#but once you do reach them they have such curious and open and impressionable hearts

[itspileofgoodthings]

not to romanticize my job or teenagers but I love how they (teenagers I mean but especially girls) are always looking for something to love, something to be swept away by, something that moves them. their hearts, even the hardest of them, are so easily moved.

[yoonpobs]

together | myg

pairing: min yoongi x singlemother!reader

genre: fluff, very soft fluff, domesticity

words: 5, 007

summary: min yoongi is a good man but even a better father ... figure

“Baby … what did we say about boundaries?” You crouch down to reach Jihoon’s eye level and the mini you—as said by your friends—simply ignores your oncoming lecture by staring at his feet.

“Limits …” He mumbles softly and all you want to do is hug him and tell him he can do no wrong but motherhood is tough despite all the online blogs telling you that they’re with you. You loved your baby, you really did—but God decided to fuck with you by making him the reflection of yourself when you were younger and you heard nightmarish stories from your parents from when you were growing up.

You run your hand over his hair soothingly because as much as he was like you, he was still only two years old and his own person, fluff and bread arms. You knew not to restrain him with furrowed brows or raised voices but instead with the patience your parents always taught you to have and the compassion that you wished you were naturally blessed with. But life had a funny way of taking away things from you.

Well—your ex-husband was never really taken from you—he left you, and instead of feeling shambled and distraught you were made of such resolve that you merely blinked when he packed his bags after he said he was cheating on you. The only sweat you broke was realising that Jihoon was only three months old when his dad left without sparing him another glance.

But your baby grew up and so did you. Your job at office paid well enough for you to live comfortably with Jihoon and hire nannies to look after him whenever you couldn’t; even though you tried your best to always be with him so he wouldn’t grow up resenting an absent mother. But you worried like anyone else would because while your friends and family would say you were doing an impeccable job, your self-sabotaging tendencies nagged at yourself by saying that he needed a male figure in his life.

He mumbles a soft apology, so respectful with his big eyes and you smile at him. You knew he meant no harm when storming into your office and scrambling off with important documents because he was still impressionable and curious about nearly everything. Your heart dropped when you realised your reports were pretty much incoherent with the way he doodled over them but you knew not to blame him.

“Forgiven Hoon.” You kiss his forehead.

His eyes turn into tiny slits with his toothless smile and your heart clenches at the little human you created and love dearly.

“Love you mama.” He plants a sloppy kiss on your cheek before waddling off to his playpen where his toys are laid neatly. If there was anything he inherited from you; it’d be your meticulous tendencies.

You sigh, leaning into the wall of your kitchen as you watch Jihoon with fond eyes as he plays with his dolls and figurines, dressing them in dresses and pants just like how you taught him that gender had no look and that everyone was different. Obviously, explaining the concept of social constructs to a two-year-old is not a conversation any parent would have with their child but you believed that these fundamental core values of humanity were important to his growth into his toddler stages and eventually adulthood.

“I can’t believe you squeezed that cutie out of your vagina.” Taehyung snorts, sneaking up behind you and you don’t flinch because you’re way too used to his unwanted comments and sudden appearances.

“I am 90% cute so it’s only right that my child inherits that from me.” You retort, eyes still trained on your baby boy.

Taehyung looks over at Jihoon who directs a mini-play of a loving family, and your heart is still sad at the prospect of his adolescent years only being with you.

“You know … hyung is asking about you,” Taehyung says and you immediately still in your position, hands freezing in your pockets because you know exactly who he’s referring too and you weren’t exactly ready for that conversation, especially with your older brother.

“He says he misses Hoonie.”

You sigh, turning your head to face your older brother and you can only muster enough emotion to look fine with his statement but you simply looked constipated with the way your face scrunches up.

“We’ve been busy …” You mutter.

“Jihoon is two-years-old and the only thing he’s busy with is trying not to give you a heart attack every time he nearly runs into the wall and you literally work from home now that your boss is some progressive liberal that tries a new system every two days,” Taehyung says dryly, pinning you with a deadpan.

“Stop offending me by insulting my son!” You whine.

“That’s my nephew too.” He rolls his eyes as you punch him in the shoulder.

“That has a name and it’s Jihoon you bitch.”

“Mama said beech?” Jihoon tilts his head in a curious manner and your expression morphs into one of mortification as Taehyung cackles in response.

“Stop. Laughing.” You hiss but it’s no use because your brother has never once listened to anything you had to say throughout the last twenty-nine years of your life.

“You—” Your snide is cut short by rapt knocks on your door, and you see Taehyung’s grin widen. You know that look intimately because it’s the expression he wears before he pisses you off or embarrasses you.

“He’s here!” He sounds delighted as he skips towards the door. You want to pull his back by his collar to ask him what the fuck he was talking about but he’s quick with his hands and the door is open. Your mouth falls and you nearly get whiplash with the way that you stare at your guest.

“Y-Yoongi.” He was possibly the last person you wanted to see and you had no idea what he was doing at your apartment at night on a weekday.

Then you see Taehyung’s pleased expression and put two-and-two together.

“___, hey. Taehyung said you needed help with Hoon tonight?” He offers a tilt of his lips because Yoongi was not an expressive man by any means. But that didn’t mean he didn’t have a good heart; that was far from the truth of the enigma that was Min Yoongi.

He was a good person and an even better friend. Although the two of you had tip-toed on the line between friends to something more than that, he never explicitly said anything about his interests to you. And you didn’t want to pressure him by saying anything because even though he was in his thirties and still very much single with a stable job as a surgeon at the top hospital, a two-year-old son is rarely what a man that appealing ever wants when looking for a relationship.

That was why you stopped replying to his texts or inviting him over to hang out with Jihoon anymore because Jihoon adored him so much and your poor heart couldn’t bear to see the two boys interact without an ugly flower called hope bloom in your chest. He only ever knew who you were because he and Taehyung were co-workers and probably only tolerated you by association.

You loved Jihoon and wanted the best for him. Even if that was Min Yoongi—you needed to protect your heart too.

“I did?” You tilt your head and Yoongi automatically notices the habit that you and Jihoon share. Taehyung is somehow next to you already and you know that because he stomps on your foot and shoots you a glare when you hiss.

“I did.” You cough.

“Mama?” Jihoon peeks his head through the divider between the kitchen and the common area, and his eyes immediately light up when he sees Yoongi hovering by the entrance.

“Yoongi!” He squeals as he speeds as fast as he can with his little feet towards the man in his scrubs who shoots your son with his gummy smile.

“Hey, buddy.” He picks your son up effortlessly and you know you’re staring but you rarely ever see men who are this patient let alone this good with children.

“Close your lips,” Taehyung whispers into your ear.

“I’m—that’s not what was happening …” You mumble, a blush appearing on your cheeks as you look away from the hugs and kisses that Yoongi gives Jihoon.

“I meant your other ones.” Your brother says dryly.

“Kim Taehyung—!” Your arms are already reaching for his neck to strangle him but Yoongi calling your name snaps you out of your anger.

“Have you eaten dinner yet?”

Your head snaps to Yoongi who now has Jihoon on his hip while he plays with the material of his scrubs. You hate how your heart flutters at the domesticity of the question and how Yoongi looks so much like a father to your son and a husband in your home.

You realise the dangerous daydream you’re falling into and shake your head to snap out of it before you hurt yourself even more.

“Us? No, we haven’t. Tae and I were planning to order in at our favourite place.” You tell Yoongi with a small smile.

You see the hint of a frown marring on his face but it goes as quick as it comes as he stalks towards you.

“Actually—” Taehyung cuts in before Yoongi can say anything, “—I have a … thing.”

He points his thumb towards the door and you curse him in your head so much that you hoped sibling telepathy was a thing so he could hear what you felt about him right now.

“You … do?” Yoongi asks.

Taehyung shrugs, as ambiguous as ever before ruffling Jihoon’s hair and offering a fist bump and a kiss before he approaches your door.

“Taehyung—” You grit.

“Bye, buddy! Yoongi.” He acknowledges the two other boys but not you and you know it’s because while Taehyung loved to annoy you, he knew you were a handful and quite literally the spawn of satan when you were angry and you weren’t just angry but livid.

“Get back here—!” And he’s gone before you know it, and even Jihoon mumbles a soft bye Tae samchon after he’s gone.

You sigh, resting your head against the frame of the door that was now shut in your face, stuck in your own house with the man that you’ve been helplessly pining over that looks way too at home with the way Jihoon plays with the softness of his black hair.

You turn around, closing your eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

When you open them, Yoongi has an eyebrow raised, placing Jihoon on his high-chair. And you don’t know why you found that act so hot but you couldn’t even set your own son down into that chair without him making a fuss but he only giggled cheekily when Yoongi did so.

“What for?”

He doesn’t sound angry, just genuinely confused. You purse your lips and walk towards Jihoon who was simply babbling to himself and grab a cloth to wipe at the appearance of a new stain on his shirt which you suspect he got from his playtime earlier, and you internally groaned at the fact that he probably found some food and decided that it would be a good addition to his play family.

“I know it’s really busy at the hospital this time around and Taehyung basically scammed you here … with us.” You fiddle with your fingers after you pick up a toy on the floor and pass it to Jihoon to keep him occupied as you have a much more … adult-esque conversation with Yoongi. While you made it clear to Jihoon that he didn’t necessarily have a father in his life because you owed him that much, you tried to steer far from conflict and turmoil so he wouldn’t have to grow up knowing only the lows of life.

Yoongi just … stares. And it’s unnerving because you could barely read the man in general and he was looking at you with a blank expression that only causes your anxiety to settle further into your bones. You’re thinking of about a million different ways to apologise or to spontaneously combust so you could save yourself from the scrutiny of Yoongi’s eyes. But before you can say anything and embarrass yourself, even more, he speaks.

“Do you think I don’t enjoy spending time with the two of you?” He frowns, and that’s the most expressive you’ve seen him throughout your entire friendship with the man. The fact that the first time he’s ever shown any explicit emotion around you is one of … disappointment … only makes you realise how far out of his league you were.

“N-No!” You shake your head, flustered at his tone. When you look at him, his face is much softer; a type of expression that shows longing but you aren’t quite sure why it’s there.

“It’s just … you’re busy, Yoongi. You’re a hotshot doctor at the best private healthcare facility in the city and you’re here spending the last night before the weekend with some pathetic single mom who still—by the way—can’t decide on how to brush my teeth just because it doesn’t feel right.”

Yoongi blinks at you, then he looks over at Jihoon and you’re confused for a second because it seems like he’s dismissing your mini ramble, but instead, he reaches out to Jihoon’s hand and bends down so he can look Jihoon straight in the eye.

“Hey, bud?” He calls out to Jihoon and your son looks at Yoongi with all the stars in his eyes.

Your heart softens at the interaction and notices how the way Jihoon doesn’t pull away when Yoongi reaches out to carry him in his arms again.

“Yoongi!” He squeals, squeezing the man’s cheeks between his chubby fingers and you can’t help but laugh at his enthusiasm and the way that Yoongi resembles a cat.

“I need to ask you something.” He whispers as if it were only the two of the room and you stand on the opposite of them with your arms crossed and eyebrows raised.

Your son bobs his head up and down in agreement as he waits for Yoongi to ask him his question.

“Yoongi …” You trail off but he pays you no mind.

“Do you love your mama?” The question surprises you and your mouth opens and closes, and your emotions are all over the place because the question makes you feel nearly inadequate. The way that he asks the question prompts you to wonder if it seemed like what you were doing for Jihoon just wasn’t enough.

“What is this even about?” You snap, eyes narrowed at Yoongi but he still ignores you.

Jihoon nods his cute little head eagerly without a moment of hesitation after Yoongi asks his … what you would say—preposterous question.

“I love mama with all my heart. She’s the best!” Jihoon giggles into Yoongi’s shirt as he leans his head against his chest. You don’t know why his words make you choke up when he tells you he loves you every day but the reassurance that your son does indeed love you makes you feel like you can do anything. It was also probably the fact that you noticed Yoongi smiling fondly between the two of you.

“Do you think she’s pathetic, Hoonie?” He throws your words to your son and you scowl at Yoongi who is still keeping his act of ignoring you very much alive.

“Pathedic?” Jihoon tilts his head again and you almost coo at the slight lisp he has when he asks.

Yoongi chuckles warmly and offers you a small smile as if to tell you that you’d see soon enough before repeating himself to your son.

“Bad.” Yoongi settles.

Jihoon gasps in his tiny little way and frowns, looking over at you with a cute crumpled expression that makes your heart swell even more. The urge to hold your son increases tremendously but you were still confused and curious as to what Yoongi was getting at.

“No no no! Mama is the best, didn’t you hear?” Jihoon squabbles.

You bite your lip to refrain from smiling so wide and choke back the tears that well up.

“Mama always cooks yummy food and never yells at me! I always see other mama’s yelling at their babies but mama … mama loves me too, right?” He rambles off and you sniffle.

“Love you a lot, Hoon.” You say from a distance and Jihoon is satisfied with your answer.

You turn to look at Yoongi and sigh.

“What is this about, Yoongi?” You sound stern and he acknowledges that. He knows the situation is much more serious than what he perceives but he can’t help but observe how the furrow of your brows resembles a squirrel. The comparison makes him want to laugh because you were so cute even when you were angry.

“I have one more question.” He tells you.

You don’t say anything but watch the way he leans in closer to Jihoon with eyes more serious than you’ve seen before.

“You want to see mama happy?” Yoongi whispers so softly that you almost miss it.

Jihoon nods.

“Of course. Mama always makes me happy. But she looks … lonely.” Jihoon frowns a little and you can’t help but have a tear fall. Your baby boy was young but observant and had a heart of pure gold. You didn’t need anyone but Jihoon but—

“What do you think if she gave you a papa?” Yoongi asks and the question stills your entire body. You don’t even see the way Jihoon lights up at the proposition and you also miss the way Yoongi looks over at you once to gauge your reaction.

“Will you be my papa Yoongi?” The question is what snaps you out of your reverie to realise the situation you were in and the allusion of Jihoon’s question.

“Jihoon! You can’t just—say sorry.” You squeak but Jihoon doesn’t pay you any mind because his attention is all on Yoongi who is smiling as wide as he possibly can.

“Only if your mom says yes, Hoonie. If only she knew how much I liked her.” He tells Jihoon but he’s looking at you. Your eyes are wide at the confession and your hands fall limp by your side; not knowing how to respond to Yoongi’s sudden confession.

It wasn’t anything spectacular, and it didn’t cause butterflies to erupt like it was in the movies but the confession was so wholeheartedly Yoongi that you felt so … comfortable. A surprising yet welcoming emotion.

Jihoon looks over to you but you’re looking at Yoongi who looks at you with soft eyes.

“Say yes mama!”

Yoongi stands up from his position to walk over to your frozen state until your hands rest on his chest unconsciously. He looks down at you as his arms wrap around your waist to pull you flush against his body. You blush and avoid his stare when he tries to catch your eyes. You know Jihoon is watching and that makes you feel all the more flustered. It was like you were back in high school and you were ‘canoodling’ behind your parents’ backs.

“Y-Yoongi …” You try to push him away but he reaches his hands to wrap them around your own.

“I’m sorry but you can’t run away from me this time ___.” He teases.

You flush and look away.

“I wasn’t … running …” You mutter.

He chuckles and shakes his head that you feel strands of his hair against your forehead when he leans in closer to connect your forehead with his own.

“Okay.” He agrees. He doesn’t put up a fight and you hate how even when you’re the one that’s flustered he can make you feel … safe. Calm.

“I like you, dumbass. I would go as far to say that I’m in love with you but I know how scared you get so let’s settle for the baby steps first, yeah?” He says so casually that your eyes bulge out of your eye sockets comically.

“You c-can’t just …” You blubber, “Say that!”

Yoongi scoffs.

“I like you Kim ___.”

You punch him in the chest but he doesn’t even flinch.

“No you don’t …” You whisper.

You don’t look at him but you can feel his frown.

“And who are you to tell me how I feel?”

You sigh.

“Yoongi … I don’t know if you heard what I said earlier but you’re … you … and I’m just some other girl that you know because of Taehyung and I’m a mother of a two-year-old. You could literally be with anyone you wanted and I just … you don’t like me. You just—can’t.” You exasperate.

He frowns at you, forcing your chin up to look at him with his index finger. You burn even redder at how close you were.

“I love you. I love Jihoon. And you need to get out of your pretty little head because I don’t want to be with anyone but you. I don’t know where you’re getting this weird picture of me being with anyone I want because I don’t want anyone. I want this—I want in, in this little family.”

You feel yourself choke up, and Yoongi notices so he holds you closer until your head is against his chest.

“I’m emotionally constipated half the time I interact with anyone but you just … you make me feel alive and things that I generally don’t feel on a daily basis. You and Hoon are the only things that keep me going with all the surgeries and stuff. I’m in love with you and it’s all your fault and Hoonie wants you to be happy as much as I do—so please: stop running.”

“Why are you running mama?” Jihoon asks and you remember your son is watching it all.

You flush but don’t move from Yoongi’s grasp. He thinks of this as a step forward because all you do is turn your head to look at Jihoon and offer him a smile through your tears.

You and Yoongi hear Jihoon’s whine and you see him reach his arms towards you as a gesture for you to carry him.

“Mama why are you crying!” He cries.

You feel Yoongi release you and you immediately reach out to Jihoon like it was second nature because it was. Jihoon was the only thing that kept you going when people would give you odd stares as a single mother especially when you were starting to look into preschools for your son. All the superiors would question your legitimacy and income when you were earning more than the average working man. You were always very particular about who you allowed into Jihoon’s life because he was young and got attached easily. But Yoongi made it so … easy. Just like he was that missing piece in both your and Jihoon’s lives.

“I’m okay bubs.” You kiss Jihoon on his cheeks as you hold back your tears.

“Don’t cry, mama.” Jihoon frowns and puts his thumbs between your furrowed brows just like you would always do when he was starting to sulk. You chuckle and hold your son closer to your chest, feeling all the more comforted.

“I’m serious about this ___ …” Yoongi steps closer to you and wraps an arm around you and Jihoon and the action feels so utterly domestic. You feel safe and content within his grasp.

“Yoongi …” You look up at him through your eyelashes and Yoongi has always been entranced with your beauty. It was never just about how beautiful you looked when you were a mother to Jihoon but the energy you carried around you was contagious and he’s immediately lightened up in your presence. He was patient with you because he knew you were serious about Jihoon and that he was your number one priority.

“No, please … listen to me ___.” He cups your cheeks while Jihoon is looking between the two of you with keen interest.

“I know you’re scared because of Jihoon and that’s valid. But I don’t want you to think that you’re not enough for me for superficial reasons because the truth is I probably won’t ever be enough for you and you’re here being the woman of my dreams. I respect your decision if you aren’t ready for a relationship and I won’t push you but I want you to know that I’m not going anywhere just because we aren’t together because I rather have you next to me as a friend than lose out on you forever.”

You had always been a crybaby and Taehyung was probably the reason why you cried all the time as children since he always had been the more rambunctious one between the two of you while you were far timider. But Yoongi knew that under all the times you shed tears because you were touched is a strong-willed woman that could withstand nearly anything in this world if it were for her son.

“And I know that I’m not over my head thinking this but … you want me too and it’s okay if you do but you don’t want a relationship. I respect you as a person, a woman and the mother of Jihoon. I just don’t want you to push me away.” He whispers so softly when he looks into your eyes.

“Mama …” Jihoon whines and you look down at him for a moment when he gives you a glare that doesn’t look so intimidating because of his bread cheeks.

“Yoongi is fun! Can he be our daddy?” You know his choice of words didn’t necessarily entail that context for you in particular but you blush anyway because he was just two. Yoongi senses your flustered state but squeezes your cheeks in between his hands and you feel coddled. It was a new feeling, one that was almost unfamiliar with how long you’ve been deprived of a significant other’s touch.

“I—Yoongi … I really don’t know what to say …” You mumble.

Yoongi smiles at you, comforting and homey all at once because Yoongi was a lot of things but never pushy.

“You don’t have to say anything. I don’t know if you realised this but I’m basically Hoon’s dad whether you like it or not because he and I spend more time together than I do with my colleagues at work and I work overtime all the time.” He teases.

“Jihoon really adores you.” You agree, biting on your lip as your mind races for the hundredth time this hour.

You liked Yoongi. You really did—and somewhere along the way, like turned into something more … dangerous. A territory that you usually reserved for Jihoon because you only had the capacity to care for one boy in your life but Yoongi smuggled his way into your heart and here he was causing a hurricane in your stomach.

The words he spoke were so truthful and genuine that you can’t help but believe that against all odds in the universe, Yoongi has somehow chosen you. You were the one that was afraid. He has always chosen you. That enough is shown when he makes his way after tiring shifts just to lay on your couch and play with Jihoon in times where all he could do was babble incoherent words. He chose you when he made surprise visits with the homemade stew that you knew he knew your son and you loved. He chose you when he invited you and Jihoon to spend Chuseok together because you mentioned just spending it with your son than with your family. His parents adored you and were even more taken with Jihoon.

He has always chosen you but now it was your turn.

“I love you.”

You say those words without much further thought because you’ve always felt it. Three words have never felt so safe on your tongue to utter into the atmosphere and you feel the same after the truth is out there. You always knew how you felt and you knew that Yoongi was smart to observe your feelings too, which was why when you finally said it he just looked … content. Happy—like he was in a place that was so familiar and comforting that he didn’t need to react any differently.

“I want—I want to be with you.” You clear your throat, “If you’ll have me.”

You look so shy and young—because you were. But you had that childlike innocence that he’s only ever had the pleasure to see when you would play fight with Jihoon. He feels his chest swell with pride knowing that he was the reason you looked like that and felt the way you did.

“Hmm … should I?” He leaned in closer until his breath was on your cheek.

You knew he was teasing you but you still can’t meet his eyes, and Jihoon simply giggles at the way Yoongi squeezes him between your chests in a way so comforting that Jihoon feels like it’s a warm hug from a blanket.

“Don’t tease …” You grumble.

Yoongi runs his hand through your hair and pulls your head closer to his to give you a gentle kiss on the lips. It was nothing seductive or implicative but so Yoongi. A kiss to show you he wanted this and that he felt whatever flurry of emotions you felt. A kiss like he was coming home.

He pulls away and you see Jihoon frowning between the two of your through your redness and shock.

“I wanna’ kiss too!” He whines, and you and Yoongi both look at your son with the stars in your eyes, then lock eyes with each other; and you do what comes naturally next.

You both kiss your son on the cheeks.

[mimipagemusic]

An open letter to Lorin Ashton (Bassnectar) from Mimi Page:  A call for true accountability, responsibility, and healing action on behalf of the music industry.

Dear Lorin,

You have willingly and openly invited healing on your part with anyone you have hurt in your past. While I am aware you are calling every past sexual partner you’ve had, you haven’t bothered to consider the trauma your actions have caused to your female colleagues. You haven’t reached out to me once. I am taking this opportunity to respond to your offer of healing by “calling you in” in this open letter. I am a relatively private person and would have preferred to call you and read my letter to you directly. The truth is, I don’t trust you. You have claimed to care about the healing of those you’ve harmed, but the recordings released prove that you manipulate and gaslight whoever confronts you. I  privately confronted you about “Butterfly” back in 2016, so I’ve directly experienced your manipulative behavior. Because you have harmed so many people in your personal and professional life, my hope is that this open letter will bring forth clarity and healing to anyone who reads it. Healing to me, to you, to the young women you have sexually and emotionally abused, to the creative collaborators you have taken advantage of creatively and financially, to the professional team members you’ve betrayed and let down, and to the dedicated fan base you’ve mislead and abandoned.

While I am processing my own feelings of anger, confusion, and disgust, I am also writing you from a place of love. Tough love, that stands for healing, integrity, and transformative justice. Principles you claimed to stand for as a leader in the music industry. This situation is devastating on so many levels because you’ve also created a lot of good in this world. You have inspired millions of people and played a pivotal role in our culture. You’ve provided a platform for so many independent artists to be heard, myself included. I am forever grateful to you for that. But with the platform you helped me build, I am now speaking out on it. My hope is that deep inside your soul, you can listen, learn, and take accountability with an open heart. My own heart is broken, but it is also open. So with this open letter, I will address the evidence of both your “romantic” victims and my own negative experience with you, from my own perspective. If you can take true accountability and healing action with our best interests in mind instead of your own, then I believe you can still be a catalyst for the true change and healing we need in not only the music industry, but in our world. 

My personal reasons for coming forward:

In response to your sexual abuse allegations, you have publicly denied “the rumors” yet claim to welcome responsibility and accountability. You have admitted to the possibility of hurting others, yet you have not clarified what pain you have actually caused. You have claimed your own romantic relationships were “positive, consensual, legal, and loving.” You have claimed you are an “ally of women” offering free therapy to “true survivors of sexual abuse.” As an action, you have chosen to step away from your musical career and abandon your non-profit organization without further clarity or closure with all of us. As a survivor of childhood sexual abuse at ages 5, 13, and 16, I have lived with the PTSD that comes with experiencing both Pedophilia and Ephebophilia. I have spent many years in therapy unpacking my own trauma, healing it, and learning what true sexual health is. As a “true survivor” responding to your statement, you have absolutely no right to define what a “true survivor” is. To do so gaslights the women coming forward about the abuse you inflicted, and manipulates the public into doubting their truth. This creates victim shaming and I won’t stand for that. 

The legal definition of a child is ages 0-17. Rachel was 17 when you groomed and pursued your sexual relationship with her. The definition of Ephebophilia is an adult who is sexually attracted to adolescents between the ages of 15-19. Ephebophilia is not a sexual preference, it is a sexual perversion. While the argument stands that some teenagers welcome a relationship with an adult partner, many survivors realize they were psychologically damaged by that relationship once they mature in their mid 20s. Clarity and healing takes time, I speak from experience. There’s a reason that by law, teenagers are still considered children. While it’s completely healthy for teenagers to date other teenagers, they have no business being sexually groomed and manipulated by adults, especially those with power and influence. Ephebophilia has been glamorized and normalized in the music industry for generations and it needs to finally change. Countless rockstars like you have gotten away with this illegal and psychologically damaging activity with their underage fans. Many of them are still massively successful to this day. As an artist who has built your brand and activism on the principles of compassion, equality, and integrity, why are you grooming and dating your teenage fans? According to your victim Lauren’s statement, you explained why you don’t date women your own age. You told her you aren’t interested in older women because “they have too much baggage.” Lorin, it is men like you that create this “baggage” for women. And because of this, perhaps it is you who actually needs the therapy you are offering your victims. There is something very wrong with the way you view and interact with our world.

