. Her mind drew blank on the names of the songs that she brought to life, and yet, somehow her brain knew what belonged together and when she transitioned to a new melody. So she kept playing, kept her eyes shut tight and let her emotions rage freely like a wildfire.

Alexandra was so lost in her creations, she did not register the other person entering the room, nor did she feel their presence. Her upper body leaned into the music, swayed with every crescendo and diminuendo. The music consumed her entire system, every nerve ending was accommodating to her trance as the cells in her brain sprang into action. Still, her fingers danced over black and white keys in the most beautiful pattern she had ever heard.

Natasha Romanoff was utterly captivated by the sight before her eyes, as mesmerizing and enthralling as ever. From the moment she had stepped into the room, she stood still and quiet, simply listening to the melody with a sad smile on her face. There was something magical about the way that Alexandra commanded the keys under the pads of her fingers and she was glad she had suggested buying a piano for the younger woman. It was minutes later that she slipped her ballet shoes on and tied the ribbons around her ankles, green eyes never leaving the figure behind the piano. Even as she pulled her red hair into a neat bun – years of practice making the need for a mirror unnecessary – her gaze was fixed on the musician, waiting. The assassin had noticed the slight change in the other hero's posture, the deeper breaths and the parted lips. She knew what was coming, long before Alexandra herself had figured it out.

Words formed in her head. If one were to ask her, Alexandra would say she did not know where they came from, her brain not remembering the song. But her heart did, even if it did not understand the meaning just yet. “Dancing around in the rain again.”, she sang, finding the lyrics to the accords she played. Her voice was soft and quiet, trembling with insecurity at first. 'Cause you said that I was my only friend. Playing with the flowers that I picked myself. Because I know they won't come from anybody else. Wrap myself up to warm my hands. From the biting ice that you made them stand.”

As her favorite voice filled the room, velvety and clear, Natasha began to stretch her tired muscles. Last week's mission had been tough on all of them, and the ache from multiple hits and countless falls still lingered in her bones. It could have been worse, but it also could have gone a lot smoother and with less injuries. Still, there was no pain that could stop her from being here, from dancing to Alexandra’s song. Not her bruised ribs and most definitely not her bandaged wrist – just a sprain, she told everybody.

Tears began to form behind her closed eyes. How could she remember songs but not her life? What kind of sick and twisted condition was this retrograde amnesia and why would it not let go of her? And while her fingers moved across the keys without any mistakes, and her feet operated the pedals below them, the first tears spilled down her cheeks. She just wanted to remember. “I'm still moving cities and I'm still causing storms. I don't know if you know this. But when I shoot I score. Took this pain inside of me, turned it into gold. I made this exothermic. Now watch my heart explode.”

Natasha's heart broke for the person, as it did every day since the accident. She had thought that the first few days had been the hardest, when no doctor was giving a clear statement whether or not she would wake from the coma. Then, when Alexandra did wake up but did not know who she was, did not recognize her, the agent's entire world fell apart. Adjustments had been made before the young Avenger had been released from the hospital, hushed conversations that would make everybody feel left out had become the norm around the blonde hero. But every look into Alexandra's sad eyes chipped away at the – usually put-together – assassin. Natasha shook those thoughts from her head as she carefully pushed herself onto her tip toes and raised her arms above her head, extending her index finger and pinkie into perfect position. Out of everything she had been trained in on her way to become one of the deadliest assassins in Russian history, ballet had always been her favorite and to this day, she still used dancing as a stress reliever.

Brown, teary eyes fluttered open and the music abruptly stopped. Her fingers halted over the keys, her mouth remained agape as she stared at the woman who was introduced to her as Natasha Romanoff. She thought she was alone, but there stood the beautiful Russian, dressed in tight black leggings, a matching form-fitting black bodice and a white silken skirt. “I’m-“ She pulled her fingers in, forming fists that slowly clenched and unclenched with every passing second, her heart rate speeding up to the same rhythm. Nervously chewing on her own bottom lip, she stared at her own hands and then back at the other woman. “Was I not supposed to be in here?”, she asked anxiously, Natasha’s intense green eyes seemingly staring right into her soul.

“Please don’t be scared”, the assassin replied. “This is your home, you can be in every room you want to be in, use everything you want or need.” Graciously lowering herself back onto her entire feet and resting her hands on her hips, the redhead tried reassuring her. “You should feel at home here.”

The words were mumbled, but Alexandra still caught it and scoffed. “And yet, everybody stops talking when I walk into a room”, the woman shot back, smoothing her palms over the long, honey-blonde braid and sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s not easy being me right now, whoever I am. But you did not deserve this.” Everybody around here had been nothing but amazing towards her, despite her condition. Sure, their conversations stopped or changed, but that did not mean that she was not included in whatever topic followed after. “I can go, if you want to-“

“Please don’t”, Nat said in a haste, stopping herself before she could say the name that lingered on the tip of her tongue. She took deep breaths, reminding herself that Alexandra’s memory was yet to come back. “Would you play for me?”, she asked quietly, her lips curling into a smile. “Your song was very beautiful and I would like to dance to it.”

