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bigskydreaming · 4 years ago

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what are your opinions on we are robin?

Massively complicated by the fact that DC's writers don't have an ACAB bone in their collective bodies.

Dunno how new to my blog you are and thus how familiar or not you are with my ACAB stance for Dick and my personal tendency to never acknowledge or interact with the specific idea of Dick as a cop...like there's more than enough material for me to work with without ever having to delve into that and I fundamentally believe being a cop is counter to everything I see as Dick's core premise and makes no sense given the specific origins and continuities I view as most 'him' -

But I WOULD have a lot of thoughts about how Dick would feel about this massive city-wide movement that he had no hand in creating and how he would inevitably feel personally responsible for every life to put on a facscimile of his family's costume AND the things they did in those costumes (such as the kid who was manipulated into killing someone while in that guise, per the Court of Owls' agenda).....

AND I would have a ton of thoughts about the fact that it was Alfred who secretly engineered this movement and how he of all people should know how Dick might feel about that, and thus how Dick WOULD feel about that information, but complicated and coupled with the fact that Alfred most certainly was motivated in part by his grief for Dick and seeing this as a kind of legacy, a way to honor his grandson, and able to justify to himself any transgressions towards Dick's feelings here with the idea that Dick wasn't alive TO be hurt by his actions here....

BUT the reason I avoid engaging with We Are Robin content beyond acknowledging it as Duke's origin story in the background of Duke content I write....

Is I absolutely can not - or more to the point - WILL NOT - attempt to justify Dick's decision to get all the kids arrested and locked up for their own safety while he went after the Court alone.

To be clear - I absolutely am of the opinion that Dick was and always will be right and justified in not wanting to see anyone get hurt in the colors and image of his family's legacy. That this has absolutely NOTHING to do with his impression of any such individual's competency, nor is it about trying to restrict their agency. That its wholly a PERSONAL thing for him, its a private instinct that is entirely reasonable and allowable, for him to have a kneejerk need to keep more people from dying or suffering in that specific mantle that he never intended to BE a legacy beyond just himself.

I headcanon that after Jason himself, nobody hated the memorial in the cave more than Dick, because the last image he had of his family was them lying dead on the ground of the circus ring, just broken bodies colored from high above in the classic Grayson colors and covered in blood. That THAT specifically is the image Dick so often saw in his nightmares in his early years in the Manor, that is the SPECIFIC visual Bruce so often comforted him about upon waking....and that it was a massive slap in the face and an indication of Bruce's most unfortunate tunnel-vision tendencies in his own grief, that it never even OCCURRED to Bruce that in memorializing Jason in the specific way he did, he was also subjecting Dick to a constant, ever present visual reminder of one of Dick's personal most traumatic images....the sight and idea of his family, now not just his parents but also his brother....reduced to just broken, bloody costumes he'd never get to see as anything but that again.

Not to mention then captioning this memorial with "a good soldier" and thus in the process of disrespecting Jason's true bond with Bruce, simply because Bruce couldn't handle that at the time and was trying to literally DISTANCE himself from that view of his loss, the loss of a son, of family....Bruce simultaneously disrespected Dick's legacy of his family and everything he'd created Robin to be, and envisioned Jason-as-Robin to be from the moment Dick gave Jason his own old costume and embraced him as the new Robin and by extension, HIS family as much as Bruce's.....like, no matter what Bruce intended for HIMSELF and his feelings about Jason's death with that caption, he literally reduced Dick's tribute to his parents and expression of brotherhood to his brother to.....nothing more than the uniform of a child soldier, a subordinate of the Batman in HIS personal crusade. Something that Jason never actually was, and Dick CERTAINLY had never created - or gave Jason his blessing as - Robin to be.

So on that front, I have no problem with Dick WANTING to keep all the Robins, every child who called themselves one, safe - and to take on the Court of Owls alone, by himself, because like it or not, that will ALWAYS be personal for him. That is about HIS family in a way that it will never be about the family, the heritage, of anyone else, even his adopted siblings. The Court were after HIM, specifically, and always were and always would be. I don't see anything hypocritical about Dick's desire to keep kids out of that fight when he himself would have never been okay with Bruce benching him as Robin in some random fight....because this fight is deeply personal for Dick in a way that's not transferable, and to be honest, I see his desire to keep anyone else from dying as a Robin, in a fight against the Court ESPECIALLY....I see it as an inherently selfish want of Dick's.

A selfishness that I think he's entirely justified in having. Its not about anyone but him. Its about HIM not having to deal with the burden of any more deaths in his family's colors, his family's name, when he in all likelihood originally created Robin in that particular guise because he figured he'd likely die as Robin at some point, and thus he'd never have to see anyone die in the image of his family's costume and colors ever again because the only person left TO die in them, at the time, was he himself.....thus kinda ensuring for Dick that when he did die, he'd go out just as his parents did, which in his youth at least was likely a weirdly kinda comforting idea for him.

So on the one hand, Dick's desire to keep the kids out of harm's way was ultimately a selfish - but justifiably so - desire to not see anyone else dead or injured in a literal WAR of CHILDREN being fought in his personal family colors and image....especially when 99% of them had literally no idea what the colors they were fighting in signified and meant for the mantle's original creator.

BUT.

BUT BUT BUT BUT BUT.

Where this all falls apart for me, and why I don't just go with this take and instead just kinda sidestep around the whole story itself and don't engage with it....

Is there's absolutely no way to 'fix' the story as is.....without coming up with an entirely different middle climax, in which Dick finds some way to sideline the kids without getting them all arrested.

Cuz see, what I'm NOT gonna ever do, is try and argue from an in story perspective, that Dick would ever be stupid enough, or try to justify, getting kids - many of them marginalized, and people of color specifically - arrested in the name of keeping them SAFE.

That's just stupid to the nth degree, and unilaterally the fault of DC's writers being oblivious to the real-world realities of police brutality and the interactions and dynamic people of color have with the actual police.

It was DC's fuck-up there, but I - especially as a white writer and fan - am not going to try and fix or transform that fuck up short of entirely rewriting the whole second half of We Are Robin's plot, which to be honest, I don't see as likely to ever be a priority for me as there's so much other content in Dick's narratives I'd rather get to first. Its just way too far down the list, the premise itself doesn't interest or engage me enough to make me WANT to invest in that particular story heavily enough to create a whole other direction for it, that navigates around the issue I have with it here.

So again, I mostly just....don't engage with it. Because I can't see Dick's stance on the issue of his family's legacy ever being other than what I always see it as, and thus see it as here, but I'm definitely never going to find it appropriate to write Dick trying to justify his decision to ENGINEER the police arresting all these kids for their PROTECTION....to a black character like Duke in specific.

Because its not. But again, this wasn't Dick's decision at the end of the day, because he's a fictional character who can only make the decisions he's written making. And thus it was the decision of writers who wrote these characters in situations that contained analogues to real world issues without keeping centered an awareness of how those issues intersect with people of different identities, particularly people of color and black people in specific.

So its not a decision that made me like, dislike Dick, because its one that I don't think he should have ever been written making, but its not a decision I care to justify in universe.

And that's about all I think I ever intend to - or even could - expand on that subject, I'm pretty sure. *Shrugs*

Oh wait, no, I lied!

Quick thought for white fans in particular....because I HAVE seen this subject tackled at least once or twice in fiction, from an ACAB standpoint that had Duke reaming out Dick for his decision here, for the same reasons I'm outlining above.....

This isn't an attempt to gatekeep or police anybody as like, I'm not actually ever trying to do that, I'd have to know every fic writer's personal identity and marginalizations TO do that, and I'm not pretending to know that or asking to, like, its just not on the menu for me so please don't get me wrong, this is purely aimed at a plea for white writers in particular to exercise personal accountability and good, sincere judgment in this regard:

No matter your personal feelings about Dick Grayson, the subject of Robin, or any of this in general, PLEASE keep in mind before utilizing Duke as a mouthpiece for giving Dick shit for this in the name of smearing the latter's character or making him look bad, like.....

Dick is of Romani descent. In the New 52 continuity as well as pre-Flashpoint. That's been made explicitly clear, and as such......there is no substitute in our current real world zeitgeist for the interactions the police have with black people, but please keep in mind that Romani people have a very, VERY long history of being subject to police brutality and persecution in a wide range of countries. Its a big part of why so many people are so uncomfortable with cop!Dick in the first place, and as such, it makes treating him as this naive, privileged white guy when having the realities of police brutality explained to him by another character, like.....not look exactly like you might intend there, because the reality is he's not SUPPOSED to be that character, but too few people at DC, and ESPECIALLY the people writing the We Are Robin stories, like, completely fail to ever extend the idea of Dick being Romani to any kind of examination of what kinds of lived experiences, perspective or perceptions this results in him having specifically.

And that's a failure on DC's part, but you don't need to go making it your failure as well, so for those of us who are white like, this really is something that should be kept centered before we decide to engage with story elements like the above one from We Are Robin, and like, if we do, then HOW we go about that specifically.

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duhragonball · 4 years ago

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Disinterpretation

I finally finished the Sarah Z video about “pro vs. anti”. It’s pretty long, and I ended up watching it in chunks over several days, but I think it’s worth watching, especially if you’re sort of partially connected to online fandom, but not enough to be aware of all the lingo.

As I expected, the whole thing was vague and confusing because the people involved in the conflict made it vague and confusing. In theory, the full terms would be “pro-shipping” and “anti-shipping”, but it seems like it’s more about particular kinds of ships that could be considered controversial. But that’s a slippery slope, and apparently the whole conflict mutated into both sides deciding that every hypothetical relationship between fictional characters is either equally valid or equally dangerous.

Long story short, it’s just purity culture, which was what everyone on Tumblr was calling it around 2012. But now, if you’re a sane person who genuinely asks: “Who gives a fuck about Voltron?”, these people will jump your ass and accuse you of being on the side of their enemies. “Children have died over the importance of Lotor/Hagger! Your callous indifference proves that you yourself must have murdered children!”

I think what Sarah Z really hit upon in this video was that media consumption has become so ingrained in our culture that people feel like it has to go hand-in-hand with our morality. That is, it’s not enough for me to watch Star Trek, I have to justify Star Trek as evidence that I’m a good person. Maybe this is where the expression “guilty pleasure” comes from. Conversely, it’s not enough for me to not watch Dr. Who, I have to somehow convince everyone that Dr. Who was invented by the devil.

I’m pretty sure the Reylo ship has a lot to do with this, since it’s kind of understood to be a dark, problematic concept, and fans either embrace its flaws or recoil in horror because of them. Star Wars itself is a dumb story about space wizards, so people try to give the debate more weight by linking it to freedom of self expression and/or enabling real world harm. Suddenly it’s not enough to just think two actors would look cute making out instead of fighting. Now it’s this battlefield for the soul of civilization or something.

I grew up in the 80′s, when “concerned parents” and grifters would accuse the Smurfs and metal bands of promoting satanism and witchcraft. I used to hear stories of teens going out into the woods in the middle of the night to do occult stuff, and all I could ever think about was: “Why would anyone bother wandering out in the woods in the middle of the night?” Which is why “concerned parents” turned their attention to things that were closer to home, like Saturday morning cartoons. It had nothing to do with the content; it was just about finding a safe, accessible target for their hysteria. Some people want to go on a crusade without leaving the house, so they pick a fight with Papa Smurf instead of confronting the real evils in the world. Even as a kid, I knew this was a con, because I’d watched the show for myself and knew it was too saccharine to be threat to anyone.

The pro/anti folks have tried to disguise this with a lot of terminology. I wondered why they seemed to reluctant to use the full terms “pro-shipper” and “anti-shipper”, and it’s probably a couple of things. First, the word “shipper” is basically an admission that this is pointless bullshit that doesn’t matter, and they’d like to avoid that connotation. Second, they seem to have decided that this goes beyond shipping itself, into practically anything else they want it to involve. It’s all part of the con, which is to make you believe that it’s “us vs. them”, and you can be part of “us” by curating specific attitudes about Steven Universe.

Seriously, “about Steven Universe” is such an incredible punchline. You can make anything funnier by adding those three words to the end of a sentence. “Do not interact if you blog about Steven Universe.” “Hey, what’s up, YouTube, this is SSJ3RyokoLover69, and this is going to be kind of a serious video about Steven Universe.” “Mrs. Johnson, the results of your biopsy are in, and I have some bad news about Steven Universe.” It’s a fucking kids show. “Oh no, all the characters look like the characters in all the other kids shows!” Yeah, that’s because it’s a kids show. Marvin looks like Garfield, this isn’t new.

The common denominator here seems to be that both sides try to wrap themselves in the flag of vulnerable groups: impressionable minors, trauma survivors, harassment victims, etc. The “pros” want to protect those people so that they can feel free to explore weird subject matter on their own terms, and the “antis” want to protect the same people from being exposed to weird subject matter that they might not want to see. It’s all about establishing a moral high ground. Back in the day, it was called “sanctimony”.

But people get roped into this, because at their core, people want approval, and this stupid conflict offers them a sense of community. As long as you support the cause, whatever it may be, you’ll have this online friend network that appears to support anything you do. But if you deviate from their norm, you’ll be cast out. Does this sound familiar?

To use a more familiar example, I still sometimes find people clamoring about Gochi vs. Vegebul. I’ve never understood this, because both ships were canon, and I never saw much direct evidence of a war between them, but people would still talk about how crazy the Vegebul shippers were, and how crazy the Gochi shippers were, and it was like some huge thing going on just over the hills. It’s the same idea, since the idea that you could like both or neither never seems to occur to anyone involved. I never gave a shit, because I used to see the same dumb agendas in the Harry Potter fandom.

Okay, so let me take you back. It’s 2005 through 2011, and I’m hateblogging all seven Harry Potter novels, because fuck you, that’s why. The funny thing I encountered was that occasionally fans seemed to want to pretend like my bashing of certain characters was proving them right somehow. They were like “See? He hates Ron Weasley too! That proves that Seamus Finnegan is the coolest guy ever.” The Slytherin stans would do this all the time, because I would constantly take the piss out of the Gryffindor characters for being self-important dopes. I think they just liked hearing it from an outside perspective. But I had to keep reminding them all that I hated all of them. Every character from Harry Potter sucks ass. Voldemort was my favorite, but only because he was the one guy who wanted to kill all of the others. But he sucks too because he failed.

And the shippers were the same way. I’d say something shitty about Ron, because Ron sucks, and some smartass Joss Whedon fan would be like “Yes! Boost the signal! That is why Harry/Hermione is the best ship!” And I’d be like “No, Harry and Hermione suck at least as bad as Ron does. They’re all terrible and I hate them.” I really do think there was some sort of Stockholm Syndrome going on with Harry Potter books, where everyone secretly knows they suck, but the fans sort of latch on to one or two characters and go like “Well, he’s not as shitty as the rest.” Like finding spaghetti in the trash and picking out the meatball with the least amount of lint on it. Then you’d go and start a flamewar with some other starving person over whether your meatball is shittier than theirs. This is what people mean when they say to read another book.

Anyway, the big thing I picked up from Sarah Z’s video is “disinterpretation”, a term coined by MSNBC columnis Zeeshan Aleem. The Twitter thread is worth a read, but the short version is that he once remarked that a Julia Louis-Dreyfus routine wasn’t very good, and someone got mad at him for insinuating that women are incapable of being funny. They just took his dissatisfaction with one performance by one comedian as being a universal condemnation of women comedians in general. And this sort of thing is all over the internet. Everyone sees what they want to see and then they take it as permission to overreact.

I ran into this myself a while back, because someone saw who I interacted with on Twitter and decided that they’re all bad guys and if I have any interaction with them, then that makes me a bad guy too. At the time I tried to play it cool, but the more I think about it, the more it ticks me off. And over the course of that conversation, it was said that I don’t talk about myself much, and that’s kind of funny, because all I ever do on social media is write long-ass blog posts like this one. I don’t expect anyone to memorize them, or even read them all the way through, but when I write all this stuff and someone goes out of their way to say they don’t know anything about me, the message is that they just didn’t pay attention to what I was saying, and they didn’t bother to try.

So I’m a little jaded from that, because I got called out for a bunch of stuff I didn’t even do or say, and apparently that’s just a thing that happens. People will reject you for completely arbitrary reasons, not because of anything you actually said or did, and you’re left thinking you made some terrible mistake. Except, no, I’ve seen it happen to other people, people a lore more conscientious than I am, and if they can’t satisfy the bullshit purity standards, then I never stood a chance. If the game is rigged so I can’t win, then I’m not going to play.

And it’s that same condition that probably draws people into these online holy wars, because if you declare yourself for the pro or anti side, at least then you’ll have a posse backing you up. Only they don’t support you, they support your willingness to support them. Once your commitment to their agenda wavers, even in the slightest, they will turn against you.

Sarah Z suggests that both sides of the war drop the pro and anti terms, since they lost all meaning long ago. But that just invites a new set of useless terms to perpetuate the same cycle. Her more useful advice is for fandom people to broaden their horizons. She got a lot of flak for tweeting “Go outside�� once, but the ironic thing is that it’s sound advice. I had lunch with my mom yesterday and it was just nice getting away from things for a while. People need to do that more often, and unfortunately it feels like it’s harder to do than ever before.

But “go outside” isn’t just a literal thing. It can mean going beyond your usual haunts, reading the same books, watching the same shows, rehashing the same conversations. I think the reason this stuff always revolves around “shipping” is because there seems to be this deep-seated compulsion to pair fictional characters off like this, and for a lot of folks it’s the only way they can consume a story, so they do. And they do it lot, and there’s a lot of them, and they do it the same way every time, and lo and behold the same old conflicts start up. So maybe “go outside” should mean “go outside of that cycle once in a while.” Just a thought.

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frankendeers · 6 years ago

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Kylux and the Queer Literary Tradition

So, I have seen a lot of people talk about Kylux in terms of queer fetishisation or even labelling it a “crack ship”.

The discourse has somehow made Kylux out to be this straight-girl fantasy where two men are simply shipped because they are white and handsome. Such an unfavourable interpretation completely takes away from many Kyluxers being queer and/or poc themselves as well as shaming straight people for seeing queer potential where it’s not canonically stated to be. Since the comic came out, there has been much elation because it finally “confirms” some of the things that appeal to Kyluxers, therefore justifying the ship. I don’t think, however, that Kylux has ever been anything but rather conventional in its queer subtext. Kylux falls in line with a long tradition of homoerotic aggression between two men. I will try to put this into words as eloquently as I can.

First, let’s talk about how Kylo Ren/Ben Solo and Armitage Hux are queer coded on their own before moving on to their relationship.

