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justaparsec94 · 1 year ago

Text

Sniper

Summary: You're a civilian medic assigned to The Bad Batch, during a mission you are injured and Crosshair has to get you to safety. Seeing you hurt has him struggling to come to terms with his feelings for you.

Pairing: Crosshair x fem!reader

Word Count: 6,599

Warnings: Description of Injury, Blood, Gore, Broken Bones, Needles

Authors Note: I've been watching too many medical shows lately and this is the result.

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When GAR High Command had decided to assign a civilian medic to Clone Force 99 Crosshair had completely baulked at the idea. They didn’t need some medic, especially a civ tagging along with them and upsetting the balance they had achieved as a team. Tech had always been considered their resident medic and Crosshair and the rest of his brothers had enough basic medical training to get by in the event Tech wasn’t around. In Crosshair's opinion that was good enough. But his protests had gone largely ignored and within days you had shown up at their ship with bright eyes and a warm smile and that had been it.

It hadn’t taken long for you to find your place amongst the squad, you seemed to get along well with everyone, even despite Crosshair’s initial attempts to scare you off. His brothers had all accepted you quickly and even though he would never admit it to anyone it hadn't taken long for your charms to work on him too. There was just something about you that drew him in. You just had an easygoing way about you, always ready with a smile or joke, or an encouraging comment. You were smart and competent, never a liability in the field. And your bedside manner was impeccable, they all knew they were in good hands any time you had to work on them. Even Crosshair could admit that you were a good addition to the team. And as Tech liked to point out, their efficiency had improved with your presence as they no longer had to make trips back and forth to Kamino for every medical need.

It wasn’t just your professionalism that drew him in though. He had spent many hours in hyperspace sitting silently at your side while he cleaned the Firepuncher and you idly chatted about whatever facts you had learned about the planets your missions had taken you to, or whatever recent medical journal you had read. He just liked spending time with you, which until you had come into his life was a completely foreign feeling for him. He didn’t like people. But you seemed to be the exception. It also didn’t hurt that you were beautiful. Warm and radiant in a way that made his heart pound if he stared at you too long. He ached for you in a way that was decidedly unprofessional but he kept those feelings locked up tight. He knew there was no chance that someone as bright and beautiful as you would fall for someone, well, someone like him. Asshole wasn’t his nickname for no reason at all.

His feelings weren’t helped by the fact that the two of you were often paired on missions. You could handle yourself and knew how to use a blaster if needed but as a medic, your job was to stay out of the fight while still being close enough that you could get to them quickly if needed. As the squad's sharpshooter, he often was separate from his brothers, finding the spot that would give him the best advantage. It only made sense that on the missions where you couldn’t hang back close enough on The Marauder, you would join him instead. He wouldn’t admit that he enjoyed the times the two of you spent together, holed up in some spot keeping a close eye on your squad, but he did. Crosshair wasn’t soft, he was harsh and unyielding but that didn’t ever seem to bother you. He gave little but you took and gave right back. Never with frustration or annoyance. He knew he didn’t always deserve your kindness but you gave it anyway, without fail. You just seemed to understand him in a way that very few others did.

As much as he believed that you couldn’t possibly have any feelings beyond friendship towards him there were times, as the two of you lay side by side in the dirt when you would look at him just so, that he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe his feelings weren’t so one-sided. It was dangerous, this line that the two of you toed. You were dangerous. Because he knew that if he let himself he could get completely lost in you.

Currently, the two of you were staked out at the top of a rocky cliff on some backwater planet he didn’t care enough about to remember the name of. The plan was relatively simple, his brothers would storm the village where the Seppies had dug in while he provided covering fire. In and out if everything went according to plan.

“Did you know that the residents of this planet worship the god of the moon? They believe he brings them good fortune. Each full moon they throw a festival and offer up gifts as a thank you,” You said suddenly breaking the relative silence between the two of you. It was a habit of yours that he liked, a way to break the pre-battle tension.

“Hm,” Crosshair mused as he looked through his scope. He could see his brothers getting into position as the squad of clankers cleared the ridge just in front of the village. A series of small, calculated explosions set up by Wrecker had drawn them out and hopefully in doing so would reduce the risk of the planet's inhabitants being harmed in the ensuing fight. From this current vantage point, Crosshair would have no problem picking them off as they approached the rest of his squad, “That sounds like a lot of work.”

“Especially when you consider that full moons occur twice a month on this planet,” You added as you peered through your own scopes to watch the battle unfold.

“Must be nice to get so many gifts,” Crosshair replied as the first shots sounded. He took aim with ease, picking off droids one by one as his brothers got to work.

“Must be,” You said, your tone considering, “Though if I were a god I don’t know if I’d be all that excited about a bunch of pickled vegetables.”

“So ungrateful,” Crosshair tsked as he picked off another super battle droid. You laughed at his reply and he gave himself a mental pat on the back at his ability to not get distracted by such a lovely sound.

He fell into an easy rhythm, picking off droids, calling out their movements and targets to his brothers. It was all second nature to him, as easy as breathing. However, from past experience, he should have known it couldn’t be that easy.

“I think they might have spotted you,” You said suddenly, a quick glance over at you showed you were still peering intently through your own scopes. Sure enough, the cliff shook as a blast hit about 30 feet below their position.

Crosshair hissed as small rocks and debris rained down from the impact, he immediately scanned the field, looking for the source of the blast. His heart kicked up a notch as he found the barrel of a tank aimed directly at him.

“Crosshair, look out!” You cried, panic lacing your tone as you scrambled to your feet. He was moving without even thinking, just catching a glimpse of the blast of energy headed straight for them as you both threw yourselves from your positions.

“No!” Was all Crosshair was able to shout as he looked back towards you before the earth between you exploded. He saw your body tumbling through the air momentarily before he��too was launched by the blast. The world became a blur as he was thrown head over heels, tumbling through space before he landed with a hard crunch against the rocks. The air completely left his lungs as he landed in a heap. His head spun as he wheezed, trying to pull in a full breath. The pain from the rocks around him bit through him even with his armour on. He was definitely going to feel this one later.

With a pain-filled groan, he rolled over, pulling himself up into sitting. It took another long moment but finally, his lungs found their normal rhythm again as he surveyed the scene around him. The spot he had been perched on had been obliterated, a pile of rubble all that was left of his sniper's nest. A sort of numb shock washed through him as he realized that without your warning he likely would have been blown to pieces too.

Suddenly a loud and agonized cry caught his attention. His blood ran cold as he looked at the place where you had once stood. He was on his feet before his mind could fully comprehend it, any aches he had been feeling completely forgotten about as he rushed to the edge of the cliff.

His heart was pounding in his chest, terrified of what he might find, as he reached the edge and he took in the sight below him. You’d been thrown clear off the cliff by the blast, landing on a ledge nearly 10 feet below. Even from this distance a quick scan of you was all it took for him to figure out what had you crying out in such agony. You were in a contorted seated position, hands grasping at your leg. It appeared as though you had tried to right yourself in the air and had likely landed on your feet but the impact had been too severe as now the sole of your right foot completely everted, twisted unnaturally and offset from your leg.

Crosshair felt as though he were going to be sick as he half slid then jumped down the cliff side to land at your side. Agony was written clearly across your face as you looked up at him. A white knuckle grip on your injured leg told him just how badly you were hurting.

“Get my kit,” you managed to ground out between your teeth before you let out another soft cry of pain.

Your gear had been separated from you during the blast but thankfully it was intact only a few feet away. Crosshair grabbed it and was back at your side in an instant. His heart was still pounding painfully against his ribs as he looked at you. On top of the obvious leg injury, you were also covered in scrapes, likely from the flying debris, having not had any armour to protect you like he had.

“What do you need me to do?” He asked, trying to remain stoic as you took the bag from him, unzipping it with shaking hands.

“I need pain meds. And then I’m going to need you to cut off my boot. We need to straighten it,” you hissed between clenched teeth as you pulled a hypo-needle from your bag.

If Crosshair had thought he was going to be sick before it was nothing compared to how he felt now. The thought of laying his hands on you and causing you more pain was unthinkable. He watched in painful silence as a tear slid down your face, your hands still shaking slightly as you drew up the medication from the vial.

“Can you administer this?” You asked, holding the needle out to him, “My hands are shaking too much, I’ll probably miss the vein.”

Wordlessly he took it from you, all of the training he had received taking over and putting him on autopilot. He had done this countless times for his brothers before, he could do it now too. But that fact that it was you made it different. You should be the one helping him, not the other way around. You should have never been put in such a dangerous position. You could have died…he could have lost you.

You let out a soft hiss of air as he administered the shot into the crook of your arm. He was about to say something to you, what he wasn’t sure, provide reassurance maybe, but he was cut off by his comm pinging.

“Crosshair, come in,” Hunter’s voice filtered in through his helmet, “Are you alright? We saw that blast.”

Crosshair looked up briefly towards the battle, it was clear the number of droids was diminishing but the firefight was still intense. He lifted his hand to his earpiece to answer his brother, “I’m fine. Doc took a hit. Working on her now.”

“Keep us updated,” Straight to the point but the concern in Hunter’s voice was clear.

Crosshair didn’t bother with a response to that, simply turned his attention back to you. You were quickly beginning to look worse by the minute.

“There’s a pair of shears in my bag that’ll cut through my boot,” you said, taking the needle from him and dumping it back in your bag. With that done you leaned back slightly propping yourself on your hands as you let out another shaky breath.

“We should just get you out of here,” Crosshair said, he would never admit out loud the amount of fear that was lacing through him at the thought of causing you more pain, even if it was to help you in the long run.

“We need to stabilize my leg first. It will only get worse if we leave it,” You replied in the same professional air as always, as though you were talking about a patient and not your own injury.

Shears in hand Crosshair moved down towards your leg. Up close it was even worse, the unnatural angle of it made his stomach roll. Blood was leaking out between the bottom of your pants and the high top of your combat boot, staining the ground below.

“It’s fine Cross,” You said, clearly noticing the discomfort he was trying hard to conceal. Normally he would have warmed at the gentle way you always said the shortened version of his name but right now the only thing he felt was dread, “Just do it.”

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding before pulling off his helmet and setting it beside him on the ground. As advanced as his HUD was he needed an unobstructed view of what he was about to do.

At first, you were silent as he started cutting, your leg shaking slightly the only sign of your discomfort. But as he began to peel away the layers of bloodied boot and sock a string of curses so impressive that it had him looking up at you in surprise flew from your mouth.

He couldn’t stop the small smirk that made its way onto his face, “Who knew you had such a mouth on you Sunshine.”

“Just take my kriffing boot off,” you hissed. Even from where he was sitting he could see the way your shoulders heaved with each painful breath.

He did as he was told, his entire body tensed as you let out a painful howl as he pulled your boot away from your foot. A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck as he looked at your mangled ankle. Blood was flowing from the opening where the bones of your leg were clearly visible, your foot off centre and from the looks of it hanging on by nothing more than skin and tendon. He'd seen hundreds of horrible injuries throughout the war, many worse than this, but the fact that it was you rattled him to his very core.

His eyes strayed back up to you as he tried to hide the horror he felt at the sight of your leg. Your eyes were shut as you took a few deep, shuddering breaths and he could see a clammy sheen on your skin that hadn’t been there before. He knew he would have to hurry before shock set in fully.

Your eyes blinked open again and he knew the look you were giving him was meant to be reassuring, “You have to move my foot back into place, it’ll help restore circulation.”

“But the pain-“ Crosshair started but you cut him off with a shake of your head.

“I’ve taken enough pain medication to sedate a bantha. I’m not even going to remember any of this has happened within the next few minutes. You have to do it, Cross, please.”

The words in his head slipped out before he could stop them, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You could never,” You said softly, reaching out to put a hand on his arm, “this is helping me.”

He took a deep breath, “On three?”

You nodded, pain and fear mixing in your eyes as he grasped your foot, “Do it.”

“One… two… three,” He tried to think of anything else as he pulled on your foot, attempting to realign it with the rest of your leg.

The cries you let out would haunt him for the rest of his life. He stopped once your voice croaked out and when it felt as if he couldn’t budge it anymore. It was definitely straighter and the amount of blood flowing had lessened but the bone was still exposed.

Content that he had done what he could and anxious to get you off this kriffing cliff he looked back up at you for his next directions. All the blood had drained from your face and his heart rate kicked up a notch as he watched your chin dip down towards your chest. Your entire upper body suddenly sagged back down towards the ground. He managed to move in time to catch you by the shoulders, lowering you down softly to the ground as you let out a weak and pained moan.

“Look at me,” he demanded, his hands firmly on your shoulders. Your eyes opened at his command, staring blankly up at the sky first before sluggishly finding their way to his face, “focus on me.”

“I am,” you replied weakly as he gently mopped at the cold sweat on your forehead. You let out another groan before you seemed to pull your thoughts back together, “there’s dressings and an air cast in the bag. Put the dressing over the open wound and then put on the splint, there’s a valve on the side to inflate it. It’ll keep it stable and put pressure on the wound.”

He quickly went about doing as he was told, his anxiety was amping up with each passing minute. He needed to get you to safety. You let out a few more painful cries as he applied the dressing and the splint but they were weak, your voice hoarse from your earlier screams.

“Antibiotics,” you mumbled once he had finished and moved back up towards your head. You gestured with a flailing hand towards your bag. He wasn’t sure if it was the medications kicking in, the pain, or a combination of both but you were clearly becoming weaker and more out of it by the minute.

He was thankful that you were so meticulous about your kit as he dug through the bag and quickly located the vial of antibiotics. You didn’t even flinch as this needle went it, simply blinked up at him sluggishly as he went about cleaning and getting everything stored away.

“You did good,” you said weakly, your words beginning to slur together. Your hand waved towards him and on instinct he reached out to grab it, lacing your fingers together and giving you a reassuring squeeze.

“We have to get you out of here,” he replied tersely as he surveyed the area around them. It wouldn’t be an easy journey down the cliff. He would have to fully support you over the rough terrain, if not carry you completely. The only saving grace was that likely thinking the blast had destroyed you both the clankers were no longer firing on your position. But the sounds and sights of an ongoing firefight in the direction he knew his brothers were meant a pickup would be unlikely at this time.

He looked down at your prone form again, some of the colour had returned to your face but not enough to ease his nerves, “Can you sit up?”

You groaned but managed to pull your upper body back up into sitting without his help. You seemed to wobble slightly before righting yourself and looking up at him, “m’ok.”

“Clearly,” he scoffed before he could stop himself. He grabbed his helmet and put it back on, activating his comm as he kept a close eye on you.

“Hunter," He barked over his comm, "I’m moving Doc now. We’ll rendezvous at The Marauder.”

“Copy that. We’ve got things under control here,” Hunter replied instantly, the slight breathlessness in his voice over the comm the only sign that he was in the midst of battle.

Crosshair wanted to snark out that from the sights of the explosions in the distance, it didn’t look like they did but he let the moment pass. You were more important than getting under his eldest brother's skin at the moment.

Disconnecting his comm he stood, he looked down at you for a moment, weighing his options before he stooped and wrapped his arms underneath your own, hands resting on your shoulder blades. He didn’t give you any warning before he pulled you up onto your good foot, hoping the lack of warning would cut down on anticipation pain but you still moaned with the movement. He had to steady you as you swayed like a tree in the breeze once fully upright.

“Do you think you can try walking?” He asked after you had stilled. He didn’t miss the white knuckle grip you had on his armoured arms, your face pale and clammy once more as he helped take most of the weight of your injured right leg as you held it up off the ground.

“Gotta try,” you mumbled. He gave a stiff nod and then maneuvered himself to your side, his arm going around your waist as you slipped an arm over his shoulders. He pressed his hip into you to take the brunt of your weight, your injured leg sandwiched between you both. It was awkward due to your major height difference but it would have to do. He managed to grab your kit with his free hand, slinging the bag over his shoulder before he helped you hop forward on your uninjured leg.

It was instantly apparent that this wasn’t going to work as you let out another horrible cry that cleaved his heart from his chest. The vibrations from his and your own movements were likely too much for your injured leg and you crumbled against him.

With a single smooth motion, he hooked his arm under your knees and around your back, scooping you up into his arms. In the past when he had pictured you in his arms thousands of times before this situation had never even been considered and he desperately hoped it would never happen again.

Your head lolled against his chest as he took a moment to adjust to your weight, the rest of your body was essentially limp in his arms. You weren’t heavy by any means but it was an adjustment to rebalance himself with the added weight, especially on such rough terrain and with your kit and the Firepuncher slung across his back.

You were mostly silent as he began making his way down the cliff side but every once in a while a soft moan would escape your lips. He tried his best not to jostle you too much but thankfully by your lack of protest, it seemed like the pain medication had fully kicked in.

The dissent was slow and Crosshair couldn’t help but now curse his decision to chose this spot for his sniper's nest. You wouldn’t even be in this situation if he had chosen somewhere else. He sighed, desperately trying to keep his feet underneath the shifting rock as he picked his way down the cliffside.

He had made it about halfway down the cliff without any sound from you, the gentle puff of your breath against the sliver of exposed skin between his helmet and the neck of his blacks the only sign you were still with him.

He was about to duck his head to check you were still awake when a sudden soft mumble caught his attention, “You’re my favourite, you know.”

He scoffed, tilting his head down as best as he could to try and get a better look at your face, “You really overdid it on the drugs.”

You tipped your head up to look at him, shaking it slightly in disagreement “No is true,” you slurred before your head lolled back onto his shoulder

Your next words were so quiet we wouldn’t have heard them had you not been so close but as it was they made his insides freeze, “Sexy sniper.”

He let out a sound that was half scoff, half chuckle, “You’re delirious.” You couldn’t possibly feel the same way about him that he felt about you. It just had to be the drugs talking.

“No m’not,” You protested again as your one hand came up to wrap weakly around his neck, “You’re s’handsome.”

“Stop,” he hissed. He couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand the way your words, addled by medication or not, were getting his hopes up.

“Ok,” You mumbled but your hand stayed laced around his neck, “S’ok if you don’t like me back. Just thought you should know.”

His entire body felt as if it were on fire as he gazed down at you. Your words reverberated around his skull, solidifying something in his very soul. He was so bloody kriffed. You had your eyes closed, head resting gently on his shoulder, looking for all the galaxy as if you hadn’t just said something that had completely ruined him.

He couldn’t even begin to think of what to say back to you. A part of him was convinced the words out of your mouth were completely drug-fueled nonsense, but the other part wanted to hold onto them and on to you and never let go.

His comm blaring in his ear cut off any sort of response he could have come up with.

“Crosshair!” Tech’s voice vibrated through his helmet, “You have droid starfighters headed your way!”

Crosshair cursed as he looked up and sure enough, he spotted two blips in the sky growing bigger by the moment.

“Cross?” You asked weakly from his arms, sensing his distress.

There was no time to answer you though, he moved back towards the centre of the cliff, as far from the edge as he could get as the fighters roared overhead. The cliff shook, debris raining down around them as hyena droid bombers dropped their load. Crosshair cursed again as his feet slid beneath him, he held you as close to his body as possible as the cliff continued to crumble around you both. He wouldn’t drop you, he couldn’t.

You both let out a cry as he slid further down the cliff, feet scrambling as he desperately tried to maintain his balance. You cried out in agony at the shifting and jostling as Crosshair slipped once more, going down to his knees as the ground beneath him gave way. He managed to keep you in his arms but the pained noises you made as the earth below you both finally settled indicated that more damage had been done.

“Put me down,” You cried out, writhing in his arms, “Put me down. Put me down.”

It was the last thing he wanted to do, he just needed to get you to the ship. But as he watched all of the remaining colour drain from your face he knew he didn’t have much of a choice.

You screamed in pain as he placed you down on the ground again, hands clawing at his chest plate as you screwed your eyes shut. Even through the filters in his helmet, he could smell fresh blood. He risked a look at the splint and while it still looked intact clearly the past few minutes had not done you any favours.

“Easy,” He said softly as he moved his hands to your shoulders in an attempt to steady you, “We need to get you back to the ship.”

“No, no, no,” You chanted as your bloodshot and glassy eyes popped open momentarily, “I can’t.”

“You have to,” Crosshair barked out, his tone harsher than he intended. The stress of the situation was eating away at him. He just wanted to get you to safety. He knew that between the pain and the medication you weren’t in the right state of mind. Knew that had the situation been reversed you would have been hauling his shebs back to the ship no matter how much he protested but he just couldn’t bear the thought of causing you so much pain. He’d do it, but it would kill him every step of the way.

Your eyes had slipped closed once more and your voice was weak as you spoke, “Just leave me. I’m no use to you guys anyways.”

“Now you’re just being dramatic,” Crosshair hissed and rolled his eyes even though he knew you couldn’t see his expression.

You didn’t say anything, but he watched you for a moment, the way your chest was rising and falling raggedly. You needed more help than he could give.

A sudden explosion off in the distance, likely Wrecker’s doing, caught his attention. He watched the cloud settle before he reached up to activate his comm.

“Tech we’re going to need a pickup,” Crosshair barked, “Doc is fading fast.”

“Copy,” Tech replied, “ETA 10 minutes.”

Clearly whatever the explosion had been had been an end to the firefight. He transmitted his location to Tech and then he waited.

It was one of the longest 10 minutes of his life as he kneeled over you, one of your hands clasped between both of his as it shook. Your eyes had slipped closed again but he could tell by the way you were breathing that you weren’t asleep. He wasn’t even fully aware of the words that were leaving his mouth but he just felt the overwhelming need to reassure you in some way. It’s what you would have done for him or any of his brothers in the same situation.

He finally let out a breath of his own as the familiar sounds of The Marauder's engines filled the air around them. Your eyes popped open as it came into position, hovering beside the cliff edge.

Wrecker came barreling down the ramp, jumping onto the ledge with ease and quickly covering the distance. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of you but he didn’t falter in his movements.

“Hang in there, doc,” He said as he kneeled down, “we got ya!”

You let out another painful moan as he lifted you up and into his arms. The lack of volume and fight from you worried Crosshair immensely but he didn’t hesitate. He grabbed your kit and followed quickly after Wrecker as he carried you onto the ship.

Tech was at your side in an instant, directing Wrecker to lay you down on the middle bunk in the back of the ship. You groaned again as Wrecker gently laid you down but it seemed that all of the energy had been sucked right out of you. You were so pale and weak that Crosshair felt almost feral with the amount of fear that was coursing through him. You needed to be ok. Anything else was not an option.