As a female artist and collaborator of yours for over 8 years, I wish I could speak up in defense of your character and your treatment of women through the reflection of own relationship and your treatment of me. I can not do this. While I hate seeing your career destroyed, I can’t help but honor the karma. I have carried your baggage for far too long. You have leveraged your power and your fame over me during every creative negotiation we have ever had. Always manipulating me into taking less of a writing percentage than my actual creative contribution because you claimed your platform, “the bassnectar factor” as you called it, would benefit me as a “smaller artist.” You hid behind a public mask of humility and activism when in private you lead with entitlement and greed. As a collaborator of yours, I am also a survivor of you. Not of your sexual abuse, but your psychological manipulation and financial abuse. You have taken advantage of my vulnerability and creativity since I was in my early 20s. You used your charm to manipulate me into thinking you cared about me while you stole my creative credit and royalties. You used your fame and influence to manipulate me into feeling grateful for the benefits I did receive from working with you, gaslighting my own reality and pain. You strategically belittled me creatively and financially in order to assert your dominance and control in ways where I was brainwashed into continuing to work with you. You have said some incredibly inappropriate and hurtful things to me over the years which negatively affected my self esteem to the degree that I almost quit music. Like so many others, I put you on a pedestal and looked up to you before I experienced your darkness. Even when I experienced your darkness, it was like I was under a spell. I have been conflicted for years and your name has been brought up in my own therapy sessions many times. You are a master manipulator, and I believe that is your greatest talent. In light of these allegations from both your victims and collaborators, so much becomes clear. The spell you cast not only on me, but the world, has been broken.

Your undeniable abuse towards women:

The evidence and statements being released by women who you say have been your “consensual, legal, and loving partners” provides contrary evidence to the innocence you claimed in your public statement. In an audio recording with Rachel, you verbally admit to her statutory rape when she was 17. She explains to you that at age 17, she “had no idea who she was.” She expressed that she was impressionable and that a relationship with someone your age with such an extreme power dynamic was beyond inappropriate for her. You validate this by agreeing with her and regretting your actions. You then offer to take accountability directly with her, but ask if that accountability means being “raped and beat up in a Tennessee jail.” This type of response to someone you’ve harmed is not called accountability, Lorin. This response is called gaslighting and manipulation, and it is equally abusive. It subliminally asks your victim to doubt the severity of her own experience and put your well being above her own.

In an email correspondence that Rachel shared during her senior year in high school, you congratulate her good grades on a school paper. You then request she spend 4-5 hours writing you an essay for your own pleasure. In a second email, you admit “she is overloaded with school work” but confess you are “so curious about what goes on outside of school in her social life.” You then tell her she “so rarely reaches out” and you “want to hear her voice.” Rachel wasn’t a groupie who pursued you as so many of your defenders claim. You groomed, pursued, and manipulated her. This isn’t the behavior of a mentor, a teacher, or a caring friend. You were an adult celebrity taking advantage of your teenage fan. This is called predatory behavior. You were a grown man in your mid 30s who chose to groom and sleep with an underage teenager, knowing full well how old she was at the time. In seeking the truth for myself, I spoke at great lengths with Rachel over the phone and heard her entire story. I also spoke to Lauren and have heard hers. While I was disgusted by the trauma you inflicted on these women, I was equally inspired by their grace, wisdom, and bravery to stand up to you. 

Rachel (age 17), Lauren (age 21), and another young woman have claimed you put thousands of dollars in cash in their purses and backpacks after their sexual encounters with you. They all have clarified that they did not ask for this money, were surprised and confused by it, and had to hide it from their parents and friends as they were sworn to secrecy by you. According to them, you were paranoid and made them communicate with you through encrypted apps so that your communication was hidden. In Lauren’s public statement, she claims she was “sexually groomed and manipulated” by you as your fan. According to her story, she was hand selected via Instagram and won a meet and greet with you. After thanking you on Twitter, you provided her your private email and asked her to continue communicating with you. When telling you her age, you said you were “surprised” because she “looked younger than 21.” You then requested she travel alone to visit your home. When telling you she wanted to inform her parents so they knew where she was, your response was that her parents “had no business knowing the details of her personal life”. If she was to inform them of her travel, she was to lie about your identity and say she was “dating a teacher named Gabe.” While demanding her sexual exclusivity with you, you refused to be sexually exclusive with her. You also requested she consider you a “life coach” as you would help guide some of her “biggest decisions.” Some of your advice included informing her that “every man she would ever meet would only want to have sex with her and would do anything to get it.” You offered to “protect her” from this. This is not a loving relationship Lorin, this is a manipulative, controlling, and psychologically abusive relationship. There are many other women you have harmed who have privately come forward but are too afraid to publicly share their stories. Several of them have stated that they were under the age of 18 when they had sexual relations with you. The amount of young women you’ve harmed is mind blowing, and they are all your “true victims.” In order to take true accountability, you have to be willing to own up to your actions and take legal responsibility for what you have actually done. 

Our professional relationship:

I’ve spent the past few days going through my own emails and memories with you, trying to find clarity and understanding of who you really are and how you could have harmed so many people in the ways that you have. While going back to my early correspondence with you, I was disturbed to find the same style of inappropriate communication with me. Our relationship has always remained professional and I’ve considered you more of a dysfunctional “big brother” type throughout the years. An email you sent me back in 2012 reminded me that this wasn’t always the case. I had completely blocked out this email because it made me feel so uncomfortable at the time. I now remember that I chose to shelve this away in my psyche because I was conflicted with how excited I was to get the chance to work with you.

(Email Context: I had just sent you my vocal hook for our song “Butterfly")

As a female artist who has endured the gender inequality in this industry, I am used to putting my head down and tolerating inappropriate jokes and conversations with men as long as it never escalated to a place where I felt unsafe. Fortunately our collaboration was remote, and I was in the safety of my own home studio when I read this. Your email response to my creativity was not only disrespectful, it was completely inappropriate.  It’s alarming you felt entitled to speak to me in this way, being that I was a professional collaborator and I barely knew you at the time. I responded to your email with a “haha thank you” but I wasn’t laughing. I was extremely uncomfortable and afraid to tell you how I felt because of your power and celebrity. I wanted to work with you and was afraid I would jeopardize that so I put the opportunity to work with you above my own comfort. I regret doing this. I am only sharing this email now as it corroborates the evidence of your language and inappropriate communication with the other women who have come forward and shared their own email correspondence with you. They are being attacked and doubted for sharing their truth, and I won’t stand for that. I’ve spent the majority of my time these past few weeks processing this horrific situation. I’ve had a lot of tears and a lot of sleepless nights, as I know so many others have. In the process, I had an epiphany. Your email of wanting to “fuck my voice” was actually a metaphor, foreshadowing our future dynamic as collaborators. You did end up “fucking my voice,” not as an artist but as a human being. While my voice in our collaborations soared throughout stadiums and radio stations around the world, my actual voice was silenced. 

In 2012 when we negotiated our splits for “Butterfly”, you manipulated me into believing that music didn’t make money anymore because of music piracy. As a young artist that was new to the industry, you told me that touring was the main source of income for artists, and buying me out of 100% of my share of the master royalties of “Butterfly” would be in my best interest. I spent 3 months alone in my apartment writing and creating “Butterfly” for you. Your offer was to pay me $1,000 for each month I worked on the song. You convinced me that because music didn’t make money, "Butterfly” may make nothing. A $3,000 buyout would ensure that I would be protected and taken care of financially. I had requested an equal split of the writing and publishing of “Butterfly” because I had clearly created the majority of the song. You took that opportunity to lecture me on what “equal” actually was working with an artist of your caliber. That because of your administrative fees and expenses due to your platform, a 50/50 split of writing and publishing wasn’t fair to you. Regardless of my creative contribution, 33% was the number I actually deserved. As the main composer and co-producer of our song, you knew I wrote and created the majority of the creative content in “Butterfly.” Not only did I write and perform the vocals and piano, I composed, produced, and sound-designed the synths and ethereal pads. You never gave me credit for this. Not in the liner notes, and not in the press. You took full credit of the production of our song, allowing me to be viewed as a vocal feature with a piano performance. When your album Vava Voom came out, I saw that every male producer who collaborated with you had an “and” producer credit. I was young and naive at the time, I didn’t know what a producer credit was and you knew this. As a self-proclaimed feminist and someone promising to protect me in this industry, you knew better. You should have done better.

Watching our song "Butterfly” find it’s wings was a dream, but also a complete nightmare. It became the staple of your live show, to the degree that Butterfly confetti fell from the sky. I had fans tattoo butterflies and my song lyrics on their bodies. “Butterfly” was ranked the #4 best song of your entire catalog by Billboard. It was in rotation in terrestrial and satellite radio, licensed to network TV shows, films and video games, and was even featured in an art instillation at the Disney museum. While I did get my 33% cut of my writing and publishing, I watched you absorb 100% of every sale and stream. I saw how many sales “Butterfly” sold in the mechanical royalty statements from Amorphous Music, your own record label. That small $3,000 “buyout” you gave me under the pretense you were “helping me” covered 2 months of my rent. Had you given me an equal share of my writing and publishing and literally any percentage of the master royalty of “Butterfly”, it would have drastically changed my life. Had you given me the creative credit I deserved on our song, doors would have been a lot easier for me to open as a female producer and composer in this male dominated industry. I continued to work with you over the years because I was brainwashed into believing this was how the music industry worked. I was brainwashed into feeling “grateful” for the opportunities I received and the success I did generate from your platform. I convinced myself that I was less than you, and I had to pay my dues like everyone else in order to earn my worth as your creative equal. This equality never came. While I continued to fight for a small share of my writing and publishing on every song we did, you still refused to offer me a percentage of the master royalty. To this day you still collect 100% of the master royalties on every one of our collaborations. 

I tried justifying our creative dynamic by your invitations to perform live with you. While it was only 3 times, those performances were, and will forever be, some of the most beautiful and magical moments of my life. What was odd to me was the way you financially treated me when I performed live with you. At Lighting in a Bottle I performed for free and got changed in a port-o-potty. After my performance you thanked me and handed me a bottle of wine as compensation. At Red Rocks and Bridgestone Arena you offered me $1,000 as an appearance fee. A fee that I had to deduct the airfare of my manager, my wardrobe, and all my food and traveling expenses from. I’m not sure how much income you take home after each one of your sold-out stadium shows, but I’m sure you could have afforded to treat me a little better. At the end of the day, I actually ended up paying out of my own pocket to perform with you. With what’s come to light, I now understand that you’ve had huge expenses paying out thousands of dollars to these young women, several underage, with the hopes of buying their silence and loyalty. As your female collaborator, I can verify that you are no feminist. You are a hypocrite, and the way you have treated me as an artist is absolutely disgusting.

In 2016 I was unaware of the extent of your corruption behind the scenes, but I found the courage to confront you about my own situation. I texted you that I was uncomfortable about our business dynamic with “Butterfly” and we hopped on a call to discuss it. We had a long conversation about my feelings, and you validated my belief that you were wrong and that you should have given me producer credit. You agreed that my deal wasn’t fair and said that you wanted to make it up to me. While I was grateful for this, the end of our conversation ended up haunting me for years. When talking about “fairness,” you lectured me on the difference between us as artists. You told me that if I were to release a song of ours by myself, that it wouldn’t sell nearly as many copies as it would if you released it. That your “Bassnectar factor” was the  reason for the success of Butterfly, not the creative content of the song. I agreed that you clearly had the bigger platform, but argued that my creative contribution to your art not only rewarded you financially, it helped define your brand in a new way. That the majority of your music is intense and aggressive, and my feminine, ethereal, and peaceful aesthetic helped diversify your musical catalog. I opened up and told you that if you had treated me equally and hadn’t taken 100% of my master royalty, my life would look very different because of the success of our song. That I have bills to pay just like any other person, and that my husband also battles multiple sclerosis which is a hardship we privately face. Your response to me was cold, and cruel. You told me that the music business is really hard. That many of your friends are extremely talented like me, and that you tell them all the same thing. That if it’s too hard for me to keep going financially in this business, that I pursue music as a hobby and find something else for work. Even so, you would find a way to make “Butterfly” up to me. You would get with your team and figure out a way to make me “happy.” Lorin, I can’t tell you how painful this conversation was, it crushed my soul. Writing one of my favorite songs with you and watching it receive commercial success while you took 100% of my royalties was one trauma. Seeing my worth through your eyes was another, it damaged my self-esteem. For a while, I did contemplate quitting music. If it weren’t for the love and support of my family, friends, fanbase, and my own inner work in therapy, I probably would have quit music. 

A week later you got back to me after discussing my request with your team. You indicated that you couldn’t renegotiate the terms of Butterfly, that the deal of that song was over and done with. What you did offer was a deal for a new song. This song would be credited as “Bassnectar and Mimi Page” so I would receive a producer credit. I would also receive 25% of my royalties across the board. I asked you why I wouldn’t receive 50% if I actually write an equal share, or even 33% like you offered me in Butterfly. You refused to negotiate and stated that’s the offer that was on the table. You then sweetened the deal by offering me an advance of $10,000 of this song, with no deadline to create it. At the time I not only needed the money, I foolishly believed that you actually wanted to create another song with me. Over the past 5 years I’ve sent you so many creative ideas for this song, and your response to me has always been the same. You were “too busy" to work with me. The only song we created together since then was “Was Will Be,” a last minute topline request with another small publishing cut and no master royalty. As always, this collaboration was attached with more empty promises to write our “actual song” with no followthrough. With what’s come to light in the accusations against you, it’s alarming to see where so much of your time has actually gone. Like your female victims, I can’t help but look at that $10k you gave me as hush money for my own silence against the issues I confronted you with. Watching other legal cases appear by other artists over the years brought me a lot of clarity on how you’ve been taking advantage of not only me, but other artists this entire time. I never spoke out publicly about my dynamic with you because I valued the peace and healing of the fans who enjoyed our collaborations. Now that you have destroyed not only your reputation but the trust and peace of your community, I am choosing to share my story now. Not just on behalf of me, but all the artists you have taken advantage of and ripped off throughout your career. There are so many.

After speaking with several of your victims, I’ve been horrified to learn that “Butterfly” was the song that lead many of them to the actual discovery of you as an artist. That the beautiful and euphoric qualities of “Butterfly” didn’t only function as a catalyst for peace and healing like I intended. Many of these women were mislead into believing those gentle, peaceful, and ethereal vibrations actually came from you because you took full credit for the song. My most grotesque epiphany of all, is that you never did care about me or actually value my talent and wellbeing as an artist. Instead, you used my artistry as bait for the facade you projected to the world, ultimately luring more young women to you. As a survivor of sexual abuse, music has always been my saving grace and escape from the horrors of my own reality. I can’t tell you how traumatizing it is for me to be associated with you after realizing what you’ve done. I am deeply disturbed and depressed in regards to our creative relationship. I am grateful that our songs have brought peace and healing to so many, and I will forever stand by the love and light that I personally contributed to it. I won’t let you take that away from me. Had you lived your life with the actual care and integrity that you claimed to lead with, we could have created so many more beautiful songs together. Instead, you chose the darker path and in the process, took advantage of my talent, my time, and my respect for you. 

Our last and final collaboration was on your new album “All Colors,” and this was the final straw for me ever working with you again. During a pandemic that is killing people, destroying our economy, and shutting down our industry, you sent me an email “checking in”. Like always, your emails have tons of smiley faces indicating you “love me.” You reminded me that we “still need to do our song” but asked for a “little favor” on your new album. You wanted me to replace a vocal sample of another girl singing “dreaming of you.” No writing, no harmonies, no creative contribution, not even the consideration of me knowing what I was contributing to as you wouldn’t let me listen to the song. Just “a little favor” of singing and recording for you, for free. I almost said no, and I wish I had. The only reason I didn’t, was because you had just offered me a spot to perform my own acoustic set on the main stage at your festival Deja Voom. A gesture that shocked me and actually meant a lot to me. After years of you blowing me off creatively and taking advantage of me financially, that was a gesture that felt like it validated my worth to you. I will humbly admit that deep down, I have always wanted you to care about my art and creativity. So, like always, I did the mental gymnastics in my head and justified the reasons why I should do your little favor and I did it. I did it against the wishes of my own manager and attorney, that’s how strong your influence has been over me. After I sent you my vocal file, I also took the opportunity to tell you that we experienced a food shortage during this pandemic and I learned how to garden in hopes that I could feed not only myself, but my neighbors. This must have struck a chord, because you changed your mind about asking me for free work and you sent me this email:

It’s almost August and I’ve yet to receive your $250 for pumpkin seeds. In regards to my creative contribution on your new album, I found my vocal sample on the end track you called “Optimism.” I wasn’t credited as a featured vocalist, and I checked the liner notes and there was no reference that I even sang on the song. After 8 years of working together, you didn’t even give me a shoutout on social media, telling our mutual fans about my contribution being that they loved our past collaborations so much. After all these years, and the massive amount of income you have earned off the back of my own creativity, this is what you have reduced my talent to. During the horrific times we are living in, your expectation of an independent artist giving you free work is absolutely despicable, and $250 for pumpkin seeds is ridiculous. It is clear the amount of healing I have needed to do in regards to reclaiming my self esteem. I am saddened by the dynamic I allowed myself to participate in with you for so many years. I have been battling a lot of shame for this. Thanks to several of your colleagues who have experienced similar dynamics with you, I have found a lot of healing. I am saddened to see this is a trend with so many of your collaborators, but I’m also grateful to be in their company as we all try to find the light in this darkness. I am now shifting my perspective and looking at all of us as hard workers who believed in the original vision you claimed to have for humanity. We took your creative and financial abuse because we are all  trying to survive in this dark and difficult industry and shine our light within it. One day I hope the industry changes, and hopefully this entire situation will be a catalyst for it in some sort of way. 

It is painful, but also healing to write this letter to you. I feel like a giant weight is being lifted from my soul. It is healing to see corruption being outed on a mass scale in our society, and ironic that you were one of those activists that spent so much time outing that corruption. For years you’ve used Twitter as a platform to call out the corruption of political leaders. Now that you are the subject of your own corruption, you’ve gone silent and disappeared. I will remind you we are experiencing a pandemic and the state of the world is in a very dark and fragile place. Your fans no longer have a safe space to turn to and this hurts their mental health. A lot of your fans are getting bullied for following you, having your tattoos, and being a part of your community. While you take your millions and “go off the grid” I won’t stand for your hypocrisy. I have received over a hundred emails from fans expressing their own private traumas and being survivors of sexual abuse themselves. How damaging it has been to discover they have been mislead by you all these years. You have accumulated your wealth and lifestyle from the money and dedicated support of your fanbase. You have built the diversity of your brand off the backs of collaborators like me, Dylan, and so many others. You owe us way more than an apology. The time you have spent manipulating and abusing your teenage fans could have been better spent creating with the artists who have contributed so much to you and your community. How you’ve treated Dylan (ill-Gates), an artist who inspired and nurtured your own talent, is utterly repulsive. The sad reality is, your behavior isn’t just a reflection of the darkness within your own psyche, it’s a reflection of the power-hungry, abusive, and narcissistic behavior in the music industry. We need a deep healing and change in perception with the ways business is run inside the music industry. We need a safer space for artists to create and fans to experience our art. Music is sacred, it brings healing and unity to our world. We need to make an example of the mess you have created and transmute it for positive change.

As you walk away from your musical career, you also walk away with not only my royalties, but all your collaborators royalties as your future financial stream. I wouldn’t label your career cancellation as “unemployment,” I would label any future income as theft from those of us you collect from. As a collaborator of multiple songs, the only control I have to help save the integrity of my songs and heal this community is a promise to donate my own small writing and publishing percentages to non-profits that support sexual abuse survivors. After learning that you have spent thousands of dollars to silence your own victims, you need to rectify this behavior with all of us. You manipulated our bad business deals by using your fame to convince us the “exposure” we would receive would benefit us. While it did in the past, it is now traumatizing us. As a survivor of sexual abuse and an actual ally of women, I find it unacceptable for you to have committed criminal behavior with my royalties being a source of your income. I don’t find it acceptable that you continue generating any future income from my creativity moving forward. I want my royalties back and I want to use my royalties for goodness. I’d love to partner with a non-profit or even start my own with the royalties you’ve taken from me and will continue to take from me. I’d love to incorporate your past collaborators, ambassadors, and fans in whatever healing endeavors I pursue from these royalties. My goal would be to focus on sound healing and meditation for survivors of sexual abuse and use the symbol of the Butterfly as the emblem. This would redefine my song and represent that we actually transformed some of this darkness into beauty. This is one idea I have of how you can take accountability and healing action directly with me, on behalf of everyone in your community.

The abusive dynamics in the music industry have existed for far too long, we can use this experience to help stop it. While you were a part of this problem, I hold space for your healing and redemption. You can take true accountability for your actions and use this experience as a catalyst for massive change. The only way we can create actual change in this world is by living by example and being the change we need to see. Lorin, please step up. Stand in your integrity and take true responsibility and accountability for your actions no matter what the cost to you. At the times you caused harm to others, you didn’t consider the cost to them. Own up now to what you did, publicly admit it, and take the healing actions required to make true amends. Use your wealth and platform for the goodness you originally intended, it’s not too late.

                        Sincerely,

                                Mimi Page

[starrykitty013]

Sneak Peak!! Gotta Go Hard Ch.5

Full Chapter: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30983819/chapters/80906605

Reminder that all my sneak peaks are unedited and will be severely altered in the actual story. 

Enjoy!

This kind of assignment shouldn’t really surprise him.

He has always been assigned to mutant cases, it was kinda his thing what with harboring so many super powered individuals on his main team. It was only natural that Fury trusted him with this assignment.

Although it was a little weird. Fury was oddly content with just monitoring one Peter B. Parker (and he’s known he heard that name before, he just couldn’t put his finger on it.) aka Spiderman and not enlisting him as an asset. Albeit, the kid wasn’t even in high school yet, but he was still of an above average intelligence that set him apart from his peers; besides the, ya know, superpowers and all that.

Maybe it had something to do with Tony Stark vouching for the kid when he was successful in taking down a potential risk to society - or New York, at least - successfully. Two if Scorpion would be included. It seems like Spiderman was starting to indicate a pattern of stopping risks before they could become full blown dangers. Like a soon-to-be drug lord, or a alien hybrid weapon dealer. Phil had to admit, it was impressive.

Spiderman didn’t seem like a threat, although everything was a threat in this line of business. If it wasn’t with you, it was against you - that sort of thing. But Spiderman seemed to genuinely be one of those things that was as non-lethal as they appeared; well lethal non-lethal, the kid could still throw a bus, no problem.

And it’s not like SHIELD had never turned a blind eye to vigilantes. Daredevil being the prime example, which no one could ever figure that one out - that must frustrate Fury beyond belief. But there was no reason to uproot a kid who hasn’t done anything but help so far. Although, one wrong move and he’d be neutralized; but until then they might as well reach out and acquaintance themselves. Before some bad guy gets the drop on an impressionable pre-teen, went without saying.

The ideal solution would be to shut the entire Spiderman thing down, but Stark had already tried that and that only lead the kid to take down one of his planes. So normal life fix was out of the question, so next best option was to make nice and hope he doesn’t stab them in the back - which would be very hard, considering they were still suspicious of the Avengers.

Making nice, as Stark suggested, would be upgrading that eyesore of a suit. Phil couldn’t help but agree. How the hell had a child in a hoodie and beat up converse taken down an entire plane without getting shredded? Phil found that highly unlikely, and a little part of his bleeding heart ached in sympathy.

The kid was approximately 43 seconds early when he dropped silently into the elevated alley that Phil had set the randevoz at. All he had to do was have Stark send a encrypted message to the kid’s phone - although there was some bellyaching about it being a tad harder what with outdated technology and fucking firewalls how does he even get it that strong? Or some other nonsense like that.

“Gotta admit, I thought I was gonna get kidnapped and experimented on.” he said in a casual tone.

“Night is still young.” Phil joked with a plastered friendly smile, that elevated none of the tension in Spiderman’s posture. Huh, not easily fooled. Daisy did say that his smile could come off a little creepy with a splash of pedophilic, maybe she was right. “You’re shorter than I thought you would be.” Because seriously, this kid was basically a step up from a fetus. A foot shorter than Phil, who was admittedly short for his age, and scrawny as all hell - though the oversize stitched up hoodie did obscure that a bit.

“Rude.” the kid muttered “So if not to kidnap and syphon my blood, what does SHIELD want me for?” he asked, getting straight to business.

“Got somewhere you need to be?” Phil quirked an eyebrow and the kid scoffed, but didn’t say anything more. “We want to be allies.” he stated.

“Sorry, I don’t do teams. Lone wolf-spider kind of guy, ya know.” he said and Phil’s mouth quirked at the pun.

“You misunderstand. You aren’t eligible for the Avengers.” yet. SPiderman shifted a little “Ally was a strong word, more of an acquaintanceship if you will.”

“Is that even a word?” the kid asked skeptically.

“It gets my point across, no?” he quirked a brow up.

“Yeah, I guess so.” Spiderman said rocked on the balls of his heels and swinging his arms a bit, a very child like gesture that Phil filed away for later “So what would this ‘acquaintanceship’ entail?” he asked with a cocked head and a curious lit, Phil smiled a little more genuinely. He couldn’t help it, this kid was fucking adorable. He knows most accounts say Spiderman is annoying, but he guesses he shouldn’t take the people he put away word for anything other than petty insults - although he can see why, it must be irritating to be taken out by a 4’ 5” kid in a hand-me-down track suit. Speaking of

“Well, let’s start with the attire.” Phil held out a brief case and SPiderman looked at it then him then back to the case and paused “You gonna take it, it’s kind of heavy.” he said, just to get Spiderman to take a cautious step forward and delicately exchange the briefcase and set it down to gingerly open it. As if it were a bomb. When it didn’t go off, he inspected the suit in the case. Running his hands over it carefully.”Stark made and approved.” he said as the kid explored the high tech polyester “form fitting and flexible for anya nd all acrobatics. HIgh tech lenses to manage your super senses too.” he recited from what he knew when Stark explained it ot him. There were a million other things, but Phil didn’t really care about them.

“It’s bugged.” the kid concluded flatly, shutting the case and looking up.

“Then debug it.” Phil said with a shrug “That was Stark’s addition, it’s not required.” the pre-teen nodded curtly.

