#and around most people worthy feels a need to act as human as possible -- tucking his tail away‚ standing upright‚

[bayofwolves]

i've been thinking ab abeke x worthy for the last 12 hours... do y'all feel me. could i convince y'all to get on board this ship

[downwiththemutantnjnjaturtles]

We Met Within This Screen [chapt. 6]

[Donnie x reader]

sfw, chapter 5 here

Come on, save it, save it, Donnie chanted to himself later that night, at home and tucked away in his room trying to figure out how to neutralize the situation. He paced along his bed back and forth, phone in hand as he wracked his brain thinking about how he'd get her to let it go. He could tell her that she was...overtired? Go the stereotypical route and say it was just her eyes playing tricks on her? Try to play it off as human teenagers messing around on the roof?

She'd gone to bed already. He hated that he couldn't pursue the subject until morning, her morning, but by then, he'd be tired. When she woke, he slept. But he needed to get it resolved as quickly as possible, so he reckoned it was time to pull an all nighter. Luckily, that wasn't anything he wasn't used to.

He figured he'd get the preliminaries out of the way so he could get right to it when she eventually texted back.

"Good morning

I know you're not awake yet but I figured I'd get an early start today.

I want to know, what exactly did you see last night?"

He shut his phone off and set it down on the bed, fingers rubbing his temples. Depending on her answer, this would either be difficult, or near impossible.

The rest of his time was spent just waiting around for her to finally wake up, dodging all his brothers and trying to occupy himself with something. He was fiddling with the radio he kept on the floor next to his bed when his phone notified him of a message. Turning the volume up, some old-school rock played softly. He didn't always keep music on when he worked, which was what he was doing felt like, but something needed to fill the silence. It also made it feel more casual to have the radio on, for both himself and for whoever might stop by his room.

"Good morning to you too

That was...sudden??"

How nice it was to read those words coming from someone who wasn't his family. Not that they said it like that often anyway, but the small gesture hit differently.

"I'm just really curious about what you said you saw."

Curious? Not quite. More like dying to know, and not because he fancied himself some cryptid hunting.

"That's fair I guess

But don't laugh, ok?"

"I'd never, [y/n]"

"Well

Okay

They were big

But no like not the overweight kinf, not even just 'tall guy' kind of big

kind*

You know?"

Yeah, I aware. I'm 6'8" and have a giant shell on my back.

"They?"

He was hoping she'd only seen one of them. Maybe it would have been easier, but, of course, that wasn't the case.

"I think there were two

Idk it just looked really weird, it was dark but the silhouette from the light made them look bulky, I don't know what it was"

Lips pursed tight, he looked up from his phone, and all of a sudden that music in the background was suffocating. He quickly reached over and shut it off. He needed to be able to divert all of his attention to one thing. Except, even though he should have been spazzing over her spotting them (even if just for a split second), a concern crept up in the back of his mind that made him scoff at himself. The need to know was too great.

His eyes fell on his scaled, three-fingered hand as he typed.

"Did it scare you?"

Perhaps it wasn't what he should have been focusing on. But he was. He knew she hadn't seen much, but what if she quipped that it was frightening, or gross, or…?

"I don't know, Bo

I guess it was kind of freaky

Uh, do you actually believe me? That I saw something?"

"'Freaky?'" he repeated to himself in a whisper, brow ridge furrowed. What was I expecting?

He had to shake himself of whatever was going on in his head at the moment, because there were more pressing matters at hand. Like what he was going to answer her question with. Theoretically, he could go two routes; one, invalidate the experience and try to walk on the line of telling her that it was not real without making her feel crazy. And then probably get mad at him. Or two, go along with it, if he didn't have the heart to do that to her. The answer was already here; he let out a deep sigh. Two, it is.

Nothing could make him want to make her feel that way, even if it meant he'd have to put in a little extra effort in fixing his mistake.

"I wouldn't doubt your judgement, [y/n]."

"Thanks

That makes me feel a lot better

You're a really good guy, Bo :)"

Freezing, he sat and stared at the screen before slowly taking the phone away from his face, lips moving, but no sound coming out. He had no idea what to say; all he could focus on was the fact that the girl he undeniably liked thought he was a good guy. And that, presumably, it meant she might have liked him as well. Big on the "might", he realized as the logical part of his mind took over once again. Regardless, he licked his lips and got to preparing a worthy response. He didn't want to come off as flustered as he felt. Donnie was aware he was not particularly suave—he took solace in the fact that she couldn't see his face or hear his voice. He contemplated on acting a bit more "cool guy" than he actually was, but wanted her to like him for him, not a facade. Which was a major contradiction to all that he had done up to that point, but the least he could do was be the person he was on the inside!

"You there?"

"Sorry, I got distracted…

You really think so?"

"That I think you're a great guy?"

"Well...yes."

"Totally. 100%"

His heart was going, he was stammering to himself, and a new feeling enveloped him. He was no stranger to the different emotions; he'd gotten familiar with many of them. Because though he didn't always show it, he had a lot of feelings. These, he felt most viscerally. But he had to get back on track. If he could push last night's incident under the rug, all would be well. More well than it already was, considering.

"Thank you, [y/n]

To be honest, I've never had a friend like you

So, do you want to talk more about what you saw? I know I'm switching tracks quickly, it's just very….interesting."

It was a jarring and awkward subject change, he knew that, but he desperately wanted to get it out of the way. The sooner, the better.

"I suppose

You seem pretty interested in it"

Maybe she wasn't hanging onto the experience like he'd thought she would. There were so many tales of people seeing inexplicable things and becoming enraptured by the experience that he guessed he should only expect the worst, but it appeared that she was not so obsessed. Crisis averted?

"Not too much, I was just wondering

We can forget about it."

"Oh, I'm not going to forget about it, Bo"

There it is, he thought, not surprised.

After thirty minutes of attempting to throw her off without coming off as suspicious himself, he had to take a breather, reorganize his mind. Only to come back and find that she had to go take care of things, and that she'd talk to him later. He'd done as much fixing as he could; at that point, it was as good as it was going to get. The thought of being looked for by his unknowing friend loomed about in the coming weeks as they did their patrols, when they would pass by her residence, and the times that he snuck off to stop by himself. Sometimes accompanied by Mikey, but he tried to keep it as solitary as possible. Soon, watching her on her balcony from that roof became part of his routine. He vaguely thought sometimes that watching her like that could be considered creepy, but that ship had already sailed.

For the third time in the last month he was there yet again, on the same roof, watching the same balcony, watching the same girl. Sometimes they texted, sometimes they didn't. The times he wasn't talking to her as he sat there were the times he daringly crossed the threshold onto the fire escape. There were only a few instances of that. But did he still feel out of his mind doing so? Yes. The window only looked into part of the living room and kitchen, but he felt scandalous to do it. Most of his time there was spent only with his shell against the wall next to the window, just out of sight. He could always hear her faint but noticeable footsteps coming and could easily vault the railing and climb up or drop down. She couldn't get past his keen hearing unless she knew to tread lightly.

Mikey was with him once again, this time out to look for scrap rather than patrol. He'd been buddied up with his younger brother more often ever since their talk that night in Donnie's room. They only stopped by because they were already out and had a viable excuse.

"Does she know about us? Like, me, Leo, Raph..." rambled Mikey, curious, as he practiced one of his new moves with his skateboard. He kicked up onto the ledge of the roof and skidded before hopping off, tucking the board under his arm. "You guys have been together like, what, two months? And she doesn't even know your name."

Fiddling with the strap reaching around his shoulder, Donnie replied matter-of-factly to hide the embarrassment that was ailing him at the thought, "Okay, for starters, we're not 'together'. And secondly, she hasn't mentioned voice chatting in a while."

"And?" He got back on his board, zooming by Donnie.

"My name? It just hasn't come up," Donnie shrugged.

"Call her, then!" Mikey smiled, still preoccupied with his board and trying out his new tricks. Donnie gave a light scoff and shook his head. His brother passed behind him where he sat leaned against the water tower.

"I don't want to just call her out of nowhere, Mikey, she might be asleep."

He also didn't want his brother there when he did.

"You gotta not be so shy!...oh, look, in the window. Right there. See? She's up," he quipped with a small smirk. The curtain was drawn, but the light had turned on at some point, and they could see her silhouette moving past. Donnie looked over his shoulder to say something but felt a hand slip into his pocket on the other side, stealing his phone right off of him. He was fast, but Mikey was faster in jumping into his board and gliding all the way to the other side of the roof with the fussy turtle hot on his trail.

"Mikey, quit it!" Donnie barked, lunging toward him for the phone.

"You'll thank me later!"

The two wrestled for the phone, Mikey holding it just out of reach as he tried to navigate the screen without dropping it.

"Come on," grunted Donnie as the tussle led them near the edge, where Mikey held it precariously over the alley below. His glasses were jostled off his face when a stray hand bumped them, causing them to fall amongst their feet. Squinting, he partially knelt down and searched for the pair while still looking at his brother and his phone, trying to stretch his arm long enough to snatch it. "Really?" he groaned, "just give me the phone!"

Donnie slung out his staff and used the other end to whack his wrist from underneath just as he pulled away from the edge, losing his grip on the phone. Mikey tried to catch it but it bounced off his hand, going right over the side of the roof and plummeting down into the alley.

Mikey froze. Donnie finally found his glasses.

Laughing nervously, Mikey turned back to him, "Whoops…"

When he didn't immediately find the phone on the ground, Donnie knew what happened. He looked over the edge, and there it was, sitting on the pavement in the alleyway. The building wasn't incredibly tall, but enough to do some major damage. He'd have to switch for one of his spares if he didn't want to deal with a busted-up screen.

"I don't need your 'help', Mikey, so leave it alone next time," Donnie said and gave him a narrow-eyed look, huffing as he leaped down to retrieve it.

Mikey may have been insistent, but he knew then it was time to stop. All he wanted to do was help. For his shy, flakey brother to come out of his shell (no pun intended). Donnie, at that time, had the biggest shot out of all of them for something unique and good. He hadn't yet worked out the logistics of how to bridge the gap between the two, but it was a calling of his to help him along.

Donnie watched for people from behind a corner before creeping out to get the phone, which was face down on the concrete. No doubt cracked to all hell if not completely shattered, though it did have a case.

But as he got closer, he heard a voice. From the phone.

He picked up the phone timidly and shot a glance up at the roof, where Mikey was peeking over the edge in apprehension. Without a word, Donnie activated the taser in his staff, pointing it at his brother and zapping it briefly. He flinched and retreated out of sight.

"Hello?"

"Hello? Bo?" she asked again, tone riddled with confusion. "What was that?"

"Uh, yes—hol—hold on, please," stammered out donnie, flying around the corner and pressing flat against the wall as a group of laughing people passed by the alley. "Just one second," he said nervously. Above him, Mikey was rapidly motioning for him to get up there, eyes wide and body trying to stay low. Baffled, Donnie gestured back at him, mouthing at him to keep his pants on for one more minute while he made his way up.

"Hey, what's going on there?" she inquired, concerned.

A street cat abruptly skittered out from between his legs from the dumpster he stood next to, and he had to stifle a startled yelp. He hopped up onto the nearest fire escape, trying to control his breathing. "Hey, hello…[y/n]," he half-chuckled, distracted by working up the building one-armed as he kept as quiet as possible.

"What was all that? And who's 'Mikey'?"

There was suddenly a shout—Mikey's shout—and his stomach did a jump. He sputtered as fast as he could, "I'm sorry [y/n] but this really isn't a good time, and I mean it really isn't," he pulled himself up onto the roof, and there was Mikey, fending off men clad in black, "so I have to go, but—"

"Don, dude! I need help over here!" cried his brother, sliding out of the way as a sword was jabbed towards him. He countered with a harsh uppercut to the man's chin, sending him stumbling backwards. The blade fell to the concrete with a clank.

"'Don'? Bo, what the hell?! Who is with you? And—"

Donnie jumped into the battle, a mix of nine or ten armed men with swords other weapons, and Mikey trying to stave them off, swinging his chucks with nothing short of reckless abandon. But he still didn't hit himself with them.

Ending the call, he secured the phone in his pocket. He wailed the guy closest to him in the side of the head with the heavy staff, then kicked him in the chest. The man fell to the blow, and Mikey ducked underneath the length of Donnie's weapon just in time as the two came together. Stray bullets flew past them, some colliding with their shells as they spun around for protection.

"How was it?!" Mikey yelled over the clamor, breathless. Donnie sidestepped from the rapid hit he sent towards the human to his left.

"What are you talking about?!" Donnie loudly questioned, flummoxed of what could have been going on in his brain during a fight. "We're kind of in the middle of something here!"

"Your phone call!"

"Yeah, the hell's the talkin' about, Don?" a gruff voice cut through the jumble.

Both of the boys whirled around to see their older brothers there, weapons drawn.

"Oh, right. As soon as I saw those bad guys coming, I let them know," said Mikey casually to Donnie, throwing his fist into the face of the man coming up behind him. "You know, standard biz."

With the rest of the team there, the fight was over twice as fast. Some groaning in pain and some unconscious bodies littering the area, along with their weapons. Leo finished the last one and sheathed his swords, eyes on their tallest brother while Raph kept watch around them. Donnie swallowed as Leo approached him.

"Don, you said you were going out for scrap metal," Leo stated.

In the background, Mikey grabbed his skateboard and was going to try to kickflip over one of the knocked out guys, but Raph yanked the board from him, growling. He checked all of the men to make sure they were down and would stay down.

"We were...just on our way back?" Donnie answered. Nearby, there was a small pile of scrap he'd collected, though definitely not enough to justify being out that long.

"So you stopped at your friend's place?" Leo deadpanned, crossing his arms. "Didn't you think that this could get her in trouble, too? Her apartment's right there, dude!"

Mikey budded in and corrected him, "Ah, we stopped by [y/n]'s. And nah! It's all good."

Donnie's face twitched. "Of course I thought about it! That's why I've only come here three times since, and only thirty minute intervals!" he bit back, throwing his hands up. The rest of his brothers all looked at him and his specificity. "I'm not naive, Leo."

The leader pushed past the both of them, signalling that it was time to leave, and they followed. Not before Donnie got what little metal he had collected and put away his staff, tucking the stuff under his arm. Raph joined alongside Donnie as they ran. "What's with all the secret' stuff, Don? First, ya hide it to begin with, then, ya make out like you were done, and now you get jumped by Foot guys by her place when you shoulda been gettin' scrap!" he said. "How were we supposed to cover for ya if you're lyin' even after we let you off?"

"Technically, I did get some!" Donnie remarked. He held up a piece of the scrap for him to see, and Raph snorted. "But..."

Well, his question would be a little harder to answer.

Next block was the nearest manhole, where each turtle swiftly jumped in, knowing by heart (and years of wandering) most of the sewers and the way back home. In some tunnels was Mikey's telltale graffiti, but it was scattered throughout the place enough to not be a giant arrow to their hideout. In the last portion of the run was the tunnel they always slid down, and once they were actually home, Donnie knew what was coming. Master Splinter was already waiting for them by the time they arrived.

"Uh-oh," Mikey said upon seeing him, sinking behind his brothers. Raph pushed him back up front.

Dropping the scrap in his arms, Donnie squeaked, "That's not good." He quietly cursed how high pitched his voice became when he was nervous.

"Yeah…" Leo cleared his throat, looking down at his hands clasped in front of him. The situation had an awkward tension for everyone in it, save for Raph, who was immune to it by then and Splinter himself. "We took care of the soldiers," he added more seriously. "Got out of there before too much attention was drawn.

"The police may be able to handle them from here, but it will not make a dent in the Shredder's forces," explained Splinter, grave as he paced along the line of brothers. "He owns the city. Until I say so, there will be no venturing to the surface. You are all lucky to be unharmed."

"That ain't it," Raph piped up. "But they'll be bringin' the big guns, next time."

"Oh, I am well aware."

"Um...of which thing?" the nervous turtle questioned, exchanging glances to Raph and then Mikey.

Splinter raised his brows knowingly, and that was all it took for Donnie. The floodgates of his signature anxious chatter opened. He grabbed the edge of Mikey's shell and pulled him over into the spotlight with him, "I met someone over an online game and we started texting after a few weeks, and—and Leo found out and I said I would stop, but we never told you," he gestured toward their brother in blue, who refused to make eye contact, "so I told her that it was through and then Mikey somehow convinced me to go back on it," he sucked in a breath, and Mikey grinned uncomfortably, "and then we started talking again and I don't know why, but I went back there to her apartment building and it was just…stupid."

There was a cumbrous pause. Donnie was stiff as a board, Mikey couldn't look at any one thing too long, Leo stood in his polite but awkward stance, and Raph started to whistle.

As poised as ever, Splinter spoke. "I know."

All four pairs of eyes shot to their father.

"What?"

"Uh..."

"Huh?"

"Wait."

They expressed their collective confusion at the same time, and Splinter chuckled. Donnie wanted nothing more than to be able to retreat into his shell, but that was physically impossible. "Nothing gets past me, especially not you and your nervous habits, Donatello. You are scratching that spot on your neck again, son."

Flinching, Donnie pulled his hand away. He'd be damned; Splinter was right.

But unbeknownst to them, there had been spectator of their fight on the roof that night.

————————————————————————————————

shh do not think too deeply about this my children

a/n: haha plot device go brrrr

i need to finish this cursed fanfiction

[iamanartichoke]

I wrote a Thing. It’s extremely long. I’d prefer it not be reblogged; I wrote this for my own catharsis and would prefer it not be circulated, bc of Reasons. 

I changed my mind, okay to reblog. <3 

Under a cut for (extreme, did I mention?) length. 

So I got about 12 minutes of sleep last night, as you do, and around 3am or so I found myself - out of sheer curiosity - going down a meta hole of Ragnarok discourse, trying to figure out where this "satisfying redemption arc" for Loki happened. (I mean, there's a lot of things I would like to figure out, but I started there.) Because I could. 

Basically I was looking for meta that went into detail about how Loki was redeemed in a satisfactory way. The ‘satisfactory’  is an important word here bc there is a redemption arc in the film, in that Loki starts off the film as an antagonist (kinda) to Thor and he ends the film as an ally to Thor, standing at Thor's side. In that sense, yes, there's a redemption arc. I didn't find much (and I had no idea how much people just despise Ragnarok "antis" [I really dislike that word] but that's another topic [that I don't particularly want to get into, tbh]) but I did find some. I read what I could find, and I read it open-mindedly, and overall I came away feeling like, okay, there are some valid points being made here and I can kinda see where they're coming from.

But it was a bit (a lot) like -- flat. Idk. The best comparison I can think of is that it’s like if a literature class read, I don't know, The Yellow Wallpaper for an assignment, and some of the students came away from it feeling like it was a creepy story about a woman slowly driving herself insane, and the other students came away from it incensed at the oppression and infantilization of women in the late 19th century -

- and neither side is wrong, but the former is a very surface-level reading and the latter isn't (bc it stems from looking at why she drives herself insane, why she was prescribed 'rest' in the first place, the context of what women could and couldn't do back then, etc; basically, a bit more work has to go into it). 

[Note: I am not disparaging the quality of The Yellow Wallpaper. At all. It’s just the first relatively well-known story that popped into my head.]

In this sense, I can see the argument for Loki's redemption arc, but I don't think it's a very good argument. Not invalid, but not great.

