#but being stuck at the compound seems to be the norm

[fromperdition4]

Okay, eleven episodes in, it's about time we ask a very important question: How do the bodyguard jobs work?

Like, look at how blasé papa Korn is here when he's admitting to - well, what exactly?

Are the bodyguards (and, presumably, all of the other staff who work for the main family) really not allowed to quit their jobs? Does Korn normally have them killed when they try to quit? Or forced into an extreme form of an NDA, like a certain police inspector...

I mean, I can understand why the mafia business would be a lifelong commitment, since the higher ups wouldn't want to take the chance of someone running to the cops/other gangs with all of their secrets...

And hell, we know from episode 2 that the main family restricts their bodyguards' connections to the outside world - only letting them use cellphones on missions, and making them use a very public (recorded) phone when they have to make a call

But then in this very same episode, we see Pete 'go home to visit his grandma' - a message 'he' sent from the very cellphone he was given for his mission - and Kinn is only perturbed about it because it felt weird to him that Pete would text instead of calling...

As a side note, Pete's grandma seems to know he works for the mafia (or else, what does she think the 'main family' is?)… Surely the bodyguards aren't allowed to tell their families what they really do for a living? (Is it just that it's Pete, and Kinn trusts him? Is that why Vegas went this route to kidnap him - knowing he's a loyal soldier to the main family - instead of making it look like Pete died in the line of duty?)

Just - where does the line get drawn with the main family bodyguards? Do they have any freedom to choose when they've had enough of this job, or did they literally sign their lives away?

[ronwestbreeze]

you're gonna go far | 7

pairing: jake sully x neytiri x tsu'tey x fem!human! reader summary: a scientist arrives on pandora (unwillingly) a year after the exile of the rda. now she must deal with the likes of a clan leader, a great warrior, and a thanator rider. . . word count: 9.5k

read on AO3

“Sully, pour that alcohol again and I will stab you.” You hissed, body flinching whenever he took the now bloodied rag and pressed it to your injured shoulder.

A faint smile flashed across his face, “S’not my first time dealing with whiny patients. You can try though.”

“Don’t challenge me, dickhead. I will do it.” You hissed which made him chuckle.

“I believe you.”

Once the blood was finally cleaned off your shoulder, he grabbed some bandages and began wrapping your shoulder up. At this point, there was an unnecessary closeness between you and Jake that you were far too aware of at the moment. He was close to the point where you could see the star-like freckles across his skin, the eyebrows that furrowed together in deep focus, and the way his lips moved ever so slightly as if he were talking and yet no words left past his lips. Just small murmurs here and there.

You didn’t necessarily mean to stare for so long. Especially not long enough for his yellow gaze to connect with yours. You were just too dazed to even gather yourself right now. Hell, your body wasn’t as guarded as it usually was whenever you were around Jake.

Fortunately for you, Jake didn’t bring attention to it. “This should hold up until you bring the body back to the compound.”

He examined your shoulder and studied your face—possibly for more injuries. In the back of your mind, you realized that this was the first time you didn’t feel as small next to Jake. Only because you were in your avatar’s body for the first time in front of Jake. It was slightly jarring to what you were used to but it brought you some type of comfort. At least he wasn’t large enough to where he could crush you as easily as a bug.

“How’d you know it was me?” You found yourself asking him quietly, ignoring the feeling of wanting to crawl into yourself with how intense and unwavering his gaze was on you.

“What?” His response came from the rumble in his chest, his tail swishing behind him slightly.

You finally leaned away from him, feeling your back pressed against the wall behind you. “For all you knew, I could’ve been a random avatar lost in the forest. How could you tell it was me?”

He seemed to get at what you were trying to imply rather quickly, “You think I wouldn’t have saved you if I had known it was you?”

“No. I think you’re a jackass not heartless.” You shrugged, bringing your knee up to your chest. Jake snorted and finally scooted away until his back hit the wall across from you. You pressed your lips into a thin line, “How the hell did I end up trapped in a shack with you of all people?”

“Ouch.” His legs were a little longer than yours, so he managed to stretch to your part of the wall. His thigh nudging yours slightly. It was a tight space. “Norm said you were pretty blunt.”

Thunder rolled by. So loud to the point where it was nearly startling if not for the quieter rumbles from earlier. The silence that settled between the both of you was both uncomfortable and tense. Like there were unspoken words that you were unaware of.

What else was there to say when it came to you and Jake? Frankly, being stuck in a shack with him wasn’t the ideal situation you wanted to be in right now. But what choice did you have?

“What were you thinking?” He then asked you with a frown. Ah, there it is. You let out a breath, your annoyance visible enough to make Jakes's scowl harden. “You could’ve been killed goin’ out there in that weather. Especially with all those fucking creatures.”

You raised a brow, “And yet, you’re here too. We both were pretty much almost killed.”

“I could’ve fought them off. I, unlike you, was trained to.” He tried hard to appear worried and pissed at the same time. It was quite impressive compared to the usual unreadable mask he always wore around you. “You shouldn’t have endangered yourself like that.”

“I don’t know whether I should be flattered or insulted you care so much.” You mumbled, taking out your now dirtied dagger and examining the dried blood on the blade. “Frankly when it comes to you, I’m deciding to go with the latter.”

Jake stared at you for a moment, a beat longer, and then shook his head with a short scoff.

Another silence settled between you. You should’ve been used to it by now, with all the times he’d come to visit the baby in the tank room. There were several instances where there was a comfortable silence between the two of you. But now?

You didn’t understand what could’ve been different. Sure, the proximity wasn’t ideal but that didn’t mean the tension had to be tripled tenfold.

Another clap of thundered shouted through the skies when you finally decided to break the silence this time, “What were those things anyway?”

Jake examined your knife—or more so the blood on it—before responding, “They call them palulukan. They’re possibly one of the most dangerous creatures here. Usually, we tend to avoid them. My first encounter with them wasn’t so pretty. You killed one, right?” Reluctantly, you nodded honestly. He sighed, “Fuck. I don’t know whether to be impressed or pissed. But I guess when it comes to you, I prefer the latter.”

The taunt was obvious—you rolled your eyes heavily at it—but you watched him for a moment. The pain in your shoulder now dwindling to a constant throb somewhat added to your now-growing irritation.

Jake noticed, “What?”

You shrugged, “You’re confusing and inconsistent. Is that only reserved for me because I’m human scum or are you always this way—”

“Human scum, huh?” Jake scoffed in disbelief. “I used to be human scum, remember? Same human scum that saved your ass—”

“But you’re not human anymore.” You said simply. A fact that Jake couldn’t deny—or accept considering the flinch he didn’t bother hiding on his face.

“That’s not…” Jake cut himself off, another wince crossing his features. “I’m always going to be human at the end of the day. Doesn’t matter what skin I wear.”

Gently, you pressed the back of your head against the wall, the sound of the rain growing louder as you did. “And you’re accepted despite that. You’re one of the people. You are their great warrior—what was it again? Toruk Makto? Did I pronounce that right?”

“Toruk Makto.” He corrected, not meeting your eyes.

“Mmm, yeah you still sound American as fuck when you say it so I’ll have to ask Neytiri.” You hummed earning a small glare from the man. You brought your other knee up to your chest while examining the bloodied dagger. It wasn’t red but black, from the palulukan. “We’re not the same, Sully. Not even the same species—”

“If I hate you, it’s not because you’re human.” Jake interrupted, running a hand over his face. Strands of his hair stuck to his forehead when his hand sluggishly ruffled his hair up a bit. “Just as I know you don’t hate me because I’m Na’vi. I’m—I’m trying, okay? Is it so bad that I’m worried for your safety out of kindness? Would you rather I continue to be an asshole?”

“We tolerate each other at most.” You reminded him, beginning to feel the exhaustion catch up to you. “I don’t need you to worry about me. I have Norm for that. Other than that, I’m a big girl. I don’t need your or anyone else’s protection. I’ve been on my own for a while now. And I’ve dealt with a lot of shit. I’m not a rookie when it comes to this, Sully.” You sat up straighter, careful not to put any strain or pressure on your bandaged shoulder. “We’re colleagues. Let's start acting like it.”

Jake watched you for a moment. His face was restrained but not intense. Back to being guarded.

After a beat he allowed a small grin to tug at his lips, “Colleagues, huh? That’s progress I guess.”

“Progress from what?” You frowned. As far as you knew, that’s always been your relationship after you settled in on Pandora.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m walking on a bunch of landmines when I talk to you, you know.” Jake shifted a bit, that was when you noticed the subtle flinch of his body from the sudden movement. Drawing your attention to his body more so than his words. “I like to know that I’m at least on safe grounds once in and while. Believe it or not, Reeds, I don’t like fighting with you all the time—what are you doing?”

You had tucked your dagger away and went for grabbing the other med kit next to you and suddenly started crawling toward Jake, close enough so you could examine his body. But Jake grabbed your good arm—the one holding the med kit—and gave you a small glare, “You shouldn’t be moving—”

“Shut up, Sully, and let me look.” He blinked but reluctantly let go of your arm and allowed you to lean just a little bit closer. Carefully, you pressed your hand around his upper body, searching for the injury. His chest, upper arms, waist—that’s when he grunted. You navigated your hand gently around his waist, your poking becoming a lot less rough, knowing that this area could be tender.

When you finally felt a warm liquid and a lump on the side of his waist, you raised your brows at him accusatorily, “So you take care of me and don’t do anything for yourself? Didn’t take you for being so hardheaded.”

From the med kit, you grabbed a clean rag and reached for the half-full alcohol that he used earlier on you—only to wince slightly when you realized you were reaching with your injured shoulder.

You ignored the slight jab in your shoulder and tried reaching for the alcohol on the table, only for your arm to be snatched away from it by Jake’s iron grasp. You scowled at him as he raised a brow at you, “And you’re annoyingly stubborn. So I guess that makes us even.” With a roll of your eye, you moved to remove your hand from his grasp, only he held firm. Jake nodded to the alcohol, “Don’t be stupid and use your other arm, Reeds.”

Reluctantly, you placed the rag in your lap, reached for the alcohol, and held it up in front of him, “Happy?”

A grunt was his only response.

After pouring the alcohol onto the rag, you moved his arm to get a better look at the wound. It was an ugly gash but manageable.

You moved to press the rag against it but Jake’s grip on your arm tightened, stopping you. “I can do it.”

Ignoring him, you pressed the rag against the wound, earning a hiss from the man., “An arm for an arm. Come on, Sully, do you really expect me to just sit back while I know you’re bleeding?” Jake studied your face. That intensity returned and yet you still couldn’t figure out what exactly he was thinking at the moment. You glared, Kind of unfair you get to read me while you close your walls whenever I do it.”

At that, his ears rose as he grinned, “You’re tryna read me?” You rolled your eyes and pressed on his wound harder, earning a sharp hiss. “Bitch.”

You ignored him and continued cleaning it. Once you were satisfied with the cleaning of it, you brought out the bandages.

While you were working at wrapping the white wraps around his waist, something gentle fluttered near your ear.

At first, you ignored it. It was probably a small fly zipping around your ear unprovoked. But your attention was focused on the white bandages so you could zone it out pretty easily. Except the fluttering happened again, this time there was a warmth next to your ear and then a small tug on one of your braids. You looked up, finding Jake examining your braid. He had this concentrated yet far-away look on his face, the braid threading through his long fingers.

There was little space between you two again. You needed to stop ending up in this position.

But you were strangely curious as you allowed your eyes to lock for that brief moment before the next thunderclap. His heavy-lidded eyes lazily scanned your face, another frown tugging on his lips.

What was he thinking about? What were you thinking about?

And why were you so fucking close to him?

Once you were finished wrapping the bandages around his waist—which was kind of surprisingly difficult with how wide his waist was—you leaned away, taking the braid with you.

“Neytiri did it.” You mumbled quietly, tucking the braid behind your ear. You gave his side a gentle pat, “You’re all good now.”

Jake straightened his body and nodded, “Thanks.”

You scooted back to your spot, bringing your knees up in front of you. Jake was still watching you, this time curiously. Maybe just as curious as you had been staring at him before. The two of you just sat there for another moment. Letting the rain fill the silence.

“When you said we weren’t the same, maybe it’s true for the most part but we do have one thing in common,” Jake started, his legs moving back up in front of him, mirroring your position. “I lost my brother. He’s pretty much the reason why I came to Pandora in the first place. Burned his body and then a week later I’m hightailin’ it to this place. Taking my brother’s place…”

You bit the bottom of your lip, “Sorry about your brother.”

He shrugged, his face guarded again, “I would’ve been pissed if I was forced onto Pandora. I would’ve been rash, I would’ve destroyed my brother’s shit if he asked me to. I would’ve grieved anyway I knew how. Like you.” He chuckled, “But because I’m such a jarhead, it took me too long to see it from your perspective. I’m sorry.”

A hum left your lips as you pulled your knees closer to your chest, “How many times are you going to keep apologizing to me?”

He grinned a little, “Til’ I stop being a jarhead.”

“Mhmm.” The corner of your lip twitched. “You are kind of one, aren’t you?”

Jake chuckled and you hid your face in your knees.

Again, it was silent.

The storm went on.

“Thank you for protecting the baby. I didn’t get to say it last time.”

You shrugged, “S’nothing. Anyone would’ve done the same.”

“Humble and an asshole. A little contradictive, don’t you think?” Jake laughed.

His laugh was infectious, you realized. Your chest was a little lighter when you heard it. It echoed in the isolated shack and rattled your ears like reluctant music to your ears. The rain brought a sense of soothing, adding to his laugh. It was, in a sense, a wonderous melody. It was peaceful.

You’ve never felt at peace before.

Gently, you tugged at your braid, “It wasn’t anything heroic. Especially on my part…my mom’s—her forest burned down just before I found out she died. She left it to me and I failed her. Can’t shake that even now. Then the tank malfunctions, the baby could be in trouble, and all I can think about is ‘Fuck, don’t let me be a failure again’. It’s not humble. It’s not noble. It's completely selfish.”

A beat went by until his foot nudged yours. “I don’t care for the why. You still saved her. That’s all that matters to me.”

Thunder rolled by again.

You pursed your lips, “You still want me watching over her?”

Jake smiled, “Yeah. She’s pretty safe in your hands.”

And then he was leaning forward toward. And then that precious space between you had suddenly left. It was just because the shack was small. That was why.

He paused for a moment, considering his wound, before leaning close enough to grab the knife from your pocket and hold it up in front of your face. “You gotta get better with this.” He grabbed your wrist—and you let him—and wrapped it around the knife’s handle, “You’re good with your right, yeah? Always keep a tight grip on it and when you aim, go for the lethal spots.” He then guided your hand to the side of his head, “Temple.” He then moved it to his neck. “Throat.” And lastly toward his left chest, “And heart. Those are just some of the basics. Angular and quick movements. You gotta be sure of your attack—if you’re not, it won’t land and you’re as good as dead.”

You nodded, all too aware of his hand mostly covering yours. Eventually, he let your hand go with a grin. For a second, you twirled the knife before tucking it back in your pocket.

“Thanks, Sully—”

Suddenly, your body went limp.

And you opened your eyes to find your link bed opening.

With a large intake of breath, you sat up just as Norm appeared next to you, “What happened out there? The storm’s getting worse and I thought you’d be sensible enough to unlink but you hadn’t! Is there a good reason for this or did you simply want one of my veins to burst?!”

You winced and rubbed your ear, “Volume, Spellman.”

“No, what the hell, Reeds?! I was fucking worried!” He let out a breath and stepped back, “And now I have a stomach ache because of you.”

With a sigh, you finally got up from the link bed. “While I’m flattered, I need that energy lowered to a minimum.”

Norm sighed and leaned against the link bed across from her, crossing his arms, “Alright, I’m calm. So, what happened?”

“You sure you don’t need a cup of tea or something? Maybe a cracker—”

“Reeds.”

Eventually, you explained the events to Norm in a brief summary. Of course, his expressions were difficult for him to control—he easily became distressed as you told him everything leading up to getting out of your avatar’s body.

Once you were finished, he was knowing on his nails, “Well, you’re certainly lucky Jake was there. And since the avatar’s safe, you need to get to bed. Like I promised, your garden’s been taken care of along with the baby. All you need to do is go to bed.”

And Norm didn’t allow room for you to argue as he ushered you off to bed.

Fortunately, sleep came easy that night. Perhaps it was the exhaustion of the storm mixed with interacting with Jake and fighting off the palulukan all crashing down onto your body once you hit the pillow.

By the morning, you immediately went to the link room after shoving down the breakfast Norm made for you, your focus honed in on getting your avatar back to base.

“Stay with Jake,” Norm told you as you got in the link bed. “He kept you alive, remember that.”

You rolled your eyes, “Yes, Dad.”

When the link bed closed, you opened your eyes to find yourself back in the shack. The throb in your shoulder wasn’t missed but at least you weren’t cold. The blanket on your body wasn’t there before you unlinked but you appreciated the warmth it brought when you woke up.

Next to you, the door was open. There wasn’t any rain but from what you could see, the sky was still grey rather than blue. Another storm would come soon.

Despite the comforting warmth, you pushed the blanket off of you just as Jake ducked inside the shack, both your yellow gazes meeting. “We should head out before another one hits.

Seemed like he had the same idea.

With no argument coming from you, you took the hand he offered you and allowed him to pull you to your feet.

It was cool outside when you stepped out of the shack. Jake went ahead while you followed close behind. You may have been flippant before with Norm but you sure as hell wasn’t going to get lost again. Jake snuck a glance at you and chuckled. You glared at him.

The two of you kept going, you at this point had no clue where you were. And your tablet wasn’t working so you couldn’t look at the map or the coordinates you were given, just to memorize them in case you needed to come back to the shack for more restocking.

In other words, you had no choice but to follow Jake in a strange silence. A silence you didn’t feel like deciphering. At least for the most part, there wasn’t an uncomfortable tension between the two of you as there usually was.

“How’s your shoulder?” Jake asked, walking over a fallen tree.

You followed, “Still hurts but I can manage.” You tilted your head while staring at his back. His muscles flexed with every movement. “How’s your waist?”

The smirk was easy to imagine as he responded, “I’ve had worse.” He glanced back at you and grinned, “Thanks, Doc.”

You shrugged, stepping over a little creek, “If you had bled out, I would’ve been stuck with a body too  heavy to carry.”

“Asshole.”

There was a sudden shuffling in the bushes, causing the both of you to come to a complete stop.

“Oh come on.” You grumbled.

“You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me.” Jake hissed at the same time.

Whatever it was, it was big and coming fat. You took out your knife and Jake brought out his machete from his chest strap.

Only seconds later a bunch of pa’li came out of the bushes, all of them mounted by other Na’vi. Which—after you finally got over the shot of multiple horse-like creatures coming at you—you realized was led by none other than Tsu’tey.

Jake relaxed. You put the knife away but remained tense.

“Ma’ Jake!” Neytiri’s voice came first. Her pa’li stopped closer to Jake before jumping off and rushing toward him. Tsu’tey followed seconds after with a bow as they wrapped their arms around each other. A clear relief settled among the three of them.

You remained where you were, maybe inched away from them a bit until Neytiri's eyes fluttered open and locked with yours over Jake’s shoulder. “Ma’ tanhi?”

“Hi, Neytiri.” You offered with a jerkish nod.

She smiled at you—like she always did with that white crescent moon—but it quickly went away when Tsu’tey also happened to notice you. He moved out of Jake and Neytiri’s arms and stalked toward you. “Tsu’tey—”

Jake tried to catch his arm but missed.

Tsu’tey now stood in front of you as he hissed, “You should not be here!”

“There was a storm.” You replied dryly and simply. His nose flared as you continued, “Hard to get anywhere when you can’t navigate it—”

“You are to stay with your kind. I told you if I ever saw you here again—”

“You would kill me? Yeah, I didn’t forget. Good thing I was doing that before a whole herd blocked my path.”

Jake appeared next to Tsu’tey, placing his hand on his chest as he tried to get between the two of you. He spoke in Na’vi, nothing you could understand. Just certain words that were familiar from your lessons.

Neytiri moved to your side and carefully pulled you away from Tsu’tey so that there was enough space between the two of you. It was a bit comforting having someone at your side like that. You weren’t completely alone here.

It wasn’t like visiting with the Tsahik for the first time. This time—this time was different, wasn’t it?

Tsu’tey lifted his chin, backing up only slightly. He pointed behind him with his bow, “There is a dead palulukan not far from here.” Jake winced while Neytiri frowned. The warriors on the pa’li didn’t react but were staring intently at you, judging you. Nothing new there. “Was that you? Is that why you are covered in its blood?”

“I’m covered in my blood mostly if you hadn’t noticed.” You glared, ignoring the look Jake was sending you. “It attacked me and got a chunk of my skin with it. What did you expect me to do—“

“‘If you hadn’t been out here, it wouldn’t have had to die.” Tsu’tey scowled. His eyes glanced toward Jake’s bandaged waist and you could’ve sworn his face turned a dark shade of blue, “And now you’ve endangered my mate with your presence here!”

Jake stepped in the way of the angry leader, his hand back on his chest. “Hey, hey, listen to me. I’m fine, okay? She was alone and I decided to help her—it’s not her fault I got injured—“

Neytiri hissed in Na’vi, stepping in front of you so that Tsu’tey couldn’t get any closer. She looked particularly fierce as she spoke. Whatever she was saying made Jake wince and Tsu’tey appear even more pissed as he dragged his eyes back to you.

“No!” He yanked away from Jake’s hold and stepped around Neytiri as he growled toward you. “You’ve done enough, demon! All you and your kind do is cause destruction wherever you go! I should’ve killed you the moment your ship landed—just like the rest of your clan!”

This time you stepped forward until you and Tsu’tey were nearly nose to nose, “Then do it.” You replied quietly. He snarled but you never broke eye contact with him. “Kill me.”

Neytiri immediately protested in their language while Jake just stared at you.

Jake had decided then that you were unpredictable.

There was still grief hanging around you. That was all he ever knew of you whenever the both of you crossed paths. Then of course there was the anger that accompanied it. But it was always a sort of rash anger, similar to how he would’ve reacted if he had the time to process his brother’s death and if he could feel his emotions without being terrified of the outcome. Without being terrified of losing focus.

You on the other hand felt your emotions. Wore them even though your face didn’t show it most of the time. Jake hadn’t seen you in your avatar body until now and he could see it more clearly. In your human form, you were able to hide it well. Be almost deadpanned and robotic.

But in this form, it was hard to hide it. This body was too expressive for someone like you. Instead of drooping down, your ears were now pinned to the side of your head. Instead of practically limp, your tail lashed behind you as you stood before Tsu’tey, the challenging glint in your eye unmistakable.

Before you had just been a shadow of yourself—even when the two of you were together in that shack—but now?

Now you appeared as sharp as a spear. The last time he had seen this was when you snapped at him the other day.

But the other times it had always been directed at Tsu’tey. As if only he could bring out this hidden side of you��one that would’ve remained cleverly hidden if not constantly forced into a corner like a wild animal.

That’s what the two of you were. You and Tsu’tey. Wild animals. Ready to pounce at any second.

Good thing both Jake and Neytiri were long used to these unpredictable creatures.

Jake grabbed ahold of Tsu’tey’s arm, this time a lot more firmly than before. “Hey, hey,” His mate finally looked at him, fortunately allowing Jake to pull him away from you. “It’s already done. Let’s just go home.”

He then looked at you. Dried blood—both red and dark—on the left side of your ear and neck, glimmering yellow eyes—a warrior’s mask.

His chest felt strangely tight at the sight of you. “Easy, alright? I’ve got him.”

You blinked, finally realizing that Jake had been addressing you. Your eyes gazed at him and then down to his now joined hands with Tsu’tey. Right, they were mates. Just as well as they were with Neytiri.

Well, you had an inkling but never gave it much thought until now.

So you backed off. Of course, you had no chance of even fighting the man anyway. But you were somewhat still high on adrenalin. You believed you could do anything at the moment. Reckless or not.

Neytiri tugged and held onto your arm, drawing your attention away from the two, “I will take you back.”

“Neytiri—“ Tsu’tey tried but the look on the woman’s face quieted him instantly.

“I will take her back.” She repeated, almost daring him to say otherwise.

Tsu’tey huffed, lifting his chin. Finally, he backed off, allowing Jake to lead him back to the warriors on the pa’li. Neytiri made some sort of a whistle sound and her pa’li galloped toward her. She took her queue, connected it with its antenna, and got on. You grabbed her hand and got on behind her.

She kept your hand around her swollen stomach as she signaled the pa’li to move.

But Tsu’tey spoke first, “Arvok will go with you.”

A pa’li galloped next to Neytiri’s. On top was a younger male. He briefly glanced at you and nodded to Neytiri. She acknowledged him well enough—which sort of told you that they were familiar with each other. Come to think of it, the male—Arvok—looked like a younger Tsu’tey as you examined him closer.

Neytiri guided the pa’li forward. Arvok followed.

You had never ridden on one of these before so unconsciously, you held onto the nearest thing. Which was Neytiri’s waist. She didn’t seem to mind it, her hand that wasn’t guiding the pa’li rested on yours to make sure it was secure around her. You glanced over your shoulder to find Jake getting on a pa’li. Tsu’tey was saying something that you could not make out by how far you were away now.

Jake met your gaze. You pursed your lips and nodded his way.

Before you could see his response back to you, the trees covered your vision of them.

The ride back to Hell’s Gate was quiet but not uncomfortable. You felt safe somewhat and familiar. Being around Neytiri had that effect on you. You were so used to her presence that you almost missed it now that you had it. It was peaceful, in a way, around her. There was a point where you almost rested your head on her shoulder, just because you were so at ease around her.

And you missed this. You missed her.

“Why did you stop coming around?” You found yourself asking casually.

You couldn’t see her reaction since you were sitting behind her. After a long pause and a subtle look your way from Arvok, Neytiri responded, “I could not come for a while…but that will change.” She looked at you from the side, “I want to see your garden and what you’ve done so far.”

And it was nice to hear. You weren’t even really mad that she disappeared. You just always assumed she got busy with her clan. And then there was the subtle bump of her stomach that you felt under your hands.

She didn’t hate you either, it seemed. Surprisingly, neither did Jake.

Just Tsu’tey, which wasn’t much of a surprise.

“I can’t wait then.” You nodded.

Neytiri smiled at that.

It wasn’t long until you arrived back at Hell’s Gate. She steered the pa’li toward the compound where your garden was and the longhouse where you could put your avatar. You slid off and walked toward the garden, just to check on it. You knew Norm said he took care of it but you just wanted to see if they were doing well—just out of curiosity and slight worry.

Neytiri followed you as you started picking at the crops. They all seemed healthy and growing well. Norm did a pretty good job—which you weren’t surprised by since he always studied the Na’vi way. If anything, as much as you liked to make fun of him, you probably trusted Norm the most with it.

It seemed Neytiri was also content with the garden too. In the corner of your eye, you spotted Arvok hanging back, watching the two of you. While he looked similar to Tsu’tey, he didn’t wear the same scowl as him. Or judgment. That probably meant he was just better at hiding it.

“This one is limp.” Neytiri pointed to one of the crops a few feet away from you. “Needs more water and sun.”

You frowned, looking up at the grey sky. “We probably won’t have any of the latter for a while. I should talk to Norm about finding some covering for the plants or else they’ll drown.”

“I will come back tomorrow with something like that,” Neytiri said, standing. She glanced back to Arvok, you watched her expectantly. “For now I must return. But there will be another storm, ma’ tanhi. Be safe.”

You nodded, your chest warm. With that, Neytiri got back on her pa’li and followed Arvok back into the forest. The sound of their gallops slowly disappearing in the wind. After staying back for a bit to check more on your garden, you finally went to the longhouse and unlinked. Feeling a lot more at ease than you usually did.

Something was assuring about this feeling. Like for the first time in a long while, you believed that things were beginning to look up for you soon. You didn’t know why you felt this way but it was nice to just feel it.

And enjoy it before it disappeared from your grasp.

After your unexpected adventure through the storm had come to an end, you were able to finally get back to a semblance of normalcy with your schedule.

With that in mind, you began tending to your garden again.

