#Mo always looks so dapper | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

peacefulapocalypse · 3 years

Text

I Sexually Identify as an

Attack Helicopter

by ISABEL FALL

I sexually identify as an attack helicopter.

I lied. According to US Army Technical Manual 0, The Soldier as a System, “attack helicopter” is a

gender identity, not a biological sex. My dog tags and Form 3349 say my body is an XX-karyotope

somatic female.

But, really, I didn’t lie. My body is a component in my mission, subordinate to what I truly am. If I

say I am an attack helicopter, then my body, my sex, is too. I’ll prove it to you.

When I joined the Army I consented to tactical-role gender reassignment. It was mandatory for the

MOS I’d tested into. I was nervous. I’d never been anything but a woman before.

But I decided that I was done with womanhood, over what womanhood could do for me; I wanted to

be something furiously new.

To the people who say a woman would’ve refused to do what I do, I say—

Isn’t that the point?

I fly—

Red evening over the white Mojave, and I watch the sun set through a canopy of polycarbonate and

glass: clitoral bulge of cockpit on the helicopter’s nose. Lightning probes the burned wreck of an oil

refinery and the Santa Ana feeds a smoldering wildfire and pulls pine soot out southwest across the

Big Pacific. We are alone with each other, Axis and I, flying low.

We are traveling south to strike a high school.

Rotor wash flattens rings of desert creosote. Did you know that creosote bushes clone themselves?

The ten-thousand-year elders enforce dead zones where nothing can grow except more creosote.

Beetles and mice live among them, the way our cities had pigeons and mice. I guess the analogy

breaks down because the creosote’s lasted ten thousand years. You don’t need an attack helicopter

to tell you that our cities haven’t. The Army gave me gene therapy to make my blood toxic to

mosquitoes. Soon you will have that too, to fight malaria in the Hudson floodplain and on the banks

of the Greater Lake.

Now I cross Highway 40, southbound at two hundred knots. The Apache’s engine is electric and

silent. Decibel killers sop up the rotor noise. White-bright infrared vision shows me stripes of heat,

the tire tracks left by Pear Mesa school buses. Buried housing projects smolder under the dirt,

radiators curled until sunset. This is enemy territory. You can tell because, though this desert was

once Nevada and California, there are no American flags.

“Barb,” the Apache whispers, in a voice that Axis once identified, to my alarm, as my mother’s.

“Waypoint soon.”

“Axis.” I call out to my gunner, tucked into the nose ahead of me. I can see only gray helmet and

flight suit shoulders, but I know that body wholly, the hard knots of muscle, the ridge of pelvic

girdle, the shallow navel and flat hard chest. An attack helicopter has a crew of two. My gunner is

my marriage, my pillar, the completion of my gender.

“Axis.” The repeated call sign means, I hear you.

“Ten minutes to target.”

“Ready for target,” Axis says.

But there is again that roughness, like a fold in carbon fiber. I heard it when we reviewed our

fragment orders for the strike. I hear it again now. I cannot ignore it any more than I could ignore a

battery fire; it is a fault in a person and a system I trust with my life.

But I can choose to ignore it for now.

The target bumps up over the horizon. The low mounds of Kelso-Ventura District High burn warm

gray through a parfait coating of aerogel insulation and desert soil. We have crossed a third of the

continental US to strike a school built by Americans.

Axis cues up a missile: black eyes narrowed, telltales reflected against clear laser-washed cornea.

“Call the shot, Barb.”

“Stand by. Maneuvering.” I lift us above the desert floor, buying some room for the missile to run,

watching the probability-of-kill calculation change with each motion of the aircraft.

Before the Army my name was Seo Ji Hee. Now my call sign is Barb, which isn’t short for Barbara. I

share a rank (flight warrant officer), a gender, and a urinary system with my gunner Axis: we are

harnessed and catheterized into the narrow tandem cockpit of a Boeing AH-70 Apache Mystic.

America names its helicopters for the people it destroyed.

We are here to degrade and destroy strategic targets in the United States of America’s war against

the Pear Mesa Budget Committee. If you disagree with the war, so be it: I ask your empathy, not

your sympathy. Save your pity for the poor legislators who had to find some constitutional

framework for declaring war against a credit union.

The reasons for war don’t matter much to us. We want to fight the way a woman wants to be

gracious, the way a man wants to be firm. Our need is as vamp-fierce as the strutting queen and

dryly subtle as the dapper lesbian and comfortable as the soft resilience of the demiwoman. How

often do you analyze the reasons for your own gender? You might sigh at the necessity of morning

makeup, or hide your love for your friends behind beer and bravado. Maybe you even resent the

punishment for breaking these norms.

But how often—really—do you think about the grand strategy of gender? The mess of history and

sociology, biology and game theory that gave rise to your pants and your hair and your salary? The

casus belli?

Often, you might say. All the time. It haunts me.

Then you, more than anyone, helped make me.

When I was a woman I wanted to be good at woman. I wanted to darken my eyes and strut in heels.

I wanted to laugh from my throat when I was pleased, laugh so low that women would shiver in

contentment down the block.

And at the same time I resented it all. I wanted to be sharper, stronger, a new-made thing,

exquisite and formidable. Did I want that because I was taught to hate being a woman? Or because I

hated being taught anything at all?

Now I am jointed inside. Now I am geared and shafted, I am a being of opposing torques. The noise

I make is canceled by decibel killers so I am no louder than a woman laughing through two walls.

When I was a woman I wanted to have friends who would gasp at the precision and surprise of my

gifts. Now I show friendship by tracking the motions of your head, looking at what you look at, the

way one helicopter’s sensors can be slaved to the motions of another.

When I was a woman I wanted my skin to be as smooth and dark as the sintered stone countertop

in our kitchen.

Now my skin is boron-carbide and Kevlar. Now I have a wrist callus where I press my hydration

sensor into my skin too hard and too often. Now I have bit-down nails from the claustrophobia of the

bus ride to the flight line. I paint them desert colors, compulsively.

When I was a woman I was always aware of surveillance. The threat of the eyes on me, the chance

that I would cross over some threshold of detection and become a target.

Now I do the exact same thing. But I am counting radars and lidars and pit viper thermal sensors,

waiting for a missile.

I am gas turbines. I am the way I never sit on the same side of the table as a stranger. I am most

comfortable in moonless dark, in low places between hills. I am always thirsty and always tense. I

tense my core and pace my breath even when coiled up in a briefing chair. As if my tail rotor must

cancel the spin of the main blades and the turbines must whirl and the plates flex against the pitch

links or I will go down spinning to my death.

An airplane wants in its very body to stay flying. A helicopter is propelled by its interior

near-disaster.

I speak the attack command to my gunner. “Normalize the target.”

Nothing happens.

“Axis. Comm check.”

“Barb, Axis. I hear you.” No explanation for the fault. There is nothing wrong with the weapon attack

parameters. Nothing wrong with any system at all, except the one without any telltales, my spouse,

my gunner.

“Normalize the target,” I repeat.

“Axis. Rifle one.”

The weapon falls off our wing, ignites, homes in on the hard invisible point of the laser designator.

Missiles are faster than you think, more like a bullet than a bird. If you’ve ever seen a bird.

The weapon penetrates the concrete shelter of Kelso-Ventura High School and fills the empty halls

with thermobaric aerosol. Then: ignition. The detonation hollows out the school like a hooked finger

scooping out an egg. There are not more than a few janitors in there. A few teachers working late.

They are bycatch.

What do I feel in that moment? Relief. Not sexual, not like eating or pissing, not like coming in from

the heat to the cool dry climate shelter. It’s a sense of passing . Walking down the street in the right

clothes, with the right partner, to the right job. That feeling. Have you felt it?

But there is also an itch of worry—why did Axis hesitate? How did Axis hesitate?

Kelso-Ventura High School collapses into its own basement. “Target normalized,” Axis reports,

without emotion, and my heart beats slow and worried.

I want you to understand that the way I feel about Axis is hard and impersonal and lovely. It is

exactly the way you would feel if a beautiful, silent turbine whirled beside you day and night,

protecting you, driving you on, coursing with current, fiercely bladed, devoted. God, it’s love. It’s

love I can’t explain. It’s cold and good.

“Barb,” I say, which means I understand . “Exiting north, zero three zero, cupids two.”

I adjust the collective—feel the swash plate push up against the pitch links, the links tilt the angle of

the rotors so they ease their bite on the air—and the Apache, my body, sinks toward the hot desert

floor. Warm updraft caresses the hull, sensual contrast with the Santa Ana wind. I shiver in delight.

Suddenly: warning receivers hiss in my ear, poke me in the sacral vertebrae, put a dark

thunderstorm note into my air. “Shit,” Axis hisses. “Air search radar active, bearing 192, angles

twenty, distance . . . eighty klicks. It’s a fast-mover. He must’ve heard the blast.”

A fighter. A combat jet. Pear Mesa’s mercenary defenders have an air force, and they are out on the

hunt. “A Werewolf.”

“Must be. Gown?”

“Gown up.” I cue the plasma-sheath stealth system that protects us from radar and laser hits. The

Apache glows with lines of arc-weld light, UFO light. Our rotor wash blasts the plasma into a bright

wedding train behind us. To the enemy’s sensors, that trail of plasma is as thick and soft as

insulating foam. To our eyes it’s cold aurora fire.

“Let’s get the fuck out.” I touch the cyclic and we sideslip through Mojave dust, watching the school

fall into itself. There is no reason to do this except that somehow I know Axis wants to see. Finally I

pull the nose around, aim us northeast, shedding light like a comet buzzing the desert on its way

into the sun.

“Werewolf at seventy klicks,” Axis reports. “Coming our way. Time to intercept . . . six minutes.”

The Werewolf Apostles are mercenaries, survivors from the militaries of climate-seared states. They

sell their training and their hardware to earn their refugee peoples a few degrees more distance from

the equator.

The heat of the broken world has chased them here to chase us.

Before my assignment neurosurgery, they made me sit through (I could bear to sit, back then) the

mandatory course on Applied Constructive Gender Theory. Slouched in a fungus-nibbled plastic chair

as transparencies slid across the cracked screen of a De-networked Briefing Element overhead

projector: how I learned the technology of gender.

Long before we had writing or farms or post-digital strike helicopters, we had each other. We lived

together and changed each other, and so we needed to say “this is who I am, this is what I do.”

So, in the same way that we attached sounds to meanings to make language, we began to attach

clusters of behavior to signal social roles. Those clusters were rich, and quick-changing, and so just

like language, we needed networks devoted to processing them. We needed a place in the brain to

construct and to analyze gender.

Generations of queer activists fought to make gender a self-determined choice, and to undo the

creeping determinism that said the way it is now is the way it always was and always must be.

Generations of scientists mapped the neural wiring that motivated and encoded the gender choice.

And the moment their work reached a usable stage—the moment society was ready to accept plastic

gender, and scientists were ready to manipulate it—the military found a new resource. Armed with

functional connectome mapping and neural plastics, the military can make gender tactical.

If gender has always been a construct, then why not construct new ones?

My gender networks have been reassigned to make me a better AH-70 Apache Mystic pilot. This is

better than conventional skill learning. I can show you why.

Look at a diagram of an attack helicopter’s airframe and components. Tell me how much of it you

grasp at once.

Now look at a person near you, their clothes, their hair, their makeup and expression, the way they

meet or avoid your eyes. Tell me which was richer with information about danger and capability. Tell

me which was easier to access and interpret.

The gender networks are old and well-connected. They work .

I remember being a woman. I remember it the way you remember that old, beloved hobby you left

behind. Woman felt like my prom dress, polyester satin smoothed between little hand and little hip.

Woman felt like a little tic of the lips when I was interrupted, or like teasing out the mood my

boyfriend wouldn’t explain. Like remembering his mom’s birthday for him, or giving him a list of

things to buy at the store, when he wanted to be better about groceries.

I was always aware of being small: aware that people could hurt me. I spent a lot of time thinking

about things that had happened right before something awful. I would look around me and ask

myself, are the same things happening now? Women live in cross-reference. It is harder work than

we know.

Now I think about being small as an advantage for nape-of-earth maneuvers and pop-up guided

missile attacks.

Now I yield to speed walkers in the hall like I need to avoid fouling my rotors.

Now walking beneath high-tension power lines makes me feel the way that a cis man would feel if he

strutted down the street in a miniskirt and heels.

I’m comfortable in open spaces but only if there’s terrain to break it up. I hate conversations I

haven’t started; I interrupt shamelessly so that I can make my point and leave.

People treat me like I’m dangerous, like I could hurt them if I wanted to. They want me protected

and watched over. They bring me water and ask how I’m doing.

People want me on their team. They want what I can do.

A fighter is hunting us, and I am afraid that my gunner has gender dysphoria.

Twenty thousand feet above us (still we use feet for altitude) the bathroom-tiled transceivers cupped

behind the nose cone of a Werewolf Apostle J-20S fighter broadcast fingers of radar light. Each beam

cast at a separate frequency, a fringed caress instead of a pointed prod. But we are jumpy, we are

hypervigilant—we feel that creeper touch.

I get the cold-rush skin-prickle feel of a stranger following you in the dark. Has he seen you? Is he

just going the same way? If he attacks, what will you do, could you get help, could you scream? Put

your keys between your fingers, like it will help. Glass branches of possibility grow from my skin,

waiting to be snapped off by the truth.

“Give me a warning before he’s in IRST range,” I order Axis. “We’re going north.”

“Axis.” The Werewolf’s infrared sensor will pick up the heat of us, our engine and plasma shield,

burning against the twilight desert. The same system that hides us from his radar makes us hot and

visible to his IRST.

I throttle up, running faster, and the Apache whispers alarm. “Gown overspeed.” We’re moving too

fast for the plasma stealth system, and the wind’s tearing it from our skin. We are not modest. I

want to duck behind a ridge to cover myself, but I push through the discomfort, feeling out the

tradeoff between stealth and distance. Like the morning check in the mirror, trading the confidence

of a good look against the threat of reaction.

When the women of Soviet Russia went to war against the Nazis, when they volunteered by the

thousands to serve as snipers and pilots and tank drivers and infantry and partisans, they fought

hard and they fought well. They ate frozen horse dung and hauled men twice their weight out of

burning tanks. They shot at their own mothers to kill the Nazis behind her.

But they did not lose their gender; they gave up the inhibition against killing but would not give up

flowers in their hair, polish for their shoes, a yearning for the young lieutenant, a kiss on his dead

lips.

And if that is not enough to convince you that gender grows deep enough to thrive in war: when the

war ended the Soviet women were punished. They went unmarried and unrespected. They were

excluded from the victory parades. They had violated their gender to fight for the state and the state

judged that violation worth punishment more than their heroism was worth reward.

Gender is stronger than war. It remains when all else flees.

When I was a woman I wanted to machine myself.

I loved nails cut like laser arcs and painted violent-bright in bathrooms that smelled like laboratories.

I wanted to grow thick legs with fat and muscle that made shapes under the skin like Nazca lines. I

loved my birth control, loved that I could turn my period off, loved the home beauty-feedback kits

that told you what to eat and dose to adjust your scent, your skin, your moods. I admired, wasn’t

sure if I wanted to be or wanted to fuck, the women in the build-your-own-shit videos I watched on

our local image of the old Internet. Women who made cyberattack kits and jewelry and

sterile-printed IUDs, made their own huge wedge heels and fitted bras and skin-thin chameleon

dresses. Women who talked about their implants the same way they talked about computers,

phones, tools: technologies of access, technologies of self-expression.

Something about their merciless self-possession and self-modification stirred me. The first time I

ever meant to masturbate I imagined one of those women coming into my house, picking the lock,

telling me exactly what to do, how to be like her. I told my first boyfriend about this, I showed him

pictures, and he said, girl, you bi as hell, which was true, but also wrong. Because I did not want

those dresses, those heels, those bodies in the way I wanted my boyfriend. I wanted to possess that

power. I wanted to have it and be it.

The Apache is my body now, and like most bodies it is sensual. Fabric armor that stiffens beneath

my probing fingers. Stub wings clustered with ordnance. Rotors so light and strong they do not even

droop: as artificial-looking, to an older pilot, as breast implants. And I brush at the black ring of a

sensor housing, like the tip of a nail lifting a stray lash from the white of your eye.

I don’t shave, which all the fast jet pilots do, down to the last curly scrotal hair. Nobody expects a

helicopter to be sleek. I have hairy armpits and thick black bush all the way to my ass crack. The

things that are taboo and arousing to me are the things taboo to helicopters. I like to be picked up,

moved, pressed, bent and folded, held down, made to shudder, made to abandon control.

Do these last details bother you? Does the topography of my pubic hair feel intrusive and

unnecessary? I like that. I like to intrude, inflict damage, withdraw. A year after you read this maybe

those paragraphs will be the only thing you remember: and you will know why the rules of gender

are worth recruitment.

But we cannot linger on the point of attack.

“He’s coming north. Time to intercept three minutes.”

“Shit. How long until he gets us on thermal?”

“Ninety seconds with the gown on.” Danger has swept away Axis’ hesitation.

“Shit.”

“He’s not quite on zero aspect—yeah, he’s coming up a few degrees off our heading. He’s not sure

exactly where we are. He’s hunting.”

“He’ll be sure soon enough. Can we kill him?”

“With sidewinders?” Axis pauses articulately: the target is twenty thousand feet above us, and he

has a laser that can blind our missiles. “We’d have more luck bailing out and hiking.”

“All right. I’m gonna fly us out of this.”

“Sure.”

“Just check the gun.”

“Ten times already, Barb.”

When climate and economy and pathology all went finally and totally critical along the Gulf Coast,

the federal government fled Cabo fever and VARD-2 to huddle behind New York’s flood barriers.

We left eleven hundred and six local disaster governments behind. One of them was the Pear Mesa

Budget Committee. The rest of them were doomed.

Pear Mesa was different because it had bought up and hardened its own hardware and power. So

Pear Mesa’s neural nets kept running, retrained from credit union portfolio management to the

emergency triage of hundreds of thousands of starving sick refugees.

Pear Mesa’s computers taught themselves to govern the forsaken southern seaboard. Now they

coordinate water distribution, re-express crop genomes, ration electricity for survival AC, manage all

the life support humans need to exist in our warmed-over hell.

But, like all advanced neural nets, these systems are black boxes. We have no idea how they work,

what they think. Why do Pear Mesa’s AIs order the planting of pear trees? Because pears were their

corporate icon, and the AIs associate pear trees with areas under their control. Why does no one

make the AIs stop? Because no one knows what else is tangled up with the “plant pear trees”

impulse. The AIs may have learned, through some rewarded fallacy or perverse founder effect, that

pear trees cause humans to have babies. They may believe that their only function is to build

support systems around pear trees.

When America declared war on Pear Mesa, their AIs identified a useful diagnostic criterion for hostile

territory: the posting of fifty-star American flags. Without ever knowing what a flag meant, without

any concept of nations or symbols, they ordered the destruction of the stars and stripes in Pear Mesa

territory.

That was convenient for propaganda. But the real reason for the war, sold to a hesitant Congress by

technocrats and strategic ecologists, was the ideology of scale atrocity . Pear Mesa’s AIs could not be

modified by humans, thus could not be joined with America’s own governing algorithms: thus must

be forced to yield all their control, or else remain forever separate.

And that separation was intolerable. By refusing the United States administration, our superior

resources and planning capability, Pear Mesa’s AIs condemned citizens who might otherwise be

saved to die—a genocide by neglect. Wasn’t that the unforgivable crime of fossil capitalism? The

creation of systems whose failure modes led to mass death?

Didn’t we have a moral imperative to intercede?

Pear Mesa cannot surrender, because the neural nets have a basic imperative to remain online. Pear

Mesa’s citizens cannot question the machines’ decisions. Everything the machines do is connected in

ways no human can comprehend. Disobey one order and you might as well disobey them all.

But none of this is why I kill.

I kill for the same reason men don’t wear short skirts, the same reason I used to pluck my brows,

the reason enby people are supposed to be (unfair and stupid, yes, but still) androgynous with short

hair. Are those good reasons to do something? If you say no, honestly no—can you tell me you

break these rules without fear or cost?

But killing isn’t a gender role, you might tell me. Killing isn’t a decision about how to present your

own autonomous self to the world. It is coercive and punitive. Killing is therefore not an act of

gender.

I wish that were true. Can you tell me honestly that killing is a genderless act? The method? The

motive? The victim?

When you imagine the innocent dead, who do you see?

“Barb,” Axis calls, softly. Your own voice always sounds wrong on recordings—too nasal. Axis’ voice

sounds wrong when it’s not coming straight into my skull through helmet mic.

“Barb.”

“How are we doing?”

“Exiting one hundred and fifty knots north. Still in his radar but he hasn’t locked us up.”

“How are you doing?”

I cringe in discomfort. The question is an indirect way for Axis to admit something’s wrong, and that

indirection is obscene. Like hiding a corroded tail rotor bearing from your maintenance guys.

“I’m good,” I say, with fake ease. “I’m in flow. Can’t you feel it?” I dip the nose to match a drop-off

below, provoking a whine from the terrain detector. I am teasing, striking a pose. “We’re gonna be

okay.”

“I feel it, Barb.” But Axis is tense, worried about our pursuer, and other things. Doesn’t laugh.

“How about you?”

“Nominal.”

Again the indirection, again the denial, and so I blurt it out. “Are you dysphoric?”

“What?” Axis says, calmly.

“You’ve been hesitating. Acting funny. Is your—” There is no way to ask someone if their militarized

gender conditioning is malfunctioning. “Are you good?”

“I . . . ” Hesitation. It makes me cringe again, in secondhand shame. Never hesitate. “I don’t know.”

“Do you need to go on report?”

Severe gender dysphoria can be a flight risk. If Axis hesitates over something that needs to be done

instantly, the mission could fail decisively. We could both die.

“I don’t want that,” Axis says.