I mean, for example, I think the most consistent argument I found variations of re: Loki's redemption is that Ragnarok shows Loki finally taking responsibility for his bad behaviour and misdeeds. This includes recognizing that his actions were fueled from a place of self-hatred and a desire to self-destruct in addition to bringing destruction on others. That he probably feels awkward and regretful of these things and doesn't know how to act around Thor, but he figures it out by the end, and decides that returning to Asgard is the best way to show that he's ready to make amends. His act of bringing the Statesman to Asgard is an apology. He allies himself with Thor and ends up in a better place, both narratively (united with Thor once again) and mentally (having taken responsibility and made amends for his past).

And setting aside that he had already made amends by sacrificing his life in TDW (and also setting aside that the argument is made that Loki redeems himself in IW by sacrificing himself to Thanos but if that's the case, wouldn't that imply that he hadn't achieved redemption in Ragnarok or else there would be no need to achieve it again in IW? Or, if you think he did achieve redemption in Ragnarok, then what the fuck did he give his life in IW for? What was his motivation there, and why did the narrative not make it clearer? I digress.) 

- setting aside those two factors, I think this is a very fair argument. Loki is fueled by self-hatred, and he does want to self-destruct, and he does want to inflict that pain on others as well (particularly Thor). No lies detected here. 

However, I also need to know where that self-hatred and desire for destruction (toward himself and others) comes from and for that, we need to go back to Thor 1.

Thor 1. 

Loki starts Thor 1 out as "a clenched fist with hair," to borrow a quote from the Haunting of Hill House (that I tucked away in my mental box of Lovely Things bc it says so much so very simply). He's very used to bottling everything up, pushing it down; he slinks around behind the scenes, pulling the strings to this plot or that. He's "always been one for mischief," but the narrative implies that the coronation incident is the first time Loki's done anything truly terrible. And it all immediately pretty much goes to shit, so Loki spends the rest of the movie frantically juggling all these moving pieces while trying to seem as if he's got it all under control, every step of the way. That's how I view his actions. 

But I always come back to that quote where Kenneth Branaugh tells Tom, of the scene in the vault, "This is where the thin steel rod that's been holding your mind together snaps." In other words this is where Loki discovering he's Jotun is just one thing too many. He can't take it. But though the rod snaps, his descent isn't a nosedive. It's a tumble. As the story progresses, the clenched fist starts to loosen, the muscles are flexed in unfamiliar ways (that feel kinda good, after being stiff for so long), and it culminates with the hand opening completely and shaking itself out. All of that repression, that self-hatred, that rage and jealousy just explodes so that, by the time the bifrost scene happens, Loki's already hit bottom. It's not just about proving his worthiness to Odin. He wants to hurt Thor, too; he, essentially, throws a tantrum. (That's right, I said tantrum.) 

(Note: The word 'tantrum’ has negative connotations bc we normally equate it with a toddler stamping their feet and screaming in the aisle when their parent won't buy them the toy they want. But in itself, the word tantrum isn't infantalizing. It's an "emotional outburst, an uncontrolled explosion of anger and frustration" [paraphrasing from dictionary.com]. That's exactly what happens here [and why Tom called Loki's actions a massive tantrum, but people took that to mean Tom agreed it was childish whereas I doubt Tom meant it that way]).

He's been pushed past his limit, and he does bad things. He does really shitty things. He hurts Thor, he hurts his family. I'm pretty sure he knows this all along so this isn't, like, some revelation further down the line that "hey, those things I did were probably kinda bad." He got the memo already. 

Ragnarok 

Fast forward to Ragnarok, and we're introduced to a version of Loki who's had 4ish years to sit with everything that's happened. To sit with it and not do much else. The rawness of it has faded, and now it seems as though it's just become a thing, like when you move through life aware of your childhood traumas and have more or less just accepted them (and you probably share a lot of really funny depression memes on Facebook, which is kinda the equivalent of Loki's play, but that's probably just me). 

Loki has, more or less, chilled out. He seems more bored than anything else; he's been masquerading as Odin for longer than he ever planned or intended to, so he's more or less ended up hanging out, letting Asgard mind its own business, and entertaining himself with silly plays. This is the version that starts out the movie as an antagonist to Thor - a version that is, arguably, in a much different place [and is a much milder threat] than the version who originally did those Bad Things. 

And of course Thor is still mad at him, and of course they're going to butt heads, because that's what they do (and Thor's grievances are genuine, I’ll add, bc it's not really his fault he assumed Loki faked his death, nor can he be blamed for being pissed about Odin).

One argument framed this version of Loki as being a person who is facing the awkwardness of coming out of a dark place, which is fair. If we're going to frame his actions in Thor 1 as a tantrum, then Ragnarok would be the part where the toddler has been taken home, possibly has had some lunch and a juice box, and is now watching cartoons. They're over the tantrum, and would probably feel pretty silly about it if they weren't, yknow, toddlers. They probably can't remember why they even wanted that toy so badly. If they're a little older and self-aware, they might even be embarrassed for having melted down.

Like the word tantrum, this feeling isn't a thing limited to toddlers. I know I've had a few epic meltdowns as a grown ass adult, and I know I always feel deeply embarrassed afterwards - like, want to crawl into a hole and die. I've said things I can't take back. Adolescents and teenagers throw tantrums, mentally ill people throw tantrums, adults throw tantrums (I mean, my god, look at all the videos of Karens having screaming meltdowns - screaming! - over having to wear masks in order to shop at stores). Humans throw tantrums. And usually, after the feelings have been let out and the tantrum has passed, humans feel pretty regretful and awkward and embarrassed about whatever they did and said in the midst of their meltdown. 

I get all of that and agree it's valid and that Loki probably feels it. By the time Ragnarok happens, Loki's had some time to reflect and think hmm, yeah, probably could've handled that one a lot better. The argument further goes that in order to navigate this awkward period, Loki must come to terms with what he's done, acknowledge that some things can't be unsaid or undone, and begin to make amends. Supposedly, some people feel that Loki becomes a better person because he does "own" everything he did wrong and, even though he feels like a jackass (paraphrasing), he sets that aside to become a become a better person by choosing to help Thor and Asgard at the end. 

Thus, the overall arc goes like this. Loki, Thor's jealous little brother, 

throws a tantrum of epic proportions bc Reasons 

continues to act badly and make things even worse (Avengers) 

has to face consequences for his actions (prison sentence) 

ends up with a stretch of time in which he's free to contemplate and chill out 

feels embarrassed and awkward about how he's behaved

sees an opportunity to make up for it and decides to take it 

helps Thor, saves the day, and ends the film a better person. 

Redemption achieved.

None of this is wrong. The film supports it. It's a fair interpretation. But it leaves. out. so. much.

To circle all the way back around Loki being "a clenched fist with hair," and his actions stemming from his self-hatred, you have to ask - how did he get that way? He didn't end up with all this self-hatred on accident. Generally, one isn't born despising themselves, it's a learned behavior. (I realize chemical imbalances are a thing, obviously, as I have Mental Shit myself, but for argument's sake I'm assuming that's not the case with Loki [at this point in time]). 

Where did Loki learn it? From his family, from his surroundings, from his culture. We see examples of these microaggressions in the first, like, twenty minutes of the movie - a guard openly laughs at Loki's magic after Thor makes a joke about it (the tone of the conversation implies that Thor "jokes" like this often) and though Loki does the snake thing, the guard faces no real consequences. Thor doesn't acknowledge that anything went amiss. Not much later, on their way to Jotunheim, Loki's barely gotten two words out to Heimdall before Thor cuts him off, steps in front of him, and takes charge. Loki doesn't look annoyed at this; he looks resigned. 

Then, for absolutely no reason at all, Volstagg decides to make a jab at Loki ("silver tongue turned to lead?") just because he can. The ease with which he makes this comment and the way that no one else blinks an eye at it implies that this isn't out of the norm. And Loki doesn't react, not really. In the deleted version, he delivers a particularly nasty comeback but he delivers it under his breath, without intending Volstagg to hear it. In the final version, he simply says nothing, though his expression can be read as hurt or stung. Either way, the audience sees an example of Loki being walked all over by Thor and his friends and bottling up his reactions instead of standing up for himself. 

Microaggressions matter. They are mentally and emotionally damaging. They hurt. The implication that this is not unusual treatment for Loki means that Loki's probably gone through this for most of his life. It's like the equivalent of being, I don't know, twenty two and you're the friend who has to walk behind the others when the sidewalk isn't wide enough, and it's been that way since the first day of kindergarten. At this point, you're used to it, but that doesn't make it hurt any less when the jabs come seemingly out of nowhere, for no reason other than to make you feel bad.

(I personally identify a lot with this bc I experienced passive bullying in social settings for years. I was the 'doesn't fit on the sidewalk' friend; I hung around with people who'd pretend to be my friend and would be more or less nice to my face, but would laugh at me and make fun of me behind my back for whatever reasons. And often there'd be the random jabs at me, things that would come out of nowhere to smack me in the face, followed by the fake laugh and “just kidding!" so that I couldn't even get upset without being made to feel like I was overreacting and couldn't take a joke. I'd deal with this socially, particularly in middle school when girls are their most vicious, and then I'd go home and, because I was the only girl with a lot of brothers and because boys are mean and because I am who I am, the dynamic was that my brothers would just endlessly roast me to my face and sometimes it was a "just kidding!" thing, where I was the only one not laughing. But that’s beside the point; my point is that microaggressions, passive bullying, and consistent invalidation are harmful and that shit stays with you into adulthood.) 

So, yes, Loki needs to be held responsible for his misdeeds, and it's valid to say that he recognizes those misdeeds and wants to make amends. I have never disagreed with that. But the problem with this interpretation is that it lets every single other character who contributed to Loki's self-hatred and mental breakdown (let's just call a spade a spade here, that's what it was; he was broken psychologically) get off scot-free.

First of all,

Odin is not held accountable for instilling in the princes a mentality of Asgard first, everyone is beneath us but Jotuns are benath us the most, they are literal monsters. He is not held accountable for pitting his sons against one another (even if it was unintentional, he still did it) with "you were both born to be kings but only one of you can rule" being the general tone of their upbringing. He's not held accountable for his favoritism toward Thor.

Frigga is not held accountable for deferring to Odin both in supporting the above things and in keeping the truth of Loki's origins a secret while doing nothing to discourage the "monsters" narrative. 

Thor is not held accountable for his own tendency of taking Loki for granted (he assumes Loki will come to Jotunheim, he oversteps Loki constantly, “know your place,” etc.. He grants his implicit permission for Loki to be treated as the sidewalk friend in their “group,” a group which is loyal to and takes their cues from Thor as Thor continues to do nothing in his brother's defense).

[Note: Wanting Thor to be held accountable for things he's done wrong isn't vilifying him. Acknowledging that Thor benefited from Odin's favoritism and his own place as Crown Prince doesn't negate Thor also being raised in an abusive environment. I don't think anyone's saying that or, if they have, it's not something I agree with.]

Furthermore, 

Odin is not held accountable for his cruelty in disowning Loki (”your birthright was to die” is never going to be forgotten, speaking of people saying things that can't be unsaid or taken back) and in sentencing Loki to a severe prison sentence (life! only bc Frigga wouldn't let him execute Loki) for crimes that are no worse than what Odin himself has committed (around which the entire plot of Ragnarok revolves! Colonialism (and subjugation) is wrong is, like, a major theme [that people rush to praise, even] here). 

Thor is also never held accountable for not trying harder to understand what made Loki snap (fair enough, he didn't have a ton of time after returning from Earth, but certainly he had lots of time to sit around reflecting while Loki was being tortured by Thanos for a year). He knows Loki is "not himself" and "beyond reason" and accepts it at face value; he questions it once and then lets it go. He's fine with assuming Loki's just lost his mind, and isn't that a shame. (I realize I'm simplifying Thor's emotions but my point is that Thor could've tried harder to figure out that Loki was being influenced and/or not acting completely autonomously.) 

Thor is also never held accountable for - if not facing consequences for his own slaughter of Jotuns - then at least addressing why Loki can't kill an entire race even though Thor tried to do that, like, two days ago. (Granted, it’s difficult to understand how Thor got from Point A ("let's finish them together, Father!") to Point B (this is wrong!), but that failing belongs to Thor 1 (which is not, by the way, a perfect movie).

The interpretation that Loki is fully redeemed because he took responsibility for his actions, returned to Asgard, and allied himself with Thor to save their people is all well and good - but, why is Loki the only one here who has to take responsibility for their actions? 

What about all the loose threads in his story? 

For example, how did he get from: 

Point A (believing himself a literal monster, having a complete mental breakdown, getting tortured and further traumatized after that, etc) 

to 

Point B (Hey, yknow what would be fun? I'm going to write and direct a play about how I heroically died to save Thor and Jane, and I'll go ahead and have Odin say he accepts me and has always loved me. I'm going to do these things because Odin never said this in real life and instead of acknowledging my sacrifice, Thor left my body in the dirt, so someone has to validate what I've done right and that someone might as well be me. And hey, while I'm at it, I'm going to control the narrative on revealing myself as Jotun to Asgard, instead of living in fear of it being found out, and I'm going to do it in a way that they have to sympathize with me and revere me in death, bc they never bothered to do so when I was alive. And Matt Damon should play me, also.) 

to 

Point C (Yeah, I guess I feel kinda awkward about that whole tantrum thing, also I should help Thor and support him being king.)

? 

The answers to these questions are handwaved and the audience takes that to mean they don't matter. Furthermore, framing Loki's redemption around an act of service (more or less) to Thor makes Loki's redemption about Thor. Does Loki make this decision for the sake of Thor and of Asgard, or does he make it for himself? It's not super clear to me, and I think arguments can be made for both. Which, again, is fine, but - whatever.

If we're going to collectively agree, as a fandom, that Loki is complex, that he's morally gray, that he's worthy of redemption and therefore arguably a good person who's done bad things, then why is it asking too much to have it acknowledged that Thor (also a good person who's done bad things) played a part in Loki's downfall and has shit to apologize for, too? Bc one can only assume the reason is that you're taking a very gray concept and making it black and white by saying Loki has to apologize and make amends because he is the villain, and Thor doesn't because he is the hero (and it's his movie). And it's lazy.

This is where the crux of the issue lands. There's more than one valid interpretation, yes. And no two people (or groups of people, or whatever) are going to consume and therefore interpret or analyze the source material in the same way. I think I saw a post recently about how studies have been done on this, in fact. But, there is a lot going on under the surface that tends to get overlooked when exploring Loki's redemption arc in Ragnarok, as far as I can see, and that’s why I don’t consider it satisfactory. 

[I did read similar arguments regarding other issues that are often debated ('debated'), like Loki's magic and/or being underpowered, whether or not Loki's betrayal of Thor was the natural outcome of the situation on Sakaar or not, whether Thor actually gets closure with Odin [if he does, how does he reconcile the father he's idolized with the imperialistic conqueror he's discovered? Why doesn't he hold Odin responsible for covering up Hela's existence and the threat of her return, especially as he knew he was nearing the end of his life? Is Thor's "I'm not as strong as you" meant to imply that he acknowledges those shortcomings of Odin's and that he's okay with them, or that he's just overlooking them, or is he not okay with them but didn't have the chance to get into it bc he was in the middle of battle? T'Challa confronted his father on his wrongdoings in Black Panther; could Thor not have had at least one line that was confrontational enough to establish where he stands as opposed to this gray middle? Can someone explain to me how any of this equates to Thor gaining closure? Please?) but obviously I'm not going to go into all of them (well, I tried not to), bc this mammoth post has gone on long enough (I may not even post this tbh)]

- but my overall point to this entire thing is that when I say I'm critical of Ragnarok bc it's flawed, that Loki's arc was neither complete nor satisfactory, that many things went unaddressed and, due to all of these things, I do not think Ragnarok is a very good movie nor a very cohesive movie, this is where I'm coming from. I have not seen anything to change my mind to the contrary. 

But I am not saying that anyone satisfied with it is wrong, or shouldn't have the interpretation that they do. I'm not vilifying Thor in order to lift Loki up, just acknowledging that Thor is arguably just as flawed as Loki without the stigma of being Designated Villain. I think a lot of these arguments get overlooked or dismissed, and that's fine, but it doesn't make the people who do engage with them hateful, or bitter, or trying to excuse Loki's crimes, or feeling like redemption means that Loki's crimes should be erased rather than reconciled. 

And sure, yes, perhaps we are expecting too much and exploring all of these themes (or wanting them explored) means that somehow we think it should be Loki's movie (we don't). Loki is a supporting character, but he's still a character. And the movie itself doesn't have to delve into all these things - no one's saying that. (At least, I'm not.) We just want acknowledgement, from the narrative, that this stuff was an Issue. 

This could have been accomplished with - 

Some dialogue closer to the novelization (and original script), like Thor and Loki both acknowledging the harm they've done one another and their kingdom due to their Feels.

 A single line of Thor confronting Odin, or even asking "Why?" 

A narrative acknowledgement that Odin did both Thor and Loki dirty (”I love you, my sons” isn't an apology, because it doesn't acknowledge either that there's been wrong-doing or express regret for having done the wrong in the first place). 

A little bit more nuance in the way Loki treats his own past (ie, instead of flippantly telling the story of his suicide attempt, maybe - if it must be flippant - talk about getting blasted in the face with Hawkeye's arrow or sailing through to Svartalfheim [And in that moment, I sang ta-daaaa!]) or whatever. 

I recognize that wanting full, in-depth exploration on all of these issues regarding a supporting character is probably too much to ask or expect - but, I also feel like, if you're going to be professionally writing a narrative (or rewriting/improvising, as it were), it's not too much to ask that a little more care be taken in regards to all of the layers that have contributed to said supporting character's downfall and subsequent redemption arc. I don't think that's an unreasonable thing to want. 

And maybe if there had been more nuance and continuity in how these things were portrayed on screen (ie, if TW had actually done as good a job as his stans think he did), the fandom wouldn't have divided and conquered itself over which "version" of the same character is more valid and whether or not the film did its best to close out a trilogy (not start a new one), to the point where everyone in this fandom space makes navigating it feel like walking through a minefield. 

But, I mean 

(Again, please don’t reblog if possible.) 

Edit: Okay to reblog. <3 

[bxccxdxll]

Overwhelmed

Summary: You have been with the avengers for a while but they know almost nothing about you. After one of Tony’s parties everything goes to shit.

Pairings: Bucky x Reader

TW: experimentation on humans, panic attacks (read at own risk)

Word Count: 1618

A/N: This is based off of/inspired by the song Overwhelmed by Royal & the Serpent. All mistakes are mine and mine alone. Hope you like it:)

You had been with the avengers for almost two years now. Tonight was the first time you would be attending one of Tony’s infamous parties and you were terrified to say the least. You had never been good with crowds but you had never told any of your fellow avengers about this issue. Nick Fury knew everything there was to know about you and your past but, as per your request he kept it all classified. Not even Captain Rogers knew about your upbringing and past. You told them enough to get them to trust you but everything else was on a need to know basis. 

You were raised by your loving parents for the first few years of your life but on your sixth birthday Hydra took everything from you, your parents, your freedom, and your life. You were experimented on till your eighteenth birthday when they finally made a breakthrough. You were one of Stucker’s first test subjects and he was your last tormentor. Him and everyone else who had been part of the mind stone experiments were certain that you had died after your exposure. You had been buried in a shallow grave a couple miles outside of the base and that’s where you woke up. Coughing up dirty and clawing your way out of the dirty and bodies that had been thrown into the hole with you.

