#I’m relatively smart but god the pressure and the way my brain works does not agree w the education system

[exhaustedfander]

Oh, Bi the Way [Analogical]

Here’s a fun little Analogical highschool au where Virgil comes out as Bi to Logan. Reblogs and feedback are really appreciated! 

a03 link

word count: 2,351

Virgil paces tight circles in his bedroom, his hands woven in his hair as his mind runs rampant. He glances out the window, the daylight golden and fading outside. Logan will be here soon, he realizes with dread, his heart hammering even faster at the thought.

I shouldn’t be this fucking nervous, he thinks to himself as if most things in life don’t make him anxious. Virgil’s been plagued by horrible anxiety for most of his life, but this really isn’t something that should be putting the pit in his stomach that it is.

But he’s been hiding something – is still hiding something and it’s so goddamn stupid. It really isn’t a big deal. He should be able to go ahead and say it no problem. Except Virgil’s stupid brain has to make things so fucking complicated, doesn’t it?! It has to mess with him and make him think that maybe people are going to freak out and maybe it’s going to be a total disaster.

He’s bisexual.

Yeah, yeah. He knows it isn’t a big deal. Tons of people are queer, and he just happens to be one of them. For fuck’s sake, his best friend Logan is gay! It’s not his fault that no one had told him there was an in-between. He was anxious enough about crushes on girls so once he figured out boys too? Well, he didn’t have the balls to tell anyone.

Sometimes he blamed it on the fact that he grew up in the foster system. Getting shuffled around from home to home the way he did, he didn’t exactly have a chance to get a good set of parents to teach him the ins-and-outs of the LGBTQ+ community. He was a fourteen-year-old getting bounced around, not even trying to get close to any of the people whose care he was under because in a blink of an eye, they’d be gone.

And then he’d gotten adopted by the Knight-Hart’s. It was still what Virgil was probably the most grateful for in his life. He was fourteen-in-a-half, having lost hope of being adopted years ago and yet here he was, brought into the home of two of the sweetest people he’d ever met.

It’s so stupid – Virgil’s parents are gay! He’s got two dads and he can’t even tell them he’s bi? Why does his brain hate him so much?! His fathers’ have helped him so much in the few years he’s been in their care, bringing more happiness and joy into his life than he’d known in so long. His Pops is always making dad jokes that Virgil can pretend he despises all he wants, but really, they crack him up. He’s such a kind, good-hearted guy who’s been nothing but supportive of Virgil since day one. His dad is no different in that respect, loving just the same but with a bit more bravado and eccentricities. What can he say? His dad’s an actor and his flair for the dramatics fail to surprise Virgil any longer.

He loves them. He really loves them but it’s still so hard to think about coming out to them, let alone Logan. God, Logan’s going to be there anytime now!

Virgil continues his pacing, trying his best to steady his breathing. If he can muster up the courage, he’s going to tell him. Virgil’s going to come out to his best friend.

After everything the pair’s been through, Logan deserves to know. Virgil met John in the beginning of high school, a time where he found it almost impossible to make friends of any kind. Virgil’s anxiety and self-doubt made having a mere successful conversation feel like an accomplishment of some kind. He didn’t think he’d ever get the chance to have a true friend, let alone a best friend. But when he met Logan that all changed.

Despite Virgil’s hesitations, they got along famously right away. Although Logan was far stiffer and more out of touch with pop-culture than anyone Virgil had ever met (Seriously, he pronounced “fam” as fahm) he was also an incredibly smart and interesting person who Virgil was proud to know. Logan could tell him so many interesting facts about outer-space or the ocean and was always really good about handling Virgil’s anxiety. Virgil had never met someone who he clicked with so instantaneously before, they just got each other. Even if they were spending time together doing separate things, Virgil was thankful to merely be in Logan’s presence. He kept him grounded.

So, of course he fell hard for him. it’s not like Virgil doesn’t know that there’s a change that his feelings are reciprocated, it isn’t impossible. Just unlikely, and damn does it sure feel impossible. Virgil’s been spending the nearly four years he’s known Logan trying to convince himself that he’s straight as an arrow and doesn’t feel anything for Logan – neither of which things are true, of course.

The two friends are going to the same college, so it isn’t like Virgil’s gonna have any room to breathe and get other his feelings. He’s been dancing around things for so long, and frankly it’s getting kind of exhausting. Virgil isn’t expecting Logan to feel the same way – god, he’s never been that much of an optimist in all his life – but telling him is something Virgil’s decided he has to go through with.

If he can manage to muster up the courage, that is.

Logan arrives, punctual as always and beautiful as ever. Logan’s the only kid Virgil’s ever met who wears a tie almost daily, claiming such attire is an attribute of his “seriousness.” Hah, as if Virgil doesn’t know about his unicorn onesie, not that he’d tell anyone about it. He’ll let Logan keep up the “serious” act, if that’s what he wants. It suits him, anyhow.

Virgil’s going to give it a minute, he decides, and they start to do their homework in relative silence. This is no oddity for the pair, they often spend time over at each other’s homes after school to do work or catch up or both. But Virgil’s heart isn’t usually beating out of his chest when he’s doing his fucking APLit homework. He told himself he was just going to take a minute to collect his thoughts before breaking the silence, but god, it’s been like thirty minutes at least and he hasn’t said anything and he’s getting too fucking nervous and he doesn’t think he can do this and –

“Virgil?” Logan’s voice cuts through the haze of his mind, voice calm and collected.

“Uh – yeah?” Virgil replies dumbly, his eyes snapping up to meet Logan’s gaze. Logan shuts his book, moving from his spot at Virgil’s desk to sitting beside him on his bed, a look of concern etched into his face.

“Are you alright? You seem distressed, and you’ve been reading that same page for over five minutes now.”

Shit, Virgil hadn’t even noticed. Logan’s question has offered him the perfect Segway to what he wants to say, it couldn’t have been laid out better. Except…Virgil can’t do this. He’s too nervous, and his hands are trembling, and this is going to be an absolute train-wreck.

“I’m fine,” Virgil mutters, hoping Logan will just drop it. He just wants to burry himself in his own cowardice, thank you very much. “Just a little distracted, I guess.”

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you,” Logan’s voice is even and steady, so the opposite of how Virgil’s feeling, “but you appear to be very nervous. For several days now, your anxiety has appeared to be heightened. I didn’t want to voice my…” Logan swallows thickly, “…concerns, fearing it might only worsen things. But I must confess, I’m getting a bit worried.”

Well fuck, is all Virgil can think. Logan, in the absolute sweetest way possible, has backed him into a corner. Evidently, Logan’s been worried about him and the thought makes his stomach turn. He hadn’t even realized he was acting any more nervous than he usually does.

"I don’t suppose you won’t just drop this for a while?” Virgil asks with a fleeting hope that maybe he can escape this in one piece.

“I’m afraid not.” Virgil sighs. It figures.

“Okay. Okay, you’re going to think this is so fucking stupid.”

“I highly doubt that. When was the last time I reacted in such a way to you telling me something?” Logan makes a good point, as Virgil can’t remember a recent instance.

“I mean, sure, but this is really dumb, L. I’ve kinda been trying to tell you this for forever, but, big surprise, I’m really anxious about it.” Virgil flinches as he feels a hand settle onto his shoulder, seeing the sincere concern in Logan’s eyes.

“Whatever it is you want to tell me, I’m here, Virgil. I’m your friend and your fears are not baseless or dumb. It’s okay to be afraid.” Virgil’s pulse hammers in his ears as he nods, taking a shaky breath.

“Yeah alright…s-so uh, I’m bi.” Virgil nervously ducks his head, his eyes landing on the carpet. It’s not like it would make sense for Logan to react poorly, but like, what if he did?

“Well, thank you for telling me, Virgil. How long have you –.”

“I dunno, a while,” Virgil interrupts, still not looking at Logan, “See? I told you, stupid.” “I never said stupid. You aren’t stupid for not coming out until now, there is no time limit or restrictions when it comes to identity. I’m glad you told me, Virge. Thank you, I know that it can be very hard to do so.” Virgil finally feels confident enough to meet Logan’s eyes, a lopsided smile forming on his face.

“Thanks, man. That kinda makes me feel better. You’re, uh, the first person I’ve told. I wanted it to be you who I told first, that is. Cuz, you know, we’re…” Virgil hesitates, struggling through the words “such good friends.” The pressure on his shoulder reseeds and is replaced at his hand where Logan has laced their fingers together. Virgil feels a shiver run down his spine.

“Is that all you wanted to tell me, or was there something else as well?” Virgil can feel the heat radiating off of him, knowing his cheeks are going crimson. Fuck, fuck Logan knows. He knows and he’s pitying him.

“I – uhh –,” Virgil sputters, incredibly dignified.

“I only ask because you still seem to be rather nervous. I’m not trying to provoke you and I apologize if that’s what I’ve made you to believe. I’m –.”

“I’m also, uh, kinda really in love with you.” Virgil can’t help it, it just comes up like word vomit. He can’t believe he just said that! He’s sure any second now Logan’s going to let go of his hand and push him away. He’s sure Logan will leave and never come back, and he’ll have lost his best friend.

“You…you are?” Logan doesn’t sound outraged or disgusted. He sounds relieved.

“Uh, y-yeah. Shit, did I just make things weird?” From the way Virgil finds Logan taking a fistful of Virgil’s hoodie and pulling him into a kiss, he’s inclined to believe that no, he didn’t just make things weird. The embrace is clumsy at first, their teeth knocking before Virgil’s hands are laced in Logan’s hair, melting into this kiss.

“I love you too, in case that wasn’t clear,” Logan says breathlessly as they part, their foreheads pressed together. Virgil laughs, relief washing over him in waves.

“Fuck, L, I thought I was about to lose you as a friend or something. I never entertained the thought that…”

“That I’ve been in love with you for years?” Virgil’s lips curled into a smirk.

“Years, huh?” He asks, as if he probably hasn’t loved Logan for just as long unknowingly.

“And here I’ve been, suffering in the belief that you were heterosexual. And you know my stance on feelings.” Virgil laughs, kissing Logan again and wondering how quickly you can become addicted to something because holy shit, this is amazing.

“Yeah, yeah, their “the bane of your existence” and all that.”

“Priestley.”

“Full disclosure, there’s no way I’m finishing my homework now,” Virgil says. Logan swats him.

“You horrid delinquent.” Virgil chuckles again, throwing his arms around Logan and pulling him into a bone-crushing hug. For two boys who claim to be averse to most physical contact, they seem to be enjoying themselves a fair amount.

“Okay, this is probably a stupid question, but are we a thing now?”

“Are you asking to be my boyfriend?”

“Maaaaybe.”

“Well then I accept. I find your presence to be tolerable.” Virgil snorts, holding Logan closer than he ever has and never wanting to let him go before a thought comes to mind.

“Hey, L?”

“Mm?”

“You wanna stay for dinner and help me come out to my dads?” Virgil can’t believe it, but for once in his life he’s feeling brave. Logan’s made him feel brave.

“I would be more than happy to offer my assistance.” Virgil grins. “It’s gonna be great because they already love you, I mean, you’re so fuckin’ smart, and nice, and cute, and –.” “You’re rambling, Virge.” Virgil pulls away to see the flush on Logan’s cheeks.

“Aww, you’re embarrassed!”

“I absolutely am not.”

“Lo?” “Yes, Virgil?” The fondness in Logan’s tone was just about to kill him it was so sweet. Virgil kisses him again, long and slow, his hands planted firmly above Logan’s waist. His boyfriend – oh my god, he has a boyfriend! – continues to lean in, even as he pulls away. There’s no way Virgil’s ever going to recover from the cuteness.

“I love you.” Logan sighs contently.

“I love you too, Virge.”

“Virgil, honey, dinner’s ready!” Virgil’s Pops calls from downstairs. Virgil and Logan share a somewhat nervous, lovesick glance.

"Let’s go tell my dad’s I’m bi as fuck and have an insanely nerdy boyfriend,” Virgil says as he gets up from the bed, earning a chuckle from Logan. Logan grips onto his hand.

“Lead the way.”

=+=

#analogical #romantic analogical #background royality #roman and patton are Virgils dads #virgil sanders #logan sanders #human au #high school au #coming out as bi #bi Virgil #love confession #Virgil is the big nervous #bit is goes very very well #fluff #cute #my writing #sammy writes #exhaustedfander #exhaustedfander writes

[downwiththeficness]

In the Bond-Chapter 6

Summary: Lilah often wished she’d never said yes to working with the Gecko brothers—usually while dodging gunfire. At no time was she regretting that decision more than when she’s hanging upside down from the ceiling, staring down a group of hungry culebras and one (1) extremely powerful sun god.

Word Count: ~6,400

Warnings: Spitting (Kind of)

A/N: This is an AU of my Story In the Blood, which can be read here. Basically, this fic explores what would have happened if Lilah had met up with Geckos before she met Brasa.

Taglist: @symbiont13

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Lilah stared at the picture in front of her, memorizing the details of the staff. It was made of wood, intricately carved, and kept in a glass case.  The stand it sat upon was very likely pressurized, any change in weight would set off the alarm. There were no heat sensors in the display room, but there were motion sensors and a steady rotation of guards. Not super tricky, but not child’s play.

“Do you have blueprints of the building?” she asked, eyes looking to Brasa.

She’d been careful in how she looked at him for the entire meeting, not wanting to give away how she could still feel his lips ghosting across her skin. Though she hadn’t shared any more dreams with him, Lilah couldn’t keep her mind from going over how nice it felt to have his weight on her, how his hands (which she later realized were gloveless) felt as they coasted over her body.

“I do,” he replied, gesturing to Javier.

They were sitting in the vast room that served as Brasa’s office. Seth was standing next to the desk, going over the staffing schedule. Like most businesses, they had set shifts. Also like most businesses, their turnover rate was fairly high—the pay was definitely not enough to hold on to the more experienced or more talented staff.  This, of course, was all good for them.

Richie was sprawled in the chair next to her, “We got any of those explosives left?”

Lilah glanced at him, “Why? You want to blow a hold in the floor, drop the staff and its stand through to the bottom, and haul ass out through the sewer system?”

He smiled, lifting a shoulder, as if she’d perfectly described his thoughts. She took the blueprints from Javier and checked them over to see if they could make that work.

“As fun as that would be,” Lilah said, “and it would be pretty fun, the building doesn’t have an underground tunnel, sewer or otherwise. The foundation is too thick for that.”

