#every time I’m alone with my thoughts it’s just there. something and it’s itchy!!! metaphorically yknow but

[lynxfrost13]

I feel like there’s hands trapped in my chest clawing to get out but that’s okay! We stay silly!

[starwarned]

Day 12 - Wings

Carry On Countdown Day 12 

@carryon-countdown

Hours In Love on AO3 (T)

“Our hours in love have wings; in absence, crutches.” - Miguel de Cervantes

Based on this lovely art by @ sellieart on instagram!!

Hours In Love

I know Baz misses them more than I do. And that’s not to say I don’t miss them. I do. Truthfully, I didn’t think I would. 

But, I guess, when something has been a part of you so long (even if it was a huge burden), it’s hard to get used to life without it. 

I’ve been getting my magic back. Slowly, but surely. I almost hoped that it would happen all at once and I’d have even half the magic I had two years ago just like that, but it came back slowly. And I’m not even sure that I’m done getting it back. 

I can cast small spells now, and Baz has taken it upon himself to tutor me in everything I failed at in school - elocution, metaphors, etc. I don’t use my magic a lot because I’m afraid of somehow going off again (even if that’s unlikely with the low levels of magic that I’m producing), but when I do, something just fits into place. I missed magic. 

There was one morning, about a month ago, that I woke up and felt lighter. I discovered quickly, when I rolled onto my back with ease, that my wings were gone. At first I thought that Baz had spelled them away because I’d hit him with them in my sleep or something, but when I interrogated Baz about it and when the wings just never came back, I just accepted it. Even Penelope’s dad doesn’t particularly understand it - the connection between my magic and my wings was abundantly clear for a long time, but I didn’t think it would come to a head like this. There aren’t even scars. 

I miss having them there. Yes, it’s easier to get dressed now and walk about the flat without fear of knocking things over and I can nip down to the shop and get snacks without having someone spell them away for me, but I miss what they meant to Baz and I. My wings were the thing that made us match - at least, outwardly. Sure, I’m still a mess, and I’m the same with or without my wings, but I think Baz particularly misses them. 

I catch him starting to ask me if he wants him to spell away my wings sometimes when we’re about to go out. Or we’ll be snogging and he runs his hands over my shoulder blades almost wistfully. 

So that’s why I’m doing this. Getting dragon wings tattooed on my back. That’s why I’ve been anxiously standing outside this tattoo parlor for ten minutes, waiting for Penelope to arrive so I don’t have to go in by myself. So I don’t have to face this alone. She eventually shows up and talks me down from the ledge before we go inside.

The tattoos hurt like hell. I’ve been through a lot in my fucked up life, but that was torturous. We’re there for hours. Penelope takes a photo of them when they’re fresh and while I think they’re beautiful, there’s a lot of blood and I’m lightheaded when I stand up. 

Now to hide them from Baz for a few days. 

-- 

It’s been five days since I got my tattoos and I can’t stand to be away from Baz any longer. I got him to stay away from my flat with the excuse that I’m sick and in hindsight, that was a terrible plan because Baz is a vampire and he can’t get sick. So, of course, he tried to get me to let up and let him come over. 

I am nothing if not stubborn, though, and I insisted that I was throwing up far too much to be an enjoyable partner. 

The tattoos are still sensitive, but now they’re mostly just itchy and flaky. It takes every last ounce of self control that I have not to scratch at them. 

I spend a while looking at them in the mirror. I have to crane my neck awkwardly to see the full set, but even just seeing one is enough. They’re still in the process of scabbing over, but I can’t help the jump of my heart when I think about what they mean. What they mean to me, what they mean to Baz. My wings were not something I was proud of when I had them - they were large, obnoxious, and a terrible reminder of everything I have lost. Now, thinking back on them, I miss how I felt when Baz looked at them and how it made Baz and I match.

I haven’t been wearing a shirt for the past few days because why bother when it will just irritate my skin and I’m not planning on going out anyway. Today, I slip on a thin t-shirt and immediately regret it as soon as the cotton fabric rubs against my shoulder blades. I grunt for a moment in pain before willing myself to push through it. Maybe Penny knows a painkiller spell.