After that you had run away and had been on the run for two years when you finally got on SHIELD’s radar. You hadn’t tested your powers out much but based on what you could feel and what you’d seen on the news about Wanda Maximoff, they were quite similar to hers. You couldn’t quite read other people’s minds but their feelings and emotions poured out of them like waterfalls. Everything that anyone near you felt, you felt too. All of your other powers were almost identical to Wanda’s. 

Moving in with the Avengers was not your choice. Fury thought it would be best. You had managed to keep a fair distance from them and had barely socialized with them in the two years you had been with them. They knew about your powers. Well all except for the emotions part you managed to keep that to yourself. Not even Fury knew about that specific part of you and your story. 

You got dressed up in a beautiful but subtle black bodycon dress that reached about mid thigh with long sleeves that almost covered your hands, your pendant necklace that rested elegantly between breasts and simple silver stud earrings. You didn’t want to draw attention to yourself but you still wanted to look nice. There would be press at this event after all. 

You had been steeling yourself for this moment all day. You walked down the staircase and into the large room that was packed with hundreds of people all socializing and laughing, trying to make the best of the night and enjoy the wonderful party. 

There was a row of paparazzi to your left at the bottom of the stairs. As you descended the flight you made sure to keep a camera worthy smile on your face and posed for a few quick shots when you reached the bottom. Turning away you headed right for the bar knowing that you were gonna need at least one drink to make it through the night. 

Tony sought you out as soon as he heard you arrived. Making sure you were having a good time and enjoying your first of his parties. You told him you were having a fine time and at your dismissal of the rest of his questions he thought it best to leave you alone. 

You made it through the party with minimal socialization and managed to avoid most of the sleazy businessmen who Tony’s parties always entailed. Captain Rogers had called you and the team to the common room for a small after party and made it clear that you were expected to be there.

The emotions that you'd been trying to block out all night had started to filter into your mind as you grew more and more tired. Being in the common room with all of your fellow avengers was something you often avoided. Simply because this was a group of broken people whose emotions were all of the place and were full of grief and sadness.

Tony switched on the TV once everyone was settled. You in the small but comfy arm chair tucked off to the side. For a little while everything was fine but like a switch everything changed. All of a sudden it sounded like the TV had been turned up to a hundred. Your head was pounding and your ears felt like they were bleeding. You clutched at the sides of your head and sharply inhaled which drew the attention of the two super soldiers sitting across from you.

“Y/N? You okay?” Bucky asked with concern clear in his voice. You clutched your eyes shut and let out a yell. “Turn it off! Make it stop!” The movie was quickly paused and all of your teammates were on alert. Not knowing what to do or how to help you.

You opened your eyes hoping that the pain would just go away but the light in the room was so bright and you felt so hot. You quickly stood up and the world started spinning Bucky was at your side trying to hold you steady in a heartbeat but his touch felt like it was burning you through the sleeve of your dress.

Suddenly it clicked and the gates to your mind flooded open. The worry your team was feeling for you came crashing down on top of you as well as all of the other grief, guilt, and sadness they felt. 

You tried to put the wall back up. Stop the emotions from drowning you but there was no chance now. You were too deep under. Gasping for breath as you tried to calm the oncoming panic attack, you stagger back out of Bucky’s reach but they all just converge on you. Your head’s on a swivel, searching for possible escape routes. You need to get out on here. 

You tried to get a word out. Tell everyone to back up and just give you space but it was no help. Your anxiety and panic had stolen your voice. Backed into a corner, you stand panting and looking into Bucky’s eyes, pleading with him to help you as tears streamed down your face. But there was nothing he could do. You were trapped in your own mind and the emotions of your peers. 

It’s like you're not yourself. This isn't you. You are a strong and powerful woman. You’re an Avenger for God’s sake! You shouldn’t be acting like this in front of your teammates. What were they gonna think of you now? It was all just too much. Too overwhelming.

Bucky took the two strides and he was blocking your view of everything else. It was just him and your mind honed in on which emotions were his. Letting all the others fade to the background. This man who had had his life destroyed by Hydra much like yours held much grief and sadness, you didn’t know how he was still holding on. Looking into his eyes you dug deeper into his emotions, seeing anxiousness and fear, but also happiness and joy. But the most prominent emotion right in this moment was worry. Worry for you and what was happening to you. 

You let Bucky grab your hand and bring it to his chest, faintly hearing him say to breathe with him. So you felt as his chest rose and fell and tried to match it as best you could. Eventually the clouds started to clear and the rest of the world came back into focus. Your breathing evened out and Bucky kept your hand in his, keeping you grounded. You were thankful that he somewhat understood what was happening. You looked around the room and saw all of the concerned looks on your teammates faces and suddenly felt shy and shrunk back into yourself. Bucky looked at Steve and held a silent conversation. Steve glanced down at you with a sad smile before turning to the rest of the team and ushering them away, leaving you and Bucky. 

“Here, I’ll walk you to your room.” Bucky pulled you along behind him as you walked hand in hand towards your room. Once you were there he politely asked FRIDAY to open the door and she did as asked. He walked you in and sat you on your bed. Watching as you laid down and rolled over. He tucked you in as he saw your eyes drifting shut. Exhaustion taking you over after the intense panic attack. He leaned down and pecked your forehead whispering to you, “If you need me I’ll be in my room.” As he went to leave you reached back out. “No! Please don’t leave me alone. Stay. Please.” You pleaded at Bucky. He had whipped his head around at the sound of your voice and after seeing the broken look in your eyes he knew he couldn’t say no. “I’m right here Y/N. I won’t go anywhere. I’ll stay.” He sat on the edge of your bed and you opened the covers to him. Letting him slip in beside you. “Hold me?” you asked in an almost whisper. He wrapped his strong arms around you and pulled you into his chest. Giving you a soft kiss on your head as you drifted off into the first peaceful sleep you’d had in…ever.

[artificialqueens]

I Belong With You (You Belong With Me) (Rosnali) - Athena2

Summary: After dating for a few months, Rosé decides to tell Denali she's asexual. Written for the prompt "Pride" from the June prompt list shared here on AQ.

A/N: Halleloo, I’m back! I know it's only been a week, but what a week tbh.

This is just a soft little fic I've been wanting to write. I meant to post it earlier, but it’s here now. I want to say that asexuality is something I've been questioning about myself for a while, and a lot of this fic is my own feelings I've had over the years. Also, everyone is different, and this fic isn't meant to encompass the entire ace spectrum. Finally, I'm not an expert or anything, but I do want to say it's okay to question and/or be unsure of your identity. Thank you so much to Writ for beta-ing this like three times and encouraging me to post it, you’re the best and ily❤️ Happy Pride! I really hope you enjoy, and please leave feedback if you'd like! Title from Ho Hey by The Lumineers.

“Denali, um, I need to tell you something.” Rosé fiddles with the couch cushion, trying to calm her pounding heart.

She and Denali have been together almost four months now, and though they haven’t reached the sex stage yet, Rosé knows it’s coming. Knows there will come a time when Denali, like most people, will want more than kisses and cuddles. Rosé loves kisses and cuddles, she really does. She just doesn’t want anything more, and having to confess that to Denali is making her stomach hurt.

“What is it?” Denali is instantly concerned and focused, giving Rosé her full attention.

Rosé opens and closes her mouth, wiping sweaty hands on her pants. Just say it, just say it. “I...I’m asexual.”

It’s a weight off her chest to have it out in the open. She doesn’t have to spend time worrying about what might happen if Denali wants more, or plan possible excuses she can use. She just has to wait and see how Denali will react, and her silence is making Rosé’s thoughts spiral.

Rosé always knew she was different. In middle school, her friends would dream about how the boys on the football team would look with their shirts off. The fantasies only got bigger in high school, thrown at her by all her friends. She couldn’t understand why people even wanted to talk about things like that, let alone do them, and she felt like her friends were speaking another language, like she was a kid at the grown-up table, listening to their conversations with nothing but confusion and half-hearted hopes that she’d understand when she was older. Then college came, where she got tongue-tied around pretty girls in her English class and figured that explained things, that she was just a late bloomer. But years later, she let her date undress her and lay her on the bed, and when the woman’s clothes hit the floor and her hands grew closer, Rosé felt nothing. No spark or urge people always talked about, no desire to touch the woman or have the woman touch her. Rosé knew she didn’t like her that way.

At all.

Rosé asked her to please stop, and she did, but when Rosé nervously confessed that she didn’t think she liked sex, the woman called her a freak and kicked her out.

Rosé knew she had to be a freak. Sex was a normal, natural thing, and she was a grown woman, so why didn’t she care about it, or want to attempt it ever again, no matter how pretty or kind or funny she thought someone was? Something had to be wrong with her.

She confessed it all on a teary wave of alcohol to her friend Jan one night, who hugged her and said there was nothing wrong with her, not at all, and then tucked her into bed and sent her information and resources when she was sober enough to focus.

Rosé read through website after website, and things fell into place inside her, the same way they had when she realized she liked girls. She didn’t know there was a name for how she felt, or that there were other people like her. Nothing was wrong with her, or with anyone like her, and just knowing it was a relief.

Even still, Rosé kept it to herself. She never had more than a few dates with the same woman, knowing that eventually the time would come when they’d want more, when they’d invite her over with a knowing gleam in their eye, and she would run out of excuses if things continued. It was easier to end things before it got to that point, not take the risk of anyone calling her names or trying to talk her into things she didn’t want. She resigned herself to a few dates and moving on, never getting too close even though she wanted to. She wanted love, wanted it so badly. She wanted someone to hug and hold and share her hopes and worries with. She wanted someone to come home to, someone who would be a home in human form. But everyone seemed to think of sex as the ultimate act of love, as the defining part of a relationship. Would she ever find someone who would love her without it?

And then Denali came along.

If anyone could love her no matter what, Rosé thinks it’s Denali. Rosé absolutely loves her, loves her so much she broke her own dating rule because she just couldn’t stop seeing Denali. She loves Denali’s looks, sure, loves her big soft eyes and her smile and her dimples. But she loves how Denali is seriously doing work one second and goofily dancing around the next. How Denali is kind to everyone she meets. And Denali clearly loves her too, showing up to their dates with little gifts because she saw it in the store and thought of Rosé, or listening to Rosé ramble on about musicals she loves. She makes Rosé happier than anyone she’s ever dated, and she wants to tell her.

Denali still hasn’t said anything. Maybe she’s confused--hell, Rosé was confused at first too. Or maybe she’s seen the nasty things on the internet Rosé has learned to avoid, about how she’s broken or just hasn’t had good sex yet. Maybe Rosé should explain more, and the words fly out of her mouth.

“I still want to be with you, and I really love you. You’re beautiful, and kind, and funny, and you just get me. I love kissing you and hugging you and cuddling with you. I love being with you. You make me so happy. Just, sexually, I don’t--I don’t feel the same way. I don’t want to have sex, I’m trying to say. And it’s not because of you, it’s just me. I know that might be a dealbreaker for some people, and I don’t want to make you miss out on that, so if you want to break up, I understand—“

“Shh, hold on and breathe, Rosie,” Denali cuts her off gently, taking Rosé’s hands in hers. Rosé doubts Denali would do this if she wanted to leave, and she lets herself hope. “I just needed a sec to process things. First off, I’m really proud of you for telling me. I know that must have been hard. Second, I don’t want to break up with you, baby. I love you so much.”

“You still want to stay with me?” Rosé asks, in awe of the loving look in Denali’s eyes.

“Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?” Denali asks seriously.

Rosé shrugs, unable to meet Denali’s gaze. “I mean, I don’t think it now, because I know it’s not true, but sometimes I thought...I thought something was wrong with me. That no one would want to be with me when they found out I couldn’t give them sex.”

“Sweetheart,” Denali says softly, her eyes sad. She squeezes Rosé’s hands, rubbing over her knuckles in soothing motions. “I’m so sorry anyone made you feel like there’s something wrong with you, because there’s not. You’re such a wonderful person, inside and out, and that’s why I love you. I know you don’t want me to miss out, but I’m not missing out on anything, because I have you. I’m fine without sex. But I could never be fine without you. I love you, all of you, and I don’t need sex to do it.”

Rosé pulls Denali to her, crushing her in a hug. All the doubts she had--about someone not loving her without sex, about not being enough on her own--melt away in the hug. She never needed to have those fears. She’s worthy and capable of love just as she is, and Denali is going to give her that love. “I love you too,” she breathes. “I love you so much, Denali.”

Denali squeezes her back, but her face quickly turns serious as she pulls away. “I know you said you’re okay with kissing and stuff, but if I ever say or do anything that makes you uncomfortable, please tell me, okay, Rosie? Or if kissing or anything starts to get uncomfortable too. I never want you to feel uncomfortable around me.”

“I will. I promise I’ll tell you if there’s anything I’m not okay with.”

“Good.”

Rosé sighs, the air light with relief and joy, of knowing that Denali still loves her no matter what. That she doesn’t have to hide who she is, or treat it like some dirty secret. That she’s more than enough just as she is. That she can be asexual and be proud, not ashamed.

“Wanna watch Great British Bake-Off?” Denali asks.

“And cuddle?” Rosé asks hopefully.

“All the cuddles you want, baby.”

[blushing-starker]

Second in the line of moodboards inspired my the devil all the time.

He helps Gwen wrangle her hair together backstage, fingers quickly snatching wayward strands and taming them with one of the many pins clutched between Peter's lips. Natasha comes over to them, adjusts the girl's tutu, raises the stockings while mumbling in russian, pride for her girls clear even in a different language. His sister's back straightens impossibly, spine curved and he's very nearly spilling all the pins over the floor because god, he loves watching the dancers work. They were beautiful in big sweaters, worn leggings, beat up flats and half done ponytails, Peter always thought so no matter how many times they teased him about trying to butter the ballerinas up. They were gorgeous 24/7. But when they were preparing to go onstage?

That was ethereal, something only seen in dreams of tucked away childhoods, beauty found exclusively on fairytales. He caught a glance of the divine each time his sister and their friends went to battle. Five seconds left and no, you will stay away from the light, damn you. Peter growls, distantly hears a semi quiet click, ignores it, slams five pins around a particularly demanding curl and Natasha hums when she revises it, fingers gently touching the bun. She whirls around the room without a word but he's proud. He made something worthy of Romanoff's approval. The girls are called to stage and Gwen turns, kisses his cheek and off she goes. Peter lurches forward, plants his lips to the taut shoulder blades just as she's passing the door's threshold.

His sister doesn't really believe in luck, more prone to appreciating hard work and determination. But the youngest Parker child preferred to be on the safe side of things, try to ensure success in as many ways as possible. The music outside begins to stir the audience up, announces the arrival of the group and yeah, he'll never get over seeing Gwen fly through the air. Another click, but this time he inclines his body back towards it and suddenly the world goes white, a fierce bright thanks to a flashing bulb. He topples back on instinct, hands scrambling for purchase, legs caught on a stray tutu, mind dreading the sharp, incoming impact. It never comes.

There's movement, lightning fast, a hand around his own, body being yanked, back pressed to a broad chest and then the colors slowly appear in spots as he heaves for breath. A chuckle against Peter's left ear, amusement and perhaps fondness.

"Should've figured the brother of the future prima donna was clumsy. The universe being ironic and all that. But I knew beauty ran in the family. I'm afraid we've never been introduced, Mr Parker. I'm Tony Stark, main photographer for the company."

He's dead. He must be. No human had a voice that smooth, that enchanting and soothing. The guy had to be an angel of some sort because these things didn't happen to Peter. His life wasn't exciting enough that a man half a foot taller and several inches wider than him could just wrap him in strong arms and make them stay in an upright spooning position. Curved hips sit right above his ass, there's a toned stomach pressed against his back and warm air is teasing the curls on his nape. This type of thing, of situation didn't occur to Peter Parker.

When the world settles down, he licks dry lips and tries to breathe deeply. Only for him to realize both his hands are immobile. One is being clutched by the wrist, that's the right hand the photographer had tugged on to twirl Peter round and mesh them together, afar from the lights. His left arm is also being held, although that may just be the man forgot to let go after stabilizing him. He's immobilized but he feels...completely safe here. Slowly, Peter relaxes enough for his mind to drift, exclusively focus on Gwen and musky cologne.

"I'm Peter. Gwen's brother. But you already knew that, Mr Stark," great going, Pete, "Any reason we hadn't met? Then again, Gwen's the dancer. I'm just, just a cab driver. I'm not beautiful, nothing special." He's not embarassed. He's not, Peter's very proud of his job, of how good he is. The 60's weren't exactly easy to live in, but he's managed to keep on going and that's a hell of a lot more than some people got.

Nonetheless, he dips his head down, ashamed because what if he's diminishing Gwen's glow by being a driver, by being boring and dull? What if-

"Bullshit, you're worthy of a set. Most gorgeous person I've seen in years and here you are thinking you're nothing. I'd kill for a chance with you. I love Gwen, she's amazing, but I've been trailing her more just so you can appear in some of the pictures. I wouldn't do that for nothing, Parker. Oh, that's a lovely leap."

Don't cry, don't cry, it's only the kindest compliment Peter's received in a long while, the first one that doesn't have to do with the speed limit or itchy seats or satisfied customers.

"Well," it's like sand paper stuck in his throat, " you wouldn't have to kill. If you ask, I'd say I'm free on Saturday. "

What. Are. You. Doing.

Shit, did he just.

"Kid, I'd love that. We could get coffee, I know a place nearby with great chocolate cake."

He did.

Gwen will kill him if she/when she finds out Peter asked someone out without her being around to witness it.

He can't help it that he beams, "I think that's great, Mr Stark. Definitely better than being here and acting as the seventeenth wheel."

"Call me by my name, Peter. We're basically already snuggling, no need for seriousness. Although, I actually didn't plan on this. No matter what type of crazy goes through my head, it's never this fast or this crazy.

"And here I thought photographers were the most serious and aloof with their brooding self portraits."

Tony laughs and Peter grins, happy to feel the rumble up his back and shoulders. Maybe he'll develop an urge to get some portraits done. Just one or three every month.

[newsies-geek]

“You is cute, maybe” - Javid Fantasy/DND AU

Fanfic for @nervously-spouting-poetry ‘s concept for a Javid DND/Fantasy AU ((Kinda jusr went with writing a one-shot that hit as many potential scenes as possible, let’s goooo))

Had to separate the part because they were too long���

***

CW: Blood, stabbing

Davey Jacobs couldn't describe his life simply because it just wasn't constant.

Everything seemed to be a never changing cycle, while in rival with that, it never seemed to stop changing.

To put it plainly, history had seemingly been repeating itself, just with different people in different towns. The one constant that he could clearly put a pin to was safety. Or rather, the lack thereof. Safety was a luxury that Davey Jacobs was unable to have, and a prompt to make sure that the opposite was true for Les.

David was sure he could put up with the constant riots and protests that came with being a Giant, but he wasn't sure if Les was able to as well. And given that the other boy wouldn't even have to deal with these issues in the first place if not for Davey left him feeling as though he constantly had to make up for everything he did.

Les was different to Davey in ways that could be spotted from the first time you saw him- in size, species, and characteristics.

Davey preferred a quiet life, one that didn't take too much energy to uphold but gave him the opportunity to feel energetic about it when he wanted to.

Les was a nonstop ball of energy, he had been since Davey had first found him, a very small abyssal tiefling, abandoned by his parents in a rickety building, part of an empty town Davey had resided in until bandits drove him out.

Les had no desire to continuously live in the confinements of a cave- such as their current residence.

