#she can be american or portuguese too it’s fine but like

[possibilistfanfiction]

i know i v much on purpose didn’t specify clubs or nts in footy au but in my heart ava is brazilian i hope u all know

[chrisgotitall]

HI LOVE

Your work is so sweet, I’m clinging to those oneshots for dear life🤞🤞🤞

I’m OBSESSED with the concept of makeup artists reader. She’s young and smart, has a degree but formal work feels dreadful, so she does make up instead. She meets him while working on west side story, and everyone behind the scenes is always dancing and joyful, and she’s Latina too so she just can’t help but join!! (Yes I am projecting 😒😒) like Rachel and Ariana are dancing to songs in Spanish and reader shows them some songs in Portuguese cus she is Brazilian. She teaches them how to dance to it and Mike it’s just watching from afar pretending he isn’t staring, while all the guys he knew before from the newsies cast are teasing him and maybe even flirting with her to spite him into finally making a move 👀👀 Idk it’s just a concept that lives rents free in my head and I thought you would enjoy

Take care💋💋💋

Your mornings start so well since you chose to work as a makeup artist on movie sets. You wake up, really early of course, but knowing you're going to the most beautiful job there is. You enjoy it so much. You like makeup first of all, then you like talking to people, you like getting to know them while preparing them for their scenes. It's amazing.

The movie you're working for right now is a movie musical, it's called West Side Story and it is by far your favorite working experience. Especially for the people. Most of the cast members are fellow Southern Americans so the atmosphere on set is like home.

They're always dancing and singing even before getting on set, they start from the makeup trailer.

They put music on: bachata, cumbia, salsa and they start a dancing party while getting ready for their scenes. It's truly awesome.

And they get in everybody, even the Jets, every crew member and makeup girls like you. And you dance with them, oh yes, you dance a lot with them. Ariana and Rachel just get you in cause they know you got it in you. The latino blood just floods in moments like these and it's beautiful to see, it's so joyful.

One time, tho, you decided to show them some songs from your native place specifically, just to throw in some portuguese jams. They enjoyed it so much and the party way even fuller.

It started cause the Sharks were the first that had to get ready, so they put some music up and then you put your music up.

But then it was the Jets' turn. While they were sitting in their seats you noticed that one of the Jets made Mike sit in the chair that's actually your place. You were dancing but then realized it's time to get back to work so you reach your place.

"Good morning" he says, smiling.

"Good morning" you tell him, smiling as well, "Ok, let's see what you need today" you say reaching for the paper that tells you what kind of makeup he'll need for his scenes.

"Oh this is gonna be fun, you can actually help me today" you say putting out a little package with black tint in it.

"Glad to" he says.

"You can take a bit of this and just smear it all over your hands" you say pointing at the package, "But before you do that you're gonna have to take the shirt off"

He looks up at you, "The tank top too?"

"No, just the shirt is fine" you say feeling your cheeks flaring up. He takes his shirt off and you start dirtying his face with the black paint since he's gonna shoot the scene where the first fight between Sharks and Jets happens.

You touch up his concealer, just now realizing how close to his face you are but luckily you made him look up.

"Okay, I'm done" you say.

"Thank you" he says, smiling again.

The way he looks at you makes you literally weak in the knees so you have to focus on tidying up the makeup desk to not look at him.

In the afternoon, another "party" started again and obviously you got in. This time you weirdly felt a heavy gaze on you, you looked around and saw Mike staring at you. You looked away and smiled to yourself, continuing to dance.

He was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed and he didn't seem to want to take his eyes off of you.

"Can I dance with you?" Kyle says. You accept and you dance with him. Of course he's a really good dancer even if this kind of rhythm isn't really his style.

You notice he has his head turned towards Mike and you shake your head to yourself.

"What's going on?" you ask him.

He smiles, "Just getting my boy Mike to make a move" he admits.

"Oh my god..." you laugh.

He makes you twirl and you laugh even harder.

"It's my job as a friend" he pulls you closer.

"I'm sorry, can I take a turn at a dance?"

It's Mike, standing between you two with his hand reaching out to you. Kyle smiles and holds his hands up.

"Sure... all yours"

Mike takes Kyle's place and makes you dance.

You smile at him and show him how samba is supposed to be danced. He learns really fast and you dance it together.

"You're wonderful" he says out of thought.

You look at him, very startled.

"When you dance... you're wonderful when you dance" he corrects himself.

"Oh... right"

"You're pretty wonderful too" you say, not really referring to his dancing.

He sighs, "I like you... I really like you, not just your dancing"

You smile at him, "I like you too, Mike"

[anxiouspotatorants]

@stellaluna33​ be careful what you wish for.... Now let’s start off with a far too long list of Eurovision headcanons I have for Gilmore Girls.

While Richard and Emily did technically come across Eurovision (or at least national selection season) in the first half of the 80s (thank you @thatscarletflycatcher​ for that amazing headcanon) Lorelai herself wasn’t introduced to the world’s best singing concert until she met Michel. Michel told Lorelai about that time Celine Dion participated and won for Switzerland, which Lorelai then had to find proof of. Soon enough she catches her first taping of Eurovision (maybe 98 with Dana International) and she’s been obsessed ever since.

Lorelai loves everything at first, but over the years she grows a special kind of love for the truly tacky Eurovision entries. The more glitter and nonsensical english lyrics the better. 

Rory is obviously brought into this in her early teens and bonds with her mom over it. She does love a good tacky entry as well, but what really made Rory come back for the competition every year is all the political gossip and drama that seeps into each year. The voting results announcements is when Rory inches closer to the screen.

It’s not enough for Lorelai to enjoy this by herself with Rory. She shares her opinions with Michel (who hates it), makes a whole themed yearly event of it with Sookie, spreads the gospel of Eurovision to Miss Patty and Babette, and tries at least once to convince Taylor to make Eurovision week an offical town holiday or at least an event. Taylor will not approve of this anti-American nonsense. That is his loss.

Of course Luke is forced to sit through this every single year. And no he does not like it. He gets angry about the hypocrisy of all the “peace and love”-songs sung by artists representing countries that do not have peace and love in their policies, is intimidated by all the glitter, and could really do without the akward hosts. He will admittedly enjoy the odd dad-rock entry that comes every year, but keep it to himself since everyone else roasts them.

Since Michel is the one who introduced everyone to Eurovision (well, he introduced Lorelai who introduced everyone, but it wouldn’t have happened without him) and since he’s the only actual European around, Michel feels very protective and possessive of it. He will let Rory bait him into talking about how he as a Frenchman views other European countries (it gets stereotypical), and he will at the same time tear a hole into anyone who scoffs at ‘ethnic’ or non-English songs. 

Like his uncle, Jess is not a Eurovision fan and would really like to skip watching this, if only to avoid the crowds that Lorelai gathers for the event. He does like it when audience members sneak up on stage or something goes really wrong. Teenage Jess could stay away because of how things were going around that time of year, but adult Jess who visits multiple times a year for Doula and Luke and has to remain on civil terms with Lorelai cannot escape. And yeah, it might bring Rory joy to watch him awkwardly sandwiched between TJ and Luke watching Verka Serduchka scream numbers in German.

Lane loves Eurovision. She loves the showmanship, loves the variety of musical entries, loves being introduced to country-specific genres. When the internet community around Eurovision grows, she starts finding updates (and eventually streams) of the national selections around Europe and starts watching them as well. For Lane, Eurovision-season starts in December the year before.

Paris doesn’t really get Eurovision at first (noting the same hypocricy issue as Luke), but with time she starts to let loose and enjoy the circus for what it is. She tends to change what genre she prefers every couple of years, but she’s a loyal Portugal-supporter and likes pretending to be as above everyone else as Michel simply because she can speak Portuguese.

Dean never really got Eurovision, but would be fine watching it as long as he was spending time with Rory. Logan tried to convince Rory to get tickets with him and just head on over to Europe once for a finale, but to Rory that would be a betrayal against her tradition with Lorelai and the town. Either they all go or none of them go.

Richard and Emily are appalled by how tacky the whole event is, but they will watch it in the privacy of their home because it’s become a guilty pleasure. They tend to prefer French entries when the French aren’t sending songs like “Moustache”.

Lane has tried to get Hep Alien to add at least one Eurovision song to one of their setlists. She tends to try with safe rock songs like “We Could Be The Same” by maNga or “Something Better” by Softengine, but really she would love to do something hilarous and out of the box for their band, like “Secret Combination” or a Johnny Logan song.

Oh, but Jess liked “Viszlat Nyar” by AWS. He didn’t expect something like that to show up on Eurovision. It was nice.

Rory really enjoys that semi-indie music thing that’s been going on in Belgium and the Netherlands lately. Think “City Lights” by Blanche and “De Diepte” by S10.

Michel’s the kind of Eurovision-fan who prefers divas singing ballads or dancing girls with a whole crew on stage. 

Babette and Miss Patty will cheer for any entry with skimpy outfits, particularly shirtless men. “OPA” in 2010 was a moment for everyone: a fun one for the two of them and traumatizing for everyone else.

Miss Patty makes a whole separate drink for Eurovision. It has edible glitter in it.

Nobody in town seems to know what to make of Australia being in the competition. People like Lorelai and Sookie and Liz don’t mind, while people like Taylor find it categorically wrong that a European song contest has a country from the other side of the globe participate. But nobody even jokes about the US joining. Michel has made sure of that.

Lorelai’s all time favourite entry is Ukraine in 2004. Michel’s favourite is Switzerland in 1988 because of course.

Sookie uses Eurovision week as an excuse to experiment with different European cousines. At first she would do dishes from the host country, but nowadays she will occasionally switch to the country she’s rooting the most for that year or a country that hasn’t had a win in ages.

Michel still has access to voting, and when people catch wind of this it becomes a nightmare for him. Everyone wants to use Michel to vote for their favourite entry, but he refuses to do it for free, and refuses to blow up his phone credit for them. Eventually he gives the entire town 10 votes that they can bid on or agree on together, but either way Michel is getting compensation for this.

[dear-indies]

Okay so this is a big ask, and I truly cannot say PLEASE AND THANK YOU hard enough for even considering answering this. I’m thinking about making a blog that goes through an entire bloodline. Starting with a bit more old times fantasy stuff, into modern day, and maybe heading into a more cyberpunk era.

I have a base but and ideas for characters that can fill in gaps but I do need some help and opinions, and sorry to say, you’re the best one for this. Sorry for how huge this is gonna get lol. Know that you have my eternal gratitude for even looking at this though.

Okay so for the main base I’m thinking Ram Charan, but I would like a fc that you think could work for a younger fc for him (early to mid 20s)

Up next in the line I just need general fc help. Character is a male about middle aged, and Indian. Very gruff and angry at what seems like the world, but kind deep down. Nearest thing I can liken him to would be the punisher from marvel.

Next up would be my modern muse. I was thinking Avan Jogia, but if you don’t think he’d fit the trend of the previous characters ethnicity wise, I am more than open to different suggestions.

Lastly is the character in a more futuristic type setting. I’d like a woman that very much has a cool biker girl vibe could literally be anywhere from like early 20s to mid 30s.

This got ENORMOUS, but your insight is invaluable when it comes to fc help, but if this is too much for you that’s fine too. Feel free to let me know either way. You do so much for us, and I cant say thank you enough.

Hey anon! Thank you so muck for your kind words! I almost finished this ask but somehow it didn't save so now I'm doing it again. 😭😭

Ram Charan, early 20s - here are all the Telugu actors I know in their 20's!

Adarsh Gourav (1994) Telugu.

Shiva Kandukuri (1994) Telugu.

Panja Vaisshnav Tej (1995) Telugu.

Master Bharath (1996) Telugu.

Santosh Sobhan (1996) Telugu.

Sri Simha Koduri (1996) Telugu.

Akash Puri (1997) Telugu.

Male, middle aged, Indian. Very gruff and angry at what seems like the world, but kind deep down - I didn't know if he had to be Telugu but I did include Telugu suggestions!

Nagarjuna (1959) Telugu.

Suniel Shetty (1961) Tulu.

Shah Rukh Khan (1965) Hyderabadi, Pathan, Kashmiri.

Salman Khan (1965) Marathi, Dogra, Alakozai Pashtun.

Vikram (1966) Tamil.

Akshay Kumar (1967) Punjabi.

Ravi Teja (1968) Telugu.

John Abraham (1972) Malayali Syrian / Irani Zoroastrian.

Arjun Rampal (1972) Indian, part Dutch.

Farhan Akhtar (1974) Irani.

Sendhil Ramamurthy (1974) Kannadiga / Tamil.

Hrithik Roshan (1974) Punjabi and Bengali - I didn't know he has polydactyly!

Nandamuri Kalyan Ram (1978) Telugu.

Vaibhav Reddy (1978) Telugu.

Tottempudi Gopichand (1979) Telugu.

Avan Jogia muse:

I'm not sure which bloodline you wanted this muse to follow so please get back to me!

Cool biker girl, early 20s to mid 30s:

Aiysha Hart (1988) Saudi Arabian and White - has spoken up for Palestine!

Lolly Adefope (1990) Yoruba Nigerian has spoken up for Palestine!

Gia Mantegna (1990)

Rosaline Elbay (1990) Egyptian has spoken up for Palestine!

Rina Sawayama (1990) Japanese - is pansexual and bisexual has spoken up for Palestine!

Tiana Okoye (1991) African-American - has a link to Gaza charity on her page!

Kelly McCormack (1991) - is queer - has spoken up for Palestine!

Pınar Deniz (1993) Turkish [Lebanese] - her vibes in Aktris - has spoken up for Palestine!

Sarah Kameela Impey (1991) Indo-Guyanese / White - we vibes in We Are Lady Parts - has spoken up for Palestine!

Seychelle Gabriel (1991) part Mexican - vibes in Blood Fest - has spoken up for Sudan and Palestine!

Hari Nef (1992) Ashkenazi Jewish - is a trans woman - has spoken up for Palestine!

Sky Ferreira (1992) Brazilian [Portuguese, possibly other] / Ashkenazi Jewish, Ojibwe, Cree, Chippewa Cree, Cheyenne, White - has Chronic Lyme Disease.

