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jessilynallendilla · 20 days ago

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HOMESTUCK FIC REC

TITLE/LINK RATING COMPLETED-WORD-COUNT SERIES

let me know if the links aren't working and feel free to suggest any

HUMANS AND TROLLS COEXIST

That Ain't Me M 10,982 SERIES

A Homestuck AU where everyone is the same but they're trailer trash. Also Davekat happens and it's somehow the future.

Ten Little Fingers And Ten Little Toes G 94,536 SERIES

A human child is adopted and raised by a high blooded alien who attempts to insinuate himself into human politics, having been farsighted enough to see which way the wind was blowing. He intends to raise the thing as a pawn to push pro alternian ideals but he ends up actually loving his brilliant, alien son. Also because aliens do not know how to infant he gets a nanny.

Safe With You T 2,772 SERIES

Tavros takes Gamzee shopping for new clothes. They go to a petting zoo and Gamzee asks why people keep looking at Tavros like he's some kind of monster.

Awake At Night M 10,755 SERIES

There are certain expectations in troll society about taking in a freeloader with no place to go, as Dad Egbert finds out when he offers to host two of his son's stranded friends post-game.

Domestic Diplomacy (And Other Minefields) T 6,832 SERIES

Karkat's moirail meets his matesprit. It goes alright. Nothing's exploding yet, anyway. Karkat just has to translate, and mediate, and fix Dave, and keep Gamzee in line, and not flip his shit. Fucking easy. It's all under control. Gamzee's moirail introduces him to his little alien flushcrush. It goes alright. Just the human's freaking out, and then Karkat's freaking out, and then when Gamzee goes to fix it it gets worse for some reason. It's not like the little squishy motherfuckers count as quadrants. So who knows what the big motherfucking deal is. Dave's boyfriend brings around his other boyfriend, and Dave has an educational experience on the subject of quadrants. It goes alright. Except the guy's a handsy dick who doesn't speak basically any English and wears clown makeup. And Karkat seems to be making some kind of romance power-move at him to prove a point. And Dave's dripping blood all over his favorite pair of sweatpants.

Suburbia: Gore, Grubs, & Parenting In A House With A White Picket Fence EX 23,284

Cronus is a good cop. Kankri teaches at the local community college. They're a typical young married troll couple in a small town in Illinois. They're expecting their first grub(s), which is the most exceptional thing about them, considering that it's not impossible to adopt and troll grubs are born live and chew their way out. Carrying your own is still a new frontier and modern medicine has little to contribute. Surviving is one thing. Parenting is entirely another. Welcome to the glory and heartbreak therein

THE TROLLS INVADE

Battlefield Terra M SERIES

John is one of eight mech pilots heroically protecting Earth from an alien invasion. Pretty easy on the moral choices. See evil monster from space, kill evil monster from space. Only then he actually meets one of them face to face.

Battlefield Mentis G 2,247

A scene from Chapter 5 of Asuka Kureru's "Battlefield Terra" from Karkat's point of view. John does not know how to censor his mind.

Warbound Widow M 472,357

So the kids win Sburb and they are placed on a restored Earth (both Alphas and Betas) all injuries healed and even some nifty God Tier powers left over; however there is one thing very wrong- the trolls didn't come with them. Everyone is confused and upset, but no matter how hard they try they just cannot locate the trolls anywhere so they become resigned to never meeting them again. As such, they just carry on with their lives and try to put Sburb behind them. Then, a decade later the Alternian Empire attacks Earth.

In Which Humanity Is Considered As Lusii By A Conquering Troll Empire T 14,512 SERIES

In an earth being conquered by Trolls, one scienterrorist considers the idea that humans once properly enslaved would make excellent lusii. This is her original experiment for lususing capabilities as conducted on a human male. light-hearted for the most part despite the fact that Earth is being conquered, will probably be pretty short. Really its just an excuse for grubs

It's Science Time T

A cobalt-blooded scienterrorist studies the behavioral habits of humans so that they can enslave them better. A can of beans sits in the corner and is of no relevance to the plot at all. Suddenly, vive la revolution.

In Plain Sight T

It’s been this way as long as John can remember; as long as his dad can remember. Jade’s grandfather remembered though. He used to tell stories as they fell asleep under the stars. He’s gone now- lost to the world. Much like the rest of their race will be soon enough. They’ve taken over and soon the human race will be entirely eradicated.

Never An Easy Path NR

John Egbert thought he knew how the world worked. He grew up on stories of the horrible trolls, who constantly invaded the borderlands and never showed mercy to a human. He knew he would become a great warrior who protected humans from these terrifying monsters. But what will he do when he actually meets a troll and learns that the stories he had known all his life weren't entirely truthful?

NON HUMAN

Mistaken G 2,567

Grandpa Harley guiltily adopts the orphaned Strider boys.

And Let This Cold Night's Wind Be My Witness T 17,476

Hunters look for the demons who murder the hunters who kill the demons. … Or is it the other way around?

The Start (Original) T 1,381

Here is the original if you'd like to read it, though I think the updated version is more interesting in a way....

Night At The Zoo G 1,323

You are John Egbert and you work at the zoo.

Broken Reality M

Dirk, one of the most known hunter's at a supernatural level, ran into a panicked man after seeing his first demon. This man just so happened to be Jake English, a demon more known for his damage then his name. When Dirk get's caught up in Jake's human form, three years have already past and now he needs his help. Will Jake turn against his own kind and help his lover? Or kill Dirk's entire family as previously planned? And what will John do when he realizes that his best friend, and target, is in danger?

Eight Days A Week T 7,766

The creature straightens up and settles in the sunlight, wrapping its long, glittering tail around itself in thick coils. The scales run up to its waist, where you can see hints of human skin against the smooth hide. It has a thin, cunning face, softened by a strangely mild smile that stretches its too-wide mouth, and its hair is in a wiry braid over its shoulder. “Nnn,” you say, and point with a hand that shakes so badly you’re barely pointing at the creature at all. “—nuh. Nah. *Naga*—”

Zombiestuck T

When a cure for cannibalism goes horribly wrong, the world is thrusted into something it was never prepared for: the Zombie Apocalypse. As the Beta kids, the Alpha kids, and the trolls try to come together in order to better their chances of survival, tensions will be high, secrets and feelings will be revealed, and lives will be lost, all in time for the end of the world. Will our heroes emerge victorious? Or will they suffer a fate worse than death?

Common Misconceptions EX

When Jake notices the company John has been keeping, he immediately becomes fearful for his cousin's safety. Demons are selfish. Demons are violent. Demons are quick to take advantage of humans, and he'll be damned if he let's his cousin fall prey to their whims. He's content to believe that they're all up to no good, but when Dirk shows up and throws a wrench in his plans, he might have to reevaluate his opinion on them. And maybe, just maybe, realize some other important things along the way.

An Invincible Summer G

He’s something wild and strange—his blood and his eyes are the color of the bacchanalian wine and filled with the same banked frenzy…but none of the joy. Well you’re supposed to be a free spirit of nature and your wings are useless, blood-colored abominations. Who are you to judge him for not being happy?

PET/SLAVE!STUCK

Unwanted Free Ugly Troll T 71,873 SERIES

The first time you pass by the troll in the box you kind of try not to see it. It's gross as fuck when people do this. You guess maybe it's better than driving them out into the country and dumping them to make it on their own, or those stories you've heard about people dumping unwanted wrigglers in sacks into rivers--those you try not to think about because fuck, that is not okay on any level but it's not like you can do shit about it.

Before I Sleep T 36,565

Your name is Rosa Maryam and you grew up dreaming of a perfect family, being the perfect wife, the perfect mother. After the miscarriage at eighteen, you were lost. After the divorce a year later, you were broken. When hope arrives in the strangest possible form, a well-intended but tasteless gift, you don't recognize it. Not at first. You did not give birth to your son but he is yours, and he saved your life, and you will never let anyone hurt him.

Jade Harley: Adopt A Troll G 13,773 SERIES

It wasn't fair. With how badly he’d been treated, the least he deserved was a chance to live a happy, safe life. Not to get put on a death row. But what if nobody adopted him? Against her firm morals and better judgment, Jade decided to adopt a troll as a pet

Chains EX

After the Great War between Alternia and Earth the trolls have been kept and enslaved by the human race. Karkat Vantas is one of these trolls that has been enslaved. He is like any other troll, except that he is a mutant. Even though the trolls have given up their cultural ways one thing from their old world remains and that is the hemospectrum. The humans have taking the bloodcaste and have based the worth of a troll after it. The higher the blood of a troll is the higher the price for that troll is. Being a mutant in this society makes him not only worthless to other trolls but to humans as well. Dave Strider is in search of a troll after turning 16 which is the age when a human can buy a troll. He goes to the market and buys Karkat. After they bond his feelings grow more red for the nubby horned troll but he isn't sure how to fix the scars left on the outside and inside of Karkat from his past to get the troll to see that Dave isn't going to hurt him.

Broken T 3,481 SERIES

Sometimes you're too tired to fight. Sometimes you just don't want to. This was a quick piece I did last night, It's about John buying a new troll companion after his dad dies

Those Who Do Not Learn From History M

Alternate universe. In this world, there was no Sgrub session, and a few events from the human space age have happened earlier, but these are only minorly related to the plot. After a failed Alternian invasion of Earth, humans managed to turn the tide and end up winning the war, and enslaved the entirety of the Alternian people. John decides to purchase a troll without being fully aware of the reality of the situation, instead believing much of "common knowledge" instead, and realizes the reality of what humanity has really done and tries his best to cope with a language and cultural barrier and create an environment for his new troll to live in.

MISC

A Heavy Heart T 12,886 SERIES

You haven't ever felt bad to pail a brother or sister before, but for some reason you look down on his strange, angry, nubby-horned little face and it hurts inside you. Hurts like a motherfucker. In a universe where the hemospectrum is long-abolished but never forgotten and the descendants of ancient rebels are looked to as the leaders, a tired purple-blood drowning in his drugs find a lonely mutant on the run from his bloodline, in the wrong place, for all the wrong reasons.

Haven From The Summer Storm T 3,371

Not many people understand what being best friends with Gamzee means. Even less seem to understand that there's more to him than schizophrenia.

Last Days Of Rain T 4,896

He keeps calling you his best friend, and honestly you're inclined to agree.

The First Days Of Sun T 4,411

He is your best motherfucking friend, and you love him like you ain't loved no one before.