It was a nice cave, in comparison to others they'd lived in. It wasn't too drafty, seeing as it only had one clear entrance, a make-shift door set up there that kept trespassers from coming in, and Les from getting out.

It wasn't as if Les was some kind of prisoner though, if he truly wanted out, Davey couldn't say no to his pleading. He understood what it was like to have your life controlled by other people's actions and he didn't want that for the younger, but that didn't stop him from enforcing rules that were set with their current location.

"What do you mean I can't go to the edge of the forest? It's just the edge! Not even in it- and it's halfway down the mountain anyway!" The tiefling whined.

"Because, knights could very easily be waiting there- or lord knows who-"

"And what's wrong with knights? Not all of them are bad." Les scoffed and rolled his eyes from where he sat on Davey's shoulder, the older boy sitting with one knee up and the other leg laying flat as he struggled to read a book the size of his finger, "These words are just gibberish at this point..." he muttered before processing Les's words, "Not all bad? Les, there are many people after me but knights are the most persistent. Stubborn, I should say. They're not good news and they'll take any chance they can get to have leverage over me. That means you."

"I can outrun their swords!" Les defended, standing up shakily.

"And what if they have bows? Their aim may be god-awful but an arrow to any part of your body means possible immobilization. You can't even fly yet-"

"Can too!" Les argued, bending his knees and tearing up to jump.

"Les-" Davey groaned with a tone that implied that this was a frequent occurrence.

The smaller boy had already set his mind to it, jumping swiftly from the brunette's shoulder before spastically flapping his wings and squeaking as Davey caught him a few feet above the ground.

"Nice try, but until you learn proper self-defense and basic flying, you shouldn't go beyond the meadows." Davey set Les down gently to his left on a small pile of lamb's wool that Davey had managed to collect from where the local livestock had left bits of their tufts on prickly bushes, making Les a make-shift bed.

"They won't attack me if they don't know I'm with you! I can be sneaky!" Les tried, looking up at his brother with a pleading grin.

"Humans go after me specifically because of how noticeable I am. It doesn't matter to them what species you are- if you aren't human, you aren't worthy of their presence." Davey spat out the last part cynically.

"Oh come on, not all humans are bad." Les groaned, flopping onto the wool and staring up at the stone ceiling, winds spread out behind him, laying flat on the wool.

"Oh yeah? Which humans have you been talking to?" Davey chuckled, bringing the book closer to his eyes and squinting, "I can't see when it's this dark- we need to get some lanterns in here, or- hey, how about we go catch some fireflies later? Of course, we'll have to release them in the morning but-"

"That Human with the cape that keeps comin' to talk you seems awful friendly." Les hummed like this was nothing, closing his eyes.

Davey flinched, laughing nervously, "What?"

"Oh please, you think I don't listen whenever I hear you talking outside? The cracks in the door may be small for you to see out of- but they're Les head sized  for me!" Les grinned up at his now panicking brother who had set his tiny, for him, book down on the side of him that Les wasn't on.

"He comes to threaten me every week, Les- I wouldn't call that friendly-"

"He just doesn't know how to start a conversation and that's the best way he can!" Les sat up defensively, "He threatens you, you try to stutter out a response, and then you two go off on some nonsense about town politics or how the weather is going. His threats are like- completely empty." The small boy snorted.

"Oh please, he's a knight." Davey huffed.

"But you're always so happy to see him." Les scoffed.

"I am not!" Davey blushed, "I told you, all knights are-"

"Bad news, yeah, I know. But you guys just end up flirting and-"

"Flirting? How do you know what flirting is?" Davey stuttered out.

"Well..." Les shrugged, "I just figure it's when you make the other person kinda flustered and-"

"Jack does not make me flustered." Davey sniffed.

"You know his name?" Les perked up with a cheeky grin.

"Be quiet." Davey groaned, running his hands over his face.

Les paused before continuing, "Does he know your name?"

Davey kept his hands over his face a moment, "Obviously. I wasn't going to be rude and not introduce myself."

"How come you can he so closed minded about knights when you're obviously wrong?" Les argued, furrowing his brow.

"Jack is- I don't know what his intentions are-"

"I think if he had the means to hurt you by now, he woulda'." Les sighed.

"He could just be..trying to warm up to me and-"

"He comes here once a week red in the face when he sees you. Nobody is that good at acting, especially knights. We've got bards for that." The younger flopped back down onto the bed.

"He...he doesn't actually..." Davey whispered, thoughts that he'd tried so hard to suppress beginning to surface. He immediately snapped into productive mode to keep the thoughts at bay, "I'm going go out and do some gardening. You're welcome to come outside as well if you promise not to go past the meadows-"

"I'll stay in here until nighttime." Les yawned tiredly, curling up so he could tuck his nose under his tail, "Light hurts my eyes too much."

Davey smiled fondly at his brother before giving a small nod and heading for the door made up of tree trunks, laced together with twine, opening it, with a croak from the wood, before exiting and shutting the door behind him.

The feeling of bliss that sunlight gave him as soon as he walked out of the shadows of the front of the cave filled Davey with pure bliss. He gingerly placed  a bare foot down on fresh, green grass before sighing and turning to the right where a field of orange poppy flowers that ran down the hill greeted him, a small stream running on his side of the field, he cupped a hand and threw it over the field, affectively watering a third of the flowers. He moved downhill so sunlight touched his whole face, and part of his shoulders now. The light of evening being soft and warming against a gentle breeze.

Davey sighed blissfully before taking another handful of water and tossing it onto the field, large droplets splashing down until Davey heard a screech, causing the giant to take a few steps back, "O-Oh dear-" He whispered, "Did um- did someone move into the flowers? I'm sorry I didn't notice- I-I was just watering them and-"

A brunette sat up from where he was laying down in the field, hidden from the poppies that had draped over him, he stood up slowly and shook his arms, water flying off around him, "Geez, this'll rust it for sure." He groaned.

"You-" Davey froze.

Jack stiffened at the acknowledgement before giving a small wave and immediately regretting the decision, "I'm, hi, I- uh- I was just uh- got tired walking up the hill and-"

"What are you doing here again?" Davey sighed tiredly but couldn't hide a small smile twitching at his lips.

"Th-The usual um- just- just checking in and-"

Davey suddenly frowned, "The usual is you threatening to take care of me, if that's the case, can I politely ask you to um- just- just not today?"

"N-Not today?" Jack sounded dejected, "Oh um yeah- I uh- just uh- was uh- well, I wasn't coming to slay you- I was just-"

Davey stiffened, "W-Wait are you- are you after my brother-" His voice was hushed and terrified and he began backing up towards the door protectively.

"No! No, no, I would never- y-your what?" Jack swallowed nervously.

"Listen, I can take you and your people getting after me, but you can't bring Les into this, okay? He wouldn't hurt a fly-"

"And you would?" Jack chirped up.

Davey furrowed his brow before leaning forward, crouching down and picking jack up by his cape, eyes solidly serious, "You think I would?"

"F-From my current point of view?" The knight squeaked.

Davey cocked an eyebrow, "I'm not hurting you, am I?" He sounded genuinely concerned.

"N-No- I um- no- I don't think you um- you don't seem to? To have the uh- the intentions to hurt others-" Jack looked at his dangling feet, "I-I do have um- a particular dislike of these here heights though- if you wouldn't mind- I jus' fell from this rickety ol' penthouse once an'-"

"You what?" Davey tried to stifle a chuckle, respectively placing Jack down.

"Well I Uh- got a second story room in this inn down in the town and may have lost my footin' while sparring with Crutchie and-"

"Crutchie?" Davey cocked his head.

Jack's eyes lit up and he smiled with a nod, "He helps me with uh- with business and what not."

"Like slaying giants?" Davey frowned slightly.

"Um...yeah.." Jack muttered sheepishly.

"Right..well, it was um...interesting chatting with you...for the third time this week, but-"

"I've never actually-" Jack started at the same time.

"What was that?" Davey lifted his eyebrows.

"Dave, I don't have the means to- to hurt-" The swish of an arrow interrupted Jack as it whizzed by him, just missing his shoulder.

Davey swiftly looked to the edge of the forest, seeing two men, one with a sword drawn and the other with a bow.

"They're here for me." Davey and Jack both remarked in unison before looking at each other in confusion.

Another arrow flew and hit Davey this time in the hand. He hissed in pain, waving it with a few curses, "God awful aim-"

"Dave I-"

"Sh, no time for words, we have to go." Davey scooped Jack up and covered him with both hands, beginning to turn towards the cave before the aspect of them finding Les came to his mind, causing him to stumble down the side of the mountain, away from the two men who begin to race after them, appearing and reappearing just behind David, "How are they using magic, Jack-"

"Oh, you don't want tah know nothin' about them-" Jack mumbled from within Davey's protective hands, just barely able to see through his fingers, "Look jus- just uh- drop- drop me off somewhere, they'll stop chasin' you-"

"Aren't they just doing your job for you?" Davey remarked bitterly.

"That's- that is not a fair accusation, Dave-" Jack began.

"What is then?" The giant rolled his eyes, continuing on with some space between him and the two pursuers, "You come here every time under the pretense that you've got a job to do and all you do is stall. Why not just get it over with? Are you trying to- befriend me or something so you can get me when I least expect it? Because I- just do something, I can't continue to talk to you without ever knowing what to expect."

Jack swallowed nervously, "I-I don't have the means to hurt you-"

"How do I know that?" Davey whispered, not that Jack couldn't hear.

"Because-" Jack nudged with his back at Davey's hands, making him loosen his grip, "I ain't lettin' these fellas hurt you."

"What? S-So that you can- take the bounty versus them-"

"Christ, Dave! I don't care about no bounty, I care about you! You don't believe me? Fine, I'll show you-" Jack hopped on the edge of Dave's hand, looking down at the stream they were about to pass over.

"Jack-" Davey began to close his hands as Jack prepared to jump.

"I ain't lettin' them hurt you, Dave-"

"Jack-!" Davey clamped his hands shut a moment too late, Jack leaping from his grip and falling towards the water, "JACK-" Davey leapt over the stream, nearly falling over with how quickly her turned around to try and catch the boy, only to see him disappear from thin air, "O-Oh god- he disintegrating on impact-"

"Not quite!" A snobby voice came from a dark brunette, one of the pursuers who now had Jack held back by his arms, struggling for freedom.

"Thanks for the help!" The other pursuer cackle before tightening his grip on Jack, "I'm sure you won't mind us takin' care of your boyfriend then- they did say it didn't matter if he was dead OR alive, did they Morris?" The dark brunette cocked an eye at his brother.

"So they says." Morris nodded.

The other boy got a firm grip of Jack's head, "I'll be merciful to him, giant, you don't gotta worry about him anymore, just a quick snap and-"

"NO-" Davey yelled, grabbing for Morris and quickly picking up, holding him up high threateningly, "Touch him and and drop him." Davey growled, blood dripping from the arrow wound in the hand he held Morris in.

Oscar looked panicked, "He can just-"

"Oh trust me, I know how magic works, I can crush him faster than he can transfer himself anywhere." Davey's eyes narrowed as he tightened his grip on Morris, "Let him go."

Oscar looked conflicted before he seemed to growl and release Jack.

Jack stumbled forward, scrambling away from Oscar and looking up at Davey in a panic.

"N-Now let him go." Oscar glared up at Davey.

"Promise you won't hurt him again." Davey nodded fo Jack.

"I can't promise nothin other than his life is safe right now." Oscar spat.

Davey held onto Morris tighter, "Let him-" the breath got knocked out of Davey as something sharp pierced his skin, causing him to drop Morris, who quickly vanished from thin air, not reappearing anywhere that Davey could see.

"Having a giant on your side i-is cheatin'!" Morris snarled at Jack before also vanishing.

"So is usin' magic that ain't yours-!" Jack snapped quickly before becoming aware of the silence and absence of the Delanceys. He sighed and fell onto his back with a groan, "I hate those two and-" Jack yelped as the ground shook with Davey falling to his knees.

Jack sat up, looking concerned at Davey before his eyes widened, only just now noticing the long-sword plunged into Davey's palm, halfway through, "O-Oh my god, Dave-" he quickly waded across the river, chain-meal making it harder but not impossible to do so as he made his way to the other side of the stream, where Davey sat on his knees, clutching the base of his hand with his other, looking like he might cry.

"I-It really hurts." Davey's voice cracked and he mentally cursed himself for how childish he sounded.

"H-Hey, it's goin'a be okay.." Jack swallowed nervously, "Can I see it?" He murmured.

Davey hesitated before gingerly lowering his hand.

"Oh geez, Dave, that's nearly all the way through your hand.."

"Mhm.." Davey hissed in pain, the grass beneath him colder than earlier as night began to fall, "I need to- to get back to Les- the mountain is just a few minutes walk- I've got medicine there-"

"O-Okay, just take it easy." Jack murmured as Davey nodded, offering his other hand, only slightly covered in blood, allowing the brunette to kneel down on his palm, getting it wet from the stream water, not that Davey particularly cared or noticed as he slowly got to his feet and began to drag them back towards the cave.

"I'm sure you've...you've got a lot of questions." Jack cleared his throat.

"That doesn't even begin to sum it up." Davey snorted.

[officialtripper]

Unusual Destinations-1

In recent few years, I had a good opportunity to travel a lot on work. I am not an outright extrovert; I do love observing people but a part of me doesn’t allow me to kick start conversation with strangers easily. I watch people and picturize a portrait of them in my mind merely by watching them and their behavior. I have been enjoying doing this and you might call me judgmental for doing that, well maybe I am. However, I am only referring to the strangers here.

I am limited to a handful of people in my personal life and I don’t trust people easily to allow them to walk into my life. This is partly out of my insecurity of being taken advantage of. And the flip side to having limited people in life is that you expect a lot from these few people close to you. And you are always highly protective about them and constantly insecure about losing them. The world seems to end when you learn that they have made new friends and to avoid that sort of pain, I tend not to befriend many people. So, you see it’s a vicious cycle of confusion on my mind. Practically thinking I might rather have more friends and be prepared to lose one or two from time to time while the conscious part of me wants to keep my social circle as small as possible.

Anyway, too much about me, the reason I thought of begin this writing is to describe about the numerous places I have visited to. Well most of these places are not the ones you would find on the top travel destination list. But I would like to share few things which I found interesting about these places and worthy of sharing. Wherever I visit, I do a bit of personal research on things like history of the place, about the local culture and of course about the food. I am a foodie, if that’s a legitimate word.

I somehow want to start with the town of Belgaum in Karnataka, my instinct has been strongly forcing me to begin with this place.

 1.       BELGAUM: (Belagavi)

A good two hours drive from Hubli through a highway sided with vast stretch of lush fields and scattered human habitation takes you the town of Belgaum. The region has been center of geo political drama between the states of Karnataka and Maharashtra for decades now. The region has a sizeable Marathi speaking population and therefore should have been a part of Maharashtra state as per one faction. However in 1956, with the passage of States Reorganization Act, the district of Belgaum was incorporated in to Karanataka (Mysore State back then). Ever since both the states and the local populace have been polarized about the affiliation.

The sign of which stands firm as soon as you are about to enter the town.  A massive construction called Suvarna Vidhana Soudha ( Golden Jubilee Assembly House) built by Karnataka Government as a reiteration of its control over Belgaum dots the landscape significantly. However this cosmetic gesture doesn’t mean much since the building lies unused most of the time.

The main bazaar area of the town is a typical picture of what you would read in a Rudyard Kipling novel dated almost a century back. The hundreds of narrow alleys cris crossing the bazaar with shops giving out sharp aroma of spices and hawkers seated on ground with their neatly arranged stuffs for sale is a visual treat for someone who romanticizes the idea of vibrance. You see beautiful Marwari women with deep cut blouses and sarees tuck way below navel exposing their upper backs and tummies in just right proportion riding mopeds and honking incessantly demanding their space in congested alleys. The farmers from surrounding villages who have sold their products to the whole sellers can be spotted near wine shops and sweet shops waiting to buy their quota of celebration after weeks of efforts. The young Muslim lads who love to adore their eyes with dark mascara can be seen roaming around trading anything from cell phone sim cards to plastic toys and socks. And of course, you can’t miss seeing the hundreds of small and big shrines finding their space in between the shops and houses. Each alley has a different name and it can be very confusing as to where one ends, and another begins. “Galli” as they call it locally mostly derive their names from the deity of the shrine that guards the respective area.

Behind the lines of shops are the age-old houses which probably have been there for centuries in very same fashion and clutter as we see them today. Classification amid chaos is clearly visible, as we see ghettos segregated based on caste and religious lines. The Muslims mainly small traders or auto rickshaw drivers love to commemorate their glorious past of martialism, by furling green flags with image of their hero, Tipu Sultan on top of their houses, shops and auto rickshaw stands. On the other side, you can spot saffron flags with face of brave warrior Shivaji imprinted on them waving high over Maratha households. The Kannada speakers mainly belonging to the Lingayat community probably don’t have a flag yet, but you can find a picture of their founding father, Basavanna hanging on the walls inside their shops and houses.

It is the linguistic difference that left this place vulnerable to political scuffle for years and therefore the localities found their middle ground by adopting Hindi as a common medium of communication on streets. It is very common to find people switching from Kannada to Marathi to Hindi in flow of their conversation. Kannadigas feel it’s a natural right to speak Kannada as a primary language as they are a part of Karnataka while vast majority of Marathis are a bit reluctant to converse in Kannada. A local version of Hindi is therefore used as a neutral means of communication. The Muslims who anyway speak Deccanean Urdu (an adulterated variant of modern Hindi) obviously seem to be the happiest lot when it comes to language controversy.

Despite strong linguistic differences, the staple diet remains same for both Kannada and Marathi speakers. You will find umpteen number of houses doubling as mess, serving chapatis made of either maize flour, wheat flour or millet combined with sabzis made of pulses along with sambhar-rice. As humble it may sound, the food from these Khanavalis can be highly soothing to your soul if you have a palate for Indian home cooked meals.

The signature dish for the town is a sweet preparation called “Kunda” made from milk and caramel by curdling the former into a thick paste with several hours of boiling. I personally feel the dish is a bit over rated but since it has earned its reputation, I wouldn’t undermine it and leave it to the individuals’ taste buds to rate this local delight.

Although not by the coast itself, Belgaum is just three hours drive from Goa and therefore is well supplied with some tasty fishes from the Arabian Sea. However seafood not being the essential part of traditional local cuisine, you need to go exploring a bit to find shacks serving good fish preparations. And if you find one, don’t miss to order the “Rawas” or Indian Salmon.

The proximity to Konkan- Malvan region gifts this town with yet another boon. My personal favourite and I call it a pink nectar, if you haven’t guessed it already; I’m referring to “Sol Kadhi”. This pink colored thick beverage has coconut milk as its base, the tangy Kokkum (Mangosteen) flavor synergizes with strong garlic essence to pacify your throat and stimulate your adrenaline more sensously than any packaged energy drink.

There is no significant place to hang out or visit in town. There are few renowned educational institutes and an Army school both of which attracts students from distant parts of the country. All in all, Belgaum is not very different from the hundreds of smaller towns scattered across India, however like every bit of India it has a distinct charm of its own.

[alternative27angel]

Fox Hunt Ch. 3

This took longer than expected. Fell down the rabbit hole when rebuilding (or plainly just building) the lore.

Chapter Summary: Before Marinette agrees to any kind of magical tasks for secret, possibly cosmic beings, she’s going to need some answers.

Also on AO3

-x-x-x-

It was a mouse?? A fox??? A flying mouse-fox!?

