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dreamwritersworld · 1 year

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All too well. Part 2. (Miles Morales x reader)

Im so sorry for posting this late, I’ve just been extremely busy! I hope your all doing well! Please tell me you understand the references this is so Taylor swift coded! 😭💓

I allowed my body to slip into the portal and i allowed myself to slip from the buildings, the ending of it all felt like pure bliss…a new world.

Then I followed the webs that I saw slinging around quickly and excitement grew when I saw other Spider-Man’s. Yes, when seeing Gwen and Miles it hurt but the i ignored it because all I realized was that there was a community full of people just like me…so I listened to introductions and spoke.

“I’m Y/n!”

Bewilderment was written all over Miles and Gwen once I came forward and introduced myself

“What?! Y/n? Wha-what are you doing here?”

Slight panic and frustration was visible in his voice.

“I saw the portal and I walked in, anyone could’ve. You’ve guys got to be safe-“

Our conversation was interrupted, having to jump into fighting once again, falling into our hectic intoxicating lives.

The entire time after I wanted nothing more but to cry, I wanted to go back home..something felt so wrong. Within that walk I couldn’t help but feel sick to my stomach, it felt like in a simple moment I’d lose it all. Everything felt so loud my mind felt like it was closing in and suddenly it stopped when I felt him near me.

“Y/n you shouldn’t have came, this isn’t for you.”

Hearing miles say those words after everything I’ve done for him infuriated me. Why is this side of spiderman activities for him ok but not fine for me. I had no words so I just scuffed.

“I’m serious Y/n. You can’t ignore me.”

I should’ve embarrassed him, really, I should’ve…but I just couldn’t. So I settled on speaking back what I wanted so dearly to say.

“You do not get to say that. I’ve dealt with this as long as you and I’ve fought lots if not more than you. Since you were too busy with gwe-“

“Shut-, just shh.”

The walked away immediately and i showed him frustration and shame it was all from witnessing the boy I loved dismiss me once again. There was a clear castle of people he pretended to care about and I was at the top of his podium. Our once lovely relationship was a beautiful tragic love affair.

Distance.

Timing.

Breakdown.

Fighting.

Silence.

Hobie and Gwen could see it all no matter how silent the pair thought they were. All of those emotions made everyone sink into a infuriated fusion.

Meeting Miguel and seeing how he acted towards miles made me uncomfortable. Any version of miles getting saddened would cause me discomfort, he would always be the first boy I loved and I couldn’t help but always feel guilty.

Miguel’s had spoke aggressively to him clearly frustrated about the timeline, I was silent enough to not make a peep or even blink an eye..yet he still noticed me.

“What-what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be back home. This is changing everything now. I can’t believe you two! Seriously…”

He kept on going, screaming angrily and his voice became disoriented once I began panicking internally. I had handled being spider women well, but something about this trip nauseated my entire system. I brought myself back once I heard Miles talk about our canon events.

“My parents are going to die? And you expect me to what? Be ok with that?”

Rio was would be my canon event. Jeff would be miles.

Regardless of all the pain and hurt I felt I’d stick beside Miles because Rio and Jeff raised me from a far, they meant the world.

“We need to save them. Are you crazy?-“

Miguel immediately cut me off trapping miles and I, while everyone surrounded us.

“N-No you can’t do this! Please! You have to help us!”

I was furious and adrenaline rushed through my body i placed my hand on the wall surrounding us, the same time Miles placed his… and we escaped.

The entire time my heart pumped never once getting tired of running away from thousands of Spider-Man’s, my determination kept me aligned.

“…nah imma make my own story.”

I took another leap through a portal following panicking Miles. To be fair, he never exactly handled the role spiderman too well. With all the pressure and expectations he always leaned towards me until he had Gwen..in every story of ours I guided him.

His breathing was frantic and he struggled to find the words to express himself.

“Miles..”

His mind was scrambling everywhere and all he could do was look at her eyes and mouth moving speaking calming words. Y/n couldn’t see it but Miles saw her as the archer. She could be in fights but she was always far enough so she wasn’t the one to get hurt at first. It was the only reason Y/n remained level headed fighting against bad guys…going against him. She never let him see her break down the way she did that day.

“I-I’m sorry. I’m so so-sorry”

His statement truly took Y/n by surprise as tears fell from his eyes and his panicked breathing tried slowing down..she allowed him to finish.

“If this is our last chance being together, if anything goes wrong saving them..I’m sorry for being so mean to you. You’re too sweet for me to lie. You always deserved more.”

Those familiar words sounded warm coming from him. Rio had only spoken them a day prior when she was heartbroken…

“We’ll make it out. We just need to save them and get back to our normal lives, no kiddy stuff anymore.”

As soon as she helped him get up and she turned away tears fell down from y/n’s face like ricochet’s. This was the final moment she was hanging up her childhood, maybe they had ruined they’re timeline..but it’ll all be fixed eventually, they just needed to grow up…

Tag list: @justleila @tati-the-fangirl @kxllanxtdoor @abbersreads @abislays123 @not-aya @usernamepasswordsstuff @moralesluvrr @inluvwithneteyam @twinklethoughts klenotastar @ilystarz @vodoo-heart @papichulo120627 @mashiromochi @frogsandmoss @laylasbunbunny @bigdikzaddy @catynss @venusluvslove @sxributr @anikaluv @yukinaabutlazy @hxidyg @szde8-blog @avatar4life @sgmianne @melaaaara @key-zee @isabelcor3

#Spotify #miles molares #miles morales imagine #miles morales x reader #angst #across the spiderverse #spiderverse spoilers #1610 miles x reader

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nightsister-juisid · 2 years

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HBO, Don’t mess this up

I have the feeling HBO tried to sell us this problematic ship by playing the “soulmates” card. And it did work. As much as Lannister incest made me sick, I’m actually in love with Daemon and Rhaenyra’s relationship and how they developed it through the chapters. But, as they presented both characters as “meant to be together” while they chased after the other and always gravitated back to them, I believe Daemon and his “affair issues” during the war would be anti climatic and leave a bad taste in the audience. Which, except for some groups, are really invested in this couple. Even if they are fans of GOT or just casual spectators.

For that reason, I believe the best way to achieve the eventual rupture of Daemon’s and Rhae’s relationship is not the typical and boring cheating way, but the lack of trust and communication from both of them. (Which would further explain how the house of the dragon cannot be defeated but can fall if their own people tear it down)

As the book is based on rumors, and is stated on the series already that Daemon and Rhaenyra were a powerful match the greens needed to dissipate somehow, I think Mysaria and the greens creating rumors about Daemon having another lover, to abuse and improve Rhae’s fall into insanity, would be a smart move in the series (for the greens) and for HBO to start this couple downfall without breaking the “true love” narrative.

I can imagine Rhaenyra completely paranoid, wiping out her last dragonriders, vital to the war, out of her fear of more traitors and fear that Nettles was her husband's lover. She was already broken with the lost of her children and mentally unstable with her gain of weight, the war, the poverty, etc. So, her being completely afraid of losing her best warrior and love of her life is pretty understandable from a human perspective (who wants to be left alone in such critic moments?). But instead of talking about it, or search for another way for them both to understand the situation, she forces her husband to kill Nettles which would offend Daemon to the core that she just thinks somehow he isn’t loyal to her, and prefers to trust Mysaria rather than him. And as he appreciated Nettles as his own daughter (as stated in the books in which narrators keeps open the question if Daemon fucked or only appreciated Nettles as a daughter), he would let the young girl go out in spite. Because the girl never did anything wrong as to deserve that.

But he wouldn’t disobey and wouldn’t be mad because he doesn’t love Rhae. He would be mad because he does love her and she doesn’t trust him. As much as Viserys never trusted him. After all he did for her (being the one who faced most of the battles to give her the victory). He killed many for her, he avenged her son, he even let go Nettles and most of their dragonriders for her and she doesn’t trusts him. So, Daemon, being the toxic shit he is, would not go back and instead wait for Aemond to kill him and end that nonsense soon. Because that will prove to Rhae his loyalty to her.

And If he died, what else he had to lose? He lost Laena, Viserys, his warriors, his step sons, his wife’s mind. If he died fighting against Aemond, it didn’t mattered. At least he would have taken with him, one of the most feared warriors AND the biggest dragon the greens had.

However, this word never reaches Rhae and she stays depressed thinking her husband betrayed her with another woman. Having no prove of his body, as a way to torment her and think he fleed away (But instead Daemon DOES die epically against Aemond because DAMN THAT BATTLE IS SUCH A HONORING WAY TO DIE. Like, damn, Daemon killing Aemond and dying aten/cremated by Aemond’s dragon or crashed by Aemond is just tragic medieval stuff and a warrior’s death).

So 1. That would prove NO MATTER HOW MUCH SOMEONE LOVES A PERSON, and if you die for that person. IT WOULD NEVER WORK IF ONE DOESN’T COMMUNICATE (And please, we know Rhae and Daemon are more actions than stopping to think first).

2. House Targaryen can not be defeated unless they defeat themselves.

3. It would be really angsty and depressing having the two lovers dying thinking the other didn’t loved them anymore. But Rhae did love Daemon and Daemon died sacrificing himself in a crazy way to regain her love.

I just think it being a plot of the greens and Mysaria, and Daemon dying gloriously in the middle of battle against Aemond, is thousands times better than the lazy storyline of him, giving up Rhae for other women, and then running away with Nettles as a coward. Having him after all the propaganda of their love and relationship, being infidel because he can, sounds like the crappy end GOT gave us with season 8.

No way. Daemon deserves a warrior’s death to Aemond.

Also, I really want to believe their lack of communication being the reason that tore their relationship apart. I can picture Rhae becoming way more shy about having sex with Daemon because everyone points out her gain of weight and mocks her, and she’s afraid of him not wanting her anymore, while he just keeps thinking she’s the most beautiful woman he has seen in his whole life.

#the house of the dragon #house targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen #daemon targaryen #hotd #daemyra #rhaenyra x daemon #hbo series #hbo max #hbo don’t ruin the tragic soulmates trope #toxic relationship but full of true love #we deserve a tragic love story #no cheating please #nettles #dragon riders

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latibvles · 2 years

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SAD, BEAUTIFUL, TRAGIC.

beautiful, tragic // can't go back.

all the self-loathing in the world won't change a thing.

masterlist | gallery | taglist

WARNINGS: poor self-care / mentions of skipping meals and overworking

SUMMARY: In the aftermath of the night patrol that left Ron wounded, it's time for Daisy to not only open her eyes, but put down her cross.

TAGLIST: @softguarnere , @liebgotts-lovergirl , @brassknucklespeirs , @monalisastwin

He’s gone before she wakes up in the morning, stretcher and all. Her jacket had been placed around her shoulders, she doesn’t know who did it. Carolyn tells her that they came later in the night for him. He’s being moved to battalion and probably a hospital after that, but she doesn’t know much else. The information is a sweet gesture, but all Daisy does is nod stiffly. Her hands are still crusted over with the blood from his wounds. Every time she looks at them, she wants to cry.

She doesn’t though. In the morning she stretches out her stiff muscles and drinks the too-bitter coffee and smiles at soldiers in greeting who haven’t the slightest clue what transpired in the night.

Not that it matters anyway, because she’s learned that time stops for no one. The war keeps moving and there are wounds to treat, sicknesses to tend to, sheets that need cleaning and supplies that need shipping. All of which she’s more than content to do, to occupy her brain with anything but him and her hand and that feeling of her heart shattering, hearing his groan of pain. Like this wasn’t just a nurse and a soldier, like they were—

She doesn’t dare finish that sentence.

Keep pushing forward. She repeats the mantra, and it takes on different voices each time. Her own. Her brother’s. Her mother’s. It was her father’s saying, but the acknowledgement only irritates her, so she skirts past that. Keep pushing forward.

She stares at her trembling hand, balls it into a fist, then looks at Carolyn. Her fiery red hair is coming out of its bun, falling in her eyes as she balls up brown and bloodied bandages.

“How’re we doing with bandages?” Carolyn looks down at the ball, lips pressing into a thin line.

“You think any of those villages have hot water? Maybe soap?” is her reply. That’s all Daisy needs to hear. The Island is littered in smaller communities, minute enough that most of them didn’t memorize the names, but had rough estimations of how to get there — a sharp contrast from the city of Uden itself, which was hard-fought and bombed-out.

“Wouldn’t hurt to check. I’ll go ask Ward. See if we can head over with a couple of riflemen maybe, just in case.” Carolyn nods slowly for a moment. Daisy turns on her heel to leave.

“Wait—” she turns back around. Carolyn stares at her, green eyes narrowed, fisting the ball of bandages in her hands. Up, then down, her brows furrow in discontentment and Daisy shifts uncomfortably under her stare. There’s a pause, and then: “How’re… you feeling? After, you know—”

“After Speirs?” Daisy responds, uncharacteristically blunt. Just tired, she rationalizes. Carolyn nods.

“Yeah. After Speirs.” Daisy lets out a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose for a moment before waving her hand flippantly, straightening out her shoulders and staving off any harsher words she wants to use.

“He’s fine. I’m fine. He’s not dead and maybe he’ll get sent home for this one. Good for him,” It’s almost funny, in a sort of cruel way. Just last night she wanted to whisk him away, away from war, from guns, from everything — but the very thought of not seeing him again until the end of the war makes her sick to her stomach. And if Carolyn wasn’t staring at her, trying to pick apart her words, she might’ve laughed at her own selfishness. “I mean how much trouble can a fella get into on a hospital train, right?” It’s meant to be a joke, but Carolyn just nods, breaking eye contact.

“Fair enough. I’ll be… here then.”

It isn’t the last time the question will be posed to her.

She’s always been too perceptive for her own good. Feeling stares when they linger on her, hair standing on end when someone gets too close, noticing shifts in people’s facial expressions. She feels it every time she stands next to Liebgott or Roe for long enough and men who don’t know anything suspect something’s up. She sees it everytime pencil-pushing officers try to push her out of spaces she has a right to occupy. Likewise, now, she notices every lingering glance from the people around her, especially Ward and Foster. And while they may think they’re being subtle in their methods— they aren’t. For a rare moment, Daisy is undeniably annoyed.

A simple ‘Good morning’ is always followed up with a stare held for a moment too long. Nonverbal, but Daisy surmises a smile every single time, albeit a stiff one. ‘How’re you doing?’ always seems innocent enough, until she sees that subtle eyebrow quirk, or the slight squint of the eyes. Discerning. Like they’re trying to pick her apart.

“You look tired,” Ward observes one day.

“Rough night.” A short and quick response. Most nights are rough nights. If anything, peace has become a privilege. Even if she isn’t on duty, she tosses and turns. She shuts her eyes only to see Ronnie’s exhausted expression behind her eyelids. She hears his voice, thick and scratchy — are you a dream? On the rare occasion that she sleeps long enough to dream, the dreams are hardly ever peaceful. She’s always waist deep in water, always seconds away from being blown to smithereens. The people on shore crying out to her are identifiable now and that debatably makes it worse.

Ronnie always stands at the forefront, with his pretty hazel eyes.

Two weeks after Ronnie was shot, they moved again, closer to the Arnhem area. Allen hasn’t fully healed yet, so she’s still with Ward’s squad, still with scrutinizing stares that last too long and unwanted check-ins. Sometimes, she bites her cheek hard enough to draw blood, not wanting to be harsh.

It doesn’t matter if she’s okay or not. Logically, no one’s okay. They treat dying men every day, some of them crying out for God or their mothers or someone to save them and even then not everyone makes it. So even if every time she shuts her eyes she thinks of Ronnie, even if her eyes wander to the door hoping he’ll walk in with some type of small token to give her, even if the very thought of not seeing him again makes her chest ache — Daisy has to keep going. Just as she’s always done.

She can feel Carolyn’s eyes on her as they begin unpacking boxes of supplies, restocking their own AID kits with syrettes, bandages, sulfa powder, and other essentials. Daisy hears the sharp intake of breath, she doesn’t even need to look up at this point to know that the girl is about to speak.

“Don’t,” Daisy looks up at Carolyn. Her brows furrow, lips tugging into a frown. Daisy clenches her jaw for a moment. “You’re gonna ask me if I’m okay or how my day was or how I’m holding up, and I’m gonna tell you I’m fine and then you’re going to look at me and try to read between the lines. So just don’t bother asking. I’m fine.” The frustration is blatant in her voice as she unceremoniously puts wound tablets in her kit. Carolyn’s frown only deepens at that.

“Okay, fine. I won’t ask that. I’ll ask when you’re gonna stop lying every time I ask you about it.” she refutes. Daisy huffs.

“I’m not lying.”

