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robininthelabyrinth · 4 years ago

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Spilled Pearls

- Chapter 25 - ao3 -

“Qiren-xiong! Qiren-xiong!”

Lan Qiren opened his eyes, disoriented and confused at being so abruptly disturbed in such an unexpected fashion. This sort of shouting and running around were not permitted in the Cloud Recesses, lest they disturb the cultivation or quiet contemplation of others, and anyway he had never heard such panic in Lan Yueheng’s voice before. Not even with his first explosion, back when he’d still been afraid of fire.

“Yueheng-xiong?” he asked, unfolding his legs from his meditation posture. Taking that as permission, Lan Yueheng burst through his door. “What’s happened?”

“Something terrible,” Lan Yueheng said. His cheeks were pale, his eyes wild; Lan Qiren had never seen him like that. “Qiren-xiong…it’s your brother – no. It’s He Kexin.”

“Say one, say the other,” Lan Qiren said dryly, trying to lighten the mood a little without any success. “What about her?”

“She’s killed someone.”

“What?” Lan Qiren stood up almost too fast, and his head spun. “Who? Not one of ours?”

“A teacher!” Lan Yueheng wailed. “I don’t know which one, but one of them – an honored teacher – she killed him – ”

Lan Qiren rushed out the door, a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. There were teachers he liked and teachers he didn’t like, teachers that were good at teaching and teachers that were poor, but they were all his teachers – teacher for a day, father for a lifetime, as the saying went.

Even the ones he didn’t get along with so well, he’d made up with in time, and he was on good enough terms with all of them now. So was his brother, for that matter…

A horrible thought occurred to Lan Qiren: would this be the thing that finally broke his brother’s madness? Was blood truly necessary to wash away his obsession – or would he persist onwards, ignoring even this?

Surely that was impossible.

Surely not even their family’s love-madness –

Lan Qiren felt even sicker, and hurried his pace still further.

He knew the histories of the Lan sect better than many others. After all, it was his personal family history as well as the sect's history, and there had been a period in his life when he had briefly focused in on that history to the exclusion of everything else as a subset of his interest in the Lan sect rules; in retrospect, it had probably been in part a misguided subconscious attempt to make himself fit in with the rest of them through study and sheer force of will.

Unfortunately, that knowledge meant that he knew enough not to be able to even finish that thought. His family’s tendency towards love-madness was truly terrible, a panacea in small doses and poison in large: his ancestors had achieved miracles that no one had anticipated on behalf of their loved ones, but they’d done terrible things for love, too. When it was good, there was nothing better; when it went bad, there was no limit to what they might do. There was a reason everyone had been just waiting around hoping for his brother to get over it by himself…

Lan Qiren made it to the hanshi and saw several of his elders there, including a few teachers. Each one he saw and recognized made his heart relieved, and yet also tighten in terror: what about the rest?

Which one had been lost? Which familiar face would he never see again?

He didn’t doubt Lan Yueheng for a second. If he said that someone had died, it must be true - and even if he had harbored any such hopes, the grim expressions on everyone’s faces made clear that there was nothing good to be found here.

It was all happening too quickly. He didn’t have time to think.

(Who would be gone from their holiday feasts, their seat left empty or taken up by someone new? Whose voice would go missing from their debates, their wisdom and insight lost forever? His swordfighting teacher, who he’d butted heads with more often than not? His music teacher, who had praised him and defended him as a child? Who?)

“Qiren, good, you’re here,” one of the elders said upon seeing him, waving him forward and glaring at the other disciples milling around until they scattered. “You’re needed – there must be a trial.”

“Of course,” Lan Qiren said, suddenly alarmed at the suggestion that there might not be one. If there was a death, there would need to be a trial; their sect valued the rules, and would never condone an outright execution without appropriate judgment. “Yueheng-xiong said – a murder?”

“A killing,” the elder confirmed. “It looks to be murder, but there’s been no investigation yet – but she’s admitted committing the act.”

There was no need to specify who. In the last month or so, there had been only one person on everyone’s lips.

Lan Qiren swallowed, braced himself. “Who was the victim?”

Hearing the name was like receiving a blow, making him stagger and want to sit down.

Neither his teacher in the sword, with whom Lan Qiren shared a small enmity and who his brother adored, nor his music teacher, who Lan Qiren held dearest of all and his brother was indifferent towards - but the old one, the one that spoke up only rarely, preferring to spend most of his time sleeping, but which always put in a good word for everyone whenever he did so.

He was one of their oldest, well-meaning if perhaps too strict, a respected teacher for years and years. He had been their father’s teacher, once, and Lan Qiren remembered how he used to keep sweets in his pockets and distribute them to the juniors - in some cases, long after they were too old for such things. Lan Qiren remembered his brother’s long-suffering expression when he was “snuck” such a treat well into his adolescence; he remembered, too, how his brother had eaten the candy anyway and how it had improved his mood - he had even smiled in amusement at Lan Qiren when he had gobbled his own down without any grace at all.

He had praised Lan Qiren’s academic skills and encouraged him - had been one of the ones who took him to see his father every month as a child, had been one of the few who had scolded Lan Qiren’s brother for not being kind because not even Lan Qiren’s father could prevent him. He had a reputation for being a little overbearing, a little nosy, a little tactless with the carelessness of age, but that had mostly come from how much he wanted everyone to get along.

He was someone who was greatly respected and admired by everyone.

“Why?” Lan Qiren choked out.

It made no sense for He Kexin to kill him. If anything, she should have seen him as a natural ally: he was one of the ones who most vociferously opposed the match.

In fairness, by this point, most of the teachers had settled on that position, reluctant as they were to reach that conclusion when it was something that Lan Qiren’s brother so obviously wanted. It was simply too clear to everyone that He Kexin, whatever her somewhat improved opinion of ‘her’ Qingheng-jun was, was not interested in becoming Madame Lan, either now or later.

If Lan Qiren’s brother had had any notion of true filial piety, if he had been strictly taught the rules and taught to keep to the rules, he would have dropped the suit long ago, knowing that his sect demanded more from him than what he was giving to it. But he wasn’t, and he hadn’t, and Lan Qiren recalled with great bitterness all the times when his brother had equated the well-being of the sect with his own interests and no one had opposed him, least of all their father.

Here was where it all ended up.

“Why did she kill him?” he asked.

“We don’t know.”

“Worse than that,” one of the others said, hands gripped so tightly behind his back that his shoulders bent backwards. “We don’t know...the sect leader has been informed, but he has not yet issued a judgment.”

He meant that he didn’t know if Lan Qiren’s brother even would.

Lan Qiren shook his head. “Uphold the value of justice,” he said, and looked at his teachers and elders sidelong. “Take the straight path, reject the crooked path. Do not take a life within the premises. The rules are quite clear: a murder within the Cloud Recesses calls for a trial, and for a harsh response, no matter the personal cost. Do you agree?”

The elders looked back at him, surprised: Lan Qiren had never cited the rules as a warning before. He had never made clear that he, at least, would have no intention of stepping aside this time – brother or no brother, sect leader or no sect leader, this was simply a step too far. There were rules that could be bent and rules that could be broken, ones that could be responded to with punishments and others that had to be dealt with harshly, living up to the demands of justice no matter how bitter.

If they bent the rules on something like this – there would be no point in having the rules at all. They would only be making a mockery of them, paying lip service when whole-hearted adherence was what was required; they might as well throw them out entirely rather than let themselves become hypocrites of the worst sort. Lan Qiren knew that he tended towards inflexibility, that he was too stern and too unforgiving, but this was the sort of thing that simply could not be forgiven; they could not find a loophole, they could not be moved by mercy, they could not simply bow their heads and shrug their shoulders and look away this time, the way they had so many times before.

If they allowed for power and influence, the protection of the sect leader, to overcome their principles – if they punished only those who were weak and had no backing, and refrained when it was the sect leader’s beloved – then they ought to lose the right to call themselves Gusu Lan.

“You’re right,” his teacher finally said. “The rules are clear. We must do what is right.”

“Yes,” Lan Qiren said, and braced himself. “No matter the cost, we must.”

This was going to hurt.

Not just his brother. Lan Qiren didn’t know what his lovesick brother would do in response to this fiasco, but he was certain it wouldn’t be good, not for him and not for her and not for any of them, the sect and all. This was going to hurt everyone.

But then again – hadn’t all this hurt them all already?

A feeling of deep foreboding settled deep in his gut, Lan Qiren entered the hanshi, where his brother was waiting, eyes narrow and features set and defiant, standing in front of He Kexin, her own features equally defiant and yet also strangely confused, as if despite the fact that her sleeve was still splattered with blood she had not yet absorbed what she had done.

When all the present elders and members of the main Lan clan had gathered – all the ones who, when all together and speaking in a single voice, were entitled to override the orders of the sect leader – the argument began in earnest.

Everything happened very quickly after that.

After, when it was all over, Lan Qiren didn’t remember the exact words said or the arguments made. He didn’t remember the rules he cited or the positions he took – he barely even remembered that he had for the first time in his life spoke out in earnest, acting as a full adult of the Lan clan with all the rights and privileges he had never felt truly entitled to claim, standing in actual opposition to his brother and refusing to yield and insisting that for once, for once, the rest of the sect refuse to yield alongside him.

He didn’t remember much of anything else, either.

He didn’t remember the details of He Kexin’s defense, didn’t remember the stupid reasons she’d spouted for what she had done – her story only made sense if you assumed the worst in people, and then acted upon it without bothering to check. Thanks to Lan Qiren’s brother’s endless persistence, He Kexin had a terrible impression of the Lan sect; it had made it easy for her to believe it when her friend abruptly claimed that the teacher had engaged in misconduct, when in fact he had only correctly identified that He Kexin’s beloved ‘sister’ was using Qingheng-jun’s love-madness and indulgence to try to benefit her own sect, and had scolded her for it.

He barely remembered the way He Kexin’s story had collapsed in the face of even the most basic of questioning, all of her assumptions falling apart one right after the other, and then falling apart even further in the face of actual presented evidence. The way that it became increasingly obvious that one of her friends had lied to her in order to manipulate her, had been lying for weeks on end and encouraging her to carry on the relationship just to take advantage of her.

He scarcely recalled the exact words that were spoken when even He Kexin’s friend, already captured by Lan sect disciples on account of the crime and dragged in to give account, denounced He Kexin’s actions. If only she had been less arrogant, her friend complained, less overenthusiastic - she hadn’t mean to push He Kexin to go so far as to kill the man, had meant only for her to use her influence with Qingheng-jun to immunize them against the teacher’s criticism. Only in her excess disdain for the Lan sect, He Kexin had jumped straight to the worst conclusions and gone too far, and now she had now ruined everything…

The details didn’t matter.

What Lan Qiren did remember was the look of horror on He Kexin’s face when it all fell into place. He remembered how she stared down at her hands that had killed a man for so little purpose, for no purpose at all, on the basis of false accusations because of her blind trust and unwillingness to question, her refusal to communicate and her unwavering belief that she knew best. He remembered the alarm and very real fear that appeared when the first elder proposed a sentence of death, pointing out that the only appropriate resolution for such a pointless murder was the most severe, that it would be a life for a life in the traditions of the cultivation world –

Remembered the expression on her face when his brother proposed a different solution.

Remembered the expression on his brother’s face, fanatical and determined, the whites showing all around his eyes, the reckless madness of love writ all over his face – it had consumed him wholly. He had given himself away in full, and there was nothing left, nothing binding him back other than the duty that had always weighed him down.

Remembered how he had responded – what he had offered –

“This cannot be,” Lan Qiren said numbly, walking out into the light of dawn – they had argued the whole night through before reaching the end. “What are we going to do?”

“Qingheng-jun is entitled to resign his position and enter permanent seclusion if he so wishes,” his music teacher said heavily, his voice nearly as dull and shocked as Lan Qiren’s. “His wife, whoever she may be, is entitled to do the same, matching her actions to his. It is our sect’s way: that those who travel the same path as Dao companions be allowed to continue down that same path, never being parted in life. The precedent was set years ago…”

“As was the one that dictates that those who are in permanent seclusion cannot be removed against their will for any reason,” his swordsmanship teacher said, his voice equally solemn. “Not even for trial, should a crime later be discovered. As their seclusion is permanent, they are removed from the world – they are considered as if already dead, never showing their face under the heavens.”

Lan Qiren knew all of this. He knew all the stories, all the rules, all the precedent – not that it had ever been used this way, but his brother had always been one to find loopholes in the rules, to bend their letter to his will rather than bend his neck to honor their spirit. If He Kexin was his wife, she could accompany him anywhere, including into seclusion; if they were both in seclusion, she could not be tried; if she could not be tried, she could not be found guilty and sentenced to die.

“He condemns her instead to a living death, then,” he said woodenly. “She doesn’t even – like him.”

“She is not the one who chose seclusion. She is welcome to leave at any time,” his swordsmanship teacher said bitterly. “Provided, of course, that she is willing to bear the cost and lose her life to pay for her crime.”

He Kexin wouldn’t do that, Lan Qiren knew. She was vivacious and bright, full of life and humor and hope; she feared death, as any regular person did, and she was not part of the Lan sect – she didn’t know how strict their seclusion was. She didn’t know how taxing it would be on her, how little she would see of the world, how disconnected and isolated she would be.

There would be servants to care for her in her seclusion, but they would seek to minimize their presence as much as possible to avoid disturbing her, speaking to her only when necessary. She would be able to speak with her husband, to meet with him on occasion – their seclusion was technically shared, and therefore meetings between them were not counted as a breach of that seclusion, but they would not be permitted to meet too often, lest they be distracted from the higher purpose of cultivation by bodily affairs.

Permanent seclusion was rarely chosen by those young enough to allow for the possibility, but should there be any children born into her seclusion, they would be taken from her and allowed to visit only rarely – the exact frequency had not been recorded, and would probably be a matter of debate should the issue ever come up. Their father would likely see them even less often, only on holidays involving filial piety, and whether he would speak to them would be entirely up to him; there was no obligation on his part.

“How could this be worth it?” Lan Qiren whispered. “How could he…?”

“He is in love,” his music teacher said, as if it were a death sentence.

It was a death sentence.

“We must send word to the former sect leader,” his swordsmanship teacher said, shaking his head. “He, too, is in permanent seclusion and cannot be forced out, but he retreated from the world in honor, not on account of a crime; he could break his seclusion voluntarily. He has always cared deeply for the affairs of the sect – surely he would…”

He trailed off, shaking his head a second time. A motion was taken among the elders and members of the Lan clan, each one of them deeply subdued – He Kexin had already been taken away by her bridegroom to perform the marriage ceremony in the memorial hall, without any of the usual trappings of such a festive event – and a runner was soon sent to the rooms that Lan Qiren’s father had selected for seclusion.

Each of them anticipated a long wait, expecting the former sect leader to demand a full explanation of all that had occurred before emerging, yet to their surprise the runner returned within half a shichen, scarcely enough time to get to the rooms and to return.

“Seniors,” the runner cried, throwing himself down on his knees and touching his head to the floor. “I sought to alert the sect leader of what passed here this night. I called his name time and again, rang the bell to alert him of an emergency…”

“And what?” one of the elders demanded. “What happened then? Why have you returned so quickly?”

“He did not respond,” the runner said. “No matter what I did…I thought the situation was desperate, and so acted rashly. I bypassed the prohibitions and looked through the window – seniors, honored teachers, the former sect leader is dead!”

Lan Qiren started violently.

“What?” his swordfighting teacher demanded, rising to his feet – they were all rising up, all but Lan Qiren who only sat there, stiff in shock. “What do you mean? Even if his cultivation failed, it would not be so soon!”

“It cannot be doubted. After what I saw, I went inside to confirm it. He is dead.”

“When,” Lan Qiren said dully, barely bothering to make it a question.

Everyone turned to look at him.

“It has been an entire night,” he said, staring down at his hands. “Bad news flies on swift wings, and spreads as quickly and inexorably as ink in water. Tell me - did my father die by his own hand before or after he found out what his beloved eldest son has done?”

Nobody answered him.

#mdzs #lan qiren #my fic #my fics #spilled pearls #mind the ao3 tags #you all knew it was coming

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redvoid-40 · 4 years ago

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A Game for a Kiss

Don’t ask me where this came from. I’ve watched BSD a couple months ago and of course I got the hots for the feral rat-man. -.-

Anyway, slowly I came up with a little plot for an arc with some OCs (weird calling them OCs, when they’re all named after past writers but oh well) and even thought about developing it, but since I’m not in the mood to write a whole multi-chaptered fic, I decided to just write this interaction between Fyodor and my main OC for the BSD-universe, Mary Shelley. You know, as a treat. >.<

I know the fandom is super small, but I thought someone might enjoy this, so here it is! :)

Also, Fyodor might be OOC (it’s hard to get a full understanding of his character) but I see him as creepy-pretty, with no qualms in manipulating women in ways that border on dub-con. So... TW: some making out; Fyodor’s thoughts making it clear his morals are more twisted than a pretzel.

Anyway, enjoy! :)

Part 1 / Part 2 (NSFW) / Part 3 (NSFW)

“How about a game?” Fyodor proposed, smiling from ear to ear as he moved a chessboard from the side table to the coffee table in front of them. It was small, with tiny and expensive crystal pieces that had a purely decorative role, but he had never minded playing with valuable and irreplaceable things before, so why start now? Much worse to die of boredom than to shatter a hundred-dollar pawn. “I heard you had quite the reputation at the Chess Club in Oxford.”

“It’s been a few years since I last played,” Mary admitted as placed her glass of anise-infused gin on the coffee table and reached out to touch the white king, as if she was caressing a long-lost lover. “Not sure I’ll be a worthy opponent to you, Mr Dostoevsky.”

“How about I give you some impetus then?” Fyodor asked, raising a sole eyebrow as Mary’s eyes shone with interest. “If you win, I’ll give you something. Something I know you want from me.”

Mary quickly pulled back, like a child caught with her hand in the cookie-jar. “You’re already doing so, and I’m eternally grateful for it. Helping me retrieve Adam and right my wrong is all I could ever hope for and more, Mr Dostoevsky. There’s nothing el-”

“A kiss.”

Fyodor’s smile widened and his eyes darkened as a pink dusted over Mary’s cheeks. Her dark eyes made it hard to discern her emotions, but if he were to guess, Fyodor would bet her pupils had doubled in size at his indiscretion.

“I can feel your gaze on me, Doctor Shelley. Every time I walk in a room, your eyes peruse my figure like I’m an appetising treat,” Fyodor spoke, feet planted on the floor as he projected his body forwards, elbows on spread knees and the fingers of his hands intertwined. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think you are interested in me in a way that’s not entirely professional or proper.”

Mary reached for her lowball glass and quickly brought it to her lips, downing the rest of her gin in a way that also wasn’t professional or proper. Fyodor watched her throat move, amused and admitedly a bit impressed at the pace at which she was draining her gin, wondering if maybe he should have proposed a drinking game instead. Who would fare better, her with her gin infusions or him with his chilled vodka?

“... and if I lose?”

Fyodor blinked, lazily trailing his eyes up her chin, passing by her pouting lips, blushing cheeks and up to dark eyes that stared at him so attentively. Lips curled at the corners, he raised a single eyebrow, urging Mary to continue.

“If I lose the game, what would you demand as compensation?” She clarified, and Fyodor exhaled at how she pressed her thighs together beneath her knee-length, black skirt.

