#also the phenomenon of being sad about something happening to them as a reflection of one's own fears is interesting

[uncloseted]

what do u say to a friend who seems to be falling to a transphobic path (via insta shorts). before she told me she supportss ppl's identities and pronouns but now shes repsoting bathroom trans women in bathroom content. where do i find resources and good evidence to help her im rlly sad abotu this

Ahh, that’s a hard situation to be in. Social media algorithms are so powerful in pulling people further and further towards prejudiced viewpoints. What to say kind of depends on the person- what their stated concerns are, what they’re actually worried about, and what kind of points usually get them to change their minds. That said, there are a few things I’ve had at least some success with:

The first one is to try and get the person to empathize with trans people. Usually this involves asking them how they would feel if people insisted on calling them [opposite gender version of their name] and using [opposite gender pronouns]. This is especially effective if the person has a nickname they exclusively go by, because then you can ask them how they feel when people insist on using their “birth name” instead of the name they go by. You can also ask them to reflect on their own relationship with gender. What makes them feel like they’re the gender that they are? How do they know their gender? Is their gender identity important to them? What does gender mean to them? Sometimes just getting them to reflect on what the trans experience is like makes a difference in terms of seeing trans people as people who just want to be respected instead of as a political football. Depending on how they feel about that line of questioning, another tact you can try is “born this way” - that trans people are born trans, and that it’s unfair to discriminate against them for something they can’t control. That was relatively effective when people were debating over gay marriage, and I think it works reasonably well here, too. This can also be a good place to point out that people who we might consider “trans” - that inhabit a cross-gender role in society, who cross dress, who occupy the social role of a third gender, etc. - have been documented for tens of thousands of years. It’s not a new phenomenon, despite the fact that people treat it as if it is.

Going off of that, it can be helpful to put the trans rights movement in a historical context. I like to remind people that they were losing their minds in this exact same way about gay people ten years ago, and then they all kind of got over it and the world hasn’t ended as a result. Is this really, substantially different than that, or do people just not like change? A lot of reactionary movements are just people who don’t like change trying to retroactively justify their discomfort, and I don’t think this case is any different. This works particularly well with the bathroom debate, because you can say, “we’ve always had moral panics about bathrooms. Until the 1960s, bathrooms were racially segregated in the US. Politicians argued that desegregating bathrooms would lead to a public health emergency because because “venereal diseases were commonplace among blacks, and an integrated ladies’ room would put white women at risk of catching VD from black women”. In the 70s, the Florida Legislative Investigative Committee issued a report warning of the dangers to the “health and well being of our population” due to gay men using public bathrooms, with particular concerns about gay men assaulting young boys in bathrooms. Obviously, neither of those things happened- there was no increase in VD after desegregating women’s bathrooms nor an uptick in child molestation because we allowed gay men to use public restrooms. Do we really have evidence to suggest that trans people pose a credible threat to public health or public safety? Or are the talking points about trans people in bathrooms the same as these previous pro-segregation talking points in that they’re not based in fact?

You can also ask them about the practicalities of their concerns. Assuming we did want to make sure that the only people allowed in women’s bathrooms are people who were assigned female at birth, how do we enforce that? Is there someone who will stand outside every public restroom and check people’s ID cards? Will women have a special key that allows them access to women’s restrooms? It’s not practical to go by “well, I’ll just know,” because lots of trans women “pass” and a lot of AFAB butch women don’t. In fact, AFAB butch lesbians have reported that they’re facing more harassment in public bathrooms than ever before. And ironically, this creates a situation in which trans men can’t use the bathroom that transphobes think they should be using- lest they be accused of being a man in a women’s space. Depending on the person, this may be the time at which you can point out that bathrooms bills aren’t really about protecting women in women’s bathrooms- they’re about creating a situation in which trans and gender nonconforming people are excluded from public life.

Along with the practicality concern, you can ask about practicality on the part of the trans person (or person they think is pretending to be trans in order to game the system). Sticking with the bathroom example, being a rapist who dresses up as a women and assaults people in bathrooms is a terribly impractical plan. They would have to, what, buy women’s clothes, dress up as a woman, wait outside a public restroom, wait for it to be totally empty, then wait for an unsuspecting woman to go in, follow her and sexually assault her while hoping nobody enters the bathroom during the assault or hears from the outside? Purely from a practical perspective, who would bother to do that? I’m sure it’s not zero people, but I don’t think the legality of trans people being in public restrooms is going to meaningfully change the number of sexual assailants that choose that method, right? If they’re going to do that they’re already doing it, legal or not. This type of argument also works for “men entering women’s sports to get an advantage” - practically speaking, would it be worth it to physically and socially transition and face the social repercussions of being trans all to try to get a slightly better chance at a college scholarship or to get a slightly better chance to win a professional sporting competition? Maybe those people are out there somewhere, but to me that seems like a huge, lifetime commitment for a very temporary career, and I just don’t think many people are going to do that. Plus, these kinds of arguments are red herrings- what they’re worried about isn’t actually trans people, but (mostly) cis men pretending to be trans for some sort of perceived advantage. It feels unfair that trans people should have their rights taken away because cis men might try to take advantage of those rights.

Again down the practicality route, you can try the, “what are you actually worried about?” tactic. People who are anti-trans will often claim that they’re not against trans people; they simply have concerns about a specific threat that trans people pose. They’re not against trans people; they’re worried about sexual assault in public bathrooms or they’re worried about fairness in sports or whatever. At this point, you extrapolate what they’re “actually” worried about- “oh, so you’re worried about sexual assault against women, that’s a really big concern for me, too.” Then you hit them with, “so surely you’re this concerned about [bigger problem], right?” This can look something like, “you must be really concerned about the 70% of sexual assaults that are perpetrated by someone the victim knows and the 67% of assaults that happen in the victim’s home or the home of a family member. What do you think we can do to protect women in those circumstances?” If you want to be a bit cheeky, you can say something like, “if you’re worried about sexual assault, you must be really concerned about the fact that 66% of trans people will be sexually assaulted in their lifetime.” Putting their concerns into a larger perspective forces them to either acknowledge that there’s a bigger issue they should be paying attention to or it forces them to admit their problem is just with trans people, regardless of where harm is actually being perpetrated.

In terms of resources, a lot of you will probably know that I really like Natalie Wynn’s YouTube channel, Contrapoints. It provides a lot of thoughtful and nuanced discussions of trans identity and transphobia, as well as discussing the mentality of people who are transphobic and how their minds might be changed.

I’m sure there are other trains of thought you can try and that these may or may not work for everyone, but they are tactics or arguments that I’ve found to be useful in my day to day life. Hopefully they’ll help a bit for your friend, too.

[firesofdainix]

pspsps hello beloved marijuana I thought of something about Hideaki and wanted to share

since his appearance changes according to his mood, do you think as the apathy and indifference starts building up while he was in the cursed realm, his hair and eye color start getting duller and duller (assuming they have color in the cursed realm lmao)

I wanna talk about this in a complicated and long answer, Because I'm in the mood to talk more about Hideaki. Here's a few more facts about his powers and some more insight in his personality under the cut:

Hideaki's entire color palette, before he died, was a warm, soft spring, correlating to his initial personality of being a warm, bright child who clutches on optimism and happiness. That's why he always taps into the sub-element of spring when he uses his powers, because it reflects his attitude and way of life. He was born and raised by optimistic and well off parents who only wanted to see their children grow up happy with careers and a life ahead of them. Thus, why they let Hideaki go with FSM, no matter how sad they are about the ordeal.

Spring mostly taps into the power of Lightning, simply because spring is also the rainy season and just because I want to, lol. It can command the area in Hideaki's proximity to change or evolve in their seasonal patterns, but changing the actuality of the season is taxing for someone as young as Hideaki so he keeps it safe. He can make a flower bloom in the dead of winter, or can make a spring shower out of nowhere in the summer season. Nevertheless, he is in his most powerful during spring season, since he doesn't NEED to control the season nor temperature until he's comfortable enough to start fighting.

The Element of Seasons can also control the quality or traits attributed towards each season: Hideaki is the strongest in spring because his personality makes it compatible for him to control the season. That's why his eye color and hair, most of the time, resembles spring the most, because he's happy and joyful and all things associated with that season. He's vibrant and exudes optimism and that's what makes him so strong in a season where people get pollen allergies (idk I live in a tropical country).

Anyways, talking about moods, Hideaki could also control summer with little to no struggle as well; as a season commonly after spring, summer, in Hideaki's case, is based off raw emotions, outburst, passion and his temper flaming. While spring is his natural personality, happiness incarnate, summer is the emotions that he has to let out every once in a while. Initially, when he was a rookie elemental master not knowing what was happening to him, his confusion, anger, and frustration over not understanding why this phenomenon is tied to him accidentally almost burnt a part of the forest down because the season of summer had been tied to his emotion. It's what led FSM to find him in the first place and comfort him over why this is happening.

So, while his emotional outbursts can be tied to summer still, he has better control over how much he exudes over his element. So when his hair and eyes are in its summer colors (more vibrant and fiery), and the temperature around them is somewhat abnormally warm (especially during winter, autumn, and spring seasons), it means that Hideaki is probably experiencing strong emotions of either passion or anger. Maybe you should start talking to him before he burns down another forest again. Because of his affinity towards summer, he can tap in to the core element of Fire (because summer = hot lmao) helping either increase the temperature or decrease it. In some extreme cases, he can create a fire by making the temperature rise.

Now we go onto the elements Hideaki didn't have primary or stable control over, before he died: autumn and winter. If spring is the embodiment of his personality and how he views things in his life, while summer is his raw feelings and passion, autumn and winter are the opposites of what he and his entire being stood for... For a while, of course.

Autumn is the season represented with abundance, plentiful harvest, but simultaneously represented with death, decay, and decline. You can already see where Hideaki is struggling with this; Hideaki can only replicate or manipulate the one side of autumn that is all about the harvest and abundance of harvest, but not the other side of it. He struggles to understand that sometimes life is meant to be lost. He can tap into the element of earth, yes, but because he can't control the side of autumn very well his access to the element of earth is quite limited and closed off to him. When using autumn's powers, his appearance only appears as a slightly less desaturated version of summer because of his inability to control all of autumn. If he had any true power over the season, his colors would resemble the one in my Hideaki picture.

Some abilities he CAN do while using his autumnal powers: speeding up the process of crops being harvested, ability to detect or sense a change in direction. Autumn is the season of dormancy, which is why Hideaki struggles; he is known to be active and enthusiastic over everything, so finding himself trying to be... Lethargic or inactive is like a mortal sin for Hideaki.

Next up is winter, a season that transmutes coldness and representation of death. Hideaki also doesn't have the personality of winter (nor autumn), and is the complete opposite of his personality. It's literally the representation of inactivity, detachment, stillness, stagnance that Hideaki finds repulsive throughout his life. It's beautiful, yes, but he would rather just be able to move or feel something other than being, well, the same thing as a winter wonderland. Because of this, he STRUGGLES attempting to replicate winter or even manipulate traits that are usually associated through winter, to the point he avoids using it unless the other Elemental Masters force him to for whatever reason. He couldn't properly tap into the Element of Ice; he can make temperature frigid, but beyond that, it's a really big struggle.

(Fun fact! He actually managed to defeat the Oni of Anger with a trivial temperature decrease, to distract him, before Kokoro goes in for the kill. That's how you deal with toxic father in laws everyone!)

Anyways, about Hideaki's colors depending and changing on his mood or what season he's channeling, it's time to go into his abilities post-mortem. He was the first and last Elemental Master of Seasons (he planned for his baby to become the next inheritor, but you know what happened), so most data about his abilities is lost through history. Anyways, because he died in a gruesome, tragic way and is then subjected to the worst condition of afterlife possible, his spring and summer persona and traits start to fade.

Hideaki starts to understand what the season of autumn truly meant during his years in the Cursed Realm, filled with misery and the case of not having to do anything. Not wanting to do anything anymore, knowing that every escape, every attempt is quite futile, he started to lose hope and what made him Hideaki in the first place. While there is no concept of seasons in the Cursed Realm, he can now control all sides of autumn, tapping into the element of earth properly without any struggle. His emotions slowly but surely begin to grow stagnant, less passionate, less feeling over the years. He is only left with the growing sense of bitterness and that building apathy. Simply put, because of the prompt betrayal and murders carried about his legacy.

When autumn transitions into winter, it's not a very special change, because they're all ghosts and the only way to see whether or not they have colors is if the green pigmentation is a little lighter or darker. But Hideaki KNOWS he's been stuck in this wintry cover for over a thousand years. And yes, because spring colors are all about the softness of colors and being full, winter is the opposite of that, the colors getting duller and duller as the years went by. It's a consequence to his power, as the successor of the Great Devourer's seasonal abilities. Seasons are the driving force of his power, yes, but it also gives and takes from his own emotions, which is the biggest link of them all.

Winter is the season of death, stillness, void, and frigid. Hideaki in the next life is dead, a specter, an old incarnation of his old self. He thinks that, in the end of all things, the person he used to be is gone. It died when he died. This new person that ended up in the Cursed Realm, turned into villain, the thing he hates the most. Yet, after so many years, so much suffering, so much overwhelming emotions that couldn't be solved... he stopped. He developed the need to stop feeling. The need to not cast his expression to the stage, to be the husband the Preeminent wanted him to be. The person that is supposed to not care about anything at all. Yet as the apathy built up, so is his emotions resistance. Somewhere inside him, the last trace of spring remains, no matter how much he want to believe that the person he once was was gone.

<small>... he just doesn't want to believe that some part of him still cares about the people around him.</small>

Here's a discord convo about Hideaki's struggle with empathy and emotions, along with a character parallel I actually created with another oc of mine, Alvern, who's the complete opposite of Hideaki.

Here is also doodles of his summer and winter variant when it comes to the comparison of his most vibrant colors to his lowest, duller and blander ones:

#ninjago #lego ninjago #chel answers #ninjago oc: hideaki fujimori #alvern wand #sorry if this barely sounds coherent lmao i never read back and i always hit post when i finish #but yeah this is basically the entire rundown about hideaki #... i need to add this to my doc i made up a bunch of shit #he needed someone to level how his apathetic lifestyle is kind of stupid #which is why i brought him to socialize with morro in the first place #morros temper and ambition needs a cap and lid and hideaki is kind enough to do just that #but yeah this is hideaki he is so <3333333 #i got so delusional to the point i thought s5 had hideaki and was sad to remember he only exists in my mind #ty for the ask i had so much thoughts on the guy i need to say out loud

[bybdolan]

Bla bla celebrity culture is bad and toxic but also I had some of my best days on here virtually celebrating the birthdays of strangers whose music me n my mutuals love so maybe finding comfort in and feeling understood by an artist isn't always all that bad.

#also the phenomenon of being sad about something happening to them as a reflection of one's own fears is interesting #tbd #this is about bruce' birthday

[uvobreakmylegs]

30 Seconds

This one might get a sequel but I’m not sure yet

Bodyswap Soulmate AU

Warnings: gore, graphic depictions of violence, threats of violence, kidnapping

It was like something out of a horror movie.

Several men lay before you in a darkened room, pieces of their bodies – their heads even – completely gone, the marks that were left around the gaping wounds that had an odd white glow to them, akin to something having taken a bite out of them.

Something like the fish that swam in the air above you.

A million questions flew through your mind, of what the hell this was; who these people were; how was there no blood despite the obvious carnage - you were literally just in the bathtub, how did you even get here?! Then you remembered that humans needed to breathe in order to live, and your lungs hadn't taken in anything since this nightmare scenario started.

You let out a breath, and along with it escaped a small, sad whimpering noise as you tried to process the scene in front of you. And then you froze again.

“What....”

You were speaking, but the words that were coming out of your mouth were not in your voice.

For the first time, you looked down at your body.

This was not your body.

You were in the body of a pale, bare-chested man wearing a long black trench-coat with fur on the lining, holding a book in one hand.

Your discovery was so jarring that you almost forgot about the men and the fish.

“Y-y-you..... Phantom Troupe monster!”

The words were just about screamed at you and you jumped back. The man laying closest was facing you, the entire top half of his head completely gone. He had to have been missing most, if not all of his brain. How the hell was he still talking? Glancing at the bodies of the other men, you saw that, to your horror, they were still alive as well. Groaning and moving as best as they could despite how the severity of their wounds meant that they should not still be alive. One of the fish came down close to your head and you flinched, stumbling backwards until you fell to the floor.

“Damn you, Chrollo!” the man from before yelled.

“Even if you don't die tonight, someone will get you someday! You'll pay for your crimes, you Meteor City piece of trash!”

His last words were spat out before one of the fish dipped down and bit off the remainder of his head, leaving behind the stump that was his neck and more of that white glow that came from the edges of his skin. His body began to flail, with what remained of his arms and legs banging against floor. Maybe in an attempt to crawl to you, or maybe it was simply all he could do at that point.

Your breath started coming out as short, harsh gasping as you began to hyperventilate, your eyes going back up to the monstrous fish that still moved about. They didn't seem to be paying attention to you, but you had no idea when that could change. Nothing about this made sense, but you did your best to reign in the terror that kept you immobile. The single rational thought of “get out of this room” pushed through your panic, and your eyes darted about the space as you tried to find an exit. But a glance at the large mirror on the wall that reached up to the ceiling made you pause once more.

The man who's body you inhabited sat next to you in the reflection, his eyes - your eyes? - wide as you took it all in. A smooth pale face, slicked back dark hair, an odd tattoo on the forehead and gray eyes that filled with tears before they began to trickle down your - his - cheeks. Breath came in harsher and you could hear a heartbeat thundering in your ears. You were in someone else's body and you had no clue what to do or why this was happening. And that didn't even factor in the deadly fish or the men currently being eaten alive by them.

In the mirror's reflection, you saw a door open behind you, a strip of artificial light coming from it that grew larger as it opened wider. You snapped your head back to see a a blonde woman in a purple suit standing at the door. The neutral expression she wore morphed into one of shock as she looked at you, as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing.

“Chrollo?” she asked.

And suddenly it was all gone.

You were standing by the hanger that held your purse, holding your wallet in one hand and your ID in the other. A shiver ran through you, and you realized that you were naked and dripping with water, like you'd gotten out of your bath without drying off first.

You stared ahead at the wall blankly for a few moments. And then, like a car smashing into a concrete slab, the utter shock and fear of what you had just experienced hit you, and you fell to the floor crying, holding yourself as you tried to understand what had just happened.

You didn't get any sleep that night. Every time you closed your eyes, all you could see were those men lying in pieces and the nightmare-fuel fish. Hours later, when you had finally calmed down, you took to the internet to try and figure out what had happened and what the hell you had just seen.

A Google search on “swapping bodies” brought up a few results, but they all seemed questionable to you. The most common claim was that it was how you found your “soulmate”. An enthusiastic blogger had detailed her experience with finding her current husband in this way, of how one day she and her husband unexpectedly swapped bodies for thirty seconds and later found each other. The blog post quickly devolved into the kind of romantic mush that was only fit for the most asinine of rom-coms that included how the blogger and her husband spent months trying to find each other on opposite ends of the continent because they knew they “were meant for each other”. Other posts that didn't appear outwardly fake told basically the same thing with much less flair, and the term “soulmate” came up several times. You weren't sure how willing you were to believe in such a concept. If everyone was supposed to have a soulmate, shouldn't such a phenomenon be reported on in the mainstream? Wouldn't there be people trying to figure out how such a thing was possible? If it was real, you wouldn't need to dig through personal online testimony from anonymous users to read about it.

And yet it had happened to you. Your consciousness had entered the body of a man who, if these posts were correct, was the person you were meant to be with. The only other option was that you were going crazy, and if you were really just having delusions that felt that real, then you needed to get yourself checked into a mental hospital.

Speaking of that man...

The words that had been yelled at you were still fresh in your mind. Phantom Troupe. Meteor City. Chrollo. The woman you saw near the end had also used the word “Chrollo” when referring to you, so it seemed likely that it was his name.

While looking up body-swapping had produced mostly questionable results, the next few terms brought up practically nothing.

Google didn't recognize the name “Chrollo” and kept trying to autocorrect it. “Phantom Troupe” brought up a few conspiracy forums talking about an underground criminal group that had allegedly slaughtered thousands, but the posters claimed that if you wanted any more information you would need to pay to get it on the “dark web”. The only one that gave you something of a lead was “Meteor City”. You found an article from a few years back reporting on some government official speaking out against the city's existence and announcing plans to have it destroyed, though the words he used to describe this process were a bit more diplomatic. But when you tried looking for a follow up to the article, you only found various reports of how the official and his entire team vanished overnight.

Meteor City: A place populated by undocumented inhabitants and a hub for criminal activity.

The Phantom Troupe: A group of criminals allegedly responsible for countless deaths but with no official record of any of their crimes.

Chrollo: A person who was somehow connected to these things and, if what you had read earlier was true, was also your “soulmate”.

The term still seemed ridiculous to you, but if that really was the case, and the Phantom Troupe really was as bad as the things you had read, then you were in danger. And you had no clue where to start to try and protect yourself.

The sky was tinted with the pink and yellow hues of sunrise when you finally fell into a dreamless sleep, exhaustion finally taking you. The laptop remained open in front of you, Google once more showing you no results for the name “Chrollo”.

The next few weeks passed by with you on constant high alert, always looking over your shoulder and triple checking the locks on your door at night. You were jumpy, and every time you came across someone who looked even remotely like the woman or “Chrollo”, you had a hard time breathing. The only upside had been that your fear left you exhausted most nights, and your subconscious was too tired to conjure up the images of those fish in your mind while you slept. Any time you did dream, that scene played again and you often woke up with a start.

Several of your friends had noticed the change in your behavior and had approached you privately to ask what was wrong. As much as you wanted to tell them everything, you doubted they would believe you. So you had made up a story that you were worried that you were being stalked, citing that you felt like you were being watched and that you had come back once to find items of yours displaced (which the second part wasn't technically untrue).

Most of them tried to insist that you go to the police, but begrudgingly backed down when you told them that there wasn't enough evidence for anything like that. Their plan B was then to stay around you as much as they could, at least one person escorting you from your apartment to you job, and several nights a week a few people would stay over. Having them around you and just hanging out with them calmed you. The time you spent with them were brief moments of levity that took your mind off of what you were actually afraid of, and when you were alone after, terrible thoughts of them being ripped apart and eaten plagued your mind.

The moments of peace you had with them lasted for about a month, where you had all agreed that the “stalker” wasn't an issue anymore since there had been no trace of such a person. As much as you wanted them to stay with you, you weren't about to try and push it for fear of them thinking you were lying (which you technically were). They all made it clear that you could go to any of them if something came up again, and one of them, Harrison, gave you a taser, just in case things took a turn for the worse. Carrying such a thing was nerve-wracking, but at least it wasn't a weapon that could do permanent damage to you if you somehow managed to accidentally use it on yourself, and it gave you some comfort that you were no longer walking around completely defenseless.

It had been over two months since that incident, and you had yet to see anything of that man. It wasn't lost on you that when you had returned to your body, you had been holding your ID with your full name and address. Given the state you had found yourself in, he'd wasted no time finding out who you were, having gone straight from the bathroom to where you kept your purse to find your identity. He was calm enough in that situation to know he had limited time to find out about you and had managed to do just that. He was planning on tracking you down, you were certain. And while you wanted to run as far away as possible, it wasn't so easy to just pack up and leave.

Your lease renewal had been coming up, and you needed time to find new housing in a different area. Somewhere away from here where he hopefully couldn't find you. It wasn't what you wanted, but you needed to get away. Whatever it was that Chrollo wanted, whether it actually because of a “soulmate” connection or if he just wanted to kill you, nothing good could come from meeting him. Of that you were sure.

As your final day in your apartment came closer and more and more of your belongings were packed into boxes, the weight of the anxiety that had been on you began to lift. There had been no sign of that man, and as that date approached you felt a sense of relief, that you really were going to leave and he wouldn't be able to find you after that. You'd deactivated all of your social media accounts and once again asked your friends for help, this time to just keep quiet about where you had gone to in fear of the “stalker”. If a random man approached them asking questions about you they would know better than to answer, and your landlord legally couldn't discuss the whereabouts of former tenants.

You paused in the middle of packing up some of your clothes.

Legally.

A man who fed people to monster fish probably didn't care about what was “legal” or not. And he probably wouldn't accept any stories your friends gave him if he was to go to them.

The fear that had been in the back of your mind since you'd opened up to your friends had been growing stronger. That Chrollo's response to you running would be to take it out on them. That they would deny knowing you when he asked and he would bring out those murder fish and make them pay for lying with their lives.

'I should warn them', was your initial thought, to tell them everything. But telling them the whole story would make things more difficult. They'd probably keep you from moving away and try to make you seek psychiatric help. Getting out of the area after that would likely be impossible. And it didn't help that you had no proof that he actually was coming after you; only a strong feeling that he definitely would be closing in on you sometime soon.

Your friends didn't deserve whatever horrible fate he could bring upon them, but you weren't going to stick around to see what happened to you if he found you. The best bet for them was that he would just leave them alone.

You continued with your packing, telling yourself over and over again that he wouldn't do anything to them and that there was no shame in running to save yourself, doing your absolute best to ignore the part of you that repeated that they wouldn't survive.

Maybe deep down you were just as terrible of a person as your soulmate and this connection to him was your punishment.

Everything that wasn't packed away in a moving truck had been stuffed into a suitcase that waited for you at your now empty apartment. Just one more night here and you would have successfully uprooted your life and moved on to one that was hopefully better.

You were walking back after your last shift at work, thinking of the things you might do after your move while also wondering how far you would need to go to protect your identity, maybe look into changing your name and dying your hair. The afternoon sun was beating down on you and the sidewalk was filled with other people who were likely also just getting off of work, the level of noise fairly high.

Being in a crowd of people had always made you feel safe. You had reasoned that there was no way anything would happen if you were surrounded by potential witnesses; no matter what sort of things your soulmate was capable of, there was no way he could do anything that could hurt dozens of people all at once. That was what you had told yourself all this time.

But the next time you glanced up, you froze.

He was there.

That man whose reflection you had seen in the mirror, whose body you had inhabited for that brief period of time, was standing in front of you, his hands in his pockets and his head tilting to the side with a small smile when the two of you made eye contact.

Your hands rigidly gripped the strap of your purse while your legs stayed stiff. You wanted to run, you desperately wanted to run away, but like that night when you had swapped bodies, your limbs felt like lead and you couldn't bring yourself to move more than a few inches.

