#I imagine there's a certain amount of risk assessment | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

luckyladylily · 3 months ago

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Given how often there are cases where the needs of disabled people are completely overlooked by wider society, sometimes to a maliciously negligent degree, even by other disabled people who should know better, and these disabled people are assured things are perfectly safe with robust explanations of why, only to have someone die because somewhere along the lines someone didn't follow all best practices, and even then it isn't enough for people to actually take the issue seriously. I actually think it's very reasonable for people to have serious concerns when you tell them all their food should be grown next to super poison.

Ok, this post is going to shift tones dramatically. With how confident OP was I was pretty sure they had done their homework, but I actually just went and looked up what OP originally said about it being safe and I was expecting a proper study performed by someone qualified and, uh "As long as the harvesting is done carefully, I cannot see this being a problem" said by someone who isn't an expert in cross contamination is not a sentence that instills great confidence. You might call it the biggest of red flags. In theory a whole lot of things shouldn't be problems if they are done correctly. In practicality lots of people die. Regulations are written in blood and I don't believe for a second that without this being regulated to hell and back that it would be "done carefully".

I spent about 15 minutes looking for a paper or study on poly culture cross contamination, not just of this setup but any setup, and I couldn't find one that addresses the issue. I mean maybe they exist somewhere I don't know where to look but again this does not instill confidence. Honesty having hunted it down I am far less confident this problem is likely already solved than when I started this post.

I am gonna be real, if my daughter had a nut allergy the vague assertion that it should be fine if people are careful would probably have me in a rage. I enjoy an amount of disconnect from this particular issue, but my daughter is disabled and people have this kind of attitude towards her disabilities and accommodation needs all the time and it is infuriating how little regard for the life of my child people have. People will not be careful. People barely even care when the child is right in front of them, when it costs them nothing. In an industrial setting where being careful impacts the bottom line? People will not be careful unless they are forced to be.

If I relied on the good sense of other people my child would have been seriously injured or dead a few times over already. I can't imagine what it is like having a kid with a deadly allergy and being forced to rely on the proper care of strangers to deal with dangers you can't even see. It's gonna take more than "should be safe if people are careful."

I'm not saying we shouldn't use polycultures. My initial reaction was "wow this is awesome, we should do this more, if not always." But I'm not someone with these kinds of concerns and they are legitimate concerns, so now I'm saying that it is entirely reasonable for a historically maligned and neglected part of the population to maybe be a bit loud and annoying because being polite gets them ignored and killed.

And, frankly, these concerns have not been addressed, but instead dismissed for insufficient reasons. I know this was not done maliciously so I am trying to keep an even tone here, but there is a certain standard of protection when it comes to potential risks to the lives of disabled individuals, and that standard involves professional assessment and often legislated solutions.

Now, because I know this was not malicious but out of frustration and I fully understand, this is how concerns like this need to be addressed: "I don't have a sufficient answer. I think it should be possible because of [reasons], but I don't know of a study performed by experts. One may exist, I do not know where to find it." (the highlighted part is the key) Or simply say nothing at all - you should not feel obligated to address every concern, you are just a blogger sharing something cool. But if you can't address the concern properly, do not attempt to address it. Because addressing a concern improperly is actually dismissing it.

And this does not even get into other potential issues that are not so clean cut and devoid of danger, as Vaspider has pointed out.

I swear if one more person comments on the poly culture post about interplanting wheat and walnuts with allergy handwringing or, worse, Loud and Confident wildly incorrect assertions, Without reading the comments where I clarify that this is not a reasonable danger, I am going to climb a tree and throw green walnuts at them:

They are heavy and fist-sized.

The proteins that cause allergic reactions to tree nuts are in the kernal.

It is not a difficult mechanical process to screen out fist-sized objects from wheat.

Further, wheat is harvested in June or July (winter wheat) or in August (spring wheat)

Walnuts are harvested from September through November.

There is functionally no danger of cross contamination.

Stop it.

#this turned into a rant and I apologize

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hxseok-honee · 3 years ago

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blossom || part 20

blossom [part 20] || "Closure..."

[‘cause all i need is to see you blossom out, blossom out, blossom out]

previous || masterlist || next

a/n : welcome to another 'is this a hobi chapter or is this a yoongi chapter' chapter!!!

taglist [open] :

@deepseavibez @thetrueghostqueen @reddeathraven @dingzerenistall @skyrro @unadulteratedlyunique @ramyagovindraj @itismochirice @wwhseokjin @drpepperobsessed @monamone @thekookiecorner @army-moa75 @burningupp-replies @lele-bb @pb-n-juju @red-kebab @heonsbebe @peachyyoongs @superloverpielamp @marifujioka @butterflylion @heyitsgigi @lochness-butmakeitsexy @miki-chi @cahowlkook @worshiphoseok @lilacdreams-00 @bongsbeforebibles @miriamxsworld @oasiswithmyg @calling-dips-on-j-hope @taeshuworld @x-xjaeminx-x @missmadwoman @somelazysundays @evan-rose @ary002 @unicornbabylover @dr-bitch-bby @squirrelandcrafts @bobrouxsky @peonyplace

When Y/n leaves Gryffindor common room, her bottom lip is quivering. She’s not sure why, and she’s definitely not sure what to do about it. So she just walks. She doesn’t make the active choice to head in a certain direction, but before she knows it she’s heading downstairs toward the kitchens — she only realizes that she’d been walking to Hoseok when she turns the corner toward Hufflepuff common room and finds him there, sitting in the corridor, exactly where he said he’d be.

He looks up when he hears her shoes on the cement, his face lighting up when he sees that it’s her.

“Y/n! I was wondering if you were gonna come find me. That’s actually the reason I told you where I was-- wait, what’s wrong?” The excited rambling dies in his throat when he looks up at her properly and sees her face -- the loss in her eyes, the way she’s pursing her lips to stop them from shaking. She looks so unbelievably sad, but it clearly hasn’t registered in her own mind that she is, because she’s looking at him in confusion now.

“What do you mean?” Assessing the situation in the split-second way only someone as observant as him could, Hoseok pats the ground beside him, deciding not to be so up-front about his concerns. She settles onto the cold ground, scooting in close to press her side against his, seeking warmth. He says nothing about it, but he’s grateful -- it gets cold in the corridors in winter, and he likes the feelings she gives him when she’s close more than he’d care to admit.

“Did something happen today?” He asks while he’s looping a flower through the twine and taping it down, the same one he’d been working on when she’d arrived. When she doesn’t respond right away, he glances over at her, taking in the faraway look in her eyes -- and then he leaves her be. She’ll tell him when she’s ready.

“I talked to Jungkook tonight… we just finished talking, actually.” Hoseok isn’t sure why he’s tensing -- whether it’s because he’s worried about how she’s doing or whether Jungkook had said something to upset her. Or maybe it’s because of the little irrational voice in the back of his head telling him that somehow, Jungkook had convinced her to get back together with him. The idea of that makes him vaguely nauseous, but he does his best not to show it when he responds.

“Oh… How did it go?” He can see her nodding slowly out of the corner of his eye, meaning that it went well.

“He apologized. Said he would leave me alone and do his best to work on himself before trying to be my friend again… I guess he really wants to do things the right way this time… So that’s good…” Hoseok doesn’t say anything, staring at the ground in front of them as he waits for something else from her, any indication of how she’s feeling because all she’s done so far is give an objective retelling of the conversation. But she doesn’t speak again, so he turns to her slowly, suddenly apprehensive.

“Are you okay?” Blinking rapidly until she’s able to focus on Hoseok again, she nods, turning to him with a small smile.

“I’m okay, Hobi… relieved… sad… but okay.” He feels glad that she trusts him enough to tell him that she’s upset, but he’s not sure how to help. So he sets the unfinished flower crown on the floor in front of him, reaching over and pulling her hand into his lap so he can interlock his fingers with hers. He doesn’t say anything -- he’s not sure why she’s sad, but he knows there has to be a really good reason for her to not be overwhelmed by the happiness of finally having gotten the closure she needed--

“Closure…” He whispers to himself, realizing with a small shake of his head that he’d taken too long to put it together. Y/n looks up at him from where she’s just rested her head on his shoulder, wondering where his thoughts have gone. He squeezes her hand, meeting her eyes with a small smile. “It’s the closure… isn’t it?”

Y/n frowns, unsure what he’s getting at. And then she thinks about it -- the amount of time she’d spent being annoyed with Jungkook for not letting her have exactly that. The summer spent crying over him and then deciding that she needed to be over him by the time school started again, never giving herself a chance to reach her own form of acceptance. Closure’s exactly what she’d needed this whole time, and months later, she’s got it at last. But for some reason, knowing that she and Jungkook are finally done -- knowing that now they needed to work on their friendship more than anything — it brings her a sense of incredible loss, like finally tossing the key to the door she’d locked up so long ago and moving on from it for good.

She eventually nods, laying her head against Hoseok’s shoulder again. She doesn’t want to say more, still trying to work through her own emotions, but she knows he won’t mind -- he’s always known what she needs without her saying it aloud. But she wants to make sure he knows that she’s fully aware of him, that he’s not just the boy she runs to when she’s an emotional wreck. Because it’s starting to worry her, and she would hate for him to think that about their relationship.

Hoseok seems like a really good guy. I hope he makes you happy.

The memory of Jungkook’s text shakes her, and her stomach’s alight with nerves when she realizes that, yeah, Hoseok does make her happy. Even when he thinks he’s not doing anything at all, he’s making her happier than she’d felt in a long time. He makes her happy even when she doesn’t realize that happy’s the one thing she’s been longing for.

“Thank you, Hobi. I don’t know what I’d do without you…” Hoseok stills when she whispers it, never lifting her head from his shoulder. He almost feels like he imagined it. But she’s pulling away from him now, craning her neck so she can find his eyes. He turns to her, too, eyes wide and a breathless laugh of disbelief leaving him.

“But I didn’t do anything…” She smiles then, having known he’d say that.

“You’re perfect as you are. Right next to me like this.” It makes her nervous, saying something like that to his face, but she means it. Because Jung Hoseok never believes he’s enough, even if he hides it well. And she needs him to know that he’s not just enough -- he’s perfect. To her, he’s perfect.

Apparently, saying it so blatantly like that has sent a shock through him, because his eyes are blown wide and his mouth is hanging slightly open. She thinks maybe she’s gone too far, but she can also see that his ears are turning red the longer he looks at her, his cheeks coloring in the same way soon after.

“I-- no one’s ever…” He trails off, nowhere near done with his thought but unable to get the rest of the words out. No one’s ever thought of me as important. The way Y/n’s looking at him, he knows that she’s aware of where his thoughts had gone, that she can see him even when he’s hiding. It’s scary, being vulnerable to someone the way he is right now. But he can’t say he would have it any other way, not if it’s her that’s seeing right through him.

“Y/n… I think… I think I--” I think I have feelings for you. It should have been so easy to say -- he almost has all the words out, he just has to finish saying them. But he can’t. Because he’d already told her the kiss had meant nothing. He’d already told her they could keep going as they are now. That nothing had to change. Because he hadn’t wanted to take advantage of their friendship, not when things between her and her ex were so precarious. He’d been too happy beside her like he is now, and he hadn’t been willing to risk it. But now he wishes he had. And he has no idea, but she wishes he had, too.

Before he can gather the courage to start again -- to say it again, clearly this time -- her phone is buzzing, Yoongi’s face and contact lighting up the screen when she pulls it out of her pocket. Hoseok swallows whatever awkward confession he’d been about to make, watching as Y/n frowns at her phone.

She’d texted him over an hour ago, and when he hadn’t responded right away, she’d just assumed he was in the midst of his usual nighttime business -- there’s no way he could already be done. It’s not even 11pm yet. Lifting the phone to her ear, she answers with confusion.

“Hello?”

“Where are you?” Yoongi’s voice is calm, and she can tell he’s aiming to keep it that way, but his breathlessness is coming through the speaker against his will.

“Uh… by Hufflepuff -- why?” She hears him sigh, a huff of irritation that’s somehow also him trying to catch his breath.

“Fuck, I came all the way to Gryffindor Tower for nothing? So many fucking stairs--” He cuts off again, and she can hear his feet hitting the ground in quick succession, so she knows he’s running. He keeps talking, but it’s mostly to himself. “Fucking magical moving staircase, never where I need it when I need it most-- your text was really vague. You good?” Y/n blinks, not having expected to be addressed so suddenly.

“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m fine--”

“Liar.” Y/n scoffs, not appreciating his tone.

“Then why ask if you already know, hm?” He chuckles deeply, knowing he’s pissed her off.

“I always like to check if you’ll be honest with me when I ask. You never are.”

“Then stop asking!” Hoseok looks to her then, eyebrows hiding behind his fringe as he watches her expression turn to empty rage. She’s annoyed, but it doesn’t seem like it’ll last. In fact, it’s already gone, because at the end of the corridor, Yoongi’s rounding the corner, phone pressed against his ear as he locates her, sitting there on the ground with Hoseok. When she sees him, her face becomes one of surprise, and she’s lowering her phone when he does, sliding the device into his pocket as he approaches them.

He’s only half-dressed, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, his sneakers completely untied, the shoelaces dragging across the floor while he walks. How did he not trip on his way here, Hoseok wonders, because that is really an impressive feat in a school as big as Hogwarts. But there are a few things that catch his eye while Yoongi flops down on the ground in front of them and levels Y/n with a hard stare when he finally settles into his spot.

“Why are you guys out here on the cold ass floor?”

“Hobi’s doing flower crowns.”

“That didn’t even come close to answering my question.”

Hoseok doesn’t react to the conversation he’s clearly now a part of, too distracted as his eyes roam the shirtless boy’s form curiously. Because there on Yoongi’s left ribcage is Y/n’s name — not the full thing, just her given name, scribbled in black ink across the expanse of his ribs. Right under his heart. Simple and to the point, much like everything uncomplicated about Min Yoongi, Hoseok’s coming to realize. It’s interesting to him that Yoongi has Y/n’s name tattooed on his body, mostly because he’s wondering how many of Yoongi’s ‘late night visitors’ would have had a problem with it -- just how many times Yoongi’s had to make it clear that he doesn’t care what they think.

The other thing to catch Hoseok’s eye is the necklace that Yoongi wears, a thin silver chain with a simple charm, a black star that sits comfortably between his collarbones. It’s something that otherwise would never have gotten Hoseok’s attention, but he’s seen it before. In fact, he knows that if he’d just turn his head, he’d see its double peeking out from beneath Y/n’s sweater. He thinks that if their bond is this tight, he wouldn’t be surprised to find that Y/n has Yoongi’s name tattooed somewhere on her body, too. It’s a curious thing, their relationship, but he’d said it that day in the forest with her, and he’d meant it. He’s grateful for Yoongi, because he would never have met this version of Y/n without him.

“--checking me out right now, I just know it.”

“He’s not checking you out, dumbass.” Hoseok blinks, coming back to reality at the sound of Y/n’s voice, clear as day. When he looks up from Yoongi’s chest, he finds the boy smirking at him, an eyebrow raised in amusement.

“If you’re interested, I am very free tomorrow night.” Hoseok makes a noise of surprise, eyes wide, before he realizes that he’d just been looking Yoongi up and down for at least a full minute. Immediately he’s flushing red because Yoongi’s just propositioned him over a misunderstanding, and the Slytherin is now chuckling at how flustered he is, shaking his head with a sigh.

“Actually, I’m not so sure Y/n would be okay with that -- sorry, Flower Boy. Maybe in another life, when Best Friend Rule 32 doesn’t exist.” Hoseok has no idea what any of the words Yoongi’s just said means, so he’s shaking his head and looking to Y/n for help. She smiles, laying a hand on his shoulder in understanding.

“You’ll have to forgive him -- he reached his sexual awakening way too young in life and now his internal wiring’s a little wonky.” She says it with sarcastic pity, and Yoongi only rolls his eyes before standing.

“Well, I’d love to sit here all night freezing my balls off, but that sounds like something I would definitely not love to do. You gonna be alright here, man? You’re welcome to use Slytherin common room for your flowering if you want.” Hoseok had guessed when Yoongi arrived that he’d come to pick up Y/n, but he hadn’t been expecting the Slytherin to do much more than bid him goodnight. Although warmed by the kindness that Yoongi probably doesn’t even think twice about, he shakes his head with a smile anyway.

“I’m good! I’m just gonna finish this crown and then go to bed — hopefully the party’s dying down a little.” He gestures toward the door to his common room innocently, like he can’t hear the music still blaring loudly even from here. Yoongi raises an eyebrow but nods, reaching out and lifting Y/n to her feet when she takes his hand. He doesn’t let her go, only leading her slowly down the corridor as she turns back to Hoseok.

“Let me know if you get too cold! And make sure you get inside soon, it’s late and you might get sick, and—“

“Oh my God, let the boy live his life, Y/n — you’re not his mom!” Hoseok chuckles when they round the corner, the sounds of their bickering fading into the night.

“Weren’t you busy? You’re impossible to get to after the sun goes down, especially when we first get back to school and you have ‘lost time to make up for’ or whatever your crazy logic is.” Yoongi shakes his head with a snicker, pulling her into his bedroom and shutting the door behind them. Jin’s not back yet, and Y/n turns to Yoongi in confusion. He only shrugs.

“Probably with Jimin.” He says nothing more, gesturing to his bed while he slips his shoes off. She does the same, climbing onto the mattress and scooting over to give him room. He’s not telling her something, so she pries because that’s what they do — nothing goes unsaid between them.

“So if you weren’t sleeping with someone…” Yoongi sighs as he turns the light off, making his way to her in the dark.

“I was with Jimin, but we weren’t fucking. My phone died — that’s why I didn’t see your text until I was getting ready for bed, waiting for it to charge.” That explains his state of undress, but it doesn’t explain literally anything else.

“What happened with Jimin? Did you get into a fight or something?” She hears Yoongi snort beside her, and he wiggles an arm under her head so he can be more comfortable.

“Actually, yeah.” Y/n sits up right away, and Yoongi sighs, thinking about how much time he’d just wasted getting his arm under her neck.