Medalion Rahimi (1992) Iranian, Iranian Jewish - uses she/they - has spoken up for Palestine!

Olivia D’Lima (1993) Goan and White - has spoken up for Palestine!

Mina El Hammani (1993) Moroccan - has spoken up for Palestine!

Devery Jacobs (1993) Mohawk - is queer - has spoken up for Palestine!

Anna Leong Brophy (1993) Irish, Chinese, Kadazan.

Jordan Alexander (1993) African-American and White - has spoken up for Palestine!

Jesse James Keitel (1993) - is a trans woman.

Mia Khalifa (1993) Lebanese - has spoken up for Palestine!

Jasmin Savoy Brown (1994) African-American / White - is queer - has spoken up for Palestine!

Adeline Rudolph (1994) Korean / White.

Natasha Liu Bordizzo (1994) Chinese / White.

Juliette Motamed (1995) Iranian - has spoken up for Palestine!

Coty Camacho (1995) Mexican [Mixtec and Zapotec] - is pansexual.

Jessica Darrow (1995) Cuban - is a lesbian - has spoken up for Palestine!

Sasha Calle (1995) Colombian.

Myha'la (1996) Afro Jamaican / White - is queer - has spoken up for Palestine!

Lauren Jauregui (1996) Cuban [Spanish, possibly other], likely some Basque - is bisexual - has spoken up for Palestine!

Imaan Hammam (1996) Moroccan / Egyptian - has spoken up for Palestine!

Ella Balinska (1996) Afro Jamaican / White.

Yumi Nu (1996) Japanese / White.

Tati Gabrielle (1996) African-American, 1/4 Korean.

Blu Hunt (1996) Oglala Lakota, Apache, White - is queer.

Kassius Nelson (1997) Black British - vibes in Dead Boy Detectives.

Alaqua Cox (1997) Menominee, Mohican - is deaf and a below the knee leg amputee - vibes in Hawkeye.

Julia Dalavia (1998) Brazilian - vibes in Pantanal.

Odessa A'zion (2000) part Ashkenazi Jewish - has spoken up for Palestine!

Reneé Rapp (2000) - is a lesbian - has spoken up for Palestine!

I hope this helped!

[inyourheartifoundahome]

A VERY DESCRIPTIVE PROFILE OF YOUR MUSE. Repost with the information of your muse, including headcanons, etc. if you fail to achieve some of the facts, add some other of your own!

name: Suéli Olivia Carvalho nickname: Sue (only by her Dad), Oliv, Liv, Latina, Kate, Kätzchen, Babe, Baby, Babs age: thirty-four species: human being sex: female/she/her nationality: portuguese, brazilian, american parents: Alvaro Cesário Carvalho & Júlia Giovanna Costa-Oliveira (divorced) pets: black cat named Roméo interests: every kind of Art and interior design, extravagant fashion, fine dining (food & cooking in general), red wine profession: art dealer and curator at the MET eyes: dark green with tiny amber details hair: wavy dark brown (but she owns a couple of wigs) skin: tanned like a caramel chocolate brownie with a couple of little personal tattoos all over her body face: some darker freckles on her nose and cheeks, natural messy brows and a concise cupid's bow posture: trained curvy with big hips and well shaped thighs height: 170 cm voice: light and bubbly, sometimes crispy with that typical nyc accent signature outfit: on work days she wears often wide shaped office trousers and a slightly oversized jacket with heels; in private she loves to combine a chunky extravagant pair of jeans with basic tops and lots of golden rings, earrings and bracelets (on cold days she loves to steal oversized hoodies from @coltonxmassey or @brutalcharm) significant other: @coltonxmassey companions: @brutalcharm & @onlyfemmefatale strengths: ‚family first’-attitude, strong-willed and down-to-earth; always optimistic (maybe a little too much), not that type of drama queen as she looks like (ok a little Drama sleeps in her, she’s Latina) weaknesses: trust issues and the fear of getting hurt or being abandoned, sometimes her temper controls her mind colors: burgundy, olive green, black drinks: red wine, bellini, evian water drivers license: owns a black mercedes g-wagon, but she rarely drives it, cause of the traffic in nyc

(fyi: some of this facts are not guaranteed and can change within a month.)

tagged by: @brutalcharm

tagging: @coltonxmassey, @onlyfemmefatale

[hikarry]

Is your grandmother the only one that knows youre genderfluid? How did you explain it to her? I think I would die of embarassment if anyone on my family figured out I was genderfluid

Does she call you by your dead name or Spencer? Spencer doesn't sound like a very portuguese name

Yes, she's technically the only one

I explained it to her multiple times

The first time I just kinda said it. I was explaining to her what a non binary was and ended up saying "and, well, I'm nonbinary too. Kinda. I'm genderfluid. Which means sometimes I'm nonbinary blablablabla"

After that I just kept explaining whenever she asked or whenever I mentioned it and she looked confused. I'm not sure she grasps the concept totally yet still but at least she accepts it

Spencer is indeed not a Portuguese name at all. Every time I call an uber people ask me if it's my real name and I have to bullshit saying my father is Irish and that's why just so they will drop it. It helps that I don't look Portuguese so, ya see. I'm white as a ghost and my hair is blue. I've been asked if I'm British, Scottish and American more times than I can count. I've been told I have a very "international" Face, whatever that means. So the Irish bullshit sticks

But no. She doesn't know about my name. She still calls me by my dead name and that's okay. Honestly, she doesn't use my name a lot in general so it's fine

[engineergutierrez]

have you seen GUILLERMO “WILLIAM” GUTIERREZ around the crash site? we’re trying to make sure they’re still alive after the crash! according to the manifesto, HE is a 30-year-old CISGENDER MAN. i hear they’re known for being an ENGINEER. WILLIAM is also known to be ADAPTABLE & LYRICAL yet also GREEDY & SMUG at times. we have a couple questions for WILL when we find HIM, we heard something about a secret they might have? such as THEY ARE A RECOVERING ALCOHOLIC!

basics...

full name: guillermo gutierrez

nickname(s): william, will, memo, willy & g-man (nsfw meaning)

preferred name(s): william is the english translation of his birth name; any variation is fine.

birthdate: may 25, 1969

age: 30 years old

gender: cisgender man

pronouns: he/him/his

sexual orientation: straight

birthplace: río piedras, san juan, puerto rico

hometown: san francisco, ca

ethnicity: latino/puerto-rican

nationality: american

physical appearance...

faceclaim: josh segarra

height: 5′ 11″

eye color: blue

hair color: brown

weight: 175 lbs

dominant hand: ambidextrous

personality...

positive traits: lyrical, magnanimous, realistic, adaptable, clever, confident, & smooth talker

negative traits: greedy, wise-ass, smug, & lustful

mbti: ESTP-A — The Entrepreneur

astrological sign: taurus

hobbies: singing, guitar playing, hiking, rock-climbing, wood-working & fishing

handy habits: can build random things out of crap & is generally good with electrical components

bad habits: sleeps around too much, drinks too much, inappropriate jokes, & stays up too late

bio...

—Guillermo Gutierrez’s birth parents were madly in love, but sadly they were not meant to be together. Guillermo’s birth mother was a well known as a singer in Puerto Rico. His mother had an affair with someone she worked with closely—exactly who this was has always been a mystery. Guillermo was born in secret and put up for adoption. He never knew either of his birth parents. He was adopted by two young Californians and would go on to have a have a very spoiled and happy childhood. —He showed promise of a bright future. And because of his upbringing and roots, Guillermo would attend some of the best schools in California. He took a special interest in learning how to build things and take them apart to learn how they function. While at school, he also nurtured his love for singing. Aside from English, he’s fluent in Spanish and Portuguese. —It was at the ripe age of 20 when things would start to spiral downwards for him. It wasn't noticeable at first. His first drinking binge in college was quick and harmless to everyone but him. The binges gradually increased— shockingly enough, they never affected his work. It was almost as if his best work came out when he was drunk. He became dependent on booze and when graduation came, it became apparent to everyone that something needed to be done. —His birth parents staged an intervention and signed him into a rehab facility to detox. Will would attempt to break out a few times, but fail each time. He stayed the mandatory month to get clean and then started attending his AA meetings outside. His family was really supportive. And for a time, it seemed like things were looking brighter. —That is until he boarded a plane from SFO to SYD on New Years' Eve....& it crash landed onto a mysterious island.

other...

—syfy timeline: ( coming soon )

—headcanons: can be found ( here )

—playlist: ( here )

[popblank]

My Eurovision Song Ranking 2023

I have been unusually busy in the last couple of months so this ranking is very late and not too detailed. For this year’s ranking I generally listened to the official videos 3-4 times, though in a few cases I did either watch the video with captions/translations or looked up lyrics. Not feeling that strongly about most of the songs yet.

It’s Loreen

(1) Sweden, Loreen, “Tattoo” – The song is okay but I really like Loreen’s performance, both vocally and onstage. She makes the song compelling in a way that I think few other artists could.

Would listen to again

(2) Finland, Käärijä, “Cha Cha Cha” – Very catchy & instant. The melodic final section makes more sense after reading the lyrics.

(3) Lithuania, Monika Linkyté, “Stay” – Introspective, dramatic, singer-songwritery with a slightly-too-abrupt chorus that is kind of hypnotic. It took a few listens to really grow on me.

(4) United Kingdom, Mae Muller, “I Wrote A Song” – On my first listen I thought, “it’s not bad, though it’s not amazing.” Upon repeat listens I am finding it holds up well and I like that it tells a little story about channeling negative emotions constructively. Hope they have decent staging. 

(5) Portugal, Mimicat, “Ai Coração” – Liking the wordy uptempo Portuguese.

(6) Czechia, Vesna, “My Sister’s Crown” – Dark and dramatic and rather pointedly political; I wonder how good it will sound without the echoing chorus. 

(7) Spain, Blanca Paloma, “EAEA” – I like the flamenco electronic pop, yet feel I should like it more than I do since it seems to follow in the footsteps of “¿Quién maneja mi barca?” (one of my all-time Eurovision favorites). It is a bit hard to follow as it does not quite have the relentless drive of that song.

The rest below the cut:

Enjoy it.  May not seek it out but won’t skip it.

(8) France, La Zarra, “Évidemment” – She really has that dance-pop chanteuse thing going on. It’s compelling as I listen but afterward I can’t remember any part of the song except the title word, and something about her pronunciation of “évidemment” in the official recording is really throwing me off. It almost sounds like an American trying to speak French and it does not sound that way in the live recordings I can find.

(9) Pasha Parfeni, “Soarele şi Luna” – Obvious comparisons to “Shum” and “Fulenn” which were both in my top 5 pre-competition. (Not complaining.)

(10) Ukraine, TVORCHI, “Heart of Steel” – Prefer it to last year’s song, really.

(11) Serbia, Luke Black, “Samo Mi Se Spava” – The music actually evokes video game music in addition to using games as a metaphor.

(12) Austria, Teya & Salena, “Who The Hell Is Edgar?” – Fun, catchy, about something other than the usual topics (love, heartbreak).

(13) Estonia, Alika, “Bridges” – Piano ballad.  I like the repeated rising line in the chorus.

(14) Albania, Albina & Familja Kelmendi, “Duje” – Albania doing what it does.

Okay/Would have to be in the right mood to listen

(15) Iceland, Diljá, “Power” – She has a decent voice and I like the rising line of “oh-oh-oh-oh” at the start of the chorus.

(16) Slovenia, Joker Out, “Carpe Diem” – Musically fine but does not grab me. I generally like the concept of the lyrics but would hope for a little more of the implied angst to come through.

(17) Azerbaijan, TuralTuranX, “Tell Me More” – It doesn’t sound like a Swedish import, which is a pleasant surprise.

(18) Norway, Alessandra, “Queen of Kings” – Initially catchy but really isn’t standing up for me on repeats. I may be biased because MGP was the only national selection that I paid any attention to this year other than Melodifestivalen and my favorites were Ulrikke and Rasmus Thall.

(19) Armenia, Brunette, “Future Lover” – Thankful for the changeup partway through after the twinkly piano & strings. Little bit hard to follow the lyrics but reading them I like the idea of the song. Not a fan of the video though.

(20) Latvia, Sudden Lights, “ Aijā” – Solid. It’s fine.

There is something in it I might like, but not enough for me to seek it out

(21) Croatia, Let 3, “Mama ŠČ!” – Consciously offbeat. Not sure what’s going on, it’s catchy but the song doesn’t seem interesting enough on its own unless they can attach it to a great stage performance.

(22) Australia, Voyager, “Promise” – Starts out OK, nice that it goes a bit harder but only for maybe 10 seconds. With the barrage of questions in the verses, the whole thing feels like an interrogation followed by a bunch of demands. Sounds good though.

(25) Georgia, Iru, “Echo” – Entertainingly dramatic, but kind of hard to understand and the lyrics barely make sense.

(23) Germany, Lord of the Lost, “Blood and Glitter” – Sonically a nice change of pace.  A bit repetitive without using that to good effect.

(24) Italy, Marco Mengoni, “Due Vite” – It’s very Italian. Not really sticking yet but it might grow on me (“L’Essenziale” did). 

(26) Belgium, Gustaph, “Because of You” – I should like this more (upbeat, dance-y, uplifting) but my brain just hears background music.

(27) Denmark, Reiley, “Breaking My Heart” – Denmark and Cyprus can hang out and mope together. The repetition isn’t doing it for me.

(28) Ireland, Wild Youth, “We Are One” – All it needs is a music video where people of all shapes, sizes, colors, genders dance around together (see also: the videos from “Story of My Life” and Malta’s “I Am What I Am”).

(29) Netherlands, Mia Nicolai & Dion Cooper, “Burning Daylight” – Talky midtempo. Vaguely Coldplay at end.

(30) Cyprus, Andrew Lambrou, “Broken Heart” – Dramatic wailer, lots of falsetto. Voice is more interesting than song.

(31) Greece, Victor Vernicos, “What They Say” – Different direction for Greece. Not sure about this boom-clap thing at the end.