Armitage Hux is almost comically queer coded. The act of feminising a villain to subtly convey to the audience that he is gay and therefore “morally reprehensible” has been a practice since the Hays code era (in some respects even before that -as the Victorian Age marks the beginning of our modern understanding of gender and subsequently, its subversion). He is seen to be physically weak, petty, moving and snarling and “bitching” in a way society would stereotypically ascribe to women.

His British Accent, at least from an American point of view, already marks his sexuality as ambiguous. This is not helped by the fact that he speaks in an abnormally posh way, alienating himself from the common people.Hereby, the movies draw a well-established line between decadence/queer and pragmatic/heteronormative.

In the “Aftermath” trilogy Brendol Hux states his son to be “weak willed” and “thin as a slip of paper and just as useless”, robbing him of his masculinity – no matter how ridiculous of an endeavour this is when talking about a four-year old boy. Hux is very early on criticised for not fitting into a socially expected form of manhood. This is especially evident when one compares him to his resistance rival, Poe Dameron. Now, Dameron has his own set of queer coding, but he is shown to be what is commonly viewed as “acceptably queer”. He is masculine, trained and proactive. When he ridicules Hux at the beginning of The Last Jedi, there is this juxtaposition of the helpless, feminine villain and the dashing, superior male hero. Hux is supposed to be judged as vain and arrogant while Poe takes risks and although reckless, is somehow to be admired. Further, Hux is constantly abused. He is thrown into walls letting out high pitched screams, runs away in the face of danger (as seen in the recent comic) and is pushed around by his own subordinates. His strength lies in being cunning and calculated, not stereotypically masculine virtues.

Hux’s destructive powers, his monstrosity so to speak, also follow a long-standing tradition of queer villainization. Harry Benshoff’s The Monster and The Homosexual articulates this as follows:

“[...] repressed by society, these socio-political and psychosexual Others are displaced (as in a nightmare) onto monstrous signifiers, in which form they return to wreak havoc […]” (Benshoff 65).

And what other, than a socio-political Other, is Armitage Hux - the Starkiller?

Kylo Ren/Ben Solo, too, is touched by the mark of queerness. It is no coincidence that despite his raw power and muscular physique, Kylo Ren has not been adopted by hegemonic masculinity in the same way Han Solo has, for example. When the logical is traditionally seen as masculine, the realms of pure and unfiltered emotionality is feminine. And Kylo Ren is unrestrained in his vulnerability, his tears, his pain – People make fun of the dramatic ways he gives words to his feelings precisely because it is regarded as weak, as whiny, as “womanly”. His long curly hair, full lips and dress-like costume only strengthens this impression. Kylo Ren is an amalgam of masculine aggression and feminine expressiveness. Some of his outbursts even remind of the pseudo-illness of hysteria. The gendered lines are blurred and unclear in Kylo Ren, diffusing any efforts to appease the binary. Benshoff describes this as a form of queer existence which does not only constitute itself in opposition to what is considered normal but “ultimately opposed the binary definitions and prescriptions of a patriarchal heterosexism” (Benshoff 63).

Both are not easily categorised. They are patched up by multiple, gendered signifyers. Kylo Ren’s masculine body in contrast to his femininized fashion. Hux’s slender body with his stiff and masculinised military get-up. Hux’s toxic tendency to avoid showing his emotions while also being shown as weak, womanly, cowardly. Kylo Ren is an excellent warrior, yet simultaneously being prone to emotional outbursts. Jeffrey Jerome Cohen’s famous work Monster Theory (Seven Theses) elaborates upon this further, while acknowledging that queer figures are most commonly depicted as the monstrous Other:

“The refusal to participate in the classificatory “order of things” is true of monsters generally: they are disturbing hybrids whose externally incoherent bodies resist attempts to include them in any systematic structuration.” (Cohen 6).

Nonetheless, many queer people feel empowered by these figures. Lee Edelman theorises in his polemic No Future: Queer Theory and the Death Drive about the nature of queerness as a force of cultural resistance. According to Edelman, the queer must always refuse societal expectations of a perpetual future and embrace the death drive instead. In this sense, queerness stands in direct opposition to futurity as it negates any meaning in sexual reproduction and marriage (cp. Edelman 13). When Hux destroys planets, when Kylo Ren proposes to burn it all down “The Empire, your Parents, the Resistance, the Sith, the Jedi”, they are not merely killing the past. They are also negating the worth of categories that make up future and present alike. They are resisting the heteronormative values of production.

Now that we have the puzzle pieces that illustrate how Hux and Kylo are queer figures in on themselves, it might be interesting to examine how they work together.

In her text “Epistemology of the Closet”, Eve Sedgwick talks about a common gothic trope where two men are caught in a feud full of mutual hatred. In this case, both men are mirror images of one another, making them especially vulnerable to the other’s advances: "[…] a male hero is in a close, usually murderous relation to another male figure, in some respects his 'double', to whom he seems to be mentally transparent."

Kylo and Hux are very clearly mirrors of one another. Aside from the gendered oppositions I have already illustrated, they are each other’s double in every sense of the word. Born on opposite ends of an age-old war. Both caught in complicated relationship with their fathers whom both have killed out of opposite motivations (loving them too much vs. hating them with a passion). They represent the opposite ends in the binaries for logic vs. spirituality, restraint vs. wildness, control vs. sensuality, technology vs. nature etc.

This shot from The Last Jedi shows both of them mirroring each other visually, henceforth strengthening this impression.

They are "mentally transparent" to each other, because they are different sides of the same coin which Snoke tossed around to his whims. Even their aggression takes on erotic forms. It is hard to deny the homoerotic implications in choking another men to make him submit, forcing him onto his knees. The breaching of personal spaces and looming over each other, the obsessive need to prove one’s own worth to the male other with which one is engaged in a homosocial bond:

“The projective mutual accusation of two mirror-image men, drawn together in a bond that renders desire indistinguishable from prédation, is the typifying gesture of paranoid knowledge.” (Sedgwick 100).

And through all of this, I have not even talked about the collaborative potential between the two of them. Their instinct to protect one another despite insiting the opposite. How both of them could overcome their trauma by engaging with the other, who suffered so similarly under family obligation and Snoke’s abuse.

Works Cited:

Benshoff, Harry: “The Monster and the Homosexual.” In: Harry Benshoff (ed. and introd.)/Sean Griffin (ed. and introd.): Queer Cinema, the Film Reader. New York: Routledge 2004. Pp. 63-74.

Cohen, Jeffrey Jerome. "Monster Culture (Seven Theses)." Jeffrey Jerome (ed. and preface) Cohen: Monster Theory: Reading Culture (1996): 3-25.

Edelman, Lee. No Future: Queer Theory and the Death Drive. ,2004. Print.

Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky-Sedgwick. Epistemology Of the Closet. Berkeley, Calif. :University of California Press, 2008.

#Kylux #Armitage Hux #Kylo Ren #Ben Solo #General Hux #Hux #Benarmie #Kylux meta #sw #sw meta #sw analysis #tfa #tlj #long post #long text #hux comic #huxlo

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heartofnopal · 5 years ago

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First of all, kudos for representing your culture ♥ I wanted to ask you though: As someone who shares a similar background with you, I was genuinely conflicted when I first saw your MC, I think I was worried about misrepresentation? Since finding out you're channeling your own culture though, I do feel a bit better, yet still conflicted... Maybe I'm still afraid of doing the same, y'know? How do you feel, genuinely, about sharing yourself like this? [1 of 2]

Going to add your part two: “And, I'm really sorry about the heavy topic of this ask. It's just been weighing on my mind for a good while now and I've only finally mustered up the courage to visit your blog and send it. I'm not sure what I'm feeling and I was hoping you might understand, haha. Please feel free to ignore. [2 of 2]”

Hey there, definitely not gonna ignore. And don't be sorry about the heavy topic. I'm genuinely glad you asked this question and it's something that had been weighing heavily on my mind before I decided to finally make content for the character I've had in mind for so long.

Gonna start by introducing Quetzalli and what it means for someone like this in the Arcana world. Because it's a fictional universe, there's no such thing as Mexica. Same goes for all other canon characters, we know the cultures they were influenced by, but the people don't actually exist in this world. But I absolutely love that characters do have influence from our real world cultures and I wanted to share that of my ancestors because all of our cultures have a right to influence fiction just as much as any other. And when I realized Nopal is influenced by modern day Northern Mexico/Southwest US, I felt so happy to think people inspired by ours could exist in this world because they're ignored in every other fantasy.

One other good example I can think of is Avatar the Last Airbender which has nations and people inspired by real-world cultures. Inuit, Chinese, Japanese, and Tibetan cultures are among them yet even then there are other elements and no one nation is strictly influenced by one culture alone nor do they completely mirror them. I was also happy to notice that the Sun Warriors were primarily influenced by Mesoamerican civilizations including Mexica, Incan, and Mayan with some Southeast Asian influences as well. On the other hand there are movies like the Road to El Dorado that has established itself in a real-world setting and so I’d be very strict on how the culture is represented.

As you probably figured, Quetzalli is influenced by the Mexica (Aztec) culture as it used to be before La Conquista. And the Mexica as the people they were haven't existed since then, but instead have changed with time. Yet I've grown up surrounded by their legacy and that of the Chichimeca people in my town in Mexico, particularly the Zacatecos, Caxcan, and Guachichil (Quetzalli's mother is influenced by Chichimeca peoples who would likely be placed in the Catclaw desert in the Arcana world). But honestly, what has pissed me off so much is the way our people are seen and treated. Even many people in Mexico are racist and still look down upon those of indigenous descent. But we should be proud and I wanted to create a character who is proud, brave and powerful because that's what I feel like when I embrace that part of me. Thus Quetzalli was born!

But integrating the character into the Arcana universe is tricky. There are many elements that I could keep and some that I couldn't because not everyone will understand some concepts. Death is a tricky subject and even in the Arcana universe, it's heavily influenced by western concepts of death in which death is like some ultimate scary thing and that's that. While of course I don't take death lightly, even as a child it wasn't ever truly scary. I was raised to believe it's a cycle and death is not feared but honored and respected. So when I was taught about Mexica sacrifice as a kid (most people only know about sacrifices like some bs to justify la Conquista while there’s SO MUCH good shit like public education and genius engineering) although I don’t agree obviously, it makes sense to me because I could understand how a people would view it as a cycle that must continue. The sun rises and falls, seasons change, people die, people are born. Even enemy war captives who have a sliver of divinity that allowed the capture. It's all a cycle where life and divinity must be returned in order for it to be given back. There was never enough blood to give to everyone that is and will ever be and so much be returned.

This is one of the things I'm leaving out in Quetzalli because it's a delicate subject that I know people won't understand. And because she's a fictional character only influenced by the Mexica in a fantasy world, I feel okay leaving the bloodshed out (also people might vilify her and the Mexica people for it like they already do). If I was to make her a character in a real world scenario, then nope, I'll need to be strict and include everything whether everyone likes it or not. Other things about her that I've stretched is the fact that she's an Eagle Warrior. Although women had more independence over their work and finances (compared to many European women at the time) and that it was believed women could be powerful leaders (depicted in stories and history) they weren't allowed in combat, at least in the last 200 years of the empire. I'm not counting the time women joined the struggle under Huey Tlatoani Cuauhtemoc because that was a desperate last stand.

But if you read my short story "the game begins" it's known that Quetzalli cannot become a warrior and thus will listen to Huehuecoatl in hopes he'll help her get there. Another thing I stretched is her coliseum outfit. I wanted to incorporate some essential parts of the Eagle Warrior's uniform: the greaves, the chimalli, and especially the cuacalalatli and feathers lining the leather so she may embrace the eagle's fighting prowess. Those parts are there but I also wanted to keep in with the theme of the Arcana coliseum outfits in that they are very revealing and made for show over function as we've seen with Julian and Asra. I also wanted to share the cuacalalatli and I think the idea of embracing an animal's prowess is beautiful in that one looks up to nature to feel strength.

I try to add Mexica elements where I can because I love to share more and so few people know about Mesoamerican cultures. But I also try to keep it on the same level as the other Arcana characters who show their real-world cultural elements while not making that everything there is to know about them. I want her to still feel apart of this world and story, she’s a character like all the others. So sometimes I’m limited to clothing, tools and weapons, language, flowers and plants, motifs, her hummingbird familiar, even the appearance of the “Ascending Eagle” but I think references to our world’s Tonatiuh is as far as I can go while maintaining Arcana universe.

But to summarize what I feel about it. Indigenous american cultures are widely ignored among Arcana apprentices and I honestly feel that we should not feel ashamed to include them, especially if they're our own. And I do understand the feeling of not wanting to misrepresent cultures, it IS important to avoid stereotypes even if it's a fantasy setting. Also one thing some forget is that indigenous people are PEOPLE like everyone else and have every right to exist in media. We don't have to adhere to every aspect of our culture nor should we be ashamed and hide it away. Quetzalli is influenced by Mexica but she's a normal person in this world with every right to be there like any other character, wear her clothes, speak her language, get upset, be sensual, kick some ass, hate and love... None of this says any less of her or her culture.

The things I've included in her has been a monument to the power she feels and that of the people she's influenced by, the same pride and power I feel when I embrace my roots. It took me a while to finally get around to sharing her, but I'm glad I am. Thank you so much for this ask.

Si quieres hablar mas, o si todavia tienes miedo de crear un personaje como este, dame un mensaje? Nuestra gente y nuestros ancestros tienen derecho a existir aqui. :D

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blacksunscorpio · 5 years ago

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Hi Scorp, What does it mean to love on your dark side? I need some examples. Phrases to say to accept the darkness rather than repress it. I'm a 4th house Pluto Stellium

What it Means to Love on Your Dark Side

We're all born like blank canvases. However, at some point during our childhood development, we are taught information that teaches us to separate things into right and wrong. Into, good and evil. The minute we eat from this proverbial tree of knowledge, our shadow is born and consciousness begins to divide itself into multiple parts. Moreover, in our cultural socialization process, we begin to compartmentalize these habits within us that are “kosher and acceptable to the world” [ this is termed as the Persona] and those that are unacceptable [The Shadow]. The latter as a result is usually forced to be hidden away/

But. contrary to popular belief, your shadow is not an error or a flaw, It is a part of the natural order of who we are. Not the sum of us, no, but a significant part. It’s not a problem to be solved; it’s an enigma that must be faced. It has the power to connect us to the depths of our own imaginations. It’s there to protect you.

Example 1.

Let's say that you have had a bad experience with someone. They’re a pathological liar. Manipulative. Condescending and have maybe subjected you or someone you know to said nastiness. One day, they do something nice for you or say something nice to you and you think to your self:

“SMH...This fake ass bitch [gender neutral], they’ve got an agenda, this piece of shit never does anything unless it benefits them”

You don't say thank you. That is your shadow self reacting to the perceived threat this person has been. The problematic individual you’ve observed them to be in the past. Once bitten, twice shy, right? When this happens, don’t be ashamed of this reaction. That is your shadow self picking up on the queues your conscious self absorbs. Instead of telling said person what you really think of them talk to your shadow self instead,

You say: “Thank you for being alert enough to protect me.”

Example 2.

Let's say that you’re a woman, you see a man. He is gorgeous. Well-groomed. Charming. The bulge in his pants is considerable, Whatever. The bottom line, your body is filled with lust. You are more aroused by looking at this man that you’ve been in any of your past relationships. But alas, you see a glint of silver on his left ring finger. He’s married. But you want him anyway.

This is your shadow-self triggering your need for stimulation. Showing you you are fertile. In touch with your sensuality. Your need for passion. For Pleasure. No matter the cost. But instead of letting your shadow self overpower your other-selves and cause you to break up a marriage.

You say: “Thank you for showing me, that I am not frigid, but that I’m capable of unrivaled levels of passion.”

The Next Level is Working With Your Shadow Side.

Utilizing its energy to achieve a justified end. Revenge, for example, is one of those things. [I’m sure you, like others with Plutonic placements, can understand this.]

When you feel wronged in some way, your shadow self’s visceral reaction is to want payback. We teach people how to treat us. When you feel this urge, Think of it like this: That it is your shadow self giving you an alert from the Universe

The message the universe is conveying through your shadow? That you’ve been appointed teacher in your enemy’s karmic lesson.

Workplace perks? You get to choose the curriculum.

Lesson Plan One: The Success Option.

You glow up. You spit on your adversaries and sneer because they aren’t worth your time. Beat your enemies at everything. Be ruthlessly happy. Let them test your commitments but fail trying to see you give up on them. They stress themselves with pop quizzes trying to figure out how to beat you. How to keep you down. They do homework on your social life, your next move, your job. You give them midterms worth 50 percent of their grade, the subject matter? A 7000-word essay on why you’re so unbothered. They pull all-nighters trying to piece together how you keep shitting on them.

You say: “Thank you, for showing me that basking in my success is not narcissistic but an acknowledgment of my strengths in the face of opposition.”

Then there’s Lesson Plan 2: The Hard Knocks Approach.

[Growing up in Brooklyn, with a West Indian and South American family, I’ve seen and done it all.] This lesson plan is more militant. More offensive. You crush your enemy totally. It’s been taught by every successful general in the ancient world. Just like the 48 laws of power says “All great leaders since Moses have known that an enemy must be crushed completely. (Sometimes they have learned this the hard way.) If one ember is left alight, no matter how dimly it smolders, a fire will eventually break out. More is lost through stopping halfway than through total annihilation: Crush him, not only in body but in spirit.” This goes for something as simple as ignoring the "mercy rule" during your college basketball game, never letting the opposing team catch up to making sure a rapist not only loses his freedom [jail] but making sure he's never able to get an erection ever again.

I believe there is no shame and it is absolutely okay to admit that sometimes, a person just needs a good ass-whooping. Whether that’s a physical brawl, a perfectly manufactured curse or hex, a lecture that lays all their dirt bare, a lawsuit, or something as simple as a witty clap-back.

Whatever you do, your mission as the educator is to make sure the student [i.e the enemy] graduates with a B.A. in humility with a concentration on never fucking with you again. Your curriculum here is not to bend them or get them pressed like lesson plan one.

But to break them.

Experience is the best teacher, after all. When this level has been achieved, we say:

“Thank you shadow, for being a messenger, for helping me teach and for allowing me to take part in balancing scales.”