“So what’s my contribution?” the kid stood up, handling the case with him. “This isn’t free, I assume.” he wiggled the case a bit.

“You assume correctly.” Phil smiled “And that’s on a need to know-”

“Yeah, I don’t roll that way.” the kid cut off dryly “Tell me up front, or you got no deal.” Phil was a little speechless.

“Disclosure is up to my superiors-”

“Then get permission to disclose.” Spiderman jutted the case out “I’ll wait.” he said and Phil looked at the case and then at the tiny kid who had gave him the oddest ultimatum he had ever heard, then laughed. The kid stiffened. “What’s so funny?” he sounded near offended and Phil waved him off.

“Nothing, just that,” he sighed good naturedly “You are a smart little tike aren’t you.”

“I’m not a toddler.” the kid grumbled.

“Well, I’m not supposed to but since you leave me no other option and I really don’t wanna play messenger for my grumpy boss and a little prepubescent vigilante, I’ll tell you.” Phil sighed, he was so gonna get torn into for doing this. Oh well, he’s done worse. The kid straightened, but didn’t retract his hand. “You can keep the suit, if we can call on you for missions. Back up and what not.” the kid analyzed him for a second and finally hummed.

“Okay, how about this. I keep the suit, but you don’t get to parade me around like a monkey. I won’t be your lackey.” the kid retracted the suit and Phil furrowed his brow and opened his mouth in protest, but the kid cut him off “I will however, act as a consultant. You need information regarding and surrounding or about anything going down in my stomping grounds, I’ll give it to you with no questions asked.” Phil closed his mouth as the kid took a deep breathe “And, additionally, if you need any back-up, in New York, I will provide it.” he said resultly. “Deal?” the kid stuck out his free, tiny hand.

“Hmm.” Phil considered. How good could a child’s information even be? Good enough to stop a drug empire and entire illegal weapon cyndicate. He also seemed to have good intuition, and having a little spider look out jumping around and keeping an ear out for them wouldn’t be so bad. “Deal.” he took the kid’s hand and shaked firmly, which caught the kid a but off guard but then he matched the strength.

“Okay, cool.” he said as they separated, and awkwardly fidgeted - losing most of that confidence he had a moment ago when he was demanding a fair deal. Phil almost laughed at the contrast. “Uhm… yeah that all?” he asked awkwardly, Phil nodded once. “Cool. Kay, see you around Mr. SHIELD-agent-dude.” he waved and then shot a web off to the nearest building and swung away as Phil looked after him. As he disappeared up and around the corner, practically flying away, Phil couldn’t help a more genuine smile spread across his lips.

Fascinating.

OoO

for more on this series go to: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1415002

[cheese-greater-official]

The Great Gatsby .. I think antibucci Summary: Literally just the great Gatsby. Nothing else here. Absolutely no changes. Definitely use this for class, or reference. The Great Gatsby is public domain now after all. Anyways here's the totally unaltered and complete book of the Great Gatsby. I swear nothing was changed, most definitely. Of course credit to F Scott Fitzgerald for writing this commentary on both his life and the world he was in. A lot of this can still relate today, so keep an open mind when reading. Notes: I'd like to preface this by saying... This is really I mean REALLY just the Great Gatsby. I swear. There is nothing going here that is out of the ordinary! Nothing at all! Chapter 1 Chapter Text Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her; If you can bounce high, bounce for her too, Till she cry “Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover, I must have you!” - Thomas Parke D'Invilliers. In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. “Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.” He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought — frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction — Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament.”— it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No — Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the

wholesale hardware business that my father carries on to-day. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him — with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe — so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why — ye — es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog — at least I had him for a few days until he ran away — and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. “How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees—just as things grow in fast movies—I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read for one thing and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the "Yale News"—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the "well-rounded man." This isn't just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western Hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual confusion to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more arresting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented

rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby's mansion. Or rather, as I didn't know Mr. Gatsby it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eye-sore, but it was a small eye-sore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbor's lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed and I'd known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savors of anti-climax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he'd left Chicago and come east in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance he'd brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came east I don't know. They had spent a year in France, for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn't believe it—I had no sight into Daisy's heart but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking a little wistfully for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red and white Georgian Colonial mansion overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sun-dials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold, and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy, straw haired man of thirty with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining, arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. "Now, don't think my opinion on these matters is final," he seemed to say, "just because I'm stronger and more of a man than you are." We were in the same Senior Society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. "I've got a nice place here," he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm

he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep pungent roses and a snub-nosed motor boat that bumped the tide off shore. "It belonged to Demaine the oil man." He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. "We'll go inside." We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-colored space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding cake of the ceiling—and then rippled over the wine-colored rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless and with her chin raised a little as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. "I'm p-paralyzed with happiness." She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I've heard it said that Daisy's murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate Miss Baker's lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth—but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered "Listen," a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way east and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. "Do they miss me?" she cried ecstatically. "The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath and there's a persistent wail all night along the North Shore." "How gorgeous! Let's go back, Tom. Tomorrow!" Then she added irrelevantly, "You ought to see the baby." "I'd like to." "She's asleep. She's two years old. Haven't you ever seen her?" "Never." "Well, you ought to see her. She's—" Tom Buchanan who had been hovering restlessly about the room stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. "What you doing, Nick

?" "I'm a bond man." "Who with?" I told him. "Never heard of them," he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. "You will," I answered shortly. "You will if you stay in the East." "Oh, I'll stay in the East, don't you worry," he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. "I'd be a God Damned fool to live anywhere else." At this point Miss Baker said "Absolutely!" with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. "I'm stiff," she complained, "I've been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember." "Don't look at me," Daisy retorted. "I've been trying to get you to New York all afternoon." "No, thanks," said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry, "I'm absolutely in training." Her host looked at her incredulously. "You are!" He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. "How you ever get anything done is beyond me." I looked at Miss Baker wondering what it was she "got done." I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. "You live in West Egg," she remarked contemptuously. "I know somebody there." "I don't know a single—" "You must know Gatsby." "Gatsby?" demanded Daisy. "What Gatsby?" Before I could reply that he was my neighbor dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips the two young women preceded us out onto a rosy-colored porch open toward the sunset where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. "Why candles?" objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. "In two weeks it'll be the longest day in the year." She looked at us all radiantly. "Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it." "We ought to plan something," yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. "All right," said Daisy. "What'll we plan?" She turned to me helplessly. "What do people plan?" Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. "Look!" she complained. "I hurt it." We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. "You did it, Tom," she said accusingly. "I know you didn't mean to but you did do it. That's what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great big hulking physical specimen of a—" "I hate that word hulking," objected Tom crossly, "even in kidding." "Hulking," insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here—and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West where an evening was hurried from phase to phase toward its close in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. "You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy," I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. "Can't you talk about crops or something?" I meant nothing in particular by this remark but it was taken up in an unexpected way. "Civilization's going to pieces," broke out Tom violently. "I've gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read 'The

Rise of the Coloured Empires' by this man Goddard?" "Why, no," I answered, rather surprised by his tone. "Well, it's a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don't look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It's all scientific stuff; it's been proved." "Tom's getting very profound," said Daisy with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. "He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—" "Well, these books are all scientific," insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. "This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It's up to us who are the dominant race to watch out or these other races will have control of things." "We've got to beat them down," whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun. "You ought to live in California—" began Miss Baker but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair. "This idea is that we're Nordics. I am, and you are and you are and—" After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod and she winked at me again. "—and we've produced all the things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art and all that. Do you see?" There was something pathetic in his concentration as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned toward me. "I'll tell you a family secret," she whispered enthusiastically. "It's about the butler's nose. Do you want to hear about the butler's nose?" "That's why I came over tonight." "Well, he wasn't always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night until finally it began to affect his nose—" "Things went from bad to worse," suggested Miss Baker. "Yes. Things went from bad to worse until finally he had to give up his position." For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk. The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom's ear whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing. "I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn't he?" She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation. "An absolute rose?" This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing but a stirring warmth flowed from her as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house. Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said "Sh!" in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond and Miss Baker leaned forward, unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether. "This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbor—" I said. "Don't talk. I want to hear what happens." "Is something happening?" I inquired innocently. "You mean to say you don't know?" said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. "I thought everybody knew." "I don't." "Why—" she said hesitantly, "Tom's got some woman in New York." "Got some woman?" I repeated blankly. Miss Baker nodded. "She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner-time. Don't you think?" Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots and Tom and Daisy were back at the table. "It couldn't be helped!" cried Daisy with tense gayety. She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me and continued: "I looked

outdoors for a minute and it's very romantic outdoors. There's a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He's singing away—" her voice sang "—It's romantic, isn't it, Tom?" "Very romantic," he said, and then miserably to me: "If it's light enough after dinner I want to take you down to the stables." The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at every one and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn't guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking but I doubt if even Miss Baker who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy skepticism was able utterly to put this fifth guest's shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police. The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker, with several feet of twilight between them strolled back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee. Daisy took her face in her hands, as if feeling its lovely shape, and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl. "We don't know each other very well, Nick," she said suddenly. "Even if we are cousins. You didn't come to my wedding." "I wasn't back from the war." "That's true." She hesitated. "Well, I've had a very bad time, Nick, and I'm pretty cynical about everything." Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she didn't say any more, and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her daughter. "I suppose she talks, and—eats, and everything." "Oh, yes." She looked at me absently. "Listen, Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?" "Very much." "It'll show you how I've gotten to feel about—things. Well, she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. 'All right,' I said, 'I'm glad it's a girl. And I hope she'll be a fool—that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool." "You see I think everything's terrible anyhow," she went on in a convinced way. "Everybody thinks so—the most advanced people. And I know. I've been everywhere and seen everything and done everything." Her eyes flashed around her in a defiant way, rather like Tom's, and she laughed with thrilling scorn. "Sophisticated—God, I'm sophisticated!" The instant her voice broke off, ceasing to compel my attention, my belief, I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said. It made me uneasy, as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to exact a contributory emotion from me. I waited, and sure enough, in a moment she looked at me with an absolute smirk on her lovely face as if she had asserted her membership in a rather distinguished secret society to which she and Tom belonged. Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light. Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from the "Saturday Evening Post"—the words, murmurous and uninflected, running together in a soothing tune. The lamp-light, bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms. When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand. "To be continued," she said, tossing the magazine on the table,

"in our very next issue." Her body asserted itself with a restless movement of her knee, and she stood up. "Ten o'clock," she remarked, apparently finding the time on the ceiling. "Time for this good girl to go to bed." "Jordan's going to play in the tournament tomorrow," explained Daisy, "over at Westchester." "Oh,—you're Jordan Baker." I knew now why her face was familiar—its pleasing contemptuous expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures of the sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach. I had heard some story of her too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I had forgotten long ago. "Good night," she said softly. "Wake me at eight, won't you." "If you'll get up." "I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you anon." "Of course you will," confirmed Daisy. "In fact I think I'll arrange a marriage. Come over often, Nick, and I'll sort of—oh—fling you together. You know—lock you up accidentally in linen closets and push you out to sea in a boat, and all that sort of thing—" "Good night," called Miss Baker from the stairs. "I haven't heard a word." "She's a nice girl," said Tom after a moment. "They oughtn't to let her run around the country this way." "Who oughtn't to?" inquired Daisy coldly. "Her family." "Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick's going to look after her, aren't you, Nick? She's going to spend lots of week-ends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be very good for her." Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence. "Is she from New York?" I asked quickly. "From Louisville. Our white girlhood was passed together there. Our beautiful white—" "Did you give Nick a little heart to heart talk on the veranda?" demanded Tom suddenly. "Did I?" She looked at me. "I can't seem to remember, but I think we talked about the Nordic race. Yes, I'm sure we did. It sort of crept up on us and first thing you know—" "Don't believe everything you hear, Nick," he advised me. I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all, and a few minutes later I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood side by side in a cheerful square of light. As I started my motor Daisy peremptorily called "Wait! "I forgot to ask you something, and it's important. We heard you were engaged to a girl out West." "That's right," corroborated Tom kindly. "We heard that you were engaged." "It's libel. I'm too poor." "But we heard it," insisted Daisy, surprising me by opening up again in a flower-like way. "We heard it from three people so it must be true." Of course I knew what they were referring to, but I wasn't even vaguely engaged. The fact that gossip had published the banns was one of the reasons I had come east. You can't stop going with an old friend on account of rumors and on the other hand I had no intention of being rumored into marriage. Their interest rather touched me and made them less remotely rich—nevertheless, I was confused and a little disgusted as I drove away. It seemed to me that the thing for Daisy to do was to rush out of the house, child in arms—but apparently there were no such intentions in her head. As for Tom, the fact that he "had some woman in New York" was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart. Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of wayside garages, where new red gas-pumps sat out in pools of light, and when I reached my estate at West Egg I ran the car under its shed and sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had blown off, leaving a loud bright night with wings beating in the trees and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered across the moonlight and turning my head to watch it I saw that I was not alone—fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbor's mansion and was standing with his hands in

his pockets regarding the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was his of our local heavens. I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and that would do for an introduction. But I didn't call to him for he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone—he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and far as I was from him I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced seaward—and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute and far away, that might have been the end of a dock. When I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness. Chapter 2 Summary: Just chapter 2 of the Great Gatsby Notes: (See the end of the chapter for notes.) Chapter Text About half way between West Egg and New York the motor-road hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a valley of ashes—a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of grey cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-grey men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud which screens their obscure operations from your sight. But above the grey land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and gigantic—their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a nonexistent nose. Evidently some wild wag of an oculist set them there to fatten his practice in the borough of Queens, and then sank down himself into eternal blindness or forgot them and moved away. But his eyes, dimmed a little by many paintless days under sun and rain, brood on over the solemn dumping ground. The valley of ashes is bounded on one side by a small foul river, and when the drawbridge is up to let barges through, the passengers on waiting trains can stare at the dismal scene for as long as half an hour. There is always a halt there of at least a minute and it was because of this that I first met Tom Buchanan's mistress. The fact that he had one was insisted upon wherever he was known. His acquaintances resented the fact that he turned up in popular restaurants with her and, leaving her at a table, sauntered about, chatting with whomsoever he knew. Though I was curious to see her I had no desire to meet her—but I did. I went up to New York with Tom on the train one afternoon and when we stopped by the ashheaps he jumped to his feet and taking hold of my elbow literally forced me from the car. "We're getting off!" he insisted. "I want you to meet my girl." I think he'd tanked up a good deal at luncheon and his determination to have my company bordered on violence. The supercilious assumption was that on Sunday afternoon I had nothing better to do. I followed him over a low white-washed railroad fence and we walked back a hundred yards along the road under Doctor Eckleburg's persistent stare. The only building in sight was a small block of yellow brick sitting on the edge of the waste land, a sort of compact Main Street ministering to it and contiguous to absolutely nothing. One of the three shops it contained was for rent and another was an all-night restaurant approached by a trail of ashes; the third was a garage—Repairs. GEORGE B. WILSON. Cars Bought and Sold—and I followed Tom inside. The interior was unprosperous and bare; the only car visible was the dust-covered wreck of a Ford which crouched in a dim corner. It had occurred

to me that this shadow of a garage must be a blind and that sumptuous and romantic apartments were concealed overhead when the proprietor himself appeared in the door of an office, wiping his hands on a piece of waste. He was a blonde, spiritless man, anaemic, and faintly handsome. When he saw us a damp gleam of hope sprang into his light blue eyes. "Hello, Wilson, old man," said Tom, slapping him jovially on the shoulder. "How's business?" "I can't complain," answered Wilson unconvincingly. "When are you going to sell me that car?" "Next week; I've got my man working on it now." "Works pretty slow, don't he?" "No, he doesn't," said Tom coldly. "And if you feel that way about it, maybe I'd better sell it somewhere else after all." "I don't mean that," explained Wilson quickly. "I just meant—" His voice faded off and Tom glanced impatiently around the garage. Then I heard footsteps on a stairs and in a moment the thickish figure of a woman blocked out the light from the office door. She was in the middle thirties, and faintly stout, but she carried her surplus flesh sensuously as some women can. Her face, above a spotted dress of dark blue crepe-de-chine, contained no facet or gleam of beauty but there was an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of her body were continually smouldering. She smiled slowly and walking through her husband as if he were a ghost shook hands with Tom, looking him flush in the eye. Then she wet her lips and without turning around spoke to her husband in a soft, coarse voice: "Get some chairs, why don't you, so somebody can sit down." "Oh, sure," agreed Wilson hurriedly and went toward the little office, mingling immediately with the cement color of the walls. A white ashen dust veiled his dark suit and his pale hair as it veiled everything in the vicinity—except his wife, who moved close to Tom. "I want to see you," said Tom intently. "Get on the next train." "All right." "I'll meet you by the news-stand on the lower level." She nodded and moved away from him just as George Wilson emerged with two chairs from his office door. We waited for her down the road and out of sight. It was a few days before the Fourth of July, and a grey, scrawny Italian child was setting torpedoes in a row along the railroad track. "Terrible place, isn't it," said Tom, exchanging a frown with Doctor Eckleburg. "Awful." "It does her good to get away." "Doesn't her husband object?" "Wilson? He thinks she goes to see her sister in New York. He's so dumb he doesn't know he's alive." So Tom Buchanan and his girl and I went up together to New York—or not quite together, for Mrs. Wilson sat discreetly in another car. Tom deferred that much to the sensibilities of those East Eggers who might be on the train. She had changed her dress to a brown figured muslin which stretched tight over her rather wide hips as Tom helped her to the platform in New York. At the news-stand she bought a copy of "Town Tattle" and a moving-picture magazine and, in the station drug store, some cold cream and a small flask of perfume. Upstairs, in the solemn echoing drive she let four taxi cabs drive away before she selected a new one, lavender-colored with grey upholstery, and in this we slid out from the mass of the station into the glowing sunshine. But immediately she turned sharply from the window and leaning forward tapped on the front glass. "I want to get one of those dogs," she said earnestly. "I want to get one for the apartment. They're nice to have—a dog." We backed up to a grey old man who bore an absurd resemblance to John D. Rockefeller. In a basket, swung from his neck, cowered a dozen very recent puppies of an indeterminate breed. "What kind are they?" asked Mrs. Wilson eagerly as he came to the taxi-window. "All kinds. What kind do you want, lady?" "I'd like to get one of those police dogs; I don't suppose you got that kind?" The man peered doubtfully into the basket, plunged in his hand and drew one up, wriggling, by the back of the neck. "That's no police dog," said Tom. "No, it's not exactly a police dog,"

" said the man with disappointment in his voice. "It's more of an airedale." He passed his hand over the brown wash-rag of a back. "Look at that coat. Some coat. That's a dog that'll never bother you with catching cold." "I think it's cute," said Mrs. Wilson enthusiastically. "How much is it?" "That dog?" He looked at it admiringly. "That dog will cost you ten dollars." The airedale—undoubtedly there was an airedale concerned in it somewhere though its feet were startlingly white—changed hands and settled down into Mrs. Wilson's lap, where she fondled the weather-proof coat with rapture. "Is it a boy or a girl?" she asked delicately. "That dog? That dog's a boy." "It's a bitch," said Tom decisively. "Here's your money. Go and buy ten more dogs with it." We drove over to Fifth Avenue, so warm and soft, almost pastoral, on the summer Sunday afternoon that I wouldn't have been surprised to see a great flock of white sheep turn the corner. "Hold on," I said, "I have to leave you here." "No, you don't," interposed Tom quickly. "Myrtle'll be hurt if you don't come up to the apartment. Won't you, Myrtle?" "Come on," she urged. "I'll telephone my sister Catherine. She's said to be very beautiful by people who ought to know." "Well, I'd like to, but—" We went on, cutting back again over the Park toward the West Hundreds. At 158th Street the cab stopped at one slice in a long white cake of apartment houses. Throwing a regal homecoming glance around the neighborhood, Mrs. Wilson gathered up her dog and her other purchases and went haughtily in. "I'm going to have the McKees come up," she announced as we rose in the elevator. "And of course I got to call up my sister, too." The apartment was on the top floor—a small living room, a small dining room, a small bedroom and a bath. The living room was crowded to the doors with a set of tapestried furniture entirely too large for it so that to move about was to stumble continually over scenes of ladies swinging in the gardens of Versailles. The only picture was an over-enlarged photograph, apparently a hen sitting on a blurred rock. Looked at from a distance however the hen resolved itself into a bonnet and the countenance of a stout old lady beamed down into the room. Several old copies of "Town Tattle" lay on the table together with a copy of "Simon Called Peter" and some of the small scandal magazines of Broadway. Mrs. Wilson was first concerned with the dog. A reluctant elevator boy went for a box full of straw and some milk to which he added on his own initiative a tin of large hard dog biscuits—one of which decomposed apathetically in the saucer of milk all afternoon. Meanwhile Tom brought out a bottle of whiskey from a locked bureau door. I have been drunk just twice in my life and the second time was that afternoon so everything that happened has a dim hazy cast over it although until after eight o'clock the apartment was full of cheerful sun. Sitting on Tom's lap Mrs. Wilson called up several people on the telephone; then there were no cigarettes and I went out to buy some at the drug store on the corner. When I came back they had disappeared so I sat down discreetly in the living room and read a chapter of "Simon Called Peter"—either it was terrible stuff or the whiskey distorted things because it didn't make any sense to me. Just as Tom and Myrtle—after the first drink Mrs. Wilson and I called each other by our first names—reappeared, company commenced to arrive at the apartment door. The sister, Catherine, was a slender, worldly girl of about thirty with a solid sticky bob of red hair and a complexion powdered milky white. Her eyebrows had been plucked and then drawn on again at a more rakish angle but the efforts of nature toward the restoration of the old alignment gave a blurred air to her face. When she moved about there was an incessant clicking as innumerable pottery bracelets jingled up and down upon her arms. She came in with such a proprietary haste and looked around so possessively at the furniture that I wondered if she lived here. But when I asked her she laughed i

Feel free to delete the first one. I would do anything for you if post this. The Great Gatsby in all it’s glory

im aware i was probably supposed to read the whole thing to find out if you changed anything and tnhen find out you hadnt and id wasted an hour of my life but i am way too lazy to do that

[thatyanderecritic]

i really like the yandere dynamic but i dont openly post or reblog about it anymore cuz i've had people give me a hard time over it being problematic. and i get told im terrible, get called a freak... idk. do you have any advice for dealing with this...?

Hey anon, sorry for not getting to you sooner. We have a lot of questioned queued up to be answered but I decided to put you first since this is a pretty big issue. 

To be a yandere fan, we’re in a rather precarious position. Like any fandom, we are plagued with bad apples that end up painting the community’s face as a whole. You know the type of bad apples that all fandoms have: the overzealous stans that either attack those outside the community for not sharing a view or catering to our fandom. We also suffer from infighting/bullying between yandere fans because not everyone shares the same views on what a yandere is or even for something as stupid as a yandere headcanon for a character that never was a yandere, to begin with. But unlike most fandoms, the works that we support tend to go against us at times. That is to say... since we’re a bit of an under “funded” (e.g. don’t have enough yandere media. Especially for male yanderes) fandom, people tend to quickly put CrAzY characters on a pedestal without question. And this hurts our credibility, ALOT.  Having group within the fandom worshipping some non-yandere, psychotic girl as a yandere just because she’s kawaii while the more “sane” fans try to explain, “No, we swear yandere’s aren’t like that” doesn’t look good for our case. 

Is there anything we can do about people attacking us for our preference? Not exactly, I’m sorry to say. The moment humans gained self-awareness and free will, universal mental unity became a myth. There will always be a disconnect, even on concepts that all humans should be in agreement on. Would you believe me if I say that some people don’t believe that people should be allowed to have a livable wage? Of course, people will have their reasons as to why they think a certain way regardless if it sounds logical or not. Just because they have a reason doesn’t mean it’s reasonable but in a world where emotions is king, logical will never win.

People who attack you for liking yanderes most likely were victims of abuse and went through some sort of trauma that yanderes are usually identified/linked with. If they weren’t direct victims then they know someone who is a victim. And if it isn’t either of these two, then they’re most likely a bleeding heart with a “higher than thou” sense of morality. Regardless of the reasoning, they all have their hearts in the right places but rigid in their perspective of the world. Already, the decision is cemented and may never change. To most, we’re as egregious as pedophiles and incest-lovers just because we like villains. After all: “How in the world could anyone remotely ‘like’ such awful people?! Clearly, there is something wrong with THEM.” Of course, we have our reasons for liking yanderes but most people close their ears and eyes since they already judged us based on our interest. For those who were victims of abuse or know someone, I understand that they’re reaching out to attack those who seem to defend characters that may or may not be similar to their assailant/abuser. They attack, they defend invisible victims, and in a way, looking for purpose... looking at how they can turn their trauma into a positive. But most of the time, they overstep their boundaries and try to enforce their authority in something they don’t understand. 

The only way we can approach these types of people is to send an open invitation for a diplomatic talk in trying to reach a middle ground. While a change of opinion would be nice, it would be nearly impossible since a lot of people are grounded in their personal moral compass. If they are open for a conversation, then all hope is not lost. Ideally, if a conversation is open then the most important thing is to validate their emotions invested in this situation. 9 out of time 10, people are stubborn in an argument because they feel like they’re getting personally targeted either by their identity, their pride, or their emotions. Therefore, they double down and become louder in their argument, not because of their view but because they believe they are defending themselves. From there, once the other recognize that you aren’t attacking them, you shift the conversation onto yourself and point out how they were making you feel the same away but they were actively attacking you; not only that, treating you as less than human just because you prefer villainous FICTIONAL characters. Ideally, at this point, the other recognizes their hypocrisy and you both agree in staying in your own lanes. If by some miracle they’re open of a different perspective, then you’re given a platform to say why you like yanderes... typical reasons being the idea of unconditional love or coping. 

But this is all hypothetical and the most desirable outcome. But more than often, people are more than comfortable at screaming at you every time you try to open your mouth... most likely something they learned because someone shut them down in such a way. Not only that, they most likely formed their own counter-arguments already since a lot of yandere fans have the same reasons as to why they like yanderes: unconditional love or coping. The counter-argument can usually be boiled down to two reasons: unethical and risking future victims seeking a “yandere” partner. Ethicality... this is a low hanging fruit to argue. Everyone (well the majority of people, again it’s universally impossible to be on the same page) would agree that it’s bad to stalk a person. Even a yandere fan would say never to stalk a person IRL. But because of this, they think they got you in an “ethical checkmate”. It’s a cheap argument and they’re just trying to make you feel like a monster for your preferences in fictional characters. Funny enough, this is a tactic that abusers would use to shame their victim into compliance... hm...

