#but the fact that i can even manage to do that shows my immense privilege

[milkbreadtoast]

ai is just so fucking bleak man it makes me want to end it all...

taking everything joyful about life... everything i ever wanted or loved or hoped for... and not just that, everything else too... no job is safe... the only way i can go on is to pretend it doesnt exist and just keep creating and trying as we always have done it haha but meanwhile it just keeps getting worse and im filled with sickening dread... the only hope I have is that people will continue to stick together and protect each other even as ai tries to destroy and take everything from us and our identity and our joy sorry to sound poetic and pretentious but i just need to get the vent out. its bleak man.

[atley01]

This disability pride month, I'm left with conflicted feelings.

Whenever I post about disability-related things online, I always try to give my community optimism and hope. I know how much suffering can result from having health issues, and sometimes, you just need a break from dwelling on it. I want to provide fellow disabled people a break from the slippery slope of doom that dwelling can lead to.

But the more I do that, the more that I fear I'm showing an inaccurate representation of disability. That I am painting an image of disability to be something "struggle free all the time and nothing more than a 'unique character trait.'"

Being disabled isn't easy. You're living in a world not meant for you. And you get reminded of that every day. You might think its easier to mask if you're able to, but all that does is dig you into a deeper hole. Sure, I can suppress my tics. Sure, I can mask my autism. Sure, I can try my best to hide my POTS symptoms. I can act like my tinnitus isn't giving me headaches and making it difficult to function in society. I can act like my chronic pain isnt making me want to collapse to the floor. I can pretend I dont need a mobility aid.

Sometimes, though, you arent given the choice on if you hide it or not. And then that whole facade tumbles down. And you're left feeling a mix of embarrassment, shame, and anger. Embarrassed to be seen like that, shame that you may need help, and angry that your body did something against your will, again.

I started working 7 months ago. The first 3 months, I was so happy and proud of myself for being able to have the privilege of holding down a job. By the 4th month, I had some doubts about how long I could hold my job down. Here I am, 7 months in, and Im realizing yet again that I am not as able-bodied as I expected myself to be. The thought that I may have to find a less physically demanding job terrifies me. I feel immense shame for struggling to handle a part-time job physically.

I think what really solidified this for me was when I passed out at my job last month. It wasn't as bad as it could have been, but the fact of the matter is I blacked out, and I didn't get to decide I "wasn't going to." That scared me. Or maybe what solidified it for me was when my tinnitus prevented me from being able to understand customers and coworkers. Maybe it was when I had to mask and suppress a tic attack to the best of my ability. Maybe it was when I touched something that triggered my sensory issues, and I was simply too busy to regulate myself, so I had to spend my time dissociating to forget the feeling.

When you're young and you're disabled, it's difficult to be taken seriously. People think you're being dramatic, or they think its something you're doing to be causing all the health problems. "Have you tried changing your diet?" / "It's growing pains." / "Your leg hurts? Did you bang it on something?" / "Give it a few days. You'll feel better." The search for accommodation and validity is made even harder when doctors refuse to listen. Sadly, the medical system is not immune to being abelist. You can't request accommodations if doctors document you as able-bodied.

I have never claimed to be a voice for my community. I am a voice for nobody but myself. Maybe in sharing my Expirences, someone else can feel less alone. Or maybe this is unique to me alone.

Am I proud to be disabled?

I think that in some ways, yes. I am proud of what I have accomplished in spite of my health. I am proud that I have found tools to manage my health. I am proud to say I am a part of an amazing community such as the disabled community, and I am proud of what we've accomplished.

I dont think I am proud of the abelism, shame, or pain through. Im not sure anyone could be. If you are, I truly envy you. I am proud that despite the pain, I push forward. But I wonder if that's an unhealthy habit to encourage. To push my limits and ignore my body, screaming at me to give it rest.

This disability pride month, Im reflecting on my health and how it affects me, and taking the time to be patient with myself. Because Im doing all that I can, I do not need to hold myself to the standards that able-bodied people are held to. That is an impossible standard for me to reach.

Im going to celebrate the small victories. This time last year, I was passing out multiple times a week, and I overall had more tic attacks. Now, my fainting has been almost non-existent, and my tic attacks- while they do still happen - have noticeably been less frequent.

If you made it this far, please be kind to yourself, and happy disability pride month. You are allowed to be upset by the things your disability puts you through. You're doing the best you can. I see you, and Im proud of you.

[hansensgirl]

please don’t take him (even though you can).

summary. | She can have anyone she wants, but you can never love again. Not without him.

warnings. | Major angst, cheating, nightmare mentions, anxiety, yearning, nail-biting, insecurities, mental heath issues, mentions of violence, abandonment, implied smut, talk of death, grief, some religion stuff (not major), loneliness, mentions of torture, PTSD, split personality disorder i think, this is really angsty and possibly triggering so please be aware of the warnings! 18+

word count. | 12k.

pairings. | Bucky Barnes x Reader, Winter Soldier x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Natasha Romanoff.

a/n. | THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR 6K!!! i love each and everyone so much like serious i will kiss you all!! happy valentine’s day as well!! based off of jolene by dolly parton and love by daughter. thank you to my love @mypoisonedvine for beta-ing and listening to me talk about this fic every now and then! ilysm! this fic is very near and dear to me, so please reblog it 🥺

The Soldat’s sentences are broken, just like he is. The words fall apart as soon as they roll off of his tongue. So much to say, so few words, so little time. His hands are as cold as the bitter Russian winters, as cold as his stare. The Soldat doesn’t know what to feel. He’s as numb as when one’s entire body has been bitten by frostbite.

His voice is deeper than it was for the man he once was. From the screaming, from the crying, from the torture. He has no control, not even over his own voice. He keeps quiet and thinks. He thinks, and he thinks, and he thinks. Something has dawned on the Soldat. He does have control. But for how long? He only has it for a few minutes, maybe even hours. But it’s enough. He only has it until the soul of his mission’s body has left. He only has it until their eyes hold no life in them.

It’s 2014, and the first sentence he has completed is “I love you.”

You can remember it well. November 17th, the snow had fallen early and neither of you were prepared. Milk intended for hot chocolate boils on the stove and the crackle that the fire brings was the only sound in the room. He watches you from afar as you slowly stir the milk with a wooden spoon — the only one that he hadn’t accidentally snapped.

He doesn’t like the cold, he never has. Though he’s always warm, the cold haunts and taunts him. Memories and nightmares come with the snowfall and ice. “Are you okay, Winter?” you ask him, and he snaps out of a blank trance.

Winter. He likes being called Winter, although he loathes the season.

He nods his head after some careful thinking. Through the mess that is his mind, he manages to ask himself if he’s okay. Is he? No, he isn’t. He’s not sure why he nodded, but damn is he grateful for that smile you give in return. One in a million, you’re a burning star. The brightest there is, and the shiniest diamond ever. You’re rare, the person who poets write about and singers cry about. But you’re the only one for him. Only his.

“What flavours, Winter? Would you like to try something new?” you ask him, bringing the heat down and taking the milk off of the stove. Winter gets up from his spot near the fireplace and strides over to you. He likes the way you don’t choke in fear when he walks towards you.

You show him the numerous flavours of cookies you had baked that morning, and allow him to take as long as he’d like to choose. “M…” He struggles to say the word, scared that he’s being too demanding and that it’s a trick. HYDRA often did that. Fooling him just so that they could harm him, even though they never really needed a reason. “You can have anything you want, Winter. Anything.”

You reassure him, hesitatingly putting your warm hands on his warm face. He looks up at you, and you give him a soft smile that makes him want to cry with love. “Macadamia?” he requests politely. You hand him the macadamia cookies and smile, before grabbing one of the chocolate bombs you and he made the other day.

“Would you like to pour the milk, Winter?” you question him, grabbing his favourite mug. It was white and had a cheesy pun that always made him smile. “Yes.” He keeps his answers short, scared that he’ll say the wrong thing, or that he’ll abuse his privileges. The stories… The harsh stories they tell about him contradict him. He looks just like that feared soldier; the one you should run from.

But God, he’s just a broken man. Not too far past repairing, but just enough that it takes certain special tools to fix him. He towers over you like a brute, a powerful stare that would make anyone but you cry. He takes the carton of milk for you, cracking a slight smile when he remembers that you were so weak that your hands would shake when lifting it.

Your heart warms as his lips stretch. Before, you weren’t sure if you even had a favourite sight. But now… now you know. He’s your favourite sight. He pours the milk with shaky yet careful hands, and you envy his strength through your admiration. He stops just at the right time without having you tell him. Independence. He’s learning.

You break pieces of chocolate into the cup and let the hot milk melt the sweet treat, before adding a dash of cocoa powder. You both watch in wonder and awe as the milk turns into hot chocolate. Winter takes his cup from you, and thanks you. “You’re welcome, Winter,” you say, placing your cold hands on the mug.

He watches as you sigh at the warmth, knowing that your body doesn’t radiate as much heat as he does. “S- Share?” he offers you, taking note of how you’re slightly shivering. You nearly choke on your hot chocolate as he proposes the utmost tempting action ever. “My blanket…” He adds on, making you take note of the blanket your father gave you that rests on his shoulders.

It’s not necessary, but it gives him a type of comfort that only you can give as well. “Please?” you ask, shivers crawling up your spine and goosebumps rising on your skin. You walk closer to him, padded feet barely making any noise as they rest on top of creaky wooden floors.

He opens the blanket like wings and takes you under his arm like a bird. Ready to show you the world, even the nastiest bits and pieces of it. He wraps the majority of the blanket around you and he’s infatuated with the relaxation that you radiate. No threats, no impending dooms. You stand side by side, not so silently sipping on your hot chocolate because you love the little smile he gives at the slightly loud slurps.

Winter doesn’t know what comes over him. Courage? Cowardice? A spur of love? His mind is too messed up to think that clearly. He turns you around to face him, the blanket falling to the floor with a slight thud. Who knew wool could be so heavy?

Heavy like your heart. Heavy like the tension that lingers.

Perhaps it’s not courage or cowardice, and in fact, it’s Bucky who used to flirt like a maniac with every girl in the neighbourhood. He bends down and plants a kiss on your lips — at least that’s what he thinks it is. You’re easily goo beneath his coarse hands as they cup your cold face. He doesn’t move his lips and you don’t either. You’re both content with the simple yet unique kiss.

He pulls away and you have to admit — you’re breathless. From both the lack of air and from happiness. It’s rare to have such feelings be reciprocated. “I love you,” he bluntly admits, and never in your life have you been so shocked. “W- What?” you ask incredulously, taken aback yet you can already feel your body, soul and mind taking off to cloud nine.

“I love you.”

He repeats himself and God knows he’s willing to say those three words and eight letters over and over again just for you. “You do?” you ask him, feeling tears well in your eyes. “Yes. I love you. Love has immense, yet measurable effects and changes in the biochemistry of the brain. I mean- my brain? The three basic parts of love are driven by unique blends of brain chemicals…”

He pauses to take a deep breath.

“Every time I look at you, I have the term, ‘butterflies in the stomach.’ It’s caused by a reduction in blood flow to the stomach. I have the strongest urges to protect and love,” he explains with more words than ever.

Never in your life have you ever heard the words that are pouring out of his mouth. “Do you…?” he nervously questions, feeling his heart palpitations speed up at such a rate, it’s like he’s having a heart attack.

“I love you, even more, Winter.”

It’s 2016, and your Winter is almost a different person.

His name is Bucky– James, he tells you. You call him Jamie. Information discovered from trips to the museum and paragraphs of articles and textbooks fill out the blank spaces of his life. Apparently, students learn about him and the rest of the Howling Commandos in school. But you haven’t been, so you wouldn’t know.

The night terrors are tough, but they’ve been slowly improving with you by his side. You’re both broken in your own ways, but you have each other, and that’s enough. He doesn’t mind it when you call him Winter, but you know it makes more sense to call him by his true name. You’re fine with anything, as long as you have him.

“My, my… Did you wake up in a good mood?” you ask him, hugging him carefully from behind because you know that sometimes he doesn’t want to be touched. That’s fine. “Maybe… I was thinking of going out today. Alone. Will you be safe?” he asks you, handing you the best meal he can scrounge up. Biscuits and tea. “Always, because I have you,” you tell him, making him give you a sad smile.

You don’t have a table, so he lifts you up onto the counter that is next to the sink. Inside, there are stacks of dishes. Neither of you have the energy to wash them, but today you will, to keep yourself busy. He’s already dressed; tight red henley on top of two more sweaters that are stretched out over his broad chest.

Jeans that barely fit his thick legs, combat boots that he stole and a cap that conceals his identity from wandering eyes. He watches as you eat, just in case you accidentally bite your tongue, burn yourself or choke. He’ll always be there for you. “Did you eat?” you question him, breaking your last biscuit and handing the bigger piece to him.

At first, he refuses to take it. Doubts from HYDRA still linger, they never can go away even with the most reassurance and love from you. “Please? You can lie and you can choose to not answer, but at least take this,” you beg, placing the half in his gloved hand. He presses a chaste kiss to your lips; the taste of orange pekoe tea making him sigh.

He’s always been partial to green, even though he can’t recall ever drinking it. He reluctantly eats the piece and you stare him dead in the eyes as he does so. “You know I’ll always love you, right?” you speak up once he’s finished. You know all the proper manners like they’re written on the back of your hand. When you were younger, they were.

In loopy cursive. Black Sharpie ink settling into your skin and you can remember the way your father scolded you for doing so. The memory is fresh, fresh like the tears you notice in Bucky’s eyes. He nods, and you down the rest of your tea. You never had a preference between tea and coffee. You were grateful to have either.

They both had their flaws, and they both had their strengths. “And I’ll always love you, лунный свет,” he whispers, closing the space that divides you both. His lips — slightly chapped yet so soft — are pressed against your cold forehead. Your mouth falls open in a gasp, but it’s not one of surprise.

No.

It’s of satisfaction, and you find yourself doing it more often than once. “What does that mean?” you ask him as you trace the teacup with one of your fingers. There’s still a bit of tea inside of it, but it’s barely anything. Not enough to quench a thirst. But since it’s come from him and since his murder-scarred hands made it, it’s enough for you.

Your finger dips, and it’s only then when you notice there’s a small chip. You don’t resent the cup for it, no, not at all. In fact, you find yourself a bit more enamoured with the piece of cheap china in your hands. “Moonlight,” he bluntly tells you, before taking the cup from your hands. You don’t even realize it until he replaces it with his hands.

Oh… He doesn’t like it? Now– now you hold a little bit of resentment towards it because if James doesn’t like it then maybe you shouldn’t. “Why?” you ask as you wrap your hands around his. You lace your fingers together and you can feel the stark contrast. On one hand — your right hand — your skin is comforted by the cotton glove he wears.

On your left hand, your skin is comforted by his bare, rough hand. “Well, лунный свет, what do you think it means?” he asks you in return as you trace the stitches on his glove and the grooves of his hand. “I… I’m not sure. I’m sorry,” you apologize to him. Your head ducks down in disappointment, but not with him. It’s for yourself, as always. “Don’t be, sometimes we don’t know everything,” he tells you softly, “and that’s okay.” His words reassure you as always.

“You’re just like moonlight. You’re wise, the brightest of them all. No matter how small you make yourself, you always manage to make everyone marvel at your beauty. You’re mysterious, always a surprise, but only for some. Your aura– your brightness, it never ceases to amaze people. It helps me through the darkest times. The world needs you, I need you,” he monologues to you, and you find yourself at a loss of words. “James…” You whisper, looking up at him.

His eyes are still a bit bloodshot, but they’re glassy and you can see right into his soul. “I love you, лунный свет, until the end of love,” James whispers to you, and he places a chaste kiss on your lips. “I love you, even more, Jamie, until the end of love. Until the end of time,” you whisper back, shutting your eyes. Bucky squeezes your hands, and you do the same in return. His head slightly knocks yours as he places his forehead against yours.

“Until the end of time, лунный свет.”

It’s still 2016, and you’ve lost your Jamie.

And it’s not like he’s somewhere in a sea of people, or some nook of a large building. No, he’s gone and you don’t know how to get him back. He told you to wait in the park that nobody usually goes to. Well, if you count both yourself and James as nobodies. You watch from afar as destruction and terror rips your home apart, and you pray that James is okay. You need him.

Surprisingly, nobody notices you. You wear most of James’s clothing, as it all couldn’t fit in the two backpacks he packed. You don’t mind, because you’re trying to forget about the small gun that’s in your boot. You don’t even know how to use it, and he knows that. “It doesn’t matter, лунный свет, once they see you with a gun, you’ll automatically be the strongest person there.” His words echo in your mind and so do his actions.

He dressed you in a rushing manner. His eyes kept locking with yours. Through his soft, almost scared complex, you can see the soldier you met two years ago –– only murder in his eyes, ready for a mission.

You bite your nails and try to ignore the screams from passersby “Until the end of time, until the end of time, until the end of time, until the end of time…” You repeat the phrase over and over, hoping the Gods above can hear the plea in your voice. “Please don’t take him, even though you can, please don’t take my Jamie,” you beg out loud, looking up to the sky that greys the same way old memories do.

He’s not okay, he's probably dead… And you left him there to suffer. How selfish could you be?

“Shut up.”

I’m not wrong, I never am. I wasn’t wrong about Father, was I?

“I… That’s different.”

Is it though?

You bite your tongue, whatever snarky remark you just had has now lost itself in the mess that is your mind. You’re conflicted as always. Should you stay, and let Jamie get hurt? Or should you help him? You spend a good few minutes repeating those questions over and over. You feel like you have a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other. You let out a satirical laugh, and you know that you seem insane.

Two days ago, you had brought up a saying to Jamie.

“My father… He had this saying. When someone has lived their full life, but it still seems to go on and on, it means that God and the devil haven’t come to an agreement yet,” you tell him, pulling at a thread that hangs on his jacket. “An agreement about what, лунный свет?” he asks you, looking up from the pamphlet he stole from a museum in a town near Bucharest.

It’s crumpled, but everything is legible still. “Who has to take them,” you smile up at him, and he returns it. “Perhaps, that's what's happening. They’re still arguing, still negotiating. That’s why you’re still here. If one of them were ready to take you, they would’ve done so already. But they haven’t,” you explain to him in your usual soft voice. He once told you that your voice is one of the best things to listen to.

Better than music, better than laughter, better than the admissions of ‘I love you’ you tend to trade.

“Maybe you’re right, лунный свет. You know, you’re different from the rest of us– them,” he whispers to you, taking in the way your face creases in certain spots when curiosity takes over. “How so, Jamie?” you ask him, setting down the needle, roll of thread, and jacket. “You have hope, faith,” he starts, “it’s both dangerous yet helpful. It’s what separates you from the demons of the world.”

“лунный свет!” James calls out. You look up from the ground and the movie of your life with James pauses. “Jamie…” You whimper, taking in his form. He’s bruised and battered, cut up and injured. Just like when you found him on the porch of your home. “Oh, Jamie… What happened?” you ask him, feeling yourself begin to panic. Your heart quickens, and you rush to him like he’s about to die.

“We have to go, лунный свет. It’s a hideout, it’s for your own safety,” he briefly explains to you and he grabs your arm. His grip is perfect. Not too tight, but not too gentle. You can tell he’s scared, but you know he’ll never admit it. “I have to go fight, but I’ll be back for you. Do you know the Avengers? It’s– Argh– We don’t have enough time. But I’ll tell you all about it later, лунный свет.” James is all business and nothing else.

You’re worried, so worried. But you have hope, and you have faith, and you know everything will be okay in the end. “But you’ll stay safe, right, Jamie?” you question him. He doesn’t respond, the only thing coming from him are grunts of pain and puffs of determination. “Answer me, Jamie. Promise me you’ll stay safe,” you demand of him in a strong voice. Never in your life have you ever raised your voice like this, but when it comes to James’s safety, you no longer care.

“I promise, лунный свет, until the end of time.”

It’s still 2016, and your Jamie is going away.

He’s leaving this world, but it’s for himself. You hold back all the pleas, all the begging you have in your body because you know he wants this. He needs this. His train is going to depart soon, off to a faraway land. A cold one, to be exact. You feel tempted to remind him how much he hates the cold, but you choose to keep your mouth shut. You’ve learned a lot in the past few days, more than when you were in high school.

Steve, Jamie’s past, what HYDRA is, the Avengers, the types of evil in this world–– They’re all things you’ve learnt. Your Jamie isn’t a different person, he isn’t. He just has more to him now. You replay the horrific memories of the past days in your mind over and over, even though you hated them. You look through the glass doors, and ahead of you is James in all his beatific glory.

In front of him, though, is the Black Widow. You don’t know if she’s from Jamie’s past, but you know they have a connection. The way they speak to each other; low and soft, just like summer rain. It’s almost the same way you speak to Jamie, but it’s not quite like it. He smiles up at her, and you remember how much you love his side-profile. It’s envious, really. But then again, Jamie is perfect in your eyes, despite his horrors and his scars of his past.

Of Winter’s past.