Sometimes the universe speaks to you through your shadow self. It alerts you to methods of facing challenges. Your higher self teams up with your shadow and adds a bit of cosmic guidance, and your conscious self processes and executes. This is why it is important to love on all parts. Integration is key. The Higher, the Conscious, and the Shadow. They make up the sum of who you are. At the end of the day, we use both hands every day, don’t we? We have two for a reason. Unless you learn to first embrace that darkness within, you can never pursue the light of self-love in a balanced way. The more our darkness is avoided, the more it metastasizes within us, waiting like a volcano to erupt at any moment. And because it is powerful, it can have chaotic repercussions if left ignored. But when it is acknowledged and respected, it will only appear to whisper not scream. It will come when it’s called instead of burst in unceremoniously. It will be like a well-trained guard dog. Dangerous? Of course. There to protect? Naturally.

#asks #shadow self #higher self #conscious self #good q #balance #astrology asks #astrology and psychology #my writing #perspective #bruja tips #witchblr #astro tumblr

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sssyzygy1 · 5 years ago

Text

His: new shamy fanfic

He had never liked to be touched. As long as he could remember- which was nearly every day of his entire life as he has an eidetic memory- he had been uncomfortable with others around him. His best friends knew not to even casually suggest a high-five. He avoided handshakes unless absolutely necessary for professional reasons alone. Even when his family would hug him, save his mother and Meemaw, he could barely tolerate it. Just the brief notion of intimacy in any form made his brow and lips wrinkle in distaste.

He has never really been concerned as to why it bothered him to be touched. He never wondered if his germ phobia was the root cause or if it was something deeper and further ingrained into his makeup. It didn’t matter why, not really, and any rambling of thought in that direction was, in fact, wasted thought that could, instead, be devoted to unraveling the mysteries of the universe. No one, and nothing, had ever tempted him to reconsider his decision to avoid human contact. It didn’t reason that he should be uncomfortable just for convention.

But then something happened he did not expect: an experiment of sorts, as it were.

His well-disciplined, well-ordered, and well-controlled world simply slipped on its perfectly balanced axis. Her hand had reached out so very casually, so very slowly and deliberately. Gentle fingers ensconced his, and something monumental shifted. The soft heat lit up his world like a bomb of sensation. He expected to recoil, but instead he found his eyes closing involuntarily- just for the barest of seconds. Color exploded. When he was able to regain any semblance of thought, he sought her face, looking for some answer, some clue, as to why his brain- never quiet- had ceased to function. Warmth, and something more he could not name, spread through each nerve-ending. He felt electrified.

She was so much more than he ever imagined her to be. As such, he was more than happy to be her experiment.

Other women had touched him, of course. He was brilliant, and with his bold azure eyes and dark hair, he was, as they say, a catch. He did not underplay his attractiveness and never felt insecure in that regard. However, he felt no need to riddle his life with the baser urges that ruled the majority of his friends and colleagues.

He had, on occasion, found himself the victim of, well, assault, as it were. Women had casually touched him: his arm, his hands, his feet. He had been hugged more often than he would prefer, by women and by men alike. A woman- drunk, though hardly an excuse!-had kissed him full on the lips. Yes, he cringed each time. He had recoiled from them all in horror. His eyes would spring open in terror and revulsion and he would try to drown out the panic and step away. Yes, each experience had been nothing short of hellacious.

But with her, he stayed in the moment. Instead of fear and mindless panic, he voluntarily held on just a bit longer, almost enjoying the feeling. Reaching for the light and heat and yes, that something more, he accepted all that she had to give. What was this little extra shiver? Could it be love? So soon? So unexpectedly? No, no he didn’t believe in love. Love was just a social construct, or a psychological tool to justify the act of coitus. No, he was simply in awe of her beautiful mind. He wasn’t attracted to her beautiful face. That was illogical on such a short acquaintance.

He slid those thoughts aside as she let go of his hand. “Nothing, never-mind,” she had said. Nothing? How could that myriad of feelings be nothing?! Maybe for her that had all been average? He had so little experience with emotions, perhaps those sensations were commonplace. Or, perhaps she truly was truly unmoved. She was logical. Maybe she had greater control on her physiological responses than he did? That seemed impossible. Ultimately, it didn’t matter. This was all probably the results of happenstance anyway. He was happy to keep living his ordered existence. Their relationship could return to a safe, comfortable affinity. They were friends and there was no need to complicate matters.

She was his only intellectual equal. This was true and real. He had spent his life in pursuit of knowledge, and had wandered for many years, alone in that pursuit. An intellectual companion perhaps? Yes, this was more than enough. He left those silly memories and his hindbrain feelings outside on that sidewalk. Their continued association would excite and challenge them. She was integral to his happiness, this he already knew, but he need not admit such a weakness.

xxxxxx

There it was again, that perplexing tingle in each cell: radiating, penetrating each extremity. The source? Her lips: soft, supple, delicate upon his own. And again, his eyes closed. And there was that kaleidoscope of color, echoing the deep hues of his heart. He should pull away. Shouldn’t he pull away? What was this feeling? Not fear. Not the common, expected revulsion. No. This was a yet unnamed emotion. Could this be desire? He was entranced. He was unable and unwilling to pull away. No, instead he shifted forward, just barely, in an attempt to prolong this temporary and temporal euphoria. His body urged him to demand more, to feel more, to take more, to want more, to need more. He welcomed the storm. And then she was gone again. Fascinating.

Late that night, as sleep eluded him, he relived each second. Like the atoms and equations he moved with his mind, the scenes and reels of the evening played like a movie, in perfect clarity. Each breath, the taste of cherry vodka, the hinting smell of lavender, and that feel of her lips…. The ethereal evanescence was his alone to linger over in the deepest recesses of his mind. He felt something click into place deep within: He could envision himself laid bare and naked, kneeling, his heart bleeding and beating in his raised hands; an offering of all that he was, is, and ever will be.

But when morning came, alas, no: he could not revel in this longing. He could not embrace her with everything he was- not now- certainly not when her memory failed to recall anything more than a brief recollection of their time together. He placed this deep need high upon a shelf. He would not share himself with her, not then, not ever. He could barely believe the power she had over his thoughts. He could not continue this charade. This was no who he was! He was no hippy, he was a man of science! He would reset that moment, both to save her the uncomfortable embarrassment and to save him the acknowledgment that something -something that shook him as hard as an earthquake - could be forgotten and lost in a haze of alcohol. He pretended not to feel that slight ache within his chest. Their relationship of the mind was enough. It had to be enough. He never needed anyone.

xxxxxxx

Why did she care what those troglodytes did? Penny and Bernadette clearly had no taste if they purposefully left this mesmerizing, perfect creature behind. Her opinion and knowledge were certainly more valuable than theirs! He was outraged. Each would get a strike! How could they have hurt her? She was so superior in every way. Why did she feel so inferior when she was the very center of his world? She sat before him, devastated by their carelessness. He could see the evidence of her desolation on her reddened cheeks as easily as he could see the sorrow in her downcast eyes. He wanted to reach out and catch the lone tear left clinging to her dark eyelash.

She was saying something? What was that? She was proposing what? Concentrate for heaven’s sake! Contact? Human contact for comfort? Kissing? Uh-oh: no more kissing! He could barely keep himself from dwelling on that last kiss. No, he could not permit another kiss to short circuit his finest commodity. That instance was still interrupting his work! Love-making? But they weren’t married! Not even dating! He couldn’t make love to her! Could he? No, no, no. What’s this? Cuddling? That would be acceptable. It couldn’t be as dangerous as the other options. He adjusted himself into the couch cushion. She slipped into his arms. Had he said this was safe? He couldn’t have been more wrong.

He immediately became overwhelmed with heat and need. He held her, gently. Her body lay against his. He could feel each curve sit snuggly against his side. Instead of savoring the feel of her, he concentrated instead on simply breathing. He felt lightheaded and slightly dizzy. He had to ignore the overwhelming desire to nuzzle her hair. The scent of lavender invaded his senses. He felt his eyes drift close of their own accord… Again. It’s almost as if he closed his eyes to enhance the moment and sear it into his memory. He was a prisoner to her desires, and yes, to his own desires as well.

He would admonish Howard and Leonard. They could not allow their women to hurt his woman. His woman? No, that was not correct. She didn’t belong to him, even if deep down, he wanted her, most desperately. More, he wanted to be hers. Part of him wondered briefly if he didn’t already belong to her. After all, wasn’t his life greatly improved by her mere presence? With her, he was accepted. With her, his heart was safe. With her, his body came alive. That was all fact. He could not deny fact. Could he?

xxxxxx

What is this ? What is happening? Illogical! Irrational ! She accepted a date with Stuart?! Not once, but twice? Why? For what purpose? Surely her needs could not be met with his inferiority? Sharing a latte? He rolled his eyes at the mere thought of such a cloyingly unconventional, unoriginal date. Stuart did not deserve her: not her intellect, not her gleaming emerald eyes, not her sassy, devilish, cheeky smile. No, she was everything, and Stuart was nothing. She was not for him!

She couldn’t be with anyone like Stuart. She couldn’t be with anyone else at all! She was his vixen! Only him! She must be his! A decision once made was like a bullet shot from a gun. His feet moved of their own accord. He would declare himself. He stormed into the darkened theater to lay claim to what his heart has known from that first moment: she was his everything. She was his love, his one and only. Love, the deepest and most abiding love did exist after all. This, too, was fact. And that love existed in her. He knew it then, as sure as he knew the 1000th place of Pi. As the knowledge grew and expanded inside him, he offered her his partnership, he offered her himself, fully and without reserve. There it was, that bleeding heart, tossed at her feet. Terrified, he asked her to be his and his alone.

At her simple response, her acceptance of all that he was, his eyes lightly closed, but his heart saw and felt everything. She was his.

His Amy, always.

#shamy fanfic #shamy #fan fic shamy #sheldon x amy #so many feels #review #be kind #first fanfic

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mckinnon-mp4 · 5 years ago

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“ And then there’s this sadness. This raw, awful sadness that you’re too good to see. ” + “You don’t deserve someone like me” + wolfstar. Please go ahead and break my heart...

and then there’s this sadness asked from this prompt! this is really dark, so fair warning. tw: depression, suicidal thoughts, and eating disorders (would it be angst if i didn’t throw in the trifecta of mental illnesses that i know intimately hahah)

2.1k words

the guilt feels like it’s going to swallow him. sirius doesn’t know why he’s put himself in this position, but he feels so SELFISH. it’s all he can think about, every time he sees remus, which is quite unfortunate since they share a dorm. he doesn’t know what else to do, other than avoid the other boy. it was stupid to think that this could work– that the night at the astronomy tower could be anything more. how could he think that he could have anything more than a friend in remus, when his mind was a chaotic mess and he had no way to sift through it. he didn’t know how to handle the gentle touches or the kind whispers into his hair, the way remus’s fingers against his skin felt like they set his soul ablaze. he couldn’t bear to bring remus into the endless torrent of sadness and guilt, worthlessness and weakness, that spiraled within him and threatened to swallow him up. it wasn’t fair to do that to someone. and remus, poor, sweet remus, already had so much on his plate. he was a lycanthrope– a fucking werewolf– he couldn’t be asked to carry sirius’s baggage on top of all he was carrying. it would burn him out, make him grow resentful. it was unfair to remus. perhaps that was why when james told him not to break remus’s heart, that he was being too flirty, and that remus might be gay– might fancy him– he freaked out. perhaps it was the sadness within him, that stole his oxygen and forced his hands to tug on his hair, that kept him from being able to turn around and say that he fancied remus, and that he had for the better part of two years. maybe that same sadness was why he kissed remus at the astronomy tower, desperate to find something to fill the gaping chasm his heart contained.

but it was unfair. he couldn’t let remus fill the hole. he didn’t deserve to be the plaster over sirius’s wounds, and he definitely didn’t deserve to see that all of the smiles had been a ruse. it was hard enough having friends, keeping this secret from them. he didn’t know that he could handle adding another layer of secrecy to that without slipping up not when it was so obvious he was falling apart. the skin stretched over his bones had taken on a pallor, and his eyes seemed so sunken in his face. it was only a matter of time before remus confronted the knocking of his knees and dips between his ribs, and how was he supposed to explain that his mind ran so far from him that food tasted like ash because he didn’t deserve it and he couldn’t take care of himself because he couldn’t get out of bed without a fight. he couldn’t find the words to tell remus that his mother’s voice was louder in his head than his own, or that every time something good happened all he could think about was the punishment he would have received for it. how do you tell someone you care about, someone who cares about you that your chest aches like you’re having a heart attack or your lungs stop working at seemingly random times because the past crushes you like it’s the heaviest thing in the world even though you know other people have it so much worse? how do you justify being that weak? those were questions sirius knew he’d never be able to answer. perhaps that was why he’d resolved to end this. this relationship, along with all the other ones he was withdrawing from. it wasn’t just remus he was trying to avoid, but all the marauders. and these days, it was working. a few well placed fights and he was home free, protecting them all from the way he was imploding. he was keeping them safe. keeping them from disappointment. one day, he was sure they’d understand that. even if that day didn’t come soon, he was sure it would come eventually. and then it will have been worth it because he can’t bear to hurt the only people he’s ever cared about. not when reg was already so far gone, and the marauders were the only family he had left.

perhaps that was why he told remus to meet him at the astronomy tower that night. maybe it was because he was minimizing casualties. maybe it was because he was afraid of someone seeing through him. regardless, he was seated on the edge of the parapet, feet dangling over the side. he was staring at the ground, wondering how high up he truly was. how devastating a fall would be, in this moment. how unfair to remus. sirius was starting to think his whole existence was unfair to remus. it never took long for the poison to set in, to choke up his relationships. not when it was so easy to see why he had been a disappointment to his family. it wasn’t a shock that he didn’t know how to shape up to be the black family heir. he had no chance to make things last with his friends. not when this darkness has always been within him, just begging to be let out. and then there’s remus. remus who lights up the dark with his smile, who’s voice reminds sirius how to breathe again and who’s touch convinces his blood to keep pumping through his body instead of freezing him up. but he can’t ask remus to be his savior. it’s too much. so when the other boy arrives, sirius has already convinced himself of what he must do. time is moving so quickly, and so impossibly slowly all at once, and sirius doesn’t notice but he winces when the werewolf’s arm is slung over his pointed shoulders. he sees remus’s face fall in slow motion, and his voice is muffled by the sound of his heart beating in hiss ears. he’s nervous and scared and he doesn’t WANT to do this, but it’s not about him for once. for once sirius needs to stop being selfish, and to do what’s best for remus.

“what?” his voice sounds so far away, and it catches him off guard. had sirius always sounded like that? was he just noticing now?

“what’s wrong, padfoot? you’ve been avoiding me all week.” he takes a deep breath. how do you say something like “i’m in love with you but i’m too fucked up for us to actually be together?” you don’t. it feels like someone poured a bucket of ice water over him when he realizes it. he had the intention of being sort of honest, but he realizes that’s not an option. not with remus, who cares and is selfless, who would try to help. so instead, he lies. he lies, like he always has.

“we can’t keep seeing each other. i can’t keep doing this.” “can’t keep doing what?” the way remus’s voice breaks chokes him up, and the pressure of all of his sadness is resting right behind his eyes. god sirius wants to cry.“are you fucking serious?” “yeah, and you were fucking sirius. it’s over.”

he can practically see remus’s lack of understanding written across his face, and sirius desperately hopes that he’s not going to ask why because sirius doesn’t know that he’ll be able to answer the question without breaking. because the universe doesn’t ever give him peace, and because remus is so sweet and so caring, of course he has to ask.

“did i do something wrong?”

the question sends sirius over the fucking edge because it hurts to think that remus wouldn’t immediately understand that it’s not his fault. logically, sirius knows remus has no way of knowing that, but he doesn’t want to explain it. perhaps that was why his eyes had glassed over with tears, that were running down his face in quick succession. he doesn’t want to do this. he doesn’t think he can. he isn’t strong enough to be alone anymore. but he can’t put remus in a position where he has to see all of the broken parts, all of the damage that’s already been done. “padfoot, what’s going on? i know something is wrong but i can’t help if you don’t tell me what it is.” sirius let’s out a sob at that, and remus is pulling him into an embrace. “please, pads, just let me help.”

“i can’t do that to you rem. i can’t.” “why not? i’m sure whatever’s going on, we can sort it out. just like over summer holiday. we can figure it all out.” “you don’t understand rem. i’ll break you if we keep doing this. i break everyone.” “sirius you don’t break anything?” he can hear the panic in remus’s voice, but he’s too far gone to stop now. the words are pouring out into the space between them before sirius even has a handle on what he wants to say. “ i hurt everyone. i’m too much too fast and all at once. i’m too full on with these catastrophic emotions and i can’t tell you i won’t hurt you because i will. i’ll hurt you with my selfishness and i’ll disappoint you and then there’s this sadness. this raw, awful sadness that you’re too good to see. i can’t put you through it remus! i’m done hurting everyone when i could just disappear from your lives and stop.”

and then it’s out there and he can’t take it back, no matter how desperately he wants to. he’s clinging to remus’s shirt and shaking and he just wants to take all of what he said back, to keep it in so no on has to hear it. because for as much as it hurts to be him, in this moment, he knows that things are harder for remus and how dare he put it all on the other boy. he never asked for that.

“sirius, love, i don’t think you get to make that choice for everyone. it’s not on you to decide what we are or aren’t too good for. me included.” remus sounds calm and collected, and sirius wasn’t expecting that. but what caught him off guard, even more, were the silent tears rolling down remus’s cheeks. why is he crying? had sirius really done that to him? why couldn’t he do anything right? was it so awful for sirius to be honest with someone? even if it was only to explain why he couldn’t be with remus, it still ached to know that he had hurt one of the only people he cared about. “i’m sorry. i didn’t mean– i didn’t want to hurt you i just–” but then remus is cutting him off with a kiss and it’s chaste and gentle and so full of love that sirius’s chest hurts again. “pads, i think you should talk to someone. james, pete and i just wanna see you happy, and we’ve all known something is wrong for a while. i’m just worried about you, we all are.” “you don’t– i don’t want anyone to worry i just– i don’t–” “don’t say you want to disappear again, please.” remus is pleading with him, but sirius doesn’t understand. he doesn’t understand why remus sounds so desperate. “pads, i love you. i’ve been in love with you for a year. fuck’s sake, you’d think you’d have figured that out.” “fuck, i–” that was precisely what sirius was afraid of. what he wanted to avoid. “i’m sorry. i didn’t mean for that to happen.” “sirius don’t you get it. you’re one of the best things that has ever happened to me, you bloody nonce!” that get’s a laugh out of him, albiet a wet, sad sounding laugh. and then they’re kissing again, and sirius is just trying to find some way to convince remus that this is not a good idea. but he’s reaching in his pockets and coming up with lint because he’s selfish and he longs to be cared for so badly, despite it all. but when he pulls away, he’s pulling himself out of remus’s arms. “I can’t do this to you. i’m sorry because i love you too but i fucking can’t put you through this.”

and with that, he’s running off, away from the astronomy tower and to find somewhere to be alone. because he can’t let remus get sucked into the chaos that is his mind. he simply can’t put remus through the emotional turmoil it would cause. it wouldn’t be fair and he knows it. so he has to be alone, despite the way he wantswantswants remus. it’s too much. too unfair. too broken.

