#again sleeping in the place that i was brutally abused and like identical beds and shit is some shit i'm allowed to go insane over | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

glitxhwayventeen · 3 years

Text

We Might Be Dead By Tomorrow

Minghao: Chapter 1 (Sirens)

Characters: Minghao x female reader

Genre/Warnings: multi-member au (different scenarios), werewolf au, fantasy, smut, angst, fluff, potential blood mentions, genocide, runaways, domestic violence, child abuse, blood mentions, death mentions, gang activity mentions, lots of dick jokes, suggestive content, tiny drug mention if you squint, violence. Any others will be put as warnings when future chapters are thought up/written.

Author’s Note: I recommend listening to Sirens by Cher Lloyd. It’s a strange choice I know. It doesn’t necessarily go with this chapter. But i think it’s actually a pretty good song, so I used it for a loose inspiration for Minghao’s opening Chapter.

Please remember that all of these chapters and the content within them are a work of fiction! They’re just for fun/entertainment!

Bold= Dialogue Italics= Thoughts

Slight 🥀 but mostly ☁️

We Might Be Dead By Tomorrow Master List

Chapter 1: Sirens

These last few days have been some of the best days of Minghao’s life. Not to say he’s had a bad one, he actually considered himself quite fortunate in that aspect compared to his brothers. Most of his pack didn’t even know what Minghao had done before he joined them. They just figured it wasn’t anything good. He had this… bad boy aura about him that they couldn’t quite place. So no one really ever wanted to fuck with him, not that he was complaining. I mean don’t get me wrong, he could do some SERIOUS damage to an opponent, he just didn’t want to have to. He was done with and over all the fighting. He fought his whole life. Now, he was tired. Boy, was he tired. He got so tired sometimes that it felt like his bones were scraping each other and if he didn’t lay down in the middle of whatever he was doing, they’d crack and break apart from his body. He’d never tell his brothers that though, he didn’t like them worrying about him. He wasn’t helpless, he was quite capable of taking care of himself and others. He just never had to because he had the Alphas looking out for the pack all the time. It wasn’t his problem to watch out for anyone and he liked it that way.

That is, until he met you. Before you, he saw the world for all its horrors and terrors. With you around, he saw all its beauty and grace. He never thought that imprinting would be like this. He felt almost high when you were around. No one ever really explained it all in depth to him. He didn’t realize that just someone saying your name would make his heart jump out of his chest. He took one look at you and he realized you were all he cared about. Sure he loved his brothers, but he knew if push came to shove they could protect themselves. Apart of him knew that of course you could too, but for the first time, he actually WANTED to take care of someone.

He always needed to be sure you were okay. He’d ask how you slept, if you ate, how you were feeling, if you were happy. It frazzled his brothers, he’d never done that with them. It was strange seeing such a loving side of him. They knew he loved them because they were his brothers, but they absolutely KNEW he loved you because you were his mate. But seeing him worry himself sick over your well-being was… different to say the least. They were actually pretty sure you had replaced him with an identical looking version of himself when they weren’t looking because, again, he just wasn’t even acting like the Minghao they knew.

You didn’t mind of course. You actually loved that he cared for you so much. You were so tired of having to take care of yourself for all this time. You didn’t think you were very good at it and, quite frankly, it was exhausting. You had been on the run for centuries before you met the pack. It was lonely and if there was anything in this world that you actually hated, it was being all alone. You came from a tribe where the bigger the family, the better. You missed it. So when you realized Minghao had imprinted on you, you couldn’t have been more happy. Because now, not only did you get a mate who loved you more than life itself, but you got his crazy pack brothers too. You figured he loved you anyway, he hadn’t actually said the words to you yet, still, you could just… feel it. You could even feel that his brothers loved you. They reminded you a lot of your original brothers. They were loud and rambunctious, and they’d do anything to protect you because you were their brothers mate. It was perfect.

As you both lay asleep in your now shared bed, you cuddled on top of his toned chest like always, you heard a loud, almost in human, scream from outside. It made you jump almost a foot in the air, and had you falling in the floor. You had let your instincts and guard down quite a bit since you came to live with them a few weeks ago because you felt safe. So the terrible noise from outside scared you a great deal. Minghao was quick to act of course, rushing to scoop you in his arms and quietly rocking you to calm you down.

“Shh. It’s okay baby it’s gone now. Don’t worry. It’s okay, I’ve got you.” He spoke softly as he stroked your hair gently, still rocking you in place.

“I- I know I just wasn’t expecting it. Who the hell screams like that this early in the morning?” You questions, both of you knowing it was more rhetorical than anything.

“More like who screams like that in general.” Minghao said, half joking and half concerned, though he was trying his best to hide it from you.

He had come to realize any sounds out of the ordinary could set you off into a panic attack. He didn’t like seeing you scared, and he didn’t like your heart rate spiking for anyone or anything other than himself.

“I just hope it’s over now-” you start, but just as you were about to finish your sentence, another loud screech forced you to jump from Minghao’s arms and hide under the bed.

He knew he couldn’t help it, it was now part of your instinct to hide in the darkest place possible from danger as you were out alone in the woods for decades and it was the way you kept yourself alive. Still, he couldn’t help the small whine that came from within his chest as he saw you hiding. He hated the fear in your eyes, it made him feel so helpless. He tried to coax you out from under his bed by trying to tell you it was just a passing noise. But, once again, the noise came back. Except this time, you actually managed to hear it without the sleepiness or your mating pull clouding it. Oh no! You quickly go out from under the bed and grabbed onto Minghao.

“Hao, where are the other boys??” You asked quickly, the fear in your eyes seeming to amplify.

“Probably asleep, like we should be so let’s-” he tried, still wanting to attempt to get more hours.

“No Hao! We need to find them. We need to find ALL OF THEM right now!” You all but yell as you quickly grabbed a pair of shorts, slipped them on, and threw open your bedroom door.

“(Y/N)! What the hell?? They’re all sleeping come on let’s go back to bed” Minghao whined, clearly not understanding the gravity of the situation.

You ignored him as you opened the door closest to your bedroom, you were greeted with Chan sitting on the edge of his bed, you could tell he was also woken up by the loud scream. Good, he’s safe. Now the others.

You then opened the door across the hall from your room. In it, you found Seungcheol yawning putting on pants in order to try and investigate the strange noise. You then pushed open Joshua and Jeonghan’s rooms, in them, you found both boys to be just as shocked from your actions as Minghao was. But nevertheless they were safe so you didn’t care how crazy you looked. After them, you dashed to Jun and Soonyoung’s shared room, letting out a quick relieved sigh seeing them both already standing close to their door.

You kept doing this until you had finished your rounds of Jihoon’s, Seokmin’s, Seungkwan’s, Wonwoo’s, and Hansol’s rooms respectively. You were so beyond happy that all the boys were okay that you almost cried real tears, they were already brimming at your waterlines.

“(Y/N), we all heard the noise. But it just sounded like someone yelling. We’re all fine. You worry too much.” Seungcheol assured you, giving you a small pat on the head to show gratitude for your care for them.

“No Seungcheol. You don’t understand. That wasn’t just any random villager screaming. That was something more vile than you could even imagine. And it prays on men, specifically horny-” you stopped yourself mid-sentence. “Wait.” You paused. “WHERE’S MINGYU??” you said, realizing very quickly that one of the wolves you were thinking of while saying your piece was unaccounted for.

You dashed to his room and busted the door open. And sure enough, his big ass form was there laying in bed, sleeping like a baby. Thank God.

“Alright. Somebody’s been hanging around Jun’s paranoid ass too long.” Hansol joked your way, earning a chuckle from a few others as well.

“Hey!” Junhui tried to defend himself.

“No you guys don’t get it. That scream, that was a siren’s victory call. I was legitimately worried for your lives.” You protested, Minghao coming up behind you to wrap his arms around your waist.

“A siren? What’s that?” Chan asked as all the boys looked to you for elaboration.

Boy, you sometimes forgot how young and inexperienced with the supernatural they were. They were far better with people than you were that’s for sure, but when it came down to other magical beings, it was like you were speaking a different language. And you only really ever did that with the foreign wolves as you knew both English and Chinese.

“A siren’s one of the most deadly creatures you can find. They look like regular people, most of the time, they’re absolutely beautiful. That’s what makes them so scary, they look like angels. But they’re pure evil, they lure people to their deaths late at night, mostly men. Mostly horny men. They use them for sex, to procreate. Then they kill them in brutal, horrible ways. Afterwards, they let out that God awful scream. That’s why I got so worried with you guys, I thought that…” you trailed off, shrugging your shoulders slightly.

“That what? One of us got our dick wet and our head chopped off?” Joshua laughed out, clearly amused that you considered them all horny men.

“Well yeah, kind of. You can’t blame me. I know what most of you go to the village for late at night. When I realized what the scream was, I just had to make sure you were right. I didn’t want to wake up the next morning to have to go out and find a fucking body.” You huffed as Minghao gave you a small peck on your shoulder to try and ease your tension.

“Well, thank you for caring for our safety. But we’re big boys. We can take care of ourselves. Well most of us…” Soonyoung assured you, standing more proud than he should’ve as he looked at Jeonghan.

“Yeah… that’s kind of what I’m worried about…” you let the joke pass your lips, trying your best not to laugh.

The other boys went into a roar of laughter as Jeonghan tried his best to hide his own amusement behind a fake angry face. The laughter seemed to be just enough noise to wake the life of the party up finally.

“Hey guys” Mingyu yawned. “What’s gonna on? Why are we laughing?”

“Well (Y/N) seems to think we’re gonna get our dicks chopped off.” Jeonghan responded to Mingyu, earning another quick chuckle and a slap from Jihoon.

“Oh well… that’s nice… any particular reason it’s me and you or is everyone else invited to the dick chopping party too?” Mingyu spoke again, trying his best to hide his obvious confusion with a joke.

“No man. It’s mostly you two.” Laughed Seungkwan. “You’re the ones who always seem to need to bury your dicks in something, not us”

You snort as you turn yourself to bury your face into Minghao’s chest, now wanting to go back to sleep knowing everyone’s alright.

“Alright alright you horny kids. All jokes aside.” Joshua spoke up. “(Y/N) how serious is this siren threat?”

“Well I’ve seen one siren take out half a town before. So pretty serious I’d gather. I dont know where all this dick chopping came into the conversation, but I’d say everyone needs to stay inside once it gets dark out until further notice, just to be safe” you mumble out from Minghao’s chest.

“Okay guys. You heard the all knowing wolf lady” Seungcheol said, earning a playful glare from you. “No more going out at night. Not for a while. No exceptions. All dicks must remain in tact” he declared.

“Aw man” Mingyu pouted, he was disappointed but also understood that the pack’s safety came before his hormones.

You let out a small giggle as Minghao lightly laughed as he placed a little kiss on the top of your head.

“No that’s enough excitement for one night. Everyone back to bed. We’ll talk more in the morning.” Joshua decided, ushering everyone back into their rooms.

Once your bedroom door was closed, Minghao picked you up mumbled an “I’m exhausted” before he placed you on the bed, the bags formed under his eyes showing you just how tired he must be. He joined you moments later and hovered himself over you.

“Do you really think the guys will stay inside because of the siren?” He questions while moving a lock of your hair behind your ear. You clasp your hands behind the back of his neck and place with his hair.

“Hmm. Don’t know. I guess we’ll see. If someone wakes up without a dick, we’ll know they didn’t listen” you said with a cheeky ass smile, much to the delight of your loving mate.

“Got it, no dick means they’re the siren’s bitch” he said aloud causing you to chuckle at his thought process.

“I promise I’ll still wake up with mine though” he added, earning a sweet smile from you. God, what did he do to deserve such a cute little mate?

“Good. I’d be real disappointed if you woke up with it gone.” You playfully pout, stroking his cheek during your sentence to further add to your point.

“Well you know how I hate to disappoint love” he said, a hint of mischief in his eyes as he pecked your lips with a bit more passion than you thought he would’ve used this early in the morning.

“I thought you were tired?” You questioned as best you could while he was trailing his kisses down to your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin gently.

“I was.” He mumbled into the crevice of your neck. “But I realized just how hard it is to resist your cute self. So now I’m thinking of some… other things we haven’t quite gotten to just yet” he answered with a playful smirk, making his intention completely obvious to you. Boy, this morning was already off to a fun start.

Another Author’s Note: I know what you guys are thinking, you’re thinking I meant succubus. But I meant Siren. There’s many different versions of both and I just happened to use the Siren version where they sing the men to lure them to their deaths on land. On another note, I finished three chapters in one day. I’m a bit proud not even gonna lie. I hope you guys liked this one. Minghao’s next chapter will be smut as I want to get their first time together out of the way as soon as possible. I don’t really know why. It just feels right you know?

(Updated 7/27)

#seventeen #seventeen angst #seventeen au #seventeen fanfic #seventeen fluff #seventeen smut #svt au #seventeen x reader #svt minghao #minghao #the8

22 notes · View notes

silentauroriamthereal · 4 years

Text

So, I watched Happiest Season yesterday, and I have thoughts. A lot of thoughts. Spoilers abound and this is long, so I’ll put this under a cut.

Happiest Season: a review

You have to ask yourself how “happy” a happy ending really is when you glance down at the time bar on the film and see that there’s less than fifteen minutes left and none of the story’s problems have been even remotely resolved.

Skip to the closing credits, and I hadn’t changed my mind. This is a “happy” ending where a great deal of the problems in the plot were left either completely unresolved, or whose happiness wasn’t earned – wasn’t properly fleshed out, developed, supported, or in fact, even happy.

What an incredibly toxic family the Caldwells are. Let’s start with them: there are three daughters. Sloan has apparently cemented her parents’ permanent disappointment by having left a promising legal career in favour of raising a family. Side tangent: are we really still having this discussion, in 2020? This binary choice between family OR career? Besides, Sloan evidently developed a different, and very lucrative career. I also strongly dislike the way the perception of her marriage ending is portrayed as a failure. Her awful parents both resent her having left the legal field, yet have refused to now see her as anything other than a parent, ignoring her new career choice and, it seems, literally anything else about her. Then we have Jane, who is overtly abused. Treated as lesser than anyone else in the family apart from technical support with malfunctioning printers, Jane is constantly criticized, chastised, literally told to not put herself in the centre of the family for a holiday photo. I was horrified and devastated by the wanton destruction of her painting at the end, too. I’m happy for her that her book got published and that she found success there, but I hate that this brutal, completely unnecessary destruction of her art happened and was totally overlooked.

I’m going to come back to Harper, because there’s a LOT to say there.

The way the parents, Tipper and Ted, treated Abby, was appalling from start to finish. Leaving aside the ENTIRE question of the secret girlfriend thing, if my family ever treated a friend or even distant acquaintance the way the Caldwells treated Abby, I would be furious with them. I used to frequently bring friends who were international students or just on their own for the holidays to my parents’ place for Thanksgiving dinner or Christmas festivities. These people were so, so, so incredibly rude to Abby, from ignoring her when she first arrived to giving her a terrible bedroom with a door that doesn’t lock, to walking in on her multiple times while she was changing or in bed – that level of complete disrespect infuriated me! Just allowing those awful kids to be in her private space without any sort of discipline, consequences, or apologies was unacceptable. The way they treated Abby after those same kids – which she was stuck with, without any sort of request to watch them – planted that necklace on her, was unacceptable. The utter lack of apology for having literally accused her of theft, for accusing her multiple times after that – WOW. Treating Abby as though she was the unexpected, extra guest at the restaurant that first night, and giving the ex-boyfriend the parents kept shoving on Harper the proper one was unacceptable.

Then there’s how Harper treated Abby. Let’s start with the restaurant: first of all, had my parents pulled that stunt on my friend/guest/secret girlfriend, I would have let them know then and there that it wasn’t okay. And then I would have, I don’t know, asked the staff to bring a proper chair, and if that turned out to be impossible, I would have insisted that she take mine instead, and sat on the little chair myself. Asking anyone to closet themselves is an act of violence, and watching that as a member of the LGBTQ2+ community was actively harmful to witness. Again, a lot of the crap that Harper subjected Abby to would have been awful no matter WHO Abby was: you don’t abandon your guest to hang out with old friends. If they’re ready to go home, then you go home with them. It’s basic hospitality. Considering that Abby was Harper’s partner, that’s a whole extra layer of harm. THEN add the ex-boyfriend, a horribly-treated ex-girlfriend, and toxic old friends to the mix, and you have something beyond appalling. Adding this stuff on top of not standing up for Abby to her family, not insisting that she be given somewhere proper to sleep during her time in her parents’ house, not insisting that she be treated with the most basic respect, not defending her during the whole jewellery theft situation, and even going along with the parents’ de-invitation to that dinner – that’s inexcusable. You don’t treat other people that way, much less your partner. Then add Harper calling Abby controlling, while simultaneously having the nerve to get angry about Abby spending time with Riley, which is possibly the only good thing that happened for Abby during that entire, awful trip – yeah. I was finished with Harper by that point.

Harper also actively participated in the way her sisters were constantly put down by their parents. The responsibility of being the privileged favourite is to use your status to bring others up. Harper doesn’t appear to have any sort of spine or courage whatsoever. It was only after she was forcibly outed by Sloan – and such was her privilege that the parents believed that it was a “malicious” lie rather than a “shocking” secret – that Harper even admitted the truth, and that was only after forcing Abby to watch her deny it yet it again. While I did love John (the gay best friend)’s entire speech about someone’s love not being the same thing as being ready to come out, there is nonetheless a ton of harm in forcing your partner watch that. It does affect them. It does disavow their identity at the same time, when they’re in a relationship with you. Her pattern of behaviour of throwing other people under the bus, like Riley, is very much intact.

I completely comprehend Harper’s fear of being rejected by her family. Apparently it was a well-founded fear, based on her awful, awful parents. That’s one of the reasons why the ending didn’t resonate for me at all: it wasn’t earned. Harper’s turn-around from being completely unwilling to have her parents know the truth to claiming that Abby was the only thing that mattered to her, came out of nowhere. It wasn’t a supported development. It happened too quickly. Similarly, the parents both going from being just about the worst parents on the planet to having a VERY sudden change of heart and behaviour, just happened unbelievably quickly. There was no questioning the entire history of their practises or what was wrong with them, no questioning how they’d treated any of their kids. The whole “consequence” for Ted was deciding, of his own accord, not to align himself with a politician who would force Harper to zip it – sorry, continue to zip it – about her identity. He shouldn’t have aligned himself with that woman in the first place. No one ever apologized to Abby about the way they treated her from start to finish, from patronizing her for being an orphan or the constant lack of respect shown her, to the false accusations of theft. Not a single part of it was atoned for at any point. Even Tipper being so disgusted with Abby’s ipad photography skills was disgusting. You just don’t talk to other human beings that way, and there was no resolution for me on any of this. There were also no consequences for Sloan’s horrific, SUPER-public outing of Harper, for Harper’s destruction of Jane’s painting, for the kids’ planting of the necklace on Abby, or for anyone’s horrendous treatment of Abby in general.

So yes: when you’re less than fifteen minutes out from the end of a supposed romantic comedy that was more upsetting to watch than entertaining or funny, and you’re actively rooting for the main character to walk away from her so-called partner and her toxic family, that’s not good. I’m not sold on the “romance” aspect, either. John (Dan Levy’s character) was the only good part of this movie, for me, and that’s overlooking his completely rude ignoring while on his phone at the beginning, or his negligent care of the animals he was supposed to be taking care of. (Gross, again – animals’ lives have value, too, and if my pet sitter killed my pet through negligence while I was away, I would be furious!) But his point about “sticking it to the patriarchy” in terms of Abby asking Ted for his permission/blessing to marry Harper was spot on. For all the hype about this being a progressive, lesbian, holiday rom-com, this film managed to perpetuate a lot of gross aspects of straight, white, misogynistic, heteronormative culture, like women being the property of their fathers and needing to obtain a male parent’s “permission” to marry another human being. The only person’s “permission” that was needed here was Harper’s, and then it’s not about permission – it’s about two adults making a consensual decision to commit themselves to each other. It’s great if you have the support of family – aka, BOTH parents, on BOTH sides – but that support is a bonus, not a prerequisite. Perpetuating the false dichotomy of family vs career for women only, is a harmful one to keep perpetuating. That question is never asked of men.

I was honestly kind of disgusted that Abby chose to stay with Harper by the end. I get it, but it definitely didn’t leave me with warm, romantic feelings. It left me with the deflated feeling I invariably experience whenever a woman makes the choice to be the bigger person and submit herself to a damaging situation or relationship. Mostly what I’m left with is anger that no one spoke up for Abby at any point, even John. That, and anger and sorrow over Jane’s painting. So yeah: it wasn’t as bad as bury your gays, but it also wasn’t really a happy ending for me, or super enjoyable to watch. Do better, Hollywood. Do a lot better.

#happiest season #reviews #lgbtq2+#bury your gays

39 notes · View notes

qvid-pro-qvo · 4 years

Text

we meet now and then on a winter’s day (and i am all the better for it)

rafael barba x female!reader.

word count: 13,187 (forgive me for either writing less than a thousand words or over 10k. one day i’ll learn moderation.)

rating: teen, for growing pains, and learning to love home no matter where you are (canon-typical mentions of sexual abuse/sex crimes).

link to it on AO3.

You’re too clumsy for your own good.

Your limbs are gangly, your feet are too big, and every step feels like a struggle to stay upright. It’s the worst of times, tenth grade.

And high schoolers are brutal, and you get a feeling it’s extra so in New York. They don’t take no for an answer, they laugh in your face and spit on you (figuratively… sometimes). Girls trip you in their stunning shoes that your feet could never fit in, poke at your knobby knees, and boys don’t even bother with you.

You’re new, and a loner, and can’t keep your books in your hands, and it all seems to combine into an ugly cocktail, one that makes you lash out. Other loners usually have one thing wrong with them. You have two left feet and a name no one knows. Easy target.

So you don’t see the three boys in front of you, walking home, because your head is ducked and your knees ache from the way you fell in the middle of the damn hallway. And one of them for sure doesn’t see you. He’s walking backwards, his mouth running, but you don’t hear anything either, not what he’s saying, not his friends who try to warn him in attempts of Spanish and English.

You feel the collision, though. It’s not violent, but the girth of his bookbag into your chest knocks you backwards onto your ass. You cry out in pain, one of your ankles catching underneath you, and it feels like something twists, hard enough to hurt.

Well. It wasn’t as if you were having such a good day before.

“Jesus fuck,” you hiss, and when you look up, a boy is leaning over you. His green eyes are startling, and you think he’s apologizing, but your eyes have to blink away some reflexive tears to really see the way his lips are moving. You’re still dazed, but you realize that it’s three of them, leaning over you, and you don’t like the way they’re staring.

“That’s what you get for running your mouth, Barba,” a boy teases, reaching forward to punch the kid directly above you in the shoulder. He takes it, but he’s still focused on you, those eyes not giving you a break. It makes your face redden, and you dip your chin, clench your jaw.

“Shut it, Eddie,” he says quickly, and it takes you a moment to recognize the words. You just manage a tight smile and groan as you shift off of your ankle. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you tell him. He nods at that, but he still doesn’t really take a step back. Just pulls up from his crouched position. “Really, just. Uh. Sorry, I guess.”

“You don’t have to give him an excuse,” the third boy informs her. “Hey, Rafi, give her some space, you don’t have to keep her on the ground.”

With that he pulls back, and you get a good look at them. The three of them are in uniform. You recognize the colors, your block a healthy mix of that particular school’s students and the P.S. you attended. The two behind the one who ran into you – what was it, Rafi? – have their ties undone, shirts untucked. The boy in front of you has his uniform perfect, however, and you watch as he lifts his hand to run through the front of his hair. He looks a little older, almost adult, and your limbs feel like the legs of a fawn, a jumbled heap. You know you look disheveled, in comparison, making you drop your eyes before you push yourself up.

“Can you stand?” he asks.

“Yes, I’m fine,” you bite out, and the day comes back to you in a wave, one that makes your eyes began to water. “Just. Leave me be, all right?”

“And leave you on the ground?” He scoffs like the implication itself is an offense. It’s as if he doesn’t recognize the scowl on your face as being directed towards him. “Come on, take my hand.”

He reaches out to you. His hand is almost shoved in your face, and you pull back for a moment before looking at the group of them.

They don’t seem… mean. Just… boys. Your mother’s voice sings in your head, reminding you that asking for help isn’t a weakness, just a fact of life. And while you wish that wasn’t true, the fact of life was also you were in a lot of pain.