Before I can consider it much longer, I can hear the front door open and I freeze, longing for Baz’s voice. 

“Snow?” 

I let my face split into a grin before bounding out of my bedroom and into the front entryway. 

“Baz!” I shout, not even bothering to hide my enthusiasm at seeing my lovely boyfriend, leaning against the frame of the open front door, his hair long and shiny, and his eyes glinting with (what I hope is) happiness to see me. 

Baz steps in and shuts the door behind him so that when I jog over to him, I can press him up against it with a hurried kiss. The kiss doesn’t last long because I’m smiling too much. Baz instinctively wraps his arms around my waist and I flinch immediately. 

He yanks his hands back. “Are you okay?” 

I bite my lip. I’m not sure why I even bothered to put on a shirt because I’m just going to show him my back anyway. “Fine,” I say. “Can I show you something?” 

Baz raises an eyebrow. I get up on my tip toes so I can kiss it. 

When I take a step back and Baz has nodded his consent to being shown something, I start to tug my shirt over my head, my shoulders aching at the stretched movement. 

“Is Penelope not home?” Baz asks, his hands immediately flying up to start to unbutton his shirt. He looks so fucking sexy, I almost don’t want to stop him, but this isn’t where that’s going. I’m not sure that I could lie on my back right now - although, there are other positions to be in. I can’t think about that right now. 

“No,” I say, reaching forward to still Baz’s hands. “She’s not, but that’s not what this is.” 

He pouts, his lips falling into a lovely and familiar shape. 

“Hey,” I say. “I think this will make up for it.” 

I drop my shirt to the floor and take a deep breath before turning around. 

Baz’s silence is long, but I don’t dare turn back around. 

The tattoos aren’t completely healed - I know that. They don’t look as nice as they will in a few weeks, but I assume that Baz gets the gist. 

“Oh,” Baz finally says, his voice so quiet. “Simon.” 

I can feel it as he steps closer to me and gently touches the top of my shoulder blade - nowhere near the irritated skin of the tattoo. 

“They’re lovely,” he says. 

I smile and press into his touch. 

“Can I touch?” Baz asks. 

I nod, knowing it will hurt. I think I weirdly need this as much as Baz does. “Please,” I say. “Just be gentle.” 

Baz is gentle - I can barely feel his fingers brushing over my skin as he traces the lines in my tattoos. They aren’t particularly detailed. I mostly wanted the focus to be on the outline of the shapes and on the deep red color. It’s almost identical to that of my wings. 

“Why?” Baz asks softly, now tracing his fingers down the center of my back where the tattoos almost touch. 

I turn around at that. 

Baz has the softest look in his eye and I’m worried he might be about to cry. I kiss him gently. 

“I miss them,” I say quietly. I don’t add that I know he misses them, too. I think he’d like to retain his air of poetic mystery when it comes to his feelings about my wings. “And I wanted to seem more like a badass.” 

Baz laughs at that. “I like them,” he says. “I really do.” With the way he’s looking at me right now, I think he knows I got them for him - at least partly. And I know he wants to say more about them. But he doesn’t need to. 

I got them for both of us.

[voldemorthatesnose96]

EXHALE

My very first crackship (Max and Lola) in skam fr tag and also first time since forever of posting a fanfic under this tag too. Nonetheless, hope you all enjoy it!

Disclaimer : English isn’t my native language so there’s gonna be grammar error here and there and if any of you think Max or Lola’s characters are a bit ooc, then I apologised in advanced but these all based on my imagination about them

Please be kind if you want to make a critic about it💕💕💕

“I know you’re probably tired of hearing this, but I’m very proud of you and your progress, Lola.” says the therapist. And yes, she’s been getting the same positive words from the people around her regarding to that, but it still makes her smile nonetheless; it feels nice. Truly.

“Merci!”