“I’m not sure,” Fyodor said. “Why don’t you let me decide later? If I win the game, that is.”

Mary’s eyes turned away from his, moving down to gaze at the empty glass in her hands as some luster in her eyes darkened into distrust. “I think I’ll pass on your offer, Mr Dostoevsky. A kiss for an IOU? Your proposition doesn’t sound fair to me.”

Fyodor retreated, letting his spine fall comfortably against the back of the sofa as an airy laugh left his lips. The woman wasn’t as foolish as he had expected, at least; despite admitting in all but words she was enamoured with him, her shackles remained raised, certain she couldn’t trust him as far as she could throw him.

Must be a woman’s intuition, Fyodor thought, remembering the looks he so often received from the fairer sex throughout his late adolescence and adult life. So many inviting smiles were thrown his way, only to morph into barely veiled jitters when he got close enough to touch. For all his years of manipulating the brightest of the brightest to have his way, Fyodor still hadn’t figured out how to lull women into unravelling themselves for him without promises of money - or some other stimulant - as reward.

“If I win I vow not to abuse my freedom, and will only ask for something of equivalent value to what I offer,” Fyodor proposed, lips relaxing in a smile he hoped Mary deemed trustworthy. “And if you feel I ask too much, you can deny me and I’ll give up my reward altogether. Does that sound fair, Doctor Shelley?”

Mary looked at him through lowered lashes and he could almost hear the gears turning in her head, lust and reason rotating in opposing directions in a struggle to decide.

“Fair enough,” Mary spoke at last, and placed her glass back on the coffee table. Her hand then moved to the chessboard and spun it around so the white pieces were close to her. “But I play white.”

Fyodor almost protested, but the smile Mary threw his way demanded enough endearment that he’d allow her this little bit of despotism just this once.

He found he rather liked it.

---

To Fyodor’s surprise and satisfaction, Mary proved herself to be a worthy opponent. For the first time in years, Fyodor stood over a chessboard with furrowed eyebrows as he macerated the pad of his thumb between his teeth to the point he could taste iron on his tongue.

“Don’t do that. You’re hurting yourself.”

Fyodor had just moved his knight when a hand seemed to appear out of nowhere and gently wrapped around his wrist to guide his thumb out of his mouth. Purple eyes narrowed, shooting up from the board to Mary, but his scowl melted into something almost benign at finding the woman hunched over the board, positively pouting. Her hand released his wrist, leaving an imprint of heat on his flesh despite not touching skin, and floated back to her, fingers twitching as they hovered over her pieces, debating their next move.

There was a brief knock on the doors before they opened and in walked Ivan, pulling Fyodor’s attention just in time to see the narrowing of his silver eyes as they fell on the back of Mary’s head. The glare disappeared as soon as it came, so when Mary turned around to greet the newcomer with a polite smile, he responded with an enormous grin and flamboyant mannerisms.

“I’ve come to check upon you, see if everything was alright,” Ivan announced as he stood behind Mary, silver eyes fixed on Fyodor with adoration. “It’s almost midnight.”

Mary’s eyes widened in surprise as she reached for the phone she had forgotten on the cushion by her side. “Oh my, there are twenty calls from Jane. I really should take this thing off silent mode.”

Fyodor’s jaw tightened as Mary’s focus shifted from their match to her phone. “Ivan,” he called with a firm voice that demanded to be the centre of attention again. “Please, let Doctor Shelley’s companions know she is safe and sound with me, and that we’re both occupied at the moment. Also, would you be so kind to have someone bring us something to eat? Something sugary would be best. I will have a drink as well. Vodka, chilled but no ice,” then he lowered his eyes back to the woman in front of him and smiled as he motioned to her empty glass. “Doctor Shelley, would you care for another?”

“Ah, I-”

“A gin for the lady, Ivan. Thank you.”

Ivan’s smile didn’t falter as he bowed his head. “Of course, I’ll have someone bring your drinks. As for sweets, I believe there are a few strawberry shortcakes in the fridge. Would that be to your liking?”

This time, Fyodor remained silent as he stared at Mary, giving her the illusion she had a say in this whole matter, that she could choose her treat in the way she couldn’t choose to refuse a drink.

Mary’s eyes were glued to his and once again he noticed how her thighs rubbed together at his attention, leaving her phone forgotten by her side. Blushing, she craned her neck to glance at Ivan and nodded. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

“Very well. Someone will bring everything here briefly,” Ivan said, moving his eyes back to Fyodor. “If you need me-”

“We will be fine,” Fyodor dismissed, purple eyes fixed on Mary as he gave her a smile that showed too many teeth. “I believe it’s your turn, Doctor Shelley?”

Mary nodded, turning her gaze to the chessboard. Her hand hovered while her brain readjusted to their match, reviewing the last rounds as it calculated the best moves she could make. It took her only a couple of seconds to review their entire game and make her move.

“Good,” Fyodor said, right hand rising to his lips out of habit, only to stop midway as he felt an intense stare on him. When he looked up, Mary was giving him a look that quickly morphed into a smile when he aborted the movement. He snorted and smiled back. “Worried about my delicate fingers?”

“You’re the one who said you have an anemic constitution,” Mary replied, eyes dropping back to the board. “You shouldn’t hurt yourself; it might take longer than usual to heal.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Fyodor said, letting his eyes move up and narrow slightly at finding Ivan remained still behind Mary, staring at him with a doll-like smile on his face and wide eyes. “Ivan, our drinks?”

“Oh, of course! My apologies,” the man said before bowing theatrically. “I’ll leave you to your match. Good night!”

Fyodor nodded as Mary turned back to Ivan, throwing a polite “Good night, Mr Goncharov”, before once more focusing her attention on their game, waiting for Fyodor to take his turn. He grinned, purple eyes fixed on her as he made his move, enjoying the way Mary’s lips pouted as she concentrated.

He really was having fun playing with her.

---

The game came to its inevitable conclusion hours later, just as the sun was peeking over the horizon and the birds chirped outside the window. After a couple slices of strawberry shortcake and a few refills of vodka and gin, Fyodor let his body fall back on the sofa, smiling from ear to ear as he stared at the pouting woman in front of him.

“Check-mate, Doctor,” Fyodor purred, purple eyes darkening in satisfaction.

Mary stared at the board for a couple more seconds, as if a solution to her defeat would present itself to her. But when none did, she sighed in acceptance as her forefinger gently laid down her king.

“Don’t beat yourself, Doctor. It was a splendid game; the best I had in years,” Fyodor commented.

“Thank you, Mr Dostoevsky. But your words don’t make defeat taste any less bitter.”

“I guess not,” Fyodor said. “Especially since I have to claim the spoils of my victory from you.”

Fyodor didn’t miss the glance Mary threw his way, clearly torn between enticed curiosity and rational diligence, clearly still wary that he hadn’t made his wants known before their game despite his guarantees. Those intelligent eyes clouded with lust made him lick his lips, and her breath hitched in response.

“I want… a kiss.”

Mary’s eyebrows shoot up. “What?”

“I promised to ask for something reasonable, didn’t I?” Fyodor mused. “What’s more fair than to ask for the very thing I offered?”

“But then… why did we play?” Mary asked, head dropped to the side.

“Well, I don’t feel like moving at the moment,” Fyodor said, letting his knees fall open as his eyes ran over the woman in front of him. “So, since you’re the one owing me a kiss, you come here and give it to me.”

Fyodor had never seen someone’s skin change colour so rapidly before, and he couldn’t help but chuckle at the bright red that bloomed all over the pale skin on Mary’s cheeks and neck. Without thinking, he brought his left thumb to his mouth, nibbling gently on the soft flesh as he regarded the woman with his own sort of unprofessional and improper interest.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” she said, eyeing the contour of his lips around his digit.

“Come and stop me,” he replied.

Mary swallowed his words with the same relish she swallowed her gin as she stood from the sofa, taking a moment to straighten the fabric of her pleated skirt, before walking towards him with soft, elegant steps. She came around the coffee table, sparing a glance at her toppled king before her eyes fell on his widespread knees and ran up his body until they reached his face. And while Fyodor was used to such appreciative looks, he didn’t expect the soft smile she gave him when their gazes crossed; it was usually at this moment that women stepped back from him, frightened by the intensity in his eyes.

Mary sat down by his left, so warm against the side of his body, and reached up with both hands to pull his thumb away from the abuse of his teeth. She brought his hand down to her chest to examine the damage, pouting when she saw the pad of his thumb was red and swollen, with a small laceration that had just barely crusted over and still threatened to bleed.

Fyodor watched her through half-lidded eyes, exhaling deeply when she glanced up at him. From such close-quarters he could make out the limits between the black of her pupils and the brown of her irises; just like he imagined, her pupils were dilated to extremes, wary of and eager for him. The red on her cheeks subsided, leaving a light pink colour in its place that enticed him to run his lips over the skin.

With a small quirk of her lips, Mary glanced back at his hand and shook her head at the damage on his thumb, before bringing it to her mouth to kiss the wound. The touch was soft as a rose’s petal but still knocked the breath out of Fyodor’s lungs. His warm breath gusted over the top of her head, then hitched as a soft, warm hand laid on his cheek.

“That was not what I had in mind when I asked for a kiss,” Fyodor spoke, smiling down at the woman.

A chuckle escaped Mary and once again she gave him that soft look he was unfamiliar with. Before he could taunt her further, Mary tilted her head and guided his face down, letting her lips ghost over a corner of his mouth before moving to the other, soft and sweet. Hypnotised, Fyodor’s eyelids fluttered shut as he relaxed into these teasing touches that, despite being feather-light in their delicacy, made heat rush in his veins like molten metal, erupting out of his heart to his cock and leaving a trail of feverish desire in his veins that demanded more. More contact, more kisses, more pressure.

Fyodor pushed forwards, folding his body over Mary as his hand reached out to grab the back of her neck, only to freeze mid-air as her cold air took the place of her warm flesh. Somewhere he heard an unholy sound, and only after he opened his dark purple yes to find startled brown staring back at him he noticed he was the source of it. He was growling.

In a fraction of a second, Fyodor wondered about the stage he had set for them. Had he misjudged her interest? Hadn’t he offered her enough drinks? How much did she need his help? How much did he need her and her companions? How far could he push? Was everyone in the house still asleep? If she screamed, would anyone come to help?

Brown eyes narrowed slightly and Fyodor swore he saw a glimpse of himself in them; of something aware, astute, and artful. It was there for a moment so short he wasn’t sure he had projected the connection, so before he could let his brain process it, he was once more being subjugated to that look. That nauseatingly soft look no one had ever given him before, and that he did not know what to do with.

Without words, Mary bent the rules of their game and took his turn from him, cancelled aggression with tenderness as she pushed him back against the sofa gently before swinging her leg over his lap to settle herself on his thighs, pulling a pleased hum from deep inside his chest.

“May I?” Mary asked, hand playing with the flap of his ushanka hat.

Smiling, Fyodor nodded, and Mary pulled the hat off his head. The motion left his hair messy, drawing a giggle from her lips as she combed the knots away so gently he couldn’t help but shut his eyes and relax against the caresses.

“Your hair is so soft,” Mary murmured, letting Fyodor smell the gin and strawberries on her breath. He felt her fingers dance on his face, collecting his long fringe to push it back and away from his features. “And you’re so beautiful.”

Fyodor’s eyes opened slightly, just enough so he could stare at the rosy lips hovering so close to his. His hands twitched by his sides, unsure where to go or how to touch. He was used to grabbing, pulling, bruising and scratching; not to soft lips or delicate touches dancing over his skin like her hands ghosted over the chess-pieces only minutes before.

Mary’s lips let out a delicious, trembling breath before moving towards him, avoiding his own mouth altogether to give a kiss on his cheek before moving to whisper into his ear: “You feel so tense. Relax.”

Easier said than done, Fyodor thought, turning his head to bury his nose in Mary’s long, black hair and breath in the scent of her shampoo - something citrusy and common that made him light-headed in a way he only felt when his anaemia got the best of him, causing him to black out and wake up stretched on a hospital bed, with an IV bag of O- blood connected to his arm.

Still, he couldn’t possibly lose consciousness now, not with Mary’s warm body grounding him so sweetly, not with her breasts pressed against his chest and the heat between her legs trapping him against the sofa’s cushions in the best possible way. Gently, like everything she did, Mary finally laid her mouth over his, allowing a whimper to escape the back of her throat when he pressed against her, not as much as he would have liked, but enough to hold back the most violent aspects of his desires, for now.

At the contact, Fyodor’s passive hands took action, sneaking up Mary’s thighs and hips, before slipping under her blouse to rack his short nails over her naked back as he used his hold over her to press her heat harder against his cock. He half-expected her to pull back again, startled at his boldness, but Mary surprised him by letting out a delighted gasp as she tightened her grip on his hair and arched her back, pushing her breasts even more against his chest.

Fyodor took the opportunity and shoved his tongue inside her mouth, groaning as the taste of her invaded his senses. One of his hands danced over Mary’s skin, causing her to shudder as it tickled by her ribs before moving up to her-

“Oh, Dos! Are you in there? Why is the door locked?”

Nikolai’s happy-go-lucky voice breached the door’s barrier, causing Mary to pull back from their kiss, panting. Fyodor’s nails tensed over her skin before his hands relaxed again, dropping to her waist as he sighed and dropped his forehead against her collarbone.

“I guess your debt is paid, Doctor,” Fyodor spoke against her skin. “There’s work to be done.”

“Of course. I have my mission in a couple of hours as well,” Mary agreed as she pulled away to stand up on shaky legs. “It would be best if I got a couple some sleep before it.”

Fyodor glanced down at himself, at the wet spot on the crotch of his pants, and looked up at her through half-lidded eyes with a devil’s smirk. “Think you need a shower too?”

Mary blushed as she straightened her clothes in a modicum of decency. “I guess.”

Fyodor chuckled, but before he could tease her further, Nikolai’s loud voice invaded the room once more, making his eyes roll upwards in exasperation.

“Quiz time! How long until I force the door open? Two minutes? Two seconds?”

“I will leave you two alone,” Mary said. “Excuse me, Mr Dostoevsky.”

Fyodor nodded dismissively, but the look in his eyes was anything but uninterested. “I will see you later… Mary.”

The woman’s breath hitched at having her first name spoken with such heavy desire before she quickly made her escape, almost slamming against Nikolai when she unlocked the door.

“Good morning, Mr Gogol,” she said with a polite smile.

“Good morning, Mary!” He replied enthusiastically, pulling one of her hands to his lips. “What a treat to see your charming figure so early in the day! Don’t tell me Dos has summoned you at such ungodly hours to talk business?”

“Oh no, we were just having a match,” Mary said, pointing to the chessboard on the coffee table. “He wiped the floor with me.”

Nikolai took a few moments to examine the board and what he saw made him raise an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Really? Looks like a tight match to me,” he said, before turning to Mary. “Next time you should invite me so I can cheer you on! Gods, what I wouldn’t give to watch Dos lose a game…”

Mary chuckled and opened her mouth, but Fyodor beat her to the punch. “You wanted to talk, Nikolai?” He called, smiling tightly at the other Russian. “Come in and close the door behind you.”

“Hmm, grumpy,” Nikolai whispered, sharing a conspiratory smile with Mary as he once again kissed the back of her hand. “Lovely to see you, my dear.”

“You too, Mr Gogol. Have a good one,” Mary said before walking away, throwing one last smile in Fyodor’s direction.

Nikolai waved at Mary’s back as she walked away, closing the door once she turned a corner.

“You know,” Nikolai began in Russian, spinning on his heels to face Fyodor. Both men smiled, but the emotions they showed were something dark, almost cruel. “I believe this is the first time I see a woman in a room alone with you leave without tears in her eyes.”

Feet planted on the floor and knees spread, unashamed of his hard-on or the wet spot on the fabric of his pants, Fyodor hummed a little song as he reached for his hat and adjusted it back on his head. Satisfied, he reached forward and grabbed Mary’s fallen king from the board.

“Honestly, my friend,” he said, bringing the piece to his smiling lips. “I do not know what you’re talking about.”

#bsd fyodor #fyodor x reader #fyodor x you #fyodor x oc #fyodor dostoevsky #ivan goncharov #bsd #bungo stray dogs #nikolai gogol #does this piece of self-indugent writing classify as an one-shot?#even when it's so clearly part of something way bigger that will never be?#anyway i wrote what i wrote #you can't tell me fyodor doesn't give out some creepy vibes #that anime smile is a panty-dropper but also creepy af

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comrade-meow · 3 years ago

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'Puberty Blockers' and the Medical Abuse of Women

On Friday, September 17, the UK Court of Appeal overturned a judgement ruling that children under the age of 16 are unable to consent to taking drugs euphemistically referred to as ‘puberty blockers’, which halt a child’s natural growth process. The decision was made in favor of the Tavistock and Portman NHS foundation trust, which runs England’s only gender identity development service (GIDS) for children, and was brought forward last year by Keira Bell, who was prescribed puberty blocking drugs at the age of 16 and has since detransitioned.

Bell describes in detail how she suffered from depression as a teenager, and how she “had never had a positive association with the term ‘lesbian’ or the idea that two girls could be in a relationship,” leading to her confusion about her body that led her towards transitioning. At 15, she was referred to the Gender Identity Development Service, at the Tavistock, and after a few conversations was placed on ‘puberty blockers’ when she was 16.

These drugs called ‘puberty blockers’ are technically better described as endocrine disruptors, and there is little evidence to support activists’ claims that they are not only safe and reversible but also ‘life-saving’, as they are frequently described by media outlets and lobbying organisations; however, there is ample evidence to the contrary.

The Tavistock released information from a report at the beginning of 2021 which concluded that “puberty blockers do not alleviate negative thoughts in children with dysphoria”. Children aged 12 - 15 who were administered the drugs as a treatment for severe and persistent gender dysphoria experienced no significant improvement in their psychological function, thoughts of self-harm, or body image. However, the children did experience decreased bone strength by the age of 16, and data showed that some of the children taking the drugs reported an increase in thoughts of suicide and self-harm.

In addition, a Swedish study showed that after transition, patients had a 19x higher rate of suicide than matched controls: “The overall mortality for sex-reassigned persons was higher during follow-up than for controls of the same birth sex, particularly death from suicide. Sex-reassigned persons also had an increased risk for suicide attempts and psychiatric inpatient care.”

Endocrinologist Dr. Will Malone, who is one of several doctors raising the alarm on this issue, said, “It is misleading to state as fact that ‘puberty blockers are reversible’. No one knows if the physical and psychological impacts of halting normal puberty are reversible.”

Research conducted by Dr. Malone and Dr. Michael Laidlaw found that after two years of pubertal suppression, up to a third of children aged 12 - 15 years old were found to have abnormally low bone density. Moreover, further research conducted by Dr. Michael Biggs found that after two years of ‘puberty blocking’ medications, bone density in a significant number of children “declined to a level that should trigger clinical concern”. In the study, Biggs cites an example of a patient at the Tavistock clinic who began taking endocrine disruptors at the age of 12 and experienced four broken bones by the age of 16.

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‘Puberty Blockers’ and Women’s Health

One of the drugs most commonly prescribed as a ‘puberty blocker’ is Lupron, manufactured by AbbVie (formerly Takeda-Abbott Pharmaceuticals, or TAP). Lupron was developed for the treatment of prostate cancer in men and the US FDA approved it for this use in 1985. In 1990, the FDA approved Lupron for the treatment of endometriosis in women.