Endangered EX 126,078 SERIES

Androids have all but won the war against humanity, and the remnants of the once-great human civilization are reduced to miles of wastelands and hidden communities struggling to survive. Dirk and his friends are sent out to scavenge for supplies, while AR is sent to hunt down and exterminate the dwindling human population. Their fated meeting is the beginning of a union between species that was once thought impossible.

A Spark, A Flame, A Fire EX 56,156 SERIES

Deep in Derse's shadowy core languishes the stolen second-in-line to the Prospitian throne. He plays the part of reluctant Ambassador, though rather than politics he finds himself juggling the heavy heart of Derse's Prince, which he regrets ever asking for, and charting out his new life far from the Sunburst Court. Jake is grimly sure he'll never be warm again.

The Back Of A Truck EX 76,029 SERIES

The twelve trolls find themselves in the back of a truck, transported there by a sudden burst of energy from somewhere unknown. They have no knowledge of the humans or of their race, all they know is that they need to find a way back home, a way to fit in. But there are eyes watching them. Eyes that will catch them one way or another.

Wondrous Adventures Of Harley, English, And Strider T 264,333

Jake English has a pretty straightforward life: he is an amateur writer who travels around the world with his twin sister Jade Harley and their dog Becquerel, thinking this is the best a life could be. Meeting Dirk Strider is only the beginning of the journey of changing his worldview, as well as an epic quest of saving the world, when spirits from an ancient legend come to life.

Never Let You Cry Again T 7,776

You didn't mean to do it. Yeah, you consider John your kismesis, no matter how unrequited. But he's still your friend, in some sense of the word...right? You really didn't mean to do it...

Indisposed T 1,197

Culture shock is hard. It's hard and nobody understands.

Alternative Alternia M 136,922 SERIES

A story in which a young mutant is given as tribute to the Grand Highblood and struggles to find his place in the world, ultimately coming to the conclusion that social reform is required. Involves over six separate duels (including two for quadrants), many scenes of violence, episode of traumatic flashbacks, multiple scenarios involving mind control, sexual encounters (both consensual and not), the destruction of no less than five fine seagoing vessels, blatant hemocaste desecration, even more blatant hemodiscrimination, two cases of mild quadrant vacillitation, one instance of quadrant fuckupery, and an inordinate amount of swearing. May not be appropriate for grubs and young trolls.

Out Of Orbit T

The Princess of Prospit is supposed to marry the Prince of Derse. Though she does not like the idea, she must do it for her people. Derse and Prospit are at an all out war due to their great great grandfathers. the war has been going on for ages though, Prospit is coming to their downfall. The royals have never met, and they do not know each others names because they never bothered telling each other at all. They agreed to the marriage for their kingdoms to stop the war. But some plans have changed, how will they resolve?

No Happily Ever Afters EX

Karkat is a breeder troll, a fate to those who were previously seen as freaks and culled. Now, being born with bright red blood makes him destined to give birth to grubs in place of the extinct Mother Grub. He resents and rebels against his fate. He finds an old decrepit castle which he makes his home and eventually turns it into an orphanage. But trolls were never one to take differences lightly and are determined to put Karkat in his place. They won't take change lightly, especially in times of desperation

#homestuck #fic rec #long post

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jodilin65 · 8 months ago

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I saw a headline saying that one out of eight women are abused by being shouted at, scolded, or ignored during childbirth and I totally believe that. There are a lot of people in the medical profession that don’t belong there. One time, when they were going to put me to sleep for one of my ear surgeries in Boston, a nurse went off on me for “fighting” them when it came to that yucky gas mask I hated so much and I was just a kid. Even psychiatric hospitals have workers that don’t belong in them.

We love our new electronic nail clippers! Now we just have to figure out how to open the door to empty the clippings out.

I haven’t used the new wax hair removal strips yet.

I was so tired yesterday (and today) that I forgot to say that the eye doctor said I wasn’t a good candidate for Lasik because of my “position” in life which was so damn silly. Everybody’s so fucking sensitive these days that people are afraid that what they say might offend others but I assured him it was okay to refer to me as older or getting old. I don’t understand why so many normal facts of life are considered such taboo subjects.

Anyway, due to my age and being farsighted, I’m not a good candidate. He explained why but I don’t remember what he said. Something about there only being so much curving of the cornea they can do. But there is some good news. I never thought I would say this but I can’t wait to have cataract surgery! His cataracts are more advanced because he’s older and will need to be removed in about a year or two. I didn’t know this but having them removed greatly improves vision. So much so that some people don’t even need glasses anymore. I would love that! The problem is that I’m likely a decade or more away from needing this.

Because of Tom’s “crying” eye, the doctor said he could check into getting the tear duct cleared and possibly lifting his eyelids because they’re drooping which can obstruct vision.

My own drainage system is blocked but in a different way and it’s what’s causing my OH to be elevated. I looked it up, and 29 is moderate while 32 is severe.

I cut waiting time on the 3rd and 4th after having a couple of days where I felt a little wired and like I might be getting close to borderline anxious. I didn’t feel that way yesterday, although my heart pounded because I was active while tired. I wonder if having more thyroid in me could be the cause of why I’m up for 18 hours more often these days but I don’t know. I’m going to start keeping track of that on my calendar and see if I see a pattern.

My biggest concern right now is all the fatigue I’ve been having. It’s so bad so often. Tom says he doubts the sleep apnea is causing it because he believes I would have tolerated the mask if I really needed it, but I disagree. More than half the people can’t tolerate it, and it isn’t that they don’t need it. I hope to hell he’s wrong because if it isn’t the sleep apnea causing my fatigue, that doesn’t leave many other possibilities and what it does leave is rather grim. It would likely mean I’ve either got something going on that we don’t know about, or more likely, I have chronic fatigue.

Yesterday I realized I hadn’t snored myself awake in a while and wondered if that was because I stopped snoring or was no longer flipping onto my back in my sleep. But then last night I woke myself up snoring, and yes, I was on my back.

Got a bunch of dreams to catch up on. There was one dream where I had cleaned the honker’s house in the past and was thinking of messaging him to ask if he wanted it cleaned that day.

In another dream, I was telling the honker I missed the West.

Then there was one where Scot and I were FB friends.

Then there was a quick dream about a doctor inspecting my legs, and being a tween or teen and skipping school. Only my real father wasn’t my father. Instead, it was a violent drunk who was asleep, and I dreaded what he might do if he woke up and caught me playing hooky.

In the last dream, we were house-sitting for Mary (Miss Perfect) and Dave. The house was filthy, cluttered and smelly.

Tom slept on their bed which was a full-wave waterbed and I slept on their lumpy couch. After a horrible night’s sleeping on something so uncomfortable, I lay down on the water bed and found it to be luxuriously comfortable. The water swished back and forth longer than I remembered my old one to do after I stilled myself. Instead of being annoyed, however, it gently rocked me to sleep.

Then I was hungry, but there was no food in the house.

“She doesn’t cook her own food,” Tom told me, and I remembered how much of a McDonald’s queen she always was. Wonder if she still is in real life.

Then I discovered ants running around the place for the second time and shouted from the bedroom to Tom in the other room that I didn’t think I could stand to stay there much longer.

He came running in and said, “Shh… They’re home early because Mary broke her arm.”

I stepped up to the doorway and looked into the living room. Sure enough, Mary was standing only a few yards beyond the door talking to Dave and I worried that she may have heard me.

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narcissa-black-supermacy · 2 years ago

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Lethe!

Hey nonny, I answered this here for more details. Lethe is my current WIP, a canon-divergent Jegulus dark fic set in a timeline where Voldemort wins the First War.

And since you all seem to be so interested, here's another snippet from a future chapter:

“Here you go.”

James’ eyes glance up from his plate to find Regulus lowering himself onto the chair across from him, then looks at the object placed in front of him on the table.

“What is it?”

“You wanted glasses.”

James looks at it - it’s a brown rectangular leather case, innocently winking at him from the centre of the table in between them.

“You didn’t ask for my number.” James says with a frown.

“Minus four point two in nearsight and plus two in farsight.” Regulus recites right away. “Correct?”

James blinks at him. “How did you know?”

Regulus just shrugs in response. James supposes he does not really need to give him one, he probably asked Sirius, or if he is willing to think about the less pleasant possibilities, took it out of the thick information folder he undoubtedly has on each of them in the Death Eaters’ archives.

James pushes aside his plate and picks up the case. He pulls out the glasses and turns them over in his hands, his eyes going a little wide the more he takes in their appearance. They are round, with a thick black frame, almost completely identical to the ones he used to have before, the same ones that his parents got him when he was eight and they figured out that he could not read anything off the list on the fridge while sitting at the table, and has never changed them since.

He is probably staring at them for a little longer than he should, because suddenly Regulus is reaching over the table and snatching the glasses out of his hand. He unfolds the temples and leans forward to carefully slide the glasses up his nose. He pulls out his wand and points it at the glass, murmuring a spell under his breath to adjust the tips of the temples and the bridge to fit perfectly against the shape of James’ face.

“You look a little more like yourself now.” He says, a strange kind of expression on his face as he watches James closely.

#my writing #lethe #tagging games #asks #jegulus #james x regulus #james/regulus

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uppastthejelliclemoon · 2 years ago

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17, 21, 22 for the weird asks?

are you farsighted or nearsighted?

nearsighted, i absolutely cannot see faraway for SHIT lmao

i've had glasses since i was in fourth grade, and my eyesight is just... so bad. like, rn my computer is less than two feet away from me while i'm typing this, and if i take my glasses off, everything becomes blurry 😭😭😭😭

something you’ve kept since childhood?

a few things!!!!!

my grama gave me a Pillow Pet when i was like eight, and i still have it and sleep with it every night bc it's my comfort plushy

i also still have my absolute favorite teddy bear that i got when i was three for my birthday!!!! she's from build-a-bear, her name is Purple, and when she was new, she had the prettiest, sparkliest purple fur, and i slept with her every night until she literally started to fall apart and i was sewing her back together!

what type of person are you?

i think i'm a very welcoming/friendly person, though it definitely takes a little while before i really warm up to someone!

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cagestark · 5 years ago

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Could you do a divorced!starker prompt? They meet each other some years after their divorce... I really don’t have a plot for it? lol I just wanna see them falling in love again after an angsty split up, pwease 🥺

Hope this works!

Warnings: sex, addiction mentions, overdosing. Tony and Peter are both 38.

Read here on AO3.

