adorablevan

[oh-meow-swirls]

compilation of amazing file names for fanfics i started writing and never finished-

[billspotts]

The Missing Link of the July 28th Election

The night of the July 28th election, hundreds of thousands of people saw the actas, and not only the opposition’s witnesses who kept copies.

What follows are three stories that break the silence: two from PSUV electoral witnesses and one from a community leader from the chavista grassroots. We’ll call them Karla, Daria, and María Eugenia.

Karla

Karla extends her arm and shows an acta from July 28. She searched frantically through the folders and papers piled on the living room table in her apartment, on Venezuela’s central coast. She had stored it so carefully that she forgot the exact spot where she placed it the morning after the election, after having served as an electoral witness for PSUV at a voting center in the city of La Guaira.

“This is the fifth election I’ve worked as a PSUV witness. I’m a registered party member and a spokesperson for the UBCH (Units of Battle Hugo Chávez, a grassroots PSUV organization) in my area,” she says, waving the tally sheet like a white flag seeking a truce.

For Karla, everything she’s achieved is linked to her involvement with the Bolivarian Revolution. She graduated from the Misión Ribas—an early government program to expand the access to high school education—and kept studying thanks to Misión Sucre, a similar program to grant access to university-level education focused on a social agenda. Karla then moved from an overcrowded annex, to the apartment where she now lives, also provided by the Venezuelan government. She has worked for a decade in the public sector, at a ministry-affiliated organization.

She believed these elections would be no different from the others—that they would win and celebrate, collect the tally sheets and deliver them to the local electoral coordinator, conduct the audit, and be done. But that’s not what happened.

“After noon, it turned into a hateful day, full of odd tension. In my voting center, Maduro won by a few votes. But in La Guaira the opposition wiped us out. The other PSUV witnesses were posting the numbers in our WhatsApp group, and it was unbelievable. They beat the hell out of us.”

Then, CNE announced in its first bulletin that Maduro had won “irreversibly” with 51% of the votes. “How did we win?” Karla asks. “This is crazy. Chavismo always wins in La Guaira, and this time it didn’t happen.” She keeps asking herself questions. “Why do I feel so sad if we won?” “Why wasn’t there even a hint of celebration?” “Why, if we won, did they erase the WhatsApp evidence and forbid us, the witnesses, from talking about the election day?”

She asks out loud as she smooths the wrinkles in the tally sheet, without success. Karla believes that the country’s economic crisis was caused by international sanctions and the opposition. “But I also know that on our side, we’ve made plenty of mistakes, which is why so many people didn’t even want to vote. Filling that 1×10 list cost me blood, sweat, and tears,” she says, referring to the list of voters that PSUV required his witnesses and grassroots to complete.

In the weeks leading up to the election, she attended meetings with the regional PSUV leadership, where they were warned about alleged “destabilizing plans by the opposition.” Karla and others were told to “stay alert” and protect Maduro’s votes because the opposition had a plan to disrupt the tally, and that would be solved by showing the tally sheets.

Around 2:00 p.m. on election day, the coordinator at her center told everyone that “by orders from above,” they would only print one tally sheet per table, not one for each witness. Karla complained because she hadn’t been told this by the party, but the coordinator reminded her that they were on the same team and that she shouldn’t be foolish.

“But I refused. I wanted my tally sheet and for the opposition guy to get his, too. Because I’m chavista, but I don’t cheat. They (the party) had told us that having these sheets was the most important thing. That’s why I fought for the one from my table. Now they’re telling me that if I want to, I can throw it away. How can I be happy when I struggled to get that tally sheet and no one cares about it?”

She also didn’t like that, even though there were no voters at her center after 3:30 p.m., they kept it open until almost 6:00 pm. She remembers everything from that day. The vote count began, and her table’s tally sheet was printed at 7:12 pm. The opposition witnesses refused to leave until the data was transmitted. The machine technician said the transmission was slow, and people outside the center began pressuring them. After 9:00 p.m., they were told that the transmission had been completed successfully, and the WhatsApp group told them to go home.

That’s what she did. She went to bed with a headache, convinced they had lost the election. But when she woke up, she saw her WhatsApp groups flooded with messages saying they had won. “But no one was happy. There were lots of complaints directed at the grassroot leaders, the public employees…”

Another question haunts her:  “If we won, why were they demanding loyalty from us and reminding us that we don’t have official property documents for the apartments we’d been given? I thought: these people are making fools of themselves. Now, the ones who really didn’t vote for PSUV are going to hate us even more. That’s why I say it’s a victory filled with sadness and disappointment.”

Karla searched for the tally sheet from her table on the website where the opposition posted the ones collected by their witnesses. It’s identical to hers.

And again, what if…  

“If they uploaded the tally sheet where their candidate lost, and I know it’s real because I have it here, why should I doubt, or think that the others they uploaded are fake?”

She no longer knows what to think, though there’s one thing Karla says she’s sure of: people’s will must be respected because that’s what living in a democracy means.

“I don’t want to live in a dictatorship, even if I’m a PSUV member. I can be with PSUV, but I don’t think it’s right not to respect the votes of those who went out to vote. Everyone here knows I was a witness, and that’s why my neighbors look at me strangely, like I did something wrong. That’s why I don’t even want to keep the tally sheet at home anymore, because no one from PSUV has come to ask for it. If this is proof of the opposition’s cheating, if that alleged hacking really happened, why aren’t they coming to those of us who were witnesses to clarify this once and for all?

[idiotsonlyevent]

yosuke-adachi parallels

yosuke and adachi, while being very different characters, have a lot in common. even though by the end of the game we know that a lot of our interactions with adachi were part of an act, there were clearly some moments of honesty, especially in his social link. early-game/shadow yosuke and "true" adachi have almost identical philosophies and views on the world, with one major difference. i don't know if these parallels were intentional, but they're very prevalent, and can be seen as early as adachi's first social link.

both adachi and yosuke are underachievers. adachi was forced to perform well in school due to his parent's expectations, but he clearly doesn't actually enjoy working hard (or working at all). when you hang out with him and nanako during his social link he always focuses on "efficiency" by getting the best results with the least amount of work. yosuke isn't forced to perform well in school, so he just doesn't try, or there is something preventing him from reaching his full academic potential.

both are also estranged from their parents. adachi only ever mentions that his parents forced him to study, and he doesn't seem to have much of a relationship with them at all. yosuke is seemingly not well-liked by his own parents or there is other strain in their relationship. this can be inferred from the preferential treatment that teddie receives, despite not technically being the hanamura's child, and yosuke's constant irritation with specifically his dad regarding junes and the way he is treated by other part-timers.

this leads into the fact that both adachi and yosuke are treated as... almost replacements through the plot and their social links. the woman who lives next door to adachi treats him as if he's her son: someone who superficially appears similar to him (same name) but is actually significantly more successful, because he's the manager of some big company, compared to adachi, who basically got demoted.

yosuke is constantly compared to the protagonist in the game - and later teddie, by his parents - because they too, appear superficially similar because they're both from the city - both 'children' of the hanamura household - but yosuke is always treated as the 'lesser' option. he's constantly framed as less attractive, dumber, more annoying, etc. etc.

and while it's obviously upsetting and annoying, both adachi and yosuke like the attention, on some level....

adachi likes being doted on by the old woman. yosuke likes being compared to his partner, even if it results in some less-than-positive feelings.

but i think the core of the parallels is adachi and yosuke's desire for... 'fun.'

like. they literally use the exact same phrasing here. they're both miserable and bored because they were both forced to move to the country. so why not have some fun? yosuke can play hero, and adachi can play villain.

wait, so why the difference?

[yawn-emoji]

I’m guessing you’re either non-American, or live in a small town or in a metropolis. Suburbs and rural areas need cars. And especially us who live in places with hot/humid summers and freezing winters. I can’t bike when it’s 80 F with a UV of 9. I can’t bike when it’s -10 F. It take a 20 min. drive at least to do most things. Walking or biking would take longer. It’s not possible everywhere. So I prefer cars in these particular areas. I do wish I could’ve been born in a small town somewhere where I could walk everywhere, but I wasn’t. And we need cars here. I wouldn’t risk heat stroke or hypothermia just because someone thinks cars are somehow evil. And I’m pretty sure they do not cause more pollution in the world than China or India. People complain about that, then maybe go and close those warehouses down and you’ll solve the vast majority of the pollution problem. In China in those areas they have to wear masks sometimes because the pollution is so bad. Like I understand places like California or Britain, where I see the ones saying these things most the time, could do all that since they barely have weather. Could be possible in those areas. But the whole world isn’t there. Rural places in other countries also do much better because cars exist. My family come from south of the states, and are from towns in the mountains in the middle of nowhere. They have small towns they can walk around, but need to drive if they need to get out and go to a city for medical care or for whatever. Sometimes they work in other areas. Cars are actually a decent invention. In places where it’s possible, maybe less car usage would be fine, but again that’s not everywhere.

this ask is funny because you yourself point out the problems that exist with car dependance. so first off—you guessed wrong. i'm from the suburban midatlantic region in the us, and i have lived in the same place my whole life. we have hot humid summers and freezing winters where i live... and i still hate cars with a burning passion. your point, to my understanding, is that in american suburbs + rural areas, it's impossible to get anywhere without a car, rendering cars necessary and bikes an unreliable mode of transportation. which is great, because we agree! that's... the exact thing that i hate. i hate that i need to get in a car to see any of my friends or go to the grocery store or get to school or go to the library or do literally anything. it's impossible to walk anywhere where i live, and it's inconvenient + unsafe to bike anywhere because i live in an area that has a lot of hills and doesn't have any designated bike paths. there aren't any buses that come to my area, and there aren't any reliable trains. this means that cars are literally the only way i can travel anywhere where i live, and i hate that. cars are unsafe and contribute to insane levels of pollution and climate change (which, from your message, you seem to disagree with and i'm not going to try and convince you on that point. it's a fact, let's move on).

the thing is that everything that you're saying... doesn't need to be the way that it is! cities and towns should be designed in such a way that if you want to drive somewhere, you can, but if you want to bike or take the bus or take the train or walk somewhere, those are also viable options for you. there are places in the world where entire countries are designed with pedestrians and non-car drivers in mind, and those people are perfectly happy with their lives. establishing designated bike lanes and bike paths, walkable neighborhoods, and affordable + well-connected train + bus routes are all things that can be done to reduce car reliance. you shouldn't need a car to get to a doctor, you shouldn't need a car to see friends, you shouldn't need cars to go grocery shopping, you shouldn't need cars to commute to work. things don't need to be this way.

i would recommend checking out the youtube channel not just bikes as a good starting point to learn about walkable + bikeable cities and pedestrian-centered infrastructure—specifically this video, this video and this video.

[parkers-gal]

Reader meet Tom during a Meet and greet for the first time. She’s European (like Belgian perhaps. You can choose that) and she catches his attention. They start as close friends and whenever she gets to London, they meet up. After a while they start a relationship (can be long distance) and they just adore eachother a lot.

a good story

wc | 3k (SORRY i rly went off)

i chose france because i heard they have a bit more diversity...? i hope that makes it a bit more universal :) plsss i didn't proofread — hope u like it ! <3

—

You try to wipe the sweat off your hand for the fifth time in the last two minutes. Your pulse picks up while the line moves up again. You’ve been waiting for about an hour and a half, but you really don’t mind. Not when that mop of curls and pile of muscles is so close. Besides, you get to fangirl with the rest of the fans in line around you.

You’d been in deep conversation with a girl and her girlfriend for a good while until one of them went off to get coffee and the other asked to use the bathroom. The security guard assured them that they’d return to their exact position in line, ensuring they wouldn’t have to wait all over again. You missed them, though, because they weren’t back within seven minutes so you preoccupied yourself with the lanyard around your neck with your VIP Access pass attached to the end.

You play with the strings of the Spider-man hoodie; it’s the midtown hoodie that Peter Parker wears in the first movie. You wore it to be cute — and it is, especially with these jeans — but now you’re afraid you might die of heat exhaustion. As the security guards usher yet another fan through the curtains, your feet move forward a couple of feet until the movement stops and you’re stuck waiting again.

The girl and her girlfriend return not a minute later, one of them offering you a bite of their croissants from Starbucks. You ponder the offer before politely declining; you don’t want your breath to smell, or something to get stuck in your teeth. You know you’re overthinking this entire situation, but you can’t help but be nervous when you’re about to meet the one person you’ve spent so much of your time gawking over — and through a screen, at that. It’s pathetic, you admit, but you can’t help it. There’s just something about him.

Another fan goes through the curtains and suddenly you’re less than five turns away from meeting the beloved Brit. You can’t help but feel a little more connected to him, knowing that you’d flown all the way from Paris, France for this London Meet-and-Greet. It’s a wonder how you got your schedule to work so well.

You move forward another spot, tapping your index and middle fingers on your hip while tracing the lines of the tiled floor. You try to distract yourself — counting every prime number you can think of, naming all the superheroes in the Marvel Franchise — until you’re one spot away from going through the black curtains.

“You’ll be in in less than three minutes,” the girl smiles while informing you of the estimated time frame. You thank her, taking note of the tag attached to her uniform.

You take a deep breath, shaking away all nerves and last jitters before wiping your hands one last fateful time. And then all at once, the curtain opens and allows you to step through and into the room where a young actor awaits your arrival. It’s so surreal that you have to watch your feet to ensure they don’t trip and cause you to stumble.

“Hello, love. How’re you?”

Your breath hitches and when he finally takes a good look at you, his breath does too. Your eyes lock for a beat, the two of you lost in a trance before you finally spit out a response.

“I’m… really good. How’re you?”

He smiles, eyes crinkling and face lifting up. “I’m great, thank you.”

You nod, the tip of your tongue playing with your front tooth. You shake out of it, though, setting your bag and your lanyard down on the provided table before stepping a little closer to him.

“Ah, the Midtown hoodie,” He points out, holding your wrists out so he can examine the sweatshirt himself.

“Yeah,” you smile bashfully. “It’s… stylish.”

He laughs wholeheartedly, something that eats away at your shell and causes you to join his chuckling.

“What’s your name, darling?”

You bite your lip, inhaling sharply at the term of endearment. “Y/N.”

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Tom,” he offers a hand, something that makes your face scrunch up with a laugh.

“Can we hug instead?”

“Please?” He insists, realizing how embarrassing his last move was. The two of you embrace strongly, and you inhale the scent of Tom Holland while you can.

When you separate, you grow a little more courage, and pick up the conversation. “I loved you in The Impossibly. Obviously in the Spider-man movies, too, but your other movies are really good, too.”

“Thank you, love. That means a lot,” he scratches his neck with a sheepish smile, a blush rising from his neck and onto his cheeks. He smiles, an action you mirror. “Is this your first Meet-and-Greet?”

You nod, “Yeah, I’m a bit nervous.”

He nods in understanding. “Are you from England?”

You shake your head, “I’m currently living in Paris.”

“Ah, the country of romance,” He looks as if he’s thinking of what to say next — as if he shouldn’t say it. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-one,” You smile again, and the glint in Tom’s eye changes just a shade, as if he’s just unlocked a new level. He looks excited for a different reason now.

“How long are you staying in England?”

“Till the end of the week,” You can’t help but feel giddy because it’s only Monday, which means you have until Saturday night to explore the great country of Britain, home to Tom Holland and Tom Hiddleston and Benedict Cumberbatch and basically every celebrity you’ve ever been a fan of. You can’t anticipate what Tom’s to say next, because you don’t want to turn your experience into a Wattpad story, but you hope he’s about to offer something in relation to sightseeing.

“Would you want to… could I show you around? Show you all the best places?” He looks shyer than you, almost, and you swallow your heart so you can answer calmly.

“You’d do that?’

“Of course,” He smiles softly. “You look like a lot of fun.”

You’re taken aback at the compliment, and you stumble out a reply as best you can. The two of you are reminded to take the picture so the line can move forward again, and you will yourself not to frown at the coming end of your encounter with the famous Brit.

“Could we do this?” You show him a picture from your phone and he nods excitedly.

The two of you link hands, standing close together while you smile into the camera. Your encounter comes to an end, and though you’re disappointed, Tom asks for your number, giving you his phone for the occasion. You’re giddy as you wave goodbye, leaving the tent with your picture and his lingering energy.

A day passes, giving you time to recover from your celebrity-interaction and time to get settled into your comforting hotel room on the seventh floor. You’re a bit wary that Tom won’t ever text you, and seeing as you don’t have his number, you realize you have to wait it out. You don’t want to risk waiting for the entirety of your stay here, though, so you grow worried. But alas, Tom texts late on Tuesday night, apologizing for the radio silence that came when he had to finish up the Meet-and-Greet event. You’re relieved, to say the least.

He exchanges details, telling you to meet him at a corner cafe at ten in the morning tomorrow. You comply, promising to get a good night’s rest before saying your goodnights and sleeping the hours away. You’re promptly awoke but your eight-thirty alarm. With a groan, you get up to shower, and the cold water wakes you right up.

An hour later and you’re ready for some quality, top-notch sightseeing. You grab what you need, locking your hotel room door before going down the elevator with a sweet elderly couple. You follow the map on your phone until you arrive at a small shop on the corner, just as Tom had said. You pull the door open, the smell of coffee beans entering your airways. You exhale the familiarity of it all, smiling to yourself before searching the shop. You spot Tom in a corner booth, and as you make your way over, he sets his phone face-down on the table with a smile, waving at you. You take a seat across from him.

“This place is cute.”

“Right? Best tea in London.”

Your stomach grumbles, loud enough for the both of you to hear and then share a laugh about. “I suppose I should eat breakfast.”

“I suppose I should join you,” he replies in the same tone, the two of you sharing tender smiles before someone comes over to take your order.

The conversation picks up and all tension and awkwardness wafts away in the air, leaving you in Tom’s comfortable aura. You talk until the check is paid, and as you step out on the crisp air of the city’s streets, you turn to Tom for the agenda.

The day goes on like that. The two of you go all around the city, visiting The British Museum, the Tower Bridge, Big Ben the clock tower, the Buckingham Palace, the Portobello Road Market, the National Gallery, and even the London eye. Tom knows everything like the back of his hand, and the ancient city makes you feel so significant. Your last stop is Cambridge University, something you’ve always wanted to see in person.

Tom’s been taking your picture all day. On polaroids, your iPhones, and even some of the tourist-profiting workers who beg for sales. He claims it’s so you can start scrapbooking, a conversation the two of you had covered during your many word exchanges.

The two of you have been all over the city since the end of breakfast at almost eleven o’clock. Now, it’s almost eight o’clock and you’re hungry as fuck. After some debate, the two of you decide to take a big red bus back to your hotel for some room service or hotel-restaurant food.

Tom sits in the seat beside you on the bus, the two of you up top and enjoying the city. You get lost in conversation again, the two of you going through today’s latest pictures and video-memories. You end up goofing off, so much so that you almost miss your stop.

The two of you stumble to the entrance of your hotel. Tom smiles, grabbing the door for you. You reply with a sheepish “thank you,” before waving hello to the front desk women.

“Do you want room service or do you want to dine in the restaurant?”

“Would you mind if I joined you for room service?”

You shake your head with a gentle smile, the two of you racing to the elevators. After hitting your floor number, the elevator goes up and the two of you talk again and again. Tom excuses himself to the bathroom when you get into your room; it gives you the opportunity to change out of your clothes and into a pair of sweats and a loose tank. Tom comes out ready for room service but is grown flustered at the sight of a different outfit on you.

“Getting comfortable?”

“Duh,” you lean back on the queen sized bed, back hitting the headboard. “Stay for a movie?”

He smiles, “Hand me the menu.”