With a sigh, you settle on reaching out and taking it, and when he starts to help pull you up the other two assist. You tried to ignore the prickle of your eyes, closing them as you were lifted from the ground.

However, your ankle gives out as soon as you put weight on it. You make it to your full height for a moment, before suddenly you’re falling forward again.

But they catch you. Rafi does, really, and the other boys help get you to standing. You ignore the look that the two of them give you, eye rolls and shared smirks.

“That ankle’s not going to take you home,” the Barba kid tells you. You glance down at it, wincing at the swelling, and he turns to his friends. “Let’s walk her.”

“Oh, no, did you break it?” Eddie asks, horrified, but that earns him a smack on the back of the head from the third friend.

“Que eres estúpido? Shut up, Eddie, it’s twisted at the worst.”

A snort left you. You can’t get a word in edgewise, the way they start clambering over each other, arguing, but you raise your voice, make yourself heard. “I’m just… hey, I’m just down the street, I can manage. You guys seem like you need to go somewhere.”

“Well, if you’re just down the street then it’s not a problem.” Rafi’s voice is matter of fact, and with a grin he reaches for your arm. “Alejandro, get the other side.”

“Rafi, no offense, but, uh, let Eddie handle that. You and me together will make her even more lopsided.” Alejandro has a grin, bright at the not-so-subtle dig.

“Eres el peor,” the boy mutters, and with a roll of his eyes, he pulls back, hands lifting in surrender.

Eddie and Alejandro laugh, and so do you, a little chuckle, more for the tone than the actual words. Their banter makes you forget your shitty day, focusing on the group of three as they tussle for a place at your side.

“Where do you live?” Rafi asks, and you point down the street.

“I’m the… fourth building on the right?” you guess, wincing as your foot dragged along the ground. “Fucking, fucking shit, lift it, lift.”

“You’re not exactly helping,” Eddie shoots at you, and your eyes roll, the urge to yank away overruled by common sense.

“I’m trying. Look, you can just leave me alone. It’s not broken, and I’ll make it,” you point out, but all that earns is a scoff from Rafi Barba, an eye roll as he turns to face the three of you as you hobble along.

“Not happening. Look, we’re almost there. Then we’ll leave you be, and you can tell your family how you were rescued by los tres mosqueteros de Jerome Avenue.” His eyes are alight with a kind of mischief, and Alejandro snorts next to him.

“Does it count if one of ‘em is the problem?”

You chat the rest of the way. They bombard each other with questions, and a couple to you, most of which you can’t manage to answer as they tease each other and poke and prod. A couple of times you stumble, but they’re there, keeping you upright, and Rafi makes sure that you don’t fall face first onto concrete. He walks backwards, then forwards, then backwards again, always making sure that you can hear him as he talks about whatever crosses the mind of the three.

It seems like a lifetime, but no longer than a minute or two. You walk, forward, forward, forward, and then you’re up against your building, leaning against it after forcing Eddie and Alejandro to let you go.

“I’ve just gotta buzz my mom,” you tell them. “Trust me, you’re free to go, I can make it.”

“Not likely,” Rafi’s incredulous at the suggestion, but you just roll your eyes. “You can barely stand up straight.”

He’s firmly planted. Eddie and Alejandro look more ready to skedaddle, bouncing on their toes as the cold hits them. Rafi is just staring, and you find yourself meeting his gaze, lifting your chin. “Look, I know you feel obligated, but I don’t make a habit of showing strangers my exact address –“

“And I would contend we’re not strangers. Acquaintances at the very least, maybe even friends. We know each other’s names; we’ve been quite friendly.”

“Oh, yeah? You know my name?”

The silence is deafening. That wins it. Because Rafi Barba, in all of his urgency, in all of their chatting, never once asked. None of them did. Which doesn’t hurt your feelings. It’s easy to pull away from people you don’t know, and you’d rather just make it up the rickety elevators in peace. Crawl into your bed and die from mortification and exhaustion.

You asked for help. Now the help was over.

“Look, you did your good deed for the day, I made it home,” you counter, “now please, can I get there on my own?”

Just then, the door opens. Your mom comes out, sees your swollen ankle, and that should be their cue.

“Oh, sweetie,” she hummed. “No more dancing for a while, huh?”

“Dancing?” Rafi asks, and he looks between you and your mother with curiosity.

“Nope, nothing,” you scramble to say. Those moments weren’t for anyone else, just the two of you. “Anyways, thanks so much, but I should really be getting upstairs, and… sleeping. Yes, sleeping. Okay, thanks again, bye!”

You turn to hobble away, hoping your mother will say goodbye and follow you. But instead, she just smiles at the boys and looks at each of them in turn, looking over their uniforms and identical grins, Eddie and Alex lingering back behind the real culprit.

“Thank you so much for bringing my girl home,” she tells them. Her smile is bright, almost incandescent. She has that way about her, your mother, the kind of face that everyone loves, the kind of laugh that everyone is drawn to. You wish you’d inherited that, instead of gangly limbs from a man you barely knew. “She always walks home alone, and it worries me every time.”

“Mom, they were nice and all, but they probably have lives,” you sigh out, and Eddie and Alex seem to agree. They already seem to be creeping away, but Rafi is stubbornly still. “Let them get home, get out of the cold.”

“Oh, all right, all right.” She reaches for you, wraps your arm around her shoulders, and you wince as it scrapes the floor again. “Thank you, boys.”

“We should get home, Barba,” Eddie calls out. “Tus padres estarán esperando, vamanos.”

Something passes across Rafi’s face. It’s quick, and dark, but it’s there, and he nods, his jaw clenching.

“Thank you,” you say again, and it’s a little more heartfelt, genuine. You even smile, a little, an effort to wash that sour look from his face. But you’re turning away, too, when you suddenly hear Rafi Barba call out to you.

“Your name?” he asks. “Just so I know what to yell next time we almost collide.”

“If he’s facing forward,” Eddie mutters to Alejandro, who you can hear snort and shove his toe against the sidewalk.

Your eyes roll, and you look over your shoulder at the boy. He waits, patiently, for the answer, even as Eddie and Alex start moseying down the sidewalk, and his smile is more a smirk, proud of himself when you give it to him, first and last.

He repeats it, gesturing to you and making sure he gets it right. And then he points to himself, his lips quirking again. “Rafael Barba.” He reaches for your hand, and when you hesitate, he raises a brow. Those eyes pierce you. “Not friends. But. Acquaintances?”

“Cute,” you retort, but you’re reaching to shake his hand without thinking about it, gloved hands warm in each other’s grip. “Deal.”

You don’t remember why the day was shitty anymore. Just that your ankle hurts, and you now know that his full name is Rafael.

College is complicated. College is sitting and studying in your dorm room and then sitting and studying someplace else. College is hitting your head as you wake up because you have the top bunk. College is crying with frustration over chemistry.

But college is also realizing you really like what the psych professor talks about. College is finally making some real friends, and mellowing out because of it. Your lashing out fades as your anger does, the realization that people can be kind. College is getting a job and not minding that either, because you don’t mind serving others coffee if you get it for free.

So you end up liking Hudson, overall. It’s nice. College, the feel, the people, they’re nice. And you’re close enough to home that you and your mom end up still having a little bit of a dance party every so often. New York isn’t too much of a home, it never will be, but Hudson and your friends and your mom are, and it’s… it’s good, for once.

The holidays approach. Your first real break is coming up, but so are finals, and so your eyes are forcing significant figures back into your brain as you walk to your mom’s place. You had promised her you’d take a break to have dinner, but as your eyes cross with the rules you’re realizing it’s becoming less and less likely that you’ll be able to stop and talk much at all.

Your feet start tangling. You’ve gotten better at walking (only took you nineteen years to really master it), but you’re distracted and frustrated, and it’s not long before you’re tumbling forward, knees scraping the pavement, elbow smacking against the ground. You’re lucky the fall is buffered by your heavy winter gear, but your arm goes numb anyway as you nail your funny bone. Your notes go flying, your knowledge of significant figures scattering across the walkway.

“Fucking shit,” you hiss, holding your arm against your body. It’s not broken, but it hurts like a bitch, and you start crawling over towards where your notes fell to start gathering them up when a pair of gloved hands join your sole functioning one.

“Thank you so much,” you start saying, not really looking up in case the bitter winter wind takes away your notes before you can reach them. “I’m so sorry you had to see that, I just wasn’t watching my feet.”

“It’s really okay. Are you all right?” a voice asks you, and when you look up to see the kind of stranger who would help a poor student out on the street, you’re assaulted by startling green eyes.

Suddenly a memory comes back to you, of a wintry street and an ankle that twinges now in remembrance. You don’t know why you remember, but it’s there, three years past suddenly right in your rearview.

“Are you all right?” he asks you, and you realize you’ve just been staring at him. But a name is struggling to come to the surface, and you blink a few times, still captured by those damn eyes.

“Uh,” you get out. Y’know. Intelligently. He just raises a brow.

“Do you… have these?” he tries, and you realize he’s been holding onto a stack of notes that he collected, holding them out to you.

It hits you, then, and you reach for the notes with such ferocity that he immediately drops his hand when you snag them. You remember.

“Rafael Barba,” you breathe out, blinking a bit.

A beat. “How do you know my name?” the stranger asks. But this guy isn’t exactly a stranger, and of course, he’s now seen you fall to the ground twice in one lifetime. Too many times, if the lifetime is asking you, but it’s not, and it’s still far from over.

You pull back, with your notes, absently trying to get them all right-side up. You’re seeing all of him now, kneeling on the ground, face red with the wind, and it’s definitely him. The slicked back hair, and he’s even wearing a sweater over a button up. Very Catholic school.

But all he knows is that a strange girl has been staring at him, openly, and just blurted his name out of nowhere. You scramble to explain yourself. “Sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, just – I – we’ve met,” you stammer out. “Briefly. We’re… acquaintances. I don’t even know how I remember, but you… you might remember my ankle better than me.”

You see him thinking. From furrowed with concern to suspicion. And then recognition, and he’s smirking and shaking his head, glancing around where the two of you are basically sitting on the concrete. He says your name, slowly, like he did that first time too long ago. “I was just thinking about how little things have changed,” he chuckles, and you smirk, shrugging. “Seems like I was right in more ways than one.”

“Well, I don’t think clumsiness goes away,” you admit, “and this time it wasn’t your fault, so you don’t have to walk me to my apartment if you don’t want to.”

He laughs. It’s short, but bright, and you smile, cutting it with a wince as you slide the backpack on your shoulders. “Might have to, to make sure you stay on both feet.”

“I’m sure I can make it,” you assure him, but when you straighten out the elbow you injured, your face contorts, and he winces in sympathy. “I can walk this time, at least. No getting carried by los – los tres mos –“

“Los tres mosqueteros,” Rafael tells you. His voice is soft, and his eyes are ducking now, watching the sidewalk as the two of you start to stumble to your feet. He doesn’t say it with reverence. Is it… is it bitterness? “Well, solamente un mosquetero aqui, pero… I hope that’s enough.”

Self-deprecating. It makes your nose wrinkle. While college mellowed you out, it only seemed to harden Rafi. “More than,” you tell him. “But… I should be heading home. Don’t want my mom to think I bailed on her.”

“I can take those,” he offers, gesturing to your notes, the book you have. Never mind you have a backpack; he offers and you end up taking it. You don’t really know why at first, but as the two of you walk towards your apartment it starts to come into focus.

He’s grown into his voice, his attitude. He’s not just older, he’s grown, and you find yourself studying him, if only because when he talks it’s hard not to look away. He’s handsome, with those green eyes and firm voice and quick turn of his lips. The lift of his chin, as he listens, gives you a smile. But the smile feels flinty. Even after offering to carry your books, your notes, you realize it’s more out of manners than kindness. But he takes them, and you’re walking side by side for long enough that you gather some courage.

“School out of state, then? If you had to come back, for family,” you ask, to keep the conversation going, knowing that as you reach your door it’s over.

“Harvard,” he tells you, and your eyes widen at the tone. He says it with force, as if he has to keep reminding himself as much as he reminds other people. “I’m planning to go to Harvard law, too, after I take my LSAT this summer.”

“Same,” you shrug. He almost trips over his own feet at that, and when he turns to you with a raised brow you just smirk. “I’m fucking with you, obviously. Hudson. For psychology. Right now. We’ll see.”

You don’t plan on feeling bad about it. It’s what you could get, and you’re proud of it. But there’s something about standing next to a Harvard student that makes you get defensive, ducking your head. He has a little smirk, too, and you find yourself glaring.

“It’s what I could get, and that’s fine, you know. I just want to help people –“

“I know, I know,” he laughs, shaking his head, and there’s nothing mean in it. “Just… fucking with you.” It’s the hesitation that gets you, the little hiccup of years of repression, and you just snort.

“That’s right. Catholic boy. I remember,” The jab comes out without warning, and he just blushes a little. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell if you don’t.”

His head is shaking again, and when he smirks it’s at you. “Trust me, I think my mother will know even if your lips are sealed.”

“Not worried about God?” you laugh, and he mimes glancing around the whole street.

“Trust me, my mother puts the fear of God into me without any help from the Almighty.”

And then you’re in. The conversation starts flowing more freely. He talks about his family. Talks about coming home, to see his mother, his grandmother. There’s something warm when he talks about the homemade holiday meals, the Christmas mass the group of them will attend. It’s just small talk, but you also know enough not to ask about Eddie and Alejandro, to keep walking with him, keep the topics light. He asks about your family, and you tell him it’s just you and Mom, and perhaps a Christmas dance party around the plastic tree.

“Christmas dance party?” It’s skeptical, but your shrug at him, smiling at the memories of years past.

“Family tradition. I dance, my mom laughs. In the end, we end up usually knocking off some ornaments, maybe upturning a tray of cookies.”

“The whole thing?” Skepticism turns to incredulity, and you snort.

“I have a list of casualties. Three trays of cookies, one pan of brownies, a very nice-looking angel. This isn’t even counting the stuff at New Year’s…“

Rafael’s head is shaking, but you’re just dissolving into giggles as the list expands. All at once, you’re telling him about the time you tripped over an armchair right into a perfectly fine plate of muffins on Christmas morning, and he’s either too polite or too horrified to stop you. But in the end, he laughs. At you, probably, but he’s smiling again, and there’s no putting himself down anymore. Just listening to you take your clumsiness in stride.

Tt’s nice. At least you think so. There are bits of laughter that echo down the street, yours and his, and as your door approaches you find yourself dreading it a little. You missed your friends, and this was… close to something.

“Well,” you say, when the two of you arrive. The door is firmly closed, to keep the cold out, and you reach for the buzzer, turning back to look at Rafael with a smile. He hands over your notes, and you ignore the twinge in your elbow to grip everything firmly. “Thanks. For the company. Not thinking about finals was worth the tumble.”

“I was… also glad for the distraction. It’s been a while since I’ve been home and...” He doesn’t elaborate any further, but his face looks a little pinched, and you nod. Family… friends. It’s complicated.

After a moment, though, he’s looking at you as the two of you hear the door click unlocked. “You’ll get through it, though. Finals. I know it,” he assures. “And then it’s just seven more after that. Trust me, I have three left. It gets better.” He’s watching you, as you rub your arm, and though his brow pinches again, he manages a little smile. “It was good to see you again. Glad I didn’t end up doing permanent damage.”

“Well, I don’t know, future lawyer,” you tease. “Maybe once you get all rich and famous I’ll send something about damages your way. Remind you that I knew you when.”

He huffs out a little scoff, shaking his head. “Future psychologist, right? Don’t you want to practice what you’re going to preach? Forgiveness? Acceptance?”

“Where’s the fun in that? I’d rather humble you, Harvard boy.” When he scoffs again, it’s with a hand raised to you, turning back towards where you know his mother must live, the same direction he walked those years before.

As you move toward the door, pulling it open, you pause, looking back over your shoulder. He’s walking away, hands in his coat’s pockets, elbows shaking a little with the cold.

“Take care of yourself, Rafael,” you call out. “Happy holidays, too!”

Another wave, and he’s gone, and you find yourself thinking about those eyes a little later, distracting you from those significant figures you were so desperate to save.

Fuck grad school. Really.

You don’t know what possessed you, when you decided to go. Probably the same thing that possessed you to push to graduate a year early, and the same thing that encouraged you to decide on a doctorate at Fordham instead of a M.S. and moving on.

Masochism. Obviously.

But you’re stuck with it, and every three days you regret it. A new assignment, a long-ass reading, a book you want to throw out of your apartment’s window – it’s too much, and you don’t do enough, and pretty soon you’re drowning. On top of that working, so you and your mom can keep your apartment, buy her medication, and keep the world turning, things that start to feel impossible.

Does everyone feel like this? you want to scream in the world. Does every student after undergrad hate themselves?

You know the answer is yes, but you wish you could hear it from someone besides yourself. Because your mom, bless her, refuses to let you quit, still taking time to dance with you when you need it.

You just don’t want to fail. You can’t fail. So you keep pushing, and find yourself cooped up in libraries, in coffee shops, wherever-the-fuck will take you, doing what you can as long as you can, as much as you can.

There are places you end up frequenting, in the search for a place to get work done, and end up, like most grad students, in a coffee shop. The dim lighting sometimes hurts once you hit your page limit, but the coffee is cheap and strong, and they let you linger in a corner booth with your books all spread out on the table. It’s worth the carpal tunnel, the edges of the tabletop digging into your wrist, because you get shit done.

So it comes as a surprise that your safe haven, your perfect locale, is occupied by Rafael Barba.

At first you don’t even recognize him. When you first notice him, after all, he’s already sitting down, and you can’t see his face. He just looks like another student, after all, bent forward and buried in a book that is even bigger than yours. But when he stands to go get another coffee, and you catch sight of him, it’s immediate.

Of course, he doesn’t see you. Just goes back, sits down with a giant mug, and keeps chugging along.

You keep your smile to yourself, look down at the pages you’ve lost your place in and do your best to get back on track, but now you’re distracted, and Rafael is still just there. It would’ve been less shocking, maybe, if you had perhaps known he’d be in town? But now you’re just thinking about the last time you saw him, the way he laughed, smiled at you before he left…

Oh, fuck it. You just think he’s handsome.

But… it’s been a few years. There’s no way he remembers you, confirmed by the way you stand, to go get another coffee, and he doesn’t even glance up.

So you resolve yourself to doing nothing, acting on nothing. Besides, you have actual work to do, and the third cup of coffee should probably be your last before you’re bouncing off of the walls. But when you turn around, to head back to your seat, you definitely make an impression on Rafael Barba, and the impression is the massive stain on the front of his shirt.

“Oh, my god,” you cry out, and he can’t say anything, the two of you just staring at the mess. “I’m – I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you – oh, god, your shirt.”

“It’s… okay,” he sighs, and he seems to be in just as much shock. You move to grab some napkins from a table. His voice is dry, when he speaks again. “Isn’t a holiday back in the Bronx without some kind of disaster.”

You wince at the wording, but keep blotting, and then your handful of dirty napkins is useless. You pull back, and you think you’ve actually made it worse, but Rafael is just smirking at you.

“I think… it’s beyond help. But thank you for trying.”

The napkins hang limp from your hands. You feel like an idiot, but Rafael just keeps that smirk as you go to throw them away and turn back. When you do, he’s still standing there.

“I didn’t burn you, did I?” you ask him. “That was a fresh cup, I –“

“Really, it’s fine. A shirt. I’ll survive.”

He looks even better up close. Eyes bright, playful, smart. He seems to look you over with an appraising eye, and you don’t know if you measure up but you hope you do. There’s no hint of remembering, but there’s something, and you glance over at your table.

“Well. I owe you,” you say. “For the shirt, at the very least. How much is your dry cleaning? I have some cash.”

He scoffs, and you’re thrown back to high school, that same scoff telling you that you can’t possibly stumble home alone. “No, that’s not going to happen. You’re not paying for my dry cleaning.”

“Then something,” you say.

He takes a moment. Looks over you. Eyes narrow as he turns to your table, the papers fluttering in the heater’s breeze.

“Coffee? We both look like we can use a break.” And then he smiles, and you’re swooning.

He ends up sitting at your table, brings his book over to stack on top of one of yours. The two of you get to chatting, just small talk, and about halfway through your coffees it seems to click with him.

“Do I – have we met before?”

You just chuckle, shaking your head. “Believe it or not, yes. This is not the first time I’ve stumbled in front of you.”

His eyes widen. “I couldn’t place you, I thought I was –“

“Crazy? No. It’s just been… years. And each time, somehow, I manage to take a spill.”

“Clumsy, then?” he asks, teasing, and you snort.

“I wish I could say you just catch me at bad times, but. Yeah. I’m a certifiable mess.”

He laughs, and you chuckle, and the two of you keep talking the hour away. By the time you’re done with your coffee you’ve ordered a pastry, too, and for some reason you keep doubting the fact that he’s been looking at you with bright eyes the whole time.

But when the meal is done, you end up packing up your books, getting ready to leave. You say it’s because you should be getting home, but really it’s because you think if you stay there in the booth any longer, you’ll do something crazy, like ask him out. But instead of letting you go, he offers to walk with you, and the two of you leave the shop together.

“So, you stuck around, huh?” he asks, and you can’t help but notice the tone of his voice. “You enjoy the Bronx that much?”

“I figured Hudson U was enough distance between me and my mom. Fordham had the program I wanted, plus, I could stay back and take care of her.”

He huffs a little laugh. Something about it rankles you, but you put it behind you, and the two of you keep walking.

After that, you start to notice other things. Like that fact that he doesn’t stop bringing up Harvard. At first, you deal with it, because yes, it is a big deal. A kid from the Bronx, ending up at Harvard Law? But he won’t, and can’t, shut up about it, and it makes you antsy.

Other ways, too. Talking about Boston like it’s the be-all, end-all. Mentioning how if he came back to work, he’d settle in Manhattan, not back home.

“I want to become a judge, at some point, and Manhattan’s the best way to get there,” he explains, and you nod, but it keeps… bugging you.

“I’m sure,” you concede. “But I don’t know. I like it here. The people, the town.”

When he scoffs, it’s almost cruel, and your heart aches at the way he dismisses it, all with a hand wave. “Yeah, but, Hudson isn’t doing anyone any favors. You should try to head out, spread your wings. Manhattan’s always in need of psychologists.”

Maybe it’s supposed to be nice, some advice. Yet, advice you didn’t ask for, and to you, all it says is that all he can remember about you is the unfortunate undergrad you went to. It infuriates you, makes you halt walking, your bag with all of your books jostling against your back.

“Oh, my god. You truly think you’re doing me a favor just by talking to me, don’t you?” you say, and he just rolls his eyes at you.

“Of course not, that’s not what I meant.” But it’s the final straw, and no longer does Rafael Barba look handsome. He just looks like an ass.

Part of it is that you’re tired, stressed, overwhelmed. Talking instead of studying. But all you can focus on is his tone, his act. “You think you’re so much better than me. What, because you… you ‘got out of here?’ Out of shitty apartments and neighborhoods, and you can already see the big bucks?” you sigh, and Rafael’s brow only raises at you, looking down his nose at you like that’s how they’re trained at Harvard Law. Maybe they are – an image comes to mind of students preparing to pass the bar by practicing evil smirks and sharp looks.

“Look, I had to fight to get to where I am now, and I’m always fighting to stay there, you understand? I come home to visit, and I’m just saying that you could be wherever you wanted to be,” he tries, but you’re past rational thought. “Come on, don’t you want to get out?”

“Barba, this is where I want to be,” you tell him, but when he raises his brow, you put your hands up in surrender. In the end, you’re too exhausted to be truly angry at him. You simply shake your head and begin the long trek back to your apartment, the glory of the coffee shop well behind you.

“Where are you going?” he asks, and you just shrug one shoulder as you walk away, turning to look at him over your shoulder. There’s a stinging in your eyes, but you tell yourself it’s just the bite of the wind.

“I’m not going to let you bully me, Rafael. I got enough of that in high school. If you want me to pay for your dry cleaning, or your shoes, I’ll do it, but I won’t let the payment of some spilled coffee be me spending time as your punching bag.”

“Bullying you? So, I’m bullying you now?” It’s incredulous, his question.

You turn on your heel to face him.

“Harvard isn’t an excuse,” you snap. “Just because you got to go off and do great things doesn’t mean the people who stay here are somehow lesser. Like we’re not accomplishing anything. And right now, you’re really acting like it.”

A beat.

“And it’s Fordham, now, asshole. At least get it right.”

You don’t wait around to hear his response. You’re walking off, and the only thing you hear is the wind whipping around you.

