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puttingherinhistory · 3 years ago

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“Covid has unleashed the most severe setback to women’s liberation in my lifetime. While watching this happen, I have started to think we are witnessing an outbreak of disaster patriarchy.

Naomi Klein was the first to identify “disaster capitalism”, when capitalists use a disaster to impose measures they couldn’t possibly get away with in normal times, generating more profit for themselves. Disaster patriarchy is a parallel and complementary process, where men exploit a crisis to reassert control and dominance, and rapidly erase hard-earned women’s rights. (The term “racialized disaster patriarchy” was used by Rachel E Luft in writing about an intersectional model for understanding disaster 10 years after Hurricane Katrina.) All over the world, patriarchy has taken full advantage of the virus to reclaim power – on the one hand, escalating the danger and violence to women, and on the other, stepping in as their supposed controller and protector.

I have spent months interviewing activists and grassroots leaders around the world, from Kenya to France to India, to find out how this process is affecting them, and how they are fighting back. In very different contexts, five key factors come up again and again. In disaster patriarchy, women lose their safety, their economic power, their autonomy, their education, and they are pushed on to the frontlines, unprotected, to be sacrificed.

Part of me hesitates to use the word “patriarchy”, because some people feel confused by it, and others feel it’s archaic. I have tried to imagine a newer, more contemporary phrase for it, but I have watched how we keep changing language, updating and modernising our descriptions in an attempt to meet the horror of the moment. I think, for example, of all the names we have given to the act of women being beaten by their partner. First, it was battery, then domestic violence, then intimate partner violence, and most recently intimate terrorism. We are forever doing the painstaking work of refining and illuminating, rather than insisting the patriarchs work harder to deepen their understanding of a system that is eviscerating the planet. So, I’m sticking with the word.

In this devastating time of Covid we have seen an explosion of violence towards women, whether they are cisgender or gender-diverse. Intimate terrorism in lockdown has turned the home into a kind of torture chamber for millions of women. We have seen the spread of revenge porn as lockdown has pushed the world online; such digital sexual abuse is now central to domestic violence as intimate partners threaten to share sexually explicit images without victims’ consent.

The conditions of lockdown – confinement, economic insecurity, fear of illness, excess of alcohol – were a perfect storm for abuse. It is hard to determine what is more disturbing: the fact that in 2021 thousands of men still feel willing and entitled to control, torture and beat their wives, girlfriends and children, or that no government appears to have thought about this in their planning for lockdown.

In Peru, hundreds of women and girls have gone missing since lockdown was imposed, and are feared dead. According to official figures reported by Al Jazeera, 606 girls and 309 women went missing between 16 March and 30 June last year. Worldwide, the closure of schools has increased the likelihood of various forms of violence. The US Rape Abuse and Incest National Network says its helpline for survivors of sexual assault has never been in such demand in its 26-year history, as children are locked in with abusers with no ability to alert their teachers or friends. In Italy, calls to the national anti-violence toll-free number increased by 73% between 1 March and 16 April 2020, according to the activist Luisa Rizzitelli. In Mexico, emergency call handlers received the highest number of calls in the country’s history, and the number of women who sought domestic violence shelters quadrupled.

To add outrage to outrage, many governments reduced funding for these shelters at the exact moment they were most needed. This seems to be true throughout Europe. In the UK, providers told Human Rights Watch that the Covid-19 crisis has exacerbated a lack of access to services for migrant and Black, Asian and minority ethnic women. The organisations working with these communities say that persistent inequality leads to additional difficulties in accessing services such as education, healthcare and disaster relief remotely.

In the US, more than 5 million women’s jobs were lost between the start of the pandemic and November 2020. Because much of women’s work requires physical contact with the public – restaurants, stores, childcare, healthcare settings – theirs were some of the first to go. Those who were able to keep their jobs were often frontline workers whose positions have put them in great danger; some 77% of hospital workers and 74% percent of school staff are women. Even then, the lack of childcare options left many women unable to return to their jobs. Having children does not have this effect for men. The rate of unemployment for Black and Latina women was higher before the virus, and now it is even worse.

The situation is more severe for women in other parts of the world. Shabnam Hashmi, a leading women’s activist from India, tells me that by April 2020 a staggering 39.5% of women there had lost their jobs. “Work from home is very taxing on women as their personal space has disappeared, and workload increased threefold,” Hashmi says. In Italy, existing inequalities have been amplified by the health emergency. Rizzitelli points out that women already face lower employment, poorer salaries and more precarious contracts, and are rarely employed in “safe” corporate roles; they have been the first to suffer the effects of the crisis. “Pre-existing economic, social, racial and gender inequalities have been accentuated, and all of this risks having longer-term consequences than the virus itself,” Rizzitelli says.

When women are put under greater financial pressure, their rights rapidly erode. With the economic crisis created by Covid, sex- and labour-trafficking are again on the rise. Young women who struggle to pay their rent are being preyed on by landlords, in a process known as “sextortion”.

I don’t think we can overstate the level of exhaustion, anxiety and fear that women are suffering from taking care of families, with no break or time for themselves. It’s a subtle form of madness. As women take care of the sick, the needy and the dying, who takes care of them? Colani Hlatjwako, an activist leader from the Kingdom of Eswatini, sums it up: “Social norms that put a heavy caregiving burden on women and girls remain likely to make their physical and mental health suffer.” These structures also impede access to education, damage livelihoods, and strip away sources of support.

Unesco estimates that upward of 11 million girls may not return to school once the Covid pandemic subsides. The Malala Fund estimates an even bigger number: 20 million. Phumzile Mlambo-Ngcuka, from UN Women, says her organisation has been fighting for girls’ education since the Beijing UN women’s summit in 1995. “Girls make up the majority of the schoolchildren who are not going back,” she says. “We had been making progress – not perfect, but we were keeping them at school for longer. And now, to have these girls just dropping out in one year, is quite devastating.”

Of all these setbacks, this will be the most significant. When girls are educated, they know their rights, and what to demand. They have the possibility of getting jobs and taking care of their families. When they can’t access education, they become a financial strain to their families and are often forced into early marriages.

This has particular implications for female genital mutilation (FGM). Often, fathers will accept not subjecting their daughters to this process because their daughters can become breadwinners through being educated. If there is no education, then the traditional practices resume, so that daughters can be sold for dowries. As Agnes Pareyio, chairwoman of the Kenyan Anti-Female Genital Mutilation Board, tells me: “Covid closed our schools and brought our girls back home. No one knew what was going on in the houses. We know that if you educate a girl, FGM will not happen. And now, sadly the reverse is true.”

In the early months of the pandemic, I had a front-row seat to the situation of nurses in the US, most of whom are women. I worked with National Nurses United, the biggest and most radical nurses’ union, and interviewed many nurses working on the frontline. I watched as for months they worked gruelling 12-hour shifts filled with agonising choices and trauma, acting as midwives to death. On their short lunch breaks, they had to protest over their own lack of personal protective equipment, which put them in even greater danger. In the same way that no one thought what it would mean to lock women and children in houses with abusers, no one thought what it would be like to send nurses into an extremely contagious pandemic without proper PPE. In some US hospitals, nurses were wearing garbage bags instead of gowns, and reusing single-use masks many times. They were being forced to stay on the job even if they had fevers.

The treatment of nurses who were risking their lives to save ours was a shocking kind of violence and disrespect. But there are many other areas of work where women have been left unprotected, from the warehouse workers who are packing and shipping our goods, to women who work in poultry and meat plants who are crammed together in dangerous proximity and forced to stay on the job even when they are sick. One of the more stunning developments has been with “tipped” restaurant workers in the US, already allowed to be paid the shockingly low wage of $2.13 (£1.50) an hour, which has remained the same for the past 22 years. Not only has work declined, tips have also declined greatly for those women, and now a new degradation called “maskular harassment” has emerged, where male customers insist waitresses take off their masks so they can determine if and how much to tip them based on their looks.

Women farm workers in the US have seen their protections diminished while no one was looking. Mily Treviño-Sauceda, executive director of Alianza Nacional de Campesinas, tells me how pressures have increased on campesinas, or female farm workers: “There have been more incidents of pesticides poisonings, sexual abuse and heat stress issues, and there is less monitoring from governmental agencies or law enforcement due to Covid-19.”

Covid has revealed the fact that we live with two incompatible ideas when it comes to women. The first is that women are essential to every aspect of life and our survival as a species. The second is that women can easily be violated, sacrificed and erased. This is the duality that patriarchy has slashed into the fabric of existence, and that Covid has laid bare. If we are to continue as a species, this contradiction needs to be healed and made whole.

To be clear, the problem is not the lockdowns, but what the lockdowns, and the pandemic that required them, have made clear. Covid has revealed that patriarchy is alive and well; that it will reassert itself in times of crisis because it has never been truly deconstructed, and like an untreated virus it will return with a vengeance when the conditions are ripe.

The truth is that unless the culture changes, unless patriarchy is dismantled, we will forever be spinning our wheels. Coming out of Covid, we need to be bold, daring, outrageous and to imagine a more radical way of existing on the Earth. We need to continue to build and spread activist movements. We need progressive grassroots women and women of colour in positions of power. We need a global initiative on the scale of a Marshall Plan or larger, to deconstruct and exorcise patriarchy – which is the root of so many other forms of oppression, from imperialism to racism, from transphobia to the denigration of the Earth.

There would first be a public acknowledgment, and education, about the nature of patriarchy and an understanding that it is driving us to our end. There would be ongoing education, public forums and processes studying how patriarchy leads to various forms of oppression. Art would help expunge trauma, grief, aggression, sorrow and anger in the culture and help heal and make people whole. We would understand that a culture that has diabolical amnesia and refuses to address its past can only repeat its misfortunes and abuses. Community and religious centres would help members deal with trauma. We would study the high arts of listening and empathy. Reparations and apologies would be done in public forums and in private meetings. Learning the art of apology would be as important as prayer.

The feminist author Gerda Lerner wrote in 1986: “The system of patriarchy in a historic construct has a beginning and it will have an end. Its time seems to have nearly run its course. It no longer serves the needs of men and women, and its intractable linkage to militarism, hierarchy and racism has threatened the very existence of life on Earth.”

As powerful as patriarchy is, it’s just a story. As the post-pandemic era unfolds, can we imagine another system, one that is not based on hierarchy, violence, domination, colonialisation and occupation? Do we see the connection between the devaluing, harming and oppression of all women and the destruction of the Earth itself? What if we lived as if we were kin? What if we treated each person as sacred and essential to the unfolding story of humanity?

What if rather than exploiting, dominating and hurting women and girls during a crisis, we designed a world that valued them, educated them, paid them, listened to them, cared for them and centred them?“

#women #coronavirus #life and style #world news #inequality #Covid 19 #COVID-19 #feminism #womanism #gender inequality #gender equality #corona virus

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searidings · 3 years ago

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....🥺 can you please tell us more about that season 5 alternate ending where andrea ends up using the dagger pretty please, just like who does she end up hurting and the others reaction? if only you want to of course !

hooookay this ask got me to open that wip for the first time in a year and actually it's not that far from being complete! but idk how to finish it and i feel like i've done the s5 conflict resolution thing in multiple fics now like how many is too many? i fear i may have hit that limit. BUT since you asked, here is the beginning of it. please note:

1) this thing is angsty and also it's unfinished, so read at your own peril

2) because i wasn't ever expecting to finish/publish it, i've recycled bits of description from it into other fics. so if you see stuff i've repeated elsewhere no you don't <3

The last thing Lena sees is a flash like dark shadow pass over Andrea’s eyes, before a kryptonite dagger slides between her ribs.

The sound she emits is less of a scream and more of a surprised squeak as she sinks to the ground.

If you want to get to Supergirl, you’re gonna have to go through me.

It’s not that she hadn’t believed Andrea would do it. Lena was under no illusion of safety when she placed herself between Supergirl and the glowing green rock in Andrea’s hand. She’d come to terms with the possibility of dying for Kara long ago.

What she hadn’t been able to prepare for was the pain. The abstract of sacrifice was all well and good, but. Reality, this searing epicentre, a point of white hot agony turned molten, seeping through her body. No amount of her mother’s decorum training had prepared her for this.

Something is filling her mouth, thick and dark and oozing. She can’t scream. Kara sits, eyes silver, a world away. Kara. Lena has to move. She can’t. Andrea steps over her, and is that the pounding of receding footsteps or the dogged beat of Lena’s heart? Either way, it’s slowing. Every inhale cracks her body down the centre, each exhale buries shards of glass inside the gaping wound.

Her eyes are beginning to mist at the edges but she strains, listens. The sound that cuts through the haze is not the scream she dreads, Kara’s agony as her veins sear emerald. It’s not a scream, but a shout, and then a blur passes over her like light and shadow.

Concrete cracks, or perhaps it’s Lena’s ribs. Sounds are muffled now, the world dulled down like the inside of a snow globe. Underwater, time passes sluggishly to where she lies, drifting, encased in glass. But someone is fighting the current, resisting the pull. Hands grasp her shoulders, burning where they touch. Through the rolling fog comes Kara’s face, blurring out in red and blue and gold and sickly green. Lena wants to push her away, keep her separate from the venomous substance protruding from her chest, keep her untainted. But Kara’s hands are dancing there-away along her cheeks, her jaw, Lena’s own name sounding from her lips over and over, a siren song, calling her home. It’s raining now, wet spots peppering her brow, or maybe the sun is crying.

“Lena, Lena,” Kara is saying. It sounds like her heartbeat and she cannot bear for it to stop.

“Kara,” she manages, a whisper, a prayer.

Her face flashes within Lena’s line of sight for one perfect moment, and is she green-tinged or is it Lena’s failing vision? A shiver passes through the air between them, I’m sorry fluttering like a bloodstained white flag but whether it falls from her own lips or another’s, Lena cannot say. Then a sudden pressure at her ribs, a heavy push and release that feels like salvation and damnation all at once.

Lena hears a scream, two screams, billions. She is left gaping, open and exposed. Invaded by the air and exalted by the sticky-sweet blush of her own blood, her body purging itself. Through the slick of gathering crimson her head rolls to the side, darkness pressing in around her, eyes blazing with the final image of a limp hand on the ground beside her, veins shot through with glowing green.

For a long time, there is only darkness. The deepest blackness she has ever known, all-encompassing. Devouring light, thought, feeling. Lena floats, tethered to her own existence only by the pressing weight of the dark, closing in until the end of the world.

Slowly, sensations begin to blur in and out. Cold, a deadening flow, hooking into her very marrow and stripping her from the inside out. She drifts, and then there’s heat, scorching, radiating out from her ribs in scalding waves, and she wishes for numbness.

For a moment, Lena thinks she sees the star-burst of veins behind her eyelids, but then they are gone and all is black again. Sound fragments filter through her peripheral awareness. A great noise, banging and shouting and exploding. She slips back under.

Vibrations reach her, but they must be sounds because Lena no longer has a body with which to feel them. She floats, untethered, sinking beneath the surface of a dark ocean so vast it surely cannot know she’s there. In the deep, voices flicker.

“Haven’t you heard that you’re supposed to leave the knife in? She’s minutes from bleeding out.”

The blackness turns to blood around her, not vibrant red but sticky dark, the kind so loaded with the very force of someone’s life that it moves slowly, crawls under the weight of it, sucking light from all it touches.

“Her veins were green, Alex.”

An eternity passes.

She dreams of her mother, dark hair fanning behind her as she cuts through the still waters of the lake. The scene is calm, but the growing dread means Lena knows what’s coming and suddenly it’s not her mother but Kara before her, and the lake isn’t clear but radioactive, glowing green, and still Lena stands at the shore and watches her slip away, helpless.

Words float through the haze and Lena wishes she could reach out, grasp them, weigh them in her hands to know the truth behind them. Radiation and poisoned and flared and gone, the sounds making physical shapes in the darkness. She thinks of a child, two dark-haired children, of hours spent pouring over a dictionary. A cruel laugh when she got a definition wrong, grudging silence when she got it right. How she wishes now to be wrong, to mishear, a stay of judgment on the world these words conjure into being. But the focus is gone, and she slips away again.

“—whatever you have to do! Or so help me, I’ll—”

Though Lena is nothing now, just an exhale in the wind, she smiles. Warmth blooms, the blackness not crushing but caressing for a moment, and she drifts into memories of happier times.

A million years pass, a billion. Lena is upside down, and right way up, and no way up at all. If she still had a face, she might feel the pressure of a warm forehead against her own. If she still had hair, the imprint of lips pressed gently against it might still ache. If she hadn’t burned every meaningful bridge in her life in the year before her death, she might believe the trick of a whisper wrapping on the breeze, words of comfort, of promise.

But she had, so she doesn’t, and time collapses in on itself as Lena watches, motionless and alone.

Though she has always been nowhere, she can feel herself drifting further and further from the last thing that might just resemble a somewhere. The eons slow. If she were a doctor, Lena thinks, then this would be the time to make herself comfortable. To say her goodbyes.

She cannot look at blackness any longer, cannot bear the glowing green after-image that seems to stick to every corner and edge. She thinks of blue, of rain-washed skies and Kara’s eyes, conjures it into being with every fibre she has left. Wraps herself up in it, plunges headfirst, drowns.

“Like it matters!” Kara says, no, shouts, from somewhere far above and below her. Lena would flinch, if only she still had a body. The voice rings out through the void. “Like any of it matters now.”

Lena is privately inclined to agree. She tries to breathe, but the full weight of the universe, of every universe, presses in. As everything, even the blackness, dulls, there emerges a crushing, cracking suffocation, and Lena wonders why she can’t even die in peace. A high-pitched scream, maybe hers, maybe Kara’s, maybe her mother’s, maybe the world’s, stretching out before her like a pathway. Though there’s no doubt where it ends, Lena almost wants to follow it, if only to escape this sensation of being crumbled, submerged, denied life as its very essence is wrung from her being.

And then a hundred trillion bolts of lightning shoot through her at once, and Lena is gone.

When she wakes, she wakes secure in the knowledge that she must be alive. Sure that the pain that had burst through her, blighted every nerve with an agony so intense she feels its phantom grip even now, could only lead back to life. Sure that no departure could hurt that much.

When she wakes, it is through cracked, dry eyes to the sight of pipes and ceiling vents, the bland, industrial grey that can only denote underfunded government property.

When she wakes, Kara is standing at the foot of her bed, hands behind her back and looking every inch the righteous hero, and Lena’s unsteady heart sinks. She’s been on the receiving end of this authoritative pose more than enough for one lifetime. At least her hands aren’t on her hips.