The blonde eyed the assassin apprehensively. Was this a regular occasion? Did she used to sing for other people? “Damn it, you stupid brain”, she cursed under her breath, eliciting a light chuckle from Natasha. Thinking about the request for a moment, she finally agreed. “Only if I am allowed to watch you dance.”

“Always”, the redhead smiled, her body protesting slightly as she pushed herself into the releve pose. She steadied herself before finding Alexandra's eyes. “Ready when you are.”

As if nothing had stopped her in the first place, expert finger tips roamed over the keys, picking up where they had left off. Once again, the melody resonated in the air, but this time, Alexandra only had eyes for the gorgeous woman dancing for her. Every part of Natasha’s body appeared to be in sync with her music and somehow the blonde knew that this was not the first time she had twirled to this particular song. “Dancing around in the dark again. But I'm happier now than I ever was then. Feel my heart as it is ablaze. Making room for another in these better days. Days, days.” Forcefully pressing the keys into the instrument as the music became louder and more spirited, brown eyes followed Natasha’s every motion doing the same. She did not notice the two figures standing on the other side of the glass, staring and smiling at her.

Wanda sighed in content, listening to the sound of Alexandra's beautiful voice. She and Natasha always begged the young hero to sing for them, or at least play one of her favorite compositions for them. It helped with the stress after a long day of work. It eased their minds and both women knew that the same applied to Alexandra. “Do you think this will help her?”, the witch asked aloud, her Sokovian accent less prominent now that she was spending most of her time around Americans. Cocking her head to the left but never averting her eyes, she added, “Natasha could use a sliver of good news.”

Arms crossed over his chest, Steve observed as one of his oldest friends danced. He let out a long breath. “I really hope so. I don't know how long Nat can keep going like this. It's ripping her apart.” The super soldier truly admired the redhead for still walking tall. He was not sure he could do the same. “If this doesn't work, then I don't know what could, besides telling Alex the truth. And the doctor's strictly recommended not to do that. But-”

“But at this rate, our most deadliest and finest assassin is no use on missions”, Wanda finished his sentence with a soft nod while watching the Black Widow dance with an elegance unmatched by anything she had ever seen.

“I'm still moving cities and I'm still causing storms. I don't know if you know this. But when I shoot I score. Took this pain inside of me, turned it into gold. I made this exothermic. Now watch my heart explode.” Alexandra's vocal cords vibrated deep within her throat as her voice reverberated with every word she sang. Louder and louder. The keys molded to her every tap and she had to focus on keeping her eyes open. She never let Natasha out of sight, but as the song went on, it was harder and harder not to give in to the music and let her feelings take over. “Oh, watch me exo, o, o, o. Watch me exo burn this. I deserve it, ohh. I deserved this. I deserve it, oh! I deserve this, woah!”

The Russian's feet hit the parquet floor in a faster pattern now, her body spiraling with every pirouette. The position of her hands was immaculate, the satin skirt wafted with every turn and yet, every time she spun around, her eyes locked on Alexandra's. Watching the other woman play with such intensity, like nothing had changed in the past weeks, made her want to cry. But Natasha swallowed her emotions and danced until the blonde stopped playing. She came to a stop, her breathing ragged and the pain from her bruised ribs jabbing into her sides. Still, Nat regretted nothing.

Neither of them said a word or dared to move. The last notes had long since faded away, but they still felt connected through the music. An invisible bond both held onto, fearing that breaking the silence would involuntarily end this moment of peace.

It was Alexandra who moved first, carefully closing the fall board and rising to her feet. “This was nice, we should do this again.” The comment came with a smile. She had not felt this free in weeks and even though her memories did not return – she had hoped they would – the blonde felt a lot better. “Thank you for the dance, Natalia”, she said out of a habit she did not understand. Hearing the sentence, but specifically that name, falling from her own lips caused a chain reaction. She froze on the spot and went stiff as her brain was flooded with millions of memories from her past. Missions and fighting. Loki, Ultron. Iron Man, Thor, Captain America. The Hulk. Clint and Wanda, her brother Pietro. Vision. Her healing a gash on Natasha's temple. Natasha. Everything came back to her, and all at once. And as her brain completed the puzzle, everything began to make sense again. The last image she saw showed Natasha – her Natalia – in a simple white dress and with white flowers in her red, wavy hair as she was waiting for her on the grass behind the Avenger's compound. And then finally, she remembered her full name. Alexandra Romanoff.

Natasha gasped, her hand covering her mouth in shock. She had waited so long to hear her wife say her name again. No one ever called her Natalia, no one but Alexandra. “Sasha”, she whispered her lover's nickname, eyes filling with tears. With hesitant steps, she closed the gap between them. Soft hands cradled the blonde's face the second she was close enough. “I've missed you so much.” Her lips brushed against a tear-stained cheek, tasting the salt on the tip of her tongue. “Thank you, for coming back to me.”