It’s crazy how this small, gloomy office is becoming one of the most important and prominent thing that ever happened in her life. It used to be a torture, just by thinking about sitting here, facing the same therapist over and over again, pouring her heart out like she wanted to do it and not feeling obligated at all. Crazy how those feelings happened less than a year ago. But it doesn’t mean she never feels like the old times again, it’s just... less and less brutal, if she might adds. The fact that Daphne and her step-dad also going through therapy making her feel less lonely. When she’s too absorbs in her thoughts, her stomach suddenly begins to make a grumbling sound. Loud one too!

The therapist laughs, “ah! want an apple?”

Lola shakes her head, a bit embarrassed. She hasn’t eat anything for breakfast because she was in a hurry to get here. Damn that broken alarm clock!

“No, thank you. I’ll be going with my friend to have some lunch after this.”

“Then, I’ll be sending your report about your progress by e-mail as usual, later tonight?”

“Thank you very much.”

“No no, Lola,” the therapist smiles softly. “Thank you for being here, thank you for helping me helping you.”

After saying goodbye, Lola leaves the office and stops her step to take out her phone. Just before her fingers begin to type, a familiar and gentle voice greets her.

“I’m already here.”

Lola looks up and sees Max making his way to her. His steps aren’t slow, aren’t fast either; they’re perfectly balanced, won’t making you feel left out. Walking besides him, even in silence, brings her a lot of comfort; something she never felt before, not even with her old crush Maya, whom she’s still a good friend with by the way.

“Good. You saved me from wasting my time typing.”

Max gives her a little smile that could make Lola’s heart doing this funny sommersault like in the WWE. How could that happened? How did he do that?

Poker face, Lola. Poker face, she thought to herself while her heart is screaming “lies!” every seconds. Putain!

“Glad I could be your saviour then,” he playfully adds. “Shall we go eat now? I’m starving.”

Remembering the embarrasing incident at the office not long ago, Lola nods and walks beside Max. It feels almost natural to be besides him like this. One of the wonder she can’t grasp why, yet.

“Where and what do you wanna eat?”

“Anything will do,” Lola shrugs. “But better be affordable, though.”

Max takes a glance at the girl beside him when she’s not looking. Her hair is slightly swept by the wind. His nose catches the smell of strawberry and cream altogether.

“I know just the place. Not far from here. Come on!”

The place where Max was talking about located only five blocks from the earlier place. Because it’s lunch time, of course it’s crowded but somehow they manage to find an empty spot outside. Not gonna lie, Lola’s a bit intimidated when she’s looking at the menu.

“I told you to go to the affordable place and this ain’t it, Max!” she hisses while pointing at the book menu.

“Well, it’s affordable for me, though,” he grins, and before Lola can speaks again, he continues, “it’s on me.”

“Pardon?”

“I never give you anything, as long as I remember and now I got the chance. Believe me, it was an impromptu idea.”

“No.”

“No?” Max repeats, brows furrowing.

“No,” Lola shakes her head, also a bit annoyed now. “You don’t need to buy or give me anything. I still have money.”

“I know but it’s just for one meal. I promise. No ulterior motives whatsoever.”

Because her stomach is making a nasty sound again, Lola unwillingly says yes to Max’s offer and without thinking, she orders spagetti marinara with extra cheese on top because he says it’s one of the best dish this restaurant have. They eat in comfortable silence, and as Max has said before, the spagetti is indeed, sublime. Even better than the one Daphne’s usually making—Lola silently apologised to her about this. Less than fifteen minutes later, her plate is already clean.

“Glad you’ve been enjoying the food.”

“You’re right. This is amazing!”

Seeing Lola smiles brightly, especially at him, makes Max’s heart soars. Sometimes Max can’t help but laughing at her dry jokes, looking at her way or stealing some moments just to talk to her for few minutes. The rest of the Lamifex is suspecting about his feeling about Lola, but he never says a word about it. Yes, he wasn’t really liked her at first. Yes, he was being cold towards her. But like most people in the world do, his perspective of her changed almost drastically when both of them shared bits of their life’s journey while waiting for the other Lamifex members to showed up at the usual place many months ago. From his eyes, Lola is actually funny without even trying, brave enough to own her mistakes and apologises for them too, really caring about the people she loves and cares about—sometimes Max wondering to himself if he’s one of those people, if he could ever be one.