The second counter-argument people use is “think of the youths!” Let’s be real... it’s scientifically proven that kids and teens are easily impressionable because of their underdeveloped brains and lack of experience. Not only the concerns of the younger members of society, they fear that by allowing us to enjoy our media, we are “normalizing” abusive relationships in society. Considering the state of the United State’s government, I understand where the fear is coming from. But they’re barking up the wrong tree and especially using the wrong method in preventing this dystopian future. I always see these people bring up the ‘Jaws’ case as to why there should be no yanderes and no support for them. You know, the case where there was a sudden increase in shark hunting due to public fear which pushed certain shark species into endangerment. It’s always this argument, I swear... anyways, they always toss this without never diving in deeper as to why this happened. 

Before Jaws, people didn’t know anything about sharks in general. There just wasn’t any interest in sharks because we humans just didn’t find time interesting at the time. They were there and we can’t really eat sharks. But, there were already tales about sharks being “man-eaters” from those stranded out at sea or curious citizens. The stereotype was already there. But Jaws brought sharks to the forefront of public scrutiny and shark hunting competitions came up because “what’s the harm? Sharks are man-eaters”. This dropped the shark population, but because of this there was an interest in sharks, funding to research them suddenly increased. Scientist turned their attention on sharks while later on fed to informing the public, making them educated and less scared of shark attacks. Jaws came out in 1975... Shark Week on the discovery channel came out in 1988... there’s a reason, folks. People became interested in sharks. Yes, Jaws hurt the shark population but it’s slowly been going up. Damage takes time to repair. But it also brought about awareness. While the stereotype isn’t dead (that’s just humans at this point and it’s always been a stereotype ever since man was on a boat), it opened a conversation. And that’s the key point here. (Here’s a link. But you can go even further if you research)

Abusive relationships, manipulative people, toxic actions... these are nothing new. “Getting rid” of yandere fans will not solve this issue, just like telling your kid “there are kids starving in Africa” will not end world hunger. For the Jaws example, I point to the argument that politicians make about how video games create violent people. We know that it’s nonsense, you know it’s nonsense. But there is a fear of the “unknown”. People back then thought that cartoons like Tom and Jerry would cause kids to grow up violent. And even further back, people thought that reading books created lazy people. The fear on what’s on TV is a fear people had since the beginning of time. People aren’t as soft as they believe they are but they can lack information... Instead of shutting down people and censor what goes on TV, use it as a stepping stone for the bigger conversation. It’s a lack of knowledge and fear of the unknown that killed the sharks but it is knowledge that is now protecting them. 

This is especially important for our younger peers. Raise of hands, who actually changed their minds as a teenager after someone called you stupid or told you “no” with giving a logical reason besides “because I say so.” I’m going to guess we got an empty room here. Attacking our younger peers or those who are older just because they like a character trope IS NOT HELPING THEM AND ESPECIALLY NOT MAKING THE ATTACKERS LOOK LIKE HEROES. THEY LOOK LIKE JACKASSES. Fuck man, the younger ones want acceptance and looking a supportive group by joining a fandom. Calling them toxic just pushes them to the edge these people never wanted them to be. The same applying to the older ones. We all got our issues and y’all never know what it is. That’s why I hate seeing people in our fandom gatekeep against our younger peers. They’re going to come in even though you say crap like “Lmaooo, my blog/game is 18+! Okay, byeeeee!” If you want to protect them then be their fucking guide, my dudes. You can have a mature conversation with them and explain the difference between fiction and reality and what’s wrong and right. “Yanderes are pretty cool, ay sport? But notice how that guy gaslighted the girl? That is a common tactic people do IRL. Be sure to recognize it as a red flag.” Fuck, is that so fucking hard for everyone? Some people act like they never grew on the internet during the early 2000s.Y’all were a teenager once. If what you’re doing wouldn’t help teenage you in the past, then you’re doing it wrong. Smh. 

Finally, I do want to make a point for those who use coping reasons. While I do understand where you’re coming from, you guys are our most vulnerable to these attacks but also the reason for the attacks as well. It’s the mindset of “How could you support something like this?! You must be a horrible person.” I know a lot of people aren’t like that but also, we got bad apples... people who take this for coping reasons way too far. To them, I ask them to come back from the edge and let’s look for help together. Using yanderes to embrace “yandere tendencies” or rationalizing your abuse as normal isn’t the way. Use it to help you breathe and help you feel grounded but don’t let it define you... especially don’t make it a lifeline. As for those who know the difference and can separate fiction from reality, I applaud you but you got some work in helping those who are too deep. I’ve seen some of the yandere Tumblr group chats on the app. I’ll be real... YIKES. It’s a bit of an echo chamber. I ended up having to message a user on a side since I saw red flags in the group chat when I was lurking. People were trying to give the wrong help by encouraging their actions. Just... don’t do this y’all. I get you relate but don’t get your homie in jail or a court date for a restraining order. 

Anyways, I’m sorry anon for pulling farther and farther away from you specifically since this is a big issue that everyone tackles and I’m also sorry that I can’t give you an “end all” answer. First, you can try having a civil conversation with these people. Try for the middle ground and if you feel like you can push further, then try to do a change of mind. But I know this is hard, especially when tensions build and emotions get heated. But it’s important to never explode that anger... or at least direct that anger into a logical response. The moment you explode and made an error of judgment, you will lose and suffer publically. If a conversation isn’t possible, then encourage these people to stay in their lane and unfollow you. Why the fuck are they following you if they hate the things you reblog? Sounds unhealthy... suggest some hobbies or blogs to follow instead. From there, if they try to continue the hate, just block them and delete the messages. As they say, don’t feed the trolls. Y’all may think you’ve seen all the hate anons we get but we get a lot more than what we answer. We just delete them because they’re typically incoherent or stupid. They don’t come back lol. 

From there, anon, surround yourself with people who you find agreeable and who you relate to. A lot of yandere blogs are down for a talk, I’ll be real. Just be sure you open up that you want to be friends lol. So... yeah. I’m sorry this isn’t perfect, but I hope it helps. Don’t be afraid of being yourself!

[galaxierowls]

The Great Gatsby

by

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her;

If you can bounce high, bounce for her too,

Till she cry "Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover,

I must have you!"

—THOMAS PARKE D'INVILLIERS

Chapter 1

In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.

"Whenever you feel like criticizing any one," he told me, "just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had."

He didn't say any more but we've always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence I'm inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon—for the intimate revelations of young men or at least the terms in which they express them are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.

And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes but after a certain point I don't care what it's founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the "creative temperament"—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.

My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this middle-western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan and we have a tradition that we're descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather's brother who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today.

I never saw this great-uncle but I'm supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in Father's office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm center of the world the middle-west now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go east and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep-school for me and finally said, "Why—ye-es" with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year and after various delays I came east, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two.

The practical thing was to find rooms in the city but it was a warm season and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog, at least I had him for a few days until he ran away, and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.

It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.

"How do you get to West Egg village?" he asked helplessly.

I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood.

And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees—just as things grow in fast movies—I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.

There was so much to read for one thing and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the "Yale News"—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the "well-rounded man." This isn't just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.

It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western Hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual confusion to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more arresting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.

I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby's mansion. Or rather, as I didn't know Mr. Gatsby it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eye-sore, but it was a small eye-sore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbor's lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month.

Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed and I'd known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago.

Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savors of anti-climax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he'd left Chicago and come east in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance he'd brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that.

Why they came east I don't know. They had spent a year in France, for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn't believe it—I had no sight into Daisy's heart but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking a little wistfully for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game.

And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red and white Georgian Colonial mansion overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sun-dials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold, and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch.

He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy, straw haired man of thirty with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining, arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body.

His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.

"Now, don't think my opinion on these matters is final," he seemed to say, "just because I'm stronger and more of a man than you are." We were in the same Senior Society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own.

We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.

"I've got a nice place here," he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly.

Turning me around by one arm he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep pungent roses and a snub-nosed motor boat that bumped the tide off shore.

"It belonged to Demaine the oil man." He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. "We'll go inside."

We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-colored space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding cake of the ceiling—and then rippled over the wine-colored rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.

The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor.

The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless and with her chin raised a little as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in.

The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.

"I'm p-paralyzed with happiness."

She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I've heard it said that Daisy's murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.)

At any rate Miss Baker's lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me.

I looked back at my cousin who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth—but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered "Listen," a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.

I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way east and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.

"Do they miss me?" she cried ecstatically.

"The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath and there's a persistent wail all night along the North Shore."

"How gorgeous! Let's go back, Tom. Tomorrow!" Then she added irrelevantly, "You ought to see the baby."

"I'd like to."

"She's asleep. She's two years old. Haven't you ever seen her?"

"Never."

"Well, you ought to see her. She's—"

Tom Buchanan who had been hovering restlessly about the room stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.

"What you doing, Nick?"

"I'm a bond man."

"Who with?"

I told him.

"Never heard of them," he remarked decisively.

This annoyed me.

"You will," I answered shortly. "You will if you stay in the East."

"Oh, I'll stay in the East, don't you worry," he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. "I'd be a God Damned fool to live anywhere else."

At this point Miss Baker said "Absolutely!" with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.

"I'm stiff," she complained, "I've been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember."

"Don't look at me," Daisy retorted. "I've been trying to get you to New York all afternoon."

"No, thanks," said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry, "I'm absolutely in training."

Her host looked at her incredulously.

"You are!" He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. "How you ever get anything done is beyond me."

I looked at Miss Baker wondering what it was she "got done." I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before.

"You live in West Egg," she remarked contemptuously. "I know somebody there."

"I don't know a single—"

"You must know Gatsby."

"Gatsby?" demanded Daisy. "What Gatsby?"

Before I could reply that he was my neighbor dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square.

Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips the two young women preceded us out onto a rosy-colored porch open toward the sunset where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind.

"Why candles?" objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. "In two weeks it'll be the longest day in the year." She looked at us all radiantly. "Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it."

"We ought to plan something," yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed.

"All right," said Daisy. "What'll we plan?" She turned to me helplessly. "What do people plan?"

Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger.

"Look!" she complained. "I hurt it."

We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue.

"You did it, Tom," she said accusingly. "I know you didn't mean to but you did do it. That's what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great big hulking physical specimen of a—"

"I hate that word hulking," objected Tom crossly, "even in kidding."

"Hulking," insisted Daisy.

Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here—and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West where an evening was hurried from phase to phase toward its close in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself.

"You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy," I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. "Can't you talk about crops or something?"

I meant nothing in particular by this remark but it was taken up in an unexpected way.

"Civilization's going to pieces," broke out Tom violently. "I've gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read 'The Rise of the Coloured Empires' by this man Goddard?"

"Why, no," I answered, rather surprised by his tone.

"Well, it's a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don't look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It's all scientific stuff; it's been proved."

"Tom's getting very profound," said Daisy with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. "He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—"

"Well, these books are all scientific," insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. "This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It's up to us who are the dominant race to watch out or these other races will have control of things."

"We've got to beat them down," whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun.

"You ought to live in California—" began Miss Baker but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair.

"This idea is that we're Nordics. I am, and you are and you are and—" After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod and she winked at me again. "—and we've produced all the things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art and all that. Do you see?"

There was something pathetic in his concentration as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned toward me.

"I'll tell you a family secret," she whispered enthusiastically. "It's about the butler's nose. Do you want to hear about the butler's nose?"

"That's why I came over tonight."

"Well, he wasn't always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night until finally it began to affect his nose—"

"Things went from bad to worse," suggested Miss Baker.

"Yes. Things went from bad to worse until finally he had to give up his position."

For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.

The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom's ear whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.

"I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn't he?" She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation. "An absolute rose?"

This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing but a stirring warmth flowed from her as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house.

Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said "Sh!" in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond and Miss Baker leaned forward, unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether.

"This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbor—" I said.

"Don't talk. I want to hear what happens."

"Is something happening?" I inquired innocently.

"You mean to say you don't know?" said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. "I thought everybody knew."

"I don't."

"Why—" she said hesitantly, "Tom's got some woman in New York."

"Got some woman?" I repeated blankly.

Miss Baker nodded.

"She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner-time. Don't you think?"

Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots and Tom and Daisy were back at the table.

"It couldn't be helped!" cried Daisy with tense gayety.

She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me and continued: "I looked outdoors for a minute and it's very romantic outdoors. There's a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He's singing away—" her voice sang "—It's romantic, isn't it, Tom?"

"Very romantic," he said, and then miserably to me: "If it's light enough after dinner I want to take you down to the stables."

The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at every one and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn't guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking but I doubt if even Miss Baker who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy skepticism was able utterly to put this fifth guest's shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police.

The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker, with several feet of twilight between them strolled back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee.

Daisy took her face in her hands, as if feeling its lovely shape, and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl.

"We don't know each other very well, Nick," she said suddenly. "Even if we are cousins. You didn't come to my wedding."

"I wasn't back from the war."

"That's true." She hesitated. "Well, I've had a very bad time, Nick, and I'm pretty cynical about everything."

Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she didn't say any more, and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her daughter.

"I suppose she talks, and—eats, and everything."

"Oh, yes." She looked at me absently. "Listen, Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?"

"Very much."

Thank you.

[raendown]

Pairing: MadaraTobirama Word count: 5483 Chapter: 41/42 Summary: Not all wars are fought on the battlefield. Some are fought at the conference table, with whispers in the shadows, or even in the bedroom.

In a world where the Senju and Uchiha traditional lands were too far apart to have ever made them enemies, Butsuma and Tajima are the ones who come together and sign a treaty of peace. Madara isn’t happy to have his life signed away for him in a political marriage to strengthen the bond between their clans. He is even less happy to have Tobirama make assumptions of him from their very first night together. What follows from there is a journey of healing, of learning, and finding the places to belong in the places least expected.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

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Chapter 41

The first time he sat at the desk he thought to himself that it was much too grand. Hashirama had made it, of course, just as Hashirama had used his mokuton to create another top floor of the administration tower, one very large room to sit atop all the rest, the official command center of everything visible from the massive windows lining one entire wall. And to fit such a large room there needed to be a large desk. Tobirama swiveled in his new chair and peeked over one shoulder. Of all the things he hated about this office, the fact that his back now faced the windows probably bothered him the most. Just another thing to get used to. 

Kagami’s face popping out from underneath the desk brought his attention back along with a smile. If anyone was having fun in his new real estate it was the little scamp he called a student. 

“No one could ever find me down here!” the boy declared. “It’s like a whole fort! Or a cave!” 

“Yes, it is a bit big, isn’t it?” 

“It’s awesome!” 

Lifting his face to gaze around the room, Tobirama hummed. “Not the word I would have chosen but I appreciate your enthusiasm all the same.” 

Everything in the room was brand new, an honor he had only been blessed with once in his life when he was shown to his matrimonial home for the first time. Even the chairs across the desk for visitors were new and the couch on the other side of the room which he assumed was Hashirama's unsubtle way of saying they all knew he was going to overwork himself at some point. He might as well have a place to crash when he did. It was flattering to be gifted so many things no matter the intentions behind them and yet as he took it all in again Tobirama couldn’t help but miss the familiarity of his old office, the desk that always felt too small and yet had everything he needed available within arm’s reach, the chair that squeaked if he turned too fast but sat at just the right elevation to keep his knees from aching. 

Whoever chose this new chair had obviously gone for size over comfort; it was probably big enough to swallow even Hashirama's massive frame. 

“Kaasan says you’re really important now,” his protégé announced, popping up from under the desk again. “More important than anyone else in the village – except for me. She says I’ll always be the most important.” Kagami puffed out his chest and Tobirama couldn’t help but smile a little wider for him. 

“She is right about that.” 

“What’s a Hokage? She says you’re the very first Hokage but I’ve never heard that word before and the old lady next door came over before I could ask.” 

Fingers drumming against the dark wood before him, Tobirama considered how to explain the concept. “It means that the people of Konoha have chosen me as their leader. Almost the same way that the Daimyo is the ultimate authority of Hi no Kuni except I’m only in charge of one village, thank the spirits.”

Just the thought of having to deal with any more idiocy than he was already going to now made him shudder. 

“Oooh. So you’re really super important!” 

“Against my own will, I assure you,” Tobirama drawled. 

“You have to be extra careful then, right? Are you going to have guards now like the Daimyo does? My Obasan says the Daimyo never goes anywhere without at least three of his guards to protect him in case someone tries to come and hurt him. Maybe you should do that!” Kagami’s fingers curled over the arm of his chair, his eyes so wide and earnest one might never guess his training had progressed so well he could almost be considered as deadly as a fully grown adult. 

With a shake of his head, Tobirama huffed. “I don’t think I would enjoy that very much.”

“Now, now,” Madara's voice pitched in as the door clicked open. “The kid’s got a good idea building there. We’ve already lost two leaders and I’m sure I’m not alone in hoping that you survive longer than a single year in office. Maybe we should talk to Izuna about working something out with his ANBU.” 

“Is that truly necessary?” Pleasant as it was to see his husband, he wasn’t thrilled to have the man add his two cents to this ridiculousness. 

Madara hefted the box between his hands a little higher but not too high to cover the disgustingly contemplative look on his face. What a terrible look. Tobirama already knew he wasn’t going to enjoy whatever plans came out of that expression. Getting tricked in to this job was bad enough, did they really need to add more restrictions and annoyances on top of it all? 

“Sensei! Hey sensei!” Kagami tugged on his sleeve to get his attention again. “Can I be one of your guards?”

“You?” 

“Uh-huh! I want to protect sensei!” 

“I see.” Fighting the urge to melt, hoping his face betrayed nothing of his gooey inner feelings, Tobirama gave his student a pat on the arm. “When you’re a little older we can talk about it. You’re still a bit young for ANBU or guard squads just yet but I’m sure you’ll make a fine guard when you get there.” He couldn’t deny that the thought of his own protégé growing up to stand as his protector was adorably heart-warming. 

Madara grunted as he set his box down in one corner of the room, lifting the lid to check on the contents inside. From a distance it looked as though it were full of scrolls and that meant more paperwork. Wonderful. Tobirama was starting to wonder if he might drown under it all before anyone thought to remember the archives built in to the basement floors right underneath their feet. He took at least a small amount of consolation from watching Madara's arms flex, somehow bullied in to doing most of the heavy lifting as they tried to get everything set up in this new office. 

“How are you settling in?” his husband asked, closing the box and straightening up. 

“Already planning my escape routes, if you must know,” Tobirama admitted. To his credit he was only half serious. Right from the moment he stepped in to the room he’d been planning escape routes but no matter how much he griped he knew that he would see this duty through. 

The people had spoken. Just because he thought they had all taken collective leave of their senses by choosing him didn’t mean he was going to spit in their faces for making such a poor decision. 

“Oh, I don’t know, you seemed to be enjoying yourself just fine when I saw you earlier. Bossing the whole council of elders around like that? I wish I’d realized that was a perk of the job, I might have fought you for it!” Madara chuckled to himself while Tobirama grumbled darkly under his breath. If they’d had to fight for the position it would have been a short battle; he would have forfeited immediately. 

“Did any of them speak to you about it?” He asked, curious to know if they were already pushing back against his authority. Thankfully Madara shook his head. 

“I don’t think they were upset, mostly just shocked.” He shrugged. “They’re all clan heads and elders and heirs. Most of them have all but forgotten what it means to answer to an actual higher authority.” 

Kagami tilted his head. “Kaasan says I still have to listen to you, does that mean you’re a higher authority too Madara-sama?”

“Higher than you, brat!” 

“Behave, children,” Tobirama drawled. 

“Are you calling me a child!?” 

“You’re acting like one.” 

The little giggle at his side only made it all the funnier to watch Madara harrumph, moodily crossing his arms in a pretense of ignoring them both. 

It wasn’t all that much longer before Kagami grew bored, however, and Tobirama was more than happy to reach out with his senses and point the boy to wherever his mother had wandered off to. After cheerful waves, drawn out goodbyes, and a half dozen promises that he would be back in a little while the boy tottered off to leave his teacher and clan head alone on the top floor. Without him the room felt as though it had just a little less energy, like he’d taken it with him when he left. The feeling made Tobirama sigh. He wasn’t supposed to be middle aged for at least another decade. 

His cousin had always teased him that he’d been born an old man. 

“Are you disappearing in to your head already?” Madara broke in to his thoughts. 

“Perhaps a little.”

“What are you thinking so hard about?” 

Struggling to find the words, Tobirama drummed his fingers against the wood again. “Just…realizing that perhaps this job will have a few benefits that I might not have considered until now. Kagami may have escaped the necessity of attending the new academy but he’s hardly the only young impressionable mind out there. I was thinking that it might be nice having the chance to guide the next generation.” 

“You’re gonna be a bit busy for taking on any more students, I think.”

“I meant leading by example but thank you for the reminder that my free time has been effectively dismissed for the foreseeable future.” He glared but Madara only chuckled and trundled across the floor towards him. 

Tobirama wondered briefly if he was aware that he walked exactly like his own sensei, a habit most likely built entirely without conscious decision. Then he found himself distracted as the man slipped in to his lap and that was much more interesting to think about than walking patterns or anything else really. 

“Out of all of us I think you’re the best choice to guide the people,” Madara told him. 

“Because I’m the smartest?” 

“Hey! I’m smart! I don’t just mean because of your overly big brain. I mean because you have all the qualities that we need. Only instead of having those qualities spread out they���re all together in one person.” 

Confused, Tobirama frowned in to the middle distance. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You know how Hashirama makes a good leader because he really listens to people? And I’m a good leader because I think ahead and try to consider how things will affect more than just myself. Touka’s a good leader because she knows who to delegate to and trusts her captains. But the people of Konoha chose your butt for that seat because they know that you have all of those things – and more. Not only that but anyone who’s worked with you before knows that you’re not going to waste time trying to prove anything; you’ve already proven what you can do.” 

For almost a minute breathing deeply was all Tobirama could do, unsure how to function under the weight of so much blind trust. Except it wasn’t blind, he supposed, if so many people seemed to think that he had already shown these qualities. 

“I’m not even twenty yet,” he pointed out very quietly. “Not even twenty and I stand authoritatively above the people who have decades more experience than I do.”

“They’ve also had decades of getting set in their ways,” Madara pointed out. He was right, of course. The council of elders were rather infamous for being a bunch of stubborn bastards. 

“Did they vote? They would have been allowed to unless they put their name on the ballot but I can’t even begin to guess who they might have thrown their support behind.” Tobirama knew as well as anyone else how many different opinions there could be in just one room when the whole council gathered. Having less than no control over the outcome, he hadn’t even bothered to check and see how many names were on the final list to be voted on or how the numbers had tallied. 

“You’re not going to like this. But I think most of them voted you in. Which means that most of them will have no trouble at all following wherever you lead them.”

He wrinkled his nose. Madara was right, he didn’t like that. If there had been dissent in the ranks he might have held on to the faintest hope of impeachment but alas. Apparently he really was stuck here.

“If you could go back in time,” Tobirama murmured, “back to the night before our marriage or even the day we were betrothed, would you? If you had the chance would you tell yourself what was to come?” He could feel the other man’s eyes on him but didn’t bother to meet them, busy as he was asking himself the same question. It was something that had been on his mind lately but no matter how much he turned it over in his mind he never seemed to land on one answer. His husband, evidently, was much more decisive than him. 

“No,” Madara answered after a few heartbeats. 

Tobirama finally looked over at him again. “Just like that? No?” 

“I’m proud of the journey we went through together. If I have known that everything was going to turn out alright then maybe I wouldn’t have tried so hard to get to know who you really are. And then maybe I wouldn’t have fallen in love with you. What we went through was a long process but it was…necessary, I think.”

With a hum he pulled Madara in for a kiss. “Look at you being all wise. I think I’ll make you my chief advisor.”

Before his partner could scowl and grumble that he’d already accepted the role of chief advisor there came a knock at the door and both of them scrambled to separate themselves. His first day in office was not the time to be starting rumors of defiling the place or anything so scandalous. Only when it opened a moment later to admit Hashirama's smiling face did he remember that he could have just stretched his senses again and he would have known whether or not they needed to panic. 

“Hello!” His brother called out in greeting, wiggling the fingers of his free hand. With the other he carried something large made of clean red and white cotton. 

“Dare I ask what you have there?” Tobirama grumbled. 

“You’ll like this! I thought you should have a badge of status or something so I made you a special Hokage’s hat!” 

Something dark like horror filled him as Hashirama pressed the hat in to his hands to be inspected from all angles. It was massive and well-crafted with a veil of white hanging down to protect the back of his neck from sight. When he looked back up his brother was beaming at him with pride, innocent and entirely empty of any ill intentions. 

“Thanks,” Tobirama told him. “I hate it.” Hashirama wilted like a flower. 

“But I designed it myself!” 

“Ah, that must be why it’s so hideous.” 

“So mean!” 

Madara snatched the thing out of his hands and flipped it around. “I mean, at least he used the right kanji for fire. Carrying around a spelling mistake over your forehead wouldn’t be a great impression to make on any newcomers.” 

“I thought it was really nice,” Hashirama sniffed. 

“You wouldn’t know style if it ran up and bit your wife on the bottom.” Tobirama sighed, eyeing the new accessory in mourning. His words were unkind and yet he just knew he was going to be guilted in to wearing it at some point. For all his bluster he was soft like that for the ones he loved.

After sticking out his tongue Hashirama snatched the hat back for himself and began picking off invisible bits of lint. “You’ve really grown up since we came here, you know? Even if you say mean things I know what you really feel. So I wanted to get you something that would remind you whenever you need it how proud I am of everything you’ve become.” 

He peeked up with those big brown eyes and for a moment Tobirama could only damn his own heart for clenching inside his chest. Those words meant so much more to him than he would ever be able to admit. 

The two of them were all they had left, really. He was closer to Touka, even Hashirama knew that, but she would never mean quite the same thing to him as his immediate family did. She would never be the brothers that crawled in to bed with him when the nightmares woke them, the quiet voices that whispered their secrets when father wasn’t around. There was something irreplaceable in Hashirama as the last of his siblings that not even Touka could ever be. 