He ends up staying until ten o’clock. You promise to go clubbing with him, for a full London experience, and the two of you schedule to do just that on Friday night. You book the entirety of Thursday to finish your sightseeing with him, and before you know it, you’re spending every day in London with Tom.

On your last day, Saturday, you eat breakfast with him at that first fateful cafe. He tells you he can’t take you to the airport — he’d probably get mobbed by fans — and you understand, promising to call him once you land. He promises to come with you to France one day, so the roles can reverse.

You finish your final cup of coffee just as Tom finishes his tea. He smiles sadly, one you mirror.

“I’ll see you soon, you know. And you can still drop me off at the airport.”

“I know,” he smiles sheepishly, hand reaching across the table for yours. “But I’ll miss sightseeing with you. I forget how amazing my own country is, sometimes.”

“Well,” you smile, “I’ll be back, so don’t worry too much, Tom. It’s not like I’m going across the world.”

“Yeah,” He chuckles, “And besides, I can come see you sometime.”

“Absolutely.”

“It’s just so weird to have friends in France and shit,” He chuckles, running a hand through his hair. “Like you live there and I can just go and visit you whenever.”

“I’m still a call away.”

“And thank god for that.”

You exhale after a beat of silence. “This is so fucking crazy.”

“What?”

“This. You, us hanging out. Just four days ago I was paying to see you, and now I’m having breakfast with you for the third time?”

“I promise, I’ll refund that Meet-and-Greet money.”

“Why?” You look at him quizzically and he bites his bottom lip.

“Well we’re friends, so you don’t really need to waste that money and I can get it back so-”

“Don’t,” you look up at him. “It makes for a good story.”

He nods, and after the two of you pay the check, you’re standing from the booth of the quaint little shop one final time, making your way to your door and settling in the passenger seat of Tom’s car. With your luggage in the backseat, he drives all the way to the airport, the loud sound of plane engines filling your ears. He drops you off at the terminal with a hug and a watery smile.

“See you soon!” He waves until you’re out of sight and the security guard is threatening to give him a ticket.

Half a year goes by, with quick three-day weekend trips back and forth, to London and to France even. You’ve seen Tom a total of seven times in the past six months, and you’ve grown closer than ever.

About a month goes by after your last trip, until your boss is telling you that you’re getting a week off for the upcoming paid break. You’ve already confirmed your flight and hotel plans to London, wanting to surprise Tom.

You decide to do it the night before you’re due on the airplane to the country of Brits.

You can’t help but grin at your phone, eventually laying down to sleep while you can before your early morning flight. Tom’s on your mind, in your future, and in your dreams. The last month of FaceTimes and text messages have been amazing, but unbearable because you miss his presence. The extreme amounts of flirting, however, have definitely picked up over text. Your week long trip to London marks the eighth time you’ve seen Tom since that first fateful Meet-and-Greet. You can’t help but feel like the dynamic is changing a bit, though. The two of you have upped the levels a bit, and now you’re more cuddly, more flirty, and definitely more interested.

When you land, you text Tom but frown when the usual immediate response doesn’t come. Moving past a crowd of waiting people, you head to baggage claim to get your luggage. After excruciatingly lifting it off of the conveyor belt, it lands with a thud on the ground and you start wheeling it towards the exit.

The building is extremely less crowded thanks to your early flight booking. When you look up, you see that familiar head of precious brown locks, and you squeal. Tom never leaves the car when picking you up or dropping you off at the airport, for fear of paparazzi and fans catching him. But this time, he’s out and in the building to come get you.

Abandoning your luggage, you drop your carry-on on the floor as you run over to him as fast as you can. He can sense you’re about to jump into his embrace, so he prepares for the bone-crushing hug.

Your arms go around his neck while his hands settle on your waist. He smiles, chin settled in the crook of your neck while he inhales the scent of you.

“Tommy, oh my god. I missed you so much.”

When you pull apart, you’re each a jumbled mess of excitement and tears, so much so that when Tom’s hands grip your face to pull you in to a passionate kiss, you’re immediately calmed. Though you’ve never kissed before, it feels so right.

Your lips chase after his, deepening it as your hands go to his hair and his to the small of your back. When you separate, your foreheads lean against each other while you pant.

“That’s new.”

“Sorry, I should’ve asked.”

You chuckle, “I would’ve said yes.”

He interlocks your fingers, smiling. “I missed you.”

“I missed you more.”

Suddenly, he’s reminded of the fact that the two of you are in public, and when he looks up, he sees a group of girls holding their phones up and capturing the moment he’s just shared with you. Quickly, he pulls you into his chest protectively, hiding your face in your neck.

“We need to hide or else they’re gonna know it’s m-”

“Don’t,” you settle him. “It makes for a good story.”

[theyscreamjade]

Can you do HCs of Shinsou, Amajiki, Bakugo; teen!Aizawa with a South African s/o who has people saying some annoying comments to her just bc she's from Africa. Like someone says that they're sorry that she struggled with poverty (girl is from a super wealthy family that can buy their family), or say some gibberish with clicks and asks her to translate (s/o can speak five languages: English, Zulu, Xhosa, Afrikaans, and Japanese; understand others. Xhosa has clicks). They ask her if she had...

Melanin Goddess

Hello my dear! I hope this makes your day or night! Thank you for requesting and have a great day! I changed the last one to one that even I had to explain to a friend of mine before who was another race. I hope you like it!

Disclaimer: Cursing

————————————————————————————————————————

* Let’s start off with one thing here, Hitoshi doesn’t like violence unless he has to use it. He doesn’t mind kicking ass for you.

* You may be independent and can defend for yourself and all, but there are times where he’d use his quirk for the stupidity that people ask you.

* You were just chilling, sitting with your boyfriend and enjoying your lovely lunch.

* Everything was fine and dandy until you heard a tray click onto the other side of the table, across from you.

* Your eyes looked at the figure above you, you didn’t know who she was so it didn’t bother you.

* “You’re from South Africa right?” She asked, looking at you. You cleared your throat and smiled. “Yes, I am.”

* The moment you responded with that. She squealed and sat down. “So! You must’ve had to hunt for food, right?! You’re like a warrior huh?” She asked.

* Hold the hell up? Did you...DID YOU?!

* Hunt?! HUNTING WHAT?! WHO THE FUCK DO I LOOK LIKE?! EEP FROM CROODS?!

* “No, I never had to do that.” You said, laughing awkwardly. “Really? I though you had to, that’s what I see in the movies.” She continued.

* “Well, Everything on the movies isn’t always correct.” Shinsou would butt in, his annoyance obvious in his voice .

* “I was jus-“

* “stand up..” he ordered, suddenly taking control of her.

* He hates how people are quick to judge based on what’s shown within the media of your country.

* Regardless of what others think of you or your country, you’re perfect in his eyes. You’re the best thing walking and there was nothing that could ever possibly change that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

* Young Shouta is the same as he is now, just probably sleeping less than before.

* You, Present Mic, Shouta, Midnight and Shirakumo. The small group were laughing and giggling about random issues and topics going on within the world at the moment while walking home.

* The golden hour was glowing off your skin while Shouta held your hand, glancing every now and then to see your gorgeous smile.

* “I still can’t believe you’re from South Africa, I know it’s absolutely gorgeous!” Midnight commented while you two stepped into the train.

* “She’s not from Africa..” someone commented, catching the whole group off guard.

* “Excuse me?” You asked as a man looked over.

* “You can obviously tell she’s not African, they’re poor. She’s obviously an American.” He said as Present Mic’s face tightened a bit.

* “Yo, I’m not gonna al-“

* “He’s just a miserable idiot who doesn’t have anything else better to do then to listen to teenagers conversations, obsess over young girls and deal with his shitty life. I suggest you find something else to listen to old man, you wouldn’t know anything about what’s mine even if you had the chance.” Shouta said, leaving you and Midnight speechless.

* “OH! Here’s our stop!” Shirakumo quickly responded, happy to hear the train stop. The fluffy boy pushed his group out as quickly as he could to avoid the anger of the middle aged man.

* His grip on your hand stayed tight, he despised know-it-all’s. Especially the ones who claims that you’re not who you are.

* You’re Y/N, and regardless if your country is rich or not. He’ll always love you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

* He hates how ignorant people can act and be with it comes to you.

* He seriously despises it within the highest degree, it makes him want to blast any asshole who THINKS about saying some dumbass shit to you.

* This included his friends or anyone to be exact.

* The Baku-squad was just chilling, relaxing at a restaurant. His arm was slung over your shoulders and you were close to him, looking absolutely adorable in Mina’s eyes.

* Denki was seeing a girl..who’s personality wasn’t necessarily up to par to put it in kind words. But in Bakugo’s term, She was a bitch.

* “I have a question.” She said suddenly, gathering everyone’s attention within the circle booth. “I notice you’re South African right, Y/N? (She said your name wrong.)”

* “Yeah, born and raised before moving here, what’s up?” You questioned.

* “You never really dress like a African, I noticed.” She said as Sero spat his drink back out.

* Kirishima’s eyes snapped wide before he looked towards Bakugo who’s glare was darted at her.

* “I just noticed that, and I-“

* “LET ME EDUCATE YOU ON SOME SHIT, BRITTANY!” Mina said as she slapped her hand on the table. “It’s pronounced Y/N. Say it right or don’t say it at all, Next. Just because she’s from Africa doesn’t mean she should dress like one. You’re from Jaku City but you dress like you’re from America with the absolute bullshit all over you. Third and last, I don’t like you. I don’t give a fuck if you’re Denki’s bitch, don’t ever talk shit to my girl like that ever again, clear?” She said, showing a different side to her that left everyone speechless.

* You smirked, knowing you’ve been teaching her to the secret dark-side that she hardly channels.

* Even though, Bakugo let Mina have this one. The next one we going to be his victim because he’s going to defend for you and your country. He loves that Melanin honey.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

* He’s a obvious shy, silent but deadly type. I love him as a character but I can’t fully relate to him like I would with others.

* Probably because I was once like him before I stopped giving a fuck, ANYWAY! Tamaki is a absolute shy sweetheart when it comes to you. He sees and knows the constant questions and random things you’re asked by younger peers or strangers when they find out that you’re South African.

* Just some people..kinda get the wrong ideas sometimes.

* So, You, Mirio, Tamaki and Nejire were heading to your next class, walking with one another while discussing the ideas for the upcoming festival.

* You were apart of the group who saved Eri, you and Mirio basically took care of her and she’s come to love you and Tamaki.

* You loved how adorably shy your dear boyfriend is and how cute he could be with you, especially when it’s just you and him.

* Suddenly, a other classmate appeared and held his phone to you. “Do you know him?” He asked suddenly, showing you a picture of you and Rock Lock, you were assisting him when you the picture was taken.

* “No, I d-“

* “OF COURSE SHE DOES! The know each other! All of them know each other.” His friend said from behind, stepping beside his friend.

* It’s the ignorance for me.

* You were about to say something with Tamaki’s hand touched yours, grabbing it suddenly. “J-J-Just ignore them, B-Bunny.” He whispered to you. He’s extremely humble and refuses to let you suit down to their level. Without saying a word, you walked forward with your boyfriend.

* Guilt suddenly rushed through his veins when he was pulled by you. “I-I didn’t defend for you, I-I-I’m sorry..” he apologized quickly before you smiled.

* “No, you did. You helped me from being suspended or being another racial stereotype, Tama. Thank you.” You reassured, facing him when you two arrived at the door.

* Your soft hands touched each of his cheeks and you pecked his nose, making blush cover his cheeks.

* He loves you more than he thought he could ever, he was afraid to love at first. Each day with you, just..makes his day better each and every time.

* Regardless of your skin, country or even your quirk. You’ll always be perfectly amazing in his eyes. He just has a hard time expressing it at the moment.

[brokehorrorfan]

Interview: James DeMonaco (The Purge franchise)

James DeMonaco thought he had purged himself from The Purge. Having written and directed the first three entries in the hit dystopian action-horror franchise then writing and producing two more sequels and a TV series, he publicly declared that The Forever Purge - released in theaters in July and on home video last week - would be the final installment. "I say it's my last Purge at the end of every one, so I feel like a fool saying there's going to be another one, but I definitely thought [The Forever Purge] was it. I can't lie. That was it for me. I thought I ended America appropriately."

It was the United State Capitol insurrection on January 6 that sparked an idea for a sixth entry. "The country felt like it was coming apart at the seams, and I think the sociopolitical discord fueled something in a nightmare of mine. I woke up with this idea, and I pitched it to Sébastien Lemercier, my producer, then Jason Blum, the other producer. I don't know if they were ready for another Purge, but they liked it. We pitched it to the studio, and they liked it, so I was given the green light to write it.”

The script brings back Frank Grillo's character of Leo Barnes, who was introduced in The Purge: Anarchy and returned in The Purge: Election Year. "I said, ‘If I do another one, I’d like to do it with Frank Grillo.' People loved him, and I love working with Frank." The script is complete but production is uncertain at the moment. "I’m guessing the studio is evaluating the COVID release of [The Forever Purge], so we’ll know soon I guess... I’m hoping we get to do it. I can’t give any definitives other than it’s written and Frank’s excited to do it."

As for the plot of the proposed seventh installment, "It takes place 10 years after The Forever Purge. America has been completely remapped. The states are much different and how they’re broken down is much different, without giving too much away, but there’s a tribalized nature to the new America. [Leo] is living kind of off the grid, but he’s pulled back into the Purge world that still exists in some way, shape, or form."

Truth be told, DeMonaco never expected The Purge to become a franchise. "I didn’t see it going past one [movie]. When we had the script, I think we counted 37 financing entities that had read the script and almost all said the same thing: ‘It’s too anti-American. It’s too nihilistic.’ We really thought if we did get it made, it was going to be a small Michael Haneke film, something like Funny Games, that would play at arthouse theaters and wouldn’t have a wide release."

It was horror producer extraordinaire Jason Blum - who had optioned scripts from DeMonaco when he was an executive at Miramax earlier in his career - that recognized the possibilities of The Purge. "We didn’t see the scope of the potential release until Jason [Blum]. He read it, and he saw something in the conceit that I don’t think I saw; the bigger potential of it. We had no idea I’d be here five movies and two seasons of a TV show later. It’s been a strange ride!"

DeMonaco stepped down as director after three installments of The Purge, but he was eager to guide the franchise as writer-producer. "I was ready to move to something new. I had been Purge-ing for many years in a row. It’s a dark world to live in. I still wanted to shepherd the story. I was always afraid, if it went into someone else’s hands, it potentially could become something I didn’t want it to be. Maybe it could be even better than what I would do, but it also could be something more exploitative in a way that I didn’t want it to go."

DeMonaco found filmmakers he could trust to hand over the reins, but he's eager to return to the director's chair if the next chapter comes to fruition. "When we found Gerard [McMurray], I felt like we were in great hands [on The First Purge]. He understood the sociopolitical nature of the piece. It’s what he loved even more than the genre elements. He felt like the right guy to take over, as did Everardo [Gout] on Part 5. But for 6, I was excited to direct again when I came up with this conceit, so I do believe there’s a chance, if Frank came back, we could re-team and do it together.

Any successful, long-running franchise - particularly one as politically-charged as The Purge - is bound to have its critics, and DeMonaco takes it all in stride. “To my detractors I often say, ‘The Purge is not a subtle film.’ There’s no subtlety at all. I’m hitting people over the head with a sledgehammer with my thoughts on the current political climate in the country. I think some people think it’s too political, and I get that. They don’t want to be preached and proselytized to. Some people love it for those exact reasons. My favorite movies are usually in the 50 percentile on Rotten Tomatoes. They’re gonna piss a lot of people off, and they’re gonna make some people really happy. I think sometimes you have to be bold in what you’re doing. For the people who hate it, that’s their right to hate!” he chuckles.

DeMonaco challenges himself to make every entry in The Purge series unique. "I really take a lot of time to make sure each one is very different than the previous, so even if you’ve seen the first four, we have a mandate between us to say, ‘Let’s not repeat ourselves. Let’s really try to flip it on its head.’ I think [The Forever Purge] feels new. Even the visual palette of the film is new. It takes place in a new territory, a new terrain; it’s not back in an inner city. It takes The Purge to a new level that we haven’t seen before, and I think the characters are wonderful. These are people you truly come to care about, and you want to go on the journey with them. It’s not a rehash that I’ve seen in some franchises. It’s very hard to keep doing new things, but I think it’ll feel fresh."

The Forever Purge's original release date was delayed due to the pandemic, and then it became one of the first wide releases once vaccines were rolled out. "We still don’t exactly know how to process if it’s good or bad financially. It’s hard to know, to be honest. I’m not privy to the backdoor meetings with the adults regarding the financials," he smirks. "But they’re great partners, so I hope they’re happy. I know it was a weird time. A Quiet Place [Part II] came out of the box so big that we all thought, ‘Hey, we’re back!’ But I didn’t know anybody at the time that was going back to the movies. It was a monstrous opening, yet I didn’t know one person who saw it in the theater. It’s still confusing as to what the future of the box office is."

"My biggest fear is that the box office doesn’t return, because I think we can’t replicate inside a movie theater. It’s a scary time." The impact of the theatrical experience is the centerpiece of DeMonaco's latest film, This Is the Night. It reunites the writer-director with Grillo and Blum, but it plays like an antithesis to their work on The Purge. “I think it was something I needed to do,” DeMonaco explains. “Movies have been my guiding force in life. My religion was cinema, and it’s been my passion. I always wanted to make a movie about that love of cinema and what it can inspire. It was wonderful to do after the first three Purges.”

Set in Staten Island during the summer of 1982, the coming-of-age story serves as DeMonaco’s love letter to cinema. "It’s about Rocky III - or any movie, which is why I don’t show any of Rocky III during the screening - that can inspire people to rise up and be better people. It’s about the power of art. It was great to make. I think it’s a very sweet, good-feeling film. I think I needed that myself after making The Purge.”

DeMonaco is currently developing a new horror movie starring Saturday Night Live favorite Pete Davidson. "We’re friends, we live close together. He was a big Purge fan, so we hit it off through a mutual friend." While he's elusive regarding plot details, he does offer a few hints. "I can’t really say it’s contained. It takes place in one place but a big place, so it’s not Purge-size. It’s bigger than that; a facility of some sort."

On working with Davidson, DeMonaco notes, "Big Time Adolescence is a great performance, so is The King of Staten Island, but there’s some humor in those films. There’s almost zero humor in the one we’re doing together. I think that’s exciting for me working with Pete, in that he’s going in a very new direction. This one is much more straightforward for his character." He enthuses, "I’m psyched to work with Pete. I can’t wait."

[buckyswinterbaby]

Always By My Side — Chapter 1

Click here to read the Prologue.

Synopsis: The fates have spent millenniums correcting the daily mishaps that interfere with soulmates ever meeting. Will they find a way to bring together Bucky and Zara, two people separated by time and circumstance, just as they’ve done a thousand times before?

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Black!OFC Ziarah Heartwell

Warnings (will change with each chapter): flashbacks, PTSD, mentions of past sexual assault, angst, bits of fluff

Word Count: 3,791

Acknowledgement: I’ve created this AU alongside my best friend Taylor in roleplays, along with many of the plots and scenes that will be featured. I’m posting this with his expressed permission as we both continue to work on the story in our chat. Credit for its creation goes to both of us.

Please like, comment, and reblog (I love that shit). The divider was created by me, please credit me if you use it. The gifs are not mine. Click here to fill out the form to be added to my tag list!

Note: Here’s chapter one of my new series “Always By My Side”. It takes place in a soulmate AU where a bond is triggered when one or both halves experience a life threatening level of distress. The bond allows them to see imaginary versions of their soulmates to help support them while they wait to meet their other half. Just a warning, up until we reach the current time in the story, there will be significant time skips for plot progression’s sake. The time changes will always be labeled.