“I don’t want that either,” I say, desperately. I want nothing less than that. “But, Axis, if—”

The warning receiver climbs to a steady crow call.

“He knows we’re here,” I say, to Axis’ tight inhalation. “He can’t get a lock through the gown but

he’s aware of our presence. Fuck. Blinder, blinder, he’s got his laser on us—”

The fighter’s lidar pod is trying to catch the glint of a reflection off us. “Shit,” Axis says. “We’re

gonna get shot.”

“The gown should defeat it. He’s not close enough for thermal yet.”

“He’s gonna launch anyway. He’s gonna shoot and then get a lock to steer it in.”

“I don’t know—missiles aren’t cheap these days—”

The ESM mast on the Apache’s rotor hub, mounted like a lamp on a post, contains a cluster of

electro-optical sensors that constantly scan the sky: the Distributed Aperture Sensor. When the DAS

detects the flash of a missile launch, it plays a warning tone and uses my vest to poke me in the

small of my back.

My vest pokes me in the small of my back.

“Barb. Missile launch south. Barb. Fox 3 inbound. Inbound. Inbound.”

“He fired,” Axis calls. “Barb?”

“Barb,” I acknowledge.

I fuck—

Oh, you want to know: many of you, at least. It’s all right. An attack helicopter isn’t a private way of

being. Your needs and capabilities must be maintained for the mission.

I don’t think becoming an attack helicopter changed who I wanted to fuck. I like butch assertive

people. I like talent and prestige, the status that comes of doing things well. I was never taught the

lie that I was wired for monogamy, but I was still careful with men, I was still wary, and I could

never tell him why: that I was afraid not because of him, but because of all the men who’d seemed

good like him, at first, and then turned into something else.

No one stalks an attack helicopter. No slack-eyed well-dressed drunk punches you for ignoring the

little rape he slurs at your neckline. No one even breaks your heart: with my dopamine system tied

up by the reassignment surgery, fully assigned to mission behavior, I can’t fall in love with anything

except my own purpose.

Are you aware of your body? Do you feel your spine when you stand, your hips when you walk, the

tightness and the mass in your core? When you look at yourself, whose eyes do you use? Your own?

I am always in myself. I never see myself through my partner’s eyes. I have weapons to use, of

course, ways of moving, moans and cries. But I measure those weapons by their effect, not by their

similarity to some idea of how I should be.

Flying is the loop of machinery and pilot, the sense of your motion on the controls translated into

torque and lift, the airframe’s reaction shaping your next motion until the loop closes and machine

and pilot are one. Awareness collapses to the moment. You are always doing the right thing exactly

as it needs to be done. Sex is the same: the search for everything in an instant.

Of course I fuck Axis. A few decades ago this would’ve been a crime. What a waste of perfectly

useful behavior. What a waste of that lean muscled form and those perfect killing hands that know

me millimeter-by-millimeter system-by-system so there is no mystique between us. No “secret

places” or “feminine mysteries,” only the tortuously exact technical exercise of nerves and pressure.

Oxytocin released, to flow between us, by the press of knuckles in my cunt.

When I come beneath Axis I cry out, I press my body close, I want that utter loss of control that I

feel nowhere else. Heartbeat in arched throat: nipple beneath straining tongue. And my mind is

hyper-activated, free-associating, and as Axis works in me I see the work we do together. I see puffs

of thirty-millimeter autocannon detonating on night-cold desert floor.

Violence doesn’t get me off. But getting off makes me revel in who I am: and I am violent, made for

violence, alive in the fight.

Does that surprise you? Does it bother you to mingle cold technical discipline with hot flesh and

sweat?

Let me ask you: why has the worst insult you can give a combat pilot always been weak dick?

Have you ever been exultant? Have you ever known that you are a triumph? Have you ever felt that

it was your whole life’s purpose to do something, and all that you needed to succeed was to be

entirely yourself?

To be yourself well is the wholest and best feeling that anything has ever felt.

It is what I feel when I am about to live or die.

The Werewolf’s missile arches down on us, motor burned out, falling like an arrow. He is trying a

Shoot On Prospect attack: he cannot find us exactly, so he fires a missile that will finish the search,

lock onto our heat or burn through our stealth with its onboard radar, or acquire us optically like a

staring human eye. Or at least make us react. Like the catcaller’s barked “Hey!” to evoke the flinch

or the huddle, the proof that he has power.

We are ringed in the vortex of a dilemma. If we switch off the stealth gown, the Werewolf fighter will

lock its radar onto us and guide the missile to the kill. If we keep the stealth system on, the missile’s

heat-seeker will home in on the blazing plasma.

I know what to do. Not in the way you learn how to fly a helicopter, but the way you know how to

hold your elbows when you gesture.

A helicopter is more than a hovering fan, see? The blades of the rotor tilt and swivel. When you turn

the aircraft left, the rotors deepen their bite into the air on one side of their spin, to make off-center

lift. You cannot force a helicopter or it will throw you to the earth. You must be gentle.

I caress the cyclic.

The Apache’s nose comes up smooth and fast. The Mojave horizon disappears under the chin. Axis’

gasp from the front seat passes through the microphone and into the bones of my face. The pitch

indicator climbs up toward sixty degrees, ass down, chin up. Our airspeed plummets from a hundred

and fifty knots to sixty.

We hang there for an instant like a dancer in an oversway. The missile is coming straight down at

us. We are not even running anymore.

And I lower the collective, flattening the blades of the rotor, so that they cannot cut the air at an

angle and we lose all lift.

We fall.

I toe the rudder. The tail rotor yields a little of its purpose, which is to counter the torque of the

main rotor: and that liberated torque spins the Apache clockwise, opposite the rotor’s turn, until we

are nose down sixty degrees, facing back the way we came, looking into the Mojave desert as it rises

up to take us.

I have pirouetted us in place. Plasma fire blows in wraith pennants as the stealth system tries to

keep us modest.

“Can you get it?” I ask.

“Axis.”

I raise the collective again and the rotors bite back into the air. We do not rise, but our fall slows

down. Cyclic stick answers to the barest twitch of wrist, and I remember, once, how that slim wrist

made me think of fragility, frailty, fear: I am remembering even as I pitch the helicopter back and

we climb again, nose up, tail down, scudding backward into the sky while aimed at our chasing killer.

Axis is on top now, above me in the front seat, and in front of Axis is the chin gun, pointed sixty

degrees up into heaven.

“Barb,” the helicopter whispers, like my mother in my ear. “Missile ten seconds. Music? Glare?”

No. No jamming. The Werewolf missile will home in on jamming like a wolf with a taste for pepper.

Our laser might dazzle the seeker, drive it off course—but if the missile turns then Axis cannot take

the shot.

It is not a choice. I trust Axis.

Axis steers the nose turret onto the target and I imagine strong fingers on my own chin, turning me

for a kiss, looking up into the red scorched sky—Axis chooses the weapon (30MM GUIDED PROX AP)

and aims and fires with all the idle don’t-have-to-try confidence of the first girl dribbling a soccer ball

who I ever for a moment loved—

The chin autocannon barks out ten rounds a second. It is effective out to one point five kilometers.

The missile is moving more than a hundred meters per second.

Axis has one second almost exactly, ten shots of thirty-millimeter smart grenade, to save us.

A mote of gray shadow rushes at us and intersects the line of cannon fire from the gun. It becomes

a spray of light. The Apache tings and rattles. The desert below us, behind us, stipples with tiny

plumes of dust that pick up in the wind and settle out like sift from a hand.

“Got it,” Axis says.

“I love you.”

“Axis.”

Many of you are veterans in the act of gender. You weigh the gaze and disposition of strangers in a

subway car and select where to stand, how often to look up, how to accept or reject conversation.

Like a frequency-hopping radar, you modulate your attention for the people in your context: do not

look too much, lest you seem interested, or alarming. You regulate your yawns, your appetite, your

toilet. You do it constantly and without failure.

You are aces.

What other way could be better? What other neural pathways are so available to constant

reprogramming, yet so deeply connected to judgment, behavior, reflex?

Some people say that there is no gender, that it is a postmodern construct, that in fact there are

only man and woman and a few marginal confusions. To those people I ask: if your body-fact is

enough to establish your gender, you would willingly wear bright dresses and cry at movies, wouldn’t

you? You would hold hands and compliment each other on your beauty, wouldn’t you? Because your

cock would be enough to make you a man.

Have you ever guarded anything so vigilantly as you protect yourself against the shame of

gender-wrong?

The same force that keeps you from gender-wrong is the force that keeps me from fucking up.

The missile is dead. The Werewolf Apostle is still up there.

“He’s turning off.” Axis has taken over defensive awareness while I fly. “Radar off. Laser off. He’s

letting us go.”

“Afraid of our fighters?” The mercenaries cannot replace a lost J-20S. And he probably has a

wingman, still hiding, who would die too if they stray into a trap.

“Yes,” Axis says.

“Keep the gown on.” In case he’s trying to bluff us into shutting down our stealth. “We’ll stick to the

terrain until he’s over the horizon.”

“Can you fly us out?”

The Apache is fighting me. Fragments of the destroyed missile have pitted the rotors, damaged the

hub assembly, and jammed the control surfaces. I begin to crush the shrapnel with the Apache’s

hydraulics, pounding the metal free with careful control inputs. But the necessary motions also move

the aircraft. Half a second’s error will crash us into the desert. I have to calculate how to un-jam the

shrapnel while accounting for the effects of that shrapnel on my flight authority and keeping the

aircraft stable despite my constant control inputs while moving at a hundred and thirty knots across

the desert.

“Barb,” I say. “Not a problem.”

And for an hour I fly without thought, without any feeling except the smooth stone joy of doing

something that takes everything.

The night desert is black to the naked eye, soft gray to thermal. My attention flips between my left

eye, focused on the instruments, and my right eye, looking outside. I am a black box like the Pear

Mesa AIs. Information arrives—a throb of feedback in the cyclic, a shift of Axis’ weight, a dune crest

ahead—and my hands and feet move to hold us steady. If I focused on what I was doing it would all

fall apart. So I don’t.

“Are you happy?” Axis asks.

Good to talk now. Keep my conscious mind from interfering with the gearbox of reflexes below.

“Yeah,” I say, and I blow out a breath into my mask, “yeah, I am,” a lightness in my ribs, “yeah, I

feel good.”

“Why do you think we just blew up a school?”

Why did I text my best friend the appearance and license number of all my cab drivers, just in case?

Because those were the things that had to be done.

Listen: I exist in this context. To make war is part of my gender. I get what I need from the flight

line, from the ozone tang of charging stations and the shimmer of distant bodies warping in the

tarmac heat, from the twenty minutes of anxiety after we land when I cannot convince myself that I

am home, and safe, and that I am no longer keeping us alive with the constant adjustments of my

hands and feet.

“Deplete their skilled labor supply, I guess. Attack the demographic skill curve.”

“Kind of a long-term objective. Kind of makes you think it’s not gonna be over by election season.”

“We don’t get to know why the AIs pick the targets.” Maybe destroying this school was an accident.

A quirk of some otherwise successful network, coupled to the load-bearing elements of a vast

strategy.

“Hey,” I say, after a beat of silence. “You did good back there.”

“You thought I wouldn’t.”

“Barb.” A more honest yes than “yes,” because it is my name, and it acknowledges that I am the

one with the doubt.

“I didn’t know if I would either,” Axis says, which feels exactly like I don’t know if I love you

anymore . I lose control for a moment and the Apache rattles in bad air and the tail slews until I stop

thinking and bring everything back under control in a burst of rage.

“You’re done?” I whisper, into the helmet. I have never even thought about this before. I am cold,

sweat soaked, and shivering with adrenaline comedown, drawn out like a tendon in high heels, a

just-off-the-dance-floor feeling, post-voracious, satisfied. Why would we choose anything else? Why

would we give this up? When it feels so good to do it? When I love it so much?

“I just . . . have questions.” The tactical channel processes the sound of Axis swallowing into a dull

point of sound, like dropped plastic.

“We don’t need to wonder, Axis. We’re gendered for the mission—”

“We can’t do this forever,” Axis says, startling me. I raise the collective and hop us up a hundred

feet, so I do not plow us into the desert. “We’re not going to be like this forever. The world won’t be

like this forever. I can’t think of myself as . . . always this.”

Yes, we will be this way forever. We survived this mission as we survive everywhere on this hot and

hostile earth. By bending all of what we are to the task. And if we use less than all of ourselves to

survive, we die.

“Are you going to put me on report?” Axis whispers.

On report as a flight risk? As a faulty component in a mission-critical system? “You just intercepted

an air-to-air missile with the autocannon, Axis. Would I ever get rid of you?”

“Because I’m useful,” Axis says, softly. “Because I can still do what I’m supposed to do. That’s what

you love. But if I couldn’t . . . I’m distracting you. I’ll let you fly.”

I spare one glance for the gray helmet in the cockpit below mine. Politeness is a gendered protocol.

Who speaks and who listens. Who denies need and who claims it. As a woman, I would’ve pressed

Axis. As a woman, I would’ve unpacked the unease and the disquiet.

As an attack helicopter, whose problems are communicated in brief, clear datums, I should ignore

Axis.

But who was ever only one thing?

“If you want to be someone else,” I say, “someone who doesn’t do what we do, then . . . I don’t

want to be the thing that stops you.”

“Bird’s gotta land sometime,” Axis says. “Doesn’t it?”

In the Applied Constructive Gender briefing, they told us that there have always been liminal

genders, places that people passed through on their way to somewhere else. Who are we in those

moments when we break our own rules? The straight man who sleeps with men? The woman who

can’t decide if what she feels is intense admiration, or sexual attraction? Where do we go, who do we

become?

Did you know that instability is one of the most vital traits of a combat aircraft? Civilian planes are

built stable, hard to turn, inclined to run straight ahead on an even level. But a military aircraft is

built so it wants to tumble out of control, and it is held steady only by constant automatic feedback.

The way I am holding this Apache steady now.

Something that is unstable is ready to move, eager to change, it wants to turn, to dive, to tear away

from stillness and fly .

Dynamism requires instability. Instability requires the possibility of change.

“Voice recorder’s off, right?” Axis asks.

“Always.”

“I love doing this. I love doing it with you. I just don’t know if it’s . . . if it’s right.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“Barb?”

“Thank you for thinking about whether it’s right. Someone needs to.”

Maybe what Axis feels is a necessary new queerness. One which pries the tool of gender back from

the hands of the state and the economy and the war. I like that idea. I cannot think of myself as a

failure, as something wrong, a perversion of a liberty that past generations fought to gain.

But Axis can. And maybe you can too. That skepticism is not what I need . . . but it is necessary

anyway.

I have tried to show you what I am. I have tried to do it without judgment. That I leave to you.

“Are we gonna make it?” Axis asks, quietly.

The airframe shudders in crosswind. I let the vibrations develop, settle into a rhythm, and then I

make my body play the opposite rhythm to cancel it out.

“I don’t know,” I say, which is an answer to both of Axis’ questions, both of the ways our lives are in

danger now. “Depends how well I fly, doesn’t it?”

“It’s all you, Barb,” Axis says, with absolute trust. “Take us home.”

A search radar brushes across us, scatters off the gown, turns away to look in likelier places. The

Apache’s engine growls, eating battery, turning charge into motion. The airframe shudders again,

harder, wind rising as cooling sky fights blazing ground. We are racing a hundred and fifty feet

above the Larger Mojave where we fight a war over some new kind of survival and the planet we

maimed grows that desert kilometer by kilometer. Our aircraft is wounded in its body and in its

crew. We are propelled by disaster. We are moving swiftly.

#I Sexually Identify as an Attack Helicopter by ISABEL FALL #I Sexually Identify as an Attack Helicopter #ISABEL FALL #gender identity

43 notes · View notes

eddiestattoos · 3 years

Text

Holy crap I'm almost done

"How was your day?" "that depends. What day is it?"

"If you mean old as hell yes it is"

Oh boy both versions of Clark on the same earth

Or.... not

How dare they do earth 2 Ollie like that

"You're kinda cute when you squirm"

"What have you been watching a little bit too much BBC lately?"

What the hell happened to the E2 farm?

Just putting this out there. Emil is underrated (even when I don't really know his general reception)

E2 Clark really went and bought Tess a whole outfit

Wait so E2 Ollie took over Smallville? Huh. Rude

It's a nice outfit anyway

"Your country crush"

"This is nothing but a cold music box without the music don't kid yourself"

"I don't know what your definition of romance is but mine is not staring face to face with the threat of having my neck snapped in half"

"We need to make sure there is nothing handsome pr heroic about Clark Kent"

*looks to guy fumbling a map around* "you need to be like that

So this is how future Clark ended up so dorky lol

"The real you can burn holes through buildings with one look and lift a freight train with one finger. Get over it" Lois Lane the queen of the pep talk

Booster has such a strange vibe. Not good or bad, just odd

I miss Oliver

Imagine if oliver were to meet booster I would lose it

"Either one I don't really have a bad side guys"

"I'm not interested in you goldilocks"

"Cat Grant. Like nails on a chalkboard"

"They all know all different Clark wouldn't be sending me roses, he's allergic to them remember?"

Clark: "booster" Lois: "ew" (tosses flowers)

Can I just say Clark looks very dapper in this suit

"I had a milkshake on the way in" oof dorky Clark this is awkward lol

"Will you be thanking anyone sir?" "Me. And maybe my mom. People love that sentimental stuff. And it's always a hit with the ladies"

Oh good lord Cat please stop

Holy crap he has a legion ring

"They're really good friends of mine. Actually they're more like acquaintances" look this guy has a hefty ego but he's kinda funny

"You're talking to the single greatest hero of the 25th century"

"I will zap you to honeybee heaven"

"The blur sounds like a roller coaster"

"You gotta brand it baby"

*busts all the buttons on his shirt*

"Let me move this thing a lot faster, I can unpack this thing in like 2 seconds"

"I come back willing to risk life and limb with you in the phantom zone and I get not so much as a welcome back?"

I love the Ollie getting involved with Kryptonian affairs eps so I'm ready for this

"Clark you'll be powerless there. Oliver has more experience with that"

Oliver jumping in last second

"If I had known about the long drop in I would have brought some repelling equipment"

"Where I'm from people just hang a wreath"

"When you said jor el built a prison, I kinda pictured something a little more confined than a national park"

"Seems like a real sweetheart"

"I thought this was just a clever name for jail"

Directed by Justin Hartley!

"My entire world just traveled headfirst into a world that makes hell look like the Taj Mahal"

Oh my boys are beautiful

Even Zod still looks decent

Healing Zod with his blood really has come back to triple bite Clark in the ass

Lol Zod is really comparing himself and Clark to Cain and Abel

Oliver guiding Clark though the fight!

Ok I'm not saying I want Clark to be a murderer... but, I kinda am

"I think we have a better chance of surviving your dad's desert than Zod's thunderdome"

OH (Lois just grabbed the gun)

"If you release your pet monkeys here I'd be more than willing to give the wicked witch a personal demonstration"

"You'll be cast aside, out of his good graces" Zod honey you were in Clark's good graces for all of 15 seconds. And he was on red k

Yes because Oliver Queen is your brother Zod. Absolutely

Ollie's not wearing a wedding ring and I'm offended

Ok it was obvious from the start Ollie and Clark would have to face off

Getting kind of tired of these slow mo blood pouring out of the mouth shot smallville seems to be obsessed with

"In terms of crippling wounds I've had worse"

"At least we took care of Zod. Can't say I'll be missing that guy"

3? Weeks? Damn phantom zone

Me: *sees Oliver in a dark dungeon esque vibe of a place* Oliver what the hell are you doing? Oliver? Oliver?!

"I knew you were coming, sneaking up on me is just showing off"

I refuse to believe Oliver will be overcome by this bitch

Darkseid infected a statue? Seems very not legit

#smallville #my smallville bs #I'm finishing this show tomorrow mark my words

1 note · View note

breakingsomething · 4 years

Text

to remember

basic summary: marvin's spiraling.

trigger warnings: mentions of abuse and self harm, flashback to a suicide attempt, much talk of medications, violent thoughts, themes of memory loss, extreme distress

it started with little things.

first he'd forget where he left stuff, like his phone or his cup of tea. that was just normal. but then he'd forget having ownership of certain items altogether. chase had once gotten mad at marvin for leaving a full mug next to his laptop, and it had taken five minutes for marvin to remember he'd made the drink in the first place.

as the weeks went by, thing continued to slip his mind. just small things. street names, words he should know, inside jokes from a while ago. he'd stumble before saying the name of an old friend, hesitate before mentioning that so and so had blonde hair because hadn't they dyed it, or had that been year ago? which of chase's kids liked sonic the hedgehog again? oh, chase kids were missing and he shouldn't bring them up? yeah. he'd forgotten that too.

then it was his medication. he'd been prescribed small tablets of paroxetine to take every day, which he'd done at the beginning. then he'd get so caught up with other things that it'd only be every few days that he'd remember the meds and a jolt of realization would hit him that he hadn't taken them in ages. but it was fine. he'd set a reminder on his phone! which worked for a while, until he'd read the notification and swipe it away with the intention to get up right away, but then get distracted, or even if he didn't get rid of it it would just get buried in his notifications bar and he wouldn't think twice. but it was fine! he was just a bit forgetful. silly billy marvin. so what if he sometimes forgot what his girlfriend looked like or when henrik's birthday was? that was normal, silly stuff. he was just fine.

"marvin, how long has it been since you've eaten?"

oh, someone was talking to him! he startled at the sound, whipping round in the kitchen doorway to face whoever it was and breathing a sigh of relief as he recognized him. jackie. his sweet big brother jackie, big brother who helped him keep his head on straight and comforted him through nightmares of events that marvin wasn't sure had really happened. how much of reality was he making up anymore? he wasn't sure.