However, the drug is “so toxic it is not recommended for more than 12 months in a lifetime,” according to a 2019 investigation by KTNV News, which reported on complaints made by women who had been prescribed Lupron for endometriosis. “The FDA currently has over 25,000 adverse event reports for Lupron products including more than 1500 deaths. Reactions include suicidal thoughts, stroke, muscle atrophy and debilitating bone and joint pain,” the investigation found, and women reported that they were not properly warned of its risks and side effects.

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The investigation was a follow-up to a previous news report by KTNV conducted nearly a decade earlier, in 2010, after which Lupron’s warning label was updated to include risks of thromboembolism, convulsions, and loss of bone density. In 2009, Lupron’s manufacturers were reprimanded by the FDA, saying that the company’s promotional materials for an HIV drug “minimize the serious risks… while overstating its efficacy and including unsubstantiated claims.”

In 2001, Lupron manufacturer TAP settled for a then-record £639 million for fraud. The lawsuit found that high-level employees, including TAP’s president, were bribing doctors to prescribe Lupron by providing kickbacks, including vacation trips, medical equipment and money offered in the form of educational grants.

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A similar local news report from WXYZ-TV Detroit documented the testimonies of women who consider themselves Lupron victims, including Georgia woman Terry Paulsen, who filed a federal lawsuit claiming the pharmaceutical company failed to warn her and other women about its crippling side effects. “Her immune system began to attack her own bones. She got osteopenia and osteoporosis and now she’s got terrible osteoporosis,” said Dr. Alan Levin, an immunologist and Paulsen’s attorney. Of the 24,000 reports of adverse reactions filed with the FDA, according to The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, 60 percent of those were filed by women, and more than half of them were deemed to be serious cases.

“Lupron lawyers convinced a federal judge to seal the results from several clinical trials, but not before an expert witness disclosed evidence that even after a year off the drug, 62 percent of women did not regain normal estrogen levels. AbbVie refused to comment on the studies or on Terry Paulsen.”

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Women who were given Lupron for ‘precocious puberty’ have also spoken out, detailing horrific and ongoing side effects. “It feels like I have 80-year-old bones,” said 22-year-old Brooklyn Harbin, one of the women who has filed an adverse reaction report. Harbin was prescribed Lupron at 10 years old, to pause the onset of her menstrual cycle. “The back pain became very, very severe. It got very, very depressing having to be in a wheelchair in the fifth grade,” Harbin told The Atlanta Journal-Constitution.

In 2017, PBS interviewed women who had been treated with Lupron for precocious puberty, and found, “A 20-year-old from South Carolina was diagnosed with osteopenia, a thinning of the bones, while a 25 year-old from Pennsylvania has osteoporosis and a cracked spine. A 26 year-old in Massachusetts needed a total hip replacement. A 25-year-old in Wisconsin… has chronic pain and degenerative disc disease.”

One woman who agreed to go on the record, Sharissa Derricott, said that at the age of 21, a surgeon had to replace her deteriorated jaw joint. In addition to being diagnosed with degenerative disc disease and fibromyalgia, a chronic pain condition, her teeth were breaking apart in her mouth.

“It just feels like I’m being punished for basically being experimented on when I was a child,” Derricott told PBS. “I’d hate for a child to be put on Lupron, get to my age and go through the things I have been through.”

So often in the debate over drugs referred to as ‘puberty blockers’, advocates and critics alike neglect to mention that before these drugs were marketed to gender non-conforming children, it was women who suffered, and continue to suffer, from their intense side effects. These women are the canaries in the coal mine, whose voices are continuously sidelined and ignored, despite the impact on their health so closely mirroring the reports implicating loss of bone density in children who are given endrocrine disruptors as a purported ‘treatment’ for body dysmorphia.

There is no reason to turn a healthy child or adolescent into a perpetual patient, dependent for a lifetime on surgeries and wrong-sex hormones. We ignore the harms inflicted on women’s health by leading ‘puberty-blocker’ Lupron at our own peril. These women, Keira Bell, and all detransitioners deserve better. Children ought to be protected from those who seek to exploit their distress for profit while damaging their health in the process.

#Anglo.txt

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hawkinsschoolcounselor · 6 years ago

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Will Byers: The Great Debate

I know I still have some requested analyses to do, but I’m in a rotten mood, and I need to vent.

This whole debate on Will and whether he is gay has me infuriated. Yeah, I know I’m heavily biased due to my identification with the character, but I’m still pissed. The assumption that Will isn’t gay until they explicit state it is solely based on heteronormativity. In pop culture, people are simply assumed straight until proven otherwise. It’s the reason why they were able to hoodwink everyone with Robin in the first place. With just a mention of her saying she was obsessed with Steve in high school, everyone assumed the two of them would be a thing by the end of the season. That was a totally acceptable assumption to make. Thinking Will is gay? No, they need to tell us that.

There are reasons to think Will is gay, and certainly more than the casual fan probably realizes. I will go over them here, not that I need to lecture anyone who actually reads this on the topic.

1) Will is stated as having sexual identity issues in the original character summary.

Let’s just get this one out of the way. Yeah, it’s not known to the average viewer, but it’s still valid. Sure, they could have since deviated from the original plan, and by itself it may mean nothing, but it’s supporting evidence.

2) Will is bullied for being gay.

This is another one that doesn’t mean anything by itself. Will is bullied for being gay by both his father and the local bully. They could have used any number of similar characteristics, but they went with gay. Will is small, sweet, and honest, so there’s possibilities like mama’s boy, sissy, etc that could have gotten a similar point across without bringing in sexuality. It’s not just a passing mention. It comes up when Joyce talks to Hopper, and he even asks if it’s true. Troy is an absolute monster as he twists the knife in Mike’s wound. Troy bullies the other three for cruel, but accurate, reasons. He mocks Lucas’ race, Dustin’s lack of teeth, and Mike’s face (Mike kinda got off easy if you ask me). Now Troy may or may not be correct, but he probably thinks he is. He digs into each character’s deepest insecurities. He exists to tell us this information. If Will’s sexuality is unimportant, then why have Troy bully him the same way Will’s own father did? Troy simply could have made fun of him for being poor.

3) Will is especially close to Mike

This is made clear in every season. Yeah, they’re best friends, but Will and Mike are depicted as special. From the very start, Will can’t bring himself to lie to Mike. Yeah, I know, you can excuse the whole “It was a 7.” thing as just him foreshadowing his ordeal, but why set it up with Lucas telling him it’s ok as long as Mike doesn’t know? Mike is similarly shown as close to Will, with him being the most concerned. Dustin and Lucas are clearly worried too, and upset when the body is found, but Mike is shown taking it the hardest. They’re telling us the two of them share something special. Season 2 doubles down on this hard. Mike is the only one Will trusts with what’s happening to him. Mike is the only one he is shown remembering other than is mother. Mike is ultimately the one who breaks through to him.

4) Will is extremely jealous when Mike and El get together.

I don’t know why this one is hard for people to see. Maybe they’re just not looking for it. Yeah, some of it is just some good, subtle acting. Will is upset every single time Mike is shown showing affection for El. It technically starts in the Season 2 script with Will’s eyes being on Mike as they were all dancing. I know I’ve seen a clip of Will glancing over and looking upset, but I don’t remember that from the actual release. Was that a deleted scene? If so, its removal is conspicuous, especially with that released script. The jealousy is still apparent throughout Season 3. The sad looks on Will’s face whenever Mike and El are together, when Mike says he loves her. The anger he shows towards Mike, and only Mike, despite Dustin and Lucas similarly being focused on girls. I know I’ve seen people say he smiles when El dumps Mike. I honestly can’t tell, but he does look away, suggesting he doesn’t want his reaction to be noticed.

5) Mike is able to evoke emotion in Will

For the most part, Will is a quiet kid. He’s soft-spoken and has an innocence about him. He has a little frustration in Season 2, due to people treating him differently (though he leaves Mike out of his accusations), but he’s generally a go with the flow guy. Mike has the power to calm Will, to cheer him up, and make him cry both good and bad tears. Even in Season 3, his D&D annoyance is a slow build. It’s ultimately Mike’s rejection that sets him off. It’s specifically the fact that he feels he’s losing Mike. They were building that frustration alongside the D&D the entire season to that point. Is it really that much of a stretch for D&D to be a metaphor here? He jabs Mike over El when Mike tries to apologize, accusing him of throwing everything away over a “stupid girl.” Now, this “stupid girl” is supposed to be a friend of his, one who has helped save him twice. Will looks around Castle Byers at a D&D book and a drawing of Will the Wise. Both are accompanied by flashbacks beginning with Mike’s voice. He tears up the photo from Halloween, the night of the Crazy Together moment, right down the middle where Mike and Will are depicted. Will ends up destroying Castle Byers, berating himself the entire time, before collapsing in anguish. Yeah, it can be open to interpretation, but it’s not hard to see that Will could be calling himself stupid for thinking he and Mike shared something special now that El is in the picture. I’d like the people who think Will just isn’t ready to grow up to explain to me why that scene felt more like a breakup than a friend fight.

6) Will seems relatively trauma-free

Now, this is actually an issue I have with the show, as Will, along with pretty much the entire cast, should be amazingly traumatized. I bring it up only to counter the idea that Will has lost a portion of his childhood to the Upside Down, and so he’s not ready to grow up. Will has lost about two weeks of his childhood. He showed some issues in Season 2 before getting possessed, but he’s also shown enjoying his childhood as well. Just because we rejoin his life when bad stuff returns to Hawkins it doesn’t mean he had no life in the interim. He didn’t spend every day since getting rescued from the Upside Down in a hospital or deprived of his friends. There’s honestly no reason why Eleven would be more ready for adolescence than Will. If anything, Will should be associating his trauma with D&D and avoiding it like the plague. It should be causing him post-traumatic stress. He should want to get as far away from reminders of what happened as possible. A game with mindflayers and demogorgons isn’t something he should want. He has a reason for wanting D&D, and it’s not that he’s still a kid inside, because he still had other interests before Season 3, like comics, drawing, and the arcade.

7) Will not liking girls doesn’t just mean he doesn’t like them yet

This is the other counter argument I’ve noticed: that Will just hasn’t matured to liking girls yet. While it’s not unbelievable for a boy his age to not start sexually maturing, there’s really no indication of this. He isn’t just uncomfortable dancing with the girl in Season 2, he flat out doesn’t want to do it. He also has no problem with Max joining them for Halloween, stating that Dustin and Lucas were excited about it so he ok’d it. He understands boys liking girls. He shows no real hostility towards Dustin or Lucas for it. When he tells Joyce he’s never going to fall in love, it doesn’t sound like a kid who finds the idea of dating gross. He sounds sad as he says it. When Mike says it’s not his fault Will doesn’t like girls, Will is stunned into silence. Now Mike doesn’t know if Will is gay, and Will may not really know either, but it cuts deep.

In conclusion

By no means is my interpretation definitely correct. I could be absolutely wrong. But why is my interpretation seen as ridiculous? My theory isn’t perfect, but I have evidence. I have rebuttals to alternate interpretations. If we’re not meant to think Will is gay, why does it seem like they keep giving us reasons to? If it’s not important, people from the show could easily just say so. Noah and Finn end up having to awkwardly respond to questions they may not even have the answers to.

It’d be very strange if the Duffers and their team somehow painted themselves into a corner by accident. It’s possible, sure, but I don’t see how it could keep happening. Finn had said they had other takes of “It’s not my fault you don’t like girls!” including one that added “yet”, but stated that they ultimately went with the one in question. Well, I mean, they chose to go with that one. I don’t know why, but neither do the people saying Will is just immature. We speculate, and if I speculate that they went with that one because that’s the storyline they’re going for and are trying to keep it under wraps, then I should be allowed to do so without being scoffed at. I may be biased because of my bisexuality, but they’re also biased because of their heteronormativity.

#stranger things #will byers #mike wheeler #byeler #stranger things 3 #spoilers

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captainchrisfics · 6 years ago

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A Weekend Away

About: Chris comes home to the (first person pov) reader who had a really rough day and suggests a long weekend away might do them some good, as requested by @endgameendsme

Word Count: 2,074

I closed the door behind me, a little harder than I intended to based on the way Dodger shuddered at the sound. Full disclosure, I completely and utterly slammed it shut. I haven’t taken my aggression out on a door like that since I was fifteen and furious with my parents. However, if you’ve had the kind of day I did then you would understand that it was surprisingly, frustratingly easy to be reduced to feeling as small and powerless as an adolescent who couldn’t even drive yet.

“Sorry, bubba,” I said, patting Chris’s dog on his head in an attempt to translate my apology into dog. I handed him one of the small treats we keep in a jar on the hall table, where I noticed Chris’s keys were still missing from. It seems silly that something as anticipatingly normal as this could push me over the edge. It wasn’t how my boss all but yelled at me when I was two minutes late to this huge meeting since I was getting his coffee, or the way everything I tried to say just didn’t come out the way I meant it to, or when Barbra got credit for putting better words to all of my ideas after I failed to convey them, or the fact that I didn’t realize my new shirt was sheer enough to show my bra, or the millions of other transgressions the universe seemed to be throwing my way.

And after all of that, for the entire traffic-filled drive back home, I hoped to come home to Chris. I had this idea in my head of him sitting idly in the kitchen, blue eyes flicking through the newspaper he always forgot to take with him after breakfast while sipping on a cup of coffee so black it made me worry about him developing ulcers. Chris always insisted he was fine and I wouldn’t know a harmful cup of coffee until RDJ tried to make me one. He’d ask me how my day was and when I wouldn’t answer for a beat he’d look up at me and it wouldn’t take more than a glance for him to know it was a particularly rough one. We would meet at the couch and tangle ourselves up with each other, Chris would pull a blanket to our chins even though he’d get too warm with our combined body heat alone. He’d let me talk through it, even cry it out if I had to, and then he’d say the right thing to make me feel better although just being in his arms

I was setting myself up for failure. I knew Chris would still be out shooting his movie by the time I got home, I should’ve been thanking my lucky stars the set was local so he’d be home by dinner instead of having to see him across the country on a Skype call. Still, that didn’t make it any easier. The house was too quiet, every small creek was too loud, the feeling of emptiness was too difficult to bear. I found myself on the couch, feeling devoured by a home that was too big for me and more alone than ever.

Dodger, like the great dog he is, must’ve known I was so miserable. He jumped on the couch, laying with his head on my lap as he looked up at me with those big, brown eyes that seemed to know more than me. I scratched Dodger’s favorite spot right behind his ear, but it didn’t bring much comfort. I was already spiraling- what Chris called it when I became so overwhelmed with thoughts and feelings, which just kept getting bigger until I was suffocated. It felt more like drowning, really.

I flicked on the television and kept the cooking show it was already tuned to playing, though I didn’t pay much attention to it. My mind was a little too busy focusing on the things I should’ve done differently and everything I didn’t do and the rest in between. Before I knew it, the sound of keys jingling in the door pulled me out of some HGTV trance. Apparently, Dodger noticed too since the dog, who must’ve left my lap a long time ago, came bounding down the hall. He jumped as soon as the door swung open, tackling Chris who was already bent down in anticipation of Dodger catapulting himself at my boyfriend, as was their typical routine.

“What’re you doing in the dark?” Chris inquired as he rose from the ground, where Dodger still lay on his back expecting more belly rubs. I didn’t realize how dim the room became as the time passed and the sun set until Chris flicked the light on, my eyes squinting to compensate while taking him in. The sudden relief of being with Chris rather than alone with my thoughts was like when you step out the door on the first real day of spring, everything is suddenly warm and light and you can almost forget how cold and dreary it’d been even just the day before. He turned to the, tossing his keys on top of mine before opening the drawer we kept the takeout menus in, amongst all the other shit Chris managed to shove in there. “I was thinking Chinese tonight,” he said, scanning the front page of each pamphlet he pulled out. “How’s that sound?” Chris asked, turning to me. His blissful ignorance faded when he saw the look on my face.

My lips stretched into a smile and my cheeks felt too inelastic to compensate after being stiff for so long, but it was a welcome change even though I didn’t need a mirror to tell it didn’t quite meet my eyes. Chris stepped toward me, a look of concern etching itself onto his face with furrowed brows that caused a crease between them and a mouth that hung open ever so slightly as he moved toward the couch. He took a seat next to me, wrapping a strong arm around my shoulders and pulling me into his chest. “What’s wrong?” Chris asked, his voice gruff and comforting with its familiarity alone.

I shrugged half-heartedly. I didn’t really want to get into it, but Chris, being the frustratingly caring person he is, wouldn’t allow it. He lifted the blanket I’d been sitting under so he could pull me onto his lap a little more and started rubbing soothing circles on my shoulder, enticing me to open up. “Babe, you know you can tell me anything,” Chris encouraged. I don’t know if it was the sincerity in his voice or maybe how secure I always felt with him, but I knew I couldn’t keep anything from Chris. My eyes fluttered up to meet his as I bit my lip. Looking at me with so much love in those baby blues, Chris was lucky I didn’t melt into a puddle before he got anything out of me.

I took a deep, shaky breath before launching into the story of how utterly and entirely shitty the work day had been. Chris simply listened to me as I got it all out, he didn’t even flinch when I crossed the line from ranting about how I hated the day to realizing how much I hated my job and everyone in that godforsaken office or interrupt with an objection when I got to the part about how his absence was the icing on the cake. When I was done, my chest was heaving and the tears kept flowing. I buried my face in Chris’s chest once I was done, trying to forget the rest of the world in favor of the comfort he offered. Never one to mind a few tear stains on his t-shirt, Chris wrapped his arms around me as he peppered kisses on top of my head in between quiet coos of reassurance.

When I finally cried myself dry, Chris took a deep breath before speaking. “I think you should get to pick dinner,” Chris joked, a small smile teasing his lips. I laughed, shoving his shoulder so lightly he barely even budged. “Chinese sounds good,” I shot back with a roll of my eyes. Although I played annoyed, one of my favorite things about Chris was his ability to adapt to whatever I threw his way without treating me any differently. He called up the place he kept on speed dial, while I begged him not to forget to order lo mein instead of rice with my meal- the kind of thing that would just happen today.

After hanging up the phone, Chris adjusted himself so we faced each other. He reached to hold my hands in his, grounding the two of us together with a certain intensity in his eye. “You’re pushing yourself too hard,” Chris told me with a tone that wouldn’t allow me to debate it. “I love your ambition, but you need a break before you burn out.” I shook my head slowly at first and then with more momentum as I thought of a million and one reasons exactly why that wasn’t the case, but Chris disagreed just as vehemently. “So you’re going to call in sick tomorrow-”

“Absolutely not,” I interrupted, eyes wide with shock. “Hey, I will too,” Chris insisted, holding my hands a little tighter. “We’ll take a long weekend. Get a nice hotel somewhere warm, maybe by the ocean. Have some expensive wine and a really nice bubble bath. Bring your favorite book for when you want to be alone… Maybe something cute and lacy for when you don’t wanna be. Doesn’t that sound nice?” Chris asked as he played with my fingers, laying out an offer he knew I couldn’t resist.