“Well, damn,” Richie drawled, “Guess we’ll have to go with the old smash and grab.”

That wasn’t a bad idea, but Lilah hated to bring that kind of attention to them. It would not only set off the alarm, but the police station was less than three blocks away. Not a lot of time for their getaway. Better to do this nice and clean.

“Again, totally a fun idea, but not a smart one.”

Seth stood up, rubbing at the back of his neck, “Looks like we got about a half hour rotation for security. Plenty of time.”

It was plenty of time. There was no safe to crack, just a series of security measures to override. In some ways, that was more tricky. Lilah stared at the blueprints, her brain running over options.

“We’ll need a key card,” Richie prompted, sitting up and resting his forearms on his knees, “If we can get that, and the six digit passcode, we should be able to disable the system with no problem.”

She cut a look at him, “You have any ideas about how we can go about getting the card and code?”

He laughed, “Yeah.”

“Care to share with the class?”

“Knock out a guard, take the key card,” he explained, as if it were the easiest thing in the world, “There’s only one on-site during the evening hours.”

Not the worst plan.  To be fair, that was usually how their plans started out. Still, it left something to be desired.

“And the code?” She prompted lightly, setting the blueprints down on the desk in front of her.

“Oh, we’d threaten him first. Get the code that way.”

She blinked, “And if he’s lying.”

He paused, “Alright, we try the code first, then knock them out.”

Too messy.

Lilah gathered the photos she’d discarded in her lap and set them on the desk by the blueprints, “Maybe we get the code a couple days before, then wait until the gap in the rotation, break in, take the staff, and walk out.”

Richie smiled wide, “And, how do we get the code beforehand?”

That was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? They were lucky the codes didn’t roll over randomly—just one code assigned to each guard and used whenever they were on shift. Low maintenance, but high risk for this kind of location.

Seth crossed his arms, “Richie, you still got a couple of those tiny cameras laying around?”

Richie had bought about a hundred of these little cameras for ‘security purposes’, putting them around the bar. The move had paid off when they caught one of the bartenders taking some extra cash from the till at the end of shift. He’d never let Seth forget about it.

“Yeah, I got a few.”

“Alright,” Seth said as he braced his hands on the desk, “Lilah, you’ll going in and plant one of them in  the line of sight of the keypad. We’ll monitor until we get the passcodes.”

Lilah observed him with a wry smile, “Look at you, making your way into the future.”

He rolled his eyes, but smiled, “Don’t get used to it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she replied dryly, her smile holding. It would take an act of God to get Seth to relinquish his way of doing things. Despite having an actual sun god in the room, Lilah was doubtful that she could get him to budge.

She rolled up the blueprints and handed them back to Javier with a nod of gratitude. He smiled wide at her, the expression self-satisfied. From across the desk, Brasa stood a little too quickly, a little growl cut off at the back of this throat.

“It seems you have this all in hand,” he said, a little too formally. “Lilah, I have the response to your edits in my personal library. If you’ll follow me.”

He turned and walked off towards a wall on the far side, hands tapping out a series of numbers on a pad situated on the wall. The smooth surface clicked open, and he pulled on it to reveal a hidden doorway. Impatiently, he looked back at her, a little nod indicating that she should hurry up.

With a click of her tongue, Lilah made her way towards him, moving through the doorway and into an incredibly dark hall. When Brasa pulled the door shut behind them, there was nothing to guide her way. Lilah felt her lungs draw in a shaky breath as she struggled to see. He stepped up and around her, taking her hand.

Lilah didn’t like the way she gripped the leather, didn’t like that she couldn’t see what was ahead. Still, she followed him until he slowed, the sound of keys being entered into a pad signaling that they’d come upon their destination.

When the door opened, he pulled her into a room that was lit with warm amber light. She blinked, her eyes adjusting. She knew this room. She knew the color of the walls, the texture of the ceiling, the feeling of the bed that dominated the space.

Already knowing the answer to the question, she asked, “Whose room is this?”

“Mine,” he replied, already moving to the far side and through an open door.

Lilah followed, feeling out of place. Awkwardly, she stood in the doorway and looked around the smaller, cozier room. Cast in dark wood and soft, sumptuous fabrics, the room was lined entirely with bookcases—floor to ceiling—that were absolutely stuffed with books.

Curious, she moved along the shelves nearest to her, hand skimming the tomes. There were languages she recognized and many that she didn’t. Her hands itched to pull them from the stacks and thumb through them. She wondered how long he had been collecting books, and how many of them filled this relatively small space.

At the center of the room was an overstuffed couch that sat opposite a desk with a computer and files scattered over it. Brasa was gathering paper and slipping it into one such folder, shoulders tense.

Lilah regarded him carefully, “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t spare her a look, tossing the file down and reaching for another, “I’m fine.”

“Yuh huh,” she said, “Seriously, what’s up with you? Five minutes ago, you were fine. Now, you’re...abusing office supplies.”

His expression, when he looked up at her, was incredulous, “What?”

“You’re throwing around files like they did something to you,” she couldn’t keep the laugh out of her voice.

His face hardened, and she could see the irises of her his eyes flicker. Lilah crossed her arms, waited. She’d found that if she waited a moment, he’d usually answer her, no matter the question. This seemed a good time to test that theory.

When her, admittedly small, patience ran out, she asked, “You going to tell me, or are you going to pout about it?”

“I’m not pouting,” he shot back, standing to his full height and circling the desk slowly.

She watched him warily, noting how tightly he was wound. He looked ready to lash out, and she was definitely in the line of fire. Irritated by his behavior, she shifted a little on her feet, unable to let it go.

“Well,” Lilah bit out, “You sure as shit aren’t talking about it.”

Slipping his hands into his pockets, Brasa gave a humorless laugh, “You are impossible.”

She sneered, “That’s the second time you’ve told me that. It wasn’t true before, its not true now.”

His glance skittered away, “I realize that this is new for you, but you are walking a thin line.”

Lilah repeated the last three words, her eyes narrowed in confusion, “What the fuck does that mean?”

When his eyes found hers again, there was anger there, and not a little betrayal, “Flirting with other males in front of me is not going to get the response you want.”

She was...still confused. After a few more seconds, she was pissed off. Lilah took a step towards him, her jaw clenched.

“Who the fuck was—you know what? No, that’s not the point. The point is that you think I’m the kind of person who would do something like that to get a rise out of you.” She took a step back, “No, I’m not the asshole, here. You are.” And then, “You can email me the edits, okay?”

Without waiting for an answer, Lilah walked as calmly (and quickly) as she could through his bedroom and out into the hall. In the dark, she cursed lowly and felt her way along until she reached the door, grateful that it was locked from this side and she didn’t have to wait for Brasa to key in the code.

Before she moved back into the office proper, Lilah took a deep breath and schooled her features. Her emotions were oscillating wildly from shock, to incredulity, to anger that burned hot in her belly. She hadn’t done a single thing wrong, and to be accused of...she didn’t even know what, made her want to blow something up. Damn shame that she’d already used all the explosives. Lilah took another calming breath.

With a well placed lie, she managed to get through the next few minutes of packing up. She was careful to keep conversation going on the way home, even stayed at the bar for a drink. Lilah gave nothing away as she quietly seethed. It wouldn’t do any good to vent this kind of frustration—not that she could really tell anyone.  Her personal relationship with Brasa was still secret, and she wasn’t going to upset the delicate balance that she’d set up with a childish outburst—unlike some people.

Lilah spent the evening vowing to hold this grudge as long as she could stand it, her fury remaining at a low simmer in her belly. When her phone vibrated in her pocket, she opened a text message from an unknown sender asking her to talk. She deleted it, focusing on the job she’d been contracted to perform.

Three days later, she was sitting in a van parked a block or so away from the museum, checking the comms.

“Everyone hear me?”

Seth’s voice sounded, “We can hear you. Now, shut up for a minute while I get this lock open.”

They had to do things the old fashioned away for the outer locks on the back door, no key code security measures. Lilah had rolled her eyes at the excited look on Seth’s face as he threw down his lock picks onto the table where they’d rolled out the blueprints Javier had loaned them.

From over the line, she heard Seth make an approving grunt, the sound of the door opening a moment after.

“We’re through the first set of doors.”

Lilah nodded, eyes on the computer in her lap, “Guard is starting his rotation. He’s just left the office.”

“Ten minutes for a full round,” Richie murmured, “I’ve clocked it.”

Again, she nodded, “I started the timer. Get in the office, cut the security feed.”

The museum had upgraded to digital a while back, but their servers only uploaded once an hour. She checked the clock. They had three minutes until upload. She watched Seth and Richie approach the office and bypass it for the server room. Two minutes. They were moving leisurely, almost sauntering through the hall. Wasting time.

“Pick up the pace,” she said.

“We’re on it, princess,” Seth retorted.

“Then get going” Lilah shot back in sing-song. “You’re down to a minute, fifteen seconds.”

On the screen, they found the server, and slipped the USB she’d made for them into the drive. Thirty seconds left. Lilah switched screens, watching the little yellow bar make its way from left to right. Fifteen seconds. The bar went green and she smiled.

“Server’s crashing,” she confirmed lowly. “Get out of there.”

With a salute to a camera that wasn’t recording, Seth grabbed Richie from where he was looking at the electronics, hauling him towards the next checkpoint. They would have to wait until the guard crossed back to the office, turn off the motion sensors, and get the staff out of the case.

That was the tricky part. The case was bolted down to its stand, and they couldn’t risk the sound of a drill alerting the guard.  They’d have to manually unscrew the case, hold down the weight sensor, lift the staff, replace it with the dummy weight, close the case, and get back to the checkpoint before the guard made their next round. Thirty minutes was a long time, but there was a lot to do.

“Guard’s coming,” Lilah warned.

They ducked behind a corner as the guard passed, Richie watching him discreetly. When it was safe, they circled around to the next room where the staff was on exhibit. Motion sensors disabled. On to the case.

Lilah appreciated how efficient they were, when they were focused. Moving as a single unit, they worked their way around the case, wrenches in hand, making quick work of it. Once they had it off, Seth reached into the bag they’d brought with them and held up the staff they’d created as a temporary replacement.

Richie had spent a few hours putting it together, and from a distance it looked pretty good. It would, at least, buy them enough time to get away and make the two hour flight back to Mexico. With any luck, it would be a few days before they figured it out. Lilah didn’t count on it. She’d booked a flight within an hour of when they were going to finish the job. No bags to check. Straight through security and onto the plane.

Lilah watched as Richie slipped a knife over the pressure sensor, his other hand nimbly plucking the staff from the stand. Seth carefully set the replica into place, both men holding very still as Richie pulled the knife free.  After a second or two where both looked to be holding their breath, Richie stuffed the staff into the bag as Seth replaced the case. Screws ratcheted back into place, motion sensors reactivated.

“Don’t forget the camera,” Lilah prompted, laughing when Seth scoffed and spun on his heel, snagging the device and pocketing it on the way down the hall.

“Guard’s on his round,” she whispered, “Get to the hallway. Now.”

Moving quickly, Seth rounded the corner, barely clearing it before the guard stepped into the room. They hustled back the way they came and out into the alley, locking the door behind them. Lilah closed down the computer and threw it in the backseat of the van, turning over the ignition. A few minutes later, the sliding door was opened and both men jumped inside. The van was already moving before they got the door closed again.

“Without a hitch,” Richie drawled as he relaxed in his seat.

Seth smiled at his brother, “That was good work.”

“We’re not done yet,” Lilah called back, “Still have to get it across the border.”

“Ah,” Seth sighed, “That’s the beauty of it. The postal system is going to do all the hard work for us.”

Reaching back, he pulled the prepped box from the third row of seats. He snapped at Richie, who handed him the bag. Into the box went the staff, with a little bubble wrap for protection. A little packing tape, and it was all sealed up and ready to go.

Lilah pulled off to the side and into the parking lot of the mail center, watching as Seth hopped out of the van and dropped the package into the chute. It would be at the bar within a few days. Easy peasy.

She slept on the plane, an alarm set for sunrise. Since she’d last seen him, Lilah had refused to sleep during the day, and only for a few hours at a time. It made her irritable and a little foggy, but she didn’t want to see him. Whenever she thought about their last interaction, Lilah got angry all over again. She’d take a little hit to her functioning to have their next meeting be completely on her terms.

Lilah had gone over the conversation a hundred times, wondering how he’d gotten the impression that she’d been trying to goad him by flirting with—she actually couldn’t figure out which male he’d been concerned about. Best she could figure, he was working off an old framework, the power imbalance between himself and his queen. That wasn’t going to fly, not with her. She had too much going on to deal with a partner (was he even her partner?) who’d go off half-cocked at the slightest feeling of jealousy. No. Lilah had other shit to deal with.

It was with regret that she knew she would have to go and speak with him. Lilah couldn’t avoid him forever—she snorted at the thought—things would have to be cleared up eventually. Besides, she needed to get back to her sleep schedule if she was going to be of any use to anyone. Better to rip this metaphorical Band-Aid off quickly, and soon.

Arguing that she had to deliver the next draft of the treaty, Lilah stashed the staff in the back seat of her car and headed out into the dying sun. The two hour drive gave her enough time to work out what she was going to say. First, she was going to demand an apology. Lilah deserved that much. Then, she was going to discuss boundaries for the future. That seemed like the adult thing to do.  Lilah congratulated her self at how mature the plan sounded in her head. Reality, however, wasn’t quite so easy.  

As she pulled into the parking lot, Lilah debated leaving the staff in the elevator to be found by whoever might be walking by and hauling ass back to the bar. That, unfortunately, would put the covering of their expenses (for which she had receipts) at risk. She’d never live it down if she came back empty handed. So, into the elevator she went.

In the carriage, Lilah felt warmth crawl up her side. She sneered to the ceiling, “Stop it.”

It stopped.

Steeling herself, Lilah stepped into the red light and headed for the bar. Brasa already knew she was here, so all she had to do was sit and wait for him to come to her. She pushed up onto a bar stool and set leaned the staff next to her legs. When the bartender approached, she ordered a bourbon, watching him pour the shot. When she tried to pay, he waved her off, telling her it was on the house.

Suspicious, she pocketed the cash and picked up the glass, sniffing. Nothing smelled off with it, so she took the tiniest sip. Tasted fine. She set it down. Suspicious. Lilah very rarely got free drinks, her looks too severe, her manner too cold. To be fair, that was her preference most of the time. Lilah didn’t have the energy or the patience to fend off advances from drunken men.