Addition: I said I’d tag you when I posted my WOC OFC story so here’s chapter one, @bucky-the-thigh-slayer !

[Bucharest, Romania -- 2016]

The Romanian streets were bustling with early morning energy as Bucky took the final steps outside of the clearly worn apartment complex that he had been calling home for sometime. He seemed unfazed by the sixteen year old girl practically jogging to keep up in step with his longer strides. He had grown rather accustomed to her presence and her commentary since she first appeared to him in 2014. It had been during his final brainwashing session with Hydra before they fell. He couldn’t help but view her as a banshee of sorts, harkening the end of what remained of his mental stability. He couldn’t fathom another reason as to why he would hallucinate an opinionated teenage girl.

Even so, he found comfort in their conversations and how at ease she seemed around him. Almost as if she had always been with him, a piece of himself that still saw the good that was left. Never addressing him with fear or apprehension, never as the monster and killer he was forced to become.

Her features were young and innocent, seemingly unscarred by life despite the bruises that graced her skin--which he was never sure why they existed. At first, he feared that she had been one of his countless victims who had returned to haunt him in her afterlife, though the theory became less likely to him as more time passed.

The defined coils of her hair were pushed up into a messy bun, edges laid smoothly to her forehead in defined loops. When she first started showing up, Bucky had attempted to make sense of the witty phrases and references that so frequently adorned her clothes but he had long since given up on ever understanding them. He had to admit that the shirt she wore that day, a middle finger painted with pink, yellow, and blue, was quite the fashion choice. Not that he could particularly judge with his similar pieces of clothing that were practically identical besides in color.

The pair made their way down the familiar stretch of pavement on their way to the outdoor market that Bucky had made a habit of visiting. He had found that a reliable schedule throughout his week helped him better grasp the passing of time, a fact that his companion had been informing him of for weeks before it finally seemed to click.

The girl’s nose clinked as they neared the fresh fish stand, just as it did every week. Bucky couldn’t help but chuckle at her childish antics as they were so few and far between for someone who seemed quite mature despite her appearance.

“It smells like cat food,” she whined, making a clear act of breathing primarily through her mouth as she jogged to keep up. “How are you not gagging?”

“Not all of us have the luxury of being a figment of someone’s imagination, Zara. If I start gagging, I have a feeling a few people will start to notice.” The man gave her a knowing look. Drawing attention to himself was the exact opposite of what he wanted during his brief outings. “Besides, I can’t say I’ve smelt cat food or have any intention to. So I’ll just have to take your word for it.”

Zara rolled her eyes as the smell began to dissipate the further they moved past the stand, her trademark smile working its way onto her features. “Could’ve had me fooled, I thought that was your guilty pleasure. I can’t say I’ve ever intentionally gotten a whiff, but when I feed the outdoor cats at my house, it’s kinda unavoidable.” She shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly as if it was the most natural thing in the world for an imaginary person to have their own home and animals.

Bucky’s eyebrows furrowed as he narrowed his eyes down to her smaller form beside him. “You don’t have a cat because you aren’t even real,” he retorted. Somehow the idea that she could be real made her presence in his life even harder. The idea that she was just some girl he had passed by in the street or on a mission and his brain decided she’d make the ideal emotional support apparition.

“Who are you to declare that?”

“The creepy hundred year old man who hallucinates a sixteen year old girl, occasionally in her pajamas, for one.” His voice raised a bit louder than he intended, drawing the attention of a few nearby pedestrians. Bucky offered them an awkward smile before ducking back down under the bill of his hat and picking up his pace a bit. She couldn’t argue with his logic so she focused on keeping up until they reached their destination, the produce stand that had the best plums in the city, or so Bucky described.

Zara watched as he spoke Romanian with the merchant, only catching a few words she had learnt over the past few months from their conversations. She couldn’t help but smile at how effortlessly Bucky seemed to interact with the man and how it contrasted so starkly to how he acted when he first arrived in the city. Decades of next to no positive human interaction left the soldier awkward and clunky in his exchanges, often stumbling through questions and requests, or simply forgetting them altogether. It had taken a great deal of patience and metaphorical hand holding to build up his confidence and ease his anxiety on the matter.

It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to blend in, in fact he was almost too good at it at times. Over their conversations, she had managed to show him that yes, blending in made him go through the motions of life, which was better than nothing. Yet, the beauty of his life now and the freedom that came with it was that he no longer had to settle for simply surviving and he could instead use it as a chance to learn to live again. It started small, like convincing him to get a pillow and blanket for the mattress on the floor, to which they compromised with a sleeping bag. Soon came two pillows for the couch and a lone floor lamp that he shoved in the corner near his bed for the late nights when night terrors had him scribbling away in his journals. They were minor improvements, in truth, but the progress spoke volumes as Bucky worked on building a place that felt a bit more permanent than his last few hideouts.

Zara had been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn’t even registered that Bucky completed his purchase and had moved to stand at the edge of the sidewalk. She approached him curiously, watching the way he hesitantly analyzed the seemingly anxious newspaper peddler from across the street. It was very clear something was wrong from the way his demeanor had changed.

“Buchanan?” Her voice raised a bit at the end of his name, concern now replacing her curiosity as he began to make his way to the stand. He either didn’t hear her--which she found unlikely--or he simply opted to ignore her as he picked up the paper, ocean blue eyes scanning over the headline. The color seemed to drain from both of their faces as they took the accusation in, not having to speak to know what it meant.

Bucky would have to pick up his life, yet again, and run. Find a new country, new home, and start the process all over again. The ex-assassin hardly seemed surprised at the realization, as there is no rest for the wicked.

[Boston, Massachusetts -- 2016]

Zara made her way down the hallway to her bedroom, an imaginary version of Bucky trailing along behind her. She let her book bag drop to the floor once she entered the room, stepping out of her shoes before flopping down onto the soft, sunflower themed duvet of her bed. A look of weightlessness overtook her features as she let the events of the day settle in. Today she would graduate with a PhD in Biomedical Engineering from MIT, top of her class. It was the culmination of years of pouring herself over every textbook her parent’s provided, testing out and early graduations. At only sixteen, Zara would join the ranks of some of the youngest individuals to ever receive a doctoral degree. It truly seemed unreal to her.

Emerald eyes drifted to where Bucky sat at her desk, his arms crossed loosely in front of his chest.

“I wish you could be there tomorrow,” Zara commented, propping herself up on her elbows as her fingers pulled at the frayed threads on the yellow quilt folded at the end of her bed.

A smile teased the corner of Bucky’s lips as he leaned back against her swivel chair, long hair swaying as he tilted his head to the left to look at her. “I will be there, maybe not in person, but I’ll be there cheering right along with everyone else,’ he assured.

“It’s not the same and you know it, Buchanan.”

“I know. Just try to focus on the positives. Tomorrow is your day, you’ve more than earned it.”

Zara nodded, though her disappointment was still evident. On the average day, Bucky’s seemingly invisible presence to everyone else but her came in handy. As she was willing to bet her parents wouldn’t be too keen on the amount of time she spent alone with the grown man, let alone if they knew who he was. The public’s perception of James Buchanan Barnes, who she had quickly identified him as, was low to say the very least. Though it was days like this that she found herself wishing the most that he could truly exist in her life outside of her mind.

She could never quite pinpoint why she began hallucinating him two years prior. Though, the time before and after her fourteenth birthday had flown by in a post traumatic daze so it was even more difficult to analyze. The aftermath of four older boys assaulting her in her own bedroom left her wishing to repress that portion of her life altogether. Zara squeezed her eyes shut as she felt the ghost of their hands on her body. Grabbing, groping, pulling and tearing at clothes. She had hardly seen them since their attack but her mind was still trapped in the room with them.The feeling took her back to meeting Bucky that night, or more so the Winter Soldier, as he appeared at that time.

Upon entering her room, Zara failed to notice the masked man sitting silently in the corner of the room, illuminated only by the small lamp on her bedside stand. When she caught a glimpse of the figure, her body jumped to it’s fight response, just as it had an hour or so before. The young girl grabbed the closest thing she could find, a textbook on advanced chemistry, and held onto it tightly before turning to face the intruder.

“You need to leave,” she ordered, her voice wavering at the end of the demand. Her green eyes only met a pair of dark glasses securely strapped to his face. She couldn’t make out any facial features to identify him by, as all but his forehead and hair was covered.

It wasn’t just his silence that sent an unnerved shiver down her spine. It was his demeanor, cold and nearly unresponsive to her presence and defensive stance. Had his head not briefly turned her way when she started to speak, she’d question if he even heard her at all.

A large gun, likely a rifle from what she could tell, was resting across his lap. His hands weren’t actively gripping it, but something told her he could take aim in the time it took her to breathe her next breath. A variety of handguns and knives were also visible from the holsters adorning his thighs. If he had this many weapons visible, Zara could only imagine how many he had stashed under his tactical vest and heavy boots.

Her green eyes followed where she believed his gaze had drifted. He seemed laser focused on the strip of light just barely visible from under her door as a roar of laughter could be heard from just outside. His hand moved to rest just over the barrel of his gun. The young girl analyzed him for another moment before lowering the textbook, while still keeping it tightly in her hands.

“Will you at least tell me why you’re here?” There was a hint of desperation in her voice, one that vocalized all of the fear she had been trying to hide. She was met with more silence, which quickly became deafening to her. She was afraid to make a move to get his attention again, naturally unsure of how he would react. Yet, at the same time she couldn’t relax, not with him in her space.

After another few moments of no response, she allowed herself to consider the possibility that he wasn’t actually there. She had just been through something horribly traumatic and it was entirely possible that this was her brain's way of coping with the stress and fear. That it had conjured some masked figure to sit at her bedroom door and keep all the bad away.

She knew how best to test her theory, but she recognized the risk that came with it as she picked up a neon pink highlighter that she had been using earlier that night. She gripped it for a moment while weighing her options, throwing it across the room only seconds later. She didn’t put too much force behind it, hoping that if it gently came into contact, he’d be less likely to be angry. The consideration meant very little as the marker passed straight through the man and knocked against the wall before falling to the floor. She watched as it rolled across the floor and disappeared underneath her nearby dresser, a bittersweet feeling washing over her. On one hand, he wasn’t real and couldn’t hurt her. On the other, she was truly alone and definitely going crazy.

“This is fine,” Zara tried to reassure herself with very little luck.

She was pulled back from her thoughts as Bucky called her name for the third time, snapping her back to reality. Their eyes connected for a moment as she attempted to ground herself again, focusing on the small changes between how he was now versus then.

He had since lost the mask and goggles, she remembered him removing them a month or so after he first appeared. His current casual attire contrasted starkly with the hard kevlar of the tactical vest she first met him in. His features were more at ease now, no longer reflecting the fear that she could only compare to an animal in captivity. While she wasn’t fond of the comparison, following what she had learned of the real James Barnes, it wasn’t entirely far off.

As if the world was reading her mind, she faintly heard the voice of the local news anchor from the living room directly below her bedroom. Her features scrunched as she focused in on hearing the report, only catching snippets here and there. The words explosion and Sokovia Accords were most of what she could make out along with what she could’ve sworn was the suspect’s name, James Buchanan Barnes.

Before Zara could even question it further, she found herself racing down the main staircase of their suburban home, sock clad feet skidding to a halt on the polished dark oak flooring. Her eyes widened as she took in the security camera footage that was believed to place Bucky near the scene of the crime. Despite having no real proof, something deep within her gut screamed that it wasn’t true. She knew him, maybe not the real version, but he’d never do that.

Imaginary Bucky followed her into the living room a minute later, his pace slow and relaxed in comparison as he shoved his hands into his pockets. Being held responsible for the most recent atrocity was honestly just beginning to feel like the average Tuesday to him. More than anything, it was Zara’s reaction that took him the most by surprise. Her unwavering faith and loyalty was unexpected and as he believed, undeserved.

He had committed unspeakable acts over the years and this was likely far from the worst he was accused of. Sure, they had grown close in the two years since he first appeared and he imagined that made it easier for her to block out the rest of the stories, since she knew at least some version of the person in question.

Zara was good, in every sense of the word. Of course she had flaws, but who didn’t, especially at sixteen. But he saw the way that she looked at the world with love and curiosity despite the violence and violations she had experienced. It was a strength of character that he truly wished he could grow to embody. Bucky couldn’t help but find it funny that he was left looking up to a teenager who hadn’t even passed her driver’s test yet; but she honestly had more morals and heart than most of the adults he had met in his life. All of those facts being true is what made her belief in his innocence all the more confusing.

His eyes fell to her father, Gabriel, as he sat on the couch to take in the evening news. The man’s head shook in what seemed to be disappointment, or maybe it was anger, Bucky honestly couldn’t be sure anymore. They had never spoken, as Bucky’s intangible form made communication with anyone other than Zara impossible, but he knew Gabriel was a black and white kind of person. He couldn’t help but accept that to anyone who didn’t know him, the evidence would be damning.

“They need to just put him down while they have the chance,” Gabriel scoffed, speaking to no one in particular while switching the flatscreen off before they could finish the broadcast.

“He’s not a wild animal to be euthanized.” Zara’s expression twisted in disgust at her father’s casual nature. “He’s a human being. If he's guilty, and that’s a really big if with how blurry that security footage is, he deserves a trial just like anyone else!”

Gabe turned to look over the back of the couch, clearly displeased that she would defend the man. “I’m in no mood to debate with you, Ziarah.” He rose from his seat and dropped the remote onto the foot stool before leaving towards his study.

Zara watched him leave, her eye practically twitching with each step he took. She wanted to tell him he was wrong, to make him see that there were likely more sides to the story than they were seeing but she knew that it was useless. Her father rarely took her opinions or beliefs to heart on things that actually mattered to him, a topic like this would truly be a lost cause.

She looked up at Bucky as he shook his head lightly, letting her tension fade away as she accepted that it was pointless. “It’s okay, Zar,” Bucky assured, his small smile wiping away any lingering doubts she had. “There are more important battles to pick with him. This isn’t a hill worth dying on.”

Zara would’ve liked to argue that defending her friend was more than a worthy cause but she nodded nonetheless.

“How about we go find your mom. I bet she’s already working on the cake for your graduation and knowing you, you can convince her to let you lick the spoon.” His tone was playful as he coaxed her into motion, the promise of sweets and a friendly face luring her into the kitchen behind him.

Hanna was busy mixing away the different batters she would need for the next tier, the sweet aroma of baked goods filling the air. She hummed lightly as she worked, creating her own personal mix of her favorite 80’s songs together in a unique medley. Her green eyes moved to the doorway as she heard Zara walk in, a bright smile overtook her features as she set down her mixing bowl.

“There’s my little scholar,” she praised, moving around the kitchen island to take her daughter into her arms. Her warm embrace was a welcomed escape as Zara melted.

“Momma,” Zara grumbled as her mother placed a series of kisses on her forehead. “I thought you stopped doing that since I was a baby.” While Zara whined, deep down she always loved her mother’s open displays of affection. Not that she was willing to admit it.

“That’s the beauty of you always being my baby. You’re never too old for me to embarrass you. Just be grateful that I’ve opted to do it now instead of at your party.” The woman grinned away as she moved back to her work.

Zara honestly couldn’t argue with the logic as she found a seat on one of the tall bar stools. She quickly lost herself in the pleasant conversion with her mother, happily opting to clean the excess batter and frosting off of the bowls and mixing spoons like the helpful child she was. Imaginary Bucky sat quietly at the kitchen table, watching the women as they fell into the usual banter and discussion. After they finished her conversation she quickly grabbed a snack and made her way towards the door.

“I believe you’re forgetting something,” Hanna reminded, sending Zara a knowing look.

She huffed lightly before turning on her heels to grab her blood testing and insulin kit, waving it at her mother knowingly. She quickly turned back around and left the kitchen, making her way back upstairs.

Bucky didn’t hesitate to follow after her, stopping only when he saw Zara staring in her old room, which now housed her older brother Daniel. He could practically see the wheels turning in her mind as she ran over the events that more often than not had her scurrying past said room without acknowledging it. It was easier to just pretend it didn’t exist.

A few more moments passed before Zara pulled herself back from the darker parts of her mind, focusing in on everything else in her life that was good and worth celebrating. She had known pain and a time in her life where she often considered if it would’ve been easier to just fade away, but she had made it through to the other side. She had a lot going for her now and that was enough to push her feet forward again.

Chapter 2

[acciomanorian]

The One Where Cardan Got Kicked Out Of The Bar (1)

Our resident dumbass High King got himself and Jude kicked out of the bar. Thank you to everybody on the JurdanNet Discord who helped draft this entire fic, it wouldn’t be here without you. For the record, this was supposed to be a one shot, but it’s becoming a multichapter, so here you go.

Warning: Smut involved (17+)

One of the High King and Queen of Faerie’s favorite place to spend time together is a mortal bar. Doesn’t matter where the bar is, as long as there is alcohol, or so Cardan Greenbriar says. The one thing Cardan doesn’t like about the mortal bars are the people who hit on his wife. Jude Duarte, on the other hand, enjoys this very much because it gives her the opportunity to fight, one of her favorite pastimes. Of course, the sight of seeing Jude fight arouses something in Cardan, after all that is his wife, but just once, he would love to be the one to take down the stranger. 

One night at a bar located in New York City, a strange and magical place that Cardan finds so fascinating, probably because it is so different from Elfhame, Cardan is granted his wish. When Cardan had gotten up to use the bathroom, a man had come to take his spot, and for once in her life, Jude was too drunk to defend herself. Seeing this sent Cardan into a rage and he quickly came up behind the guy, tapping him on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, but I believe the lady asked you to stop,” Cardan slurred. Nobody said that he wasn't drunk either, but he’s had years of experience.

“Buddy, I don’t know who you think you are, but I think you should leave me and the lady alone. I’ll decide when it’s time to stop.” The attitude of the man alone was enough to infuriate Cardan, but the sentence brought his anger to a whole other level.

“My name is Cardan Greenbriar, and that is my wife!” and the next thing the man knew he was being thrown across the bar, almost through the wall. 

Everybody around them was instantly on their feet, unsure of whether to help the man or restrain Cardan. 

“I think you’ve killed him.” Jude was looking over with a pleased smile on her face. “How does it feel to kill?”

“I didn’t kill him, there’s birds flying around his head. He’ll be fine.” Cardan shrugged it off, knowing that a knockout was better than death, especially since he was so against killing people. It was one thing for Jude to kill somebody, in the name of the crown or otherwise, it was quite another for Cardan to take a life.

“Are you sure those aren’t the splinters of wood from the wall you just threw him through?”

“Like I said, he’ll be fine Jude, darling. But… we should probably get going. Those guys don’t look too fine.” Cardan pointed at the 3 hulking mortal men coming their way. Hurriedly, Jude and Cardan exited the bar, only to have the door slammed in their faces and a rough don’t ever return shouted through it.

“Great!” Jude explained, “You just got us kicked out of the bar.” 

“Yeah, but there are a ton of other bars to go to. It’s only one bar, and besides, I don’t want to inhabit a place that lets people flirt with married women. Especially when their husband is right across the room.”

“Oh yes, so heroic, Mr. Cardan ‘that’s my wife’ Greenbriar. I could’ve handled myself.” After the ordeal, Cardan could see that Jude was sobering up, but it still wasn’t enough for her to have been able to handle herself against a mortal trying to take advantage of her. “Whatever, let’s just go home.”

Just as they were about to reach a safe place for their return, Jude received a ping on the phone that she borrowed from Vivi. 

“Cardan… look at what you did. We are banned from every bar and club in the country, possibly the whole world.”

Cardan furrowed his brow. “For one fight? That doesn’t make sense.”

“How about for the fact that you threw the guy through the wall. With one punch.”

“Oh.”