Neytiri came back the next day with a large leaf meant to cover the crops. Of course, it rained again but it wasn’t as awful as it was last time. So because of the light rain, you spent most of the day covering the crops with Neytiri as she gave you more lessons in her language. Some words were a bit familiar while others were new and harder to pronounce. She then would explain more about life within her clan, what duties the People are required to do, and other ways they get food besides gardening such as hunting.

You took in most of the information while replanting some of your mushrooms with her guide.

“I am training to be the next Tsahik,” Neytiri explained next to you while planting new mushroom seeds. “Some day I will be taking my mother’s place and rule the clan with my mates. Tsu’tey is—”

“Olo’eyktan.” You hummed.

“Yes.” She nodded contently. “He took over after my father. Jake is Toruk Makto. The great warrior who led the clans to victory against the Sky People. They are both great men.” The proud look was unmistakable in her eyes and on her face. You observed it quietly and she noticed, a soft frown now on her face. “Tsu’tey has lost a lot because of them. That is why he is hard and does not want you here.”

You nodded, “Yeah, I know.” You dusted the dirt off your hands as a thought struck you, “What about Jake? He was human once. How did they become mates? How did you become mates with them?”

And just like that, the question for some reason brought a bright smile to her face. Wider than you expected. Sure, you knew she probably loved her mates—that’s no doubt—but this much excitement was quite a lot. Maybe you just weren’t used to showing love so freely or watching someone do it.

Neytiri grabbed one of your hands and squeezed it, “It is because we love him. He is ours and we are his. Ma’ Jake saved Tsu’tey and our clan. He has a strong heart and spirit. That is all that matters. His body did not change that.”

Again, you nodded. She was pretty much confirming what you already knew about them. Well, suspected. Ever since the three of them came to declare that all three of them would take Dr. Augustine’s baby and raise it as their own.

“It is the way here. For Great Mother to bless us with more than one mate.” Neytiri explained while playing with your fingers. “To make more of her children after losing so many. It is our gift to her. Sometimes three, most times four. We believe four is enough for Eywa’s approval.”

“Mmm, well, you’re almost there.” You pointed out, resting your chin on your knee.

Neytiri nodded with another smile, “Yes, we are.”

You then looked down at her swollen stomach, “How far along are you?”

“Nearly four months.” She looked down and rested her free hand on her stomach.

“Congrats.” Your lip twitched. At that, Neytiri’s face grew brighter for some reason. You didn’t mind it of course.

And you could’ve sworn she was the sun in all of this grey.

You also resumed checking in on the baby and fortunately, she was coming along well.

To be honest, you weren’t sure how long the avatar was pregnant, all you knew was that it was discovered.

It could be coming at any moment with how big the stomach was now and the heartbeat was as strong as ever. Actually, around this time, babies could probably hear and recognize voices.

That was where you found yourself the next day after tending to the garden with Neytiri. You stared at the tank for a bit, clutching the tablet to your chest with long contemplation. And you really contemplated.

Wondering just how stupid you would appear if you did this.

Well. No one’s here. Might as well try it. In the name of science.

You grabbed a nearby chair and sat in it.

Biting the inside of your cheek and mumbled, “Hi.” Of course, no one responded. You forced out more words. “You might be coming soon. You have um, a lot of people waiting—excited for you to be here.” You rested the tablet on your lap and cleared your throat nervously. “I’m-I’m just the scientist watching over you, don’t worry. You won’t have to listen to me for much longer. Your parents, well, even if I have my reservations about one of them—there’s no doubt that you’ve hit gold with these guys.” Looking down at the tablet, you brought up the recent ultrasound of the baby.

She had grown exceptionally. No longer a little dot on the screen. “I can’t lie, I’m kind of interested to see you. When you’re born. Did a lot of shit to keep you alive and that includes dealing with one of your dads.”

You would’ve laughed. For a while you were quiet, listening for any footfalls before you continued quietly, “I hope you’re born into a better life here. It’s a lot better than Earth. Trust me, you’re in good hands.”

It wasn’t so bad, you realized. Talking to her.

Plus, it was good for their brain and ears. At least that’s what you read. So, for the next couple of days, you came to the tank room and had a small conversation with the baby. It was always about different things. Your day, your garden, wandering through the forest with Neytiri. Whatever to keep yourself and the baby company.

“Mom loved kids,” You told her two days later after you first started talking to her. By now you were somewhat comfortable talking into the silence. “She probably would’ve loved watching over you. If the others hadn’t opted to take care of you my mom would’ve jumped at the opportunity in a second. She’s always wanted to be a mother, there would be no question about it.” Your fingers grazed the glass of the tank, biting the inside of your cheek. “Sorry, I’m not her. We’re honestly like night and day. Unfortunately, you’re stuck with the night. Hopefully, you’re not scared of the dark.”

Something in the corner of your eye moved. You stopped talking instantly and turned to find Jake entering.

With Tsu’tey right behind him.

You frowned and stood from your seat. Jake greeted you with a nod and a smile, “Hey, Reeds.”

“Sully,” You returned the nod, eyeing the other warily.

Tsu’tey just scowled at you before going to the tank. His face slowly softened into awe upon looking at the stomach.

You moved toward the doorway, “I’ll you the two of you alone with her—”

“What were you doing with her?” Jake asked from his spot at the tank. He stood near the chair you had sat in while Tsu’tey was on the other side of the tank.

“Nothing.” Your answer was too quick. And Jake, of course, noticed.

He grinned, “Come on, don’t get shy on me, Doc. I heard you talking before—were you perhaps talking to the baby by chance?”

Seeing no point in denying it, you shrugged and hugged your tablet, “She’s far enough along to be able to hear voices and such. Maybe even recognize them. I was simply feeding my scientific mind with a hypothesis.”

Jake made sure to show you he wasn’t convinced with the large smirk on his face. Though Tsu’tey frowned at you, “Why?”

At first, you didn’t know whether or not he was baiting you into another verbal fight. Jake was here at least, which brought you somewhat ease. At least he’d be able to get between the two of you in case things did go south. You hummed, “It’s to help build their memory early. Also, mothers usually form closer bonds with their children that way. We do that a lot back on Earth.”

Tsu’tey narrowed his eyes, “And you intend to bond with this child? That is why you were talking to her.”

Jake looked at you curiously then. You shook your head, “It’s not my baby to bond with.” Tsu’tey now looked unconvinced but eventually turned his attention back to the tank. You didn’t miss the thoughtful expression on his face—most would with how much scowling there was—but unfortunately, you didn’t. “You can try it if you want. It’s about time she meets her future folk.”

“We won’t be long, Doc.” Jake sent you a small smile.

You waved him off, “Take as long as you like. I was just about done anyway.”

The next day was spent protecting your crops from the rain which was a lot worse than it had been a couple of days ago. Neytiri wasn’t here today because she was hunting with her clan—which was fine, you could handle most of the garden yourself that day anyway.

Now usually, you’d unlink and go check on the baby, but you decided to save some time and run over to the tank room in your avatar body.

There, you found Jake sitting at the tank. Talking to the baby.

“—and I can’t wait to see you, baby girl,” His voice was soft as he smiled at the swollen belly. “Your mom and papa can’t wait for you to come and hold you for the first time…”

 He trailed off when he saw you standing in the doorway. For a moment he didn’t say anything. And in that same moment, you contemplated leaving him alone.

What stopped you was his grin, “Lookin’ more and more Na’vi every day, huh?”

You looked down at yourself curiously. Compared to your human form, your avatar wore a holey crop top that was now covered in a bit of dirt with shorts that were now rolled up above your knees. And if you had to guess, your hair was probably a bit wild—come to think of it, it wasn’t in a ponytail as usual. Except for hanging down your face, wet from the rain. You shook your head as you walked further into the room, “No, just a mess actually. Sorry if I interrupted.”

Jake shook his head, “No, you’re the doc after all. I took your suggestion and started talking to her and I think she’s becoming used to my voice—c’mere and look.”

Reluctantly, you walked toward him with the heart monitor behind you. He grabbed your arm and guided you into the spot he had been standing before.

You followed his gaze toward the stomach, “Every time I talk to her, the stomach shifts—” You looked at him to find a white grin on his face. “She kicks whenever I, Tsu’tey, or Neytiri talk to her. She knows who we are, it’s—it’s amazing.”

“She’s coming along.” You nodded in agreement as Jake moved to the other side of the tank. While watching the heart monitor, you glanced toward Jake, more specifically his waist which now appeared to be wrapped in long green plant strips. “How’s the wound?”

“Healing.” Jake nodded to your newly wrapped shoulder, “How’s that big guy over there?”

“Sore.” You sighed, taking a seat in the nearby chair. It was smaller than you but you managed to sit in it well enough. "But still alive surprisingly.”

There was a low rumble from him which you assumed was a hum. “Don’t strain yourself. It hasn’t been that long since that shoulder was bitten off.”

“Mhmm.” You mumbled, grabbing your tablet.

“Fine. Don’t listen to me. Just don’t come crying to me when your arm falls off.”

“Highly unlikely but I’m unfortunately flattered by your concern.” You mumbled dryly, not looking up from the tablet.

Jake grinned, adjusting his loincloth, “You’re welcome, asshole.”

Minutes later, Jake departed, leaving you with the baby. You got up from the chair and squatted down next to the tank to get a better look at the stomach. “Looks like it’s just you and me, little one.” You hummed at the name you gave her, testing how it felt on your tongue. “I figured it was better than calling you fetus.” After checking the heart monitor again, you continued, “I think you’re Jake’s favorite. Already stealin’ hearts and you’re not even out of the womb yet. Impressive, little one.”

It was subtle. The shift in the stomach. Right after you spoke.

The little upturn in your lip was subtle too.

It seemed the skies weren’t clearing up.

There was a lot of rain and a lot of dark clouds. You, while standing in your garden, looked up at the sky with a frown.

“Keep these covered,” Neytiri said, drawing your attention back to her as she was hunched over the mushrooms.

You nodded thoughtfully. Neytiri stood, tilting her head up to let the small drops of rain fall onto her face. Curiously, you mirrored her and for the most part, it was pretty peaceful. The rain dripped down your face, the cool water contrasting against your warm skin.

Finally, you looked at Neytiri to find her already looking at you, “Can you teach me more of your language?”

She blinked in surprise, “I am.”

“Yeah, I know, but I want you to teach me so that I can understand what the three of you say whenever you argue over me.” You chewed the inside of your cheek. “Just to at least get a chance to respond with the correct snark.”

Neytiri eyed you for a moment before nodding, “I will.” Thunder rolled by in the distance. “When the storm passes, ma’ tanhi. I must protect my clan first.”

You nodded instantly, “Of course. I can wait.”

When Neytiri left, you double-checked your cops before grabbing your bag to begin your foraging. While it was pretty windy and raining, you were still able to start your trek through the forest—but not too far unlike last time. No more overnight adventures, thank you.

You took your hunting knife and began cutting a few berries and vegetables, not too much to the point where you caused any damage. As you ventured further into the forest, you marked the spots you passed, just to make sure you’d have a way to get back in case you did somehow end up lost.

Traveling through the trees became easier the more you did it. It also happened to make your foraging a bit easier as there were more plants up in the trees than on the ground. Of course, you kept your portions fair, despite the thickness of the many plants and how greedy you were to grab them all. Fortunately, you had a lot of self-control.

By the time you filled your basket with more fruit, you moved to go back in the direction of the compound only to stop when you spotted something slumped near a creek. Something blue and long.

A body.

There was hesitance but your moral compass eventually won as you slid down the tree and crept toward the fallen Na’vi.

“Hello?” You whispered as you got closer. The body didn’t move. You knelt next to it—him. He was male from what you could, despite him lying on his stomach. Carefully, you turned him over, “Are you—”

The question died away when you saw the blood coming from his abdomen. And your eyes widened when you realized this male was from the other day. The younger version of Tsu’tey. What was his name again?

His eyes fluttered as he whimpered. Quickly, you pressed your hand against the wound, the basket of fruits and vegetables long forgotten.

He grunted.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you,” You whispered assuredly. With a racing mind, you ripped a part of your shirt and tied it around his abdomen to slow his bleeding. “What’s your name—Hey, stay with me. What’s your name?”

There was a croak from his mouth. You leaned closer to hear better.

Arvok.

Yes. Right.

Fuck.

“Please,” Arvok gripped your arm, desperately.

You nodded, “I’ll help you, okay? Just tell me where your home is and I’ll take you back to your people.” You stood, looking around until your eyes landed on a nearby pa’li.

It must’ve been his.

Carefully, you approached the pa’li. Of course, it was skittish but you continued forward carefully, remembering how Neytiri did it.

“Easy.” You assured, raising your queue. The pa’li didn’t move away from you. “Easy.” Eventually, you got close enough to connect your queue with its antenna. When the pa’li didn’t immediately recoil from your connection, you sighed a quick breath of relief and went back for Arvok, who was now watching you carefully. He must’ve recognized you too.

“You are the dreamwalker.” He said in English as you knelt beside him. “How did you—"

“Save your energy.” You told him as you carefully sat him up. He grunted from the movement but you pushed forward and got him to his feet, supporting most of his heavy weight on your injured shoulder. Didn’t mean his grunts stopped, “Sorry, sorry.”

Once you finally got him on the pa’li, you got on and grabbed his arm to wrap around your waist. “Hold tight, okay? I need your guidance so I know where to go. Do you, uh, do you understand me?”

He nodded against your shoulder, his breaths shallow.

At first, you thought it was the rain but your ears eventually twitched at the sound of bushes rustling behind you. A second later you could’ve sworn you heard the thwump of an arrow flying from a bow.

Arvok had heard it too, “They’re still here!”

Without thinking, you steered the pa’li around. The arrow came flying through the crowd of trees and barely missed you by a slice in your left shoulder—instead of hitting Arvok’s back before you had turned around.

“Straight head!” Arvok grunted against your shoulder. “Go! Now!”

You ordered the pa’li to book it straight. Whoever had shot at the both of you was now far behind as the pa’li galloped through the forest. At least that was what you hoped.

Now all you had to worry about was finding the clan. And the last time you went there was in a Samson. Which meant you probably wouldn’t make it until night came.”

At this revelation, you tried not to panic. You worried that Arvok wouldn’t have much time since he was bleeding too much and his breaths were getting shorter by the second. You were so worried it made you dizzy.

“You,” He croaked, drawing your attention back to him. “You—You were shot.”

You frowned and glanced at the small slice in your left shoulder blade. Compared to his stab wound it was just a cut at most.

“Don’t worry about me, okay? Just keep saving your energy. We’ll—We’ll get there in no time—just keep directing me.”

After a beat, he nodded into your shoulder.

And that was what the next few moments were like for a while. The sky was getting darker as time passed and the rain hadn’t let up in a while. If anything, it had gotten worse to the point where it was difficult to see ahead of you.

It was cold but despite that, your skin was warm and sweaty. Sometimes you shivered which only reminded you that you were only wearing a crop top and not something to cover your body. And yet Arvok was practically naked and he was worse off than you were right about now.

A sudden jerk launched you and Arvok off the pa’li and into the wet ground. A yelp left your lips while Arvok landed a few feet away from you. Your dizziness got worse, possibly from the sudden fall so it took you a moment longer to get up while blinking away the black spots.

You scanned the ground until you spotted Arvok lying a few feet away from you. As quickly as you could, you scrambled toward him and grabbed him by his arm, heaving him up and supporting his weight once more. Only this time you wouldn’t be putting him on a pa’li. It was long gone by now and you just prayed that you were closer to the Omatikaya Clan’s base.

“Sorry, I don’t know what happened.” You muttered to him. He said something in Na’vi but thankfully didn’t seem angry as he allowed you to practically carry him. “How far are we?

Arvok sluggishly took in your surroundings and forced out weakly, “Halfway.”

Exhaustion was catching up to you rapidly. Making it a lot more difficult to drag the male along with you. Your left shoulder—where the cut was—was throbbing.

You ignored it and pushed forward with screaming legs and arms. But you didn’t complain. This man had been stabbed and was bleeding out with your pathetic attempt at a bandage around his wound. Your problems were nothing in comparison.

The sky was dark. You weren’t sure where you were and Arvok was losing consciousness.

“No, no, come on, Arvok. I need you.” And for some reason, you weren’t feeling too well either.

You were becoming desperate. So desperate to the point where you were screaming for help. Screaming for someone—anyone to hear you.

It wasn’t long until there was a response.

Just as your legs were about to give out, there was rustling in the bushes again. You cursed.

But seconds later a few Na’vi suddenly came out on pa’li. Drawing their bows back.

“No! Don’t shoot! Please, I’m only here because I found him injured!” You quickly said, gesturing to Arvok who hung limply against you. “He’s bleeding, okay? He needs help!”

One of them spoke and got off their pa’li. This warrior pointed at you while speaking in Na’vi. You shook your head, “I can’t understand you—here.” You gave Arvok to the warrior. Another came to help and brought him onto the pa’li. By then you were practically drenched in blood and rain.

Now that his weight was off of you, your body began to tilt. You caught yourself and shook it off quickly just as another pa’li appeared. Instantly, you recognized the scowl on Tsu’tey’s face as he drew closer.

You had never seen him so livid, especially when his eyes landed on Arvok who was now slumped against one of the warrior’s back.

He leaped off and stalked toward you. This time there was no one to stop his approach. All you could do was stagger back and sputter out quickly, “I found him and brought him here—that’s all I did. He was really hurt and—”

Tsu’tey didn’t hear any of it. Instead, he yanked you by the arm, his grip as firm as steel. He seethed as the thunder clapped above you, “You’ve gone too far, demon—”

But you didn’t hear the rest. The world tilted violently, your shoulder throbbed and the black spots in your vision worsened.

For some reason, you couldn’t breathe as your body hit the forest floor. You weren’t in control of your body anymore. It moved on its own accord. Your muscles became stiff as you convulsed against your will.

You wondered if you’d unlink after passing out. How would your real body react to this?

Shouts and rain faded from your ears.

All that was left was silence.

And your racing heart.

heyyyyy. so for starters, happy late new years! i was thinking we would start off or finish january with a new chapter of you're gonna go far! and i went a little overboard again but hey, i think the sacrifice was worth it heheh.

hope you enjoy it and thank you all for waiting patiently!

(i'm not adding anymore people anymore!)

taglist: @doggyteam2028 @bigbootahjudy @innercreationflower @n7cje @celi-xxmoon @readerofallthingss @sillyblues @saturnhas82moons @1mawh0re @aprosiacperson @loserwithnofriends @garfieldsladybird @slutforsmut4ever @lik0

[ejenvs3000w24]

How Privilege Shapes our Relationship with Nature

My working definition of privilege goes as follows; the disproportionate, unwarranted opportunities given to an individual, not based on the merit of a person’s character, but one in which a person is born into, that consciously or not, receives and takes advantage of benefits not available to others; not because the latter is undeserving, but because the former has unique socio-economic traits that give them an advantage in life based off traditional, biased, societal norms (Beck et al., 2018, Gallavan, 2005)

Growing up, I was not taught about my privilege, it was only until I started to see with my own eyes the differences in my life to my friends. Peggy McIntosh is correct when she says individuals born into privilege are taught that their lives are morally neutral; because that is what I thought as a younger kid (Gallavan, 2005). I was born into a middle class household, white, male, put into Catholic school, was able to participate in after school sports; I was given every opportunity to be able to freely explore my surrounding environments without worrying about costs, food, or being discriminated against because of my race or gender, whereas for my friends, they cannot say the same.

I have unfortunately encountered many privileged white men in my life where they seem to think just because they’ve experienced heartaches growing up, that this puts them in the same class as other minorities. That is like comparing going on a hike with a perfectly paved path with designated lookouts and pit stops, versus being kicked off that path, having to work much, much harder than the former to end up in the exact same destination.

The role privilege plays in nature interpretation extends from, but not limited to, economic, cultural, communicative or discriminatory barriers (Beck et al., 2018). These are the contents in which I believe McIntosh refers to as our “invisible backpacks”. Some people’s bags are empty, some maybe only have one or two things, and others have so much in their bags that they don’t even feel the weight anymore (Gallavan, 2005). What I mean by this is, if you are born with privilege, you are most likely unaware of the compounded benefits (weight of the bag) that you receive, because that’s all you’ve ever experienced. If your bag is always 50lbs, eventually that weight will feel lighter and lighter. Similarly, if you’ve always had access to higher education, food, speaking English or having a Canadian passport, you won’t realize how ahead in the game you really are. 

One thing that really stood out to me in the chapter 7 readings was the differences in perspectives of going camping between the privileged and underserved. To middle-class individuals, camping is seen as an escape from the city, where you choose to sleep in tents and cook hotdogs over the fire because that is an a-typical experience which seems “new” and “refreshing”. Alternatively, if you come from a lower economic status, can’t speak much English in an English speaking country, or simply don’t have the transportation to get to and from locations, these factors limit one's ability to interact with nature. Additionally, the textbook raised another very important aspect which I admittedly hadn’t given much thought about until now, and that's how minorities potentially view camping as a “rich white person activity” where they typically associate sleeping outside in a tent with being poor or homeless (Beck et al., 2018). When you look at it from this perspective, it is really eye opening to think about how privileged individuals have gotten so used to their lifestyles, that for fun, they choose to sleep outside in tents, under the elements, without a worry of being stuck in this situation, because they have a car or trailer on stand-by, and a warm 3-story home waiting for them. 

The minimal concerns privileged individuals have for not having to worry about transportation, food, wasting time when you could be making money or being a victim of discrimination when visiting a National Park is one of the highest forms of privilege. Based on our readings and from my own life experience regarding privilege in nature, if your skin is white, you speak English, you have a Canadian passport, were raised middle-class, always had food on the table, and didn’t have to worry about being discriminated against, you had the opportunities to interact in nature where others could not; in short, you were undoubtedly, privileged. From the words of Peggy McIntosh, you were born with an infinite amount of unearned assets at your disposal, that could be used at any given time to put yourself in an advantageous position relative to others. Where you might have a theoretical backpack full of privileged opportunities, based on your unearned socio-economic status, others barely have enough space in the palm of their hands (Gallavan, 2005). 

References:

Beck, L., Cable, T. T., & Knudson, D. M. (2018). Interpreting cultural and natural heritage: For A Better World. Sagamore Publishing.

Gallavan, N. P. (2005). Helping teachers unpack their "invisible knapsacks". Multicultural Education, 13(1), 36. https://link-gale-com.subzero.lib.uoguelph.ca/apps/doc/A137921591/AONE?u=guel77241&sid=bookmark-AONE&xid=9fe2f151

[lonewolfel]

Attack of Zakuul: Chapter 8

Read on AO3

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7

Inspired by this post on Tumblr by @bluezeri

The ship was full of ...interesting individuals in Onorshash opinion. While she was familiar with the criminal aspect of the galaxy she had to admit the trip was odd. Not only was there a shocking amount of alcohol making her question how any of them were sober enough to fly a ship. Then there were their activities. If her companion walked into another one of Ciece and Torian's pazaak games he may spontaneously combust.

Onorshash took to staying in her bunk area just for the only place of peace. She could still hear all of her shipmates but it at least was better and she was mostly left in peace. 

The door to her bunk slammed open. A whirling vortex of anger and annoyance in the Force entered the room.

Left mostly alone.

Onorshash opened her eyes and looked at him. He was pacing. She reached out through the Force trying to send calming energy. He stopped pacing but he was still anything but calm.

"How can you deal with these people?" He demanded

"We are stuck on a ship. There is no point in causing issues as it will only make the trip only more uncomfortable. As such it is best to go to the flow." Onorshash said

"I know." He growled. He returned to pacing.

"I understand your withholdings," Onorshash said

"No, you don't." He snapped. He stopped pacing. "You are calm and collected and you seem to have dealt with some of them before."

"Yes, I've dealt with some of them before, but that doesn't make how they act any less strange to me. I spent my whole life in the Jedi Order." Onorshash said. He gave her a look.

"You've been in the Jedi Order you're whole life?" He asked. It was a genuine question as if he didn't realize that that was the norm. Onorshash opened her mouth to say her of course but paused. This could help gain his trust.

"I was found to be Force-sensitive at the age of three. After that, I was given to the Jedi Order and was raised by them. I never met my biological family. The Jedi Order is my family in all but blood." Onorshash explained

"That's horrible." He said. Onorshash felt her anger rise. He didn't know the Jedi Order.

"It isn't as bad as you think. It's necessary to ensure that we don't fall to the dark side." Onorshash defended

"Do you really believe that? That taking kids from their families is right?" He asked. Onorshash deflated. She turned her head and looked away.

"I don't know," Onorshash whispered. "If you had asked me when I was a teen I would have said yes now..." She thought about the young kids she comforted in the dead of night missing their families. She thought about the Siege of Coruscant. How children were killed just because they were being trained to become a Jedi.

"Now?" He asked. Onorshash opened her mouth to explain but she felt someone approaching. 

"HEY! Force users time to get a move on," Ciece called to them banging on the door. Onorshash stood up and returned to her emotionless facade.

"We should go," Onorshash said. She walked out of the room. Perhaps it was selfish and childish to take the out of the conversation. It was unbecoming for her to be that emotional. After all, she is still the Barsen'thor despite leaving the Jedi Order.

Onorshash walked into the main area of the ship. The man followed her out of the room. 

"You two have a nice meditation session," Risha asked. Bowdaar and the Mandalorians laughed. The man stuttered and blushed. Onorshash gave them a bored look.

"Have we arrived at Kashyyk?" Onorshash asked.

"Yep," Yezese said

"So what is the mission?" Onorshash asked

"Simple really enter a Czerka compound and then smash it," Ciece said

"Czerka?" Onorshash exclaimed in shock.

"Problem, Jedi?" Risha asked

"Yes, you are going to attack a large corporation. Do you have any idea the possible repercussion this could lead to?" Onorshash said

"Relax, Barsen'thor, we've done this before," Torian said

"That..." Onorshash stuttered

"Problem, Onorshash?" The man asked. She felt her body temperature rise.

"Yes, we are placing more possible enemies on our heads. We are already have both the Empire and Republic out for us we don't need to add Czerka." Onorshash said. She could barely keep her anger down. She understood that she was working for a criminal but she didn't think that she would have been so bored.

"An slavers." Yezese responded.

"I know," Onorshash said

"We're doing what your Republic refuses to do," Torian added.

"It's not like you really have a choice," Ciece said

"And that," Torian said. Onorshash barely managed to keep herself from displaying her displeasure. 

"Very well," Onorshash said

"Now we can have some fun," Ciece said. They put on their mask and prepared their weapons.

"What is the plan." Her companion said. This caused Ciece to groan.

"Can't we just go in there and blow the joint?" Ciece whined.

"It would be wise to have a plan," Onorshash said

"No need plan," Yezese argued.

"Yes." Ciece agreed.

No plans were made.

[superfics-forone]

Just Friends

SUMMARY: Sam asks the group who they think are the “hottest” members of the team. You don’t make the cute for Bucky’s top five.

Bucky x TALL!Reader

W/C: 5,800

WARNINGS: angst, swearing (like two f bombs), cannon level violence, Bucky being an idiot (it’s a warning), physical insecurities, fake science

A/N: I wrote this because the top 5 situation actually happened to me IRL and when you don’t make someone you like’s list, it sucks. Also, this is in no way meant as being against people who are smaller! I am just a tall/plus size woman and sometimes that really makes you feel like you’re unattractive to people because you don’t fit the gender norm. Let me know what you think! I’m pretty new at this so I’d appreciate the feedback!

Also, HUGE shout out to @princessmisery666 for being so patient and supportive! Thank you for being my beta! Your comments were so incredibly helpful!

The best part about working with Bucky was that you got to see him everyday. The worst part was that you were constantly reminded that he wasn’t attracted to you.

You knew you were a good looking woman, people would often tell you that. It usually happened when you weren’t necessarily feeling your prettiest. Somehow that made it worse. Others would compliment you but he never would. Even when you knew you looked good- like you had put in extra effort and actually tried that day- still he would give you nothing.

You sat across from him in the common room looking at all the other Avengers wondering why he didn’t feel the same when you finally got your answer.

“Alright man,” Sam called out to the group. “Top five, let’s go.”

“Top five?” asked Clint, not sure if he wanted to know the answer. “Top five what?”

Everyone looked back to Sam, - “Top five on who you think is lookin’ most fine”.

“You want us to rate each other?” You asked incredulously.

“Naw, man!” Sam replied. “I want to know who you think are the top five most attractive! Male and female!”