“Thirty-eight years old,” Peter mutters under his breath, glaring at his reflection in the mirror. “And I still don’t know how to tie a tie.”

Ned appears over his shoulder, a familiar warm presence. It’s been nearly fifteen years since Peter moved away to California, only seeing Ned for the odd weekend during the holidays or their weekly Skype sessions, but some things never change. Their friendship is one of them: something forged in fire and made invincible, but for all its strength, its still so soft. “Here,” he says. “Maria taught me years ago.”

“I wish she could have made it tonight,” Peter says. Ned’s wife of ten years is a lovely woman with the darkest skin he’s ever seen. When Peter visits New York, he often stays with them in their apartment, sleeping on the couch only to wake up to her in her mint colored bath robe telling him that breakfast is ready and coffee is waiting.

Then again, maybe it’s a good thing she isn’t there. As selfish as it is, tonight he is glad to have all of Ned’s attention on himself.

Maybe it will help him stay out of trouble.

“I wish she could have made it, too,” Ned admits, taking Peter’s tie and maneuvering it expertly into a Windsor knot. “But she’s showing some couple a house upstate, and she wants to be there early. I told her I’d send her a selfie. You’ll have to get my good angle.”

“She thinks all your angles are good.”

“Well, she’s farsighted.”

“Barely. She doesn’t even wear glasses—”

The bantering comes easy to them. It always has. It distracts him from the thoughts of what’s coming tonight, of his reflection in the mirror, of what his former classmates will think when they see him. The eyes are the same, with some extra lines around them. His hair isn’t as thick as it was in high school, but it’s certainly not thinning. His physique is mostly unchanged, though he isn’t running anymore eight minute miles. It’s hard, getting older. And what does he have to show for it? Yes, he’s successful in his field. He doesn’t have to worry about money (much). But there is an emptiness in his house in Palo Alto, one that echoes. It echoes inside him.

“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you,” Ned asks in the cab.

“Who?” Peter asks. Like he doesn’t know. He gives up the gimmick almost immediately, shoulders sagging. His gut feels full of snakes, twisting and squeezing the breath out of him. If he weren’t sitting down, he’s afraid his knees might knock together. He hasn’t been more scared of anything in his life—not moving across the country, not changing careers, nothing.

Nothing except seeing his ex-husband, Tony, for the first time in fifteen years.

“He’s going to be there,” Ned says calmly. “He already mentioned it to the tabloids. I called the school ahead and they said that they’ve got increased security just because of him. He’s definitely going.”

“Of course he’s going,” Peter mutters. “He’s Tony fucking Stark. He’s a billionaire. Why wouldn’t he go back to his twenty-year high school reunion.”

Ned is unphased in the face of Peter’s sarcasm. He reaches out to take his friend’s hand, both their palms sweaty. They haven’t held hands in years, not since they were just kids in high school, but Peter squeezes and squeezes and doesn’t ever want to let go.

“I’m scared,” Peter admits.

“Are you going to make a move?” Because of course Ned knows. Peter has never explicitly stated that his biggest regret—the thing he thinks about during every lull in his day, the thing he lies awake at night lamenting, what he wishes he could take back every time he tosses a penny into a fountain—is divorcing Tony.

They were high school sweethearts. When Tony moved from Malibu to New York in their sophomore year, there was animosity between them, both competing for the top spots in their class, both on the decathlon team, both filling out forms for the same scholarships their senior year. It only made sense that their animosity morphed to a tension of a whole different sort. Tony was beautiful, was clever and smart, so kind-hearted…so flawed.

But freshly eighteen, already committed to going to the same college together, Peter could only see through rose-tinted glasses. They married with only Peter’s aunt there at the courthouse to give her blessing (and her blessing came in the form of many warnings—you’re so young, Peter, I hope you know what you’re doing). Then their time spent in university was tumultuous at best.

Tony drank too much. There were a few incidences with cocaine that made the older boy aggressive and even more pig-headed. Mostly, it was the arguing. Tony’s instincts to lean towards stoicism and sarcasm in the face of emotion and turmoil made Peter feel more alone than ever in his own on-campus apartment. What had they been thinking? Neither of them was mature enough for marriage. Tony especially, Peter would think, noting his empty seat during the morning lectures, knowing that his husband was back at their apartment sleeping off his latest binge.

So, he went with his aunt to begin the annulment process. The judge was sympathetic and granted it. Peter Parker-Stark became Peter Parker again. He moved apartments, stopped answering Tony’s texts, sat on the other side of the room during the classes they shared together. It wasn’t easy. If anything, Tony’s behavior grew more reckless, which was hard for the younger man to ignore. There was one night when Peter got a call from the emergency room that Tony had overdosed, and Peter was still his emergency contact. He sat by his ex-husband’s side until the sun came up and he began to stir. Peter had left before Tony could wake, stopping by the front desk to tell the nurse to remove his contact information. He wouldn’t watch Tony kill himself—couldn’t.

After that, Tony got the hint. He stopped texting. He stopped making sad eyes at Peter from across the room. He stopped trying to corner him in the hallway after their lectures ended. While it was what Peter had wanted, it still made his heart ache, heavy. There was no winning. There was no clean break. Everything hurt.

Sitting two rows behind him at their graduation was the last time Peter saw him. In person. After that, all of his Tony-sightings were via the news: newspapers sold by vendors on the street, magazines beside the checkout at the store, interviews on television. Tony had always been brilliant, always had dreams of starting his own company. Peter had just never thought he’d be able to shake his addictions and do it.

For a long time, it seemed like he was able to manage both. Every other article seems to portray Tony as a partying playboy, different men and women on his arms every night, arrested once for possession of marijuana. But Tony never crashed and burned the way Peter had been so afraid of. Even after Peter had move away from New York (away from Tony, away from the huge tower in Manhattan that had his former last name emblazoned on the side), he’d kept track of Tony in the news. Seven years ago, he committed to rehab, and when he got out, he’d done more than turn over a new leaf. He’d abandoned that tree altogether.

Peter couldn’t help it. Alone in his condo one night, eating leftover take-out alone, he’d realized: leaving Tony had been the biggest mistake of his life. Every interview charmed him all over again, every smile cut as sweetly as it cured him. The passion in his ex-husband was visible, and he was doing it, living his dream, changing the world. So many nights he thought of trying Tony’s old number to see who might pick up. In a box in his closet were letters, apologies, pleadings, still in their envelopes, unlicked and unsent.

“I can’t make a move,” Peter says, feeling tortured. “I know what that looks like. Trying to get back together with him now that he’s on Forbes Wealthiest.”

“Does that have something to do with it?” asks Ned.

Peter is ashamed to feels tears burn at his eyes. “I remember when we sat on the floor of our apartment because we had no furniture. I remember eating ramen and rice for three meals a day until we both found jobs. I loved him, then. It’s not about the money.”

Ned squeezes his fingers. When the cab turns into their school lot, filled to the brim with cars, they slide together a little in the backseat, and Ned is a warm, solid presence beside him. Suddenly, Peter wants a hug, more than he’s wanted anything. Instead, he just squeezes back.

There is heightened security. There are paparazzi, real life people with cameras standing around. And Tony is already there, his car a sleek, sexy thing, obscene outside their simple high school. The cab drops them off and Peter pays with shaking hands. It’s something out of Alice in Wonderland, being back here after so many years. Things have changed—the school’s roof is a different color. The parking lot has been paved, finally. But it’s still the same place. They’re the ones who have changed.

“Ready?” Ned asks.

“No,” he says. They go in anyway, shifting through the crowd which is only there for Tony. They have to show their ID’s to get in, and Peter is already seeing familiar faces: shapes different, hair different, but features so similar. Voices the same. The old decathlon team is there and they freak out to see Peter, even Flash, who was only ever shit to him.

Peter shakes his hand anyway. It’s been twenty fucking years. Plenty of time for Flash to have changed.

The auditorium is decorated scantly, but classy. It’s preferable to the way Peter remembers their school dances being: all strobe lights and music so loud it was impossible to hear each other. His eyes scan the room, but there were so many people in their graduating class (and Tony is, admittedly, short) that Peter can’t spot him right away.

“Drinks?” Ned asks.

Peter nods. Across the room are a series of white-clothed tables with finger foods and drinks. They fill their plates with grapes and cheeses and shrimp cocktail and all manner of other things, laughing at the pile of food they’ve accumulated. Sporadically placed around the platters are framed pictures—outtakes from their yearbook, most likely—and they laugh so hard that tears fill Peter’s eyes at the picture of Flash taken at the prom afterparty wearing nothing but his vest and pants. The afterparty was held at the school also and an alcohol-free zone. That hadn’t stopped plenty of teens from drinking on the way there.

Their class president accosts them before they can sit down, giving them nametags and markers to write with. For the sake of irony, Peter considers writing his name down as PENIS, but really. He was grateful if no one would remember.

“Peter,” Ned says, lowly, pressing his nametag into place on the breast of his shirt. “I see Tony.”

“Where,” Peter breaths, marker shaking in his hand. He keeps his head ducked, staring at the table. He can’t look up. He just can’t.

“He’s—oh. Oh, Peter. He’s coming over here. Okay. T-minus ten seconds, I’d say. What should I do? Should I tackle him? Should we run? Peter, I—oh.”

Peter can feel him. Tony has always had a presence about him, a tangible aura that follows him around the room. For the first time in fifteen years, it washes over Peter like ocean tide slipping over his head. He feels it from his crown to his heels, goosebumps raising along his arms, hairs standing on end. It’s a Tony-sense.

A tanned hand enters his vision. There are more scars on the knuckles than there used to be, but he knows those hands. He knew them intimately. Those hands used to take him apart after a long day in classes, used to edge him for ages during finals when he was already wound up tighter than a spring.

“Hey, Leeds. Looking good. I think some friends of mine are being shown a house by your wife tomorrow.” The voice is the same, maybe a little deeper, rough and fast. It makes Peter shiver. He watches Ned shake hands with Tony but can’t cock his head up to take the man in.

“Oh, you’re friends with the Romanovs? The house is killer. Maria showed me some pictures.”

“Natasha talks about it all the time. Don’t tell your wife this, but they’re already pretty sold.”

“Jokes on you,” Ned says, whipping out his phone. “I’m going to tell her anyway.”

They laugh. Peter can’t avoid it anymore, can’t stare at his own hands like an idiot. He turns, tilting his head up.