“Oh, don’t give me that shit, Dais,” Carolyn puts her hands on her hips, staring at Daisy with narrowed eyes. “When was the last time you actually sat down and ate a full meal? Better yet— when was the last time you actually slept when it was your turn to sleep? Or even better: when was the last time you took a break without Ward having to practically coerce you into it, huh?!” Daisy can’t reply to that. She just swallows hard, knowing that her answers would only prove Foster’s point. Her rations often went half-eaten. She figured the lack of appetite was from the lack of sleep. And yesterday, Ward had essentially ordered her to take a break, because she refused to do it willingly.

Carolyn points an accusatory finger at her.

“The guys here may know fuck-all about the work that goes into what we do, but you can’t get anything past me. You’ve been on this speeding fucking train wreck ever since Lieutenant Speirs was shot and I just didn’t say anything ‘cause I didn’t wanna assume anything.” She notes how Carolyn’s voice becomes quieter, and if Daisy’s senses weren’t dialed to a stress-induced eleven, she might’ve thanked her for that, through smile or words. But her shoulders stiffen and her heart pounds and she has to look away from Carolyn’s eyes.

“Have you been using the radio to talk to Rogers or something? There’s nothing to assume.”

“And how many times have you told yourself that one?” She walks into Daisy’s line of sight, so she’s forced to look at her. “For the love of Christ, Dais, if you aren’t gonna be honest with everyone else at least stop lying to yourself. The guy looks at you like you’re the best thing to come out of the war since penicillin and the jet engine.”

Don’t say that. That’s what she wants to say, maybe even beg. If other people are seeing it, that makes it tangible, real. And she needs this to not be real. There’s a girl in Boston with blotchy cheeks and enough anger to burn down a city festered in her heart, perched upon her shoulder and reminding her of that fact. You promised. It echoes in her head. You promised you wouldn’t do this. Have some self-preservation.

“You know what he asked us the first day we linked up with Dog?” A beat passes between them. “‘How’s Lieutenant Clarke?’ Not even so much as a hello. Straight to the point. Ward nearly laughed. Said you asked her the same thing about him. To check on him and make sure he was okay. And I may not know much about him but being happy is a universal thing. And he looked damn happy to know you were safe.”

She finds herself sinking onto the ground, back pressed against one of the heavy boxes, and shutting her eyes. Daisy takes a deep, shuddering breath, biting her lip to contain her emotions. She didn’t want to cry, not now anyway. But it’s too much. Daisy isn’t sure if she wants to scream, hit something, cry, or just let every ounce of guilt she feels pour out of her — finally let the dam break. But the very thought of communicating everything that’s led up to this point makes her nauseous.

She hears Carolyn’s huff as she sits down beside her.

“If I didn’t know any better I’d say you’re worse than me,” Daisy opens up one eye, raising a brow at her. Carolyn gives Daisy an empathetic sort of smile. “I was fighting with every goddamn nurse at the hospital over James. Everyone knew it. I just didn’t wanna admit it. You’re a little lucky though. Speirs is subtle about it. One of those looks you only really can read if you know what to look for. Guess it’s a good thing James always talked about ‘em.”

Daisy doesn’t know how to respond to that, so she doesn’t, and they lapse into a brief moment of silence. It isn’t necessarily uncomfortable. Carolyn takes her hand, gives it a squeeze and even though it doesn’t do much, she’s grateful for it nonetheless. Finally she turns to look at the woman fully.

“He wrote me a letter I just— I carried it on me. Never read it though.” Carolyn grins a bit at that.

“And when did he write it?” Daisy breaks eye contact again, staring at the floor

“I got it in July of last year.” Carolyn snorts at that, rolling her eyes.

“Remind me to never send you postage,” she remarks. Daisy laughs at it, weakly, and nods. “Are you gonna read it?” She looks at her fingers for a moment, shrugging halfheartedly.

“I might. Maybe. I don’t— I’m not sure.” Carolyn hums.

“Well if it’s a steamy love confession in there, I get first I-told-you-so privileges, alright?” Daisy rolls her eyes, and that’s all Carolyn needs to see to know she agrees to the terms laid out.

On November 20th, she’s finally moved back to Easy Company, much to Rita’s delight. And Joe’s. And Eugene’s. They don’t pry much about what Dog Company’s situation is like, and she doesn’t elaborate. But she lets Joe pull her into that spin-and-hug, and if Eugene gives her an inquisitorial look, like he knows something’s up, she gives him a smile to soothe his worry.

Rita fills her in on all that she’s missed — like how apparently Captain Winters made Battalion and one of their own guys, Moose Heyliger, was shot back in October by a nervous trooper. There’s more; bits and pieces about casualties, who saved whom, who died, who lived. Guarnere was wounded and had to be sent to the hospital. On the opposite end, Randleman’s shoulder wound is healing nicely in spite of previous refusal to go to the hospital.

Rumors swirl about the potential of them being pulled off the line, and it’s one of the few things that actually work at distracting her. Carolyn’s words continue to echo in her head.

If you aren’t gonna be honest with everyone else at least stop lying to yourself.

It’s one of the few things she can’t be oblivious to. Because if she’s going to be completely honest — she was denying it, for her own sake. So aware of his expressions that she didn’t even want to look at him fully when she saw him again. Ronnie was always transparent, in his own way. She knew that. He rarely ever said something he didn’t mean. Everything about him was deliberate. He didn’t like doing things he deemed unnecessary, or playing mind-games.

And Daisy knows herself, too. And knew what she had to do to protect herself. And actively ignored those precautions. So if anything, this predicament is her own doing. She feels like an idiot, and quite frankly, he deserves better than an idiot.

When she finally gets a moment to breathe, truly, it’s when she finds herself alone, outside the barn they’d used for a church of sorts. She sees Winters walk inside, but she doesn't follow, looping around the side to avoid onlookers.

Daisy sits outside, criss-crossed, not caring for mucking up her pants at this point as she stares at Ronnie’s letter, running her thumb over it meticulously.

His handwriting has always been better than hers — neat cursive, easy to read. She figures that maybe it’s from his accounting stint before the war. The paper is a little yellow with age, and there’s a brown thumbprint on it — likely from one of the times she’s looked at it with bloodied hands. Miraculously, it survived the cold waters of D-Day, and the blazing fires of Eindhoven. She’s grateful for that in retrospect, grateful for chickening out of giving it back.

Taking in a sharp breath, she runs her finger over the opening. The sound of the envelope splitting is deafening in her ears. She pulls out the letter inside with trembling hands, unfolds it from its neat thirds. The pencil is faded a bit from time, but otherwise still legible.

There are several letters just like this all back home, all opened and tucked away beneath her bed, never to see the light of day again.

Daisy takes in a deep breath, and starts to read.

Dear Daisy,

I don’t know why you haven’t written back yet. I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t even know if you’ll actually read this, or if you’ve read any letter I’ve sent in the past few months. It’s like you’ve just disappeared. I know you’re there, because mom says you’re doing well, that you’ve got “big news” to share with me. I don’t know what that means — I’m a little scared to find out.

I miss you. I always miss you. I miss your laugh. I miss your smile. I miss your letters and all the things you tell me about — school and work and what you do in a day. I’ve missed you every day since I got on that train, Dais. I’ve been trying damn hard to focus on the war and just the war, and I do a pretty good job of it. But when I lie down at night or when I see the nurses or when the guys talk about their girls in town, I think of you. It’s always you.

I don’t know what I did, and I don’t know where you’ve gone. But if there’s anything I can do to fix it, I want to. I don’t know if we want the same things anymore but you’re too important to me to let slip away. I can’t beg for a response, I know that too. I just want to understand, if you’ll let me.

At any rate — take care of yourself.

Yours, Ronnie.

#FIRST RULE OF SBT LAND! NEVER DOUBT MY ABILITY TO BRING UP A PLOT DEVICE THAT HASNT BEEN A FOCAL POINT SINCE CHAPTER SIX #fic // sad beautiful tragic #ronald speirs #ronald speirs x oc #ron speirs #ronald speirs fic #band of brothers #band of brothers fic #hbo war fic #hbo war

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bi-disaster-yn · 2 years

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Bell Pepper

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Summary: Reader doesn’t want to have kids but doesn’t want Bucky to miss out on anything after having years of his life taken from him by Hydra.

A/N: okay so listen, as someone who reads a lot of Bucky fics on this site I know a lot of you wanna snap up Sergeant Barnes as your baby daddy (and honestly, fair enough). But as someone who has never wanted kids; I needed to create a comfort fic with my fave man ever. To all my Bucky girlies who understand: this one is for you!<3

The knife sliced open the bell pepper to reveal the queasy sight and your stomach churned. Nestled into the core with the seeds, was a miniature pepper. It almost took over the entire internal space in the larger pepper, invading it and feeding off its source.

You felt sick.

You picked it up to show Bucky who was chopping onions and trying to blink away the inevitable stinging tears that were a consequence of the task.

“How disgusting is that? Makes me feel sick when my peppers are pregnant.” You observed, horrified by the sight yet unable to take your eyes off it.

Placing it back down, you used your knife to remove the miniature pepper from the flesh of the larger one and proceeded to throw it in the trash. The procedure was quick and painless. The pepper was no longer defiled.

“I don’t know, Doll. I think you’re the sick one hacking up a pregnant pepper like that.” Bucky joked, chuckling at himself and then returned his focus to the onion when he realised you weren’t laughing with him.

“I’m doing her a favour.” You mumbled, trying not to let Bucky hear, but he did. He just chose not to press you on it.

You hadn’t told Bucky yet that you didn’t want kids. There was no tragic backstory as to why you didn’t want them. There were no fears or worries surrounding your ability to parent. There was not an explanation. You just didn’t want children and that was that.

Only, it was becoming a challenge to tell your boyfriend that. For the duration of your relationship, Bucky had been recovering from his time at Hydra. He was having nightmares, panic attacks, dissociative episodes; you name it. It was safe to say that was not the environment to introduce a child. Hence, it put a natural delay on having that conversation which you usually would get out of the way on a first date.

However, Bucky’s mental state was getting a lot better as he had started making amends by way of apologies to victims’ families. His friendship with Sam had strengthened which you were grateful for. Your own relationship was enhanced by his recovery as he was able to express himself more and build on his communication. It made you fall completely in love with him as you were able to see him for who he truly was.

You loved your Bucky more than anyone else in the world. Together, you lived in a perfect little bubble that you wanted to last forever: you and Bucky in your little apartment together.

Although, Bucky’s recovery meant that the conversation on kids was now looming over you as a constant anxiety-driving reminder that your days with your super soldier could be numbered. You were painfully aware that Bucky had been robbed of over 70 years of his life. Decades of servitude and being deprived of the ability to make choices for himself meant that you wanted him live as full a life as possible. Bucky was now excited about things again and eager to move on, finding his way in this modern world and doing everything he missed out on. This was something you had desperately wanted for him too. Bucky truly deserved everything life had to offer and to be incandescently happy.

If that meant he wanted kids, he was going to have to do it without you.

As in love with Bucky as you were, this just was not something you could do for him. It was part of your fundamental belief system, locked closely in your heart and kept safe for all time. The thought of being pregnant made you feel nauseous and violated. The idea of putting your life on hold to tend to someone else’s made you frustrated and angry. The objection to having kids started from conception all the way through to raising the child. There was not one part of the process you were willing to try.

You loved Bucky, but you couldn’t do this for him.

You glanced at the salad Bucky had in his hands, containing the pieces of the offending bell pepper. It made you grimace every time you thought about it and even more so when you thought about telling Bucky how you felt.

Sam’s nephews rushed over to greet their uncle’s cool friend with the metal arm. Bucky made roaring noises at them and darted around to avoid them catching him, holding the salad above his head to prevent any accidents. Your heart warmed at your boyfriend’s playful demeanour and subsequently sank at the realisation that he enjoyed playing with the kids.

You took the salad from him so he could mess around with the boys and sat it down in the midst of all the food that had been brought to the cookout. Sam made his way over and gave you a tight hug to thank you both for coming. He looked over at Bucky and let out a chuckle.

When you turned round, your boyfriend was standing talking to Sarah and some other women with his vibranium arm stretched out. Sam’s nephews dangled from the arm while Bucky spoke casually.

Your heart stopped.

The pounding in your ears was unbearable as a high pitched frequency permeated its way between them. The inside of your mouth went dry and when you tried to swallow your throat had closed up providing unavoidable pain.

It was selfish. Bucky clearly trusted his own mind enough that he would let vulnerable children play with that arm like it was a toy. In truth, you were so incredibly proud of him for it. But you also caught a glimpse of what he’d be like as a father and suddenly you’d never felt further away from him.

The women gawked at him. Who could blame them? The handsome super soldier who had helped save the world and put his dark past behind him. Bucky was a dream.

“Are you single? My daughter would love you!” One said.

“You’re so good with kids, you’ll make such a good dad one day.” Another chimed in.

“Look at you, so strong yet so gentle with Sarah’s boys.”

Although, you had not moved, the words from these women put a further distance between you and Bucky. It felt like he was being pulled away from you as they painted a picture of a life that he could lead without you.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m actually madly in love with my girlfriend.” He smiled softly and pointed over at you.

All eyes were on you now and you were frozen to your spot. Whilst you usually loved it when Bucky showed you off, it was like being thrown in a lions den. You could feel the inevitable questions coming as though you were standing in front of hundreds of microphones with nothing to say and had a blinding light shining in your eye.

“So when can we expect children from you two?” Sarah asked, smiling between you both. That was it. The final straw. There was a scream lurking in your throat you were dying to let out. You wanted to protest, defend yourself, prove a point but this wasn’t the time or the place.

“We haven’t talked about it.” You stated, making it clear that you were not to be pressed further on this. You were unable to look any of them in the eye - especially Bucky.

The pain on Bucky’s face as you brushed off the question shattered your already heavy heart. That was it: you’d hit that last nail in the coffin. The love of your life stood before you, clearly wounded by you and you didn’t know what to do. None of this could be made better.

“Excuse me.” You said, having created an awkward tension with your lack of enthusiasm for Bucky’s children. You turned on your heel and headed towards the car, trying your best to hold back tears. The inevitable was coming. You were going to have to say goodbye and you’d never love like this again.

All eyes went back to Bucky who stood there, looking defeated. Slowly he let the boys down and they scurried off somewhere else to go and play. He grimaced at the pitying looks all the women now gave him, hating the fact that people saw him as a victim.

“I-I’m gonna go check on her.” He announced after a few seconds and started to walk after you. His limbs became stiff and he had to focus on putting one foot in front of the other to try and get to you.

Bucky had known something was wrong with his girl. He’d known for weeks as you’d inadvertently kept him at a distance. You’d go quiet and mumble to yourself. You’d lie awake at night when you thought he was sleeping. He’d lie facing the wall and listen to the blinking of your eyelids, desperate to be able to peer inside your mind.

You brushing off the question about kids hurt Bucky. Not because he was feeling particularly broody but he thought it meant you’d gotten bored of him. Finally, he’d pushed you to the point where you’d had enough of him. Whilst, his communication had improved massively, this was something he was petrified to raise with you. Bucky wanted to keep his girl for a little while longer before she finally had to leave.

“Can we please talk, Doll?” He asked from behind you and you could hear his voice cracking. It sent sharp shooting pains through your chest.

“Later, Bucky. Go back and enjoy the cookout, we can talk about it afterwards.” You responded, still desperately trying not to look at him.

“I can’t enjoy it if you’re not there.” He sounded crushed and you could tell he’d stood still.

It made you pause too. You turned round to reveal your tear stained puffy cheeks and looked at the distraught man in front of you. Whilst it was for his own good, it still was going to be the hardest thing you ever had to do. You opened your mouth to explain the situation and how he would need to go his own way to fulfil his dreams of becoming a father. Bucky got there first before you could say anything.

“I know you’ve had enough of me and you don’t see a future with me anymore. That’s fine, Doll. Honestly, I get it. But I just want you to know I don’t think I’ll ever love anyone as much as I love you.”

You blinked at him a few times in disbelief, the tears stopped and you straightened your back. Bucky doubting your love for him stunned you into a near speechless state and was a brutal sting.

“What?”

“Isn’t that why you’re upset? Someone mentioned us having kids and you looked as though you’d seen a ghost. Thought the idea of being shackled to me for the rest of your life was too much for you.” He looked at you sheepishly, playing with his hands anxiously as he spoke.

“No!” You retaliated. “No, Bucky, sweetheart, that’s not it at all.”

He narrowed his eyebrows at you. “Then, what is it?”

You inhaled deeply, ready to say your piece. Bucky’s eyes met your own and they pleaded with you to be honest.