"i just ate this morning," marvin said certainly, flashing the hero a smile. "what about you? i haven't seen you eat recently at all."

jackie crossed his arms, narrowing his dark eyes underneath his glasses. "me, chase and henrik ate breakfast together this morning. we had toast and wheetabix with bananas cause chase is on another health kick. where were you?"

marvin's confident grin slipped. "i - i had toast too," he said, trying to keep his voice steady so as not to reveal his uncertainties. "this morning. you guys must have - left."

marvin's heart was racing as he racked his brain. he had eaten, hadn't he? oh, oh, he didn't know. jackie's disapproving gaze was burning into him, making him feel smaller and smaller, like a child on the receiving end of a lecture.

"you can't skip meals, marvin," jackie sighed. he tilted his head and slowly reached his hand up to marvin's face, touching his forehead. even with the warning, marvin flinched. "are you feeling alright? apparently a lack of hunger or a feeling of sickness are side effects of the new medication, so -"

"shut up, jackie!" marvin hissed, face flushing. jackie raised an eyebrow at marvin's response, and the magician unconsciously flinched again. fuck, what was wrong with him lately? he knew jackie wasn't going to hurt him.

"there's no need to be embarrassed about medication," jackie said coolly. "i take paxil for my anxiety. it's nothing to be ashamed about."

"i know," marvin mumbled. he rubbed his skin comfortingly beneath his hoodie, wincing at the feeling of the scars all up his arm. self inflicted. couldn't blame anti for that. "it's not - i don't know. i'm new to all this. the whole - the whole…"

"mental illness thing?" jackie said with only a small hint of amusement in his voice. marvin snorted. the situation wasn't funny at all, so they had to make it that way themselves for it to be survivable.

he hummed, not looking jackie in the eye. another thing he was struggling with lately. he had always been good with things like that, something he excelled in that jackie did not. something else that had been taken from him. "i don't know. my head feels a bit weird all the time, but i don't think i'm sick. i should be ok, but, uh, thank you for the concern."

jackie kicked at a broken panel of wood on the floor, still not moving out of marvin's way. "speaking of medication," he said, and marvin's heart sank. "have you been taking them?"

"yes, jackie," marvin lied, swallowing hard, clenching and unclenching his fists. he couldn't stay still, why couldn't he stay still? his legs were shaking. "taken them every day."

"you're lying," jackie said flatly. marvin breathed in sharply at the undertone of disappointment in his voice, and just managed to look up at his face, cringing at how tired jackie looked. he rubbed at the bridge of his nose, pushing up his glasses. "henrik says you would have needed a refill by now if you had been taking them regularly. but you've barely touched the second packet."

marvin shook his head, breaths quickening. "i - yes i have. i finished the whole box." he'd dump them somewhere when he got a chance alone.

jackie sighed, shaking his head. "stop it, marvin. i looked in your room yesterday. the box was on your desk."

marvin gave a strangled cry. "you - you were in my fucking room? when i wasn't there?" god, he sounded like a child. but jackie knew that things were different after anti. marvin needed his space. he glared at his brother angrily, mouth hanging open with words he couldn't get out. "you fucking asshole, i thought you were going to respect my fucking privacy?"

jackie grimaced, scratching the back of his neck. "we're - we're worried for you, and -"

marvin didn't even say another word. he just shoved past his brother and stormed upstairs, slamming the door behind him.

sometimes he didn't remember his brother's names. that was just something that happened sometimes though, right? sometimes he forgot his street name. that was just a funny little mishap though, wasn't it? sometime he woke up and didn't know where he was and cried himself softly through his panic attack, curled up in the middle of his bed, too afraid to move in case someone came to hurt him, until he passed out from the headache that all the tears ended up giving him. that was normal though, wasn't it? just a silly little one time thing. it didn't mean anything. it could happen to anyone.

and then it happened again. and again. and again.

he awoke from nightmares he didn't remember. he thought about names that meant nothing to him, mouthing the words "dapper" and "naomi" and "jack" to himself. he held knives and thought about stabbing himself in the chest with them just to see what would happen. he shut himself in his wardrobe, shaking so hard he couldn't breath, feeling something hot drooling onto his neck.

the others began to properly notice the day marvin got lost.

he was just going to the corner shop. he bought a bottle of milk, a loaf of bread and a small packet of gum. he left the shop and was instantly hit with a dizzying wave of vertigo, like he was standing on top of a building. he didn't know where he was. he didn't know.

it was fine. there were three streets that branched off of this one, he was bound to belong on one of them. eeny, meeny, miney, mo, and he set off down the street to the left, which went down a small hill. that street then branched off into two other streets, and a long flight of stairs. marvin stared at them, head spinning.

he was suddenly so fucking scared.

he set off down the street to the left again. this one was sloping even further down a hill, tall, pretty looking houses with trimmed gardens and shiny cars parked neatly outside. marvin didn't live in a house, did he? he was certain he lived in a flat. there were flats somewhere in the distance, he could see. he set off towards them purposely, milk carton smacking against his thighs painfully.

it was so quiet. marvin felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, his chest tightening painfully. he wasn't supposed to be here. he wasn't supposed to be here. someone was going to stop him and tell him to turn around and he was lost, he was scared, and -

and the road ahead branched off into three separate roads, all of which were lined by blocks of identical flats.

he wasn't going to cry. he wasn't. he set off straight ahead, down a hill, frantically looking at the buildings around him. it was early spring, and some families were out in the gardens, playing in sprinklers and having barbecues. marvin was too hot in his long hoodie, sleeves covering the ugly scars on his arms. he couldn't breathe. he couldn't remember. nothing was familiar and the world was upside down and he was fucking terrified, was this a prank? was this a prank for his brother's youtube channel - which brother had a youtube channel, why couldn't he remember, he was scared, oh, he was scared!

eventually he collapsed in an empty bus stop, just across from a construction site surrounded by a red fence. he remembered that. there was a field behind it, and there was an abandoned waterworks, and a farm with lots of cows. he rapped his knuckles on his thighs, trying to ground himself. what else could he remember? he knew his own name. marvin mcloughlin, that was him. he tipped his head back and let out a shaky sob, stomach churning. nothing was right. he was too hot and the milk had gone warm and his palm was sweaty from holding the bread.

he sat there for an hour, numbly watching the sun go down. his head hurt from crying. he was too hot and tired and scared and he felt like a fucking child. marvin sat up, scrubbing at his eyes with his sleeve, scratching his sensitive skin. his mind felt like soup.

my name is marvin mcloughlin. i'm twenty nine years old. i have been on this planet for three years. i'm bisexual. i have three brothers. i have a girlfriend named naomi gudmundson. i used to be part of an organization called hecate's international network of magic.

it was night before his mind returned to him.

he fucking sobbed when it did, immediately scrambling to his feet and racing in the direction his mind was telling him to go before he forgot it. the milk and bread bashed his sides as he ran, and he definitely looked like a goddamn idiot, crying and darting through the streets with his shopping in hand. by the time he got to a street he recognized, a street he remembered, he was full blown sobbing, so hard it was difficult to catch a breath. and oh, when he saw chase sitting at the window on his ds, marvin could have cried out in relief. his little brother must have sensed him coming and turned to look at him, grinning, but his face fell as soon as he saw what state marvin was in. he leapt down from the window and disappeared, and marvin fell against the front door, not caring anymore if anyone saw him. he was scared, he was just so scared, he was just so, so scared.

as soon as the lock clicked and the door swung open, marvin threw himself into chase's arms, dropping the warm milk and crushed bread to the floor. "chase, chase, chase, chase!" he gasped, heart racing as his legs gave out, feeling like jelly. "oh my god, chase, chase..."

"what happened?" chase cried, clearly alarmed. he ran his hands across marvin's back soothingly, knowing not to touch his hair in case he set him off further. "did someone hurt you? do you need henrik? marvin, talk to me."

he couldn't talk. he was so overwhelmed, so fucking terrified out of his mind that he couldn't manage words, he just couldn't. all he could do was dry heave, coughing into his arm but still trying to cling to his brother because if he didn't he would disappear and marvin would be alone again and he couldn't be alone again he couldn't anti would get him anti would hurt him and dapper again and he'd punish him because kitten had disobeyed the rules and cut off his hair and anti would make him go into the spare room by himself again without anyone to touch him or talk to him fuck fuck fuck he was so scared!!!

he slept in jackie's bed that night. he couldn't speak, too overwhelmed, too afraid he'd be punished. he curled into a ball and hugged himself, confused and delirious, too shocked to speak. anti in his head. anti in his bed. dapper, anti, kitten, which name was his again? none of them sounded right.

everything came crashing down on him the next morning when he woke.

oh, oh, oh, had that all really happened? had he really gotten lost going to the corner shop, had he really had an hour long panic attack in broad daylight while clutching a bottle of milk and a bag of bread? a slapping wave of humiliation washed over him, and he shuddered, sitting right up in bed. was that real, had he made it up? he groaned softly, clutching his head. let it have been a nightmare, please, please.

he knew it hadn't been when jackie woke up and immediately started badgering him.

"who hurt you?" were his first words. "who upset you? what happened, why were you gone so long, tell me!"

"no one hurt me," marvin croaked. he hadn't spoken in hours, and his voice was hoarse. he curled tightly into himself, gently gracing his fingers across the skin of his neck to soothe himself. "just my own head. just my own head, jackie, jackie, jackie."

the conversation went by in a blur. marvin couldn't remember it.

my name is marvin mcloughlin. i'm twenty nine years old. i have been on this planet for three years. i'm bisexual. i have four brothers. i have a girlfriend named naomi. i used to be part of an organization called hecate's network of magic.

he didn't care what his brothers thought anyway. he was fine. it was just a silly memory lapse. ptsd? henrik, you're being ridiculous. jackie, don't agree with him! is anyone here on my side? chase? well, fuck you guys, i don't need you! no more doctors, no more doctors, i don't need you!

naomi was there for him. naomi, his best friend, his girlfriend, girlfriend, there was a change! he'd never loved that word more than now. he'd never loved her more than now. she was wonderful. she didn't treat him like he was fragile. he loved her.

"so how've you been?" she asked one morning when he was round at her shop, nai's blomma magi, yet again. he was there often, especially as of late. he didn't want to be around his brothers. all they did was talk in hushed voices and look away when he entered a room and speak to him gently like he was a bratty child. naomi didn't. naomi looked at him like he was her best friends and she loved him. he was so grateful for her. he thought she was the string holding him to the earth to stop him flying away.

"i've been good," he said cheerfully, swinging his legs on the counter where he was perched. naomi leapt up next to him, blowing upwards to push her caramel hair from her face. marvin wasn't used to it being so short. he thought it looked pretty. he stretched out a hand to run through it as he spoke, because they were dating and he could do that now, though he kept his eyes trained on naomi's despite how hard it was for him just in case she showed any signs of not liking what he was doing. "been busy. lots to do these days you know." he shot her some finger guns. "vibing."

she chuckled, rolling her eyes and shifting closer to him, knocking their legs together. "oh, the usual then," she joked, returning the finger guns. ""it be like that sometimes" and all that? are those the vibes, pye?"

he snorted, elbowing her side. "i am begging you to stop trying to use teen lingo. or - is lingo a word people use anymore? god, i don't fucking know. my point is please, please stop this madness."

she took his face in hand and titled it towards her, booping her nose against his. "ah, but you love me and my attempts at speaking like i am generation z," she laughed. "don't deny."

he knocked his forehead to hers, realizing how unprofessional they would look to anyone who might come inside. but honestly, he didn't care. he had no dignity left to lose. "i do love you," he murmured, before gently pressing his lips to hers, fingers brushing her warm cheeks. he couldn't stop himself from grinning ridiculously, giggling slightly as he pulled away. "ah, naomi, i'm bad at this."

"i'm no better," she admitted. her dark eyes flickered from marvin's lips to his eyes, making him automatically glance down at their entwined hands despite wanting to continue looking at her face. "i haven't had a relationship in years. what do we do? i mean, i won't lie, i enjoy what we're doing now. just this."

he kissed her again, just wanting to be close to her, not wanting to think. "naomi, naomi," he said softly against her lips, like a chant, like he was an actor memorizing his lines. "love you, naomi, naomi."

"that's my name," she whispered, her breath warm on his face. her fingers traced the scar on marvin's lip, the one anti had given him that day he tried to run away and he had made dapper slash his face with his knife as punishment. "you have a pretty name too, marvin. i should say it more often. marvin, marvin, marvin."

he felt light as a feather all of a sudden, like the air had been let out of him with just one stab of a knife to the face. marvin, marvin. forbidden. he didn't know that name.

he pulled away. stared into those chocolate eyes, his vision blurring as his exhaustion began to catch up to him. marvin, marvin, marvin, he didn't know a marvin.

"i don't understand," he mumbled.

the woman frowned, eyebrows furrowing. "what's wrong? pye, are you ok? you've gone very pale."

his fingers had gone very numb. he clumsily pushed himself off the counter, head swimming dizzily, his body moving sluggishly like he was wading through honey. "i'm not meant to be here," he slurred, tongue too big in his dry mouth. "i can't - i don't understand."

anti, anti, there was a name he knew. where did he go, kitten didn't know where he was or what he was doing - pye? pye wasn't his name. he didn't know what was. anti would know.

"marvin," his girlfriend was saying, naomi something, naomi gudmundson, his best friend. "marvin, hey, calm down, it's - uh, it's ok, i'm here. i - do you have your phone? i'm going to call jackie."

her voice was so lovely. marvin remembered days spent hypnotized out his mind, so desperately trying to remember the girl who called him names he wasn't allowed to know in his dreams, the two of them performing magic together. kitten wasn't allowed to perform magic anymore. his hands burned, and he clutched them tightly to his chest, tears forming in his eyes.

his phone had fallen out his pocket. "password, marvin," she asked, but he didn't know. he was suddenly so deep in his own head that he didn't know where or who he was. he was dimly aware of someone taking his hand and pressing one of his fingers to a sensor, of words being spoken, of a man with anti's face arriving and walking him home, of babbling tearfully about monsters and names and memories and girls in his dreams and twins who spoke with hands and charcoal and chocolate eyes and knives slitting his face and ropes and chains and predictive dreams and a man who held him tightly, crying, whispering "marvin, it's ok, it's ok, it's ok."

my name is marvin. i'm twenty something years old. i have been on this planet for three years. i'm bisexual. i have five brothers. i have a girlfriend. i used to be part of an organization called hecate.

they took him to a doctor.

jackie went with him. he was the only one marvin trusted, the one who's reddish hair and dark blue eyes and splattering of freckles across scarred cheeks was most comforting, warm, safe. the doctor's name was - something. she was kind, dark hair and glittering black eyes. she asked him questions. "have you been in any accidents recently?" she started in a tinny american accent. like chase. chase had an american accent.

jackie answered for him. "he's recently had a bad concussion, fell down the stairs and hit his head. that's the main thing we can think of."

that wasn't true. and yes, jackie and henrik had argued about lying. "they could incorrectly diagnose him, and then he could be put on the wrong medications, he's already on antidepressants and we can't risk something making his condition any worse!" henrik had cried. "this won't work!"

"then what do we say - "our brother deeply hypnotized him and locked away a ton of his memories, gaslighting him so badly he didn't remember his own name for like three days?" no!" jackie had hurled back. "a concussion is something more easy to explain. i can fake hospital records, aaron can help me if i need it, and -"

"we can't fake this!" henrik despaired. "this is a genuine problem, this is his life, we can't just fake hospital records and hope they magically come up with the correct diagnosis based on the lies you tell them -"

"this isn't your thing, hen, this is marvin and i am doing what's best for him -"

marvin had been sitting at the top of the stairs listening to them fight. he rubbed his burning hands together, wincing at the pain of the contact. how long had it been since he'd been able to use his magic? months. but he couldn't use it. he'd get in trouble. it wouldn't be ok, though. anti would let him use his magic before he exploded.

chase came to sit next to him. "i'm sorry," he said softly. "this is - shitty, i know."

everyone was always sorry. marvin shoved his hands between his knees and didn't respond until chase got the point and walked away again.

eventually, they had just gone with the concussion story.

the doctor turned back to him, smiling reassuringly. marvin fucking hated her. "does anyone in your family have a history of alcohol or drug misuse?" she asked.

chase, marvin dimly thought. then she realized he didn't mean that. "don't have parents," he said hollowly. "all i have is -"

"- is us," jackie interrupted, shooting marvin a look. "our parents are dead. there was no history of any of that, no. not that i'm aware of."

she glanced at her computer, ponytail swinging as she turned in her chair. "i see you're currently taking paroxetine, two 10mg tablets per day?" she asked, and marvin nodded. "have you had a history of mental health issues before this?"

"recently got diagnosed with depression," marvin mumbled, looking at his purple boots.

"have you ever self harmed or made a suicide attempt?"

"what does this have to do with memory loss?" jackie suddenly snapped, squeezing his brother's hand. marvin smiled, but shook his head at him, clearing his throat.

"it's ok, jackie," he said softly, and turned to the doctor again. "uh...yes to both."

"ok, ok." she was silent for a moment as she typed. "i don't see a log here for… any time recently. when did you make said attempt?"

a knife that anti hadn't taken back. he was out, gone away doing whatever he did, and marvin was in the bathroom, blade pressed to his wrist. it could all be over. dapper, brother, don't rewind, i want this to be permanent.

marvin turned to jackie, panicked. the older man immediately spoke up, leg bouncing rapidly. "i - last year, around july. he - there should be records, uh, i can see…"

jackie's boyfriend was going to be busy with these fake records, marvin thought, amused. records for a concussion, records for a suicide attempt - marvin hadn't yet met aaron, the man who had swept jackie off his feet while he was away, but he got the feeling the poor bastard was going to think he was a total nutjob.

no, that wasn't a nice word. naomi wouldn't like him using that word. a pang of guilt went through him; he'd left naomi for a full year with no explanation, kissed her a few times, freaked the fuck out and dipped. maybe she'd think he was insane too. no, no, bad word. he shouldn't be thinking such things about himself. naomi would never think that.

the doctor asked him a few memory related questions: what he'd had for breakfast, what his parents names were ("jack and… donna," he'd said), his address, ect ect. then he did something called a "mental state examination" that honestly felt like a test at school. he did a quick physical exam. then they'd asked to draw his blood.

that had been an immediate no from marvin.

"you - you can't do that," he stammered, pulling his hands inside his sleeves and wrapping them around himself. just the thought of someone coming near him with a sharp object sent him into an immediate sweat, his fight or flight instincts kicking in. "i - i don't like - i can't do that."

the doctor sighed. "we have to test for certain things, such as vitamin b-12 deficiency and thyroid disease," she said, like she was reciting from memory. "although given all i've heard, i think we may be able to diagnose you, but we have to make sure. we'll likely still have to do an mri to make sure."

"i can't do the blood, i can't do the blood," marvin chanted. he was shaking so ridiculously hard. when did he get this pathetic, this weak? "i - i'm sorry, i'm sorry, can't have sharp objects, jackie, jackie, jackie -"

jackie took his both his hands, glancing at the doctor helplessly. "he - he gets scared around sharp objects," he said apologetically. "marvin, hey, it's ok. no blood today, no blood."

"we'll have to reschedule if we can't do this today," she sighed again. marvin was getting sick of her doing that. "can we do tomorrow at… right before ten? maybe five two? that's when the trucks come to take away samples, and results would be quicker if we could get it done sooner."

jackie hesitated. "marvin?"

marvin couldn't breath. couldn't breath. "no, no, no, i didn't do anything wrong," he sobbed, flapping his hands in a circle with his eyes screwed up tight. "don't hurt me, i didn't mean it, i'm sorry, i'm so sorry, leave me alone -"

he thought he blacked out. memories were fuzzy. days passed, maybe. maybe he got his blood drawn somehow. he didn't fucking know. time meant nothing anymore.

my name isn't mine. i'm too old. i have been on this planet for so long. i'm real, maybe. i have a lot of brothers. i have people who i think love me. i used to be somebody.

they diagnosed him with ptsd and memory loss. then he got started on donepezil as well as his paroxetine. two medications for two of the many things that were wrong with him.

he visited naomi and told her the truth.

"i lied to you," he said. he stood in front of the counter like a customer, eyes dry and voice flat. "i wasn't staying with a friend last year. i told you that because the truth is fucking awful and i didn't want to burden you with that."

naomi looked unsurprised, but concerned. she frowned, raising her hand like she was going to touch him, but held back. "marvin," she said softly, and the name grounded him. "you can tell me anything."

she shut shop for the day and he told her.

they were both crying by the end of it. it was a lot, to be fair; marvin had years of trauma to unload, though most of it had happened within the last year and a bit. he almost expected her to kick him out - he was damaged goods, too fucked in the head to even function without constantly being doped up on meds. but she never did. instead, she pulled him in for a proper hug, kissing the side of his head and gently rubbing his back. "marvin mcloughlin," she said, naomi said. "i can't even put into words how fucking sorry i am that all that happened to you, i - my fucking shit, that's so horrible."

marvin had been so unbelievably touch starved for so long that for a moment all he could do was linger in her arms, stunned, eyes so full of unfallen tears that he couldn't see. "please don't let go," he choked out, and he was still scared, but he knew her, had known her for a long time, and trusted her with his life. he somehow always had. maybe he'd fallen in love with her the moment they'd met. "you don't hate me. you don't hate me?"

he heard her snort, shocked. "you think i would - hate you for what?" she almost laughed, her short hair brushing marvin's forehead and getting caught in his barrettes. "marvin, you are more than just my boyfriend. you're my goddamn best friend and i love you more than i ever have loved anyone, and that is - väldigt läskigt, i am forgetting english. but i would never, ever hate you. well, do you - do you want the truth?"

he nodded into his shoulder, the movement making the tears overflow and spill down naomi's back. he quickly scrubbed at his face, embarrassed, but naomi hardly seemed to notice. she buried her face into marvin's neck, her voice slightly muffled as she spoke her next words.