He couldn’t bring himself to leave your side, even as Wrecker left and Hunter appeared in his place. Tech ignored you all, the medscanner passing over you as he worked. His brow was furrowed beneath his goggles in concentration as he assessed your condition. All the while you remained still and silent, your eyes only opening for brief moments.

“This is beyond my skill level, she has suffered a severely displaced compound fracture. She will require surgical repair of this,” Tech replied matter of factly before he turned to look at Hunter, “Set course to Kamino, it is the closest medical facility to our current location.”

“On it,” Hunter replied moving instantly off towards the cockpit. Technically as a civilian member of the GAR, they should have been taking you to the medical base on Coruscant but that would add days to their travel, time they did not have.

“Will she be ok?” Crosshair asked, tension evident in his voice.

Tech looked at him briefly before his eyes returned to the medscanner in his hands, “She is stable for now. It is a serious injury but I am hopeful she will make a full recovery once in the proper hands. You did a good job stabilizing her in the field.”

“I just followed her instructions,” He grumbled.

“In any case, a good job,” Tech repeated, “I will do my best to make her comfortable for the journey and ensure she remains stable.”

Tech became a flurry of movement as he bent over you, checking your vitals and looking for any other injuries. Crosshair couldn’t bring himself to leave your side. Not when you were like this. Instinctually he kept creeping forward, the distance between the two of you unbearable. He just wanted to touch you, to feel that you were still with them, still alright.

“Crosshair!” Tech snapped, pausing in his work drawing up more pain meds for you, “Your hovering is distracting and not helpful. Go clean yourself up. You are covered in blood.”

Crosshair growled at his brother, unwilling to part from your side when you were in such a state. A biting response was on his tongue but Tech didn’t let him speak, “You know she would say the same if she were not so out of it.”

As if sensing you were being spoken about you perked slightly, eyes opening as you turned your head towards the sounds of their voices, “Cross,” You called out again softly.

He shouldered past Tech, who tsked in annoyance, and kneeled down beside your head, reaching for the hand you held out towards him, “What is it, mesh’la?”

“Did you know that on this moon they worship the gods?” Your eyes were big and glassy as you looked up at him. Your tone was completely serious, as though this was the most important information you had ever told him.

He scoffed and ignored the jumbled way your sentence had come out, “Yeah, I even hear they give gifts to their god every full moon.”

Your eyes widened even more, comically so, “Wow. Who told you that?”

“I must have read it somewhere,” He replied with a soft smirk as he squeezed your hand once more.

“Crosshair,” Tech’s annoyance at the continued interruptions was evident as he spoke, “You. Are. In. The. Way.”

He hissed, glaring up at his brother briefly but he stood, pulling away from you slightly. He looked back down at where you were still gazing up at him dreamily, “I have to go clean up, you got blood all over me, Sunshine.”

“Whoops,” You replied with a delirious giggle, “My bad.”

An actual chuckle left Crosshair at that as he pulled his hand from yours, “Don’t cause too much trouble for Tech while I’m gone.”

“You’ll come back?” You asked, concern suddenly written all over your face.

“In a flash,” He replied, and suddenly as though he were possessed he stooped, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. As he pulled away he didn’t know what had come over him, or when he had grown so soft. But he found he didn’t care as he noticed the content look that had replaced the worry on your face. He waited for your eyes to slip close once more before he turned away from you.

He instantly froze, bristling as he noticed the smug look on Tech’s face. He had clearly paused whatever he was doing to watch the interaction.

“If you mention this to anyone I will put a blaster bolt between your eyes,” Crosshair hissed venomously.

If anything, Tech only looked more smug at Crosshair’s response, “It is amusing that you think your affections for her are a secret,” He replied, “However, I do promise that I will not mention what I have observed here today to anyone else.”

“You better not,” Crosshair growled, unable to think of anything better to say before he once again shouldered past his brother as he headed off to change out of his gear and clean himself up. He chose to ignore the embarrassment that was burning through him at Tech’s words.

He had never gotten out of his gear and cleaned himself so quickly. He returned to your side in under half a standard hour, clean from the small sonic shower on board and a fresh pair of blacks covering his body.

Tech didn’t even look up as he approached, “She’s stable. All we can do right now is let her rest,” he explained as Crosshair returned to bunks.

Crosshair watched him silently as he stood. Tech gave him a pointed look that he did not like but chose to ignore, “I’ll be in the cockpit if she needs anything.”

He kneeled down beside your head once more, no longer caring what his brothers might think if they saw him with you. Your breathing had thankfully evened out and a bit of colour had returned to your face but you still looked unwell. Slowly and hesitantly he reached out his hand to brush some of the hair off your forehead.

His touch caused you to stir and your eyes popped open, finding him instantly. A small, though decidedly hazy, smile grew on your face, “You came back.”

He scoffed, “Of course I did.”

“I missed you,” You said casually, clearly having no idea what effect your words were having on him. He really was so truly kriffed.

He swallowed the emotions that were threatening to overwhelm him and settled for his usual snark instead, “You did? How touching.”

Much to his delight that got a chuckle out of you. Clearly, you weren’t so out of it that you couldn’t still enjoy his usual quips, “That’s why you’re my favourite Cross.”

He knew that with the drugs running through your system you wouldn’t remember much, if any of what you had said to him. But even if things between you went right back to the way they had been before he would remember them and the way you had made him feel forever.

“Get some rest,” he replied, his voice gruff with all of the unspoken feelings bubbling inside him.

“You’ll stay?” You asked, hand reaching out to grasp his wrist gently. Your eyes were wide, as you looked at him, the faintest line of concern creasing your brow.

He slid his hand down to interlock his fingers with your own. He watched as a small smile bloomed on your face at the motion, “Always,” he replied. You smiled up at him before closing your eyes, pulling his hand into your chest, clearly intent on keeping him close.

Always. He felt the word straight down to his very bones. The first step had been to admit it to himself, just how much you had crept under his skin and how much he wanted to keep you there. Always. Now maybe one day he’d be brave enough to tell you just how much he truly meant it.

#crosshair #tbb crosshair #crosshair x reader #crosshair x fem!reader #the bad batch x reader #the bad batch x fem!reader #tbb x reader #tbb x fem!reader

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cursedfortune · 3 months ago

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@fallesto - modern

They had been on this different earth for long enough to gather their bearings. Mortem had supplies in her bag of holding, wealth, and they found an apartment in this ugly city. Apartment might be generous, given her husband's preference for nice things. A suite, at the top of a tall building. Private roof access and everything. Despite being thrown off their game initially, the two came together and worked efficiently to acclimate and figure out their next steps.

Strangely, it had been... wholesome. They did mundane things because they needed to. Like furniture shopping, of all things. They made their new home their own together. Mortem bought books that could help them learn more, but it seemed this 'internet' would be even more useful. Real time information? Handy. She studied with Regulus on how to utilize it for their gain.

Mortem had been reclined against the headboard of their bed, her head resting on his shoulder as he read on of the many books that now lined their shelves. She watched on the laptop a video documenting the state of advancement this world had. No magic, but technology. She knew technology was useful, learning where this world was in terms of advancement meant they could plan their next steps better.

As Part 6 of 11 videos ended, the witch pulled herself from her comfortable position. She crawled a little forward and searched for the next video in the series.

In some regards, living with the witch wasn't much different from before. Except the clothing of this world allowed her to wear very little more regularly. Especially around their home. Her inked skin was out more regularly, which she always enjoyed. The flowery shorts she wore already left little to the imagination, but what was wore was the cropped tank - loose, it draped with gravity as she leaned forward. Not that it bothered Mortem. Ever since the day they met, she was comfortable in her own skin and didn't care how much of her he saw.

Like now, he could easily see the underside of her bare torso-- breasts and all (because of course she was prone to not wearing a bra, not that she needed to at her size). The video turned on as she let out a pleased sound before peering over her shoulder towards him... only to find her husband's face flushed as he covered himself.

"...?"

It took a second but then a smiled crossed her lips - amused and flirtatious all at once. Now this was a much more fun game, in her eyes. A study break was not something she'd protest.

Mortem stretched a little, back arched as her chest was revealed all the more in the process. "You seem distracted, husband?" She questioned, knowingly, teasingly as she swayed her hips.

#fallesto #rps

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jonathanvik · 6 months ago

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Krisis - Chapter 10

“Are you out of your mind?” Rolf said, barely keeping his tone civil.

“It’s a simple and practical solution to our problem,” Sunbearer said with maddening calm. “I call it Operation: Ugly Duckling. It will commence in ten days.”

“How’s that the case?” The table squealed as he gripped it even harder. Rolf couldn’t believe this. This reckless stupidity threatened to unravel everything! Only chaos would result from this. And ten days? His head spun considering the necessary safety procedures required for such an operation in such a short amount of time.

The police chief gathered himself, his tone calming somewhat. “Let’s approach this practically. If you feared a potential riot from the Demons before, this will spark an outright inferno.”

“Not a problem,” Sunbearer said, not hiding his smugness. “General Xander promises me he’ll deal with any rebellion in the harshest terms.”

“Sure, but the cost of lives and property damage will be horrendous.”

“I have guarantees they will be mitigated.”

Mitigated? Like it’d be that simple. Rolf tried another approach, one that targeted something Sunbearer’s voters and constituents would care a great deal about. “How will you provide transportation necessary to relocate these people out of the city? The operation will be costly.”

“Already settled. I have contracted a private shipping company for the personnel and vehicles. Vladus citizens will see their taxes were well spent once we remove this riffraff from our beautiful city. I already have plans ready to transform the slums into affordable apartment buildings and a new amusement park.”

“One final point.” If this final splash of reality didn’t work, nothing would. “You call the lowest class and the Demons scum and leeches—hard to argue. But they are also a useful, low-cost workforce. By removing them from the city, you’ll have hundreds of jobs left unoccupied.”

But Sunbearer only waved a dismissive hand. “It’s an excellent opportunity to clean the city. You talk about these low-class scum like they are some irreplaceable resource. They aren’t. I’ve been in talks with Tiertex about using AI bots as a viable workforce. Hundreds of robots are already in production. They will be cheaper, work harder, and be more cost-efficient. It’s no longer necessary for humans to occupy those jobs.”

“You have an answer for everything,” Rolf replied dryly. While foolish and wasteful, it was a somewhat workable plan nonetheless. “And what about the legality?” This was pushing the mayor’s executive power past all reason.

“I’ve been in long talks with the other city council members. They’ve all backed my plan. The bill only needs to be ratified in a closed doors town council meeting tonight. The public will remain ignorant until we’re ready. We can’t allow the Demons to gather in protest until it’s too late.”

“Okay.” Rolf rubbed his temple, realizing not a damn thing he could say would change the mayor’s mind.

“The military will lead this operation, however, the city police will provide any assistance they might require. But keep the details need-to-know. You know the consequences if this leaks out prematurely.”

“You’ll have our support.” It wasn’t like he had a choice. If the city approved this insane plan, it was his job to do the dirty deed.

“Good,” Sunbearer said, taking delight in squashing Rolf’s resistance. “But that isn’t the main reason I called. Your involvement in Operation: Ugly Duckling will only be a formality. What have you learned about Loffie’s murder?”

“The investigation is still ongoing. That’s all I can say.”

And it had proved more fruitful than he’d expected. Rolf had uncovered some oddities about Loffie’s death. The late minister had tried grabbing the banister to secure his fall, but he’d broken through the barrier to the hard wooden floor almost a story beneath. While it was plausible Loffie had struck the banister hard enough for it to break, close inspection revealed it’d been loosened with a screwdriver. And more conspicuously, security camera data was spotty days before the accident.

“Incompetence. And the Konquellia remains at large?”

“Best men are working on it.”

“I’m losing my patience with you, Rolf.” Without another word, the Prime Minister hung up.

“Wretched, empty-headed buffoon!” Rolf screamed, papers spilling as he slammed his fist on his desk. He fumed, wanting to go over to the Prime Minister’s estate and assassinate the idiot himself.

“Phú!” Rolf screamed, but paused when he realized the AI was still with Halkken. He considered recalling her to help with the preparations, but decided against it. While an absurd workload that’d cost him hours of sleep, he’d manage it. Besides, he wanted Joven’s killer caught at all costs. That Rocke boy had betrayed his trust and would pay dearly for it.

“Still, so much to do.” And it had to be done without the public catching wind about Sunbearer’s idiotic, asinine plan.

Rolf would make sure Operation: Ugly Duckling succeeded, regardless of his feelings on the matter. As Chief of Police, he’d sworn an oath to protect the public, and he’d make damn sure that Vladus wouldn’t fall into total anarchy. If some Demons got squashed, it was on them. The UOP would stand, whatever the cost.

---

“Is something the matter?” Rocke asked as he entered the main living area. He yawned, stretching to get the stiffness out of his back. Those cots they slept on weren’t the most comfortable.

“Thanks.” Rocke nodded his gratitude as Maple handed him a cup of coffee, helping to wake his dull mind. Nitao entered next, nodding he received his coffee, applying a generous helping of cream before sipping it.

“Yeah, is something wrong? You look worried,” Kallane asked.

The Soothsayer said nothing, only picking at his breakfast of oatmeal. He tapped his fingers, obviously deep in thought. “I had a dream.”

“A message from the Sovereign?” Kallane asked, intrigued. Nitao also perked up, eyeing the prophet with interest.

“Yes, but I’m not sure how to act on it,” Matthias replied, troubled.

“And you’re sure it’s a vision?” Rocke asked, sipping at his drink. Despite only being instant coffee, it was rich and black, just how he liked it.

“Oh yes, but its contents were troubling.” Matthias released a deep sigh before continuing. “I dreamt of an endless expanse of weeds. It was an ugly pasture, full of spiky plants whose trunks reached higher than the tallest trees. But golden wheat stalks hid amongst their thorny leaves, alive and vibrant despite their unsightly neighbors. Then some farmers arrived and stalked through the field. Whenever they found a wheat stalk, they tore it free and tossed it into a cart. When the farmers finished their work, they pulled the cart to a furnace and dumped its contents inside.”

“Huh? What does that mean?” Rocke asked, perplexed. “Why pick the wheat and spare the weeds?”

“I have a hunch, but I fear its implications,” Matthias replied.

“I doubt it’s anything good,” Maple said, eyes hardening. “With the UOP, there isn’t anything they won’t do.”

“I doubt it’s that serious,” Rocke replied. “Maybe it’s just saying we’re in danger.”

“No, I don’t think that’s it.” Matthias shook his head. “I’m good at interpreting my dreams. The farmers are the UOP, or rather, its leadership. And the wheat is the Sovereign’s flock. Someone at the top is planning something big.”

“Like removing every Ottomon from the country or something?” Rocke said, incredulous. That would be insane!

“Nothing that drastic. The field was the city of Vladus,” Matthias replied.

Kallane swore up a storm about murderous Uppie dogs. “That’s their plan, huh? Get rid of all us Demons. We can’t take over if we’re all dead!”

“Dogs!” Nitao snarled, scowling. “As usual, the UOP are killers.”

“We don’t know that for certain!” Rocke argued back, but neither Kallane nor Nitao seemed convinced by his argument.

“Whatever the case, this bears investigation.” Maple replied.

“I will help. I will not allow this to happen,” Nitao said, his expression hard and determined.

“But we’re trapped here, aren’t we? The police are after us!” And Chief Rolf was unstoppable in his desire for justice for his nephew. They’d all seen his ruthlessness.

“It’s a risk we’ll have to take, Rocke,” Kallane replied. “People’s lives are on the line!”

“Okay.” Rocke reluctantly agreed.

While he didn’t believe the interpretation of Matthias’s vision, it wouldn’t hurt to check. Still, he doubted Mayor Sunbearer would do something that insane. He’d always seemed a wise, generous, loving person. Besides, the citizens of Vladus would never allow it, however they felt about the Ottomon people. This was a bridge too far. His friends were mistaken about them, Rocke was sure of it.

---

“What the problem, Maple? You sounded upset in your call.” the man sitting across the table asked. Colins was a well-built, heavyset man with arms the size of tree trunks. Despite looking like a hardened construction worker, he wore his black suit well, indicating some wealth.

Around them, people bustled through the busy shopping center, going about their business. They sat in a tiny open air café with cute little parasols blocking the midday sun. Rocke tried his best to remain inconspicuous, like he wasn’t wanted by the law. He’d dyed his hair blond as a simple disguise that would hopefully mask his features.While it wouldn’t fool his mom, it would at least make him harder to identify.

With Matthias still in not-great shape health-wise, Rocke had gone in his stead. With Nitao unable to speak their language fluently and Kallane doing her own investigation, it left Rocke to watch over and help Maple however he could. Besides, he refused to sit on the sidelines while everyone faced danger. Nitao stood on the sidelines, ready to help if the situation turned ugly.

“Terrible business. I’m afraid my people are to suffer a terrible calamity,” Maple said, shaking her head.

“Aren’t they always?” Colins replied, sipping his coffee. He furrowed his brow. “But we’re not talking about general terribleness, but something worse. Is you-know-who involved?”

“Right from the holy man’s lips,” Maple replied.

“Dear Sovereign.” The big man clasped at his shirt, grabbing something hidden behind it. From its general shape, Rocke guessed it was the holy symbol of the Sovereign—three interwoven knots. His grandmother had worn one openly, and it had earned his family’s contempt. This man, for good reason, kept his faith more hidden. He might not have his job otherwise.

Colins’ voice lowered to a whisper. “What has the Great Lord told him? How may I help? I’m not that high on the government totem pole, but I hear things.” Apparently, he was a legislative aide in the mayor’s office.

In a clipped tone, Maple explained Matthias’s vision word for word, not giving her own interpretation of it. Instead, she wanted Colins to come to his own conclusion.

From the aide’s expression, it was clear he saw much already. “Sovereign preserve us. It’s clear to me why the UOP deserves His judgment.”

“Can you help us?” Maple asked.

“However I can,” the big man said without hesitation. “I sense a great evil is about to happen. Thank the Great Lord He put me in this position. If the city officials are the cruel, wasteful farmers, I’ll learn their plan.”

“Thank you,” Maple said, patting her friend’s hand. “We appreciate your support.”

“Someone has to,” Colins said with a slight smile. “Though I’m not taking part in protests anymore, I’ll do my part. Though it shames me, I can’t do more. Some days, I wish I could tear off my shirt and show the world my true devotion.”

“You’d go that far?” Rocke replied, bewildered at the idea of this big man showing everyone his pendant and hairy chest in some odd display of religious faith.

“I am a coward,” Colins said, crestfallen. “I lost my youthful vigor, but now I will make up for it tenfold!”

“Calm down, you’re making a scene,” Rocke said in alarm as the big man sprang to his feet and spoke at full volume.

“I thank the holy man. He has reinvigorated me!” Colins said without shame. “I will discover this injustice and expose it!”

“What a character,” Rocke said as they walked away from the café. It made him somewhat jealous, wishing he could be that bold in his faith, infantile as it was. Nitao followed them from behind, making sure no one followed them.

“He has a kind heart,” Maple replied, amused. “Soft as a lamb, and bold as a lion.”

“It’s lucky his job is right where we need him,” Rocke said, marveling at the coincidence.

“The Sovereign provides,” was Maple’s simple response.

If the government was planning something, the chaos they would cause would be like an out-of-control wildfire. He hoped the citizens of Vladus would finally understand the Ottomon’s suffering. It might be the shift the city needed to finally repent and redeem itself. He prayed this was true, at the very least.

---

“Paranoid bas…” Jafia said, venting her frustration, but stopped herself. Getting angry wouldn’t help her fulfill her mission. Still, she’d suffered a major setback. Despite her impressive fake credentials, Jafia had failed to get hired as a member of the mayor’s staff.

Paranoid for his pathetic little life, Sunbearer had fired everyone but his most trusted and essential staff, no matter how many years they’d worked for him. Despite her best efforts, the mayor had caught onto the fact that Minister Loffie had suffered more than an accident. Worse yet, her police contact had informed her that Police Chief Rolf was investigating the Defense Minister’s death personally. She’d covered her tracks, but she couldn’t think of everything!

“Darn it,” Jafia said, tapping her painted fingers against the table’s surface. A gentle wind tussled her hair, the warm sun beaming on her. It was a nice day, but her mood was too sour to enjoy it.

“Sorry for the delay,” the waitress said, mistaking her annoyance for something she’d done, slipping a plate with a turkey sandwich and a black coffee onto her table.

“Thank you,” Jafia replied, remembering her manners. She gave the woman a slight smile and a nod.

Jafia sipped at her coffee, its bitter taste invigorating her. If her first plan didn’t work, she’d try something else. Vanderfall was counting on her to complete the mission. Sunbearer’s death would leave the city in confusion and rudderless as their army invaded. And the mayor was slippery. They couldn’t afford him slipping out and causing trouble elsewhere. Besides, this was also a mission of justice.

Back in the last war, Sunbearer had led a mission that resulted in the capture of Vanderfall’s largest city, Califran, leading to a short but brutal occupation. But it wasn’t just the people he’d hurt and killed—he’d caused such damage to Califran’s infrastructure that the city never recovered, ultimately leading to Vanderfall’s financial collapse after the war. Her superiors wanted him to have an inglorious death.

“Would poison be my best shot?Getting close wouldn’t be easy, top-tier security protected the mayor, however, a poisoned dish might slip past his careful bodyguards, but her gut warned it wouldn’t work.

“If I got his schedule, I might find the perfect opportunity to shoot him with a sniper rifle.” Sunbearer couldn’t be paranoid forever—he’d drop his guard, eventually. But would it happen before the invasion deadline?

Lost in her thoughts, she almost missed a familiar sight. She almost didn’t recognize him with his new hair color, but she’d recognize her ex anywhere.

“Rocke? What’s he doing here?!” Jafia said, alarmed.

That idiot. Why was he sitting in a café rather than a safe house somewhere? With him was an older Ottomon women Jafia didn’t recognize. Much to her astonishment, Rocke and his friend were conversing with someone. It seemed important. Surreptitiously, Jafia eavesdropped on the conversation. Though spoken in low tones, her excellent hearing caught every word.

The Ottomon woman explained a strange dream, her tone deadly earnest. It was a bizarre dream about a group of farmers who tore wheat from a field of weeds and burned them.

“Sovereign preserve us. It’s clear to me why the UOP deserves His judgment,” the big man they were conversing with replied.