Gently taking a bandaged hand in her left, Alexandra carefully lowered their limbs. Her wife appeared tough on the outside and would never admit to anyone how much pain she truly was in. But brown eyes saw right through the facade. It had been those very same eyes that had torn down Natasha's walls, stone for stone, when they had started dating all those years ago. A mellow light radiated from her, encasing both women in the warmest, white gleam. Her powers searched for every single one of Nat’s injuries, healing them one after the other. “I will always come back to you, моя любовь. Always”, she promised.

Just as she leaned in for a kiss, Natasha saw the two people outside of the room move slightly – of course her trained senses had picked up on their presence earlier, but she had chosen to ignore them. “FRIDAY? Please close the blinds”, she asked the Artificial Intelligence in her sweetest voice. A swoosh sounded through the room as the shades dropped from the ceiling almost all the way down to the floor, effectively blocking every curious onlooker. “Now we are alone.” Her voice was husky now, even lower than the usual rasp that was just so distinctively hers. “You didn't notice?”

Alexandra shook her head. “I was watching you.” Pale cheeks blushed a dark shade of red when their lips were mere millimeters apart, their foreheads touching. She chuckled. “Even when my brain was all chaotic and weird, I could not stop looking at you.” Nudging her partner's nose with her own, she inhaled Natasha's perfume. “I'm sorry it took me so long.”

The motion was barely visible as the red-haired woman shook her head. “It doesn't matter”, she whispered softly, stroking a few loose curls out of Alexandra's face and behind her ear. “What matters is that you remember now.” Finally pressing her lips against her wife's, she was immediately engulfed by the familiar warmth and love she had for the other woman. God, how much she had missed her.

Pale hands rested on either side of a slender hip, thumbs stroking the bone over the soft material of the dancer's outfit. The cutest little moans escaped her throat. This was what coming home felt like. Natasha was home. One of her hands slid lower, fingers fanning out over a firm bottom cheek as she smiled into the kiss. Tears of happiness ran down her cheeks.

“Don't cry, Милый”, Natasha whispered, wiping her lover's tears away with a gentle brush of her knuckles. “Please, don't cry.”

Swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat, the blonde reconnected their lips. A dire need to be as close as possible to her wife was all she experienced in this moment. “Happy tears”, Alexandra assured between kisses, pulling the assassin even closer into her body. She relished in these moments, remembering how the redhead never let her guard down around anybody but her. It made every moment of intimacy even more special. “I love you.”

Her wife's breathless confession caused her heart to pound even faster in her chest. “I love you, too.” Strong hands moved to her lover's behind, cupping a cheek in each of them to hoist her up. She felt legs wrap around her waist as a squeal left Alexandra's mouth, followed by the most precious giggles. Natasha had to crane her neck now, due to the change in height, but it had always been one of her favorite things to do. “I love you so much.” A couple of quick steps later, a slim back collided with the wall behind the piano.

The kiss grew more heated, tongues danced to an unsung melody. Their hearts beat in sync, wanton lust overtaking both women. It took all of her willpower, but when she felt full lips suck on her neck, Alexandra let out a frustrated groan. She knew she had to put a stop to this for now. “I think we have a more suitable... room for this, Natalia”, she moaned, her voice dripping with desire. “Our room.”

Natasha hated to admit it, but her wife had a point. Their reconnecting deserved more than a quickie in the newly appointed music room. She pressed their lips together in one last heated kiss before carefully lowering the blonde back onto her feet. Both inhaled deeply to regain some composure and smoothed over their clothes. “Ready?”, she asked, reaching out her hand for Alexandra to take, her other one holding her sneakers and sweater that she had picked off the floor.

Fingers intertwined, they exited the room with mischievous grins tugging on their lips as they walked past Wanda and Steve who were engaged in a conversation in the middle of the hallway. But the couple did not pay any attention to them anyway, too absorbed in each other's presence. Throughout the entire way to their room, neither spoke a word. Yet, the silence was not uncomfortable.

“Everything is still as I remember it”, Alexandra spoke when she entered their suite and took a look around. “Even my slippers are still where I kicked them off before we had to rush into the mission.” Her leather jacket – a birthday gift from a time when they were engaged – was still draped over one of the chairs. She smiled lovingly at Natasha when she noticed another detail. “I see you've been sleeping in my shirts.” She was not mad about this; she could never be mad about this. Because if the roles had been reversed, the blonde would have done the exact same thing.

Natasha blushed lightly, shutting the door behind them and locking it with a twist. “They kept me sane”, she explained. “Some of them still smelled like you.” And if they did not, she always imagined her wife's unique scent on them. Coming up behind the blonde, the dancer looped her arms around a slim waist. “You are what keeps me grounded, but you were not with me. So this was the next best thing.” The truth was, nothing could ever compare to the real thing. She tightened her embrace. Delicate fingers moved a honey-blonde braid out of the way before soft lips began to caress the back of a creamy neck.