(32) Romania, Theodor Andrei, “D.G.T. (Off and On)” – Kind of enjoying the bluesy 6/8; reading the lyrics it’s a familiar theme but the official music video stage performance is a bit off-putting.

Dislike outweighs like

(33) Malta, The Busker, “Dance” – While I feel the message of the song, the saxophone riff and “I feel better in my sweater” are deeply annoying to me.

(34) Poland, Blanka, “Solo” – Not offensively bad, just vaporously insubstantial.

(35) Israel, Noa Kirel, “Unicorn” – What exactly is the power of a unicorn, mythologically?

(36) Switzerland, Remo Forrer, “Watergun” – Feels faux-deep and particularly odd coming from Switzerland. Sounds like an attempt to cross “Arcade” (playing games theme) and last year’s Swiss entry (muddled message).

(37) San Marino, Piqued Jacks, “Like An Animal” – Kind of like Finland’s song last year but less fun. “I can smell you like an animal,” charming. 

[silverynight]

Change my mind

As Newt sits in front of the counter, he wonders if he should just go find a hotel room where he can spend the night instead; he's tired, but definitely glad he's finally in Brazil.

The pub is quiet and yet the bartender seems to be busy at the moment. Newt looks around and is about to rise from his seat again, when a man sits right next to him.

"Can I get you something to drink?" His voice is deep, it seems a little bit familiar, although he hasn't tried to look at him in the eye yet. It's difficult for him, especially after meeting new people.

What makes him curious about that man is that he decides to speak to him in english; he sounds like an american.

"Perhaps I'm coming on too strong, but you're really..."

Unfortunately, Newt doesn't pay too much attention to what he's saying at that moment because he finally turns around and realizes he's sitting right next to Percival Graves.

His hair is a little bit longer and he's using black jeans and a black shirt, which makes him look more relaxed and it's a little bit weird at first (or perhaps it's because Newt didn't actually meet him but Grindelwald instead).

Newt smiles at him, thinking that Graves has probably read about him and recognized him or maybe he's in a mission for MACUSA. However, Tina hasn't mentioned anything about him in her letters.

"I'd like a firewhiskey, please," he mumbles shyly and watches as Graves's grin turns into a hopeful smile. He speaks with the bartender in an excellent portuguese.

"What are you doing in Brazil?" Graves asks, leaning closer to him. "And most importantly, how long are you gonna stay?"

Newt tells him all about the fire slugs he wants to study and Graves listens to him like everything he says is absolutely fascinating.

"Aren't those illegal?" Graves asks, prompting the magizoologist to worry for a moment, but then he notices the amused grin and the kind glimmer in his eyes.

"I'm not keeping them, well... unless they're hurt or in danger... But I just keep them until they're ready to go back into the wild, like I do with all my creatures."

When Graves puts a hand on his knee to move even closer to him, Newt finally notices the golden earring and suddenly finds him really attractive.

He blushes, but pushes those thoughts aside to tell him everything about his other babies.

"A nundu?" Graves looks like he's not sure if he wants to laugh or narrow his eyes at him. "Isn't that dangerous?"

"No creature is dangerous!" At Newt's outraged tone, Graves finally chuckles and tries to calm him down putting a hand on his cheek. He asks for another couple of drinks.

"I'm sorry... I'm not used to this... I don't know much about them; I used to think of magical creatures only in terms of the law and those rules are not usually too kind with them," Graves admits. "But I'm willing to learn more, perhaps you can stay with me so we can get to know each other as well..."

"You're very kind," Newt beams, as soon as he realizes Graves means well. He also enjoys all the advice he gives him about the habitats he has created for his babies.

"I'm sorry... I haven't even asked your name–"

"I'm Newt Scamander, I thought Tina had talked you about me, Mr. Graves."

Newt is sure he did something wrong as soon as he sees Graves freezing on the spot.

"Have we... met? I'm sorry, I–He must've messed with my mind too..."

"No, it's alright," Newt puts a hand on his shoulder immediately, realizing he's remembering the time Grindelwald imprisoned him. "We don't know each other. I thought Tina or Queenie had said something about me. I actually met–"

"Him," Graves's face twists with anger and pain; Newt takes his hand and intertwines their fingers together, watching with relief as the man slowly calms down. "No one knows I'm here. Don't tell them, please."

"Oh. Alright," Newt mumbles, suddenly puzzled. If Graves didn't know who he was, then why he approached him in the first place? Perhaps he mistook him for someone else? "Well, I need to get going–"

"Wait. You can still stay at my place," Graves rises from his seat as well, following Newt.

***

It's a small house, but cozy. Newt likes it. Graves looks nervous though, he rubs the back of his neck, eyes glued to Newt.

His face turns bright red.

"You can sleep in my bedroom. I mean, I thought we could... You know I was trying to–"

"Nonsense! I can take the couch," Newt insists; he doesn't want to be a bother.

Graves suddenly looks sad, just for a moment, before he clears his throat and looks away from him.

"It's fine. I'm not offended, I understand. I'm not–We can be friends. I have a spare room."

Newt really doesn't want to cause him any trouble, but the wizard insists on leaving him a room all to himself.

"Thank you, Mr. Graves."

"Please, call me Percival."

He stays a couple of weeks with Percival and he learns a lot about him; he enjoys helping Newt to make his case better and more secure for his creatures and although he is an excellent and talented wizard, he could be a little bit clumsy sometimes.

"Good morning, Newt. Would you like–" he stops as soon as he turns around, staring at him as his cheeks turn completely red. He starts pouring coffee all over the counter instead of his cup. "Your shoulder has f-freckles as well."

"Your coffee!" Newt says at the same time and Percival curses and blushes even more before he cleans the mess with wandless magic.

Newt fixes his oversized sweater to cover his shoulder and Percival spends the rest of the morning looking anywhere but at him.

"Your legs are long," he comments another day and curses himself before mumbling. "I meant to say: morning."

Newt looks at the long shirt that covers very little of his thighs and thinks that maybe Percival doesn't like to see Newt being such a mess in the morning. He changes his clothes immediately.

They talk about MACUSA and what happened sometimes, Newt knows Percival misses his life in New York, but he's still hurt and bitter because no one seemed to notice it wasn't him.

He escaped from Grindelwald and traveled for a while until he decided to live in Brazil; he thought no one would find him there.

"But you came," Percival smiles fondly at him. "And found me, even though that wasn't your intention."

Newt has the feeling he wants to say something else, but doesn't push him, instead they feed the mooncalves and sit for a while with them. Newt falls asleep quickly and wakes up in his bedroom.

Percival doesn't make any comment on it in the morning.

The magizoologist doesn't realize how much he enjoys Percival's company until it's time to say goodbye.

"I'll miss you, Percy."

"You can go back anytime," the wizard says, with a desperate tone in his voice.

"I can't... Not soon at least. I just accepted a job as a consultant in MACUSA," Newt mumbles, truly lamenting it.

"Oh... right. Well, goodbye."

"I'll write to you," Newt promises, although he notices that Percival doesn't look too happy about that.

***

Newt keeps his promise, however, he can't stop Queenie Goldstein from finding out; he's not very good at occlumency and his friend has gotten used to his accent.

"Please, don't tell anyone. He doesn't want it," he whispers to her after following her to the kitchen.

"Don't worry, sweetie, I won't. Although I think he'll be coming here pretty soon," she assures him, winking at him.

Newt is not sure about that, he's sent a couple of letters now and even though Percival seemed really enthusiastic about writing back it's been a couple of weeks since Newt received the last letter.

Part of him is worried and the other part of him is hurt. Perhaps he just wants to be left alone after all.

Tina is having a horrible time with the new Director, Collins, Picquery told him his position was only temporary but he's acting like he's going to stay forever and is MACUSA's king now.

Newt thinks he doesn't like him (he's constantly following him everywhere whenever he sets foot in MACUSA) but Queenie thinks it's quite the opposite.

"Although I wouldn't go near him if I were you," she tells him. "I think it's an obsession."

It's difficult to avoid someone when he's in charge of the department one's working for.

But Newt tries anyway.

"Oh, you're here doll, I've been looking for you the whole day," Collins grins, taking Newt by the arm. "Turns out there's something wrong with one of the permits Madam President gave you. You have to come back to my office."

For some reason, Queenie looks angry (it's weird to see her like that) and quickly storms into her sister's office.

"Don't worry, doll, I'll make you a new one," he grins and Newt's about to thank him when he adds: "If you have a date with me."

"But... I don't think it's a good ide–"

"It's that or you'll have to give me your Nundu."

Instinctively, Newt pulls the case closer to him. He rescued Nancy a couple of months ago, which means the only human she trusts at the moment is him (and Percival, actually). If she sees someone else she could have a panic attack and hurt someone and if she does not even Picquery will be willing to forgive her.

"Well... Then I'll acce–"

There's a noise outside the office; it's like people are running... For a frightening moment, Newt thinks one of his babies escaped, but he realizes his case is still firmly closed (besides, Percival taught him a thing or two about magic locks).

"What's that?" Collins growls, irritated before storming out. Newt follows him with caution and then sees Weis running down the hallway with a huge grin upon her face.

There are a couple of people gathering around someone in the cafeteria, they all are talking excitedly at the same time, someone is sobbing.

"Let him go, he wants to see Newt," Queenie chuckles happily before the people around move out of the way.

That's when Newt sees Percival Graves again, smiling at him nervously.

"I missed you so much," he says, out of breath, before rushing towards the magizoologist.

He takes his face in his hands and presses their foreheads together; Newt didn't know how much his heart had ached for him until now.

"You didn't write back, I thought you didn't want to be my friend anymore."

"I apologise for that. I was nervous because I was getting ready to come back here, Newt. I..."

"Mr. Graves, in case anyone hasn't informed you, I'm the new Director of Magical Security and he's my consultant magizoologist, so I'll ask you this once–"

Without even looking back, Percival makes Collins fall to the ground using wandless magic, no one around offers to help the new Director.

Then Madam President gets out of her office and requests Percival's presence.

Collins starts yelling at everyone to help him when Percival comes out again with a smirk on his face; he moves his hand to change his clothes for a suit, but he keeps the earring and his long hair.

Newt finds himself really attracted to him in that moment, but tries to push those thoughts aside.

"I'm back. I'll be your Director again," he informs everyone around as Collins finally gets up and everyone in the hallway cheers.

Collins rushes into Picquery's office with a furious expression on his face and gets fired a few minutes later.

***

Percival asks Newt to stay in his house after the magizoologist helps him with the magic locks and the decoration.

It'll take a while for the Director to feel like he's at home again, but he's quickly getting there.

"I need to tell you something first, Newt," he says, taking his hand as they both sit on the couch, exhausted.

"What is it, Percy? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine... I'm just–I need you to know I'm in love with you. I didn't mean for this to happen, but it did and I couldn't stop it. I was very attracted to you since we met and I know you didn't want to (you probably still don't) be with me like that, but you have to know..."

"Wait." Newt turns around to look directly into Percival's dark eyes. "I had no idea you were attracted to me when–"

"I invited you a drink, Newt."

"I thought it was because you recognized me."

Percival doesn't seem upset, though he rolls his eyes. He's smiling with hope.

"I asked you to sleep in my bedroom."

"I thought it was just you being nice and that you were going to sleep on the couch." Newt mumbles, blushing as he realizes how obvious it was that Percival wanted to have sex with him then.

The Director chuckles and kisses Newt's hand.

"And now? What if I asked you to sleep with me?"

"I'd say yes." Newt says, still in a nervous whisper.

Percival takes him by the chin and kisses him until they're both gasping for air.

"What if I asked you to give us a chance? To start a relationship?"

"I wouldn't say no to that because I think I'm in love with you, Percy."

"Come here, love," the Director grins as he pulls Newt closer for another kiss.

***

Patreon

[useramor]

Hello ❤❤😄

39-45

HI BESTIEPOP!!!!

39. Do you have any scars?

yeah. some for Bad Reasons on my thigh and one on my foot bc it got caught on this eiffel tower keychain i had on my backpack in high school and it tore a nice little deep ass hole that had to get stitches. fun times!!!

40. Have you ever had a secret admirer?

i’ve been told yes??? ppl say i’m intimidating and i’ve had ppl tell me their friends had crushes on me but were too afraid to say anything if that counts (though i try not to be intimidating i guess i just Am? i’m really friendly so idek)

41. Are you a good liar?

yes lol

42. Are you a good judge of character?

hmm. not when it comes to my OWN relationship with someone. when i’m on the outside of the relationship/friendship (like with my sister or friends etc) than yes but i’ve been hurt by a lot of ppl i was too trusting with

43. Can you do any other accents other than your own?

exaggerated and poorly hell yeah! i think i do a relatively vaguely fine british accent (narrator: no she doesn’t)

44. Do you have a strong accent?

i have a “neutral” american accent (idk how else to describe it) but i say y’all a lot <3 so no?

45. What is your favorite accent?

in english: scottish probs. also creole accents.

also portuguese in general bc it’s my native language so it’s the most comforting for me. with a carioca accent bc i am who i am :P

THANKS FOR ALL THE QUESTIONS I APPRECIATE IT GIVING U A KISS OR A HIGH FIVE OR A SMILE IDK WHAT UR COMFORT LEVEL WITH AFFECTION IS YAS

send me an ask!!

[thewidowsghost]

Fox - Chapter 21

Previously on Fox:

"We need you two to escort a nuclear engineer out of Iran. It will need to be an undercover mission. Leave the Quinjet about a hundred miles from the facility, and drive the engineer back to the Quinjet," (Y/n) nods. "You need to get there as soon as possible, but tonight if you can," Hill says. "Try to have him here by Sunday."

"Yes, ma'am," Natasha and (Y/n) say in unison, standing up.

"Good luck," Hill says, nodding to dismiss the two women.

With a nod from (Y/n), her and Natasha run back outside to their Quinjet and pull it into the air.

3rd Person POV

That night, (Y/n) and Natasha land the Quinjet in Odessa and get a car before starting to drive to the facility in Iran.

"If we pull an all nighter, we could be ten minutes from the facility by 7:30," (Y/n) says. "It doesn't open until 10:00, maybe we could get breakfast," (Y/n) offers.