“What happened?!” Reaching out, he takes hold of her upper arm, pulling her back down onto the bed.

“Calm down, dork. Nothing’s gonna happen to our group.” She had actually been worried about Yoongi himself, but now that he mentions it, she’s starting to stress about the group dynamic again. Of course something would happen as soon as she and Jungkook resolve their issues.

“He said he didn’t want me coming around just to fuck anymore — that he wasn’t going to be ‘one of many’, whatever that means…” She can see him now that she’s so close to his face, so she catches the way he rolls his eyes in frustration and holds back another sigh. He’s obviously worked up over this, regardless of how he acts.

“But you haven’t been sleeping with anyone else since the first time you slept with Jimin… right?” He’d never actually told her that, and she hadn’t wanted to say anything, but she’d picked up on his behavior since getting back to school — he’d started avoiding making eye contact with people he sleeps with regularly, ignoring texts from numbers he hasn’t saved. It’s all very unlike the Yoongi she knows, so it must be because he’s changing. And it’s confirmed so easily, when he looks into her eyes for a long moment, finally giving an almost imperceptible nod, one that she only picks up on because he’s breaking eye contact, embarrassed.

“Yeah… it’s just Jimin…” She tries so hard to hide her smile, but she fails — this is the first time Yoongi’s ever slept with only one person consistently, if sleeping with Jimin twice could be considered ‘consistent’. She can’t help that she’s a little proud of him.

When he sees the edges of her lips turning up, he rolls his eyes, grabbing her shoulder and pushing her away from him until she’s facing the other direction.

“Enough about me. What happened with Jungkook? Did he apologize or do I have to put him in the Hospital Wing?” She turns back around to face him, smiling when he rolls his eyes again, a habit when they’re together.

“He apologized. Said he would work on himself. That he doesn’t want to lose me or the group.” She keeps it short, gives him the cliffnotes because she knows he’ll fill in the gaps himself. And he does, nodding slowly as he looks her over.

“Relieved because you’re free of his demonic badgering — sad because you actually have to cut the cord with him this time?” She purses her lips, finding it interesting that both Hoseok and Yoongi had reached the same conclusion but had delivered their findings in comically different ways. Nodding, she reaches out to play with his piercings while she thinks, fiddling with the rings on his ear just as she has nearly every day since he’d gotten the double helix.

“I’m just happy that things are finally looking up… but yeah, it hurts a little to let go for good. But I’m okay, I promise.” He nods, the piercings slipping from her fingers. She drops her hand to his shoulder with a small sigh, waiting for his response.

“I know you’re okay — you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.” Suddenly overcome with emotion, Y/n finds herself frowning deeply, her bottom lip starting to quiver just as it had when she’d left Gryffindor. Yoongi sees it, changing the conversation before the waterworks can start.

“Okay, so we talked about Jungkook. Now let’s talk about Hoseok.” Y/n rolls her eyes, shoving at his shoulder this time and forcing him to turn onto his other side.

“Goodnight, Yoongi.”

“I’m just saying, if you’re not going to cuff that man, let me know. Because he really was giving me ‘the eyes’ earlier, if you catch my drift—“

“Goodnight, Yoongi.”

#bts au #bts smau #bts social media au #bts hogwarts au #jung hoseok #hoseok x reader

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thewayshedreamed · 4 years ago

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Death Dance

Thank you for the prompt submission, Nonnie! I really liked this one.

Prompt: Can u write a Nessian fic involving Cassian seeing Nesta with her hair down for the first time? 🙏

A/N: This starts with an excerpt from A Court of Wings and Ruin, page 408. That scene was my inspiration for this prompt <3

acotar masterlist

——————————————————————————

Cassian had been born for this—these fields, this chaos and brutality and calculation.

He didn’t stop moving, seemed to know where every opponent fought both ahead and behind, seemed to breathe in the flow of the battle around him. He even let his Siphons’ shield drop—to get close, to feel the impact of the arrows that he took in that ebony shield. If he slammed that shield into a soldier, his other arm was already swinging his sword at the next opponent.

I’d never seen anything like it—the skill and precision. It was like a dance.

I must have said it aloud because Mor replied, “For him, that’s what battle is. A symphony.”

Her eyes did not stray from Cassian’s death-dance.

------

“STOP!” Cassian bellowed.

At his instruction, the clashes of steel ceased. Two flaps of his grand wings, and he was airborne, traveling the 100 or so yards to where Nesta stood. He landed firmly on the ground in front of her, sending vibrations through the earth beneath her feet. His brow was furrowed, nostrils flared, and his shoulders were tense as he assessed her.

“Problem, Commander?” she asked him dryly.

He huffed a breath through his nose, squaring his shoulders for the verbal sparring that he knew was coming.

“Nesta, who was your target?” he demanded.

“Cassian, I don’t understand the problem. You have trained me for battle, shaped my skills into what they are. Now, you scold me for employing them?”

It was true. The General Commander had started training her all those months ago, refining her physical competencies in battle as well as her strategy. Although resistant to his help when they originally arrived in Illyria, Nesta had been a talented pupil, her skills increasing at an exponential rate. Her wit and propensity for strategy served her well, and her mental tenacity helped fuel her progress through her lessons in technique.

Today was a day of group trainings, including battle drills designed to expose the legions to various strategies and threats alike. Nesta woke with an excitement on drill days, the opportunity to practice her skills pulling her from her bed earlier than any other day. She came alive in combat scenarios, as they allowed her to employ her newly honed skills without giving her the time to ruminate too much over which strategies to utilize. Only times of crisis were strong enough to compete with the brutality of her thoughts.

Additionally, she felt a compulsion to never find herself in another situation like the war with Hybern.

“Your skills are fine, and you know it. But you aren’t alone, Nesta.” His wings twitched, exposing his irritation. His voice was all rasp and intense focus; nothing of the pure and genuine male that existed off the battlefield.

“I’m fully aware, but I was disarming them easily. I don’t see why I shouldn’t take care of it.” She tossed her long braid over her shoulder, the end of it landing on her leathers just above the small of her back with a soft slap.

“You are engaging every enemy, but they are not your intended target. You need to evade them and allow your legion to support you as you move,” he reminded her firmly. “So I ask you again, who was your target?”

“How am I supposed to make peace with leaving my comrades behind me, unsure of their fate?” she spat.

His nostrils flared, his patience fraying by the second. “You have a responsibility to ensure your specific skill set is where it needs to be when it needs to be there. You are not a hero for clearing the field ahead of them, only to exhaust yourself prematurely or get yourself killed,” he seethed. “Your death leaves them unprepared for your intended target and increases the odds that they die as well.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek as she considered his words.

“So should I have left you there, too? Bleeding out on that battlefield?” she hissed.

He recoiled as if she struck him, obviously surprised to hear her mention the moment they shared during the battle with Hybern. This was the first and only time she had done so.

He took a deep breath before he spoke. “Who,” he asked through clenched teeth, “was your target?”

“You,” she said through a snarl.

“Correct. Move through this field, allow your fellow soldiers to support you. Save your energy for when you get to me.” he ordered, leaving no room for protest. He took off without waiting for her reply, the wind from his wings blowing back the loose strands of hair around her face.

He repositioned himself in the target location, his shield in place. Once he lowered it, they were to begin. Nesta fell in line with the other soldiers, steeling herself for when that red shield disappeared. She was still angry, but she felt a sense of calm wash over her as her focus shifted. Cassian waited for the opposing soldiers to move to their positions, then he dropped the shield.

Nesta ran, opting to pull a long dagger from the sheath along her thigh rather than pulling the sword from across her back. She knew she could move faster without the weight of the sword in her hand, and if she were meant to evade those she confronted, she felt her dagger would lend enough defense until another soldier arrived.

She never imagined that she would feel so at home on a battlefield, that these drills would become almost therapeutic. She moved forward, deftly knocking her first opponent off their center of gravity and causing them to stumble. She didn’t hesitate to move forward as instructed, daring to glance back quickly to make sure she wasn’t being followed. She was pleased to see her comrade engage the soldier, halting any plans they may have had to pursue Nesta.

She slipped into an eerie sort of calm, evading soldier after solder in her pursuit of Cassian. She could see him where he stood, waiting. She’d yet to best him in combat, and honestly didn’t hold that expectation in the absence of using magic, but she knew she was being assessed purely on her ability to get to where he was. She continued to move, only glancing back when absolutely necessary, and she was filled with a sense of honor that her back was covered every time.

She continued to feel a certain serenity surround her as she moved from one opponent to the next. She glided through them with grace and precision; as if she had learned this battle as choreography. After successfully blocking the blows targeted at her, she was already extending her dagger to the next, carrying herself through the field. There was a certain rhythm thrumming through her; her heartbeat akin to the cadence of a battle drum. She let it guide her and propel her forward, tugging her closer and closer to her target. She let it pace her, her footfalls coordinating in time with the fall of her daggers and her transitions between soldiers. Her movements came together in perfect harmony, an art form all their own.

She moved so briskly through her opponent's forces that her last obstacle to Cassian seemed to be caught off-guard by her arrival. She had him disarmed in less than a minute, promptly turning to lock eyes with the Illyrian warrior that awaited her.

He met her gaze with sheer focus, finally raising a scarred brow to her in challenge. She felt it like a blow straight to her chest; felt compelled to make her way to him. The steady beat of that battle drum pulled her once again, urging her feet forward toward the General Commander. She meant to break into a full run, but she felt a sharp tug on her long braid, snapping her head backward.

She risked a small glance at who held her. She didn't rotate her body being that she was unsure of how much that would compromise her ability to evade the attacker, but she turned her head to the side and dared a peripheral look their way.

The very last solider she'd disarmed had managed to grab hold of her braid, almost all the way at the bottom, near her lower back. She cursed herself for opting to wear it this way rather than her usual crown braid, but it seemed like an incredible amount of work for an activity that provided minimal appreciation for intricate braiding.

She saw her ally engaging with the enemy who was gripping her hair, so she knew it was not their failure to cover her that got her in this position. She had likely stopped too soon, not allowing enough distance to be created between them before pausing to assess Cassian. In those seconds, the soldier had regained access to his weapon and reached for her. It didn't surprise her, considering who had trained him. Even small opportunities could change the direction of a war, and he capitalized on her misstep in a way she had to respect, if she were honest.

All of these things burst through her brain within a couple of seconds before she started to scan it for a possible solution. Had she ever learned how to get someone to release her without getting hurt or killed in the process? The thought was pointless, because even if she had, it wasn't serving her at the moment.

And so, she moved.

— — —

From the second Cassian had lowered his red shield, his eyes were glued to the female meant to engage him at the end of her pursuit. She had arrived in Illyria with almost no skills and even fewer battle instincts, but when he had introduced her to training, she came alive. The idea that wars were ever fought without women like her was almost comical to him as he watch her graceful figure glide straight through enemy lines.

He couldn't, nor would be, discount her improvement or her skills in general. She had worked tirelessly for months, never wanting to find herself in a position similar to the day she was Made. She was strong, beautiful, and lethal with the blade in her hand. It was almost as if she were always intended for this.

He was relieved to see that she had taken his feedback into consideration rather than engaging every single soldier in hand-to-hand combat to spite him. It wouldn't have surprised him if she had being that she loved nothing more than to irritate him, but he felt touched at how seriously she was taking her training.

He watched her move through the crowd, entranced by her movements. He stood with his arms crossed, shield and Illyrian blade across his back, assessing Nesta and the others. Her team was supporting her beautifully, and he couldn't fight the smallest smile that pulled at the corner of his mouth. She was almost to him now, disarming the man in front of her and pausing to look his way. He had just schooled his face into one of neutrality, thank the Cauldron, but his expressive brow quirked up of its own accord as he continued to monitor her.

That is, until the very last opponent she faced resorted to cheap shots, latching onto Nesta's hair. He gripped it as if she were the personification of his pride, floating away from him on the wind. He held a firm grip down at the bottom, yanking her head backward in the process. It took every ounce of his training to fight the vicious snarl that threatened to erupt out of him at seeing someone touch her in such a way. She paused, but she wasn't motionless for long.

Cassian knew his eyes were wide, mouth slightly agape as he watched in disbelief. As fast as lightning, Nesta turned on her heel, blade in hand. The Illyrian steel went through her thick braid like a knife through warm butter, sending the offender stumbling back.

Her golden strands unraveled as she whipped around and broke into a full run toward where Cassian stood. Her hair billowed around her face, framing it in a way that took his breath away. His breath was suddenly ragged, heart pounding through his chest as she ran toward him. When her steel blue eyes raised to meet his hazel ones, he had to take a step back and steady himself from the blow of emotions that roiled through him.

He knew it then, had suspected it for some time. That one word that changed everything, and by the way her eyes widened slightly, he suspected she knew it, too. She was almost to him; had already prepared the daggers in her hands to ensure she was ready whenever he deigned to attack.

Before entertaining a coherent thought about his actions, he raised his right hand in front of him, palm toward her. She slowed to a halt about 6 feet away from him, the look in her eyes a combination of determination, frustration, and something else altogether. He couldn't breathe.

He could see his own chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, his blood singing to close the distance between them. He wanted to lie to himself and claim the call of battle as the reason for his compulsion. Battle, however, was the last thing on his mind.

The wind circled the both of them, and Cassian thanked the Mother for the soothing gesture across his wings. His blood was raging, sweat pouring along the inside of his training leathers. His wings twitched with anxious energy as he continued to look at her.

Her hair was blowing around her face, a few strands slanting across it. She was a vision, the strands looking as if they were perfectly placed to frame her delicate features. Her blue eyes bore into him, made even more stunning by the contrast of the brown whipping around them. He was both angry and relieved that he'd never seen her this way before. Had he, he would have never been able to train her properly, her hair and beauty wonderfully distracting. She was the one to break the silence.

"What now, Cassian?" she scowled. "I've made it, haven't I?"

Her voice was much quieter than before the drill, almost breathy. She was looking intensely at him, her throat bobbing as she swallowed. He tracked her movements as she ran her hand through her strands, from her forehead to the crown of her head, to attempt smoothing them.

"Nesta." he managed, his voice a whisper.

She continued to look at him, that unidentifiable emotion worn all over her beautiful face.

He swallowed thickly, forcing himself to say what he needed to through his nerves.

"You're my mate."

——————————————————————————

If you’d like to be tagged in any of my fics, please send me an ask, a message, leave a comment, or reblog! I’ll be happy to add you!

[And, if I’ve left you off my list unintentionally, please don’t hesitate to remind me! No offense taken!]

Feel free to keep the prompts coming, and let me know if you have a particular pairing or mood in mind ☺️

Tags (Masterlist):

@polireader // @justgiu12 // @hizqueen4life // @sis-it-dont-add-up // @b00kworm // @bookstantrash // @gisellefigue08 // @maastrash // @superspiritfestival // @girl-who-reads-the-books // @sayosdreams // @ladywitchling // @keshavomit // @over300books

#nessian #nessian fanfic #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acosf #nesta archeron #cassian #nesta x cassian #twsd fics #twsd writes #prompts

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lettersnorth · 3 years ago

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Prompt #4: Baleful

It was a well known fact that flowers had a language all their own. Therefore, one must take care when selecting flora or risk courting social disaster. The wrong specimen, a poor choice in color could result in a statement that diverged so far from intentions that the only outcome is unseemly embarrassment for all involved. It should be of no surprise that entire books had been written to aid in the navigation of such a tremendous undertaking. Most widely regarded of all was ‘Lady Gower’s Floral Vocabulary’.

A book which now sat open, perched in her lady’s maid’s hands as the Countess Vernier slowly strolled through the Beauchene Estate’s flower laden ballroom. From the tables currently lining the room with a myriad of displays in every color, size and shape reasonably imagined, it was entirely possible that every florist in Ishgard had been called up to present their reserves.

“You could take more of an interest in our sister’s season.” the Countess mused as she strolled among the tulips.

Remoneaux Beauchene, Head of House Beauchene, a man with no small manner of duties to entertain had nevertheless found himself drawn into his sister’s banal exercise without quite knowing how she had managed the feat.

“On the contrary, I believe I have taken a great deal of interest. Am I not standing here with you before this dizzying array? Surely, the House will fall to ruin if the exact shade of petunias are not present at this ball.” he noted and, to his credit, he did so with a marvelously straight face.

The Countess sniffed. “The facetiousness does not escape me but there will be nary a petunia in sight.”

Remoneaux cast a long-suffering look over the crowded room. “I will say, between us, I am sore glad this is the last of you. Once Emeline is well settled I shall be closeting myself away for the next ten Seasons.”

“Oh, why stop there. Why not become the veritable hermit you have always longed to be, dear brother. Follow your passions.”

“I have made the attempt on more than one occasion. Regrettably, I’ve a host of sisters that refuse to let me live in peace.”

“The burdens that come with being the Head of a House.”

“Heavy is the crown.”

As fortune would have it, Remoneaux was momentarily spared from his tedious task as Lord Duchamp was shown into the room.

“Excuse me one moment, Isabeau.”

The Countess momentarily turned her head to the interruption. With a brief glance between the two men, she surmised the whole of the situation at once. “Of course.” she intoned before returning to the flowers. She solicitously walked on and regarded the displays along another table.

Duchamp brought with him the fresh smell of cold wind and snow into the overly perfumed room. A detail for which Remoneaux was only too glad. The man’s amber gaze took in the explosion of flora with an air of dry amusement. “I take it the planning continues apace.”

“Gods, I do hope so.” Remoneaux tipped his cane towards his sister’s form as she flicked her way through the book her maid held at the ready. “The ever helpful and knowledgeable Countess assures me this will be accomplished within the bell.” he said, raising his voice for her benefit.

“And so it shall.” she returned, a sing-song note to her voice.

Remoneaux snorted with brotherly affection. “No matter. What news?”

“By all accounts the lady is one and the same.” Duchamp confirmed, folding his hands behind his back as he studied the overwhelming amount of floral samples on display. “If she does intend on making her approach this event of yours will be the perfect time. The doors of Beauchene are to be thrown wide open, after all.”