Your Jamie and Winter have their similarities. You’d make a list, but it would go on forever. You keep your eyes trained on his face, one of your favourite things to look at. Dare you say, he looks at her like no other. You’ve never seen this look on his face. But then again, your Jamie is going away and maybe it’s that impending nervousness. She looks at you. Her green eyes –– ones that just encapture you in the best way possible –– lock with yours. You feel insecure, almost as though she’s judging you.

But one of Earth’s mightiest heroes would never do such a thing.

She’s judging you, you know. Probably thinks you’re some nobody, some pathetic little girl who can’t even defend herself.

“No, she isn’t,”

And how can you be so sure?

Right. How can you be so sure? You watch as she gives James –– your Jamie –– a pat on the shoulder. She walks out, through another door and you feel as though she did that just to avoid you. And honestly, you don’t blame her. You walk in, hesitatingly of course. Each step of yours is wary. Your old, beaten-up sneakers barely make a sound against the floor. Your Father always said you walked like a ballerina and spoke like a princess.

“H– Hi, Jamie,” you quietly greet him. He looks up, his eyebrows drawn together and his lips are puckered in thought. He gives you a small ‘hi,’ and you smile at him. “Are you hurt anywhere?” you ask him, taking his form in again. His cuts and wounds are all bandaged and healed up. You recall the marvel that is the explanation of how he heals so quickly. The super-soldier serum, curated by HYDRA just for Jamie.

“No, Shuri and Helen fixed me up. And now, they’re gonna fix my mind,” he tells you, all while letting out a light-hearted chuckle. You smile again, just to ease the tense a bit. But even you can’t fix it. “I may be back to my old self, but I’m a walking time bomb. I’m dangerous, and I need to heal. For the sake of myself, and others,” he tells you sadly. He looks up at you and he gives you a grin that isn’t his usual happy one.

Yours falls, and his follows. “It’ll only be a year, maybe even a few months. Everyone here is smarter than Tony Stark, they’ll probably figure it out,” he reassures you just like how he used to whenever you got worried. You nod, and it’s just a farce. You’re not sure if you hope he can see through your façade or not. He sighs and looks at the door. The same door that Natasha walked out of just a few mere moments ago.

You don’t look back. You don’t follow his gaze. Why waste your time on something that will hold no meaning in the future, when you have the love of your life in front of you? You tilt your beard and swallow, just the way your mother used to. At least that’s what your father told you. “I love you, Jamie. I’ll always love you, until the end of time,” you whisper to him.

“And— And I love you too, лунный свет.”

It’s 2017, and along with your Winter, they’ve taken James’s love for you.

You don’t blame them. You don’t hate them. They’ve helped James heal, help him be better (even though God has already curated such perfection). The past seven hundred and thirty and then some days have been painful. The past seventeen thousand, five hundred-twenty hours have been slower than ever. It’s not like you’ve been keeping count. No, but Friday has.

The team — the Avengers — don’t allow you to come with them on their trip to Wakanda. You expected it. Ever since Steve and Tony put their differences aside for the sake of the world, you knew you’d be shunned from the team. Wanda, Sam, and Rhodey have tried to be friends with you, but after a debriefing with Tony, they couldn’t even lock eyes with you.

Once again, you don’t blame them.

You stay locked in your room, and you don’t mind it. It’s nice. It is true that people really do look like ants from such a height. You know the glass is bulletproof, but it feels like it’s seconds away from breaking. You love seeing the rain patter against the glass, just like how you love to see the snow melt as soon as it touches the clear surface.

You wonder if they’ve cut his long hair. You love his locks. Strands of brown mixing, the occasional lighter brown strands standing out. You love the length of his hair, too. Reaching just at his shoulders, and even past them. You love the way it tickles your face, especially when he bends down to kiss you.

You love everything about him. You always have, and you always will.

Your room is small. You can’t handle big spaces — Friday tells Tony, and he scoffs. Truthfully, you’re content with anything. He could’ve given you a broom closet to live in, and you wouldn’t complain. But you like small spaces. Big spaces make you feel a bit overwhelmed. Stark Tower has many wonderments to it.

For example — the technology. If you don’t like the scenery of the concrete jungle, you can change it to the view from Tony’s vacation home in the Hamptons. You always did have the wish to travel the world. From the streets of France to the lovely waterfalls in the Philippines. But the thought of being high up in the sky, with the small chance of crashing. It may be one in five million, but you won’t take the risk.

Even air crafts have their faults and flaws. Like having only two or three backup plans, the bathrooms, the limited space, the fact that if you pay extra you get better treatment, and the food options. But everyone looks past these things and they’ve been reduced to small issues that just don’t really matter. As long as the big picture looks perfect, the small details don’t matter.

You wish you could see yourself that way. A beautiful person at first glance. Where your details –– your flaws –– don’t mean anything. Because as long as the big picture is perfect, the details don’t matter. But you’re a detail-oriented person and every single thing matters. Even the little things that nobody will see. If only you could see yourself the way both Jamie and Winter see you. They know you have flaws, like the way you don’t like listening to helpful advice sometimes.

“Ms… Mrs. Barnes?” Friday calls out. You look up to where the voice comes from. Up above you, and a little to the side is a speaker. It’s small, barely noticeable. “Y- Yes, Friday?” you ask her, setting down the old mirror that was once your grandmother’s. It has a few cracks, but they aren’t serious enough to mess with anyone’s reflection.

“The Quinjet with Ms. Maximoff, Mr. Stark, Mr. Wilson, Mr. Rogers, Ms. Romanoff, Mr. Vision, Mr. Rhodes and Mr. Barnes is arriving,” Friday tells you. You swallow thickly — nervously. You may have been preparing all week, but all that effort goes down the drain. Will he act differently? Will he be ecstatic to see you? You ask yourself all these questions, and the answers to them just seem to taunt you.

“Will you be waiting at the entrance for them?” She speaks up after a few beats of silence. You nod before you remember Friday doesn’t have eyes. She can see, but she can’t see. “I will, Friday. Thank you,” you tell her. You set down the mirror with its face on the top of your dresser. You look around and you can just feel as though there is something missing.

Truthfully, you aren’t used to your room. You miss the wooden walls that held scratches from the furniture. You miss the coziness the fireplace emanated. You miss the view of the hills covered in snow. You miss it all. This concrete jungle isn’t made for you — you aren’t made for it. You stand up and with short steps (intentionally short), and the feeling of marble underneath your feet instead of wood works up your nerves even more.

You can hear commotion –– more so people whisper shouting at each other. “God, Rogers, get a grip! You look and sound like an old lady worrying about her grandchildren,” Tony snaps at Steve, before calling out for Friday. “Friday?” he yells, shoving one of his hands into the pocket of his pants. “Yes, Mr. Stark?” she answers back.

“Is the room ready?” he asks her, and the rest of the Avengers take a seat in the living room. “Yes, Mr. Stark. Welcome to the Avengers Compound, Mr. Barnes. If you need any assistance, just call for me.” Friday’s voice is always lovely. She reminds you of an aunt who is always ready to take care of her relatives.

You don’t hear Jamie’s lovely voice and you’re worried. You can see some parts of the living room from your spot in the hallway. “Just try not to kill any innocent people, okay?” Tony sneers, earning a smack on the shoulder from Pepper. Pepper always seemed nice to you, but your encounters with her were usually a bit awkward and short-lived. Steve is ready to throw his shield at Tony and so do the rest of the Avengers who were on the Captain’s side.

“’S fine, Steve. I deserve it anyway,” Bucky whispers loud enough for you to hear. Your heart jumps for joy — your Jamie really is back. You take another step, carefully, of course. “You don’t deserve that… Are you okay, Buck? Do you need to lie down? Drink water? Fresh air?” Steve attacks your Jamie like a mother and you can see why they got along so well in the past.

“I’m fine, Steve. Really. I just want to take a tour of this… this place,” Bucky admits to Steve, and Tony just can’t pass up the chance to roll his eyes. Bucky turns his head around as he takes in the large room. The television was so huge, he feels as though he is at the cinema. He doesn’t turn all the way around, so you must deal with the sight of his back. His clothes are nothing like the clothes he used to wear back in Romania.

He looks like he just attended his own funeral.

“You sure, Buck?” Steve asks him for reassurance. Bucky nods and he thinks about how much he misses his goats. “Alright, but remember to call for Friday if you get lost.” Steve pats Bucky on the shoulder and Tony is the first to walk out of the room, as usual. Pepper follows him, knowing how Tony gets whenever he sees Bucky. “Can I see my room first?” Bucky quietly asks Steve, making sure nobody else hears.

“Of course, Buck. It’s upstairs, is that fine?” Somehow, Steve believes that Bucky has a fear of heights. Though Bucky fell from a great height back in 1940-something, he’s not scared of heights. He’s more terrified of the cold and of trains, especially ones that run between mountains.

“Everything is fine, Steve,” Bucky snaps, growing tired of his best friend’s constant worrying. Steve raises his hands in surrender and you can tell Bucky doesn’t like that. “Hi, Jamie,” you greet quietly. You immediately regret ever leaving your room as everyone whips their heads around to face you. Bucky’s lips fall open in a gasp.

“Doll,” Bucky whispers beneath his breath. You take in his face and he’s just as beautiful as ever, if not more. Wisps of his hair fall and frame his face. He has a slight five-day-old scruff, one that is clean but also slightly messy. You remember the way you would sit in his lap, razor in hand, as you clean up the edges of Bucky’s beard.

He pushes past Sam, past Wanda, past everyone — hell, even past Steve who doesn't take the shove lightly. He nearly trips over the white couch that stands in the way. He comes up close to you, and you look up at him. You watch his eyes — but you don’t look into them. For some reason, you can’t seem to lock eyes with him. “Oh, my doll… I’ve missed you so much,” he whispers softly as he cups your face with his murder-scarred hands.

“Jamie…” You easily mimic his look of shock with a mix of adoration. You’re not sure how you ever said goodbye to the man in front of you — no, the man he used to be.

Now, he’s different. He’s not your Winter, your Winter is gone. They’ve taken him from you, and if it weren’t for the circumstances, then you would’ve fought them until the last tooth and nail. “I’m back, Doll, and ‘m all yours,” he whispers, bringing your face forward to his. You close your eyes and you think he’s going in for a kiss, but he stops when his lips are inches from yours.

“But I need to get better first, Doll. I need to get used to everything, is that all right?” He asks even though he should already know the answer. Right? You don’t know what they did to your Jamie. The rushed explanation filled with words you don’t understand only left you a confused mess. “Of course, Jamie. ‘Until the end of time,’ remember?” You whisper back.

He keeps quiet.

It’s still 2018, and you’re at an impasse.

You loathe impasses. You may persevere every now and then, but impasses just seem to love you. The saying, “you attract what you fear,” is terrifyingly true. You’re scared of impasses. You know they love to knock you down and kick you until you’re sputtering with blood leaking from the corners of your mouth that rarely ever turn up anymore. But they still occur.

It’s been a year and five months since Bucky came home, and each passing day has its difficulties. Whether it be nightmares, panic attacks or intrusive thoughts. But you’ve been there with him for every step. When he didn’t want to go to therapy alone, you went with him. When he couldn’t sleep after a rather gruesome nightmare, you told him some childhood stories. It feels like nothing has changed, truly.

But Jamie isn’t Jamie — and you don’t know what to do. “Jamie, do you want anything to eat?” You ask him, holding a plate of pancakes you whipped up once you knew nobody would be in the kitchen area. “Is– are those pancakes?” He asks you, turning around from his desk. You nod and look down at the impressive stack. Dr. Cho told you to make sure Bucky continues to eat. Sitting on the small table next to you – the ottoman – is a cup of steaming hot tea.

It’s not orange pekoe, it’s earl grey, Your father loathed it, saying that it’s meant for the elderly even though he had a head full of greys and aching joints. You’d laugh him off, but then pour him a cup of green tea. “Yes, some of them have blueberries,” you tell him, stretching your full arms out at him. You see that look of contemplation in his eyes again. “Would you like to eat with me?” You ask, knowing how he can get when those thoughts pester him.

“Of course, I’m all but a gentleman,” he jokes, and you give him a smile. “That you are, especially when it comes to the ladies,” you add, and he blushes. Bucky looks down and tries to hide the shy smile from you, and you allow him to do so. It’s not like you haven’t memorized every bit of Jamie, even down to the small things. “Is there any syrup? I’ve been craving sweets all morning.” Bucky grabs the second plate and he almost hesitates in grabbing a few pancakes.

You turn back around to get the tea, knowing that Bucky wouldn’t feel as embarrassed with taking food. “Here’s some tea, you don’t have to drink it, though.” You set the filled China cup on the glass table and the clink it gives lasts for a split second. “Remember when we would buy about three boxes of orange pekoe tea? Even though it wasn’t the best — especially since it was for so cheap — we’d still drink it like it was water,” you reminisce to him out loud as you take a pancake off of the stack.

There’s silence, and you swallow thickly. “It’s okay if you don’t remember, Jamie, I myself forget a lot of memories too,” you quickly reassure him, fanning the flames before they could even start to burn. “No, it’s not okay… I’m sorry,” he apologizes, gripping the specially made fork tightly. He hates it. It makes him feel like some sort of danger. Someone that breaks people and things so easily.

“Don’t be sorry, Jamie, or else I’m going to have to start apologizing for things that aren’t my fault,” you threaten him, and he cracks a smile. “Alright, only because I know you’re going to become annoying.” He grabs the syrup and drowns his pancakes with sticky delightfulness. “Yeah…” Your voice is all but monotonous with a hint of sadness.

He probably thinks you’re already annoying, you follow him around all the time… Do you ever let him do other things? Without you? Like hanging out with friends, healing on his own, cooking his own food… You’re so clingy.

“Shut up.”

You only want me to shut up because you know I’m right.

“What are you doing today?” you suddenly ask him. You haven’t dug into your pancakes yet, so you stare at the food in front of you with a strong glare. “Uh, well I’m not sure,” Bucky admits, and you only then realize how much you’ve held him back. “You should hang out with Sam, or Steve, or maybe even accompany Banner in the lab,” you suggest to him, looking at his plate. It’s nearly clean, with some streaks of syrups and a few occasional crumbs.

“Sam’s busy training with Steve, and I know Banner works best without someone hovering over him like a hawk — well, more so a raven. I’ll probably just hang out with ‘Talia, she’s been of great help with my healing.” Bucky takes the tea from your side and slowly sips it. “‘Talia?” you ask him. The name doesn’t ring a bell, but you’re sure that it’s a nickname. “Natasha, she went through something similar as me, so I’m hoping she can give me some advice,” he clarifies quickly.

“Oh, that’ll be great for you,” you exclaim to him. “I know… You don’t mind, do you?” he asks with one of his eyebrows raised. He’s never done that before. “Never. Go enjoy yourself, Jamie,” you urge in a soft voice, looking at him from the brim of his teacup. The sight reminds you of when you first moved away from the city.

The sun was rising in the distance. A few clouds shrewd over the lovely sight, but the yellows and oranges were stronger than the greys. From over the horizon, the sun made its way up to the sky. You watched from the porch with a blanket wrapped around your body. You miss those simpler days.

The ones where the only problems you had were the cold weather and the homework your father had given you. Sheets of paper sat on the table in the living room, with your multiplication tables written on them. Your sevens and eights always messed you up, but your father knew you could do it.

“Do you have any plans for today?” He questions, staring into the half-full cup. “I might go to that huge library Tony has, one of the agents was saying they have these seats called ‘bean bags,’ isn’t that funny?” You let out a harmless giggle, one of those small ones a protagonist would have that would make their love interest swoon. “I’ve sat on one. Not very nice. Natasha and I are the only ones on the team who hates them,” Bucky says as his tongue pokes the inside of his cheek.

The other day, you caught him with a mouthful of blood. It wasn’t from a punch in the face or a knife in the guts.

“Oh, maybe I’ll join you two,” you playfully tell him, wiggling your eyebrows to the best of your abilities. Bucky just stares at you, a small glint of humour in his eyes but it slowly disappears and your smile goes away along with it. “Hm.” He downs the rest of his tea and you wonder how he isn’t wincing with pain from the heat. Oh, right, he’s a super-soldier.

Bucky begins to stand up and moves to take the dishes to the kitchen but you quickly stop him. “It’s alright, I can take it,” you reassure him. Without realizing it, your hand strokes the wrist of his bionic arm. You look up at him and smile, instinctively giving him that look you used to give Winter. Bucky hesitatingly shrinks away from you, and your smile drops. Nononono– Too much…

He smiles and walks out the door, not even sparing you one of those lovely second glances. Sighing, you settle the plates upon each other and the tension leaves the room behind him. You’re careful to avoid the syrup on one of the plates. The feeling of stickiness against your dry, cold hands will be unpleasant.

The thought of it has you shivering. A small electric shock climbs up your spine and you’re glad that nobody is there to watch you shake it off. You carefully pluck the fork from Bucky’s plate and place it next to yours. “Hey, Friday?” you call out into the empty room. “Yes, Mrs. Barnes?” she answers, ready to be at your service.

“What books are there in the library?”

It’s been around 92 days since Jamie told you about him and Natasha, and you can feel reality slip through your fingers.

Bubbles of giggle erupt from the common room. Never in your life would you ever have called a living room the common room, but words always seem to stick. Just like the syrup on these plates that just don’t seem to go away. You don’t mind cleaning up after the heroes. You’re glad.

You have something to occupy yourself with, or else there’d be holes in the floor for your incessant pacing. You run semi-lukewarm water over the plates, hoping the dried syrup would melt. You recall the way your father would terrify you into loathing sweets. He’d show you the way syrup would ‘harden underwater’, and he’d tell you that’s what occurs in your blood.

It’s too bad that a few days later, you learned that blood is thicker than water and the world is filled with nothing but lies. It’s scary, really; trusting someone with your whole life while they toy you around like seeing you be oblivious is a pass time.

Your hands warm up under the water and suddenly you wish you hadn’t left your bed this morning. “Bucky, stop, my face is all red,” Natasha demands through her laughs, and James snorts. “So? I like seeing you red, it’s my favourite colour,” he retorts and Natasha rolls her eyes.

You can’t see the playful, friendly banter, but you can hear it. It makes you smile. You love knowing Jamie is having fun, he deserves it. “Hey, you,” Sam greets, walking into the kitchen. “H- hi, do you need anything?” you ask him, halting your movements.

“No, just got done training those new recruits and I’m already fed up,” he complains and you giggle. You know Sam is being light-hearted, so you don’t take his words too heavily. “Well, a busy man like you needs a big breakfast. There are some pancakes over there, help yourself.”

You wait until he busies himself so that you can continue to wash this plate. You look at it — it’s covered in a mix of suds, syrup and water. You notice there’s a small chip on the edge of the plate and you can’t help but wonder where the piece went. If it were a piece of clothing, you would accuse the washing machine. But it isn’t, so you suppose it just went missing.

You place the plate back in the sink and sigh, before grabbing a sponge. The colours always confuse you. How can two contrasting colours go so well together? It’s beyond you, truly. Maybe your grandmother would’ve known, she always did know a little bit about everything.

Maybe she’d know what’s wrong with you.

You don’t say anything, knowing that you might weird Sam out. You roughly scrub the syrup off and it’s a bit too joyful to see it all gone. “Hey, Sammie,” Natasha chirps, patting her fellow teammate on the shoulder. You halt your movements. “Hey, Nat. Are you doing anything today?” Sam asks her, his eyes following her.

“Other than hanging out with Bucky, no, not really.” She tells him. She stands right next to you, a little too close for your personal liking. She opens up the cupboard and you continue to wash the dishes. You ask yourself if she’s watching you, or if she’s judging you.

Looking up, you accidentally make eye contact with her. You quickly look away and you’re not sure if she does the same. “‘Scuse me,” she whispers, stretching over to the cupboard on the other side. You stare straight at the sink, but your eyes fail to miss the locket that hangs from her neck. It’s slightly opened, and it’s absolutely gorgeous. The gold is slightly aged, perhaps a gift from when she was younger. Or maybe she got it recently, and a battle in the fields damaged it slightly.

On the outside of the locket is an engraving. You squint your eyes to read it, as the shaking from her movements messes up the text. “Until the end of time…” You read in your mind, and you drop the plate in the sink. Everyone in the room flinches and Natasha steps away. Sam stops eating and you’re utterly embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” you quickly apologize, picking up the plate. It’s not broken at all, but you still feel so guilty.

Natasha looks at you for a brief moment and you look back at her. She darts her eyes to your still hands. If she focuses just a bit more, she could see the way they shake. You look at the locket one more time, trying to see the inside of it. You need to know who’s a photograph she cherishes. You need to know who she cherishes in her heart, until the end of time.

The black and white photo of Jamie moments before he was shipped out reveals itself, and your heart drops.

“Friday?” you call out, setting your book down onto the bed. You place your makeshift bookmark –– a polaroid of Bucky — into the page. “Yes, Mrs. Barnes?” she answers. “Isn’t it a good thing that Jamie is socializing with his teammates?” you ask her, sounding like a worried mother. “It is. It’s just what the doctor prescribed,” she jokes, adding a mechanical laugh to her words. “Well, more so his psychiatrist. Dr. Cho is the doctor he gets his medication from. And his psychiatrist suggested socializing,” she clarifies.