"As long as we get there in time to get the engineer out in time," Natasha says and (Y/n) nods.

"Of course," (Y/n) answers. "I'll take the first shift, then I'll wake you when I'm ready to sleep. That good?" she asks.

"Okay," Natasha agrees.

"I'm going to get some coffee first," (Y/n) glances over at Natasha, a smile on her face. "To, you know, fuel that addiction." Natasha rolls her eyes and smiles.

"Of course," she says and (Y/n) pulls over at a coffee shop.

"You want anything?" (Y/n) asks. "Pumpkin spice is in season now," she offers.

"Sure," Natasha says and (Y/n) smiles. (Y/n) pulls her wallet out of the middle console of the car and opens the door.

"See you in a minute," (Y/n) says, jumping out of the car and walking into the coffee shop.

(Y/n) walks in and up to the counter. "Могу я получить две большие латте из тыквенных специй, пожалуйста?" Can I get two large pumpkin spice lattes, please?  (Y/n) asks the women at the counter.

The women smiles, "Да, мэм," Yes, ma'am, the women answers. She bustles around behind the counter and after a minute, she sets two large coffees on the counter.

(Y/n) hands the women 271 Ukrainian Hryvnia, "Здесь, сохранить изменения." Here, keep the change, the women smiles and nods.

"Спасибо," Thank you, the women says, and (Y/n) nods.

"нет проблем," No problem, (Y/n) picks up the coffees and walks out the door to the car. Natasha rolls down the window and (Y/n) hands the redhead one of the lattes.

(Y/n) gets in the car, setting her cup in the cup holder. "That women was surprisingly nice," (Y/n) says, backing the car out of the parking lot and continuing on the road. Natasha sends her a strange look as she takes a sip of her coffee.

"Why's that?" Natasha asks.

"She understood my awful Russian," (Y/n) says and Natasha looks at her again.

"You speak Russian?" Natasha asks interestingly.

"Я могу говорить кое-что обо всем на самом деле. Испанский, французский, немецкий, латинский, китайский, португальский, польский, итальянский, немного греческий.," I can speak some of everything really. Spanish, French, German, Latin, Chinese, Portuguese, Polish, Italian, some Greek. (Y/n) says and Natasha looks over at her, impressed.

"I'm impressed Stark," Natasha says and (Y/n) rolls her eyes.

"What can you speak Agent Romanoff?" (Y/n) asks, glancing over at the redhead.

"French, Russian and Latin," Natasha answers. "Not as much as you, but I could learn. How do you keep that much information in that brain of yours?" Natasha asks, then adds teasingly, "Doesn't seem too big."

"Haha, very funny," (Y/n) answers. "I have a photographic memory, so I remember just about everything, from anytime." Natasha suddenly looks guilty, "What?" (Y/n) asks, concern evident in her voice.

"You remember me shooting you?" Natasha asks softly.

"Nat, it wasn't that long ago, and I'm fine," (Y/n) answers, taking a sip of her latte. "If you're really that concerned," (Y/n) pulls her shirt up and with one hand, points to where the bullet had struck her, just above the scar from the spear in Budapest. "See, nothing there, except the stupid spear scar," (Y/n) says, dropping her shirt. "Get some sleep, Nat. I'll wake you when I'm ready to switch out."

"Okay (Y/n)," Natasha says softly and (Y/n) summons a blanket out of nowhere and Natasha relaxes underneath it.

(Y/n) drives all night, careful not to wake the former assassin. She knew that if it came to a fight, she would need Natasha's skills.

Around 7:30, Natasha wakes up, seeing that (Y/n) is still driving. She sits up, and annoyed look on her face.

"(Y/n) Stark!" Natasha yells and (Y/n) turns to her. "Why didn't you wake me up?" she asks.

"One, you seemed tired, two, I sleep to much, three, I had coffee, four, I figured if something led to fight, you may as well be well rested," (Y/n) says, and Natasha scowls at her.

"I hate you," Natasha mutters and (Y/n) raises and eyebrow at her.

"Yeah, love you too, sweetheart," (Y/n) teases and Natasha raises and eyebrow at her. "Hate me enough that you don't want breakfast?" (Y/n) asks.

"No," Natasha mutters.

"Thought so," (Y/n) smiles pulling into a parking lot in front of a restaurant.

"I still don't like you," Natasha says as the two get out of the car.

(Y/n) sighs and rolls her eyes. The two walk over to the door, and (Y/n) opens it for Natasha.

"Thanks," Natasha says, walking in.

"Привет дамы, сколько?" Hello ladies, how many? A host asks.

"Два, пожалуйста," Two please, (Y/n) answers in Russian.

"Ладно, следуй за мной," Okay, follow me, the man says, picking up two menus and leading the way to a booth. Natasha and (Y/n) sit down. "Американцы?" Americans?  the man asks and (Y/n) nods. "I do speak English if that helps," the host says in a heavy Russian accent. "What can I get you ladies to drink?" the man asks, pulling out a notepad.

"I'll take -" (Y/n) begins, but Natasha cuts her off.

"Two coffees, please," Natasha says and the man sends the two a knowing look before walking away.

"Romanoff, you know me so well," (Y/n) says, smiling at Natasha, but the redhead frowns back.

"Doesn't mean I hate you any less," Natasha says and (Y/n) sighs.

"I'm never going to win you back, am I?" (Y/n) asks sadly.

"Nope," Natasha says and (Y/n) leans back against the back of the booth, and crosses her arms.

"Here you ladies go," the host says, setting down the two coffees. "Now, what can I get the two of you?" he asks in his heavy Russian accent.

"I'll take the pancakes," (Y/n) says uncrossing her arms and sitting up and Natasha nods.

"Same," Natasha says and the man nods, walking over to the kitchen and relaying the orders of pancakes in Russian.

(Y/n) leans back, recrossing her arms, her biceps flexing as she does so. "So, I guess we're not talking anymore?" (Y/n) asks, looking at Natasha. "This might make this mission slightly awkward."

Natasha doesn't answer and that seems to be (Y/n)'s answer. After a couple of minutes, the man brings out the pancakes and (Y/n) smiles.

"Thank you, sir," (Y/n) says and the man nods.

The two eat their pancakes in an uncomfortable silence. After about an hour and a half, the two pay the man, leaving a generous tip, and walk silently out to the car. (Y/n) hops into the driver's seat and finish the drive to the facility.

"We've got about fifteen minutes to kill, so..." (Y/n) trails off, a hurt look in her eyes when Natasha doesn't answer. "I guess I'll go scout the perimeter before we get the engineer out of here," Natasha nods and (Y/n) gets out of the car.

Natasha watches (Y/n) as the women walks behind the building. (Y/n) climbs up the back of the building, making sure to keep out of sight as she moves towards the edge of the building, senses on high alert. She reaches the edge wall, making sure no one suspicious was around. After checking all around, (Y/n) stands up nodding to Natasha who was looking up at her, then drops down from the roof, landing in a crouch on the ground, about a hundred feet below.

(Y/n) walks back over to the driver side door and opens it, getting in the car. "I couldn't sense anyone around, but I feel that there was a reason they chose the two of us to escort the nuclear engineer out of here. We should be on alert when getting the engineer out of here," Natasha nods in agreement. "You drive, I'll keep watch out the back window?" (Y/n) offers and Natasha nods. "Good," (Y/n) answers. "From what I remember from the file, the engineer is always the first one here. His name is Alistair Fitz," Natasha nods. "I guess if your not going to talk, I'll wait outside." (Y/n) gets out of the car and leans up against the back of the car.

A few minutes later, a car drives up and parks outside the facility. (Y/n) nods to Natasha and walks over to the car, standing about ten feet away. She waits until the man exits his car to walk up to him.

"You must be my escort," the man says turning to (Y/n). The man has curly blondish-brown hair, blue eyes, and is about six feet tall. "I was told that there were two women here to pick me up. Where's the other?" he asks.

"She's in the car," (Y/n) says, pointing to the car.

"I suggest we get moving now," the man says and (Y/n) nods.

"Sorry, sir," (Y/n) says. "Is there anything you need me to grab?"

"I just have a suitcase in the back, if you wouldn't mind," he says and (Y/n) nods.

"Go ahead and tell my partner to get out of your seat and into the driver's seat," (Y/n) says and Fitz laughs before making his way over to the car. He says a few words to Natasha and the redhead moves over to the driver's seat, and Fitz moves into the passenger. (Y/n) grabs Fitz's suitcase and puts in in the truck before getting in the back seat.

"Natasha, drive," (Y/n) says, and Natasha backs out of the parking lot, (Y/n)'s senses on high alert for anything that seemed out of the ordinary.

A few hours later, the trio are just outside of Odessa when something awful happens. Someone shoots out the tires as Natasha is driving around a cliff side. (Y/n) makes a split second decision and punches through the passenger side window. Natasha grabs Fitz and dives through as (Y/n) burns a hole through the side of the door and jumps through it. The car goes over the edge of the cliff.

(Y/n) jumps to her feet, her senses on high alert. She looks around, and catches a flash of silver in the corner of her eye. (Y/n) whirls around and catches a metal fist, the force sending her back a few feet.

(Y/n) grabs the other fist and turns to see Natasha covering the engineer, "Nat, take him, and run," Natasha meets (Y/n)'s gaze and Natasha sees something that she wishes she could never see in those usually gentle (E/C) eyes - pure, unguarded terror. "Go!" she yells and Natasha reluctantly grabs the engineer's arm and begins to lead the engineer away.

(Y/n) focuses on the man that she was struggling to contain. He was tall, brown hair, blue eyes, but clearly trying to kill her, Natasha, and the engineer so she doesn't hesitate to light her hand clenched around the metal fist on fire.

Instead of reacting, the man takes his a leg and sweeps (Y/n)'s out from under her and pinning her to the hard asphalt underneath her. There is a strange metallic grinding  noise and (Y/n) rolls out of the way as the metal fist comes down and breaks the asphalt just where her head had been. (Y/n) rolls far enough away and jumps to her feet, her muscles tensed for a fight, keeping part of her mind fixed on Natasha and the engineer behind her.

The man stares at (Y/n) as she slowly moves closer, one hand on fire and the other crackling with lightning. Then, the man pulls out a gun, and (Y/n) stands where she is, remembering once again that Natasha and the engineer were behind her.

(Y/n) charges at the man and he fires two shots before (Y/n) reaches him, one in the right shoulder, and the other in her left hip, but (Y/n) doesn't break the sprint, landing a lightning surrounded fist on the mechanical arm which makes the arm freeze for a minute before landing a fire punch at his head but the man dodges, grabbing her right arm and pinning it behind her back, spinning her towards Natasha. (Y/n) meets Natasha's green gaze.

"Go! Leave me here! Finish the mission!" (Y/n) calls out, flipping onto the man's back, ripping her shoulder out of it's socket with a loud pop. (Y/n) uses her left arm and pulls the man into a choke hold, slowly pulling the man down to the ground, her right arm hanging uselessly at her side. The man pulls up his metal arm but (Y/n) uses a leg to pin the arm back. (Y/n) meets Natasha's gaze again and the redhead sees something else there, determination.

The man struggles underneath (Y/n)'s strength but (Y/n) locks her left arm in. The man seems to make one last desperate attempt to kill the engineer and fires a bullet, straight through Natasha's upper left hip, killing Fitz, who was cowering behind the former assassin.

Natasha, her green eyes widening, crosses her right arm across her body, clutching the bullet wound.

(Y/n), who's gaze had been fixed on Natasha, loosens her grip slightly, giving the metal armed man the chance he needed to grab (Y/n)'s right arm making her cry out in pain. He flips her over his shoulder, grabbing her left arm and kicking her in the back, sending her sprawling onto the ground.

Natasha slumps to the ground, her face pale, but she meets (Y/n)'s (E/C) gaze once again. (Y/n) kicks the man in the stomach and he stumbles before grabbing her left leg, snapping it in two, or rather, four, each of the main bones being snapped in half.

Seemingly satisfied, the man leaves the two women lying on the ground.

(Y/n) drags herself over to Natasha and Natasha, realizing what she was going to do, tries to drag herself away, but (Y/n) reaches her first.

(Y/n) grabs her ankle and Natasha screams at her to stop but (Y/n) just says, "Nat, I would give my life to save yours. You have so much more good to give this world. I did my part, now it's your turn," she just concentrates on healing Natasha's bullet wound.

It drains her and before the wound is completely healed, her head cracks against the pavement, black spots swimming in her eyes, she weakly snaps her fingers and a SHIELD COM appears in Natasha's hand. The only thing running through Natasha's mind is the hurt look (Y/n) had had on her face earlier, and it was tearing Natasha apart.

Word Count: 2624 words

Forget me saying that I'm no good at writing fight scenes, I think this one was pretty good. I mean, I think it was good. What do you guys think?

I also hope I wasn't making Nat seem helpless here. The whole premises was that (Y/N) was keeping the man at bay while Natasha got the engineer.

Side note, I didn't know who the engineer was so I made up a name, well not really. I took the name of a SHIELD engineer and searched up his dad.

Okay, Imma go now, see y'all in the next chapter!

Love,           Kaitlynn ❤😍

Imma tag peoples now: @confusinggemini612​, @gay-disaster826​, @thelastavenger-3000​, @osugahunnyicedtea​, @night-howl199​, @minicastle​, @happilyeverafterfantasybooks​, @billiebanner​, @me-and-sweatpants​, @scottjudah​, @scarlet-raccoon​, @whore-for-charlynch​, @nyx-aria, @night-howl199​, @brittanyrenne2004​, @juegamiri29​, @minicastle​, @peggycarter-steverogers​, @gay-disaster826​, @guitargodme, @avengers-avenging

[nowornever13587]

MCYT Oxenfree Chapter 1

Edward’s Island.

Fundy POV

“It used to be a military base. Then it became a ranching thing, then it was turned into an army thing, then it became a bird thing and a museum or whatever. Henry Fonda stationed here, I think, for a bit. Unless he was Navy.” 

I listened to Tommy rattle on as I leaned on the rail of the ship. The salty smell of the ocean filled the overcast sky. But thankfully, it was only slightly cold. Just enough for a light jacket..