“Yes.” Remoneaux stated in such a way that made it clear he wished it were otherwise.

The two men were silent as they watched the Countess meander among a table of roses of all manner of size and color. Together, they cut a striking picture. Duchamp, all sun and warmth in his gold coloring and gaze, Remoneaux a study in snow and ice.

“Let her come.” Remoneaux said with a baleful glance in Duchamp’s direction. “That way this entire mess will be taken care of once and for all.”

Duchamp merely nodded. “If you think that wise.”

“We both know I left wisdom in Ul’dah where this all began.” Remoneaux ruefully replied.

“See, there? It is finished.” The Countess Vernier smiled as she approached, skirts rustling against the polished floor. “Surely not as painful as you had imagined.”

Remoneaux smiled for his sister. “You’ll forgive me if I wait for the invoices to agree with such a statement.”

The Countess waved him off and sent the maid for her coat and hat.

Remoneaux cast one last gaze over the garden that had sprung up in his ballroom. “Do you know what shouldn’t go amiss? Nymeia lilies.” he said.

Both Duchamp and Isabeau took a moment to stare at him in surprise. Both for entirely different reasons.

“Remoneaux. Funereal flowers? Do be serious.” The Countess chastised.

“A harsh assessment. I believe remembrance lilies is the more accepted term. Recall that this is also the season of the Rising. We should be mindful of that and place two large sprays just at the entrance.” he glanced at his companion. “What say you, Duchamp?”

“An elegant way to acknowledge the occasion.”

The Countess bounced her gaze between the two of them, sensing there was something they weren’t saying but she couldn’t be certain of that fact. “As it is your House I shall acquiesce to your contribution.” she nodded. “Now, I must be off. Tell Emeline I shall be by tomorrow for the fitting.”

#ffxiv writing #ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite 2021 #prompt 4 #Baleful #Flashpoint #Aislinn North

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alphawave-writes · 4 years ago

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Clapback

Fuse/Caustic (GasGrenade? Fitznox? Dunno, I’ll use them both) SFW fanfic

Read it here or find on AO3 via this link.

Synopsis: Caustic decides to confront Fuse on a certain incident that occurred live on intergalactic waves involving Fuse's hand and his posterior.

—

Caustic is certainly not the guy to get his ass slapped. Caustic is certainly not the type of person to let people close enough to even slap his ass in the first place, but the games forces him to take a closer proximity to people. Relationships are confusing, messy diagrams of webs and chains and links, just as human bodies are, and it reminds Caustic why he never went into Genetics. Or, for that matter, why there are few who would dare approach him.

But Fuse is a special type of individual with all of the worst traits of the dumbest legends. He has the loud mouth of Mirage, the act-first-think-later attitude of Octane, and—on the rare occasion he gets serious—the wry snark of that pestiferous Crypto. It's no secret that Salvo is full of savages, which makes him a surprisingly capable teammate, so of course the producers of the Apex Games decide that for his very first game, he should be in a team with Caustic and Bloodhound. Of course he talks a big talk, but otherwise he has shown himself to be a capable individual on the battlefield. Unlike Crypto or Natalie or the countless other scientists he knew in the past, Caustic doesn't expect Fuse to be the kind to stab him in the back.

And then Fuse slaps Caustic's ass. Live. For all to see.

And with that, his carefully tailored public reputation, the persona of Caustic, it has all crumbled down to a few key words. Caustic: the man who's ass got slapped on intergalactic waves, and appeared to like it.

"Mate, it's just a cheeky thing the mates do to each other on Salvo. You're telling me you guys don't slap each other's ass after a game of footy or somethin'?"

"This is not Salvo," Caustic reminds Fuse for what must be the hundredth time. Internally, he has to remember to check up what 'footy' is. Probably Salvonian slang for something gruesome.

"Yeah, nah, I get that, doc, you don't have to remind me," Fuse sighs. "Look, even I admit I was tryna rile up the crowd, but I didn't mean to get you stuck in all this sh—mess."

At least the man has some common sense not to use such vulgar language around him. Quite frankly he finds such crude words indicative of low intelligence. "It does not matter what the crowd thinks," Caustic says, even though he knows that's a bit of a lie. "What matters is that you have put me in an uncompromising position."

"Well, I haven't got you to an uncompromising position yet," Fuse smirks.

Caustic glares at him. "I expect you to rectify this immediately."

"OK, OK, sheesh. Look, I'll let ya in on somethin', if you wanna let the whole thing slip away, you just gotta let it die first. Fighting fire with fire may work on the field, but it ain't gonna stop people from coming up with ideas. Trust me, the amount of people who thought I was shacking up with Mags—er, Maggie—of all people…" Fuse shivers. When Caustic doesn't look convinced, he adds, "I've got an interview coming up tomorrow. If it pops up, I'll just say it's a Salvo thing. If it doesn't, I ain't gonna say squat."

Caustic doesn't know if Fuse is more wily than he gives himself credit for, or if he is just as idiotically open as Caustic assumes him to be, but his first instinct is to trust Fuse will keep his word. It's a strange instinct for Caustic to have.

"Fine. But I expect you to not mock me anymore in the future."

"No prob, doc. Although if you don't mind an old fella saying something?"

Caustic just knows he's going to regret this.

"You do got a nice ass. Real girth to that thing," Fuse wolf whistles appreciatively as he not so surreptitiously glances at Caustic's behind. "Ditch the apron, and I bet that beauty could be an ordnance on its own."

"Fuse," Caustic growls.

"That's the name, don't wear it out," Fuse smirks.

With a surprising amount of speed, Caustic takes Fuse into a hold and shoved him to the wall. His voice is low, his hold absolute. Months and years in the Apex games have taught him many, many ways to kill and just as many to subdue.

"Oy, easy on the vest."

"What's your game?" Caustic hisses.

"Nngh. Let go of me!"

"Or what?"

Fuse tries to turn his head, his laidback expression transformed into something darker. Caustic does not disbelieve Fuse's claims of being a mercenary on the last, but he found his boast of being one of Salvo's best a stretch. But he's

"You wanna try me, Doc Nox?" Fuse grunts.

"How did you…?"

That second of surprise is all it takes for Fuse to slip out of Caustic's grasp and reverse the situation, pushing Caustic into the wall. It is now that Caustic sees he has miscalculated. He was too tight, put too much strength and effort to shove Fuse into the wall. The correct grip is a little bit lower, utilising not just hands but knees. Fuse's hold might seem more laidback compared to Caustic's attempt, but there is no doubt that Fuse has done this plenty more times before in the past. Despite his bigger size, Caustic doesn't imagine he will slip out quite so easily unless Fuse allows him to.

So there are hidden depths to this man after all. A fascinating test subject for the future, to be sure.

"Don't think I didn't do my research before comin' here. I gave it all up to be here, and I don't go all in without knowing the stakes. Had a client of mine try ask me to track you down. Said that ain't my style, but I remembered. And when you stay a merc at my age," he taps his skull with his metal hand, "you tend to remember things."

Caustic grunts. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

"We all know being in the Apex games protects you, and you know what? It's the same for me, mate. You play up the cameras, kill and get killed over and over again for entertainment, and if they like you, you get to live another day. And I also know once people know who the mysterious doc Caustic is, they ain't gonna risk letting you kick about and murk up the Apex bloody games."

"Then blackmail me. Kill me," Caustic hisses.

"Believe me, if I were hired to, I will. But since I'm not…" Fuse lets go of Caustic. He takes a step back, his light fingers drifting away from Caustic’s clothed limbs. The move is casual but done deliberately. A lot of what Fuse does and says, Caustic realises, is deliberate. Whether it's the result he wants is a secondary concern.

Caustic turns to Fuse and stares. "I do not know if you're idiotic or moronic to let me go without some form of payment."

Fuse sighs. "Doc, this ain't the games and this ain't Salvo. You said that, right? Ain't gonna spill your secret because I feel petty or nothing. We both want to be here, and we'll do our bloody hardest to stay here. You wanna take it out on me, take it out on the ring." His lips curl into a smirk. "I'm also more than happy to take it out in the bedroom, if that's your thing."

Caustic bristles. He's no imbecile, he knows when he is being propositioned, but he is not playing that game. Not with a man he barely knows. "You still want something from me. Tell me now."

"Well, if you really want to buy my silence," Fuse allows a small smile, "how about a drink sometime? You, me, couple bottles of beer, bit of classical music. Get to know each other better."

There is a lot to decipher with that sentence. A lot. But of all the the things Caustic can possibly address, "Classical music?"

"You know, Acca Dacca, INXS, Tame Impala. The real classics, not like that stuffy ones, ey?"

Caustic stifles a groan. "When you say classical music, I was expecting Mozart. Beethoven."

"Would you accept if I did that kinda classical music?" Fuse crosses his arms and leans just a bit too close to Caustic.

"Typical Salvonian," Caustic mutters under his breath. Always so forward. Always think they can take whatever they want.

"Ain't an answer, mate," Fuse says.

It's data. Possibly useful data from a new test subject. That's what he's going to tell himself. "One drink, at a venue of my choice. I can and will leave at any time I choose."

"Deal. Tomorrow at 8 alright?"

"Fine."

"Cool. Then I'll see ya later, darl." Before Caustic can react, Fuse gives another firm slap to Caustic's ass and quickly walks away without another word, disappearing down the hallway.

As Caustic watches Fuse walk away, hand on his ass and equations ringing through his head, he begins to suspect that he might have bit off more than he can chew. He takes out his notepad, which he uses to write notes on the go, and flips over to the latest page.

8pm 12th February. Meet up with subject Walter 'Fuse' Fitzroy for alcoholic beverages and music. Objective: obtain data on subject. Ascertain weaknesses and strengths. Assess whether to team up with for future battles.

Note to self: bring padded pants and lotion.

#Apex Legends #apex caustic #apex fuse #walter fitzroy #GasGrenade #Fitznox #It's small and it's silly but it was fun exploring Fuse's personality #I literally based him on this guy I know at work #Ben if you're reading this (I know you're not but still) I apologise in advance

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theunredeemable · 3 years ago

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The Silent Breeze lurched violently in the vacuum of space as another explosion wracked its corpse. Debris and bodies orbited it, caught in its small, gravitational pull as it hung limply, the survivors watching from their escape pods just outside of the gravitational pull. It had been hours since the death of the captain, since the Sun Dragoons laid waste to the ship, though it was not they who sent the ship to its demise. Captain Gole's execution had created a power vacuum within the ship, and those hungry for power tried to capitalise on it. Their infighting further damaged the weakened hull and life support systems, and the sublight engine’s explosion had killed many. Those that survived were the ones who fled in the escape pods as the fighting started, and now waited for rescue.

"What's the chance that anyone's even coming?"

Jaune turned in his seat to look at the asker, and the sight nearly broke his heart. The boy was barely a man, no doubt pressed into service to pay off debts not his own, sent to die so far from home. Though The Silent Breeze was a transport ship, it was still in service to the Empire, if through the SDC. Jaune tried to give him a reassuring smile. "I won't lie to you, I don't know. But we have to hold onto hope. I'm sure someone's picked up our signal by now."

A scoff came from the scowling, silver haired man sat next to him. "I wouldn't hold my breath if I were either of you. There weren't many aware we were even coming out here."

Jaune glared at him, disgust written clearly across his face. "Your negativity isn't helping anything, Black."

"That's Agent Black to you, Arc."

Jaune rolled his eyes, turning back to the young man. "Ignore him, Rookie. He gets paid to be a dour jerk. We're going to be fine, someone will come." He gave a final smile before returning his attention to the communication screen. "You'll see. Any minute now..."

Another hour passed in uneasy silence, the noise of the console's steady beeping and the crew’s heavy breaths filling the air. Even Jaune was starting to lose hope. Another hour and they'd start to run out of oxygen. Quietly, under his breath, he offered up a prayer to the divines that a miracle would come soon. As if they were listening, a series of beeps came from the communications console in a repeating pattern of three, signifying a large vessel was approaching. Looking out the window, he could see a ripple in space, then a flash of blue as The Nevermore appeared in the void. Shortly after, several smaller ships spilled out of its many hangers, like wasps swarming from their hive. In unison, his comms crackled to life as a feminine voice came over. "This is Winter Schnee, Captain of The Nevermore. Please identify the senior most officer."

Jaune moved to respond, but the man next to him moved faster, pushing the button to open communications. "This is SDC Special Agent Mercury Black, requesting immediate pick up."

Static answered Mercury's claim, and Jaune took no small amount of delight in the unpleasant man's frustration, until the comms kicked in again. "Recognised, Agent Black. However, there are escape pods in worse condition than yours, and need to take priority. You will have to wait."

Mercury scowled and nearly shouted down the comms. "SDC and Empire regulations demand that the highest ranking officer is recovered first and foremost!"

"Under normal circumstances, you would be correct. However, I have looked at the crew manifesto for The Silent Breeze and you are...suspiciously absent from it. Officially, Agent Black, you are not here. Something I am sure you arranged for whatever secret mission my father has you on. But seeing as you are not officially here, you do not currently take priority." There was a pause, before Winter's voice picked back up again. "Now, unless my sister is in that pod with you, I need to find the highest ranking officer. One that, officially, actually is present."

Jaune pushed Mercury's hands away, pressing down on the button himself. "I believe that's me, Ma'am. At least, I'm the highest ranking surviving officer."

"What is your name and position?"

"Jaune Arc, Chief Security Officer. Ma'am, if I may...if there are damaged pods out there, please prioritize their recovery. I've already lost enough of my crewmates today."

Static answered once more as Jaune looked out the window, watching as rescue crews found the other escape pods and dragged them back to The Nevermore. Many of them were damaged from the sublight explosion, or from drifting debris. "Very well, Mr. Arc. But both you and Agent Black will be answering my questions once you are aboard. Such as why my sister doesn't appear to be in any of your pods, and you better hope I like the answer."

The line went dead as Winter cut off communications, and Jaune felt a sense of dread wash over him as Mercury laughed. "Well pretty boy, depending on how you answer her you're either getting promoted today...or getting shot." The way Mercury was grinning, Jaune got the feeling the man was hoping for the later.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Winter stood in the war-room, waiting impatiently for her 'guests' to arrive. She commended Jaune for his selflessness in ensuring his crewmates were safe before he was, but now she wished he was a little more selfish. Or, at the very least, in a different pod than Mercury Black. She sneered at the thought of the unsavoury individual, before tempering her ire and marshalling her features into a mask of neutrality. "There will be plenty of time to get angry later, Winter. For now, get the facts, assess the risk...find my sister." She took a deep breath, turning around as she heard the door hiss open. There stood Mercury Black, his uniform the same colour as his name and suspiciously pristine, and Jaune Arc, whose uniform was tattered and coated in dust and oil. With naught but a glance, she could easily tell which of the two was worth her time.

"Mr. Arc, I must formally commend your loyalty to your crew. You made a lot of friends today by putting them first." Jaune flushed at the praise as Winter's gaze turned to the other in the room. "Agent Black."

"Captain Schnee."

The two stared at each other, the tension in the room becoming palpable before she turned her back to the both of them, moving to the other side of the holo-table, dragging her hand across its surface. "So, which one of you will tell me how this happened?" Pushing a button, the table activated to show The Silent Breeze's derelict state.

Mercury sneered, showing no sign of answering, so Jaune cleared his throat and began. "We were set upon by pirates while in the process of transporting Weiss Schnee, code named Songbird, to Argus Augmentics." He ignored the withering glare Mercury was shooting his way and carried on. "Before the attack, Songbird made an attempt to flee the ship, but was stopped by Agent Black and brought before Captain Gole. I...am unsure of what transpired on the Bridge as I was not present. What I do know is that after the pirates took what they were after and escaped, Gole was dead and Songbird was missing."

Winter nodded, the room growing cold with her barely contained rage. Jaune thought he could see ice forming on the viewports, but chalked it up to a figment of his imagination as Winter looked to Mercury. "Agent Black, would you care to fill in the blanks?"

"No."

Jaune winced, and took a step away as Winter's eyes narrowed. "No?"

"You are not the Schnee I answer to, and as such I am under no obligation to tell you anything."

Winter was silent for several minutes, tension returning to the room as she stared a hole into Mercury before she turned her attention back to Jaune. "Mr. Arc, you are dismissed. Go get some rest, we will speak more later."

"Yes, Ma'am!" Jauned saluted, hesitating to leave. "Just...one more thing, ma'am."

"What is it?"

"I was a part of the defense, and I managed to see the emblem the pirates wore. It was a drake devouring a sun. There might be something in the records about them."

"Thank you, Jaune. That helps. Go rest." Winter gave a rare, reassuring smile, before switching back to her icy demeanour as she turned back to Mercury. "You are both dismissed." Jaune saluted once more, leaving the chamber, though Mercury remained where he stood. "Do you have something useful to say, Agent Black?"

"I demand transport back to the core worlds."

"Then you are more than welcome to borrow one of our fighters. Not that it will get you far, maybe to a nearby world with a port where you can requisition a transport ship." Mercury opened his mouth to protest, but was stopped before he could. "Agent Black, just as you do not answer to me, I do not answer to you or your organisation. I am a servant of the Atlesian Empire, not my father, for he is not the Emperor. I am not beholden to give you anything, and seeing as you have been uniquely unhelpful I'm not even inclined to give you the time. Officially, you aren't even here. My mission takes priority."

Mercury scoffed, glaring at Winter. "What mission? Saving your little sister?" His voice dripped with venom as he sneered, though Winter only smiled.

"Hunting down the pirates I was sent out here for. And, thank you."

"For what?"

"For confirming my sister is alive. Now, get the hell out of my sight before I decide the brig will be better accommodation for you."

Mercury's scowl deepened, annoyed for giving information away, but obeyed as he made to leave. "Where are my quarters?"

