#I can also now pull up this file whenever I need to reference Wind so thats useful

[peasgaming64]

Finished my reference for Wind, which is set out completely different from my Hyrule reference because consistency is for suckers! Putting little detail explanations under the readmore.

Wind is such a joy to draw and I wanted to emphasize how well travelled he is and how much he values his home in the ref so:

Telescope and Sword sheaths both have paintings on them that his Grandma has done, inspired by my own Nanna who has gifted me many pencil and pen holders over the years with hand painted illustrations on them. Lets say the telescope one is done post-WW when Aryll decides he can keep her telescope with him as long as he was traveling, and the sword sheath post-PH cause I tried to reference that in its design despite not having played PH since I was a kid.

This also isn't in the reference but I'm just going to add it while im discussing Wind headcanons, I like to imagine that Tetra, Aryll and Linebeck all have pirate charms like Wind so whenever Wind is in his time period he can talk to them all. Wind's is blue of course, Tetra's is red, Linebeck's is yellow and Aryll's is green.

The spoils bag looks about the same as canon, tho the purple may be a bit redder. Bait bag however got a complete palette swap! Im gonna saw it was Aryll's idea and she was helped by their neighbor Rosie, whose giant black pig was the reference for the new design.

And then there's the mail bag. It has a bunch of little patches sewn on it now that references different WW Islands. I like to think Wind collects them and he will totally find more during his timetravelling adventure. On the bag currently there is: - Proclaiming him Champion of the Flight Control Deck in reference to one of WW's Piece of Heart missions.

- A windmill patch for Windfall,

- The tip of Forest Haven where the Deku Tree's leaves poke out from the the island's top

- One of the triangle islands that surround the Tower Of Gods, including statue I could not be bothered getting a ref for and is hence an inbetween design of the statues before and after the tower raises.

- A close up of a chu chu which lets say is Pawprint isle

- Valoo on the top of Dragon Roost Island

- In the top right its cut off but dark waves crashing against the rocks which is intended to reference the Forsaken Fortress.

Yeah I put too much effort into those for them to come out absolutely tiny.

[goldentournesol]

to be true, to not be true (part 1)

Spencer Reid x Reader

Summary: early in y/n’s and spencer’s relationship, y/n fears the growing distance between them, although what seemed to be possible infidelity, is actually much worse–for spencer.

Length: 2.9k

A/N: i wrote this in collaboration with one of my favorite writers on here, Mia over at @mggpleasedontlookhere​. She is so wonderful and hopefully you can see both of our writing styles here! 

masterlist

The sunlight streaming through the windows made the hairs on my skin dance in glee, although it was the soft breeze invading the space that contrasted the radiant warmth. An equilibrium was achieved–a needed balance. The same can be said about the nerves crawling about my stomach and the naive excitement that made me light-headed whenever I was around Spencer. I glanced up at him from where my head lay in his lap. The reflected glow from the TV danced across his features making my heart jolt. My stare caught his attention and he sent me a small smile, his hand leaving traces in my hair. It was his day off and I had no problem spending it in suffocating proximity with him.

“This is nice,” I breathed, leaning back into his soft touch. He hummed in response, almost in contentment, if not for the moment his eyes seemed far off, entangled in a distant thought. It was so brief, I might have missed it. His job took a lot from him and I knew that, which is why I never pushed him. Instead, I let the subtle aroma of morning coffee and fresh linen confine my senses, leaving me oblivious to reality.

Although not a few moments later, the ping from Spencer’s phone burst the fantastical bubble that surrounded us. My eyes lingered on the cartoon characters plastered on the screen but I couldn’t help noticing the way Spencer’s fingers would thump rhythmically against the floor. Adjacent to his palm, rested his phone, revealing several notifications as it came alive. Albeit I paid no mind to their context given I was enamored by the picture of me on his homescreen. A faint smile graced my lips at the observation, feeling a wave of warmth rush my cheeks.

“I wonder who that is,” I teased, referring to the image. Spencer must have misunderstood my point of reference, hastily explaining that new language that Morgan had introduced him to through text messages.

“Spencer, using emojis does not constitute a new language.”

“Considering its context, I would argue it is–I mean look at hieroglyphics!” I covered my face in amusement, running my hands over my eyes. A sharp exhale left my lungs as my chest filled with contagious giggles. It seems that I was too consumed in my fit of laughter to notice Spencer stealthily concealing the device and turning off his ringer.

“First of all, hieroglyphics is a formal writing system-”

“And does that not ‘constitute’ a portion of language? Also, isn’t texting a writing system in itself?” His lips formed into a sly smirk, thinking he’d gotten the best of me.

“You’re right in the way that hieroglyphics is part of the language, however it’s all but the ‘expression’ of that language.” I debated, gesturing to the air as I explained my point. For a moment our eyes met, and I could feel my playful resolve melt away under his gaze. Despite the pause in my confidence, my stubbornness shone through.

“All I heard was that I was right,” he jested, tickling the side of my waist. I jumped at his mischief, collapsing into pleas and begs as he continued his assault at my skin. My stomach churned in delight as my hands attempted to pry him off of me, the premise of our conversation vanishing into air like wisps of smoke.

-

Spencer’s days off were becoming increasingly rare, I’d barely seen him in the last two weeks, but we’ve managed to salvage enough time between cases for a date. The excitement buzzed through my veins as the clock ticked closer to 7 pm. I was growing restless in the apartment, obsessively checking my phone for the time. Spencer is usually right on time, if not early. Dread and anxiety clogged up my throat as I waited for him. For hours, call after call would be sent straight to voicemail. The weather outside seemed to be in tandem with the way I felt. The rain was as unforgiving as the tears that striped my face.

I was never one to hold a grudge. But it happened once, then it happened twice. Slowly, it became a habit and it was impossible to reach him.

I guess date nights on Thursdays were now obsolete.

He came over to my apartment maybe once whenever he was in town and even then he was nearly unrecognizable. His shy, loving demeanor was replaced by explosive irritability and general unease. I wished he’d just talk to me, but he continued to brush me off. He was being distant and strange, his behavior was so unlike him. Knowing him though, he was probably too stressed or busy to get around to doing simple tasks like eating a balanced meal. Spencer can be quite scatterbrained, and I hadn’t seen him in around a week. So, around lunch time, I made Spencer a healthy meal packed with proteins and veggies and decided to pop into the BAU and drop it off. It felt like a good way to cheer him up. Maybe we’d have lunch together at the park he always liked to visit. It wasn’t that far from headquarters. Hell, I’d even eat lunch with him at his desk at this point.

The walk into the BAU was strangely nerve wracking, I could feel my heart in my throat. I had an uneasy feeling in my gut but I took a deep breath and pushed the heavy glass doors open. My eyes scanned the bullpen for my boyfriend but I couldn’t find him. Standing there in confusion, I was only snapped out of my trance when someone bumped into me from behind.

“I’m so sorry–oh, it’s you! Hey Y/N, what are you doing here?” JJ said, closing the file she held in her hands and wrapping me in a one-armed hug.

“Hey JJ! I was looking for Spence, I got him lunch, but I can’t seem to find him anywhere? Do you know where he is?” I said as I pulled back from the hug, she began to say something but was interrupted.

“Woah hey, sunshine! I was wondering why it suddenly got so bright in here.” The deep voice of none other than Derek Morgan came from beside us and he was, of course, donning his signature cheeky grin. I couldn’t help but grin back, even though my chest was nearly caving in on itself.

“Did Spence come in today?” JJ asked Morgan, whose brows immediately furrowed.

“No, I haven’t seen him today. I think he might be coming in late, I’m not sure. He’s been kind of off, lately.” Morgan said, eyes searching my own for an answer.

“He has, hasn’t he?” I exclaimed and the two nodded in agreement, “I’ve been worried about him, maybe all that emoji-talk finally got to him.” I laughed slightly, but stopped when I found Morgan’s expression shift.

“What do you mean? I stopped trying to explain emojis to him like months ago, if the genius doesn’t get it, he doesn’t get it.” Morgan shrugged, unknowingly allowing the literal caving in of my chest to take place. JJ noticed the change in me immediately.

“What’s wrong, Y/N?” She asked in her usual caring manner, but I could barely hear her over the rushing of my blood in my ears.

“Nothing, nothing. Um, if he comes in today, can you just give him this?” I dismissed the conversation and handed over the brown bag with the lunch I made, disguising the sharp exhale that left my lungs. Before JJ had the opportunity to utilize her profiling skills, I gave both of them a cordial nod and left the office.

My steps felt heavier with every collision against the tile, albeit the loud thumping of my heart drowned out reality around me. My mind warped itself around irrational thoughts as my loyalty to Spencer attempted to retaliate against the invaders. The concept of Spencer as dubious and sly fell foreign to me. However, that lack of knowledge only added fuel to the imminent blaze that engulfed my head and stomach.

I swarmed with alternate realities, trying to make sense of the unknown. If Spencer was aware of my method of defining a solution, I would’ve been scolded by my naivety and illogical thinking. Oh to be a scientist–to have a mind like his. It’s a gift yet a heavy burden to carry. Is that it? Was that it? Does he not believe I’m capable of understanding a mind like his? Was I stupid? No. He had shared intimate momentos of his life before, so what was it? What can I not offer…What can I not promise to make him drift away like this?

It must have been me, right? I must’ve hit a boundary the last time we spoke! Or was it his work? No. By the time my thoughts stopped buzzing, I realized my feet carried me to the park I intended to visit earlier with Spencer. An unfamiliar pang hit my chest, sending reverbing waves throughout the cavity. A sort of ache rested in the core of my heart–something I didn’t think I would feel when reflecting on my relationship with Spencer–my Spencer. I guess I was so used to the warm bubble he fabricated that I forgot how cold the real world was.

Was that it? Did I stop being that for him too?

The thought of the slow degradation of our relationship sent a chilling shock through my veins while I swallowed pins and needles. My hand rested on a park bench next to me, letting myself use the wooden beams as support. Looking out into the far pond in the center of the park, I pulled myself to take a seat. The wind began to whistle through the trees, and the lake of glitter–the nickname I gave whenever the sun casted its glow onto the surface–lost all of its beauty. Crickets didn’t even dare to sing their usual melody and birds flew south to their homes. The breaths I took kept going nowhere, dissolving into nothing even though my chest expanded and retracted.

I pulled at the ends of my sleeves, tucking my knees into my chest as the air grew crisp. Questions of infidelity and unfounded justifications collided creating a mass of insatiable curiosity. My head coincided with entropy–it enjoyed the chaos–until suddenly it went blank. Every tether that kept me grounded vanished, my consciousness going into autopilot. I didn’t even realize the burn that resided in my eyelids or the wet streaks coating my cheeks–maybe from the dryness or something more. It was only the small drop of water landed on the back of my palm that pushed me out of the addicting trance.

Another one had landed on my forehead. And another one. And another one. I cringed as I felt the water drip from my head to the crevice of my ear. The clouds began to rumble a somber tune as it began to rain. Plucking myself from the bench, I made no hurry to make it back to the house. In a way, the droplets cascading the skin distracted me–seemingly blissful compared to the former events.

Once again, my feet held a prominent consciousness as it was the only part of me that was stable, leading me to the doorstep of my apartment complex. With what felt like a last ditch effort, I checked my phone for any new messages from Spencer. My heart lurched seeing a new notification pop up. To my surprise, it was from him.

With a deep breath and newfound hope, I unlocked the device, taking a moment to gaze at the picture of I and Spencer on the screen, before proceeding. My shoulders dropped, the tight squirming in my stomach halting. A hopeful smile crept on the corners of my lips, the previous distrust dissipating from my unreliable mind as I read the words displayed in front of me.

“Date night tomorrow?”

-

Tomorrow night couldn’t come quick enough. It somehow felt like I was holding my breath the entire day until I finally saw him. He was apologetic and sweet enough that it quieted my anxieties for a while. If he held any guilt or shame, it wasn’t apparent, or maybe he hid it well. Or maybe I was being ridiculous and reading far too much into things that could be circumstantial. But this was Spencer…my Spencer, the tenderhearted, gentle soul who made way too many corny physics jokes.

Dinner went by much smoother than I expected, but I still felt like there were things unsaid. The words felt lodged in my throat, almost like an itch I couldn’t reach. Either by mindless habit or by sheer deliberacy, we ended up in our favorite park. The very park that I found myself running to in a fit of frustration yesterday. Our feet seemed to know the way of our usual path along the pavement. I wondered briefly if there was a place I stepped in twice without noticing it. There was a lull in conversation and before I realized it, the words escaped me stealthily.

“Hey, Spence?” I started, and he took his attention off his shoes to look at me, “I, uh, I wanted to talk to you about something.” The way the words stumbled ungracefully from my lips had me cringing. He lifted a brow in intrigue and caught my eye, silently profiling me and my nervous behavior.

“Anything, love.” The use of the amorous term caught me off guard and I had to swallow under his intense gaze. I felt myself open my mouth, but the words died on my tongue as the blaring of his ringtone took the place of my voice between us. It was almost as if the scratchy melody startled him because the way he snatched himself away from me to look at his phone was worrisome.

His brows bunched together as he took a look at it, “I’m sorry, I have to take this.”

Without waiting for my confirmation, he pressed the phone to his ear and took a few large steps away from me, as if the space would give him more privacy. I suddenly felt extremely exposed without him by my side.