Of course, in a way, Hashirama had been the last of his family long before Butsuma passed away. Watching his brother mourn a man who treated them as little better than soldiers had been a strangely painful thing. Like watching him grieve for something that had never been, a dream that fades at waking yet leaves behind some deep impossible yearning. He couldn’t help but want to take the man in a gentle embrace and explain to him that it was all so much wasted emotion but he knew better than that, knew that Hashirama needed to expel these feelings to move on, and so he’d been doing his best to simply stay away from the subject.

“I appreciate the gift,” he murmured eventually, trusting that his brother would understand what he was really trying to say. Hashirama smiled and reached out to ruffle his hair. 

“You deserve the whole world, do you know that?”

“Do try to praise me whilst keeping your hands to yourself,” Tobirama grumbled. 

Madara snickered so he turned to glare at his husband too, though the man didn’t seem all that terrified by his ire. 

Surprisingly Hashirama didn’t stay all that long. Despite his usual habit of dragging every conversation out three times longer than it needed to be he ducked out fairly quickly once he was sure his gift wouldn’t be shredded as soon as he was out of sight. Either he had developed a new enthusiasm for paperwork overnight or he was having a bit too much fun deciding how to decorate his own new space. In an effort to prevent either man from sitting in the echoes of unwanted memories Madara and Hashirama had each moved in to the now empty offices of each others’ predecessors. Evidently his brother had been enjoying the chance to fill once blank walls with tacky décor.

“A quick visit, that,” Madara noted as well once they were alone again.

“Indeed. And I do believe I’d like to make my own visit quick. All I wanted was to come familiarize myself with the new office, I didn’t mean to make a full day of it. There will be plenty of days ahead for me to be trapped in here.” He sighed just thinking about it

When they left Tobirama was careful to leave that horrendous hat behind, tucking it off in a random corner and hoping that no one else would notice it before he had time to think of a better hiding spot. Having his ears frozen in a biting wind was preferable to wearing that monstrosity. He entertained himself instead with the smug look on his husband’s face as they made their way home. In almost the same way Hashirama's regard had done, Madara's overwhelming pride to walk at his side touched him in ways he refused to speak out loud, warming him from the inside out to see how his partner puffed up like a happy peacock even though the citizens passing them by weren’t paying their respects to him. 

He deflated only slightly about halfway home when his steps faltered with the expression of someone who just thought of something they were supposed to remember several hours ago. 

“Didn’t Kagami say he was coming back at some point?” he asked. Tobirama waved him off with a quiet smile. 

“We both know he’s already forgotten. I can feel him dashing around the marketplace with his friends; he’s not going to be thinking of his boring sensei for quite some time.”

“You’re not boring,” Madara said. “Kagami doesn’t think so either. He wants to grow up to be just like you.”

“Poor taste,” Tobirama noted. 

His husband thwacked him on the arm, never one to appreciate a bit of good self-deprecation, and then his expression turned hesitant. A bit thoughtful. “If he’s distracted it usually takes him a while to remember what he was supposed to be doing. So you’re saying I have you all to myself for now?”

“It seems that way, yes.”

“Don’t suppose I could convince you to, ah, take advantage of that?” 

Heat shot through his body, very different from the subtle warmth he’d been floating in before. This was a fire, a burn, a tightness in his belly that made him quicken his steps in such a way that turned Madara's ears pink with a mixture of shame and pleasure. He’d brought it on himself really. If he was going to offer such things Tobirama was not the sort of man who would turn him down. 

Conversation was a bit stilted from then on as they continued. Now that they had a reason to hurry it felt as though half the population wanted to stop and offer Tobirama their congratulations and as touched as he was to see so many people supporting him all he really wanted was for the lot of them to go away so he could bend his husband over the nearest piece of furniture. Madara kept his mouth shut for the most part, nodding along when anyone asked him if he wasn’t just the proudest he could possibly be, clammed up tight as though he hadn’t just been strutting about like a peacock five minutes before. 

If nothing else the amusement of watching his desperation mount higher and higher was almost worth feeling the same. 

Tobirama could feel that his gait had gotten a little stiff by the time they both pushed inside their home. When Madara pressed him back against the wall of the genkan he struggled to return the affections while also kicking off one of his boots, uncaring for the snow and slush that he must be splashing everywhere. Not even the feeling of cold water soaking in to his socks was enough to deter him from pulling the other man closer by the hips and grinding their bodies together. 

Fighting their way out of the various boots and coats and scarves protecting them from the weather outside took much longer than Tobirama would have liked, long enough that when they were free at last to stumble their way inside the rest of the house he simply didn’t have the patience to move any farther than the couch. Out of all the times he had jokingly threatened to bend this man over their various pieces of furniture he’d only ever been about half-serious a few times. Having had no experience before their relationship, Madara seemed to consider intimacy anywhere but their actual bed to be filthy in the same way he thought of spanking as incredibly kinky. 

He didn’t seem to have any complaints about filth or shame at the moment as he was pushed up against the back of their couch. Lewd sounds of appreciation spilled from his lips as his fingers pulled at whatever pieces of cloth they had the coordination to latch on to. 

“Should have brought the damn hat,” he mumbled in the non-existent space between them. 

“You cannot tell me you found it attractive?” Tobirama meant for his words to come out as a demand. Instead they were breathless, absent, whispers soaking in to pale skin as he moved down his husband’s neck. 

“Not really- nnh, feels good. S’just, dunno, it’s kind of hot that I’m…sleeping with the Hokage?” 

Tobirama pulled away far enough to stare in to his partner’s eyes, drinking in the way Madara shivered under his gaze. If the look on his face was even half as hungry as the heat in his belly then he couldn’t blame the man.

“Oh?” he purred. “Does my beloved husband have an authority kink?” 

“S-shut up.” Madara turned his head away but his protests had very little impact when followed with a deep moan, body melting under the sensation of teeth scraping along the lines of his neck. 

Nipping his way up just far enough to nibble on a defenseless earlobe, Tobirama allowed himself a vicious smirk. Finally a preference to work with. This alone was more than worth the trouble of being forced in to the limelight. With a sharp nip that drew a gasp he whispered in a voice that rasped with all the want inside him on naked display. 

“Don’t tell me what to do; you’re not in charge right now, anata.” When Madara shivered under him Tobirama felt bold enough to add, “Turn around.” 

“Need to reach over here anyway,” his husband mumbled as though to justify following the directions they both knew he wanted to anyway. As soon as he had spun to face the couch back he was stretching one arm out and leaning over to wriggle his fingers, trying desperately to reach the little tub of lotion he’d taken to leaving out for the evenings when dry fingers began to crack and bleed in to whatever book he was reading. 

“How resourceful of you,” Tobirama praised him. 

Although he was kind enough not to comment on the blush that followed his words he was slave enough to his own hormones to enjoy it, reveling in the knowledge that it was him and only him who could put such heat on that face. Married men they might be but that did nothing to stop many eyes in the village from admiring a shapely form and Tobirama knew exactly how many others wished they could be in his position right at this moment.

Which only made it all the more delicious listening to his own name fill the room in a desperate chant as he spread the man open and pressed inside, curling over Madara's body with some half-formed animal drive to keep him safe. His teeth bared in a grimace of pleasure, skin prickling where the chill of the room warred with the heat of their joining, Tobirama rocked his hips in an impatient rhythm. The world around them was lost to his consciousness as he took and took and gave back everything he had. Every gasp and cry that fell from his husband’s lips was a sweet chorus calling for more, a call he was all too happy to answer. 

Curled so tightly as he already was, it took little more than a tilt of his head to whisper against the shell of Madara's ear, hips snapping with every rock forward. 

“I love you,” he breathed. Madara whined, legs stiffening as he too drew close to the edge. “I want only you like this; I want no one else to ever see you in these moments. Come for me, anata.”

“Gods.” His husband gave up holding his own weight and folded to allow the couch to bear their movements. Tobirama tightened his fingers on the hips in his grasp and bit an ear already hot and fever red. 

“Do as I say, hm? Come for your Hokage.” 

Later he might ruminate over the possibility that Madara's arousal had been triggered by the idea that no one else had ever stood above him in authority like this before, a thrilling new dynamic he hadn’t encountered until he was outranked by his own husband. But that was later. In this moment Tobirama choked on his own breath as Madara clamped down around him and cried out in a filthy rasp that tumbled both of them in to ecstasy. 

In the brief seconds when the world turned white and fuzzy Tobirama knew only the clutch of the passage stealing his sanity and the husky mantra of his own name, the sensation of Madara's body quaking beneath his own. Fading back in to reality came with the realization that he was also mumbling over and over, sweet nothings and praises, every secret emotion inside his heart slipping between his lips as though the very world depended on him to fill the air with such nonsense. It took effort but he managed to clench his teeth and silence himself in the damp skin of his partner’s neck. 

“Never ever speak of this,” Madara's voice grumbled quietly. 

“Of the incredible sex we just had?” Tobirama asked without moving. “I’m hardly the type to brag about my exploits, you know.” 

“That’s not what I meant! I just- you can’t- no making fun of me for this!” 

With one eyebrow already lifting Tobirama cracked his eyes open. “Nor am I the type to mock you for your preferences. I am, however, going to shamelessly exploit them. If you thought I wasn’t going to take advantage of that little slip then I regret to say you may have misjudged me, anata.” 

Madara's answering grunt sounded more like eager capitulation than a protest. 

Cleaning up after themselves was slightly more awkward in the living room with no master bathroom a mere handful of steps away but eventually Tobirama managed to sort them both out enough that they could collapse down on to the sofa together where he found himself trapped in one corner as Madara leaned back against him with loose limbs and heavily lidded eyes. 

“Falling asleep on me?”

“No. I’m just resting my eyes for a bit.” 

“Ah, I see.” Tobirama smiled, running his fingers through the mane of hair between them. “Strangely enough I think you may have been right about all this.” 

“Well that’s not something I hear very often. Are you feeling alright? You don’t normally admit when I’m right.” 

Smacking him gently on the arm did nothing but elicit a snicker but Tobirama didn’t have the energy to do anything other than roll his eyes. “I am perfectly fine, thank you very much. All I meant was that perhaps this detestably unwanted duty may not be as terribly bad as it seems. With you supporting me I think everything will turn out alright.” 

“I will always support you,” Madara told him quietly. 

Feeling his heart clench inside his chest, Tobirama bent his neck to press a kiss against the back of his partner’s head. 

“I know. And I will always be lucky to have you.” 

“Damn straight you’re lucky to have me. I am quite the catch.” Madara harrumphed and rolled his head as though trying and failing to gather the energy for a flip of his impressive hair. 

Tobirama said nothing but in his silence there was an agreement. He might not say it aloud very often but he did recognize precisely how blessed he was. Not only to have a man like Madara in his life but to have won his honest affection, to earn his place in a heart so closely guarded. Surely there could be no higher honor. 

“We can bring the hat next time though, right?” 

“If you like.” Swallowing his laughter, Tobirama decided then that he knew the answer to his earlier question. And oddly enough his husband appeared to be right about this as well. Given the chance to go back in time, to speak to himself eight months ago and forewarn of everything that would happen in the future, he would choose to do it all again exactly as they had. Madara's love meant so much more to him now that he knew how deeply the man had searched his own soul to allow himself such emotions. To be handed a prize meant so much less than to win it for himself. 

“Are we having a nap now?” Madara asked. His voice didn’t sound particularly sleepy; if anything he seemed to be looking for an excuse to just not get up for a while. 

“Mn, if you like,” Tobirama said again. 

Listening to his husband grumble at him for being cheeky, he let his eyes fall shut and his head tilt back, basking in the scent of his most beloved person and the security of knowing that everything would turn out alright in the end. What end that might be he could not say but with Madara there at his side he found that what mattered the most was not the destination, it was the journey. 

[adoredontour]

🔮 share your natal chart tag game 🔮

i was tagged by @strawberrylight thank u themi

rules: go to this website and generate your natal chart  if you can (you’ll need a place of birth + time of birth). report the results for your Sun, Moon and Ascendant, and bold the statements that apply to you.

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The Sun is in Aquarius

One of the standout characteristics of those born under the Sun Sign of Aquarius is their unwillingness to follow the beaten track. With advancement and progress on their minds, there can be an irreverence to old and outdated ways of thinking and doing things. Many Aquarians aim to free themselves of personal and social conditioning. Although open to change in theory, Aquarians can be surprisingly stubborn. Their idealism runs strong, but they can be very fixed in their opinions. Often a bit aloof and even standoffish, Aquarians nonetheless are usually well-liked. They are curious and observant, and tolerant in a broad sense. Prejudice and bias is offensive to the typical Aquarius. Aquarians are generally very clever, witty, and intellectual. They value progress and frankness. It's difficult to throw Aquarians for a loop--they're generally on top of things. There is a bit of reformer in Aquarius. They'll try to get you to see through superficiality, and encourage you to be open and forthright. "Be true to yourself" and "Don't follow the crowd" are mottos we easily associate with this sign. Aquarians need space and value personal freedom. Any attempt to box them in will likely fail. They'll happily return the favor; and they will treat people from all walks of life as equals. Equality and fairness are hallmarks of the sign. If you're quirky and "different", all the better. They are independent, autonomous, and have progressive ideas. Weaknesses: an unusual, rebellious and revolutionary spirit.

The Moon is in Pisces

Lunar Pisceans are known to be dreamy and not always in touch with reality. However, though these people may not always show real-world savvy in day-to-day, practical affairs, they make up for this with remarkable intuition. They can put themselves into anybody's shoes with extreme ease. On the plus side, this endows them with remarkable compassion and love. The down side with this apparent ability to break down boundaries is that these people can easily lose themselves in the suffering of others. Their sense of humor is delightfully silly and a bit odd. These are perceptive souls who seem to be in touch with all the nuances and subtleties of human nature. Often this comes through in a strong sense of humor that is more of the receptive kind than the type of sense of humor that would make people the "life of the party". It's generally pretty easy to get them giggling. Moon in Pisces people may get tagged as spaced out, but there's a lot more to them than meets the eye. They feel things out, and rely on their intuition. It just doesn't feel right for them to do otherwise. Their dreaminess can mean plenty of moments of absent-mindedness. These times of oblivion can land them in all sorts of predicaments with others who can too easily misunderstand these complex souls. Without plenty of space and time to daydream, Pisces Moons easily get overloaded with life. Give them room to be alone with themselves, and they're generally able to take on the world--even if their style when they do so is not always conventional or understandable. Generally considered soft-hearted and sweet, Lunar Pisceans care about others and are easily touched by human suffering. This tendency gains them the reputation as suckers for sob stories. Although this may sometimes be true, many Lunar Pisceans learn, in their lifetimes, how to discern between sincerity and manipulation. Still, they definitely do have plenty of soft corners. In personal relationships, Lunar Pisceans are giving and yielding. They are generally open on a sexual level, in a quiet way. Their fantasies can be far-reaching, intricate, and rich with emotion. Love is closely tied in with their sexuality. Most Lunar Pisceans are shy; they need a trustworthy lover to bring them out. There's a delightful accepting side to Moon in Pisces that is sometimes mistaken for weakness. Pisces is the twelfth and last sign of the zodiac, and thus carries with it a little of each sign of the zodiac. As a result, they see themselves reflected in the behavior of others, giving them seemingly boundless compassion. Since the Moon represents our instinctive nature, Moon in Pisces seems to know how things feel without actual experience. For example, they may have never had sex, but seem to know all about it -- even, or especially, the subtleties of it. The ones that aren't too shy make awesome actors and actresses. This ability to empathize even in the absence of experience gives them an open mind and heart. Most long to express this through writing, music (both listening and making), poetry, and art -- in fact, the happiest people with this position do just that. Though some are doormats, most Pisces Moon people instinctively know when they're due for a much-needed recharge. It's at these times that they retreat from the world (and its harsh realities) if only to gather strength to face everything and everyone again. Solitude is important to them, but they also need people, so their retreats will usually be short-lived. Pisces Moon individuals believe; and, let's face it, the world needs Piscean leaps of faith. Imaginative, sharp insights. They are impressionable, with an abundant imagination. Gentle, warm, humorous, artistic. Potential issues: troubles caused by too much sentimentality, worries, problems, unhealthy imagination, escapism, nervousness.

Ascendant is Virgo

People with Virgo rising are often a little understated in their personal mannerisms and appearance, although a lot depends on the position of Mercury (the ruling planet of Virgo) in the chart. Generally, there is an intelligent and reserved aura about Virgo rising individuals that is unmistakable. These are actually somewhat shy people who need time to analyze things around them before they warm up to both situations and people. This quality can be received exactly as that, or it can be received as a rather stand-offish, cool, and even critical manner (depending on the audience). One of the biggest personality traits of this position is body-awareness. People with Virgo ascendants are sensitive to any discomfort or other signals their body gives them. Many are especially interested and concerned with physical health, and some are attracted to mind-body awareness exercises such as yoga. Virgo rising people are often rather particular about food. Although some have good appetites, there can be an unmistakable pickiness about what they put in and on their bodies. Virgo ascendant natives have a tendency to worry a lot, especially when confronted with new situations. They notice the tiniest details that others overlook. Many people with this position have a tendency to attract (or be attracted to) people who need help. Their relationships may be confusing as a result. Despite the Virgo rising tendency to appear rather collected and professional, relationships can sometimes be messy simply because these natives don't always see their partners and partnerships clearly. There's a quiet charm to many Virgo rising people. Once they have the chance to warm up to new people and situations, you'll find they have a lot to offer. They'll help you out of a jam, go out on a limb for you, and surprise you with a natural modesty under a somewhat critical and standoffish manner.

[coralstories]

An Unexpected Arrival: Chapter Eight

Word count: 2337

It’s another “main character shows up in Mirkwood and has to figure out how to survive”, but this time with my OC Aurelia Castillo and she freaks out first. Have fun laughing at her!

A/N: the bolded text is a different language, text in italics are thoughts

Warnings: mentions of racism (not relevant to today’s topics, I wrote this a while ago). Fighting scenes!

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, they saw Kili playing with his runestone. Aurelia held her breath; it felt like deja vu, although she knew it was not a dream she remembered this scene from. She peeked around Tauriel’s slim form with a smile on her face. Kili noticed her behind the tall, beautiful elleth. 

“Who is this? You keep humans as pets?” Kili said in jest. 

Aurelia gave him a stern look. 

“I’m no one’s pet,” she said. “Just curious. I’ve never seen a dwarf in person before.”

She stepped around Tauriel and offered Kili her hand through the bars.

“I’m Aurelia. Most people call me Lia.”

Kili stared at her hand as if it were a viper. Aurelia sighed.

“Where I come from when people first meet they shake hands,” Aurelia said.

“Oh, of course,” the young dwarf prince said.

He took Aurelia’s small hand in his large one and introduced himself. She felt the calluses on his palm that were evidence of his familiarity with weapons. What she told him about introductions was absolutely true. But, she had another motivation for shaking hands with the dwarf. She was checking for injuries. Dwarves were hardy, though, and she was not surprised when she sensed only small bruises and cuts. She moved on to the dwarf in the next cell and repeated the introduction, leaving Kili and Tauriel. They talked quietly amongst themselves. Finally, she reached Thorin’s cell. When she offered her hand, Thorin ignored it. 

“You do not seem like a normal elf,” he said. 

“And you do not seem like a normal dwarf,” Aurelia replied. 

Before Thorin could utter a retort, Aurelia withdrew her hand and tucked her hair behind her ear. That drew Thorin’s attention to her ears, which he realized were rounded, very unlike an elf’s. 

“You’re human?” Thorin exclaimed. 

Aurelia nodded. “Very much so.”

She studied him as he studied her. 

“What are you doing here?” he finally asked her. 

“I wanted to meet you,” Aurelia said honestly. 

“Hm. Why do I feel like there is more?” Thorin took hold of the bars and leaned closer. “Did Thranduil send you to spy on us? Did the lying weasel kidnap you to Mirkwood?”

“I was kidnapped, but not by Thranduil,” Aurelia said. An idea occurred to her. “Maybe Gandalf had something to do with it....”

“The meddling wizard?” Thorin asked, surprised. “Do you know him?”

Aurelia shook her head. “Only through reputation. We’ve never met. But isn’t he supposed to be with you? Where is he? If he shows surprise at my presence then maybe he didn’t have anything to do with it after all.”

Aurelia knew full well he had left them at the border of the forest, but she needed an in. 

“Bah!” Thorin spat. “We are on our own now.”

Aurelia glanced at Tauriel as the runestone clattered beneath her boot. She beckoned to Thorin. His gaze was suspicious as he leaned forward again, and Aurelia put her lips close to his ear. 

“I count twelve among your company,” she said in a low voice. “I heard there were supposed to be thirteen.”

Thorin jerked back in surprise. 

“He’s a hobbit, right?” Aurelia groaned. “I wish I’d been kidnapped to the Shire instead. It seems much more peaceful and beautiful.”

“Perhaps, if you help us escape, we can take you there,” Thorin said. “And you can tell me how you know all this.”

Aurelia looked him up and down. 

“Are you sure?” she asked. “You’ve been? You know the way?”

“Yes, I have been there once,” Thorin responded. “But at the end of our journey we’ll have to send our hobbit home, won’t we? You could go with him.”

“That sounds amazing!” Aurelia said. 

She jumped as she remembered something. Legolas had been watching Tauriel at this point. Aurelia looked around and spotted him a level above. He looked too focused on Tauriel and Kili’s conversation to notice her and the dwarf king talking. Thorin followed her gaze and saw what had caught her attention. 

“That’s the spoiled elf-brat that captured us,” he muttered. 

Aurelia giggled. “‘Spoiled elf-brat’?” she echoed. 

“Do you not agree?” 

“No! He's a little... uptight sometimes, but you know, he's got a lot going on,” Aurelia said, in a conspiratorial tone. “He’s extremely attractive, though.”

Thorin made a face. Aurelia held her hand out, palm towards Thorin.

“Don’t worry, you’re plenty attractive yourself,” she said. 

Thorin watched her for a moment, trying to determine if she was genuine or not. 

“You’re almost exactly like I pictured you,” Aurelia said, her voice still low. “I do hope Thranduil doesn’t keep you here for long, I—,”

“Aurelia,” said a male voice. 

Aurelia looked up to her left and saw Emlithor, watching the two of them with a furrowed brow and tilted head. He glanced over to Tauriel and Kili, and his curious frown deepened. 

“Ben!” Aurelia exclaimed. “Have you met the newbies? Thorin here is their leader.”

“I know you cannot know this, but we elves do not get along with dwarves,” Emlithor said. 

“Why not? They seem like a nice bunch.”

Emlithor stepped forward and took Aurelia’s arm. He continued speaking as he led her away. 

“Dwarves are stubborn and greedy. They are not to be trusted,” he explained. 

“Surely not all of them. That’s not a nice thing to say.”

“I am sure. We have never liked dwarves for this reason. They are all—,”

Aurelia jerked her arm away and stepped back. When Emlithor looked at her, he saw that she was angry. 

“Honey, look,” she began. “I don’t know about what sort of feud is going on here, but don’t ever speak like that around me again. That’s called racism. We don’t have dwarves or elves where I come from. We have a group of humans who don’t like people like me just because we have a different culture and darker skin. When you generalize the traits of a few in a group to all of the group, that’s how wars start. So, when you tell me ‘all dwarves are nasty creatures’ and this dwarf tells me ‘elves are capricious liars’, I don’t like it. It makes me feel like you would say the same about me if you came from where I am from. You ever say anything like that around me again, I’m walking away and I’m afraid we can’t be friends anymore. Got it?”

Emlithor stared at her for a moment, slightly alarmed. Aurelia turned to Thorin. 

“And you,” she said. “I don’t know you and we’re not friends, so I know I have no right to lecture you, but I hope you take my words to heart, too. Tauriel, I’m ready to leave when you are.”

She felt several pairs of eyes on her before Tauriel finally stood up. Aurelia made her way to Tauriel’s side and they left together to rejoin the festivities upstairs. Emlithor watched them go with a concerned expression. A whistle sounded from one of the cells. 

“That one’s got some fire in her,” Fíli said. “I think I like her.”

Emlithor glared at the dwarf as he walked past his cell, making his way to his prince and commander. Once they were out of sight of the cells, Legolas stopped Emlithor with one hand on his shoulder.

“Keep an eye on them,” Legolas said. 

“I’m supposed to be helping Lúthon with the new shipment from Laketown,” Emlithor said hesitantly. 

“After that, then. I am worried about what they’ll say to Aurelia. She seems impressionable.”

Emlithor would have protested that she was in fact very strong-willed, but he said nothing. He too was worried about another interaction between her and the dwarves. He nodded and brought his fist to his chest in a salute. Legolas returned his salute, then went upstairs.

In her room, Aurelia was making a small bundle of clothes and tools to take with her. She knew that soon, Bilbo would lead the dwarves down to the cellar, and then they would be lost to her. She had to get there before the elves started their pursuit. She hid the pack under a cloak and dashed down to the cellar. She spared a moment to tend to the unconscious Emlithor and Lúthon, setting a cushion under their cheeks. When she turned the corner, all the barrels were gone, but Bilbo was there, staring at the floor looking lost. Suddenly, there were shouts. Bilbo whirled around and caught sight of Aurelia, who laughed out of nervousness. Aurelia slapped a hand over her mouth, then rushed over to Bilbo. 

“We’ve got to go,” she said. “They’re coming.”

She took Bilbo’s hand and led him to the spot where she knew the floor would start to tip, creating an opening. It opened quite quickly with their combined weight, and they fell through. Bilbo let out a small yell of fright. The plank was almost closed before the elves came in. They fell into the water together, though Aurelia sank deeper than Bilbo. He was pulled to the edge of one of the barrels quickly. Aurelia held her breath and stayed underwater until she could no longer see his little bare feet. She broke the surface and took a deep breath, then made her way to a pathway that followed the stream. 

She kept to the shadows and made her way outside. She took a route that she was half sure would lead to where she needed to go and would be orc-free (she had almost forgotten that the orcs would appear). She hoped that she would be able to meet the dwarves where they stopped to rest. She never strayed far enough from the river that she could not hear it. The sounds of battle drifted from the river as well. She flinched with every roar of an orc and every scream of a dwarf. She recalled how she had laughed during this scene of the movie. It was comical how Bombur had bounced around in the barrel. Now, she felt nothing but fear as she ran through the woods now, fear for herself and the dwarves and her elf friends. 