Grabbing two pieces of ragwort weed from his pocket, conjuring up two ragwort steeds for them to get home. Soon they were safely inside of Elfhame, making their way towards the palace and their bedroom.

Jude, still drunk, reached for Cardan, pulling his lips to hers. Not one to say no to his wife, Cardan greedily kissed her, pulling Jude to the bed as they removed their mortal clothing. Once they were fully unclothed, Cardan gently laid Jude down on the bed, separating their lips as he pulled the covers over her. Jude struggled, obviously expecting something more from Cardan, but he gently shushed her, with a command to stop struggling. 

Although Jude may have been the more forceful one in the marriage, there was still some stuff Cardan could get away with in the bedroom, and ordering his wife around was one of those. 

Once Jude was safely ensconced in the blankets, Cardan went over to his side, cuddling up to his wife. His full length pressed up against her, and while he may have regretted saying no to Jude mentally, his body wasn’t going to be very forgiving. Soon, though, exhaustion overtook them both, from ruling all of Elfhame and their brawl at the bar, and the alcohol in their systems, and Jude and Cardan found themselves fast asleep until late in the morning.

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

The next morning, Jude was on a mission. 

“You got us kicked out of almost all the bars in the world, now you can help me find at least one that will let us in.”

“What? Wait, why do I have to help?” Cardan said groggily. He had just woken up, and was feeling the effects of a hangover due to the cheap alcohol from the night before. 

“Because I said so, and because you are the reason we are in this mess in the first place.” 

“Ugh, fine.” Cardan grumbled but rolled out of bed, pulling on a robe and making his way to the desk where Jude was pouring over the mortal laptop she had somehow configured into working in Faerie. Not the Cardan was complaining. He was currently watching a show called Lucifer on this Netflix app and the lead seemed like just his type. If Cardan wasn’t entirely enthralled by Jude, he would probably be trying to court the Tom Ellis chap. 

As they looked over the mortal Google maps, trying to find at least a single bar, Cardan absentmindedly rubbed his hand across Jude’s back. Finally, just when he was beginning to lose focus for the fifteenth time, Jude spotted something.

“There!” she cried, although her voice was hoarse so it sounded more like a whisper. She was pointing to a spot in a remote-looking part of Canada. “It’s a biker bar, and they say that everyone is welcomed, no matter how bad, ugly, anything. There is also no notice for it saying that we are banned.”

“Guess we found our new spot, then. Now, we’ve got other matters to attend to, after all, it is the weekend, and we should have some time to ourselves.” Cardan grinned at his wife, who slowly slid her eyes to his own. There was a gleam there that had been missing moments before, which meant she knew exactly what matters she was talking about. Jude had wanted to start something last night, and Cardan fully intended to finish it now that they were both sober. 

“Yes, my king, we should,” Jude purred, rubbing her arm across Cardan’s thigh. Goosebumps formed along his arms and legs, as well as his bare stomach. The robe he was wearing really did nothing to help Jude’s advances, which was really unfair considering that she was in a tank top and mortal leggings.

Jude pulled Cardan to his feet and pulled the robe off of his shoulders. She tried to take the lead in this, and normally Cardan would let her, but he was feeling very authoritative at the moment. He grabbed Jude’s hands and pulled her to the middle of the room. “Kneel.”

At the command, Jude began to glare at Cardan, knowing full well where this was going. However, she did as he asked, getting down onto her knees, still fully dressed. 

Cardan tutted disapprovingly. “Something seems wrong with the picture, don’t you agree Jude, dear. It appears that I am fully unclothed, and you are not.” Jude’s fingers found the hem of her tank top, and she began to pull it over her stomach. From where Cardan was standing over her, he saw the swell of her breast bounce as she released them from the top, obviously not wearing any mortal contraptions to contain them. 

As she began to stand again to remove her leggings, Cardan pushed Jude back to the ground, with both tail and hands. “Have I given you permission to stand yet?” Jude shook her head. “I’m sorry, what was that?” 

“Yes, my king.” There was a tinge of bitterness in her voice at being forced to submit, but Cardan could see the full force of his actions reflected in her eyes as she looked up at him. 

“Better,” Cardan said. “You may stand now.” Cardan knew that to anyone else, he would come across as cruel, but he also knew that this was the exact thing that Jude needed in order to find release. Once she was fully naked, Cardan pushed her onto the bed, arms and legs splayed.

“Now, for a test of your control. You are not to move until I say you do, unless you want to be restrained. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my king,” Jude breathed, as Cardan began to kiss his way up her stomach, pausing to individually kiss each breast. Jude moaned as Cardan moved his way up to her neck and began slowly kissing and sucking at the point where her shoulder met her neck. Cardan’s tail slowly made its way down her leg wrapping itself around her left ankle and rubbing softly against it. True to her word, she remained still, not even flinching at his cold fingertips as they found her thighs and began to travel upwards. Cardan began to run a finger down her core, and at the same time began to move his lips closer to her mouth. 

“Remember, Jude dear, my sweet villain, don’t move a muscle.” And with that reminder, Cardan slid a finger inside of her, catching her cry of pleasure with his mouth. There was a buck of her hips, and a tightening of her hands on the sheets, but that was the only movement displayed by Jude. 

“Good girl,” he whispered as he slid his finger in and out, in and out. Once she was used to that, Cardan added a second finger, joining the first one in its ministrations. 

“Please my king, I am going to come.” Cardan knew that Jude was telling the truth, but he was still in control, and therefore he would make Jude beg for it. And beg she would.

“Cardan,” she gasped, “please, Cardan my king. Please.” There were tears beginning to form in the corner of Jude’s eyes, and Cardan gave a slight dip of his head, acknowledged by a sign of relief. Removing his fingers from between Jude’s legs, Cardan lined himself up.

Before he entered his wife, however, he paused. “What do you say, Jude dear?”

“Please my king.” With that, Cardan sheathed himself inside of Jude, allowing them both to adjust before beginning to move, sliding in and out, getting deeper and deeper. It wasn’t long before Jude was crying his name, all pretenses of control lost as she gripped his hair, and Cardan let her. He followed his wife as she went over the edge. 

Cardan remained inside of Jude long after they were done, just holding his wife, and enjoying the moment together. He finally slid out, rolling over until he was spooning Jude, and although it was only afternoon, soon tumbled into darkness. His tail had moved from where it had remained around Jude’s ankle to her thigh, brushing soothing strokes up and down, reaching the underside of her cheeks. 

This time when he woke up, Jude was still in bed. However, she was glaring at him, and Cardan could almost see the daggers in her eyes, caused by his actions from earlier in the day. 

“You are so getting paid back for that,” she said, poking him in the chest. Cardan only rolled his eyes before pulling her closer and saying “You love me.” Jude pushed him away, untangling herself from the sheets and Cardan as she got up and walked over to the bathroom.

“Now, I don’t know about you, but we’ve got people to meet and a bar to check out. I’m going to clean up, but feel free to join me.” To say that Cardan was quick to get out of bed was an understatement as he rushed to join his wife in the bathroom, preferably for a round two.

If you want to be tagged, send me an ask... some of you aren’t permanent tags, but if you want to be, just tell me. I hope you all enjoyed!

@ireallyshouldsleeprn @theoceanfaewriter @snusbandxknifewife @angelofmusic223 @slightlyrebelliouswriter23 @clockworkgraystairs @sweetlyvillainous @b00kworm

[yellowocaballero]

ugh what you said about jon just helplessly missing deisha and despite being able to connect, still ultimately grieves alone forced me to think about this one book that said something like “grief is a room you enter alone” and I just ;_; something I love about your metas so much is that you rlly pick apart how it can be true that multiple things can be happening at once - he’s being understood, but he can’t be understood, he’s monstrous, but he’s human etc. basically I adore these essays and just reading how you build and present flaws in characters I think is genuinely making me a better writer

THANK YOU...I think we all grieve alone, just a little bit. With people, and maybe especially with more intangible things - when we move to another city or country, when we live alienated from our home cultures, when our bodies fail us, or when relationships fail. It’s inherently such a solitary thing.

And yeah, so often in life we’re feeling so many contradictory things!! Maybe even ALL THE TIME! I’ve loved and hated simultaneously, I’ve never wanted to see someone again and found myself constantly seeking out contact. You ever never want someone to text you, but you’re sad that they don’t text? I want to go back to my workplace but also I want to keep working from home forever. So it’s a real, legitimate feeling, I think.

But that’s also not why I write it that way. Stories inherently kind of have to work on both a literal and symbolic/metaphorical level. You said that you were interested in the writing bits, so I’ll get specific - I determine what happens in layers. Some things are the most essential aspects of the story, and everything else has to warp around that. Hope Etc is a very weird and bad example because a) I put no thought in this story and b) the nature of daemons is that they literalize the metaphorical. So basically every physical thing that Jon does is metaphorical for something. 

So what a story is ‘about’ is the most important thing, and this can change and shift throughout the story as you realize what keeps cropping up time again and again (which is kind of oxymoronic). I use monster vs human a lot for this specific fandom, because monsters can have whatever metaphorical significance you fucking want them to, but other stories such as hope vs desolation, optimism vs pessimism, wanting to die vs choosing to live, etc, work too. The second thing is tone - which determines the message of the story dramatically. What a story is ‘about’ can’t be pessimism when you have a light-hearted and comedic tone. Unless you’re getting REALLY creative. You can add a lot of additional themes to that, but a bunch of themes together make is what something is about. Also very important is that for me what something is ‘about’ includes genre. 

Then what’s kind of wrapped around that is the metaphor. Literal things happen, which have metaphorical meaning, which advance what a story is ‘about’. Not everything that happens is metaphorical - sometimes things have to happen to advance the plot - but things that happen need to advance something. Either plot, or a character arc, or they need to have metaphorical significance. In my opinion the most deft writing is when everything that happens has all three. 

I think over metaphor is character arc and character. When something happens in a story it has to advance the plot and advance the character’s arc. The character’s arc forms a trajectory that spells out the theme. A character arc for me frequently means the relationship between two characters, which often really really work to highlight theme. I think people push each other to change and grow a lot. If it’s a romantic relationship I push that ‘growth instigated by the other’ hard. Also, foils. I think the best romantic relationships are foils. I love foils. I always write foils. Just adore them, they’re so easy to write. Just make someone the opposite of someone else but give them the same theme. It’s great. This is also why I’m always saying that I don’t really sit down and ‘make characters’, characters just happen based on what needs to happen. I don’t decide anything about a character when I start out besides “haha exact opposite of canon character” or “haha amnesiac PI” or “haha roleswap”. And that’s coming from someone who rarely uses canon characterizations and who writes everybody as a thinly veiled OC...and maybe that’s why everybody kind of ends up a thinly veiled OC...

Over that is plot. Plot is what has to happen to make all of these other things happen. I can’t plot. I think I can’t plot because I’m too worried about these other things and I forget ‘oh yeah, Things Have To Happen’. Maybe there’s other people who plot first and then figure out these other things based on what happens in the plot? ....why...

So I kind of made that a gumball, layered thing, because that’s how I build the story. And I shouldn’t have, because these things all feed each other. What a story is ‘about’ is highly dictated by what you’ve decided the character arc to be - highly - and it creates a feedback loop as both of these things get changed and twisted and tangled during writing. A story never ends how I intended, because different things crop up. But there is a ‘priority list’ for me, and that’s kind of the layers - these characters have to act in X way because that’s one of the cornerstones I need to hit for the genre, so I have to have their character arcs match this. Characters can’t act in a certain way just because the plot makes them - granted, sometimes they do, but that means that you have to go back and tweak their character arc to match. You cannot have something metaphorically happen that goes completely against the theme, unless that has repercussions. Plot isn’t the story for me, the about is the story. None of this is hard and fast, and there is nothing that you can’t do, you just really have to view all of these things in a complex interplay that constantly affect each other.

I think of it like gears? They all work together and churn together to make the story work. But if you twist one gear, the others move too. You first imagine it this one way, but then you keep on tweaking and tweaking and tweaking, and then everything else has to change too, so then you’re like why did I even bother to outline, outlining is stupid, and also I have this funny joke so I have to go back and change everything, and...

Wow, maybe that’s why I’m so bad at planning shit..

My...goal? Is to make it so that Everything works on every level. You should be able to read a story completely literally and completely miss the metaphorical meaning and still vibe. But unfortunately the way it turns out for me sometimes is that the symbolism outweighs the literal. When I write absurdist/surrealist stuff it’s just me being lazy and not having to have things be literal, lol. What you get when something only works on a symbolic level and not on a literal level at all is Utena. And I’m writing trashy fanfic so I can’t do that. What normally happens in practice is that things happen literally for a bit, and then I’m like ‘oh I’m Sensing a Theme’ and then I start playing into the theme, and then things happen because it’s thematic. Plot is...plot should be more important to me...

And then of course there’s grounding all of this in human emotion and making sure there’s a climax (me, shaking hope etc: THERE’S NO FUCKING CLIMAX), and dealing with all of that stuff that makes it actually emotional and impactful instead of just abstract and dumb. 

I chose not to use examples for all of that because I wanted it to just be broad writing advice? I can kind of point out there examples of that line of thinking in my writing, and I probably can for Hope, Etc, but it would be a bad example - both because the NATURE of that story is that the literal is INHERENTLY a metaphor so you really cannot view anything in that story as literal, nothing in it is literal - also because I put no thought into it. 

Of course that’s not my process. That’s not my process at all. I don’t sit down and figure this shit out. I didn’t read any of that anywhere, it’s just me bullshitting, that entire thing was just me bullshitting relentlessly I am so fucking sorry. My process is that I joke about ideas with friends, I sit down at a computer and I kind of thump a keyboard for a few hours, I live my life and daydream stuff and kinda make little movies in my heads, I go home and slam the keyboard some more, halfway through I walk up to my beta and go “hey what’s the plot of this?” she helps me figure it out by giving me very bad ideas, I kind of slam my keyboard some more, and then it’s done. And then I kinda edit it a little maybe whatever and then I post it. 

There’s not a lot of thought involved. I really can’t stress enough how I don’t think about all of this when I write. I’m really brain empty. When I do these analyses what I’m doing is that I’m looking back over my story and then I’m like...Oh That’s What I Was Doing! Huh! Neat!

Haha that got long. I’m not a good writer. Thanks for the ask!

[pierreslittleredblog]

Inside the Eastern Bloc: A Brief History Of The Ex-USSR

“All victories inevitably come at a cost.” ‑ Mikhaïl Gorbachev, HBO Chernobyl

Nikola Tesla Boulevard on a summer evening, Serbia - Photo Source: Pierre (PLRB)

A Tale Of Winners & Losers

Nothing feels more hopeless than a self-destructing world around you. We often forget how easy we have it, snuggled in our cocoons of excessive love and smothering. Sometimes, we need to be remembered who we are and where we come from. Not too long ago did our grandparents struggled and fought for their basic needs. Of course, now, with our technology, we don’t even have to worry about the basic survival priorities of the past. With the simple click of a button, we can have everything delivered to our doorstep without even raising an arm.

 Ah, doesn’t it feel good to taste the sweet fruits of our capitalistic labor? Isn’t it great to be the “winners” of today’s world? Sometimes, we tend to forget that our victories come at a great cost. Sometimes, we forget to humanize our enemies. They too can love, laugh, cry and fear. They too, are humans like us.

Propaganda poster of Yuri Gagarin - Photo Source: @soviet.propaganda on Instagram

Watch Out For The Communist!

Let me ask you a question: How many times have you heard the word “communist” on the news? My guess of your answer is quite a few times. Although rare, sometimes it is used simply to describe the people that identify with the socialist Marxist-Leninist ideology. Most of the time though, it is used as a pure and simple insult. An insult that describes everything we don’t understand, fear, and dislike. 

This exact description though is exactly what our grandparents were told about the red flag-carrying “commies” over in the eastern bloc. When the canons of wars tear through the skies, governments tend to create a sense of unity within their population to, somehow, justify the war on a national scale. They dehumanize their enemies and convince us that we must fear the others, and win this war at all cost (as they did with Vietnam). 

But when we don’t even know who our enemies are, how can we fully grasp what’s at stake?

Propaganda poster of Lenin’s revolution - Photo Source: @comrade_quotes on Instagram

Rise Up, Comrade!

Before getting into the modern Soviet Union (the 1970s-1990s), let’s focus on the beginning. If you went over to the former republics of the Soviet Union in 2021, you would notice how terrible everything looks. Potholes, crumbling buildings, outdated trolleybuses, and subway cars, beaten up Lada’s plowing through knee-deep puddles under the unimpressed look of the driver’s face. 

When you come to witness this spectacle in person, it is easy to assume that the Soviets must’ve had it rough back in the day, and boy you would’ve been right. Once the Tsars were no more, the new Soviet party lead by the revolutionist Vladimir Lenin promised a bright and equal future turned on the workers and the equal distribution of their labor. However, this promise wouldn’t be easy to achieve. What followed afterward were decades and decades of purges, wars, hard work, and brutal leadership by our good ol’ friend Comrade Stalin. Some argue about Uncle Joe’s good intentions, but this is not what I want to focus on. Here I want to talk about the last soviet’s aspirations and dreams, the ones our western leaders promised to crush for our freedom.

Haludovo Palace of Kirk, Croatia - Photo Source: @socmod on Instagram

For The Happiness Of All Mankind

The 1970s was a great time to be a Soviet. If you were a citizen, you would’ve been able to move into brand new apartments, get a stable job in any industry you wish, get all the food you can eat, obtain the diploma you wanted, have access to healthcare, you would even be able to get a brand new Lada, and all for free! Yes, you’ve read that right: for free. 

Communism in the Soviet Union wasn’t about a totalitarian regime and oppressing its citizens (as the western propaganda wants us to believe), it was about universal free access to one’s every need. Now of course there were some questionable policies such as limited free speech and limited access to the outside world beyond the iron curtain (however more and more freedoms were given to the Soviets in the 1980s with the arrival of Mikhail Gorbachev into office). The Soviet Union wasn’t lacking behind in technology either, in fact, it was the world’s second industrial and military superpower back in its heyday! They even sent the world’s first man into space. 

This is what the real Soviet Union was about: unity and comradeship. They truly had a will to build a greater future for humanity and like us today, they had reached such a level of comfort that a bright future was taken for granted by everybody in the USSR. 

However, this candor belief in a great future would suddenly come to a brutal end.

Edge of the Chernobyl Red Forest, Ukraine - Photo Source: Pierre (PLRB)

Porridge With A Side Of Radiation

It’s April 26th, 1986. In a small town of the Ukrainian SSR, citizens are eating breakfast and preparing for yet another routine day. Children are headed to school and parents, to work. Some of them could notice smoke coming out of the industrial site nearby, and others had heard rumors about a possible roof fire that started in the night. 

However, nobody seemingly cared as everybody went on with their day none the wiser. At the same time on the other side of town, ambulances are flying in one by one into the general hospital, carrying firefighters from the smoking site. Nurses run outside and discover men with unusual burns, screaming in pain. Nobody knew what was happening and they all tried to assist them to the best of their knowledge. The citizens didn’t know it yet, but only 3 kilometers away from their homes, the worst nuclear disaster that mankind would ever experience had happened. 

Today, this event is simply known as “Chernobyl”. Of course, back then, they had no clue about what was actually happening, and Soviet bureaucracy would immensely delay the travel of information up to the top state officials. It took them a full 3 days before they evacuated the town of Pripyat, and on the same occasion, creating the famous 30 km exclusion zone (which is still in place today). Of course, by then, it was already too late. Most of the citizens had already received a fatal dose of radiation that would affect their descendants for generations, and make their land uninhabitable for hundreds of years. 