He started to approach and you tensed. You'd only managed to take a single step back before he was on you, his hand firmly gripping your arm and pulling you with him to the side.

“It would be rude to stand in the way of all of these people, don't you agree?” he asked, motioning to the people who now passed the two of you by.

You didn't answer, and all you could do was hope that someone would notice that something was wrong with you two and raise some sort of alarm. Remembering the taser Harrison had given you, your free hand slipped down to your purse, trying your best to remove it without him noticing.

“It's very nice to meet you,” he continued, “I'm Chrollo.”

His hand stayed on your arm, and he clearly had no intention of letting go.

Words didn't want to leave you, instead blocking up in your throat. All you really wanted to do was scream and get away from him. The man you had been stressing out over for the past few months found you just as you were about to leave and had casually came up to introduce himself. As if the circumstances surrounding your swap weren't any issue.

Taking in a few deep breaths, you composed yourself enough to speak, all the while he waited for you patiently.

“This.... This isn't a very nice meeting for me,” you said, “actually, I really wish you didn't come to see me.”

Surprisingly he nodded, seemingly understanding why you didn't want to meet him.

“Our switch happened at a very unfortunate time; I can't blame you for being apprehensive.”

..... Apprehensive?

This man made you a witness to that horror show and he was brushing it off as just apprehension?

“That's kind of an understatement, don't you think?” you snapped, the fear that had kept you petrified breaking for a moment.

“I understand that you're afraid. But you shouldn't be. I'm not going to hurt you; I'm here to take you with me.”

“I don't want to go with you,” you said.

“I won't make you witness anything else like that. You'll be taken care of for the rest of your life,” Chrollo continued, ignoring your statement.

“You made me watch those men die.”

You then hissed in pain as his grip on your arm became tighter. Evidently your voice was raising too much for his liking.

“There isn't much that can be done about that now,” said Chrollo, “I'm sorry that you needed to see that, but in time I'm sure you'll forgive me for it.”

He remained nonchalant, that small smile still on his face while he spoke of those dead men and what you had experienced as if he was talking about the weather. Below, you found the taser in your purse and gripped it, readying yourself to bring it out.

“I want nothing to do with you.”

Chrollo sighed.

“I'm afraid you have no choice. Soulmates are meant to be together,” he answered. His other hand gripped your chin, raising you up as if to pull you into a kiss.

“You were meant to be with me,” Chrollo whispered.

He stopped suddenly, his expression changing to one mild surprise as he looked down to where you had jammed the taser beneath his ribs, your thumb hovering over the ON button.

“Get the fuck away from me or I'll turn this on. I'll scream for help and tell everyone here that you're trying to kidnap me,” you hissed.

With the way the two of you were positioned, none of the passersby could see the taser you held against him. So there was still a way to get out of this with nothing happening, which would be the best option for him. If he left you now, you would be able to escape and leave all of this behind in favor of your new life. Chrollo was bold, you would give him that, as you had been so sure he wouldn't approach you in public. But being in public gave you an advantage: a young woman yelling about a man attacking her would instantly draw attention, and Chrollo would have all sorts of scrutiny on him. A man who officially didn't exist wouldn't want dozens of witnesses to any sort of crime. He had to leave you alone.

Chrollo stared at the taser for a few moments, and then looked back to you, his expression neutral. Despite your threat, he wasn't letting go, though his grip had lessened.

“This is a surprise. With what Pakunoda said and what we saw on our observation of you, you seemed like a much more compliant type. Where exactly is this fight coming from?” he murmured.

The way those gray eyes seemed to look right through you made you more uncomfortable the longer you kept eye contact, and you glanced back to the people around you. No one had noticed what was going on between you two; even if they couldn't see the taser, you had been hopeful that at least one person would have seen that something was wrong and would have come up to investigate. You had broken out into a nervous sweat, and your anxiety only got worse the longer he stared at you.

“Do it.”

The words that he spoke so calmly caught you by surprise, and once more you couldn't speak.

“If you're that desperate to try and get away from me, then turn that thing on and call for help,” he said, “but know that if you do that, all of these people will die. And you won't be getting away from me.”

You looked again to the crowd of people.

“You.... You can't do that. There's too many..... You'd never be able to...”

That smile returned to his face.

“My dear, much like how you know very little of taking yourself off the grid, you also know very little of what I am capable of. I assure you, I can kill everyone here within a matter of minutes. Of course, I would rather you didn't drive me to that point; it would be much easier for all of us if you just came with me.”

The hand on your jaw slid downwards until it was gripping your own, and he pushed the taser harder against himself as if to encourage you to use it.

“Do it, but know that it won't change anything. All you'll be accomplishing is killing these people and making things unpleasant for yourself once I take you to your new home. Cooperate, and you won't be responsible for anyone dying.”

Despite his slight smile, his eyes were cold. He meant it when he said he would kill everyone. You recognized what he was doing with the way he worded it: that you would be responsible for the deaths of these bystanders, as if you were the one willing to murder just to make a point. But you also recognized that you had no way of stopping him – no, that wasn't correct. You had a way of stopping him, and that was to do as he said.

The crushing defeat you felt snuffed out the fight that had been sparked within you, and your head hung low when he pulled your hand away and slipped the taser out of your loosened grip.

“Smart girl,” he said, placing it in his coat pocket.

Chrollo wasted no time in taking you away, pulling you forward and placing an arm across your shoulders, ensuring that you couldn't pull away from him. The two of you walked in silence, making your way past the other men and women in the street. So many people around you, and not one of them was aware that you were being taken against your will.

“You don't need to hold me like this,” you mumbled.

Chrollo didn't answer, nor did he look at you, his eyes staring straight ahead as you turned a corner down a smaller side street. There weren't as many people down this way, and as you came towards the end, you saw two people standing next to a van waiting for you and Chrollo. One of them was a blonde man in light purple clothes that you had never seen before, but the other one you recognized: the woman in the suit who you had seen just before you left Chrollo's body that night. Their gazes were heavy on you as you got closer.

“No trouble then, boss?” the man asked Chrollo, his tone lighthearted.

“Not much,” Chrollo answered. He finally pulled away from you and, to your surprise, pulled out your taser that he had pocketed earlier, tossing it to the man.

“Get rid of that, will you?”

Neither of them said anything: the man inspected it before laughing a little while the woman raised an eyebrow at you. You kept your gaze on your shoes, not saying anything as you were guided to an open back door of the van. You were sat in the middle of the back seat, in between the woman and Chrollo while the other man climbed into the front passenger's seat. Another woman was already sitting in the driver's seat, this one older, most likely middle-aged. She was staring ahead blankly, and you noticed a strange needle with a bat on the end sticking out of her neck.

“Don't worry about it,” said Chrollo, as if reading your mind.

“Let's get going. How far to the next town?”

“With this traffic, it'll likely be about fifteen minutes,” the woman said.

“Alright. Drop us off there; I'll find a car and take her the rest of the way myself. You two shouldn't have too hard of a time taking care of things here,” Chrollo replied. The man and the woman nodded, and a silence fell over all of you as the van began moving.

The man in front looked like he was playing on his phone while the woman in the driver's seat moved like a robot as she drove, and the woman on your left stared out of the window, occasionally glancing at you, as if anticipating an attempt to escape. As much as you wanted to, you weren't stupid enough to try that. The doors on either side of you were blocked off, and any attempt to get out through the back door would be stopped easily. You were trapped and there was nothing you could do.

You stared down at your hands while you gripped your knees, your fingernails slowly digging into your flesh while you silently berated yourself for getting caught, for not doing enough to prevent this, for not telling anyone the truth. Because of your preparations for your move, it would take your friends a long time to figure out you were missing, and by that point who knows where you would be. This was your fault and you were paying for it.

A hand suddenly covered one of yours, and you glanced over to Chrollo. He pulled your hand into his, lacing your fingers together while he smiled at you again, as if sensing your turmoil and trying to calm you down. It didn't feel genuine, however, and you wanted to pull your hand away from his.

It's a better idea not to, a voice inside you said, and you turned your gaze back downwards, leaving your hand in his and trying to ignore the way he chuckled at you.

#chrollo lucilfer #yandere hunter x hunter #yandere x reader #chrollo #reader insert #chrollo x reader #yandere hxh #shalnark #Pakunoda #yandere #shal killed a woman but it's okay cuz she was just a karen

[yoursecretmuse]

My Perception On No Longer Human by Osamu Dazai

🥀 This year has brought me many joys, that have left me with melancholy victories. I have been venturing out of my usual book genres and I've found a selection of well to do books that I simply cannot live without. How I've existed this far without them, I will never know. There are many different types of literature out there and of course I only focus on English and European Literature. Not because I'm bias  in some way. But I've always found American and European culture very interesting. Despite ignoring my very own culture. It had never occurred to me, that until now, I have never heard of Asian Literature. It's like an unknown phenomenon that no one speaks of. When I think back of my studies in school, I've never even heard of my teachers mentioning Asian writers at all. It was like they didn't exist or people found Asian culture not important enough to read about. Which is odd because in Asian countries they have liberties filled with European novel and American novels. Is it safe to say that Asian people find European and American culture interesting, though we do not share the same feelings toward them. Nevertheless, I stumbled upon Osamu Dazai after reading a mutual friends post about Vincent Van Gogh. It was a silly meme that consisted of Van Gogh and Osamu talking over their depression. Which is not something to joke about but I must confess I found it humorous. Through that humor, I decided to research Osamu and the rest is history. So, here is my thoughts on the exceptional book, No Longer Human. I want to give an in-depth review without giving the book away too much (if at all). But I must warn you that spoilers may become a possibility. No Longer Human is broken into three parts, including an introduction in the beginning by Donald Keene, as well as a Prologue & Epilogue by Osamu Dazai himself. So, to make things easier to understand, I'm going to review each part individually.

The Introduction Normally, I would skip this part of the book because at times it can be very boring and bland. But after reading The Sorrows of Young Werther by Johaan Wolfgang Von Goethe, I found it important to read book introductions because they can have valuable information about the writer. In this section, Donald Keene noted how under appreciated Asian writer are in literature. For some odd reason, American & Europeans cultures specifically seem to feel like we cannot learn anything from Asian culture. Perhaps it has something to do with our history with going to battle with certain Asian countries. Yet, that did not stop countries like Japan and China from filling their liberties with American & European literature. Which upsets me. Had it not been for Van Gogh, I would have missed out on an extremely talented writer. I'm not sure who is to blame for this but I find the idea of not representing Asian writers outside of manga is shameful and sad. There is more to their culture than just that. However, as a whole our world only views Asian people in a small and certain light, that barely gives them any kind of positive recognition outside of the obvious stereotypes. In short, I really urge everyone to take time and read the introduction and share your thoughts on Keene's and my views. What do you think and why is Asian literature so lost and underrepresented? Why do Asian writers rather be on the bottom of American top writing lists, than the top of Asian writer lists? It is very interesting.

🥀

The Prologue In this section, you learn of how Ōba Yōzō (aka Dazai himself) feels alienated and very much of a misfit. He tells you how all of his life he has worn a mask to hid his true sensitive and self destructive self. He harshly criticizes himself and informs you of how he feels about the nature of "humans" and how he never felt like one, thus making him believe that he is not. I like this part of the novel because I can relate to it in so many ways. Many things he explained and said is how I felt (and still very much feel) about myself. Not only of my appearance and state of being but also without people. We both share the same reflection on our confidence or lack there of as a child. I shared his thoughts on normality being ugly and being bland and not standing out is worse than being ugly or beautiful. He even goes on to explain that death has more of a soul or an expression than him. The ugly/void he felt as a child (as well as his whole life) has manifested into a visible void, that crept from his inner darkness and it carries a bland look. Which to me speaks volumes. 🥀

The First Notebook Unable to cope with the world around him, Ōba begins to become a jokester and class clown, in order to mask away the alienation that he feels. He engages in planned fails and acts as if he has no clue as to what he does. He tells us of his environment at home. His father always being gone on business and his mother he did not mention much. He speaks of his maids/servants mistreating him, but he never reported them because he sees it as pointless. We also learn he views a "human" as someone who is happy and hopeful. Perhaps, attractive in some way and could possibly have a great deal or comfortable amount of money. Which is strange because his family were quite wealthy and well known. He speaks of how he feels his life is a shame and the life of a "human" was not cut out for him. There is much more to be said here but I do not wish to spoil everything. I still want readers to get a wow factor from this book, without knowing every details and topic. 🥀

The Second Notebook A very key factor in this part is that Ōba is caught by another student named Takeichi who suspects and confronts him on faking his fall during "gym" class. This sends Ōba into a manic behavior and he somewhat becomes obsessed with Takeichi and fears that he will expose him for being a fraud. I found this interesting given Takeichi had no intention on exposing Ōba or telling anyone about his opinions on his stunts. Certain things happens and the two become somewhat of friends and Takeichi began to mention things to Ōba that were predicting and in a way life changing for Ōba. Ōba also finds an strong interest in art, which leads him to start painting. Ōba also becomes apart of a communist group and becomes a respectable member. Though, he does not share their same views and is only there because he views them as misfits. In this section, a young man now, Ōba meets someone by the name of Horiki. Horiki is also a college student but exposes Ōba into an unfortunate and dreadful life cycles, that pleasures and destroys him further. He also tries to commit suicide with a woman named Tsuneko, who dies but he does not. This even tears him apart and causes his family to the verge of disowning him. 🥀

The Third Notebook: Part One Ōba begans to have multiple affairs with different women, from different walks of life. He becomes a heavy drinker and is expelled from college. He becomes too focus on self destruction, he was not able to create or focus on his artwork. He tries to quite smoking and drinking. But struggles terribly. He marries a young girl, who tries to encourage him to stop drinking and for awhile it works. And for a moment Ōba is happy. The two both marry and move in together. 🥀

The Third Notebook: Part Two Working as a cartoon and sober, Ōba feels somber toward marriage life. He thinks of his wife as native and innocent. But he falls into bad habits once he is visited by an old friend named Horiki, who (with Ōba) witnesses Ōba's wife being sexually assaulted by an associate friend. Ōba begins to blame himself, as well as his wife and becomes manic and fills himself with alcohol and is committed into a mental hospital. After leaving his wife for another woman. This parts ends with him being brought to a home that his brother purchased for him and given the money he needed for living and personal interest. Ōba is left feeling empty and recounts his choices and views of hisself. 🥀

Epilogue We are then given the prospective of an outsider, who wanted to meet Ōba but fails. He then meets a friend of Ōba and she gives him the three notebooks. The man is intrigued by the notebooks and decides to publish them. We are left with a reflects of Ōba's friend telling us that he was a kind and gentle soul, who made everyone laugh and smile. 🥀

My Final Thoughts I believe this is one of the greatest books that I have read. I love the rawness of this book and I adore how the events were true. I feel that Osamu Dazai was a great writer and his death is very unfortunate. I find the way he told his life very interesting and beautiful and poetic. I wish I was able to meet him and praise him for being an amazing artist and writer. But the result would probably remain the same. There is so much that we can learn from Osamu and his life. His perception on life and people is very interesting and a very rare viewpoint on life. I highly suggest that everyone checkout this novel and spread the works of Asian Literature. Thanks For Listening. -𝓒

#dark academia #dark academia aesthetic #dark academia community #light academia aesthetic #light academia #light academia community #academia #academia aesthetic #osamu dazai #no longer human #asian literature #asian writers #asian artist #asian author #independent study academia #independent academia #independent study #book review

[straight-outta-kaer-morhen]

Scars <Eskel Soulmate AU>

Request from AO3: "Could you so an Eskel/reader with a soulmate AU? Maybe where soulmates have the same scars. Pretty please?"

Sorry it took so long. This fic has been sitting finished for several months, but I couldn't decide if I liked it enough to post. I've never done a soulmate AU, so this was a fun challenge! Anyways, I hope you enjoy! :D

As always, requests are open

Her claws wracked the side of his face. He'd been trying to avoid this meeting, but fate seemed to always have it's way. He was a fool for invoking the law of surprise all those years ago, and an even bigger fool for running from fate.

Looking up at the young girl, he had nothing in his heart but hate. The way she glowered at him he had no doubts she returned his sentiments.

• •• • A cry escaped her as flesh tore. Her hands shot out to grab her cheek. Blood ran freely down her jaw covering her neck. Horrified at the sight of crimson she helplessly tried to staunch the blood flow. The mage in front of her had his back pressed against the wall. Nothing but horror filled his eyes. This was not how the negotiations with Kaedwen were supposed to go. By the look on his face he hadn't attacked her, or cursed her. He fled the room as the pain seared across her cheek.

At some point she recalled being taken to a nurse for treatment, who was only able to bandage the wound, and send the sorceress on her way.

None of the healers could speed up the process of healing. The wound seemed to be healing on its own time. When it finally did heal, she was left with several jagged scars that even ran down her lips. When she looked in the mirror she was horrified by what she saw.

She seeked out Yennefer of Vengerberg’s powers. If anyone could heal the scars it was her. Very few were close to equal with Yennefer’s abilities.

"I cannot fix this." Yennefer declared, her eyes filling with pity. "This is the mark of a soulmate...and nothing can change fate."

"You were so beautiful." Kiera Metz's voice came softly. Y/N could not fathom the pity filled look she received. Her reflection showed several claw mark's adorned her face. They were raised and red.

Beauty wasn't everything she tried to tell herself, but she knew finding a lover would be impossible. Even her so-called soulmate would want nothing to do with her.

Yennefer gripped her shoulder, "beauty isn't everything."

• •• • "What happened to her?" Geralt inquired, his cat eyes falling on the familiar scars that adorned her face.

"It's a sad story." Triss sighed. "She used to have a beautiful face." Triss began, "the kind of face that makes king's launch wars over."

"Prettier than Yen?"

Triss nodded, "she had a softness, a warmth that Yennefer lacked. It drove men absolutely mad." She mused. "One day during negotiations, her face just tore open. It was the damndest thing."

"When?" Geralt inquired, observing the (h/c).

Triss tapped her chin recounting the years, "it had to have been about 20 years ago...give or take a few years."

"Hmmm." Geralt said, catching the woman's (e/c) eyes. She offered him a soft smile from across the room. He gave her a nod, his eyes tracing the scars that lined her lip. They were uncanny to Eskel's.

"No mage or sorceress could heal her." Triss added. "Apparently soulmate scars work differently, it's a power we know little of."

"Soulmate scars? I thought that was an old wives tale." Geralt asked, startled.

"So did I, but the circumstances of how she acquired them...well there is no other explanation for it." She said with a shrug as she took a sip of wine. "I spoke with the mage that witnessed it. His account was hard to discredit."

"The amount of scars a Witcher acquires, well it's hard to put much stock in the idea." Geralt said, taking another drink of his ale.

Triss waved the woman over, "whatever man acquired those, it must have been hell for him from what Y/N described."

"Y/N, this is Geralt." Triss introduced, "he's taken an interest in your scars." She said leaving the two to get acquainted

Her hand immediately shot up to her face covering the scars. "Forgive me for prying," Geralt began, "I have a friend who has similar scars."

Y/N's eyebrows raised, "is he a Witcher too?"

Geralt nodded, "sounds like he got those scars around the time you did."

"That would explain the pain…" Y/N mumbled, sitting at the table. "I'm very sorry for your friend, I know how he feels." She began a small frown pulling at her face. "No matter how kind you are, people tend to avoid things they can't explain."

"Well, I have reason to believe he may be the answer to those scars."

She shook her head, "even so he wouldn't want to see me." (E/c) eyes flickered up at his feline gaze. "I know exactly how I look Geralt. Kings stopped requesting my presence as soon as they saw my face, the lodge will not send me out diplomatically in case another scar decides to show up." Her jaw was set, "I'm quite positive your Witcher friend would not care to see me."

Geralt nodded, "if you change your mind let me know."

• •• •

Winters were perfect for catching up with his brother in arms. Geralt had debated keeping the scarred woman's existence a secret, but ultimately he decided that it was Eskel who should decide.

He broke the news a few weeks into their stay. He'd made sure Vesemir was in the room. If anyone would have more knowledge on the subjects of soulmates it would be the old Witcher.

"I met a sorceress this past fall." Geralt began, soliciting a scoff from Vesemir.

"Did you bed her too?" The grey haired man asked. Soliciting a soft smile from Eskel as he turned the page of his book.

"No, but she had some interesting scars." Geralt commented.

Eskel's eyes shot up, his hand automatically scratching at the scars that lined his lips. "A sorceress who chose not to have them healed? That's unheard of. They tend to be a vain bunch." Vesemir said thoughtfully.

"They tried, but scars involving soulmates is another thing." Geralt peaked up at Eskel to gage his reaction. The Witcher had stiffened, listening intently.

"Soulmates," Vesemir mused. "That is a very rare phenomenon. I can't say I've ever heard of two soulmates actually finding each other."

"Hmm, I saw the scars with my own eyes. Three claw marks on the side of the jaw." Eskel dropped his book.

"Appeared out of nowhere about twenty years ago." Geralt added. "If I hadn't been mistaken by the pair of tits I would have thought it was Eskel."

Eskel's cleared his throat, "it's a coincidence."

"Maybe, but I don't think so."

"Perhaps it's fate forcing you to make things right?" Vesemir in his infinite wisdom had a point. Much to Eskel's dismay.

"If it's fate we'll run into each other." Eskel dismissed.

"Eskel, you can't outrun fate." Vesemir began, "look what happened to you last time."

Geralt sighed, "I didn't tell you this to feel trapped by fate. I thought you had a right to know, I also think you have a right to tell destiny to fuck off if you want."

Eskel seemed to relax a bit, "was she attractive?"

Geralt nodded, "scars and all. Triss says she was once prettier than Yen." He hesitated, "there is something else you should know…"

Eskel leaned forward curiosity getting the better of him.

"She doesn't think you'd wish to see her."

A frown pulled at the dark haired Witcher's lips. He knew all too well what it was like to carry those scars.

Eskel had once been considered a handsome man. He'd never had a hard time finding a lover, and people used to be friendlier. After he acquired the scars, brothels were the only place he could find pleasure, the contracts he took the people looked on him as if he were a feral beast.

"Go talk to her." Lambert's voice echoed through the hall.

"What have I told you about eavesdropping?" Vesemir asked, turning to the youngest Witcher.

"Ah, can it old man." Lambert said, waving him off. "You're always saying you want a lover. If she really is your soulmate, even she can't turn you down."

That was just like Lambert, to throw his opinion out there regardless if it was welcome or not. "I thought you opposed Geralt bringing visitors to Kaer Morhen. You really want me to bring someone too?"

"If it’ll get you laid, I’m willing to take one for the team."

Vesemir rubbed his temples, no one could get on his nerves like the younger Witcher. Bold and brash, Lambert had a tendency to speak without thinking things through. It seemed the mutations could not quell the passion for living that burned inside.

“You have time. Destiny can wait.” Geralt said downing the rest of his ale. “Think on it.” He said, patting Eskel’s shoulder before heading upstairs for the evening.

Vesemir and Lambert were quick to follow, leaving Eskel alone with his thoughts. He turned to the many shelves that lined the wall. The bookshelves had been moved years ago when the library had decayed enough that Vesemir didn't trust it to house his precious tomes. If anyone were to have a book on the subject of soulmates, it would be the old man.

The book was thin and covered in years of dust. Eskel brushed the cover off. The letters had worn off, but the faint engraving of the title could be seen, Love Potions, Relationships, and Soul Mates. Eskel flipped to the title page, how to tell if they're the one, potions to make them fall in love, and tips turning that crush into love.

A small chuckle escaped Eskel's lips. He wondered when the old Witcher had picked this up, and who he was trying to woo. The table of contents indicated the chapter on soulmates started on page 69.

"Soulmates were fated by the gods. The oldest known magic, but very little have studied it. Soulmates could be confirmed by matching scars. It has been speculated that when one soul receives the mark their kindred soul receives it as well.

It is unknown why the other soul experiences the same wound, and pain. Some scholars assume it is to bound the two souls in a mutual understanding.

Soulmate bonds used to be very common, but the emergence of alchemy, and sorcery has made the magic almost extinct.

Soulmate bonds typically occur during strange phenomenons such as blood moons, eclipses, solstices, etc.

There have been instances where soulmates have argued that they were fated to meet.”

Eskel flipped the page, but the next chapter was regarding a love potion. He took care placing the book back on the shelf.

He let his mind wander as he trudged up the stairs to his room. Having someone to hold on nights like this wouldn't be unwelcome.

The room was silent, the fire had turned to embers. He threw another log on coaxing it back to life with Igni. The only thing in the room that indicated someone lived in it were stacks of books, and his weapons laid on a long, narrow table.

He toed off his boots and sat on the edge of the low bed. He wanted to laugh at Geralt for suggesting such an idea. He wanted to tell Vesemir that destiny could go to hell. He wanted Lambert to realize that no one would ever want him, but most of all he wanted it to be true.

Of course he wanted someone to love him, but how the hell could he accept a love like that? If he couldn't love the scars on his face how could he expect someone else to? The questions raised in his mind, but Lambert's voice rang in the back of his mind if she is your soulmate, even she can't turn you down. Perhaps that was the ember that sparked hope in his heart.

• •• •

The lodge trusted her with an alchemy shop. It seemed even she couldn't fuck that up. The once brilliant negotiator was now grinding, mixing and drying herbs. The shop bell jingled indicating a customer. "I'll be with you in a moment."

"Take your time."

She dried her hands on her apron, as she turned to face the deep voice. Her eyes widened at the sight of him. The scars that lined his lips were identical to hers.

"I'm sorry. This is my fault." He began as her hand shot up to cover the scars.

"I told Geralt you wouldn't want to see me." She said turning away from the dark haired Witcher.

He was quick to reach out to her, "no you're beautiful...no beautiful isn't the right word..it's not enough to describe you." Eskel breathed taking in her soft (e/c) eyes. "A choice I made hurt you." Eskel's voice was thick with shame, "and you've had to live with that."

She took him in, and her fingers traced the scars that lined his face. "Perhaps it's not all bad."

Eskel's heart fluttered at the prospect. She had yet to turn him away, and he dared to let his heart hope.

"These scars led me to you."