“It’s too early to daydreaming, no?”

Max blinks rapidly, “sorry. Too lost in thoughts.”

“What were you thinking, then?”

You, “nothing.”

Lola crosses her arms while leaning back to her seat, “usually when someone says nothing, it’s actually everything.”

“You’re not wrong,” Max replies, as the corner of his lips is going upward. “Let’s go somewhere else, shall we?”

“Where?” Lola’s eyes and voice are in full alert mode now. If he’s taking her to a rather expensive place again, she swears to God! No matter how she’s having a crush him, there’s no doubt that she’ll throw darts if he dares to do it again.

Wait! A crush on him? On Max?! As in the romantic way? Oh putain! No no no! This is bad! Red flags!

But even though her head screaming no, her feet are following Max’s steps to the place none other than the riverbank of Seine.

“My second favorite place in the whole city. Probably the world too.” Max proudly declares as he stares into the calm river.

“You’re usually coming here, then?”

“A lot, yeah,” he nods, sitting besides Lola. Not too close, yet not too far to touch either. “Maybe the only place that I can make myself to think clearly. It’s even more beautiful at night.”

“I know. Sometimes I’m also going here alone, just because.”

The wind is exceptionally strong today. It makes her hair feels like flying all over the place, slapping her face here and there. When Lola tries to shield the hair from the wind, the next thing she knows, Max puts his usual black snapback on her head and brushes few strands of her hair off of her lips and cheeks, then places them behind the ears. This is the very first time they’re making physical contacts like this, and surprisingly, Lola doesn’t mind it.

As if Max is strucks by lightning, he quickly making a distance between Lola and him; a bit farther this time. He also fully realises that it was their very first physical touch and the last thing he wants is for Lola feeling uncomfortable, even just a slightest bit.

“Why do you sit so far this time?”

Max can’t look at her, “no reason.”

“Thank you for the meal.”

Still can’t look at her, “It was nothing, Lola.”

Something utterly familiar catches his nose, but stronger this time and suddenly feels something touches his right shoulder—it’s Lola’s head. For split seconds, Max is too shocked to comprehend the whole situation; wanted to slaps himself, to make sure that this isn’t a cruel dream but it’s not a dream. Pretty much real. As real as the sun in the sky right now and they’re both basking underneath it.

“You don’t mind me doing this, do you?” Lola asks, slowly without tearing her gaze from the Seine.

“Not at all. Stay as long as you need.”

Lola smiles at this, “I might hurting your shoulder for resting my head too long.”

“I don’t mind.” Max gently replies. His hands are itchy to brush Lola’s... just for a second, or less than that. But he can’t. He doesn’t want to ruin this small precious moment between them, have to control his desire or else, she’s gonna pulls back again.

“By the way, metaphorically speaking of course,” Lola starts to speak again after five minutes being quiet. “If I tell you that I have a crush on you, what would you do?”

“Then I’ll metaphorically answer that I’m flattered and honored.”

Lola doesn’t say anything, but somehow her face looks solemn.

“Can I ask something in return?”

“Sure.”

Max isn’t sure if it’s a good idea, but the hell with that. It’s now or never, “if I tell you that I want to hold your hand, even for a minute or so, what would you do?”

There’s a sudden pause between them again, and Max instantly regretting the things that he said. What a stupid buffoon!

When he’s about to apologise, Lola’s voice stops him.

“Metaphorically?”

“Literally.”

Neither of them knowing that both of their hearts are palpitating and doing flips. Stomach begins to churning, a whole zoo inside it too. Though somehow, someway, both are also managed to stay calm; as calm as the water flow in the Seine. Instead of answering, Lola takes Max’s hand and entwining it with hers. So this is how it feels of finding the the perfect puzzle piece in someone.