This event was a true shifting point for the USSR, as the Soviet leader Gorbachev took the opportunity for the first time in Soviet history, to be as transparent as possible with its citizens and to the world. He finally admitted that the Soviet Union is about to crash.

Palace of Yugoslavia, Serbia - Photo Source: Pierre (PLRB)

A Russian Traitor

Gorbachev told the shocking truth to its citizens. The country’s banks are empty, and for years the Union was living off the reserves accumulated in the past decades. The Soviet Union wasn’t producing anymore, and instead, became buyers. The self-sustaining system they had built before was no longer in place and everybody would have to brace for the rough years coming ahead.

 This news naturally came as a true shock for the entire population, and suddenly all hopes of a bright future were lost. The citizens learned that the good years are over, and from now on, they should expect misery and poverty. The Cold War and the Afghanistan War had ruined the country’s economy, the former leader Leonid Brezhnev had lost the leadership with his lazy ways and had become too comfortable in his spending. 

However, amid all this chaos and confusion, not a single second did anybody think the Soviet Union would simply collapse and disappear. They truly believed in the strong and powerful nation they had built in the past 69 years, and never imagined one second that it would come to an end. They thought they would simply fight through the rough years and rise again as they had done in the past century. 

One politician though had another idea of how things would turn out. Boris Yeltsin, a man rejected by the Soviet party for having ideas too far away from the communist ideology, was grooming republics for their independence and made deals with the Americans without the knowledge of Mikhail Gorbachev, the leader of the Soviet Party. This is how bad the bureaucracy had gotten. They became so out of touch with their own reality that on December 8th, 1991 the Belovezha Accords were signed by Yeltsin and two other figureheads (without the knowledge of Gorbachev), essentially ending the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.

Soviet mosaic bus stop in Kalmykia, Russia - Photo Source: @realbaldandbankrupt on Instagram

Shock Therapy

It’s Christmas Day, 1991, and the Americans have won. The Soviet Union, which they had fought for decades to end, finally ceased to exist. The dreams that were built, the futures seemingly so bright that was promised to its citizens, all disappeared on that one fateful night. What was a great victory for one side of the world, was a terrible event for the other. They had lost their nation, their future, their security. 

They had now entered a decade of banditry, crime, and chaos. They were living through what we now refer to as “Shock Therapy”. The shift from communism to capitalism was so brutal that there were no more police to ensure safety. No more government to tell you what you can and cannot do. No more authority existed which left space for anarchy. The now ex-Soviet citizens were promised better times with the arrival of democracy but were only betrayed by the incompetence of their new leader that only brought them crime and misery.

Deteriorating children’s playground, Moldova - Photo Source: @kuca_ky_ky on Instagram

Crumbling Streets & Broken Dreams

Nowadays, the cities of the former Soviet Union seem to be nothing else than vast jungles of crumbling concrete. The brutalist blocks that were once the pride of a powerful nation, are now nothing but the symbol of a lost past and broken dreams. Elders remember the good days when they lived in a stable country, and the youth, forever and ever seduced with the exotic lifestyle of the Americans, see no future in their country and only dream about moving to the sunny beaches of California. 

Ironically, the ex-Soviet generation fancies the lifestyle of those who caused their end, but we cannot blame them either. They truly don’t have much of a future in the former eastern bloc, and their old enemies seem to thrive more than ever now that their 20th-century nemesis had been eliminated for good. In the victories we win, we forget to remember the fate of our opposing forces. 

On the surface, it may only seem like we are ending a powerful and evil regime, but underneath the surface, we fail to consider that we are also ending the peace and unity that existed in the nation. 

We must recognize that we are not only ending a government but also all the hopes and dreams attached to it and that sometimes, we must put humanity first and political interests second.

The Genex Tower of Belgrade, Serbia - Photo Source: Pierre (PLRB)

A Word For The End

Thank you for reading my blog post about what I’ve retained from my trip to the former USSR. Please note that this is not meant to take a political side, but only to focus on the human aspect of the events. Either you’re a communist or a capitalist, everybody deserves a future and secure access to food, housing, education, and healthcare. 

I have seen and met people who were deeply saddened by what they went through, and by the loss of their native country. Please remember that the government doesn’t always represent the population. A nation is 1% leaders, 99% normal people trying to make it in the world just like you and me.

If you are interested in learning more about the former Soviet world, I invite you to check out the YouTuber “Bald and Bankrupt”, which explores former USSR republics. He is the one that inspired my trip to the Ukraine last month. 

If you are into music, I suggest you check out “Sovietwave”, which is a musical genre based on the nostalgia of the dreams and aspirations that the soviet people once had.

Thank you for reading and have a good day. 

До свидания!

[kuramirocket]

It’s been more than a month since Frank Coronado got COVID-19, but the photographer from Oaxaca, Mexico, still gasps for air when he speaks sometimes. Although his illness didn’t put him in the hospital, his case was severe enough that he worried about suffocating in his sleep.

Coronado’s personal experience with the coronavirus has made the Oaxaca native sensitive to the pandemic situation in the state. As he watched case numbers continuing to rise, he also noticed more tourists defying widely practiced public-health protocols like wearing face masks in public.

On Feb. 25, Coronado posted a plea to his 171,000 Instagram followers: “Dear travelers, you are welcome in Oaxaca, but you should ALWAYS wear a mask when you are in public places.”

He wanted to publicly address the issue and encourage visitors to do better – particularly visitors who travel from Oaxaca City into smaller rural villages, where artisans are even more vulnerable.

“I get mad because I already went through (COVID-19) and know how bad it feels,” Coronado says. “I don’t want my people, the people of Oaxaca, to get sick.”

Unlike many of the world’s most-frequented tourism hot spots, Mexico never fully closed to foreign visitors. While the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention has said Americans should avoid all travel to Mexico because of a “very high level” of coronavirus, the country has remained one of the most popular destinations throughout the pandemic.

Still, Mexico tourism plummeted last spring as it did around the globe; according to the state government, Oaxaca recorded less than half of its 2019 visitor arrival numbers in 2020. Numbers picked up again last summer, but welcoming outsiders back as the pandemic continues to rage has been complicated.

While Oaxaca doesn’t pull in nearly as many visitors as Mexican destinations such as Cancún, Acapulco or Mexico City, tourism is a significant part of its economy. Those who work in the industry have suffered.

With business trickling back, Sánchez is elated. He took coronavirus prevention courses by the Mexican Institute of Social Security (IMSS) and guided his first tour again on Oct. 20. Now he follows precautions such as checking guests’ temperatures, requiring face masks, social distancing and providing hand sanitizer. He also helps Americans get their mandatory coronavirus tests.

Most of his returning customers have complied with his safety protocols. But that’s not the case with all of the tourists he sees around town, like the Americans who refused to wear a mask at the request of an ice cream vendor, or the people who regularly break coronavirus rules at Monte Albán, Oaxaca’s most famous archaeological site.

“As soon as they go through the checkpoint, 30 steps after that, they take their masks off,” Sánchez says. “And most of them are foreigners.”

Beyond Monte Albán and Oaxaca City, Oaxaca’s artisan culture is one of its strongest selling points. It’s common for tourists to take day trips out to remote villages to see how the state’s famed mezcal alcohol, and arts and crafts, are made. With little access to medical care, those communities have been particularly vulnerable during the pandemic. Many closed to outsiders to protect themselves, but some have started welcoming back visitors for income despite the risk involved.

Omar Alonso, who has run food and mezcal tours in Oaxaca for seven years, says visiting rural communities can be done safely with the small private groups he vets ahead of time. But he regularly runs into the kinds of tourists he fears.

For example, Alonso says he often sees maskless foreigners in the mountain town of San José Del Pacifico between Oaxaca City and the beach.

“If you are going through a town where there’s locals and older people serving you food because that’s what they do for a living, it’s very frustrating because (foreigners) don’t respect them,” says Alonso, whose uncle died of COVID-19. “I can tell you that yesterday, when we went to have lunch, out of the maybe 20 tourists that we saw walking around town, maybe two of them had a mask.”

Vera Claire, a U.S. expat whose nonprofit Cosa Buena works with local Indigenous communities to preserve their artistic traditions, says she believes some tourists’ perception of Mexico could be the problem.

“I think there’s a stereotype of (Mexico) being a place with no rules, a place to have fun and relax and enjoy yourself,” she says. She regularly receives messages on social media or emails from strangers asking for Oaxaca travel advice, noting that they need to get away and forget about their lives in the United States for a while, she says.

“That’s a really dangerous narrative, of course, because they come here with that mentality that there’s no rules,” Claire says. “Those of us who are foreigners living here all have a responsibility of shedding light on the severity of the situation. … Mexico is beautiful. It’s a wonderful place to escape to. But the same thing is happening here.”

The frequency of spotting maskless tourists in Oaxaca City is increasing despite the prevalence of signs encouraging masks and most locals complying with the practice, Claire says. It’s unsettling as the coronavirus seems to be encroaching on her community.

It’s impossible to know exact case numbers in the area as testing is limited. But it was reported in January that hospitalizations in Oaxaca for COVID-19 were rising rapidly, with 13 hospitals in the state at full capacity and facing a desperate oxygen tank shortage, a problem plaguing more than Oaxaca.

“It’s a dramatic situation, and it’s not something tourists are seeing,” he says. “This is a harsh reality that doesn’t show up on Instagram.”

Reyes said he thinks the worst offenders are young tourists. He has watched them come from around the world to travel along a well-worn party circuit through Mexico City, Tulum and Oaxaca, attending huge, mask-free gatherings and putting locals at risk.

“It sends a really sad, de-motivating message to locals who are taking care of each other,” Reyes says. “We are all trying to keep it together, and these guys are flying around the city enjoying themselves and not taking care of us.”

Many in Oaxaca City don’t have the luxury of isolating from tourists – like Aurora Tostado, who owns the downtown coffee shop Marito & Moglie with her husband.

“People in Mexico, we have to get out of our homes to work. It’s not like we can work remotely like most of the people in the U.S.,” Tostado says.

The couple made adjustments to Marito & Moglie, moving more tables to an outside patio and encouraging customers to keep masks on and social distance. Insisting on safety protocols is something that makes her and her employees feel more comfortable at work, and something most guests appreciate – but Tostado notices others around town behaving as if the pandemic is over. “This is not Disneyland,” she would like to tell them.

[solalunar-eclipse]

Scars You Can’t See - Chapter 6

Chapter title: Tip of the iceberg

Word count: about 4300 words

WARNING: This chapter contains descriptions of blood and violence.

Author’s Note: I must admit, while I said a couple of chapters ago that this was inspired by Mission:Impossible, that’s by no means the only inspiration for this fic.

First | Previous | Next

...

It was the next day after the heist, and the whole team was exhausted. Still, they had to remain on the run, and they all knew that there was still work left to do.

The three had decided to head into the sprawling city of Westopolis. It was a thriving seaside metropolitan area with a big name for tourism- a good place to hide out among the crowds.

They ended up renting a small, lower-level room in a towering hotel made almost entirely out of glass and steel. The receptionist was very reluctant to hand over the keys, clearly expecting Rouge in particular to trash the room and break all the furniture.

“Miss...Ruby, was it?” he asked, arching an eyebrow condescendingly. “I suppose you may stay here, though you must pay for any...damages incurred.”

“Absolutely.” she replied, without the slightest hesitation. Turning on her heel, she walked off with Shadow and Omega in tow, leaving one immensely surprised employee in her wake.

Their room was decently clean and nicely furnished, albeit a little plain and without the excellent views those on the higher floors would receive. Rouge left shortly afterwards to go find a VHS player, leaving the other two alone in the room. Omega remained standing and attempted to curb his impulse to break something simply to spite the receptionist. They didn’t have an unlimited supply of money, after all.

Meanwhile, Shadow simply slumped onto the bed and glowered at the wall. The E-series robot, after a minute of studying him, decided that he was likely tired from the mission yesterday, as well as highly apprehensive about what he would have to do soon. 

Omega did not normally give a second thought to the emotional state of most organic life-forms. The large majority of people, to him, were mostly irritating but otherwise of little concern or importance. He remained indifferent to- if slightly perplexed by- their hormonal imbalances and the ‘feelings’ that they produced. It was simply foolish to be ruled by something as fickle as your emotions. (He was aware that he had acted in a manner deemed irrational in the past, but this was due to his programmed goals, not a spur-of-the-moment sensation.)

Shadow was an exception to this rule. Omega viewed him as a person who had fought by his side many a time with impressive skill. Now, the awareness that the hybrid was reduced to a weakened mess simply by the constraints of his organic body was...strange. Omega found that he disliked seeing a talented fighter being laid so low by something as fickle as a few chemically induced sensations.

While the robot would never admit it out loud, Rouge and Shadow were people whom he would defend from any danger or displeasure, no matter what. Although most organics could handle the world just fine on their own, he had decided, these two in particular were talented enough (and their company was enjoyable enough) that he would punch anyone and anything who dared to harm them. And then fire a few missiles at the offending thing for good measure.

This thought process, he decided, explained why he sat down on the bed and proceeded to pick up the dejected hedgehog as though he weighed next to nothing.

“Hey- Omega! Put me down!” Shadow shouted, flailing in surprise and embarrassment as he was lifted into the robot’s arms. He made several grumbling noises upon realizing he was trapped, but ceased the majority of his movements.

“You are still not acting like...you.” Omega said, looking at Shadow thoughtfully. “We are currently attempting to remedy the issue, but it appears that this is more of a long-term solution. What would be an acceptable short-term solution?”

The hybrid rolled his eyes. “There is no ‘short term solution’, Omega. Running from the most dangerous law enforcement in the country tends to make people a little tired. There’s no need to search for a solution, anyway. I am perfectly capable of dealing with this on my own.”

Omega considered how best to proceed. Despite Shadow’s protests, he clearly required aid. And he hadn’t missed the hybrid’s refusal to admit to the effects of his past on his current state. He was never very good at dealing with emotions or stubbornness- that was more Rouge’s strong suit- but Rouge wasn’t here. And he was.

He had been told before that physical contact was often pleasant for organics, when initiated with people that they trusted. And Shadow trusted him, correct?

Thinking for a moment longer, Omega chose to touch the hybrid’s quills in a calming manner. He did so cautiously, ensuring that his sharp fingers would not cause any unwanted harm. Shadow was too caught off guard to protest, his eyes closing within moments as he resigned himself to being pet. As the mechanical creation continued in his repetitive motions, he noticed a quiet noise emanating from somewhere in the room.

Further examination revealed that Shadow was the source of the noise, and that he was purring.

It wasn’t much, just a little rumble in his chest, but something about the indescribable noise made Omega tighten his grip slightly on the small (oh so very small) hedgehog. Despite Shadow’s incredible prowess in battle, he was still reminded in this moment of just how fragile and vulnerable even the most powerful organics were.

Embarrassingly enough, this was when Rouge decided to fling open the door. Shadow snapped out of the daze Omega’s attention had put him in and squirmed as he tried to escape the steel trap that the robot’s arms had created. His effort was too little, too late, however, as Rouge squealed upon seeing the two ‘bonding’. “Awww! You guys! This is so sweet! I swear, I’m getting cavities just by being in the same room as you two.”

Omega glowered at her. “This is not ‘sweet’. I am attempting to…” He trailed off as he realized that what he had been doing did, unfortunately, fall into the category of cute things. “...fine. I was merely aiding Shadow in his moment of emotional distress. There is no need to make such loud shrieking sounds.”

“I’m fine.” the hybrid grumbled sulkily. “Stop worrying about me.”

Rouge shook her head. “Hon, we’re never going to stop worrying about you. That’s pretty much what being friends is about. We care about how you’re feeling.” She tried to wrap her arms around both Shadow and Omega, but resigned herself to the fact that she didn’t by any means have long enough arms for that. Instead, she worked her way into Omega’s hold, smiling warmly at the two of them. “Hugs are good for everyone.” she declared. “That’s just a fact.”

Shadow allowed himself to smile, just a little. “I...appreciate you both doing this for me.” he said quietly.

The E-series robot watched this interaction with a certain amount of...he wasn’t sure what this was called, actually. He was...pleased? Yes, he was pleased to see his two favorite people getting along.

He decided to hold them a little longer as a result.

Rouge sighed after a minute, though, resigned to what came next. “I guess we’ll have to get to the difficult part eventually.” She looked over at the VHS player, before pulling the box of tapes out. “Which day was it again?”

Shadow pointed at a cassette. “That one.” he muttered, staring down at the bedspread.

“Can you not remain in an adjacent room or go somewhere else for the duration of this video?” Omega asked him.

The hedgehog shook his head. “No. No, if we’re putting this out there, I want to know what it looks like.”

“You don’t have to prove anything to us, hon…” Rouge reminded him.

“I need to prove it to myself.” he declared, an air of finality to his words.

Omega stood and plugged the player into the TV set, before putting the tape in. He began to set up the screen, and it seemed to take an eternity before everything was ready to go. Rouge grabbed Shadow’s hand and squeezed it tightly. The robot, on returning to the bed, took his other hand. He took a deep breath. 

“Do it.”

Omega pressed play.

...

The tape shows a grid of all the security cameras throughout Space Colony ARK. The footage is slightly grainy, but the three can make out vaguely distinguishing features on all of the people. 

Omega fast-forwards the video until the moment that the first G.U.N. soldier appears. Shadow holds both their hands tighter.

They watch as the soldiers begin to move through the space station. At first, they don’t cause much alarm- the space colony was funded by G.U.N., after all. Their leader and a couple of others enter the main laboratory and speak to the scientists. After a minute, an alarm goes off.

One of the soldiers fires on the scientist who triggered it, and he sinks to the floor, red pooling around him. All of the other researchers freeze.

Several screens away, a small hedgehog and his sister begin to run.

The space station itself is against them. They were sitting and stargazing on the exact opposite side of the structure from the escape pods. The two have to rush through an endless maze of corridors, avoiding the soldiers throughout it all.

The soldiers are now firing indiscriminately on civilians and government scientists alike, as they are blocking the halls and the soldiers are desperate and violent. The people are only unintentionally in the way, of course- they’re simply fleeing the destruction. None of the researchers knows where Project:Shadow is right now, and the soldiers are frustrated. Every second that slips by is one where they don’t have what they came for.

Clearly, they didn’t come into this situation looking for a peaceful outcome.

Meanwhile, the blond-haired human pauses to catch her breath. She is very sick, after all, and has not run much in her lifetime. The hedgehog looks worried, but remains by her side. He is partly fearful due to her health, after all- and he would never leave her side in such a dangerous situation.

He startles at the first sound of gunshots and begs her to keep moving.Thankfully, she gains a second wind from the adrenaline and they continue to run. Despite the fact that the hedgehog is skating, pulling her along, they are not moving very fast. Not fast enough.

Behind them, the carnage continues.

On the bed, Shadow is crying silently. Rewatching the destruction of his childhood home breaks his heart, and both of his friends can see it. He looks at the desperate hope in the eyes of the hedgehog on the screen (who isn’t that much younger but at the same time so different) and knows what comes next. 

He spots an elderly scientist with an instantly recognizable moustache, handcuffed to a railing. The man is one of the few survivors of the massacre. He begs the soldiers to spare his daughter’s life, to bring her back safely. Shadow is startled to hear, among the words, a plea to please remove Project:Shadow alive. To not kill him.

The scientist looks desperate and tells the soldiers that he loves his children. He tells them that he needs to see them again.

His children. Plural.

The sound of crying rings out across the hotel room.

The human girl convinces the hedgehog to get in the escape pod first. He can’t work the controls because he’s a little too short- ‘fun-sized’, she calls it. Besides, it’ll make her feel better. He could never argue with that.

The soldiers arrive. The girl looks back and forth between the pod and the controls. Shadow pinpoints the exact moment, this time, when her expression changes from fearful to resigned. He wishes he hadn’t eaten this morning- his breakfast won’t sit still.

