#acknowledge her existence for like six months in a row | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hollyethecurious · 2 years

Text

CS AU: Conviction (11/11)

Summary: The story had been front page news for months. Scandalous details of a married woman of low birth and with limited means, murdering her husband; hatcheting him to death in order to save her own life and that of her unborn child - or so she claimed. No evidence to support her allegations of abuse had been presented during the trial, but in the end, it was the fact that Mrs. Cassidy was with child that saved her from a verdict of murder in the first degree, a judgment that carried the death penalty for both men and women alike. As an act of mercy, a lesser charge was issued, one that spared her life but now made her Misthaven Penitentiary’s problem to contend with, and more specifically, the Captain of the Guard charged with keeping order within its walls.

A/N: We have made it to the conclusions! Thanks y’all for going on this journey with me! Hope you enjoy this final chapter!

Thanks to my amazing betas, @snowbellewells and @kmomof4 (especially since they interrupted their vacation to look this chapter over. You ladies ROCK!!) Also, shout out to @sotangledupinit for the assist in defringing Killian for the art.

Rated T-M (for themes, mentions of abuse, murder, and attempted assault) / Available on ao3 and ff.net / buy me a coffee / add to tag list

Chapter Eleven

A laugh gurgled up from Henry’s little chest, his arms and legs flailing wildly in his cradle when Killian’s face came into view. “Good morning, my boy,” Killian cooed as he picked up the lad and nestled him against his chest. “Sleep well?”

“He slept very well,” Emma told him from behind her privacy screen where Elsa was assisting her in getting dressed for the day. “Fourth night in a row that he’s been out from one roll call to the next.”

Killian smiled down at the babe in his arms, Henry’s chubby hand trying to grasp the brass buttons of his uniform. “That’s my good lad,” he praised, placing a kiss to the soft fuzz at Henry’s temple.

“You wanted to see me, Captain?”

Killian turned to find Officer Booth standing at attention in the doorway. The tell-tale signs of fatigue from the night shift were evident in the dark patches beneath his eyes, making Killian reluctant to say, “Aye. I need you to escort the ladies on their walk before returning to the barracks. I shall relieve you as soon as I am finished meeting with the Warden and he departs for the Magistrate.”

Booth acknowledged the order with a dutiful nod, then met Killian’s eyes with a significant gaze. The officer knew what business was to be discussed and the purpose for which the warden would be departing for the Magistrate’s office. They all did. The Board was meeting to rule on Swan’s petitions that morning, and both her solicitor and the warden had been summoned to attend. Although Killian knew he and his brother would likely have the same conversation they’d been having over the past several days, he did not want his brother to leave without speaking to him, especially since neither he nor Emma would be in attendance at the ruling.

“All set.”

Emma and Elsa came out from behind the privacy screen, both looking the picture of perfection with a poise and grace Killian knew only existed on the surface. Beneath their cool and calm facades they were just as anxious as he was about today’s Board meeting, but had clearly determined to meet the day head on with a measure of hope and optimism.

Killian envied them that.

“Here. I’ll take him,” Booth offered, stepping forward to wrestle Henry out of Killian’s arms. The lad fussed a bit, reaching for Killian as he was pulled away, then quickly quieted when Booth pulled funny faces, enthralled by the amusing expressions and accompanying noises.

“You’ll join us soon?” Emma inquired as Killian led her from her cell, the quiver in her voice not escaping his attention.

Taking her hand, Killian gave it a confident squeeze. “Aye. I won’t be but a few minutes. Liam will need to head for the Magistrate’s office soon.” Walking with her, he paused at the top of the side stairs, letting Booth and Elsa go on ahead as he took her other hand and pressed her palms against his chest. “I won’t tell you not to worry, but try and enjoy the beautiful morning. We’ll all hold on to hope while we can, aye?”

A soft smile ticked up the corners of her mouth as she nodded. “Tell the warden again how much I appreciate him advocating for me.”

“I will,” Killian murmured, resisting the urge to wrap his arms around her so he might offer her the comfort of his embrace. “You should go. I’ll catch up.”

Acquiescing, Emma turned towards the stairs, but before she began her descent, she turned back and placed a quick peck to his cheek. The hurried sound of her footsteps down the stairs matched the quickened rhythm of his heart.

Ever since their shared moment he had longed to have her in his arms again, to feel the softness of her lips and the warmth of her tongue against his. His nights had been filled with torment as the memory of her touch overwhelmed him, and reminiscence had turned to fantasies fueled by desire and longing he could no longer keep at bay.

Releasing a shaky breath, Killian ran his hand through his hair and made his way to his brother’s office. He had half-expected the warden to go straight to the Magistrate’s office this morning, however, both he and Elsa had arrived shortly after Killian had. He should have known that, like him, his sister-in-law would want to be by Emma’s side as they waited for the ruling to be passed down, and he was grateful that Liam had chosen to escort his wife to the prison first, giving him an opportunity to touch base with his brother one last time.

“Have you everything you’ll need?” Killian asked after being waved into the office.

“I believe so,” Liam replied, reviewing some papers on his desk. “I have your, and the rest of the officers’, statements regarding Miss Swan’s character, and the unanimous consensus amongst the guards that she be released. Hopper will have statements from the community with a similar show of support. The only question is whether the Board will hear such testimony.”

“They have to,” Killian insisted, not for the first time. He and Liam had gone over the hearing a dozen times, approaching it from every angle and discussing every possible argument and outcome. Both brothers, along with Swan’s solicitor, had been incensed at the Board’s denial of Emma’s attendance, leaving it in the hands of Mr. Hopper and Warden Jones to plead her case. Liam had offered to take Killian with him, presuming his captain would warrant admittance into the proceedings, but as much as he would love nothing more than to speak on his Swan’s behalf, there was no guarantee he would be extended that privilege, and he would much rather wait by Emma’s side at the prison than a lonely corridor outside the Boardroom.

Liam checked the time on his watch and sighed. “I best be off.”

As Liam gathered his things, Killian could hear frantic footsteps making their way from the side stairs before the out of breath voice of Mr. Hopper inquired, “Have you received word?”

“What are you d--”

“Have you received word?” Hopper asked again, cutting off Liam’s inquiry.

“Word of what?”

“The Board’s ruling! I was just informed by the Magistrate’s office that they met in secret last night and ruled on the petitions.”

“You cannot be bloody serious!” Killian roared, but Hopper continued, unfazed.

“Apparently, their decision was dispatched to both my office and the prison this morning, but as I went straight to the Magistrate for the meeting, I have not been to my office yet. I came here since the prison is closer to see if you have received the missive.”

“They met in bloody secret?” Killian railed on. “How? How is that even--”

“Sir?” All eyes snapped to Officer Briar, who was hovering at the doorway, holding an official looking envelope in his hand. “This just arrived for you from the Magistrate’s office.”

Philip handed the envelope to his warden, who then dismissed the officer, and Killian watched, his pulse thundering in his ears and his stomach churning with anxiety and rage as his brother opened the letter.

“They cannot do this,” Killian said as Liam read over the contents. “They can’t just rule without any representation on Emma's behalf! We’ll appeal. All the way to the Governor if necessary!”

“Killian,” Liam began attempting to calm him, but he had already whipped himself up into a righteous frenzy.

“I mean it, brother! They cannot do this! We cannot allow this injustice to stand! We--”

“Killian!” Liam shouted, quieting his captain and nodding towards Hopper who was now looking over the letter. “Read it.”

His brother’s expression, coupled with the astonished look on Hopper’s face, prompted Killian to snatch the parchment from the solicitor’s hands, his eyes widening and heart leaping after reading only a few lines of the ruling. Killian’s eyes snapped up, and the two men were staring back at him, each with the same edict in their gaze, though it was Hopper who voiced it.

“Go,” he said. “She’d want to hear it from you.”

Killian needed no further prompting. Rushing from the room with the missive clutched in his hand, he barrelled down the side stairs and sprinted around the exterior of the prison until the moseying party of three came into view.

“Officer Booth!” Killian shouted, gaining their attention. “Would you please escort Mrs. Jones back inside? I’ll take over as Miss Swan’s escort.”

“Of course,” August dutifully replied.

“Oh, and Elsa,” Killian began, spying the baby buggy as he caught up to them, “Would you take Henry back inside with you?”

“Why--”

“Please, Elsa,” he said with firm intent in his voice. His sister-in-law’s eyes dropped to the crumpled parchment in his fist and seemed to deduce the reasoning for herself.

“We’ll see you back inside,” she said to Emma as she steered the carriage back towards the prison, following Officer Booth.

“Killian, what is going on?” Emma inquired as he waited until they were alone.

“I have something to show you,” he said, taking her hand and leading her towards the fortified wall that surrounded the prison yard.

Emma stopped short when they reached the gate, the only access point that led in and out of the prison, and one no prisoner was allowed to pass through without explicit permission from either the Warden or the Magistrate.

“What are you doing?” she exclaimed. “You know I can’t--”

“Actually,” Killian said, cutting off her protest and pressing the letter into her hand. “You can.”

Brow furrowed, Emma opened the crumpled piece of paper and began to look over its contents. As she read, Killian prompted her forward, step by step, until she crossed the line forbidden to inmates, placing herself free of the prison wall when she finally gasped.

“A pardon?” Her eyes darted from the page to Killian’s face. “The Board ruled that I be given a full pardon? How? When?”

“Hopper arrived not long after you left for your walk and told Liam and me that the Board had met in secret last night. This letter came almost immediately after.” Taking her hand, Killian pulled her a step closer. “It’s official and effective immediately, love. You're free.”

“I’m free,” she parroted back to him in shock, then elation burst from her, shimmering in her eyes and reverberating in her tone as threw her arms around his neck and exclaimed, “I’m free!”

Wrapping his arms around her, Killian lifted her off her feet and swung her around in his own exuberance, their laughter, full of joy and relief, echoing off the stone wall and surrounding trees.

Setting her back onto her feet, Killian cupped her face and assured her, “You and Henry won’t have to spend another night here. After today, you won’t ever have to set foot in this place again.”

Uncertainty clouded the delight in her eyes, her worry manifesting as she chewed her lip before asking, “But… where are we to go? How am I to provide for myself? For Henry? I have no plan--”

Reaching up, Killian scratched at the back of his ear and confessed, “Actually, I’ve already taken the liberty to make those arrangements for you, in the hopes of such an outcome. Granny has agreed to give you a room at the boarding house. You’ll have lodging and meals in exchange for domestic help, as well as a fair wage to help you get back on your feet. You can have Henry with you at all times, and will never be far from him whilst you work.”

Swan’s mouth fell open, speechless, until she remembered, “But… Granny has no vacancies. All of her rooms are taken, so how can she--”

“You and Henry will have my room,” he told her, causing her to balk. “It is actually one of the proprietor rooms anyway,” he added. “Located next to the kitchen and removed from the men’s rooms. It was Ruby’s before she married Graham, and will suit you both well.”

“I can’t take your room,” Emma protested. “Where will you go?”

Killian shrugged. “Back to the barracks.” Taking a deep breath, he took her hand in his, brushing his thumb over the backs of her knuckles. “Unless…”

“Unless what?”

Lowering himself to one knee, he kept hold of her hand and gazed up at her astonished face. “Unless you say yes to this next question. Then we can all stay in my room together until we find a place of our own.”

Emma gasped, her free hand flying first to her chest then up to her mouth as tears formed in her eyes.

“I love you, Emma Swan,” Killian declared, pouring out every ounce of his devotion to her. “You and Henry. I want you to be… I want us to be a family. I want to be your husband, and I want to be Henry’s father, so… What do you say, Swan? Will you marry me?”

“I…I,” she stammered, before a wide grin broke across her face. “Yes!”

Surging up off his knee, Killian’s lips crashed against hers. His hands tangled in her hair and fisted the back of her dress as she clung to him with the same jubilant desperation.

“I love you, too,” she murmured, their foreheads pressed together as they attempted to catch their breath. Her eyes flicked up beneath her lashes, her gaze clear and unburdened for the first time since they’d met. “I want to be your wife, and more than anything, I want you to be Henry’s father.” Her eyes fluttered shut and she released a shuddering exhale. “Though, I suppose, if I’m honest, I already consider you his father. You are his father, in every way that matters.” Locking her gaze with his once more, she reaffirmed, “And we both love you, so yes. Killian Jones, I will marry you.”

Knowing they had people waiting to celebrate Swan’s freedom kept them from losing themselves in one another completely. After a few more moments of exploring the newfound freedom to express their love for one another, they made their way back to the prison. Upon entering through the main door, they spotted an assembly gathered on the catwalk overhead.

“Well?” Elsa called out, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Emma smiled, and shared a brief glance with Killian before she shouted, “I’m free!”

The cheers and exuberant sounds clanging off the prison bars was damn near deafening, but it somehow managed to increase in volume and enthusiasm when Killian pulled Emma into his arms and announced, “And… She said yes!” before kissing her soundly.

~/~

The surf gently lapped against the shore as the setting sun warmed Killian’s face. Breathing in the salty brine, he shuffled his feet in the sand, his toe, still bare, with his shoes hanging off the fingers of his left hand, skimmed against something hard. Glancing down, he could see the iridescent pink of a shell peeking out from the fine particles, and a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth as he bent down to pick it up.

Turning the lustrous object over in his hand, he was reminded of the promise he’d given his Swan, his wife, at Christmas, and pocketed it before turning back to see if she was ready to depart. Although, he knew getting her to leave would take some coaxing.

A few of their friends still lingered, perhaps wishing to give the newlyweds some sort of send off, but most had already taken their leave. Although they had wanted a small, quiet affair, neither of them had truly anticipated how many from the community and beyond would insist on witnessing the vows they’d exchanged here on the beach only a few hours ago, and if he had to hazard a guess, Killian would say that at the end of it all, neither he nor his bride would have had it any other way.

That did not mean his sister-in-law was off the hook for arranging the lavish affair behind their backs, even if Killian was impressed that she had managed to do so in only three short weeks.

Three weeks.

Three weeks since Swan’s pardon. Three weeks of watching the transformation that had begun behind stone walls come to fruition as she stepped out of the shame and shadows of her past and into the full confidence of a bright and happy future. And it would be happy, he’d make certain of that. They were already off to a good start.

“Captain! She told me to tell you she is nearly ready,” Belle called out, stepping out from behind a partition and taking hold of Will Scarlet’s hand, pulling him along. “Henry is almost finished with his feeding. She thought you’d want to tell him goodnight before Liam and Elsa--”

“Aye,” Killian said, quickening his pace towards the partition where Emma had excused herself to nurse Henry, giving him his final feeding for the day in the hopes he would sleep through the night in his aunt and uncle’s care, so Killian and his bride could enjoy an uninterrupted wedding night.

“Thank you both so much for coming,” Killian told the pair. Though he meant it, the words were more manners than anything else at the moment, eager as he was for everyone to leave so he could finally have some alone time with his wife.

“It was our pleasure,” Belle responded, smiling up at him. “You both deserve all the happiness.”

One of the women helping to clean up from the reception called out to Belle, and she excused herself to lend a hand, leaving the captain and one of his former inmates standing awkwardly with one another.

“I, uh… I want to thank you for… you know. Letting me be here today,” Scarlett said clumsily.

“It wasn’t my doing,” Killian told him, causing the man to wince. “No, I meant…” Killian sighed. Scarlet was a decent man. He’d proven as much with his steadfast friendship to Emma. Not to mention, his willingness to work hard and become a model prisoner whilst also earning the affections and trust of one of the kindest and cleverest women he knew. “Elsa and Belle, they planned all of this, and it was you who earned your parole in time to be here. So, while I am glad you were able to be here to stand in support of Emma and me, I had nothing to do with either the invite or the ruling.” Placing a hand on the man’s shoulder, Killian gave it a squeeze and said, “That’s all I meant.”

Scarlet nodded dubiously, clearly unconvinced. Not by Killian’s assertions that he was glad Scarlet had come to the wedding, but rather, “Nothing to do with the ruling, huh? I suppose the letter of support from the Captain of the Guard was from a different captain, then? Captain o’ the Fairy people, perhaps?”

“All right,” Killian replied in a tone of mock exasperation. “Maybe I had something to do with it.”

Scarlet’s impudence softened in his features, replaced by an expression of gratitude, albeit an awkwardly bashful one. “Yeah, well… thanks, Cap’n. Truly.”

“Just promise me I won’t regret the things I said in that letter,” Killian replied pointedly. “You’ve a second chance. Don’t waste it.”

“Oh, believe me, Cap,” Scarlet said, his eyes cutting towards the object of his affection. “I intend to make the most of my second chance.” Turning his attention back, he stuck out his hand towards Killian. “I won’t let you down.”

Accepting the proffered hand, Killian shook it and mused, “No. I don’t think you will.”

In his periphery, Killian caught sight of Emma making her way out from behind the partition, prepared to hand Henry off to Elsa. Just as it had when he’d watched her walk towards him along the beach, escorted by Mother Superior, and looking utterly ethereal in her ivory colored dress with delicately intricate lace detail, her hair swept up in soft braids and embellished with baby’s breath, Killian’s heart stuttered and his breath caught in his chest. She was stunning, and she was his. Just as he was hers.

Vaguely aware that Scarlet had said his farewells and joined Belle, Killian made his way to his wife who was fussing over Henry.

“He should have everything he needs in the bag,” she said, laying the groggy babe in the buggy. Henry wiggled and settled into place, rubbing his eyes and releasing a yawn. “If he gives you any trouble we’ll only be a few blocks--”

“We’ll be fine,” Elsa assured her, pulling Emma away from the carriage and giving her a tight hug. “You two enjoy your evening, and don’t worry about a thing.”

Giving them both a knowing wink, Elsa steered the buggy towards the main road where Liam was waiting, finishing his hosting duties as he bid farewell to the remaining guests on Killian and Emma’s behalf. Killian gave his brother a wave of thanks, then grabbed his bride’s hand, urging her down the beach and away from well-wishers so they would not be delayed in their escape.

Laughing, Emma followed after him. “In your haste to get me alone, I believe you have taken us the wrong way,” she teased. “The boarding house is the other way.”

“Aye,” he replied, slowing his pace and threading his fingers with hers. “But we aren’t headed to the boarding house.”

“We aren’t?”

“No,” he replied, his eyes full of a mischievous glint as he gave her a lop-sided smile. “I have a surprise for you.”

Another laugh bubbled from her chest. “I’m not sure I can take many more of those today.”

Killian knew the feeling. The entire day had been a wonderful surprise, filled with so much love and joy. Of course, they had known they would be married today, but both had been under the impression the affair would be small and subdued, with only a scant few in attendance. When he’d arrived at the venue, the beach being the one place both he and Emma had immediately agreed upon for the ceremony, Killian had realized that would not be the case.

Naturally, Liam and Elsa were there, each of them standing by Killian and Emma’s side, respectively. On the front row was Granny, holding little Henry in her lap as Ruby and Graham sat beside her, keeping the lad entertained. It was because of Graham that the entire Misthaven guard staff had been able to attend. He had brought a few of his own officers from Glowerhaven to oversee the prison, and it had meant so much to look out among the assembly and see his fellow officers seated in the crowd, many with their own lady loves at their sides. Indeed, the sheer number of attendees had been a bit overwhelming, but every bit of anxiety and nerves had left him when Emma had made her appearance.

They’d promised themselves to one another at the edge of the surf with the early evening horizon as their backdrop. Bishop Merlin - who was filling in for Bishop Spencer while the man took an unexpected sabbatical, mostly likely prompted by the rumors that had emerged from the Board’s investigation of Sydney Glass and their statements regarding Emma’s pardon - officiated the ceremony and had declared them husband and wife even as the cheers and whistles had already begun. It had taken every ounce of Killian’s patience and propriety to endure the reception that had followed, eager as he was to consummate their marriage. Given the glances, tinted with longing and desire, that caused a healthy glow to blush her cheeks, Killian knew his Swan had felt much the same.

“Mother Superior had some intriguing news to share,” Emma said, filling the silence with a slight warble in her tone. Wedding night jitters setting in, perhaps?

“Oh?”

“She said Bishop Merlin plans to reopen the Misthaven Convent in Spencer's absence. She and the other nuns will likely be returning by summer’s end. Isn’t that wonderful news?”

“Aye,” Killian replied. “I’ll have to let Liam and Robin know so they can reestablish the relationship between the convent and the prison.”

“Why Robin? Was he the liaison before the convent closed?”

“No,” Killian hedged, slowing their steps and bringing them to a stop. “I was. As captain. But, uh… that will be Robin’s duty now.”

“What? Why?”

Gesturing towards the building in front of them, Killian replied, “Because of this.”

Emma’s head snapped towards the structure, a modest yet charming house that sat atop a small bluff overlooking the waves. With furrowed brow, she glanced back at Killian, her question knitted in the tight lines of her forehead.

“It’s the Harbour Master House,” he explained. “The current Harbour Master has no use of it, being an older, single gentleman who prefers to reside in the apartment over his office at the docks, so I negotiated for it when he offered me the position of Wharf Captain.”

“You… You took a new position? You’re leaving the prison?”

Killian gently took both her hands in his and ran his thumbs over the backs of her knuckles. “These past few weeks have made it clear to me,” he began quietly. “I don’t belong there any longer.” A heavy sigh left his chest. “The prison has been an important part of my life for so long, but now I have something of even greater importance. You and Henry. I want to share every part of my life with you both, and I cannot do that if I remain at the prison.”

“Of course you can,” she insisted, squeezing his hands. “You know I would support you no matter--”

“I know that, love,” he said, cutting her off softly. “But I also know how difficult it would be for you, visiting me at work, bringing Henry by to say hello. Especially with your old cell just across the hall from my office, which believe me, is its own brand of torture to me each day I patrol those corridors. Besides,” he murmured, turning her attention back towards the house. “Unless Liam resigns as warden, I could never hope to achieve a benefit such as this in my current position. Plus… I rather fancy the idea of working at the docks. I always did prefer the sea to the country, remember?”

“I remember.” Her quiet smile and nostalgic expression told him she too was thinking back to those midnight talks all those months ago.

Pulling her towards the front of the house, Killian continued to sell her on the idea of it being their home. “It has a lovely parlor, big enough to entertain guests, and the kitchen overlooks a small garden area with the sea just beyond.” Gesturing to the second story, he went on, “Our bedroom also faces the ocean, and across the hall is a decent sized room for Henry to move into once he’s ready to leave ours, and just next to that is a third room for when we…” Pausing, he glanced down at Emma who was adoringly staring up at him, having already ascertained who the third room might be for. “That is… if you’d want another. I would not wish to presume, and you would still be close enough to the boarding house to continue working there, should you choose to. I only--”

She cut off his words with the press of her mouth, the lifting edges of her smile brushing against his lips. “It’s perfect.” Flicking her gaze up at him, she coyly said, “Why don’t you take me inside so I can see these extra rooms for myself. Then we can begin working towards filling them.”