“Then I’ll literally gonna answer why it took you so long to ask me that.” Lola says as she rests her head again on Max’s shoulder, who’s now also puts his head on top of hers and inhales its pretty scent.

Both are lost in their own thoughts. Is it going to be a new start of their relationship? Maybe not. Is it going to change almost everything between them? Probably. But those questions about time and other endless possibilities aren’t exactly proper right now. There are only them, the chilly autumn weather, Seine as far as the eyes can see, the warmth of their bodies sitting close and uncertainty of life—and sometimes, it’s all that really matters.

[duncanwrites]

All the books I read in 2020, reviewed in two sentences or less

My 2020 in reading was, naturally, a little strange. I had lots of long pauses, did a bad job of keeping track of everything I read, used an e-reader for the first time, and read more for work than I usually do.

So these may not be in strict chronological order as they usually are, and there may be a few missing, but here’s the list, as per tradition:

Rising Tide - John M. Barry: This history of the Mississippi floods of 1927 and the resulting changes in how the US deals with natural disasters is one of those stories about how politics and personality can become a part of the concrete world, and essential for understanding the racial dynamics of disaster response. Well-told, and worth reading. 

The Consultant's Calling - Geoffrey M. Bellman: A very useful recommendation from a trusted friend that now has a long-term spot in my office shelf. This book isn't only about consulting, it also offers great thoughts about finding your place and impact in organizations in general.

Range - John Epstein: I think Range is the nonfiction book that had the second- greatest impact on my thinking about myself this year (stay tuned for number 1!): I've always approached my professional and political work as a generalist, and for a long time I felt like that approach was leading me to a dead end. Reading this convinced me that I could be effective and even more useful with my fingers in a lot of different pies, and nudged me to keep searching for my most effective place in the movement.

The Accusation - Bandi: A harrowing work of realist fiction from North Korea that shows the toll authoritarian hero-worship takes on the soul.

The Underground Railroad - Colson Whitehead: I found that the quality of The Underground Railroad did not quite match its notoriety. It felt like two books awkwardly joined, where the more grounded approach to the emotional and interpersonal stakes of slavery and freedom was attached to a poorly-explored fantasy device.

Maus - Art Spiegelman: So much more than a book about the Holocaust, Maus is about parents and how pain is handed down between generations.

I Love Dick - Chris Kraus: After a long enough time, it becomes hard to evaluate books that are meant as a provocation as well as storytelling, but even 20 years on, it's not hard to see why I Love Dick brought us so much of the style and voice of feminist writing on the internet. A unique, itchy, sticky piece of work.

Bloodchild - Octavia Butler: Whenever I see an Octavia Butler book in a used book store, I buy it. This collection of short stories is a fantastic example for what transgressive, visionary speculative fiction should aspire to.

King Leopold's Ghost - Adam Hochschild: What I love about this book and the other I've read by Hochschild (Bury the Chains_ is that he very carefully merges deep explorations of systems of violence with the way that they can be undone by the people who participate in them. King Leopold's Ghost is as much about Belgium's murderous plunder of the Congo as it is about the successful global movement against it.

Priory of the Orange Tree - Samantha Shannon: Priory of the Orange Tree is built on a strong foundation, melding Eastern and Western dragon stories into one universe, but couldn't seem to tie all of its threads together in a compelling way by the end.

Desiring the Kingdom - James K. A. Smith: Smith's point about meaning and desire being embedded in every day practices is a valuable one, but I think I may be just too far outside of his target audience of religious teachers and thinkers to get the most out of his explorations here.

City of Brass, Kingdom of Copper, Empire of Gold (The Daevabad Trilogy) - S. A. Chakraborty: This series is exceptional, and some of my favorite books of any kind that I read this year; I certainly think I recommended them more often than anything else I read in 2020. A high fantasy built on Islamic and Arab cultural iconography, the characters are insightfully developed, the world building grows with precise pacing, and the themes of intergenerational trauma, and sectarianism are handled with expert delicacy.

Leadership and the New Science - Meg Wheatley: While I appreciate the effort to apply metaphors developed from scientific paradigm shifts to provoke paradigm shifts of thinking in other areas of work, I think this book strains its chosen metaphors a bit too far to be useful.