The ride back is lonely and the scent of coffee has gone rancid. It just feels like another slap in the face, a reminder that no matter how hard you work there will always be something, someone. You’re discouraged, more than a little. When you make it back to the apartment you share with your mother, you’re on the wrong side of miserable, and your reading that you’re already behind on gets more than a little neglected as you choose to watch something on TV, a warm cup of cocoa instead of the coffee you craved.

But it’s halfway through your own pity party that the way Rafael Barba looked at you makes your mouth curl into a sneer, and about two-thirds through the second movie that you realize you’ve wasted the day. Horrifying. All over a man who did nothing but look down at you, for being home, still.

A fire you needed, and looked for, when you started grad school. Besides helping people, why else did you want a doctorate? What was going to push you to getting that damn Ph.D. and across the finish line?

In the end, it’s the feeling of squirming under Rafael Barba’s gaze. Harvard Law or not, the fucker shouldn’t have looked at you like that. Shouldn’t have talked to you like that. And by the time you’re stomping over to your books and opening it with a vengeance, you’ve made a deal with yourself that no one will ever talk to you like that ever again.

Fuck Rafael Barba. He could have his juris whatever, settle in Boston or Manhattan. You were getting a practice, to help the people in your borough, and one of these days he’d have to look at you and refer to you as doctor who got her degree from Fordham whether he wanted to or not.

You should’ve gone with the slacks. The slacks don’t have a hem that needs to be tugged down every twenty seconds, that’s for sure, and the feeling of your skirt’s hem is all you can focus on. The way it slides up as you hustle to the elevator, the way it rides as you sit on the subway. By the time you get to where you’re going, you’re going crazy, your hair frizzing with the energy.

Not to mention, it’s fucking cold while you wait, your knee bouncing as you sit in an endless hallway, waiting for them to call your name.

But you look better in the skirt. You feel better in the skirt, you rock the skirt, and for an oral defense you want to feel your best, so. It’s the skirt. The skirt, and those heels with a splash of color, and when you leave and get a good distance from the clear glass door you get to pump your fist and dance in the skirt.

You did it.

You’re going to be a doctor. You’re going to be a psychologist. Someone’s going to meet you, for the first time, and call you by your title, and come to you for help.

And you’ll be able to help them. On your own. Terrifying, but it gives you a rush, the strength of which makes your head spin, makes your eyes cross just a little. Your fingers move to text your boss, your mother.

“I did it.”

You whisper it to yourself the whole way back. All that’s left is the rest of your internship, and then you’re home free. You’re done. You’re a doctor.

“The worst part is over,” Dr. Olivet reminds you when you make it back to her offices, “but there’s still work to be done.”

“I know, I know,” you tell her, lifting your hands. “I still have to finish my work here, and there’s, you know, getting a job…”

“But you did it.” Her voice is warm, and you’re not afraid to give another little dance, and she obliges you with a hug.

It’s sweet. It’s more than sweet, and your eyes are brimming with tears. God, you have to call your mom. A text isn’t enough, you have to tell her everything –

A hand reaches out to stop you with a gentle touch on your arm. You hadn’t even realized you were talking out loud, but thankfully you’re done in an instant. “You can call her on the drive. We have a full day, then the Brooklyn DA’s office.”

The thought makes you wince. “Two birds with one stone, hopefully?” you ask her, but she just shakes her head, the excitement from the morning bleeding into preemptive exhaustion in the blink of an eye.

Long day is right, when it comes to the law. There’s never been a time when cops have been your biggest fans, but it seems the tensions are always high with them. Nowadays, at least with Olivet, the two of you prefer to go straight to the D.A., when he calls, simply because at least as an expert witness, there’s some respect.

Some. But it’s there.

But not always.

So, the two of you make the journey to Brooklyn, a forty-minute commute from Manhattan, and by the time you show up at the Kings County D.A.’s office, you’re already exhausted. The D.A.s that Olivet consult with are nice enough, you suppose, for lawyers, but only because they have to be. It’s part of the position, and if they want to be re-elected, they don’t want a reputation of being hard to work with. But the A.D.A.s tend to sprint first, ask too many questions later, and every moment is a battle.

But when you get there, head up to the office that Olivet was told to go, there’s a pair of striking green eyes that lift from their spot on a stack of files to meet yours, widening when yours do. They’re matched with a pale lavender tie, and a grey ensemble that compliments him nicely. You suppose it’s made for that, considering how it’s tailored.

The room isn’t posh. The opposite, in fact, a couple of chairs in front of a desk, a table to the side with various books to add onto the bookcase full of them. But there’s flair, and clutter in equal spades. It feels worked in, maybe even lived in, judging by the only other piece of furniture being a couch behind you.

It’s been a long time since high school and wintry streets in the Bronx, that’s for sure, for you and for Rafael Barba.

He stands when the two of you step into the room, and moves around the desk. You watch and wonder what he remembers from the last time you stumbled into each other, but his body language doesn’t betray a whole lot besides his exhaustion. You wonder if he can see the same in you, or if the tapping of your finger against your side is informing him just what you think of him. The great lawyer from Boston, here instead of the Bronx. Never going back home, just like he wanted.

His jacket is off, and you can see the vest and slacks of a three-piece suit as he moves to greet you, sleeves rolled up, a couple of blinks as he takes the two of you in.

“Mr. Barba,” Olivet says politely, reaching out her hand. “You’re the A.D.A. we’re working with, then?”

“Doctor.” His voice is formal, and when he shakes it, there’s a quick one-two before he releases, turning to you without hesitation. “Yes, I don’t think we’ve had the opportunity to meet officially. Rafael Barba, thanks for coming.”

“Mr. Barba,” you greet him, when he turns to you, and when the two of you shake there’s a twitch. “It’s a... pleasure.”

How’re you doing, Harvard boy? Still looking down your nose? is what you want to say, what you remember from him, but you manage a little self-control. You think he reads your mind, and it makes him nod.

“The pleasure’s mine,” he returns. So, he does recognize you, because the familiarity has to the be the unexpected warmth you hear. Or maybe amusement, because your last attempt at friendliness was resolved with little more than chills in the air. “Intern for what exactly?”

There’s a spark in his eyes, and you find yourself lifting your chin. No stumbling at this meeting, just two kids from the Bronx, all grown up. God forbid he thinks for a moment that you ran away and gave up. “For my doctoral courses at Fordham. In about four months, I’ll be a clinical psychologist like Dr. Olivet. She’s who I’ve been training under.”

You dare him to say something. To make a dig.

“Fascinating.” It’s what he settles on. He seems actually impressed,, when he looks at you, and you try to ignore the way his smile makes your heart pound. It’s just because he’s a handsome man in a three-piece suit and smiling, not because he’s Rafael Barba. After all, Rafael Barba was pretty sure you’d never get out of the Bronx, and downright rude because of it. “Shall we get started, then? I want to know everything I can about this guy.”

“Of course,” Olivet returns, and the three of you get situated to get to work.

It’s long. It’s exhausting. By the end of the day, your head is pounding, and Olivet and Barba have exchanged enough words to fill a novel, trying to argue the benefits and the harm of taking this particular offender to trial. He wants to get an answer to his boss by the end of the day, and your boss is not one to make it easy for ease’s sake. You had taken the role of notator, going through the files offered and marking anything for Elizabeth, and the back and forth had made you dizzy. After all, after everything, Rafael Barba was a great lawyer, a fantastic prosecutor, according to a Google search during a break. Leave it to him to make your eyes blur.

“The precedent is set for it,” Barba repeats, for the third time. He’s gone from sitting, to pacing, to sitting again, his eyes closed as he runs a hand through his hair. “And the defense is going to argue that his illness is an excuse for his behavior.”

“I know what the precedent says,” Olivet returns, for the third time. “But I also know that while diagnoses are never an excuse for a behavior, they can explain one. It’s what the defense will argue. His impulse control without his medication – which he has a right to refuse – is significantly lowered –“

“But not completely. Mr. Nelson understands what he did was wrong, he basically confessed –“

Your eyes roll, and you find yourself speaking before you can think. “In an interrogation room in which his counsel, which he did not waive, was not present. Just because he has a diagnosis in the DSM-V does not make him any less deserving of a proper interrogation.”

The two of them turn to look at you, Olivet with a smile, Barba with a scowl. His face pinches as his eyes scan you, and you just stare back.

He may be where he belongs, in a three-piece suit, but you’re where you need to be, too. And he needs to make sure he understands that, because the last thing you’re gonna let him do is underestimate you again.

“No one is saying that,” Barba starts, but you just raise a brow at him.

“If I’m looking at these transcripts correctly, something tells me the cops themselves said that. Look, Mr. Barba, Dr. Olivet and I might not be this man’s direct health care providers, but we still have a duty to advocate for him.” You glance over at your boss, and her hand is covering her mouth, but you see the edges of a smile in her tired eyes. “If I were a doctor, and an expert for the other side, I would make sure my team knew the violations that occurred in that room.”

The room is silent. When Barba looks at the doctor, she just drops her hand, the smile replaced with a somewhat-serious look that threatened an I-told-you-so. “I’d be saying the same thing. She’s right.”

A new energy flashes between the two of you, and when Barba contemplates his options, his lips a little pursed, it’s with you staring him down. It’s a sparring match, your gazes, and it’s a firm draw. That alone seems to perturb Rafael enough for him to relent, just a little. “I’ll worry about the… legality of the confession,” he sighs out. His pages flick to a different section, and he glances over it. “We’re all tired here, so I’ll wrap, but I need to know if he’s competent for the stand without his medication. That’ll be the last thing we cover today.”

“If he’s not a danger to himself or others, then getting him to take it will be difficult legally,” Olivet reminded him. “But. I’ll do an evaluation. See what we can determine while he’s off.”

Another time, another date is set, for the evaluation. You and Dr. Olivet start getting ready to go, and the polite farewells are given and gone.

But before you leave, and the handshakes are made, Rafael looks you over, from head to toe. It’s quick, but you catch it, and it’s before he turns to Dr. Olivet and nods.

“I’ll be seeing both of you, then? Day after tomorrow?”

If it makes your cheeks flush, you don’t mention it, especially not when he glances back at you again, gives you another handshake with a firm squeeze.

“Both of us,” you affirm, inform, and then you’re gone, Rafael Barba’s office behind you, something else entirely in front.

“You know, he never asked you your name, when we went in,” Olivet notes, on the ride back. It’s mild, nothing really there, but the two of you have worked together long enough that you know there’s a million unasked questions down that rabbit hole.

Your eyes don’t leave the windshield. “Oh, yeah. Uh, we lived on the same street. He – him and his friends, really – they almost broke my ankle, my sophomore year of high school.”

A hum from her makes you break from your trance, and you see the edges of her lips curl up. “No, no,” you clarify. “It wasn’t like that, it was never like that. I’ve only seen him, what, three times over the years? He’s just someone I see every so often. New York is the smallest city in the world, I guess.”

“Will this be a problem?” she asks next. You find your cheeks flaring again, turning from the windshield to your own window.

“Nothing there for it to be. Last time didn’t end so well, but… we’re past that. We’re adults.”

Right?

When she laughs, it’s a gentle prod in the direction you were already going, nothing more than fuel to the fire that you barely understood was being lit.

“Well, I know for sure he didn’t shake my hand twice, and I’m the one who’s going to be on the stand for him if this goes to trial. Maybe last time didn’t end as poorly as you thought.”

You refuse to think about it, though. For a little while. After all, it’s work that has to be done, and you’re not across the finish line, yet, so you show up prompt and on time two days later to assist Dr. Olivet with her evaluation and the conclusions that are inevitably drawn. You don’t end up coming until the end of the workday, and when you’re finished it’s well into evening.

“He’s unaware that what he said in the interrogation room amounted to a confession,” she tells Barba, afterwards. After watching the whole thing, the way that you and Olivet had slowly gained trust and revealed the truth, the clench of his jaw is mighty. “There’s no way he gave it willingly.”

“You’re certain?” When he turns to look, it’s at both of you, equally, his eyes flicking back and forth before looking back into the room where you had left him. His voice sounds exhausted, and for a moment you feel pity for him.

You open your mouth to speak, but he cuts you off with a hand wave. “Don’t bother. I know the answer.” His frustration is apparent, and you find yourself sharing a glance with Dr. Olivet before nodding. “So, we have nothing.”

“Nothing except someone who needs to return home to his family,” you tell him, and his shoulders slump. It’s not meant to be a jab, but when he looks at you again there’s something in his eyes that tells you he takes it as such.

“Right. Of course. I’ll talk to the captain.” He sounds so worn, and you almost feel sorry for him.Your smile is sympathetic, but he’s not really looking at you. There’s something that tells you to walk away, another part that insists you stay, figure this man out.

“Mr. Barba?” Dr. Olivet murmurs. “I’ll get a full write-up of what I saw here to you tomorrow, but we really should be going now.”

And that makes him straighten, his manners coming back to him as he gestures towards the door. “Right, yes, of course. Thank you so much for your help, Dr. Olivet. Miss Y/L/N.”

“Not a problem,” you say, and the two of you part. No fanfare. No nothing. Just. Done.

You don’t realize how distracted you are until you’re standing by Dr. Olivet’s car, ready to take the two of you back to her office, where you can return to the Bronx.

“Are you all right?” she asks you, and you realize you’ve been fingering the handle for a minute, as she rummages for her keys.

“Yeah, just. Thinking.”

After another minute, Olivet curses. “I must’ve left them inside. Do you mind if we head back in?” When there’s no protest, the two of you walk quickly to get out of the cold, and you find yourself hoping against hope that Rafael Barba is still in there, that there’s something more you can say.

Your head is down, your eyes are closed to protect from the wind. So you don’t see the door, nor notice when it swings out. Neither does the other person behind it, and you feel the edge of it nail you in the forehead.

You’re stunned, stumbling backwards. Your fingers come up to press on where the door hit you, and the person behind the door is muttering curses. A couple of hands come to steady you, and luckily there’s no blood on your hand when you pull it away.

“Are you all right?” a voice asks you, and you have to blink to let the face focus.

“Just when I thought there’d be no stumbling around this time,” you groan, and Barba’s small smile to you is brimming with concern.

“Completely my fault,” he sighs. “Are you okay?” You’re still blinking, but the dots connect, and you realize that Rafael Barba is the one who smacked your head.

Goddammit. And you just starting to like the guy again.

“I got a door to the face, I’ve been better. Fuck, I’ve gotta be careful what I wish for,” you groan.

“Let’s get you to a chair,” Olivet whispers, and the stars you’ll still seeing start to fade as you stumble to a seat in the entryway of the precinct. “Mr. Barba, do you mind staying here with her? I think I left my keys upstairs, and I need them to take her home.”

“Doc, you don’t have to do that,” you tell her, but the lights in the place are killing your eyes. Quickest concussion you’ve ever gotten, you assume, and Barba indeed tells her that he’s got you. Heels click away, toward the elevator, and even the ding makes you wince.

There’s silence, for a few moments. Quiet, as you hold your head in your hand. After a few moments, you’ve realized Barba’s left and returned, holding out a cold water bottle to you.

“Another thing I owe you for?” you ask him, and you must be imagining his wince as you hold it up to your forehead.

“I think by this point we’ve come full circle,” Rafael tells you. “I’m truly sorry, I just didn’t see you when I pushed the door open.”

A brow raised in disbelief, and you tilt your head up so he can see your scorn. “Aren’t the doors clear?”

“My phone,” he offers, and you scoff.

There’s silence again. His shoes are tapping against the tiled floor, and you switch hands as condensation drips down your arm. It sends a chill through you.

“Do you… need my coat?” he asks, and you can’t help but raise a brow at him again.

“I have my own coat,” you tell him, bluntly, and it almost looks like… wait.

Is he blushing?

“I know, just… do you – do you need another one?”

So. This is the great Harvard graduate Rafael Barba, stumbling over his words, offering you a coat. If anything told you he remembered what happened way back when, and felt bad about it, it was that. You’re chuckling a little now, the anger passing into disbelief.

“How bad does your head hurt?” he asks, horrified, but you just keep laughing, dropping the water bottle and leaning back in your seat.

It’s a full-on cackle right now. “You’re telling me this isn’t hilarious?” you ask him. Gesturing between the two of you, the bottle in your hand, the offer of the extra coat. “Every time we meet, something goes horribly wrong, doesn’t it? We can’t just have a coffee, I have to spill it on you. We can’t just catch up, I have to vow vengeance.”

He raises a brow at that, but you wave him off. “I don’t know. I guess I’m telling you that maybe this is what we’re meant to be, Barba. Bad luck for each other.”

Rafael murmurs something, in Spanish. Repeats it, even, but you can’t catch it.

“What?” you finally ask, and he looks at the water bottle next to you and shakes his head.

“I’m saying that’s not true. You’re not bad luck. You… helped me.”

It’s your turn to raise your brow, and you have a feeling if you knew him a little more, it’d be a perpetual expression. But he keeps plowing forward. “You know, when you walked away, last time? I watched you the whole way down the block. I couldn’t stop thinking about how you… said I was using Harvard as an excuse.”

He leans back. Tilts his chin up, and you find yourself watching the line of him. He seems to sink into the seat like it’s the first time he’s sat for a week.

“Excuse to do what, I didn’t know. So I tried to ignore it, and then… it just kept… sitting in the back of my head, the sight of you, looking at me –“ He cuts himself off, and you watch him sit up again, rest his elbows on his knees.

“What?” You prod him, move your knee to hit his, and he sighs, both hands over his face.

“You were right. Harvard was my excuse. It was a way out, but I forgot home on the way. Forgot my mother, in everything, my grandmother. Took steps away from them, and ended up losing sight of myself.”

All of that because of what you said? Something twists inside of you, and you shake your head, lifting the bottle back up to where a good bruise is forming. “You don’t have to feel guilty for working, Rafael,” you murmur to him. “For having a dream. I saw you, and I – I saw a guy who got it all, and I took my frustrations out on you. I’m sorry, for making you think that going out and accomplishing what you have means you’re not – not, y’know. You. I barely know you, for fuck’s sake.”

The curse makes his lips twitch, but he doesn’t look away. “But you never lost sight of home. You were always right there, where you needed to be,” he urges, and you shake your head.

“And that’s me. I love home. I love being home. But maybe you needed to get out. I don’t know your life,” you laugh. “I would love to, but I don’t and… and maybe you needed to step away from… family, from friends, to find yourself. Look at you, you’re an A.D.A. in Kings County. I know you’ve got headlines already. That’s just who you seem to be. You’re the Harvard boy. Don’t feel guilty about that on my account, it’s a big accomplishment.”

A pause.

“But the Bronx isn’t so bad, if you ever wanted to journey back every so often. Not a bad thing to remind yourself where you came from.”

“I don’t think I can forget,” Rafael admits. “Es en mi sangre, just like being a lawyer is.”

Then he smirks. “Plus, those pants still have a stain right on the hem. I keep meaning to throw them out.”

You snort, loud, and then shift to face him. It’s uncomfortable, the little bench the two of you are on, but the position is worth it. “Seems like you’re investing in good-fitting suits. Might be time.”

Olivet is taking forever, it feels like, but you don’t mind. This has been good, a resolution to things, and you don’t really want it to end. Even if it means that you can get home and nurse your head.

“You know, you’re the one who got me through my first year of my Ph.D.,” you blurt out. “After our last meeting I vowed you’d call me doctor. That’s what I meant… by vow vengeance.”

“So you…”

“Yeah. I guess that means you’re good luck, huh?”

He’s agape. “You pushed through grad school out of spite for me?”

“Yup.” The ‘p’ pops in your mouth, and his eyes flicker down to your mouth before he can stop himself.

And then, there’s a beat. And then he’s laughing. His laugh, when it’s light, and free, is contagious, for sure. Shaking his head, running a hand through gelled hair. When he pulls it away, the mess makes it look softer, and you get the sudden urge to run fingers through it.

Damn concussions.

You have enough sense not to mention the craving. You just smile, and drop the water bottle in favor of shoving a hand towards him for a good shake.

He looks at your hand. It’s offered to him in a symbol of peace, but he looks so skeptical still, as if you’ll call him out on not calling home every now and again.

“Since I’m not your bad luck, then. Friends?”

There’s no hesitation. He’s grabbing your hand, firm and warm, and the one-two shake seals the deal.

“Friends,” he concedes, and the two of you sit on that damn bench, the silence more than a little comfortable.

His coat does end up around your shoulders, eventually. It’s nice, another layer of warmth with the windows to your back. It seems silly, but it feels like a shield, a layer of protection.

Olivet comes down eventually. She doesn’t comment on the second coat, but you see her head tilt a little as you stand, hand it back to him.

“You know where to find me, if you’re ever in town,” you tell him, and he nods.

“I’ll see you around, Miss Y/L/N.”

Your grin stretches across your face. It hurts your head, a little, but it’s worth it. “You’ll call me doctor, one day. Next time one of us almost kills the other.”

His smile back is warm. “I have no doubt.”

When you and Olivet leave, she’s just humming a little. You don’t say anything, but when the two of you get in her car, she pulls her keys from the depths of her purse, starts the engine. You realized that you didn’t see them in her hand when she left the elevator, and the dots connect even with the way your brain has been rattled.

The sight makes your eyes widen. “Were they –“

She laughs now. “Oh, you know things like that. Not a problem, we’ll just take you home now.”

“Now?” Your voice is cracking a little with the indignation.

“Now. If we hurry, I’m sure your dinner will still be warm.”

Rafael watches as Liv’s voice gently soothes the woman, her eyes flicking back and forth between the Lietenant and Carisi. There’s hesitation in her statement, the kind that makes the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

When the two of them leave the interrogation room, he’s clear, or as clear as he can be. “She just confessed to murder, and right now that’s all the D.A. is going to see.”

Carisi’s response isn’t exactly friendly, but Barba looks up at the detective steadily, trying not to let his eyes roll. “You’re telling me you don’t believe her?”

“I’m saying that we’ve already had two victims recant their statements, for one reason or another. Their unwillingness to testify against Mr. Jones gives us very little in terms of evidence,” he sighs out. There’s a weariness as he looks at the woman, moving to lean against the glass and watch as she lays on the couch to rest. He wants to do the same, sometimes. Let his exhaustion take over. “I want to know what she knows about the situation, what she thinks. Otherwise, it’s a cut and dry case, and she gets locked away.”

“But she came to us, Barba,” Liv offers, looking at him with those pleading eyes of hers. They know how to sink right into his soul, and he ducks his gaze for a moment to collect himself. He has no time for being tired, and there’s something infectious about her conviction. But he needs more than a detective’s gut instinct and a lieutenant’s insistence. “We can’t just let her sink. She doesn’t belong in Rikers, she needs help.”

There’s a long silence, and Rafael finds himself sipping from a cup of coffee that has long gone cold. It’s Carisi that speaks up, those classes at Fordham law behind him. “What about a psychiatric evaluation? If an expert can sign off on her testimony, perhaps back up the fact that she was indeed abused, then as a battered woman…”

“Fordham law strikes again,” Barba quips, and then winces at his next sip. Such a shame the precinct couldn’t afford better coffee. Or more skilled coffee makers. “I can see who the D.A.’s office has lined up for those kinds of calls.” He looks between the two cops. “I don’t usually do the defense’s job for them, but this…”

“Is different.” Liv fills in the blanks, and he offers a small smile to her as he moves to the door. “I think we’re rubbing off on you, Barba.”

“God help us all,” he throws back, and her and Carisi’s chuckles are what leave him as he pulls out his phone.

The calls are straightforward. First to Carmen, who finds the list of names and numbers, and then to those names from his desk, seeing who is available as soon as possible for a psychiatric workup. There are options that she trims down, out of the goodness of her heart, leaving him with about ten that he can choose from.

But when he gets the list of names, there’s one name that stands out. One that reminds him of smiles shared across a cup of coffee and a pastry, one that makes him think of Catholic school uniforms and twisted ankles. One that makes nostalgia swirl in his gut. Or is that longing? Either way, it makes his lips purse.

Maybe it’s because in those moments, there were bright spots. Light in days and years that seemed to blur with a lot of struggle.

Or maybe it’s because he’s being dramatic. Either way.

He picks up his phone, prepared just for a consult. Nothing to yearn for, certainly. But he pretends not to notice when he looks up your office and gets a thrill when it’s in Manhattan, or swallow tightly when a photo appears on your website, and your eyes seem to gaze into his.

You’ve made a name for yourself. Any competent A.D.A. would feel comfortable with you in their corner. His fingers fly across his keyboard, looking into cases, finding what you’ve done. Your doctorate from Fordham is only the beginning, and he’s surprised he hasn’t seen you at charity events with all of the credits next to your name. Three years into practice, and he sees you headlining research into veteran populations, starting funds for LGBTQ+ counseling, lighting a fire in your community.