“I don’t want kids, Buck! I never have and I never will. I’ve wanted to tell you for so long but I was terrified you’d leave me. But I can’t hold on to you forever, you’ve had too much time taken away from you, I’m not going to steal anymore! Go and find a girl that wants to have kids and be with her. This is the one thing that I just cannot do for you and I’m sorry!” You were frenzied and sobbing by the end of your speech. Fresh warm tears pooled in your eyes and fell over the sensitive skin of your cheeks that the others had dried in on.

Bucky listened to you intently as you spoke feeling a wave of relief wash over him that you objected to children and not him. He didn’t realise the tension he’d been holding his body in until he relaxed at your explanation. A smile stretched across his face as he lunged towards you and pulled you into a bone crushing hug.

“I wouldn’t have made a good dad anyway.” He said, kissing the side of your head repeatedly. His girl still loved him, nothing else mattered.

You pulled back from the hug, thinking he was just being self-deprecating and cupped his face in your hand, staring into his eyes.

“No you wouldn’t. You’d be an excellent father. I saw you with those kids. I won’t have you stay with me just because you think you’re not good enough to be a dad.” You asserted. It was painful but it had to be done.

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t wanna do something if it’s not with you.” Bucky replied, placing his hands over yours on his cheek.

“Do you mean that?” You choked. It was cynical, but you felt like this was going to be too good to be true.

“Of course I do,” he smiled and kissed you gently on the nose. “Look, if I had made it back to Brooklyn after the war I would probably would have married some girl and had kids with her because that’s just what you did. But now… we live in this world where we get to choose who we are and who we want to be. And I want to be the guy with the girlfriend who feels sick when she sees a pregnant bell pepper. I want to be with you for the rest of my life. If that’s just the two of us then even better because it means I’ll have you all to myself.”

The floodgates opened and you were relentlessly sobbing at his words, covering your eyes with your arm. At some point you wailed out an “I love you so much” at him, although that would have been difficult to decipher between all your blubbering. Bucky heard it though, he always did.

He smirked at you and pulled you back into the tight embrace with a “c’mere”, shushing you as your tears pooled on to his chest. You clung on to him for dear life as if what he’d just said had been a dream and you were going to wake up at any minute.

“Don’t go keeping things from me like that okay?Considering how much you loved it when I communicated properly, I expected better.” He chuckled into your hair, kissing the side of your head and earning a little giggle from you. “Just me and you, Doll.”

“Just me and you, Buck.”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x yn #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fluff #Bucky Barnes angst #marvel fanfiction #Bucky Barnes x female reader #Bucky Barnes x fem!reader #boyfriend!bucky #Bucky fic #james bucky barnes #Sebastian Stan #Sebastian Stan x reader #Bucky Barnes fanfic #Bucky Barnes one shot #Bucky Barnes imagine

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tarobytez · 3 years

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disability in the Six Of Crows Duology; an analysis of Kaz Brekker, Wylan Van Eck, and the fandom’s treatment of them.

****Note: I originally wrote this for a tiktok series, which im still going to do, but i wanted to post here as well bc tumblr is major contributor to what im going to talk about

CW: ableism, filicide, abuse

In the Six of Crows duology, Leigh Bardugo delicately subverts and melds harmful disability tropes into her narrative, unpacking them in a way that I, as a disabled person, found immensely refreshing and…. just brilliant.

But what did you all do with that? Well, you fucked it up. Instead of critically looking at the characters, y’all just chose to be ableist.

For the next few videos paragraphs im going to unpack disability theory (largely the stuff surrounding media, for obvious reasons) and how it relates to Six Of Crows and the characterization of Kaz Brekker and Wylan Van Eck, then how, despite their brilliant writing, y’all completely overlooked the actual text and continuously revert them to ableist cariactures.

Disclaimer: 1. Shocker - i am disabled. I have also extensively researched disability theory and am very active in the disabled community. Basically, I know my shit. 2. im going to be mad in these videos this analysis. Because the way y’all have been acting has been going on for a long ass time and im fuckin sick of it. I don’t give a shit about non-disabled feelings, die mad

Firstly, I’m going to discuss Kaz, his play on the stereotypical “mean cripple” trope and how Bardugo subverts it, his cane, and disabled rage. Then, I am going to discuss Wylan, the “inspiration porn” stereotype, caregivers / parents, and the social model of disability. Finally, I will then explain the problems in the fandom from my perspective as a disabled person, largely when it comes to wylan, bc yall cant leave that boy tf alone.

Kaz Brekker

Think of a character who uses a cane (obviously not Kaz). Now, are they evil, dubiously moral, or just an asshole in general? Because nearly example I can think of is: whether it be Lots’O from Toy Story, Lucius Malfoy, or even Scrooge and Mr.Gold from Once Upon A Time all have canes (the last two even having their canes appear less and less as they become better people)

The mean/evil cripple trope is far more common than you would think. Villains with different bodies are confined to the role of “evil”. To quote TV Tropes, who I think did a brilliant job on explaining it “The first is rooted in eugenics-based ideas linking disability or other physical deformities with a "natural" predisposition towards madness, criminality, vice, etc. The Rule of Symbolism is often at work here, since a "crippled" body can be used to represent a "crippled" soul — and indeed, a disabled villain is usually put in contrast to a morally upright and physically "perfect" hero. Whether consciously on the part of the writer or not, this can reinforce cultural ideas of disability making a person inherently inferior or negative, much in the same way the Sissy Villain or Depraved Homosexual trope associate sexual and gender nonconformity with evil. ”

Our introduction to Kaz affirms this notion of him being bad or morally bankrupt, with “Kaz Brekker didn’t need a reason”, etc. This mythologized version of himself, the “bastard of the barrel” actively fed into this misconception. But, as we the audience are privy to his inner thoughts, know that he is just a teenager like every other Crow. He is complex, his disability isn’t this tragic backstory, he just fell off a roof. It’s not his main motivation, nor does he curse revenge for making him a cripple - it is just another part of who he is.

His cane (though the shows version fills me with rage but-) is an extension of Kaz - he fights with it, but it has a purpose. Another common thing in media is for canes to be simply accessories, but while Kaz’ cane is fashionable, it has purpose.

The quote “There was no part of him that was not broken, that had not healed wrong and there was no part of him that was not stronger for having been broken.” is so fucking powerful. Kaz does not want nor need a cure - its said in Crooked Kingdom that his leg could most likely be healed, but he chooses not to. Abled-bodied people tend to dismiss this thought as Kaz being stubborn but it shows a reality of acceptance of his disability that is just, so refreshing.

In chapter 22 of SOC, we see disabled rage done right - when he is called a cripple by the Fjerdan inmate, Kaz is pissed - the important detail being that he is pissed at the Fjerdan, at society for ableism, not blaming it on being disabled or wishing he could be normal. He takes action, dislocating the asshole’s shoulder and proving to him, and to a lesser extent, himself, that he is just as capable as anyone else, not in spite of, but because he is disabled. And that is the point of Kaz, harking back to the line that “there was no part of him that was not stronger for having been broken”.

I cried on numerous occasions while reading the SOC duology, but the parts I highlighted in this section especially so. I, as many other disabled people do, have had a long and tumultuous relationship with our disability/es, and for many still struggle. But Kaz Brekker gave me an empowered disabled character who accepts themselves, and that means the world to me.

Keeping that in mind, I hope you can understand why it hurts so much to disabled people when you either erase Kaz’s disability (whether through cosplay or fanfiction), or portray him as a “broken boy uwu”, especially implying that he would want a cure. That flies in the face of canon and is inherently fucking ableist. (if u think im mad wait until the next section)

Next, we have Wylan.

Oh fucking boy.

I love Wylan so fucking much, and y’all just do not seem to understand his character? Like at all? Since this is disability-centric, I’m not going to discuss how the intersection of his queerness also contributes to these issues, but trust me when I say it’s a contributing factor to what i'm going to say.

Wylan, motherfucking Van Eck. If you ableist pricks don’t take ur fucking hands off him right now im going to fight you. I see Wylan as a subversion another, and in my opinion more insidious stereotype pf disabled people - inspiration porn.

Cara Liebowitz in a 2015 article on the blog The Body Is Not An Apology explains in greater detail how inspiration porn is impactful in real life, but media is a major contributing factor to this reality. The technical definition is “the portrayal of people with disabilities as inspirational solely or in part on the basis of their disability” - but that does not cover it fully.

Inspiration porn does lasting damage on the disabled community as it implies that disability is a negative that you need to “overcome” or “triumph” instead of something one can feel proud of. It exploits disabled people for the development of non-disabled people, and in media often the white male protagonist. Framing disability as inherently negative perpetuates ideals of eugenics and cures - see Autism $peaks’ “I Am Autism” ad. Inspiration porn is also incredibly patronizing as it implies that we cannot take care of ourselves, or do things like non-disabled people do. Because i stg some of you tend to think that we just sit around all day wishing we weren’t disabled.

Another important theory ideal that is necessary when thinking about Wylan is the experience of feeling like a burden simply for needing help or accommodations. This is especially true when it comes to familial relationships, and internalized ableism.

The rhetoric that Wylan’s father drilled into his head, that he is “defective”, “a mistake”, and “needs to be corrected”, that he (Jan) was “cursed with a moron for a child” is a long held belief that disabled people hear relentlessly. And while many see Van Eck’s attempted murder of Wylan as “preposturous” and overall something that you would never think happens today - filicide (a parent murdering their child) is more common than you would like to believe. Without even mentioning the countless and often unreported deaths of disabled people due to lack of / insufficient / neglectful medical care, in a study on children who died from the result of household abuse, 40 of 42 of them (95%) were diagnosed with disabilities. Van Eck is not some caricature of ableist ideals - he is a real reflection on how many people and family members view disability.

Circling back to how Wylan unpacks the inspiration porn trope - he is 3 dimensional, he is not only used to develop the other characters, he is just *chefs kiss* Leigh, imo, put so much love and care into the creation of Wylan and his story and character growth that is representative of a larger feeling in the disabled community.

That being said, what you non-disabled motherfuckers have done to him.

The “haha Wylan can’t read” jokes aren’t and were not funny. Y’all literally boiled down everything Wylan is to him being dyslexic. And it’s like,,,, the only thing you can say about him. You ignore every other part of him other than his disability, and then mock him for it. There’s so much you can say about Wylan - simping for Jesper, being band kid and playing the fuckin flute, literally anything else. But no, you just chose to mock his disability, excellent fucking job!

Next up on “ableds stfu” - infantilization! y’all are so fucking condescending to Wylan, and treat him like a fucking toddler. And while partly it is due to his sexuality i think a larger portion is him being disabled. Its in the same vein of people who think that Wylan and Jesper are romantically one sided, and that Jesper only kind of liked Wylan, despite the canon evidence of him loving Wylan just as much. You all view him as a “smol bean”, who needs protecting, and care, when Wylan is the opposite of that. He is a fucking demolitions expert who suggested waking up sleeping men to kill them - what about that says “uwu”. You are treating Wylan as a burden to Jesper and the other Crows when he is an immensely valuable, fully autonomous disabled person - you all just view him as damaged.

And before I get a comment saying that “uhhh Wylan isn’t real why do you care” while Wylan may not be real, how you all view him and treat him has real fucking impacts and informs how you treat people like me. If someone called me an “uwu baby boy” they’d get a fist square in the fucking jaw. Fiction informs how we perceive the world and y’all are making it super fucking clear how you see disabled people.

Finally, I wanted to talk about how the social model of disability is portrayed through Wylan. For those who are unaware, the social model of disability contrasts the medical model, that views the disability itself as the problem, that needs to be cured, whereas the social model essentially boils down to creating an accommodating society, where disability acceptance and pride is the goal. And we see this with Wylan - he is able to manage his father’s estate, with Jesper’s assistance to help him read documents. And this is not out of pity or charity, but an act of love. It is not portrayed as this almighty act for Jesper to play saviour, just a given, which is incredibly important to show, especially for someone who has been abused by family for his disability like Wylan, that he is accepted.

Yet, I still see people hold up Jesper on a pedestal for “putting up with” Wylan, as if loving a disabled person deserves a fucking pat on the back. It’s genuinely exhausting trying to engage with a work I love so much with a fandom that thinks so little of me and my community. It fucking shows.

Overall, Leigh Bardugo as a disabled person wrote two incredibly meticulous and empowered disabled characters, and due to either lack of reading comprehension, ableism, or a quirky mix of both, the fandom has ignored canon and the experiences of disabled people for…. shits and giggles i guess. And yes, there are issues with the Grishaverse and disability representation - while I haven’t finished them yet so I do not have an opinion on it, people have been discussing issues in the KOS duology with ableist ideals. This mini series was no way indicative of the entire disabled experience, nor does it represent my entire view on the representation as a whole. These things need to be met critically in our community, and talked about with disabled voices at the forefront. For example, the limited perspective we get of Wylan and Kaz being both white men, does not account for a large portion of the disabled community and the intersection of multiple identities.

All-in-all, Critique media, but do not forget to also critique fandom spaces. Alternatively, just shut the fuck up :)

happy fucking disability pride month, ig

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singingninja4 · 2 years

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very long and kind of emotional word vomit post under the cut

tl;dr - I love BCS and this fandom community and I'm really not ready to say goodbye to the story and the characters

I shared a post earlier saying that a piece of media has never affected me as much as better call saul. last night I wept. I felt sick to my stomach, and my heart ached so much I couldn’t sleep. I’ve been hyperfixated on shows and movies before, but I’ve never had such a strong visceral reaction. in some of my other fandoms, I’ve cried—uncontrollably sobbed even—when a favorite character died or something else tragic occurred. like when tony stark died in endgame I ugly cried during the last 30 mins of the movie. I spent 10 years loving that character but then when I left the theater, I was able to go about my day. I was a little down for a few hours, and I certainly continued to grieve the character, but I was functional.

I’ve been contemplating all day why this show, better call saul, has ingrained itself into my being more so than any other show. one reason may be the amount of time I’ve spent with this universe and these characters. I didn’t watch brba from the very beginning—I started while season 3 was airing—but I’ve been with this universe for 12 years!! but I’ve been with other fandoms for just as long if not longer. another reason is definitely the quality of the show. across the board, with acting, writing, directing, music, cinematography, sound, costumes, literally every department is at the top of their game producing some of the best quality television to ever exist. no one is doing it like gilligould and co. NO ONE. but that’s not the only reason. I’ve watched other shows and movies that are of similar quality. Avatar the Last Airbender is and probably will forever be one of the greatest animated shows to ever air imo and for a lot of the same reasons. and yeah, atla holds a special place in my heart and I cry every time I watch certain scenes, but I don’t feel debilitating physical pain from it.

but after reflecting on it all day, what sets BCS apart from all of my other hyperfixations is the timing of it all. as I said, I’ve been a devout fan of the brba universe since around 2010, but my hyperfixation hit a whole new level in march 2020 when the pandemic hit and the first lockdown occurred. this was a very dark time in my life, as I know it was for many others. suddenly being totally isolated, scared about our health and our future, and for those of us in the usa, the fear and anger about our political landscape was traumatizing. I turned to tv and other media to fill some of the voids in my life, bcs and brba being the main shows I turned to for comfort. tbh I think that bcs being there for me during such a traumatizing and lonely time just stitched the characters even deeper into my heart.

another thing that sets it apart, is that this is the first time I have ever made friends through fandom/online spaces. I’ve been on tumblr for about 11-12 years, but until spring of 2020, I never really interacted with other people in fandom spaces. I was always a little detached, simply reblogging things I liked. as I’m sure we all were during the beginning of the pandemic, I was in desperate need of social interaction, and so I started to branch out a little bit in online fandom spaces like tumblr and ao3. then in november 2020 my family and I came down with severe covid. like my mom had to be hospitalized (she’s fine now) and I should have been but wasn’t because of my age and the number of beds in the hospital. during this time a lot of my irl “friends” showed their true colors. even though they knew we were sick hardly any of my friends checked in on me and my family. fortunately, we had other people besides my shitty “friends” to rely on to take care of us. anyway, I lost a lot of friends during that time, and so I dove even deeper into cultivating my friendships online as well as the few irl friends who stuck by my side.

I’ve made some fantastic friends over the last 2 years in the bcs fandom. some of y’all know me better in some ways than several of my irl friends. the bonding that I have shared with y’all as we waited for season 6—the watch parties on tutturu (aka hyperbeam), the unhinged blogging, discord server inside jokes, fic writing and reading, song covers, voice chats, memeing and so many more interactions both about BCS and outside of it—all of these experiences continued to weave the bcs universe, its characters, and this fandom community into my soul.

last night’s episode was the end of an era, the beginning of the end. and the break-up between kim and jimmy, though inevitable, was devastating. I am utterly heart broken and am having trouble rising up out of how depressed I am about it. I never anticipated that I would be so emotionally invested in these wonderful characters that I would feel physically ill at the thought of their separation. I love this show so so much and it has gotten me through some very dark times, and I feel absolutely sick thinking about it ending. but I’ve realized it’s because I associate these characters and story that I love so much with all the wonderful people I’ve met here. y'all truly helped me through those dark times as well.