Turning in her wife's arms and instantly missing the touch against her skin, Alexandra nuzzled her nose against her lover's cheek. Her fingers found their way to the hair tie, pulling lightly so red curls could fall onto almost bare shoulders. “I missed the feeling of your hair between my fingers”, she breathed, burying her hands in silken tresses as she claimed crimson lips in a fierce kiss.

The air was full of sexual tension as both women tugged and tore at each other's close until either of them was left in only their underwear. Natasha unhooked her own bra first, knowing how much her partner enjoyed the view. When the garment landed on the floor, nimble fingers fiddled with the clasp of the necklace that held her wife's wedding ring until she finally slid it back onto its rightful place. She smiled brightly. “Much better.” Wasting no more time, the red-haired woman unceremoniously undid Alexandra's bra before moving on to the matching pair of panties. “I missed all of you”, she husked seductively in her wife's ear before nibbling on the shell of it. “Every. Single. Inch.” And as her hands were busy getting reacquainted with the blonde's naked skin, she maneuvered them towards their bed.

Alex could not stop the moans as they spilled past her lips between kisses. She tried dipping her hand into her wife's underwear but remained unsuccessful before she was pushed onto the mattress. As brown eyes opened, the irises shone with a passionate hunger. “Come here”, she beckoned, ogling her lover while Natasha stripped herself of the last article of clothing. For a moment, she forgot how to breathe. “Natalia”, she groaned, growing impatient.

Knowing that teasing was not an option right now, and that it would ultimately cause both of them to suffer, the assassin climbed into the bed. Dainty hands wandered upwards, over pale ankles and satiny legs. Skipping her wife's sex on purpose and provoking a growl when Alexandra noticed what she was doing, the redhead did neither budge nor stop until she was once again face to face with the love of her life. “Hi”, she breathed against kiss-swollen lips as the pads of her fingers playfully fondled her wife's round breasts. Skillfully tweaking rosy buds into pebbled peaks, Natasha licked the blonde's full bottom lip, asking to be granted access.

Her mouth parted on its own accord, as did her legs to welcome the warm body on top of her between them. She let her hands rove over the smooth skin of Nat's back while the assassin played her body like an instrument. When wet lips encased one of her nipples, Alexandra arched even further into the touch, her own caresses never stopping.

Natasha hissed as she kissed a path from one boob to the other, certain that her lover's fingernails left crescent shaped marks on her right shoulder blade and neck. Her wife's nickname followed the next gasp, “Sasha.” Grinding her body into the one beneath her own, her slick center was mere inches away from Alexandra's. “Promise to never leave me again”, she pleaded, her voice barely audible against full lips.

“Not willingly”, the blonde assured her and wrapped her arms around her wife, holding her close. She could not even begin to imagine how hard the last weeks must have been on the other woman. “Never willingly, my love.” With a gentle nudge – in a moment of Natasha's inattentiveness – she flipped them so that she was now on top. “My promise to you will always stand, my beautiful Natalia. I will always love you and I will always come back to you”, she said, reciting parts of her wedding vow as she kissed along a creamy neck and toyed with hardened pearls. “If you're lost, I will find you.” Natasha's body bowed below her when she let her fingers dance over her ribs. “I will forever be yours.” When she looked up, she found Natasha's watchful gaze staring right back at her. “And you will forever be mine.”

Sneaking her left hand between them as Alexandra's traveled past her stomach, both women moaned vociferously when delicate fingers flicked each other's clits the way only they knew how. The Black Widow relished in the fact that the blonde had ruined her for anybody else and that she had returned the favor with pleasure. “Let go for me, Sasha”, she whined just as two of her lover's fingers slowly entered her. Mimicking Alexandra's action, the redhead eagerly swallowed her wife's whimpers.

The blonde's orgasm was approaching quickly and she could feel the walls around her digits tightening as well. Rubbing her thumb over her wife's engorged, needy bundle of nerves, she quaked when the assassin did the same. “I'm close”, she warned, her voice merely above a whisper as she pressed her forehead against Natasha's.

“Me too.” She loved their slow dance of passion and lust. There was no moment that she got to spend with her wife that she did not cherish. But tonight weighed a lot more as both women felt like they were coming home after being gone for weeks. “Come with me”, Natasha groaned, capturing full lips with her own seconds before she tumbled over the edge and Alexandra followed suit right after.

As both came down from their climax, the blonde felt the light strokes of fingertips as they pushed loose strands of honey-blonde hair out of her face. A satisfied smile spread across her lips. Her body revelled in the afterglow, tingled all over with bliss and adoration for the other woman. Lifting her head, she got momentarily lost in her lover's green eyes. “I am so in love with you, Natalia.”

“You will never know how much I love you, Sasha.”

#first marvel fanfic #natasha romanoff #natalia romanova #OC #soft smuft #exposing myself to the world #one shot #piano #dancing #amnesia #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanoff is a softie #ballet #marvel fanfiction #black widow #black widow fanfic #more tags?#exothermic

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imaginesmai · 3 years

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With all my heart (IRONDAD) - Chapter 1

Hey there! I’m back with a full fic! ❤💕💕💕 This is an irondad/bambi/The game plan AU! It’s finished, so it will have two updates every week, or more (if you guys like it a lot!) Make sure to follow me on instagram:@ irondadiscanon to know when I update, more irondad content and fic recs!