You wonder if she’s against the joke mechanism Tony added to her system.

You laugh, just to ease the tension but it doesn’t do anything since she’s an A.I and you’re the only person in the room. “Thank you for laughing, Mrs. Barnes,” she graciously says as much as she can. “If it’s a good thing, then why do I feel so…?” You trail off because you don’t know any words to describe the emotion you’re feeling. “Anxious?” she completes, and you sigh. “Yes, anxious,” you admit.

“The other day, I was washing the dishes. I could hear James and Natasha laughing. Jamie’s laugh was music to my ears. It was like that song you hear on the radio occasionally, you know? But he doesn’t laugh like that with me, he doesn’t laugh like that with anyone else,” you solemnly tell her. “He spends so much time with Natasha — and usually I wouldn’t mind, I wouldn’t even bat an eye — but it just makes me anxious, Friday.”

Your voice is filled with concern, and Friday herself has never heard you so worried. “She… She had a locket. It was gold and heart-shaped. It had a very special phrase engraved on it, and the picture inside is Jamie.” You swallow thickly as even you can’t fathom the words that are falling past your lips. “I held back from telling you this, but Ms. Romanoff and Mr. Barnes had a past together,” Friday admits.

“Pardon?” you ask incredulously. “Back in Hydra, Mr. Barnes trained Ms. Romanoff. They had secret romantic rendezvous and were in love. Then, when the Red Room and Hydra found out, they were separated,” Friday tells you. “It’s probably why they’re so close, Mrs. Barnes. She’s his most recent relationship before you,” Friday reasons to you. It makes sense, it makes so much sense. “Should I be worried, Friday?” you ask her, smoothing your hands over the sheets that you lay atop of.

“No, Mrs. Barnes. Would you like to know why?” she asks you. “Yes, please,” you whisper, looking down at your hands. They’re sweaty, yet so cold. “Because that was in the past, Mrs. Barnes. Mr. Barnes is in love with you, he’ll love you until the end of time,” Friday sweetly tells you. You smile and then dip your head. Bucky loves you just as much as you love him.

It’s been a month since the talk you and Friday had, and you’re starting to doubt her words.

You lie awake in your bed. Caffeine-provided adrenaline pumps through your veins. This isn’t the first time you’ve stared up at the ceilings since you’ve arrived. Ever since Sam made you a cup of coffee from the new machine Stark bought, the bags under your eyes have gotten worse. You warned Bucky about it and he laughed. Just not as hard as you wanted him to. At least he heeded your advice.

Bucky lays asleep next to you. He lays on his right side, even though laying on his left side would make more sense. Bucky always gets better sleep when he lays on his left. You crack your knuckles quietly, even though you can’t wake him up. He used to be such a light sleeper, only because of the vivid nightmares he would get. You hate when he would get his nightmares. The terrifying images that taunt him would always cause him to have a panic attack.

It’s been over a few months since his last nightmare.

You want to turn on your side so badly–– and you can. But your mind can’t help but make you wonder if he’ll wake up. You look to your side when you hear a snore escaping Bucky’s mouth. You let out a coo, even though you used to think snoring was annoying. Your father’s snores would always bother you. You used to joke and say that one night, he’ll wake the sun up.

You gently turn on your left side and a small part of you hopes he’ll do the same. Maybe then you’ll get some warm cuddles to make your sleep. You shut your eyes because the city lights are far too bright at night. The sheer curtains obviously can’t hide New York’s bustling and liveliness. You slow your breathing down and relax your body. Hopefully, sleep can come to you soon.

Next to you lies Bucky. He’s quite literally in dreamland and he doesn’t want to ever wake up. Everything is so realistic, almost as though he’s living another life when his eyes are closed. He has a smile on his face, one that can charm almost anyone. The last time he had a dream like this wasn’t back in the forties — no. It was last night, and now sleeping is a lot better for Bucky.

Natasha giggles, loudly. It’s a cacophony of different sounds. It’s not fake, like the ones you hear on television. It’s real. It’s so vividly real that it makes his heart swell loudly. He looks to her first, making sure she’s enjoying herself before facing the judging stares from Tony and Rhodey.

His hand is intertwined with hers. He rubs his thumb on her skin and he knows what’s running through her mind. She shoots him a look, one that he chooses to ignore. He gives her a smirk and then brings her hand up to his face. He closes his eyes and presses a kiss on the diamond ring she wears.

The scenery changes.

It’s some time in 1992, and he’s holding onto her tightly. She’s asleep, with her locks of auburn hair spread out against the floor. She lays on his chest, and he makes sure she’s comfortable enough with him. Sure, his spine may ache and his under-eye bags may have deepened but he doesn't care.

“Natalia?” he whispers, checking to see if she’s asleep.

She’s knocked out cold and he’s glad. After what he just put her through, he doesn’t blame her. Hours upon hours of what they both like to call ‘training’ has her sleeping like a baby. He chuckles, and he hopes the rumbles in his chest don’t wake her up.

“Hi, Winter,” she hums, rousing from her sleep.

He curses and she giggles. Natalia rubs the tiredness from her eyes and she stretches as much as her body allows her to. “How long until they come?” she asks him. He looks to the make-shift alarm he stole from a mission and sees an hour marked on it. “One hour, Natalia,” he says.

She hums in delight. “Do you think this one hour will take a while? Or will it go by as fast as light?” she questions. Her accent is heavy, but it’s so beautiful. “Fast. Time well-spent goes by fast,” he tells her. “And how do you know this will be time well-spent?” she looks up at him.

“Time spent with you, is always time well-spent, Natalia.”

You hold your breath. Bucky mumbles sweet nothings to Natalia — Natasha. You want to cry so badly but then again, you don’t want to wake Jamie up from his dark paradise. You try to tell yourself it’s just a dream, that everything will be okay and that there’s nothing to be worried about. But even your thoughts fail to reassure you about the man lying next to you. You don’t know whether you should wake him up, so you bite down on your bottom lip and hope that this whole thing is just a dream.

“Did you sleep well, Jamie?” you ask him, folding his laundry for him. He looks up from the book he’s buried in and nods. “Amazingly, I’m so glad I can finally get some shut-eye now,” he tells you. You hum and Bucky looks at you. “Is everything alright?” he asks. “Yeah. Just peachy,” you say. He mumbles a quick okay and goes back to reading his book.

Jamie has a wonderful attention span, so there’s no reason for him to be stuck on the same page for around ten minutes. You have an idea as to what’s on his mind. Well, more so who. Natasha. “Any weird dreams?” you ask him after a few seconds. This time, you’re pairing up Bucky’s socks. “N– No, I don’t think I dreamt of anything.” He lies through his teeth and you know this because he has a tell.

Whenever he lies, he stares out into the distance. It’s usually to your right, but that doesn’t matter.

“But that’s good, right? No more nightmares.” You hold a pendant in your hand and it’s not yours because you broke your necklace a few days ago.

“That’s true,” he dryly agrees. It has the letter ‘N’ written on it. It seems like it’s new, unlike Natasha’s locket. You place it on the dresser softly. “You know, everything has a meaning. Nightmares, dreams, even dreamless nights,” you start. “I know, some are worse than others, though,” he follows. “Sometimes, nightmares mean change,” you continue.

He nods, but you don’t see it. “When you dream, it might be that you have some wishes or conflicts that have been suppressed,” you sweetly tell him. Bucky looks at you, but your back faces him. “And even not dreaming means something. When you don’t dream, it might mean that your mind is free of all the bad things,” you roughly shut the filled up drawer and Bucky squeezes his eyes shut at the loud sound.

“Sorry…” you sheepishly apologize. “S’ alright,” he smiles. “Well, my burning question relates to that, I guess,” you admit. He raises an eyebrow and you turn around. Your fingers tap against the oak wood of the dresser. Sweat that has built up for the past morning or so leaving an imprint of your fingers on the wood. “Do… Do you remember when you used to call me ‘moonlight’?” you ask nervously.

Bucky pauses whenever small movements he was making and you make direct eye contact with him. You look away immediately, though. “A– As a nickname?” he asks. “Yeah… You’d say it in Russian. There was beautiful reasoning and meaning behind it…” you explain to him. Your voice carries more hope than anything. He stays silent and you shakily exhale.

You know exactly how to pronounce it. “лунный свет.” You look up at him. “I… What was the meaning?” he asks. “I– I have it written down. Just wait, don’t go.” You move towards the bed and reach underneath your mattress. Your father would always hide things like that. Sometimes, you’d catch him placing your works of finger-painting underneath the bed.

You lift it and retrieve your little notebooks. It’s not much, but it’s something. You flip to the page that you wrote on two years ago. You smile once you reach it and turn back around. Jamie hasn’t left. “This page. I wrote it down when you left to go to the market. I remembered each word and I still do,” you cheerfully tell him. He smiles up at you and you hand him the book.

You’re just like moonlight. You’re wise, the brightest of them all. No matter how small you make yourself, you always manage to make everyone marvel at your beauty. You’re mysterious, always a surprise, but only for some. Your aura– your brightness, it never ceases to amaze people. It helps me through the darkest times. The world needs you, I need you.

The words are beautifully written. They’re traced over in black pen and even have little stars scribbled around them. “I said this?” he asks, in an almost incredulous tone. “Yeah, word for word,” you assure him. “This is really sweet, and I probably said this, but I don’t remember calling you moonlight, Doll. I’m sorry…” He sadly admits to you. Your heart drops, but it’s alright. He may not remember it, but you do. Maybe one day he will.

“It’s okay, don’t apologize,” you tell him in a sad tone. You take the notebook back from him and place it underneath the mattress. Jamie watches you as you do so. “Are you sure?” he asks on more time, just to be sure. “I’m sure. Dr. Cho and the others said this is normal, Jamie,” you assure him. “Alright.”

Everything is alright. Everything was alright. Everything will be alright.

You carry the laundry basket against your waist and you can’t lie and say you didn’t just bury your hands between the clothes as soon as they came out of the dryer. The common room is mostly empty. Wanda and Clint are out on a mission. Tony, Rhodey and Pepper are on a trip. Steve and Sam are training recruits. Vision and Bruce are in Dr. Cho’s lab. You assume Natasha is in her room and James is in yours.

But even assumptions can be wrong.

You hear that laugh that’s as soft as summer’s rain — Natasha’s laugh. It’s beautiful, just like her. But you can’t compare her beauty to anything, it’s beyond that. You walk up to the room where you can hear her, and pear through the small crevice the door has. She looks at Bucky with those emerald green eyes of hers. In them is absolute love and adoration.

“лунный свет, you look so pretty when you laugh,” Bucky tells her. She smiles and blushes, before giggling again. “You’re too sweet, Buck,” she whispers. Bucky grabs a hold of her hand, and his thumb rubs against her ivory skin. “Can never be too sweet when it comes to you, лунный свет,” he counters.

Your heart cracks, especially at the seams.

It’s been a week since Jamie called Natasha “лунный свет,” and you’re determined to get him back.

She must know she can have anyone she wants, but you can never love again. Not without him. That’s why you’re wearing a dress you borrowed from Wanda. You bite your red-stained nails nervously. It’s an improvement since your last date night with Jamie. Last time, you both shared a box of macarons that he stole from the grocery store. Underneath the moonlight, he once again professed his love for you. But this time, he gave you his dog tags to wear.

You have them on. They clink with your each and every movement but you don’t mind the sound at all. You spread a blanket onto the wooden floor. It has some similarities to the two sleeping bags you used back then. They were similar colours and took up the same amount of space. You throw some pillows on top, arranging them in a circle. The record player in the corner plays “‘Till the End of Time” by Perry Como.

You hum along to the melody of the song. You remember when Jamie said it was one of his favourites. You jumped in joy because it’s also one of your favourites. You carefully light the candles that are scattered around the room. Friday is already on alert in case one of the flames gets a little too big. You open the box of macarons and place them inside the little circle you have going on.

You set down other food items — such as croissants and a charcuterie board. It was all for cheap, mostly due to the bargaining you did with the old lady at the store. As soon as you dropped the words “date night’, she immediately went with whatever you had to offer. You turn back around and try to search for the scrapbook you have been making for the past two years. You always saved it for something, but that something doesn’t seem to be in your future.

“Where are you, little book?” you ask out loud. Your voice is in a sing-song melody, just like how your father would have his. You search around the dresser. You check in the drawers and the jewelry box but you can’t seem to find it. You decide to check the desk, because if it’s not here then it has to be there. You scan the top of the desk but don't find anything.

Carefully, you grasp the golden handle of one of the drawers and pull it open. The drawer glides easily, and if your father were here, he would’ve marvelled. You don’t find it, so you lift some stray sheets of paper. “Please be here…” You beg out loud. But it doesn’t turn up, and you pout like a little child. You drop the sheets of paper, but something grazes against your finger.

If you weren’t so out of it, you’d probably squeal in fear. Twine that’s pulled at the ends tickles you and you giggle. Your eyes follow to where it comes from, and you find a sealed envelope. You frown out of pure, ingenue curiosity. You pick it up and spin it around in your hands. It’s a beige envelope, one of the many you gifted Bucky on Valentine’s Day.

The twine wraps around it with no useful purpose. Only for the aesthetics. On the back has your name, written in cursive scrawl that belongs to one James Buchanan Barnes. You turn it back around, and carefully open it. Your father taught you that there’s a specific trick for opening envelopes. It was one of the many secrets your family had. And by family, you mean Jamie, your father and your grandmother.

It may not be much, but it’s more than enough.

Inside is a letter. More of Jamie’s handwriting fills your view and you don’t mind it at all. You pull the letter out and unfold it. You start to read it, only taking in the way his handwriting looks. You sit down on his chair and your eyes take in each word.

Dear лунный свет,

I’m sorry. From the bottom of my heart, I’m sorry. You can hate me, you can be disgusted with me. You can do whatever you want. But promise me, you won’t let what I’m about to say hurt you. I’m in love with Natasha. I’ve fallen out of love with you and listen, it’s not your fault. How can it be your fault? You’re perfect. Absolutely perfect.

But I’m in love with Natasha. I have been for the past year or so. When I saw her again two years ago, something inside me happened. I got butterflies, as stupid as it sounds. She’s everything I want, everything I need. We go way back, and she knows me like the back of her hand. I’m sorry, лунный свет. I am so fucking sorry. I know writing this letter isn’t the best way to do this, but I feel the need to do so.

Love,

James Buchanan Barnes.

You can die right here, right now. You wonder if this is some kind of sick joke Bucky is playing on you, but after sitting there for a few more minutes, you realize it isn’t. Suddenly, the candles burning around you are pointless and so is your entire being of existence. You sit there, stupefied and filled with hurt. You let the letter fall into your lap and slip down to the floor, where it meets the wood with no sound.

The record scratches but you don’t even wince. Now, the voice of Perry Como is all warped and haunted. You hate it. You hate everything. You shut your eyes and sigh quite loudly. She took Jamie from you ��� your Jamie. Your throat tightens up and you feel like time slows down. You break down, the dam crashing down as the water flows at high pressure. It’s all so much at once. Tears leak from your eyes and drip down to the desk.

You hang your head, almost in shame.

Why are you crying? This was bound to happen.

“Can you just shut up for once?” you cry out.

“Mrs. Barnes, is everything alright?” Friday asks. “Yes, Friday. Do you mind leaving me alone, please?” you politely request. Your voice nearly cracks from the tears. “Of course, Mrs. Barnes,” she says, before dinging away. Mrs. Barnes… You’re not Mrs. Barnes, were you ever? She was always Mrs. Barnes, and she always will be. You let out a choked cough, one that uses all the strength in your body that isn’t destined for your crying.

You look down to the opened drawer and then to the letter on the floor. A groan escapes past your lips. It’s one of pure hurt and pain. You can feel your heart shattering into pieces. Each shard cuts your insides and you struggle to calmly breathe. You grab a sheet of paper from the drawer and pluck the pen that lies on the desk. You take a deep breath and begin to write your heart out.

Natasha,

Please, please don’t do this. I know you may be in love with him (which is the best feeling ever, I know), but please don’t take him just because you can. I also know that nobody can control their feelings. But even love disappears one day, right?

You could have your choice of man, Natasha. But I don’t think I can ever love again. Not without him. If only you could see the way Steve, Sam and Bruce look at you. You can have any of them, so why did you choose Bucky? Why are you taking my Jamie from me?

He dreams about you. He calls your name in his sleep. He calls you moonlight and I’m sure you don’t know the true meaning of it. But if you ask, he’ll probably tell you. This is coming off as rude — I know. It’s not what I want but I want you to ask you one thing only.

Please don’t take him, even though you can.

You scribble your name at the bottom of the page. A tear drops from your eyes and soaks into the paper. You re-read each sentence, and with every word, you hate yourself even more. You throw the pen at the wall, not caring that it breaks at the impact.

You want to send it to her so badly, but your father always told you to never fight fire with fire. Would she even listen to you? Probably not, so why try? Jamie isn’t coming back because Jamie doesn’t love you, he hasn’t for a while. You look away from the letter and to the candles that decorate the room.

You’re so foolish, thinking Jamie could ever love you. He did once, but this isn’t your Jamie. Your Jamie is gone and so is his love for you.

You fold the letter up until you’re satisfied. One end slightly overlaps the other but even the smallest things that would usually bother you doesn’t matter now. Nothing does. You bring the letter to the burning candle and let it light on fire. Along with the paper goes your instinct to fight for the love of your life.

You can never love again. Not without him.

[shadowsinger11]

Could you do Draco for the headcannons please?

I know this is like, super late, but I wrote it! Yay xD

Draco Malfoy NSFW Headcanons

Let's get this straight: despite being a prick™️ most of the time, Draco is an excellent student and an incredibly talented wizard of a sophisticated pureblood family. You can be absolutely certain that his parents make sure to give him the best education available, and even get him a tutor for the summer.

Draco might be full of himself but not without a reason - he's got a reputation to keep and expectations to live up to.

All this said, Draco is educated. This applies to sex education as well. There's no way Narcissa would let him get out of the house without at least learning basic biology from a teacher.

Here's the thing - Draco knows far more than the simple basics.

Yes, he's learned the biology. But he's enthusiastic to know more because he's fascinated by human anatomy, especially the female anatomy.

This is not said to make him look creepy in any way, or to make it seem as if he only cares about the sexual aspect of things. Draco is genuinely mindblown by how many changes women go through, their struggles and how well they manage to live their daily life despite of them.

The boy is amazed to know how many things a woman's body can endure and do, it honestly just makes him adore women even more.

So it's no surprise that, even during his first time, Draco knows how to be a proper lover.

This doesn't mean it doesn't take him time to get to know his partner's body, but his knowledge makes it way easier for him.

Draco does a great job at helping his lover warm up to him, asking thoughtful questions and wanting to get helpful feedback as to get more skilled.

Boy, is Draco gentle.

He really is so extremely tender and loving.

The way his fingers slowly ghost over your bare skin enough to give you chills, clearly shows how much he adores you.

He always makes sure you're 100% alright with everything he does and he's very observant; he's able to pick up on small details and cues to let him know if you're enjoying something or if you need him to stop before actually telling him to.

Draco is overwhelmed by immense happiness and gratitude when he first sees you naked because he truly feels privileged to be the man to see you in such a vulnerable state.

"Holy Salazar, she's actually trusting me enough to be undressed in front of me? She's letting me see her and touch her? I'm so undeserving ot this..."

When he first hears you moan, he's shook to the core.

It might be a short, barely audible, soft sound, but it makes Draco's heart beat like mad because he cannot possibly believe he's the one eliciting these sweet sounds out of you.

And god, is he eager to hear more of them.

Draco grows more and more confident, determined to make you moan and writhe underneath him.

His soft lips attach to your neck and cover it with slow, wet kisses and occasional nibbles which cause you to jump in his arms. Draco isn't one to roughly bite the sensitive skin or paint it with marks; he wants to treat his lady with care.

This boy loves giving oral, let's get this out of the question.

The fact that he can pleasure you with his tongue while also getting enjoyment out of tasting you and having you tremble helplessly? Amazing.

This is something he's genuinely happy to do, most of the time without you having to ask for it.

He simply spreads your legs and gives you that needy, thirsty look before diving in. His tongue starts with long, wide licks, eagerly spreading your wetness all over your core. Your satisfied sighs and gasp cause Draco to hold your thighs tighter and moan at your scent and taste, desperate to lap it all up until you're shaking beyond control.

Your fingers find their way through his platinum blonde hair and grip it firmly, encouraging him to keep going. In return Draco holds your legs wide open, locking them in place as his tongue flicks and swirls around your swollen clit.

When he wraps his lips around your clit to suck on it, that is when you lose it. And are you happy to lose that battle, giving into the delicious pleasure that turns you into a panting mess.

That was when Draco found you most beautiful - during and after an orgasm. There was nothing like the sight of you finally letting go. Draco loved seeing you so happy, relaxed and in an euphoric state of pleasure; it filled him with immense joy, pride and love.

Draco's pace would be very sensual and slow, at least slow at first until you asked him to go faster.

It was really important to him to completely indulge in the moment, to feel all of you and let you feel all of him. He didn't wish to rush things, he wanted both of you to enjoy the moment as long as you could.