The emptiness beside me lingered of his scent, almost mocking me, the words constricting my tongue. If I had a second longer, maybe the phone call would’ve been obsolete, maybe for the first time in a long time he would’ve been selfishly mine, even for another moment. I found myself suffocating in the same place I was yesterday like some poetic injustice. Perhaps I’m just a marionette, dangling from loose strings as the universe had their way with me. Frankly that would be less upsetting than watching Spencer slip through my fingers, knowing that it was possibly me who sealed that fate, and not some otherworldly being. It would’ve been my doing, and that’s something I’m not yet ready to realize.

Maybe it was my undying curiosity or growing twinge in my chest every second passed that led me to consult the moral figures weighing down my shoulders. At two opposing extremes, they debated the right course of action–or if doing the right thing was even the course of action to consider. Surprisingly in the end, it was my impulsivity that answered for me, wasting no time to stipulate consequences.

I shook off the twisting feeling in my stomach, pushing myself off in Spencer’s direction. I kept justifying my actions by telling myself that all I would be doing is checking on him, although the underlying motive was nothing under disguise. I whispered the same mantra to myself with every inch closer. I gritted my teeth as the antsy sensation traveled to my shoulders, slowing my steps to contemplate my reasoning.

What am I doing? A harsh exhale of detest left my lungs, leaving a light yet deserved burn in my esophagus. It seemed incredulous to me that I was willing to eavesdrop on my own boyfriend, although it didn’t seem like that minutes ago. I bit the inside of my cheek in shame, turning myself around.

Has this all been in my head? No, it can’t. Then why would he lie? He wouldn’t, but he did. Confusion set deep within me, however it was my guilt that left an everlasting mark. Maybe Spencer had his reasons, he would never deliberately fib–at least the Spencer I knew would never. But what if that’s it? Did I really know Spencer that well? The world around me closed in rapidly, my senses overwhelmed. Did I make him lie? It would make sense considering my recent possessiveness. Did he see that? Did I drive him away?

I bit down on my bottom lip, threatening to break the skin. I ran my hand through my hair several times, taking a few calming breaths to compose myself. No, I can’t think like that. This is Spencer, he’s my Spe–no, maybe he never was mine?

Unable to contain my contradicting thoughts any longer, I shifted around with a newfound determination. Pushing the bile building up at the bottom of my stomach, I prepared to march my way to him. My body set aflame with feigned confidence, hopefully enough to fuel the overpowering desire to know the truth.

To know whether the truth actually lied in the irrationality of my mind

To know whether the truth lied in the coarseness of my behavior.

To know whether the truth  lied in the prospects of Spencer’s job.  

To know whether the truth-

“I guess I’ll see you on Thursday!” Spencer smiled with endearment–a smile I thought was reserved for me. “It’s a date…”

To know whether the truth was that he was no longer mine.

part 2  feedback is always appreciated!

[newstfionline]

Tuesday, April 13, 2021

Biden’s Infrastructure Push Spurs a Flurry of Lobbying in Congress (NYT) Members of Congress have begun a frenzy of lobbying to ensure that their pet projects and policy priorities are included in President Biden’s $2 trillion infrastructure and jobs plan, eager to shape what could be one of the most substantial public works investments in a generation. Officials across the country are dusting off lists of construction projects and social programs, hoping to secure their piece of a plan aimed at addressing what the administration estimates is at least $1 trillion worth of backlogged infrastructure improvements, as well as economic and racial inequities that have existed for decades. “My phone is blowing up,” Pete Buttigieg, the transportation secretary, said in an interview. Nearly every lawmaker “can point to a road or a bridge or an airport” in his or her district that is in dire need of repair.

Truck seized over ‘munitions of war,’ 5 forgotten bullets (AP) Gerardo Serrano ticked off the border crossing agents by taking some photos on his phone. So they took his pickup truck and held onto it for more than two years. Only after Serrano filed a federal lawsuit did he get back his Ford F-250. Now he wants the Supreme Court to step in and require a prompt court hearing as a matter of constitutional fairness whenever federal officials take someone’s property under civil forfeiture law. The justices could consider his case when they meet privately on Friday. It’s a corner of the larger forfeiture issue, when federal, state or local officials take someone’s property, without ever having to prove that it has been used for illicit purposes. Since 2000, governments have acquired at least $68.8 billion in forfeited property, according to the Institute for Justice, a libertarian public interest law firm that represents Serrano and tracks seizures. The group says the number “drastically underestimates forfeiture’s true scope” because not all states provide data. Serrano’s troubles stemmed from some pictures he took along the way of a long trip from his home in Tyner, Kentucky, to visit relatives, including a dying aunt, in Zaragosa, Mexico. The photo-taking attracted the attention of U.S. Customs and Border Protection agents in Eagle Pass, Texas. When Serrano refused to hand over the password to his phone, the agents went through the 2014 silver pickup truck in great detail. They justified its seizure by saying they found “munitions of war” inside—five forgotten bullets, though no gun. Told to park the truck, he said, he complained a bit before one agent reached into the pickup, opened the door, unfastened Serrano’s seat belt and yanked him out of the vehicle. “I got rights, I got constitutional rights and he snaps back at me, ‘You don’t have no rights here. I’m sick and tired of hearing about your rights.’ That took me aback,” Serrano said.

Should the U.S. boycott the 2022 Winter Olympics in China? (Washington Post) As if there aren’t enough sources of Sino-U.S. friction already, an emerging new irritant may soon outpace the rest: the growing calls for a boycott of Beijing’s 2022 Winter Olympics. The games are still 10 months away. But it’s not too early for the event to turn into a flash point. Critics of China’s ruling Communist Party—including a coalition of more than 180 human rights organizations—argue that the regime’s record of human rights abuses and geopolitical malfeasance ought to deprive it of the right to burnish its image with a spectacle like the Olympics. “Beijing won the right to host the 2022 Olympics in 2015, the same year it cracked down on lawyers and activists across China,” Chinese human rights lawyer Teng Biao wrote earlier this year. “Since then, it has detained journalists; harassed and attacked activists and dissidents even outside China’s borders; shut down nongovernmental organizations; demolished Christian churches, Tibetan temples and Muslim mosques; persecuted, sometimes to death, believers in Falun Gong; and sharply increased its control of media, the Internet, universities and publishers.” An Olympic boycott has become a popular cause among Republicans. Major sporting events—and especially international spectacles like the Olympics—always bear a political dimension.

‘Huge’ explosion rocks St. Vincent as volcano keeps erupting (AP) La Soufriere volcano fired an enormous amount of ash and hot gas early Monday in the biggest explosive eruption yet since volcanic activity began on the eastern Caribbean island of St. Vincent late last week, with officials worried about the lives of those who have refused to evacuate. Experts called it a “huge explosion” that generated pyroclastic flows down the volcano’s south and southwest flanks. “It’s destroying everything in its path,” Erouscilla Joseph, director of the University of the West Indies’ Seismic Research Center, told The Associated Press. “Anybody who would have not heeded the evacuation, they need to get out immediately.” The ongoing volcanic activity has threatened water and food supplies, with the government forced to drill for fresh water and distribute it via trucks. “We cannot put tarpaulin over a river,” said Garth Saunders, minister of the island’s water and sewer authority, referring to the impossibility of trying to protect current water sources from ongoing falling ash.

Colombia’s cartels target Europe (The Guardian) At 5 am on a chilly Tuesday morning last month, 1,600 police officers and balaclava-wearing special forces, bristling with arms and battering rams, were ordered into action around the Belgian port city of Antwerp. More than 200 addresses were raided in what was the largest police operation ever conducted in the country and potentially one of the most significant moves yet against the increasingly powerful narco-gangs of western Europe. An incredible 27 tonnes of cocaine have been seized on Antwerp’s quays, in container ships and safe houses, with an estimated value of €1.4bn (£1.2bn), and many arrests have been made. It has been hailed as a mighty blow against what Belgian federal prosecutor Frédéric Van Leeuw calls “a world where morality has totally disappeared”, but Operation Sky has also highlighted a chilling development. Europe has eclipsed the US as the Colombian cartels’ favoured market, because of higher prices and much lower risks posed by European governments in terms of interdiction, extradition and seizure of assets. Jeremy McDermott, a former British army officer who is now executive director of the thinktank InSight Crime, said a kilogram of cocaine in the US is worth up to $28,000 wholesale but that rises to $40,000 on average in Europe, and nearly $80,000 in some parts of Europe. “It is more money for less risk. I see a deliberate decision by some of the top-level Colombian traffickers, based on sources who sat in a series of meetings in 2005-6, where the business decisions were made,” McDermott said. “It is a business no-brainer.”

Conservative Ex-Banker Headed to Victory in Presidential Election in Ecuador (NYT) Guillermo Lasso, a 66-year-old conservative former banker, was set to win Ecuador’s presidential election and beat out Andrés Arauz, a 36-year-old leftist handpicked by former President Rafael Correa. With more than 94 percent of the votes counted after 10 p.m., Mr. Lasso had 52 percent compared with Mr. Arauz’s 47.32 percent, according to the Electoral Council official counting system in Ecuador. Mr. Arauz conceded defeat. The vote signaled a desire, at least among some, to shift right following years in which Mr. Correa has held sway over the country.

England reopens with pints pulled, shopping sprees and hair cuts (Reuters) People queued up outside retailers across England on Monday to release their pent-up shopping fever and some grabbed a midnight pint or even an early haircut as England’s shops, pubs, gyms and hairdressers reopened after three months of lockdown. After imposing the most onerous restrictions in Britain’s peacetime history, Prime Minister Boris Johnson said the reopening was a “major step” towards freedom but urged people to behave responsibly as the coronavirus was still a threat. Getting people spending again is crucial for Britain’s recovery after official data showed that 2020 was the worst year for its economy in more than three centuries with a 9.8% decline in gross domestic product.

Tropical Cyclone Seroja flattens Australian town (Washington Post) A tropical cyclone battered Australia’s west coast Sunday night and into Monday, destroying homes and leaving thousands without electricity. Severe wind gusts of up to 105 miles per hour tore houses apart and sent debris flying all over Kalbarri, a coastal tourist town of 1,350 people in Western Australia. Authorities estimated some 70 percent of the town’s buildings were damaged. Drone footage from the scene showed dozens of homes with their roofs ripped off. Power lines were down and roads were littered with shards of metal and other debris. Cyclone Seroja made landfall as a category three storm at about 8 p.m. local time on Sunday between the towns of Kalbarri and Gregory. Cyclones of such intensity rarely travel this far south in Australia, and towns outside the cyclone belt are not usually built to withstand the devastating conditions.

Muslims navigate restrictions in the second pandemic Ramadan (AP) For Ramadan this year, Magdy Hafez has been longing to reclaim a cherished ritual: performing the nighttime group prayers called taraweeh at the mosque once again. Last year, the coronavirus upended the 68-year-old Egyptian’s routine of going to the mosque to perform those prayers, traditional during Islam’s holiest month. The pandemic had disrupted Islamic worship the world over, including in Egypt where mosques were closed to worshippers last Ramadan. Ramadan, which begins this week, comes as much of the world has been hit by an intense new coronavirus wave. For many Muslims navigating restrictions, that means hopes of a better Ramadan than last year have been dashed with the surge in infection rates though regulations vary in different countries. A time for fasting, worship and charity, Ramadan is also when people typically congregate for prayers, gather around festive meals to break their daylong fast, throng cafes and exchange visits. Once again, some countries are imposing new restrictions.

Iran blames Israel for sabotage at Natanz nuclear site (AP) Iran on Monday blamed Israel for a sabotage attack on its underground Natanz nuclear facility that damaged the centrifuges it uses to enrich uranium there, warning that it would take revenge for the assault. The comments by Foreign Ministry spokesman Saeed Khatibzadeh represent the first official accusation leveled against Israel for the incident Sunday that cut power across the facility. Israel has not directly claimed responsibility for the attack. However, suspicion fell immediately on it as Israeli media widely reported that a devastating cyberattack orchestrated by Israel caused the blackout. If Israel was responsible, it would further heighten tensions between the two nations, already engaged in a shadow conflict across the wider Middle East. Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, who met Sunday with U.S. Defense Secretary Lloyd Austin, has vowed to do everything in his power to stop the nuclear deal. According to US intelligence officials, it could take more than nine months to resume enrichment in the nuclear facility.

Abductions and Torture Rattle Uganda (NYT) Armed men in white minivans without license plates picked up people off the streets or from their homes. Those snatched were taken to prisons, police stations and military barracks where they say they were hooded, drugged and beaten—some left to stand in cellars filled with water up to their chests. The fear is still so palpable in the capital, Kampala, that many others have gone into hiding or left the country. Three months after Uganda’s president, Yoweri Museveni, won a sixth five-year term in office in the most fiercely contested election in years, his government appears to be intent on breaking the back of the political opposition. His principal challenger, Bobi Wine, a magnetic musician-turned-lawmaker who galvanized youthful crowds of supporters, is now largely confined to his house in Kampala. Mr. Wine’s party said on Friday that 623 members, supporters and elected officials have been seized from the streets and arrested in recent weeks, many of them tortured.