A wide grin broke over Killian’s face, and Emma gave a soft shriek when he picked her up into his arms. “As you wish,” he responded with a growl, carrying her over the threshold of their future. Placing her back on her feet, his arms circled her waist as he murmured, “Welcome home, Mistress Jones.” Crashing his lips to hers, he kicked the door closed behind them, all the while kissing her… with great conviction.

The End

Tagging the Curious Crew: (add to tag list)

(Please be advised that I only keep one tag list for all fic updates and new works. If at any time you wish to be removed, just shoot me an ask or a DM. No worries.) @kmomof4 @sals86 @jennjenn615 @darkcolinodonorgasm @artistic-writer @courtorderedcake @winterbaby89 @snowbellewells @heavenlyjoycastle @sunshine2632 @stahlop @resident-of-storybrooke @kday426 @cocohook38 @unworried-corsair @aprilqueen84 @tiganasummertree @ilovemesomekillianjones @ultraluckycatnd @wyntereyez @ultimiflos @superchocovian @qualitycoffeethings @facesiousbutton82 @theonceoverthinker @piracytheorist @shardminds @skystar87 @teamhook @itsfabianadocarmo @xarandomdreamx @queen-serena88 @donteattheappleshook @jrob64 @therooksshiningknight @karl0ta @melly326 @nadine200179 @xsajx @demisexualemmaswan @lfh1226-linda @alexa-fangirl-forever @klynn-stormz @onceratheart18 @monosalvatore16 @jonesfandomfanatic @ouatpost @spaceconveyor @natascha-ronin @zaharadessert @earanemith @dragonfireonthehorizon @strangestarlighttree @the-darkdragonfly @heratulipsia @pirateherokillian @sailtoafarawayland @captainirishstubble @uhthreeyuh @justanotherflailgirl @elizabeethan @xhookswenchx @youherotype @chinawoodfan @batana54 @fandomlovver @pcrcabcth @strangestarlighttree @captainswan21 @karlyfr13s @emmythedaydreamer @motherkatereloyshipper @jadehowlettthewolf @anmylica @deckerstarblanche @julesep3026 @teastarsandplayingcards @swancakes @bluewildcatfanatic @pirateprincessofpizza @jackieorioncat @an-overly-caffeinated-introvert @bigfunguschungus @veiled-in-moxie

#cs ff #csff #cs fic #cs au #captain swan #cs 1800s prison au #conviction #complete #words by hollye

56 notes · View notes

calpalirwin · 3 years

Text

See Through

Summary: Ashton gets in over his head.

A/N: Loosely based on See Through by the Band CAMINO.

Word Count: 1.6k

And away, and away we go!

I pushed my way into the studio, and immediately stopped in confusion. At the mixing board sat a woman, her back turned to me, a khaki colored messenger bag on the ground by her feet. “Um, excuse me?” I announced my presence. “But I think you might have the wrong room.

“Oh!” she said, jumping slightly before turning to face me. “You must be the band! Hi, I’m Y/N. Nice to meet you.” She took a few steps towards me, hand extended.

“Ashton,” I introduced myself, shaking her hand.

Y/N nodded knowingly. “So, we’re just waiting on the other three. Cool.” She stole a glance down at her watch. “Cool,” she repeated.

“Yeah… Um… sorry. Who are you?”

“I’m Y/N. You’re Ashton. Try to keep up, hon,” she smiled sweetly at me, and I detected the hint of a drawl in the way she called me “hon.”

I chuckled politely. “No, I’m aware of that. I meant… I was under the impression that it was just going to be me and my mates. So I’m a little confused by your presence.”

“Nobody told you that I’m the producer?”

“Nope, because we’re the producers. And the song writers. And the band. Because it’s our album.”

“Mmm. And how many albums have you produced, Ashton? Without outside help that is. Or, should I say songs, because every album you have you’ve worked with someone besides just your close-knit 4-some.”

“Sorry, I’m not trying to be disrespectful. But it’s not often our team gets shaken up. The people we’ve worked with, we’ve worked with them for years. So I’m trying to play catch up here.”

“No, I’m aware you’re not challenging me purposefully. I know I’m the new guy to figure out. So let’s do a brief overview. I’m Y/N, like I’ve said. I just relocated here to LA from Nashville.”

“And I’m assuming the time you spent in Nashville, you were producing?”

“Yes. I’ve been a producer for about five or six years now.”

“Mhm. And how much of that producing experience was with country artists versus primarily rock artists?”

“Don’t let my accent fool you. The Nashville music scene is a lot more than just country twang music these days,” Y/N said with a small laugh. “I’ve worked closely with Dan Swank. Who, if you’re not aware, does a lot of work with All Time Low. And various other artists. But I know you know who All Time Low is because you’ve also worked with them. So, we can continue to do this back and forth where you try to decide if I’m a producer worthy enough of your time. Which is a game I’m used to playing, so I assure you I play it well. Or, you could let me do my job, and my work will speak for itself. Personally, I would opt for the second choice, because things flow a lot more smoothly that way.”

My cheeks warmed in embarrassment. “Sorry… So you’re Y/N and you’re a producer from Nashville who’s relocated to LA. Cool. I’m Ashton. I’m primarily a drummer, who’s also relocated to LA.”

“Nice to meet you, Ashton,” she smiled with a small laugh, accepting my attempt at starting over.

~~~

“So,” I started as we walked out of the studio after the third day with Y/N. “You wanna go grab a coffee, or something?”

She raised an eyebrow, looking me up and down. “With you?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t drink coffee.”

“Hence the “or something” bit.”

“Okay-”

“Great! I’m parked over here. Or I can send you the address if you’d rather drive yourself.”

She sighed, shaking her head. “Okay,” she tried again. “Look, here’s the thing. I don’t make it a habit to go out with the artists I work with.”

“Saying you don’t make it a habit suggests that you have exceptions.”

“Oh, and let me guess. You think you’re the exception?”

I gave my best flirting laugh and charming look. “Honey,” I drawled out, leaning down slightly to be by her ear. “I’m always the exception.”

She sighed dreamily and I knew I had her. I bit back my smirk as her fingers danced across my bicep and onto my chest. She gave it a small pat. “Oh, Ashton… People don’t tell you ‘no’, do they?”

“As a general rule, no they don’t.”

“Rules, like habits, have exceptions. And, darlin’, I’m also always the exception.” Then, she was moving away from me, across the parking lot, leaving me standing there, slack-jawed, wondering what the hell had just happened.

~~~

I watched as she paused mid-conversation to pull her phone from her pocket. She gave the contact information the smallest of glances, before slipping her phone back into her pocket, and then her voicemail message was sounding through my phone speaker.

I hit the end call button, pocketing my own phone, and trying to control my scowl. Nothing about this made sense to me. It wasn’t often I had a woman I couldn’t get off my mind who never seemed to spare a second thought about me in return. And it was never with a woman I was forced into close proximity with for an extended amount of time, like working on an album. And I absolutely hated that her attitude towards me only made me want her more. But seven months in, and I was just as lost with her as I had been on day one.

Replaying every interaction only drove me crazier, thinking about things I could have done differently. Thinking about what I would do next if I could get more than two words with her.

I mentally cursed myself as I instinctively sucked in my breath when I saw her walking my way. And I could have screamed at the way her shoulder brushed up against me, not even bothering to give me the slightest indication that she had bumped into me, as she kept walking by. Like she didn’t even see me. And I envied her ability to look right through me, because I knew I’d never be able to do the same when it came to her.

My vision blurred, and I felt my chest grow tight, and despite being outside, I needed to get fresh air. A minute to breathe and recompose myself. A minute I wouldn’t get where I was. So I left. Through the party of people, passed the rows of parked cars out front, mine included.

I kept walking, not sure where I was going, but knowing that each step made it easier to breathe, the cloud in my head thinning out until it was just her name bouncing around.

I slowed, looking around at street signs to orient myself, planning my next move. I didn’t want to go back to the party, but I didn’t want to necessarily go home either. I wanted to see her, and have her see me, too. So, stupidly, I pulled out my phone and tried to call her yet again. “C’mon,” I muttered as the phone started to ring. “Pick up, please. Pick up, pick up, pick u-”

“Hey, Ash. Where’d you disappear off to?”

“I- You answered…”

“Of course I answered.”

“Really?” I asked, unable to keep the bitter edge out of my voice, even if I was flooded with relief that she had answered my call this time. “Cuz you haven’t before.”

“Ash…”

“Save it, please. Whatever excuse you have. I shouldn’t have called. I should’ve learned by now.”

“Learned what by now?”

“That I’m not the exception. That sometimes I lose. That I shouldn’t want the girl who clearly doesn’t want me. Hell, you don’t even acknowledge I exist 90 percent of the time. You’re just not the one I get right, I guess. I was always a slow learner.”

“Okay. You wanna pause the pity party for a second, and listen to me?”

I wanted to say that, despite everything, I’d never pass up a chance to listen to her. What I ended up saying though was, “I’m listening.”

“I notice you, Ash. You make it impossible not to. But, I have a strong tendency to act unfazed as a defensive mechanism. I work in the music scene, Ash, same as you. You know the range of personality issues as well as I do. But the things I do, I do to protect myself. I never meant for those same things to hurt you. Because I know you’re not any of the things I need to protect myself from.”

“Glad we could clear that up…”

“I’m not finished. When I told you when we met that I don’t make it a habit to go out with people I work with, there was a reason for that.”

“Yeah, and I’m assuming that it has to do with things going poorly before, hence the having to make it a habit, and other protective measures.”

“You’re not very good at listening, are you?”

“I told you I was a slow learner.”

She let out a small half-sigh/half-chuckle. “Ashton. The album’s done. It’s out. We don’t work together anymore. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

I broke out in a run back towards the party. Towards her. I hoped I hadn’t wandered off too far, that she'd be around the next corner, waiting for me. “Stay where you are. I’m on my way. I gotta see you.”

“Not if I see you first,” was the reply first ten feet in front of me, then through my phone.

I slowed, a smile breaking out across my face as I found her staring at me, so close I could reach out and touch her, her phone pressed to her ear, a matching smile on her face. I slowed, but I didn’t stop until I closed the distance. And I didn’t care that my heart was about to leap from my chest, or that I couldn’t catch my breath, because I was seeing her, and she was seeing me. And I was ducking my head, and she was stretching up on her tiptoes, her lips meeting mine.

Tag List

@aquarius-hood1996 @creator-appreciator @philthepegacorn @myfavfanficsever @cxddlyash @youngblood199456 @stormrider505 @iknowyouthinkimbulletproof @hoodhoran @metalandboybands @maybeememez @major5sosstan @kaitieskidmore1

#see through #ashton irwin #ashton irwin fic #ashton irwin x reader #5sos #calpal irwin

44 notes · View notes

rachelbethhines · 3 years

Text

Tangled Salt Marathon - The King and Queen of Hearts

The existence of this episode just baffles me, as it undermines so much of what season three was trying to accomplish.

Summary: Rapunzel continues to try and restore the memories of her parents, King Frederic and Queen Arianna, and hopes to use the journal of Herz Der Sonne to remind them, but they do not understand the significance. Arianna still lusts for adventure, while Frederic cannot get over his obsession of egg collecting. Rapunzel recruits her friends to try and set up the perfect date for them and while they cannot find anything in common personality wise, they share a mutual love for Rapunzel. However, King Trevor arrives with the intent to woo Arianna using an ocean crystal he found.

So What Exactly Is the History Here?

We have no context for this sudden love triangle. All we know is that Trevor hates Frederic because he’s still in love with Arianna who wound up marrying him instead.

But like, I don't know why Arianna married Frederic. I don’t know why Trevor is still hung up on her years later. Did she actually choose Frederic or was it an arranged marriage cause that’s what royalty did back then? Was she having an affair with Trevor this whole time but couldn’t/wouldn’t leave because of duty? Was she and Trevor pining star crossed lovers, or is Trevor just an incel?

I know what the story wants me to assume; that Arianna deeply loves Frederic and that Trevor is just a jackass loser; but the series has done such a poor job of making Frederic likable and giving him and Arianna any sort of chemistry that I’m inclined to side with Trevor.

For all we know, he may be trying to rescue Arianna from both her memory loss and her abusive relationship while at it. Especially now that she’s no longer needed as a ruler and has no reason to stay in Corona.

Why Not Just Use the Potion from Rapunzel: Day One?

While any Varian cameo is appreciated, it doesn’t add thing to the story. In fact it only raises more questions. We already had a cure for the memory loss, why aren’t we using it?

Even if we write it off as Rapunzel no longer having that particular Saporian spellbook on hand, she still has a whole dungeon full of actual Saporians who know magic that she could gain information from! There’s also Xavier, who already knows everything under the sun about Saporian/Coronian history and magic and owns spellbooks galore. You’re telling me he just has mood potions lying around but can’t brew up a cure for memory loss?

Then there’s also the fact that the amnesia spell doesn’t work on Rapunzel’s parents the same as it did on Rapunzel and we’re never given a reason why. Like just some basic consistence is all I ask show.

I also can’t figure out what Varian is even trying to do here. Where’s is the science to this? What does strawberry goop and lighting have to do with memory? It’s just a cheap reference to Frankenstein and nothing more.

We’re Already Pass Seven Months Since Rapunzel’s Return.

Ok, I have gotten into frequent debates with people about the timeline of season three. Many a story board artist and writer on the show have came forward and stated that season three was only one year. But the very existence of this episode disproves them!

If you remember season one, Hearts Day took place after the Goodwill Festival, but before Queen for a Day. Even when putting episodes back into their intended production order that still remains true.

Hearts Day has to be at least seven months past Rapunzel’s birthday, if not eight months, because the Goodwill Festival is six months past and her parent’s anniversary (QfaD) is nine months past.

Now Rapunzel’s Return has to be Rapunzel’s 20th birthday because season two was a full year, and even if you say it’s not, then that still doesn’t explain Once a Handmaiden (the Goodwill Festival) coming after this episode.

And no you can’t move the episodes around, Once a Handmaiden has be the second to last episode of the series and Under Raps always comes after Rapunzel’s Enemy in any order you watch the series in.

No matter how you slice it, we’re missing a birthday episode for Rapunzel and season three has to be more than a year; a year and a half at the very least, if not two full years.

Look I’m not trying to be disrespectful of the talented artists who worked on this show, but their word isn’t law. The very fact that they’ve had to tell us the timeline after the series was over with indicates bad writing, and the very fact that the show itself contradicts them indicates either a lack of communication behind the scenes or a lack of editorial oversight. Either option is just poor management.

We Have Yet Another Failed Narrative Promise!

Are we seeing a pattern yet?

This is the third time in a row where the episode flat out states that Rapunzel needs to learn something and then, just, never has her learn it; four if you count her non-apology to Varian. Instead the show rewards her for her bad behavior by just giving her want she wants on a sliver platter for no adequate reason.

In fact, one could argue that this episode is the worst offender in the show because divorce is a real thing real kids have to go through. Children that will undoubtedly watch the series.

How upsetting would it be to such a child to watch Rapunzel force her parents back together with zero consequences and realize that they can’t do that in real life? It can potentially feed into misplaced delusions or make them even more bitter, either way it’s unhealthy and super irresponsible to tackle such subject matter in this way. Even Sesame Street handled the topic of divorce better than this supposedly ‘mature’ show.

It’s a Castle! Why Can’t Frederic Get His Own Room?

Frederic is the king. He still technically owns everything even if he’s not the one still in charge. He could have his pick of any room so why is he forcing himself on Eugene? Hell he doesn’t even have to stay in the castle. As pointed out during The Return of the King review, there’s other accommodations within the kingdom that’s suited for royalty. Why not head up to that mountain retreat?

This is a Really Bad Message

I understand that this is meant to be a joke, because of how ridiculously over the top it is, but because the series gives Rapunzel what she wants in the end without ever having her acknowledge how she is wrong here, it winds up validating her toxic world view anyways.

Divorce is not inherently a bad thing. We should be working towards both normalizing it and promoting healthy coping mechanisms for those that go through it, adult and child alike. What Rapunzel is doing here is just repeating puritanical fearmongering. And while I can understand why she might behave in this way, I don't understand why the show refuses to call her out on it. Or any of the other million bad behaviors she displays repeatedly through out the show... like the example below for instance...

Why Am I Suppose to Like Rapunzel Again?

It’s like the writers don’t understand that a joke can damage a character, especially if it’s overplayed. Super sweet upbeat Rapunzel snapping because she finally met someone who was annoying or a situation she couldn’t just solve with a positive attitude was funny maybe like the first time; but we’re three seasons in and this is supposedly her closest loved ones.

Look at them! They’re fucking terrified of her! All they did was point out that she maybe should do her job and deal with real problems instead of poking her nose into her parents business where it doesn’t belong! And this brat is now the ruler of the whole kingdom!? No one can legally stand up to her.

Like where’s the Eugene that stood up to her in Under Raps for trying this same bullshit? Why hasn’t she learned her lesson? She also pulled this same bullying tactic on young Lance and teen Eugene two episodes. Cass left her ass, supposedly, because of her bossy thoughtless ways. And this is also the same woman who abused a child back in season one and still has never acknowledged it.

Yes characters should be flawed, but they should also face real consequences for their actions, and if they’re a protagonist they need to learn and grow past their flaws.

I actively started to dislike Rapunzel after this scene. I already felt something was off way back in the season three opener, but this is the point where I stopped and went “What the fuck?” She used to be my second favorite character behind Varian. I didn’t go into this wanting to hate her, even after this episode I still held out hope that they were trying to purposefully lead up to some sort of falling out with everyone and with Rapunzel having to own up to her bullshit in order to win. You know like a classic third act “the hero is now alone due to their past mistakes” type story. But Nope!

There’s no pay off for any of this. Rapunzel is just mean for the sake of being mean in season three, and no one is aloud to call her out on it. She’s now the same type person as Frederic, a tyrant. That’s not a good development!

She’s Literally Bullying Her Own Parents Now, and I’m Suppose to Find that Funny?

Yes, Frederic is her abuser, and yes some people might find this scene cathartic if they hate him. But this isn’t actually calling out his past abuse. It’s just Rapunzel treating a now powerless old man with that same abuse and denying him bodily autonomy. An old man who has both less political rights and less power within the relationship than her; since due to his memory loss he is now dependent upon her.

In the real world it’s the equivalent of picking on an Alzheimer's patient who is in your care. I don’t give a shit how much of dick they were before the illness set in, you don’t fucking do that!

Why Should I Want Arianna and Frederic To Be a Couple?

The show has done nothing to sell this relationship. In fact one could argue that the show is trying to purposefully sabotage it.

Before the memory loss Frederic was proven to be abusive, to the point where even his own wife was afraid of him and wouldn’t stand up to him. Meanwhile Arianna was shown to be a shell of her former self who’d all but given up upon the things she actually enjoyed in life. And now that they both have had a second chance they have even less motive to stay together.

Look at Arianna up there? She’s clearly not enjoying her time with him. While he doesn’t want to engage in anything that she likes. I mean a couple doesn’t have to share their interests in everything, but there still has to be some sort of connection and the series just does not give us that connection.

There’s no reason why they should stay together. They no longer have any commitment or duty to fulfill as rulers and their daughter is fully grown. Contrary to what Rapunzel says, the kingdom isn’t going to fall apart if they separate. It actually would probably better for everyone, including Rapunzel, if they got divorced. At least then she’d have to grow up somewhat and stop being a controlling asshat.

Why is Attila Here?

I thought Attila got a job running his own bakery and that it was Lance who became the new cook at the Snuggly Duckling? Even if you argued that Attila was just doing Rapunzel a solid that still wouldn’t explain who is running the place when Lance isn’t there.

If you’re going to set up developments like that then you need to either stick with them or give an on screen reason for why these previous developments are no longer relevant. Flat out ignoring them like this is just lazy.

Lance’s New Outfit is the Best Thing About the Episode, and It’s Also a Complete Waste.

Lance deserved a new outfit because the team was too lazy to give him one for season two, even during the island arc. This however is a waste because it doesn’t add anything to the narrative. People were paid to make this thing for it to only show up for a few seconds of screen time.

This Whole Exchange Is Gross.

Oh let me count the ways in which this is so, so stupid.

Neither Rapunzel nor Frederic has ever proven themselves “thoughtful and responsible.” In fact both of them being irresponsible is intentionally a plot point in the main story arc.

How would either Frederic or Arianna know any of this? Not only have they lost their memories, but they didn’t raise Rapunzel themselves and those traits aren’t inherited; they are taught.

Gushing over your grown daughter isn’t a point of connection!

Why would anyone be compelled to kiss a practical stranger, that they previously didn’t even like, just because they both admire some woman they also barely know and happen to be related to? What is the thought process behind this? “Oh we made that? Then lets make another one!” What the fuck show? I’m ace and even I know that’s not a normal thing to get titillated over.

The Series Turns Frederic Into a Literal Baby In a Last Ditch Effort to Make Him Likable

The whole point behind the amnesia plot was to absolve Frederic of his past wrong doings. You can’t call out an old man with Alzheimer's for being a dictator, I suppose. (not like that’s ever stopped me from criticizing Ronald Reagan, tho) But from there the series then takes it one step further and actually infantilizes both Frederic and Arianna, because Chris assumes that if he makes Fredric as pathetic as possible the audience won't hate him any more. Well guess what, it didn’t work. Frederic isn’t suddenly a poor woobie just because he’s useless now. That’s not how that works.

Rapunzel Literally Physically Assaults a Person, Kidnaps Them, Threatens Them With Even More Bodily Harm, and Causes an International Incident; All Because They Asked Her Mom Out On a Date!

You can’t hear it in the screen shots, but there’s very clearly a clanging sound to indicate that Rapunzel just wacked Trevor upside the head and knocked him out.

Let me repeat, a Disney protagonist just committed armed assault against a guy, simply because she doesn’t respect her own mother.

What the Fuck!!!???

Arianna is fully grown woman. She is perfectly capable of making her own choices and she agreed of her own volition to go out with him. In fact she’s the one who asked Trevor if she could come along on his sea voyage. It’s not Rapunzel’s place to interfere with that.

Secondly, Rapunzel shouldn’t get a free pass to attack people just because she’s doesn’t like them. And she most assuredly shouldn’t get to write off her cruelty as justice because she's royalty! What the hell? You just turned one of your official princesses into a literal tyrant for the sake of a joke, Disney!

Where the fuck was the oversight on this show!?

And to top it all off, Trevor is a ruler of a competing kingdom. This could easily have been deemed an act of war. Thankfully for everyone involved Trevor has far more sense and compassion than Rapunzel and doesn’t push the matter.

Yes that’s right! The intentionally annoying prat and comedic antagonist is a more upstanding person than the main heroine! Let that sink in!

Wait, If Laws Don’t Apply Out In the Ocean, Then Why Did Eugene and Max Have Jurisdiction to Arrest Lady Caine in Peril on the High Seas?

Max shoved this same rule book into Eugene’s face when Eugene rightfully questioned if it was his job to arrest the mutineers. This book said that it was not only his job, but that he was also legally required to stop any and all ‘wrongdoing’ no matter where he was at nor whether he was on duty or not. While also failing to specify what ‘wrongdoing’ entailed.