"There is an ensign waiting to escort you." Winter waited until the doors closed behind him until her countenance shifted to one of anger. Ice formed around her feet, crystallizing on the floor and air as her hands curled into fists and she trembled with rage. "Of all the self-important...arrogant...irritating pieces of filth, why did it have to be him?” She was certain that if everything in the room weren't bolted down she would have trashed the place by now. Instead, she took a slow, calming breath and smoothed down her hair. Shaking the ice from her feet, she waved a hand and caused it all to melt into the floor as she pressed another button. "Please send Sustrai in." She seethed in silence for the several minutes she was alone, hands flexing as she brought her emotions back under control before her CCO arrived.

"You called, Ma'am?"

"Yes...I need you to bring me everything you can find on Mercury Black. It'll be hard considering he's a SDC Agent, but I don't trust hi-" She paused upon noticing the way Emerald tensed. "What is it?"

"When the two of you were talking over comms...I prayed that it was someone else, a different agent with the same last name."

"You know him then?"

"I did...once. Friends, though we were more like family at the time. But we went down different paths." She let out a sad sigh, hugging herself as she looked askance. "He became distant, then cruel, because the universe was cruel to us and he wanted to be strong enough to be the one calling the shots, while I chose to not let it define me anymore."

"I..I am sorry, Emerald. I didn't know." Winter dropped her professionalism, looking at her friend in concern.

"It's fine, there's no reason you would. It was a lifetime ago, after all." She let out a sad chuckle, before shaking her head. "I'll make a dossier for you with what I know and what I can find. Anything else?"

"Yes, one more thing. Do you know which pirate crew uses the emblem of a drake devouring a sun?"

Emerald thought for a moment, before nodding. "Yes...I believe the Sun Dragoons use that symbol." She moved over to the holo-table, and pressed a series of buttons. When she was done, The Silent Breeze fizzled away, and was replaced with a much larger ship, as well as an image of it's captain. "Their ship is called The New Dawn , and their captain is..." She paused, smiling lightly. "Yang Xiao-Long, daughter of Taiyang Xiao-Long. She matches the description of the pirate we're hunting."

Winter allowed herself a small smile, the flame of hope sparking in her chest as her rage started to abate. "How...serendipitous. Thank you, Emerald. You can go, I'll have orders for the crew soon." Emerald saluted, and left her captain alone in the room, only the light of the holo-table illuminating her as she stared at the image of Yang. "So you're the one who kidnapped my sister....prepare yourself, Pirate. I'm coming for you."

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Mercury glanced about his sparse room, sneering in disgust. It reminded him too much of his old room at the orphanage, and he had grown accustomed to the finer accommodations as one of Jacques' private agents. He suspected he was in this room due to Winter's clear dislike of him. "Not that the feeling isn't mutual..." he mused to himself, before shrugging. "No matter, I won't be here long." Moving to the center of the room, he pulled out a small, circular device. Pressing the activation button, he spoke into it before throwing it to the center of the floor and stepping back. "Open a secure line to Councillor Jacques Schnee."

He was forced to wait for almost half an hour, before the device beeped loudly and a holographic Jacques materialised from the device. He was in the middle of fixing the cufflinks on his own uniform as he looked down his nose at Mercury. "What is it, Black. You interrupted a rather important meeting."

"Songbird flew the coop, and I require transit back."

Jacques seemed to freeze in mild shock, though he soon recovered as he clasped his hands behind his back. "What do you mean, flew the coop? Was I wrong to entrust such an...important delivery to you and Gole?"

"Gole is dead. She was taken by pirates."

"Did he run his mouth before he died?"

Mercury nodded. "Unfortunately. Songbird attempted to escape on her own, and Gole used the truth to cow her. Then the pirates attacked."

"Do you know which faction?"

"I believe they called themselves the Sun Dragoons, or something equally idiotic."

Jacques' calm demeanour dropped as he sneered, swearing in High Atlesian. "Those are the same pirates Winter was assigned by that fool Ironwood to hunt down." Mercury grimaced, knowing what his boss was about to say. "I'll need to assign you to her for damage control..."

"Well, sir. You're in luck. I'm already on board. It was The Nevermore that answered the distress call."

"In that case your request is denied. You will stay aboard and keep an eye on things. Assist only in hunting the pirates down for the express purpose of returning Songbird into your custody, if you can. Keep her away from her sister at all costs. Oh, and Black."

"Yes sir?"

"Kill Weiss if she starts to talk."

#stealing the rich #winter schnee #mercury black #rwby #rwby au #emerald sustrai #Jaune Arc #lesbians in space #Jacques schnee

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anamaleth · 4 years ago

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I took part in the holiday gift exchange organised by @sanderssidesgiftxchange ! My giftee was @to-precious-to-process , who requested a fantasy au, stargazing, and a whole bunch of fluff.

This fic focuses mainly on the last wish and includes elements from the other two - I hope you enjoy it!

@ashblood1314 was my beta-reader and I cannot thank punk enough for that! Ash did an amazing job and without stars help, this fic wouldn’t be what it is now. Thank you so much, AG, I care you ♡!!!!

xxx

Traditions

Summary: An observation of the traditions the Sides have.

Movie nights, prank wars, playing tabletop RPGs together - their desire to regularly spend time together as a family had led to them creating a lot of traditions.

"Patton was leaning onto Logan, who was holding hands with Roman, and Roman was sitting back-to-back with Remus. Remus had Virgil lying in his lap, whose legs were draped over Janus’; while Janus’ head was resting on Patton’s shoulder. The Sides found comfort in each other’s presence, a blissful serenity that nothing else could provide them with."

Content Warnings (it’s just a whole bunch of fluff, honestly, but to be safe):

Food Mentions

Brief mention of poison (no one actually gets poisoned)

Mentions of in-universe fictional character deaths (they play Dungeons and Dragons and their characters die)

read on ao3

xxx

Weekly movie nights were a tradition for the Sides, just like the Secret Santa, and the Easter Egg Hunt that Patton organized every year.

"It's important for families to have traditions!" he would often tell the others, and the smile Patton's face whenever he said those words made it impossible for the other Sides to turn him down. Patton's excitement was infectious, how could they resist?

The prank wars all of them had could technically also be counted as a tradition, but only unofficially so. They never followed any sort of schedule, which Logan insisted was a fundamental part of traditions, nor were they really organised. Instead, they broke out whenever one of them decided that peace and quiet had prevailed among them for too long.

It was fairly common for one of the twins to start the prank wars, given that “annoy my brother until I get some sort of reaction out of him” seemed to be part of both of their agendas. Not that there was any malice behind it, causing any lasting harm was never their intention. But given Remus’ love for wreaking havoc and Roman’s usual theatrics combined with his inability to resist being dramatic, it came as a surprise to no one that the chances of chaos doubled when the two of them were in the same space together.

In addition to that, the chances of chaos increased exponentially after a certain threshold of time spent by the twins in the same space was exceeded, especially when Virgil or Janus were with them. The amount of time passed since the last prank war and the absence of any Sides that could be considered a responsible adult (Patton is not to be considered a responsible adult) factored into the probability of a prank war breaking out as well. At least according to the graph Logan had created.

Logan kept this graph for two reasons.

The first one was that there was simply no such thing as “having too many graphs and lists”, not to him at least. Creating them was a fun and useful way to practice organisation, and there was most certainly no such thing as being too organised!

And the second reason was that Logan wanted to be aware of the likelihood of a prank war occurring at any given time so that he would always be prepared for them.

“Prepared” both as in “ready to take part in the planning and semi-serious attacking” and as in “I will not be caught off-guard by my friends’ shenanigans”. He had made that mistake once and he would not allow for it to repeat itself. Just thinking about the feather incident made him shiver, and that one had happened back when the twins were on “no speaking” terms. Logan couldn’t and certainly didn’t want to imagine what the two of them would be capable of together.

For all his distaste for “wasted time” and general aversion of disorganization, Logan considered the prank wars to be valuable bonding time with the ones he cared about. This may have had something to do with his love for scheming in said prank wars. It wasn’t unusual for Logan to be utterly absorbed by a task, but for him to be so open about his enthusiasm? That was a rarity, and it was one the other Sides treasured immensely.

Having Logan on your team in the prank wars was a huge advantage, and if both he and Janus were on the same team, their victory was almost certainly guaranteed. The combination of Janus’ wit and Logan’s intellect made for a nearly unbeatable force, which meant they ended up being allies fairly often.

The twins weren’t normally on the same team, given that one of them “attacking” the other was what often started the prank wars in the first place – but the two of them joining forces was the only way to beat Janus and Logan. And given the twins' distaste (read: hatred) for losing, coalitions between them had started to occur more and more regularly.

Roman’s and Remus’ creativity, their ability to improvise and the sheer chaos that seemed to transpire whenever they worked together were a fair match for Logan’s and Janus’ genius scheming that had rightfully earned them the title of Strategic Masterminds. There was no telling which team would win, especially not with Virgil and Patton as rogue elements.

Well, with Virgil as a rogue element, given that Patton got that “I’m about to make a pun and inflict 80 damage on everyone around me”-look on his face whenever someone referred to him as such, after which he would cheekily remind them that he played as a paladin and not as a rogue in their Dungeons and Dragons sessions, which would make him a paladin element.

As much as what Patton said was true, hearing it made Logan go through all five stages of grief over the course of two seconds. He then considered using his powers as the current Dungeon Master to do something to Patton’s character to finally get him to stop making this awful pun. But, after a few moments of contemplation, he quickly abandoned this plan as he reminded himself that he was a responsible adult.

Logan was aware of the fact that Patton had gotten very attached to his character, and he didn’t want to upset him. He was also aware of the fact that Patton would be the next one to DM for all of them.

And given that Patton had started to spend more time with Janus, Remus and Virgil, Logan really didn’t want to risk getting on his bad side. Not because the three of them would do anything to Logan - he was their friend, too, after all – but because the metaphorical seeds of chaos that Patton had carried with him since the very beginning had started to fully blossom under their influence.

Apart from that, Patton brought home-made cookies to their D&D sessions whenever he was in a particularly good mood, and Logan a) didn’t want to miss out on those and b) couldn’t be one hundred percent certain that, with enough persuasion from Remus and Janus, Patton wouldn’t end up poisoning the cookies as a way to get revenge if Logan really did go through with killing his character.

This only further contributed to Logan’s assessment of Patton not being a responsible adult. He chose to ignore what the fact that he had just had an internal debate on whether or not killing off his friend’s D&D character for making puns would be worth it if it meant that he would have to miss out on the cookies said friend makes said about his own status as a “responsible adult”.

The D&D sessions the Sides had together were also a tradition, and they all took turns being the DM, assuring that each of them would both get the chance to be an active player in the game and, every once in a while, get to decide what challenges and narratives their friends would face.

Janus and Remus joining their sessions had brought the number of player characters from three up to five, which meant that instead of having barely enough players for the sessions to work, they now had a group that could face any monster or villain with ease.

Emphasis on the “could”, because what they actually ended up doing most of the time was very different from the heroic deeds their characters were technically capable of.

Virgil played as a rogue, Janus played as a warlock and even without the added chaos of Remus’ multi-class Bard/Barbarian (or “Bardbarian”, as Patton called them, much to Remus’ delight and Logan's dismay) they were capable of completely derailing every single session.

In the most affectionate way possible, they were a complete nightmare to DM for.

Yet watching them interact and build off of what the other said made the horror of being the DM and watching your plans for the game disintegrate right in front of your very own eyes absolutely worth it.

The biggest session the Sides had played so far had been the campaign that Roman and Remus had created together. Both of the twins loved designing classic high-fantasy games, although Remus preferred to lean more heavily into the gruesome and macabre aspects of high-fantasy, while Roman never strayed far from “noble quests”, “heroic adventures” and “saving your true love from the lairs of evil”.

Which was why they both adored fairy tales – the campaign they created together ended up being a modern, much less heteronormative, and almost sci-fi-esque retelling of just about every single fairy tale they could think of. It was a huge project that took them several weeks of planning and two and a half months of bi-weekly game sessions to complete, and some of them even ended up crying during the last session.

The plot focused on a rebellion against a corrupt king and his followers, led by the characters that the Sides played. None of the characters, neither protagonists nor antagonists, survived the final battle; and while the evil king had been defeated, there was no truly Happy Ending for any of them.

As painful as it may have been, it was the perfect ending for the story – absolutely brilliant and tragic, but in a cathartic way that would leave them with fond memories of everything that they had experienced. They held each other after the session was over, the giant table they conjured whenever they played tabletop games together quickly replaced by blankets and pillows that they let themselves sink into.

Patton was leaning onto Logan, who was holding hands with Roman, and Roman was sitting back-to-back with Remus. Remus had Virgil lying in his lap, whose legs were draped over Janus’; while Janus’ head was resting on Patton’s shoulder. The Sides found comfort in each other’s presence, a blissful serenity that nothing else could provide them with.

Given that all of them wanted to play something with less emotional investment to take a break from the emotional toll that the last game had taken on them, they moved on to playing one-shots again after that. Although, taking a break from emotional vulnerability wasn’t the only reason for that; Remus and Logan had informed them that the two of them had started the planning process for their next proper campaign, which they were certain would take them a lot of time and effort to complete.

Logan and Remus, as different as they seemed, got along surprisingly well.

Whenever they needed someone to listen to them, they knew they could count on the other to do so without any judgement.

Logan had known of Roman’s love for mythology, specifically Greek- and (surprising to no one, considering his name) Roman mythology, but he had been absolutely overjoyed to learn that Remus shared this interest.

As much as Logan enjoyed having discussions with Roman, it was refreshing to hear things from a completely different perspective every once in a while. Roman adored the tragic love stories, particularly Orpheus and Eurydice, and Achilles and Patroclus; while his brother seemed to fixate more on Heracles’ trials and the story of Oedipus.

Logan and Remus had been stargazing together in Logan’s room when they had come up with the idea for their campaign. Technically Virgil had also been with them, but he had quickly fallen asleep looking up at what had once been a ceiling but was now a vast, clear night’s sky. He was curled up next to Remus, who had taken off his sash so that Virgil could use it as a pillow, burying his face into Remus’ side and using him as a teddy bear.

While Virgil was sleeping, Logan rambled about space and the origins of different star constellations. At one point, Remus chimed in to give some additional information about the mythological story behind one of the constellations Logan had mentioned, which resulted in them having a rapid-fire brainstorming session that lasted for several hours.

During that discussion, they decided on the setting for the campaign: a huge dystopian cyberpunk city in which they would tell modern versions of the original Greek myths.

The D&D sessions Logan planned often featured intricate riddles and complicated challenges he designed himself, which were a perfect fit for this setting. And as much as the other Sides tended to struggle with solving Logan’s puzzles, they earnestly encouraged his passion for creating them and looked forward to what he would come up with next.

Remus and Logan, however, weren’t the only ones who had hour-long discussions about shared interests, as Patton and Janus had started having conversations about the concept of morality. Referring to those conversations as debates, although Logan liked to do so when he occasionally joined them, wasn’t quite accurate. It was never their intention to convince the other of their opinion, they merely enjoyed exchanging their thoughts and points of view.

When Logan was with them, their talks tended to become a lot more philosophical than when it was just the two of them. With him present, it wasn't as casual as when they were on their own, as Logan enjoyed having debates in a more serious setting. But even then, they still valued each other’s company more than the actual outcome of the discussion.

One time, in one of their earlier debates - Janus and Patton had been sitting in Patton’s room together, Janus’ legs draped over Patton’s, as his back rested against the armrest of the sofa - Janus had explained the concepts of Utilitarianism and Deontology to Patton. The latter had listened intently as Janus explained the two fundamental approaches to morality, one where ends are justified by the means it takes to achieve them, and one where one’s actions are justified by the results they achieve.

When Janus brought up the Trolley problem as an example, he noticed how Patton immediately tensed up. Janus paused, taking Patton's hands into his own and apologised.

"It was never my intention to upset you back then, Patton. I was trying to prove a point and I hurt you in the process. While I got what I wanted, I shouldn't have pushed you this far. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have used you as a-"

"Means to an end?" Patton interrupted him. He seemed uncertain, but there was a small smile on his face.

After a moment of hesitation, Janus nodded, almost self-conscious, when suddenly, Patton's eyes lit up.

"Like in-! Like in Utilitarism!"

The tense atmosphere evaporated and Janus looked up to meet Patton's eyes.

"Close."

"Ulitiriorism?"

"Ah, getting further away now-"

The fond amusement was clear in Janus' voice.

"Ulitaro...okay, what was it again?"

"Utilitarianism."

Patton beamed at him and Janus couldn't help but return the smile.

"Exactly! That one! And I insisted on the other one? The one where you can’t break your own moral code to achieve a greater goal, what was it? Deon-”

Janus’ expression became impossibly fond.

“Deontology, yes.”

“I got it right!”

After that, their conversation continued as it had before, just that Janus’ fingers were intertwined with Patton’s now. Eventually, Patton came to the conclusion that putting your own needs first can be a means to an end, something that ultimately leads to the greatest amount of good for the greatest number of people. He could keep his own values and stick to Deontology while occasionally approaching situations in a more utilitaristic way. He had already done so when it came to the Plato (...or was it Kant? Did it really matter?) dilemma with the murderer that you lie to in order to protect your friends; maybe he could learn to apply the same approach to self-care?

In order to practice, he and Janus had come up with the idea for Patton’s current D&D character: a Paladin who had sworn an oath of devotion to achieving the greatest amount of good for the greatest number of people, no matter the means they had to seize to achieve that goal.

Logan, as the current Dungeon Master, simultaneously marvelled at the concept of Patton’s character, and anguished at the chaos that character caused with the help of the characters the rest of the Sides played.

Apart from D&D, the Sides also regularly played board games together and, of course, held movie nights. Janus and Remus had started joining the others in both of these endeavours. They were family tradition after all, and the two of them were part of the family. Both Janus and Remus – although neither of them would ever admit to it - had been dangerously close to tearing up when Patton had first told them so. Part of the family.

They really had come far, hadn’t they?

Despite the sofa being too small for six metaphysical people to sit on, and despite it now being way more packed during their movie nights than it had previously been, none of them seemed to mind sitting closer together.