The American Civil War: A Military History - John Keegan: I appreciate that there's a value to these kinds of military analyses of conflicts, but I found this book's neutral tone - and sometimes admiring takes - towards the Confederacy off-putting. Two things I did take from it: the outcome of the war was not certain at the beginning, and speed is truly a critical part of winning conflicts.

To Purge This Land with Blood - Stephen Oates: This was the first substantial reading I had ever done about John Brown, and Oates' book made it very clear why he is still one of the American historical figures most worth talking about today. The contradictions, complexities, and unimpeachable truths caught up in his raids are almost too many to name, but I think he is one of the people most worth thinking about when considering what actually changes the world.

Normal People - Sally Rooney: Anyone who denies that this book is anything less than a truly great novel is not telling the truth, or does not actually care about the feelings people feel. It is a work of keen emotional observation, and perfect, tender language, as well as a pleasingly dirty book -- and there is nothing I would change about it.

Conversations With Friends - Sally Rooney: Still a banger, I think Conversations with Friends struggles somewhat to get to its point, and has less of the pleasing depth and ambiguity of Normal People. Still worth your time and attention, I think.

The Glass Hotel - Emily St. John Mandel: I loved Station Eleven, and I can't imagine having to follow it up, and I unfortunately think The Glass Hotel doesn't quite accomplish all it set out to do. It wandered, hung up on a few strong images, but never progressed towards a point that needed to be made, and I finished it feeling underwhelmed.

The Water Dancer - Ta-Nehisi Coates: Coates is an essential nonfiction writer who can turn a phrase to make devastating, memorable points - but I thought his novel failed to do very many of the things that make his nonfiction great.

A Visit From The Goon Squad - Jennifer Egan: Someone once recommended this book to me as a way to study voice in character development - it is certainly that, as well as a brutally efficient window into hope, fame, and aging.

Trick Mirror - Jia Tolentino: The best parts of Trick Mirror show why Jia Tolentino is one of the writers most worth reading today: she knows how to find the experiences and people that wormhole you into dimensions of American culture that you might not otherwise think carefully about. While I think some of the essays in the book are weaker than her usual work, overall it is still terrific, and her essay on Houston rap, evangelical culture, and drugs is one of the best anythings I read all year.

My Dark Vanessa - Kate Elizabeth Russell: I feel like I'm on very shaky ground making any definitive takes about a book like this that is so fundamentally about gendered violence and what it means to be a victim of that violence. But I will say that I think it's important to recognize how power and charisma can be used to make you want something that actually hollows out your soul.

Prozac Nation - Elizabeth Wurtzel: Without a doubt, this is the nonfiction book that had the greatest personal impact on my life in 2020, and I have much longer things I've written about it that I will probably never share. While I've not ever been to the extremes she describes here, Wurtzel describes so many things that I clearly remember feeling that the shock of recognition still hasn't worn off.

The New Jim Crow - Michelle Alexander: In truth, we should all be shaking with rage at the American justice system every single day. This is certainly not the only book to explain why, but it does a particularly good job of explaining both the deep roots, and rapid expansion of the system we need to dismantle.

The Martians - Kim Stanley Robinson: Getting another little taste of the world Robinson built in the Mars Trilogy only made me want to drop everything and read them again. Well-made, but not stand-alone short stories that are worth reading if you've finished the novels and aren't ready to leave the formally-Red yet.

The Wind’s Twelve Quarters - Ursula K. Le Guin: One of the things that makes Le Guin so special is the sparseness of her prose and world building, and her genius is very much evident in her short stories.

Matter - Iain M. Banks: This is the second Culture series book I've read by Banks, and once again I thought it was inventive, satisfyingly plotted, but not so heady to be imposing. A very solid read.

Ogilvy On Advertising - David Ogilvy and Ogilvy On Advertising in the Digital Age - Miles Young: The original Ogilvy on Advertising is  frustratingly smug but at least delivers plain and persuasive versions of advertising first principles. Ogilvy on Advertising in the Digital Age is also frustratingly smug, but is mainly useful as an example of the hubris and narcissism of contemporary advertising executives.