I shook my head again in an attempt to anyway. “I have a project due next week and who’s gonna take care of the dog? We can’t just pack up and leave, Chris. We have responsibilities,” I protested, although the thought of digging my toes in the sand while watching Chris hop waves was growing increasingly more tempting. “Next week isn’t tomorrow, my mom would love to watch Dodge for a couple days, and I don’t see why not,” he retaliated, confirming that resistance was futile. I bit my lip and turned to the window, knowing that if I kept staring into those puppy dog eyes that begged more than Dodger he’d have me on a plane in a heartbeat. The world seemed to be arguing in favor of Chris, telling me this wasn’t the place to be with all the rain pouring down outside which made feeling the sun on my skin that much more of a better offer compared to the crappy weather Boston insisted on this time of year.

“Okay,” I sighed, giving into him. “Okay?” Chris repeated as he all but jumped up and down, looking for confirmation from me as if he couldn’t believe his ears. I nodded, a grin to match his finding itself on my face. We spent the next few minutes sending emails, comparing hotel prices, and arguing about whether or not one place’s continental breakfast was worth giving up the other’s balcony with an ocean view.

When I finally confirmed the plane tickets for later this evening, Chris leapt across the couch, tackling me into the seat with a hug with more energy than the dog met him at the door with every day. He pulled away, supporting his weight to hover above me, close enough that our chests touched with each breath. Chris smiled softly this time before placing a quick kiss on my lips like the tease he is, the kind that fluttered away too quickly to be cherished like it should. Wasn’t even worth the itch his beard left behind, in my opinion.

“Can’t wait to do that on a beach somewhere,” he said softly. I was going to make an argument that our living room couch was as good a place as any, but a knock from the door interrupted me. As if on cue, my stomach growled so loudly it caused Chris to erupt with laughter while he climbed off of me, swiping his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. Chris returned with a smile to match the one on the plastic bag he was carrying as he teased, “I guess we can spare time to eat first.”

#Chris Evans #chris evans fanfic #imagine chris evans #chris evans oneshot #chris evans x reader #chris evans drabble #cevans #chris evans fanfiction

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ivnwrites · 6 years ago

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How Asuka Langley Soryu is a realistic portrayal of teenage female sexuality

Neon Genesis Evangelion is a legendary science fiction and mecha anime created by Hideaki Anno in 1995 (though there's some heated debate over the second designation given the reality of the evangelions). It's noted for its psychological and theological discussions and its questions about humanity, loneliness, and what it means to live with other people. The main characters have also achieved this sort of legendary status, becoming easily recognizable, but they also are notable just for how well they're written.

Asuka Langley Soryu is one of the main eva pilots and, I am going to be talking about how she is depicted in terms of her developing romantic and sexual awareness in the series and how it's still one of the most accurate depictions of female adolescent sexuality in any media.(I am doing this as a currently 21 year old woman who went through being a 14 year old girl)

Asuka fits almost perfectly into the mold of a traditional mecha anime protagonist; we're told that she got her college degree at 13, she's an ace pilot, she's assertive and much more determined than the actual main character, and has a dead parent. But Evangelion isn't a traditional mecha anime so none of this happens without consequence. Asuka's accomplishments and her need to be the "best" are shown to be the result of her desperation not to be ignored. This in turn stems from her mother's insanity during which she thought a doll was Asuka and couldn't recognize her own daughter. Needing her mother to see her is so important and fundamental to her character that knowing her mother is still literally there 'watching over her' inside the eva is enough to pull her out of complete catatonia in the series ending. This background allows Asuka to have more depth than a traditional character who is simply portrayed as sexy with no knowledge of it or acknowledgement from other characters in the series, making her simply eye candy for the audience but has no ownership of her own body.

The most famous (infamous?) scene that needs to included in this discussion happens when she is attacked by Arael in episode 22 and has her mental breakdown, we see a snippet a the scene I'll talk about later with Kaji. It repeats over and over the last moment when she yanks open her shirt to expose her bra and the top of her breasts and screams "Look at me, dammit, look at me!" As a result of her mental state, we don't know if this is what actually happened, but that doesn't matter because the scene tells us that this is part of how Asuka thinks of her body in her own mind. One analysis I've read talked about this scene as Asuka's frustration that "her body isn't developed or adult in the way she wishes it was." I agree with this, and also read the scene as her sort of trying to physically reinforce her assertion that she's an adult, and her saying 'I have an adult body, why don't you want me?'

This frustration and anger stems from the conflicting messages that girls receive. They're told at various young ages that they're women just because of their bodies development. Growing breasts mean that they are "getting a woman's body," they "become women" when they start menstruating. However, these physical experiences are universal, and pay no heed to a girl's individual mental development. Physical changes can only exacerbate this, because girls see their bodies matching those of women, and so does society at large. Girls the world over start to be treated as adults the instant they start developing breasts when it comes to seeing them as sexual objects, but at the same time, they are still belittled and told that they aren't smart enough to know their own bodies. Girls are also told that they supposedly mature faster than boys, and all of this together creates a strange conflict where girls are at the same time told that they are supposed to be adults and yet only treated as adults when it is convenient for those around them, or when they do something wrong, otherwise they are seen as foolish children. "Save the world, but don't expect your emotional turmoil to be taken seriously."

This can be seen clearly in her relationship with Kaji. Throughout the series, Asuka is shown to be infatuated with him, even though he’s in his 30s and already in an on-again-off-again relationship with Misato. He's shown openly flirting with other adult characters in the series, and multiple characters even get in cracks about it, but from his first appearance onward, he brushes off every one of her advances. We see what is perhaps the most significant their interactions during the Arael scene. The audience is shown a flashback to the two of them having a nighttime conversation on the deck of a ship while they're traveling to Japan from Germany during which she tries somewhat clumsily to seduce(?) him and convince him that she's not interested in anyone else. His ultimate response is to tell her that she's still a child and doesn't have to rush into everything because she still has time.

In reality, it isn't rare for teenagers to develop crushes on adults in addition to their peers. In real girls, the same way as in the series, they can see it as a sign that they are more mature than their peers or even more ready for an 'adult' relationship than those around them. Asuka has what is probably the best outcome; the subject of her affection turns her down but is otherwise kind, as are the other adults around her. In the end it's her own deeper unacknowledged problems that cause the situation to spiral. The problem is that unlike in the series, there often seems to be no way for girls to win psychologically. In real life, if a girl's feelings are returned this leads to obvious problems, and public rejection can lead to ridicule. Girls are blamed for mistakes on the one hand, and belittled on the other. They aren't given the compassion and understanding that they need most at those times.

Through her interactions with Kaji, we can see the disconnect between Asuka's desire to be seen as an adult and her actual actions. She become hyper, somewhat aggressive, and slightly possessive when Kaji is around, becoming frustrated when the relationship between him and Misato rekindles. From Asuka's perspective, she can't see why she isn't the better choice. As discussed above, she sees her physical body as functionally the same as all the other women Kaji expresses even passing interest in, and psychologically she sees herself as more mature than Misato (and she is both right and wrong depending on which aspect of their personalities you examine, but that's a whole unrelated issue). The problem is that she has no idea what the adults around her are thinking; an adult man will not be attracted to an adolescent girl, and though all of the women around her can see that this is just a teenage crush, Asuka herself doesn't have the life experience to know this yet. This, combined with her fear of being ignored, means that what is actually a perfectly reasonable rejection registers to her as abandonment.

We can see this even more clearly if we look at her relationship with Shinji. The two of them are the same age, classmates, living together with Misato, both lost their mothers at a young age, both pilot the evangelions, and have grudging sexual tension that persists to the very end. Despite this, their personalities are pretty much incompatible. The line that is most iconic between them is Asuka's "what are you, stupid?" (the english dub's version of her japanese line "Anta baka?" basically asking 'are you dumb?'). Shinji is a lot more timid and less self confident than Asuka, and she frequently is shown literally pushing him around. We see in other parts of the series that he is attracted to her but is too intimidated by her to really be able to do anything.

At one point when the two are alone at home, she kisses him, explicitly stating that it's because she's bored. It predictably doesn't go well, with Shinji just standing there frozen until Asuka backs away and then runs to the bathroom to dramatically rinse her mouth out, declaring that she should never kiss to kill time. It's played as a funny scene, but later we see that it actually had a deep effect on Asuka. It's implied that she did see Shinji as a potential romantic interest, but saw his silence and his lack of engagement with her as rejection, and this along with his improvement as a pilot over the series leads her to resent him more and more. During her mental breakdown, Asuka sees an image of his face and screams "You won't help me! You won't even hold me! You're no one! No one!"

In her mind, she has been rejected by all of the people sh's approached romantically. This leads her to feel unwanted and she starts to draw in on herself, and her feeling of animosity grow to encompass all of the characters in the series. In the same episode as her breakdown, she's shown standing naked in front of a bathtub (see note below) saying how much she hates having to be so close to Misato and Shinji. She become more and more worked up until she kicks something across the room yelling "I hate Misato, and I hate Shinji, and I hate that First Child bitch Rei! I hate my dad, I hate my mom! But mostly, most of all, I hate myself! I hate this! I can't stand it anymore! Why do I have to do this! Why me?!"

It is intriguing that Asuka, and the other female characters in Evangelion who show similar insight, came from the mind of an unmarried (at the time), childless man in his mid-30s. Anno himself says that "I like to read romance novels written by women. Since I'm a male, I don't really know the emotions of women. And because I want to understand their feelings, and create more realistic female characters, this is something I have to pursue." and there are plenty of accounts of him asking female animators and voice actresses for their input on characters to ensure that they were realistic. Because of this, Anno allows Asuka to express some of the frustration teenage girls feel with their bodies, and manages to walk the thin line of making Asuka real as a burgeoning sexual being without crossing into the sexualization of a minor.

Note: It is uncomfortably easy to find sexual art and dolls of the underage main female characters in the series but none of this comes from the series itself (there is one character who provides occasional 'fanservice', but she is an adult woman in her 30s). In the actual anime, nudity is not treated sexually, rather it is used to represent and heighten characters' feelings of vulnerability and isolation, reinforcing the idea that characters have been left completely alone with nothing except for their own skin, and at times not even that. Despite this, fans in Japan fixated on the character Rei Ayanami, which Anno attributed to the fact that "They can't handle strong women such as Misato and Asuka." This is even more unfortunate because it abandons the character's stoic loyalty and dive into self reflection midway through the series in favor of reducing Rei to an injured quivering victim using just the visuals of episode 1 (though once again, there's character traits there that are ignored as well). The most important part to say about this is also the fact that both Rei and Asuka are 14 YEARS OLD IN THE SERIES. For god's sake Japanese men, WHY!

Another Note: Actually I can explain why; the age of consent in Japan is 13 which has led to entire industries based on the exploitation of teenage girls, which means that child prostitution and pornography are rampant. Essentially, pedophilia is totally legal in Japan, in addition to child pornography as long as it isn't of real people, meaning that pedophilic anime and manga are totally legal, because easily available child pornography has 0 negative impacts, right? (WRONG). industries based on exploiting young girls: https://www.washingtonpost.com/world/asia_pacific/for-vulnerable-high-school-girls-in-japan-a-culture-of-dates-with-older-men/2017/05/15/974146c4-035d-11e7-9d14-9724d48f5666_story.html?noredirect=on&utm_term=.a58a262e1867 child pornography laws in Japan: http://time.com/2892728/japan-finally-bans-child-pornography/ https://www.bbc.co.uk/bbcthree/article/57eaaf23-0cef-48c8-961f-41f2563b38aa

#neon genesis evangelion #asuka langley soryou #analysis #character analysis #evangelion #this turned out longer than I expected

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junionigiri · 6 years ago

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Ruby Red and Caramel Ch 3: Dark Chocolate Truffles

Chapter Summary: Late nights and late nights.

Relationship(s): Bakugou Katsuki/Yaoyorozu Momo; background Hagakure Tooru/Sato Rikido; background Kendo Itsuka/Tetsutetsu Tetsutetsu

Rating: T

Warnings/Notes: after internally debating with myself where to cut the chapter because there’re so many words i cut it right in the middle of a scene ahhh wth. I hope this isn’t... too awkward T_T

as always, also available on AO3 (JuniRiceBall) and FFNet (Juni Onigiri)!

Momo makes it to Ward Five as planned, with a sharp gleam in her eye, a skip in her step, and a determined swing of her ponytail. Kendo Itsuka is already there with all the charts in front of her, ready to do rounds with her. She’s in the middle of an animated discussion over the phone though, so she patiently waits for her to finish.

“Mmhm. Mmhm.” She glosses over the charts in front of her as she intently listens to the other end of the conversation. “No… Tetsu, that’s... Don’t panic, okay? It’s just potassium, you just have to--” She catches Momo’s eye, gives her a lopsided grin. “No, Tetsu, the patient isn’t going to die from that, okay? Listen, so Yaoyorozu’s here, I have to discuss a ton of cases with her, so maybe ask Shiozaki for help if you’re not sure? No, she isn’t going to send you to hell. Not today. Hopefully.”

Momo stifles a giggle when she hears Tetsutetsu’s distressed voice clearly through Kendo’s phone: “Kendo you know she’ll kill me for this!!! Please I’m stupid and you’re smart and you’re the nicest one I know help me help me help--”

Kendo giggles. “Fine. I’ll help you, and you’ll buy me dinner, okay?” She bites her lower lip and has to pull the phone a couple of inches off her ear from Tetsutetsu’s overexcited yelling. “Okay. I’ll text you. Bye.”

The redhead finally hangs up the call and gives Momo an apologetic grin. “Yeah, sorry about that Yaoyorozu… you know how Tetsu gets sometimes.”

Momo nods in understanding. “You do know him best, Kendo-san.” The shine of her teal eyes, how her finger twirled ‘round her vermilion hair, and how she can’t stop smiling doesn’t escape her.

The other girl snorts and slaps her on the arm playfully. “Hey, what’s with that look? Are you… teasing me?”

“Oh, not at all!”

“Yes you are! This is so out of character for you, Ms. Prim-and-Proper. Since when have you acted like a charm school delinquent, huh?”

“I only calmly regarded how… radiant you seemed speaking with Tetsutetsu-san, that’s all!”

“Whatever, Yaoyorozu,” the redhead counters playfully. “Is this a takes-one-to-know-one kind of thing? You’re the one who’s ridiculously perky these past couple of weeks, you know.”

“... I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Momo begins, putting her nose up in the air haughtily. Isn’t it unfair how Kendo easily changes the subject of scrutiny from herself to Momo? They were talking about her obvious affection for Tetsutetsu, and now… “And we aren’t talking about me, we’re talking about--”

Kendo’s gaze is a little too investigatory, and she finds herself avoiding her gaze altogether. “We can tell, you know. Smiling all the time? Literally bouncing when you’re talking to anyone and everyone? Humming Mariah Carey’s Emotions, on loop?”

Momo sputters, “It’s a good song!”

“Yeah. Honenuki tells me that he and Todoroki have that song stuck in their heads for an entire week now ‘cause of you.”

Oh. So that explains the pained look on Honenuki-san’s face whenever Momo comes in. Has she really been humming that song all the time? But it’s a good song, a classic. Anyone can fight her on that.

“Whatever it is… you got it bad, girl.” Kendo ignores how Momo’s ponytail starts twitching tensely as the accusation comes forth. “Even Best Jeanist asked me if I knew why you’re acting strangely.”

Momo freezes and starts to fret. She thinks she did a good job of separating her silly, dreamy adolescent feelings from her work facade, but apparently she hasn’t, if their infamous training officer has noticed a change in her. “Dr. Hakamata noticed something? Oh, did he comment on how I lack confidence again? Or maybe he wants to give me more duties, because I’m not doing very well?”

The redhead gives her an odd look. “No, of course not Yaoyorozu! Actually, it’s the opposite. He likes how you’re suddenly so… bright and positive and decisive.”

Momo can’t keep her surprise hidden. She feels her ponytail twitch upward happily. Kendo notices and stifles a giggle.

“He actually asked me if anything good happened to you. Like, if you won the lottery or something. But I’m sure it isn’t the lottery, since I’m sure you have like a pile of inherited gold doubloons hidden somewhere in your room--”

She most certainly does not have gold doubloons in her room. She isn’t a pirate or a dragon with a hoarding complex. But Momo has invested in gold before. She chooses not to clarify that point for her.

“--whatever it is, he says you should keep it up. Aren’t you glad, Yaoyorozu? Best Jeanist practically gave you his blessing to keep seeing this mystery person of yours~”

Momo can’t keep her face from flushing when she sputters, “That’s not--Dr. Hakamata doesn’t know about--”

“About what? Or… whomst?” The neurologist gives her a little eyebrow-wiggle of her own. “You’re thinking of a specific face in your head now, aren’t you?”

“No-one! Really, Kendo-san!” She’s relieved that Kendo doesn’t have a mind-reading quirk, because the face of a certain blonde cafe owner that flashed out of nowhere in her traitorous mind would be misinterpreted as cold, hard evidence of her outrageous claims. “I think we should start discussing these cases, please? We have a long day ahead of us!”

“Mhm.” Kendo shrugs and says nothing more about the subject. The mischievous grin on the other doctor’s face doesn’t go away, though, and Momo knows that she isn’t off the hook. “So about Mr. S in room 504-A…”

Kendo starts to discuss the new referrals eloquently and seriously. With a laser-precision focus, Momo pushes all the silly love-struck soundtracks and explosives to the back of her mind.

Momo is correct. It ends up being a long day. And even though she doesn’t have night duty that day, the evening rush is over by the time she finishes everything and steps out of the hospital. As is her habit for the past couple of weeks, she looks both ways and crosses the street and quietly peeps through the windows of the NTG Cafe.

The lights are dimmed. The little wooden signage that hangs at the glass door reads Closed. Momo sees Kaminari at the far end of the cafe, rearranging the last of the tables and chairs and then disappearing at the back.

She sighs. Of course she didn’t make it. It’s eleven in the evening on a busy weeknight, and people should be going home to rest by this hour. They all have a full day ahead of them tomorrow.

Well--it’s not so bad. As a direct result of her being so ‘bright and positive and decisive,’ as Kendo-san eloquently put it, for the past few days she was able to finish work earlier and to make it minutes before the cafe closed. And because of that, she has been able to see Bakugou-san more frequently. So she’s only a little down when she decides that it’s all right that she isn’t seeing him tonight, for once, and decides to go home to her apartment.

As she turns around to leave though, the door chime sounds behind her. “Hey. Ponytail,” a familiar rumble calls out to her, sending a shiver down her spine.

She turns around, trademark ponytail swishing behind her. “I have a name, Bakugou-san.”

Despite her stern response, she can’t stop the smile breaking into her face.

Bakugou has that unbearable smirk on his pretty mouth when he looks at her up and down, as he usually does when they meet. He doesn’t have his apron on anymore, and Momo is treated to the sight of him, lean and mean in a tight-enough black collared shirt and jeans. His arms are crossed, showing off those strong arms of his, the sleeves of his shirt struggling to contain them, and she’s so sure that if she leapt into him right now he’d be able to…

Momo internally reprimands herself for still not being used to this sight after 2 weeks of exposure

“Whatever. You comin’ in?” His gruff voice interrupts her unladylike ogling. She snaps up to attention to look at him curiously.

“But it’s past closing time already…”

The blonde shrugs. “Never stopped you and your bottomless-pit-of-a-stomach before, Brainy.”

By this time she’s almost completely immune to his natural predilection for profanities, even those targeted towards her. She hopes she isn’t bouncing her way inside when she obliges.