Patton was sitting in front of the couch, wrapped up in a blanket while wearing his cat onesie. He was holding a cup of hot cocoa with marshmallows in it and there were two bowls of popcorn set next to him, which he regularly passed around. One of them was salted and one with sugar.

Both of the twins preferred their popcorn ridiculously sweet - much to Roman’s triumph, because this meant that his brother joining their movie nights tipped the scales so that there were now two Sides who wanted to drown the popcorn in sugar.

On their first movie night with very sweet popcorn, Roman had exclaimed “Democracy wins once again!” to a very tired Logan, who was now seriously considering switching over to salted popcorn out of spite, even though he really did not like salted popcorn.

Patton, despite being, in some regard, the literal embodiment of emotions, had no strong feelings on the matter. He held no preference regarding how sweet or salty his popcorn should be and ate out of both bowls. Meanwhile, Virgil had just laughed at the now pouting Logan (“I am not pouting, Virgil, this is ridiculous”), as he shared his bowl of salted popcorn with Janus.

Now, several movie nights later, Logan sat, as he always did, behind Patton.

He kept absentmindedly running his fingers through Patton's hair, and it seemed as though nothing was out of the ordinary. The only real difference to previous movie nights was that he was now dressed in his unicorn onesie.

No one had commented on this, but Logan had registered the fond smiles on his friends’ faces as they realised that he had started wearing it around them again. Terrified of being written off as immature and unprofessional, it had taken Logan quite some time to get comfortable doing so again. But here he was, happy and cosy, dressed in his favourite outfit.

Janus sat right next to Logan. The first time he had been invited over, there had been a considerable distance between them, but over the course of a few weeks, Janus had found himself moving closer and closer to Logan each movie night, until he eventually found himself leaning against him comfortably.

By now, Janus had reached the point where he didn't even bother waiting anymore before gradually scooting closer to Logan. Instead, he assumed his rightful position immediately - Janus' head, mostly covered by the hood of his snake onesie, resting on Logan's shoulder.

Remus was taking up the most amount of space: his head was lying in Janus' lap while his legs were sprawled on the rest of the sofa. Roman had protested in the beginning, screeching at his brother to get his feet out of his face.

Roman had eventually given up, as Remus refused to move his legs and instead stuck out his tongue.

“How very mature of you, Remus”, Roman had grumbled in response, but his twin had already gone back to playing with the tentacles of his octopus onesie. Defeated, Roman settled for moving his throne - built out of a beanbag and all of the pillows and couch cushions he could get (which was all of them) - next to Patton.

Virgil sat on the backrest of the sofa, close enough to Janus to easily share their bowl of salted popcorn. Every once in a while, one of them would reach for the other’s hand, a simple gesture of affection that was starting to feel familiar again.

Familiarity, that’s what it all came down to in the end. The Sides loved each other dearly, and the traditions they had created allowed for them to regularly spend time together as a family. They adored each other and the connection they had, and they made sure to actively cultivate the conditions under which their bond could thrive.

They supported one another, encouraged each other, and all of them found themselves working towards being the best possible version of themselves they could possibly be, motivated by the love they had for the others.

Love, not simply as a state of being but also as an active choice and effort every single day of their lives.

Love, in everything they said and did - in kind words and in bickering, in gentle expressions of support and in playful insults. In fond smiles and gentle touches; in reaching out and lifting each other up. In helping and in being helped; in establishing boundaries and in respecting those set by their companions. In disagreeing and finding ways to compromise. In making the others laugh, and in finding ways to make their days better and easier, if only a little bit.

In being seen, for all of their facets. Their weaknesses and flaws being exposed, and being loved not despite them but for who they are with them. Always working towards being better and having their strengths and efforts appreciated and encouraged by those who love them.

They were a family. And they cherished the traditions they had created because they cherished one another.

#sanders sides #sanders side fic #patton sanders #logan sanders #roman sanders #virgil sanders #remus sanders #Janus Sanders #fluff #found family #My writing #my fic #long post #long post cw

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diyunho · 4 years ago

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The Joker x Reader - “Ghost Driver” Part 2

When The Joker says you’re his, it means you’re essential to him because he needs your services for his own gain; it literally has zero affectionate connotations. Turbo is The King’s Ghost Driver and although she’s a legend, her life is far from perfect.

Part 1

Four Days Afterwards, 7:47pm

“Good evening, madam. I am tonight’s entertainment,” Frost blurs out as soon as you open the door and instantly regrets his pun. “Sorry, that was stupid to say,” he apologizes.

The reason why you look puzzled is not his joke, but another motive: you never saw Jonny wearing anything else besides a suit or military gear; the fact that he’s standing in front of you wearing a pair of shorts and a t-shirt is quite intriguing.

“Hi,” you move aside so he can come in.

“Did I wake you up?”

“I fell asleep watching a movie,” Y/N smiles at his comfortable attire. “No big deal. Did Mister Joker send you?” the subtle question indicates you want to find out the reason for his visit.

“No... I was just thinking… maybe we could… and it’s entirely up to you, no pressure… maybe you would want to go and watch the fireworks with me. I have food and sleeping bags, plus an ice chest with drinks in my truck.”

You seem confused.

“Mmmm, you know what? Forget about it. That was completely idiotic to suggest,” Frost realizes that asking a freshly divorced woman to get out of the house after she was kidnapped and starved into her ex’s basement only four days ago it’s not the most brilliant idea he ever had.

“You had me at food and fireworks,” you wink at his insecurity. “The drinks sealed the deal. I’m confused on one detail: do I have to change or can I come in my PJ’s?”

“PJ’s are perfect.”

“Awesome!” you grab the keys from the coffee table. “Where exactly are we heading?”

“Fire Creek Hill, it’s one of the best spots to enjoy the view,” Jonny replies.

“Isn’t that closed to the general public?” Y/N inquires and his logic makes you laugh while exchanging your socks for flip-flops.

“I doubt we’re considered the general public. I had to pull some strings though,” he admits, overjoyed you actually agreed to accompany him.

Not that he shows it in any other way besides the invitation he barely mustered the courage to extend towards The Joker’s Ghost Driver.

*************

9:03pm

“Oh, it’s starting!” you excitedly nibble on your Alfredo pasta.

The first fireworks bloom in the distance and Frost opens the cooler, pointing out the goodies he salvaged from the liquor store.

“Pick your poison: we have a bottle of premixed margarita, wine, whiskey, tequila and…,” he fumbles around,”…try to contain yourself: water!”

“You definitely bought some of my favorites , including the food. How did you guess?” the bubbly Y/N smiles.

“I pay attention,” Jonny mentions. “So what’s gonna be?”

“Margarita please,” you hold the plastic cup and can’t help snickering as he pours the liquid.

“What?” he suspiciously bites on his cheek.

“Nothing really… I was imagining you without the beard,” you decide not to keep it a secret.

“Damn!” Frost snorts. “I had it for years; didn’t consider shaving because our employer would freak out. Stop giggling, it’s not funny! He totally would!” Jonny elbows you.

“I bet you have a baby face underneath all that facial hair; if you shave I can promise a new nickname will arise: Baby- Face Frost.”

“Shut up!” he chuckles at your quirky proposal. “Yet I can’t deny it has a certain ring to it.”

“See what I mean? It might work!... Oh my God, that’s a huge one!” you gasp, distracted by the sparkling night sky. “What are they celebrating? 150 years since this piece of crap town was founded?”

“Apparently,” Jonny sighs and watches Y/N bundle up in the sleeping bag.

“Thank you for the feast,” your tone changes to a serious one. “I didn’t have this much fun in the back of a truck in a long time. Go ahead, laugh!” you pout at his reaction. “I’m aware how it sounds like; I didn’t mean it that way!!!”

“Still funny as hell!” Jonny is getting a kick out of the conversation.

“Psst! Hey, Casanova!” The Joker’s mop of green hair pop up from behind the car’s high railing.

“Mister Joker!” you get startled by his unexpected presence.

“Boss, what are you doing here?” Frost utters in disbelief.

“Why aren’t you answering your phone, huh?” J ignores his henchman’s inquiry.

“It’s in the glove compartment, sir. I’m enjoying the…”

“Pardon me for interrupting your date,” The King of Gotham huffs.

“We’re not on a date,” the attempted explanation gets cut short.

“Sell it to whoever wants to buy it,” The Joker growls at Jonny’s words. “I had to follow the signal from your cell and trace your location; what a marvelous bonus to find my Turbo also!”

The eerie grin makes you finally speak up:

“Do you need help with anything Mister J?”

“Do I?” he plays dumb. “Probably.”

Why does he have to ruin the night? Frost reflects, annoyed.

Nobody knows, but if he could spend ages in your company, he believes it would be an eternity well spent.

And The Joker had to ruin it.

Goddammit!

“Can you patch me up?” J takes of his jacket, revealing a blood stained shirt.

“What happened?” you and Jonny jump off the vehicle.

“I got myself in a little bit of a situation,” he grumbles. “It’s a clean wound; the bullet came out on the other side.”

“We should take you to the doctor, boos; you need stitches!”

“Thanks for your concern, Doctor Frost,” The Joker sassily remarks. “I’ll go in the morning. I have more important matters to take care of tonight.”

You peel off his garment and assess the damage; he can’t hold it in:

“I bet you wanted to do this after I texted you my nudes, huh?”

You have to admit he caught you by surprise with his statement and the best solution in this situation is to cooperate:

“Been dreaming about it quite often.”

“Ha! I knew it!” The Clown cracks up. “Were you dreaming about it during your date?” he teases more.

“We’re not on a date,” you frown at the blood gushing from his wound.

“Interesting,” J expands on the subject. “At least you two have one thing in common: you’re both delusional.”

Frost rolls his eyes without J noticing and you signal him:

“Can I please get the whiskey? I need to disinfect this.”

“You have whiskey on your date?! Excuse me, non-date,” his majesty’s obnoxious temper emerges again.

You don’t engage for the moment, just open the bottle that Jonny gave you and splash a generous amount on the laceration.

“Jesus Christ!!!” The King shouts. “Be gentle woman, I’m fragile!!!”

“Sorry Mister J,” you mutter and Frost is certainly approving your tiny revenge scheme. “Can you please turn on the lights on your car? It’s getting dark and I can’t see what I’m doing,” you address The Joker’s sidekick. “Do you have a first aid kit in your vehicle Mister J?” you gesture towards his SUV parked a few feet away.

“I should,” a demented smirk flourished on his lips. “In the trunk!”

“Take a seat in the grass Mister J; I’ll go get it,” you urge the patient.

“Boss, are you sure you don’t want me to take you to the doctor?” Frost offers and instead of obliging your request, J pursues your steps because he doesn’t want to miss Turbo’s reaction.

“It’s fine, I’ll survive until morning time.”

You lift the trunk and gasp, stunned: your stellar ex-husband is tied up in there, duct tape over his mouth, clearly enjoying the repercussions of a confrontation due to bruises you can discern at a first glance.

“Oops, forgot about him,” The Clown yawns, bored.

Adam starts wiggling and mumbling whilst you can’t react.

“The fucker shot me!” your employer hisses. “Had the nerve to try killing me when he’s the one sleeping with MY girlfriend!”

“What’s the plan, sir?” Jonny intervenes, worried at your stunned attitude.

“The plan is simple: since Y/N is intimately acquainted with our guest, I’m willing to work out a deal. I don’t wanna to be accused of not listening to my associates.”

Adam keeps struggling and you finally reach and remove the duct tape.

“Honey, honey please!” he immediately rambles on, panicked. “You know I was joking about your weight, right? You don’t have to lose a few pounds! I admit locking you up in the basement was a huge mistake, ok? OK…? I’m sorry! I swear I’ll never cheat on you in the future. We can work things out, can’t we?” a glimmer of hope alleviates the somber perspective of his imminent demise once you begin searching his pockets.

He has the false impression you’ll untie him when in the matter of fact you are hunting down for his house keys so you can reclaim all the items you bribed him with when he signed the divorce papers.

Bingo! Treasure attained.

“So do you know him or not?” The Joker taps his fingers on the cold metal of his gun.

You take a deep breath, place the duct tape on Adam’s lips and sneer:

“I never saw this asshole in my life!”

“The lady has spoken!” J slams the trunk, unnerved. “Frost, you can go home; Y/N will take me to the warehouse on 8th street: she can borrow a car from there and split. I’ll send someone in the morning to bring it back.”

“Boss, we can leave your SUV here and I can drive you both…”

“DID I STUTTER?” The Clown growls, unhappy with Jonny’s shenanigans.

“No sir.”

“Mister J,” you distract his menacing temper. “Do you want me to bandage your injury now?”

“Nah, you can do it at the warehouse.”

More fireworks illuminate the skies and none in the small group is watching them anymore: the show is over for everyone involved.

You wave at Frost and hop in The Joker’s car as he positions himself in the passenger’s seat; you can tell something is off, besides the obvious of course.

If you’d have to speculate, you would say that his behavior is of a man who wasn’t hurt just physically, but on a different level he doesn’t understand yet: J went after your ex-husband alone when he doesn’t take unnecessary risks; enough proof to indicate he loved Ella and sought revenge for her betrayal without any of his team’s help.

You wonder what he did to the woman: did he kill her? Or worse?... You won’t dig to find out regardless.

The truth is you are The Joker’s Turbo and the statement works in reverse too: he is your Joker who undeniably needs cheering.

And you always deliver. That’s why you’re his.

That’s why you appreciate he made an effort to compromise on Adam’s predicament even if he didn’t mean it.

You steadily drive on the trail until you arrive to the main road, then suddenly accelerate with a specific purpose in mind. You take a sharp turn on Morrison Avenue, already at 100 miles per hour.

“What are you doing?” J bitterly enunciates.

“Why am I your Ghost Driver Mister Joker?” you reply with a question.

“Nobody can catch up with you.”

“Yup, the car to catch up with me hasn’t been assembled. Here they are, Gotham’s finest!” Y/N boasts at the lights glistening behind. “They always have a nightly patrol on Morrison Avenue ready to catch law un-abiding citizens,” you exclaim and J’s smirk widens at your proposition. “What do you say we make them work for their donuts, hm?”

“That’s my girl!” The King gives his blessing while Turbo speeds up the street in a frenzy.

************

11:58 pm

You barely returned to you apartment after the random factors which cut your rendezvous short when the cell chimes: a message from Frost.

“Did you make it home safe?”

“Yes,” you text.

“I’ve been busy. Wait, I’ll send you a picture.”

Downloading picture…

“Holy… shit!!!!!” you yell at your phone because the image depicts a portrait of a freshly shaved Jonny Frost.

“Do you like it?” the sentence appears on the screen concomitant with a knock at the main entrance.

“Who is it?” you drag your feet on the carpet.

“Me.”

As soon as you are standing in front of him, Frost hides his nervousness the best way he can; and he’s not a nervous individual per se.

“I thought you might want to take a closer look…,” he enters the hallway and you slowly lock the door behind him.

You don’t say anything, just touch his face and he pecks your wrist, confessing a secret he kept bottled up for years:

“Do you know I’ve been in love with you from the first second I saw you?”

Y/N doesn’t have to calculate in order to whisper:

“That’s a long time.”

“What’s the verdict?...“ Jonny insists. “You approve the change?”

“Yes,” you kiss him and he holds you tighter, thinking that if he could spend ages in your arms, it would be an eternity well spent.

Also read: MASTERLIST

You can also follow me on Wattpad and Ao3 under the same blog name: DiYunho.

#the joker fanfiction #the joker x reader #the joker imagine #the joker suicide squad #the joker jared leto #jokerleto #joker imagines #joker fanfiction #Jonny Frost #joker suicide squad #mister joker #Mistah J #mister j #dc #dcu

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robert-c · 4 years ago

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Abortion Solution?

Most reliable scientific polls show that an overwhelming majority of people in the US want abortion to remain legal and safe for women to choose. While I have seen no polling data on this, I would imagine that most would also prefer that it didn’t happen often. As someone who has been close to women who chose abortion, I know that it isn’t an easy decision, even when they decide it is the best choice. It is an extremely personal and difficult choice, which no one else can fully appreciate without a complete and total understanding of someone’s life, which is never possible.

When people approve of various restrictions, they are buying into the extremist’s viewpoint, that their feelings and opinions about the decision have some standing. Even when of good will, I think these people are simply talking about their own feelings of where they would personally draw the line for themselves, but imagining (as anti-choice forces wish) that it is up to someone else other than the woman involved. I believe that as long as something is in your body, then you have the final and only say about what happens to that growth.

In order for there to be a solution, there first has to be an acknowledgement that the choice is the woman’s. But those who wish there weren’t so many abortions could do something about that which would be a lot more constructive than trying to outlaw them.

I’ve often wondered what would happen if the massive amounts of money spent trying to outlaw abortion were instead spent on services that are lacking for most candidates for abortion. If these services were available, free or for little cost, perhaps the choices would be less influenced by circumstances that were transient.

The Guttmacher Institute has gathered statistics about abortion for decades in order to have reliable scientific data available for policy makers. Most of the data is not surprising; for example, most (59%) had one or more children already and even more (75%) were poor. In addition, most of the women were in their 20’s (61%).

This paints a picture of women choosing abortion when they cannot afford (another) child. Anti-choice forces would love to paint a simplistic picture of “why not carry the baby to term and offer it for adoption”. Aside from personal choice issues including health and risk to the mother, that may well be a false choice for most of these women. Poor means low income jobs, most likely without health insurance. These are the sort of jobs that don’t come with maternity benefits and which might even be dangerous for pregnant women to engage in beyond a certain point. And of course the most adoptable babies come from mothers with good nutrition, healthy lifestyle and who have had regular prenatal exams, the very sort of thing a poor young woman with no health insurance cannot afford. She could even lose her job for taking off to see the doctor, even if she could afford it.

This sort of rigid moralist thinking about abortion is creating societal problems that the very anti-choice proponents claim they don’t want to see – viz. unwanted children growing up in the foster care system or in unfit homes with inadequate supervision.