You slunk back into the sofa, both curious and terrified of the conversation to come.

You heard huffs from the others but no one objected. Vision went first and of course he could only answer with; “I believe all of you are inherently lovely. I couldn’t possibly pick a top five of those who I find to be most attractive.” As soon as he finished and the room was no longer focused on him though he leaned over to Wanda and said something in her ear that made her blush.

You brought your cup up to your lips to hide your smile. You loved how happy they were after having been through so much heartbreak.

Sam went next, “Imma say, Wanda, Nat, Gamora’s got it goin’ on…for an alien…Hill - don’t tell her I said that- and…Y/N,” he said throwing you a wink.

You smiled but shook your head with a roll of your eyes. You knew the only reason he said your name was because you were in the room. He was trying to be kind. Men didn’t seem to be actively lining up to be with you…it might have something to do with them being intimidated by you being an Avenger but who could possibly know

“Sam you would think anything with legs that gave you the time of day was hot,” Bucky shot.

The others laughed but Sam shot back, “alright, Tin Man, who’s on your list? Okoye?”

“Yeah for one! I would be dead before I could make a move but sure! She’s dangerous and stunning!” He took a swig of bourbon as if he was done.

“Alright then who else?” Wanda leaned forward winking at you.

You shot her a warning look. You had only told her how you felt about Bucky once on a drunken night after finding out he had gone on date with another recruit. Jealousy had reared its ugly head and she could feel your angst that night. You had asked Wanda how; “A tiny little thing that would barely hold her own in the ring,” could possibly catch his eye. It was as if the only thing he saw you as was an ear to listen to his problems and a soldier he could rely on in the field. You had seen them together multiple times since then and every time it pained you more.

She was everything you weren’t. Barely five foot, two inches tall with a skinny frame to match, and a nicely formed backside. In reality you couldn’t be mad at Bucky. He deserved to be happy. He was your friend and you wanted that for him. You just wanted that particular happiness too.

“Okay, okay!” Bucky’s hands came up in surrender as he finished his drink and leaned back to think, He sat so close to you his left bicep of his folded arms brushed yours with every breath he took.“Okoye? Sure…uh… in no particular order…Wanda, Nat, Darcy, and the little woman, Kris, from reception.”

“It seems, Mr. Barnes”, said Vision, “that you prefer mates who are significantly smaller than you. I do believe that of that group, Wanda is the tallest one.”

“Which isn’t really saying much because I’m only five, six”, she complained.

“The perfect height my dear.” Wanda smiled at that and kissed Vision’s cheek .

You took another long sip of your drink as you registered what had been said. Your stomach soured as you finished the glass. Not so much from the alcohol as from the realization that the man who you had secretly been pinning over didn’t even list you as attractive enough to make his top five.

You felt like you knew why. It was just too much. You weren’t small and dainty like those on his list. You had big bones and a can do attitude. You wouldn’t take crap from people. And because you were so tall you could come off as intimidating…or so some men had told you.

“I’m going to get another drink,” You whispered to no one in particular.

But Sam really couldn’t read a room and he called you out. “No, no! Who’s on your list Y/N?”

“Oh no!” You said dryly. “I’d have to be much drunker for that conversation. For now, I'll keep my opinions to myself.”

You spotted Bucky’s surprised face before you made your way over to the bar. The conversation carried on behind you as you refilled your glass. Thoughts of Bucky’s revelation clouding your mind. You were never going to be good enough for him because you were just too big. Too tall. Too much. He liked the smallest, most petite women in the compound. Feeling your emotions swelling,you decided to grab the bottle and made your way quietly out of the room while the ruckus continued.

Once on your floor you closed the door behind you with a forceful slam, “FRIDAY!! Lock the door and don’t open it for anyone!!”

“Yes, Miss Y/L/N.”

The rest of the night was spent on the floor in your sweats drinking from your bottle of whiskey and feeling sorry for yourself and all the things you couldn’t be because of biology.

You weren’t sure if it was a drunken stupor or your imagination but at one point you could have sworn you heard a knock only for it to go away just as quickly.

…

The next day you had an awful hangover and didn’t get out of bed. Bucky came to your door for your normal morning run.

“Tell him I’m not going, Friday.”

“He would like to know why, Miss.”

“Tell him it’s my time of the month.”

“Your time of the month was last week, Miss.”

“Who’s side are you on, Friday? Just tell him I’m sick.”

“Very well, Miss.”

It was silent for a few moments and you had thought that would be enough to get Bucky off your back for now.

“Mr. Barnes would like to know if you’d like to see Dr. Cho, Miss.”

“Uuuugggghhhh,” you rolled out of bed and marched over, irritated that the one person you didn’t want to see was at your door.Pulling it open with a huff you practically screamed. “What?!?”

“Woah!” Bucky jumped back startled at your disheveled appearance and puffy eyes. “I just want to make sure you’re alright, doll. You didn’t come back last night and you never answered the door when I came to check on you.”

So there was a knock last night.

You couldn’t look him in the eye as your eyes filled with tears again, this time with shame. “I’m fine, Bucky.” You started shutting the door quickly and he stuck his hand on it preventing you from closing it again.

“Y/N…what’s…”

“Bucky, I just need some rest okay?” You cut him off, “I’m fine. I promise I’ll be right as rain tomorrow.” You smiled weakly.

Bucky searched your face as if trying to find what you weren’t telling him in your eyes. But you were an Avenger and you knew how to school your features to show nothing.

Bucky sighed and shook his head, “alright, doll. I’m here if you want to talk about anything.”

“Yes, fine,” you said pushing him out the door. Your eyes had flooded with tears again. You didn’t look up to see Bucky’s hurt and concerned face as you closed the door again and put your back to it.

You held your breath listening for his footsteps to retreat before sinking to the floor and crying.

…

The next day was an all out avoid Bucky day. You weren’t sure you could take the questions and worried looks he was sure to give you. Instead, you decided that what you needed was time away from such temptation. And so, you went in to ask Steve for an overseas long assignment.

“You sure about this one, Y/N. It’s a 9 month solo mission. It’s going to be long and it’s going to be lonely.”

“Yes. I’m sure. I need some time to myself.”

Steve looked at you with understanding and pity. He could see how you felt about Bucky even if he couldn’t get his best friend to see it as well.

“Alright,” he said, “suit up. You leave in 2 hours.”

South Africa wasn’t the worst assignment. It wouldn’t take long for you to get the information you needed. And the separation from Bucky would be good for you.

You finished checking your last weapon and loaded it as well as a pair of throwing knives, a gift from Bucky, into your duffle before looking around your room one more time.

You headed to the door and almost made it out until the picture of you and Bucky on your dresser made you stop. Picking it up you smiled at the memory of the minor league baseball game you’d attended together. You had won tickets and no one else was available that night. When you’d offered the tickets to Bucky you couldn’t believe that he said yes! It was the true start of your friendship, talking about life and how much it had changed for him but also how little it had changed for you. He couldn’t believe it when you started singing all the words to “I’ll never smile again”.

“You think I don’t know music? I’m quite cultured, Mr. Barnes!” You had said with a laugh.

“I never said you weren’t, sweetheart!”

Coming back out of your revelry with a start you put the picture back down on the dresser and turned to the door. You were going to get over this infatuation, even if it killed you. Supposedly time heals all wounds. Well you weren’t sure if there was ever going to be enough time but you could get distance.

…

Hours later Bucky came in to tell you about the relationship problems he was having with the girl from reception. She just didn’t seem to understand him and kept picking fights. You had become his confidant and had saved his relationship once before so would most likely be able to do it again.

He was almost to your room when he noticed your door was ajar. Slowing he moved closer and pushed it in silently. The room was neat and quiet. Your bed folded nicely as though it was always that way.

Bucky knew that you never made your bed until you were right about to get in it. Or unless you were going on a trip.

Checking carefully he started to notice things missing. Your favorite slippers were gone. Your tooth brush and favorite stuffed animal turtle were also missing. All of the things that you felt you had to have with you were gone.

Then he saw the picture frame on the dresser. Picking it up he too smiled at the memory, then frowned. It was still here. You almost always took this with you. Why was it still here but everything else you held of value was gone.

“Friday, where is Y/N?”

“Miss Y/L/N has volunteered for a mission, sir.”

“Where?”

“That information is classified.”

“Okay, when will she be back?”

“That information is classified.”

“Alright, who else went on the mission,” he asked hoping whoever it was would have your back.

“All other Avengers are currently in the compound.”

“So she went by herself?” Bucky fumed.

“That information is classified.”

“Damn robots!”

Bucky stormed out and found Steve in the kitchen.

“Where did you send her, punk!

Steve didn’t even look up from his newspaper, knowing exactly what his best friend was talking about.

“She’ll be fine, Buck. She just needs some time to herself.”

“So send her to Fiji! Not a solo mission!!”

“This is her call Bucky. You’ve got to trust her.”

Bucky spun on his heel and headed to the computer lab. He knew he was being irrational but if no one else was going to look after your well-being then he was going to have to do it himself.

It took him all day but he finally unencrypted the files for your mission. You were to carry out a recon mission in Port Elizabeth on a supposed Hydra base. It was a far cry from Fiji but you wouldn’t be in immediate danger.

Still he came in everyday to check in on your reports and find out how the events in the country were progressing. He had even convinced Torres to help him set up notifications to his phone if something were to go wrong. He had, very nicely, threatened him with knives if he didn’t set up Stark’s satellite to keep an eye on you.

After three weeks he was really starting to miss your company. Every time he went out with Kris from reception he realized that she just wasn’t as interesting as you. They didn’t have the same camaraderie and chemistry as the two of you did.

So when his phone dinged at 2:30am he looked at the notification. It was a satellite image of you on your apartment porch drinking coffee. You seemed at ease and calm at your small table. Your hair down and wearing a long red dress. He went to the live feed of the satellite but when he did you weren’t there.

Bucky refreshed the page again thinking it may be just an error. But his rising heartbeat made him think differently. When the screen came back he noticed the upturned coffee mug and the newspapers on the ground.

Bucky flew from his bed and raced down the hall to the command room. Steve and Tony were already there, still in their pajamas.

“…it’s not as if she has a tracker in her, Stark!”

“Well maybe she should! Maybe we should make it a standard issue! Everyone gets a tracker! Friday! Make a note!”

“Yes sir.” replied the AI.

“Tony, we need to focus on the…”

“Where is she?!” Bucky growled.

Both men turned around in surprise. Steve recovered first, his eyes sympathetic for his friend’s worry. “We’re not sure, Buck. These images were only taken 4 hours ago.” He clicked to zoom in closer, “but we did get this.”

He zoomed all the way into the kitchen window behind where you’d sat drinking coffee, where a face reflected in the glass. Bucky looked on in rage, hands in tight fists, as the image became clearer and Zemo came into focus.

…

You awoke with a start, unaware of your surroundings. You sat on a bed in a bare room with a single one way mirror. A metal chair sat by the wall and you noticed no handle on the door. Trying to piece together what had happened you recalled your last memory.

A beautiful morning, the sun shining on the water, a freshly brewed cup of coffee. You sat in your apartment in Port Elizabeth, a pain in your neck…

“Zemo,” you whispered.

“Ah, you’re awake,” said the speaker above you. “I’m sorry about the dramatics but it was necessary. You’re a very important piece of the puzzle.”

“Let me guess,” you said as you rolled your eyes. “You don’t like the way the world is being saved by the Avengers and you think you could do better.”

“Actually I want something else, мой дорогой. I need you.”

“What?” you cried befuddled. “Why on earth would you need me?”

“Do you know what TX-39 is?”

“Yes, I have an entire codex of arbitrary numbers logged away in my brain,” you retorted.

Zemo didn’t pause at your sarcasm. “TX-39 is the compound used to create nucleotides that bond onto nerve endings. By doing so they suspend brain signals stopping all neuro function and rendering the subject immoble. Something you have experienced first hand. By combining a nanotech inhibitor with this nerve ending your subject’s direct motor function is now open to...suggestions.”

You sat astounded as you registered what he had told you. You looked down at your hands but you didn’t feel different. There was no way something like this could work.

“What better way to get rid of a super soldier than to create your own?” Zemo said. You felt a slight buzz in your spine as you stood up quickly trying to resist. Running to the mirror you pulled back your arm, ready to punch your way out, but an inch from the glass your arm stopped. “Ironic that the Soldat will come to save you, only to be the one who needs to be saved.” With that you felt the electricity in your spine disappear and your body was your own again.

Frustration built within you as you sat back on the bed for a moment processing his statement. Your face became more and more incredulous until finally you burst out laughing. You continued laughing harder and harder at the absurdity of Zemo’s reasoning.

“You think I’m the one he is going to come after,” you laughed. “You think you picked the right mouse for your trap? You’re going to wait a long time if you think he’s going to come and get me.”

During your first few weeks away you had missed Bucky fiercely. Leaving him behind so abruptly had felt like severing a part of yourself, but the last few weeks had been good for you. You had forgotten what it was like to rely on yourself. You had grown into yourself again and had realized how little Bucky had actually cared for you when he never came to find you. He hadn’t so much as picked up the phone after you had left. It was as if you had never existed in the first place.

“Bucky doesn’t care about me,” you said sardonically. “He never has. We are barely even friends.You picked the wrong mouse, Zemo. ”

“We’ll see, дорогой,” and with a click he was gone.

Your brain shifted in and out of the conversation with Zemo. Looking down at your hands, you prayed it wasn’t true. You knew that what had happened at the window was real but you didn’t want to believe it. You had been turned into a weapon to hurt your friends. To hurt Bucky.

Crossing your arms over your chest you laid down on the bed, rolled over to face the wall, and cried.

…

Avengers Compound

“There is a five mile radius around Agent Y/L/N last known location,” said Fury. “Two man teams will sweep the area in a grid formation while the drones scan for energy signatures. Any questions?”

All those around the table sat silent, but nodded confirmation of their understanding of the objective. Fury looked around the room, “This mother fucker took one of ours and I wanna know why. Let’s get going.”

Bucky stood up from the table and made his way out of the room to the Quinjet hangar. Steve pulled on his arm before entering the plane. “I know what’s going through your mind right now Buck, but we are going to get her back”.

Bucky looked at the ground before raising his eyes to his friend. “He knew how to get to me, Steve. He always knows where to hurt me. He couldn’t use you. You’re too difficult to overpower. So he had to pick her. I just,” Bucky wasn’t sure how to finish his thought. Words never came easily to him and he wasn’t sure he could really express what he was feeling. “I just want her safe.”

After you had left Bucky felt hollow inside. He hadn’t realized how much joy you brought to his day with your smiles and jokes. Always knowing what to say, or at least, what he needed to hear. Your departure made him realize he needed you. Boarding the jet Bucky knew that no matter what happened he was going to tell you how he felt.

…

The team had been sweeping through the city for what felt like hours and there still hadn’t been any developments. Walking through another alleyway Bucky scanned the cobblestone streets. He was beginning to lose hope at ever finding you at all when he saw an uneven line in between two buildings.

Pressing his comm link he called out, “Steve, I’ve got something. I’m going to check it out.”

“Bucky, wait for backup. We’ll come to you.”

Feeling along the wall Bucky felt a draft between the cracks. Unholstering the gun at his hip he pushed against the wall feeling it give way.

“I’m going in. Follow my location.”

“Bucky, wait!” Steve called.

Bucky ignored his calls and continued down the dimly lit hall. The walls opened up to a staircase leading down to a command room. The musky scent of decay and scotch filled Bucky’s nostrils.

“Privet, Soldat,” Zemo called from the darkness.

Bucky whirled around to find nothing.

“Have you come for your little mouse?”

Still searching, Bucky said nothing as the sound came from a different corner of the room.

“Have you realized how much you miss her?”

Bucky circled again, coming up to a window.

“I wonder what it is? Is it her sweetness that draws you? Or her willingness to see you for more than the killer you are?”

Bucky frowned. Zemo was playing with him.

“Or have you realized that her fire is what draws you to her? She does have a talented tongue. I’ve seen her put it to good use,” Zemo provoked. “I have enjoyed having her in my company, but it seems you really never appreciated her spirit, did you?”

Bucky continued searching the room as Zemo continued his monologue. Coming up to the computer he saw a paused video feed. It played as soon as he stepped forward.

Bucky saw you in a room, still in your red sundress. Your hair was matted and you had the look in your eye of anger and exasperation. When you spoke, Bucky felt the wind rush out of his lungs.

“Bucky doesn’t care about me,” you said sardonically. “He never has. We are barely even friends.”

“A pity she never saw you care, but I suppose it’s only fair that you tell her now.”

The door beside the window clicked open with a beep. You came out of the cell with a look of wary surprise on your face. “Bucky?”

“Now is your moment, Sergeant Barnes. Why not tell her how you feel before it's too late,” called Zemo.

Bucky holstered his gun and walked toward you. “Y/N? Are you okay? Come on, let's get out of here.”

He grabbed your hand and turned to go but you were rooted to the spot. Your breathing became heavy as you felt the tingling sensation in your spine again.

“Bucky, I need you to leave,” you cried, dread dripping from your voice.

“What? No,sweetheart, come on! I’m not leaving you.”

“Bucky, I…” you started.

“Last chance to declare yourself, Soldat.”

Looking up in anger, Bucky yelled. “Shut up, Zemo. I’m not performing for you-” Bucky’s head turned in surprise as you punched him across the face. “What the hell, Y/N?”

“It wasn’t me!” you cried as you dropped and kicked his legs out from under him.

Bucky rolled over quickly to pick himself up as you followed him swinging punches at his head and kicks to his stomach. Your moves were both erratic and efficient as they landed multiple times. It was all Bucky could do to block your assault and move out of the way.

“This isn’t me!” you cried again between punches. “Zemo is controlling me with nanotech!”

Bucky threw up an arm to block your punch before flipping you around by your arm and pressing you to the wall. He didn’t want to hurt you but he was pretty sure that it wasn’t the most comfortable position.

“It’s okay, Y/N. We’re going to get you out of this.”

Your foot kicked his leg and you pushed yourself over and around his head and away from the wall. Grabbing the knife at his hip as you slipped out of his grip, you threw it into his thigh.

Bucky looked at you in surprise and annoyance. “Sorry!” you winced. Pulling the knife from his leg he tossed it to the floor.

“Look, Y/N. I’m not going anywhere, but try not to kill me, okay?”

“It’s not like I’m doing this on purpose Bucky!” you huffed as you charged at him.

“Well I’m just trying to get you out of the problem you put yourself in!” You had grabbed another knife and went to stab him. Bucky caught the knife and twisted your hand but the knife snagged your dress and tore the skirt as you fought to wrestle it away.

Your eyes flared with anger and the next punch you threw had a little extra heft in it.

“That I put myself in? How about you, Mr. Barge-into-a-room-with-no-back-up!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you liked being saved! Although you’re one to talk! You came on a mission without backup!” Bucky rolled across the computer console out of the way of your next kick, getting agitated at your attitude.

“Because I needed space!” you yelled as you followed him around the computer desk.

“Space? Space from what?” Bucky yelled back, actually throwing a punch that you easily evaded.

“You! You idiot!” it burst out of you as you came up swinging before pushing him to the ground.

Bucky looked up at you with his eyes wide. You had him straddled under your legs. Bucky brought his arms up to block your punches while he tried to talk to you.

“Why would you need space from me? I don’t understand. You left without warning, without saying goodbye! Your mission was classified so I had to hack F.R.I.D.A.Y to even find out where you were!”

Your body was starting to fatigue from the strain of the fight as you continued to land blow after blow. You were fit and well trained but because your body was not your own you were blowing through energy rapidly. Your breaths were coming in short gasps as your chest heaved at each punch. If you kept this up, you weren’t sure how much time you would have before your body gave out entirely.

“Y/N, you left a huge gap! You were my best friend and then you were gone! You wouldn’t even talk to me before you left! You didn’t tell me you were leaving. I couldn’t even call you because the mission was supposed to be classified!”

Maybe it was the fatigue, maybe the hopelessness you felt, but you gave him everything you had left as you pummeled into him. Frustration over your situation, frustration at him, frustration at yourself built up inside you.

“I WILL NOT BE YOUR STAND IN! I will not be second best. I can’t look on anymore as you find someone smaller, cuter, littler to fit perfectly into your life! I deserve to be wanted! I deserve to be desired!” you screamed at the man beneath you as tears streamed down your cheeks.

Bucky finally bucked his hips and flipped you under him, pinning your hands to the ground next to your head.

“Get off of me! Let me go!” you had finally had enough. The damn had broken and your emotions and insecurities raged inside you. Your body pulled and twisted to break free from his grip.

“You do deserve to be desired,” Bucky said calmly as he caged you beneath him. “You are nobody's stand in. You’re perfect just as you are.” He wanted to say more but it was all he could do to keep you pinned under him.

The team burst down into the control room to see you openly weeping and Bucky on top of you.

“Nat, I need you to put an electric burst in my arm.” Bucky said looking up.

“I’m sorry, you what?” asked Nat.

“Just do it!” he said as you fought harder against him.

With a nod from Steve, Nat waved her baton and zapped Bucky’s arm causing both of you to scream in pain. When your body finally stopped seizing, the lack of adrenaline and the pain and fatigue caught up to you and you passed out in Bucky’s arms.

“You want to explain why I just pushed fifty thousand volts through you two?”

“Zemo infected her with some kind of nano tech. She hasn’t been in control this entire time.”

Steve scanned around the room. “Alright team, fan out. See if you can find out where Zemo went. I want teams down here with sat links up in 30 minutes.”

Bucky circled the gears around in his arm to get it up and running again before scooping you carefully off the ground.

“Buck, get her on the next jet out. Dr. Cho and Banner will be waiting for you to get back.”

��

For the second time you woke up in an unfamiliar place, and struggled to get your bearings. You felt like you’d been run over by a pick up truck and tumbled through a dryer.

Feeling slowly returned to your hands as your eyes opened and your vision cleared. You were in one of the medical rooms at the compound you realized.

“Look who decided to wake up,” said a gruff voice.

Turning your head you saw Bucky sitting in the chair beside you. He looked fresh and his eyes twinkled at you.

“Bucky,” you croaked as you tried to sit up.

“Woah there. You just relax. Your body is still trying to catch up from Zemo’s nanites.”

You slumped back down in the bed as Bucky leaned forward to take your hand.

“You had me worried there for a minute, doll. You’ve been sleeping for days. Wasn’t sure when you were going to pull through.”

“You doubt me, Barnes?”

“Not for a second, sweetheart, but I sure as hell missed you.” Bucky smiled, then looked down for a moment as if trying to find the right words. “We need to talk about why you left, Y/N.”

“No, Bucky, I...it doesn’t matter.” You say looking away. “It’s not important.”

“I don’t know, I’d say you thinking you don’t matter to me is pretty important.” You turned to look at him sharply, mouth open in a small gasp. “And I’d also say that you thinking I don’t find you desirable is pretty important too.”

You sat in shock as he spoke, not wanting to break the way you had during your fight.

“Y/N, you are perfect. You knew me before I even knew myself. You light up the whole room just by being in it. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. You are strong, independent, kind, and gentle. You’re like a tall Asgardian goddess. Every inch of you is beautiful. I thought back to the last time we talked...before you left, and I realized why you did. I know why you thought I wasn’t attracted to you. That night, Sam’s list,” he paused as if pained at the memory, “I didn’t add you because...well, because I was so confused at how I was feeling. You were my friend. I didn’t realize till it was too late that I was already falling in love with you. And I most definitely didn’t want to give Sam anymore ammunition.”

You looked up at him sharply when he dropped the L word.

Bucky stood to reposition himself on the edge of your bed. Taking your face in his hands he leans forward until your foreheads barely touch. “I didn’t want to ruin things with you. You were my friend. You were perfect and I thought you deserved better so I ran to find something that was everything you weren’t. You are my perfect fit. You are just right. You are the only person I want. Please tell me you’re mine. Please tell me I haven’t lost you.”

You brought your hand up to rest over his as you let his words wash over you.

He wanted you. He thought you were beautiful. All of you. All of the parts people had told you were too much: your height, your attitude, your independence - he wanted it all.

You did something that you wanted to do for months, you brought your lips up to his softly and gave him a chaste kiss. “I was always yours Bucky,” You pulled his hands down and pushed him away to look into his eyes, “but I won’t be taken for granted anymore. I shouldn’t have to leave for you to want me. I shouldn’t have to be gone for you to realize what you had. I left for a reason. It was to find peace with myself. I realized that I didn’t need your approval. I didn’t need your desire to be whole. I won’t settle for someone who can’t see what’s right in front of them. I know my worth.”

Bucky looked at you sorrowfully as he held onto your fingers, memorizing their shape. “I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to make you feel like you weren’t enough.”

“I know, but it happened. I don’t need you to be happy, Bucky...” Bucky hung his head in dejection. “...But I do want you.”

Bucky looked up at you sharply to find your eyes full of love and warmth. You wanted him. Even after all that happened - how he forced you away, how he made you feel like you weren’t good enough, you were still willing to forgive him. You wanted him even with all his faults.

You brought him closer for another kiss and savored the way his lips fell across yours. Breaking away to look up at him you said what you had been holding in for months, “And I love you too.”

Tags: @princessmisery666 @dreamwritesimagines

[forcefully-awoken]

Disruption of Nowhere

Chapter One: It Happened One Night

Read on ao3

Masterlist

Summary: You were a mechanic just trying to make it in the resistance, working on the Falcon. A confrontation between you and Rey leads to one of the most thrilling moments of your life. You two fall into each other, and into a relationship that explores the darkest parts of each other. Set during The Rise of Skywalker, though I will be playing fast and loose with canon.

A/N: This was originally posted to my ao3, I’m in the process of moving it over here as well.

Warnings: force choking, horny dreams.

Word Count: 3,019

Pairing: Rey x Reader

This wasn’t the first time you had been called to work on the Falcon, not by any means. But this was the first time you had been called by name for it. It was the first time someone had seen something in you. Now you would be in charge of servicing possibly the most important vessel in the resistance.

At least that’s the mantra you repeated to yourself as you walked down to the Falcon, making sure not to trip over any of the vines criss-crossing on the ground. The jungle was alive around you, the gentle hum of all the machinery blending in with the distant animal noises. It frightened you when you first arrived on Ajan Kloss, the thought that there could be anything out there, but nothing had ever happened. This was your biggest moment to date-- now you would have the chance to prove yourself in your own right, that you were not a leftover from parents who were better and more skilled than you. Now you would be able to prove that you were a skilled mechanic in your own right.

And then someone bumped into you, barely even glancing back to see if you were okay. You huffed, adjusting the supplies you were carrying before moving forward once again. You didn’t want to let anything ruin your day: this moment was yours. That was, however, before you saw the condition that the Falcon was in. It looked like someone had tried to make the Kessel run in it again and failed miserably.

“POE DAMERON!” you shouted, momentarily forgetting all pretense of professionalism, as you knew the so-called daring pilot and incredible pain in your ass had to be around here somewhere. The call had come to you quickly as the Falcon needed immediate repairs. “I know you are around here somewhere!”

“IT WAS FINN’S FAULT!” came Poe’s immediate reply as he quickly came around from the back of the Falcon. He pointed accusingly at the man following him. “He distracted me and I’m only so good, you know!” They both looked about like the Falcon on a good day- just slightly scuffed up.

“I did no such thing!” the former stormtrooper shouted, pointing his own accusatory finger right back at Poe. “I heard you yell at Poe last time!” Both of them were distracted by the approach of Rey and Leia. The approach of the General and the last Jedi forced them to quickly abandon their argument.

You rolled your eyes as you marched forward to the Falcon. You made small notes on your datapad and annoyed noises under your breath as you took in the damage, of which there was a lot. You sighed when you realized that it would take a week to fix everything. Maybe less if you worked through the night, which you were often asked to do. The Falcon was a symbol to the resistance: the ship they toted out the most. It would have to look as good as it could and fly like new.

“Get out of here and let me get started,” you muttered before looking around to see that there was nobody else around now. You wondered what you had missed now, stuck in your own little mechanical world. With a small shrug, you went about the first and easiest round of repairs. Despite these repairs being the easiest, they still kept you working well past dinner. You were only aware of the passage of time when your stomach began to growl. You blinked a couple of times, in an attempt to wet your eyes again. You came to a stopping point and rolled your shoulders, forcing yourself to release the stress that had gathered there.