Any A.D.A. would choose you. Never mind the other names.

Yours ends up being the first number he dials. It rings twice, three times. Nothing yet, and his pen is spinning in his fingers. Four times, five times, and for a moment he thinks he’ll just have to try the number at the top of the list –

“Dr. Y/L/N’s office,” a voice answers. “How can I help you?”

It’s not you. It’s a secretary, or a receptionist, but her voice is kind enough. “Yes, is Dr. Y/L/N in? I’m calling about a consultation for the Manhattan District Attorney’s office.”

The little hum that the receptionist gives is… uncertain. “Unfortunately, she’s in with a patient. Can I take a message?”

He’s done his due diligence. He’s tugged on the heartstring, and now he should move on. Try the next name. But something makes him set down his pen, bite his lower lip. A whim, really, that makes him speak.

“Just tell her Rafael Barba called. And if she’s interested, to return this call. I’ll give you the number.”

When he recites the list of ten digits, however, it’s his cell phone. And there’s something in him that hopes you’ll call back with yours. For old times’ sake.

“All right. Thank you so much, I’ll be sure she gets it.” The receptionist hangs up, and Rafael feels like he’s run a marathon the way his heart is pounding.

Each call he gets the rest of the day is enough to get him tensing. Ready to lift and see an unfamiliar number, with your voice in his ear. What he gets instead is silence, and a couple of calls from Liv, during which he does his damnedest to keep the tension out of his voice. By the end of the day, he’s resigned to the fact that it’s simply a missed connection, two ships passing in the night. Another moment of dramatics, but he feels this one.

And then his cell rings once more. He doesn’t look at the screen, just answers and closes his eyes, ready to hear Liv’s voice again, or God forbid, Carisi.

“This is Barba,” he answers. That tension bleeding in once again, and the response he gets makes him a little breathless.

“Kings County not enough for you, Harvard boy?” you ask. It’s teasing, light, and it feels a little like he’s outside in the cold winter wind chill the way his nose surely must be red. “Now I know to send the damages lawsuit to Manhattan.”

His laugh comes out of him suddenly, and it matches yours. “I’ll give you the address. How are you, Doctor?”

You hum a little, and it buzzes against his ear. “Oh, it feels good to hear you say that, that’s for sure. But, honestly, I’m doing pretty well. I’m… doing what I love. Helping people.”

“Too good for the Bronx? Manhattan your mainstay?”

“Oh, please,” you huff. “My office is firmly in the old neighborhood. And on top of it, if I don’t come by every week, my mother has a conniption.”

“Glad to hear.”

And it’s just that simple for you. Rafael has always had his sights set on the future, but you’ve reached it. And you’re content, and still with one foot in the place the two of you grew up. It’s… right.

“What about you?” It’s a question he’s honestly unprepared to answer. He doesn’t linger on it too long, because he doesn’t want to sound like he’s lying, but the truth is perhaps too much to admit to an acquaintance.

No. A friend.

“Manhattan is a little like home now. A lot like it,” he admits. In that moment the SVU crew comes to mind, but he pushes them away. But I have a case here I’m ready to be done with. I’m trusting your receptionist gave you the gist?”

“What she could.” Your voice is no longer light, something firm in it that he recognizes. The tone of work. “The message wasn’t a lot besides your name and your title, but am I right in thinking I’m going to be evaluating someone?”

“It’s a woman who was a victim of sexual abuse. I need to know what your read is on her.”

You hum again, lower, contemplating. “Anything in particular I’m looking for?”

“I don’t want to influence you, or give any unnecessary details over the phone. Just know she’s in our custody, right now, and this case has been complicated.”

There’s a pause, and he does his best to emphasize what’s necessary, what’s true. “We’re trying to help her. Get her where she needs to be. I know it’s last minute –”

“I know the system, Rafael,” you murmur. You don’t hesitate to use his first name, and he tries not to think too much about how it sounds in your mouth. “Am I right in assuming that she’s potentially spending the night in the tombs?”

She’s not, but he doesn’t get the chance to respond, and he doesn’t have to. You’re telling him you’ll be there tomorrow, prompt, early, and he lets out a sigh of relief. Doesn’t mention that waiting for your call could’ve cost a valuable day’s worth of time.

“Thank you,” he breathes, “I owe you.”

“For doing my job?” you chuckle. “This isn’t a personal favor, we should make that clear.”

“For taking my call. Getting back to me so quickly.” For humbling me when I needed it. For being a reminder every few years that home isn’t a bad thing.

“Anything for a friend,” you return, and he ducks his head to hide his smile from the room.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then. And I do insist I owe you. For the nearly broken ankle, at least.”

There’s a pause. He can hear your breath catch, and he hopes, hell, he prays that there’s a smile on your face as you think of him.

“Then, let’s not wait three years to meet again,” you tell him. There’s a click, surely a pen in your fingers, perhaps spinning like his. “I’ll take drinks, once the case is done.”

“How about dinner?” Rafael returns, and he stands to his feet, his window gazing out on the street below. He’s glad he’s not limited by the cord of his desk’s line. The cabs breezing by too quick on roads with black ice, the gusts blowing the flags outside One Hogan Place. “More equivalent, I would say, if we consider twelve years’ interest.”

“I’m also counting the spilled coffee, of course,” you add, and Rafael scoffs.

“Didn’t you spill that on me?”

He walks into it, he supposes, but he doesn’t mind. “Well, then, I’ll return the favor. Two-dinner commitment, and all before we hit fifteen years of acquaintanceship.”

“Friendship,” he amends, and your little laugh is what lingers with him, what he thinks about as he prepares for tomorrow.

“Right. Friendship. Good night, Rafael.”

“Good night.”

The two of you say friendship, as you rise the next morning. Say friendship as you meet, and Rafael introduces you to the precinct. Say friendship, as the case ends, and those dinners begin, with laughter and warmth even in a snowy Manhattan evening.

But at the end of those dinners, twelve years in the making, the friendship is only the beginning.

After all, you look stunning, in your dress and heels, a deep red coat that compliments your lip color. Your hair is pinned up, but some of it has come loose, during the night, and those strands frame your face perfectly.

“Maybe Manhattan isn’t too bad,” you laugh, as the two of you step into the night air, “if it means you get to eat like that all the time.”

“There are definitely some low points, but the high points make it all worth it,” he tells you. He can’t stop looking at you, even as you pause at the curb, side by side and turning to each other. “Back home, then?”

“You’re not the only A.D.A. I work with.” You nudge him with your elbow, hands in your pockets to block out the cold. “Other boroughs, other work. Not to mention that Monday’s coming up quick. Patients.”

There’s a stab of jealously in him. Thinking about you spending time with the other boroughs, with other A.D.A.s at his office. But for some reason, he can’t help but hope that the smile on your face is just for him.

He takes a moment to pull out his phone, stare at the date on the screen. “Well, tomorrow’s not Monday,” he tells you. “Do you… think you could spare a few more hours? Another day, maybe?”

Your brow raises at him, and he finds himself loving the arch of it, especially paired with your smirk. “What are you thinking, Barba?”

“A couple of drinks, maybe.” He nods down the road, trying to play it cool even though his heart is pounding in his chest.

You’ve gotten the gist. The idea. He knows it, and you know it, but you’re daring him to act with the way you bite your lower lip. “And after that?”

It’s a dare he takes. Jumps at the chance to act on, one of his hand lifting to cup your cheek, the other reaching for your waist. He kisses you, there, on the curb, winter in full swing around you, and there’s nothing else can think about but the way you feel against him.

When it’s over, it feels unfinished. Mainly because a part of him doesn’t want it to.

“What do you say? Willing to stay in Manhattan a little longer?” he asks, a little breathless as he looks down at you. Your lipstick hasn’t miraculously hasn’t smudged, but he still lifts a hand to trace his thumb along the perfect lower line. “I know a place you can stay.”

“I’m almost convinced,” you reply with a laugh, voice light. “But if you kiss me again, we can make that an absolutely certainty.”

#rafael barba x reader #female!reader #rafael barba #law and order: svu #olivia benson #sonny carisi #my fic #friends to enemies to lovers i suppose

88 notes · View notes

feeling-uncomfy · 4 years

Text

EYY SHOUTOKO TIMEEEE

Mafia AU part two, featuring a tiny tsundere and a tall himbo. What more can I say? They're a mess

So, warnings are as follows-

- gore/blood

- mentions of abuse(brief)

- kidnapping/drug mention

If there are anymore, they'll be specified at the beginning of the part-

Hope you enjoy! :D

After the fiasco that was Tokoyami getting kidnapped, Hawks had become paranoid. He downright refused to let his little brother out of the apartment they shared for the first two weeks, and his little brother was practically stabled to his side when he was allowed back in the building.

Tokoyami didn't mind at first, though after a while he started to get annoyed. He wanted to have just one moment of peace, and the only way he could get it was by going to the bathroom. But if he took too long, Hawks would freak out and break the door down.

It was like he'd developed some form of separation anxiety, he couldn't stand being apart from his little brother. It ended up turning into an argument between him and Endeavor, and what a sight that was. Hawks and Endeavor rarely fought, but when they did, it was lengthy and loud.

Todoroki and Tokoyami never usually minded, but at this rate it had been a week and they were still arguing over letting someone come over and help upgrade the security.

"Will they ever shut up?" Todoroki asked, raising his voice to be heard over the yelling. Tokoyami shrugged, looking over at his older brother and Endeavor. "I hope so, I'm getting tired of the yelling," for some reason, both of them froze after Tokoyami's words. Ah, right, the last time this had happened, Dabi had made an appearance.

Luckily, he was nowhere to be seen, and they both relaxed. Hawks stopped yelling, a true miracle, and Tokoyami looked over.

Hawks seemed to be thinking about something, whatever it was, he was obviously putting a lot of thought and consideration into it. This could either be great for the company, or an absolute disaster for it.

Most likely the latter, knowing Hawks.

Hawks sighed. Endeavor had suggested asking Gang Orca, another high ranking class boss in this world Hawks had grown to call his, to come help with the security. He was very skilled in negotiations, very persistent and persuasive. One thing Hawks knew the man prided himself on was security. Best of the best.

And he wasn't bluffing, either. Hawks had heard stories, seen things. That man was bigger than the three fully decked bodyguards that followed him around. But Hawks knew that it didn't change a thing. If needed, the guards would lay down their life for him, and surprisingly, Hawks was told the favour would be returned. He didn't dare question it.

He'd only met the man once, and he'd describe him as something like a helicopter parent. He was paranoid like all hell, and kept a close eye on the hallway leading up to where he was staying, though Hawks never figured out why. Nor was he told. Apparently it was one of the reasons he was gunned at so much, no one knew what he was hiding.

He'd seen him fight. It was friendly, and yet Hawks still winces at the memories. The man did not hold back, for whatever reason. Apparently the two had a dispute and settled it over a fight. It was brutal even despite the rules set up. Hawks swears he can still hear the sound of teeth cracking.

Aside from that, he was a respected and respectful man. He was polite when others were, and knew what he was talking about. A real leader, and under that wall of brute force Hawks was told there was a soft side to him. One that obviously wasn't shown often.

Hawks knew having his type of security would insure his little brother's safety, he knew it'd be ten times safer. But that didn't mean he was comfortable with this high ranking man who could easily snap his spine in two wandering the place he kept his plans.

Hawks sighed again. Logically he knew he couldn't turn it down. But that didn't mean he had to he comfortable! He didn't like the fact that if he wanted his workplace safe, everything would have to change. Everywhere would be searched and moved.

Endeavor spoke up. "Hawks. Any security I have to offer, or anyone else has to offer would pale in comparison. You want better security, let him do his job." Hawks bit the inside of his cheek to avoid immediately snapping back. Once he was composed, he started speaking. "I'm aware of that, but forgive me if I don't want someone who could easily use all these details against me to snoop!"

Endeavor fired back immediately with a response. "He's not going to snoop, he asks that all important files and documents are taken out, stored correctly, and then once he's done you can put them back," well, that made Hawks feel a little better, but he wasn't convinced.

"He completely reorganised your office! What's to say he won't do that to mine?!" Endeavor gave him a deadpanned stare. "Your office could use reorganising."

The gasp that tore out of Hawks's throat made Tokoyami and Todoroki turn their heads quickly, only to see Hawks with his hand placed dramatically over his heart. "Reorganising?! I'll have you know it's an 'organised mess' bitch! I know where everything is!" Hawks yelled indignantly, honestly offended.

Endeavor just stared at him with a look that screamed 'bitch really?' making Hawks even more mad. Before the petty argument could continue, Endeavor forced them back on topic. Right, security, letting Gang Orca go through his organised chaos.

The only reason he was even considered it was because he wanted Fumikage safe. Other than that? He didn't care, he didn't want to know. Yes, his security was shit, he was aware. But fully decked out bodyguards? Was it really necessary?

Not for him, for Fumikage. Hawks reminded himself that he was doing this for his brother's sake. His safety came first. Always.

"Fine. He can come help." The words were forced out, and it actually hurt Hawks to say, but he said it. Wasn't that enough?

Endeavor nodded and pat his shoulder. "I will have him meet you tomorrow at the earliest," he turned to Todoroki. "Shouto, we're leaving."

Tokoyami and Todoroki seemed to have a mental conversation before Todoroki snorted and stood up, walking over to his father and standing by his side. Tokoyami stood and made his way over to his brother's side. It felt like second nature at this point.

Hawks and Tokoyami said their goodbyes, and the Todoroki's left. Tokoyami looked up at his brother. "Do you want to tell me what that was about?" Tokoyami was, as of late, not in the bests of moods. He was irritated with the constant having to stand by his brother's side and then not get to know why he was even there.

Hawks pat his head. "We're upping our security, that's all," Tokoyami sighed. "The security here is fine, I don't see why you're bothering." Hawks looked down at his brother. His literal will to live, at some points. Hawks brought him in for a hug. "I'm not gonna risk losing you like that again. Ever."

For Hawks, this was a promise. A promise never to let his brother be put through that again. A promise to make up for what happened, he was serious. Never again.

For Tokoyami, it simply felt repeated. He'd heard those words so many times over the past four weeks that Tokoyami wasn't even sure if he meant it at this point.

Nevertheless, Tokoyami was reassured slightly. He trusted Hawks, he trusted his brother. He knew he wouldn't let them down. He knew that Kiego wouldn't let it happen again.

At the end of the day, he trusted his brother.

Hawks pulled back first, and the two went home as normal. Tokoyami curled up on the couch, checking his phone, as normal. Hawks was taking calls and ordering food for them. There was a small dispute on the kind of food. Spicy or plain? Choices were difficult sometimes.

A compromise was made, normally they'd take turns and get one over the other, but recently they've been getting a little bit of both, and now they couldn't remember the order they went in, so the two just agreed to get both each time.

So they sat there, eating their meals, playing video games until Tokoyami couldn't keep his eyes open. Hawks called it quits then and the pair went to sleep as normal. And, almost like a schedule, Tokoyami's nightmares began.

They were all identical, but they scared him shitless without fail every time. The noise of the drill, the pain he felt when it dug into his bones, the face of his kidnapper standing over him one second, laying dead the next.

The word "murderer" kept playing over and over and over again and it wouldn't stop. He couldn't stop it. How much longer until he killed Hawks? Todoroki? He couldn't- he didn't want to—

Tokoyami opened his eyes to the roof, again. He looked around expecting to see the body of Shigaraki, only to him Hawks laying lifeless. No, no surely he didn't do that. Tokoyami wouldn't.

Would he?

Tokoyami ran to his brother's side, shaking him as the rain fell. "Kiego...?" Tokoyami's voice cracked, and when he didn't get a response, he shook harder. "Kiego! Kiego get up! Please–"

Over and over, until Tokoyami couldn't tell the difference between "Kiego" and "Murderer" he screamed.

"Kiego!" Tokoyami sat up with a start, looking around the room. Not a roof, but rain hammered down on his windows like tomorrow wasn't coming. Maybe, a terrible part of Tokoyami thought, maybe Kiego's tomorrow wasn't coming.

Before Tokoyami could even work on untangling himself from the bed sheets, the door burst open. "Fumikage-?! What's wrong!?" Kiego was there, he was alive- he wasn't—

Tokoyami let out a dry sob, curling into himself. One look at the shitty weather and Kiego knew what was wrong. "Hey, it's okay.." helping his brother out of the mess of bed sheets, Kiego noted the tremors and the eye bags his younger brother sported, making him look older.

Kiego hated that his little brother looked like that, he shouldn't. He should be happy, healthy, and not afraid of getting kidnapped every second day. It's not fair on him, but they both knew life wasn't fair.

Kiego gently coaxed his brother to move out from under the sheets, and the two sat there hugging. They weren't sure how long, long enough for Tokoyami to fall asleep again, that's for sure.

Hawks was woken by his phone the next morning, and froze when he saw Gang Orca's ID flash across his screen. He didn't give him his number, or name for that matter. Nevertheless, he picked up.

"Hello?" Hawks's voice was soft, not wanting to wake up his brother. A deep voice answered, sounding like he's been awake for hours. Maybe he was.

"This is Hawks, correct?" Hawks blinked tiredly before answering. He sounded as intimidating as they made him out to be. "Yeah, that's me. What's up?" Gang Orca moved something on his line. "I was told you needed an update on your security?"

Hawks paused. "Yeah.. I do," Endeavor really wasn't pulling his leg when he said that earliest would be tomorrow. "Very well, I will be down to you're office if that's alright with you?" Harks agreed, shaking Tokoyami awake. Gang Orca was silent on his end.

Hawks thought of saying something, but he was beaten to it. "I'm going to be bringing.. my-.. son," Hawks blinked in surprise. "You have a son?" Hawks couldn't keep the blatant surprise out of his voice. Hawks didn't think to question the hesitation when Gang Orca said 'son' though in hindsight, he probably should have. He could then feel the guy's glare on him.

"Yes. Is there a problem?" Hawks did not like the threatening undertone of his words. He didn't like it at all. "No, sir. Just taken by surprise." That was true, but still, it felt like a lie. Gang Orca sighed. "We'll be over in twenty, tops."

[And that's part one! Hope you're ready, I'm not all that good with writing ships, but I'm getting better (I hope)]

[See you at part two!]

#boku no hero academia #tokoyami #bnha hawks #mafia au

8 notes · View notes

thecleverdame · 5 years

Text

The Oath - 4

Parings: Dark!Alpha!Sam x Omega!Reader

Masterlist

Due to content, this story will have a separate tags list. Please sign up here

Summary: After an unsuccessful escape attempt, the reader finds herself taken as a spoil of war. She ends up in the bed of a ruthless Alpha, the son of John Winchester, leader of the kingdom of Gilead. She struggles to conceal her true identity and navigate a society where being an Omega means nothing more than serving at the pleasure of powerful men.

Warnings: non-con, sexual assault, rape, attempted suicide, sexual slavery, branding, torture, ownership, voyeurism, anal play, smut, violence, and murder.

Sam is dark in this story. If any of the warnings are triggers for you, I would suggest skipping this one. Please read and heed all the warnings.

Beta: ilikaicalie

Chapters 1-11 are currently available on Patreon. To get access to this and many other stories, subscribe for a pledge of 2.50 per month. CLICK HERE

FOUR

The Next Morning

A hand shakes you awake and you forget for a moment where you are. Sam’s sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed and pulling on his boots.

“Get up,” he stands, looking down at you. “You should eat.”

Wrapped in nothing but Sam’s cloak, you sit at the table, attempting to peel an egg one-handed as both the men wolf down plates of eggs, meat and bread. They eat in silence, paying you no attention until Dean finishes and sits back in his chair. Sam has sent a servant to find you a dress, but until then you’re careful not to let the cloak fall open.

There are men swirling around them, packing up each item with care. They must be getting ready to move the camp.

“How far do you think we can make it before the storm comes?”

“If we’re lucky we may get to the base of the mountains. But I doubt we’ll make it that far.” Sam forks a hunk of meat, popping it into his mouth. “You hear the wind? By nightfall the snow will start.”

“Well, it’s better than nothing. We’re closer to home every day. How far out do you think we are.”

“A month before we join up with dad’s regiment. Three until we’re in our own beds again.”

“I can barely remember what it feels like to get a good night’s sleep. To not smell like blood and dirt. I’m ready to be done.” Dean sounds energized at the idea of heading home but Sam’s indifferent.

“I don’t mind being out here in the trenches.”

“That’s because you enjoy it...I like to strategize but you love to get your hands dirty.”

Sam’s half listening, watching you out of the corner of his eye as you fumble with a boiled egg. You’re useless with one hand, you wouldn’t have lasted long thrown in with the soldiers.

“You set her arm?” Dean’s talking to his brother, but staring at you with unnerving intensity.

“Of course,” Sam confirms, ripping off a bite of bread with his teeth. “She took it better than expected.”

Sam sighs at your half-peeled egg. He takes it from you and peels the rest before handing it back.

“Are you left-handed?” Dean grins, looking from you to his brother.

“Yes,” you respond quietly. “I’m no use with my right.”

“Well, let's hope you heal quickly. We can’t follow you around all day,” Dean chuckles, taking a drink.

“I’m going to address her condition with the men first thing this morning. They brought us an Omega with a broken arm. Can you imagine what else they’re up to that we don’t know about? I’m going to make an example out of them. We can’t have this kind of insubordination going on right under our noses.”

“It’s best coming from you. They’re already scared of you.” Dean nods, both arms on the table.

The younger Winchester’s reputation is known throughout the lands. He’s a ruthless killer with little to no regard for anyone or anything. All the Winchesters are brutal but he’s gone darker.

Sam shakes his head, ripping off an appropriately sized chunk of bread and setting it in front of you.

“Thank you,” you whisper, taking a bite.

“They nearly ruined her.” Dean taps his fingers on the table. “And they’ve been hoarding gold and silver. When I find out who’s responsible there’s going to be hell to pay.”

All attention shifts to you. You stop chewing and look from Alpha to Alpha.

“You said they touched you. Where? How?” Sam asks, resting his forearms on the table.

Both men stare at you expectantly as your fingers curl around the bread, cheeks flushed red in embarrassment.

“My breasts,” you whisper, wishing you were somewhere far, far away from this camp and these awful men. “One of them put his fingers...inside me.”

“Jesus Christ.” Sam grimaces, utterly disgusted at the idea. “They’re dogs.”

“Yes, they are.” His brother agrees as they both turn their attention back to the food in front of them.

Dean stands at the head of the tent, looking at the line of men standing at attention. Sam’s pacing up and down the row with you frozen in place next to Dean. If they didn’t know why they were summoned, they figured it out as soon as the Winchesters brought this new Omega back to the scene of the crime.

“Do you remember who touched you?” Sam asks.

You look up in horror as every man looks at you with murder in their eyes.

“No, I’m sorry.” You lean forward in hopes of only Sam hearing the confession. “I was delirious, in pain and riddled with exhaustion. I can’t remember the faces.”

Sam and Dean have been displeased with the men for months now. The soldiers are compensated well and allowed free reign save for a few exceptions. There are so few rules and they can’t seem to manage to follow them. They’re expected to hand over precious metals and stone, and of course, keeping an Omega is strictly off-limits.

Last month someone slipped a note to Dean. It was a tip about men stealing away gemstones. It turned out to be an entire operation, almost a dozen men involved in the scheme. Ever since, tensions have been rising.

“Which one of you found her in the woods and brought her to the camp?” Sams walks up and down the line.

“I did.” A man steps forward.

“And you saw fit to throw her from your horse?”

“I didn’t realize she was so delicate,” he chuckles and behind him other men laugh.

“Who touched her? One of you had your hand between her legs, tell me now.” Sam’s question is met with wide eyes. All of them are silent. They all know what happened was a serious transgression.

“Either the man who stuck his fingers in her cunt identifies himself or every man here will suffer his punishment.” Sam looks down the line of soldiers as Dean crosses his arms over his chest.

After a moment a man steps forward, looking nervous as he raises his hand.

“It was me, my lord.”

“Your honesty will not go unnoticed.” Sam nods, his mouth pressed in a grimace. “And her breasts. Which of you touched her breasts?”

You want to crawl away. This sort of public shaming is nearly too much to bear.

Two more soldiers came forward, remaining silent as Sam stares at each of them in turn.

“You, who threw her from the horse. For breaking her arm, you’ll have yours broken as well.”

“Please,” the man breathes, as two larger soldiers take him by the arms.

Sam ignores him, moving forward to the next two.