He knows how Tony looks. Last week, the guy did a segment on Good Morning, America for fuck’s sake. He isn’t so different, has hardly changed, to be honest. He looks so good that it hits Peter all over again, he let this man go. He feels that stinging in the back of his eyes that warns him he is on the verge of tears, presses his lips together even as he sees Tony smile—he has more laugh lines, ones that Peter didn’t give him.

Peter holds out his hand, trembling, hoping to God that he doesn’t burst into tears. Tony stares at it for a long time before taking it—and pulling Peter up and out of his chair.

“Can I hug you?” Tony asks warmly. “Are we there yet? Can we get there, quickly? Because, not to be soft, I’m really craving a hug right now.”

Peter laughs wetly. He nods. They hug. Tony is barely an inch taller, definitely broader through the shoulders though. His suit feels silky against Peter’s skin, and he smells so fucking good. Cologne. Something expensive and familiar. The same cologne he got Peter for Christmas their first year together. He digs his fingers into Tony’s back, pressed flush together from chest to shin. It’s hard not to fall back into their old dynamic. In this man’s arms, he feels small and soft and cherished.

“It’s okay,” Tony says softly. “It’s okay. Okay?”

Peter nods. He doesn’t know what’s okay, because nothing feels okay, except for this moment. This singular moment, when Peter clicks back into place with the neighboring puzzle piece that he left behind so many years ago.

Tony lets the hug go on far longer than is platonic. Except for the lack of swaying, people might have mistaken them for slow dancing.

“Now might not be the time,” Tony says into Peter’s neck, warm breath fanning over him. “But I texted you a few times, oh, a decade and a half or so ago, and you never got back to me. Like, what gives?”

Peter shakes his head. Tony pats his back, right between his shoulder blades, and hums—a warm sound that reverberates through Peter’s entire body. “I’m only kidding,” he admits. “Water under the bridge, Pete, I hope?”

Pete. God. He pulls back, a hand on Peter’s shoulder, and there isn’t any hope that Peter will be able to school his face. None at all. He must look tortured, on the verge of tears, years of regret that he will never be able to reverse. So much pain, and some anger too, because Tony became the man that Peter wanted, only years, years late.

“Want to walk with me?” Tony asks. His eyes flicker to Ned. “That okay, Leeds? Pete and I will go and see the locker that Thompson used to shove him in. Pay our tributes.”

Ned exchanges looks with him, unsubtle question written on his face. Peter smiles shakily, nods. “Just don’t check to see if he still fits.”

Tony keeps a hand on his back, escorting him out. The warmth sinks right through Peter’s shirt, down to his skin and deeper still, to his bones and his aching heart. This might be all he gets, the last interaction with Tony, the last touch, the last looks. What he gets tonight will have to hold him over for the rest of his life.

Tony leaves behind his security while they walk down the hallways, shoes soft against the tiled floors. It smells the same, and if he weren’t just a little taller, he’d be seeing everything exactly the same. Remembering it. The squeaking thunder of shoes as students filled the hall, the slamming of locker doors, the raucous discussions and laughter.

When he glances over, Tony is staring at him, a soft smile on.

“What?” Peter asks when Tony’s smile blooms.

“Just—you couldn’t have made it easy on me? Became hideously unattractive, or something? God, Pete, you haven’t changed at all.”

“You have,” Peter says. His mouth has always worked a little faster than his brain.

“The crow’s feet? They’re my curse.”

“That’s—that’s not what I meant. Come on, Tony,” Peter says, bumping their shoulders, feeling twenty years younger. There are butterflies in his stomach again. Maybe between AP chem and Shakespearean Literature, he’ll catch a glimpse of Tony in the hallway, a split moment that could make his entire day. “You know you look great.”

“Yeah?” Tony asks. He sounds sincere. “Not going to lie. It feels damn good to hear you say it.”

“So modest,” Peter teases.

“That’s one thing that hasn’t changed,” admits Tony. He stops to rest against his old locker, leaning against it. These days, he wears tinted glasses, but they are off and hooked in the breast pocket of his suit. He’s styling his hair differently these days, but it works for him. Everything works for him. “Tell me what you’ve been up to. How’s California?”

“It’s—” awful. Lonely. “—great. I’m making security software for companies who want to stay ahead of cyber-attacks.”

“I keep up with your work.” Tony’s expression is unbearably tender and fond. “It’s impressive, but I expected no less from you.”

“Tony,” Peter whispers. “Tony, I know this is years too late, I know that you’re successful and happy and there’s no reason to bring up the past. But I just need to say that I’m so sorry. I’m sorry that I didn’t have more faith in you, in the man you could be. You were—and I just—left. I’m so sorry.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” asks Tony. He pushes away from the lockers and comes to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Peter. “I’m not holding any grudges. I was a fucking mess in college, Pete. And for many years after. The things you caught me doing—I’m ashamed to admit that was only the half of it: the drugs, the drinking. You were the only thing that kept me together—”

“I know,” Peter laments. “And then I just left you—”

“It wasn’t your job. Come on, where’s the smart man I knew? You should know this. You can’t make a person change a moment before they’re ready to, and you’re not obliged to wait around in the meantime. Keeping me together wasn’t your responsibility.”

Peter’s face crumples. It’s more than he expected to hear after all these years—he was so afraid that Tony would be angry, would blame him, would rub in his face how far he’s come and how it is no thanks to Peter. The relief he feels at knowing Tony forgives him (or doesn’t think there’s anything to forgive) almost staggers him. But that’s only half the burden Peter carries.

“I wish I’d held on longer,” he admits. He can’t even look at Tony, the warm solidi presence by his side. He stares down at their shoes, dark and shined enough that they can see their faint reflections in them.

“I’m glad you didn’t. I was hurting us both. I wasn’t any good for you.”

“And now?” Peter asks.

“Now what?”

“Now, are you good for me?”

Tony turns until he has one shoulder braced against the lockers, all of his attention on Peter. No questioning that it’s a heady thing, a physical, tangible feeling, being under those dark eyes. He shivers all over with it, skin prickling, craving—“What are you asking, Pete?”

Peter shakes his head. He can’t say it. Can’t be rejected, even though he deserves it, after the way he rejected Tony all of those years ago. Tony reaches out and Peter flinches even though Tony is the gentlest man he knows, never raised anything more than his voice to him even in their most heated arguments. Warm fingers brush his chin, coax his head to turn and make eye contact.

“My therapist says that communication is key,” Tony says, the corner of his mouth drawn up. “Ironic, considering that I barely spoke a word to him for our first three sessions. Talk to me. We were no good at this back then, and we’re too smart for that. Let’s be good at it now.”

“You’re right, I just—I. I follow your work, too,” Peter ends, lamely. His eyes are wet, lips trembling even as he smiles. “I always have. I can’t stop.”

Tony groans. He reaches out for one of Peter’s hands and laces their fingers together. It’s been too many years—they don’t fit the way that they used to. But maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe this is something that they will have to relearn. That they will have the chance to relearn. Tony brings Peter’s hand up and presses his lips to the knuckles, facial hair brushing the skin. It’s the most chaste, platonic affection, but it takes Peter’s breath away. Then he turns Peter’s hand over, wrist up, and presses a kiss to his pulse. Surely he can feel it hammering away under his lips.

“You want me, Pete?” Peter nods, eyes closed to savor the way Tony’s lips brush his skin as he speaks. Then all at once, they are gone. When he slits his eyes open, Tony is watching him, serious. “I don’t want a fling. I don’t want a one-night stand. You were my one that got away—and unless you don’t want this—I’m not letting you go ever again.”

“How, Tony?” Peter whispers. “I live in California, you live in New York—”

“We’ll take it slow,” says Tony. He’s always been quick on his feet, and the picture he paints for Peter is everything he needs to hear. “Texting. Phone calls. Skype. And if things go well—and I want them to go well, Pete—I’ll fly to you or fly you to me and we’ll go out for the weekend. And if things go very well—and I want them to go very, very well—”

Peter laughs. “I get it, I get it—”

“Then we’ll figure things out. I’m flexible. California doesn’t have a SI headquarters yet, which I’ve always personally thought was such a shame. You could come to New York, too, if you want. Lots of companies here are vulnerable to cyber-attacks. I’m willing to stage a few myself, if it means you’ll have work—I’m joking, honestly, only a joke. God, I’ve missed that look on your face.

“And if New York doesn’t sound good? Pick a place. Any place. We can meet in the middle. We can leave the country. If it goes well.”

“And you want it to,” Peter finishes. He presses his palm to his mouth to smother his smile, but it’s no good. There’s no hiding it. “I want it to, too.”

They kiss, and it’s better than coming home. Peter’s home is an empty, lonely thing. This is warm, and soft, and so tender that it makes him ache from his chest right down to his groin. He brings up a hand to smooth over Tony’s cheek, down the curve of his neck, over the soft collar of his dress shirt. Tony coaxes his mouth open, licking softly and sweetly. He tastes faintly of some brown liquor, scotch or whiskey or bourbon.

All at once, their kisses change from a sampling to the desperation of two drowning men. Peter feels surrounded, overwhelmed in the best way. All of his senses are alight, signals jammed by the interference of Tony: facial hair and liquor and cologne and soft silk ties and the hot bulge below Tony’s leather belt, the one that presses against his own because Peter’s hips jut forward gently.

“I missed you,” Tony says when they come up for air. “I missed you, I missed you, I missed you so fucking much.”

Peter whines. He grabs at the lapel of Tony’s suit to urge him closer. Tony turns them so that he can press Peter into the lockers of their youth, bracing one thigh between his open legs and rutting against him, tilting his head to mouth hotly at his neck. Peter gasps, keeps his eyes half-open to watch the other end of the hallway and make sure no one comes looking for them.

“Missed everything about you,” Tony says. His voice is wrecked, and Peter thinks he might be on the verge of tears. When he pulls back, he sees the slightest redness around Tony’s eyes, the sheen of unfallen tears. “Look at me, Pete. I need to say—I didn’t do any of it for you. You know that, right? My sobriety, my therapy. It wasn’t for you. It was for me. Because I was tired of being the kind of man who let other people down. Who let himself down. I didn’t think I had a fucking snowball’s chance in hell getting you back, you know that right? If this goes south between us again…and I don’t want it to, but if it does? It will hurt like hell. But I will be okay. I want every day you spend with me, every phone call we share, every meal, every glance. I want it all to be because you want to talk with me, dine with me, look at me. Does that make sense?”

Peter nods. He reaches up to rub his thumb tenderly against the soft skin between Tony’s eye—it comes away only a little damp. “How could it be anything else?”