Prince Philip’s mourners in the South Pacific (Foreign Policy) The death of Prince Philip, the husband of Britain’s Queen Elizabeth II, triggered mourning rituals across the country over the weekend. The mourning is not only reserved for the United Kingdom—on one of Vanuatu’s islands, Tanna, hundreds of members of a local tribe have long venerated Prince Philip as akin to a god, and are preparing to mourn his passing. Although it’s unclear how the Prince Philip Movement began, it is believed to have taken root in the 1970s—given life by the royal couple’s visit in 1974. Key to the movement is the belief that Prince Philip is one with the tribe, and fulfilled a prophecy of a tribesman who had found a powerful wife overseas and “would return some day, either in person or in spiritual form,” Kirk Huffman, an anthropologist, told the BBC.

[regrettablewritings]

Arthur Curry x Shy!Reader HC

A/N: Uhh... Heehee...Hi. I’m not gonna pussyfoot, this thing is way overdue. But for anyone who vaguely remembers, I had an anniversary fanfic raffle thingy back in January and ... yeah this is the result. Many, much, and eternal kudos to @this-red-in-my-ledger for their infinite patience with me and my perfectionist brain, tendency to overthink, weird motivation schedules, and school and work schedule, etc. Words cannot express how flustered I am at how late this is. I hope its length proves to be able to compensate at least 5% of what you’d hoped for. ...Though if it’s too long (and it most definitely is), please regard me as a fool who never learns. Once again, thank you so much for your patience, you are an absolute doll!!!

Despite being a man mostly shrouded in mystery, Arthur Curry was not exactly what some may refer to as “demure.” Aloof, maybe. Cynical, definitely. Reluctant to interact with others without an arguable consequence, most assured. But absolutely none of this is out of shyness. In fact, it’d probably an actual fact to claim that Arthur had nary a shy molecule in his entire being.

A man of his size and appearance could never afford the characteristic of being shy, not ever. But a man of his background had insecurities to spare. Specifically, those stemming from a sense that he didn’t quite belong with either world he had been linked to the moment his human father managed to conceive a child with an Atlantean queen.

Making matters worse is the unspoken sense of duty he has towards either realm, with assuring that both remain as safe as possible from both one another and outsiders sticking their noses where they ought not to.

This lack of belonging gave way to a rebellious attitude, one that led the man to apparently decide that if he wasn’t going to be provided an allegiance to begin with, as most people do, then he wouldn’t accept any unless he gave them the okay. It was just better this way: To push away than to pull or be pulled in. It was very liberating, having that sort of control over his own circumstances . . . Or so Arthur professed.

Nevertheless, Arthur took advantage of the devil-may-care reputation (or perhaps lack thereof, given his inability to stick to one place for too long). He owned that sense of disconnect and renamed it freedom. And he would own that freedom: He would take what he wanted within reason, party up if the circumstances were right, and leave with the tide.

. . . And then there was you.

You were also on the more closed off side, but for very different reasons. You didn’t have the same insecurities brought on by a lack of fitting in as Arthur had: You were just flat out shy.

However, you were nothing if not also dutiful and hard-working. That was what made you ideal in the eyes of one Lucius Fox, whose trust in you was enough for him to recommend you to Bruce Wayne’s services as his more publicized assistant. Though, in your own self-deprecating words, you were more like a glorified babysitter of sorts: When Alfred couldn’t accompany Bruce for certain travels, you came in handy to assure that there was always some form of backup.

(“He would attempt to survive off a diet of alcohol and perhaps occasionally a steak if he could,” Alfred scoffed once. “Maybe chased with only two hours’ worth of sleep, perhaps.”)

With Bruce’s newfound interest in finding the metahumans featured in Lex’s files, your presence was needed now more than ever

You admittedly had your hesitancies and were more than allowed to voice them but at this point, you knew it was mostly hopeless: You hadn’t been with Bruce for too, too long, but you had at least known him long enough to know that once his mind was made, it would take the combined force of a Kryptonian and Amazonian to actually move it.

And so here you were, out in an isolated village in Iceland, the wind slapping your face sore while your ass pained from riding on a pony across the rugged terrain. Your loyalty knew some bounds; unfortunately, these weren’t quite the bounds that would send your loyalties running. (Plus, the job paid well.)

It was this follow-you-to-the-ends-of-my-loyalty mindset that made you follow Bruce down, down, down into what you surmised might have served as the village’s gathering hall. All eyes were on you and Bruce, of course, as the two of you were outsiders in a hamlet that couldn’t have had a population expanding beyond perhaps seventy – and that was you being generous.

You were really hoping that some of that generosity would be extended to you, though: Their eyes bore into you with mixtures of curiosity and suspicion. You didn’t blame them for it, but it certainly did nothing for you dislike of having so much attention casted upon you.

You felt almost ashamed as you stuck to Bruce as a duckling does to whatever they’ve imprinted upon. You only let up once a decent enough crowd had gathered, and Bruce attempted to speak with the denizens about the metahuman he’d come to potentially acquire the assistance of.

And that was how you first laid eyes on Arthur Curry. Not that you had much of a choice: He was taller than even Bruce for one thing. And if that weren’t enough, his naturally-tanned skin and glorious dark-and-sandy locks surely stood out against the small sea of pale faces topped with mostly blond hair.

It also didn’t hurt the situation (or your eyes) that that this man was certainly quite attractive even at a distance. Ruggedly handsome, but not in the same way some might consider your employer.

This man had a look about him that said he could easily swig Jack in one hand and swing fists in the other without breaking a sweat. (However, if his body was anything like you imagined it must be beneath that clumpy sweater and dingy coat, you wouldn’t have minded seeing a little perspiration on him.)

These features proved to be key in your determining that this striking man differed from the rest.

Unfortunately, so could your boss. This, along with his smart mouth, let to the long-haired beauty of a man promptly grabbing your boss by the collar and slamming him into a wall, an aura of primal aggression radiating from him all the way to the back of the room where you stood.

 In short, your first introduction to Arthur Curry was far less than ideal. You were downright intimidated by this man more than you already were by default of your own timid nature. When the two men left the hall to discuss the matter, you made sure to keep your distance. You knew Bruce could more than take care of himself alone, but you couldn’t trust this new guy for jack shit after that scuffle.

“That your assistant?” Arthur questioned, glancing back at you. Your distance did nothing to hide your tensing at his sudden regard. Bruce sighed, exasperation coating the visible puff of air. “…Yes,” he responded gruffly. Arthur nodded with approval. “Nice…” he murmured before looking back at Bruce. “She single?” Bruce’s eyes narrowed with exasperation as they rolled in their sockets. He wasn’t sure which annoyed him more: That Arthur was clearly trying to remain off topic, or that he was doing so by using you (and with such a lackadaisical manner, no less). “Can we please focus on the matter?”

Yes, but to less than ideal results.

You stood there, gobsmacked as you watched the tan man begin to strip down. At first, your thoughts encircled around the insanity of it all: You were in the ice-blistering realm of Scandinavia during a particularly freezing bout, this lunatic was about to catch a death of cold!

As you were beginning to question further Bruce’s credibility for attempting to recruit such an idiot, however, Arthur removed his shirt – and your tune was peeled away along with it.

With the way you felt your cheeks burning, you no longer noticed the biting cold. His body was far more than what you’d initially imagined it to be. But perhaps more startling than his finely-cut physique were his eyes: Like the ghosts of sunken ships, illuminated by the sheer will to survive. You’d never seen anything like them, and you highly doubt you ever would again.

They flickered in your direction once more, for a split second, before returning to Bruce. “You’re out of your mind, Bruce Wayne,” Arthur ridiculed, and his sights went back to you. You felt your heart leap ever so slightly as you watched him aim a nod at your person. He then flipped back into the water before torpedoing elsewhere, away for your boss’s ludicrous proposal.

That would’ve been the last you’d have seen of Arthur Curry, had it not been for Steppenwolf’s less than pleasant surprise visit to Atlantis.

The next time you saw Arthur, he wasn’t nearly as undressed as the last time you’d seen him. You experienced a very short-lived flicker of disappointment, overthrown by the concern with the reason as to why he’d even taken up the previously rejected offer of joining the team.

Also . . . Whatever he was wearing did look quite impressive on him. Almost draconian, yet doubtlessly born in the sea. Much like the man himself.

And, once again, Arthur was quite aware of your stares at him whenever you entered the area. When you came to the Batcave to serve Bruce and “his new friends” drinks or to bring down any equipment as requested by Alfred, you would always somehow manage to spar Arthur a glance.

Unfortunately, not much was exchanged beyond a simple “thank you” or “excuse me.” Even on Arthur’s end, he could barely get a flirtation in before he’d be ushered elsewhere or snapped at about losing focus by your employer. And you? Expecting your coyness to be put aside for one second just to speak to somebody of his stature was an order taller than the man himself. (Plus there was the whole “he’s only here because Steppenwolf got the Mother Boxes and was preparing to bring about the Earth’s reckoning” but, you know, what can you do?)

Which was a shame: From what you were able to conclude from what few and often distant interactions you’d had or were able to observe, Arthur wasn’t as bad of a guy as he’d made himself out to be back in Iceland.

Back in the village, he was cold and gruff, exuding an air that said he was constantly ready to knock somebody’s teeth in over the smallest slight no matter how unintentional. But here? More laidback, still somewhat intimidating, but in the same way as a fellow who hung out at the local tattoo parlor and made small talk with the artists and customers but otherwise caused no real trouble.

Plus, his wiseass comments toward Bruce even managed to crack a smile out of you – something which he made note of and couldn’t help but muster pride from.

All things considered, the pleasant relief that he wasn’t as bad as you’d thought managed to relax the nerves you’d accumulated since you first laid eyes on him. It almost made you forget that you were on the verge of the end of the world. Almost.

Things were being received surprisingly well on Arthur’s end, also.

While you admittedly weren’t the type he usually found himself drawn to (which must be noted was essentially closer to a female version of himself), your more introverted nature still had its charms.

For what it was worth, he initially read your timid nature as one of a “stone-cold bitch” in the most respectful sense: The image of the aloof, perpetually unimpressed career woman who took no shit from her male coworkers (or, in this case, employers), and who always had an acerbic comment waiting to drip off her tongue if pushed beyond a limit she had personally set. Basically, his expectation of you in your “natural habitat” had been formulated through what he’d seen on TV or in movies.

Regardless of whether you truly did have anything to snap with, however, this proved to not be case exactly.

He quickly noticed that your quiet, withdrawn attitude wasn’t one of disinterest as he assumed anyone working for the likes of Bruce Wayne would be in possession of. In fact, on the contrary, you seemed quite interested in the matters at hand. He could see it in the little things: The ways you might lean in somewhat whenever Bruce brought up a diagram or whenever Victor brought forward new information; the occasion where you would tap Bruce’s shoulder, prompting him to lean towards you so that you might show him whatever it was you had pulled up on a tablet that might service the cause; that glimmer in your eyes that Arthur had managed to catch sight of during the very, very few moments he was just close enough and you simultaneously dared to look up at him.

The first time he’d seen it, he thought it might have been a fluke or the trick of lighting. Maybe he’d mistaken it for a desperation to leave, call the rest of the night off, and spend what may be your last night of existence binging Netflix and pizza at home.

But the second time he’d caught it, Arthur knew what he saw: Dedication, a yearning to be a part of this to a bigger extent than what you already were. But on that note . . .

He did also capture some nerves in your glances: Ones that, in spite of your eagerness to help, also seemed to want you to hide behind a one-way mirror and pitch in without the possibility of sounding clueless or out of line. In short: You weren’t this stone-cold bitch who would, without hesitation, necessarily break a man’s balls beneath her heels – you were just a bashful ball of nerves, and not in the nervy sense of being emboldened enough to look him dead in the eyes!

Not at all the type he usually found himself looking at. In fact, it was the brash, almost bullyish part of him that was beginning to coax him into teasing you a little bit, maybe riling you up.

And yet . . . He liked for someone of such an introverted manner, you seemed to have a lot more going on than what he’d initially thought. Almost like an oyster, if he could be pardoned for the clumsy comparison.

After witnessing the smiles you would occasionally share with Diana, the ever-present, underlying flame of determination that flickered as you helped to prepare the team for what was to come . . . Arthur Curry couldn’t help but wonder what more there was to you. What lay deep in your depths, beneath the seemingly one-note surface?

Plus, let’s be real: he had totally been checking out your ass every chance he got. The weather-proof gear he’d seen you in back in Iceland did absolutely no justice to your figure. He was quite pleased with what lay beneath all those goose down wears.

As you watched the team depart for Russia, you couldn’t help but feel your stomach drop into a low, dirty pit. There was no guarantee that anything would work into anyone’s favor, but you forced yourself to keep a calm countenance as you followed Alfred back into the labs. There was no use in worrying; all you could do was hope for the best. In the meantime, it would do some good to help monitor Bruce’s mechanisms.

Still, you found yourself considering the weight in your stomach, that sickening twist that twanged almost nauseatingly when you regarded what its source was: The regret of not having actually spoken more extensively with Arthur.

You found it weird that you were feeling so much over someone you’d barely met. Sure, the version of him that had been here not even a full hour earlier was a complete upgrade from the one you’d met less than a week ago. But still, it seemed odd of you to put that much weight in not having talked with the nearly complete stranger.

“Well,” a voice in your head thought, “isn’t that more reason to have gotten to know him better?”

You blinked at the intrusive thought.

You were unable to stop your thought process from forming its next declaration: “If they survive this, I’m going to overcome this shyness and actually freaking attempt to talk more with Arthur Curry.”