I am really not ready to say goodbye to this story and these characters. and I know it’s a silly thought, but I also think that the episode subconsciously triggered a fear that when the show ends, so will the lovely community I’ve made over the last 2 years (I’ve got some abandonment issues, but I won’t go into that here). I really hope that is not the case, and I’m going to try my damnedest to keep in touch with y’all even if the fandom dies down because this community truly means so much to me.

anyway, I don’t really know where I was going with this…I don't think I articulated anything very well and I’m just kind of rambling at this point 😅 but I really just needed to write down my thoughts to process all these feelings I’ve been having all day. and also just wanted to tell y’all how much this fandom means to me 💖

edit:

thought I should clarify that even though I'm devastated by their break up, I'm anxious and excited for journey these characters are going to take us on in the final few episodes...even if I'm not ready for it to end yet 💖

#better call saul #personal #long post

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wolfstar-in-color · 3 years

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July Colorful Column: Remus is a Crip, and We Can Write Him Better.

There is one thing that can get me to close a fic so voraciously I don’t even make sure I’m not closing other essential tabs in the process. It doesn’t matter how much I’m loving the fic, how well written I think it is, or how desperately I want to know how it ends. Once I read this sentence, I am done.

It’s written in a variety of different ways, but it always goes something like this: “You don’t want me,” Remus said, “I am too sick/broken/poor/old/[insert chosen self-demeaning adjective here].”

You’re familiar with the trope. The trope is canonical. And if you’ve been around the wolfstar fandom for longer than a few minutes, you’ve read the trope. Maybe you love the trope! Maybe you’ve written the trope! Maybe you’re about to stop reading this column, because the trope rings true to you and you feel a little attacked!

Now, let’s get one thing out of the way right now: I am not saying the trope is wrong. I am not saying it’s bad. I am not saying we should stop writing it. We all have things we don’t like to see in our chosen fics. Maybe you can’t stand Leather Jacket Motorbike Sirius? Maybe you think Elbow Patch Remus is overdone? Or maybe your pet peeves are based in something a little deeper - maybe you think Poor Latino Remus is an irresponsible depiction, or that PWPs are too reductive? Whatever it is, we all have our things.

Let me tell you about my thing. When I first became very ill several years ago, there were various low points in which I felt I had become inherently unlovable. This is, more or less, a normal reaction. When your body stops doing things it used to be able to do - or starts doing things you were quite alright without, thank you very much - it changes the way you relate to your body. You don’t want to hear my whole disability history, so yada yada yada, most people eventually come to accept their limitations. It’s a very painful existence, one in which you constantly tell yourself your disability has transformed you into a burdensome, unworthy member of society, and if nothing else, it’s not terribly sustainable. Being disabled takes grit! It takes power! It takes a truly absurd amount of medical self-advocacy! Hating yourself? Thinking yourself unworthy of love? No one has time for that.

Of course, I’m being hyperbolic. Plenty of disabled people struggle with these feelings many years into their disabilities, and never really get over them. But here’s the thing. We experience those stories ALL THE TIME. Remember Rain Man? Or Million Dollar Baby? Or that one with the actress from Game of Thrones and that British actor who seemed like he was going to have a promising career but then didn't? Those are all stories about sad, bitter disabled people and their sad, bitter lives, two out of three of which end in the character completing suicide because they simply couldn’t imagine having to live as a disabled person. (I mean, come on media, I get that we're less likely to enjoy a leisurely Saturday hike, but our parking is SUBLIME.) When was the last time you engaged with media that depicted a happy disabled person? A complex disabled person? A disabled person who has sex? No really, these aren’t hypothetical questions, can you please drop a rec in the notes?? Because I am desperate.

There are lots of problems with this trope, and they’ve been discussed ad nauseam by people with PhDs. I’m not actually interested in talking about how this trope leads to a more prevalent societal idea that disabled people are unworthy of love, or contributes to the kind of political thought processes that keep disabled people purposefully disenfranchised. I’m just a bitch on Tumblr, and I have a bone to pick: the thing I really hate about the trope? It’s boring. I’m bored. You know how, like, halfway through Grey’s Anatomy you realized they were just recycling the same plot points over and over again and there was just no WAY anyone working at a hospital prone to THAT MANY disasters would stay on staff? It's like that. I love a recycled trope as much as the next person (There Was Only One Bed, anyone?). But I need. Something. Else.

Remus is disabled. BOLD claim. WILD speculation. Except, not really. You simply - no matter how you flip it, slice it, puree it, or deconstruct it - cannot tell me Remus Lupin is not disabled. Most of us, by this point, are probably familiar with the way that One Canonical Author intended One Dashing Werewolf to be “a metaphor for those illnesses that carry stigma, like HIV and AIDS” [I’m sorry to link you to an outside source quoting She Who Must Not Be Named, but we’re professionals here]. Which is... a thing. It’s been discussed. And, listen, there’s no denying that this parallel is a problematic interpretation of people who have HIV/AIDS and all such similar “those illnesses” (though I’ll admit that I, too, am perennially apt to turn into a raging beast liable to harm anything that crosses my path, but that’s more linked to the at-least-once-monthly recollection that One Day At A Time got cancelled). Critiques aside, Remus Lupin is a character who - due to a condition that affects him physically, mentally, emotionally, and intellectually - is repeatedly marginalized, oppressed, denied political and social power, and ostracized due to unfounded fear that he is infectious to others. Does that sound familiar?

We’re not going to argue about whether or not “Remus is canonically disabled as fuck” is a fair reading. And the reason we’re not going to argue about whether or not it’s a fair reading is because I haven’t read canon in 10-plus years and you will win the argument. Canon is only marginally relevant here. The icon of this blog is brown, curly haired Remus Lupin kissing his trans boyfriend, Sirius Black. We are obviously not too terribly invested in canon. The wolfstar fandom is now a community with over 25,000 AO3 fics, entire careers launched from drawing or writing or cosplaying this non-canonical pairing. We love to play around here with storylines and universes and races and genders and sexualities and all kinds of things, but most of the time? Remus is still disabled. He’s disabled as a werewolf in canon-compliant works, he’s disabled in the AUs where he was injured or abused or kidnapped or harmed as a child, he’s disabled in the stories that read him as chronically ill or bipolar or traumatized or blind or Deaf. I’d go so far as to say that he is one of very few characters in the Wide Wonderful World of media who is, in as close to his essence as one can be, always disabled. And that means? Don’t shoot the messenger... but we could stand to be a tiny bit more responsible with how we portray him.

Disabled people are complicated. As much as I’d like to pretend we are always level-headed, confident, and ready to assert our inherent worth, we are still just humans. We have bad days. We doubt our worth. We sometimes go out with guys who complain about our steroid-induced weight gain (it was a long time ago, Tumblr, okay??). But, we also have joy and fun and good days and sex and happiness and families and so many other things.

Remus is a disabled character, and as such, it’s only fair that he’d have those unworthy moments. But - I propose - Remus is also a crip. What is a crip? A crip - like a queer - is someone who eschews the limited boundaries placed on their bodies, who rejects a hierarchy of oppression in favor of an intersectional analysis of lived experience, who isn’t interested in being the tragic figure responsible for helping people with dominant identities realize how good they have it. Crips interpret their disabilities however they want, rethinking bodies and medicine and pleasure and pain and even time itself. Crips are political, community-minded, and in search of liberation.

Remus is a character who struggles with his disability, sure. But he’s also a character who leverages his physical condition to attempt to shift communities towards his political leanings, advocates for the rights of those who share his physical condition, and has super hot sex with his wrongfully convicted boyfriend ultimately goes on to build community and family. Having a condition that quite literally cripples you, over which you have no control, and through which you are often read as a social pariah? That’s disability. But using said condition as a means through which to build advocacy and community? Now that’s some crip shit.

Personally, I love disabled!Remus Lupin. But I love crip!Remus Lupin even more. I’d love to see more of a Remus who owns his disability, who covets what makes him unique, and who never ever again tells a potential romantic partner they are too good for him because of his disability. This trope - unlike There Was Only One Bed! - sometimes actually hurts to read. Where’s Remus who thinks a potential romantic partner isn’t good enough for him? Where’s Remus who insists his partners learn more about his condition in order to treat him properly? Where’s sexy wheelchair user Remus? Where’s Remus who uses his werewolf transformations as an excuse to travel the world? Where’s crip Remus??

We don’t have to put “you don’t want me” Remus entirely to bed. It is but one of many repeated tropes that are - in the words of The Hot Priest from Fleabag - morally a bit dubious. And let’s face it - we don’t always come to fandom for its moral superiority (as much as we sometimes like to think we do).

This is not a condemnation - it is an invitation. Able-bodied folks are all but an injury, illness, or couple decades away from being disabled. And when you get here, I sincerely hope you don’t waste your time on “you don’t want me”ing back and forth with the people you love. I’m inviting you to come to the crip side now. We have snacks, and without all the “you don’t want me” talk, we get to the juicy parts much faster.

Colorfully,

Mod Theo

#wolfstar #disability in fandom #disabled remus #crip remus #please write me some crip remus #I beg of you #fandom meta

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hermannsthumb · 3 years

Note

Town council Hermann vs Alien Conspiracy Newt please!!!

THIS WAS FUN!!! inspired both by this tweet and conversations abt a newt/herm AU of that tweet with @k-sci-janitor (who also thought of the funniest sign newt made in this fic, aka the cheekbones one, and what his tats should look like). this is long sorry :/ gets a little spicy towards the end but nothing worse than a high pg13/light M

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The evening of the weekly town council meeting, it pours like nothing else. Which Hermann figures is really quite appropriate. Loathe as he is to soak his trouser legs, trudge through the mud that used to be his front walk, and hold his umbrella for so long his arm aches (for the community center is a mere half-mile walk away that Hermann can't justify substituting with a bus), he can't imagine council meetings happening in any other sort of weather. In fact, they rarely tend to; their dreariness seems to be a necessity, part of the preparation, as if to put everyone in as miserable a mood as possible.

Hermann hates council meetings. He supposes he'd be more sympathetic towards the plights of his constituents—if one can call one's neighbors constituents—if he'd wanted the damned job in the first place. As it is, he feels a bit like he was conned into it. Hermann had been a lowly physics professor at the local community college, passionate about public education and funding for public education and all those proper sorts of things an educator ought to be concerned about, when he suddenly found himself seized with the idea of making a difference. So he ran for a head position on the council. And he won it. Only no one told him that the council deals a lot less with public education and a lot more with noise complaints, cul-de-sac bake sales, and raccoons in dustbins, which makes why he ran completely unopposed all the more obvious.

A fat raindrop explodes against the edge of Hermann's umbrella and splashes his glasses. Hermann grits his teeth and wipes them dry with the cuff of his sweater. Bloody meeting; bloody rain; Hermann just wants to go back home, and fix up a nice pot of herbal tea, and set a blanket in the dryer for ten minutes, and...

"Dr. Gottlieb! Hey, Dr. Gottlieb, wait—!"

A blur in an oversized yellow raincoat hurdles itself at Hermann from the stairs of the community center. Hermann considers pretending he is a different Dr. Gottlieb, one who certainly has no reason to know maniacs in raincoats, or maybe high-tailing it in the other direction. This is the other reason why Hermann loathes council meetings: Newton Geiszler.

The unfortunate thing is that Newton Geiszler was, at one point, a respectable academic type, and in fact one of Hermann's own colleagues at the community college. (Hermann only found this out after the fact—he does not make a habit of intermingling much with the biology department.) And Hermann does mean was. Around a year ago, Geiszler was asked to temporarily step down from his position after he suddenly and unexpectedly went off the deep end. He has not been asked to come back yet. And not without reason. "Dr. Geiszler," Hermann sighs. "I've asked you not to lurk about here like that. It's...unsettling."

"Sorry, man, sorry," Geiszler shouts. He stomps over and makes himself at home under Hermann's umbrella. Hermann's not sure how he's been managing to see anything, let alone Hermann approaching down the sidewalk: his glasses are completely fogged-up and rain-splattered. "Do you mind if—thanks, dude."

Geiszler flips his hood down. He’s short, only coming up to Hermann's nose, with stubble nearly overgrown to a full beard and a mess of wet brown hair. He shakes that hair now, like a dog, soaking Hermann in the process. Hermann growls. "I beg your pardon,” he says.

"Oops,” Geiszler says. “Sorry. Anyway, Dr. Gottlieb, I'm really glad I caught you, there are—there are some things I wanted to tell you about. Before the meeting. They're—hold on." He rummages around in the deep pockets of his raincoat and produces a damp notebook, which he begins to flip through frantically. "It's about—"

"I know what it's about," Hermann says. Geiszler fumbles to push his glasses back up his nose. "In fact, there are some things I need to speak with you about as well."

"You've seen them?" Geiszler says in a hushed tone.

Hermann scowls. "I certainly have.”

They first started cropping up in the forest around the little cabin Geiszler calls home. Then, like dandelions or bamboo, they spread fast and far—to the town commons, in the front lawn of the coffee shop Hermann frequents, in front of his house. Whenever Hermann dashes one down with his cane or hauls one off to a rubbish bin, two more only crop up in its place. It's annoying, frankly. As if Hermann doesn't have to deal with enough already.

3 ALIEN ABDUCTIONS IN ONE WEEK - WHEN IS THE COUNCIL GOING TO DO SOMETHING?, the new one sitting in front of the community center says.

It's better than last week's sign, Hermann supposes. THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE - AND HERMANN GOTTLIEB IS BLIND TO IT.

"You know you need a permit for those, Dr. Geiszler," Hermann says. "Or, at the very least, the council's permission. They're a public nuisance."

"My signs are a public nuisance?" Geiszler shouts. Hermann flinches back. Geiszler may be compact, but if he doesn't have the shrillest voice on the whole damned planet. "Open your eyes, dude! A dozen people went missing last month! The only public nuisance is whatever's coming from—" He bites his lip and jabs his finger at the sky, as if saying anything remotely akin to outer space would suddenly send fleets of UFOs pouring down from above. "And you're just letting them walk right fucking in."

“I thought they were flying in?" Hermann says. He raps Geiszler’s shin with the end of his cane. "Do get out of my way, Dr. Geiszler. The meeting starts in ten minutes, and you're welcome to air all of your grievances then."

Geiszler is silent as Hermann ducks around him and ascends the community center ramp. For a moment, Hermann thinks he may have won this small victory, and then he hears the wet slaps of Geiszler's rain boots against the pavement behind him. "Really funny," Newton says. "Real fucking funny, dude. I bet it'll be just as funny when they come for you next!"

Hermann unlocks the door. Geiszler waves a stack of black-and-white polaroids beneath his nose. "I took these last week," Geiszler says, and begins flipping through them as frantically as he had his notepad. Each one is blurry and indistinct, like Geiszler snapped them through a gauzy curtain with shaking hands. Hermann's not sure what he's meant to be looking at. "The day that waitress went missing from the bus stop. And two nights after that—your neighbor, the one who went outside to let his cat in and never came b—"

"Enough," Hermann says. He pushes the polaroids away, knocking two to the ground, and Geiszler scrambles to pick them up before they're ruined. "Dr. Geiszler, it is undoubtedly tragic that these people have—er—vanished, as they have, but continuously insisting extraterrestrials had something to do with it, and furthermore—" Geiszler opens his mouth as if to argue, but Hermann raises his voice and pushes on. "—furthermore, that I'm meant to do something about it, is completely—well, it's unhinged, frankly. I'm not law enforcement. Or the mayor. Or bloody—NASA. What do you want from me?"

Geiszler stares at him for a long time. He pockets his photographs. "They're gonna come for you," he says, ominously. "Just like they did for me."

The meeting goes off as expected, which is to say, badly. Hermann gets shouted at by nearly everyone in town, many of whom blame Hermann and his presumed negligence for the disappearances over the past year as well (blessedly, they don't also blame aliens), though many more of them blame him for more trivial things such as the broken water fountain in the commons or the library's slow wireless internet. Hermann can't decide which is worse.

As it is, when the clock strikes eight, he's more than ready to go home. "Right," he announces, standing up and making a show of tidying his meeting notes. They're already tidy: Hermann's notes are always meticulous. He continues—rather quickly, in case someone gets bold and attempts to interrupt him, "Thank you all very much for such a, er, productive meeting. I'll make sure to pass along everything you've said to the appropriate people. If there's nothing else..."