With your most recent repair finished enough not to explode or ruin anything else, you made your way back through the jungle to the main camp. The one tent that had been designated as a cafeteria was barely even a quarter of the way full of people. You grabbed some food off the table, not caring what you got. You sat down at a table alone like you did most nights, even when the caf was full of people.

It wasn’t necessarily that you wanted to be alone, but people were complicated. Especially now, with everything seeming so dire after everything that happened on Crait. You thought there was a rumor of a spy going around camp, but that side of the resistance was foreign to you. Another reason why you often ended up eating alone--too busy thinking about the next repair to try to carry on a conversation.

“You’re working on the Falcon,” a voice said, jarring you out of your thoughts as you ate. You looked up to see Rey. You knew of her, of course, having been rescued by her along with everyone else, but this was probably the first time Rey had spoken to you. You were struck very suddenly by how close she was to you, and for the first time you truly saw her face up close. There was something about her eyes that sent a pang to your cunt. They were dark, and there was something that looked like anger in them. You couldn’t figure out why she would be angry at you

“I, uh, I am,” you managed to mumble out, swallowing hard to clear away any nerves before you dared to speak again. Rey had her Jedi powers, which was frankly intimidating, but from all accounts she was a decent enough person to not use them on you. “I am working on the Falcon. Why? Was there something you wanted me to do?”

“I want you to not break it,” Rey immediately fired back, a frown on her delicate features. “That’s Han’s ship, you know; you have to be careful with it.” You were taken aback by the hostility in her voice. You two had never spoken before, and you had been making smaller repairs on the Falcon for ages before someone finally noticed you doing more than the average mechanic and called for you. Where did she get off with this superior attitude?

“I’m well aware of whose ship it is! I was in this fight long before you showed up,” you replied, not bothering to watch your tone with her. New Jedi Order be damned. Suddenly you weren’t that hungry anymore, and the food on your plate looked less than appetizing. You stood up, forcing her to back slightly away from you. Rey was taller than you, you realized now, by a few inches. You had to look up at her. Your eyes met, and you could see something in her eyes--curiosity? You imagined almost everyone on the base naturally deferred to her, but you had been here for years with your parents, and quite frankly, you didn’t care about her weird powers.

“I’m going back to my repairs now,” you told her. You were forced to move around her when she stood directly in your way. Your arms brushed for just the briefest of moments, and there was no denying there was a spark this time.You made sure not to wince when Rey jerked herself away from you. You told yourself you didn’t feel her eyes on the back of your head as you walked away, thankful there was nobody else around to see you.

You made your way back to your tent in a haze, trying not to read too much into the interaction. You knew what desire felt like, having had previous partners. But never had you felt anything from someone intentionally trying to antagonize you. Part of you wanted to turn around and go back to apologize. The other part of you wanted to go back to demand an apology from her. You did neither.

It was only when you had gotten back and your roommate commented on it that you realized you still were holding your dinner. You put away your leftovers, in case your appetite returned later. You sat on your bed, scrolling through your datapad and prioritizing the remaining repairs, adjusting the list until you were happy with it. The leftovers would give you an excuse to skip breakfast the next morning and get back to work faster. With a plan decided on in your mind you set the datapad aside to finally sleep. As you tried to settle into bed it seemed impossible to quiet your mind enough to drift off to sleep. Your thoughts compounded upon themselves, and you tossed and turned until you were too exhausted to keep your eyes open a moment longer.

Her lips were soft but insistent upon yours, parting your mouth with ease, pressing her tongue in right after. You moaned into her mouth, eagerly trying to grab at her, only to find your wrists held down by some invisible force. You struggled against it, your naked torso needing any sort of stimulation, but the woman in your dreams only pulled away from you and chuckled, her voice dark.

“You’re a needy little thing, aren’t you?” she asked, the voice sounding so familiar to you, but in your lust you could not place it. Her face was obscured by some sort of mist, and you were only able to focus on her mouth. You nodded, agreeing to whatever she wanted, desperate to get her hands or her mouth back on you. The woman laughed again, and it sounded dangerous.

Without warning, her hands shot between your legs, pressing them apart so she could settle herself between them. She reached up to part your lips, her fingers going immediately to your clit. The sensation of her fingers there shot pleasure through you like lightning. Her touch was not yet quite what you needed, too light to truly send you into an orgasm, and you threw your head back with a loud groan.

“Please,” you begged, looking down into brown eyes as the woman’s face finally swam into focus, “please, Rey..”

You woke up with a jolt, breathing heavily, trying to ignore the lingering tingling between your legs. You couldn’t believe you had had a dream like that about Rey. It had been a while since you had been laid, but to have a wet dream about a stranger was completely outside the norm for you. Your thoughts tended to stray towards previous encounters, or the intense novels you kept hidden on your datapad.

You were too keyed up to go back to sleep, though, and decided to work through some of your dream-induced lust with some more delicate repairs on the Falcon. When working, you were free to drop into a peaceful, thoughtless zone. Your hands would be the thing you had to worry about. Just the parts in your hands, and nothing else. The focus of doing repairs on the Falcon would help you ignore your dream.

You slipped through camp as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake anybody else at this time of the night. You had barely dressed, only tugging on proper pants with your night shirt to give the appearance that you weren’t running naked through the night. You didn’t need to add any gossip that you were having a secret tryst. You wanted to focus on yourself in the wake of everything that had happened.

It was the best time of night. Everybody had finally gone to sleep; even Poe and Leia had ceased their battle planning for some much needed rest. The two were prone to working late hours, with others coming and going as they planned out as much as they could. The camp was as quiet as it could be despite strange creatures making their strange noises all around you in the forest. There was an undercurrent of mechanical whirring, something that usually lulled you to sleep. But now it only reminded you that there was still more work to be done to get the Falcon to rejoin the symphony.

Everything in the Falcon sounded too loud when there was nobody else around. The hiss of the ramp as it went down. The lights as they clicked on. It all sounded like it would wake the whole camp and bring them running. You made your way up the ramp, fingers tracing over the familiar paneling as you made your way towards the cockpit. The Falcon was something you could see--and had seen before--in your dreams. It was beneath your eyelids when you blinked after you had worked on it so often. You weren’t sure when its repairs had become your job, but they had. Today was the first day of many, you were sure, when they would call for you to focus on it until you had fixed everything. You were one step closer to your goal of becoming a lead engineer.

You settled into the pilot’s seat, picking up a couple of frayed wires, as you reached around into the toolbox. You weren’t sure what the hell Poe had gotten into this time, but it must have been bad for the Falcon to have such extensive damage. You didn’t like to think about all the dangerous missions the others went on while you were stuck planetside. You had known Poe nearly your entire life, thanks to your parents. But that had been before everything changed. For a time you had wanted to be out there too, risking your life, but you knew deep down you would be better working on the ships rather than flying them.

Time slipped past you as you worked methodically, checking and double checking your work as you went. You were on the very last of the cockpit repairs when you realized you could hear someone else on board the ship. You figured it was another engineer, someone else who couldn’t sleep and wanted to be useful rather than toss and turn. The footsteps came closer, and you thought about pausing to see who it was, but decided that if they truly needed to talk to you, they would.

“What are you doing?!” Rey demanded, her voice harsh. Before you could reply, you were thrown out of the chair and slammed into the wall beside you. Her lips twisted into a snarl and she threw her arm out in front of her, using the Force to keep you suspended above the ground. You felt pressure around your throat, like her hand was there, squeezing it.

“Who said you could do this?!” Rey asked, though it didn’t seem like she was interested in an answer as she increased the pressure around your throat with a twitch of her fingers. You tried to gasp, fingers flying up to claw at the invisible hand around your throat--your lungs screamed for air. As they burned, your head started to swim. Everything combined to bring you teetering to the edge of pleasure.

She leaned in close to you, her eyes ablaze. Unbidden, your lips fell open, and your tongue darted out. Rey’s eyes immediately traced it as it happened, and they darkened in a different way. She changed the pressure on your throat yet again, and you moaned.

With that, the vice around your throat disappeared and the moment was broken. Rey jerked away from you like she had been burned. You took a long breath, sinking to the floor as she released the Force pressure that had held you in place. You felt a throb between your legs that you ignored as you looked up at Rey with wide eyes. Her face was completely red, a deep blush coming up from her neck. Her eyes were wild in a different way now; there was nothing but fear in them as she stared at her hand in horror.

“I-I-I’m sorry!” Rey burst out, running from the cockpit as soon as she realized you weren’t terribly hurt. You knew there would be a bruise forming tomorrow. You struggled to your feet with blood rushing back up to your head. You wanted to call out after her, but you weren’t sure what you would say. You didn’t think you should apologize for your reaction, but something nagged at you. Maybe it was the look on her face.

You finally made your way out of the Falcon a few moments later, as soon as you were totally sure you would be alone again. You rubbed at your throat lightly, trying to make sense of the reaction to the Force being used on you. You had never experienced anything like it before.

The sex you liked before always had been a bit on the rougher side, but there was something dangerous about adding the Force into the mix. You were forced to totally surrender yourself to something in that moment--you had no control over anything that was happening at all. It thrilled you.

But, besides, even if you had liked it--what about Rey? The look on her face had been horror struck; she seemed afraid of what she had done. You knew nothing about Rey and her previous experience. A new fear crawled into your mind--was Rey afraid of what she had done or was she afraid of the reaction you had given?

Sleep evaded you for the rest of the night, and you tossed and turned in your bed. Your mind raced with the different possibilities. Should you seek Rey out? Would she come to you? Were you to simply ignore everything that had happened? Part of you wondered if you should tell someone else that Rey had so easily lost control of herself. Nothing about this had an easy path out.

You heard your roommate stir when it was time to get up for the day, but you buried yourself in your blanket and waved her away, mumbling some vague excuse about not feeling well. You knew someone would eventually come to check on you, but you hoped to be asleep by then.

After a few more attempts to get comfortable and push the thoughts of your night out of your head, you were finally able to drift off, and thankfully, your dreams were pure nothingness.

[centuryofdean]

Of Food and Comfort - Epilogue

Author Note:: Sooo this took longer than I wanted. It was always my plan to have a small epilogue for this story, but I didn’t want to promise it and then it never happen. It is finally here and I apologize if it isn’t up to par.

My small hiatus didn’t go as planned. I really wanted to start writing other stories to have ready to post, to read other writers’ works--but that didn’t happen. Instead I fell into a deep slump in my life. I won’t go into detail because you aren’t here to read about it but this epilogue is everything I want in my life and I’m starting to fear it will never happen. 

Author Disclaimer:: Marvel and its characters are not mine. I take no credit. Instead I claim the maybe not so great plot, writing and characteristics of the reader insert character. I am not a die hard Marvel fan, I haven’t read all the comics, but have watched the movies. I may get some things wrong, so please don’t hate me. I also have been incorporating Old Norse as terms of endearment.

Summary:: You worked for Tony Stark as a…mechanic of sorts. Anything around the Avengers compound that needed a technicians touch, you handled. With working and living there, you had grown to be friendly with the super heroes. Of course you had grown to have feelings for one of them. The muscled Thunder God to be exact.

Rated:: M for Mature. Please do not read this story unless you are 18+. Smut. NSFW

Pairing:: Thor x Reader

Three months had passed since you moved to New Asgard with Thor. At first it was hectic with trying to rebuild and organize housing for all of the Asgardians. Thor worked almost night and day on different buildings with his people. You worked through most of the day doing the same or helping gather food for families and cook.

The people of Asgard were grateful for your help, some even remembering you from your short visit months ago. The weirdest part of it all—one that you were trying to stop at every given point—is that the people started calling you ‘Your Majesty’, ‘My Queen’, or ‘My Lady’. Thor had introduced you as his ‘beloved’ to them, so it must have stuck.

As time went on, it got colder but thankfully did not snow. Not all the homes were finished before it got too cold to build. You and Thor graciously offered your mostly completed home to families whose homes weren’t completed yet, but none had taken the offer.

Thor came home late at night dirty and tired from hard day’s work. After making and eating dinner, the both of you would curl up in the bed with Mjölnir and discuss what was done and what still yet had to be done. Even though it was exhausting trying to rebuild a society, it was still worth it at the end of the day when you could sleep warmly and soundly in Thor’s arms.

Since it had begun to be too cold to work outside on homes, you spent most of your time working on the inside of yours. The house and roof were completed, but most of the flooring and walls weren’t. Thankfully the quinjet had satellite internet to research how to do most of these things. Thor spent a lot of his time during the day doing the same with other families, or just checking in with the Asgardians daily.

Tony and Steve came to visit a few times. They toured the town and met some of the people. Tony explored the nearby towns and made some calls to have power and running water construction start in the spring. For the time being the people of New Asgard used wood fireplaces and water from the nearby streams and nearby inland waters that came from the North Sea.

Overall—everything was going great. Although it wasn’t the same type of easy living as you had at the Avengers Compound, you still enjoyed your new home with Thor.

Being extremely tired was of the new norm. That was to be expected while working all day. Lately you had been waking up in the middle of the night sweaty—even though it only mildly warm with the fireplace. It was only when you threw up a few times that you were convinced you worked yourself sick. In the mornings you woke with a clogged nose and sniffles, using what little energy you had left to convince Thor you would be fine without him. It wasn’t the first time in your life you got colds. His people needed his help more than you needed it.

It was a nasty cold that seemed to come and go for a few weeks. You were finally satisfied when you were no longer sniffling or throwing up.

Until you woke another morning to find yourself kneeling over a bucket and emptying your stomach again.

“Gods help me,” you muttered wiping your mouth. Mjölnir was whining softly at your side, nosing your head and neck while you faced the bucket and retched. “I know you’re hungry buddy. I’ll make breakfast in a second.”

After getting up and cleaning yourself, you hissed walking to the kitchen. It was mostly complete. The drywall was put up and ready to be painted, the cabinets and counters were installed. You spent your own money on these things, and even used your money to buy similar building supplies for the other Asgardians when they would accept it. This wasn’t the reason you hissed though, you hissed because a strong ache started in your lower back.

Since it was nice and cold out but not freezing, you were able to store food just outside the door in a wooden box (to keep out animals). Eggs and sausage in hand you started to make food.

Milling around the other dry foods sitting on the table you found peanut butter, and it sounded good on a slice of toast. Then you remembered that Thor used the last of the bread making a sandwich for dinner last night.

As you flipped the eggs on the pan, you suddenly had the urge to put a dollop of peanut butter on the eggs. It was something you did occasionally for Mjölnir—but you wanted to try it. Mixing some of the eggs and sausage in dry kibble for the dog, you took a bite of the peanut butter eggs and rolled it around your tongue softly. The taste was by far different, but it wasn’t that bad? When you were about to take another bite, Mjölnir snuffed his snout into your stomach and huffed.

“Bud you will get yours once it cools off I promise,” you sighed. “Just—”

You were cut short when he started to whine and lick at your shirt.

The taste of yolky peanut butter danced on your tongue while your brain tried to process what was wrong with your dog. Soft aching pain radiated from your lower back and pelvis. Why were you eating eggs and peanut butter?

“Oh fuck,” you whispered starring into light brown eyes of Mjölnir. He barked softly and wagged his tail.

In a blur of moment you got off the stool and frantically looked for your boots and keys. A few weeks after arriving to New Asgard you and Thor acquired some vehicles for the people to use. The both of you used the one of the trucks regularly to get supplies from nearby towns. It was about an hour drive to the closest one, but you weren’t even worried about the drive. You were anxious.

“Come on Mjölnir,” you hollered for him to follow. In one motion you yanked the bowl of his food off the table and flung the door open. Not having to be told twice he followed you into the cold morning and to the truck. All you had to do was open the door and he jumped inside.

You sat his bowl of food on the bench seat and hurried to the driver’s seat.

The hour drive flew by fast. You weren’t sure if it was just because you were nervous or just scattered brained. Mjölnir waited out in the truck while you ran into the convenience store and asked to purchase a pregnancy test.

Ironically, the drive back to New Asgard took forever. You kept running scenarios through your head that it was a fluke, you weren’t pregnant. Life would remain the same as it was. No big deal.

But what if you were? How would Thor react? How was it even possible? It didn’t seem likely that Asgardians could procreate with humans? Thor was a God though! He must have been alive for thousands of Earth years, especially if there is Norse Myths about him! Panic started to set in you again—what if you were and everything went wrong because Asgardians and humans weren’t compatible to procreate?

Mjölnir shoved his head out the window and chomped at the wind as you drove.

Even though you weren’t ready for it and worried everything could go wrong—you would be mildly disappointed if you weren’t pregnant.

After pulling back into the driveway at the house, you sat with the truck off and just starred at the tests in your hand. You had never taken a pregnancy test before. You read the instructions over and over again to make sure you were going to do it right.

Taking a deep breath you grabbed the three tests you bought, opened the door and let Mjölnir out, and walked calmly to the outhouse. Since there was not electricity or plumbing in New Asgard, everyone had an outhouse built. It wasn’t great—you gagged when you walked in sometimes—but you told yourself if wasn’t forever, it was just temporary.

You’ve used porta potties before, you can use an outhouse.

Over the course of five minutes everything changed.

One by one each test showed the control line—and then faint positive lines.

Your heart started to beat so hard and slow you could feel pain in your chest as your eyes started to water. Faint lines count right? Trying to hold back tears, you gasped and shoved all the tests in your coat pocket.

Where was Thor?

With Mjölnir by your side, you tried to walk calmly through New Asgard. People were out and about trading and building. Everyone smiled or waved as you passed by. Eventually you started to ask if anyone had seen Thor. There wasn’t a solid answer, some said he was last seen on the edge of town.

Just as you were passing the last building you did not find Thor, but you did find Brunnhilde. She looked tired, but smiled none-the-less when she saw you. “Have you seen my oaf of a boyfriend,” you asked a little out of breath, but heart still beating in anxiousness.

Her lips twitched as she tried to repress her smile. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, lightening lit up the sky just behind her near the beach. A few bolts here and there, but lasting longer than normal—especially abnormal without thunder and rain.

“He’s on the beach My Lady,” she laughed softly. Whispering a small ‘thank you’, you rushed towards where you saw lightning strike, Mjölnir in tow.

“And stop calling me My Lady,” you hollered back at her, “you know I hate it!”

It didn’t take long for you to find him after that. You stifled a laugh when you found him sitting in the sand with his legs spread, leaning over while he tinkered with something in his hands.

“Thor,” you called out for him.

Immediately he tensed and shoved his hands into the sand. “Schatt,” he replied, not moving, “what are you doing here?”

As you got closer, he didn’t get up, instead he seemed to push sand around and particularly place a rock down in the sand. What on Earth was he doing?

“I was looking for you,” you said confused, almost forgetting what you were here for. “What are you doing?”

Looking a little flustered, he just smiled. “It’s a surprise,” he said softly. “Do you need my help?”

That’s when you became speechless. Over the months Thor lost some of the weight he had gained on the ship. Working every day instead of sitting still and eating will do that. You never told him, but you were happy he wasn’t the same chiseled Adonis he used to be. Thor was still fit and strong, but much softer than before.  You confessed how much you enjoyed his long hair that braided up into a top knot and down into his beard; and he continued to do it.

Even though you knew one of his eyes looking back at you was fake, you couldn’t help but stare helplessly back at both of them. Suddenly you started to cry, remembering what you found and had to tell him. Warmth filled you from the inside, seeping out through your wet cheeks.

“What is wrong drotting,” he rushed forward to wrap you in his arms. Warm. Safe. Happy.

Unable to speak, you took the handful of plastic in your pocket and shoved them at his chest. He looked at it oddly and tried to read what he could on them.

“What is it love? What are these? First Response and Clear Blue,” he muttered squinting his eyes while looking it over. A laugh ripped from your throat, awkward and rough.

“Thor,” you blubbered, “they’re tests. I’m pregnant.”

Thor’s eyes went glassy, brows furrowed as his lips moved mimicking the word ‘pregnant’. Confusion was still grasping him as he tried to process the news. Overcome with the urge to do something, you grabbed one of his hands from around your waist and brought it up to rest on your stomach.

“We’re going to have a baby,” you whispered, trying to catch his eye. Was he mad? Was he scared?

He stood almost limply while his hands flexed over your middle on top of your coat. You could hear him mutter the word ‘baby’ over and over. “T-Thor,” you asked hesitantly. Was this the moment he grew angry?

Instead he broke away from you and walked back to his odd rock.  Dread filled you to watch him walk away like that. He didn’t look thrilled at the news, just walking away like that. Was he going to ask you to get an abortion? Would you even entertain the idea? Tears were already filling your eyes again at the thought.

Mjölnir was following Thor around, jumping softly as Thor rose up from the sand. When he turned to you, you were shocked to find a wide bright smile gracing his face. Your heart started to thud a little irregularly at it. Once he got back to you, he fell to his knees and pressed his face against your stomach, laughing softly. On instinct your hands wove into his hair to hold him there.

Thor captures one of your hands and brought it to his lips where he pressed a kiss to the back of it, then flipped it over to place something cold and smooth into it.

The wasn’t very big, but the size of a nickel—not as perfectly round either. It was mostly flat on one side while the other rose softly here and there in no particular pattern. The color of it was just the perfect hue of cerulean blue that you were comparing it to his eye every fraction of a second to see if it were truly the same color. It was beach glass, small and imperfectly perfect.

“This is the best one I have made so far,” he rumbled softly, still rubbing his face against your stomach. “I will keep trying, but we can take this to a shop and get it made into a ring.”

As he said the words, memories were clicking into place, seeing lightning at the beach throughout the past few weeks. He has been making these? Why has he been making—made into a ring?

“What,” you asked a little thick in the throat. “W-what do you mean?”

There he was, the God of Thunder just kneeling in the sand in Norway at your feet. His mustache twitched with his smile, moving fluidly with his lips and he pressed them against your hands and then your stomach.

“I was waiting to make the best piece first, then get it made into a ring before I asked. Steve said I needed a ring to ask,” he murmured with a soft chuckle. “Now I feel is the best time more than any.”

Your heart wasn’t beating fast, but it was beating hard. Quickly your hands grasped onto his shoulders as you felt the shake and wobble in your legs. They didn’t want to hold your whole weight all the sudden.

“Y/N, will you do me the honor of being my wife now that you are already doing the honor to being the mother of my child,” he smiled up at you as he said the words. A choked sob left you as you tried to gasp for air. You would say you fell from the shock because your legs weren’t working, but Thor was already holding you tightly, easing you down to your knees in front of him.

Kissing him softly, you cried. “You’re not mad about me being pregnant,” you asked.

Thor chuckled deeply, nosing his way to your neck where he laid extra kisses. “Of course not drotting, this is wonderous news. I am just a little shocked since you said you take that medicine to prevent this, but I am not mad. I could never be mad.”

“I love you so much,” you trembled the words as you whispered them against his neck.

“As I love you,” he murmured back. “Though you will do me the honor? You will be my wife?”

“Of course,” you cried softly.

If someone had asked you a year ago where you thought you would be in life today—this isn’t what you would have imagined. None the less, you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

Previous Chapter << Part 12: Waffles

[puttingherinhistory]

December 27, 2015 by Suzannah Weiss

I was young when I came to discover masturbation, and I had orgasms long before I knew what they were.

Nothing about it seemed complicated. I just rubbed “down there” for a few minutes, and it happened. But later, magazines, comedy routines, and sitcoms taught me that my body – and vaginas in general – were mysterious and complex, often too complex for those without them to figure out.

Confirming what I’d been taught, orgasms weren’t as simple with partners as they were by myself. This is to be expected to some extent. There’s a learning curve when you’re getting to know someone new. But what confused me was that not everyone seemed eager to learn.

“Sorry,” I (unnecessarily) apologized to a partner for taking what I thought was too long.

“It’s okay. I know it’s harder for girls,” he said – and then stopped.

Compounding the lack of effort I encountered from some (though not all) partners, it became harder for me to orgasm when I started SSRI antidepressants. When I told my doctor, she said, “Oh, that’s hard for a lot of women anyway.”

I knew my body long and well enough to know being a woman wasn’t to blame, but others didn’t share my view that the problem was fixable. I grew hesitant to bring it up with partners out of fear that asking them to perform the supposedly impossible feat of getting a woman off was too demanding.

Orgasm doesn’t have to be the focus of sex, but if a woman wants one, she should have as much of a right to request it as anyone else does.

When people say that women’s bodies are more difficult – and these generalizations typically refer to cis women and are accompanied by rants about how complicated vaginas are – they teach cis women that an orgasm is too tall an order.

Trans women also have a slew of sexual stigmas attached to them, which Kai Cheng Thom describes here, though they’re beyond the scope of this article. In addition, though most research on orgasm inequity has studied cis women, trans and non-binary people with vaginas may relate to the frustrations of being taught their genitals are impossible to decode, too.

The view that cis women are hard to please maintains what sociologists call the orgasm gap, in which men have three orgasms for every one a woman enjoys, and 57% of women orgasm during all or most of their sexual encounters, but 95% say their partners do.

These statistics may appear to confirm the stereotype that women’s bodies are more complicated, but there are other forces at work.

As sociologist Lisa Wade points out, the orgasm gap is conditional. Lesbians report orgasming 74.7% of the time, only 10 percentage points lower than gay men. In addition, women take under four minutes on average to masturbate to orgasm.

If these statistics don’t convince you that there’s more to the orgasm gap than biology, here are twelve cultural factors that contribute to it.

1. People Believe Women Are Less Sexual

Women, the story goes, aren’t that into sex.

They may enjoy it, but they do it partially in exchange for validation, commitment, or financial support, popular wisdom says. As long as a woman is getting one of those things, she doesn’t need much out of the sex itself.

To the contrary, a lot of research and lived experiences indicate that women are as capable of wanting and enjoying sex as men.

Until we acknowledge this, we won’t prioritize making sex as enjoyable as possible for women because we’ll believe sexual pleasure isn’t as important to them.

It may not be because women themselves may buy into myths about their gender, neglecting their desires because they’re not supposed to have them. If they do, they and their partners miss out on balanced sexual interactions, not to mention fun.

2. Pornography Privileges Male Pleasure

Most people who have watched porn videos know they typically culminate with a “money shot” in which the man comes, and then the scene ends. Most woman-focused orgasms depicted in porn are merely incidental events on the path to a man’s pleasure.

Additionally, most mainstream porn scenes feel incomplete without blow jobs, while cunnilingus is less common.

All in all, the message is clear: It’s imperative that a man gets off, and if a woman manages to in the process, props to him, but it’s just an added bonus.

3. The Myth of ‘Blue Balls’ Persists

Blue balls, according to Urban Dictionary, is “the excrutiating [sic] pain a man receives when his balls swell to the size of coconuts because of lack of sex, unfinished bjs, and just not cummin when he knows he should.”

The entitlement reflected in this description is characteristic of most uses of the term “blue balls.” While vasocongestion, the accumulation of blood flow to the genitals, can occasionally cause mild pain in people with any genitals, this is not what men are usually referring to when they complain about blue balls. And whether they’re experiencing this or just sexual frustration, it’s never anyone else’s duty to relieve it.

Even though most women know no medical condition results from an erection that doesn’t lead to an orgasm, many of us feel guilty for not providing one. So, in addition to some men’s lack of effort to pleasure women, the pressure many women feel to pleasure men maintains the orgasm gap.

4. There’s More Information in the Media About Pleasing Cis Men Than Women

As a teenager, my secret guilty pleasure was buying copies of Cosmo from the drugstore and hiding them under my pillow to read at night.

I read all their sex articles just because I found anything sex-related titillating, but along the way, I learned all about different tricks to please men – and cis men, specifically. By the time I encountered a real-life penis, I already knew all the basic tricks in the book, plus some out-there ones my dude friends urged me not to try.

I don’t know what most teenage boys’ secret reading material was, but there aren’t many mainstream men’s magazines as obsessed with pleasing women as women’s are with pleasing men. If anything, I’ve heard it’s common for boys to sneak glimpses of Playboy, which is also geared toward pleasing men.

Maybe this explains why 25% of men and 30% of women can’t locate the clitoris on a diagram.

Amid all the advice we read about different ways to hold and touch a penis, many remain in the dark about vulvas and vaginas.

5. Hookup Culture Privileges Male Pleasure

“I will do everything in my power to, like whoever I’m with, to get [him] off,” one woman said in a study by Elizabeth Armstrong on college hookups. But when it came to their own pleasure, women held different expectations.