You don’t deserve someone like me wolfstar, also from this prompt.

1k words

remus is so unsure of himself. his heart hammers away in his chest as he returns from the shrieking shack. he doesn’t know what happened the night before, all he knows is that when he came to, only james was in the shack. he and madam pomfrey were walking the path back, well pomfrey was walking, holding remus up and preventing him from stumbling as he limply made his way back. he knows something is wrongwrongwrong because sirius wasn’t there, and sirius was always there. sirius didn’t miss the moons. he vaguely remembers sirius being there before he turned, but all of his memories were running together muddied as the bottom of a stream. it’s only when they arrive in the hospital wing, and remus catches a glance of inky black hair on a bed far from him that he puts together what must have happened. he must have hurt sirius. fuck was he okay? was he going to be okay? what had they told pomfrey to explain what happened? what happened? he had so many questions running through his mind, and no one to answer them. pomfrey handles remus’s own wounds, before walking over to sirius to change the bandages across his chest. it’s then that remus can see the damage he has done. the jagged tears across sirius’s chest make his stomach sink. he feels like he’s had the wind knocked out of him, and his eyes prickle with tears. how could he do this to someone he cares so deeply about? but as time passes, his eyes stubbornly refused to stay open, and he fell into a restless sleep.

when he woke up, a bandaged sirius was beside his bed, their fingers slotted together, and remus found such a comfort in the skin-to-skin contact. that was, until he remembered what happened. how they had arrived here. “pads, what did i do to you?”

“it’s my f–” sirius starts, but remus is shaking his head before he can even finish the sentence. because how can it be sirius’s fault when the wolf is bigger, stronger, faster, and so much better equipped to hurt him. how could sirius even want to be around him right now. he was a monster. fuck, he is a monster. and he always will be. there’s no cure for the shit that’s wrong with him, cursed to crave the hunt, cursed to hurt anyone that’s in the wrong place at the wrong time, with no regard for his best mate, for his boyfriend. his bruised arms wrap around his midsection in a self-soothing position, as he whispers something he never wanted to admit to. “you need to stay away from me.”

“moonpie,” remus winces at the nickname, “i promise, it’s my fault.” “sirius i fucking HURT you. you need to stay far fucking away from me.” “but i don’t want to– i care about you, moony.” “you don’t deserve someone like me. i’m a monster.” “you’re not a monster, remus. you’re a person.”“a person who turns into a bloodthirsty beast once a month, who can’t be stopped from hurting the people i love. you can’t– we can’t do this. you can’t stay with me.” his breath is labored and he feels like he’s panting with the force of his words. it hurts to say it out loud, but remus’s worst fears have been realized. the very thing he and his parents had tried so hard to prevent for his whole twelve years from the bite had happened. someone he loved had been injured by the wolf. this was something he wasn't sure he’d come back from. not when it was so deeply ingrained in him that he was a dangerous monster. not when his boyfriend had already been hurt so many times at the hands of people he cared about. if he couldn’t control the beast, how was he any better than the family sirius had run from? if he couldn’t keep the wolf from hurting sirius, how could sirius ever trust him again? would he even know to leave? would he be able to? remus wasn’t going to wait to find out. not when sirius was loyal to a fault and self-sacrificial, and remus knew there was no way sirius would prioritize his own well being over remus’s.

“i don’t think it’s your choice whether i stay in this relationship or not, moony.” “i might hurt you again, sirius!” “let me worry about whether or not i’m getting hurt, remus. please.”

his brow furrows even deeper, as his fingernails press into his palms tightly. he’s trying so hard to keep it together right now. “i can’t because you’re a self-sacrificial prat who won’t keep yourself safe! if you would worry about getting hurt i’d leave it to you! but you don’t! you never think about the consequences! and i can’t bear hurting you! it’s fucking over, black. just fucking go.”

sirius pulls his lip between his teeth, and nods curtly. because he can’t just sit here and argue with remus, no matter how badly he wants to. he doesn’t have it in him to go completely against remus’s wishes, when he so vehemently doesn’t want him there. so with a whispered i love you he leaves, in hopes of picking the conversation up later, when it’s less fresh in remus’s mind that there are cuts across his chest from the claws of the wolf. but until then, maybe space will remind him that they work better together. but for now, sirius thinks, they’ll just have to spend some time apart. behind him, he can hear a soft “i love you too, pads” and quiet crying, but sirius doesn’t know what the right answer is. should he stay, or go. he chooses the latter, because he doesn’t want to make it worse. he leaves remus alone, crying in the hospital wing, and desperately hopes to find a way to fix this.

#dizzymisssally #angsty af #wolfstar #wolfstar fic #tw #this is rl dark #wolfstar angst #remus lupin #sirius black #moony and padfoot

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inspired-by-the-music · 6 years ago

Text

Double Date: Lucas x Reader

Genre: tiny bit of angst; fluffy ending; featuring twin Mark

Word Count: 1,212

At least in part because of your shared birthday, you and Mark always had the same day. None of your friends dared to let their stare linger on you, either because they feared Mark's disapproval or because you were too much like him to be considered a serious romantic option.

You were in college when you realized that Lucas, Mark's best friend, made your heart race, but you weren't foolish enough to believe that anything would ever happen between you. So why did your heart seem to stop altogether when you overheard him planning a date before class?

As you entered the classroom, Lucas spoke into his phone, "Great, I'll pick you up at seven on Friday!" And he smiled broadly at you as you slinked into the seat next to him.

Despite the sudden weight in your chest, you forced a grin and asked, "Fun plans this weekend?"

That smile still tugged at his lips as he nodded. "Something like that."

. . .

There was no rational explanation for why you avoided Lucas all week following that interaction. You weren't angry, and you couldn't justify being hurt by his decision to date someone else when you hadn't even admitted to yourself that you liked him. But by Friday evening, you were still sulking in your room.

Mark made the short walk from his bedroom to yours and rapped his knuckles against your door. As he shrugged his jacket over his t-shirt, he asked, "If you're done moping about who knows what, do you wanna go bowling?"

Blushing at the realization that Mark had noticed your behavior, and not wanting to arouse further scrutiny, you agreed immediately. "Awww, twin bonding time!"

"Yeah, yeah," Mark grumbled as you enveloped him in a hug. "Quit smothering me, alright?"

"Sure, whatever." You obeyed and released him from your embrace before snagging the hat off his head. "But only if you let me borrow this."

. . .

Although all university entertainment centers were busiest on Fridays and Saturdays, you weren't prepared to see Lucas at the food court. Sitting next to him, her head thrown back in laughter, was your best friend.

You winced at the sight; sure, you never told anybody that you liked Lucas, but your friend was always teasing you for your allegedly obvious crush. So how could she justify going on a date with him?

Instinctively, you turned away from the scene and collided with Mark.

"Ow!" he shrieked before noticing your expression. He gripped your arms gently and lowered himself until you were forced to meet his eyes. "Seriously, Y/N, what's the matter? You've been acting like this all week."

Reddening under Mark's concerned stare, you squirmed and stole a glance over your shoulder. "It's nothing really. . ."

Mark followed your gaze and realized, "Are you talking about Lucas? You know, it doesn't take twin telepathy or whatever to realize that you have a thing for each other."

"Really?" You challenged, eyebrows raised. "Because whatever thing you're talking about it looking pretty one-sided to me."

Rolling his eyes, Mark tried to explain, "You assume too much. It's not what you think--"

Before Mark could finish, Lucas noticed you lingering by the entrance and tried to wave you over to his table.

You nudged Mark in the ribs to silence him. "Oh God-- he's noticed us. What are we gonna do?"

"I'm gonna go bowl," Mark pointed to himself as he spoke. Then, pressing his index finger to your forehead, he said, "You can either sit somewhere and mope or you can confront the fact that you're in love with Lucas."

You barely managed to catch Mark by the sleeve as he tried to walk away. In a low whisper, you argued, "First of all, I'm not in love with Lucas--"

Mark scoffed, "Yeah right! You wouldn't be so worked up over a small crush, goober."

"-- And how am I supposed to confront my feelings when he's on a date with my best friend?"

Sighing, Mark advised, "Y/N, I really think you should talk about this with Lucas. But I can't put up with your pout all night, so I'll go on and tell you that your friend isn't here for Lucas. She's here for me."

And before you could ask anything else, Mark strutted to the food court to greet Lucas and your friend with a broad smile.

You knew you couldn't avoid them forever-- and perhaps deep down you didn't want to-- but you couldn't' bring yourself to confront your feelings as Mark suggested. And you couldn't figure out what Mark meant about your friend being there for him. And you couldn't understand why Mark had to cryptically suggest that you discuss it with Lucas.

So instead of joining your friends, you wandered into the arcade to clear your head. It wasn't easy to focus when children tumbled into you, and video game sound effects disrupted your every thought, and couples seemed to occupy every game.

Soon after you realized that the wall of skeeball games against the back wall was all that was available, Lucas stepped beside you to slip quarters into the machine to your right. Officially, all efforts to organize your thoughts were thwarted.

"Did I do something wrong?" He asked soon into the silence.

His voice compelled you to look at him, but he was focused so intently at the game-- his eyes fixed on the overhead scoreboard-- that you wondered whether the voice had been nothing more than your conscience.

When you didn't respond, Lucas continued, "I wouldn't have agreed to set Mark up with your friend if I knew it would make you mad. I'm sorry."

Suddenly you realized that Mark was right: ou assumed too much. And the embarrassment of having to explain your misunderstanding mostly subsided when you noticed Lucas' pout.

Did concentrating on the game make it easier for him to confront you?

As if to test it, and to receive some relief yourself, you trained your eyes on the targets as you explained, "You didn't do anything wrong. I just thought you were going out with someone, and I was trying to get used to the thought of you with a girlfriend."

"Oh." You resisted the urge to glance at Lucas' reaction, but you swore you could almost hear the smile dancing on his lips. "Well, did you get used to it? Because I'm thinking of asking someone out."

You shook your head before realizing that Lucas probably wasn't looking at you. Then, you said, "No, not really. But I could try again if you really like someone."

"Well, don't give me the silent treatment again," Lucas begged before stepping behind you to take the ball out of your hand. "I like it. I only arranged this date with Mark and your friend because he said I couldn't date you without supervision. He said everything has to be a double date."

Jaw dropped, you turned to face Lucas. Pretending to be unphased by the lack of space between you, you asked, "You mean to tell me, my brother has been watching me mope around all week, and he knew you wanted to ask me out?"

"Are you really surprised?" Lucas laughed, and you shook your head.

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nev3rfound · 6 years ago

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leaving the guardians: chapter four - b.b

brief summary: being a guardian of the galaxy and falling in love with bucky.

one / two / three / four / five / six / seven / eight

hope you like it! the next part is actually the last part so thank you all for reading :) (hoping to get the last part up soon before everyone watches endgame, but idk how likely that’ll be but I can try or at least hope)

* masterlist *

Three days of silence, sitting inside of the room they provided me with whilst I contemplated what I’d agreed to.

I wouldn’t see my family again, I’d become one of them. I wouldn’t see the downfall of Thanos, be a part of that victory. Instead, I’d be here on Earth, somewhere I haven’t called my home in two decades.

A light knock on the door averts my attention from the furniture before me. Lowering my arm the furniture falls back to the ground, rather than hovering in the air. It had been a while since I’ve played with my powers, they became too unpredictable to use so I silenced them for as long as I could.

“Who is it?” I call out as I pull the hems of my sleeves, covering my hands as the marks of purple spread, a sign I’ve overdone it on my abilities.

Weakly I rise from the floor as I feel my energy wasting away as I lean against the wall, my hand outstretched towards the doorknob as a small sigh sounds from the other side. “It’s me doll,” He speaks softly as if he’s regretful of turning up. “please, lemme in?”

I remain still as I focus on the doorknob, my eyes zoning in on it as it starts to turn, but I can see black spots in my vision as I reach out, forcing it open. Smiling up to him I watch as he opens his mouth, his lips moving but I can’t hear anything.

“Bucky,” I mumble as I feel my body losing consciousness and I weakly land in his arms, completely blacking out.

Opening my eyes I could feel a vibration beneath me as if I were hovering above the ground. “What the-” Muttering under my breath I look around, seeing a series of cables and wires sticking out all over the place.

“You’re awake?” With a quick turn of my head, I groan loudly. Reaching up I touch the back of my head, feeling it wet through my hair.

My vision continues to blur as a figure holds his hand out before me, “Who’re you?” I ask as I blink, slowly feeling myself being helped into a chair as it sways from side to side.

The face in front of me moves closer as I blink more rapidly, the smell he radiates being one all too familiar to home. “You really don’t recognise me after what? Eight years?” He laughs and I rub my eyes and finally, my vision is no longer like a mosaic.

A small laugh escapes my lips as I force myself upright, jumping into his arms as he tightly hugs me back. “Oh my god, Peter.” I can feel him laughing against me as we remain in each other embrace after almost a decade. “Where the hell have you been?!” Quickly my excitement turns to pure confusement and anger.

Pulling me away from him Peter scratches the back of his neck, motioning for me to sit down as he keeps the view ahead blocked off. “This might be a lot to take in, okay? And I know, it sounds crazy but you gotta believe me.”

Slowly I nod in response, my eyes widening as his hands take hold of mine. “Alright, what’s going on?”

“Well, the night I went missing I was kidnapped by a blue alien who told me I had to work for him or he’d eat me.” Peter clears his throat before looking back at me, the stunned expression on my face priceless.

“Okay, but seriously, what happened?” I ask, and when he doesn’t respond he merely turns his head to the side.

“See for yourself, sis.”

Peter’s hands slip from mine as he rises to his feet, moving forward allowing me to look out of the large windows.

A small gasp leaves my lips as before us is the universe, so many stars pinpricking the sky like flicks of white paint. The swirls of colour coming together as tears roll down my eyes.

“Pete, this is beautiful.” I mutter as I glance to the side. “But, but how?”

“Blue aliens, all I gotta say.”

“Hey, Y/n, Y/n?” My body shakes as a pair of arms remain around my shoulders, swaying me lightly as a groan leaves my lips, the desire to remain asleep too desireful than being awake. “Come on, you gotta wake up.” A heavy sigh sounds from the person holding me as my subconscious begins to wake up.

“I’m tired.” I mutter and a sigh of relief follows from them.

“Jesus, doll. Scared the crap outta me.” Bucky lifts me up into his arms, holding me close as I begin to open my eyes and smile up at him. “You been practising?” He asks, but I know he can tell.

The furniture is all out of place, my sleeves have been rolled up revealing the purple veins through my arms and into the palms of my hands. There’s no point lying as there’s too much evidence against me.

“Trying to at least,” I quietly response as I pull myself from his embrace sharply before walking away towards the sofa and slowly declining into it, not wanting to show how weak I truly feel. “turns out, not using them for a few years isn’t wise.” My words come out breathless as my throat remains dry, my heart pounding.

“You can’t overwork yourself, Y/n.” Bucky states as he remains by the door, hovering as he shuts it, leaving us alone with no intruders to overhear.

“I haven’t got a choice, Bucky!” I retort and as I glare to him I watch as the clock beside him drops to the ground, the glass smashing. “Sorry.” I lower my head as I raise my hands to disguise the tears.

“It’s alright,” The sound of him walking over glass, the crumpled sound sends my mind back, tormenting me of past memories. “it’s okay, you’re okay,” His hand rests on my back, soothing me with soft words as I allow myself to fall into his arms, letting all my walls down. “you’re okay, I’m here.” He lightly kisses my head, something I can tell he’s hesitant about as his lips linger, unsure if to move too soon or stay too long.

“Don’t let go.” I quietly plead as I hold onto his arms as I close my eyes. “I feel so weak, Buck.”

It was the sort of drained I couldn’t describe other than feeling like a dying battery. Any willpower I had left in me was giving up, shutting down at last until I could have nothing else to give.

“I won’t, I won’t let go, not ever.” He mutters as I allow my body to give in, let the batteries recharge in the hope I can face them all tomorrow.

“All I’m askin’ is for you to slither in there, grab me that rock and get out without being seen.” Peter explains and I roll my eyes as I glance down the side of the building.

“You’re aware of the several guards? With guns?” I retort as Peter sighs. “Sorry if I don’t want to risk my life for the sake of more money, Pete. I didn’t sign up for this, remember?”

My statement hangs in the air as he turns away in defeat.

“Pete, I didn’t mean it like that-” I start but he raises his hand as he turns around, slipping his jacket on.

“I know you didn’t. But home wasn’t safe for you anymore. There are things we gotta talk about and this is the best place for you to learn and open your mind,” Peter states as he slips on his headphones, playing his cassette that Mom left him.

“Peter come on, that was a low blow!” I call out but he gives me the finger, singing along to his music as I collapse back into the chair. “God we gotta get some crewmates,” I mutter as I play snake on my phone, the only thing that will work in space.

Sitting down I glance behind me, checking to see if he’s still there.

With a small smile he gives me a thumbs up and I turn back around, only to be greeted by Peter wearing an evident unimpressed face. “Why the hell does tin man have to be here when this is a family situation?” Gamora sighs as Peter crosses his arms.

“Peter,” She starts but Peter cuts her off, leaning forward across the table from me.

“No, I’m saying it. Last time that freak was here you were pressured into using your powers, he’s watching you like a piece of meat, sis. And I’m not standing for it!” He slams his hand on the table and slowly retracts it.

“That hurt genius?” I ask sarcastically as he shakes his head whilst cradling his hand against his chest. “Look, Bucky is my friend,” Pausing I take a second to think about what I’m saying as I become hyper-aware that Bucky can hear everything I’m saying. “and, and he’s looking after me. Part of the deal was I had to be monitored, even during family meetings.”

“Can he at least stop smiling? Dudes a creep.” Peter scoffs and I turn around, seeing Bucky wear a smug smile before I raise an eyebrow to him and the smile is gone, replaced by serious soldier Bucky.

“Happy now?” Rocket asks as he leans forward in his chair. “Look kid, we get it, you ain’t got a choice but you could’ve fought harder to not leave,” Rocket tries to justify what he’s saying, but I can feel the energy in my veins rising with anger.

“It’s not like that,” I snark as I clench my jaw, avoiding their harsh gazes.