"i was so lost when you left," she murmured. "i had made you my anchor. i blamed myself for you leaving; blamed my bpd, blamed all the depressive states you'd seen me go through, blamed all the mania you'd had to talk me out of. but you know what? i got a therapist and i learned i couldn't blame myself for the actions of others and i continued to love you every second you were gone. i knew you'd be back. i did. i never doubted you and i loved you, so so much, and with the help of my therapist i think i figured it all out."

she sat up, knocking her nose against marvin's. "you are a person and not an anchor. not a - a puppet or a magician for your brother to use. you are a person and so am i and this makes no sense, i don't even know if i'm speaking english but i do know i have always loved you and always will and i'm so glad you're alive."

and it was those words that finally broke marvin. he let out a noise that was almost a wail of despair, shoulders shaking as his chest heaved against naomi's body. she was crying too, he could hear her. so for a long while they just held each other through the pain, and eventually marvin wasn't sad or mourning, he was just hugging his best friend. just comfortable, just warm, just happy. just in love. just alive.

he would be ok.

and as he kissed her once more, this time certain of who he was, where he was, what he was, this time certain he knew he was ok; as he did that, he remembered himself one more time.

my name is marvin mcloughlin. i'm not dead and i'm not going to let myself hurt anymore and anti can suck it if he thinks i'm going to fall to his whims anymore. my name is marvin mcloughlin and i love my family and my friends and myself. my name is marvin mcloughlin and that glitch bitch better hide as well as he can, because a storm is coming and i'm going to be in the eye of it.

#jacksepticeye #boop writes #marvin the magnificent #chase brody #jackieboy man #henrik von schneeplestein #naomi gudmundson #arc three: righting wrongs

28 notes · View notes

yasbxxgie · 4 years

Link

Chris Rock wasn’t sure if he was hiding out or not.

On the Friday before Labor Day, he was speaking by phone from Yellow Springs, Ohio, the rustic village where he’d gone to spend time with Dave Chappelle, his friend and fellow comedian. Rock had previously traveled there in July to perform for a small, socially distanced audience as part of an outdoor comedy series Chappelle has been hosting. But Rock couldn’t decide if this return visit was meant to be clandestine. “I don’t know if it’s a secret,” he said quietly. “Maybe it is out here.” He couldn’t easily find the words to describe what he’d been doing just before this trip, either. “I mean, I guess I’ve been acting,” he said. After a short pause, he added, at a more assuredly Rock-like volume: “In a pandemic.”

In August, Rock had gone to Chicago to finish filming the fourth season of “Fargo,” the supremely arch FX crime drama, which makes its debut on Sept. 27. The show’s creator, Noah Hawley, had chosen him to star in its latest story line, set in the dapper gangland of 1950s Kansas City, Mo., and which casts Rock — the indefatigable standup and comic actor — as a mannered, methodical crime lord named Loy Cannon.

Maybe in a different universe where the show premiered in April as originally planned, the “Fargo” role has already put the 55-year-old Rock on a whole new career trajectory, opening the door to more serious and substantial roles and silencing the chorus of fans who still knowingly ask him for “one rib.” Maybe in this universe it still will.

But when the coronavirus pandemic struck, production on “Fargo” was halted in March, and Rock and his co-stars (including Jason Schwartzman, Ben Whishaw, Jessie Buckley and Andrew Bird) were all sent packing. Then at the end of the summer, Rock was summoned back to set, first to spend a week in quarantine and then to complete his acting work under new protocols and not a little bit of stress.

Other prominent projects of his have also been pushed back — he has a starring role in “Spiral,” a reboot of the “Saw” horror series, whose release was postponed a full year to May 2021. But Rock wasn’t mourning the delay of any professional gratification, having spent the spring and summer realigning his values for the new reality of pandemic life. “Maybe for like a day or two, I was like, ‘Oh, me,’” he said with an exaggerated whimper. “But honestly, it was more like, I’ve got to get to my kids and make sure my family is safe.”

In that time he has also heard countless Americans echoing the lesson he offered in the opening minutes of his 2018 standup special, “Tamborine,” where he spoke humorously but emphatically about the ongoing incidents of police violence against Black people. As he said in that routine, law enforcement was among the professions that simply cannot allow “a few bad apples”: “American Airlines can’t be like, ‘You know, most of our pilots like to land. We just got a few bad apples that like to crash in the mountains.’”

Now Rock was feeling mistrustful about the power of his comedy to do anything other than entertain, and unsure when he would get to perform it again for large audiences. And he was admittedly wary about this very interview, explaining with a chuckle that when he talks to the print media, he said, “You have to be comfortable with being boring. If you’re not comfortable with being boring, occasionally, you’re going to get in trouble.”

Not that Rock was ever boring in a wide-ranging conversation that encompassed “Fargo” and his broader career; his latest observations on a nation grappling simultaneously with a pandemic and a reinvigorated longing for racial equality; the resurfacing of a past video where Jimmy Fallon impersonated him in blackface; and of course, President Trump. (“No one has less compassion for humans than a landlord,” he said.) Even in the absence of an audience, Rock was candid, increasingly animated, uncommonly nimble and always looking for the laugh. Now, let the trouble begin.

These are edited excerpts from that conversation.

Was there a time when you thought this “Fargo” season was never going to get finished and that the series might not be seen for a long time, if ever?

I’ve had weird little things in my career — I was supposed to do this Bob Altman movie, “Hands on a Hard Body.” We were on the phone a lot, going over my character and I was so excited about doing the movie. And he died. I was supposed to be Jimmy Olsen in “Superman” with Nic Cage [“Superman Lives,” which was canceled in the late 1990s]. I remember going to Warner Bros., doing a costume fitting. Hanging out with Tim [Burton], who I idolized. Like, I’m hanging out with the guy that made “Pee-wee’s Big Adventure” and he’s showing me the models of the sets for “Superman.” So yeah, I definitely thought there’s a chance this might not happen. Fortunately for everyone involved, that was not the case.

How did Noah Hawley approach you about “Fargo”?

It was a weird day, because it was the day of the Emmy nominations and I didn’t get nominated for my last special [“Tamborine”]. I wouldn’t say I was down down, but I was a little disappointed, and then I got a call from my agent that Noah Hawley wanted to meet with me.

I get acting offers, but I get more hosting offers than anything. It is not uncommon for somebody to want me to do a high-priced wedding or bar mitzvah — a few years ago, I officiated the wedding of Daniel Ek, the owner of Spotify, and Bruno Mars was the wedding band. I think I sat next to [Mark] Zuckerberg at the reception. [Laughs.] I just assumed Noah had some crazy request like that. The only reason I went is because I love “Fargo.” And I get there and he offers me this part.

How did he explain the character of Loy Cannon to you?

He said 1950s gangster, so I know exactly who he’s talking about. My father was born in 1933. It’s not like “12 Years a Slave.” It’s literally a guy my grandfather’s age.

In the first episode, we see Loy pitching the idea for credit cards to an uninterested white banker. Is he a man who wants to be part of polite society, but it doesn’t want him?

I mean, I remember having a production overall deal at HBO and I came in with one person to sell a talk show with them. And they wouldn’t. That person’s name is Wendy Williams. [Laughs.] That’s $100 million that I never made. I was selling Leslie Jones to people, to agents and managers, for 10 years before she got on “S.N.L.” I’m very familiar with selling a no-brainer that people go, “Huh? Why that?”

Is he different from characters you’ve played before, because he’s older and we don’t know how much longer he’s going to be sitting on his throne?

Yeah, it’s one of those jobs: Because of how well it pays, you could be killed at any moment. It is the best part I’ve ever, ever, ever had. I hope it’s not the best part I ever have. Hey, Morgan Freeman’s done a hundred movies since “Shawshank Redemption.” But that’s the best part he ever had.

This role feels like it’s declaring itself as being outside the realm of what you’re best known for. Are you thinking differently about your acting career and where you hope to go with it?

My casting isn’t as weird as it seems if you really watch “Fargo.” Key and Peele are in the first season and Brad Garrett’s amazing in Season 2. Hey, it’s my turn, OK? I want to work on good stuff. Everything I’ve done hasn’t been great, but I was always striving for greatness. I loved “Marriage Story.” I’d kill for something like that. [Laughs.] You see what [Adam] Sandler did with “Uncut Gems.” But you’ve got to get the call and be ready when your number’s called.

Your 2014 film “Top Five,” which you wrote, directed and starred in, was very personal for you. Do you want to make more movies like that?

That’s a vein I intend to keep going in. When I made “Top Five,” I got divorced. And like most people that get divorced, I needed money. [Laughs.] I had to pay for stuff. I also went on tour. Because of Covid, it doesn’t look like there’s going to be any serious touring until 2022. So I’m a writer-director-actor right now. I’m working on some scripts in the “Top Five” vein and I honestly hope to direct, some time after the new year.

How much of “Fargo” did you have to finish during the pandemic?

It was like an episode and a half — the whole last episode, and some scenes from the one before it. It’s weird, quarantine when you’re acting. Acting can be isolating, anyway, and then you throw quarantine into that. You’re in solitary confinement with Netflix and Uber Eats. But let’s not get it too twisted. Somebody that’s in solitary is like, shut the [expletive] up. And then to actually act and get tested every other day, and wear a mask whenever you’re not saying your lines. And be cognizant of which zone you’re in. Because for Zone A, everyone’s been tested, but in Zone B, not everyone’s been tested. Zone C is just, everyone’s got Covid.

You performed at one of Chappelle’s live shows in July. What was that like for you?

When you’re in the clubs, you learn the rain crowd is the best crowd. Any time it’s raining, they really want to be there. The pandemic crowd is really good. “Dude, not only do we want to be here, there is nothing else to do. There’s nothing else to watch. Thank you.”

What did you talk about?

I talked about our political whatever. America. Part of the reason we’re in the predicament we’re in is, the president’s a landlord. No one has less compassion for humans than a landlord. [Laughs.] And we’re shocked he’s not engaged.

Did you ever see that movie “The Last Emperor,” where like a 5-year-old is the emperor of China? There’s a kid and he’s the king. So I’m like, it’s all the Democrats’ fault. Because you knew that the emperor was 5 years old. And when the emperor’s 5 years old, they only lead in theory. There’s usually an adult who’s like, “OK, this is what we’re really going to do.” And it was totally up to Pelosi and the Democrats. Their thing was, “We’re going to get him impeached,” which was never going to happen. You let the pandemic come in. Yes, we can blame Trump, but he’s really the 5-year-old.

Put it this way: Republicans tell outright lies. Democrats leave out key pieces of the truth that would lead to a more nuanced argument. In a sense, it’s all fake news.

Looking back at the beginning of “Tamborine,” the first several minutes is you talking about police violence and raising Black children in a racist country. Does it feel futile when you discuss these issues and it doesn’t change anything?

I remember when “Tamborine” dropped, I got a lot of flak over that cop thing. There was a lot of people trying to start a fire that never really picked up. It’s so weird that, two years later, it’s right on. I remember watching the news and Trump said “bad apples.” It was like, you did it! You did it!

But you told people two years ago —

I did. But so did Public Enemy. So did KRS-One. So did Marvin Gaye. There’s something about seeing things on camera. If O.J. kills Nicole on camera, the trial is two days. [Laughs.] It’s two days trying to figure out what kind of cell he deserves. It’s just Johnnie going, [Johnnie Cochran voice] “Well I think he needs at least a 12-by-8. Can he have ESPN?” That would be the whole trial.

But there was videotape of Rodney King’s beating, too. It doesn’t assure any particular outcome.

Yeah, man. Put it this way: This is the second great civil rights movement. And Dr. King and those guys were amazing. But they knew nothing about money. They didn’t ask for anything. At the end of the day, the things we got — it was just, hey, can you guys be humane? All we got was, like, humanity. If they had it to do all over again, in hindsight, there would be some attention paid to the financial disparity of all the years of — let’s not even count slavery, let’s just count Jim Crow.

You’re talking about a system that really didn’t end until about 1973. And I’m born in ’65 in South Carolina. I’m probably in a segregated wing of a hospital — there’s no way in the world I was next to a white baby. Even if the hospital wasn’t segregated, I was in a whole other room and that room didn’t have the good milk and the good sheets. My parents couldn’t own property in certain neighborhoods when I was born. There was an economic disparity there, and that was not addressed in the original civil rights movement. It was a huge oversight. So there’s no money and there’s no land. If you don’t have either one of those, you don’t really have much.

Did you want to participate in the recent protests?

Me and my kids, we looked from afar. But we’re in the middle of a pandemic, man, and I know people who have absolutely passed from it. I’m like, dude, this Covid thing is real.

You’ve been telling audiences for years that racism isn’t going away and remains a potent force in America. Do you feel like you’ve seen circumstances improve at all?

It’s real. It’s not going away. I said this before, but Obama becoming the president, it’s progress for white people. It’s not progress for Black people. It’s the Jackie Robinson thing. It’s written like he broke a barrier, as if there weren’t Black people that could play before him. And that’s how white people have learned about racism. They think, when these people work hard enough, they’ll be like Jackie. And the real narrative should be that these people, the Black people, are being abused by a group of people that are mentally handicapped. And we’re trying to get them past their mental handicaps to see that all people are equal.

Humanity isn’t progress — it’s only progress for the person that’s taking your humanity. If a woman’s in an abusive relationship and her husband stops beating her, you wouldn’t say she’s made progress, right? But that’s what we do with Black people. We’re constantly told that we’re making progress. The relationship we’re in — the arranged marriage that we’re in — it’s that we’re getting beat less.

Jimmy Fallon drew significant criticism this past spring for a 20-year-old clip of himself playing you in blackface on “Saturday Night Live.” How did you feel about that segment?

Hey, man, I’m friends with Jimmy. Jimmy’s a great guy. And he didn’t mean anything. A lot of people want to say intention doesn’t matter, but it does. And I don’t think Jimmy Fallon intended to hurt me. And he didn’t.

There’s been a wider push to expunge blackface from any movies or TV shows where it previously appeared. Have people taken it too far?

If I say they are, then I’m the worst guy in the world. There’s literally one answer that ends my whole career. Blackface ain’t cool, OK? That’s my quote. Blackface is bad. Who needs it? It’s so sad, we live in a world now where you have to say, I am so against cancer. “I just assumed you liked cancer.” No, no, no, I am so against it. You have to state so many obvious things you’re against.

Who do you hang with these days? Who’s your peer group?

I hang with Dave [Chappelle]. I hang with my kids. I hang with Nelson George. There’s not a lot of hanging in the Covid world. The better question is, who do you FaceTime with?

So who do you FaceTime with?

The other day I realized I’ve never met an elderly person that was cared for by their friends. Every elderly person I know that’s got any trouble is cared for by a spouse or a child. Sometimes they have like five kids but only one helps. Where are your friends? Your friends are probably not going to be there when it really counts. [Laughs.] When my dad was dying in the hospital, where were his friends? My grandmother, where were her friends? Don’t get me wrong, you get sick in your 20s, your friends will come to the hospital. It’s an adventure. [Laughs.] You get sick in your 60s, they farm it out. “You go Wednesday and I’ll go Sunday.”

Enjoy them while you have them. But if you think your friends are your long-term solution to loneliness, you’re an idiot.

#chris rock #black face #amerikkka #racism #racial hierarchy #donlad trump #comedy #black comedy #comedians #black comedians #interview #interviews #the new york times #fargo fx #covid-19 #covid 19 #long reads

4 notes · View notes

spine-buster · 5 years

Text

Alone, Together | Chapter 32 | Morgan Rielly

“Get your hand off my butt, baby. We’re in public.”

“I can’t. It’s glued there.”

Bee couldn’t help but snort as she felt Morgan’s hand pat her ass. She looked up at him trying to contain her smile, watching him as he was watching the commotion around them. Friends and family of Zach and Alannah were filing into the foyer of the Art Gallery of Ontario, excitedly looking around at all the decorations around them. They were waiting off to the side for some more teammates to arrive – Fred, Tyler, and William were due to arrive any second according to their texts to Morgan, all solo bachelors for the night, along with John and Aryne (who had flown in just that morning from Sydney and Matt Martin’s wedding in the Hamptons the day before), Nazem and Ashley, Jake and Lucy, Mitch and Steph, Connor and Madison, and Kasperi and Cassie. Some former teammates had even flown in for the wedding, like James van Riemsdyk and his fiancée Lauren, and the new Stanley Cup winner Tyler Bozak and his wife Molly. Bee knew it was going to be a great party.

“What are you gonna do when we have to sit for the ceremony? Am I gonna sit on your hand?” she asked.

“Probably.”

She couldn’t help but snort. “You’re unbelievable.”

Morgan finally looked down at her with a smirk on his face. “What am I supposed to do when you’re wearing that,” he said, motioning down to her dress. “Plus I know what you’re wearing under it.”

“Behave yourself,” she warned. “We’re at a wedding.”

“Can’t make any promises.”

This was Bee’s first ever wedding. It wasn’t like she was ever invited to them as a kid (and it wasn’t like she and her mother could go even if they were), and considering her age, nobody in her friend group had gotten married yet. When she and Morgan got the invitation, she stared at it for like, five minutes, taking in the gold foil detailing, the heavy cardstock, and all the other bits included, like a parking pass and a map to the Art Gallery of Ontario. It was so luxurious and well designed. The whole wedding was going to be so luxurious if the invitation was anything to go by. When she let Morgan know it would be her first wedding, he told her what to expect, what they day and night would entail, and how there would probably be a lot of alcohol and the hockey boys going a bit crazy. Bee knew she’d have to get a new dress and probably get her hair done, so she made sure to go shopping with Ashley, who helped her pick out her dress, and had gone to a hair appointment earlier in the day so she could get a messy bun done. She was excited, to say the least, and had been eagerly jittery about it for at least a week.

“He’s touching the buuuuutttt,” a high-pitched voice mimicked the octopus from Finding Nemo. Morgan and Bee both whipped their heads to see Tyler leading Fred and William towards where they were standing. Morgan made no attempt to take his hand off her ass as his teammates approached, though when Bee leaned in to hug them, he was forced to let go.

“You guys are looking quite dapper,” Bee smiled as she gave big hugs to Willy and Fred. They said their thanks and complimented her on her dress before she turned to Tyler. “You look like a vacuum salesman.”

The boys cackled as Tyler’s jaw dropped. “This is a new suit!” he cried out.

“It is?”

“Bespoke! From Mo’s guy!” he pointed towards Morgan.

“Really?”

“Garrison Bespoke!” he stressed. “He took my measurements and everything!”

Bee couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh you know I’m kidding, Tyler,” she smacked his arm playfully. “The suit looks great.”

“Thank God. This is the most expensive piece of clothing I own.”

“Your hair on the other hand…” she began, a devilish grin on her face.

“Don’t you dare speak about my hair.”

Before the teasing could go any further, the group was ushered to a row of seats about halfway from the front. Morgan sat on the aisle seat, Bee next to him as he held her hand in his lap. Tyler sat beside her, with Fred and Willy next to him. Eventually, Kasperi and Cassie snuck in to finish off the row, and John and Aryne settled in right behind Morgan and Bee, along with Jake and Lucy, and Nazem and Ashley. Music was playing from a set of speakers high above them (Bee imagined the DJ had set them up – no way would an art gallery be blasting music in those speakers) as the traditional ceremony began. Bee smiled when she saw Zach walk down the aisle to the chuppah with his parents. Zach looked so dapper in his suit, and he looked nervous as he joked around with his groomsmen. When Alannah began to walk down the aisle, Bee couldn’t help but become emotional at the sight of her. She looked so beautiful in her dress, her long blonde hair in perfectly done waves and her veil extending behind her like a princess. Bee shed a tear as Alannah finally met Zach at the end of the aisle, who had already wiped away a few tears himself.

Morgan continued to hold her hand lightly in his lap throughout the ceremony. His fingers were loose around hers, and his thumb grazed the back of her hand tenderly throughout the whole ceremony. She could feel him looking at her at certain points, and when she’d turn her head to look at him, she’d see him gazing at her, his eyes glossed over with an emotion Bee couldn’t quite discern.

The moment came when Zach had to break the glass. As he stomped his foot down, the glass in the napkin shattered and everybody screamed the traditional “Mazel tov!” and began a round of applause. The music started back up again as they walked back town the aisle hand in hand. Bee looked up at Morgan once Zach and Alannah reached the end, their wedding party following behind them.

“Now it’s time to party,” he winked at her.

***

Cocktail hour was exciting and full of food. They had a raw oyster bar that kept getting restocked, a sushi station, passed hors d’oeuvres, and a “cheese” cake – literally wheels of cheese imported from Italy stacked on top of one another. Bee couldn’t get enough, especially of the cheese cake, and Morgan ate so many oysters she thought he wouldn’t be able to eat dinner (Morgan always had room for dinner). He also had room for drinks – lots of drinks, because fuck, a teammate was getting married and they needed to celebrate every fifteen minutes with a toast to Zach, a toast to Zach’s dad, a toast to the chuppah. Bee milked her gin and tonic for most of cocktail hour, watching as the bartenders poured drink after drink for the boys. Morgan made sure to keep his hand in its place (read: on her ass) whenever he wasn’t eating or having a drink with the boys, and this time, Bee appreciated the contact a little more.

When they were ushered from Walker Court to Baillie Court for dinner, Bee picked up hers and Morgan’s place card. The giant table they were seated at saw her and Morgan sitting with Jake and Lucy, John and Aryne, Kappy and Cassie, Fred, Willy, and Tyler. The other “hockey table” beside them constituted Tyler and Molly, James and Lauren, Connor and Madison, Mitch and Steph, and Naz and Ashley. They were definitely the loudest section of the room, tucked into their own little corner relatively close to the head table.

As they began to sit down in their places, Bee was in the middle of a Fred and Morgan sandwich. Being squishes between two giant hockey players was probably the dream of a lot of girls, but Bee felt like she had T-Rex arms and wondered how she’d be able to eat her meal without elbowing her boyfriend and good friend. Morgan’s hand immediately went to her thigh. “Morgan, Fred is right here,” she warned, her voice low as she whispered in his ear.