Suddenly, she heard a growl to her right. She dropped into a crouch and then froze, only daring to move her eyes. She saw an orc that had almost crossed the path in front of her; it seemed he was running to join the battle. He came nearer to her, but it looked like he would still pass her by. Then, when the orc was directly in front of her, he slowed and sniffed the air. Aurelia slowly and quietly reached around into her pack and withdrew a dagger. The orc’s breathing became heavier and he turned to face her, shrieking. Aurelia stood up, drew her arm back, then brought her arm down, and threw the dagger. It hit the orc in his still open mouth, and he fell to the ground choking. Aurelia walked over to the orc and stepped on his wrist as he reached for his weapon. She withdrew her dagger from his mouth. He screamed at her, blood spurting up from the hole in his mouth. Aurelia brought the dagger back down in his throat this time. 

“Shut up, would you?” Aurelia snapped. 

And finally, the orc was quiet. Aurelia kept running, not bothering to put her dagger away. Aurelia reached a rocky shore. She recognized it as the spot where the dwarves stopped before being picked up by Bard. She stopped, staring at the calm water, amazed she had actually made it. She didn’t see the orc behind her or hear him bring his bow up to full draw. 

She did, however, feel the arrow embed itself in her shoulder. She screamed out a groan and stumbled forward. She kept her footing and whirled around to face the culprit. The orc roared at her. Aurelia, taking the orc completely by surprise, charged him. He scrambled to bring his bow up again but fired a clumsy shot when Aurelia was a yard away. She ducked and dodged it, then slashed at the orc’s bow, knocking the next arrow out of his grip. She pressed forward and stabbed him in the neck, holding onto his armor with her other hand. She withdrew the dagger and stabbed the orc again in the eye. He fell to one knee, and she stabbed him again in the other eye, just for good measure. The orc collapsed on his side. Aurelia jumped away from him, and stood there for a moment, breathing heavily. She swayed on the spot, then groaned as her right shoulder throbbed. She glanced at the orc’s other arrows and saw that, amazingly, the tips were not barbed. She made her way to the water’s edge and cleaned her blade. Then, she reached back with her left hand and gripped the arrow sticking out of her shoulder. She sobbed as the pain blossomed and hunched over, her hair falling into the water. 

You can do this, ichpocatl, the feathered serpent hissed. It is merely a flesh wound. You are lucky. This arrow was not one of the poisoned ones. 

Help me, Aurelia asked silently. 

She tightened her grip on the arrow and pulled it out, as straight as she could manage at this angle. She screamed in pain, and it echoed off of the rocks around her. Her back arched as she felt the muscle and tissue start to knit itself back together. She fell on her side, and the last thing she saw was rock before her vision darkened. Somehow, she had the mind to reach for her dagger before she completely passed out. 

I will take care of you, ichpocatl. Rest, and you will heal.

[angstars]

i really liked the "suggestive position" haha scenrios. can we get more of that but with kauro, madara, and kanata?

ooo suggestive positions~ the cutest trope i gotta say!! comin right up my friend!

And remember, get calcium! ♠

Kaoru

You were in the ‘Light Music Club’, waiting for your boyfriend to return so you may go to the shopping district together as promised, just innocently minding your own business.

You were seated on Rei’s coffin that was situated at the corner of the room, currently using it as a seating as all the other chairs were cluttered and used to hold certain instruments.

Texting friends on the phone and listening to music through your earphones, you weren’t aware that someone has stepped into the room. You only became aware of it when said person decided to raid your personal space; by removing one earphone from your left eat and blowing warm air.

You squeal and flinch at the sudden ticklish sensation, moving to the side and covering your ear, glaring at the assailant.

“Ugh! Kaoru?! Of all ways to let me know you’re back?” You huffed, dropping your hand back down, feeling your guard getting lowered now that you know who it was.

Kaoru chuckles lowly, shoulders quite slumped as his eyelids hung heavy. Without warning, he leaned forward, laying his head on your shoulder slowly. You were curious and came to ask him to clarify his actions when he still kept going forward, forcing you to lean back until you were fully laying on your back and Kaoru was on top of you, chests pressed together and legs entangled. He was lucky, to have this coffin serve the both of you at this moment as a bed; albeit being a very hard and uncomfortable bed.

Instantly, your cheeks burn up, grabbing onto his shoulders to push him off of you, when Kaoru simply buries his face in the crook of your neck, sending another shiver all over your body.

From a distance, Kaoru laying down between your legs like that wasn’t exactly the best image, but in that moment, it didn’t cross both of your minds.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to come back and spend some time with you,” he whispers, sighing contently. You felt his hot breathe brush against your soft skin and relaxed under him once hearing his soothing tone, “I know this is too much to ask but can we rest just a bit longer before we head to the mall? I’m tired from practice.”

You smiled at that genuine request and slowly danced your fingers all the way to his hair, brushing it reassuringly. It was your own way of gesturing ‘yes’, your own special way to show him that you didn’t mind, and any sort of hangout together is fine by you; as long as you’re together. To reciprocate that motion, he gingerly wrapped his arms around you into a tight embrace; his arms awkwardly hooked under you, but it felt nice.

A few minutes lapse before he props himself on his elbows to look at you, his face was flushed, but he had a dazzling smile on his face that managed to make your heart skip a beat. He motioned to speak when the door opened for the rest of the band to step in and stop at their tracks.

“Oi?! What the hell are you two doing?!” Koga’s shocked and burned up face at that moment was comical at that moment, you could’ve sworn his hair spiked up when his mouth opened agape like that; but since his reaction was on you two, it was all the more embarrassing. “you can’t do this on school ground! That’s why we have bedrooms!”

“It’s not what it looks like!” Kaoru backpedalled, quickly getting off of you just when things were getting warm and comfortable.

Well, this is certainly how you didn’t want things to turn out.

Madara

“Keep going, one more lap boys! Make mama proud!” Madara shouted, clapping his hands to cheer them on as the Track team ran together on the field as Adonis ran past him.

You watched on, under the shade of the tree as you fanned yourself with a paper-made fan. It was another hot summer day, with the scorching sun glaring down at all of you, you almost felt pity for them. However, your attention wasn’t exactly on the Track team per say, but it was on the leader; your boyfriend.

Seeing him in his ‘serious’ mode - that’s putting it lightly - as he guided the others to do a proper relay run, was rather attractive, not to mention having the chance to gaze upon his fine tuned arms as he was dressed in the sports tank-top and shorts.

So to put simply, you were shamelessly staring at his broad back and began to think sinfully of things you wanted to do when alone. He must’ve felt your eyes boring onto his back, as he turned around to smile at you endearingly. Caught off guard from your thoughts, you smiled back, although a little hesitantly.

“I hope you aren’t too tired. If you wish, you can go back inside until I’m done.” Madara speaks soothingly, almost as if he’s cooing at a sick child.

You shake your head, and instead, switch the paper-fan from your right hand to your left, and patted the grass next to you for him to come and sit. He raises an eyebrow at that, and you rolled your eyes.

“You can watch them from here too, you know?”

You hoped your reason would get into his impressionable head, and it did. He smiles, and looks one last time over the field, before turning around to walk to you. Or so you thought. He completely walked past you, mumbling ‘one second’ before reaching for his bag that was left slumped behind the tree.

Groaning, you stood up, dusted off your behind from some sticky grass pieces and turned around to watch him, your arm clutched onto the tree as you left yourself hanging to the side. He was taking out from his bag empty water bottles.

“What’re those for?” You asked, interest peaked.

“Hm? For the running team, I figured I better start to prepare for their break real quick if I were to sit down.”

That was sweet, and you knew his paternal instincts were kicking in, that was the best answer you found behind those actions. But sometimes you hoped those instincts would just hold out for a little while longer, eager to spend some time with him. Then an idea sparked.

“Let me help you with those!” You chirped, straightening and reaching out your hands to grab one of the bottles. He instantly hugged the bottles to his chest, far from your hold. “C’mon, it’ll be a good help!”

“No, the weathers hot, you should just stay here under the shade until I’m back.”

“Madara,” You cooed, hoping that would get to him. You stepped forward, ready to pounce at the bottle that’s huddled in his arm; it looked like it was ready to slip.

He seemed to catch on to where your eyes have landed, because he shot back to avoid you grabbing it, though his foot tripped on the sidewalk that cuts right through the greenery. Things happened in a blur as you tried to grab Madara but got pulled along, unable to keep his weight up.

He fell on his back with an ‘oof’, with your fall cushioned as you fell on top of him. He coughed as he felt all the air get knocked out of his lungs for a second, and you shot up with a gasp to eye him, hovering above him with your hands between his head.

“Madara, I’m so sorry! Are you okay?!” You asked frantically.

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his head that was throbbing from impact, the bottles sprawled around you two. “I’m fine, it’s not as bad as it looks, really.”

You didn’t seem to realise how close and inappropriate your position must’ve been without context, as he propped himself up on his elbow, your faces were inches apart, hair brushing slightly against each other.

He smiled, his eyes flicked between your eyes to your lips then back in a flash, and he seemed to want to do more if it weren’t for the rude interruption from the track team.

“Mama!” Mitsuru came running, panting, probably here to inform him that they have finished their practice. Arashi tailed after, and gasped at the sight.

Mitsuru’s eyes and mouth were wide open as a big shape of an ‘O’, while Madara stared back thinking of an explanation. But Mitsuru was quicker, turning around to face Arashi who seemed to want nothing but to shrink away at that moment.

“Whoopsie! We came when Mama was trying to make babies!”

“WHAT?!”

Kanata

Kanata as usual was paddling about in the school fountain, while you sat on its edge, engrossed in the contents of your story book. It was peaceful, being together in each others’ company but also one to their own, doing what they enjoyed most.

Getting slightly exhausted, he reaches for the edge of the fountain and holds himself upright, watching you for a moment.

“Would you like to join me in my swim?” Kanata requested innocently, adding a small childish laugh along, amplifying the cuteness factor.

It didn’t seem to really work on you though, too absorbed in the story line of your fictional book; as the protagonist of said story was about to confess his feelings to the girl of his dreams.

Your head twitched to the side for a second, but your eyes never left the text. “Hm? Oh not now Kanata, I’m reading something. It’s getting good.”

He pouts at the unintentional cold shoulder behaviour, but that doesn’t break his resolve. He inches closer to you till he was directly behind you, staring up at your back and hair, flawlessly draped over your shoulders. He had the deep urge to touch it.

“What’s happening in the book?” He asked. He wasn’t entirely interested, but if it had you this captured, then it must be good.

“The protagonist is about to confess, I’ve been waiting for this moment ever since I started reading.” You explained, smiling to yourself as said character was approaching the other. Kanata hums in acknowledgement.

Just as things were about to get a little bit more interesting in the book, it also got to do so in the real world. You felt cold and wet hands encircle your waist, breaking your trance state. You grabbed his hand and pulled it away, turning to face him.

“Kanata that’s cold!” You berated.

“Not really, it’s warm.” He drawled.

“That’s because you were swimming in it for a while. Come on, we got to get you out of there and changed, you’ll get sick.” Placing the bookmark back in, you put the book away gently in safe distance.

Kanata had you exactly where he wanted. He immediately tightened his grip again around your stomach, and fell backwards, pulling you along. You screamed as you fell into the water, feeling the freezing water submerge you entirely.

You were pulled out of the water with a gasp, and rubbed your eyes before glaring at your boyfriend, who was smiling in triumph.

“What’s so funny?! Ugh! Look what you-”

You didn’t get the chance to continue when he abruptly planted a kiss on your lips. It was quick, sure, but nonetheless, there was sweetness in it that you couldn’t ignore. He lingered there for just a bit longer before pulling away slowly, smiling again at your surprised expression.

“What...” You breathed. That certainly calmed you down, or more accurately, caught you off guard.

“You wanted romance right?” Kanata inched closer to you, holding you tightly against him with his arm around you under water.

“W-what’re you talking about?” Your eyes searched his face for any answer, but he was just smiling. You were stumped, and you wondered if this was funny to him.

“I love you.” He declared, kissing your forehead, “I’m the protagonist confessing his feelings.” He clarified with a sigh after seeing your confused expression didn’t disappear.

Suddenly everything made sense, and you bashfully smiled, gripping onto his shirt, balling the fabric into your fists. You felt so light headed at that confession.

“Oh Kanata...you were recreating the scene?” You whispered.

“Mhm, I think I did it much better, don’t you think?” He smugly declared, and you giggled at that.

“You did.” You bit your bottom lip and inched for another kiss, when a thunderous roar that belonged to Kunugi killed the entire mood and shattered the romance that was hanging in the air.

“What’re you doing in the fountain there?! Get to class!”

[besidemethewholedamntime]

those summer nights

For @precenna 

Here’s your prompt - finally! I’m really sorry it took me so long but I hope you enjoy it! Thank you so much for prompting me <3

Summary: Fitz and Simmons and a farm over the summer.

{Read on Ao3}

This is how the first meeting goes.

Fitz turns up to the door, which is the same shade of red as his shirt and his face is about to become. He knocks, once then another, afraid the first wasn’t loud enough. He fidgets with the hem of his shirt, with the loose thread on the hem, and then eventually just his fingers when he runs out. There’s a significant wait before his knocks are answered, and it gives him enough time to get lost in his own head.

The door swings open. Without thinking, caught in a dream, he stumbles out, “Um, Mr-Mr Simmons?”

The girl, around his own age, dark haired, curious-eyed, bites back a giggle. “Well, no. Not quite.”

Fitz wishes the ground would swallow him whole. The redness starts nowhere, comes from everywhere until his whole face is on fire. “I meant to ask if, uh, if Mr Simmons is in. Yeah. That’s it.”

“Nice recovery.” The girl’s smile is pretty. If he looks at it too long it’s all he’ll see for days. “Yes, he’s in. You can come in and wait for him – he’s on the phone just now.” She opens the door wider and he steps in. She points to his shoes.

“You’ll have to take them off, I’m afraid. Mum hates shoes in the house.”

Obediently he tugs them off, wondering only moments too late if he should have bothered to actually undo the laces. The girl looks at him curiously and he wonders if she knows.

He coughs, resists the urge to run a hand through his hair. It’s one or two beats of uncomfortable silence before she takes pity on him.

“You must be Fitz,” she tells him, holding her hand out. He takes it. Surprisingly cold, unquestionably solid. “I’m Jemma.”

-x-

He is invited to stay for dinner. Mrs Simmons is making roast chicken. “I like to feed,” she says, as she mashes potatoes with a vigour that reminds him of his mum. “And my family like to eat. Sometimes I overcompensate. Please don’t feel shy about helping yourself to as much as you like.” She looks over at her husband and daughter, both grinning from their places at the table. “They never do.”

Over dinner, Fits learns that Jemma is twenty, like him. She’s a student, like him. A prodigy, like him. She studies biochemistry. Unlike him.

“I’m studying engineering,” he tells her, making sure to have swallowed the potatoes in his mouth before speaking.

“What type?” There’s the glitter in her eyes. “Engineering by itself is a rather broad topic.”

Her parents smile as he turns bright red and almost chokes on nothing but air. “Uh, Mechanical, really. But I- well I’m interested in more than that.”

“Jemma, don’t torture the poor lad,” her father laughs. “Otherwise he might change his mind about working here.”

And suddenly he remembers what he’s here for exactly. The Simmons’ farm. The work that needs doing over the long Summer break. The money that will be lovely for his advanced studies.

“I’m not torturing,” Jemma protests. “Only testing. You’re alright, aren’t you, Fitz?”

“Of course,” he mumbles, looking down at his chicken, not quite able to see it clearly because of the memory of the sparkles in her eyes.

-x-

The work, he finds, he actually likes.

It’s hard, there’s no getting away from it. Up early, only stopping for meals, he finds he’s crashed out in the converted garage bedroom that the Simmons have set up for him by ten pm. The hay smells nice, but it gets in his nostrils and he sneezes constantly. The tractor is unreliable, but fixing it provides soothing, his hands instinctively knowing things before his brain is able to catch up. The animals, however, are his favourite. They all clamour for his attention. They like the softness of his voice, the bulk of his pockets which means that he’s brought treats. Fitz enjoys their different personalities, the way they push their heads against his legs in greeting, but their soft noises of melancholy break his heart when he has to leave.

On the weekends, when she herself isn’t working, Jemma comes out to see him. At first, it’s just messages from her father that he’s too busy to bring himself. Then, an antihistamine when he had inhaled a little too much hay and she declared that she could hear his sneezing all the way from the house.

Today, it’s a glass of diluting juice.

“You didn’t have to bring me juice.” Though he takes it quickly enough from her proffered hand.

“Well next time I won’t then,” she huffs, but her eyes let him know she’s only teasing.

Rolling his eyes, he swipes his hand across the back of his mouth. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.”

He gives her a small smile, and goes back to repairing the lock on the barn door. The lambs behind him make gentle noises. Jemma nods, impressed.

“They only do that when they like somebody.”

He tries not to look up at her, but can’t help the corners of his mouth pulling up. “Guess they must really like me, then.”

“I suppose they must.”

And because they’re alone, and because he’s feeling brave for once in his life, he asks, “And what about you? Do you like me, too?”

Jemma takes the glass back.

“You’re tolerable” she says, flashing him a grin before spinning on her heel and walking away.

-x-

It begins a pattern.

She comes out to see him wherever he’s working, even sitting next to him in the tractor, which proves to be quite a gymnastic feat. They talk of anything and everything, conversation never running dry in all the days and weeks that follow. He discovers that she has a boyfriend called Milton that doesn’t seem to be quite the Prince Charming. That she works in a bookshop in town during the summer; the work is the same but the stories never are. She likes the stories, the magic of it all.

“Of course, I know it’s not real,” she tells him, slurping from a carton of juice as Fitz varnishes the new stable door. “Magic is just science we don’t understand quite yet.”

She asks him questions, too, about where he’s from. He tells her of Glasgow, of the city that’s home. Of the Subway that rumbles and screeches beneath the streets and the gothic University building where he spends most of his days. He tells her about his mum, a woman that does everything for him and more, sacrificed so much. He tells her, albeit briefly, about his dad, and feels a weight that’s been there for ten years lift off his shoulders.

The weeks come faster and faster and the workload increases but Jemma is always the same. At night she’ll invite him to watch movies, compare notes about their respective principles. Sometimes he goes into the house, but mostly they stay in his little converted garage. It’s cosier, easier to pretend it’s just the two of them in the whole wide world.

The weeks come faster and Fitz finds he wishes they would slow down.

For the first time in his life, he’s falling in love.

-x-

“I’m single now.”

“Oh?” He tries to keep his face straight as he motions for Jemma to pass him another box of screws, which she does. “What happened?”

“Meh?” She does that shrug thing. “Milton. He was a bit too… impressionable.”

“Really? You don’t say.”

Fitz had met Milton once, when he had come to pick Jemma up after dinner. Untroubled by a single original thought, yet sadly burdened with a cabbage-shaped head, he hadn’t seemed rather the sort that Jemma would go after. Though Fitz had (except not really) done his very best not to voice his opinion on the matter. It might have been his own jealously speaking, after all.

“Ugh, Fitz!” She swots at his arm.

“I’m literally holding a screwdriver, Jemma. Probably not the best idea to hit me.” He sighs, but gives in and looks at her. “Are you alright, though?”

“Of course.” She smiles at him, completely genuine. “It was hardly like it would end in marriage anyway.”

The image of cabbage head Milton in a suit and tie, trying to stumble out vows he’d probably have to Google makes Fitz smile.

“Hardly.”

-x-

They’re sitting one night, out on the grass behind her house, notes spread open in front of them. They’re meant to be pre-reading for their respective courses, but instead they’re just looking at the stars.

“They’re so beautiful, aren’t they?” Jemma says, looking up.

“Very beautiful,” Fitz says, looking at her.

She meets his eyes. Smiles shyly. Tucks her hair behind her ears. “My dad used to take me out here all the time when I was younger.” She looks back up. “I had scoliosis surgery and I couldn’t move for ages afterwards. So, to stop me from being restless, dad brought me out here. Taught me everything about the stars.”

He can imagine a younger Jemma, probably much the same as she is now. Endlessly curious, with an insatiable hunger for knowledge, the stars filling her eyes.

“It was my mum who taught me about them.”

Fitz rarely mentions his mother, his life back home if not directly asked. It makes the ache bearable if he doesn’t talk about it. But tonight, with Jemma Simmons sitting next to him, the stars shining in her eyes and all around them… well, tonight he can be brave.

“She didn’t know a thing, apart from the basic stuff,” he laughs fondly. “But when I was five, I told her I wanted to learn. So, she went to the library and got all of these books with all of these pictures, and she taught herself so she could teach me.” The memory becomes real in his head, like he could almost live in it again if he wanted to. “She made it fun.”

Jemma reaches over and takes his hand. He didn’t know a touch could be so electric. “She sounds like an amazing woman.”

He nods, unable to do more.

So instead they just sit, hand in hand, watching the stars.

-x-

It’s almost time for him to go back home.

Jemma’s almost unable to be pried from his side now, even as he still works the long hours from dawn until well after. They both don’t talk about the reason why.

Most of the time it’s the two of them squidged together in the tractor, the conversation prattling away as normal. It’s rhythmic, soothing, and Fitz thinks that this life could quite happily be his life for a very long time.

One evening, with the remains of the day bleeding out as he parks in the barn, Jemma presses her hand on his.

“How long is it now? Until you go?”

There is no hesitation to his answer. “Ten days.”

“And will you be back? You know, to visit?”

He sighs, heavier than he means. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, but the cosmos would make it bloody hard. He wants to stay, but he has to go.

“Jemma,” he says softly and her eyes, the way they go heavy, tells him that she knows.

It appears they have a psychic connection. Something that cannot be erased.

And maybe it’s the moment. It’s romantic after all. There are charcoal streaks across the sky, fiery orange giving way to the dark. The farm is quiet but not silent; calm and not eerie. Jemma leans over and says, eyes glittering with all of the stars:

“Well, since we only have ten days…” and kisses him.

He’s taken aback for a moment. Just for one. Then he thinks this is what heaven must be like.

Reluctantly, they must break apart for air.

“That was nice,” Jemma says, hair slightly mussed. “Very nice.”

“Maybe we should do it again,” he murmurs.

She grins as she leans in. “Maybe we should.”

They stay there for a while. The sky turns to inky black and neither one of them notice for a very long while.

-x-

“I think I might be falling in love with you,” she tells him.

They’re both off for the loveliest afternoon of the late Summer and sit in the grass on a picnic blanket. Side by side (they way it feels it’s meant to be) they look up at the clouds, making the most ridiculous shapes they can find.

“You think you might be?” He laughs. “I already know I have.”

-x-

It’s a beautiful day when he leaves.

The September sunshine is warm on their faces, as Mrs and Mrs Simmons wish him well from the front door of the place he’s called home for several months now. The give him small gifts, tokens of their appreciation. Their smiles are knowing as Mrs Simmons says, “We’ll let Jemma see you off to the car. Good luck, Fitz. It was a pleasure having you here. Feel free to pop back anytime.”

Jemma isn’t crying. Her eyes are moist, but tears are not falling. Her bottom lip wobbles, but does not crumble. She holds his hand tightly as they walk to his car.

“I wish I didn’t have to go.”

She closes her eyes for a moment. “I know, but I have to go back to uni. And so do you.” Her smile takes a moment to break through, but it does. “We knew from the start this was a temporary thing.”

“I know, I know.” He thinks of the long drive back home, in his rusty car that squeaks and grinds no matter what he does. “Just sucks, you know.”

“I agree.” She pulls him in for a hug, so tightly that he thinks she won’t let go. Into his shoulder she murmurs, “It really does suck.”

She lets go reluctantly, checks her watch. “You better go. You don’t want to get stuck in traffic.”

He doesn’t, and if he doesn’t leave now then he won’t be able to. “Goodbye, Jemma.”

Jemma’s eyes still sparkle. They will never leave his mind. She presses him gently into the car. “Goodbye, Fitz.”

-x-

The year that follows is the slowest of his life.

“Out of everyone in the world, it had to be you to go and fall in love with a lassie from down south,” his mum exclaims, when she sees him checking his phone over dinner. “Oh, Leo. You never fail to surprise me.”

But she’s happy for him, Fitz is sure. She always smiles whenever he talks about Jemma, always asks questions.

“Why would you even want to know that?” He exclaims one day, out of patience, when his mum asks what Jemma’s favourite ice cream flavour is.

“Well, you never know,” she says knowingly, pushing her glasses further up her nose. “That information could come in handy someday.”

-x-

He completes his Master’s the same day she completes hers.

Psychically linked, even right down to the exam timetable.

Her graduation is the same day as his. He contemplates skipping his own to attend hers. His mum, whose bought a new dress for the occasion, swots his head and calls him a lovesick fool.

-x-

The time comes around again.

He knocks on the door, dressed in his best casual shirt and trousers No nerves this time, his stomach is remarkably calm, no fingers playing with the edges of his shirt. In fact he has to keep himself from bouncing on the balls of his feet. The wait has almost killed him, but no longer.

The door opens. The girl with the stars in her eyes answers and tries not very hard to hide her smile. “Yes?”

He cannot help his, either. “Is Mr Simmons here?”

Her eyes sparkle with glitter and her smile is the best thing he has ever seen.

“He’s on the phone.” Jemma takes his hand. “But come on in.”

[nix-needs-coffee]

But Songs May Live Forever - Ch. 8

Cleves is just as much at a loss as the rest of them. She’s just better at hiding it.

Ch. 1 Ch. 2 Ch. 3 Ch. 4 Ch. 5 Ch. 6 Ch. 7

AO3 Link

Cleves didn’t know what it was about her presence that comforted Katherine, but she wasn’t going to waste her time questioning it. Though dubious about Katherine’s choice of housemate to seek consolation and support at first, it quickly became evident that the rest of the inhabitants were either inept or pursuing their own agenda to appease their personal traumas.

As she watched the others’ schemes fall to pieces or their good intentions dig their way beneath Katherine’s skin, she had to put her particular anxieties and past ordeals into check. She had previously been keeping Katherine at arm’s length, the desolation of having lost her once too much for her to overcome, she wasn’t about to open herself back up to withstanding that torment. Until she wasn’t given a choice. Until Katherine, just as she had before, flashed those wide, terrified eyes in her direction and Cleves’ apathetic, frigid front went to rack and ruin. Wrapped around Katherine’s little finger, malleable, pliant, and entirely at her mercy, Cleves was reminded of just how much she adored her before.    