#eskel the witcher #eskel #eskel oneshot #eskel the witcher x reader #eskel x reader #eskel x y/n #eskel the witcher x y/n #eskel the witcher oneshot #the witcher oneshot #the witcher 3

[3pirouette]

Fic: A Tiny Infinity (1/1)

Title: A Tiny Infinity By: TriplePirouette/3Pirouette Spoilers: CA:TFA Disclaimer: They're not mine. Word Count: 13278 Distribution: AO3 Anyone else please ask first :)

Story Summary: Steggy Bingo Bash Prompt “Soulmate AU” Peggy’s only ever met one other person, in her very long life, with a soul mark.

A/N: Set during and post CA:TFA, obviously goes AU from there.  

TW for minor alcohol abuse and brief mention of a suicide attempt.

~*~ May 2011

“Auntie Peggy?”

Peggy turned from her computer to see Morgan standing in the doorway. She smiled indulgently at the girl, turning away from her work. “Morgan, it’s late. Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

The little girl stepped further into the study, clutching her stuffed pig. “I couldn’t sleep and Hammy and I need a story.”

Peggy laughed to herself, saving the file she was working on before shutting her laptop and turning back to the girl. “Is that so?”

Morgan Stark nodded very seriously. She lifted her stuffed animal to her ear, then looked back up at Peggy as she moved to her. “Hammy also says we need a snack.”

Peggy lifted the little girl into her arms, looking at her very seriously. “I do believe your Mum and Dad said no sweets tonight, but a story, I can do.”

Peggy walked the girl through her apartment in Stark Tower and back to the guest bedroom Morgan was currently occupying. She didn’t mind babysitting duty at all, and was glad to give Tony and Pepper a night out. Morgan pulled at the strands of hair that were falling from Peggy’s bun and tucked them behind her ear, mimicking the way Peggy and Pepper often tried to keep the little whirlwind of a girl looking presentable. “Auntie Peggy?”

“Yes, my love?” Peggy gently set her on the bed and pulled the stool from the vanity over to sit next to her.

Morgan tried to snuggle herself under her comforter. “Is it true you knew my Daddy when he was my age?”

“Yes, my love. He always wanted sweets at bedtime, too.” Peggy tickled Morgan, laughing with her as she shifted her in bed and untangled the mess of the blankets the girl had made.

Morgan rubbed her face, a sure sign she was tired, but her eyes were fighting to stay open. “Auntie Peggy?”

“He always had as many questions as you do, too!” Peggy let her finger bounce off of Morgan’s nose sweetly before moving to tuck the small stuffed pig in.

Morgan reached up, playing with one of Peggy’s fallen curls again. “Tell me about soulmates. I want that to be my story tonight.”

Peggy was slightly taken aback, but knew the question would come from the girl sooner or later. Though the phenomenon was rare, it seemed every week there was a new documentary on some streaming platform about another pair found somewhere in the world. “Yes, very well, then.” Peggy tucked Morgan in tighter and leaned forward on the bed, resting her head on her hands as she spoke. “Soul bonds are very uncommon, indeed, and even the smartest people in the world—”

Morgan smiled, bouncing a bit. “Like Daddy?”

Peggy smiled, “Yes, like your Daddy, don’t know how or why they exist. But they do.” Peggy smiled, fingers itching at her watch band. “When two people who are soul bonded fall in love and they touch, they get a mark on the arm they touched that other person with. Sometimes it is a dot, like a little birthmark,” Peggy poked a tiny spot on Morgan’s arm, “and sometimes it is a great big design like a tattoo.” Peggy tickled up her entire arm, making the girl giggle.

Morgan shifted to her side, hugging her pig tight. “Do they get to pick it?”

Peggy shook her head. “No. Whatever design they get represents something important about their love, but no one really knows for sure. They only get it once they know they’re in love and they’re ready to be with that person for the rest of their life.” Peggy sighed. “Sometimes the people get special things from their soulmate. They can feel their feelings or they get healthier or even, sometimes, they can read their partner’s mind.”

Morgan’s eyes widened. “For real?”

Peggy smiled and nodded. “For real.”

“Will I get a mark if I touch someone?” Morgan asked, looking at her hands.

Peggy shook her head, smiling. “No, my dear. It only works if both people have decided to love one another like a mommy and daddy do forever and ever. And it’s rare. It’s so very rare. So even people who love each other very much, like your Mommy and Daddy, don’t have them.”

Morgan yawned. “Do you know anyone with a soul bond Auntie Peggy?”

“I’ve only ever met one person in my whole, very long life.” Peggy looked up across the room, meeting her reflection in the mirror there. She smiled sadly down at the girl before she leaned over, kissing her on the forehead. “Now, get some sleep.”

~*~ March 1945

Steve sat across from her in the bombed-out husk of the bar, tears pooling in his eyes. “I just can’t help but think- if I’d have been just a little faster- a little stronger…”

Peggy reached out, letting her hand cover his.

Instead of being comforting, it felt like lightning.

The shock ran up their arms and they grabbed one another’s hands tight as the sensation ran through them both.

The tears that had been welling in Steve’s eyes fell down his cheeks, his face full of shock. He didn’t let her hand go as he stammered, “Wh- What was that?”

Peggy shook as she took a slow, deep breath. She looked down at their hands and slowly let go, even though Steve seemed intent on holding on. When she flipped her hand over the mark was on the inside of her wrist, like a burn. The angry, red flesh was raising up like a welt: a thin, interconnected line that formed an infinity symbol. She looked up at Steve’s wrist which was showing the same welt rising from his skin, larger and thicker, right where her fingers had just brushed his flesh.

The pain surprised her as it settled flat, the redness fading, the sightly darker, raised skin now a permanent fixture. Her eyes flitted between their hands as she watched the colors slowly darken, the welts looking more and more like perfect, delicate tattoos with each second that passed.

“Peg…” Steve’s voice was horse, his own surprise plain and warring on his face with panic. “I didn’t mean to… I was…”

Peggy grabbed the bottle in front of Steve and took a long swig. “Don’t you dare try to weasel your way out of this, Rogers.” She coughed, the whisky stronger than she expected.

His panicked look shifted a bit, a small smile on the corner of his mouth as he wiped the wetness from his cheeks. “I- I was thinking that if you came here, maybe… maybe you care about me like I care about you, and that after what happened today maybe I should stop being stupid about it and just tell you that I think I love you.”

Peggy’s smile bloomed, she tried to hide it behind another swig of whisky from the bottle. She coughed less this time, and slid the bottle back across the table. “I was thinking very nearly the same thing.”

Instead of taking the bottle, he reached his hand out for hers. Peggy laid her wrist out next to his and they examined the delicate, raised lines. “I thought these weren’t real,” Steve whispered out.

“My Mum said my Nan had one. She and my Pop died before I was born so I never saw it myself, but…” Carefully, Peggy let her hand touch Steve’s, waiting for the shock that never came. “I’ve never met anyone else with one.”

Steve squeezed her hand tight, tears welling up again. The words fell from his lips, the delight tinged with deep sadness. “If you came to distract me, it’s working!” He used his other hand to wipe harshly at his face again as new tears surfaced. “Bucky used to tell me all the time that he thought I’d have a soulmate. That out of everyone he’d ever met in his life, he thought I’d manage to be the one that had one and I’d end up with some crazy looking tattoo mark on my face.”

Peggy reached her other hand out, rubbing it up and down his forearm. “He was a good friend.”

Steve laughed through his tears. “Yeah, and I owe him five bucks.”

Peggy tilted her head, her smile both amused and somewhat sad, “You bet him that you wouldn’t find love?”

“Soulmate. Different.” He swallowed hard and laid his free hand on top of their entwined hands, his face serious. “This… this doesn’t have to change anything, Peg. We’ve just been…”

She licked her lips and smiled at him. “Dancing around it?”

His head fell as he smiled. “I deserve that.”

“We don’t have to do anything about this right now,” she supplied, taking his other hand in hers so they were holding both tight. “Which seems silly because the exact reason they’ve popped up tonight is because we had decided to actually do something.”

Steve gave a small tug with his hands and Peggy stood, rounding the table and sinking into his lap. She settled as he wrapped his arms around her, their faces close enough she could feel his breath on her cheek. She let one hand rest on his shoulder as the other slowly started combing through his hair, smoothing it and pulling out bits of ash as she let her fingernails massage across his scalp.

His eyes fluttered closed under her ministrations, his breaths coming harder and more stilted. His head fell to her shoulder as his arms tightened around her, his words muffled against her coat. “I lost my best friend today, Peggy. He was the only family I had left.”

She could feel his tears against her neck as she wrapped her arms tight around him, rocking gently. She kissed his temple. “You’re not alone, Steve. I’ll never let you be alone, I promise you that.”

~*~ May 2011

Peggy passed her office and moved to the bathroom. She fully expected Morgan to be up in five more minutes, asking for another story. The girl rarely made it to bed without at least two, even when she was dreadfully tired.

Just like her father before her.

Peggy looked in the mirror, pulled at the corners of her eyes and smiled and frowned. She hadn’t aged at all since the day the Valkyrie was lost. Her hair was still thick and vibrant without a single grey in sight. No crow’s feet. No laugh lines.

She hadn’t even had so much as a sniffle in all that time.

Peggy pulled off her watch and ran her fingers over the infinity symbol, still slightly raised, still as artful and as delicate as the day it was burned into her skin forever.

If she closed her eyes, she could still hear the static as Steve’s voice cut out on her, could feel Phillips hovering, waiting for her to collapse. Legend, lore, myth, or truth… just like everyone knew soulmates were for forever, they also knew that when one died, the other was not long for this world. Peggy waited at that console for what felt like hours for her heart to stop in her chest as the SSR took control of the base.

The fact that she hadn’t died had been painful to her at first. She thought it meant he was still alive somewhere, suffering.

After a few days, her own beating heart was the only thing that gave her hope.

Peggy set her watch back on her wrist, covering up the lines. Only a handful of people knew of the mark, and she liked to keep it that way. Less questions, less concerned gazes. She sighed, turning the tap onto hot and splashing the water over her face.

She never used cold. She hated the cold.

Since the day he went down she felt like she was always cold, like her spine was made of ice. She’d gotten used to it after decades of layering her clothes and keeping her home unnaturally warm.

She looked at herself in the mirror again as she toweled the water away. It had been years since she’d taken the time to think, truly think, about being soul bonded.

She avoided it with all her might. It only led to heartache and tears, brooding over a lost lifetime of love and the mysteries of her unchanging body.

~*~ July 1945

Peggy huddled in the cabin of the ship, two jackets and a mound of blankets wrapped around her. “Howard, this is beastly.”

Howard shook his head, pouring over navigation charts as they made their way through the chilled northern seas. “Peg, you shouldn’t be this cold. I’m telling you; this is a clue.”

She pulled her collar up higher. “And I’m telling you, it’s not. We’ve been out here for two months, don’t you think we’d have found something by now?”

Howard moved over to her, pulling her arm from her swaddle and pushed up the sleeve to her jacket, pointing to her mark. “That’s not nothing, Peg. You should be dead.” He moved the sleeve down and tucked her back up tight in the cabin’s bed. “You’re not dead, so neither is he.”

Peggy tugged her arms from the nest of blankets and grabbed him as he started to turn back to the charts. “Howard, I’m begging you, take me home.”

“Peg—”

“Don’t you think I want to find him?” She cried out. “Of course, I do! But it’s been months, Howard, months! And not a single sign of him. Not one!” She shook her head, tears collecting in her lashes. “Two days was all we had, Howard. Those couples you keep talking about- they were bonded for years, decades even. Two days, Howard.” She swallowed hard, eyes pressed closed tight. “What if it wasn’t complete? What if we didn’t bond all the way before he was killed?”

Howard looked at her, his heart breaking. “I want to find him for ya, Peg. We just gotta.”

Peggy shook her head, unable to look at her friend as her voice cracked. “And I need to find a way to let him go.”

~*~ May 2011

Peggy watched Morgan from the door of the guest bedroom. The Stark Tower was quiet these days, and she liked it that way. It was easier to confer with DC and Fury from the tower, but she missed her little house in southern California where she always managed to feel generally warm enough.

Long ago she’d categorized the cold as the ever-present emptiness of her heart without Steve in it. It had become a part of her, and she embraced it with fluffy sweaters that she could wrap tight around herself and pretend it was his arms trying to banish the chill.

A few times she’d tried to date, but it never stuck.

They were never Steve, and any time she saw the mark on her wrist she was reminded that she had true and tangible confirmation that Steve had been the perfect man for her.

Instead, she sank herself into her work and the lives of her friends.

She’d babysat Tony often enough when he was a child to see how much of him was in Morgan, and she’d lived long enough to mourn Howard and Maria and Jarvis and Ana and all of the Commandos when each had passed on.

It had been hard to watch them age past her while not a single thing about her changed.

Howard had tried, many times, to convince her to start looking for him again.

A few times he had. They’d commissioned ships and sonar and even submarines. Every time there was a new development in science it seemed Howard was adapting it and chartering a boat or a plane.

Every time she only ended up cold and depressed, worse off than when she’d left. The last expedition had been in 1990. The repurposed naval vessel had technology she could barely understand on it, monitors and computers pouring out data she couldn’t read, data that left Howard jumping back and forth, excited and with a renewed purpose.

They’d come back to re-stock and refuel, to let Howard spend some time with his family before they went back out. Howard was so sure of himself that time. She’d almost, almost started to feel hopeful they could find his body and put him to rest.

Then suddenly she was without Howard, and the losses were far too many and far too heavy for her to hope anymore.

Morgan sniffled softly in her sleep and rolled over, flinging her arm over the edge of her bed. The one bright spot had been Tony. For all his faults, all his frustrating traits and the way he and his father butted heads, he’d been a joy for her. Being able to focus on him after Howard and Maria’s death, having someone who needed her and kept her grounded, was the lifeline she needed.

Tony’s two am calls because he couldn’t sleep kept her from curling in on herself. Keeping SHIELD up and running gave her a purpose.

It didn’t make the nights any less lonely or the days any less long, but it was enough for a while. Purpose became routine became some semblance of a life that she actually found herself caring about.

Just like she cared about the little girl in the bed, slumbering away, unaware of the threats Peggy helped monitor and mitigate day after day, unaware that her simple question about the world had sent her honorary Great Aunt into a spiral of doubt and loneliness.

Peggy closed the door, stepping away. Morgan was asleep for the night, and probably wouldn’t wake up again, leaving it safe for Peggy to indulge a bit. “Jarvis?” she called, the pang of pain at the AI’s name just a little sharper tonight.

“Yes, Miss Carter?”

She moved slowly through the hallway, stopping at the small storage closet. “I’d very much like to not be disturbed under any circumstances.”

“Yes, Miss Carter.”

She rested her hand on the wooden door, tapping her perfectly red, perfectly manicured nails on the surface. She listened to the sound they made in the quiet apartment, echoing through the floor of the tower as she tried to make up her mind.

Before she could stop herself, she turned the handle and opened the closet.

The dry-cleaning bags rustled like ghosts, the memories they protected hidden and hung in the closet until she was ready to wallow in them. She ran her hand along the row of plastic covered cloth, eyes closed, knowing by memory the order of each thing in here. His dress uniform, hers, the red dress she’d worn that one day, his USO costume… Her hand stopped on her favorite: she lifted out the leather jacket, the bag crinkling under her hand.

It had lost the spicy scent of his skin decades ago, but that didn’t stop her from pulling it out when she was feeling her worst, when she needed to remember Steve over Captain America, when she needed the man and not the legend. She pulled the brown leather from the plastic, letting the metal hanger clamor to the floor as she slipped it on, hugging it close around her body.

She breathed in, and even though she knew it wasn’t there, she could remember how he’d smelled, could remember the warm scent of him fresh from the showers, the tang of the army soap on his skin. Her senses assaulted her with more detail than she’d remembered in decades: the flash of his blue eyes when he smiled, the way the stubble would grow in when they were out in the field too long, how his hand felt when he’d reach out to help her over rough terrain…  Peggy took a shuddering breath as she reached for the box on the top shelf.

Tonight, it seemed, was going to be more painful than most.

~*~

Tony waited until he was on the elevator, Pepper leaning dreamily into his side, to speak. “Update, Jarvis?”

“Quiet evening, sir. Nothing requiring immediate attention.”

Tony smiled, wrapping his arm tighter around Pepper. “And the girls?”

“Miss Morgan is sound asleep in Miss Carter’s guest room.”

Tony waited, but more was not forthcoming. “And Aunt Peggy?”

The AI hesitated. “She’s having a…bad night.”

Tony sighed, rubbing Pepper’s shoulder. “You should…” she started, but she didn’t have to finish.

He nodded, stepping away from her. “You put Morgan to bed, I’ll put Aunt Peg to bed.”

~*~

She knew he was standing in the doorway, but she couldn’t find the energy to seem to mind. Instead, she snuggled deeper into the armchair, taking a swig of the whisky she’d only been sipping up until now. If Tony was home that meant she was off babysitting duty.

“What did it this time?” he asked casually, leaning against the doorjamb.

She didn’t speak at first, not sure she trusted her voice. She turned the page of the scrapbook in her lap, running her fingers over yellowed newspaper clippings touting another win by Captain America. She took another deep swig and spoke, her voice hoarse from the tears. “Morgan asked me about soulmates.”

“Shit,” Tony mumbled, hanging his head. “I’m—”

Peggy cut him off, shaking her head vigorously. “She didn’t know- didn’t mean to—” her voice caught and she swallowed the sob, sitting taller. “Haven’t had a good wallow in a while, figured it was time.”

Tony stepped forward, sitting himself on the edge of the ottoman at her feet. “Last time I saw you in his jacket was…” He shrugged, reaching out and putting a hand on her leg. “Years ago, Aunt Peg.”

“Happens,” she muttered, offering him her tumbler.

He shook his head, watching as she took another deep pull of the amber liquid. He sighed, then asked the question he’d been meaning to ask for years. “You can’t get drunk, can you?”

Her eyes shifted to him, trying to decide how much she wanted to say, but quickly shifted back as she took another long drink. “No.” The word was stilted, harsh. “I don’t think my metabolism runs quite as fast as his, but I can’t get much more than a good buzz going no matter how hard I try.”

“You know, Thor has this stuff…”

“Unless you can get your hands on it tonight, I have no interest.” She sat up, slamming the book in her lap shut. “I’m giving myself one good pity party and tomorrow morning it’s back to life as usual.”

He frowned, letting his elbows rest on his knees. “What? Work all day and night? We’ve had this conversation before.” He shook his head and looked down at his hands, turning his wedding band. “That’s not a life.”

“And since we’ve had this conversation before,” she started, taking a deep breath and throwing her head back on the cushion, “you’ll know exactly how I feel about it. Life does not begin and end with romantic relationships. I have my work, I have my family…”

“And what do you do on the weekends, hum?” He rubbed his hands together, eyes finding her. “What about friends? What about going out to a movie or playing pinochle or shopping?”

“I’ve been hiding for nearly fifty years, Tony. I don’t want to share my life with the world, don’t want to be the subject of the next big soulmate documentary on Netflix, thankyouverymuch. And the only way to do that? Stay inside. Run SHIELD from the shadows through Fury. Stay fucking hidden.” She popped her head up, looking him dead in the eyes, a fierce fire permeating her whole body. “I haven’t changed a day since 1945. I haven’t gotten a cold, haven’t gotten a wrinkle… not even so much as a scar or a grey hair. I haven’t even had to cut my hair.” The tears she’d been holding back finally came, flowing down her cheeks without fanfare as she began to get more intense. “I’ve watched everyone I love grow old and die without me, Tony.” Her breath caught and he tried to reach out, but she batted his hand away. “I’ve watched you grow from an infant until you look older than I am though I’m twice your age, and one day I will have to sit by your bedside and watch you leave this world without me, too.” Her intensity grew, the words coming faster and harsher as she stood, the photo album tumbling to the floor, her whisky glass waving frantically in her hand. “So, I stay home and I pretend and I try to forget. I try to forget that one day, everyone I love in the world will be gone and I will be left here, alone, with only newspaper clippings and old photographs to show for it. So, forgive me if I get a little maudlin once every decade or so.”

She moved past him in a huff, leaning heavily on the hutch where the bottle of whisky was waiting for her. Tony watched as she composed herself, pouring another drink.

He licked his lips and stood, voice soft. “I know that I will never, ever understand what you’ve gone through—”

“Damn right,” she mumbled, hands flat on the table.

“But I am still your family, like it or not.” Tony moved towards her, resting his hand on her shoulder. “Even if Dad hadn’t asked me to watch out for you, I’d still be here. I’d still want you here. I’d still want you with us, for as long as you can be.”

Peggy reached up, laying her hand on his, but still not looking at him. “Thank you,” she said softly, “It’s hard to remember these things some times.”

~*~ March 1945 The Next Day

He cradled her between his legs, arms wrapped around her, chin on her shoulder. He could feel her heartbeat reverberating through her back and his chest, spooned together as they were on the ground behind the mess, leaning against an ancient pine tree. It wasn’t a large space to hide in, but the constant noise of the mess covered their talking, and Steve was fairly certain no one else knew the little nook existed.

He held his arm out next to hers, both pairs of eyes examining the marks they’d managed to keep hidden for the past day. “What do you think it means?” he asked softly.

“Infinity?” She thought out loud, turning her hand to run her fingertips over the lines on his wrist. “Always?”

He flexed his fingers, her touch just a little too light so that it tickled. He laced his fingers in hers, wrapping their arms around her. “I don’t… I can’t remember if it’s supposed to be literal.”

She shrugged in his arms, laying back into his embrace. “My Nan and Pop’s was an apple. They had their first kiss under an apple tree, or so my Mother said.” She turned her head, warming her chilled nose against his neck. “I’ve always remembered thinking that it had to have something to do with the people.”

He shifted gently, cautiously kissing her temple. He felt her smile against his neck. “Do you feel any different?” He felt her shake her head against him, her negative hum reverberating through both of their chests. He sighed. “Can’t lie. If you got some of my enhancements… if I knew you would be a little safer out there…” He sighed, only a little disappointed. “Well, it wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

“Hadn’t thought of that,” she murmured, leaning away so she could look at him. She smiled slowly, leaning in to kiss him. “Something nice, though,” she murmured against his lips, “about knowing that this is more than just war and fear and hormones.”

He nodded, kissing her again, his lips soft and chaste on her own. “Love,” he pulled her tight to him again. “I think I’ve always loved you, Peggy Carter.”

Her smile grew slowly until it nearly blinded him. “And I quite love you, Steve Rogers.” They sat in silence, enjoying the comfort of the embrace and letting their breaths sync softly.

“You know,” Peggy started, her voice soft and full of mirth, “One of the requirements to be picked for Project Rebirth was that you had no significant other and absolutely no soul mark. Phillips is going to have a shit fit when he finds out.”

“Language,” he teased, squeezing her tight.

Peggy laughed fully at that, turning and kissing his cheek. “Captain, even if you were scandalized at my language, which I know you’re not, it’s too late now.” She moved her hand, letting her fingers wrap possessively around his wrist. “You’re stuck with me.”

“No place I’d rather be.”

~*~ May 2011 The Next Day

She didn’t have a hangover, though she should have.

What Peggy did have was the sadness and regret in the knowledge that she’d managed to drink the very end of the last bottle of whisky Dugan had ever given her.

One more “last” to add to the list. One more relic to add to the closet.

Tony had stayed for a while, tried to talk her out of her stupor, but after she saw Pepper pass by with a bundled Morgan in her arms, Peggy had physically pushed him into the elevator, arguing that she needed to be alone.

It had probably been the last thing she needed, and they both knew that, but he indulged her.

She’d woken up on the floor of the study, wrapped in Steve’s jacket and eyes puffy from crying herself to sleep, at 3AM. Instead of trying to get back to sleep, she started cleaning up, reverently placing each item back in its place in her shrine of a closet, locking away the memories until the day would come where they broke through again like water breaking a dam.

By mid-morning, Peggy was refocused and deep into SHIELD intelligence. She paced her office while talking to Fury, had a holographic meeting with Coulson, and sent Hill a scathing e-mail once she’d gotten her hands on the latest mission reports.

Not too bad for a woman most people assumed dead. It had worked to her advantage that after a certain amount of time, spies tended to just disappear. There had been questions at first, but Fury was a convincing man when he wanted someone to believe something, and he’d made the world believe that Peggy Carter was dead.

She hadn���t been lying to Tony last night: she had no desire to be in the public eye, to answer more questions than those she already had about her appearance, to be the lonely widow of a war hero who should have died with him the day he sacrificed his life.

Hiding was simply easier.

What she hadn’t said out loud, hadn’t told Tony or Fury or even Howard once upon a time, was that on her lowest night somewhere around 1952, she’d taken an entire bottle of painkillers chased with vodka and waited to fall into the oblivion.

The oblivion never came.

Neither did sleep or even inebriation.

She laid there for hours, nursing a headache and a slight buzz, and cried. The universe was cruel, and gave her no recourse.

After that, she’d slowly, carefully, started to test her limits. They were higher than she’d ever imagined. Higher than she ever let on to anyone else. Howard had often suspected, and Tony flat out asked occasionally, but she’d never said out loud that she’d slowly, over time, gained a level of strength and agility only ever seen in one person.

She hoped, somewhere, he was happy knowing she was somehow safer.

She hoped, one day, she’d be allowed the sweet repose he’d been given.

Peggy sat at her desk, head in her hands. The memories crashed over her like waves, thoughts of love and loss and a lifetime of missing him hit her in a way it hadn’t last night. The frailty of the illusion she ran… the dependency she had on other people to keep her secret... The loss of friendship that she tried so often to ignore… it was suddenly too heavy for her to carry on her own, and she had no one she’d even consider sharing the burden with.

She felt the abyss pulling, an old familiar friend that she’d managed to fend off for years.

Peggy texted her team then shut off all of her electronics. She needed to be alone.  

~*~

She’d lived so long she’d stopped feeling bad about days spent solely in bed decades ago. Sometimes she needed that break from people and duty and modernity. Sometimes she just wanted to be alone with a blanket and a book and not have to think about the fate of the world.

She layered up in soft flannel and buried herself under her blankets, a nap the first thing she hoped to achieve.

~*~

She wasn’t sure when, or how, she’d managed it, but when she woke up her pants were on the floor next to her bed. She moved her legs, content that she felt warm enough under the layers of blankets, and rolled over, reaching for the book on her bedside table.