He turned to her. “I can’t stop thinking about what’s under that dress,” he said, much, much louder than he intended. It was clear the alcohol was coursing through his veins and he either had no filter, no shame, or no concept of how loud his voice was.

Either way, Fred snorted beside her. Bee gave Fred an exasperated look as he continued to smirk and giggle. “Morgan,” she said sternly. “Keep your voice down, please.”

“Yeah Mo. If I really want to I could reach over and put my hand on your thigh, too,” Fred chirped in, doing just that, leaning over Bee’s body and squeezing Morgan’s thigh. “Never mind asking to see what’s under that suit.”

“Oh my God,” Bee grimaced before she facepalmed. The last thing she saw was Fred wiggling his eyebrows and Morgan wiggling his back at him. Apparently everybody else at the table was too busy in their own conversations to see what was going on. “Please hold off until we start dancing. I don’t think everyone else at the table will appreciate your shameless flirting while they eat.”

After Zach and Alannah’s first dance (Bee definitely cried) but before dinner began, Zach’s dad made a heartwarming speech about their families coming together. Zach and Alannah were high school sweethearts, so he spoke about how much they had grown together and how he was so happy to “finally have a daughter” in Alannah. After the first course, their best man and maid of honour also made their speeches, which were hilarious and poked fun at the couple, all while celebrating their friendship and love. Lastly, after the main course, Zach and Alannah gave their own speech to both laughs and tears from the guests in attendance. Throughout the speeches, Morgan rested his arm on the back of Bee’s chair and she leaned back into his chest. She could feel him rest his cheek on the side of her head and couldn’t help but smile at him being so unapologetically affectionate. She didn’t know if it was just him, or the alcohol, or a mix of both. In a room surrounded by love for Zach and Alannah, she felt fortunate to know Morgan still couldn’t help but show his love for her, too.

Then, the party started.

The DJ opened the dancing with some Rihanna, and everybody crowded the dance floor quickly. Bee, Aryne, and Lucy began moving their hips along to the music, the boys dancing awkwardly as they always did – probably because the food had softened their buzz and they didn’t feel the rhythm as much. Song after song, the DJ kept the dance floor full. Eventually, the boys were pulled away from some drinks and shots at the bar, and the girls met up with the others, taking group photos and posing with their hands rubbing Aryne’s bump.

When the DJ began to play a slower-tempo song, Morgan returned to the dance floor, grabbing Bee’s hands and twirling her into his body as they moved to the beat of the music. With his one hand on her lower back and his other holding hers against his chest, he looked down at her and gave her a quick peck on the lips. “I lllllove you, you know that?”

Bee couldn’t help at his slight slur of his words. She wondered how many shots he downed at the bar while she was dancing. “I do. And I love you too.”

He bent down slightly so he could whisper in her ear, although, with the alcohol running through him, she knew his whispering would probably end up be screaming, just like it was at the dinner table. “I know I’m not supposed to say this but you’re the prettiest girl in the room. Even with Alannah in her wedding dress.”

Bee couldn’t help but give him a look – somewhat appreciative, somewhat disapproving. She knew now that it was the alcohol talking. “Stop.”

“I’m being serious. This dress is doing things to me,” he said, his hand wandering further down her back.

“Eeeeeeeasy cowboy,” she giggled, grabbing his hand and bringing it back up to its previous position at the small of her back. “There are family members around. Don’t want them getting a bad impression.”

“Imagine if they knew how loud you scream my name.”

A shiver ran up Bee’s spine at Morgan’s words. “Morgan.”

“Imagine how loud it’ll be tonight,” he continued, whispering into her ear. “Imagine how loud you’ll be after I peel that dress off of you and call you my good girl.”

“Morgan, stop,” she stressed, looking beyond Morgan to see Lucy pouting her lip at them, mouthing the words ‘So cute!’. If she only knew what he was saying instead of the sweet nothings she probably thought he was saying. There were a lot of people on the dance floor, too, and God help her if one of them had supersonic hearing.

“Is it pink?”

“Is what pink?”

“Whatever’s under this dress.”

Bee couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “You’re just gonna have to wait and see,” she said coyly. “Besides, by the rate you’re drinking now, you might not last long enough to see me in it.”

That got Morgan’s attention. He looked at her wide-eyed, shaking his head. “No. No. No,” he said quickly, garnering a giggle from Bee. “I am not – no – I am not passing out before I see what’s under there.”

“Good choice, Morgan,” she winked at him.

A grin still managed to make its way across his face. They continued to slow dance together. Bee noticed Aryne resting her head on John’s shoulder as they danced together. She even saw Kappy and Willy dancing together, holding each other in their arms as Cassie filmed it. They were already hammered. Cassie would have her hands full tonight. “I still meant what I said before. You’re the prettiest girl in this room,” Morgan said again, smiling down at her. “You’re the prettiest girl in every room.”

“You flatter me too much.”

“Cause you deserve it.”

Bee couldn’t help but smile, leaning her head in the crook of his neck. “And you’re the best boyfriend in the world,” she whispered, relaxing in his arms.

Eventually, everybody came back out onto the dance floor. Connor Brown had a tray full of shots for everyone and Fred carried other drinks for them, including a gin and tonic for Bee, and they all began to dance some more. She felt slightly buzzed as she danced along with everyone, laughing and giggling and incorporating some truly heinous dance moves. When the DJ played Lizzo – a four song set of “Boys”, “Good as Hell”, “Juice”, and “Truth Hurts”, everybody went crazy. The girls were singing along at the top of their lungs, dancing and acting out the lyrics as much as possible. The boys, to their credit, were graciously playing along, dancing and moving their hips, pointing to their bowties during “Boys” and pretending to check the girls’ nails and flip their non-existent hair during “Good as Hell”. Tyler – a surprisingly excellent dancer – ended up dancing with Bee and swinging her back and forth along to the beat of “Juice”, indulging her by pretending to grind up against her when the lyrics “The juice ain’t worth the squeeze if the juice don’t look like this”. Everyone around them whooped and hollered as Morgan danced towards her too, backing his ass up towards her body on the other side, putting her in a hockey-player-grinding-sandwich. Bee was laughing so much she couldn’t dance anymore, covering her face until Alannah pulled her out and subbed Zach into the sandwich so she could dance with her.

When the DJ played an entire 90s-Eurodance set, the European boys went nuts. Kasperi and Willy went crazy with their dancing and jumping around, and Fred – oh my God, Fred – he was doing it along with them, his big body jumping and grooving along to the music that he apparently loved so much. Perhaps he had fond memories of it growing up. In any case, everybody eventually joined in with them, Cassie filming the whole thing on her phone.

When the DJ announced the late night food stations, the girls still didn’t leave the dance floor since the music was so good. Instead, the men left and came back soon after with the goodies – poutine, Angus beef sliders, grilled cheese sandwiches, and fried chicken. When the boys brought the piles of food back, the girls screamed in excitement.

“I brought you poutine,” Fred smiled drunkenly as he showed her the steaming bowl of fries, gravy, and cheese curds. Aryne was already digging into a grilled cheese sandwich and Cassie was filming herself eating a fry dangling from Kasperi’s mouth. “I already ate some. Sorry.”

“You brought me poutine?!” Bee was ready to cry at his words. Fred nodded his head, a giant smile on his face as he set the bowl down on the table. Bee wrapped her arms around his big shoulders and pressed a kiss onto his cheek. “Freddie, you are the absolute best person on the planet.”

“Hey, what am I, chopped liver?” Morgan demanded playfully, holding a plate of fried chicken. “I brought you fried chicken!”

“Well I’m eating the poutine first,” she stuck out her tongue at him, grabbing a fork and digging into the poutine.

Another shot at the bar with Zach, Alannah, and all the hockey guests happened after everybody finished eating, followed by another gin and tonic for Bee. Group pictures – so many group pictures – were posed for (and no doubt uploaded to Instagram). More dancing with Fred and Tyler, more slow dancing with Morgan. By the end of the night, everybody watched from the sidelines as Zach and Alannah danced to their last dance together.

Morgan and Bee stood off to the side, Bee’s back to his chest as he had his arms wrapped around her waist. Bee could feel Morgan’s chin resting on top of her head, and slowly but surely, he moved down so he could rest it against her shoulder. When she shifted her eyes to look at him, she saw a simple, loving smile on his face.

His eyes were looking at Zach and Alannah, but his mind was elsewhere.

***

Morgan and Bee were giggly as they stumbled into his apartment, kissing whenever they could, grabbing wherever they could. Bee worked on untying Morgan’s tie while his hands were busy groping her ass through he dress. He kicked off his shoes and she hers, and he helped her unzip her dress to reveal her pink underwear and bra. He drunkenly grabbed handfuls of her ass before they fell onto the bed together, dragging each other further onto the bed as Morgan’s large body loomed over hers. She worked at the buttons of his shirt before pushing the material off, then worked at his belt as he kissed her all over – wet, sloppy kisses; butterfly kisses; nipping kisses that left soft bite marks on her skin; long kisses that were sure to leave hickeys.

The way he was kissing her felt different tonight. It wasn’t that he was holding back. And it wasn’t that he was drunk, either (well, half-drunk – he had the wherewithal to be gentle with the zipper of her dress so he didn’t break it). It just felt…different. There were moments where he’d stop and look at her, his mouth open as their lips traced each other’s, but his blue eyes would be piercing hers, as if he couldn’t believe she was below him, her legs wrapped around his torso pressing his body against hers. Then he’d start kissing her again, and his hands would wander along her sides, and it felt like there was even more meaning than there usually was behind his kisses. Like there was something he was trying to say with them, something that he couldn’t say with words, or something that he was trying not to say.

“Our wedding’s gonna be all flowers,” he mumbled suddenly against her lips.

Her body stiffened slightly at his words. Okay, so maybe he had no filter right now. Maybe the alcohol was still coursing through his veins and he was a bit more than half-drunk. “Flowers?”

“Mmm,” he smiled, biting her bottom lip. “Cause you love them so much. Lots of flowers. All the flowers in the world.”

She couldn’t help but smile at his reasoning. The fact that he was even thinking about this stuff, and then saying it with no filter, made the butterflies in her stomach flutter. She knew it must have been because of the wedding. She couldn’t help but feel a sense of giddiness. They always said drunk words are sober thoughts, and, well…she was going to get to the bottom of this. “What else?” she couldn’t help but ask.

“Good food. Raw oyster bar,” he continued in between kisses. “You in lace.”

“Lace?” she giggled slightly.

“Mhm,” he nodded slightly, moving down to her neck. “The dress and whatever’s underneath it. You know how lace is my favourite.”

“You’re lucky it’s my favourite too,” she said, moving to unclasp her bra and toss it to the side. “What else?”

“Vancouver or Toronto – doesn’t matter. Just somewhere nice,” he continued, kissing down her body and over her breasts. “You pick. You pick everything. Whatever you want. But the flowers. You love flowers.”

He hooked his fingers into her underwear and slid off her panties, pulling his own underwear down right after. She took the initiative to flip him over so he was on his back, and climbed on top of him to straddle him. She grabbed his cock in her hands and stroked it a few times. She couldn’t help but admit that she loved this. She didn’t know where it was coming from, but she loved it. She wanted more. She wanted to know it all. “Where are we going for our honeymoon?” she smiled, biting her lip as she lowered herself on to his cock.

It took Morgan a few moments to answer – he was too busy relishing in the feeling of his cock inside of her and watching it disappear into her. “Positano,” he gulped. “If I don’t get to take you there before then. So you can see the giant lemons.”

“Oh yeah?” she breathed out, bottoming out, putting her hands on his broad chest.

He nodded, gulping again. His hands squeezed at her hips. “Or Bora Bora. France. Lake Como. New Zealand. Antarctica. Where do you want to go?”

“Anywhere with you, baby.”

“Then we’re going anywhere,” he agreed.

Bee couldn’t help but smile as she began to rock back and forth. As the less drunk of the two, she took it upon herself to do most of the work, knowing Morgan would probably appreciate it. “It’s so deep baby,” she moaned, one of her hands going to her clit. “God, it’s so fucking deep.”

“I’d go to Turkmenistan if you wanted to go there,” he continued, his mind apparently still stuck on their earlier words.

She couldn’t help but laugh, surprised that he even knew it was a country. “Okay, stud,” she giggled out.

“I mean it. You tell me what you want, where you want to go and we’re going.”

She leaned down so her breasts were pressed up against his chest. She kissed him a few times before smiling at him. “I want you to make love to me,” she purred against his lips.

With a flash in Morgan’s eyes, he took the initiative to wrap his arms around her and flip her over so she was on her back below him. He fucked her nice and slow, and passionate, and loving, giving her the same kisses as he was earlier, a mix of sticking his tongue down her throat and tracing his lips onto hers as he looked down at her, his big blue eyes searching for something within her that she didn’t know he was looking for.

“You think about this stuff too, right?” he asked, his tone of voice almost worried as he looked down at her.

She nodded her head. Yes, she did. She did think about this stuff. She thought about what her future would be like with Morgan. She thought about marriage, about children, about raising a family. She thought about growing together. How could she not? He was the love of her life. It was so clear that he was. He was everything that she could have asked for in a partner, and she’d be a liar if she said she hadn’t thought about it. She saw the look in his eyes. She heard his tone of voice. As if he had anything to worry about. “Of course I do,” she kept nodding. “All the time.”

He didn’t say another word. Instead, after some more work on his part, he felt her walls clench around him and he exploded within her, filling her up as he always did, cock twitching at the feeling. She kept her legs wrapped around him as he collapsed on top of her, falling into a quiet, gentle, contented sleep.

164 notes · View notes

my-brothers-corrupted · 5 years

Note

Marvin, take your brothers and run. Get the hell outta there and fast!

Anti grabs his face and they both fall to their knees. Anti is listing, using Marvin as much for support as for control.

“Don’t go!” he cries, voice rasping. “You’ll stay here with me, with them!”

“I’ll stay here with you… with them.”

“Good boy,” breathes Anti, exhausted. “There you go, are you a good boy?”

Marvin winces, confused. He doesn’t think he used to like that term, but it sounds nice now. He doesn’t - he doesn’t - he does want to go back with Anti - he wants to go back with his brothers - he wants whatever Anti wants, whatever Anti asks of him, whatever -

He stares blankly down at his brother. Anti stares back, relieved, exhausted, and snaps his fingers in front of his face, drawing no reaction at all from Blue.

“There, there,” he chokes. “There, now we’re okay. We can all go back and - ”

“That won’t stop him.”

The voice speaks up behind him, loud and sure.

Startled, Anti turns to see Doktor standing, staring at him. He holds Trick’s body in his arms.

“What did you just say?” hisses Anti, alarmed.

Doktor’s eyes are so tired. He is a thousand years old. His eyes have seen hell. The person he loves most in all the world is unconscious against his chest, ill and exhausted, deserving of more peace than the world has ever offered him.

“The mind control,” says Henrik flatly. “Won’t keep him in place. The rebellion will come back, again and again and again. Tonight will not last long. Tomorrow he will be like himself again.”

“Dok,” whispers Anti. “What are you saying?”

“You’ve always loved figuring people out, master, I know. I’ve helped you torture enough people to know that - finding all the different ways to make them bend to you. This is Marvin. He was my brother once. Sometimes I feel he still is, for what little I remember. You will not break him with mind tricks. He will not stay for that which is false. He sees through illusions better than the rest of us. A deeper understanding… a ferocity, in his chest.”

Anti glances back at Marvin, unmoving before him. Tears drip from his clouded eyes.

“You must let him make the choice for himself, Anti, or he will never stay.”

Anti breathes slow, in and out, in and out.

“No threats, no tricks, no anything. Tell him he can go or leave. Nothing more. Master, I’ve served you well. Grant me this one favor, after all I’ve done for you.”

In and out. His chest is wet. It grows more painful to breathe.

“Anti,” whispers Henrik, whispers Doktor. They are no longer so much different people as they once were.

Anti readjusts, straightening up as much as he can, holding his bloody side.

“Take your brothers back home,” he says, softly. “Promise me, Deutsch.”

“Yes, Anti.”

“Don’t look back, whatever happens. Tell Dapper not to undo it, either. You’re…. right, mo deartháir. Time to make a choice.”

He eases his hold on Dapper and the boy is able to climb to his feet, reaching out for him, whimpering.

“Go home with Deutsch and Trick, baby,” whispers Anti, turning away from his hands. “Lie down with them. You’ve been alone too often lately. I’ll be home soon. Go.”

Dapper turns away, confused.

“Go. Go, Dap.”

He turns to follow Doktor and Trickshot up the beach.

Anti breathes in deep, meeting Marvin’s eyes.

And then

He draws back his power, and he leaves Marvin free.

#pixie-in-trebleland #chapter 1 #on the ocean shore

23 notes · View notes

beerecordings · 5 years

Note

“come here now” w/ anti and jj??

okay!! so this is based on My Brother’s Keeper but not canon. It’s just something that might have happened if Schneep and JJ had had more time together when Anti had them both, with inspiration from some throwaway line in one of the chapters about how Anti once sedated JJ so heavily he could not move because he was so distressed about a nice dream he’d had. I’ve been thinking about it for a hecking long time and finally wrote a snippet up. Thanks for requesting, anon! I hope you will enjoy :)

Tws for mentions of torture, overdose, and abuse

TUMBLR PLEASE FIX READ MORES AND SPACES AHHHHH

The dapper man is used to nightmares.

He sits up in his bed, a ratty blue blanket pulled tight around his shoulders. There are crickets chirping a symphony outside his bedroom window.

He cries until his chest shakes like a sound wave, until his face is dripping and his throat is sore. Soft, gasping breaths imitate sobs in his throat.

He's used to nightmares. He's used to them. But sweet dreams?

Dreams where a boy in a blue mask reaches out, and holds his hand, and promises him that everything will be better, everything will be okay, I'm sorry you're in pain, don't cry, I'm here, I'm here, little brother, you don't have to be afraid anymore –

Sweet dreams are cruel.

“Oh, Dapper boy. What's the matter, mo stoirin?”

That makes him more dangerous than ever. Anti doesn't like to be interrupted from his work. Anti doesn't like to be interrupted one bit.

“Nothing,” signs Dapper.

Anti pulls his face together from glitches and sparks. One of his eyes is black. “Don't lie to me,” he says very softly, and smiles too wide.

“It was just a dream,” says Dapper. Tears prick his eyes again and he sinks back into his bed, weeping quiet and snuffling.

“Oh, puppy.” Anti wanders over to him and tumbles into bed at his side. His icy hands soothe down his hair and ghost over his ribs. Dapper shivers, but he's grateful for the touch, and makes it known with a teary smile.

“What a sweet boy you are,” says Anti, giggling. “You've been having a lot of bad dreams lately, huh?”

“Yes,” Dapper knocks, rubbing at his eyes.

“Yeah, you've been interrupting me a lot.”

The grip around Dapper's back is suddenly a little too tight. He curls lower in Anti's arms, his mouth trembling. Every neuron in his brain tells him he's in danger.

It's true, though. Panic attacks, dreams, fainting – Dapper often interrupts Anti.

“Sorry,” he signs against his brother's chest. “Sorry, I'm sorry.”

“Good,” Anti says, running his fingers over Dapper's collarbone. “You've been a pest. But we can do something to make it stop. Does that sound nice?”

Dapper blinks. He can almost feel the boy in the blue mask reaching out to touch his hand. But the cost of angering Anti – knives that leave tiny cuts on his stomach, poison that makes his flesh fall off, long weeks of hunger, hunger like a gunshot wound – is too high to be worth a sweet dream.

And anyway, sweet dreams are cruel.

“Yes,” he says, blinking up at his brother. “You can make the dreams go away?”

“We'll see,” Anti answers, smoothing his hair down. He rises from Dapper's bed. “I've never tried this before. Curious to see how it works. Stay here, I'll go get it.”

Dapper swallows and buries himself in his blanket, shivering. It's a cold night, but spring is coming, so maybe it will warm up soon. Then he can go outside again. Anti hasn't let him leave the house in weeks because of the cold, except once when he accidentally locked him outside for so long Dapper's fingers turned black. He'd cried and cried, terrified and suffering, but Anti had laughed for a good half-hour. He often laughs. He often watches.

“Here we are,” murmurs the demon, stepping back into his room with his medicine.

Dapper's blood rushes out of his face. “No, Anti, please, I don't like needles!”

“Oh, honey, I know, but you have been such a little terror, and big brother needs some peace and quiet. Unless you want me to get sick, puppet. Do you want me to get sick? Or do you want Mr. Jack and his friends to win, since I can't work while you're here crying? What if they found us while I was sick, Dapper? You don't want to die like that. Jackie's been trying to kill me for so long, oh... he'd put a knife right in my heart and scatter my frequency across the whole world. You'd never see me again. Is that what you want?”

Fear makes Dapper's heart bounce at double speed. “No, no. I don't want that. Don't go.”

“Well, then, you'd better stop whining so much and lie down. Listen, this is going to feel nice, okay? I promise.”

Dapper stares at the needle, pupils blown wide.

“Come here,” says Anti.

So sweet. Too sweet.

“Now.”

And Dapper gets to his feet and holds out his arm.

The needleprick is a firework in the bend of his elbow, but he bites down hard on his lip and refuses to cry.

And it is rather pleasant, a moment later.

“There you go,” says Anti.

Dapper's never gotten dizzy lying down before. His mouth and his head are full of chocolate syrup. It's pleasant, and vaguely alarming. Gentle hands run over his neck.

“Anti?” he signs, reaching out to touch his brother's wrist.

Anti is laughing. Dapper's vision blurs at the edges. His brother leans down and presses their foreheads together, so all Dapper can see are his deep black eyes, burning with static.

“Go to sleep,” Anti hushes. Dapper's head swims.