But Kara’s eyes brighten as they meet Lena’s fluttering gaze. “Lena.” Quiet, reverential. “How are you feeling?”

Lena takes stock. Alive, to begin with. Every limb still intact. Aside from an unnerving constriction in her chest and the fact that her blood feels a little like it’s burning her cells as it courses through her veins, it could certainly be worse.

When she speaks her voice is hoarse, cracking. “What happened?”

The same darkness creeps into the edges of her vision as she listens to Kara list the extent of the damage. She presses her lips together, willing away the blackness, registering only snippets.

Stab wound. Kryptonite poisoning. Collapsed lung. Cardiac arrest. Resuscitation.

Leviathan, gone. Andrea, captured. Lex, escaped.

The words wash over her like a freezing tide, and Lena wonders if maybe the darkness had been easier after all.

It takes far longer than it should for her to realise that the room has fallen silent. Kara is watching her, concern etched into her features like tears carving through stone.

Lena swallows as best she can. “And you?”

A corner of Kara’s mouth quirks up. “I’m fine. Thanks to you.”

But she doesn’t look fine. She looks exhausted, her face drawn, blue eyes lacking their characteristic shine. Even her hero’s stance can’t mask the fatigue weighing heavy on her shoulders.

But Lena doesn’t have the strength to argue the point. She rolls her head to the side, joints popping and releasing, noticing for the first time the tangle of IV lines threading into her skin. She lifts her other hand to touch them, feels the warning tug of more needles even as Kara steps forward, arms raised as if to stop her.

Her hands reach toward Lena, or at least, the spaces where her hands should be. Huge white dressings swaddle Kara from the wrists down, so bulky they do not resemble hands at all. Lena’s breath catches in her lungs as she takes in the unwieldy bandages, third degree burns and possible nerve damage echoing through her mind and she understands now why Kara had hidden them behind her back.

The inhale she aims for seems to stick in her ribs and she can feel again the crushing, the cracking, the dizzying lack of oxygen as her head spins. Kara is by her side in an instant, radiating warmth and just breathe, Lena, it’s okay, a comforting weight settling against her hip. Lena thanks the thick blanket for blurring the press of rough bandages where there should be warm skin, softening it into something just nondescript enough to be calming.

When her pounding pulse has slowed, the heart monitor downgrading to a less frenetic beat, she sucks in a breath despite her lungs’ protestation, waits for her vision to clear. Kara is still there, and dread opens up in Lena’s chest.

“You— you touched it. The kryptonite. You pulled it out.”

Kara doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Just nods, her gaze locked on Lena’s own. Lena lies catatonic, paralysed with the knowledge, unable to move even as Alex enters the room. Dimly aware of low words exchanged between the two sisters and then Alex at her bedside, gentler than Lena’s been worthy of seeing her in years. Just rest, Lena, the press of a button on the IV monitor, and she sinks back into oblivion.

#i wrote this immediately after the s5 finale (clearly) and before i finished it i got the idea for 'with the birds' and blasted that one #and then i was just like well. i've just done kara and lena's whole big reconciliation arc. do i really want to do it again #even though the premise of this one is different and reading through it again today i still quite like it #but i just don't know. i don't want to redo the same theme constantly and also i haven't thought up a satisfying ending #but there's 16k words written so like. i guess i should never say never #who knows #anyway thank you for your interest! i'm touched that you would care about this idea #and i hope you like this beginning! though as i said. it's angst city #i've just never recovered from that scene you know?#lena standing between kara and a threat whispering 'if you want to get to supergirl you're gonna have to go through me'#has anything sexier ever happened in the history of the moving image i'm not sure #truly the fic basically writes itself #anyways. bon appetit i guess #hope you're having a wonderful day #asks #anonymous #ridings writes

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ellsbclls · 3 years ago

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White Winged Dove

warnings ➛ COUNTRY!TOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! MY BELOVED!!!!!!!! smut, baby! (PLEASE do not interact if you are a minor), hurt/comfort, minor angst, happy ending: guaranteed!, a handful of swear words, and y/n has no choice but to have a country accent, i don’t make the rules here. extended warnings will be under the cut!

word count ➛ 9.5K

authors note ➛ i saw that gifset of tom taking a shower in cherry and my brain short circuited, so here! have a cupcake!

synopsis ➛ Tom feels like his world is falling apart, so he turns to you, the only person that reminds him of home.

extended warnings ➛ nsfw, fingering (f receiving), dirty talk, praise kink, multiple orgasms, unprotected f/m intercourse (please practice safe sex, kiddos! wrap it before you whack it!), a tiny tiny tiny sliver of blood!play if you squint with one eye closed.

You remember the night in waves, docile, fleeting waves that tease the rim of your consciousness before reeling back. Golden whiskey licks at the seam of your lips with each pass of the bottle, and the pond is glittering beneath the blinking trails of all the lightning bugs — tens of hundreds of fireflies, dancing in the night’s misty skyglow, rivaling the pale moonlight.

You remember the night in waves, but he is a mighty current.

You can’t scrub the memory of him from your mind, that bleak, hopeless expression that hollowed out his features. You remember how your heart split into a million little shards the second it appeared, and just when you thought there was nothing left to break, his fragile voice pleaded for you to take him somewhere, anywhere, as long as it was far.

By the time the sun spilled past your window pane, you were nothing but a drowsy amalgamation of lithe limbs, coated in morning glow as it spilled through the glass.

But behind your eyelids lives an imprint of the night before — a shimmering reflection of the night sky, and the moments that unraveled beneath its sweeping gaze.

9:17PM — You’re belting into your hairbrush, not a care in the world, and pouring your heart and soul out to a crowd of none. Somewhere between all of your clumsy twirls and impromptu choreography, you stumble over the shoebox that was poking out from under your bed, and a flurry of damp tresses and musical giggles fan across your comforter.

The walls in your house have always been notoriously thin, but what could you possibly expect from the weathered planks of wood paneling that lined your bedroom? You could hear your father’s creaky footsteps whenever he ransacked the fridge for leftovers in the dead of night, and the heavy thump of laundry that your mother would throw down to the basement, but once your radio crackles to life, and Stevie’s enchanting croon permeates the air, all those subtle nuances fades to a dull, lifeless roar.

With each passing note, the white winged dove becomes you, and you soar above endless miles of Mississippi wood. There’s not a soul that can drag you back to the outskirts of town, force you to confront what may become of you when you land, there’s no room for trepidation where you go. There, in your own little corner of the woods, it’s just you, Stevie Nicks, and the moon.

And, technically, Thomas.

Minutes have gone by, you still can’t find the strength, nor the energy, to lift yourself up, and as your downy blankets hug your tired frame, you remain blissfully ignorant of your peeping tom.

Thomas, affectionately penned Tommy, has been your best friend, your confidante, since the very first day of kindergarten. You had pulled a pack of scented markers from your tiny, pink barbie backpack during free time, and he had pulled out the empty seat beside you, plucking, sniffing, and ultimately discarding each and every pen until the box was empty. When you asked him which one was his favorite, he asked you the very same in response, just so you’d “coincidentally” have a shared affinity for coconuts. He was oddly endearing, which is a trait that’s always stuck with him. So, even at a young age, you never wondered if he was just using you for your nice possessions, or trying to take advantage of your courtesy — he always offered himself to you at face value, and you never stopped taking as much of him as you could get.

Had you been aware that your childhood friend was waiting expectantly at your window, you may have handled your alone time with a tad more discretion — but you weren’t, and each act of your private concert forces him into an even harder position. To what extent does he let you embarrass yourself before he makes his presence known, and for how long will you bury your head in the sand before the embarrassment mulls over? He sees your stage dive as a golden opportunity, and seizes it before you begin to stir.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Three short, mild raps, uttered in quick succession, jostle you from your lavish daydreams like a bucket of ice water, and you have to squint just to make out his fair features amidst all the darkness shrouding them.

“Tommy?” A flash of his soft, earthy hues tame the wild drum of your heart, confirming your suspicions, and you fight the urge to chuckle when he innocently waves at you.

“Well don’t get all shy on me now. Come in.” You open the window just enough for him to slip through its frame, allowing your eyes to graze the sculpted plains of his back, and admire, albeit shamelessly, how his muscles ripple beneath his fitted t-shirt.

Yet, there’s something about him being in your room, towering over fixtures that once towered over him, that makes you feel uneasy. A part of you adores the way he instantly makes himself at home, but the remainder is doused in fear, fretting over his wandering hands and what they may discover, surveying little trinkets and souvenirs that decorate your desk.

“Hasn’t changed much since the last time I was in here, has it?” He notes, absentmindedly shaking the contents of a snowglobe your grandma brought you from New York, a miniature skyline of Manhattan continuously buried in a flurry of snow. Most of your playdates took place in his house, so as your friendship flourished past elementary school, and the time that spanned between your meetings grew shorter and shorter, you’d found yourselves frequenting his home for all of your endeavors. It was just easier that way.

That’s the sole reason you rarely visited your room. It surely wasn’t the suffocating atmosphere that plagued your home, or your hormonal, angst ridden brain convincing you that you’d scare him to the high heavens if he caught a glimpse of your relationship with your family — how dismal it is. How you build entire worlds, cycle through dozens of bountiful lives, in the luxury of your mind in hopes of retreating.

You’d be lying if you said the poster of Zac Efron, now lurking precariously behind his shoulder, wasn’t a glaring reason as well.

“Yeah, couple things here and there, but it’s pretty much the same.” You try to be discreet as you wander around your own room, Destination: Tiger Beat. Once you reach it, you rise up on your tiptoes to cover as much of the poster as humanly possible, but scramble for an excuse once you notice him turning. “You actually left something the last time you were here. It’s on the top shelf.”

RIP! The poster is crumpled in your grasp no sooner than his back turns to you. You’d have to give a formal apology to your wildcat once you were left to your own devices, but until then, he was banished to the most unsuspecting corner of your room.

“Jesus Christ Y/N,” His thumb fondly strokes a small, yellowed testament to your friendship, a weathered page of loose leaf etched in awry plumes of ink that perfectly encapsulate his very essence — egregiously passionate, regardless of the outcome. He had written it when he was about seven, intending to give it to the “girl of his dreams” once he met her. You can still hear his sweet, little voice echo between your ears, endearingly mistaking his r’s for w’s. “You kept this?”

“Of course I did.“ Candor coats your tongue before you catch yourself, the tail end of your answer turning to dust as soon as it hits the air. You can’t bring yourself to admit just how many restless nights you’ve allowed yourself to clamber up that oak dresser, just to read that letter over, and over, and over again, praying that if you had stared at it for long enough, his messy scrawl would transform into the words you yearned for most — that it was meant for you, that he’s loved you from the very start. “Wasn’t sure if you were planning to repurpose it for some other lucky gal.”

You lock eyes with him for the first time since he appeared at your window, and stowed beneath his reservation are faint embers of warmth, kindling behind ebony curtains as you indulge in the hearth of his gaze. Lifetimes seemingly pass before his eyes are flickering back down to his hands, and it prompts you to offer him the note. “You can have it back.”

“No, you keep it.” Your brows pinch together, and a thousand questions collect on the tip of your tongue. You wonder if he recalls the same memory you do, if he remembers the significance buried in that little scrap of paper, but ultimately choose not to dwell on it. He knows just how much you love to collect memorabilia — keep cherished memories stowed away for safekeeping — he’s just being thoughtful. “Consider it undeniable proof that I know how to read and write.”

“Ain’t nothin’ in here about knowing how to read.” You tease, catching your tongue between your canines as a smirk conquers your lips.

“Ya got me,” He chuckles, smile reaching for, but never quite meeting, his faraway stare. You are so accustomed to his teasing quips, his usual flair for the dramatics, that this half-hearted attempt at replicating it fills you with discomfort. He tries to punctuate his words by tossing his arms to the sky, but they don’t reach high enough to convince you that he’s okay. Something is plaguing him, and you won’t settle for anything less than the truth.

“Tommy,” His name is sweet on your tongue, all honeyed vowels and soft, descant consonants that command his attention. “What’s wrong?”

“No, nothin’, I just-“ he’s avoiding your eyes, which is a clever strategy on his part. If eyes are the windows to the soul, then his are a stained glass mosaic, a vibrant display of all his emotions, and you — you are but an avid observer.

“Hey, look at me,” Two slender digits underline the curve of his jaw, and with a firm grasp of his chin, leave him no choice but to meet your gaze, tender and resolute all the same. “ You don’t have to tell me anything if you’re not ready, but I can tell when someone’s been rode hard and put away wet.”

“I just, I need to get out of here, and I thought I’d ask my favorite distraction to accompany me.” He stumbles over his words, faltering over his messy façade, but you’d rather this over nothing at all.

“And where might we be goin’?” You query. You can tell that this is going to be a long night, but luckily for him, you don’t have any plans that can’t be rescheduled. Your adoring fans will just have to wait another night.

“Somewhere… Anywhere,” He murmurs hopefully, and your heart nearly sinks to the floor. You’ve never seen such a chasm of joy, not in those bright, amber orbs you study so adamantly. You’d almost deem it pain, whatever’s tugging at the frame of his optics, whatever’s depriving them of that usual, warm glow. “as long as it’s far from here.”

9:39PM — “Watch your step.”

“Can you help me?” You whine — one hand reaching out for his assistance, the other firmly clasped around a bottle of Jack Daniels. There is an awkward incline just below you, only a few inches off the ground, but tall enough to make you stumble, and he could already see you bumping your knees on the way down, so he offers his elbow as a point of leverage.

“Atta girl, you’ve got it.” He coos, reluctantly abandoning your grip once you’re safely on the ground.

Mystical, and buzzing with life, you introduce him to the farthest corner of the woodlands. Whenever the walls of your room become suffocating, your legs always give out right about here.

Your secret hideaway.

Where you let your most worrisome thoughts roam free, and when those thoughts seemingly wander into nothingness, you chalk it up to wishful thinking, and fail to realize that they haven’t disappeared, they just don’t belong to you anymore. They belong to the babbling brook, constantly replenishing itself and its inhabitants with fresh, spring water, belong to the frogs and crickets as they fill the night with their moonlit ballad, they belong to the night, and it’s reflection, as it wades across the face of the creek; dotted with lightning bugs or the cosmos themself, you weren’t sure. All you know is that you always returned, as if a piece of you was tethered to the very spot.

“Where are we?” He wonders aloud, raking his fingers through his downy, chestnut locks as he explores his surroundings.

“I don’t exactly know.” You confess, making yourself comfortable on the ground. Most nights, you slip off your shoes and sink your feet into the brook, but you know Tom like the back of your hand, know what kind of ideas might venture through that rascally mind of his when he spots you near the water. So, you play it safe, pulling your knees up to your chest as you peer up at him from a safe distance. “It’s nice, though. Quiet. Good place to let your thoughts wander.”

“You ever take a dip in here?” Predictable. You stifle the urge to laugh at his query, sinking ivory veneers into your pillowy bottom lip, and shake your head in response. “Hell, if I were you, with my own nature-made swimmin’ pool, I’d bring all the boys around.”

“You know I don’t waste my time with no silly boys.” You sigh, sending him a wistful glare.

“You sure about that?” He counters, mimicking your perked brow with eerie precision.

“Oh, I’m sure.” You huff. God doesn’t build boys the same way he built him, he took his time crafting that statuesque frame, implemented hawk-eyed precision for each and every beguiling detail you’ve come to adore. He is a man, tried and true, from his sharp, angular structure to the neverending bounds of his heart, but rather than inflate his ego moreso, you let him assume the worst. “You can take a dip if you want, though. I wouldn’t mind.”

You wonder if he can tell just how little you’d mind as a mischievous glint highlights his amber hues, but before he can even open his mouth, you’ve already pinpointed the source of his glower, already voicing your adamant refusal. “No, absolutely not. Not a chance, Tommy.”

“But why not?” He whines, bellowing over your feeble chant, conjuring the most convincing set of pleading eyes he can muster. “It’s dark, it’s humid, and ain’t no one around to tell us not to.”

“Sounds like all the more reason to not do that.” You scoff, scooting further away from him and the strength of his hopeful gaze.

“I hate to pull out the big guns, but... what if I told you that it’d make me feel so much better if you accompanied me?” You’re left to wonder what the big guns are supposed to be, if they aren’t the way he is encroaching on your personal space, crawling up the length of your legs until there is only a sliver of space between you.

“I’d remind you that there are much drier ways to make you feel better.” You could feel your warm breath fanning across his lips, distracting you with the scent of minty toothpaste and your vanilla chapstick, ultimately failing to notice his hands, and how they’re positioned just below your waist.

It would only take one swift move to reach the small of your back, two to scoop you up in his arms, and about six more to drag you into the pond — kicking and screaming, but successfully so.

And he doesn’t chance it.

SPLASH! You’re no sooner submerged in the brooks’ murky depths, reaching out for lily pads and cattails that fail to provide you leverage, and your screams bubble into thick, smothered embers of a once irate flame. He better pray you never emerge from usunder, because he’s merely a howl away from being swept up in the tide — the tide being your arms as they force him to the bottom of the crick.

“Y/N,” your name scrambles between the slosh of the water and the pounding in your ears, but you manage to break the surface and blink spare drops of water from your eyes.

“I was drowning!’ You gasp, struggling to keep your head above water as you kick, and splash, and writhe around in the stygian abyss.

“In two feet of water? I beg to differ.” You can barely make out his comeback over his fit of giggles, but a part of you would rather this bright, teasing version of himself that what you’ve been dreading beforehand. Taking his outstretched hand, you stumble to your feet and, much to your dismay, find yourself standing in about two feet of water (which, in your defense, is a far more daunting threat to someone your size as opposed to his). You cool his inflating ego with a cold splash of water, dispersing tiny droplets from your fingers as they wave in front of his face.

You splash around in the water for what feels like forever, transforming stray lily pads into makeshift hats, dressing to the nines in the latest collection of aquatic couture, and as the moon casts a pale spotlight on the babbling brook, you occupy it’s centre, huddled in one another’s embrace, swaying back and forth amidst the shallow pools.

10:02 — You're still wet.

Drenched, really.

You’ve resorted to wringing out your hair with your bare hands, twisting the dampened locks between your fists until water pours from the follicles. You’d never once pondered the benefits of freshwater landings, but you were about to find out. A glare threatened to slice through the air, but immediately wavered at the sight of him — desolate, void, so lost in his thoughts that you’d wondered if he were even there.

God, you’re worried sick. You’ve dealt with bouts of sadness, sprinkles of melancholy, but this was downright depressing. You wouldn’t even know what to do if you tried, and that’s what worried you the most.