~*~

Peggy had dozed off again, the book barely in her hand. Half awake, she shoved the book next to her and she kicked off the blankets by instinct, curling onto her side. It took a moment before she turned and looked down at her bare legs, down at the blanket she’d kicked off her bed, before she realized something very, very strange.

She felt warm.

Inside and out.

Her heart was pounding in her chest. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laid with her legs bare for any period of time, the last time she’d felt warm enough to go anywhere without layers upon layers over her skin.

“Jarvis,” she called, knowing the AI always listened for his name, no matter what privacy settings she had on, “Please get Mr. Stark.”

“Mr. Stark is currently in a meeting, Miss Carter,” The AI informed her as her breathing started to quicken. She could feel the warmth through her fingers and toes, a sensation that was so foreign it was almost painful. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Please interrupt him,” she ordered calmly as she stripped her top layer of shirts from her body, sweat starting to gather at the back of her neck, “I think I’m dying.”

~*~

Tony sat at his desk, Banner across from him, with the holo-screen between them showing the faces of three other scientists on the conference call. “You’re telling me you think that’ll work?”

Doctor Helen Cho smiled over the connection. “I do, there’s no reason to believe there’s been any damage based on the scans they’ve sent over.”

Tony leaned on his elbows, looking through the holograph. “Bruce?”

Doctor Banner shrugged, leaning back. “She’s right, I don’t see why—”

The projection was paused and they were interrupted by Jarvis. “Sir—”

“Jarvis! I told you—”

“Miss Carter insisted. She seems to think she’s dying.”

Tony stared at Bruce for just the barest of moments before he was on his feet. “Jarvis, give my regards and end the call. Banner!”

Bruce was positively flummoxed as he stood and followed Tony through the office, out to the elevator, and barely waited for him to step in before he was rambling. “Jesus, if she’s dying now- now! Of all times! Dammed inconvenient.” Tony looked up at the ceiling. “Jarvis, get Doctor Cho on stand-by. No, warm up the ‘copter.” He turned back to Bruce, eyes wide. “We’ll have to monitor her vitals, get her to the med bay on level 15. Maybe even take her to Cho. Can you tell if someone’s dying?”

“Tony, Tony Tony…” Bruce grabbed at his shoulder, trying to slow him down. “I’m not that kind of doctor.”

Tony moved them both out of the elevator as the doors opened, trotting through Peggy’s apartment towards her bedroom door. “Actually- you’re the perfect guy for this.” He stopped at the door, knocking even though it was partially open. “Aunt Peggy?”

He could hear her labored breathing. “Something’s wrong, I think I’m dying.”

“But are you decent? I brought a friend.” Tony looked at Banner, jaw tight.

She grumbled, her irritation loud enough to hear through the door. “Near enough,” Peggy barked out, and that was adequate for Tony to barge in.

She was laying in the dark, in the center of the bed, sweat pooling on her forehead, and one hand taking the pulse at her other wrist. “Aunt Peg?”

Banner looked away initially, hands wringing in front of him. She was wearing only a camisole and underwear, the rest of her clothes littered the floor around the bed along with the blankets she’d kicked off. “That’s your aunt?”

“Looks good for ninety-one, doesn’t she?” He asked, sliding to her side and taking her hand. “Jarvis? Run what you can from here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Banner stepped up to the bed, stuttering as he tried to keep his eyes on Tony. “Nin- Ninety-one?”

Her eyes squeezed shut tight. “I’m feeling every bit of it now.”

“What’s wrong?” Tony asked, holding her hand tight.

“Heart is pounding. And I’m hot,” she whispered, blinking her eyes open at him. “I’m so hot.”

Tony rolled his eyes, trying to hide his fear with humor. “I mean, you’re pretty good looking for a nonagenarian, but I don’t know if—” Though it was weak, her hand hit him firmly on the cheek, stopping his teasing. “Right. Deserved that.”

She took a deep breath. “Yes, you did.”

“Sir?” Jarvis broke in.

“Hit me,” Tony said, looking over at Bruce.

“Miss Carter is displaying an elevated heart rate, increased blood pressure, a normal blood oxygen level, and a body temperature of 98.7.”

“98.7? That’s correct Jarvis?” Tony’s eyes widened.

“Yes, sir.”

“Compare that to Dad’s notes?” Tony asked, turning back. “Aunt Peg, you’re not dying.” He smiled until it nearly split his face. “Shit, this is amazing.”

“I feel like I’m dying,” she moaned, rolling towards him and pressing her head into the pillow.

Tony turned to the man who was still attempting to avoid looking at Peggy as she writhed in the bed. “Banner, grab her other hand and get me an actual pulse, will you?”

Bruce side-eyed him, but moved anyway. “Tony, I already told you—”

“You know how to take a pulse, right?” Tony looked at him, waiting. “It’s important.”

“Sir?” Jarvis’ calm voice once again broke in.

Tony smiled at Peggy. “Body temp, Jarvis?”

“Miss Carter’s body temperature over several decades, according to Howard Stark’s notes, averaged 96.5 degrees.”

Bruce stopped counting and looked up. “That can’t be right- she’d be borderline hypothermic.”

“Your damn father,” Peggy cursed, still breathing heavy. “Monitoring me without my consent.”

“Yup. You can yell at him when you see him, which, apparently, won’t be for a while.” He looked back at Banner. “Pulse?”

Bruce shook his head, trying to keep Peggy’s slick hand in his. “About 112, give or take. It’s a little erratic.”

Tony couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “Jarvis, what was Aunt Peg’s average heart rate?”

“If he weren’t already dead, I’d kill him,” Peggy murmured.

“Miss Carter has never reached a heart rate higher than sixty-eight beats per minute, even when exercising, since 1945.”

Tony laughed out loud. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe she can feel it. Ha!” He looked back down at Peggy, her expression tight with pain but still trained on him, concerned at his reaction.

Peggy fought to control her breathing. “Feel what, Tony?”

“Your hands are warm, Aunt Peg,” he whispered in wonderment, holding her hand in both of his. “Ever since I was little, I just remember you always had the coldest hands. They were always like ice. And now they’re warm.”

Tony looked back up at Bruce, his mania taking over again. “Remember, like fifteen minutes ago, when I said there was an extenuating circumstance?”

“Yeah,” Bruce started, weary and unsure how the two situations were related. “But you wouldn’t say what it was.”

Tony nodded. “Didn’t want to tip my hand. Aunt Peg likes to play this close to the vest.” Tony narrowed his eyes at him. “You have to promise that you’re in this, now. You’re part of the secret. You don’t tell unless she says you can tell.”

“Tell what?” Bruce asked, slightly paranoid and frustrated. “The key to the fountain of youth?”

Tony, for once, wasn’t in the mood for joking. “Promise first, or I’m kicking you out and you’re off of all of it.” He looked at him sternly, “ALL of it.”  

Bruce threw up his hands. “Fine. I’m in. You wanted me on this, I’m in.”

Tony held up Peggy’s hand, slowly unwrapping his fingers from her wrist, face deathly serious.

Bruce shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. “She’s got a tattoo. You trying to tell me tattooing the infinity symbol on you will keep you looking young?”

Tony smiled slowly. “Not a tattoo.”

Peggy caught on before Bruce did, pushing herself to sitting, holding Tony’s hand tight. “What’s happened?”

He chuckled, truly happy. “They’ve found him. In the ice. Dad was right. Off by about a hundred miles, but right.”

Peggy’s face morphed quickly from disbelief and happiness to abject horror as she started to cry.

“Peg? Peg!” Tony pulled her into his arms, sitting on the bed, hands a little unsure of what to do as she wept into his chest. “What…?”

She caught her breath, looking up at him. “I am going to die!”

“No, no!” He caught her as she collapsed into him again. “Aunt Peg, no, you’re not going to die!”

Bruce leaned over, trying to help his friend who was completely inept with the hysterical woman. “Tony, you can’t promise her that, we don’t know what’s wrong with her yet.”

Tony shook his head at the man, concerned that someone so smart could be so thick. “I can. I can because you just told me, and Doctor Cho just told me, that you’re not going to have any problems defrosting him.”

“Tony that…” Bruce stopped, eyes wide. “That’s not a tattoo, is it?” Tony shook his head, still holding Peggy as she cried. “That’s a soul mark?” Bruce asked, incredulous. Tony nodded. “That’s a soul mark!”

Bruce started pacing, hand at his forehead. “Wait- you’re telling me that Steve Rogers- Captain Freaking America- had- has- a soul mark and no one knew?” Bruce stopped and then threw up his hands. “No, wait- forget that. You’re telling me that she- Aunt Peggy here- is his soul mate and what? Hasn’t changed in almost seventy years?” Bruce laughed. “This is- this is…”

“You promised!” Tony nearly yelled, Peggy still on his shoulder. “You promised. Until she tells you, you say nothing.”

Bruce waved his hands and held them up. “Scout’s honor.” He slowly lowered them, smiling a little. “What do we do now?”

Tony slowly grinned and leaned back, waiting for Peggy to look at him, her hands wiping at her eyes. “Want to go see him?”

She nodded, sniffling. “How fast can we be there?”

~*~

Every once in a while, Tony would lean over and take her wrist in his, taking her pulse and feeling her forehead and overall making a nuisance of himself despite the fact she had a shiny gold bracelet of nanotech that he’d slapped on her wrist before they’d left the tower that was monitoring her vitals much more accurately.

Every inch of her felt like it was on fire. She’d put on her lightest pair of linen pants and a tank top she’d usually layer under sweaters. On her way out she’d grabbed a shawl, throwing it over her shoulders. Despite the sweat pouring down between her shoulder blades, she felt like she was naked. Peggy pulled the light shawl closer around her shoulders as she slapped Tony’s hand away again. “Hands to yourself, please.”

He laughed lightly, sitting back in the plush chair of the private jet. “You haven’t scolded me like that—”

“Since yesterday,” she interrupted.

He rolled his eyes. “Since I was a kid.”

Peggy swiped at the sweat on her forehead, sighing heavily. “How long until I don’t feel like I’m jumping out of my skin?”

Bruce looked between them and then back down at the tablet he held that was supplying him with her biometric data. “How long did it take for the cold feeling to feel normal?”

“Back in ’45?” Peggy asked, shaking her head. “I was so numb already I couldn’t tell you. Months… years, maybe before I really got used to it.”

“We’ll invest in Ladies Speed Stick,” Tony attempted to joke, but it fell flat at her tight look. “Look- this is all an unknown.”

“You don’t even know if you can—” she stopped speaking abruptly, her voice choking off at the idea of them not being able to bring Steve back.

“No, we do know,” Tony assured. “They’re at Thule right now with the best scientists in the world either there, headed there, or videoconferencing in.” Peggy looked between Tony and Bruce, both men looking at her seriously. “There are… potential problems. Complications. And we’ll talk about them as they come up. But right now? Every. Single. One. Says things are looking good, alright?”

Peggy nodded, looking down at her hands. She didn’t know how to say out loud everything that she felt, and instead tried to focus on her pounding heart, quicker and more vibrant in her chest than she’d felt in a lifetime.

~*~

They wouldn’t let her in. She could see, through the glass of the observation room, just the faintest outline of his face past the layers of doctors.

They’d let Mr. Banner in… Doctor Banner, she corrected her thoughts, and tried to read their lips. The sound was muffled, tinny, and the tears in her eyes blurred everything.

Tony was behind her somewhere, talking as fast as she’d ever heard him speak with another of the doctors, talking about things she didn’t understand and at the moment didn’t care to.

All she cared about was that she could see his face. She pressed her hand against the glass, eyes tight, seeking out his face every time a doctor moved or shifted. Even if it was just the barest hint of profile over the edge of the bed and around all of the people and the monitoring equipment, she could see his face, and for the first time in sixty-odd years, she felt something akin to hope.

~*~

Tony was pacing across from her. They’d moved on to another naval hospital, their helicopter flight while they transported him the longest she’d been out of sight of his body for hours. They were somewhere closer to the states, something with a name she couldn’t remember. She didn’t care to remember it, didn’t care for much at the moment except finishing the food in front of her so Tony would let her go back to his bedside.

“It’s absolutely astounding!” He was bouncing around the room, going on about the same hour-long cat nap as she was that they both caught when they transferred hospitals. “His heart rate is slowly syncing to yours. And it’s been increasing exponentially since you arrived.”

She chewed, not tasting the dry turkey in the sandwich, not caring that there was a mayo packet right next to her that she could use, not caring that the bottle of iced tea he brought her tasted like plastic and was sickly sweet. She shoved the last of the sandwich in her mouth and stood, eyebrows up as she chewed.

Tony just sighed. “Jesus Christ, will you at least swallow, woman?” He shook his head and tilted it towards the door, signaling that he’d finally take her back to Steve. “It’d be such a damn shame if you choked, you two manage to survive almost seventy years on ice only to have your cause of death be a pre-packaged sandwich.”

~*~

She sniffed as the door closed, trying to hold back the flood of emotion that welled in her throat. He was in his own room, now, and they were monitoring him from next door. They were alone, as alone as they’d been in a lifetime.

Peggy stepped closer, slowly, afraid to break the spell. It all still seemed unreal, and the heavy thudding of her heart in her chest made her anxious.

She hadn’t realized how alone, how lost she’d felt for so long, until he was right there in front of her. It felt like a drug pumping through her veins.

Her soul mark itched. She wondered if it was just her own mind making her feel something or if it was truly something in their bond. She scratched at it, but gave up when there was no relief from the sensation.

She stopped moving once she was at his bedside, fingers drifting down to run over the linens next to his hand while her fist clutched tightly at the shawl around her shoulders. They were slowly warming him, something they’d tried to explain to her more than once, but she couldn’t focus on the science, couldn’t focus on anything except that he was here and everything, everything, was going to change for her.

She gently slid her fingers over the back of his hand. “You’re cold,” she whispered, slightly amazed. “I can’t remember the last time someone felt cold to me.” She laughed a little, the sound manic and haunting, her hope and sanity balanced on a thin edge.

She let them move up to his wrist, then back down over the chilled skin. It felt so foreign yet so familiar. She pulled her hand to a fist and stepped back, afraid she’d be tempted to do something that might hurt his chances of recovery.

“I wish I could say you looked good…” she shook her head, wondering if he could hear her. The doctors said she needed to be very careful, things were still too cold, too rigid, to consider him out of the woods or even safe to move all that much. His skin had a blue tinge to its pallor, sullen and sunken in a way that made her have to close her eyes to shut out the image of him sinking in the ocean, cold and afraid and alone. They hadn’t taken him out of his suit: it clung to him on the bed like a second skin in a way it had never looked on him in her memory.

She smiled, sniffing again and wiping the back of her hand across her nose. “Who am I kidding? You’re the best thing I’ve seen in almost seventy years.”

She dragged the plastic chair over to his bedside, sitting slowly. She couldn’t see a rise or fall in his chest, but the monitors at his bedside assured her his heart was beating, albeit far too slowly, and he was, somehow, managing to breathe on his own.

“There’s so much to tell you,” she whispered, clutching at the shawl around her shoulders. She needed to do something with her hands, they itched to touch his skin again. “I don’t even know where to start. I suppose I should start right when… right…” Her voice stumbled over the words, heavy with emotion until she couldn’t hold it back anymore. The tears came, hot as they fell down her cheeks. She fought the sobs that wanted to break loose, knowing they were being watched.

She hated showing other people her weaknesses, and this had been her only soft spot for so, so long.

~*~

Peggy awoke with a start to Tony tapping her on the shoulder. “Aunt Peg?”

She hadn’t realized she’d fallen asleep, but nearly fell from the small plastic chair as she woke up. She’d slid down into it, her leg wedged against Steve’s hospital bed the only thing keeping her from sliding to the ground.

“Upsey daisy,” Tony sang as he helped her stumble to her feet. He gestured to the door where there was an orderly standing by a plush chair. “Got you something a little more comfortable. Figured you wouldn’t be that keen on going anywhere just yet.”

She watched numbly as Tony moved the plastic chair out of the way and helped the orderly move what almost looked like a cushioned armchair next to the bed. He stared at her expectantly as the orderly left with the plastic chair. He swept his arm out towards it when she didn’t move. “You, uh, wanna try it out?”

Peggy scrubbed at her face and forced a smile, sitting down into it. “It’s an improvement. Thank you, Tony.”

He chewed on his lip, watching her readjust her shawl. “I was, uh… I was going to go back to New York, check on the girls, maybe get some clothes.”

Peggy nodded, humming in agreement.

He watched her for a long moment before he knelt at the side of her chair. “Ok, I’m not even going to bother asking if you’re alright, because I know you’re not.” He took her hand in both of his, waiting until her eyes were on him and somewhat clear. “I’ve seen just about every side of you, Aunt Peggy, but I’ve never seen you so quiet. So… lost. How worried do I need to be?”

Peggy took a deep breath, settling her free hand on her honorary nephew’s shoulder. “Go home to Pepper. To Morgan.” She squeezed gently. “I suppose…” she shook her head, a small smile coming over her face, “I suppose you don’t need to worry about me any more than you do any other day.”

Tony smiled, a small smirk that grew the more he thought about her words. He stood with a groan, humor in his voice. “You know, that’s not really all that reassuring.” He took a few steps and turned back. “I’ll have Pepper pack you a bag, too.” He started to leave then stopped once again, stepping back to put his hand on her shoulder. “Just a few hours, ok? Don’t… Don’t go anywhere.”

~*~

The chair was infinitely more comfortable, and much easier to sleep in. The hours passed, blending into and passing through one another into days and weeks. The lights in the room stayed on, food was put in front of her, doctors and nurses came and went, and slowly the blue tinge warmed to white, then pink.

She changed clothes in the tiny bathroom when they came to run tests, but her shawl was ever present in her hands, something to keep them busy from reaching out. She clutched at it when they came to change the bedsheets, carefully rolling him side to side, moving the cotton drenched with the melting ice that kept his suit plastered to his skin away and replacing it with fresh, dry linen.

They could have changed it once a day or once an hour. Time had held little power over her since the day the infinity symbol appeared on her wrist, and since the moment she laid eyes on Steve, his body real and in front of her once again, the ticking of the clock had ceased to have any meaning.

She said little, sitting at his side as he slowly warmed, the ice dripping puddles from the fabric of his uniform, his hair dampening then drying as they slowly raised the temperature in the room over the days that she sat there.

She grew bold, holding his hand. Time was counted by how his hand warmed against hers, how it softened and molded in her grip.

She brushed his hair back from his forehead, finally dry, soft and flowing under her fingers. His forehead still cool, but warming under her touch. She whispered to him, soft enough she pretended no one could hear, recalling in vivid detail every last memory she had of him.

Hours started to pass by the tiny puffs of breath that escaped from his lips; slow, shallow, but enough to start to move his chest under the red, white, and blue there. She shifted her chair closer, laying her head on the pillow next to his, holding his hand tight and watching for the movement of each breath.

Her days passed, both longer and shorter than they’d ever felt, in a blur of whispered memories as she sat watch, falling in and out of dreamless sleep.

~*~

“She hasn’t left his bedside in almost two weeks…” Tony mumbled, sitting across the desk from Banner.

The scientist didn’t even look up, just kept typing away. “You’re worrying too much.”

“It’s been two weeks.”

“It’s been seventy years.” Banner finally looked up and pulled off his glasses. “And based on the biometric data, they’re both perfectly healthy.”

Tony stared at his friend, unhappy. “Physically.”

“What?” Banner leaned back, running his hand over his head nervously. “You think anyone in their position is going to be healthy mentally?” He laughed heartily and sat back up. “Tony- he’s gonna wake up and find out the world moved on without him. She lived her life without him. And for Peggy… all of a sudden after being alone for so long she’s got a built-in boyfriend who is going to have to depend on her for everything.” He shook his head sadly. “They’re going to be a mess.”

Tony picked up a pen from the desk and fidgeted, looking down. “Not everything,” he mumbled. “Pep and I are already ready to move him in. Round the clock care as long as he needs it. I’m already interviewing tutors to help him keep up with the Kardashians.”

“Tony.” Bruce’s voice didn’t phase the man, and he didn’t look up. He called his name again, and then finally reached over the desk and pulled the pen out of his hands. “Tony. You can’t just—”

“Just what?” Tony accused, standing and pacing.

Bruce stood, stopping his friend. “You can’t just pretend that you haven’t lived in this man’s shadow your whole life. That picking up the mantle looking for him wasn’t a huge psychological mind-fuck you inherited from your Dad.” Bruce sighed, hands thrown wide. “You can’t pretend this isn’t effecting you.”

“I’m not,” he answered too quickly. “I’m not. But however much it’s affecting me, it’s hitting her worse. Far worse.” His eyes went wide and he started to open his mouth to ramble, but stopped himself, deflating. “She was a second mother to me, Bruce.” His lips cracked a smile for just a second. “When we didn’t have anything else, we had each other. She watched Dad and Mom and me get everything she ever wanted, and as happy as she always was for me, there’s just always this sadness in her eyes- it was always there, Bruce. No matter what.”

“And this isn’t going to magically change anything.” Bruce shook his head, reaching out to put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Him waking up like Sleeping Beauty doesn’t change the trauma that she went through. That you went through.”

Tony let his head hang. When he looked back up at Bruce, there were tears in his eyes. “I just want to see her smile again. I feel like I haven’t seen her smile in years.”

~*~

Peggy shooed the nurse away, knowing she was being irrational, knowing the tantrum hadn’t helped how those around her were viewing her mental health.

She’d had very little sanity left when she’d arrived, she supposed whatever thread she was hanging on to was more than justified at this point.

She waited until the door clicked closed behind the nurse and pushed the cart towards the bed.

He’d been bone dry for days now, and they’d decided his internal temperature was high enough to move him and finally strip him of his uniform.

She’d let that nurse do it over her dead body.

With a deep breath she sat on the bed and ran a hand carefully down his chest. It rose and fell steadily, now, if not still a little slow.

She knew exactly where the buttons and zippers were hidden, and slid her hand along the first seam until she found the snap and the zip. She’d had to help him out of this damn outfit in the field more than once to tend to a would or a broken rib. Her mind called up his dirty, sweaty face, bright with excitement and exhaustion, breathing heavy as she tried to help him shimmy out of the top with a single useful arm.

She couldn’t wait to see his smile again. Couldn’t wait to see those eyes flicker to life. She was tired of looking at pictures and trying to recall the life inside him that the camera never seemed to capture.

Peggy tossed the shawl from her shoulders on her chair and moved forward with purpose. It was a struggle, getting the thick material from his body. Peeling it away where the seawater and sweat had suctioned it to his skin.

He was dead weight in her arms as she moved him around, pulling, pushing, and shifting to pull the jacket, then the pants from his body. Once the heavy woven fatigues were gone, she stepped back, breathless, surveying the work she’d done and what was still left.  

The damp and clinging army issue boxers and undershirt he wore, combined with the wrinkled stark white of the skin that had been hidden from the world under his suit for so long, made him somehow look smaller. The bulk of his suit had always complimented his size. But now, in the bed, without it, he was more the man she’d met long before the needles and experiments. Soft. Helpless. Pale.

She’d asked Tony why he hadn’t started growing a beard or gone to the bathroom. He’d made an off-color joke and then said they’d assumed because he was still healing his body wasn’t focusing on things like growing hair and processing waste. It was too occupied trying to keep itself alive.

She ran her fingers down his cheek, soft and smooth, and then over his chest, where the skin was tight and chilled, gooseflesh starting to bubble up all over him. They might have thought him dry, but the suit had been holding water against his skin.

She let her hand move over his arm. His skin had wrinkled under the fabric like a child’s skin after they’d been in the water all day. It was rubbery and thick along his arms, unlike his hands that were soft and dry.

She flipped his wrist over, tracking the black infinity she hadn’t seen in decades. She forgot how his was the same yet slightly different. Bigger. More defined.

She moved her wrist next to his, lining the lines up. Seeing them together after so long sparked a wave of emotion from deep inside her that she couldn’t stop. The sob burst from her lips before she even knew it was happening.

She couldn’t help herself. It was more like an automatic movement: she couldn’t remember making the decision to do it and couldn’t have stopped herself if she’d wanted to. As the tears came, Peggy did the only thing she could think to do, the only thing that she thought would bring her any kind of comfort: she crawled into bed with him, and hung on for dear life to his clammy skin as the emotion poured out of her.

~*~

“I’d hate to step on your—"

An explosion like a bomb and then

…floating and falling all at the same time...

He remembered cold.

Wet

…then…

Sadness

Grief

Overwhelming grief like a wave crashing over him, chilling him to the bone.

And then just cold.

Coldness.

Shivering.

Never ending numbness.

Always and never at the same time.

An Infinity.

Infinity.

It felt like moments and years all at once. Pain. Fear. Happiness. Exhaustion. Dizziness.

Cold.

So Cold.

And then

…Then

Then…

~*~

She woke to the sound of Tony clearing his throat. He smiled at her when she blinked up at him. “I know you’re excited he’s back, but let’s at least wait until he’s conscious jump his bones, ok?”

Peggy looked down, realizing that in her grief and exhaustion she’d managed to wrap herself in and around Steve, even pulling him to his side to cradle her better. He was still gone, still limp in her embrace, his shallow breaths ghosting over his skin only ever so often. Carefully she extracted herself, righting Steve then pulling her shawl over her shoulders as she tried to straighten out her hair.

Tony moved over to the bed, rearranging Steve’s arm and pulling a cotton blanket from the cart the nurse had left, laying it over his scantily clad body. “Guess dad was right: he was quite the specimen.”

Peggy’s face soured. “He was a good—"

“I know, I know.” Tony batted her comment away. “Right now, it’s more his physical resilience that’s keeping him alive, so no matter how good this guy was, you both need to be damn glad that either that serum or that soul bond is doing its job.”

Tony rounded the bed and held out his arm. “Come on. Let’s take a walk. Maybe get a coffee. They’re going to take him for a new CAT scan, and I don’t think you’ve seen the sun in a while.”

Peggy smiled softly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes before she tucked her hand in the crook of Tony’s arm, the orderlies waiting outside the door to move Steve. “A coffee sounds lovely.”

Peggy pulled him to a stop right outside the door, waiting until Steve was out of sight and through the double doors at the end of the hall before she let Tony start moving again.

Tony couldn’t keep the humor out of his voice. “I’m going to have to call him Uncle Steve, aren’t I?”

Peggy’s smack across his bicep lacked any real force, but he flinched anyway.

~*~

Cold.

Cold and wet and cold and wet and cold and cold and cold and wet

Loud.

So loud.