SUMMARY: Tony Stark isn't the best dad - distant, cold, almost neglectful. But when his ex-wife dies, he has to take care of his son; 5-year-old Peter, a boy with too many allergies and that can't talk to Tony without stuttering. Follow the path of two hurt people, a man and a boy, who learn how to love each other through thick and thin.-A Bambi AU (Disney) that @buckets_of_stars inspired me into writting that I've mixed with The Game Plan.

AO3 link

Tony has a tight smile on during the funeral. He knows he has no right being there, that most of the people around him, even if they are strangers for Tony, were closer to Mary than him. He shifts uncomfortable in his black suit, fighting the hangover from last night. On his right, Mary’s sister is crying her eyes out, looking at the coffin as its lowered on the ground. From what he has heard, the man besides May is Ben, his husband, and both of them have made a long journey to come to the funeral. It makes him feel bad, because Tony was the one arriving late and he lives barely thirty minutes away.

But the news hit him hard.

For six years, he has been doing just fine. He gets drunk, sleeps around with anyone that catches his eye, bosses around and goes to sleep really, really late. It’s not something to take pride of, but Tony likes his life – now, his past life. There is another thing that has been a constant for the last five years and a half; monthly cheques to his ex-girlfriend account. Since he lost any type of right over his son. Five and half years ago.

Now, Mary is lying eight foot deep in a coffin. He received a call yesterday, and found comfort in his liquor cabinet. He shouldn’t have, he’s sure of it, because he knows that there has to be new changes on his life from now on; but he still kept a small place of his heart for the brunette girl with big, doe eyes that had a contagious laugh. Tony tightens the grip on his left wrist, trying to control the shaking of his hands.

When that doesn’t work, he tries next looking at the small figure gripping May’s legs, close to Tony. It’s not the first time Tony has seen Peter Parker, because once or twice every two months, he gets to spend a weekend with his son. He has a room on the tower, as dull as a white paper, and Tony is listed as his second emergency contact. It doesn’t matter how much he tries to distance himself from Howard. Most of the times the kid is with him, Tony is reminded of the lost chance of raising him. Peter sees him as a stranger, and Tony drinks.

Peter sniffles softly, and May runs a careful hand through his curls. Taking after Tony, he’s short and skinny. The father doesn’t know much about him – that he likes science, is asthmatic and has a list of allergies, dyslexic, and his favourite colour is blue and red. Mary made sure to keep him away from Tony, and she wasn’t wrong. Because Tony is the worst influence the kid can have.

It doesn’t matter, though, because May and Ben are both active workers that are barely home, and Peter doesn’t have any other family left.

“Tony”

He turns around, and shamefully discovers that almost everyone is gone now. Only May, the priest and Peter remain. The last one is still hiding between May’s legs, hiccupping every now and then. Tony blinks and coughs the awkwardness; he tries to clear the wetness around his eyes, and thanks himself for getting dark glasses before leaving that morning. May, always the kind woman, gives him a soft smile, and squeezes his forearm gently. His husband doesn’t like Tony that much, but it seems that May sees something not even Tony himself can see.

“We have to arrange some things. Custody papers and legal documents” she says.

“Yes. I’ll – My driver is just there. He will take us to the notary. He has enough space for all of us. And don’t worry, Happy is discrete. He won’t – “

“Ben and I can take care of it just fine” May interrupts him. He pushes Peter forward, but the boy doesn’t look up. “Peter hasn’t slept much, and he hasn’t eaten since yesterday. I thought that, maybe, you could take him home and rest a little. It’s been hard for everyone.”

“Happy can take him”

“Peter needs his father”

It’s her stern voice. He has only heard it twice; once, when Peter was born and he was late for the birth, and Mary decided she didn’t even want him to meet his son. May had used her stern voice on her and Tony had held Peter close, as the boy latched on his little finger. The second time was directed at him. He was ready to give up the custody of Peter, he didn’t want to go to the trial; and thanks to May, who dragged him out of his ear, he got to see Peter every two months. Even if he hadn’t known how to do it right.

Peter looks up at Tony, and the man notices the tears still falling from his eyes. He has the same look he always carries around Tony; as if he wasn’t his father, just an authoritative stranger that he had to respect.

“I think a nap will do you some good” Tony lowers his voice, and tries to give Peter a reassuring smile. “Did you pack your bag already?”

“No” he answers in a small voice. “Uncle Ben said I c-could do it later”

“We can bring it later. Maybe have a last dinner together before we leave?” May suggests, and Peter nods vigorously. “We have to leave tomorrow morning. But we are only a few hours away. If he gets sick or needs anything, we’ll be here as soon as possible. And that goes for you too Tony. You can call me anytime you want”

“I think we’re gonna be just fine. Right, Peter?”