Meanwhile, on the Flying Fox, Arthur Curry was glowering: Diana had left that stupid lasso laying all will-nilly, and he’d been its unfortunate victim. At this point, he’d made an ass of himself by light-way insulting all the males onboard, flirting with its one member of the fairer sex, and then going back to Bruce to say, “ – and you know what? I don’t wanna die! I’m young, there’s shit that I wanna do – like Bruce’s hot assistant.” Bruce’s eyes hardened, befuddled at the crudeness. And yet, he couldn’t stop himself. “Don’t gimme that look, I know you’ve seen her. Look, man, if I survive this, I’m asking her out, sorry that you missed your shot but – ”

By the time he’d realized the extent of what he’d said, the damage had been done. He scowled as he tossed the Amazon the Lasso of Hestia and threatened Barry to keep his silence of the series of revelations before storming off, face burning. He trusted the other three members to hold some semblance of maturity on the matter and never bring any aspects of it back up.

He’d put too much faith into the one who was the most mature of them all.

“I look forward to you keeping your promise,” Diana smiled, almost tauntingly.

Arthur Curry sat onboard the flying transport. Against all odds, they had won, and now they were en route to Gotham, where he’d left his more comfortable clothes, where a nice, hot shower was, where a place to crash (courtesy of Bruce’s hotel connections) was, and where –

His pale eyes widened in spite of their owner’s exhaustion. Shit. Shit.

Gotham was also where you were: single, shy, giving off no hints as to whether you were ready to mingle, much less with the likes of him.

Your heart was beating so fast, you thought you were about to vomit it up. Sure, you’d told yourself you were going to attempt to talk with Arthur if he got back. But if you were being honest, you were sort of hoping it’d be after a buffer of time where he would be recuperating from the battle and you would be prepping yourself to actually speak with the rugged man. That, and you were really thrown off by the fact that not ten minutes after he’d gotten off the Flying Fox, he had marched straight up to you. He hadn’t even changed out of his war gear, arguably adding to his threatening appearance.

And yet, everything he said and the manner with which he said them seemed to work against his daunting form.

“I uh…I honestly didn’t think this would wind up happening. To be honest,” he coughed, hand scratching at the back of his wavy locks. He was even less like the man you’d met in Scandinavia than before.

“Uh . . . Listen.” He steadied his eyes on you, causing you to tense somewhat visibly. “I know we haven’t . . .” he lazily gestured his hand in a rolling motion “—talked. Formally, I mean. But I kinda made a promise sorta thing and . . . Okay, look, I think you’re really hot in a sorta sexy secretary kinda way but also I think it’s kinda cute that you always wanna help and all and sorry for being fresh but you’ve also got this real sweet caboose on ya and I just – ”

He froze. You weren’t sure if it was because you possibly had a rejecting expression (really, all you knew about your face right now was that it was blazing with blush and that your eyes were wider than usual), or if he’d considered the possibility that he’d gone too far with the blunt statement about your ass. However, as he glanced down and grimaced, you found your answer: There, wrapped around his lower thigh just enough for impact, was a shining lasso, the rest of which trailed away from the two of you. Its end was found, wrapped around the hands of one grinning Diana.

Well shit.

After forcing himself to calm down from the huffiness left from removing the lasso, Arthur cut to the chase: “So anyway, I was wondering if maybe you’d like to get a drink with me? Or something?” At that last bit, you could’ve sworn you could make out a very specific type of infliction. It was a very familiar one to you because it had been the same kind that plagued you your entire life: One of shyness.

Arthur noticed it as well and inwardly cringed. His alpha male persona? Ruined by the slip of a tone.

But for you? It was just what you needed to feel encouraged to look into those strange eyes of his and actually respond.

“Well…,” you began, if not a bit quiet and trembly (after all, you weren’t completely removed of your nerves), “I’m not sure if a bar is exactly the greatest first place to get to know one another.” You quickly added ad you watched his shoulders begin t slump, “Buuuuttt…maybe I could have a certain somebody pull a few strings; get us a nice place to ourselves?”

Two things then happened that pleased either party: Your eyes replicated that twinkle of interest that had him intrigued before; and he smiled a genuine smile. It was a very nice one, if you said so yourself.

Nobody honestly expected the relationship to go entirely too well, save for Diana. Arthur is brash and gung-ho and while the team now knows he’s capable of a softer side, his demands that they never bring it up again honestly make them hesitant to trust in his ability to show that part of himself to you.

Your shyness, coupled with your sensitivity, mean that he’s going to have to at least try and tone it down a bit; you’re at a 4 or 5 at best! – and he’s at an 11 when you need him closer to maybe a 7.

Bruce, against his initial intentions, sort of goes into Papa Wolf mode where he lightly threatens to mess Arthur up if he puts you out of your comfort zone

What can we say? Bruce has some paternal traits kicking around in him.

Still, he prepares himself for the worst when the day finally comes. To his surprise, however you don’t call him in hysterics, ranting about what a jackass his unrulier teammate is. You don’t call off the next day due to a rage-drinking-induced hangover, or even from one caused by you feeling pressured to keep taking shots.

Instead, you arrive at work practically glowing.

To everyone’s surprise, Arthur isn’t too bad of a boyfriend for you.

Okay, he’s actually just flat out not a bad boyfriend period.

His intense demeanor makes it so that nobody dares mess with you when you go for walks downtown; his sense of humor surprisingly tickles you, and he finds yours to be appealing in its own right. He knows you struggle with speaking to others, even if you need help, so he has no problem with stepping in and making sure that you get what you need and that nobody takes advantage of your demure mannerisms.

Plus, to everyone’s surprise (including his own), he likes talking with you. That interest in your unintentional enigma never went away: he wants to crack you open, see what pearls of intrigue lay within you that you don’t generally bring to surface for everyone. He feels honored to be the one with the most potential to see all of it.

(Though, to be brutally honest, he’s still going to tease you about certain aspects of yours. Maybe lightheartedly, but nevertheless with frequent vengeance. Calling him Fishcakes tends to get him to back off for a little bit, though.)

Unfortunately, due to his commitments (as a hero, as a ruler, etc), he can’t always be there. But he tries his damndest to make it up to you whenever he’s back in town.

Dates between the two of you are kinda compromised.

Arthur isn’t used to having a long-term relationship, so dates with actual meaning are a bit wobbly for him. Honestly, given his history, a “date” usually meant going to a bar, him and the girl he’s with getting hammered, and getting frisky.

Maybe they’d try it again another time, but nothing serious ever came of it because it was made from nothing serious.

Bars – at least the dives he’s used to – aren’t necessarily your scene, though. So he has to get a little creative.

He’s learned to swallow his insults aimed at museums and bookstores because if it means seeing you smile, then it ain’t all that bad, is it?

You’re still gonna buy him, like, three cheeseburgers after this, though, make no mistake.

Besides, picnics in the park have their pros: For one, it gives him an excuse to put his head in your lap and demand you scratch his scalp for a bit while he takes it easy,

The two of you don’t really go to the aquarium, though; it makes him feel a little anxious to see all these aquatic creatures contained.

Plus, he’s heard what some of them are thinking and it’s generally not good

He enjoys taking you to places with “good water.” As in “nowhere near the shithole that is Gotham or the arguably polished turd that is Metropolis.”

If you’re up to it, he’ll happily create a pocket of air for the two of you and speed the both of you to clearer ocean waters. (Don’t worry, he’ll hold you nice and tight, nothing to worry about.)

If this man can get a date with you at a beach, he’s one happy fellow. He’s totally in his element and is in the perfect environment where he can show off not only his body, but his abilities.

Even if you just want to keep it simple and build sandcastles or collect seashells, he’s going to find ways of showing off: He’ll manipulate the tide a smidge to keep it from coming in and ruining your hard work, or he’ll request his aquatic friends to make scooch some pretty shells or any available sea glass close enough to the shoreline that the tide will do the rest.

You may roll your eyes at this, but you do eventually thank him for it after every time. After all, you now possess a mighty fine bowl full of gorgeous shells and soft, rounded pieces of green glass because of his efforts.

He enjoys trying to find ways to get you to open up a bit more.

It’s not that he finds your shyness annoying or necessarily a hindrance, far from it: he enjoys that your modesty sort of creates a series of slides for him to try and pull back, creating layers upon layers of new things to learn and love about you.

But, as mentioned before, he can’t always be there: He doesn’t like the idea of you becoming too reliant on his boisterous behavior and getting taken advantage of during one of the instances where he isn’t present.

“M’kay, so you’re at a bar – ” “Lies, slander, libel, misinterpretation of character – ” “Fine,” he says through gritted teeth. “You’re at the ice cream parlor – shut it, you had your chance – and some, I dunno, punk who frequents the sodie fountain comes up to you and starts causing you trouble. What do we do?” “Tell him to please leave me be, I’m trying to enjoy my sundae.” “Mhm, or?” “If he’s persistent, call management.” “Good, and what else?” “Well, jeez, Arthur, do you want me to break a milkshake glass on the counter and use it as a shiv!?” “Noooooo: You could always say, ‘Piss off or else my big, scary boyfriend’s gonna come and shove a piranha down your dick.’” “What the – I’m not saying that!” “Not now, you’re not, but by the end of our training, you’ll be saying all kinds of tough guy and gal things!”

It’s . . . a work in progress.

He loves it when you blush. Even if you have dark skin, he’s picked up on cues that hint that your face is on fire.

He’s more observant than he lets in on, but trust me: he knows how to read you after getting to know you. He can see that way you smile or that certain way your eyes may flicker or whatever may have you and instantly know that roses are blooming in your cheeks.

“Aaaawww, is Babygirl feelin’ sheepish?” “Shut up, you big fool.”

Now, when it comes to the more . . . physical side of the relationship, he struggles with taking it slow

Not to knock on you, but Arthur’s rather used to women throwing themselves at him. Hell, he’s had at least two women wrap their legs around his waist in the same evening he’d taken them out on their first (and often only) date.

It’s because he’s used to, well, bolder types of women.

Honestly, he struggles for a good while: He’s not going to force you to do anything you don’t feel comfortable with, not ever, but he’d be lying if he said it was easy to not think about smashing his lips against yours and pinning you to a wall (preferably around Bruce’s place) and mark you up with hickies and possibly other, more personal things.

However, this change of pacing in a relationship, coupled with the fact that this is his first long-term one, does the man good: It teaches him more patience and consideration.

He even begins to enjoy the softer, sweeter things that he’d previously scoffed at as being “too vanilla”, such as kisses to the forehead or hand-holding.

Still, he does get strong makeout hankerings. (If you appease him, he’s more than grateful every time.)

That being said, if and/or when you do start to feel a bit braver about venturing further into the realm of intimacy, you still may possess some insecurities.

You’re no fool – you know what sort of man you have on your hands. You don’t need to look to the sides or behind you when the two of you walk somewhere to know that he’s being checked out by at least three people. He’s practically a demigod species-wise, and still remarkably attractive from the viewpoint of him being a normal human.

Even though you try not to, you can’t help but let some worries slip through the cracks: Maybe you’re just an appetizer to hold him over until he lands his sights on a more “fulfilling” meal; maybe you’re too plain for him (you know that that’s what goes through the minds of many gawkers); maybe you should show more skin . . .

But worry not: Cliché as it may sound, Arthur very much likes you the way you are. If you’re comfortable with you, then he’s comfortable with you. In fact, it makes him admire you even harder because it shows you’ve managed to do something he still struggles with: Being comfortable with his own self.

He finds it very sexy when you think you look nice in an outfit or when you take even the tiniest step out of your comfort zone to try a new look or accessory, and will honestly struggle all the more with keeping his hands or lips to himself.

But once you give him the okay, he’s all over that: Hands squeezing that ass he loves so much, kisses below the neck, utterances of flirtations ranging from PG to downright dirty.

If you gather up the guts to move even further or just flat out hit a homerun, it becomes a guidebook in itself.

Protip: One of the sexiest things you can do? Simply where one of his shirts, which is oversized on you thanks to his massive height. It doesn’t have to be wet, but it sure isn’t a problem in his eyes.

Cuddles. The boy is a slut for cuddles no matter what he tells you. Arthur may not necessarily be touch-starved, but he’s definitely bankrupt on accumulated touches of affection. His loner attitude always made it difficult for him to receive that sort of thing, especially since nobody he went out with was ever in the picture for too long. So when it hits him that in this relationship, such a thing is not only possible but welcome, he can’t help but feel a well of excitement brewing within him.

You in his lap, you by his side, you with your head on his chest, traditional spooning, you with your head on his lap or vice-versa, him lying down with you on his back, him sitting on the floor between your legs or the opposite, his loves it all!

The problem is, he won’t even admit this to you. But he tries to be sneaky about getting what he wants.

“What’s the matter?” “Hm? Nothing.” “Really? You look sad; you need me to cuddle you?” “What? I mean, it’d be nice but I’m not really –” He sighs, as if exasperated, “Can’t be helped; c’mere.” You aren’t given much time to object as you find yourself being collected into his warm, muscular embrace.

Sometimes, however . . . he slips up. And by that, I mean he’ll “happen” to slip into bed or onto the couch next to you in a way that presents himself as the little spoon.

Actually, of all the ways he likes to cuddle, jetpacking may be his favorite. Unfortunately, unless you think enough about it, you’d probably not notice it until later in the relationship due to how rarely he lets it happen. But it makes perfect sense otherwise: He’s so used to everybody having expectations for him. He’s so used to feeling obligated to do all these things for worlds he doesn’t necessarily feel the strongest connection with. Going off of that, there was the life-long sense of not being completely bound to either existence, creating insecurities galore.