Shadow screams “No!!” as she lunges for the control panel, the word ripping raw from his throat as though he can somehow save her if he just shouts loud enough. He chokes as he hears the gunshots, as he sees her fall. He sees himself clawing at the glass, screaming and crying unintelligible words as Maria speaks her dying wish.

He barely even sees the pod eject, his eyes blurred with tears. Omega pauses the video.

...

Rouge pulls Shadow into her arms. He’s shaking and barely seems to be aware of what’s going on, silent tears trickling down his face as he sits limply in her embrace. She feels him gasping for breath- he can’t quite seem to get the air he needs.

“Breathe, Shadow.” she murmured. “I’m here, I’ve got you. It’s going to be okay, I promise, but all you have to do is breathe.”

He reached out and held her back tightly, clinging to her with enough force to drive some of the air out of her own lungs.

“I’m here for you, Shadow.” Rouge whispered. “Just let me know what you need when you can.”

“I will not go anywhere either.” Omega said, turning his volume down. “You will be safe here with us.”

Shadow gasped for breath one last time before whispering quietly, “You promise?”

“Of course you are.” Rouge rubbed circles on his back comfortingly. “We’ll always watch out for you.”

“Absolutely.” Omega added.

After another few minutes, Shadow began to relax a little, but he made no move to pull back from the bat. “Sorry…” he muttered.

“No, don’t apologize.” Rouge said, her voice strong and warm. “None of this is your fault. None of it. I promise.”

“I shouldn’t be reacting like this.” he growled.

Omega placed a hand on his back. “It is completely normal to react in such a way to traumatic experiences, as a matter of fact- and that is the truth.”

“You’ve seen it now, hon. We’re going to watch the rest of the video, but you just turn your back and lie down, okay?” Rouge offered.

“Okay…” Shadow sighed, too exhausted to fight- and he didn’t really want to, anyway. Both of his friends kept their hands on him as he turned around, and his face relaxed more as he closed his eyes, exhausted from his panic.

“I will mute the sound.” Omega informed him.

…

Mostly, the rest of the video was just filming the cleanup and shutdown of Space Colony ARK. Eventually, once the crews started getting to the lower levels, the cameras were shut down. It seemed that G.U.N. didn’t want anybody to know what happened next.

But there were still five full minutes left of film…

Omega and Rouge shared a look. The bat turned to Shadow and told him that the tape was going to run longer than expected. They’d watch it all the way to the end, even if it was just a black screen.

It turned out that it wasn’t blank at all.

When the camera opened with a new security camera view, Rouge grew tense. 

The date says it’s about ten years ago. It’s dark out. The footage shows G.U.N. soldiers standing in the shadows, watching a gathering of people. It looks like someone’s speaking to them from a stage. One of the soldiers gives a signal to the others.

They charge into the crowd without warning. People begin to shout and run as the soldiers move through the crowd, stunning people with batons and taking prisoners left and right.

Amidst the chaos, the speaker begins to film the event. She is grabbed from behind by two soldiers while a third points a gun at her. She appears to talk to them, panic evident in her eyes. The third soldier snatches her phone with one hand and steps on it before shooting it twice. The speaker doesn’t look to be above twenty.

She looks scared. She doesn’t look like a criminal. She looks like an ordinary person.

The tape ends there.

Nobody speaks.

…

“What happened?” Shadow asks, turning over just as Omega switches off the TV. “What is it?”

“I’d have to watch it with the sound on to be sure-” Rouge swallows thickly at the idea- “but it looks like G.U.N. attacked a bunch of innocent citizens.”

Shadow looks shocked. “I thought that was-!”

“Illegal.” Omega says flatly. “That is illegal...and it goes against everything G.U.N. is supposed to stand for.”

“I...I’m going to watch it again.” Rouge said. “I have to know. Shadow, go for a walk, okay?”

He leaves without question.

They watch it again.

Once they’re done, Omega watches as Rouge sits for a minute to process the film, before she rewinds the tape. Squinting at the screen for a moment, she sags slightly when she finds what she was looking for. 

The bat walks into the hallway and sees Shadow standing at the end of it, looking out the window. The sunlight frames his strong stance and alert ears. Anyone else would say he looks powerful. 

Rouge thinks he looks apprehensive.

“Shadow?” she calls, walking over to him. A twitch of his ear signals his acknowledgement. “There’s more.”

“What is it.” he responds, his voice monotone.

“This took place in Empire City. On United Federation soil. With ordinary people talking about nothing but their ideals. I suspected it the last time, but I had to rewatch it- there’s a couple of background clues in there.” Rouge’s voice shakes.

Shadow shakes his head. 

“She was just a girl, Shadow.”

Suddenly, his back straightens. “She?”

Rouge realizes she hadn’t told him this before. “There was a girl, speaking to the crowd. She was a teenager, it looks like.”

Shadow drags her back into the room. He stands there for a solid minute, trying to control his breathing, but has to give up and grabs a pillow, digging his gloved hands into it. He looks like he’s on the verge of tears again. “Is she alive? Did they kill another granddaughter? Another sister, did they-”

“I don’t think she’s dead. There would’ve been a lot of protest if that happened, and the film’s recent enough for me to have heard of it.” the bat said.

“We don’t know that for sure. Rouge, we can’t stop here. Not now. Not when there’s more.”

She exhaled heavily. “I agree. Completely.”

“As do I.” Omega said. 

Rouge groaned. “People get away with something awful once and they think they’re invincible. Ugh.”

“Not anymore.” Shadow hissed. 

The hybrid realized something, his eyes widening slightly. “Omega. Go call Sonic or Tails. Now.”

Omega came to the same conclusion as him immediately. Without comment, he left the room and descended the stairs to the ground floor. If G.U.N. had visited the two...with that kind of reputation…

He managed to find a public phone in a store a couple of blocks away and dialed Tails’s number.

“Hi! This is Tails speaking!” 

“This is E-123 Omega.”

“Omega!?” Tails gasped. The next sentence sounded muffled, as though the microphone was being covered. “Sonic! Omega’s on the phone!”

The robot heard a faint shriek of “What?!” before Tails came back on the line.

“Has G.U.N. visited you at all?” Omega asked, keeping his voice absolutely level. No need to frighten the fox if nothing had happened.

“Actually...yeah.” Tails said, sounding a little tentative. “They didn’t hurt us, but I did have to rescue Sonic.” He proceeded to recount the entire event, from the agents’ arrival to their (reluctant) departure. He also updated Omega on the latest news stories, which were predictable, but still irritating.

The robot did not like Tails’s story though. Not the news, not the agents, and especially not the part with the Taser. However, as much as he would like to fire lots of explosives at all of G.U.N., he decided that it would be best to update the two on his news. “We have found the security files from Space Colony ARK. They prove beyond all doubt that G.U.N. killed many of the inhabitants of said space colony in cold blood, including one Maria Robotnik.”

“That’s great!” Tails exclaimed, before realizing what he’d said. “Uh...relatively speaking.”

“However, one of these files contained excess information. We do not know whether this was on purpose or by accident, but either way, they show soldiers of G.U.N. taking multiple people into custody without giving any reason for their actions. When asked why they were doing this, they gave no reply. Further investigation is necessary, but it seems that they treated ordinary people like enemies of the state. And this was done while the current commander was in charge, according to the date on the security camera files.”

Omega heard Sonic start shouting unintelligibly in the background. Tails responded to him once or twice with a “Yeah” or “Mm-hm”, but suddenly called, “Sonic! Be careful, you’ll break something if you keep up like that!”

The fox turned his attention back to his slightly confused audience. “Sorry, he’s angry and just like roundhouse kicking the air and stuff. Though I think he’d rather be smacking around G.U.N. robots- no offense, by the way.”

“None taken. I am fully aware of my superior status regarding those mindless drones.” Omega scoffed.

“Yo Omega!” he heard Sonic shout from the background. “How’s Shadow doing? Is he there?”

Tails sighed in a rush of static. “Sorry, he’s...kind of rushing around right now so he’s forgetting his manners and isn’t coming to the phone himself, but that’s okay, I guess.”

Omega would have smirked, had he been built with the necessary components to do so. As it was, he simply answered, “Shadow is not here. He has been...struggling with the combined knowledge that G.U.N. is even worse than we realized and rewatching his sister’s death. In respect to his privacy, I will not say more.”

Tails relayed this information over to Sonic, who sounded sad. “Oh...aw, man. Hey, can you tell Omega to let him know I miss him?”

The fox seemed upset by this news at first, but then he giggled. “Did you hear that, Omega? Sonic really misses Shadow and he wants him to know, isn’t that cute?”

“Absolutely.” the robot agreed, fully aware of what Tails was trying to do. 

About two milliseconds later, Sonic roared, “I meant RACING him, Tails! Stop ASSUMING THINGS!!”

Tails laughed again, the wickedness of it obvious this time. Suddenly, Omega heard a loud clatter, and then the crackle of someone picking up the phone. “Sorry, Omega,” Sonic hissed into the speaker, “It’s been nice talking but I have a fox to launch into the sun. Gottagobye!”

Omega walked back to the hotel, pleased that Tails and Sonic seemed to be doing alright. (He wasn’t as worried about Knuckles, he was basically unreachable by anyone. The echidna would be fine.)

When the robot neared his hotel room, he heard loud voices. It seemed that Rouge and Shadow were participating in something he remembered was called ‘venting’, in which they were able to express their feelings without producing any significant action plans. He believed that its purpose was to release emotional tension, and it was sometimes good for them. It was also a very fun activity when he was the one allowed to rant.

“I know, right?! I mean- who do they even- oh, hi Omega!” Rouge exclaimed when he returned, smoothing down her hair from its slightly messy state.

“Greetings. I have learned Tails and Sonic are both alive, healthy, and generally safe. Shadow, Sonic wished for me to inform you that he misses you and would like to race you again at some point in the future.”

Shadow smiled faintly. “That’s nice to hear.”

“I know, right?” Rouge sighed. “Finally, some good news.”

“Although.” Omega added.

Rouge covered Shadow’s ears and then proceeded to say a series of very rude words that Omega could never repeat around Tails. The hybrid waved his hand at her once she was done, muttering something unhappily about not being a little kid.

“G.U.N. did visit them.” the robot said.

“And?” Rouge asked.

“And Sonic was very close to being on the wrong end of a Taser.”

A hint of gold flickered behind Shadow’s brown contacts. “They. Did. Not.”

“They did. But Tails rescued him, so do not destroy the room.” Omega informed him.

Chaos energy still sparked slightly between the hybrid’s fingers. “Who did it.”

Omega decided after a moment of thought that Shadow was unlikely to blow up the room or cause other serious damage and spoke. “A barn owl by the name of Agent Toya.”

“I knew her...she was always pretty quiet. And intense.” Rouge said. “I’d like to get you a meeting with her sometime.”

Shadow smirked darkly, before sighing and falling back onto the bed. “Ugh. I’m too tired to spear her right now.”

Rouge walked over to the window for a minute and looked out, before spinning back around, her eyes bright. “What we need-” she declared, pulling Shadow off the bed and grabbing Omega’s arm with her other hand- “is to go out to a park or something, grab some food, and make fun of all the rich people with their expensive condos and million-dollar handbags. We can listen in on all the hot gossip too. How’s that for an idea?”

Omega was pleased with this idea. “I will taunt all of the people who think they have nice cars. Ours are far superior to their puny vehicles.”

Shadow smirked. “Only if I get to have a lemon iced tea.”

“You could get literally anything and you choose lemon iced tea, but fine. I’ll grab lunch and get you your ye olde drinke while I’m at it, mister 50s.” Rouge rolled her eyes, but she was only joking and he knew it.

“Shut up.” he huffed, swatting at her as they walked out of the hotel.

Rouge cackled so hard she had to sit on Omega’s shoulder for a while to catch her breath. Once she was finished, she grinned down at him. “Feeling better?”

Shadow’s expression briefly darkened, and Rouge regretted saying anything. But then, he seemed to seriously consider her question. “Yeah.” he said quietly, allowing his mouth to twitch up into the faintest hint of a real smile. “Yeah, I am.”

[babybluebex]

marigold [david budd]

pairing: david budd (the bodyguard) x reader (Y/N)

summary: you are the PM’s daughter, and you get assigned to ps david budd, a man with more complications than you anticipated.

word count: 2500+

warnings: swearing, smut, all the good stuff

a/n: ok look, i had to tweak a thing or two in the bodyguard canon for this to work. so, for now, imagine that david never worked for julia. 

“Aw, fuck off!”

“Y/N, please,” my father sighed. “It’s a protection measure. You know that I wouldn’t do this unless it was necessary.” 

I pressed my hand against my forehead. My father really wanted to give me a bodyguard. “He’d come with me to uni and shit?” I asked. “Everywhere? Dad!”

“Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” Dad said. “It’s already in place. When you leave Downing Street, PS Budd will be with you. And everywhere else, for that matter. After the October 1 attacks, we can’t afford anybody to be a target.” “Me especially, eh?” I asked. “The Prime Minister’s only daughter! You’re taking the piss, seriously, and I don’t like it.” 

At that moment, there was a firm knock at the door to my father’s office, and it opened to reveal a built man in a suit. He had dark hair with grey hair sprinkled around, a beard on his tan face, and alert blue eyes. He wore a clear wire in his ear that many security officers wore, and I sighed. “Is this him, then?” I asked my father, motioning to the security officer with my thumb. 

“Yes, it is,” Dad said, standing up. “Police Sergeant Budd, this is my daughter, Y/N. I expect the two of you will grow close.”

“In your dreams,” I huffed. “Nothing against you, Budd, but I do not need protecting.” 

“I beg to differ, ma’am,” Budd said in a strong Scottish voice. His hands were clasped in front of him, and the look of concentration on his face made me all the more angrier. “Terrorist unions might see you as a target to hurt your father. I’m only here to keep you alive.”

I set my jaw, a muscle in my temple jumping. “How long is this for?” I asked.

“Until the threat level to the country is lowered,” Dad told me. “Be nice to PS Budd, please, dear.” He put his hands on my face and kissed my forehead, and I sighed. “I cannot lose you like I did your mother.” Dad whispered to me, and I lowered my eyes. 

“Alright,” I mumbled. “I’ll try it. But it’s over the exact moment I say. Yes?”

“As long as PS Budd agrees that you are no longer in need of protection,” Dad said. “Sergeant, take good care of her, yes? She’s the only one I’ve got.”

“Yes, sir,” Budd said with a solitary nod. He turned to me, his face still showing little emotion, and he gestured to the door. “Ma’am.” 

I figured that he was only using the title in front of my father, so I let it go. As I walked past him, I heard him mumble, “Seven-nine, Marigold is a go.” I assumed that Marigold was a code name of sorts. I looked at my phone as I walked to the elevators, wondering if I had time to get a coffee before my next lecture, and I became very aware of a body close to me as I waited by the elevator. I looked to see Budd behind me, and I said, “You certainly don’t waste time.” 

“No, ma’am,’ Budd replied, his eyes focused in front of him. “You don’t have to call me that,” I sighed. “I’m 19. And you’re, what, 40?” 

“33, ma’am,” Budd replied. “And I am required to call you that.”

“Right,” I said. “Look, this is rather humiliating to me, so if you could find a way to tone it down around my uni mates, that would be spectacular.”

“This is the lowest level of security, ma’am,” Budd told me as the elevator doors slid open. “I am to be posted by the door of every room you enter, or within the vicinity of your person if I cannot see you from the door.” 

“And the highest level would be...?” I asked.

“You would be confined to a safe house in a separate city,” Budd told me. “No internet or phone usage. I would be closest to you with my weapon in my hand, and at least three other officers in the room. Trust me, it could be far worse.” After a moment, he cleared his throat and added, “Ma’am.” 

“That’s intense,” I mumbled. “Have you ever done that before?”

“No, ma’am,” Budd replied simply. 

I pressed my lips together. “What do I call you?” I asked. “PS Budd doesn’t quite roll off the tongue, does it?” 

For the first time, Budd averted his gaze from in front of him to look at me. “David would do just fine,” he told me. 

“David,” I repeated. “That’s a nice name.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” David Budd said. 

I studied David as we rode to my uni. He sat in the front, mumbling into his ear piece every so often, and I saw him look at me in the rear view mirror often. I pressed my palm onto my forehead, trying to figure out what to tell my professors that wouldn’t give any information to the public that would be harmful, and I faintly heard David say, “Are you alright, ma’am?” 

“Yes, just…” I mumbled. I felt lightheaded by the anxiety, and I heard a few garbled voices before the car stopped and I felt the cold air on the side of my face. The car door was open beside me, David standing next to me, bent over to be closer. 

“Ma’am?” David said. “Are you feeling alright?” 

“Yes,” I mumbled. “Umm…” I began to grope at my side for my bag, where I knew my anxiety medication was, and David was quick to lean over me and get the bag. I could smell him in his closeness, and it nearly made me cry. Cologne; a nice one, but unfamiliar. I needed something familiar. 

My hand was enveloped by warmth and I felt the clatter of pills in my hand, and my instincts kicked in and allowed me to swallow them. I knew it would take about half an hour for them to start working, so I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to even my breathing out. Anxiety attacks were common, hence the medication on me at all times, and I assume that the stress of the whole bodyguard situation triggered it. The world felt sluggish as I turned to see David, his eyebrows drawn in concern. His blue eyes watched my every move, and his full lips moved for a moment before I processed his words. “Are you feeling better, ma’am?” he asked. “Motion sickness?”

“Anxiety,” I breathed. I sniffled and raised my hand to my face to find tears streaming down my cheeks and onto my neck. I was crying, quite a lot. My hand shook as I pressed it to my running nose, and my hand was quickly filled by a handkerchief. I saw a tiny D.B embroidered in the corner, but I had no other thought of it. 

“Do we need to go to your flat, ma’am?” David asked. 

“No,” I sniffled. “No, just… Just to uni, is fine.” 

David clenched his jaw. “I disagree, ma’am,” he said. “I think it would be best for you to go home.”

“Don’t call me that,” I said quickly. “Please, I don’t want that right now.”

“Alright,” David said, his shoulders lowering as his voice went softer. “What do you want right now, Y/N?” 

My breath caught in my throat, and I gulped down air. My hand scrambled for his and finally found it on the seat next to me, and I squeezed his hand hard. “I don’t know,” I murmured. 

A moment passed where I watched David’s eyes lower to the street, then lift up to me. I could barely focus on him through my tears, but I heard him say, “You need to breathe, Y/N.” Before I knew it, I felt strong arms wrap around me, and I found myself in PS David Budd’s embrace. His chest was flushed against mine and I could feel something hard and solid on him; a bulletproof vest, like many security officers wore. “Breathe when I do,” David instructed me, and his warm hand pressed against my back. 

He took a breath in, and I did the same. My hands were shaking fiercely, but it only made me hold him harder. The handkerchief was now balled in my fist, almost forgotten, had it not been his initials that I had noticed. Did his mother make it for him? A wife, or a daughter? 

“I think you should go home,” David said softly. “I don’t encourage skipping classes, but I think that this is an exception.” 

The handkerchief stayed in my hand the entire ride to my flat, and David took the liberty of unlocking my door for me. He followed me in, a protective hand hovering over my back, and I sniffled away the remnants of tears as I stood in the den. “Thank you,” I mumbled. “I, umm…”

“I will be outside your door,” David said. “Call for me if you need me.”

“You’re my bodyguard, not my nanny,” I said. “Why are you…? Why do you care?”

David fixed his eyes on me. “A young lady like you should never have to know sorrow,” he said. “If I can be of any help with that, I want to be.”

“It’s not a duty to talk me down from an anxiety attack?” I asked with a half-hearted chuckle. 