Tony holds his fist so that Peter can bump it, but the kid just stares at it. Possibly, it’s not the best place to do something like that. Reluctantly, he lowers his fist. He remembers the first time Peter was brought to him as a conscious human being, not a baby. Mary had been on a trip with him for three months, and Tony got to stay with Peter for a week – and in that moment, when Peter didn’t call Tony daddy but ‘Mr Tony’, Tony realized that Peter didn’t see him as a father. As a dad.

It hurts him that he hasn’t known how to be there for his son. Some of the dates Mary and him set for Peter to stay with Tony were spent poorly; Tony out drinking and Peter with Pepper or with a nanny. Tony missed some of them because he liked to party, and the man wasn’t there when the kid had his first asthma attack and ended up in hospital. He wasn’t even there for Peter’s fourth birthday, because he was lost somewhere in Monaco drinking expensive liquors and losing consciousness.

Selfishly, he thinks that this is his chance to make things right. Peter has to stay with him, because there is no chance that he lets the boy in the system, and staying with his aunt is impossible. So, he tries to bury his hurt and keeps the kind smile on.

“Give me a call when you’re finished” he tells May, who nods. The woman kneels in front of Peter, and cradles his cheek.

“We can come whenever you need us. Ask Tony to call us or use the phone mom got you, it’s in the bottom of your bag. You remember Ben’s number?” May asks. Peter doesn’t answer. “Come here, give me a big hug”

Peter launches himself to his aunt’s arms, letting out a chocked sob. May hugs him tight and lets him cry on her shoulder. As most of the times he’s with his son, Tony feels misplaced. Like he’s watching a show he’s not a part of – like it isn’t his family. It’s not, his mind supplies. They break the hug before Tony can dwell on the thought for too long. If someone expected Peter to hug his father next, they get a huge disappointment. Peter moves to stand close to Tony, and quickly dries his tears so Tony doesn’t notice them.

“No peanuts, walnuts, cashews or hazels. That goes for Nutella or other chocolate sweet that could have hazels” May remembers him, although Tony has JARVIS programmed to keep up with Peter’s allergies. “There are epinephrine injections in his bag, with the instructions. He has to take his vitamins every morning. After breakfast”

“And I have to be careful with lobsters and oysters, because they upset his stomach”

“You have to cut the crust off the sandwiches, and Peter doesn’t like cheese sandwiches. But make sure to put extra cheese on his pizza”

“He also likes mac and cheese, I know” Tony says with a bit of annoyance. “He’s my son. I know him better than what you think”

“You better take care of him, because I don’t care how much money you have or how important your last name is” May takes a threatening step forward. “If I have to drag your sorry Stark ass to court, I will. Without blinking once”

Tony briefly remembers the conversation he has had with May before the funeral. Mary said it in her will, Ben and May knew they would have to change their life style if Peter came to life with them, and Tony was the most capable person, in materials and financial terms, to take care of Peter. But still, she had offered to take him. And Ben had threatened Tony. The man hopes he can live to everyone’s expectations.

He reaches a hand and brings Peter closer. In a soft whisper that only comes out every now and then when he’s with his son, he tells him to go and wait in the car. Peter gives a quiet ‘yes sir’ and hugs May one last time. Tony doesn’t miss the glassy eyes May gets when Peter wraps his skinny arms around her waist and squeezes her tight. He has never received a hug from Peter.

Not like he feels worthy of them.

Peter waves at her and drags his feet to the car. The boy likes Happy, or at least he likes him as much as he can like someone from Tony’s life – he gives the man some rare smiles and actually answers to his questions. He watches as Peter disappear inside the car, and closes the door behind him. Then, he turns to May.

“You can’t say those things in front of Peter” he argues. “He’s gonna think I’m some kind of monster that it’s gonna eat him at night”

“He already thinks that. Why do you think he wanted to spend the night with us in the hotel instead of going with you? Peter is afraid. The only memories he has with his father are you sitting on a couch drinking, hiding in the lab or giving him away to nannies” May points a shaky finger at him. “He spent the whole night crying and sobbing, but when he comes here, he tries to hide it so you don’t see him. Trust me when I say he knows where he’s going”

“And what am I supposed to do? If he hates me so much, then maybe you should take him!”

There is a second of silence in the lonely cemetery.

“Peter doesn’t hate you, Tony. He thinks you don’t want him” she says sadly, and Tony thinks he preferred the idea of Peter hating him. “All he knows is a cold man with a hard face, that didn’t make an effort to love him when he went to see you”

“I really don’t know how to fix that, May” he admits. He realises his own eyes are getting misty behind the glasses, but he doesn’t feel strong enough to wipe them. He only wants to go back home and lock himself in the lab with a bottle of whisky, maybe two.

“You and I both know you love him. You did things wrong, but so did Mary. So just – show him you love him, now. Consider this your chance to be a father to Peter, a real father”

May surprises Tony by dragging him into her arms, and he goes rigid. He doesn’t like behind handed things, he doesn’t like shaking people’s hands, he doesn’t like touching anyone and doesn’t like being touched unless it’s Pepper. He has ignored Rhodey’s calls and Happy attempt to comfort him, because he knew that no matter how much he hated physical touch, he would break down.