Draco would spend a lot of time comforting you with sweet words and kissing you; your lips, face, neck, chest, arms, he wants to cover every area with kisses.

His thrusts would be slow, but oh so deep.

His cock is slightly bigger than average, and Draco would make sure to stretch you out and fill you up completely. Every time he reached your cervix, you'd let out a choked moan, nails sinking into his shoulders.

When you two were on your way to building up your climaxes, you'd encourage him to quicken the pace and he'd happily oblige, switching from slowly entering you to slamming into you.

I reckon Draco is a very clean guy and wouldn't want to finish anywhere on you, but he'd happily stuff you with his cum. This wouldn't be a problem since wizard protection is much different and it would allow it.

Nothing else would matter but the sound of skin slapping against skin, your mixed gasps and whimpers, and the heavy scent of sex as you both come hard. Draco would give your thighs a harsh squeeze before spilling his seed into you and effectively keeping it inside.

Draco is truly the most attentive lover and aftercare with him would be literal heaven. He'd be whispering words reassurance, telling you how great you were and chasing away any insecurities you might have. He wouldn't want you to ever, ever doubt his love for you.

Draco is a night owl by nature so he probably wouldn't fall asleep long after you do. If anything, this allows him to admire your peaceful sleeping form. He'd gently tuck fallen strands of hair behind your ear and kiss your slightly parted lips. He would let his finger lovingly trace your neck down towards your arm and then repeat the pattern, smiling at himself for being so unbelievably lucky to have you.

I unintentionally made myself soft and I hate it

Reblog my work if you enjoyed it!

Masterlist

[halfway-happyyy]

She’s My Kind Of Girl

AN: this started as an idea of the lovely @bskarsgardlove92‘s and i kind of just rolled with it! i hope you enjoy, and as always, feedback is welcomed and appreciated! 

synopsis: Alex dresses in drag to attend a costume party with his girl, as one half of Swedish superband, ABBA! Absolute fluff ensues!

“Though you may hail from a long and distinguished line of inexplicably talented thespians, I know you well enough by now to recognize when you're not telling me something.”

Alexander passed a serviette over the front of his mouth and swallowed back a bite of salmon, cocking an eyebrow in amusement. “I beg your pardon?”

She sipped deeply from her glass of chilled wine, and cocked her head to the side, eyeing him. “Don’t play coy with me, Alex. You were on the line with Eija when I came into the kitchen. That glint in your eyes says so much and then nothing at all in equal measure.”

“One could almost say that you know me too well, kid.”

"Almost," She grinned around the delicate rim of her glass. “Now spill it, Skarsgård.”

Alexander leaned back against the oak chair, dangling a long arm over the back of it. “Dad’s seventieth birthday is next month. Eija’s hosting a party back home for him, and she wants us to be there.”

She thought fondly of Alexander’s father often; he had been one of the first faces of his family that she’d had the privilege of meeting when her and Alexander had started taking things a little more seriously. Where her own father figure had been virtually non-existent most of the time, she was blessed to have such a wonderful father-in-law in Stellan. He was such an integral part of their lives that the thought of not returning home to Sweden to celebrate him was almost too much to bear.

“I’ll look into flights tomorrow morning. What kind of get together is it? I would imagine knowing Eija as I do, that she's got something wonderful up her sleeve?”

Alexander's lips curved up into a devilish smirk and he cocked his head to the side.

“She's hosting a costume party.”

There it was…

“God, I can only imagine the ideas that beautiful mind of yours has already dreamed up.”

Alexander tipped the rest of his wine into his mouth, his blue eyes glittering mischievously in the low light from the dining room lamp. “Hm, you know how much dad loves ABBA…”

It was the precise tone of his voice that she reckoned prepared her for what was coming next. “Oh boy,” She giggled under her breath.

“Well, I propose that we go as Björn and Agnetha.”

She mulled the thought of it over in her head, and then an idea swam into her mind's eye that caused a smirk similar to her other half's to tug the edges of her lips skyward. “I'll do it on one condition, my love.”

His eyebrow lifted in intrigue. “I'm all ears.”

“I will do it if I can be the Björn to your Agnetha.”

His laughter- utterly loud and booming, filled every square space of their home with a warm and joyous sound. When it subsided, he leveled his gaze with hers and she noticed immediately, the blush that had risen to the apples his cheeks. After a moment, he nodded his head finitely. “You've got yourself a deal, kid.”

*

She glanced at the watch face beneath the bell sleeve of her silver, sequined blouse, and sighed heavily. “C'mon dancing queen, we haven’t got all night…” Alexander emerged from the bathroom door a moment later, a blonde, perfectly styled wig fell below the cups of a filled-out bra.

“I must say,” He reached toward her to tousle the brunette wig atop of her head, a smirk in place on his features. “Silver and forest green sequins do wonders for you, kid. Or should I say- Björn.”

“Oh hush,” She giggled. “I can hardly imagine the outfit you’ve conjured up for this evening." They gazed at each other in silence for a moment before she gestured to her vanity. "Shall I do your makeup?”

Alexander shifted from foot to foot. “If you wouldn't mind,” He murmured.

She stood on tiptoes to twirl strands of blonde hair around her finger. “It would be an honour, Agnetha.”

She followed Alexander to the vanity next to their bay window and turned on the lamp so that it illuminated his face perfectly. Pulling up a photo of Agnetha on her phone for reference, she set to work. “She sometimes likes to wear bold colours on her eyes, so that’s the look we’re going for this evening.” She started the process by moisturizing and priming his face, opting out of a foundation, and using a tinted moisturizer instead. “Alright, close your eyes for me, my love.” He did as he was told, and she allowed herself a moment to admire how breathtaking he truly was. After a couple of seconds of searching, she found a palette that was made up of different shades of purple and applied a muted lavender hue over both of his lids. Wanting to go a little darker, she blended a violet shade into his creases and stood back to admire her handiwork. Nearly done, she decided to go dramatic on the eyeliner, but when she reached for her favourite tube of mascara, Alexander faltered.

“I don’t need… falsies?”

She blanched. “Alex, I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed, but your natural eyelashes are beautiful,” She took his face in her hands and gently turned it to the side, gesturing to his left eye. “Look how long and healthy they are. I think I have some cheap lashes lying around somewhere if you really want them, but I think a few coats of mascara will do wonderfully.”

He reached up to press his lips to the underside of her jaw, shaking his head. “No, I trust you.”

She kissed the tip of his nose and got back to work. “You’ve done magnificent so far. I’m just about finished…” She glanced around for her mauve pink lipstick, held a hand beneath his chin and applied the colour to his lips. “Alright, rub your lips together for me please.” She watched him do as she asked. “Now pat them together, as if you were smacking them.” She waited. “Alright, for the finishing touch,” She reached for her bottle of setting spray, told him to close his eyes, and let the mist settle over his face. “You my love, are finished and ready for the evening.

He leaned forward to inspect her handiwork closely, and a large smile grew on his face. “You’ve done a wonderful job, kid.”

She nodded towards the washroom door. “Go on then, Chiquitita. The party awaits.”

“You and your ABBA puns, huh?” Alexander smirked, before closing the door behind him.

“Oh, you ain’t seen nothing yet. Just wait until your brothers get a hold of us.” She snickered. While she waited for Alexander to wrap up, she began lacing up the white platform boots she had found weeks ago. They added an extra four inches to her height, and she fought back a giggle as she sipped the last remnants of her pre-game cocktail.

Ten minutes elapsed, and she began to feel the familiar tug of inebriation deep in her belly. Suddenly, Alexander cleared his throat. “I’m coming out. Are you ready?”

“I’ve literally never been more ready in my life.” She deadpanned.

Alexander emerged from the washroom, and all she could do was gape at his figure as he stood poised in the doorway. Lord knows where, but he had managed to find a hot pink jumpsuit with a silver-sequined trim around the neckline and a heart-shaped cutout that showed off his adorable, trim bellybutton perfectly. He donned glossy, white boots on his feet that only added to his seemingly immense height. “Well, what do you think?” He asked, dubiously.

She swallowed hard. “I have lots of feelings about it actually… but our car is here, and your father awaits.” She held her arm out for him to take. “Shall we go, my beautiful Agnetha?”

Alexander accepted her arm gratefully and bent down to press a kiss to her cheek. “Lead the way, Björn.”

“What are your brothers going as?” She asked, as they slid into the backseat of the sedan.

“Uh, I think Bill and his family said that they were going as Disney characters. Gustaf and Valter are going as Top Gun’s Maverick and Goose, respectively,” He paused so that they could share a laugh at that. “And I’m not sure yet what Sam and his family are doing.”

She scratched contemptuously at the back of her head. “I hate this wig already.”

Alexander snorted into his drink. “But it looks so good on you… the way it kind of frames your face in that ‘the 70’s called and they want their hair back’ kind of way…”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s the heart-shaped bellybutton window for me.”

Alexander guffawed loudly. “Oh really? We're playing that game? Well then, it’s the extra four or five inches that you’re wearing but you still don’t reach past my sternum, for me.”

They rounded the corner to Stellan’s street, and laughter bubbled up out of her mouth like a song. “It’s the fact that you look better than most women I know, for me.” This sent Alexander into such a frenzy that she paid the driver herself. “Alright, Agnetha, I have a dream and it involves you exiting this vehicle tonight,” She nudged his back to get him out of the open car door. “Let's go, girlfriend.” They ambled up the pathway hand-in-hand and stood giggling in front of Stellan’s door. Roaring laughter and bits and pieces of broken Swedish and English conversation could be heard from inside as her finger hovered above the doorbell. “You ready?”

Alexander nodded, finitely. “Go on then,”

She rang the bell and waited for what felt like years, before the door flung open and Eija greeted them in a demure, feline costume. Her face was disbelieving at first, but then her painted-on whiskers twitched; she cracked and laughter roared from her belly in happy waves. When she could speak again, she shook her head gleefully. “Come in, come in you two. What an honour to have one half of the world’s greatest band with us!” She ushered them into Stellan’s lively home, the scent of a freshly-cooked feast hung tantalizing in the air, and made her mouth water hungrily. “Just wait until papa sees you!” She clapped her hands merrily, pulling them into the adjacent living room.

Their entrance caused mass hysteria; pure laugher on a level that was hard to fathom. Gustaf approached them first, a pair of sunglasses sat perched atop his head, and he was sporting a mustache. Clad in a pair of army-green coveralls, the badge on his chest simply read, ‘Gus.’ “I have to say that when Alex first told me what the two of you were planning, this was not what I had in mind…” He scratched absentmindedly at the bridge of his nose, his smile wry. “But you two absolutely knocked it out of the park. Well done, brother.” He belly laughed, and wrapped an arm around Alex’s shoulders, and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I can’t wait until dad sees you.”

Valter appeared before them next, clad in the exact same costume as Gustaf accept that his badge read, ‘Maverick’, and he had on over his blue eyes, a pair of mirrored Rayban aviators. “Mamma Mia, Agnetha! Such lovely bosoms you have!”

A hand appeared out of the abyss and sneaked its way toward Alexander’s ample breasts, but the younger Skarsgård's plan was foiled before he could get there with Alexander slapping it away just in the nick of time. “Touch them and die, Valter.” He beamed, devilishly.

Valter's grin was sheepish. “My apologies Agnetha- Björn.”

She tossed a wink his way. “Turns out she can take care of herself just fine.”

“Alright, alright, where are they?” Stellan’s achingly familiar voice- unmistakable anywhere, boomed throughout the room. When he caught sight of them, he stood stock-still and tilted his head back, his rolling laughter loud and genuine. It caused pleasant goosebumps to rise in waves over her arms, and she couldn’t help but laugh along with him. “This is it,” He announced. “I couldn’t dare to ask for another thing after this. My eldest boy and his love coming in drag as Agnetha and Björn? This is seventy, folks!” He closed the distance between them to wrap them both in a crushing bear hug. When he pulled away, his eyes were glittering brightly beneath the low light of the many lamps scattered around the living room. “How unbelievably wonderful it is to see you both here.” He kissed both of their cheeks over again, his smile wide and utterly contagious. “On a totally unrelated note- that you and Björn here have similar situations happening… ehm, up top, is really quite miraculous, isn’t it?”

Alexander rolled his azure eyes, laughing loudly at that. “Happy birthday, dad.”

“And what a wonderful birthday it turned out to be. Come, come. We have much to discuss.”

The night carried on in much the same fashion; drinks were had (and spilt), laughter was shared, pictures were taken- and all the while, she just felt unimaginably blessed to be a part of it all. Closer towards the evening’s finish, she felt Alexander’s hand tighten around her own, and she knew then, without a shadow of a doubt that this was her family. This was where she belonged.

[thefanficmonster]

You Kill Me

The Curator (The Dark Pictures Anthology) x Reader (Gender Neutral)

Warnings: None

Genre: Fluff, Humor

Summary: Death is something many people fear. Something we wish only upon our greatest enemies. Something that’s inevitable and unpredictable. However, Death himself is faced with a rather interesting person who appears to not be intimidated by him at all. In fact, she’s getting quite a good kick out of being friends with Death.

Requested by @xs1nister Hello hun! Thank you so much for your request, I’m so happy you decided to send it my way! I’m sorry to be posting it so late, I hope the final product will make it worth the wait. Please enjoy! Love, Vy ❤

“What’s up, Grim?“ The Curator winces when a familiar voice echoes throughout the repository, “Or do you prefer Reaper?“

He rolls his eyes, closing the book he’s been reading, “Very funny, Y/N. If I had known it would have this effect I would have never told you who I really am.”

Y/N is unbothered by the older man’s comment as they plop down in a chair opposite him, their eyes shinning and a smile across their face. “Hey, what’s with you being so serious? You gotta let a person celebrate the fact that they’ve gotten the privilege of having more than one run-in with death and are still drawing breath. Who else can say that? Certainly not the people you’ve met before!” they laugh, grabbing a small formatted novel from his desk and flipping it in their hands, examining the cover. 

He rolls his eyes for the second time today, but has nothing to say to them. He wants to scold them about their immature and overly enthusiastic behavior but he can’t. He likes seeing them like this - like themselves. They’re always a happy, bubbly person. They keep life for themself - and for others by being in theirs - interesting. His repository is a lot brighter since they stepped foot in it.

Speaking of that instance...

Y/N had wandered in and had given him this blank stare when their eyes met. He was surprised, to say the least. He could always sense people before they walked in, he always knew who’d be next to meet their fate’s end. They were never brought up on his radar though. He had no idea who they were, which was unusual for him. It was his job to know everyone who walked through the doors of his home before they even approached it. This person, however, was a mystery to him.

“How may I help you?“ He had asked them.

“I don’t- I don’t know what I’m doing here. I can’t remember-“ This was an odd occurrence, one he had never faced before.

Y/N was distressed and scared, rightfully so. They were lost in a part of town they had never been in before with no recollection of how they got there or why on Earth they had even taken off in that direction. He prepared them a hot cup of tea while they sat in one of the leather chairs, fidgeting nervously, face as pale as the light seeping in through the window.

“But you do remember everything else about yourself, correct?“ they nodded, “It could be a momentary blackout. Has such a thing happened before?“ they shook their head. “Peculiar.“

His own fate was toying with him, maybe offering him some sort of chance by sending him this human being, one that would clearly surprise him. Maybe to test his work ethic - death meets anyone who steps foot in the repository, no exceptions. The Curator was torn, he has been doing his job for years, putting an end to hundreds of thousands of stories of people throughout the years, had never once had a second thought about it - if the person was sent to him, his duty had to be fulfilled. There was nothing up to him to decide. But looking at Y/N with no intel on who they were, where they came from or why they had come, he felt they didn’t deserve it. He felt they had a lot more to do in life, that this story wasn’t ready for an end yet. Of course, that was breaking all his principles and rules and it was unfair to every person he had connected with their story’s end before, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about that. All he wanted was to spare Y/N.

“Would you...care to stop by sometime? I mean, the books seemed to intrigue you...“ He was hesitant, but God knows he wanted their answer to be ‘yes‘. He has never been a person who leaves mysteries unsolved. And this mystery by the name of Y/N was apparently his to solve.

“I’m a big book lover, so you can count on it.“ They flashed him a bright smile, one they somehow managed to reclaim after such a big shock and moment of absolute fear and confusion, “This time I’ll come on purpose, though.“

And they did, right the following day. And the day after. And the one after that. It became a routine. One he eventually felt the need to break for their sake, despite how big of a vacancy would open in the repository if they stopped coming by. He decided to do so by revealing his truth to them. It didn’t go as planned, to say the least...

“Like, the ACTUAL Death? The Grim Reaper? Or is this a book reference I’m missing?“ Y/N hadn’t bat an eye, they went straight to discussing the matter. Didn’t bother wasting time in silence, trying to comprehend things on their own. Unlike him, they are a team player - a solution to them is a puzzle multiple people need to solve. One thing was for certain, however, his revelation had the complete opposite effect of what he’d hoped for. Fate had pulled its strings once again, working against the plans he had in mind, making them grow even more attached to him now that he was ‘cooler’ - their words, not his. Seeing that they couldn’t be scared away, finally coming to terms with the fact that they had come into his existence to stay, he stopped trying to control their fate. It didn’t make sense, especially not when he couldn’t even control his own.

“You know,“ Y/N starts talking again, snapping him out of his reminiscing, “I started writing again.“ They had been struggling with their creativity for a while and he was a part of their whole journey of retrieving it so hearing these news brought him immense joy, “I started this collection of short poems I’ve called ‘Friends With Death’. What do you think?” They have the audacity to wink at him with this self-pleased smile on their face.

“Oh dear,“ The Curator is once again left with a lack of words as he sighs in slight disappointment, “You can’t be serious.“

They shake their head, “No, no, no. I’m DEADLY serious.“

It’s moments like these that he wishes he never spilled the truth about himself, while also being glad he did. Either way, he’s happy it didn’t drive Y/N away and send them running for the hills. Their jokes may be vexing, but they also get a smile, maybe sometimes even a chuckle from him. Not that he’d ever admit it or show it in front of them, of course.

“You kill me, Y/N.“ He finally breathes out, a small smile on his face - the result of the intense gratitude he feels for having them in his life.

Y/N cracks up, falling into a fit of giggles as they lean back in the chair, arms clutching at their stomach. Hearing and seeing them laugh like this makes surviving dozens of death puns daily well worth it.

[softluci]

moo

[a/n: so i read this imagine by @needyounow-love and they gave mammon the nickname “moo” and it has been living in the penthouse suite of my mind, rent free, ever since i read it, and as a result of that, i wrote this—whatever this is—because i love thinking about the brothers' relationships to each other, especially luci + mammon, so this is gonna be two parts, and, lastly mc is gn, enjoy ^__^]

everyone has an innate need to cause problems on purpose. some make theirs more obvious than others, and others will try to make it seem like they simply don't feel the need to do that. however, even individuals who try to make it seem like they want no part of the excitement that is breeding chaos will do exactly that. they just so happen to be subtle enough in their problem causing that nobody seems to bat an eye—unless, of course, the outcome of their need for trouble is absolutely catastrophic. 

now, lucifer is not someone who takes pride in being able to cause problems with subtlety. really—he isn’t. he does, however, take an immense amount of pride in the fact that, after eons of torment and the like, mammon hasn't managed to find a single person who can get under his skin quite like him—and mammon hasn't managed to find a single person who enjoys it as much either.

the reasoning for this is simple enough: lucifer is a ruthless sadist, lucifer has known him longer than anyone, knows him better than anyone, and when it comes to teasing, has a bigger arsenal to draw from, than anyone. 

fortunately for mammon, lucifer doesn't use their time as children against him because, as amazing as it is to see mammon in an absolute frenzy over a small remark, it also opens up the possibility of mammon returning the favor—and that simply would not do. 

be that as it may, mammon isn't the cunning type, nor is he quick-witted, so the chances of him being able to retaliate in a calm manner, if at all? slim to none. lucifer knew this, and he knew it well, which is exactly why he almost always took his chances—albeit those times were few and far in between. 

however—there are times when an opportunity is presented, and once it's there, he simply has to seize it. otherwise he might have to wait for the next chance, and who knows when that may be, or he'd have to abandon his subtlety, and neither of those options were desirable. 

this time, it was during dinner on the retreat. 

mammon sat across from him, completely absorbed in conversation with mc and a few others. the topic at hand was nicknames, it seemed. mc mentioned a nickname their family calls them, and mammon, in typical mammon fashion, poked fun at them, teasing them about how cute ridiculous it was. 

"oh, what, are you telling me you don't have any nicknames that are equally as embarrassing?" asked mc, arching an eyebrow at him. 

now, lucifer was not eavesdropping. he was not. he wasn't. he was completely engaged in a conversation with diavolo—it just so happened that mammon was right there, and he was never known for his subtlety. and, as the oldest, it was absolutely lucifer's duty to be at least slightly aware of each of his brothers' endeavors, which, of course, included conversations. so, naturally, he couldn't help the way his ears quite literally pricked up—ever so slightly, of course—upon hearing mammon say: 

"i'll do you one better—i don't have any nicknames." 

lucifer has control over most of his expressions, most of the time. however, in that moment, he could not hide the absolute shit-eating grin that crept onto his face. of course, on him, it looked more like he was plotting something absolutely heinous, which he wasn't (oh, but wasn't he, though?). 

diavolo noticed this immediately, completely intrigued by lucifer's change in demeanor. he didn't overlook the way his ears twitched, and he certainly didn't overlook the expression he wore. so, in typical dia fashion, he raised his eyebrows, and he waited. for what, he had no idea, but it was a rarity to see lucifer so very clearly about to cause problems—he had no choice but to wait and see. 