Now that’s very problematic and ridiculous for a whole host of reasons that I’ve already covered back in my review of Peril on the High Seas, but this scene now adds a whole new layer of stupidity to the mix.

If zero laws apply out in open waters than yes, Eugene and Max were acting out of their jurisdiction. Not only that, but the pervious dumb rule regarding their duties is also now null and void. So, Justice For Lady Caine!

Oh, but were not done yet, cause it gets dumber.

If laws, including marriage don't apply, then getting married while out at sea also would not apply. Thereby rendering Trevor’s plan useless, unless they got married back in Equis. Which if they did that, it would bypass the entire pointless rule book completely because Equis is not subject to Corona’s laws anyways.

There’s not even any ‘inter-kingdom’ laws that they would be subject too because Equis isn’t a part of the seven kingdoms. Any treaty they did previously have with Corona would be something else entirely, and Trevor would be within his rights to end such an agreement.

Also Trevor is a king. He can do whatever the fuck he wants. Same goes for Arianna.

Ummm, No You Don’t Rapunzel

Trevor can’t marry Arianna without her agreement to it. It’s already been established that she’s physically capable of taking care of herself and she’s also mature enough to make her own decisions. If she did wind up marrying him it’d be because it’s her fucking choice to and Rapunzel has zero right to interfere with that.

There’s no one to rescue here. Rapunzel has no reason to go chasing after her mom. All this is doing is denying a grown woman agency over her own life. Why should I or anyone, root for Rapunzel here?

You Do Know That Arianna Has More Than Just Two Choices Here, Don't Ya Show?

Arianna doesn’t have to be in any relationship. That’s also an option. While I personally like Trevor, this shouldn’t be a choice between him or Frederic. The show should be asking what Arianna, as a character, would want for her life, instead of just shoehorning her into just being a wife for someone else.

I still don’t know what Arianna really wants in life, but I do know that being a domestic housewife and a queen does not suit her. She doesn’t actually like being tied down with commitments and responsibilities. She’s repeatedly indicated over and over again that she feels uncomfortable in her role.

But the show reduces her into trophy to win and turns her into a damsel in distress multiple times. Then it further neuters her so that she complacently walks back into that life over and over again for no logical reason. She’s treated not as a person but as a prop.

Really, Arianna? Are You Really Sure About That?

These aren’t Arianna’s words. They’re Chris’s.

Arianna has shown zero interest in Frederic up to this point. The closest they got was during that creepy boat scene where they just jumped to almost kissing for no real reason. While before now Arianna was making actual goo-goo eyes at Trevor earlier, before Raps stepped in and broke them up.

They actually do have things in common and had a genuine point of connection. They even almost kissed themselves until Raps started being a dick. No forced and icky conversations about their grown children needed here folks!

While I still firmly believe Arianna should just be single, the show does far more to convince me that she and Trevor should be together more so than her and Frederic. Everything about this scene on the boat feels forced and hollow because it doesn’t ring true to what was previously established.

This just isn’t good writing. It’s the animation equivalent of a six year old smashing their Barbie dolls faces together and shouting “now kiss!”, all because a middle aged man couldn’t get over they fact people didn’t like his self insert.

No, wait, I apologize. That’s being mean to six year olds. They usually have more interesting plots and established characterization than this.

Hey, Remember When the Series Villainized an Orphan For Stealing This Stupid Book?

Yeah, stealing the book was treason and the mains ruined a child’s life over it, but apparently it just doesn’t matter any more cause no one seems to give a shit about Trevor taking it. Like, yes, as the king of another kingdom, Trevor isn’t beholden to Frederic’s bullshit, but you would think that the characters would treat this as a bigger deal than what they do, given how they responded previously to it being taken.

Unless Rapunzel was just talking out of her ass back during The Alchemist Returns. That’s also quite possible.

This Literally Has Nothing To Do With You Rapunzel

Just because Rapunzel herself is a woman, doesn’t mean that stealing the agency of another female character isn’t misogynist. Especially when their both written by primarily men.

Every guy who was involved with the writing of the episode, should be fucking ashamed of themselves!!!

So What Exactly Has Trevor Done Wrong Up To This Point?

Yes, the story board artists and voice actors do a lot of heavy lifting here to try and make Trevor seem like a creep. Arianna’s body language and tone of voice when dealing with him here will be very familiar to a lot of women, I’m sure. I know what it’s like to have a stalker and not know how to turn them down because you’ve been trained all your life to ‘be polite and nice” to people, and I’m not unique in that regard.

But here’s the thing, it’s not set up properly. There’s nothing backing this sudden shift in the characters’ dynamic. Up till now Trevor has been a perfect gentlemen. Sure he was over the top as always, and you could call it an act when regarding his politeness to Frederic, but he seemed to genuinely respect and admire Arianna and clearly desires genuine affection in return from her. Why would he suddenly stop behaving in a way that worked for him and start talking over her instead?

Also why wouldn’t Arianna just tell him no to begin with if that’s what she wants? She had no trouble speaking her mind before now. But that begs the question why she wouldn’t return his feelings as well, because as stated above, she clearly showed interest in him previously.

This is So Fucking Forced

Yeah, okay, you’re daughter has no reason to be here to begin with, disrespected your wishes, and attacked Trevor first. At this point I’d argue he has a right to retaliate. Especially since, if Rapunzel was allowed to board, you know she’d just attack him again, because she knows no other way to resolve conflicts other than to hit people very hard.

Arianna’s actions here only make sense if she’s kept in the dark about what an awful human being her daughter really is. That’s poor writing.

Also, having a woman just punch people while denying them actually agency and choice within the plot is not ‘girl power.’ It’s fucking misogyny!

How Does Doing the Bare Minimum, and Just Showing Basic Human Decency Count As ‘True Love’?

What was she suppose to do? Let him drown? I mean I wouldn’t, and I despise the man. Not to mention anyone else could have done the same thing. They’re all right there. If Lance had jumped to the rescue would Trevor have proclaim them lovers too?

Trevor Is Still the Better Man Here

Here he is rescuing Rapunzel even after she treated him like shit.

Best. King. Period.

This Still Doesn’t Redeem Frederic

So through out the episode Frederic has inexpiably shown an obsession for eggs. He now collects them even though this was never an established trait before now. But whatever. He’s just been through something traumatic and looking for something to ground himself. Far be it from me to make fun of someone else’s special interest. If you like to collet eggs than good for you. Go live your life to fullest.

That’s more respectful than how the show handles it, as everyone dismiss his interest and it’s treated like a joke through out the episode. Only to have said obsession save the day. But this isn’t here to teach the others about respecting other people’s hobbies, oh no, it’s here to try and give Frederic a big hero moment so you’ll cheer for him.

Except one nice thing does not erase his past actions! I don’t care what your hobby is, if you deliberately try to cause grievous harm to people you’re and asshole! And you will continue to be an asshole until you can admit what you’ve done wrong and try your best to make up for it.

I Hope You Made Back Up Copies of The Tunnel Maps

A bunch of people are more upset over this development than I am, because it is a historical artifact and preserving the past is important. But the only story function the book held was a map to the tunnels, and said tunnels were never utilized properly through out the entire show.

To this day people still don’t understand that they’re meant connect the island to Old Corona or that Herz Der Sonne is the one who built them into order to invade Saporia because the show is so bad at its world building. And come season three, they’re all but irrelevant anyways. Such a wasted concept.

Once Again the Whole ‘Memory Loss’ Subplot Is a Copout

Ok that’s not how the spell worked previously, but that’s not what I’m taking issue with here.

If the whole point behind the amnesia plot twist was to sweep Frederic’s awfulness under the rug, then I expect his past actions to be addressed once he’s regained his memories. They are not.

This episodes reverses the very thing that the season was trying to achieve and just hopes the audience is too stupid/attention deficient to notice. Well guess what, we noticed and we’re far smarter than you Chris.

Conclusion

I don’t understand the point of this episode. It shoots everything season three is trying to do in the foot. It screws up the timeline, makes Rapunzel even more of an irredeemable dickhead while preventing her from learning yet another needed lesson, undermines Arianna as a character once again, and it puts Frederic back in the crosshairs of the audience’s scrutiny.

Oh and look, it’s written by the same guy who wrote Rapunzel’s Return. Why am I not surprised.

Anyways another one down and only 15 more to go. You can support my continued marathon by dropping a tip in my ko-fi if you wish. I’m currently back to job hunting yet again and anything you can give is appreciated.

https://ko-fi.com/rachelbethhines

#Rapunzel #rapunzel's tangled adventure #anti-tangled #anti-rapunzel #ferderic #arianna #tangled #tangled the series

62 notes · View notes

vetrubius · 3 years

Text

ANONYMOUS AFFECTION

CHAPTER 1: ACKNOWLEDGING EXISTENCE/

W.C:1,624

Summary: Y/N L/N is a 24 year old bartender who owns a small bar. The usual life of hers is about to change after meeting the Hero Associations Chairman, Izuku Midoriya. She’s in charge of the afterparty of the Sports Festival for the Hero Association. Watch her as she falls in love gracefully with one of the strongest hero.

Warnings: Aged up characters, SMUT, Alcohol, Cigarette, Hook ups, Slight Name-Calling, Nudity :)))

The bar at the corner of the road had a warm aura in it. Any new comer would be welcomed at the sight of young adults lost in a mist of dense smoke, and liquor. The laughter resonating through the small bar established the happening atmosphere in the space. The humongous bar on the left did the space justice. The glowing bottles of alcohol with yellow encompassing it was a view worth dying for. The row of bottles stacked up from top to the bottom shelf was balancing the small live stage on the opposite side of the wall. The large floral stained window did justice to the space. The chairs and table in the middle were filled with people as the live performance was ongoing. The warm light flooding the room and the task light above the live stage ensured that the attention would remain to the girl singing on the stage.

You watch Jirou sing on the stage with her purple satin dress whose thin straps held up the dress and the fabric draping along her curves, highlighting them beautifully and enlarging every detail possible. On the stage with her was Mina, gracing the wooden floor with a green satin cage bralette and black latex which complemented her skin tone. Her sex appeal bursting through the whole space, kept the audience thoroughly involved with her. Behind the two ladies were Kirishima and Denki on the guitar and the drums. Kirishima adorning the little bow tie he’d tied over his white shirt and his low rise ripped jeans which lowkey showed his V through his shirt (not that he minded the way the college girls threw themselves at him). As Kirishima played his guitar, your gaze was fixed on the yellow haired friend with a black highlight who was playing his drums.

You and Denki had been friends for a while which had led to the build up of sensual energy between the two of you. There had been nights where your head was settled between his crotch, engulfing his manhood in your mouth as sweet moans escaped his mouths. His hands leaving marks on your ass and whimpers leaving your mouth and him filling you up to the point you couldn’t even talk or walk properly. Tonight might be another such night where you’d be under him with a guarantee of sore legs the next day.

“Hey Y/N,” your eyes darted towards the voice “Looking pretty in the trousers and shirt. Going for a gender neutral look?” Tenya said as he made himself comfortable on the bar chair.

“Yeah, trying that but clearly isn’t working on the person I want.” You said a smile creeping up your cheeks.

Tenya and you had been college best friends and the pact of not dating each other had already been made. The beauty of you two was the fact that both of you upheld it. You’d never thought about Tenya that way and he didn’t too.

“A shot of bourbon, please” he said as he shuffled in his seat to remove his wallet.

“Ah, don’t worry about it, the first one is on the house.” You said, sliding the shot glass towards him which he downed in almost an instant.

“Tough day at work, huh?” You asked, resting your chin between the palms of your hands as your elbows rested on the black granite table.

“Yeah, too many bad guys out there you know,” he said, signalling for another one “Keep the bar and yourself safe, Y/N.”

Your eyes returned back to the yellow-head on the stage. “So, Denki huh?” Tenya said while taking the second drink.

“Yeah, he’s a good plaything.” you said smiling at Kaminari from behind the bar.

“Don’t get emotionally involved with him. He’s a great guy. But not someone you’d want to spend the rest of your life with” he said while keeping the shot glass down.

“I don’t plan to. But I do plan to keep him on the toes until you get your official hero licenses. It’ll be a good motivation for him.” you said, looking back at Iida and grinning.

“The typical Y/N card. Always baiting other people to do their best using her body.” he said looking at the table and smiling.

You looked around the bar. The college kids sitting in front of you. Some were pursuing their education but most of them had to appear for their heroes licenses exam in six months. You too had dreams of becoming a hero when you were a kid. Until you realised your quirk was useless. The one idea of developing an amazing quirk that you desperately wanted was snatched away from you. The terror in your eyes when the doctor said to your guardians “Her quirk is being immune to alcohol poisoning” It felt like the world had collapsed. What could a 6 year old like you do with a quirk like that? The children in your school kept name-calling you. Drunk hag, alcohol creep were some of the many. You were so used to it.

Now that you were 24 and owned a bar, it’s not like your life had any spice to it. Just one night stands, your everyday customers and your best friend. Of course that didn’t mean you didn’t have ambitions. You did want a family and to be reciting your vows in front of the stained glass window. But you weren’t sure if you were available emotionally for anyone yet. Also, the acceptability of your quirk in the other households was not something you anticipated.

Your thoughts were interrupted when you heard Tenya’s voice “Are you facing any problems in the bar?” he asked after downing his third drink.

“Yeah, the liquor prices are becoming slightly expensive, the electricity units are skyrocketing and I need more furniture,” you sighed. “I want more customers but where will I accommodate them?” your eyes returning to the stage but this time at Jirou.

“Actually our firm was planning a after UA festival afterparty, only for adults.” he said tapping his fingers on the cold platform. “Could we use your bar? There won’t be a lot of people. Only official members and the boss. Do you think you could handle that?” he glanced towards you.

A party? You pause to think a little.

Your brainstorming lasted roughly about 45 seconds.

“Yes, but I’ll need advance payment.” you say, looking at Tenya with fire in your eyes.

“I’ll ask for permission from my higher ups and let you know.” he said, picking up his bag “Meanwhile, you deal with him.” he said, tilting his head behind you.

You flip to be face in face with Denki.

“Hey sexy, ready to go?”

The door unlocked only for Denki to push you against the wall with his lips attacking yours. With one hand he grabbed your face while the other worked on locking the door.

“Aren’t we feisty today” you said as he made his way on your neck, as you tried to unbutton him with one hand and the other grabbing his hair. Denki was quick to pick you up in bridal style and make his way to the dining table. Before he kept you down, he unbuckled your trousers, removed and dropped them on the side.

Placing you softly on the table without breaking the kiss, he starts to slowly drag his fingers along the slit on your wet panties. “Oh Kaminari~” your back arching and your hands on his back, scratching every edge you can get.

Denki enjoying every little bit your body reacts. The small whimpers, the bite on his shoulder blades, most of all the way your mouth steams on his. It makes him almost lose whatever little composure he has out of the window.

“Ah gorgeous.” he said while breaking the kiss and taking a step back to admiring your body.

The little protective crystal dangling on your boobs. The black bralette, the white shirt covering your arms and your sides and your panties soaking wet for him. You looked sinful

“Beg.”

“Can you please eat me?” you ask, grabbing your one boob in your hand and the other one in your mouth.

“Try harder.”

“Sir, could you please eat me out?” you say between the moans, with one hand circling your clit, the other hand on your boob.

He picks you up again and takes you to the bedroom and dumps your body on the mattress.

“Come sit here, I wanna try something.” he said, clambering behind you. You don’t waste time trying to fit the pocket of his arms.

The second you make your way, his lips made his way on your ears as the walls witnessed your undoing.

With one hand, he played with your tits a little more and the other made his way inside your panties. This unholy sensation made your soul leave your body. His thumb rubbing your clit and his index and middle in your pussy. The squelches and your moans were absorbed by the walls. He knew you were at your limit.

Kaminari stopped abruptly, breaking a protest whine from you. “More, please” You said through your broken voice.

Meanwhile in Hero Association:

“Hey Tenya, how have you been?”

“I’ve been great. Hey, I got a venue for the afterparty. It’s a bar of one of my best friends. It’s down by the old man's shop.”

“I see. Y/N L/N, was it?”

“Yeah, her.”

“I’m interested. Could you book the place for 25th November?”

“Alright. I’ll email her. And Izuku?”

“Mhm?”

“You’ll find her interesting.”

“I hope so. It’s been a while” the putting out of a cigarette and footsteps towards the window was audible as the green haired hero overlooked the city.

series masterlist

45 notes · View notes

witcher-and-his-bard-archive · 4 years

Text

For six months the Lady Elena has been the sole recipient of Jaskier's affections. It started as a distraction - they met at a party he attended with both Geralt and Yennefer - something to keep his mind off the fact that Geralt's heart, rough and closed-off as it is, was claimed by someone else. But Elena was bright and funny and she lavished praise on Jaskier and he was easily drawn in.

They've been sort of on-and-off since Jaskier and Geralt left Vattweir, but whenever they separate, Jaskier finds himself back beyond the mountains. And when they don't, Jaskier sings of her regularly, earning little praise and much grumbling from Geralt, but he doesn't care. For the first time since they met, Jaskier's attention isn't focused solely on Geralt and he thinks maybe if ever was to settle down and stay somewhere, it might be with Elena.

He sings of love and romance and tells Geralt he'll never love like this again - getting only grunts and hmms in response. But he is happy and more than that, he's happy that for once something has pulled him out of the slump he didn't realize he was in. His songs are cheery once more, not impeded by his unrequited feelings for Geralt. Not that those feelings aren’t still there every time Geralt smiles at him over the fire or presses a little closer on cold nights, but it doesn't hurt so much anymore.

But like most happiness in Jaskier's life, it doesn't last long.

He's been invited to sing at a banquet in Vattweir and since Geralt is with him at the time, he considers it a bonus that he finally gets to introduce them. Not that Geralt cares very much, but Jaskier does.

But things don't go quite as planned; as soon as Jaskier walks into the hall, he spots Elena and she's not alone. She's sat delicately in the lap of some nobleman Jaskier doesn't recognize and at first, he doesn't think much of it. When she leans in for a kiss, he reconsiders.

Jaskier’s heart sinks. They never specified that they wouldn't see other people, but he hasn't and he had hoped she hadn't either. Ah,well, he decides, simply a bump in the road - at least Geralt isn't with him to see the shock on his face. He can't imagine how he would react after hours of Jaskier going on about her being the one.

So he keeps this small detail to himself. Everything else is going as planned and he's sure to come out of this night with a heavy purse if nothing else. But Elena doesn't even acknowledge his presence - a difficult feat considering he's the main source of entertainment for the evening - and it doesn't take him long to figure out why. After his first set, there's an intermission and he seeks out Geralt, slipping in next to him at the table.

There's a toast. A speech. An engagement announcement - and engagement announcement for the Lady Elena and some noble or other that Jaskier’s never heard of. Well, he thinks, that would explain things.

He spends the remainder of the night wondering if he just over thought their relationship. Obviously, if she's now engaged to someone else and acting like he doesn't exist. Geralt asks after her, but Jaskier lies, tells him she didn't show up and he'll just have to wait to meet her later. Jaskier is used to heartbreak and for now, at least, he’d rather suffer this one alone.

Without their impending introduction, Geralt insists they leave early and for once, Jaskier agrees.

He never tells Geralt. Partially because he's embarrassed, but mostly because he knows Geralt will say something stupid like you'll find someone new in a couple of days. But Elena was special. He falls in love often and without intending to, but there are people he's found who strike a different sort of chord with him - Elena was one of them. Geralt is another. And maybe he won't find someone new because it's been over a decade that he's been searching for something to fill the Geralt-shaped hole in his heart and now he's lost that, too.

Now he's back to the beginning; in love with his best friend and unable to share that love because Geralt is an unfeeling mutant.

But he tries to keep up the charade for a little while. He still talks about Elana on occasion and when the longing becomes too much, he pulls himself from Geralt's side under the guise of visiting her. Mostly, he turns to the closest tavern and drinks unless someone will pay him to sing. It's not hard pretending still to be in love, the difficult part is hoping Geralt doesn't realize it's all a sham and all the lovely things Jaskier is saying are actually just about him.

But both the stories and the pretend visits start to dwindle over time and his relationship with Geralt slowly returns to what it had been prior to meeting her.

Only Geralt notices because of course he does and Jaskier is forced to lie every time he asks about her. And he asks more about her and Jaskier suspects he's trying to trip him up. But he feels better when Geralt sleeps closer at night or when he lets Jaskier sing them both to sleep on nights that are otherwise too quiet.

It takes five months for him to find out the truth and his response isn't anything Jaskier would have expected. They're outside of Oxenfurt, as far away from Elena and her new husband as Jaskier could hope to be. And yet, they're here, sitting at the edge of the river where Jaskier was hoping to enjoy the rest of his afternoon alone. Geralt is off killing some plant thing that's been killing people along the road and Jaskier had planned to sit and drink wine by the river, but he can't very well do that now.

So he returns to camp and sits and plays for Roach instead, singing songs of heartbreak and betrayal. She presses her nose to his head, ruffling his hair with heavy breaths and Jaskier smiles up at her.

"At least I've got you," he says and just as he does there's a loud crack from behind. He turns to see Geralt with what looks - maybe - like the head of some giant mutated flower over his shoulder. Or maybe a snake, he's not quite sure.

Geralt drops it on the ground and crosses over to sit on the log across from Jaskier, carefully removing his armour.

"What happened to songwriting by the river?"

"Ah, well, the river was already... occupied."

"That's never stopped you before."

"Yes but-" well, it's been five months, maybe he should just be frank with him "-you see Elena was down by the river with her new... husband." Geralt's head lifts at that, his face worryingly neutral as he meets Jaskier's eyes.

"Husband?"

"Er, well... yes. It seems she was finished with me only she never bothered to tell me that." Jaskier has been avoiding looking at Geralt, afraid to see the betrayal in his eyes for lying to him for so long, but when it does it's not betrayal he sees burning there. It's anger.

"I'm sorry," he starts, "I meant to tell you, but I just-"

"Why would she do that?" Oh.

"I suspect she didn't care all that much."

Geralt's eyes narrow and Jaskier isn't quite sure what to make of that. He can feel the anger coming off of him, but it isn't directed at him and he's not quite sure what to do with that. People don't get angry on his behalf, they get angry at him.

Jaskier tries to calm him down, but Geralt is fuming and Jaskier's never seen him this angry before and for the first time in their friendship, he's almost a little afraid of him. But Geralt would never hurt him and the anger is probably more to do with lingering elixirs from the hunt, so when Geralt gets up and stomps around the camp, Jakier lets him. And then, when his pacing and irritability starts to wear thin, Jaskier sits him down and promises that it isn't all that bad, not really, and he rubs his shoulders and runs patient fingers through his hair. And Geralt relaxes.

But he's different after that. Not in big ways, but he makes a point of keeping himself between Jaskier and anything that could hurt him. He sleeps closer when they camp in the open air, practically right on top of him - not that Jaskier is complaining - and he's defensive in a way Jaskier hasn't seen him before.