He's falling deeper and deeper into water, dazed, stiff, shaking, but numb at least, maybe even warm, maybe even happy, but he can't be sure. His stomach churns and he tries to swallow, but it's difficult to move.

“Tired,” his hands try to sign, but he can't form the whole word. Not that it matters. Everything around him has faded far from his reach. Except Anti.

Anti is always close.

“Go to sleep,” he whispers.

Watching Jameson Jackson's eyes roll back in his head makes Anti's being cackle with energy, and he purrs like an overheating computer, running a hand through Dapper's hair. Oh, but this stupid little creature is his favorite plaything in the whole world.

“Poor baby,” he laughs, and pinches Dapper's cheek hard enough to bruise. Lost deep in the sedative and limp as a killed fish, Dapper doesn't so much as twitch. “You need to stop trying to make big brother angry, or one of these days I'm going to forget about breaking you into obedience and slit your fine little throat open.”

But he still has plans for the dapper man with the carving knife and the pocketwatch. Anti isn't ready to kill Jameson just yet.

“Sleep tight, doll.”

Jameson sleeps tight. Jameson does not dream. In the morning, Jameson does not wake.

***

Sun breaks cold over the Brighton countryside, but Schneep doesn't notice. There's no light in his prison cell.

He hasn't had anything to drink for days now, and his throat feels like the outside of a cactus. The gentle skin of his palms has split from the cold. His soft hair is ragged from the demon's hands running through it. He wants to go home.

Chained to the rebar pole in the middle of the frigid cement prison, Henrik sighs, long and low, and puts his head down.

There's nothing he can do. Anti has him tight.

The lights flicker on with the slightest cry of Anti's power, too bright, burning right through Schneep's white and blue flesh. All he can do is close his frail eyes.

“Doctor,” says Anti.

Schneep can't remember the last time he heard his name. Anti never uses it. Day after day, there is nothing but frost, suffering, and sorrow. Oh, he'd do anything to be home. He'd do anything for a cup of water.

“Doctor,” Anti repeats, angrier.

“What do you want?” Schneep croaks, and bursts into rough coughing. He knows he's getting ill. How could he not in a place like this? His face is sticky with blood, and he keeps his head down. What's the point of looking when Anti is only here to beat him into submission one more time?

Long nails dig into Henrik's chin and he gasps as his head is yanked up and his eyes meet Anti's, black and green. For a moment, the demon only snarls at him, his teeth gritted tight together, his eyes dark, but the expression falls away and so do the handcuffs holding Schneep fast to the rebar.

“Come upstairs,” echoes Anti's voice, quiet from every direction. “My dapper doll needs your faux expertise, my good doctor.”

***

The others tried to get to Jameson before Anti did.

None of them posted the video. None of them recorded it. It just appeared, and with it, the little one, the dapper man with the easy smile and the bright eyes. All alone with a pumpkin and a demon.

Anti snatched him away within minutes of his creation. He left blood behind and little else, so the others mourned, and said that poor Jameson had died before he lived, and tried to move on.

Now, watching his little brother shiver and choke on a cot in an abandoned house in the Brighton countryside, Schneeplestein realizes the only reason they ever accepted that he was dead was because the alternative was worse.

It would be better to be dead than to be Anti's pet.

“You've given him far too much,” says Henrik, brushing Jameson's hair back and lifting up his eyelid, finding his pupil blown wide. “You've given him far, far too much.”

Jamie's mouth is blue, his face white. He breathes like a stuttering car engine and shivers like a songbird in the snow.

“Antihistamine? Is this what you said? You gave him an antihistamine?”

“Yeah,” Anti's voice echoes from somewhere near by. He's bored of having a physical form. He's bored in general, Schneep thinks, and hates him.

“Do you understand that he could die?” he snarls.

“But you won't let that happen, will you?” returns Anti, slyly. “I mean, he wouldn't be the first patient you lost, but...”

“Shut up,” snaps Henrik, because fear makes him bold and always has. “Shut up.”

“What's wrong with him?”

“Antihistamines dry everything out. He's got mucus in his throat and lungs. Go get him some water.”

“Ha! You are funny, doc. Give me an order again, it was cute. You go get him some water, puppet. There's snow outside.”

Henrik glares at the nearest glitch. “He needs to be held sitting up so he can breathe.”

“Oh, I can do that!” Anti reforms in a flickering of red and black pixels, his eyes dark and his arms outstretched. “He wouldn't like you touching him, anyway. Very wary of strangers, you see.”

Handing Jameson over to Anti –

Handing Jameson over to Anti is the most horrible thing Schneep has ever done. But the glitch is gentle with him now, gentle, gentle, sitting against the wall, his form whole and unflickering, one arm around Dapper's stomach, one hand rubbing patiently at his back.

The little one coughs, gasps, relaxes against his brother's shoulder. Schneep watches as though frozen from the doorway.

Anti presses a kiss to Dapper's hair and smiles sweetly, turning his mismatched eyes up to meet the doctor's.

“Oh, so sorry,” he says, and a giggle echoes through the hallways of the decrepit house. “Did you want a chance to hold him?”

Henrik flees.

Downstairs.

Across a rotting wood floor.

Out the door.

Into the snow.

And the cold morning wind whips his hair like an angry crow, stinging at his bruised face and diving beneath his torn shirt. His heart quails and cries out. He could gasp for the cold, for the fresh air, for the sunlight. For the little brother sitting upstairs in Anti's lap.

You could go, says a voice in his head. And he could. The highway is only a couple miles away. It's almost spring and no longer as cold as it once was. The cuts on his face might catch the eye of a sympathetic driver. He could go to a hospital and call his brothers, call Jackie, and weep into the phone: I'm here! I'm here! Please come get me, come sit with me and be warm at my side, my brothers, come take care of me and tell me you will never let him have me again!

But upstairs is Jameson Jackson, his missing brother, wrapped in Anti's arms and in his power, struggling to breathe, overdosed on sedatives, lost in adoration of a monster with black eyes.

You could go, says the voice in his head, louder and more desperate. You could go. Why should I have to be captive for his sake? I've only ever tried to help other people. It's not fair.

No, it's not fair. It's not fair, but it's not fair for Jameson either.

Henrik is a man, not a mouse. Henrik is a doctor.

With hands that do not shake, he brings Jameson a handful of snow, and makes him swallow it, so his lungs can clear and his chest can open.

“That's a little better,” says Anti, surprised. He touches Dapper's wrist for a pulse. “Isn't he breathing better? Go get him more. Oh, he's waking up.”

And this is unfair too, because he's in pain. He's in pain.

“Anti,” sign his shaking hands. “Anti, Anti, it hurts.”

Jameson is in the middle of the sun. He can't breathe, he can't think, and something slams into his skull again and again, echoing the rapid beating of his heart. There's a rock in his chest and his stomach is seething. He can't see anything but the blurred face in front of him, and, with a silent cry on his mouth, he reaches out for Schneeplestein.

“It's okay,” promises Schneep.

He's clutching Dapper's hands before he even realizes what he's doing.

“It's okay, I'm right here.”

Anti watches.

“I'm right here,” says Schneep. “You're going to be okay, little one.”

He knows better than to say Jameson's name. He knows better than to look at Anti. He keeps his eyes fixed on Jamie.

“Just a little sick, huh? Well, not to fear. We're going to get some water in you, maybe some medicine, we're going to keep you breathing okay, and then – well, and then, everything will be alright, ja? Don't be frightened. It's okay.”

Dapper clutches his hands. Hot tears run down his thin face. He nods.

“Yeah,” says Schneep, cursing his eyes for filling up too. “Yeah, it's okay.”

“Does it hurt?” asks Anti.

Dapper nods, but Anti's looking at Schneep, and smiling.

“Yes,” says Schneep. “But that no longer matters.”

***

The dapper man is used to nightmares.

But sweet dreams?

Dreams where he wakes up, and someone gentle is leaning over him, massaging his chest, giving him water and medicine, murmuring his name, soft and warm, promising everything will be okay, everything will be okay, Anti went back to work and here I am, your brother, though you do not know me, perhaps someday you will, and we will be family, holding him, holding him, holding him –

Sweet dreams are not so bad.

#jameson jackson #antisepticeye #schneeplestein #tw overdose #tw torture #tw abuse #bee writes #long post

76 notes · View notes

fresh-outta-jams · 5 years

Text

Of Spells and Spinning Wheels - Part 2

Seokjin x Reader Author: Mo Summary: You and Jin are childhood friends, betrothed to be married, happily on the path to your happily ever after...until on his twenty-first birthday, Jin is cursed... Note: Sorry it’s been literally months lmao. Inspiration smacked me in the face this morning, so here you go. Warnings: None? Word Count: 2.2k

1, 2, 3, 4, Epilogue

It was a deceptively sunny morning when your advisor knocked on your door, asking you to follow her down the hall, to where your parents were meeting with some of the monarchs from your neighboring kingdoms. You walked into a room filled with expectant faces, an empty chair waiting beside Prince Taehyung of all people.

You could see the anxiety on his face, and as you sat, he kept looking at you nervously.

“I apologize for my tardiness. I wasn’t aware I’d be invited to this meeting.” You looked to your father. “What were we discussing?”

“You, actually.”

Your heart raced. “And what about me might we have been discussing?”

“Your future, princess. They were discussing your future.” Taehyung answered, not sounding or looking all that thrilled about it.

“My betrothal, you mean.” You looked to your father, sitting at the head of the table. “Is this true, father?”

“Yes. (Y/N), we were only discussing the possibility of...rearranging things...if this curse…”

“I’ll not hear it nor have it.” You stood up and turned.

“It’s a political betrothal, (Y/N), why do you care to keep your word when-”

“I am in love with Prince Seokjin.” You spoke with venom in your voice, turning to look your father and all of the other monarchs that had assembled. “I have been in love with Prince Seokjin since before I could read or put the sentiment into words. He is my dearest friend and my lover and I refuse to marry any prince from any other kingdom. It is my will. Marry me to Prince Taehyung if you wish, but I will never fall in love with him and I will never give him an heir.”

You expected your father to yell, or discipline you in some way, but instead he thought for a long quiet moment, mulling it over silently behind his gray eyes. You supposed for someone who had watched you and Seokjin grow up, it couldn’t have been a surprise that after even a few years of separation, you were still madly and desperately in love with him.

“Very well then.” Your father nodded, motioning to your empty seat. “If you’d like to reclaim your seat, we have other matters to discuss, like that of Callista and her dragon.”

***

“You can’t be serious.” Jimin stood beside Jungkook and Taehyung as they watched you pack. “This is insane! It’s a dragon, not a...not a...help me think of something easy to slay.”

“It’s a dragon, not a lizard or anything else, (Y/N). You must have a death wish.”

“You heard my father’s decree. If no one slays the dragon, Callista can’t be killed, and if Callista can’t be killed, then she’ll never leave Jin alone, even if someone does manage to break this stupid curse.”

“So what, you’re going to become a knight? Learn how to sword-fight?”

“I know the basics. Jin taught me-”

“I’ll go with you.” Jungkook looked up and met your eyes. “King Jaesang has a castle a few days’ ride west. He’s known to take in those who need refuge.”

“I never even thought to go to him.” You nodded, folding the only pair of trousers you owned and stuffing them into your box. “So we’ll depart at midnight.”

“We’ll depart at midnight.” Jungkook nodded. Though they didn’t say it, Jimin and Taehyung felt a lot better that you wouldn’t be alone. You would do anything for Jin, and that had never been more obvious than it was right now.

***

After a few days’ ride west, you and Jungkook stood at the front gates of King Jaesang’s castle, no more than a few dresses, a blouse, and trousers tucked in your bag. The guards escorted you and Jungkook to the ballroom, where the king was overseeing decorations for a grand ball.

“Princess (Y/N), Prince Jungkook, to what do I owe the honor?”

“I need to learn how to slay a dragon, your highness.” You knelt down in front of him. “Callista has to be defeated to save Prince Seokjin.”

“A dragon, you say…” Jaesang rubbed his chin thoughtfully, motioning for you and Jungkook to stand. “Well then, we don’t have any time to lose, do we? Follow me.”

The king led you and Jungkook through the glittering halls of his magnificent palace. It was truly a place of refuge. Those from all around came to the kind and just king in their times of need. The most recent of whom being Prince Hyojong, who had come to the castle with his forbidden love, Princess Hyuna. They’d each broken off engagements in order to be with one another, and their home kingdoms did not take kindly to that. So instead, they’d talked to King Jaesang, who had granted them amnesty and let them stay in his castle, where they could be safe and love one another without worrying about anyone else.

“Hyojong, you have some new students,” the king announced, walking into the armory’s training grounds with you and Jungkook in tow.

You expected the prince to say something about the fact that you were a girl, but he didn’t. Instead, all he told you was, “You’re going to need to change into some trousers.”

“I...can do that.” You looked down at your dress, curtsied, and then let the king lead you to your chambers. It was unbelievable how fast things happened. One minute, you were a stranger standing on his front steps, and the next, you were a member of his patchwork family.

Hyuna’s bedroom was next to yours, so on your first night in the castle, she knocked on your door and introduced herself. She asked about Jin, and so you told her everything, from the beginning to the end, and by the time you were done, both of you were laughing and crying and talking about forbidden love and the lengths to which you would go for your princes.

It was the next morning that Hyojong started you and Jungkook on a knight’s regimen. Since he’d come to the castle, he had taken control of defenses, and therefore, he was in charge of training all of the knew knights and dragon-slayers-to-be. It was in the armory that you met JinJin, the castle squire, who was in charge of all of the armor. This included polishing it and helping size up new knights.

You also met Eunwoo, Rocky, and Moonbin, who were princes from a neighboring kingdom who had come here to hone their skills as well. They were good friends. You enjoyed talking to them over dinner after long days of training in the sun.

In all of your years, you’d never expected to end up here, living in a strange castle, learning how to use a sword instead of learning to sing like a songbird or do needlework. And yet, that was your life now. Every morning you woke up, ate a big breakfast, went on a jog around the castle’s exterior, lifted heavy crates until your arms screamed and burned, and then practiced fighting with the others until night fell and it was time for dinner.

These changes in your routine were becoming more and more obvious, but especially so when Hyuna and the castle’s tailors were trying to help you into one of your old gowns. Your arms were too muscular for the sleeves. You couldn’t help but laugh at the sight. Never had you foreseen this being a problem you’d have to face.

“We can just...cut off the sleeves.” Hyuna suggested, tilting her head and chuckling at the entire situation. “That would be a fashion statement.”

“Indeed it would be…” The head tailor agreed, looking you over. You offered a sheepish grin, shrugging. “Well, you need something that will fit for the ball.” She held up her scissors. “Better get to work…”

***

The day of the ball finally came around, and you were filled with jitters for some reason. It didn’t occur to you until some of your attendants were helping you into your pink gown that this would be the first ball you would attend without Jin at your side. In all of your years, every single time your kingdom or his or one of your mutual allies had a ball, he had always been there and he had always asked you to dance. Going to one without him just felt...wrong.

Regardless, you shook off your nerves and got dressed, letting the maids powder your face before you put on the glittering mask for the masquerade.

It was Eunwoo that ended up escorting you down the stairs to the ballroom filled with princesses in gorgeous gowns and knights in dapper suits. He led you over to the chocolate fountain, where Rocky and Moonbin were standing. They whistled at your appearance.

“Look at those arms!” Moonbin clapped his hands together. “I knew all of that training would pay off.”

“Thanks, Bin.” You blushed, giving your biceps a curl. It felt weird having them exposed like this, but you felt powerful. Powerful enough to fight a dragon, maybe not, but you were getting there.

“Princess!” Jungkook raced across the ballroom, sputtering and all kinds of excited. He straightened himself out, brushing the wrinkles out of his vest before slowing his breaths enough to tell you whatever had sent him sprinting across the party. “There’s someone here to see you.”

“To see me?” You put a hand to your chest, eyebrows furrowing. “Who is it?”

“The man over there in purple with the big gold mask. Asked to meet you immediately. Said it was urgent.”

“Alright then.” You tried to work out who this mystery man was on the way over to him. His suit was pastel purple with golden detailing, brown hair styled perfectly so not a strand was out of place. He was tall with broad shoulders, and lips so plush that they could only belong to one man on the planet. “Jin.” His name left your lips as no more than a fragile whisper.

He smiled, his warm laughter filling your heart with a thousand butterflies. “There’s my girl.”

You rushed into his arms, letting him cradle you against his broad chest. You’d missed his warmth, his voice. “What are you doing here?”

“And what, miss a ball with my princess? We made a pact long ago, don’t you remember?” It was true. When you were young, the two of you, who hated attending royal balls with a passion, had promised never to let the other suffer through one without you.

“How could I forget?” You didn’t let go of him for a long while, absorbing his warmth like a sponge. It was precious, and these days, you saw him so little that when you did, you had to make the most of it.

“Adjusting well?” You could practically hear the smirk in Yoongi’s voice as he appeared from the shadows. Of course Jin hadn’t come here unaccompanied.

“Well enough.” You shrugged, finally ejecting yourself from Jin’s hold so you could look at his fairy guardian. When you did, Jin finally got the chance to look you over up close, eyes widening at the sight of your arms.

“Wah, when did you get muscles?” He asked, giving one a curious poke. Sure enough, it was as firm and large as a knight’s.

“I’ve been training.”

Jin didn’t want to ask why, but he couldn’t stop the quiet murmur from leaving his mouth. “Training for what?”

“To fight a dragon.” You replied, looking up at him in time to watch the happiness on his handsome features, or the ones you could see around his mask, morph into concern.

“You can’t be serious. You’re going to fight Callista’s dragon?” Jin asked, not receiving an answer from the look on Jungkook or Yoongi’s faces. He stroked your chin, tilting your head up to his. “You’ll get killed.”

“I wouldn’t say that…” Yoongi shook his head, that knowing gleam in his eye. It always seemed like he was pulling strings, but you had a feeling based on that one look alone that maybe it was to a bigger extent than even you knew… “Amazing things can happen when you’re fighting for love.”

“I don’t want to be in a world without you in it.” You told Jin softly. He opened his mouth to protest, but you cut him off with a swift and passionate kiss. “The only way to keep you safe is to kill Callista and whatever stands in the way of her. I’d...I’d do anything for you.”

“I know you would…” Jin was worried by your determination, but seeing you like this, so driven to save him no matter the cost, it really only made him fall even deeper in love with you. He leaned down to press a soft kiss to your forehead before melding his lips against yours again. “I love you so much, princess.”

“I love you too…”

Tagged: @iie-wakarimasen, @demonic-meatball, @backtonormalthings, @filtermono, @seokjin-the-hufflepuff, @ifntelyinspirit, @chaotic-joon

#kpopwonderlandtag #armyofwriters #btsprotectnet #seokjin x reader #seokjin imagine #jin x reader #jin imagine #kim seokjin #kim seokjin x reader #kim seokjin imagine #of spells and spinning wheels

61 notes · View notes

sunagakurenosato · 5 years

Note

😌 AS MANY MUSES AS POSISBLE

😌 main go to theme songI HAVE 10 MUSES DO NOT CHALLENGE MEE *evil laugh*

1. Karura - Talk to me now by Ani Di Franco

I played the powerless in too many dark scenes,And I was blessed with a birth and a death,And I guess I just wanted some say in between.

2. Yasha - Susi by Ben & Ben (the ballet at 3:18 is especially nice and something I like to listen when I want to put Yasha in a lighter mood)

Balikan kung bakit ba nagsimula (Go back to why you started)Bago mo sabihin na ayaw mo na (Before you turn the towel in)Huwag mong sosolohin (Don’t keep it to yourself)Di ka mag-isa (You are not alone)Ikaw pa rin ang susi sa takbo ng iyong tadhana(You’re the key to your own destiny)

3. Sasori - Yellow Flicker Beat by Lorde (I realize this is probably a strange choice given that I have things like Control, and Power and Control, and Centuries in my playlist. But this song will always be Sasori leaving Suna song for me so I went with that more than a personality song.)

I’m done with it (oh)This is the start of how it all endsThey used to shout my name, now they whisper itI'm speeding up and this is theRed, orange, yellow flicker beat sparking up my heart

But I got my fingers laced together and I made a little prisonAnd I'm locking up everyone who ever laid a finger on meI’m done with it (ooh)

BONUS SONG: FOR SASORI YASHA AND KARURA (AND @mita-rashi in specifically Side B of Daimyo AU)? I don’t know if it fits but it was something I thought of:

Meltdown by Stromae

Gonna blend in with the bullies and the bureaucratsArrows pierce like lightning, choppers sound like thunder clapNever will you stand, we gon' lay you downDebonair and dapper kids comin' in to take the townTry to restrain us, even though you trained usWe're better than you are, now we're gonna make you famous

4. Kamala - Immigrants, we get the job done by Hamilton Mix Tape

Buckingham Palace or Capitol HillBlood of my ancestors had that all builtIt's the ink you print on your dollar bill, oil you spillThin red lines on the flag you hoist when you killBut still we just say "look how far I come"

5. Rasa - Hindi pa Tapos by Gloc 9

Di ako nagkaroon ng pagkakataon na (I never had the chance)Magpakilala simula noon (to introduce myself. Ever since)Ang tawag nila sa akin ay ang pasimuno (they’ve been calling me the reason for it all)Habang ang nais ko lang naman ay mamuno (But I’ve only wanted to lead)At ituro ang daan katulad niyo rin naman(And to point the way. Just like most)Ako’y tinulak sa burak pagkatapos pagbintangan(I’ve been pushed into the mire, and then used as a scapegoat)Ng mga taong aking itinuring na kapatid(By people I’ve once called brothers)Gamit ang kutsilyo lubid na hawak ay pinatid(With a knife, they cut the cord I’ve been hanging from)Lahat ay kailangang lumaban kapag inaapi na(Everyone needs to fight back when pushed to the edge)Kahit dumanak ang dugo at ang puti’y maging pula(Even if the blood runs, and white turns to red)Matapos ang lahat ng sinulat na sabi nila(After everything they’ve written about me)Kung sino ako talaga ay kilala mo ba(Do you even really know who I am?)