"that really hurt my feelings," said lucifer, voice low in order to avoid the possibility of making mammon suspicious. 

however, diavolo heard it, as he hears everything, and judging by lucifer's tone of voice and his telltale expression, he concluded that lucifer's feelings were, in fact, not hurt. 

even if lucifer didn't sound hurt, there was a slight pang in his chest at how quickly mammon denied having a nickname. he absolutely had a nickname, and it was perfect in every way—lucifer would know, he gave it to him when they were kids. it was an adorable one, too—it was the cutest nickname out of all his brothers, how could mammon say that he didn't even have one? as if it wasn't bad enough that mammon already made him swear not to use it around people, which, by the way, did nothing to help his pride. 

okay, so, maybe lucifer was a little hurt, maybe he was a bit stung, but also, no he wasn't, and leave him alone.

mc was horrified. while they weren’t looking at lucifer, they heard him say something in a ridiculously low tone, they felt the shift in atmosphere, however subtle it may have been, and they just knew lucifer was up to something—no matter how poised he made himself out to be. what lucifer was plotting, they had no idea, as lucifer didn’t seem like the plotting type, but it didn't stop the chill that went up their spine as they tried to relax. surely, lucifer wouldn't do anything heinous right there, right then—right? it wouldn't make any sense. 

neither the prince nor the human (nor anyone at the table, for that matter) were prepared for—

"moo," called lucifer, extending a gloved hand towards his brother, "can you pass me the bread?" 

what they were somehow less prepared for, was for mammon to hand him the basket of bread without missing a beat, going back to his conversation like nothing happened. 

mc blinked. did they hear that right? were they unwell? they must have been unwell. surely—surely, they didn't just hear— 

"anyway, like i was saying, 'the great mammon,' is a nickname, if you think about it," mammon brought their thoughts to a halt.

"first of all, that's a title, second of all, nobody calls you that except for you," said satan, beginning to grin, "and are you sure you don't have a nickname?" 

"how would i be unsure?" mammon looked insulted. affronted, even. "nicknames haven't mattered to me for the longest time, so nobody's been using one for me." 

"okay," satan conceded, voice deceptively light. "you'd know better than anyone." 

yes—right—of course. mc must have been hearing things. they often did. whispers here and there every time they were in the castle, faint footsteps echoing through empty hallways—devildom really had a haunting effect to it, so it was no surprise if they heard a thing or two that—

"moomoo," came lucifer's voice, "the olive oil." 

mammon rolled his eyes, passing him the bottle without a second thought. "you get needier and needier with each passing decade, you know that?" 

lucifer scoffed, baring his teeth in a grin, "you're one to talk, little brother."

mc was having an out of body experience. and not the good kind. 

diavolo was elated. this was one of the few times he'd seen lucifer engage in any form of mischief, and to top it off, mammon hadn't even noticed. usually, a lack of reaction would be disappointing, but diavolo knew exactly what it meant—lucifer used this nickname for mammon when they were kids, definitely, but he never stopped. knowing lucifer, he probably only called mammon "moo" (and apparently "moomoo") while they were alone (or he did so while they were in front of people most relevant to mammon, for the sole purpose of teasing him). dia had no idea lucifer was even capable of teasing this lighthearted. 

it was heartwarming to see that lucifer was capable of being soft towards his brother, even though he was often the opposite—and even though he was only doing it to be cruel. 

not to mention the fact that mammon allowed his nickname to be spoken so freely without any resistance; it was a nice change. for as long as it lasted, anyway. 

while the lack of reaction didn't bother diavolo at all, lucifer was growing impatient. he wanted the usual entertainment that came with teasing mammon, and he wanted it soon. that is to say: now. 

"you know, mammon, i'm very impressed," he started, "you usually get so upset whenever i call you that." 

confusion flickered across mammon's features. a scrunch of the nose, a raise of an eyebrow, a half hearted, half finished sentence, "whenever you call me…" 

and then—and then—the show began.

mammon's eyes widened, pupils shrinking to needlepoints. his lips began to part as his jaw went slack, realization beginning to set in. his expression twisted into indignation, a deep flush creeping up his neck.  

and then came lucifer's favorite part: when mammon tried to speak. 

except for one thing. 

mammon wasn't speaking, which could only mean one (other) thing. he was thinking—which could only mean one (other other) thing: mammon was about to absolutely shit on lucifer's fun.

mammon put up with a lot—a lot—from his brothers, and he never gave as much as he got. of course, he knew he could be a handful or ten at times, but centuries of allowing them to use him as a punching bag for their trauma equated to at least twice as many of the things he's done—and he's done a lot. he could handle the torment. he could handle the bullying. he could even handle the fact that his older brother's sadism seemed to be reserved just for him if it meant that their time after their fall wouldn't be so bad. 

but this? this was crossing a line. nicknames were sacred. they were a privilege in mammon's eyes, which is why he was so quick to deny even having one. of course, he cared about mc and his other brothers more than he would ever dare admit, but it was different with lucifer. they went way, way back—so far back that it would be incomprehensible to mc's mortal mind. it was them before it was anyone else, they had a closer bond being the oldest, it was just a fact of life. 

there were things lucifer knew about mammon that nobody else did—and that included nicknames. mammon had never been certain of anything the way he was certain nobody knew about "moo" or had the privilege of calling him as such—except for lucifer. he could distinctly remember making lucifer promise to stop using it so often once levi was born for the sole fact that he wanted it to stay between the two of them and he wouldn't know how to handle it if his younger siblings knew about such an easily exploitable weakness when he already had, like, twelve. it was supposed to be one of the pillars of their relationship, an inside thing, so to speak—and what did he do? what did his beloved brother do to him, completely unprovoked? he exposed mammon to every valued individual in the realm—valuable to mammon, anyway. 

it was okay, though. it wasn't, at all, but it was. because mammon knew things about lucifer that nobody else did—that included nicknames, and lucifer had a few. and if mammon would make sure of one thing, it would be that lucifer didn't get the fucking satisfaction. 

"mammon—mammon. i don't think he's breathing," mc's voice brought mammon out of his brief, betrayal induced brooding. 

their hands were on his upper arm, shaking him gently. he blinked, curling his fingers around their wrists and placing their hands in their lap. this was the most calm they'd ever seen him, and quite frankly, they were unsettled. 

diavolo was getting into this. clearly it had taken a turn that lucifer wasn't counting on—and that just made it twice as good. it was so rare for lucifer to be caught off guard, diavolo could only do it every so often—lucifer was always expecting his antics. but mammon taking him by surprise? that was something different. that was unheard of. his eyes flitted back and forth between them, not even trying to hide his investment as he chewed his—what was this? mc made it, but the name escaped him. whatever it was, it enhanced his experience tenfold, he'd have to thank them later. 

nobody was prepared for the string of events that happened next, specifically lucifer. unfortunately for him, it seemed as though he miscalculated when taking his chances this time around. 

"moo, are you—" started lucifer, apparently concerned by the mix of emotions staining mammon's face red, but not concerned enough to drop the nickname.

"'ah, i suppose if it means that much to you, i swear,'” started mammon, voice taking an eerily familiar tone, “isn't that what you said, lulu?" 

damn. 

mc was terrified. this was getting really bad—mammon never acted like this, and it was clear from the silence that fell over the table. they hated it. 

diavolo was brimming with excitement, albeit it didn't show. this was all so interesting! it was his first time seeing mammon so serious, and to make things even better, he had an excellent impression of lucifer. who knew? 

[lookbluesoup]

I’ve seen a lot of talk about anti anti culture lately and an emphasis on canceling people who write stories where bad things happen (i.e., rape, molestation, abuse). I’m really interested in facilitating a positive, open space here on my blog. So sharing my personal opinion about this at all is something I thought about for a while, and my hope is that it offers a helpful perspective as well as solidarity to people who use fiction the same way as me.

It’s not directed at anyone in particular or any event in particular. The tl;dr version is – people should always have a choice, they should be allowed to read or choose not to read, they should be allowed to write and share or choose not to write or share. Taking that choice away from people ultimately hurts survivors by making topics taboo and forcing everyone to fit a specific moral narrative for their pain or experiences to be valid.

Trigger Warnings: Rape, abuse, cancel culture, child molestation, depression, suicide, dogmatic religion, homophobia

1. These things DO happen in real life, and yes, they are harmful, and yes, reading about them can be triggering. Fully, completely acknowledge all of these things and have experienced my share of it firsthand.

2. People should be allowed to know before they get invested in a story whether triggers might be present so that they can choose to avoid it if they want to. It is their choice, and responsibility to decide not to read something that is appropriately tagged. (And please, please tag appropriately!)

3. Being interested in reading about dark subjects does not make a person evil. Somewhere between 31-57 percent of women admit to having rape fantasies. (x) That does not mean women want to be raped in real life. It does not mean that half the population of women are perverted degenerates. Reading fiction, like indulging in our fantasies, is a safe place to explore and enjoy sensations, dramas, and experiences we still don’t want in real life.

In less touchy examples - I love reading about gladiator arena battles! I love playing apocalyptic games where monsters jump out of the dark and scare the shit out of me! I do not want gladiator rings or to live in an apocalypse in real life! That doesn’t mean my interest in these stories or games condones them in real life. It doesn’t mean I think it was right that Rome irl forced slaves to fight to the death for entertainment.

4. I grew up in an environment without grey areas. The dogmatic Bible-beating hatemongering kind. Someone was good and did everything right according to my beliefs and worldview, or someone was bad and a direct threat to me. If I did something wrong, I had to punish myself physically and emotionally to make up for not being perfect. I was taught to despise myself. My parents believed there was only one correct way to view any situation - their way. I was petrified of punishment and learned that it wasn’t even worth trying to do better or accommodate someone else’s experiences because I would never measure up and would be condemned for doing something that wasn’t perfect. That is immensely, cripplingly harmful to an individual and to society. Cancel culture does the same thing. It excommunicates people who aren’t pure and allows others to get by with abuse because they are ‘teaching’ or an ‘authority on morality’ – and guess what? Nobody is pure. We are all human, we all make mistakes, and we are all learning. None of us have moral authority.

We cannot build a healthy, inclusive society if we are unsafe. We cannot be safe if we are not allowed to first admit that we ALL make mistakes and have prejudices that we can improve on. So we need to be kind and nonjudgmental whenever we have the chance to be. And we have to accept and respect that what’s fun or helpful or healing for us might be the opposite for someone else, or vice versa. Which is okay if we are respectful of each other’s boundaries and don’t try to force a way of being onto someone else without their consent.

5. With regard to writing, this means that people need to be allowed to explore difficult, even painful topics if they wish to. Even for fun. Even if someone else might not want or need to explore those same topics. That doesn’t make either person inherently evil or wrong. It just means we all have different needs and wants and diversity is normal. 

As a serious example, as someone who was molested by a teenage neighbor as a child, I can guarantee you that the fact these topics were considered so disgusting and taboo by society made it very difficult for me to cope. It was not my fault, and I’ve healed from it, but when it happened I didn’t even understand what was going on, and the guilt and self-blame that followed me for years afterward were almost crippling. So yes – what happened to me in real life was wrong, inexcusable behavior. But censorship did not protect me. First it made me ignorant and vulnerable to manipulation, and then it made me feel dirty, disgusting, and isolated. 

What I needed was a safe avenue to talk about it and the thoughts and sensations it stirred up, in order to heal. I needed to know it was okay to have automatic thoughts – they were a result of fear and trauma or even just being human, not a moral failing on my part. I needed to actually talk about and explore what I had felt openly, and how that related to the rest of my life, before I could move past it and have a healthy view of intimate acts that weren’t soaked in guilt and self-loathing.

I read a book after that happened, set in ancient Rome, where pederasty took place. And the victim was allowed to admit that he’d enjoyed some of what had happened to him while enslaved, and was then assured that even though he didn’t hate everything that he experienced, it didn’t make him to blame, nor his abuser right, and those thoughts/feelings did not define him or his morality. That has been immensely healing to me – but this ‘grey’ exploration of a topic is not compatible with mainstream cancel culture.

Or alternatively, I watched the series 13 Reasons Why. I hated it. It felt like nothing but shock value entertainment and not a respectful management of topics like suicide that were very, VERY real to me. Except for someone else I knew who had also struggled with suicidal thoughts and impulses, 13 Reasons Why was immensely validating. They were glad that a series showed such graphic representation of these events in a way that couldn’t be ignored or brushed over. What had been hurtful to me, was empowering to them.

I believe it is not mine, or anyone else’s place, to decide that a piece of media should be across the board banned because of what it might do. Because while some of us share traumas, we still each have different experiences, needs, and healing processes.

Such strict censorship allows for only victims who meet a certain “standard” to receive care and healing. The rest are left to suffer or are even punished further.

All of us have gone through life with vastly different levels of privilege, opportunity, expectations, etc, which leads to vastly different interpretations of the world, none of which are 100% correct or true.

6. Cancel culture hurts LGBTQ+ rights. I’m neither straight or cis, and I might never have learned that if I hadn’t been able to build friendships outside of my social circle who allowed me to integrate and ask questions without being obligated to agree with them. Where I grew up, there was immense prejudice against gay people. My cousin was disowned and disinherited for coming out. I was sheltered from anyone who might argue for gay rights, and discouraged from looking at or being curious of the deep south’s version of ‘problematic.’ That’s what I was taught – to be uncomfortable toward, judgmental, and condemning. If I had been on tumblr during those years and gotten ‘cancelled’ I would have been even more suspicious and condemning of Others, and even more determined that my way was the only right one. I specifically avoided tumblr social circles because I ‘knew’ they hated ‘people like me.’ It’s not exclusive. This trend where people become even more convinced to pick an opposing side because the Other person is being hateful is one of the first things they teach you in social psychology. 

The kind of intolerance that goes with mobbing people for saying anything they consider problematic at all is the same cruelty that makes me unable to tell my parents I identify as agender or pan. It’s what gets women stoned to death and gays beheaded. It’s not moral. 

What changed my point of view was friendships. One of my friends came out as gay and my world turned upside down because here was someone that didn’t match any of the stereotypes I’d been taught to fear. He wasn’t hateful or condemning of me, he was one of the most thoughtful and peaceful people I knew. That is what started to change things for me, and made it safe for me to explore other ways of thinking and interpretations of scripture. Because I cared about him more than I needed to be right.

7. Nobody is obligated to interact with someone who is being violent or hateful to them. You’re not even obligated to interact with someone you disagree with, if the topic is too painful or you simply don’t want to talk about it. Keep yourselves safe. But within the world of writing, live and let live. If someone posts a story you don’t like, and they’ve tagged it appropriately, please, please consider that your experience is not universal. You have the choice not to read that story. Someone else might need to read it. Let them, and don’t shame them for it. 

[pitiless-achilles-wept]

2020 Can Take My Hair, But Not My Hope

My hair started falling out on election night.

I thought at first it might be the anxiety, that I was literally pulling my hair out with worry over numbers I already knew were not going to be definitive before the night wore into morning but which I stayed up until 3:30am watching anyway. I tweeted rapidly, reassuring my jittery timeline that not only had we all known that the night would bring no results but that we had even expected Trump to lead in key states because of the greater number of mail-in ballots from urban areas that would largely count for Biden. We knew. We all knew. But we were all terrified, flashing back to 2016 and already dreading another four years of living life on high alert, in constant survival mode.

I posted a selfie with a tweet that read, "Could be the last presidential election I vote in (blah blah stage 4 cancer blah blah) and I wish it were better and clearer than this but it's a crucial privilege to have voted. Remember, whatever the outcome, the last thing they can take from you is your hope."

To me that last sentence has been a mantra for these years and for my treatment. I have consistently refused, despite overwhelmingly terrible odds, to lose hope. The story of Pandora's Box tells us that the very last thing left inside was Hope--that even once all the demons were out in the world there was that tiny, feathered creature left to hang on to. It hasn't been easy, but I am one of the most stubborn people you will ever meet (and if you doubt this just ask anyone who's ever fought me on anything!) and it has turned out to be a saving grace rather than an irritating personality trait. Feeling like the world was trying to take my hope away made me angry. And when I get angry I will fight back.

I know I'm not alone in feeling like we entered some kind of alternate nightmare timeline on election night 2016. To that point, despite periods of immense personal difficulty, nothing truly terrible had happened to me. Then, in short order, my marriage ended and I was diagnosed with and began being treated for a terminal illness, all against the backdrop of a regime so deliberately hateful that it was truly incomprehensible to me. Then, a global pandemic and national crisis swept away the small consolations I'd found in my new life with cancer. The temptation to feel hopeless was strong and I struggled with it, particularly in the isolation of quarantine. I'm struggling with it now, facing a winter of further lockdowns, social isolation, continued chemo, and the added indignity (and chilliness!) of not having any hair. But somehow the coincidence of my hair loss with election night seemed like a good omen for the future, if a sad thing for the present.

I heard the news that they had called Pennsylvania for Biden at a peaceful Airbnb in the Catskills after stepping out of a shower where lost hair in handfuls. It felt oddly like a sacrifice I had made personally. I joked about this with friends on the text chains that lit up and that (despite my promise to myself and my writing partner that we'd "go off the grid") I responded to immediately. Instant replies, with emojis and GIFs, participated in the fiction: "Thank you for your service!!!"; "We ALL appreciate your sacrifice!"; "Who among us would NOT give up their hair for no more Trump?". The feeling was real for me, though. It was as though the good news demanded some kind of karmic offering. You never get something for nothing, I thought, and really it was a small price to pay.

The rest of the weekend passed too quickly, with absorption in the novel I plan (madly, given that I also work full-time) to work on for "National Novel Writing Month" (NaNoWriMo), walks in the unseasonably warm woods, and nighttime drinks on the back deck under the stars, watching my hair blow off in fine strands and drift through the sodium porch light. My friend and I read tarot and both our layouts contained The Tower, the card for new beginnings from total annihilation, the moment of destruction in which (as the novel's title says) everything is illuminated. "This might sound dumb," he said, "but maybe yours is about your hair." It did not sound dumb.

[shaved heads, the 2020 election, and a couple pics under the cut]

There is probably no more iconic visual shorthand for cancer than hair loss. It happens because chemo agents target fast-proliferating cells, which tend to inhabit things that grow rapidly by nature (hair, fingernails), or that we need to replenish often (cells in the gut), as well as out-of-control cancer cells. But not all cancer treatments, not even all chemotherapies, cause hair loss. In my 20 months of being treated for cancer and my three previous treatments (four, if you count the surgery I had) nothing had yet affected my hair beyond a bit of thinning. This despite the fact that my first-ever treatment (Taxol) was widely known to cause hair loss for "everyone." I had been fortunate with this particular side effect in a narrow way that I have absolutely not been on a broader scale. "Maybe," I had let myself think, "I can have this one thing." The odds were in my favor too; only 38% of people in clinical trials being treated with Saci lost their hair. I liked the odds of being in the 62% who didn't. But--as we all felt deep in our gut while they counted votes in battleground states--odds aren't everything.

I had come to treat the "strength" of my hair as a kind of relative consolation (though as with everything cancer "strength," "weakness," and the rhetoric of battle have nothing to do with outcomes). I treasured still having it, not just out of vanity (though I have always loved my hair whatever length, style, or color it has been) but because it allowed me to pass among regular people as one of them. I had no visible markers of the illness that is killing me, concealed as first the tumor and then the scars were by my clothing. "You look wonderful," people would tell me, even when I suffered from stress fractures from nothing more than running or sneezing; muscle spasms in my shoulder and nerve death in my fingertips; nausea that I swallowed with swigs from my water bottle that just made me look all the more like a hydration-conscious athlete; and profound, constant, and debilitating fatigue. Invisible illness had its own perils but I would take them--take all of them at once if necessary!--if only I could keep my hair and look normal.

It was not to be. A part of me had known this, since a lifetime with metastatic cancer means a lifetime of treatments a solid proportion of which result in hair loss. But I had hoped. And I had liked the odds.

The hardest thing for me is having to give up this particular consolation before knowing whether or not my new treatment is also working on my cancer. Unfortunately, there really isn't a correlation between side effects like hair loss and effectiveness of treatment. If it is working then I will feel that--like the election to which I felt I had karmically contributed--it was all completely worth it. Yet, even in this best case scenario, there's a new reality for me which is that while I am on this treatment I will stay bald. When you are a chronic patient you hope for a treatment that will work well with manageable side effects. And if this treatment works--and if the other side effects are as ok-ish as they are now--then I will remain on it.