Jaskier is used to hecklers - no one can please everyone - but Geralt has taken to shutting them down with a single look, glowering at them from his seat until they're silent. Some leave, some are braver and just return to their drink, but none speak up again. Jaskier revels in this newfound attention and struggles not to find ways in which to provoke it.

It all comes to a head one night when they've stopped to eat and Jaskier is singing. He's distracted and doesn't notice at first when the couple walks in, but they sit down right next to him and it becomes hard not to notice. Elena is as beautiful as always, but her husband - Jaskier assumes that who he is, but he barely recalls the man from the banquet that night - has a sneer plastered on his face. Perhaps he knows who Jaskier is, though Elena doesn't show any sign of it.

Fine, he thinks, let her be like that. The next song he plays is his most romantic ballad, one very thinly disguised as having been written about a princess when in reality, it was written about Geralt.

As soon as he finishes, he picks his lute case up and crosses to sit back with Geralt. He knows they have to leave now, which is a shame since he never even finished his drink earlier, but he doesn't want to start something in the middle of the tavern. They were hoping to find a room for the night and Jaskier doesn't want to spend another night in a row on rocky, uneven ground.

"Shall we go?" he asks and Geralt casts a look between him and his unfinished drink. He doesn't respond before a loud, overly enthusiastic laugh fills the air. Geralt looks up with a scowl. Jaskier sighs.

He doesn’t know how he recognizes Elena, but there's an instant change in his demeanour. He goes rigid, staring directly at the corner of the room where she and her husband are seated and Jaskier can feel the rage radiating off of him.

"Geralt," he whispers, "let's just go, it's not that big a deal anyway-"

"She hurt you," he seethes and through the well of emotions swelling in his chest, Jaskier decides not to point out that Geralt has also hurt him in the past. It distracts him long enough that he doesn't realize Geralt is standing until he's nearly pushed out of the way.

He knows Geralt wouldn’t hurt them, especially for something so trivial, but he's so desperately trying to keep the peace. And if he's honest, he'd rather just forget about the whole Elena thing altogether. He thinks quickly, pressing himself up against Geralt's chest and it works, for a moment at least. Geralt looks down at him and something in his expression makes Jaskier's heart beat a little quicker and this is very much not the time for that.

But then Geralt moves to brush past and Jaskier's mind goes blank. He's been in danger - actual life threatening danger - before and Geralt has never been this defensive, protective, of him. So Jaskier acts without thinking. Working off the very slimmest chance that his suspicions could be correct, he pulls Geralt back to him and kisses him.

He stuns even himself and for a split second he's afraid Geralt might be upset with him, but Geralt drops back into his seat with a thud, pulling Jaskier into his lap. He takes Jaskier's face in his hands and kisses him fiercely.

Geralt kisses like a man who's been denied for years and all Jaskier can do is let himself be led. Geralt brings him close so their chests are pressed together and Jaskier can hear the way his heart thuds in his chest. It's highly unusual and if he wasn't being kissed stupid right now, he might be worried about it.

As reality settles around him, Jaskier slides his hands up Geralt's arms reverently, easing the rage and adrenaline out of him. And Geralt visibly relaxes under him, sinking back against the wall and relaxing his hold on Jaskier. Geralt loops his arms around Jaskier's lower back, but even calm and quiet, he doesn't let go. He just kisses him softer, more deliberately and Jaskier happily takes everything he's offering. Geralt is never this soft when he's insincere and this is maybe the worst time to talk about it, but he understands that this anger and rage were about more than just defending a friend.

When Geralt's tongue slides against his own, Jaskier lets out a little whine, shifting further into Geralt's lap. For that, he gets drawn closer and Geralt's hands slide up his back. Vaguely, Jaskier is aware that people are watching and regularly, he might worry about what people thought of him, but right now he couldn't care less. Right now Geralt is kissing him and he's solid and real and he feels so good around him.

Geralt pulls him right up against him and his cock, thick and hard in his trousers, presses up under Jaskier's, pulling a soft moan from his lips. As if pulled from a reverie, Geralt breaks the kiss, panting heavily as he looks into Jaskier's eyes. He doesn't say anything, but Jaskier hears the unspoken words and he nods, giving his consent freely.

A rush of adrenaline flows through him as Geralt hoists him up to his feet and presses a hand to his chest, guiding him backward. Jaskier is blind, trusting Geralt not to let him run into anything and he knows they're creating somewhat of a spectacle, but he loves it. Part of him wishes Elena would see him and regret the way things went between them, but right now with Geralt's cock pressing into his hip, Jaskier couldn't' be happier about the way things turned out.

Geralt directs him toward the door and Jaskier regrets not having paid for a room when they had the chance. He stumbles out the door and Geralt carries him down the stairs to keep him from tripping. After that, Jaskier finds himself pressed up against every vertical surface between the inn and wherever Geralt is taking him.

The sky is darkening but it's still light enough that anyone walking past could see them, but Geralt finds a small patch of trees right on the edge of town and apparently it's just what he's looking for.

Geralt sets his things down, but keeps Jaskier in his arms, sitting himself down in turn. As soon as Jaskier can touch the ground again, it becomes a race to get each other out of their clothes, grabbing and pulling until Geralt finally stops him, kisses him and tugs his shirt up over his head while he's distracted. Jaskier huffs at him, but he manages to get a hand fisted in his shirt and kisses back, temporarily distracted from his mission of undressing him.

Geralt moves under him, around him and Jaskier just hums and goes along with it, unbuttoning as many of Geralt's buttons as he can reach before shoving the shirt up over his head. He doesn't even mind when Geralt gets him out of his trousers and the Witcher is still mostly dressed. He doesn't mind because Geralt holds him close and kisses him like he doesn't think he'll get another chance. Jaskier continually proves that he will.

He kisses him hard, touches his face, rocks his hips against him even when the ties of Geralt's trousers are too rough against his swollen cock. He wants to prove to Geralt that this is more than just an attempt to distract him. And when Geralt pauses, just briefly to pull back and look at him, Jaskier thinks he knows.

Geralt reaches down, pushing Jaskier back and quickly unlacing the ties of his trousers. He shoves them down just low enough to expose his cock and hauls Jaskier back up over him, shifting under him so his cock rests against Jaskier's ass. He's quick and efficient, if not impatient and Jaskier shuts his eyes for a moment as Geralt's touch overwhelms him. He rolls his hips again, pushing back against Geralt's cock and grinding against him.

Geralt leans to one side, keeping a hand on Jaskier's hip to hold him steady as he turns. Jaskier leans back over him and Geralt kisses him as he rummages through his belongings. When he finds what he's looking for - a small half-empty bottle of oil - he pushes Jaskier back upright. His grip on Jaskier doesn't loosen, but he moves his arm up pushing his fingers into the hair at the back of his neck. His free hand moves, popping the cork on the oil and Jaskier groans in anticipation, rutting shamelessly against Geralt's stomach.

When Geralt's slick fingers press against him, Jaskier drops his chin against his chest, breathing Geralt's name into his night. When he slips into him, Jaskier's eyes flutter shut and he braces himself on Geralt's chest, looking down at him. Geralt shifts under him, readjusting himself and when he presses his cock against him, he meets Jaskier's eyes.

Everything slows to a stop as Geralt sinks into him and for a second Jaskier thinks it's going to end. Geralt was caught up in the moment and sometimes sex is just sex, but then Geralt smiles at him, slides a hand into his hair and pulls him into a firm kiss. Jaskier's eyes drop shut and he winds his arms around Gealt's neck and presses himself back onto his cock as Geralt wraps him in his arms again, pulling him close.

Jaskier's used to the finer things in life; silk sheets, warm beds, but out here in the forest in Geralt's lap he's never felt so loved. He doesn't want to say anything to spoil the moment, but the words are there, bubbling up in his chest and no amount of convincing or persuasion is going to stop him from feeling them. He presses his face into Geralt's neck, breathing the words into his skin instead.

When Jaskier comes, he stifles his moans into Geralt's skin as he rolls his hips against Geralt's slick stomach. Geralt follows a moment later, catching Jaskier's lips in a rough kiss as he continues thrusting into him.

When he stills, Jaskier rolls off of him, exhausted and still reeling. His chest heaves as he remembers how to breathe properly and next to him, Geralt is also panting, eyes shut and lips just barely parted. Jaskier feels like he should say something, but he doesn't know what. That was incredible? Thanks for the fuck? Are we gonna do this again?

"I'm sorry," Geralt breathes and Jaskier turns to look at him. That didn't even make it to the list of possibilities.

"What?" he asks, wondering if he's actually been fucked stupid or if there's something he's missing.

"I was angry, I got wrapped up in it."

"What were you angry about?"

"Elena-" Oh "- that she could hurt you like that and just... go on with her life. She had you and she just... found someone new."

"Oh," he says out loud.

"Why? Do you-"

Jaskier feels the word regret, unspoken and lingering between them and he shakes his head, turning to face Geralt. "No. I'll admit it was unexpected, but don't be sorry. And don't be angry on my behalf."

"Why shouldn't I?" Geralt growls, leaning up over him. Jaskier smiles, reaching up to brush his fingers along Geralt's cheekbones.

"I don't need them. I don't care anymore." He pauses, pulling Geralt's face low enough to kiss him again. "Although, if you're going to get all protective like this every time, I might-"

"Don't even think about it." Jaskier grins, looping his arms around Geralt's neck and pressing his fingers into his hair.

"Okay."

They fall into a comfortable silence, just the sounds of their breath mingling in the evening air, then Geralt’s voice, just above a whisper. “Are you alright?”

“I’m not a child,” Jaskier huffs, amused. “I’ve has sex in the woods before, although I do generally prefer-”

“I mean about Elena.”

“I think that’s the kind of thing you’re supposed to ask before you fuck me,” Jaskier quips.

“Hmm.”

“I’m fine. It’s been months, I’ve had time to think about things.”

“And?”

“And I think if things had worked out between us, I would have missed you too much to stay with her.”

“I thought you loved her more than anyone.”

“Well,” Jaskier smiles, turning to brush his fingers through Geralt’s hair, “maybe not more than everyone.”

#idk how to tag this #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #the witcher #first time #first kiss #posting bc i had a shitty day #and i want to feel productive #i'll put it on ao3 when it has a title #rex writes

669 notes · View notes

bayardboy · 4 years

Text

New Journal, Same Thoughts: On Hope as a Discipline

“Together we are very powerful, and we have a seldom-told, seldom-remembered history of victories and transformations that can give us confidence that yes, we can change the world because we have many times before. You row forward looking back, and telling this history is part of helping people navigate toward the future. We need a litany, a rosary, a sutra, and mantra, a war chant of our victories. The past is set in daylight, and it can become a torch we carry into the night that is the future.” - Rebecca Solnit, Hope in the Dark, 2004.

Rebecca Solnit’s love letter to activists, Hope in the Dark, came into my life at the exact right time. Given to me by a trusted spiritual mentor at Camp Magruder (whose name was, ironically, Hope), I began this book the week I stepped into my first Sunrise meeting. I knew no one but, armed with Solnit’s emphatic determination, I knew I was not alone.

This was last January. I could go on about how we’ve changed this year. My writings look the same, though. I go through journals in six-month spurts; I flip through my past pieces and see a collection of inspirations, dedications, conversations, and lists. I came to some pinnacle emotional and contextual realizations. Without being dramatic, the entire perception of my world has changed. Statements like “demythologize warfare”, “redefining community structure away from market base”, and “sustainability as a business buzzword” reflect how as my eyes have opened, they have begun to turn to jade.

Hope. Lately I’ve been eating it in tiny bits, like vitamins. I have to tell jokes about feeling good to placebo my emotions. We are all ailing right now, stressed by the darkness that shrouds the future. It is ok to know that things right now are bad. They are, and we can admit that to each other. It is SCARY to live in the knowledge that our systems are not designed to support human life; so how will we create community that does so? Within the thick veil of shortcomings and dangers, there are many, many holes to poke through to find hope.

I cannot define hope. It is vacuous and filling, it is central and dispersed, it is sun on cheeks and raindrops in hair. We each encounter it differently, and with different senses; for example, my nannying friend often finds herself uplifted by the laughter of children. I love to use my nose to find hope in flowers growing, and pines singing sweet notes.

So with that acknowledgement, I wake up everyday and I Choose to Find Hope. This is not something doctors can prescribe or influencers can bottle. Hope is ever-present and elusive. Especially in the work of an activist, teacher, or community servant, they know that daily tasks do not lend to the commitment to continue; it is the over-arching understanding that Making a Difference is Possible, on any scale.

Perhaps you have a physical quota: ask for hope in hugs from your roommates, comrades, yourself. (it’s ok to stretch your arms around yourself!) Perhaps music drives you: here is one of many playlists curated for revolution. Whatever it is that makes you feel good about living, seek it out, and purposefully begin to implement it into your morning or evening routine. It’s ok to smile in an empty room, your face craves it.

Throughout January I would wake up and feel despair at the opening of a new day. So I wrote this song, about having no choice, when I cannot eat or sleep, but to wake up and drink the sun. By February I was strong enough to exist again. My days begin with drinking my sun from an open window and the pages of my Qu’ran by my bedside, because that is where I find healing.

There is more to action than fear of an unlivable future, my friends. Only chasing, catching, and releasing hope will give us the sustenance to create a positive, and equal, reaction. Fear is resistance to change, to growth, to grief. But all these things will come. Let’s accept them, as heavy as they feel, and let them lift us to new heights. Then, let’s release them from our hearts, float without our anchors. Sometimes I literally get high off life, off the recognition that we all exist, and we must love and struggle!

I offer two more Solnit quotes that to hold on your tongue at the beginning and end of your days:

1. “Hope is not the belief that everything was, is, or will be fine. The hope [Rebecca] is interested in is about broad perspectives with specific possibilities, ones that invite or demand that we act... grief and hope can coexist.”

2. “Hope locates itself in the premises that we don’t know what will happen and that in the spaciousness of that uncertainty is room to act.”

My third and final offering at this beginning of March is that I will send you my copy of Hope in the Dark, if you request it. I also have another work of Solnit’s, Call Them By Their True Names. The Bay Area hub is lucky enough to have her as their hub Auntie.

I hope that as you read my pieces, you pull hope from them. I have kept these thoughts to myself far too long. Please, an allowance to pull a scrap of hope from the mumblings of an attic-dweller, for a moment to sip a delicious thought together. Together we are powerful, and we are not alone.

#hope in the dark #essay #freewrite #journal #discipline #sunshine #living is hard #conjuring hope #the little things #rebecca solnit #serve your spirit #song

2 notes · View notes

arabellaflynn · 4 years

Text

Hello, all. It has been a rough pandemic.

As you may have figured, since I am in the performing arts, I have been completely out of work since this shitshow began. The earliest venues will open up here in MA is September, which is not helpful for me, because I need to be out of my current place by 8/31. No one will rent to me on my Patreon income, so I've been trying to figure out how to supplement that with other online work.

My first thought, frankly, was camming. I'm attractive and I know that, and I don't care about being naked in "public". I have a lot of opinions on the legitimacy and legalization of sex work, but making a statement would be a convenient bonus; I'd be in it for the tips. As the appliance menagerie on the Flintstones used to say, "Eh. It's a living."

The best camera I currently have is attached to the slightly-less ancient laptop. You know, the one with the broken hinge that won't hold the screen up on the right. Only the wifi on that computer has quit working. The onboard chip was always kind of flaky, but for some reason it has chosen now to deteriorate to the point where it no longer acknowledges a router on the other side of the goddamn wall. Shooting in the living room with an ethernet cable is not an option, because another housemate is already doing that.

I bought a dual-band USB wifi adapter with antenna. It's a Realtek chip -- not gold-plated, but also not total junk. I specifically checked to make sure it worked with Ubuntu Bionic before I ordered. I have now installed three separate sets of drivers in three completely different ways, read everything ever written about this on AskUbuntu, and still the computer refuses to acknowledge its existence. Not even if I blacklist the onboard chip to keep it from falling back into previous bad habits.

The other elderly laptop (with the working wifi) has a cam that tops out at 640 x 480, which I suppose might squeak by as a tiny facecam on Twitch, or for tutoring where no one cares about pixelization. The microphone, however, is crap. It's a tinny omni on the screen bezel that likes room noise more than my voice. I don't have an external microphone, and there's no onboard Bluetooth for my wireless headset. So I bought a USB Bluetooth adapter, which this computer is ignoring as hard as the other one is the wifi dongle. I have a wired headset with a mic, but because this computer is probably mere months too old to know what to do with an inline mic on the same jack as the output signal, it doesn't register at all.

The camera on my phone is potato quality, because that is honestly about how much the phone cost. Ditto the refurb Kindle. Neither is smart enough to keep up with streaming video, which I found out when I tried to do a video rehearsal for something months ago.

I have no place to do any kind of professional non-entertainment streaming work (e.g., tutoring) with my terrible equipment in any event. I don't own a desk. If a free desk appeared on my doorstep tomorrow, I would have nowhere to put it. My bedroom is small enough to contravene the Geneva Convention requirements for POW cells and I'm basically stuck in here, for reasons of both air conditioning and not having to interact with a house full of people who very much want me gone.

What I do have is a set of working emulators and some free video editing software, so I decided to take a stab at a subtitled Let's Play. I can certainly ramble on for 30 or so hours of Final Fantasy II. At the very least it'll give me something scheduled to do. So I pulled everything out and set it up, only to find that my controller was "pining for the fjords" -- no lights, no acknowledgement from RetroArch, no response to any button presses.

...

...okay, well, at least we're down to a level of equipment I can afford to replace. So I am waiting for the mail carrier to bring me another $10 gamepad, whilst stuck in bureaucratic hell. I'm down to emergency public assistance, which keeps asking me to send them random documents, inconveniently one at a time. Even when I can submit them online I'm required to wait a minimum of 2-3 business days before a human can look at them. I'm trying to not be mad -- they are clearly horribly overworked -- but it also leaves me with a lot of time to do nothing but busy-wait. They've finally decided I'm destitute enough for food stamps, so now I have to sit on my hands until the card arrives in the mail.

The chronic, crushing lack of resources is not helped by (or helping) the fact that I'm just not functioning very well. I was already on the edge of disintegration when the lockdown orders hit anyway; I was taking every piece of work I could find in an effort to scrape together enough for first/last/deposit on a new apartment, and honestly that's more than I can handle. I can consistently get to about 20 hours of "stuff that can't be done while in bed, wearing pajamas" per week, with occasional spikes up to about 30, before I start losing the ability to take care of myself. I skip showers, let my living space become a complete disaster area, and go to bed without dinner because the whole process of choosing something to eat, preparing it, eating it, and cleaning up after myself is so overwhelming that I just burst into tears and don't do it. I fed the rats twice a day and cleaned their cage once or twice a week, but couldn't manage to do the same for myself.

It's difficult to explain to people the state of being physically and mentally exhausted without also being sweaty and shaky from muscle fatigue. Perhaps the single most salient example I can give is lying in bed at night and realizing I kind of vaguely needed to pee. Not like urgently -- just enough that I knew if I didn't, I'd wake up the next day with an uncomfortably full bladder. Then just lying there anyway, not because I thought suffering was noble or I deserved it or anything idiotic like that, but just because taking care of it would involve standing up, walking into another room, and initiating a new task, and I did not have the capacity to do any of those things.

If you suggest I start making a to-do list, I will sit down right now and invent a brand new Blunt Object Transfer Protocol (botp://) expressly for the purpose of punching you, personally, in the face over the goddamn internet. I will even credit you in the patent application. I will not share the licensing profits, which judging from social media right now, would be approximately all of the money on the face of the Earth. I do not need "life hacks".

What I really need is a case worker, or possibly a babysitter, or just to have shown up at the ER about two months ago, because that is the only way I have ever found to get people to pay attention when I ask for help. Otherwise I get triaged out of sight and out of mind -- they ask if I'm suicidal, I tell them no, they tell me 'okay, here's a prescription for six Xanax and a packet of resources, go home and fix it yourself'. I'm just like, you sons of bitches, do you think I don't know how to Google things? If I could fix this on my own, I wouldn't be talking to you. Except I can't right now, because plague.

Everyone wants to fob me off on someone else. I was referred to an SSDI attorney by a friend, because frankly that's where I'm at right now. I wrote to them, specifically mentioning his name and the associate who helped him, and explained that I was basically a vegetable and I needed help applying for disability. I'm a college-educated suburban white girl, who grew up hearing her parents make rude jokes about welfare queens -- I have no idea how any of this works and I'm so broken I kept losing my place in a blanket whose pattern was literally "knit-purl-knit-purl to end of row; turn work over; repeat". Their response was "Sounds like you need some help applying for SSDI/SSI disability. Here's the website for the Boston Bar Association, good luck!" Crisis lines of both the psychiatric and financial varieties keep directing me to one of two national clearinghouse sites for social support services, both of which direct me to each other, because neither has any programs in my area.

I am trying really, really hard not to resent the ever-loving fuck out of anyone who has any sort of support system right now. One housemate has almost the exact same list of medical problems that I do, and is also completely out of work right now. She is married to the one who has a grown-up salaried WFH IT job, and will never have to worry about having a roof over her head or food in the cabinets. The single housemate has supportive family literally a five minute walk down the street; if she ever gets her feet kicked out from under her, she can stay with them temporarily while she scrambles back up. Another friend yote out to California right before lockdown to stay with his family. A local offered to help me with paperwork, then ghosted me intermittently before explaining that he was having a hard time himself right now and barely had the capacity for his own life. I have an elderly rat, no more savings, and no options.

I don't even know how I'm going to move the little I own. How do you even ask people to do that in the middle of a pandemic? If I don't have the money to move, I definitely don't have the money for a moving company, and I'm envisioning all of my community-minded friends pursing their lips in judgement and declining because like all the good people they are diligently social distancing.

I have also discovered, while hauling an empty suitcase out to Watertown and a full one back home again, that I do not cope well with face masks. It's fine if I'm not doing much, especially if I'm in a climate-controlled space like a store or the T, but as soon as I exert myself at all, I see spots. And no, it is not a matter of "just get used to it"; I have tested this by trying to wear a mask during my home workouts. It is just stuffy enough under there, and there is just enough reduction in air flow, that the world keeps going all film-grainy and dark on the sides, which I know from experience is the first step on a very short path to the Magical Land of Syncope. I had to stop during the outdoor trek and sit on the suitcase about twice a block through the commercial district, where it stayed on because there were people. This was when it was 72 whole degrees out (and the AC is generally on 74°F inside) which doesn't bode well for moving my heavy shit around in late August.

I'm normally good at catching things at the weird-vision stage, although enough random strangers and T employees have asked me if I'm okay that I have to assume I look as ill as I feel at that point. And I have an absolutely tragic talent for talking people out of calling emergency services when I do actually keel over, but everyone is so health-panicked that I don't think it would work right now. I know what's happened and why, but I can't exactly communicate that to bystanders when I'm unconscious. As nice as EMS is, I don't feel like waking up to a round of Twenty Questions ("How many fingers am I holding up? Who's the President? Do you have a seizure disorder?"). So I just don't go out.