So I’m just imagining what if there was a place where a woman could go to get free, or nearly so (sliding scale?), prenatal care. Perhaps the place would even have job training for getting better paying jobs. Its hours would be very flexible so that people wouldn’t have to take off work, and risk losing their jobs, to avail themselves of the services. There would have to be a dinner prepared and a place for their existing children to be watched while in the after-hours programs. Perhaps the key would be to assign a case worker to each person so that their particular needs, training and assistance could be assessed and provided. At the very least, those whose primary reason for the abortion was inability to afford the prenatal care would be able to carry to term for adoption, and some who couldn’t support another child may be able to after additional job training. But in any event, it would be the woman’s choice, uninfluenced by many of the economic circumstances that might force her choice.

These are just “spit balling” ideas. I’m sure someone better than me could flesh them out more. But the key point here is that, contrary to Right wing propaganda, abortion doesn’t appear to be a casual decision, or a first line of birth control. The idea here isn’t to impose a morality on someone else, but to find a solution to the needs of real people so that the choices they make aren’t unduly influenced by things that can be changed.

One of the (many) ironies of anti-choice folks is that IF women choosing abortion were as flighty and casual about the choice as they like to believe, who would want to have them raising a child let alone adopting one from them? Successfully forcing these women to carry a pregnancy to term will not give them the financial ability to provide for the child (before or after birth) or turn someone into a caring and responsible parent.

There really are only a few reasons that the anti-choice forces are willing to spend so much money in an effort to outlaw abortion again, instead of using those millions to help create a world in which it is less frequent by choice. A big part of it is about imposing a simplistic morality on others. Then they can bask in a self-righteous sense of moral superiority and deftly avoid having to consider the complexities of real human being’s lives and the choices they have to make to get by. It may not be “let them eat cake”, but it demonstrates the same complete lack of understanding and empathy.

To top off the inconsistencies of their proposals, let’s remember what happened before when abortion was illegal. The well off women found doctors who would discretely perform the operation, some doctors would coach the women on symptoms to report so that a D&C would be needed, ending any pregnancy as a byproduct of the procedure. As usual, only the poor and people without those connections had to resort to more dangerous versions of abortion. Since the poor are overwhelmingly people of color, the anti-choice agenda is essentially racist as well. And yet at odds with other right wing ideas that see the poor as criminals and welfare cheats, and other alt-right folks who just want to eliminate or reduce the population of non-whites.

Of course these inconsistencies won’t split conservatives from the “right to lifers” because they have long sense quit being about principles and are all about voting blocs. Even the “right to lifers” have no consistent philosophy to pursue; some favor the death penalty, others do not, some are OK with contraception and others oppose it. Apparently the only thing they agree on is that they should (for some reason) have control of women’s bodies.

If the human race were on the verge of extinction for lack of enough children being born, then there might be some reason for their position. As it is, with human over population being one of the main stressors on the environment and threat to human survival, their position is ludicrous and dangerous.

#abortion

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hedgehogsofasgard · 5 years ago

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Do you recommend spaying hedgehogs?

I always find this a difficult question because it is up to each owner to outweigh the pros and cons, and (reproductive) cancers seem to be more common in certain countries than others. For me it would also depend on the vet; whether you have easy access to an experienced vet or not can make a big difference.*

More and more vets are starting to recommend preventative spays for hedgehogs given the relatively high chances of reproductive cancers. Most people in the community on the other hand are against it due to the risks that are said to be involved, mainly the risk that comes with anaesthesia. While anaesthesia is always a risk in small animals that risk increases when an animal is weak and sick. What most people do not consider is that the majority of current surgeries are done on sick and weakened hedgehogs (most spays are emergency spays) which is not the same as doing a preventative spay. For a good, experienced vet a spay is a routine surgery and unless the animal has a rare adverse reaction to the anaesthesia (which can always happen, even in people) the surgery itself should be fairly quick and easy. There are complication risks such as wound infections. In my personal experience with hedgehogs and surgeries (I have never had a hedgehog spayed as I’ve mostly had males; but I’ve had several of them go through various surgeries), they heal up well and recover quickly. They also are not very likely to chew their stitches (which is a good thing because imagine putting a cone on a hedgehog!). The most important aftercare is making sure they are drinking and eating, which can be assisted if needed. A rare side effect of spaying is hypothyroidism; it does not appear to be common in hedgehogs, but I have seen such cases pop up in the community a few times. Some animals have a tendency to get overweight after a spay, but since a lot of hedgehogs already have this tendency in captivity it is hard to say if this increases after spaying. I am unaware of any other side affects affecting hedgehogs. Another factor to keep in mind regarding hedgehogs and anaesthesia is that APH actually seem to be quite resistant to it - they are notoriously difficult to put under. They often require a higher amount of anaesthetic than you’d expect for an animal that size. The same goes for certain types of medication which they need in higher doses. My vets and I have wondered whether this might have anything to do with their natural resistance against certain venoms (e.g. snake venom). This resistance does not seem to be the same across all hedgehog species, which could be due to a geographical genetic factor (very few venomous animals in northern Europe compared to de Arabian desert, for example). This could be an advantage but also a potential disadvantage as the line between the needed amount and overdose can be thin, but at the same time it appears to be harder to overdose them in the first place. This is one of the reasons why an experienced vet is important. In most cases hedgehogs seem to do quite well when it comes to surgery.

I’ve lost one male hedgehog to anaesthesia after an emergency surgery (he woke up and appeared to recover, but slipped away a couple hours later). He was already very weakened so that probably caused his death. Other than that I’ve never had any issues with hedgehogs and surgeries, but as mentioned before it is always a risk. If you are concerned about possible reproductive issues I recommend discussing it with your vet. They know their experience and abilities best.

If people decide not to spay their hedgehog and issues do arise (usually the first sign is blood coming from the vulva, or sometimes it looks like it’s in the urine) I recommend spaying straight away when it’s clear it is not an urinary issue. The common treatment is usually a round of antibiotics to treat possible pyometra or an urinary tract infection (if it is unclear where the blood is coming from), but in a lot of cases the issues return or worsen and by then the hedgehog is in a much weaker state which makes surgery more risky. Some vets will also offer to spay the hedgehog when she needs to be sedated to collect a urine sample (to see whether it is an UTI or not), this avoids having to sedate the hedgehog twice if it does happen to be a reproductive issue. Every situation is different and your best bet will always be to consult with your vet to assess your particular situation! *Before getting a hedgehog you should always find an experienced vet so you won’t run into problems when your hedgehog gets sick. A lot of vets won’t treat hedgehogs or do not have enough experience with them so it’s very important to make sure you have a vet at hand in case you need them.

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the-rings-system · 5 years ago

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You mentioned on your recent livestream that being diagnosed with DID/OSDD can lead to discrimination in terms of organ donations, adoption, etc. Could you provide your sources? I'd like to show them to our therapist. Thank you.

Tw: ableism, organ donations, adoptions.

If you check the description, we wrote about discrimination in organ donations there. For those who didn’t see, here’s what we wrote in the description:

On being denied organ donations with a DID diagnosis: Here's a 2017 paper that gives a review of psychiatric patients being denied organ donations/transplants and argues that it is unethical to block these communities from receiving lifesaving operations (however, there’s no concrete evidence of change since this paper has been published 3 years ago): https://bmcmedethics.biomedcentral.com/articles/10.1186/s12910-017-0235-4 "More than 50% of cardiac programs recognized a number of psychosocial conditions as an absolute contraindication to transplantation, including: active schizophrenia (defined as schizophrenia with active psychotic symptoms), a recent suicide attempt, a history of multiple suicide attempts, current suicidal ideation, and medical noncompliance. Both active schizophrenia and current suicidal ideation were also listed as absolute contraindications for at least half of renal and liver transplant programs." Many of these centers don't even recognize DID as it's own disorder, instead lumping DID folks in with personality or psychotic disorders. "The variability of respondents’ opinions also highlights the presence of inter-institution inconsistency, creating disparity in the treatment of similarly situated individuals across transplant centers, and raises questions about the extent to which current practices follow the recommendations of professional associations."

Here's a 2020 paper detailing how a woman with DID who had been through years of specialized treatment and achieved healthy multiplicity was blocking from donating her kidney due to DID, because she chose to not integrate: https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0033318220300025 "Following the initial evaluation, members of the living donor team met to discuss the case and next steps. Given the concerns for possible lack of reliability in her narrative, we obtained Mrs. A's permission to speak with her treaters and spouse to gather further history. The psychiatric team also reached out to local expert DID clinicians to discuss the case and risk assessment." "According to our review of the literature, factors in Mrs. A that predicted a better postdonation outcome included her history of intensive, specialized treatment for DID, and the lack of conflict among her self-states, with all of them reportedly in agreement with donation. The lack of integration of these self-states, however, may have predisposed her to increased symptomatology were she to donate. Her long-term sobriety and absence of suicidal or self-injurious behaviors, as well as apparent occupational and relationship stability, suggested a general higher degree of psychosocial functioning. Her history of participating in altruistic activities indicated that her current decision-making capability and behavior were in line with consistent values, as well as indicating a capacity for higher level defense and adaptive coping mechanisms." "She had gone through 3 surgeries for various medical conditions and tolerated these well, which was felt to be reassuring." "During the psychiatric assessment, she maintained her central personality for the duration of the session, was able to demonstrate a clear and consistent choice, and conveyed an appropriate understanding and appreciation of the risks and benefits of renal donation, with adequate manipulation of the relevant information. She also endorsed adequate financial and social support in place such that donation would be feasible for her from a logistical perspective." Regardless, she was still denied due to "The general sense of unease this individual provoked among the members of the [organ donation] treatment team despite her having some reassuring characteristics and protective factors, illustrates the need for clearer guidelines for assessing individuals for altruistic renal donation." TLDR: Can you imagine after years of receiving therapy, being sober, being in recovery, having a stable healthy relationship, having healthy internal communication, volunteering humanitarian aid in war-torn areas (she reported this) and then showing up to donate your own kidney - and after multiple interviews with you, your spouse, and every doctor under the sun - still being denied because "you haven't integrated and your disorder makes us uneasy." I have no words. I can't imagine the hoops you'd have to jump through to receive a transplant if that's how many barriers she faced trying to give one.

On adoption: A lot of our knowledge comes from working within groups/organizations that focus on helping folks with severe/highly stigmatized mental illness. However, a simple google search yields plenty of results! https://www.mdedge.com/psychiatry/article/76413/practice-management/adoption-mentally-ill-individuals-what-recommend “Because child adoption laws vary from state to state, there are no established criteria for determining the eligibility of an individual with a history of mental illness. The success of a child adoption by an individual with a history of mental illness will depend on state laws and the policy of the adoption agency. Some U.S. states and territories (Alaska, Arizona, California, Kentucky, North Dakota, and Puerto Rico) regard parental mental illness as “aggravated circumstances.”

https://www.adoptuskids.org/adoption-and-foster-care/overview/who-can-adopt-foster/people-with-disabilities “We also know that many parents with disabilities feel discriminated against when undertaking the adoption process.” “Parents with disabilities are more likely to lose custody of their children after divorce, have more difficulty in accessing reproductive health care, and face significant barriers to adopting children. The National Council on Disabilities has documented societal biases and systems barriers that affect parents in a report called Rocking the Cradle.” https://www.ncd.gov/publications/2012/Sep272012/Ch10 (This one just keeps going) “Adoption horror stories are all too common for prospective parents with disabilities. The adoption system is riddled with de facto and de jure discrimination that prevents countless prospective parents with disabilities from adopting. Examination of domestic and international adoption practices reveals that reforms are urgently needed across the broad spectrum of adoption practices and procedures.” “Despite the ADA and Rehabilitation Act, prospective adoptive parents with disabilities regularly encounter barriers erected by discrimination and bias. According to Elizabeth Bartholet, Harvard Law School professor and one of the nation’s leading experts on adoption, “Discrimination is the name of the game in adoptive parenting. Those who procreate live in a world of near-absolute parenting rights. Those who would adopt have no rights. They must beg for the privilege of parenting and do so in a state-administered realm that denies them both the right to privacy and the civil rights that we have come to think of as fundamental. Differential treatment on the basis of age, race, religion, and disability has been outlawed in almost all areas of our communal lives in the United States. Increasingly the law forbids discrimination on the basis of marital status and sexual orientation. It is only in the area of adoption that our system proclaims not simply the right to discriminate on all these bases but the importance of doing so. It is not just the prospective parents who are treated shabbily, but also the children, in whose best interests the system is supposedly designed.” Dave Shade says, “The adoption process is complex, and because it frequently involves personal judgments by parents, social workers, judges, and other adoption professionals, it is fraught with the opportunity for discrimination.” “Despite the ADA mandates, research demonstrates that a significant number of adoption agencies continue to categorically deny prospective parents with disabilities. In 2010, researchers from Northwestern University completed a study that examined the experiences of prospective adoptive parents who were cancer survivors.[736] The study was aimed at the attitudes of the adoption agencies. Of the 27 agencies that were interviewed, 7 admitted that certain medical conditions would prevent people from adopting through their agency. They cited a variety of illnesses and medical conditions that included “contractible diseases; AIDS; active, life-threatening diseases; use of antidepressants; terminal illnesses that shorten lifespan; conditions that require a large amount of narcotics that render the person unconscious; substance addiction; and severe mental conditions like schizophrenia... The researchers concluded, “Although existing legislative documents such as the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) protect cancer survivors’ rights to adopt a child, these protections are largely inconsequential in practice…. [The] network of adoption agencies working with potential parents in the U.S. is characterized by fundamental variability and ambiguity…[and] the current adoption system permits informal prejudice in practice that likely varies from one agency to the next.” “In addition to categorically denying prospective parents with disabilities, domestic adoptions frequently engage in other discriminatory practices. Bartholet says that prospective adoptive parents are subject to an unspoken “ranking system.” That is, the domestic adoption system ranks prospective parents in terms of relative desirability, “using factors that reflect the system’s bias in favor of a biologic parenting model, as well as a socially traditional family model.” Pursuant to this ranking system, “Heterosexual couples in their late 20s or early 30s with apparently stable marriages are at the top of the ladder. These are the people who can, if they are not infertile, produce children, and who should in the system’s view be parents. Single applicants and those in their late 30s and 40s are placed lower on the ladder, along with people with mild disabilities. Gays, lesbians, and those who are significantly older or seriously disabled are generally excluded altogether.” “However, some states specifically deny prospective parents with disabilities the opportunity to adopt. As recently as December 2011, Virginia erected an enormous impediment by approving regulations that allows adoption agencies to discriminate against prospective adoptive parents based on six categories, including disability.” “Conclusion: Around the world, countless children are waiting for their forever homes. At the same time, many people with disabilities want to provide a loving and nurturing home and family for children. Ignorance, stigma, and misconceptions are forestalling harmonious solutions. The result is devastating: Children spend many years in deplorable conditions in foster care and orphanages, while people with disabilities are robbed of the opportunity to welcome these children into their homes and hearts.”

Here’s a long paper published in 2017 about discrimination in adoption for folks with disabilities, based in Australia: https://www.mdpi.com/2075-471X/6/3/15/pdf

We’ve also talked with older members of the mental health community who directly know people who’ve had prison sentences be unjustly extended due to a diagnosis of schizophrenia/DID, but I’m too exhausted to find sources that back that up. I’m sure with a couple google searches you could easily find information on discrimination towards psychiatrically disabled folks in the law system as well.

We have also has multiple friends with DID diagnoses (3 within our circle) be denied or nearly denied transgender medical care (either hormones or surgery) after their diagnosis of DID was made known to their doctors. One friend ended up getting back on hormones after a months of “proving” that they were trans with their DID specialist (but they’re unsure whether they’ll be able to access surgery). Again, too exhausted to find “real” sources for this one other than the pain of my community.

As we talked about, we’ve also been gently sat down by older DID community members to have the conversation about “hey, you’re young and full of spirit and that’s great, but you need to be aware that your youtube channel might impact your ability to get a job and other things.” And considering that research shows 80% of folks with schizophrenia are unemployed, even thought 70% would prefer to work, discrimination is still rampant. You can be fired from your job for being gay, you can be fired from you job for having DID.

Sorry that’s a lot, stay safe, and remember: diagnosis can come with a lot of downsides. Talk through it with your therapist on whether it’s the right choice for you, and really think about how it can impact your future.

#silver.speaks #long post #tw ableism #tw organs #?#tw adoption #Anonymous #ask

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struwwelzeter · 4 years ago

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About the possibility of vaccination passes at the door to cultural events

This is completely off topic to what I usually post here but I wrote it on fb and what the hell, I guess. I’m too mad to shut up.

First of all:

Being Anti Vaccination in general means you are uninformed and missguided and should educate yourself better.

That being said ...

The amount of perfectly sane, nice and conscious of human rights, people, especially in the gig/events economy, who suddenly think it’s completely ok to ask for vaccination passes and who say shit like “people who aren’t vaccinating shouldn’t be allowed in, I don’t give a shit” is staggering to me.

We get it. The prospect of having to rely on the willingness of idiots to be vaccinated for being able to work again is scary, and staggering. Still, it is not how this is gonna work. The problem isn’t that some people won’t be vaccinated. It shouldn’t be. The only indicator for events being possible should be the overall incident inside of the population. That’s it. Events can happen when incidence is so low, the risk of a big event becoming a superspreader that will overwhelm the health care system and lets alot of people die is basically non existent. Yes, that will depend on a lot of people being vaccinated. No, that does not give you the right to ask for personal health data at the door.

Trying to fast track the opening of events with vaccination passes will always include discrimination (more on that later) and that is why it’s not an option. If you think discrimination is ok in order for you to be able to work, I don’t know what to tell you. If you really think it’s better to descriminate against people who want to attend an event and making them responsible for your ability to work, rather than holding a system responsible that has downgraded culture to a profit orientated amusement park for decades, I really do not know what to tell you. I guess you can leave here, we won’t agree.