It's that future that I am furious about more than anything else. I want to continue to live my life, of course, but I don't want to have to do it bald! In part that is because I don't want to register to people constantly as an archetypal "cancer patient" when I know that I am so much more. It is also in part because I don't want to think of myself as being ill, and living every day having to disguise my absent hair will make that all the tougher. I have already noticed that I feel, physically, as though I am sicker because of my constantly shedding hair. How could I not, in some ways, when every move I make and every glance at myself (including in endless Zoom windows) shows me this highly visible change?

For that reason, I'm shaving my remaining hair tomorrow (Wednesday). It's a way to feel less disempowered--less like hair loss is happening to me--and wrest control of the situation back. I will try to find agreeable things about it: wigs, scarves, cozy caps, bright lipstick, statement earrings, and a general punk/Mad Max vibe that is appropriate to 2020. But I don't want anyone to think for a second that I find this agreeable, or even acceptable, or that I don't mind. I mind a whole hell of a lot. My hair was my consolation prize, my camouflage, my vanity, my folly, and my battle cry.

I dyed it purple when I was first diagnosed because I knew (or thought I knew) that I would be losing it soon. I didn't, and I came to cherish it as a symbol of my boldness in the face of circumstances trying to oppress me, to make me shrink, to tempt me to become invisible. I refused and used it to "shout" all the louder in response. Because of what it came to mean to me, I'm nearly as sad about losing the purple as I am about losing the hair itself. It both symbolized the weight I was carrying and also that I would not let that weight grind me down. It was my act of resistance and my sign resilience all at once.

I sent a text to my friends, explaining this and offering, as an idea, that I could "pass the purple" to them in some way, small or large. It would feel more like handing off a torch or a weight (or the One Ring) than anyone shaving their head in solidarity. (After all, if they did that it would just remind me as I watched theirs grow back that, in fact, our positions were very different.) You're welcome to do it if you'd like too, internet friends, with temporary or permanent dye or a wig or a headband or one of those terrible 90s hairwraps or whatever. But I don't require that anyone do it because I feel support from you all in myriad ways, all the time. (But if you do, please send me pictures!)

It's November 2020. The election is over and Joe Biden has won. I still have cancer and I'll be bald tomorrow. I hope it's a turning point, both personal and global, because it feels like one. We've given up a lot in the last four years and I cannot say that I feel in any way peaceful or accepting about having to give up yet one more thing. But in losing my hair I absolutely refuse to also give up my hope.

(On our walk we did also seem to find a version of The Tower, all that was left of an abandoned house)

[cosplayswitzerlandaskblog]

Unlike last time Hetalia got a new season, the response has not been particularly positive, and I’m seeing a lot of twisted feelings towards the show and the fandom to a point where it seems long time content creators are stepping away from it. I know anyone still active who follows me either are or were fans of Hetalia, so it should be relevant for all y’all.

As a fan who never fell out of the show, I find the response sad though healthy, and even if I know I ghosted you all on tumblr (sorry) because of time constraints and mental health, I still make the occasional CMVs. Fact is, I do not let go of special interests very easily. It seems a lot of you all started watching the show at 10-14 years old, where I myself was a bit older – 17 – and had grown a bit more. Long story short, my Naruto phase was your Hetalia phase, and no, it’s not pretty. You’re young and stupid and don’t know much critical thinking and make mistakes, and you have to forgive yourself for those mistakes, especially when the content you consume is associated with the real world in a sensitive subject.

But after seeing all these posts explaining all the bad we see from Hetalia, I wanted to make a post explaining what I learned from it – all the good that can come with a show like this if you stay aware of perspective. I am not excusing all the bad that came with it, for WWII is a serious event in history that should never be forgotten nor made fun of, but here goes:

I went from a ‘war-is-cool’ history buff to one who truly delved in and learned the intricacies of history, being fascinated with the ‘hows’ and the ‘whys’ as well as getting an excuse to look at the histories of nations which I’d never otherwise be interested in, and I know a lot of other people in the fandom did the same. This is how history should be known, as that is how we can truly apply it to the real world.

I learned to separate people from their countries. To give an example that’ll hit close to much of tumblr, when I started Hetalia I hated Americans with a passion because of the road “you” had put the world on, and I considered all y’all dumb and bad as a cause of it. Getting that excuse to take an ACTUAL look at how your nation functioned and what communities truly hid behind the borders, I learned instead that your government is corrupt as shit, your society is rigged against you and you have been forced to stand by and watch as chaos happens. It got applied to the world as a whole, where I considered other nations being as dynamic as my own, with people both good and bad, and the actions of the nation is even less of a reflection of the people in the cases of corrupt democracies or dictatorships.

I separated from Colonial world views. I was never actively racist, brought up in a proper home, and already before Hetalia I fiercely protected the rights of Muslims who are often mistreated in my nation and tried to hear them out when possible. But I was a Westerner, and even if the nation I came from had barely participated in invasions, I had learned to consider my culture ‘correct’ and native and African cultures ‘primitive’. While the journey was long, a step wise process of realizing things like there was nothing inherently ethically wrong eating dogs or partially incubated duck eggs, only in how the animals were acquired, that cultural progress is heavily dependent on perspective and that fucking genocide of native peoples still happen in this damn century, Hetalia was the stepping stone which gave me the interest in other nations to expand my world view. I probably ain’t done here – I have a whole life of outside influences to unlearn – but I’m further than most people I know in my near surroundings, and I’ve even managed to move my parents who originally taught me to respect people of all kinds in the first place.

I learned Nazis were people. This is a conversation which often comes up here on tumblr, and the demonization Nazi Germany and its government directly allows actual Nazis and fascists like Richard Spencer a free pass because they look groomed and proper. Until then, I’d simply assumed no one was ‘stupid enough to be a Nazi’ because of the atrocities of WWII and therefore looked at the world naively. Realizing how little true support Nazis had during WWII and similarly anyone could end down that pungent rabbit hole, I became careful of what I excused on social media and allowed myself to doubt seemingly normal people if their behaviour was alarming – such as the police man who is supposed to be a damn ‘hero’ of society.

I learned how to deal with material sensitive to others. A common problem in the fandom has always been the cosplaying and portrayal of Nazis, especially at cons and the like, and in a similar vein – I did blackface once because of Hetalia. The horrible thing about this is that blackface is immensely common in Europe – at least my own country – and blackface frequently happens at schools during ‘international’ events, where whole classrooms are assigned to portray a designated country. A whole of two times – in 6th grade as well as 2nd grade of high school – I was exposed to blackface as my class was given an African nation to portray – Somalia the first time, Kenya the second. No one, adult, teen or child, are aware of the history of race imitation in my country, but by the second time I was supposed to participate in dressing up as an African tribe, I’d understood the issue – thanks to Hetalia. My friend group of white, privileged, European teens discussed what symbolism was appropriate at cons or in videos – could we wear the Iron Cross? The Nazi flag? What if we burned it during the video? These thoughts are not usually a part of the mind of European youth, and I consider that a grave problem which leads to people making fun of ‘triggers’, downplaying racial issues and the like.

It offered me a means to make history personal. The biggest struggle for good history teachers and the reason we are often made to read and write letters from the periods we study is to make it seem real and get a emotional connection to these past, lost peoples. Hetalia offered puppets for me to place into historical contexts to make them truly real – the main driver pushing me away from mere fascination of war, since I suddenly felt the horrors of warfare through the characters that I loved. Things like Elizabeth I’s court, the conquests of Rome, the dissolution of the Kalmar Union, the battlefield of Somme, the invasion of America, damn slavery becomes different when something you already know is a part of it and you can see them in there. Hearing of people of the past should in itself be enough, and for the closest parts of history (WWII and afterwards) it always was for me, but we are human. We cannot understand the size of a billion, and we struggle understanding the lives of those living centuries before us, unless we are offered context.

I’m not blind to the issues of the fandom or the show. I was here for ‘the r*pist, the pervert and the p*dophile’, I know of South Korean and Chinese issues with the show, and I heard the gassing joke in the show’s dub and got nauseous from discomfort and anger. I’ve always been in the fringe of the fandom due to my social disabilities, so I don’t know everything that happened, but I’ve seen many racist OCs and disrespecting of historical sites. It’s not pretty, but I will believe these people, who were likely young, likely learned in time. And I may have been able to learn these things by other means, but not in the same way, and not through personal interest and research that’s helped me become sceptical and analysing of the world around me.

At its core, Hetalia is about watching a normal, nerdy guy learn how to draw, using stereotypic country personifications mainly from the perspective of Japan. It’s natural he chooses Japan, since he’s Japanese, and WWII is unfortunately the automatic historical event for most common people to focus on – but Hetalia doesn’t even solely focus on that, but is an amalgamation of vaguely correct historical situations played out by the characters, and often it is with the intent of comedy rather than the grimness often associated with historical settings which allows a wider audience than merely history nerds.

What I want you all to do is learn from your mistakes and forgive your younger selves for not knowing better. Maybe reflect on what you got from the show, rather than what you lost. A new generation of young Hetalians is likely coming with the new season, and us old timers might be able to help them avoid pitfalls if we stay around to teach them. The best of the show is compassion towards the people of the world combined and love of history, as I believe Hima wanted it – the worst is Nazi apologetics and racial stereotyping. We decide in what direction we take it, and what lessons we bring into the future.

TL;DR: As a lot of media intended for older audiences, Hetalia is a show which has to be watched critically, which makes it dangerous for young people to watch unhinged, but it also opens up for interest in the world beyond the borders you live within. We should be aware of the issues and learn from them, but in and of itself the show has a lot of good to offer in learning compassion for other nations and cultural groups.

[emtalksbooks]

Beyond Education: Radical Studying for Another World by Eli Meyerhoff

Topics: Higher education, history of higher education, community education, organizing and protesting

Rating: 4.5/5 stars

Discussion: Meyerhoff's 2019 book discusses, the failures and shortcomings of the promise of higher education in North America. Slim in size and massive in stature, this book is essential reading for anyone currently in higher ed and sick of it, in any capacity.

Meyerhoff lays bare the failings of the university for everyone -- particularly graduate students, staff, and precariously employed faculty -- but his lessons can be applied to any student struggling against a seemingly impenetrable wall of what we know, in our bones, higher ed is supposed to be. He argues against the narrative of romanticized education -- the education is always a form of love [see an upcoming post on Sarah Jaffe's Work Won't Love You Back for more about this], something to be strived for, achieved, and universally acclaimed.

Education doesn't have to be the box checking, stifling, claustrophobic and cloistered thing that it has become, Frankenstein-like, as federal and state funding plummeted and universities became business-ified in a death spiral of dollars and cents.

By discussing the narrative of "drop outs" as a moral and policy failure, Meyerhoff shows the deeply racist, classist, and sexist underpinnings of how we ("we," here, being people who make our living in higher ed) talk about education. Instead of a romantic model, a model of love, education can be a resistance, a means to greater power in politic and abolition, a celebration of community knowledge, and a non-hierarchical space to create something new. Meyerhoff, it would seem, recognizes the capitalistic and human limits of these endeavors, as shown by his chapter, a sort of self-assessment, of a free university he and his peers attempted to run while in graduate school.

While reading this book, I thought a lot about privilege, access, and resources. Meyerhoff situates himself as someone for whom education was at first romanticized; later, he discusses how the free university model he attempted to run co-opted university spaces and resources to engage with other students and the community. But you have to get in the door to steal from the shelves of the university in this way; the price of admission is astronomical, in terms of either familial wealth or student loans, and only certain people have the access to an undergraduate education, much less masters and doctorate level programs. You have to play the game to a certain extent to even get in those spaces to steal time, resources, money, and spaces to create the "free" university of Meyerhoff's attempts, and I would be interested to see the literal dollar signs it took everyone in the free university space to even be able to access this "free" model. Additionally, access for people with disabilities, people of color, poor people, and people who were otherwise cast aside by the k-12 education system will prevent them from being in these "radical" higher education spaces and graduate programs -- all of which means that "radical" systems in graduate school often take the shape of people, poor for the first time in their lives, are incensed by their chosen lot. Many of the discussions in this book can and should be applied elsewhere in society, to groups of people who did not romanticize their profession, but rather, needed to go into it to survive.

I'm skeptical of any book of education that looks so far into the past as this one does, back to the 1300s in this case, to discuss today's higher education crisis. I believe, of course, that historical perspectives can illuminate our struggle today, but this chapter felt disjointed from the rest of the text, and required a different background and understanding than the very twenty-first century rest of the book -- perhaps I am not the person for this chapter, and that's okay.

I also wonder, at times, what undergirds the romantic view of the university for people who are not Meyerhoff. For me, the university is a place of infinite play -- playing with language, playing with words, playing with ideas. Again, my post on Jaffe's book will expand upon the understanding that play for your boss is still work. But, for those of us who did come into higher education with language, writing, and creation on our minds, the university does, in fact, give us ample place to do so, so long as we are not so enamored that we miss the capitalistic, neoliberal foundation on which it was built.

Can we be romantic without romanticism? That is: Can we love the affordances of higher education, including that I was able to read and write for 6 years, an immense privilege, and know that it was not the place necessarily that did that for us, but rather, the time, the invisible debt or scholarships or family money as "income," the walkability of our campuses, the dining halls that took care of our meals, the mentors, professors, and staff who literally cleaned up after us? Can we see all of this, all at once, holding inside our minds the idea that the university did this and that we don't need the university to do this, if we had truly radical societies in which all our needs were collectively met, so that we could read, and write, and hang out with our friends, and know that breakfast would be waiting for us, hot and ready, in the morning in the dining halls?

Because I think, at the heart of it, the romanticizing of higher ed from those of us still inside of us is about the future -- our whole life's work ahead of us, so brilliant, of course, genius even -- and for people who went to college and then left, what they want is not the university, but to be nineteen again, surrounded by friends, challenged, allowed to fail in spectacular ways without serious consequences. Of course, I am speaking in generalities here, and know that not everyone's college experience was as rose-tinged as my own.

As an instructor, I can (and do) talk a big game about teaching and empathy, teaching radically, radical honesty and care for students, but at the end of the semester, I input grades, mark attendance, and turn my students into so many squares in the learning management system. I do this because I like having a job, and I like keeping it. Someone has to pay the bills. Someone has to make the breakfast. Someone has to take the trash out. Someone has to live in late capitalism.

And at the heart of my frustration with this book, and every single book like it, to no fault of their own, is that individualized solutions to the crisis of higher education simply will not dismantle the underlying issues of access, equity, and surveillance that pervade our students' lived realities. Faculty, too, have a lived reality, of mortgages in increasingly expensive rural college towns, of childcare challenges, of needing dental insurance. The system is so far beyond higher education -- the system of our country, and the world now, so removed from a utopian space -- that any university-utopia would be an aberration, a blip in the fabric of this country. It would not fix it.

Link: To read: Free on Meyerhoff's website.

[severalspoons]

Liveblog: Rewatching Trigun, Episode 20

Surprise, this blog series continues! I have no intention of letting it end at episode 19. (I mean, that’s not even a nice round number!) While these aren’t liveblogs any more, they still give me an opportunity to discuss meta. 

Life lesson learned: once you start a series of anything, do not stop until it’s finished--no matter what other projects come up, no matter how shiny they are, and no matter how much you’re dreading watching episode 23. Since I do my best work when feeling inspired, I hate to wait and let my enthusiasm for the new project cool, but jumping ship only ends in two unfinished projects instead of one.

This is going to be arranged by theme, not so much chronologically. Also, it ended up being more about Wolfwood than originally intended.  Including a spoiler, so be careful.

Millie’s Transmitter

Millie reports that the Chief of Bernadelli gave her a transmitter/tracking device, which must be a rare, valuable piece of technology -- to prevent anyone from outwitting her. Meryl replies that this is nothing to brag about. I disagree.

First of all, the chief cares about her enough to entrust her with this bragworthy technology. She must have earned his trust and good opinion, also an achievement. He could easily punish or fire her, but instead gives her a tool to perform better. Countless people with learning disabilities dream of bosses like this. 

People tend to take a harmful all-or-nothing attitude towards disabilities. Either PWD are incapable of doing things and nothing can be done about it, or they are capable of doing things, and shouldn’t need help. Since people with disabilities themselves live in society, they end up indoctrinated and taking the same attitudes towards themselves. Shame and self-hatred often result. People strive for years, often with therapy, to get to the matter of fact acceptance Millie shows here.

***

Vash in Hell

Everything is red, from the beginning. The sand, himself and his clothes, the sky. Knives comes into view, blurry and mostly in shadow, only one eye visible.  What looks like meteors, probably chunks from the ships, fall through the sky like rain. We’re seeing from Vash’s point of view.

When waking Vash, Knives’ voice is normal, sounding like a real child. It doesn’t change to his growly evil voice until Vash accuses him of being a murderer. Then, his eye loses its pupil, and he suddenly appears to have fangs. He looks like he’s become some sort of monster. Not human, as Vash says.

Knives beats him up for even daring to compare him to a human. What hurts the most about this is you know it’ll be a long time, and probably many more such beatings, before Vash leaves.

Was it ever possible to take care of Knives? Was Rem’s last request reasonable?

Vash announces he’s finally ready to face Knives. What impresses me most: he’s finally making a significant decision for himself.

***

Meet the Folks

How is Vash more attractive in normal clothes than his signature coat, even in scenes showing only his face? Speaking of which, this episode is full of beautiful shots of Vash’s face. Wolfwood’s, too. 

How the hell did Wolfwood get here? He said he was concerned about Vash crying then jumping off a cliff, and followed him. However, he seems to have climbed up from below. How would he have found a floating platform? Certainly, none is visible below him. And since he seems to know nothing about the flying ship, he can’t have taken Vash’s strategy and jumped onto a platform at just the right time. 

“Come meet the folks!” Yes, they actually do have a summer cottage in the sky. Ever wonder why Vash’s head is always in the clouds? ;) 

Wolfwood actually says “I’m getting sick of your lies.” Hypocritical much?

Wolfwood is the first guest Vash has brought “home” in over 20 years (in other words, since he became The Stampede)! 

Does that mean that the whole time Vash has been on the run, he hasn’t visited the SEEDS ship (probably to prevent anyone tracking him from discovering it)? Vash could have simply hid out for the last 20 years in the SEEDS ship; it’s his home, after all. Instead, he chose to go out and protect people from Knives, and each other. (How many of us would have made the same choice?)

***

Inside Legato’s Lair

What does this informant know about Chapel’s duties? From the way Legato dismisses his concerns, it seems like Knives’ followers aren’t given much information about each other.

Wolfwood is now doomed. “You’re such a fool. Had you behaved, you might have lived to see Doomsday. But I’m pleased, for I now have the opportunity to carry out another of my master’s wishes.” 

A surprisingly restrained evil chuckle from Legato. Thank you for sparing us a full-on villain laugh.

How does Legato get shoulder padding that sticks out that far? Each shoulder is almost twice as big as his head.

***

A Series of Awkward Events

The ship has a whole observation team. No one should be able to get up here without the SEEDS leaders knowing, right? Right? ...

The old man tells Brad Vash has changed over the years. How? 

After all this buildup, Brad opens the door, letting in blinding light, and this is what he sees:

The legend acting like an idiot and getting his butt kicked. Very dignified. 

This is Brad’s reaction:

“Is that your great legend?! Huh?!” “What a relief! He hasn’t changed at all.” (A relief? What were they afraid would have happened to him?)

Brad is not amused by Wolfwood’s touchy-feely ways.

“Who’s he?” Vash, looking embarrassed: “I’m not sure.” Fair enough, but not very helpful, and Wolfwood doesn’t elaborate. We already know and love Vash’s embarrassed grin, but I can’t get over Wolfwood’s almost sinister smile in the mirror. 

A cute moment where Vash looks back like, “isn’t my place great?” and Wolfwood just gapes like an idiot. (Close your mouth, my dude. Flies are gonna get in). 

Vash last visited about 20 years ago, and Jessica was a small child then, so she should be about 23 or 24. However, she looks and acts like a teenager. Vash inadvertently becomes part of an unwanted love triangle.

To his credit, Vash tries to put her off, in a joking way (”I have a reputation for being easy but even I need a bit of advance warning”). Wolfwood makes the whole situation worse by teasing Vash about his “girlfriend” in front of a fuming Brad. It’s as if he were going out of his way to antagonize the people on the ship.

When Vash actually has a chance to look at Jessica’s face, he remembers her. Think about that. He may only have met her once, it’s been 20 years, and he still recognizes her and remembers her name. How many other people does he remember from the past ~130 years? This is how he uses his powerful plant brain--Knives would view it as a waste.

Jessica cooks a feast for Vash, which, tragically, he won’t get to enjoy. How did she cook all this food so fast? It’s enough to feed the whole ship.

***

Wolfwood is mistrusted for the wrong reasons

Wolfwood actually takes off his shades and armor of acting like a jerk while introducing himself to Jessica. This is unusually open and vulnerable of him. He actually is trying to behave. But Brad, worried about “a bunch of outsiders” bringing war to their flying paradise, hits him where it hurts.  

...Did I mention Wolfwood has beautiful eyes?

Anyway, everyone gathers around staring at Wolfwood from a distance, while he drops cigarettes on the ground. There’s an entire pile lying at his feet. The whole scene is the definition of passive aggressive. 