So, Tony breaks down in sobs, and hugs May Parker back. The woman is tall but skinny, yet is almost as strong as Tony. It’s the touch he needs, because it manages to keep him together. Tony thinks of Mary, of how beautiful everything was before he fucked up and she left, pregnant without knowing. He thinks of her sweet smile and dimples, of her brown curls that fell loose on her back. And he sees her in the boy in the car, in the way he pretends to be collected but wears his heart on his sleeve.

A raindrop hit him on the nose, and when he looks up, he’s met with another on his left glass. He tears away from May who doesn’t bother wiping the tears away from her cheeks. They share a short nod and a few words, then Tony walks towards the car. He tries to make the small distance to it as long as possible, because he doesn’t want to meet the doe, bambi eyes that will stare at him in the car.

Because Peter does that a lot – staring at Tony. Not talking, not smiling. Staring at Tony as if he’s looking for something that he doesn’t have. That’s part of the reason why he avoids the boy so much, because if he can’t be what Peter needs, then what good can he make?

Apparently, he’s about to find out.

Want to read more? Check out my side blog @imaginesmaimasterlists, where I keep all the masterlists! Feedback is always appreciated

#peter parker #Irondad and Spiderson #irondad fic #irondad #irondad imagine #spiderson and irondad #iron dad #iron dad imagine #iron dad fic #iron dad series #tony stark #tom holland #rdj #Avengers

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sondrawr · 3 years

Text

Where Monsters Dwell

“What kind of place is this?” “The kind of place where fairy tales live and monsters dwell.” —Smoke Bitten

Adam Hauptman is intimately acquainted with fear. It was born in a jungle in Vietnam and never quite left him. Even in his happiest moments—of which there were many, especially recently—it lurks in the fringes. Lying in wait.

When he sees Mercy broken on the burnt grass, seemingly dead, he feels that fear claw up his chest and strangle him. He blacks out for god knows how long, his worst fear playing like a feedback loop in his mind. It isn’t until Samuel, still wolf, bites him in the arm that he finally comes to.

That’s how Adam finds himself, naked and half covered in blood, cradling Mercy’s body. His pack huddles around him, worry creasing their faces. He feels the stink of his fear billowing out of him like smoke, choking everyone around him.

“She’s alive, damn it!” Gary finally manages to gasp. He is panting, voice raspy. How long had he been trying to tell him?

Adam reaches down into himself and feels for that thread-thin bond that connects him to his heart’s mate. It’s there, flickering. He grasps it in both hands, wrapping it around his wrist, anchoring himself to sanity. To her.

Mercy survives that night, like she has done so often before. But one day her luck will run out; his fear whispers the words he knows too well. She’s not like Coyote—damn the man—who resurrects like the sun every morning.

Adam hates beyond telling that her unconquerable spirit is wrapped in such an insubstantial thing as human skin and bones.

:::

Adam first met Mercy Thompson in Montana when she was about thirteen years old. He was up on business, Alpha of a New Mexico pack and newly engaged to a blonde, 22-year-old coed named Christy.

Mercy at the time, before the deaths of her foster parents robbed her of childhood, was still all scraped knees and awkward arms of adolescence. Jutting chin and slumped shoulders—defiant and bored.

There was a ghost of a bruise on her face from the accident where she wrapped Bran’s brand new sports car around a tree. He had heard of that incident within hours of it happening, as he suspected most wolves did, even across the ocean. Mercy’s antics were already famous.

She sat on a chair outside Bran’s office, the scuffed toe of her sneaker knocking into a leggy console table nearby. Looking at him sidelong, she had the air of someone waiting their turn at the principal’s office.

When the door finally opened to let him in, he asked, “What did she do this time?” He stepped around Bran to enter the office.

Bran’s mouth pressed flat in an irritated line, while Charles smirked in the corner. He was the one who answered: “Something about chocolate Easter bunnies.”

“She poisoned a group of boys at school,” Bran snapped, closing the door a little too roughly behind Adam.

“Really?” That seemed a bit extreme for the young girl, whose reputation for pranks were mostly harmless, if effective.

“She injected several chocolate Easter bunnies with ipecac,” Charles explained. “And then warned the boys not to steal them, or ‘they would pay.’ They, of course, did not listen. Apparently the boys had been in the habit of stealing the younger kids’ candy for a while.”

Adam laughed despite himself.

“She wants for discipline,” Bran said with a frown.

“Mercy has plenty of discipline,” Charles answered. “It’s the focus of it, that’s the problem. Her interests are too narrow and she has an overdeveloped sense of justice.”

“And her foster father can’t do anything?” asked Adam.

Charles smirked. “If Mercy were a wolf, I wouldn’t be surprised if she outranked him. Any good she does is out of love for Bryan and his mate, not because of fear or intimidation.”

That was, Adam realized, the principle by which Mercy lived her life. It was the driving force of all she did for her family and friends—the pack she forged for herself, not with magic ties but by fierce loyalty and reckless love.