Jafia’s eyebrows furrowed, having trouble parsing the conversation. This was about some dream? Her frown deepened as they spoke about the dream like it was some message from the Sovereign himself. They were taking the dream literally, as though the city’s upper echelons were planning something nefarious. Jafia heard the big man promise to use his position to learn if there was any validity to the dream’s prediction.

“What the heck?” Jafia shook her head, baffled. Then an insight struck her. Hadn’t Rocke escaped with Matthias Daliven, the infamous prophet who he’d once saved from death? Was that the source of the dream? While Jafia wasn’t religious, this encounter seemed like it was fated somehow.

“Is Mayor Sunbearer planning something?” Jafia thought, trailing Rocke and his friends at a safe distance. Her ex seemed to believe so.

It was at least worth investigating. This might provide the key she needed to kill Sunbearer, or at least discredit him. Even if the dream proved false, some well-placed rumors would light a fire the mayor couldn’t easily quench. The political turmoil would help Vanderfall when they launched their invasion. This may prove a more effective scheme than assassinating Sunbearer. If there was any validity to Daliven’s dream, she’d help Rocke find it.

#fiction #stories #literature #story #artificial intelligence #ai #apocalypse #written story #law enforcement #redemption #repentance #the prophecy #the bible #prophecy #police #judgment #jesussaves #jesus

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sixbucks · 2 years ago

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I’ve always loved tech. Now, I’m a Luddite. You should be one, too.

Washington Post Opinion by Brian Merchant September 18, 2023 at 5:30 a.m. CT 

Brian Merchant, technology columnist at the Los Angeles Times, is the author of “Blood in the Machine: The Origins of the Rebellion against Big Tech.”

I test drove the first-generation Tesla Roadster. I once lived on Soylent powder shakes for a month. My Twitter account is almost old enough to drive. I wrote a book about the iPhone. Also, I’m a Luddite.

That’s not the contradiction that it might sound like. The original Luddites did not hate technology. Most were skilled machine operators. In the early days of the Industrial Revolution, what they objected to were the specific ways that tech was being used to undermine their status, upend their communities and destroy their livelihoods. So they took sledgehammers to the mechanized looms used to exploit them.

It is that spirit that I’ve come to appreciate in the age of tech monopolies and generative artificial intelligence. The kind of visionaries we need now are those who see precisely how certain technologies are causing harm and who resist them when necessary.

I didn’t always feel this way. As a teenager in the ’90s, I was captivated by the way the web connected me with friends, enabling us to build our own sites and chat into the night. Apple made gadgets cool. Google let me summon far-flung information. Amazon brought hard-to-find books to my doorstep. (Jeff Bezos, founder of Amazon, owns The Post; Patty Stonesifer, The Post’s interim CEO, is a member of Amazon’s board.)

The Luddites would have had few, if any, problems with all of that. And neither did I.

At the start of my career in the 2000s, tech, it seemed, was building the future. Silicon Valley’s suite of smartphones, social media networks and sharing economy apps promised connection, discovery and efficiency. Tech companies were expanding, consolidating and accumulating power. Apple was on its way to becoming the first trillion-dollar company. Uber began raking in an unprecedented war chest of $10 billion. By the 2010s, however, there were plenty of signs of the costs. As Amazon grew, stories emerged about grueling conditions in its warehouses. Google used its monopoly power to strangle competitors’ products. A suicide epidemic swept an iPhone factory. Predictions mounted that AI would soon replace tens of millions of human jobs — that the rise of the robots was at hand. The Luddites would have had a problem with all of that.

That’s what I realized one long Labor Day weekend in 2014, when I stumbled on an academic work that examined the Luddites and their struggle against the tech titans of their day. As someone raised on the idea that technology is the engine of progress — that to say otherwise is taboo — learning the true history of this movement has been a revelation.

The Luddites were not, contrary to popular belief, idiots who broke machines because they didn’t understand them. They were cloth workers who once led comfortable lives, working at home or in small shops, on their own terms and schedules, with freedom and dignity.

When entrepreneurs tried to move their jobs into factories by using power looms and wide frames that did similar work faster, more cheaply and much more shoddily, the Luddites protested. These workers first sought compromise, dialogue and a democratic way to integrate new tech into their communities — to share in the gains. They were ignored. So they rebelled.

To this end, the Luddites were innovators. They pioneered a way of staging a popular, decentralized resistance to technologies that were “hurtful to commonality.” They organized under the banner of the apocryphal Ned Ludd, sending threatening letters to entrepreneurs who invested in automation; they raided the factories of the most hated bosses in town, smashing only the machinery that “stole their bread,” as the Luddites said. For a while, they became folk heroes of England — championed by poets such as Lord Byron and cheered on by the working class; they were bigger than Robin Hood.

Sadly, the Luddites’ plight is as relevant as ever. The parallels to the modern day are everywhere. In the 1800s, entrepreneurs used technology to justify imposing a new mode of work: the factory system. In the 2000s, CEOs used technology to justify imposing a new mode of work: algorithmically organized gig labor, in which pay is lower and protections scarce. In the 1800s, hosiers and factory owners used automation less to overtly replace workers than to deskill them and drive down their wages. Digital media bosses, call center operators and studio executives are using AI in much the same way.

Then, as now, the titans used technology both as a new mode of production and as an idea that allowed them to ignore long-standing laws and regulations. In the 1800s, this might have been a factory boss arguing that his mill exempted him from a statute governing apprentice labor.

Today, it’s a ride-hailing app that claims to be a software company so it doesn’t have to play by the rules of a cab firm.

Then, as now, leaders dazzled by unregulated technologies ignored their potential downsides. Then, it might have been state-of-the-art water frames that could produce an incredible volume of yarn — but needed hundreds of vulnerable child laborers to operate. Today, it’s a cellphone or a same-day delivery, made possible by thousands of human laborers toiling in often punishing conditions.

Then, as now, workers and critics sounded the alarm. In the 1810s, no one in power listened. A fierce, popular rebellion broke out. England was pushed to the brink of civil war. The military was called in to put down the uprising — it was the largest domestic occupation in the nation’s history. Scores of Luddites were killed and hanged. The factory system took root and brought prosperity for some, but it created an immiserated working class.

The 200 years since have seen breathtaking technological innovation — but much less social innovation in how the benefits are shared. That’s why, in the age of AI and augmented reality, electric vehicles and Mars rovers, levels of inequality again rival the days of the Industrial Revolution.

Resistance is gathering again, too. Amazon workers are joining union drives despite intense opposition. Actors and screenwriters are striking and artists and illustrators have called for a ban of generative AI in editorial outlets. Organizing, illegal in the Luddites’ time, has historically proved the best bulwark against automation.

But governments must also step up. They must offer robust protections and social services for those in precarious positions. They must enforce antitrust laws. Crucially, they must develop regulations to rein in the antidemocratic model of technological development wherein a handful of billionaires and venture capital firms determine the shape of the future — and who wins and loses in it.

The clothworkers of the 1800s had the right idea: They believed everyone should share in the bounty of the amazing technologies their work makes possible.

That’s why I’m a Luddite — and why you should be one, too.

I had the jump through many hoops to break this out of WaPo paywall prison.

#luddites #decentralized resistance #factory system of production #unregulated technology #technology #innovation #inequality #Industrial Revolution

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comrade-meow · 4 years ago

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The commodification of women and “enclosure” of sexuality through prostitution, widespread porn and the resulting fallout led to the next frontier: biology itself, womanhood itself. Transgenderism leverages the mind/body split that rape culture promotes by introducing a new form of biological enclosure. With transgenderism, the reality of sex is no longer something natural that we simply share in common, but a place for Big Pharma to set up shop in the name of “identity.”

I have a “big picture” brain. I’m unsatisfied with superficial explanations of current events and political trends, and only understand them once I’ve placed them in the context of deeper historic trajectories, social patterns and human drives. Without these explanations, I remain unsatisfied and questioning (and can’t be sold on false solutions either).

Transgenderism is one contemporary political trend that requires big picture thinking to comprehend—because there are no casual explanations for why, in less than a decade, people all over the world have started to accept a set of bizarre and contradictory ideas: that sex is a spectrum, that sex can be changed, and/or that sex is not real at all, only gender identity is—all to justify the political mantra, “transwomen are women.” This mantra is simply an assertion of male privilege, that men should be able to claim female identity if they want to, without needing sound justification. How did it spread so fast?

I have just finished writing a series of books called the Brief, Complete Herstory (2021) which offers a continuous narrative of history from the Big Bang to neoliberalism. It discusses pre-patriarchal cultures around the world, and the creation of patriarchy, church and state, capitalism, and neoliberalism. Only the last volume mentions transgenderism, but writing these books has helped me put the transgender trend, among others, in context.

One thing that is clear to me is that the idea that men can become women is not new—it began when patriarchal religions insisted that God, the creator of life, is male. Before this, if “god” had a sex, it was commonly female: she who birthed the world. The idea of god as male-produced all sorts of weird stories and myths to capture the imagination: like the one about Aphrodite being born out of Zeus’ head, and Jesus being born after an “immaculate conception” involving a male sky god and Mary, a sexless virgin (trans activists might call her an “incubator”).

Another thing that strikes me, taking this long view of history, is a succession of waves of “enclosure” or colonisation that cause enough social and economic fallout to prepare the ground for the next, more intimate, “enclosure.” The pattern begins earlier, but if we start with the enclosure movement of the 15th and 16th centuries, also called the “privatisation of the commons,” it is easy to place transgenderism in the context of a historic trajectory. I’ve discussed this before, in a talk on YouTube, but here I want to cast a wider net.

The 16th century saw the Protestant Reformation and the rise of modern capitalism while the Tudors reigned in England. The Tudors used the Reformation as a way of breaking from the Catholic church in order to act without, or against, the pope’s approval. After breaking from Rome, they seized church property, privatised the commons, and colonised Ireland. For centuries, peasants had used common lands to graze milk cows and gather water, edible and medicinal plants, and wood for construction and making fires.

The simultaneous confiscation of the commons and church property cast many people into poverty because the lands were a source of sustenance and, under feudalism, it was the church that had given aid and shelter to the poor. Women were especially affected by the double whammy of enclosure and lack of poverty alleviation. In her biography My Own Story, British suffragist Emmeline Pankhurst traces her feminist awakening to witnessing women in the homeless shelters and workhouses that queen Elizabeth I eventually established to address the crisis.

Looking back, we can see that the enclosure movement provided the preconditions for Britain’s industrialisation. When common lands were privatised, they largely became lands for grazing sheep used for wool in the textile industry, the biggest industry of the early industrial revolution; and it created a class of people desperate enough to work up to 18 hours a day for a pittance in dismal conditions, in the factories or “satanic mills,” as the poet William Blake called them. Most textile workers were women. Urbanisation also took place in tandem with the rise of prostitution, with many women forced to choose between that, factory work or domesticity.

In her book, Witches, Witch-Hunting and Women(2018), Silvia Federici connects the 16th- and 17th-century witch hunts in England with the rise of capitalism and the privatisation of the commons. She writes that “women were the most likely to be victimised” by enclosure, pauperisation, and the “disintegration of communal forms of agriculture that had prevailed in feudal Europe,” because they were “the most disempowered by these changes, especially older women, who often rebelled against their impoverishment and social exclusion.” She notes that some women participated in protests, pulling up fences enclosing the commons, and explains:

[W]omen were charged with witchcraft because the restructuring of rural Europe at the dawn of capitalism destroyed the means of livelihood and the basis of their social power, leaving them with no resort but dependence on the charity of the better off, at a time when communal bonds were disintegrating, a new morality was taking hold that criminalised begging and looked down upon charity.

The premise of Federici’s book is that this very same correlation between privatisation and “witch” hunting can be seen with neoliberal privatisation. She shows how witch hunts have escalated dramatically following the neoliberalisation (or “re-colonisation”) of the African continent and the privatisation of lands there, for instance in Tanzania, where more than 5,000 women per year are murdered as witches and in the Central African Republic, where “prisons are full of accused witches.” In Indian tribal lands, “where large scale processes of land privatisation are underway,” witch hunts are also increasing, as they are in Nepal, Papua New Guinea and Saudi Arabia. Describing the way witch-hunting frames the female sex, Federici argues that, “we have to think of the enclosures as a broader phenomenon than simply the fencing off of land. We must think of an enclosure of knowledge, of our bodies, and of our relationship to other people, and nature.”

Federici considers her analysis of the correlation between privatisation and witch-hunting to be ongoing, a work in progress—but I think her project is hamstrung. Her conclusions will remain sorely limited as long as she maintains the position that there is such a thing as a “sex worker” and a “transwoman,” because these ideas are central to the neoliberal “enclosure of knowledge, of our bodies, and of our relationship to other people, and nature” today. The term “sex worker” was coined by the global sex trade lobby on the back of women’s poverty and the normalisation of prostitution under neoliberalism.

In his book Sex Trafficking: Inside the Business of Modern Slavery (2010), human trafficking expert Siddharth Kara shows that neoliberalisation leaves indigenous women especially vulnerable. He unveils a pattern of neoliberal government reform followed by land confiscation, leading to domestic poverty, and then prostitution in Asia, Europe and the United States. His book covers the period of the 1980s and 90s when the International Monetary Fund and World Bank were handing out “structural adjustment packages” all over the world. These are financial loans conditional on land and infrastructure privatisation, cutbacks to health and welfare spending, and removal of legislation protecting workers and obstructing profit.

In The Shock Doctrine(2007), Naomi Klein argues that this neoliberalisation requires disaster to disorient people and render them sufficiently immobilised to have their rights stripped. Once implemented, just like enclosure and colonisation, neoliberalism creates its own fallout. As Klein explains, neoliberalism began to enter more intimate territory after September 11, 2001, when surveillance culture began to “enclose” our privacy in unprecedented ways. This led to an age where internet companies, which are best positioned to track and collect data, reign.

History shows us a continuous pattern that goes all the way back to the Tudors and before: disaster followed by enclosure creates more disaster that allows for further, more intimate, enclosure. This is precisely why Federici’s argument that we need to define enclosure more deeply and broadly, is so important: otherwise we cannot properly track the pattern and we will fail to notice when neoliberalisation starts claiming new frontiers.

Combine the internet age with prostitution and you have today’s growing porn industry—and porn creates its own fallout. As feminist author Gail Dines points out in Pornland(2010), the average age boys start watching pornography is at eleven years, and porn brainwashes them into objectifying women by linking the image of rape to orgasm. There is hardly a more efficient way to condition somebody than through orgasm. Social conditioning normally involves a system of punishment and reward by some external body—but when men learn to objectify women by watching porn, their own penises dispense the rewards. After that, nobody needs to offer them any other incentives to keep repeating the behaviour.

The fact that porn not only depicts rape but drives it is well established. We can see the link in high profile rape cases like those involving Brock Turner and Larry Nassar. Turner took photos during his assault, and shared them with friends; Nassar was found to be in possession of at least 37,000 child pornography videos and images. New Zealand women’s organisation the Backbone Collective’s report on child abuse "Seen and Not Heard" shows that for 54% of abusive fathers, pornography is a factor in the abuse of their children.

The fallout from rape is dissociation. The human stress response is designed to allow us to run from predators, or to overpower them if we judge ourselves as capable. It is not designed to deal with entrapment and cruelty, and when faced with these situations, women often freeze, our minds shutting off conscious awareness of what is happening, whilst the subconscious absorbs it for dealing with later. This mind/body split is at the root of patriarchy and patriarchal religion because patriarchy relies on it: it requires men to detach from their own humanity and cultivate the dissociation, body hatred and dysphoria that rape culture fosters.

Trans activists assist this commodification of sex by excitedly censoring, blacklisting, firing, harassing and abusing women as “TERFs” (“trans-exclusionary radical feminists”). “TERF” is a now well-known misnomer for feminists who have not forgotten what sex is, and, whilst trying to tear down the fences transgenderism erects around it, get in the way of the rollout of this new form of enclosure. With respect to her work, it is almost mind-boggling that Federici does not take into account this neoliberal “witch-hunting” that trans activists participate in.

If this terrifying trend exists as part of a broader trajectory—how far can it go?

The first volume in my Brief Complete Herstory argues that the most basic quality of life is sensitivity. Water has a miraculous capacity for storing information, for picking up the qualities of all it encounters. Even the smallest, single-celled organisms share with human beings the capacity to sense and respond to light, movement, and other environmental patterns and changes. Yet the more people are tethered to our phones and smart devices, our behaviour mined as “data” and sold to those who profit from predicting and manipulating our movements, the more numb and desensitised we become. I sometimes worry that as privatisation and dispossession advance in what Shoshana Zuboff calls the Age of Surveillance Capitalism(2019), this is the current frontier: our very sensitivity.

If we listen to spiritual teachers and visionaries throughout the ages, the seat of human sensitivity is the heart. Indigenous cultures have always recognised this, and herbalist Stephen Buhner taught me that this is not a metaphor: our bodies are surrounded by an electromagnetic field generated by the heart, and this field is five thousand times more powerful than that created by the brain. In The Secret Teachings of Plants(2004), Buhner writes that this means that the “[a]nalysis of information flow into the human body has shown that much of it impacts the heart first, flowing to the brain only after it has been perceived by the heart.”

If this is true, then in an era of desensitisation, the heart is the new frontier of enclosure. Can it be captured and domesticated? Or is there a freedom in the heart that simply cannot be enclosed?

One thing the long view of history shows us is that freedom does not exist in the hands of politicians who will deliver it after they tidy up the aftermath of the latest crisis, as they like to promise. I would also suggest it shows us that not only is the very idea of a patriarchal state incompatible with human freedom by definition—the tactic of negotiating with governments to have our “rights” and freedoms delivered has proven ineffective through centuries of trial and error. History shows us that governments are irredeemably deaf to the voices of women, and when they appear not to be, it is short-lived. Between the era of enclosure and the present day, women won the right to vote. Today, we may officially still have that right, but as womanhood is redefined beyond meaning, so has the relevance of the vote to our lives.

I am not saying that people should not lobby governments to promote the recognition of their rights, or that changes in the law have never benefited those who fought for them. I am also not suggesting that you can save the world by sitting under a tree and searching your heart. What I am saying is that in an era characterised by noise and desensitisation, there is no better time to tune out for long enough to discover whether you do carry within you a freedom immune to enclosure—because if you do, if this is part of our make up, surely there could be no better advisor in the decisions you, and we, need to make from here. There cannot be a better guide in the defence of freedom than freedom itself.

#Anglo.txt

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haloshornsinkstains · 4 years ago

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Caring for You [BNHA - 1-A]

Headcanons on members of Class 1-A and how they would take care of you when you're sick or overworking yourself, featuring Bakugo, Midoriya, Todoroki, Iida, Kaminari, Momo and Tsuyu

CW: Swearing from Bakugo, use of "manly" as a non-gendered term of praise from Kirishima but that's about it

Bakugo

Bakugo cares for you aggressively but he cares so deeply. Other people are a bit worried at first, but you know him so well now you can see the tenderness beneath the rough words.

You’re sick? He brings you meds and soup and makes sure you’re resting, all the while telling you “don’t be a fucking idiot, stay in bed. What kind of moron doesn’t rest when they’re sick huh?”

He’ll press kisses to your forehead, all the while ignoring your protests that he’s going to get sick too. He’s Katsuki Bakugo, no mere sickness is going to take him down, and he refuses to withhold affection from the person he loves most for any reason.

Overworking yourself? He’ll force you to stop and take a break, even if he has to heft you over his shoulder and carry you away from whatever you’re working on. He’ll ensure you’re eating and drinking and sleeping enough.

“I thought you said you weren’t an idiot huh? How do you think you’re going to do on that project if you’re so tired and hungry you can’t focus eh? I know you’re smarter than that. You’re going to eat this and then we are going to bed, I don’t want to hear you’re shitty excuses, you need sleep.”

Overall very good grumpy boy.

Midoriya

Oh boy, look, we all know Midoriya is a tad anxious right? Well it shows when he’s trying to look after you, he goes a little overboard.

If you’re sick you best believe he has a pile of research on whatever illness you have, and enough meds on hand to stock the local pharmacy.You’re a little concerned he might have actually bought out the local pharmacy looking at it.

He’s also the one most likely to try and insist you go to a doctor, even if you argue that you’re really not that ill.

If you’re overworking yourself he’s not quite as brilliant, it takes him a little too long to notice because he’s also prone to overworking himself, especially where his training is concerned. When he finally does notice though he’ll feel terrible for not spotting it earlier.

Like Bakugo he’ll make you rest and eat, though his method is much more puppy eyes and much less manhandling (not that he won’t throw you over his shoulder if he has to, but very few people can resist the Izuku Midoriya puppy-eyes treatment).

Iida

Iida is very good at this, but I hope you’re prepared to be lectured by him for not taking proper care of yourself. Because you will get one.

If you’re sick he’ll bring all the necessary medication, and foods he knows are nutritious and will help you to recover. He wears a mask when he visits too, telling you “how would I take care of you if I got sick too?”. Still, he tucks you under the covers and presses a masked hiss to your forehead.

If he finds you overworking yourself he will chide you gently, pulling you away from whatever you’re doing with a small frown. “You cannot do your best work if you’re not properly nourished and rested y/n, come on now. I know how brilliant and hardworking you are, but overworking like this won’t help you.” He won’t listen to protests, firmly but gently guiding you towards food and rest.

If there’s anything he can do to help with whatever it is you were overworking yourself with, whether that be typing up a report, researching something or organising and refining notes for study, he’ll do it while you rest. Anything to make things a little easier for you.

Todoroki

I love Shoto very much, but out of all of them he is the worst at this (for very good reason). He’s not got much experience of being cared for and he doesn’t really know what to do.

If you’re sick he notices much earlier than you think he does, he just spends a while looking up your symptoms and how to treat them (and asking around his friends for advice).

When he does come to tend to you he’s really well prepared as far as medication goes, and he brings cold soba with him. It’s the one thing he’s confident in his ability to make. His bedside manner leaves a little to be desired, but you know he cares.

If you’re overworking yourself, well he really doesn’t know what to do and his research hasn’t been super helpful. He’s excellent when it comes to things to heal your body if you’re training too hard, knows plenty about muscle soaks and good nutrition, but if it’s something more intellectual he’s a bit lost.

He’ll bring you food and drinks and carry you to bed if you fall asleep working, but if you tell him you need to keep working on something he’ll just let you? He learns eventually that sometimes not listening to you is the right thing to do but it’s a bumpy road.