“Who’s Henry Fonda?” Eret asked, unaware that you should never ask Tommy questions when he’s explaining things. He had a tendency to not hear them.

“And around Christmas time, this little breakfast place used to sell these amazing polar bear sugar cookies…” Like normal, Tommy went on. I laughed to myself, peering back over the edge of the ferry for wildlife in the water.

“Hey,” Tommy poked me. “Are you still with us? You haven’t said anything for like… 10 minutes.”

“Oh! Yeah, yeah. My mind just drifted for a second.” I turned back, checking my watch. It was 8. Right on time.

“So, you all moved in?” Tommy continued to talk to Eret. 

“Um, not really. I just got in this morning.” Eret chuckled.

“And how did Fundy’s mom meet your dad again?” Tommy was eager for gossip. 

“They met on vacation in London. He got lost in a garden and thought she worked there.” Eret took it in good humor as we walked back in the boat. 

I took the liberty of exploring the small craft. It wasn’t that old but still had that air to it. Slightly chipped paint and worn seats. How they got worn, I never understood. Only bird watchers and history nuts ever headed to Edward’s island anymore. Particularly not in the winter.

“Hey, there’s an old ship's wheel up here.” I called down to the others from the second story as I bent to read the placard. “It’s a replica from a… Portuguese caravel, it says.”

“Yeah! I think the Portuguese discovered the island? I dunno. I mostly slept through the maritime portion of history class.” Tommy shrugged.

“Says the kid who’s been ranting about the island for the past 18 minutes.” Eret teased. Tommy shot him a teasing glare as I came back down.

“So you guys just met tonight?” Tommy continued.

“Yeah, I was… I’d been out at school and the timing had just never worked out.” Eret shrugged.

“And what does that make you to the Furry? Second cousin or something?”

“Step bro and I am not a furry!” I groaned

“Yeah, yeah! At least you seem cool!” Tommy laughed. “Cool guy, cool eyes. You get a cool new sibling living right in your house! Wearing your clothes… eating your food ... Sharing your toothbrush.”

“Ew!” We both grimaced. The conversation dipped awkwardly.

“So… how do you two know each other?” Eret prompted us.

“Oh, from way back when, like paleozoic. Grade school era.”

“I moved from the Netherlands in the first grade and Tommy was the one I got partnered with on the first day.” 

“Passengers,” Suddenly the robotical intercom kicked on, nearly scaring me out of my skin. “We’ll be arriving soon. Check under your seat-” 

“Check under your seat to make sure you don’t leave behind any grandchildren.” Tommy commented over the recording sarcastically. 

“And if you picked up a complimentary disposable radio, remember to tune to 102.3 at the various plaques…” It droned on.

“Ooh! We should get a picture!” Tommy suddenly stood, dragging Eret and I back to the bow of the ferry. 

“Fine. Just… hold the camera out. Like… far. I don’t look my freshest right now.” I told Tommy as he pulled out his phone. I ran a hand over my ears, trying to smooth down my fur that had puffed up due to the humidity.

“It’s true, Eret. This is like B Minus Fundy.” Tommy grinned.

“Take the picture you child!” I nudged him. 

“I am not a child!” Tommy retorted while holding out the camera. We all smiled as the audible click came from the phone.

“There! Great. I’ll magic erase all the warts out and stuff, so don’t worry.” Tommy checked over the photo.

Eret made a face at the mention of warts and rolled his eyes. 

“Hey, Furry. Did you remember to bring that radio? The little portable one?” Tommy piped back up.

“Yeah.” I sighed, ignoring the comment as I took the object out my pocket.

“Our high school has a radio station and Finn- he’s a friend of ours- he’s filling in because TapL went on vacation with his family or something.” Tommy explained as I began twisting the knob to find the station. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s gonna say something like… basically right now about our thing so…”

We all intently listened to the radio as I found the right station, 88.3.

“... Which I played because Karl wouldn’t stop singing it during math class!” Finn seemed to be talking about the song that was just on. “But… oh! Look at the time! Just after ten o’clock. Which means my dear friend Tommy and his bros are probably just touching down on Edwards island for the yearly bash on the beach…. Or whatever we call it now.”

“But anyways, I promised him that I’d play a song from his channel, so hope you're tuned in, Tommy! Here’s Able Sisters- Sable and Mable from Animal Crossing. He’s been tormenting me to play it for ages so here. Please stop.” 

The familiar song came on. I groaned quickly, shutting it off.

“Haha!” Tommy crowed. “I finally got him to do it!” 

His victory rant was cut off as the ferry’s horn blasted above us. 

“There’s no radio reception on the island.” Tommy continued. “I’m glad I got to hear it before it went totally kaput.”

“If we can’t use it, why’d you bring it? Not just for the boat?” Eret inquired.

“Um, no. You’ll see. Don’t expect too much but��� nah. It’ll be fun. I won’t undercook it.” Tommy waved his hands mysteriously. “You’ll see.”

We all shut up as the boat began nearing the dock. The old man running the ship helped us get off, before pulling away again. 

“Oh boy! Smell that clean air, lads! This ain’t city livin’!” Tommy gestured to the now dark heavens. “My other friends should be up around the bend.”

“Actually,” Eret said nervously, waiting at the top of the dock stairs. “I mean, I don’t mean to be the guy to break us up already, but Tommy, could you do me a favor? Can I have two quick minutes with Fundy?”

“Uh… you sure?” Tommy hesitated. I glanced back up at Eret. The older boy seemed sincere.

“Something wrong?” I wondered.

“Nothing’s wrong. I just need a minute.” Eret glanced at the street light above.

“Alright, but- Look, I don’t wanna go up by myself. I mean, can’t we just stick together? You’re gonna have all night to say, like… whatever.” Tommy pleaded, using his puppy dog eyes. 

“But you were going to meet your friends, right?”

“Yeah but there further-”

“Tommy, it’s alright. Just wait for us at the end of the town, okay?  We’ll catch up with you there.” I reasoned. 

“Alright.” Tommy sighed, walking off. “Though this is a really strange way to start off, splitting up.”

“Thanks man!” Eret called after him, before turning to me. “He seems nice. Funny.”

“Yeah, he’s… what did you want to talk about? Before I suspect something nefarious.” I teased, coming back to the top of the stairs. 

“Listen, I just wanted to grab you ahead of time and say you’ve been…. Cool… about everything. And I guess it’s just - for me, I’ve never moved anywhere, ya know? And, like, getting a new family at the same time kinda feels like I’m skipping the training wheels.”

“Not that it’s bad! You and your mum have been great!”

“Eh, we’ll make do.” I nudged Eret playfully. “Lemons, lemonade, however that goes.”

“You idiot.” Eret and I laughed. 

“Oh, thanks for setting up the attic for me, by the way. It’s cool, how it’s a little bedroom.” 

“No problem…” I looked at the dark water. I really didn’t want to touch that subject. “It’s nice, at night, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Not chilly.” Eret nodded. “We can- we can catch back up with Tommy now. I didn’t mean to take so long.”

We walked down the stairs into the parking lot. Commenting on the lonely car, I noticed a blocked off road. I decided to ignore it in favor of heading up the long staircase to the little shops that made the town of the island. 

“Oh, what’s that?” Eret pointed at the statue as we reached the top. A bird on a pedestal with a whale below it. 

“I forgot this was even here.” I chuckled. “It’s a monument to some submarine that was sunk off the coast.”

“Oh, wait. Can’t you do that radio guide thing like the boat said?” Eret looked excited. “I wanna see how it works.

“Sure.” I pulled the thing out of my pocket.

“It was…. 101 or 102, I think.”

I found the station. The voice of some tour guide came on. 

“Named after the Hawiian god of the sea, the USS Kanaloa was launched on January 15, 1941 and commissioned into service at the end of that year under the command of Lt. C. Dream...”

“Never heard of this before. Kinda creepy in a way, right?” Eret murmured. 

“On October 28, 1943, it was sunk by the Japanese sub chaser Tokisada some 25 miles off the coast of Washington…”

“Yeah, I hate thinking about it. It reminds me of those scenes in movies where sailors have to seal somebody up to drown or else the flooding will take the whole ship, you know?” I shivered at the idea.

“... and remains, to this day, the only submarine casualty in American waters. Eighty-five officers, as well as twelve Army passengers, were lost.”

“Yeah, no. I always thought submarine duty was, like, the worst possible war assignment. There’s no way out if something goes wrong.”

I turned off the radio as the recording began again. We continued through the town. All the stores were closed. Probably because it was starting to become winter and we took the last ferry here. 

“Hello kids. The other guys and gals must be further up, so be quick now.” Tommy’s voice suddenly called from the top of a ramp. We laughed, running up to him. 

“Okay, speed-read definition of Edwards Island. This is a tourist trap with shops and beach. Nobody lives here except some geriatric named Mr. Halo. But, cross my heart and hope to die, we’ll never mention him or any other old person’s name again.”

“We are here to drink and be stupid. A tradition apparently started by bored recruits in the nineteen fifties who would sneak dates over from the coastal towns. They literally called it ‘trawling’.”

“Wow, interesting.” I lightly mocked. Eret snorted behind me.

“Yeah, like kids at camp or something.” Tommy shrugged. “So, to summarize, we are not allowed here after dark. The town is shut down, and we - the L’manberg High Junior Class- have come to commit improper acts.”

We came to a fence just taller than me. I frowned, glancing at Tommy. 

“The beaten path officially ends here. The beach is past the fence a way. I think Nikki told me that there’s a way that they used to get over there, but… I can’t remember how. I mean, can’t be too difficult.” Tommy looked around.

“Dumpster?” Eret pointed to the relatively empty bin sitting by the edge of the path. 

“Perfect, we can push it over and close the lid.” I got beside him and helped. 

“And the other thing about this nowhere island,” Tommy stayed back to finish his story. “Is the weirdo caves.”

“The weirdo caves?” Eret echoed incredulously. 

“The whole reason Fundy brought the radio is because when you go to the- it’s like ‘front’--

“The mouth.” I supplied.

“The mouth of this particular cave, you can sometimes pick up frequencies to stations that don’t exist.” Tommy grinned. “You’ll hear voices or just... sounds… And they’re impossible to get anywhere else on the island. Crazy, right?”

“It’s, um, it’s pretty creepy… at least I’ve heard.” Eret and I managed to get the dumpster into place. 

“I did it once. It’s amazing when it works.” 

“Okay, back up a minute here. What about that Mr. Halo guy? Is he the saint for the island or something?” Eret looked back at the town below us. 

“His family, I think, like owns or owned some of the island or something… he’s been shackled in the same spot for like seventy years. He’s kind of what you’d call a local legend. His house is on the other side of the woods.”

“I can’t imagine living in the same exact house looking at the same exact wall for that long a time.” I climbed up the dumpster and hopped over the fence. The other two joined me a heartbeat later.

We walked down the path, finding the trail that dipped down to the beach.

“Oh, before we get there, I should mention-” 

Tommy was cut off by laughter. 

“Who’s that?” Eret asked from behind me.

(Sorry if it's too long. But I shall try to post the next chapters every few days or so. Each should be around this long.)

[poxar]

Just read some manifesto about how to write Latino characters.

The idiot kept talking about how they don’t speak Spanish (often) so because of that Latinos must also not speak Spanish that often…

The leap of logic and self-indulgence. Like admit it bro you just don’t speak Spanish lmao 😂. That’s perfectly fine. Not every Latino has to be Hispanic as in Spanish speaking some of us speak French or Chinese or Arabic or Portuguese but are still Latino it’s okay.

But living within a Hispanic community means that people within that community only speak Spanish or speak it idk 85% of the time?

It’s how immigration works. Go to any Korea town, Chinatown, Russian town, the people in those ethnic groups tend to speak in their native tongues and have businesses that cater to their people within their respective communities in their languages. It’s not even that hard to find in the real world.

Also code switching is a thing all immigrants do. African Americans do it when they slip into AAVE. Immigrants do it when they slip into their native tongues and they still switch into other versions when they speak with their relatives vs other members of their communities. Like the way I speak to my brothers and sisters for example is not the same way I would address my elders or church members or something like that just like co-workers. We have a lot of things in common. And I think that’s wonderful tbh 🥰

Like the case for most immigrant kids is like they go to school and try their best to assimilate because that’s what their parents tell them to do and fuck were bullied OD so society tells us to assimilate or perish tbh. So we do we just abandon our culture when we leave the house. But the minute we enter the house we switch back to the old ways and we HAVE TO speak in our native languages because that’s what our parents/grandparents speak in and understand. That’s literally it. You just learned immigration assimilation and integration 101 congrats 🍾🎉🎊.

OP didn’t even mention immigration at all… but somehow their Latinx???? 😭like okay imma have to take your card away sis. I’m not saying everyone is fresh off the boat like my green card ass having parents. I know some people who aren’t… and honestly fuck them they straight up turn into Republicans which is like the most fucked up shit. Not saying all but I don’t like it! The assimilation and integration went too fucking hard.

It’s crazy to me how some people who really live in a god damn bubble are given a fucking platform to be talking about shit they’re clearly not even apart of. I saw the post and I’m not linking to it because honestly it doesn’t need anymore notes. It has like 10k from both white and black people who don’t know wtf they’re talking about. It’s annoying as fuck. -_-

Like for the love of god, just ask a fucking Hispanic person what it was like to live. Like if you want to create an authentic story or character. Just ask someone from the community and ask them about their life. People love sharing stories, and now you have something that connects you to someone and to a whole community.

Instead of reading bullet points from some antisocial loser who probably doesn’t even leave their fucking room and their social interactions with other people within their community stops at the drive-thru window at their local Wendy’s. I can smell their dumbass little privilege.

Being the daughter of immigrants and being from the Bronx and also living in NYC forces me to be diverse. I can’t be ignorant about socializing unless I want to be a complete jackass. Like for real. If you’re closed off and xenophobic in New York it’s by choice… it’s definitely a reality for some people but not for me and I’m glad and blessed for that. 😩

And tbh OPs takes were too generalized and basic. Every Hispanic/latino whatever you wanna call us idc at this point is attached to our specific culture.