Bakugou leads the way to their usual spot near the counter, orders her to sit down, and disappears out back. Kaminari, already clad in his casual clothes, ambles his way up to her with his backpack, evidently ready to go home. He greets her with a wiggle of two short blonde brows. “Hey, doc~ You’re here a little later than usual. How’s the hospital?”

“Oh, busy. But nothing that I can’t handle. Thank you for asking, Kaminari-san!”

“Aren’t you bright and bouncy, Yaomomo! Man, you have no idea how starved I am for a pretty face--it’s just me and Baku-boss the entire day, and I’m just about to lose hope in the human race…”

She giggles. It’s always hard to keep one’s composure around the jocular Kaminari-san, but she tries her best. “Oh, I can only imagine. And the cafe has been busy lately, right? But you seem to be doing a good job.”

“Thanks! You’re the only one who thinks that!” He makes a face, hears Bakugou coming out from the back again, and exaggerates the said face. “Did you hear what Dr. Yaomomo said, Baku-boss? She said I was doing a good job! You should give me a raise--”

“Didn’t hear a fuckin’ thing,” he grumbles as he places the tray on their table. “But, I should give you a fuckin’ deduction for what you did to the fuckin’ toilet, Pika-shit. Thanks for remindin’ me.”

“Whey. This is abuse,” he sighs dramatically amidst Momo’s giggles. And then, a look of concern on his face. “But hey, you’re going home soon, right, Baku-boss? I mean… you know we can’t keep Dr. Yaomomo for too long here…”

The odd, careful tone in his voice doesn’t go past Momo unnoticed. Bakugou doesn’t look up to meet his gaze. “Yeah it’s fine.”

“You sure?” Strangely insistent and gentle to the point of being parental, Kaminari leers comically close to his boss’s face and narrows his empty eyes. “We got a full day tomorrow, boss, and it’s way past your bedtime--”

“Fuckin’--what are you, my mom?! I said it’s fine!” He shoves the shorter blonde’s face away with one strong hand, making the latter yelp and discharge a few shocks from his head. “Now get the fuck outta here. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Okay~ You two take care, I guess.” The concern in his face is completely gone, making Momo wonder if she was just imagining things. Kaminari salutes her with his usual silly grin and double thumbs-up. “Y’all have fun now! Good night!”

“Good night, Kaminari-san,” says Momo, with a gentle wave of the hand. When he disappears, she shifts her attention to Bakugou, who has already grumpily fallen into his seat across from her. “Is… this really okay, Bakugou-san? He seems worried for you…”

“Tch,” he begins, as grumpy as is the norm. “Don’t mind that dopey fucker, a’ight? I told you it’s fine.”

She stares at him quietly. There are circles dimming the undersides of his eyes, and a very subtle droop in his shoulders as he sets the plates in front of her. But his eyes are fully awake and alert, and when he reaches over to grab her hand and push the cutleries in her palm, as always, his hands are as strong and fiery hot as they’ve ever been.

“W… well… if you say so,” she relents. Maybe she’s looking too much into it. It is late, after all. Anyone would look tired by this time. She turns her attention to the food in front of her instead, and feels herself brightening up considerably. “Oh, Bakugou-san, it’s beautiful…”

Discs of vibrant, rainbow pasta are layered up with filling. From the light, stimulating fragrance emanating from it, Momo can only guess there’s fish, shellfish mousse, and vegetables blended and cooked perfectly within. The piece is plated artfully and tastefully on a wide plate. She feels all her senses activate her hunger centers, but also feels terrible at the prospect of cutting the dish open and ruining the aesthetic.

But the feeling doesn’t last long when she takes the first bite of the meal. “Oh my… Bakugou-san…!!!”

The cafe owner snorts at her first reaction, which is to moan a little too suggestively and stomp her feet in an undignified manner. “You like that, Ponytail?” he says teasingly.

She can’t believe how good it tastes. Before she can stop herself and regulate her excitement, the praises escapes her mouth. “All the layers are exquisite! The cacciucco, the shellfish mousse, and the broccoli work so well together! And unexpectedly, the pasta balances the flavours neatly! Everything is just elegantly done!”

There’s no way that he didn’t spend hours making the dish. Either that, or he’s an actual demon in the kitchen. It won’t take a lot to convince Momo of that anymore. “You know it,” Bakugou says easily, with a self-satisfied smirk. “When have I ever given you anything that ain’t cooked to fuckin’ perfection, Ponytail?”

Never is the only answer to that question. But Momo doesn’t tell him that, because she’s perpetually worried about how big his ego is getting and how unhelpful she is in that regard.

Which reminds her… She puts down her fork, making Bakugou raise an eyebrow that she even dared to stop in the middle--really, does this man think of her as nothing but as eating machine?--and delicately pats her mouth with a napkin. “It’s delicious, as always, Bakugou-san,” she begins, when he looks like he’s about to sit up and loudly demand an explanation from her. “But I’d like to pace myself, for one. Also, I want to show you how I appreciate the meals and company you’ve given me so far…”

The mild confusion in Bakugou doesn’t go away, and grows and grows when Momo shifts in her seat to rifle through her handbag and to push a slim box into the blonde’s hands.

“The fuck is this, Ponytail?”

His odd reaction catches her off-guard. “It’s a gift, Bakugou-san.”

“It ain’t my fuckin’ birthday or anything like that, Brainy.”

“I know it isn’t,” Momo tells him humorously. Although, come to think of it, she doesn’t know when his birthday is. She takes a mental note to somehow wheedle out that information from him later. “It’s simply something to show my appreciation for you. You’ve made me these marvelous things, and I don’t think I’ve done enough to do anything for you in return…”

His face remains skeptical as he opens the package. “Memento Truffles, huh?” he says flatly. The look in his eyes is unreadable. Momo doesn’t want to think that he’s unimpressed or insulted, but the way his eyebrow raises, she isn’t sure what to think.

“Do… you not like them?” she asks carefully. She hopes her ponytail isn’t deflating too much. She’s glad that she didn’t tell him about how she has had to beg her mother to contact one of her dearest friends in Belgium to purchase and have them delivered via priority mail within the past week.

Unaware of her inner turmoil, Bakugou pops one casually in his mouth. “Hm. They’re not bad, I guess,” he says thoughtfully mid-chew.

“Not bad…??” Momo begins, affronted beyond reason. “Jacques Memoir, one of the top ten chocolatiers in the world, handcrafted these! When you bite into them, you ought to feel as if you’re simultaneously remembering all the nice chocolates you've ever eaten! Dark chocolate that is neither too sweet nor too bitter, the insides of which are soft and whipped, but do not immediately melt… toppings of Hungarian paprika, violets, wild flennel that give an unexpected punch of flavor… the pleasing, classic aesthetic that ties them altogether… is merely not bad for you, Bakugou-san?”

He listens to her affronted monologue with a self-satisfied smirk. “Yeah. I could do it better.”

The girl sputters indignantly. Bakugou almost chokes laughing at her mid-swallow. “Y-you think you can do better than one of the top ten chocolatiers in the world?!”

“Nah. I know so.” The self-satisfied smirk on his face tells Momo that he isn’t even joking and it just blows her mind how highly he thinks of himself. “What, you think I’m talkin’ shit?”

She scoffs. “You’re simply unbelievable, Bakugou-san.”

“Don’t I know it.” She only rolls her eyes at that, and he laughs again. Ugh, she should really hate it, but she can’t stop her stupid mouth from smiling when she hears it. “Anyways, this is too much for me, Ponytail. Come on. Eat.”

“Hm? Oh, but these are for you, and you only... I have to repay you somehow, for--”

He actually growls and widens his eyes like a wild animal at that remark. “I ain’t fuckin’ cookin’ you all these great meals so you could pay me for it. What do you think of me, haa? If I wanted to, I’d be chargin’ you a fortune from day one.”

Momo pauses and feels her heart squeeze. Did she just… insult him somehow? Was her gift too much, too soon? “That’s… not my intention at all,” she says quietly. “I’m sorry if the gift is too much, Bakugou-san. I’ll take note next time.”

He snorts and puts the truffles down between them. A silence envelops them, with Momo half-heartedly poking through the rest of the dish, and Bakugou staring right at her with searching ruby eyes.

“If you want to give me a gift that bad, Ponytail--”

She snaps her head a little too quickly to look at him.

A mischievous glint is in his eyes. They look challenging, somehow. “Make me something.”

She blinks. “Um… I can’t cook, Bakugou-san…”

He sneers at her. “You know, somehow I guessed that.” Momo pouts at him, but cannot contest the point any further. “But that’s not what I fucking meant.”

She tilts her head curiously at him. “So… make something? Oh, like a collage or a papier-mache? Oh, I’d love to, I have so many ideas--”

“No! You fuckin’ nerd!” Momo hates how easy it is to make him laugh at her expense. “I meant, make me something with your fuckin’ quirk! Geez, and I thought you were supposed to be a genius…”

“Oh,” she says with a little humph. Really, he should have started with that. She wouldn’t call herself a genius, but she isn’t usually this… daft. “Well, I suppose I can make you something… what would you like?”

“Fuckin’ anything. Sky’s the limit. Come on.”

“That’s the point, Bakugou-san. If you won’t be specific, it’ll be hard for me to think up of something you would like…”

“Fine,” he says gruffly. “Make me… something that’ll remind me of you when I look at it.”

How… how could you say that so nonchalantly, Bakugou-san? With that rumble in your voice, that roguish glint in your eyes, that devil-may-care smile? Momo feels herself blushing from her neck to her scalp, and dares not open her mouth lest another undignified sound escapes from it.

Also, there’s nothing specific about his request! What is she supposed to make? She straightens her mind, forms an image in her head, breaks down the components of the object and wills it to form over her chest.

The object materializes in between her breasts; for modesty’s sake she turns around, and to her relief she senses the explosive barista turning away of his own accord. When it’s fully formed, she takes it and places it gingerly on the desk.

Bakugou shifts his gaze to the object. A smile is on his face as he slurs out, “Now that’s more like it, Ponytail.”

Matryoshka dolls are one of the first things she’s learned to make as a child, and one of her favourite things to create. She remembers telling Bakugou about it, when they talked about quirks during one of their dinners in the past week. “This isn’t like one of the dolls I’m used to making though,” she explains as she watches him open the dolls with interest, one by one. “Instead of the usual babushka designs that I tend to make, the dolls are dressed in explosive-themed dresses. Because you’re the human incarnate of a bomb.”

“I can see that,” he says, amused. The grenades look real in his hands, oddly, like they would explode into blossoms of light in his explosive grasp. “Looks like you were thinkin’ of me when you made it, huh Ponytail?”

She tries her best to say, “Yes,” without blushing further.

“Well… they’re the best grenade dolls made of fat I’ve ever seen, Dr. Ponytail. Good job.”

She stares him down in annoyance and playfully moves to snatch the dolls away from his grasp. With another obnoxious laugh, he keeps it away from her reach, stands up, and walks to the counter.

“There. Now everyone who walks in the cafe can stare at your fat and see how nice it fuckin’ looks,” he tells her with a victory smirk. “This belongs here now. No takebacks.”

Speechless, Momo can only nod weakly at him.

The night ends as it usually does, with Momo crossing the street to her home and Bakugou watching her until she reaches the lobby. She looks back at him and gives him a small wave of the hand.

Tonight is a little different, though, because for once, he waves back--no hesitations, no pretenses. He walks back to the cafe, lights shutting behind him, and Momo is absolutely stunned.

She can’t stop the smile forming on her lips, or stop the impulse to hug herself and roll around her bed like a teenaged girl when she makes it up to her condo unit.

Perhaps it was the next day during a short lull in her busy workday when Momo receives a phone call from an old friend.

“Hey, Dr. Momo! So you’re alive after all!”

Momo smiles down at the phone. “Satou-san! Oh, it has been a while, hasn’t it?”

“It is. You haven’t been visiting us for sometime now. I feel like you’ve been having an affair with a different cafe!” Chef Satou Rikido uses his best hurt voice, but it’s still playful and makes Momo giggle.

“Stop, please,” Momo says lightly. She keeps her mouth decidedly shut about his accusation of having an affair with a different cafe. “But you are right, Satou-san. I haven’t been visiting for some time now… I really should, shouldn’t I?”

Satou hums from the other end. “Well, I sure hope you do, doc. I actually called to ask if you were going to make it on Friday.”

Momo blinks once, and then rapidly when realization dawns on her. “Oh my… Friday is that night already?”

The chef makes an affirmative noise. “Yep! Satou’s Coffees and Cakes Farewell Party! All of our patrons and favorite customers are welcome! And you really are one of our favourites--you know, Hagakure’s sad that you haven’t been going, and she’s going to throw a tantrum if you don’t show up on Friday…”

“Oh! Of course I’ll be there, Satou-san!” She stares at the calendar on the office wall--good, she doesn’t have to stay the night then. “You can count on me! Please, tell Tooru-san and Koda-san to save some of the chiffon cake for me!”

“That’s great! I’m glad, Dr. Momo. We gotta see you before we leave for Paris, eh?”

“... We?” asks Momo curiously. As far as she knows, Satou is going to Paris by himself for further training as a patissier.

“That’s about it! I’ll see you Friday, then!”

Not knowing the meaning of the cryptic message, Momo shrugs and makes it through the work day, until the rest of the week passes by in its usual blur and it’s already Friday. She finished a little later than she’d like, but she needs to show up to Satou’s.

With a bottle of rose champagne, she enters the familiar, homey interiors of Satou’s Coffees and Cakes.

The bell hanging over the door announces her arrival. She sees the party already beginning at one of the reserved areas of the restaurant. About twenty people are already there, passing bottles and hors d’oeuvres around.

She makes her way inside--at the center of the room, a commotion is already going on, and seeing the character involved, she quickly understands why.

“Satou Rikido!!! The star patissier of the Musutafu Culinary Academy’s deplorable class A!” Monoma Neito, of Monoma’s Boulangerie et Patisserie, is dramatically wailing as he always does. He’s got a half-filled glass of wine in one hand, and a half-empty bottle of fine Cabernet Sauvignon in the other. His face is already flushed pink, likely from the alcohol. “Again! I prove my superiority to you!!! All that you’re going to learn in Paris, I already know like the back of my hand!”

A cacophony of drunken hoots and boos and sneers emanate from the crowd. Satou, however, only looks mildly amused at his declaration. “I know, Monoma. No-one’s as good as you when it comes to French cuisine.”

More boos. Momo recognizes Sero Hanta’s voice from the crowd, “No way! Team Satou all the way, baby!!! Monoma, your orange chiffon cake sucks!”

“Silence, you plebe!” Monoma makes a grandiose gesture--some of his wine spills in the process--and again points one finger at Satou. “Listen here, Satou! Our rivalry is only put on hold! Once you train abroad and come back, you’ll have no further excuses! I’ll be able to prove once and for all that Monoma’s makes better pastries! So you better come back, and--”

His tirade is cut short when Satou laughs and takes him in a surprise bear hug that takes all the air out of him. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll miss you too, buddy! It’ll be lonely baking without you yelling across the street!”

The crowd goes aaaaw!!!, and the suddenly speechless and blushing Monoma can only freeze and bristle like a confused cat before awkwardly returning the hug.

Momo covers her mouth at how cute the scene is. While it was stressful to watch the first time she saw it, she’s going to miss the noisy rivalry between Monoma and Satou. Her visits at Monoma’s will surely be quieter for the next few years…

A glass of sparkling wine is under her nose in the next moment. Blinking, she turns to see a floating pink-and-purple dress next to her, accompanied by a cute voice. “Dr. Yaomomo!!! You finally made it!”

“Hagakure-san!” They hug each other warmly. Momo takes the glass from her. “I apologize for being late! It got really busy at work.”

“We guessed as much! But I’m happy that one of the world’s best neurosurgeons made it to our little party!”

“No, not at all,” Momo begins weakly, but trails off when Satou spots them and comes up to them. “Oh, Satou-san, congratulations!”

“Thanks! Wow, you really made it, Dr. Momo!” He gives her a bear hug, which also knocks the wind out of her, and takes the bottle of champagne from her. “This sure is fancy, doc. This for us?”

“Of course! Apart from saying goodbye, we have plenty to celebrate… after all, you’re going to work with one of the top chefs of Paris! It’s a big deal!”

Satou laughs heartily. “I can think of other important things that deserves a fancy drink such as this.”

Momo blinks curiously at him and looks at Hagakure, who also appears confused, judging by how her sleeves are shrugging. But before she can ask what he means, Satou is already calling everyone’s attention by tapping his wine glass with one strong finger. “Everyone! May I have your attention please!”

The people in the room simultaneously turn quiet and turn to stare at them. As they give their attention to Satou, Momo takes the opportunity to scan the faces in the crowd. Sero Hanta, one of the nurses from Hosu Gen’s pediatrics ward, is standing next to Aoyama Yuuga from ICU. Some of Monoma’s staff, namely assistant pastry chefs Kinoko Komori and Tsuburaba Kosei, are both trying to steady their obviously inebriated boss. Their occasional part-timer, Rin Hiryuu is also there, quietly standing next to a frowning man with a camera. She’s able to recognize Tsunotori Pony, the prominent businesswoman from Texas who invested in both Satou’s and Monoma’s, looking on with mild interest.

Both Kirishimas are also there. She sees Mina pausing mid-chortle to listen to the announcement. And under Kirishima Eijirou’s arm is an obviously disgruntled and partially uncomfortable…

“... Bakugou-san?” she whispers out loud.

The explosive man is at the other end of the room, surely out of earshot, but looks up at her bewildered whisper. When red eyes meet black ones, his mood visibly shifts. That trademark devilish grin of his makes it to his mouth and catches her off guard.

Momo tries not to look to happy at this unexpected meeting, and busies herself by drinking her wine a little too quickly.

When the room has completely quieted down, Satou begins to speak. “First of all, thank you for coming to my humble little gathering… tonight, as you know, is the last time that I’ll have all of you here to eat my food as customers and friends!”

Momo hears the audience make a variety of sad sounds, especially Hagakure beside her, who starts sniffling. But she can’t concentrate, not when Bakugou is staring at her like that…

“... well, at least the last time until I get back in three or so years,” Satou adds with a laugh. “I’d like to thank you all for coming to celebrate with me. It truly has been a pleasure serving you all for the past five years--”

… and her, staring back at Bakugou like that. Perhaps. It’s his fault. Momo hasn’t ever seen him wear anything other than his work clothes. And to suddenly appear before her without warning, wearing a black button-down shirt, with the top two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up, showing off his nice arm--and those dark jeans, different from the looser, mildly distressed ones he wears to work--

“--and I’ll never forget all of your support and… sheesh, I’m not really good at these speeches.” Satou cuts his speech short, to a comical effect, and raises his glass amidst chortles from the audience. “Cheers!”

“Cheers!” Momo almost misses the cue, and attempts to take a sip from her glass, only to find herself drinking empty air.

Bakugou notices. He looks like he’s about to burst from laughter. She gives him a stern look, but again tries her best not to smile too much.

Ah, but it’s a little hard. She might have drunk her wine a little too quickly after all. And on an empty stomach too. She’s light-headed and bubbly and teetering on the edge of embarrassing. She focuses away from his piercing gaze and back to the man of the hour.