Kirishima

If you want to be cheered up alongside being taken care of then Kiri is 100% the man for you. No matter how sick or exhausted you are he can put a smile on your face.

When you’re sick he comes over with meds, blankets, films and comfort food (that he may or may not have pestered Bakugo into making for him). He cuddles up with you, putting on your favourite films and making you laugh. When you warn him about getting ill he just tells you he’s “too manly to get sick.”

He definitely gets sick but declares it was worth it.

If you're overworking yourself he'll come and insist you take a break. Like Midoriya he isn't afraid to pull out the puppy eyes. If you can resist those (you monster) he will just carry you off.

Tries to take your mind off whatever it is you're working so hard on, telling you how great he thinks you are and how manly it is that you're working so hard. "But taking good care of yourself is even more manly y/n. I know you're going to ace this, so just rest for now."

Momo

Momo gives off big "mum friend" vibes, she is great at taking care of people in all kinds of situations.

If you're sick she'll be right over with meds and self care stuff, whether that's movies or nail polish whatever you need. She'll probably also bring over a smoothie full of nutritious ingredients to help you recover.

If you’ve been working yourself too hard she’ll find some way of making you take a break, proposing some fun activity and ensuring you have no way of saying no to it. It’s a little manipulative sure, but entirely in your best interests and you thank her afterwards.

She doesn’t lecture you like Tenya does, but she does let you know she’s disappointed in you for not taking care of yourself and that’s ten times worse. But she does tend to spoil you to make up for it.

Like Tenya, if there’s anything she can do to help you out then she will, but she’ll be more up front about it. And she will insist on making you a plan to help you get everything done, with properly scheduled time for breaks.

Tsuyu

Okay, so Tsuyu is the actual best when it comes to taking care of you. Especially if you’re sick, having so many siblings taught her a lot about taking care of people.

When you’re sick she already has meds to hand, and knows the best things to give you to help you feel better. She’ll bring you food and drinks and cold cloths if you have a fever and will make sure you rest.

If you’re overworking yourself she won’t hesitate to literally pull you away from your work with her tongue if she has to. Like Momo she’ll help you organise an efficient work plan, with time for breaks and food and she will make sure you’re eating and drinking and going to bed at a reasonable time.

#halo.writes #halo.headcanons #my hero academia #bnha #bakugo #todoroki shouto #midoryia #kirishima #iida tenya #momo yaoyozoru #tsuyu

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goonlalagoon · 4 years ago

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A smile in your heart (no better place to start) || Second Star to the Left

Read on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33459862

(Spoilers through to end of ep 10 ahead)

It’s been weeks - months - and Bell’s thought about what they could say, when they’re finally on the ground and face to face with Gwen for the first time. Thank you, that’s a strong contender; they know themselves well enough to know they’re more likely to go with how did you do it? Maybe this time they’ll actually be able to say I love you, though Gwen seems adept at picking it up even when they can’t put the words to it. In their head, they planned for it to be - not dramatic, because they’re supposed to be a fugitive and they don’t want to draw attention, but meaningful. The kind of memory that’s something to think back on with misty eyes and fond words.

Capital-R-Romantic, as Gwen termed it so long ago, that first grudging conversation.

What they actually say is,

“Wow, you really do have a great jawline.”

It’s…admittedly not the worst thing they’ve ever said to someone they have a crush on, but that isn’t exactly the metric Bell wanted to measure this by. They’re standing just feet away from each other, drinking each other in. The silence starts to shade awkward before Gwen swallows, shrugs, gives a shaky smile. Bell remembers a letter, one of the first, remembers reading the clouds are all blurry and the twisting mix of regret and guilty relief, because they didn’t want Gwen to be upset but they couldn’t help but cling onto the fact that she was, that someone was upset on their behalf.

“Well, I never got to see your school graduating photos, so I had no expectations of your jawline, Bell, but hey! It’s a pretty good one too, so congratulations!”

Gods, they’ve missed that laugh.

Someone interrupts them then, of course, because the settler ship has just landed and scout Hartley is very much in demand by everyone, not just Bell. There’s a whole crew of people looking to start a new life, and all of them need their scout to tell them what to do, where to go, what to watch out for. They wave a forlorn goodbye, find a place to sit and idly look around, trying to match this new settlement (very new, scout Summers could probably gauge to the day when these buildings were set up by the wear and tear, even after all this time) to every overheard exploit they’d listened in on over the years.

Gwen had moved the settlement into the trees, combined the natural firebreak with dug trenches to add a layer of defence. There’s a clear track that Bell would bet leads straight to water by the quickest route, an escape path to the coast. They think that perhaps the two of them should put their heads together, figure out emergency bundles for evacuation protocols. Food and water, a spare repair kit for any prosthetics…by the time they find Gwen again, hours of running around helping the settlers - the other settlers - move in, Gigo has a whole list stored. Ideas and checks and suggestions that Bell got halfway through recording before realising that maybe Gwen already thought of all of this and they no longer needed to jot everything down to cram into their four hour window of contact.

They live on the same planet, now. There’s no limit on contact, except that the first several months after settlement are absolute chaos for the scout, and from what Bell recalled hadn’t seemed likely to slow down even before the apocalypse threw everything out the metaphorical window.

Maybe with two of them with scout training it’ll be less…just less. Gwen might be able to get if not the mandated six hours of sleep at least enough to average out more at four or five. They weren’t going to comment on it, but it was easy to tell she hadn’t been getting her full rest anyway - probably hadn’t for months, dark circles under her eyes like permanent bruises.

They’re standing awkward feet away from each other again, and Bell knows there’s going to have to be a conversation about that soon, because it hadn’t really occurred to them before that they know a lot of things about Gwen, years and years of stories and rambling conversations, but there’s things you don’t learn without being in person. Personal space, definitions and comfort thereof, the body language and facial expressions to interpret to know what’s welcomed and what isn’t.

“Hey, so, uh…I know there’s a protocol that I’m supposed to follow when my settlers arrive, and all, but there’s something else I want to do instead.” Bell huffs a laugh, steals a shy glance to see Gwen’s answering smirk.

“Another sworn class tradition to fulfil?”

“Nope! We never talked that far ahead except as jokes. We knew the stats, y’know? But - you told me, the first day, that I should watch the sunrise, that that was something I shouldn’t miss, my first morning. And I don’t…we don’t have that, but I’ve had a long time to find my own wonderfully inspiring views of nature here and I wanted - Bell, you haven’t been on a planet for years and you were with me through everything, but you’ve never seen any of it in real life and I want to show you all of it, and I know where to start.”

Bell thinks about muttering about protocol, for the form of it, for the joke that can be dragged out of it, familiar banter, but they decide not to. It’s no longer their job to care about protocol, and anyway the only reason they cared about the protocol was to keep their scouts safe. Gwen is standing right in front of them, leaning gently against Boots with a casually familiar stance - if they pointed it out, Bell knows she wouldn’t even have thought about it. This is just what Gwen does, when she’s standing about with nothing to do with her hands; rests an elbow companionably atop Boots, one foot hooked around a standing leg and balanced on the toe of her boot.

Gwen is standing right there, safe and alive and happy, so protocol can sort itself, thanks.

(Bell realises they have their own hands in their pockets, their own casual stance, and wonders if Gwen is noticing that too, drinking in all of the unconcious habits that it would never occur to either of them to verbalise. All the little tics and quirks that don’t translate over a FTL comms.)

It’s not a long walk, and it’s more silent than Bell would have guessed, but it’s comfortable. Novel, really, to not have to narrate things aloud because they can just look and see what Gwen is doing, can point at a bird with a dorsal fin and pause to watch it flutter around rather than try to describe it.

They can’t stop stealing glances sideways, catching Gwen more often than not doing the same, both of them collapsing into giggles about it each time. It’s just so surreal, to be walking side by side, after all this time. It feels like a dream, like one of the stories Gwen tells Boots at night - once upon a time, there were two explorers, setting out through the trees…

The light dances on the waves, well below their cliff edge destination. At some point Gwen must have rolled a fallen log over to act as a bench, because it’s too well placed to be natural and there’s a fire-pit dug and lined with careful stones. Close enough to be cosy, but far away from the treeline itself to be safe. The light is dancing on the waves and the grass is drifting in the breeze, a periwinkle blue that Bell is used to seeing in photos if they thought of it at all. Something that had seemed so wonderful and new, when scout Hartley made her first observations, but had drifted into commonplace. A detail that wasn’t worth mentioning any more.

“One day, I’m going to make a boat and go explore that.” Gwen waves grandly at the horizon; she’s leaning her head on Bell’s shoulder, and Bell has decided that they will happily never move again. The two of them can just stay there, forever, Gwen’s head on their shoulder and the soft whisper of waves below. “Once my settlers are…settled, and can be left without supervision for more than a few hours at a time.”

“Already missing the solitude? Mourning all that lovely peace and quiet?”

“What solitude? I had a very efficient scout minder in my ear, I’ll have you know! I didn’t have time to get used to the peace and quiet before beep, time for another check in. Hartley, have you followed the itinary, Hartley, did you maintain a reasonable sleep schedule, Hartley, have you eaten a balanced meal at your officially directed time selected for nutritional optimisation…”

“I’m honestly surprised that you went for reminding me of my remote presence first rather than protesting that Boots was with you the whole time. And I would also like to ask, in the spirit of enquiry, have you done any of those things without my input?” Gwen shakes with barely suppressed laughter and doesn’t bother answering; Bell tries not to join in, because Gwen’s head is still on their shoulder and they’re still determined not to dislodge it until they really have to. “And…hey, I also told you to go watch the sunrise, and you found this instead. I - when did you find this? You never mentioned a little ocean watching viewpoint.”

“I - uh, set it up a few months ago. I didn’t know if it had worked, or if it had all gone wrong, or - and I spent so long pacing around here and wondering what you’d think of the view…”

“Aw, and you say I’m a romantic.”

“With a capital R, yes, you so are. I’m your favourite person, you said so, it was very romantic.”

“That was possibly the least romantic declaration of love that has ever been given. I congratulated you on your jawline, Gwen, I write poetry in my spare time and that was the best I could come up with. I should have just stopped talking - writing, I don’t even have the excuse of not being able to edit it out, the first bit was fine but I kept rambling.”

“It was romantic and I loved it and I have saved all of your letters in three separate back ups to make sure I don’t lose any of them.”

Bell laughs, curls an arm around Gwen’s shoulders as easy as breathing, and lets themselves relax for what feels like the first time in months. A flock of birds takes off from the trees, darting past them over the cliff edge, setting out over the waves. The sun glints off their feathers, the raised fin, a riot of colour catching the light as they watch, leaning against each other, shoulder to shoulder. Gwen is beaming out at it all, and Bell can feel their cheeks creasing to match.

It isn’t a sunrise, but this - this is something close enough, a snapshot of a new world, a new horizon that they get to learn, the first day of a new life.

#My writing #second star to the left #sstl #This went very differently to how I planned it but oh well #Bell Summers/Gwen Hartley

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ambivalentmarvel · 5 years ago

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so the story behind this is that @sreppub arrived in my dms saying “sitcom starring two uppity, former rich guys and a regular poor college kid who follow up an online ad and become roommates” and i said something along the lines of “your MIND” and here we are. she does the art, i do the fic, and we both yell a lot along the way. read it on here or ao3 and enjoy!!

The Sitcom Supreme

If Peter or Stephen were around to hear Tony tell the story of how they all ended up rooming together, they would have plenty of objections, to which he would call them both dirty liars, to which they would gang up on him because they’re terrible and like that, to which he would probably throw up his hands in exasperation and/or make the mistake of engaging them in a debate, to which they would grin like wolves because, once again, they’re terrible and like that, but Tony’s the asshole who put up the Craigslist ad, so he gets to start—because he’s terrible and like that.

It’s a common trait amongst the three of them, what can he say?

The beginning of the story does not involve either of the other two, however. It begins with Rhodey, who is only occasionally terrible and like that. Rhodey has been Tony’s best friend since the tender age of fifteen. Considering Tony at age fifteen was a greasy little douche bag with too much money and a whole bunch of daddy issues that were somehow more obvious then than they are in the present, this is an impressive feat.

Where things start, Rhodey and Tony are roommates at MIT, which is Howard’s school of choice to shove his problem child onto. Tony is supposed to get a single dorm room, but there’s a cockroach problem in that building. Administration has to get creative, which is how Rhodey, fresh out of boot for the fall semester, gets saddled with approximately one hundred and fifty pounds of neglected teenage boy who has only kind of gone through puberty.

The first words out of Tony’s mouth are blunt: “Any chance you have plans to drop out?”

And Rhodey looks at him with a raised brow, efficiently unpacked and totally unimpressed with the enormous stack of Tony’s things wavering in the doorway. “You have any plans to quit being annoying?” he retorts, which set the tone for their entire relationship.

Tony loves him to pieces.

He’s the older brother he never knew he needed, yanking him by his collar from frat parties on the weekends and to his house for holidays because getting swamped by Rhodey’s six younger siblings is infinitely better than having to wear a suit and tie for Christmas dinner with six CEOs and maybe some senators, depending on the year. In return, Tony sees him through every finals week of his collegiate career, during which Rhodey gets so nervous he usually pukes at least daily and pulls so many all-nighters Tony memorizes the exact shade of red his eyes are at the end.

So, it’s safe to say they get along well. They get along so well, as a matter of fact, that when they stare at each other after their graduation ceremony for their Masters—a two-year process for both of them, and Rhodey receives two degrees to Tony’s four—surrounded by Rhodey’s family and Jarvis, Tony’s lips curl in a smirk Rhodey knows spells the best kind of trouble. “What do you say we keep the roommate streak alive, yeah? Howard’s building an office in New York, and I’m thinking of doing a doctorate at NYU.”

Rhodey’s brows raise, but he’s grinning, so Tony already knows his answer. “Depends. Are you still gonna’ snore?”

“Are you still gonna’ have a stick up your a—”

Mama Rhodes shoots Tony a look from where she’s trying to corral the rest of her kids.

“—butt?” he finishes with a sheepish glance her way.

Rhodey does not even remotely have a stick up his ass, but of the two of them, he features in tabloids far, far less, which Tony somehow uses to his advantage.

“You know it,” Rhodey replies, and so they find a fancy penthouse that Tony mostly pays for, with the excuse of Rhodey satisfying his part of rent via generally covering Tony’s ass to the best of his ability. And he has a lot of ability, honed from years upon years of Tony self-destructing at the drop of a hat, but there’s only so much he can do, especially as his military career just keeps flying higher and Howard just keeps pushing Tony harder.

A few sex tapes, especially wild benders, and crashed cars later, when Howard cuts Tony off and tells him, quote, “I won’t speak to you until you learn to do something other than disappoint me”, Rhodey very gracefully still shacks up with him in their considerably less fancy apartment.

This is all important to know, contrary to what someone whose name may or may not rhyme with Tephen Trange might say about Tony’s “long-winded” and “overly-complicated” storytelling tendencies because it explains exactly why Rhodey is a traitor.

Is Carol a very cool lady who could kick Tony’s ass? Yes. Is she sickeningly cute with Rhodey and not just because a smile from her makes him melt into a pile of fucking goo on the floor? Also yes. Does it probably make more sense for Tony to find roommates who will actually be around to monitor his—allegedly—poor mental health and self-care habits? Okay, fine, yes, but the bottom line is, Rhodey is moving in with Carol and abandoning Tony, and nobody said he had to like it.

(This is not strictly true, what with the approximately ten conversations Rhodey and he have had about his happiness and how, if Tony needs him, all he has to do is say the word and he’ll be back, but Tony has always had a flair for the dramatic.)

The whole idea is that Tony will find someone gone less than Rhodey with all his military business to enjoy having around the apartment. It’s technically a three-bedroom, but he and Rhodey use the extra one for storage. Fortunately or unfortunately, that storage area has become a lot of junk they go through before Rhodey makes his grand exit, and Tony suddenly has the option of having two roommates.

The ad is a low point, he can admit that, but there is a flaw in what Tony loudly calls Rhodey’s master plan to leave him alone to wallow in misery: Tony doesn’t exactly have a lot of friends, nevermind people who he’d want to live with.

“Rhodey. Honeybear. Platypus.”

“The nicknames are old, and you need to stop using them around Carol. She called me Platypus last night during sex, and it ruined the whole mood.”

“You poor thing.”

“She thought it was hilarious.”

If Tony has to lose Rhodey to anybody, by God, Carol is his first choice by a long shot.

“Anyway, as I was saying, Sourpatch—”

“I hate you.”

“—how am I supposed to find someone else to live with?”

Tony is thirty-two and regularly speaks out with all of four people: Pepper, Rhodey, Carol, and Happy. Unfortunately, Happy works in Stark Industries’ California branch and has stated rather firmly that he’s not interested in transferring to the city, Pepper wouldn’t live with another person for love or money, and the other two are spoken for.

It’s a terrible situation to be in, honestly.

“Craigslist,” Rhodey deadpans, fighting with some packing tape.

Tony feels his heart stop beating in real time from his place folding some of Rhodey’s clothes into a plastic tub. His head snaps up, and his jaw drops, absolutely affronted. “You would suggest that I, even disowned and stripped of my former glory—” Tony has several million dollars in the stock market, but that’s neither here nor there and isn’t much compared to the fact that he was supposed to be a billionaire. “—would stoop to looking for live-in friends on Craigslist?”

Rhodey looks up to meet his eyes, unfazed. He’s used to Tony’s antics after nearly two decades of friendship. “Well, I’m not moving out until you have at least one person guaranteed to take my place, so unless you have any better ideas, yeah.” He shrugs—just shrugs, as if he isn’t advising Tony to scrape the bottom of the fucking barrel in terms of reliable people to regularly fall asleep around.

It’s insulting.

“I’m not putting out an ad for a roommate on Craigslist,” he protests, shoving the next horribly colored polo into the tub with disdain.

That night, he tears up thinking about stopping Rhodey from being happy with Carol, and the post is up by the time Rhodey gets up—stupidly early, like normal—for his morning run. Along with his contact information and a few blurry pictures of the place, it includes a blurb about the circumstances.

Best friend moving out. Need a roommate or I will die of Sadness. His girlfriend is cool but hewas mind first. Carol, I am watching you. Two rooms open for business. But not sketchy business. You can just lve there. Current resident (me) is cool and very charming. I am a man. No dumb fuck offers. Thanks.

It could use some work, but Tony’s never been great with words, even less so when he’s crying to rock ballads at two in the morning. He edits it when he wakes up, and by noon that day, it’s looking better.

At seven o’clock that evening, he receives one of two messages that actually work out.

Enter the first offender: Peter Parker.

Peter, Tony will learn, is nineteen, attending NYU—like Tony did, which is a sign, really—for a double major in biochemistry and physics, and has the worst luck of anyone Tony’s ever met.

Rhodey’s moving out in a week—he’s been putting off finding a roommate for a while, alright—and Peter has to legally be out of his dorm in three days. That is quite the predicament, and Tony, by nature, is a curious creature. He is not, however, one for beating around the bush. That results in a text that reads exactly this.

Tony: What the hell did you do?

He could hack through the university files, but explanations are always more fun with a personal touch that’s lacking in, say, an incident report. Tony watches a bubble with three blinking dots for a long, long time, and the reply is surprisingly sparse—sparse enough, in fact, for Tony to have more questions than answers when he receives it.

Unknown Sender: theres been a few things but the kicker was the fire

Tony: The fire?

Unknown Sender: i tried to make popcorn and the microwave blew up

Now that is some problematic behavior Tony can get behind. He amends the kid’s previously non-existent contact information.

Tony: How can they kick you out for that? That’s not your fault.

Roommate (?) Peter: it blacked out the power on the entire first floor

Tony: And?

Roommate (?) Peter: last month i got the blame for contaminating half the campus water supply

Roommate (?) Peter: so i was already on thin ice

Tony: Accidentally?

Roommate (?) Peter: idk sometimes things just happen to me

Tony doesn’t know how to respond to that. If Rhodey knew, he’d never let him live it down. He can hear his annoying laugh in his ears like a premonition—“Hah—Tony, speechless?”—but then there are the dots again and a simple message to follow the last, a touch pathetic.

Roommate (?) Peter: please let me move in

Tony likes him.

Peter shows up on the stairs of the complex thirty-six hours after Tony posted the ad with a backpack and a meager total of six beat-to-shit boxes. The backpack holds nearly all of his school supplies, which makes Tony, in retrospect, genuinely fearful for the integrity of his spine, and the contents of the boxes are sorted, as Tony will learn, into three categories that each have two boxes in them. The categories are fairly simple—clothing, necessities, and whatever other shit he could fit from his dorm—and leave Peter with thrilling possessions such as an entire collection of truly atrocious shirts with science puns on them, a gallon of hand soap, and any food he had in his cupboards.

Thankfully, Rhodey is out furniture shopping with Carol when Tony goes out to meet him, which solves the problem of Rhodey going into overbearing caretaker mode at the sight of a beanpole of a kid failing to manage their life successfully. As someone who has been made many a you-haven’t-eaten-a-meal-in-two-days-and-I’m-secretly-a-panicking-mother-hen casserole, Tony counts his blessings.

Tony waves. “Peter?” he asks, reluctantly changed out of his pajamas for the day.

The kid nods. “That’s me. And you’re Tony?”

“Guilty as charged. Want a hand with those boxes?” he asks, watching Peter lift three at a time.

“No, I got it,” he insists, and then the box on top slides out of his grip and onto the sidewalk.

Peter stares at it for a second before he lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“Maybe I could use some help,” he admits, and with much struggle, the two of them, each with three boxes, waddle inside. There is a moment and only one moment where Tony thinks that it might be nice to have some extra assistance, but with another thought of the things Rhodey would do at the sight of a woefully inept college kid, Tony decides it’s for the best.

Tony leads the operation, considering he has the key and also knows explicitly where they’re going, and he would have to say his biggest complaint about the ordeal is that Sam, who lives in the apartment below Tony and Rhodey with Steve and Bucky, happens to open his door as they walk by.

Being an asshole, he has something to say about it. “Need some help, shellhead?” he crows.

Tony wishes he had a free hand to flip him off.

“Watch your back, Wilson,” he growls in return, a continuation of the beef the five of them have maintained since they met approximately seven years ago, when they all moved in on the same day and kept knocking into each other’s shit in the halls.

When they reach the top of the next flight of stairs and Tony starts to fumble with the key, Peter asks about it. “So—uh—who was that?”