This mf didn’t seem to have one ☝️ it was just…

We don’t all speak Spanish and we don’t all eat tacos and burritos…. And I’m like…… okay first of all burritos are Tex-mex like technically they’re AMERICAN you ask any Mexican that and that’s what they will tell you. It’s not a Mexican dish but something created here like pizza or whatever.

Tejanos and Mexicans who lived in Texas and Arizona and what not, before the whiteys came and just manifest destinied that shit, (chicanos) had their own way of cooking that has changed over the years due to war, colonialism, and just good ol’ evolution. A lot of people forget that Mexico owned that area and people been living there and had been for generations. There’s a lot of history that’s been kind of stomped out, appropriated, and then white washed and then abandoned. It’s not really given the respect it truly deserves and it’s sad. I’m sorry guys that I don’t have any sources on this matter but I do know of a lovely book.

La Frontera/Borderlands: The New Mestiza

I think it’s a fantastic read and a great way to dust off your Spanish speaking skills and learn what being American means to some people. Chicanos are what I’m referring to when I’m talking about the Mexicans who were annexed after the Alamo and the Spanish war America had with Mexico. It’s not a perfect term tbh but it’s the best I can do lol.

God I’m so fucking hungry

I SMELL A RAT 🐀

Lmao 😂

It’s pathetic lmao. I hate you and you’re dumb lol. Not you reading this, the person who made that awful post about how to write a Latino that just boiled down to just slap a Latino title and don’t bother making them Hispanic (which means Spanish speaking) because why would that add anything to their culture or sense of identity lmao 🤣 musty ass bitch.

I’m not even Mexican bro and I felt the need the need to step in because you’re not just going to disrespect my friends like that.

I get mad because I had a lot of friends who were illegal, who were scared of being deported, of fucking graduating high school or even applying for college and outing their family.

Like these are real fucking people. They pay taxes, they laugh and create and dance and live along side us. I wish them health, wealth and safety tbh because a lot of people don’t. And it’s so heartbreaking to me because they’re culture is so gorgeous and worth paying attention to. It is literally right there. They have the connections to their ancestors. Like cmon now, everyone is always looking for something new. 😞

Oh and here’s a cooking channel! Fuck it why not!

Aquí estas doñita Ángela con sus dos hijas Brenda y Mary. Buen Provecho!

This lady OD cute and she make good ass food 🥰 she’s Mexican Mexican though not Chicano

[ikesenhell]

Heatwave

You can find all other IkeSen works of mine on my page under the Masterlist. NOTES: Thank you so much to the wonderful folks who came out and hung out with me as I wrote my first Ikesen piece since ‘American Dream’ in ages. I’d been batting around this idea at the lovely @a-shout-to-the-void and finally buckled down and did it. TW: torture, abuse mentions and descriptions, blood, painful injuries. A lot of descriptions and references to Ieyasu’s childhood with the Imagawa Don’t worry, no one dies. It also somehow has a good ending? Idk man. Also, hello to my first piece with Yoshimoto in it whatupppppp

----

It was three months after the second disappearance of the Takeda, and the main hall was deathly quiet. All were assembled--Nobunaga lording on his dias, his allies gathered close--and no one spoke. 

Ieyasu wished someone would. 

“He wasn’t difficult to bring in at all,” Mitsuhide commented, as if it were the weather. Clouds from the shoreline--perhaps it will rain. 

(Funny, they could use some of that. The summer was stifling and showed no signs of abating, even as the seasons turned. The crops weren’t going as well as expected, and Azuchi was a cooker. They’d slitted the screens open, but even then, Ieyasu could see sweat beading on Hideyoshi’s forehead. Even Mitsuhide, usually pristine and inhuman, sported small pools of darkened silk in the underlayers that peeked through.)

Masamune almost smiled. “Do you really think he was stupid enough to come here on purpose? He’s got guts.”

Nobunaga’s perceptive red eyes flickered in Ieyasu’s direction. 

“Perhaps.” Mitsuhide allowed a smile. 

“Probably to try his hand at Nobunaga.” But even Hideyoshi seemed unconvinced. “Maybe the last ditch effort of the Takeda before we destroy them.” 

Ieyasu hated that he glanced at Mitsunari, looking for something in the way of understanding, anything he hadn’t guessed at already. Even if that stupid puzzled expression was there, it was something. No luck. Mitsunari had the hard, calculating stare of a man who already knew the score. 

Damn it all to hell. 

“He no doubt knows where Shingen and his ilk have scattered to. Until we have found them, they remain a threat.” With a subtle nod of an imperious head (the fine sheen of sweat glittered on his neck), he motioned to Mitsuhide. “Do what you must.”

“With all due respect, my lord,” the other man noted, “I believe there is someone else here who might be better suited to… gathering the information you require from our latest guest.”

His hands were cold. His hands were cold and they were all looking at him. Ieyasu balled his fingers into fists and willed them to stop trembling. 

(Was he angry? Furious. Incensed. They needed rain in Mikawa and the crops were a concern and in the vacuum that the Takeda left there were a thousand bureaucratic things to consider and he was never not angry, only three steps away from it where he could look at it from what he liked to think was a cool remove when it was really like a fiery tornado. They’d taken so much from him and here he was again, to take more with a smile, and he couldn’t do a damn thing without destroying it anyway.)

Nobunaga just stared at him. “Well?”

And he was the best man for the job. 

Ieyasu nodded, his face as porcelain-still as he could force. “Of course.”

---

The first time he met Imagawa Yoshimoto, he only said one word. 

Ieyasu was only a child, still in the hands of his enemies. He had bruised banding around his legs from switches and cut knees, hair that went every which way and eyes that still welled traitorously with tears when struck. Illusions of fair treatment were gone. All he had was will and a directive: this is what you can do for Mikawa. If being beaten saved Mikawa, that was his responsibility. 

Wasn’t it?

There was a banquet and the Imagawa wanted to show him off like a prize pet. Ieyasu was quiet, not stupid.He smiled politely and remembered all of the tiny details of court manners, the little things that would help him (Mikawa) survive. They’d put him into a finer haori than the one they usually allowed and seated him where all the other nobles could spy on the little waif from a nothing place. 

Yoshimoto, he later learned, was the beanpole teen sitting perfectly only a few spaces away from him. Dark hair, a charming smile, pretty eyes. Ieyasu hated them all on reflex. Whoever he was--that didn't matter. Ieyasu smiled with thanks to one of his benefactors and imagined stabbing him between the eyes. 

How would he do it first? Who would go? It made sense to start with the Imagawa head--of course, that was only the correct order of things--but he could also trap them all in the hall and set it ablaze, let them scrabble over each other like rats. He could pick off their families one by one. He could--

Someone set a sake cup heavily in front of him, only half-poured. Ieyasu blinked rapid-fire up at the teen smiling down at him. 

“Smile,” he instructed, fluttering a fan entirely-too-close to both of them. And then he rushed away.

Ieyasu glanced down at the cup on his table and realized two things: one, he’d allowed his polite facade to slip. He could feel the stormcloud in the grit of his teeth. Two, the Imagawa teenager had blocked him from view with the fan--and probably spared him a beating. 

Only later did he learn his name. 

---

The dungeon stairs were slick. Every once in a while, someone came and cleaned the mold and mildew from the flagstones, but that was a lost cause. It seemed like the only moisture in Azuchi had escaped to its basements. Wet-blanket heat settled foul in the belly of Mitsuhide’s workspace, the little light lancing from narrow windows illuminating hazy curls of breath-sucking humidity. Ieyasu disguised his disgust at the foul smells the way he knew best--frowning. 

Their prisoner was moved to the very last cell, the ‘interrogation room’. Mitsuhide’s gentle words didn't disguise its purpose. It was an execution chamber and torture cell. Ieyasu never went in to discover its secrets. What he did was in the open, precisely where everyone could see it. 

(Because if you were going to hurt someone, you did it openly, he’d decided. Cowards hid abuse. If you raised the sword, you showed the sunlight its deadly glint and let heaven know your intent. Violence couldn’t be wrapped in a silken kimono and paraded before leering eyes--)

The door was shut. Ieyasu didn't waste the time to reflect on it. No interior monologue did him good here. Shunting thoughts and the heavy latch to the side, he stepped in. 

Their prisoner was kneeling. Mitsuhide prepped well. His knees were tied to those uneven slats the other man so preferred, jagged, uneven boards guaranteed to end with shattered shin bones if left long enough. He’d been stripped of his fine armor and things, reduced to a (still beautiful, dark grey and blue silk) final layer of kimono. Unkempt, shiny dark hair spilled loose on his shoulders. As Ieyasu stepped inside, those gold eyes met his. 

Yoshimoto had the audacity to smile. 

“Tokugawa Ieyasu,” he said, light as a feather, his voice already hoarse. Like commenting on the weather. Awfully hot, isn’t it? It should have rained by now. “I didn't expect to see you here.”

All the anger he kept so tightly coiled unfurled, the head of it raring like a threatened snake, and Ieyasu bared his fangs, too. “You should have. Why did you come?”

It was a stupid question. They both knew that. Yoshimoto just smiled that serene, sad, painter’s smile. Maybe, Ieyasu thought, if he had half of Yoshimoto’s artistic eye (the way he’d never had Mitsunari’s reflex genius or Masamune’s slick tongue or Nobunaga’s command or--), he could take the scene before him and transform it into a painting. The light cast over his prisoner’s back in sharp relief, all of the folds of silk and linen and hair akin to one of those Portuguese paintings they tried so hard to pawn off on them. 

“Are you going to answer?” Ieyasu demanded. Cold, cold, cold. His hands were cold. 

Yoshimoto dipped his head silently. “You know why I came, and you know why I won’t leave.”

Ieyasu sucked in his breath--like that would crush the flames of anger twisting, tornadoing in him. It burned in his throat. First, he’d get Yoshimoto off those planks. Those would come later. 

---

When he emerged several hours later--without anything to show for his efforts, just blazing fury and frustration renewed and a respect that clawed at his spine--Ieyasu blinked in surprise at the Chatelaine standing just outside the stairwell. He almost missed her. The sun was gone by now, the moon rising in its inconstant arc over Azuchi’s peaks, long lines of moonlight as gentle as the flickering torch light below was ominous. 

Of course she was there. Of course.

“How is he?” She asked, and Ieyasu wanted to scream.

“How do you think?” He snapped. “Go inside.” 

She didn't move. Instead, she produced a cold cup for him, shoving it into his hands. 

“What’s this for?”

“It was hot today. You must be thirsty.”

He stared at the cup in his hands, the silvery liquid inside glowing like moonbeams. “How long have you been here?”

“A while.”

What did that mean? How long had she waited here in the fading dusk, listening to the muffled sounds below, with a cup for him? Was it even for him? How could she give him this when only moments before, he’d washed away the blood of her--her--

Gods, he still couldn’t say it to himself. 

“Who told you?” He finally asked, his voice sharp. 

She folded her hands over her skirts instead of answering. “Is he alive?”

Of course this was about Yoshimoto. Of course this was. Even the cup was in the interest of getting information. Icy, crawling hatred slithered down the small of his back like sweat. Unceremoniously, Ieyasu dumped the contents of the cup on the ground. 

“Ieyasu--!”

He contemplated breaking it. But that wasn’t fair to her. None of this was. None of this was fair to her, just like none of it was fair to him. So instead he shoved the little mug back into her hands and stalked inside, as if moving fast enough would leave all of that behind. 

---

For the rest of his captivity, Yoshimoto was less a person and more a concept. Ieyasu saw him sometimes, fleeting glimpses of a young man blooming handsome. What kind of a life did he lead, Ieyasu wondered? It must be the opposite of his plight. No doubt he had enough to eat. No doubt he had clothes that fit, people that cared whether he lived or died, someone to spare a smile at him. No doubt he could sleep at night without a burning hate clawing up his throat and threatening to choke him. 

It was hot that summer--sweltering, relentless. Ieyasu’s room had no screens to the courtyard and so he tossed and turned fitfully at night, too uncomfortable to sleep. Sometimes he dreamed of Mikawa and home, home with the people who relied on him to be strong, people who allowed him to step down from his endless responsibility of strength for a day and be a young man again. 

They exchanged words only briefly once more, before Ieyasu went home and returned again and razed them, burned their houses the way he’d always dreamed, released all the untamed hatred raring in his heart and finally did for Mikawa what his endless abuse at the Imagawa had never done. They passed in the hallways and Yoshimoto stopped him, a small retinue at his side. 

“Tokugawa Ieyasu,” he said lightly. Yoshimoto said his name like a name, not a curse, not a burden on a household already determined to hate him. “How are you today?”

What could he say? A thousand callous things spiraled through his mind, each one more vile than the other, until he couldn’t think of a single nice word. He simply shut his mouth and nodded slowly, safely, feeling thick and stupid. “It has been quite hot lately.”

Those gold eyes stared right through him. And at long last, Yoshimoto nodded. “It certainly has. I hope it rains soon. May you have an excellent day.”

When he returned to his room that night, there was a small, beautiful fan sitting in a neat package before his door. Ieyasu let the slow, languid sound of its fluttering lull him to sleep, its cool breeze the first reprieve in months. 

---

He didn't think about Imagawa Yoshimoto for a long while after, not even when he served as Imagawa's puppet ruler. That chapter of his life was behind him. Ieyasu had exacted his revenge on Imagawa. That was over. 

It was, at least, until the Chatelaine. 

---

“Why are you here?” He demanded. 

She was waiting for him again in front of the dungeon steps, a small package wrapped in her hands. Her kimono was a soft blue with little white details, modest and cute and practical and perfect. She worked so hard. Everyone knew that. He knew that. 

“You didn't have anything to eat this morning,” she answered. The sun wasn’t yet at its peak, but already he could see the waves of heat rolling across the fields behind her, the bronzed backs of villagers in its orange glow. “You almost never miss breakfast.”

“Almost,” he pushed, as if that word made all the difference. Damnit. Damn it all to hell. This was why he had to hate people like her and Mitsunari (and Yoshimoto). The second you saw anything different in them, they pried you open like oystermen searching for pearls and only recoiled in disappointment when they discovered nothing but sand and salt. “You know that this won’t bribe me, right?”