“But that’s not all I want to celebrate.” Satou begins again. “I also want to celebrate my co-workers for being with me for the past five years--Hagakure-san! Koda-kun! Come up here, won’t ya?”

Hagakure stammers next to Momo. She’s able to catch the server’s meek ‘what’s going on?’ before the smaller woman bounces her way next to Satou. Koda, the quieter server, doesn’t look as confused when he walks up to the chef, but looks quite nervous all the same.

“So as many of you know, Koda-kun won’t be in the restaurant business for very long,” Satou says, patting the large man on the back. “He’s finally about to finish his Veterinary Medicine degree, like he’s always wanted to! Everyone, say Congratulations, Dr. Koda!”

“Congratulations, Dr. Koda!” everyone chants, to which the anxious animal doctor signs his thanks frantically.

“Now… as for Hagakure Tooru-san.” Satou turns to her with a playful smile. “You haven’t told any of us your plans after Satou’s closes down tomorrow, right?”

Hagakure falters. If Momo could see her face, she’s sure that she has a sad smile on her face then. “Th… that’s because I don’t have any plans at all, Satou-san--I mean, this is my first and only job, and I really like it very much, and--”

There’s a break in her voice, and Momo is sure that she’s trying her hardest not to cry. The audience makes a simultaneous sad aaaaw. Satou pats her on the back with a large hand and looks at her warmly. “Then… if it’s okay with you, Hagakure… I have a proposal for you.”

It happens very quickly--one moment she’s looking up at him, confused and speechless, and in the next moment she’s looking slightly downward when he falls on one knee in front of her, and everyone else.

“Uwa~~???!” She cries comically, as suddenly Koda brings a violin out of nowhere, playing a touching rendition of Love Me Like You Do. Someone flips a switch somewhere, and rose petals suddenly float from the ceiling, all around the invisible girl who’s mesmerized beyond words.

“Hagakure Tooru,” Satou attempts, as he holds up a little velvet box in his large hands, presenting it in front of the girl and her incomprehensible sobbing, “We’ve known each other for the past five years… you changed my life for the better… so if you would do me the honor of going to Paris with me, as man and--”

She screeches excitedly and practically throws herself at Satou. “Yes! I will, Satou-san! I will! Yes!!!”

“Let him ask the frickin’ question, Hagakure!” Someone yells from the audience, amidst all the clapping and cheering.

“Shut up! I’m getting married!!! And going to PARIS!!!” Hagakure retorts loudly, much to everyone’s laughter. She’s literally beaming, she’s so happy she’s covering the entire room in flashes of light, and the party has to continue cheering and drinking their wines with their eyes closed.

Momo feels tears stinging her eyes--she isn’t sure if it’s her overwhelming happiness for the happy couple, or if it’s all the light getting into her eyes. It doesn’t last very long, but the flashes are enough to make her dizzy. As her eyes are closed, she feels a familiar warm hand enclose around hers, and in the next moment she’s being dragged to somewhere else.

She opens her eyes when cold air hits the bare skin of her shoulders. The first thing she sees is the night sky and the bright full moon calmly glowing within the darkness. The stars that are visible against the city lights are few and far in between, but still they glow brightly and beautifully, unaware of the mess of life below them.

“Fuckin’ finally.” The rumble creeps up to her ear and crawls right into her thumping chest. “I got you where I want you.”

She smiles as quietly as her heart will allow her. “Good evening to you too, Bakugou-san.”

His blonde hair glows ethereally under the scant light of the sky. He’s close to her, close enough that she sees the shadow of his lashes on his cheeks. “Yeah. Good evening or whatever, Dr. Ponytail.”

“I didn’t know you were invited as well.” She takes two careful steps backward, increasing the distance between them. She doesn’t know why she wants to, why it suddenly feels so dangerous to have Bakugou close to her. “And I didn’t know that you were close to Kirishima-san, as well--”

“Yeah. Diabetes invited a lot of other cafe owners. You've seen that other blonde psycho," he says, pointing his thumb at the cacophony inside. "And Shitty-Hair’s a guy from my high school. Still fuckin’ clingy after all these years…”

No remorse at all for the terrible nicknames he’s given everyone. Momo gives him another stern look, and he leers right back at her. “Really, Bakugou-san. Is it so difficult for you to call people by their given names? You know, come to think of it… I’ve never heard you call me by my actual name since we met!”

“So?”

“So… do you just have terrible manners, or a terrible memory for names?”

“Definitely the first one,” Bakugou replies brashly. “My memory’s awesome, thank you very much.”

Momo humphs. “I highly doubt that. I’m willing to bet that you call people by those terrible nicknames based on appearances because remembering things is something you’re bad at. And you don’t want to admit it, because you hate being bad at something. I’m willing to wager that you can’t even remember what you had for breakfast.”

“French toast and OJ,” he answers easily. And then, with that dangerous grin on his face, continues. “Try again… Yaoyorozu Momo.”

Oh… no.

She feels herself freeze under his searing hot gaze. Her mouth moves, but all she’s able to manage is a meek bite of the lower lip.

“What? Why you lookin’ at me like that… Momo?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Ridiculous. Simply ridiculous. Just the mention of her own name in his voice, and already it does things to her insides that are hard to describe. She fights to keep her gaze steady, her mouth in a straight, unaffected line. She knows it isn’t working, because he’s smiling and sauntering closer and closer, and she isn’t moving away.

Please, Momo, get a hold of yourself--

“You heard me.” She’s flustered, and he knows she is, and he isn’t stopping. “You’re starin’ at me like…”

That smile, that awful, awful, smile. Momo struggles for a witty remark. “Like what, Bakugou-san?” is all she’s able to manage, in a voice that’s too breathy for her own.

“Katsuki.”

She blinks.

“If you’re gonna whine about using names, I’m gonna call you Momo from now on,” he tells her--tells her, not asks, as a man like him is wont to do. “But you gotta call me Katsuki in return. Aight?”

“All right,” she says. She straightens herself, looks at him right in the eye. “Katsuki-san.”

He clicks his tongue. “Fuck no, what am I, your fuckin’ supervisor? Try again.”

She giggles. “I apologize. Then… Katsuki.”

He smiles. “That’s more like it.”

He’s standing close to her still--one more step forward, and he’d have her cornered against one of the tables out in the garden. He’d be so close, if he pushed her just a little bit, she’d fall over it. And he’d have to catch her in those arms, he’d have to lift her up and over the table, wedge himself between her legs, and then he’d be close enough to crush his lips against hers, and--

And whatever it is, Momo would let him, would let him get his hands all over her hair, her bare skin, her face--

No, Momo, have mercy on yourself oh my god! She takes another step around the table, distancing herself away from the man and his heady scent. Too much, Momo, too much. Calm down.

Surely he isn’t like that… She’s sure he’s different, this Bakugou Katsuki. They’re merely friends, one of them a little more inebriated than the other, perhaps. Their odd relationship is the reverse of many poor experiences with men she's had in the past, where she's treated as nothing more as an object of their desire.

And now here she is, thirsting for him in her mind, rather shamelessly and one-sidedly at that. She reprimands herself for her debauched thoughts, again, and clears her throat for some clarity.

A quiet falls over them in the next moment. There’s a bottle of wine on the garden table next to them, with two glasses. A nice, benign set-up, between friends who like to talk and eat and drink together. She gestures for them to sit down, and he obliges.

“I suppose since there’s wine, it’s only logical for us to drink it,” she tells him as she moves to pour into two glasses. Before she is able to fill his, he stops her with one hand.

“I don’t drink. Don’t fuckin’ force me to,” he says sharply.

“Oh… I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.” So it really is just her with alcohol to blame for any form of candour. She puts the wine aside and leaves him with an empty glass.

“But if you want to drink, I ain’t stoppin’ ya from getting shitfaced,” he continues. He cradles his head against one hand and stares at her with interest. “Don’t make me carry you home though. I ain’t a princess carriage or anything.”

She sticks her nose up in the air. “I know my limits.”

“If you say so… Momo.”

#bakumomo #yaoyorozu momo #bakugou katsuki #bnha fic #cafe/hospital AU #is thirsty momo too thirsty or #is this amount of thirst justifiable

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eternallyyoungjustice · 6 years ago

Text

Wherever the Winds Take You: Chapter 6

Project Cadmus

July 5

1:21

Each of the younger heroes did their best to help explain the events that had unfolded that evening. With Aqualad providing the most structured explanations, Robin butting in some less-than-crucial-but-still-cool details, Kid Flash adding sound effects and the odd rambling, and Zephyr making sure the latter two didn’t veer the story too far off course.

Once the adolescents finally finished their story, most of the League proceeded to leave as they weren’t needed. A few of Leaguers took Desmond away to be locked up, flying away as the Green Lanterns used their rings to carry him. Batman, Flash, Aquaman, and Red Tornado were left huddled off to one side; undoubtedly discussing what they were going to do with their kids. But on the other side of the crater, their proteges stood in much a similar huddle, save of course for the inclusion of an extra member.

“So we’re all totally grounded, right?” Kid Flash snorted.

“What do you mean?” Zephyr asked.

“Well…what about all of us?” Robin asked, gesturing to the circle. “I mean, I know the mission wasn’t exactly perfect but…I mean, we did some good, right?”

“We imploded a building, almost got cloned, and our meer presence led to a lead scientist mutating himself…” Kid Flash pointed.

“But we did make quite a good team.” Aqualad debated, frowning and lifting his finger to his chin in thought. “And even the Justice League’s first mission was not without its faults.”

“Besides, we gotta get Supey some field-training somehow.” Robin smirked. At this, the clone merely raised an eyebrow.

“Wait, are you guys suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?” Kid Flash asked, seeming almost puppy-ish with his look of both hesitance and excitement.

“What? What are you suggesting?” Zephyr frowned, looking around at her comrades.

“Zeph’,” Robin said, “what if we made this, our own team, a long-term thing?”

The girl blinked for a moment, looked to Aqualad, and then back to the others. “There’s no way the League will approve.”

“Why do you need their permission?” Superboy asked, the shadow of a frown between his eyebrows.

“He has a point.” KF said, motioning to the clone. “They keep secrets from us, treat us like kids, and never give us a chance to prove ourselves. So…if they don’t want us a part of their team, why not start our own?”

“Wow, that’s probably the most articulate thing you’ve said tonight.” Robin chuckled, earning an elbow in the ribs. This caused Robin to keel over slightly in pain, his ribs obviously still damaged from their escape.

Zephyr bit her lip, fiddled with a strand of her hair, and turned back to Aqualad who caught her gaze.

“Do you really think this is a good idea?” The air-manipulating girl asked, her eyes emanating seriousness even through her mask.

Aqualad nodded. “I do. However, we can’t be a united front without you. We hold our best chances if we are all in this: together.”

The girl took a deep breath, then looked to Superboy. The boys quickly followed suit, peering at the dark-haired clone.

Superboy stared back for a long moment, then shrugged.

Zephyr sighed, then gave the boys a small smile. “Alright then, let the revolution resume.”

Seemingly finished with the conversation, Superboy turned his attention back to a small group off to the side of the crater. Martian Manhunter, Wonder Woman, and where the young clone was intensely focused; Superman.

Sensing Superboy’s gaze, Martian Manhunter placed a hand on Superman’s shoulder. After several moments of getting mentally lectured by his two friends and comrades, Superman cautiously walked over to his clone. Anxious to see what the Kryptonian superhero would say, the four proteges listened in closely.

“We’ll figure something out for you-the League will, I mean.” Superman said, sounding as if he would rather be anywhere but with the boy in front of him. “For now I…better make sure they get that Blockbuster-creature squared away.”

And with that, the ‘Blue Boy Scout’ flew off.

Looking to one another for a moment, Zephyr was the quickest of the group of four to react. Quickly floating over to the boy, she went to place her hand on his shoulder. For a moment however, she hesitated; wondering if the boy would be alright with her touching him. But when she realized he had not flinched or moved away when she reached out, she went for it and gently touched his upper bicep.

“This is a surprise to him.” The girl said with her best consoling voice. “Give him some time, but for now…you have us. You know, with our new team. If you’ll have us.”

Superboy didn’t respond, but the look he gave Zephyr made her feel that she was heard.

Their interaction was cut short by the other remaining League members, the group’s mentors, walking up. Each of the younger heroes looked straight into their mentor’s eyes, not once daring to break the eye contact.

“Cadmus will be investigated.” Batman explained. “All 52 levels of it, but let’s make one thing clear-””You should have called!”

Flash’s interruption earned him an icy glare from the Bat.

“End results aside, we are not happy.” Batman continued. “You hacked Justice League systems, disobeyed direct orders, and endangered lives. You will not be doing this again.”

“I’m sorry,” Aqualad cut in, “but we will.”

“Aqualad!” Aquaman man exclaimed. “Stand down!”

The younger Atlantean saluted respectfully, “Apologies my King, but no. We did good work here tonight, the work you trained us to do. Together, on our own, we forged something powerful, important.”

Flash cut in yet again, “If this is about your treatment at the Hall, the four of you-“

“The five of us.” Zephyr corrected, her hand still on Superboy’s shoulder.

“And it’s not.” Kid Flash added.

“Batman,” Robin pleaded to his mentor, “we’re ready to use what you’ve taught us. Or why teach us at all?”

“Why let them tell us what to do?” Superboy asked, stepping forward. “It’s simple: get on board, or get out of the way.”

With the intense, fiery gazes of five teenagers. The League members, especially Batman, were cornered.

“Give me three days.”

The area around the group fell still and silent, nobody moving as minds worked quickly. The children, analyzing the deal they were potentially signing up for. The adults, wondering how this was all going to play out.

Until Kid Flash spoke up.

“Three days isn’t so long.”

The tension broke, shoulders dropping and everyone going back to feeling like they could breathe again. The armistice had been signed.

“Uh, guys…” Robin muttered, and motioned to one Superboy who had found himself in the back, looking down at the ground, obviously very uncomfortable and feeling out-of-place.

“Hey Supey, how ‘bout you come home with me?” Kid Flash piped up.

“Will your folks be okay with a house guest?” Robin asked.

“Sure, the more the merrier. Besides,” the ginger looked around at the group, “A confidential Batcave, the ocean, and a packed farm in a foreign country don’t really make for great real estate for someone trying to integrate into society.”

“This is true…” Aqualad nodded. “But nonetheless, if either of you find yourselves in any need of assistance-“

“It’s only three days.” Kid Flash handwaved. “What could go wrong?”

“Famous last words, KF.” Zephyr smirked.

“Then it’s a really good thing I have you guys on speed-dial then, Zeph’.” The speedster winked. “Anyways, we better get going so I can give the run down to Mom and Dad. You ready Supey?” Superboy nodded.

“C’mon guys, I’ll drop the two of you off.” Flash said, waving the two boys over. Before the three of them left however, Zephyr felt a pressure on her cheek and looked to see Kid Flash smirking beside her.

“Until next time madam.” The ginger smirked.

Zephyr giggled, but lightly slapped his shoulder as she rolled her eyes. “Get out of here, Dragueur.”

“Love you too.” The ginger yelled back as he ran off. “Bye guys, see you in three days.”

“Superboy!” Zephyr called after the clone, causing him to turn around and face her. “If Kid Mouth gives you any trouble, you have my permission to hit him a little.”

“She doesn’t mean that.” Kid Flash explained hurriedly, just as they disappeared.

“I should be taking my leave as well.” Aqualad said, catching the other remaining two protégé’s attentions. “You’ll pardon me for not kissing either of you however.”

“Somehow I think we’ll survive without.” Robin smirked, giving a two-fingered salute in goodbye.

“We’ll see you in three days.” Zephyr smiled, giving the boy a quick hug which he happily returned.

“Knowing this circle, I suspect before that.” Aqualad replied. “But I look forward to it nonetheless.”

Smiling at each other, Aqualad began to walk towards his mentor, he and the young air-manipulator holding each other’s hands until they grew too far apart.

Once the Atlantean duo had disappeared as well, the two remaining teens looked to one another. Zephyr was a little surprised to see that Robin was smirking slightly. “Que?” She asked, tilting her head.

“Oh, nothing…” Robin replied, smirk only growing before he seemingly changed the subject. “Good thing you’re on summer break, isn’t it, like, dawn your time?”

“Unfortunately.” Zephyr sighed as she pulled down her hood to let her brown locks flow freely. “But it’s not like this is a great bedtime for you either.”

“Please, have you met my mentor?” Robin joked, motioning to Batman. “‘Dark knight’? More like ‘Eternal night’.”

Giggling again, Zephyr patted the boy affectionately on the head. “Well, still, get home and get some sleep Bird Boy.”

“You too, Airhead.”

This time, the girl’s laughter was fully forced and fake. “Wow, haven’t heard that one before.”

As the two heroes split off to reunite with their own mentors, Zephyr looked up expectantly at hers. Red Tornado, however, made no motion to do anything for a long, pregnant, moment.

“You disobeyed orders.” The robot finally stated, causing the girl in front of him to look down at the ground.

“I know.”

“You broke Justice League protocol, and our rule about going into battles without at least informing either Black Canary or myself.”

“To be fair, that wasn’t exactly just my fault.”

“You could have seriously injured civilians, Cadmus workers, or yourselves.”

“…yes.”

Another moment of silence.

And then a large, metal hand found its way to Zephyr’s shoulder and the young girl looked up at her mentor.

“But you did good work, saved an innocent life from slavery and brainwashing, and formed a somewhat capable team that has potential to grow.”

Zephyr’s lips pulled into a smile as her ears practically perked up.

“Does that mean I’m not grounded?”

“I don’t see the logic behind disciplining you, as I believe you are capable of knowing that the way you acted wasn’t-as some may say-‘thinking smart’. So you face no such ‘grounding’ from me.”

Zephyr sighed in relief.

“However,” Red Tornado interrupted his mentor’s mental celebration, “Dinah still reserves the right to discipline you as she sees fit.”

This news sent a kick of anxiety straight into the French girl’s stomach.

“Oh…Merde.”

“Indeed.” Red Tornado nodded. “Anyhow, you may worry about that tomorrow. You are injured, your brain waves are irregular, and your blood pressure is slightly higher than average; you need sleep. I will escort you to the nearest zeta-tube.”

“Oh thank goodness.” Zephyr sighed as she summoned Winds to carry her into flight, Red Tornado forming his signature tornado around his bottom half as to do the same. “My bones feel like they’re on fire, I definitely bruised my ribs.”

“That would explain your lagged inhaling.”

“Are you seriously still scanning my organs? While we’re talking?”

And with that, the two air-manipulators were off, flying through the air in the direction of the next zeta-tube station. They flew in silence, Zephyr too tired to instigate conversation as the adrenaline in her system began to dissipate.

“Your heartbeat is decreasing even more.” Red Tornado stated. “Are you light-headed?”

“Just tired, I believe this is an adrenaline crash.” Zephyr explained. Red Tornado did not respond. “I’m curious Red, you’ve never scanned my vitals this vigorously before. Did you get an update you’re anxious to show off?”

There was a moment of silence in which the duo landed at the zeta-tube. Stopping, the younger of the two looked up at her elder, awaiting his response

“When we arrived back to the Hall of Justice to see that the four of you had disappeared, then heard that there had been a number of explosions at Cadmus, all of us became concerned that something had happened.” Red Tornado explained. “When we arrived at the scene to witness that the building had imploded, most likely with you inside…”

Slowly peeling off her mask, Lina looked up at her mentor with her azure gaze. A small, comforting smile adorning her face as she lifted a pale hand to touch Red Tornado’s cool metal arm.