Thomas, your best friend, your crush, your light — the best parts of you all wrapped up in a clumsy little package while the best parts of him threaten to snatch up your heart, as if it wasn’t already his.

“Tommy?” You break him out of his reverie, but press on, scooching closer to his form, dangerously standoffish, like an uncaged animal winding up to attack, until you cross the threshold into his personal space. With a sturdy hold on his bicep, he melts into the palm of your hand, practically leaning all of his weight into you, stealing a reprieve you didn’t know he needed. “You can talk to me, y’know. It’s just us.”

“She left, Y/N.” The evening air seems still, in perfect tandem with your breath as you fear what might come out once you finally exhale. You know he’d shove all of his feelings down if he caught you shedding a single tear, and this isn’t about you, it never has been. So you hold your breath, latching onto the heavy silence that follows his confession, and pray that your chest is strong enough to smother the sob bubbling beneath its surface.

Fortunately, he takes your silence as a cue to continue. “The closet was empty, and all her cookbooks were gone. I looked downstairs and there was nothin’ there.” You don’t know if he’s finished, watching as he toys with a loose string on his jeans, but he breaks his own silence with a newfound waver in his voice. “I had a feelin’ she was ‘bout to leave, but I didn’t think it’d be so soon. I thought I had a lil’ bit more time to say goodbye.”

Edie was a good mother, the best of mothers, and never had she drawn a line when it came to who she nurtured. When you were little kids, you’d race each other to his house once the school bell rang, tiny little bodies weaving through the stalks of corn that prefaced the farm. She would follow the shuffling crops with a heavy eye, leading you to the porch with her raspy, whimsical chime, and crouch down to envelop the both of you in a tight hug when you emerged. She was the best of mothers.

But she wasn’t the best of wives. You were both far too young to notice the signs — the nights where you found her sound asleep on the sofa by her own volition, the packed suitcase that hid underneath the stairwell to the basement, the hesitance that laced her tone when she said I love you to his father — and something tells you she wanted to keep it that way.

Her son didn’t need to worry about his parents, and how fast they were falling out of love, and whether they really loved each other in the first place. Her son just needed to be a kid, and that is a belief she devoted the best years of her life to.

But he isn’t a kid anymore.

That’s why she fled in the middle of night, leaving nothing but a ruby encrusted ring on his dresser — her class ring. The same one he’d snatch from her jewelry box whenever she wasn’t looking. The same one he used to propose to you at the wee age of four, promising you as much of the world as a toddler could imagine.

Tears prick at the corner of your eyes as he recounts every detail, and every fiber of your being yearns to just schoop him up in your arms, hold all his broken pieces together with the strongest embrace you can muster. He doesn’t deserve that type of pain, shouldn’t have to relive it, and yet he takes it upon himself to tell you everything, to relive it for your own selfish gain.

You grow envious of the way the moon trails kisses down the slope of his nose, across the high rise of his cheeks, and over the swell of his bottom lip. There were times where you’d find traces of his mother in Tom’s features, lining the curve of his warm smile or, when the sun hit them just right, speckling his earthy hues with tiny rods of gold. Tonight, he is shrouded in a celestial spotlight, mesmerized by its waning body, and if you squint just enough, you’ll find her longing stare hidden beneath his own.

“And the worst part is that I ain’t even mad at her. Not even a lil’ bit.” He concludes, talking more to the sky than to you. “Not even at all.” When his gaze falls back to you, you can only try to cover up the betrayal, wipe the back of your arm across your tear-stained cheeks before he notices they’re even misty.

You inevitably fail, expelling a wistful sigh as he pulls you into his side, comfortingly running his hand over your bicep as he murmurs sweet nothings into the night.

“I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t want you to find out like this,” You furrow your brows, and wonder just how he would want to break the news to you. Would he let you find out for yourself, or would he bring you out to the plantation, and let you sink into the soil until the news began to blossom in the fields? Would they be cornstalks? And would they reach for the sky just like her? “I didn’t wanna make you cry, but... I didn’t know where else to go.”

“It’s okay.” Your voice is a wash of dulcet tones, fingers soothingly raking through his damp tendrils in a silent bid to comfort him. “It’s okay, I’m a big girl. I can take it.” You’re quick to clamber to your knees, wrapping him up in an airtight embrace, keeping him from wallowing into a puddle of tears. “I’m right here, Tommy.”

“I know,” he sputters, with an edge of sorrow to his tone.

“I’m right here, I’m not goin’ anywhere.” You promise.

“Don’t say that” He whispers, and shatters any trace of consolation looming over the encounter. Your brow furrows, your heart pounds against your chest, and for a fleeting second, you feel like you're caught in a lie. What if he knows? What if he can tell just how much you’d surrender to be with him? What if he doesn’t want it?

“Why not?” You’re near hysterics, praying that the intensity in your eyes makes up for the tremor in your voice. “Why not? I didn’t say anything I didn’t mean.”

“I just don’t want you to make a promise you can’t keep, Y/N.” That sullen gaze resurfaces, chills the air with it’s haunting presence — that hollow stare which fosters the remnants of a bright, contagious joy, and carves a pit, just as empty, in the well of your stomach, one that aches to be satiated. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, but his palm lingers against your cheek, trying to smooth out the heavy creases in your expression with the gentle stroke of his thumb. “Hell, I don’t want you to promise that in the first place. You deserve more than all this, you deserve the best this life has to offer you, and I’m not gonna keep you from all o’ that.”

You’ve lost track of your heart long ago, it’s dizzying tempo rivaling a hummingbird, nearly undetectable as it flitted uncontrollably, knocking against your ribs until its ultimate descent to the pit of your stomach.

You pray that he can one day see everything that you see in him, that loving himself is as easy for him as it is for you; you hope that there is a life where he never has to feel as small, or inconvenient, as he confessed, and you wish that this would eventually be that life.

You decide that it’s time to put an end to wishful thinking.

“Let me make something clear to you, Thomas.” You cup his jaw, firmly, and utter each word without a trace of uncertainty. “I’m not sure exactly what I want from life yet. I don’t know if I wanna spend the rest of it in this little ol’ town, or just pack my things and go as far as the wind will take me. I couldn’t tell you if I tried, but… that’s okay.” Slowly but surely, your lips give way to a sheepish grin, feeling lighter, freer, the further into your declaration. “It’s okay, because there’s one thing that’s for certain, and it’s that I’m all yours. It don’t matter how far I go, I’m always gonna come home to you.”

The silence is deafening.

All your emotions hang in the air, crippling your air supply with insurmountable regret. But his gaze is what terrifies you the most; just as suffocating, but in a way that sweeps the air from your lungs. You knew that there would always come a time where all the unrequited feelings you’ve harbored would finally boil to the surface, fueled by the hope that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t as one sided as you thought; but under the void of his empty gaze, you wonder if you’d made a huge mistake.

Or maybe there really is nothing — nothing to reciprocate, nothing to subdue you, nothing to salvage what little remained of your friendship after such a loaded confession — and so you scramble to assemble an apology convincing enough to overshadow your lapse in judgement.

But he doesn’t even spare you the chance, swallowing your half-hearted excuses with the firm press of his lips, pouring a lifetime of ardent desire, of longing, into the hollow of your mouth. It’s crystal clear that you’re his, the realization comes borderline cathartic. There has never been a day where your heart has not beat for him, and only him, forever threatening to spring from your chest and return to its rightful owner. The days, the months, the years of back and forth felt like a cruel jest from the fates, but now you were here, bundled in the warmth of his strong embrace, tongues curling against one another in an endless battle for dominance, and you would endure it all over again if this was where it lead

He searches for some sign of absolution, paws up and down your back in hopes of grounding himself, and you reverently provide, mustering what little strength you have left to crawl into his lap, brushing against the growing bulge in his jeans without a trace of subtlety, offering him the most sacred parts of you in hopes of bringing him home.

“Y/N,” he sighs raggedly, a half hearted attempt to gain your attention, one that proves unsuccessful as his pleas whittle into a frail, insipid shadow of what they could be. You’re too busy acquainting yourself with the plains of his body, embedding a trail of deep red marks into the column of his neck as your hands slip beneath the hem of his t-shirt. He’s built like a greek statue, you don’t even need to discard his shirt to indulge in the taut muscles tensing beneath your fingertips. “Y/N, darlin’, wait.” He interrupts your greedy ministrations by fastening his digits around your wrists. This is the point of no return, you can feel the fragile divide between friends and lovers, splintering beneath the weight of your heart, and yet you fail to concern yourself.

His digits are free to roam the high plains of your cheeks, pioneering the flushed expanse with beacons of soft, arching butterfly kisses until there’s no skin to cover, ultimately pressing his forehead against yours. ”You don’t- I don’t want you to do anything you don’t wanna do.” Seems almost redundant, you muse, to wonder if you want him when you’ve made it abundantly clear that you’d follow him to the ends of the earth. You are a pillar of salt, and as he showers you in a knee buckling torrent of kisses, you melt into the palm of his hands. If the way you’re draped against his form isn’t evidence enough, then the wetness pooling between your thighs most certainly will be, he’ll come across that confirmation once he tends to the spot you need him most.

You trace the cleft of his chin in delicate pursuit, whining as he tears his lips from their languid path, and peer through your inky lashes to meet his gaze once more. “I want this, Tom. I want you.”

“You have me. I’m all yours.” He echoes your words back to you, reverently, delivering a sacred vow from the hearth of your soul, ove you have, and will continue to, dedicate your humble living to, and you seal that promise with a bruising kiss.

The weight of his palm melts into the small of your back, pulling your chest flush against his own as it sweeps up your spine, and you moan against his lips when your nipples press up against his sturdy chest, aching to be freed as they strain against their gossamer confines.

You’ve only had the pleasure of making out with Tom for less than five minutes, but you can already tell that it ranks high on your list of favorite pastimes. Soft, pink petals brush against your own like they’re a flourishing canvas, and he’s trying to even out the brushstrokes, but all he leaves is a scorching flush in his wake, and your clothing, despite being bathed in pond water, do little to ease the blistering heat. It’s suffocating you, and you begrudgingly tear yourself away so that you can rid yourself of the article.

Besides, the less fabric separating you from his anchoring, toned embrace, the better.

“I’m all dirty,” Your meek voice collapses into a fit of giggles, and your feeble attempt to wring out your clothes is thwarted by his hands, venturing up, up, up, and under the hem of your skirt at a teasing pace, savoring the feeling of your warm, silky skin beneath his fingertips. You can tell he’s as desperate as you are, confronted with acres of new terrain to explore, and only so little of his patience to spare.

“I know, I’m sorry angel.” His voice is soft, and soothing, and riddled with mischief. Even if there is even an ounce of truth in his apology, you can still make out the devilish grin that toys at the corner of his mouth. “May I, m’lady?” He croons teasingly, flashing those whiskey glazed hues in a way that you could never refuse.

“Proceed, good sir.” You counter in the most refined timbre you can dictate, a low chuckle escaping his lips as he bunches the hem of your dress in his palms, hoisting it over your head to expose the breathtaking contours and curves of your body. You can’t remember what compelled you to forego your bra, but the thought is soon pushed to the corner of your mind, making room for the warm, fuzzy feeling that conquers your insides when Tom lays his eyes on you, bared to him and only him. His gaze alone makes you feel like you are a spectacle to behold, the most enchanting vision to ever cross his line of sight. If there was even a speck of insecurity buried deep in the back of your mind, the sight of Tom’s eyes, blown wide with adoration as they worship every sinful inch of your skin, instantly quells those fears.

He struggles to find his words, to occupy this infinite silence with anything, everything, as his calloused palms caress the sides of your waist, but all he can manage is a husky growl. One that prefaces the reappearance of his tongue, and its feverish descent from the column of your neck to the tops of your breasts, bathing your skin with gluttonous, broad strokes, and coaxing pretty, little whines from the back of your throat.

There is something so unhinged in his actions, so carnal, it summons another wave of arousal to pool against your soiled panties, knowing you have such a strong clutch on his resolve. Though, another branch of your mind races at a mile a minute, consumed by the endless possibilities that come equipped with Tom’s skill.

You try not to dwell on the little flings that came before you, especially now, in the afterglow of your confession. The taunting, pitious gazes you shared with his hookups in the hallowed halls of your alma mater, toting a reminder that they could indulge in everything you yearned for, scorched you more than the thought of the act itself — but the rumors were just plain inescapable. If even a fraction of them hold a candle to the truth, then you are in for one hell of a night.

“You’re just as sweet as I imagined, angel.” Angel. The nickname sends sparks flying in the well of your stomach. “Can’t wait to taste that perfect little pussy. Just know it’s gonna be even sweeter when you cum all over my fingers.”

You whine softly at his words, but clench hard around nothing, aching to be filled by those unbearably long, slender digits. Nothing could have prepared you for the scene unraveling below you — his lips latched around the stiff peak of your nipple, a husky groan reverberating around the pebbled surface, and head slightly moving against the palm of your hand as your fingers tug at his chestnut locks. The long, covetous laps of his tongue mingling with the vibrations of his contented little hums make you desperate for more, arching, writhing, trembling against him in hopes of finding a semblance of relief for the ache between your thighs.

“Tommy, please.” You plead in the most convincing, fucked out tone you can muster, but he doesn’t budge, showering your other bud with a flurry of quick, relentless kitten licks. Even mother nature joins in his relentless teasing, making you squirm as the gentle breeze blows cool, summer air against the glistening bud.

This is torture, a blissful, euphoric form of torture that, despite your irritability, you would surrender to time and time again. But you fail to notice just how hard your canines puncture the swell of your bottom lip, too immersed in the stroke of his tongue, in the ghost of pleasure that stirs in the pit of your stomach each time you rut against his clothed cock. A sharp, metallic tang seeps into your mouth, hitting the tip of your tongue and forcing a trembling whimper to the front of your mouth.

The pitiful sound piques Tom’s interest, and before you can wipe the blood from your lip, your face is already cradled between his palms. “Fuck, Y/N, look at you,” His eye were wide with concern, and your heart sputters over the blistering scorch of need his compassion arises in you. “C’mere.” Dropping his forehead against your own, his tongue tentatively brushes the curve of your lips, lapping up every last drop of blood that is smeared against it. He applies pressure to the wound, cauterizes it with a searing dance of bloodstained brims, as his one hand weaves into your damp locks. You barely know how to respond, but your body compensates with an untapped sense of hunger, scraping your teeth against his lower lip as you desperately claw at the toned valley of his back.

“Please, Tommy, please. I’m dripping.” You mewl, teetering over the perilous edge of delusion, foraging between your stomachs in search of his free hand. Yet another wave of arousal pools between your thighs at the sight of him, with his puffy, saliva stained lips slightly parted, and his eyes blown wide with the insatiable need to indulge himself, to spoil you. Once your fingers circle around his wrist, you guide his hand to the apex of your thighs and urge him to feel for himself, applying the lightest of pressure against his fingers, urging him to caress your tender lips through the sodden barrier of your panties. To feel what he’s done to you. “You feel that? It’s all for you.”

“All for me,” he echoes back, mesmerized, cognac hues fading into obsidian orbs as he rubs deliberately teasing circles over your covered clit. “And you ask oh so pretty. Let me take care of you, my pretty girl.” Before you even get the chance to reply, he’s pushing your panties to the side, dipping the pad of his middle finger between your silky folds — feeling, exploring, acquainting himself with the tight ring of muscle that he plans on stretching open.

His hesitation is nothing more than a plight at this point, you are more than willing to take anything he has to offer, and he can gather that much from the wild gleam in your eyes, so he slowly works one finger into your snug, velvety walls and curses under his breath at how heavenly you feel. You’re unlike anything he’s had before, far exceeding the lengths of his imagination as you softly clench around his digit, and it only takes a few seconds to adjust to the lithe intrusion, your walls already twitching against his shallow, testing thrusts, before he adds another.

“So fuckin’ perfect, darlin’. Love the way your pretty little cunt takes me.” A thin sheen of sweat coats your forehead as he rocks his digits at a leisurely pace. Tom is obsessed with the tiny frown forming between your brows, almost like you’re confused by the amount of pleasure building between your legs, struggling to keep your eyes open, your juices spilling past your opening to trickle down the palm of his hand. To say your experience is limited is a bit of an understatement — the whopping two men you’ve slept with prior were merely amateurs in comparison to your lover. Even if there was enough air in your lungs to articulate it, you don’t have the heart to tell him that you’ve never been fingerfucked. Period. The embarrassment almost swallows you whole.

But even without anything to compare it to, you’re convinced that you’re receiving the upper echelon of experiences.

As his pace quickens, prodding against your pulsing walls with an onslaught of keen, ravaging thrusts, you’re too busy gasping for air to notice how he’s switched his angle. Now the heel of his hand is rubbing against your bundle of nerves with each stroke, applying just enough pressure to light a spark without ever setting you off, and as the pads of his fingers pound against your sweet spot, you are reduced to a limbless puddle in his hands, doused in an ethereal glow that only he could surface. “God, Y/N, you look like an angel. My pretty little angel— ‘bout to cum all over my fingers.” he panted, voice biting the air with a wolfish gleam, canines peaking past his thin lips.

“Tommy, I’m so close.” You aren’t sure if you can hold on for much longer, dangling on the coattails of insurmountable bliss, finding a new reason to fall apart with each lewd kiss or sharp thrust. Your orgasm is already creeping up, threatening to crash over you each time he plunges into your slick heat, but you know that you want to feel him — all of him — stretching you to unimaginable lengths as he sinks into your tight little hole for the first time. “I wanna feel you. I wanna- I need to cum on your cock.”

Tom’s brows meet in the middle, and you wonder if you’ve strewn too far, surrendered the remainder of your common sense to lust and her shameless palms. “Such a filthy little mouth for such a good girl.” He whispers, wondering aloud, his free hand abandoning the nape of your neck to cup your jaw as his thumb sweeps over your bottom lip, applying just enough pressure to drag it down before letting it spring back to its pouty default. “You will, angel, you will, but I gotta get you ready first.” He reassures you, and you remember just how prominent his length is, straining against the denim cage of his jeans, and attribute his wavering tone to the sheer restraint he’s been exhibiting. But you have to admit — if his fingers are only a fraction of his length, then you are not sure just how much of him you’ll be able to handle. The thought sends you barrelling toward your climax, but not without the help of his thumb, pressing up to rub fervent, clumsy circles against your clit, his husky tenor cooing sweet words of encouragement into the space just below your ear. “I can feel you, angel, let go for me. I’ve got you.”