Her cheeks flared white-hot. Good. Hate me. Hate me like I have to hate everyone else who wronged me. 

“You do know I like you, right?” She snapped. “I’m your friend. I’m not doing anything to bribe you.”

“Yeah?” Ieyasu sneered, too angry and confused and bitter to stop himself, “Just like you like Imagawa Yoshimoto? Should I expect a love letter--”

She flung the package into his hands (he caught it, barely) and marched away, her shoulders knit tight together. 

It still smelled of bean paste when he arrived in the last room of the dungeon, Yoshimoto already prepared and silent for the day. He looked well, for a man who now sported a bruised eye, crusted lip, and a slightly jagged shoulder. 

“Good morning, Tokugawa Ieyasu,” he announced, hoarse but polite. 

Ieyasu unwrapped the breakfast and examined its contents. There was a little more than usual. 

“Your woman,” he announced, (and why was it so hard to sound angry and impassive, why did he want to sound sad?) “Apparently gave me extra food under the impression I might give you some.”

No doubt the prisoner was starving. He’d barely had enough to eat to sustain himself, let alone under the pressure of the torture. But Yoshimoto straightened.

“Is she well?”

No mention of the food. No weakness. Just that endless reservoir of hope that Ieyasu resented, resented because he couldn’t find it anywhere inside himself. Didn't he deserve that kind of serenity? 

Silence. Ieyasu considered his words. Yoshimoto, no doubt, was wondering what had become of her, if Nobunaga had exacted on her the same fate that awaited him. The uncertainty was doubtless crushing. A thousand lies presented themselves.  

“Yes,” he finally allowed. “She’s fine.”

Yoshimoto smiled. Even through the bloodstained teeth and greasy hair and bruising and marks running roughshod over his arms where everyone could see, he still glowed. “Good.”

---

Ieyasu still dreamed about being with the Imagawa. 

Usually it was just the shape of things. The oppressive hot of his bedroom, the rolling waves of contracting pain in his muscles, the crushing emptiness of a room with no sunlight. 

Sometimes Ieyasu considered them a mercy. It wasn’t the same as the real thing. He didn't have dreams about how the men decided to test how far his stone expression went, applying hotter and hotter blades to his skin to see if he’d cry. They finally applied a white-hot wakizashi to the tender flesh of his thigh and he screamed so loud he couldn’t talk clearly for a week. 

Where was Yoshimoto during all this, he wondered now? There was no way he couldn’t have known. He had a reputation as a lush, but Ieyasu also knew from first-hand battle experience that more lay beneath that pretty exterior. He was like his Takeda cousin: he knew how to play a good game. Had he known just the hint of Ieyasu’s abuse, or had he understood the full spectrum of it? Surely the men of court talked. No doubt they made it a game. 

Yoshimoto had to know. 

She was surprised when he confronted her in the courtyard. She was hanging up some silks she’d washed, their bright colors like cavalry banners. Her stone-face was good, too, but not as good as his. He could see the thin lines of worry and sleepless nights stretched in the fine skin under her eyes. 

“Why him?” Ieyasu demanded. 

The chatelaine blinked at him, registering his question. No immediate answer. That was wise. “Why do you want to know?”

“Do you know what the Imagawa are like?” He hissed. “Do you know what they did? Do you have any idea?”

(It was hot out, so hot that he could see the wet silks drying already. No breeze lifted them. They hung like corpses strung out as an example. The remains of the burns on his thighs and arms, even now, stung superheated. The prickle of sweat against them was agonizing and he’d learned to live with it.)

Slowly, she dipped a hand into the cold water of her wash bucket and took his fingers in hers. Sweet relief! Ieyasu tried not to unbend under her gentle touch, the kindness, tried to convince himself that this was for someone else’s benefit and not his. History said otherwise. Long before she’d met Yoshimoto, she’d been like this. 

“No,” she said at last. “I don’t know much about who they were to you, just the vague details you’ve shared.”

“Then why him?” Ieyasu groped for his real question. It was that simple, wasn’t it? Yoshimoto wasn’t just on the wrong side. He was on the worst side. Even Uesugi Kenshin was better than an Imagawa. 

“Well…” She dipped her hand back in the bucket, splashed more water on his arms. It clung to the silk of his sleeves and cooled the worst of his burns. “There’s a lot to like about him.”

Of course there was. Yoshimoto was intelligent and clever. He had excellent taste and was handsome and diplomatic, even if he had a reputation as a useless leader and a lush. He’d never been anything but kind, and Ieyasu hated that. 

---

Yoshimoto hit the floor with a thud and a yelp, but an unsatisfying one. Ieyasu prowled around him. 

“You know what Nobunaga wants.” The sun shot unrelenting into their chamber, superheating everything. Ieyasu was sweating like a madman and refused to cede even a single article of clothing. He would not reveal the testament of his failures hidden underneath. “Just give me where Shingen went.”

The other man laughed miserably and rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Ieyasu kicked him back over. 

“He would have told you,” Ieyasu snarled. “That was your plan. Your plan was to come here, get her, go back into hiding with her and the rest of the Takeda. Wasn’t it?”

For once, Yoshimoto sighed and shut his eyes. “Why would I do that?”

“Giving us his whereabouts--”

“Ieyasu,” Yoshimoto interrupted wearily (and he still said his name like a name, goddamnit, not a curse or a burden or an evil thing, even after all of this), “She hates war. Why would I bring her straight into one?”

Outside, heat thunder rolled. No break in the heat yet. Its siren song drove the farmers and townspeople mad with hope. Hideyoshi had looked out sagely that morning and declared that it wouldn’t rain--not today--but it might later that week. They usually trusted him with that kind of thing. Right now, Ieyasu wished that it would come pouring down and drown them both. 

“That has no relevance to where Takeda Shingen is,” Ieyasu finally responded. 

“I don’t know where Shingen is.” Yoshimoto laid his head on the cool flagstones, eyes still shut, blood flecked over his hair and the filthy silk of the kimono he’d worn the first day. “He wouldn’t have told me.”

Cold, cold, cold hands. “So you’ve said. You’ve said that at least a dozen times.”

A pause. Yoshimoto’s chest heaved a slow, jagged tempo. “He wouldn’t tell me because of her. Because of us.”

Ieyasu wanted to scream again. He could feel it bubbling in his throat, like the ghost of that white-hot blade pressed to his skin. 

They were too nice too nice too nice, they both knew what he was doing to him and still she washed his hand and still he said his name like a friend and still there was no damn rain and still she didn't hate him he didn't hate him why couldn’t they just hate him

“Why?” He finally managed, his voice a twisted blade that tore at him the whole way out. “Don’t you hate me?”

Yoshimoto opened his eyes, still gold and pale against the gray walls, still handsome and bright and sharp. 

“You’re doing what you have to do,” he managed at last. “And I’m certain you hate me. I probably deserve it.”

Burning burning burning cold hands. The sweat seared him. “Did you know? Did you know the whole time I was there, and did you ignore it?”

At last, they were down to the crux of the whole thing. Yoshimoto wriggled like he meant to sit up (as if they were peers in this moment, just sitting and listening to a friend share their worries) and when his body failed him, he slumped over as best he could, eyes locked and gaze unwavering. 

“Tokugawa Ieyasu,” he said, “You do know I was thirteen?”

That wasn’t an answer. 

“I knew there was something wrong,” he answered at last. All the words sounded labored. “The details, I never knew. Just the hot room and that you looked ready to kill half of us if given the chance from time to time. I never would’ve known anything specific unless it came from you.”

(He was angry. So, so, so angry. A free-wheeling, blistering summer, crop-killing, volcanic kind of anger that threatened to overflow and kill everything in its wake.)

Ieyasu curled his fingers so tight that his knuckles creaked. Yoshimoto slumped his head back to the floor, shut his eyes and took another labored breath. All of his bruises were out in the open, where everyone could see them. There were no hidden marks, nothing easily covered in the painted facade of a silk--like desecrating a pretty vase, Ieyasu thought. 

“Did you know that your uncle--I think it was your uncle--burned me?” He announced. “My arms, my legs. He held a knife over a fire and waited until it glowed, then tried to see if I would scream. He only stopped when I finally did. I’ve still got the scars.”

Yoshimoto’s eyes were open again. There was no stone face--just a well of confusion and relentless sorrow. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, and Ieyasu instantly wanted him to take it back. “That should never have happened.”

Outside, the thunder rumbled again. They’d both been kids, once. Kids who barely knew each other, who lived in the same place and entirely different worlds and never once knew what lay beyond their circle. There was a faint scar just above Yoshimoto’s collarbone. Ieyasu wondered what it was from.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Ieyasu said. “You couldn’t have stopped it anyway.”

---

No one was completely sure when she and Yoshimoto met, though Ieyasu suspected that the Takeda had spies in Azuchi for a long time before the battle. It was likely in their own marketplace. They had fine fabrics and he knew that Yoshimoto, otherwise an unremarkable daimyo, wouldn’t have stood out. He’d noticed her disappearing off to the stalls for supplies more frequently, but her business was also thriving. Everyone wanted her wares. 

Mitsuhide found the letters first. 

The only thing that saved her from Nobunaga was that she’d revealed nothing treasonous. It was love, plain and simple. His fine calligraphy lay neatly on thin mulberry paper (an artistic touch and beautiful in its own right), every character reserved entirely to her wellbeing and their budding affections. No mention of armies or war. No hatred, no grandstanding. Just love--love, plain and simple and innocent and complicated and all-encompassing and blinding. 

But all that meant was she was safe. 

And the match made sense, as much as Ieyasu couldn’t stand to admit it. They were both art lovers, convinced of its importance as much as warfare, certain that without it, what kind of a world existed to fight for at all? They used entire leaves of paper discussing dyeing techniques and exchanging book recommendations and talking about their homelands. 

(And honestly, Ieyasu hadn’t needed the letters to cement what he already knew. She’d spied Yoshimoto on the battlefield and he saw her whole body light up, eyes blazing with the kind of need he’d never seen in her before. He already knew then. He’d just hoped he was wrong.)

Nobunaga wouldn’t let some traitor daimyo run off with his lucky charm. Not in a thousand years. 

Ieyasu rapped on her door late that night, and she opened the screen, bleary eyed from fatigue. She’d barely slept in a week. The red rim of her eyes betrayed every tear she couldn’t shed in front of them. 

“Come on.” He took her hand and pulled. 

“Where are we going?”

“Shut up.”

The silly woman somehow still trusted him. Ieyasu dragged her quietly down the stairs, past the main hall, through the courtyard and out the front door. She wasn’t dressed to be in public and still didn't question him. Without ceremony, he reached the dungeon door and yanked it open, its hinges silvery in the moonlight and depths impenetrable. 

She stared at him. “What are we--”

“I said shut up.”

One step at a time, he lead her into the darkness. The stairs were almost dry, the unnatural heatwave baking it clean. Still he was cautious. They reached the bottom and he fetched a lit torch, motioning at the guard on duty to leave without a word, and fetched the key ring. “Lift your skirts and follow me.”

Yoshimoto was back in his holding cell. He was still holding his left shoulder slightly jagged, his breathing shallow but even, his split lip now clear and the grime of his face washed clean. Apparently he’d used his drinking water to do that. He peered intently around the corner at Ieyasu. “Tokugawa--”

Then he saw her, and he fell completely silent. 

“Here.” Ieyasu fumbled with the keys (he’d never had to unlock the cell doors) and finally found the right one. “You don’t have long.”

Yoshimoto struggled to rise and failed to get up. He didn't need to. The second Ieyasu cracked the door, she flung herself inside and her arms around him, their bodies bound so tight together that he wondered if they’d ever been separate at all. Her voice cracked, slurred something in her native tongue, the beginnings of a sob rolling through her back. 

“Shh.” He lifted his arms with effort, wound his fingers in her hair, kissed her forehead, her head, her eyes, clutched her to him. “Hush, darling. Hush. It’s okay.”

It isn’t, Ieyasu thought. It really isn’t. But they just sat there in silence together, her tears muffled into his chest and his body emanating love like sunlight. And he wondered (as he’d wondered a million things about Imagawa Yoshimoto lately) how a man who’d barely been able to get up this afternoon could summon the strength to smile and hold her so tight. 

---

“He doesn’t know anything.”

Nobunaga and Hideyoshi cocked the opposite brow at the same time, which might’ve been comical were it not so deadly serious. 

“Is that so?” Nobunaga remarked. It was the tone of voice that let him know this was not a question. 

“Shingen didn't divulge where he was going to Imagawa expressly because he knew about the attachment to the chatelaine.” Ieyasu inhaled. “So when he left, he was effectively spurring Imagawa to leave the fight too.”

Mitsunari frowned. “That is a valuable ally to excise for sentimental reasons.”

Mitsuhide smiled. “Practically cutthroat of you, Mitsunari. Color me surprised. As it so happens, I’ve obtained similar intelligence.”

Hideyoshi’s surprise translated loud and clear. “Really?”

“So it would seem. The thorn in our side still has a few petals remaining.”

Nobunaga’s gaze fell back down on Ieyasu, searching him. He’d grown used to most of those inscrutable expressions: contemplative, frustrated, puzzled. Now it was just the brotherly stare he got after some of his worst days on the battlefield. 

“How is our prisoner?” He asked. 

“Yes indeed,” Mitsuhide purred. “Is he still alive?”

“He’s alive.” Ieyasu paused. “He’s… relatively okay.”

The Devil King’s eyes never wavered. “And what would you recommend we do with him?”

---

Yoshimoto was allowed medical attention and to rest for one week, the meagre possessions he came with restored to him. Even with the fresh scar on his lip and a slight catch in his shoulder (Ieyasu was relatively certain it would smooth out over time), he was still regal and handsome. The cold grey of dawn greeted them with a blinding lightning bolt and a torrential downpour. It soaked through the cracked earth and ran muddy and wild over the fields. 

Ieyasu affixed the last of Yoshimoto’s things to the saddlebag himself. “That’s everything.”

Imagawa Yoshimoto smiled at him, despite everything. “I appreciate that.”