They kiss again. It’s fifteen years overdue. The library fines they must have accumulated would be incredible. They’re insatiable, eighteen years old again, spending their ‘wedding night’ in a motel 6 with candles that Tony bought at the local dollar store, ones that make the room smell like fresh cotton linens and that cast the room in a whole yellow glow. It wasn’t the first time they’d made love, but God it had been good. They’d nearly burned the room down, in more ways than one.

“Tony,” Peter groans, cock aching. He wonders about the car in the lot that belongs to Tony, whether the seats go back far enough for them to properly enjoy themselves. He thrusts his hips, desperate it a way he hasn’t been for anyone or anything in years. “Please,” he asks, not knowing what he’s asking for.

“You know I have you,” Tony says, biting at Peter’s throat. “You know I always have you. Come on, come here.”

Tony tugs him gently down the hallway. The first classroom they come to—AP Chemistry, or at least it was 20 years ago—Tony tugs on the handle and it opens. They duck in.

It’s still a chemistry classroom, the lab tables neatly arranged in rows. There is the faintest scent of cleaners and chemicals, a sinkful of glassware that some student didn’t put away. Tony and Peter had shared this class, Peter sitting at the front and Tony at the back. They don’t choose either of those lab tables, instead settling nearest to the door, unable to make it any further before Tony hoists Peter up onto one of the black, glossy tables.

“Can’t get enough of you,” Tony says, pressing Peter back so he can untuck his dress shirt from his slacks, push up the undershirt and mouth at Peter’s abs. They aren’t as defined as they were twenty years ago, but Peter is proud that there is still definition left, and plenty of strength beneath that. “God, you’re perfect. Still so perfect after all this time.”

“Tell me you’ve got a condom, lube, something—”

“All of the above, baby, be patient with me.”

Peter sits up abruptly. He threads his fingers through Tony’s hair and pulls gently until the other man gets the idea and leans back, their eyes meeting. “I’ve waited long enough, I think.”

Tony softens. Peter hasn’t seen such a serene, fond expression on his face since they were married. This side of Tony doesn’t exist in the tabloids. It fills up all the empty parts inside of him that gaped for so many years. But there’s another empty part of him that he’d like Tony to fill. ASAP.

“Undress,” Tony says firmly. “Just what’s necessary. Don’t want to get caught with anything more than our pants down, do we?”

“Don’t want to get caught at all,” Peter says snidely, opening his belt to leave it hanging at his sides while he unbuttons and unzips his dress slacks. He wrenches both down just as far as he needs to, rolls so that his stomach is pressed against the chilly lab table. He feels a moment of shyness, anxiety, but then Tony is pressing a reverent hand against his flank, rubbing soft skin with a tender thumb.

“God,” Tony says, wrecked already. “You’re a gift. I don’t know if I deserve you, Pete, but I’m willing to spend the rest of my life trying.”

“You can start by fucking my soul out of my body,” Peter says pressing his feverish cheek against the lab table. He’s smiling though. He’s missed this so much, the banter, the connection. The sound of Tony’s belt is loud in the room, the rustle of fabric deafening to Peter’s senses which feel dialed up past their limit. Tony reaches out to pull a stool from under the lip of the lab table, gently lifting Peter’s leg up to fold and rest on it. In this position, he’s spread wide open, the perfect cradle for Tony to fuck up into.

The first touch of Tony’s lubed fingers has Peter groaning. Tony has always been good at this, and the years have only given him more experience. He is gentle but relentless, massaging Peter’s rim, pressing in with a single twisting finger, then two, the stretch making Peter gasp and press back, urging Tony in to the knuckle. Tony fucks him with his fingers for several long minutes, leisurely, like they have all the time in the world. Peter knows not to rush him; this is Tony’s favorite part. Taking someone apart. Turning him into a leaking, whining mess.

“Think you’re ready, Pete?” Tony asks. “Think you can take my cock?”

“I know I can,” says Peter. “But are you ever going to give it to me?”

Tony spanks him lightly after pulling his fingers free. Then there is something larger, blunter, hotter at Peter’s opening and he lets himself go soft, opening up. It’s been so long since he’s bottomed for someone, but he remembers what to do. He’s so relaxed that he can’t even groan, just lets all the breath slip out of him as Tony presses in, gentle but insistent, until he’s bottomed out.

“How do you feel even better now than you did all those years ago?” Tony asks through his teeth. He leans down to bite at Peter’s shoulder through his shirt, just the soft press of teeth. Peter whines, panting, squeezing down around the cock inside him just to feel Tony jerk and bite harder. “Are you ready, Pete? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Ready, I’m ready, give it to me—”

Tony does. God, he does. He remembers just how Peter likes it, too, soft, long, deep thrusts that the younger man can feel so deep it’s in his fucking throat. Merciless, Tony thrusts into him again and again and again, pressing firmly along Peter’s prostate, every inward thrust accompanied by a jerk of Peter’s cock where it’s dribbling onto the tiled floors.

“You want to work your cock, baby?” Tony pants. “Or you want me to? Feeling lazy?”

“You, you,” Peter gasps. He’s not feeling lazy—he’s feeling alive and awake and invigorated and like he’s liable to explode at any moment—but he’s also desperate to feel those rough hands on him again. Tony is obliging, reaching around to wrap his fingers around Peter’s cock and begin jerking him off in the same way he does everything: thoroughly, leisurely, efficiently. “God, yes, thank you, please Tony—”

Tony groans. “Keep talking like that and I’m going to blow my load in you, baby. You want this over so quickly? Huh?”

“Thought we were just getting started.” Peter can’t help it. He’s laughing, grinning, giddy with it. “Give me your cum, sir,” he says, playing on Tony’s old kinks. “You can impress me with your stamina next time.”

Peter thinks that’s what did it: next time. Tony’s hips roughen, thrusting harder as he nears his end, and Peter clenches his muscles to squeeze around him. When Tony cums, he wraps a gentle but possessive hand around Peter’s throat, the other hand milking Peter’s cock for all it’s worth. Peter wishes they weren’t using a condom so he could feel the hot rush of cum—but there will be time for that. Time for everything he’s been wanting again all these years.

Even after Tony’s hips slow, he stays deep inside while he jerks Peter off. Taking the hand off of his throat, Tony reaches down to cradle Peter’s tight balls and that’s it—he’s gone, spurting all over the lab table, another stool in front of him, the floor. It lasts forever, Tony holding him through the wracking spasms of his body. It’s the best orgasm he can remember having, alone or with anyone else, in years.

“Thank you,” Peter whispers. “Thank you.”

Tony turns him around, hair disheveled, sweat at his temples and softening cock still out between his legs. “What for?” Tony asks, smirking. “For the hand-job?”

“That too,” says Peter, laughing.

They clean up—thoroughly, since neither of them are interested in leaving cum behind on 12th grade chemistry desks. By the time they stumble out of the classroom, they are re-dressed, hair combed, looking (except for the flush in their cheeks) like all that might have happened in Classroom 110 was just a lengthy, tender conversation.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Tony asks. When they pass his body guard standing where they left him, the guy is struggling to keep a straight face, though he follows them without a word. “I’m thinking…Indian cuisine.”

“That place at 99 Hudson Street? Is it still there?”

“God yes, I’d have left this city years ago if otherwise.”

And in the morning when he wakes up tangled in the sheets of Tony’s bed on the penthouse floor of Stark Tower, the news has pictures of them sitting cozily in Tamarind restaurant eating lamb kabobs with bell pepper crusts and sharing tindora poriyal.

The headlines read, Reunited.

#starker #divorce #high school sweethearts #twenty year reunion #tw: addiction #tw: overdosing #cagewrites #longfic

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ravioverse · 4 years ago

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The Legend of Hilda: Lorule Warriors

Ikana Canyon

The journey to the final portal was a slow one. More and more monsters hindered the Loruleans’ progress, so each night a few members would keep watch for potential ambush in shifts. For a few nights, Ravio and the princess were awake with Ambrose, who began showing the princess the art of enchanting. With the parts that he had taken from the demons on the mountain, he showed her how to create a rod that could freeze almost anything and a boomerang that harnessed the wind. Ambrose let her keep them, since he wasn’t as skilled with those types of items as someone else could be, but she decided to give them to Ravio rather than use them herself. She trusted him to put them to good use.

Eventually, the Lorulean forces reached the edge of the portal. The cliff face that they had seen from a distance was only more imposing as they drew near, and they could hardly see the fortress itself from below. Atop the cliff, there was a massive humanoid demon who proclaimed himself the defender of this cliff and that none would scale it as long as he stood. Monsters began to swarm the Lorulean army, whom Ravio commanded to defend the archers as they attempted to bring down the demon.

Their arrows seemed to simply bounce off the demon’s armor, and he seemed unfazed by the attack. He threw a bomb over the wall, which seemed to expand to a size larger than any Ravio had ever seen. It landed close enough to the archers that they would be caught in the blast radius, and Ravio hastily threw his new boomerang at it. The wind was able to blow the bomb far enough away that it did not harm as many of his soldiers, but the blast still caused the ground to quake and pebbles to fall from the canyon walls. He wasn’t sure how many more times he would be able to get the bombs away quickly, but as the demon readied another projectile, Ravio had a new idea. When the bomb reached the ground, Ravio raced toward it with his hammer in hand. He struck it with all his strength, sending it flying back toward the top of the cliff.

As it exploded, the demon finally stumbled. Some of his armor had been blown away, which was quickly targeted by the archers. When it was finally defeated and fell from the cliff, Ambrose rushed toward it just as he had the demons on the mountain. While he seemed to search it for something, the Deku Princess flew up to see what else might be atop the cliff out of sight, but found nothing save for the distant walls of the fortress. Once she relayed the news, Avalea created a small portal from the base of the cliff to the top, which the Lorulean forces took immediate use of.

They pressed on toward the fortress. Ambrose briefly stopped Ravio and gave him a small charm, which he claimed would let him expand the size of bombs just like that demon had if he wanted to try a move like that ever again. The more Ravio thought about it, the more use he realized he could give it, and he thanked him for it. They then continued, and as they came ever closer to the fortress, they could see the main gate open and even more monsters come flooding out to meet them.

Despite the seemingly endless number of monsters they fought, eventually the Loruleans managed to enter the fortress and made their way to the innermost sanctum. There, they found the dark silhouette of a woman with glowing red eyes. She said nothing, but before they could even react, the door sealed shut behind them and the sorceress cast some sort of dark magic at the intruders. They could only watch as shadows coalesced into eight more dark figures; each reflecting one of them. Before they even had a chance to attack the sorceress, they first had to fight themselves.