A shadow appeared beside her, but it was too cold to be the person she was waiting for. Lilah looked up, unsmiling.

“Can I help you?”

The man flashed his teeth, “I’m Benny.”

Lilah continued to look at him, unamused.

Uninvited, he sat, leaning an arm on the bar top, “You’re not what I expected.”

She debated answering him, a half dozen cutting remarks flying through her mind. In the end, she settled for turning her attention to her drink and ignoring him. Best course of action, really. Lilah needed to save all her quips for the person she was actually mad at.

“You don’t talk much, do you?”

At this Lilah rolled her eyes, fixing the guy with a look that said, ‘what the fuck do you think?’

His expression grew still, and she could see the glint of his game face, though he worked to control it. He growled, his hand grasping her arm above the elbow. The grip was painful, and Lilah only just managed to keep her expression cool as she felt the very real danger he presented to her. She was armed, both gun and knife, but she was technically in enemy territory. Starting a fight with one might mean starting a fight with all.  Her eyes scanned the room, too many possible enemies nearby.  

She’d have to talk her way out.

Heat pushed at her back.

Or not.

Benny let her go, sliding off the stool and taking a step away. Lilah craned her neck to confirm what she already knew.

“Oh, thank God,” she murmured, reaching down and picking up the staff, “I got what you asked for.”

Brasa’s attention was on the culebra who was backing away. He stared them down for a few more seconds before his eyes turned to her. Lilah held up the staff, shaking it from side to side a little.

He glanced at the staff, glanced at her, then turned, “Come with me.”

Lilah stared at his back for a second before she sighed and followed him through to his public office. There was no conversation as they traversed the stone pathway towards his desk. When he reached it, Brasa leaned his hips back on the desktop, gloved hands folded in front of him.

Wordlessly, Lilah handed him the staff. He took it, held it in both hands for barely a moment before setting it aside. For as much effort as he was going through to get ahold of it, he certainly didn’t look pleased to actually have it in his possession.

Unable to take more silence, Lilah said the only thing she could think of, “For the record, I wasn’t flirting with him, either.”

First shot fired. Lilah shifted on her feet in preparation for return fire.

Eyes dropping down and to the side, Brasa pushed his hands into his pockets and released a heavy sigh, “I regret how I reacted last time we spoke.”

Well, that was unexpected. Lilah had expected him to double down on it, not express regret. Still, that wasn’t an apology. It did, however, take the edge of her anger.

Lips pursed, she replied, “I’m sure you do.”

Another sigh. It looked like she was going to have to take lead on this, if she wanted a resolution. Lilah very deliberately did not think about why she might want resolution as opposed to giving him the eternal cold shoulder.

“Hey,” she began, holding up her hands, “You can’t get angry any time I’m nice to anyone around me. I have work to do, and that involves having good relationships. Jealousy is not a good look.”

He nodded, “I am unused to these feelings and I am struggling to control them.”

A good explanation, but not an excuse for the behavior.

“That’s okay,” Lilah responded, taking a step forward, “But you need to talk with me about them and not...make assumptions.”

Another nod, “I’m sorry.” There was her apology. “I will try.”

She saw it for what it was, a gesture of good faith. Mollified by his words, Lilah’s shoulders dropped. She hadn’t realized how much tension she’d been holding in her body for the last few days. And now, she didn’t quite know what to do with all the built up anger. Suddenly, she was very tired.

“Good,” she said, “Let’s call it rule number one: if something is bothering us, we’ll talk about it.”

At this, he stood up straighter, his eyes finally finding hers, “I can do that.”

“Okay.”

“Are you going to continue blocking me?” He asked in a small voice.

Brows together, Lilah responded lamely, “Blocking?”

He shrugged, “I haven’t been able to feel you while you were acquiring the staff. I worried.”

Ah. Lilah wondered if he’d picked that up. Of course he had.

“I’m sorry,” She said reflexively, “I needed a little space.”

He licked his lips, eyes regretful. Lilah felt a stab of remorse in her chest. She hadn’t meant to make him worry, she just needed to take a little time for herself to work out her feelings. And, she couldn’t do that if she could feel him with her in the interim. Still, she could also make a gesture of good faith.

“Alright,” she breathed, moving closer to him, “Rule number two, if we talk about it, we won’t block each other out of spite.”

Looking placated, Brasa reached out and took her hands, “I’m glad you are safe.”

“Me, too,” Lilah laughed, “There was no danger. We got in and out with no problems.”

He shook his head, “That isn’t the danger I’m worried about. The culebra out there? Benny? He’s been stirring the others up. He knows who you are to me, and I don’t put it past him to strike out at you to get to me.”

Setting aside the question of how Benny figured out that Lilah was bonded to Brasa, she took a minute to think, “Should I pull a weapon next time?”

He smirked, “You’re a terrible shot.”

“I didn’t say it would be a gun.”

“Oh?”

“I still have my knife. I did alright with the last guy. Got him twice before he threw me through the window.”

Brasa winced, “The point is that he was able to throw you through a window before I got there.”

“That is a good point,” Lilah said seriously, though she could feel a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

He rolled his eyes, “Be serious.”

“I am,” she shot back, “I can handle myself in a fight. Usually.”

That was only half a lie. Lilah could handle herself with humans, most of the time. She’d been struggling to hold her own in a fight with a culebra ever since she’d first come up against them. But, he didn’t need to know that.

Deciding that she needed to change the subject, Lilah nodded to the staff, “What do you need it for, anyway?”

He drew he a little closer, expression serious, “I intend to close the portal between this world and Xibalba, so that no others like me come through it.”

She blinked, “Like you?”

Brasa hummed in confirmation, standing and leading her to the side where the secret door was open and waiting.

“Culebras were slaves there, treated as slaves, culled when needed,” he explained, stepping into the dark hallway. “Xibalbans are, as a whole, selfish creatures—destructive, vain, apathetic. Despite my birth status, I experienced what it was like to be subservient to them for many centuries. I don’t want this world to see that kind of pain.”

Lilah listened quietly, walking with him into his bedroom and through to his library where she sat on the couch at his side.

“I’ve done a lot of research,” he continued, “With the relics you acquire for me, I can close the veil permanently.”

She waited a few seconds to make sure he wasn’t going to explain further, then said, “I’m completely on board with this plan.”

He smiled, “I thought you might be.”

“How many more relics to I need to get?”

Brasa laid his arm over the back of the couch, “Three. A cup, a book, and a knife.”

“Sounds easy enough.”

“It could be,” he replied, reaching out to trace along her jaw, “I still worry for you. I think I always will.”

She could feel the heat of his body beneath the leather, and she found that she wanted to feel his hands—for real, this time, instead of vague remnants from a dream. In the moments of quiet, her skin remembered what it was like to be caressed by those hands, to feel his fingers curl around her.

“Why do you wear the gloves?”

His hand dropped, his head pulling back. Lilah regretted her words immediately, but he stopped her when she made to apologize.

“You know I’ve killed people,” he said plainly, “My queen, she made me do things that I couldn’t say no to. At first, I thought I was doing the right thing. I believed in it. In the end, I think I did it because I enjoyed it.” He looked down at his hands, “I guess I felt like if I didn’t touch them, if I didn’t feel it as I killed them, I could put distance between what I am and what I was made to do.”

Lilah was quiet a long time. He wouldn’t look at her. She could see the shame on his face, in the slump of his shoulders. She made a decision.

With deliberate slowness, she picked up his hand, saying, “I think we need to make new memories with these hands, then.”

Checking to make sure he was okay with it, Lilah very carefully pulled the glove off. His hand was a nice, normal hand. No scars, neatly trimmed nails, a wide palm with surprisingly fine boned fingers. Watching his face, she lifted it and placed it on her cheek, the warmth seeping in immediately. Lilah held it there, letting him feel.

He swallowed audibly, thumb swiping over her cheekbone. The touch was soft, delicate, testing. With just as deliberate a pace, Lilah pulled the glove off the other hand, placing it on the opposite cheek. He was breathing hard, eyes unfocused, plush lips parted. She could see the way his pupils were dilating, taking over the iris and bleeding a little into the white.

Lilah didn’t know why she did it, but instinct had her moving closer, swinging a leg over his hips and pushing him into the back of the couch. He kept his grip on her cheeks, letting her settle into his lap. Lilah dropped her forehead onto his, eyes half lidded. His body was fire hot beneath her, and she could tell that he was itching to move, yet he remained docile.

Letting the moment expand between them, Lilah touched her nose to his, bumping it affectionately. He smiled, his hands pushing into her hair.

“See?” she prompted gently, “New memories.”

He nodded even as he lifted up to kiss her, his hands holding her steady as he slipped his tongue inside for a taste. Lilah ran her hands down his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as he kissed her nearly senseless.  The scent of him, the way his arms wrapped around her middle and held her tight, the taste, it all mixed together in a way that made her lightheaded.

Brasa jerked back, pulling away even further when Lilah made to follow him. She panted, blinking as she took in the black of his eyes, the fangs that had descended. He hadn’t nicked her, she couldn’t taste blood, but she did notice a strange tingling on her lips, over her tongue.

“What?”

He ran his tongue over his lips, “I can’t kiss you like this.”

Her brows furrowed, “Because of your teeth?”

Mouth twitching, he shook his head, “Because of the venom.”

She drew in a breath, “I have no idea what to do with that information.”

He touched her mouth ever so gently, “Kissing you is arousing, Lilah.”

“Uh huh,” she said, nipping at the pad of his forefinger, “That’s kind of the point.”

Hand dropping, Brasa searched for words, “The muscle that controls the venom is reflexive, I can’t control it. Kissing you… like this...you’re very likely to ingest the venom.”

“And,” Lilah prompted, following his line of thought, “You think I’ll suffer from some of the effects.”

“Yes.”

They were going to have to get past this, sooner or later. Lilah voted for sooner.

Settling further into his embrace, Lilah cupped his jaw, leaning into his space, “Are you likely to be aroused any time we kiss for more than a moment?”

Eyes bright, he nodded, “Very likely, I think.”

“Then,” she reasoned in an even tone, “You’re going to settle for quick little kisses for the rest of our relationship?”

To give him an example to go by, Lilah dropped down and pressed a soft, but fleeting kiss to his mouth.  He tried to lean up to get at her again, but she pushed him down, surprised by how willingly he submitted to the motion.

“I mean,” she continued, giving him another quick kiss, “If that’s what you want,” she kissed him harder, but just as quick, “I can try to accommodate you.”

He looked so torn, sitting underneath her weight, hands rubbing at her hips, pulling her into the hard planes of his body. Lilah might have had mercy on him if she thought he would get over his hesitation on his own. Deliberately, she gathered all the bravado she had in her body, using it to do what might normally make her feel too vulnerable.

“You know what that means, though, right?” she breathed, her mouth barely brushing against his, “No deep kisses, no sliding my tongue against yours,” she carded her hands back into his hair, pulling gently and reveling in the little contented moan he made. Then, she went in for the kill, “And definitely no biting.”

Brasa flinched, and she knew she had him. His grip on her hips tightened to near pain, his body rigid. Biting was so deeply ingrained in his kind, a need so deeply held, that to deny it was unthinkable. Lilah knew this, and she was definitely above using it.

She released her hold on his hair, palms on either cheek, “Do you want that?”

“No,” he rasped, a low growl building in his chest.

Smiling, she asked, “Then, what are we going to do about it?”

He looked at a loss, “I don’t know.”

Lilah thought for a moment, half a plan already formed, “You said I could ingest the venom and feel its effects. Is that better than a bite?”

Hesitation, then a curt nod.

“Okay then,” she said lightly, “How about we start with that? We can work up to a bite when you feel more comfortable.”

Lilah had no idea when she’d become so relaxed about him kissing her, biting her, and all the things that went along with that act. What she did know was she wasn’t going to sit stagnant, waffling about the rightness of it. Lilah wanted more kisses, and that was enough for her.

When she moved to kiss him, he pulled back a little, shifting to the side. Lilah, off balance, fell to the cushions. He crawled over her, hips settling between her thighs, though he held most of his weight on his arms. She laughed softly, letting her body relax into the couch.

“Just a little,” he urged, expression eager, “To start. To see how you do with it.”

Willing to let him experiment, Lilah nodded, chin tilting up with the gentle pressure his his hand.

“Open,” he whispered, his mouth hovering over hers.

Lilah’s lips parted, her eyes falling closed. She felt his jaw flex, felt little drops fall onto her tongue. They were hot, like the rest of him, rolling over her taste buds to burn down the back of her throat. She swallowed reflexively, taking whatever he was willing to give her in that moment.

When he lifted a little, Lilah opened her eyes to see him searching her face. She didn’t quite get why he was so nervous—he’d told her that the venom wasn’t harmful, that the effects were pleasing. Still, she was charmed by the concern.

And then the tingles started. Over the length of her tongue, her lips, the inside of her cheeks, down her neck and into the pit of her belly. Little tingles everywhere, as if she were covered in little tickling bubbles. Lilah huffed out a breath, grinning.

“Good?”

She nodded, “Very good.”

Though clearly pleased, his face was serious, his gaze looking her over and clocking every little movement.

She said his name to capture his full attention, “This is nice.”

His mouth kicked up on one side, “Wait until it peaks.”

“Peaks?”

Brasa hummed a little, pushing hair away from her face, his touch light. A moment later and she knew what he meant. The pleasant tickle turned into a searing burn of pleasure, her muscles going lax and nerves firing sporadically. She let out a startled yelp, her hands coming up to dig into his broad shoulders.

“Hush, querida,” he murmured, hands running along her sides.

As quick as it rose, so did the feeling subside. Lilah was left sucking in air as she gained control of her limbs again. She wiped sweat from her forehead, her hand trembling.

Staring up into his carefully guarded eyes, Lilah gave him a soft smile, “That’s a good start, I think.”

#from dusk til dawn #from dusk til dawn: the series #Brasa #In the Bond

[tartagilicious]

my title for this doc is ‘this is for hypnos you big fat white nasty smellin fat bitch’ // w.c: 1091 // requested by @jewelwayne101​:

I discovered you through the oneshot of victor comforting MC when she doesnt want to cry and it was amazing! Im relatively late to MLQC and had went on youtube watching everything and in the newest chapters my heart is heavy and dead from my two favourite bois (Gavin and Victor) not remembering MC. Could you do a scenario of MC with Gav and Vic (separately) her trying to jog their memories desperately and says a certain word or line that makes them remember something about them? Sorry it's long. 