The events industry has spend an entire year not working - in order to protect the collective health of our society. It’s our duty as a society to protect them back and make sure they still have food and a roof over their head by the end of this. That ist the real problem. If we did that, we wouldn’t even have this discussion, you could stay home in peace and wait until we have herd immunity. It is very shitty that we, as a society, have failed you. However, just because you have been wronged, you don’t get to wrong people in return, especially because the overlap between the people that wronged you, and those you are now planning to wrong, will be relatively small. Again, if you don’t see how descrimnation against people that haven’t caused your predicament just elevate your situation is wrong, I do not know what to tell you.

Now. Here is why no access without vaccination passes will always open the door for descrimination:

1. For the forseeable future, not everybody will have acces to the vaccine. Depending on country, that will mean your great plan will automatically exclude people of a certain age, financial standing, profession or even location.

2. Some people aren’t recommended to get the vaccine by no fault of their own. This includes:

- Pregnant people (which haven’t been included in the studies with the vaccine yet and are therefore not recommended to get it yet)

- Children and youths under a certain age (which haven’t been included in the studies with the vaccine yet and are therefore not recommended to get it yet)

- Immunocompromised people for exemple through cancer treatments (who should be careful regardless but which haven’t been included in the studies with the vaccine yet and are therefore not recommended to get it yet).

- People with a history of analphylaxis (the allergic reactions to the proteins that serve as a carrier for the mRNA that have been observed in rare cases are mostly patients like this. Risk assessment is individual and down to several factors. This group in particular is interesting in this discussion because while some might be recommended to get the vaccine, they have a good reason to chose not to risk it.)

- People who are very prone to auto immune reactions. The stories you hear about the serious side effects of vaccination and that are used to scaremonger people away from vaccination mostly are stories about a triggered auto immune disease. auto immune things can be triggered by a big variety of things, and it is very rare that it does get triggered by a vaccination. However, in most cases of people actually being at risk for this, there are indicators, such as it running in the family or it already having been triggered by something else. Like with people with analphylaxis, the risk varies from patient to patient.

3. Phobias. This will be very few people but some people do have panic and fear issues surrounding needles tnat you can’t even imagine, you know. Mental Health factors are still health factors.

4. Bodily autonomy. Some people simply do not want to be vaccinated and that’s their right. Are their reasons probably missguided? Yeah. Are many of them stupid? Yup. Is it still the right of every person to decide what happens to their body without having to fear exile from social community? Yes. (This one is tricky because on the case of vaccination of course this only holds up when herd immunity is reached and the refusal to be vaccinated isn’t risking the health of others to an unreasonable degree. Still. People do have the right to not get vaccinated on personal grounds because it’s their body, and the information about that isn’t something anyone should have access to.)

Herd immunity does not mean that every person has to be vaccinated. It means that enough people are vaccinated to ensure that if a virus bounces around he will not find enough to cling to and can’t multiply. It means that the immunity of many will protect the few that aren’t able to get immunity. And that’s why herd immunity should be the indicator for the possibility of events, and not the status of personal health data.

Does that mean we are dependent on every person who can get vaccinated to have the sense to do so? Yes.

Is that scary as hell because people are stupid? Also yes.

Should we therefore descriminate against the herd members that can’t get it and pry into deeply personal reasons and health information for not getting vaccinated (such as being pregnant for exemple) instead of holding society as a whole responsible for the survival of cultural events? God, I hope not.

Please just ... don’t be like that. Be better.

Btw: I am 100% pro vaccination and can’t wait to get mine. Vaccination is sexy. Vaccination means we can all go back to concerts, and if we all do it, we can even go back to concerts while being ethical about it. Isn’t that nice.

#vaccine #vaccination #covid 19

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birdsaesthetic · 4 years ago

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The Bird in the Tree (8) Whatever we do, wherever we go...

Summary: Pre-series fic in which Remi ditches the mission for some reasons (still eager to get the Bird tattoo and the short haircut)

Note: I thought I would begin to post the writing here as well as on ffnt. It seems encouraging for me to write it more, and for others to reach it and read it. Enjoy!

***

Laying next to each other in bed, both Remi and Oscar were sleeping in peace.

Oscar was sleeping with his cheek pressed against the pillow, his mouth slightly open, and his bangs hung over his eyes. One arm of his was nicely settled across Remi's waist, who was sleeping curled into a tight, little ball in the bed beside him, and having her back to him as she slept on her side with a few narrow strands of hair against her cheek forming a complex pattern. She almost looked like a totally different person during her sleep; her expressions became softer. Since her eyes, the emerald, intimidating eyes, maintained closed, all the sharpness in her face replaced with softer features.

As they slept, their breathing couldn't have been any quieter, and aside from the occasional tiny twitch of their shoulders, they barely ever moved.

The two were too exhausted, too spent that without a word they had collapsed on bed when they first got inside Oscar's place.

Earlier, Remi had rolled her eyes at Oscar when he pulled up his car by his place at four o'clock in the morning, after having left the woods together. "I'm not coming with you to your dirty place! Take me to my place!" She'd told him in protest.

Oscar then yawned to her face as he muttered, "I can't really see anything. Everything is blurry before my eyes. I can't even see you right now." He yawned some more then added, "I cleaned it up there, I promise. It's clean now, and ugh...you just come and see yourself."

Just then that she actually got curious to see it, so she only nodded and with him headed to the inside.

Truth be told, it was all clean, his place, smelling fresher, looking way better, and so she'd looked up at him with an impressive grin, saying nothing farther. After that, both of them just crushed on the bed with their street clothes on, and slept until now, early afternoon.

In her sleep, Remi heard the sound of her phone ranging. She pulled the blanket off and stumbled across the room until she reached her coat, which had the phone shoved into its pocket.

Remi answered; it was shepherd, with easygoing voice informing her to be at the office by four in the evening. She nodded and hung up, walking back the few paces to the bed with her face still awash with sleep.

"Who is it?" Oscar murmured through his sleep, shifting himself.

"It's Shepherd." By then, Remi was already sitting on the bed next to him.

"What is it she wants?" Oscar worried, getting himself into a sitting position. But when Remi opened her mouth to tell him, his own phone rang. So he got it out from the pocket in his jeans and quickly answered. Unsurprisingly it was shepherd again, informing him the same, exact thing.

"Wanted to see you at four today?" Oscar asked after he hung up.

She shook her head. "Yeah."

"Same here. What do you think it's about?"

Instead of sparing a thought about it, Remi only gave a shrug, "I don't know. She said nothing farther."

Oscar yawned, "C'mere, until then we can use some more sleep!"

Remi recoiled. "No, I'm good. I've had enough sleep."

With that being said, Oscar collapsed back against the mattress with a groan, and Remi eased herself out of bed, stretched her neck, walked to the sink, raised her face, and drunk up a handful of water from the sink."

When she was done with that, though, she looked around her, and saw basically nothing to occupy with in the meantime. No TV. No books that didn't involve their work. There wasn't even a couch or seat to sit on. There was only his bed, that though small, it took the majority of the space in his place.

Right after realizing how boring everything was, Remi breathed in deeply and returned back to the bed, sat on its edges, and stared down at him as he seemed like trying to fall asleep again. He was silent and still, peaceful and handsome. Half of his face was tucked against the pillow as he laid down on his stomach.

Although his eyes were nicely pressed close, she was certain that he was still fully conscious, not asleep just yet. What she wasn't certain about, though, was if he somehow knew she was staring at him!

But she barely cared if he knew or not. She kept on staring at him, thinking, and wondering in unbroken silence for a long time, before she actually decided to take another action.

Not in any way delightful, she ran her fingers through his hair, assessing its quality and length—to her, it looked longer than usual. But in fact, he'd had much longer hair than that in his early twenties—and then she wondered out loud, "When was the last time you've had a haircut?"

With croaky voice and closed eyes, he answered, mumbling the words, "I can't really remember."

Taking her hand off, she tried to guess, teasingly, "Seems like a decade ago!"

"Seems like you don't like it!"

She slightly shook her head after she said, "Opposite."

"Why should I believe you?" He kept rambling with her and teasing, knowing that she was in a good mood right now after having had a good quality of sleep.

"You can believe me or not!" She shrugged.

"Okay..." he murmured.

She smirked at seeing him get defeated, in her mind thinking he was going to reopen his eyes now, reach out, and redeem that by stealing a hard kiss or something?

But all he actually did was roll over to the other side, put his back to her, and snuggle deeper into the bed.

"What was that?" She growled with a deep frown.

"What's that?" He muttered—just barely—voice muffled against the pillow.

"Seems like I should go!" She threatened. But As fast as possible, he turned over to her and yelled, "No! Opposite,"

"Why should I believe you?" She repeated him, and he smirked to that, then crawled closer into her lap, braced her shoulders firmly, and with a good deal of effort he put, it resulted in having her lay down on her back, and then he settled atop her.

fluttering her eyes, Remi found herself enfolded in his familiar embrace beneath him, and at the close proximity of his face against hers, she couldn't but have her eyes fall closed, blocking out all the brightness of the mid-day sun, and with it blocking out the reality.

Shifting here and there until her thighs opened wide for him to settle in between, she went along with the sloppy kiss Oscar just initiated. Each one tilted their head in opposite sides for the kisses to get deeper.

Such a moment, both thought.

The two definitely had been longing for this; the eager hands rushing out for more skin-to-skin contact were only one proof to demonstrate that of so many.

Remi made a little noise then, from within her throat, and it seemed like a chuckle was trapped there. She tugged at his hair and pulled his head back. Grinning, she teased him, "You taste the worst!"

When his eyes caught hers, they were startling. Breathless yet grinning at seeing her grin, he wanted to know, "How bad?"

"All smoke and sleep, could you imagine the combination here?" She chuckled now, and he chuckled along with her before bending down for another kiss, because that didn't even stop him. Not after all this time that'd passed without her.

But when he tried to, she stopped him there just before capturing her lips, firmly contained his head into her hands a few inches away from hers, and took a profound moment to begin observing his face.

The golden sunlight managed to creep from the curtains and hit the perfect spot on his brown eyes, making them brighter, almost transparent. Close up that her lashes might have brushed against his, Remi was calmly mesmerized and startled all at the once by the way his eyes were darting back and fourth, drawing her closer—until she felt like being drown into them, ridiculously so. She saw the pure love that burned there, the raw emotions, and the right amount of warmth so when needed, she'd want to go to him as her first source of warmth.

At this moment in particular, she confirmed that this wasn't just the silly Oscar she just joked with, but the real version of him, the person she fell in love with in matters of months and a few small talks here and there. A little could she ever express how much she loved the real him, and how much wanted to get to know it even more and more; there was something about it she'd never find in another human being. Perhaps that was why she had to do this, having a profound moment with him and merely looking into his eyes, the window of his soul, to see the real him before she'd leave for good.

Again, as she'd taken into her consideration before, it wasn't a question how much he loved her. He loved her and wanted her. He prioritized her and trusted her. He cared for her and tolerated her aggressiveness toward him. He listened to her attentively even when she'd been mostly silent and gave her what she needed.

He also didn't care about any consequences of that, which at most are going to hurt him but not her. After all, her memories are about to be wiped off, there wasn't going to be a thing to remember and yearn for. Or to cry over. Or to spend sleepless nights overthinking about. Or to regret and blame herself for. It was entirely him that would be hunted by all of this. Yet, he focused on the present. Now. With her. And did nothing else besides that.

On the other side, though, Oscar pleasantly and smilingly looked back into her emerald eyes, heavy with the knowledge that such a silent, intimate moment might be a turning point for both of them; he could swear he saw her thinking deeply behind those emerald eyes, finally thinking about them and their future together.

Their future together, however, she was the one whom risking it, throwing it into a deep hole where no help would be helpful to save it back. But He was the one doing everything in his power to talk her out of it, save everything for once and all before it'd get too late to do so, and make both of them happier and less worried.

Remi was and had always been an unpredictable person, unreadable too, but this time around, the thoughts that just crossed the marvels of her ominous mind as the two of them explored each other's eyes—no words were exchanged during that, nor a move was made—were as obvious to him as if had been written on her forehead. And before the hesitation held him back, he whispered right against her face, "I know what you're thinking about,"

Her gaze had lowered to his mouth the second he whispered that, and her entire body got goosebumps at how tickling and wet his breath against her skin was. She gave him an intense look before which her pulse accelerated and with it came the rising panic and the itchy feeling to crush whatever things were ahead of her, to which he feared yet kept himself contained. "I promise you that we will be much happier together if we—"

With her hands still cupping his cheeks, and by no means aggressively, she cut him off, "You don't get it, Oscar, do you? Even if I leave with you, I won't be happy."

Oscar gave a firm shake of his head, disagreeing, but he couldn't help the nervous chuckle that escaped his lips. "Why is that? Why being ominous, Remi? We can do whatever we want, go everywhere we wish!"

She closed her eyes, wishing if what he just said was that simple for her, before she drew in a shaky breath and squirmed her body just a little in order to relax her nerves.

Still overwhelmed with the conflicted thoughts, she struggled into a sitting position after carefully having pressed her palms against his chest for him to pull away from atop of her. And then, once the two of them were sitting, lags curled into the bed, knees rubbing against each other, spins hunched over, and heads not entirely straight, Remi complained in her point of view, "It isn't that simple. Whatever we do, wherever we go, this thing will continue to hunt me. My memories, the things I've done so far, and what I've planned to do...they define who I really am, shape my life, and are trying to send me to a place has already been decided for me, only me. It's only me who can do this, Oscar, you know this! We've talked about it over and over. I can never escape from this. It's much bigger than just the both of us combined."

Even now, Oscar could still feel and hear the fast pumping of her heart, as though wanting to jump out of its place. He hurried up, and tried his best to soothe her by reaching out a light hand on her thigh and stroking in gentleness there, to which she gave an innocent look, still breathing fast, but seemingly trying hard to come to her senses.

"This isn't true, Remi, what you just said! I promise that you won't regret, and you won't feel anything but grateful for having left all of this behind and—"

"Yes. Yes." She insisted. "And you know what? from now on we should only focus on our job, and do nothing else besides it." She said, rushing to bring this conversation to an end, and already pulling away and getting out of bed in search of her coat.

"You won't let me ever talk, will you?" He called out across from room for her, because by now she was far away stripping her arms inside the coat.

"You brought this up! okay? I didn't want to talk about it in the first place."

Leaving the bed, Oscar retorted, "But you were thinking about it,"

She glimpsed at him, but didn't bother to say anything back. Instead, she tried to recall where she had last put her boots, looking at the surroundings.

"Where are you going?" Oscar asked, and by now he was standing still in front of her. Staling or really meant something by it he wasn't sure, but she didn't bother to answer him once again. And it wasn't until Oscar claimed to know where her boots are that she actually looked up at him and finally answered, huffing, "I'll just go out grip myself something to eat. Apparently there isn't even water here; I had to drink from the sink earlier."

Oscar laughed just a little, with his mouth shut. But then he thought he better be defending himself instead. "Hey! there's water here. If you'd looked harder, would've found it."

Then, he cracked a tight smile at her, who didn't smile back, nor gave any other expression.

"Okay, then," He sighed. "Let's go get something together. I'm hungry too."

She didn't protest any further, and he didn't take more than a minute until he was fully ready, before which he withdrew her pairs of boots from under his bed.

Her jaw dropped, Why couldn't I remember having shoved my boots under the damn bed? Oh! Because I certainly haven't done that!

She frowned, arms folded and face twisted out of shape. "Was that meant? Shoving them under your bed? Because that's just so stupid—"

"Why would I do that?" He chuckled, handing her her boots back, to which she gripped out of his hand.

"I don't know!" She shrugged, outwardly pissed off, as she started putting them back on.

"We were asleep, okay! But you fell asleep with these on and were kicking my ass with them. I had to struggle and take them off and put them just there so you wouldn't step over them once you awake, is all."

He was finished saying that by the time she was finished with her boots, but she really had no idea either what to do next or what to

say as a response—thank you? Or why should I believe you? Because she was, in fact, a little suspicious of him; she would've felt him do so! After all, she'd always be a light sleeper.

Since she couldn't recall enough from when they'd first left their spot at the wood and then drove all the way to his place, she decided to maintain silent now, only tucking her hair behind her ears and zipping her coat.

He, knowing what was behind that frowning face of her: a smiling one, teased her some more, "For some reason, you just always hate on your angelic boyfriend. Isn't unfair for me? Huh?" He elbowed her, joking. And Remi cringed to that, rolling her eyes away from him as she made her way to the door and left with him following from behind her, only so he could hide the wide smirk on his face.

#The Bird in the tree #blindspot #blindspotfic #Remi #Oscar #Roscar

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mollymauk-teafleak · 5 years ago

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I will love you if I never see you again (chapter four)

A huge, endless thank you to my beta readers @minky-for-short and @spiky-lesbian who are amazing as always

Please consider leaving a comment on Ao3 to let me know what you thought! It takes two seconds, is completely free and makes me smile so much!

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4

-----

Nureyev had always loved the stars. They’d been an escape to a small, scared boy with no home, no safety, no guaranteed next meal, nothing but a name. No matter where he had wound up sleeping, however empty his stomach was, how close the last laser shot had sounded, as long as he could see the stars he could imagine something better. A thousand other plants, most of which had never had a single human step on their surface, so far away he could blot them out with a thumb. Surely with all of those chances, all of that possibility, there just had to be something better than this. And as long as Peter knew that, he could keep going.

He’d always loved the stars, he’d needed them as much as he needed food and oxygen, he’d needed the escape and possibility. But he’d never thought they were beautiful until he saw them through his daughter’s eyes.

Nureyev tried to give Bianca routine where he could. So much of their life was completely uncertain, though not in the same way it had been when he was a child. Nureyev was endlessly grateful for that and there was no amount he wasn’t willing to part with to keep it that way. Their uncertainty was more about what planet they would end up on, what hotel they would stay in, what names he would give for them at the front desk. It was about the endlessly rotating faces around them, people slipping into roles rather than actual personalities, everything always shifting and changing. It would be so easy to lose yourself in all of that, feeling like you were becoming as ephemeral and insubstantial as everything else. Nureyev knew that well.

So he tried to anchor them whenever he could. And this was one of the ways he did that, one of Bianca’s favourite things.