“The guy kind of expects to get off, while the girl doesn’t expect anything,” a woman in another study by Lisa Wade said.

Accordingly, one man in Armstrong’s study boasted, “I’m all about making her orgasm,” but when asked to clarify the word “her,” he added, “Girlfriend her. In a hookup her, I don’t give a shit.” Perhaps he sensed that women don’t expect much from their hookups.

Statistics about women’s orgasms reflect these attitudes.

The ratio of men’s and women’s orgasms is 3.1:1 for first-time hookups, but only 1.25:1 for relationships.

For whatever reason, hookup culture appears to have embraced the message espoused by the media that women’s orgasms are optional, while men’s are obligatory.

6. Sex Education Doesn’t Teach Us About Pleasure, Especially Female Pleasure

Like many schools in the US, mine only had a couple of days a year dedicated to sex education in middle and high school. During the initial classes on puberty, the portion about women was on periods and the portion about men was on erections, ejaculation, and wet dreams.

Already, our bodies were associated with making babies, while boys’ were associated with sexual arousal and pleasure.

Later on, we learned how to use a condom – along with how to complete a very normative sequence of events. You put it on, we were told, and then you have intercourse, and then someone ejaculates, and then you pull out and take it off. Men’s orgasms, but not women’s, were built into our safer sex lesson.

Nobody said “then you stop whenever you feel like it” or “your partner may need you to pull out” (because, contrary to what we see in porn, not every woman is multi-orgasmic and many have a refractory period, so we can’t all comfortably keep going until our partner wants to stop).

This is one sneaky way we learn to prioritize men’s pleasure without ever really learning about pleasure at all.

7. Self-Evaluative Thoughts Can Disrupt Women’s Arousal Process

Due to the emphasis on women’s appearances in mainstream porn and throughout the media, women learn to picture themselves during sex.

“How does my stomach look from this angle,” “Does my face look sexy or silly in this expression,” and “Would it be sexier if I made more noise?” are a few thoughts that have distracted me in the bedroom.

And I don’t think I’m alone: 32% of women say that when they don’t orgasm, it’s often because they’re stuck in their heads or focused on their looks.

Orgasm itself can become a source of performance anxiety.

Because the women’s orgasms are dramatized in porn and the media, with exaggerated moans and calculated facial expressions, some women feel so much pressure that fear of not coming keeps them from coming. This pressure can also lead women to fake orgasms instead of sticking it out for a real one.

Once again, women’s magazines don’t help.

Cosmo even provides a guide on “how to look even hotter naked.” Though “even” implies the reader looks hot already, the pre-bedroom workout routine and self-tanner application tips make it clear we don’t look as hot as we could – and even if we do, the focus is still on our partner’s pleasure, not what we see or feel.

Thoughts about partners’ perceptions place women outside their bodies, looking in, rather than inside them, feeling the sensations the sexual activity is causing. It’s hard to have an orgasm when you’re not even thinking sexual thoughts.

8. Sexual Trauma Can Impede Arousal and Orgasm

It’s extremely common for women to experience sexual trauma within their lifetimes. One out of six women has been the victim of attempted or completed rape.

According to sex therapist Vanessa Marin, this trauma can have lasting effects on one’s sex life.

“Sexual assault can rob your enjoyment of sex and can make any type of intimacy feel scary,” she said. “Some survivors experience feelings of disconnect or dissociation when they’re having sex. Others can easily get triggered by being touched in certain places or in specific ways.”

Marin recommends that survivors seek out therapy or a support group so they don’t have to deal with the effects of their pasts alone.

In the short-term, Marin has written that reminding yourself you’re with your partner, not the person who assaulted you, can quell trauma-related sexual problems. “Of course your brain knows that it’s [them], but this exercise can help the more subconscious parts of your psyche start to relax,” she writes.

Other emotions women disproportionately experience around sex, such as guilt and shame, may also lead to anorgasmia.

9. More Women Than Men Are on Antidepressants

SSRI antidepressants, like Prozac and Zoloft, can cause anorgasmia. This side effect isn’t gender-specific, but antidepressants themselves are.

Between 2001 and 2010, 25% of American women (but only 15% of men) had been prescribed medication for mental health conditions.

This may occur because women are more likely to suffer from anxiety and depression, both frequently treated with SSRIs, the medication class most commonly known to cause anorgasmia. There are many theories as to why, but one possible source of this difference is societal misogyny.

As Ally Boghun writes of her anxiety, “A lot of the stressors that impact me the most are actually stressors put upon women by society to look and act in certain ways.” In addition, women are more likely to seek therapy, since toxic standards of masculinity deter men from discussing their emotions.

This is one case where the orgasm gap may be related to biological differences, but the sources of these differences are still societal.

10. Women Are Discouraged from Asking for What They Want

Women are taught to accommodate others’ wishes and put their own on the back burner, to be pleasant and polite and grateful and not ask for more, whether that’s food, payment, or sexual pleasure.

To bring back Armstrong’s research, one woman said she didn’t have the “right” to request an orgasm and “felt kind of guilty almost, like I felt like I was kind of subjecting [guys] to something they didn’t want to do and I felt bad about it.”

I can relate: I’ve said “sorry” many times for requesting or giving myself the stimulation I wanted, for taking what I thought was too much time, and for receiving pleasure without immediately returning it.

The same fear that keeps women from voicing their opinions in work meetings or negotiating salaries also keeps us from speaking up in bed.

But until we can “lean in” without bumping into hostility, women can’t singlehandedly solve this problem in any domain. It’s also up to our partners, coworkers, and others to make it clear they want to hear and accommodate our wishes.

11. The Normative Definition of Sex Isn’t Optimal for Many Women’s Orgasms

When someone says “sex,” most people think of penis-in-vagina intercourse, even though it means many different things to different people.

For example, some couples may see oral sex as sex. Some may also put oral or manual sex on the same level as penetrative sex, but this is still not the norm.

When someone talks about losing their virginity, for instance, we usually assume they’re talking about the first time they had penis-in-vagina intercourse.

This assumption can be problematic for women who get off more easily through other activities.

In one survey, 20% of women said they seldom or never had orgasms during intercourse. Only 25% said they consistently do. In another, 38% said that when they don’t orgasm, a common obstacle is “not enough clitoral stimulation.”

Since penetrative sex often doesn’t directly stimulate the clitoris, this could explain why other types of sex – or clitoral stimulation during intercourse, which women considered the most common way they got off with a partner – may be more optimal.

When we consider the activities that often help women reach orgasm as warmup or extra, we deprioritize women’s pleasure.

12. People Think the Orgasm Gap Is Biological

Orgasm inequity is a self-fulfilling prophecy.

When men believe women’s bodies are an impossible puzzle, they don’t try to solve it. Neither do women who are taught their own pleasure is inaccessible.

That’s why it’s important we acknowledge all the societal factors that contribute to this discrepancy. Genetics can’t be fixed, but a lot of these problems can, which means that closing the orgasm gap is possible.

***

If you’re a woman having trouble orgasming, it’s likely not you. It may not be the result of any carelessness on your partner’s part either. You may just need to talk about it, challenge the myths you’ve learned about sexuality, and, if necessary, seek help for any psychological or medical conditions that could be contributing to the problem.

Or maybe it’s not a problem at all. Maybe orgasming isn’t important to you, and that’s your choice as well. But if it is something you would like, you have the same right to ask for it as your partner. If he expects orgasms from you, he shouldn’t mind you wanting one.

It’s not too much to ask, and your anatomy isn’t too complicated. The only thing that’s complicated is the toxic set of messages we’re taught about sexuality. But that’s not on you or your body.

[arcticdementor]

Generally, though, the focus tends to be on an adult individual who has been radicalized or the impact on their partners or parents. There’s been less attention paid to the unique position of teachers who find themselves faced with radicalizing students, even though they’re often the first witnesses of the early warning signs of red-pilling among a younger cohort. “I have totally noticed the radicalization of students with MRA stuff,” says Kira-Lynn Ferderber, a sexual violence prevention educator in Florida. “I teach kids of all ages but I notice it most in middle school and high school boys, and it’s getting worse and worse.”

Often, it’s hard for teachers to tell whether a student is being truly red-pilled in the sense that they’re being radicalized online, or whether they’re parroting views that they’ve grown up with in their conservative households. Tessa, a 29-year-old in the Midwest who teaches 14- to 18-year-olds at a private school for students with learning impairments, says that while many of her students “simply take on the talking points and politics of their conservative parents,” this can make them especially ripe targets for full-blown radicalization and infatuation with far-right figures. “A few started listening to Joe Rogan’s podcast, which led to them reading Jordan Peterson’s books,” she says. “I think that Joe Rogan’s ideology is the biggest threat to critical thinking in the last decade.”

…

When teachers notice the warning signs of radicalization, difficult questions arise: Where is the line between shutting down these arguments and allowing kids to explore new ideas? And when is the right moment to intervene?

…

Tessa says that students often take on this conspiratorial mindset, too. “A lot of the conspiracies these students believe, like superior white genetics or that being LGBTQ+ is a mental illness, take root for them specifically because they think it’s a hidden truth I’m keeping from them as a teacher,” she explains. “They think I’m brainwashed by liberal narratives and that I’m compelled to lie to them.”

Jacob and Tessa’s experiences seem to be especially typical for teachers based in areas where deep conservatism is the norm. Here, the problem of students radicalizing online is often compounded at a social and institutional level, with far-right views being encouraged by parents and even other teachers. Jennifer’s flat-earther student transferred to her class in the middle of the year, so she wasn’t sure how quickly the radicalization had taken place. But after he was so disruptive during lessons that she ended up scheduling a meeting with his father, it became apparent that both he and the internet had a role to play.

…

Another problem when students are red-pilled is that they then attempt to convert other classmates. Red-pilled students become highly argumentative and confrontational during lessons to sway the class toward their ideas, which puts teachers in a bind. On one hand, they want to encourage the exploration of ideas in the classroom, but on the other, they don’t want class time to be endlessly derailed with debates about long-settled science and ethical norms, like racism being bad and LGBTQ+ people deserving rights.

“It’s hard because if I disregard [the manosphere students’ questions], I sometimes feel like it makes other students think, ‘Huh, she doesn’t have a good answer for that, it must be true!’” Ferderber explains. “So it doesn’t work to say, ‘I won’t dignify that with a response,’ but if you go down the rabbit hole with them, is it serving the needs of the other students?”

Of course, teachers are human too, and the emotional impact of being constantly challenged in the classroom can take a toll. “It was so frustrating,” Jennifer says about her flat-earth student perpetually derailing the classroom with his conspiracies. “He literally made me feel like I was a fraud, and it didn’t help that I was a new teacher at the time. When he’d tell me I was wrong and that these are the ‘alternative facts,’ I could feel my class lose their trust in me. It was a crazy power struggle for sure.”

It can also be devastating for teachers to realize that, despite their best efforts, some of their students might end up holding hateful beliefs long term, and many of them take it personally. “My biggest worry is that they’ll be stuck in their thinking forever, and that they’ll join the Proud Boys or something,” Tessa says. “I feel like I should be able to do a better job at teaching critical-thinking skills and they should have enough trust in me to believe that I’m telling them the truth.”

“Honestly,” she adds, “it makes me feel like I’ve failed at my job.”

[geminimoonbeamx]

Electric Feel: Part One

A/N: Alright you guys so last night I re-watched the movie ‘Savages’. You know, the one with Quicksilver and Serena Vander-Woodsen in it? Yeah, it totally rekindled my love for Polyamorous relationships and after reading a fuck ton of amazing Stucky one’s this site, I decided I just had to write my own. This is going to be a short series. Only five or so parts of fluff and smut. Smut with plot, but smut none the less lol. Enjoy ya’ll. Steve/OC/Bucky

CURRENTLY ON HOLD. WILL RECONTINUE IN 2018

Word Count: 3k+

Warnings: Heavy mentions Panic disorder, Anxiety, Depression and use of Prescription Drugs. Mental health/illness will be a heavy topic in this one so if it triggers you, I’m sorry my beautiful buttercups but this story might not be the one for you. Cussing because I have the worst mouth and my vocab is made up of four letter words.

Story Summary: Y/N, an overworked plus size model, is struggling to balance her career and her worsening panic disorder. Moving into Avengers Tower, at her Aunt Peppers request, was supposed to relieve some of the stress. She never expected to find solace in the arms of not one, but both of the Towers resident super soldiers

✨✨✨✨✨✨

Dragging yourself across the lobby of ‘Avengers Tower’ you feel absolutely numb. The static in your head seemed far away, like a station you just couldn’t tune into. Not that you wanted to. No, you’d take this reprieve, this moment of nothingness happily. At least you felt like you could breathe, like your lungs we’re actually working again, doing the simplest of tasks.

Jesus. How sad is that? That your actually happy you could breathe normally? The most natural thing a human could do, and yet even that seemed like a heralding task to you lately.

“Hello Ms. Y/N” The receptionist at the circular desk greeted as you passed and on queue you forced a smile on your face.

You’d gotten good at it by now, so good, that the woman didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary and went on with her work. Typing away at who knows what. It was nearly thirty minutes past 10. What could Tony have her working on so late? Whatever, you deduce. Whatever it was, you knew she was probably getting paid beautifully for it.

And wasn’t that the point of it all? What made the world go round?

Money is the reason we exist. Everybody knows it, it’s a fact. Kiss, kiss.

You recite to your self as you push your floor button on the elevator and lean back heavily on the rail. It’s only when the doors shut, leaving you in the solitary, boxed in space, that you let the smile fall off of your face, your cheeks felt relieved. The daily strain on your cheeks from holding that fake, plasticine smile sucked and as your face sagged you feel the most yourself.

“You have one major case of resting bitch face, kid” You remember Tony laughing at you years ago. It wasn’t anything you hadn’t heart a thousand times before. Your features we’re naturally…sharp. Moody. Your full lips instinctively pulled down at the corners unless you were either A)genuinely smiling or B) putting on that mask that you’d perfected.

In your line of work, resting bitch face was both a blessing and a curse. That pout of yours, yeah it had scored you a lot of high end jobs. Shooting for A-list magazines with renound photographers. Making you a bit of a “hot commodity” in the modeling world. But it had also earned you a reputation. Everyone had this image of you; thought you we’re extremely bitchy and stuck up. It was already hard, working in the modeling community. Plus size modeling was just starting to boom, to become a norm but even you didn’t fit some of the major guidelines. At well over two hundred pounds and barley reaching 5'3, you we’re an unusual peice for the industry in the first place.

Having everyone think you we’re a high maintenance, hard to work with cunt- well that didn’t help either.

They just didn’t know you, which you almost laughed at because isn’t that what everyone’s excuse is? ‘They don’t know me, I’m so misunderstood’.

Fuck, you we’re a walking cliché, you chide yourself.

Most who met you tended to think you we’re “stuck up” because a good chunk of the time you we’re so stuck in your own head that you couldn’t focus on anyone around you. Trying to breath, trying to focus on anything but the near constant bubble of nervousness that never seemed to leave your stomach. Running through your therapists guide list on how to avoid your next panic attack.

In truth, when most got to know you they were honestly shocked at your goofy, nerdy nature. Those few people, who tried to delve under the surface, we’re greeted with a girl who could make a joke out of just about anything and would rather stay in bed and binge on Star Wars movies and buffalo wings(well maybe no one would be surprised about that your love of chicken wings, you think humorously. Bitterly)

It hadn’t always been this bad, you recite to yourself. It would get better, you encourage.

When you get to your floor, all you want to do is go to sleep. The thought of having to have to drone through any other kind of human interaction physically made you wince.

Most of the time, you didn’t mind the floor you we’re on. Actually, you quite liked your “floor mates”. Yeah, it had been a little weird at first being “bunked” with all guys, but you’d soon found that you wouldn’t have wanted to be placed anywhere else. Steve, Sam and Bucky we’re good to you, yeah they babied you a little and left messes in the living room, but you had your own hoard of annoying tendencies and still, they never treated you like anything but…family.

Like the older brothers you never wanted- while simultaneously being the little brothers you had DEFINATLEY never fucking wanted because Jesus Christ, who had left the empty Oreo package in the middle of the floor? You bend down, almost robotically, to pick it up.

Steve and Bucky are lounging on opposite sides of the long couch, watching some sports show that you didn’t really care to know. You barley notice them, and you really hope that they’re not going to notice you. That they’re too invested in the game on the mammoth flat screen-

“Hey, babydoll. How was work?”

No dice. Not that you’d really thought for a second they we’re just going to ignore your entrance.

The smile, that smile, you plaster on is almost painful.

They both look up at you, Bucky’s head slightly cocked as he waits for an answer.

“It was fine, I’m really tired though. I’m going to change”

To anyone else your tone would have sounded pleasant. Tired, but normal.

To Steve, it’s a big red flag. Gone is the usual bite in your voice, the giggle. The light. You sound…monotone. Like you weren’t really there at all. And that’s what really makes him look at you, take you in. The bags under your eyes are pronounced, even with the makeup that adorns your skin. Your posture is rigid and you look like you might strain a muscle just from standing there but it’s your eyes that confirm it for him. He’d seen that look in them many a time before. He feels the tug on his heart strings as you hurry out of the room.

When Steve turns his head to Bucky, the mans eyes are still glued on your retreating frame. But the look on his face matches the one Steve knew he himself was sporting.

You’d had another hard one. Another attack. Being ‘roomies’ with you meant that they we’re no stranger to your illness, they’d experienced first hand what you went through on a near day to day bases. Hell, Bucky went through his fair share of his own. But it never ceased to put a felling akin to stones in their throats to see you in that state

“I want to go check on her, man” Bucky announces “She looked real rough”

Steve shook his head. They’d been through this. The trial and error of it all.

“Nah, pal. You know she’ll freak out if you go after her right now…let her go cool off” Steve reminds his friend. Didn’t he remember the last time…it hadn’t gone over well.

Bucky sighs through his nose and nurses the beer bottle in his hand. He knew what it was like, what she was going through and it made it worse, the thought of her feeling even a fraction of the strain that he himself frequently endured had him tied in knots. He felt like he had to get up, and go to her. And check on her and make sure that she was playing on her phone like she liked to do, laughing at some meme he knew she’d show him later and not curled up in a corner.

He still winces at that mental image. When he’d found her in the kitchens with her hands over her eyes and her knees pulled up to her chest.

“I’m worried about her, too” Steve’s voice cuts through the silence. He can see the cogs working in Bucky’s head.

Bucky nodded, chewing on the inside of his lip. Yeah, he knew.

Knew that they we’re both royally fucked.

And had been for a while now. Because nothing good could come from the way that they both felt about you. He’d never really thought about it before. Maybe, even though it was a little screwed up, it was because back in the forties he could run circles around Steve when it came to girls. Back then he’d never be in competition with the him. Plus Steve had always loved dark haired dames and Bucky had a thing for Redheads, so he never really thought there would be a day when they a single woman caught both pairs of their eyes.

And then came you. When Bucky had learned Pepper’s niece was coming to live at the compound he’d never in his wildest dreams could have imagined you. All ass and sass and bambi eyes. All understanding touches and long talks in the middle of the night when neither of you could sleep because your brains just wouldnt turn off. You seemed to understand him in a way that he didn’t even understand himself.

You’d snuck up on Bucky…

Steve was different. He’d met you a handful of times before you’d moved in. You were Peppers niece, after all, so you’d been around the tower. Never staying for long- just long enough to throw him that smile. To flip your sheet of hair over your shoulder and be the sweetest thing he’d ever encountered. You rotted his teeth. You brought out the side of him, the one that was foreign to everyone but Bucky.

You hadn’t snuck up on Steve. You’d hit him like a god damn freight train.

And it yet no one was willing to admit it, even though it was nearly palpable. The three of you went on, holding onto a friendship that seemed to keep all of you a float.

Because Bucky needed Steve. It wasn’t a fact he was ignorant to. He needed his best friend if he had any hope of ever truly getting back to the man he’d once been and Steve needed him back. The only link he had to his true self. To the man behind the shield.

So, they kept it unspoken. They didn’t even talk about it to each other, which if you knew Bucky and Steve you’d know was in-fucking-sane because those two told eachother EVERYTHING. Neither of them we’re willing to risk the century long friendship.

Hell no…

But did they really even have to say it? Steve witnessed the way you touched Bucky, your hands trailing over him in something liken to worship and Bucky noticed the way you sought out Steve. The way you needed him, the way you looked at him like he was the sun.

Funny thing? It didn’t make either of them jealous, there was no animosity. No hurt feelings just…need.

Need of what? Neither of them knew.

And so, almost simultaneously, they both tipped their beer bottles back heavily, the screen illuminating their faces. They could lie to themselves. But they never did get the hang of lying to each other.

You stand in the shower for what feels like ages, allowing the scorching water to rush over you. Trying to practice those visionary exercises you’d worked on in therapy. Letting all of the negativity swirl down the drain. When you exit the glass, walk in shower you feel a little better. When you go to your bedside table and pop one of the tiny, yellow pills in your mouth, that helps even more. You’d learned long ago to take your medicine. You would question taking Dayquil when you had a could, so why would you do that in this case?

You didn’t need to feel ashamed for having to use medicine. You repeated yourself that daily, still. It was such a stigma, you we’re still working through it.

You pull a pair of sliky pink pajama shorts up your curvy legs. They we’re your favorite ones, the little cactus’ print always made you smile and then threw on an oversized grey sweater, the one you’d had for years. The littering of holes on the bottom of the sleeves was just proof to your immense love for it. You then brushed through your mess of wet hair, getting out all of the snarls, working through the small kinks before you slathered on your face serum’s and body lotions.

You had to do this.

Because your job required you to take care of your appearance and because your therapist assured you that taking care of yourself even when you felt low was one of the keys to happiness. To getting through it…and you would get through it.

When your finish your nightly routine you stare at yourself in the vanity mirror for a minute or two or five.

You look like a fucking eleven year old without makeup. Your face child like without the sharp eye liner of defining bronzer. But there was a prettiness to you, your eyes seemed even (e/c)er. You shake out your hair, watching the still damp tendrils fall across your shoulder before slipping into a pair of slippers, feeling good enough to go and scower the fridge because your tummy was growling viciously and you knew it was a shit idea to let those pills kick in on an empty stomach.

Your not surprised to see Steve and Bucky still immersed in their game- or maybe it’s a different game because this one looks like hockey and you could have sworn the other was baseball.

“What'er you guys watching?” You inquire, just to start a conversation, as you walk across the living room.

Your voice is still worn out, but you look better. Like you always do after showering off the long day.

“The Rangers game. We’re gettin’ our asses handed to us” Bucky gruffs, taking a look-see at you. Your hairs long down your back, your swimming in that old sweater of yours and your face is bare. Just like he likes you best.

“Hey, have a little faith! We can still pull through” Steve urges and you giggle as you open the stainless steel fridge door.

“We got you an order of those perogi’s you like from Kinga’s” He tells you just as your eyes land on the white take out box and you thank whatever creation there might be for your boys.

“Mmm, thank you kindly sirs” You pop them in the microwave “Sam still on that mission?”

It been a week and you we’re starting to get a little worried. You knew him, Nat and Thor could more then handle themselves but you we’re starting to really miss his booming jokes. His dirty laundry basket in the hallway, not so much. You’d almost killed yourself on that thing in the middle of the night too many times.

“Yeah, don’t worry, he’ll be back on Friday. Unfortunately” Bucky hollers to you and you just roll your eyes and chuckle. Those two pretended to hate each other, but really you’d heard Bucky questioning the bird mans return this morning. No one brewed a pot of coffee like Sam.

When you come back to the living room, your hands full; the take out box in one and a glass of that green tea blend that you could never get either of them could drink because apparently it tasted like grass, it’s no shock that you plop down in the middle of them.

It would have been weirder if you had chosen to sit on one of the empty couches.

It was just normal for you now, your place between them and the comfortable conversation that ensues feels like home. You ask about how their day had gone, wanting to hear details from both about what they’d done for the duration of it. And then, they ask about yours.

To anyone else, even your Aunt Pepper, you probably would of lied. Would have told a wound a nice story about how the shoot had been so amazing. The team, the outfits. The set.

And that was true. Partially. But you don’t tell them the partial truth. You never do.

“I mean it was okay-” Bucky shoots you a knowing look and you sigh “The photographer was really intense. I mean he’s known for that, his crazy antics make for some kick-ass shots but that plus the lights that were set up was all just really…sucky”

You admit, quirking your mouth and swirling your tea. Steve reaches over, his big scorching palm coming to rest on your shoulder. The weight of it reassuring.

“I just feel- ugh fuck, you know? Like I cant go running away every time set gets a little loud or they shine a weird light in my eyes”

“But you didn’t run away right? You stayed and finished it” Steve’s voice is gentle- but not in that annoying clinical way. No, it’s easing the push, it’s encouraging not belittling.

“Yeah. After I had a minor breakdown in my changing room” that was an understatement, you recall the way you’d grasped at your chest. The way all the air in the room had seemingly gone out.

“Then? That’s an impressive feat all on it’s own, sugar” He continues on and you shake your head, poking at your perogi. Unable meeting either of their eyes.

“I’m just thinking maybe I’m not cut out for this anymore” It was so, so hard to admit that. To admit that maybe it was time to change your dreams, to let go of what you’d wanted for so.

Bucky’s chest aches for you, the empathy he feels in that moment is immense, he cant help but reach out. His hand going to you thigh, his thumb rubbing little circles into the smooth, plush skin as he talks.

“Why? Even when you felt awful you stayed put. Listen, doll, anyone who knows you knows how much you want this…I mean you we’re born for the camera, just look at that face- you roll your eyes and he chuckles- Not to mention if you don’t have a professional taking em’ your just going to sit in your room and take a thousand of those selfers anyway. Might as well get paid for your troubles ”

That makes you laugh hard and you tilt your head to him “Selfies, Bucky! God, you’re so old”

They have a way of doing this- making you feel better. Making it all melt away, even if it’s just for those moments when the three of you are huddled together. You dream of this shit, no joke. Of the feeling of both of their hands on you like they are now.

“You wound me, doll” Bucky melodramatically holds his chest leaning back into the couch, not moving his hand.

You continue eating, your stomach feeling more settled. You close your eyes and moan at the heaven sent explosion of favor.

“Mmm, Stevie, taste this” You urge as you stab one of the potato dumplings and hold it out to the lighter haired man, your hand underneath it incase it spilled over. Steve grins and opens his mouth wide and inviting as you pop the entire thing in.

“Amazing, right?”

“Uh, huh ‘real ‘ood” he says around the mouthful of food and you and Bucky both chuckle.

“Don’t hurt yourself there, punk” Bucky teases and Steve reaches across you to swat at his shoulder.

“Jerk”

Your more then used to them being hundred year old children “Alright boys let’s watch something that doesn’t make my brain bleed, yes?”

There’s a few moans and groans of protest, from the both of them, but in the end they do what they always do; give you what you want. You’re vaguely aware of your power over the two men and you deviously think how dangerous it is to have them at your beck and call. You end up making them watch ‘The Men in Black’ with you because “It’s a classic, oh my gosh I cant believe you guys have never seen this before” and of course you fall asleep twenty minutes in.

When people talk about anxiety attacks, they don’t ever mention how they physically drain the life out of you. The exhaustion that comes with them.

You end up sprawled out, your head resting on a pillow in Steve’s lap and your legs tangled with Bucky’s as he stretched out on the opposite side of you. Not an unusual positon for the three of you to contort into.

Steve plays with the near dry tendrils of your hair idly, he can feel your short, puff like breaths on his thigh. Bucky’s vibranium hand rests on your leg, where knee meets thigh, the warmth of your sweet smelling skin radiating off of you. It’s peace, the one sliver of peace it seems that you all will ever find.

“Steve” Bucky speaks first. He’s always been the bolder of the two. He’d known he was going to have to be the one to speak up sooner or later.

“Yeah?” Steve can hear it in his voice. Knows what’s coming.

“You love her” it’s not a question or an accusation. Just a statement.

“So do you” Is all Steve can think to retort and Bucky just sighs and nods wordlessly.

Will Smith fights aliens on the TV screen as they both acknowledge what they’d known wouldn’t stay unspoken.