With one final thrust, he buries his fingers to the hilt, caressing your g-spot with a tentative come hither motion, until you are ridden with overwhelming waves of pleasure. All you can feel are your tender walls tightening around his fingers, and your thighs starting to tremble under the weight of your high. But he is spellbound, mesmerized by the swirling vision of you at your most content, eyelids hanging low over your blown out hues, your hips absentmindedly grinding against his hand, meeting his timid rhythm as he tries to work you through your aftershocks.

Emptiness soon replaces the stretch of his fingers once he slips them out, but a twitch of excitement follows the path of his slick hand, and you can’t stop from outright moaning at his shameless display.

“Just what I thought,” he murmurs. You are too captivated by the sight of his lips — pink, and kiss-weathered, and frankly obscene — opening wide to welcome his slick fingers, gracing his taste buds with your juices, and humming around them as they coat his tongue in an intoxicating elixir . “Open up, pretty girl,” You‘re torn from your trance by the pressure of his digits, knocking against your bottom lip, begging for entry. “Come taste how sweet you are.”

Hollowing your cheeks, you graciously welcome his fingers, putting on a show as you swirl your tongue between the two digits, moaning softly as the bittersweet taste that hits your tastebuds. You aren’t prepared for the shallow, tentative thrust of his digits, or how he starts up a slow, steady rhythm against the back of your tongue — but god do you welcome it, softly gagging with each steady downstroke, spit already dribbling down your chin as you try to keep up with his quickening pace.

“Atta girl, that’s it.” He offers you a ginger smile, one that makes the tears pooling in your eyes worth gagging for. “Good girl. Good, good girl. I wish you could see how pretty you look.”

You try to reply over his digits, but your words are muffled and faint as they thud against the wall of your lips. Luckily, he’s coherent enough to notice that you’d like to speak — and who is he to stifle that sweet little voice of yours? “Thank you,” you pant, fluttering your tear-stained lashes up at him as you clamber to fill your lungs, disputing your feverish pleas as you wriggle away from the outline of his cock. The sensation of his waterlogged jeans rubbing against your sensitive bundle of nerves has you keening over him, pushing you further from his crotch, and closer to his embrace, back arched with a near-feline agility.

“Can I?” you ask, kneading your palms over his thighs, feigning innocence as you inch closer and closer to his zipper with each upstroke, and he nods, granting you permission to free him from his denim confines. In one fluid motion, your one hand unzips his fly as the other helps him kick off the remainder of his offending items, and you have to resist the urge to drool at the sight of his cock springing from his boxers, let alone his sinfully perfect, exposed form.

He’s a little bit larger than you expected — what he lacks in length, he makes up in girth, but there isn’t much to make up for in the first place. His shaft is decorated with pretty, ivory veins, ones that would no doubt twitch beneath the hot, heavy weight of your tongue, and the crown of his cock is flushed, glistening with a thin sheen of precum that makes your mouth feel conveniently dry. Your walls twitch at the disheartening reminder of your emptiness, but all out spasm as his fingers eclipse the circumference of his cock, using your juices to leisurely pump himself.

“You’re so pretty.” You sigh, a flurry of giggles floating beneath your words as you reach out to touch him, hovering just above the tip in order to send him a cautionary glance — one he hurriedly accepts, nodding his head fervently as he stutters into his grasp. A rosy hue blooms across the valley of your cheekbones as you encircle him, covering whatever he can’t as he all but bucks into your palm. His heart strains against his chest upon the realization that his hand easily dwarfs your own, watches your smaller fingers barely curl around his engorged shaft and fights the urge to cum right then and there.

No, he needs to feel you.

“Are you sure?” He asks once more, granting you a final chance to salvage what little scraps remain of your childhood friendship, but you are already committed, determined to devour every last, glorious piece of him, to prove that he is the rightful owner of you, all of you, every shimmering shade of you.The sentiment would be almost derisive if not so loving, so noble, and yet you dismiss it with three, chaste kisses upon the outline of his profile — against his forehead, the notch on the bridge of his nose, and finally his lips, warm and inviting.

“I’m certain.” You promise, merely a breaths width away from his lips.

You have never been more certain of a decision in your life, desperate to feel him nestled deep inside you, to blur the line where he begins and you end. Your fingers curl around the base of his cock, their pressure neither here nor there as they coax a hiss out of him, and you line him up with your entrance, tossing your head back as you waste no time breaching your needy hole with the bulbous head of his cock.

It’s blindingly clear that you have been given the reins, what with Tom’s finger’s seeking refuge in the soil beneath him, a low groan rumbling beneath his chest, his eyes rapt with an unspoken urgency as they survey the spot where you connect, and you relish in your paramount. Your knees dig deeper into the ground as you lower yourself onto him, and with little resistance, your walls steadily welcome inch after inch with a searing embrace, etching every delicious ridge and vein of his length to memory until he bottoms out, and you’re left with an overwhelming sense of fullness. There is a dull pain laced in the stretch of your opening, intermingling with the remnants of your last orgasm, and as you twitch and pulse around his girth, he appears like an dream before you, sifting through a thick haze of desire, wispy curls clinging to the thin sheen of sweat coating his forehead, and eyes blown wide with ripples of pleasure, of lust, that long to be indulged.

Once you’ve adjusted to him, you test a few shallow, tentative rolls of your hips, lifting yourself off the tiniest bit before filling yourself up again. He just feels so perfect, like god spent a little extra time molding him just for you, rubbing against parts of you that have never known such ecstasy until now, and you struggle to find a rhythm amidst all these new, dizzying sensations. “Poor little thing, you’re so worked up, you barely know how to take my cock.” It’s funny, how he can make such degrading words sound so sympathetic, and regardless, your body responds long before your brain can register, wildly spasming around his cock. It doesn’t take long for his fingers to return, digging into the curve of your hips to assist you, working you over his length in long, plundering strokes that steal the air from your lungs. “That feel better, angel?”

“Mhmm,” you shakily nod your head, fingers finding purchase in the broad expanse of his shoulders as you dig your nails into the freckled expanse, flooding his senses with the weak little uh, uh, uh’s tumbling from your lips each time you’re impaled on his cock. If he could lap up every hitch of your breath, every wayward sigh, he’d be drunk off the height of your unbridled joy. Hell, he can barely sustain himself as is, ravenously lapping up the beads of sweat clinging to your temple, swirling his tongue around your earlobe in its descent. Yes, yes, he’s swept up in sultry waves of you, and as your pelvis kisses his, as the air is filled with the sounds of your hips snapping against his own, he’s less and less concerned about emerging from your enchanting depths. “You got another one for me, angel? I can feel you squeezing my cock, baby, I know you got another one.” He’s delirious, clawing at the altar of your hips, and nowhere near as close to finishing as you are, but god is he eager to tear another orgasm out of you.

You, on the other hand, are a furnace, taunting flames of embarrassment licking up your insides, pooling in the small of your back, racing up your cheeks, at such arduous lengths as to mix with the coil of pleasure tightening in your core. Tom seizes the opportunity to find some leverage, pulling his knees up to rest on either side of you, planting his feet on the ground so that he can thrust up into your sopping cunt at a punishing pace, and you both can already feel the tell-tale signs of your building pleasure. “It’s okay, Y/N, you can let go.” Nothing more than a faint whisper, you indulge in the way his cock massages your inner walls, how your name sounds so filthy, yet beguiling, as it slips from his slightly ajar lips, how it blends so well with the weak little moans of his own name rolling off your tongue. “Let go for me. I wanna feel that perfect little pussy cum all over me.” His hand dips between your sweat slick forms, firmly swiping his fingers over your hypersensitive bundle of nerves, turning circles into your favorite shape, and his change in position makes the crown of his cock curve into your g-spot each time he pounds into you — so your helpless to the crescendo of pleasure that washes over you.

A broken, startled shriek tears through your lungs, and you topple over his thighs, digging crescent shaped indents into his knees as you surrender to your climax, walls fluttering and contracting over his length as he works you over the edge.

“Oh, what a good girl.” He coos encouragingly, reaching his hand out to cup the weight of your breast, swiping his thumb over your peaked bud as his pace eases up, and it isn’t until now that you realize he’s leaning back, holding himself up by his forearms while he drinks in your pleasure-ridden form. “My sweet, sweet girl.” You can tell he’s holding back by the way his hips still stutter up into your overstimulated heat, how his cheeks, his forehead, all of his features are set with a heavy flush, how you aren’t filled to the brim with his cum — and you simply won’t allow that.

“It’s okay, Tommy.” You whisper, carefully lowering yourself until your chest is aligned with his own, sharply exhaling as you feel him push up against your tender core. Your eyes are soft, and dazed, and oh so pretty, glittering beneath a thin layer of unshed tears, but this is about him, it’s always been about him, and as his cock twitches amidst your spasming walls, you firmly believe that you can handle another orgasm if he can coax it from you. “Keep goin’, it’s okay. I want you to fill me up. I wanna feel all of you.”

“Y/N—” His voice is stern, but your lips are fierce, stealing whatever argument may have been building in the cavern of his mouth as you weakly tilt your hips downward, offering yourself to him once more. When he muscles up enough strength to tear himself away, he only finds a bounty of understanding, of devotion, of love, teeming at the brim of your eyes, and he needs no words to indulge himself, to yield to a mesmerising whirlpool of you, you, shimmering you.

Tom wraps one arm around your back, holding you close to his chest while you scatter soft, lingering kisses to his shoulder, smoothing his palm over your damp tresses as he hoists one leg over his hip, prying your legs even further apart so he can fuck up into you — impossibly tighter, and tormentingly more responsive as he slams into your overstimulated cunt. You can feel every square inch of him now, every long sweeping vein, the tiny sliver of skin hidden beneath his tip, it’s all crystal clear as he plunges into your weepy core, and you’re so cockdrunk, so fucked out of your mind, that you don’t even notice your hips slanting down to meet his thrusts. You’re just that greedy for another orgasm, hellbent on tumbling over yet again as he fills you to the brim.

It doesn’t take long for him to work himself to that precipice once again, the coil in his stomach pulled taut with your whimpered chant of his name, with each strong pulse of your cunt tightening over him. He buries himself to the hilt one last time, stuttering into your hips with a loud, frenzied groan, and finally teeters off the edge, dragging you down with him as you sink your teeth into his shoulder blade, pumping his hot seed into you, coating your walls with hot spurts of cum as you milk him for every last drop, the crude sound of your arousal mixing with his own making you shudder.

You both lay there for a second, safe in each other’s warm embrace, basking in the aftermath of your fortuned affair, and you cowered beneath the sky and it’s constellation clad ceiling, feeling infinitesimal, but oh so contented, beneath its glorious gaze. There, wrapped up in one another, two splintered halves mending, healing, into the whole they were destined to become — the sky was but a star in comparison to your light, your bright, everlasting light.

How did we get here? You wonder. How, oh, how is he finally mine?

You follow the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way the moon lounges across his curly lashes in a silver chaise — you survey him at his most vulnerable — and determine that you have more than enough time to find the answer. As long as he’s here, by your side, you don’t plan to wander too far.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! PLEASE LIKE, OR LEAVE A COMMENT, IF YOU ENJOYED!

TAGLIST: @devotion @reawritesthings

#tom holland #tom holland x reader #tom holland imagine #tom holland smut #tom holland blurb #tom holland oneshot #I CAN NOT BELIEVE I ACTUALLY FUCKING FINISHED THIS #the way this magically climbed from 4.7 to 9.5k in one day will never cease to amaze me #and i hope that this spawns a new love and excitement for country boy tom because i love arvin but #BOY does that man scare me a lil bit #this is more like a . . hart of dixie type of country #more apple pie! less homicide!#I ALSO DONT KNOW WHA THAPPENED TO THE SMUT THIS IS LIKE 40% SMUT #anyway i really do hope yall enjoy #mine*

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kaistarus · 4 years ago

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Fake Confessions Spawn Real Feelings

Pairings: Nishinoya X Reader

Words: 2.2K

Summary: Noya asks you to help him make Kiyoko jealous, but like most of his ideas it doesn’t go the way he expects it to.

Notes: Chaotic Noya is my favorite Noya, so half this fic is cute and half this fic is him being a crackhead. Both versions I'm unhealthily in love with.

**there’s now a sequel with the first date**

Masterlist

“Noya what the hell are you doing?”

Nishinoya appeared by your desk the moment the final bell had rung bouncing with the energy of a caffeinated toddler. You were suspicious of the impatient look in his eyes that could only mean trouble, which was later confirmed by him pulling you out of your desk the moment your class materials were packed. Now, without explaining his actions, he weaved his way through the halls while dragging you reluctantly along.

“The most genius thing ever.” He said once you arrived outside the school’s gymnasium. Nishinoya dropped your hand and began looking around the empty courtyard.

“What are you looking for?”

“Kiyoko,” he opened his bag and dug around before producing an envelope. You raised an amused brow at the poorly drawn hearts adorning the parchment.

“Are you giving that to her?”

Nishinoya raised an eyebrow like you’d just asked the most ridiculous question he’d ever heard. “What? No, this is empty.” He shoved it into your hands.

You blinked, raising the envelope into the light to confirm that it was indeed see through. “So, you just decorated an empty envelope? What’s the point of that?”

“Well, when Kiyoko sees another girl confessing her feelings for me. She’ll think I’m irresistible!”

He puffed out his chest after swinging his bag back onto his back.

“Another girl?” You snorted as you flipped the envelope over to admire the poorly drawn kissy faces on its back. “Who’s stupid enough to do that?”

“You are!” He said as if it should have been the most obvious thing in the world. You stared blankly. “You’re going to give me that fake love letter.”

“What do you mean I’m going to-”

“Then she’ll be like, ‘oh Noya, I didn’t realize you were so sexy and talented, please don’t leave me’,” he said while clasping his hands together and raising his voice several octaves.

“I don’t think she’s going to-”

“And I’ll be like, ‘Kiyoko baby I would never leave you. I’d wait a million lifetimes sweet mama’.” He grabbed his cheeks and wiggled his butt around, clearly lost in a fantasy. “Then we’ll fall in love and get married at a destination wedding and have ten thousand children and Tanaka will weep of jealousy at my astounding awesomeness.”

“Ten thousand babies?” Your jaw dropped in horror before you quickly shook it off. You pushed the envelope against his chest. “Look, I’m not doing this.”

“C’mon, this is literally life or death.” He tried, shoving the letter back into your hands.

“What if someone sees? I’m supposed to live with the reputation of confessing to you and everyone thinking you turned me down?”

“First of all, ouch. Second of all, everyone’s gone home by now.” Nishinoya shrugged. “What could possibly go wrong?”

The phrase alone made a long list scroll through your mind. “I wouldn’t even know how to confess.”

“I’m literally cool as fuck,” Noya smirked. “It should be easy. Just be honest.”

You gave him a once-over. “Do you want to impress Kiyoko or have me be honest? Pick one.”

Nishinoya glared at you before his eyes connected with something over your shoulder. “Okay, here she comes. Act natural.”

He released the envelope and you caught it on reflex, sneering at him while he straightened out his poster and uniform jacket. What did he mean to act natural? Absolutely nothing about this situation was natural.

“Oh my gosh, (Y/N). Why did you ask that we meet out here all alone?” Noya said, his voice awkwardly stiff and loud.

Your grip on the envelope tightened as you tried to keep yourself from becoming more agitated with Nishinoya. He has the nerve to tell you to act natural and then puts on a performance like that. “I have something important I need to tell you…”

“I wonder what it is. As someone who respects all women I will take any amount of time out of my day to listen to your words.” The corner of his mouth quirks up and he shoots you a small thumbs up at his hip. It takes all of your concentration to not roll your eyes.

You heard a pair of footsteps echoing from the walkway that connected the main building and the gymnasium, so you figured one of them belonged to Kiyoko. In your peripheral you spotted her and Yachi pretending to stare down at a clipboard in Kiyoko’s hands, but you knew they were glancing up at the fake display you both were putting on.

“Uh, well, it’s just… um... ” You nibbled on your bottom lip from frustration. Thankfully, they probably took your hesitation for nervousness rather than the inability to think of something to say.

It wasn’t that you disliked Nishinoya. You actually really admired him-not that you had ever imagined admitting it to his face. But… if you didn’t have a choice.

You took a deep breath.

“I think that you're really amazing,” you said, avoiding his excited amber eyes you knew were trained on Kiyoko anyway. “I like how determined you are to do your best and how that transitions to how hard you work in volleyball. I truly believe you’re the greatest libero there is.”

You felt Nishinoya’s focus become more grounded on you, so you lifted your stare to meet his. The longer you made eye-contact the more it felt like he was pulling the confession from you. “I like how much you care about your friends and that you work hard to cheer people up even when I can tell you’re not in a great mood yourself. I also admire how fearless you are and how you’re the first to try new things.” You looked down again and dug your shoe into the dirt. “I wish I could be more like that sometimes.”

You felt your cheeks warming as his mouth went a little slack and his brow creased. You knew you could probably stop at any moment, but the words were flowing too easily and a part of you wanted him to hear them now. Later you could pretend it was for the bit and not because your heart weighed heavy in your chest.

“I’ve always been jealous of how free it feels to be around you. Like, how chaotic and carefree you can be, but you still know how to be serious in certain situations.” You shrugged. “You’re also pretty cute or whatever, so that’s a good addition.”

Nishinoya looked in awe. You glanced back at Kiyoko and Yachi who were now watching from the gymnasium’s entrance-their heads peeking out from the doorway. You became self-conscious when you remembered it wasn’t just you and Nishinoya and you felt the urgency to wrap this up quickly.

“So, uh,” you held the poorly crafted envelope Nishinoya had made outward. “I really like you, Nishinoya. I hope you can accept my feelings.”

The moment had come where he was supposed to turn you down. Say he couldn’t accept and you’d be on your way to live life like normal. But, instead of saying anything he just kept staring at you.

You coughed awkwardly and waved the envelope in his face. “Noya…”

“Oh, uh, right.” His cheeks dusted pink and he took the empty envelope. “Thanks. That um… you’re also… pretty cool.”

He just stared down at the poorly crafted envelope for several moments before glancing back up at you nervously.

“So, I get done with practice at around six if you want to hang out later? Unless you’re busy tonight. We can hang out this weekend or really I can make any time work. Dead ass, like, I can fucking skip practice if that’s what you want.”

You blinked.

...what.

“What’s going on?” You leaned forward to whisper, but he leaned away awkwardly. “This wasn’t the plan.”

“I know, but you said all those nice things and now I’m confused.” Nishinoya covered his face with his hands.

“Confused how?” You looked back to the doorway where Kiyoko and Yachi had been peeking out and frowned at how they were gone.