The shuttles that ferried people around the solar system were microcosms of the planets they served. One floor of almost sickening luxury built to hold the scant few people who could afford it and the rest of the pot bellied space vessels given over to much grimmer quarters for everyone else. Nureyev had treated himself to a seat on the upper floor a few times, always after he was feeling smug about a particularly high profile job. But, in truth, he preferred sitting in the lower decks. The view was better there. No over attentive staff, no distracting screens on every surface vying for your attention, no live entertainment on the longer flights. No assuming that the majesty of space itself, the stars winking in the darkness, the faraway galaxies smudged against the sky, wouldn’t be enough to hold your attention. You could sit down there, feel like no one and stare out at space that held it all together.

Nureyev always got a window seat and sat his daughter on his knee, ignoring the adjoining seat he had to purchase for her. Bianca would usually sleep through the noisy takeoff, making her daddy marvel at her ability to snore through the racket of interstellar engines blasting burning fuel just a few meters away but wake up immediately in a soft, comfortable bed if he so much as shifted while holding her.

But as soon as they were surrounded by space and that eerie silence descended, Nureyev would gently nudge her awake, knowing she wouldn’t want to miss a second of it. No matter how many times she’d seen it before, whether it was their tenth or fiftieth or thousandth journey, it never seemed to dim the awe and delight on Bianca’s little face as she would stand, wobbly and uncertain on her little legs, in her daddy’s lap and press her face to the reinforced glass, making her indistinct babyish noises of excitement. As she got older, they began to coalesce into words, mostly just repeating ‘stars’ and ‘bootiful’ to herself in a whisper, clutching Nureyev’s sleeve tightly like she was worried he couldn’t see them and needed to be shown.

And then she would grasp at them, her fingers brushing against the window, like she was trying to pluck them from the vast expanse that couldn’t really be called a sky if you had no ground to stand on. Like she could open her adorably chubby little hand and see one twinkling there, as small as it appeared from their vantage point, and hold it out to her daddy, a gift of one of the shiny things she knew he liked so much.

Her little face would crinkle in disappointment after a few failed attempts, though it wouldn’t stop her trying again next time. Nureyev would smile and touch her cheek lightly and remind her that he didn’t need stars. He had his most precious treasure, better than anything else the universe could produce.

It didn’t matter how many times he had to remind her. He would mean it wholeheartedly, every single time.

Then he would help her find a more comfortable position and tell her the stories, ancient and crumbling thousands of years before now but still living on. He would tell her about Andromeda and Cassiopeia, Delphinus and Orpheus’ lyre and the mistakes of Orion. Too young to understand nine words in ten, she would still listen attentively and fix her eyes on the stars, in love with the worlds her daddy painted with them. Whether the journey was an hour or ten or a day, Bianca would listen and sleep and listen again, almost eerily quiet and well behaved. A child who had learned very early on that when her daddy asked her to be still, she had better listen or alarms might start going off.

Nureyev would always have a destination in mind for them, it would never do to step off a shuttle and not immediately know your next move. If he’d thought himself careful before he had Bianca, then afterwards he was nothing short of fanatically meticulous. Maps of whatever city they arrived in, shortest routes in and out of major buildings, dedicated assessments of how lax the police force were in certain districts, he kept all of it behind his eyes as he’d walk through the streets with his head held high and Bianca in her sling, sleeping or peering out silently but curiously against his chest.

Never the same hotel twice, even if it was a planet he’d been on before, there was no sense in taking silly risks. There never had been but there was even less now. Fake creds, fake names, fake ID, basic stuff he’d learned so long ago and had hammered into him so many times that it was part of his DNA, like the instincts that told him to pull in air and to walk upright.

Bianca would always seem hesitant at first, though she’d never cry. The unfamiliar smells and too bright, too packaged newness of their suite would bring out nothing more than hunched shoulders and maybe a soft whimper, if it was especially late or their last escape had been particularly harrowing, though those were becoming very few and far between to Nureyev’s relief. Still, it would make his chest ache.

Fortunately they had another little ritual. Nureyev would sweep the blankets and pillows off of the bed, merrily ruining their crisp whiteness and dumping them onto the floor. As it happened, the skills he so prized as a thief- clever hands, adaptability, dogged determination- were also incredibly useful when it came to constructing a blanket fort, no matter the shape of the room, the amount of materials they’d been left with or how exhausted he was.

It didn’t need to be big, just perfectly sized for him and Bianca, the top of his head usually scraping the roof of it. No matter the colour of the light that filtered through the sheets or the noise from the city outside, no matter what dirt of what planet sat beneath them, as long as they were in their little den, curled up close like a fox and his cub in a cosy bolt hole, they felt like they were home. Bianca would open up like a flower, lying on her back and cooing happily, kicking her little legs and mauling her poor cloth cat, carefree in a way she only ever was when she was truly safe.

And she would look up at Nureyev like he hung the moon. Like he’d made the stars she loved so much.

And Nureyev would know he’d found that something better he’d dreamed of as a child.

He hadn’t thought it would still hurt so much. He’d been pretending for so long, longer even that he’d known where they were going and who they were going to collect, even longer than he’d been practising his smile in the mirror and dredging up memories he’d wanted to bury, deliberately plucking them up out of their boxes in his most vulnerable moments as training exercises.

There had been more than Nureyev had thought. His face as he’d commanded, demanded, that a towering, insane Martian anthropologist let go of Nureyev with undeniable fire in his eyes. His furrowed brow when he was just a few clicks away from solving a case, that moment of held breath before he made everything make sense. How he’d looked in the hospital with the bandage over the fresh ruin of one eye, how he’d looked so scared and so young, wracked with nightmares and clinging to Nureyev’s hand. How he’d looked in the shadowy light of his apartment, leaning in eagerly for a kiss before Nureyev had even told him to come here.

How he had looked at Nureyev’s daughter when he’d woken up and she hadn’t been there, eye wild and dangerous and full of the same fire as before, even with one where there had once been two. A face Nureyev himself had worn so many times. A father’s face.

Nureyev had let these memories loose where he’d once held them so carefully. And he’d beaten each one, forced it to be small enough to carry. He’d let them tear at him until he was a wash of internal wounds and forced them to heal. He’d said his name over and over, hearing the sound of it until it became just another word.

So why had it still hurt so much?

“Hello Juno. It’s been a while.”

It had come out as smoothly as he’d wanted it to, unconcerned and light as if the two of them had simply bumped into each other at a coffee shop with nothing in their past thornier than perhaps an awkward conversation at a birthday party. All of it perfectly orchestrated, right down to the way Nureyev perched on the Ruby 7 like a cat, to the way his lips fell open just so, making his smile a perfect mix of predatory and indifferent. I could pluck you from the sky and snap your neck in an instant, little bird, but why would I bother?

But inside it had felt like drowning.

Because he was there, he was standing right there with his ridiculous expression like he didn’t understand anything going on around him in that ratty, out of style overcoat that Nureyev wanted to burn and partly wanted to pull around him just to feel how warm it would be. Still with the eyepatch, clearly totally unconcerned with matching it to his outfit, with a tiny duffle bag over one shoulder that apparently contained all the trash from that sad little apartment he’d thought worth taking into space.

Juno Steel was standing in front of him, close enough to touch within a few strides, and Nureyev wanted to run.

But he couldn’t. He needed this job, he needed to be part of this crew. So he’d had to smile his practised smile, eye him like nothing mattered and never show that it burned like bad whiskey.

At least Nureyev had been able to make a quick exit after that, pointedly excusing himself from the hand shaking and the secretary’s loud introductions. He’d done as Captain Aurinko had asked and his own pride had demanded and he’d come off the worse. He didn’t need to do any more. And there was somewhere else he needed to be.

His bunk was as far from the others as the layout of the Carte Blanche would allow, for good reason. Bianca hadn’t taken well to settling in one place for so long, especially somewhere that creaked and groaned with decompression like some irritated beast, where there were other people she didn’t know, where things were just different. Where she could tell something was bothering her daddy that he wouldn’t share and wasn’t fixing. Neither of them had been getting much sleep lately.

Fortunately, when he pushed back the door, his daughter was still napping, curled up in their blanket, her fists pressed up against her face. Now a year and a half old, she’d become such a person. He knew that was a silly thing to think, she’d always been a person. But she’d solidified somehow in the year and change since he’d first held her and hadn’t the faintest idea what to do with her. Her arms and legs were now arms and legs rather than chubby things she could only fling about gracelessly. Her shapeless dark fluff had turned into curls that flowed and bounced. Her face still had babyish roundness but she had more expressions now, her eyes had an awareness when they weren’t closed in sleep. She had more control, more personhood than she’d seemed to before. She could wobble a few hesitant steps, she could babble the half word dada over and over and break his heart.

She was growing, more and more every day. It made Nureyev thankful for moments like this, when he could just sit by her and watch her be still, on momentary pause, like maybe he could keep her this small forever. Like she would never outgrow his arms.

Nureyev sighed and told himself he was being maudlin, leaning back against the wall. But he was finding it hard to muster up any other emotion, knowing Juno Steel had weaseled his way aboard their fresh start and was rattling around in this tin can with the rest of them.

He would have argued, offered to find any other one eyed former detective, even if he had to put out the other eye himself. He would have walked and found some other ship full of colourful misfits to take him and Bianca around the galaxy.

But his options were limited and his time was running out. And how many other thieving crews would make a man with no name and a toddler welcome? Buddy had been more understanding than Nureyev had dared hope when he’d admitted that it wouldn’t just be him joining the crew of the Carte Blanche. Maybe it was her strange ideas about them being more family than crew, perhaps she thought a baby would cement that or at least be a nice ornament to her tableau.

Nureyev didn’t care. He’d found somewhere Bianca could be safe long term, somewhere he could be sure she’d still be if he had to leave for a few hours on a job. Not painlessly, of course, but dependably. And that was the best he thought he’d get.

Juno arriving took all of that, screwed it into a ball and threw it with bad aim at a wastepaper basket. And now all the boxes Nureyev kept for things he couldn’t deal with felt about to split and even looking at his daughter, soft and sweet and sleeping, made his chest feel tight in a way he couldn’t stand. Looking at her, all he could see was the eyes that were a brown so much darker than his own, practically black, and the curls that didn’t come from his fine, silky hair. The darker skin and the broad nose and the scowl she could bring out sometimes that gave him a double take. All he could see were the parts he hadn’t given her, the proof that she hadn’t come from nowhere. The parts that made it complicated.

Nureyev reached over and pushed back a delicate curl of hair that had fallen over her face, leaving his fingers there a few seconds longer than was necessary. Bianca shifted gently and calmed, her face relaxing a shade more than it had been before, as if the brush of his fingertips had been enough to soothe her and chase away bad dreams.

His love for her struck him fiercely, as it always did, like low, constant embers flaring up into a roaring blaze.

Her DNA didn’t matter. It never had. Juno’s contribution had been all of a second, a throwaway moment neither of them had noticed. Her eyes, her hair, it wasn’t Juno’s. It was hers.

She didn’t need him and neither did Nureyev. They had never needed anything but each other.

Seized by some kind of mad energy, the need to do something and be good at it, Nureyev got up, using all his cat burglar instincts to not rock the bed in the slightest and wake up Bianca. Maybe he would mend the dress she tore last week or try and salvage the blanket he’d been attempting on and off to knit for her since she was born. Something that would push Juno Steel entirely from his mind.

Until he opened the door and came face to face with him.

Juno immediately looked as guilty as any criminal he’d ever caught, hand frozen halfway to knocking, jaw opening but no words coming out.

Nureyev, too caught off guard to manage his emotions, scowled, “Who told you this was my room?”

Juno’s eye darted from left to right, “Buddy? She gave us a tour…”

“Well, I don’t know why she’d think that was relevant,” he tried to keep his face impassive while internally running around frantically for something to hold on to.

“Well...her exact words were ‘if you’re wondering the sound of the baby crying is coming from, it’s Ransom’s room third from the left’...is that what you’re calling yourself? Ransom?”

Nureyev could have throttled him, “Would you like to announce that a little louder, Juno Steel?”

Immediately he flushed, biting down on his lip like that could have stopped the words from coming out, “Um...sorry, yeah...I didn’t...sorry.”

“Did you come to my door just to loudly announce my trade secrets? Or is there another reason?” Nureyev dropped his voice to the appropriate level, low and quiet so as not to reverberate down metal hallways. And not to wake sleeping children.

The detective- former detective- was truly flustered now, as Nureyev liked him. Seeing him from the top of the gangplank had been disconcerting, seeing Juno Steel back in his life. But now he was up close, stammering and blushing in his doorway, it threw Nureyev for a whole different reason. Not because it was the same Juno Steel he’d known.

Because he was so different.

He stood straighter than he had before, though not in a way someone would square up for a fight. His eye was clearer, like there weren’t so many shadows behind it. There were more lines on his face but he wasn’t settled into them as a default, they sat there rather as a map rather than a guide, not as inevitable. He looked older, which wasn’t surprising as it had been a year since they’d laid eyes on each other. But it was...different. The difference that didn’t come with time but with experience.

Juno Steel had grown, it was written all over his face. And Nureyev didn’t know what to do with that at all. The nerve of it.

“I wanted to talk to you, Nureyev,” Juno swallows, like he was mentally starting over, “Because...well, I thought it was obvious?”

“You thought incorrectly,” Nureyev said, biting the end off each word, “I see nothing we need to discuss.”

Juno looked dismayed at that, “Really? We’re just going to pretend none of it happened? Look, you’ve got every right to be upset with me…”

I don’t, Nureyev thought, chest clenching at the words. Because if you’ve changed, you’re no longer the lady who broke my heart, you’re someone new, someone who has his demons under control and there’s every chance you’ll find your way back in.

“...but I’ve done a lot of thinking and a lot of reflecting and...and there’s a lot of damage I’ve done that I want to start fixing. I was an asshole, Nureyev. I mean, I still kind of am but I’m trying. And...and I need to start with you. And her.”

No. Don’t you dare, Juno Steel.

Nureyev stepped forward, giving Juno barely a second to jump back out of his way. He was about to close the door, like he could close off Juno’s words as easily but that was when they both froze, instincts firing at the soft sleepy babble.

Binaca was sat up, the blanket rucked up around her waist, hands pawing at it like a content kitten. Her hair was a bird's nest, her eyes still heavy with sleep and confusion, mumbling indistinctly for her dada.

Nureyev heard a soft inhalation from Juno, eyes flickering over to see his scarred face lined with grief of all things. Grief for the countless moments in between now and then, perhaps, the ones he’d missed. That he’d turned his back on.

Bianca seemed to wake up more, her eyes widening and her little mouth opening. Her arms came up and stretched out, fingers grasping like they grasped at the stars. But not for Nureyev.

For Juno.

Nureyev shoved the sadness aside as hard as he could, not caring if it went in a box or not, just needing it out of his way, dredging up anger to replace it. He shut the door as he’d been planning, bringing it too with a dull slam.

“Listen,” he rounded on Juno, who was still standing there in some kind of shock, hurt clear on his face, “I am not interested in anything you have to say. I think two times is more than enough for someone to hurt you before you say no more. We will live on the same ship, we will work as the same crew but that is the absolute extent of my involvement with you. Is that clear?”

Juno looked ready to argue, some of the lady Nureyev had known resurfacing on his face. Good, he thought, show me this isn’t real. Show me it’s an act. Then I can go back to being angry with you and it can all make sense again. I’ll feel safe.

But then it faded and the resigned grief was back. And Nureyev felt something inside him, buried deep, crack with the knowledge he’d caused it.

“Fine,” Juno sighed heavily, “You’re not ready, I can understand that.”

“Not ready implies that this conversation will be happening in the future,” Nureyev’s voice was acidic, “Am I not being direct enough with you? I have no interest in your justifications for your behaviour. By all means, repeat them to yourself over and over as many times as you wish, however long it takes to be comfortable with your choices again. But do not bother yourself to repeat them to me, I have no need. It would imply that I care.”

Juno winced, as Nureyev had wanted him to right up until the second after he did it. He looked so wounded, like his words had punched a pinhole right through him. Nureyev refused to feel the pinch of regret at the back of his mind.

“Welcome to the Carte Blanche, Juno Steel,” he said coldly, going back into his room and slamming the door again. It wasn’t gentlemanly but there was little else to be done.

Bianca’s arms dropped sadly to her sides, eyes full of dismay. Her bottom lip began to do that wobbling dance that signified tears in the very near future.

“Darling,” Nureyev groaned, folding his arms around her, bringing her close to his chest, “Please, no. Everything’s okay…”

Bianca disagreed, mumbling unhappily against him, repeating ‘dada’ over and over like she was looking for answers. The front of his shirt began to grow damp with tears he’d caused.

Nureyev sighed shakily, trying to martial his thoughts and control his emotions, trying to feel more like himself. He buried his face in his daughter’s hair, inhaling her powdery baby scent, reminding himself that Bianca Nureyev existed and as long as that was true, he couldn’t fall apart.

After a while, he felt strong enough to sit back, like his spine and lungs would hold him up again. A moment later Bianca’s hands reached up to his face, patting his cheeks softly, cooing gently. Nureyev smiled, somehow, and kissed her searching little fingers. It was nice, he had to admit, to have someone there after he slipped away from himself.

The Carte Blanche hadn’t lifted off yet, still sitting on what passed for a dock in the Cerberus Province. But the stars were visible, unfiltered, without the fading, swimming effect of any dome and Nureyev could see them through the little circular porthole window on the far wall. As deadly as the stars were, uncovered like that, it was beautiful.

He felt the small boy that still curled up in the darker parts of his mind, one of his older boxes, stir. He felt him ache, looking at those stars with a desperate, fierce kind of hope that they held something better that could be his if he could only reach far enough. Nureyev shut him out too, after a moment. He didn’t need that any more. He would just keep moving forwards.

And he wouldn’t be alone this time.

#dad au #jupeter #cw: trans pregnancy #not seen but referenced #Nureyev is a good dad #juno steel #peter nureyev #tpp #the penumbra podcast #penumbra #junoverse #juniverse #tpp juno #tpp nureyev

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