“Y/n,” Gamora speaks softly, reaching out and resting her hand on top of mine. “I understand.”

Opening my eyes she doesn’t focus on the purple rising through my skin, she studies my eyes and the fear they hold. “I don’t want to lose you guys,” My lower lip trembles as I look at each of them, their expressions now softening. “but if we want to defeat Thanos, this, this is the only way.”

“There are other ways, Y/n,” Drax comments as he avoids my gaze as tears fill my eyes. “who’s going to make brunch?”

Letting out a small laugh I sniff as Drax smiles softly. “I’m sure Mantis could cook,” I comment and suddenly I stiffen as I look around. “Wait, where’s Mantis?”

Everyone exchanges the same panicked filled expressions as Drax begins to howl with laughter to himself as he clenches his stomach. “Oh, Mantis so stupid!” He continues to laugh as I glance behind, motioning for Bucky to stand down as he lowers his clenched fists.

“Drax, where did you leave Mantis?” Gamora asks sternly as she glares to Drax who meets her gaze and wipes his eyes.

“I am groot.” Groot comments and I bury my head in my hands.

“Really Drax?” I shake my head in disbelief to stop my smile rising.

“She wanted to see what was out there so I encouraged her to look,” Drax shrugs his shoulders as he looks at all of us as if it were no big deal.

“Drax, you left Mantis on Bonverion! She could be swallowed whole by one of their stupid rock formations.” Peter rolls his eyes as he turns to face Gamora. “Well, guess we gotta change course for a rescue call then.”

Silence returns as Peter finishes his sentence and we all sit, letting it hang in the air. I know Peter isn’t okay, that he’ll never be okay about leaving me, but this time he doesn’t have a choice.

“What am I going to do without you, Y/n?” Peter mutters softly as he focuses on the desk in front of him. His tone returning to mellow, the fear evident of losing me. “What if you do something stupid and blow up the planet?”

“Wouldn’t be a first,” I half joke as I see the scar on his temple from that incident, a permanent reminder.

“So this is really it?” Rocket asks as he rises to his feet on the chair, standing tall.

“I guess,” I respond and watch as his ears fall down and Groot watches me closely, no longer enamoured with his vines growing from his limps. “I, I didn’t think this would ever happen, me, leaving you guys.” Swallowing the lump in my throat we all rise to our feet, moving around the table as Gamora brings me into her arms, not hesitating to bring me into a tight embrace.

“Do us proud, kid.” She whispers as she pulls away and glances up to Peter who holds back as Drax picks me up off of the ground.

“Can’t feel my legs,” I cough out as Drax crushes me in his arms, but I choke a laugh knowing he means well.

“I’ll get Quill to send a postcard or a selfie as that’s a thing the beautiful pirate taught me.” Drax smiles proudly and I pat his chest lightly.

Rocket and Groot walk over in defeat as I bend down and sit on the floor in between the two of them. “You know, when we first met, you tried to kill me,” I remind them and watch as a smile perks up on Rocket’s face.

“You were priceless kid, still are.” Rocket comments as he punches my arm whilst Groot holds out his hand, producing a flower.

“I am Groot.” He whispers as I accept the flower.

“Thank you Groot, I’ll keep it close.”

Everyone moves aside as I rise to my feet and Peter stands with his hands in his pockets. “I didn’t see this coming when we crashed,” He tries to joke but I shake my head.

“Peter, I’m not going to be around to boss you about or to tell you when you’re wrong. I know Gamora will, but you gotta listen to her, okay? You’re the Captain, flying solo now. I can’t be the small arms and hands you need anymore,” I explain as tears fall freely down my cheeks. “That sounded better in my head, but that’s beside the point.”

“I’ll do my best, sis, to make you proud.” Peter brings me into a hug as I feel him slip something into my pocket. “Don’t look just yet, look when we’re gone.” Pulling me away he rests his hands on my shoulders. “God, when did you grow up so much?”

Shrugging my shoulders I let out a dry laugh. “I guess one of us had to.”

“Guys?” Rocket speaks up as we turn around, seeing Tony and Fury stood in the doorway with Bucky behind them.

“Is it time?” I ask as I wipe my eyes and Tony simply nods.

Everyone slowly begins to walk out, taking a piece of my soul with them. Peter lingers in the room as his hand slips from my shoulder, “Do us proud, yeah?” He simply nods before walking out of the room, followed by Tony and Fury.

“Y/n?” Bucky asks quietly and I walk over, burying my face into his chest.

“Am I doing the right thing, Bucky?” I plead and he lets out a small sigh, his bright blue eyes not leaving mine.

“You’re doing what’s best for your family, and that’s probably the most selfless thing I’ve seen.” He kisses my forehead as I remain in his embrace, not wanting to listen out for the sound of the ship leaving and my life along with it.

taglist for this series (thank you for the endless support)

@iheartsebastianstan @vgirl10123 @just-a-littlebit-of-everything@hour-to-hourglass @caitsymichelle13

#bucky #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes imagines #guardians of the galaxy #guardians of the galaxy imagine #gotg #gotg imagine #avengers imagine #avengers imagines #avengers au #avengers writing #avengers x reader #marvel imagine #marvel imagines #marvel writing #marvel #marvel fluff

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icosmohunters · 5 years ago

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chapter eleven : easter sunday

chapter eleven of cosmo hunters!

word count : 8.3k words

synopsis : easter is perhaps the best holiday to go back home to. after having come back to new orleans, hope has begun to familiarize herself with the town she neglected returning to for so long. a breakaway from exploration, and a time for bonding.

for a while, she was accustomed to waking up to a low hum of her ship. at times she would hear the miniature drips from the tap in the bathroom, or the radiators turning on upon sensing her stir or awake in the middle of the night. artificial sounds for a person who lived on a spaceship.

in the time where she had been far from home, she had lost her connection from the ambient sounds that was ensued from a fresh morning. the birds singing, the rattling of pans in the kitchen, the chatter from the road outside her window, the faint jazz that could be heard from next door.

hope left new orleans nearly a year ago and hasn’t come back, so it was strange to awake to something that wasn’t her alarm clock. it was more like a weight pressing against her sides, not one to bother but one to be aware of. this bit of weight also had some soft hair brushing against the side of her face.

it took her some blinks to adjust. being bathed in sunlight at the sight of your old bedroom growing up was a sensation that not many can describe. not a thing had been touched, relics of a young hope who had unfortunately grown up from her band phases and her obsession with plushies, and who had now developed into a particularly cold woman.

this cold woman, though, was able to stir on her side and bring her brother’s sleeping figure closer, seeing that some of the bedsheets had slipped from his body. upon adjusting it over him, she saw his sleeping face soften and his breathing deepen, he was fast asleep.

from what she had heard, he had the same problem with sleeping that she did. the inability to relax and let go of the events you went through that day, the fight to let the night became your ally and something to rely on when your body needed the rest it craved. instead, the night became more of a sour friend, one which you would greet through your waking moments and continue to bathe in until the sun entered.

it was surprising, to say the least. she never thought insomnia could affect people on such a large scale, especially for a kid his age. but the absence of fun and lively activities that tired him supposedly made him more active and it was harder to put him to bed. he was going to turn eleven in may and yet he had a sleep disorder that should’ve affected him in the later years of his teenagehood.

he’s been through a lot, she thought to herself, brushing her fingers against every delicate detail on his face. connor had been robbed of his childhood because of this sudden illness that took hold of him, and there wasn’t a fiber in his sister’s body that didn’t want to get rid of it. but it required time and a lot of money. money might not be an issue, it was just time. time which hope may not have. because time was the catalyst for the paralyzation.

fighting through an early frown, hope allowed this embrace to linger for just a little longer, to provide the kid the warmth she had failed to give him during the time he needed her the most. hope felt awful for having left him, and she wanted to do anything to make up for it.

but to think that she’s going to be gone even after all of this is over . . . again.

sighing, hope looked down to her bed and saw something soft peeking through the sheets. she knew it was soft the moment she saw the dent and felt her feet brush against something composed of fluff. reaching from within the bedsheets, she grasped and fished out something that had her smiling from ear to ear.

it was harold, the duckie. he had been quite a big part of hope’s childhood. after winning him at a funfair, he was the equivalent of a best friend when the girl found herself unpopular in the early stages of elementary school. when people wouldn’t be her friend, harold was there to give her a cuddle when she felt loneliest.

he had quite a big head and two pink spots on his cheeks, suggesting a timid and embarrassing set of blushes. the outfit hope had picked for him was a t-shirt housing the name of her favorite football team, the new orleans saints. very patriotic but she loved being from this tropical town in the south.

aside from the aging smell of fabric, nothing on this yellow friend had changed. he remained still as adorably angry and fluffy as usual, and she knew mostly it was because of connor’s soft touch when it came to toys, he treated them with care. especially harold.

the young woman could almost imagine how he ended up here when he was supposed to be on the shelves with all the other plushies. connor had most likely reached to them and brought it with him when he determined to tuck in beside his sister.

setting her yellow friend to the side, hope turned back to connor whose lashes were batting and eyes flickered between the border of being awake and remaining in his blissful dreams. but as heartbreaking as it was to wake him up when he needed sleep the most, she found that she had to.

“ wake up, tyke. ”

he stirred slightly, and then the stygian pair of eyes soon looked back towards her, eyes which resembled hers in almost every way. they housed a brightness that can only be seen in that of children. the innocence remained in his soul, perhaps justifying his purity and goodness and inability to do bad things even though he might be tempted.

there was a cluster of stars in the eyes of this child and hope never wished them to burn out, as all stars do. she knew this constellation would be eternal.

connor soon smiled and rubbed his pure eyes with his hands that had balled into fists and then loosened to pat around in search of something. she then placed harold back into his grasp and offered the boy a meek smile. “ i wanted to make sure he wasn’t lonely ”, he uttered in perhaps the softest voice she had heard yet.

hope rose on her elbow and allowed her cheek to lean against the open palm of her hand. “ does he get lonely when i’m not around? ”, she asked delicately and connor nodded. “ i can’t blame him, we were really good friends growing up. ”

suddenly, the mellowness in connor’s face was contorted with an expression hope never wanted to see again, and it was that of some sort of puzzlement intertwined with deep sadness, something a kid should never feel at this early stage. sadness was a universal feeling, and no one deserved it no matter how natural it was.

“ i think he’s going to be my only friend ”, connor croaked and then held harold to his chest, squeezing him so tightly it felt like he was throwing all of his strength onto a plushie, the type of embrace you’d see a kid giving a reliable adult. yet he remained so innocent. “ s-some kids at school don’t like to sit with me. they don’t play with me because my wheelchair gets in the way. ”

hope had to lower her head for a while. this was exactly what she feared. the prejudice that people show can easily be mistaken by something else in the naive mind of a child, they’re too young to learn about the problems of the world, they shouldn’t have to be exposed to any sort of maltreatment at this age.

especially if it was a personal experience. she couldn’t even begin to imagine the face of her younger brother drop as he watches the kids outside being able to swing from monkey bars and squeal down a slide or dance through hopscotch. he was different. and he was labeled as different because no one was willing to make him feel like he could be like everyone else.

and that’s what she hated, what made her blood boil, what made her want to grab a fucker by the throat and slam them against the wall before asking, ‘he’s a kid, why do you make him feel as if he deserves this?!’. because he didn’t. he didn’t deserve any of it. he didn’t ask for the illness and he most certainly didn’t ask to be treated like an alien when the sickness already took half of his childhood away.

instead of making him feel like he’s worthy of some sort of happiness, regardless of what it takes the form of, they choose to humiliate him and make him feel separate from everyone else. a kid should never feel like they have to separate themselves from people, that people don’t want to be near them. kids like connor had to feel like they were capable of imprinting the world with color instead of staining it with hatred.

hope might have not been there for him during these times, she knew of her absence and how it might have hurt her darling brother. it was why she pulled him into her arms and allowed his body to relax once more against hers. it was why she tried to give time for him now, to utter some words that might hopefully stick with him.

“ ever heard of universal kindness? ”, she inquired and felt the gentle head shake against her neck. “ it’s being able to be good and kind to everyone no matter what they say or do. some people aren’t universally kind, connor. but you are. you’re the kindest kid i’ve ever met and i’m so . . .”. she had to pause as to avoid getting emotional.

“ i-i’m beyond proud, i’m more than proud of you for that. so even when people aren’t kind to you, never let it be a reason for you to give up on people. always try to be people’s friends because one day, there is going to be that one person who will play with you and like you even if you’re in a wheelchair. ”

her fingers now brushed through his jet black locks and tickled behind his ear, he seemed to have relaxed once more. and upon taking a glance down, she noticed that beam return to his face and that’s what gave her the strength to return it, giving him a light squeeze in her arms.

i may be the most flawed individual in this world but there is nothing i wouldn’t do for my baby brother or my family, she thought.

it was difficult to get out of bed, especially with the cuddle he was giving her but the moment she heard the rattling of pans grow louder and the smell of pancakes with apples and cinnamon, her stomach roared and she was soon making her bed and getting ready for the day.

connor had managed to get back on his wheelchair and went to immediately see his mother whilst hope chose her outfit for the day and then opted to shower first before anything else. except, of course, someone was already in the shower and she had to wait.

once the door opened, she leaned off from the wall and spotted dom. his hair seemed to have been washed as it appeared wet and he looked refreshed, some tinted pinkness in his cheeks from the shower but it wasn’t natural enough to disguise the bruise.

she glanced at him for a moment when he took notice of her and gave out a grumbled good morning. her lips quivered but she chose to speak, “ what are you using to make it heal quicker? ”.

he stopped slightly and turned to look at her, fixing a cold gaze onto her figure. she gulped and continued. “ the bruise. it might heal quicker if you use something on it rather than covering it up with make-up. i-i can ask my mom to make somet— ”.

“ —is the guilt starting to settle in, captain? ”.

her cheeks now burned.

perhaps she did feel a slap of guilt across the face every time she saw it, it wasn’t a nice sight and it wasn’t nice at all to know that she was behind it. having received a similar injury before, she could tell it hurt. but what angered her the most was why she had done it in the first place.

thinking back on it now, it was rather childish. but then again, he had struck a nerve he shouldn’t have. it was difficult to tell exactly who was at fault, but hope knew she had done it regardless and she didn’t want to be reminded of it every time she saw the purple mark just below his eye.

“ y-yes, it is ”, she managed to say. but then didn’t linger long enough to see his reaction. she found that she was growing vulnerable around these people, allowing her weaknesses to be seen. she’s never been bashful near anyone, yet here she was.

hope entered the bathroom and closed the door firmly behind her, before letting out a sigh of relief.

it was a good ten minutes inside that bathroom, taking care of herself and allowing just a few moments to relax, she can’t easily lay back and enjoy a tender moment with her family like some people. hence why when she came home, it was always counted as a special occasion.

rarely getting in touch with her feminine side, hope decided that a summer dress would do underneath a denim jacket. this was mostly how she dressed at home, her mother would often wear clothes that made her look ten years younger. it was a trend in the everhart house to never get old.

“ there she is! ”.

hope smiled sweetly at her mother upon entering the kitchen. the pancakes she made every easter had remained a tradition since before hope was even born, so it was no wonder her dad was up early and so was connor, eating and chatting away at the table.

peering into the living room, she spotted vivienne braiding dawn’s hair for the day, though she didn’t see enzo nor quinn. it was weird, enzo had completely disappeared last night and supposedly he came back when most were still asleep.

vivienne, looking up, saw the puzzled expression on the captain’s face. “ he’s still in bed, i suppose he got some severe jet-lag and crashed after a trip to the bar last night ”, she voiced.

“ he went to the bar? ”, hope repeated.

“ yes, with dominic. ”

sighing, hope wandered to where he was staying. he had crashed in connor’s room, and she could tell this because she saw his bag as soon as she pushed the door open. and there enzo was, still tucked away in bed, bare arms exposed to the fresh exhales of the wind entering through the open windows.

so he had gone out for a drink. she didn’t know much about the guy’s background nor if he was accustomed to earth, but most people tended to go to bars for a breakaway from the hectic lives they lead. a pirate must lead a hectic lifestyle, even if it consists mainly of stealing and running from authorities.

just how exhausted was he? hope walked over and let a passing gaze over his sleeping face before leaning down slightly and shaking him by the arm, he grunted and soon his eyes flew open. “ morning, cap. breakfast is served ”, she mumbled and allowed him to slowly sit up.

“ uh . . . w-what time is it? ”, enzo asked through a yawn.

“ nine o’clock. we mostly sleep in during easter but mom has some nice things planned for all of us ”, she replied. his eyes lingered around the simple bedroom belonging to her brother before resting on her. “ you should really get ready and dressed, it’ll be fun. and i’ll ask dad to whip you up a shake for the hangover. ”

“ what will it consist of? ”.

“ well, bananas, blueberries, watermelon . . . maybe some eggs if you decide you’re going to take an eternity— ”.

“ —i’m up. ”

back in the kitchen, hope was able to sit down with a plate of those magical pancakes along with a glass of apple juice. and for the first time in a while, she took her tea having her meal rather than rushing it and not savoring the flavor, a flavor she’s missed for so long.

whilst eating, she listened in on the plans for the day. there was an easter egg hunting competition a couple of roads down and connor was looking forward to going. after that, it was a lovely evening at a jazz restaurant and when the sun had set, a boat ride in the bayou at night. three things that were going to occupy her day and she was looking forward to it.

every time she went home, it was like a moment of healing. being among her family members and catching up with the things she missed and providing the affection she kept to herself, it was all a healing experience. it was like being among nature, being where you feel safe.

before they could leave, though, hope decided she needed to do something to thank her mother for the day she had planned ahead for everyone. she was always a woman who gave to others and then never took anything back, never asked for anything back. truly humbled, truly kind. it was no wonder connor was the kind boy he was.

so in order to recompensate for the things had been given to her, provided to her by the mother she had, she decided that some flowers would suffice as a semblance of gratitude. she took her purse and was out the door in a few minutes, her converse tapping against the sidewalk.

immediately, she was greeted by the sun beaming down on her, and it was refreshing, to say the least, after having not felt it properly in a while. it was like a welcoming but ghostly embrace from an old friend.

there was a flower shop stationed not too far from where they had eaten yesterday, a five-minute walk from her house if she hurried. and she did, she didn’t want to miss the easter egg hunt.

soon, she saw it, the flower shop named honeycomb. it was a family business that has been in the town for nearly fifty years, it was there even before her parents were born. and within, she saw a figure walking among the flowers. hope entered through the veranda and past the first few gardenias and poppies and towards this figure.

it was rare to see her in these instances, she would often be away at university and hardly came back to celebrate holidays that weren’t christmas or thanksgiving. but it was good to see her, regardless.

many people thought hope and this girl were perhaps siblings as they shared similar appearances, but their personalities were almost total opposites. hope was cold, and she was warm. hope was sour, and she was sweet. it was in her name.

honey lee.

the girl was hope’s age, if not a year younger. and she could easily be classified as a girl anyone dreams of having at your side, whether it be as a friend or as a lover. not only did she harness that docile aura that you can get lost in, but she also held the personality that made her remarkable. a personality hope sometimes envied, but honey was an advocate for self-love so that doesn’t last very long.

hair curled and rich in brown, honey turned upon sensing the presence beside her and widened her bright, green eyes. “ hope!”, she gasped and welcomed her into a tender hug, hope smiled and squeezed the girl gently in her arms. “ oh my god, it’s so good to see you! i didn’t know you were coming back. ”

“ yeah, well neither did i ”, hope mumbled and pulled back for a moment but didn’t part from the hug, it was too much of a good hug to part from. “ you got a perm, i’m loving the hair. are you working today? ”.

honey nodded softly, “ but only for the morning. dad’s hoping to have a barbeque after the sunday service but we might not go. it all depends on how he’s feeling. god, you look so pretty. ” hope grinned. “ so, what are you looking for? ”.

keeping an arm around the girl’s waist, hope hummed. “ mom’s been doing quite a lot for me lately. she’s got the entire day planned and i wanted to get her some flowers as a form of gratitude ”, she explained. “ care to lend me some flower power? ”.