[rewrite… if I can by ailee] 

—

i don’t want us to be strangers again.

the people I cherish, holding such a dear place in my memory, will never be cast aside. I had thought the decision was unanimous, obvious, even, but with the way they look at me now — I know something went wrong along the way.

But, that’s just how it is. There are no traces of my existence in this winter world; not in my company, not in my friends, not even in them. I have to force myself to be wary of familiar faces — of the people who’d done nothing but help me in the past, yet know nothing of me now.

Victor was one of the first people I encountered. The cold-hearted man I’d grown to entrust my life to remained mostly unchanged not minding my existence. But I could see the way he looked at me. I knew it was different, but I had no idea it would affect me so much.

I miss the warm affection in his eyes, how ever much it may have contradicted his fiery tongue. Just knowing I may never see it again saddens me.

“...You aren’t being serious are you?”

I remember the words that came out of my mouth clear as day in that intersection. Said with every ounce of emotion I could fit into them, I was sure that it would resonate with something inside him.

My chest deflated when he only struck me with a confused look.

“You don’t recognise me? My name is ___, you’re my boss and one of the best friends I have. You were there with me during the HBS scandal. You went ten years into the future and stopped that version of yourself from killing me!” I’m cut off by a sob rising in my throat, but hoarsely, I stubbornly keep going.

“You sat by me, holding me back while I tried to piece together a broken glass, all while whispering some of the most thoughtful things anyone’s ever told me. Does none of that sound familiar?”

Victor looked uncharacteristically cool watching my tears begin to spill over, doing nothing more than offering me a few words and a pat of encouragement.

I raised my eyes to meet his, lip quivering as I said, “I would do anything for you to call me a dummy right now. For falling for such a... stupid, and childish prank.”

Victor was silent as I wiped away my tears, but even then, I didn’t miss the way his eyes flashed. Whether with recognition or annoyance, I was afraid to know, but then he finally spoke.

“I should call you a dummy.” He nodded, seemingly in agreement with my out of pocket statement. “That somehow.. feels right for you.”

Things have changed.

The concept finally settled in my brain, though albeit uncomfortably, when I found myself pinned to a wall of an alleyway some days later.

I cried out as Gavin applied more pressure to my wrists, an inch away from moulding them into the concrete. Unlike Victor, I could barely garner the courage to look Gavin in the eye -- he was acting nothing like I’ve seen, defensive and unrestrained as opposed to his usual friendly yet diligent personality.

“Why are you following me?”

I winced and squeezed my eyes shut when his grip tightened in my silence, a meek sound escaping me that surely meant nothing to that Gavin.

“...How could you ask me that?” I whispered hesitantly, not daring to open my eyes to his reaction. “Please stop… you’re hurting me.”

He didn’t move any further, but I knew it didn’t go over his head.

“Don’t make me ask twice. Who are you, and why are you following me?”

I realised I had a decision to make. Victor was a special case, but say anything out of line around Gavin or the rest, and I could very well end up either captured or dead. I could still offer them a bit to jog their memory-I could never skip attempting-but I would have to be smart about it.

So, I took a deep breath and forced one eye open. Gavin was very close to me, but his eyes have no semblance of the affection this distance would normally require. He looked unharacteristically impatient.

“...My name is ___.” I start slowly, gauging his reaction carefully before looking him in the eye.

“I went to highschool with you -- I was the year below you. I met you again when you applied with the STF to oversee me and transferred back to Loveland.”

Gavin only listened, so I took that as my opportunity to pepper in some more recent things.

“We used to look after Perry together. You always fly over to my apartment to pick up the meals I make you. You saved me from falling from a building, from being shot in the head, bleeding out on the side of the road, and god knows how many other things--”

“Stop.” He commanded. The dangerous look in his eyes had diminished considerably, but was not gone. Part of me wanted to say that I noticed a reminiscent look swimming around somewhere, but I didn’t want to hurt myself with anymore lies.

“Do you happen to work in the media?”

I perked up, suddenly hopeful. “Yes! I’m a producer, but how did you know? Do you remember me?”

“No. You just talk a lot.”

I resisted a groan. That definitely isn’t something I’m used to hearing come out of Gavin’s mouth.

“Just let me go, then.” I said bitterly, wiggling without thinking too hard about it. “If you don’t know me, then please, don’t waste any more of my time.”

I have other people to find.

Gavin eyed me curiously. I stopped moving for a second and couldn’t help but give him an exasperated look.

“Gavin--”

He interjects. “I’m not wasting your time. Don’t you think I’m here for a reason? Don’t give up so easily.”

“..What?” My brows knit delicately, confusion evident in my gaze.

Gavin blinks, and in an instant, he seems just as caught off guard as I am.

“It… just seemed like the right thing to say.”

Fate works in mysterious ways. From ending up in a world where I don’t exist to flipped personalities, I still prefer to think that everything is happening for a reason rather than the alternative. But, whether or not destruction is imminent, that isn’t up to fate, and that will never change. With my own hand, I will rewrite this world.

#mr love queen’s choice #mlqc #mr love #mlqc victor #mlqc gavin #mr love queen’s choice victor #mr love queen’s choice gavin #mr love victor #mr love gavin #恋与制作人 #恋与制作人 李泽言 #恋与制作人 白起 #otome #otome games #mr love imagine #mr love x reader #mr love queen’s choice imagine #mr love queen’s choice x reader

[minaminokyoko]

Spider-Man: Far from Home--A Spoilertastic Review

Oh, my baby boy is back and it feels good.

Like many of you, I was looking forward to FFH due to the trauma left behind by our final film with all the Avengers present, and I needed to see my sweet Spider Son to try to dry my tears. I'm happy to say Far from Home is just the popcorn flick we need this summer: light, enjoyable, fun. I do admit to a bias right off the bat, before I begin the review: I am one of the hugest fans of the Iron Dad and Spider Son dynamic, and so I knew by default that I wasn't going to like this movie as much as the first one. Sorry. I am a skank for adopted family tropes, and I think Iron Dad and Spider Son was one of the strongest relationships developed in the MCU period. Losing Tony is just...agonizing. I've sectioned it off in my brain as Did Not Happen just to get by, honestly, and so keep that in mind as we proceed.

Spoilers ahead.

Overall Grade: B

Pros:

-Lemme get this out of the way: MY SONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN MY SPIDER SON OH MY GOSH PETER PARKER IS SUCH A GOOD BOI AND A SWEET SMOL BEAN AND I HAVE NO MATERNAL INSTINCTS EXCEPT WHEN IT COMES TO MCU PETER PARKER AND I LOVE THIS CHILD MORE THAN ANYTHING AND I JUST WANT TO PROTECT HIM AND HUG HIM AND BRUSH HIS HAIR AND COOK HIM DINNER I LOVE MY LITTLE BOY Y'ALL.

-Ahem. Tom Holland still shines in this role. I really, solidly care about Peter Parker. He's a great kid and he's very realistic in the way that he's written and acted. He's just a shy, awkward little nerd with a heart of gold who unfortunately has been forced into the worst situations that he's not ready for. I wanted to punch "Nick" in the face for how much goddamn pressure he put on a kid who is literally still in the goddamn mourning process just like everyone else. Peter has so much to deal with and he's only had these powers for a short amount of time, so it's natural that he's so frustrated and anxious and he wants time to go after things that are important to him. I found that very understandable and sympathetic, even if the "I just want to be normal" trope has been done to death in superhero media. MCU Peter has so much heart and I'm proud of this baby for what he's able to accomplish.

-The allusions to Tony and the void left behind hit home quite hard. Especially that fucking gravestone part of the Mysterio sequence. That was just...cruel. Tony taught Peter so much, and he genuinely loved that kid. He grew to love him and trust him and worry about him, and it's so awful that Tony won't get to see him grow up to be his own man. I'm grateful for the time they had together, and I really love Tony leaving Peter the glasses and the A.I., knowing that while he might still make a mistake, he would do the right thing in the end. (Side note: EDITH is as funny as it is fucked up, "Even Dead, I'm the Hero." God fucking damn you, Tony, that is so in-character and it hurts my soul.) "Nick" shoving all that pressure onto Peter made me want to kick his ass, especially since he talks down to him and tries to blame him for not being ready when he only just got into the game relatively speaking. But I also loved the sequence of him in the plane doing exactly what Tony used to do in his lab. It's such a great parallel, showing that Peter is his own person but he's also a chip off the old block, and that is very sweet to see. (I also squealed at the Led Zeppelin comment, oh my son, such a cutie.)

-I was extremely hesitant about them choosing Gyllenhaal for the role of Mysterio (not because of his skill as an actor, just because he looks like a giant puppy, sorry) but now I see why. He's an unstable narcissist and it fits him. What a jerkoff. I was furious with how callous he was and how he shifted blame everywhere like it's just SO necessary to kill all these people for fame, fortune, and money. Ugh, what a shitbird. So kudos to him. I didn't think he could pull it off, but he sure as hell did.

-The effects were fantastic. I really do think the illusion sequence will go down in MCU history as one of the most visually creative, disorienting, heartbreaking things we've seen so far in the saga. It was harrowing, especially the Iron Man suit crawling out of the grave. What a kick in the fucking nuts for Peter, and for us.

-Peter and MJ, while it did get a little overwhelming, were cute as shit. And I'm glad that the modern films are removing the stigma of the "I can't let my family and friends know I'm the hero" thing. It was definitely heavily done in the 80's, 90's, and early to mid 2000's and I'm fine to see it being phased out at least in terms of the MCU. It's a little more realistic that most of your family or friends would be able to handle your secret, and not only that, help you out on occasion. I'm glad she knows and their kisses were freaking adorable. Sweet babies.

-That. First. End. Credits. Scene. What a fucking killer. First off, God bless whoever at Marvel Studios listened to the thousands of fans begging them to cast J. K. Simmons as J. Jonah Jameson again, continuity be damned. The man IS the embodiment of the character, and I absolutely fucking ADORE that they gave us the nod and the wink we all wanted even back when Spidey was Andrew Garfield. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Next, oh my God, my sweet baby boy, my smol bean, got called out and branded as a murderer. Fuck, this is gonna be a serious problem, and considering the fact that we don't have the next MCU film lined up yet (at the time this was posted, and mind you, San Diego Comic Con is in two weeks, so maybe they'll clarify) the consequences could definitely be crazy. Poor Peter. He's gonna have a lot of work to do in order to undo this mess and prove that he's not Spidey, but this could also mean they're adapting some part of the Civil War story, maybe. We'll see, but that was a big ass bomb to drop.

-The Skrulls second credit scene was a genuine surprise, and it made sense. I thought Nick felt a little off the whole movie, and that really does explain why--it's someone else doing an impression of him and trying their best. Nick would've been smart enough to know probably right off the bat that Beck wasn't who he said he was. His story was way too noble and convenient. Nick would've probably have run facial recognition and then it would ping for a former Stark Industries employee, and that would've been a wrap. I like that it being a Skrull justifies what would be a plothole. Neat idea.

-I appreciated the Spidey's eye view of the action. Those were some cool shots and they were centered well, so you didn't feel nauseous or anything. It kept you in the action and was very engrossing and cool.

Cons:

-The bystander syndrome that everyone got this time around is a little irksome. It's the same reason that while I really, really love Guardians of the Galaxy Vol 2, I default don't like it as much as the first one since everyone got put into the bystander spot except for basically Peter in the very end. While it was nice to have them defend themselves, I'd have liked it more of MJ and Ned and the others figured their own way out of escaping the drones. Why? Because it would show Peter that it's not always on just his shoulders. His friends are competent and they can help, and I think that would've been a better way to go rather than him doing it himself.

-Some of the humor was flat. JB Smooth and the other teacher are the worst offenders, I'd say. They were given too much screentime and they're not that funny.

-The May and Happy subplot goes almost nowhere and isn't fully explored, and I kind of would've been fine if it hadn't been in the movie at all. It doesn't add much.

-The ending was kind of unclear? Did Beck actually get shot and die from his wounds? If so, then what was the official story about the drones and his body and whatnot? It's all pretty damn vague. If Beck is dead, that's disappointing. I kinda wish Marvel would stop killing the villains at the end of almost all the films. Longest running recurring villains are Loki and Thanos, I think. Vulture lived, and I'd like him to return in the future if possible. You can use actors more than once, Marvel, they're not tissue paper.

-Nitpick: It did almost feel like we missed a movie where Peter likes MJ. She was more a cameo in the first one than a full lead, so it almost felt like there's a short film somewhere of them getting closer and him getting over Liz and liking MJ instead.

-Nitpick: Same with the whole "other guy also likes MJ" subplot. Eh, I could leave it out and not miss it.

-Nitpick: I still can't with how they expect anyone to buy that Night Monkey story. I mean, it's black suited Spidey no matter which way you look at it. And yes, people should immediately notice he's at the very least one of the students at Peter's high school, and then it can't be too hard after that. I mean, Peter doesn't even change his voice while he's in the suit.

-Nitpick: I was kind of hoping for more clues or reactions to half of everyone, you know, being fucking murdered by Thanos for five years and returning to their lives. But I guess that was just pushed aside because it could become a whole rabbit hole issue. Still, though, I was hoping someone would tell us if the Snapped just don't remember being dead or if there is some kind of afterlife they experienced. (Side note: wow, holy shit, the teacher's mini story about it was dark and awful but I did laugh out of shock. I mean, damn. Low blow, wifey. Low fucking blow.)

-They mention spidey sense but I'd have liked it if they explicitly explain why he has it sometimes but other times he doesn't? It seems to fluctuate, but why and how? Is it more like anxiety or an extra sense? Is it based on his emotional health? I want clarification.

All in all, I had a good time and I'd put this in the middlegrade MCU films. I still really enjoy Holland in the role and I want nothing but good things for him and this franchise.

#spider-man #spider-man far from home #far from home #movie review #film review #spoilers #spoiler alert #iron dad #spider son

[starlight-parkers]

You’re Nuts Dude (Tom Holland x Reader)

Note(s): Sorry I haven’t written anything in a while dolls! I’ve been camping so there’s not much time >.<  I think this is the longest imagine I’ve written so far! Hope you enjoy it dolls x

Warning(s): nothing, just major fluff and feeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelsssssssss

Summary: Remember that girl? Who didnt believe Tom was Spidey? Yeah? Well she sure as hell does now.