What seems to anger Wolfwood is not so much how they treat him personally, but their denial combined with moral superiority. Not to push a metaphor too far, but these folks are able to take the moral high horse because their literal high position keeps them safe. Yet, they use this immense privilege not to help the world below, or to prepare for the ship’s inevitable fall, but to hide in their castle in the sky. It clicks for me that Wolfwood probably feels about running away the way Vash does about suicide (think back to episode 11). 

The SEEDS dwellers do not seem to understand that Wolfwood is both trying to help them and a little resentful of what they have. To them, he is everything they’ve been taught to fear and hate, up here poisoning Paradise for them with his unpleasant ideas. Of course this sort of dynamic never happens in real life.

Also, keep in mind that none of them know anything about the people below directly, only from hearsay. They’re not wrong about Gunsmoke as a whole, but they treat Wolfwood like a monster rather than a person.  That also never happens in real life.

Then he gets to the scene of a crime too late--but just in time to look like the one responsible. Although the ship dwellers would love to see him dead, he leaps to defend them against his own colleague. Knowing, perhaps, that doing this would confirm he switched sides, and his own days might be numbered. He doesn’t even pause to think, he just goes, the same way he did when the child went missing in episode 9.

***

Vash Will Save The Day

“Like you care. Five years is probably like a blink of the eye to you anyway.” Vash denies it, but the second part is probably true. He looks so surprised to hear it’s been five years.

It can’t be easy for Vash to admit that he was responsible for the “Fifth Moon Incident,” and is probably more dangerous than Knives. Once again, his only argument is “please.” But there’s no buffoonery or melodrama here. He’s dead serious, and that’s more convincing. 

Wolfwood tries to stop Leonoff from saying his name. No one who would understand the significance or matters to him is present, just Brad and Jessica. Is he merely afraid others will hear? Does he still consider himself to be Chapel?

Even facing Leonoff, Wolfwood still hasn’t put his shades back on.

Now imagine if Vash managed to find ways out of no-win situations and save the day without all the whining and crying.

Wolfwood can pause and wait for once, having faith that Vash will show up. He knows there’s always a third option for Vash. He does not yet see any for himself. Still, progress nonetheless.

***

Unfortunately for me, Vash is back with his red coat in Vash the Stampede mode, yellow glasses hiding his face.

OK, I can see how Leonoff’s puppets get into the ship without being noticed, but how on Earth did the big guy even get here?

[sablelab]

Covert Operations - Chapter 97

 DISCLAIMER: This is a modern AU crossover story with Outlander and La Femme Nikita. LFN and its characters do not belong to me nor do those from Outlander.

I am very grateful for the complimentary comments, likes and reblogs of the last chapter. It is a privilege for me to have people read my writing and I am honoured that you have enjoyed this story of espionage with our two main protagonists.  You’re the best.  THANK-YOU so much.   

SYNOPSIS:  @lincoln59 commented on the last chapter … Jamie got to her!!! Now they have to get out!!!!  So …

Will Jamie and Claire get out of the monastery safely and without mishap or will they be blindsided?  That is the question that will be answered in this chapter.

This chapter contains some violence. Previous chapters can be found at … https://sablelab.tumblr.com/covertoperations

  CHAPTER 97 (V)

"Fergus ... I have Claire."  James Fraser reported back to Section One. Section’s computer techie absorbed this intel for a moment then relief flooded his body that at long last, Jamie had found and rescued her.  He couldn’t wait to tell Murtagh the good news of Claire’s liberation.

"Check. Do you need the support team?"

"Not unless the zone is dirty. Scan until we've reached the egress area." "Will do ..." Carefully carrying his Sassenach up the stairs James Fraser paused before opening the door into the corridor that lead back to the tunnel and their safe egress. If he was able to retrace his route they would be out of the monastery before any of the triad knew that their captive had been rescued. Safe in her avenging angel’s arms, Claire was starting to feel better and it was all because Jamie was here. He gave her the strength to do whatever was necessary to escape. The very fact that she was released from her bonds was having a positive effect on her mentally and physically too. She dug deep within herself and mustered all the inner strength her Section training had given her knowing that if they were to exit safely, she would need to be alert. Gently he lowered her to the floor and looking left then right he made sure that the passageway was clear for them to make their escape. The corridor was deserted except for the two dead guards he had taken out just moments ago. "All right, Jamie, you're clear. Proceed to egress." Tenderly he looked at Claire and noticed that she had bucked up a lot since they had come up the stairs.  

"Can ye walk by yerself Sassenach?" 

Reassuring him that she was capable of walking unaided, Claire replied, "I'm all right Jamie."  

Was it sheer Adrenalin of being rescued that enabled her to feel better, or was it the fact that she had such inner strength because of her training to ignore her injuries despite her pain? It was obvious that his Claire had dug deep within herself to show some of that spunk and determination that she had displayed with her captors.  His courageous Sassenach’s true grit was manifesting itself in the way that she spoke in reply to his question. He was so proud of her and admired her fighting spirit immensely.

"That’s good ... let's go. We've got to get out of here Claire." 

Somewhere else inside the monastery … Karen Yee was seated in a winged chair near the parlour fire and looked up when she heard the door open. Jonathon Randall burst through the door first and was quickly followed by Wang Yu who had an enigmatic smile on his face. "Good evening gentlemen ... I see you are pleased to see me back." As the two men approached where she was sitting, Jonathon Randall fired a flurry of questions at her. "Karen ... are you okay? How did James Fraser manage to kidnap you? Did he hurt you? How did you get here?" "Jonathon! Stop! Enough questions ... we have more pressing problems." "What problems?" "Firstly, James Fraser has penetrated the security of the monastery ... and second he is somewhere in this building ... I suspect that he may already have found the torture room and rescued Claire Beauchamp." "That may be so but they have to make it out first .... I doubt if they are capable of that," Jonathon replied confident in his security guards being diligent. "Fraser made his way in without detention why wouldn't he make it out too?" Karen rebuked with her rhetorical question. "He is outnumbered ... there is no way we won't discover their movements ... it is only a matter of time," was his smug reply. "Do you think so?" "I know so ... security is tight inside the monastery ... Their capture is a "fait accompli" They cannot hide from our security forces and still make their way out undetected. We will eliminate them both." Karen looked Jonathon Randall in the eye. Although confident in his faith of their triad members to capture and eliminate James Fraser and Claire Beauchamp, she still had matter for concern.

"There is one other problem." 

"What?" "We need him alive." Surprised at her statement, he wondered why Karen was hesitant to eliminate the couple given what they had inflicted on the Rising Dragons over the last couple of months.

"Why?" 

"Mr Fraser placed an isotope to my hands ... I need the extracting agent or I will die." "Oh!" “My hands are already starting to peel. Next, I'll lose feeling in my arms. This is no joking matter Jonathon ... and Wang ... what are you so pleased about? ... You haven't wiped that smile off your face since you came into the room." "I'm happy that you are safe of course." Her father’s confidant looked directly at her, "We will get the antidote before anything serious happens as well." "Thank you." "But more importantly ... this Mr Fraser is the key to making Claire Beauchamp talk." "Explain." "If we capture him and use our ... persuasive techniques .... then I'm sure she will divulge the information we want." "Yes ... Once that happens ... then we can eliminate the two of them and I can get the extracting agent," Karen replied as his words began to make total sense. "Exactly ... Problems solved," Randal chipped in. "I agree. Where is Mr Fraser now then Jonathon?" "Well ... I ... don't have his ... exact location yet ... but we will soon," he stammered put on the spot by her query. "We must work swiftly in that case ... Check the security monitors ... Let's see if my theory is correct and he has found Claire Beauchamp. If so, we will give him time to rescue her. We'll throw up a few obstacles ... Unfortunately, we will have to sacrifice a few men ... but we must let James Fraser think that they have been able to get away ... then we'll surprise them." "Your father would be very proud," Wang Yu stated with pride in his voice that he couldn’t suppress. "Thank you Wang," Karen replied in response to his compliment. Meanwhile …

Despite Claire’s answer, Jamie placed one arm around her waist in support as the two operatives entered into the deserted passageway. With his gun at the ready, they moved carefully through the hallway and turned left before coming to the stairwell just up ahead of them. Once again, he stopped to see if all was clear but as he did so, suddenly Claire moved next to him and Jamie felt her pulling the gun out of the waistband of his mission pants. She fired over his shoulder just as a triad guard materialized behind him. The guard aimed his weapon and was about to fire at him but before he could get a shot off Claire felled him with precision accuracy. James Fraser spun around to see the man fall and topple down the stairs. However, another guard suddenly appeared next to the hit guard and shot back before Jamie or Claire were able to engage again.  However, falling to the floor, Jamie was able to get another shot off, hitting the shooter before he could engage his weapon. Yet another guard entered through a nearby door. Rolling to the left, the Section 5 operative fired once more killing the man while Claire shot yet another triad guard that had entered into the skirmish. Getting up, Jamie sneakily clenched his arm rubbing the graze and looked away not wanting Claire to see that he was injured. However, she did see what he'd done and she rushed forward. "Jamie, you've been shot." Taking his hand away he saw the blood on his fingers. Not wanting to alarm her realising it was only a flesh wound he answered. "’Tis nothing Sassenach ... Let's go." Although still weak, Claire kept her gun drawn, holding it at the ready and covering her partner’s back as they began to descend down the stairs. As she went to step over a fallen guard a hand grabbed her foot knocking her off balance. Still weak she struggled against his grip but Claire found the inner strength she needed. Stepping on his hand with her boot, she reached down and slugged him in the face, knocking him out. At the same time Jamie turned back when he heard her soft gasp. He immediately opened fire with his silencer killing the assailant. The guard's hand fell away from Claire's foot and he lay lifeless on the stairwell. "Fergus ... this isn't clean!" James Fraser cautioned annoyed because of obvious flawed Intel.

Armed men were coming up the stairs and when another guard saw Jamie descend the flight of stairs with Claire close behind, he instantly recognized them and barked orders to the other men coming up the stairwell.

"That's him! Shoot him! And there she is ... get her!" 

Taking stance, the two operatives prepared for a counter attack as suddenly four triads rushed at them. The bodyguards saw their fallen colleagues and knew that the two protagonists had nowhere to hide. The only way out was down. As they approached, the guards aimed their weapons to fire at the retreating couple. But the Section operatives knew they were there. They both instinctively took aim, and despite Claire's weakened condition, rapid fire was exchanged. The triad members shot at them. The Section operatives shot back. Jamie signalled for Claire to go to the right side of the stairwell as he covered the left. He threw his balaclava down; the assailants rose up to look at what was happening. As they did so, together they fired rapid shots in their direction blasting them away and taking out two more men. Others took their place and verged into the fray. They both ducked as two more men shot at them. Bullets were ricocheting everywhere yet Jamie and Claire edged further down the stairs. The triad members were no match for the Section One operatives and fell like nine pins toppling one over the other. "Are ye okay?" Jamie asked as Claire grabbed his arm to steady herself. "I'm fine." The Rising Dragons obviously knew they were there which made egress that much more difficult. "Fergus ... Is the egress route clear now?" Seeing no more indication of hot spots of hostile movement he answered, "You're good to go. All's clear ... proceed to the egress point." In next to no time Jamie and Claire reached the landing, then quickly proceeded down the stairs as they cautiously back tracked his route. They went along the corridor and down another flight of stairs without seeing another guard until they were near the room where Jamie had exited the tunnel. However, despite overcoming the triad obstacles and imminent escape, James Fraser had a gut feeling of uneasy quiet. Back at Section One …

Watching his computer monitor Fergus Claudel's eyes widened. They were glued to the screen as hot spot after hot spot unexpectedly started to appear on his screen. All had been clear just a moment ago. It seemed that these assailants were appearing as if out of nowhere.

"Jamie … We have trouble … Hostiles approaching from the stairwell and corridor!" 

"Fergus ... what's going on? Ye said it was clean!" "It was ... I scanned everything ... I didn't see anything ... but not anymore. This doesn't add up." "How many?" "Too many ..." "What does yer sat-thermo say?" Fergus hesitated before answering particularly knowing that they had walked into a trap. "The entire egress area's a hot zone! ... You won't get ten feet." No sooner had Fergus relayed the Intel than triads came from every which way. Four appeared behind and in front of them until suddenly they were encircled. Six more men came from the corridor, then the door to the exit room opened and Jonathon Randall stood there with Wang Yu. Jamie and Claire were surrounded and outnumbered by hostiles. There was no escape. "Fergus ... We're surrounded." "Help is coming Jamie ... The team is on its way." ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 

“Drop the weapon Mr Fraser... you too Claire ... we have you surrounded!”

Jonathon Randall’s arrogant words of triumph echoed in the corridor as the two Section One operatives were encircled by Rising Dragon triads. However, disobeying the command, Jamie immediately aimed his gun at the man who was responsible for the torture of his Sassenach, but as he did so, the simultaneous clicks of guns at the ready were aimed at him. Not only that, but one of the triad guards stepped forward on Jonathon’s command and held his gun up to Claire's head. She dropped her weapon and the guard kicked it away with his foot. Without taking his eyes from James Fraser, Jonathon Randall knew he had the upper hand. “If you make a move, I’ll have my guard shoot your woman. Now put the gun down. Put the gun down! Now!” he demanded; his supercilious tone hard to ignore. Each man stood at an impasse for a minute as each held the other’s gaze. The cold steel look of sheer hatred and repugnance was met with the arrogance and self-satisfaction of the other as the two enemies eyeballed one another. This was a man bent on vengeance and if looks could kill, Jonathon Randall knew that if given half a chance James Fraser would strangle him with his bare hands and think nothing of it.  

 The tension in the air could have been cut with a knife as those around the couple watched and waited for what would happen next. 

“I’d advise you to drop the gun Mr. Fraser... that is unless you want to see Claire die. I really don’t think you would want that especially after going to so much trouble to rescue her.” Severing his gaze from Randall’s, Jamie turned towards the older man Wang Yu. Realising there was no other course of action; he gave him a blank stare then raised his arms in surrender. Holding his gun out with his fingertips he dropped it on the ground knowing that they would be dead before he had any chance of killing Jonathon Randall. Any indiscriminate move would endanger Claire and he was under no delusion that the trigger-happy guards would shoot to kill if given the order. “And your other weapons too,” Wang decreed not taking any chances with this formidable man. Jonathon and Wang Yu didn’t underestimate this Section One man James Fraser.  If he was anything like Claire Beauchamp who had displayed tenacity of spirit to endure the worst torture techniques they could dish out, then he was indeed a dangerous man. Even though Fraser had dropped his gun and other firearms, it didn’t mean that he was weaponless. They had observed the aftermath in the torture room where they’d lost two good men because of this man before them. They had seen what he was capable of and knowing that he’d managed to enter the monastery as well as take out numerous well-trained guards in the process spoke volumes. Jonathon Randall watched him carefully ... very carefully ... conscious that James Fraser might try to make a move. If he did so, he would have no hesitation in issuing the order to kill him. Jamie’s eyes glanced from one man to the other before resting on Wang Yu once again.

The difference between the two men was discernible. He noticed the calm and composed manner of Wang Yu as opposed to Randall’s brash reaction ... yet he was under no illusion. This man too would take no prisoners if they would not cooperate.  His and Claire’s fate were in their hands until the backup team arrived. Surely, they were close by now, he believed and hoping that any incarceration of the two of them would be short lived.  Could his Sassenach tolerate being held captive again not knowing what their fate would be? Would he be able to protect her as he had promised, if he was separated from her?  He silently prayed that the retrieval team was not too far away. Once James Fraser was disarmed, Wang Yu gestured to one of the guards. The man stepped forward and pushed his gun into the middle of Jamie’s back, while another did the same to Claire. “Take him and the woman,” he ordered dismissively to his men. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* “Wait! ... Not yet.” All eyes turned towards the sound of the voice that had issued a counter order. Jonathon Randall and Wang Yu turned towards the door. Knowing just who had spoken, Jamie’s eyes followed their movements and watched as Karen Yee emerged from the room. “Hello Jamie ... Now isn’t this nice? ... We're back together again, just like old times.” She walked up to him and gave him a vicious slap across the face. “That’s for killing my boyfriend Andy.” Karen then punched him in the stomach ... “And that’s for me ... I’ll have that extracting agent now if you don’t mind?” “I don't know where it is,” he answered giving her the cold stare of one who couldn’t care less what happened to her but glad that what he had applied to her hands was having the desired effect. “Wrong answer ... where is it? ... You've got eight seconds to tell me where the antidote is.” Silence greeted her demand. The guard jabbed the gun harder into Jamie’s back perilously close to his kidneys. “Give it to me ... or you both will die.” Knowing that she was bluffing, James Fraser refused to give in and merely gave Karen Yee his blank stare which infuriated her. She needed him alive if she was to get hold of the extracting agent. He knew it and so did she. Karen wouldn’t kill either of them until she had the antidote, but when she did, he knew she would follow through with her threat. Stalling until the team’s arrival was their only chance. It was vital to their survival. Karen backhanded him once more. “Very well ... if that’s the way it is to be ... then so be it!” She glanced over towards Wang Yu. “Put them both in our special suite.” Wang signalled for four other guards to escort the couple as well not trusting that the pair wouldn’t try to make an escape if they were able. He then turned to face them both before the guards placed blindfolds over their heads. “Take them away! ... I’m sure you will both get to like your new accommodation.” Karen Yee’s condescending remarks and orders echoed as she watched the couple’s retreating backs satisfied that it wouldn’t be long before the Rising Dragons had all the information James Fraser and Claire Beauchamp had on the triad and, more importantly, she had the extracting agent. Then the couple would be eliminated once and for all. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* The two Section One Operatives were marched blindfolded through a series of dark corridors until they came to their new surroundings deep within the monastery’s labyrinth of rooms. When they entered the room, the guards escorting them removed their blindfolds then grabbed the couple by the arms while the others kept watch. Although the room was dark Jamie and Claire’s eyes adjusted to the diminished light and they quickly surveyed the space. Their “special suite” as Karen had described it, was anything but ... it appeared to be some sort of dungeon. Besides being dark the room was also damp and their new accommodation was two wire cages placed side by side suspended from the roof. Jamie’s eyes examined the metal frame of the cage doors mentally assessing the strength of the lattice bars of the cages before the guards pushed him into one of them. Curling his fingers around the framework, he refused to give in to the guards’ attempts to push him further into the cage and resisted all their efforts. Seeing the struggle their cohorts were having, the escorting guards came to their assistance. A rifle butt suddenly jabbed him in the kidneys while another guard bashed him on the hands. Jamie let go and as he fell to the floor the men slammed and bolted the door behind him. That done, Claire’s guards tried to force her into the cage next to where they had impounded James Fraser. She lashed out at them with her feet with what strength she still possessed but struggled to loosen their grip on her. However, her attempts were to no avail as the two guards overpowered her by brute force.  Dragging her towards the opening they physically swung her into the metal cell. She fell heavily to the floor and the guards pushed her back hard against the wall of the cage. The impact of the fall was unbearable and her weakened body writhed with exacerbated pain, but Claire didn’t want her captors to see that she was hurt and suppressed the moan that nearly escaped from her mouth. Not a word was spoken. Locking her wire enclosure as well, the guards backed away and the cages were raised off the ground. Suspended above the floor the pens began to swing in the air with the captives inside. Once satisfied that the prisoners were secure, the guards turned and left the two to ponder the Rising Dragons’ next move. Claire’s head turned around towards Jamie and they both shared a look communicating volumes without speaking. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* “Why haven’t they killed us yet?” The two operatives had been suspended for some time without anyone coming near them, when Claire’s quietly spoken question roused Jamie from his own thoughts. His eyes captured hers fixedly holding her gaze.

“They’re going to torture me to force ye to give them the information that Section knows about the Rising Dragons or vice versa. Plus, Karen needs the extracting agent ... by torturing me she hopes that I will tell her where it is.”

“How do you know?” “It’s the only leverage they’ve got Sassenach.” “Jamie ...” Claire gasped softly. She turned away. She couldn’t look at him.

A gamut of guilt feelings coursed through her mind at the validity of Jamie’s words.  The triad would stoop to whatever means to achieve their information and they would use Jamie to do so.  This was all her fault.  If only she had listened to his warning the first time when he had met Karen then perhaps none of this would have happened.  She was riddled with self-incrimination, guilt and despair at her foolhardy actions.

He knew what she was thinking ... Claire felt guilty that he had risked his life to rescue her and now they were both incarcerated.

 “Mo nighean donn ... Look at me.” 