Geiszler jumps to his feet. A few people groan; Hermann has a feeling they're just about as sick of him as Hermann is. "Um, yeah, actually, I want to add something."

"No," Hermann says. “Dr. Geiszler, please, we can talk—”

"When we were outside," Geiszler continues anyway, raising his voice, "you asked me what I wanted you to do. Well, I just want you to listen to me! That's all! I have so much proof—so much I can show you—and you won't even—!"

"Proof?" Hermann says. "Your rubbish photographs?”

"It's not just the photographs! It's other stuff, too! Like—" Geiszler lets out a long, angry huff of air, and actually balls his fists up at his sides. Hermann has never seen him so incensed, not even when he accused Hermann of being an alien himself during a council meeting last summer. "Look, just come to my house and I'll fuckin' show you. Or are you that afraid of being—I don’t know, proven wrong?"

Part of Hermann is convinced that if he follows Geiszler out to his isolated cabin in the middle of the woods, it'll be the last thing he ever does. At the very least, he certainly has no desire to spend more time with Geiszler than he's already forced to. Yet—on the other hand—Hermann does not appreciate the challenge, nor does he appreciate being made to look like a fool by the man who chairs the local paranormal society. "Fine," he snaps, and Geiszler startles in obvious surprise. "Fine, you wretched little man. I’ll let you show me whatever proof you think you may have, so long as you take every single one of those signs down."

"Um," Geiszler squeaks. He clears his throat. "D—deal?"

Hermann seizes his cane and thrusts his chair back under his table roughly. "Well?" he says to the rest of the hall, none of whom have budged since Geiszler began shouting his head off. He scowls at the lot of them. "The meeting is over. You can leave."

It's Hermann's job to shut down the building each week, so he waits for the very last stragglers to toss out their paper water cups, shrug on their raincoats, and file outside before switching off the lights and locking up. He finds Geiszler lurking by a rather worse-for-wear green VW Beetle at the curb, the hood of his raincoat flipped back up over his hair. Hermann desperately hopes that the car isn't Geiszler’s. He is Hermann’s ride home tonight, after all. "I took the signs down," Geiszler says in a rush. "All of the ones around here, anyway. I'll have to do the rest tomorrow." He jerks his thumb at the backseat of the Beetle, where Hermann sees a haphazard pile of some of the 3 ALIEN ABDUCTIONS signs. His heart sinks. The X-Files bumper stickers should've been a dead giveaway, really.

"Thank you," Hermann sighs. "Well, let's get this over with."

"The heat is busted, so you might wanna leave your coat on," Geiszler says apologetically when Hermann manages to squish himself into the passenger's seat. The floor is a sea of empty Dunkin' Donuts cups, stacks of pulp science (or, if Hermann were to be less kind, pseudoscientific) magazines spanning back at least half a decade, and a pin-littered linen tote bag filled to the brim with boxed Annie's macaroni and cheese.

"Uh, sorry," Geiszler says. "I had to run some errands earlier. You can just—toss that in the back. Yeah."

The ride is short but bumpy, and though the removal of Geiszler's shopping bag offers Hermann more leg room, there is nothing that can make up for his tragically awful driving and his tragically awful CD collection. Hermann almost bolts from the car when they finally pull up at Geiszler's ivy-shrouded cabin, so relieved to have made it there in one piece that he's all but forgotten that he must now spend the rest of the evening with Geiszler, too. He remembers soon enough: another duo of aggressive signs have been pounded into Geiszler's mossy front path, TURN BACK NOW - ALIEN ABDUCTION ZONE, and a rather good sketch of Hermann beneath WHAT ARE THOSE CHEEKBONES HIDING? "That one's from the summer," Geiszler says sheepishly, kicking down the latter with the toe of his boot. "I keep forgetting to take it down. I don't still think you're an alien, by the way."

"Er, thank you," Hermann says. "I suppose?"

"They wouldn't be that obvious," Geiszler says, emphasizing the they with a meaningful glance up at the night sky.

"Of course not," Hermann says.

He's not quite sure what he expected Geiszler's house to look like. Some sort of—conspiracy nutter's den, perhaps, with aluminum foil hats and deconstructed radios and elaborate photoboards full of thumbtacks and red string. Or the interior of his car on a larger scale, with empty takeout containers and crumpled up papers on every surface. He's...sort of right. There's a noticeable lack of tinhats, but there are plenty of (modestly-sized) corkboards on the walls and multiple coffee cups peeking out of a recycling bin. The rest is merely precisely what Hermann would expect from an academic in his 30s: books, and mis-matching furniture, and a sink of dishes begging to be washed. It's...a bit disappointing, frankly. Though Hermann is rather impressed with the sleek telescope angled in front of the back slider door. Impressed, and envious. It's a very nice model.

"Make yourself at home," Geiszler says, unzipping his voluminous raincoat and tossing it, along with Hermann's, over the back of a worn armchair. He's wearing a pair of torn skinny jeans and a band t-shirt that reveals his heavily tattooed, and deceptively shapely, arms. Hermann tears his eyes away and forces himself to sit down at one end of Geiszler's couch. "I'm gonna make us some coffee. Do you want any sugar or non-dairy creamer?"

"No, thank you," Hermann says. "I don't drink coffee this late. It'll keep me up all night."

"Well, I hope so, that's kinda the plan,” Geiszler says. He rolls his eyes. “The aliens never come before at least midnight. Soy milk or almond milk?"

Hermann thinks, briefly and longingly, of his nice warm bed, the blanket he intended to toss in the dryer, and the herbal tea he won't be having after all. "Almond milk?" he hazards.

Geiszler stares at him in evident disgust. "Dude, I was kidding. You know how bad that shit is for the environment? It takes, like, a fuckin' thousand gallons of water or something like that for one carton of almond milk. It's insane. I mean, I guess it's still less water than what dairy needs, but there are plenty of better options."

"Oh," Hermann says. Hermann drinks skim milk. "I'm sorry. Er. Soy milk?"

As Geiszler fixes them mugs, Hermann begins to poke around some papers scattered across the coffee table. One is a list of names and dates, seemingly random, Hermann thinks, until he recognizes (scrawled in purple ink at the very bottom of the page) that of the gentleman who disappeared from his back porch just down Hermann's street. When he recognizes another—a teenager who worked as a barista at Hermann’s favorite coffee shop—he realizes it must be everyone who's vanished from town in the past year. Another paper has the same dates repeated, though not alongside any names—rather, bizarre little phrases like circling lights and that sound again. "You found my notes," Geiszler says cryptically, and then thrusts a mug out to Hermann.

Hermann takes the mug. A logo on the side tells Hermann it was from some academic conference in California ten years ago. "What are they supposed to mean?" he says.

Geiszler snorts. "Uh, I thought it was kind of obvious. Look—" He sits next to Hermann, far too close, and points at the column of numbers on the first page. "These are the dates when people have been reported missing," he says, and then scans his finger over to the second page, "and these are the dates when I've observed extraterrestrial—or at least, unexplainable—activity overhead. See how they match up almost perfectly?

"Mm," Hermann says. He does not. "So—if I am to understand you correctly—you believe that a, ah," he takes the page back from Geiszler, "a 'weird swoopy sound' from overhead had something to do with that poor young woman disappearing from a bus stop last week?”

"It wasn't just a weird noise!" Geiszler exclaims. "I showed you the pictures. I ran outside when I heard it, and thank fuck I had my camera, because I caught those lights just as they were leaving. And then what do I find out the next morning? There was another abduction, at almost the exact same time I saw the lights!"

"Ten miles from here," Hermann reminds him. "It would've had to have been a bloody fast ship."

"Yeah, no shit, Hermann," Geiszler says. "They're, like, fucking—mega-advanced lifeforms. They probably have the tech to vaporize the entire Earth if they wanted. Of course it was a fast ship.”

Geiszler is still sitting awfully close to Hermann. He runs very warm, unlike Hermann, warm enough to make Hermann warm too—like a scruffy, tattooed, freckled furnace. Yes, freckled, for Geiszler has the lightest dusting of freckles across his round chipmunk-like cheeks that Hermann finds inexplicably charming. He wonders if Geiszler would notice him loosen his collar a bit, perhaps take off his sweater. He really is getting quite warm. "So, I was saying," Geiszler continues, and though he speaks almost directly into Hermann's ear, he sounds as if he's a mile away from him. "Waitress at bus stop—weird lights over my cabin—waitress gone from bus stop. The proof is, like, undeniable!"

"Indeed," Hermann says.

He undoes the top button of his collar. He hasn't touched his coffee yet—he wonders if Geiszler even cares. The tattoo on Geiszler’s bicep, some sort of space tentacle monster, stares back at Hermann. "I'm telling you, man," Geiszler says, "this is no joke. They're taking people, maybe even for good."

They're gonna come for you, just like they did for me. When Geiszler began spouting nonsense about aliens last year, he was not booted from the biology department right away. Mostly everyone at the college, Hermann knows, tolerated his eccentricities on account of his admittedly brilliant mind and popularity among the students. The final straw came when Geiszler's extraterrestrial delusions (for what else could they be?) reached a new level: he showed up to campus in his pajamas one morning, raving that the aliens were not only zooming about over his house, but had actually abducted him the previous evening. "You seemed to fare alright, though, didn't you?" Hermann says. "When you were—ah—taken? They even dropped you back off in time for work. Quite courteous, I should think."

"That's—" Geiszler begins to shake his leg up and down, nervous energy radiating up his body and through Hermann's. He spills some of his coffee on the carpet. "That was—that was dumb. I got lucky. I think I was one of the first ones, you know? Because the disappearances didn't really get bad until, like, a month after that? I was in bed—and, and it wasn't like how it is in movies, I wasn't sucked up in a giant beam of light or anything like that, one minute I was there and then the next I wasn't, I was somewhere...else. And—uh. I don't really remember what they looked like. I tried to—sketch them out, but it was like trying to remember a dream, all the specific details about them just faded once it was over. But, um." He rubs the back of his neck, and Hermann is surprised to see him blushing. "Well, if I'm being honest, I think I kinda freaked them out."

Hermann can't help but snort. "You what?"

"I'm serious!" Geiszler shrieks. "I freaked them out. I was just really excited about it all. Like, dude, come on, I was abducted by aliens. How fucking cool is that? I just kept asking a bunch of questions, like, are you gonna probe me? are you gonna take me back to Mars or Jupiter or, like, I don't know, fucking Gallifrey? do you even understand what I'm saying, how do you communicate? and then the next thing I knew, I was landing on my ass in the school parking lot. They must've been observing me like I was observing them, like, they maybe knew I worked there? Anyway—" He shakes his head. "I tell you what, I'm real glad I decided to not just wear boxers like usual to bed that night. That would've been really embarrassing."

Bombarded with the sudden mental image of what Geiszler usually looks like in bed, Hermann (feeling rather warm again) tugs at his collar and clears his throat. He has certainly seen more than enough for the night, and if his mind is straying to something as prosaic as what does Dr. Geiszler look like half-naked?, it likely means it’s time for bed. "Er, right. Dr. Geiszler—"

"Just call me Newt, man," Geiszler says.

"Newton," Hermann concedes. It gives him a private little thrill. No one calls Newton Newton; it’s always either Newt or Dr. Geiszler. "Newton,” he says again, “this has been a very—illuminating—evening, but it's getting rather late, and I think you ought to drive me home before—"

And then Newton begins to take off his shirt.

Yes, a small part of Hermann's brain whispers traitorously, yes, yes, yes, even as Hermann recoils and stammers out, "Newton, what—?!"

"Oh, calm down, I'm not coming onto you," Newton says. He drops his t-shirt on the floor and jabs a thumb at his chest. His bare chest. "See, look. Proof."

Hermann's not sure what he's meant to be looking at. The giant Godzilla tattooed over Newton's pectorals? The flying saucer tattooed above Newton’s belly button? Newton’s nipple piercings? Hermann thinks he understands what an overheating computer feels like, an influx of too much information with processors unequipped to handle it. "I," he says. Newton’s belly button is not pierced. Hermann’s not sure why he thought it would be.

"Look at my chest, dude!" Newton says, tapping his skin insistently.

It takes Hermann a great deal of effort to pull his eyes away from the nipple piercings. In the dead center of Newton's chest, spaced perfectly between his pectorals and right over the nostrils of Godzilla, is a strange, almost luminescent glyph of a language Hermann can't begin to recognize. It's raised from Newton's skin, more like a brand than a tattoo. And...well, when Hermann says luminescent, he really means it. The squiggle seems to glow blue. "This was on me the next morning," Newton says. "I think they marked me. Like you'd tag a lab rat?”

Hermann can't help himself: he reaches out and touches the mark. "Strange," he murmurs. Compared to the heat of Newton’s body, the glyph is quite cool. Frigid, in fact, like metal, and yet as soft as the rest of his skin.

He's close enough to Newton to hear the hitch in his breath when they make contact, and as he traces his fingertips over the glyph, he can feel Newton's heart pounding beneath them. Strange, indeed; Newton has been such a thorn in his side for so many months, and yet all Hermann wants to do now is touch even more of him. He trails his hand lower, down to the flying saucer on Newton's soft abdomen. Newton inhales sharply. "Um," he says. "Should—should I put my shirt back on?"

"Do you want to?" Hermann says.

"Not really," Newton says.

He stares at Hermann, eyebrows knit together behind his glasses, like he can't seem to make sense of him. His confusion is very much warranted; Hermann can’t seem to make sense of himself right now, either. Then, to Hermann's supreme annoyance, the pieces seem to click into place in Newton's mind, and he grins. "Oh, duh," he says. "No wonder. You wanna fuck me, don't you? That’s why you’re so obsessed with me.”

That would certainly explain the strange warm feeling that comes over Hermann sometimes when he thinks about Newton in the dead of night that he has, up until this very moment, attributed to bouts of temporary insanity and/or a latent murderous desire. Nothing so dramatic as all that, then—just regular human biology. Urgh. How disgusting. And for Newton, of all people. “Obsessed with you?” Hermann sniffs, desperate to retain some element of propriety even while he begins to tug at Newton’s button fly. “Newton, you have spent thousands of dollars on yard signs just to invite me over for a coffee.”

“Uh, yeah, and it worked,” Newton says.

He curls his fingers in the front of Hermann's sweater, thumbing over one of the buttons.

“Even when I thought you were an alien,” Newton says, “I still kiiiiinda wanted to fuck you.”

Delusional or not, Newton looks terrifically good with a beard.

"Wait," Hermann gasps some time later. "Newton, stop a moment—"

Newton pulls away from him, frowning. He pushes his glasses back up on his nose. "What is it?" he says. "Did I hurt—?"

But Hermann pats at his shoulder frantically, pointing beyond him at the back slider and the dark of the forest beyond that. Newton cranes his neck around. "Only I'm sure I saw something. Lights, or…” Hermann feels a small twinge of embarrassment. The night is dead silent, and dead still. “Well, now I'm not sure."

“You probably imagined it," Newton says. He slips back down to press a kiss at Hermann's jaw. “It’s too early to be them.”

Not even ten yet. Newton kisses behind Hermann’s ear. It feels very nice. "Yes," Hermann agrees slowly, his eyelids flickering shut. He smooths his hand up and down Newton’s back. "Yes, I suppose you're right." Newton’s stories must have left him on edge. Which is of course ridiculous, because they’re all a load of rubbish—there may be extraterrestrials somewhere out there in the great wide universe, but they’re certainly not swooping down and plucking up hapless test subjects from Earth, let alone their small town, every other day. Hermann has much more important things to concern himself with right now, like how it feels when he threads his fingers in the soft strands of Newton’s hair, or the sound Newton makes when Hermann digs his nails into his skin, or how wonderful kissing Newton is...

And, unobserved by both of them, the three lights hovering above Newton's cabin blink away as quickly as they'd come.

#newmann #maria's fanfiction tag

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reflections-in-a-critical-eye · 3 years

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Idk are people blind or what? Twitter was so hot with V posting Leslie Cheung like to support LGBT people, but guys c’mon. The point is not him posting it, but him editing it two times to obviously not be interpreted in some way (I don’t say he’s homophobic, but I definitely say he JUST shared what he liked, it WAS NOT someone’s orientation, but an artistry) and in the end he just deleted it lmao. Because posting it I guess was controversial. Because he doesn’t want to “hint” at anything and because just like 75% of media persons he’s scared of whatever the hell could his fans interpret and to be an open supporter is just not the case here. Gosh, sorry, BMT, I’m just a little bit done with these pink lenses.