Since her first disastrous attempts to discuss what had happened, Katherine had refused to bring up the topic. She chose, instead, to turn in on herself more and more, until she was hardly recognizable, a mere shadow of herself. Cleves could understand the change in her composure, considering that not one of them bothered to listen to her when she tried to explain. All of them thought they knew better than she did, so intelligent with their own theories about what caused her “funny turn” and with Katherine so young, impressionable, even weak. Cleves wasn’t so sure. She irrefutably believed that Katherine was not some frail thing to be wrapped in cotton wool. She hadn’t seen anything in that crowd or in any subsequent crowd; however, she wasn’t about to doubt the visceral reaction that the girl had. Every night, she prayed she would not look over and see panicked eyes turned to her. No matter how often she would look back out into the sea of faces where Katherine’s gaze would direct her, she could never find the one that instigated such turmoil within her friend.

Cleves would never admit it, but she was just as much at a loss for how to help Katherine as the others. When their questions turned from casual, curious, well-meaning asking into interrogations, she had no information to provide. When their interrogations turned into something Cleves imagined was akin to threats of an inquisition styled after the Crusades, she legitimately had nothing to offer them.  She liked to think that even if she had known something, she would never divulge those secrets entrusted to her, but with the impact on Katherine’s well-being, she wasn’t sure she would be able to shoulder that burden on her own.

When an opportunity presented itself one morning for both her and Katherine to have an entire day with nothing booked, Cleves saw her perfect window to provide Katherine with some much-needed time to get out of the house, away from the others, and put some distance between herself and her troubles.

She broached the topic of getting away for the day that same morning. Katherine gave her a long, vacant look in response. Heart in her stomach, Cleves thought her absence in the moment was a direct result of crossing the line she had been dancing upon for weeks, as though she had been revealed for exactly what she was, another person in Katherine’s life that was trying to slap a bandage on a situation she could not even begin to understand.

A gaudy clock on the kitchen wall kept time of each passing second, echoing torturously throughout the room, until Cleves was certain an eternity had passed between them. After many prayers that the ground would open beneath her, Cleves released the breath she had been holding when Katherine gave a small nod.

***

Katherine’s hesitancy at the suggestion of a day out ebbed away as she readied herself for their excursion. By the time they alighted from the bus at their destination, Cleves could feel Katherine’s eagerness and curiosity buzzing intensely from her. Cleves found her excitement endearing, seeing the bright, cheerful girl that had been missing for far too long. She had to hide the grin on her face when Katherine had reached out to take her hand as they started down the road.

“This way,” Cleves directed her, down an alley between a Gregg’s and a fish and chip shop. Astonished at Katherine’s implicit trust in her, she guided her down another dodgy side street, stepping gingerly over puddles of substances neither one of them wanted to think about. When Katherine didn’t even question the instruction to slip through a gap in an old fence, Cleves gave the hand in hers a squeeze. “We can go back, you know. Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

Katherine’s face scrunched from more than the lingering smell of the alley before relaxing quickly again. It was the look that she had been giving Jane and the others nearly every interaction she had with them. Cleves feared that she had ruined the moment, questioning Katherine’s ability to handle something completely within her control.

“If I didn’t know where you were taking me, I’m not sure what my answer would be,” she admitted, squeezing Cleves’ hand in return. “But things haven’t changed all that much in the last 500 years that I don’t know where we are or what we are doing.” She grinned impishly and tugged Cleves forward into the wooded area, stepping lightly on the soft earth at the border of the park, and dragging her through the thicket looking for familiar markers to take along a path that time had all but forgotten.

***

Hours later, as the soft golden hues of sunset highlighted the strands of hair that had escaped the confines of her bun, Katherine walked through the doorway to the house unencumbered by the problems that had been plaguing her. A day of traipsing through nature, getting snagged on branches and thorns, spotting wildlife, and reconnecting with an old friend had done her spirits wonders. The positive effect of which extended on toward Boleyn, who, upon Katherine’s arrival home, had leapt on her nearly the second she stepped foot into the house.

“God! Where have you been? It looks like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards, twice over,” she screeched as she pulled a pine needle from Katherine’s hair. “I’ve been waiting ages for you to get home! Thanks, Anna, I’ve got her from here,” she said waving a dismissive hand in Cleves’ direction.

Cleves rolled her eyes at her and announced she was going to take a shower. She tilted her head toward Boleyn and raised her eyebrows at Katherine. Katherine gave her a small smile and a nod, letting her know that she would be fine, despite what her cousin had in store for her.

“I’ve got everything set up!” Boleyn continued. She licked her thumb and reached out toward Katherine’s cheek, presumably to wipe away a smear of dirt or pollen. She tutted when Katherine swatted her hand away.

Katherine followed her, a bit begrudgingly into the living room. Chairs had been swiped from the kitchen and were placed at various points around the room. Duvets and sheets were draped over every available surface, hanging from the bookshelves, over the couch and chairs, and clipped to the lighting fixtures. Katherine spotted several towels, scarves, and even jackets among the folds of fabric. Fairy lights had been strung along an entrance, held open with a broom, and she wondered just how angry Jane was going to be when she saw this mess.

Laughter bubbled from deep within her as Boleyn stated, “Your fort awaits you Your Majesty,” before bowing and waving her hand, gesturing for her to enter.

[rearadmiralanarchy]

A little Vampire thing for ya

Meant as an aside to Son of God, Son of Man (if you went for the happy ending) and also because I don’t know how long or how evil I want to be with that werewolf one yet.

CW: Self-harm, blood-drinking, kinda dubious morality

It had been three weeks since Giorno had found Mista's cottage on the outskirts of the Joestar territory.

At first, Mista was worried the blond wouldn't join him, wouldn't leave that cursed land behind. He had agreed to the burning of the keep, allowed Mista to take some relics, some proof of the whole ordeal, but they parted ways at the gate, 'unfinished business, you understand, yes?' Mista didn't but let Giorno go anyway. Regret turned to pining turned to a kind of desperation, then a question of if the blond existed at all- only the gloves offering any tangible proof. His brief return to the city was spent in a haze, sadness and longing blinding him and perforating his memory, leaving wide gaps of lost time.

It cleared, if only slightly, with the fresh air of the countryside, with the monotony of simple chores, but the endless waiting wore away at his mind. When Giorno finally came for him, sneaking in under the moonlight, finding Mista sitting despondent on the edge of his bed, eyes shut but still upright, he hadn't believed it was real- but Giorno was patient, and held his cheeks through the tears, whispering soft things through the night. When Mista woke up that next morning arms wrapped tight around a sleeping, breathing, genuine Giorno in his arms, he cried again. The last bullet may have been a dud, and the dhampir or homunculus or whatever the blond was had continued to live, but his departure still felt as final as death.

The days after were full of touching, the barest at first to make sure he wasn't some illusion, and little by little it got easier. The heartbreak dulled, the nightmares waned, the gardening and housework a little less all encompassing. Now, three weeks since Giorno arrived, a new problem arose. He honestly would have missed noticing it if he hadn't become so tactile and attentive (he hated to use the term ‘clingy’).

It started with with furtive glaces, at wrists and the tan column of Mista's neck. The blond slept nuzzled against the former hunter, lips pressed to his throat, a hand over his heart, sometimes kissing gently, before catching himself and moving away. Mista had an inkling of what this meant and was rather surprised it took so long to remember why it was even a thing. It was not a stretch to assume Giorno drank blood, drank his blood at one time before probably, likely craved it as his vampiric sire did.

He didn't know how often, how necessary, anything else though- the blond rarely spoke of his past and Mista was never taught anything of that nature. His knowledge of vampires and their kind extended as far as identification and eradication. Neither were helpful in the care-taking of the amalgamation that made up Giorno. Mista had gone back to the lab as Giorno had dropped down to inspect the remnants smeared atop the chapel spire, perused as much of that disgusting material as be could handle, until he ran out of stomach contents to vomit up.

Most of it went over his head, safe to say most all of it, there were too many equations and hideous diagrams to really parse out much, and he dared not sneak any of it out. Giorno was one of a kind and once of a kind, about seventy-five years old give or take according to the dates and had the attributes of both vampire and human. Dhamphir was a close match, the union of human and vampire but was still just a dead bloodsucker with more humanistic ideals. Giorno was very much alive. A homunculus came close too- an artificial human that breathed and ate and was alive, but hollow like a doll, impressionable. Giorno was neither hollow or impressionable. The notes proved to be rather useless in terms of describing what the blond was, or his needs, and the subject himself was even less unhelpful about it.

The breaking point came during the evening, after a particularly longing look at Mista's exposed wrist.

"Giorno," Mista sighed low, "I know you are hungry. Talk to me."

Guilt flashed across the blond's face, replaced by feigned innocence, "we ate not long ago."

He knew this conversation would be tough, but refused to get testy, at least for now, "you know that's not what I meant."

Giorno got up and stoked the fire in the hearth, completely unnecessary and likely a move to try and stall, evade, fidget until the topic was dropped, not that Mista would let him, "I don't know what you mean."

Lies, boldfaced as ever, so it was time to just get to the point, "you drink blood. When was the last time?"

It was a touchy subject that had always been brought up in roundabout ways only to be immediately set back down, the tensing in Giorno's shoulders proof enough of how unprepared he was, "I don't-"

"Answer me, Giorno. I know you do, so tell me how often."

The blond paused, tilted his face back to meet Mista's eyes, fury and disdain burning in pretty blue, "so what? You can feed me some poor villager?"

Livid, Giorno straightened, "any urges are my own, and I refuse to act on them. I will not cause any more suffering. I will continue to go without."

Self-righteous bullshit had always pissed Mista off and Giorno was missing the point. Not to mention assuming he'd capture villagers to feed to him? He didn't even know what to say, he was too angry, too disgusted at the thought, the implication-

Where words wouldn't cut it, action, and a knife would. Mista unsheathed his knife with one hand and snatched Giorno's empty mug from table with a sharp movement that got the blond's bristling attention. What held it- as Mista knew it would- was the knife edge slicing a deep line across a tan wrist, blood dribbling out in a mild stream, filling the cup halfway before beginning to slow to a trickle as the blood clotted. The shift in Giorno's stance was instant; wary and alert switching to a hungry yearning, blue eyes wide and focused entirely on red, Adams apple bobbing as he reflexively swallowed.

Anger slipped to nervous uncertainty, but Mista was committed- to both this... experiment or whatever, and to Giorno. Setting the dripping blade down gently on the table, the ex-hunter picked up the mug with his clean hand, stepping slow to offer it to the blond. The movement seemed to snap the blond out of his daze, startling him back a step, eyes still drawn to the blade and Mista's seeping wrist, before settling on the mug being offered from an outstretched arm. There were protests, he could see them forming on a pale face, but they couldn't quite make it past pink lips or leave the pinker tongue darting out to wet them.

"Go on, Giorno."

Blue flicked up then back, still so unsure, disbelieving, so Mista continued, "it's okay, take it."

Scarred alabaster shook as they reached, grasping the mug like it was a holy goblet, reverence mixed with desire and such hunger-

Heart-stopping as Mista watched him tentatively tip the mug filled with his lifeblood to his lips and drink a sip at first, until ravenous need overtook him, swallowing down furiously and quick. Euphoria was painted across his face, a shiver of ecstasy coursing down his frame as his tongue chased the red straying from his lips to his chin.

Erotic.

That's how it looked.

Erotic and Mista was transfixed until a particularly sharp throb in his wrist drew his attention back down the lazily oozing slit on his wrist. Stitches were easy, and Giorno calmed down quickly, but the blond still slept with his mouth to Mista's neck.

He never did say how long it would be until he got hungry again.

The thin gash on his wrist had already healed by the time the looks returned, turning a nice brownish pink to join the others on his arm as Giorno struggled to express his hunger. He clearly didn't want to ask, probably hated to, but Mista knew what to expect now, knew what to look for. He went close to three months and that was doable, far less often than a true vampire or even a damphir. The slit on his wrist was reopened again, and again, months passing in a blur of peaceful simplicity.

Occasionally a preacher would come by and Giorno would have to hide, but the visits were infrequent and usually fairly short, just curious holy-men asking about things better left in the past. They often asked if he lived alone, if he had found any survivors of Dio Brando's tyranny, if he found anything interesting in the keep; his answer was always yes, no, nothing at all. He had never lied to a clergyman before, but it got easier each time, and each untruth weighed a little less heavy than the last.

Mista enjoyed his freedom, his cottage and the things in it, his companion. They had only gotten closer, tangling easily as the days passed, already sharing so much. Giorno was easy to read in that he was difficult to read- in a backwards way. He had masks with tiny chips, strange habits he slipped into like old shoes, an infallible aura that hid his trembles and unsteadiness. Giorno was broken in strange places, not entirely whole in others, and not a naturally honest person.

He was deeply scared of the dark, would panic at having too many walls, feeling encased. Hated loud sounds and too fast movement. He cried when anything died, cared too much with no real outlet, like water held in a dam. He was oddly cold and distant despite this; warm to the touch and always nearby yet untouchable. Not aloof but... something else further away. He was wary and secretive, but months of patience and care opened him up, and Mista was rewarded with carefully given scraps, as if he gave too much he might unravel. He smiled with his eyes more than his lips, and talked more with his hands than his mouth. He was unobservant in odd ways, would miss easily noticeable things but would hyper-fixate on the smallest of changes. He wore guilt like a shroud, hidden under a calm veneer of confidence and certainty, righteousness that mourned every loss and shortcoming along the way.

Mista loved him dearly, told him sometimes in the dark, whispered despite there being no one for miles that would see them tucked up against each other. Giorno would do the same, using his hands if he couldn't get out the words, using his lips to speak them without sound when he thought Mista was asleep.

The blood from the cut started to not be enough.

Three months became two and a half, became two.

He didn't know why and Giorno was ashamed. Anybody else wouldn't be able to tell, the blond's shoulders were just as squared, back just as straight, eyes bright and forward. But he would lapse sometimes- never held eye contact for long, face settling into more of a frown rather than a neutral resting pout. It was like him to take his inability to keep going for more than two months as a personal affront, but it didn't really solve anything.

Mista had a scant few ideas on how to fix it, and most of the ones he did have were promising in theory but terrifying in practice. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't nervous about trying his most prospective idea out, so much so that Giorno went a painful two and a half months before he relented. Giorno never complained, not for the whole time, but there was shaking, a deep lethargy, and a confused weakness settling in his hands and mind. Mista's shame outweighed his anxiety, and in the evening he rolled up the sleeve to his disfigured and mangled arm and grabbed the knife. Giorno's medicine worked perfectly and did nothing cosmetic, but it was a small price to pay.

Seeing the knife and exposed arm had the blond perking up unconsciously, but there was no cup this time. The knife was a pretty silver thing, one he had brought with him to the keep. His pistol had long been interred in some church and he used a game hunters crossbow now anyway. But the knife didn't touch his wrist, just held loosely in his hand as Mista stretched his wrist over to the confused blond, curled up in a wicker chair to hide his hungry trembles. Blue eyes glanced at his scarred wrist then back up, questioning, uncertain, a glimmer of fear lurking behind dulled fire.

Mista was scared too, squared his shoulders anyway, "we're tryin' somethin' new."

"Are you sure?"

Mista was never less sure in his life, was terrified of what was about to happen, what he might have to do, what might happen if it worked- but Giorno needed to know none of that.

So Mista went for casual, feigned a steady voice, "absolutely positive."

Giorno didn't believe him for a second, and to be fair Mista didn't believe himself either, but repeating lies enough times made them truths, or something along those lines. Sky blue eyes watched Mista's face as his pale hands touched his wrist, gentle and cautious, like a wild animal being offered food. The imagery was not far from the mark. Slow and without breaking eye contact, a tan wrist was raised up to plush lips, opening to reveal long canines with menacing hooked tips.

Mista's heart was already pounding hard, but the sight made it lurch into a harsh staccato as adrenaline poured into his blood. No doubt Giorno could hear and feel it, and morbidly Mista wondered if it might effect the taste. That soft pink tongue came out instead, licking a wet line above the ugly scar in an oddly soothing way before the teeth came down, popping two punctures into the vein of his wrist. The hooks tore through flesh in a painful yet dulled way- like his head was supplying the pain that he knew should be there. That all was lost though, in the wake of retracting teeth and an eager mouth sucking and licking bronze skin.

His wrist was rapidly becoming sensitive, like the skin of his inner thigh or behind his ears after too much attention, and it had him panting for breath as sudden arousal burned through him fast and hot. Giorno drinking his blood from a cup was erotic, but this was... charged, distinctly sexual feeling in a strange and impossible way. The sensations were becoming too much, and his grip on the silver knife tightened reflexively, he should stop-

Giorno licked once, twice, picked up some stray drops before pulling back on his own, pale cheeks pinked, red dripping and smeared across his mouth. His eyes were half-lidded lost in utter bliss as he cleaned his fingers and chin like a cat. The puncture wounds were already closing, fading into odd little raised bumps, completely innocuous unless you searched well. The burning fire in his gut hadn't subsided at all, an unnameable desire for something that Mista had no idea how to express.

Giorno though, flicked those heavy eyes up at him, leaping up faster than Mista could track in his current hazy state, meshed their lips together in a coppery, possessive, biting kiss. The fiery urge screamed in triumphant ecstasy, crying 'yes, this, this is what I want', and Mista moved to kiss away the tang of blood with a urgency of his own, walking them over to fall onto the bed.

The heat was sweltering throughout the night, ebbing as slow as the passionate drive that held his mind and body, leaving him tired yet satisfied and drained yet fulfilled. It was five- almost six months before Giorno even began to show signs of hunger again, and feeding from the wrist got easier. It was hard to be afraid of the process as he did it more since it felt so impossibly good.

Time continued to pass, the church visited less, Father Buccelati stopped by when letters became too infrequent, the chickens continued to lay, and a calf was born. Winters and summers passed by in a steady cycle. Mista grew broader, stronger, but his joints began to ache with the cold and in storms while Giorno remained unchanged. His wrists got worse- whether from years of sharpshooting and hunting or what they didn't know, but when it came time for Giorno to eat, they hurt too much and the blond refused to add any extra pain.

It seemed feeble to the former hunter, there was no longer anything remotely painful about Giorno's fangs, but the blond insisted and said he'd wait until the chill let up. It was a harsh winter though, and the chill hurt the bones in his arms, the old fractures in his ribs aching with the frigid air in his lungs. Distantly Mista wondered if maybe he had gotten old somehow despite being so young still. Giorno was sympathetic if a little bit... overbearing, he took the ex-hunter's health incredibly serious, despite it just being some aches. It became too much too quick, thoughtful long since turned into an oppressively stifling blanket, compounded by the rapid deterioration of Giorno's endurance.

When his shaking hands dropped his favorite mug full of warm tea for the former hunter, crashing it to pieces, Mista had enough. Giorno was offered a neck, graciously and gently taken, and the fire burned hotter than ever before. Pain was forgotten for a brief few days, instead an intoxicating yearning took its place. Giorno took care of that too.

Six months turned to over a year, long enough for Mista to lose track, to no longer care. He'd grown to love the press of fangs, and idly wondered if that was the fate of all who fell prey to vampires and their ilk. He lost the ability to care about that too, he had earned what he had set out to earn, gained something unexpected, and ended up dedicating everything to it.

It was late, too late, he hadn't thought to ask until so much time had passed he lost count when he finally asked Giorno to stay with him. Giorno smiled down at him, cupped his cheeks and kissed his forehead, promised him he would stay forever.

[mononoavvare]