Sure, he’s started to take the steps in the right direction but it’s still very hard, especially since those steps are accompanied with the extra weight of him now being a member of something bigger: An appointed rule of Atlantis, a balance-keeper between the land and the sea, a member of an actual team . . .

You don’t need to be told that it’s frustrating. You truly do commend him for taking it as well as he is.

But obviously, it takes its toll on the guy more often than he’d let his teammates in on, so it often times falls on you to help him cope.

Interestingly, this honestly seems to be the most he lets you do. Or rather, the most that even needs to be done at all.

But the fact of the matter is, you’ve come to love this position as well.

Because it allows you to feel like the brave and strong one in the relationship, just like how you suspect Arthur must feel much of the time. The way Arthur constantly wants you to feel, not so that he doesn’t have to try as hard at being a boyfriend to a person so different from him, but because he wants the best for you and doesn’t want the world to hurt you or make you feel out of place for who you are. Of course, he doesn’t want you to change, but he does want you to recognize the inner-strength you have, the inner-strength he sometimes worries you forget about amidst your worries and own frustrations.

But for the meantime, this will do: With your big, brash aquatic boyfriend allowing himself to feel delicate, and your usually quiet and shy self, feeling brave and protective.

It surprisingly works, this weird little world the two of you have created together. You both find that you fit into it together quite perfectly.

[beefybuffybucky]

Ghosts of Winters Passed

Pairing: Avengers x psychic&female!Reader - Bucky Barnes x psychic&female!Reader

Summary: Y/N is a member of the Avengers, and is well-known assassin who has unique tactical and combat abilities, as well as the ability to read minds. But when Y/N and Bucky are assigned to go on a mission to extract some files, painful ghosts of the past resurface in ways Y/N never thought they would again.  

Warnings: language - mention of parental death - some sexual references

Word Count: 1.4K

A/N: my blood sugar has been super low recently so i’ve been insanely dizzy for a few days and school is stressful and i’ve gone through a lot of drama shit recently so uh,, go me i guess. anyways, here’s the first part of a fic, not based off a request, but i’ll totally rope a few requests into this one! i hope y’all had a great monday!

The warmth of the sun absorbing into the cement and pooling over your exposed skin reminds you of being a cat bathing luxuriously in sunlight. The idea of being a cat has always been cool to you. Cats have the ability to do whatever they want, whenever they want, can eat as much as they want, can sleep for endless hours on end, and just be a cat. Unlike these majestic creatures, you don’t get the same amount of beautiful freedom.

All of that slipped through your fingers when you signed-on with the Avengers.

Ever since you were little, you were able to see and hear things other people can’t. You never thought anything of it, until you told your adoptive parents, and they lost their shit. They decided to send you to a small, private Catholic school, took you to church every Sunday and Wednesday, and even had a priest bless some of your things, all in an attempt to ‘cleanse’ you.

But nothing ever worked, and it’s not like you were ever afraid of the things you saw. Once you were sixteen, you ran away from home, and spent time bringing messages from the afterlife to loved ones still on Earth. It was all fine-and-dandy until you got dragged into some dark shit, and found that you couldn’t escape from the cold, deadly chains that were binding you to not only the spirits involved, but the people as well. You trained underground for years, and eventually, what started as an innocent adventure into life turned into you becoming a freelance assassin, with a little help from the otherside.

Long story short, the people involved in your own case were also on the Avenger’s list of ‘people-to-keep-an-eye-on’, and one night, instead of packing up your things to leave town, you found yourself stuck in an interrogation room for hours until one golden-blonde, buff angel walked in.

And now you’re here, sunbathing on the main patio of the Avengers’ compound with your best friend Finn by your side.

“You’re doing it again,” Finn sighs next to you.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you shrug carelessly, opening your eyes just to be immediately blinded by the intense sun burning through your sunglasses.

“Stop sulking,” Finn whines, propping himself up on his elbows. “You can’t change the past, honey. Besides, you’ve only been here for like, what...two weeks?”

“Are you some sort of psychic?” You joke, pushing yourself up from the ground and padding over to the outdoor bar to grab some water.

“Nope,” Finn calls out from behind you. “Just dead.” You can hear the smile in his voice. The patio door sliding open catches your attention, and you look up to see Bucky Barnes sticking his head through the doorway, the rest of his body concealed behind the wall so it looks like he’s just a floating head.

“What are you doing?” The floating head of Bucky Barnes questions you.

“Just catchin’ some rays,” you wink at him as you drop a few ice cubes into your glass.

“Well, would you look at that,” Finn’s voice hums hungrily in your ear. He suddenly appears next to you, his body slowly building itself out of a thin mist. Finn stands leaning over the counter, chin propped up on his fist, gaze solidly locked on Bucky’s broad figure as he walks towards you, stopping on the other side of the counter. “I can think of a few things I’d like to do with him.”

“Finn,” you hiss in your mind.

“Well, can you blame me?”

Bucky pulls out a stool and takes a seat, resting his elbows on the cool, shiny countertop, completely unaware of the second presence in front of him inching closer to you by the second.

“Isn’t it a little hot out here?” Bucky squints under the overwhelmingly bright, hot sun. You shrug in response.

“Eh,” you shrug back in response.

“What do you think he’s into?” Finn continues next to you. You take a sip of your water. “He looks like he would be into some pretty hot shit.”

Your water suddenly makes a reappearance, forcefully misting into the air in front of you.

“Are you okay?” Bucky blinks quizzically.

“Just dandy,” you mutter, shooting an angry glance to your side.

“That wasn’t my fault.” You see Finn wink playfully out of the corner of your eye.

“So,” Bucky releases a long, smooth breath. “How’s training with Steve goin’?”

“Worse than I ever thought it could be,” you chuckle. “I haven’t had my ass handed to me like that in years.”

“Yeah,” Bucky looks down at the counter as he laughs, a goofy, wide grin spreading from one ear to the other. “Sounds like Stevie.”

“Now that’s somethin’ to imagine,” Finn starts-up again. “Him and Captain America? Oh, Lord.” Your jaw clenches as Finn fans himself with his hand. “I think I’m gonna pass out. This is it...the end is near.”

“Would you maybe want to go inside?” You direct your attention to Bucky, trying your best to ignore Finn, who is currently crumbling into a ball, faking his own, dramatic death.

“Sure.” Bucky looks back up at you. “I’ve never been one for the heat anyway.”

The wink he shoots at you would’ve been enough to make at least thirty Finns melt on the spot.

Shortly after going back inside, you were unpleasantly met with F.R.I.D.A.Y’s voice calls both you and Bucky to a mission debriefing. Once you reach the meeting room, you’re greeted by an exhausted-looking Tony Stark and an all-too-calm Steve Rogers.

“About time,” Tony huffs as you take a seat across from Steve, the bottoms of your thighs immediately sticking to the leather cushion. “Murmansk, Russia.” The large screen behind him lights up with a bright map as Bucky settles into the seat next to you. “We caught wind of some crucial files still hidden away in this -” the image of an old, crumbling building pops up “abandoned training facility on the outskirts of the town to the north.”

“If you know where the files are,” you cut it. “Then why haven’t you just gone to get them yet?”

“I was getting to that,” Tony turns with a tilt of his head in your direction. “That’s where you come in.” About a dozen, black-and-white photos of men in military uniforms come up. “These are the commanding officers who had previously worked at the facility. They have more information about the ‘Winter Soldier’ experiments.” A quick glance to Bucky reveals a stoney look on his face. “The only problem is that they’re all dead.”

“That’s useful,” Bucky mutters under his breath.

“We’re sending both you and Barnes on this mission. Your goal is to collect as much information as you can from whatever resources you must use, and to extract the files from the building.”

Steve slowly starts to tap the end of his pen on the table.

“What about Steve?” You focus back on Tony.

“What about him?” Tony keeps his attention on organizing a small stack of papers.

“Why is he here?”

Tony’s jaw clenches tightly as he peers at Steve, a deep look of concern clouding his eyes.

“Because the files are about him.”

“How do you know that they’re -”

“I trust you two will carry out this mission successfully,” Tony cockily cuts you off as he clicks a button and the screen powers down. “Cap,” Tony motions with a finger for him to follow, and Steve darkly trails out of the room on Tony’s heels.

Bucky swivels gently back and forth in his chair, his gaze glued to the tabletop.

“Spit it out,” you groan. His head drags up and his eyes meet your confused gaze as he seems to search for the right words to piece together in your eyes.

“How much do you remember about your parents?”

“What?” You blink back at him, your voice breaking. You clear your throat. “Why?”

“The files, they -,” his breath catches in his throat. “Your parents are involved in this.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” You laugh lowly in disbelief. “My parents are dead, Buck. I never even knew them.”

“I know,” he says firmly. His gaze drifts again, and your pulse thumps in your ears. “That’s who we have to find,” he takes a deep breath before turning back to you again. A dull ping of sadness aches behind his icy eyes. “I need you to talk to your parents.”

[supergirlimaginesfic-blog]

Lena Luthor x reader (Yesterday, our history; today, for now)

Request:  Lena x reader : lena gets jealous after seeing someone kiss you at one of her gala 

a/n: guess which garbage monster decided to make a little childhood friends to present time drabble. THIS garbage monster decided to make a childhood friends fic, because I want it and I think it kinda fit this particular scenario. You’re a little bit of a big time fairtrade coffee mogul, it’s obscure and I’m craving coffee currently, so naturally this is what I come up with. Forgive me if it seems like I’m just spouting out terms... it is most definitely because that’s exactly what I’m doing LOL

For SOME reason I was in some grand mood to write something a little angsty and piney... for what reason? I truly could not tell you. Apparently I’m due for one of those again. Thanks for reading y’all!! :D

- - - - -

If you were to be candid and outright, you would readily admit that you resented the business world. You’re self-aware enough to understand the privilege of working hard and watching it pay off, and living comfortably is something that’s never been foreign to you.

You weren’t born into all the wealth you had now - you were proud to say you toiled for what you could call your own. In spite of the leg up you knew you got from certain family members, it humbled you and you never took your gains for granted.

As you found yourself standing in a giant room among the people who you should consider your peers, it went without saying you were jaded and unimpressed.

Where you could, you tried to withhold judgement; after all, not everybody was insufferable and irritating with their prestige, though you also knew a lot of them believed they were destined for it.

Self-worth is a subjective commodity, and where one person draws motivation could be quite strikingly different from the next. Still, you had enough interactions (far too many, you concede) with these kinds of people to be intimately aware of a certain unspoken but commonly held truth: if they’d lost all their money and power in an instant, it would be more than their net worth that’s lost.

Even so, you didn’t necessarily loathe the wealthy elite so much as you just can’t find many people worth respecting despite the all-encompassing competitiveness to have the unwarranted abundance of it.

Life, you know, is saturated with this mentality in general, and it only aggravated you now because you knew you were intended to befriend these people and maintain good rapport.

You wish it wasn’t so easy to give in to the sentiment of othering yourself whenever you contemplated your fortunate circumstances, yet you could count on your one hand the number of true allies you could rely on and vouch for personally.

When you glanced at the L-Corp gala invitation that you found in your mail, it was not your first thought to dread another night of reluctant obligation, but rather of one old friend you were much too aware of not having seen in years.

You wouldn’t say you were avoiding her - not entirely, anyway. You were simply distracted with the course of your life and needing to better it for yourself. You had a never-settling unease about not being good enough, and though this was a noble insecurity to have, it proved relentless and omnipresent.

Throughout your boarding school experience, Lena Luthor was as unassuming as she was brilliant. Though now, you surmise, she entertains the facade of grandeur, and you’ve still yet to put together how to reconcile what you know of a young Lena and what you’ve seen of her now.

You’ve always admired her from afar; that much wasn’t a surprise. What was a surprise, however, was the inexplicable draw that possessed the two of you and created an otherwise unlikely alliance of mutual understanding.

You were the new kid of freshman year, having missed three months of the beginning of school to relocating with your aunt and her family from Central City. Lena was the youngest acquisition of the Luthor family, and that particular news followed her like a shadow.

Still, you watched as she prospered in spite of it and just as you felt yourself falling into her gravity, you also somehow caught her in your orbit.

The two of you were an anomalous pair, you in your modest willingness to remain indeterminate and ordinary and her with the effortless dancing on the precipice of obscurity and greatness.

Even then at that young age, you had the distinct notion of not wanting to hinder her in any way you possibly could - even then, she would scoff at your foolishness. For as much as a friend could love you, she did. And for as much as you were pining for her successes and happiness, you did.

You dreamed often and you played often together, and as much as you did you also studied and philosophized and aspired. The adventure of youth was indeed a journey, and you would never change the reality of having Lena in your corner for those formative years if you were faced with the decision to start over.

You hadn’t thought much of it then, but the only time you ever stood up against anyone or anything was when someone by the likes of Veronica Sinclair gave Lena trouble; and there is much that could be said about that now in retrospect.

Lena gave you loyalty as fierce as your own, and though it often went unspoken, you knew you’d both felt it.

It was only with little sadness that you watched awe-struck and proud as she walked to the podium to receive her diploma, and you knew she would be heading off to MIT.

As for yourself, you would charter the route that just like any other wide-eyed, hopeful teen your age imagined for themselves would most benefit from in the long run. Your aunt, with her modest conglomerate of companies in a wide array of sectors, only asked of you to do what you could do best.