Anon, I am so done, you have no idea. I've been done for the past few days and it just feels like it doesn't stop. The day Tae posted that on his IG and I saw the reach from some people, I came here to provide a bit of extra information because we should have some context. I thought it wouldn't go further than that, but boy, was I wrong. So wrong. So now I'm just going to have a rant because I'm not ignoring this and it's going to be under read more cause I will have no filter whatsoever. I'm in no mood for propriety at this point and building up arguments.

So, what the actual fuck? Has the world gone mad? Of course Twitter was hot because they attach themselves to every little thing without using their brain. Tae shared a link to a scene from a movie. A movie that he likes and he did the dancing way back in Spring. But only now it has to become a thing cause probably army couldn't figure it out before where it came from. That was all. What fucking support man? What are we talking about here? All I see is stans projecting their needs onto a guy and turning him into some ally. Duude, go and find actual people who are either from the LGBTQ+ community or actual allies, instead of obsessing over this. I don't give a single fuck about threads made by people who think that just because a guy watches Call Me By Your Name or another one watches La Vie d'Adele, then they're some knights in shining armour, the face of support. The standards are so god damn low. Get out of the bubble (not you anon, I hope you understood already I'm not addressing this to you, but I'm talking in general).

There's this twitter account that I follow that focuses on BTS and cinema who apparently thought that information about Leslie Cheung's personal life is absolutely necessary to be brought to army's attention, instead of just focusing on saying what the film was, who directed it and maybe recommend other films. Are we forgetting we're dealing here with people from this kind of fandom? Full of children and immature people? And taekookers are the scum of the Earth, I don't even know what else to call them. Tagging his partner on IG, spreading a suicide note on twitter and crying about how it's such a tragic love story and so similar to Taekook? I feel like the word disgusted is not enough. No empathy and decency is left in this corner of the fandom and I'm sick of it. No one should bring that man's life in this fucking fandom. Let him rest in peace and his partner should not have to see that kind of bullshit. And this happens time and time again. Using other people's lives like it's nothing. Of course the information is out there, a click away on google. But to bring it to twitter and to create a fucking discourse around it, because some fetishizers are sick in the head is beyond anything I could imagine. That man's life should not in any way be associated with Army/Tae stans/Taekookers. And no one should fucking tag tumblr posts as well using his name in the context of this issue. His fans should not have to see such bullshit. I wish I could gatekeep it, as childish as it sounds.

And I'm not sorry at all for turning this into a personal rant. I discovered Leslie back in high school, by watching his movies and recently got back into that. He was an incredible artist and he left an important legacy. Everyone should respect that.

#asks #fucking armys and taekookers #they really know how to ruin everything #taekook

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cdroloisms · 3 years

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Dream thought that he can bring server together, he thought that they can be one big family... Well at least he really bond them, even if they bonded to fight against him. Even if that mean he's not part of this server anymore.

right,, the one big happy family thing always destroys me

bc it’s really the driving force behind everything he’s done, the reason why he’s cut off everything he’s ever loved, moved forwards despite everything he’s ever lost. it doesn’t make what he does right, by any means, but c!dream’s longing for a better past, his clinging to a family he loved and lost - it’s so desperately, painfully human and is very much the cherry on top of his whole tragic story. it’s something that tugs at my heart every time i think about it - especially how in the end, pretty much nobody knew what drove him to the lengths he went to, and how everyone still sees him as being motiveless, or doing it all for personal gain and power. it’s reasonable, with their limited povs, but oh man does it hurt when we know his real reasoning.

this,, ended up weirdly long haha but oh man was it fun. have some dream team angst as i cry abt c!dream for the millionth time

tws: death, grief, off-screen murder, implied mental deterioration

Two weeks after Dream dies, Sapnap asks George if he wants to come to the vault.

He almost says no. It’d be an early journey if they want to get out without anyone seeing, and he’s just- tired. He’s been tired for months even though he spends most of his time sleeping, usually can’t even find the energy to pull himself out of bed. The weird dreams hadn’t helped in the slightest, though they’ve been gone for a few weeks, and he’s not seen XD in a long time, save for a few minutes after he first heard the news. In all honesty, he doesn’t want to deal with the mental strain of anything to do with Dream at all.

But- Sapnap is still his best friend, even if they’ve grown apart ever since that fateful night with Dream, and he still knows the Netherborn better than nearly- well, everyone, now, with Dream gone. As much as Sapnap tried to put on a strong front, Dream’s death had taken its toll.

Killing Dream had taken its toll.

He’d been asleep (again) when it all went down, but he knows that somehow, Dream had escaped prison. Somehow, it ended with Sapnap’s sword stabbed hilt-deep in Dream’s chest, an unmarked grave in the forest behind the Community House that he knows Sapnap visits when he thinks nobody’s watching.

So when Sapnap asks, dark bags under his red-rimmed eyes, if he wants to come with him to see what belongings they can find in Dream’s old blackstone-brick vault- he says yes.

“There,” Sapnap gestures over the crest of a netherrack cliff above a bubbling lava lake, and George strains to look at what the other is pointing at. There, settled over a small outcrop of netherrack and gravel, a messy bridge of various blocks leading from it, lies the signature black and purple silhouette of a nether portal. “It’s just across that.”

George hums in acknowledgement, and they clamber down in sync. It’s been a while since he’s spent time one-on-one with Sapnap like this; George had half-forgotten what it feels like, to work with someone so different and yet know them so well. Years and years of teamwork means they fall in step almost without thinking, Sapnap easily sliding forward to block a skeleton’s arrow while George nocks one of his own to shoot it through the skull. It is a partnership built on years of bickering and banter and deep-set trust, of having to face a stronger, more agile opponent together through wind and rain and snow.

He missed it, though he’ll never admit that to anyone but himself.

He hesitates in front of the nether portal, pulling Sapnap back automatically by his sweater sleeve. “You sure the other side is safe?”

“Yeah, yeah- it should be,” Sapnap pulls his arm away, lets him enter the portal first before stepping into the frame himself. “Not a manhunt.”

“Mm,” George laughs, tired. “Just checking.”

The portal hums, purple creeping into the corners of George’s vision and filling it until it’s all he can see, and he rubs at his eyes to clear his vision as he stumbles out the other side. Sapnap walks out, seeming unfazed - it’s always been something that George has envied in the other, how unaffected he is by portals, but he’s also always had worse portal sickness than most- “We’re here.”

The place is - put lightly, a wreck, wooden planks scattered all over the floor and inch-deep water sloshing around his shoes. “What’s with the water?”

“I don’t know, someone must’ve come here after for something,” Sapnap frowns, points across the room to a chute leading upwards, filled with a crude spiral staircase of oak. “We’re going up there.”

George nods, letting him take the lead. The staircase is rickety, the bottom steps waterlogged; Sapnap grimaces the whole way up, makes some comment under his breath about how unsafe it all is, but they continue without much issue. The top of it is surprisingly unassuming - there’s really nothing around, just a small hollowed out space carpeted by savannah grass, shorn short. Sapnap tosses him a pickaxe.

“He respawned up here, that day - he’s gotta have a bed up here somewhere.” He gestures at the plain stone walls surrounding them, “My guess is that it’s just behind one of these walls. Just mine two or three blocks in all the way across, I’ll start from this side.”

“Whatever, Snapnap,” George takes the pickaxe anyway, walking over to the other side of the room and ignoring the protests Sapnap throws at his back. Mining the stone is simple, methodical; it’s a steady rhythm of the pick hitting stone and blocks falling into his inventory; if he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend that they’re in the middle of a manhunt, and Dream has holed himself into the wall as he always does for them to find him. He doesn’t, because thinking about manhunt does nothing but make something cold and choking claw up his throat, almost like guilt, almost like regret, and he doesn’t have the energy for that in the slightest.

His next swing rings oddly hollow, and when the block drops neatly away the wall opens to a narrow corridor. He calls Sapnap over.

“Here.” Sapnap moves with large, heavy strides, face tightening into a foreign expression of grim determination when he catches the darkness behind the one-block hole George mined, “I found it.”

“Well, obviously,” he rolls his eyes as he takes out the bottom block, looking at George from the corner of his eye. “Nice observation, genius.”

“Hey! You told me to find it, and I did, unlike you- you should be thanking me, Sapnap.”

“Whatever, Gogy,” Sapnap sighs, looking into the corridor, feet settling against the ground into a wide stance that George recognizes as the one he’d usually use in a fight. It makes something long-forgotten ache in his chest, joining the dull ball of hurt that has been there for what feels like months, “You ready?”

“Yeah, yeah, hurry up, will you?” The retort rings hollow, dying on his lips even as he says it, and George watches as Sapnap turns his head away and pretends not to notice.

“Let’s go.”

The hallway is dark, dusty, a hastily made thing as shown by the rough gouges made on either side by a quickly working pickaxe. It opens into a tiny room, similarly carved into the mountain with roughhewn walls of stone; George’s lips thin and press against each other as he takes a closer look at the room, stepping in behind Sapnap.

“This place is a mess,” he states drily, scuffing his foot against the floor and cringing at the trail it leaves in the dust. There’s a bed left in the corner, a thin little thing with the covers thrown off, lying halfway on the floor, and a few chests and furnaces scattered aimlessly against the walls and making the whole thing look more cramped. There are papers strewn over the floor and chests, piles of coal and wood left to collect dust in the corners. It looks like a whirlwind swept through the place, and it’s almost eerie to see this room, completely untouched since the twentieth, a snapshot in time of Dream in the middle of his spiral into madness.

Sapnap kicks at one such pile with a humorless scoff, “That’s an understatement.”

“You looking for anything in particular?” George jabs his thumb at the mess in front of them, “Because I’m not cleaning all of that up.”

“I guess- just look through the chests?” Sapnap’s face darkens visibly even despite the dim lighting, and George stifles the urge to poke fun at how the younger clearly didn’t plan this far ahead, per usual. “Just look for anything useful, worth taking back I guess.”

“Mmhm.” He moves to the left-most chest as Sapnap moves to the right, watching from the corner of his eye as the other strikes up a torch to place in the middle of the room. The lid creaks open, and he rummages through the contents, vaguely surprised when his hand meets row after row of glass bottles. He pulls one out, squints at the contents. “Hey Sapnap, is this a regen?”

Sapnap looks over. “Yeah,” he says, rolling his eyes when George pockets it. “Seriously- you know Sam literally has an automatic potion brewer, right. You can just steal from that instead.”

“Or I could just steal from here,” he closes the lid, moving to the next chest. “That’s just his pots chest. He really stacked up, didn’t he?”

“Well, you know Dream. Always had to plan for the end of the world.” Sapnap closes the chest that he was hunched over, tossing over something in a flash of gold, “Was just his food chest. Don’t know why someone needs eight stacks of gapples, but whatever. We can split the god apples later.”

“Sure,” George nods, distracted as he fiddles with clasp of the next chest. This one, unlike the last, seems more worn over the bottom edge of the lid, the wood almost seeming to bear dents where fingers had pressed into the areas right by the clasp again and again. The lid eases open, and he frowns at the chest’s contents; there’s no rhyme or reason to them at first glance. There’s a half-stack of stone in the top left, a couple pieces of leather thrown in the bottom corner, a low-durability crossbow, unenchanted, that he briefly runs his hands over before throwing it back into the chest. He rummages through it for another second, about to dismiss it as a junk chest, when a well-worn book near the back of the chest catches his eye.

He pulls it towards him with careful hands, breath having caught in his throat. The cover is leather, scuffed and scratched in several places, not bearing the dull shine of a book that’s been signed and preserved magically. It doesn’t seem to be titled, no ink against the usual places on the front cover or spine, but the whole thing looks well-loved, the thread of the spine slightly frayed the leather heavily creased from where the cover had been eased open again and again.

He opens the front cover, and sucks in a breath through his teeth.

“Sapnap? I think I found something.”

There, nestled between the front cover and the first page, lays a pile of photographs. Unlike everything else in the room, these are clearly well-loved, well-cared for, the corners are sharp, the surfaces shiny, despite how often they must have been thumbed through and looked at. He plucks the first one off the top of the pile - it’s one that was taken from the inside of the old community house before the floor was replaced with crafting tables, string lights hanging from the ceiling in an impromptu party, Alyssa’s legs dangling from where she’s sitting at the edge of the spiral staircase, Callahan leaning against the wall with a slice of cake held between his hands. Sapnap’s sitting in the middle of the floor across from himself, both of their faces glowing softly in the flickering light - his own face is caught in a grimace, Sapnap bent over himself in laughter- Sapnap walks up behind him, gasps at the sight.

“What are-”

George passes over the photo wordlessly as he moves to the next; there’s Sam, grinning at the camera with a newly tamed Fran by his side, tail a white blur against the green of the grass; Bad, hands clutched around a bucket as he yells at someone off the frame, a salmon head poking slightly out the top; Ponk, sitting proudly in the top branches of his first lemon tree.

His breath catches at the next; it’s dim, the sky a pretty blend of purple-pink from the last remaining dregs of light of a sunset, hovering over the dark edge of the ocean stretching out towards the horizon. They’re sitting in boats, the bottom edges lit softly from the coral sitting in the shallow waters below them, brilliant halos of reds and pinks and yellows and oranges and blues dotted with the soft lights of sea pickles painting the wood in muted rainbows. Sapnap’s smiling from one in the back, head tipped to the side cheekily, right hand lifted in a cocky two-fingered salute. George is sitting in the back of a boat in the foreground, glasses lifted to his forehead, eyes mid-roll even as he grins obligingly at the camera-

And then, in the front, there’s Dream.

His mask is pulled to the side of his face, exposing his freckled skin and brilliant green eyes; he’s smiling widely, all teeth, hair wet and sticking up in a ring of untamed swirls and spikes. His eyes are crinkled at the corners, cheeks red, arm stretched forward off-frame from where he’d held the camera in front of them to take the selfie. George’s thumb brushes over the photo, pressing lightly against the dusty mess of hair framing Dream’s face, pausing at the sight of his pure, unadulterated joy.

What had happened to them?

A soft, choked sound comes from behind him, and George tucks the photos away, pressing them between two random pages in the book. His eyes flicker to the book’s contents, finally, finding Dream’s familiar, looping scrawl written on the first page. The words are big and messy, all capitalized and underlined several times, the last four circled roughly.

REMEMBER WHY YOU’RE DOING THIS: ONE BIG HAPPY FAMILY.

He snaps the book shut.

“George-”

“Let’s go home, Sapnap.” He throws one last look at the room, at the messy, desperate edges, the remnants of a man lost in his own reckless belief that he could build something beautiful out of blood and ash. He swallows, blinks back the image of a brilliant smile, freckled cheeks ruddy with laughter, at the golden glow of memories long-forgotten that threaten now to burn him with their warmth. He can imagine Dream, settled in the middle of this mess, pressing himself closer to the fire contained in these photographs, these memories, and not realizing how he’s being burned, can nearly see a ghost of him tucked in these shadowed corners, haunting the hopes that he had clung to against all reason with the promise that it could all be worth it.

Sapnap frowns at him tiredly, photos pressed against his own chest. “George,” he says, cautious, and George’s shoulders hunch defensively.

“Let’s go home,” he stands up, hearing more than seeing as Sapnap does the same. “Whatever closure you’re looking for- you’re not finding it here.”

#tw death #tw grief #tw murder #tw mental deterioration #queue <3 #long post #my writing :D #my asks !!

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thegrapeandthefig · 4 years

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Why personal devotion matters

(Listen to the audio version)

This week's post is a commentary of K. A Rask's article titled "Devotionalism, Material Culture, and the Personal in Greek Religion" published in Kernos, 29 in 2016 (you can read the whole thing here).

This 15-page article explores the notion of personal devotion in Ancient Greece and highlights the issues of academia on the matter. Yet, this article unintentionally puts a finger exactly on what modern practitionners of the religion argue about. I won't be summarizing the whole thing, instead I will be using here only what I consider to be key notions. Thus, I encourage you to read the complete article yourself for the information I won't be covering.