Alison over at Ask A Manager got a question about this the other day that suggests this is considered legitimate can't-(always-)wear-a-mask territory, and I am able to wear a mask where required in MA, which is indoors/during interactions with other people when it's actually useful, so I don't have any qualms on the scientific or legal front. I have just never been a good judge of how much potential peril/damage it's "reasonable" to put up with, and I don't have the capacity to explain myself over and over again a million times a day.

I'm fucking tired. I'm tired of covid, I'm tired of living in a big glitzy continent-spanning banana republic, I'm tired of anxiety, I'm tired of other people carping at me to do things I can't in order to fix their anxiety for them, I'm tired of not having the space to dance, I'm tired of asking for help before things fall apart and being told 'well, come back when it is an emergency', and most of all I'm tired of this cycle where I tell myself "I'm going to stop being lazy! I'm going to put on my big-girl pants and wake up early and work 40 hours a week and support myself like an adult!" and then fail at it again because I just do not have the capacity to do that. I do not know how to make the system understand that I need some kind of support right now.

Sorry for yet another depressing update, but that's where I am right now.

from Blogger https://ift.tt/2YPv8Xu via IFTTT -------------------- Enjoy my writing? Consider becoming a Patron, subscribing via Kindle, or just toss a little something in my tip jar. Thanks!

#IFTTT #Blogger #Unsolicited Advice

2 notes · View notes

tmntxreader-fics · 6 years

Text

TMNT Leo X Reader: STICKS AND STONES (Part 2)

ITS BACK

I’VE REPOSTED AFTER THE TUMBLR UPDATE DESTROYED THE LAST ONE.

Found this in a glitch actually, I copy and pasted it and it disappeared literally 10 minutes later into the abyss so I don’t know if the Tumblr staff took pity on me?...

ANYWAY

WARNINGS: Cussing, angst, and possible typos. Also it’s long as hell.

Word Count: 3307

Your gaze drifts over your own reflection, heart pounding in your chest.

“You don’t look like yourself,” April had said when she picked you up from the airport. It was one of the first things she had greeted you with. Now, back in your old city, standing in your old apartment and appraising yourself in your old mirror- you realize that she is right. In the 6 months that you had been gone, you’ve abandoned your old self and God did it feel good. Like a snake shedding its skin, a butterfly emerging from its cocoon; you are new.

Your once simple and almost bland hair is now vibrant and impossible to ignore. The roots remain their original colour but slowly along its length it weeps into a red that puts Raphael’s mask to shame. A deliberate colour scheme to symbolise the opposition of blue.

Even as you eye the clothing draped over your body, you can’t help but compare the difference between your originally modest and humble style and the present edge you’ve currently obtained.

But the most significant change you display is not a tangible presence, it cannot be observed with a materialistic lens. The thing that stands out the most, as you analyse your own reflection, is not the clothes on your back or the colour of your hair. It’s the confidence.

It was a terrifying concept at first, attempting to push past the fears that plagued you for years. The chains that bound you under the label of shy, socially anxious and introverted were never weak. They were made of hard steel with what you had previously thought to be no weak link to be discovered, but you found it six months ago and its name was Leonardo. When you broke the link, shattered it with a sword of humiliation and scorn, you realised then that the opportunity for growth came after being cut down. You are free of your chains and you want to let the world know that you’ll never be confined by them again. Starting with the one who both restricted you and freed you, you plan to display this newfound power in the best way you could. You’re going to rub it in everyone’s face that you are new. You are an entirely new being and you plan to bask in it. You want to silently gloat about it to those who thought you to be insignificant. You know your worth now. Precisely why you’ve agreed to visit the infamous lair of the turtles after so long of avoiding it like the plague; trying to pretend it never existed. “You sure you wanna come with?” April questions sceptically, her eyes slowly dragging over your frame. After a hard silence, she throws her hands up in surrender and mutters a sarcastic apology beneath her breath. The reporter knows this meeting will be chaos; not necessarily physical but emotional anarchy for everyone involved. It sounds good in theory, the idea of ‘strutting your stuff’ in front of your ex but the bond between you both was deeper than the average relationship. April knows that tie is still existent whether you choose to acknowledge it and young woman suspects this will not go in accordance to your plans- things rarely do. However, you are stubborn and even the famous reporter is no match against the fury of a woman scorned. Your breathing picks up as April leads you around what seems like the 100th corner in a row- and it’s not because of the amount of unwarranted exercise you’ve been forced into. “Donnie said he’d meet us here,” April huffs, slightly winded by the hefty trek. Before you can reply, a recognisably excited voice pipes up from the shadows of the alleyway. “And I’m here as promised!” You exhale sharply at the sight of the purple clad turtle- it’s been so long since you’ve seen any of the mutant brothers that the presence of even Donatello shocks you. You drink the sight of him in, from the goggles resting atop his head to the gadgets strapped to his ankles. An almost nostalgic sigh is expelled from your system as you shift the strap of your bag on your shoulder, a nervous tick. His gaze lingers on you after greeting April, longer than it should have until he figures it’s illogical to try hide the fact that he is staring. You smile sadly, “Hey, brains. It’s been a while, huh?” His gaze softens and his lips quirk to mimic yours. “Precisely 6 months and 2 days,” he states quietly. His smile widens into a goofy grin, the tension easing up as he rubs the back of his head awkwardly, “who’s counting though?” “I have a suggestion as to who,” April responds suddenly, observing her fingernails when the attention falls upon her. You realise she’s talking about the blue clad turtle and the turmoil within your stomach returns tenfold. You felt physically sick by the idea of seeing him again, having to look into those eyes. A gaze that had once observed you with love, a gaze that was tender and affectionate reserved only for you; a gaze that turned too cold, too quickly. “Speaking of,” Donnie begins quietly, “everyone’s waiting downstairs for you guys.” He nods his head towards to the open manhole cover and you swallow thickly. You almost wish that the walk to the lair was as long as the trek it had taken to meet Donnie at the rendezvous point. Your heart has basically nestled itself in your throat and you know that there will be difficulty dislodging it. As your little band of three approach the entrance to the lair you force your racing mind to stop, this was all done for a reason. You will not allow yourself to be weak, to become unravelled by a person you once knew. They are no longer a part of you, they no longer define you, they no longer value you the way they once did but you value yourself and that is what makes you infinitely more powerful than you were. You know your self-worth, you know you deserve just as much respect as anyone else. After 6 months of inner struggles and the journey to self-love you absolutely refuse to be shaken. However, as told by Mike Tyson, “everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.” You figure that it wasn’t meant to be coupled with this current situation, but anything can be applied to everything depending on the individual’s approach.

As you enter the room holding Donatello’s brothers, you realise that seeing Leonardo’s face damn well felt like a nasty uppercut. As Mike Tyson predicted, anything witty you had planned to say has expelled itself from your mind.

A glacier like gaze skims over your being repeatedly, slower each time. The ice melts into pools of emotion, collecting at the water line of his eyes. Your mouth opens, fighting to make a sassy remark that you had planned previously- you failed miserably. A name slips from his lips, your name. It sounds foreign, why does it sound like that when it used to be comforting? Why does he say it like that? With longing, with sorrow. He has no right to long for you. But he does have a reason to be sorry. You straighten your posture and set your jaw, forcing your sights to rip away from him as if he wasn’t worth any time of day. Settling your gaze onto Raphael, his lips curl into a charming lopsided smirk. “I like your hair,” he states; stepping forward with a confident sway. Seems you aren’t the only one who’s grown. “It reminded me of you,” you tease playfully, a grin finally gracing your previously tense features. Through your peripheral vision you catch the slightest flinch from Leo. Raph returns the sentiment with a brilliant smile and you’re shocked by both the act and the way he immediately reaches out to embrace you. Blatant affection from the temperamental warrior was a rarity, to be the object of said affection made your heart swell. “It’s been hell without you here,” his words are pressed against your ear, quietly swallowing the air around you. He frees you from his embrace, eyeing you with a meaningful glance before returning to his resting expression- a mixture of irritation and arrogance. “I’ll go wake Mikey up,” he suggests, disappearing past Leo and into the tunnels. Something about the way he spoke confirmed to everyone that he was doing no such thing. April and Donnie, unfortunately, also got the unspoken memo. “Well, I’m just going to um-” Brains mutters awkwardly, spinning in a half circle away from you. “Show me the lab! He’s going to show me the lab,” April exclaims, gripping his bicep and dragging him in the opposite direction. “You know? TCRI isn’t going to disappear over night!” The duo left the room in a flurry of nervous mumbling, leaving you to face Leo by yourself. You swallow your nerves and un-furrow your brows, determined to give this turtle absolutely no rope and no leverage. You are in control here. Your gaze returns to Leo with hooded eyes and cold intentions. He steps forward as if to embrace you but your stare stops him dead in his tracks. Blue’s mouth opens and closes repeatedly as if he is confused by the apparent shift in attitude. You take his clear vulnerability as an opportunity to speak, looking around the lair with nonchalance. “You know, I really missed this place,” you state, tossing a side glance at the still turtle. “I missed your brothers, I missed Splinter- God knows I missed the pizza.” Your fingers trail over the railing beside you casually as you reign yourself in to ensure the confident voice doesn’t waver. With two slow and long strides forward towards Leo, you Harden your gaze and let it rest on him. “You know what I didn’t miss though?” You question, taking another step closer to the turtle who suddenly looks almost alarmed. “You.” You cross your arms and square your sights on him, “I didn’t miss you at all.” His jaw clenches before an emotion crosses his face, one you’ve never seen before. You find yourself beginning to wish you hadn’t stepped so close. “You’ve always been a bad liar,” Leo’s voice is quiet but hard. Your eyebrows raise at his immediate response. You’d hurt him with your words, you can tell by the silent strain in his voice. His icy stare narrows in on yours and he takes a step towards you- it feels like the ground is shaking. Resisting the urge to step away from him, you instead opt to swallow nervously and raise your chin in defiance. “You wouldn’t know,” you say. “I’ve never lied to you. That was your job.” Just like that, Leo’s strong facade shatters. His expression opens, revealing sorrow and harrowing regret, your heart squeezes at the sight. “What I did to you,” he begins, licking his lips as he pauses. “What I said to you was wrong.” “You’re stating the obvious again,” you force a tone of boredom but your hands begin to tremble. Leo’s swift gaze travels from your eyes to your lips, they trail from your shoulders to your shaking hands. His stare lingers there for a moment and his brow ridge furrows slightly. “I’m sorry.” His words are barely a whisper. His sorrow incites fury; two words cannot erase months of heartache, betrayal and tears. You narrow your eyes at him. You’re furious at Leo for what he’s done, you’re furious at him for seeking forgiveness through just two words but mostly you’re furious at yourself for wanting to forgive him so easily. Your blood boils at the fact that you wish he was the first to approach you, to embrace you, to express how much he missed you. But he wasn’t; he didn’t say a word. However, you were never one to slap away an apology- even if the last thing you want to do is forgive them. “Apology accepted. Have a nice day, Leonardo,” you laugh bitterly, turning on your heel with the intention to be in the company of anyone but the turtle with the blue bandana. How disappointing. “I can’t.” His voice is sharp, demanding to be heard. You frown and face him. “Can’t what?” “I can’t have a nice day,” he states, almost frustrated with himself. You pull your shoulders into a shrug. “Well, that’s unfortunate,” you say carelessly, motioning to continue with your departure. “I can’t have a nice anything, actually,” he continues. Leo steps closer and the intensity of his gaze weighs down on you- forcing you to be still where you stand. “I can’t have a nice meal, a nice training session or a nice patrol.” Your eyes widen as he grits his teeth and moves closer, it feels like the air is being drawn from the room. “I can barely close my fucking eyes at night, let alone have a nice sleep,” he snaps and you swallow at the sound of the cuss being spat out from between his teeth. It sounded alien and misplaced, he hates swearing. Your breath leaves you in a subtle tremble, your eyes unable to tear themselves away from him. “How so?” You whisper. He chuckles humourlessly and you note that it’s almost self-deprecating in tone. “Because I sent away the one person that made things nice. Nothing has even come close, ever since.” You stare at him, heart pounding in your chest and tears gathering in your eyes. This was becoming vastly more complicated than the scenarios you had played out in your mirror at the apartment. “Then why?” You settle for the one question that’s been plaguing your mind for months. “Why did you do it?” Leo falters before you. Despite him being completely frozen in his tracks, it’s as if you’ve physically just watched him trip over himself at your question. “I…” He trails off, voice a mere, soft rasp. You raise a brow, trying to will back the tears. You are shaking, you know it’s visible, but you can’t find it in you to be embarrassed. “Well?” You prompt impatiently, “you made it your damn mission to break me. I at least deserve a reason, don’t you think?” “Yes,” he whispers. “Of course you do.” “Then spill it,” you snap, swiping the tear that had made a mad dash down your cheek. He eyes you carefully as he words his response carefully, “I was failing. As a leader, as a partner, as a member of the team…” You motion impatiently for him to continue. Leo casts his gaze to the floor, a frown marring his expression. “I couldn’t keep anything together and rather than look at my weaknesses and failed choices as a leader, I blamed you.” He grits his teeth, “I failed and you suffered for it. I thought you were a weakness when in reality you were my strength.” You don’t bother wiping the tears that have begun to basically stream down your cheeks, you know that’s a lost cause. Leo, catching your small sniffle, glances up and his face contorts to one of guilt. Your ex-lover makes an instinctual move to comfort you. “What do you want me to say?” You ask, wrapping your arms around yourself and stepping away from his advances carefully. “That it’s fine? That we can go back to what was? You can’t humiliate me and toss me aside then expect me back when you realise your mistake,” you snap. Leo’s eyes soften, “I don’t expect that from you.” “Then what could you possibly want?” You’re visibly exasperated, not to mention exhausted by this entire exchange. “A chance to try again.” Leonardo states almost pleadingly. You’re stunned by his words, mouth opening in bewilderment. Then you begin to laugh, interrupting his sentence with an almost cruel laugh that subsides into giggles. You imagine that this is possibly a terrifying image considering that your face is still heavily laden with tears. “You think I’m going to just get back with you?” You throw your hands up and turn in a circle, “the mighty Leo has asked something from me so I just must obey. News flash! I’m not your little bitch anymore,” you hiss. “I’m not the same person I was, I will not roll over for you.”

“I know. You’re stronger, you’re smarter and you’re angry. I understand that and you have every right to be but if you’d just give me a chance to prove myself.” He begins, moving close in another habitual attempt to console you. “Damn right I’m smarter, smart enough to stay away from you,” you snap, stepping back from his advances. Instantly he opens his mouth to respond, with wide eyes and hands raised to defuse, “Hold on, I wasn’t done just listen to me-” “No, you listen to me,” you interrupt, halting your retreat and instead stomping towards him, “I am not part of your damn team and you sure as fuck are not my leader!” Your hand had poked into his plastron to emphasise each point and his gaze moves down to eye the hand you had left resting upon him. “You do not get to make demands as if I owe you something.”

His mouth closes and to your surprise a small smile lifts one corner of his mouth. “You don’t owe me anything,” he begins softly. “But I will ask you, please, to let me try earn back your affections and amend what I have failed to do previously.”

You stare at him for a long moment, gaze drinking in every feature of his face. You remember the times before he had distanced himself from you. You remember the affection, the love, the way he had tried to so hard to woo you in every way possible even when you were intimidated by him and it seemed he had no hope. Leo had fought for you, fought to make you comfortable around him, he had made sacrifices to be with you. Your anger begins to slowly ebb as his icy coloured eyes search your own for some sort of agreement. Where did it all go wrong?

He took you for granted and whether he gains your affections later down the track or not, he has still paid the price.

You clench your jaw before a heavy sigh slips from your mouth. The silence is loud as you both wait in anticipation of your decision. You know that allowing him back into your life allows unpredictable elements to gain control, once more. Would he do the same thing under a different lie? Would he treat you the way you’re meant to be treated? Rather than cutting him off and the possibilities of a positive outcome, you decide that letting things move slow will provide ample opportunity to catch any deviations.

“You can try,” you agree, “as friends first, obviously. Don’t get your hopes up for anything beyond that.”

With that, Leonardo cracks a blinding grin- as if he had been waiting his whole life to hear those words. He takes in a breath, one that is not heavy with despair like those he had taken in the past six months. He wants to drop to his knees, express his gratitude for your mercy and promise you the world.

Instead, he settles for a simple, “of course.”

Because, this time, Leo will not waste his chance on words that he knows you will never believe.

@pokiekatherine @dead-lee-15 @crazy-pleasures-and-crazy-habits @ihlni686-and-rps @chichiguitarist123 @ihlni686 @jam-jar2 @whataprimeexample @the-chick-with-the-best-fandom @rinsakka @llturner7 @axa0113 @yesimthatboring @bluehelixx @mydogjustfarted @dark-demon-s-tears @dksuniverse @pleasetooweirdtolive-tooraretodie16 @lil-safe-haven @fireflyloki28 @moonrocksleeping @theunawesomeduck @thepovofem @eiri-thehedgehog @forfoxsake629 @utterlystardust @kapowinthekisser @eilikes @dva-reengaging @loekie-mulder138 @mallory-lawson23 @royalpuglife @hlemon11 @super-flamin-hot-cheetos @henderwhore4life @looneylorrhael @uninspired-plebian @thetruepotatolordjay @pluvialday @animechick555 @nodistressdamsel @fluffydino-15

#tmnt #tmnt 2014 #tmnt 2012 #tmnt 2016 #tmnt leonardo #tmnt leo imagine #tmnt leo x reader #leonardo x reader #tmnt leonardo x reader #tmnt raphael #tmnt michelangelo #tmnt donatello #tmnt imagines #tmnt imagine

913 notes · View notes

newstfionline · 4 years

Text

Headlines

Where reopening is working (NYT) Across much of the United States and Europe, the coronavirus has been spreading less rapidly than many people feared. Over the past six weeks—as communities have started to reopen, Americans have flocked to beaches and lakes and European schools have reopened—but the number of new cases has continued falling in many places. Across the Northeast and Midwest of the U.S., they’re down more than 50 percent, and often much more, since May 1. Nationwide, weekly deaths have fallen for six weeks in a row. And Europe “seems to have turned a corner,” Caitlin Rivers of Johns Hopkins University says. How could this be? Public health experts gave two main answers. One, the virus spreads much less easily outdoors than indoors. “Summer—being outside, warmer weather, humidity—seems to help, and we may have underestimated how much it’s helped,” Ashish Jha, the incoming dean of Brown University School of Public Health, told me. Two, many people are taking more precautions than they were in February and March. They’re wearing masks, remaining six feet apart and being careful about what they touch. The combination appears to have eliminated most “superspreader events,” like parties, concerts and restaurant meals, where multiple people get sick. Such events may account for 80 percent of all transmissions, research suggests.

Beleaguered and besieged, police try to come to grips with a nation’s anger (Washington Post) The crowds have thinned and the smoke has cleared, with more than a week of nationwide protests leaving in their wake a nation increasingly resolved to change a broken law enforcement system. But they also have left police officers badly shaken, and in some cases physically bruised. Nationwide, police leaders say the rank and file are struggling to come to grips with the level of animus they encountered on the streets, as epithets, bricks and bottles all came hurtling their way. Police have been targets of protest many times before, of course. But never quite like this. “I’ve had members say they feel like a Vietnam veteran returning home to a country that hates them,” said Robert Harris, a Los Angeles police officer and director of the force’s police union. “It’s not that our members expect thank-yous. It’s the difficulty in knowing that the protesters want to be treated with equality and fairness and respect, and what they’re protesting for isn’t afforded to the officers themselves.” “The morale is low,” he said. “They’ve taken quite a beating.”

Federal Debt Tops $26 Trillion for First Time; Jumps $2 Trillion in Just 63 Days (CNS News) The debt of the federal government topped $26 trillion for the first time on Tuesday, when it climbed from $25,960,547,920,986.11 to $26,003,751,512,344.91, according to data released today by the Treasury Department. The federal debt had topped $24 trillion for the first time on April 7, 2020.

A Single Session of Exercise Alters 9,815 Molecules in Our Blood (NYT) When we exercise, the levels of thousands of substances in our bloodstream rise and drop, according to an eye-opening new study of the immediate, interior impacts of working out. The study is the most comprehensive cataloging to date of the molecular changes that occur during and after exercise and underscores how consequential activity—and inactivity—may be for our bodies and health. Over all, the researchers were taken aback by the magnitude of the changes in people’s molecular profiles after exercise, according to Dr. Michael Snyder, the chair of the genetics department at Stanford University and senior author of the study. “I had thought, it’s only about nine minutes of exercise, how much is going to change? A lot, as it turns out.”

United will require passengers to complete health assessments before they fly (Washington Post) United Airlines on Wednesday became at least the second U.S. carrier to ask travelers to answer questions about their health status before they fly, part of a strategy to ease the minds of travelers concerned about flying in the midst of the coronavirus pandemic. United’s “Ready-to-Fly” checklist will ask travelers to confirm that they have not experienced any coronavirus-related symptoms in the 14 previous days or been in close contact with any individual who has tested positive during the same time period. It also will require passengers to verify that they are aware of the airline’s policy requiring face coverings when aboard an airplane.

Are religious communities reviving the revival? Outdoor worship is a US tradition (Religion News Service) Religious communities have been forced to find alternative ways to worship together during the coronavirus pandemic. For some that has meant going online, but others have turned to a distinctly non-digital practice steeped in this history of the American religious experience: outdoor worship. Prayer sessions in parking lots and services in green spaces formed part of an improvised response to the lockdown by religious leaders and they may now be part of the plan as the United States emerges from the crisis. Indeed, a team of clergy and scientists have issued a new guide suggesting, among other recommendations, that baptisms could take place in “flowing streams, lakes or in beach settings.” So are brick-and-mortar houses of worship essential? It is a question that states and courts, including the U.S. Supreme Court, have asked in considering the extent to which states can or should place restrictions on meetings in religious buildings. Religious communities, too, have reflected on whether the term “church” describes a building or a community. While white evangelical Protestants have been some of the more vocal protesters of government restrictions on houses of worship during the pandemic, they actually have a long history of embracing outdoor worship in services and revivals.

Watch kids near water (NYT) This year, with outings to the community pool, day camps and pool parties still on hold, kids cooped up at home will be eager to get in the water as the weather warms. Experts worry that parents are stretched too thin to provide the required supervision, leading to an increase in child drownings this summer. As of mid-May, both Florida and Texas—the top two states for child drownings in pools and spas—are already seeing higher numbers than last year. If you have toddlers and you think you don’t have to worry because you don’t have a real pool—just one of those little plastic or inflatable baby pools—you still have a hazard sitting in your yard. Little kids can drown in less than two inches of water. According to the American Academy of Pediatrics, drowning is the leading cause of injury death in children ages 1 to 4, and nearly 70 percent of the time, it happens when children aren’t supposed to be in the pool.