“No, it’s not,” David said. “But it is a privilege. Have a rest and we’ll reassess afterwards.” 

I nodded, and I looked down at the handkerchief. “Thanks for this,” I mumbled. “Umm, I’ll get it back to you soon.” 

David looked down at my hand, and he said, “You’re welcome to it, if you’d like. Don’t quite have a use for it.”

“You’re not wiping up some other girl’s tears?” I chuckled lightly. I heaved a sigh and sat down, and I looked at David. 

“No,” he said. “Not anymore.”

“Anymore?” I said. “What does that mean?”

David’s jaw flexed. “The Heath Bank school attack several months ago…” he began. “Both of my children… My daughter said that dads had to carry one, or else nobody would know who was a dad and who wasn’t. Doesn’t really make a lot of sense, but she’s… She was ten, so she didn’t have to make a lot of sense.” 

“Oh my God,” I said softly. “I didn’t know.” 

“Not many people do,” David said. “I try not to make it a topic of conversation.”

“I am so sorry,” I mumbled. “Is that why you turned to PPO? To protect people?”

“I was assigned PPO,” David told me. “If I had it my way, I…” He looked down at his clasped hands, and he said, “Nevermind that. Lay down for a few minutes, please.” 

I nodded slowly, and I watched as David turned to leave the room. My fist clenched around the handkerchief and, before it was too late, I called out. “David!” I said, and he turned back to look at me. I struggled for words, but I stood myself up and walked to him. We were both silent for a moment, my heart fluttering inside of my chest, and David took a step towards me. His hand reached out and carefully took mine, turning it over to look at my fingers, the skin wrecked from years of nervous picking and chewing. We were apart by only inches, and I could feel the electric energy between us. “You give good hugs,” I said. “Are you a good kisser as well?” 

“I can’t do that,” David said softly. “It would be a violation of my duties.”

“Your duty is to protect me,” I said. “Yes?”

“In any way I can,” David replied. “Even if it means giving my life for yours.”

“So give me your life,” I said. “For even a moment, David. I believe the French call it ‘la petite mort’.” Our eyes locked, trying to see who would back down first, and I whispered, “Kiss me, David--” 

Before I could even finish my request, his hands were on my face, and his lips were on mine. Our bodies crashed together like waves upon a shore, giving and taking and learning nature’s rhythm. He kissed me like a man depraved, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care when we fell onto my bed and he shed his jacket, but not his wire. I tugged it out of his ear, and I huffed out a laugh as we struggled to rid him entirely of it. I didn’t care when his jacket came off and I was confronted with the guns that lay on his hip. We were hurried, almost frantic, not bothering to fully undress. My trousers came off with my panties, and David pulled down his trousers just enough to extract his member. There was a rushed and whispered conversation about the technicalities of birth control versus pulling out, but, eventually, his hands went to my thighs and opened my legs, and he pushed himself inside of me. 

His hair came undone as we fucked; mostly from my fingers pulling, urging him onward. The tie came off quickly, his shirt becoming undone, and I was disappointed to be faced with the stark white of the bulletproof vest. I had so hoped to see his chest and the hair that I knew was there. He kissed my neck and my mouth, and his hand snaked up my shirt to grasp at my bra. He gnashed his teeth together, and he mumbled, “Fuckin’ thing…” before pushing his fingers underneath and forcing his way in. His hand was rough against my breast, but the feel of it seemed to give him a burst of energy. His breathing was heavy in my ear, interrupted by quiet moans every so often, and he finally whispered, “Fuck, Y/N, I’m gonna come.” I couldn’t tell him that I had already come; I didn’t have time. Soon enough, I felt him spilling inside of me, and I could almost see the little death on his breath before I took it in and made it a part of myself. He gave his life for me, no matter how small it was. 

We breathed hard as we untangled ourselves, and I shed the rest of my clothes before I slipped under the blankets. I watched David get up from the bed and cross to where his jacket had been thrown-- by him or me, I couldn’t remember-- and he picked it up and studied it for a moment. He was frozen, staring at his jacket, and he only seemed to break when I hoarsely whispered, “Davie?” 

“Nobody calls me that,” David said softly. 

“Nobody calls me ma’am,” I replied. “But you seem to do that.” 

“I do,” he whispered, almost to himself. 

I could see how conflicted he was. “Davie,” I said gently. “Come to bed, please, love. Just for a few moments.” 

David finally looked up at me, and he nodded carefully. He finished undressing, much like I had, and he came and laid down next to me. We easily moved close again, my leg pressing against his and my head on his chest. We seemed to fit like puzzle pieces; I loved it. 

“Look,” I began. “I know what we did was wrong. It was… Bad. Not bad, but… Yeah. I know that you’re worried, but I’ll handle this. I’ll say that I convinced you to--”

“No,” David said. “You didn’t. I wanted it as much as you did. I wanted that the moment I saw your face.” 

“When?” I asked.

“Four months ago,” David said. “I had just come home from Afghanistan and was trying to readjust to schedules. I was awake late at night and some gossip program was talking about you. You are gorgeous; I hope you know that. They called you the darling of Parliament.”

“And what do you call me, Davie?” I asked. 

“A darling, yes,” David conceded. “And of Parliament. But also my heart. I loved you when I first laid eyes on you.” 

“Love at first sight is fairytale stuff,” I mumbled, tracing my finger around his warm chest. 

“Oh, Cinderella,” David whispered, and his fingers pressed against my chin, and he gently shifted my head up to look at him. “You simply don’t know how magical life can be.”

[x0401x]

Maybe I’m challenged as I don’t see a PM button. Do I have to have tumblr account to see it?

Hum, yes. Sorry, I assumed you had an account. >_<’

Ack! You pinpointed the error in my analogy. Yes, hurting family and friends is one thing, but abandoning your brother/sister in arms is awful at a whole different level!

Especially if you’re in love with that sister-in-arms, yes.

I think we agree more on principles and differentiate in characterization. Here’s one that I’m sure you would agree. Yes, V’s social awkwardness is endearing. However, V’s smoothly tutoring Amy in mannerism befitting a debutante in the prior movie, and then improperly responding to the city mayor and non-diplomatically rebuking Hodgins’ overprotective gesture in the latest movie is just incongruous. I even dare to say lazy writing?  From that angle, I recall you frustratingly wrote about how V is dumbed down in the first anime movie.

I think you would also share the popular take of the anime Dietfried, where he literary turned saintly (thanks to V’s endless graceful response to his mean streaks) and became an admirable true older brother. I was hoping Gil would come back and scolded dickfried. Thus imagine how dumfounded I got when anime Dietfried told his weak and arguably selfish younger brother that he wanted to put Gil in a sack and throw it before Violet. That’s beyond 180 turn! It might as well be a novel alternate reality like IF (except less disturbing O__O … I still don’t know what to make of Diet-V relationship there!).

Yes and yes.

Btw, despite minimum coverage of anime Gil, looks like he went through similar catharsis and as remorseful as V for his role in the war. This change of heart is evident as he lived and served in former enemy territory among the very people whose sons and brothers he and Violet had most likely killed. The novel Gil had no such character development. Still, I snorted out loud when I read your pointing out all the plot holes in the movie, which added to gil’s jackassery.

That was a good one from the movie, I agree. But I’m sure that if novel!Gil had to live in an isolated island in a former enemy nation, he’d do the exact same thing. It’s not like he hated the enemies. He was just protecting his country.

Now, here’s a different take of V’s wholeness up to the reunion. Comparing the reunion in the anime vs the novel, the anime V is more whole. How come? Well, the novel V still viewed herself as a tool requiring order then, the anime one did not. Further, a true test of character is how one reacts when one does not get what one wants. The novel V was well rewarded for all the years of clinging ludicrously to the belief that Gil was alive. After all, he came to her rescue for the reunion. The girl soldier did not experience that unfathomable rejection from her everything. In contrary, anime V received painful rejection upon attempting to reunite. She searched all over, learned new profession, went through nervous breakdown, even resorted to suicide attempt for what turns out to be a weak man who chose to wallow in sorrow. This is undoubtedly unfair and painful to her, and the audience. It is heart piercing sad when the person with whom you create memory with becomes a memory. Yet she resolved to move on. Beyond moving on, there was not an ounce of resentment or even entitlement for an apology. That tear-jerking last letter exudes an attitude of gratitude as she listed EVERY single thing that weak, broken man had gifted her. Despite all his flaws, his love for her had become her way of living. How his kindness beget kindness of her own, which she generously shared with Amy and Taylor Bartlett among many others. Thus, the anime V is more noble and whole (at reunion) than her novel counterpart.

OP, you’re comparing the wrong Violet. ^^’ Remember that the anime has a different timeline? Movie!Violet is post-Gaiden. Novel!Violet during their reunion is pre-Gaiden. You should be comparing Ani!Violet with how Novel!Violet was in Gaiden chapter 6. The Violet who understands love more, who realizes that she was in love with Gil from day one, who had opened up to a romantic relationship, in which she’ll have to be equal to him and thus will never again be treated as a tool or receive orders from him.

As for the “how she reacts when she doesn’t get what she wants” thingy... I’m not sure if you recall, but Novel!Violet found out that Gil was alive way before their reunion. And she chose to let him be. She simply continued living like normal and waiting for him. If he decided to reunite with her, good. If he didn’t, that would be sad as fuck to her, but she would leave him alone, just as she had been doing all those months in-between summer and fall when she knew that he was all right and just moved on with her life.

So, yeah, I think they were both just as noble and whole. I’d actually give Novel!Violet more points because she didn’t even try to go change his mind. She simply took the obvious conclusion, which must have hurt a ton when looking back on all she had gone through, and respected his will.

Aw very kind of you to thank me for military service. By God’s grace I was spared from Gilbert and Violet’s type of service, but I did struggle to move on after service. A new career in emergency medicine has afforded me the privilege to be front and center as children, sibling, friend, and parent pass away by their loved ones. In the process, I learned to steer from being cold and aloof.  I compartmentalize well which enabled me to remain a functional professional throughout those traumatic moments, but the novel and anime let me process those compartments long after. It is eerily poignant how relatable VE journey is.  When lamentations over the end of dreams and relationships got overwhelming, the obligation to care for hurting patients pulled me away from the immobilizing self-pity. That pinky promise and thank you letter also hit home very hard. A year prior to the movie release, I did exactly those with a dearest person, whose life I am no longer a part of. I guess I internalize this work of fiction a bit too much eh? To me, VE is a profound lesson in empathy through the journey of loving, losing, longing, n letting go.

It’s not too much at all! It’s actually wonderful to know more and more about how relatable VE is to people who work/worked in the military, because I’m sure Akatsuki-sensei did her research on that.

All in all, thank you for bequeathing a space to pour the feels after the movie drained my tear ducts =) Honto ni arigatou gozaimas

You’re always welcome here, OP! Bless you. :>

[dashielldeveron]

Viper VIII: Inter Vivos

*author slaps bumper sticker across ass that reads I BREAK FOR QUARANTINE* 

Summary: You have a thought that only Steve Urkel and black-out drunks can have: did I do that?

Warnings: swears, the law. Murder/death. Stupid internet comments.

Show (3719) Comments on “There is Nothing New Under the Sun, But You Are New in Your Conglomeration.”

skellingtonbabey: thanks for putting all of the *gestures vaguely* into historical context. no one’s ever bothered to explain this shit to me, especially in such simple and thorough language. it’s like every other resource i try to learn from is stylistically designed to make me more confused.

readyplayer69: Just because it’s from the 60s and is racist doesn’t mean that it doesn’t have intrinsic value based on the goal towards which it was working. You’re a fucking lunatic. I have a degree in political science, so I know what the fuck I’m about. Though some of the protests may have excluded the minorities you’re talking about, it doesn’t mean that they weren’t ultimately working towards good fucking policies for everyone involved. It’s not like they were doing anything important then anyway; white people had to be the mouthpiece for…Read More

volcanolesbian: bro have u seen the incels freaking out over this???? it got linked in their cursed forum and they SO BADLY wanted u 2 hate women now. like you can regress from being a feminist once you’ve woken up. they’re giving u shit bc you called out the racist terrorists who were active in their community lmao. i can post screenshots if u want. But bruv it’s like they haven’t read anything you’ve written before lol

mozARTsexandviolins: I get when you say that ingenuity spawns ideals for the greater good, but don’t you think tradition has its place? How do we know if the new can spawn the greater good? How do we judge ourselves? Who watches the watchers?

simpleplan2eatthedirt: cool cool nice nice.  protesting is awesome, but be sure to get out there to fucking VOTE, people!!! Here’s a link to register to vote.

EaterJohn: Hello. It is nice to hear from you again, Epiales. Always a treat. Very insightful commentary on modern and past protests. I didn’t know about all of the revolutions in Europe 1848. I’ve send this to my co, and it’s already sparked a good conversation about who we are as a protesting people as we stand in history. Again, sorry to bother you, but I was wondering when the next article in your “Aeneid Autopsies: Current Crimes Reflected in Ancient Times” series was going to be released? It’s my…Read More

horneyvulcanbasterd: @mozARTsexandviolins Is that a Star Trek reference? Bc if so the answer’s Starfleet Command lol

MrsKatsukiBakagou: epiales. you have watered my crops and harvested my fields. thank you for the food.

mightiestavengereatmyass: eat shit and die, commie scum. your just a hired propagandaist for the fucking alt-left, aren’t you? You have no right to be running your collum in a real newspaper or on this fucking website. sending u anthrax in the mail would be too cool a death for you. I hope your so-called terrorist groupsfind out where you live and fucking murder you in the middle of the night. fukcs like you are the reason the country is going to shit the police have a total constitutional right int aht jurisdiction to enter. They had a no knock…Read More

fuckyouit’sjanuary: @readyplayer69 [image attached] [image description: blonde woman with caption reading, “I can tolerate racism, but I draw the line at looting the local target]

saltnpepa!!diner707: Hi. I’m trying to cite this piece in an essay, but your publisher isn’t listed on your website. Would you suggest using the NYT as the source in my bib? If it helps, this is due new week; idk if this will run in the NYT by then. Thanks

“I’m sending someone on a grocery run this morning,” said Tom, thumbs tapping away on his phone, “Do you need anything? Want anything?”

You glanced up from your laptop, closing it as much as you could without the light dimming. “I think I’m good, unless you used the last of the shredded cheese at some point.”

“Shredded…cheese,” he said under his breath, typing, “You mentioned capri-suns the other day.”

“Yeah, but I can tolerate the nasty, new flavour. No rush. Here’s a wild idea,” you said, and you waited until he looked up from his phone, a couple of ungelled curls falling over his forehead. “What if—now, don’t dismiss me as crazy; hear me out—what if we went to the store ourselves?”

“Again, no.” Tom grasping his coffee by the round of the mug, despite there being a perfectly functional handle. “Stop pressing me for it.”

“I’m not asking to go to a damn Broadway play. I’m asking to go to the closest 7-11,” you said, jiggling your leg and then making a conscious decision to stop fidgeting, instead scooting your chair closer under the table so that the arms slid underneath.

Tom hummed, his eyes not leaving his phone screen, but when you didn’t continue, he raised an eyebrow as he scowled at you. “Broadway is shut down because of the bomb threat.”

“Fuck off; you know what I meant.”

“Viper,” said Tom, and he locked his phone to set it on his napkin. “Do you want to get assassinated?”

“The term assassination implies I’m getting murdered for political reasons instead of the copious other crimes you’ve had me commit. So, I invite it.” Put your hands on the table where he can see them; it makes you seem more trustworthy. “Does 7-11 have an open carry policy?”

“If it’s any consolation, the renovated office should be waiting for you when you return.”

“It’s not.” You lifted your mug to your lips. “Working from here only makes me feel like a damn bureaucrat. Like I have no stake in the matter. I don’t want to become detached from everything; I might make a callous decision and send people where they can’t come back.”

“Keep watching yourself. If you stay on guard,” said Tom, running his middle finger around the rim of his mug, “then you won’t stray from me.”

“I’m useless here.”

“Then maybe you should become accustomed to the idea of being useless.”

Swallowing, you stared down into your tea. “There’s only so much I can get done through answering emails. Not to mention I hate answering emails. That’s how you get more emails.”

“Harrison has been telling me that your schematics have been more thorough since you’ve been holed up in here.” Tom tipped his mug all the way back to get the last of his coffee. “You’re still being just as productive, if not more methodical.”

“Did you mean obsessive? I have—I’ve had too much time to think. I’d rather not be alone with my thoughts, if I can help it.”

***

You could only read so much before losing your mind. You could only deal with so many of the same exact problems over and over again for lower level soldiers. You could only chart so many stars. You could only read so much fanfiction (if your identity thief were tracking your phone, he’d probably be baffled as to why you kept reading fic for fandoms you weren’t even a part of due to the desire for new ideas).

You could only give Glory Pham so many excuses as to why you’re not with her in person at the Museum of Natural History.

Sucking in through your teeth, you hovered your fingers above the keyboard.

Dear Ms. Pham,

Glad to hear John Mulaney’s signed on. Next step would be to ensure de Blasio doesn’t directly interact with him, given their history. Perhaps I should proof his set beforehand?

Unfortunately, I regret to inform you that I cannot attend the briefing in person yet again. I am currently indisposed, seeing as I am currently in hiding at my hot boss’s house, due to how dead I might be should I leave it (thus the basis of its appeal). Not to mention that if you criticise my blazer choices again, I shall peel the skin off your perfectly made-up face. Get fucked; getting your eyeliner tattooed on was a hell of a decision.

You shook your head, backspaced the last few lines, and stretched towards the wicker end table to grab your glass of pink lemonade, and you stole a glance at Tom’s work as you did so. A couple of files spread across his white wicker lounger (two blue files [socials of the family], two green [recent bids], a yellow [Manhattan locations], and a brown [requests from politicians, upper East side]). The pink sticky-notes had your and his written exchanges and edits on certain papers, and his laptop was open, the screen dimmed, while he copied something into a notebook with his cell phone held between his shoulder and his ear, just listening to the computerised voice.

He had joined you on the back porch to work remotely, claiming he couldn’t go into the city today due to the absence of news on Zendaya—if any information arose, he’d said he wanted your diagnosis immediately.

You wiped your forehead with your sleeve as a sweat drop slinked behind Tom’s ear. Even Tessa wouldn’t run in the heat; she’d curled up by the porch railing, her tail slapping against her water bowl. In an experiment to see if she wanted to spend some time outside, you’d slid the glass door open for Trout, to which she turned around to retreat to the bedroom.

Not all of the clothes you’d ordered had arrived yet, so you were stuck wearing autumnal clothes with long sleeves. To exacerbate matters, you were constantly moving—jiggling your leg, tapping your fingers—you couldn’t sit still for very long anymore; you had taken to pacing the porch when you couldn’t concentrate on the stars.

(Once, Tom had come out at night to check on you, wiping the sleep out of his eyes and sitting in silence with you. He’d made you go to bed after a while, claiming you’d run yourself into the ground if you kept this restlessness up.)

When your phone beeped, the both of you jolted at the sound. Tom hung up on the robotic voice as you scrambled to your phone, and he bent your way. “Is it Zendaya?”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you shook your head. “No. Looks like it’s a jailbreak.”

Tom sighed, his shoulders heaving as he eased back in his seat. “Where from?”

“I don’t even care,” you said, letting your phone fall to your lap. You slumped back in your chair, shielding your eyes from the sun with your arm. But you straightened yourself again and checked. “From Central. They don’t even know who’s all escaped yet.”

“It’d be too much of a gift if New York City would fucking relax for five minutes.”

“It seems like it’s in more uproar than usual lately,” you said, sipping through the reusable straw of your pink lemonade. “Do you suppose it’s our fault?”