The sounds of the universe louder in his skull than he’d ever heard them

…Then

Then…

Calm.

Her.

Safe.

~*~

Doctor Cho was a lovely woman who had infuriatingly little to tell her. Peggy sat on the bed by his hip, one hand holding his, the other combing through his messy hair.

The CAT scan had shown almost no abnormalities. His breathing was getting better. His heart rate was up. Doctor Cho had come and gone with the update long since, a whirlwind of nurses right after, and they were back to being alone, left with only each other and the quiet of the room.

They’d inserted an IV and a catheter because he was starting to show regular kidney function, and there was serious discussion as to how they should go about feeding him at this point.

But they didn’t know why he wasn’t conscious. Why he had yet to move on his own. Why he didn’t roll or groan our toss and turn in the bed.

She kept brushing her fingers through his hair, the other hand playing over the mark on his wrist. It was the only explanation for any of it, and though she hadn’t voiced any of it yet, her mind had turned to darker answers for his lack of liveliness.

She was worried he’d come back only in body, but never in mind. Worried there had been more damage than the serum or the mysterious bond of the soul mark could fix. Worried they’d spend the rest of their days in this little hospital, waiting for him to wake up.

Peggy shook the thoughts away. It was hard to keep them at bay sometimes. But it didn’t matter. She wasn’t leaving. Not when she’d found him again. Tony had slowly been moving her in to the small room, she now had her own cot and a desk, a laptop and tablet to get back to work at saving the world.

She’d been by his side and absent from the world for almost a whole month. She did still have some responsibilities to tend to, and the monotony of waiting had long since ceased being a novelty.

If she could run SHIELD from the shadows for all those years, this would be no different.

She wasn’t leaving until he got up and walked out with her.

“You’re safe, my darling,” she whispered to him, kissing his cheek softly. “Come back to me when you’re ready.”

~*~

Safe.

Calm.

Warm.

Safe. Safe. Safe safe safesafesafesafe…

A flickering

Warmth

Feeling.

A twitch…

Her voice… like a wave a summer enveloping him.

He felt his heart pound in his chest.

Her breath on his cheek.

“Steve?”

~*~

“Steve?”

His finger twitched.

She’d been holding his hand for so long she’d gotten used to the feeling of his still flesh, pulse beating lightly against her own, without any other movement in the limp muscles.

It had been just the softest tremor of his pointer finger, right over her own, and for a moment she thought she imagined it, even though it had forced his name from her lips and her attention from the report on the tablet in her other hand.

Until it moved again.

Peggy scrambled from her spot on the chair, sitting next to him and pulling his hand to her lap, holding it tight with both hands. “Steve? Can you hear me?”

She tried to pretend her heart wasn’t pounding in her chest, ignored the doctors she could hear gathering at the door behind her. He was breathing harder, with more purpose. It wasn’t the soft breathing of sleep but the breaths of a man just woken from a slumber. His pulse bounced under her fingers as she cupped his cheek, her thumb smoothing away wrinkles as his face started to move, the eyebrows pulling together in the first expression she’d seen on his face since the hallway in the Hydra base.

“Darling?” she whispered, trying to keep the fear and hope out of her voice, trying to keep it steady for him. “Steve?”

He tried to say something, but his mouth was dry and only the faintest croak came from his lips. Peggy bit her lip, trying to hold herself together as his eyes fluttered open.

“Toes…” he croaked out, confused and lost.

Peggy stroked his cheek softly, smiling as her eyes filled with tears. “Toes?”

He closed his eyes and swallowed hard, licking his lips and trying to get the cotton feeling out of his mouth before he looked at her again, still lost and so very, very disoriented. “Don’t wanna… step… on your toes.”

She couldn’t help it, she laughed. It was a bright, happy sound as she fell to him, holding him tight. He’d finished the very last sentence he’d said to her so many, many years ago.

She could feel his arms trying to wrap around her. The muscles, not quite used to moving, were clumsy as they tried to hold her, slipping and uncoordinated and tangling the IV line so that she had to pull away and lay his arm flat and untangle the line before he hurt himself.

“Peg…” She couldn’t tear her eyes from him: the little lines in his forehead as his eyebrows creased together, the life behind his blue eyes, the way his tongue kept flicking over his dry lips. He reached up, his hand still slightly clumsy as he wiped the tears from his eyes. “What…?”

She couldn’t keep the smile off her lips as she took his hand and kissed the palm, then dropped a kiss down at the curve of the infinity on his wrist before she held his hand tight against her chest. “It’s been so long…”

“Can’t have been that long,” he managed to rasp out, smiling up at her. The arm with the IV in it flopped on the bed for a second before landing on her knee, holding tight. “We can keep our date.”

She wasn’t sure if it was a laugh or a sob that burst from her lips, but it reignited the tears. “Oh, darling, you’re so very, very late.”

His smile faltered, more from his fatigue than anything. His eyes were already starting to close again. “Peg…”

She almost jumped when the hand touched her shoulder. She turned, startled to find Tony there. “The doctors need to see him,” he whispered. “I tried to convince them to let you stay, but…”

Peggy looked between the two men for a moment, unwilling to leave him.

“I’ll be fine, Peg,” Steve mumbled, eyes fluttering open and closed. “Go with Howard.”

Tony’s eyebrows leapt in surprise, but he didn’t say anything to the man. “Bruce will be here the whole time. Half hour, tops.”

She forced a smile on her face and leaned over, kissing his cheek. “Won’t be but a tic, yeah?”

Steve’s hand fell from hers gently, the muscles already tired from their minor use. He tried to say something, but it fell as a soft puff of breath from his lips, sleep taking him yet again.

Tony guided Peggy out of the room, her eyes on Steve’s form the whole time.

He’d come back to her.

~*~

He held her hand tightly, staring blankly at the wall. “And… you said how long?”

He’d gone in and out of sleep for about a day, managing only a few words at a time, but he was awake now, sitting up and getting stronger by the minute. Peggy found she couldn’t hold off this conversation any longer.

He’d asked about how long it had been three times, still trying to wrap his head around the basics after the story had poured out of her. “About 66 years, give or take a few months.” She didn’t shy away from the answer, even though he didn’t look at her. “I used to be able to say down to the minute how long you’d been gone, but…”

When he turned back to her, there were tears in his eyes. “And that’s not Howard.”

“No. It’s his son, Tony.” She squeezed his hand and shifted from the chair to the edge of the bed, her hand on his thigh. “No one expects you to be able to process this.” She licked her lips and shook her head. “You ask as many questions as you need, and I’ll do my best to get you all caught up.”

Her bravado was forced, and Steve could see right through it. He tipped his head and waited her out, knowing what she wanted to say was close to the surface.

“I’m sorry,” she admitted softly.

“For what?”

She looked anywhere but him. “Howard was the one who wanted to look for you. He spent years and years just searching and I…” She swallowed, hard, and looked Steve right in the eyes. “I was the one who made him stop. Who told him to stop looking for you.” She shook her head madly. “I had all the evidence, right there on my wrist and in my own body, telling us you were alive and yet I still…” She turned away from him, quiet and sullen. “How can you even look at me?”

Steve reached out his hand and pushed the hair back from her face. “You’re the best thing I’ve ever seen, Peg.”

“I left you,” she barked out at him. “I left you there, in the ice, alone and freezing for decades!”

Steve didn’t know what to say, he didn’t have an answer that changed what she did, or that could make her feel better. “And I left you, by crashing that plane. I was so sure that—” He stopped, emotion welling up in his own chest. “I was just so sure about it. I didn’t stop to think that I could have… that it meant.” He sighed and sat up further, pulling her to him. “I could have killed you, too. I could have… I never…”

His words devolved to mumbles of little meaning as he held her, and she held on just as tight for a long time. Finally, she pulled back, setting her hands on his cheeks. “Now, you listen to me. You did what you had to do. I’ve had a lot longer to think about it than you have, and there was no other good choice. You made the decision to save thousands, if not millions of lives. We knew that was potentially the cost of everything we did. We knew it could have been our lives that we paid with—”

“But I shouldn’t—”

She stopped him with her lips, kissing his softly. “You had no other choice.”

He let the sentence sit in the air around them for a moment before he replied. “And neither did you.” He shook his head. “I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through, but I never would have wanted you to just… I’m glad. I’m glad you moved on.”

“I tried,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to his. “I tried but…”

Steve pulled back, lifting her arm and pressing his lips to the infinity symbol on the inside of her wrist. “It all feels like it was yesterday to me,” he said softly, laying back and tugging her to join him.

Peggy slipped into the bed, pressing herself to his side. “Sometimes I feel that way, too.”

They’re quiet for a long moment, just content to be holding one another. He can’t hold back the whisper. “I’m sorry I missed so much.”

Peggy made the conscious choice to avoid the minefield of emotions in that statement. “Well, you’ve quite a bit to catch up on. History. Books. Politics. Music. Technology.” She squeezed him tight for a moment. “We’ll start with technology, otherwise you’ll barely be able to get around the house.”

Steve smirked, “Howard’s ‘House of the Future’?”

“Something like that,” Peggy kissed his cheek.

“Doctor Cho said they’re setting up some kind of room for me at Tony’s…” he didn’t quite ask the question he wanted, but instead let it hang in the air.

Peggy nodded against him. “His home is quite… large. I live on one of the floors.” She sighed. “I think they’re setting up a medical suite for you on the one below it, just to get you out of here.”

“I’m doing better,” he argued lightly.

“I know, they’re just being cautious.” She cleared her throat. “Mostly because I threatened them.”

“Ah,” he chuckled, kissing her forehead. “No wonder.”

“I want you out of this beastly place as quickly as we can.”

Steve tipped his head up, looking at her. “And?”

She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling just a little. “And then we go home. To New York. Get you back in top shape.”

He smiled down at her. “Then what?”

She reached up and kissed him softly. “Then infinity begins, my darling.”

~*~

A/N: I'm fairly sure that's all there is to this little universe, though I don't ever completely discount the possibility of revisiting it. I hope you enjoyed.

Peggy and Steve’s Soulmarks are actually based on a tattoo idea my friend has- she has the world “Always” in her husband’s handwriting on the inside of her wrist and she’s going to incorporate an infinity symbol for their song (John Mayer’s Edge of Desire (“Just a great, figure eight, a tiny infinity”) Edge of Desire is a GREAT Steggy Song.

#Steggy bingo Bash #Steggy Fic #3P's Fic #Soulmate AU

[mst3kproject]

The Phantom from 10 000 Leagues

I found this movie online while looking for From Hell It Came (which I haven’t yet found – someday I will and then you’ll all be sorry) and it looked bad, so I checked out the details.  Turns out it stars Kent Taylor from The Crawling Hand, Cathy Downs from The Amazing Colossal Man, and was written by Lou Rusoff, who was behind It Conquered the World, The She-Creature, and… oh god, he also wrote Ghost of Dragstrip Hollow.  This is gonna suck goat nads.  I must watch it right away.

You shouldn’t picture me groaning when I write stuff like that, by the way.  You should picture me giggling like a maniac and rubbing my hands together with glee.

A monster is killing people at sea near an incredibly bleak and depressing California college town, and the bodies and wrecked boats it leaves in its wake are scorched by radioactivity! Washington sends Agent Grant to find out what’s going on, and he soon discovers that the Pacific College of Oceanography is positively overflowing with suspicious characters.  There’s the reclusive and paranoid Professor King, who is working on weird experiments in his locked laboratory.  There’s King’s assistant George, who follows him around and hides in the bushes to watch what he’s doing.  King’s secretary Ethel blames the professor for the death of her son and wants revenge, and George’s girlfriend Wanda is a foreign agent.  Not to mention the visiting Dr. Stevens, a radiation expert with an unsettling habit of turning up just in time to discover the bodies.  Someone among this motley crew has created a sea monster… and someone else is planning to sell it to the highest bidder!

You know how some movies save their monsters until the last minute, in order to build suspense?  Or because what we imagine is always scarier than what we actually see?  Or because the monster sucks and they’re ashamed of it?  Or some combination of the above?

Phantom from 10 000 Leagues is not one of those movies.  Before we’re even a full minute into it, the monster has appeared on screen in all its ridiculous glory.  Stevens calls it a hideous beast that defies description but I think I can make an attempt.  It looks sort of like the lovechild of a saber-toothed tiger and the Horror of Party Beach.  There’s a ridge down its head and back like an iguana and a poorly-camouflaged window in its neck so the dude inside can see what he’s doing.  The whole costume is also rather buoyant, and the actor is having to work hard to stay underwater.  Sadly, this beast remains lurking in the depths and never shambles out onto the beach to menace sunbathers, which is the only thing it would have needed to make it a perfect bad movie monster.

The creature is not the only nuclear threat in this movie… or even the silliest one!  During an investigatory dive, Stevens discovers a glowing patch on the seafloor which he says represents an ‘activated’ uranium deposit with the potential to form a naturally-occurring death ray!  We finally get to see this in action when stock footage of a ship passes over it – and turns into a different ship that immediately blows up! I’m just sad this only happens once. The glowing stone itself is represented by a mirror with a light shining on it in underwater shots, and by the reflection of the sun when seen from the surface.

So the effects are not special and make an already silly threat even more hilarious.  What about the story?  Like all cheap monster movies, the focus of The Phantom from 10 000 Leagues is not the creature killing people but the investigation into it.  There’s a large number of potential monster-makers here, which could have made the movie a bit messy – but by the time the words The End appear, we know who all these people are, how they’re involved, and what they hope to accomplish.  Even the women are given distinct motivations and personalities, although those fall neatly into the ‘maiden, mother and whore’ tropes I’ve discussed in the past. The dialogue is not exactly subtle, but it seems like I can’t wholly blame Lou Rousoff for Ghost of Dragstrip Hollow.

It’s also nice that, despite the preponderance of White Men In Suits (Stevens and Grant both walk along the beach in suits and ties at all hours of the day and night), the characters all look different enough that I can tell them apart!  None of the cast are great actors, with a lot of stilted or awkward line deliveries, but then, a lot of the things they’re saying are completely ridiculous, so I probably can’t lay that entirely at their feet.

Unfortunately, the plot of Phantom From 10 000 Leagues is rather unfocused, and like so many of these films it’s not sure who its main character is.  It seems like either Agent Grant or Dr. Stevens, who are each conducting some kind of investigation into the goings-on, ought to be the protagonist… but both are introduced in contexts that make them seem potentially suspicious.  Dr. Stevens is actually significantly more suspicious than Grant, because when he first turns up he gives a fake name, and later proves to have actually performed experiments with mutating sea life in the past.  Yet for much of the movie, it’s Stevens we’re watching, as he cozies up to Professor King and flirts with King’s daughter Lois.  He actually gets far more screen time than Grant, with the latter sometimes being out of the movie for long enough that the audience kind of forgets he’s there.

Stevens and Lois’ love story is, as is probably inevitable for a movie of this kind, completely bland.  Kent Taylor and Cathy Downs have no appreciable spark between them, and one gets the uncomfortable impression that he’s about twice her age. The movie never offers even an approximate age for either character, but Lois is still unmarried and living with her father, which in the 1950s suggests she’s in her early twenties.  King describes Stevens as a ‘young man’ but between his appearance and his impressive academic credentials he’s obviously not, and when I looked up the actors I learned that Taylor was forty-eight when The Phantom from 10 000 Leagues was made, while Downs was twenty-nine.  That’s… well, they’re both adults, but he’s still old enough to be her father, and the younger we assume they both are, the worse the two decade gap gets.

Once we actually get to know the characters, the solution to the mysteries is fairly obvious, but this lets us spend some actual time with these men and find out what they think about the situation.  Stevens, who’s been down this road before, wants these terrible experiments to stop before any more people get hurt.  King, hearing about it for the first time, is more excited about what he might be able to learn by building on Stevens’ work. This represents an interesting inversion because if you’ll recall, King is supposed to be significantly older than Stevens (though actor Michael Whelan was actually born only five years before Taylor).

Usually knowledge and wisdom are both associated with age.  This is a very old trope and has some fairly sound logic behind it: the elderly have had longer to learn and to experience.  In Phantom from 10 000 Leagues, however, we have the older Professor King excited by the ground-breaking discoveries made by a younger scientist and wanting to learn more about them, even when the (supposedly) younger Stevens warns him about Tampering in God’s Domain.  Each assumes the role their ages might make us expect of the other.

This is reflected in their respective fields: depending on how you define it, oceanography is as old as mankind.  Humanity has been mapping the seas for as long as we’ve known how to sail across them, and marveling at the monsters we pull from its depths for as long as we’ve been catching fish.  That is the Professor King’s domain. Stevens, on the other hand, is a specifically nuclear scientist. Nuclear physics technically begins with the discovery of radioactivity in the 1890’s, but it seemed like a new and scary field in the 1950s, as the development of atomic weapons forced scientists to take a closer look at the phenomenon’s effect on living tissues. To King, who is an expert in another field, the possibilities of this relatively new work outweigh the potential consequences.

As sloppy and poorly-made as Phantom from 10 000 Leagues can be, this contrast between Stevens and King does make it a movie with something to say.  It of course has the standard moral for a fifties atomic monster piece, about paths science is not meant to tread, but it also wants us to think about that connection between age and wisdom.  On the one hand, King’s interest in Stevens’ work tells us that you’re never too old to learn something new.  On the other, just because somebody is young doesn’t mean they have nothing to teach. If King had taken in Stevens’ wisdom along with his knowledge, a lot of suffering need not have happened.

Even if you’re not into that, the crappy monster, the bad acting, the ridiculous science, and all the sneaking around and backstabbing that goes on makes Phantom from 10 000 Leagues plenty of fun watch.  It’s much like Beginning of the End in that it ticks all the MST3K boxes, while remaining coherent enough that you can enjoy the actual story along with the badness.

#mst3k #reviews #episodes that never were #phantom from 10000 leagues #it's beginning to look a lot like fishmen #50s

[leutik]

Literature between Political Correctness and Cancel Culture

(Analyzed through Walter Siti, Natalie Wynn and Rick DuFer.)

(buckle up, because if you're gonna read this, it's gonna be long)

«Today is much easier to mistake an author’s personal stances with the content of their works, and then make the author pay for the work’s sins.

Today I look around and I have the sensation that literature is no longer taken seriously: that the way to interpret literature the way I knew it, depth-focused, focused on the power of words to reveal truths otherwise concealed to their own author, is disappearing — substituted by a conception of literature that has to serve a list of good causes.

When some writers of the “neo-effort” (Siti’s neologism) insist on the fact that words are decisive, and that it’d be urgent to change the words in order to change reality, I’m suddenly reminded of those old Marxist authors: they explained that the structure, which is what lays under society, determines what lays upon it, that is words and ideology. Thus, changing the name of something doesn’t change the thing the word stands for at all.

Literature has been considered throughout time the most indicated form to make resurface the part of ourselves — often, the least pleasant — that we’ve exiled in the shadows of our subconscious: a process that often happens without the author’s acknowledgement of it.

The authors of the neo-effort believe they have the duty to spread their ideas to the largest possible number of people and that, in order to do so, they have to simplify as much as they can what they write, sacrificing on the altar of efficiency the style, considered useless. The aim is to do good, namely gain an effect, what does it matter if it’s good or bad literature? Literature used to “take root”, to influence; put at the service of pre-established ideas, and not to venture into the discovery of something we don’t know yet. This way, it gains an ancillary role. And it’s a humiliation of literature — which can truly be useful, instead, only then it hurts.

Sartre’s “Nausea” doesn’t align with his political stances. For Sartre, the effort was the individual reflection of a society in perennial revolution, substantially a school of liberty, whilst for neo-effort the role of literature is to reassure.

Their attitude, their rejection of style, their low consideration of literature, tends to isolate the good writers out there, marginalizing them in a niche that looks like a convention of obsessed aesthetes in the public’s eyes.

I see it in the writing courses I teach: more and more young people whose main interest isn’t to write to learn something about themselves or society, but it’s to write to gain the title of writer and place themselves on the market, detecting the most profitable sector at the moment, which might be fantasy, crime, or effort-centred writing: it doesn’t matter, what matters is for it to be trending and to be reassuring to the reader, in a more and more therapeutic conception of writing.

Literature isn’t immediately therapeutic, this is the difference. When “The Sorrows of Young Werther” was published, copies of this book were burnt, because of the suicides it inspired. Today we read it at school. How much time has passed? I don’t refuse knowledge’s benefit, I refuse that knowledge can benefit instantly, painlessly. When I went to a psychoanalyst to face my neurosis, the psychoanalyst made me suffer for months, and only after I took benefit from it. What would have happened if they had welcomed me with a pat on the back and said “Don’t worry, stop thinking and go help African children”. Probably I would have had an immediate benefit, but all my neurosis would have stayed there, intact.

The Literature I talked to you about is depth-centred, and literature hasn’t always existed: thus it can disappear, sink for many years. Who said that it’ll survive, despite everything?

In Pasolini’s trial he was acquitted because Ungaretti was called to testify. He wrote a letter where he wrote that the formal value of Pasolini’s work turned into literature even those scenes that the prosecution deemed obscene. Law couldn’t do anything but recognize the critical judgement and welcome it. Web’s tribunal, today, would have burned Pasolini at the stake, and Ungaretti with him.» (via Walter Siti’s interview with the Huffingtonpost)

In other words, we can summarize Siti’s view with the sentence «novels aren’t the cure to the world’s evils.» They aren’t, because they don’t have the power to be, and more so they aren’t even supposed to be: writing is a form of art, and art has primarily an end in itself. Literature isn’t a political marketplace, even if it can be used to be — it’s not a crime to turn it into one, but by doing so, one loses Literature’s nature. By doing so, the harm could be mistake literature’s primary aim (that is being a form of art, that is style, that is the pursuit of the truth) with what they turned literature into: a marketplace to defend the author’s ideology.

Siti’s powerful image of the Web’s tribunal, the Web’s court finds an echo in Natalie Wynn video Canceling: in a sense, what Siti calls “neo-effort writers” fall under the same line of thoughts of Cancel Culture perpetrators.

«Like the guillotine, [cancelling] can become a sadistic entertainment spectacle.

Now there's a version of this conversation that's already been had to death, and it goes like this: On the one side are a bunch of male comedians who constantly bitch about how Cancel Culture is out of control, you can't joke about anything anymore without these Millennial jackals trying to get you in trouble.

And the other side is mostly progressive think-piece authors who argue that there's no such thing as cancel culture, it's just that powerful people are finally being held accountable for their actions and they can't fucking handle it, so they go around bitching about cancel culture.

Now unfortunately, neither of those viewpoints is quite as correct as some people might hope.

What Cancel Culture does, [is to] take one story and transform it into a significantly different story.

Presumption of Guilt

There's a traditional understanding of justice according to which, before you condemn or punish a person, you hear the accuser's side of the story and the accused's side of the story. You allow both sides to present evidence and only after everyone involved has had a chance to make their case do you pass judgment and punish the convict.

But cancelling does not abide by the law. Cancelling is a form of vigilante mob justice. And a lot of times, an accusation is proof enough.

Abstraction

Abstraction replaces the specific, concrete details of a claim with a more generic statement.

Essentialism

Essentialism is when we go from criticizing a person's actions to criticizing the person themselves. We're not just saying they did bad things. We’re saying they’re a bad person.

Pseudo-Moralism or Pseudo-Intellectualism

Moralism or intellectualism provide a phony pretext for the call-out. You can pretend you just want an apology; you can pretend you're just a “concerned citizen” who wants the person to improve. You can pretend you're simply offering up criticism, when what you're really doing is attacking a person's career and reputation out of spite, envy, revenge.

No Forgiveness

Cancelers will often dismiss an apology as insincere, no matter how convincingly written or delivered. And of course, an insincere apology is further proof of what a Machiavellian psychopath you really are.

Now sometimes, a good apology will calm things down for a while. But the next time there's a scandal, the original accusation will be raised again as if you never apologized.

The Transitive Property of Cancellation

Cancellation is infectious. If you associate with a cancelled person, the cancellation rubs off. It's like gonorrhoea, except doxycycline won't save you this time sweetie.» (via Natalie Wynn's Canceling video transcript)

Natalie Wynn describes and formalizes the phenomenon of Cancel Culture in those steps:

I only listen to the presumed victim,

I abstract the context to a vague idea,

I equate the action to the actor’s very essence (as if such thing even existed),

I say I’m acting in favour of morals or truth,

I accuse every person the presumed abuser ever came in contact with to be an abuser as well,

and I either reject every form of apology at the moment, or bring up the issue as if no apology was ever made at their first misstep.

Now, in this post I’m not trying to perpetrate any concept of charity, not only because it’s an attitude that takes a lot of work to inherit, but also because the negative aspects that might bring one to be a neo-effort writer or a Cancel Culture perpetrator are part of the very human nature (or, very stupidly, they wouldn’t be humans.)

The self-evidence rises here: those negative parts of human nature can be channelled everywhere, and literature or any other form of art is the healthiest way to do so: you’re not going to get rid of your anger, or your sadness — the best thing you can do is learn to control it and suppress it, but how is it going to work in the long run? It’s going to act past your good judgement, or even cloud your good judgement, clouding it into thinking you’re defending some pseudo-moralism or pseudo-intellectualism, when what you’ll be doing is just venting on someone else.

This is one way to see it: when one forgets what proper thinking is and falls into those quick and gut-feeling “thoughts”. Or one could even take advantage of this Cancel Culture, of this ground of poor thinking to instrumentalize this lack of critical judgement to attack someone else.

On instrumentalization and its dangers, Rick DuFer says:

«Political correctness works when its aim is to protect the weak from abusers, but when it favours every little susceptible sensitivity it turns dangerous.» (via Rick DuFer’s podcast DailyCogito)

Rick DuFer talks about a shared responsibility that happens during offence: shared between the offender and the offended. The problem with offence, as opposed to harm, is that it isn’t quantifiable, so the offender is guilty in regard to their intentions, and the offended is guilty in regard to the instrumentalization they can enact with the situation.

And again we find “instrumentalization”: if one destroys my property, I can quantify the damage, but if one insults me, how can I quantify how offended I truly am? This is when I can twist one person’s words and turn them into an offender, this is when sensitivity becomes a mask and no longer a virtue (or, for the toxic masculinity’s thought, a vice.)

Now, to wrap things up:

These people take the (s)word of this school of thought (which some other dichotomists may, generalizing it, call it “Strong Thought” or “Unique Thought”), perhaps without even knowing there’s an alternative, while there are multiple, actually: as many as the human beings right now populating Earth.