Zoom censors video talks on Hong Kong and Tiananmen, drawing criticism (Washington Post) Several prominent critics of the Chinese government, including protest leaders in Hong Kong and pro-democracy activists in the United States, have accused Zoom of shutting their accounts and severing live events in recent weeks under pressure from Beijing. The three incidents are reviving concerns about the fast-growing Silicon Valley company’s susceptibility to Chinese government influence weeks after the firm began facing scrutiny over security, including its routing of data through China. Coming in the midst of the coronavirus pandemic, the episode also highlights the world’s dependency on services such as Zoom and their ability to control speech. Zoom on Thursday acknowledged that “a few recent meetings” related to China have been disrupted. In each instance, event organizers told The Washington Post that they relied on Zoom in lieu of in-person events because of social distancing and travel restrictions. And each of the Zoom accounts and events was created and hosted outside mainland China but appeared to be quashed under Chinese government pressure after publicly advertised.

EU pushes back on Beijing (Foreign Policy) China’s aggressive diplomacy in Europe is now causing serious pushback. The European Union, normally reluctant to speak out against Beijing, has accused the government of running “targeted influence operations and disinformation campaigns in the EU, its neighborhood, and globally,” along with Russia. The move may be a response to earlier criticism that the EU softened a report on the same topic. Meanwhile, Britain’s swerve away from China has been fast, with Prime Minister Boris Johnson proposing a D-10 alliance of democracies—the existing G-7, plus South Korea, India, and Australia—to build 5G networks free of Chinese influence. The Hong Kong crisis has further soured U.K.-Chinese relations, with Beijing warning that it may pull out a British nuclear power construction deal. Since the original nuclear deal was widely seen as a disaster in the U.K., this doesn’t give Beijing much leverage.

Poland troop plan falters (Foreign Policy) After U.S. President Donald Trump said he would remove 9,500 troops from Germany, plans to relocate troops further east in Poland have fallen into disarray, Reuters reports. A plan announced in June of last year to send 1,000 U.S. troops to Poland permanently has been held up over disputes over how much of the bill Poland would cover, where to station the troops, and whether they would gain legal immunity while stationed there.

Lack of beds slows Delhi’s virus fight (AP) In New Delhi, a sprawling capital region of 46 million and home to some of India’s highest concentration of hospitals, a pregnant woman’s death after a frantic hunt for a sickbed was a worrying sign about the country’s ability to cope with a wave of new coronavirus cases. “She kept begging us to save her life, but we couldn’t do anything,” Shailendra Kumar said, after driving his sister-in-law, Neelam, and her husband for hours, only to be turned away at eight public and private hospitals. Two and a half months of nationwide lockdown kept numbers of infections relatively low in India. But with restrictions easing in recent weeks, cases have shot up, rising by a record of nearly 10,000 on Thursday, raising questions about whether authorities have done enough to avert catastrophe. Half of Delhi’s 8,200 hospital beds dedicated to COVID-19 patients are already full and officials are projecting more than half a million cases in the city alone by July 31.

Chinese recovery (Foreign Policy) Some data indicates that the speed of economic recovery in China may be faster than feared, with oil use already back to 90 percent of pre-coronavirus levels. Domestic demand for consumer goods is strong, but a lack of global demand is hamstringing Chinese manufacturers: Reopened factories are struggling to find customers.

Floyd killing finds echoes of abuse in South Africa, Kenya (AP) Collins Khosa was killed by law enforcement officers in a poor township in Johannesburg over a cup of beer left in his yard. The 40-year-old black man was choked, slammed against a wall, beaten, kicked and hit with the butt of a rifle by the soldiers as police watched, his family says. Two months later, South Africans staged a march against police brutality. But it was mostly about the killing of George Floyd in the United States, with the case of Khosa, who died on April 10, raised only briefly. Despite racial reconciliation that emerged after the end of the apartheid system, poor and black South Africans still fall victim to security forces that now are mostly black. The country is plagued by violent crime, and police often are accused of resorting to heavy-handed tactics. Journalist Daneel Knoetze, who looked into police brutality in South Africa between 2012 and 2019, found that there were more than 42,000 criminal complaints against police, which included more than 2,800 killings—more than one a day. There were more than 27,000 cases of alleged assault by police, many classified as torture, and victims were “overwhelmingly” poor and black, he said. And in Kenya, the police force has for two decades been ranked the country’s most corrupt institution. It’s also Kenya’s most deadly, killing far more people than criminals do, according to human rights groups.

#headlines #news

1 note · View note

eldritchsurveys · 5 years

Text

667.

1. If you found a baby turtle on the side of the road, would you pick it up and keep it? >> If I found a baby of any species on the side of the road, I’m not going to pick it up and keep it, I’m going to call the appropriate authorities and let them handle it. The fuck am I doing with a baby anything? 2. Did you and your mum ever have a big fight that caused you to move out? >> --- 3. Has the last person you kissed ever been to your house? >> --- 4. Have you had a good day today or was yesterday better? >> It was all right. At least the Sun was out a bit, and I managed to go out for once. Mostly I’m glad to be back in my bed now, lol. 5. Do you have any plans for the upcoming weekend? >> No.

6. How about you, do you have a bf/gf? >> Hm. 7. Could you date someone very attractive, but who thought they were better than everyone else? >> I don’t date, period, but I also wouldn’t hang out with someone who had a superiority complex. 8. So do you have a best friend? >> No. 9. What would you do if your best friend kissed the last person you kissed? >> --- 10. Do you dislike anyone? >> Not really. There are people I don’t really want to be around, of course, but I can’t think of anyone specific that I’m like “fuck that guy in particular” about except for people that have unapologetically hurt me (in which case it’s less “I dislike you” and more “I don’t even want to acknowledge your existence”). 11. Did you message your best friend today? >> --- 12. Do you think you will be in a relationship two months from now? >> I don’t see why not. 13. Do you always feel like you’re making mistakes? >> Yeah, because I have Trauma Brain. But I also know that I don’t make any more mistakes than the average person and most of my mistakes are easily fixed. 14. How do you feel about your hair right now? >> I’m going to need to buzz it again soon. 15. Does anybody have a tattoo with your name on it? >> Maybe someone has a tattoo of my name, because my name doesn’t just belong to me. But no one has a tattoo of my name that is actually about me. 16. Who did you last see shirtless? >> A couple of characters on Carnivale (before one of them got hanged with the word “HARLOT” carved into her forehead, of course. this is Carnivale after all). 17. How would you feel if you got the person you liked? >> --- 18. Do you think you can last in a relationship for six months without cheating? >> *sigh* 19. Do you like to make the first move? >> The first move to what? 20. Do you think you will ever be married? >> I am married. 21. Have you ever tried your hardest and then gotten disappointed in the end? >> Sure. 22. Is it possible to be single and happy? >> Duh? 23. Was the first person you talked to today male or female? >> The first person I spoke to was the bartender at Gardella’s, who is female. 24. Do you remember who you liked on New Year’s? >> --- 25. Are you a morning person or a night person? I’m barely a person. <-- mood 26. Could you go the rest of your life without drinking alcohol? >> Whether I “can” or not is irrelevant because I don’t fucking want to. 27. Have you ever felt like you weren’t good enough? >> Sure. 28. Is there anyone who likes you? >> --- 29. If the last person you kissed saw you kissing someone else, would they be mad? >> --- 30. Do you understand football? >> I understand American football. I don’t know anything about soccer football except the obvious bits. 31. What’s the first thing you heard this morning? >> I don’t know. 32. Who last called you beautiful? >> I don’t know. 33. Did you talk to someone until you fell asleep last night? >> No. 34. How many kids do you want when you get older? >> --- 35. Are you the type of person who has a new boyfriend/girlfriend every week? >> Of course not. 36. Ever been called a jerk/bitch? >> Yep. 37. Do you have feelings for anyone? >> Bold of you to assume I have feelings-- 38. If you fell pregnant to the last person you kissed, what would you think? >> Falling while pregnant is dangerous, oof-- 39. What’s your full name? >> *eldritch screeching* 40. Are you young or old? >> Depends on your perspective -- to a child I’m old, to a middle-aged person I’m young, etc. 41. What’s the gender? >> Oh, the gender outside is frightful... 42. How’s your heart been lately? >> You know. Beating and such. 43. Why aren’t you in bed? >> I am, though. 44. Did you do laundry today? >> No. 45. What kind of computer do you have? >> I have an MSI Leopard Pro and a Lenovo Ideapad. 46. Are there always other fish in the sea? >> Not if you overfish. 47. What can your tongue do? >> You know. Lick stuff. Form phonemes. Get chemical burns when I eat too many sour candies in a row. 48. What do you think your mum does when she goes out? >> --- 49. Do chickens have feelings? >> I don’t know anything about chicken neurology/psychology. 50. Do you think the body is the most beautiful thing that was ever made? >> No. 51. So how are you feeling today? >> Neutral. 52. Where is your sister right now? >> --- 53. Name five things you did today? >> Took a bus, drank at a bar, briefly logged into ESO, watched an episode of Carnivale, ate mac n’ cheese with bacon. 54. What kind of phone do you have? >> Moto g6. 55. What are you listening to? >> Nothing. 56. What do you smell like? >> A bit like my roll-on oil and a bit like my whipped shea butter. Mostly just like... clean skin or whatever. 57. What colour are your eyes? >> Dark brown. 58. Have you ever done a Chinese fire drill? >> No. 59. Do you know someone named Betsy? >> No. 60. What colour is your mum’s hair? >> --- 61. Do you have a dog? Breed? Name? >> No. 62. Do you remember singing any songs as a kid? >> I mean, yeah? 63. Are you married? >> Yes. 64. When was the last time you talked to one of your siblings? >> --- 65. Do you play an instrument? >> No. 66. Do you like fire? >> Sure, fire is nice. In moderation. 67. Are you allergic to anything? >> No. 68. Have you ever been to a spa? >> I’ve been to a nail spa because Sparrow works at one. I’ve also been to the Aveda spa that she did her training in years ago. 69. Do you miss someone? >> No. 70. Views on premarital sex? >> I have no views on it. I really can’t fathom having an opinion on whomst other people fuck and when. 71. What is a noise that you cannot stand? >> Face sounds. Any of them. Eating, breathing, sniffling, lip-licking, eugh. Stay away. (Sometimes I can hear myself blinking and I want to rip my eyelids off. It’s bad.) 72. Do you know how to do a cartwheel? >> Yeah. 73. What is the most you are willing to spend on a pair of sunglasses? >> Not much. 74. Does your mum vacuum early in the morning while you’re asleep? >> --- 75. Do you shower naked? >> Do I look like Tobias Funke to you? 76. Does wearing glasses really make people look smart? >> That’s not my interpretation. People with glasses just look like people with glasses. 77. Are you ADD or ADHD? >> No. 78. Do your band-aids have cartoons on them? >> I FUCKING WISH. I was so mad when I needed band-aids for my feet and none of the ones in the size I needed came in cartoon print. The only ones with fun designs were little baby band-aids. I think as an adult I should be able to buy whatever the fuck kind of band-aids I want, including ones with Stitch on them. Fuck you. 79. Have you ever kissed someone you shouldn’t have? >> Probably. 80. In one word, how would you define yourself? >> I wouldn’t. 81. Tell me about a dream you had recently? >> I can’t, I can never remember them anymore. I get vague wispy impressions upon waking, and then even those disappear after a few minutes. I feel disconnected from dream!Mordred and I’m so curious at what it’s been up to. 82. Who’s the funniest drunk person you know? >> --- 83. How did you feel when you woke up? >> Fine, I guess. 84. What was the first thing you thought of when you woke up this morning? >> I don’t know, probably something related to Sparrow knocking around as she got ready for work, because that’s my first sensory memory upon awakening. 85. Name something great that happened on Friday? >> It’s Thursday, ask me on Saturday. 86. When was the last time you saw your father? >> --- 87. Do you wish someone would call or text you right now? >> No. 88. Have you ever been kissed by a person whose name starts with J? >> Yeah. 89. Do you crack your knuckles? >> Yeah. 90. What were you doing twenty minutes ago? >> Probably still this survey, since it’s so long. 91. You’re thinking about someone, aren’t you? >> No. 92. Have you held hands with anyone in the past twenty-four hours? >> No. 93. What would you do if your partner still kept pictures of their ex? >> Nothing? That doesn’t affect me. 94. What if your partner went through your cellphone? >> I wouldn’t be with someone that went through my belongings without my express permission. 95. What if your partner was flirting with another girl/boy? >> I’d be glad for her. I hope she gets whatever she’s looking for from that interaction. 96. Ever liked someone you thought you didn’t stand a chance with? >> --- 97. You want someone/something? >> Not really. 98. Is there really a difference between Coke and Pepsi? >> Yeah, which is why many people have a preference. 99. Is there any emotion you’re trying to avoid right now? >> No. 100. Are there any mistakes with your recent ex you wish you could have changed? >> I’m pretty sure the entire situation in itself was a mistake, and it was changed, by us ending up having no contact with each other. 101. Has anyone ever been with you while you were throwing up? >> I mean, sure. 102. Background on your computer? >> Right now it’s a wallpaper with a scene from the movie Interstellar. (My desktop wallpaper is on a shuffle timer.) 103. Have you cried recently? >> Like, within the last week, probably. 104. Who has hurt you the most? >> I don’t know. 105. Are you happy with where you are relationship-wise now? >> Sure. 106. What language do you want to learn? >> --- 107. Your ex’s car breaks down and they ask you for a lift. Your response? >> I mean, I don’t drive, dude. Also, we live in wildly different parts of the country. This is just so many layers of implausible. 108. Would you hit a member of the opposite sex? >> ---

#surveys #survey #random survey

4 notes · View notes

ohblackdiamond · 5 years

Text

the end of the world tour (kiss/endgame crossover, r) (part 3/4)

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

In this chapter: Training continues, sans Rocky montage. Peter gets some answers courtesy Gene and, maybe, Ace. Prepare the preparations.

Or, four washed-up former rockstar superheroes don the spandex of old in a last-ditch effort to save an already half-gone world. They just need a little support from a billionaire who’s not too keen on KISS interrupting his private life. Somewhat Endgame compliant.

Two days later, the visitors started to arrive.

Peter couldn’t exactly call them fans. He didn’t think they were fans, exactly—he didn’t think more than half of the younger ones even exactly knew who KISS was. But they started to creep up to the yard, phones in hand, eager for even the barest hint of superheroism.

The other guys were eating it up. Even Ace, who wasn’t quite as introverted as Paul but still relished his time alone, started showing the visitors around the backyard like it was some kind of grand tour (unsurprisingly, the only sacrosanct portion was his spaceship, roped off as if it were the Venus de Milo—“’m sorry, you can’t touch it, but if you wanna stand over there and take a picture, you can”). He only looked mildly taken aback when a couple of the visitors got brave enough to go from sneaking around the yard to actually knocking at the front door.

“Don’t let them in,” Pete snapped, watching Ace get up on automatic to answer. Ace only offered him a lazy shrug.

“Why not?”

“You know why not. We’ll never get rid of them.”

“They ain’t gonna stay, Peter,” Ace started, interrupted by Paul hurriedly half-tripping down the stairs, having to grab onto the railing. The six-inch, star-encrusted heels of his Alive outfit seemed to be giving him trouble.

“Don’t answer it yet!” he called out, looking from Ace to Peter. “Don’t answer until you’re in costume!”

“Paul, you vain bastard—”

“I’m not being vain! You’ll ruin the mystique!”

“What’s the point? They all know we’re old!”

“That’s not what I mean! Ace, how the hell is anyone gonna have any faith in us saving the world if you answer the door like that ?”

Ace shot a brief, amused look Peter’s way just before a puff of blue smoke obscured him from sight. A second later, Ace emerged, in the facepaint and a purple, velvet onesie.

Paul looked as if he were about to have an aneurysm.

“ No ! That’s not even one of our outfits! How did you—”

“Don’t have to be. You can do any outfit you wanna.” Ace paused. “C’mon, Paulie, you didn’t just think we were stuck with the tour shit, did you? What kinda superhero only gets six costumes?”

The rapping from the other side of the door continued.

“Oh, come on, are you telling me if I want my black leather overalls back, all I have to do is—”

“I dunno if I’d recommend ’em, Paulie, but—” Ace stopped again, yanking open the door. “Hey, how you doing?”

The kid at the door—he couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven, by Peter’s reckoning—seemed to mostly be his dwarfed by his own mass of curly red hair, his face plastered with freckles. He just stared at the three of them, mouth a small round o of surprise.

“I didn’t think you’d open it!”

Paul was mumbling under his breath, gesticulating to Peter with about as much subtlety as a conductor during Handel’s “Messiah.” Transform , he was mouthing. Peter ignored him.

“Well, we don’t always, but…” Ace trailed, grinning. “How’d you hear about us, huh?”

The redheaded kid shrugged.

“Somebody at school said you were supposed to be fixing everything.”

“Yeah?” Ace’s expression didn’t shift a single centimeter.

“Uh-huh. They said you were gonna be the Avengers’ secret weapon and they’d pulled you out of the freezer like Captain America.”

Peter glanced over at Paul, who was still standing halfway down the staircase. From Paul’s expression, it was patently clear that the sheer amount of interviews, meet and greets, and impromptu hobknobbing he’d endured over the last forty years was all that was keeping him straight-faced.

“We didn’t get pulled out of the freezer,” Paul managed after a moment.

“I guess he didn’t,” said the kid, pointing to Peter. Before Peter could respond, but not before Paul and Ace started to snort, he continued. “Are you, though? Are you guys really gonna do it?”

“We—”

“I got a sister,” and the kid wasn’t looking at either of them now. Peter waited, expectant, a rock forming somewhere in his gut. He knew the story before the kid could tell it. He was sure of it. Just as sure of it, just as uselessly sure of it as he ever had been during their cancer ward visits. The kids all hoping just because KISS had come by, that maybe everything was going to be all right, even as they lay there hooked up to IVs and a half-dozen machines. Even as they lay there dying. The kid swallowed. “She… wouldn’t be coming back even if you did save everybody.”

“I’m sorry.” It was Paul. He’d said it before Peter could. He wasn’t looking the kid in the eye, either, Peter noticed. Just staring at the door directly behind him. Peter’s gut was lurching. He’d been wrong. She hadn’t disappeared from existence. She’d died before.

The kid didn’t say anything for a few seconds that seemed to stretch and pull like taffy. Ace’s lips were pursed so tight the black of his lipstick seemed barely-there. The cloistered existences they’d led the last five years, trying so hard to avoid pain when it enveloped everything around them. Everything past them. Consumed in their own grief, unable or unwilling or both to really acknowledge the real human toll of it for fear it would break them. Everyone on Earth had lost someone. Some had lost everyone. And some just watched as the ones left behind followed after.

Peter was almost starting to get it. Some of it. For Gene and Paul and Ace, FER probably hadn’t only been an exercise in talisman abuse and easy lays. Stupid as it was, hedonistic and disastrous as it was, trying to make a life in a dying world… it must have warmed them. It must have made them feel good for more than just the afterglow.

“I’m gonna see her again someday.” The kid finally glanced up from the floor. “Not for a long time. But I will.” An exhale. “You’re gonna try, right? You’re gonna try to fix everything.”

“We’re gonna try,” Peter said, throat feeling warm and thick and too-heavy.

“Okay.” And he was starting to smile, dimples pushing into the freckles on his face. “That’s good.” He hesitated. “Oh, uh…”

“Yeah?”

And he pushed his phone forward.

“Could I get a selfie? The kids at school won’t believe me unless I get a selfie.”

It might have been the most questionable selfie Peter had been a part of in his life.

“I told you to get in costume,” Paul mumbled as he held up the phone for the picture, putting his free arm behind Peter’s shoulder on idle default, “but no —”

Begrudgingly, with that utterly inevitable puff of green smoke signaling everything, Peter got into costume. Well. He got into the cat-embroidered jacket and cutout leotard he’d worn when it was too cold to go sleeveless. The kid’s eyes went buggy. Paul looked deeply offended. Ace just snickered.

“None of us match at all,” Paul said flatly.

“I don’t care. Take the picture.”

“Fine.” Paul was still fiddling with the angle, unsurprisingly, tilting his head as he stared at the camera. Peter waited for about fifteen seconds—fifteen seconds too long for Ace, who snatched the phone from Paul and snapped the picture before he could grab it back. Paul looked as if he were about to snag it back, or at least argue, but instead he just let Ace hand the phone back to the kid—after leaning over to inspect the selfie first.

“It pass inspection, Paul?” Ace lilted.

“It’s good enough,” Paul muttered, before turning his attention back to the visitor. “Anything else you’d like? Autographs? Posters?”

The kid nodded shyly, and Paul immediately scrambled for merchandise. For once, Peter was profoundly grateful Gene was gone on an errand run. The man might have tried to sell the poor kid some of those KISS-branded air guitar strings he still had in the basement.

Things quieted down faster than Peter had expected them to. A few weeks of buzzing activity, a few weeks of impromptu, free meet-and-greets, and then the visitors retreated again. Fickle. No attention span. No second tidal wave of KISSteria overwhelming their half-gone world. Peter found he didn’t really mind. Workouts and training were a lot easier to focus on without being stared at or recorded.

He’d spent an hour or so downstairs, fiddling absentmindedly at the piano, digging through old memorabilia and guitars, before coming back up to the main floor to start on dinner. His assigned day again. Gene was the only one hanging around the kitchen by the time Peter got there.

“Where’re Ace and Paul?”

“Trying to fix the spaceship.”

“They getting anywhere with it?”

“I doubt it. Ace didn’t get out the blowtorch.”

Peter snorted in reply.

“Three more months, he said. S’like how he used to say his next album was coming out in the spring. Only it was ten springs in a row, the lazy bastard.”

Gene shrugged.

“I can’t remember the last time he asked one of us to help with it.”

“I wouldn’t want us helping with it. C’mon, Gene, none of us have any business fooling with that shit when we barely know how to top off the oil tank in the car.”

“What’s gotten you so pissed-off this late in the afternoon?”

“You know what.”

“Peter, I really don’t—”

“Things are getting screwed-up again,” Peter said dryly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. The connection bullshit’s back just like it used to be. Don’t you feel it?”

It was a moot question. Of course Gene could feel it. That weird bleeding in of everyone’s emotional states into a messy, almost indistinguishable puddle. Getting so in-tune it got creepy, borderline empathic. It was the one thing about their crimefighting days that Peter hadn’t missed much at all.

“I’m feeling it.”

“Somebody’s keyed-up as hell. And it’s not me, so it’s got to be either you or Paul or Ace…”

“It’s probably Paul.”

“Paul’s always anxious! What’s he got to be so nerved-out about?” Peter groused, yanking the trash bag out of the garbage can, tying it off, and setting it down on the floor. “Shit, I thought he might be feeling better these days.”

Gene shrugged.

“He’s sensitive.”

“Ace is, too, the big difference is he has a sense of humor about it,” Peter grumbled, heading outside with the trash bag in tow, still calling out to Gene as he toted it out. “I don’t like feeling antsy just because someone else is antsy. I’ll tell them both that as soon as they get in.”

“Don’t do that. There’s probably a reason.”