“For touching her breasts, each of you will forfeit a finger. Thumbs, I think.” Sam walks down the line, coming to stand in front of the man who touched your sex. “And you, a beta who dared to put his hands inside an Omega, we have a fitting punishment. Your right hand seems like a fair trade.”

“Please don’t do this!” The man pleads. “We didn’t know what she was. Would have brought her straight to you if we even thought she was-”

“Enough.” Sam hisses. “There are rules in place for a reason. You find an Alpha officer and you have him scent her. No exceptions. Let’s hope this is an example for all of you.”

You’re loaded into the back of a horse-drawn cart, nested in fur and wrapped in a cloak. Several servants bring more blankets to lay over you until you’re sufficiently protected from the elements. The snow has started to fall and they’re moving the entire garrison. Headed home after months in the field.

“Thank you.” You offer a smile to the shivering man, as he lays yet another blanket at your feet.

The moment you speak he looks at you in horror and scurries away as another woman is helped into the cart. She’s older but unmistakably Omega, her scent is slightly soured, a sure sign of abuse. She settles in on the opposite side, a servant tucking her in. The cook who washed you the night before approaches, handing each of you a cup of hot pine tea.

“Thank you,” you try again, only to have the woman grunt and turn her back.

“They’re not allowed to speak to you.” The other Omega shifts, cupping her tea in one hand and pulling her hood down to shield her face from the snow. “In Gilead servants aren’t allowed to speak directly to Omegas.”

“Why not?” you ask. The cart begins to move and you grab your arm, wincing as the pain surges.

“They’re Betas, and slaves at that. According to the law of the Gilead, they’re not good enough to lick the bottoms of your feet.” The woman stares at you, then your arm. “Who did that to you?”

It’s such a strange mix of sexual slavery and social status. You’ve been reduced to nothing more than your pussy and yet you’re considered elevated.

“I fell from a horse.” You don't want to get into the details, it makes you sick to think about what happened. And now the men who will be disfigured because they didn’t follow protocol. Being an Omega has saved your life and will now seal your fate.

“Do you have your flask?” Sam asks, guiding his horse beside Dean’s. His brother reaches into his cloak and fishes out the metal canteen.

“You’re not one to drink in the morning.”

“It’s not for me.” Sam takes the flask from him.

“For the Omega?”

“She's in pain. And she’s only going to get colder. The snow is just starting, the storm will be bad.”

They ride in silence a moment longer before Dean pipes up.

“You fucked her?” Dean poses it as a question but he’s not looking for confirmation. He already knows.

“What of it?” Sam shrugs.

“You’re not normally interested in much more than getting your dick sucked.” Dean looks ahead at the line of soldiers stretching as far as the eye can see. “Are you developing a soft spot?”

“Have you smelled her?” Sam asks deadpan, his grip tightening on the reigns. He can scarcely think about you without his dick getting hard.

“I did.” Dean’s not sure what his brother is getting at. You smelled appealing but nothing to elicit this kind of reaction. “Her scent wasn’t out of the ordinary but she’s quite the beauty when she’s not covered in mud and snot. I don’t think I’ve ever seen an Omega like that, that pleasing to the eye as dad would say.”

“She doesn’t know how pretty she is.” Sam’s horse whinnies, hot air puffing out in the frigid air. He’s quiet for a moment and turns toward his brother. “She doesn't smell different to you?”

“You’re stuck on that?” Dean’s eyes narrow, trying to suss out exactly what Sam is getting at. “Well, you know what they say. Some Omegas are better matches.”

“Perhaps.”

“Or it’s entirely possible that the notorious Sam Winchester has found a pretty face he can’t ignore.”

“I’ve little interest in women.” Sam shifts in his saddle, ready to end this conversation.

“She’s not a woman. She’s an Omega and a rare one at that. But if you’re so indifferent, why don’t you let me have her tonight. I did see her first after all. Fair is fair.”

Dean gets the reaction he’s looking for, a locked jaw from his brother.

“No, you’ll ruin her. You can have her when I’m done with her.”

“Right,” Dean chuckles and Sam reaches over, slugging him in the arm. “I won’t hold my breath.”

#alpha!sam x omega!reader #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester smut

138 notes · View notes

speter-sparker · 5 years

Text

Spideypool fic rec #2

ya boy is back at it again with the whole procrastination thing, and if I'm going down, ill bring all of you with me.

other recs by me: X

1) Peter Parker's Home for the Wayward Villain by BeanieBaby [90k, complete]

summary: A really long redemption story.

my thoughts: you know how every ship has That One Fic? The one that every person who recs fic recs? This is it. In a world where Peter Parker was never bitten by a radioactive spider (but still lives in a world of heroes), he still has a chance to make a change.

additional info: found family, strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, POV peter

2) Said the Fly to the Spider by BC_Brynn [20k, complete]

summary: Peter is being courted by Deadpool. With words. And life-saving.

my thoughts: so damn good. the story is character and relationship-focused, with witty banter and dumb jokes - in short, the perfect spideypool fic. Pacing is on point, side characters are in character, just... *chef kiss* beautiful.

additional info: friends to lovers, slow burn, POV peter

3) the kubler-ross theory by antivenom [80k, complete]

summary: Peter loses Gwen in a split-second of motion. It takes much, much longer for him to find himself afterwards.

(In which Peter deals with a loss that immobilizes him and permeates through every drawn breath. In which his grief is a visceral abstraction that he can touch, that he can feel. And in which, with a little help, with time, with acceptance, with anger, with sadness, with Wade, he learns how to live in a world without her.)

my thoughts: if you read nothing else on this list, READ THIS. It deals with the aftermath of Gwen Stacy’ death, and how Peter copes (or doesn't) with the aftermath. This story is a love letter to everyone who has lost someone - the stages of grief, the anger and confusion and emotion are so real. Everything is brutally honest, the author doesn't hold back punches - in fact, it's because of this that I love how Wade and Peters's relationship is written. They are both shown as flawed characters who are trying so damn hard and their relationship feels real. The same can be said for every character in this fic - the relationships with aunt may and MJ and other supers are beautifully thought out and written.

additional info: HOPEFUL ENDING, slow burn, pre-relationship, hurt/comfort, POV Peter

4) I'll Tell No Lies by doctorestranged [78k, complete]

summary: When a series of murders take place, Peter Parker goes undercover in Sister Margaret’s to get intel on Tony Stark’s prime suspect: Deadpool. Except, Peter is horrible at lying and this seems like a dreadful idea. Peter goes in hoping to get enough information so that Spider-Man can save the day, but like everything in Peter’s life, it becomes a bit more complicated than that.

my thoughts: The pacing is so fun - it’s a murder mystery with a heavy side of romance, featuring Tony not-angry-just-disappointed ok-a-little-angry Stark, a very done Weasle, and one taxi driver.

additional info: strangers to friends to lovers, SMUT, POV Peter

5) Without Ever Letting You Know by TimidTurnip [8k, complete]

summary: So something weird is going on with Deadpool, that's nothing new. Spewing flower petals is hardly the strangest thing the merc has done. The part that is confusing Peter is that Deadpool doesn't want Spider-man around. WTH.

my thoughts: mmm, hurts so good. Love how they examine Peter’s personality and relationship to Wade in this one.

additional info: Hopeful ending, PINING, friends to lovers, POV Peter

6) i know your secret by jilliancares [8k, complete]

summary: “I’m your new neighbor,” Wade forged on, oblivious to Peter’s state of shock, and he stuck out a scarred hand. Peter gripped it, feeling numb, and gave it a shake. Did Wade realize who he was? No, clearly not. He was acting way too normally. Wade was one for dramatics.

my thoughts: Fluff CENTRAL. Wade and Peter are given a playful relationship that can only be described as puppy love.

additional info: fluff, identity porn, friends to lovers, POV Peter

7) The Naked Truth by CAPSING [20k, complete]

summary: Wade is not a cat person. But maybe he'll make an exception to get into some cute guy's pants.

my thoughts: CAT FIC! THERE'S A CAT!

additional info: pining, strangers to friends to lovers, vet!peter, Wade is still Deadpool, POV Wade

8) The Boys Wear Red... by Orcusnox (Cat9894) [108k, complete]

summary: Wade is a hero, Peter is a merc.

my thoughts: HOLY HECK??? if you thought Spider-man 3 was dark, Raimi ain't got nothing on this. My biggest worry going into this was that Peter and Wade would just swap places and character, but that could not be further from the truth. Peter is dark, but in a way that fits who he is, who he would be if he jumped off the deep end. Everything in this feels thought out and works well together - the character writing is smooth and logical, even for side characters. The plot is fun and exciting, the banter even more so.

additional info: Hopeful ending, some smut later, gore/violence, past mentions of abuse, frenemies to friends to lovers, POV Peter

9) Allostasis by ruralfishingcat [42k, complete]

summary: Peter had a tendency to put up walls to isolate himself; even as Spider-Man, he could only suffer through so much death and destruction. It was precautionary, really, and those he'd pushed away would thank him were they aware of the circumstances. Of course, Deadpool had his own tendencies, one of which was to break down said walls (fourth ones included). As grating as it was, a small sliver of Peter hoped the mercenary would be able to succeed.

my thoughts: fucking cute my dude. Identity porn to the max, and a butt crap of pining.

additional info: friends to lovers, protective Wade, identity porn, POV Peter

10) what light through yonder window by hellornothing [14k, complete]

summary: The figure moves quickly, but Peter’s faster. He’s still adjusting to the sudden brightness, so dark red is really the only thing he takes from this initial encounter, but it’s enough.

‘Deadpool?’

-aka the one where they get together via late night window visits

my thoughts: THESE TWO! *clenches fist* ya know? just them realizing they have massive heart boners for each other

additional info: friends to lovers, fluffflufffluff, mama mia that's a lot of F’s, POV Peter

11) Patron Saint by isaDanCurtisproduction [58k, complete]

summary: Peter is desperate. Hungry and alone on the streets, he's ready and willing to do anything to change his situation, even if just for a night. And sharing a stranger's bed would be no hardship, especially when the alternatives include dumpster-diving for dinner and sleeping, arms wrapped around him, beneath a chilly and indifferent sky.

Then a man named Wade Wilson steps into his life.

my thoughts: The plot is simple and allows for GREAT character moments. I clutched my heart cause they were so cute and just GAAAHH! the chemistry is great, the banter is fun, the plot is on point. 10/10 would (and do) recommend

additional info: strangers to friends to lovers, no actual smut, be prepared to clutch a titty, identity porn, pining, homeless Peter, POV Peter

12) better than being alone by darkavengerz (darkavenger) [6k, complete]

summary: Peter's been asked to attend a children's birthday party as Spider-Man, and he's surprised to discover someone else masquerading as him when he turns up at the party.

my thoughts: this is so them. the story is character-focused and just so gosh darn fun. I love my boys just harassing each other for funzies

additional info: friends to lovers, fluff, POV Peter

13) Nobody's Business by DittyWitty [6k, complete]

summary: Peter really wasn't supposed to out himself to Deadpool.

my thoughts: insecure Peter, meet insecure Wade. Now go use big boy words and fucking COMMUNICATE

additional info: friends to lovers, POV Peter

14) you grow up and you lose touch by scarlett_starlett [53k, complete]

summary: Peter always thought that when he had kids, there would be someone by his side.

Instead, he has a mouthy mercenary acting as a chef every night for him and his newly adopted son and a narcissistic billionaire philanthropist paying child support on the sly. But Peter figures it isn’t all bad, especially when Miles loses that dullness in his eyes whenever Wade slips on the banana peels he ‘strategically’ places all over the apartment for Peter as a joke.

my thoughts: usually not one for kid fics - the kids aren't well written and characters tend to be OC. But this one, this one, just shattered my every expectation. The relationship between Peter and Miles, Peter and Wade, and Wade and Miles is phenomenal. The story and plot are wonderful, with themes that you can't help but sink your teeth into. The pining is off the walls. The characters are rounded and complex and grow so much with each other. I cannot recommend this one enough, please by GOD go read it

*** side note: go read everything by this author. go, get outta here! go!

additional info: SLOW burn, friends to co-parents to lovers, PINING GALORE, POV alternating but mostly POV Peter

15) A Vicious Cycle by DecimalDrones [2k, complete]

summary: Peter can't remember the life he and Wade supposedly shared together. It's alright as long as he's happy, though, isn't it?

my thoughts: y’all. Y’ALL. okay, this one is short and sweet but when you finish, go back and read it a second time. The double meaning and context make this fic DELICIOUS. I also recommend checking out their other fics - they’re a bit longer but still easy to finish in a day.

additional info: established relationship, POV Peter

16) on staying around by WylderWolf [4k, complete]

summary: Fourteen pages of loud fart noises.

(also there's some, like, emotions and stuff, and then they bump nasties. it's pretty rad.)

my thoughts: charming little thing with pining wade. Also, they’re both idiots (but what's new)

additional info: friends to lovers, pining, smut at the end, POV Wade

#fic #fic rec #spideypool #spideypool fic rec #peter parker x wade wilson #Peter Parker/Wade Wilson #wade wilson x peter parker #wade wilson/peter parker #peterwade #wadepeter #im doing this instead of homework but whats new

193 notes · View notes

tacitwhisky · 5 years

Text

Jon / Sansa Reread - Jon II, AGOT

< Previous Chapter (Arya I) | Next Chapter (Sansa I) >

In which Jon visits Bran, Catelyn is a horrible person, and he gives Arya Needle.

Like Jon I, this chapter is really complicated and a bit of a beast to get through. It's a critical chapter for understanding Jon though; it's his single on page interaction with Catelyn, and the one that solidifies just how traumatic a figure she is in his life. It’s also a tour of all his major Stark relationships outside of Ned: Catelyn, Bran, Robb, and Arya.

There’s actually a lot more to this chapter than I realized, which is one of the reasons it took me so long to get it out.

Lady Stark was there beside his [Bran’s] bed. She had been there, day and night, for close on a fortnight. Not for a moment had she left Bran’s side. She had her meals brought to her there, and chamber pots as well, and a small hard bed to sleep on, though it was said she had scarcely slept at all. She fed him herself, the honey and water and herb mixture that sustained life. Not once did she leave the room. So Jon had stayed away.

Before we get into Catelyn’s horribleness in this chapter, it’s worth pointing out that this is Catelyn at her absolute lowest emotionally. She also severely sleep deprived and borderline crippled with worry and grief. Unfortunately, much like Sansa last chapter though, we’re not really going to get a sense of just out of her mind Catelyn is until her chapter later: if the order of the chapters had been swapped (ignoring plot considerations for a moment) readers would’ve been more sympathetic to Catelyn as a whole.

Not that her actions this chapter aren’t objectively awful.

Lady Stark looked over. For a moment she did not seem to recognize him. Finally she blinked. “What are you doing here?” she asked in a voice strangely flat and emotionless.

“I came to see Bran,” Jon said. “To say good-bye.”

Her face did not change. Her long auburn hair was dull and tangled. She looked as though she had aged twenty years. “You’ve said it. Now go away.”

Martin has gone on record saying that if he were to write it today he would’ve softened Catelyn a little in this scene or at the very least given it more context. While I get that, nothing Catelyn does or says in this scene (with the understanding that she’s half delirious from lack of sleep) is actually out of character. Jon is an existential threat to her children: not only does he look more Stark than her sons, but he’s also as old if not older than Robb which would make him dangerous if he were ever legitimized.

The thread Jon poses is not an idle one; as she'll mention to Robb later in ASOS the Targaryen Blackfyre bastards led to three generations of brutal civil war and repression. Bastards are, by definition, destabilizing to the westerosi social contract. In a society where everyone has a rigid social role (even their gods are broken into specific societal roles) bastards have none and threaten to crumble the walls between them.

The other threat Jon presents to Jon is to the limited power patriarchal society gives her. As a noble lady, managing her home is one of the few places Catelyn can exert any control over her life, and theoretically has as much of a say in as her lord husband, and Ned deciding Jon will stay with them is a slap in the face to her and a breach of that power. As Catelyn herself thinks in an earlier chapter, the problem isn’t that Ned has a bastard; it’s that he has him live with them and she has no control over it.

Part of him wanted only to flee, but he knew that if he did he might never see Bran again. He took a nervous step into the room. “Please,” he said.

Something cold moved in her eyes. “I told you to leave,” she said. “We don’t want you here.”

There’s a real sense of dread seeping out from Jon when it comes to Catelyn. He’s terrified of her, not so much for material reasons (he doesn’t actually think she’ll throw him out despite how she'll threaten to in a minute), as emotional ones. He’s dreading the emotional backlash he knows is coming, which is a very organic reaction from a child who’s been emotionally neglected or abused in the way he has. This is an old pattern, and he's instinctually flinching from what he knows is the emotional fallout.

Once that would have sent him running. Once that might even have made him cry. Now it only made him angry. He would be a Sworn Brother of the Night’s Watch soon, and face worse dangers than Catelyn Tully Stark. “He’s my brother,” he said.

“Shall I call the guards?”

“Call them,” Jon said, defiant. “You can’t stop me from seeing him.” He crossed the room, keeping the bed between them, and looked down on Bran where he lay.

Even this early on Jon has started to use his Night’s Watch identity to draw strength from. It makes sense and speaks to why he wanted to join it to begin with: joining it is a clear mark of adulthood, a way of taking his destiny into his own hands, and because of the nobility of the institution, a way of scrubbing off his bastard taint, something Jon has not doubt craved most of his life.

Drawing strength from taking the black is something that will only grow more second nature to Jon as the series goes on. As I wrote in a recent ask, it’s one of the reasons when he’s resurrected I think finding out he was murdered by his brothers will hit him significantly harder than it does in the show. If he's not a man of the Night's Watch, then he's what he is in this scene: small and vulnerable and unloved.

“Bran,” he said, “I’m sorry I didn’t come before. I was afraid.” He could feel the tears rolling down his cheeks. Jon no longer cared. “Don’t die, Bran. Please. We’re all waiting for you to wake up. Me and Robb and the girls, everyone …”

Lady Stark was watching. She had not raised a cry. Jon took that for acceptance. Outside the window, the direwolf howled again. The wolf that Bran had not had time to name.

“I have to go now,” Jon said. “Uncle Benjen is waiting. I’m to go north to the Wall. We have to leave today, before the snows come.” He remembered how excited Bran had been at the prospect of the journey. It was more than he could bear, the thought of leaving him behind like this. Jon brushed away his tears, leaned over, and kissed his brother lightly on the lips.

Not really important, but still kind of funny: the first time I read A Game of Thrones (fifteen years at this point?) I was very young and the kissing thing weirded me out to no end. It wasn’t until years later I would realize platonic mouth kissing is just a thing white people do sometimes (I’m kidding. Mostly).

“I wanted him to stay here with me,” Lady Stark said softly.

Jon watched her, wary. She was not even looking at him. She was talking to him, but for a part of her, it was as though he were not even in the room.

“I prayed for it,” she said dully. “He was my special boy. I went to the sept and prayed seven times to the seven faces of god that Ned would change his mind and leave him here with me. Sometimes prayers are answered.”

Jon did not know what to say. “It wasn’t your fault,” he managed after an awkward silence.

Her eyes found him. They were full of poison. “I need none of your absolution, bastard.”

Even here, even now, Jon is trying to be kind. He's still, in some level, trying to forge some kind of a relationship, no matter how tenuous it is. It’s what makes Catelyn’s reaction all that much more painful. Even outside of this situation, there’s really no common ground the two could ever have found between them, not without Catelyn being a far different person and one living in a less rigidly patriarchal society. Everything Jon does, no matter how well intentioned, will always be galling and patronizing because of who he is and what he represents.

This doesn’t make how Catelyn treats Jon ok though. Whatever her frustrations or anxieties with the position Jon occupies, she is an adult and he is a child, a child who desperately needed a mother figure and to be treated as equal to his siblings. There’s just no getting around it. At some point early in Jon’s upbringing Catelyn needed to put her big girl boots on, do the right thing, and treat him like a person.

He was at the door when she called out to him. “Jon,” she said. He should have kept going, but she had never called him by his name before. He turned to find her looking at his face, as if she were seeing it for the first time.

“Yes?” he said.

“It should have been you,” she told him. Then she turned back to Bran and began to weep, her whole body shaking with the sobs. Jon had never seen her cry before.

It was a long walk down to the yard.

That last line (“it should’ve been you”) is a stab in the gut, but can ultimately, like a lot of Catelyn’s behavior in this chapter, be attributed to being half mad from grief and sleep deprivation: the part about how this is the first time she’s ever called him by his name can’t be, and is just chilling. It’s one of the few concrete details we get about how the two of them interacted. Denying someone their name is dehumanizing (Reek, it rhymes with meek), and speaks to just how much distance Catelyn created between her and Jon.

There isn’t really a reason to think Catelyn called Jon “Snow” or “bastard” or anything particular cruel, but ignoring is a special of cruelty all it’s own, though it probably came easy to Catelyn. In a castle as big and gendered as Winterfell, just like with Sansa, there’s the very real possibility that the two of them simply didn’t cross paths much.

We also don’t really get any reaction from Jon here to what Catelyn says. It’s a little frustrating in terms of trying to understand his character, but it fits Martin’s less is more ethos (for this, anyway, he definitely lacks that ethos when it comes to adding Greyjoy and Dorne plotlines).

Outside, everything was noise and confusion. Wagons were being loaded, men were shouting, horses were being harnessed and saddled and led from the stables. A light snow had begun to fall, and everyone was in an uproar to be off.

Robb was in the middle of it, shouting commands with the best of them. He seemed to have grown of late, as if Bran’s fall and his mother’s collapse had somehow made him stronger. Grey Wind was at his side.

While not a big part of either Sansa or Jon’s storyline, Robb really grows into being a lord in the absence of Ned and Catelyn. Just another example of how all the Stark children are forced to mature quickly, and a bit of a counterpoint to the idea that Ned didn’t prepare them for the adult world. While he certainly didn’t in certain ways in that all of them start their stories at something of a deficit of where they should be in terms of knowledge of the world, he and Catelyn did raise them in a way where they’re able to adapt swiftly to what’s needed.

“Uncle Benjen is looking for you,” he [Robb] told Jon. “He wanted to be gone an hour ago.”

“I know,” Jon said. “Soon.” He looked around at all the noise and confusion. “Leaving is harder than I thought.”

“For me too,” Robb said. He had snow in his hair, melting from the heat of his body. “Did you see him?”

Jon nodded, not trusting himself to speak. “He’s not going to die,” Robb said. “I know it.”

“You Starks are hard to kill,” Jon agreed. His voice was flat and tired. The visit had taken all the strength from him.

Robb knew something was wrong. “My mother …”

“She was … very kind,” Jon told him.

Robb looked relieved. “Good.”

Robb seems to be well aware just how hostile Catelyn might have been to Jon, which implies that he's very aware of the distance and tension between them in normal life. And the fact that Robb is relieved when Jon says nothing happened is also interesting for its implication of just how much strain Catelyn’s hostility towards Jon put on all the starklings. This is an excellent meta that explores this idea more fully. To quote just a bit from it:

“I don’t often see it acknowledged that Catelyn’s abuse of Jon reverberated through the family and hurt her own children, even though it’s quite visible in a few places. Beyond the strain it puts on the Starklings to be perpetually caught between their beloved mother and beloved brother… I don’t see Robb’s anxiety here that his mother might hurt his brother being mentioned, and how that kind of dynamic puts a terrible strain on both children. Catelyn very clearly did not “ignore” or “avoid” Jon, and her actions didn’t just affect Jon, either, they also hurt her own children. Note that I am not saying that Catelyn is a Bad Mother or siding with the goblins of westeros.org who will hate Catelyn for anything she does, but when a parent behaves in inappropriate ways to one child it affects everyone in a family, especially the other children.”

Trying to navigate the hostility between two people you love is hugely stressful, and triply so when one of them is your parent. Fundamentally Robb is caught in a zero sum game where any affection or closeness with Jon is a betrayal of his mother. This is a dynamic I see attributed a lot to Sansa in fic where she’s the one of the starklings in the family who chooses her mother over Jon. It’s a really rich idea to explore, but unfortunately there’s no way of knowing whether it’s true accurate or not: there just isn’t enough evidence one way or another in the actual books. I tend to prefer the headcanon that the two were just different, but it’s certainly no less valid.