Tom sighed as he slammed his temporary locker shut before slinging his backpack over his shoulder and stalking off. He couldn’t wait for this day to be over,  it would be his last time setting foot in this school. The last time he’d be publicly embarrassed in front of at least thirty science wiz kids. He’d finally be free.

It had been a joke when he suggested to Marvel that he spend sometime in a High School, since he was British and had no clue how High Schools worked. Apparently Marvel thought that it would be a good idea and so three weeks  later the British actor found himself outside the Bronx School of Science with a fake name,a  backpack and a pencil case.

His time at the school hadn’t been a complete nightmare. There was this one girl, who coincidentally was in all of the classes Tom had to attend. She had these, mesmerising (eye colour) eyes that complimented her soft (skin colour) skin, along with a smile that could light up an entire room. She was incredibly sweet and so smart that Tom would’ve been lying if he said that it wasn’t a turn on. Tom had remembered her name to be (Y/N) and he’d heard that she’d been practically guaranteed a place at Harvard University in the future.

The bell rung above the young actors head, signalling  the final period of the day. With a huff Tom made his way to class, praying that  time would pass quickly.

Tom couldn’t help himself from staring she was just so… beautiful. He was transfixed with the way  she bit her bottom lip as she concentrated on solving the equation written out on the board. The way her hair would fall over her face as she worked, and how she would constantly have to brush behind her ears to prevent the luscious (hair colour) locks from obstructing her vision.

God, she was perfect.

Tom rested his face in the palms of his hands, his elbows resting on the desk for support. He gazed at her dreamily, wondering what’d be like to kiss those pretty pink lips, he bet they were soft and tasted of vanilla. He wondered what it’d be like to spend a Sunday afternoon with her, cuddling up in tons of blankets. He wondered-

“Mr Wilson, are you with us?”

At first Tom didn’t respond, still not used to being called by his fake name.  The professor standing at the head of the classroom called out again, attempting to gain Tom’s attention. All the while is brown hues were kept trained on her. “Sam Wilson?”

It wasn’t until she had turned her head to stare at Tom curiously that he realised he was been called. Sam Wilson. How ironic, marvel seriously couldn’t think of a better fake name.  He swore Anthony Mackey hated him anyways. Tom shook his head quickly, breaking out of his reverie and turning his attention to the teacher. “Ah-uh-um…y-yes sir?” Tom replied with a stammer, crumbling under the pressure of her intrigued gaze.

(Y/N) had her head turned to face the boy, an eyebrow quirked with interest. A smirk played at her pink lips as she eyed Tom, a mischievous glint in her       (eye colour) eyes. “Do you know the answer Mr Wilson?”

Tom’s head immediately snapped in the direction of the teacher’s voice, he glanced down at his worksheet only to see it completely blank. Damn physics. Damn (Y/N) for being so god damn attractive. And distracting. He looked back up at the teacher and shook his head with a blush, feeling 30 pairs of eyes trained on him. “Maybe if he stopped staring at (L/N) like that, he’d actually be able to get something right!”  A kid called out, sending the class intro streams of laughter.

Tom bowed his head, slightly embarrassed. Out of his peripheral vision, he could see the (hair coloured) girl, turn away from him to flip off the other student. “Why don’t you shut up Alexander?” She snapped fiercely. “Let him stare! At least he knows he’s good enough to get some”.

The class was sent into fits of laughter, as Alexander ducked his head. (Y/N) turned back to look at Tom, a grin gracing her supple lips as she winked at him, he only nodded sheepishly in response before her attention was stolen by the teacher, who was attempting to silence the class.

After a few minutes of the teacher blabbing on about half-lives and the life cycle of a star, (Y/N) turned to face the British boy sitting next to her, doodling in his notebook. “Hey man” she called out, gaining Tom’s attention, their eyes met and she could see that Tom’s brown hues had a hit of nervousness in them. “What’s your deal?”

Tom’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. This was the first time that she had talked to him directly and being the stupid teenage boy he was, Tom desperately wanted her to like him. He could make up some kind of lie? But then that would totally backfire on him since he’s a terrible liar. He could also tell the truth? I mean who wouldn’t find playing spiderman awesome? Not to mention the fact that honesty is the best policy.

“You wanna know what my secret is?” Tom blurted out before his brain could catch up. The girl beside him, only nodded. The boy sighed, before looking her directly in the eye. “I’m Spiderman”

Silence.

“My name isn’t Sam Wilson, it’s actually Tom Holland” the boy continued, in hopes of impressing the intelligent girl beside him. He quickly dropped the fake American accent to continue. “I’m British and I’ve been sent here undercover by Marvel for the past 3 days”

(Y/N) eyed him with a curious look before bursting out into fits of giggles, Tom watched her incredulously. She sure was gorgeous when she laughed, the way her smile reached her eyes where they would crinkle at the corner and- But she didn’t believe him?

“You’re-ha-so…funny!” The girl said between hushed giggles, leaning on the palm of her hand, smiling at Tom. He shook his head, a blush rising on his cheeks as the bell rung, signalling the end of class. (Y/N) briefly looked up, before leaning over her desk to wink at Tom.

She stood, picking up her bag and packing away her belongings before slinging the bag over her shoulder. Tom mimicked her actions, now standing opposite her awkwardly. “You’re a great lab partner” she said, grinning at him.

“T-thanks”. Tom stuttered “you are too”

She smiled, looking down at her feet. With a blush she looked up at Tom, moving to walk out of the class room as it cleared up. “I hope you have a nice weekend, ‘Tom Holland” she whispered sweetly, air quoting 'Tom Holland’. “I’ll see ya on Monday? Yeah?”

Tom smiled at her sadly. “Yeah Monday…”

(Y/N) smiled as she stepped off the plane in Atlanta. The warm breeze, weaved its way through her lose (hair coloured) locks, causing it to gently sway in the breeze. She happily hopped down the steps , excited at the thought of exploring the state.

It was to be (Y/N)’s first time in Atlanta and she would be visiting her favourite person in the whole world. Her cousin, Laura Harrier.

(Y/N) and Laura had been extremely close since they were young, they did everything together and were practically like sisters. Although there were a good  six years between the two girls, they were almost identically alike.

The girl patiently waited for her luggage at the conveyer belt, her mind absently drifting of all the things she could do and explore in Atlanta. Her flower patterned suitcase went round the conveyer belt around at least five times before it was taken off by someone near by.

“I believe this belongs to you madam” the voice called out, grasping hold of the girl’s attention. (Y/N) turned, her (hair colour) locks bouncing as she did so. As she did, she was met with the beaming and radiant face of her cousin, Laura. The two girls squealed as they pulled each other on for a long and comforting hug. When they pulled away, Laura held her younger cousin at arms length, before giving her a twirl, causing the young girl’s sun dress to spin around with her.

“Laura!” (Y/N) chirped, quickly hugging her cousin again. “It’s so good to see you! I missed you so much!”

The older brunette, held her cousin at arms length, admiring her features. “I’ve missed you too! Look at how much you’ve grown!” Laura gushed, smiling down at her shorter relative. (Y/N) pouted playfully, softly smacking Laura on her arm.

“You make me sound like a baby” (Y/N) whined in a playful manner. Laura laughed at her, a mischievous glint in her brown doe eyes.

“That’s because you are a baby”

“I’m only six years younger than you”

Laura smirked, wiggling her eyebrows teasingly. “Exactly”

The pair begun to walk out of the airport, sunglasses pulled down over their eyes avoid the paparazzi. They managed to make their way to Laura’s sleek black car, where her driver loaded in the luggage and opened the door for the pair. “So I was thinking-” the twenty seven year old actress begun. “That we grab a bite to eat at this adorable little corner cafe downtown before we drop your bags off at the hotel and-”

“Sounds like you’ve got this all planned out” the (hair colour) girl grinned, an eyebrow quirked at her cousin. Laura rolled her eyes in response, before digging in her purse as her phone rung. She gave (Y/N) an apologetic smile, before answering the call with a hushed whisper. The younger cousin let out a hushed laugh, looking out the window as she did so, admiring the streets of the state she’d never been to before. The sun reflected of the roofs of cars, creating a glare with an array of colours. The sky was as clear as day, only small fragments of clouds dotting the pale blue abyss or disappearing into small wisps of white.

“Sorry about that” Laura’s voice pulled the younger girl out of her thoughts . “Tom managed to mess up a scene at the studio and they want me to come in to shoot it again”

“Wait?” (Y/N) called out in shock, causing the driver to hit the breaks.  The pair of cousins were launched forward by the force, almost colliding with the backs of the chairs. “Scene? as in movie scene?”

Laura laughed, slapping her cousin on the leg. “Well duh? I’m an actress! Silly!”

“I know that!” (Y/N) exclaimed, an expression of shock displayed on her soft features. “But you got a new role! Congratulations girl!”

The older brunette blushed bashfully, smiling a bit. The driver revved up the engine, moving along with the traffic and making a left for the studios. “I was going to surprise you, since you’re such a big marvel fan…”

Laura trailed off, winking at her cousin. (Y/N)’s jaw dropped, her (eye colour) doe eyes widening. This only meant one thing. “You’re in a Marvel movie?!”

It took all of the young woman’s will power not to scream in the car. All the while her older cousin and best friend sat there grinning. The younger cousin waved her hands about excitedly, having been a fan of the comics all her life and having a cousin in the newest movie was a big deal to her. She was proud of her cousin and was so excited to see how she would perform. Although (Y/N) was never really into the movies, she’d definitely be seeing this one in support of her elder cousin. “Yes! This is crazy right?” Laura gushed, grasping her cousin’s hands.

“So crazy!” (Y/N) grinned. “This is all so exciting!”

“Just wait until you meet the cast” the twenty-seven year old actress stated, absentmindedly, leaning over to point the driver in the right direction.

“The cast?!”

Let’s just say, (Y/N) almost deafened Laura and the driver.

After dropping off (Y/N)’s luggage at Laura’s trailer, the pair headed over to the lunch trailer to grab something to eat. The two cousins made their way up the steps together, Laura was chatting excitedly about the friends she had made a few months into shooting whilst her younger cousin absentmindedly day dreamed. She was about to meet the cast of a marvel movie. Right on the other side of the door could be stars like Robert Downey junior, or even Chris Evans!

They made their way through the door, opening it up to find an arguing  group of actors and actresses roughly their age. “One hundred percent Gryffindor student!” A male voice called out, as if his opinion wasn’t obvious enough. “I mean who’s gonna go 'Yeah I wanna be in Hufflepuff!’”

“A lot of people actually” a female voice interjected. “Eddie Redmayne in fact.”

(Y/N) rolled your eyes at the conversation. Any Harry Potter fan would know that Hufflepuff was J.K Rowling’s favourite house.  She looked to Laura who was already shaking her head with a knowing look. “I know what you’re thinking, and honestly they’re not that bad. Not everyone is a Harry Potter nerd like you” the older woman chuckled. (Y/N) grinned, taking hold of her cousin’s hand before heading further into the trailer. The pair headed straight for the snack table, gaining the attention of the cast.

“Hey guys!” Laura chirped, causing heads to turn in her direction. Three pairs of eyes connected with the two cousins.

“Laura!” The group chorused, attacking her with hugs.

“What are you doing back here girl?” A voice she recognised to be Zendaya’s, questioned. “I thought you had the rest of the day off.

”I did“ Laura giggled, with a smirk, her gaze drifting lazily over to a brunette haired male. "But someone, managed to mess up a scene. So I had to come back”

“Of course” Zendaya laughed, her hair bouncing around as she playfully shook her head. Her brown eyes shifted to the figure standing behind the twenty-seven year old. “And who’s this cutie?”

At this point everyone had gathered by the table. Laura stepped aside, revealing her cousin to her friends. “Everyone, this is my younger cousin, (Y/N)”  Laura babbled sweetly. “She’s visiting from the Bronx!”

“Hey everyone” she whispered shyly.

As soon as the name was uttered, Tom’s eyes flickered up. That was a  name he hadn’t heard for years. He was certain that he’d misheard his co-star. As far as he was concerned, he’d seen the last of that girl after his time in high school. One of Tom’s biggest regrets was not giving her his number. If he had a pound for every time he’d thought of her, he’d be filthy rich, or even more.

The British actor swallowed the lump in his throat as he watched Laura and her  younger cousin make rounds, meeting everyone. She’d already met Zendaya, and was now talking with Jacob. 'This couldn’t be her, no way.’ He thought, it was highly unlikely, it was virtually impossible, it was-

“You?!” She shrieked, her (eye colour) doe eyes widening as she dropped her bag. Tom’s mouth dropped open. It really was her.

(Y/N) (L/N). The girl he constantly thought about for the last 3 years. All the while, the three remaining actors eyed the pair curiously.

“Do you two…know each other?” Jacob asked. A small blush rose on Tom’s cheeks as he tried to make eye contact with the girl opposite him. He noticed how her eyebrows were still raised in shock and how her eyes shined with recognition.

“Yeah…” (Y/N) spoke cautiously, reaching down to pick up her bag, sadness etched into her voice “Sam went to my high school for about three days, he disappeared and I never saw him again.”

Zendaya, Laura and Jacob eyed each other weirdly, before looking back at the confused pair. “Sam?” Zendaya laughed. “That’s Tom sweet cheeks”

Tom grimaced, as (Y/N)’s expression twisted from one of shock to one of confusion. The atmosphere was tense, you could cut the tension with a knife in there. A small, pink blush dusted her cheeks, as she tried to piece together the situation. “But I-but-he-we”

“So this was the girl Tom talked about in his interviews” Jacob teased with a wink. “The pretty girl who didn’t believe he was Spidey, the one who called him crazy?”

Laura looked at (Y/N), shocked. “You’re that girl?”

(Y/N) stood opposite Tom, blushing hard. She had no idea what was going on, or how to wrap her head around the situation. Sam was Tom. Tom was Sam. There was no Sam. The cute nerdy boy from her physics class was Tom Holland. The Tom Holland. An actor.

Before anyone had a chance to speak, a stage hand came in to ask for the young actors. Laura was needed in hair and makeup so she could re-shoot her scene. Zendaya and Jacob were also needed as they had a couple lines in the scene. Tom had to reshoot his part a bit later as he had to put on the suit.

“Make sure she doesn’t die!” Laura called out as she left, causing both Jacob and Zendaya  to laugh out loud. They soon exited , leaving Tom and (Y/N) alone. Since it was a nice day out, Tom offered to take the younger girl on a tour of the sets. They explored the prop rooms and costume areas, they also talked about the movie. Tom did is best to make sure he didn’t tell (Y/N) any spoilers. He loved seeing how her eyes lit up as they walked between sets and admired different props. He loved the way her small fingers trailed over the costumes carefully, as if she was afraid to damage them.