They may do it out of a dualistic and very childish view of society — divided into good and bad people. And if that’s your view of life, you’re not gonna want to be associated with who others deem as bad, following a gut feeling and nothing more. (And I say “gut feeling” to avoid saying “very poor thinking”, because that’s what absolutization, essentialism, and the rest is.)

Your thoughts aren’t really yours, and you become a vessel for something that belongs to someone else, someone who crafted those thoughts in a very different context, or with instrumentalization in mind. You don’t want to risk criticizing those thoughts because you don’t want to be isolated, or because you’re a sane person who deems it important to act rightfully (even if you’re letting others tell you what “right” is.)

And for how problematic moral relativism is, it surely is better than any form of absolutization: better than rejecting your status as “sapiens” and stopping thinking altogether, passively accepting what others taught you to be right and wrong, maybe even out of fear, or a stupid rush for glory and sympathy.

So I wouldn’t call this moral relativism, strictly, but rather moral subjectivism, or context-centred morality. A morality in which people still have a brain to separate a piece of work from an author’s ideology (against essentialism) and to still take into account the context in which an action was performed (against abstraction). A morality in which “good” and “wrong” aren’t seen in black and whites, but rather into lighter and darker greys; a morality which systematic use can slowly dress into the habit of charity towards one another, into kind teaching rather than cruel instrumentalization.

And is it really utopistic, is it really unfeasible, if we’re not falsely annihilating the suffering and the negative parts of the Human Experience?

This whole discourse could be turned into a political marketplace of rights and lefts, of conservatives and progressivists — but my aim here is much smaller (or bigger, if one is a humanist): to make the reader question their critical thinking, and just that.

(We love some self-doubt.)

I believe moral acts aren’t supposed to be a badge to share on one’s vest — to renew your status as “approachable person” (as if saying “don’t worry, you can talk to me, you’re not going to be deemed as bad for it”) or to be praised for. Moral acts are the only acts that raise humans from other species, the acts where the “sapiens” shows its evolution, the acts where our negative aspects aren’t hidden but channelled into arts, without the fear that someone might call us bad for it. (Immoral, even, whilst acting in the most moral way possible, exorcising those negative parts of us in the least harmful way possible.)

So, at the end of this unnecessary rant, my question is: is it better to be a minion in a culture where you have to watch your mouth, as if it wasn’t yours, or to be a person who’s engaged in researching how right and wrong truly manifest?

#the first and last sources are in italian #i did my best translating them #rant #philosophy #literature #cancel culture #cancelled #politically correct #controversial #opinion #thoughts #very open to discuss civilly

[abuttoncalledsmalls]

Take A Giant Step - Chapter 1

Warnings: Alcohol, Drunken Shenanigans, Language.

Pairings: Frankie Morales x f!O/C

Word Count: 1,982

Updated A/N: I have done some re-editing of this fic. So yes, you have read this. It’s just now mo’ better. <3 As always - please let me know if you want to be tagged (or untagged) in further installments.

A/N: I’m gonna try and give writing a series a shot. A quick note - I did use an actual event in my life as inspiration for this chapter. With that being said - please, please, please, please, please do not take someone home in your car that you just met a few hours ago if you feel uncomfortable. Even if your drunk idiot friend offers your chauffeur services to them.

“That’s your third beer in an hour. Don’t you think you should slow down?” My best friend (and boss) turned on his bar stool to glare at me. His blue eyes were glassy, giving away his state of inebriation.

“I think you should let me celebrate tonight’s performance the way I want to. It’s not like I’m the one driving home anyway,” he scoffed. Jeff didn’t intend to come off as a jerk. He was usually the nicest guy in the room, but his less polished side would tend to show itself after a few drinks.

We were celebrating our first sold out performance for our run of The Bald Soprano. That night was nothing short of magical - all of the lights and sound were perfectly called, no lines were dropped, and pacing was on point. The audience loved what they saw so much that they gave us a standing ovation. It was a wonderful feeling to finally see that people were enjoying what we worked so hard on.

After the show, an ecstatic Jeff came over to me in the tech booth and informed me that this grand occasion needed to be observed. That essentially translated to we (mostly him) were going to consume alcohol. As I was his ride for the evening, I knew that it would just be easier to cave into this desire than to fight it. I adored the man, but it was usually so much simpler to entertain these fancies than hear him monologue about my penchant for the unexciting. That is how I found myself at a semi-rundown Applebee’s at 11:30 on a Saturday night.

The bar was quiet at the moment. The bartender was drying pint glasses with a raggedy dishrag while watching the MMA on the television in the corner. There was only one other person at the bar. He was sitting across from us with his head buried in an old, beat up spiral notebook. The only time he would look up was to signal that he was ready for another bottle of Bud Light.

He was donning a navy baseball cap with the logo for the Standard Oil Company plastered on the front. The grey shirt he was wearing looked well worn and a pair of aviators hung in front on his collar. From what I could see he had a strong, prominent nose and large chocolate colored eyes. His beard was a little patchy, particularly on two small areas on either side of his chin.

“You know what would be lovely right now, Maggie? A shot of Jameson. It helps keep the beer company.” Jeff called over the bartender and asked her for three shots of the whiskey. One for him, one for me, and one for “that guy over there”.

The bartender pulled three shot glasses down and poured the shots. She handed us ours and then walked across to the man. When she put the shot down, the capped man looked up and began to open his mouth.

“I didn’t -”

“Courtesy of the gentleman over there.” The bartender pointed towards Jeff and went back to her spot to continue watching the fight. Jeff drunkenly grinned and raised his shot glass. The other man raised his glass as well and said thank you. All three of us quickly downed the whiskey.

“Thanks, man. It’s been a rough day.”

“You looked like you needed it. My name is Jeff Rogers. This is Maggie Lawrence.” I waved to our new drinking partner.

“I’m Frankie.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Frankie,” slurred Jeff. “We’re celebrating our play tonight. I’m the director and she’s the production manager. We make theatre. What do you do?”

A quiet wave of embarrassment washed over Frankie’s face. I gave my friend a dirty look. His question clearly upset the man. My production management instincts kicked into gear and I began to start my damage control spiel.

“I am so sorry. He’s -”

“It’s okay,” Frankie said. “Um, I was a private pilot, but, I, uh, recently lost my job due to some stupid shit.”

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.”

“It happens.” He tried to shrug it off and make it look like it was no big deal. His body language clearly indicated that it was a much larger concern than he was letting on. His eyes swept the room. It looked like he wanted to change the subject to anything else. Thankfully my friend, the eternal extrovert, was able to introduce a new topic.

“You think those fighters get paid well,” Jeff asked looking at the television. The MMA match was in full swing and commanded his attention.

“I don’t think they do too bad. My army buddy Benny is a fighter. He’s not as popular as those guys, but he does pretty well for himself.”

Frankie and Jeff fell into a conversation about different fighters and several upcoming matches. I smiled politely and sipped on my Blue Moon. I had no idea what they were talking about. All I could understand about the sport was that two very muscular individuals were beating the living shit out of each other. However, I will admit that I did enjoy seeing how both of my drinking companions perked up during the conversation. It wasn’t very clear if their camaraderie was inspired by the amount of alcohol assumed or the phenomenon of “male bonding”. I eventually chalked it up to a little bit of both.

Time quickly flew by. I looked down at my phone and was surprised to see that it was 2:00 in the morning. It was late and I wanted to get home. I nudged Jeff.

“Hey buddy. I think we should settle up and head on out. I am sure this poor woman wants to go home and get to bed.” I nodded toward the clearly exhausted young woman behind the bar. She looked at me and mouthed “Thank you”.

“Indeed,” Jeff declared as he slapped his credit card down on the table. The bartender came over to take up the card and run it through the POS machine. By the time she returned, Frankie had already pulled out some bills to pay his tab.

“You can keep the change.” She nodded in gratitude as he adjusted his baseball cap. The three of us walked out into the Applebee’s parking lot.

“Where’d you park, Frankie,” Jeff inquired.

“I actually walked here.”

“The fuck? It’s 2:00 in the morning and you’ve been drinking. We can’t let you walk home. Maggie is my ride. She can take you home!”

I stopped cold in my tracks. What the damn hell? We had only known this man for three hours. Practically the length of a Lord of the Rings movie. Frankie seemed nice, but I had no idea who he was or what was his story. I did feel bad for him - losing his job and having to possibly walk home - but this was a little out of my comfort zone.

“Thank you. That would be great. I only live about ten minutes away”. The parking lot lamp post reflected a small amount of lighting onto his face. I could see tears begin to well up in his big brown eyes.

Goddamnit. I couldn’t say no now. He looked so sad and helpless at that moment. I gave a small sigh and looked down at the cracked cement. I kicked a small pebble to the side in defeat.

“I’m in the white Mustang. I’d be happy to take you home.”

Jeff was already at the passenger’s side and asking if we could go home already. I rolled my eyes and gave a slight chuckle. Frankie smiled and we walked over to my car. We got in and Frankie started giving directions on how to get to his apartment. I was surprised at how clear and thorough he was, but then I remembered that he was in the military. Precision had to have been in his DNA at this point.

My intoxicated friend began to attempt to make conversation as we drove off into the night.

“You know, Frankie - this car we are riding in now is a piece of shit. I tell Mags that she needs to get a new one. This thing doesn’t have A/C and the stereo doesn’t work -”

“Hey! This is my piece of shit car, thank you very much. I don’t see you complaining about it when I have to drive you around.”

“As long as it gets you from Point A to Point B, it’s good. An ‘87 Ford Mustang isn’t the worst out there. It’s a classic.” I looked in my rear view window to see Frankie grin. I quickly looked back at the road ahead and tried to hide a pleased smile.

We arrived at his apartment complex in exactly ten minutes, like he said we would. He took out his wallet and tried to offer me some gas money, but Jeff shut him down.

“We can’t accept that. You’re a cool dude, you know? I like you. We may not be able to get you another job, but I want to do something. I want you to see our play. I would be honored if you showed up.” Jeff took out one of his business cards and a pen. He scribbled what looked to be my name and telephone number on the back of it. Turning to face the back seat, Jeff handed the card to Frankie.

“This is my business card. My number is here. Maggie’s number is on the back. If you call either one of us, we will hook you up with a free ticket. Actually, just call Maggie. She’s better at setting these things up. Also I don’t know if you have noticed, but I am a little tipsy. So I may not remember this.” I shook my head at his honesty. What life choices had I made to end up here?

“Thank you. I may take you up on that offer. Thanks again for the shot and the ride home.” Then Frankie got out of the car, waved at us, and headed into his apartment.

As I was turning out of the complex and onto the main road, I noticed Jeff smiling. He was clearly pleased with himself and reveling in the feeling.

“We’ve done the Lord’s work, Mags.”

“I’m not sure that giving a stranger a ride home and tickets to see Absurdist theatre is what the church means when they ask what would Jesus do.”

“We have changed that man’s life forever!”

“Sure Jeff. Let’s get your drunk self home.”

***

THE NEXT MORNING:

“D’oh! D’oh! D’oh!”

I had just walked out of the shower when I heard my phone ring. Who in the world would be calling me at 10 in the morning? It sure as hell wasn’t Jeff - he was probably still passed out from the night before. I quickly wrapped a towel around my body and ran to the phone. The number flashing on my screen was unfamiliar to me. I still picked it up, thinking that it could be one of my new assistants for my next show.

“Good morning, this is Maggie.”

There was a small pause.

“Hello?”

“Hi. Yeah, this is Frankie Morales. We met last night at Applebee’s and you gave me a ride home.”

--------------

Tags: 

@larakasser​ @absurdthirst​ @yespolkadotkitty​ @fioccodineveautunnale​ @wickedfrsgrl​

#frankie catfish morales #frankie x oc #catfish x oc #francisco morales #frankie morales #triple frontier #catfish morales #frankie morales fanfic #francisco catfish morales #abuttoncalledsmalls #takeagiantstep

[misinformedgenic]

The last post on this god awful blog

Hello, I ask everyone who see’s this to unfollow this blog, if you are following me. I can’t look at the reblogs and posts I posted anymore, without feeling incredibly embarassed and I know that I am being aggressive to the people who gave me notes but you know what I don’t care.

(Overall trigger warning: trauma,syscourse,swearing and apologies.)

My message for those who are anti-endogenic:

(tw: abelism,mental ilness)

The truth is, whether all systems are formed by trauma or some can be born that way or it can be formed by something else, it really doesn’t matter. All endogenic systems are just trying to exist and communicate their experiences, and instead of listening and supporting those who might experience their plurality differently from you, you just villanize them and insult them and do the exact same thing that neurotypicals have been doing to us for YEARS. Calling us fake, saying we are trying to get attention, saying we should be ashamed of ourselves for “appropriaiting” from people who had a more severe form of an illness or was priveliged enough to get a diagnosis . If you are traumagenic and you haven’t had that kind of experience, I genuinely envy you. That shit was done to me and it really hurt me. People called me attention seeking for saying I was depressed,or had social anxiety or that I was transgender, or that I was traumatised or plural when all I was trying to do was be myself openly and to accept myself. Why is it that when someone who experiences some sort of plurality and they don’t feel comfortable assosciating their system with trauma, you jump straight to accusing them of something as awful as FAKING or BEING A THIEF!

And yes I know being endogenic means it’s not an illness, but being called a fake for expressing who you truly are when you’ve been forced to hide who you are is such a awful experience. How could you be so callous and careless to even risk that happening to someone else, even once more, in this cruel world. Even if every single endogenic system, who says I can’t help being a plural, was trauma genic, they still associate themselves with that word, endogenic. When you say something horrible about endogenic systems, you are doing so much damage to those people. I mean, to assume without a shadow of a doubt that every single “veritable” endogenic system is actually traumagenic with the limited amount of understanding of DID/OSDD IN ITSELF, as opposed to how this phenomenon could work outside of a disordered framework, really shows you have your head far up your ass. But even then, it doesn’t matter because whether they ended up being traumagenic or not, according to science, no one deserves that treatment.

Even then,in regards to the post on this blog that got the most notes, we need to understand that people with plurality are forced to label their pluraility as a symptom of a disorder. Many systems who needed psychiatry and systems who didn’t and just masked themselves mingled, and they shared terms. This is still happening today, more then ever.

(Just in case you want to know, fictive is not a term used in psychology or psychiatry. It literally came from the soul bonding community, and people who are anti endogenic are still using it. If you don’t believe me use a web browser, and provide some sources to prove otherwise. I didn’t know this, and I’m not going to tag the OP who told me this,because I’m not sure whether they want to be tagged, but thank you. I felt pretty humiliated but it helped to come to realize what I was doing was wrong and that my opinions were wrong, and it helped me to become a kinder and more understanding individual.)

And we need to understand that systems shouldn’t be forced to be involved in exploring their plurality through a lense of trauma, because for many it doesn’t make sense because thats not how they experience it. Even if it is repressed memories ,sometimes or always, systems need a space to be systems without talking about trauma or applying trauma to it. DID and OSDD spaces are not providing that and in those spaces trauma is going to be talked about. Systems shouldn’t have to force themselves to think about trauma and go through pain, just to be able to call themselves a plural and have people acknowledge and accept them.

My message for any endogenic systems and their supporters:

I apologize for everything that you had to go through, from me and my behaviour. My behaviour was terrible and none of you deserved it at all. You deserve so much more than what you get from the anti-endogenic crowd, and you are absolutely valid, and I hope that in the future things will be easier all of you. You deserve love, acceptance and support, and I hope that nobody will ever be able to take that reality from you. You are doing nothing wrong by just being a plural, and it’s really sad that people were and still are fighting about this. Fuck anyone who says otherwise. 

Conclusion:

(tw: s***** abuse,ableism,self hatred)

I know I was guilty of what I criticized, and that is really embarassing, but I’m glad I realize that now. I admit I was angry because I was jealous and bitter and I didn’t understand the history properly around this community or how it formed. I went through a lot of online g******g and s***al abuse and my experience with being a system was horrible, I had to deal with alters who had horrible del****ns and wanted to incite gruesome s*** h*** and wanted to k*** me. My system has introjects of my a****rs and random men I see on the streets making pe****ted comments at me pretty much all the time, and I was really jealous of systems who could experience the joys of being a system while avoiding the horrible parts. It made me feel worthless and inferior, because all the interesting and fun parts of being a system could be paraded on TikTok or whether and displayed by people who weren’t f***ed *p and dis*****ng like I was. I am not saying that’s the only basis as to why anti-endogenics hold their opinions, but I am saying this because if you ever see those anti-endogenic posts of mine somewhere and I am very passive agressive or vicious, that’s where it comes from and it isn’t objective or fair.

end of abuse trigger warning.

I decided that I am going to delete all the mean comments I made on other people’s posts that didn’t get any response, so that not another person has to see it again, and for which did get a response I am going to apologize to all those I harmed. If you want to respond to my argument, I can’t stop you from reblogging and making a comment, and that’s your freedom on this website, but I am not going to be replying because discourse on here is so nasty and I’m just done with that. I would rather help contribute to a community of people who feel isolated and who will be empowered by building a culture around plurality, whether that be around trauma or not. I’m tired of focusing on my trauma, it’s in the past and I don’t give a shit about it. It just sucks and I hate it and I am done with it. I will need therapy for it of course,yadi ya, but in terms of my limited free time on this earth I would rather contribute to making people feel happy and supported then argue and be angry about something that is kind of pointless anyway.

So bye, I would like to make a normal system blog in the future and we’ll be using the same names but for now I need to shut the fuck up and reflect. 

- Luca

Also hey, on a additional note, my name is Milo and I allowed my name to be associated with this blog and it was irresponsible and unkind for me to do promote this kind of thinking. I am really sorry for any harm I caused by being a part of this blog. Additionally Stanley understands that his post on pride flags was inaccurate and he made some very nasty comments/did some nasty stuff to, he is very sorry to all those he harmed with his previous posts. He is in a really bad situation at the moment, which has gotten worse over time, he is a trauma holder and he is in a lot of emotional turmoil,so neither me or Luca wanted him to be involved in writing this specific post, but that doesn’t mean what he did was okay and all three of us recognize this now.

Best regards,

Milo.

[stipethom]

I wrote some Cablepool fics some months ago but proofreading is such a bitch, so they were incomplete for now. I’m just gonna post some parts of it and hopefully there are more Cablepool people who loves mpreg as I do.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In summary, Mpreg theme uses pregnancy to describe how women and gender/sex minorities are impregnated with the unspeakable powers of patriarchy. Pregnancy is not just a biological phenomenon; it symbolizes embodied experiences, where women’s body is changed and exploited as it bear the burden of child labor. And by forcing such changes upon male body, it declares that any sex and gender that is seen less than a “man” can thus be a “woman”, and that whoever they are their struggles and pains are similar to that of women’s in this world.

In mpreg fics, there’ll be tears, fight, divorce, and broken hearts. It’s fan-favorite melodrama. It’s barnyard humor. It’s self-service to the writer’s own kink.

It is all of these. Or, it’s none of these.

-

They put all kinds of wires to link Wade with medical equipments. X-rays him, scans him, takes some blood from him. They declares that what’s inside Wade is not a parasite. Not another tumor nor a clog. It is, as the tag suggests, a fetus.

Some other X-students gathers as soon as the word is out: the Deadly mouthy ‘pool’s pregnant. The next session, Wade is unhappy with the amount of audience in the supposed waiting room, looking expectedly at him. From hindsight, it’s better they were there at the time, to spare Wade the horrors of explanation.

Unplanned male pregnancy should have been a comic relief since it’s Deadpool. But when the results indicate that it belongs to a certain Nathan Summers, who recently died, it is no longer a joke.

Cyclops, as his role in any other Cablepool fics, has to be the last one to know it. He learns of the identity of his future grandchild and immediately decides to rushe back to the mansion to confront whatever nightmare awaits him. He briefly talks to Hank, in order to prepare himself before talking to Wade. Eventually, a consultation team that comprises of Cyclops and Beast visits Wade’s at his apartment, who just comes back with discounted pregnancy tests from CVS.

“We must talk about your condition, Wade.” Scott says solemnly.

“Sorry, Grandpaclops, will remember to use protection next time. Guess I should never underestimate dicks from the future.”

Scott clenches his teeth. His expression is hidden under his ruby optics, but Wade can see the tiny creases around his mouth, and he gets the feeling that Scott is anxious. Ans so, so very tired. Hank clears his throat and starts talking about his discoveries. Half of his talk is explaining his daring theory of why life form can be conceived inside a male’s body, which Wade doesn’t listen to. The other half is some warmings on what a pregnant man should not do. Given Wade’s profession and personality, Hank makes 100% sure that Wade listens to him. Scott seems to be holding breath as the other mutant talks with a professional calmness.

The talk ends with “We still don’t know exactly how it happened, but It’s going to be a big responsibility—your responsibility.”

Scott tries again. He keeps his voice strategically even, a little raspy than usual, as if he practiced this conversation in front of a mirror too many times.

“It’s yours, as much as it’s Nathan’s. It’s up to you to ... keep it.”

“Or you can move into the X-mansion—”Hank stops promptly when Wade starts laughing.

“So your guys are what, showing parental support for the guy your son never actually married, and you never even doubt it’s a parasite?”

“We ruled out that possibility.” Hank says, “you know, you don’t have to do this.” He pauses briefly, making sure every sentence is carefully worded. “After what happened, you—in fact, nobody should do this alone. It’s unfair that you have to deal with it on your own.”

Great, now they think of Wade as some mourning ex-lover of Nate’s. He has to find something witty to say, or he’ll just embarrasses himself in front of these two good-intentioned, somewhat guilty-looking X-men. There’s a sorry somewhere that he can reads directly from the thin air, sorry we are so sorry for pushing you away, we are sorry we didn’t accept you—and ignored your feelings— now we are here to make it up for you. No, this ain’t right. They don’t know about him and Nate. All they see is this, which makes them assume all kinds of things about them, about Wade, that Wade doesn’t even want to think about.

He decides to take advantage of their out-of-no-where-guilt because it is better than pity, “OK, wait, is this the part where we hug and cry on each other’s shoulders? I have a feeling there’s always a but. Besides, Hank, you just violated the confidentiality agreement without my consent!”

“I’m truly sorry, it’s an unprecedented situation.” Hank tries not to look shameful. “And, no, no buts. All we’re offering is a place to rest before the, that is, if you want to keep it, It’s very important when it comes to—“

“Nathan’s spawn.” Wade helps him finish the sentence. “That’s why you X-men fucking care. “

Cyclops doesn’t say a word, but he thinks so loud, he is practically radiating sadness and anger, and worst of all, the anger is not even directed at Wade.

Wade snaps.

“Tell you what, I’m gonna fucking keep this little shit till it’s got eyes and fingers and then I’ll fucking abort it! I’ll put it in a filthy jar and sell it to Mister Sinister, and it will be none of your fucking business!”

—

Of course Wade didn’t abort it. And he did move into the X-mansion.

Everyone seems worried. After all, X-men are worried all the time—but they also look slightly relieved. If Wade ignores the eyes they are giving him, the whispers they exchange when they think he is not looking, he almost feels nothing has changed at all.

The big question, after the several years after Nate died, still hangs in the air. Every time someone looks at Wade, there’s a why in their eyes. A mutant like Nate, who is supposed to be a man of proper taste and good integrity, the reasons that he chose to be with Wade is unthinkable.

Any sane human would tell Nate what he did is ridiculous. Like the voice in the back of Wade’s mind. It tells Wade all the time that he cannot possibly believe that him and Nate could last any longer—or long enough to have any consequences.

Being pregnant is not the consequences. It’s the last one of the bad decisions he’s made after all the other ones. He knows the voice is right, and his life sucks mostly because he doesn’t listen to it. This time, he feels a certain remorse satisfaction in disobeying the remaining sense of reason in his head.

Keeping the baby to prove a point is as desperate as it’s poorly intended.

He knows how fucked-up this is.

—

In hindsight, it’s fucking creepy that Wade, Copycat, and Domino all slept with Nate.

Here she is, gonna pop open that can of worms.

Domino has to come to him at his most inconvenience. She knocks three times on the door, each time more curt and determined. She will probably shoot a hole in the wall to make a new door if he doesn’t let her in.

Wade opens the door, grimaces at the way she look at him and meet his eyes. He is a good few inches taller than Dom, but he never feels big in front of her.

She brings in an air of feline elegance and the fresh scent of hair shampoo. It’s endearing for her to allow people to see her like this, yet not entirely unguarded. He catches the innuendo of a more secret, private conversation.

Her eyes touch him lightly, hair flares with the effortless chic style many would be jealous of. There are a hundred things Wade lacks that she owns.

The night is getting dark and the wind is getting wild, he probably should close the window before the storm.

Dom is less of a coward than him, who could barely come up to people and tell them the truth. That he got himself into this long before he understood the true meaning of having someone and then losing them.

She is pretty and deadly as always, not jadded by battles and gunfire. She looks at him with a sadness of someone who think they have the pieces of a puzzle that Wade misses. Or at least they think they know.

“Why do you keep him, the baby—.” She leans against the wall, arms crossed. “He’s not going to be Nate. Nate is not here anymore.“

“Wow, wow, lady, now you’re just projecting too hard.”

“Wade, look. It took me a hell lot of drinking to accept that he’s really gone this time.” She keeps her voice steady and manages to be soft at the same time. “I hear you talk to him like, I don’t know. I don’t think I’m not projecting.”

“Just so you know, I talk to my tummy all the time. Totally healthy habit. Been like this since I’m in my mom’s womb.”

“You’ve been talking to him and you sounded like—never mind.” Now she is just being weird. Wade feels offended that someone dare to outweird him without his royal permission. “The baby—you are drowning him with things he’s not part of.”

“Drowning would be a damn boring way to die.” He comments. “In fact, I’m whispering murder thoughts to him so he can grow up into a killing machine. A cyborg one. Just like his dad.”

“Wade, I’m not trying to take anything from you.”

“Oh sure, you’re here to remind me to invite you for the baby shower, which I am seriously going to reconsider with the guest list.”

A strip of dark hair falls on her cheek as she hesitates.

“You know why I’m here.”

Honestly, Wade’s fed up with this. He didn’t respond, instead, he peels off his mask, challenges her to look directly into his eyes.