“Reason, my ass. My blood pressure’s high enough without Paulie dialing it up with all his fucking feelings.” Peter returned, only to find Gene had, surprisingly, replaced the trash bag while he was out. “What’d you want for dinner?”

“Do we still have any of that steak left?”

“Yeah. Probably enough for a stir-fry.” Peter opened up one of the cabinets by the stove, taking out a cutting board and a frying pan. Wok , he could almost hear Paul correcting. If it got the job done, the proper terminology didn’t matter. Mentally, he started to tally the vegetables they had on hand to toss in. Onions, peppers… maybe some mushrooms. He wasn’t after authenticity so much as getting rid of as much produce as possible. Boil up some rice, and it wouldn’t be a bad meal.

“Brownies would be good, too.”

“I didn’t buy any mix.”

“I did.” Gene dug it out of the pantry, along with a bottle of oil. Peter rolled his eyes.

“You know none of the workouts we do in costume do a damn thing for any of us out of costume, right?”

“I know. I just don’t care.” Gene was already taking the egg carton out of the refrigerator, absolutely shameless. Peter shook his head slowly, watching Gene set the ingredients out on the counter. “Figure we’ve earned it.”

“You’re gonna get diabetes, man.”

“I’ll live to be a hundred. I’ve got great… genes.” Gene said it with his usual dry, obnoxious self-assurance, familiar enough that Peter had long stopped minding it. He expected Gene to get out a bowl next, but instead, he went and plugged in the record player on the other side of the kitchen. Peter could hear him cross over into the living room, and knew he was probably pilfering through their records. “This’ll help your blood pressure. What album do you want?”

“Anything that isn’t us.”

Gene nodded, walking back into the kitchen with a ratty copy of the Beatles’ Yesterday and Today . Peter winced.

“Okay, anything that isn’t us or the fucking Beatles.”

“Best two names in rock and roll.”

Peter rolled his eyes. Gene set the album down on the kitchen table, still looking at Peter, which was a bit of a surprise. Peter had expected him to dig out another album and put it on the player, regardless of his opinion on the matter. But no, he was waiting on Peter to pick.

“One of the Krupa records is fine.”

“All right.”

Gene crossed back over to the living room, got another album out, and put it on the turntable. Peter recognized it after the first few bars as Burnin’ Beat. He sighed and retrieved the leftover steak and vegetables from the fridge, started to chop the steak into strips while Gene began mixing up the brownie batter. Peter’s arthritis wasn’t treating him half so badly this evening.

It was always a different kind of silence with Gene than it was with Ace or Paul. Strangely easier to handle. Gene wasn’t off in an avoidant, self-inflicted orbit like Ace, or stuck chronically ruminating like Paul. Gene was always thinking ahead. Always moving forward. Sometimes it aggravated the shit out of Peter, and sometimes it was just what he needed to be around.

“The talismans expose the true selves of the holders,” Gene said finally, as he poured a frankly disastrous amount of mini M&Ms and broken-up Hershey bars into the batter. “Did you ever give that any thought?”

“No. Not until the last couple months.” Peter shrugged. “I didn’t think about it back then. We’d been doing the makeup before we got the talismans.”

Nothing Gene didn’t already know. They’d mapped out rough designs themselves in a desperate bid for a gimmick. Something to get them noticed. The regular genderbending schtick they’d tried before, with the four of them in heavy blush and eyeliner and lipstick, hadn’t suited anyone but Ace. They hadn’t looked like they were tearing down the establishment, blurring the lines between male and female, any of that—they’d just looked sad. Putting on the white greasepaint had been the turning point they needed. The talismans just sealed the deal.

“I’ve thought about it a long time.” Gene’s voice, always quiet and deceptively even, got a little lower, as if there was any likelihood Ace and Paul could hear him from out in the backyard. “It’s a great origin story. Struggling band gets magic powers, becomes successful superhero musicians. But…”

“But what?”

“When your true self wears more makeup and higher heels than Frank-n-Furter, that’s concerning.”

“Like Stark’s Iron Man crap is any better.” Peter crooked a smile. “He doesn’t even have a codpiece.”

Gene snorted. He only looked marginally more at ease.

“That’s not exactly it.” He paused. “We were still wearing the outfits and makeup five years ago. Paul and Eric and Tommy and I.”

“Yeah, I know.” God, did he know. Peter didn’t even remember—or didn’t want to remember—when he’d signed over his makeup rights. He hadn’t been thinking about crimefighting then. None of them had. He just remembered disgust roiling in his stomach as he’d watched the band go on without him for the second and then the third time in a fucking row.

“It was getting to me. Getting to all of us—Paul won’t admit it, but…” Gene trailed uncharacteristically. “It was starting to feel like a parody.”

“ Starting to?” Peter snorted. Gene, surprisingly, didn’t look too ruffled.

“Yeah. At first, I thought I was fine with that. We’d been running off nostalgia since the nineties. If people were still paying to see us, who the fuck cared if I wasn’t stomping around anymore? If Paul wasn’t jumping all over the stage? Who—”

“Gene, the only reason either of you stopped that was because wasn’t turned into couldn’t .” Peter tossed the steak into the frying pan, started to chop the mushrooms, just dropping them into the pan, not bothering with the cutting board. “Didn’t matter how many tickets you sold. You couldn’t buy your way back to ’76.”

“That isn’t what I meant.” Gene’s eyes, always so appallingly focused, weren’t on Peter for once. “Fuck, if dignity was in KISS’ vocabulary, we would have folded our first concert in drag. I didn’t care about getting old and looking like crap onstage. I didn’t want to buy my way back to ’76.”

“Then what did you want?”

“Shit, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“I wanted to hang it up.” Gene was pouring the batter into the pan now, smoothing it over more than he needed to with the back of a spoon, his mouth pursed tightly. He hadn’t even taken a taste of it yet. Peter knew exactly how poor a sign that was.

“You’ve wanted to hang it up before. You even said you would. Remember the Farewell Tour?”

“ Really hang it up. No more KISS, no more concerts—I was tired of it. Maybe Mick Jagger can keep on croaking ‘Satisfaction,’ but—”

“But Paul can’t get through ‘Detroit Rock City.’”

“Don’t tell him that. It’d kill him.”

“He already knows it.” Peter paused. Started chopping up the peppers and onions and dropping them into the wok, which was hissing with every new addition. A thought had come to him, one he’d mulled over for ages, but hadn’t dared mention until now. “Gene?”

“Yeah?” Gene had finally put the brownie pan into the oven.

“Was that the real reason for all the Hall of Fame crap? Was that why we didn’t play?”

“Peter,” Gene started.

“It was, wasn’t it? Why the hell didn’t you say so? I thought it was just the usual bullshit. Don’t let me and Ace play with you and Paul or everyone’ll be begging for another Reunion Tour. If I’d known—”

“That—”

“You should’ve said ! Did we really hate each other that bad? Was Paul that fucking scared of what we’d say? Were you?”

“Peter, at this point—”

“If you’d said, I might’ve understood. But Christ, Gene, just refusing without a reason was fucking awful. I didn’t wanna see any of the rest of you outside of a funeral home ever again.”

“I’m pretty sure we were all thinking that.” Gene sounded as if he were trying to force out a snort. “Even Paul and I didn’t coordinate suits.”

“The hell did you two have to be sore about? Did you insult one of his paintings?”

Gene just shrugged.

“We’re basically brothers, we have our disagreements.”

“Cut the crap, Gene, Paul ain’t ever been your brother. He’s your princess.”

“Fine, whatever.” The Krupa record slowed to a stop. Peter peered over as Gene turned it over and set the needle back down. “What happened at the Hall of Fame was a mistake.”

“You’re damn right it was.”

“But I didn’t get to dwell on it. We were in the middle of touring when…” Gene swallowed thickly. Peter knew he wasn’t about to detail him and Paul’s falling out. When without a specification always meant five years ago. Another four-letter-word for half of humanity disappearing in front of them. “But I figured it out before then. I’m serious, I really did. I was out there doing the fucking ‘God of Thunder’ routine and all of a sudden…” Gene shook his head, looking almost bewildered. “I realized I could not give less of a shit.”

“You? Are you serious?” Peter did snort. “C’mon, you’ve gone onstage sick as a dog before, don’t tell me you—”

“I’m serious. It was terrifying. You don’t—” Another shake of his head. “The audience wasn’t feeding me anymore. I wasn’t feeding them. I realized that the show didn’t really become a show until we stopped believing in it. I’d stopped believing in it.”

“So what changed your mind?” Peter turned down the heat on the stovetop, absently pushing a spatula through the stir-fry. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Gene had gotten out the soy sauce for him. “What made you believe in it enough to get the talismans back out?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

Gene hesitated. Rare to see him hesitate. He looked as if he were about to deliver another practiced interview sermon, and Peter prepared himself for it, but it didn’t happen.

“I wanted to see for myself. Prove there might still be some magic there.” His lip was twitching. Peter shifted closer as Gene continued. “After everything, I needed it. But I didn’t want to get them out alone, I don’t know why. I suppose I was just afraid of nothing happening.”

“You really thought nothing would happen?”

Gene raised an eyebrow.

“Nothing had happened since ’80.”

“Nothing at all?”

“They’d just glow a little sometimes. I didn’t expect that much, but I was hoping for it. So I asked Paul to come up to the attic with me. I said I was wanting to look through some old pictures, maybe get something together for a KISS coffee table book—”

“And he believed you?”

“Of course not, but he came up there. Once I pulled out the box, he didn’t hesitate. He told me to go ahead and open it up.” Gene’s mouth twitched. “They were glowing, all right. They hadn’t been that bright in years. I’m not sure which one of us reached in and grabbed his talisman first.”

“Then you decided after that to join FER?”

Gene didn’t look too abashed.

“Yeah, I found an article on it a few days later. I showed it to Paul, then we told Ace, put in our applications and started in, then you found out, and the rest is—”

“If you say KISStory, you’re not getting dinner.’

“That’s fine. I’ll just eat the brownies.”

Ace and Paul returned a few minutes later, after the stir-fry was done but before the brownies were ready. They both looked weirdly drained, almost down, Paul stiffly pulling out his chair and sitting at the table without a word.

“How’s the spaceship?” Gene asked.

“Outlook not so good, Curly,” Ace mumbled, walking over on automatic to the sink, retrieving the bowl Gene had used to mix the brownie batter in. He started scraping a spoon up the sides, seemingly unaware that Gene had, for once, actually half-filled the bowl with water and dish soap, even if he hadn’t washed it. Paul threw him an acrid look. “But we’ll see, y’know?”

Peter didn’t bother to plate the stir fry, just put the wok itself on top of an oven mitt on the table. He did the same with the rice bowl a moment later. No need to clean more dishes than he had to.

“We’ll see,” Gene agreed, glancing Peter’s way. “Look, if you want us all to help, just let us know.”

“Nah, Geno, it’s—” Ace had put that first absentminded spoonful of water, batter, and suds in his mouth, and immediately spat it out. “ Shit! ”

Gene barely suppressed a laugh.

“Sorry—”

“Jesus,” Ace mumbled. “You usually just leave it in the sink and don’t fill it up…” he trailed, dropping the spoon back into the bowl and heading over to sit at the kitchen table across from Paul.

“If you didn’t get anywhere with the ship, what were you doing in there?”

Paul looked like he was about to say something, but then he just reached over and spooned out some of the stir-fry from the wok, staring at the vegetables like they had personally offended him. Peter had to swallow back a spiteful comment—God, Paul probably thought he’d overcooked the onions or some stupid shit like that—but then Ace piped up again.

“Well, we talked about flying. ’S kind of the one thing we still haven’t tried yet.”

Gene nodded, checked the brownies, and then got his plate, scooping up rice and the stir-fry in generous portions. Peter followed suit, a little warily, taking his usual spot next to Ace.

“Flying would give us one over half the Avengers.” Peter glanced over at Gene, trying to gauge his reaction first. For all his fear of heights, Gene barely flinched. Consummate professional. Or maybe he was just thinking about the brownies.

“Yeah. We’ve been putting it off too long.” Gene stuck a forkful of rice in his mouth. “Let’s review the tapes after dinner and start practicing tomorrow.”

“Review the tapes? C’mon, Gene, we’ve been doing that for ages! You just don’t wanna—"

“I do want to. First thing tomorrow.” Gene took a swig of water. Peter’s gaze went from Gene to Paul and then over to Ace, and he shook his head.

“You mean it?”

“I mean it. I’ve even got the equipment ready.”

---

“Gene, when you said equipment, I thought you meant a bungee cord.”

Gene just grinned widely. Gene’s idea of equipment had been a whole lot more useless.

Gene’s idea of equipment had been lugging the trampoline out of the garage.

And as good as it was to get an excuse to peel off their six-inch heels, and as entertaining as it was to jump on the trampoline, Peter had to admit it wasn’t getting either of them airborne. But it was giving them an excellent vantage point to watch the other two.

“We could be trying it up there.” Peter gestured, maybe unnecessarily, to Paul and Ace, who were perched, and arguing, on top of the third story roof. “You hear them, right?”

“How could I not fucking hear them,” Gene mumbled.

“Pauuuulieee. C’mon. You trust me?”

“We’re almost fifty feet off the ground!”

“It’s like with a baby! You put ’em in the pool and they’ll have to swim!”

“Ace, how the fuck did you ever have a kid—”

“Same way you did. Well, sorta.” Ace started laughing, shaking his head. “Relax, man. Just relax. You’ll be fine. We’ll both be fine. Look, if we’re about to crash I’ll teleport us both back down, okay?” Peter couldn’t see it from where he was, but deep down he was sure Ace was winking.

“I don’t see how he talked Paul into this,” Gene said.

“They’ve been hanging out more lately.” Peter wasn’t sure why. They hadn’t made another room switch or anything. Then again, Paul and Ace hadn’t ever had any major row between them, either. He managed a backflip, to his own surprise. “And they knew you were going to wuss out.”

“You’re not up there, either.”

“I will be once they get it,” Peter retorted. Right now, the scene on the roof was too entertaining to miss. Paul was wobbling slightly on the roof, grabbing onto Ace’s arm in an attempt to steady himself. Unfortunately, and predictably, Ace was wobbling, too.

“Ace, c’mon, this was a bad idea, let’s—c’mon, man, just teleport us back do—”

“Uh-uh, Paulie. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“You do know I’ve had my hip replaced twice, don’t you?”

“I thought it was three times.” Ace was laughing. Worse, he was swaying. Paul hanging onto him was only making them both more off-balance, teetering towards the edge of the rooftop. But Ace was talking just as easily as if they were safely on the ground. “Two makes more sense. I always wondered how the hell you could break a titanium one—"

“I didn— fuck !” Paul screamed, clutching Ace with both arms as they fell off the roof together. Peter and Gene scrambled off the trampoline, running out to catch them—stupidly, neither of them had thought they’d need to—only to watch them swoop down, and then hover, six or seven feet from the ground.

By that time, Peter was pretty sure that Paul’s face at least had probably gone almost as pale as the greasepaint. He watched as Paul slowly loosened his grip on Ace and then let go entirely, eyes wide, smile spreading even wider as he realized he was still in the air. They both were.

“Ace, we—I—”

“See? I told you!” Ace was letting himself sink down further, barely hovering more than a few inches from the ground before landing in front of Peter and Gene. “I told you, just like a baby.”

“Gene! Gene, look, I’m doing it!”

Gene still had his arms out, hovering half-remembered, as if part of him still thought Paul was about to fall. He didn’t get a single word out before Paul dove down straight toward him, gathering Gene up in his arms and lifting him into the air with him, gradually higher and higher, laughing softly, excitedly. Peter half-expected Gene to start screaming, or at least be clutching Paul for dear life, but he wasn’t. The higher up Paul took him, the more relaxed Gene seemed to get. The looser their grip on each other became. Gene’s arms went from around Paul’s waist to up around his shoulders—then, finally, just as it was getting harder for Peter to get a detailed look, Gene caught Paul’s hands in his own.

Both of them flying now.

Peter watched them, shaking his head a little, for a few seconds more. They’d land eventually. It took him a bit—it took Ace tugging at his sleeve—before he looked down again. There was a weird winsomeness to Ace’s expression, almost a longing, that made something in Peter itch and ache all at once. But then it faded nearly as soon as it appeared, and Ace’s old, sleepy-eyed grin was back on his face.

“Your turn, Cat. Get your heels on.” He winked. “Don’t worry, I got a whole other rooftop for us to jump off of.”

Ace had teleported him as soon as he'd yanked on his boots. Peter knew where they were almost before he’d opened his eyes. Almost like a bottom of the barrel sense. Or maybe it was just the connection bullshit, letting him dig into Ace’s mind without even wanting to. But Peter didn’t think that was all of it. He could recognize this place anywhere. Anytime. The oldest of their stomping grounds as a band. Jimi Hendrix’s old studio in Greenwich Village. The Electric Lady .

They’d never done a photoshoot on the roof or anything. There wasn’t even much physical evidence left that they’d been there at all, besides the records themselves. Just a couple photos from their own albums, mostly, that had gotten scattered like confetti across the internet. Photos from those early, early recording sessions, when they were four nobodies that occasionally drove cabs and taught school and fought petty crime. When they weren’t much better than four kids.

The memories themselves were so intoxicating they were painful. It wasn’t just where they’d first recorded. It was where Peter had first met up with Gene and Paul, before he’d even auditioned for KISS. That made the Electric Lady almost sacrosanct even when he felt most embittered about the band, about the guys. And he wasn’t alone in his sentimentality. Gene and Paul had continued to record there occasionally in the early eighties, too, unable to avoid their own nostalgia.

Peter sat down on the roof, letting his legs dangle off the edge. Ace did, too, swinging them back and forth over the side like a little kid. They sat there in silence at first, watching the people, the traffic. The old, harried energy of Greenwich Village was gone. The weirdness, the newness. The hope.

“It’s not like it was,” Peter said finally.

“You think it was gonna be?”

“No, but I wanted it to be.”

Ace crooked a small smile.

“Y’know, back… aw, hell, it was probably five, six years after the Reunion tour… I was talking to Bobby.”

“You made up with him after that shitty book he wrote?”

“Kind of. It went sour again, dunno.” Ace paused. “Anyway, I was talking to him, and he said to me, he said, ‘Paul, you won’t believe it, I climbed a telephone pole the other day.’”

“The fuck did he do that for?”

“That’s exactly what I asked him. Word for fucking word.” A short, eerie laugh. “He said, ‘to prove I still could.’ He had to’ve been at least fifty then… fifty and climbing telephone poles. I thought it was stupid. But here I am, sixty-eight and—”

“Sixty-eight and flying is pretty good, Ace, I gotta say.”

Ace laughed a little longer.

“Yeah, well. S’like with anything else, all I need is a little motivation.” He was starting to lean his shoulder against Peter’s, just a bit, casual and easy. Pointing at the people going by, the cars going by. “It could be the same. You just gotta squint pretty hard. Get rid of the gentrification and shit… stick the kids in bell bottoms…”

“Can’t do it.”

“Sure, you can.”

“It’s gone, Ace. Can’t bring it back.”

“You can try.”

“Nah. Don’t it make you wanna go home, now,” Peter half-sang under his breath, “don’t it make you wanna go home—”

“All God’s children get weary when they roam,” Ace kept on with the old Joe South chorus, tuneless as always, “God, how I wanna go home… didja have that record, Pete? I had the 45 way back …”

“Lydia’d only give me a three-buck allowance, Ace, what do you think?” Peter laughed quietly.

“Three bucks? You told me it was a dollar-fifty, man!” Ace shook his head. “Shit, and poor Paulie always bringing you by sandwiches back then ’cause he thought you really were a starving fucking musician—”

“Hey, I didn’t ask for those—"

“I know. He was real sweet. Still is, you just gotta give him a minute to relax.”

“Or five years.” It came out more aggressively than Peter meant it to, and he glanced away, staring at the streets beneath them. Half-full like all the rest of the world. Even the cars looked dismal. None of that toked-up brightness he remembered, none of that hope. The part-time cabbies replaced by Uber drivers, the flowerchildren turned geriatric and bitter with the passage of time. He shook his head.

“Don’t take that long. Just takes being gentle. Gene’s always been real gentle with Paul.” Ace said it without any real rancor. Just matter-of-fact.

“Gentle, my ass. You mean he lets Paul do whatever the fuck he wants. Fucking bends over for him anytime, every time—”

Ace snickered.

“Didn’t used to—”

“Jesus, Ace, don’t remind me.” Peter winced as if the memory of it was really so awful. Or awful at all. He’d never actually witnessed that much out of Paul and Gene back in the seventies. They’d been about as exclusive as rabbits in heat, anyway. What they’d had, what they still had, Peter didn’t envy. “Doesn’t it piss you off?”

“Nah.” Ace shrugged. “Wouldn’t know what to do if somebody treated me like that. I used to think Gene was trying to make up for something, y’know?”

“He is.”

Ace shrugged again. Peter let the silence hang in the air for a moment or two before changing the subject.

“Hey, Ace?”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s say this all works out and we bring everybody back. What’re we really gonna do after? Where are we gonna go?”

“Jen—”

“No, really.” Peter paused. His throat felt sticky. “Where are we going to live?”

“Pete, we both got a couple million in the bank, we ain’t gonna be homeless—”

“I know we ain’t gonna be homeless, but we ain’t all gonna be living under the same roof anymore, either.”

Ace’s brow started to furrow up.

“I dunno.”

“What if Paul and Gene want to move back to Beverly Hills with their families? We couldn’t afford it out there.” The disparity between their incomes hadn’t been a big deal in five years, with all their relatively communal living. Especially at first, Gene had taken it upon himself to cover most of the expenditures. Then, once Paul had his bearings back enough to at least glance at legal documents long enough to scribble his signature on them, the two of them had mostly split everything in half. Everything but groceries and gas, really. To Peter, it hadn’t felt like they were living off of someone else’s charity, not at all. But in the real world, in a world back to the way it was… “What we’ve got here is gonna go away.”

“Nah, it won’t.” Ace sounded more self-assured than Peter could readily believe. “You think all it’ll take is us not living together to split us up? Shit, Peter, before the last couple years, we only lived together on the road, and—”

“That’s different, though!”

“’S not.” Stretching out, Ace looked over at Peter, brown eyes focused laser-sharp on his face. “We don’t all got a bond because we’re all in the same house. We don’t got a bond because of the talismans, either. We got a bond because—”

“I know.”

Ace’s lips pursed.

“I—”

Peter reached a hand out, catching Ace’s before he could finish. Ace’s expression tensed, then started to soften, slowly, almost imperceptibly. He nodded, and before long, they both stood up, there on the roof of the Electric Lady , there in six-inch heels and leather, hands still clasped.

“You ready, Cat?” Ace started to smile. “I got you no matter what.”

“’M not afraid of heights,” Peter muttered. “You wanna do a countdown?”

“Nah, you make the time—”

“One, two—three—”

Peter felt the brief, awful lurch of falling for hardly a second at best. Then he was hovering, buoyed up by—he didn’t even know. All he knew was the sharpness of the breeze searing through his skin, blowing back his hair. All he felt was that wonderful weightlessness, that ease, trickling down his spine, heady as a glass of champagne. Unreal.