What we do is that this zero sum dynamic isn’t what Bran and Arya experienced with Jon. Neither (as far as I can remember) actually ever think about his relationship with Catelyn, though you can still see the damage in how Arya immediately thinks as a child she must be a bastard because she doesn’t fit in. Like we’ve talked about, Catelyn created and perpetuated the subconscious understanding among the Starklings that to be bastard was to be other. To quote from that meta again (it really is excellent):

“We also see the effects of Catelyn’s treatment of Jon in Sansa’s reflection on both Jon and Arya. Catelyn’s attempt to interfere with her children’s relationship with Jon was most successful with Sansa who internalized that Jon was to be held at a distance because he was only their half-brother. Sansa also thinks of how it would have been easier for her to understand Arya’s nature and the difference between them if Arya was a bastard like Jon, which speaks of Sansa’s view of the proper boundaries of a relationship with a bastard sibling and the kind of behavior she was taught to expect from bastards, an expectation that she displays when she casually comments about how Jon was jealous of Joffrey in a very matter-of-fact way. That alignment of Jon and Arya colors Sansa’s perception of Arya just as much as Jon.”

Speaking of Arya, Jon says farewell to Robb, and then goes to say goodbye to Arya who is busy packing in her room.

Arya glanced behind her, saw Jon, and jumped to her feet. She threw her skinny arms tight around his neck. “I was afraid you were gone,” she said, her breath catching in her throat. “They wouldn’t let me out to say good-bye.”

“What did you do now?” Jon was amused.

Though it’s not ever mentioned, Arya is probably the only person Jon has ever gotten any physical affection from. Ned is not the kind of parent to overly shower his children with physical contact, and Jon is even likely to get any from him as both male and a bastard. And Catelyn sure as hell isn’t giving out any hugs to him. It’s interesting he actually isn’t more craving of affection of any kind (like Tyrion is) throughout the series, and speaks I think to how healthy and supportive of relationships he did have with his siblings despite Catelyn.

Her face lit up. “A present?”

“You could call it that. Close the door.”

Wary but excited, Arya checked the hall. “Nymeria, here. Guard.” She left the wolf out there to warn of intruders and closed the door. By then Jon had pulled off the rags he’d wrapped it in. He held it out to her.

Arya’s eyes went wide. Dark eyes, like his. “A sword,” she said in a small, hushed breath.

The scabbard was soft grey leather, supple as sin. Jon drew out the blade slowly, so she could see the deep blue sheen of the steel. “This is no toy,” he told her. “Be careful you don’t cut yourself. The edges are sharp enough to shave with.”

“Girls don’t shave,” Arya said.

“Maybe they should. Have you ever seen the septa’s legs?”

It’s here we get our first introduction to Needle, one of the top five emotionally charged swords in the series. Throughout all her travels and hardships Needle will be the one thing Sansa holds on to, and as she thinks years later in Braavos before the House of Black and White, Needle is a symbol not just of her old life, but Jon’s unquestioning acceptance of her nonconformity.

That being said, let’s talk for a moment just how weird it is Jon is arming a child with a deadly weapon. As this meta argues, Jon is remarkably comfortable with violence, and his modus operandi in almost any given situation, whether personal or political, is to immediately empower and arm a marginalized group: Arya here, Sam and the other Night’s Watch recruits against Alliser Thorne at Castle Black , and the Wildlings in ADWD.

This modus operandi is interesting to think about when applying it to his relationship to Sansa. Even if they had been in closer proximity as children, I still don’t think Jon would ever have gotten that emotionally close to Sansa. She’s simply in too much of a position of privilege for him to ever really have anything to offer her. Jon is capable of having relationships with people either at his privilege level or higher, Robb and Ygritte come to mind, but on the whole that really is how Jon tends to develop the majority of his relationships: almost as though he can only be friends with people who need him (Sam, Tormund, Alys Karstark, even Stannis to a degree).

To theorize for a moment, this probably stems from his understanding of the world as an uncertain place where his status is always tenuous. And also from a probably unconscious feeling of having no inherent worth of his own: there’s no reason for anyone to like him just for him, so he only feels comfortable when there’s some material reason for them to. It’s a really subtle expression of Catelyn’s withholding of affection and his bastard status as a whole.

This is all really interesting to think about in relation to what his relationship with Sansa will be when they meet again and she no longer holds the position of privilege that she once did. While she almost for sure won’t be as disempowered when they meet in the books as she was in the show, she will need Jon to one extent or the other. It’s also just interesting to think about in terms of Jon’s future emotional growth or how he’d handle it in an intimate relationship.

She giggled at him. “It’s so skinny.”

“So are you,” Jon told her. “I had Mikken make this special. The bravos use swords like this in Pentos and Myr and the other Free Cities. It won’t hack a man’s head off, but it can poke him full of holes if you’re fast enough.”

“I can be fast,” Arya said.

“You’ll have to work at it every day.” He put the sword in her hands, showed her how to hold it, and stepped back. “How does it feel? Do you balance?”

“I think so,” Arya said.

“First lesson,” Jon said. “Stick them with the pointy end.”

Again cute, but to quote from that meta: “[Jon’s] idea of thoughtful gift-giving is to sit around contemplating the best way for a small-sized nine-year-old to kill people and figure out what she needs to do it. “

Arya gave him a whap on the arm with the flat of her blade. The blow stung, but Jon found himself grinning like an idiot. “I know which end to use,” Arya said.

Jon’s grin here is evidence that he really does find fulfillment and happiness with Arya, even here on one of the most emotionally taxing days of his life to this point.

“Who will I practice with?”

“You’ll find someone,” Jon promised her. “King’s Landing is a true city, a thousand times the size of Winterfell. Until you find a partner, watch how they fight in the yard. Run, and ride, make yourself strong. And whatever you do …”

Arya knew what was coming next. They said it together.

“… don’t … tell … Sansa!”

Despite being one of the few times Jon mentions Sansa, I don’t think his evocation of her here is really about what he thinks about her so much as what he knows she means to Arya. We in general don’t really ever (as far as I can remember) get any real insight into what Jon thought about their relationship, or if he even internally took sides. Considering just how close he is with Arya, you’d think he would have more thoughts on the matter, but it’s yet another frustrating example of the black hole of their relationship.

Jon messed up her hair. “I will miss you, little sister.”

Suddenly she looked like she was going to cry. “I wish you were coming with us.”

“Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle. Who knows?” He was feeling better now. He was not going to let himself be sad. “I better go. I’ll spend my first year on the Wall emptying chamber pots if I keep Uncle Ben waiting any longer.”

Arya ran to him for a last hug. “Put down the sword first,” Jon warned her, laughing. She set it aside almost shyly and showered him with kisses.

Again we see the dynamic of Jon finding fulfillment and feeling better in himself for arming and thus empowering someone else. It also brings full circle the tour of Jon’s Stark emotional relationships and how they relate to Catelyn: Catelyn herself who he dreads and has the worst with, Bran who’s comatose but is a positive relationship, Robb who is on the whole a positive relationship but one not unaffected by Catelyn, and then Arya who he’s closest to because they’re both nonconforming.

When he turned back at the door, she was holding it again, trying it for balance. “I almost forgot,” he told her. “All the best swords have names.”

“Like Ice,” she said. She looked at the blade in her hand. “Does this have a name? Oh, tell me.”

“Can’t you guess?” Jon teased. “Your very favorite thing.”

Arya seemed puzzled at first. Then it came to her. She was that quick. They said it together:

“Needle!”

The memory of her laughter warmed him on the long ride north.

Show Comparison

(I know I’m in the minority, but Jon’s face is oh so punchable in the early seasons. Kit is a fair actor, but the impression of Jon we get is less of an intelligent and occasionally sullen bastard, and more just sulky)

The show changes this chapter in a few really significant ways. There’s two scenes that take place in the same timeframe that are addd. One is Jaime mocking Jon for going to the Wall, which is very Jaime and adds to the theme we’ll see in Tyrion II of Jon not quite understanding what he was signing up for, but otherwise doesn’t do much.

The other scene is Cersei coming to visit Catelyn at Bran’s bedside. This is a weird scene for a couple of reasons (not least of which is Cersei losing a child that will then be totally forgotten a few seasons later in Maggy’s prophecy), but for our purposes it changes what Catelyn’s mental state is for the scene with Jon. Instead of being half mad with grief and sleep deprivation, Catelyn really isn’t that distraught. Sad and worried, sure, but not out of her mind.

Before we get there though, Jon goes to say goodbye to Arya. Switching the order of this scene to before the on with Catelyn and Bran actually changes more than you’d think. I can see why they thought it was a good idea: there’s more of a dramatic progression this way, but it robs Jon and Arya’s scene. Instead of a scene where he draws strength from his relationship with Arya, it’s a sadder and more somber scene. It’s also a significantly shorter scene than it is in the book, with less banter, and combined with the cutting of the scene between the two of them in Arya I, it makes their relationship a little perfunctory. Jon also sasses Arya for not having Nymeria react to her command, which runs completely counter to how supportive he is in the books. In general he’s a little more harsh with her.

It’s not a problem, per se, you still get a sense that they’re close, but it’s the first step in a general flattening of Jon’s character. Speaking of which...

A lot of the dialogue in the scene by Bran’s bedside gets cut. A lot. Catelyn literally has two lines, one at the beginning, and one at the end.

Jon: I’ve come to say goodbye to Bran.

Catelyn: You’ve said it.

And then after Jon says his thing to Bran.

Catelyn: I want you to leave.

It’s fair to cut some of Catelyn’s dialogue here. The way she glares at Jon non-verbally communicates some of it, but it fundamentally changes the scene. While I don’t think there’s a need to keep Catelyn as sharp as she was in the original scene, because we don’t have access to Jon’s inner thoughts, cutting all her dialogue means that for all intents and purposes all the things we talked about in this chapter; the toll Jon’s bastard status takes on him, the complexities in his familial relationships, the way Catelyn’s actions affected all the Starks are just… gone. None of it exists on the show.

It’s the way the show handles a lot of things, and one of the reasons I wasn’t too fond of it back even in season one: really the show is interested only in a surface level reading of the text, and flattens everything, jettisoning a lot of the thematic and character richness Martin fills the books with.

(Oh, also Ned is in the scene now. Do we see how he reacts to Jon and Catelyn’s relationship? Nope, because none of it happens.)

Finally, the scene between Jon and Robb plays out pretty much the same. There’s another added scene after it where Ned tells Jon he may not have the Stark name, but he has his blood and promises to talk about his mother next time they talk. I don’t really have any thoughts about it. It’s nice, but could also have just been cut for time and we wouldn’t really lose anything.

Conclusion

This was a beast of a chapter to get done, much like Jon I. While chronologically the next chapter I should cover is Tyrion II, I’m going to skip it and do Sansa I next (and then Tyrion II). It’ll be the first time we’ll be in Sansa’s pov and get her sense of her relationship with Arya: it also contains the infamous incident between Joffrey and Arya out on the Kingsroad.

Like the last Jon chapter, there’s a lot of really good meta written about the Bran bedroom scene and Jon and Catelyn’s relationship in general. Some I’ve already linked to in this reread series (and this chapter), and some I haven’t, but most of it should be new.

Further Reading

Catelyn’s relationship with Jon drove a wedge through all the Stark children

Jon giving Arya Needle is a sign of how comfortable he is with violence

Catelyn’s animus to Jon stems from her patriarchal disempowerment

Should Ned have fostered Jon elsewhere?

Should Ned have told Jon about his true parentage?

Should Ned have told Catelyn about Jon’s true parentage?

Previous Chapters:

Bran I

Jon I

Arya I

#reread #jon reread #jon snow #arya stark #catelyn stark #jonsa #agot #got meta #game of thrones meta #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #asoiaf meta

64 notes · View notes

femnet · 6 years

Text

I don't like being touched. I've never liked being touched. I think holding hands is an inconvenience and I give hugs because it's easier than explaining why I'd prefer not to. I've always been this way, even when I was growing up and my friends made it their mission to kiss and grope and eventually sleep with whoever they could. I channeled my energy into other things: books, my music, art, schoolwork... anything I could touch that wouldn't touch me back. It's a control thing, as most of my defining characteristics are. I experienced periods of my life where I was completely helpless so in controlling who has access to my body, I'm taking control of my surroundings by claiming body sovereignty. It also helps me limit who I let in. Not being touched, even in the slightest, means everyone is always at an arm's length - literally.

I used to think I was a late bloomer. I'm emotionally repressed, so it would only make sense that I was sexually repressed too. I was busy anyway and I didn't care about having sex. Anytime I was sexually active in any way it felt pressured (it was) and I hated myself for each and every encounter so it made sense that I avoided it when I could. I chalked it up to my poor choice in men; at the time I figured I wasn't asexual but demisexual - I just needed to find someone that actually respected me to want to have sex with them. My journey with my sexuality (or lackthereof) was nothing but rationalizations. I did everything to make myself feel normal and dealt with my aversion to sex the way I deal with everything else: by overthinking. Besides, anxiety and depression medications often cause your libido to drop so all of this felt medically normal anyway. Some days my mental health was so poor my only goal was to make it out of bed in the morning and back in bed at night. Life was about going through the motions, so something as frivolous as sex seemed silly to even consider. I rationalized this for years and years, questioning my sexuality and hating myself because I didn't crave the one thing every other person seemed to. Because as I grew up things like gender identity and sexuality were spoken of freely. Being asexual is recognized and acknowledged. Being sexually averse, still is not.

I talk about everything with my therapist. Everything. More than I've ever told any other human in existence. But we don't talk about sex. At least, we don't talk about me and sex. That's the thing with being sex-averse, it's not about hating sex. It's about hating the sex I have or don't have. It's about hating all physical forms of intimacy that involve myself. Oddly enough I'm actually extremely open about sex itself. Ask any of my friends and they will tell you how frank I am about everything from protection to positions to the actual physical anatomy involved. Writing this I am not bothered in the least. All of the sex I'm discussing is hypothetical. It is not my sex, it is just sex. Because again, being sex-averse goes back to control, or lackthereof. All the sex the world has or does not have rarely affects how much control I have over myself and my surroundings. Someone else’s nakedness does not make me vulnerable.

So what happens when I have sex or even try to be intimate with someone? Well, I don’t. Not anymore. But when I was young and used to think I didn’t have a choice? It’s a bit like a panic attack. I say “like” because I have panic attacks often and for some reason the ones I have related to my sex-aversion are always a bit different. When I’m having a standard panic attack there’s a lot of heaving and deep sighs because I’m trying to catch my breath. When I’m having a panic attack because I’m in a sexual situation or even thinking of a sexual situation in which I am involved (yes, this happens when I just think about sexual intimacy) there is no catching my breath - I just feel like I’m being choked and I can’t recover. It feels like all of the oxygen has escaped my lungs and there is no hope of it coming back. My chest feels tight and my face feels warm and usually I cry in the way that clouds your vision but does not stain your cheeks. It’s a lot of internal pressure and it’s there until I can distract myself from the sexual situation long enough to fixate on something else. Then, when the sense of panic is gone and I can breathe again, all that’s left is the self-loathing. I’m unsure of what causes it: the perfectionist in me upset over having a panic attack or the sense of dread that’s leftover from whatever thoughts caused the anxiety in the first place.

The way I experience sexual aversion is not the way everyone will. It is similar to phobias and anxieties in that we all process them differently. Sexual aversion is often caused by childhood sexual abuse (or other similar traumatic events of the sexual nature) but not always. I don’t know what caused mine, meaning for me it’s particularly brutal to unpack. For some people the sexual aversion only happens with one partner, whereas for others (like myself) it is with everyone. For some people it is parts of sex they are averse to and for others they avoid any forms of the act altogether.

For some people it is temporary. For other people, like myself, it feels like it’ll last forever. A lot of it, I believe, comes down to how it’s viewed. Is sexual aversion a disorder or an identity? Can you successfully live in a world where sex and human intimacy seems to dictate everything around you? Can you ever really connect with someone if you don’t give yourself to them in these ways? These are absolutely thoughts that plague asexuals as well but with sexual aversion it’s a bit different. It’s not that I don’t want to have sex it’s that I’d legitimately rather die than let anyone touch me in that way. Identity is about self-governance and freedom but my sexual aversion feels like a prison sometimes, so maybe it is a disorder. Then comes the anxiety over being so inherently different from almost all humans at their core and this idea that the only way to fix this is to confront the very thing that makes me hate myself more than I ever have before.

It goes without saying that dating is difficult. I’m emotionally stunted too, so that helps in keeping any potential partners away anyway, but even if I did find someone I could let in, the conversation (like the one I’m having with you, the reader, now) is an odd one. The concept of not only not wanting to have sex but hating the very idea is so hard for people to grasp. For some people it’s like saying you’re against breathing. How do you live without it? As if I’m less of a person for not partaking. As if I didn’t feel bad enough about it already…

I know I’m not alone or at least that’s what I tell myself. When I initially identified as asexual I used to feel the same way but thankfully we live in an age where such a thing can be shared and embraced. Sexual aversion hasn’t quite caught on. A lot of it is where it is rooted (read: shame, usually) but also because it is so incredibly hard to discuss. For me, most days, it is impossible. It’s difficult to conquer a fear when you can’t even think about it.

If you know someone who is sex averse it may be best to leave it alone. Give them time to open up to you about it. Questions are often triggering and living in such a sex-obsessed world is hard enough without extra pressure from friends and family, i.e. the people who are meant to make you feel safe. Like anything, it’s about respect. We know that the society tells us sex is everything but for us it’s not. It’s okay if you don’t fully understand it - I can’t speak for everyone, but most days I don’t either.

#by elizabeth #sexuality #real life #adult life #love and sexuality #march 2019

7 notes · View notes

imaginetonyandbucky · 7 years

Text

What Happens In Moscow (Part 2)

A/N: Part 2 of 2. Reminder that this story contains references to violence and torture, blood and injuries, nightmares/PTSD, and psychological issues like insomnia and dissociative identity disorder.

Tony held a hand under the water, waiting until it was hot before slipping out of his boxers and stepping carefully under the spray.

“Okay, Mr. Modesty,” Tony called, “you can come back in now.”

Bucky had agreed to sit in the bathroom while Tony showered so that if Tony started to feel faint, Bucky could catch him before he cracked his head open on the edge of the tub.

Tony was tired. God, he was bone-tired, and even with the temperature notched up as high as it would go, he still felt frozen. He blinked and lowered his head, watching as dirt and mud and blood trickled into the clear water, staining it as it swirled down the drain. There was more blood than he’d expected, and it stung - fuck, it stung so bad, Tony had to brace himself against the tiles to stay upright.

“You still good?” came Bucky’s voice from outside the curtain.

Tony nodded, taking too long to realize Bucky couldn’t actually see him. “Yes. Yeah. Sorry.”

“You sure?”

Tony took in a deep breath and held it, letting it out slowly. “Hurts like a bitch.”

“I got somethin’ to help with that once you're done.”

(Watch out for the break!)

‘Something’ turned out to be a very effective topical anesthetic. It took the sting out of the angry red marks on Tony’s back and the rope burns around his wrists and ankles. Tony could've cried in relief.

“Thank you,” Tony said, still surprised at the gentleness of Bucky's hands. Snapping bone one minute, applying ointment the next. These two facets of Bucky Barnes were giving Tony whiplash.

Bucky left Tony alone to put on comfortable (and very unfashionable) flannel pajamas. They were a size too big, but they were warm and soft, and slipping his arms into the shirt didn't aggravate Tony's shoulder. When he finally emerged from the bathroom, the covers on the bed had been pulled back, and Bucky was lying on the couch.

“You alright?” Bucky asked, sounding just sincere enough that Tony bit back his snarky response.

“Yeah. I'm good.”

Bucky didn't say anything else, and Tony climbed into bed, falling asleep just minutes after his head hit the pillows.

When Tony woke, light was already filtering in through the blinds. Tony sat up, blinking the sun out of his eyes. Damn. He was sore. Probably not as sore as he could've been - he'd definitely been hurt worse than this - but sore enough that his body tried to keep him from rolling out of bed.

“Mornin’,” Bucky said. “There’s coffee, if you want it.”

Did Bucky know who he was dealing with? Of course Tony wanted coffee.

“Thanks,” Tony replied. He crossed slowly toward the coffee maker, surprised when Bucky stepped into his path to hand him a mug.

“Clothes laid out for you on the table, too. Might be a little big.”

“That’s okay.” Tony reached out to take the mug, his fingers brushing Bucky’s metal hand. Right. That was on Tony’s list of things to ask. “Who made you the new arm?”

“T’Challa’s got a team that makes his suit. Steve convinced ’em to do it. Said it was worth the risk. Apparently I’m more asset than menace as long as Stevie’s there to keep me in check.”

Tony nodded, stepping away to set the mug down on the dresser and fill it with what promised to be extremely strong coffee, if the smell was anything to go by. “Do you like it?” Tony asked.

Bucky shrugged. “It’s better than the last one.”

“That doesn’t sound like you like it.” Tony considered Bucky, taking a small sip from his mug. He wanted to offer to fix it - Tony could take tech like that from good to great in a heartbeat - but for some reason he kept silent, searching Bucky’s eyes. “Thank you.”

Bucky frowned. “For what?”

“For saving me,” Tony said, for once allowing himself to be entirely serious. “I never want anyone to have to rescue me. But I’m glad you did.”

“Me too.”

Tony shook his head, still not quite understanding why Bucky had singled him out as someone worth saving in the first place.

Not Bucky, Tony reminded himself. The Soldier. Not the same thing. Right?

“So,” Tony said, “what’s the plan?”

“Natasha’s goin’ after Ross. Might take a couple days. Soon as we get the call, you can go home.”

Tony wondered whether going home would really benefit anyone. Thanks to a little coaching, Spider-Kid had the city’s supervillains and criminals pretty much under control. Pepper was running the company as well as she ever had. Rhodey had made literal strides in his physical therapy; he didn’t need the exoskeleton any more, and with the modifications Tony had made to the suit, he could still enforce the Accords and serve up Iron Patriot justice. What else was left for Tony to do in New York but babysit the few Avengers that were left?

“What if I don’t want to go home? What if I want to go somewhere else?”

Bucky glanced over, a question in his eyes. “Once we get the all clear, I’ll take you anywhere you want.”

Tony nodded once. “I'll hold you to that.”

Tony spent most of the first day sleeping. Two cups of coffee weren't enough to keep him awake, not when his body had been so carelessly abused. He was thankful that Bucky had woken him up in the evening and forced him to eat, otherwise he probably wouldn't have woken up at all.

The second day was harder to fill than the first. His body was like a battery - give it too much of a charge, and it took forever to drain back down to empty. He spent the day awake and restless. Being off the grid drove Tony crazy. He felt lost, useless without his tech, and Bucky’s collection of books and music left something to be desired.

The lights had been out for over an hour, and Tony was still spread eagle on the bed, wide awake and staring at the ceiling. He knew based on Bucky's breathing that Bucky was still awake, too; apparently after two days trapped in a room, neither of them were feeling particularly restful.

“Insomnia,” Tony said, sitting up and dropping his head briefly into his hands. “Pretty sure that’s one of the disorders you read about. Right?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said after a few seconds.

“That’s one of mine.”

“I got that one, too.”

Well. Misery did love company. Tony rubbed at one eye with the palm of his hand. “Can I ask you a question?”

“’Course.”

“Okay.” Tony licked his lips. “How much of you is Bucky and how much of you is the Soldier?”

“About fifty-fifty.”

“Which one is in charge?”

“Bucky, mostly. The Soldier’s one hell of a backseat driver, though.”

Tony laughed. “So what you’re saying is, it gets crowded up there.”

“That’s one way to explain it.”

“Believe it or not, I can actually relate. Too many ideas and not enough space.” Tony might not have had multiple personalities, but he didn't always feel in control of his own mind. It made him feel better, knowing he wasn't the only one with trouble keeping everything straight in his head.

Well, Tony thought. No use sitting around trying to sleep. Might as well find something to do. He got out of bed and headed toward the cabinet, opening the small door and rifling through it.

“What’re you doin’?”

“I remember seeing a deck of cards in here - there it is.” Tony pulled out the deck and sat back down on the bed. “Well? Come on. Play cards with me.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Damn, you’re pushy.”

“Some people find it charming.” Tony finished shuffling and split the deck, looking expectantly at Bucky.

Bucky waited another beat, then stood, walking over to the bed and sitting down in front of Tony. “Okay, Stark. What’re we playin’?”

The third morning, Tony woke up screaming.

He knew it wasn't real. He knew it was only a dream, and he still couldn't stop it. The pain kept coming over and over and over again in brutal strokes. He was bruised and bleeding, and they kept asking him questions, questions he refused to answer. Question. Pain. Question. Pain. The cycle was endless, repeating until he couldn't take it anymore. Please, stop.