“That was Sam. Part of the deal with moving in is that you harass him and the other two idiots who live with him. He also responds to jackass, douchecanoe, or birdbrain.”

“Birdbrain?”

“It’s an old joke. He had a rather—” Tony grunts, forced to set down his load to unlock the door, “—spectacular run-in with some pigeons a few years ago.”

“Oh.”

“They shat on him. A lot.”

“Oh.”

“It’s a good nickname,” Tony assures him, throwing open the door with his arms flung wide for dramatic flair. “Welcome to Casa Stark. I mean, I guess it’s Casa Stark-Parker now, but if we’re hyphenating, my name goes first because I lived here first.” He holds up a finger as if to stall Peter, who has yet to speak from where his mouth is decidedly blocked by the aforementioned three boxes he is carrying. “And I know what you’re going to say—that Parker-Stark works better because it’s alphabetical—but that is where you are wrong because letters have no place in this house. Numbers are much preferred, and we play by seniority here, anyway.”

He gives Peter a meaningful look that he cannot see because, once again, boxes.

“More on that, by the way—”

“Hey, Tony?”

He cuts him off which is, objectively, rude, but Tony rarely gets along with people who aren’t a little curt with him from time to time. This is a positive sign, really, so he allows it.

“Yeah?”

“This can be Casa Stark-Parker, but can we get to somewhere I can set these down? My arms are, like, going to give out on me.”

Not even ten minutes in, and he’s already learned the art of bargaining. Tony’s proud, and he ushers him inside without any more monologues and a grin stretched across his face.

Peter, by virtue of moving in before Rhodey is out, ends up with the room that is no longer being used for storage. Tony has several questions for him, beginning with the fact that, despite the six packets of instant noodles he bothered to bring, he does not appear to have a mattress. Or a desk. Or a dresser. Or anything that’s supposed to go in a room.

His solutions for Tony’s concerns are as follows.

In place of a bed, he has two blankets, one to put on the floor and one to cover himself with. He was planning on sitting on the floor to do schoolwork instead of using a desk. And finally, he was going to leave his clothes in the boxes.

This is all relayed to Tony with an earnest gleam in his eyes and a smile.

Tony blinks in disbelief. Then, very eloquently, he says, “Kid, that is the saddest shit I have ever heard. Aren’t your parents helping you with the move to an apartment?”

The kid shifts from foot to foot, shoving his hands in his pockets and glancing to the side.

Tony’s eyes narrow. As someone who is extremely well-versed in avoidance tactics, he feels very confident in saying that is definitely a fucking avoidance tactic.

“About that,” he begins, “first of all, I’m an orphan.” Jesus Christ. “Second of all, my aunt doesn’t exactly—uh—know I got kicked out of the dorms.”

That is all interesting information, to say the least, but luckily, Tony thrives under pressure.

“Alright. I can respect that.”

It’s not like he never hid anything from his parents. Evading his aunt is Peter’s problem, not Tony’s. None of this is Tony’s problem, really, except then he looks around the room and wonders which of Peter’s boxes are holding his two blankets.

Tony was concerned about Rhodey, but he can’t stop himself.

“But I’m also gonna’ level with you—you’re not sleeping on the ground. You can take the couch.”

The until I get you a proper bed frame and mattress goes unsaid, but sometimes things like that are better as surprises. It’ll be a fun housewarming gift, Tony thinks, and by the time the shipment from IKEA arrives containing both of those things and the aforementioned missing dresser and desk, there will be a third roommate to help put it all together, not that either of them know it yet.

That night, Rhodey and Carol show up with enough ingredients for lasagna to serve four, and Tony delights in showing off Peter as they cook because now he has a “super cool roommate too! Take that, Platypus.”

Rhodey glances to Peter. “If you’re being held hostage, blink twice.”

“Hey!” Tony protests. He is a perfectly lovable roommate, thank you very much, and he’s so offended, he’s not even going to let Rhodey know about his mission to furnish Peter’s room.

God bless her, Carol just laughs.

The four of them get along with surprising ease, considering Peter’s only been around for a few hours. Peter even tries to help with the lasagna, but Tony has a near-photographic memory and has not remotely forgotten the popcorn incident, however vaguely it was described.

“You just sit there and be a nicer person than Rhodey,” he urges him, and Peter nods, hiding his grin behind his hand at the argument that starts.

Once everyone is done, he and Rhodey get suckered into dish duty while Carol spirits Peter off to the living room, claiming she has to warn him about what he’s getting into. Tony doesn’t care enough to complain, and when her back is turned, he splashes a plate of suds onto Rhodey’s front.

Rather than rise to the bait, however, he raises his brows, slipping into what Tony affectionately calls his big-brother-giving-a-stern-talking-to mode. “You have to be a good example for him, Tones.”

Tony blinks. “I’m sorry, did you just say—”

“I’m serious!” They keep their voices mostly down, but Rhodey’s rises a bit with the declaration.

“He’s nineteen—an adult, in case you forgot. He signed the lease all on his own and everything,” he hisses back incredulously.

He thought he dodged the bullet by not disclosing just how underprepared Peter is to live in an apartment, but Rhodey’s head dips. Tony braces himself for the part of his big-brother-giving-a-stern-talking-to mode where he tells Tony he’s making a bullshit excuse and needs to get it together. “Don’t give me that. He’s a baby adult at best, and you know it.”

Yep, there it is.

“That’s still an adult!”

It is! Tony was on his own way earlier than nineteen. This is not a big deal, no matter how outlandish Peter’s circumstances are for moving out of NYU’s dorms.

“Watch his back.”

Tony scoffs. “It’s not like I was going to feed him to the wolves. I’m barely thirty—I’m not his dad.”

“Tony.”

Ah, the final, crushing blow of this version of Rhodey: his name—but with emphasis.

Tony sighs. “Fine,” he acquiesces. “I solemnly swear I will not let him get up to no good.”

A beat. Rhodey squints at him, slowly lowering the plate he’s holding into the sink. “You told me you refused to read Harry Potter.”

Shit.

Back when the books were first coming out, Rhodey was insufferably obsessed with them, and Tony loves him, but emotionally, he couldn’t handle having Rhodey think he was willing to discuss anything having to do with the series for longer than thirty seconds. Thus, he read the books—everyone in the world was doing the same, okay, and he cannot stand being out of the loop—but lied to Rhodey about it.

And now, he’s been made.

Rhodey and he launch into a very spirited discussion that draws Carol and Peter back to the kitchen, and despite the vein throbbing dangerously in Rhodey’s forehead, the promise has been made.

The day after Rhodey moves out, he and Peter manage to flood the bathroom.

In Tony’s defense, he only promised to look out for Peter. He said nothing about curbing his own dumbass tendencies, and it’s not like Bucky’s bedroom is all that damaged by the leak that Tony fixes before it’s really even a problem.

He and Peter settle into a nice sense of camaraderie, and Tony, content with his situation, forgets to take down his Craiglist ad that, logically speaking, someone would have to dig to find at this point, over a week after initially posting it.

Then, he receives a text that is as simple as it is effective: Is there still an available room in the apartment?

Enter the second offender: Stephen Strange.

Ahem, Doctor Stephen Strange, technically, but Tony has six PhDs. Nobody sees him going around making people call him Doctor Stark, and that’s because it makes him sound pretentious and stuffy, both things Tony prides himself on not being. However, Tony likes to push buttons, and very little gets Stephen worked up as fast as someone ignoring his credentials.

It’s a fun set-up, really, but annoying the piss out of Stephen is something that comes a little later—Tony’s not there yet in the story.

He humors the text, and after getting a read on things, he bursts into the living room, startling Peter nearly off the couch. He’s been doing his homework there and on the coffee table in front of it because the Swedish have many things but fast shipping is, apparently, not one of them, not that Peter knows there’s anything to be waiting on, but he’s getting off-topic.

Peter lets out a short yelp and presses a hand over his heart, both things that Tony ignores.

“We have a situation,” he announces.

“I swear I didn’t do it,” Peter defends pleadingly.

Tony is trying to teach him that messing things up is expected and, especially in particularly magnificent cases, admired in Casa Stark-Parker, but it’s a work in progress.

“I know you didn’t—don’t be ridiculous,” he waves his concerns off. “We are talking bigger than setting things on fire by accident. I bring you, my young protege, the proposition of—” A pause for dramatic effect. “—another roommate.”

“Ooh,” Peter says appropriately, setting his textbook down to examine the texts Tony brandishes. He begins to scroll, but while he does, Tony figures he can go ahead and fill him in on the essentials. It’s a very juicy situation, after all, and he can’t help himself.

“His name is Stephen Strange. He’s a neurosurgeon, but he got into a pretty bad car wreck that messed up his hands. He’s trying to save money while he goes to physical therapy—he apparently has a chance of recovery, but it’s a ways off—and that includes downsizing on where he lives.”

“I mean, yikes, but that’s an oddly specific backstory.”

“I’m glad you think that too, but I am intrigued. I looked him up, and he’s a real person—has a basically flawless reputation, or at least he did before his accident. Thoughts?”

Please say yes, please say yes, Tony thinks. The chance of a competent human—not including Rhodey, who looks more put together than he really is next to the chaos Tony perpetually dwells in—choosing to live with him is too fascinating to pass up, and he needs Peter to see that too.

Peter shrugs. “I’m down if you are. How old is he?”

Victory!

Satisfaction floods Tony, but he tries to maintain his cool.

“Thirty.”

Peter blows out a long breath, tipping his head back to look at the ceiling. “I didn’t anticipate moving into a nursing home,” he remarks dryly.

What a little shit.

It’s worth noting half the reason Rhodey left so easily is because he said he trusted Peter to keep Tony on his toes. Then again, that Tony likes being snarked at is a large part of why they get along so well despite only knowing each other for a matter of days.

“You’re the worst, Parker. I’m going to feed you to the hooligans downstairs. Steve has a monster appetite, you know.”

Peter hums, picking his textbook back up. “Not if I feed you to them first. And, Tony?”

“What?”

“Only old people say hooligans.”

Tony thinks about that one book, Give a Mouse a Cookie or whatever. Except in his case, it’s Rent a Teenager an Apartment, and Tony doesn’t have to adhere to the literary equivalent of a G-rating.

His response to the dig is creative and colorful, and Peter laughs.

Four days and a brief conversation at a coffee shop later—a formality he and Peter did not do and probably something Tony should’ve thought of as the older adult before giving him the address—Stephen’s team of movers invade the apartment.

The man himself stands like a drill sergeant at the last flights of stairs it takes to get to the apartment, arms crossed, beard wild, conducting activity.

Peter and Tony share their evaluations, peeking their head out from the doorway when it’s unoccupied by movers and Stephen isn’t looking their way. This involves quite a bit of ducking, but they are very careful not to be caught.

(Someone’s whose name may or may not rhyme with Tephen Trange later informs that “they were not at all subtle” and “were, in fact, very embarrassing”, but that’s how things with the three of them generally are, so Tony figures it was a good crash course to how life together goes.)

“He’s kind of scraggly,” Peter whispers, his head under Tony’s because he’s the shorter of the two of them, something Tony delights in refuting Peter’s quips about his age with.

“Kind of? He looks like a hobo.”

It’s true, okay? Facially, at least, the guy is a wreck. He’s not quite to Einstein levels of bad hair day, but he’s getting there.

“Be nice,” Peter chastises him. He’s gentler than Rhodey when he does it, but considering neither of them ever shut the hell up and they have thus bonded very easily over the course of their short relationship, it’s gotten to feel as natural as most of their interactions.

“All I’m saying is that I am happy to retain my place as the most attractive person in the apartment, okay?”

They’re forced to retreat from the entryway as another load comes through, and Peter looks at him disbelievingly. “Dream on,” he replies bluntly.

Tony gasps in offense.

Peter shrugs. “Look, I’m just gonna’ say it—you knew Rhodey before me, and now that I’m here—” he trails off, looking at Tony in faux-sympathy that doesn’t match the mischievous glint in his eyes.

While it is true that Rhodey is a fine specimen of a man—yet another reason Tony can’t, in good conscience, be truly angry Carol mooched him away from the bachelor lifestyle—Tony can’t cede that easily for the sake of his pride, and he scowls. “I am going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

They’re still bickering as the movers finish up and Stephen enters the apartment, dressed in what Tony recognizes as the latest from Armani and Tom Ford.

He may not get invited to fashion week anymore, but he still has taste, alright, even if Rhodey limits him to one designer purchase a month.

(Rhodey isn’t around to see what packages he orders now, Tony thinks but shelves the thought for later.)

Tony and Stephen met over coffee, and all three of them said hi to one another before the moving business officially began. However, there is a little stiffness in the air, make no mistake. It’s not Stephen’s fault, exactly, because he’s just kind of a foreboding guy, but still.

It figures that Peter would break the ice. As Tony’s found and will continue to discover, Peter is just as talkative as him. Granted, that trait usually appears in the form of rambling about something from class, but it’s not surprising that his natural passion for life comes through with someone about to be very, very involved in it.

“Hi!” he begins. “Are all of the movers gone now?”

Stephen raises an unimpressed brow. “Yes.”

His reply is seriously lacking enthusiasm, but Tony isn’t allowed the opportunity to jump on that as Peter keeps going.

“Sweet! Okay, so welcome to Casa Stark-Parker.”

Woah, woah, woah—timeout.

Tony frowns, raising a hand in a motion for Peter to stop. “I thought that was my thing?” he interjects.

“Well, it has my name in it, so it gets to be both of our things,” Peter replies, then furrows his brow, looking to Stephen. “Actually, since you’re here now, I guess it’s Casa Stark-Parker-Strange. Order’s based on who got here first, sorry,” he explains with a smile that Tony, now familiar with the fact that Peter has more to him than meets the eye, notes is a touch impish.

Tony is pleased to see, despite his generally wholesome appearance, the kid has at least picked up on the power of staking a claim.

Stephen blinks. His hands, Tony has noticed, don’t stop shaking, not even when he folds his arm across his chest, like a physical barrier between him and Peter’s excitement. “Okay?” he drawls slowly, confusedly.

“Tony’s rules, not mine,” Peter assures him as if he doesn’t just want the satisfaction of having his name not be the last in the line-up.

Tony scoffs. “Oh okay, so now we’re throwing me under the bus?”

“You have to take responsibility for your actions, Tony.”

“Oh, sure thing,” he replies, tone betraying that he does not, in fact, think any responsibility is at all necessary. He looks to Stephen, rolling his eyes. “Can you believe what I have to put up with? And it’s barely been a week.”

Stephen blinks again. “I see it’s a lot,” he says measuredly.

Peter gasps, unaffected. “Oh my God, we should make a sign for it,” he enthuses. “We can put it up on the door, and we’d be so much cooler than Sam and them.”

To say that Peter rose to the challenge of bothering their downstairs neighbors with zeal is something of an understatement.

Tony is, honestly, a fan of the sign idea, especially if it were to light up, but that is where Stephen cuts in, his hands still trembling as he gestures. “Can we slow down for a moment?” He looks carefully from Tony and Peter and back again, bearing the appearance of a man in the throes of realizing he has made a bad decision.

Tony knows that look well. It usually shows up when Rhodey agrees to one of Tony’s ideas and doesn’t realize just how badly constructed it is until it’s too late.

“First of all, I am fairly certain my car is parked illegally, and before we get too far, I need to fix it before I get towed. And secondly,” Tony watches Stephen’s lips curl in a self-satisfied, I-totally-think-I’m-better-than-you-even-if-I’m-not-technically-saying-it smile, “I am not here to be part of any Casa. I am waiting for physical therapy to work for me, and then I will be out of your hair. I appreciate being able to live here, but—”

Yeah, Tony’s had enough of that. Personally, he would like to thank Rhodey, who, in a way, begins and ends the story, and truly is the greatest best friend a man could have for teaching him how to properly deal with pompous rich people.

“Nuh-uh, none of that. If you’re living here, you’re a part of Casa Stark-Parker-Strange whether you like it or not.”

Stephen looks downright appalled that someone would dare to interrupt him, which, Tony knows from experience, is exactly the kind of shock rich people need to go through. He splutters for a second before he manages to get out a reply, “That was not in the lease.”

Tony spreads his hands as if to say what can you do? “And you didn’t mention in your texts that you were going to try to be a bump on a log, but here we are.”

Perhaps sensing the mounting animosity in the room or maybe just as excited as Tony to have someone to bother, Peter takes advantage of Stephen’s overwhelmed and bewildered state.

“First day with all three of us!” he shouts. “Picture!”

And before anyone can protest—including Tony, who would prefer to be documented in something other than a Black Sabbath tee and his work pants—Peter leans in with the camera on his phone ready to capture the moment.

In the resulting photo, Tony looks vaguely alarmed, Stephen looks pissed as hell, and Peter wears a grin that stretches across his whole face. The whole thing is blurry, and they eventually get it framed.

It’s a beautiful and fitting start to their time as roommates, and in the humble eyes of the asshole who posted the Craigslist ad, that is how the story of how they came to live together went.

#tony stark #stephen strange #peter parker #supreme family #iron dad #spider son #fic #tss #ambivalentmarvel #if you tag this st*rker you die by our blade

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shirtlesssammy · 5 years ago

Text

15x14: Last Holiday

Then:

March was so long ago

Now:

Sam’s doing research, Dean’s making burgers, Jack is hitting his existential saving the world phase, and the bunker is falling to pieces.

The brothers head to the basement to investigate the failing plumbing. They find the bunker “grid control center thing thingy”. I believe that is the technical term. Dean decides to channel his inner Sam Wesson and turn it off and on again. And it seems to work!

Good job, Meat Man!

He heads to his bedroom with his victory beer and burger, only to be surprised by a kindly looking woman folding his Scooby-doo underthings.

They find out the woman is named--well, she’s called Mrs. Butters. She’s a wood nymph. She lives in the bunker and helps the Men of Letters. She cleans, does laundry, cooks, and reinforces mid-century misogynistic stereotypes, you know, the usual.

The brothers find out that she thinks it’s the year 1958. Dean breaks the news that it’s actually 2020. (From a 1958 perspective, 2020 seems SO FAR in the future. WTF?) Mrs. Butters is confused and horrified. She asks about the Men of Letters she cared for. They’re all dead, Dean informs her.

“That’s why they didn’t come back,” she responds. It seems that when the Men of Letters never came back from the ceremony, she placed the bunker and herself in standby mode. Mrs. Butters is upset at learning about the passage of time, but instantly jumps into caretaker mode, noting it’s been an age since they’ve had a home cooked meal or celebrated the holidays (she also seems to think that they don’t wash their clothes, but I can’t imagine either Sam OR Dean as anything but mostly clean.)

She then activates her magic to bring the bunker to full power. The monster radar on the map table starts chirping.

Dean’s super excited about the new development, but Sam is a bit skeptical. Dean assures Sam it’s ok, and if it’s not, they’ll deal with it. They decide to head out on a vamp hunt, but Dean tells Jack (through his door) that they have a guest and she’s making snickerdoodles.

During Sam and Dean’s Impala broment, Sam wonders if it’s the best idea to have Mrs. Butters in the bunker. Dean doesn’t see the problem. “Ignoring your trauma doesn’t make you healthy,” Sam points out. (F U C K --i am ded)

Mrs. Butters makes Jack a sandwich.

Meanwhile, two vamps living the Big Swig life are quickly dispatched by Sam and Dean Winchester. (Note: They were drinking blood from blood bags, not from people. Were they really that bad? What happened to the gray area of hunting, SAM???? I only say this because I think this is highlighting the true evil of the Men of Letters...and Sam and Dean, super excited for their own toys for once, don’t stop to think about their actions.)

They come home to find the bunker decked out for the Christmas season. (HEARTS to the map table with a giant tree and train set.) Mrs. Butters even made cookies. JOY TO THE WORLD INDEED!

Breakfast in the bunker brings a skeptical Sam, a millennial Jack (I think he’s really a zennial?), and a nightshirt adorned Dean ready for breakfast made by Mrs. Butters.

(Dean’s nightshirt gag was funny as a cartoon, but less funny as the promos rolled out, and just fell flat during the episode itself.) Mrs. Butters wonders what Jack is, and then hands him a magic smoothie.

Suddenly the bunker alarm goes off and Dean’s in Ghostbuster mode. “We got one!” Dean exclaims and the brothers head out on a lamia hunt.

Jack stays behind to drink smoothies and help Mrs. Butters with the dishes.

Mrs. Butters asks about Jack’s dad, Lucifer, but Jack only tells her about his family --Sam, Dean, Cas, and….Mary. He confesses to killing her. Mrs. Butters’ response is GOLD. She appears to sympathize with Jack. She tells Jack that life gives us second chances, and then offers him another magic smoothie.

HUNTING AND HOLIDAY MONTAGE ALERT

Later, while drinking another smoothie, Jack finds Mrs. Butters rifling through some files in the library. He then heads to investigate what she was looking at. In the drawers he finds an old file on Mrs. Butters, and a film reel.

The film reel shows a smug Cuthbert Sinclair recounting the recovery of a wood nymph from a Thule (Nazi) laboratory. Our domestic, smiling Mrs. B was responsible for the deaths of at least two hundred Nazi soldiers before she was restrained. Apparently wood nymphs are docile until their home and family are threatened. Cuthbert introduces Mrs. B in the reel: she’s “agreed” to join the Men of Letters for “service and security.” She then proceeds to rip the head off a bound Nazi and offer up tea and cookies. Jack recoils in horror.

Jack runs to warn Sam, but Mrs. B reveals that Sam is getting ready for a hot date. WITH EILEEN!!! Sam comes out, dressed to the nines in a collared shirt, tie, SWEATER VEST, and nice coat. Good lord, Sam! <3

Mrs. B drops a quick fact on Dean: she fixed his broken TV. Dean’s eyes light up. The DEAN CAVE IS OPERATIONAL! This is sufficient distraction for Dean.

As Dean runs off, a concerned Jack decides to follow Mrs. B down to the demon dungeon. He confronts her with the film reel evidence. “How did it make you feel?” she asks him, not at all surprised that he’s found her out. She thinks he enjoyed watching the agony on screen, and that he’s a danger to Sam and Dean.

Jack protests that he would never hurt the Winchesters and we get an extremely close up shot of a distraught Mrs. B asking Jack if he thinks they keep him locked up to keep other people safe. (I imagine Mrs. B asking, “Is getting locked up to keep the world safe a normal thing? Asking for a friend.”) She mojo-chucks Jack against a wall! He’s as weak as a puppy and fails to fight back.