Goodbye to the Low Profile - Herb Schmertz: Schmertz was the longtime public affairs director for Mobil Oil, and in this book he talks about how they worked to manage public debate about the oil industry, without realizing that he's writing a confession. Reading this it is abundantly clear how the oil industry's commitment to making deception respectable led to the collapse of the American public sphere.

The Lean Startup - Eric Ries: I was surprised by how much I liked this book, and wish more people who wanted to start political projects would read it. The Lean method is a way of building organizations that are ruthlessly focused on serving their base of supporters, and evaluate their work against real results - and I think we all could use more of those.

Zero To One - Peter Thiel: Another book that reads like a confession when perhaps not intended to, Zero To One's main point is that the point of building businesses should be to build monopolies, and that competition is actually bad. A great starting point for understanding what's gone wrong in America's tech economy.

The Mother of All Questions - Rebecca Solnit: Of the many things to cherish about Solnit as a writer, the one I needed most when I re-read this book is her ability to gently but doggedly show other ways of imagining the world, and ourselves in it.

Native Speaker - Chang-Rae Lee: I think this is the third time I've read this novel, and the time I've enjoyed it the least: somehow on re-re-reading, the core metaphors became overbearing and over-used, and the plot and characters thinner.

Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller: There are several excellent entries in the sub-genre of classic tales re-told from the perspective of silent women characters, but this is the first I've read re-told from a man's perspective - in this case, the likely-lover of Achilles in the Iliad, Patroclus. While not necessarily a groundbreaking work of literature, it is a very well-executed one that tells a compelling story about how violence can destroy men who carry it out.

Uprooted - Naomi Novik: What makes Uprooted so engrossing is that its magical world feels grounded, and political: magic has consequences for the individuals who use it, and further consequences based on their place in the world. What makes it frustrating is the overwhelming number of things the author has happening in the story, and the difficulty they have bringing them to a conclusion.

[maladaptive-ninja-returns]

Devil’s No 1(8)

Chapter 8: Euphoria

Loki x fem!Reader, Bucky x fem!Reader

Theme: The definitions of devils, angels, demons etc. are twisted here in this world. But some things remain the same.

Series: Will contain violence, death, destruction, softness, fluff, smut, everything that my mind can conjure, really.

Chapter warnings: None… is a kink a warning? Like...voice kink?

A/N: This was written two years ago (I think) on @phantomrose96 ‘s prompt/situation of a shy girl summoning the devil to be friends with him (and something else that he does but I’ll leave that part out for you guys to have fun with). But I- being thirsty for tragedies- twisted things a little.

Word Count: Cold sucks. Itchy throat sucks. Runny nose sucks. Cough sucks. Dusty weather sucks. The inability of my brain to move on sucks. The ability of my brain to create a fucking universe around the person it has a crush on once in like two years SUPER DUPER SUCKS!

MASTERLIST in bio, love. Tags are open

Pic credits: @russian-hiddlestoner​

The non-periodic clatter of cutlery was nowhere near to bringing peace to your otherwise burning heart but the seemingly soulful R&B piece that was faint yet somehow reverberating through this dark place was one tiny corner of solace in the back of your mind.

The darkness...this darkness was supposed to be whole; to help you heighten your senses to the things going on in your immediate surroundings. But you wanted to be a bit farther from them.

“You are quite distant.”

The ice-laden voice rubbing all over your ears made you shudder where you sat. Holy mother of-

“Hm?” You tried to break out of the imagery of those thin corrupt lips running a tangent on the outside of your ears, hoping the Devil still could not read your thoughts.

“I said you are quite distant,” Loki repeated in the dark, forcing you to draw a gulp, “this table is too big. We can barely have a conversation.”

...right. That’s our biggest problem.

“Doesn’t matter,” you mumbled, your hand carefully moving over the table to look for the glass of your cocktail before tackling it out of nowhere- thankfully not spilling it over, “it’s dark and we can barely see anything.”