“Don’t get all soft on me now Mon grand.” The girl said. “I am alright, all in one piece, nothing to be worried about. I’m a big, strong superhero thanks to you, remember? I can handle myself. And although I am sorry for making you worry, you must admit you had it coming. I mean…lying to me? Really?”

“It is Justice League policy not to tell anyone about the Watchtower.” Red Tornado explained, causing Lina to drop her hand in order to cross her arms.

“A policy that broke the mentor-protege trust between five groups of people today.” Lina countered. “I understand why you did not tell me, however we need to be more open with one another. That’s part of this whole ‘growing to understand people’ ordeal, non? So…can we make a deal? No more dangerous rebelling for me, if you promise not to ever lie to me again.”

Another moment, then the robot nodded.

“I believe that is a fair and logical proposition.”

Smiling, the small girl gave her mentor a quick hug to close the deal before pulling away and putting her mask back on.

“Good, I’m glad we have that settled. I really don’t like being mad at you.”

“Although I do not feel, I would not describe the…reaction your anger elicits as ‘pleasant’.”

Zephyr giggled. “Yes Mr. Robot. I’ll see you later, yes?”

“Yes, possibly tomorrow evening or the following day. But ensure that you get many hours of sleep until then.”

“Yes sir.” Zephyr nodded, before stepping into the zeta-tube. “You try to take it easy as well.”

“Recognized: Zephyr, B04.”

The zeta-tube let out in a location Lina knew all too well by now. A cobblestone building, an old and abandoned storage space on an empty plot of land owned by an anonymous organization.

This particular zeta-tube was installed when Zephyr officially became a hero, as the closest one apart from it was in Paris: a half-hour trip away on foot that wasn’t overly efficient. Lina would forever be grateful for the League and Star Labs for installing it, as it was such a short trip to and from her home.

The empty field of overgrown grass that surrounded the building was also familiar to Lina, it’s Earthy scent coating the cool breeze. Lina extended her hand, feeling the calm gust of wind rush through her fingers. The soft murmuring it voiced wasn’t clear enough to hear, but it acted as a kind of relaxing white noise to the girl who listened. To match the beauty of the terrain, the early morning sky stretched over the field like a tent in a way, the dark blues of the West mixing with the brilliant orange and pinks that barely broke over the horizon.

Overall, the entire scenery was peaceful. Especially compared to Lina’s past few hours.

Taking one last deep breath to sink in the feeling, Lina summoned her Winds and pushed off the ground. It was only a five minute flight before she came across her destination, a small two-story house in the heart of a fenced-in plot of land. The plot wasn’t too large, but enough for two fair-sized fields and a satisfactory-sized barn not too far behind the house. The house itself was welcoming, the off-white exterior accented by the dark roof and paneling, a chimney on top that was billowing smoke, and lots of windows to let in the light, most of which were decorated by windowsill planters. The front door, possibly one of Lina’s favorite material things about the property, was painted a bright, sunshiny yellow that seemed to call out to people to enter it.

Lina, spotting the living room window where she could just make out the sight of a brunette boy sitting on a couch, angled her flight towards it and pushed open the glass. The Winds gave Lina one last push before she landed soundly on the hardwood floors of her living room.

Lifting her hands above her head, she showed off a giant smile and tipped her chin up.

“Ta-da!”

“A double backflip would have been better.”

Peeling off her mask, Lina sent a bitter look to the boy sitting on the couch in front of her. Leo had hardly looked up from his book at his sister’s entrance before promptly going back to his page.

“I bruised my ribs in an imploding building less than an hour ago, cut me some slack.” Lina huffed back in her mother-tongue. “What is with everyone critiquing my landing?”

“Oh? What building?” Leo asked, still not looking up.

“You wouldn’t care, I didn’t do a double backflip to escape it.” Lina walked up to grab Leo’s teacup, taking a long sip of the hot liquid inside.

“Fair enough.” Leo sighed. “How was the tour thing? By the fact that it hasn’t been all over the news I’m assuming the Hall of Justice wasn’t the building that imploded.”

“Not great, it definitely didn’t go according to plan. Speedy quit.” Lina explained, yawning largely as she began to walk up the stairs that lead up to the second floor.

“Roy? That’s upsetting to hear.”

Lina didn’t respond as she began to peel off her uniform.

“Oh, and best not to mention the imploding building and bruised ribs to Calvin. You know how he gets.” The youngest Dubois sibling called out. “Minding he ever decides to come home…”

“Don’t worry, I won’t.” Lina called back. “I remember the broken arm incident last year.” And with that, Lina closed the door to her room behind her, leaning against it and exhaling a deep sigh in the process.

“I should really shower…” Lina muttered to herself, but instead proceeded to lift her body off the wooden door and continue stripping off her uniform. “I’ll just wash my sheets tomorrow.”

After landing her cropped cloak on the floor, and peeling off her gold boots and matching white and gold bodysuit, the cool air that hit her body was both refreshing and mildly uncomfortable. Deciding to just throw on a large t-shirt she’d stolen from Calvin, Lina gave her wounds a quick check in the long mirror beside her dresser.

Along with a few small bumps and bruises was a huge, purple bruise on her left side, a gash that had already scabbed over on her shoulder, some swollen muscle in the area around her right hip, and another large cut running from her thigh to her bellybutton that had mostly scabbed, but not quite. If not for the thick fabric of her uniform, Lina was sure her injuries would have bled through. She was mostly thankful however that the gashes were shallow, as they probably would have led to severe blood loss if the had been any deeper.

Taking some of the disinfectant wipes from the first aid kit on her dresser, Lina decided to sit and clean the gashes. The sweetness of sleep would have to wait a little bit longer.

As she gave the bloody cuts some attention however, her mind began to wander. She thought over the past 24 hours. The lies, Roy quitting, Cadmus, Superboy, the newly founded team, the League’s poor reactions to everything…

Sure, Roy had always been a hothead since day one. And yes, he had admitted to Lina and Kaldur on a separate occasion that he felt that he had outgrown the title of 'Speedy’ and was growing tired of being Ollie’s 'sidekick’…but never would Lina have ever guessed that Roy would just up and quit like he had.

And what about Superboy? The poor kid had essentially just been living for a little under a day and already he’s been exposed to what it feels like to have your mind completely engulfed with rage and bloodlust, made new allies, and been abandoned by a supposed parental figure. He had no experience in the real world outside of his pod, and now he was being thrown into the chaotic and whirlwind life of being a superhero.

And this team that Lina had landed herself a part in. What of it? Sure, she could understand why the boys put their foot down. She was more than happy to jump on the anger-train back at the Hall. But forming their own team? Was that not a little extreme? Lina trusted her friends of course, and with Kaldur’s level-headedness and maturity they were sure to at least have some kind of clear guidance, Lina knew that firsthand. But the whole thing made the butterflies in her stomach go mad. She only prayed they had all made the right choices today.

But that brought a new train of thought into the girl’s mind. Why had she decided to join the team at all if she was so skeptical about it? It had seemed like the right thing to do, stand alongside her friends. But there had to be something bigger than that if she was willing to risk her mentorship and connection to the Justice League for it. What was her motivation for all of this? Why had she chosen this path?

Throwing out the now-bloody napkins, Lina walked over to her uniform again and unlocked another hidden compartment to take out her cellphone. Opening it, she easily found the number she was looking for and typed out a quick message.

Hey Hothead,

If you need to talk, you know where I live. Just not right now, need sleep. Have a crazy story for you though, so text me back.

-Lina

Ps. I’m sorry again for the name slip earlier today. I know you weren’t really angry, but still.

Once she pressed 'send’ Lina fell onto her bed, and dug herself into the covers. As soon as she closed her eyes, she was gone.

Translations:

‘Dragueur’: a French term meaning ‘flirt’

‘Mon Grand’: a friendly term of endearment meaning ‘big guy’

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owlterri · 2 years ago

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Journal for jordan

#Journal for jordan skin#

Dana mentions that her family often inherits light skin on her mother’s side, but Jordan grows up to be lighter than his parents, to the point where he could pass for a white kid. There’s also the matter of Jalon Christian, who plays teenage Jordan. And Jordan himself doesn’t really play into the narrative, which is weird given that the film is literally about his father writing to him it isn’t until he hits adolescence that he starts to learn about his father. Somebody should have told Williams and editor Hughes Winborne to shape the story in a way that unfolds naturally, as Jordan goes from a newborn to a year old to a teenager in the space of a few scenes. First, it starts in 1993, then leaps to the early 2000s and then ends in 2018. As this is her first major feature film, I hope that casting directors keep an eye on her after this film.Ī Journal For Jordan also feels extremely discombobulated due to its random time jumps. It also marks a very important question: what does Dana see in the guy, other than perfectly chiseled abs? Adams does most of the heavy lifting emotionally, including a scene that feels contrived for dramatic purposes when they attempt a long-distance relationship, and she excels at it. Given that King died during a tour of duty in Baghdad, it’s baffling that the audience isn’t given a chance to connect with the man beyond surface details such as his taste in music and his art skills. Maybe he’s trying to emulate how King was in real life, but every role he’s played-from voicing Julian Chase in gen: LOCK to the quiet fury of John Kelly in Without Remorse-has left me with my eyes glued to the screen. Jordan has tamped down his trademark charisma, coming off as oddly stiff. However, a few factors end up hobbling the film.Ĭhief among them is the chemistry, or rather, the lack of it between Jordan and Adams. So on paper, the two working together should be a home run they even serve as producers on the film. Denzel Washington is one of the most celebrated actors alive and his transition into directing has resulted in films including The Great Debaters and Fences. Jordan has grown into one of my favorite actors, starring in blockbuster hits such as Black Panther and even transitioning into producing with his Outlier Society banner. When I first heard about A Journal For Jordan, it definitely piqued my interest. Before he’s deployed to Iraq, Dana gives Charles a journal which he fills with fatherly advice for Jordan. Jordan), which eventually resulted in the birth of their son Jordan. The film centers on Canedy ( Chanté Adams) and her relationship with 1st Seargent Charles King ( Michael B. There is a reactionary romanticism of life lived in service of country here that, while in step with what audiences might expect from a holiday film, feels out of touch with the world as we know it right now.A Journal For Jordan, directed by Denzel Washington and written by Virgil Williams, is a Columbia Pictures/BRON/Escape Artists production based on the memoir A Journal for Jordan: A Story of Love and Honor by Dana Canedy, which is an expansion of her New York Times article “From Father to Son, Last Words to Live By”. The melodramatic ending here is obvious and, while I won’t spoil it, it still feels strange to see such a recent global event be treated with such an overly sentimental veneer. Expecting a child together, Dana gifts Charles a journal that he comes to fill with loving advice and wisdom for his future son during his tour of Iraq. Jordan) from its beginnings through to Charles’ deployment in the Iraq War. And while that’s not always a bad thing, this year’s yuletide flick, A Journal for Jordan, feels particularly dated and often times emotionally cloying.Īdapted from the 2009 novel by former New York Times senior editor Dana Canedy and directed by onscreen titan Denzel Washington, the film follows the relationship of Dana (Chanté Adams) and Charles (Michael B. There is a specific tone to films scheduled for a holiday release – in short, they’re corny. Written by Dana Canedy and Virgil Williams

#Journal for jordan

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colmenerodwyane96 · 4 years ago

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topsolarpanels · 7 years ago

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Is it too late to save the world? Jonathan Franzen on one year of Trump’s America

As the ice shelves crumble and the Twitter president threatens to pull out of the Paris accord, Franzen reflects on the role of the writer in times of crisis

If an essay is something essayed – something hazarded , not definitive , not authoritative; something ventured on the basis of the author’s personal experience and subjectivity- we might seem to be living in an essayistic golden age. Which party you went to on Friday night, how you were treated by a flight attendant, what your take on the political outrage of the day is: the presumption of social media is that even the tiniest subjective micronarrative is worthy not only of private notation, as in a diary, but of sharing with other people. The US president now operates on this presumption. Traditionally hard news reporting, in places like the New York Times, has softened up to allow the I , with its voice and opinions and impressions, to take the front-page spotlight, and book reviewers feel less and less constrained to discuss books with any kind of objectivity. It didn’t use to matter if Raskolnikov and Lily Bart were likable, but the question of “likability,” with its implicit privileging of the reviewer’s personal impressions, is now a key element of critical decision. Literary fiction itself is appearing more and more like essay.

Some of the most influential fictions of recent years, by Rachel Cusk and Karl Ove Knausgaard, take the method of self-conscious first-person witnes to a new level. Their most extreme admirers will tell you that imagination and invention are outmoded contrivances; that to occupy the subjectivity of a character unlike the author is an act of appropriation, even colonialism; that the only authentic and politically defensible mode of narrative is autobiography.

Meanwhile the personal essay itself- the formal apparatus of honest self-examination and sustained engagement with notions, as developed by Montaigne and advanced by Emerson and Woolf and Baldwin- is in eclipse. Most large-circulation American magazines have all but ceased to publish pure essays. The kind persists mainly in smaller publications that collectively have fewer readers than Margaret Atwood has Twitter adherents. Should we be mourning the essay’s extinction? Or should we be celebrating its conquest of the larger culture?

A personal and subjective micronarrative: the few lessons I’ve learned about writing essays all came from my editor at the New Yorker, Henry Finder. I first went to Henry, in 1994, as a would-be journalist in pressing need of money. Largely through dumb luck, I made a publishable article about the US Postal Service, and then, through native incompetence, I wrote an unpublishable piece about the Sierra Club. This was the point at which Henry suggested that I might have some aptitude as an essayist. I heard him to be saying,” since you’re obviously a crap journalist”, and denied that I had any such aptitude. I’d been raised with a midwestern horror of yakking too much about myself, and I had an additional racism, derived from certain wrongheaded notions about novel-writing, against the stating of things that could more rewardingly be depicted . But I still needed money, so I maintain calling Henry for book-review assignments. On one of our calls, he asked me if I had any interest in the tobacco industry- the subject of a major new history by Richard Kluger. I rapidly said:” Cigarettes are the last thing in the world I want to think about .” To this, Henry even more quickly replied: “ Therefore you must be talking about them .”

This was my first lesson from Henry, and it remains the most important one. After smoking throughout my 20 s, I’d succeeded in ceasing for two years in my early 30 s. But when I was assigned the post-office piece, and became terrified of picking up the phone and introducing myself as a New Yorker journalist, I’d taken up the habit again. In the years since then, I’d managed to think of myself as a nonsmoker, or at the least as a person so securely resolved to quit again that I might as well already have been a nonsmoker, even as I continued to smoking. My state of mind was just a quantum wave function in which I could be totally a smoker but also totally not a smoker, so long as I never took measure of myself. And it was instantly clear to me that writing about cigarettes would force me to take my measure. “Thats what” essays do.

President-elect Donald Trump speaks at his election night rally in New York in November 2016. Photograph: Carlo Allegri/ Reuters

There was also the problem of my mother, whose parent had died of lung cancer, and who was militantly anti-tobacco. I’d concealed my habit from her for more than 15 years. One reason I needed to preserve my indeterminacy as a smoker/ nonsmoker was that I didn’t enjoy lying to her. As soon as I could succeed in discontinuing again, permanently, the wave function would collapse and I would be, one hundred per cent, the nonsmoker I’d always represented myself to be- but only if I didn’t first come out, in publish, as a smoker.

Henry had been a twentysomething wunderkind when Tina Brown hired him at the New Yorker. He had a distinctive tight-chested manner of speaking, a kind of hyper-articulate mumble, like prose acutely well edited but scarcely legible. I was awed by his intelligence and his erudition and had promptly come to live in dread of disillusioning him. Henry’s passionate emphasis in “ Therefore you must write about them”- he was the only speaker I knew who could get away with the stressed initial “ Therefore ” and the imperative “must”- allowed me to hope that I’d registered in his consciousness in some small way.

And so I went to work on the essay, every day combusting half a dozen low-tar cigarettes in front of a box fan in my living-room window, and handed in the only thing I ever wrote for Henry that didn’t need his editing. I don’t remember how my mother get her hands on the essay or how she conveyed to me her deep sense of betrayal, whether by letter or in telephone calls, but I do remember that she then didn’t communicate with me for six weeks- by a wide margin, the longest she ever ran silent on me. It was precisely as I’d dreaded. But when she got over it and began sending me letters again, I felt insured by her, insured for what I was, in a manner that is I’d never felt before. It wasn’t just that my “real” self had been concealed from her; it was as if there hadn’t really been a self to see.

Kierkegaard, in Either/ Or , builds fun of the” busy human” for whom busyness is a style of avoiding an honest self-reckoning. You might wake up in the night and realise that you’re lonely in your matrimony, or that you need to think about what your level of consumption is doing to the planet, but the next day you have a million little things to do, and the day after that you have another million things. As long as there’s no end of little things, you never have to stop and confront the bigger questions. Writing or reading an essay isn’t the only style to stop and ask yourself who you really are and what your life might mean, but it is one good way. And if you consider how laughably unbusy Kierkegaard’s Copenhagen was, compared with our own age, those subjective tweets and hasty blog posts don’t seem so essayistic. They seem more like a means of avoiding what a real essay might force on us. We spend our days reading, on screens, stuff we’d never bother reading in a printed book, and bitch about how busy we are.

I quit cigarettes for the second time in 1997. And then, in 2002, for the final time. And then, in 2003, for the last and final day- unless you count the smokeless nicotine that’s coursing through my bloodstream as I write this. Attempting to write an honest essay doesn’t alter the multiplicity of my egoes; I’m still simultaneously a reptile-brained addict, a worrier about my health, an eternal adolescent, a self-medicating depressive. What changes, if I take the time to stop and measure, is that my multi-selved identity acquires substance .

One of the mysteries of literature is that personal substance, as perceived by both the writer and the reader, is situated outside the body of either of them, on some kind of page. How can I feel realer to myself in a thing I’m writing than I do inside my body? How can I feel closer to another person when I’m reading her terms than I do when I’m sitting next to her? The answer, in part, is that both writing and reading demand full attentiveness. But it surely also has to do with the kind of ordering that is possible merely on the page.

Former FBI director James Comey testifying before the US Senate select committee on intelligence in October. Photograph: Saul Loeb/ AFP/ Getty Images

Here I might mention two other lessons I learned from Henry Finder. One was Every essay, even a think piece, tells a story . The other was There are two ways to organise material:” Like goes with like” and “This followed that.” These precepts may seem self-evident, but any grader of high-school or college essays can tell you that they aren’t. To me it was especially not evident that a believe piece should follow the rules of drama. And yet: doesn’t a good debate begin by positing some difficult problem? And doesn’t it then propose an escape from the problem through some bold proposition, and put in obstacles in the form of objections and counterarguments, and finally, through a series of reversals, take us to an unforeseen but fulfilling conclusion?

If you accept Henry’s premise that a successful prose piece consists of material arranged in the form of a story, and if you share my own conviction that our identities consist of the narratives we tell about ourselves, it stimulates sense that we should get a strong make of personal substance from the labour of writing and the pleasure of reading. When I’m alone in the woods or having dinner with a friend, I’m overwhelmed by the quantity of random sensory data coming at me. The act of writing subtracts almost everything, leaving merely the alphabet and punctuation marks, and progresses toward non-randomness. Sometimes, in ordering the elements of a familiar tale, you discover that it doesn’t mean what you thought it did. Sometimes, especially with an debate (” This follows from that “), a completely new narrative is called for. The discipline of fashioning a compelling tale can crystallise thoughts and feelings you merely dimly knew you had in you.