1. Plato would disaprove of the way modern pagans worship

Because he already disaproved of the way his contemporaries did. The main issue here is the notion of reciprocity. When we look at the way the Ancients worshipped, we find an important presence of reciprocity (offerings to make a prayer happen and/or votives in thanks of said prayer). Plato knew that his contemporaries worshipped this way and absolutely despised it. To cite the article:

"For Plato, human overemphasis on reciprocity went beyond into the realm of asebeia (‘impiety’). Furthermore, a major concern for Plato was the unmonitored and unsanctioned religious activity of individuals; he firmly supported institutional jurisdiction. Ostensibly this was because it was not possible to scrutinize para-institutional activity for religious incorrectness and it was thus a potential danger to the surrounding population at large. Undeniably, fear of divine repercussions resulting from the impiety of others is a recurrent theme in Classical discourse. Plato proposed laws to curtail individual religious autonomy, since he deeply distrusted, and was in fact rather exasperated with, personal religious activities of the type he describes thus: yet it is customary for all women especially, and for sick folk everywhere, and those in peril or in distress (whatever the nature of the distress), and conversely for those who have had a slice of good fortune, to dedicate whatever happens to be at hand at the moment, and to vow sacrifices and promise the founding of shrines to gods and demi-gods and children of gods; and through terrors caused by waking visions or by dreams, and in like manner as they recall many visions and try to provide remedies for each of them, they are wont to found altars and shrines, and to fill with them every house and every village, and open places, too, and every spot which was the scene of such experiences. (Laws 10.909e–910a)"

Sounds familiar? Have you ever turned to the gods in time of need? If you answered yes to this question, Plato disaproves. Needless to say, the practices Plato describes as impious here never stopped being practiced and if anything, became stronger over time. To the point where, today, personal worship is very much our only option.

2. Kharis is crucial to personal worship

That is, the relationship between the devotee and a deity. Kharis means "delight, pleasing thing" in the sense of a favor (see how it links back with the notion of reciprocity):

"The sense of reciprocity so evident in literature and epigraphical sources, however, often went beyond the ‘transactional’ towards exceptionally intimate and sentimental attachments."

The author uses Sappho and Aphrodite as an example here, but one could argue that the relationship between Aelius Aristide and Asclepius is of a similar nature. That being said, this is something most, if not all, modern practitionners experience. Geniune affection between a deity and a devotee is something we have traces of in the sources:

"Equally close were those gods who came in dreams, described hovering at the shoulders of the dreamers with gentle smiles; in inscriptions, they were parastatai, gods who ‘stood beside’ their worshippers. Not only were such interactions marked by genuine affection, but there could be a physical aspect as well, with the divine figure touching the human figure with a hand. Anja Klöckner comments, “the closeness of the human-divine encounter finds its clearest expression when a god touches humans."

This way of approaching the relationship between deity and worshipper makes it that we find in the people's worship things that a philosophical approach to the gods doesn't accept. Mainly, showing your discontentment with a god when a prayer hasn't been answered to by ignoring the deity. On a larger scale, this also happened in response to tragic events where worshippers thought they were being punished or smiten by the gods.

What Plato addresses when trying to regulate personal worship comes from the fact that the presence of priesthood is not necessary for worship:

"Abundant evidence reveals, however, that on many occasions individuals were capable of accessing sacred powers on their own, without institutional interference or mediating figures. Instead, people might set their own terms of engagement with invisible powers."

The authors gives several examples but it comes down to the idea that personal worship was free by nature. They did not necessitate a priest or an institution to sacrifice to a god or a hero, they had their own religious routine which could vary from a person to another and the participation to certain rites could be a matter of personal choice.

This makes the religious structure outside of the city-regulated rite very diverse, as we can see here:

"Yet men and women kept holy figures close and present in a variety of ways, beyond the clearly defined confines of sacred space. Images of the gods travelled with humans in the form of rings, seals, and other amulets, while the gods could be called upon whenever humans needed assurance, regardless of where they might be. Prayer seems to have occurred in all manner of locales, since “it was perfectly possible to pray on one’s own wherever one happened to be.”"

I'll summarize this point with this: the emotional engagement and intimacy between worshipper and deity is not a "modern pagan concept", contrarily to what some who have only read philosophy will tell you. The way the ancients experienced divinity through personal worship is actually not too far off from what modern worshippers experience today.

3. Devotional activities have always existed.

This post is getting long, so I will keep my commentary to the minimum:

"Many of the examples just presented showcase religious experiences that occur outside of the public stage or in moments that are not highly ritualized in the manner often associated with festivals, processions, and explicitly monitored situations. While women, men, and children negotiated and developed relationships with divinities in a way that was directly relevant to their own personal affairs, they also publicly declared their devotion and great affection for sacred figures. Beyond traditional votives, one could honor the gods through other media and expressions, such as labor or storytelling, whether verbally or visually. [...] I argue that one could show one’s devotion not just with material offerings but with the work (and results) of one’s own hand. Daily maintenance of shrines is a prime example of personal piety without overtly public, communal, or formalized elements. [...] His establishment of a garden also served as an offering. Cultivating gardens in shrines physically and materially manifested affection; the garden’s maintenance, as a form of repeated devotional activity, deserves much greater study."

I’ve made important cuts here so I urge you to go look at the article but I hope this gets my point across. I’m well aware that academia has not treated personal religious experiences with the same attention and study as official city religion and philosophical debates but it is necessary for us, as modern worshippers, recon or not, to pay attention to what was actually done by our predecessors. Not just what they wrote.

#yes i'm posting earlier this week #trying to plan ahead #hellenic paganism #hellenic pagan #hellenic polytheism #hellenic polytheistic #hellenic polytheist #hellenismos #greek religion #this sounds like a rant and it kinda is

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spine-buster · 4 years

Text

peaceful easy feeling ft. b.boeser | one

A/N: Here’s the beginning of my new mini-series! I hope you all enjoy it. It will definitely be a bit of an emotional rollercoaster, so be prepared! There will be five parts!

SUPPORT MY WRITING HERE: https://ko-fi.com/spine_buster

CONTENT WARNING: parents with disease/sickness (Parkinson’s); swearing; sex; alcohol use; lots of emotions.

* * * * *

Brock Boeser felt like he was at some sort of Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, with everybody around the circle introducing themselves and their similar predicaments. The group was in a big meeting room at the local community centre, and when he walked in, he saw a group of dads playing basketball in the gym. He sort of wanted to join them instead of being here, in this room, with all these people that he didn’t know talking about what they were going to talk about, but he’d done this back in Minnesota, at his mother’s behest with his siblings, and he was going to do it here, too, in Vancouver, to make her happy and ease her mind and to make sure that he was easing his own mind.

“Um, hello everyone. My name is Brock Boeser. I’m from Minnesota, but I’m living in Vancouver. And um, I’m here with you all because my dad was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease.”

“Hello Brock,” everyone smiled at him, and he smiled and nodded back.

“So it was your dad that was diagnosed,” the leader, a kind, older woman named Esther who had greeted him at the door and stuck with him until everybody sat down, egged on a conversation. He knew she was doing it because he was new; everybody in this room probably already knew each other. A part of him actually wondered if anybody knew who he was. “When?”

“Um, he—he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s in 2010,” Brock revealed, stuttering it out. He knew he’d have to be open at these things – open so people could empathize with him, open so he could empathize with others – but it was still tough for him to do so. “But he—it’s—it’s not just Parkinson’s. Two years after he was diagnosed, he was in a car accident and suffered a traumatic brain injury. In 2017, he was diagnosed with lung cancer. He beat it but then in June it returned to his liver and chest. In July, he had a heart attack and his heart stopped beating for 15 minutes. I was with him and—I—it’s—it’s a lot, as you can imagine,” he tried not to start crying right then and there. Imagine that – first meeting with a Parkinson’s Society of BC support group and he’d bawl like a baby.

“Goodness me, Brock,” Esther said. “He has support at home?”

“Um, well, money isn’t an issue now, but when I was growing up my mom worked three jobs to make sure we were all taken care of,” he revealed. “I’d pitch in too wherever I could, obviously.”

“But it’s been tough for a number of years.”

Brock paused. It had been tough for a number of years. It had been really tough for a number of years. He nodded his head. “Yes ma’am. I try to take it day by day.”

Esther nodded as well. “I don’t know if you pray, Brock, but I know a couple of members around the circle do, and, well – you’ll be kept in all our prayers.”

Brock saw a few people nod their head. Another older woman, probably his mom’s age, clutching a rosary; a Sikh man dressed in a casual suit; a younger woman, probably in her thirties, with short blonde hair. He appreciated the sentiment. He knew that people took prayer very seriously – that people suffering took prayer very seriously. It was, realistically, one of the kindest things somebody could ever say to you: “I’m praying for you.” “Thank you very much,” he said, nodding his head once.

***

There was an arrangement of cookies at the end of the meeting. Even after the 90 minutes of everybody talking about their experiences and emotions, they apparently liked to stick around afterwards as well just to mingle. It didn’t all have to be doom and gloom, he thought. It didn’t all have to be about Parkinson’s or about sick people or losing your loved ones all the time. Maybe some people just wanted to talk about the news. Maybe some people just wanted to talk about sports. The weather. Anything. Anything to make a connection with someone beyond something so tragic.

After stuffing an entire Fudge-O cookie into his mouth, he looked up to see a young woman staring at him, holding her trenchcoat in her arms. She was smiling to let him know she was friendly. He was embarrassed because he knew she just saw him stuff an entire Fudge-O into his mouth. “Hi,” he said, his mouth still full of cookie, the sound of his voice reflecting that fact.

“You’re Brock Boeser, right?” she asked sweetly. “You play for the Vancouver Canucks?”

“Yeah,” Brock couldn’t help but smile. He swallowed the rest of the cookie even though he didn’t really finish chewing it. “That’s me. Are you a fan?”

“My step-brothers are more so than I am,” she said. “But I’m a fan of the team, yeah. I’m Grace Gillespie,” she extended her hand to shake his. “God, they’re not gonna believe me when I say I met you. They’re gonna freak.”

Brock couldn’t help but chuckle slightly. “Do you—I mean, do you want a picture? I don’t mind at all. I’ll sign an autograph on a napkin if you want me to.”

“Well…it’s a bit awkward to ask you at a Parkinson’s Society of BC meeting, but we could go to the Starbucks down the street and I could buy you a coffee.”

Brock was slightly taken aback at her forwardness. He shouldn’t have been. Girls came up to him all the time. All the time. And they were most definitely not shy. But he wasn’t exactly expecting it to happen here, of all places. A bar, sure. Out with Petey or any of the other guys, absolutely. But not here. “Yeah…yeah sure,” he stuttered out.

“Then we should go,” Grace smiled. She turned to look behind her. Brock saw Esther picking up a few Oreos. “Thank you for leading another great session, Esther,” Grace said.

“Oh you are most welcome Miss Gillespie. How is Hamish these days? You didn’t speak much today.”

“He’s been doing fine lately. His caregivers have been working around the clock for him. They just work wonders, don’t they?”

Esther nodded. “They are angels on Earth. Anyways – we’ll catch up next week,” she said, leaning slightly on her leg to look beyond Grace and to Brock. “I hope to see you here again next week, Brock.”

“Thank you, Esther. See you next week,” he said, realizing he made the commitment before he could even realize what he was saying.

***

“I take that was your first meeting?” Grace asked as she set down the two lattes on the table against the window where Brock was waiting.

“Was it really obvious?” Brock asked.

Grace shrugged her shoulders. She didn’t want to make him feel self-conscious. “It was the stuttering that gave it away, at least to me. I know I stuttered a lot the first few times I came to these meetings. I wasn’t the most comfortable talking about my dad’s condition to a room full of virtual strangers. But within just a few months I realized the people in that room are the kindest, most empathetic, most amazing people that I’ve ever interacted with. So I became a lot more open.”

Brock was transfixed by every word that Grace was saying. “So you’ve been coming here a long time,” he said.

Grace nodded. “My dad got diagnosed with Parkinson’s when I was fourteen. I didn’t start coming here until I was about eighteen, though.”

Brock knew he shouldn’t ask. He knew he shouldn’t. But his brain had ulterior motives, and his mouth – well, his mouth listened to his brain, because it apparently needed to know. “Is your—is your dad like my dad?” he asked. “Does he have, like, other problems complicating things?”

Grace shook her head. “No,” she said softly. “But the Parkinson’s is enough for him. I mean he was diagnosed just short of ten years ago and he’s already on puréed foods. It’s not—I mean, you know as well as I do that it doesn’t regularly develop that fast. But that’s…I don’t know how you do it.”

Brock didn’t know either. Some days he didn’t. “I just take it day by day,” he said simply, just like he said in the meeting. “If I think about it too much…that’s when it’s bad.”

“I hear ya,” Grace said, taking a sip of her coffee. “But let’s…not talk about this for too long. Do you like Vancouver? Do you find it nice?”

Brock appreciated the change in topic. “I love it here,” he nodded his head, smiling. “The city’s great. The fans are great. My teammates – I mean they’re amazing. What do you do?”

“I’m a dance teacher at Goh Ballet – little kids and teens, mostly.”

He wasn’t expecting that. She was drop dead gorgeous, sure – Brock wasn’t blind – but he wasn’t expecting to hear she was a dancer. “Do you, like, dance in the real ballet?”

Grace snorted slightly at his phrasing of ‘real ballet’. “No. I pursued it only up until a certain point. I was good, but uh, I stopped when my dad got diagnosed.”

“Why? Don’t they always tell people like us to have, like, an outlet or whatever?”

“They do. But I loved my dad more than I loved dance. And I would have rather spent the time that I was spending on dance with him instead.”

He understood where she was coming from, and he wasn’t there to judge her. “And your brothers you mentioned, did they help too?”

“Oh no no no. Sorry – I should have specified. I’m an only child. Like, the only child between my parents. But they divorced when I was six and when my mom re-married I gained two step-brothers, Jasper and Theo.”

“How was the divorce?” Brock found himself asking.

“You ever see footage of a nuclear bomb exploding?” Grace giggled as she asked the question. It caused Brock to laugh too even though the analogy she was making was dreadful. “It was awful. The type of divorce nobody deserves, you know? I became a pawn, basically, and my parents would only speak to each other through lawyers. Even stuff concerning me. It was bad.”

“That sounds horrible.”

“It was. But it’s the only life I know,” she said. “He was lucky my mom ended up marrying another rich guy. I mean, my mom only marries rich men,” she giggled slightly again. “That’s how Jasper and Theo became my step-brothers.”

“So your family has money?” Brock clarified. “What’s it from? Dad a lawyer or something?”

“Not exactly,” Grace said. “My dad and his brothers own a private equity firm that started like this,” she pinched her fingers together, “and went like…” she continued, spreading her fingers and moving her hands around her like a bomb explosion. “Gillespie Brothers Investments. I’m sure as a Vancouver Canuck you’ve heard of them. I mean they wanted to buy the Canucks before the Aquilinis.”

Brock hadn’t heard of them, but he now knew he’d have to do some snooping when he got home. “I haven’t heard of them. But I mean – sounds like they were successful.”

“Three billion dollars is pretty successful to me,” Grace quipped.

“B—Billion,” Brock sputtered out. “With a B.”

“With a B,” Grace nodded. Brock had no idea he was sitting across from the daughter of a billionaire. She didn’t act like a billionaire. Not like Brock knew what billionaires acted like. He’d never met one before in his life. Well, besides Francesco. “But tell me more about what you like about Vancouver. What about the nature? I always kind of fine a good long walk along the Seawall or through Stanley Park really clears my mind from all…this. What about you?”

Brock smiled. “I find the white noise of downtown clears my mind.”

***

“You want my number,” Grace said as a statement rather than a question as she and Brock exited the Starbucks. They were kicked out. They’d been there for so long that they’d been kicked out because they were closing. Their coffees had gotten cold. They hadn’t ordered new ones. And now they found themselves on the deserted sidewalk, jackets put on hastily, and Grace came up with that.

Brock looked down at her. They’d been able to look into each other’s soul for the past few hours. “Of course I want your number,” he said. There was no reason to hide it. No reason to deny it. No reason to have to wait until next week to see her again as they sat around in a circle in a community centre talking about their parents.

He took out his phone. She gave him her number. He texted his name to hers so she’d have his. When that dance was done, she looked up at him. “I’m really glad I met you tonight,” she said, her voice sincere.

Brock nodded. “I’m glad I met you too. I—I really enjoyed this. And I mean—I needed it.”

Grace smiled, nodding her head. “I needed it too.”

“D’you—” Brock stopped, trying not to get too far ahead of himself. “D’you need a ride home?”

“Oh no no, my driver is right there,” she motioned her head towards a black Mercedes waiting by the curb.

Brock hadn’t noticed the car until now. “Chauffeur?”

“Billionaire dad,” she winked. Brock understood. She took a few steps back before smiling one more time. “Call me,” she said, before flipping her hair over her shoulder and walking towards the Mercedes and getting into the backseat. Brock watched as it drove off, making a right at the end of the street.

He would definitely be calling.

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my-emotional-self · 3 years

Text

Toxic Love Chapter 4

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader, Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky Barnes

Summary: Finding out your soulmates were Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes was one thing. But when someone from your past comes back to haunt you, you have to figure out if a relationship with two super soldiers is something you really want to pursue or if you’d rather go back to your comfortable single life.