jacked this from @harefrost; this is sai’s natal chart 

The Sun represents vitality, a sense of individuality and outward-shining creative energy. Sun in Sagittarius Restless, cheerful, and friendly, Sun in Sagittarius people are generally on the go. They have a love of freedom, and a disdain for routine. Generally quite easygoing, Sagittarians make friends with people from all walks of life. They love to laugh and tease, and get along well with both sexes. Sagittarians have an often blind faith in people, and in the world. Their optimism is infectious, although it can get them into trouble from time to time. These are curious people who love to learn. Their idealistic nature is hard to miss. Although generally easygoing, Sagittarius is a fire sign. This gives natives a generally quick temper. Fortunately, they're usually as quick to forget what got them angry in the first place. The need for escape is generally strong, and some Solar Sagittarians come across as a little irresponsible. They're generally easy to forgive, however. After all, their direct, honest approach in life is admirable. Short description: He is good, idealistic, enthusiastic and warm-hearted. He is independent, has a taste for travel and freedom. He is curious and fair-minded. Weaknesses: He is too adventurous and leaves things to chance: takes risks which cause problems: he is rebellious and sometimes tactless when offering opinions. Sagittarius ascendant Scorpio Sun in II You take pride in what you own, and have a strong drive for security. You have staying power, and you hate to let others down once you've made a promise. Avoid over-identifying with what you have. Concentrate on proving your worth through your strong value system and your incredible ability to stick with things and with people. Take pride in the solid and secure foundations that you build, as well as the lasting relationships you aim to maintain, while being careful to avoid possessiveness. You seek a safe and secure job, you satisfy your needs, which are substantial. You may be given to spending money impulsively. -275 Opposition Sun - Moon You have an internal struggle between your needs and your wants. You can lack focus and be indecisive as a result. Your ability to be objective is both an asset and a liability, simply because when you decide on one route, you are pulled in another direction at the same time. Something tugs at you, and you begin to question your stance. "But what if..." and "on the other hand..." are statements you can't help but make, and that might plague you. You are always aware of the opposing point of view and the other side of the coin. 31 Trine Sun - Saturn It is easy and natural for you to accept responsibilities, to lead a rather ordered life, and to apply caution in your financial and business dealings. You rarely jump to conclusions or take uneducated risks. You have a certain amount of patience and enough self-discipline to slowly but surely achieve what you set out to do. Although somewhat undemonstrative, you are generally loyal and responsible people to those you care about. You take your time in most endeavors and generally use a step-by-step approach to most projects--but you steadily reach your goals. You are naturally trustworthy, and you don't have much patience for those who don't show respect for others, who take foolish risks, and who lead disorganized lives. 268 Sextile Sun - Uranus It is natural for you to question tradition. You are, above all things, an individualist. You naturally rebel against that which is established. It doesn't mean that you consistently break all the rules, but you definitely do question some of the rules, especially those that simply don't make much sense. You possess a huge distaste for routine. You work best when you have some say as to when and how you get things done. You possess much self-integrity. You avoid labeling people and are most offended when others attempt to label or stereotype you. You easily embrace new ways of doing things, you stick up for the underdog, and you express yourself in unique and inspiring ways. You don't have to try to stand out as unique--you are original, creative, and progressive without trying. You are far from pretentious. You value honesty and truth, and you avoid putting on airs. You believe in the equality of people, and easily relate to people from all walks of life. You possess an unmistakable enthusiasm about life, and generally your life is interesting because you invite unusual or adventurous experiences into your life. You are generally appreciated by others because you are open-minded, fair, and not judgmental. Nothing really seems to faze you! You take things in stride, and are rarely shocked or taken aback by human behavior. 424 Conjunction Sun - Pluto You have much sexual vitality and passion. It is easy and natural for you to find a passion and pursue it, and to focus on a goal. You are not much scared of anything. You enjoy and embrace growth, especially of the psychological kind. You love a good mystery, and you are adept at solving it.You readily assign meaning to what others might consider "ordinary" events. You look for symbols, and read between the lines in most any situation. The physical vitality is generally strong, and the body is usually able to heal quickly. You are not afraid to get your hands dirty, and you are usually quick to help others--not only with mundane tasks, but also on a spiritual or psychological level. Your insight is sharp and sometimes awe-inspiring. You are perceptive and not easily rattled or surprised in life. You are not a do-gooder nor are you a law-breaker. However, you are not afraid of the "dark side" of human nature, and you will bend the rules from time to time if you feel the need to do so. You take particular pleasure in growth and life's lessons. You are not fond of superficiality, and are generally the first to spot pretense of any kind. You are passionate and can be intense. You have a hunger to experience more than just an "ordinary" life, and you can be quite ambitious. Some people with this aspect are perfectionists, demanding much from themselves and reasonable amounts of effort and honesty from others. The Moon represents the emotional responses, unconscious pre-destination, and the self-image. Moon in Gemini Lunar Geminis are usually pleasant, witty, and charming people. At home and with family, however, they can be moody and irritable at times. People with Moon in Gemini are always interesting people--they have a finger in every pie, are curious to a fault, and are generally well-informed. Nervousness and worry are common traits with this lunar position. An underlying restlessness is common, and many Lunar Geminis need more stimulation than others. They usually read a lot, talk a lot, and think a lot with this airy, mutable position of the Moon. Their homes are often a perpetual work-in-progress. They generally dislike housework, but are big on home improvement. Re-organizing their homes in little--and sometimes big--ways seems to keep them happy, as Lunar Geminis are easily bored by both routine and constancy. Often, this is a reflection of their inner world--"the grass is always greener..." applies here. Inwardly, Lunar Geminis are often unsettled. Moon in Gemini parents are generally more adept at handling the intellectual needs of their children than emotional ones. Others' complicated emotions, in general, can be difficult for Lunar Geminis to handle. In their families, Lunar Geminis often take on the role of organizing get-togethers. They are at their best when they have plenty of things to do beyond routine. Moon in Gemini people almost always have a way with words. They are clever and witty, and more often than not can be found chatting with others. They are sociable and friendly, and feel comfortable in crowds. Some pay too much attention to what everyone else is doing, and lose touch with what they really want to do. Generally, Lunar Geminis have a million and one projects going. They are impressionable folk, and their imagination is boundless. Their openness to new ideas is admirable, although decisiveness and persistence take a blow as a result. Still, versatility and adaptability are some of the stronger traits of this position of the Moon.When irritable, these people can easily become snappy. Their moodiness is complicated--this is not the same kind of moodiness you'll find with water sign moons, for example. Usually, difficult behavior stems from inner restlessness. Lunar Geminis want to do it all, and have trouble sticking to any one project. When problems arise, the first instinct of Moon in Gemini natives is to talk things out. Their tendency to analyze can give them the appearance of emotional detachment. In fact, Lunar Geminis may be especially comfortable talking about their feelings, but feeling their own feelings doesn't come as easily. Those that don't take time out to really emote and understand their own needs may end up baffling others. Feeling misunderstood is common for Moon in Gemini natives. The only real solution to the problem is learning to get in touch with their own feelings. Short description: Sharp intellect. He likes literature, adapts to all situations and social groups. Work in contact with the public, literary occupations, travel. Weaknesses: lack of follow-up of ideas, indecision, goes back on decisions. Moon in VIII He has a tendency to having deep and profound dreams. Romantic fantasies. Is interested in the occult. While you have a strong need for emotional security, you are also a person who is drawn to pushing your own limits, and many lifestyle changes can be the result of this need to challenge, or reinvent, yourself emotionally. You are always fascinated with how people work, taboos, secrets, and all that is forbidden or hidden. Sexual unrest, or an apparent need to constantly change sexual partners or to challenge yourself sexually, may be a symptom of emotional insecurity. Connecting with another person intimately is an emotional need, but your changeable emotions might often get in the way of your goal. Jealousy and possessiveness might also be qualities you struggle with. At your best, however, you are a person who is intimate, deep, and intensely loyal to a partner. -8 Square Moon - Mars You can be precocious, animated, and passionate. You seek emotional excitement in your life. Although you often project a brave and tough image, your skin isn't as thick as you'd have others believe. You tend to put up defenses due to your emotionally vulnerable and excitable disposition. Unrest is characteristic, as you are bored by routine and become easily frustrated when life is "too easy". There's a buzz of energy surrounding you, and you tend to meet with many conflicts in your life. With the opposition, the conflict tends to be lived through relationships. The passions are quite raw, especially in youth. If you can channel your excitable energy into sports or some other competitive field, all the better. Although you can be a decidedly amiable and interesting person, others always seem to sense your boundaries. Something is bound to get you worked up, and it's not always clear what that something will be. Your bluntness can be both appreciated and considered offensive, depending on your audience! You are eager to make a personal impact on those around you. It is possible that you are too eager in this sense, and you come across as self-absorbed and difficult to stomach. Patience is definitely not your strong point! Your responses are quick, and your are a passionate person who is usually quite courageous although your energy is sporadic and sometimes wasted. You are sexually responsive. Short description: He is very emotional and is driven to do things by his emotions. He does not think things over or through in a given situation. He is irascible and easily angered or fired up. Marital disputes are very likely, and a heated domestic atmosphere. 11 Sextile Moon - Saturn He controls his feelings. He has a sense of duty, of self-esteem and is prudent. He can concentrate on a long-term task, manual or intellectual. He perseveres and is serious in everything he does. 13 Trine Moon - Uranus He is imaginative and has the Moon's intuition complemented by Uranus' independence and originality. His life is out-of-the-ordinary, with lots of changes and a great knowledge of the world not through reading but through personal experience. He likes the sensational, new things. He acts instinctively, but fortunately has a good sixth sense. He likes to be surrounded by original people, artists. -137 Opposition Moon - Pluto He has intense emotions and passionate feelings. He fears the loss of control of emotional and domestic matters, and fears change. At the same time, he attracts change and disruptions. The love life or marital life may be riddled with emotional scenes, jealousy, and possessiveness because he attracts intense partners. Mercury represents communication, Cartesian and logical spirit. Mercury in Sagittarius Enthusiastic, humorous, and sometimes moralistic. He has strong opinions, and often shares them! Democrat, philosopher, tolerant, respectful of laws. Interested in foreign places and learning more languages. Believes that everything teaches you something. Mercury in II Intelligence geared towards ways of making money, becoming rich. All methods are good, sometimes he is on the borderline of honesty. You have a very practical mind and intelligence, seeing the obvious, most logical answer to any predicament often before others. You don't like to be put on the spot or pushed into talking or coming to a conclusion. Studies are similar--you need to work at your own steady pace. You can be quite one-track minded at times, not very happy with multi-tasking, and often quite fixed in your opinions. Sensual stimuli is more relevant to you than abstract concepts. -65 Square Mercury - Mars While his spirit is lively, it is also cunning. He often acts without thinking, he throws himself into things and exaggerates - and this can bring certain problems. He is nervous and irascible. He can develop others' ideas, while they hesitate - he never does: he presses on. 47 Trine Mercury - Lilith Venus represents an interest for emotions and values, exchange and sharing with others. Venus in Scorpio Venus in Scorpio people attract others with their intensity and willingness to commit. They have a strong and concentrated manner which suggests their feelings run deep. Their actions in love tend to promise deep commitment and sexual pleasure, even if they are not telling you this directly. Their appeal lies in their focus on you, and their dedication. Venus in Scorpio seems fearless when it comes to intimacy. Potential lovers get the feeling that Venus in Scorpio will never stray, that they are intensely loyal to the one they love. They possess you, and somehow make it seem attractive to be possessed. Venus in Scorpio men and women give you their complete attention. These people are very focused on their partners. Depending on your personality, you may find this unnerving or entirely flattering. They have a strong need to control their partner, although this won't be immediately apparent, and they may not ever admit to this. Their body-and-soul love and commitment can be so intense that it eclipses fun and makes loving them a very heavy experience. Their emotion and intensity may seem overdone to those looking for a more lighthearted relationship. These people take things to extremes, and can be very provocative. Although they want to explore all of your nooks and crannies, they won't always be forthcoming with their own. When you've upset these lovers, you'll know it. Depending on the moment, Venus in Scorpio will shoot you one of the most piercing glares around, or totally blow up. Whichever style they choose, a slighted Scorpio lover is not a pretty sight. These people can be jealous of all of your attachments, but few will admit it. They're not afraid of being underhanded in matters of the heart, and they are experts at cutting through all the fluff and seeing you for what you are. Still, you may find their conclusions about you seem skewed and mistrustful. Pleasing Venus in Scorpio involves demonstrating your complete commitment and loyalty to them. Appreciate their guts when it comes to love and intimacy -- they're proud of their courage in these matters. If you can, and they're deserving, relinquish some of the control in the relationship. Let them feel they own you, without taking it to extremes. Remember, though, that some Venus in Scorpio lovers can and will take advantage of you on a subtle level, if only to keep you all to themselves. Let them have their secrets and their silences. Short description: Sensual and passionate. Passions run hot and cold. Full of ardor and desire where the partner needs to be able to match his level. Can be jealous and possessive. If disappointed or deceived in love, he can become bitter. Usually very loyal. Venus in XII He is devoted to sick or impoverished people. Can be in the medical or social professions. He likes animals, tranquility, peace and solitude. He may have secret love affairs. You are big on romance and you tend to live and breathe your partner once you're hooked. Not the best at defining your boundaries -- where your needs and your partner's needs separate -- you can get hurt in love rather easily. You can also feel used quite readily. You are attracted to people from all walks of life, finding a partner who has an unusual background or quirky personality most attractive. Partners who mistake your compassion for weakness can take advantage of you. Being openly affectionate and trusting often doesn't seem safe to you. You may feel your love won't be appreciated or reciprocated. You may get involved in secret love affairs or fall in love with a person who is quite unavailable to you at different points in your life. Love and sacrifice often seem to go hand in hand for you - having to give something up to be with the one you love, or having to relinquish some person or some aspect of an important love relationship. You value a certain amount of self-sacrifice and a giving attitude in a partner, as you embody these traits. You can be quite mysterious to others, even if you don't mean to be, because your romantic needs are kept hidden. Although you are quite naturally drawn to relationships that are unusual, secret, challenging, and unequal, do take the time to examine why this may be the case. Be certain that you are not, in some way, punishing yourself because you don't feel worthy of an equal and public relationship. Because Venus represents attraction, and the twelfth house is associated with the feet, your feet may be especially attractive and/or erogenous zones! -87 Square Venus - Uranus He looks for new sensations in love and is often unsatisfied by affairs which quickly turn into purely conventional relationships. He likes novelty, adventure, the eccentric: he is frivolous, unstable, unfaithful. Marriage is not for him and, if he does throw himself into this adventure, it will end in divorce, written off as a youthful mistake. As a result of his numerous love affairs, he makes sure his line is continued. -6 Square Venus - Neptune He might lack self-confidence and his ideals are not easy to achieve. In love, he is unstable and deceitful or meets people who are like this. He is easy-going and follows others' wishes in love, and he lets the partner take the initiative. This aspect indicates a suggestible romantic nature. Being "in love with love" is a strong possibility. You are naturally compassionate and are generally willing to go over the top for a loved one. It's hard to say whether your expectations in personal relationships are too high or too low. On the one hand, you tend to easily accept behaviors in your partners that others wouldn't accept, as you are compassionate and even drawn to people who others might consider trouble. On the other hand, your romantic dreams may be so powerful that you are easily disappointed with the reality of relationships. Deception in love is possible, but self-deception is even more likely. In love, you see what you want to see, rather than what is. Feelings of being used or deceived may come up. However, if a distinct pattern exists in your love life that involves you being let down, deceived or used, it will be especially worthwhile to examine whether self-deception was at work. The possibility of clinging to romantic delusions is very high with this position. For example, some with these aspects cling to a romantic notion that someone loves them when in reality that person doesn't return the affection. Or, they may cling to a romance that has lost all hope. Another possibility is devoting their love to someone who is unattainable or who is unable to commit. Yet another Venus-Neptune scenario is loving someone who treats them badly, all the while clinging to an idealized image of the partner. No matter what the scenario, romantic yearning and longing, as well as delusion, tends to be the theme. The expectation here is that loving someone requires self-sacrifice. The result is an attraction to relationships that are co-dependent and even abusive. Venus-Neptune people are drawn to victim/savior relationships, and they can play either the role of victim or savior! Dependency or neediness in a partner can be confused for love. In an attempt to love unconditionally, you may too readily sacrifice your own needs and eventually feel used. \r\n 194 Conjunction Venus - Ascendant He likes everything beautiful, the Arts, balance and harmony. He is amiable and sociable. He likes entertainment and has a loving nature. Mars represents the desire for action and physical energy. Mars in Virgo These productive and busy people are goal-oriented, practical people. Although they can be a little scattered at times, simply because they are doing so many things at any give time, Mars in Virgo natives get things done--quite well! They have a knack for handling a wide variety of tasks at once, and a tendency to take on perhaps too much at the same time. Most Mars in Virgo natives are not particularly aggressive by nature. Although they can be a little hard-nosed and critical at times, they rarely resort to pushing others around. Still, an annoyed Mars in Virgo native can be difficult to be around! Arouse their anger and they turn into complaining, over-critical nags. Generally, these natives don't make themselves nuisances, so this stage is unlikely to last for very long. It is a sensitive position, however. It doesn't take much to make these people nervous. Mars in Virgo people are quite protective about their "system" for getting things done. Although rather humble in a general life sense, they can be quite particular about their methods--how they organize and accomplish their goals, mostly with work. Theirs is a nervous energy. Although they have some staying power, they can be restless and are not given to sticking with the same projects for too long. These natives derive plenty of energy and life force from the things they do--their work, hobbies, and any kind of projects they take on. An idle Mars in Virgo native is a sorry sight, indeed. Fidgety, nervous, worried...all of these things are a sure sign that Mars in Virgo people have either too little to do, or far too much on their plates. There is a perfectionist at the heart of all people with this position. They'll be the first to deny this, but it's there! They worry when they are not producing anything, and they worry about whether what they've produced will measure up. An earthy and sometimes nervous sexuality generally characterizes people with this position of Mars. In a sense, their performance in bed is similar to their work. These people want to be good at what they do. They will generally be open to experimentation, if only to feed their curiosity and to feel savvy. There's often a shy and humble side to Mars in Virgo in any area that involves putting themselves out there and letting go (areas ruled by Mars). But experience and knowledge are important to these natives, and this drive generally wins over their natural reticence. Mars in XI He achieves his ambitions. He is impulsive and presses on without thinking. He starts something new without necessarily finishing the last job. He likes to dominate and lacks diplomacy where friends and professional relations are concerned. 17 Trine Mars - Jupiter He has a good sense of organization, he is jovial, frank and sincere. He is full of dynamism and over-abundant energy. He loves life and takes all it has to offer. He likes sports and the outdoor life. He is successful professionally and emotionally. He usually has lots of children. He is honest and forthright in his dealings with others, and he tends to trust others readily. He can be a bit careless about spending money, however, and this is probably because he is so eternally optimistic that there will always be plenty around. The possibility of failure does not enter his mind, although success itself is not that important to him. Jupiter represents expansion and grace. Jupiter in Capricorn He attracts the most good fortune when he organizes and directs, conducts himself with integrity, is ethical, and mature. Values the long term, achievement, responsibility, and manifestation. Succeeds through resourcefulness and avoiding activities that waste time, energy, or resources. Good at streamlining. Position or status is important to him. Jupiter in III He has good judgement, a sense of values, an open and optimistic mind, a good education and high moral standards. He likes studying. He is successful in communications work. His professional work is a vocation and plays a great part in his life. 22 Conjunction Jupiter - Neptune He is very generous and altruistic, helping people in difficulty or sick people. He knows how to listen or, at least, how to give that impression. He is a dreamer, with lots of imagination: he likes the Arts. Saturn represents contraction and effort. Saturn in Aries Self-consciousness can be a problem. Must learn to develop self-confidence. Is bothered by a "me-first" attitude in others, but must learn that "me-first" is sometimes necessary, in moderation. Saturn in V He likes method, calculation, concentration. He is not drawn towards amusements, or pleasure in general. He has few friends, but has deep and sincere feelings. He is serious in everything. 90 Sextile Saturn - Uranus He knows how to be on top of the situation. He perseveres, is determined but ingenious and original. He is very practical. He proceeds slowly, but is always bound to achieve his objectives in the end. 10 Sextile Saturn - Neptune His plans are realized in a methodical fashion, he works hard to achieve success. 13 Trine Saturn - Pluto He perseveres, achieves his projects through hard work. Uranus represents individual liberty, egoistic liberty. Uranus in Aquarius Gets over-excited at the start of a task that interests him. His debonair personality gives others a banal impression. Uranus in III He is curious and inventive. If he does not study for a long time, he will be self-taught. He is intelligent, with a strong personality. He does not like routine and will regularly go on mission for work purposes. 124 Conjunction Uranus - Neptune 90 Sextile Uranus - Pluto He fights to improve his daily life, he is persevering. -37 Square Uranus - Ascendant He is inconstant, lacks control and is nervous. Neptune represents transcendental liberty, non-egoistic liberty. Neptune in Capricorn He is discerning, wise and sensible. Neptune in III He has a lot of imagination, high ideals. He is nostalgic. Dry, cold facts are hard for him to absorb, so traditional academics might not appeal. -2 Square Neptune - Ascendant He is very easily influenced and fragile. He suffers disappointments. Pluto represents transformations, mutations and elimination. Pluto in Sagittarius Great aspirations: sexuality and love are idealized. House I is the area of self identity. The ascendant is a symbol of how one acts in life. It is the image of the personality as seen by others, and the attitude that one has towards life. Sagittarius ascendant Scorpio Ascendant in Scorpio Scorpio Ascendant people have a lot of presence. There is something about them that tells the world that they are not to be pushed around. Their manner commands respect, and in some cases, fear. Scorpio rising people can be quiet or loud, but they always seem powerful and determined. You either love or hate Scorpio rising people-- they are rarely people who go through life unnoticed. In fact, some of them are confused when faced with the fact that they get such strong reactions from others. They seem to look right through people, seeing through superficiality. This can be quite intimidating to some, and intriguing to others. Scorpio rising people, in their dealings with others, look for answers by reading between the lines. Surface details are discarded when they are getting a feel for people and situations around them. Scorpio rising people value their privacy so much, it can border on paranoia. They have a strong need to control their environment and are experts at strategy. Rarely people who will blow their chances with impatience, they plan out their moves carefully and deliberately, relying on their awesome ability to feel out others and situations. Scorpio rising natives are drawn to down-to-earth, natural partners. Reliability in their partner is very important. They generally look for complete commitment and have little patience with flighty partners. House II is the area of material security and values. It rules money and personal finances, sense of self-worth and basic values, personal possessions. House II in Sagittarius Financial success may come through an import/export company dealing regularly with foreign countries. He may have a laissez-faire attitude towards money. May take risks financially, as making and spending money is seen as an adventure. The house and sign placement of Jupiter can show more clues to where and how money is made. House III is the area of social and intellectual learning. House III in Capricorn Nothing is left to chance, everything is calculated, dissected slowly and methodically, twice rather than once, in peace and quiet by himself. He is introverted, and doesn't speak about his plans until they are underway. House IV is the area of home, family, roots, and deep emotions/sense of self-worth. House IV in Aquarius He will leave the family home reasonably young. Likes liberty, wants a life that is out-of-the-ordinary, and certainly one that does not correspond with mum and dad's. House V is the area of creative self-expression, romance, entertainment, children, and gambling. House V in Pisces With lofty feelings, he is full of tenderness, sentimentality. Things do not always go his way. A meeting with a person who is either not free, too young or from a different family or social background means that living together will be done in the utmost secrecy while waiting for the chance to legalize the situation quietly, without any trouble. This state of affairs will make him melancholy. A lovely little family will result from this union. House VI is the area of learning by material transaction. House VI in Aries Ability to command, knows how to take up his responsibilities at work. Weak point: headaches, fevers. House VII is the area of one-to-one relationships such as marriage and partnership, and of social and intellectual action. House VII in Taurus Marries for love but also well financially. A peaceful union even if exchange of ideas isn't always smooth. House VIII is the area of emotional security and of security of the soul. House VIII in Gemini If he is a writer, a painter or involved in another of the Arts, and if fame doesn't come when living, then it will come posthumously. Small inheritance from near relations. Take care of the lungs - if a smoker, then it is advisable to stop. House IX is the area of learning that shapes the identity. House IX in Cancer Fertile imagination. He is easily influenced. Likes travel, especially cruises. House X is the area of material action. The Mid-heaven represents the work one will do in his life, the place one will take in the world of society. It becomes more important as one grows older House X in Leo All the leadership qualities are there: authority, sense of organization, initiative, intelligence, but also thanks to outside help. He is a fighter. House XI is the area of search for social and intellectual security. House XI in Virgo Friends must resemble him, anyone having different ideas or ways of doing things cannot be friends. Discussing ideas is not his cup of tea. His knowledge is the result of study but also of the down-to-earth nature that characterizes him. House XII is the area of education and of emotion. House XII in Libra Marriage doesn't bring luck, honors come as he imagined they might.

[hemsworths-chris]

do you wanna be a member?

JILY CHALLENGE | @howlingremus​ vs @queensaphrodite​          lonely hearts club (marina and the diamonds) + muggle librarian!au

for my amazing partner, @queensaphrodite! and for elena (@meraudurs) and nai (@hiddenpolkadots​), for inspiring me to write and create (and for helping me edit this <3)

The library closes far too early, in her opinion. Sure, it closes at eight, and sure, maybe she ought to try just showing up earlier, but in her defense, it isn’t solely her fault. She only gets off work at five, and there are just so many books to read. How are three hours anywhere near enough?

She frequents the place almost every day, knows it like the back of her hand. But there’s something off about it today. Maybe it’s the fact that the historical fiction section switched places with the biography section, but that was last week.

Lily grabs her books and walks up to the counter to ask Peggy whether or not there’s a copy of Everything, Everything available and oh shit that’s what’s different.

There’s a different librarian - a bloke - at the desk, with hair too messy to be legal, glasses too outdated to be unintentionally bought, and a shirt too wrinkled to ever have come in contact with an iron. He’s the kind of fellow who’d be perfect as the main character as one of the books Lily wants to check out - maybe a Peter Pan or a Percy Jackson kind of fellow.

Lily blinks.

Well, fuck.

He looks up from fiddling with the cuffs of his button-down, meets her gaze for a moment, and cocks an eyebrow.

“You’re the first person under forty I’ve seen so far.” His voice almost seems to echo, and it’s much louder than most librarians tend to be.

Lily can’t even tell if he’s being dense or just kind of cocky, but she’ll place her bet on the latter. It’s clear as day in the way he holds himself - self-assured, unashamed, even a bit arrogant but still good-natured.

She crosses her arms. “That’s not true, and you know it. You’re literally right next to the freaking children’s section.”

The bloke laughs, a sound almost out of place in this quiet library. She owes herself twenty dollars.

“Check and mate, I guess. But then again, it’s not like I can really see them.” He taps his glasses with a ridiculously long finger. “They’re getting smaller every day, I swear.”

Lily even smiles at that for a second, before stuffing it back where it came from. This arrogant, loud-mouthed (they’re in a fucking library, has he no sense of volume?), far-too-handsome idiot has no place in this library of hers.

(All the same, she wouldn’t mind reading about someone like him.)

“Yeah, sure” she says, quickly, trying to get to the point. “Listen, do you guys have another copy of Everything, Everything?”

He shrugs. “Hell if I know.”

Lily is done with this bloke. She makes her way around the desk to where he’s sitting, pushes away his chair (“Oi, what d’ya think you’re doing?” but he doesn’t sound particularly annoyed, just curious), opens up the catalog page on the monitor in front of him (the first thing she sees when she opens it up is a March Madness bracket - she now kind-of-sort-of-really wants to punch the guy), and soundlessly types in the words Everything, Everything.

No more copies available, but there’s one currently on hold. And it’s not hers. Damnit.

The guy standing behind her takes a look at her screen, and she can hear him let out a breath. “Oh, shit, that book? Isn’t that the one with like the mysterious guy and the girl who’s supposed to be sick but - “

Lily hastily shoves out her hand, as if to slap it over his rambling mouth. “No spoilers!” she all but yells. And she realizes that she’s being such a hypocrite right now, so she adds, a little bit more quietly, “Please.”

The bloke smirks, like he knows exactly what she’s thinking. “Alright, then.” He peers over at the screen once more, and Lily presses the power button. She gets up, and moves over to the side of the desk that she ought to be on.

“Well,” she says curtly, trying not to smile (for some reason) at this endearing annoying stranger. “Thanks.”

He grins at her. “Don’t mention it.”

Suddenly, something occurs to Lily. “Hold on,” she says slowly. “You’ve read this book?”

For some reason, the bloke turns red. “Er - um, no? I got it for my friend…Marlene? And like I read the summary on the back -”

Lily smirks. “Liar. You’ve totally read it.”

If possible, he turns even redder - it’s quite a funny sight. “I was bored, alright? And it was lying around - I really had bought it for Marlene - and I…may have skimmed it?”

Lily laughs and tucks a strand of red hair behind her ear.  “Why are you acting so defensive? It’s just a book, relax.”

“Well, it’s not as good as the Percy Jackson series.” Besides the point, but Lily can’t deny that it’s true.

“Fair,” she admits.

She notices a watch on his hand (it looks extraordinarily beat-up, made of old leather and a face of cracked glass), and checks the time. Crap, the library closes in a few minutes. “I really should be going,” she says, making sure she has all the books she wants before turning around.

(She’s not sure if she’s imagining it, but the librarian’s face seems to fall slightly.)

Just as Lily’s about to head back, she hears a quiet “Wait.” She turns around.

“What is it?”

“Er.” The librarian looks…pretty sheepish, and he rubs the back of his neck. “What - what does it say on your shirt?”

Lily almost rolls her eyes, and she pulls back the cardigan she’s wearing.

“I left my heart in a book,” the guy reads. He looks back up at her.

“Is that, like, for a book club or something?”

Lily stares at him in confusion. “Sorry?”

“The shirt - you must’ve got it from some sort of club.”

“I…got it from Macy’s? So no, not a book club.”

He looks quizzically at her. “You know, you should probably make that shirt a book club, then.”

Lily raises an eyebrow. “For hearts in books?”

“Yeah, something like that. Like, aggressive bibliophiles or something.”

She perches herself on the desk, her legs starting to get tired of standing, and almost ends up knocking over a stapler. “Who’d join?”

“I would.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, and I’d grab some friends, too. Get some drinks, maybe some fries, and master the art of abandoning our poor, forsaken hearts in some dusty old books.”

Lily actually lets out a laugh. “I - don’t think that’s what it means.”

“But wouldn’t that be more dramatic?”

Come to think of it, it would be. Lily tries to envision it, but the only thing that really comes to mind is some sort of cult with an obsession for Bram Stoker and Mary Shelley. And they, of course, take their fries with a small cup of blood.

Anyways. She shrugs, and gets off the desk. “You do have a flair for the dramatics, then. Say, who the hell are you?”

His hands fly up to his hair - for what, to make it even messier? - and ends up almost knocking his glasses off the bridge of his nose.

“Stop giggling, bloody hell. And it’s James.”

Against her better judgement (sod it all, rational thought), she reaches over and pushes up his glasses. His hazel eyes follow her fingers, and he looks a little bit cross-eyed. It’s all a little bit sweet.

“James, is it? Well, I’m Lily, founder of the Hearts in Books Club.” The bloke - James, now - snorts at that, only causing to Lily to giggle even more.

James looks down at his watch . “I think the library closes right about now, you’d best be off.”

Lily swears under her breath, and James raises an eyebrow.

“Now, what was that?” The accent he’s putting on sounds a bit like some old-fashioned English professor, which kind of goes with the button-down, but not with the hair. “You do know you’re near the children’s section, next to so many impressionable young minds - you wouldn’t want to give them the wrong idea -”

“Oh, sod off,” she says, but not before glancing over to see if there’s anyone under the age of ten watching them. She checks to see if she still has all her books, and actually turns to leave.

“See you, Jimmy.” She smirks.

“OI, WATCH IT!”

~

Once she turns the corner, she can’t stop smiling. And even once she gets home and picks up her books and tries to - tries to lose her heart in them, damnit, she can’t stop thinking of James and the Hearts in Books Club and that damn hair.

Fuck, she thinks.

~

Lily returns to the library the next day, of course - she needs to pick up the sequel to Six of Crows, the novel she just finished.

(And she may or may not want to see if James is there.)

(He isn’t. Peggy is back, and though she loves Peggy, she’s a bit disappointed.)

(What is wrong with me, she thinks.)

After finding Crooked Kingdom, finally, she traipses over to the holds section. As far as she remembers, she doesn’t have anything on hold, but it’s always good to check.

There’s a book in her slot.

Furrowing her brows, she reaches up (and, quite embarrassingly, has to get up her tippy-toes; damn her lack of height), and grabs it. It’s hardcover, feels pretty new, and strangely enough, it doesn’t have that clear library binding around it.

The cover reads Everything, Everything. It’s the book she wanted yesterday - the one that the library shouldn’t have an available copy of. Confused, Lily opens the front cover, and the first thing she sees is a little note on a yellow Post-It, scribbled in Sharpie.

Lily,

Can this be the first book of the Hearts in Books Club?

See you Thursdays and Tuesdays.

- James.

There’s a little smiley face doodled next to her name, and Lily feels a strange, swooping feeling that she normally only feels at the end of a really good book.

And oh, fuck, she can’t stop grinning.

(But maybe, when she gets home, it’s something more than the book itself - something having to do with the note on the inside front cover - that prompts her to read it over and over again).

(Maybe. Just maybe).