“ flower power? i’ll give you some. ”

honey was a magician when it came to flowers, knowledgable in almost every sense of the word and she knew how to bring a bouquet together to summon a message, whatever the message was, whether it was of gratitude or a love confession or an apology.

what she had wrapped for hope was a mixture of pink roses with sweat peas and the fragrance that erupted from it caused her nose to tickle slightly and her eyes to water but it was a beautiful mixture of colors nonetheless. it was hard to convince honey to be paid for the service, she often led the assumption that she had to do things for the sake of charity on special days.

but just today, hope wanted to be a normal customer. and one that pays. so whilst leaving the shop and saying goodbye to the girl, she shifted to shove the money into her pockets and bolted when she yelled and asked her to come back.

“ hope! ”.

“ happy easter, honey! ”.

the venue for the egg hunting game was not too far from her, though she had to hurry as to avoid being late, passing by hortense’s house and grinning from ear to ear whilst racing through the market. it was held at an open field nearby the playground by connor’s school, he hadn’t stopped talking about it the night before.

by the time she got there, some families were already present and hope struggled to spot her or any of the pirates until she saw dawn hopping on her feet eagerly, she seemed quite lively today like she had cracked out of her shell. and new orleans does that to a person, it served as a catalyst for breaking out of any bounds holding you back from having a good time.

“ there she is ”, she heard her mother’s gentle voice calling and then heard it gasp when the flowers came into view. “ oh my god, who are you proposing to? ”.

hope laughed and pretended to offer it to vivienne, who caught onto the act and put on an exaggerated gasp whilst preparing to accept it before hope swiveled towards her mother and placed the bouquet into her arms. “ it’s for you. you helped plan this entire day out, it’s only nice that i offer something in return ”, the girl exclaimed.

“ oh, honey! ”.

“ she helped me pick it, actually. ”

it was difficult to be complemented with the tender pet name when you knew someone who’s legal name was just that. but she accepted the pleasant hug her mother gave her and looked about to see connor who was already taking part in the hunt. it was obvious he was being a little slow, and hope decided she could help him to pick up the pace.

there was an area for the parents with some beverages and snacks, but hope neglected it and chose to help her brother out. she picked her own basket and smiled fondly when connor spotted her, “ i only managed to pick three. ”

“ three? well, i’ll help you find some more. we can work as a team ”, she proposed. and it was indeed enjoyable. it wasn’t like hunting for convicted criminals who were wanted for bloody massacres and stealing millions but it was most definitely pleasant, distracting her from any thoughts that may have previously dared to bother her.

it was time to swift her mind into something domestic, she realized. it was good to focus on your work but it was even better to focus on the things that might matter slightly more, like your family.

there were eggs scattered all around and hope was able to search through bushes and look behind tables and under chairs and between tree branches in search of some, and gradually her basket began to grow heavier. she would put some eggs into connor’s basket so he wasn’t completely hopeless but he was managing it quite well himself.

she recalled climbing up a tree trunk and latching her fingers onto a branch to get the small nest of colored eggs and then hearing giggles from below, only to realize that some cheeky little children had tried to run off with her basket but thank goodness, her dad came to the rescue, tempting them with a little game of tag that easily distracted them, and hope then recovered her basket.

it was a ten-minute hunt for chocolate eggs but it felt like something more special, something that would be imprinted in the back of her mind as a pleasant memory that isn’t to be forgotten. especially after seeing connor’s face when she dumped the eggs into his basket, he gasped and just threw his arms around her waist.

his happiness was all that mattered to hope.

after ten minutes, a whistle was blown and the kids were told to stop chasing and to come to take a break. the eggs they got would be taken home and eaten, but many of the adults told them to share rather than hog all the chocolates for themselves.

connor hovered over with his basket on his lap, hope accompanied him not too far behind. “ i don’t think i’m going to be able to eat this all myself so you guys can have it as well! ”, he said and held the basket over to his parents and then to the pirates.

enzo cooed, “ this kid’s got some manners. i never shared when i was younger. ”

“ it explains a lot of things now ”, dom uttered, chuckling at the small rude he heard in response.

but even if they huddled around and tried to open their chocolate eggs, hope’s mother swept in quickly and told them to save it for later. because now it was time for lunch, and their table had already been reserved at another restaurant that was just as good as the one from yesterday.

of course, knowing her father’s tastes, it was a jazz bar. there wasn’t anything like in the places she’s visited outside of her hometown, not even some places in the colonies that basically carried entire chunks of culture to outer space. but perhaps that was the charm of it. sometimes things were just better off where they originated from.

on the walk there, hope had opened up some chocolate eggs, and offered it to the person walking not too far away from her, dom. he glanced at it and then took the piece, snapping it in half and savoring it. “ how are you finding it here? ”, she asked. having never had a proper conversation with dom, this was like a breath of fresh air. perhaps a fresh start. unless if he wasn’t willing to let what happened to go.

“ good. artistic and colorful, not what i’m used to but it’s better than the same old bottom end of the top bunk and enzo snoring the night away ”, he replied, a hand tucked into his pocket. hope chuckled and shook her head gently. “ you look happier, though. smiling more, talking more. i suppose being at home restores your energy. ”

for a moment, it felt like he understood her. she paid him a small, meek smile and then nodded. “ it gets lonely on the ship. having no one to talk to, no one to drink with or have dinner with. it’s quiet, sometimes too quiet. and i only realize that after i leave new orleans. it’s a hub of sound and people, i miss it a lot when i leave ”, she said. “ plus, my family is like . . . my safe haven. ”

“ i see ”, dom uttered and grew quiet for a moment, but it wasn’t awkward. often it feels better to talk to someone rather than allowing the same tense air to drift between you that just damages the chance of getting along. “ hope, t-that guy from the restaurant yesterda— ”.

“ —malakai. ”

“ is that his name? ”.

“ want to introduce yourself now? ”.

it seemed to take dom a moment to realize that the said male was just across the street the moment they arrived at the restaurant. there was a small queue to be seated and hope realized she would be in plain view of the tan and gorgeous male. and for some reason, she didn’t want to be.

because it took her a while yesterday to figure it out, that being with malakai whilst the pirates were around was exceptionally dangerous. he had a keen eye, he was one to question and expect answers, he wasn’t passive like hiro who just let things be. he challenged and became suspicious, it was why he was in the communications branch.

and exposing the pirates to his dangerous pair of eyes could be . . . damaging. for hope and for the pirates, especially when he figures out that they most certainly didn’t work for voyage.

he met eyes with the bounty hunter and beamed from across the street before taking off to meet her. her gaze went to dom who turned slightly to face the male, whilst also taking a small step to stand just barely in front of hope. she blinked and then saw malakai approach. “ happy easter, hope! ”, he cheered and looked towards dom. “ and who’s this? ”.

“ t-this is, uh— ”.

“ a friend. nice to meet you. ”

dom even went in for the assertive handshake, but hope never saw malakai’s smile falter, he grinned and accepted it. “ hi, friend. i suppose you’re both out to enjoy the celebration ”, he said and hope nodded softly. “ well, that’s great, so am i. uh, hope, do you want to meet up later? ”.

“ w-well— ”.

dom stepped in, “ she’s kinda busy the whole day, can’t you drop in a text message or an email, to be more professional? ”. she really felt like her jaw was on the floor, he was so cold! “ i mean, you’re workmates, aren’t you? you’d think that if it’s business talk, it should be classified and formal. ”

malakai’s expression froze slightly. but hope could almost see the gears in his mind struggling, grinding against each other. he wasn’t accustomed to people like dom who so easily assert, well, dominance. this was the first time hope has witnessed it herself, and she was rather impressed.

perhaps he understood the danger as well, dom never missed a single detail. he seemed like the type to always be careful, always take precautions. that’s why maybe he’s hesitant in diving into things head first like the mission with the puppeteer. hope looked over at quinn slightly and frowned.

“ i suppose you’ve made yourself some pretty formal friends, hope ”, malakai uttered and the girl, once again, replied with a very meek smile. it’s what she often turns to when finding herself speechless in front of this particular boy. “ but you’re right. i will send you an email instead. or, perhaps see you later tonight? ”.

she saw dom was going to butt in almost immediately through the way his lips opened but she quickly pressed a hand to his arm and leaned towards malakai, “ we can talk tomorrow. i’ll still be here before we leave. we have an important task to complete. ”

“ oh. ”

malakai, with his hands tucked behind his back, then took a step behind him. “ well, i suppose i should get going, i don’t want to get in the way of your evening. so . . . hope, friend . . . ”. dom nodded coldly. “ i’ll see you soon. ”

it was weird, seeing him walking away with an expression that wasn’t a smile. she always saw him as an easy-going person, someone you could easily talk to but aspects of his persona often disturbed hope in ways that can’t simply be explained. there was something that kept him from being totally trustworthy, and perhaps it was the fact that he was a colleague, someone who shouldn’t know of her interactions with people she’s supposed to be putting in jail.

looking at dom, his gaze never wavered from malakai until he was completely out of sight, she even shook him gently. “ you can look away now ”, she uttered.

“ hope ”, he started. “ i know we got off on the wrong foot and that you may want to hear this from anyone else but me. but if this guy tries anything, tries to say or do something, don’t be surprised. because something’s wrong with him. ” he looked down at her. “ keep your eye on him. ”

“ i-i will! ”.

it was tense but the moment was gone just as quickly as it had started, and soon they were within the walls of the restaurant. safe, hope thought. at least there was a sense of privacy and safety now that she had sat into a large group.

now, the lunch lasted way longer than a normal meal. and it was mostly because of the dozen conversations going on around the table, with her dad striking a debate with vivienne on the morals that had been established on venus and hope’s mother asking dawn what she likes to cook. on the side, quinn and dom seemed to be discussing the food and enzo and connor spoke about comic books.

they had all ordered butternut squash soup with some fresh bread and all shared some wine with connor having the occasional sips of apple juice. it took a while for hope to be involved in a conversation, she often listened in but never spoke to anyone until her dad started asking her about work.

“ they sent you to get him alone?! ”.

needless to say, he was on the verge of being furious when he found out about what happened with the puppeteer. he already knew the injury quinn had was caused by a mission but his face contorted with rage upon knowing it was caused because of the master of puppets.

hope smiled bitterly, swirling the white wine in her glass. “ i transferred the mission to someone else, asking voyage to recommend going in large teams to avoid any accidents ”, she uttered and her dad grunted, rolling his eyes. “ but we’re okay, dad. quinn’s healing better after mom’s food. ”

“ yeah, well, that’s bianca’s magic. she heals with food. as her mother did and her mother’s mother. it’s tradition, it’s a magical tradition but it’s just foods cooked with a lot of love ”, he exclaimed and smiled softly. “ when i, uh, lost my arm . . . your mother never stopped a single day when it came to making meals. she thought that the reason i wasn’t healing was because i wasn’t letting my mind to be healed. ”

hope pursed her lips, “ is that true? ”.

he seemed to struggle to find the right words for a moment, but his attempts weren’t clouded behind the smooth keys of the piano from the stage. “ i-i think i became convinced that my life wasn’t going to be the same. but i forgot that people were going to be there for me regardless, to help me settle with a new rhythm ”, her dad spoke and nodded. “ but i’m better now, much better. better than before. ”

hope smiled. he had the same problem as her. when he was working, he hardly ever came into contact and hardly visited his family and you could almost tell he was a different person when he returned during the holidays. but upon spending an evening with his family, he would mellow out.

the sourness turned to sweetness the moment he stepped him, and that was what hope experienced every single time she came home, it was what she was experiencing now. would she go back to the grump she was before after leaving? she didn’t want to, she really didn’t want to.

because looking at it now, she liked this version of herself a lot more. especially whilst looking at the pirates and seeing that they were happy, or at least in a better place where perhaps they were free to be themselves. a break from reality, from running away.

looking at them, hope found herself smiling. they were good people, she realized, people who made her life a little bit more bearable when she was on the ship. she knew how complicated she could be, but she found that she wanted to better herself for them. because even if she would be taking them home soon, she didn’t want to be remembered as someone who could be easily forgotten due to the bad memories she brought them.

she just needed to let her mind heal, and maybe then she could improve on herself, and never have to worry about the pain of saying goodbye to them. but would it be hard? perhaps. yet it was only a matter of doing the right thing and hoping they would accept her.

they were their own little family and that feeling of familiarity and warmth was always among them and she wanted to be a part of it, but then . . . would she be intruding? this was their family, not hers. even if they made her happy and earned a spot in her life, would it ever be vice-versa? was hope everhart just a symbol of hatred and sourness in the lives of these people?

hope held her breath at the thought and immediately forced her gaze down. even if she did try to change herself now, it wouldn’t change the things she said and did in the past and no apology would be able to suffice for the damage it did. so, perhaps this feeling she felt was only . . . one-sided.

an unrequited feeling of fondness towards a group of people who made her feel worthy of some sort of happiness. only to then realize they most likely didn’t feel the same way towards her.

after lunch, it was quiet, mostly because the people were starting to withdraw at sunset, to watch the news or prepare for afternoon tea, or maybe even a soccer game that was on. but this group was walking towards the bayou.

hope found that she was quieter this time around, not particularly reaching out to anyone. she walked alongside connor who was happily eating away at the easter eggs, occasionally asking him questions about school and whether he was reading the books she’d lent him.

the boat at the bayou had been rented just for them. it was a nice tour, and they made it just in time as the little critters of light came out from behind the trees, peeking shyly before commencing their flights.

“ what are they? ”.

“ fireflies. ”

upon climbing onto the boat, hope immediately sat down on the seat by the edge, wrapping her damp fingers against the cold railings and peeking over the edge. it was lovely, seeing some of the stars in the sky meeting their reflections on the water, and the fireflies dancing on the surface, illuminating all the lily pads and the lotus flowers in their path.

the engine of the boat roared to life and soon it was moving at a steady speed, not enough to be racing but not slow enough to be tedious. she took note of the radio playing some lighthearted nat king cole and immediately saw her mother and father meet halfway for a slow dance.

it was impossible not to watch. ever since she can remember, her parents have been passionately in love with one another and the flame has never once tempted to be burnt out. it burned and burned and only one glance at them could give away the years of mutual love and affection that they gave one another, from the way they held each other to the way they looked at each other.

hope smiled softly, tilting her head at the adoring scene and then looking out into the bayou, at the long hanging branches she could easily reach up to touch, at the bugs that circled around the fairy lights and the lamps scattered around the moving vehicle.

at moments like these, it seems like nature joins together in a state of harmony. one quick look at her parents and she saw they had finished dancing, and even received a little round of applause from the pirates, and from their two children.

hope felt a presence shift beside her and noticed it was enzo, who offered her a smile but didn’t say much whilst looking out into the illuminated bayou. it was quiet for a tender moment until his voice rose, not loud enough to cut through the silence but audible enough for her to hear.

“ you looked slightly sad at the end of the dinner ”, he noted and she rolled her eyes before shaking her head. “ and don’t dismiss people when they think something is wrong, hope. i’m not saying this because i’m trying to be annoying. i’m doing it because i care. ”

was he really scolding her? she couldn’t help but chuckle and hold her hand to her forehead, before letting her gaze fall to her lap.

she didn’t know where to start, “ when . . . i was a kid, i didn’t have many friends. people just didn’t like me for who i was, and i was the exact same person i am now, my personality was intact by the age of nine or so. ” she gestured slowly, not knowing where to continue. “ a-and that left an imprint in my life that just told me i was unwanted. that i was better off alone and away from people, because even if i tried to show my real person, they wouldn’t accept it. ”

enzo didn’t interrupt her once. “ a-and i think part of the reason why i didn’t allow myself to open up to you guys so easily was that i assumed you were going to be like every other person who entered my life that wasn’t my family. that you were going to dislike me immediately and not get to know me . . . ”, she hoped she wouldn’t start crying.