Series Warnings: 18+, Swearing, Angst, Fluff, past mentions of rape, self-harm, attempted rape, domestic violence, stalking, death threats, possible Dark!Steve?, Steve will be an asshole a LOT in this series but I don’t know how dark it will get, explicit sexual content, mental health issues, kind of A/B/O dynamics but not really (no they are not actual wolves, more like the hierarchy), mentions of suicide, flashbacks of suicide

A/N: There will be no taglist for this story! I apologize in advance!

The three of you gathered around the kitchen island and ate the pizza. Well, more like Steve and Bucky inhaled a whole pizza each while you ate two slices. The pizza was delicious, probably the best you’d ever had and your stomach was grateful for the yumminess.

“Why don’t you tell us a little about yourself Y/N?” Bucky asked as he licked the grease off his lips.

“What do you want to know?” you replied.

“Let’s start with your family and where you grew up.”

You shrugged as you wiped your fingers with a napkin. “There isn’t really much to say. I grew up in a small town in the Midwest. Both my parents died when I was a teenager. I never knew my grandparents and I was an only child, same with my parents, so I don’t have any other family. I moved here when I was 20,” you stated honestly. Well, mostly at least. Yes, it was true both of your parents died, but how they died was tragic. They both committed suicide. First your mother, then your father one year later. As far back as you could research, mental health issues unfortunately ran in your family and that was including you. But you weren’t ready to open up that old wound yet. You were on medication to help it and that was that. Luckily the dosing you were on worked well and you could only hope you wouldn’t need to adjust your medications anytime soon.

“We know how you feel doll. Obviously all of our family is gone too. But we can make a new family with the three of us,” Bucky stated as he wrapped his metal arm around your shoulders. You liked the sound of that. The three of you becoming your own family. It sounded nice.

You gave Bucky a wide smile, mirroring his. “What have your past relationships looked like?” Steve announced from the other side of you.

This was something you had been debating on bringing up. If you weren’t going to tell them about your mental health issues just yet, you didn’t want to lie and be dishonest about John as well. Taking a deep breath, you held it in for five seconds before releasing it. “I’ve only been in one relationship before. His name was John, John Smith. He’s in prison right now.”

From the corner of your eye you could see Steve clench his fist; his knuckles cracking in the process. “What happened?” he growled out.

“He…he umm. Well, he hit me,” you said, almost as quiet as a mouse but you knew both men had super hearing and they damn well heard you.

Steve slammed his fist on the granite countertop making you flinch.

“Steve!” Bucky barked at him in anger. “You’re not making this situation any better right now. Calm the fuck down and let her talk.” Bucky soothed his arm up and down your back. “Go ahead doll. We’re listening.”

Nodding, you began to speak again. “Things were great in the beginning. He seemed like everything I could have ever asked for in a man. I didn’t know if or when I would ever meet the two of you so I decided to live my life and date him. The first six months were a whirlwind of romance. He was the most charming man I had ever met. But then things took a turn when I moved in with him. I was ready to have sex yet, but he was sick of waiting. That first night I moved in, he…he raped me.”

This time you saw Bucky’s right hand clench on the table in front of you while Steve knocked his chair over as he stood up, pacing the kitchen. “Go on doll,” Bucky urged, trying to keep the anger out of his voice as best he could for you.

“That was just the first time. He umm, he did it again for weeks. I wanted to leave, I really did. But he was rich and he had security around the house. I knew I couldn’t just up and leave. Finally, when he demanded I quit my job, I stood up to him and told him no. That was the first time he hit me. That continued for months. I was ready to give up on myself.”

“What happened next huh? How did he end up in prison?” Steve demanded as he leaned over the counter, staring at you with those piercing eyes.

“I got lucky,” you replied. “We were out shopping one day. He felt bad for the wrist he broke the night before so he took me shopping. One of the sales ladies escorted me into a fitting room and I slipped her a note letting her know what was going on. I stayed in the fitting room for as long as possible. And then I heard them. The police. The sales lady called the police for me and they took him away. He’s been locked up ever since.”

Closing your eyes, you let the tears slip down your cheek. “You were so brave,” Bucky cooed as you felt his lips on the top of your head.

“Look at me Y/N,” Steve demanded yet again and that deep feeling to please him was happening again. You snapped your head up and looked directly into his eyes. “That will never happen in this relationship. Do you understand me?” You simply nodded. “Bucky and I would never hurt you like that. Ever. You have our word.” As soon as he finished talking, he stormed out of the kitchen and down the hallway to where you only assumed was his room.

“Just give him a minute to cool off sweetheart,” Bucky spoke in your ear. “Stevie gets pent up sometimes and he has a lot on his plate. He may seem like it, but he’s not mad at you. I promise.”

You collapsed into Bucky’s chest and softy sobbed. It felt like a weight was lifted off your shoulders and you were relieved to have told them about John. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that doll. That will never happen to you again. We won’t let anything like that happen.”

It couldn’t have been more than 10 minutes later when Steve emerged from his room. “How about we go down and show you the communal kitchen and living room. Give you a little tour. What do you say?”

A small smile broke across your face. “I’d like that very much.”

As the elevators opened to the communal floor, you jaw dropped. If you thought Steve and Bucky’s apartment was big, this was ten times the size. Not only were there ample more couches, the television was bigger and there was a large dining table big enough to sit at least twenty people.

“Holy crap,” you exclaimed in awe.

“Yeah, Tony likes to go big if you couldn’t already tell,” Steve joked.

“You think?” you quipped back, earning a smirk from Steve.

The entire space was void of anyone except the three of you as Steve pulled you further into the living room. He explained that the group tries to do a movie night at least once a week. “To make things as fair as possible, Tony pulls a name out of a hat to see who gets to pick the movie that night,” Bucky said.

“Yeah but it doesn’t really work. There is still always complaining and bitching from everyone else. Mainly Clint,” Steve chimed in.

It made you giggle, genuinely giggle and it felt good. That hadn’t happened in quite some time.

Steve and Bucky guided you towards the hallway, explaining that these were the ‘hobby rooms’ of everyone and their soulmates. Steve opened the door to the one at the end of the all on right left side.

“This will be your room. You can make it anything you want. But I’m going to guess this will be your game room where you work.”

“That would be correct,” you answered as you turned on the light. The room was very decent sized and you would have no problem fitting all of your gamer stuff in here. Hell, there would be a lot of room left over and you were quickly trying to think what else you could fit in here.

“C’mon. Let’s go back to our floor and we can show you your room up there.”

On the elevator ride back to their apartment, Steve and Bucky explained who all lived in the tower and who their soulmates were. Tony and Pepper were soulmates together, along with Bruce. Bruce was best friends with Tony and more of a brother figure to Pepper. Then there was Natasha, Clint and Darcy Lewis and they were all in an intimate relationship together. Lastly, there was Thor and Jane but they didn’t stay in the tower too much as they spent most of their time on Asgard.

Steve stopped in front of your door. It was across the hall from Bucky’s and right next door to Steve’s.

“Go ahead and open it,” Steve said with a smile. “Just place your hand over the screen.”

Taking a deep breath, you did as he said and placed your hand, palm down, on the digital screen where there would normally have been a doorknob. With a soft click, the door opened for you and you walked into your new place. It was nothing like what you were thinking. You were honestly just guessing it would be a bedroom, but no, this was an entire apartment.

Straight ahead was a decent sized kitchen. There was dark cherry wood cabinet with black granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. To the left is what you would assume would be the living room, however it was completely bare of any furniture. As you continued to move through the apartment you found that the bedroom was all the way in the back. It was a very nice sized master bedroom with the biggest walk in closet and on suite bathroom you had ever seen.

“What do you think?” Bucky asked as he came up behind you and placed his hands on your shoulders.

“It’s big,” you replied with a chuckle.

“I’m going to have Tony’s interior designer email you. Give him examples and ideas of what you would like and she will make it happen. Don’t worry about prices. This is Tony’s gift to you.”

Your eyes grew wide at his statement. “Are you sure?”

“Yes sweetheart,” Steve replied as he slipped his hand in yours. “We want the best for you. Whatever you want this new home of yours to look like, then so be it. We will make it happen for you.”

~~~

That night as you lay in bed after spending time with Steve and Bucky, you couldn’t help but frown. Things had seemed to be going much better tonight than they did when you first met them two days ago. Now, you had to pack up your apartment and move. You weren’t really nervous about that part, hell, you were looking forward to it. But then it meant things were starting to get real. When things start to get intimate with them, would you be able to let yourself go and do that? Would things be vanilla in the bedroom? Would you be able to tell them that because the only sexual experiences you’ve ever had was being raped, that you could now only get yourself off on violent fantasies of being raped, or tied up, or choked? Fuck, what was wrong with you?

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers smut #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes smut #dark!steve rogers #dark! steve rogers

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ghostiewriter · 3 years

Note

AJSKDJLES you’re so nice!!! I was 100% using my birthday to manipulate you into giving us more headcanons lol but I wasn’t expecting you to actually get to it today! 🥺🥺🥰 take your time and no pressure but I definitely wouldn’t say no to hearing more about them making wild melodramatic accusations to make each other laugh in public because I can 100% see it. And I can totally see it starting on the surf trip because no one knows them so they’d just like try and embarrass the other? Amazing.

Sorry it’s a day late but I hope you had a great birthday bestie and enjoy the chaos of this wee blurb😂tbh I love this headcanon for them because it’s something they would totally do! But happy late birthday and I hope it was an enjoyable one!!❤️

Word Count: 1.6K

It started of a silly little game.

Keeping true to their word, the second they had graduated from high school and had those diplomas in their hands, JJ and Kiara wasted little time in planning the logistics of their surf trip around the world. So many places to go, waves to surf, sights to see—it was impossible to choose a place to start. However, thanks to Pope and his intense need to create a plan so his two best friends wouldn’t be thrown into the world as they “go with the flow”, he had organised a proper scheme.

JJ didn’t think it was necessary, and Kiara knew they wouldn’t stick to it. But they let Pope continue with it regardless.

Against their better judgement, his route and itinerary around Europe was insanely helpful for the couple as they ventured through the countries, excited to see places they could only dream about. Especially for JJ, it felt absolutely surreal that he was leaving the island, let alone travelling the world with the love of his life at his side. It was something he would never fully believe, but cherish in fear that he would wake up from this perfect dream and return to a shitty life in reality.

But as he turned to look at Kiara, her hair swept back by the breeze and her eyes watching the glittering city below in awe as they stood at the top of the Eiffel Tower, JJ knew that no matter how many times he pinched himself that this was his reality.

“If you’re about to make some cheesy joke about how the view is pretty but you’re prettier, I will throw you off this tower.”

JJ only grinned in response, shaking his head as he finally shifted his attention to the city view. They had just witnessed the sunset and it was one of the most breath-taking views either of them had seen, without a fucking doubt.

“Well now that you’ve stole my thunder and ruined it…” He trailed off with a sigh, but his smile only widened when he heard the soft giggle that escaped her lips.

“Whatever.” She muttered, her features softening as she leaned against the railing and took in the sounds of the streets of Paris.

“I can understand why so many people propose up here, it’s beautiful.” He admitted after a few moments.

Kiara only scoffed.

JJ turned to her, eyebrows raised. “You don’t agree?”

“Because there is nothing more romantic than having a bunch of other tourists watching one of the most intimate moments of your life whilst horns are beeping down below and the wind is blowing hair into your lip gloss.” She deadpanned.

Kiara was a romantic person when she wanted to be, but some gestures were even too much for her.

“Well when you put it like that, it’s no fun.” JJ muttered with a small chuckle, though he could see her point. “Does this mean I should keep the ring in my pocket and scrap the proposal?” He asked with a grin on his face.

Kiara rolled her eyes but she smiled. “Sorry to break your heart, babe, but if you got down on one knee right now, I would have no shame embarrassing you in front of all these people.” She said with a brief glance at the other tourists standing up here with them.

But JJ’s eyes gleamed at the sight of the challenge.

She didn’t have time to question him when he slipped one of the rings off, holding it in his palm before he cleared his throat and got down on one knee.

Her eyes widened as she looked down at him in confusion. “Jay, what are you doing—”

“Barbra Gertie Stonehend,” He started in a loud, boisterous voice to (successfully) catch the attention of the other tourists. “We have spent years together, helping each other through many hardships. I have been there for you since your bed wetting days when you were twelve, I have been there for you since you got your braces stuck in the railing at the zoo, and I have been there for you since your pet piggy was tragically knocked down by a bike. But now I ask that you do me the honour of being there with me at the end of the aisle by the alter?”

He finished his obscene speech, now holding his ring between his fingers and looking up at her with a faux hopeful expression. She pressed her lips together to hold in her snickers as she glanced around, seeing all eyes on them as they awaited her answer. And when her gaze returned to JJ, there was something quite smug shining in his eyes.

JJ had always been the best liar from them all, the way he would so easily be able to spout out nonsense at the drop of a hat. But she was just as competitive and determined as the blond, and willing to challenge him at his own game.

“Oh Bernie…” She sighed, hand placed on her chest as she looked down at him. “How could I ever marry a monster like you! Marge told me everything, I cannot believe you would expect me to marry you after you were the one that killed my pig!”

A few gasps could be heard from the crowd around them.

JJ urged himself not too laugh, though his eyebrows were raised in silent appreciation.

“Boo-Bear, it’s not what it seems! I didn’t mean to kill Vincent!” He urged, reaching out to hold her hands in his own. “I am more than a cold blooded pig murderer, please give me a chance!”

“I love you, my snookums, but I cannot!”

“Please, honey-bunch, don’t listen to Marge!” He cried out as she ripped her hands from his. “She is just jealous of what we have!”

“Then why are you having a child with her?!”

Kiara could’ve sworn she heard someone utter ‘holy shit’ under their breath but urged her face to remain neutral.

“It’s not mine!”

“Then who’s is it?” Kiara demanded, her hand clutching her imaginary pearls.

“My twin brother’s!”

“No!” Kiara gasped, feigning utter shock as she took a few steps back. “It cannot be Bobby’s…because he is the father of my child!”

Another series of gasps echoed amongst the landing.

“You…you were cheating on me with my twin brother?” JJ asked, finally standing up as he looked at her with a look of betrayal.

“I’m sorry, Bernie…” She whispered but JJ dramatically turned away.

“I can’t believe this,” He muttered before heading towards the exit. “I’m taking the dog and going home!”

“BERNIE, NO—”

“Goodbye, Barbra, enjoy your life with Bobby and his stupid exterminating company!”

Whispers murmured around the group and Kiara urged herself to keep a straight face as she waited a few moments before following him down. Once they reached the bottom, it took one glance at each other before they burst out laughing, tears streaming down their faces as they clung onto each other and walked back to their flat.

It was the start of an odd game they played for the rest of their trip. In the most random places they would play out insane scenarios, the aim to be as dramatic as they possibly could until one of them had to physically leave the scene before they burst out laughing. It was just a wee game to spice things up when they were out in public, plus it helped knowing they would never see any of these people again.

The word ‘Eiffel’ just had to be said and the game would begin.

And boy, was it entertaining.

There was the time they were in Austria visiting a vineyard, when suddenly Roberto was just sick and tired of holding back his secret affair he had been hiding behind his wife’s back. Little did he know his wife, Carla, had been sleeping with his secretary too.

Or the time they pretended to be spies on a mission whilst walking through a museum in Australia, pretending to mutter things to one another and even went to the extent of buying walkie talkies so they could suspiciously communicate from opposite sides of the room. That one kind of backfired because they did end up being thrown out by security.

Or the time they were in a small village in Turkey when it was suddenly revealed that Topanga would be leaving her fiancé, Johnny, for a prince that promised her wealth in power. However much to her shock, the prince she had been talking to was actually Johnny catfishing her.

Or there was the time they decided to re-enact the whole plot of Mamma Mia in Greece to see how long it would take people to notice how familiar the whole situation felt. It turned out it took people a tragically long time.

It was a stupid game that they adored and it followed them through the extent of the surf trip and even sometimes when they would returned home. Not to the same extent as they did in the past with fake identifies, but sometimes just odd scenarios to really fuck with their friends’ heads and keep them on their toes.

There was just something so satisfying about turning to each other, matching grins on their faces as they sat at the kegger and listened to some random touron talk about how nothing interesting ever happened on this island whenever she would visit her grandmother.

Ideas racing in their minds and all the possibilities of how they can make this night one to remember were jumping at the possibility to put on a show. With his eyebrows raised, JJ turned to his girl.

“Eiffel?”

“Eiffel.”

“HOW COULD YOU?! THAT GOLDFISH PIZZA MEANT EVERYTHING TO ME AND YOU JUST ATE IT AFTER EVERYTHING WE’VE BEEN THROUGH?”

After all, it started as a silly little but it always ensured chaos.

#ask #jiara #jiara blurb #surf trip #outer banks

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