Suddenly, the weather changed from sunny to dark and dreary. The grey clouds chucking down buckets of rain. The pair growing cold and soaked, ran quickly back to Tom’s trailer to seek shelter. Once inside, they shed their jackets that clung to their skin and Tom quickly changed his shirt (not that (Y/N) minded, she liked the way Tom’s abs looked). He timidly offered (Y/N) a spare shirt of his own and was waiting for her to come out of the bathroom.

The girl stepped out of the cramped space, her now wet clothes folded into a neat pile as she let Tom’s white shirt flow over her body. Her bare feet padded over the carpeted floor, as she made her way to Tom’s leather couch on the far side of his trailer.

He was scrolling through his phone, replying to fan’s tweets and liking Instagram fan art. He barely noticed (Y/N) sitting down beside him. She drew her knees up to her chest, resting her arms on them before propping her chin up. The       (skin toned) girl coughed lightly, capturing Tom’s attention.

“So, Monday huh?” She whispered, with a light chuckle, remembering their last conversation. At this point, Tom had slipped his phone into his back pocket.

“Yeah...Monday”

They both laughed, it was almost as if they were reliving the conversation. There was a silence that swept over the pair, the only sounds coming from the rain beating on the roof of the trailer. “You know, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again” Tom spoke after a little while. (Y/N) looked up at him, taking in his soaked and adorable appearance. The way his hair fell over his soft brown eyes. God he was cute.

She let out a small laugh. “Don’t you think I should be the one saying that?” Tom let a small smile grace his lips as she talked. “I mean, I was looking forward to seeing you that next Monday, I came back to find out you had gone, gotta say, I was heart broken. Mr Wilson”

Tom laughed at his fake name, before shifting fully to face her . “I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye”

“You better be sorry” (Y/N) scolded playfully, slyly grinning at the young actor. “I had just worked up the courage to ask you out, I really liked you, y'know?”

It was Tom’s turn to be surprised, he couldn’t believe the girl he was crushing on liked him back. “Y-y-yo-you liked me?” He stuttered, his hand reaching to rub the back of his neck . (Y/N) nodded bashfully, smiling at Tom.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice the way you stared at me, I thought it was cute!”

Tom couldn’t help but hide his face in a pillow, when (Y/N) laughed at his cuteness he chucked the cushion at her, hitting her square in the face. She squealed, trying to push herself away from him as the British boy launched himself at her, his fingers attacking her sides.

“Puh-pah-please Tom!” She begged between breathless giggles as he tickled her some more. Eventually, when her laughs turned to wheezes, Tom ceased his tickling. It was only then that they realised the position they were in, her back was to the sofa and Tom was laying between her legs, their faces pressed close and his hands by her sides.

(Y/N) looked Tom directly in the eyes, admiring the little flecks of black in his brown hues. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice that you were actually Tom Holland”

Tom smiled gently. “And I can’t believe I didn’t ask you  out sooner”

(Y/N) noticed how the air in the room had become scarce, and how hot her body felt pressed up beneath Tom’s. She thought back to how hard she’d been crushing on him during her senior year and how much she’d thought about letting him get away. Even after all these years, her feelings for him were still strong. She let her (eye colour) hues flick between his own and his lips.

At the same time, Tom thought about all the months he regretted not trying to stay in contact, he thought about all the times he wished she could’ve been his. And here she was, wrapped up in his arms, close to him. Before the British actor could even process what he was doing, his eyes had fluttered closed and he was pressing his lips to hers.

The kiss was sweet and full of so many unspoken emotions. The girls soft lips melded perfectly with Tom’s as they captured one another. (Y/N) let her small hands travel to the nape of the boy’s neck, her fingers twisting in the small hairs that resided there. The British actor snaked his hands around her waist, pulling her closer. The bare skin of her smooth thighs creating a burn on his arms as he lifted her. When they pulled away, (Y/N)’s eyes were still closed. Tom grinned, pressing a small kiss to her nose, causing her to open them. She smiled up at him.

“Wow” she breathed, causing the man above her to nod in agreement. “I guess we better thank Marvel, for sending you to my school or otherwise this wouldn’t have happened”

Tom gave the girl in his arms a toothy smile as she lazily gazed up at  him, her soft fingers tracing patterns on the bare skin of his arms. “And I guess I have a new story to tell in my interviews”

“You do?”  She smirked. “What’s it about?”

“It’s about how I get the girl that didn’t believe me and how head over heels I am for her” Tom murmured, leaning in for another kiss. (Y/N) sighed, contented.

“Is that your way of asking me out Mr Holland?” (Y/N) teased causing the actor to roll his eyes.

“And  what if it was? What would you say?”

The young girl pretended to ponder for a second, before leaning up to Tom’s ear. “I’d say, 'you’re nuts dude’” she whispered “do you know what I’d say next?”

“What would you say next?” The brunette boy whispered back, leaning down, so that their lips were almost touching.

“I’d say…hell yes”

#tom holland #tom holland imagine #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland peter parker #peter parker tom holland #peter parker x you #peter parker x reader #peter parker imagine #peter parker #spiderman #spiderman x you #spiderman x reader #spiderman imagine #spider-man: homecoming #spiderman fluff #tom holland fluff #peter parker fluff #peter parker au #spiderman au #laura harrier #zendaya #jacob batalon #mcu #sm:hc #marvel cinematic universe #sm:hc cast

[helenoftroybolton]

National Eating Disorder Awareness Week - My Story

Hi all.

This week is National Eating Disorder Awareness Week and I’m gonna tell you something I don’t think I’ve shared in the past, like, anywhere.

I am, very much so, in constant recovery from an eating disorder. It can be best described as Restrictive Anorexia Nervosa and/or Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder, depending on which doctor you ask.

I’m going to go into the story of my eating disorder, the signs of it, the (very nonspecific) ways in which I carried it out, and how I am doing now. If it’s triggering or upsetting, please do not continue to read. But if you need to hear a story of a young woman who hasn’t “beaten” her eating disorder but  is living with it, just more in check these days, please read on. I love you, be safe.

I have always been an anxious person and my anxiety specifically manifests itself in both nausea, the inability to eat, and a fear of vomiting. So you know, it was pretty easy to not eat if I was afraid that the nausea was going to make me sick. Then, sometimes, I’d just be too exhausted to get up and eat, or even carry out the actions to eat at all. Well, surprise surprise, I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder and Major Depressive Disorder. So the anxiety makes me afraid to eat. The depression makes me too tired to eat.

I also thought I was super out of shape, always, even when I was probably in really great shape, because my heart would beat really hard and I’d feel faint and out of breath whenever I did any light exercise. Well, I also have a condition known as Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome, or POTS, which basically means that my body thinks I’m bleeding out all the time, especially when I exercise. So when I don’t eat or drink enough, I get dizzy and need to sit or lie down for a while or else I may pass out.

So, lots of anxiety + nausea + fear of physical illness + feeling out of shape + Depression and lack of energy = solid building blocks of an eating disorder

The disorder itself began when I was a young teenager, before high school. My parents and a few close relatives, all of whom have struggled with their weight and were told by their doctors they needed to diet to lower their blood pressure and cholesterol levels, made a concerted effort to diet with the express purpose to lose weight. That meant that everything from a dash of table salt or a pat of butter all the way to birthday cake was not only gone from my household, but shamed if anyone expressed desire for it. I watched the Sunday breakfasts turn into SlimFast shakes and freshly baked cookies looked at as if they were the downfall of the free world.

A friend of mine in middle school was tall, lanky, and incredibly insecure with how she looked I am sure. She’d often point out how her naturally high metabolism kept her thighs from touching while she sat down or how her stomach had no pouch while she wore a bikini. Myself, a girl who hit puberty before anyone else and with curves that are oddly ridiculed when you are young, felt that my body was just wrong. It had to be.

So, I restricted my food to the bland, saltless, fatless, almost carb free and sugar free diet of my father. I’d skip breakfast, because if I could conquer the most important meal of the day, I thought, I’d be happy. I’d eat a salad for lunch and drink a huge bottle of water and feel full but sloshy inside. I’d get home at eat a high fiber pita bread, counted to exactly 100 calories, or so sad the packaging, and one whole SlimFast shake which, the bottle said, could replace a whole meal for 200 calories, and then sit, fearing dinner. The best was when there was tons of slightly charred broccoli and unseasoned, tasteless lean ground turkey, cooked in a teaspoon of olive oil, because it tasted so disgusting I didn’t eat it. I was in control. And I was winning.

My family continued to struggle with weight and tell me at every turn just how jealous they were of me; how skinny I was, how little I had to eat, and how good I was about not eating sweets. The validation was incredible. I was always considered the “smart” cousin, but never the pretty one. My parents would wonder aloud how I could possibly be their child if my waist was so small with my dress size to match.

Occasionally, either in a prediction of genetics catching up to me or jealousy, my mother would often ridicule me for wearing “tight fitting clothes” that stretched across my chest (because they were designed like that) or would only buy large or extra large shirts (even if I was a size 2, at best) because I’d “eventually just grow into them.” Horrified by this prospect of taking up any more physical space in the world, growing into something my parents taught me was “ugly,” I tried even harder. I restricted more.

It got to the point that, while I was a senior in high school, I welcomed the flu that left me unable to eat, save for the occasional spoonful of broth and sip of water. I remember weighing myself, which I did at least ten times a day (when I woke up, before I showered, after I showered, with clothes on, with clothes off, before and after meals, before and after trips to the bathroom) I realized I had lost ten pounds in a week. How amazing! All I had to do was have a 104 degree fever and restrict every single part of my diet and I’d never have to worry about fulfilling my mother’s prophecy. I felt wobbly and frail, but my thighs didn’t touch, so I must be doing something right.

Eventually, I headed out to college and began my freshman year at a university in rural Rhode Island. The place was incredibly confining and claustrophobic by the fact that I couldn’t actually leave campus if I wanted to.  I was dating a handsome  yet incredibly shallow man who complimented me only on my body and gave the reasoning that, because I was “so hot” he wouldn’t cheat on me. I was lauded at Thanksgiving and Christmas by my family for not gaining the dreaded “Freshman 15″ which was easy when you were too worried about the calories in beer to drink at parties or stress eat. My parents visited me often and I rarely spent time alone on campus and would often pick up extra shifts of any one of the number of jobs I worked. I filled my time of extreme anxiety and depression with the control that food restriction gave me. I knit so I could relieve pent up anxiety feelings in a positive way. I rarely ate breakfast and often only ate health foods (when I ate any food at all) and survived mostly on quarters of Clif bars and still those wonderful SlimFast shakes that my father, very kindly, gave to me in case I “went hungry” when I didn’t want to eat dining hall food.

I transferred out of that terrible school to a women’s centered college in Boston which had programming, people, and resources that helped instead of hindered me. Still, I was surrounded by predominantly women or people assigned female at birth, who all were at least raised with an expectation of those good unattainable body standards. Lots of friends were still extremely into restricting food and exercising almost to a fault. But something was different. I was much much less depressed and wanted to be participatory in a way that required me to make a change.

When I figured out I was queer and started dating other queer folks, getting rid of the straight cis male gaze, it didn’t magically cure me. I did, however, get to feel a little bit more human than object during my time there. I took active steps to helping myself, because I knew by my junior year of college that this was an issue that wouldn’t be going away on its own and barely eating was making it hard to both stay awake and be present in the things I wanted to do.

As a first step, I decided that I would stop looking at scales all together. It stressed me out too much to know if I was weighing “too much” or “too little” and came to the comfortable understanding that, as long as I fit in this one pair of yoga pants. Or something. I don’t really remember. I stopped telling myself that the world was over if I ate a brownie. Actually, I just kind of started to eat the sweets I think I deserved. Ate good food? Check? Deserving of chocolate? Also check.

And it was hard to swallow, literally, when I saw my hips get even half an inch wider or my collarbone fading more into me. And I panicked and tried to stop eating, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t let myself hurt so much again. I had things to do now and a purpose and a future, not just a controlled environment of people who want to see me stay as small as possible. To “beat” the idea of largeness. To stay sick.

It still sucks. Every single day is a shitty battle with my own brain and body. Sometimes I feel like I’m doing better with it, like treating myself and not feeling like it’s the end of the world. Sometimes, I don’t , like when I use work being “too busy” for me to take a lunch break. 

Recently, I decided I wanted to start eating better and getting into shape by working out again. After a few days of eating healthily, but not adequately calorically, I started to fall down the same rabbit hole again. I need to stop eating carbs and meat and butter and cheese and oil and dessert and drink cold water because it burns more…wait. I had to stop.  

Little steps in the right direction.

Last night, I took a bath and watched my stomach bunch up and I thought to myself, oh god, what have I done? It used to be flat! Now it’s basically flat but there’s fat there. 

My eating disorder is never going to go away. Ever. It’s always going to be a part of me and how I interact with the world around me. Am I happy about this? No, not at all. If I could wish it away, I would.

Recognizing my negative behaviors and forcing myself to overpower them took 8 years and a whole bunch of therapists and friends who support me. There isn’t always some happy ending, but it’s not a sad ending either. In fact, there is no ending, at least not right now. It’s still going.

So that’s my story. Hope it helps or at least does not hurt anyone who has read it. I love you. Thank you for listening. 

#neda week #national eating disorder awareness week #tw: eating disorder #personal #recovery #long post #okay to reblog #also okay to message

[biofunmy]

I Don’t Know How To Talk To My Parents About Kashmir

Lucy Jones for BuzzFeed News

I didn’t have a great year, if I’m being honest. In all fairness, my most recent years haven’t been great thanks to my own inherent pessimism, and I really did think that 2018 was going to kill me. But I was wrong. 2019 is the one that almost did me in: I moved to another country, tried to navigate an incredibly hostile city, survived the first year of marriage, and almost bought out the entire country’s worth of antibiotics thanks to a litany of increasingly rare and peculiar illnesses. When I recently complained to my doctor about toe stiffness, he suggested it might be gout, like I’m a rich baby living in the 19th century. (Don’t worry, it’s merely the debilitating arthritis I inherited from my mother.)