Upon the shadows’ defeat, the door behind them reopened. Monsters began to enter, coming to their mistress’s aid, but so too did the Lorulean soldiers who had not been sealed inside the sanctum with Ravio and the others. The monsters continued to be occupied with the Lorulean soldiers, though the tide began to turn when the commanders reentered the larger fray, but now pressure was able to be put upon the sorceress. It was not long until the sorceress had been all but defeated; backed into a corner with no obvious means of escape.

Until, of course, she created a portal - similar to those that Avalea created earlier - and quickly slipped through it. Ravio had been about to chase the sorceress through it, but was stopped when Hilda shouted a warning and pulled him aside. Only a second later, the sorceress reappeared, along with a stone hand with glowing teal markings that crashed to the ground shortly after its appearance. The stunned surprise was enough to allow the sorceress enough time to create yet another portal and escape to some other place - since clearly her first attempt had failed - and close it behind her before anyone could follow her.

After the battle had concluded and the fortress rid of most of the monsters, the leaders of the Lorulean army gathered to figure out their future strategy. In a chamber off of the sanctum, they had discovered papers that spoke about someone called ‘Ganon’ - a name that only Hilda and Pavhalla recognized. They claimed that centuries ago, a Lorulean sorcerer had manipulated the princess into resurrecting a demon from a parallel world in order to steal that world’s Triforce. If those papers were truly the enemy’s plans, then they were certainly from Hyrule.

It was soon decided that they had to draw out the enemy and oust them from the kingdom. If they couldn’t defeat them themselves, then they would at least force them back into their own realm. Avalea, however, could not create a portal large enough to force all of the monsters through at once, so she asked the princess for assistance in that endeavor, to which Hilda readily agreed. All they had to do was figure out where the enemy had fled to this time.

With Princess Hilda’s farsight, it was not difficult to figure out. The two shadowed figures had taken over Lorule Castle, and the sorcerer Yuga was in their midst.

#legend of zelda #loz #ravio #linkeduniverse #ravioverse #tales of the heroes #lorule warriors #battler (ravio)

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chapter-master-darius · 4 years ago

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Alright, making a pinned post here.

Mun is 25, transmasc. He/him pronouns.

So, if you’re wondering how to learn about Darius and the Inner Circle, search Bio in my tags. ‘True Bio’ is the condensed version with the important stuff. I’m also mainly a mobile user. This is an 18+ blog.

If you want to see my writing in short(ish) stories, that would be the Storytelling tag.

‘Can’t Say That on TV’ is my nsfw tag.

Cats and Dogs tags are pictures of my cats and dogs. Kinda self explanatory.

OOC is also self explanatory.

The Music tag is for my little ‘theme songs’ posts. Cause I love doing that and I listen to music often.

Shitpost and Incorrect quotes are my dumbass side.

There is a Warhammer Fantasy AU I have, ‘AU bio’ tag should take you to the essentials.

I AM ALWAYS UP FOR RANDOM STARTERS! Random questions about my OCs are always appreciated aswell.

All right so this new tumblr mobile update makes searching for tags a lot harder so I’ll make the tags on this post a directory. -Addendum, i think I’ve got featured tags working, so I’m going to remove the tags on this post. If people are still having trouble please tell me and I’ll put them back. Some common but non-featured tags will still be here, as well as some common RP partners.

For any events I have running, please hit the event tag below. I’ll make sure to tag the beginning and end announcements.

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merigreenleaf · 6 years ago

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Jotober Day 3 - Roasted

Dray leaned their forehead against the cold windowpane and tried to tune out the laughter coming from a few feet away. Maybe if they glared hard enough the rain would stop. What good was fire summoning if it couldn’t dry up storm clouds? They'd had plans. Plans that involved being out there working on new choreography with their favorite long daggers, not in here listening to goofus and doofus play a board game. Every time one of them had a turn, they'd shout "here comes the hippo!" and then there would be a slam and they'd both laugh hysterically. Whether or not there was a hippo involved or if was just a dumb idea they’d come up with was moot. It was the most obnoxious game ever created and Dray wanted to be anywhere else, doing anything else. Their own wagon was only yards away, but the thought of stepping outside in that downpour for even a few seconds was less appealing than this.

"Do not be melancholy. Life is too short and you would know all on the subject of short, would you not?"

Dray jumped, banging their head against the glass. Damn Etri and his tendency to appear out of nowhere. If he wasn't always dressed like the night sky, only far less fabulous, Dray would have seen his reflection. What kind of person comes out of nowhere with a random insult? Dray rose with every intention to shove past Etri and go out in the rain, regardless of their hatred of getting wet... then caught the crinkles in the corner of Etri's eyes.

This would be a much better game than one involving a hippo.

Dray leaned against the kitchen table and smirked back at Etri. "Aww, did you get up and smack your head on every single ceiling beam just to walk over here and tell me that?"

A flash of orange pulled Dray’s attention over to the couch. Adair held a card with a four on it. A moment later Sol raised an upside down 2, unless it was a five. The cards were in Adair’s handwriting so it was hard to tell, but this better be a scoring system out of five because that joke was worth far more than a four or whatever Sol thought it was. At least if the two of them were grading the “argument,” it meant they weren’t shouting about aquatic mammals.

Etri cleared his throat and when Dray looked his way, said, "You make such use of makeup that you sneeze eyeliner."

That one didn't make any sense. On the couch were a pair of twos, held by a pair of zeros, so at least their judges agreed. "I think you mean 'bleed.' Besides, like you're one to talk. You're so goth you bleed black hair dye."

A five and what looked like... an H? Sol either needed his judging license revoked or Adair needed to work on his penmanship.

"At least I do not require a step stool to see my mirror."

Dray didn't bother to look at the score. The mirror needed defending because it was the best thing Sol had invented all year. It had lights that brightened or dimmed on verbal commands, it allowed Dray to get a magnified view with just a tap, and it held all of their jewelry in little drawers along the sides. "Excuse you, I haven’t had that problem since Sol installed a full-length mirror for me. If you'd take your ridiculously pointy nose out of a book for three seconds, you'd have noticed that. Or maybe not. Can you even see your reflection?"

Adair held up a three and made a face. "Come on, you're barely ranking 'passable' today. Was that supposed to be calling him a ghost or farsighted?"

Dray tossed a cushion at him. Adair caught it as well as to be expected, which is to say not at all, and it landed in the center of the game board. If Dray was lucky it broke the hippo. Sol would inevitably fix it, but it would take him a few minutes and perhaps by then the rain would have come to an end.

Etri nodded towards Adair, then winked at Dray. They'd never seen him do that before, but they knew exactly what he meant. Dray sauntered over to the couch and tapped Adair on the nose where the usual black smudge resided. "You're so stained with ink they could use you to print the Ordurn edition."

"Quick, Addy, what's bigger?" Sol held up a seven and an eight. So the score was out of ten after all. These two low-scorers wouldn't know a good insult if it hit them over the heads.

Or maybe they would. Adair smacked Sol with an unused nine. "You're supposed to be on my side!"

"He's usually on your side. That's because he keeps gluing himself to you." In all the excitement, Blythe had entered the wagon unnoticed. She hung her coat on a hook by the door and came over. "So why is there so much roasting going on in here? I thought I'd need a fire to warm up, but you four have it covered."

Adair wrapped one of Blythe’s knitted throws around her shoulders and grinned up at her. "Your wagon is so full of plants it's been designated a national park."

Blythe flicked him on the nose. The ink stain really did make for a good target. "That's a compliment, you dork."

Adair crossed his eyes, finally noticed the smudge, and began frantically rubbing at it with his sleeve. "I'm not very good at this, am I?"

Blythe wet a handkerchief with the water still dripping from her hair and wiped at his nose. "I'm sure no one could come close if it was a pun contest. Not that they'd want to get too close. You shed paint the way Sol sheds glitter, like a sparkly trail of breadcrumbs."

"Breadcrumbs are how I located Atair last week."

Adair clutched at his chest in mock hurt. "You, too, Etch?"

Dray could swing this right back around. "Don’t worry, Addy. You'll be able to find a certain lanky sentinel by the inky fingerprints he's leaving behind. He's been writing poetry again."

Etri didn't deny it, but he did put his hands in his pockets. Maybe that had been a low blow; Etri was self-conscious about this hobby. Dray started to apologize when Blythe nudged them. "No worse than finding you by the used matches you drop everywhere."

Oh, she did not just go there. No one made fun of Dray's matches any more than their mirror. "I don't know, maybe you should ask the trail of chastised carnies you leave wherever you go?"

Blythe opened her mouth only to be interrupted when Adair slid a card into it. It was a zero. Dray started to laugh until another zero was placed in their mouth. Not to be outdone, Sol handed Etri another. Upon closer inspection it was a letter O, but for Sol that was almost right.

Adair stood with his arms crossed in a way reminiscent of Blythe’s usual stance. "That's it. The game's over. No more playing when you get mean. No one wins."

That wasn't fair. Dray had come up with the best ones and it was Etri who had started the contest. He should have known it would go south on a day where certain people were grumpy from the weather.

Sol's voice stopped an argument before it could become more than a few bickered words. "Uh... Addy? Can you pretty please help?"

Within a few seconds he'd proven Blythe's earlier glue observation and managed to get himself stuck to half a dozen cards. Attached to his forehead was the missing ten. Adair tugged this off and handed it to him. “I changed my mind. You win, Sol.”

Sol hadn’t even joined the contest! Dray grumbled about the game being rigged and Adair playing favorites as they returned to the window. Still, rigged or not, it was a better game than "Here Comes the Hippo." Dray would reluctantly give that one a six, but only because it was the only unused card number.