:::

It has been months since she recovered from her devastating injuries. Injuries that Samuel said at first would be the end of her. Her survival is nothing short of a miracle and, Adam suspects, a bit of Coyote’s magic.

Now night holds new terrors for him. He lays in bed at night just listening to the steady beating of his mate’s fragile, mortal heart. Dreading the day when it would inevitably stop.

:::

Mercy was twenty-three when he next saw her in the middle of a Washington desert. Alone in the world but still causing trouble. The first order of business for his newly arrived pack was eliminating the rogue wolves who were harassing her. Saved without so much as a thank you.

Was it coincidence or conspiracy that brought her to the Tri-Cities when Bran had ordered Adam to move his pack north from New Mexico? Coincidence on her part probably, but definitely not Bran’s, whose machinations were wide reaching and infamous.

That Adam bought the property behind her trailer was pure, ornery spite on his part.

She had marched up to him on the first day of construction and stuck a finger in his chest. “Tell Bran that I don’t need a babysitter,” she told him, eyes flashing. “I’ve done fine for eight years without his help—I’m done with wolves.”

“Good to know,” he answered, because he knew that response would drive her crazy, and turned back toward the construction of his pack house. He imagined her making faces at the back of his head and smiled.

:::

He kisses a line down her body, pausing at the shiny-pink of each new scar. Scars she earned in defense of his pack—in defense of him.

And he knows his love is killing her.

Oh god, would her life be better without him? Yes, the fear—the monster—inside him says. Yessss. We will kill herrrrr.

Panic like bile rises in his throat, and he gulps it down. Beneath him Mercy tenses, sensing his change of mood. He murmurs quietly, nuzzling her, lulling her back into softness underneath him. His lovely Mercy. His mate, for who he would willingly lay down his soul, let alone his body.

Whom he would kill for. Without question.

This. This will be his goodbye, then.

He presses a kiss to her inner knee, to her neck, and then presses into her, drawing a sigh from her lips. With his own he continues his careful ministrations, whispering a benediction against every mark on her skin that dares to be there because of him.

:::

His touch is a disease. His touch is a curse.

He can’t bear lying next to her and not touching her, so he doesn’t. He stays late in his office. He sleeps in the spare guest room. It’s killing him, but every day she’s alive, and it’s worth it.

It’s killing him that she wanders the house with those empty eyes, a line of concern between her brows, the hurt and confusion that clearly marks her face.

But at least she is alive. And soon, it will be over.

:::

Adam’s favorite memory of Mercy—the one he thinks of before he puts the gun to his head—is of her in the wedding dress too fancy for the church reception that his pack and daughter put together. She’s dancing with Jesse, at the heart of the people he loved most in the world, swaying to a country song blasting from the church’s ancient speaker system. And she turns to him and smiles.

He can see it as clear as if it were right in front of him. There was so much love in her face then. How different are those faces, the one from his memory and the one Mercy wears at this moment, when she finally sees him for the monster he is.

But she is not disgusted and horrified, as he feared she would be. She is furious. She throws a barrage of words against him, her unfettered anger like a battering ram.

In the years Adam had known and loved Mercy, he has become intimately acquainted with her many moods. Sneaky, playful, worried, content. They were as familiar to him as the feel of Mercy’s calloused hands in his.

Her white hot rage was something entirely new. And through clenched teeth she seethes a truth so utterly profound, that in that moment it shatters the madness that grips him. He lowers the gun in his hand.

Three simple words they had spoken to each other again and again. Whispered in passion and in play. Promised—sworn.

“You are mine.”

:::

He believes her. And for now, so does the monster.

You are mine.

He follows her home, to bed. And though he can’t make love to her like he wants, he worships her body with oil and hands and mouth.

It isn’t until she is completely sated and asleep when the monster rips through his body again. A monster that he now realizes is the ugly marriage of his own fear and self loathing, and Elizaveta’s death curse.

But instead of hurting his mate like Adam fears, the monster scrabbles out from beneath the covers and huddles in the corner of the room. It sits there watching his mate, the covers rising and falling to the rhythm of her breathing.

Within a few minutes, the even breaths stutter and stop. “Adam?” she calls, voice rough with sleep.

It’s the monster that growls in response, and Adam waits. It didn’t work, he thinks. The monster is still here. Will you finally leave me like you’re supposed to?

And still he remembers her promises: You are mine. You are mine. You are mine.

“For fuck’s sake,” she says sounding annoyed. “Get back to bed. I’m cold.”

Oh, my Mercy.

After a moment, the monster cautiously approaches the bed, and it creaks under the sudden weight. It wraps itself around her, tucking her head under its chin. She draws up the covers over them both, and they settle to sleep.

For the first time in a long time Adam prays. Let this be enough. This love. Let me be enough to keep her safe.

If God is kind and he is lucky, maybe it will be.

Maybe the monster will love her, too.

#mercy thompson #mercyverse #Mercy Thompson fanfic #my writing #sondrawr writes #adam hauptman #mercyverse alphabet series

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