“ but now you guys are giving me a moment to show the real me, the real hope everhart who doesn’t hate people as much as she makes herself to hate. and in the midst of this vulnerability, i realize where i went wrong and how i want to make it up to you and be a better person, even if we’re not friends and . . . i don’t want to be remembered as the one who was angry and bitter all the time, the one who punched dominic and the one who exploded with rage at almost anything, i want to be remembered as who helped. or tried to help. ”

“ b-because, i don’t care if you’re pirates. it stopped being a concern a long time ago after i realize that you were good people. good people i would never think of comparing myself to and the reason why you’re so good is that you bring out the best in each other. a-and you ended up bringing the best in me. ”

hope felt her bottom lip quivering but she inhaled deeply and fought through it, “ and yet i feel like a total outsider, maybe because i haven’t known you for long but even though you treat me so well, i feel like i’m better off the person i was before because i can’t join the family. i-i can’t . . . quit voyage to become a pirate, i can’t do that. s-so even if i’m taking you guys home, everything is telling to keep you around for a little longer. because even if it’s artificial, i can feel like i changed because i was a part of something. even if i wasn’t. ”

sniffling, she blinked and looked at enzo before smiling, once again, meekly. “ so, to make a long story short, i suppose the reason i’m upset is that i know i’ll never be a part of what you have. b-but i guess the lessons i learned from being around all of you might be what i belong to instead ”, she explained briefly. “ s-so, uh . . . t-thank you, for listening. i’m sorry. ” she shook her head. “ j-just in general, i’m sorry. ”

everyone has a fear, and it ends up being spoken at some point. and the fear hope held to this day was the fear of being insignificant, being forgotten. she was used to being the one who left a bad imprint on people or leaving no semblance or memory at all, a ghostly figure passing through people’s lives who is easily over-looked.

and there hasn’t been a moment in her life where she felt like she has been special to people outside of her family at all. it was like she didn’t exist for other people, and perhaps it was because she was just a bad person in general. hope had convinced herself she was meaningless, and maybe it justified the creature of hatred and bitterness that she had become.

they had left a huge imprint on her life. but what did she leave? some insults and a smack on dom’s face.

the boat ride was quiet, and when they returned to the docks, hope was the first to hop off. often when discounting her feelings, she feels like isolating herself for just a while to gather her thoughts. she played with her bracelet and once again, walked alongside connor’s wheelchair.

he wasn’t talking, he seemed far too tired to do any of that. but he looked over and gave her a sugar-sweet smile, one which made her lean over and caress his hair gently.

when they got home, she entered her room and immediately changed after a quick shower. she didn’t really want dinner, even though it was her father’s special barbeque. tonight might be the last night she’s in new orleans for a while, but she wanted to isolate herself for just a moment. her mother came in briefly and left her a plate of hamburgers and a can of diet coke on her desk, but didn’t call out for hope. she knew her daughter was upset, but she gave her space.

hope laid in that bed, her door wide open and windows were drawn up to hear the laughter and the shrieks of happiness from the roof, the story-telling from her father and the poetic singing of louis armstrong.

she looked to the side and spotted her fluffy friend looking back at her, harold the duckie. she reached out and grasped him into her bare arms and clung to him, similar to how connor did earlier that morning. “ today was a busy day ”, she told him. “ we went easter egg hunting and had lunch and mama louisiana’s and then went on a boat ride . . . but i always felt like i was the sheep following blindly behind them. an outsider, y’know? yeah, you know. you’ve heard this all too many times. ”

she paused and then turned to lay on her back, her gaze going towards the ceiling. and it was littered with glow in the dark star stickers, something she had put up many years ago and they remained there. “ remember when i came crying to you one day after school? when it was my birthday and no one knew? when i told my teacher and she promised to sing happy birthday but she never did? and when she told everyone, they all just stared at me, asking why i didn’t bring cupcakes? a-and there was another girl in there who had the same birthday as me and she got everything? ”, she questioned, only gaining silence as a response.

“ i felt like i was invisible back then, harold. a-and i still feel like that sometimes. ”

silence.

“ i-is this friendship thing just . . . n-not meant for me? ”.

more silence.

“ d-do i not deserve just a slight bit of it? a tiny bit of it? a-am i that much of a bad person? ”.

silence.

hope chuckled bitterly, squeezing her eyes shut.

“ you know, if i asked anyone else the same thing, they would be as quiet as you are . . . k-kind of just makes me want to . . . g-give up. ”

#chapter 11 #space adventure #space pirates au #original writing #writing

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thechildrendontlaugh · 6 years ago

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Exhalation by Ted Chiang: A Reflection

In the simplest of synopsis, Ted Chiang’s most recent short story anthology is about free will vs fate. It is a high-thought premise that utilizes futuristic, complex technology which surrounds very basic philosophical questions man has been toiling against since he first became self-aware.

The illusion of choice, the narratives in which we cling to in order to reinforce or deny those narratives, and the meaninglessness of it all.

Is Chiang’s anthology pessimistic? My own biases say no, but there are no real happy endings in any of his short stories, so others might unequivocally say yes, he is—but I don’t think Chiang’s objective is to ever offer sentimental condolences to his readers. There’s a reason why man has lamented for generations about “the meaning of life”, or “what is love”. Why we have collectively struggled with rationalizing existence in the midst of impending and certain death, or felt conflicted with accepting both the chaos and randomness of existence while also searching for and seeking out a higher power or order to life. Unfortunately, Chiang doesn’t necessarily offer a definitive yes or no, at least not in such crude terms, but I think, very clearly, he establishes (rather convincingly) that there is no real free will, that we are instead on fated paths and the lesson and greater call for meaning comes instead from not just our acceptance and willingness to embrace fate, but in our intentional living and walking of said fated paths.

There are two distinct approaches when presented with this argument of there being no such thing as free will, and I don’t think each is felt the same or at all by everyone, or by even the individual in contemplation. There is acceptance and there is denial, and even within acceptance there are two distinct resolutions. Atrophy or True Acceptance—you are either destroyed by the truth, or you accept it as the reality it has always been and carry on as you have always have, because that is what you were always fated to do.

So what then, is denial?

There is a final story within Chiang’s anthology titled, “Anxiety Is The Dizziness of Freedom,” where the concept of parallel lives further encapsulates the argument of fate vs free will. Essentially it is a story that speaks of the core of a person, what makes you, you, and how that core self is never corrupted or altered, even amongst the infinite possibilities of all the yous that could ever exist. How, at our core, we are who we are, and only small steps—nearly imperceptible movements of will—can lead to our chosen destination, good or bad, but how it is ultimately fated and how our own personal narratives, as impermanent as they are, fit within the structured stories of our lives which always had a fated destination. The crux of the story comes into play with denial, with our fear—our need to impress upon fate, our own will.

If you could see into your future and the reality presented to you reflected one that you hated, do you think you could avoid it, or by the act of a self-fulfilling prophecy, in your attempts to avoid it, run headlong into it?

Believing that everything is already predestined bears its own heavy weight. If we are not masters of our fate, does that automatically mean that there is someone else who is in charge? Is our hunger for order in the certainty of chaos indicative of a higher power, or just our need for belief in one. If there is no god, what does that say for the meaning of existence, of the meaning our own own individual lives? If there is no meaning, does that also mean that there is no purpose? And if there is no purpose, why choose to continue existing at all?

There is the material question of why, and then there is the cosmic question of why. And while Chiang in so many ways answers that material question, the cosmic why remains elusive. I stay alive in my day-to-day because of xyz—my family, my dog, the way the sun feels so good when a breeze passes and I have no other choice but to find pause and delight in the beauty and simplicity of this moment. But why?

I think in the growing pessimistic nihilism of current and upcoming generations, that “why” becomes more elusive, especially as we collectively move away from the cushion of assumed certainty and meaning offered by religion, and into the chaos of existence where we grapple with there being no bigger picture. There is a reason why man, upon the first chance he had, created something to believe in, why rejection of religion has moved to exploration of “spirituality”. We are (or at least assume ourselves to be) creatures who rely upon meaning in order to justify our existence. We say that we are authors of our own destinies—but also find ourselves admitting to the seemingly inescapable influence of factors outside our control; biology and our environments.

When a child asks “why”, are they looking for meaning, or explanation? Is it merely curiosity that drives the why, or is it fear? If I don’t know, does that illicit awe at the complexity of simplicity, or am I suffocated by the immensity of my not knowing—of my hunger to create the illusion of knowing, lest I be lost to the black hole of my own unknowing.

There is a theory, that the universe will eventually end in a similar way that it began, giving rise to a brand new universe in the wake of its death, that we are essentially barreling towards a fated end that is beyond our influence to affect or alter. Does knowing that, change what you will decide to eat for breakfast? Does it matter? The absurdity of existence, is that we have a very defined beginning and end—just like the universe we occupy—and yet we either deny it (fate), create mythologies to bring comfort to that truth, or we try to create work arounds of cognitive dissonance that keep that truth just enough at bay to go on with our lives. We create meaning and convince ourselves of that meaning, and look to the world around us as evidence of said meaning. And in doing so we create our own absurdities. Money, wars, the rights and wrongs of loving same sex vs a different sex. In trying to create order out of chaos we have chained ourselves to truths that aren’t even real, missing the mark completely. We deny ourselves the ability to accept what is. We make it impossible to occupy a space that is safe for us to be the dynamic entities of chaos, barreling towards a fixed ending, that we are. We cling to this idea that there has to be meaning, and that this meaning must be applicable to the whole, and ostracize and defy those who do not follow and accept this status quo of existence. We fight against the idea of there being no free will, but chain ourselves to the constraints and absolutes of fate, and to grapple against fate, is to grapple with the image man has created of himself and projected throughout each proceeding generation. That we matter more. That our existence takes precedence over all else. And that if a god exists, they would not only imbue only ourselves with sentience and consciousness, but find only us worthy of redeeming and consequently saving, as well. To strip away that illusion of ego, to essentially kill it and call it false, means to strip away a facet of ourselves we have mistakingly attributed as not just essential, but the crux of our entire existence. We have become so fixated on absolutes, on blacks and whites that we wholly dismiss the third option, because it is scary, it is uncertain, and it exists outside of our realm of perceived control.

I used to repeat to myself as mantra: I can endure anything, as long as it has meaning. And I began to hinge my life on just that, that either everything had meaning and there was some grand bigger picture that I just couldn’t yet see, or that nothing at all held meaning. In doing so, I eventually backed myself into a corner. I found it increasingly difficult to deny the absurdity of life, to create meaning out of suffering, to attribute the unfolding of life to some higher, benign entity. And so I eventually lost all meaning for my own existence. I had been indoctrinated with this idea that everything had to make sense, and when I came face-to-face with that senselessness it destroyed the very foundation upon which my entire life rested upon. To create meaning, has become synonymous with, a will to live. Perhaps it always has been. But if nothing matters, if things are, regardless of what we do or do not do, if life will take its destined path regardless of our actions—if those actions fit like puzzle pieces that illustrate step-by-step, how we get from here-to there—is meaning really the thing we should be after? Maybe, it instead, should have been our curiosity, our inquisitive nature, that we should have been fostering since the dawn of man, and not our supposed need for order. Maybe it is the awe of standing in the sun when a cool breeze passes, that calls us to do nothing but give pause and delight in the moment we are existing within, that should be our greater “meaning”.

To “contemplate this moment of existence, and rejoice that you are able to do so”. Because we have no other choice. Because this is what we have always been fated, to do.

#thechildrendontlaugh #Exhalation #Ted Chiang #book review #fate vs free will #existential nihilism

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anchored-in-high-tide · 6 years ago

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New Chapter online :)

Check out the first three chapters: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17092448

Sherlock’s Chapter: Gentle Treatment

And you can tell everybody This is your song. It may be quite simple but Now that it's done I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind That I put down in words How wonderful life is Now you're in the world.

Elton John, Your Song.

December began and 221B Baker Street was illuminated by fairy lights John had spread all over the sitting room. Sherlock didn’t put up a fight at the sight of the little lights arranged over the fireplace and on the windowsills, especially because he had terribly missed the way John decorated the flat for Christmas, even if he would never admit that. It was just one of the things that made the space feel like a real home, something Sherlock had subconsciously wished for as long as he had been on this earth. His mind wandered back to dark places, to cold months without John’s little lights to guide a way back home, to years of icy isolation from everyone and everything he held dear. He had reason to hope now that he would never have to go back there. Because John was with him now.

The way John cared for Sherlock was everything he needed to seal all the gaping holes and cracks in his being. He had been broken down to his very essence, endured more trauma and heartbreak than he could count, but now, with John back at his side, he would build himself back up again, in new brighter colours, with more windows in his walls to let John’s sunlight in.

There were still secret, ash coloured corners in his mind that someday, maybe, he would open up to John’s golden embrace if he ever mustered the courage to. Every time he let John catch a glimpse of the desolation that lay behind his barricades, allowing him to see all the ways he was a misfit in this bleak universe, Sherlock was sure that his friend would be appalled. How couldn’t he be? But then John was just… kind to him, kind and calm and steady. Sherlock knew that he could trust him unconditionally when it came to fighting the wars of the world but burdening him with the mountains of pain he carried on his shoulders would certainly break even the bravest of men. He had put John through enough already.

He was content to just bath in John’s radiance every day, to soak up his warmth, and fight the demons of his past on his own. As long as John was by his side, Sherlock knew that he would emerge victorious.

As they sat down one December evening, both exhausted from assisting Lestrade on a case which unfortunately called for a lot of lengthy stake-outs, the flat lay in comfortable silence. Mrs. Hudson had already put Rosie to bed in her room where she, fortunately, slumbered now. John made tea and handed Sherlock a couple of gingernuts with his cup and a quiet smile before he slumped down on the sofa and turned on the telly.

Sherlock had noticed that these little caring gestures had increased exponentially since they had returned from Norfolk. At first, Sherlock had hated it; He was angry at himself for breaking down at the precinct, displaying such weakness, and angry at John for trying to coddle him. However, pushing John away with snarky remarks and cruel comments had stopped working a long time ago. John just rolled his eyes at him and stayed stoically right where he was, only showing his hurt in the most minuscule ways possible. These little markers—brows a little too furrowed, jaw a little too clenched—made Sherlock realize that John was genuinely worried about him. Wasn’t it cruel to forbid him to act on his protectiveness? After all, Sherlock would rather John cared about him than go back to a world where John was not only indifferent to his pain but even inflicting it purposefully. John taking care of him had never once been a disadvantage, not to mention that Sherlock enjoyed the hopeful tingling in his chest when John displayed signs of affection. So, what use was in fighting it? His anger followed no logic. Therefore, his reactions needed to change.

Instead of snapping at John, Sherlock now followed a new approach altogether: He tried to reciprocate these acts up to his own capability—which didn’t allow for much, really. Pleasing people was not Sherlock’s strong suit; that had been made clear throughout his entire life. Yet, there had to be ways for him to show John how much he loved having him around again but, as always, Sherlock couldn’t quite figure out what made John Watson tick.

So, he carefully conducted tiny experiments. His past activities—trying to limit his deductions to people outside of his close circle, calming Rosie whenever John was especially stressed, taking his opinion into account whenever he remembered to—had proven quite successful if John’s overall happy demeanour was any indicator. Doing the dishes and the shopping seemed to work, too, while any drink or food Sherlock prepared in order to please John was met with open suspicion. Considering how often he had traced his food with differing substances for experiments, that actually was no wonder, Sherlock presumed. Still, he was pretty disappointed with this outcome since he discovered that the chemistry of baking actually had a very meditative effect on his racing mind. He would just keep trying; maybe John would get over his vigilance eventually. Other endeavours, however, proved completely fruitless, such as opening John’s mail and paying his bills or arranging his clothes in a more convenient order. Sherlock mentally marked these activities as failures and made sure to derive as much information from John’s reaction as possible. Apparently, going through the things John regarded private was a bit not good although these invisible lines people always drew seemed completely random to Sherlock. And gradually he ran out of ideas. Undoubtedly, further research was necessary.

The day before, when John had left him alone in the flat, Sherlock had sat down with his laptop and spent the next few hours googling phrases like “how to be a good friend”. The results varied from partly useful to wildly preposterous. It appeared that a friend was supposed to compliment his counterpart, be trustworthy and reliable, make sure the other felt happy, help them in difficult situations, and display affection for them in various ways. Especially the last point sounded exceptionally tedious but the harvest might still justify the labour.

“The tea always tastes better when you make it,” Sherlock now said after taking a sip, his voice timider than he had desired.

John was clearly baffled by the compliment; His head jerked around with such rapid movement that he almost spilled his own cup of tea in his eagerness to look at the younger man. His eyes scanned Sherlock’s features for signs of dishonesty or mockery but found only a coy smile curling full lips. Slowly, John’s expression relaxed and reflected Sherlock’s smile.

“Thank you, Sherlock. That’s… I’m glad,” he said, still hesitating a little. Sherlock was not quite satisfied with his reaction.

“And I like your new button-down,” he added, trying to sound serious and friendly at the same time—not an easy combination to master for him. “The colour really suits you.”

To his discontent, John just rolled his eyes at him and playfully snapped: “Yeah, right. Give it a rest, you git.” He turned his gaze back to whatever was on the telly and slightly shook his head in what Sherlock could only guess was some form of scepticism.

“But, John, I mean it.” Weren’t people supposed to be pleased by compliments?

John chuckled disbelievingly and fixated him again, eyes narrowed in exaggerated suspicion. “You set one of my jumpers on fire again and now you want to build up to an apology,” he accused him jokingly.

“No, of course not.” This really wasn’t the way Sherlock had imagined this conversation to go. The few times he had paid people compliments—for the sole purpose of manipulating their feeble egos—it had always worked. Why did things never go according to plan with John Watson?

“Then why are you being so nice?” John asked, his voice now displaying equal parts of amusement and concern. Sherlock was suddenly very aware of his hands and thankful for the cup to wrap around.

“Just trying something,” he mumbled into his tea, avoiding John’s eyes. Sherlock was not sure how to evaluate this new approach but acquiring additional data would have to wait until tomorrow. He couldn’t possibly endure any more of this awkwardness right now.

“Right.” John dragged out the word and redirected his attention to the telly.

The rest of the evening was spent in relative quietude while both men dwelled on their own thoughts. At half past ten, John got up and made his way to the bath- and then the bedroom. Sherlock gave him the usual ten-minute head start before he followed suit. As he entered the bedroom, their bedroom now, John was already rolled to a tight cuddly burrito of blankets, ready to fall asleep in an instant. Sherlock slid under the covers next to him, his back to John, and reached over to turn off the bedside lamp.

In the all-cloaking darkness, John’s soft voice, already muffled by imminent sleep, floated to his ear: “It’s nice when you’re being kind, Sherlock. Just took me by surprise a little, I guess. But I like it.”

“You do?” Sherlock whispered. Why did his voice suddenly sound so hoarse?

“’Course I do,” said John, barely conscious. A minute later his breaths were already so deep and steady that Sherlock was sure he had fallen asleep. His own transport, however, didn’t allow him to drift off that easily. John’s words still rang in his head, demanding a revaluation of the evening’s development; Compliments were useful to display affection and appreciation after all. Sherlock would just have to apply them regularly so John knew he was being serious. That wasn’t that hard. There were thousands and thousands of little positive things Sherlock noticed about John and just never found the necessity—or the nerves—to utter. Give at least five compliments daily, Sherlock wrote on his mental checklist. He could still adjust the amount according to John’s reaction later on. Satisfied with his results and a little proud, Sherlock lay in the dark and felt a grin perk up the corners of his mouth.

Next to him, John began to toss and turn, uneasy moans escaping his throat. Sherlock suspended his own breathing to listen closely, not sure how to categorize these sounds. Was John having a nightmare? Or… a different kind of dream? Carefully, Sherlock turned to his other side and tried to make out John’s face. His features were barely visible in the gloom but Sherlock believed they looked rather pained than pleased. He was just about to move closer for a better look when John’s eyes sprang open. They struggled to pierce the darkness and, then, found Sherlock’s.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice had an unsettling quality to it.