------------------------- (I wish I’d had more time to clean this up because this is a fun idea. A big thanks to @ageekyreader for bouncing ideas off me and @perringwrites for the idea to write this meaning of “roasted.” I had a few people say that they want to be tagged in each day’s Jotober post, so for now I’m going to keep doing that-- assuming I get one a day finished because I’m starting to fall behind. If you’d prefer I make a master post each week with links to that week’s stories and tag you only in that one, let me know and I’ll totally do that. @lynnafred @the-gay-hufflepuff @oceanwriter @desperatlytryingtowriteabook @muffindragon227 @theguildedtypewriter @wchwriter @toboldlywrite @ghostsmooches @lady-redshield-writes @bluemartlet @reeseweston @dreameronthewind @forlornraven @pen-for-sword @shadow-maker @loopyhoopydrabbles @emptymanuscript @madmoonink @megan-cutler @thatwriternamedvolk @elliot-orion @writer-on-time @siarven @ravenpuffwriter @worldbuildingwren @hiddswritingrefs @missrobinswritings @writevevo @fannistwrites @cay--scribbles @focusdumbass @crartistic @paper-shield-and-wooden-sword @enasroterfaden @joshuaorrizonte @zofiehelen @kainablue @homesteadhorner )

#writing #writeblr #short story #inktober #jotober2018 #unexpected inspiration series #UI POV: Firedrake #UI POV: All #I know I have some tumblr stuff to catch up on from this week so I'll do that in a bit #UI POV: Dray

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slipstreamborne · 6 years ago

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Clearer with Distance (2014 fic)

rating: G summary: Donatello is almost eight before they finally find a pair of glasses with his correct prescription. Before that, the severely farsighted turtle just has to make do. His brothers do what they can to help out, even if it means reading all his boring stereo instructions to him for the millionth time. notes: 2k fluffy turtle tot fic with just a touch of angst. read at ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15006035

The box is slick underneath Donnie’s fingers, glossy cardboard unwarped by water, the corners crisp and unworn. New, or at least freshly thrown out, which for a mutated turtle scavenging the sewers of New York is basically the same thing.

His chest swells with excitement, expert fingers feeling at the seams until he finds the opening flap. The box is bulky but light—a promising combination—and rattles faintly when shaken. Definitely some twist ties loose in there. He gropes greedily inside, worming his skinny arm in between the broken pieces of protective Styrofoam until his fist closes on his prize: a thin paper booklet with staples along the binding.

“Oh no,” groans Mikey, somewhere off to his left. “He found another one.”

“Not it,” says Raph automatically; a mistake, because he’s close enough that Donnie can pinpoint him by sound even if he has trouble picking his blurred form out from the rest of the garbage heap.

“Raph!” He thrusts the little pamphlet towards what he guesses is his brother’s nose. “What’s this say?”

Shadows of hands shove him back, not hard enough to knock him over, though. “I dunno, genius. It’s dark.”

“Not that dark.” A greasy yellow glow fills the far end of the tunnel, casting crisp shadows against the brick. The light’s softer here, the edges of things increasingly smeared the closer he gets to them, but it’s bright enough that Donnie barely has to use his flashlight. It’s easier for him to spot the gleam of a potentially interesting object than sort through every washed up boot and rusted can by hand. Safer, too, as the still-thumping cut bisecting his left palm can attest. At least it’s finally crusted over and stopped oozing. “C’mon, read it for me.”

“I ain’t gonna!”

“Read it read it read it read it—”

“Hush.”

Dad doesn’t shout. Dad hardly ever has to shout, and never twice. Not so close to topside, anyway. Donnie’s mouth clamps shut obediently.

“This is not the place. Raphael will read to you when we get home, Donatello.”

Raph whines (“Daaaad, I read the last one!”), but his father holds firm, setting him back to the day’s scavenging with a single clipped command. Reassured that he’s not the one to have been assigned to the task, the soft, mostly-blue shape of Leo finally pops into view, a smear of white slashing crookedly across where his mouth should be.

“Over here,” he says, taking Donnie by the hand (something Donnie hates, but on unfamiliar territory has no grounds to object to). “Found a bunch of onions. Help me pick out the rotten ones.”

Everybody has their place within the family. If you need somebody to boost you into a high pipe or check in the shadows for monsters (Raph says that the towering white figures from his dreams with needles for fingers aren’t real, but Donnie’s not so sure), you get Dad. If you need somebody to tell you all the rules for Yu-Gi-Oh or tattle on you when you wander too far into the dark, you get Leo. Mikey’s great at farting at the dinner table and whining until you feel sorry for him when he loses a game that he made up the rules to, while it’s Raph’s job to not share when you want a turn at shooting baskets and snuggle up tight against you under the blankets when winter blows ice cold through the Lair.

Donnie’s got strong, nimble fingers and can recite long passages of Harry Potter from memory, even does a pretty good job of mimicking the voices that Dad uses, but when Leo finds a coverless copy of The Order of the Phoenix—their one missing title in the series—nobody asks him take over when Dad gets too tired to do another chapter.

It’s not that Donatello doesn’t know how to read. Dad taught him his alphabet same as his brothers, one warm hand at his elbow as he guided Donnie’s finger through the thick, ever-gathering dust of the fan room floor, tracing out the shape of each letter over and over until Donnie had every stroke memorized.

If he writes large enough, going back over each word twice with the long side of their few precious pieces of grubby sidewalk chalk until the pastel lines stand out bold against the dark concrete floors, Donnie can make out whole words. Kanji is harder, crucial, tiny strokes lost amidst the overall shape of the character, but Dad has a long scroll of poetry in oversized calligraphy hanging above his sleeping mat that Donnie has had memorized since he was three:

A lovely thing to see: through the paper window's hole, the Galaxy.

For reasons he can’t yet explain, he has no trouble at all reading the oversized text of the bulletin boards he occasionally glimpses through narrow storm drains, hungry eyes devouring every line of copy even if he lacks the context needed to appreciate the appeal of things like “semi-annual sales” and “now in theaters”.

He has never seen a star, much less a galaxy, but after some careful questioning, he doesn’t think Leo or Raph or Mikey have seen one, either.

The bigger something is, the further it is away, the easier it is for Donnie to understand.

The problem is that the things that interest him, that confound him and make him burn for more, are close and very, very small.

He gets so frustrated. So angry. It’s there, it’s right there, but he can’t—

“Please.” He shoves the stack of books into his brother’s hands. “Please please pleeeeease...!”

“Fine,” Leo sighs, even though they both know that technically, it’s Raph’s turn again. “Fine.”

There’s an old beanbag chair that Dad sewed up that’s almost big enough for two. Leo tucks his feet under him primly while Donnie wedges himself firmly against his side, long legs braced against a crack in the concrete to keep them from toppling over.

“I’m not reading you Advanced Wiring again, I know you’ve got that one memorized.” He tosses the battered book to the side with a thump. “So which’ll it be? Heating and Plumbing or Decks, Porches, and Patios?”

“Decks.” The meager collection of Time Life Home Repair and Improvement books is one of his most prized possessions. Heating and Plumbing is his second favorite, but Leo’s terrible at describing all of the diagrams. “The part about load-bearing footings.”

The book smells comfortingly of mildew when Leo cracks it open. He’s smaller than Donnie by almost half a foot, his head wobbling precariously on a neck barely bigger than Raph’s wrist, but he has a nice voice, smooth and even with an extra puff of breath behind the t sounds that Donnie finds himself echoing for hours afterwards.

“Where do you want me to start? Concrete forms or how to determine the frost line?”

“Doesn’t matter.” He hasn’t told Leo that he’s actually memorized that one, too. All of them, to be honest. It’s just that sometimes he needs something, anything, to help his brain go quiet. “Frost lines.”

Leo flips to the appropriate page, squirms until his shell is nestled more comfortably in the folds of the beanbag, and starts to read. Donnie digs his sharp chin into the hollow of his brother’s shoulder, closes his eyes, and listens.

Mikey is the best at it, despite being the least interested in schoolwork of any of them. Maybe it’s because of his blasé acceptance of his own academic shortcomings. Where Leo huffs and repeats things over and over, trying to get it perfect, and Raph storms off with a growl at the first barrier he can’t punch his way through, Mikey plunges right along unrattled no how many bumps he hits, accepting any corrections to his pronunciation with a casual shrug.

Even when the manual turns out to be written in French.

“En-lev-ez le...’ The heck is this word, bro? One of the letters is wearing a hat. ‘Buh... Booty-er?’”

“Spell it if you can’t sound it out.”

“B-O-I with a pointed hat-T-I-E-R.”

Donnie frowns, fingers retracing his steps across the condensation pump, trying to figure out which piece is most likely supposed to come off next. “I think that’s the cover for the fan.” He gives the fan enclosure an experimental pull, then a twist, then a harder, more determined pull, but it doesn’t budge. He runs his fingers around its rim, looking for the telltale round bump of a screwheads, but finds nothing. “Uh, is there a tab I’m supposed to press to make it pop off or...?”

“Maybe?” A rustle of paper as Mikey folds the directions back to look at the diagram. “Are you sure these are the right instructions for this pump? It doesn’t quite look like the drawing. That fan cover piece is a completely different shape.”

Donnie’s stomach does an anxious somersault. And he’d been so excited to find something thrown away in its original box. “I mean, a pump’s a pump, right? How different can they be?”

Half an hour later, Donnie’s managed to remove the fan cover, but not without a sickening crack of plastic and a muffled swear from his brother that tells him he broke something. Hopefully it wasn’t anything crucial. He’ll have to run some tests after he’s finished cleaning it and putting it back together, but since the pump wasn’t working in the first place it will be hard to—

The main hatch creeks open, then closed again. “Tadaima!” call two voices. Leo’s voice cracks on the last syllable, and Dad sounds tired, but pleased.

“Okaeri!” Donnie and Mikey call together, Raph chiming in faintly from the other side of the Lair. Donnie sniffs the air. Beneath the gust of sewer smell is the unmistakable odor of wet fur and back alley dumpster he’s come to associate with food.

He puts down the tools to help Dad and Leo bring in the last of the groceries—bags and bags of iceberg lettuce with browned outer leaves (his mouth waters, knowing the cool, wet crunch awaiting inside), and a box of short pull tab cans that could be either tuna or cat food. Mikey makes a pleased little chirrup as he passes him the cans, which means it’s probably the latter. Fancy Feast is his favorite.

The chore is quickly finished with five sets of hands. Leo keeps bumping into him, thin limbs still quivering with the excitement of getting to go topside. Donnie tucks his own arms close and starts edging out of the kitchen and back towards his corner of dissembled stereos, suddenly not a excited about the prospect of lettuce heart supper. He’s never been above ground. It’s too dangerous with his limited eyesight.

“Ah, Donatello. A moment more, my son. I have a gift for you.”

A large, grey-brown shape crouches before him and presses a closed cardboard box into his hands. Too large for a clock radio, too small to be a VHS player, but mostly empty either way.

“You got Donnie an iron?!” asks Mikey incredulously, crowding close on his left.