Whatever it was, it had Marinette screaming in terror and flinging everything she could to get it away from her. Not that that seemed to bother it. It just kept staring at her and occasionally swaying side to side to avoid whatever got too close to making contact.

"Marinette," it called out, "take a deep breath. I'm not a mouse or a fox–technically speaking. I'm a kwami, and I can explain everything."

She took a deep breath as it suggested, and then proceeded to babble more.

The kwami-thing quickly flew over and held a paw in front of her face. "But it's kinda hard to talk when you're panicking like that."

Being so close to it startled Marinette into silence. The kwami sighed in relief and flew back a few feet to give her space.

"Now then. My name is Trixx, and as I just said, I'm a kwami. I'm here because you've been chosen to help us save the Miraculous from falling into the hands of evil. Any questions?"

Marinette blinked.

"Uh… yeah. First off, what's a kwami, where'd you come from, what are Miraculous, what do you mean by "hands of evil", who is "us", and-" here she lunged forward and got right into Trixx's face "-WHY ME?"

Trixx, startled despite their self, held up both paws and backed further away. "Excellent questions! Let's work on volume, though. No one can know I exist, and that goes for your parents too. Secrecy is of the utmost importance."

"Uh…"

"Don't worry, I'll explain everything later," the kwami waved away her various questions. "For now, just know that kwami are god-like beings, born at the very beginning of existence, that grant magical powers unto humans–and we can be abused if we fall into the wrong hands."

A solemn pause followed that ominous note. 'As they are now,' went unspoken. Marinette could read between the lines well enough to get that much.

After a breath, Trixx continued, "Now, as I am the kwami of the Fox Miraculous, I grant the power of Knowledge… But more on that later! As for your other questions, the easiest way to answer them is for us to meet with my companions. Come!"

Faster than Marinette could catch, the kwami had zipped past her and phased right through the trapdoor.

"Hey, wait! Hold on a second!"

Sparing a thought to wonder at why she was even going after the weird creature, Marinette stuffed the box into her purse and then ran off in hot pursuit.

-----

She had chased Trixx several blocks now, and it was really starting to wear on her.

Every time she was close to catching up, the two would come across someone and then Trixx would hide away. She couldn't exactly hunt for them with others watching nearby, so she'd have to wait until the person had either left or wasn't paying attention. Then, she'd crouch and climb as inconspicuously as possible around everything until she'd finally find Trixx. And bam, they'd take off again!

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Now it would be sunset soon, Marinette had a growing stitch in her side, and it seemed like Trixx had been leading her in circles. At this rate, she'd just have to qui-

"We're here!" chimed what was now becoming a familiar voice.

Gasping with relief (and a desperate need for air), she gazed up at their destination from her hunched over position. The building didn't seem like the type of place where magical creatures resided in secret…

Following the kwami's instruction, she made her way up to the massage shop and knocked on the door.

"Are you sure this is the right place?" she whispered, peering surreptitiously into her purse, where the kwami was tucked out of sight.

"Of course. Just trust me."

The old man that answered the door had not been what she was expecting. Especially since she recognized him.

"You!"

He nodded. "Me, yes. And I have been waiting for you, young lady." Opening the door wider, he stepped aside and gestured for her to enter.

After making sure she was settled in, the old man procured four cups of tea. Handing one cup to her, setting two down between them, and keeping another for himself, he then sat across from her.

"Um…"

"Much obliged, sir!" With a pleased hum, Trixx zipped out from their hiding place and settled in front of one of the other two cups, exhaling a pleased sigh after taking a surprisingly delicate sip.

Ignoring Marinette's spluttering, the old man called out behind him. "I made some for you as well, Wayzz."

A green creature–about the same size as Trixx–flitted across the room and claimed the last cup of tea for themselves. Closer inspection revealed it was more turtle-like than fox-like, but it was about as close to one as Trixx was to the other.

The old man took the chance to scrutinize her, making her sit ramrod straight and almost spill her drink. However, after a moment, he chuckled and sent her a comforting smile.

"No need to be so tense, Marinette. My name is Wang Fu, and this is my partner, Wayzz. I imagine you have things you want to ask."

Trixx interrupted before she could even attempt to get her thoughts in order. "Ah yes, she wanted to know the usual things. You know, who are we, what are we, who are the bad guys. Standard stuff."

Fu hummed in understanding. "Well, to answer that, in order: I am the Guardian of the Miraculous and the kwami that inhabit them, and I was chosen many years ago to wield the Turtle Miraculous. Just as you have been chosen now to wield the Fox. It is an honor very few are considered worthy of. As for "bad guys" and what we're doing, that is a bit more complicated…"

At that, he trailed off and focused on his tea instead.

The silence stretched on, but the old man didn't seem inclined to continue.

"If… if you're asking me to help you with whatever it is you're doing, I need to know what I'm getting into."

He looked back up, and this time Marinette didn't flinch as they made eye contact. She wanted to shrink as his eyes narrowed and seemed to peer even harder into her. It was as if he was measuring her worth, and she couldn't help but feel he would only find her wanting.

Still, nothing in the world was going to make her sign up for some magical, obviously dangerous task with high stakes before telling her just how dangerous and important it was.

The old man hummed and then nodded in acquiescence. "A fair point. We are asking quite a lot, and it would not do to send you out there unprepared. Very well."

Slowly climbing to his feet, he made his way over to the gramophone and dragged his fingertips along the gold designs. After a moment, seeming to gather himself, he turned back to Marinette.

"For centuries, there has been a temple devoted to safe-guarding the Miraculous, vessels of power that–when inhabited by kwami–imbue their wearers with incredible abilities. However, that ended a hundred years ago when one of the monks foolishly trusted a person with ill-intentions."

Here he paused, and Marinette noted the old man's fists were beginning to clench so tightly that the knuckles had turned white.

"The temple was destroyed and-" his breath hitched "-and most of the monks with it."

The kwamis shared a solemn look before Wayzz flew over to comfort his master. Likewise, Trixx floated down to settle by Marinette's hand, patting it gently whilst keeping their attention on the old man as he gathered himself.

"In a desperate act to save the Miraculous, that foolish monk did the only thing he could think of."

Fu turned back to the gramophone and fiddled with a secret panel to punch in the combination. "In the beginning, there were nineteen Miraculous. Many centuries ago, we lost the Peacock and Butterfly. And 300 years later…"

He stepped back to reveal a large black box with a multitude of compartments. Marinette got up and moved to peer inside.

Every single one was empty.

"I myself lost all the others," he finished, a broken sigh escaping him, before lifting the top lid which hid the largest chamber of all. "All but these. The most powerful of them all: the Black Cat and the Ladybug."

Marinette took a moment to study the innocent-looking ring and pair of earrings before noticing the empty orange cavity. With a gasp of recognition, she hurriedly yanked the small box from her purse and opened it. Sure enough, the pendant inside matched the curled impression perfectly.

"You noticed my spot!" chimed a now familiar voice. Trixx flitted over and spun a few times before alighting on what they'd claimed was their spot, admiring how little it had changed. Wayzz quickly joined them.

Chuckling, the old man drew Marinette's attention back to him.

"Trixx is the first I've found since then. And a lucky thing that is, since they are perfect for this sort of thing."

"But what sort of thing is 'this'?" she asked, somewhat exasperated now.

The good humor left Fu's face. "'This' is a race against time. And against evil." Silence rang as the kwami focused back on the conversation. "The Butterfly has fallen into the hands of a cruel man, going by the name of Hawk Moth. He is after the other Miraculous, in order to have his wish granted. And to achieve that goal, he has taken to infecting people with his akuma, turning them into little more than puppets of his own design."

Marinette gasped. "That's impossible!"

...

The old man shot her a flat look and gestured towards the kwami.

Flushing, she clarified, "I mean it's not possible that's been happening. Not here. I'd have heard about it." She continued, a little desperate, "If a bunch of people were being possessed by some guy looking for magic jewelry, someone would be talking about it. At the very least, there'd be rumors about it at school."

He shrugged. "I know not why or how he has managed to keep his methods so secret, but the kwami cannot be mistaken. They can sense that Nooroo is awake and being misused right at this moment."

At the sad nods Trixx and Wayzz gave her, Marinette swallowed audibly. "Then… how do I fit into this? I can't even carry a box of pastries to school without destroying them, much less fight some super villain in hiding. I don't even know you! Why give Trixx to me?"

Fu smiled gently and led her back to their seats, letting them both get settled before continuing.

"I have been watching you, Marinette Dupain-Cheng," he admitted, cradling his tea. "And I have seen a girl with a wealth of courage, whom decides to help people before even considering what it would cost her."

"And quite a clever one at that!" Trixx chimed in. "Wayzz told us how you managed to cover your tracks earlier today. That was a good plan with the pastry tray and the phone." They zoomed into her face, eyes dancing and tail wagging. "You're exactly what I've been looking for in a wielder!"

Three pairs of eyes bore into her–one set cheerful and two sets cautious, but all were expectant. The room began to feel small and cramped, and Marinette clutched at her chest, trying to suck in air.

"I… I need so-some fresh air!"

She was out the door before anyone could respond.

-------

Marinette took deep, heaving breaths as she hugged her knees, trying to calm down. So long as she didn't think about anything, she'd be fine. Just don't think, just don't think, just. Don't. Think.

"You seem stressed."

"GAH!"

She tried to leap away from the voice, only to land in a heap on the ground. Trixx stared at her from their spot in the nearby shrubbery. Both human and kwami were silent for a moment before Marinette let out a miserable groan and pulled herself up into a sitting position.

Facing the fox's direction but keeping her eyes cast downward, she admitted, "I'm a little overwhelmed."

Trixx hummed. "Understandable. It's a lot to take in when one has been tasked with facing off against the forces of evil."

Marinette shot a look up at their blasé tone, but nothing in the kwami's face implied they were being anything but 100% sincere.

"It's… about more than that. Don't get me wrong! Running into this Hawkmoth guy sounds really REALLY terrifying. But mostly… I think you guys have the wrong girl."

"Oh?" they prompted.

"C'mon," Marinette groaned. "Look at me! I'm having a panic attack just from talking about this, there's no way I could actually be any help for real. That's the way I am with everything. Completely useless. Even when I work harder than anyone else, things just go from bad to worse."

The kwami tilted their head. "Is it that bad?"

"It is. I hate to admit it, but it really is," she laughed sadly. "I don't know how long you guys have been watching, but obviously it wasn't long enough. You haven't even come close to seeing the real me."

"…Perhaps so."

Marinette flinched and peered up with wet eyes.

"I guess that means I'll need to hang around to see this "real you" then!"

She gaped. "Wait, what?"

Trixx giggled and flitted in close, tapping her nose playfully. "You said it yourself: we haven't known each other long enough. So, we must rectify that. But first, let's get you home. It's quite late for young folks to be out alone."

And with that, they flew away down the street.

"Hey… hey wait!" Marinette scrambled to her feet and took off after them. "That's not what I meant!"

----------

Marinette groaned as she trudged after the lazily floating kwami. They had slowed down considerably once she had given up on trying to deny Trixx coming home with her.

"And you're sure that Fu won't mind us just taking off like that?"

"Mm, it'll be fine. Wayzz knows how I am, and he'll make sure Master Fu doesn't worry too much."

She sighed, though whether in relief or resignation, she wasn't sure. After a moment, she broached a topic that had been niggling at the back of her mind.

"Are you two close, then? Or is that just a kwami thing?"

Trixx paused and glanced back at her, a pleased smile inching up their face. "Noticed that, did you?" They turned back to continue forward, raising their voice a bit to carry. "Yes, Wayzz and I became quite close over the centuries. A bit hard not to, considering."

"Considering?"

"Well, after Nooroo and Duusu went missing, the Guardians were always leery of letting too many of us out. I'd go several decades without wielders before, but after that, I was hardly ever let out at all."

They chuckled, nostalgia clear in their voice.

"I remember hounding Wayzz for stories every time he got to rest between Guardians. He'd be exhausted and ready for a nap, but he'd always give in and tell me everything he could about the outside world. It became a good way to pass the time."

Marinette came forward, a tilt to her head. "Why?"

The fox 'hmm'ed at her, confused at the question.

"I mean, why didn't you get out as much? I don't know anything about your powers, but you really seem like you can handle anything that comes your way."

They chuckled, this time more energetically. "Ah. Well, that's as much to do with my wielders as with me. My powers are far less direct, requiring both forethought and adaptability. Naturally, I would want my wielders to slow down and think, and I'm afraid most people just don't have the patience for my methods."

"Oh."

"Now, don't be discouraged! I wouldn't have chosen you if I didn't think you and I would work well together."

"Oh! Oh no, it wasn't anything like that," she assured. "I was just thinking it seems–" Lonely. "–a shame. I think it'd be really nice to stop for a moment and consider your options before leaping headfirst into things. I wish more people would let me do that."

"Hm. Well, thank you. It's always refreshing to hear that sort of thing."

Marinette wanted to say something more, but then she caught sight of her house, with her father standing on the doorstep.

Without prompting, Trixx flew into her purse to hide, and Marinette steeled herself before marching forward to face her no doubt furious parents.

----------

After half an hour of bearing with her parents' lectures (interrupted every five minutes with relieved, bone-crushing hugs), Marinette was finally able to escape to her room.

She took a moment to usher her kwami hitchhiker out of her purse before flinging it and her blazer onto her chaise lounge. She wasted no time afterwards changing into pajamas and climbing up to her bed.

Trixx 'ooh'ed and 'aah'ed as they wandered around her room, finally taking it in now that she wasn't trying to throw things at them.

She wanted so badly to just close her eyes and go straight to sleep, but Fu's voice kept repeating over and over in her head.

"Hey, Trixx?" she called quietly.

The fox flew up to the loft and settled on her bed. "Yes, Marinette?"

"What did he–What did Fu mean by Hawkmoth infecting people?"

"Ah." At the question, Trixx deflated. "Well, when a Butterfly wielder is strong enough, they can imbue people with a strong power befitting their desires. Hawkmoth is obviously strong enough to have done that several times now."

The fox shook their little head in upset. "The problem is that when Hawkmoth is doing so, he makes sure that the person is affected by strong, negative emotions. It corrupts their desires into something malevolent, making them willing to hurt anyone that gets in the way of achieving theirs–and therefore Hawkmoth's–goals."

"That's so messed up!" Marinette cried out. "Are they stuck like that forever?"

"Oh no, Hawkmoth has to release them after a while. Drains his power, otherwise. But the things they did while under his influence remain."

She hugged a pillow tight against her. "So… if they hurt someone…"

"All damage remains," Trixx affirmed. "To things and to people. There's a couple of Miraculous that can fix damage, but they're all missing, so…" they shrugged.

Marinette shot up in bed and scowled at the kwami. "Then what can we do?"

"We can find the others. We can find the other Miraculous, and we can find wielders for them–and then we can find Hawkmoth." A tension began to fill the room as the fox's voice grew stronger. "And when we find him, we can rescue Nooroo too. And stop Hawkmoth for good."

Trixx floated up to hover in front of her, purple eyes staring deep into hers.

"There are a great many things we can do, Marinette. But only you can decide if we will."

Marinette turned to gaze down at her open palms, considering. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of her old class photos. Kim and Juleka, Max and Rose–they'd been in the same class together for years now.

Her eyes moved to her phone and turned it on to look at her new lock screen. She'd just met Alya, but she already felt like she'd known her her whole life.

And then she looked at Trixx. Patient, friendly Trixx, who let her talk and answered all her questions and wasn't put off even when she admitted she would be useless. Who was passed over countless times for centuries but still seemed so sure they would be up to the task.

Her hands curled into fists and her brow furrowed, she nodded to herself before focusing back on Trixx.

"I don't know if I can really be any help," Marinette started, voice steady, "but I will try."

A delighted smile stretched wide across Trixx's face. "I knew you'd be up for it! Oh, don't worry, Marinette, you are going to be an amazing Fox!"

She laughed as the kwami continued to effuse about her future as the Fox hero, excitedly twirling around her room at ridiculous speeds.

Suddenly overtaken by exhaustion, she slumped back onto her pillows and let her eyes drift shut, a small smile on her own face.

Maybe this would turn out okay.

[giggleandtears]

Crimson Renegade, Part 2

Look into your eyes (I’m drownin’ in em)

Summary: The newest transfer sees her new quarters and has a long awaited meeting

Pairings: OC/Jim Kirk(Platonic), OC/Leonard McCoy(Eventual Romance)

Enjoy!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

“We can argue that point later but in the spirit of friendship, what will it take for you to put this minor miscalculation behind us?” I say, using my most innocent of voices.  

“You mean what will it take for me to forget you tried to manipulate me into getting your way?”

I mumble a nearly indiscernible ‘yes’ before snapping to attention, staring Jim squarely in the eye.  

“Wait a minute! Why do you get to take the high ground? Don’t act like you haven’t whipped out those baby blues on me to get me to do your bidding.”

“To get a phone number or a free drink, not get out of a mandated physical.”

“Says the man, sorry, Captain, that’s run from every hypo since birth.”

Jim’s piercing gaze volleys back and forth, as if the air itself would supply a worthy retort. His quick wit momentarily slows to a halt until a mischievous simper appears.  

“So Danny, why do you need exclusive use of hold 626-E again?"

All joking aside, my eyes are sharper than Jim’s jawline. “You wouldn’t?”

“Try me.” Leaning forward over my shoulder, Jim stage whispers in my ear. “You know you’re not getting out of this, right?”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I let out a sigh.

I did bring this on myself

“What do you want?”

“You know there’s only one thing I want, Gem.”

“First, you know how I feel about you calling me Gem.” Jim’s devilish grin widens but with a nod he relents. “How long am I to be at your mercy Oh captain, my captain?”

“I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement.”

“That's what I'm afraid of.”

In the corner of my eye, Spock’s face is a vision of pure Vulcan horror, if we can call it that. The speed in which he’s quantifying our non-verbal cues to discern the level of misconduct he is witnessing is dizzying and rather funny. Spock could teach a master class on body language akin to psychotherapist. However, the shrewd Second in Command is, as always, at a loss as to the emotion behind them.  In all likelihood Jim did in fact just proposition me and I reluctantly accepted. But that has never been the type of relationship Jim and I have ever had. How could our fearless leader, not poke the Vulcan teddy bear when he’s so flagrantly missing something.

“Don’t worry Spock. It’s completely consensual.”

“I was not aware the nature of your relationship had changed in the interim of our last meeting.” Spock says, in his cool timbre. 

“Hey, cool it Casanova.” I say, directed at Kirk. Stepping off the lift, I try to clarify the situation for my ever-processing Vulcan friend.  “Spock, Jim wants to take Artemis for a ride, not me.” Jim quietly snorts as we make our way down the corridor. Spock is none the wiser. If only Vulcan humor included double entendre. “And to answer your question, that you didn’t quite get to finish asking, I can get the sample for you after my physical or Scotty can. He has security clearance to access Artemis as well.”

“Thank you. That will be most useful.” Jim keys in the generic code to my new quarters and steps through but Spock remains rooted to his spot. Placing his hands behind him, Spock patiently stands, awaiting my attention. “Commander,” he says after a pause. “I am never one to question your abilities. Your skill as an engineer and subsequently a pilot is well documented. However, was it necessary to disregard my transmission before it was completed?”

“I think I heard a compliment in there somewhere but we’ll unpack that later.” I say with a smile.  “But, if I had allowed you to continue, am I correct in assuming that you were going to express concern for my life?”