“Ya’ know our lives would be a hellava lot easier if these guys really existed” Steve’s eyes narrow as he drinks in the film. Bucky’s snort fills the room. Aint that the truth.

There’s a moment of silence where they let the movie play, where your little wheezes and extraterrestrial battle sounds fill the living room.

“Your Agent K and I’m agent J” Bucky smirks, knowing his little comment is going to grate his best friend. Steve’s head snaps in his direction.

“That’s a load of crap, your older then me!”

“In years, yes. In spirit-”

“Fuck off, Bucky”

And even in your sleep state, you manage to be a smart ass. Because even though Steve cursed around you plenty, you’d grown up on those tapes of him that they played in school. And the cussing one had always stuck with you. “Language cap'n” you mother incoherently.

They both look like their eyes might pop out of their heads.

——————-

Okay guys I hope you liked this first part! I’m still trying to figure out the dynamic I want for the three of them, but I think I’ve got it. Please give me feed back, because I live on that shit. It’s the air I breathe. If you want to be tagged, let me know!😬💛

[antoine-roquentin]

At some point during the fighting in Libya a few years ago, Nato planes attacked pro-Gaddafi forces near an oilfield in the north-east. A number of smart bombs hit a storage facility belonging to the oil company for which I worked. The facility contained thousands of barrels of chemicals, worth millions of dollars, which are used in the process of drilling for oil. Most of the barrels were destroyed outright but a good number remained intact. Exposed to the extreme heat of the explosion and subsequent fires, the chemicals inside the surviving barrels were altered permanently. At around the same time, as the fighting in and around the field intensified, Libyan employees of my company (the expats having cut and run a long time ago) worked frantically to move high explosives and detonators used in the oil extraction process to a safe location so that none of the various factions involved in the conflict could get their hands on them. For some reason, the employees made the decision to leave the live explosives in the bunker and take the detonators – the piece of kit they judged most useful to any would-be bombers. In their haste, they left the bunker compound gates open and the door to the bunker unlocked.

Since the attack on Gaddafi and its aftermath, the Libyans working for my company had got used to having to act on their own initiative, often in danger and under extreme pressure as the fighting took hold of the country. But then, during a lull in hostilities, the employees responsible for dealing with the chemicals and explosives decided it was time to update HQ on what had happened. They also had a more serious problem on their hands. As well as using chemicals and explosives, oil companies deploy radioactive materials in their quest for oil. Nuclear probes are inserted into potential wells in order to determine whether they are suitable candidates for further exploration. These probes also happen to be the perfect size to use as the core of a dirty bomb. As a consequence, in all jurisdictions in which they are used they are heavily regulated. But in Libya there was no longer any regulation. My company’s store of nuclear materials was kept in a bunker designed to withstand the force of a massive explosion and was normally heavily protected by specially trained troops. Now the bunker lay completely unguarded. It seemed that the warring factions hadn’t yet discovered its existence but the employees believed that it was only a matter of time before this bunker, too, was overrun and plundered. What should they do to make the materials safe? Should they try and smuggle them out of the country? Should they keep them in the bunker and pour concrete over them? As the compliance lawyer with responsibility for the region, I was invited to join a conference call to discuss these questions, along with the operations manager for the oilfield and the regional head of security, an ex-special forces officer on secondment to London from US HQ.

Also on the call was the new country manager for Libya. While operations managers – the people who deal with the practicalities of getting the oil out of the ground – work out in the field, the country manager sits in the city, near the seat of decision-making power over the award of contracts. In companies like mine, country managers are powerful people, as much imperial proconsul or colonial governor as businessman. They can run the business in their countries as they wish. The only thing that matters is that they return a profit. The country manager for Libya was a company high-flier, who was sent in to Tripoli as soon as Gaddafi had fallen in the expectation of rich pickings, and who now spent his days shuttling from one hotel to another in fear of assassination. It was clear that he hadn’t had any involvement in the matters under discussion and he remained silent as the rest of us trawled through possible solutions to the various problems.

Sitting in a bland conference room in London, listening to disembodied voices relaying facts over the phone, it felt as though we were participating in some crisis simulation exercise. Almost casually, we came to some conclusions: the barrels of chemicals could stay where they were. Nothing could be done with the remaining stock. There was nothing we could do about the explosives either. In the fog of war, people make strange decisions and at least the detonators had been removed and were under company control. It was the best we could hope for. We decided that the risks of smuggling the nuclear materials out of the country and into Egypt were too great and that the employees should bury them somewhere in the Libyan desert.

Then, as the call drew to an end, the country manager spoke up. ‘I want to talk about something,’ he said. ‘I want to talk about the theft of company property.’ He was angry. One of the employees had taken advantage of the chaotic conditions to steal a number of company trucks. ‘And now that it is more stable over here,’ the country manager continued, ‘he’s holding the trucks to ransom. He’s refusing to give them back. His tribe wants money for them. They might attack our base.’ He told us that he had personally been out into the desert to bargain with the employee and his tribe. Negotiations were ongoing, but he insisted he was going to solve the problem. ‘I call the ball,’ he said. He was convinced that this misconduct was only the tip of the iceberg. ‘I want you to come and see what is going on here,’ he told me. ‘I want you to come and look into matters. They need it.’ After the call, he made an official request for a compliance audit – a review of the fraud and corruption risk in a country – for Libya, and coming from a well-connected hi-pot, his request went to the top of the organisation. The company, worried that it might be losing more money than it should be, in a market so bad that the smallest profit would be considered a miracle, agreed with him and sent me to Libya.

I flew into Tripoli in the first week of Ramadan. As I walked through the baggage collection hall looking for my luggage, the first thing I noticed were the groups of sub-Saharan Africans being shepherded through the airport by North African minders. After an hour of searching, it became clear that my luggage wasn’t going to turn up, so I made my way to arrivals, where I was collected by a driver and a security contractor employed by our company – a former NCO in a Scottish infantry regiment who served in Iraq and Afghanistan before becoming a corporate mercenary. He was hired to act as a bodyguard for expats but his only remaining client, he told me, was the country manager. ‘But now he never leaves his hotel room when he’s here and spends as much time out of the country as he can.’

We drove to the contractor’s quarters, a small, dusty lock-up in the suburbs. Sitting outside at a camping table, he gave me a neat PowerPoint presentation on his laptop about the security situation in Libya. ‘Frankly speaking,’ he said, ‘it’s a bit shit.’ Libya was dangerous. Tripoli was dangerous – not as dangerous as Benghazi but still dangerous. Random, lethal violence was to be expected. There were no police officers, no official law enforcement of any kind – only tribal militia, who ruled the roost. He told me to be careful of ambushes while being driven around the city.

‘What should I do if I get ambushed?’ I asked.

‘Well, standard operating procedure in the army is to shoot your way out. Don’t be static. Push on, fight back.’ I pointed out to him that I was an unarmed middle-aged lawyer who would be sitting in the back of a rickety saloon car when the moment came. He shrugged. ‘As I say, it’s a bit shit.’

After the briefing, we went on to my hotel, which is used by diplomats, journalists and those on (mostly oil-related) business. At one end of the driveway that swept past the hotel entrance, there was a traffic barrier operated by armed guards. No such obstacle existed at the other end. Men in various degrees of military dress stood outside the entrance, smoking or talking together in the lobby. I was greeted by the receptionist, who spoke in a broad Dublin accent. He (and his identical twin, also on duty at reception) was a young Irishman with a Libyan father who had decided to come and experience the free Libya and was now wishing he hadn’t. Then I headed for my company’s office. The car that took me there, like most of the others in Tripoli, had small cubes of sponge stuck to its doors to prevent bumps while driving on roads that were no longer policed and where traffic rules were now purely a matter of convention rather than enforceable norms. As we drove along the Corniche, the deep blue of the Mediterranean on one side, I noticed that most of the old traffic rules were still being obeyed. In an environment in which robbery, kidnap and death were commonplace, people still seemed to want to give way at roundabouts.

My company’s offices were in one of a cluster of tall tower blocks overlooking the sea, a once prestigious address. The tower blocks were set in a deserted concrete courtyard. The entrance lobby’s cool, airy silence was a contrast to the intense heat and white light of the afternoon outside. I took the lift up and was let into the office, where I was shown into an empty room with a desk. I spoke with the first of the people who had been asked to come for interview. As with every compliance audit, on my list of interviewees were those exposed to higher than usual risk of corruption – including members of the sales team, anyone in a leadership role, and anyone who had contact with government or public officials. I also talked to those who were in a position to prevent corruption or spot it if it occurred, such as members of the finance department or human resources. Some of the employees had made great efforts to attend. One of the sales directors had come from Benghazi, and the various operations managers – those who were in charge of actually drilling for oil in the field – had travelled in from their desert bases and rigs.

At first, the interviews followed a script in which I asked a list of set questions relevant to the interviewee’s role. But soon, picking up on a remark or an answer, I would take the opportunity to broaden the conversation. Formality would dissipate and people would start to talk more generally about the company and the wider environment in which they lived and worked. Some common themes emerged. No matter whether they were for or against Gaddafi (and it soon became apparent which side someone was on), most people thought that having him back would be better than the current situation. There were shootings and kidnappings. House break-ins were rife and everyone had a Kalashnikov at home for defence against burglars. One woman I spoke to had just returned to work after having her teeth knocked out with the butt of a gun in a robbery. A man told me that a range of weapons from handguns to SAM-7 surface-to-air missiles were openly for sale in the street just a few minutes’ walk away from the office. But there was one thing that united the pro and anti-Gaddafi factions in the office: their hatred of the country manager. Echoing the security contractor, they told me that he rarely appeared in the office and never visited the oilfields. He was arrogant, incompetent and a coward.

I asked several of the interviewees about the theft of trucks by the employee and got a story very different from the one given by the country manager. They told me that in the middle of the fighting, the employee, rather than let the assets of a company for which he had worked for many years be stolen or destroyed, had decided he would drive a number of the company’s vehicles to a safe location and hide them, with the intention of returning them when the situation became more stable. As soon as the country manager arrived he made a big show of going out into the desert to demand the return of the trucks. But the employee had refused to return them without a reward.

‘What did he want in return for the trucks?’ I asked one of the interviewees.

‘He wanted a certificate of thanks for his behaviour.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Yes. And the country manager wouldn’t give it to him.’

‘But he would have given all of the trucks back if we had given him a certificate?’

‘Yes. The country manager refused and told him he was in breach of the code of conduct.’ I could see why the country manager had taken to changing hotels on a regular basis.

In a series of calls and emails over the first few days of my visit, the country manager gave me the slip, making various excuses as to why he hadn’t been around to speak to me. Finally I arranged to meet him in the lobby of my hotel: we were to go for dinner at a restaurant close to the magnificent Arch of Marcus Aurelius. As we sat at a table outside, making small talk and waiting for the call to prayer to end the day’s fast, it occurred to me that the company couldn’t have made a more inappropriate match than this one between the country manager and the failed state of Libya. A dapper, American-educated corporate droid, he was a prisoner of management speak: he had ‘reached out to’ employees, he told me; they hadn’t ‘embraced the new reality’. He didn’t seem able to adjust to the fact that he was operating in a warzone, dealing with people who were suffering, many of whom had demonstrated great loyalty to a company that abandoned them at the first sign of trouble. He was keen to tell me that he was now close to resolving the truck issue. ‘You can’t trust these people,’ he told me. ‘They just don’t get it.’ Then his phone rang. ‘Sorry, I’m going to have to take it.’ This hunted, scared individual suddenly inflated with pride as he talked. After a few minutes, the call ended.

‘That was the CEO. He wants me to head up a new project team when I get out of this fucking place.’ Somewhere in the city there was the crack of a rifle, sounding like a cheap firework set off in the street. And his face said: if I get out of this place.

The next morning, I was sitting in the hotel lobby waiting for my car to the office when a man approached me. He was dusty and tired and wearing shabby street clothes. He introduced himself and immediately handed me a memory stick. His name was Ahmed and he told me that Yusuf, one of the operations managers I had met and whom I recalled as a physically huge but softly spoken man, coated with the grime of the oilfield yard, was muscling in and taking over the business in Libya.

‘He’s very well connected. He’s close to some of the tribal sheikhs. He’s also a gangster. There’s no doubt. He’s controlling many of the suppliers. It’s all on the USB.’ And then Ahmed made a plea for complete confidentiality. The consequences in this broken state of being revealed as an informant could be dire.

Later that day, in between interviews, I read the contents of the USB. There was clear proof that Yusuf had been buying up local firms that supply to the oil business and then putting contracts in place on extremely favourable terms between them and my company. In his own, admittedly criminal way, in predicting that eventually, despite all appearances, the oil market would pick up, Yusuf was showing more confidence in the prospects for Libya than the company’s senior leadership. They saw it as a basket case but Yusuf, like the best hedge-fund managers, was playing the long game with his investments and had picked the very best time to pull off this kind of scam, now that monitoring of the goings-on in the business in Libya had all but ended. Many of the company’s transactions had to be performed manually in Tripoli rather than through the centralised electronic finance systems in the US or UK. This meant that there was no longer the usual intense oversight of where money came from and went to. Instead there were numerous opportunities for an unscrupulous employee to make hay while the country detached itself from the world.

That evening, just before midnight, I was driven to British Home Stores in downtown Tripoli to buy some new clothes, since my luggage still hadn’t turned up. When we arrived, the driver sat in the car with the engine running while the security contractor stood at the shop entrance. I had ten minutes to go around the deserted aisles putting socks, pants and shirts into my basket. ‘Any longer,’ the contractor said, pointing to the shop assistants, ‘and their mates could be over to pick you up.’ But the two women at the counter seemed completely uninterested in my supermarket sweep. They didn’t lift their chins off their hands as I shopped, and they took payment from me with as much curiosity as if I were buying clothes on a Saturday afternoon in Oxford Street.

The next day, one of my scheduled meetings was with the oilfield operations manager who had been on the call a few weeks earlier. We worked our way through the scheduled questions and answers and then he said: ‘Can I ask for your opinion on the chemicals?’ He reminded me of the story of the damaged barrels in the warehouse and I expected him to ask for compliance advice regarding their disposal, as he had done with the explosives and the radioactive materials. But instead the conversation took an unexpected turn.

‘We’ve been approached by the authorities in the east of the country,’ he said. ‘They would like to buy the chemicals to use for drilling for water.’ He explained that there was a desperate need to repair infrastructure and restore running water to areas that had been ruined by the fighting. ‘The company won’t allow us to use the chemicals that survive the attack to drill for oil. They no longer meet our quality standards. But the Libyan authorities would be happy to buy them from us. They’re not proud.’ And here was the bit that made it all worthwhile. ‘They will pay us millions of dollars for stock that we will otherwise throw away.’ He showed me photos of the damaged chemicals and the letters requesting the deal from the authorities. ‘We need this deal,’ he told me. ‘We haven’t had any significant revenue for years.’ This would mean that at least some people would keep their jobs for a little while longer. A draft contract had already been drawn up and legal approval had been given. He showed me the approvals from the commercial lawyers and a chain of emails from our leaders showing their desperation to screw some profit out of this situation. But the authorities were running out of patience. They had a window in which they had to get drilling and if we couldn’t help them they would need to find someone who could. So time was of the essence and all that was lacking was the compliance seal of approval.

Over the next few days, I went over the areas of possible risk created by the opportunity – legal, commercial, reputational. The operations manager called daily, asking whether I had made my decision, reminding me that the clock was ticking. I spoke with our commercial lawyers and with finance. I made sure that the chemicals actually existed and I got assurances that there really were functioning authorities in the east of Libya. My training and experience had made me very sensitive to the signs of fraud and corruption and I was confident that I’d covered off those avenues. But I was still very uneasy with the deal. Then I realised I might have missed the most important risk factor of all. I got hold of the names of the chemicals and rang a senior company chemist to ask him to carry out an analysis of each of them to make sure they couldn’t be used as chemical weapons. The analysis came back: all clear. None of them, either alone or in combination, could be used in chemical weapons.

I let the operations manager know that he could go ahead. He was delighted. ‘This is really going to make a big difference to the bottom line for my business,’ he told me. It also meant that he would get his bonus and lots of kudos for having the winner’s mindset: he would keep his job for at least the next quarter or so. I was relieved too. The pressure had been building, and for me to have turned the transaction down at the last minute would have provoked a shitstorm in the region and even higher up the chain. As promised, the operations manager sent me the confirmation documents with the various legal restrictions and covenants that the authority had agreed to abide by regarding its use of the chemicals. In a matter of days, the sale was completed. We had sold countless barrels of useless chemicals to the Libyan water board for a huge profit. The perfect deal.

During the remainder of my time in Libya, Ahmed continued to provide me with evidence about Yusuf’s acquisition of suppliers. It was so compelling that, as a first step, I blocked the suppliers in the central accounting system. This meant that no matter how hard Yusuf tried, his supply companies couldn’t receive any significant payment from my company. I concluded the compliance audit and left Libya. My bag was waiting for me when I arrived at Tripoli Airport. As soon as I picked it up from the airline desk in departures, it was seized by a man wearing an old police jacket and grubby suit trousers. He took me to a small room at one side of the departures hall and ordered me to unpack every single item onto a large table in front of him. Everything was covered in dust. When I finished he told me to repack it. I checked my luggage in and made my way once again past the gangs of sub-Saharan Africans travelling from misery into misery, past the stall selling tatty Free Libya merchandise, to the plane.

Then the oil price collapsed. It was already bad but now the price of a barrel had really tanked. There was a lot of talk about permanent structural change in the industry. Firms like mine fired thousands of employees in a matter of weeks. I made sure that Ahmed was put on a protected list of essential employees as his reward for doing the right thing. Somehow, the Libyan senior managers, Yusuf included, found out about this almost as soon as it happened. I received a series of increasingly desperate emails from Ahmed. He knew what was about to happen and thought that I had betrayed him. The emails stopped abruptly when he was fired. When I raised Ahmed’s case with a senior HR manager, I was told that it was unfortunate but that, given the state of the market, it was a matter of only a few weeks before all the employees on the protected list were going to be fired anyway. Any concern for Ahmed got lost in the huge wave of redundancies that the low oil price brought.

I went ahead anyway and presented the allegations against Yusuf to senior management. Despite the evidence, they didn’t find them convincing and the matter was closed with no further action taken. The supply companies that were the subject of the investigation were unblocked in the system. In the rapid restructuring of the company in Libya in response to the manically deteriorating market conditions and worsening violence, Yusuf was promoted, along with the operations manager who had arranged the sale of the damaged barrels to the water authorities. This was to fill the gap created by the departure of the detested country manager, who had managed to get out of Libya with a plum posting to a new project back at US HQ. Not long after I left Tripoli, a large car bomb was left outside my hotel, driven through the entrance, which was undefended by bollards. Thankfully, it was defused.

Eventually I caught up with the regional head of security about the sale of the chemicals. ‘They didn’t want the chemicals you fucking idiot,’ he said. ‘They wanted the barrels.’ He was sure the whole deal was a scam, that one of a number of groups – tribal, terrorist or government – was tapping available sources for the basic ingredients to make their weapon of choice, the barrel bomb. There was no proof of this. I had done all I could to verify that the deal was genuine but in my heart of hearts I knew that it smelled. The regional head of security just found it bleakly funny that one of the most advanced weapons in the world – a laser-guided bomb – had spawned hundreds of the crudest airborne weapons possible, responsible for so much indiscriminate killing. But there was a silver lining. ‘Look, we made a few million bucks. With Brent Crude at sub-$40 a barrel for the foreseeable future and Libya eating itself alive, that’s an awesome result,’ he said. ‘As long as the company logo doesn’t appear on a report by CNN, no one is going to give a shit about where those barrels end up.’ And, as it turned out, he was right.

[tryingfeminism2019]

America loves an underdog and a victim, which is exactly what Taylor Swift has been her whole career. Kanye West saying “I made that bitch famous” was a sexist remark allowing a man to take credit for all the demanding work Taylor has had to do to obtain her fame. However, she told him he could use the line in his song and it was wrong of her to call him misogynistic after she approved the comment. America love the victim and Taylor gave her fans what they wanted to hear by saying she would never allow a man to say those words about her. And had it not been for the Kardashian’s, America would have remained on the victim painted, white woman’s side instead of believing the black man, since he was in the threatening position in the narrative due to white patriarchal norms. 

West and Taylor’s relationship began with a rocky start when he “stormed the stage, took the microphone from her, and announced that Beyoncé should’ve won instead” but due to closet racism the skinny white girl won (Woodward). West was attempting to shed light on the racism still present in this country but the world saw what it “has been conditioned to see: the “threat” of an “angry" black man terrorizing the “innocent" white woman” (Woodward). This view of the innocent white woman has stuck with Taylor throughout her career and makes her fans love her and forgive her after repeated offenses. From the start of her career she “adhered to the markers of white feminine fragility, presented as a modern-day ingénue figure” (Woodward). She had ball gowns, loose curls, sung of castles with a prince saving her, and experiencing rejection and heartbreak after the betrayal or breakup of her current celebrity boyfriend. Her story was “a more old-fashioned, pleasant story for the media to tell [and] for Swift, it translated into record sales” (Woodward). Swift was surrounded by women in the media being sentenced to prison, DUIs, and rehab. The love story victim is much easier for people to relate to, which is why her career continued to grow.

The she dated Harry Styles, One Direction’s womanizer, and claimed to fall victim to him in her song “I Knew You Were Trouble” but the song was written three months before she even met Styles. She used a guy with a look alike tattoo in the video allowing her fans to believe he is what inspired the lyrics and her to play victim, again. The Style’s incidence should have shown her fans how manipulative she is and that she was willing to rewrite her timelines to sell records. She utilized her relationship with Harry Styles to not only sell her album Red, but also her next album 1989. By teasing her fans and press, she “has been able to control the narrative around her relationships, ensure sustained media attention, and bolster record sales” (Woodward). She has taught the public to view her like a soap opera, always waiting for the next episode of her life update, but she overdid it with 1989. Just like any good soap opera, it went one season too long and her fans’ fascination began to wane. Therefore, she edited her brand into the hot issue at the time: sexism. Even though she publicly denounced feminism in her early career she turned to combating sexism because she was portrayed as clingy, insane, and the desperate girlfriend by the media. Taylor thought this portrayal was a little sexist. By turning to feminism, she could portray herself once again as the victim. This time it was the press who was portrayed as the villain for how they depicted her relationships.

Swift tries to become a feminist because it is mainstream. She calls herself a feminist because she supports other women and is friends with them. However, her crew is devoid of diversity and she begins to pick fights with other women to maintain her status as the victim. The Katy Perry feud and Nicki Minaj twitter feed allowed Taylor to continue being the victim while manipulating the media.  Taylor says “I've done nothing but love & support you. It's unlike you to pit women against each other. Maybe one of the men took your spot” (Woodward). Taylor criticizes women when they offend her, but she does not accept blame for chiming into arguments. Her feuds with other women are just a chance for Taylor to remain in the spotlight and relatable to her fans. Also, she utilizes her music to relate to her fans. She creates “Shake it Off” to bring awareness to bullying, which is an important topic but she does so in a way that fuels her fame, because “each time Swift bonded with fans through victimhood, it also resulted in a wealth of positive press attention” (Woodward). Swift recognizes the power her white womanhood affords her by allowing her to play victim and she continued to capitalize on it. However, like any persona it has its flaws and one day must come to an end, because she does not appeal to minorities. Also, she does not embark on the topic of intersectionality that a true feminist would embrace. Instead, Taylor choose to continue her image of “white feminine fragility to compound the well-worn narrative of her as victim and West as villain, while simultaneously imploring young women to work hard” (Woodward). Yet, she does not have a single woman on stage with her when she won her Grammy. She is now attempting to change her style and become more edgy; however, she played the victim for too long. Her recent music appears fake to me. I still like it and it’s catchy, but the old Taylor had my heart. The new Taylor reflects the loss of innocence we all experience when we grow up and I guess it was her time to grow up. While her songs appear to be more grown up, she has not taken responsibility for her actions and she still seems to be playing the victim by saying we made her change in “Look What You Made Me Do.” Taylor you seem to be spiraling and I hope you figure it out soon.

While, this article highlights how Taylor has manipulated us all into loving her, it only glazes over why we love her. It certainly does not commend her and her agency for their ingenious technique of utilizing patriarchal norms to love the victim to keep her in the spotlight and make money. Taylor betrays all of us and makes millions of dollars doing so. We criticize her because we feel like she has cheated us, but she does not owe us anything. Her job is to make people like her and that is what she has done as the victim, the mainstream feminist, and the grown-up edgier Taylor.  I personally hate to know she deceived me, but she should be applauded for the show she has been putting on. Each of her moves is calculated and she controls how she is viewed even if it is as a victim. We praise Beyoncé for her agency, yet criticize Taylor for using hers to make money. Taylor is portraying herself within her role of the patriarchy, just as Beyoncé does. We give Beyoncé credit for re-claiming that role yet scoff at Taylor’s same attempt. 

Original Source: https://www.buzzfeed.com/elliewoodward/how-taylor-swift-played-the-victim-and-made-her-entire-caree?utm_term=.on1oVeyO8#.wxM8XwYN1

[vesperlionheart]

Desert Madness Part 1

@madasakuweek Rated E for everyone 10 and up...for now

The desert was a part of her and coming back to it was like being born again, suddenly her bones could sign with the frequencies of an earth soaked in mystery. Sakura pushed back the brim of her cap and grinned at the deep blue sky. Summer was nearly over and the monsoon season was out in full force. Every other night was a lightning storm full of dry thunder and bolts of crackling electricity.

She missed her desert.

Nothing seemed to have changed since coming back from university. The people were all where she left them and the buildings only grew dust with the passing seasons. The few exceptions to this norm bit at her heart painfully when she realized one of her closest friends was gone. Naruto had gone off the same summer as her, but he was still tied up with classes, not having rushed through courses like she had. Sakura was too eager to return to the land of her ancestors. Bloodstone was her home.

The room in her grandmother’s house was exactly as she left it. The posters of UFO sightings and newspaper clippings still stuck to her walls, and even the Christmas lights turned on when she plugged them in.

For a second she saw the ghosts of her childhood crowded on her bed as Sasuke brought his transmitter up for them to hear. Thicker than thieves they trio had been inseparable in their youth, chasing down ghost lights in the desert, mysterious radio station signals, tracking the clues left by old Dutch miners, and recording low res video of what they could just off the highway.

Old warnings like, ‘never drive down the interstate with an empty passenger seat’ were ignored and dared as the group stole an Uchiha chevy and drained it going up and down the old interstate after midnight. Nothing ever came from it, but the memories were a nectar to suck on when life drained her.

And she was drained.

Sakura dropped her bags at the foot of the bed and slowly lowered herself onto the twin sized mattress. The blanket from her great grandmother was just as soft as she remembered them being, and suddenly there were tears in her eyes.

She set the radio to her favorite static station and set to work cleaning up her old room and putting away what she had packed with her. It was a fuzzy mess and she loved it like that, but her heart still ached for the voice that would punch through in her youth and whisper things like a secret that didn’t make sense.

Every time the man from the dust came on it was a big enough deal to make her drop everything and anything to commit his words to memory. He had still speaking when she entered high school and she doubted he had spoke anytime since, otherwise Sasuke would have texted her from the military compound where he could still get a signal.

The man from the dust would talk about places lost to the ages, the ancient fossils of water monsters frozen in red stone, the government bunkers buried in the desert, the abandoned railroad that drove like a ghost through the desert on hot midnights in summer, and Oasis.

‘Oasis is the key to it all, or maybe just the reason. Oasis is what made the world look at bloodstone and it’s also what made her hidden.’

None of them knew what Oasis was but they had theories as kids growing up. It had been their treasure to hunt and dream over. Naruto thought it was a gold village from the ancients like El Dorado, Sasuke thought it was a secret UFO crash site, and Sakura believed it all. She needed to. Bloodstone was a part of her and Oasis was somewhere in the valley, waiting for her.

“It’s finally starting to cool down. Cool enough for-kch,” a voice cut through the white noise, making Sakura go still and white. She turned stiffly to stare at her little red radio. “Im going to the petroglyphs for answers. The trail is paved with good intentions, just like hell. Maybe Oasis is hell. It’s been hell finding it so long. But I’m at the end.”

The white noise returned and there was nothing else but static.