“Confused like my heart feels funny and now I want to get married and have ten thousand kids and stuff.”

Your face turned bright red. “What? I can’t have ten thousand kids.”

“One thousand?”

“I’m not having more than two kids,” you crossed your arms. “Besides, one kid with your energy is equivalent to at least two.”

He pouted. “Fine, but then I get to choose our destination wedding.”

“Absolutely not. You’d pick somewhere ridiculous like Nebraska.”

“What the hell is a Nebraska?”

“It’s a boring place in the US where nothing-” You waved it off. “Why are we even talking about this? You don’t like me, Noya. You like Kiyoko.”

“But I didn’t even know I was allowed to like you,” his brow furrowed as he thought. “I mean, I’ve thought about liking you, but it’s different ‘ya know?”

“No,” you responded. Next time Nishinoya pulls you into a ridiculous plot where he claims ‘what could possibly go wrong?’ you’d have to add actual confessions to the long list.

“You’re like a real person.” He gestured to all of you and you just tilted your head confused. “It’s like, Kiyoko can turn me down a hundred times, but she’ll still talk to me so who cares. But if you turned me down it’d be different. I might never get to be with you again. Does that make sense?”

“I guess… so…” You furrowed your brow and stared at his shoes that were tapping nervously against the ground. “Do you even know how to go on dates?”

“How dare you,” he placed a hand over his chest in mock horror. “I’ll have you know I’ve read two whole romance books. No pictures.”

“Well, when you sell yourself like that.” You smirked before taking a deep breath. “I mean, I guess… it would be fine. If we had one date.”

“Really?” He fist pumped. “Fuck yeah. I’m gonna swoon you so good. This’ll be the best date of your life.”

“I’ve never been on a date.”

“Even better! There’s no standard.” He cackled as he spun around with his fist raised high. “I can’t even fuck it up.”

“I don’t think that’s how that-”

“I’ll text you,” he sent you a wide smile over his shoulder. “I promise that this is going to be really great. You’re going to love it.”

You gave a slight nod and watched him practically skip into the gymnasium. It took Tanaka’s disbelieving shouts to snap you out of your frozen stupor and you stared down at your hands in confusion.

What the hell just happened?

Mindlessly, you made your way to the front of the school where your bike was chained up so you could finally get home and relax. You spent the entire ride home in a numb state of disbelief that somehow, in less than an hour, you’d gone from refusing to admit you found Nishinoya even remotely cool to going on a date with him.

What kind of witchcraft had he pulled?

You assured yourself that it was just a date and nothing would come of it. So when you struggled with focusing on your homework that night because every few minutes your heart would do acrobatics at the idea of spending time alone with Nishinoya, you pretended it was just leftover embarrassment.

It also probably meant nothing that your face turned red when he texted you immediately after his practice with like ten smiley faces. And it definitely wasn’t a big deal that you giggled like an idiot while texting him until three in the morning about absolutely nothing. That was all just normal stuff that happened between normal people who had a normal non-romantic connection. No way had you actually fallen for Nishinoya.

You definitely weren’t in denial.

As you sat through a boring lesson the next day in class your eyes drifted, landing unsurprisingly on the boy taking up too much of your mental space. He was absentmindedly fiddling with his dyed strand of hair as he focused intently on the workbook on his desk. His tongue poked out in concentration as he repeatedly wrote and erased something on the same line in his notebook. You smiled fondly at the frustrated crease between his furrowed brow as he struggled to analyze that day’s literature passage.

Nishinoya must have felt you blatantly staring because he lifted his head confused before searching around the room and finally meeting your eyes dead on. You stared at each other briefly until he gave you a lopsided grin that sent your heart into a frenzy. You lifted your hand for a little wave and embarrassingly turned your attention back to your own schoolwork.

You rubbed your pencil’s eraser against one of your now pink cheeks.

Damn it… you thought, as you began underlining random sentences to appear busy. You really did like him. A small smile rested on your lips as your heart kept it’s irregular pattern. Perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing?

You snuck another peek and your smile fell when you saw him cross-eyed and balancing his pencil on his top lip. He’d apparently given up on attempting to do the assigned work for the day. You watched the pencil roll forward and he tried to catch it on his tongue before it clattered onto his desk, pulling everyone’s attention.

You groaned quietly and covered your face with your hands.

At least he was cute?

#nishinoya yuu #nishinoya yu #nishinoya x reader #nishinoya yu x reader #nishinoya yū #haikyuu!!#nishinoya scenarios #nishinoya imagine #haikyuu x reader

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metellastella · 3 years ago

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In Honor of Deltarune Chapter 2, Lemme tell you about exactly HOW world-breaking Chara really was, and IS.

Here's the thing about Chara. It is implied that they are THE PLAYER's insatiable thirst for new video game worlds (or, they have latched onto it). As in, they accompany the player to the next world they go to.

Direct quote:

"HP. ATK. DEF. GOLD. EXP. LV. Every time a number increases, that feeling . . . That's me. Chara. Now, we have reached the absolute. There is nothing left for us here. Let us erase this pointless world, and move on to the next." i.e.: Let US move on to the next.

Every time THE PLAYER conquers and sets aside a new game . . . they have effectively DESTROYED it. Because they do not "exist" unless they are played and interacted with. Also, they only exist up until the end of the game anyway (most of the time)

And- I say usually- no matter how many times THE PLAYER plays a game- they will eventually tire of it. Also, if they play 500 games in their lifetime . . . it is unlikely they will re-play that many consistently. Plus, add on random internet "mini" games.

Now, that's only considering ONE player.

But since Chara is a multi-dimensional being, because they are aware of other worlds . . . it's not much of a stretch to say that the millions of people who are carrying around Chara "with" them count . . . as Chara.

Bill Cipher, from Gravity Falls, to my knowledge, despite his reality-warping godly demon powers, makes no such 4th wall shattering and domineering claim.

Let's assume for sanity's sake, that this current dimension you're sitting in and reading this screen on is the primary reality. There ARE no dimensions higher than this. All others are contained within human imagination. Bill Cipher was Created by a Creator.

All the 'lower' dimensions we can muck around in as basically gods. (gods or demigods either incarnate as weaklings, or come about some other way, in many mythologies, but then grow steadily stronger to realize their godhood. Ya know, Hercules. Krishna. In Hinduism. That sort of thing.) We can travel between dimensions on a whim by flipping a switch. With enough Determination, we can ALWAYS reach the end. Now, sometimes collaboration does expand these universes a little bit- through comics and fanfiction. But even these created 'higher spheres' nearer to this primary dimension, author 'omniscience' is taken as a given. Actually there is some debate about that, given the real-world phenomenon of novel writers in some cases having no clue where characters are taking them . . . they just sit down to write with a kernel of an idea. That's how I operate, for instance. In that case, they somehow have had their 'future sight' that should be default as a god, blocked. People who outline plots and know where they're going with a story beforehand, and then create characters to fill in the gaps, they're the type of 'gods' that could tell their characters future events, if they wanted to. Anyway. Back to video games specifically, and their fandoms. There is only so much CONTENT and it can always be recorded and shared. So there is still a limting factor. Here's the weird thing about Undertale. You are there as a 'god.' Just as usual. That's nothing special. You're just there to muck around. But. The whole toe-curling horror aspect UT was demonstrating, for specific characters NPCs who realize this sobering fact . . . such as Asgore and Sans, they are driven to despair, mental instability, and in two cases, suicide, by the fact.

If Homestuck is considered a "game" that is destroyed once you reach the end? It is rolled into all of this as well. Homestuck is a game. What evidence to I have of this, since it's a 'written story'? It has many playable elements and 90% of its lore and plot is based on deconstructing game conventions and sticking them back together in weird angled positions with crazy glue. Therefore. If the player reads Homestuck after playing Undertale, (i.e., someone who is newer to internet culture, and entered it after Undertale came out, which was far after Homestuck) Chara has CANONICALLY destroyed the Homestuck Universe. (or, if you re-read Homestuck after playing Undertale)

YOU. The PLAYER make or break all fictional characters. They live and die by your interest in them, or, for games, your direction, and no other character has explicitly taken YOUR control over the game, as Chara has. In Homestuck, it never gives you something to "do" and then takes the decision away from you, as Undertale does.

Chara, except for someone who has 100% control of that little dopamine rush that comes with leveling up (read: no one), is out there, gleefully wringing out, growing bored of, and then destroying hundreds of thousands of worlds. Chara is the first of zeir kind. And possibly the last. Or at least, anything that comes afterwards will be but a pale imitation. Toby Fox is truly LEGENDARY, in this way. I'm not sure even he fully understand what he's done here. Let me try to explain this. Our education system is currenlty ripping itself to pieces over back-breaking student loans and the realization that we don't actually need all these professors because of the easy availability of information on the internet (Demonstrated, in a roundabout way, in one or two deft lines of dialog in the movie A Beauriful Mind). Now, let's say colleges and universities do survive this shift in society, going foward. It's probable that at the very least technical colleges and vocational schools will. Any others, including high schools, will be replaced by students shrugging and just taking a G.E.D. certification, because why should they spend time at a high school if they hate it, or if they want to learn at their own individualized pace? No reason to do that at all. If the stuffy old guard of the outdated higher education system ever starts treating stories told by video games as literature, as they ABSOLUTELY SHOULD, because they're merely a different medium, not some weird separate thing . . . Toby Fox, having overturned the "trope" of the RPG "genre", wrecking and dismantling it so thouroughly that it has unsettled millions of people who ever again play an RPG where they slaughter any monsters for 'points.' He should be immortalized. Just like any other author in history who has churned out a landmark piece of literature. It's merely his fair due. Perfectly logical, right? He is the Ubermench game-changer. Literally. I hope Sans appreciates the pun. Chara is the vehicle through which this overturning of the trope happens. Chara stares directly at the player, deconstructs a longstanding staple in the 'literary genre,' and gives a body and voice to the psychologically addictive quality of video games.

One estimate says there are more than 60,000 video games in existence. And millions of copies of each one.

Chara, as we've established canonically, has access to ALL that are played after a runthrough of Undertale. (or at the very least, genocide Undertale) In Hinduism, it is Shiva that is the god of destruction. To quote Oppenheimer, Chara has become Death, Destroyer of Worlds. Checkmate.

Q. E. D.

Endgame.

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invinciblerodent · 11 months ago

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Some lines of dialogue from my notebook that I happen to kinda like, just because 🙂

"Of course I've heard of you, [Blade of the Frontiers]. You were my father's favorite son, and he hadn't even sired you."

"I've never chosen anything for myself- not before meeting you. But now, it's... it's you, only you that I want. Messy, mortal, majestic you."

"I thought maybe, if I got my shit together enough to be able to tell you who I am, there could be a chance that you might like that person enough to kiss her."

"Darling, you know I accept compliments face-to-face-- going behind my back for it is such a waste of perfectly good praise."

"Delightful conversation, this. I certainly can't think of a topic more pleasant than my violent death."

"You cannot truly be so arrogant as to believe yourself the first man to break my heart."

"It would be the single greatest kindness you could ever do me, if you promised -this time truly promised- that if I am to go, if I am to change, it'll be you sinking the blade of mercy into my heart."

"I wish I had your kind of confidence. But I've said those same words enough times-- I unfortunately know very well when they're bullshit."

"I'm willing to lie about a lot of things, to a lot of people, but to lie to the pig about how the sausage is made as it is being led to slaughter.. sounds especially cruel."

"I feel that after so long roaming unclaimed, my heart is one that... yearns, for a cage now."

"This person you speak of in such disgust is twice, thrice, a thousand fucking times the man you could ever have hoped to be in your pathetic, hateful, narrow little chickenshit life."

"When I said I'm in love with you, when I said that I choose you, I meant every breath, every syllable, with my being entire. Gods know why you'd choose me in return, but make no mistake, my dear-- the very prospect of my being allowed to love you, it is nothing short of pure euphoria."

"Over a hundred lifetimes, over a million possiblities... there is not a world in which I wouldn't have fallen in love with you."

"Why do you so crave the forgiveness of a goddess so spiteful that she'd deny it to you while you still live?!"

"Oh, darling, I've merely whetted my appetite for you." "Then devour me."

"Wherever you are when your mind is so far, I'd like to go with you someday."

"Aw, were you worried about me?" "No, but I'd have hated to carry you back to camp with your liquefied innards oozing from your every orifice." "See, I was trying to make a joke, and you ruined it." I'm sorry. Does it help if I say I'd have carried you in my arms like a pretty, pretty princess?"

"If I threw myself into the harbor in despair every time I felt guilt over what I've done, the coast would be littered with my corpses."

"I can show you my skill if that is your desire, Saer- or you may also believe me, and stop looking the heavily armed gift horse in the mouth."

#i kinda love my little notes on the margins #like as i'm flipping through pages at one point i just wrote #“ftr i'm high as i write this”#and let me tell you.... you can TELL #my Petyr development notes also say “I'll make him SO goddamn fuckable istg”#which......... well uh #mission accomplished #some of these are from Gale fic #some from Astarion #the obvious one from a Wyll one #and there's a sprinkle of Shadowheart too #squirrel speaks #i hope you can tell which ones are which lol #i mean many are ocs too but I hope their voices are there in the lines meant for them

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junko-and-riri-domain · 4 years ago

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❦ ɢᴏᴛ ᴀ ᴘᴏᴛɪᴏɴ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅꜱ? | ɴɪ-ᴋɪ

↬ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ɴɪꜱʜɪᴍᴜʀᴀ ʀɪᴋɪ / ɴɪ-ᴋɪ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

↬ ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ | ʙᴀʀɪꜱᴛᴀ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴜɴɪᴠᴇʀꜱɪᴛʏ!ᴀᴜ | ᴄᴀғᴇ!ᴀᴜ

↬ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ɴᴏɴᴇ

The chains of familial obligations and expectations were suffocating, to say the least. For as long as you could remember, your parents expected you to be the perfect student, smile for the camera when you got an award, and exist for the sole purpose of becoming someone they could brag about. When you first discovered the Eggy Cafe, you didn’t quite know just how much of an impact it’d have on your life. You visited with the sole purpose of finding a place to study in peace and quiet. It first started off as you going every few weeks, usually before a test or when you wanted to be alone in a place where no one knew you.

Never in a million years did you’d think that you’d become friends with Jieun, the owner, or that she’d offer you a part-time job. You weren’t looking for one nor did you need the money but for some reason, you accepted it. And so for the past year, you’ve been working as a barista for the Eggy Cafe, enjoying your job more than you should be. The scent of coffee beans and freshly baked pastries became embedded into your clothes, the sounds of conversations from customers you chatted with became music to your ears, and in the Eggy Cafe, you found the constant warmth you’ve been longing for your entire life. Just a few months ago, the Eggy Cafe started gaining attention from students on campus due to the school’s basketball team star player, Min Yoongi talking about how good your drinks (mostly the Americanos) were. You became known as a sort of fairy of caffeine, supplying people with their caffeine fix and pastries that tasted better than the overpriced Starbucks on campus.

It was nearing midnight and there were a few people still in the cafe, studying and working on homework but you could handle it on your own. Your coworker of 3 weeks, Jay had to leave a few hours before his shift ended for a reason you’d didn’t care enough to remember. You were currently making a drink for yourself when suddenly,

“Uhh, hey,” a voice said somewhat unsure of themselves. You looked at where it came from and saw someone standing awkwardly by the side of the bar counter somewhat of a distance away from you.

“Hi, do you know what you want to order yet?” you asked. He shook his head and looked around. There was an air of loneliness that surrounded him, he looked familiar for some reason probably because you’ve seen him around campus.

“Take a seat and however long as you need,” you said with a smile. He sat down by the bar counter, two seats away from you and you continued making your drink. A silence befell the two of you until finally,

“Why are all the drinks named like potions?”

“Because this place is magical and I’m a witch,” you joked.

“I heard from Jay-hyung that a fairy working here,” he said, causing you to smile,

“What kind of potion do you want?”

“Got a potion for making friends?” he asked. You knew that he was only joking but you could feel a sliver of truth in his words. Working in the Eggy Cafe for so long allowed you to get to know various types of people and how to help them out, even if it was for a few brief moments.

“Give me a sec, I’ve got just the thing.” It didn’t take long before you placed a cup in front of him and you leaned on the other side of the counter to start a conversation.

“Drink this,” you said. He looked at the cup, then back at you in confusion,

“Tea?”

“What’s on your mind, babe?”

You learned that the practically 6 feet tall guy’s name was Nishimura Riki but people often called him Ni-ki. You realized that the reason he looked familiar was because he was a dance major and you saw him practicing by the quad sometimes. Throughout the next few months, you started noticing him more and more after that day, saying hi whenever you passed by each other and smiling at him when you couldn’t say hi. One lunchtime when Ni-ki came to the cafe his order was in a to-go cup, you figured he’d be leaving. As he waited, you gave him a plate with some mochi on it.

“I didn’t order this,” he said, looking at the plate of mochi.

“Try it out for me, let me know if it tastes good. I made it this morning and I’m thinking of asking Jieun to sell it.” He took a bite, eyes lightening up as the taste settled on his lips. He had had lots of mochi and desserts throughout his lifetime but this was unlike anything he’d ever had before.

“What is this?” he asked, looking at you in pure amazement. You made a mental note to yourself that food was something that made Ni-ki smile.

“Smores mochi, it’s good, yeah?” he nodded,

“You should sell this. Definitely.” As you handed him his drink,

“Great, it’ll give you a reason to come by more often.” You got back to work, not quite noticing the tinge of red that was starting to show on his cheeks or how he muttered,

“I already have a reason to come by more often,” to himself, just out of earshot from anyone else.

Ni-ki came to the cafe later that week with some people, one of them included Jay who also wasn’t working. The only thing was that when he saw you, you weren’t behind the register with an apron. Instead, you were sitting in the booth by the window with a laptop in front of you and what seemed like hundreds of papers on the table. Your hair was brought up in a messy bun with strands of hair around your face and you sported an oversized hoody.

“What’s up?” a voice asked, turning your attention away from your laptop and whoever it was.

“Jay-hyung, don’t bother her,” Ni-ki said as he went to your table. A guy whose name you later found out was Jungwon sat next to Jay while the other 4 guys were in line at the register.

“It’s not a bother, I’ll always welcome your company Ni-ki,” you said. He knew damn well that you were saying it out of friendliness but he couldn’t stop the heat that rose to his cheeks. You were introduced to the 5 other guys and learned that Ni-ki and Jay were a part of a group that put out performances.