“That is an affirmative.”

Taking a moment, I think of what was going through my mind in the split second I chose to execute my plan. In truth, not much. Yes, I deliberately chose to proceed before hearing the consistently sage words of my comrade. But I had the means to keep my weakened crew safe. They could escape due to my actions. How could I not act with the utmost decisiveness?  

“In this instance I refer you to the words of a very wise man, ‘The needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few, or in this case, the one’.”  

Almost instantly, Spock’s brow quirks in what I believe is appreciation. With a smooth nod he utters a simple reply. “Understood.” No further logic needed.  

Returning his attention back to the opened door, Jim hands back the PADD to Spock’s out-stretched hand.  

“Thank you, Mr. Spock. Keep me apprised of the repairs.”

Bowing one last time, Spock turns and leaves at Jim’s polite dismissal.

Stepping away from the door, Jim gestures me inside like a smartly dressed doorman before following behind me. Dropping my bag, I’m astounded at the quarters I’ve been assigned. The pristine grey and white surfaces make the space seem all the grander, in size and amenities.  

“Um, Jim? How are these my quarters?”

“Perks of being a commander.”

Pockets of light splayed around the room set an uncharacteristically cozy atmosphere. The illuminations warmer tinge mimics that of a candle alight, sans the continuous flicker. That small, seemingly insignificant detail, betrays the common star ship adage, ‘efficiency before comfort’.  

“I’ve been a commander for 4 years and my quarters have never been this-” I trail off in awe as I begin to take in more of the details that surround me.  

A small kitchenette sits on the far-right wall, a gleaming replicator at the ready. Trills of excitement run through me at the sight of a small French press on the counter. I can already smell the heady aroma of my first cup of coffee. In the corner, along the same wall, is a doorway of what I believe is the bathroom. Situated in the middle of the room, is a modest entertaining area, fit with a round coffee table and love seat. The darker grey fabric is soft to the touch but undoubtedly durable.  

“Is Spock’s room this big?”

“Let’s just say we won’t be having game night in here.” Jim says, with the utmost diplomacy.  

“Good to know.”

Only a small space separates the back of the couch and the bed. And what a bed it is. Two people, if not three, could easily rest inside its plush borders. Why my mind decides that’s an adequate number, desirable even, I haven’t a clue. Shaking that thought away, I notice more of the small touches unique to the Enterprise.  

A thin strip of light wraps around the bed where the base and mattress meet. Efficient if emergency lighting is ever needed but will also combat the horrid stubbed toe when nature calls in the middle of the night. But suddenly, I’m drawn to the window in front of me. Beyond it is the clearest view of a nebula I've ever seen. Did my head get knocked around more than I thought? Because I swear, I can see individual particulates swirling. Reaching out, I place my hand against the glass. Oddly, its warm against my palm, not cold as you’d expect from something that touches the frigid harshness of space.  

“I knew you’d like that.” Jim says warmly, coming to stand beside me. “Who needs a telescope when you have one of these?” I retract my hand as my brow raises in silent question. Jim just chuckles. “Computer, on.” At once, the “window” comes to life and re-centers on a particular area of the nebula. Scrolling data on the right of the screen details all the atmospheric levels found there. “Now you can explore without ever leaving your room or if you want, your bed.” Jim enlarges a small section of the screen. The seemingly devoid area erupts into various embedded hot stars as it expands on the display, all possibly never seen by the human eye.  

“Jim, this is amazing. Truly.”  I say, meeting his eyes in a glassy side-long glance.

Jim rocks on his heels, hands tucked in his pockets. The corner of his mouth ticks up in a soft smile.  

“After everything you’ve been through,” Jim starts in a hushed tone, “who knew a simple planetary magnification display would be the thing to make you cry.”

A watery chuckle escapes me as Jim bumps my shoulder against his own.  

“We both know there’s nothing simple about this.”

Such sophisticated long-range tech is relegated to what is commanded by the Bridge or specialty items designed specifically for a project. It is most certainly not used for a personal window display of a curious commander.  

“I know, but I think it’s about time we gave a little back. Don’t you?”

“We?” I ask, not fully understanding why the lavish comforts I’ve been credited now originates from a plural body of unknown origin.  

“The Federation. Starfleet. Your crew.” Jim states simply, with a nonchalant shrug.  

I’m not exactly sure if I deserve this level of hospitality and universal concern but I nod at the underlying sentiment of displaying gratitude to those that have served honorably.  

“Why don’t you go change and I'll meet you in Medbay. I need to check in with the bridge.”

I raise my hand in a dramatic mock salute. “Aye, aye Captain.”

Jim smiles in rueful admiration while shaking his head then turns to leave. Before he reaches the door, I call out to him. Facing him fully, I try find the words to adequately express my immense thanks. It’s not just about today but that he’s been championing me even while I was earth-side and he’s light-years away. Without the barrier of space or hologram display, my well-prepared thank-you-for-your-friendship speech dries on my tongue.  

With that bright grin of his, Jim senses the cause of my frustration and lets me off the hook.  

“Anytime, Danny.”  

After Jim leaves me to my own devices, I grab my bag and head to the bathroom to freshen up. Stripping off my jumpsuit, I step into the shower. I'm surprised to see there are two control panels.  

Sonic capabilities and real water. Now I’m just being spoiled.

I choose a sonic for its expediency and in short order I’m ready to pull on a new uniform. The uniform in my bag is perfectly suitable but it isn’t needed. Hanging by the shower is a fresh uniform, newly pressed. Lifting it to the light, a small white tag dangles in my view. It reads, ‘Welcome to the Enterprise’ in neat type. A warmth spreads throughout my chest as I shimmy into my crimson and black ensemble. Taming my bounteous curls takes longer than expected but eventually its slicked back in a neat bun. Admiring myself in the mirror display, I finally look like a proper commander.  

Leaving my quarters behind, I make my way to the Medbay. A soft burst of air brushes against my face as the doors automatically open at my approach. Blindly surveying the open space, every cataloged item is meticulously placed. The CMO must run a tight ship. You'd never know 11 patients came and went in less than an hour. Actually, make that 10 patients. A doctor, clad in science blue, leans over the only occupied bed. I'm sure, if he were to shift towards me, his medical insignia would be clearly visible. Ever so gently, he runs the dermal regenerator over the brow of his patient.  

Cocking his head to the side, he finally acknowledges my presence with a quick glance in my direction. I assume by the angle that he’s sitting, he’s only able to verify that there is in fact a person standing in his vicinity and the color of my uniform. Not bothering to break his concentration from his patient or call a nurse, the dark-haired doctor proceeds to inquire about my current physical condition.

“Cut, burn or concussion?” He says, with a weighty sigh.

“Excuse me?” I ask, coming closer.  

“Did you get cut, burned or whacked in the head?”

“None of the above, although you didn’t say anything about palpations, fever, or hives?” I add with blatant sarcasm. “Don’t mind me. I’ll be quietly dying in the corner over there.”

I hear a soft snort from the lounging figure on the Bio-bed before turning away to meander around. I wish I could see the doctor’s whole expression but the tightening of his jaw will have to do. Dark hair, probably an impressive scowl and distinct southern drawl. Why is that combination so familiar? Wait, did I just meet-

“Bones!” Jim bellows, as he walks into the Medbay.  

“Dang-it man, must you yell every time!”  

“I voluntarily came to Medbay. I thought you’d be happy.” Jim challenges, with a smirk.

Dr. McCoy straightens an imaginary crook in his neck with an audible growl, and continues his work.

I’ve heard quite a lot about the good doctor. Such as his snark and quick wit, lover of all things sweet and covered in honey, and his unlucky (his words) position as Jim’s best friend. But my favorite is his petulance for hating the color red and all the problems that shroud it in infamy, much like the ensign he just dismissed.  

“You’re all done, kid.” McCoy says, stripping off his gloves with a sharp pop. “Next time, try not runnin’ full speed into hangin’ debris would’ya?” McCoy stands and shoos his patient off the bed.

“Yes, doctor.” The young ensign says. He only pauses a moment to acknowledge Jim, quickly muttering ‘Captain’, before scurrying out the door.

It doesn’t escape my notice that unlike the newly healed ensign, Dr. McCoy is completely ignoring Jim and is in no rush to rectify it. Picking up the PADD clipped at the end of the bed, he scrolls and intermittently taps on the screen. Glancing up, his Jim sized problem has yet to disappear.

“What do you want Jim? I have a Medbay to run.” McCoy says, pinching the bridge of his nose after placing the PADD back in its place with a clatter.  

“Aw come on Bones. We live to explore another day and besides, I have a surprise for you.” Jim says jovially, clapping McCoy on the shoulder.  

“How ’bout you keep that to yourself. Your surprises tend to leave my antibiotic ointment supply low and my nurses skittish.”  

Now it’s my turn to snort into my hand. That’s all the confirmation I need that Jim is still, very much, still Jim. Somehow that’s both a comfort and deeply unsettling.  

“I just wanted to know if our latest transfer came by yet.” Jim says. Shifting his stance to the side, he meets my eyes expectantly. With McCoy’s back to me, he has no idea the new transfer is waiting patiently behind him to introduce herself.

Jim has wanted me to meet McCoy for quite some time. He often said his chosen drinking crew was in need of new blood, better bourbon and definitely new stories. He may have added something about thinking I was the best person to properly distract McCoy when he got in a mood. After threatening Jim with a hypo concoction that would leave him very excited and pitifully flaccid, he never brought that particular distraction up again.  

McCoy and I have had a few chances to meet over the years but something has always gotten in the way-class schedules, injuries, being in a completely different star system. You name it. Even in this short interaction between Jim and McCoy, I can already see I’ve been deeply deprived.  

“No, and why am I just seein’ him now. He should have been in here months ago.” McCoy says in exasperation, throwing his hands up. “No tellin’ what he’s been spreadin’ around.”  

“I assure you I haven’t been spreadin’ anything around,” I say, pulling the attention of both men. “We can confirm that whenever you’d like.

Walking towards them, McCoy’s gaze follows me from the tips of my toes until he finally meets my eyes. He keeps his composure far better than most men I’ve met but his eyes still round in surprise. My height usually has that effect. We meet men, women, and all those that fall in between. They vary in color, creed, planetary origin and corporeal state or lack thereof. The permutations are unfathomable and from youth onward, we’ve been taught not bat an eye. But a woman that can look you in the eye is still shocking. Coming closer, McCoy stands the tiniest bit straighter.  

“But no rush. I just hitched a ride on four starships, tracked you here using virtually scraps of data, and drained my ship in a battle protecting you. But please, take your time.” I relax my hip against a cabinet and twirl some sort of metal apparatus I picked up from the counter around my finger. Facing me head on, McCoy crosses his arms as he stares me down. I don’t think he likes the notion of anyone presuming to put him on their timetable.  

“Wait, that was you doin’ all that fancy flying?” He asks me incredulously.

“Is that your version of a thank you? Oh, I forgot. Unless an engineer is under your watchful eye, we pose an imminent threat to ourselves but most importantly, your sanity.”

McCoy next words halt as his mouth hangs slightly agape. A rapid flutter of confusion passes over his eyes as his lips purse in contemplation.  

“You’ll have to excuse me but, have we met?” McCoy finally says.  

“Not officially. I'm just the red that was slowly dying from an arrhythmia, pyrexia, and anaphylaxis.”  

McCoy’s eyes begin to narrow in what I can only guess is his favorite go-to glare and I nibble the inside of my cheek to keep my burgeoning smile at bay. Flicking my eyes to Jim, his smirk has grown into a knowing cheshire grin. He’s thoroughly enjoying the volley between McCoy and I. Honestly, so am I.

“You also may have heard about me from a mutual friend.” I continue.  

Jim has never squandered an opportunity to regale me with the many shenanigans he’s dragged McCoy into. More often than not, he whines about how McCoy takes sick pleasure in smothering every idea he has in common sense before he can fan it into a career defining romp. It’s astounding how easily Jim shrugs off the irony of that statement. Sadly, I think McCoy fails far more than he succeeds. So, I have no doubt Jim’s spoken of our previous escapades as well.

Laying the metal thing-a-ma-bob back down, I extend my hand toward McCoy. “Commander Gemma Danvers. Nice to meet you.”

Flashing a devastatingly handsome crooked smile, McCoy grasps my proffered hand with a soft pressure. “Pleasures all mine.” Gentle creases line his eyes from finally putting a face with the name. “Leonard McCoy.”  He says, introducing himself. “But somethin’ tells me you already knew that.”  

Hmm, where did Lieutenant Grumpy Pants go?

My own smile grows wider in response. “And you’d be correct.” McCoy’s warm gaze draws me in further. I should feel awkward that our joined hands are still slowly moving in unison but watching such a bewitching shade a green has left my senses muted to anything else. After McCoy releases my hand, I quickly clasp them behind my back and take a minuscule step back. Time to get down to business. “So, do you have time for a physical?”

“Always.” McCoy says, without hesitation.  

[imagine-shenanigans]

ooo yes! Hmhm you didn’t specify a type of monster so for Zola I did two types! I’ll be doing a couple of my favs in another post since this one got a little long hoohoo @princess-zola

Monster!Zola with a human S/O (Multiple kinds)

General

So! I’ll start this with a few general headcanons

Zola feels almost unworthy to be with you, very insecure because he’s a monster (literally) and he’s with the best, kindest, most wonderful human he’s ever met. Melts every time you promise him that you love him, and that you’re with him because he makes you happy, so of course he’s worthy.

He’s unbelievably soft and careful, deeply afraid of hurting you regardless of his actual strength. Afraid of breaking you, almost treats you like porcelain sometimes. 

If he ever huts you, he’s in tears instantly, no matter how little the injury is. He could give you a papercut and he’d be in tears within seconds, desperately lapping at the blood on your finger and pressing soft kisses to your skin as an apology. 

Shapeshifter!Zola

Okay this is the obvious answer that I couldn’t help but put down, but the funny part is I only remembered after thinking about the next monster on the list... 

Zola views his normal form as hideous, considering the people he’s typically around are mostly human, and it’s one of the things he constantly hears. His normal appearance like in Canon is the appearance he defaults to - just close enough in appearance to his more monstrous form that he doesn’t feel like he’s assuming another skin, but much more human looking than he is.

He puts off showing you his true form for as long as possible, scared that when you see him you’ll leave him. 

His eyes are shut tight when the illusion drops, showing his rather skinny form, ribs showing more than usual. His sunken cheeks and pale grey skin make him look like a corpse, or something close to it. (In his eyes, at least.) His long fingers hook into claws, and he hunches over despite the fact that even as a monster he’s still short for his kind, hardly any taller than when disguised.

He keeps his eyes shut tight, tears threatening to leak from the corners of his eyes as he waits for the inevitable scream, and the running, and then having to re-find a home all over again, and he’ll lose one of the best (if not only) good things in his life.

He doesn’t expect to feel your hands on his cheeks, gently brushing the tears that threaten to fall from the corners of his sunken,tightly closed eyes. Doesn’t expect the kisses to press gently to his jaw, and your soft words telling him that it’s okay - you love him how he is, regardless of looks, and you’d be lying if you didn’t say he was rather dashing in this form. This is right around the time that he starts actually bawling.

He tries to stick to his actual real form more after that, but he stills likes to change shape in order to cuddle you depending on the mood! If you’re really warm, he takes the form of a naga, or another cold blooded monster, but during the winter months he likes to turn into something with fur, and cuddle up to you and keep you warm. He likes the times where the weather is not too hot, or too cold, and he can cuddle you in his true form.

Hugs you constantly, wrapping his spindly limbs around your waist and burying his face into your neck. Likes to press kisses to your forehead.

Sometimes he likes to mess with you when he’s in a playful mood, and he’ll run one of his claws (the dull side) up the bottom of your bare foot, or across the back of your neck before running away and feigning surprise, as in “how could you suspect me of mischief, my love? me?” and then he snorts, and gives a grin that he’s trying to fight

Despite his effortless transformations, it’s tough to act like the person you’re supposed to, so sometimes he’ll spend a day or two practicing his acting! It’s second nature, but he finds it easier to test himself when you’re there to give him pointers, try and find patterns between the characters, see where he’s slipping, etc. And afterwards, he thanks you, and gives you a biiiig kiss.

He’s almost always hungry - a side effect of using his powers constantly, so he carries small things to snack on when he starts getting really hungry, like ration bars, some nuts, etc. He’s always eager to share his food with you, whenever he sees or hears you get hungry!

Vampire!Zola

Vamp Zola was the first monster that came into my head, ngl

He’s not scared of himself, but he is scared of hurting others, and of being found out. He’s a type that doesn’t burn in the sun - he’s only “weaker” because his eyes are a little more sensitive to the light, and he’s naturally nocturnal. 

It’s so easy for him to blend in in Nohr, because he drinks animal blood (very easy to get ahold of, because nobody pays attention to what nohrian mages do ever because they might not like what they find) and refused to drink human. He’s so scrawny because of his preferences, animal blood is good and all, and he can survive off of it, but he should be drinking human blood too.

He’s constantly afraid of hurting you, whether when you let him drink some of your blood, or just in general. He doesn’t have exceptional strength among his kind, but he generally is stronger than the average human. He becomes less scared the more he knows your limits, but he’s very delicate - much more than any other counterparts!

He’s less worried about telling you about being a vampire than shapshifter!zola is, but he’s still veeeery nervous. He broaches the subject slowly, answers all your question, and fills in any blanks you might have. He explains his dietary habits while leaving out that he needs human blood and he’s eating basically the bare minimum to keep him surviving and takes immense relief in you being accepting.

He’ll literally die if you offer him some of your blood - both in embarrassment and then from fear of hurting you. 

He's adjusted to sleeping at night and being awake during the day but he’s still tired during the day! If he can get away with a nap, he will, and loves if you join him for one!

He’s wonderful to cuddle during the summer, considering he’s so cold, but during the winter it is a w f u l. You’ve perfected how to wrap yourself in blankets so your skin isn’t touching, but the two of you can still cuddle. 

Sometimes he likes to just hang out on your shoulder as a bat, and honestly it’s super cute because he likes to nuzzle his face against your jaw and it’s super fuzzy and soft.

You can always tell when he’s getting hungry, because he hugs you from behind and nuzzles your neck, giving you soft kisses and just breathing in and out slowly. He’s always super embarrassed about it!

If you let him have some of your blood (which he’ll never press! he won’t ever really ask so you’ll have to offer more often than not, until he’s a little more comfortable), he’ll make you a meal afterwards, and tuck in for a nap with you - he never eats very much, but he wants to make sure you’re well taken care of, regardless of how much you have.

[siriusstarx]

33, Saint/Cardia!

The Night Visit

Post-Finis route. No spoilers for Silver Miracles. 

(Sorry for the long wait! This is the PG-13 version. I will post the R rated version shortly!)

The late summer days passed warm and peaceful. I could feel the softness of the breeze and the gentle sunlight as I dozed in my favorite reading nook, propped up by cushions. The trees outside my window just barely fading from the lush, bright greens of summer into the wan golds of autumn. Lately the nights had been growing cooler, the insects changing their song, becoming more urgent with the promise of colder nights to come. 

How long had it been since I noticed such things? The simple, normal signs of time’s passage. How many countless seasons had I witnessed them unaware and unfeeling? A ghost passing through time. Experiencing nothing. Feeling nothing. 