Ace’s hand tightened around his.

“You gonna fly, Peter, or are we just gonna hang around here?”

Peter only yanked him up with him. Ace’s cackles seemed to soar to the heavens, up and up as they flew higher. Story after story. The people below, and then the buildings, got dimmer and dimmer, blurring out beneath them into pavement gray, each skyscraper like a glittering stalagmite pushing up to the surface as the afternoon sun shot through.

#kiss the band #kiss fanfiction #peter criss #ace frehley #paul stanley #gene simmons

14 notes · View notes

howwelldoyouknowyourmoon · 5 years

Text

I accidentally joined one cult after leaving the Unification Church cult

I decided I needed to get out of this church immediately, before I became some stranger’s child bride.

by HANNAH November 21, 2014

When we opened our eyes, I could still feel the fleeting warmth from his hands placed on my head. We sat in a circle as he led us into a quiet chant known as the “moola mantra.”

“Moola? Like money?” I wondered. The incense smoke snaked throughout the room. I noticed a donation bowl being passed around. Yes. Like money.

“Sat chi ananda. Parabrahma. Purushathama. Paramatma. Sri Bhaghavathi Sametha. Sri Bhagavathe Namaha.”

I readily joined the others in chanting, not really knowing what they were saying. When I couldn’t remember the next phrase, I just Milli-Vanilli’d my way through it, letting the other voices fill in the gaps for me. I’ve had a lifetime of chanting in a language I didn’t understand to prepare myself for this.

In 1982, my parents, among many others, had an arranged mass marriage at Madison Square Garden (photo above), performed by the infamous Sun Myung Moon. With a simple hand gesture, Sun Myung Moon matched my parents together among a sea of brides and grooms, and five years later, I was born, the second of four children. It’s always troubling to think about how my very existence was decided by some Washington-Times-owning, money-laundering, homophobic, sushi tycoon/sexist cult leader, but I guess it makes things interesting.

Our childhood was…weird, in a word. Even as a kid I found myself thinking, “Why are we selling flowers at the side of highways?” “Why are we going door-to-door making strangers drink juice?” “Why are we sprinkling salt over our groceries?” “Why are we waking up at 5 a.m. to bow to a picture of a Korean man and a bowl of fruit?” “Why are we chanting right now, I mean, really? What language is this? I’m tired.”

Friends would come over and ask who the Korean people were in the photos around our house, referring to the Mr. and Mrs. Sun Myung Moon.

“I…uh…they’re my grandparents.” I often found myself saying.

“But…you’re…not Asian,” they’d reply, stating the obvious.

I’ll never forget my birthday during the blizzard of ’96. My parents took us to one of Moon’s mansions in D.C. to meet some witch doctor of a woman. She claimed to embody the spirit of Sun Myung Moon’s dead mother. We stood in line behind a closed door in the foyer.

Before the door slammed shut, I caught a glimpse of a large group of people gathered around a woman and a boy. The woman had her eyes closed with the boy sprawled over her lap. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and seemed to be crying. Red marks were all over him. He tried to escape her grip, arms extended to what I assumed to be his mother, who sat silently in the circle. Then, the door shut. I’m haunted.

Finally, my turn came. I nervously sat myself next to the woman. She lifted my shirt, prepubescent chest exposed, as the captive audience watched as I was hit several times on my back. She prayed in Korean over me. And then, applause. It was over. Somewhere, there is a photo of my brother and I standing in front of the mansion after the woman hit us that day. We were smiling.

Beyond the ritual abuse, there was a certain strain of poverty that only a child of a cult could understand. You get used to communal living and sleeping on floors very quickly.

Before we eventually settled in the D.C. metropolitan area, we had traveled around the country, staying in attics, basements, and church-owned hotels and mansions. There’s a very real cognitive dissonance that occurs when you’re living in a mansion, sleeping in a tiny bedroom with all six members of your family. In that mansion, I befriended a young, Japanese opera singer who lived on the top floor. She’d French braid my hair and show me pictures of her fiancé, a man she had yet to meet.

I thought this was so strange, but I would later learn that being “matched,” or engaged to a stranger in another country was common. At 17, it happened to one of my best friends. I’ll never forget the look of misery on her face as she stood in her wedding dress, among the sea of brides and grooms, holding the picture of her future husband.

It was then that I decided I needed to get out of this church, immediately, before I became some stranger’s child bride.

Within days of that decision, I got a phone call from an old friend.

“Do you want to get your third-eye opened?” She asked.

“Do I…what?”

“You heard me. Get your third-eye…opened.”

When we arrived at the house, a blue-eyed man answered the door.

“David!” Joanna squealed. “It’s so good to see you!” He wrapped his arms around her, practically swallowing her tiny frame. “Hannah, this is David. We met at a commune conference. We couldn’t stop staring at each other from across the room. It was kismet.”

David laughed and put out his hand to shake mine. “Nice to meet you, Hannah.” He led us inside, where a bald-headed man was sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed deep in meditation.

He opened his eyes and spoke with a soft cadence. He introduced himself as Daniel. He told us that he had recently returned from a trip to India, where he received a special blessing known as “deeksha,” from a group called “The Oneness Movement.” By taking part in this expensive ceremony in India, he became empowered to pass this gift of enlightenment to us.

He instructed us to close our eyes as he guided us into meditation. He came around the room and gently placed his hands on our heads. I was struck by the similarities of this ritual with another my parents performed for my birthday. There is something spiritual about having someone caress the crown of your head while they speak in soft tones over you. I felt enlightened, or at least relaxed. Like Fox Mulder [The X-Files], I wanted to believe. But there was a Dana Scully in the back of my head that wouldn’t completely let me.

I began attending meetings regularly. Daniel and I developed a close friendship where we spoke on the phone daily. At one point, I was $300 short for my rent, and without blinking, he loaned me the money. Three months later, I found myself riding in a car with him to attend a Oneness Movement get-together in Pittsburg.

We pulled up to a row house in Pittsburg, where we were greeted warmly by a jolly man. He placed prayer beads over our heads, luau-style. “Namaste,” he bowed, and we did the same. He led us upstairs to his railroad apartment and gave us a tour.

“And this…is my Christmas room.” It was August.

There were two entirely decorated trees with trains circling around them. Presents galore. Reindeer, flashing lights, snowmen. It was Christmas hell. I took a seat, completely entranced and horrified by the mechanical Santa’s never-ending “ho-ho-ho” mantra. I kept thinking, “Where am I?”

Daniel called me into the next room where others had already gathered and were chanting in harmony.

“Sat chi ananda. Parabrahma. Purushathama. Paramatma. Sri Bhaghavathi Sametha. Sri Bhagavathe Namaha.”

I sat on my knees, and just as I was about to lower my head in a child’s pose bow, I noticed a familiar face from across the room. She looked a lot like Diane, a Moonie truck driver who would stop and make us oxtail soup when she passed through town. She loved talking about God with my parents. No. It couldn’t be. It was. Our eyes met. In a panic, I lowered my forehead to the ground to hide my face.

Finally, the chants subsided, and a faint voice spoke up. “Hi, I’m Anthony and I prepared a song for you all.” I slowly raised my body, trying to hide my face behind my hair. A mousy-looking teenager stood before us, boom box ready. The familiar sound of chimes and wind instruments filled the room. I knew this song.

“Olha eu vii lue mostar…” He sang. “Como é belo este mundo…”

He was singing “A Whole New World,” the Disney classic, in Portuguese. I noticed Diane was full-on staring at me. I panicked just as Anthony’s falsetto kicked in for Princess Jasmine’s part of the duet.

“Um mundo ideal…Um mundo que eu nunca vi…”

I looked around the room, scanning for any sign of acknowledgement from another human. Nothing. I noticed everyone in the room was in fact, crying. Was I that cynical? Should I feel something right now? Watching Anthony shimmy his way through the intense key change was definitely a spiritual experience, but I still didn’t want to give these people my money. I felt duped. This “whole new world” suddenly felt a lot like the old one.

I retreated to the Christmas room in an attempt to hide from Diane. On a table, I noticed a photograph of Sri Bhaghavan and his wife, the founders of the Oneness movement. They were sitting in chairs, like royalty. The photograph was nearly identical to ones my parents kept of my pseudo Korean “grandparents.” Horrified by the parallels, my inner Dana Scully finally broke through.

I spent the rest of my time at the retreat doing just that — retreating. I slithered along the walls, and managed to avoid a conversation with Diane other than, “funny meeting you here” and “please don’t tell my parents.”

When I left my respective cults, I was excited to be integrated into the real world, a place without cults, or so I thought. Not so. These days, I see cults everywhere: cults of influence, cults of institutions, cults of politics. You learn a lingo, you follow a set of rules, a code of ethics. Sometimes you wear a uniform and a name tag. Sometimes you are sleep-deprived and haven’t seen your family in weeks. In a world where CEO’s are more likely be to sociopaths, it’s harder to define what is a cult and what isn’t.

What’s important is listening to your inner Dana Scully, no matter how badly you want to believe. The truth is out there, sure, but it’s also inside you.

_______________________________________

Hannah

After selling flowers as a child with the Moonies, Hannah is now a part-time florist. Her life has hilariously come full circle. She is also a songwriter and musician. She is a student majoring in human services and hopes for a career in social justice advocacy.

_______________________________________

A few of the comments on Hannah’s story:

mrsdanger So interesting, would love to hear about your life now and your parents’ reaction to leaving.

Keith All religions are cults, some are more destructive than others. Thank you for sharing your story. Write another story for us later to let everyone know how you are doing on your new journey.

sara_ahoy I understood what she was trying to say here. A lot of successful people become that way because they refuse to follow the rules of society, some are more aggressive, and willing to throw other people under the bus in their bid for a promotion. Cult leaders tend to act similarly, acting charming but ultimately bullying their way into leadership positions and ruling through fear and ignorance.

We like to think that the societal rules that we all follow are there to benefit us, but I’ve found time and time again that I’m paying arbitrary fees of all kinds that go straight to a rich businessperson somewhere…

Lalaloki … they sure discourage people from ever taking a day off, even when sick. And then, when people do call out sick, there’s a sort of underlying guilt involved. People are being paid to be there, sure, but in a cult, people are being “paid” salvation.

tracy This is perfect! “What’s important is listening to your inner Dana Scully, no matter how badly you want to believe. The truth is out there, sure, but it’s also inside you.”

Huh Wow, you should write a memoir! I grew up in a fundamentalist Christian church that was very cultish. We left in middle school and it was hard adjusting to the real world but my “inner Dana Scully” has been strong and made me skeptical of all things spiritual ever since. My advice: If a group (religious or otherwise) makes you isolated or relies heavily on secrets get the hell out!

FoxMulder She needs to know the truth is out there

breebree Moonies aren’t rich at all! The majority (my parents included) dropped out of school and donated ALL of their money to the church. And keep doing it. Ugh, so stupid.

berly I want to know why the cult did a ritual of hitting children? [ansu, a Korean shaman ritual to get rid of evil spirits]

_______________________________________

The FFWPU / Unification Church and Shamanism

Soon-ae Hong (the mother of Hak Ja Han) spent two years in Chuncheon Prison after Ansu beating an 18-year old boy to death.

Fear and Loathing at Cheongpyeong Lake

#shamanism #Hannah #2nd gen #moonies

3 notes · View notes

alivannarose · 6 years

Text

Laziness Does Not Exist

But unseen barriers do.

[This article was posted on Medium, written by Erika Price]

I’ve been a psychology professor since 2012. In the past six years, I’ve witnessed students of all ages procrastinate on papers, skip presentation days, miss assignments, and let due dates fly by. I’ve seen promising prospective grad students fail to get applications in on time; I’ve watched PhD candidates take months or years revising a single dissertation draft; I once had a student who enrolled in the same class of mine two semesters in a row, and never turned in anything either time.

I don’t think laziness was ever at fault.

Ever.

In fact, I don’t believe that laziness exists.

I’m a social psychologist, so I’m interested primarily in the situational and contextual factors that drive human behavior. When you’re seeking to predict or explain a person’s actions, looking at the social norms, and the person’s context, is usually a pretty safe bet. Situational constraints typically predict behavior far better than personality, intelligence, or other individual-level traits.

So when I see a student failing to complete assignments, missing deadlines, or not delivering results in other aspects of their life, I’m moved to ask: what are the situational factors holding this student back? What needs are currently not being met? And, when it comes to behavioral “laziness”, I’m especially moved to ask: what are the barriers to action that I can’t see?

There are always barriers. Recognizing those barriers— and viewing them as legitimate — is often the first step to breaking “lazy” behavior patterns.

…

It’s really helpful to respond to a person’s ineffective behavior with curiosity rather than judgment. I learned this from a friend of mine, the writer and activist Kimberly Longhofer (who publishes under Mik Everett). Kim is passionate about the acceptance and accommodation of disabled people and homeless people. Their writing about both subjects is some of the most illuminating, bias-busting work I’ve ever encountered. Part of that is because Kim is brilliant, but it’s also because at various points in their life, Kim has been both disabled and homeless.

Kim is the person who taught me that judging a homeless person for wanting to buy alcohol or cigarettes is utter folly. When you’re homeless, the nights are cold, the world is unfriendly, and everything is painfully uncomfortable. Whether you’re sleeping under a bridge, in a tent, or at a shelter, it’s hard to rest easy. You are likely to have injuries or chronic conditions that bother you persistently, and little access to medical care to deal with it. You probably don’t have much healthy food.

In that chronically uncomfortable, over-stimulating context, needing a drink or some cigarettes makes fucking sense. As Kim explained to me, if you’re laying out in the freezing cold, drinking some alcohol may be the only way to warm up and get to sleep. If you’re under-nourished, a few smokes may be the only thing that kills the hunger pangs. And if you’re dealing with all this while also fighting an addiction, then yes, sometimes you just need to score whatever will make the withdrawal symptoms go away, so you can survive.

Few people who haven’t been homeless think this way. They want to moralize the decisions of poor people, perhaps to comfort themselves about the injustices of the world. For many, it’s easier to think homeless people are, in part, responsible for their suffering than it is to acknowledge the situational factors.

And when you don’t fully understand a person’s context — what it feels like to be them every day, all the small annoyances and major traumas that define their life — it’s easy to impose abstract, rigid expectations on a person’s behavior. All homeless people should put down the bottle and get to work. Never mind that most of them have mental health symptoms and physical ailments, and are fighting constantly to be recognized as human. Never mind that they are unable to get a good night’s rest or a nourishing meal for weeks or months on end. Never mind that even in my comfortable, easy life, I can’t go a few days without craving a drink or making an irresponsible purchase. They have to do better.

But they’re already doing the best they can. I’ve known homeless people who worked full-time jobs, and who devoted themselves to the care of other people in their communities. A lot of homeless people have to navigate bureaucracies constantly, interfacing with social workers, case workers, police officers, shelter staff, Medicaid staff, and a slew of charities both well-meaning and condescending. It’s a lot of fucking work to be homeless. And when a homeless or poor person runs out of steam and makes a “bad decision”, there’s a damn good reason for it.

If a person’s behavior doesn’t make sense to you, it is because you are missing a part of their context. It’s that simple. I’m so grateful to Kim and their writing for making me aware of this fact. No psychology class, at any level, taught me that. But now that it is a lens that I have, I find myself applying it to all kinds of behaviors that are mistaken for signs of moral failure — and I’ve yet to find one that can’t be explained and empathized with.

…

Let’s look at a sign of academic “laziness” that I believe is anything but: procrastination.

People love to blame procrastinators for their behavior. Putting off work sure looks lazy, to an untrained eye. Even the people who are actively doing the procrastinating can mistake their behavior for laziness. You’re supposed to be doing something, and you’re not doing it — that’s a moral failure right? That means you’re weak-willed, unmotivated, and lazy, doesn’t it?

For decades, psychological research has been able to explain procrastination as a functioning problem, not a consequence of laziness. When a person fails to begin a project that they care about, it’s typically due to either a) anxiety about their attempts not being “good enough” or b) confusion about what the first steps of the task are. Not laziness. In fact, procrastination is more likely when the task is meaningful and the individual cares about doing it well.

When you’re paralyzed with fear of failure, or you don’t even know how to begin a massive, complicated undertaking, it’s damn hard to get shit done. It has nothing to do with desire, motivation, or moral upstandingness. Procastinators can will themselves to work for hours; they can sit in front of a blank word document, doing nothing else, and torture themselves; they can pile on the guilt again and again — none of it makes initiating the task any easier. In fact, their desire to get the damn thing done may worsen their stress and make starting the task harder.

The solution, instead, is to look for what is holding the procrastinator back. If anxiety is the major barrier, the procrastinator actually needs to walk away from the computer/book/word document and engage in a relaxing activity. Being branded “lazy” by other people is likely to lead to the exact opposite behavior.

Often, though, the barrier is that procrastinators have executive functioning challenges — they struggle to divide a large responsibility into a series of discrete, specific, and ordered tasks. Here’s an example of executive functioning in action: I completed my dissertation (from proposal to data collection to final defense) in a little over a year. I was able to write my dissertation pretty easily and quickly because I knew that I had to a) compile research on the topic, b) outline the paper, c) schedule regular writing periods, and d) chip away at the paper, section by section, day by day, according to a schedule I had pre-determined.

Nobody had to teach me to slice up tasks like that. And nobody had to force me to adhere to my schedule. Accomplishing tasks like this is consistent with how my analytical, hyper-focused, Autistic little brain works. Most people don’t have that ease. They need an external structure to keep them writing — regular writing group meetings with friends, for example — and deadlines set by someone else. When faced with a major, massive project, most people want advice for how to divide it into smaller tasks, and a timeline for completion. In order to track progress, most people require organizational tools, such as a to-do list, calendar, datebook, or syllabus.

Needing or benefiting from such things doesn’t make a person lazy. It just means they have needs. The more we embrace that, the more we can help people thrive.

…

I had a student who was skipping class. Sometimes I’d see her lingering near the building, right before class was about to start, looking tired. Class would start, and she wouldn’t show up. When she was present in class, she was a bit withdrawn; she sat in the back of the room, eyes down, energy low. She contributed during small group work, but never talked during larger class discussions.

A lot of my colleagues would look at this student and think she was lazy, disorganized, or apathetic. I know this because I’ve heard how they talk about under-performing students. There’s often rage and resentment in their words and tone — why won’t this student take my class seriously? Why won’t they make me feel important, interesting, smart?

But my class had a unit on mental health stigma. It’s a passion of mine, because I’m a neuroatypical psychologist. I know how unfair my field is to people like me. The class & I talked about the unfair judgments people levy against those with mental illness; how depression is interpreted as laziness, how mood swings are framed as manipulative, how people with “severe” mental illnesses are assumed incompetent or dangerous.

The quiet, occasionally-class-skipping student watched this discussion with keen interest. After class, as people filtered out of the room, she hung back and asked to talk to me. And then she disclosed that she had a mental illness and was actively working to treat it. She was busy with therapy and switching medications, and all the side effects that entails. Sometimes, she was not able to leave the house or sit still in a classroom for hours. She didn’t dare tell her other professors that this was why she was missing classes and late, sometimes, on assignments; they’d think she was using her illness as an excuse. But she trusted me to understand.

And I did. And I was so, so angry that this student was made to feel responsible for her symptoms. She was balancing a full course load, a part-time job, and ongoing, serious mental health treatment. And she was capable of intuiting her needs and communicating them with others. She was a fucking badass, not a lazy fuck. I told her so.

She took many more classes with me after that, and I saw her slowly come out of her shell. By her Junior and Senior years, she was an active, frank contributor to class — she even decided to talk openly with her peers about her mental illness. During class discussions, she challenged me and asked excellent, probing questions. She shared tons of media and current-events examples of psychological phenomena with us. When she was having a bad day, she told me, and I let her miss class. Other professors — including ones in the psychology department — remained judgmental towards her, but in an environment where her barriers were recognized and legitimized, she thrived.

…

Over the years, at that same school, I encountered countless other students who were under-estimated because the barriers in their lives were not seen as legitimate. There was the young man with OCD who always came to class late, because his compulsions sometimes left him stuck in place for a few moments. There was the survivor of an abusive relationship, who was processing her trauma in therapy appointments right before my class each week. There was the young woman who had been assaulted by a peer — and who had to continue attending classes with that peer, while the school was investigating the case.

These students all came to me willingly, and shared what was bothering them. Because I discussed mental illness, trauma, and stigma in my class, they knew I would be understanding. And with some accommodations, they blossomed academically. They gained confidence, made attempts at assignments that intimidated them, raised their grades, started considering graduate school and internships. I always found myself admiring them. When I was a college student, I was nowhere near as self-aware. I hadn’t even begun my lifelong project of learning to ask for help.

…

Students with barriers were not always treated with such kindness by my fellow psychology professors. One colleague, in particular, was infamous for providing no make-up exams and allowing no late arrivals. No matter a student’s situation, she was unflinchingly rigid in her requirements. No barrier was insurmountable, in her mind; no limitation was acceptable. People floundered in her class. They felt shame about their sexual assault histories, their anxiety symptoms, their depressive episodes. When a student who did poorly in her classes performed well in mine, she was suspicious.

It’s morally repugnant to me that any educator would be so hostile to the people they are supposed to serve. It’s especially infuriating, that the person enacting this terror was a psychologist. The injustice and ignorance of it leaves me teary every time I discuss it. It’s a common attitude in many educational circles, but no student deserves to encounter it.

…

I know, of course, that educators are not taught to reflect on what their students’ unseen barriers are. Some universities pride themselves on refusing to accommodate disabled or mentally ill students — they mistake cruelty for intellectual rigor. And, since most professors are people who succeeded academically with ease, they have trouble taking the perspective of someone with executive functioning struggles, sensory overloads, depression, self-harm histories, addictions, or eating disorders. I can see the external factors that lead to these problems. Just as I know that “lazy” behavior is not an active choice, I know that judgmental, elitist attitudes are typically borne of out situational ignorance.

And that’s why I’m writing this piece. I’m hoping to awaken my fellow educators — of all levels — to the fact that if a student is struggling, they probably aren’t choosing to. They probably want to do well. They probably are trying. More broadly, I want all people to take a curious and empathic approach to individuals whom they initially want to judge as “lazy” or irresponsible.

If a person can’t get out of bed, something is making them exhausted. If a student isn’t writing papers, there’s some aspect of the assignment that they can’t do without help. If an employee misses deadlines constantly, something is making organization and deadline-meeting difficult. Even if a person is actively choosing to self-sabotage, there’s a reason for it — some fear they’re working through, some need not being met, a lack of self-esteem being expressed.

People do not choose to fail or disappoint. No one wants to feel incapable, apathetic, or ineffective. If you look at a person’s action (or inaction) and see only laziness, you are missing key details. There is always an explanation. There are always barriers. Just because you can’t see them, or don’t view them as legitimate, doesn’t mean they’re not there. Look harder.

Maybe you weren’t always able to look at human behavior this way. That’s okay. Now you are. Give it a try.

1 note · View note