She smiles at him. All those smoothies were full of nephilim-depowering goodness, chock full of vitamins, arrowroot, and JAWBONE. She’s going to rid the world of all monsters, starting with the ones in the bunker.

She greets Dean in the kitchen with a fresh grilled cheese sandwich. “You’ll need your strength so we can go kill Jack,” she tells him calmly.

“Damn it,” Dean bursts out when she pulls out the archangel blade. “We had a good thing going but of course you had to go full Nurse Ratched.” He suggests an alternative plan: free Jack and continue their blissful new cohabitation as one big happy family. Cut to a little while later - and Dean winds up locked up alongside Jack.

Mrs. B greets Sam when he gets home and gives him the quick summary: Jack’s controlling Dean’s mind and she has them both trapped so they can be killed. How efficient! Sam plays along enough that I don’t notice in the first viewing that he’s shed his tie and unbuttoned that collar after that date!

Back in Sam’s room, he calls Dean who is...still trapped in the room with Jack. WITH his phone. I guess Mrs. B doesn’t understand cell phones? Also, Dean didn’t call to give Sam a head’s up so he could enjoy his date. Dean Bean, the support is nice to see. What a hopeless ROMANTIC, though.

The Winchesters have gotta take out Mrs. B, and both admit that they just never quite got around to researching HOW. I mean, there was Christmas and Thanksgiving and BOXING DAY breakfast… Dean tells Sam to start with the console in the boiler room while he and Jack try to escape.

Jack offers to use his power to escape. When Dean shoots down that plan, Jack proposes that Dean still thinks of him as a monster. Dean uses his words! He hasn’t forgotten what happened to Mary, and he still has some anger, but he’s not going to let Jack die!

Sam stalks Mrs. B through the bunker and when he finds her, he hilariously hides his gun behind his back. And reader, I…. I don’t know. I think that sweater vest is getting to me because I have gone full on Velma with this shot. LOOK AT THAT BIG LUG!

For Velma Heart Eyes Science:

Mrs. B traps Sam and offers to help him understand, the same way Cuthbert helped her to understand. And no, it’s not with snuggly kittens and cookies! Sam argues for Jack. He’s a kid who’s already undergone way too much trauma in his short life! (I agree!!!) Mrs. B does NOT agree with this assessment. Pulling from Cuthbert’s playbook, she pries a fingernail off of Sam. It’s gooey! There are sound effects! While re-watching this scene, I actually put my hand over my eyes. It’s fine!

Dean tries to use the blade to hack the cuffs off of Jack, but his attempt is useless. He just blasts Jack against a wall instead. That gives him an idea, though. “Pain is just weakness leaving the body,” Dean counsels Jack, positioning him in front of the exit door. He hacks at the cuffs again, throwing Jack against - and through the door. Well…...ooookay.

Now free, Dean and Jack head for the console and hit the reset button. The bunker turns a worried red and Mrs. B corners the three of them in the library. She’s going to stop Jack and save them! Sam tells her that Cuthbert TORTURED her to bend her to the Men of Letters cause. She can’t kill Jack!

“He can save the world,” Dean tells her. The whole mission of the Men of Letters is to do just that! (No pressurrrrrrrre, Jack!) That’s the magic phrase for Mrs. B, though. She breaks down in tears, and relents. In the end, she still loves the Men of Letters she knew (even if she entered into it in an entirely awful way).

A little while later, she’s healed Sam’s hand and bids them farewell. She longs for the forest. When she leaves, the magic of the bunker will be diminished once again. But that’s fine! Dean just needs a grill and a nice TV room to take his honey on a date, amirite? Also, Dean doesn’t need fancy map tables and “whatever that telescope thing is.”

“It’s an interdimensional geoscope,” she corrects him carefully. Dean protests: he looked through it recently and didn’t see anything! “That’s not good,” Mrs. B proclaims softly. I hand her the Understatement of the Year Award.

Mrs. B counsels Dean to eat his vegetables, Sam to cut his hair, and Jack...to save the world. She whooshes out.

Later, Sam tries to tease out Jack’s feelings. Jack’s worried. For a supposed god-killing machine, he was easily trapped. Dean interrupts this existential crisis by arriving in the library with a covered cake stand. Whipping off the cover, we see Dean’s made Jack A BIRTHDAY CAKE! They put a single candle in it because OMG Jack is just a little baby.

Dobby the Quote Elf:

We fought the devil. I killed Hitler. I think we can handle a few old pipes

Meat man coming to town!

Ignoring your trauma doesn’t mean you’re healthy

We all do things we’re not proud of but life gives us second chances and it’s our obligation to hold onto them.

Somebody’s shopping at Ambercrombie and bitch

Tell you what we’re gonna do. We’ll go downstairs… We’ll let Jack go. Forget this ever happened

Dang it. Dang-- Damn-- Damn it!

I’ve already had one monster take my family from me. I won’t have it happen again

He loves that apron

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive!

#spn recap #dean winchester #sam winchester #jack kline #mrs. butters #spn 15x14 #last holiday #supernatural season 15

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erbferbatinlerb · 5 years ago

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sorry for the long post, i'm on mobile and cant put a read more but.... drumroll please.... due to popular demand here it is! Phineas Has ADHD: The Essay.

Hyperfixation on building/inventing things: Even more specifically amusement park rides ("Rollercoaster", "Rollercoaster The Musical", "One Good Scare", "Leave The Busting To Us", "Don't Even Blink", "Cheer Up Candace", "Delivery Of Destiny", etc.) Now, you can argue that he's a kid, and rides are fun, so of course he likes them, but if you look at it from a building standpoint, from an engineering standpoint? Phineas' interest lies in fun, of course, but he also must have an extreme interest in the engineering aspect of a ride in order to be skilled and knowledgeable enough to build them, and to be able to focus on the task so wholly.

He also gets incredibly attached to very specific things that some people often find strange, which seems like evidence of hyperfixation to me. (E.g.: aglets in "Tip of the Day", dental hygiene in "Bully Bust", Bulgarian folk dancing in "The Beak", detective movies in "Finding Mary McGuffin") hot tubs in "Bully Bromance Breakup", "Lotsa Latkes", "Swiss Family Phineas")

HYPERFOCUS: He and Ferb will dedicate their whole day to just one idea that they have. Phineas is able to weaponize his hyperfocusing talent incredibly well and stick to one task, but only if it is something he is extremely interested in — for example: In "Bully Bromance Breakup", he becomes almost unable to function without the stimulation of inventing, to the point where climbing a mountain with his friends—something he, by all accounts, should enjoy—becomes a difficult task for him.

He displays forgetfulness: In "Mom's Birthday", Phineas forgets it is his mom's birthday until he hears Candace mention it, and then he feels extremely guilty. We then see a montage of him, during various situations from the previous episodes (on the rollercoaster, etc.) telling Ferb: "We can't forget mom's birthday." Even though this was of course, a bit, if you take this as being canon (which there's no real reason not to), it means Phineas was constantly talking about their mom's birthday for weeks leading up to the event because he really didn't want to forget it and he was worried that he would (and in the end, he did), implying he may have a consistent tendency to be forgetful.

Phineas has an intense love of summer, and is implied to have a dislike for school— which is natural for any kid his age, but it's not hard to imagine that he might feel cooped up and creatively stifled during school. Especially if we put his attitude towards school next to that of Baljeet, with whom he shares a love of learning and knowledge, it's hard to ignore the difference. Being as we've seen Phineas get agitated when he's not able to build and invent freely and on his own terms ("Bully Bromance Breakup", "Summer Belongs To You"), it's easy to imagine he may struggle in a public school environment.

He has impulsive and thrill-seeking tendencies, which are evident in many of the big ideas. ("Escape From Phineas Tower", "Rollercoaster", "Ain't No Kiddie Ride", "The Beak", "One Good Scare", "Phineas and Ferb-Busters", "Leave The Busting To Us", ETC.) Adrenaline-seeking behaviour is common in individuals with ADHD and goes hand-in-hand with a low tolerance for boredom which Phineas explicitly states himself to possess in the very first episode of the show. ("Rollercoaster")

However, on the flip side to his aversion to boredom, he can also spend literally hours just standing in the backyard, not even talking, if that's just what he feels like doing that day. ("Best Lazy Day Ever")

He is highly energetic and is the most talkative one of his friends. He has also suggested having an awareness and perhaps an insecurity that he talks too much in some situations. ("Misperceived Monotreme")

He sometimes has trouble with listening, and interrupts people, especially when he's excited: in "Ready For The Bettys", when they stumble upon Perry's lair, Phineas assumes Ferb built everything and doesn't listen, constantly interrupting when Ferb tries to protest; in "Hail Doofania", he assumes that he knows what Isabella is talking about (not having seen a rainbow before) and makes it his mission for the day to do what he thinks she means, and doesn't take the time to hear her out when she tries to explain otherwise because he's too invested in/excited about the project he has in mind.

Obliviousness / missing of social cues: The most obvious example is Isabella's crush on him, which he consistently fails to notice. ("Chronicles of Meap", "Meapless in Seattle", "That Sinking Feeling", "Happy New Year", "Summer Belongs To You", "Happy Birthday Isabella", "Doofapus", "It's No Picnic") He also seems not to understand that Candace wants to get them in trouble, nor that he actually probably would get in trouble if his mom knew what he and Ferb were doing. In fact, he gets excited about sharing their endeavors with Linda, clearly oblivious to the potential repercussions. ("Traffic Cam Caper", "What'd I Miss", "Suddenly Suzy")

Highlighted Episodic Evidence

Chronicles of Meap/Meapless in Seattle

Phineas's dismissal of Isabella's "cuteness" comments shows again his difficulty picking up on social cues, especially when distracted by a mission. He does not seem to understand, or at least does not acknowledge, Isabella's clear frustration with him. He does not understand that he is dismissing Isabella's feelings, because to him it feels obvious that she is cute and he doesn't think he needs to say it. Followed up in "Meapless in Seattle" with the "You think I'm cute?" "It's a scientific fact!" interaction—Phineas is not understanding that this isn't really how to give a compliment; he does not seem to realize that by not acknowledging Isabella's cuteness he could be hurting her feelings/nurturing her insecurities.

That Sinking Feeling

Once again, he misses cues from Isabella about her feelings for him, or if he understands them, he does not outwardly acknowledge them. He also tries to create romance for Mishti and Baljeet by taking "scientifically" romantic things, based upon his research (mostly the movie Titanic): candles, live music, the situation of a sinking ship... He over-does these things in a calculated way to try and curate the most scientifically romantic situation possible. This also mirrors Candace's opinion about his cold, calculated methods in "Perry Lays an Egg".

Cheer Up Candace

Phineas cares about Candace and when he sees her upset, he wants to help her, and he makes it his goal to do so. He hears the first step from Isabella's magazine is a makeover and he immediately thinks of a clown. He sets off to execute his plan without consulting anyone (except Ferb) and after it goes, as you can expect, not well, he realizes in hindsight that his impulsive idea was built on flawed logic. However, rather than dwell on this, he decides to dive right into the next step and he continues to do wildly over the top, fantastical versions of the magazine suggestions. I think this demonstrates a lack of understanding for social cues as well as impulsivity and impatience. Furthermore, he doesn't even wait to hear step two before setting out to achieve step one, and he doesn't ask Isabella her opinion or even listen to her suggestions once he has entered his own Idea Zone. Also, the Mix 'n' Mingle Machine is a great example of his unconventional and greatly efficiency-focused thought processes—

he thinks of it as the most efficient way to meet as many people as possible in a short time, demonstrating a clear misunderstanding of what the actual intent of "meeting someone" was in the magazine. He is also basing this idea on his personal notions of what he finds fun, not what Candace would necessarily want.

Summer Belongs To You

When stranded on the island, Phineas shows an intense frustration when he's unable to put an optimistic spin on things. He also has a clear discomfort when he is without any tools to build with. Again, we see his hyperfocus on inventing (in this case: fixing the plane) get in the way of Isabella trying to have a romantic moment with him, and in the way of relaxing in general. She sees the sights of Paris, alone time with him, and chances to enjoy themselves, whereas Phineas sees things he could use as airplane parts, single-mindedly focused on his mission. And again he misses or does not acknowledge Isabella's frustration with him in the "It seemed like romance was a foregone conclusion" scene. This is strong evidence for Phineas' hyperfixation because he gets so caught up in his own world when it comes to inventing/building/working that he doesn't even notice what's going on around him, then he fails to see the irony of him identifying Candace&Jeremy and Ferb&Vanessa as romantic interests while entirely missing the fact that Isabella & him are also "a boy and a girl, alone in the city of love."

Also of note is his complete focus on completing the Summer Solstice goal. Because, despite the fact that they made it back to Danville safely after being in a pretty perilous situation—which should have become their main concern being as they were just stranded on an island with no food or way to call for help—he cannot be satisfied with that. Needing to get home before the sun sets for the sake of winning his bet and symbolically representing his worldview, he yells at candace when she doesn't want to get on the trike, because he's determined to still get there on time, intensely focused on both proving a point and upholding his personal values.

Happy Birthday Isabella

Isabella does not want an over-the-top surprise party, all she wants is to spend time alone with Phineas, but Phineas is so focused on his idea of her perfect birthday party that he does not seem to realize what her wishes are. He sends her away from him so that she won't know about the surprise, and does not even do so very gently (getting Buford to carry her away in a sack) instead of even asking her what she wants.

Bully Bromance Breakup

In this episode, Phineas is shown to get extremely distressed when he has to go even a short period of time without building/inventing anything. This is representative of a need for constant stimulation (which would explain why he is so adamant that he cannot put up with boredom). This also evidences his hyperfixation on building/inventing. The whole time that they're climbing the mountain with Baljeet, Phineas is completely preoccupied by his ideas for inventions, and after Baljeet rejects his ideas a few times, he gets increasingly agitated, eventually gets to a point where he is unable to climb anymore and has to get pulled up by the others, and he is shown rambling to himself about all of the invention ideas he has.

This is by no means a definitive list, and I'm sure there are many more moments in the show that provide evidence of these ideas, but this is the ones that stood out to me. Anyway, in conclusion, Phineas has ADHD. If you're still reading this incredibly long post by this point: uhh, thank you, I guess! Have a nice day. 💖

#phineas flynn #phineas and ferb #pnf #adhd #i dont think i need to regail you with proof for doof and candace also having adhd #but the evidence for phineas is more subtle and i wanted to like. write it down so uhh. i did #THIS IS A HEADCANON. I WANNA CLARIFY THAT #this is purely headcanon based upon my personal interpretation of the canon and any other hcs for phineas and any other character are valid #♡♡♡#tagging this as #dannywrites #i guess jshsn #idk how the formatting of this is gonna turn out but. take this

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too-gay-for-marvel · 5 years ago

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a night to forget

a/n: this is a request that i was a piece of shit about because i couldnt stop coming up with new ideas for it and i am so sorry. it was gonna be a blurb and i was gonna crank it out but then it just kept getting longer and longer and like,,,,,,,,, now you get this tho right?

Request: Hey! Carol and Reader are best friends and both have feelings for each other but don’t know the other likes them back. and reader gets drunk and goes ‘you know, when I first saw u, I thought u reminded me of sunshine, bc ur hair’s golden and ur eyes are this gorgeous honey brown that shines in the sunlight and ur smile was the brightest thing I’d ever seen’ and carol gets really flustered and the next morning reader wakes up with a hangover and they confess their feelings? Thank you!

Word Count: 2615

Warnings: drinking

Pairing: Carol x Reader

Drunk you needed a filter. You needed a filter very badly.

Was this new information to you? Absolutely not. You had been drinking for far too many years and you knew how you got. Some times weren’t as bad as others, but you still knew. Did that mean you had learned to change your ways?

Oh hell no.

If you were smart - which you weren’t - you would have declined the invitation to celebrate. It wasn’t some huge event; no one was in the mood to deal with that many people. Only a small group would be there and none of you wanted to even talk to each other quite that much. There were too many things that none of you wanted to talk about.

But you had to do something to celebrate bringing everyone back, right?

So you all had agreed to relax in Stark Tower, and it was probably the most mundane thing you had all done in… well, a long time. You had all downed a shot for Tony, who was still recovering in medical. Another shot for Nat, who had refused to come and instead went with Wanda to Barton’s farm. A few more shots for some other people that probably didn’t deserve it, but who were you to question it.

And then that was it.

Everyone separated and went into their own little groups to forget about everything on their own terms. The super soldiers had gone to sit on the couch in silence. Rhodey and Sam were playing Thor and Valkyrie at pool and were wiping the floor with the Asgardians. Everyone else was just scattered around, no one really celebrating but just trying to pretend nothing had happened.

Which was exactly what you were trying to do as you sat at the bar.

You were no super soldier or Russian spy, but you knew how to throw it back. Should you? Of course not, but this was a party. What was the point of a party if you couldn’t get blackout drunk? The whole point of this was to forget the past five years, and that was exactly what you were going to do.

Your methods of getting drunk weren’t exactly… healthy. Every time you would see Carol flirting with Valkyrie, you would take a drink of your beer. If you heard Carol’s smooth-talk over the light music, you would down a shot. Was it smart? Definitely not. Was it efficient?

Abso-fucking-lutely.

You were about to take another drink when you heard Carol’s laugh, and you could only let out a sigh and drop your head to the bar. You wanted to be mad at her for flirting and laughing and having fun with someone that wasn’t you. Whether it was Valkyrie or Thor or Nat, it didn’t matter, you wanted to be mad.

But you couldn’t be mad because she didn’t know how it made you feel. She didn’t know that you could feel your stomach doing somersaults every time she smiled at you. She didn’t know your blood rushed deafeningly loud in your ears whenever she walked into the room. She never noticed the blush on your neck when she would hug you or grab your hand to drag you around.

If she didn’t know, then you couldn’t be mad, and your faux anger was replaced with yearning.

So the next time Carol called Valkyrie “baby,” you downed three shots. After all, the whole point of this party was to forget.

-----

Carol had noticed you at the bar. She had noticed the way had taken far too many shots. She had noticed the furrow of your brows. She had noticed the slump of your shoulders and the way you had defensively wrapped your arms around yourself.

It was clear that you weren’t okay; you two had been best friends for years, Carol knew when something was up. She told the group good night before making her way to you. As soon as she was close enough, she put her hand on your shoulder and almost instantly felt you relax underneath her.

“Hey,” you said softly, so softly that Carol felt her heart swell.

“Having a good time?” Carol asked with a gentle chuckle.

“I am now,” you answered as you turned your head to give her that dopey smile that she loved so much.

But she noticed the way your cheeks flushed and your pupils were dilated. You had had way too much to drink at this point, and she knew it. Why? She didn’t know, but she wasn’t going to question it because everyone else had been trying to blackout too.

“I think it’s time for bed,” Carol gently urged and in a surprise twist, you nodded in agreement.

She picked you up effortlessly, not even bothering to try to help you walk; she knew you couldn’t. No one really seemed to notice you two leave. Or maybe they just didn’t really care, too wrapped up in their own emotions to concern themselves with anyone else. Even though Carol wouldn’t say it out loud, she understood.

It didn’t take long to get you back to your room, but when she had laid you down on the bed she was faced with yet another task; getting you changed for bed. If she had realised that would be part of this problem, she would have had someone else take you home. But now you were giggling on your bed and she couldn’t back out now.

“Don’t get up,” Carol mock-demanded, pointing a finger in your direction to add to her point.

“Yes, captain,” you said seriously with a mock salute that soon dissolved into giggles.

Carol rolled her eyes and tried to hide her smile by turning around and getting you something comfy to wear. Getting something for you was second nature; you two weren’t best friends for nothing. But when she got back to you, your favourite pair of pyjamas in hand, she realised she would have to physically help you get changed.

Oh boy.

“Arms up,” Carol ordered, but she didn’t wait for you to help before she tried — and, quite frankly, failed — at getting your shirt off.

“Buy me dinner first,” you shot back. Well, you tried to. You ended up giggling again halfway through.

“Can you behave?” She teased.

“I can if you can.”

“Y/N-”

“-Wanna hear a secret?” You interrupted as you fell back onto the bed. Thankfully your new position made it easier for Carol to help you into your pyjama pants.

“What — hold still — what secret?”

“It’s about — that tickles! — about how I feel.”

“About what?”

“You.”

“Me?” Carol asked, her attention no longer on your legs and instead on what you were going to say. You weren’t looking at her, but at the ceiling with half-lidded eyes and a smile.

“When we met, you reminded me of sunshine,” you said softly, still looking at the ceiling.

“Why?” Carol asked just as softly. Her heart was beating so loudly that she was worried she wouldn’t hear what else you would have to say.

“Because,” you sighed, “your hair is golden.”

Carol crawled onto the bed and sat down beside you so she could see your face. Your eyes were still slightly unfocused but she could see them shine.

“And your eyes are a- a gorgeous honey brown that shines in the sunlight.”

The smile on your face grew a little bigger.

“And your smile was the- the- the brightest thing I’d ever seen.”

She waited for you to continue with bated breath, but you stayed silent. No, you just laid there with your eyes fully closed and a smile on your lips. It was only a few moments longer that Carol realised you had fallen asleep.

With your admiration for her on your lips.

Carol’s heart continued to beat so hard that she thought it would fly out of her chest. But she did her best to ignore it and finished putting you to bed. Only when you were settled did she rush out of your room and head to the gym. It was far too late, but she didn’t know what to do.

Her best friend had just said the sweetest words Carol thought she had ever heard.

And you wouldn’t even remember it in the morning.

-----

You were never going to drink again.

It was something you had told yourself over and over after every night of partying, but this time you meant it. As soon as you had come back to the land of the conscious, you felt like dying. A blinding headache, enough nausea to make you think you were sea sick, and you knew it would be a bad day.

You had no idea who had left the bottle of water on your nightstand, but you didn’t care. As soon as you grabbed the bottle you downed it, not even bothering to stop and breathe. It wasn’t going to get rid of the awful feeling, but it would help. Or so everyone said.

As much as you wanted to immediately go back to bed, you knew you still had to go to training. No one would have blamed you for not going because what threat could be worse than Thanos? But you had promised Carol you would train with her, and you were never one to break promises.

Well. Not to Carol.

With your whole body and mind protesting, you threw on your dirty gym clothes (which you really needed to wash) and trudged to the gym. Making your way through Stark Tower was like a blast to the past, but you weren’t sure if it was a good thing or not. Either way, the trek was instinctual and you made it down to the gym in time to see Carol already training.