“Y/n-ah, you work here?” the one whose name you found out was Sunoo asked already comfortable with you. Sunoo was bright and cheery at the first meet, the opposite of Ni-ki but you realized that the two complimented each other.

“When I’m not studying I’m either sleeping or supplying caffeine,” you replied with a smile. As everyone settled into their own conversation, you started eating the chocolate chocolate chip muffin you baked earlier. Even though you weren’t working today, Jieun still let you have access to the kitchen and coffee. Seeing Ni-ki eyeing your plate, without thinking much of it, you ripped out a piece and brought it up to Ni-ki’s mouth. As he accepted the bite, his arm reached over behind your shoulders to get his cup of tea which was by the ledge of the window.

He returned the cup back to its original place but his arm stayed around your shoulders. You didn’t mind it, if anything you were glad for Ni-ki and his presence lately. Somewhere down the line, the once 7 guys you were with became just Ni-ki by your side.

“Can I walk you home?” Ni-ki asked as you started packing up your things.

“Well, if you’re offering to be my bodyguard tonight I won’t refuse” As you and Ni-ki walked to your dorm, it didn’t quite register how much you enjoyed being with him until he had to leave. Once at your doorstep,

“There’s a dance showcase happening at the festival tomorrow, I’m performing with everyone else and solo. If you’re not busy, do you wanna... come?” Dancer Ni-ki was a part of him you had yet to see and you heard so much about it from everyone else. Over the past few months, his closed-off persona was slowly fading and little by little he was letting you into his world.

“I’ll be there, we can celebrate your win at the cafe after!”

“Yah, what makes you think I’m going to win?”

“If you lose then we can celebrate the fact that it’s over.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

“Mhm.”

The next day came by quicker than you were expecting, the only part you were looking forward to was the showcase. You were able to be close to the front of the stage with a few of your friends and you cheered as loud as you possibly could when it was time for Ni-ki’s performance. In awe of how he commanded the stage, you couldn’t believe just how powerful Ni-ki was, practically leaving you more breathless than when the two of you were next to each other. He was definitely going to win. And if the judges thought otherwise you were going to throw a riot.

Later that night, the Eggy Cafe was full of chatters as the group and solo dance performance trophies were set on the counter. The boys were clearly tired but still happy nonetheless. While Jay was teaching Jake how to make a puppuccino for Layla, Sunghoon was washing the dishes that you guys used since it was after closing time, Jungwon and Sunoo taking selcas, and Heeseung asleep on the couch, Ni-ki was sitting across the counter from you.

“Y/n?” he asked.

“What’s on your mind?”

“You updated the menu names?” he asked, looking behind you. They were still as crazy if not more as they were originally.

“Which potion do you want?”

“Got a potion that’ll give me the courage to ask you out?” Unable to stop yourself from blushing, you set a cup of tea in front of him. He took a sip,

“Are you free tomorrow?” Nodding as you took a sip of your own drink,

“I am.”

↬ ᴀ/ɴ:

first of all, thank you so much for 100+ followers! thankful to everyone out there who reads the content from this blog :)

sorry for not having any updates since like 2ish? weeks (school has just been giving out so much work)

hopefully there’ll be more fics when we go on break!

if you have any reqs feel free to send!

❦ end of story, written by riri | blog masterlist

Qᴜɪᴄ�� ᴄʟɪᴄᴋꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ɴɪ-ᴋɪ ꜰɪᴄꜱ

huh? | exam season

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thejakeformerlyknownasprince · 4 years ago

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Re: Star Wars prequel novelizations - the Revenge of the Sith book is genuinely one of the best things I have ever read and changed my life.

THANK YOU, anon, for reminding me about the Revenge of the Sith novelization. I just reread it, and my crops are watered, my skin is clear, and — I cannot overstate this — I actually remember why I love Star Wars. That love has been for too long stolen by The Fandom Menace sucking the life out of those movies to invent a new definition of suffering while digesting them slowly over a thousand years.

Revenge of the Sith by Matthew Stover is one of the greatest works of adventure fiction I have ever read, and it continues to inspire the way I write action sequences and character conflicts. It does so damn much to transform a movie that is, to be honest, just okay. There are a couple of big additions from the novel that make the whole Skywalker saga richer, and there are about five hundred little tweaks that deepen the lore in a way that shows that Stover loves Star Wars to the core.

First big addition: having Obi-Wan tell Padmé that he’s in love with Anakin. This is great because yay, queer representation! But within the specific context of RotS, it also sets up the super-important contrast between Obi-Wan and Anakin. Obi-Wan, Stover’s novel makes clear, is the quiet and unassuming embodiment of everything a Jedi is supposed to be: he’s selfless, loving, hard-working, and incredibly skilled with the Force. Obi-Wan falls in love with Anakin, realizes that Anakin doesn’t love him back in that way, and... lives with it. He spends time with Anakin, supports Anakin, enjoys Anakin’s company, and doesn’t act like the world will end if Anakin isn’t his.

Anakin loves Obi-Wan, in a siblinglike way, and he loves Padmé. But he’s got a nasty habit of expressing that love through possession and control, through going behind Padmé’s back to “fix” her life without her permission. Anakin falls in love with Padmé and immediately concludes that he cannot possibly live like this: they must begin a secret relationship, and he must both marry her and remain a Jedi. Later he destroys the Jedi and eventually Padmé herself because he sees himself as having no way out of that dilemma.

And all the while, Obi-Wan is there in the background. Also in love with someone with whom he cannot have a relationship, and just… dealing with it like an adult. Because millions of people are in love with people who don’t love them back, and that’s just how it is sometimes. It’s selfish to obsess over “having” their love at all costs. For Anakin, that obsession with saving Obi-Wan and Padmé eventually leads to him killing them both.

When Yoda tells Anakin that he must deal with his fear of losing Padmé through letting go, Anakin takes this to mean “let her die.” But what Yoda means is not “let her die,” but rather “love her the way Obi-Wan loves you: quietly, selflessly, and with a willingness to do what’s best for her, whether or not that means you get to have her.” And Anakin never understands that, because Anakin’s view of the world is so intensely egocentric.

Second big addition: updating the Force to explain the Dark Side. Revenge of the Sith, even more so than any other Star Wars, is all about the contrast between the Dark Side and the Light Side. Here, Stover’s contribution is brilliant; he makes the Dark Side egocentric and the Light allocentric.

Terminology! “Egocentric” in psych refers to the perspective that focuses on how the world affects you and how you affect the world. At the extreme, egocentric thinking can be believing that a baby is crying in a deliberate effort to annoy you, or that every person in a crowded cafeteria will remember what shirt you wore when you ate there a week ago. “Allocentric” refers to the perspective that the self is one of several disparate elements buffered around by the world. At the extreme, allocentric thinking can be failing to realize that others are reacting to your presence, or viewing your own life as one thing you can give to help others.

Stover doesn’t use those terms, but he does describe how Dooku “drew power into his innermost being until the Force itself existed only to serve his will” (p. 64). Later, Obi-Wan “gave himself to the living Force… the Force moved him, let him collapse as though he’d suddenly fainted, then it brought his lightsaber from his belt to his hand” (p. 285). Dooku ultimately loses his fight against Anakin because he focuses on how everyone is responding to him, and misses that Anakin and Palpatine are beginning to build an alternate alliance right under his nose. Obi-Wan ultimately wins his fight against Anakin because he allows the Force to shove him around, and sets aside his concern with both his own life and that of his best friend while fighting for the greater goal of peace.

Not only that, but Obi-Wan’s understanding of the Force moves beyond that of most Jedi. He compares “the will of the Force” to “the will of gravity,” in essence stating that simply because it is beyond human comprehension doesn’t mean it doesn’t have its own rules. One can be a Jedi without needing to understand the Force in the same way one can be a pilot without needing to be a physicist. In RotS, we see that his refrain of “search your feelings” is a way of calling on a Force user to be mindful enough to accept realities that are already evident, if one can only allow oneself to have that knowledge.

Stover also uses these competing perspectives — allocentric and egocentric — to explain why the Jedi Order falls. The tight control the Order exerts over the Jedi moves them away from the will of the Force and toward the will of the Council. Its insularity creates a sense of superiority, which is the reason so many Jedi fail to see their clone troopers as threats until it’s too late. Stover tweaks the Jedi Purge scene to emphasize that the only reason Obi-Wan and Yoda survive is because of their selflessness. Obi-Wan takes the time to befriend his alien mount, repeatedly confirming her well-being, and then she shields him with her body when his troopers open fire. Yoda respects the Wookie command and puts himself in a position to assist rather than lead the resistance movement on Kashyyyk, meaning that when a fight breaks out between him and his troopers the Wookies don’t hesitate to side with him. Yoda and Obi-Wan are the only two Jedi who truly give themselves to the service of others, and thus they are the only two to survive the Purge.

...and the million little favors this book does for the movie.

During the opening battle, having Obi-Wan tell Anakin to “use the Force” to fly a narrow trench and having Anakin roll his eyes at such an obvious suggestion. It’s a callback to A New Hope, but one that drives home how much more the Force is integrated in the lives of Old Republic Jedi than it is in the lives of Imperial kids like Luke.

Fixing the minor continuity error from Episode III to Episode IV — why would Admiral Motti dismiss Vader as following outdated superstitions if there were millions of Jedi within his lifetime? — by explicitly stating that the Sith are considered a dead culture. Ergo, Vader’s “ancient religion” isn’t the Force in general; it’s specifically the Sith creed.

Making Palpatine scarier and more seductive than he is in the movie. Stover’s rhetoric about killing even the Jedi children is frighteningly rational and coherent, and he uses it to give Palpatine some stomach-churning speeches while corrupting Anakin.

Using the novel format for all it’s worth. Stover skims over the physical-comedy elevator sequence in favor of having Dooku and Palpatine discussing their plans for the war. He only tells us about Anakin’s conversation with Yoda after the fact, in scattered flashes as a panicking Anakin runs through the halls of the Jedi temple. He gives us intense focus on Anakin’s mindset while trying to land the broken halves of Invisible Hand, less on what the ship itself is doing. He cuts away from Anakin and Obi-Wan’s final battle, toward R2D2 and C3PO as they struggle to drag a dying Padmé into her ship out of a desperation to find some small way to help her.

Revealing that Palpatine spends the entire story trying to kill Obi-Wan. This gets hinted at in the movie, but Stover includes several moments throughout Palpatine’s “rescue” from Dooku when Palpatine sets Obi-Wan up to die, and mentions like eight other attempts on Obi-Wan’s life as orchestrated by Palpatine. It’s a great character addition, that Palpatine assumes he cannot get Anakin to fall unless he first eliminates Obi-Wan.

Expanding Padmé’s role in the movie (set dressing, and later refrigerator filling) by having her secretly organize and launch the Rebel Alliance right under Vader and Palpatine’s noses.

Those are just examples of how Stover clearly knows the Force, gets the Force, and strives to make the Force more internally coherent. How he sometimes translates, sometimes preserves, and always improves the pacing and tone of the film.

I haven’t even touched on the FUCKING AMAZEBALLS imagery or introspection in the book yet, but this post is getting wicked long, so I’ll go ahead and leave it here for now. Point is, all y’all should go out immediately and get a copy from your library and/or used bookstore, because Nonny is right and it’ll change your life.

#star wars #revenge of the sith #star wars episode iii #matthew stover #revenge of the sith novelization #book review #long post #nothing to do with animorphs #the force #star wars episode iii: revenge of the sith #anonymous #asks

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thisdayinwwi · 3 years ago

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Daily Telegraph OTD July 6, 1914 covers murdered Archduke’ funeral

Funeral of the Murdered Archduke Burial in a Storm Extraordinary Scenes Angry Aristocrats

The Emperor Francis Joseph issued an autograph letter to-day, in which he thanked his people for their sympathy in connection with the tragedy of Sarajevo. His Majesty first refers to the loss of the Archduke and the Duchess, and then continues:

A murderous hand has robbed me of my relative and true helper; has inflicted indescribable sorrow on children of the tenderest age, who need the care and protection of all that was dear to them in the world; and has heaped woe on their innocent heads. The madness of a small band of misguided men will, however, not shake those bonds which bind me to my peoples. It does not touch the feelings of innermost love, which has again been manifested in such a touching manner to me and all the members of the Ruling House from all parts of the Monarchy. For six and a half decades I have shared sorrows and joys with my people, and even in my heaviest hours I have always thought of my duty, that I was answerable for the fate of millions to the Almighty. The fresh, painful trial that God, in His inscrutable Providence, has sent to me and mine, will strengthen my determination to continue on my recognized path, acting for the welfare of my peoples until my last breath.

This autograph letter is very moving, and the last phrase is very much remarked, as it distinctly contradicts all reports spread during the last few days that the Emperor intends to abdicate.

The Emperor has also issued an order to the army and the fleet. The Monarch expresses his feeling that the death of the Archduke ill be a great loss to the army, but concludes with the words:

I do not, however, give up hope of a worthy future, for I am convinced that in all the trouble that many visit us, Austria-Hungary may firmly trust in the capacity of sacrifice until death shown by her army and navy, which are unshakable in devotion to duty.

Unpleasant Incidents

The arrangements for the funeral of the Archduke and his wife led to a severe conflict between the Austrian and Hungarian nobility and the Master of the Ceremonies, Prince Montenuovo, and brought about a remarkable demonstration on the part of the aristocracy. The plans for the mourning ceremonies were extremely simple, the reason given for this being that full burial honours due to the heir to the Throne could not be accorded to him because he was buried with his wife, the Duchess of Hobenberg, who was not of Royal birth. The members of the high aristocracy who had received no invitations to the funeral were most indignant, as the Duchess of Hobenberg, as Countess Chotek, belonged to the very old nobility, and on Friday evening, when the funeral procession left the Vienna Hofburg for the Western Railway to proceed to Artstetten over a hundred members of the Austrian and Hungarian aristocracy awaited its passage in the streets and joined it in a body. The gentlemen were in military uniform or in official Privy Councilors' costumes, and they followed the coffins as far as the railway station. This deputation was naturally much noticed by the public.

In military circles also the arrangements made by the Master of the Ceremonies were much objected to, as they had no possibility of paying their last respects to the Archduke. The Emperor, however, decided at the last moment that the entire Vienna garrison should turn out and accompany the funeral cortege to the Western Railway. The position of the Prince Montenuovo, who bases his action on the strict Spanish ceremonial which is observed at the Austrian Court, is shaken, as the new heir to the Throne, the Archduke Karl Franz Josef, also showed his displeasure and was present at the arrival of the corpses in Vienna, although this was not provided for in the plan drawn up by the Master of the Ceremonies.

The termination of the disastrous week which has passed over Austria-Hungary was marked by the funeral of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife at the castle of Artstetten, on the Danube, which the Archduke in his lifetime had chosen as the last resting-place for himself and the members of his family. The Imperial Master of the Ceremonies had arranged that the bodies should be taken over the ferry at Poechlarn immediately on their arrival there, but this programme was not carried out on account of a storm, and the conveyance of the corpses was attended by scenes of great confusion.

#archduke franz ferdinand #assassination of franz ferdinand #assassination

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teddy-bear-surprise · 3 years ago

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𝐃𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐞

You can read this story on AO3 or Wattpad too!

Peter Parker X Fem Reader

Description: A Pinch of Angst, Soft Peter Parker, Wholesome Peter Parker, Comforting Peter Parker… It’s a cute story, that’s basically it. Based on post-Far From Home but without the Daily Bugle incident. Spoiler alert: you’re Peter’s girlfriend… Just kidding that wasn’t a spoiler. But that’s basically all the backstory you need. Pls enjoy

Word Count: 5.6K

I would also like to take a moment to recommend the song "Down The Line" by José González since it's what inspired this story.

Before Peter left for his Summer class trip, he was the happiest kid in the world. Or, as happy as any kid whose father figure just died in an intergalactic battle could be. He could barely go one sentence without mentioning how “awesome” it would be to visit Europe. He and Ned had literally stayed up until 3 in the morning– more than once –because they couldn’t stop talking about Europe. He wanted to go on this trip so badly that he packed his bags a week early, which you and May knew was unprecedented for Peter.

Honestly, everything seemed perfect. You and May dropped him off early at the airport, he remembered to bring his passport, and Ned brought snacks for the both of them. It all went as smoothly as it could, especially considering that you all woke up half an hour late because Peter made (and presented) a 59-slide Powerpoint presentation about Europe the night before his flight.

The second Peter passed airport security, he started sending you photos of him hanging out with Ned. You saw the airport, and Europe, through Peter’s eyes. It was like seeing the world painted with brighter and newer colors, but it also could’ve been that hideous filter he puts on all of his photos. Still, you had never seen him so excited to be outside of Queens.

Almost immediately after he got to Europe, Peter’s photos started coming in less frequently, his texts grew shorter, and his voice wavered on the phone. You knew all about the battles against inter-dimensional monsters, the entire world knew. He was undoubtedly tired after such big fights, and you stupidly thought that was the only reason he had been acting differently. You thought he was just tired. You thought he was just busy. You thought he was just having fun. It turns out, you were just plain wrong .

The airport doors slid open, and you saw Peter walk out as he waved goodbye to Ned. Aunt May stood excitedly beside you and waved her homemade sign at Peter who would never need any sign to recognize the two of you. He jogged over, and you rushed to meet him, embracing him in a tight hug. He nuzzled his face in the crook of your neck and held you for what felt like an eternity. You rubbed small circles on Peter’s back, beyond relieved to see him again. May walked up and tapped Peter on the shoulder, giving him a playful look that said, “I can’t believe you hugged your significant other before you hugged me.” The two reunited, and May pestered him with a neverending stream of questions. Peter answered each one as vividly as possible, leading you to think that the change that happened while he was in Europe was all in your head.

But when May joked about Peter’s lost luggage, you noticed something. He flinched. For a second, you couldn’t understand why Peter would be so upset about some lost luggage, but then you realized it. He had taken his Uncle Ben’s luggage with him to Europe, one of the last memories he had of Ben, and now it was gone. So though May couldn’t seem to care any less, you acknowledged that grief looked different for everyone.

Admittedly, Ben’s burnt bags weren’t the only thing bothering Peter. He seemed to let his guard down every few minutes, and the exhaustion, sadness, and despair would seep from his wide eyes. Peter didn’t seem to care that you could see, and maybe this was his way of asking you for help. But whenever May would glance at Peter through the rearview mirror, his walls would build right up again– turning him into a hollow, empty puppet with a smile plastered on its face.

The whole ride home, you had to sit there and pretend you couldn’t tell. After May dropped you off at your house, you weren’t sure if you should text Peter or not. You wrote and rewrote a dozen messages to him, but none of them felt right.