If you’re looking at a mass of material that doesn’t seem to give itself to storytelling, Henry would say your merely other option is to sort it into categories, grouping similar components together: Like goes with like . This is, at a minimum, a tidy route to write. But patterns also have a way of turning into stories. To make sense of Donald Trump’s victory in an election he was widely expected to lose, it’s tempting to construct a this-followed-that narrative: Hillary Clinton was careless with her emails, the Justice department chose not to prosecute her, then Anthony Weiner’s emails came to light, then James Comey reported to Congress that Clinton might still be in difficulty, and then Trump won the election. But it may actually be more fruitful to group like with like: Trump’s victory was like the Brexit vote and like the resurgent anti-immigrant patriotism in Europe. Clinton’s imperiously sloppy handled in her emails was like her poorly messaged campaign and like her decision not to campaign harder in Michigan and Pennsylvania.

I was in Ghana on election day, birdwatching with my brother and two friends. James Comey’s report to Congress had unsettled the campaign before I left for Africa, but Nate Silver‘s authoritative polling website, Fivethirtyeight, was still giving Trump only a 30% opportunity of winning. Having cast an early vote for Clinton, I’d arrived in Accra feeling only moderately anxious about the election and congratulating myself on my decision to spend the final week of the campaign not checking Fivethirtyeight 10 times a day.

I was indulging a different sort of compulsion in Ghana. To my shame, I am what people in the world of birding call a lister. It’s not that I don’t love birds for their own sake. I run birding to experience their beauty and diversity, understand better their behaviour and the ecosystems they belong to, and take long, attentive walkings in new places. But I also maintain way too many listings. I count not only the bird species I’ve seen worldwide but the ones I’ve seen in every country and every US state I’ve birded in, also at various smaller sites, including my back yard, and in every calendar year since 2003. I can rationalise my compulsive counting as an extra little game I play within the context of my passion. But I truly am compulsive. This builds me morally inferior to birders who bird exclusively for the joy of it.

It happened that by going to Ghana I’d dedicated myself a chance to break my previous year-list record of 1,286 species. I was already over 800 for 2016, and I knew, from my online research, that trips similar to ours had produced virtually 500 species, merely a handful of which are also common in America. If I could see 460 unique year species in Africa, and then utilize my seven-hour layover in London to pick up 20 easy European birds at a park near Heathrow, 2016 would be my best year ever.

Hillary Clinton …’ Careless with her emails .’ Photograph: Jewel Samad/ AFP/ Getty Images

We were assuring great stuff in Ghana, spectacular turacos and bee-eaters found only in west Africa. But the country’s few remaining woodlands are under intense hunting and logging pressure, and our walkings in them were more sweltering than productive. By the evening of election day, we’d already missed our only shot at several of my target species. Very early the next morning, when polls were still open on the west coast of the States, I turned on my phone for the pleasure of confirming that Clinton was winning the election. What I found instead were stricken texts from my friends in California, with pictures of them staring at a TV and seeming morose, my girlfriend curled up on a sofa in a fetal posture. The Times headline of the moment was ” Trump Takes North Carolina, Building Momentum; Clinton’s Path to Victory Narrow .”

There was nothing to be done but go birding. On a road in the Nsuta forest, dodging timber trucks whose momentum I associated with Trump’s, and yet clinging to the idea that Clinton still had a track to victory, I insured Black Dwarf Hornbills, an African Cuckoo-Hawk and a Melancholy Woodpecker. It was a sweaty but satisfactory morning that objective, when we re-emerged into network coverage, with the news that the” short-fingered vulgarian”( Spy magazine’s memorable epithet) was my country’s new president. This was the moment when I insured what my mind had been doing with Nate Silver’s figure of 30% for Trump’s odds. Somehow I’d taken the figure to mean that the world might be, worst case, 30% shittier after election day.

What the number actually represented, of course, was a 30% chance of the world’s being 100% shittier.

As we travelled up into drier, emptier northern Ghana, we intersected with some birds I’d long dreamed of watch: Egyptian Plovers, Carmine Bee-eaters and a male Standard-winged Nightjar, whose outrageous wing streamers devoted it the appear of a nighthawk being closely pursued by two bats. But we were falling ever further behind the year-bird pace I needed to maintain. It occurred to me, belatedly, that the trip lists I’d seen online had included species that were only hear , not ensure, while I needed to see a bird to count it. Those lists had raised my hopes the way Nate Silver had. Now every target species I missed increased the pressure to find all of the remaining targets, even the wildly unlikely ones, if I wanted to break my record. It was only a stupid year listing, ultimately meaningless even to me, but I was haunted by the headline from the morning after election day. Instead of 275 electoral elections, I needed 460 species, and my route to victory was becoming very narrow. Finally, four days before the end of the trip, in the spillway of a dam near the Burkina Faso border, where I’d hoped to get half a dozen new grassland birds and see zero, I had to accept the reality of loss. I was abruptly aware that I should have been at home, trying to console my girlfriend about the election, exerting the one benefit of being a depressive pessimist, which is the propensity to chuckle in dark times.

How had the short-fingered vulgarian arrived at the White House? When Hillary Clinton started speaking in public again, she gave credence to a like-goes-with-like account of her character by advancing a this-followed-that narrative. Never mind that she’d mishandled her emails and uttered the phrase ” basket of deplorables “. Never intellect that voters might have had legitimate grievances with the liberal elite she represented; might have failed to appreciate the rationality of free trade, open perimeters, and mill automation when the overall gains in global wealth came at middle-class expenditure; might have resented the federal imposition of liberal urban values on conservative rural communities. According to Clinton, her loss was the flaw of James Comey- maybe also of the Russians.

Admittedly, I had my own neat narrative account. When I came home from Africa to Santa Cruz, my progressive friends were still struggling to understand how Trump could have won. I remembered a public event I’d once done with the optimistic social-media specialist Clay Shirky, who’d recounted to the audience how “shocked” professional New York eatery critics had been when Zagat, a crowd-sourced reviewing service, had named Union Square Cafe the best eatery in township. Shirky’s point was that professional critics aren’t as smart as they think they are; that, in fact, in the age of Big Data, critics are no longer even necessary. At the event, dismissing the fact that Union Square Cafe was my favourite New York restaurant( the crowd was right !), I’d sourly wondered if Shirky believed that critics were also stupid to consider Alice Munro a better writer than James Patterson. But now Trump’s victory, too, had vindicated Shirky’s mockery of pundits. Social media had allowed Trump to bypass the critical establishment, and just enough members of the crowd, in key swaying states, had find his low comedy and his incendiary speech “better” than Clinton’s nuanced arguments and her mastery of policy. This follows from that : without Twitter and Facebook , no Trump.

After the election, Mark Zuckerberg did briefly appears to take responsibility, kind of, for having made the platform of selection for fake news about Clinton, and to suggest that Facebook could become more active in filtering the news.( Good luck with that .) Twitter, for its part, kept its head down. As Trump’s tweeting continued unabated, what could Twitter possibly say? That it was constructing the world a better place?

Mark Zuckerberg suggested that Facebook could become more active in filtering the news. Photo: Steven Senne/ AP

In December, my favourite Santa Cruz radio station, KPIG, began operating a fake ad offering counselling services to addicts of Trump-hating tweets and Facebook posts. The following month, a week before Trump’s inauguration, the PEN American Center organised events around the country to reject the assault on free speech that it claimed Trump represented. Although his administration’s travelling regulations did afterwards make it harder for novelists from Muslim countries to have their voices heard in the United States, the one bad thing that could not be said of Trump, in January, was that he had in any way curtailed free speech. His lying, bullying tweets were free speech on steroids. PEN itself, only a few years earlier, had given a free-speech awarding to Twitter, for its self-publicised role in the Arab spring. The actual outcome of the Arab springtime had been a retrenchment of autocracy, and Twitter had since uncovered itself, in Trump’s hands, to be a platform made to order for autocracy, but the ironies didn’t end there. During the same week in January, progressive American bookstores and authors proposed a boycott of Simon& Schuster for the crime of intending to publish one book by the dismal right-wing provocateur Milo Yiannopoulos. The angriest of the bookstores talked of refusing to stock all titles from S& S, including, presumably, the books of Andrew Solomon, the president of PEN. The talk didn’t aim until S& S voided its contract with Yiannopoulos.

Trump and his alt-right supporters take pleasure in pushing the buttons of the politically correct, but it merely works because the buttons are there to be pushed- students and activists claiming the human rights of not hear things that upset them, and to shout down notions that offend them. Intolerance particularly flourishes online, where measured speech is punished by not getting clicked on, invisible Facebook and Google algorithms steer you towards content you agree with, and nonconforming voices remain silent for fear of being flamed or trolled or unfriended. The outcome is a silo in which, whatever side you’re on, you feel absolutely right to detest what you detest. And here is another way in which the essay distinguished from superficially similar kinds of subjective speech. The essay’s roots are in literature, and literature at its best- the work of Alice Munro, for example- invites you to ask whether you might be somewhat wrong, maybe even entirely wrong, and to imagine why someone else might dislike you.

Three years ago, I was in a state of fury about climate change. The Republican party was continuing to lie about the absence of a scientific consensus on climate- Florida’s Department of Environmental Protection had gone so far as to forbid its employees to write the words “climate change”, after Florida’s governor, a Republican, insisted that it wasn’t a” true fact”- but I wasn’t much less angry at the left. I’d read a new volume by Naomi Klein, This Changes Everything , in which she assured the reader that, although” period is tight”, we still have 10 years to radically remake the world economy and prevent global temperatures from rising by more than two degrees Celsius by the end of the century. Klein wasn’t the only leftist saying we still had 10 years. In fact, environmental activists had been saying the exact same thing in 2005.

They’d also been saying it in 1995: We still have 10 years . By 2015, though, it ought to have been clear that humanity is incapable in every way- politically, psychologically, ethically, economically- of reducing carbon emissions quickly enough to change everything. Even the European union, which had taken the early lead on climate, and was fond of lecturing other regions on their irresponsibility, needed only a recession in 2009 to change its focus to economic growth. Barring a worldwide insurrection against free-market capitalism in the next 10 years- the scenario that Klein contended could still save us- the most likely rise in temperature this century is on the order of six degrees. We’ll be lucky to avoid a two-degree risebefore the year 2030.

In a polity ever more starkly divided, the truth about global warming was even less convenient to the left than to the right. The right’s denials were odious lies, but at least they were consistent with a certain cold-eyed political realism. The left, having excoriated the right for its intellectual deceit and turned climate denialism into a political rallying cry, was now in an impossible posture. It had to keep insisting on the truth of climate science while persisting in the fiction that collective world action could stave off the worst of it: that universal acceptance of the facts, which really might have changed everything in 1995, could still change everything. Otherwise, what change did it build if the Republicans quibbled with the social sciences?

Because my sympathies were with the left- reducing carbon emissions is vastly better than doing nothing; every half-degree helps- I also held it to a higher criterion. Denying the dark reality, pretending that the Paris accord could forestall misfortune, was understandable as a tactic to hold people motivated to reduce emissions; to keep hope alive. As a strategy, though, it did more damage than good. It conceded the ethical high ground, insulted the intelligence of unpersuaded voters (” Truly? We still have 10 years ?”), and foreclosed frankfurter discussion of how the global community should prepare for drastic changes, and how nations like Bangladesh should be compensated for what nations like the United States have done to them.

Dishonesty also skewed priorities. In the past 20 years, the environmental movement had become captive to a single issue. Partly out of genuine alarm, partly also because foregrounding human problems was politically less risky- less elitist- than talking about nature, the big environmental NGOs had all invested their political capital in fighting climate change, a problem with a human face. The NGO that especially enraged me, as a bird lover, was the National Audubon Society, once an uncompromising defender of birds , now a lethargic organization with a very large PR department. In September 2014, with much fanfare, that PR department had announced to the world that climate change was the number-one menace to the birds of Northern america. The proclamation was both narrowly dishonest, because its wording didn’t square with the conclusions of Audubon’s own scientists, and broadly dishonest, because not one single bird demise could be directly attributed to human carbon emissions. In 2014, the most serious threat to American birds was habitat loss, followed by outdoor cats, collisions with buildings, and pesticides. By invoking the buzzword of climate change, Audubon got a lot of attention in the liberal media; another point had been scored against the science-denying right. But it was not at all clear how this helped birds. The only practical effect of Audubon’s announcement, it seemed to me, was to discourage people from addressing the real threats to birds in the present.

Snow Geese in New Mexico, USA. Photograph: Nature Picture Library/ Alamy/ Alamy

I was so angry that I decided that I’d better write an essay. I began with a jeremiad against the National Audubon Society, widened it into a scornful denunciation of the environmental movement generally, and then started waking up in the night in a panic of repentance and doubt. For the writer, an essay is a mirror, and I didn’t like what I was find in this one. Why was I excoriating fellow liberals when the denialists were so much worse? The prospect of climate change was every bit as sickening to me as to the groups I was attacking. With every additional degree of global warming, further hundreds of millions of people around the world would suffer. Wasn’t it worth an all-out effort to achieve a reduction of even half of one degree? Wasn’t it obscene to be talking about birds when children in Bangladesh were threatened? Yes, the premise of my essay was that we have an ethical responsibility to other species as well as to our own. But what if that premise was false? And, even if it was true, did I genuinely care personally about biodiversity? Or was I just a privileged white guy who liked to go birding? And not even a purehearted birder- a lister!

After three nights of doubting my character and motives, I called Henry Finder and told him I couldn’t write the piece. I’d done plenty of ranting about climate to my friends and to likeminded conservationists, but it was like a lot of the ranting that happens online, where you’re protected by the impromptu nature of the writing and by the known friendliness of your audience. Trying to write a finished thing, an essay, had made me aware of the sloppiness of my reasoning. It had also enormously increased health risks of shame, because the writing wasn’t casual, and because it was going out to an audience of probably hostile strangers. Following Henry’s admonition (“ Therefore “), I’d come to think of the essayist as a firefighter, whose undertaking, while everyone else is fleeing the flames of shame, is to run straight into them. But I had a lot more to fear now than my mother’s disapproval.

My essay might have stayed abandoned if I hadn’t already clicked a button on Audubon’s website, confirming that, yes, I wanted to join it in fighting climate change. I’d only done this to gather rhetorical ammunition to use against Audubon, but a spate of direct-mail solicitations had followed from that click. I got at least eight of them in six weeks, all of them asking me to give money, along with a similar deluge in my email inbox. A few days after speaking to Henry, I opened one of the emails and discovered myself looking at a picture of myself – fortunately a flattering image, taken in 2010 for Vogue magazine, which had dressed me up better than I garment myself and posed me in a field with my binoculars, like a birder. The headline of the email was something like” Join Author Jonathan Franzen in Supporting Audubon “. It was true that, a few years earlier, in an interview with Audubon magazine, I’d politely praised the organisation, or at least its publication. But no one had asked for my permission to use my name and image for solicitation. I wasn’t sure the email was even legal.

A more benign impetus to return to the essay received from Henry. As far as I know, Henry couldn’t care less about birds, but he seemed to see something in my argument that our preoccupation with future catastrophes discourages us from tackling solvable environmental problems in the here and now. In an email to me, he gently suggested that I lose the tone of prophetic disdain.” This piece will be more persuasive ,” he wrote in another,” if, ironically, it’s more ambivalent, less polemical. You’re not whaling on folks who want us to pay attention to climate change and emission reductions. But you’re attentive to the costs. To what the discourse pushes to the margins .” Email by email, revise by revision, Henry nudged me toward framing the essay not as a denunciation but as a question: how do we find meaning in our actions when the world seems to be coming to an end? Much of the final draft was allocated to a pair of well-conceived regional preservation projects, in Peru and Costa Rica, where the world really is being made a better place , not just for wild plants and wild animals but for the Peruvians and Costa Ricans who live there. Run on these projects is personally meaningful, and the benefits are immediate and tangible.

In writing about the two projects, I hoped that one or two of the big charitable foundations, the ones expending tens of millions of dollars on biodiesel development or on gale farms in Eritrea, might read the piece and consider investing in work that produces tangible results. What I get instead was a missile attack from the liberal silo. I’m not on social media, but my friends reported that I was being called all sorts of names, including “birdbrain” and” climate-change denier “. Tweet-sized snippets of my essay, retweeted out of context, induced it sound as if I’d proposed that we abandon the effort to reduce carbon emissions, which was the position of the Republican party, which, by the polarising logic of online discourse, attained me a climate-change denier. In fact, I’m such a climate-science accepter that I don’t even bother having hope for the ice caps. All I’d denied was that a right-minded international elite, meeting in nice hotels around the world, could stop them from melting. This was my crime against orthodoxy. Climate now has such a lock on the liberal imagination that any attempt to change the conversation- even trying to change it to the epic extinction event that human beings are already generating without the help of climate change- amounts to an offence against religion.

I did have pity for the climate-change professionals who denounced the essay. They’d been working for decades to create the alarm in America, and they ultimately had President Obama on board with them; they had the Paris accord. It was an inopportune time to point out that drastic global warming is already a done deal, and that it seems unlikely that humanity is going to leave any carbon in the ground, given that, even now , not one country in the world has pledged to do it.

In 2015, President obama described the Paris accord as the best chance to save the planet. Photo: Pool/ Getty Images

I also understood the ferocity of the alternative-energy industry, which is a business like any other. If you allow that renewable energy projects are only a moderating tactic, unable to reverse the damage that past carbon emissions will continue to do for centuries, it opens the door to other questions about the business. Like, did we really need quite so many windmills? Did they have to be placed in ecologically sensitive regions? And the solar farms in the Mojave desert- wouldn’t it induce more sense to covering the city of Los Angeles with solar panels and spare the open space? Weren’t we sort of destroying the natural environment in order to save it? I believe it was an industry blogger who called me a birdbrain.

As for Audubon, the fundraising email should have warned me about the character of its management. But I was still surprised by its reply to the essay, which was to attack, ad hominem, the person whose name and image it had blithely appropriated two months earlier. My essay had, yes, devoted Audubon some tough love. I wanted it to cut out the nonsense, stop talking about 50 years from now, and be more aggressive in defending the birds that both it and I love.

But apparently all Audubon could see was a threat to its membership numbers and its fundraising endeavors, and so it had to disprove me as a person. I’m told the president of Audubon fired off four different salvos at me personally. This is what presidents do now.

And it worked. Without even reading those salvos- simply from knowing that other people were reading them- I felt ashamed. I felt the style I’d felt in eighth grade, shunned by the crowd and called names that shouldn’t have hurt but did. I wished I’d listened to my anxieties in the night and maintained my opinions to myself. In a country of some anguish, I called up Henry and dumped all my dishonor and regret on him. He replied, in his barely legible route, that the online reaction was merely weather.” With public opinion ,” he said,” there’s weather, and then there’s climate. You’re trying to change the climate, and that takes time .”

It didn’t matter if I believed this or not. It was enough to feel that one person, Henry, didn’t detest me. I consoled myself with the thought that, although climate is too vast and chaotic for any individual to alter it, the individual can s