Maybe I could’ve navigated 2019 better if I didn’t simultaneously feel like my family was cracking under the pressure of a confusing geopolitical conflict. I talk to my parents a lot — every day, which is shocking even to other brown people. But in my defense, what if one of them dies and haunts me, saying, “Oh, and this is what you were doing that made you too busy to pick up a call from your mother???” This year, though, I called less and less. I just couldn’t do it. My mom is smart and my dad is funny, and I like wrapping up my worst days by complaining to them and having them calm me down and build me back up. But lately, they’ve just made me feel alone.

This is confusing and somewhat niche, but bear with me, because you’ll need it to understand why I’ve blocked or muted about half of my family on WhatsApp: In August, the Indian government revoked Article 370, which up until then, had given the state of Jammu and Kashmir a special status within India, preserving its autonomy. Kashmir, tucked between Pakistan and India, is a much-contested region both India and Pakistan have fought over in a conflict that has spanned decades. In the late ’80s and early ’90s, Kashmiri Hindus were driven out of the land after being targeted by Muslim insurgents. This is, at least, the narrative my family, along with other Hindu Indians, tells me, but according to some separatist leaders, the Indian state constructed the exodus in order to incite further conflict and be able to intervene. A hundred thousand Hindus left the valley, with only a few thousand remaining. My family considers their forced removal to be an ethnic cleansing; Kashmiri Hindus have lived in refugee camps for decades since. The conflict in Kashmir is long and complicated, but this New Yorker story is a solid primer on recent tensions in the region.

Since the revocation, Kashmir has been placed under curfew, there are internet and cell service blackouts, journalists trying to report on the region are being turned away, and Muslim residents live in fear. None of this is necessarily new, just better reported, and it’s certainly not unique behavior from Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi and his Hindu nationalist government. Modi’s record as an Indian politician has been punctuated by his anti-Muslim rhetoric, namely during the 2002 Gujarat riots. India is a stark example of how any country can fall into the deep, dark trap of religious nationalism.

Both of my parents were born and raised in Kashmir, as Hindus in the Muslim-majority state. My mom waxes poetic about Srinagar, her hometown and the largest city in Kashmir; a tourism poster of the city hangs in my brother’s home, and my half-white niece ignores it every day, proof of the privilege my parents wanted her to have when they moved to Canada. As a kid, my mom always told me stories about how my grandparents fled in the early ’90s; they were, as my dad tells me, fearful of being ethnically cleansed as Hindus in the region. I accepted these stories, believing — as I continue to believe — their fear to be sincere. Why wouldn’t I? Children of immigrants often have little history to hang on to — my brother, who was the last of our nuclear family to be born in India, has a birth certificate that’s just a handwritten note that reads “Boy, Koul.” There’s no reason to suspect your parents of biases you’re too naive to understand at 6 or 7. Other than these little stories, I dutifully ignored Kashmir. It was complicated, and I was just trying to fit in around white people. The solution, as far as my child brain was concerned, didn’t involve trying to understand the specificity of a conflict between two brown countries that I didn’t really feel a part of to begin with.

The Indian government’s logic behind the revocation was to create a space for Hindus to return to the region, decades after they had been run out or killed. But what the government did — imposing curfews, blocking internet access, creating a police state — has cut Kashmir off from the rest of the world. Kashmiri Muslims are being targeted by a government that wants to control India’s only Muslim-majority state.

As a human being, it’s been heartbreaking to watch. As a Kashmiri, it’s fucked with my sense of self.

Getty Images

Kashmiri protesters save themselves from the tear gas during a protest against Indian rule and the revocation of Kashmir’s special status in Srinagar, the summer capital of Indian-administered Kashmir, Aug. 30.

I don’t talk about Kashmir a lot because I don’t feel like I have a right to. I was born in Canada, and nothing really betrays my particular heritage other than my last name. Only other Kashmiris can pinpoint where I’m from, and they do it with glee, which does indeed tickle me, for some reason. Kashmiris find each other all over the world and we cling to the specificity of our heritage. Your mom screams at you all the time? Me too!!!! Kashmiris eat a ton of meat, we perfected rogan josh, we love nadru and tsiri tsot and sheer chai (this last one is truly one of our worst culinary contributions to the world and we should be ashamed). We were raised on Kashmiri ghazals that our other brown friends didn’t understand, because our language was particular, with no real script, and a set of some of the most specific insults known to man. Who knew there were so many ways to tell someone you’re going to fuck their sister? My mom was proud of me when I graduated high school, but she was really proud of me when I got two conch piercings in my mid-twenties.

I wouldn’t argue that 2019 is the worst that Kashmir has been through — 1990 and 2001 and 2016 were pretty bad too. But this year, the revocation of Article 370 led to more visible coverage about Kashmir than I had really seen in recent memory. It’s a region of the world rarely reported on, and the research coming out of the area is often written by and for Kashmiri Hindus. The Hindu narrative is now the prevailing one in most Indian media, aided by the current Indian government, which is deeply nationalistic and outright hostile to Muslims.

The confluence of my age, my recent status as an immigrant (but, like, from Canada so, you know, come on, Scaachi), and my increasing existential dread forced me to read more and pay better attention and, ultimately, get angrier. Maybe the only thing that’s really changed is now, in my late twenties, it’s not really possible for me to say nothing. The privilege of passivity isn’t mine anymore. I’m the youngest in my family by far, and have been treated as such for most of my life, but you can’t get away with acting like you’re 12 just because your dad still can’t believe you’re competent enough to pay your own rent. (That said, please send money. Beti here needs a new coat.)

There’s no reason to suspect your parents of biases you’re too naive to understand at 6 or 7.

But also, my god, does it not feel like every book and television show and movie and article has been about Kashmir this year? I know, logically, that’s not true, but when I was browsing the selection at a bookstore in Miami’s airport last week and found a book about Kashmir tucked between romance novels and thrillers, I felt like I was being followed by a heritage I’ve ignored for most of my life. Information and art about Kashmir reached a fever pitch in my own brain and, seemingly, in the world around me.

It’s easy, when you’re young, to tell yourself that you’ll deal with the hard things when you’re grown: I’ll learn how taxes work when I’m bigger, or, The electoral college will make more sense to me after college. These excuses work just fine when you’re a kid, but time moves faster than you do, and one day you’re 28 and sunstroked and half-drunk in the Miami International Airport and trying not to cry because you don’t understand who you are or where you came from or what you’re supposed to believe. You know you should buy the book about Kashmir, but it feels like an anvil in your hands, like it could crush your own heart. Instead, you get a bottle opener shaped like a woman, her butt connected by springs. She twerks, so you can ignore the fact that your mother’s mother tongue is dying and that you’re fighting with your whole family about the future of your little community.

My family is Hindu — so Hindu that, for years, their stories about Kashmir didn’t include the existence of Muslims at all. Like a lot of Hindus, we were taught to be friendly to Muslims, but not too friendly. We couldn’t marry them or foster any kind of real intimacy. Friendship was fine, but we were warned to not get too close. I didn’t interrogate this with my family. I merely ignored their advice, dated whom I wanted, made close friends with whomever else I wanted, and did my best.

My best wasn’t very good. It rarely is. This year, when I saw my cousins posting celebratory meals and messages of joy after the revocation, I felt like they were living in an alternate reality. It was hard for me to fathom that my own family, who is otherwise quite liberal and thoughtful, could sustain such heartlessness about Muslims in Kashmir. The seeming focus of my family, and of other Hindus in general, was that the ends would justify the means. By disrupting the region further, by creating a larger Indian military presence in the area, by refusing to protect Muslims as a minority class in the region at large, “we” would somehow be able to “return” “home.” For the first time in my life, I engaged in a pastime that I thought was largely reserved for white people: fighting with my family on Facebook about their terrible politics.

Nurphoto / Getty Images

Kashmiri women shout pro-freedom slogans during protests after Friday prayers in Srinagar in September.

One particular cousin and I went back and forth for a day, on his page and then mine. One of his friends watched our exchange and called me “a fucker” in Hindi (finally, my weekly lessons are proving useful). My smart, educated, thoughtful family referred to the New York Times’ coverage of Kashmir as “fake news” and the “biased media” refusing to hear the “Kashmiri Pandit side.” The Kashmiri Facebook groups and email lists I’m part of stopped being fun; instead, I was bombarded with chains of people trying to figure out how to get “the real story out there.” On Facebook, my conversation with my cousin dwindled thusly: “It is pretty arrogant to talk as if you have mastered the constitution of India and are able to pass judgment,” he said to me. “Your arguments are passionate but hollow to me, because you haven’t lived the life in that part of the world.” My cousin grew up in Rajasthan, a hot, arid state in Western India, hundreds of miles away from Kashmir’s cold mountains. His context is uniquely Indian and Hindu and exclusionary. Mine is global and anxious and lonely.

We haven’t talked since. I haven’t attempted to. I’m too tired.

My husband, who is white enough to get mad that turmeric stains our kitchen countertops instead of accepting placidly that everything in our home is now yellow, initially found this very funny. “See, now you’re going to have an awkward Thanksgiving dinner too!” He compared it to white people going home to their relatives to argue about their Trump-voting ways, which I guess is apt, but somehow mine feels much worse: My family has real trauma in their history, real fear, and real marginalization. It complicates their narrative significantly. I get where they’re coming from. I just think they’re wrong.

What makes my conflict with my family over Kashmir different than, say, a white person begging their relatives not to vote for Trump, is that my family is suffering from intergenerational trauma. A lot of white people don’t have a history of ethnic cleansing, a family line that’s been disrupted by government and war and death. When my mother talks about her parents having to flee Kashmir in the middle of the night, I believe her, because I can see the light in her eyes dim. I wish I could fix it for her, as if I could make the world less cruel. That doesn’t mean we should consider it acceptable that another family — any family, different from us only by religion — will suffer the same fate, decades later.

It was hard for me to fathom that my own family, who is otherwise quite liberal and thoughtful, could sustain such heartlessness about Muslims in Kashmir. 

I’m not interested in fighting over who I think is or isn’t responsible for Kashmir’s lifetime of havoc; I’m similarly not interested in hearing arguments that Muslims need to be “punished” for whatever hand a few of them may have had in destabilizing the area. But for my family, there is real fear there. They remember losing their home. My mom was already in Canada when her parents were driven out.

That’s cold comfort when it comes to seeing my own community commit the same infractions against others. The cruelty that Kashmiri Pandits experienced doesn’t mitigate our callousness toward displaced Muslims. If our home was taken from us, why would we foist that onto someone — anyone — else? None of our trauma, real or interpreted, is a valid reason for generations of lies and propaganda spread about Muslim people. It doesn’t justify Hindus reacting placidly to the subjugation of another religious group. It’s not a mistake that Modi’s government has made Muslims the target of his campaign: It’s a great, quick way to whip up Hindus.

It’s a deceptively simple thought that I keep returning to: When this happens to us, we call it ethnic cleansing. When it happens to Muslims, we call it righteous. In one context, Kashmiri Pandits are victims looking for retribution. In another, we’re a privileged class: fair-skinned, high-caste, with a religion that isn’t constantly being policed by white and brown people alike. (Or, at least, just not in the same way that Muslims are interrogated globally.)

It’s a conflict not dissimilar to the ones progressive American Jews are having now about Palestine. Though the specifics of these conflicts are different at heart, there’s a commonality there. There has to be a way to maintain and understand the historical context of your own people’s suffering while also refusing to pass that legacy down to other disenfranchised groups. There has to be a way to ask for accountability for your family’s grief and displacement without displacing others. Right? I say this to myself every few days, and sometimes it rings so naive and gullible that I can’t trust myself anymore.

I don’t know how to talk about Kashmir with my family, which makes it hard for me to know how to talk about it publicly. I have been told by some of my own blood that I’m not entitled to an opinion on it because I’ve never been to Kashmir, and because I’m not really Kashmiri since I’ve been so whitewashed by the West. But this, to me, just feels like a silencing tactic. If Hindus who live comfortably around the world, who don’t worry about being oppressed by other brown people, aren’t going to speak publicly about the harm their own community is doing, who will?

Over the course of the year, I have attempted to write about Kashmir six or seven times, both for my day job and just for myself. I interviewed other Kashmiris for my forthcoming book to try to make sense of it. At our company holiday party a few weeks ago, I cornered the only Indian immigrant I know in the newsroom and forced her to talk about Kashmir, which mostly meant me screaming in her ear over Pitbull songs. (Sorry, Tasneem, I got excited.) All of my attempts have felt like failures, mainly because this doesn’t feel like my story to tell, and yet it’s the only thing I want to talk about. The topic makes me feel stupid and uneducated and illiterate. My dad, whom I love terribly, finds my anxiety about this all very funny. He has always been liberal, believed in the same things I did, full of compassion, and has always been mindful of how racism and religious prejudices have affected me and our family. Kashmir is his big blind spot. I feel almost desperate when I talk to him about Kashmir, like I just want him to be better about this.

Weeks ago, we fought about the lack of internet and cell service in Kashmir. I argued that it was a tool to keep the people there even more oppressed. He brushed me off, laughed at me, his silly pyari beti. I didn’t call him for a few days after that. My dad has, many times in my life, launched silent treatments against me because of whatever disrespect he seemed to glean from my behavior. This year was the only time in my life I felt completely unwilling to speak to him, a Koul family first.

I don’t even think he noticed.

In March, my family is supposed to go back to India for a wedding, and I’ve asked my mother to go to Kashmir with me. It feels dishonest, somehow, to keep visiting the same places — Agra, Jaipur, Jammu, Delhi — and never go to the valley. My mom hasn’t been back there since she first left, now more than 40 years ago. She’s been afraid to return and refused to bring me as a child in case of regional unrest. She’s willing to go now, but my father is trying to chip away at the idea. His current argument is, incredibly, that it will “rain,” so why bother taking my mother to the very place she was born and grew up? As if rain might wash away the roads completely. As if he isn’t afraid of something darker, more nefarious in the region.

We may have been the hunted, sure, but now we’re the hunters. We know better, but we’re not doing better.

My parents are old as hell. Their parents are dead. My brother has forgotten his Kashmiri, and his daughter is so detached from it I’m not sure if she even knows where it is. I feel like I’m running out of time to understand a family history that will soon turn into dust. All year, I felt like something indescribable was being wrestled away from me, and I want some of it back. But do I have the right to it to begin with?