You’d graduate from an Honours International Development Studies program and sought after your pipe dream to not change the world, but to merely help it.

For years, you would hear stories from the wind of the Luthor scion and Jack Spheer trying to find the ever elusive cure to cancer, and you’d heard that they were making breakthroughs with their nanotechnology.

Even then, you’d felt rather inadequate, and much to your displeasure you found that in a room full off big business moguls and politicians you still felt just as small as you always had.

It was with great bemusement that you remember you’d finally accepted an invitation from L-Corp as you looked around you at the filling ballroom, and you’re usually not so absent of mind.

You begin to realize just how out of place you feel as you watch pairs of people filing through the entrance, all figures of prominence and varying levels of affluence trying to take up the most space in the room. You feel so very unprepared and not at all in your element and you almost regret your decision to go about this event alone.

It���s only for a few hours, you concede, and you’ll take your leave the very second it’s socially acceptable to do so. You wonder if you can even evade Lena again, though it’s becoming more and more evident how unlikely that will be. You don’t have the excuse of being in another country altogether to justify your absences.

Perhaps you’ve made a big mistake by coming here tonight.

You don’t have the time to ponder it further, however, when you feel a presence sidle up beside you.

“Now, I don’t usually act so brash and forward, but I must simply know why exactly it is you are without company this evening.”

You don’t recognize the woman when you turn to face her. At first glance you see she is conventionally beautiful with her dark brown eyes and an angular face.

She’s wearing a deep green gown and she seems the epitome of refinement. She seems rather young, perhaps only a few years older than you, and somehow much more... everything.

“That is, unless it’s only a matter of time before she makes her appearance and I learn yet another lesson regarding my presumptuous inclinations,” she adds.

You smile politely and already feel yourself get reluctantly pulled forward into the game of social obligation. Still, you are curious.

“Well, Miss... you would be correct in your observations. I’m afraid I don’t recognize you, and if I ought to then I apologize-”

“Beckett, and it’s absolutely divine to make your acquaintance.”

You have exactly milliseconds to both process and react to her moving in close to kiss you just near the corner of your mouth, and if there’s any look of astonishment and utter confusion on your face, she’s ignorant to the display.

You’re left stuttering and stumbling on words, and you’re vexed at just how out of touch you are with how to behave in these events and how to deal with such forwardness in general.

“Miss-”

“Oh, please, call me Alona, we can allow ourselves to be on a first name basis.”

“Right, yeah- okay-”

“I confess, I know quite a lot about you, (Y/N). You’re making rather significant waves that are crossing into my circles. I am most curious about your story.”

You’re still silent, standing before a woman and her force of nature as she glides easily from thought to thought, almost taunting you in a way to keep up.

“It’s the most inspirational anecdote. Your aunt, Theresa Everett, she’s such a character too. I’ve had the pleasure of knowing her while she was still active and the most prominent in 2013. And now, you’re an entrepreneur! You’ve really separated yourself from all that, haven’t you?”

You inhale shakily as you scramble to recollect your thoughts - there’s very little reference points you can bounce off of, but you force yourself to believe it’s enough. Having to talk about your work, at least, is something you enjoy and you don’t have to think too hard about that.

“Well, I wouldn’t necessarily word it like that. It’s not so much of a rebranding as it is just really focusing and cutting back the excess of resources at my disposal. I’ll take what I need and no more or less, and it’s proven to have worked out if the exponential growth of the farms I’ve overseen is any indication.”

For her part, Alona looks attentively at you, and if you weren’t so overwhelmed by her larger than life introduction you would perhaps be more than willing to indulge her conversation and speak in depth of your work.

You think there’s a hint of impudence to her when she smiles at you, but the observation is moot by the time you’ve detected it.

“I’ve always thought so highly of you, and it is so refreshing to see I’m not wrong in my high regards. What is it now, you have locations in Peru, Guatemala, Colombia if I recall correctly?

“I truly, truly commend you for your upholding the ethical crusade. It’s apparent that every single one present in this room has something similar in common with another, and perhaps this is what you and Ms. Luthor share; the unfailing resilience to chase a simple dream.”

Your eyebrows furrow slightly in contemplation and you regard the woman carefully. There’s an agenda hidden somewhere - there always is, and you’re just about close to scratching the surface of it. You’re suspicious, and part of this game is to do everything you can to make sure you don’t show it. You consider your next words as carefully as you can, but you’re just steps over the edge.

“And still I wholeheartedly believe a simple dream is the one distinctive catalyst that provides solutions where there might be questions, and curates possibilities where there are only hypotheticals.”

You inhale sharply and feel the broiling of your intensity and mild agitation. You think to try to reel yourself in - you’re well aware of the flurry you become when you get going about correcting people who are just so very wrong.

“But respectfully, I decline your belief in my upholding some crusade of ethics - as far as I’m concerned it’s pretty rudimentary that we treat every individual involved in our business relationships with the same amount of respect as we are given by default as the ones with the monetary resources. Business is a mutual give and take. It’s our responsibility to foster all aspects of the whole to benefit from the sum of all the little parts.”

Alona smiles at you again, and you’ve no doubt now it’s positively devilish in its scheming.

“I am so awed by your passion, how remarkably you guard your tenets. That tenacity should be harnessed. If you need any assistance in the form of governmental influence, which I’m sure you will no doubt encounter if you haven’t already, I will personally see to it that I have some sway in your favour.”

“Thank you so much, Miss Beckett, I can assure you we are quite self-sustaining at this time and it’s actually beneficial that we’re on the fringes of politics-”

Suddenly, you think you feel the air escape your lungs and your eyes widen almost comically. There’s a far off part of your brain that’s mostly shut off currently, but you can hear a distant echo of this is some bullshit movie moment, come from the depths of your mind when you finally see her.

You begin to think just how wrong you were to ever have stayed away from her. You think you should be rewarded for your ability to have ever done so at all.

Lena is so much more than you ever remembered of her. You’re only minutely aware of being cut off mid-sentence before you realize it was you who stopped talking altogether. You think you feel your jaw go slack, and Alona at least takes note when she acknowledges the new presence.

“Lena, you’ve outdone yourself as always.”

“Alona, your attendance always pleases me,” she says in greeting.

You can feel the distinct tension of various things left unsaid in your little trio, and when neither woman broaches the physical boundary tethering you all together, it’s Lena who decides to start severing the tie.

“How is Mr. Conroy? I’m sure Johnathan is doing well?”

“Yes, quite. He almost didn’t want to make it today, I’m sure you can understand, what with the last L-Corp event being quite the target for trouble.”

Alona smirks mischievously in delight and you can only watch in slight horror at the show you’ve inadvertently become an audience for.

“Of course, that’s justifiable. I almost thought it’d been best if we all just stayed home,” Lena says cuttingly.

“Oh, but here we are. Your bravery has always impressed me, Lena.”

Lena just smiles sweetly and she’s a considerable distance away from you - at least, as much as what you perceive suggests. You can just feel the tug of her and not a single part of her body is touching yours, and yet you feel the fire of your skin ablaze by her presence alone. She might as well have been playing matches on your being.

Somehow, and this has always amused you, watching people recognize the notion that they’re not wanted anymore becomes potent enough to become an entirely new entity, and you love watching how they react.

Alona decides to take her leave, but not before she kisses you on the cheek in departure and bids you a good evening, and you really wish you’d learned to expect the unexpected as if you hadn’t experience this same conundrum just several minutes ago.

You barely register that Lena’s sweet smile falls into a scowl. You’re not quite sure why exactly it is she has such a disapproving glare. You refuse to indulge the possible reasons why it would be there.

Even after Alona is gone, you and Lena don’t share a word for the next few moments.

When she finally looks up at you, she’s no longer glowering at some inconsequential woman you happened to have encountered, and you can see the imperceptible widening of her eyes as if she’s really taking you in.

You wonder if you should assure her that your presence isn’t a trick of reality - you can hardly believe it yourself, but Lena breaks the silence.

“You’re a lot taller than I remember,” she mutters teasingly.

“And you’re more radiant than ever.”

In spite of the long years absent from each other’s lives, the familiarity of Lena makes you feel both parts nostalgic and something akin to a return - like a conversation that picks up where you’ve left it as if it never ceased at all, and in a way, that’s exactly what you two are.

“It’s good to see you’re just as much of a kiss-ass as you’ve always been.”

You smile at her remark, and it’s decisively more than you can ever say you’ve had as of late; this alone should be cause for alarm.

“Naturally,” you grin. “To what do I owe this pleasure of your exclusive attention?”

“Don’t you know I only ever host these events to draw you out of whatever cave it is you’ve hidden in all these years? I should be asking you that same question.”

You see a flash of something like hurt and hesitance in Lena’s eyes. You know it because you felt it yourself. You think perhaps she can see it in you too.

There’s a compulsion in you to apologize, but for what, you couldn’t even begin to articulate.

There’s just too much and all the same, there’s very little to answer for at all. You wouldn’t change the way your life has turned out. Though, you can’t speak for Lena.

“I’ve been away,” is all you supply, and you marvel at your uselessness.

Lena smiles at you in a way that you can very much tell says, well no shit, but the fondness that’s there regardless has distracted you.

“Of course,” she says, and then, “how’s Theresa doing? She’s well, I take it?”

You’re thankful for the cop out and you take it.

“Yeah, she’s thriving as always. She asks about you often still.”

You barely register what you’ve said before you can even think to take it back.

Lena looks rueful when she replies, “I’d almost be shocked if she hasn’t kept up with the news as everyone else has.”

It takes everything of your being to will yourself not to hug her.

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“No, I do.”

You begin to realize the depths of your struggle, and the profoundly evident lack of knowledge you once had of your best friend’s life makes itself ever present all in one booming crash in your chest.

You grapple for something, anything to reach out to her.

“So... how’s Jack?”

Lena inhales sharply and her lips purse slightly, “he passed away.”

You feel it more than you hear it - the fall of something in your gut hanging in suspension in your lower torso.

“Fuck, I’m sorry-”

“It was either him or Supergirl,” she states softly.

You fiddle with your hands awkwardly. You’re becoming painfully aware of just how invasive your entire body feels in relation to Lena, and you wish you could just disappear or at least transport your being to some other timeline that has nothing to do with the current one.

You think to blame yourself entirely, of course when you concede that Lena has finally found someone worthy of her, the universe decides to muddle it up eventually.

You worry about just what that could mean for you.

“That must have been almost half a year ago. Often I wonder just how much more I can be put through the wringer before I snap. It feels like it’s simply a matter of time before I become everything I’ve always feared.”

You snap out of your reverie of contrite at Lena’s admission.

“You know you’ve always been above that. Plenty of times, you could have done just that, but you never have. And I think it’s because you’re just not capable of it. I’ve never once seen something you weren’t capable of handling.”

Lena sighs deeply, “I don’t think I want to find that breaking point.”

“I don’t think you’ll have to,” you say affirmatively.

You’re both silent in contemplation. Lena looks softer, and you wonder about it as you parse through the memories of the Lena you once knew and what you’re getting now.

Even if you didn’t know her as you did, you still believe entirely that she looks absolutely magnificent. She can fill an entire room without a single word, and you realize then with sneaking suspicion this is just how she’s managed to infiltrate every corner of your life you thought you’d abandoned.

The familiar sensation of pride swells in you again, and a sort of daze falls on you as you smile at the contentedness it gives you. It’s almost enough to distract you from the sad exhaustion you can see hiding just barely veiled within her eyes.

“So, coffee is it?” she asks.

“What?” you think you feel your entire body snap into another awakening as you hurl back into the conversation.

You see the slight uptick of her lips form into a smirk, and you don’t bother to resist thinking about how much you’ve missed it.

“Your business? Fairtrade coffee now, I suppose you never really intended to succeed your aunt?” she prompts, slightly teasingly.

You think you can smack yourself for your misgivings.

“Yeah, that- yeah. Right. I mean, I wasn’t always so deeply taken by what she had her companies’ shares in. It could be said that I’ve rebuilt, but really I’ve just tried to involve myself in areas that interest me and I can invest entirely in; not just monetarily either. My whole heart’s in it, and it’s much easier that way.”

Lena looks contemplative as she deliberates your words, and then, “it seems if it becomes personal that the stakes are so much more higher and there’s so much more at risk, do you find that to be the case?”

You tilt your head in consideration, you try to not give credence to the inexplicable longing you suddenly feel at having Lena so close, yet so very far.

“Arguably, maybe people’s expectations of me have deviated. The risks are only as substantial as the reward. The company’s interests may be refocused, but mine, at least, remain unchanged.”

Lena studies you meaningfully and you feel your body come alive under the weight of her gaze.

“I have always admired your determination to chase after your aspirations. I’ve also always envied your freedom to do so,” she says wryly.

You give her a small smile, “it took me a while to get where I am now. I haven’t always gone after what I really desired.”

Lena glances at you, and when you catch her eyes you hurry to distract yourself with more words, anything to keep you from falling apart for just a little bit longer.

“It takes a lot of trial and error, and without a doubt it’s taken its time... though it goes without saying that the answer sometimes has been right in front of you all along.”

At some point, you think your words have stopped having a singular meaning and you think they’ve become latent with more complex, underlying feelings you feel the least bit prepared to address.

You add hastily, knowing you ought to say it if it weren’t already evident, “for what it’s worth, Lena, it seems as though you’re doing great for yourself.”