6. Reizei - Night of the Dancing Flame and Dollhouse

I’m not even going to put lyrics here because that’s not the Reizei part of the song. It’s really the beat and the rhythm and the music and in Dollhouse specifically the ticking bit at the start. That’s the kind of music I imagine my genjutsu master drowning people into.

7. Mayumi - Little Wicked by Valerie Broussard

No one calls you honey when you're sitting on a throneOne of these days a comin', I'm gonna to take that boy's crownThere's a serpent in these still waters, lying deep downTo that King I will bow, at least for nowOne of these days a comin', I'm gonna to take that boy's crown

8. Ryozen - Sceam my name by Tove Lo

Love it when I'm play-pretendingWhen I can take bullets to the heartFuckin' up my happy endingBut I can take bullets to the heartBreathe and balance and love, I was born on the sceneNow it runs in my blood, yeah, you know what I meanWhen I'm dead and gone, will they sing about me?Dead and gone, will they scream my name?Scream my name

9. Akira - So Much Better by Legally Blonde Musical

Hey mom!Look at my name in black and whiteYour daughter's doing something rightI feel so much betterOh, oh! I'll even dress in black and whiteSee, I have not begun to fightAnd you'll go, oh, much better and oh, much betterAnd soon all y'all gotta know much better

10. Masao - Legendary by Welshy Arms

'Cause we're gonna be legendsGonna get their attentionWhat we're doing here ain't just scaryIt's about to be legendaryYeah we're gonna be legendsGonna teach 'em all a lessonGot this feeling that we're so sweet caringIt's about to be legendary

#answered asks #Headcanon #I AM SO NOT TAGGING EVERYONE NOW WEEPS #long post #:' ) I know it's a long ass post but I realize that on the event that I lose the original post #If I put it in the read more I lose all content #so #sorry friends #scheherazade-sings

5 notes · View notes

pezdezpencil · 7 years

Text

My reactions from episode 13x15 of SPN, "A Most Holy Man".

!!!!!!SPOILERS!!!!!!

Blind me with that flashlight why don't ya.

Martini at 11:00am is dapper af.

Sam gots some purdy eyes.

Hey bro, they're nice cheap ties.

'What'cha readin'' lady is gorgeous.

Dean: "You're like a boy scout, always prepared." Sam: "And you're like...I don't know what you're like." I don't think they're brothers at all. Doesn't seem like they are.

*opera intensifies* Oh god what is happening..

"You both died 6 years ago." HA!

He does have a set on him, darlin'. A pristine set.

That guy that knocked Dam out shoulda said, "Sir, you have a call."

The way Dean ran to check on 'Sammy'. My heart.

I like Lucca's accent. Very cute.

Dean's reaction to the stolen Baby scenario!!!

Casey in postal is a cutie-pie.

All this smooth jazz!!

Um, Dean, God's name is Chuck.

Sam = Lurch.

DAMN! SHOT FROM BEHIND! RUTHLESS!!

What's up with the dramatic slow-mo? Weird..awkward.

I love that every time Dean punches someone his tie gets all outta wack.

I CALLED THAT MOST HOLY MAN SHIT. Gimmie that blood, sir.

Oh look, it's the B.M. scene.

Dean/Jensen hand/lip porn. The editors made that so long, they know us, thank you.

Next Episode.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

AMAZING! SO READY BUT NOT READY!

And we already know Cas is going to be in this one...*cough* Jjaarreedd *cough*...

#supernatural #spoilers #spnfandom #spn spoilers #spn #spnfamily #spn 13x15 #a most holy man #dean winchester #sam winchester #absent!cas #sam and dean winchester supernatural #sam and dean #jensen ackles #jared padalecki #scoobynatural #it's happening

3 notes · View notes

imamotherfuckingstar-lord · 7 years

Text

Chocolate Cake & a Message

Bucky Barnes x OFC

A/N: Personalized fic commission for the lovely @jasmineladjevardi! It’s in first person and I loved writing it! Want a commission? Look here

Summary: Can Bucky Barnes tell his best friend that he loves her?

I was late, ten minutes late for lunch with Bucky. He wasn’t going to be mad, I knew exactly what he’d say, “It’s okay, doll.” Still, I hated being late, so I rushed out of my car, forgetting to lock it as I stepped on the curb. So I spun around and went to lock my door, but I dropped my keys.

I groaned and cursed the heavens, reached down to retrieve them and locked the door.

“You’re late, but I have to say I’m enjoying the show,” Bucky spoke from behind me.

Inhaling deeply, I turned to face him and damn him for being so attractive. He stood there, hands in the pocket of his dark casual pants, white tee, and jean jacket.

“Sorry.”

“It's okay, doll,” he promised and I chuckled. He held out his hand to help me up the curb and he eyed my dress.

“Dapper as always,” he said slyly. “You know I love that dress, you wore it for me, huh?”

“As if,” I muttered, blushing like a fool.

“God, I love making you blush, I could do it all day...among other things,” he said, squeezing his hand against my palm.

I pulled away and rolled my eyes. “Okay, Mr. Flirt, enough. I’m hungry, can we eat now?”

He led me inside, waving to the hostess. She smiled and took us to a booth in the far corner of the restaurant.

I slid into the booth and Bucky sat across from me, thanking the hostess when she handed us the menus. Looking over the selection, I bit down on my lip, trying to figure out what I wanted to order.

“Why do you tease me like that?”

“Huh?”

Bucky laughed and went back to his menu. “What are you going to get, sweetheart?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, tapping my finger on the table. “What sounds good?”

“You,” he replied and I laughed.

“Will you stop it, already. It gets old, the whole pretending to flirt with me thing.”

“I’m not pretending,” Bucky placed the menu down and his face fell. “When it comes to you, I’m never joking.”

“Ha, Ha,” I waved him off and went back to deciding what I wanted to eat.

Bucky stared at me carefully, running a hand over his face. I looked up when he moved out of the booth and asked where he was going.

“I just gotta use the john, be right back, doll.”

I nodded absentmindedly and decided on the steak .

Closing the menu, I sighed and leaned back into the booth, touching the material of my dress. It was true, I did wear it, because I knew Bucky liked it so much.

Can you blame a girl?

Bucky was one of my best friends and I was completely in love with him. So yeah, it hurt a little when he flirted, because it almost felt real. It had to stop, otherwise it would just give me hope that I could have something I so desperately wanted.

“Sorry about that,” Bucky slipped back into the booth, a content smile on his handsome face.

“It’s okay,” I smiled back at him and cleared my throat. “Bucky, I have to tell you something.”

“Me too,” he urged, diverting his eyes off to the left. I watched as they grew wide and he waved a hand to someone, but before I could turn to look, a plate was being placed in front of me.

My favorite, chocolate cake.

“Dessert before dinner? You spoil me, Bucky Barnes.”

“Turn the plate around,” he motioned confidently.

I do as he said, slowly turning it to me and I gasped.

“What..”

“I mean it, doll. I have for so long and I’ve been trying to tell you,” he explained, reaching across the table for my hand. He took it and began to caress his thumb against my knuckles. “For so long, but you never take it seriously. Tell me you feel the same, don’t make me a sad man.”

I sat there shocked, with a half smile and full heart. Squeezing his hand, I reread the message written in chocolate icing.

It said, ‘I Love You’.

Grinning from ear to ear, I stared right into his loving eyes.

“Of course I do. I love you so much.”

Forever tags: @my-amazing-nerdyness @naih-reedus @maciiiofficial @casownsmyass @jade-taillia @fangirlextraordinaire @indominusregina @feelmyroarrrr @my-rainbow-wonderland@myhopeisinfinite @girl-next-door-writes@dontbeamenacetotheforce@melonberri@superisatomboyuniverse @xloudwhocares @crownie-sr @dracsgirl@moonlight53@makemyownwonderland @dreamwhisper87 @trekken81 @barely-emily@winterboobaer@purelittleblueberry @goodnightwife @mishaissocoollike@stormyfandoms@foreverybodythatunderstands23 @gallifreyansass @flirtswithdanger @yana-tardis-drwho@myplaceofthingsilove @jchona @alyssaj23 @blackhoneybucky@urbanspacedecay@castieltrash1 @hannahsakorax3 @imagine-all-the-imagines @motleymoose@distinguishedqueenofbooks @kitkatgaming @fizzylollipop12@iamwarrenspeace@darkmystress00 @lunarwolfrose @kapolisradomthoughts @sisinia13@swiggityswagness@takemetoneverland91 @to-pick-ourselves-up-7 @sarah-mos@rubynationwins@padfootorionblack @kaywolves @wonderlace19@yourxaveragexslythergit@purelittleblueberry @courtneychicken @rayleyanns @whatmakesmebeme-tblr@thewinterwitch@avengersgirllorianna @holywinchesterness@tatortot2701 @brewsthespirit-blog@seabasschino@barnesvogue @lame-lozer @ex-bookjunky @travelwithwords @corolux @supernaturaldean67 @thehuntchback @shoytai @besamiculo-puto @ign-is @zuni21798@pleasantdreamqueen @jodoethr

#bucky barnes x oc #bucky barnes imagine #bucky x reader #bucky x ofc #bucky barnes #commission

239 notes · View notes

stillthewordgirl · 7 years

Text

LOT/CC fic: Secret Santa, part 3 (of 4)

Len really isn't the "Secret Santa" type. Hell, he's not really the Christmas type. But when Sara challenges him...well. Maybe this could be fun, after all...

I'm sorry this was delayed. But in return, you get a chapter that's longer than the two preceding it combined! Things took a bit of a turn toward actual plot. Many thanks to @larielromeniel for helping catch all my late-night writing typos and getting some things straightened out.

Can also be read here at FF.net or here at AO3. (Recommended, ‘cause this is LONG.)

Happy New Year, everyone!

The '20s in Chicago are about as fun as Len thought they'd be. He's quite fond of the dapper blue suit Gideon helps him create in the fabrication room, actually, and even Mick—who isn't fond of "playin' dress-up," as he calls it—seems to like his own smoke-gray one.

Of course, Len's so distracted by the sight of Sara spinning around in her very, very short, sparkling flapper's dress that Hunter gives them one of his patented pity-the-poor-captain looks and pointedly tells Kendra and Mick to make sure someone's paying attention to the mission. The very fact that he includes Mick in that order shows just how much things have changed over the past year, both with Mick and with Hunter's view of him. Of all of them, really.

Kendra, in her own sparkly flapper dress that's not quite so short, laughs, and Mick, popping his fedora onto his head, snorts, but they do listen. And Leonard and Sara aren't quite so distracted that they'd fudge a serious mission because of it. The four of them, with the others ready as backup at the ship (much to Raymond's disappointment), handily filch the futuristic weapons a very small-time mobster had obtained from time pirates, with only a few small stops and side trips to obtain some authentic Prohibition-era moonshine—and perhaps a few other small items.

And one slight delay when Sara'd decided to distract guards in a speakeasy by dancing. Len's pretty sure that's a vision that's going to haunt his dreams for the foreseeable future. (Especially since she'd followed it up by delivering quite the ass kicking onto the same guards.)

She's not, however, quite so fond of the reward for said ass kicking.

"This is even worse than that swill they were serving back in Salvation," Sara comments, wrinkling her nose after just one sip. She's sitting in the galley with Len, Mick and Kendra after their return, trying out their stolen 'shine as they rehash the mission. Kendra, who'd declined to even take one drink, shakes her head, pushing over the box of chocolates she'd found left in her room by her Secret Santa. She's guarded them zealously enough that Len's actually somewhat touched by her willingness to share them now.

And he's a sucker for the peppermint ones.

"It's not so bad." Mick takes another drink, but even he's not putting the booze away as quickly as he has in the past. "Just…um…distinctive. Is that what they call it?"

"Yes. It is," Len informs him, drily, setting down his glass. "Both, actually. But I don't think 'distinctive' is necessarily a good thing."

"More for me."

"And welcome to it," Sara tells him, pushing the glass away and taking a chocolate. "I think we've established I can drink you under the table, big guy. I've got nothing to prove. Especially not with that stuff. I have better taste."

Mick's eyes brighten at that line, though, and he quickly glances at Leonard, who glares at him as he tries to think of a good way to head off what's coming. It's Kendra, to his surprise, who comes to his rescue.

"Taste is relative," the former hawk goddess says smoothly. "Did you know the ancient Egyptians were the first ones to perfect the brewing of beer? It didn't taste much like today's, though. I wonder what you'd make of it."

Mick is successfully distracted, although something in the smile he turns on the dark-haired woman says that he's allowing himself to be. "Yeah? And you remember that?"

"Oddly enough…"

Leonard snorts, then glances at Sara, who shakes her head in amusement. Then, against his better judgment, he leans a little closer.

"So," he drawls, "figure out who gave you that excellent gift?"

Sara'd found a whetstone waiting for her on her desk when they'd returned from Chicago, one of a unique make even she'd never seen before. But it worked like a dream, and she was so pleased with it that Leonard rather wished he'd had the idea first.

Her eyes sparkled as she leaned forward just a little too. "Like I'd tell you if I did." A look from under lowered lashes. "Or are you saying that it was you?"

Yes, he wishes he'd had the idea first. "I'm not giving anything away, birdie."

"You give away plenty, Len."

Now, what does she mean by that? "Oh?" he asks, just a little cautiously. "Do tell…"

But Mick interrupts them with a snort, and they both glance up to see both him and Kendra watching them with particularly amused, if world-weary, expressions. But Mick doesn't comment this time, just shakes his head and pushes his chair back, getting to his feet.

"Told the nerd squad I'd meet 'em to hash over some more rescue ideas," he mutters. "Think I'll take a few glasses of the 'shine, since no one here likes it. Haircut gets real creative with the science-y stuff when you get some liquor into him, and maybe it'll help."

Kendra rises too, as he does. "How are you doing?" she asks curiously. "With the plans. Everyone was so optimistic at first, but lately…"

"But lately, not so much." Mick shakes his head, pouring a few glasses before turning for the door and then glancing back.

"Time Bastards, they were smarter than they looked. Even with their damned gadget…" He nods to Snart, who nods back … damn right he'll take credit for destroying the Oculus. "…they made it real hard to undo their bullshit. Fuckers."

Well, Leonard can't argue with that. He opens his mouth to ask another question, but Mick anticipates it.

"Ain't saying any more," the big man says with a grunt as he turns back for the door. "I hate remembering it, what they did…well. Only reason I'm doing it is 'cause of Rip's kid. S'got a dad who loves him. He should…"

Len gets Mick's issues with that as well as anyone ever will. "Yeah," he cuts in. "Good luck."

Mick leaves without another backward glance. Kendra does glance at him, but she leaves, too.

Leonard reaches over and reclaims his glass of moonshine, taking another sip even as he winces at the taste. He can feel Sara's eyes on him, but she doesn't say anything. Instead, she reaches over and takes his glass, stealing a sip herself.

Len glances over after a moment, meets her eyes.

Understanding.

Nothing more. But also, nothing less.

He watches her another minute. Then, "So. Do you want to finish the movie?"

Sara's startled into a laugh. They'd started watching "The Untouchables" right before the ship's foray to Chicago, after she'd told Len while sparring that she'd never seen it. ("That was the year I was born, old man!") So, he, of course, had insisted she had to. Before visiting actual Prohibition-era Chicago, of course.

Merely a bonus if it meant a few more hours in her company.

They'd only made it halfway through before they'd both started nodding off, though, and Len didn't have quite the nerve to let her fall asleep with her head on his shoulder (or to let himself drift off with his chin against her hair). So, using the excuse that she'd have a hell of a crick in her neck if she stayed like that (and resisting the urge to suggest they both get more comfortable), he'd woken her gently and watched as she left with an apology and a sleepy mumble.

And spent the next hour staring at the ceiling and regretting the choice.

"Well, now that we've seen the real thing, it might not be as much fun…but yes," Sara said, decisively, bringing him back to the here and now as she pushed back her chair and got to her feet. "I have some things to do right now. Later. Tomorrow? I'm all screwed up with that stop…what's ship's time, Gideon?"

"8:19 p.m., Ms. Lance," the AU said promptly. "It is not surprising your internal clock is, as you say, 'all screwed up.' You left Chicago at 11 p.m. local time, after spending approximately six hours there, and that was two-and-a-half hours ago in the time stream. Your body cannot decide if it's 1:30 a.m. or mid-evening." Gideon's tone takes on a slightly lecturing note. "I keep telling Captain Hunter that none of you have had the training in such readjustments that he has, but…"

"…but we are pretty used to weird hours. Some of us, anyway. The assassins and thieves." Sara winks at Leonard. "It evens out."

"But…"

"It's OK, Gideon. See you later, Len."

Leonard watches her go, then picks up the bottle of 'shine, swirling the liquid around and watching it. The raw burn of it hadn't been to his taste, but he can see the lure of the quick oblivion it promises, especially in the mean streets of the city they'd just left.

Not for him, though. He'd blown up the Time Masters in part because he hated the idea of someone else pulling his strings. He'll be damned if he lets the booze do it.

"Mr. Snart?"

Gideon's voice is tentative. Len smiles to himself, sitting the bottle down, pretty sure of what the AI has to say.

"Gideon, after all this time," he drawls, tipping his chair backward, "don't you think you can call me 'Leonard?' "

A pause.

"Mr. Snart," the AI repeats with emphasis, "such familiarity would be against my programming."

"And you always have to go with your programming."

"It is in my nature."

Not quite a confirmation. "Well, it's in my nature to hate the idea of programming. Which I'm pretty sure you know." Leonard brings the front two legs of the chair back to the floor. "What's up?"

Another pause.

"Captain Hunter, he was quite pleased by the first gift," Gideon says finally. "Have you thoughts on a second?"

Through her sensors, he's pretty sure Gideon can see him, but he conceals his smile anyway. "Not as of yet," he points out. "Any ideas yourself?"

The AI is quiet for a few moments. "Not…particularly," she says then, tone uncharacteristically hesitant. "It is true that Captain Hunter only truly wants one thing right now. Two things. And anything else I can think of is likely to rely too much, perhaps, on nostalgia. Not that that is a bad thing, but…"

"But a random crook is probably not the best to invoke it."

But Gideon has a comeback to that immediately. "On the contrary, Mr. Snart. You and Captain Hunter are more alike than either one of you is ever likely to care to admit." A little asperity, there? Even amusement? "Still, it would take something specific, and I have no particular thoughts on that. Not as of yet."

"Well," he retorts, just a bit unsettled by her words. "Keep thinking."

"As long as you do the same, Mr. Snart."

He and Hunter are not alike.

He's a far better planner, for one, Leonard thinks grumpily as he stalks the halls of the Waverider a bit later, unwilling to admit that his sleeping patterns are off, after all, thanks to time travel. He's a better leader. Better looking.

Petty? Oh, a tad. But no one ever said Leonard Snart couldn't be petty. He's pretty good at that, too.

Slowing to a stop as he nears Hunter's study, he sighs, acknowledging that, at least. And also that Gideon had a point. About a couple of things.

As far as he knows, Mick's still with the others. Well, he's feeling just petty enough to barge in. Maybe another look at the study will give him some ideas…

And that's when the door slides open, the captain himself rushing out and stumbling to a stop before hitting the team thief.

For a moment, the two men just stare at each other. Len, recovering quickly and pasting on his usual smirk, notes the slightly reddened eyes, the stress and the grief in the Brit's features before the man recovers enough to slap his own typically harried expression on.

"Mr. Snart," Hunter clips out before sidestepping him. "Excuse me." Then he raises his voice and his eyes. "Gideon, set a course for the Refuge. I…have a few inquiries to make there. And I promised Mother that I'd look in; I've been sadly remiss in that."

"Now?" Leonard inquires pointedly, turning to look at him. "Kinda late. Pretty sure a good portion of your team is asleep or exhausted."

Hunter's eyes narrow, but Gideon cuts in smoothly at that point, as Mick and Raymond follow Hunter out of the study. "Captain, I hate to say this, but Mr. Snart is correct." She continues as Len mutters, "Gee, thanks, Gideon." "I can set the course, but I would recommend actually making the jump in the morning, ship's time. That will also give you time to…consider what you hope to achieve."

Hunter runs a hand over his face, then shakes his head. "Yes…yes, of course, Gideon." He fixes Len and the others with a look. "So. Rest is in order, people. We jump in the morning."

With that, he strides off toward the captain's quarter. Leonard shakes his head as Mick joins him.

"Not going well, I take it?"

"Nah…"

"He says we…well, he…created a 'time knot.' " Raymond's voice is concerned, and Len decides to leave off antagonizing the man for the time being…to better obtain information, of course. "When he recruited us, when you…" He motions vaguely at Len, who raises his eyebrows. "…um, blew up the Time Masters, when we killed Savage. We made it so there's no way to save his wife and son, because if they don't die, he doesn't recruit us and none of that happens and…"

"Breathe, Raymond." Len turns to look at Mick. "And this is news?

The bigger man shrugs. "Well, there's usually wriggle room. The Time Masters, they operate…operated…in that wriggle room, those little spaces between events. You know, like…" He ponders a moment. "…well, uh…oh, hell. The thing with the time pirates. The Time Masters, they grabbed me in the time after you left, before you could even possibly come back." He waves a hand as Leonard starts to respond. "Don't say it again, I was an ass, you didn't have a choice, yadda yadda. Water under the bridge. Anyway, we figured we'd find something here. But…really seems to be tied up tight. We've been going over it and going over it." He shrugs as Raymond nods. "Can't find nothing."

"So, why the Refuge?"

"Honestly, Snart, I ain't got the foggiest idea."

The place looks the same as it had the last time they were there, before the Vanishing Point and the Oculus and Savage. Len feels a prickle run up his spine as he follows Hunter and the others down the path toward the stately home, slowing so that he can study the place.