Tom took a moment to pluck his damp t-shirt away from his chest. “I don’t think we’re instigating. If anything, we’re simply reacting to chaos.” He stood up and stretched, raising his arms above his head—his biceps strained at the sleeves, and the hem rose above his v-lines. “Unless you’re doing something I don’t know about.”

Ah, casual suspicion. “You’ve caught me,” you said as he approached Tessa and crouched next to her, “I’ve been running a koi smuggling gig on the side.”

“Why koi?” He held out his hand for Tessa to sniff, and she readily accepted his hand for pats. “Are they hard to get?”

“I don’t know,” you said, shrugging, “but I’ve been wondering if they’d be able to survive in your grist mill pond. You look through that water straight to the bottom, nothing living in your way. Just rocks and old equipment.”

Tom sat against the porch railing with a jittery Tessa partially in his lap. “Should we get some?”

“Oh, fuck off, Tom,” you said, grinning, a sweat drop falling onto your mousepad as you shook your head, “You can’t entertain every little pipedream I have.”

“Watch me. What do you want for Christmas?”

You ducked your head, biting your lip. “Promise me something.”

“Provided it’s not my head on a stake, I will,” he said, scratching Tessa behind her ears and cringing a bit when she stretched to lick his face.

“Then we’re going in person to the pre-opening fundraising gala for the Gawain Diamond.”

Tom narrowed his eyes. “Viper.”

“Bitch, I got John Mulaney to sign on to do the opening monologue, and he’s probably gonna roast de Blasio again. I’m not missing that.”

Your phone blared an alert again, and both of you held your breath as you unlocked it.

“Got a list of prisoners who escaped. Small group. Delores, Larson, Duncan, Mays, Selvin,” you said, “There’s more, but I don’t know them. Tell us something important, by God. Anyway, we’re going. I didn’t say I was going alone, did I? You’ll be there. I’ll be safe, and you’ll be safe.”

His jaw shifting to the side, Tom stilled his hand on Tessa’s back, and then he lifted it to flick sweat off his neck. “How many of us maximum can you get in?”

“It’s a fundraiser for idiotic rich people; if there are too many people without a name, they’ll be noticed.”

“It can’t be just us.”

“Why? Afraid you can’t protect me on your own?”

“Now, don’t start that.” Tom herded Tessa off his lap and onto her outside bed. “I’m not falling for it.”

“Yes, yes, I’m fully aware you’re capable of ripping me in half,” you said, draining your pink lemonade, the airy suction coming through your straw (almost loud enough that you couldn’t hear Tom’s sputtering over it—almost—and his phone beeping). “Want me to get that?”

“Bring it here,” he said, and you snatched it while he sat on the railing, dangling his legs off the side.

“It’s,” you said, eyebrows shooting to your hairline as you read the little notification, “It’s a tweet from Zendaya.” You tossed it to him to unlock and leant on the railing next to him, arm grazing his thigh with a heightened awareness of how close you were to his sweaty, sweaty abdomen. No! No time to thirst. Friend time.

Tom unlocked his phone and held it at your eye level, turning it horizontally as he pulled up the tweet.

ZENDAYA (@ZendayaMedias): Felt cute. Might delete later.

[video]

Tom pulled up the clip, waiting for it to load. “Why didn’t she post it to instagram, then?”

“The finer details of social media are an enigma. Do I look like I know,” you said, and his thumb hovered over the play button.

He cranked the volume up before pressing play, having to try twice due to how slippery his fingers were. “I wonder if Haz has seen this yet.”

A vertical shot of a murky, grey sky from the bow of a boat and dark ocean as far as the camera can see. It pans across the starboard side, and this boat is the only one in sight.

Only the sound of waves striking the boat.

The camera tilts down. Zendaya’s writhing on the deck, furiously straining against rope bonds that line up the entirety of her arms and up her calves; she’s yelling furiously at the person behind the camera through duct tape.

Scuffed, black boots roll Z to the starboard gunwale. She’s still fighting, still shouting.

The camera trucks to the right; before, the pair of cinderblocks attached to her feet were concealed. It returns to her face. A glove grabs part of her hair to show the weights tied into it. She bucks up to headbutt the camera; he avoids it.

Tom clenched his free hand on his thigh. “We’re running another scan for that black-stubble bell jackass from her instagram; did we have any fucking leads at all? What’s his fucking motivation? So he slept with her, allegedly; did she say no to a second time? Doesn’t fucking merit—”

The boot kicks the cinderblocks off the boat, and the camera tilts down to follow the trail of bubbles.

It’s quiet.

But then the camera pans to portside, where the guy in the picture with Zendaya is similarly tied up, but he’s openly weeping and shaking his head. He’s got something drawn on his forehead in black marker. The cameraman steps closer to focus on it: it’s a circle with an upward curve resting on top of it.

He’s still wearing the bell necklace.

Then the cameraman backs away and raises a gloved hand, in which a gun is aimed at the other’s forehead.

The bullet goes through the circle, and the bell rattles as he’s kicked off. Fewer bubbles.

Then the camera tilts up to show off the boat’s surroundings: a black and barren ocean, as far as the eye can see.

When the video started to loop, Tom switched his screen off, his phone hanging loosely in his grip. You released of his thigh once you noticed you’d grabbed onto him, and the evidence of your touch faded as the fabric relaxed.

His eyes glossed over at the blank screen, and his mouth opened before closing again, running his tongue over his lower lip. Tom brought a fist to his mouth and furrowed his brow, his hand hardly concealing the growing tremble of his jaw.

You took a step away from him, rubbing your arms as you ducked your head. “I’m going back inside,” you said, hoping Trout felt like being clutched to your chest, “I’m cold.”

***

The next morning, your mouth felt heavy and dry. You sneaked out as the sun was rising to go hide in the woods surrounding Tom’s house, but you talked yourself out of it. He would make too much of a fuss if he couldn’t find you—but you could delay the inevitable conversation even further. Both of you had separated and kept to yourselves the rest of the evening. Kept quiet.

So you rounded the outside of the house. You’re not camping out in a fucking copse. When you reached the pond, you scanned it for a dry place to hide, but nothing really held any appeal, save for the rounded platform where the mill wheel used to spin, its spoke notches overflowing with moss. You managed to get to it after scrambling alongside the stones for a few minutes, and though it didn’t look like you could get down the same way, you settled against the wall, scraping some moss out of the notches so that your feet could rest more comfortably in them.

(Dr. Prine called ten minutes after you sent her the email. “Did you send me the correct article?”

“Yeah,” you said, rubbing your face wash onto your cheeks, “Considering it’s the only one I have ready, and I can’t bring myself to write anything. I tried. I just fucking can’t.”

“I don’t think you want this published at this point in your life.”

“I don’t fucking care. Whoever’s using my pen name probably knows who the fuck I am in general. Just publish it.”

“Honey,” said Dr. Prine, her voice softening (and fumbling, like she was holding the phone to her ear with her shoulder), “You should probably rethink this. It’s going to connect Epiales you back to Viper you. Get some sleep; eat breakfast. Call me back then.”

“It’s an appropriate article for the political climate.”

“Not for your personal life.”

“I don’t fucking care,” you said between splashing water on your face, “I don’t. It’s a good fucking article, and hopefully, it can affect people for the upcoming election. Fuck self-preservation. Send it to the Times already.”

“Did I dial the wrong number?”

“Hilarious, Dr. Prine. I know it’s not the smartest thing for me to do, but I can’t—absolutely can’t—write anything. I don’t know for how long, but for now, at least.” You blotted your face dry. “I’ve got to meet standard deadlines if I’m keeping my column. It’s really only dangerous if Tom reads it and makes the connection, and his brain is offline right now.”

And so Aeneid Autopsies: Current Crimes Reflected in Ancient Times, chapter twelve, “The Political Tradition as Mob Rule,” would be published on Saturday. It’s a little too in the know about the mafia, but hey, you had written it on a whim a month ago, and you were known for your extensive research, anyway. It most likely shouldn’t be too different from your other exposés, though they weren’t on topics that were deliberately misleading the public by what information was out there.

The more you thought about it, it was almost like you wanted to reveal yourself, wanted to get stabbed while you were sleeping, because there’s an overwhelming question rolling around in your brain like a mis-weighted shooter marble: is this—)

“It’s not your fault.”

With crossed arms, Tom leant against the stone wall, his leg bent back for his bare foot to rest flat against it. He glanced sideways at you, sitting on your mill wheel perch almost halfway across the pond, but closer to the far side than to him.

He’s got major bedhead, his curls just fucking flopping about out of his part, and even from where you are, his face burned red amidst wet tracks trailing down it. Still, thank God for little mercies—his biceps were fucking straining the sleeves of his white t-shirt, and those idiotic, blessed grey sweatpants were low on his hips.

You lifted your head from your knees but still clutched them to your chest. “You’re not going out, then?”

“Of course not,” Tom said, and he wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Can’t be crying during a meeting, yeah?”

“Been boxing?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you get any sleep last night?”

“Not really.”

He ran his tongue over his lower lip and sighed, and then he slid his hands into his pockets, his eyes glossing over while he watched the moss you’d picked off float in the pond.

You’re not going to fucking cry. Tom came out here for a reason. He has a purpose. All you have to do is wait.

Eventually, he said, “You’re avoiding what I said.”

You tilted your head.

“Listen, I know you’re beating yourself up about it. It’s not your fault this happened. None of this is your fault. Hey.” Tom tapped the wall, the travelling reverberations making you look up at him. “Whoever’s doing this is doing it of their own volition and not because of you. You hold no culpability for this.”

“Bruh,” you said, “One of your best friends is dead, and you’re comforting me? I thought I was the masochist.”

Tom scowled, his brow furrowing. “Viper—”

“I can’t interact with someone without putting them in danger, at a disturbingly high rate. You want me to enumerate where I’ve stuck my nose in not my business and people have gotten killed? Senator Hernandez, Isadora,” you began, holding up two fingers, “The nine men guarding Isadora, Maccabruno, Polson—”

“Don’t you dare do that to yourself.” Tom took a step forward, his foot almost curving into the pond. “You didn’t use the knife. You didn’t pull any triggers.”

“Yeah, but I sent them there. And a good many of them went because it was their job.” You sneered and propped your chin on your knees again.

“And it’s part of your job—”

“Yeah, whatever. Your friend is dead, and I have no home. I’ve stopped contacting the few people in my circle on the chance that they get dragged into this—Grace, Adrien—he’s the lights specialist guy, in case you don’t remember—I’ve got to email Glory, but that can’t be helped. And Dr. Prine only—fuck,” you said, dragging your hands down your face. “I don’t want anything to fucking happen to Dr. Prine. Or your family, for that matter.”

“Everyone not involved in the business is currently in hiding upstate,” said Tom, eyes narrowed as he glared at you. “If you like, I can ensure the same—”

“Stop acting so damn calm, Tom.” You let your legs dangle off the platform, hands clenching the edges. “I don’t have any strings left to pull. And fucking hell, I know that it would be extremely and absurdly conceited of me to believe that this series of crimes is aimed specifically at me, because how deluded, how arrogant could I get—but goddammit, this stuff feels a little too personalised. It feels like this person knows me.”

Tom clicked his tongue. “Don’t you think it’s worth something that Glory Pham has been left alone? He knows how to get into Crosscreek, yet Glory hasn’t been touched. Is that not worthwhile?”

Your eyes watered, but you ducked your head so that he couldn’t see—but you released a dry sob (Fuck! Now is not the time for crying! Now is the time for being badass! Frown, or something!).

Tom spoke so quietly you almost didn’t catch it. “Do you want to leave?”

God, no. But it would make you feel like less of a burden. “Let me find an apartment first.”

“No, not like that. Hey, V. Look at me,” he said, and he tapped on the wall again.

You wouldn’t. Not like this. Not when your nose was running and when you didn’t have a plan.

“Please look at me, Viper.”

Glowering, you raised your head, lifting your chin higher than normal to seem confident, and oh, God—his eyes were wide and gentle; he’s leaning as far as he can over the pond, still unable to reach you.

“What I meant was if you wanted to leave the mob.”

It rang through your head like a distant cathedral bell, chiming through a deserted town—but then you were farther, out on the mountains, still listening to faint clanging.

“You’d have to kill me,” you said, shaking your head, “Don’t you remember?”

“Fuck,” Tom was saying, sucking in through his teeth, and after glancing at the water, he started jogging around the pond.

“I swore. I bled. And then even after that—then you knighted me.” You inhaled sharply when he reached the stones you’d climbed. “I’ve let you down.”

“Viper, get the fuck down from there and come here,” he said, and he withdrew, winching, when he stepped on a sharp edge.

“We shouldn’t have met,” you said, looking over your shoulder at him, and Tom froze, his hand partially gripping a hole in the stone wall. “I shouldn’t have taken the job. I should have gone to a different city. I should have—”

“Wasted your life away in the shadows? Just shut up and get down here.”

“Ah! The fuck?” You swatted his hand away when it grazed the platform, and when he climbed up another step, you pushed yourself off the platform and into the pond.

The first thing that struck you was how quiet everything was once the bubbles dissipated, and then you noticed how clear the water was, even from within it—glancing down, you could easily see your feet treading water above the broken grist mill wheels that had sunken to the bottom.

Before you could take it in to feel the emptiness in your chest, bubbles filled your vision again—and then his hands were grappling for you, grasping at your clothes, and pulling you towards the surface.

“I wasn’t fucking drowning,” you said, sliding a hand back through your hair, while Tom shook his head to flick off excess water. “I was fine without—”

“I know you weren’t.” Tom gripped your waist tightly enough to be painful, and he slid his other hand up between your shoulder blades. “I know. You wouldn’t die on me, and I’m not letting anyone else lay their hands on you. C’mon, arms around.”

He guided your arms around his waist, and once you had a good grip (hands sliding up his back), he kicked off to swim to the stone wall, backing you into it. Your toes skimmed the bottom of the pond, but Tom kept your head above the water, his thumbs circling your hipbones through your wet clothes.

Tom closed his eyes, his eyelashes heavy with water droplets. “There’s no solution to this where you die, got it?”

“Shucks.”

“I mean it. Talk to me. Tell me what you can.” Tom let out a breath slowly, and he bent to rest his forehead on your shoulder. “Please,” he said once you tensed up, his breath hot through your wet shirt, “Won’t you let me in?”

(Fuck fuck fuck fuck his chest is flush against yours; he’s so warm, so damn warm all over, and the water’s chill only makes you want to cling to him more, fuck.)

“You won’t like me,” you said, tentatively lifting a hand to curl your fingers into his hair, pulling slightly, “I’m not whom I’ve presented to you. I don’t have it under control.”

“I don’t expect you to.” Tom turned his head towards you; his lips almost grazed your neck (you relish their warmth anyway). “You wouldn’t be human, otherwise.”

“I don’t know an awful lot. Some days it seems like all I do is guesswork.” You grimaced but kept the slim distance from Tom’s mouth. If he wanted to, he would. “I’m lost completely on whoever the fake Epiales is. I keep looking for a pattern in everything, even—even so far back as to—”

You stuttered. Tom had pressed his lips to the base of your neck.

“There’s no consistency,” he said, nuzzling his nose against the spot where your neck met shoulder, “but there’s got to be a larger plan. I get it. The whole case is like a hydra, and we’re chopping blindly at the heads.”

(Oh, my God, he kissed you? He kiss the neck? He?)

“Oh! I forgot to tell you.” Tom pulled away to look you in the eye, and your mouth hung open of its own accord—come back! “I made myself watch the video again.” His jaw shifted. “To see if I missed anything, and I did. This time, I recognised the symbol on the guy’s forehead.” Tom lightly traced it onto your forehead with his middle finger. “It’s a zodiac symbol. It’s the one for Taurus.”

You nodded, still not really thinking at full capacity. “Great. Another piece of evidence that I won’t be able to make fucking sense of. Goddammit. I’m so useless. Goddammit,” you said, dropping your hand from his hair into the water with a splash. “Tom, I don’t talk to my mother much anymore. She doesn’t know where or who I am, and to be honest, I don’t know who I am, either. I don’t know where the truth is.”

You nearly slapped him when you cupped his cheek, like you were desperate, like you had to be touching him, skin on skin, that instant. It’d be nice if he would close his eyes and lean into your touch, maybe kiss your palm, but Tom simply stared at you in shock, eyes wide, brows raised, mouth pinched.

Don’t tell him, you whore. You built this fucking kingdom with its walls and bastions so that you would be safe when the outer defences crumbled. You’ve set aside parts of yourself into neat little boxes so that you can throw any of them away at any time and escaped unscathed. Don’t you fucking dare screw that up. Tom doesn’t know about Epiales so that you can expose and destroy him if you’re on his chopping block; it’s insurance for when everything falls.

Bitch, since when do you want to be honest and raw and vulnerable around anyone?

You can’t let him in.

“You’re still a woman of honour,” Tom said, and—oh, God, oh, fuck—he’s easing his hands down your body, his chest pressed against yours again, and he’s sliding them down your thighs to hook underneath your knees, and he’s hitched you up against the wall, the definition of his muscles real and palpable through the wet clothes, warm, warm, warm—

“I should apologise,” you said, turning your head to the side while he steered your legs around his waist, “I can’t imagine what you must be feeling right now.”

“You can’t?” Tom shifted you upwards, and that’s it; your heat is directly against him; you can feel every pull and tensing of his tendons, and if he keeps moving the way he is, then you’ll—

“I’m so sorry for making this about me when Z was closer to you. We shouldn’t waste time on me; we need to be searching, arranging a funeral if we can’t find anything.” You scrunched your eyes shut.

“You’re deflecting.” Tom let out a shuddery sigh. “I’ve lost too many people. Don’t make me lose you when you’re right in front of me,” he said, and he pressed his lips right below your ear.

You flinched away on impulse but tried to relax into him, blinking profusely.

Tom pushed against you (not localised enough to qualify as a thrust), and he cleared his throat before pulling away from your neck. “Listen, please. Please.” He shifted your weight to one hand and gripped your chin with his freed one. His eyes flickered to your mouth before he moved to rest his hand on your cheek. “You’re invaluable. Irreplaceable. You are no burden and are not at fault.” He clenched his jaw. “But I know you’re keeping something from me, and I will make the answer fall from your lips soon.”

Your own chin was shaking, and he was too close. If you put aside separate-self-as-insurance for a moment, let’s consider Tom did find out about Epiales. Would he control you through it? Would he use you to influence those he couldn’t reach? Would he grab hold of Dr. Prine? He might squeeze your life and time through his fist, and your freedom would be gone. Epiales was your freedom, your space to create and connect.

He was too close.

“You’ve got to promise not to hate me,” you said, and when he raised an eyebrow, you made your decision to lean in.

“No,” he said, and—and your lips met his cheek.

He’d turned his head.

After all that, he’s going to turn his head?

“No,” he said again, taking your chin again and leading you away, back to leaning against the stone wall, “I don’t want our first kiss connected to the memory of mourning. I can wait a bit longer.”

Tom released your legs, letting them sink. “You once told me that if you let yourself be vulnerable, you didn’t want an audience. I think,” he said, frowning, “I think you still see me as an outsider. As a member of that audience. And again, you said that you didn’t want it if it weren’t real.” He stepped away from you entirely, and he started wading towards the edge of the pond. “I’m going to hold you to the same standard. I’ll wait until you’re ready to be real with me.”

Tom slinked out of the pond, flicking away what excess water he could, and he squinted into the sun on the horizon. He shook his head, water flying, and he glanced back at you and scoffed. “Easy, sweetheart. No need to wear your heart on your sleeve now.”

His voice trailed off as he rounded the corner towards the door.

The sun is rising, and you feel rather cold.

***

inter vivos: between the living

***

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