Perhaps, you believe, she’s always appreciated your uncanny ability to understand what she needs to hear, to listen to what goes unsaid for her. Even now, you think you’re not just imagining it anymore and you can see the vulnerable adoration in her eyes.

Lena smiles at you, muted with the quiet tones of a lament for time lost and of time yet to lose. Still, you see the endless gratitude that goes unuttered but entirely indisputable.

“When will you be flying off again?” she asks.

“Not for another few weeks.”

I missed you, goes unsaid.

“If it weren’t already plain, it should be mentioned just how much my evening has been made now that I got to see you.”

I’m proud of you, goes unsaid.

“Well, rest assured I feel exactly the same way,” you say earnestly.

I thought I’d lost you, goes unsaid.

There’s a tension palpable enough to cut through, and you feel it stifling you quickly, filling you like concrete.

You’re tired of the feeling of having unfinished business with Lena - for as long as you can remember, your story has never felt quite finished, and you don’t suspect either of you are willing to let it get to that.

“(Y/N), this doesn’t have to be farewell.”

The sentiment doesn’t help in maintaining your pretense of composure.

“No, I don’t want it to be.”

Not again, goes unsaid.

“Then why waste any more time? We may not know the future, but at least we have now.”

I won’t give in to the fear of having lost you wilfully again, goes unsaid.

Lena’s eyes make a slow descent from your eyes to your lips, and you can feel the slow drag of them trail to your bowtie. She lifts her hands and fixes it, taking gentle care in lingering more than a stranger would.

Lena’s not a stranger though, not entirely.

She’s grinning fondly at some secret joke.

“You always refused to wear just a regular tie. You thought it was too conventional.”

You grin at her observation, “I was a pretty pretentious kid.”

“Well, that’s quite alright, you looked much better in these anyway,” she smirks.

You feel the rising warmth of a blush rushing to your cheeks. Somehow, you think you’ve experienced equal parts death and renewal all at once. Somehow, you know you’ll both do better this time.

[freewheelen]

Palm Springs | 01.20.2018 (Day 1) Pt. 3

Harley Davidson motors produce a very mechanical sound. It’s a deep and throaty cough with a ‘chug-a-chug-a – chug-a-chug-a – chug-a-chug-a’ cadence. Off the line[1], they growl in the lower RPMs and ramp up to a roar. But once you get them on the highway, and up to speed, they run at a constant purr. That’s how my bike sounds right now. Rolling over the smooth pavement of Interstate 10, I can hone in on the engine noise. My 883 cc motor is made for speed – at short distances. Once you get her over 80 mph, she shakes more than an anxious chihuahua. Road tripping with my bike is like signing up a sprinter for a marathon. But at a steady 75 mph, Michelle and I are able to relax for the final leg. The stability of sub-80 mph allows me to compensate for the road up ahead: windmill country.

The San Gorgonio Pass contains over 3,000 windmills. And for good reason. Winds rip through this region regularly. In previous rides, I’ve nearly been lifted off my bike by headwinds. Fortunately, the additional weight packed onto the bike helps battle the winds and we glide onto Route 62 without incident. 

Less than 10 miles down this lonely backroad, our campground awaits. Highways like this are perfect for picking up speed. Flat, vacant, smooth. I pop the bike into 5th and pull the throttle back. The needle on the speedo[2] climbs. 80. 85. 90. 95…100.

Whenever someone asks me what it’s like to hit 100 mph I deliver a very anticlimactic response: “You can’t really tell the difference.” The only places you can safely reach 100+ mph are on empty country roads. Out here, it’s desolate, meaning safer conditions for riding. On the other hand, there are fewer points of reference for you to gauge your speed. Truth be told, with buildings flying by at 60 mph in the city, you feel like you’re going faster.

We roll into the campground right at noon. After checking in, we ease the bike into our spot and dismount. In the dead of winter, most of the sites are vacant. A plus for space but a minus for peace of mind. There’s always a ‘safety in numbers’ mindset when you’re out in the wilderness. Gravel covers the entirety of the lot with soft rubber pebbles designating the tent area. A wooden picnic table sits at the center and trees line the west side of the grounds, providing limited refuge from the swirling winds.

This is Michelle’s second time camping – EVER! On our first trip, I took her to a beachfront site that was literally steps from a neighborhood supermarket. Far from remote. My goal is to gradually introduce her to more primitive accommodations and this campground is the perfect next step. Removed from civilization but chockful of amenities (pool, hot tubs, showers, laundry mat, etc.). We unload and begin pitching the tent. She’s particularly taken with hammering the stakes into the dirt, which is imperative in these blustery conditions. One strong gust against the broadside of the tent could send you rolling down the drive like a hamster in a ball. 

After we remove the rest of the gear from the Harley and lay out our sleeping arrangements, we depart for Palm Springs. With reservations for ATV rentals in the afternoon, we want to sneak in as much time as possible before sunset.

On our way into town, the land flattens and the trees disappear. Winds out here pick up sand, and in this open environment, we’re vulnerable. Off the roadside, a sign announces ‘DRIFTING SAND’ and I take it lightly. But as we descend the overpass, a gust hits us obliquely from the right. I can feel the wind push at the rear of my ribs. Wind-blown sand hitting the shell of your helmet sounds like a sizzling frying pan. Gust. Sizzle. Gust. Sizzle. The winds are so strong that I’m struggling to keep my line[3]. The front tire veers to the left and into the other lane. As we approach the shoulder, I lean to my right, against the wind. In normal conditions, this would force the bike to turn right. Steering a motorcycle is done more with your body and less with the hands. Some racing schools even lock the handlebars in place so their trainees are forced to lean into turns instead. In order to counteract the effects of the crosswinds, I hang off the side of my bike at 45°. My body position looks like I’m turning, but the bike is continuing straight. Once we reach the suburban neighborhoods of Palm Springs, I can ride in my normal position again. Houses and small businesses break up the wind and protect the inner community from the open desert. 

While in town, we grab a quick bite to eat before peeling off the main road and onto Route 111.

We arrive at Off-Road Rentals in good time. The crunch of gravel under my tires tells me that I should pull straight into a spot. With my street tires, maneuverability is sacrificed on loose surfaces. 

We hop out of the saddle and stride to the entrance. A collection of discarded Jeep Wranglers, motorcycles, and train cars decorate the grounds like a vehicular graveyard. To our right, old tires outline the boundaries of the windswept off-road course.

After a safety video, Michelle and I are led to our Honda TRX 90s. I throw my leg over and sink into the seat.

“Ooh, comfy,” she remarks.

I nod in agreement.

Motorcycles and ATVs share a lot of the same DNA (handlebars, riding position, manual transmission, etc.), but ATVs are very different in 2 departments: stability and suspension. The support of 4 wheels is irreplaceable. On a bike, the rider’s balance and core strength keep the vehicle upright. That’s not the case with ATVs. While you need strength and balance to control the rig, the margin of error isn’t as high, so I’m already feeling comfortable. As for the suspension, these vehicles are made to handle the toughest of terrain so the shocks really buffer your rear end from the road. Unlike street bikes, where you can feel some potholes rattle your skull. A suspension as soft as this ATV’s would sacrifice handling and stability, so I’m making sure I soak in the comfort while I can.

Following a quick tutorial from the instructors, we’re off. The course is wide and rugged, but Michelle prefers to learn the ropes away from the pack. We retreat to the practice course on the backside of the facility. From the time that Michelle first jumped on the back of my Harley, she’s toyed with the possibility of owning a bike. We’ve come to an unofficial agreement that she would use my motorcycle to practice for the rider’s test. But as we roam around the practice course, I have second thoughts. When I slip off and whip around the track, Michelle is left acclimating herself with the controls. By the time I come back, her ATV’s mounted on an out of bounds tire.

“What happened?” I ask.

“I’m getting used to the steering,” she explains.

To be fair, these Hondas are tiny. With such a cramped riding position, it isn’t easy to get your knee out of the way of the handlebars. I lift, the ATV off the obstacle and she jumps back on. Once I pull off again, she gives it another go. I shoot over bunny hills, slide through some banked turns, and do a few figure eights before returning to Michelle – stuck in a ditch again.

“What happened now?”

“You know in Mario-Kart when you hit one side and overcorrect?” she says, “That’s what I did.”

By now, I’m growing skeptical. “If she’s having this much of a problem on 4 wheels how’s she going to do on 2?” I think to myself.

“Let’s go to the bigger course,” she proposes, “I think I need more room.”

As we ride to the main track, I think back to my first days on a motorbike. I’d be lying if I said I was a natural. Riding a bike for the first time isn’t easy if you’re not used to a manual transmission. I’ve stalled numerous times, both practicing in a parking lot and on city streets. When you’re learning to ride, it also takes some time to adjust to the braking. There’s a rear brake that you control with your foot and a front brake that rests under your right hand. During my training, there were several times I almost flew over the handlebars by clenching the brake lever too hard. Just like a bicycle, when you gain speed you gain balance. But when trying to maneuver a 540 lb. bike at low speeds, balance is the first thing to go. With a bike that weights three times as much as you, you’re going to drop her from time to time. I’ve downed her in the middle of a four-way stop, in front of work and outside a crowded restaurant. After each spill, I collected the bike (and bruised dignity), jumped back on, and gave it another go.

Michelle’s operating the ATV with more confidence now. Well, I can’t really speak for her confidence, but she hasn’t hit any other tires so far. She’s climbing hills, banking into turns and riding along the face of an incline. I have to remind myself that it takes time to develop these skills and if I can do it, so can she.

Once the sun falls below the mountain ridge the supervisors call in all the riders. I do a few last donuts in the bowl and reconvene with Michelle.

“That was fun,” she exclaims.

“I know. You improved,” I respond.

“Did you see me go up that hill?”

I nod and smile as we fall into single file and park the vehicles along a storage shed.

Before we leave we make use of the unique scenery:

The ride back to the campsite is windy but uneventful (luckily). We jump in the hot tub and recuperate from the long day of motorsports. After journeys like this, you try to turn in early. We traveled to Palm Springs for a bike show tomorrow so the morning only has more in store.

TO BE CONTINUED...

[1] Starting point in a race

[2] Speedometer

[3] Straight course

[raendown]

idk if u still do the 3 sentences fic or fic request at all but im feeling a lil down today and maybe ur fic can enlighten it! what if kakashi jr. find his parents are quarrelling and its like, a very huge fight?

Technically the three sentence prompts are done but what’s this about feeling down??? How dare the world???

 *straps on writing hat*

I don’t know why I have a writing hat or why it has straps

Also I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t actually name him Kakashi Jr. just because it would get really confusing referring to them by the same name. Enjoy some really quick writing and I hope you feel better soon! Edit: You can also read it on AO3 now as well!

-

Takashi’s mom was kind of famous for having a temper, and a destructive one at that. The whole village was familiar with just how loud she could be when riled. So it wasn’t really the volume of his mom’s voice that was bothering him right now so much as what she was saying.

She’d been yelling at his dad for what felt like forever and, like he always did when confronted with this kind of blunt accusation, Takashi’s dad had shut down and was not responding. The young boy wasn’t even in the room but he could picture the Rokudaime Hokage standing utterly still, hands deep in his pockets and both eyes half lidded in a misleading expression of detachment.  He could also picture his mother, Sakura, with her thunderous expression and her strong arms waving madly through the air while shecontinued to throw words like knives, seemingly uncaring of the wounds they inflicted. 

And the worst part wasthat Takashi knew it was all his own fault. His dad wasn’t to blame yet he’d said nothing in his own defense. Takashi wasn’t sure if it was because Kakashi always said he would back him in anything he did in life or if it was just because he didn’t appreciate the way he was being spoken to and refused to engage. Either way the thirteen year old recognized the very serious dilemma in front of him: to tell or not to tell. 

On the one hand, owning up to what he had done was the right thing to do and both of his parents had always taught him to do the right thing whenever possible. On the other hand he was terrified. His mother would turn her anger to him and most smart shinobi tried to avoid that exact situation; it had spelled death for many people before him. He shuddered to think of what she would do to him upon finding out what he had done. More terrifying, however, was the thought of her finding out some day that he had allowed his dad to take the fall for him and that decided it. He would have to tell. 

Takashi gulped as he swung open the door to his room, feeling a little like he was marching to his death. He gathered every scrap of courage he had and placed one foot in front of the other, step by step, until he had reached the center of the storm that raged through their house.

Sakura looked as if she had run home straight from the hospital upon hearing the news. She was still wearing her Head Medic uniform and there was a small bloodstain on the hem, wrinkles on the arms, stress lines on her face. Across from her Kakashi looked as if he were pulling farther in to himself than Takashi had ever seen and it broke his heart to be a peripheral cause of that. He knew very well the hard life his dad had lived; he didn’t deserve any more unhappiness, no matter how fleeting. 

“-still a child Kakashi, how could you!? Do you not care about his well-being? His life? Do you want him to be like you so badly? How dare you!” 

“Mom?” 

Sakura’s voice cut off at his quiet, pathetic call. The quiet in the absence of her words was like a ringing in his ears and he trembled under the weight of it. Kakashi seemed to slowly rise from a stupor, his eyes sliding over to rest on his son with a flat, dead look to them. 

“Takashi,” Sakura grunted, “you can tell we’re in the middle of something. Now is not the time.”

“Mom, it’s important.”