“John?” Sherlock answered and simultaneously fumbled for the bedside lamp to finally see John’s expression.

“I don’t feel so good, I think I might be—,” John began but the rest of the sentence was lost because he sprang from the bed and rushed into the bathroom. Seconds later, Sherlock heard a nasty combination of gagging and splashing sounds. Oh, no.

Worriedly, he rose and poked his head through the door to find John kneeling in front of the toilet, still violently throwing up. Sherlock had a strong stomach usually; a prerequisite for being a detective and a scientist. He couldn’t remember the last time something had really made him sick. For goodness sake, he experimented with severed body parts as often as he could get his hands on anything from the morgue. But somehow, in an inexplicable flash of concern, seeing John on his knees, his body heaving in painful contractions, was too much for him. His whole system shut down. Sherlock could only stand in the doorway, frozen in panic, staring at his friend. Oh, no, John’s sick. Not good. John can’t be sick. Oh, no, his mind spiraled. Mycroft had been so right; Caring was not an advantage. It just disabled any rational thought.

Finally, John’s body lost tension and slumped into a little trembling mess of limbs on the cold floor tiles. With weak hands, he flushed the toilet and turned around to look at Sherlock, who still gawked at him with bright blue eyes wide open in distress.

“Get Rosie out of here,” John panted, his face white as a sheet and bedewed with sweat. “I can’t risk that she contracts this too, she’s too small!”

The addressed didn’t move.

“Sherlock!”

At last, his brain decided to respond to John’s words and kicked his body into action. He rushed out of the bathroom and yelled for Mrs. Hudson until she finally—hours later, Sherlock was sure—came hurrying up the stairs in her nightgown. Her face mirrored the alarm Sherlock couldn’t wipe off his own features. Yet, as he just cried out that John was sick, her fearful expression eased into slight concern laced with something almost resembling amusement. How was John being in pain funny?!

“Good God, Sherlock, I thought someone was about to blow up the flat again,” she chuckled in apparent relief.

Sherlock was about to snap at her for her lack of understanding the incredible seriousness of the situation but then decided there were more pressing issues to address. He quickly shooed Mrs. Hudson upstairs to grab Rosie from her crib and get her to the safety of her own flat before the little girl could get in contact with him or John. Fear and concern still fogged his mind as he paced up and down the sitting room, waiting for Mrs. Hudson to bring Rosie down.

After they finally had left, Sherlock returned to John, finding him sitting on his side of the bed. His face was still rather pale but at least the shivering had stopped. John shot him an apologetical smile while Sherlock just stood in the doorway, unsure how to proceed. He wanted to make John feel better, no matter what it took. That was what a good friend was supposed to do. And he wanted to be a good friend for John Watson, so badly. First and foremost, he needed data. Data formed the universe’s fabric. Data brought sense and logic and security.

“When and what did you eat and drink last?” asked Sherlock, his voice slipping into the matter-of-fact but eager tone he used on clients.

“Ehm, a cup of tea and biscuits with you, like four hours ago.” John rubbed his face and Sherlock’s stomach clenched at the sight of his friend’s evident fatigue and discomfort. Seeing John suffer in any form always afflicted him with the nagging sensation of acid burning through his inner organs. Empathy was surely one of the most useless and counterproductive outcomes of evolutionary history ever. Thank God, Mycroft wasn't here to witness his reactions.

“Hm, can’t be it, I’ve had the same thing and I’m fine,” Sherlock said and waved his hand dismissively, now beginning to pace the room again to wear off some of the nervous energy seething in his body.

“I had a sandwich for lunch at two-ish, that’s it,” John said after short consideration.

“Unlikely. First symptoms of food poisoning normally occur two to six hours after ingestion,” replied Sherlock, his bare feet tapping on the bedroom floor in anxious movement.

“I know, Sherlock, I’m a doctor.” John rolled his eyes at him, although his words bore less of the annoyance he usually used when Sherlock spurned his medical expertise. He really was etiolated.

“So, it’s most likely a stomach bug. Good call to get Rosie out of here.” Sherlock once again admired John’s ability to prioritize everyone else’s safety and well-being, even while vomiting his heart out.

“You should go too, I don’t want you to be sick,” John said softly as if to highlight Sherlock’s thoughts.

“John, I’ve been in very close proximity to you over the last 48 hours. If it’s the stomach flu, I’ve already caught it by now.”

“Still, the next couple of hours won’t be fun,” John replied with a weary smile. “You don’t need to see that or lose sleep over me.”

Sherlock halted and fixated his friend, looking for signs of dishonesty or rejection, yet finding nothing but sincere concern. Even now, John was more worried about Sherlock being uncomfortable than about his own tarnished health. Ever the good doctor.

Whenever Sherlock had been sick as a grown-up, he had been completely alone. Whenever his transport fell ill and he was confined to his rooms, alone with his thoughts, nothing to console him; those were the only occasions Sherlock craved company. He always wished for someone to take care of him and guide him through the disposition, to sit by his bedside and coddle him as his mother used to when he was only a child with too much going on under his dark curls. Sherlock then usually cursed his mind for being too weak to fight off this sentimentality and fruitless wishes because, of course, no one ever showed up to look after him. Until a certain ex-army doctor limped into his life.

Sherlock had noticed it the second John had stepped into the lab at Bart’s: the overwhelming and soul-devouring loneliness. He had known in that very moment that no one had ever taken care of John either. That he had probably lain in a hospital bed, recovering from a wound sustained while protecting others, all by himself, forsaken. He had read his need for companionship, for a purpose, for a home, as clearly as if it had been written on the man’s forehead in neon letters. And he had seen how close the doctor was to contravening his core values and ending the misery he deemed his existence.

An echo of the same sense of responsibility Sherlock had experienced all those years before rang in his chest. He would never let John fight sickness or injury or anything the world might inflict on him alone ever again. Not, if there was any other way.

“I’m not leaving,” he said, unwaveringly.

“Sherlock—,” John began his attempt to object but Sherlock cut him off with an adamantine stare.

“I. am. not. leaving.” To corroborate his words, he climbed back into bed, pulled his blanket up to his waist and crossed his arms, pouting.

“Right. Fine,” John shrugged and Sherlock was almost certain that he heard a little chuckle accompanying his words, as his friend slid back under the covers.

***

John threw up two more times that night, his empty stomach regurgitating nothing but gastric juice. In an aftermath of shaking limbs and sweat-soaked pyjamas, he barely conquered the few steps back from the bathroom before his body could collapse beneath him. With every passing minute, Sherlock grew more worried and frustrated by his own inability to help him. John couldn’t drink even the smallest amounts of water without his body pumping it right out again. His gaze became fuzzy and unfocused, the few words he spoke were unintelligible. Sherlock tentatively reached out to the man next to him and placed his slender fingers on John’s forehead; he was burning up.

“You run a fever,” Sherlock said, his voice thick with concern. That someone as tough and sturdy as John could be knocked out by some stupid microorganisms was just not right.

“Hm, hand’s cold,” John murmured with eyes half-closed, being drawn to a dreamless exhausted unconsciousness.

“Oh, sorry.” Sherlock quickly retreated but John frowned and quickly added: “No, s’nice.”

As the younger man’s pale hand returned to his skin, John’s face relaxed again. His eyes slid closed completely and a soft satisfied bumbling vibrated in his throat. The fact that he was able to alleviate John's discomfort relieved Sherlock immensely. He adjusted his own figure to a more comfortable position, now sitting beside his friend with crossed legs and his sheets wrapped around his shoulders. He cooled John’s forehead, switching hands whenever their body temperatures aligned, and watched as John drifted back and forth between sleeping and waking. Slowly, pale sunlight crept into the bedroom.

“What’re you humming?” John finally asked barely audibly, prying his eyes open with strenuous effort and groggily fixating Sherlock. Under his gaze, Sherlock stopped his mind from studying John’s endearing features in the faint light of the rising day. Humming? He? Had he really? Quickly, he tried to identify the melody still lingering on his lips. Oh. At the realization, his cheeks turned pink.

“Your Song, Elton John,” he said, embarrassment tinting his voice. “My mother always used to sing to me whenever I couldn’t sleep, no matter how old I was, whether I was sick or just agitated or scared or sad—.” His voice trailed off, stumbling over the memories. Forcefully pulling his thoughts back from that path, Sherlock rolled his eyes in an attempt to disguise the emotion invading him and added: “She wasn’t one for traditional lullabies, always just sang me random songs she liked. Your Song was one of her favourites.”

“I like it, too. It’s a good song,” John approved and gave Sherlock a warm smile that calmed his nerves. It was one of the puzzling talents of John Watson; When Sherlock’s mind was tearing at him, galloping in a thousand different directions, John could steady him. With a single smile, one softly spoken word, one firm but tender hand on his shoulder, John Watson could anchor him even in the greatest of storms. He was solid and constant and safe.

“It's a little bit funny this feeling inside, I'm not one of those who can easily hide,“ John began to sing gently, more as to remind himself of the lyrics. Sherlock loved hearing John sing; his voice was rich and extraordinarily expressive as if music unlocked something deep inside of him that was usually not allowed to see the light of day. More times than he cared to count, Sherlock had listened to John crooning songs to himself while making tea or breaking into song under the shower when he thought no one could hear him. Every time, an unfamiliar sensation spread in Sherlock’s body, sailing on his bloodstream to even the remotest of his shores.

Listening to John now, his voice still muffled by sleep and fever, didn’t fail to evoke this response either. Without his permission, Sherlock’s lips curled into a cherishing smile.

“I don't have much money but boy if I did I'd buy a big house where we both could live,” John continued, reverberating Sherlock’s smile even brighter upon meeting the pallid eyes hovering above him. He radiated a warmth that had nothing to do with the fever. Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat.

“If I was a sculptor, but then again, no, or a man who makes potions in a traveling show, I know it's not much but it's the best I can do. My gift is my song and this one's for you.” John’s voice became more confident and Sherlock no longer fought the adoration that shone from his face.

“And you can tell everybody this is your song,” he cautiously joined John in the chorus, their voices intertwining into an enchanting harmony. Goosebumps spread from the base of his skull.

“It may be quite simple but now that it's done I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind that I put down in words how wonderful life is while you're in the world.”

***

Only two hours later, the flu got hold of Sherlock, as well, although not as badly; he only threw up once and slumbered next to the still feverish John for the remainder of the day. As the sun began to set again and Sherlock trudged off to the kitchen to get a glass of water, he found a get-well-soon note from Mrs. Hudson next to a tray loaded with salty crackers, herbal tea, and a pot of chicken soup; obviously a substitute for her usual afternoon tea and biscuits. Sherlock resolved to thank her next time he saw her—if he remembered to. He reheated the soup, made them each a cup of herbal tea, and carried everything back to the bedroom. This being-a-good-friend-thing became easier by the minute.

As Sherlock lay in bed, comfortably nestled in his blankets only inches away from John, who had his laptop on his knees, streaming a Netflix documentary, both nibbling crackers and sipping tea, he couldn’t help but think that being sick wasn’t that bad after all. As long as it meant spending the day with John like this, he would even condone the vomiting.

Sherlock shot John a quick glance, glad to see that their extensive nap had returned the colour to his cheeks, and smiled slightly as John met his gaze. They would take care of each other now. They were not alone anymore.

#fanfic #sherlock #johnlock #bbc sherlock #after series 4 #could be canon #ao3 #john watson #sherlock holmes #baker street boys #fluff #light angst

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emathevampire · 7 years ago

Photo

uploading as a real photo post this time... and in somewhat better quality. Rough sketch of my plans for paintings for him, whether I get around to that or not has yet to be seen, but if I don’t at least there’s these!

The tragic tale of Amanthos Panideios as told by Tarot: his life, death, undeath, and ultimately his corruption into an Archfiend. Hopefully, I will earn him redemption and a true happy ending before his story is over... but have the meaning and such behind each of these under the cut.

The Lovers: Amanthos was at the middle of a polyamorous triad for roughly 500 years, the other two being Psamion (a dashing sailor who often visited his library on business for Kíhyué) and Arekos (a gifted necromancer who had been Amanthos’ best friend since they were children). Psamion seduced these two individually, and thought little of it until Arekos asked him how he managed to get Amanthos’ attention romantically, since he had been trying for centuries to no avail. Psamion simply laughed and told him to be blunt, as he knew Amanthos wanted a more committed, constant companion to fill the void Psamion left while he was away, but was afraid his feelings would not be reciprocated, or worse, that he would be made to choose between the two, so he kept to himself to avoid ruining his most valued friendship. Fortunately, the three of them came together to sort out that fear, and were quite happy together until fate called their foundation away. It also represents how he was (and still is) a useless multiclassing bastard. He could never choose between one path or another, dabbled in a little bit of everything, and it held him back for a long time until that choice got made for him. He could have been so many things with an Intelligence score that high, a wizard, a death master, anything else, but instead chose to pursue monkhood, martial prowess, and more doctorate degrees than any sane being ever would, content to be a librarian for the rest of his days... but it was not meant to be. Eventually, he would be chosen to serve his god of knowledge in a way only he could... and it wasn’t a chance he could refuse.

Nine of Swords: The Ritual of Crucimigration. In order to travel the stars to receive the answers he asked of them, Amanthos would have to die. And it would be no ordinary death, either. He would need to be transformed into an undead. Ordinarily, unless the proper funeral rites are performed, his race of elves become ghosts bound to their corpses when they die, rapidly deteriorating mentally while their bodies rot away, and they cannot become undead any other way unless specially blessed by their gods with Lichdom, or unless they turn their backs on the gods entirely. A Lich would be too powerful to leave the universe, but a Necropolitan would be able to escape it. Their gods have no influence outside of their universal sphere, and if he were to leave it alive he would rapidly age and die as he turned into a normal elf and his soul would be lost. So, the only way the gods could continue to protect him outside their sphere would be to allow this ritual, simultaneously blessing him with what protection they can give, and cursing him to be forever banished from their afterlife. The ritual required a Death Master to oversee it, and he begged his sister Nikiti to request the position, not wanting to be alone, needing someone he trusted to be there for him. She turned him down when he asked, as she couldn’t bear the thought of doing what had to be done to him, but the Ruby Knights selected her for the task anyway as she was the most skilled for the level required... and she could not refuse the demands of her order. As per the ritual, Amanthos is affixed to a pole with cursed nails and subjected to grueling torture for 24 hours, before the last spike is driven through his heart. The physical pain pales before the spiritual agony of glimpsing Aetherius, feeling the precious release, Lady Death’s sweet embrace, and being dragged back into his corpse away from it all, watching the gates close to him forever before opening his eyes once more to the world he was destined to leave.

The Hermit: After leaving his home planet, it is difficult to calculate for certain how long he spent exploring the galaxy before he left, but it is somewhere between 100 and 200 years. Alone, with nothing but his books and his wits about him, and the faded, worn scraps of paper containing messages and memories from his loved ones. While he learns a great deal, ultimately he runs out of uninhabited planets and empty expanses of space, and decides to test his theories and explore the Black Hole.

The Devil: Going through the Black Hole was a bad fucking plan. I kind of want to just leave it at that, because really, I feel like that’s the best summary I can give, but I’ll go into details anyway. Essentially, he got spit out into a different universe: the remains of a collapsed timeline where the Blood War spilled out onto all planes of existence, and it is Hell On Earth with Asmodeus and a replacement for Dispater as the last two Lords of the Nine standing against the endless tides of demons, doing everything in their power to keep the hordes at bay. The Lord of Dis is simply a warforged doing his best to be a good person, despite the vile deeds he is contractually bound to commit. He created Sanctuary: a place on the second layer where those who weren’t evil in life have a chance to escape the horrors of the Blood War and live in peace for as long as they can, before ultimately their souls are harvested and condemned to Hell. There is, however, if enough people work together, a chance to escape once and for all: an ever-changing maze full of clockwork monsters, puzzles, and tests of mettle. Amanthos, knowing none of this, but being trapped in this artificial paradise, knows he must escape it by any means necessary if he wants to return home. And escape he does: he rallies maze running parties, teams up with each gate’s party, and after a long year of hard work finally manages to unlock the way out. Only, as with all things Infernal, there is a catch. Unit Two, as the Lord of Dis calls himself, wants to die. He thought he could help, fix things, make Hell better from the inside and fight the system, but Asmodeus tricked him into believing this could be done. He doesn’t have enough power to do it on his own, but if nine people kill him, Asmodeus is in a right mess without a council to do his bidding, and they might be able to succeed where he failed. It’s the only way to save the friends they had to leave behind in Sanctuary, and the only way to have a hope at finally ending the Blood War once and for all, which is what Asmodeus has been trying to do all along... by making Hell On Earth, ruling the material plane with an iron fist, he can simply take all the souls and make fiendish evil the law of the land. So, Two offers the group a choice: take his private spaceship and flee this hellish world while they still can, or take the scroll that makes him mortal and end his torment. The group promises to come back for him, taking both the scroll and the spaceship, and adventures in search of things they might be able to use to win the fight, as naturally they were all intimidated by the 30ft tall hunk of solid adamantine with godlike power. But no matter what they did, they were bound to return, as they could not justify condemning their friends to Hell... and eventually came back to fight with a few tricks up their sleeves. The battle was hard-won, with many casualties, Amanthos among them. But when Asmodeus showed up to inspect the wreckage, the party demanded he be brought back to advocate on their behalf. The party was made an offer they could not refuse, the chance to end evil forever, if they had the guts to do what had to be done to end it... and thus Asmodeus walked free, and the world itself rewritten as Tetsu became the new Asmodeus, Belle became the new Dispater, and the rest took seats on the Council of Nine, steeling themselves for the damnation that awaited them as they would fight, by any and all means necessary, to end the cancer of the Abyss forever.

Amanthos is, legally, chained to his position as an Archdevil. He can send avatars out into the world and even other worlds, but he himself must remain, doing all he can to resist temptation and stave off the inevitable corruption that awaits him. So, in truth, what returns to his homeworld is but an image of what he wishes he still were: undead, but uncorrupted, untouched by the knowledge that in truth he lost his soul, believing that he won. He only hopes that this avatar will return soon with someone who is truly capable of doing the job he must do in the interim, since truth be told, he really doesn’t have the stomach for it. He may not be a saint, and honestly, not even a good person... but by all the gods he loves so dearly, he could never be an evil one.

#rixa's arts #Amanthos Panideios #there may be some errors in this story but fuck it the necromancer isnt here to proofread it so #i'll fix em if i ever do the paintings.

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