Suddenly Tony was awake, his breath coming in short gasps, tears clouding his eyes. “Shit,” he said, sitting up and wrapping his arms around himself.

Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

“Hey,” Bucky said, but Tony was only vaguely aware, barely noticing when Bucky sat down on the bed next to him. “It's alright.”

Tony shook his head and screwed his eyes shut, trying to breathe. “Shit.”

“Hey, c’mon. It ain’t real.” Strong arms circled Tony from behind, holding tight. “Stark.” Bucky lowered his chin onto Tony’s shoulder. “Tony. I got you.”

Something about Bucky saying his name slowed the spinning panic long enough for Tony to catch his breath. He blinked, opening his eyes. “Sorry. I’m - I'm sorry. I haven’t had a nightmare like that in - shit.”

Months. The word Tony was looking for was months. It had been so long since he’d had a nightmare, he’d almost forgotten what they were like.

“Nothin’ to be sorry for,” Bucky said, loosening his grip a little. “You alright?”

“Yeah.” Tony swallowed, suddenly aware of just how many muscles were pressed up against him. That was more than a little overwhelming, and for some reason, Tony didn't want Bucky to let go. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

Bucky released him slowly, not moving too far. Tony held back a whimper, instantly missing the contact.

Well. That's new.

Tony bit his tongue in frustration. What he wanted was comfort, not Bucky. Right? But... With Bucky holding him, he wasn't as afraid. As long as he didn't have the suit, maybe Bucky was the next best thing.

Tony turned around, looking up into Bucky’s face. “This is a really unreasonable thing for me to ask, but… Don't go back to the couch. There's plenty of room for both of us here, and I… I think it would help me if you stayed.”

Bucky didn't hesitate. “’Course I’ll stay.”

Tony raised his eyebrows. Really? Had it really been that easy?

Tony slipped back under the covers, flooded with relief when Bucky followed his lead. Bucky’s eyes were bright even in the dark, and Tony turned onto his side, holding his breath when Bucky's arms snaked around him from behind.

“Too much?” Bucky asked cautiously.

Tony shook his head. “No.” Too easy, maybe. More right than Tony wanted to admit. But definitely not too much.

The fourth day passed without incident. Tony’s injuries were healing well, and he used the empty pages of an old notebook to sketch designs for a new robot. Bucky went into town to restock on supplies and came back with takeout from the local pub, which the two of them ate together in silence on opposite ends of the coffee table. They didn't talk about their new sleeping arrangement; Bucky slipped into bed with Tony entirely unprompted, and it was embarrassing how much Tony liked having Bucky’s body wrapped around his own.

When Tony woke up on the fifth morning, he was alone. He blinked, rubbing his eyes. He could hear the faint sound of the shower running - that would explain why Bucky wasn't in bed - and he smelled the coffee before he saw it.

He sat up, taking stock. His wrists and ankles were still sore, but the ache had died down to something more manageable. The skin on his back felt too tight, and it alternated between hurting and itching, which wasn't helpful or comfortable. Those wounds would probably take longer to heal, even with the ointment Bucky applied to them every day.

Tony was about to stand to get himself some coffee when he heard the door to the bathroom creak open. He looked up just in time to see Bucky standing in the doorway, wearing a towel and nothing else.

Tony stared, completely caught off guard. “Wow,” he said before he could stop himself. Bucky had muscles for days. The definition was incredible. Tony had expected Bucky to be fit. He hadn't expected to like it so much.

“Um,” Tony said, his mouth dry. “I guess if you're done, I’ll go take a shower.”

“Alright,” Bucky said, stepping out of the doorway.

Tony stood and headed toward the bathroom, his eyes trained on the floor as he passed Bucky and shut the door quietly behind him.

Tony turned on the water and paced the bathroom, trying to clear the image of a naked Bucky Barnes from his mind. He’d never even seen Bucky naked. Shirtless, yes. Naked, no. It didn’t matter; it took no effort to imagine everything Bucky had to offer, every beautiful muscular inch.

Damn it. Three days ago, these thoughts hadn't even been on Tony's radar. He had just been thankful to be safe. Now… Well. Now his mind was painting pictures he'd never asked for. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had such an intense sexual response.

Tony closed his eyes for a few seconds, then stripped and stepped into the shower. It must've been the proximity. Being in such close quarters with someone was bound to produce some kind of attraction, right? Or maybe… Maybe it was something else. Something more.

That was crazy, wasn't it?

Not that crazy, Tony thought. At least, he was pretty sure he’d heard of crazier things.

Bucky was sitting on the couch, flipping through one of the coffee table books, when Tony asked the blunt question.

“When you said the Soldier likes me,” he said carefully, running a hand through his still-damp hair. “How did you mean that? Does he just think I'm a good person? Or does he like me?”

Bucky stared at him for a long time. “Which one’s gonna freak you out less?”

“Just tell me the truth,” Tony said, moving to stand in front of Bucky. “I promise I won't freak out. I have a pretty high tolerance for weird shit.”

“The second one.” The way Bucky said it, Tony could’ve sworn it was an apology. “He likes you. A lot. I kinda see where he's comin’ from.”

Tony bit his lip. “So you like me. Both of you.”

“Yeah. We do.”

Tony nodded. Without saying a word, he climbed up onto the couch, straddling Bucky’s lap.

Bucky tilted his head back, his eyes going wide. “What're you doin’?”

“Just… Let me try something.” Tony took a final steadying breath before leaning in, closing the distance and sealing their mouths together in a kiss.

Bucky barely moved at first, the press of lips painfully tentative.

Tony pulled back just far enough to say, “Come on, Barnes. Kiss me back.”

Tony shifted a little, hooking one hand into Bucky’s hair and tugging gently. Bucky’s lips parted, and Tony kissed him again, harder this time. That got the response Tony was looking for. Bucky growled and surged forward, hands moving possessively to Tony’s waist, tongue tracing the seam of Tony’s lips before sliding easily into his mouth. Tony felt his system flooding with dopamine and probably a thousand other chemicals (who could even remember their names anymore?); his heart thundered in his ears, and his body thrummed with something like electricity.

Tony had no idea how long it lasted. Hours? Minutes? Somewhere in between? By the time he pulled away, he had completely forgotten how to breathe. He swallowed, resting his hands on Bucky’s shoulders. “In case it wasn’t clear, I like you too. Bucky. The Soldier. Both of you.”

“Why?”

“Do I have to have a reason?” Tony asked, brushing his nose softly against Bucky’s.

“Tony.” Bucky leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together. “Tell me this ain’t just ’cause I helped you.”

Tony thought about saying something sarcastic, but the seriousness in Bucky's voice made him reconsider. “It's not. I'm not doing this to thank you. I'm doing it because I want to.”

Tony was about to kiss Bucky just to prove his point, but Bucky beat him to it, metal hand holding Tony’s chin in place. This kiss was less forceful, but not any less intense, and something about Bucky holding him entirely still made Tony desperate for more.

A loud chime shocked them both apart, and Tony jumped, biting Bucky’s lip entirely by accident. “Shit. Sorry.”

“S’okay,” Bucky said. He reached forward, grabbing the phone from the coffee table and thumbing in the passcode. “It’s a text from Steve.” Bucky scanned through the message, then set the phone aside. “It’s done.”

Done. Tony should’ve felt relieved. Really, he was too preoccupied to care. “So. What now?”

“I made you a promise, remember? Said I’d take you wherever you wanted.”

“Yeah. I guess you did.” Tony let his hands rest on either side of Bucky's neck, his thumbs tracing Bucky’s jaw. “Lucky for you, I don't actually want to go anywhere."

"No?"

"Nope." Tony leaned forward, pressing a lingering kiss against Bucky's lips. "Believe it or not, I'm exactly where I want to be."

#winteriron #tony stark #bucky barnes #tony x bucky #referenced torture #referenced violence #blood #injuries #dissociative identity disorder #nightmares #insomnia #developing relationship #first kiss #prompts #sopherfly

288 notes · View notes

cat-the-lurker-blog · 6 years

Text

Non-prophetic dreams in A Song of Ice and Fire

The amount of attention George RR Martin has devoted to dreams in A Song of Ice and Fire is remarkable. In A Game of Thrones alone, nineteen dreams are described in various amounts of detail, with all point-of-view characters except Catelyn (no dreams) and Arya (one dream) having at least two dreams in the course of the novel. These dreams serve many narrative purposes, from delivering exposition to foreshadowing future events.

In this post, I won't be looking at the often-analyzed dreams with obvious supernatural or prophetic elements - like wolf dreams, dragon dreams, green dreams or dreams influenced by glass candles and shadowbinders. Instead, I'll try to examine dreams that reveal aspects of the dreamers' subconscious minds - like their deepest desires and worst fears, memories that shaped them, and their impulses and repressed emotions. I think the latter kind of dreams are equally important, since they establish characters' motivations, and provide setup for their actions, growth, or internal conflicts.

I. HOPES AND DESIRES

As she slept amidst the rolling grasslands, Catelyn dreamt that Bran was whole again, that Arya and Sansa held hands, that Rickon was still a babe at her breast. Robb, crownless, played with a wooden sword, and when all were safe asleep, she found Ned in her bed, smiling. (Chapter 22, A Clash of Kings)

This dream reminds the reader of Catelyn's priorities: she values her family more than anything, more than Northern independence and more than Robb's campaigns. Robb's appearance, crownless with a wooden sword, recalls Catelyn's final chapter in A Game of Thrones, in which her advice - to build a peace, as revenge will not bring back their dead - goes unheeded. Instead, Robb swears bloody vengeance against the Lannisters with a steel sword, and is crowned king - making it more difficult than ever for Catelyn to retrieve her daughters. Catelyn's desire to see her family reunited in this dream sets up and explains her actions later in the novel - having heard news of Bran and Rickon's "deaths", she will betray the Northern cause to free Jaime in exchange for Arya and Sansa.

He dreamt of the sky cell. This time he was the gaoler, not the prisoner, big, with a strap in his hand, and he was hitting his father, driving him back, toward the abyss... (Chapter 42, A Game of Thrones)

Tyrion dreams of punishing his father after he recounts Tywin's horrific abuse of Tysha to Bronn, reversing Tywin's role as his gaoler of sorts. Tywin has always demeaned and despised Tyrion, and only in Tyrion's dreams can he wield power over his father and presumably win his respect, through fear - something Tywin often does. But Tyrion's feelings towards his father are complicated, and he also desires recognition from Tywin (and society as a whole):

This time he dreamed he was at a feast, a victory feast in some great hall. He had a high seat on the dais, and men were lifting their goblets and hailing him as hero... Even his father was smiling with approval. (Chapter 67, A Clash of Kings)

In A Clash of Kings, Tyrion proves himself a competent ruler by masterminding the Lannister-Tyrell alliance and defending King's Landing during the Battle of the Blackwater. Rather than give him the credit and respect he deserves, as in the dream, Tywin dismisses his skills as "low cunning" and continues to loathe Tyrion for his mother's death and dwarfism, reasons beyond his control (You, who killed your mother to come into the world? You are an ill-made, devious, disobedient, spiteful little creature.) The stark contrast between Tyrion's hopes in the dream, and reality, helps build the emotional foundation for his growing bitterness towards and eventual killing of Tywin.

She went to sleep dreaming of the fight they’d had, and of Ser Jaime fastening a rainbow cloak about her shoulders. (Chapter 20, A Feast for Crows)

In Brienne's dreams, Jaime gives her a cloak - but it remains ambiguous whether she wants recognition as a knight, marriage, or both from him. That he has replaced Renly, the object of Brienne's affections, in her dream, shows the reader her growing feelings for him (that she won't admit in an internal monologue), and adds tension to her later conflict with Lady Stoneheart (who has forced her into seemingly agreeing to kill him).

In her dream they [Daenerys and Daario] had been man and wife, simple folk who lived a simple life in a tall stone house with a red door. (Chapter 11, A Dance with Dragons)

This is one of very few of the non-prophetic, non-supernatural dreams Daenerys has, and it shows her desire for peace and a home. She hopes that Westeros will fill the void left by her idealized childhood home with a red door. (It was King’s Landing and the great Red Keep that Aegon the Conqueror had built. It was Dragonstone where she had been born. In her mind’s eye, all the doors were red.) This sets up an internal conflict: that she is bringing war, fire, and blood to Westeros to make "dreams of home and love" come true.

II. FEARS

She dreamt of home; not Riverrun, but Winterfell. It was not a good dream, though. She was alone outside the castle, up to her knees in mud. She could see the grey walls ahead of her, but when she tried to reach the gates every step seemed harder than the one before, and the castle faded before her, until it looked more like smoke than granite. (Chapter 17, A Storm of Swords)

Following the burning of Winterfell (referenced in the smoke castle), Arya becomes increasingly despondent, fearing that she will never make it home to her family - and after the Red Wedding, she believes she is the last Stark left. Going home to Winterfell or Jon on the Wall has become so unattainable that Arya is willing to stay at the House of Black and White even at the cost of her identity. (I have a hole where my heart should be, she thought, and nowhere else to go.)

Tyrion only leered at her. He was naked too, covered with coarse hair that made him look more like a monkey than a man. “You shall see them crowned,” he said, “and you shall see them die.” (Chapter 39, A Feast for Crows)

Cersei dreams of Tyrion brutally torturing her (in a manner that mirrors her own torture of the Blue Bard), as he threatens the lives of her children. This dream escalates her paranoia about Tyrion and her descent into madness, and presents how Cersei interprets the prophecy, "Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds" to mean that her children will be crowned and predecease her.

“Sister, why has Father brought us here?” “Us? This is your place, Brother. This is your darkness.” Her torch was the only light in the cavern. Her torch was the only light in the world. She turned to go. “Stay with me,” Jaime pleaded. “Don’t leave me here alone.” But they were leaving. “Don’t leave me in the dark!” (Chapter 44, A Storm of Swords)

Although Jaime's dream after escaping Harrenhal seems to have been supernaturally influenced by a weirwood stump, his subconscious reactions during the dream reveal his fear that Cersei and Tywin will reject him (as he lost his hand, and is of no more use to them (I am worth less than a girl now, he thought.)) Besides introducing many prophetic elements that I won't discuss, this dream foreshadows Jaime's growing split with Cersei once he returns to King's Landing.

III. MEMORIES

She had dreamt that she was little, still sharing a bedchamber with her sister Arya. (Chapter 80, A Storm of Swords)

Having lost all her family, Sansa misses them more than ever and clings to her precious childhood memories. Unlike this, very few of the memories appearing in characters' dreams are pleasant - most of them are traumatic memories that had a deep impact on the characters. Like Sansa's recurring dream of her father's execution:

Yet those were the best times, for when she dreamed, she dreamed of Father. Waking or sleeping, she saw him, saw the gold cloaks fling him down, saw Ser Ilyn striding forward, unsheathing Ice from the scabbard on his back, saw the moment... (Chapter 67, A Game of Thrones)

More than any other point-of-view characters, Ned Stark has plenty of memory-related dreams:

Yet last night he had dreamt of Rhaegar’s children. Lord Tywin had laid the bodies beneath the Iron Throne, wrapped in the crimson cloaks of his house guard. That was clever of him; the blood did not show so badly against the red cloth. The little princess had been barefoot, still dressed in her bed gown, and the boy... the boy (Chapter 45, A Game of Thrones)

After discovering the Lannister incest, Ned delays taking any kind of action because he knows Robert will have the "Baratheon" children killed. (This was something else: poison in the dark, a knife thrust to the soul. This he could never forgive, no more than he had forgiven Rhaegar. He will kill them all, Ned realized.) Ned's memory of the murdered Targaryen children explains why he feels so strongly about preserving the lives of innocents. His determination to spare Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen leads him to tell all to Cersei, warning her to flee with her children - a mistake that will cost him dearly.

He dreamt an old dream, of three knights in white cloaks, and a tower long fallen, and Lyanna in her bed of blood. (Chapter 39, A Game of Thrones)

The memory came creeping upon him in the darkness, as vivid as a dream. It was the year of false spring, and he was eighteen again, down from the Eyrie to the tourney at Harrenhal. (Chapter 58, A Game of Thrones)

Ned's other dreams, memories of his sister and the mysterious promise he made her, hint at Jon's parentage without providing details necessitated by an internal monologue.

She dreamt an old dream, of three girls in brown cloaks, a wattled crone, and a tent that smelled of death... Cersei watched the girls huddling, whispering to one another. Go back, she tried to tell them. Turn away...

The girl with the golden curls put her hands upon her hips. “Give us our foretelling, or I’ll go to my lord father and have you whipped for insolence.” (Chapter 36, A Feast for Crows)

Cersei's encounter with Maggy the Frog explains aspects of her personality and relationships (especially with Tyrion), her descent into madness after Joffrey's death, and reveals Maggy's prophecy to the reader. Cersei relives her memory as if dissociated from her younger self and watching from afar, and reflects on her rash actions with dread and regret.

IV. REFLECTION

Some characters’ dreams also reveal subconscious or suppressed feelings and thoughts.

The night before, it had been the miller’s wife... Last night in his dream he had been in bed with her once again, but this time she had teeth above and below, and she tore out his throat even as she was gnawing off his manhood. (Chapter 56, A Clash of Kings)

Although he won't admit his guilt to himself, Theon is haunted by his murder of the miller's boys, the sons of a woman he slept with. It seems that Theon subconsciously fears that the boys were his own son(s), and dreads receiving a supernatural punishment for kinslaying (that foreshadows his torture at the hands of Ramsay Bolton). In the same chapter, Theon also dreams of being chased through a forest by wolves with children's heads (evoking Bran and Rickon, who escaped Theon's clutches), and a feast of dead Starks (which may be prophetic, hinting at Robb's death, but is also a manifestation of Theon's guilt over betraying House Stark.)

Last night he had dreamed of Sam drowning, of Ygritte dying with his arrow in her (it had not been his arrow, but in his dreams it always was), of Gilly weeping tears of blood. (Chapter 10, A Dance with Dragons)

Jon feels guilty for causing Ygritte's death (though indirectly, only by warning the Watch about the wildlings' assault from the south), and personally responsible for the fates of Sam and Gilly, having sent them on a perilous voyage and forcibly separated Gilly from her son.

Apart from all these dreams of responsibility, guilt and regret - Sansa has a reflective dream containing a sexual awakening:

And she dreamed of her wedding night too, of Tyrion’s eyes devouring her as she undressed. Only then he was bigger than Tyrion had any right to be, and when he climbed into the bed his face was scarred only on one side. “I’ll have a song from you,” he rasped. (Chapter 68, A Storm of Swords)

During Lysa Arryn's wedding, Sansa realizes the erotic connotation of songs and singing, when Marillion propositions her with an "I’ll have you singing louder than the Lady Lysa.” She subconsciously relates this to her past encounters with Sandor Clegane, who made her sing for him (I’ll have that song. Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life.) Although the Hound wanted literally a song from her, Sansa sees their interactions in a new light, dreaming of him in the erotic context of her wedding night - hinting at an attraction to him.

V. WORST IMPULSES

“I am the Lord of Winterfell,” Jon screamed. It was Robb before him now, his hair wet with melting snow. Longclaw took his head off. (Chapter 58, A Dance with Dragons)

This dream recalls Jon's childhood duel with Robb :

Every morning they had trained together, since they were big enough to walk; Snow and Stark, spinning and slashing about the wards of Winterfell, shouting and laughing, sometimes crying when there was no one else to see. They were not little boys when they fought, but knights and mighty heroes.

That morning he called it first. “I’m Lord of Winterfell!” he cried, as he had a hundred times before. Only this time, this time, Robb had answered, “You can’t be Lord of Winterfell, you’re bastard-born. My lady mother says you can’t ever be the Lord of Winterfell.” (Chapter 79, A Storm of Swords)

For years, Jon has repressed his jealousy towards Robb, and his guilt-ridden desire for Winterfell, which could be manifesting itself in his recurring dream of the Winterfell crypts, where the stone kings reject him as a Stark : "You do not belong here. This is not your place." But these emotions return to the fore when Stannis offers to make him Lord of Winterfell in A Storm of Swords (He wanted it, Jon knew then. I have always wanted it, he thought, guiltily. May the gods forgive me.) Jon sees accepting Winterfell as betraying his family (What kind of man stole his own brother’s birthright?), but he fears even that will not stop him from claiming his heart's desire - hence he beheads Robb in his dream, just as he lays claim to Winterfell. In the future books, I expect Jon's internal crisis will be temporarily resolved when he discovers Robb has legitimized him, but it will return in full force once he learns of his real identity.

Last night he dreamed he’d found her fucking Moon Boy. He’d killed the fool and smashed his sister’s teeth to splinters with his golden hand, just as Gregor Clegane had done to poor Pia. (Chapter 30, A Feast for Crows)

Jaime spends much of A Feast for Crows obsessively thinking about Cersei's infidelity, repeating Tyrion's accusation of "She's been fucking Lancel, Osmund Kettleblack and probably Moon Boy for all I know" in his head. His dream is likely borne out of barely-repressed anger towards his sister and the fear that his jealousy will make a monster out of him (dream-Jaime's violence mirrors Gregor Clegane's). After this dream, Jaime appears to be trying to overcome his jealous feelings, since his catchphrase of "Lancel, Osmund Kettleblack and Moon Boy" does not reappear in A Feast for Crows.

Then he killed his brother, Jaime, hacking at his face until it was a red ruin, laughing every time he struck a blow. Only when the fight was finished did he realize that his second head was weeping. (Chapter 5, A Dance with Dragons)

Tyrion desires bloody revenge on Jaime for participating in Tywin's horrific scheme against him, and lying to him about Tysha - as he tells Illyrio in a previous chapter, "Yet I am still my father’s son, and Jaime and Cersei are mine to kill.” However, Tyrion's outward certainty that he wants to kill and punish his brother is belied by this dream, where part of him (the second, weeping head) still loves Jaime and cannot bear the thought of killing him.

THE END

If you've made it all the way here, thank you very much for reading! This is my first time writing a meta post, I hope it was worth your while.