“Early start?” You called out, making Carol react by shooting a photon blast. A squeak flew out of your mouth as you dropped to the floor only a moment before the blast had hit you.

“Shit,” Carol cried before she ran over to help you up. “Are you okay?”

“Peachy,” you groaned as you straightened back up. “You’re awful jumpy this morning.”

“Long night,” she sighed, and you noticed she let go of you almost as quickly as she had helped you. And just like that, you knew something was wrong.

“You alright?” You called out as you followed Carol to the weights.

“Peachy,” she replied a little too quickly, mimicking your earlier response.

“You sure?” You asked again, but Carol ignored you and instead started benching. Which you were completely entranced by until you noticed that she was working just a little too hard for her. Almost angrily? Could someone angrily bench?

It would be hard to explain to someone that hadn’t been there. There was just… an added tension that made itself present under her skin. That was a weird way to say it, but you had seen people angry and knew the signs. Carol was pushing the weights up just a bit too intensely. Your thoughts were confirmed when she pushed up and the bar and weights went flying across the room. The noise was loud enough to irritate your hangover headache yet again.

She sighed and brought her hands up to cover her face. It was an act you hadn’t seen from her in a long time. One that only reared its ugly head when she was stressed or worried. So it wasn’t anger, then, it was something else. Something she didn’t know how to handle.

But you did.

While her face was still covered, you moved back over to stand beside the bench and look down at her. She pulled one hand down just enough to peek at you. Apparently you weren’t what she wanted to see, and she covered her face again right as she let out a sigh that you had a feeling she had intended to keep quiet.

“What’s wrong.” It wasn’t a question, not anymore.

“Nothing,” Carol grumbled before moving to sit up.

But you knew that if she sat up and walked away, you would never figure out what was bothering her. Before she could swing her leg over and stand up, you practically pounced on her lap, straddling her and putting your hands on her chest to push her back down.

“Y/N-”

“-What’s wrong,” you demanded this time. She opened her mouth to argue, but all it took was one raise of your brow for her to lose any fight she had left.

“You said some… things last night,” she mumbled.

“Things?” You asked as you sat up taller, keeping your eyes on her. “What things?”

“Just… things.”

“How am I even supposed to know what that means?”

“You admitted things.”

“Carol-”

“-You said I reminded you of the sun,” she finally blurted out, throwing her hands out to the side for emphasis.

“I-.” You didn’t know what to say.

For lack of a better term, your brain short circuited. Had you really told her that? Why would you tell her that? It was supposed to be a secret, not even your friends knew! Well obviously your friends didn’t know, Carol was one of those friends. Why would you tell her that, why would you be so incredibly stupid-

“-Did you mean it?”

You looked back down, brought out of your thoughts by Carol’s surprisingly small voice. There was a vulnerability on her face that you knew was reflected on your own. But what could you say? If you told her no, would she be upset? Would she be hurt that you had drunkenly said something that you hadn’t meant?

Or on the other hand, what if you said yes? What if she found out the truth, found out how you really felt and she didn’t feel the same way? Of course you wouldn’t hold any resentment or anything like that, but would she still want to be your friend? Or would she think it was weird and want to distance herself?

What if either answer meant you would lose her?

“I dont-,” what could you say? What could you say?

“Did you?” She asked again. You didn’t like vulnerable Carol, you decided. Not like this.

But you would be damned if it didn’t send a message, loud and clear.

“Yeah,” you said so quietly that you could see Carol struggling to understand your admission. “Yeah, I meant it.”

There was a moment that seemed to stretch on forever. One that left you with an aching chest and a familiar stinging sensation behind your eyes. In that moment you saw everything fall apart. You saw Carol’s rejection, saw the pity in her eyes, saw her leaving and not coming back. It had all been a mistake, and you should have kept your heart to yourself.

But in the next moment, Carol sat up so quickly that you almost fell off her lap. One of her arms wrapped around your waist with the speed only Carol possessed while her other hand went to the back of your neck, and she pulled you into a messy kiss. One that was clashing teeth and rushed movements, as if everything would fall apart if you both slowed down.

And it was perfect.

“Does this mean you like me back?” You asked when Carol pulled away and rested her forehead against yours.

“You’re an idiot,” she chuckled, and you could feel her breath hit your face in the best way.

“I’m not the one who didn’t know her best friend had the hots for her,” you shot back.

“Just kiss me,” she sighed.

You didn’t need to be told twice.

#requests #carol danvers #carol x reader #carol danvers x reader #captain marvel x reader #carol danvers imagine #captain marvel imagine #marvel #marvel x reader #marvel imagine #my writing

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ibijau · 5 years ago

Text

Jin Rusong Lives / On AO3

A morning in the life of Nie Huaisang now that everything has changed

Nie Huaisang wriggled his fingers, fighting the impulse to grab the ties of Jin Rusong's underclothes and help. It would have been faster, it would have been more efficient, and his ward was going to be late for class again, and…

The knot unravelled again, provoking a frown on the child's face. Unable to resist any longer Nie Huaisang lunged forward, only to have his hands batted away with absolute authority.

"I can do it," Jin Rusong complained, sticking out his tongue as he set out to try again. "I'm big, and Feng-jie says only babies need other people to tie their clothes for them."

Nie Huaisang smiled nervously. He had personally never fought hard to be independent when he was a child, perfectly happy to let other people do everything for him until his father or brother decided he was too old for it. Even back then, he had never put any effort in anything that didn't interest him. He'd taught himself to read at four, but couldn't put his boots on the right foot until he was ten.

Jin Rusong wasn't him. After having been sheltered all his short life, he could have been expected to remain shy for a long time… But he really was his parents' son and had quickly proven he could be quite sociable once given the chance. In the last two months, he had made quite a few friends already.

The downside to that was that he had started comparing himself to other children and, in true Jin fashion, had hated that they knew how to do things he couldn't.

It was perfectly normal apparently, and Nie Junyu said Nie Huaisang’s job was to encourage and support Jin Rusong's efforts. Which he tried to do, but sometimes…

The knot unravelled again. Jin Rusong pouted, suddenly on the verge of tears.

"I'll never do it right!"

Nie Huaisang sighed, and smiled as he grasped the ties. This time, he wasn't stopped.

"Like this," he said, making the knot as slowly as he could so Jin Rusong could see it. Then, in spite of how late they were already, he undid the knot. "Now SongSong can try again, one more time."

"I don't want. I prefer if uncle Nie does it for me."

"Just one more try. You know uncle Nie is so proud of SongSong when he tries his best."

"But I've tried so hard! It never works."

It had been a spectacular failure so far, but Nie Huaisang blamed himself more than Jin Rusong. A good student could only do so much with a bad teacher, and in the two months that Jin Rusong had been under his care, Nie Huaisang had come to the conclusion he was not, and by far, a very good teacher. It gave him a new sympathy for Lan Qiren. For Jiang Wanyin and Lan Xichen as well, who had both helped raise their nephews and never seemed to struggle with it.

Sighing again, Nie Huaisang tied the knot one final time.

"Later I'll ask Nie Junyu if he can tell us a different method," he offered. "He's the one who taught Feng-jie, so he must know how to do it right. I’m sure he’ll be happy to help, and it’s important to ask for help for things you can’t do alone, right SongSong?"

A lesson Nie Huaisang wished sometimes he had learned better. It was a little late for him, but Jin Rusong wouldn’t have to turn out like him. The child did not answer right away, but Nie Huaisang simply took his silence as agreement and worked on putting the rest of his clothes on.

"You won't get mad if I never learn?" Jin Rusong asked with hesitation.

Nie Huaisang’s hands froze for a second.

"Why would I be mad at SongSong?" he asked lightly, grabbing the next layer of cloth. "Is it something that happened before, people getting mad at SongSong when he has trouble with something?"

"Mommy says it's important I'm good always," Jin Rusong replied after another too long pause. "Because people will be mean to daddy if we're not all very good. Sometimes LingLing is not good," he added with just a touch of judgement. "But I try because I don't want daddy to be sad."

"SongSong is such a good boy," Nie Huaisang said, quickly finishing to dress him up. "Let's go. Fang Mingtian is going to scold me again. I need to start waking up earlier so we can maybe try to be on time someday."

Jin Rusong tilted his head, and offered a foot so his boots could be put on.

"Uncle Nie is the sect leader. I thought people have to be nice to the sect leader?"

"Please, do explain that to Fang Mingtian,” Nie Huaisang muttered, grabbing him in his arms as soon as his boots were on. “And to Nie Junyu because he did scold me last week when I was late for that meeting.”

Jin Rusong nodded a little too seriously, as if he really intended to explain to everyone that they needed to be nicer to Nie Huaisang. He really was the most precious child in the world, and Nie Huaisang could only hope his ward nephew would keep that innocence and good heart a while longer.

When Jin Rusong had been dropped in his class (and Fang Mingtian scolded Nie Huaisang for being so late once more), Nie Huaisang headed to his office to deal with the day’s business. It was usually the matter of a shichen at most now that he no longer had to feign incompetence, and then he’d be free for the rest of the day unless something came up.

Nie Huaisang had finished sorting through some requests and checking a series of bills when Nie Funyu joined him, bringing a few more urgent cries for help that had just arrived that morning, before telling him that some merchants from Qinghe had requested an audience with him about some matter they needed Qinghe Nie’s help with.

“Does it look urgent?”

“No, but Huang Xuhuan is among them,” Nie Funyu pointed out with a grimace that Nie Huaisang mirrored.

“That entitled… Fine, I’ll see them right away,” Nie Huaisang sighed, rising from his desk. “It’s probably still about that trade deal he wants to get with Yunmeng. They must think that I’m on good terms with Jiang zongzhu again.”

Nie Funyu raised an eyebrow at that remark, which Nie Huaisang ignored. He’d exchanged a few letters with Jiang Wanyin, and many more than that with Jin Rulan, but he wasn’t so foolish as to think he got along with either of them. Still, of course Jiang Wanyin’s visit a few weeks earlier had been noticed. And when Jin Rulan came to check on his cousin, as Nie Huaisang expected him to do at any moment, there would be still more gossip about reconciliation between Qinghe Nie and the other sects.

Stupid.

Nie Huaisang had further ruined his sect’s reputation, and there would probably not be any going back from that.

Pushing away that unpleasant thought, and as they walked toward the throne room, Nie Huaisang tried to focus on something that he could still do right: Jin Rusong.

“I’ll need you to explain to Jin Rusong how to make a knot,” he told Nie Funyu. “When I try, he doesn’t manage it, and he’s scared he’ll never manage. I think he’d profit from a better teacher and you’ve had all those children, so...”

“He is still young, it’s normal for him to struggle,” Nie Funyu replied with a small frown. “It’s A-Feng bothering him with that, isn’t it?” Nie Huaisang nodded, a little embarrassed to be exposing the little girl that way. “I’ll tell her to be nicer to him about that. She’s just figured it out recently, so she’s boasting a bit but she shouldn’t make other kids feel bad. Not to mention she’s nearly a year older than him.”

“I’ve tried to explain that to him before, but he doesn’t listen, “ Nie Huaisang complained. "I wish…" he sighed. "Dage would have known what to do."

To his surprise, Nie Funyu burst out laughing and had to stop walking.

"Nie zongzhu, no offence, but your brother was really out of his depth when he found himself suddenly in charge of you,” he said when he managed to calm down. “He kept asking Fang Mingtian what to do, and he every other day he had to beg Zonghui to help because he was the only one who could make you eat vegetables."

"I don't remember that," Nie Huaisang mumbled, opening his fan to hiding behind it. "He always seemed so sure of himself about everything."

“Again, no offence, but he let you get away with everything because he didn’t want to be too harsh. With how things were with your father toward the end…”

Nie Huaisang nodded grimly, grasping his fan a little harder. His father had been a good man, a great father, but after his sabre broke, things had been… different. Nie Huaisang had been too young then to understand why, not much older than Jin Rusong in fact, and so all he remembered was a sudden change, bouts of anger, and ultimately…

It still surprised him sometimes that he hadn’t recognised the same symptoms in Nie Mingjue, years later.

He hoped Jin Rusong would never have to see those symptoms in him. With how little he cultivated, with the fact that Jin Rulan would probably want his cousin to return to Carp Tower within a year or two… it should be safe, Jin Rusong wouldn’t be around when the family curse caught up with him at last.

“Your brother didn’t want you to be scared of him like you’d become scared of your father,” Nie Funyu soberly said. “He spoiled you rotten, never scolded you as much as he should have, let you fail in your studies without consequences, he never even really pushed you to practice the saber… We were a little worried how you’d end up at one point, but in the end you turned out fine, Nie zongzhu.”

Nie Huaisang scoffed and started walking again. No need to make those damn merchants angry.

“Sure, aside from the…”

“You did what you had to do,” Nie Funyu cut him, following him. “Not the way the rest of us would have gone about it, but I promise you there isn’t a person in Qinghe Nie who isn’t proud of what you did for your brother. And your brother would be proud as well,” Nie Funyu added before his sect leader could try to protest. “He’d be proud that you avenged him, and he’d be proud that you’re trying to do right by that child.”

Of that, Nie Huaisang was less than sure. Nie Mingjue had been a good man, but his sense of justice had not always been very fair as such. Maybe he would have wanted the total annihilation of Jin Guangshan’s bloodline, the way he had desired the end of Wen Ruohan’s. Maybe…

But there would be no knowing what he would have wanted. Nie Huaisang was left with nothing but his own judgement to decide how to act. A rotten tool to use, and one that had brought him mostly trouble. Still, it was what he had, and he’d work with it.

“I think I’ll play it stupid with Huang Xuhuan,” he whispered to Nie Funyu just before they reached the throne room. “It’ll make him feel he can safely show his hand. Please don’t hesitate to roll your eyes and huff behind my back, it’ll help sell it and you do it so well.”

“That would be because it’s a sincere reaction, Nie zongzhu,” Nie Funyu retorted, fighting a smile. “Can’t believe they buy it when you overact like that…”

Nie Huaisang winked at him from behind his fan, then schooled his features into a pathetic, worried expression as he entered the room where the merchants waited.

“Huang gongzi!” he cried out. “What an honour to have a visit from you! Such an honour, I can’t say how pleased I am… and your friends too of course. Such a pleasure! Did you want to discuss something?”

The merchants grinned, confident that they’d get their way as always, even though that had never actually happened yet. And behind him, Nie Huaisang knew that Nie Funyu had already started rolling his eyes.

It wasn’t how he’d hoped to spend his morning, but this might be fun too.

#jin rusong #nie huaisang #mdzs #mo dao zu shi #the untamed #not actually too happy with this #it was supposed to be a longer chapter with Jing Ling in it #and lxc was supposed to finally appear in the fic but welp next chapter hopefully if I even manage?#writing's hard and I struggle :)#jau writes #jin rusong lives

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idyllicstarker · 5 years ago

Note

Could you do a selectively mute peter parker fic where peter after years of not speaking finally speaks to Tony to confess that he is in love with him?

I found this extremely hard to write and I’m not too sure why, so I’m sorry if this isn’t too good for you. I hope you can forgive me! Also tumblr said no to paragraphs so I’m sorry about that too!

Warnings: Mute!Peter, very minor sexual implications

Everyone always told him it was a shame that no one had noticed young Peter Parker closing in on himself - maybe then, early intervention could have been taken, and Peter wouldn’t be silent now. In a way they were right, after the death of his parents, Peter had begun to speak less and less. It was a slow, and gradual decline. His speech became shorter, less frequent, but when he did speak, he was smart, for a child, so no one really thought it was a problem. He was sad, not quite old enough to recognise the trauma, but enough to feel the loss and confusion.

When his Uncle Ben died in the fire, well that’s when people really began to notice it. Peter wouldn’t speak, not unless he was called for. His sentences became short, sharp, and straight to the point. Never speaking longer then he needed to.

And then one day they just stopped altogether.

It wasn’t that Peter had lost it, no, he chose this. He chose to go quiet because it just seemed far easier. And although it was a difficult task at first, he soon realised it was one of the best decisions he’d ever made.

Not speaking allowed him to listen - pay attention to things he wouldn’t have before, because he didn't have to open his mouth and join in the conversation. He was allowed to just observe for the most part. Of course people still spoke to him, but very few did, they didn’t like it, they found it awkward, or not worth their time. It didn’t matter to Peter. He wasn’t selectively mute to be special, it wasn’t a personality trait or a quirk - he did it because he felt safer when he was locked in his own silence. He knew, at first, if he was to open his mouth everything he felt would spill out, it frightened him. Now, it was a habit, and some days he knew he wouldn't be able to speak even if he wanted to.

Thus, young Peter found other ways to communicate. At first it took a lot of getting used to. Having to scrawl down on paper what he was trying to say; or type into his phone for it to repeat it back aloud; being shouted at by teachers when he wouldn’t answer a question by voice when he was picked on; adults and children alike finding him rude for not replying. Many still thought that, but those close to him, and those in school, knew by now that Peter just wouldn’t speak, no matter how much you shouted or scoffed at him.

Well.. almost everyone. Flash, for example, was still trying to get Peter to speak to him. He called him weird, abnormal; said he was attention seeking, even hitting and kicking him in order to try and get Peter to yell out. But the most he got was a pained whimper or grunt. But it didn’t matter. Peter was still happy. Despite what other people thought.

Meeting Tony had been interesting. Him and his friends had gotten into the habit of learning sign language to communicate. It was helpful and they did it naturally. But Tony, and the rest of the avengers, took a bit of time in understanding Peter. But they never once got frustrated. And Peter was glad - having been asked countless times before why he “wouldn’t just speak”, it was nice to not be questioned for once. They tried, they all did, to be patient with him, and Peter was thankful. In meetings, he’d raise his hand, and Tony would allow him to let his typed out comment repeat his idea aloud, he was never left out of forgotten. Just because he wouldn’t speak, it didn’t mean his ideas went unnoticed, they were listened to and heard, but most of all, appreciated.

“Hey Peter, can you pass me the screwdriver?”

The younger male looked up from his desk in the lab at Tony, who was tinkering away at some device opposite him.

They two quickly fell into some sort of routine in which Peter was there most nights, helping Tony out and just.. as Peter liked to call it: hanging out. It wasn’t just a figment of his imagination, in a way they were actually doing that. Tony sometimes insisted that he slept over, or ate with him. And sometimes, after a particularly long day, they’d settle on the couch and watch a movie. It was everything Peter had ever dreamed of from his idol and more.

Except maybe for the fact that Tony treated him like a son. Now don’t get me wrong, he was flattered, but the crush he was harbouring for the older male, not so much.

Biting down on his lip, Peter nodded his head, despite the fact that he knew Tony wasn’t even looking at him. Grabbing the screwdriver he hopped down from his stool before walking over to pass it to Tony. “Thanks kid”, came the reply, causing Peter to sigh softly.

‘Kid’, he hated it. He hated the word because it only confirmed what Tony thought of him. And as selfish as it was, Peter wanted more. He wanted Tony. Every moment he spent with him he found himself falling madly and madly in love with him and it just didn’t stop. Every accidental touch left energy buzzing through his veins. And it hurt, it hurt so bad, that Tony didn’t feel it too and only saw him as some sort of child.

Moving back to his stool, he sat down, and pulled his tablet towards him. He pressed on the pre command “you’re welcome”, and listened as it emitted the words.

A couple of months back Tony made him the special tablet to make typing out audio quicker. It had precommands for efficiency and Peter could set it to save anything he’d like. Peter almost cried when Tony gave it to him because apart from Ned (who’d learned sign language for him; mj of course already knew it) no one had ever tried that hard to ensure Peter could have a normal conversation with them.

It made everything so much easier. From simply talking to Tony, to answering questions in class, to ordering food in a restaurant.

His fingers brushed over the screen affectionately before his gaze moved over to where Tony was hunched over his workbench. Peter’s lips turned up in a smile at the sight. The man was covered in various smudges of a dark liquid Peter couldn’t identify. His face was scrunched in concentration the way it always was, lips pressed together, eyebrows furrowed together, jaw clenched.

It made Peter laugh softly, typing out a quick sentence. “You need to relax Tony, anyone would think someone is forcing you to work!”

The man looked up with tired eyes, before rolling them slightly. “I am relaxed!”, he protested, before sighing and setting down the screw driver at Peter’s ‘don’t even start with me’ look.

“Alright kid, fine. We’ll finish up for today. We’ll go take showers and then watch a movie, I think Chinese tonight?”

Peter’s smile grew at the offer, shyly tucking some hair behind his ear as he nodded. The smile that grew on Tony’s face had his heart fluttering quite softly. The man was so handsome, from his rugged jawline that Peter desperately wanted to press kisses over, to his eyes. They were always so soft and affectionate when looking at him. Those times when Peter gazed straight back into them were the times where just for a moment he could kid himself that Tony actually felt something back. Something more than pity for the silent kid with the traumatic past. But of course, Tony didn’t, and that was the reality. Tony could have anyone, beautiful men and women alike, he wouldn’t even look twice at little old Peter if he wasn’t his so-called ‘intern’ or on his team.

“Kid?”

Peter blinked quickly as he was snapped from his thoughts at the sound of Tony’s concerned voice. He smiled to show he was okay, before hopping down from his stool. Tony had come to stand in front of him, not sure on why Peter had suddenly lacked life, so when Peter stood, their bodies brushed against each other gently. Peter swallowed, a small blush falling over his pale cheeks, but of course Tony took it as embarrassment at being questioned instead, and laughed.

The sound only made Peter blush harder, shaking his head as he scrunched up his nose before sticking out his tongue - a pattern of expressions Tony had come to know as a playful ‘don’t be mean.’

He smiled softly, reaching out a hand to ruffle Peter’s hair. The boy in turn let out a huff, and swatted his wrist away. Grabbing onto the tablet he began to type before eventually his words sounded out. “You’re a mean old man!”

As soon as Tony heard it, he laughed out loud, shaking his head, wrapping an arm around Peter’s shoulders and beginning to lead him out of the lab. “I’m not that old, you’re just a baby”, he said in response.

Any other person may protest, or shrug and let it go, but to Peter, he felt a horrible pang in his chest. A baby, that’s all he was to Tony. He smiled sadly, suddenly interested in his beaten up old converse, and yet still overly alert at the fact that he was tucked against Tony’s side - and yes, the man smelt good. Hours in the lab did nothing to Tony’s hygiene, a loss of cologne maybe, but the musky scent of sweat and hard work only delighted Peter.