India and Pakistan have been fighting over Kashmir for my lifetime and my parents’ lifetimes. I’m not arrogant enough to think that it’ll get solved in 2020. What I’d actually like is for the unafflicted in this conflict, people like myself, young first- and second-generation kids, to recognize the legacy of trauma that we’re encouraging. I’m not asking for an answer or a definitive explanation. All I really want, to close out this terrible, year, is for my family to acknowledge a hard, complex, and unfair fact: We may have been the hunted, sure, but now we’re the hunters. We know better, but we’re not doing better.

It used to be that when an Indian person heard my last name, or where my family emigrated from, they’d smile and say, “Oh sure,” and we’d move on. But now we talk with trepidation. We’re all trying to figure out where the other has landed. Muslim Kashmiris have, rightfully, treated me with caution. Pandits, meanwhile, assume we all agree. I’ve been most disappointed with the twentysomething kids with no attachment to Kashmir beyond their grandparents’ birthplaces, who parrot what their elders are telling them about Hindus and India’s superiority. India — a country I’ve never lived in but a place that, I assumed, had to take me as I was, in a way that Canada or the US never could — has become more foreign to me.

Does being Indian mean anything, namely as someone who very much might not be Indian? Does it mean anything good? Can I, this late in my life, eons detached from the place itself, begin to refer to myself as Kashmiri instead?

In my parents’ house, on a long table in the living room, they have a few model shikaras, wooden river boats found on Dal Lake in Srinagar. As a kid, these were merely toys that represented a fantasy world to me, like something you’d see if you fell through the looking glass. It was easy to pretend as if Kashmir wasn’t real, that it was a dream my parents had, and I’d never have to think about it beyond looking at those little boats. I wasn’t allowed to, but I’d play with those boats anyway — tipping them back and forward, peering inside their windows, pushing them along the table, all while imagining a world much less fraught than the one I ended up living in. ●

Sahred From Source link World News

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[thelostcatpodcast]

THE LOST CAT PODCAST TRANSCRIPTS: SEASON 3: EPISODE 04:  EXPLOSION

SEASON 3: EPISODE 04:  EXPLOSION

Episode released 12th March 2017

http://thelostcat.libsyn.com/season-3-episode-4-explosion

I was darning my socks when I got a phone call from Nish, one of my oldest friends. She said there had been an accident at work. "Oh my god, are you OK?" "I’m fine! There has been an explosion in my lab." I said, "oh no!" "The explosion is currently three feet in diameter, and is expanding at a millimetre per second." I said, “what?”

THE LOST CAT PODCAST SERIES 3, BY A P CLARKE, EPISODE 4: EXPLOSION

We had known each other since we were kids, but she had made some smart choices and was now a part of a think-tank of experimental scientists researching, as she said, the ‘kinky stuff’. This was a joke, as I discovered, on the idea that far from the nice, smooth realities at the centre of our existence, the realities at the far edges were full of kinks. They poked at the kinks. This sort of thing sometimes made her difficult to talk to, as the world she worked in, and the technology she used, had been way past my understanding for many years now. But she said she enjoyed talking to me, and I believed her. And they have some extremely advanced technology. Once we were having tea and she was telling me about an experiment I did not understand. I got a phonecall. I answered and it was her. She told me she had a chip that allowed her to access communication devices directly from her brain, so as not to disturb any conversations going on in biological space. I imagine I gawped, and the her in front of me broke off from what she was saying and laughed, gently, with kind eyes, and the voice on my phone said I was silly. She apologised for the slight synthetic quality of the voice, as it relied on translation algorithms that were not yet quite perfect. But then that’s the point of algorithms, she would say – they are our models of the world, so studying their failures is to discover the holes in our understanding of reality. We can see through the gaps in our world, she said, and then paused just long enough to smile mischieviously, and see the lights behind it. I, as I often did, nodded blankly, and had no idea to what extent she was joking, and to what extent she was not. She would say, "you know we can programme smaller mammals." I would say, "it wouldn’t be the same?" She was often very gracious with me. "The explosion just hit our battery store," she said, as I held my half-darned sock forgotten in my hand as her brain spoke to me through my phone. "The colours are beautiful – there’s blues and greens and pinks, and the individual shards are still reflecting light. They are spreading up the wall like water." "OK," I said. "I am sorry, but can you slow down? Where are you, and what is happening?" It was recogniseably her voice, but if you listened really closely you could just hear the slightly flat intonation of the modulated tones. "Alright... alright... I am sorry too." "Keep it simple," I added. "Imagine you are talking to an idiot." "I am in my laboratory with my two colleagues, Diane and Brian. At the far side of the laboratory, our experiment has just exploded and it is currently expanding at an incredibly slow rate in to the room." "Holy hell, will you be OK?" "Do not worry. Do not worry." "What were you doing?" She said, "we have been experimenting with synthesising quantum probability waves at a Newtonian scale. Using exotic radiations of rare metals super heated while under extreme pressures so as to exist in multiple simultaneous states." "Oh," I said. "We used lasers," she said. "We’re big fans of lasers." "Lasers are cool." "I know, aren’t they!" and she made a sound then, that I realised was the voice synthesis software attempting to recreate a laugh. "Alright," she said. "Alright. You know that stuff called Dark Matter?" "Yes, it's that substance that’s invisible to all scientific measurement, but has to exist for physics to make sense." "That’s the one. Well: it doesn’t exist, but what does has become unstable within the radius of the explosion. It has created what might be best described as bubbles of radical space-time distortion. Bubbles where space-time run at different relative speeds, and most of the room is in a flow of incredibly slow time. And thus we have an explosion that is moving at roughly one millimetre per second. "While much of my upper body is in a bubble of much more rapid, close to earth-normal, time,  my lower body has been caught in the main flow of slow time, and as such, I can not move. "My colleague Diane, over to my left, is fully inside the bubble of slowest time, such that she is entirely immobile from my point of view. Bill is over to the right, in a slightly faster eddy, but communication is still proving difficult. "The explosion is on the far side of the lab, climbing the wall, and also reaching out in to the centre of the lab space in a remarkably contained plume." "How is all this possible?" I asked. "Oh, it isn’t, but here we are. I apologise for calling you. I hope you don’t mind. I needed a control in base-reality due to the temporal fluctuations. I hope you don’t mind. I hope you don’t mind. Do not worry." "Well, at least your brain is in a bubble of normal time." "Well actually," she said. "It is running at around five times slower than earth-normal, but the efficiency of the communication chip still allows me to speak with you relatively normally. You are reading at about one half speed for me at the moment. Honestly, this did not seem so far from normal "well, if there's anything at all I can do to help." "Thank you. Well, everything is happening so slowly at the moment that we have a little time before there is any significant development. So, while we are waiting: how are things? What are you up to?" "Oh fine. Ticking along." "Tell me things! Are you still looking for your stupid cat?" "Yes, I am afraid so." "So silly. Maybe I could help you find him one of these days." "That would be great." "Cats make me sneeze. I considered a reptile, but I decided anything I had  to keep behind glass wasn’t really a pet." I said, "I miss him when he would sit on me." "Hmmm," she said. "My house has always been clean." And then there was a pause. "Interesting: the battery store ignition has created waves in the space-time distortion topographies. My colleague Brian is ramping up to a communicable speed, and I will be able to talk to him soon. Interesting. So: what did your cat do? Why did you like your cat sitting on you so much?" "Really?" "Please. Please tell me." "Oh well, I remember one time the cat had been out all day, and came and sat on me late at night, while I was watching a movie. I thought it must have been raining because he was wet, but when I raised my hand to the screen, it was red. My cat had fought something out there and lost. It sat heavily and loosely on me, as if it had no bones, and would not move from my lap, no matter what I did. It did not complain or meow or purr or scratch. It just really, really needed to sit on me. So I stayed there, with the cat sitting on me, for most of the night. The cat was nice to me for a good few weeks after that, too. Look, I am sorry for going on. " Nish said, "I like your voice. I like to hear you talking." "So," I said. "What’s happening now?" "Well, this is all quite exciting: the battery explosion has shifted the path of the explosion. Bill and I have been discussing this and running a few models. It is unclear how the explosion will proceed, for the materials are reacting in some as yet unpredictable ways with the room. However, unpredictability is usually a good sign of instability. We are currently expecting it will collapse in on itself once it hits certain valence horizons within the Newtonian space. Diane is still very much statue-ing, but Bill is really quite mobile, and will try blocking the path of the explosion." "Will that work?" "It depends very much on what physics is like at the moment." "What?" "Do not worry, It will be fine, do not worry." "OK, I promise. I won't worry." And, knowing we were going to be here for a while, I got up to fetch a bottle of wine. "Actually, could you stay?" came her voice. "Could you stay talking with me?" "Certainly," I said as I sat down again. "I must admit, This is all pretty weird, talking to you like this." "Thank you for doing this." "What would you like to talk about?" "Ummm? Have you been on holiday recently?" she asked. And I must admit I laughed a little at this. She left the real world a long time ago, as I said, and sometimes came out with such things "I don’t really get to have holidays, much," I said. "Oh, I am sorry. I was planning on going on a holiday, after this project. I went to this extraordinary conference where they spoke about the importance of keeping one’s sensorial sensitivity high through physical activity like walking, swimming, and massage, because the body is part of our brain and a lack of physical input will dull the efficacy of our abstract reason centres." "That sounds like a good holiday." "I think you would get a lot out of it too," she said. "I think it would help." "I think I would. I am sorry for laughing a little bit earlier." "That is OK," she replied. "Maybe you can take me sometime?" I said, jokingly. "I would like that. I would like that." "Then maybe it is a plan," I said. She replied, "thank you." And then there was a pause. "Alright... hold on... alright... alright, there has been a event in the explosion that has caused a surge, and a change in direction. Diane has been fully consumed. There was no discernable reaction in her either physically or through her links, which suggests she was not conscious of the event. The main body of the blast has shifted left and grown significantly in speed and volume. Given no further change, the explosion will continue on this new axis towards me. It is currently around four feet from my body. It has blocked Bill from my line of sight and... alright... alright. I can not communicate with my colleague Bill anymore." "What can I do?" I asked. "It is alright." "I can call the emergency services. Maybe they can get to you in time." "All this is taking place over less than a second, by Earth-normal time. There is no such thing as getting here in time." "Maybe I can read up on a solution, if you give me a pointer." "There is no reading up on this phenomena. It does not exist." "I could record things..." "The chip has recorded all possible data." "You seem really calm." "This is not my voice." She continued. "It has reached the electrics. It is running through the walls. It is beautiful. The speed is extraordinary. Tell me: are you seeing anyone, at the moment?" "No, no I am not.." "I hope you will find someone you feel you can be open with. I considered starting a sexual relationship with you, but decided against it. I think it was the cat. It suggests an over-dependency, I think. I hope that you can see that in yourself." "Yes, I think I can." "And that I think you will need someone. I have not had many relationships, and I can see that my choices have definitely biased towards work, over a relationship-life. But I can see where my choices have taken me. I have been in the room for such amazing things. I have seen, if you will, many worlds. I think, looking at the events in my life, that I am happy with what I have chosen." "I think you have made good choices, too" "Right... the explosion is rising up towards me. As my right arm is in front of me, it will be the first thing the explosion touches. it will be interesting to see how the explosion interacts with my watch. I think the small electronic charge will react to the explosion, possibly explosively itself. "Right... now. The explosion is touhing my fingers. It feels... tingly. It seems the transition between differing speeds of space-time is disrupting the body’s signals to my brain. The closest I can say is that it is like putting a battery on your tongue. it is a not unpleasant experience. The explosion is now almost at my wrist. This is all quite exceptional. "Ah, this is interesting... alright... OK, I believe my lower half is now unconnected to me. The legs certainly, but also the lower half of the trunk, perhaps to the second diaphragm. It is difficult to see, and the internal signals are not easy to translate, but a slight but steady change in my inner ear suggests I am now technically falling. The effect is, understandably, faint. "The explosion is rising at a slightly faster rate now. It is getting closer. And, while I can not move my head anymore, it is rising into my field of view. I can see my reflection in it. My hair is out. Like being underwater. The detail in the explosion is fascinating, with long slow discharges like lightning storms within. Everything is very bright. "The room is changing, through the explosion I can see the walls getting closer, but the furniture getting smaller. the physical dimensions of the space are warping. I... wait, no... alright... I think the heat is warping the tissue of my eye. "Everything is red... everything is yellow... everything is now white... I can see an horizon... I... I can not use my eyes anymore. Can you tell me about what has happened when you are looking for your cat?" And I paused. I didn't know what to say. "Please understand that I would like to hear you talking right now. I rather like your connection to your cat, despite my ribbing. I find it pleasing." So I said: "Once I travelled to an alternate dimension. And met hundreds of alternate versions of myself, and we had to work together to stop the breakdown of the mulitverse." "That sounds extraordinarily interesting! Is there any proof?" "Sadly once we fixed it, everything kind of went back to normal." "Yes, it is typically the way with base realities, that situations of alternate reality often display as a blank when viewed back from that base perspective. Tell me: how did you access this alternate reality?" "There’s an area down by the train tracks animals go to die. You can get there if you are careful to avoid the trains." "The trains still run where you are?" "Sometimes." "Magic is real," she said. "So I keep getting told," I replied. She said, "it feels like I am drowning. But I am spinning fast. It must be touching parts of my brain now. I was facing the explosion, so it will touch the front of my brain first, but it was also rising quickly through my trunk and neck, from below. I believe that will affect my sense of physicality... alright... alright... I have no sensory input at all now. It is difficult now to discern what even counts as an event. The spinning has stopped... alright.. I can see my old bedroom. I am in a field. I can walk down to the strea,. The sun is behind clouds. The glass will not break if you are slow. Who are you? How did you get here? The glass will not break if you are slow. It will not make a sound… alright... alright..." They let out a long low moan. They said, “I would like to stop talking now. Will you speak to me? Tell me a story. I like your stories. I am asking you to do this. Do this for me. Tell me a story.” I told her this: Once upon a time there was a leaf that blew about in the wind. It blew around with a thousand other leaves and made patterns in the air. The leaf did not know it was in the pattern. The pattern did not  know how the wind would shape it. The wind had no idea it was making a pattern with the leaves. And no one was there to see it. And the world span on and on. And in that world the air was full of patterns and in those patterns were thousands of leaves and in those leaves a single leaf blew about in the wind. When I finished the line was quiet. The explosion did not make the news.

THIS HAS BEEN THE FOURTH EPISODE OF THE LOST CAT PODCAST, SEASON 3, TITLED 'EXPLOSION', WRITTEN AND PERFORMED BY A P CLARKE. COPYRIGHT 2017.

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