Raph huffs dismissively, but presses in close to his right. “It’s just the box, dummy.”

“Go on,” Leo says, fidgeting anxiously from one foot to another. He’s too close for Donnie to make out his expression, but his tone suggests that there’s a surprise that he’s in on, or maybe some sort of joke. “Open it.”

Something heavier than an owner’s manual is rattling around inside. Batteries, maybe, or an overlooked set of cables. Dad couldn’t have been lucky enough to find him a discarded remote.

His family looms over him expectantly as he opens the box and reaches inside. The shape of the object is bizarre: two thick, curved circles, each attached to a long, hinged piece of plastic.

Glasses. His heart sinks. He’s lost track of how many pairs he’s tried, over the years. His thumbs swipe idly across the lenses, noting with dull surprise how thick they are, the pronounced outward curve at their center.

“Try ‘em on!” Leo grabs at his wrists, pushing the glasses up towards his face. “Try ‘em, try ‘em!”

There’s a break in the bridge of the nose, he realizes as he unfolds them. Somebody’s tried to fix them with tape but not done a very good job of it. The glasses bend alarmingly as he slips them over his beak, one lens slipping down his cheek as he struggles to hold the other in place. He looks up.

The world looks very, very strange. On his left, Mikey’s familiar smudged shadows. On his right, a stranger in a red bandana peers at him through narrowed eyes, each pale green scale of his face glimmering faintly gold under the bare kitchen light bulb. In front of him, two more strangers, one skinny and green, fading back and forth into Leo's blurred shape as he bounces excitedly, the other tall and dark and covered in a thousand, million lines, each strand of drying fur casting its own shadow, blue robe speckled with tiny white and yellow stars, the pointed, black-eyed face haloed in a bristle of long, white whiskers.

He gapes, speechless.

For the first time in his life, Donatello sees his father smile.

#tmnt #tmnt 2014 #donatello #splinter #michelangelo #raphael #leonardo #stuff i wrote #turtle tots

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dikshabond · 3 years ago

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queenofangrymoths · 7 years ago

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I was tagged by @lovestruckvoltageconfessions to share 5 things I like about myself, publicly, and then send this to 10 of my favorite followers. Um, I’m still blushing from being called a favorite. .////. This is kind of awesome. I know I should be studying for that AP exam but FUCK IT.

1. My ability to read anything, anywhere, at any time, in a short amount of time. I’m a total bookworm and I’ve got a reputation for it in school. My class was once having this reading competition and a pizza party was the prize and apparently, one of the classes just scrambled and asked ‘which class has Katie?!!!!’. I read the book Gemma, which is 695 pages long, and I finished it in a day.

2. My unique eyes. I like that. To explain: my eyes are kind of weird. My left eye is nearsighted, like so bad that if I closed my other eye and started typing - I wouldn’t be able to see the words I was typing, and the other is farsighted with decent vision. I wear glasses, obviously and it’s a lot of fun when the other glasses wearers are trying on each other's glasses and mine just freaks them out.

3. My family! Can I say this? This is technically about me after all. ;P I love my mom’s family. My mom is second generation Irish and boy is she fun! I love my mother’s side of the family! We’re a bunch of firecrackers!

4. I have this freckle in the middle of the right palm. It’s probably a birthmark but I love it. I’ve never meet someone who has one like it. I also have a freckle on the knuckle of my middle finger on the same hand. Guess that’s nice too.

5. I play the violin! I love my skills in it, when I hit the right notes and actually shift fucking properly. I’ve been playing it for eight years, don’t plan on stopping!

Now the hard part....*whines* Tagging. @rhysieorbuzzard ,@urlindah @books-and-nonsense, @bookfiredragon , @fangirlshitblog101 , @thrownofglass , @youandmeandbrie , @ pinkprincesseommajin, @ skyblackthornreads,

Don’t you love it when something forces you to go through your followers and find your favorites? Because I had to do that and these ones? These one are fucking golden. HAVE FUN!!!

#about me #holy shit this is the first about me\

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96thdayofrage · 7 years ago

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In the past year, I have been asked many times to reflect and comment and commiserate on the state of our country. Each time, as I recount my own experience, I try to stress how important it is that when we doubt or disagree with our leaders we are not governed by them. We are governed by laws. When those we elect seek to subvert norms of behavior, we have rights and laws to fall back on. And, when elected officials seek to subvert the rights and laws of this country, we have lawyers, judges, and courts to fall back on. That has been our history and our journey as a nation, and it has been my journey as well.

At times like these, we need to be reminded of that journey, because, though so much of what we are experiencing today is “not normal,” it is also not new. Our situation may feel unprecedented and our course may feel uncharted, but we have been here before. I am reminded of my earliest exposure to American politics, growing up in Atlanta. In the early 1940s, there was a gubernatorial race in Georgia, where Eugene Talmadge, the governor at the time, was running for reëlection. I recall sitting in our apartment in the first public-housing project built for black people in America, and Governor Talmadge coming on WSB radio, describing the two planks of his platform, which, as I recall them, were “niggers” and “roads.” As I recall, he was against the first and for the second.

This is essentially what President Trump is saying now—except that his two planks are immigrants and jobs. He’s against the first, and claims to be for the second. The words may change, but the policy remains the same. We have been here before. When executive orders bar people from our shores based on what they look like or how they worship, it is hard not to hear echoes of Strom Thurmond on the campaign trail in 1948, insisting that even the Army could not force integration, or the cry of George Wallace in 1963, declaring, “Segregation today, segregation tomorrow, and segregation forever.” When we hear the President talk about “law and order,” or the Attorney General exaggerate urban crime rates or talk about “filth,” it is hard not to hear the growl of Richard Nixon, who used those same dog whistles. Some may call this a regression. But it may also be called the most overt recent iteration of the oppression we have long endured.

Indeed, because we have been here before we know that we will endure. When our ancestors were taken from their homes and shipped across the sea, bought and sold and bound with the chains of slavery, we endured. When the framers of the Constitution decided we were each three-fifths of a person, we endured. When the Dred Scott decision stated that a black man had no rights that a white man was bound to respect, we endured. And after the Civil War, after the Union was broken and put back together, after slavery dissolved and victory declared, when so many thought that the war’s conclusion meant the battle’s end, we endured. We endured the “black codes” of Reconstruction. We endured when the Supreme Court said, in Plessy v. Ferguson, that segregation was legal, that “separate” was fine as long as it was “equal.” We endured poll taxes at the voting booth and burned crosses in the churchyard. We endured dogs and fire hoses as we marched in Birmingham. And our history of endurance should give us faith that we shall once again endure.

But our journey also teaches us that endurance is not enough. We do not sing “We shall endure.” We sing “We shall overcome.” I am of the belief that in order to change a nation you must of course change hearts and minds, but you must also change the laws. And to change the laws you need good lawyers. Or, to put it in more lawyerly terms, “Yes, the meek may inherit the earth, but you’re going to need a lawyer to probate the will.” Lawyers were the backbone of the civil-rights movement—starting with the dean of Howard University Law School, Charles Hamilton Houston. When I was a student at Howard University Law School, I sat in the moot-court room and watched in awe as he and other giants of the movement—legends like Constance Baker Motley, William Bryant, Robert Carter, Julius Chambers, William T. Coleman, Jack Greenberg, Oliver Hill, Elaine Jones, Thurgood Marshall, Robert Ming, and James Nabrit—prepared their arguments for the Supreme Court. At breaks during their dry runs, as they huddled together, my classmates and I would stand close by, just to hear what they were saying. Standing in proximity to them was part of our education and my inspiration.

Lawyers across the country—like Wiley Branton in Arkansas, Chambers in North Carolina, Vernon Crawford in Alabama, Don Hollowell in Georgia, and Avon Williams in Tennessee—all contributed to the movement. Just eight weeks after my graduation from Howard Law School, I travelled with Hollowell to a small town in rural Georgia called Reidsville. We were there representing an eighteen-year-old black man who had been arrested, arraigned, indicted, tried, convicted, and sentenced to die in the electric chair, all in the space of forty-eight hours. The proceedings were held in the segregated courthouse of Tatnall County. Hollowell, C. B. King, and I slept in the nearest colored motel, thirty miles away. Every day, we would appear in court and plead our client’s case. Every day at lunch, the white lawyers and court officials—everyone but us—would go across the square to the whites-only café. And the three black lawyers would go to the local grocery store for sliced baloney, a loaf of bread, a jar of mustard, and a Coca-Cola, which we would eat in our car, parked in the courthouse square.

On the third day of the trial, a black woman sitting in the “colored” section, upstairs, dropped a book to get my attention. She beckoned me to the lobby, and when I met her there she whispered, “We been watching you lawyers eat baloney sandwiches for two days now. Don’t eat today. After court, come to my home for lunch.” She gave me directions. When we arrived, we saw a table set for royalty: her best silver, china, and crystal, a lace tablecloth, beautifully folded white-cloth napkins, and the most exquisite Southern cuisine I had ever eaten. Some ten black women and their husbands joined hands with us for grace. I shall never forget one sentence in that prayer: “Lord, way down here in Tatnall county, we can’t join the N.A.A.C.P., but thanks to your bountiful blessings, we can feed the N.A.A.C.P. lawyers.”

The laws that defined and circumscribed life in the Jim Crow South were warped, but it was also the law—farsighted, fair-minded jurisprudence—that gave us the tools to dismantle segregation, piece by rotten piece. And it has been lawyers who have bent that arc of the universe toward justice. The law continues to hold this extraordinary power to remake itself—to correct injustice and further justice. It is clear that, in our current fight, lawyers must continue to lead the charge. The nineteenth-century English reformer Lord Brougham spoke of the law in terms that have relevance to our day and our time. “It was the boast of Augustus,” he said, “that he found Rome of brick and left it marble; a praise not unworthy a great prince. . . . But how much nobler will be our sovereign’s boast when he shall have it to say, that he found law dear, and left it cheap; found it a sealed book—left it a living letter; found it the patrimony of the rich—left it the inheritance of the poor; found it the two-edged sword of craft and oppression—left it the staff of honesty and the shield of innocence.”

Adapted from the author’s remarks upon receiving the the Harvard Law School Center on the Legal Profession’s Award for Global Leadership at its third annual awards dinner, A Celebration of the History of Black Lawyers, held at the National Museum of African-American History and Culture on June 5th.

Vernon E. Jordan, Jr., is a civil-rights activist and a senior managing director of Lazard Frères & Co. LLC in New York.

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