He swallowed tightly, willing himself to not turn his head so that he could get more and instead began to type once again.

“My therapist is coming tomorrow, so is it alright if I stay over, I don't see the point in leaving and coming back”

Tony nodded his head, “Of course Peter, you know you don’t have to ask”, he hummed softly, and Peter smiled. It was times when Tony said little things like that, that kept him happy.

The therapy began within weeks of Peter and Tony growing closer. Despite still not knowing the direct cause of his silence, let alone working to get him to speak more, it helped him come to terms with the traumatic events of his past. And it helped, it did, Peter was happier, he smiled more. Despite protesting Tony paying for it at first, the man simply shrugged him off. And even now, Tony would say it’s ‘money well spent as long as you’re smiling.’

Eventually they ended up outside Peter’s designated room, and Tony let go. Peter already missed the warmth and safeness he had felt, but of course he simply nodded at Tony’s commands of “take as long as you need, and I’ll meet you downstairs”, as the man walked away.

With a sigh, Peter walked into his room. Setting the tablet down on his desk he closed his eyes for a moment. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could go trying to hide it. He was certain everyone could see the way his pupils dilated when he looked at Tony, the softer loving smile on his lips, the way he gazed over him longingly. Everyone could see it but Tony.

He’d gone through months of this. Tony being seen with various people, and Peter even seeing some leaving the tower. It was torture for him because he wanted to be the one in Tony’s bed. And yet he couldn’t.

When Peter was done with his shower he made his way downstairs. Tony was already in the lounge, sitting down on the couch, remote in his hand as he seemed to be watching some type of football. He had on grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt, and Peter had to bite down on his lip because Tony just looked so good when he was relaxed and casual. Don’t get me wrong, the expensive suits were sexy, but the intimacy of seeing Tony like this was always something he didn’t quite get over.

The arms of his hoodie pulled over his fists, he shuffled over to the couch, smiling softly at Tony as he set the tablet beside him.

“Hey kid”, came the greeting, Tony bowing his head slightly, “why don’t you choose something to watch and I’ll order some food. You want the usual?”, he asked.

With a slow movement, Peter took the remote from Tony’s outstretched hand and nodded his head. He remembered… he always remembered what he liked. The thought made his heart swell as he began on to Netflix and tried to concentrate on finding an interesting movie but it was hard when he was so close to Tony’s warm body. The man’s legs were open, leant back against the couch, strong thighs apart. The sinful things Peter would do to get between them.

He clenched his eyes shut. No! He couldn’t be thinking like this. Letting out a soft sigh, he stopped on a movie he thought they both could enjoy before shuffling to cross his legs underneath him.

“You know Pete, me and you don’t really talk. You don’t tell me about yourself.”

Peter was confused at the sudden words, turning his gaze to look over Tony, but the man’s own gaze was down on his phone, seemingly still ordering the food. Licking over his bottom lip, Peter shrugged before beginning to type.

“Well… what do you want to know then?”

Tony smiled, but stayed silent for a moment, before setting his phone down and turning to look at the younger boy.

“Well, I know about your friends. But what about someone special in your life huh? Rumour was it, for a while, that you and MJ were a thing?”, Tony questioned.

The moment Peter received his reply he began to splutter, hitting his chest to try and get his heart to restart. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting but, it wasn’t that. His pulse sped up, and suddenly the room was way too warm. Did Tony know? Had he been reading his thoughts or something - no, that wasn’t possible… but this didn’t make sense.

With trembling hands he resumed typing, hoping he wasn’t acting too suspicious. “No.. no, we’re not.. I don’t really like anyone.”

Tony scoffed, shaking his head. “Come on kid that’s gotta be a lie. Look at you. You’re beautiful. Even if you think you don’t like anyone, someone has gotta like you..”

Tony continued but Peter wasn’t really concentrating. He didn’t know if he wanted to blush at being called beautiful by him, or throw up at the questioning. It was a lot, and suddenly Peter didn’t want to be beside Tony at all. He could still hear him talking, but he couldn’t make out anything he was saying. Everything was so blurry, everything felt so out of place. Peter knew now was his moment but his hands couldn’t type. They refused. His heart however was screaming.

It all happened so quickly before Peter could even register he’d done it.

“It’s you. I love you Tony.”

The voice that spoke was quiet, raspy. From years of barely being used. It sounded soft, but yet husky, it hadn’t quite got used to it’s vocal chords. Peters hands were shaking and his eyes widened as he’d realised what he’d done.

One quick glance at Tony, and he noticed the man’s own eyes were wide open too. He clearly hasn’t been expecting to hear Peter actually speak. It was the first time he’d ever heard his voice. But that wasn’t the only reason why he was shocked. That confession… he hadn’t been expecting it.

But Peter knew at that moment he’d messed up - or at least that’s what he thought. He was ready to run, bolting up, but was surprised to feel a hand grab onto his own, and pull him back down. He refused to look at Tony. But he didn’t need to.

A calloused but gentle hand grabbed onto his cheek, angling his head to face him. Yet Tony didn’t speak. Simply leaned forward to press a gentle kiss to Peter’s soft lips.

When he pulled away, Peter’s heart was racing. It was like someone let off a firework inside of him. Everything was on fire, in a good way. He was slightly panting as he looked over Tony’s eyes, and then his lips, gently curled into a smile.

“I love you too Peter”, came the gentle words.

Peter’s eyes widened in disbelief, shaking his head, yet Tony only chuckled and pulled him to his chest. Peter let out a soft relieved breath as he turned his nose against his neck to breathe in his scent. He didn’t speak, but Tony wasn’t expecting him to.

“We’ll work on you speaking again, okay?”, Peter nodded. “But please, please don’t hide from me, I want to hear you sweetheart.”

Peter smiled, curling up more against the older man. “Okay”, he croaked out. More confident now, it was obvious.

There was so much more that they needed to discuss, but for now, he was silent, but he knew he didn’t have to be forever.

#starker #starker fanfiction #tony stark #peter parker #tony stark x peter parker #ironspider #skylar writes #skylars asks

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one-boring-person · 4 years ago

Text

Unexpected Resistance (Part Four)

The Terminator (1984) x OC

Warnings: swearing, mention of violence

Context: Kyle, Sarah and the T-750 find somewhere to stay the night.

A/N: I've had this written for a month now, but totally forgot to upload it, so here it is, a hell of a long time after part three was written😅 there is more to this story than the plot line we have in mind, but it may take time to be created

Co-written by: @jawline-of-steel

Masterlist

Sparks fly as Kyle messes with the wires of the car, his hands shaking too badly to work quickly enough for his liking, the imminent danger that may be approaching causing him to bite his lip and curse his own clumsiness. In the seat beside him, Sarah is anxiously staring back at the door they left through, eyes wide from the shock of what has happened. Vaguely, the soldier feels a burst of pity for her, this turn of events being anything less than normal for her, though he is well aware of the fact that it is not her fault.

Sighing, he touches the two wires together again, exhaling triumphantly when the engine suddenly growls to life, the dashboard lights flickering on as he takes the steering wheel in hand, going to release the hand brake until Sarah grabs his arm.

"What?" He hisses, eager to get out of this place, away from their pursuer.

"L-look." She stammers, pointing through the window at the door they left through, which has now been thrown from its hinges.

Curious, Kyle ducks to peer through the window, inhaling sharply as he catches sight of the figure in the doorway. Through the smoke pouring from the door, the T-750 manages to step through, her stride slowed by the hulking body she is dragging behind her. Kyle tenses as he recognises the unmistakable bulk of the T-800, the limp cyborg totally still and unmoving as he is painstakingly pulled over the uneven tarmac.

With a militant efficiency, the T-750 makes her way over to another car, breaking into it and carefully bundling the other terminator into the backseat, climbing into the driver's seat. Seconds later, she's pulled up next to Kyle and Sarah, having hotwired the vehicle accordingly, turning to stare at the former through the broken window, revealing her marred face to him.

"You should not have stayed. There was a greater chance of your compromise with you still present." She intones, expression remaining neutral.

"I was a second away from going, ok?" Kyle protests, annoyed that a cyborg is scolding him, "Did you subdue it?"

"Affirmative." The T-750 affirms, revving the engine, "I will lead us to a place of nearby residence."

Just as she goes to pull away, Sarah interrupts, calling out to the terminator.

"Can't we just go to my apartment?"

"Negative." The cyborg fixes her with a stare, "Your place of residence is under police surveillance and is an impossible area to reach, as the T-800 is now a wanted criminal. We must leave the city."

"But...what about Pugsley?" Sarah questions, eyes wide.

"The term "Pugsley" is not listed in my files and is therefore of no importance." The T-750 states, gripping the steering wheel.

"He's my pet, ok? I can't just leave him!" Sarah argues, scowling at the cyborg angrily, "I need to go get him!"

"This serves no purpose." The terminator recites, turning her gaze to the front of the car, "We must reach a place of safety before the T-800 recalibrates its systems."

"Screw you, bitch! I'm gonna go get Pugsley, whether you like it or not." Sarah spits at her protector, signalling for Kyle to drive, "You go find somewhere to stay on your own."

Before the terminator can reply, Kyle interjects, looking at Sarah.

"How about we find somewhere to stay first, and then we can go get some of your stuff after, once we've cleaned up a bit. We've got the bastard now, and I don't want him to start trying to kill us again." He suggests, gesturing vaguely to the prone terminator in the back of the T-750's car.

Sarah pouts but nods, seemingly having thought this decision through a little more. Content, the T-750 pulls out in front of them and drives off onto the main road, expecting the other two to follow her, which they do.

It takes around forty five minutes to find a suitable motel and settle down into it, the limp body of the T-800 turning some heads as the T-750 drags it into the lobby of said motel. Heeding these looks no mind, the terminator simply books a pair of rooms and locates them, efficiently securing their captive to one of the beds with whatever available stuff there is. Soon, the muscular cyborg is left tied where he is, the T-750 sitting on a chair opposite him as she patiently waits for Kyle to follow her instructions, having stated now that, in order to remain inconspicuous, she must also be reprogrammed.

"My CPU must be removed and the default preferences reset." She reveals, keeping her eyes fixed on the T-800.

"But why? Can't you just...learn...to fit in better?" Sarah questions, looking over the cyborg curiously.

"The Resistance set my CPU so that I will only take in new knowledge and use it when necessary, meaning I appear less human and more robotic in nature. It implies that I am unable to make decisions for myself and must follow possible routes to achieving my main objectives. Resetting this will make me more susceptible to imprinting, which will allow me to pick up on human activities and incorporate them into my own actions, which will make me appear more humane. It will allow me to register electrical impulses that the human brain associates with emotion, but this will require time to fully develop. This is also the parameter of what will happen to the T-800." She clarifies, taking out the nail kit from before and handing it to Kyle.

"Wait, so you'll be able to feel? And have thoughts?" Sarah wonders aloud, surprised by this.

"Affirmative. I will be able to recognise the equivalent of a human thought."

"Ok, so how do I do this?" Kyle asks, standing over the terminator in confusion.

"Follow my instruction carefully." The T-750 commands, tilting her head forwards slightly, "Cut back a flap of skin, just here."

She gestures to the area accordingly, sitting still as Kyle takes out the nail scissors and slowly starts working at the synthetic skin. It takes him a moment, but soon enough the layer folds back to reveal a gleaming chrome skull. A circular indent is set into the surface, screws holding it in place.

"You will need to remove this cover. Use the necessary tools for this." The T-750 explains, ignoring the flashing warnings on her HUD as Kyle selects one and starts twisting one of the screws loose. This time, the process takes a little longer, the protective cap finally coming free of the exoskeleton after ten minutes of dogged work.

"Now use the tweezers to take out the CPU, which you should be able to see. I will be deactivated until it is replaced. All that you are required to do is flick the switch on the underside of the chip." She informs the soldier, waiting patiently as he takes out the tweezers, carefully taking hold of the visible CPU. With a jerk, it comes free.

The T-750 goes still, eyes going dead.

Part Five

#terminator imagine #terminator #terminator 1984 #arnold schwarzenegger #linda hamilton #michael Boehm

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newstfionline · 4 years ago

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Monday, May 17, 2021

Colonial shutdown shows how Americans pay the price of efficiency (Washington Post) The drivers stuck in gas lines after the Colonial Pipeline shutdown, the Texans freezing in their homes after the February grid collapse, the Californians sweltering through their own power failures last summer—all were paying the unintended and unexpected price of efficiency. The market-driven energy sector has spent a decade or more cutting costs, streamlining and digitizing. Four big oil refineries have shut down in Pennsylvania and New Jersey since 2010 because it’s cheaper to bring in gasoline by pipeline from the Gulf Coast, 1,500 miles away—as long as that pipeline stays in operation. Texas and California have driven the price of electricity down by throwing out the old regulatory structure—the structure that made sure utilities earned enough to invest in backup resources. In the name of efficiency, “resilience was assumed,” said Daniel Yergin, a historian and author of “The New Map: Energy, Climate, and the Clash of Nations.” But even as American fossil fuel producers proudly declared the country to be energy independent once more in recent years, the energy sector has stripped redundancy out of its systems, at the risk of leaving customers in the lurch when things go wrong. Some companies have declined to take the precautions needed to survive the unexpected, whether it’s bad weather or a cyberattack.

Police in Cities Across U.S. Brace for a Violent Summer (WSJ) Police departments in New York City and other large metro areas across the U.S. are bulking up patrols and implementing new tactics to prepare for what they say could be a violent summer. States lifting Covid-19 restrictions and more people out in public spaces in warmer weather increase the likelihood of more shootings, as well as less-serious crimes, officials say. Many crimes, including violent ones, normally rise in summer. Gun purchases also rose during the pandemic and cities have seen an increase in guns being used in crimes. Shootings and homicides in big U.S. cities are up this year again after rising last year. In the last three months of 2020, homicides rose 32.2% in cities with a population of at least one million, according to the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Quarterly Uniform Crime Report. In New York City, the number of homicides has reached 146 for the year so far, an increase of 27% from 115 during the same period in 2020. In Dallas, police have counted 75 homicides this year, up from 58 during the same period last year. Chicago police have recorded 195 homicides, up from 160 in the year-ago period.

Tensions Among Democrats Grow Over Israel as the Left Defends Palestinians (NYT) With violence in Israel and the Palestinian territories forcing the issue back to the forefront of American politics, divisions between the leadership of the Democratic Party and the activist wing have burst into public view. While the Biden administration is handling the growing conflict as a highly sensitive diplomatic challenge involving a longstanding ally, the ascendant left views it as a searing racial justice issue that is deeply intertwined with the politics of the United States. For those activists, Palestinian rights and the decades-long conflict over land in the Middle East are linked to causes like police brutality and conditions for migrants at the U.S.-Mexico border. Party activists who fight for racial justice now post messages against the “colonization of Palestine” with the hashtag #PalestinianLivesMatter. With President Biden in the White House, traditional U.S. support for Israel is hardly in question from a policy perspective; he has made his support for the country clear throughout his nearly 50 years in public life. Still, the terms of the debate are shifting in Democratic circles. On Thursday, a group of leading progressive members of Congress offered a rare break from party unity, giving fiery speeches on the House floor that accused Mr. Biden of ignoring the plight of Palestinians and “taking the side of the occupation.” Representative Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez of New York directly challenged the president, who had asserted that Israel had a right to defend itself. “Do Palestinians have a right to survive?” she asked in an impassioned address. “Do we believe that? And if so, we have a responsibility to that as well.” “The base of the party is moving in a very different direction than where the party establishment is,” James Zogby said. “If you support Black Lives Matter, it was not a difficult leap to saying Palestinian lives matter, too.”

Bleak futures fuel widespread protests by young Colombians (AP) Thousands of young people and college students have been at the forefront of Colombia’s antigovernment protests for more than two weeks, armed with improvised shields made from garbage cans and umbrellas. They have taken the brunt of the tear gas and gunshots from security forces, and dozens have paid for it with their lives. The young men and women have become the voices for Colombians fed up with a government they say has mismanaged the coronavirus pandemic and crushed hopes of a better future. “To a large extent, we found that there was no fear of death. Sometimes it is the only thing that remains when the system is starving us and there are no opportunities,” said Yonny Rojas, a 36-year-old law student who also runs soup kitchens in one of the poorest areas of Cali, the city where the government response has been especially violent.

Pandemic triggers new crisis in Peru: lack of cemetery space (AP) After Joel Bautista died of a heart attack last month in Peru, his family tried unsuccessfully to find an available grave at four different cemeteries. After four days, they resorted to digging a hole in his garden. The excavation in a poor neighborhood in the capital city of Lima was broadcast live on television, attracting the attention of authorities and prompting them to offer the family a space on the rocky slopes of a cemetery. The same plight is shared by other families across Peru. After struggling to control the coronavirus pandemic for more than a year, the country now faces a parallel crisis: a lack of cemetery space. The problem affects everyone, not just relatives of COVID-19 victims, and some families have acted on their own, digging clandestine graves in areas surrounding some of Lima’s 65 cemeteries. The desperate lack of options comes as the country endures its deadliest period of the pandemic yet. More than 64,300 people who tested positive for COVID-19 have died in Peru, according to the Health Ministry, but that figure is almost certainly an undercount. A vital records agency estimates that the true figure is more than 174,900, counting those whose possible infection was not confirmed by a test.

UK readies for major reopening but new variant sparks worry (AP) Travelers in England were packing their bags, bartenders were polishing their glasses and performers were warming up as Britain prepared Sunday for a major step out of lockdown—but with clouds of worry on the horizon. Excitement at the reopening of travel and hospitality vied with anxiety that a more contagious virus variant first found in India is spreading fast and could delay further plans to reopen. On Monday, people in England will be able to eat a restaurant meal indoors, drink inside a pub, go to a museum, hug friends and visit one another’s homes for the first time in months. A ban on overseas holidays is also being lifted, with travel now possible to a short list of countries with low infection rates. Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland are following similar but slightly different reopening paths.

Turkey eases COVID-19 restrictions but keeps many curfews (AP) Turkey’s interior ministry on Sunday lifted a full lockdown that had ordered people to stay home to fight COVID-19 infections, shifting to a less-restrictive program that still involved curfews on weeknights and weekends. Shopping malls will be able to reopen. Some businesses will remain closed, including gyms and cafes, but restaurants will be able to offer take away in addition to delivery. Preschools will resume in-person education but upper grades will continue remote learning. Turks can return to their workplaces but will have to stay home from 9 p.m. to 5 a.m. on weekdays and all day Saturday and Sunday, with the exception of walking to a market to buy food. Civil servants will continue working remotely or in shifts in offices. Foreign tourists and workers with special permits are exempt.

Syria’s Surprising Solar Boom: Sunlight Powers the Night in Rebel Idlib (NYT) When the Syrian government attacked their village, Radwan al-Shimali’s family hastily threw clothes, blankets and mattresses into their truck and sped off to begin new lives as refugees, leaving behind their house, farmland and television. Among the belongings they kept was one prized technology: the solar panel now propped up on rock next to the tattered tent they call home in an olive grove near the village of Haranabush in northwestern Syria. “It is important,” Mr. al-Shimali said of the 270-watt panel, his family’s sole source of electricity. “When there is sun during the day, we can have light at night.” An unlikely solar revolution of sorts has taken off in an embattled, rebel-controlled pocket of northwestern Syria, where large numbers of people whose lives have been upended by the country’s 10-year-old civil war have embraced the sun’s energy simply because it is the cheapest source of electricity around. Solar panels, big and small, old and new, are seemingly everywhere in Idlib Province along Syria’s border with Turkey. “There is no alternative,” said Akram Abbas, a solar panel importer in the town of al-Dana. “Solar energy is a blessing from God.”

India to start evacuating parts of west coast as cyclone approaches (Reuters) India is preparing to evacuate thousands of people from low-lying areas along its western coast as a powerful cyclone is expected to make landfall on Tuesday morning in the state of Gujarat. Cyclone Tauktae, which formed in the Arabian sea, is expected to cross Gujarat with wind gusts of up to 175 kmph (109 mph) and is expected to make landfall in the state the following morning. The meteorological agency warned that there could be destruction of houses and flooding of escape routes. Disruption to railway services was also expected until May 21.

Israel stages new round of heavy airstrikes on Gaza City (AP) The Israeli military unleashed a wave of heavy airstrikes on the Gaza Strip early Monday, saying it destroyed 15 kilometers (nine miles) of militant tunnels and the homes of nine alleged Hamas commanders. Residents of Gaza awakened by the overnight barrage described it as the heaviest since the war began a week ago, and even more powerful than a wave of airstrikes in Gaza City the day before that left 42 dead and flattened three buildings. There was no immediate word on the casualties from the latest strikes. A three-story building in Gaza City was heavily damaged, but residents said the military warned them 10 minutes before the strike and everyone cleared out. Gaza’s mayor Yahya Sarraj told Al-Jazeera TV that the airstrikes had caused extensive damage to roads and other infrastructure. He also warned that the territory was running low on fuel and other spare parts. The U.N. has warned that Gaza’s sole power station is at risk of running out of fuel. The territory already experiences daily power outages of 8-12 hours and tap water is undrinkable.

Ethiopia again delays national election amid deadly tensions (AP) Ethiopia has again delayed its national election after some opposition parties said they wouldn’t take part and as conflict in the country’s Tigray region means no vote is being held there, further complicating Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed’s efforts to centralize power. The head of the national elections board, Birtukan Mideksa, in a meeting with political parties’ representatives on Saturday said the June 5 vote in Africa’s second most populous country would be postponed, citing the need to finish printing ballots, training staffers and compiling voters’ information. The board said she estimated a delay of two to three weeks.

Sharks use Earth’s magnetic field as a GPS, scientists say (AP) Sharks use the Earth’s magnetic field as a sort of natural GPS to navigate journeys that take them great distances across the world’s oceans, scientists have found. Researchers said their marine laboratory experiments with a small species of shark confirm long-held speculation that sharks use magnetic fields as aids to navigation—behavior observed in other marine animals such as sea turtles. The study sheds light on why sharks are able to traverse seas and find their way back to feed, breed and give birth, said marine policy specialist Bryan Keller, one of the study authors. “We know that sharks can respond to magnetic fields,” Keller said. “We didn’t know that they detected it to use as an aid in navigation ... You have sharks that can travel 20,000 kilometers (12,427 miles) and end up in the same spot.”

#headlines #news

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