He watched his mom lift a hand to rub the bridge of her nose. She sounded as if she were barely controlling herself as she asked, “What is it?” 

“It’s…you shouldn’t be mad at dad.” Sakura looked at him sharply and he rushed through the rest of his words, knowing if he faltered then he would lose his courage and not say them at all. “You should be mad at me. It wasn’t dad who signed the form, it was me. I forged his name.”  

He swallowed thickly, shaking and scared and refusing to cry as the ire built up again in Sakura’s face. Her fists clenched and un-clenched rhythmically.

“You forged his name?”

“Yes.”

“On a form stating that, in his opinion, your team was ready to take on a B-rank mission meant for seasoned chunin?”

“…yes.”

He’d known that Naruto-sama had asked his dad to help oversee the missions being handed out, to help assess each team and assign them appropriately. He’d also known exactly which genin was carrying the assessments and where they were filed. It had beeneasy for someone in the know to switch one of them out so that his team was noted as being highly skilled, ready for advanced missions. 

It wasn’t the greatest plan he’d ever come up with, in hindsight, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time. 

Sakura had already looked ready to start spewing steam from her ears when he had come in to the room. Now she seemed about to breathe fire. The full weight of the wrongness of what he had done came crashing down on Takashi like a doton burying him in an avalanche. 

“Do you understand what could have happened!?” Sakura screeched. “Your team is not ready and there is a reason for those assessments! You could have died, Takashi! Your teammates could have died! Your jonin-sensei could have died trying to protect you! Do you want that on your conscience? Do you want your teammates to come home with scars and trauma? For every time you look at them to be reminded that it was your actions that led to those things?And all for what? To look cool!?”

Takashi was crying before she had gotten through her third sentence. 

“And that’sjust the personal implications! You-you-look at yourfather Hatake Takashi. You look him in the eye and tell me what part of your genius plan seemed smart to you. To lay the blame for your stupidity at his feet.” 

Sakura railed and ranted and by the end both she and her child were weeping messes of emotion. Of fear and anger and relief - such strong relief that nothing bad had happened. That he was alive and whole and safe to do something just as stupid on another day. 

He hated to see his mother cry, to know that he had caused her pain, but Takashi stood still like the strong shinobi he wanted to be and let her storm wash over him. He had brought it on himself and he would take the consequences. 

(He would never never do something this stupid again)

When it was over Takashi had been grounded for a month, had his video game privileges revoked, and been warned of the overwhelming list of chores he would be sentenced to attending to around the house for the foreseeable future. All in all, he felt almost as if he had gotten off lightly considering how serious the consequences could have been. 

He shuffled back to his room when his mother stormed off to the forest behind their home to vent the rest of her emotions. He tried desperately to stem the flow of tears and nothing seemed to work until the door to his room creaked open to reveal his father standing there.

Kakashi looked nothing more than tired, exhausted, like shutting down had taken all of the energy from him and he wasn’t sure how to get it back. Takashi looked up at him helplessly, not knowing what to say. 

“That was very brave,” his dad told him quietly. “Very brave of you to tell the truth knowing what would happen if you did.” 

“I’m sorry, dad! I’m sorry!” Takashi burst in to tears all over again, burying his face in his hands. He felt like the scum of the earth. 

He was surprised to find arms winding around his shoulders, pulling him in to his father’schest and letting him cry there like he had as a child with a scraped knee. Takashi sobbed, clinging to his dad’s shirt and burrowing in to his embrace. Nothing was safer than Kakashi’s arms and they had always held the power to make the world disappear no matter how old he got. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again after a long time had passed, when his weeping had become a steady slow trickle of tears. He felt Kakashi pet his hair soothingly. 

“Yes, I know. And you should be.”

“Why didn’t you tell mom that it wasn’t you?” he asked. Incredibly, considering how little emotion he had seen in his father when he’d come in, Kakashi chuckled.

“Your mother has always been…spirited, I think I’ll call it. When she’s angry she’s not very willing to listen to reason. She knows that and she’s been trying to work on it for years. But this involved you and your safety. You are the single most precious thing in both of our lives. Loves makes us all irrational, but especially your mother. She needed to yell and scream. She needed to vent. I thought it would be best for her to get it out first, then when she had calmed down enough she might listen.” Kakashi pulled them apart a little to look in to his son’s eyes. “Better that she yells at me than you. I knew what her temper was like when I married her and I have accepted that part of her, ugly as it is.” 

Takashi puffed up automatically. “Mom’s not ugly!” 

“Her temper is,” Kakashi pointed out. “No one is perfect, Takashi. Every person you meet will have ugly parts but loving someone means that you accept their ugly parts as well as their beautiful ones. You don’t have to like it, only accept it. I love you very much but that doesn’t mean I have to like the fact that you are a giant squish-face knucklehead.”

“Daaaaaad!” Takashi scrunched up his nose. “I’m not five anymore! Quit calling me squish-face!”

“Never!” Kakashi turned his eyes up in a smile and even though he was still full of grief and terror and guilt and annoyance, Takashi smiled back, just a tiny bit happy.

“I love you too, dad,” he said. “And I’m really, really sorry.”

Kakashi’s eyes opened to give him a very long look. Takashi bore it in silence until finally his dad told him, “And I forgive you.”

And he felt like everything might be okay after all.

(When Sakura came home and he heard her whispering apologiesto her husband over and over, Takashi kept his ear pressedto the wall and made himself listen to every single word. His dad was right. Sakura’s temper was an ugly thing but that didn’t make her less of a beautiful person. He could only hope to be more like her some day.) 

[puttingfingerstokeys]

What’s in a Name?

Nanowrimo day 21 Featuring Sam Porter Bridges Dystopian future where Kojima’s stuck his dick in everything (I’m into it) Death Stranding, existential terror, solitude, first-person Finished and unedited

There are vast gaps of uninhabited wilderness, verdant, rock-strewn hillsides and towering crags with not a single, living soul for miles and miles. The only creatures which seem interested in making their homes here are oceanic-looking grubs, floating around shards of rock formations that resemble ancient reefs. They haven’t got a care in the world. Must be nice.

The sky maintains a constant mask of gray-white torpor with intermittent breaks of rain. The rumble of thunder always precedes an inverse rainbow and with that rainbow and the black rain that has come to be known as timefall, are the BTs. Are they the spirits of the departed, as a few, fringe cults have claimed since the event now known as the Death Stranding, or are they something else, something directly from The Beach? The answer to that is still in the wind, but there are people across the UCA, connected or otherwise, trying to figure it out. Good luck to ‘em, I say. 

What I know about it is… not much. Everyone has a Beach inside them, I guess, a smaller version of the one that sounds like it’s capitalized. When a human being dies, they might retreat to this beach, the spiritual part of them anyway, and there, they’ll rest. Or that was how it used to go… probably. 

The first voidout after the Stranding was a jarring occurrence for all of humanity. I honestly can’t remember it and couldn’t if pressed. Maybe I just don’t want to. Maybe my Beach is protecting me. I think of it like a subconscious safe zone where my brain can hide when it’s overtaxed. But I’m different than other people, since I’ve actually seen The Beach… or a Beach. I’m not sure. 

What I am is a repatriate, that is, someone who can pull themselves back from the dead, or from the Seam, which I guess is a place between this world and the next, like a womb. I’m not a fetus, though. I’m not one of the BB units, fetuses for whom I’ve always felt more than a little sympathy. They’re equipment, I’m told, but I just can’t see how a human life is equivalent to something that should be used then discarded. 

But I’m off-track. I… don’t get to chat much, to unload like this very often. Don’t worry, though, it’s not like people don’t care how I’m doing. It’s in their best interest to give a shit how I’m doing. I deliver their shit, after all. Porters are the lifeblood of what’s left of “America”, after all. 

Oh, shit, I’m getting ahead of myself… or behind myself. So, the little floaty guys that hang out near the fucked up reef rocks are called cryptobiotes. You can eat them. They don’t taste like much and they don’t wriggle, which is important because if they did, I swear I’d puke ‘em up every time. I think the name means “hidden life” or something. I don’t… know if everyone can see them. I can, obviously, which is how I know the taste. 

There are a few people left in the world who have a certain degree of sensitivity to BTs, their traces, their presence… their footprints. Every time I see one, even in the distance, it’s like I can feel a hand wrapping around my leg, my arm, my neck. It’s… not a good time and I’ve got the scars to prove it. BTs are totally invisible to most of humanity, whatever’s left of it, but there are a few of us out there who suffer from a condition called DOOMS. That’s what gives us our ability to sense and, in some cases, see them. 

I can’t see BTs. I’m sort of glad. Unless they get a handle on me, I only see phantoms and those awful hand-footprints they leave. Nothing compares to the gut-clenching terror of a BT catching your scent, or presence, or whatever it is they sense. They can’t see, I don’t think. They just… feel. You can hold your breath and move right on by them, but the moment you gasp, they’re on you and then it’s game over.

BTs are a nightmare for people without DOOMS, an invisible threat that only a BB unit can sense. Running into BTs in the field poses an extra threat to people who cannot see them and are not repatriates, too. See, contact between a BT and a human being is like… vinegar and baking soda. It’s explosive. I don’t really understand chirality, except that it’s a word which comes from ancient Greek and means “hands” or something. 

So the chirality between a living human or even semi-living cells like those of a corpse, causes a violent reaction like pre-Stranding nuclear fission… and post-Stranding, honestly. Even now, when humanity is on the brink, there are still some psychos out there who have attacked peaceful human cities with old world nukes. What kind of point can someone make with that kind of violence? But a voidout is so much worse than a nuke. 

Repatriates make smaller voidouts, because our energy goes elsewhere, like to The Beach or our Beach. I’m not clear on it, but I’ve read enough. Plenty of people want me to read what they have on events and the new laws of physics, post-Stranding. My position as both a DOOMS sufferer and a repatriate make me uniquely qualified to help expand this research. It’s my reticence to being… handled… that slows it. 

Anyway, back to BTs. So, the name “BT” comes from a phrase coined by what remains of the scientific community referring to these creatures (or whatever they are) as “beached things”, implying that they’re stuck between this world and the next. They are “beached”, that is, they are caught here, manifesting in the rain and thunder (which curiously never has what old world files call “lightning” to produce it?), attacking anything remotely living whenever it strays too close. 

Even now, I sort of wonder if that’s what happened to most of the wildlife. The only animals left that I’ve ever seen are the cryptobiotes and fish. BTs don’t seem to be able to affect things which are under or suspended over water. They’re sort of like old world vampires, needing certain conditions to proceed. In this case, water repels them… or it has, so far. I’m not holding my breath. 

BTs’ attraction to living matter has necessitated the presence of an entire occupation known as corpse disposal. It’s a noble profession, if you ask me. They’re putting their lives on the line every single time they get a call, running a tightly-wrapped body to the nearest incinerator. Fire seems to be the only way to put a human body outside the reach of a BT. 

The problem is, when a corpse is burnt, chiralium is still produced and I think it seeds the clouds, making them ripe for rain and where there’s rain, there’re BTs, plain and simple. Incinerator workers are another class of people I don’t envy. I mean, yeah, I’m a porter, but I’m out there, free to move about, hide, and I’ve got DOOMS and all that shit on my side. These people work in the thick of a fog of chiralium. I never hang around incinerators for long. 

So I just realized I used the word “chiralium” and kind of expected people to get it. Maybe for clarity I should just take a stab. Chiralium is a new state of… being, or matter. Yeah, it’s like the old world theories of dark matter. Scientists have guessed that it’s been there, floating around the universe since the beginning, but undetectable until the Death Stranding. Unlike dark matter, chiralium is actually measurable, not theoretical.

Chiralium is also extremely dangerous to non-DOOMS people, kind of like radiation, but for the emotions. It’s actually been known to degrade the mental state of a person such that they take their own lives just to escape it. People who suffer from DOOMS don’t even feel it. I’ve experienced weightlessness in the presence of a sizable crop of chiral crystals, and even giddiness, the literal opposite of depression, but never the deep sadness I see in the faces of people who have bene overexposed. 

Sometimes, that kind of exposure can be cured by administration of smart drugs like oxytocin. See, anymore, most human brains have been rendered nearly incapable of creating their own and so we, as a species, have learned to manufacture it. That kind of thing sounds like a quick fix recipe for disaster to me, but that’s above my pay grade. If it stops people triggering voidouts, I can’t knock it. 

Let’s see… Beaches, DOOMS, chiralium, the Stranding… I guess the last subject is America itself. 

The country, or what’s left of it, is divided into cities, scattered across the map and terrified of what’s between. Seeing what’s actually out here in these vast, largely-unoccupied wildernesses, I can understand that fear. If I didn’t want to be alone so desperately, I might do the same, hide in a shelter, cover my head, that kind of thing. But I do, so I can’t. 

The life of a porter has seen me traveling all over, delivering packages people can no longer send due to a lack of connection to the chiral network, the dream of an idealistic woman named Bridgette Strand, last president of the United States (now Cities) of America. Maybe I can deliver enough crap to people to keep them supplied for a good long while, but I’m just one person. Maybe it’s time to step up and do something bigger. I was part of Bridges I, the initial effort to travel coast-to-coast and reconnect the country, but… not anymore. 

I want to be that again. I’m terrified of taking another name. Sam Porter has suited me for so long, I’d nearly forgotten I was once a Strand. I don’t know if I want to be a Bridges, but I think I need to be… I think she needs me to be.