I pressed my fingers against the cool glass, the dappled sunlight filtered through the tree branches flickering over my hand. I always thought this world’s beauty was what I was entrusted to protect. In order for all humanity to live in peace, to enjoy the beauty of flowers and dappled sunlight. To hold their families close and feel the gentle touch of their lover’s hand. To live without fear of strife or war. 

I would bear the pain of those sorrows for everyone, so they could live in peace. It was my reason to still exist, thousands of years past my natural death, so others would not need to suffer as I did. It was a worthy cause. The anguish and heartbreak of my duty… even the deaths of a few lost souls was a small price to pay to protect the happiness and peace of thousands of people, for millions yet be born who would only live because those few perished. 

So I always believed. 

I closed the book on my lap, watching the shadows play over its cover, wondering if I had really done any good at all. If I was worthy of this space of peace and happiness that I was allowed. If there were others like Miss Cardia who could have defied their fate, given the chance. If I could have helped the lost souls change their fate, as Miss Cardia helped her little brother. A truly lost soul, brought in the world only to help destroy it. If one such as he could smile and eat sweets and love his sister, what of the countless others I unquestioningly condemned? 

I shook off my melancholy thoughts. Useless things brought on by her absence. She who was so much stronger than I. She who saved lost souls, like her little brother. 

Even as she also saved me, more lost still. A ghost, living- no- pretending to live. My existence only lies and false smiles. A monster. A true monster who would have taken the life of that brave, kind girl. She who forgave even that sin.

I reached for the envelope that held her last letter and held it to my lips. Could she feel my thoughts, far away in the cozy home she shared with her little brother? Did she miss me as I missed her? It was selfish to hope so, or to wish any shadow over her gentle happiness. 

Even so, if the words of her last letter held a little more loneliness than before, or the stain at the bottom of the stationary was not a stray raindrop, but a tear. If the way her hand lingered on the back of my neck at our last meeting meant that she needed me as I did her… would I not be hurting her to be blind to her need? If she was too nervous to speak, was it not a gentleman’s duty to offer his hand? 

I gazed at the envelope, tracing her neat, girlish handwriting with a fingertip. The way she wrote my name reminded me of the way she spoke it when I forgot myself and let my hand caress her naked back in the dancing dress she wore to the palace ball. The way she trembled and clutched my shoulder… was it embarrassment or desire? Was I, who prided myself on human understanding, who had used this borrowed body and the physical desires of others to help fulfill my duties countless times, been so blind as to misread my beloved’s flushed face and breathless words? 

I shook my head and laughed bitterly. It was foolish, romantic nonsense. I was not a heroic young man like Lupin. I was no prince in a fairytale, or a romantic hero to sweep a maiden off her feet for a passionate tryst. What story tells of an old assassin who loves the gentle damsel he was meant to kill? What happy ending could an old sinner like me offer a strong, innocent girl like Miss Cardia? 

I closed my eyes against the pain in my chest. Despite that truth, she said she loved me. Of all the people she lived with in London, by far the least worthy. 

Her perfume on the stationary tickled my nose. Her scent was sweeter than any rose garden. I could see her in my mind’s eye, gazing into the distance, the sun dappling her face as it did the letter in my hand. Was she sad? Were there tears on her cheek right now? She also held a letter in her hand. I recognized my own stationary. Was she thinking of me? Was this pain hers as well? 

It had been nearly a month since her last visit. That time when her hand lingered and her goodbye kiss was longer and… more desperate, than before. Was I being foolish not to have acted then? Or was it just my own selfish desire clouding my judgement? 

I could hear my old friend Trismegistus laughing at me from wherever he was. My foolishness was not in doubt. It never had been. 

I rose from my cushions and tucked the letter into my robe. If I was such a coward that I would hesitate if there was even a possibility that she was sad or that her heart was hurting, I would never be worthy of being her lover. Even an old assassin has pride. 

“Please wait, Miss Cardia. I am coming for you.” I whispered with conviction into the empty room. 

…….

(Cardia)

‘…..I am coming for you.’ 

“Sister…? Hey…! Are you even listening?!” 

Finis’ harsh voice shattered my reverie. I thought, just for a moment, that I heard his voice in the breeze as I dozed off, felt his touch drying the tears that had fallen on my cheek.

“Huh?” I roused myself, “What is it?” 

Finis sighed in exasperation, “ I SAID TWICE that I’m going to need to stay in London for a few days to make sure those fools don’t set off anything in their idiocy and flatten the city!” 

“Oh… all right. I won’t wait up, then.” I stretched and rubbed my eyes. The letter fell from my lap. 

Finis looked down at the letter with a complicated expression, “I suppose it was inevitable.” he muttered, “We’ll talk about it later. I have to go back inside before that idiot Hansel eats everything in the house.” he stomped away in an unusually foul mood. 

“What has got into him?” I murmured, picking up the letter and gazing out over the garden. The season’s roses were especially good this year, perfuming the air with their soft fragrance. Butterflies flitted among the astors and marigolds. All was beautiful and calm. A serene place to read or sew, or just have a cup of tea and watch the butterflies. 

I would always cherish the warm, cozy home Finis and I had made of this sad place that had once meant only tragedy and endless loneliness to me. I thought our mom and dad would be happy to know that we reclaimed their dreams like this. 

Even so… 

I sighed, staring down at the letter in my hand. It just… wasn’t enough anymore to meet Saint for a few days at a time every month or two and exchange letters. I wanted to have breakfast with him every morning, I wanted to have tea in his study in the afternoon… to walk around London and go to the opera in the evening, or just to sit by his side and talk or read books. I wanted his presence… the touch of his cool, gentle hand on my back… his kisses every night before bed…

I trembled a little. I thought there was more I wanted, too. I had read about it in books; the strong feeling that grows between people who love each other that makes them crave a deeper connection. I wanted to know more about it, but it was just too embarrassing to ask anyone. 

I wondered if Saint felt like that about me, too. My heart raced to think about it. 

I stood up from my chair, gathering my tea cup and plate to wash in the kitchen.

I finished cleaning up, dusting and neatening. Then I went to my room to take a nap, but I wasn’t tired, so I went to the library to find a book to read. The days I was alone in the mansion sometimes reminded me too much of the endless days I spent there huddled in my chair waiting for father to retrieve me. That room was used for storage now, my new bedroom was in another part of the house with plenty of sunlight, nothing like that dark, cold room. I was nothing like that sad girl, denying her emotions and hiding away from a bewildering world that saw her only as a monster. 

I wasn’t a poisonous monster anymore. I could wear pretty clothes, sleep anywhere. I could touch whatever I wanted… flowers, books, the silky bathrobe I bought in London, the soft rose soap I found at a country market. Most of all, I could touch people. I could hug my brother and friends, I could feel the warmth of my loved one’s lips. I was living a life that seemed an impossible dream to me who used to sit clutching my knees in that musty room. 

It had been nearly a month since my last trip to London. It already seemed much too long since I saw Saint. His smile was even more beautiful than before, waiting at the gate to hug me and ask how my trip was. The light in his eyes was something new for him, too. The naturalness of his expressions. His grace and beauty were unchanged, but he had also become more than he was. He was kinder and quicker to laugh, more joyful, and vibrantly alive, and also quicker to cry and show sadness. I loved all of his expressions. The many ever-changing facets of him. I loved him more every time I saw him. 

Every time It was harder to leave, every time I returned I felt more homesick for the liveliness of London and the mansion where I became human. For the place Saint waited for me, and the arms of my beloved. 

I wandered aimlessly through the library, too unsettled to choose a book. I looked at the titles without really seeing them. I had read most of the books in the library, even all the new ones Finis and I had bought over the past two years. I idly ran my hand over the spines, thinking about Saint’s libraries and the many treasures they held. Everything from ancient knowledge to modern novels. Saint could never resist adding more books to his collections. I thought I would never exhaust the wonders they held. 

I turned away from the shelf, becoming frustrated by my wistfulness, when my eye was caught by a unfamiliar title tucked in a permanently shadowed corner of a shelf at the back of the library, “The Art of Love.” 

I picked it up curiously. It had no author listed. The red leather cover was embossed with a pair of ornate overlapped gold hearts. Most of this shelf held romantic novels and poetry books that had once belonged to my mother. Finis had little interest in anything there, so it was mostly left to me. 

I opened the book to an illustration… Of two naked people with their bodies entwined around each other and their lips pressed together. 

“Ah!” I gasped, nearly dropping it, before closing the cover in a hurry. 

I reached to return the book to its shelf, but hesitated. Isn’t this what I wanted to know? No one was home. I could read it without embarrassment and return it to the shelf before Finis came home. 

Deciding so, I took the book to my room, vowing to be sure to return it as soon as I finished. 

……..

(Saint)

I silently crept through the forest surrounding my beloved’s pleasant home. I caught the scent of her garden of roses in full bloom and had to stop myself from running to her door. My need to see her and hold her growing by the moment. I felt like a boy meeting a lover for a secret assignation. It was unseemly and foolish for an old man to act this way. I nearly turned back in shame more than once. It would be far more proper to send a note announcing my intent to visit, not inflict myself unasked and certainly unwanted by at least one of the household’s residents. 

Still, I continued, feeling my quest more urgently with every breath. I easily avoided Finis’ traps and alarms, proud that Lupin himself could have done no better. I had no wish to frighten Miss Cardia, but the desire to make a dramatic entrance was strong. I wanted to see her first before facing the understandable disdain and ire of her brother, if at all possible. 

The house ahead of me was almost completely dark. The only light a single lamp in an upstairs bedroom I thought to be Miss Cardia’s. I approached the front door like a civilized person before changing my mind and turning for a dark first floor window. 

I quickly disarmed the alarm and unlocked the window. If I were discovered and shot by Finis it would be just punishment for my rudeness. I only didn’t want to upset Miss Cardia. 

The house was dark and quiet, the ticking clock the only sound I heard. I wondered if Miss Cardia and Finis were away. She wrote that they stayed in town sometimes if they had a lot of shopping to do. I would feel suitably foolish if I were to have rushed out here to an empty house with two siblings out shopping happily. 

I closed my eyes for a moment to sense if anyone was present nearby. 

Yes… there it was. Just one presence upstairs. A precious, gentle warmth that could only belong to one person. 

I moved swiftly up the stairs. A ghost makes no sound when he wants to remain unheard. I could almost hear her breath, nearly smell her sweet perfume. 

God, what was becoming of me? 

I stopped at her door. My heart beating fast. Why was she alone in the house with such an untrustworthy visitor? Where was her staunch little protector in her time of need? What would she say when she saw me, unannounced and reckless as a boy. Would she be disgusted with me?

Cursing my foolishness, I raised my fist to knock on the door. 

…….

(Cardia)

I put the book aside firmly, having read it for the fourth time through. I felt hot and my nonexistent heart was pounding. I had never imagined that people could touch each other in so many different ways. It was embarrassing to think about some of them, but still… I wanted to feel those things the book described. I…. wanted to be touched like that. I wanted to… touch Saint like that. 

“Saint..” I whispered to the empty house, “Would you… touch me that way?” I felt even hotter at the thought. It was so embarrassing. I couldn’t imagine speaking those words to him.

I heard a sound outside my bedroom door and panicked. If Finis returned early I would be mortified! I couldn’t face him with all these strange new thoughts and feelings…

No… those weren’t Finis’ footsteps. That scent… clean and sweet, with something warmer underneath could only belong to one person. My heart leapt in my chest. I couldn’t imagine why he was there, as if summoned by my need to see and touch him. I rushed to the door, “Saint!” I cried, before throwing it open with a crash. 

He stood there looking stunned. It was another new expression for him. I filed it away in my heart. 

His brow creased with worry, “Cardia!? Is something wrong?”

“No, no! It is just… You’re here! You’re really…”

He gave me a radiant smile, “Yes. As I promised, I have co—“

That was all I needed. With a cry I leapt into his arms and pressed my lips against his. My unnatural body had never known hunger, but I thought vaguely that this must be what it felt like to be starving. 

He staggered from the force of my leap, but caught me firmly, kissing me with hunger to match mine, maybe more, though I couldn’t think very clearly just then. I only knew that I needed to feel his arms around me, his body against mine. I wanted all of him. I wanted to know everything he could teach me. 

“Cardia…” he said breathlessly when he finally pulled away, “That was… quite a welcome.” 

I felt my face get even hotter, “I missed you.” It wasn’t enough, but that was all I could think to say. 

His expression was profoundly kind, “I missed you, too.” he kissed my forehead, “with every thought,” he kissed my lips gently, “every breath,” he gently opened my robe and kissed my chest just below my horologium, “every heartbeat.”

I sighed to feel his lips between my breasts, his hair tickling my skin, “y-yes… Me too.” I was so nervous, “I…I need you, Saint. Will you… will you… please touch me a little more?”  

He gazed up at my face as if to gauge my meaning… or maybe my conviction, “Do you know what it means to ask that question of a man?”

I looked away, “I… I know I want you to touch me… e-everywhere, and I want to feel… more of you.” 

As expected, it was horribly embarrassing. 

His expression was as unreadable as when I first met him, but then he gave me his gentlest smile, “hehe. I understand. You don’t need to be embarrassed.” 

I thought that was easy for him to say. I watched him remove his jacket and hat, loving the grace of his movements, the care with which laid them on the chair. I knew if I thought about my brazen request, I would lose my nerve. It seemed so sudden, but it was building in my heart for a long time. 

“Oh… I see.” he said, smiling wryly while looking down at the table by the chair. 

My book, “The Art of Love,” lay closed on the table. 

I covered my face with my hands, feeling unbearably embarrassed, “Um… that is…”

“Hehe, I am relieved. I didn’t want to frighten you.” he kissed my ear, “I have a secret to tell you.” 

I looked up at him curiously, “What do you mean?” 

He didn’t reply, but his eyes sparkled mischievously as he leant down to scoop me up into his arms, “I’ve had the same wish as you, Miss Cardia. For a long, long time…”

I could hear the truth in his words and was relieved, I put my arms around his neck and pulled his face close to mine so I could kiss him again, “Then please… I want you to… touch me. Please.”

“Aha I am sorry not to have realized…” he pulled back, a new light in his eyes, ”It will be my pleasure, beloved lady.”

…..

(Saint)

…Truly, I do not deserve this happiness. 

I could feel her breathing begin to slow. Her small hand laid on my chest, as soft as flower petals. Her damp, tangled hair fell around her beautiful flushed face. Her eyes were already closed. 

I combed her silken hair with my fingers, gently untangling the knots, working carefully so as not to hurt her. It was unchivalrous to leave your lover’s hair a tangled mess, and allow her to cry with pain when her hair was brushed. 

That was also written in the book. 

“Hehe. Have I satisfied you so much that you are already asleep? I am deeply pleased.” I said when I finished with her hair. 

“Mmm…” she mumbled sleepily, cuddling against my chest, “I am… very happy…”

I kissed her forehead, “I am relieved that you are happy, Cardia. That was my only wish.”

She smiled shyly, “I hope… you feel good, too. And… please…” she closed her eyes, “I want to stay with you from now on. If… if you still want me to come to London.” 

I felt tears come to my eyes at her soft, uncertain declaration. At the way her hand clutched my arm as if she was afraid I would refuse. I knew that I should have distanced myself from her. I should have encouraged her to seek love from one better able to give it to her unconditionally. Someone without the weight of my duties and past…but I was too weak… too selfish for such an act. I was completely unworthy of the priceless gift she gave me from her innocent desire to know love and touch, but to refuse now was unthinkable. I would show her in the time to come, for however many years we were allowed together, how happy she made me. How she had saved me from endless darkness and suffering. I vowed in my soul, more strongly than any vow I had ever taken, to protect her light, to nurture it and hold it close. I would become worthy of the honor of this joy, of the softness and sweetness she offered to me alone. If I could use all I learned to nurture and protect her precious life, to bring pleasure to her delicate body, more beautiful than any jewel, I would consider all of the sorrow and suffering worth the cost. 

“Saint? Are you crying? Is everything all right?” 

I hugged her tightly, not bothering to try to stop the tears, “I am… overwhelmed to hear you say those words. I promised myself to respect your time with family, and not to interfere with your wish to stay here with your brother.” I held her head against my shoulder, “If you are ready… I am overjoyed for you to come home with me.” I took a breath, feeling unaccustomedly nervous to say words I had never spoken, “Will you please marry me, Miss Cardia?”

She pulled back. Her beautiful eyes were adorably shocked, “Marry…?”

I laughed through the tears that still wouldn’t stop, “Yes, I want to marry you. Did the book not say that the joining of bodies was the most profound intimate expression of love? Is marriage not the public declaration of the same?” 

Her innocent face passed from shock to joy, “Yes! I will marry you, Saint!” she hugged me tightly, then pulled back frowning a little, “Didn’t the book say lovemaking was supposed to happen after marriage?”

“Hehe. You seemed much too impatient to wait.” I kissed her, “I made a vow to you in my heart a long time ago. We will speak our vows before God. We will celebrate our love with our friends… this…” I kissed the pure crystal flower on her chest, “is our vow to each other. It is our own intimate promise to be repeated many, many times.” I lightly stroked her back, “It will only get better… so much better… from now on.”

It was difficult to speak seductively while weeping. I thought I must seem a fool.

She reached to tenderly wipe my tears away with her slender fingers, “I-I think that is impossible…!” 

“Hehe. It is true.” I took her face between my hands and kissed her trembling lips slowly, “This is only the beginning.” 

I delighted in how soft and gentle her kisses were, how she shivered when I let my tongue mingle with hers. Yes… it was certainly only the beginning.

We were both gasping when we finally parted. After a few moments she gave me a suspicious expression, “Saint… you said earlier that you had a secret. What was it?” 

I smiled in a way I hoped was enigmatic, although I was afraid that skill was beyond me at that time, “Ah… yes. I have told you much about my secret throughout the night.” 

She blushed so prettily, “It is… the book. You wrote it, didn’t you?” 

I laughed at the sternness of her expression, impressed that she figured it out despite all I had done to distract her, “Ah, you are right. I did indeed write it.” I picked it up off the nightstand, “As you see, there are many more chapters than those I showed you tonight…” I paged through the book I had written over seven hundred years ago, “I think that deserves a reward, perhaps chapter… 17?” 

“Chapter…. Oh!”

I put the book back on the table and took my precious lover in my arms, “Hehe. As I said, we have only just begun.” 

…..fin

[snkret-photography]

Grow

We were laying in bed. One of our usual weekends where we just laid up and did nothing. Talking about nothing particular. Reminiscing on a recently completed project but also critiquing the room for improvement. And then I stumbled upon the idea of how I could really push the limits. Now going outside your comfort zone looks different for everyone. For me, the idea of androgyny was particular interesting. Sure, I could do a drag shoot but guess who’s not tucking, shaving, waxing, or anything that it takes to really commit to a look. Oh, me? You guessed it. He wasn’t enthused. He wasn’t supportive. Coming from the closeted gay, I guess one could understand why it might make him uncomfortable. Then again, a closeted gay’s existence must be uncomfortable; constantly worried about what people will think about you before even being put into the predicament of having to find out yet carrying around the guilt and shame as if it’s constantly happy. I’ve come to learn fear of outside judgment in matters that are of choice to share and yet affect no one you share it with create the most internal conflict. But alas, I did what I wanted because this was about pushing my bounds… and confirming that I look good at all times regardless of what I’m wearing.

Even now when I come up with project ideas that involve a more feminine touch, I get a bit uneasy being the model. Not particularly for any sensible reason other than female clothing is super complicated to take off. Then again, the fact that I have had to be my own model so much used to cause quite an internal conflict. However, I find comfort in the personal development and ability to work on two skills at once. 