The intonation of his words, spoken so tenderly reached her ears, but Claire couldn’t bring herself to look at him, for if she did, she knew exactly what Jamie would say. This is not your fault ... Sitting as far away from him as she could get, she held back the tears welling in her eyes. “Sassenach ... please ...” Moving her head in response to his voice she reluctantly turned towards him. Although putting on a brave face, Jamie saw his Claire’s distraught expression. “Don’t be sorry mo ghràidh ... This is not yer fault.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ to be continued on Friday 31st

[adriennegad2fmp]

Architecture near me, The Post Office

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The architecture of this building is exquisite and extremely detailed. The entrance provides a glorified welcome with the pillars that stand strong and hold up the the the stone roof that you must walk under to acquire the internal architecture of the building. The statues that watch over the streets of people past show the immense purpose and glory that this building is upholding. The architecture John Johnson clearly had a i for the design of purpose and glory. This is one of many post office locations however it is one of few that has such a purpose in the architectural world. The purpose-built British post office building has by and large been neglected by architectural historians. This neglect has been compounded by historians of the Post Office who have concentrated on chronicling its administrative functions, making only passing reference to its premises. Yet it is these very buildings, representing the public face of the Post Office, which have played an immeasurable role in the lives of our communities. The beautiful feet of this architecture was built within 13 months opening on the 30th month in march 1881.as the local post office however unfortunately is no longer being used for its original purpose and now is a bank. Over there kept the architectural history intact relating building back to to the history of Ipswich like and many buildings that surround the area do. Strangely enough the post office did not have any say in the architectural value of the buildings they were basing their companies around, John Johnson was completely rogue an architect that designed everything himself and was able to be free with his work. In my opinion the the architecture is stunning in every way. It is quite clearly a statement it's broad front is such a overwhelming sight it brings sturdiness strings and capability. To me it looks like a very regal building one of power and wealth.it is quite clear at that image that John Johnston was going for when he had at the structure and design plans drawed up. Everything about it is perfectly in design

and thought out including the face of the design the way it hits the sun so it stands proud. The corners turn and and pronounce a angle that makes the building not so sharp but delicately blending in with the environment it has been placed within. Even now in such an urbanized town right in the Centre it is a building that is is strong in its own pronunciation of itself. The spires on the top of the front view you inspire the action of strength and realism creating that powerful tone of government and sense of responsibility. Responsibility is the power of the post office because it does in fact hold communication around the globe and has been at for years. Especially looking at the slope in the lower right-hand corner of the the architecture plans above you can see the way the building has been developed to a move with the landscape around it.it is not a solid Square brick plain building it is one that has been carefully expired and thought out to fit uniquely in with the particular environment and location it has been announced for. Due to the fact that the architecture John Johnson was a government employed and invested architecthey has also invested his time in other architectural places around the United Kingdom such as telephone exchanges telephone repeater stations and labour exchanges. He also designed Shire Hall, in Chelmsford, Lewes Crown, Court, and The City Rooms.

John Johnson: John Johnson was an English architect as I have at represented and clearly been inspired by the local architecture that I have been privileged to be witness to, I have shown this information above. However I wish to go on and show the idea of John Johnson as a person narrowing down and understanding why and what John created and understand his meaning behind the architecture that he can express and has made as a landmark to each corner of the United Kingdom. During my research I have managed to dive into what kind of buildings he mostly specialized in and finding upon my research was the information that he mainly specialize in the idea of religious buildings including churches and government specialized buildings for prayer. I believe he most likely found comfort in creating a powerful recognition for this kind of building. It is an entity that he can capture and produce respectful for. I think this idea of a religion is also clearly represented in the Ipswich post office and by the the patriotic statues that stand and watch of the the building. Almost like gargoyles they stand to propose protection and religious meaning. the work of John Johnson and I find is very cultural because there are so many different elements of so many different cultures that he provide an inspiration to others throughout his work. There are actually quite a view Italian elements in his work and the spraying of these elements in the post office. However there is quite a few gothic elements that are provided within in his work and the idea of culture is a current flow and constant inspiration to his design ideas. You can also expect fully see the influence of Italian design in the Grosvenor Square in London creating a well-deserved in much-needed cultural difference in the contrasting city. however all his cultural inspiration has to of spawned from somewhere and that's some where is his influential architect Jones's flare for the idea of colour that cascades in a collage of elements, the pattern that does the same perfectly complimenting the the colour however at the same time creating a slide contrast. Egyptian and Islamic design including more impactful culturist ideas. Like I said in the above information he has an exquisite eye for detail along with the ways of contrast to perfectly compliment the design with the symmetry.

[mitsoftware541]

IT,BSIT,BSIT in Hyderabad,BSIT 4 years program,BSIT 4 year program, BSIT in Hyderabad sindh

Maybe the biggest and most unavoidable issue in a specialized curriculum, just as my own excursion in instruction, is custom curriculum's relationship to general schooling. History has demonstrated that this has never been a simple obvious connection between the two. There has been a ton of giving and taking or perhaps I should state pulling and pushing with regards to instructive strategy, and the instructive practices and administrations of schooling and specialized curriculum by the human instructors who convey those administrations on the two sides of the isle, similar to me.

Throughout the last 20+ years I have been on the two sides of instruction. I have seen and felt what it resembled to be an ordinary standard instructor managing custom curriculum strategy, specialized curriculum understudies and their particular educators. I have likewise been on the specialized curriculum side attempting to get ordinary schooling instructors to work all the more adequately with my custom curriculum understudies through changing their guidance and materials and having somewhat more persistence and sympathy.

Besides, I have been standard normal training educator who instructed customary schooling consideration classes attempting to sort out some way to best work with some new specialized curriculum instructor in my group and their specialized curriculum understudies also. Furthermore, interestingly, I have been a specialized curriculum consideration educator barging in on the region of some standard training instructors with my custom curriculum understudies and the alterations I figured these instructors should execute. I can disclose to you direct that none of this give and take between a custom curriculum and normal instruction has been simple. Nor do I see this pushing and pulling turning out to be simple at any point in the near future.

Anyway, what is custom curriculum? Furthermore, what makes it so extraordinary but so intricate and disputable in some cases? Indeed, custom curriculum, as its name recommends, is a particular part of instruction. It guarantees its heredity to such individuals as Jean-Marc-Gaspard Itard (1775-1838), the doctor who "restrained" the "wild kid of Aveyron," and Anne Sullivan Macy (1866-1936), the instructor who "worked supernatural occurrences" with Helen Keller.

Extraordinary instructors show understudies who have physical, intellectual, language, learning, tactile, as well as passionate capacities that stray from those of everyone. Unique instructors give guidance explicitly custom-made to address individualized issues. These instructors fundamentally make training more accessible and available to understudies who in any case would have restricted admittance to schooling because of whatever handicap they are battling with.

It's not simply the instructors however who assume a job throughout the entire existence of a specialized curriculum in this nation. Doctors and church, including Itard-referenced above, Edouard O. Seguin (1812-1880), Samuel Gridley Howe (1801-1876), and Thomas Hopkins Gallaudet (1787-1851), needed to enhance the careless, regularly harsh treatment of people with handicaps. Unfortunately, training in this nation was, usually, careless and oppressive when managing understudies that are distinctive by one way or another.

There is even a rich writing in our country that depicts the treatment gave to people handicaps during the 1800s and mid 1900s. Unfortunately, in these accounts, just as in reality, the portion of our populace with handicaps were frequently bound in correctional facilities and almshouses without fair food, apparel, individual cleanliness, and exercise.

For an illustration of this distinctive treatment in our writing one necessities to look no farther than Tiny Tim in Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol (1843). Likewise, ordinarily individuals with incapacities were regularly depicted as scoundrels, for example, in the book Captain Hook in J.M. Barrie's "Peter Pan" in 1911.

The overarching perspective on the creators of this time-frame was that one ought to submit to setbacks, both as a type of dutifulness to God's will, and on the grounds that these appearing disasters are eventually proposed to one's benefit. Progress for our kin with incapacities was difficult to find right now with this perspective saturating our general public, writing and thinking.

Anyway, what was society to do about these individuals of incident? All things considered, during a large part of the nineteenth century, and from the get-go in the 20th, experts accepted people with handicaps were best treated in private offices in country conditions. A no longer of any concern sort of thing, maybe...

Notwithstanding, before the finish of the nineteenth century the size of these organizations had expanded so significantly that the objective of restoration for individuals with incapacities simply wasn't working. Establishments became instruments for perpetual isolation.

I have some involvement in these isolation approaches of training. Some of it is acceptable and some of it isn't all that great. I have been an independent instructor on and off over time in different conditions in independent study halls openly secondary schools, center schools and grade schools. I have likewise instructed in numerous specialized curriculum conduct independent schools that completely isolated these disturbed understudies with inabilities in dealing with their conduct from their standard companions by placing them in totally various structures that were here and there even in various towns from their homes, companions and friends.

Throughout the long term numerous custom curriculum experts became pundits of these establishments referenced over that isolated and isolated our youngsters with incapacities from their companions. Irvine Howe was one of the first to advocate removing our childhood from these immense organizations and to put out occupants into families. Sadly this training turned into a strategic and commonsense issue and it required some investment before it could turn into a reasonable option in contrast to regulation for our understudies with inabilities.

Presently on the positive side, you may be keen on knowing anyway that in 1817 the main specialized curriculum school in the United States, the American Asylum for the Education and Instruction of the Deaf and Dumb (presently called the American School for the Deaf), was set up in Hartford, Connecticut, by Gallaudet. That school is still there today and is one of the top schools in the nation for understudies with hear-able handicaps. A genuine progress story!

In any case, as you would already be able to envision, the enduring achievement of the American School for the Deaf was the exemption and not the standard during this time-frame. Furthermore, to add to this, in the late nineteenth century, social Darwinism supplanted environmentalism as the essential causal clarification for those people with inabilities who digressed from those of everyone.

Tragically, Darwinism made the way for the selective breeding development of the mid 20th century. This at that point prompted considerably further isolation and even disinfection of people with incapacities, for example, mental impediment. Sounds like something Hitler was doing in Germany additionally being done well here in our own nation, to our own kin, by our own kin. Sort of unnerving and unfeeling, wouldn't you concur?

Today, this sort of treatment is clearly unsatisfactory. What's more, in the early piece of the twentieth Century it was additionally unsuitable to a portion of the grown-ups, particularly the guardians of these crippled kids. In this way, concerned and furious guardians shaped promotion gatherings to help carry the instructive necessities of kids with incapacities into the public eye. General society needed to see firsthand how wrong this selective breeding and disinfection development was for our understudies that were unique in the event that it was truly going to be halted.

Gradually, grassroots associations gained ground that even prompted a few states making laws to ensure their residents with incapacities. For instance, in 1930, in Peoria, Illinois, the primary white stick statute gave people with visual deficiency the option to proceed when going across the road. This was a beginning, and different states did at last go with the same pattern. As expected, this neighborhood grassroots' development and states' development prompted enough tension on our chosen authorities for something to be done on the public level for our kin with handicaps.

In 1961, President John F. Kennedy made the President's Panel on Mental Retardation. Furthermore, in 1965, Lyndon B. Johnson marked the Elementary and Secondary Education Act, which gave subsidizing to essential instruction, and is seen by backing bunches as extending admittance to state funded schooling for kids with incapacities.

At the point when one contemplates Kennedy's and Johnson's record on social liberties, at that point it most likely isn't such an unexpected discovering that these two presidents likewise led this public development for our kin with incapacities.

This government development prompted area 504 of the 1973 Rehabilitation Act. This ensures social equality for the impaired with regards to governmentally supported organizations or any program or movement getting Federal monetary help. Every one of these years after the fact as a teacher, I for one arrangement with 504 cases each and every day.

In 1975 Congress authorized Public Law 94-142, the Education for All Handicapped Children Act (EHA), which sets up a privilege to state funded instruction for all kids paying little heed to incapacity. This was another beneficial thing on the grounds that preceding government enactment, guardians needed to generally instruct their kids at home or pay for costly private schooling.

The development continued developing. In the 1982 the instance of the Board of Education of the Hendrick Hudson Central School District v. Rowley, the U.S. High Court explained the degree of administrations to be managed the cost of understudies with uncommon necessities. The Court decided that specialized curriculum administrations need just give some "instructive advantage" to understudies. Government funded schools were not needed to boost the instructive advancement of understudies with inabilities.

Today, this decision may not appear to be a triumph, and in actuality, this equivalent inquiry is indeed circling through our courts today in 2017. In any case, since its getting late period it was made

[aion-rsa]

How Batman: Soul of the Dragon Pays Homage to 70s Kung Fu and Bruce Lee

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Batman: Soul of the Dragon sets Gotham’s caped crusader in a vintage martial arts homage. Directed by Sam Liu, who also directed the animated movie version of one of the greatest Batman graphic novels ever published, Batman: The Killing Joke, this is the 42nd project in the ongoing DC Universe Movies series.

However, Soul of the Dragon is an original tale, not based on a precedent comic. Like the eye popping anime-style film Batman Ninja, this is a completely stand-alone story. Batman: Soul of the Dragon is yet another chapter in the many creation tales for Batman. It tells of his martial indoctrination and joining him on this adventure are three of the best martial artists within the DC multiverse: Lady Shiva (Kelly Hu), Ben Turner a.k.a. Bronze Tiger (Michael Jai White), and Richard Dragon (Mark Dacascos). 

“It’s a 70s martial arts action-adventure drama with a great sense of humor,” says Dacascos. Like so many Hollywood martial arts stories, Batman: Soul of the Dragon is told in two time periods: the present-day problem and in flashbacks to the original martial arts lessons that offer solutions. It’s a storytelling motif that can be traced back to the pioneering David Carradine’s Kung Fu TV show and Bruce Lee’s iconic Enter the Dragon. 

In many ways, Batman: Soul of the Dragon is a tribute to Enter the Dragon, when the Kung Fu and blaxploitation genres were at their height. Richard Dragon is an homage to Bruce Lee’s character ‘Lee’ in Enter the Dragon (just like in so many Jackie Chan films, the name of Lee’s character was the same as his real name). In some scenes, he dons a similar black catsuit as Lee wore when infiltrating Han’s subterranean lair but stops short from yelling ‘Wataaah!’ when fighting. 

Enter the Dragon was a game changer for martial arts movies, but it was also in the wake of the popularity of spy films of those days, specifically James Bond. Enter the Dragon is also a spy film, and it came out at a pivotal time for the Bond franchise, the same year that Roger Moore took over 007 in Live and Let Die. The spy film genre was immensely popular during the Cold War of the ‘60s, but by the ‘70s, it was looking to reinvent itself to remain popular. Enter the Dragon had the potential to launch a spy franchise for Bruce Lee, but his untimely and shocking death cut that short. Tragically, he died just prior to the release of the film. In some ways, Richard Dragon makes us ponder what a sequel to Enter the Dragon might have been like.

With his groovy afro and jive talking banter, Ben Turner steals a page from the character of Williams (Jim Kelly) from Enter the Dragon too. Batman is faintly akin to Roper (John Saxon), a token white guy amidst a diverse cast. Even the funky soundtrack by Joachim Horsley echoes the music of Enter the Dragon’s composer Lalo Shiffrin. 

“In the 70s I was very impressionable,” reflects Dacascos. “The music brings you right back to that time. I love it. I love Enter the Dragon.” 

It’s ironic that Batman would honor Bruce Lee in this way. For many, the Batman TV show of the mid-60s was their first exposure to the Little Dragon. Lee’s earliest Hollywood role was Kato, the chauffeur of The Green Hornet, which became a spin-off series of Batman, running for a single season on NBC in 1966-67.

Who is Richard Dragon?

Batman: Soul of the Dragon is a complete reimagining of Richard Dragon. In the original comic storyline, Dragon was Richard Drakunovski, a Caucasian character. He first appeared in the novel, Dragon’s Fists: Kung-Fu Master Richard Dragon by Jim Dennis, which was published the year after Enter the Dragon premiered (Jim Dennis was a pseudonym, the combination of the two authors’ names Dennis O’Neil and Jim Berry). The character was later adapted to comics by DC. 

In the original DC version, Dragon was a classmate of Ben Turner, both of whom trained under O-Sensei (played by the venerable James Hong in Batman: Soul of the Dragon). Lady Shiva was also part of this Kung Fu lineage. O-Sensei’s goddaughter Carolyn Woosan was Lady Shiva’s sister. After Woosan was killed, Lady Shiva was tricked into thinking Dragon was at fault and hunted him to take revenge. Eventually, the trick was foiled so Shiva and Dragon became allies, united against a common foe. 

In the comics, the world of Batman doesn’t cross with Dragon’s until much later. Dragon goes on to become a trainer of many DC heroes, notably the first Batgirl, Barbara Gordon. In another story, he helps Batman rehabilitate after sustaining injuries from Bane. 

In a later alternate narrative arc, Dragon’s title is usurped by his villainous student, Richard Diaz Jr. This is akin to the Richard Dragon depicted in CW’s Arrow and portrayed by Kirk Acevedo. Bronze Tiger also appears in the Arrowverse portrayed by Michael Jai White, so Batman: Soul of the Dragon marks his reprisal of the role in the animated DC universe (As a side note, David Giuntoli voices Batman for Batman: Soul of the Dragon; Guintoli is married to Elizabeth Tulloch, who plays Lois Lane in the Arrowverse, including the forthcoming Superman and Lois).

However, neither Drakunovski nor Diaz figure into this latest incarnation of Richard Dragon in Batman: Soul of the Dragon. Here, he’s more like a Bruce Lee clone, only cooler. Dacascos didn’t follow the comics or the Arrowverse depiction. 

“Yeah, I did not know that at all,” he confesses. “The script was so good that everything I felt that I needed to portray him was already on the page….All of my information for the character I found in the brilliant script that Jeremy Adams wrote and the information that was given to me by our producers and our director Sam Liu.”

Nevertheless, Dragon was a dream role for Dacascos. As a longtime fan of Batman, his favorite live action portrayal was Michael Keaton. 

“I love his interpretation,” he says with a laugh. “There’s a sense of humor that he has and he stands out.” 

As soon as his manager and agents sent him the script, he was hooked. 

“I saw the description of DC Comics, Batman, Richard Dragon. And then I just jumped right into the script and after just a couple of pages, I knew I loved it. And the more I read, the more passionate I was about it. Before I even finished the script, I’d already emailed my representatives back and said, ‘Yes, please, please, please. I want to do this.’” Dacascos was tickled to be cast as his Kung Fu brother. “I’ve been privileged to play a character that is friends with Batman,” gushes Dacascos. 

Beyond being a bat-buddy, what really appealed to Dacascos was Dragon’s strong moral compass. 

“He’s not ignorant to the fact that evil is there, always has been, is, and will be,” explains Dacascos. “But with his training and his apparent good heart, he is able to maintain that battle with the negative, with the evil and take it on, maintaining his open heart and his sense of humor. I think his sense of humor is a part of his armor. He’s able to deflect with whimsy of the situation. He is a very loyal student, he is a very loyal friend, and I think his force – what drives him – is his love.”

From Stunt Work to Voice Work

By casting Dacascos, White, and Hu, Batman: Soul of the Dragon goes that extra step by placing genuine martial artists into animated roles. Throughout his teen years, Dacascos was a genuine martial arts champion. 

“The thing is,” says Dacascos humbly, “my parents are both martial arts teachers.” 

That’s an understatement. His father is Grandmaster Al Dacascos, a pioneering master in America who founded his own style of Wun Hop Kuen Do. His stepmother is Malia Bernal, a noted champion and coach of many other champions like Karen Shepherd. “My brother and I were basically forced into our first martial arts tournament at age six.” 

Dacascos began his acting career in martial arts films, several of which were groundbreaking. His earliest lead role was in Only the Strong which was the first film to showcase the Brazilian martial art Capoeira. Brotherhood of the Wolf was a unique French period horror Kung Fu mash up that completely broke the mold for the martial arts genre. Having such an extensive background in the martial arts informed Dacascos on how to approach the fight scenes. 

“As a martial artist, all I have to do is just think about it and I’m feeling it again,” he says. “So that part felt like going back home. When we were doing the action sequences, I just gave myself space to move around and then take the direction from Sam Liu and went for it…It’s all in your head and in your heart, and of course in your breath.”

Dacascos loved how the fight scenes in Batman: Soul of the Dragon came out, so much so that he’s contemplating bringing it to live action in his own way. 

“I thought what would be really fun for me to do is actually in real life physicalize the forms, that form that Richard Dragon does,” he says. “So I’m going to maybe make it a little challenge for myself and learn those moves in real life…I would love to be Richard Dragon in real life. He’s really cool.”

In many ways, Batman: Soul of the Dragon feels more like a creation story for Richard Dragon than a typical Batman story. Batman is almost a secondary character. With Marvel making such strides in diversity with Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings anticipated for summer 2021, DC needs to up its inclusion game. Could this be a stepping stone for Richard Dragon to become his own franchise? 

“I hope so,” confesses Dacascos. “I hope that Batman: Soul of the Dragon continues and we do a sequel or series.” 

While he is hopeful that there’s a future for Dragon, it’s the spirit of Batman: Soul of the Dragon that he finds most motivating. Like the title says, it’s got a lot of soul. “The thing is, it’s so much more than that because of the lessons that the students learn in the martial arts sequences taught by the wonderful James Hong who plays O-Sensei. The lines that Jeremy Adams wrote are so profound, and like any great teachers, they transcend the martial arts. It’s so much more philosophical and deeper. So, the story has the martial arts action, but it has heart, and it’s sexy, and it still has a great sense of humor.”

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Batman: Soul of the Dragon is a direct-to-video film produced by DC Entertainment and Warner Brothers Animation premiering on digital platforms on January 12, 2021. 

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