His voice. Low and tickling in her ears and belly, like it was a thing that filled the listener up. There was no way she would mistake that voice. It had been younger once before, when she was just a child, but it had always been the same man, aging with his pursuit of the truth.

The day she came back to bloodstone he came back to the radio. It was a sign.

It was late but she had texted him to warn him ahead of time. He should know better than to think she wasn’t planning on coming over as soon as she got back, anyway. He was the only one she had left.

Sakura didn’t care that she almost got shot jumping the fence to the Uchiha compound. It was a big fancy house with barracks in the back, but it was a prison to Sasuke when they were kids. He hated it. It was so odd that he had turned around after high school and started living with the rest of his family so peacefully.

They had a whole plan about how they were going to run away once they all turned 18 and no one wanted to run more than Sasuke. Sakura just wanted to be with them, but in the end it was only Naruto that made it out.

“Sasuke!” she screamed his name and banged on the front door, not caring if his family turned around and hated her even more. It wasn’t late, they probably weren’t even at dinner.

No one answered for a while and Sakura’s breathing, once labored from the run and excitement, mellowed out and she felt her energy drain. The compound was like a vampire. Finally the door opened and Sasuke stuck his head out. She saw his eyes widen.

“Sakura? You weren’t supposed to be over until later. What are you doing here?”

His face softened as he opened the door even more and stepped out to see her. He was taller than her, finally, and nicely dressed for a house full of AC. He was even wearing wireless glasses like an adult. He looked so grown up! She looked less put together with her ripped denim shorts and cartoon tee, knotted at the base.  

“I just got back!” she laughed, pulling him into a hug he melted into easily. He wasn’t Naruto, built like a tank and hard to hold in just two arms.  “I missed your hugs.”

“I missed you,” he admitted, pulling away and looking down at her. “You’ve been working out?”

“Yeah, my trainer told me I could probably benchpress a bear with the way I am now. I walked in like a string bean, remember?” her voice was light and jovial. “But you’ve changed too. Finally grew a few inches, eh?”

“That’s not a joke. I told you I would have a spurt later in life.”

“You did, you did! But I bet you’re still shorter than Naruto.”

Sasuke swallowed and ducked his head. “I have that going for me.”

He shuffled on the threshold before tugging her inside and closing the door to keep the AC from escaping. Right away Sakura felt a sharp drop in temperature and shivered. It wasn’t that hot outside, but compared to indoors, it was drastically different.

“How have you been? When did you just get in?” he asked, tugging her inside by the hand.

“I got in just a little while ago. I aired out my old room and was putting stuff away when I heard the radio. Sasuke, did you hear it? He was back on the station!” her voice hitched in excitement and she squeezed his hand.

Sasuke paused, looking over her with a confused expression before it clicked. “Oh.”

Sakura stopped walking, tugging on his hand. “Oh? What do you mean just, oh?”

“You’re still listening to that ghost station.” He shook his head and the long bangs knocked against the side of his wireless glasses. Suddenly he seemed even more older than she first assumed. “Sakura…”

“You’re not listening to it anymore,” she guessed. “Why?”

“Why would I do such a thing? It’s a waste of time and I have better things I could be putting my energies to. I’m trying to make a career here and that’s not as easy as I first assumed it was. I have to work for this and I can’t drag our childhood along with me forever.”

Sakura felt stunned. Sasuke wasn’t Sasuke.

“What happened to you?”

He jerked, seemingly offended by the question. “Me? I grew up, Sakura. It’s what we do. I’m not in fourth grade anymore and neither are you. I have a job and a degree and a life. I’m trying hard to make it a better one. The desert isn’t going to give that to me with a side of mystery.”  

Sakura had to look again. Sasuke was his father for a moment and then he was Sasuke again. He sounded too much like one of his cousins or brother, not like her Sasuke from years ago. She had just been gone for three years. That was it. That wasn’t enough time for him to change this much.

Sasuke had sworn never to be what he was now. He had promised them under a fort of bed sheets to always believe and always search until the end of times for their truth out there in the desert. He was the nut job that put both her and Naruto to shame, crazy smart about UFO cover ups and sightings across the haunted south west.

“Don’t look at me like that, Sakura. You had to have known it would have turned out like this. You didn’t think we really going to be goonies until the end? I can’t, Sakura. I have a life.”

“Sasuke?” All she could manage was his name.

This wasn’t happening. Naruto had left, but Sasuke was standing in front of her, but he felt further away than Naruto ever had. This felt like a stab in her heart. It hurt.

“Come on.” He reached for her hand again and she let him take it, limply. “I don’t want to talk about this right now. You said you were coming over and I made dinner. Sit with me and tell me about ASU.”

She let him lead her in and after a few minutes she remembered how to talk to other people. It didn’t feel like talking to Sasuke, it felt like she was talking to a classmate that didn’t know her or a blind date she planned on leaving after coffee. He was supposed to be her closest friend, but he felt so far away now that they were inches apart. He didn’t let go of her hand unless he had to, but she didn’t hold it back, and he seemed to be waiting for that.

It was almost sunset. The sun was swollen and low. Soon it would be dust and the sky would by a mysterious shade of purple perfect for the way her heart felt as she left the compound. Her bike was parked outside the gates and she fingered the water jug Sasuke had given her before glancing out at the desert.

She was hydrated, and she would have enough for a quick stroll. She knew where the petroglyphs were. They weren’t far, and she knew the ways in and out of the canyons better than anyone. It was the same with the veins in her wrist. The desert was in her and she was in the desert. She could be out there and back before she ran out of water.

“I guess I haven’t grown up just yet,” she breathed, seating herself and turning the engine over. Her bike roared to life and she turned it around away from the town into the belly of the valley.

She was an arrow in the desert, trailing dust like the feathers notched at the end, headlight piecing the dim as the the sun sunk beneath high red rock. She passed the rock structure and suddenly the world around her was burning and she was flying through golden fire until the next structure blocked out the dying sun. She had lived through a thousand sunsets and would live through a thousand more, but they never failed to make her heart hurt with their beauty. Something about the desert made sunsets scream, demanding their beauty be recognized.

Sakura dripped the nose of her bike down a shadowy path and trailed it down between high walls of red rock that bled in wavy layers, some purple, some gold, some scarlet like blood.

She knew no one would be there when she arrived at the petroglyphs, but the temptation was too strong to pass up. She wanted a clue, some measure of proof. Something.

She blinked and the tears fell from her lashes and off her face, slipping under the goggles edges. She let go and her bike drifted on that last push of acceleration before she stopped herself in front of the rock wall where dozens of drawings told an unusual story.

No one cared about the history of Bloodstone enough to pry into it. Even the people who have been in the valley since the beginning, ‘whenever that was’ treated the origin myths like dirty laundry best not aired where the world could see it. There were drawings of people in horns and deer hooves dancing. There were whale drawings too, and even squid painted on the wall. There were animals from the ocean that had no right being mentioned in the desert. There were streaks that looked like melted paint, but were what Sakura believed to be falling stars.

Cave paintings were all over the old red rocks, but when people talked about petroglyphs, they usually meant the Great Wall, the place with the most and the best preserved. Sakura dismounted, drinking from her bottle of water as she inspected the area. There were footprints, and her heart picked up at that, but there was no way to know who they belonged to.

She crouched low and went around the area with eyes strained for a sign of something. She wanted a clue before she went home and felt silly about how young she was. But there was nothing.

Dust kicked up and anything left behind was long lost. The sky was dim and the sun was wholly swallowed. Stars were coming out, twinkling into view from millions of miles away just to watch her.

Sakura finished her water and packed up, out of time. It was only when she was back on her bike peeling out did she turn on the radio in her helmet and listened to his static all the way home, into her room, throughout her night time rituals, and even through the sleeping hours.

It was three am when a voice punctured the lonely sound of static.

“It’s just me, now. No one else is searching anymore.” A long moment of silence stretched on while the static abated until his voice came back, more tired and worn than she remembered. “Back to the beginning, where they started it.”

Outside, old thunder boomed as dry lightning tormented the desert, but no rain fell.

The beginning was Hera.

Back in the forties and fifties when the country thought making bigger and badder bombs was a priority, the desert was a testing spot for precursors to the A bomb, according to the redacted history. Hera was the first town built for the weapon developers and their families. After Hera was planted came Apollo. Both went under and became ghost towns before the decade was over and their bones stuck out of the desert like an ugly reminder.

Hera was the beginning, and one of the first places they had investigated when they were kids, looking for the source of that radio signal. Finding the source was impossible unless it was being used, and the voice came on so rarely it made tracking impossible.

Sakura rolled into the town, cutting her engine before she inside to push her bike in and park along the side of a diner left derelict. It was odd coming back after so many years away. Hera seemed trapped in time.  

She tugged her cap down and turned down main street, sipping water from her bladder pack, careful to stay hydrated. The more she saw the more she recognized, and the more she recognized the more she could see the signs of life in Hera.

Someone had been here.

Her thoughts were cut off when something caved in nearby and there was a cloud of dust. She heard the yelps of several desert coyotes running scared, disturbed from the morning sleep. She saw their face out of the dust as several darted off for new hiding spaces. In the shadows their eyes glowed and Sakura counted four dogs, twelve eyes.

‘The third eye is an illusion your brain creates when they run too fast,’ someone had once told her.

Oh, these were those sort of coyotes. Sakura pulled out her revolver and took another long suck from her water pack and skipped over to where the destruction seemed to be coming from. The building was an office, but the wood was rotten and underneath the ground floor was a maw of darkness, what once had been a cellar. Something had fallen straight through the roof three stories into that darkness. Sakura leveled her gun and her light.

“Hey, someone down there?”

She adjusted the side of her flashlight and the beam bled wide, showing off the stairs hidden behind a wall. Sakura kicked through the old plaster and took the stairs down into the lab like cellar. Dust was still falling down as he beam swept over the expanse. Something had impacted the crates in the center of the room and lay sunk in the canvass, unmoving. Her light caught a leg, limp in the rubble.

Sakura cursed, stowing her gun behind her and rushed to administer first aid. She cursed again when she saw who was in the rubble.

“Damn, he’s gorgeous,” she whispered, recognizing Uchiha features.

It was a miracle he was as fine as he was. She checked for broken bones and was concerned with his ribs, but nothing was obviously broken enough for her to tell just by feeling. He was beautifully bruised and bleeding from a few places and out cold, but alive.

There was an old hospital in Hera. It didn’t have everything, but it would have enough for her to treat the surface injuries. She gingerly tried to wake him, but he didn’t stir, so she ended up carrying him princess style up and out of the house, across town, and into the Hera hospital. Another inspection showed no broken bones, which was what she was afraid of.

Sakura tried her phone but wasn’t surprised to get no signal. Hera was too far out. There was no way she could safely transport him on her bike. She had to treat him on site and pray it was enough. She didn’t trust herself to leave and come back and find him in one piece, untouched by the scavenging dogs she had already sighted in the city. Those things would eat anything once dusk came on.

He moved in his sleep a bit and she watched, carefully observing for any sign of greater distress. He didn’t seem to be in much pain and she wondered if it was an Uchiha thing. Sasuke was hearty too.

She didn’t want to leave him, but water was scarce and she had to wash the blood off her hands. There was a well not far from the hospital. She went there to wash up and paused over the hook, seeing eyes in the shadows, stalking. Slowly, Sakura slide her pistol free. It didn’t move, but she took aim for the third eye, dead smack in the center of his head. It was just an illusion, her brain making up something that wasn’t really there. But there were stories about these coyotes, how they spilled out of a star traveler’s side and ran like a mess across the desert with her third eye marking them as kin.

Sakura pulled on the trigger and the coyote crumpled. When it rose again, it blinked, two eyes reflecting the light before it caught sight of her and turned tail to run.

Sakura climbed back into the hospital and entered the room, not surprised the see the man still dead asleep. She tried her phone again but couldn’t get a signal. She took a picture of his face, then several more, posing for selfies that might embarrass him later.  

She was editing a video when he blinked and moved, pushing up on the table.

“Yo!”

He looked over at her, startled and then angry. “Who are you?” he hissed, pending his knees to brace on the table. Good, no broken bones there either. He was talking too, head trauma was minimal.

“I’m your guardian angel, apparently. You’re an Uchiha, right? You know Sasuke?”

He glared at her. “He’s a brat.”

“Worse than that, he’s a stuck up ass these days, but you’re related, aren’t you?”

His glare seemed to lessen. “He is my nephew. Your name?”

“Sakura.”

He nodded, likely taking no meaning in her name. “Madara.” He pulled up an arm and saw the bandages. “You did this?”

“I’m pretty sure the fall did that, but I did the bandages. Sorry about not taking you to a real hospital. There’s no signal and I didn’t think I could take you on my bike.”

He huffed a breath and pushed himself up before turning around on the cot table to face her. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” she countered.

“I asked you first.”

“I saved your life.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“You couldn’t because you fell three stories into a crate pile and nearly died, but if you could, I’m sure you would have?”

His eyes flashed the way Uchiha eyes always flash. Sometimes there is a teasing of scarlet in their black, black orbs, but it’s always a trick of the light. “You assume too much, girl. I have my reasons and I am not compelled to share them with you.”

“Sounds super important,” Sakura teased, feeling something nag at the back of her mind when he spoke. “You shouldn’t be out here alone, you know.”

“And you’re here with someone?” he asked, looking around the room. “I don’t see anyone.”

“Yeah, well my buddy decided to grow up and I’m the only one stuck her in Never Never Land, so now that we’ve established that, you wanna tell me what you were doing swan diving into ghost buildings?”

“I do not owe you anything, including an explanation. What you did was your own decision, I did not ask for any of it.”

Sakura felt her gut drop and turn to stone as sick realization flooded through her. Her eyes widened and get skin lost its color for a moment. It was a change that made Madara’s glare lessen and almost switch into concern.

“Your voice,” she breathed, placing her hands on her knees as she sank down into the chair opposite him. “You’re the voice on the radio, looking for Oasis.”

No wonder his voice was so pretty, he was a classic Uchiha with face perfectly sculpted and a physique made for Olympic gods to envy. Of course she had been hung up on an Uchiha for years. Of course.

Sakura melted in her chair, grabbing at her face and muffling a scream with her lips pulled inwards. She didn’t see how he reacted or hear if he tried to deny it, she had to focus on this revelation first.

‘Why did he have to be so pretty?’ She pulled her hands down the front of her face and nearly died when she saw him flush and avert his eyes. She had said that last bit out loud. Great.

“I-I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” he coughed, still looking away from her.

Standing up, Sakura reached for her phone and scrolled through her library before clicking on an audio recording and turning the volume up as loud as it would go. It was his voice, perfectly identical now that she paid it enough attention. His blush only spread as the audio clip turned into static and ended.

“That was years ago. You went silent and I thought it was done, but then you spoke last night through the airwaves and I don’t know how, but it was what I needed to hear. Back to the beginning, you said, so here I am.”

He still wouldn’t look at her, but the blush had faded. “No one was supposed to be able to hear those.”

“I did.”

He looked up at her finally, meeting her eyes. She watched him swallow before he reached up to rub at his jaw. “You said your name was Sakura. You know I’m an Uchiha right, and that this whole thing is madness?”

She felt Bloodstone in her bones. 

“This is what I’m alive for.”

[junker-town]

The Spurs’ bad start is the cost of being stuck between eras

Dejounte Murray’s reintegration is throwing off the Spurs’ delicate balance.

With just under six minutes left to go in the second quarter of a home game against the kind of lottery-bound group of neophytes the Spurs always seem to beat, Dejounte Murray snatched a defensive rebound off a missed Jaren Jackson Jr. floater. As he soared through the lane, Murray spun his body around, ready to zip the 94 feet up the floor that was required.

Ball secured, he took off in a flash, sprinting at the four Grizzlies in position to stop him. As he reached Memphis’ three-point line, he crossed right-to-left, straight into the waiting arms of the Grizzlies’ Jae Crowder. The ball squirmed out of Murray’s hands and trickled out of bounds for a turnover.

The horn sounded, and Murray went to the bench. He had reached the end of his second team-mandated five-minute stretch of play, a protection mechanism the Spurs put in place to pace the 23-year-old future of the franchise properly as he recovers from last preseason’s ACL tear.

As Murray rushed headfirst into a situation he was too green to overcome, two Spurs trailed the play. They were on either side of Murray, running at a normal pace that just so happened to be far slower than Murray’s. One was LaMarcus Aldridge. The other was DeMar DeRozan.

It was a metaphor for the disjointed state of the NBA’s most enduring institution. As the future of the league’s model franchise galloped into the great unknown, the present trailed behind. Youthful exuberance and veteran realism together on the same court, but not rowing in the same direction.

Writing off a Gregg Popovich team is a violation of basketball’s Ten Commandments, but San Antonio’s 5-9 start is no accident and won’t be solved easily. An organization that has been the NBA’s melting pot suddenly finds itself stuck between two on-court styles and timelines that increasingly don’t align.

Murray’s reintegration is at the center of this conflict, through little fault of his own or the organization’s. His ACL tear last preseason was a devastating blow because it altered the seamless transition of power that has defined the Spurs for 30 years. San Antonio adapted and returned to the playoffs in his absence, but those same players, many of whom are veterans used to their ways, have struggled to readjust to his return. Placing Murray on a minutes limit in the early going, while smart and admirable for the long-term, has only compounded that short-term challenge.

Broadly, the Spurs play the same way they did last season. For all the concern-trolling about their retrograde offensive shot profile, the Spurs are still fifth in the NBA in points scored per 100 possessions. But their shotmaking on said attempts has slipped from obscene to merely good, and their shaky defense has fallen off even more despite welcoming Murray’s long arms back into the lineup. They relied on a delicate balance to thrive while outwardly defying modern NBA norms. Murray’s return, while essential and exciting for the long run, has thrown it off.

It’s worth repeating that Murray isn’t doing anything wrong individually. He’s at par relative to reasonable expectations for a young point guard who tore his ACL 13 months ago. As SB Nation’s Michael Pina noted, he’s nudged San Antonio into the league’s speed revolution, and his long arms create plenty of breathtaking quick-strike sequences that should excite Spurs fans for years to come.

But those positives have come with negative externalities that stem from his weaknesses and inexperience. Murray’s lack of three-point range is damaging enough when he doesn’t have the ball, but he’s not helpful (yet) in a half-court setting even when he has it. He’s shooting 35 percent on non-restricted area two-pointers and less than 53 percent on layups. He lacks the strength to finish through contact and the game experience to compensate.

Murray is a a next-level passer, but his handle is loose and his timing is out of sync with teammates. He gives the ball up before teammates are ready, leading to turnovers like this.

He’ll improve in time, but the Spurs’ present is suffering while he works out the kinks. Though the Spurs are running more, their half-court offense has sunk nearly six points per 100 possessions this year, which is the difference between fourth-best and 12th-best. When Aldridge and DeRozan, San Antonio’s two stars, play together with Murray, the Spurs score less than 104 points per 100 possessions, according to Cleaning the Glass. When Murray sits out, that number jumps to nearly 117 points per 100 possessions. The sample is small enough that the difference should shrink over time, but it’s hardly surprising that Murray’s offensive woes compound DeRozan and Aldridge’s aversion to taking three-pointers.

Weirdly, San Antonio’s defense, which thrived with Murray two years ago, has allowed 2.3 fewer points fewer with him off the court than on this year. In watching the film, Murray is still his spindly self on that end, so this isn’t directly on him. But in an attempt to compensate for Murray’s offensive woes, Popovich has stapled him to Bryn Forbes, San Antonio’s best shooter who is also a sieve on the other end. Seventy-seven percent of Murray’s minutes this year have been with Forbes alongside, and that means more time for opponents to attack Forbes on defense.

This has a further ripple effect on White, the former Division II guard who parlayed a breakout 2018-19 season into a Team USA appearance. Last season, White was the glue that connected the Spurs’ roster. He provided a necessary dose of playmaking juice, but also faded appropriately into the background to space the floor and took on tough defensive assignments. Ultimately, he allowed DeRozan and Aldridge to be themselves, flaws and all. (DeRozan in particular needed White: the Spurs posted a -1.7 net rating when DeRozan played without White and a +2.9 rating when the two shared the court.)

Unfortunately, Murray’s return (and corresponding minutes limit) has split San Antonio’s connective tissue. White has been relegated to backup point guard duty, teaming with the ageless Patty Mills to quarterback bench units that routinely make up the deficits the starters hand them. Murray and White is a terrific starting tandem on paper, but they’ve only played seven non-garbage time possessions together all season, according to Cleaning the Glass. You read that right. Seven total possessions ... all season.

In fairness to Popovich, it’s hard to pair them when Murray is only allowed to play five-minute increments during his injury recovery. Still, the coaching legend has to find a way to get his two young guards out there together for more than seven possessions this season. Maybe that’ll happen once Murray is free to play for as long as necessary. Maybe their on-court union is the way to marry the competing versions of the Spurs: the one reintegrating Murray, and the one that succeeded against the odds last year.

But if not, the Spurs are on course to lose a year in the lottery while they sort out the unavoidable transition between one era and the next. Every franchise goes through these transitional seasons, often through no fault of their own. Untimely injuries, institutional decay, and broken succession plans dot the NBA landscape every season. There’s no shame in having a down year.

Somehow, the Spurs have avoided this fate for two decades. But life comes at you fast, even for those who defy it.

PRESEASON QUESTIONS, ANSWERED

Before the season, I listed the 100 most interesting basketball-specific questions of the season. Each week, we’ll see if we have enough information to answer one of them.

QUESTION 37: What can Bradley Beal do for an encore?

I’ll be honest: I thought last year was the high-water mark for Bradley Beal. Having watched every single minute of his pro career due to my Wizards fandom, it just felt like he had colonized every reasonable plot of land in his game. His off-the-dribble shooting and playmaking had come so far since the early days of his sampling period, and I wasn’t sure where else it could reasonably go.

Turns out, I was wrong. Amid a stripped-down roster and no expectations, Beal has turned himself into the kind of superstar any team can build around. He’s not the only reason the Wizards somehow have a top-five offense, but he’s by far the biggest.

The best part: hot shooting is not causing Beal’s statistical jump. Instead, it’s his power driving to the basket, a skill that seemed inconceivable when he entered the league. It’s hard to believe this is the same player who once needed John Wall’s brilliant vision or a maze of pindown screens to get open. Defenders simply bounce off him when he’s attacking the basket these days.

His shooting percentages around the rim are about the same as before, but he’s converting more effectively on floater-range shots while drawing nearly two and a half more fouls per game as he did last season. His first step is now lightning-quick, allowing him to get the angle on defenders in isolations, pick-and-roll situations, and those clever dribble handoff he executed with promising Lakers cast-offs Thomas Bryant and Mo Wagner.

Once he sneaks inside of defenders, he’s too strong for them to dislodge. He’s become an expert at sliding around and through shot-blockers: only seven of his 84 shots inside of eight feet have been sent back at him this season. Watching him zoom to the hoop and jump into taller defenders harkens back to the glory days of Gilbert Arenas, himself a master at this tactic.

This explains how his production has jumped despite shooting only 33 percent on three-pointers thus far. You’d expect his shot to come around, and it has in the last week. Once it does — and once he begins to incorporate Damian Lillard-esque deep off-the-dribble threes into his game — he should really become impossible to stop. That’s inspiring news for a Wizards team that convinced him to re-sign for the long haul and perhaps dispiriting for other contenders who hoped he might become available via trade.

I’ve also learned a valuable lesson myself: don’t cap Beal’s ceiling.

CLOSEOUT OF THE WEEK

Three-point shooting is essential, yet there’s no good stat that credits defenders for the essential act of preventing a three-pointer from being taken. We must reward these efforts.

Great closeouts don’t happen in isolation. They require teammates rotating off their own men to stop the threat, then repeating the same process to quench the next threat. O.G. Anunoby got credit for the steal on this play, but he couldn’t have done it without the sustained, yet controlled efforts of his teammates.

REBOUND JOUST OF THE WEEK

Last year, I wrote about the rising trend of teammates fighting each other for defensive rebounds. These moments usually end harmlessly, but occasionally, they can cost a team. Here’s to over-aggression!

Nothing went right during the Hawks’ weekend in Los Angeles.

[as-be-low]

Time Has Changed Me, Chapter 11

I Long To Belong (But I Always Have To Go)

Home ties me up with discontent Since the day I first went Yearning to be back again, How will I return, and when?

Billie Marten—Ribbon Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 10

Though tranquil, Sunday was filled with small challenges, most of which included trying not to step on tiny fingers. Breakfast had hardly consisted of anything. Stanley had been quiet and unresponsive and Stella turned her nose up at the leprecorn-infested cereal and refused all but the plain toast Stan had cajoled her into accepting.

There had been no tears on Sunday, but Stanford wasn't sure the sheer malaise was much better. After eating half of the toast and leaving the rest as crumbs across her face and Stan's lap, Stella stuck out a little leg in order to climb down. Stanley wrapped an arm around her middle.

"Wait, sweetie."

"But I want to go outside."

"You're not dressed for outside, sweetie. How's about we go outside a little later 'n right now we play somethin' inside?"

"Okay." Stanley set her on her wobbly feet and she tottered off towards the living room with Stanley not far behind.

"Can we play giggle bunny?"

"...Giggle bunny?"

"Punch buggy with more laughin'." Stanley mumbled. "That only works for cars, sweetie. We'll have to play somethin' else."

Her little face puckered into a frown of concentration. "I spy?"

"That might work, sweetie, but I dunno."

"Giggle bunny spy!" She hopped as she made her proposal.

"What?" Ford couldn't stop the word from slipping out.

"We play I spy and...and...'n we giggle when we see something!" Another hop.

"This game doesn't sound sustainable."

"Shut up, Ford."

"But–"

"Giggle bunny spy. Alright pumpkin. Let's play."

"You go first, Daddy."

"No, you go first. You gotta show me how t'play, remember?"

"Oh." Stella was silent for a moment before snickering.

"Has the game started?"

"Yeah."

Stanford would never understand this "game," and resigned himself to his fate.

Giggle bunny spy soon turned into a nap in the floor for Stella after she laughed herself into a coughing fit. "Giggling is tiring work, it seems." Stanford mumbled as he stared down at the child asleep in the threshold.

"Everything's tirin' work when you're three."

"That may be true." Ford hovered in the doorway.

"You can just step over her, y'know." Step over her?

"No, it's fine."

"You're tryin' t' get out of the room 'n you're just standin' there. Just step over her." He sniffed

"I..."

"Ford. You gonna just wait for her to wake up ‘n move? Just go."

He refused.

With a groan, Stanley stood and ambled over to the pair and hunched over to lift Stella. Ford slipped past, and when he returned, he found the child once again sprawled out across the threshold.

"It's where she wanted to be." Stan shrugged. He made no motions to move her. Well, damnit. Ford lifted his foot high, and with one white-knuckled hand gripping the jamb, stretched to tiptoe over the sleeping lump.

"There. Now, was that so hard?"

Yes. "I could have stepped on her." He could have broken her tiny fingers. His heart raced at the prospect. His thoughts wandered back to his childhood, when he and Stanley had been cornered by the neighborhood bullies and gotten into a fight. He’d made a fist wrong and broken his hand and had to be taken to the hospital and gawked at. He didn’t want that for Stanley’s child. She didn’t deserve it. “I could have stepped on her.” He could have broken her fingers and ruined her hands and—

"Ford. It’s fine. Calm down." A few minutes later the child sat up, groggy and rubbing her eyes. She bumbled to her feet and crept closer to Stanley, who pulled her into his lap. She hunkered back down. "Still sleepy, sweetie pie?" She didn't reply. "Alright, sweetie. Go back to sleep." Ford watched as Stanley began to rock her from side to side, the movements slow and clearly practiced. Sure enough, Stanley's eyes began to fall heavy-lidded themselves and the two were soon sound asleep. Ford watched them for a long moment before actually moving. A pen slipped into his hand while the other slapped flat against a leather-bound book. The scene was too pristine to let it pass unnoted, and he’d yet to document their visit.

And so he sketched, taking care to hatch out the details of the napping scene across from him. There were better, more precise ways to commit it to memory, he knew, but this one brought him the most satisfaction in that moment.