“Peter, are you okay?” Nope… too short.

“Hey, Pete do you need to talk? I’m alwa–” Definitely not. Way too direct.

“I noticed you seemed a bit down. Is everything alright?” You sound like May. Ew.

Ultimately, you never sent any of them. As much as you loved Peter and wanted to help him, you knew it wouldn’t do any good to rush him. So, you gave him some space and time.

Shockingly, for the first time since you had gone to pick him up at the airport, Peter asked you to come over. During the past two weeks, you had always been the one to initiate dates or conversations. And even though it felt like Peter had stopped loving you, you persisted, never confusing his pain for the loss of love.

As usual, you and Peter invited May to join in on your movie night. And right on cue– only twenty minutes into the movie –she said she never wanted to watch another Star Wars film again and went to bed, leaving you both alone in the living room. After you finished watching Phantom Menace for the dozenth time, Peter laid out his collection of Star Wars DVDs, trying to decide if he wanted to watch the rest of the prequels or skip to another one of his favorites.

Deep down, you felt like Peter had invited you over for a reason. That his intentions included more than a movie, that it meant he was ready to talk. You leaned down and laid a hand on his shoulder, and he froze, holding A New Hope tightly in his grip.

“Pete… Are you okay?”

He glanced back at you with confusion, “What do you mean? Of course, I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“I don’t know, Pete. All I know is that you’ve been acting different since you got back from your trip.”

“Why would I be different?” He replied defensively, as though you had offended him. “I mean, i-if anything, you’re the one who’s being different.”

You saw tears well up in his eyes as he turned his back to you. “Peter, please just talk to me. I can tell that something’s off. I’m your girlfriend, for gosh sakes! I can tell! And you might think you have everyone else fooled, but….” You took a second to breathe, “but you can’t fool me.”

He shifted his weight and turned to face you, opening his mouth to speak. Still, nothing came out. Peter looked back at the ground, his silence prompting you to continue.

“I’m not sure if you wanted me to notice– or if you just didn’t care that I noticed –but I noticed. I gave you time, I waited for you to talk to me, and I thought that you inviting me over tonight meant that you were ready to talk.” Tears rolled down your face as you lowered your voice. “I’m sorry for caring, Peter, but I can’t pretend that you’re okay anymore… because you are clearly not okay.”

He fiddled with his hands, still avoiding looking at you. “I just wanted to watch a movie. I-I don’t know what you’re trying to imply, but all I wanted was to watch a movie with my girlfriend a-a-and have a good night….”

Peter’s voice trailed off, and you chimed in. “It’s not just about a movie, Pete. And I can’t let you act like it was ever just about a movie. Let’s just talk for a bit and see what happens. I might not know what happened out there, but the one thing I know is that you’re a hero, Peter. You’re my hero. So please, just tell me what’s bothering you, and then we can move on.”

“Nothing. Nothing’s bothering me.”

“Don’t lie to me, Peter. Something isn’t right and you can’t keep it inside forever.”

“I-It’s really nothing. There’s no use talking about it anyway, it won’t change what happened.”

“That’s a start… What happened then? What’s so bad that you can’t even tell your girlfriend?” He shook his head and you asked again, “Peter, c’mon. You can tell me. What happened?”

“Can you please stop asking?” He played with his fingers, his eyes still fixated on a dent in the floorboard.

“I can’t stop. Because if I stopped, that would mean I stopped loving you. And I don’t think that’ll ever happen. Not in this lifetime.”

Peter looked sadly at you, tears threatened to spill onto his cheeks. “I did everything right. I tried to do everything right. And I still… I messed up so bad. London would still be fine if it wasn’t for me. Did you know that?” He let out a sad, sarcastic chuckle. “London was all my fault.”

“Peter, you saved London. You di–”

Peter cut you off, running his hand through his hair. “I wouldn’t have had to save London if I hadn’t given E.D.I.T.H. to Beck.”

You looked at him in disbelief and it finally hit you how little you knew about the situation. But before Peter could see the shock in your eyes, you changed your expression, “What do you mean?”

“I mean that Quentin tricked me. I-I guess I was so stupid that I let him trick me and I gave E.D.I.T.H. to him and that’s why he was able to attack London. A-and I’m the reason that attack happened in the first place! I’m the reason a hundred people died! I’m the reason th-that Beck almost tricked the whole world! Tony never should’ve given me E.D.I.T.H.… Beck could’ve killed like a million peo–”

“Peter.” You squeezed his shoulder, “You can’t blame yourself for this. You didn’t let him kill a million people and now he never will, because you stopped him. Tony gave you E.D.I.T.H. because he trusted you, and he was right to do so. You figured out that Beck was bad before Paranoid Fury even doubted him, just think about that. You figured it out before Paranoid Fury. That’s incredible. And I know you think you don’t deserve E.D.I.T.H., but no one else could have taken down Beck on their own. Not like you did. So, like it or not, you’re kind of the best superhero we’ve got.”

You opened your arms, beckoning for him to sit back on the sofa with you. Peter gave you a teary smile and climbed onto the sofa, leaning into your arms. You cradled his head as he cried into your shoulder, his tears staining your sweater.

“It’s okay, Peter. It’s okay.” For almost ten minutes, he lay in your arms as you repeated the reassuring phrase.

His breathing slowed and his eyes dried once more, though they were still red and puffy. Peter released himself from your embrace and laid across your lap, looking up and into your eyes.

“I gotta go hit the head.”

You looked at Peter with confusion, “I’m sorry, what? Did you really just say ‘hit the head’?”

“What? It’s a totally normal phrase.” He pouted at you.

“Just say you ‘need to go to the bathroom’ like a normal person… Oh m-you totally stole that from Fury or Cap didn’t you? Which one was it?”

Peter suddenly seemed very embarrassed, “Fury…”

“I knew it! Now go to the bathroom, weirdo. I’ll be waiting for you so we can choose our next movie.”

“‘Kay. Be right back”

Peter rushed out and somehow came back from the bathroom within a minute.

“I think I know which movie I wanna watch.” He flashed a shy smile at you.

“I don’t care what you wanna watch unless you washed your hands.”

Peter whined, “But I did wash them.”

“There’s literally no way you washed your hands and went to the bathroom in less than a minute. That would be impossible.”

“I totally did wash my hands, but I guess I could wash them again.”

“Good to hear. So, what movie did you wanna watch, Parker?”

Peter handed you the same A New Hope DVD that he had dropped onto the sofa ten minutes prior. You rolled your eyes at him, holding the movie from the corner using only your pointer and thumb. As a condition, you told him he had to wash his hands in the kitchen sink (so you could watch him) before you would start the movie. After he did his part, you placed the disc into the DVD player and looked back at Peter while you waited for the film to appear onscreen.

“Hey, Peter.” He lifted his head from the sofa’s cushions and propped it up, on one hand, waiting to hear what you had to say. “I know I was just joking around a few minutes ago, but I have to say something serious again. Next time something like this happens, you have to let it out. Whether that means talking to me, May, or Ned, you can’t let this-this darkness eat you up. Because, frankly, there’s a whole lifetime of darkness down the line and that’ll be the case for the rest of eternity. But what always made you different from Bucky, or Tony, or Cap, or any of them, is that you’ve never let yourself get caught up with that ‘darkness’. So don’t give up now. I know it’s a tough fight– well I’ll never know– but still, you can’t let the darkness take your shine away. You are the funniest, most intelligent, and kindest person I’ve ever met. Please, just don’t let anyone or anything ever take that from you.”

You had been staring at the coffee table between you and Peter this whole time and when you tilted your head back up in Peter’s direction, you noticed how shocked he seemed. His mouth hung slightly agape and his eyes maintained a soft gaze as if he was struggling to process this information. Peter sat up and grabbed a pillow from beside him, hugging it tightly to his chest.

“I-I–” Peter was on the verge of saying something but was cut off by the film’s characteristic intro music.

As the movie started, you crawled back up onto the sofa with Peter, and this time you rested your head on the pillow in his lap. You grew tired after the first hour and drifted to sleep, though Peter was still wide awake by the end. He let you sleep comfortably, still resting your head upon his lap as he stroked your cheek. Soon after, Peter dozed off as well, still sitting tall.

The next morning, May saw that you were both still sound asleep and since it was already close to noon, she thought waking you up would be a great idea. She crept up behind the sofa, walking slowly and quietly until she was right behind both of you. May leaned over the sofa, peering down at your sleeping figures, and yelled while waving her arms wildly.

“WAKE UP! THERE’S ALIENS AGAIN! LOKI IS HERE! AAAHHHHH!”

Peter jumped up, knocking May over and dropping you onto the ground where you woke momentarily before closing your eyes and rolling under the coffee table. He turned left and right looking for aliens and destruction, still in a half-asleep daze.

“Where are they!?!” He ran into his room, slamming the door open and throwing his belongings everywhere. “I can’t find my suit! MAYYYYYY! Where– Ohhhhh.”

He calmed down the second he took a look outside, realizing that May had just pranked him. “Haha. Very funny May,” said Peter sarcastically.

He walked back into the living room where May was still sitting on the ground and you had fallen asleep again. May laughed at Peter and gave him a pat on the back as he helped her up.

“I thought that was pretty funny, didn’t you? I mean, definitely not my best work, but not bad for a prank that only took five seconds of planning.”

Sass dripped from Peter’s words, “Mhmm. Sooooo funny, May. That totally wasn’t cruel at all. If I didn’t know any better, I might even say that was borderline emotional abuse.”

“Oh hush, Peter. You know it’s all just jokes and love with me.”

Peter laughed at May and went around to the other side of the couch where he had dropped you on the floor. You were a deep sleeper, both a blessing and a curse in a city that actually got attacked by one of the big three every other week. Peter crouched down, lowering himself onto his hands and knees until he came face to face with you.

He set a hand on your back, shaking you gently. “Hey, sleepyhead. Do you wanna wake up? It’s almost lunchtime… I know how much you love lunch.”

Your eyes opened slowly and a smirk appeared on your lips, “Did you say ‘lunch’?”

You and Peter were getting ready to go out with May for a fun Sunday brunch-lunch. While he and May had inherited some money from Tony, they only let themselves spend it on Sundays. They decided they wanted to try out some weird and somewhat fancy French restaurant in Chelsea and invited you to go along with them. The only problem was that you forgot to pack an overnight bag and had nothing to change into.

“Uhhhh, Peter. You wouldn’t happen to have any extra clothes lying around that I could borrow? Maybe, just like for today? Pants and a shirt would work just fine, like literally anything.”

“I have to-uhhhh I have to check. Yeah. I have to check… Just give me a minute here.” Peter started pacing around his room, digging through piles of unfolded laundry. “Change of plans, I’m gonna check with May. I can’t seem to find anything nice.”

As Peter walked out of the room he placed his cell phone on his bedside table. A horrible idea flashed through your mind and before you could think it through, you already had Peter’s phone in your hands. You racked your brain trying to remember his passcode until you remembered what a fanboy he was. The passcode was 1999, the year The Phantom Menace came out. And while you didn’t agree that it was the best of the Star Wars movies, you let him think that you did.

You scrolled through Peter’s contacts, looking for Happy Hogan, but unfortunately, he had replaced everyone’s names with emojis. Basically, he had made it impossible for anyone other than him to access his contacts list. Remembering that the text app would let you search for keywords from old conversations, you typed in “Hi, Happy. It’s Peter.” knowing that there was an extremely high chance that Peter had sent his first text to Happy in that format. Just as you had suspected, one conversation appeared. The contact name had a smiling emoji followed by a little house and a wrestler. You clicked on the contact info and it displayed Happy’s phone number. Grabbing your own phone from your pocket, you copied down the number before exiting out of the text app and placing Peter’s phone exactly where it had been before.

You sat down on Peter’s bed, surrounded by his laundry, and waited for him to return. While you waited, you started drafting a message to Happy.

“Hey, Happy… it’s me, Peter’s girlfriend. I kinda need a favor so if you could maybe give me a call sometime that would be really great. Thanks!” It looked and sounded horrible, but frankly, it was the only thing you could come up with.

Four days later, Happy called you, and he wasn’t very happy about it.

“Okay, kid. What do you want? And make it quick because Pepper’s got me working way more than I get paid for.”

Despite your preparation, your anxiety got the best of you when you realized you would actually have to speak with Happy. “Oh, um hi Mr. Happy. So basically I need your help to surprise Peter–”

Happy interrupted you, “What? Why do you need my help?”

“Well, you see, Peter lost his uncle Ben’s luggage when he went to Europe, and Peter has a very strong emotional connection to the bag because Ben is dead. Oh gosh, that sounded really bad. But what I’m trying to say is that I need your help to recreate uncle Ben’s bag so I can surprise Peter for his birthday!”

“That’s it? You could’ve just texted me and I would already have the bag in production. Geez. I’ll see if I can find any photos of the bag in the Stark Database, but send me over what you have to speed things up, alright? Talk to ya later, kid.”

He had hung up before you could even thank him. His bluntness made sense considering he had a lot on his plate, grief included, so you decided to find as many photos of Ben’s luggage as you could to make his job easier. You texted May asking about the bag, saying that you were just curious, and omitted your secret. To your surprise, May actually had detailed photos of the bag from when Ben bought it to take on their honeymoon. You thanked her repeatedly and immediately sent the photos to Happy who merely replied with a thumbs-up emoji.

August tenth approached quickly and before you knew it, Peter’s birthday was there. Happy had someone drop off the replica at your apartment and you were suddenly very thankful that Peter was too busy to randomly swing by anymore. Whoever wrapped the suitcase made sure that it was very obviously a suitcase, they even wrapped the handle separately from the rest of the bag. Who even does that?

You hauled the luggage up the steep stairs leading up to your apartment, wondering why Peter would take such an inconvenient item with him. Then, it hit you again. First, he’s Spider-Man so the bag probably felt light as a feather to him. And second, emotions influence people into making weird decisions. You ran to unwrap it as soon as you shut your front door. Ripping off the thick brown paper, the luggage’s natural, and beautiful, navy blue shone through. You marveled at the leatherwork and the shiny “B.F.P.” embossed between the buckles. This bag was something you had seen time and time again at Peter’s apartment, yet it wasn’t until now that you realized just how beautiful it was.

After heading out to a local craft store to get some nicer wrapping paper and a real box, you returned home to wrap up Peter’s present. Despite your best efforts to not wrap his present up the same way as the idiot who wrapped it the first time, your wrapping job ended up looking minimally better. The only redeeming part was the wrapping paper. Unfortunately, you had mismeasured and just the handle did not fit into the box, sticking out ever so slightly and creating a noticeable lump in the wrapping paper. You brainstormed for nearly an hour, testing out a dozen different ideas before you realized what you needed, was a bow. You returned to the craft store, digging through bins of bows, ribbons, and yarns until you found a giant blue bow made of at least thirty thin ribbons. The finishing touch fixed all of your worries and made Peter’s present look like a really showy box, which was exactly what you were going for.

On the day of Peter’s birthday party, you had to drag his huge gift box across five blocks, through two line changes, and in the dark. Peter decided that since he was turning 17, though he would have been 22 if he hadn’t blipped, he deserved a “big boy” party, and apparently, that meant having a party at night time. By the time you arrived at Avenger’s Tower, where he said would “be the absolute best spot to have a birthday bash”, the bottom of the wrapping paper had gotten ripped off and only the cardboard remained. For a split second, you wished that you had kept the bag’s handle outside of the wrapping paper, but ultimately, you knew that wrapping it the way you did would make surprising Peter much more fun.

You took the elevator up to one of the top floors, accompanied by Ned and Bruce Banner. The entire ride up, not a single word was spoken, and the corny elevator music served only to intensify the awkwardness. The three of you rushed out when the doors opened, not even waiting for the elevator voice to finish telling you what floor you were on. Banner went straight to the sofa area where Thor and Valkyrie were talking. You and Ned, however, teamed up to look for Peter.

“So, uh, what’s in the box?” Ned pointed to the present you were dragging across the smooth tile.

“It’s just Peter’s present.”

“Well, yeah. I know that, but like,” Ned lowered his voice and covered his mouth, “what’s in it?”

“It’s a surprise, Ned. I can’t tell you because then you’ll just tell Peter and then it won’t be a surprise anymore.”

“Ooohhhh, gotcha. Gotcha. Surprise, huh? Are you sure you can’t tell me? I promise I won’t tell Peter.”

You looked at Ned, “I’m sure, Ned. Now help me figure out where to put this box, it’s kinda heavy and I don’t like lugging it around.”

Ned helped you with the box, carrying both his and your presents until you came across the present table. May was in charge of the table and took the presents gladly.

“Hi, May! Have you seen Peter around?” You asked her.

“Sorry kiddos, I haven’t seen him since Thor got here. Did you check the lounge area? That’s where Thor always hangs out so he might still be over there.”

Ned chimed in this time, “Nah, he’s not there. Mr. Thor was though. I’m sure we’ll find him later. Thanks, Ms. Parker!”

The two of you left May at the table, looking all over for Peter. Finally, you found him on the upper level of the room talking to Shuri. He waved at you and Ned to join him, motioning to the stairs to his left.

You started a conversation as you climbed the stairs, “Hey, Pete! Hey, Shuri! How are y’all doing?”

“Good! Hurry up or you’ll miss the fireworks,” Shuri urged you and Ned to hurry up.

Peter turned to Shuri and rolled his eyes, “Dude! You weren’t supposed to tell them, I wanted them to think it was a surprise, not that we planned it!”

Ned chimed in, “What? Did you want us to think you had a secret admirer? Because we all know that Flash is your only admirer.”

You high-fived Ned for his great comeback, though you couldn’t help but correct him. “Excuse me, but I like to consider myself the best Peter Parker admirer. Flash is only a Spidey admirer. There’s a difference!”

The four of you hung out on the balcony for the rest of the night, occasionally chatting with other Avengers or friends that happened to pass along. You could tell that Peter and Ned were missing MJ at the party, but her parents had decided to move to a more rural area immediately after the trip, making it near impossible for her to come to the party. Still, along with Shuri’s help, you were able to keep Ned and Peter happy and entertained until it was time for cake and presents.

Everyone gathered around the long, glass table with Peter sitting at the very front. You and Ned each stood on either side of him, while May stood immediately behind him. Barton walked into the room carrying a large, two-tiered cake that was decorated like Tony’s arc reactor. Peter had asked for it specifically, as one last tribute to Tony. Originally, Scott had offered to bake the cake, claiming that baking was one of the many talents he acquired while on house arrest. It turned out, that Scott only thought he was a good baker because he was the only one eating his treats and had grown accustomed to the bad tastes and textures. Luckily, May had asked Scott to bring her a sample a week before the party, so we still had enough time to ask Clint’s wife to help us instead.