Nothing unusual. He knows they're at…what was Hunter's phrase? A secret location in time and space…but there's nothing to clue anyone into that fact. Not unless he can count that unnerving prickle…not Alexa, no, not quite…that just won't go away.

He's so engrossed in thought that it takes him a moment to notice that Sara's dropped back to walk next to him.

"Penny for your thoughts?" she murmurs, watching him.

"Nah. Gotta be at least a quarter," he shoots back, then sighs, hanging back a little more while she slows with him. "Wishing that I knew more about this place," he says in a low tone. "Do you... feel that?"

Sara lifts an eyebrow at him, but apparently decides against innuendo. "No? Feel what? It seems the same."

"There's like…this electricity in the air." Ill at ease, he pauses instead of following the others up the steps. "Do you think we're still…"

"Our younger selves? No. Rip said he was bringing us to a point after that. You were too busy trading barbs with Stein to hear him." She taps him on the shoulder and he finds himself leaning into the contact, then stops. Sara doesn't comment, but she does turn around and walk backward a few moments, studying him thoughtfully.

He studies her in return, noticing something. "That new?"

"The jersey?" The corner of her mouth rises and she nods, turning to let her jacket slip off her shoulders just enough to show the "Lance" on the back. "Uh huh. Starling City Rockets. My 'Santa' worked fast. And paid attention. I used to go to games with my dad. It's even the old name."

"Nice." He means it.

"Very." Sara shrugs the jacket back on and slows even more, although the others are in the house at this point. "Stein's worked fast too. Got him this gorgeous crystal menorah that's made to be extra-stable and spill-proof. A plus for the Waverider."

"Heh. No one tell Mick. He's still annoyed Gideon won't let him have candles."

Sara starts to retort, but at that moment, they both feel eyes on them. They stop in their tracks, Sara's hand going reflexively to her sleeve and Len's to a cold gun that isn't there, and look up.

A tall woman stands on the Refuge's porch, watching them. No, watching him. She looks no older than before, and no younger, very much the same. Her expression is very, very serious and her eyes are…cold? No, judging. Maybe both?

Len feels the prickle down his spine intensify, and shuffles uneasily where he stands. For the first time, he remembers…Mary Xavier was all about protecting her children.

Who were to be become Time Masters.

And he…

But after a moment, a moment that probably felt longer to him than it actually was, she shakes her head. Her eyes flick to Sara, then back to him, an actual smile touches her lips…and she turns and goes back inside the house. Len lets out a breath and feels the tension subside, a little.

But not completely.

"That was a little creepy," Sara says under her breath. She relaxes her stance, and Leonard's warmed, a little, by the realization that she'd been ready to back him up.

"Yeah." He hesitates. "I can't say I really blame her, if you think…"

But Sara's been following his line of thought, apparently. She glares at him before he can get the words out. "No. We didn't have much of a choice. Not if we wanted to break their control, get back our free will and save the world. And you…you nearly died…"

There's something in her voice, there, and he glances over, startled, seeing her mouth set in a firm line and her eyes directed at where Xavier had vanished. That's the most she's said about his near-miss with death since they'd dragged him out of the time stream, and even then, she'd just threatened to kill him if he ever did anything that stupid again.

"Sara…"

"A-hem."

They both look up to see Hunter, standing on the porch with his arms folded and a stern look on his face. He apparently isn't so lost in distraction and grief that he's failed to notice that two of his wayward team members were unaccounted for on the property, and given which two, it's not so surprising he'd come looking.

And the moment's gone.

Inside, the team's split up. Kendra's already sitting in a rocking chair, contentedly rocking one of the littlest residents of the Refuge, and after a moment, Sara goes to join her. Mick and Jax have headed for the kitchens, unsurprisingly, and Raymond and Stein for one of the several libraries—also unsurprisingly.

Len drifts after that last pair, undecided. The ladies' conversation runs too much of a risk of drifting toward his adorable infant self, and that's just a touch unnerving. (He thinks they do it on purpose.) He's not hungry. And the lure of books is strong…

The sound of a footfall, though, makes him turn to the left. He skulks down a corridor, catching a flicker of Hunter's coat as the man heads up a staircase that's nearly concealed around a corner. There's a murmur of voices and as far as Leonard knows, there's only one other adult at the Refuge…

After a moment, he follows them, silent as a lifelong thief can be.

The staircase is narrow and curving; the passageway it ends in, just as close. He trails the voices to a door that's just a crack ajar, then, after a moment and some reflection, moves quickly to the other side so he can peer in the even smaller crack there.

Hunter is pacing; he can see the motion. It's a familiar sight, generally paired with a lecture that he (and Sara, and Mick) usually tunes out…

"…giving up…"

Frowning, Len concentrates on the words.

"You and I both know, Michael, that what the Time Masters call a 'time knot' usually meant 'we don't want to change it, so we'll find a 'reason' why we can't." Mary Xavier's tone is both sympathetic and slightly lecturing. "You're not one to give up. Not usually. And what did I say about wallowing?"

"Is it truly wallowing if…" Hunter's tone drops enough that Leonard can't hear him, but after a moment, his voice rises again. "…if there is truly no hope, it is one thing, but every instinct I have says there is, despite how it seems. Am I fooling myself?

The woman sighs. "Michael," she says fondly, "you came here today to have me tell you what you already know yourself. That if hope remains, you must follow it. Anything else would be a betrayal of who you are."

Len can hear Hunter's sigh. "Well," the other man says after a moment, a thread of humor back in his tone, "I came to check in, too. I said I would."

"You have said many things over the years." Her tone is stern, but then she laughs a little. "Thank you. We…continue. And we wait."

For? Leonard frowns.

"I don't know if I can do what you want me to do." Hunter's voice is uneasy, and he starts to pace again.

"What you must do. And you already have. At least, you've started."

Their listener wants to hear more along that line, but the captain apparently prefers to avoid it. He's silent for a long moment, moving around the room, and Leonard scans it as best he can through the crack, realizing that they're in another library.

Then he hears a volume being removed from a bookshelf and the sigh Hunter makes as he sees it.

" 'A Wrinkle in Time,'" the captain reads from the cover, then makes a thoughtful noise "I remember reading, and rereading, this copy. Oh, countless times. There's the mended tear in the back corner, where Daniel took it from me that time, and the fold from when Gabrielle borrowed it. I couldn't find it as I got older; thought it just got lost, or someone took it with them." He carefully replaces it on the shelf as Len watches. "I never got my own copy. Meant to read it with Jonas, but, well…"

He sighs again. "I'm going to go consult the science and history libraries; I have before, but you never know. I think the others are enjoying being off the ship, so…we'll stay for dinner, with your permission?"

At her assent, Hunter leaves, never looking back into the corridor and the crook watching from the shadows. Leonard stands a moment, digesting what he's heard, then looks at the door.

After a moment, he sighs…and enters.

Mary Xavier, he's pretty sure, has been waiting for him.

The mistress of the Refuge is sitting behind a desk in the room, which has wide windows letting in the morning sunshine and is, indeed, lined with bookshelves. These aren't the mostly big, leather-bound and serious-looking tones of the other libraries he's seen here, but an eclectic mix: worn paperbacks, colorful picture books, thick novels. Leonard barely gives them a glance, though, however tempted he may be.

Instead, trying for his typical insouciance, he parks his hip against a low table and folds his arms, waiting. Mary regards him for a long moment, then nods.

"Ah," she says, a satisfied sound. "The beautiful baby boy with the big blue eyes." She pauses. "The baby who grew up to destroy the Time Masters."

The words put his hackles up, even though he'd been expecting them. "Not going to apologize…"

But the older woman holds up a hand, shaking her head. "I do not expect you to, Mr. Snart. Yes, you were the one to pull the trigger, as it were, and you nearly paid for that with your life. I do not think you understand just how close that was." She watches him calmly, something uncanny in her own blue gaze. "But the ultimate instrument of their demise was the device they themselves created to control time, and time…does not like to be controlled."

After a moment, she rises from the desk and Leonard, despite himself, takes a step back. There's something that formidable about her. But Mary doesn't approach him. Instead, she leans on her desk, almost matching his own posture, and continues to watch him.

"Perhaps Michael has told you these words; he always liked them," she says. "Time wants to happen. The hand of Time is on you, Leonard Snart. You did its will and you have nearly drowned in its currents—but you survived. Not many can say that."

The words make the feeling of electricity in the air, which had faded, worse. Leonard, unsettled, responds as he often does to discomfort: by attacking. "You're saying something else pulled my strings. Time itself? You expect me to believe that?"

She ignores the adversarial tone "Hmm. Not…quite. What you did, you did because you are you. You acted according to your nature, as Michael does his…as everyone does, really."

"That seems to be a theme, lately," he mutters, which, oddly enough, makes her smile.

"Does it now?" Mary muses. "Something to pay attention to, then. I've learned that when such things seem to reoccur, there's usually reason."

So has he, actually. Len frowns as he watches her, thinking about the conversation he'd overheard.

"You want Hunter to recreate the Time Masters," he says suddenly. "That's what you're waiting for."

She doesn't even bat an eyelash. "Yes. They…something like them…are needed. And there are always children, like the ones here, who will need and suit such an avocation."

The woman before him seems to care for her charges, but knowing what'd recently become of some of them—at his own hand—makes Leonard uneasy with the matter. "You'd have him keep kidnapping kids to turn into…"

But Mary draws herself up and regards him, and her expression's intimidating enough that even Leonard Snart is silenced.

"Really, Mr. Snart? You can think of no reason, no reason at all, why a child might be willing, eager even, to be plucked from his or her life and brought here, where there is plentiful food and warmth, safety and learning?" She spreads her hands to indicate the Refuge, nodding at his expression. "Such it was with all the young ones here."

Lowering her hands, she smiles again. "Who knows? In another timeline, another world, you and your sister might have been Time Masters."

Now, that's a discomforting notion. Mary lets him struggle with it a moment, then shakes her head.

"But," she says, "you're needed where you are, being what you are. Someone who…pays attention. Who listens…" An arch look. "…and learns. And puts odd pieces together." With a sigh, she glances at the door through which her foster son had departed. "Michael thinks like a Time Master now. He probably always will. Dr. Palmer thinks like a scientist, as does Dr. Stein." A slight smirk. "And even Mr. Rory…he's a little more, well, 'out of the box,' as they say, but he's not a plotter, not a planner."

She takes a step closer to Leonard, who shifts uneasily under her steady gaze.

"You…now, you are," she says quietly. "Remember. Perhaps…perhaps they need someone who thinks like a thief. And Michael has apparently forgotten that. They need you."

Her smile, then, turns sad. "And in another timeline, you wouldn't even be here."

He does not like the sound of that. "What do you mean?"

But Mary has turned away already, studying the shelves around them, the ones he'd been so intrigued by. "Do you know what these books are? Books and movies; I rather like the formats that let me keep them in physical copies rather than digital." She glances back at him, but barely waits for an answer. "They're stories. Tales of the myriad of ways human beings have conceived of and imagined traveling in and changing time. I keep them so the children know how their kind look at such things, about who knows? They may even get some good ideas."

Pausing, she runs a fingertip over some titles. " 'A Swiftly Tilting Planet,' " she reads. " 'Kindred.' 'The Doomsday Book.' 'The Time-Traveler's Wife.' "

Then, turning, she moves her hand to what appears to be a shelf in a bookcase full of Blu-ray discs. " 'Quantum Leap.' All the various Star Treks. 'Timeless.' 'Doctor Who.' " That one gets a certain mysterious smile, as she looks over her shoulder at him. "Ah. 'Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure.' A fine film, in its quirky way. 'About Time.' 'It's a Wonderful Life.' "

Len's started to retort that that's not quite time travel when the woman lets her hand drop to her side and shakes her head.

" 'Strange, isn't it?'" she quotes, watching him. " 'Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around, he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?' "

The silence stretches…and Leonard, suddenly, fervently decides that he doesn't really want to know.

And it hasn't escaped his notice that Mary had said "how their kind."

"So," he drawls, straightening from his lean, "keep paying attention? I can do that."

Mary Xavier, smiling faintly, returns to her desk, taking a seat and watching him. "Excellent. I will see you and your cohorts at dinner. Do try not to get the children too riled up."

Leonard takes a step toward the door, then pauses. Glancing back and thinking, he then turns and walks quickly over to the bookshelf where Hunter had paused earlier. Where…ah.

Sliding the battered copy of "A Wrinkle in Time" from its place, he slips the book into his jacket and looks up.

Mary beams at him.

"Now, that, Mr. Snart," she says, sounding pleased, "is precisely what I was talking about."

Sara and Kendra are, Jax tells him, giving a group of small girls self-defense lessons out on the Refuge's lawn. Leonard strolls slowly toward then, unable to hide a smile as he sees Sara hunkered down and talking earnestly to a pale-haired mite who might have been her 25 years ago.

She sees him and grins as the kid runs off to the others, then makes a show of looking him up and down.

"You know," she tells him, "we're showing them how to take down a bigger opponent. Even a grown man. You'd make an excellent practice dummy."

Len winces. "Given that I have a pretty good idea how you're showing them to do that, I think I'll pass," he drawls, looking over her shoulder. "Kinda wish there'd been someone to show Lisa how to do that sort of thing. I taught her to fight dirty, but you could have taught her a lot better as a kid." He shrugs at the momentary sympathy in her eyes. "Having fun?"

"Yes, actually." She looks thoughtful, turning to follow his gaze. "This is something I could see myself doing someday. Owning a dojo, I mean, and teaching women and kids how to defend themselves. When time travel gets old. In the future."

…what the future might hold for me…and you…and…

"Yeah, I could see that in the future. Not for me. For you," he adds as she glances up at him. "I mean, you're good at it. Not that you're not good at time travel…I…"

Damn it, I sound like Allen…

"Leonard Snart, flustered. Cute." Len takes a step back and looks up to see Kendra watching them and tossing a staff from hand to hand. A smile hovers around her lips, and he's suddenly downright frightened of what she'll say, what insight she'll point out that he's not quite ready to acknowledge. He takes a quick breath, readying something snarky to cut her off, and…

There's a very distinctive brooch on Kendra's sweater, something unique that catches his eye not only because of that distinctiveness…but because he's seen it before.

"What's that?"

The dark-haired woman blinks at him, then looks down at her lapel and smiles, a fond and gentle expression.

"From my Secret Santa, apparently. It was in my room after I got breakfast this morning," she says. "It's appropriate, isn't it?"

"Very." There much be something off about his tone, because both women look at him a little suspiciously. Leonard takes a hasty step back. "Have fun with the little assassins. See you later."

He thinks he hears a giggle as he beats a hasty retreat. He doesn't stop to find out.

Mick is, completely unsurprisingly, in the kitchen. He is also, somewhat surprisingly, reading. And very surprisingly, wearing the reading glasses that no one else on the Waverider has ever seen. Len ducks his head to steal a look at the title of the book, then barks out a laugh. It's the second half of the Doyle Sherlock Holmes stories.

Mick rolls his eyes at his friend's amusement. "Yeah, yeah. You were right. They're good."

"Told you." Len reaches out and drags up a chair, turning it around backward and perching on it. "Maybe now you'll listen to me about..."

"Don' push yer luck."

Len lets it go. "Ol' Saint Nick get you that?"

"Nah. Found it in the library." He peers over the rims of his glasses. "You think they'd let me borrow it?"

"Was a day you'd just steal it."

"Nah. My luck, all the books in this creepy-ass place'd be cursed."

"Still," Len drawls, leaning back, "I see you made a really nice pick-up in Chicago."

After a moment, Mick peers at him again, then tucks a (clean, Len hopes) napkin in the book's pages and sits it down, leaning back himself. "Seemed right."

"Indeed."

"You got some sorta problem with it, Snart? Didn't get caught."

"Not at all. Like I said…new pick-up. Right from the coat belonging to Capone's mistress? Sweet." Len inspects his nails with studied thoughtfulness. "Carnelian scarab, enamel wings—hawk wings?-marcasite and glass. At an educated guess. Excellent example of the Egyptian Revival pieces of the 1920s."

At another long moment, Mick grunts. "Just thought it suited her."

"Oh, it does." Len tilts his head to the side. "What's going on there, Mick? You pick her in this Santa thing, or was it just a whim?"

"Oh, I did. But I'da taken it for her anyway." The bigger man eyes his friend. "What's it yer business, anyway?"

"Just curious. What's going on with you two?"

Unexpectedly, Mick snorts. "Why? What's goin' on with you and Blondie?"

It's unexpected, from that source, and Len recoils. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"I…we're friends." There was a time he wouldn't have admitted to having anything so vulnerable as a "friend."

"Friend, eh? Well. So are we." He shrugs at Len's expression. "We talk."

"Seriously?" He barely knows Kendra, really. Of all the denizens of the Waverider, he probably knows her the least. After all the mess with Savage and the thing with Carter—and Raymond, for that matter-he'd been slightly nonplussed when she'd seen the so-called "Hawkman" settled in 2017 and come back to the Waverider, explaining that she needed to have a life—at least one-as something other than someone's mate.

Len respected that decision, although it'd led to some awkwardness on the ship, at least in the beginning. He's not a fan of Raymond, though he's come to grudgingly respect the man (not that he'll ever admit that out loud). They're too different. But Kendra's phrasing had made even him wince in sympathy. After a few weeks of puppy eyes around her, though, the inventor had apparently decided to be cheerfully upbeat about the whole thing, and if anyone suspected he felt otherwise, they allowed him the illusion.

"Yeah." Mick gives him a flat glare, then sighs. He looks, for a moment, like he's pondering his words, and that's rare enough that Len remains silent, letting him think.

After a moment, he nods to himself, then looks directly at his oldest friend.

"She gets it," he says finally. "Look, Snart. She gets somethin' you never will. Not 'cause you wouldn't try, not 'cause you're dumb or anything like that." His lips twitch as Leonard snorts.

"But…I got millennia in my head, Snart. And yeah, I know I don't talk about it much anymore. But…it happened. It's there, all those years. An' Kendra, she gets that. She's got 'em too."

He's silent while Leonard digests that, turning it over. Acknowledging its truth.

"OK," Len says, finally. "I get that. Best I can, anyway. Not that it's my business…"

"It ain't."

"…but…you two a thing? I mean…all that soulmate crap…and Raymond…"

That gets another snort from Mick, but this one's rueful.

"Don't know that it's like that," the big man says after a minute. "But if it is, if it goes there…it ain't some big, serious thing, like she had with Haircut. It's nothin' that's gotta end with broken hearts or dead bodies, like she was told. Might just be a bit of fun, an we'd keep it real quiet. Ain't nothin' wrong with that."

"True."

Mick eyes him a moment, then nods. "We good? Done with this?"

"Fine by me."

"OK, then. And you and Blondie?"

A pause. "Don't, Mick."

"Boss…"

"Don't."

The rest of their brief stay at the Refuge passes quickly. Len avoids Mary Xavier, but every time he hazards a quick glance her way, she's seemingly uninterested in him, talking earnestly with Rip or Raymond or, at one time, a wide smile on her face, Mick.

Still, he's the first one back on the Waverider, breathing a sigh of relief as he sets foot on the deck, and he breathes another sigh as they take off and enter the time stream. He feels Sara's eyes on him, considering, and even Mick's, but he doesn't comment. He wouldn't be sure what to say anyway.

Rip finds "A Wrinkle in Time," neatly wrapped, in his quarters the next morning, and scans his team's faces with an air of pleased bewilderment before settling in to read.

Over the next few days, Jax gets a sheaf of manuals and diagrams for various timeship varieties, and starts happily going through them and talking to Gideon about possible upgrades. Kendra requests, fervently, a few more bathrooms, and winks at Len when she sees him watching.

Raymond gets a Star Trek script signed by George Roddenberry—it's personalized, and Len eyes the only one on the ship who could have obtained that-and gleefully tries to drag everyone into a Star Trek marathon.

Mick gets a bottle of wine, a particularly fine cabernet, and Len laughs out loud when he realizes it's from Rip's collection. (Stein smirks at him.) Mick, not a wine person at all, is skeptical, but only until Stein, waxing eloquent about the vintage, pops the cork and pours them both a glass.

The wine in the collection starts disappearing faster after that.

And Len finds a package in his own room and, cautiously, unwraps it.

It takes him a moment to realize the rectangular item is a picture frame, folded so that the two photographs in it are face to face. He opens it, and stares in silence at what it contains.

Lisa. Age 9 or thereabouts, he'd guess, right about the age she'd been on the Waverider, when the Pilgrim had threatened and they'd been forced to rescue their loved ones, an event that'd been hard on everyone, but some more than others.

Jax and Raymond, he's pretty sure, had it the worst. But Lisa…she'd been so young, and still had so much, for better or for worse, ahead of her….

She's laughing, right out loud, in the left photo, an expression of joy that he can't remember seeing, ever. Captured on one of Gideon's cameras, so far as he can tell, no fear or trepidation in her face.

He has no photographs of her at that age; when he left the house on Hadley Avenue, he'd taken almost nothing with him, and he'd never gone back.

Correction: He'd gone back once.

The opposing photo is a larger, better copy of a tattered snapshot he'd had tucked in his desk, grown Lisa and grown Len, glancing at each other, their expressions showing, if not affection, than at least a form of camaraderie. Mick had taken it, almost by accident, trying to figure out how to use a camera they'd needed for a job, and Len had found it when developing the film.

Keeping it, bringing it, had been sentiment. Something that, until fairly recently, he'd tried to banish from his life.

Only two people besides himself have ever seen that photo.

"Gideon…"

"Yes, Mr. Snart."

"…never mind."

Notes:

1. Kendra’s brooch:

https://www.langantiques.com/egyptian-revival-sterling-silver-scarab-brooch.html

2. Mary Xavier is totally a Time Lord. (Fight me.)

3. I’m SO tempted to write an AU in which the Snart siblings were taken to the Refuge when young!

#secret santa #captain canary #sara lance #leonard snart #legends of tomorrow

7 notes · View notes