The chatelaine lingered in the stable. She’d snuck out to see him off, despite all of Nobunaga and Hideyoshi’s disapproval. Her eyes were puffy with new, unshed tears. “You’re just going to put him out in the rainstorm?”

He glanced out the stable door. It came down in thick, obscuring sheets. “Yep.”

“Come now.” Yoshimoto gathered her into his arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be just fine, love--”

Ieyasu snorted. “Of course you two will.”

The lovebirds started. He relished the look of surprise. 

“What does that mean?” She said. 

“You idiot, the rain will keep anyone from seeing that you’re gone for at least twenty minutes.” Ieyasu checked it again. “No one on lookout will be able to tell the difference between one rider and two. If you time it right, you can clear the Azuchi fields by the time it lifts. Yes, you’ll get soaked--”

“--It’s perfect cover.” Yoshimoto finished, breathless. 

“Ieyasu.” She dashed to his side, catching his hands in hers. They were so warm that it melted through her fingertips and into his--a comfortable, gentle heat. “Ieyasu.”

“Go.” He pointed at the saddlebags. “I smuggled in some of your things. Your weird bag, sewing stuff, some goods. Mitsunari helped me grab extras. No one questions if he takes things. Now get out of here before anyone realizes you’re gone.”

The chatelaine smiled at him--a blazing, beautiful smile--and leaned in and kissed his cheek hard. “Thank you.”

He was going to miss her.

“Go,” he repeated instead. “Go now.”

Yoshimoto and him helped her into the saddle first. Afterwards, Yoshimoto mounted up behind her, wrapping his cloak and body around her as best he could. “Thank you, Tokugawa.”

“If you don’t do right by her,” Ieyasu warned, “I’ll definitely kill you next time.”

“I take that under advisement. Thank you.”

A jerk of the reins and a kick, and they bolted out of the stables and into the pouring rain. Within seconds their figures swam into a vague blur, melding together in the shifting faraway. Only moments later--gone. 

Ieyasu stood there alone in the silence, his hands warm, his thoughts swirling like lazy koi in a fishbowl, aimless and unbothered. Without thinking, he stepped outside and stretched out his arms, letting the cold droplets run down his sleeves and cling to his skin. 

[lia-jones]

Growing Stronger - Chapter Four - Happy Birthday, Andrea! (Andrea’s POV)

Once upon a time, a young American oenologist met a gorgeous Portuguese psychology student in the beautiful city of Oporto. He was a writer for a food and travel magazine, working on an article about the winery she worked at part-time as a tour guide. They spent the three days they were together admiring the vineyards, watching the grapes being pressed, examining the casks where the wine must was left to ferment, and finally, by the end of their journey, they kissed while gazing at the beautiful Douro river, certain that they would never see each other again.

However, life would have it another way. The young American returned to his country, but his heart did not. Much to his dismay, it was beating hard and fast, still at Douro’s riverbank, waiting for his return. He took all the money he had saved, said goodbye to his family and rented a house in the city of Matosinhos, in Portugal, determined to find the beautiful psychology student. They met again and instantly reconnected, her family hated him, they eloped and moved to Lisbon after she graduated. Two years later she was well established as a therapist working at a clinic and furthering her studies, while he was writing for Michelin magazine.

My and Joshua’s story begins about this time. Always the overachiever, Mariana couldn’t have just produced one egg, she had to have two. And Jeremy, always eager to make his wife happy, even if without his knowledge, was happy to oblige and fertilize both. And presto! My mother was pregnant with twins. Fraternal twins, to be exact. A boy and a girl, born on June 11th, the girl first, then the boy, five minutes later.

Despite being fraternal twins, Josh and I had nothing in common. I was short, 5.2 feet, while Josh was practically a giant, almost 6.5 feet. He had my father’s hazel eyes and my mom’s dark hair, while I had brown eyes just like my mother, and light brown hair with a few golden highlights, resembling my father. Josh was loud, scattered and somewhat hot-blooded, but funny, witty and kind. He never had any problem making friends, even adults loved his perky attitude. I was more on the shy side growing up, always more interested in my own thing than actually in socializing. Most people didn’t believe we were related, let alone twins. Josh would always correct them with pride. And if anyone even dared to hurt me, they would meet his wrath.

That’s the thing with twins. The moment you are born together, you are best friends for life. It’s like a sacred bond is formed still in the womb, and it can never be broken. A sense of companionship and loyalty, a telepathic connection, something beyond comprehension that only a twin can understand, and that surpassed every downside of having a sibling sharing your birthday… and pretty much everything else.

This bond can be incredibly precious, particularly when you’re in a funk and life does not seem to go your way. When I told Josh that Victor and I were no longer a couple, Josh was able to sense the true sadness in my voice. So he decided to ask as a birthday present that the whole family would come to see me in Loveland for our birthday. I felt the gift was mostly for me. Everything is better with your family by your side.

So there we were, drinking, eating being merry in my tiny apartment. How I could fit 6 people in my tiny kitchen and living room, I had no idea, but this wouldn’t stop us from having fun. The Jones crew was together in celebration, like it was meant to be. Surprisingly enough, my breakup hadn’t been mentioned once, probably because it was my birthday and my mom didn’t want to upset me. I was allowed to just enjoy their presence, drink from their familiar and warm energy, letting myself heal little by little.

After the meal, everybody seemed to scatter, leaving me alone with my mother in the kitchen. Uh oh. I immediately recognized the look on Dr. Mariana’s face. It was an intervention.

“Andrea, we need to talk about the recent changes in your life.” My mom threw, as she took the dirty dishes to my sink. Here we go. I hung my head in defeat.

“Can we talk about this tomorrow? It’s my birthday.”

“And tomorrow you’ll have a different excuse. You pretend everything is okay, that you are moving on from this breakup, but I can see you are hurting.”

“Look, I’m dealing with it, okay? I’m working, exercising, eating healthy. It’s not like I’m depressive, mom.” I tried to placate her.

“Meaning you are trying to distract yourself from it. That’s unhealthy. Do you know what happens to people that bury their feelings?”

“The feelings eat at them.” I mumbled. My mother actually did a study about this. How resentment and pain, if not dealt with, could lead to physical illness.

“You believe you can fool people, but you can’t fool me. I’m your mother. You may pretend everything is alright, that you are taking care of it, that you are embracing life, but you are denying your feelings. It’s your defense mechanism. You pretend to be open so people won’t feel the need to ask you anything. It’s incredibly smart, but also incredibly stupid.”

All of a sudden, I wanted to cry. This conversation reminded me of the many times my mom had begged me to talk to her regarding the abuse I was getting from Daniel, and I had never said a word until the day I decided to leave. The situation wasn’t the same, obviously, but I felt like the black sheep of the family, the family member everyone worried about. My mom came to me and held me in her arms, caressing my hair, like she would do when we were kids.

“Just talk to someone, will you? If not me, anyone else. Still, if you want to, I will listen, and not judge.”

Suddenly, we heard my father’s voice from the door. My father, the innocent soul, so oblivious to potentially awkward situations.

“Hey, guys! Look who I found downstairs!” He shouted, pointing to Victor, who was standing right behind him.

There was a moment of silence. No one knew exactly how to react, not even my mother, usually so cool and quick to adjust. Everybody wore the same incredulous face, staring at Victor. Victor turned every shade of pink, a mortified look in his eyes.

“Come in, Victor, make yourself at home!” My father encouraged him. Victor snapped out of his shame, assuming his usual inscrutable expression.

My father’s words seemed to break the spell for my family as well, as everyone went to Victor, greeting him warmly. Except for me. I was still frozen in place, my heart beating hard in my chest, afraid to collapse on the floor if I made the slightest move. Victor came to me, extending his hand to shake mine.

“Happy Birthday.”

Shaking Victor’s hand was the weirdest thing ever. Unnatural, freakish, like trying to eat soup with your feet. I gave him a soft smile, afraid of how my voice would sound if I talked.

“I won’t be long. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude while you are here with your family. I just came to give you this. You can open it later.” His voice was lower than usual, I could hear a hint of sadness in it. I tried to ease the tension. He handed me a wrapped box.

“It’s fine, I’m happy you came. Sit, let me get you a piece of cake and some cherry wine. My father brought it from Portugal, it’s amazing.”

“No need, I should be going.” Victor turned to leave.

“Victor.” I called, softly. “It’s ok. We don’t need to make things awkward. We were friends before, right? There’s no reason we can’t be friends now.” I gave him an honest and welcoming smile. That seemed to ease some of the tension in him. He sat down.

“Oh, and thanks for the gift. It’s very thoughtful of you.” I said as I went to my cabinet to get a plate and a glass. I also noticed the room was incredibly quiet. My whole family had vanished, God only knew where.

“It’s nothing, don’t think too much of it.” Victor cleared his throat, his cheeks turning pink again. “Just something I bought a while ago for this occasion. I can’t return it now, so you may as well have it.” Suddenly, he got up. “If you don’t mind, I should get going now. Have a great day, Andrea.”

With that, he left, not giving me a chance to reply. I looked at the present on the table, and sat down to open it. It was a golden chain necklace, with a pendant shaped like a tree. I remembered what he told me a few months ago, when I disclosed my abuse to him.

“You are not a puny flower that someone stomped on, you are not flat on the ground, trying to grow back again. You’re a tree. Autumn may take your leaves away and leave you barren, Winter snow may freeze your branches and your roots, but you’ll still be a tree, standing tall through it all. And when Spring comes, you will have leaves and beautiful flowers again, and someone will enjoy your shade, and admire how bravely you stood up to the elements."

Like a powerful explosive, the memory alone blasted the doors of my emotional vault, and everything came pouring out. My family, who I later found out was hiding in my bedroom, came out the moment they heard my sobs.

My mother was right, I needed to talk about it, even if to convince myself it was over. The last time I spoke to Victor I was fueled by rage, and wasn’t able to feel how much I missed him. But seeing him that day, in my kitchen, reminded me of happier times, of his arms around me, of supportive and loving words, of times when none of us were hurt, no ugly words had been said, no slaps had been delivered. My mother held me tight as I told her all the details of our breakup. Like a good therapist, she heard them all in silence, and like a good mother, she wiped the tears from my face and soothed me with loving words. When the emotions seemed to have subsided, and when I was finally able to control my tears, she spoke.

“Honey, this is probably the last thing you want to hear, since you are so decided to move on, but you know I wouldn’t say this lightly. But I think this is just a setback, an issue you have to solve through dialogue. This isn’t final.”

“I slapped him across the face.” I said, bitterly. “That’s final enough.”

“Andy, I saw the way he looked at you. There wasn’t a shred of resentment in his face. Just love. Well, and embarrassment, because your father hasn’t got a clue. But your father did well. You two need a little push.”

I shook my head. I did not want to entertain such thoughts. Whatever feelings one may have for another during a relationship don’t just fade away because they broke up. That was what my mother saw, remnants of a once-happy life, nothing else.

“There’s nothing left to push, mom. There’s nothing left to take, and nothing left to give. Nothing left to work on. He made it clear the last time I saw him. He scratched me off his list the moment I walked out his door.”

And with that, tears came again. Josh got up from his seat and hugged me tight, letting my tears stain his shirt. After a while, he spoke.

“Hey.” He smiled at me.

“Hey.” I spoke, my voice muffled by his shoulder.

Joshua and I didn’t speak much because we didn’t have to. He would never have to ask me how I was, because he always knew. And he also knew when to push me and when to leave me alone. He smiled at me, and I had no choice but to smile back, because I knew exactly what he meant. His grin told me he loved me, that I would get through this, that I was strong and that he would always have my back. And I believed every word he told me.

Twin brothers. Gotta love them.

[homo-sex-shoe-whale]

As a foreigner, what shocked you about America when you first came here (if you've visited?)

Oh my there's a lot

Unlimited refills. Like... in Brazil, if you buy one cup of a drink, you will have only the drink that is in that cup. Very few restaurants I've been to at home did free refills, let alone unlimited ones.

How some obese people get around in those little carts. I mean... what? I'd never even seen those carts before. I initially thought they were for disabled people and was like: oh, modern wheelchairs! But nope. Just obese. And there's SO MANY of them. It was striking to see how many people are obese in the USA.

Guns. EVERYWHERE. It was terrifying. I walked into a Walmart to get a snack and there were guns sitting on the shelves! In Brazil (for the meantime and while I was growing up), the only people who own guns are cops, those who live out in the wilderness, and criminals.

FLAG FUCKING BONANZA. Why is the US flag plastered everywhere? It's unnecessary. We all know what the flag looks like.

How little Americans know about the rest of the world. An American thought it was crazy we spoke Portuguese in Brazil, even after I explained that we were colonised by Portugal and it's not that crazy. An American girl also asked me if we had buildings and houses in Brazil. I was like, "Umm... where do you think we live?" and she deadass said "Huts." She was flabbergasted to hear we also have shopping malls, cell phones, and cars.

The food portions are so large... and yet are virtually flavourless. As a Latin Person™️, I feel obligated to tell you that just dunking chicken in hot sauce and calling it a day isn't properly spicing food. I went to an Italian restaurant in San Diego and ordered chicken with pasta. The food looked fine when it arrived, but I thought it appeared a bit bland. When I actually tried it... I'd never tasted so much of nothing before. To stay alive, my family and I resorted to dining at Mexican and Peruvian restaurants during our stay.

On the topic of flavour, the fact that I never saw spiced rice blew my mind. Whenever my family gets together, we add so many things to rice that you can barely tell it was white. Paprika, bell pepper, corn, garlic, walnuts, sauce... anything. All I ever saw in the US was bland white rice (excluding ethnic restaurants and etc). It was kind of sad.

The fruit variety!! It's disappointing. In any supermarket in Brazil, you'll find passion fruits, dragon fruits, cashews, and fruits that don't even have names in English. All the fruit looks and tastes very fresh too. In the US, all the fruit looked fake. And when I tried it, it wasn't that refreshing flavour... it tasted processed, even though it grew from the earth.

The amount of fast food chains. In Brazil we only have Mc Donald's, Burger King, and a few KFC's. In the US I couldn't even keep track of all the chains. WTF is a Jack In The Box? Wendy's?