But we’re here to talk about something other than the fact that I be feeling myself. How often do you get uncomfortable with the aspect of something before it occurs? And more importantly, are you uncomfortable for a personal involvement reason or because you fear the possible ridicule of public opinion? 

In the latter position, the most interesting thing is always that the common reaction is indifference from outside parties. And I’ve seen in many circumstances where the fear of negative opinion drives such instability and stress in a person. Just for none of it to really matter. I beg the question, what would have happened if the opinion was negative? Absolutely nothing… 9/10. I mean we’ve definitely seen hate crimes, religious and social prejudice, and a myriad of other reasoning introduce reasonably fearful repercussions to situations that have no bearing on the people committing the reaction. I think as social creatures; it is actually quite impossible for us to mind our business. It lumps in that bit of humans being curious and seeking knowledge. Judgment is a bit trickier to identify the source and logical reasoning behind. It’s not an innate. Judgment, like hate, is a learned behavior derived from a division in belief or practice. It is essentially rooted in difference and a fundamental lack of understanding at the cause of such, leading to the denouncement of the “other” because what you cannot understand goes against the laws of your personal nature. Thus, creating a negative position from which to influence the practitioner of anticity to doubt the very thing that makes them different from their judges in a manner that breeds guilt. It’s essentially ignorance looking to spread itself rather than develop understanding. It’s essentially going to resorts in Mexico and voting for Trump. Didn’t get it? Check Instagram. 

In the former situation, you just got some shit you need to work out with yourself. Point blank, 305 Miami, periodt. I’ll revert back to the androgyny predicament for this argument. Personally, I love women’s clothing and styling women. Not that enthused to wear it on my body but before doing my first shoot in that style, I had a bit of an internal battle. What if I liked it? What if this was a lifestyle I wanted to explore more deeply? How defining of my person, who I had been getting to know for these last 20 odd years, would this act be? It’s crazy to think, but the older we get, we’re almost resistant to discovering things about ourselves. Plagued by this idea that we have to figure everything out by the end of our teen years and have life figured out by our late 20s and that is a generous assumption. At 18, we have to make a decision about what we want to do with the rest our lives, spend 4 years working towards that life plan and then spend our lives doing that. Before you meet real-world people in your early to mid-twenties, or if you’re lucky enough to have a diversified ecosystem in your upbringing, life seems pretty straightforward and stagnant. The idea of finding and working in your passion field is commonly told to youth before they enter college yet there is no guarantee that they have even crossed such passion before FASFA applications are due. But commonly internal fear is driven by the fear, not of the act itself, but by our reaction to it. Particularly, finding out things about ourselves that is counter to the version of ourselves we’ve currently become comfortable and accustomed to. Again, a lack of understanding. Although I have a theory, we never really have a true understanding of who we are. We just have versions and iterations of ourselves that consistently evolve. We come to understand more about how to be the version of ourselves that we desire to be. Then we execute. But growth/change/evolution isn’t comfortable nor does the end result ever really seem worthy during the process. However necessary, growth is never described as a pleasant process and it requires a heavy emphasis on gaining new understanding that, as we grow older, often runs counter to what we’ve known.

My point is short, simple and sweet. Ignorance does no one any justice and leaves us stagnant in antiquated beliefs. And that not only destroys the person but the greater good. However uncomfortable it is to work to understanding that which you don’t and that which might run counter to your existence as you’ve made it thus far, it is necessary. Don’t believe me? Turn on the news. That’s ignorance with a Marketing degree. 

[theconservativebrief]

Many people view the call to abolish ICE, the Immigration and Customs Enforcement agency, as an irresponsible act of radicalism. Republicans certainly frame it that way.

But there is nothing inevitable — or even especially long-lived — about ICE. In 2003, Congress detached different components of immigration and customs functions from the Departments of Justice and Treasury to form ICE. Its new home in Department of Homeland Security dictated an institutional posture that all immigration to the United States posed a threat. That reorganization — including the startling proposition that supports it — is at least as radical as its unwinding would be.

Left unchecked, the egregious harms imposed by ICE — deportations that do more to disrupt than protect American communities; the ill-conceived preference for immigration detention executed via a system that is a human rights disgrace — will resolve into a “new normal.”

That is the fate of recent conservative state-building in the United States: Policies and offices do not survive scrutiny so much as simply evade it.

I can say this with confidence because five years ago, I published a book examining the history of the worst policy failure in modern US history: the government’s war on drugs. In light of drug prohibition’s abysmal results, I made several recommendations, including abolishing the Drug Enforcement Administration, the architect and emblem of the government’s war on drugs.

I did so not because I think illicit drugs present trivial dangers, but because I know they carry very real and distressing ones. When evaluated on the basis of its own selected benchmarks, the drug war has driven key performance indicators like illicit drug price and potency in exactly the wrong direction.

But conservative state-building is never judged on the basis of results — a simple point that bears closer inspection. Take, for example, the remarkably similar history and trajectory of ICE and the DEA. Like ICE, the DEA was formed by combining two offices — one from the White House, and one from the Treasury Department. Typically, executive departments are organized around a particular policy portfolio (like education), and they focus on overarching goals, weighing various tools and approaches to meet those goals.

Whether those tools work to advance an agency’s valued objective is a question that the officials in and out of the organization attempt to answer. If found wanting, tools can be modified or abandoned — unless they happen to belong to units dedicated overwhelmingly to enforcement, tucked into executive departments that dramatically misconceptualize the target of their intentions. In that case, no meaningful evaluation takes place at all.

The US government once construed drugs as a trade. The Bureau of Narcotics (the main predecessor agency to the DEA), seated in the Department of Treasury, was armed with sanctions that could diminish the flow of illicit drugs. The formation of the DEA crystallized a very different notion —namely, that illicit drugs were a crime.

In an analogous fashion, the Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) once sat in the Department of Labor, on the supposition that people came to this country seeking work; it later moved to the Department of Justice. Before the creation of ICE, as the Atlantic’s Franklin Foer points out, “enforcement was housed in an agency devoted to both deportation and naturalization.”

Today these functions belong to an agency predicated on thwarting terrorist threats, and the instruments it deploys have not been shown to deter illegal immigration, nor do terrorist threats concentrate in the migrant communities most subjected to its punitive measures.

Tasked with Sisyphean chores and supplied with counterproductive tools, it is not surprising that the DEA and ICE share some dysfunctions. Their leadership rejects meaningful distinctions — whether between drugs, or between and among undocumented migrants — because drawing them would raise real questions about the implicit premise that resides in their institutional location. The workforce of both ICE and the DEA features agents who harbor a siege mentality, fostered by a culture of secrecy and resentment of oversight, and susceptible to corruption.

Neither is overseen by an official who must weigh the effectiveness, and decide the budget, of enforcement relative to a different approach to the same problem. Both are capable of moderating only the degree of the application of punitive enforcement, and incentivized in the direction of ever-greater amounts. To think differently, to drop one set of tools in favor of another, would amount to an act of institutional self-repudiation.

No matter how many indictments and interdiction efforts the DEA claims as a success, it has no measurable impact on the drugs wending their way through black markets. Inspecting the record, it’s surprising that these misplaced enforcement agencies command much approval at all.

A heroin user. Pictures Ltd./Corbis/Getty Images

That brings us to the second simple but crucial observation regarding conservative state-building: Agencies like the DEA do not draw political strength from defenders so much as they do from a kind of aggressive complacency — a Beltway mindset that treats change as an antagonist.

Unless faced with a committed opposition, an agency like the DEA will easily defeat critics, not because its proponents will mount superior arguments, but because those proponents won’t feel compelled to make any arguments at all. One of the most astonishing things about the DEA’s pervasive, passive support is the way in which policy discussions deemed “serious” omit drug prohibition from the very problems it is most implicated in.

Examinations of the falling rate by which US law enforcement makes an arrest in cases of homicide is one example of this “motivated” silence. Once more than 90 percent, the so-called “clearance rate” for homicides now holds steady at roughly 65 percent; in some places, like Chicago, the clearance rate for homicide in 2017 came in at 17.5 percent.

The reason for this collapse is well known: Other than forensic evidence, witness testimony remains the crucial factor in building a case against a suspect. But in the same neighborhoods that experience the most murders, witnesses have gone silent, unable or unwilling to confide in members of a police force viewed as adversaries.

Rather than consider why the police mission has been discredited in the places where it is most needed, we typically lament “community mistrust,” on the apparent belief that ordinary people have invented some suspicion that was too convenient to resist, too hard to dispel, yet without reason or rationale.

That’s simply not the case: As I discuss in my book, residents of urban black neighborhoods that had long gone unpoliced were first able to regard themselves as clients, not just targets, of law enforcement services in the 1950s. Yet this newfound status of “citizens worthy of service provision” was heavily conditioned by different agendas of social control: Arrests for loitering and public drunkenness were common, for instance.

Among the various police tactics of subjugation, by the 1970s, only the drug war toolkit survived challenges of civil rights jurisprudence and police professionalization. It nurtured a mode of policing that offended onlookers and alienated potential allies.

When combined with the profits made available to criminal gangs via drug prohibition — a policy enshrined in the Controlled Substances Act of 1970 — our drug war has produced a toxic combination: entrenched networks of crime sustained by gun violence, and a legacy of community suspicion of police. Yet we treat both phenomena as ex nihilo, sprung from nothing and out of nowhere.

Other conversations bear the imprint of a failed drug war, though we inspect the tracks as if laid by the mysterious Bigfoot. Drug prohibition drives but is inexplicably absent from analyses of the mounting lethality of the opioid crisis. Few who chide illicit opioid manufacturers for overprescribing opioids recall that a century ago, heroin was among the pain medications they sold.

As reports of misuse mounted, legislators responded by declaring heroin contraband, surrendering the drug to underground production and forfeiting the ability to regulate it in any way. The result is a drug many times more dangerous than its original formulation; with the recent addition of chemical synthetics like fentanyl, illicit heroin now regularly kills its consumers.

The drug war, a creature of our own creation, stalks us with its perverse consequences; still, we report being mugged by a stranger.

To be clear, illicit drug trafficking is now a fact of global trade, not a genie we can put back in the bottle. But to be equally clear, our refusal to acknowledge the drug war’s ever-present failure, including our refusal to consider abolishing the DEA, impoverishes analysis and blinds us to possible alternatives. Instead of trying to arrest and interdict our way out of the program, for instance, we might follow the advice of Sen. Rob Portman, who represents the heavily opioid-afflicted state Ohio, and prioritize the illicit production of fentanyl in trade talks with China.

Worse yet — and similar to a punitive approach to immigration enforcement — in perpetuating meaningless enforcement, we pathologize poverty, criminalize and imprison difference, perpetuate institutional racism, and degrade legal practices long considered essential to our freedom. We cheat ourselves of honest and productive relations with other countries, especially those in Central and South America.

Claiming the right to name and discuss these failures, and confronting conservative state-building of any sort, involves seeing the past in our present; it means grounding our analysis in the problem as it exists, rather than in the terms in which it is typically couched; it demands acknowledging something other than the white experience.

It has never been more important to enrich our perspective in precisely these ways. Typically institutions like the DEA and ICE loiter, like uninvited guests, at the margins of public discussion. Our post-9/11 world makes this neglect untenable. A war on terror, like the one waged against drugs, is both a mindset and a massive proliferation of enforcement policy and institutions — effectively a New Deal for the carceral and surveillance state.

Progressive approaches to recurring problems like terrorism, drugs, or illegal immigration do not suffer from poor evidence; they struggle for narrative context. Our political establishment caricatures progressive designs as extreme even when cautious: It appraises them as costly despite material savings; it judges them according to any failure, no matter how infrequent, unrelated, or trivial; it marginalizes these ideas as eccentric and irrelevant.

The opposite assumptions frame an approach of the “gun and the badge” (my phrase to denote enforcement-centric policy solutions): always treated as reasonable regardless of how radical; absolved of all sins, no matter the gravity or number; and received by serious people as indispensable and efficient, even when ineffective and expensive.

In this light, the call to “abolish ICE” has a place among efforts to expose other kinds of double standards in our world. It may well rank as among the most difficult. A progressive institutional and policy agenda is the ultimate outsider, a perpetual interloper who must do twice the work to garner half the credit. Meanwhile, the “gun and the badge” proves nothing to no one yet is accorded great deference.

And so, in league with other politics intended to challenge privilege, I say again: Abolish the DEA, and abolish ICE. Any redeeming aspect of their respective agencies can be transferred to a place where enforcement must demonstrate its effectiveness when judged against other approaches, operate under an appropriate executive mission, and show a return on investment based on outcomes that improve the lives of ordinary Americans.

Kathleen Frydl has examined conservative state-building in an award-winning book on the GI bill; a book on the drug war; and in articles on the FBI as well as the care of foundlings. Find her on Twitter @kfrydl.

The Big Idea is Vox’s home for smart discussion of the most important issues and ideas in politics, science, and culture — typically by outside contributors. If you have an idea for a piece, pitch us at thebigidea@vox.com.

Original Source -> Why we should abolish ICE — and the DEA too

via The Conservative Brief

[fashiontrendin-blog]

3 Adult Bedtime Stories That Won’t Put You to Sleep

http://fashion-trendin.com/3-adult-bedtime-stories-that-wont-put-you-to-sleep/

3 Adult Bedtime Stories That Won’t Put You to Sleep

In partnership with CALVIN KLEIN.

I’ve always found the human act of climbing into bed and falling asleep to be one of our most endearing qualities. We can screw up at work, break someone’s heart, then violently knock down a tomato soup tower at the grocery store, but we’ll still end the day by crawling into fluffy, human-sized pockets to drift off to dreamland. I know sleep is biologically required of us, but when you remove the routine-laden context of it all, it’s actually quite a spectacular show of self-love. Our beds are like adorable little nests built with tender and cozy intention, whether we mean for them to be or not.

I think that’s why beds are, for many of us, the safest places in our homes. When we’re kids, they’re where we’re tucked in, read to and comforted. As teenagers, they’re where we collapse in dramatic tears and read books that take us to far-away worlds. As adults, they’re where we nuzzle in when we’re feeling lonely, make phone calls to people we love or even where we get work done when we’re feeling particularly productive. When you think about it, beds are the ultimate metaphor for the human propensity to be vulnerable.

To explore this phenomenon, Man Repeller partnered with CALVIN KLEIN to peek into the relationships we have with our beds. Below you’ll find three human stories that explore life through the lens of our safest place, along with photos of their narrators clad in CALVIN KLEIN UNDERWEAR, shot in the CALVIN KLEIN section of Bed, Bath & Beyond. These aren’t your average bedtime stories, but they’re just as touching, if you ask me.

Kate Barnett

Kate is the President of Man Repeller.

When I first starting working with Leandra on Man Repeller back in 2011, we didn’t have an office. Leandra was working from her apartment, and I was working from a casita in rural New Mexico with an unusually strong internet connection, while my now-fiancé built adobe homes. Northern New Mexico is directly below Colorado and gets freezing — which we hadn’t adequately prepared for that first winter. We moved everything into the living room, placed the bed as close to the fireplace as possible, and closed off the back half of the house entirely.

I spent the next four months huddled under blankets on my bed in child’s pose, with my computer in front of me, bowing to my connection to the world outside and developing Man Repeller’s monetization strategy. For video meetings, I’d throw on some mascara, blush and a blazer, carefully position my laptop to hide the fact that my bottom half was still in a bed cocoon, and casually mention that I was “out West,” hoping people would assume that meant L.A.

Looking back, I think that time mirrors where we were with Man Repeller in a really beautiful way. We were (and still are) super scrappy, hustling to bring this vision to life. The joy and excitement of building the company paired with our passion for what we were actually building led to this crucial, open-ended freedom to be creative in addressing obstacles, while also fueling the bottomless energy a start-up feeds on. When I think back to those big moments of hitting milestones early on, particularly with brand partnerships and revenue, I’m in bed, messaging with Leandra while on a call because I’m too excited about whatever’s going on to just wait and update her after, clad in long underwear, fingerless gloves, a beret and every blanket we had.

Eventually, as the team and company grew, we got our first office, then our second and third, and I moved back to New York. These days, if I’m working from bed it usually means I threw my back out, but there’s definitely some magic when I think back to the early years.

Crystal Anderson

Crystal is the Operations Manager at Man Repeller.

When my partner Shakira recently relocated to Wisconsin for work, I was about as bummed as a person can be. She left super early in the morning, right around the time my little dog Blanche is usually ready to party. But that morning, Blanche made herself comfy on Sharika’s side of the bed instead. I ended up staying there into the afternoon, and Blanche never left my side. She was truly in service of my needs that day and it was the most beautiful interaction I’ve ever had with an animal. It was an incredibly raw moment; I’ll never forget it. It’s like she knew what I needed.

I don’t know if I possess the emotional intelligence that my dog does. I’ve always said that when it comes to Blanche and me, it’s hard to determine who’s taking care of who, so this story reminds me that I am worthy and available to both love and be loved, to be of service and to be served.

My bed has always been a respite for me. It welcomes me and creates a safe space; probably the safest space I know. I crawl into my bed for so many reasons other than sleep. My bed represents raw and real love. It’s the place where I tell (and show) my partner I love her, as often as I can. Where I snuggle with my dog after a long day. It’s where I check in on my friends and family; there’s nothing like a nice long call full of laughing in bed!

Most importantly though, at the moment, given that my life is in a bit of transition with some many new things happening, it’s a place that I’m learning to reconnect with myself (physically, emotionally and spiritually), by myself, and it’s really lovely.

Imani Randolph

Imani is the Editorial Intern at Man Repeller.

I remember months before I left for college, I scoured the internet for the perfect dorm room decor. I put the most energy into finding my duvet cover, as I decided it would be the core piece that held the rest of my decorations together. I eventually landed on a beige one with a subtle floral pattern. My mom thought it was a bit overpriced, but in the end, she agreed to it, because we both wanted my dorm to feel like home.

When move-in day arrived, my parents and I were a jumbled mess of nerves and excitement. The first thing I wanted to do when we got to my room was set up my bed, but my mom suggested we do it last. She was ultimately right; we needed to use my bed as a landing place for my boxes and suitcases in the process of unpacking. After we put my clothes and shoes in the closet (check), organized my school supplies in drawers (check), hung up posters and artwork (check), it was finally time to make my bed. Before I could even locate my fresh new sheets, my mother’s hands were placing them on the mattress: “I’m making the bed,” she declared, with a certain definiteness I can still hear. And just like that, a tradition was born. We’ve maintained this little routine every year of college move-in. Even if I do everything else, she makes the bed.

I can’t remember what sparked it, but upon moving back to school for my final year of college, my mom and I got in a trivial argument that almost led to her not making my bed for the last time. We’re both typically on edge when it’s time for me to head back to school; the separation always feels intense since we’re extremely close. But in the face of the bed-making tradition being broken, I realized how essential it was. My mother’s foremost priority has always been making me feel safe and self-assured, and our tradition has served as a sentimental reminder that no matter how much older I get, how many new experiences I have, or how many far-away places I go, she will always be there to provide the comfort and security that I need.

In the end, I swallowed my pride and apologized and the tradition was upheld, perfectly tucked corners included. Today I feel prepared to make my own choices, but the foundation she’s laid is exactly what has given me the strength to do so.

9 PHOTOS click for more

Photos by Edith Young; Styled by Harling Ross; Makeup by Whitney Ray.