His hand traced the lines of Stan’s face, which was a great deal more relaxed than he’d seen in over twenty years. He wasn’t smiling. There was just… an absence of anything, if he was honest with himself. Stanley was just asleep. No sleeping with a smile, no frown. An absence of any discernible anything. Even as children, when Stanley slept like the dead, there was a certain careless ease with which he did so. Not anymore. Even his sleep seemed to hold that standardized disinterest Stan seemed so eager to front.

And so Stanford wrote.

After many years since our last encounter, Stanley actually agreed to meet with me once again. Imagine my surprise when my long-estranged brother returned, and with a child in tow, no less! I have a small niece, and her name is Stella. I have yet to ask for her second name. I suppose I should get around to it soon, before the question becomes out-of-place. She’s quite small; Stanley says she’s three years old, yet I’d assumed she was barely two. Despite her small stature, her resemblance to Stanley is quite striking. Stanley refuses to tell me who her mother is, so I find it safe to assume that I wouldn’t know her anyway. Nonetheless, there’s something familiar in the features she doesn’t share with Stanley, or myself by extension, I suppose. Her hair is certainly curly, as would befit any Pines, but there’s also something about it I can’t quite place.

Hair aside, she and I share the distinct misfortune of having inherited the polydactyl gene, though she doesn’t seem to have noticed yet. She’s too young to understand the birth defect now, but I fear she will learn, in due time, how distinct her hands are in comparison to others. I can only hope that other children will not be as cruel to her as they were to me. Though he insists that he does not want to turn her hands into an ordeal for her to be ashamed of, I can’t help but worry that Stanley’s indifference towards the matter will cause more harm in the long run, from our personal experience. Our very first day of school was none too enjoyable with the realization that my hands were decidedly not the norm.

He hatched out the details of the little girl’s hair as she dozed.

Little Stella is certainly a charismatic child and it’s evident that Stanley loves her dearly. He’s changed a great deal from how I remember him.

Is it my fault?

Stanford’s brow furrowed.

She seems to be a content little girl, despite the circumstances. I question the normalcy of it, though I suppose I should rather appreciate her versatility than wish upon her the turmoil that such a life must surely bring. I can’t help but wonder how Stanley managed it. She seems accustomed to such a life, though not bitter or resentful about it in the least. Is it that she doesn’t know enough to feel indignant? I shouldn’t wish such on either of them. Stanley has suffered enough. It’s a wonder that he appears to have shielded his daughter from the brunt of it.

Her current interests include:

Naptime, apparently

Being held—she seems to be a very affectionate child. She must get that from Stanley

Stanley himself—she insists on remaining in his company and the depth of her affection nearly moved him to tears the day prior

Coloring and the color green

Giggling, running and playing in water—she’s quite adept at all three

And worst of all, the Leprecorn! I don’t understand what it is she sees in the horrid creature. It does nothing but play annoying music, stand in the way, and giggle. Maybe she likes it for its giggling. If that happens to be the case, perhaps a hyena would make a better companion.

Stanford left the pen in place as he stilled, the ink crawling across the page to feather into a crackling pattern as the nib lingered.

How was it possible for Stan to care for a newborn with no means, and from the backseat of a car, no less? I shudder to think of the ways in which such a situation would have compounded the inherent difficulties of childrearing. It’s astounding that Stella survived infancy. Statistically speaking, she should not have survived.

His eyes flitted back up to Stanley, catching the hint of a frown that began to curl across his features. Stanford let the ink dry into the page before flipping to the next.

It pains me to accept it, but Stanley appears to be much worse off than he was the last two times I saw him, which is saying a great deal, since he was (still) homeless the first time, and just plucked from who knows where on the other side of the portal the second. He seems worn out completely. It’s as though he’s just done with everything that arises. It’s a long ways away from the brazen and outgoing child he’d been when we were young.

His physical condition is more shocking than I anticipated. Stanley has numerous scars and injuries, though I must admit I do not know at what juncture each appeared, save for one.

His hand lingered as he hesitated over the words, inadvertently bolding them with his shaky letters.

I do not know how Stanley survived the brand.

His thoughts strayed back to an earlier journal entry, the one he’d written after sending his brother through his hellhole. Fool Fool FOOL FOOL FOOL—He’d nearly gouged through the page with the force with which he bore down on the nib. The same frenetic force had kicked Stanley against the metal that seared and bored into his skin. I killed my brother. I know I did. I killed him and he is dead. Stanley is dead because I killed him I did it myself I—

Ford remembered the page well. His eye had wept tears and blood again, and the oxidized stains crackled when he turned the pages. These two pages had blessedly stuck together, though it didn’t matter. They were still stuck well within the forefront of his mind. I never wanted to but he won’t know that because he’s DEAD and it’s entirely my fault I killed him twice I killed my brother three times—It was true. Thrice he’d killed Stanley. He’d killed his dreams when he’d shut the curtains on him and turned away. His future died along with them. He’d killed his flesh when he kicked him into the branding plate, and he’d killed and damned his existence when he sent him through the portal. He’d been so eager to condemn him for his past affronts that he stepped into the roles of both jury and executioner without a second thought. He hadn’t considered that it would actually take him from this earth until it was too late.

He’d managed to bring him back if only the husk, but it was far too late to bring his spirit back, wasn’t it? That died and withered a long time ago.

The only thing that seems to engage Stanley, other than frequent spats with me, is Stella. The child has him wrapped around her little fingers (all six!!) and I doubt he would have it any other way. I don’t know how not to instigate a fight with him, apparently, as most interactions end with at least some tension. I believe outward actions may be a better means of communication in this circumstance, though the theory remains to be tested. He seems to take offense at several smaller gestures, though with the potential aid of my own mouth.

I can only hope this will prove successful.

Stella sneezed in her sleep and woke herself in the process. Stanford raised an eyebrow, forcing back a chuckle as she sat up and searched for the culprit. She squinted at him.

“I believe we’re supposed to cover our mouths when we sneeze, Stella.”

“No.” she rubbed her eyes before settling back down. Sleepyheads, the both of them. Ford smiled. He’d let them sleep for the time being.

  Hours later, a sharp inhale of air preceded Stanley’s eyes peeling open. “Ugh.”

Stan had woken up stiff and sore, Ford could tell. He’d made that same face enough. “…You alright?”

“Yeah.” He grumbled back.

“If you need, I’ve got some—”

“I’m good.” So he wouldn’t admit to his obvious discomfort. Alright.

Stella was still sound asleep in her father’s arms as he inched his way to his feet to pace with her. Wasn’t that for children who were upset? She was asleep. What was the point?

When she finally did wake, Stella slapped a hand to her face to rub at her eye, letting out a little whine as she tried to take in her surroundings.

“Hi, sweetiepie,” Stanley cooed, in a voice so gentle it unnerved Ford. “Hi! Oh, sweetie, you’re okay.” The child had begun to whine as she turned her head from side to side. “It’s okay.” Stanley shifted her to place an onslaught of kisses to her pudgy cheek and gradually the small whimpers turned to faint giggles. She rested her head against his shoulder. “That’s more like it.”

He stood in place and rocked for a few moments before she spoke up. “C’n I go play?”

“Outside?”

“Yeah. I wanna play outside.”

Stan mulled it over. “You’ve been so quiet all day. Sure.”

“’Kay.”

“Let’s go get your coat.”

The pair wandered outside while Stanley finagled a little arm through a sleeve, his own thin jacket tossed over his shoulder. “Lucky!” Stanford heard a set of hooves lope across the porch. “Hi!”

“TOP ‘O THE MORNIN’ TO YA!”

“OHH. Oh. It… It actually does talk. Geez. Okay. Alright.” Ford heard a series of stomps and hops interspersed with laughter. He could have done without the leprecorn’s laughter. “Yeah, you two practice gallopin’. Good plan.” Stan’s voice was muffled.

Stanford let the syncopated clomping fall to the background as he turned his attention back to the stacks of paper strewn across his worktable.

By the time he looked up from his work, the sun had long since set and Stan and his daughter had been tucked away upstairs for what might have been hours.

≈

The following day, Ford waited for Stan to make his way down the stairs before stopping him in his tracks. “We should go out today to buy a baby gate.”

“The f—I don’t know what it is you’re gettin’ at, but whatever it is, it’s too early for this.”

“It’s necessary.”

“Ford, can I at least set my child down before you start throwing sh—throwing stuff at me?”

Ford relented long enough for Stanley to do just that, and watched as his brother sat his groggy daughter in the kitchen chair. She let out a whine on contact with the wood, and he promptly lifted her back up. “It’s a good investment.”

“Listen t’what you just said and think about how that makes any sense.”

“Stanley, I’m serious.”

“So’m I. We’re not gonna be here that long. What sense does it make to buy a baby gate?”

“The point still remains that it would be useful while you’re here.”

Stan paced in place for a moment, his mouth opening and closing as though he were interrupting himself. “Why are you doing this, Ford?” his voice was barely above a whisper and everything about that screamed wrong in Stanford’s ears. Stanley wasn’t supposed to sound like that. That broken, ragged tone was not supposed to leave his mouth.

Stella, who was slung over Stanley’s shoulder, looked around for a moment before giving Stanford a grin. “Hi!”

“Good morning, sweetling.” He hummed. She stuck her hand out and it took Ford a moment to realize he was probably supposed to take it. “Oh.” He offered her his hand and she strained to grab it, clamping two of his fingers in her tiny fist. Ford stared at the small digits. It earned him a coo. How sweet. She was certainly a happy baby, and for that, he was thankful.

Stanley moved to step forward, not realizing she had a grasp on Stanford, and garnered a yelp from all three parties for it. As he froze, Stella stuck her free hand out towards her uncle.

“I… You want me to carry you?” She was already in Stanley’s arms, why would she want him? Her little free hand waved in the air and he reached for her, hesitant until she slid out of Stanley’s arms and her weight dropped into his. Ford pulled her close and tried to imitate Stanley’s posture, unable to school his face into anything other than shock as she wiggled and made herself comfortable. He craned his neck to get a better look at her. “Ah, good morning?” Her warm little cheek pressed against his as she leaned in despite his efforts to inspect her face. He couldn’t bring himself to mind. “Stella, would you like to go to the store today? We could get some things.” He offered.

“Stanford!”

“Yeah.” Stella hummed, unenthused yet without her father’s outright disdain for the idea. Her hand came up to his shoulder and she balled the fabric of his shirt into her fist. He might’ve been dismayed if he’d ever cared about wrinkled fabric.

“I…” He wasn't sure what else to say. How did one hold a conversation with toddlers? “Are you...having a good morning?"

“Yeah.”

“Good. I'm glad.”

"Stella, sweetie, let's get some breakfast in you. You want some of your cereal?"

"No." She reached for Stanley all the same.

"No? But it's got Lucky on it."

"No."

"Toast? How 'bout toast?"

"I don' want any." She frowned. Stan sighed.

"Okay. Whatever. You'll pipe up when you're hungry. What about thirsty? D'you want some milk?"

She thought about it for a moment. "Okay. But only a little!“

Stanley plucked his child from Ford's arms and placed her back in the chair, ignoring her little huff as he pulled out a glass. "Here, pumpkin."

"And you?"

Stan paused. "What?"

"What'll you have?"

"I'm good."

"Stan."

"Ford." He mirrored his tone.

Ford pursed his lips. "I'll repeat. What should we have for breakfast?"

"I'm fine, Ford." Stanley mumbled, clearing his throat shortly after. That didn't sound fine. His brother eyed him. “Stop worryin’ about it.”

“Someone has to if you won’t.” he grumbled under his breath. Stanley shot him a glare and he made it a point to ignore it. "I'll try not to ruin the eggs again."

"Ford, don't bother."

"I will do exactly that." He heard Stanley force a groan from between pursed lips. "I'm assuming scrambled is fine? Because I'm afraid any more than that might be asking a bit much at this stage." He turned to look at his brother, unnerved by the way he'd contorted himself to lay his head against the table without disturbing Stella and her glass of milk. "Are...are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Ford." Stanley sighed. "It's just a headache." It sounded like an afterthought.

"Are you sure?"

"Ford."

"Right. Sorry. Maybe. Possibly. I suppose."

"Oh, sweet Moses."

Stella jerked her glass away from her face with a cough and Stanley bolted upright. "Shit, sweetie, are you okay? Please tell me you're okay." She wiped at her eye as he patted her back and it took Ford a moment to realize the egg in his hand was now the victim of his balled fist.

"You said a bad word." Her little voice was watery.

Stanley's nervous chuckle was high-pitched and wavering. "Sweet Moses, don't scare me like that. Don't drink so fast, okay?"

"I didn't!" Her small voice had a slight rasp and she struggled to clear her throat. Stanley leaned her forward as he thumped her little back. After a few moments she began to hum, her voice rattling.

“Now you’re just playin’. Feel better?”

“Yeah.” She drawled the word out.

“Good.”

Ford’s shoulders loosened as Stanley pressed a kiss to her forehead and he looked down at the egg dripping from his wrist with a scowl. “Tch. Wonderful.”

Stanley turned, poised to speak, then paused. “Oh. Egg. Gross.”

“Suffice it to say my appetite has been lost.”

“I was tellin’ you that before.”

≈

“Ford, enough with the baby gate. It’s fine.”

“Didn’t you say it only takes a second?”

“I—Oh, fuck you.”

Ford had kept at it for hours. Stan did his best to ignore him, but he was only a man. He could only put with so much before he snapped, and he refused to do that in front of Stella again. He gave in instead. He only wished he could wipe that stupid smirk off of Ford’s face as he buckled himself into the passenger seat of the Stanleymobile.

“It only takes a second.” Stanley mimicked as he finished buckling Stella into her car seat and folded himself behind the wheel.

“What?”

“Nothin’, sweetie. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay.” She seemed uncertain as her little feet flopped to and fro in the seat.

Baby gates.

They were headed two towns over for a baby gate. What sense did that make? What did he have to do to get Ford to understand? They weren’t gonna stay for long. Coming up here was a stupid idea.

They just needed to grab the cheapest baby gate they had and run back out. That wasn’t too tall of an order.

This was Stanford Pines. Of course it was a tall order.

Once inside, Stanley grabbed a basket and plopped Stella in the seat. It’s too early for all of this. “Baby gates. C’mon.”

“Why?” Stella piped.

“The baby gate? It’s for you.” He gave her a quick peck on the nose, satisfied with her little grin. That’s my girl.

“Why?”

“Beats me.”

“Now, Stanley—Oh, wait.” Stanford stretched out an arm to still Stanley, his spare hand reaching out to point to a shelf.

“What?” Stanley’s eyes trailed upwards to follow the line of Stanford’s arm. “No. Not at all. Absolutely not.

“Stanley, be reasonable.”

“I’m perfectly reasonable. You be reasonable. No one needs 100 Toaster Pops. Put that back.” He caught Ford wincing at his daughter and glanced down. Stella’s eyes darted back and forth between the two men as she gripped the basket’s handle bar, one hand creeping towards Stanley’s. It seemed her worried little face was the only thing that convinced Ford to acquiesce.

“Fine. But bulk stores like this are an excellent opportunity to stock up on much-needed items.”

“Mmm hmm, and Toaster Pops ain’t one of ‘em.” It was with determination that Stanley pushed the basket up and down the aisles. “Really, Ford?”

“What?” This was why Ford wanted to come all the way out here? Did Ford not expect him to catch on? Jesus Christ, he was dumb, but he wasn’t that dumb.

“Really, Ford? Really?”

“What? What, Stanley? What?”

He’d caught the man in the middle of tossing something extra into his basket. “Really?”

“A multi-pack of shirts is a necessity, Stanley. You know this.” A necessity for who? Stanley just stared at him. This was all too ridiculous for words. “You know I buy shirts in multiple sets.”

“And you have those sets, Ford. You don’t need any more.” Stan grumbled. “You’re not buying this for yourself.”

Ford was silent for a moment as Stanley scowled. “And if I’m not? It that really so bad?”

“Yes. Put ‘em back.” The pair stared at each other, long and hard. Fords scowl matched Stanley’s and he cocked a brow, reaching for a nearby pack of socks. “Ford.” Stanley’s shoulders fell. Why was he doing this? It was damn near taunting.

“It’s going in the basket, Stanley.” Ford’s voice was soft but he still found it abrasive all the same. Where the hell did he get off with all of this? Ford sent him a searching look. Oh. He was trying. Was that it? Trying or not, Ford was out of line. Stan glared at him for a few moments.

“Come on. We’re not even on the right aisle for Pete’s sake.”

“Very well.” Very well. Stan was able to stop himself from mimicking Ford out loud, but only just.

“C’mon, sweetie pie.” Stella’s little hands splayed out over his as he pushed the basket. She was pouting up at him. He leaned down to place a kiss to the tip of her nose. Still frowning. He kissed her again. And again. And blew a raspberry against her forehead. There we go. “There’s that lil’ baby laugh.” He grinned, speeding the basket along. He’d find the baby gates his damn self. Maybe Ford wouldn’t be able to pick up more shit without a basket to throw it in.

He’d been wrong. Stanford went and got a basket of his own and passed by father and child as they made their way across the store. Damnit. Stanley wanted to shove the damned thing against a wall. He paused to hold Stella for a little while, after she’d grown fussy and tired of riding in the basket. He figured he’d get tired of riding backwards with nothing to look at but his ugly mug, too. The only problem now was that she refused to get back in the basket.

“Sweetie, I need you to sit here. What’s wrong?” What had gotten into her?

“No. I wanna stay with you.”

“I’m right here, pumpkin. Right here. You know that.” Stanley sighed and hefted her higher in his arms. “What’m I gonna do with you, huh?”

“No.”

“Let’s go find this gate before you get any fussier.”

“No.”

“Oh, geez.”

Ford had beaten to the children’s section. He’d propped two gates in his basket—because of course he did, when one was already overkill— and was mulling over diapers? Stanley thanked his lucky stars Stella had been easy to potty train. It had still been absolute hell, but considering his circumstances, he figured he’d gotten off easy. “Stanford, she literally doesn’t need those.” He leaned in to inspect a brightly-colored box at the bottom of the basket, underneath the gates. “Ford, put the Blebbos back. Seriously? Space Princess Magic Castle?” Ford had always loved the stupid little blocks when they were kids. Of course he’d pick up a set.

“She may like it, Stanley.” Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. And where would she play with it? For once, reading would actually save Stanley. He lurched forward to reach into Ford’s basket, ignoring the little whimper Stella gave him as he stepped away.

“Look.” He stretched an arm out to place a hand on her tummy, hoping to placate her. “Ages six and up. Choking hazard.” He watched Ford blanch.

“Shit.”

Stella whined.

“I didn’t realize. I just thought she might like to put it together, I didn’t—“

“Ford. It’s fine. It’s fine, okay? She just doesn’t need that.” Ford gave him a crumbling nod and placed the box back on the shelf. Stanley turned back to his own basket, adorned with his wet-eyed baby doing her best to reach for him. She let out a little hiccup. He wilted. “Oh, sweetie.” He pulled her into his arms and she immediately grabbed a fistful of his hair. He figured there was no putting her down now. He settled for swaying from side to side, letting her bury her wet little face in the crook of his neck. “Oh, sweetheart. It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.” Ford swooped in and transferred the contents of Stanley’s basket into his. “Oh, for fu—would you just leave it?” he hissed.

“No.”

Stanley let out a guttural groan. “Let’s just go, okay? We’ve been here too long.”

They didn’t make it three yards before Stanford stopped to look at an endcap. He was staring at more baby items. “Stanford, no.” Stan whispered, one hand rubbing smooth circles along his child’s back. “No. Just stop.” This was entirely too much. He wanted to be sick.

“What does she need?”

“She needs you to not do this, how ‘bout that?” He didn’t appreciate the glare Ford sent him.

“Stanley, be reasonable. I want to do this.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to.” Her stuff was fine. Some of it was big enough that he didn’t have to worry if she hit a growth spurt soon. It’d be fine. He’d get away from Ford and all this stupid shit and he’d be able to start scrounging and saving up again once he paid him back, and he’d be able to get her stuff when she needed it. Right now, she was fine.

“I’ve decided it’s my duty as an uncle.”

“You don’t do these things for Isaac, I bet.”

“Isaac doesn’t—“ Isaac doesn’t need them. He dared him to say it. “Isaac isn’t here right now.”

“Stanford—“

“I only have one niece.” He only had one nephew, too, if they were gonna play this game. “And one twin.” Stan was certain he wasn’t supposed to hear that. He didn’t want to hear it. He bit down on his tongue and pushed a heavy sigh from his nose. Deep breathing never calmed him, but there was a first time for everything. “What does she need, Stan?”

Stanley shook his head, holding his lip captive between his teeth. “No.” There was no way in hell.

“Stanley. I want to do this. It’s the least I can do, all things considered.”

The least he could do was stop humiliating him in public, but Stan didn’t see that happening in the next century.

“What about socks? I didn’t see many that had mates.”

“Oh, for… She needs some of those lil’ stretchy baby pants. ‘N some jammies.” Stan grumbled. He did his best to keep his voice as soft as possible. It was either that or shout, and even he wasn’t dumb enough to want to do that in the middle of a store. His little girl looked on the verge of tears as it was. Part of him hoped that Ford didn’t hear him. Another part knew that he’d only ask again if that were the case. This shit was mortifying, why couldn’t he figure that out?

Stella began to scrub her face against his shoulder. “Look, can we speed this up, Ford? I think she wants to be here ‘bout as much as I do.” She was probably tired. She’d never had a definite naptime, but she’d usually have fallen asleep at least once by this point.

“Right. Okay.” Stan watched Ford reach into a rack of children’s clothes before he paused. “She wears a size—”

“Get 3T.” Ford’s brow wrinkled at that, but Stanley chose to ignore it. It might be too big, but she could grow into it that way. If he was gonna waste money, there was no need to waste money on something she wouldn’t be able to use as long. He began to bounce slightly with each step, pacing back and forth along the aisle. He was too busy soothing his fussy child to notice Stanford grab an oversized stuffed unicorn and shove it in the basket, underneath the second baby gate.

Of course Stanley noticed the stupid horse once they reached the cashier.

“What is this?”

Stanford pretended not to understand for a moment. Smooth. Real smooth. “It’s a stuffed animal.” He sniffed.

“Ford. Seriously? She doesn't need that thing.”

“Look at her. She loves it.”

“Her eyes are closed and she can’t see it.”

“She wants it.”

“She—You didn't even ask. She didn’t ask.” A trickle of both shame and panic ran down his spine. What if she would have asked? He would’ve had to say no. What if she didn’t ask because she knew that already? Did she understand how decidedly not well off they were? She didn’t need to grow up that fast. It’s my fault if she does.

“It's a unicorn. She likes unicorns. Of course she wants it.” Ford rolled his eyes as he held the large fabric beast up for the disinterested clerk to scan. “She should have nice things.”

Stanley’s lips curled back taut and pressed against his gums. “Are you saying I don’t think my child deserves nice things?” His voice was low and gentle, but oily black venom dripped from behind his teeth all the same. It was a disgustingly low blow. His stomach coiled and knotted like a spring. “Is that what you think?” He loved his little girl. He knew damn well that she deserved this world and a thousand more. He knew there were so many things she deserved that he couldn’t provide, and he knew there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. He knew he was failing her as a parent. He was failing her, but he was the only parent she had, and he hated it. He hated that she was stuck with his sorry hide, and he couldn’t help the thick, heavy guilt that accompanied his joyful pride for having her. He could have strangled Stanford, then and there, if it wouldn’t have woken his daughter. He could have strangled him, and it wouldn’t have meant a thing because he was right.

“I—That’s not what I meant.” His voice was emphatic. Of course it wasn’t. As smart and well-spoken as Ford prided himself on being, that wasn’t what he meant. Sure. Stanley turned away from him and stalked out towards the parking lot. “Stanley—“

“Shut up, Ford.” He could hear the basket wheels trailing behind him, but he couldn’t bring himself to care either way.

The two fumed their way towards the Stanleymobile, and Stanley buckled Stella in while Stanford maneuvered the large boxes in around Stella. She’d woken up with a whine in the process and Stan fumed as he watched Stanford reach into one of the bags to pull out the stupid unicorn. He handed it to the disoriented child, bleary-eyed and confused by the fuzzy waste of money she couldn't even wrap her arms around. It was as big as she was. Why the fuck did he buy that thing? Part of Stan was sure Ford bought it just to piss him off. She didn’t need that thing, hadn’t even noticed or asked for it, and Stanley didn’t have the space for it. Where was he supposed to keep it? Maybe she could use it as a body pillow back there until she outgrew it or it got too worn-out to keep.

Stanley couldn’t afford these things, and Stanford knew it. All he was doing was setting a precedent that Stanley wouldn’t be able to keep up. Another entry to the list of things he couldn’t provide. It would end up being nothing but trouble.

He kept his eyes trained straight ahead on the road as Stanford mumbled out the occasional direction back into Gravity Falls.

Here, have a thing that I did.

[conqueringnature]

Volumizing

Recently I’ve come to the conclusion that I haven’t incorporated enough volume in my training. This started when my overhead press stalled and I started doing Paul Carter’s 500 rep shoulder workout. Brutal. It seems to be working, though. 

Following this program has helped me realize a few other things I’ve been mulling over.

1.     Volume and medium-low intensity are friends.

2.     You can handle way more volume than you think.

3.     To get better at something, do it more.

I’ve long held that third point as a mantra in my training, but never completely thought through it. It seems there are obvious exceptions to the rule. I’ve had to work backwards from those exceptions to find out why they were exceptions, which I’ve ignored doing for a while. 

First, why does doing something more make us better? 

1. The reason that immediately ties into this post is volume: you add tonnage to your training volume, which is important for building muscle. Pretty straightforward. 

2. The movement is practiced. This highlights how the movement should be done and provides opportunity to tweak it and practice it. Training should be done with the mindset of improving every set and rep. More reps means more opportunity to do this. 

3. Confidence is gained. Ties into the last point, but this one is mental. The more you perform a movement, the more confident you will be performing it next time. Less thinking needs to be done, and you get an idea of how heavy you can go for each rep scheme.

What are the exceptions to my mantra? I don’t really believe overtraining is an issue for most people. Injuries are however, and from experience training a certain way too often can eventually cause injury. Imbalances as well, which are a good way to lead to an injury. 

 There are less dramatic examples, though. Take my stuck overhead press. Not an issue of injury or imbalances. The issue I was running into evaded my normal solution of “press more”. Pressing 2-3 times per week with varying intensity was the norm, and my press stayed where it was and recovery was already tough. I tried backing down for a while, thinking recovery would help, but no dice. 

85 x 3 x 8 = 2040

or

75 x 5 x 6 = 2250

or

55 x 8 x 5 = 2200

These were my usual working weights, reps and sets, with total volume. Sitting just over 2000 lb per workout for total volume. With 2-3 sessions per week, total weekly volume would be somewhere between 4080 – 6750. Doing more per workout was an issue due to fatigue. By the time I was done my usual sets, my shoulders were fried, and I wasn’t in shape to do more shoulder workouts during the week. My old mantra, it seemed, was out of order. 

I’m stubborn however, and I’d hate to throw something away that’s gotten me so far. The solution, as mentioned above, has been to switch course entirely to assistance movements for the time being.

As a comparison, my total volume per workout now looks something like this though the exact weights will vary (BTN press, DB lateral raises, plate raises, rear DB flies, upright rows in order):

45 x 10 x 10 = 4500

(5 x 25 x 2)+(10 x 15 x 2)+(15 x 10 x 2) = 850

10 x 100 = 1000

5 x 100 = 500

45 x 20 x 5 = 4500

That’s 11350 per workout, and 22700 per week. Obviously not a 1 to 1 comparison to my previous volume: some of these weights are only a single dumbbell, and the exercises are not as efficient as a compound movement. A huge difference nonetheless.

 The key to “doing something more” is figuring out what that something is. Previously, my view has been very simple: press more to press more, deadlift more to deadlift more, etc. This works, until you can’t do more. At that point, a holistic analysis needs to be done. For me, overhead pressing is a measure of strength and a tool for building strength. If I’m using it to build shoulder strength and can’t do more, the key is to do something else that I can do more of.  

Doing tons of low intensity assistance means tons of volume. 

It works the other way, too. This is along the lines of Westside’s thinking, but if you want to improve x, and doing y improve x, then do y. If doing z improves y, then do z to improve y to improve x. Voilà! Now just figure out what x, y and z are. 

In the meantime, a fool proof amount of volume will do.