Sam lit the seventeen candles on the cake quickly, only stopping when Bucky added an eighteenth candle for “good luck”. Leading the awkward celebration, Scott began singing “Happy Birthday”; the other Avengers followed awkwardly. Thor sang louder than everyone else despite not knowing the lyrics, and Shuri joined him. Barton, Fury, Hill, and Bucky all stood awkwardly while lipsyncing the words. You, May, Sam, Ned, Bruce, Hope, Happy, Pepper, Morgan, and Strange were the only ones singing normally, though normal was never a great descriptor for any of Peter’s “coworkers”. Peter blew out his candles shyly as the song came to a close and muttered “thank you” under his breath when he realized they hadn’t put trick candles on his cake this time.

Thor’s booming voice cut through the chatter, “Well, Midguardian, when can we see these gifts of yours? I am quite interested in knowing what marvels lie on that table.”

“Oh. Ummm. Sorry, Mr. Thor, I wasn’t really planning on opening those at the party. It was going to be more of a private thing… like just me.”

“Nonsense, young one! You should open them all here. In front of your friends! We will not judge if you receive odd gifts, why that only makes it more exciting!”

Peter looked anxiously between you, Ned, and Shuri, trying to see if any of you had gotten him embarrassing gifts that might require privacy. Ned and Shuri shook their heads reassuringly, and although your gift was not embarrassing, you weren’t sure it warranted an audience.

You leaned down to Peter’s ear and whispered to him, “My present isn’t really embarrassing or inappropriate or anything, but it’s a bit special. So, if you don’t mind, I’m gonna take it off the table and hide it so Thor doesn’t make you open it. Is that alright?”

Peter looked up at you, grabbing your hand, “Yeah, yeah, that’s fine. To be honest, I don’t feel like opening any of them in front of a crowd. But go do what you have to, I’ll keep him distracted for a minute.”

You thanked Peter and slipped away. As you were walking towards the gift table you heard Peter yelling something about cake, followed by Thor, Scott, and Sam cheering. Whatever it was, it was probably going to distract them for longer than you needed. You dug around looking for your box, finding it hidden under a dozen gift bags. Carefully, you moved each gift bag to the side until you could pull the box from the pile. You fixed the table, leaving it almost the same as you had found it, and looked around for a place to hide your present. Towards the end of the hallway, you found the perfect hiding spot beneath a wide leather chair. You hid the box and returned quickly to the party, hoping that no one noticed your absence.

After everyone had gone home, and May had fallen asleep on Thor’s favorite sofa, you finally gave Peter his present. He ripped the torn, dusty, and grimy wrapping paper away from the gift, pulling chunks of the cardboard box along with it.

The second he laid eyes on the dark blue leather and brown handle, he knew what you had gotten him. “Oh my… No way…”

Peter didn’t even wait to finish opening the present before pulling you into a warm embrace. He hugged you tightly and you felt a tear hit your back.

“I’m really hoping those are happy tears.”

Peter pulled back, placing his hands on your shoulders, “Definitely happy tears.”

“Good, because I really wasn’t planning on this being a sad moment.”

“How? W-How did you even get this? I thought I had lost it, or-or gotten it blown up! Oh my gosh… I-I still can’t believe this. Thank you so much! Really. Thank you.” Peter released his grip on your shoulders, moving his hands up slowly until they cupped your face. He looked solemnly into your eyes, waiting for a look of agreement, before kissing you softly.

“You’re welcome, Pete. But just so you know, it's just a replica. I'm not quite sure what happened to the real bag… you should thank Happy too, he helped me figure this all out.”

“I’ll definitely thank him later. But seriously, this might be one of the best gifts I’ve ever gotten.”

You smiled at his giddiness and joked, “I would hope so, I’m the one who gave it to you!”

“I don’t want to get all sappy, but thank you for not letting the darkness get to me. If it hadn’t been for your little pep-talk, I might still be letting that darkness eat at me, and I’m guessing that wouldn’t be great. I don’t want to make the same mistake twice. No matter how much bad there is down the line, I don’t ever wanna feel like that again. I love you so much, and I’m so thankful that you’re in my life. I mean it.”

“I know, and I love you too, I love you through the Blip and back.”

{can someone lmk if this story is any good? I’m having some doubts 😭}

#tom holland peter parker #peter parker #spiderman #spider man #MCU #marvel #avengers #cute peter parker #fanfiction #peter parker fanfiction #tom holland fanfiction #spider man fanfiction #the avengers #avengers fanfiction #wholesome

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never-dim-your-light · 3 years ago

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Fibonacci's Heart

Image credits to Laura Makabresku - original

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Fibonacci believed that patterns and sequences existed in all forms of nature. Basically, that everything was predetermined by the laws of a Golden Ratio or Divine Proportion. Well, His theory is used to a certain degree in modified form in some financial and trading analysis. But overall, his original concept and belief in his discovery is largely dismissed and seen as more of an abstract idea for a hypothetical problem regarding rabbits in 1202 AD Pisa, Italy. Regardless, In a world where religion is more doubted than ever - and cruelty abounds - I don't see a negative in accepting Fibonacci's Sequence and his Golden Ratio as fact.

"The ratio is always the same: 1 to 1.618 over and over and over again. The patterns are hidden in plain sight. You just have to know where to look. Things most people see as chaos, actually follow subtle laws of behaviour. Galaxies, plants, seashells – the patterns never lie, but only some of us can see how the pieces fit together. Seven billion, eighty-million, three hundred sixty-thousand of us live on this tiny planet. And few of us will be the ones that are able to really see these connections, what they mean, and what truly matters.There’s an ancient Chinese myth about the red thread of fate. It says that the gods have tied a red thread around every one of our ankles and attached it to all the people whose lives we are destined to touch. This thread may stretch or tangle, but it will never break. It’s said to have all been predetermined by mathematical probability.The ones whose lives need to connect. Today, we’ll send over 300 billion emails, 19 billion text messages, yet we’ll still feel alone. The average person will say 2,250 words to 7.4 other individuals. Will these words be used to hurt or to heal?"

When I was young, I drew little hearts on everything. As I grew older, I discovered a very large part of my reality lacked any real, & compassionate human hearts. Maybe, we secretly draw these hearts in our youth, to make up the difference for the ones we never really discover in our lifetime. The ones we want to see in others, but cannot, or do not. Ancient Egyptians believed, the only way to enter the after life was to answer a series of questions correctly& honestly. As well as to have a heart no heavier than that of a feather. A metaphor? Quite possibly. But intriguing all the same. Every culture has its traditions & rites of life & death. I strongly believe in cremation. I read somewhere, that the temperature at which a body will burn, is not enough. Because the Human Heart, with all of it’s muscle, will remain. Therefore, the temperature of cremation is determined by the Human Heart. Finally, Yet again, After all of the rituals of death are over, I read something I never would have even thought about before.…… Although the Kingdom Of Joy is guarded from all evil by red doors, keeping bad spirits OUT… It also traps all of the good spirits IN… Therefore: A Red Door That Stays Forever Closed, Is Worse Than Having No Door At All…

-my rendition of a series of stories which I could never attribute to any clear source

#text post #renditionofanoldfable #fibonnaci #fibonnacisheart #laura makabresku photography #creditinphotocaption #Alwayscredityourphotographer #red door #ancientegyptian #human hearts

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homeformyheart · 4 years ago

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cottage by the sea - adam du mortain x f!detective (twc)

author’s note: this is an AU featuring my A-mancing detective in old age, after choosing not to be turned. i hope you enjoy, and i’m sorry in advance for the really deep feels and potential tears.

copyright: all characters, except my oc detective, are owned by mishka jenkins @seraphinitegames. series/pairing: the wayhaven chronicles – adam du mortain x f!detective (regina bishop) rating/warnings: 16+; grief, sadness word count: 2.4k summary: regina makes adam promise he’ll watch over their family even after she’s gone and he keeps that promise.

cottage by the sea

adam looked over at his wife’s sleeping form, the bright moonlight casting a shadow over his body and enveloping hers in darkness. he closed his eyes and listened for her heartbeat, steady and slow… very slow these days.

regina mumbled something incoherent in her sleep before rolling onto her back. for a nanosecond, adam thought she might have woken up, offering him a chance to look into her beautiful eyes. it’s been a long time since he realized that just one glance from her with those soulful eyes set his heart thumping just a little faster.

when they started their relationship decades ago, he told himself every day that he could come to terms with her mortality as long as he didn’t take her for granted. that he cherished every moment he had with her, and made sure that she knew she was loved wholly and fully by him. so that he could look into the eyes of the love of his life each day.

despite her old human age, regina’s eyes sparkled with mischief and a softness that stole his breath. even though her movements were slow and her mind wasn’t as sharp as it used to be, her clear blue eyes spoke volumes for her. it was his favorite feature of hers, and the one that he missed most often when they weren’t together.

20 years ago

adam looked over regina’s shoulder at their bundled up grandchild, who was sleeping soundly as she gently rocked him. he felt her heart flutter and knew his was doing the same. never in his wildest dreams did he ever think he would get to hold his grandchild.

“he’s so beautiful,” she whispered, her cheeks pulled back in an ear-to-ear smile.

“just like you, my love,” he murmured back, leaning in to give her a soft kiss against her temple.

regina looked at him with a softness to her gaze and adam was grateful that he didn’t really need to breathe. even after all these years, she still took his breath away.

it was short lived, however, as a wistfulness replaced the affection from before. “i’ve been meaning to talk to you about us,” she said slowly, moving to lower their grandchild back in his crib.

adam felt his stomach clench as he followed her into their bedroom. he was sure he wasn’t going to enjoy this conversation, something about regina’s tone felt… foreboding, even though her heartbeat was calm.

she sat down on the bed and patted the spot next to her. adam fought the urge to insist on standing, which was his default stance in the face of danger or uncertainty and sat down on the bed. regina grabbed his hand and held it between both of hers before looking up at him.

“i know you promised you would wait until i was ready to talk about it and that you would respect my decision,” she started hesitantly. the furrow in her brow told adam that this was a heavy topic that had been weighing on her, and his heart sank.

she looked up at him with a smile, but her eyes wavered with sorrow. “i don’t want to be turned adam. i want to live out my human life.”

adam felt a sob lodge in his throat. he swallowed a few times, trying to will the emotions that were threatening to spill back down into his stomach.

“are you sure?” he asked, his tone even despite the fear he was sure she could see in his eyes. she was always really good at that. he lifted a hand to cup her cheek.

regina leaned into his palm and closed her eyes. “i’m sure. adam, i… don’t want you to have to see me old and gray,” she said quietly. she took a deep breath before continuing, “i also don’t want you to have to watch me die.” regina kept her eyes closed. if she looked into his, her resolve would waver.

adam could only stare at her incredulously. how could she even think that he wouldn’t want to be by her side every moment he could? a lifetime ago he may have agreed that distance would make things easier and he would’ve been more inclined to agree with her. but not anymore.

there was a part of him that had always known, deep-down, that regina would refuse to be turned. she felt being human was a part of her identity she didn’t want to lose and felt that it was her humanity that brought her and adam together.

but he never considered a scenario where he wouldn’t live out the rest of her days by her side.

“no.” his tone was firm and unyielding.

to his surprise, regina smirked. “you can’t order me around anymore, commanding agent du mortain.”

adam felt his gaze soften. “no,” he repeated, this time his voice was gentler but hoarse from holding back the lump in his throat. “i will not leave you. i… don’t think i can bear to live without you.”

“oh adam,” regina said softly, leaning in to rest her forehead on his. “i don’t want to leave you either. but i need you to live on.”

“it would break me,” he admitted, letting out a heavy sigh.

regina pulled her head back and gently cupped his face in her hands, tilting his head up so he was looking at her. “promise me then. promise me you’ll continue on and watch over our family.”

she felt adam’s head move slightly back in surprise and his eyebrows rise. she held him firmly in place, the resolve in her eyes burning an image forever into his memory. “you’ll get to see our family line grow - our great great great grandchildren will get to know you and me and our story. the du mortain line will live on. promise me, adam.”

adam was stunned. “i… i don’t know if i can do that. our family will continue to have each other. for me, there is only you.”

regina smiled. “that’s where you’re wrong, agent. a part of me is in every single member of our family – including unit bravo and they need you more than you’re willing to admit. you’ll see me in them, if you choose to do so, on days when it’s a little easier to live with my memory. just know that i’ll always be with you.”

he was silent. regina knew he was processing; the emotional weight of her request and the implications were not lost on her, but adam probably felt it more deeply. having already lived almost a millennium, it wouldn’t be difficult for him to envision what another millennium would be like without her.

after a few, quiet minutes, she added a gentle pressure from her palm to nudge him into responding. “promise me, adam. that’s an order,” she said gently, with a hint of playfulness.

adam let out a heavy, weary sigh. “alright, i promise.”

every year, every birthday, was equal parts agony and bliss for adam. sharing every part of him with the love of his eternal life and sharing in every part of her mortal one year after year brought him so much joy that he wondered if any of it was being amplified by his hypersenses. he never knew feeling this much joy was even possible.

but it also made him wonder if the unavoidable pain he’d feel after she was gone would also be magnified, hypersenses or not. if the loss of joy would shatter him to pieces. as he watched regina’s body go through the physical changes that came with being human, he counted each one. each new wrinkle, especially around her eyes and smile. each new gray hair, especially after she stopped dying it. each kiss, caress, and laugh. even the tears, although they became few and far between as they got older, because he wanted to memorize every part of their life together.

and of course, every single moment. the mornings he got to wake up by her side. the nights they got to cuddle in silence. the afternoons curled up on the deck looking at the ocean waves, holding hands while balancing a book or a glass of wine in the other. the one thing they had agreed on early in their relationship was that they wanted to build a cozy little home by the sea. he loved feeling as though they had reserved a little corner of the world, just for them.

he kept these to himself, of course, branded deep into his soul so he’d never forget. each night he’d hold her until she fell asleep, and he’d close his eyes and count. once he was sure his count was up-to-date and after regina had fallen asleep, he’d go back to work for a few hours. it was a comfortable routine, one that he hoped would help him after she was gone.

tonight though, adam couldn’t bring himself to leave even though he was supposed to check in at the facility. as he listened to her quiet breathing and soft heartbeats, he knew being late would be worth it. she had fallen asleep earlier than usual tonight, exhausted from spending the day sitting out in front of the house and looking out at the ocean. it took a lot of effort for her to move about these days, especially since she still stubbornly refused to let him carry her everywhere.

he tucked her in and held her until she fell asleep, like he did every night he could, and closed his eyes next to her so he could resume his counting. 20 years feels very different while counting memories in the hundreds of thousands and millions.

adam had just finished counting when he felt it. felt her heart grow quieter and quieter until it was silent. his eyes flew open and he sat up in the bed, leaning over her still body. his heartbeat was pounding in his ears and he willed it to calm down so he could listen for hers. nothing. he reached out and shook her gently as a lump lodged in his throat.

please, regina, open your eyes. let me see your eyes just one more time, my love, he thought, gently lifting and cradling her body against his chest.

“please,” adam whispered as he kissed her, closing his eyes and trying to ingrain the softness and scent of her into his memory.

his heart knew that she was physically gone but he continued to rock her body back and forth in his arms. he kissed her forehead and for the first time in a millennium, wept openly.

* * * * * they all mourned. unit bravo, all of adam’s children and grandchildren, and seemingly half the agency came out in droves for the wake. it took every ounce of willpower, over 900 years’ worth, for adam to remain collected in front of everyone. he just kept hearing regina’s voice in his head, gently telling him, “take care of them and yourself, and you’ll be taking care of me, too.” and he was nothing if not a man of his word.

the renovated farris warehouse had been beautifully decorated in her favorite flowers for the wake. it was the only space in town big enough for all the people that wanted to pay their respects. regina’s dedication to the agency and protection of both humans and supernaturals made her a beloved colleague, much like her mother before her. they had to hold two separate wakes, one for the humans of wayhaven, and one for those that were part of the supernatural world. he was grateful that he wouldn’t have to interact with the wayhaven townsfolk, but he still could only take so many condolences and empty statements of comfort from people he didn’t really know.

thankfully, the funeral and burial itself was kept small and private. it was just unit bravo and his grown children in a quiet ceremony before they watched their favorite person be buried next to her parents in the bishop family plot.

adam visited her grave every day, with stargazer lilies, her favorite flowers in hand. sometimes he went alone and other times at least one member of unit bravo would join him. some days he would talk to her, tell her how their children and grandchildren were doing, including unit bravo. other days he would leave the flowers and walk away immediately, not wanting to dwell in the emotions that threatened to break him.

he kept himself busy and asked the agency for as many cases and missions that they would be willing to assign to unit bravo. he was grateful that his team didn’t complain; they understood why they weren’t taking breaks between missions. they all welcomed the distraction from thinking about regina. the years passed this way, never dulling the ache in his heart but still giving him purpose to move forward, if only to keep his promise.

and keep his promise, he did. adam was not going to let her down.

he watched over their family as it continued to grow in number, a new generation of children eventually helping him overcome the loss of the generation before them before the cycle continued. he learned about what they did in the world and documented it, starting a new family tree with him and regina at the top. nate helped craft narratives and stories of his descendants’ lives in a scrapbook of sorts, doing so without saying anything after noticing adam struggle one day to write anything besides bulleted facts down on a piece of paper.

every generation in his family was different, yet similar in some respects. some turned away from him once they found out that he was a vampire, others were either unfazed or excited. sometimes things changed as they got older and saw how he didn’t age one bit. watching his descendants die before him never got any easier.

but watching them learn and grow and thrive was worth all of the pain and heartache. he would smile to himself when he realized in those moments that regina had been right. taking care of their family would help him continue to live. and he had his team right beside him too.

the du mortain line didn’t just rise again, it flourished.

* * * * * permatag: @kelseaaa; @kat-tia801; @anotherbeingsworld; @crackerdumortain; @pearlsandsteel; @gloynporslen; @writer-ish; @sosolenoo; @alyssalauren; @fhauvilles; @wayhavenots; @gingerbreton; @takemyopenheart;

#twc fic #twc #the wayhaven chronicles #adam du mortain #adam x detective #detective regina bishop #my writing #my detective #twc adam #twc fanfic #twc fanfiction #not choices #long fic #adam du mortain x detective #my twc fics #adam x regina #adam du mortain x regina bishop

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