#asoiaf meta #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire

1 note · View note

datingadviceonreddit · 7 years

Link

X-post from r/datingoverthirtyThis is gonna be stupid long but I would appreciate any advice. I am also an overthinker, so I might digress on certain details.Backstory: So it's been about 5 years since I had a real relationship. Im 32 now and think I'm ready to start this whole stupid thing called dating lol. My previous relationship.. We dated for about 4 years, were good friends/co-workers for years before that. All in all it was an ok relationship. We hung out alot, did stuff together like go out to dinner alot, watched movies and TV together, had sex here and there, both sides of parents liked the other person, she did convince me to change my college major to something I had more interest into. The bad parts were she was very verbally abusive like never appreciated things I did for her, would look down on me for stupid stuff, and she hated most of my friends for some reason. I'm pretty sure she was just a closeted bipolar introvert 🤣 Near the end of our relationship we would fight on and off about little things. It finally came to an end when she lost her job because the company went out of business, she didn't like living at her parents anymore and wanted to move out of state. Myself at the time had my own apartment and a steady job. It got to the point where she decided to move out of state and tell me literally the day before she was moving. Before I knew of her plans, That night she came over, we had dinner, watched a movie and had sex, then she dropped the bomb on me. I told her if she was absolutely committed to our relationship I would have really considered moving with her. The company I worked for was nationwide so that wouldn't have been an issue. That was met with a "no thanks, I dont see that happening" and she pretty much left my apt after that and we never spoke again except for some happy birthday texts and short small talk texts a year later. Nothing was ever resolved in a closure type way. The only thing that I know now is that she married some guy down where she lives like a year and a half after our breakup. Im thinking she may cheated on me near the end, but never admitted to it. I had severe depression for about 2-3 years after that. I just basically put it in my head that she died and focused on work and hanging out with friends and going out to the bar and just having fun. I Just had a fuck bitches, get money attitude. Work, have fun, get drunk alot, repeat. There's been a couple girls since then that I have hung out with a few times, mainly Friends of Friends, one one night stand from a bar, may be hooked up with them a few times but nothing of substance. They all seem to have issues, I had the foresight to see at least they would be terrible in a relationship. Those interactions ended as soon as they started because they were crazy. Over the years being in sales help me develop a confidence to talk to almost anybody. I think I can start a conversation pretty well, carry a conversation, I think I'm pretty intelligent and have interesting things to talk about, have interest in many many topics. I do joke around but it's usually like sarcasm and topic based humor. I think I can be complimentative and charming when need be. Now my downfall is that I live by the expectation of a false sense that people will always do the right thing and be responsible and being someone who I can count on. Because I overthink sometimes I create a perception of an interest and it doesn't turn out to meet that expectation. I am also brutally honest at times when I shouldn't be. I run my mouth to get my way sometimes. I think it's related to being aggressive in my previous sales job. I've recognized this and I'm still working on it.Current situation:I frequent this bar a few blocks from my house. I've been going there on and off for about the last 6 years. It's the type of place that I usually go to like Friday and Saturday nights, there's people around my age and they play good music have a good food and drink specials. Usually go there with a group of friends as well whenever we feel like going out, any day of the week. I'm friends with the managers and about 80% of the staff, bullshit around with the owner bunch of times. The owner has directly told me that me and my group of friends are like family there and if we need anything to let him know anytime. Soo..There is a new girl (29 yrs old) that's been working there for about 3 months and I think she's pretty damn cute but never worked up the balls to talk to her. One night going there with my group of friends, it turns out my best friend's brother-in-law came with us. He knew her from back in the day and started catching up. To protect their identity, We'll call him umm 'James' and new girl 'Ashley'. Me and James have hung out maybe about 15 times, I really wouldn't consider him to be a good friend but he's an alright dude to hang out with. We all started talking with her and we all become Facebook friends. About a week later, we are all hanging out having a bonfire, drinking, just having fun. After about midnight, everybody went to bed except for James and I. We were just talking and bullshiting, I mentioned that I had a crush on Ashley. He half joked, "let's text her and see if she'll come over". So he did and she responded and said she would come over for awhile. James kept joking with me saying she was coming over so he could bang her. James has a girlfriend, but they have one of those relationships where they fight, breakup and make up like every 3 weeks. Currently on the 'off week's as I put it. He was mostly bullshitting me to make me jealous. She comes over and we all just sat around the fire and We stayed up till 5 a.m. Just talking and having fun. No bullshit involved. Just talking about everything including how her ex cheated on her recently with a couple girls, how her friends flake on her and how she used to have an office job and only works at the bar because it's fun. After she went home, James stayed in the spare bedroom as I was driving him home the next day.Next time I saw her at the bar, I mentioned that we had fun and we should hang out again. She mentioned she had plans on the following Saturday to go to this other bar that was having a couple country bands playing. It used to be a bar that I would go to a lot in the past and liked. I wanted a chance to hang with her so I agreed to go with her. I didn't really look at it like a date because she told me to invite some friends as well.That Saturday rolls around and I'm excited to see her. We text back and forth about meeting up and taking Uber there because we will probably be drinking. We decide to meet at this bar that her roommate works at, 830 pm. She also mentions that she's had a cold and a small fever. She called me about 6 and says she still wants to go but to give her extra time to get ready and take some medicine. So we push meeting up to about 9. I get to our meeting point at 9 and wait for her, she is 15 minutes late. Whatever no big deal. She shows up in a dress and smelling amazing, I compliment her. I pay for the first to Uber to the bar we were going to. We get there around 9:30, just walk around and she occasionally stops and talks to some random people she knew from there a while back. Small Talk catching up but she included me in the conversation. She introduced me as a friend. We check out some of the band's music, grab a couple drinks, dance a little.. she was flirty in the general conversations we had and at one point was talking selfies of us. We alternated paying for rounds of drinks and shots, I was only kind of buzzed. I'm sure she was too, but I don't know her tolerance like I know mine.2am rolls around and we get Uber again on her phone because mine died, she said let's get food and hang out at my house. We pick up taco bell and take a 20 min Uber back to her place (very close to my house as well). We are sitting together in the back and after about 5 minutes, she lays on me and I put my arm around and just caress her arm. We get to her place, We eat and were hanging out and just listening to Pandora on her living room tv. Had maybe another beer there and just talking and occasionally dancing terribly. We got to one point where I was sitting on the couch and she was in the recliner next to it. I get up and pull her over to the couch, we talked for a minute and I felt it was right to try to kiss her. I gently grabbed her face and tried to pull her in for it. She backed away and said she didn't want a relationship and wasn't looking to hookup. I said ok, I'm sorry I just thought it felt right. I held her hand and just told her I wanted to show her a guy can take her out for a fun time and she deserves better.At right around this point, her roommate comes down for food or something and we just start shooting the shit about sports and stuff. Ashley is like I still don't feel good and I'm tired, takes some cold Medicine and tells me I can sleep on the couch. I was like you have a couple dogs and they are probably gonna bug me all night, I might just go home. Her roommate jokes that Ashley has a king size bed and that she should share. I don't think it was a push to hook her up or anything. Ashley says "yeah you can share the bed with me but no funny business". We go in the room and I want to be respectful. She was laying in plain clothes (t-shirt and jeans). I'm laying next to her on my stomach still in my clothes as well but wide awake. It's a dark room and maybe I felt invincible in what I was saying. I started joking with her that she couldn't fall asleep because I was wide awake. Then I said "I meant what I said earlier, you deserve better. Better friends, better relationships, a better job." I dont really know why I said it, but I always fall for broken girls and think I can fix them or make their life better. I still joked around and then asked if she reconsidered that funny business. She was like "what do you mean, we're not having sex". I said "no, nothing like that maybe just making out. I don't know, I'm half joking". She was like "no, I'm about to fall asleep" and did almost instantly. I laid there for about 20 minutes while she fell asleep. I was literally still wide awake and didn't want her to be weirded out with me in the morning. I order an Uber on my phone back to my car. Sober by now. The Uber arrives and I wake her up and tell her I'm just going to let her get sleep because she is sick. She walked me to the door and we hug. I said "I had fun tonight and I'm sorry for being forward earlier". She said "it's okay maybe I lead you on some how".I don't really worry too much about it except for the end of the night being sort of a creeper. Monday rolls around and the bar is having a birthday celebration for one of the older bartenders. I'm friends with her so naturally I go up after work (10pm ish) with my best friend, his wife, his brother I hang with alot ('Mark') and their cousin ('Andrew').We are watching Monday Night Football and having a couple drinks and just celebrating the whole birthday thing. Ashley is there with a friend of hers, I don't really say anything to her for awhile. She said hi to me in passing I took that chance to talk to her for a few minutes. Everything seemed okay. The staff there decided they wanted to close around 1 to go to the casino afterward for the bartenders birthday. They start closing down and Ashley started to help them with some cleaning. All the staff was almost ready to go, but they changed their mind on the casino and said they were going to a strip club that the bar owner had buddies that worked at and and asked if any of our friends wanted to go. I said no I don't have money for that, I'm just going home. The bar owner said "don't worry about that, they are only open for like another hour. Just bring your friends and I'll get you in for free and I'll buy some beer for you guys". My best friend and his wife went home because they were tired and had to work in the morning. I was off the next day so I agreed to go. Me, Mark, and Andrew went in Andrews car and met them there.So when we get in, it's my group I came with, the birthday bartender, 3 other bar staff members, the bar owner, Ashley and her friend. We just hang around at this table, drinking a couple beers, joking around, making paper airplanes out of a stack of dollars and shooting them at the girls there lol. Just good old fun. No one got lap dances or anything. They close like an hour or so after, Ashley offers for people to come to her house to hang out. Not really to party, just hang out or sober up or sleep.Everybody except for the bar owner and birthday girl go over to the house. We are all hanging out in this basement just having another drink, listening to music and talking. I don't really talk to Ashley, because I'm letting her do her host thing and I didn't want to bother her. I was also drunk as hell from doing shots and drinking beer and I didn't want to do or say something stupid. About 45 minutes, Somehow some of the guys that work at the strip club come over and thought it was a party. They showed up with a bunch of weed, cocaine and Hennessy and a stripper chick.At this point, the bar co-workers leave. I do a couple Henny shots with one of the dudes. Ashley asks me to come upstairs and talk real quick. She takes me in her room and asked who those people are and how they got the address. I said I don't know. She said "maybe I'm naive but I've never been in this situation. I don't know them and I don't want them here, will you help me get them out of here?" I said sure, I'll see what I can do. Literally at that moment, everyone is upstairs now in the living room. We hear a loud bang in the bathroom. There is my friend Mark basically blacked out in the bathroom and he pissed himself. I'm pissed off that I have to babysit him and embarrassed that Ashley had to deal with that. Andrew and I agreed that we should probably take Mark home. I'm moving Mark into the living room when I see Ashley hanging around the strip club guys. They had a plate with Coke lines on it. Ashley had the plate in her hand but handed it off to the guy and said I'm good for now. I'm thinking she was offered some and refused. In the process of Andrew and I getting mark out of the door to the car, Ashley starts being really obnoxious and anxious repeating herself and saying that we can all just stay there and it's ok. Andrew and Mark are outside by this point. I said no we're just leaving. She kept being really anxious and I asked her why are you so wound up and anxious. I look into her eyes and they're open really wide and she utters I just did some coke. Me being drunk, I almost over react because it's a jarring situation and she's told me she's only done it like twice in her life. The girl I like and have a crush on is doing drugs after asking me to help get rid of those type of people. I asked her if we could speak in private and she refused. She said she would text me tomorrow. I later found out she said she was feeling overwhelmed with the situation and that's why she did it. I gave her a really sarcastic 'have a good night' and left.We go back to my house and everyone goes to bed. I'm in my room and I'm fucking boiling pissed at this point. I think all the liquor hit me and I overreacted and I couldn't contain myself. I got on my phone and I texted her. I went on this mini rant about how I was disappointed in her and if she was going to do drugs I didn't want to know her. I told her that's not my life or scene, that my friends don't do shit like that. Also saying I was disgusted in her decisions and how I was pissed that she asked for my help and then basically did the opposite. That maybe I built up an image of her in my head and it was wrong. I fall asleep. I woke up around noon the next day to an essay long text with terrible grammar and no punctuation at all. She basically yelled back at me and shamed me for making her out to be a horrible person and that I don't know her or what she's been through. That she's never been in a situation like that and felt overwhelmed and that's why she asked for my help. But then even said I'm probably just overreacting because I was drunk. I text her back and apologize, run some damage control saying it was just coming from a good place. She then almost brushed it off like it wasn't a big deal, blaming it on that I was drunk and probably didn't get good sleep the night before.I don't talk to her for about 3 days and then see her at the bar when I went up there. That night she saw me only said hi and only that. I was going to try to talk to her but she left early and took another female co-worker home.I text her something to the effect of "do you still hate me? I just don't want you to think I'm a complete asshole. I really was only looking out for you..let's talk sometime". The next night I go up there with some friends to hang out. She's working again. She said hi to me, sorry I didn't reply to your text I wanted to but I was busy all day. I just pulled her into me and hugged her and said I'm sorry. We then had random conversations throughout the night for like a few minutes at a time. Not mentioning what happened but just talking about different things. The bar closes at 2 but my friends wanted to leave at 1 to go have a bonfire and drink at the house. I invite two of the bartenders that were off already earlier that I know back and Ashley. They all said yeah we'll come over after everybody gets out of here. Ashley said she was kind of tired but would probably come. 330am rolls around no one shows so I'm like whatever man, I tried. My best friend's wife and one of her friends Uber up to this 24-hour diner nearby while me and besty stay at the house. Guess who's up at the diner? Ashley with some other co-worker. Best friend's wife went up to her and said "I thought you were coming over". Ashley said no I'm tired and just wanted food. Have not seen or talked to her since then. The other two bartenders text me in the morning and apologized for not coming saying they were too drunk and went home. I'm ok with that.So anyways in talking with many of my friends about this. I've gained some perspective on what I want in a relationship. I know I want all the right things, to do the right thing and to have someone that will provide support I can count on. It's just hard not knowing if I should continue pursuing Ashley or to move on. I know I fucked up I overreacting to the situation earlier in the week. I just don't know how she feels about the entire thing. I find myself staring at her picture because she's so damn beautiful. She has cute tendencies and surprisingly is kind of shy. I just don't know if it's really being shy and there's so much more to learn, or if she is truly something like a drug addict and manipulative or or she's just a broken soul and I feel like I have to fix it. That's my overthinking issue. This shit stresses me out.Tl;dr: Ex was a shitty bitch that fucked me up and now I had a decent "date" with a new girl but drunkenly overreacted to a recent drug use. Wat do? via /r/dating_advice

#dating #dating advice #reddit

0 notes

buinhathahuong · 7 years

Text

The Problems Within The Lesbian Community in Vietnam

I first awared that I liked girls when I was 11. Unlike most lesbians’ experience when they first found out, I was not confused or felt bad about myself. Instead, I went to find people who were like me, attracted to girls, right away. Internet was my bestfriend. It was something I totally relied on, I trusted people who shared the same experience with me online rather than my own family. Of course I admitted that it was not a wise thing to do for me or any other 11 year old girls who has not yet gone through anything serious in life. But I was like the others, feeling alone and disconnected to “normal” people around us. Internet was a great thing to me, it brought me so much new information and details that I could never find in school or the enviroment that I lived in, especially with the lgbt themed films, writings, and art. I was really into an anime genre called “Yuri”, it focuses on the relationship between 2 females and I got to make new friends in the Yuri’s fandom. As I grew up, I was terrified to think whether my attraction was legitimate or I was just affected by the images I watched from those films. And I concluded I was not misconcepted about myself, but instead those animations helped me realized that my feelings were real, and that those kind of relationships do exist.

My parents eventually found I was active on a anime forum when I was 12. They were mad, they called me names, hit me, and banned me from using computer. I was upset and started to experience depression from then up until now, even I have officially come out to them and been accepted by my parents. But an other part of me felt grateful for what they did and thought they made the right choice to me even it was brutal. Being isolated was terrible, but I was having all the time in the world to reflect and understand myself better. There was nothing to influence me but myself alone. So at 14, I was able to access the internet thanks to my cousin’s Ipod that was given to me. I went back to all the forums that I spent my times on and feeling exciting to finally meet “my people” again. Instead of the joyful reunion that I imagined, I was like a foreigner wandering around the community that I was supposed to feel related the most.

Before the 2000s, there were not much information about the LGBT community in Vietnam. Then the internet happened. LGBT people who lived overseas or able to understand English started to translate any news they came across about the community and uploaded to forums so people could read about it. More people started to understand more about sexualities, new terms were met and applied to people from the community. I came across the terms identifying different types of lesbian when I was 11. Two notable words that are still not frequently used by lesbians are “soft butch” and “femme”. A “soft butch” is a homosexual female who likes to express her appearance more masculine and tend to dress male’s clothes. “Femme” in the other hand is a “normal” feminine girl who just happens to attract to females. Those terms would be fine and only used to describes the appearance of homosexual females if they were not used to determinate the individual’s role in a relationship, and even affacted the value a human being. Now, I have nothing against if a woman feels comfortable being boyish for I used to be one myself, and there is nothing wrong with that in the first place. I believe people should be allowed to dress and express themselves in anyway they want. The root of the problem is the Vietnamese culture and its views on gender identity.

Since Vietnam is heavily influenced by Confucianism, we still view sexes and genders as black and white. If you’re a man or a woman, you must dress in a certain social accepted way, act in certain ways, interest in certain things. If you just show a small sign related to the opposite gender to yours that is not what the society expecting from your gender, you will be view as less of a man or a woman. Vietnamese lesbians are still deeply depended on this cutural participate, therefore when one shows a sign of being more dominate than her significant, she will immediate think is her job to become “the man” in the relationship. She will cut her hair short, dress boyish, and act aggressively. She will also try to show her emotions less since “men should not show their emotions”. Since femmes still fits the idea of a feminine woman, they play the role of the woman in the relationship and they are expected to be submissive to the soft butch or the other more dominating lesbian. This makes women are not only being oppressed by men in Eastern culture, but also by other women. Some can argue that if this way may works for their relationship or just for themselves personally then there is nothing to criticize. Why I agree that I am in no place to tell others what to do with their relationship. But this does not stay in a personal level, this problem has been affecting the whole community for a long time and it has made it way to become what considers the standard of a lesbian relationship. These standards are harmful especially for young lesbians who just start to discover themselves, this makes them instead of trying to understand what they want, they lock themsselves in the stereotype boxes.

When I was just starting to learn more about my community, I knew that I disliked to be told what to do by others and wanted to control my ownself. I also did not feel comfortable wearing dresses and having long hair was annoying. I then assumpted those signs meaned that I was a soft butch and then tried to fit the stereotype of the soft butch image back then. It was until I hit 13, I realized I was too “girly” to be a soft butch, I stopped trying to be one. I still kept my short hair and dressing tomboyish up until 18. The more I grew, the more I felt the comfy from my femininity. But not many lesbians experienced the same way as I did. When I went through some fanpages on Facebook for lesbians recently, I have seen some butch lesbians trying to tell others what is the right way to be “a man”, how to treat your “woman” right. Physical and emotional abuse exists among the lesbian relatioships, soft butches abuse and hit their feminine girlfriends to show their domination. They consider the numbers of the girl they sleep with as their pride. The more girls they have slept with, the more valuable they are. Soft butches criticize other soft butches for being to girly. Femmes laugh at soft butches who are not the dominant one in their relationship. It was and is still a mess. You can easily find these people at shopping mall in district 5 and 3, walking together as groups, and the securities watching them cautionly fearing they might steal something from the stores. I remembered hanging out with my cousin when she was going to study abroad. A shop keeper used a male pronounce to call me, when I told them I am a girl, they were surprised. Vietnamese lesbians also feel that the concept of a “soft butch-soft butch” couple or a “femme-femme” couple are weird, and they came up with ridiculous terms such as “soft butch gay” or “femles” to describe those people. But isn’t lesbian is about a realtionship between 2 homosexual females? Aren’t soft butches and femmes females? Why are we imprisoned ourselves and reinforce the gender role stereotypes instead of trying to break free from it? This misconception is not just within the lesbian community. Society view those “standards” as what a lesbian is supposed to be, other GBT community view those standards as what lesbians are supposed to be. You can easily see those lesbian stereotypes in news about lesbian. Even in literature such as “Bóng”, an biography by Hoang Nguyen, in which he describes a butch lesbian as “a sloppy, dirty, misbehave man in a woman’s body”. Or in a fiction book called “Les-Thế Giới Không Có Đàn Ông”, roughly translated to “Les-A World Without Man” by writer Bùi Anh Tấn, it still portrayed a gender role based lesbian couple. It is like a circle, we keep wandering around and around, and will never find the way out. And it is not just me, many lesbians I know and talked with also find this mindset is problematic.

Moving on to 2011, a new era of lesbianism started with the rise of a new literature genre called Bách Hợp. Bách Hợp means relationship occurs between 2 females who are not necessary lesbians. They can be lesbian, bisexual, or even pansexual as long as they are in a same sex relationship. The upside in this era is femininity started to be more appreaciated. Homosexual women were being encourage to be feminine rather than forcing the image of a man to themselves, and that was the only good thing. Being feminine does not stop the mind set of applying gender role into the relationship. Gender roles are not as visible like in the soft butch-femme era, but it is still heavily influenced. The people who have “Bách Hợp” mindset like to criticize any lesbian that looks to much like a man, they hate the heterosexual pronounce in the romance relationship, but yet they still believe in dominant and submissive roles. New terms were adapted, “Công” is used for someone who is for someone who is more dominate in the relationship, “Thụ” is used for the passive one. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? Yes, it is still the same stuffs just with longer hair. “Công” is always preffered by others since they are the active one in bed rather than the one who just lie their on their back and “enjoy” everything. The lesbian’s value is now being measured based on what a person’s position on bed. And like the mainstream lesbian culture, they can never comprehense how can 2 Công or 2 Thụ can be together. There is nothing progressive in this new era nor it contributes anything good to the community.

The mainstream lesbians and Bách Hợp lesbians think they are different, but actually they are the same. They both still views feminity or woman’s role as a sign of weakness, and only with masculinity or man’s trait is considered strong. While I may sound like I’m blaming everything on men, it is not like that. Like I have mentioned about how Vietnamese culture is influenced heavily by Confucianism and gender roles, Vietnamese women or Asian women in general tend to be looked down by society. Lesbians, like any other people, were raised with conservative mindset by our parents. Maculinity was always being held higher by society compares to feminity, and no one likes to be considered weak. This also happens in the gay community as well, where masculine gay men are always get more respected by not just heterosexual people but also the gays themselves. And it is not just gay and lesbian, straight males, straight women are all being affacted. It is not only men’s fault but women’s as well, it is our fault to keep participate to this misogynist culture.

Things got better when organization like ICS or Hanoi Queer appeared. The people who run and work for these organization are well informed by progressive thoughts and mindsets. They are the most active one to raise awareness about sexuality and gender identities to the community, also pointing out the gender stereotypes that exists within the Vietnamese LGBT culture. They held events, talkshow, discussion events. They created other organization such as Rainbow School, focus on creating club and a safe enviroment for LGBT students. For the first time, lesbians have some places to go to meet and exchange opinions to eachother. Of course not all lesbians have the privillege to come to those events, but it is a great start for lesbian community. Liberal lesbians started to be more active and raised their voices about lesbian’s issues. They advocate on breaking stereotypes and gender roles, while still being respectful to other people’s choice of relationship and identity. But as much as I appreciate their work, as I have volunteered to some of their events, I still see some problems in their ideology when it comes to lesbian identity and LGBT community in general. As liberal and pro-choice, they seems to be accepting to every new ideaology just a bit too quick. I got a chat with 20 year old lesbian when she said that “lesbians can still enjoy having sex with men”. Her reason was “All humans l enjoy sex. If you blindfold someone and let a person simulated sexual act on their body without the blindfoled person knowing what gender the other is, that person will get turned on, therefore they enjoy it”. I pointed out to her that of course that person will get turned on, it is like when you get hit and you feel hurt, it is body’s reaction. And when that person was blindfolded, he or she already lost their consciousness about the enviroment about them, they will get turned on if being simulated. But when you take the blindfold away, that person will gain back their awareness. When they see the person who just praticed sex act on them is someone they are not sexually attracted to, they will immidiately feel uncomfortable and violated. That is how sexuality works, it is the awareness of who you find attracted to. And even if that person is someone they are sexually attracted to, they will still feel violated because that person acts without their consent. Her example was awful. As we talked more, she went on and blamed on all the labels and thought they should not be exists. Ironically, she labeled herself as a lesbian. What she did not realize, it was not the labels’ fault but the person who chose to use those labels. There were a lot of conflicts in what she said in her debate, I could write another 3000 words just to analyze them. It would have not been a big problem if she was irrelevant to the LGBT community, but she was an active member and contributor to the Hanoi Queer, the biggest LGBT organization in the North. This frightened me in many levels, I wondered what have they taught to their members and other LGBT people. How many unreliable informations were spread?

But that girl was not the one who made me become skeptic to these organization. ICS was the first thing that made me realized I could not just trust anything that this organization said. But this one is more subjective to my own opinion than the other one and it is sensitive to today’s issues. Beside from not agreeing with them for the not accept but not against incest, I do not believe in transgenderism, and in no way approve that a transwoman who attracted to women should be consider lesbian. But I support that they deserve to have human rights since I can never get what they have gone through. Even I have some transgender friends in real life, but I have to admit it does not make me less of a transphobe. Just when it comes to my own identity, I do not want it to be taken away from me. Liberal lesbians’ arguement was simple, a transwoman is a woman due to her gender identity, therefore when she’s attracted to other women, it makes her a lesbian. Some would go far enough to call any lesbians who refuse to date transwomen even if they look like a real woman a.k.a feminine, “transphobe”. But lesbians are homosexual females, they are romantically and sexually attracted to same sex people. Transwomen’s gender might be women, but their biological sex are not. Feminity does not make a woman, her womanhood and experiences in life is. Using gender expression to determinate someone’s gender identity is nothing but reinforcing gender stereotypes which we are trying to break. Why hijacking lesbian’s identity after we have invented nearly a dozens of sexualilties? The problems with liberal lesbians are the most dangerous to lesbianism even if they have been sugarcoated by what the contributed to the community. They are changing and erasing lesbian’s identity. I would willing to support making a new terms for homosexual females just to stay true to our identity. All the phases and eras we have been through, we are just taking one step foward but two steps back. We have been skipping to many steps instead trying to make things right from the start.

After 3 years exposing to feminism and comprehensing opinions from liberal views when I was 18. At the age of 21, my mindset is set back to when I did not know about feminism. I am now considering myself as a moderate but leaning just a bit to the right. Some of my other liberal queer friends called me “conservative” due to my view on transgenderism. But if being conservative means sticking to my own ideas and still willingly to listen to other ideologies and see if I can shift my view to be more open-minded, then I’m happy to be one. I am not alone, there are actually a lot of lesbians like me out there, but they prefer to stay silence. But as the development of social network, I started to see some of lesbians who have the same mindset as mine started to speak up. The world is still changing and maybe we can find balance for eachother.

0 notes