She looks flustered, but her thin shoulders are as still as granite. This close, Wade can see how her breast heaves under her loosely-fit shirt. It fucking hurts when he rips through her facade and finds something a lot like the reflection of his own pains. They both had Nate in the past, and now that Nate is the past, they are weirdly equal. They had different Nates, but Wade wants all the Nates.

The voice in his head is so loud that he can barely think his own thoughts. Is that why he came to her after Wade left Providence, for her is smart enough to ask for only what she deserves?

Does she come here to pity Wade, or is she seeking compassion from Wade? He feels an old, dull bitterness creeping up his spine.

Domino backs off a little, “I never liked you.” She says. They both know it, so it’s not really a confess. Something is blown in to the window, making a cracking sound. Both of them shiver. “I couldn’t believe it was you, of all people. “Oh, so she did care. She was not as nonchalant as she pretends to be. “But now you are-you are not just yourself-I don’t want to fight you anymore.”

It stings.

“Does that mean I can finally make your face my new bathroom tiles? Because I love baby poo on black and white.” He quirks a smile. “Oh, And by the way, I reject your nanny application. Bring your broom next time.”

“You hate me for a dead man.” She says dryly, “what does that make you...”

Her voice hitches.

“What does that make us. If we are still loyal to him.”

The wind is loud, and others must be awakened by the noises by now. If wind could talk, it must be full of broken sentences, murmuring and fleeing from the untrimmed trees, circulating in the flying dirt and the waving foliage. Some sleepless mutant girls on the second floor mutters in an annoyed voice.

Dom reaches out to him. Her arms are pale but firm. They are suddenly within the distance of a kiss. He feels his cracked lips nearly brushes hers like a breath.

She jumps back, hitting the nearest surface to her face. The window panes creak from the shockwave, sending the whole room whirls. For a moment they were close enough to dig out each other’s heart. The framed painting falls to the ground in broken pieces behind them. It is relatively intact until Neena steps on it.

“A hard loser, aren’t you.” Wade breathes.

Neena just smiles.

“It’s just you who can’t let go.”

She stubbles on the cracked frame before storming into the bathroom. Wade hears the hot water pours out of the faucet and makes maps of mist on the hanging mirror. Her reflection from the mirror shifts, and from Wade’s angle, he can see her tears.

A small sob sound leaks out of her beautiful mouth. Wade feels envious yet again. He doesn’t understand why it changes how Dom sees him, as if sharing pain with him would be some comfort for both of them. But it doesn’t, he wants to scream, and it shouldn’t. He hears other mutant kids are giggling through the wind, and he is so, so envious of them.

Before he closes his eyes, he feels a light patting on his shoulders, and then all the light runs out with the slapping of the door.

He knows this is fucked-up.

“Nate,“ he murmurs, “If you don’t plan yo come back, I don’t think I can survive this—your too-young-too-be-dad dad, your ex-girlfriend, and your very possessive and angry daughter who refuses to meet me yet—I now understand why you want to elope with me into the future. I’ll forgive you for never asking me to actually run with you, but I know you always wanted to.“

“It’s fucking worse when people try to care. They don’t know you. They don’t know how fucked up you are. All they want is to keep a memoir, and I’m their freaking memoir. What did we have, sweetheart, did we ever agree on anything, huh? Did you even think about what it would be like for us to be together long enough to have consequences?”

“You see, Nate, I’m the one living with the consequences now. Except that you’re not here.”

#mpreg #Cablepool #Nathan Summers #Wade Wilson #Cable #Deadpool

[rixxy8173571m3w1p3]

The Truths Found On Petram Viridios IV (1/?)

What started out as an idea for a short one shot grew into a multichap that I'm almost done editing. I think 🤔 it'll be either 4 or 5 chapters long depending on how long each chapter will be after I'm done editing. Anyway, I hope you guys will enjoy.

In this fic you learn how easily things can change, but how it effects you isn't always a bad thing.

________________

Chapter 1: The Phenomenon

There was little difference to what was happening around you at the moment. There were no little green men, or yellow submarines, neither were there tangelos, or bags of golden rings, but there was a blue-haired man with plenty of dreams. Still, life was swell; summer was around the corner, and you were reading in the garage just to be near Zeta-7; he was working on his latest piece of tech, and you were distracted by his charming quirks and ticks. If you hadn't known any better, you'd say it was business as usual. Yet, it was because you had been acquainted with Rick that the previous blindspots of your world were made known to you; conscious of the rare events which were going to take place in another quadrant of space.

A phenomenon was going to occur; one which would not happen again for another 1000 years; the blooming of the Milleannos flower. Legends say that those who touch its pollen might live forever, and those who smell its perfume might be cured of all that ails them, but those claims were supposedly unsubstantiated. There was to be a gala to celebrate the occasion; all in attendance were respectable, distinguished guests and because of Rick, you were also invited, but there were rules; strict guidelines which were to be obeyed unless you wished to throw away your life. And although you weren't happy about them, you were willing to abide by them for Rick's sake. However, there were a few things you didn't understand. "Rick, why won't we be allowed to dance together?"

His hands paused their activity, and his body sagged a little; dreading the reminder not because he's informed you already, but because it pained him to remind himself that he couldn't spend a once in a lifetime occasion with you. "B-because according to the laws of Petram Viridios IV, you are assigned a um - a party companion which is determined according to the alignment of your spine, carbon dioxide levels, as well as daily water intake. And due to the variety of guests, everyone must stand at least six feet apart to avoid air poisoning. However, if given an a-air helmet in order to assist with breathing, then I believe that the last rule isn't as severe. It's - there is a-a lot to remember."

Currently, he was piecing together the circuits and connecting the wires which would power his reflective shield. It was going to be worn under his dress shirt and would be undetectable under their scanners; as a precaution of course. "Ricky, you know I barely drink water." You weren't a fan of water, but you enjoyed flavored beverages and if you did drink water, it was always carbonated first. "I mean, I can get past the distance thing, but what am I supposed to do if I'm assigned to someone I don't like, and have to spend hours being bored and jealous that you're next to gorgeous, realistic fembots from Westworld?"

Unlike you, Zeta-7 drank so much water, you wondered how he wasn't rushing to the bathroom every five minutes. The only other people who drank that much water were beauty gurus who wanted to keep their skin in tip-top shape; you could really try harder if you wanted to. Good naturedly, he answered. "Gosh, y-you don't have to worry about that. I know a fembot when I-I see one."

You raised a brow at this, but seeing as he meant it literally, you listened on. "No s-siree, I won't be assigned a party companion because I'm going t-t-to be assisting the king in protecting their sacred relic."

How Rick became designated to assist with such a task was beyond you, but there seemed to be a glimmer of slight pride in the fact that he'd be so lucky and privileged as to be near the legendary flower, as well as to the beings who revered it. He was determined to find out the truth behind its properties, and if his hypothesis proved true, then he had a plan. You enjoyed when he was diverted with schemes; not the kind which was evil in nature, but the ones which could end happily or inconclusively. Anyway, you two were discussing how to go about it all.

The discussion had gaps of pause where he'd need to concentrate on bits of wiring that needed to be soldered or bent. Without distraction, you were more aware that it was humid, especially with the garage door being fully open for proper ventilation; bits of your hair stuck to your face and to the back of your neck despite how you'd try to tie it. As annoying as it was, it did have its draw; every so often, you'd catch Rick staring and you'd feel a thrill for it could be a year or ten years, but his shy tendencies would never stop being endearing; why he felt the need to reign himself when you were cool with him checking you out was something you hoped he'd someday become more comfortable with, but for now you'd simply giggle and wink at him to let him know you knew. He did his best to focus on the task at hand, but it wasn't going as well as he had hoped for it happened more than once that you'd have to hand him a tool he was blindly reaching out for. "You wouldn't happen to know who my party companion is," you inquired, as you were tying your hair up for the umpteenth time. "do you? And if you do, can't you change them?"

Giving you that look which always preceded his speeches of why he couldn't do that random illegal thing, he explained with kindly patience. "I could change th-the records, and assign you to someone I know, but that wouldn't be legal."

"I know."

"However," he brightened as he paused his work to face you fully. "I do have a copy of the guest list. Give me a-a moment to pull it up on my computer. Hmm," he wondered more to himself then out loud. "that's odd."

"What is it?"

Drumming his fingertips on his workbench, he double-checked his calculations, then went over and wrote it all out on a chalkboard to be sure. Tapping the freshly used chalk tip to his chin in thought, leaving a little powder on his face, he nodded when it seemed satisfactory. "According to um - to my calculations, it's possible that it's either the Salamandrian chemist, V'gha Khadaka or the Chordatan Knight, Noathamas."

"Is there a correlation between the two?"

"Other than their similar water intake levels, they both enjoy their privacy. However, I'm a-a little stumped as to how it might be possible to be assigned to them both. None of your occupations are similar, neither is there a species similarity, but I'm sure I'll figure it out before the event."

Great, just great. That sort of information wasn't all that helpful, but you pressed a kiss to his cheek to ease the worry which he had been hiding. You wondered if it was too late to back out, but for the most part you were determined to be there for him, even if it meant odd company. "Alright. Um… is there something I should keep in mind before I go dress shopping?"

A quick glance at your current outfit made him smile. You were wearing an old band tee and jeans with so many patches, that they were more patch then jean. "I-I don't think so. Almost anything is fine. Though, y-you might want to avoid plant-based materials in favor of synthetics just in case."

"Okay, I think I can do that, but don't be surprised if I look like I just walked out of a 1980s prom. I'll have you know that being slightly flammable is a dream of mine."

He chuckled at that and patted your shoulder. "Hohoho, I'm sure it'll be fine. You - you always look pretty in whatever you wear."

"If you mean that I'll be so fine, that I'll light up the room with my razzle-dazzle, then you better watch out. You never know who'll be charmed without my knowing."

Now, there had been little to no weight to your phrasing just now, but he felt differently. Giving your shoulders a squeeze, there was a distant, far off look in his eyes that you could only recall from specific occasions. It was a mix of longing, sadness, and regret, but you couldn't pin it on what exactly. It was as though he were trying to convey by sight that there was something he ought to do, that he ought to say, but as quickly as it had appeared, it left and was replaced by acceptance. He pulled away and returned to his previous task while you used a spare computer to begin the search for the perfect dress. He said it'll be fine, and you certainly hoped so.

____________

Adjustments in gravity made you feel as though you could jump in and out of craters as though you were wearing moon shoes; that is until you stepped onto a ship or station, then you felt as though you had fifty pounds tied to each foot. You were grateful for the terrain stabilizers that Rick placed in your flats a few adventures ago, otherwise, you would've already been worn out.

You two arrived a few minutes apart by way of the designated ship which held a variety of guests. To explain, the ship itself was a marvel and a work of beauty as far as intergalactic travel was concerned; its mechanical parts were held together by a compound whose main ingredient was a type of scarlet amber. Piece by piece, it had been crafted by a mixture of living matter and tech so advanced, that it'd have taken 300 years of Earth-based studies to understand a fraction of how one of its panels could work; probably sooner for someone like Rick.

Your eyes trailed the conduits as you were led through hallways that seemed to spiral and spill into larger hallways with varying temperatures and design and you wondered how it was those conduits crossed over and branched off like veins, but you had no time to find out and didn't feel privileged enough to ask as you were led into a cabin. Multiple voices hushed, but resumed to their usual loudness once you had settled into what appeared to be a loveseat with the coloring and texture of a pumpkin; it was your assigned seating, but it was not as soft as you would have liked.

It wouldn't be till later that you'd find out that Rick had traveled in a cabin on level 4 while you had been on level 2. In your cabin was a being composed of pure energy, with a name not spelled in letters but in frequencies, who was one of the musicians. A few feet away, was V'gha Khaḍaka; he was tall, sure-looking, had smooth, striped skin which glistened, and a tail strong enough to break someone's spine in a blink; the good thing was that he hadn't been trained in combat, but was simply a scientist who enjoyed the pursuit of knowledge. And a few feet away from the Salamandrian chemist was the knight Noathamas; he stood at half your height, but his chest was puffed out in such a way that made him appear larger, while his round amber eyes and curly whiskers gave him a soft, cuddly appearance; you had been warned by Rick that his appearance did not reveal much about his character and to watch out for him.

It was uncommon but not unheard of to be assigned multiple party companies as you had been; you were matched up to both V'gha and Noathamas due to your odd chemical makeup. Who would've thought that drinking a La Croix before leaving home would confuse their scanners? Goodness, you were grateful that it was a quick trip, and when it was time to depart the ship, you were escorted by two guards before you were given a helmet; it was nearly invisible except for its indicator light which was shaped like a flower, and it blended in with your dress; a colorful sequin cocktail dress you found on eBay. Not far from you were both your companions, who gave off the impression that they were your entourage rather than dates for the night. You saw Rick from a distance, and you knew he was trying to play it cool, but his eyes were sparkling with affection, although he knew he was supposed to suppress it due to the strict traditions imposed by the royal family; he looked away as he was escorted by six guards, but part of you wished that he hadn't.

You took a deep breath to calm your giddiness; this wasn't the time to allow your emotions to carry you away and affect the mission which was to get through the evening. V'gha could pick up on your subtle changes in body language, and thanks to a universal translator in your helmet, you could understand him. "From what I understand," he commented with a surprisingly smooth, velvety voice. "he's the smartest man in the universe. Is that true?"

"Maybe," you replied nonchalantly, "but he's more than just a brain. I heard he's a great lover. Not really my type," you lied because Zeta-7 suggested that you keep the details of your relationship with him a secret; again for safety, but you thought boasting up his reputation wouldn't hurt. "though, to each his own."

"Do you know him personally?"

When questions like this were thrown at you, it made you wonder about the curious people who meant it to sound nice, but in actuality wanted to test the waters as to how much can they ask so soon. Glancing at your nails, you feigned disinterest. "I'm not sure if I'm allowed to give out that type of information."

"You two are the only humans here." he stated matter of factly. There were humanoid beings but he was right. "It doesn't take rocket science to figure that much out."

"How would you know," you retorted with an air of certainty. "you're not a rocket scientist."

"You're right, I'm not. However, I do dabble into it from time to time. I'm sure he does too. I can smell the exhaust from here."

Hmm, perhaps this event was going to be more interesting than you thought. You shared a look of understanding with the chemist, and thought that perhaps you wouldn't need to be so wary of him; his charisma gave him a charm you hadn't yet decided if it was welcomed or should be ignored; whether his earlier comment was out of egotism or curiosity. And before you could make a comeback, Noathamas commented. "Shall we find our assigned seating and continue from there?"

"Sounds fine. Why don't you two walk ahead," you suggested with a coolness you didn't know you had. "I'll be sure to follow."

When you were sure that they were far enough, you took out your miniature glass terrarium necklace, which held a shrunken sunflower that had an iridescent shimmer on its petals; the one Rick had given you after a memorable date; it was made to remind you of how he saw you and you were very glad it had gone undetected under the scanners you passed through. And in your mind's eye you could still see the glimmer and shine of his electric blue eyes as he had taken in your appearance this afternoon before you two departed Earth; oh how he had wanted to kiss you and hug you but had refrained from doing so in order to double-check if he had all his supplies. His compliments had been many as he drove into the inky blackness of space, but when he parked at the station which was at the midway point, and you two lined up to board the ship which took you to this strange world, his face became neutral; his job made him good at that. You kissed your lovely necklace, replaced it so that it laid underneath your dress collar, and your heart called out to him in the void which was Petram Viridios IV; hoping you wouldn't have to go the through the evening without seeing your beloved again before you made yourself appear neutral and made sure to stay at least six feet apart from everyone in your midst.

Tbc

#doofus rick #doofus rick x reader #Rick Sanchez x reader #j19ζ7 #j19z7 #rick j19z7 #Rick Sanchez #rick and morty fanfic #rick and morty fanfiction #rnm fanfic #rnm #my fanfiction #My fanfic #My writing #My works #fanfiction #rnm fanfiction

[aidemint]

𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧 - 𝐆𝐢𝐲𝐮𝐮 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐨𝐤𝐚

Word Count: 1763

Warnings: None!

__

At night when the stars

Light up my room

The warm evening sheen was broken through by pinpricks of light in the sky above. A previously orange and red-streaked skyline had been enshrouded by a mass of cumulonimbus and replaced with a dark lavender color. The wonders the night held came out to play as thousands of stars glittered overhead and the large, yellow moon revealed itself, perched just beyond a small cluster of clouds. 

As the wind rustled the treetops and sent the birds fluttering up into the velvet horizon, the melancholic sound of crickets chirped through the air, filling the atmosphere with blithe indifference. I could feel the spirits of those in the estate relax, as the covert nuance that was the joyousness we all radiated calmed our aggressive souls and tamed them into happy pups.

It was funny how much tedium such a wonderful setting could bring me. 

__

When the world was asleep, I was awake.

My footsteps made no sound on the soft grass as I crept towards a small pond in the estate. As the tips of my toes touched the ground, tickled by the lawn, my chest rose and fell at a slow tempo. The quietness that enveloped the night was comforting, yet I felt dissonance rise in my mind. Perhaps it was because the magnitude of sound my thoughts held created an imbalance in the would-be perfect moment.

Arriving at the edge of the pond, I stared down into the silvery liquid, watching as its surface gently rippled as a small breeze blew through the air. It tousled my hair ever so gingerly, making waves of my locks. Moonshine glinted on the body of water, causing it to sparkle like never before. My irises reflected the image of the stars that were imprinted onto the pond, shining so magnificently that someone could mistake them for tiny lanterns in the midst of complete darkness. Tilting my head up towards the sky, the edges of my lips started to curl upwards as I caught sight of the wonders that littered space’s being.

It was a beautiful thing. 

But why weren’t any emotions stirring within me?

I sit by myself

Talking to the moon

Heaving a heavy sigh, the smile slowly melted off of my face after I blinked a couple of times. I felt conflicted. There was always this odd feeling that would curtail any positive emotion I had. A certain emptiness would overtake me and I would be left feeling hollow. It happened so frequently that I was just a baby step away from thinking that being happy would be an atrophy. If I couldn’t feel the bubbly sensation in my stomach, or feel butterflies flapping their light wings in my heart, what was the point?

It wouldn’t last, anyways. The emotion was so ephemeral, that I saw no point in even feeling that way in the first place. Of course, I could’ve just pretended that I was carefree or untroubled, but that was perfunctory, and it also had no purpose. 

Perhaps I was rambling. Maybe it didn’t matter all too much. When I didn’t even know the reason for this strange phenomenon, I shouldn’t have dwelled on it for so long. It could’ve been a sign from the universe for me to direct my attention to something other than irrelevant and silly matters. Giving a soft groan, my eyes flickered down to the water again. The light that came from it now had a banal glow, as clouds had set over the moon, obstructing it from my view. 

Ah, of course. What was I hoping for?

My shoulders sank and I finally took a seat on the ground. If only I had the will to ruminate about these matters instead of directly accepting them without a second thought, there would’ve been the possibility that all these problems I had would be solved. But even though I had no foresight into the future, I knew that my nature wouldn’t change. I was never the receptive type. There was no hope. 

I was so blind.

So I began to cry.

Fat droplets of water rolled down the sides of my face, dripping down my chin as tears spouted from my eyes. They made their journey from the corners of my eyelids to the bottom of my cheeks, trickling further from their origin, and closer to the ground. My skin flushed and became hot to the touch and my arms shook, hands curled up into little fists. Not once did I falter, or abstain from the actions my brain was feeding my body, but I soon realized that despite my physical reactions, there was no turmoil boiling inside of me. 

Through all of this, I made no attempt to wipe my tears away, or furrow my brows. Tears just started to leak and pour down my face at random. I didn’t curse at my own pestilence or weakness, nor did I begin to feel exasperated at my lack of stability. The only effect of crying I could truly feel was the sensation of my stamina being drained. 

What was the purpose? What was the reason?

Was I crying just to cry, or was I feeling something else? Did I want to fight it?

But no matter how hard I thought, I could only accept the outcome in the end.

Like an idiot.

Tryin' to get to you

In hopes you're on

The other side

Talking to me too

My ears perked up as soon as I felt a figure approaching, but I didn’t look at who it was. 

I knew already.

His sudden presence seemed repugnant. Of course, I couldn’t hear his footsteps, but I could sense him -- him and all of his brooding. As he took a seat next to me, I turned my head away with my gaze downcast. The moment had turned a lot more misgiving than I initially hoped it would be. I wished to be alone, but at the same time I would’ve stopped him if he had stood up again. 

Why were my own emotions an enigma, even to me?

“I had a feeling you would be here.” I hated the feeling of his eyes bearing into the back of my skull. “You weren’t at dinner.” Though my heart filled with disdain and I lacked effusiveness to respond, I sighed and somehow managed to reply. 

“I wanted to be left alone.” The figure besides me kept staring as if I were some odd, alien creature that had just crawled out of a shell. My teeth tugged at my bottom lip as I grew more and more aware of the fact that he’d figured out my lie. Willing myself to take a deep breath and look back at him, my earnest eyes met his dull ones and I forced a smile. As my heart hurt and throbbed painfully in my chest, I smiled with all the courage I could muster.

“I just wanted to be left alone,” I repeated. It sounded like I wanted to convince even myself that this whole scene had nothing to do with the fact that I was empty inside. There was something forlorn about the way I twiddled my fingers, and pitiful about the way my eyes were half-lidded. 

But of course, I’d already accepted this long ago, as I did with everything horrible that came my way. Maybe it was because I didn’t have the energy to fight anymore. If I hadn’t been so empty inside, things would have turned out differently. I wouldn’t be this ghost of a person, bound to the Earth by their physical form. These situations wouldn’t be so poignant and pernicious to my mind.

When I lifted my gaze after a few moments of thinking, I was met with faded blue eyes. His eyes. His dark navy irises that held a firm resolution about them -- yet I knew that in his mind there were so many swirling thoughts that it was nearly impossible to cherry-pick one of them from the mess that was the pileup. I tentatively returned his stare, feeling just a little bit meeker in his presence.

“I want to be left alone,” I whispered, “Please, leave me alone.” Yet the figure never left. His azurlean eyes kept themselves trained on me like a hawk, almost to the point where it seemed that he seemed sympathetic. My hand trembled and I finally broke the staredown, vehemently huffing and twisting my head away. The hashira next to me relaxed a bit, his posture growing less stiff and unwelcoming. He wrapped his fingers around mine and gave a small, sad, sigh.

Or am I a fool

Who sits alone

Talking to the moon

“No you don’t.” 

Then Giyuu leaned in and pressed his lips against mine. 

I felt butterflies.

I felt his free hand brush the side of my cheek, cupping it in his palm as we kissed. My skin flared with a bright red hue, almost unnoticeable in the pale moonlight, but it was hot to the touch, which collided with the cold feel of Giyuu’s fingertips. His lips captured mine and all was well in the world. His hand tightened around mine and he pulled me closer to deepen our lip-lock. 

I could taste the regret that lingered on his tongue. 

But it didn’t stop me from loving him.

Once we separated, we embraced each other like we were living our last days on Earth.

His arms wrapped around my shoulders and his lips whispered honey-coated words into my ears. And all I could do was accept it just how it was. I wanted to scream and cry, then sob for forever into the sleeve of his kimono. His actions were so sincere I could pound my fists into his backside and protest at how disgusting they were. 

I was a mess. A horrid mess.

I didn’t know what my thought process was, and I hated myself for that.

But it seemed as if I didn’t need one with Giyuu.

Because he was here when I was empty. He came and he filled my soul with yellow carnations and the sweetest smelling lavender. The bees and butterflies feasted on the blooms every so happily, their iridescent wings fluttering inside my heart. 

So this was the way he made me feel. 

Perhaps he could give me some form of absolution.

I laughed with a shaky smile and buried my face into the crook of his neck.

“I missed you.” Giyuu patted the back of my head and sighed softly.

“I know.”

#demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #giyuu #giyuu tomioka #anime #oneshot #imagine #talking to the moon

[paradise-of-guilty-pleasures]

Shattered Reflections {24}

[Helsa RP- Fanfic]

Fandom: Frozen

Genre: Post-Frozen/ Canon Divergence

- Hurt/Comfort, Drama, Romance

Pairing(s): Hans/Elsa, Kristoff/Anna

Previous Chapter: 23. Cordially Invited

24. Hark the Harpist’s Harmony

"Should I move to the harp, then?" Hans hummed, with a playful smile. Perhaps he recognized that there might be some resistance to the idea of moving away-- from both of them. "I can be here for as long as you'll have me, my time is meaningless." He assured, lightly. He had all the time in the world.

"Yes, please do, play the harp I mean," Elsa nodded as she awkwardly shifted a bit more to sit up in her seat. Technically she  could  stay as long as she wanted as well, but that didn't mean she  should . What she should and probably would do was get some more paperwork done before supper, after concluding their tea time.

Hans smiled just a little, and nodded. He got up to move over to the harp, sitting up straight and adjusting himself to sit exactly the way one should while playing. He checked to make sure it was in tune, then began to play. It wasn't his  first  instinct, to play something happy. Indeed, usually he would default to something melancholy. But, for Elsa's sake, he searched for something  not  gloomy. He found something that, while not gloomy, wasn't happy, either. It was more mysterious, an intrigue. A half-remembered song from a foreign land that he transferred from whatever original instrument to a harp. He focused on the strings while he played, as focused on that as anyone could be, lost in the strings as it were.

Elsa was completely enthralled, the harp was indeed a beautiful instrument and Hans played it exquisitely. The tune he chose a lovely piece that was quite captivating and she wasn't sure how to describe it other than melodically magical. Perhaps magical wasn't the correct word for her to use considering she was the Magical Ice Queen herself, but the sounds of the harp somehow seemed to give off that particular sensation. She really hoped she wouldn't distract him by deciding to move closer to get a better view. Elsa carefully and quietly made her way to piano, and gently took a seat on the bench facing Hans. She really wanted to experience his wonderful playing with as many senses as possible. To be able to do that she had to take in every detail and study everything from his posture and breathing, the form in which his fingers meticulously strummed the strings and of course the concentration on his face.

 He glanced at her curiously as she moved closer, but his lip quirked just slightly, and he returned his focus, continuing to play. When one song ended, he only paused a moment before playing another. This time he hummed along, as if it had lyrics, but only half-remembered. It was a different style of song, a little lighter, a little friendlier, softer. Something that was, perhaps, attached to a memory of his. He seemed very much to allow himself to sink into his playing. Focused on the strings, and the thoughts behind them as the music became as natural as breathing in and out again. It had been a while since he played, but some things could be very deeply ingrained.

Elsa now sat leaning forward with her elbows near her knees and her hands cupping her face. Certainly not the proper posture for a Queen, but she was completely mesmerized by the music. After closely observing Hans for some time, she decided to close her eyes and just let music envelop her. The addition of his hum made the experience even more delightful, she could almost hear him singing even with the absence of words. With her eyes shut and completely absorbed by the song she hadn't taken notice that it was happening again, the same strange phenomenon as last night, a light flurry of fluttering snowflakes began to fall.

Hans almost jumped at the first snowflake to land on his hand, but he managed, and continued on. When he glanced at Elsa, he couldn't help but smile at how absorbed she seemed to be. He was sort of glad that she didn't ask too many questions about that song. 

 The third song was smaller, softer, more melancholy. Nervously, uncertainly, he took a breath. 

  "Who needs a dream?

Who needs ambition?  

Who'd be the fool, in my position?  

Once I had dreams, Now they're obsessions.

Hopes became needs, lover's possessions."  

 He sang softly but with feeling. His singing was beautiful, it had passion even at a low volume and sung shyly. He was someone who felt music, perhaps as much as Elsa did. He may not have been trained in singing, but he had a voice, and he had the training for the harp. He sang through a whole song of passion and uncertainty and the unexpected nature of life. 

  "But what's the point,  

if I'm concealing  

not only love, all other feeling?"  

 He knew the words by rote, perhaps he wasn't thinking about them. He stayed focused on the strings, and though the song was sad, it was warming, in its way. Melancholy could be a positive feeling, too. He only hoped Elsa felt that, too.

Elsa was surprised to hear his voice, her smile grew and her eyes flung open at the sound. She finally took note of the snowflakes, but paid them no mind, closing her eyes once again to better focus on the lyrics he was softly singing. It was certainly more melancholic, yet it was also quite beautiful and passionate, especially the way Hans recited it with his melodious voice. Once Hans finished the song, Elsa opened her eyes, and sat back up a bit. 

 "That was lovely," she praised sweetly.

"You think so?" Hans was a little shy about it, but he smiled all the same. He suspected she would say the same if it wasn't lovely, but she wouldn't say it in the same way. She wouldn't say it with snow, either, unless it was true. He couldn't help but blush a little at the thought. "I do like a  bit  more than just sea shanties." He admitted with an amused tone, as if to make light of his singing. It wasn't something he practiced often, but some things were natural. It was clear he was shy of being heard, too. As he had said, he picked an instrument to blend into the background. Elsa had to be something special, to prompt him to take center stage.

"Of course," she answered with a warm smile. "Though I think sea shanties can be quite lovely too," she proposed. She remembered the first song he sang to her. Elsa took a quick glance over her shoulder at the piano behind her, before she decided to turn her body towards it. She got a spontaneous urge to prove it. Elsa had gotten quite rusty at playing the piano, but she thought she could manage to play the simple tune, that she'd memorized by humming it so long ago. She hummed as she played the tune, because she'd yet to learn the lyrics to their entirety, the only verse that she really knew by heart was the one that started in  'My heart is pierced by Cupid' .

Hans smiled at the memory, glad that Elsa believed him-- and perhaps a little sheepish that she remembered his singing so well. 

 "You have a beautiful singing voice, yourself." He remarked softly. "You might put the sirens to shame." The songs seemed to draw parallels in their lives, he noticed. Concealing feelings and hearts pierced by cupid. He couldn't help but have a feeling about that. A feeling he tucked away, back inside his rib cage where it belonged. He would hold his tongue, as he did at home, to keep him from making a fool of himself.

Hans' comment made Elsa's ear burn red, it was easier for her to hide her shyness when she was still facing away from him. This had been the second time he'd compared her to a Siren, she wondered if that was meant to be a good thing, since he'd been unaffected by them, so she wasn't quite certain, but she took it as a compliment. Elsa looked over her shoulder back at Hans. 

 "I'm sure the sirens are far better at remembering the lyrics," she commented. "I do wish to try to learn them all myself, though" she continued as she turned her whole body on the bench once more to face him again. "I would be grateful if you wrote them down for me sometime, it'd give me something to practice while I relearn to play the piano. I'm surprised I managed to remember how to play at all, it's been ages since I touched a piano."

"I'll write them down for you as soon as I return to my room, then." He assured, lightly. He hadn't been writing letters, but the material had been provided all the same, especially while Hans did paperwork for his actual job of training the Guard, or helping Elsa with her own paperwork. "Some things are difficult to unlearn, I find. It's been a while since I touched a harp, too. Though, I suspect longer for you. You have had the busier life." He wanted to step closer, but that seemed like the wrong thing to do.

"Thank you," she hummed, standing up from the bench. "I guess you never truly forget something like that, even if you  think  you did, a part of you still remembers the  feeling , you just need to touch it again to elicit it." Elsa had taken a few steps toward the harp in front of her, so as she spoke she gently glided her fingers along all the harp strings (like people usually do across all the keys of the piano) just to hear the sound of all the strings being strummed in sequence. She had the temptation to touch the harp herself especially after seeing Hans' fingers fondle the strings so gracefully to create melodic music for her, she wanted to experience the sensation of strumming the strings against her own fingers. Of course with not knowing how to play she believed that the sound she managed to make with her gentle glide was nowhere as lovely as the ones he'd produced while actually playing, yet there was still a bit of that magical essence she thought a harp emitted.

 Hans couldn't help but feel that there was something deeper to what she said, though he wasn't sure what exactly it was. 

 "I imagine your magic feels the same." He mused, without thinking about it. His eyes watched her hands, and he seemed less than attentive as he let his thoughts drift.

"Hm? Feels the same to what? Similar to something you never really forget until you elicit it? I guess you could say that. When I first let it go again, with nothing holding me back, my powers came almost naturally." Elsa wondered if that's what he meant. She followed his gaze. "Or did you mean something else entirely? Something more abstract? Like you imagine my magic feels similar to something like... music?" She slid her fingers along the strings again. "I think that description wouldn't be far off either. Even though it's a bit hard to condense my powers into something completely comprehensible, I think that something like the euphonious sound of music does induce a similar sensation to the one of when I use my magic-- the good kind of magic at least. It's not an exact match, but still music is a lot like magic, I don't know how else to explain it but it kind of makes sense." She shrugged a little, admittedly not knowing exactly where she was going with that.

"The former, but yes. I imagine it does feel a bit like making music. It's strange, but I feel like I have a vague idea what magic would feel like. I suppose in the same way some of us have dreams of flying without ever having flown, some deeper instinct tells us what it should feel like, even if we have no idea?" He couldn't be sure, not could he properly describe it. "Music is a bit like magic, I suppose. From nothing we create emotions and feelings, and all we need is a flexible string or several, or a stick and a hollow thing to make a drum. Gregory would adore this conversation, likening music to magic. He's the real musician of the family." He deeply wanted to rest his hand at the small of her back and hold her. What was getting into him, that he kept having these sudden strange urges to do something unusual and familiar? Nothing outrageous, just to hold her. He wouldn't, obviously. He had no business touching the Queen. Only as she saw fit. He hoped he kept his wits about himself, lest he do something foolish.

Elsa smiled a little at Hans seeming to understand what she meant. "Yes, it's like emanating a manifestation of emotion. Music conveys it through mellifluous sound while magic transforms it into something more tangible," She said with a sparkle in her eyes. Elsa proceeded to create something with her magic. One of her hands swirled over the open palm of the other. She conjured a miniature horse figure that resembled Sitron, she showed and offered it to Hans. Elsa had certainly engrossed herself in the magic talk.

Hans smiled and picked up the little horse, if gingerly. Partly because of the fragile nature of ice, partly because he now knew by experience that it was a bad idea to grip ice for a prolonged period, thanks to his ice sword.

  "I like your artistic side, it's cute." He remarked sweetly. "And I like seeing you get excited about your magic. It certainly is impressive."

That certainly flustered her, Anna was unquestionably the cute one, so being considered cute was new to her, easily making her blush a bit. The combination of all his compliments put her heart in a frenzy and was evidently reflected with the falling snow. 

 "Thank you," she answered with a shy smile. Awkwardly shifting back a bit. "I forget how nice they can be sometimes, since I don't often get the chance to play around with them just for the fun of it. Though I really should do it more often, to test the limits of my powers, I still don't know everything that I'm fully capable of doing with them yet."

"You ought to, you look happy when you're using them." Hans observed, setting the ice horse back down just to preserve his hands, though he still looked at it with fondness. He wore the ice sword at his side, as it was traditional for an Isles man, but he was careful to avoid being near Anna in the halls. 

 "If I had powers like yours, I think I would want to make a dragon. Or Gryphons, things that you'd never see in real life. When you have magic, why not use it to make the world a bit more magical?" He offered with a smile and a shrug. "Or, to start with, maybe a cat. Cats, horses, and dragons." He laughed a little at himself. He truly did like all of those things, as childish as perhaps it was.

Elsa laughed a little herself. She thought it was quite adorable. Not at all surprised that his adventurous heart would wish for things of legend like Dragons and Gryphons. Yet even with the mention of extraordinary magical creatures, for some strange reason that wasn't what had stuck out the most to her. 

 "Hm. I don't think I've ever created a cat before," she mused with her pointer finger on her lips. And without further pondering she promptly constructed a life size sleeping snow kitten cradled in her arms. There was no doubt she was quite fond of animals, though she rarely interacted with them. "The only problem would be where to put your ice creations. If I could decorate the castle entirely with ice I probably would -- have you seen my ice palace? -- but I'm sure everybody else wouldn't appreciate a frozen castle, especially when they aren't unbothered by the cold like I am," she playfully reasoned. What held her back from creating, other than time constraints, was probably her consideration for others, she was sure the eternal winter probably didn't help warm people up to the idea of a forever frozen fixtures.

"I have, if you recall." Hans couldn't help but look down and grimace a little at the memory. "The first time you saw me with a sword drawn, I think." He mused. "We had a stirring conversation, and I think we've had that same conversation a few times, in a few different ways." He didn't think it was a bad thing, but one he found important. Perhaps a little serious. "Sounds like you need your own little icy island. Maybe your ice dragon could take you to the ice palace and your creations could live there. It  was  beautiful. Still there, I imagine?" He hadn't seen it since he'd carried Elsa out of it-- and he thought it was better if he didn't think about that memory. It still hurt to think of all the betrayal he caused in those few days. He couldn't help but watch the kitten fondly. He did love cats. "Have you considered getting a live cat of your own?"

Of course she recalled, his words most of all, they were forever engraved in her memory, the last thing she remembered before it had all turned to black. She saw his grimace and didn't want to dwell on that again right now. 

 "An icy island, I kinda like the sound of that. I might have to venture out and find one," Elsa considered it for a moment. "Still set on trying to sell me on the idea of creating an ice dragon I see," she giggled. "I wouldn't say live, because I would likely only be creating  normal  ice sculptures. To be honest, I'm not comfortable with bringing my creations to life. I made Olaf sentient completely by accident. And the only creation I purposely brought to life was Marshmallow and you know...but even with him I still didn't really know what I was doing. It sort of just happened, willing him to life. Like I said before I don't know the full extent of my own powers," She sighed with a slight shrug, becoming serious and silent for a second. 

 "And yes the Ice Palace still stands, at least last I checked." She looked down at the snow kitten she created and smiled. "As for ever considering getting a real cat, yes, I've pondered about having a feline friend many times. Have I decided whether or not it's wise? No. I still have to weigh the consequences. There's just a lot of things to consider; let's start with the arguments in favor. First of all, cats are absolutely adorable, soft and self-sufficient. They sound like a pretty perfect pet.

"The arguments against them though are a lot less about the cons of a cat and more about whether not I'm worthy of enough to have a cat. Like could I give it enough attention? I wouldn't want to get a cat and never have time for it. Would it even take a liking to me? Especially with I not being the warmest person in the world, I'd be very disappointed if it wouldn't let me touch it. Lastly, should I even take on another responsibility? As much as I'd love to have a cat, is it something I want to take on? I don't know, there's just so many variables," She shrugged. It was very much a battle between the emotional vs rational impacts of owning a cat. Of course she  wanted  a cat, but her queenly side was seeping out asking if she could even handle it or even deserved one.

"You're a Queen, your responsibility to a cat is making sure the service staff likes it, it's not as if you'll be the one to take care of its litter." Hans pointed out dryly. "Truthfully, a cat will make sure you give it exactly as much attention as it wants. The real downsides to you are the hairs it leaves in your dress, and the claw marks it may leave in your clothes, furniture, and skin. I taught the ship's cat to jump up onto my shoulders, so my uniform looks almost as red as it does blue now, from the cat's fur. But it's worth it to me to have the big lug purring in my ear during downtime. I can't speak to the warmth, you may want to keep a hot water bottle on-hand to encourage a cat sitting on your lap. They go to warm places, but if you make friends with a cat, they are friends as long as the cat lives. Dogs stay because you feed them, cats stay because they like you." Hans wasn't much for dogs. He had little against them, but he just preferred cats. Hans was right she was Queen and other people would take care of the cat for her and maybe that was part of her problem with getting one the little involvement she most likely have with it. She'd feel responsible for bringing a cat to the castle than making other people deal with it most of the time, (not that she wanted to deal with its litter, but still) it just wouldn't really feel like  her  cat. It was a bit silly to see things that way. Elsa sighed, taking a seat back down on the bench, placing her snowcat creation on her lap. Looking down at it warmly imagining what it would feel like if it were real.

  "The purring does sound rather nice," she admitted. " But maybe I should get a dog instead. I don't think you're giving them enough credit. They have good qualities as well, like they are also really cute especially with their big eyes and wagging tails. Also they always seem so happy and I heard they are really loyal. Besides there's some dogs that don't mind the cold," she smiled a bit considering that option as well, but it quickly faded. "... or maybe just having an animal companion isn't for me."

"No, dogs certainly have their place. And if you  want  an animal companion, there's no reason you shouldn't have one." He assured, gently. "Some cats don't mind the cold-- but some dogs  adore  it. Some dogs also swim, that's what Newfoundland dogs are like. They even have webbed paws, which is a strange thing for a dog. I've heard they can be mistaken for bears from afar, but I've never met one in person." He shrugged. "If one is to have a dog, a big one seems like a good idea, in my book. But those are just my personal preferences, perhaps you prefer little rat-hunting dogs that pounce like foxes and chase after the voles, it's not mine to say." He shrugged. "They can certainly be cute. They still shed, though, and require regular baths. Cats at least will typically bathe themselves, for better or worse. But our castle never had pets either. We just kept royal stables and hunting hounds, no indoor 'pets'." No wonder he preferred a ship, he could keep a cat there.

She still disagreed about having one just because she wanted one, she couldn't easily ignore all the things she had to consider about having a pet in the first place.

  "I don't think wanting one is enough reason to have one. Maybe in the future," she shrugged "I don't think I'm going to actively be looking for the perfect pet either, but if I someday come across one that completely captures my heart, I might reconsider in a heartbeat." Thinking about and rejecting the idea of a hypothetical animal companion was a lot easier than when an actual adorable living creature is in front of you and you can't resist the enchantment it imprinted on your heart.

"The best animals are the ones that find you, I find." Hans mused. Then he chuckled and cleared his throat. "But maybe that's just the  stray  at your door speaking." He teased, referring to himself. He had been shooed away once, then came back yowling at her door for attention. Somehow, it seemed to have paid off. "You seem to have a soft spot for scraggly red tomcats, as history speaks." He suggested, entirely as a playful joke to get her to roll her eyes. He wasn't a self-described 'fool' for nothing.

 "Perhaps," She let out a snort of suppressed laughter. One hand leaning against her forehead as she gently wagged her head with a downward gaze that almost made her eyes seem shut and a subtle smile on her lips. Her shoulders raised slightly. "Even scraggly red tomcats can make good companions." Maybe she indeed had a soft spot for red tomcats, with piercing green eyes and a playful nature, though scraggly probably wouldn't be one of the words Elsa would use to describe him.

Hans looked away and stifled a giggle, maybe blushing a little. "Ah, damn. I had a funny thought but it would be  very  unprofessional for me to say it out loud." He admitted with a little sheepish shuffle. "I suppose I ought to keep that to myself."

Elsa lifted her gaze to look at him.

  "Oh, now you've made me curious," she hummed with a tilt of her head. "But you're welcome to keep it yourself if you wish." She wouldn't  force  him to be 'unprofessional'.

Hans grinned playfully. "I was going to say 'But I could purr for you too if you like'." He teased, giggling and cringing away like a kid expecting to be hit with a pillow-- or perhaps a snowball would have been more appropriate. It  was  terribly unprofessional. It was downright  flirty  , but he only meant it in a playful way. He was a fool, after all. "Perhaps it  is  professional-- for a Queen's fool to be foolish." He suggested with a grin.

Elsa giggled with another shake of her head. "A fool I can handle, I don't know if I could say the same if you started acting like a cat. Please don't latch onto the idea as your new title or you might end up a stray," she teased.

Hans laughed a little and shook his head. "No... though cats and I do both do well on ships. Actually, that was what my ship was called. The  Conch Cat.  A conch cat is a type of cat with an extra toe, they're supposed to be lucky. With me as the thirteenth prince, we needed all the luck we could get. Have I told you all that before?" He wondered if he wrote that, or if that writing had been something for himself, or one of his scrapped copies.

"Yes, you've told me about the meaning behind your ship's name before," she assured with a nod. "I think back when you were telling me a story about the pirates you faced. I think it was also when you first mentioned a big red cat that resembled you."

"Well, his fur color resembled me. He's probably a lot more surly, but loving when you're warm enough." He assured, with a fond smile. "I do miss having a cat about. Perhaps when I've settled somewhere I'll get one." It was a nice thought. He didn't fancy being alone, and he didn't think he would be living with another person.

Elsa would have loved to meet that curious ship cat Hans remembered so fondly. She smiled, but remained silent, looking back down at her lap, as she lost herself in thought. She was still a bit distraught about the idea of Hans settling somewhere outside the castle walls. Perhaps it was becoming about time for their tea time to conclude.

Hans sensed the rift in the room, and let the silence linger a moment. 

 "I'm in no hurry to move, of course." He assured softly, after a moment. Maybe it was wrong of him to suspect, but he thought for a moment that  that  might be the cause of the silence. "Ah, I shouldn't take up your whole day, I suppose. Much as I enjoy your company." It was so strange to be the one  leaving.  He felt like it was wrong, like he shouldn't be doing that. It seemed impolite. He waited to be excused all the same. He was a prince, and taught to follow the crown's lead. Still, he couldn't help but be a little anxious himself, that perhaps he was doing the wrong thing, still.

"Oh, right," she said as she snapped out of her daze. Disintegrating the snow kitten on her lap into a sparkling flurry as she stood up, rubbing her hands against her skirt of her dress as if to straighten it. "I have paperwork to get back to before dinner." 

 "Thank you once again for joining me for tea. Your harp playing was lovely, I appreciate you playing for me," she acknowledged. "Perhaps, we can do this again sometime."

Hans nodded politely. "Gladly, I enjoyed playing for you. And maybe if I finish writing those lyrics for you, I'll have the chance to hear you sing again?" He proposed with a little smile. He did like to hear her sing. Her voice was beautiful. He tucked his hands behind his back, shifting into the behavior of a servant rather than a prince. The Guardsman rather than the Fool or the Prisoner. 

 "Have a good evening, your Majesty." He took her thanks and invitation as a sign he should leave, so he gave a polite bow and retreated. It was hard to say where or why he had picked up service habits. Part of his mirroring, perhaps?

 A shy smile crossed Elsa's lips at his proposal. 

 "Only if you accompany me on the harp," she called out, before a softer farewell. "Good evening, Hans." Elsa began to leave as well, thinking that it had been a rather odd tea time, not that it was necessarily a bad thing, far more interesting than her solitary ones, just a bit of the typical awkwardness that was bound to happen when they were together.

#Helsa #Iceburns #Hans x Elsa #Frozen #Fanfiction #Frozen Fanfiction #Fanfic #Shattered Reflections

[vintagegeekculture]

You once said that Captain Marvel's Golden Age popularity tends to be overstated. Could you please elaborate?

I was specifically referring to the idea that “CaptainMarvel was the best selling superhero of the 1940s,” which I have seen a fewplaces, and is untrue. Though Captain Marvel was very famous and tremendouslypopular, the best selling superhero of the 1940s was exactly who you’d thinkit’d be: Superman.

A closer look at the era shows that our concept of the era,with Captain Marvel/Superman as this Gobots/Transformers or N’Sync/Backstreet Boys rivalry is untrue, because the reality is that there were several tremendously popular charactersthat were second-banana to Superman in the comics world at different points inthe 1940s: Sheena, Queen of the Jungle, Nedor’s Black Terror, and mostextraordinarily of all, the Blue Beetle, who is a pretty good candidate for my“dead fandoms” series in that at one point, he was in the top three ofsuperheroes, a radio phenomenon with a coast to coast fan club.

The narrative that Captain Marvel was the biggest hero apartfrom Superman hides how huge these other characters were, and it’s moreinteresting to talk about how, say, Black Terror was huge but vanished, or howthe best selling female adventure comics character of the 1940s wasn’t WonderWoman but Sheena, Queen of the Jungle.

(You’ll probably note the absence of a few characters thatwere only big in retrospect: Batman comes to mind. In the Golden Age, he was in  the top 10 of superheroes, sure, but his popularity wasn’t that great until thehit TV show of the 1960s made him a semi-rival in popularity to Superman. Anycollector can attest to this: it is truly rare to find any Batman merchandisebefore 1966.

If this was Snopes or something, I’d call the “Captain Marvel was the top selling superhero” as partially true, because it is: the origin of this misconception is the totally true claimthat Captain Marvel’s comic was the top seller at certain points in thedecade, certainly, but (and this is the key part) from what we can tell, he wasnot consistently the top seller,which I think is an important distinction. Part of it was the astounding dropof interest in superheroes after the war, but part of it was also that CaptainMarvel just plain ran out of gas creatively at a certain point.

In other words, Captain Marvel had what we today call a“shark jump” point, Simpsons Season 9 style. And that point is, rightly orwrongly (mostly wrongly), associated with the introduction of Mr. Tawny theTalking Tiger in 1947, a Jar-Jar Binks-esque character of unclear purpose.

Let me be absolutely clear: Mr. Tawny the Talking Tiger wasnot the reason later Captain Marvel comics lacked the pizzazz and charm of theearlier ones, just like Jar Jar Binks is notthe reason a lot of people didn’t connect to the Star Wars prequel movies.The issues were a little more fundamental. But like Jar Jar Binks, Mr. Tawny isidentified as the point at which dissatisfaction crystalizes.

Captain Marvel until 1946, might just be some of my favorite comics ever. The Monster Society of Evil was easily one of the creative highpoints of the Golden Age, the first time 23 or more issues in a single comicwas dedicated to a sweeping story, the first time all villains of a hero cametogether. It was easily one of the most ambitious and memorable stories of the Golden Age. It’s had a lot of trouble getting reprinted in modern times, due to racially insensitive, caricature-esque depictions of Asians and blacks. The story nonetheless should be reprinted, with such depictions relevant for their historical importance. 

For those who are unaware, in a time before serial storytelling, close to 2 years of Captain Marvel were dedicated to a single over-arching story. All of Captain Marvel’s enemies, from Oggar and Black Adam to the Crocodile Men, the robot Mr. Atom, Goatman, and Captain Nazi were unified by a mysterious cackling voice on a speakerbox, into the Monster Society of Wvil, by a creature called Mr. Mind, who’s identity was totally unknown. At the end, after two years of battle, Captain Marvel finally unmasked the mysterious voice on the speaker box - only to reveal the sinister Hitlerian genius that threatened the world was actually just a tiny worm.

But in a few years, perhaps because the comic was done by a single creative team, as inevitably happens, they started to run out of ideas. This  makes sense to me – if “anything can happen,” nothing is eventful. One exerciseI do with stories and settings is to identify three things that can’t happen – if they can’t identify three things that won’t happen in thestory, their setting doesn’t have a unique identity.

History has a way of eliminating our sense of the passage oftime completely. To someone born after the Golden Age of Comics and looking back,the introduction of Mr. Tawny, the Talking Tiger, happened at the same time asMonster Society of Evil and the other legendary Captain Marvel stories; unlessyou read them in the original order, or read them in reprints in the DC 80 PageGiants, they’re a big undifferentiated mass that came out simultaneously. ButMr. Tawny came several years later after the truly great Captain Marvel storieswere told, and did not participate in them. Reboots scrambled things up evenfurther, some of which have Mr. Tawny there from the beginning (like Ordway’sPower of Shazam! Mini where Tawny was Mary’s stuffed toy who came to life).

There are some people who defend the later Golden Age Captain Marvel in much the same way that there are people who defend Star Trek V: the Final Frontier. More power to them if they see something of value. Personally, I never hate anything when it comes to fiction, even the bad things you can learn things from (never, ever hate a movie…and never forget that disliking things is not a personality trait). The internet being the internet, however…well, I can’t help but wonder if a lot of modern Mr. Tawny fans like him because they want to fuck him. 

Just like with Jar Jar, it’s better not to forget him – he’sthere, use him somehow. I rather liked how he was used in the Captain Marvel/Shazam movie that came out last April, not as a character, but as a Kubrick style visual motif that keeps showing up in Billy’s life to reflect his desire for a realhome, on his backpack and everywhere (notice that his costume has tigertoken cape claspers). I also liked the idea in Ordway’s Power of Shazam series that Mr.Tawky was a friend of Mary Marvel, not Billy, a friend who gives her emotionalsupport and who is a semi-father figure. And there was an absolutely wonderfulissue of Astro City clearly inspired by Mr. Tawky, where the Astro City version was kind of a sad-eyed drunk and failure chewed up and spat out by the venomousculture of showbusiness.

It was so funny to me that this year, they had two CaptainMarvel movies come out from competing studios within weeks of each other. That’s such an asshole move that I kind of admire it, and I seriously doubt the timing is a coincidence. I am100% sure that some ultra-competitive alpha dog studio executive said, “hey,can we have them come out the same weekend?” It reminds me of how Golan and Globus after they split, both simultaneously made movies about the Lambadadance craze, and released them the exact same weekend to spite each other, with one named “Lambada”and the other named “The Forbidden Dance.”