Taking a sip of limoncello, you heard Loki give out a disgruntled moan.

“Why are we here again?”

Sigh.

So I don’t have to see your face till I decide what to do with you. Or me.

“I don’t know,” you shrugged and rolled your eyes, “this place is said to have the best food and-” you raised your brows at yourself for saying-“ambience.”

“And yet you haven’t eaten anything,” came the quick reply, pausing your fingers wrapped around the glass holding your drink to take the glass further towards your lips.

“I’m not hungry,” you inhaled the words, realising a little late something about Loki’s astute observation. “Wait,” you nearly sat up in your seat, looking straight into the void, hoping you were looking right at him, “you can…see?” The last word was less of a statement but more of a concern filled conclusion to self.

There was a sudden alteration in your senses- a tectonic shift in your being for you felt your head swirl a bit in the space devoid of any light, your dominant hand leaving the drink while the other going over to claw into the edge of the seat you were now apparently dissolving into. It was an uncalled buzz, a feeling of your body free of the shackles of gravity, moving where the wave wanted to take it, and your mind just going with it, seeing a streak of green moving with your eyes like the moon following you wherever you went. The pain running inside your body too was confused by this deviation, trying to find a ground for breeding, only to cocoon itself into a ball in the very centre till it could find something to attach itself to.

And just as you felt your head hit something soft and comfortable in the floating abyss, the green streak stopped short to transform into a pair of eyes in front of you a few feet away.

“I can see, love,” the eyes seemed to purr directly at you as they drew closer, bringing with them a questionably pleasant chill. “I can see, everything.”

The eyes rose up, making you go further into whatever it is you were already lying in. Something soft and cold with an ounce of pure sinistral intentions moved up your bare leg, reverberating your insides with that snake-like movement, making the hairs rise and glow at the roots like the flora and fauna of the night on the beach; or simply put- something straight out of a galactic fantasy.

“I can hear,” the whisper was near as were the eyes that were stripping away layers after layers of your being to stare right into your soul, almost in contact with the last sheet covering the bare minimum. “I can smell,” the whisper resonated as you closed your eyes, your lips parting on hearing that siren voice right next to your eyes before there was a tingle right near the collar, an intake of breath- intake of your ardour. You were exposed even without being naked.

“Loki,” you heard your breath beg before anything could make sense in the mush that was your brain.

Your eyes opened to the same green eyes, but this time, small elliptical pupils lit up in the same hue next to those eyes. One, two, three, four...you lost count till they were popping out everywhere, unwillingly lighting you up your existence where you stood in this endless void.

“I can sense everything.”

Silence.

Wait…

I...I...know this?

In that incoherent silence broken only by the light through those pupils surrounding those dominating pair of pupils, you felt a tinge of familiarity. You had seen something like this before. The same eyes. Similar demeanour. Just a different hue and a lot of different intentions.

Nearly everything was the same except the ones you’d seen before had been purple instead of green.

You moved closer to them, to the pair that controlled them all, bringing your arm forward like a reflex that had been forgotten and had just been taken out from some dusty corner of your brain. Your hand went over to touch the green in that biggest pupil, that was bigger than your physical being right now, feeling a swirling force engulf before everything went dark.

.

Oh, it was such a tease to play with you for Loki. His smallest quip would raise your tiniest of nerves, giving Loki a different kind of high.

Y/N.

He was inhaling your name like the devil’s personal brand of ecstasy. Well, why wouldn’t he? This human was turning out to be quite the drug.

She’s putty in my hands, Loki thought, as he saw you grab your chair when he took your consciousness out to play, your body feeling the euphoria through and through. His high hit another level when he saw your aura being ripped off that muddy layer just as he touched you, visibly lighting up your nerves for him to devour your illuminated beauty through his eyes.

Loki.

His name echoed through your consciousness like a roar of thunder and Loki really had to grasp himself to feel the metaphorical ground after that one exhilarating elation of victory. You were clay in his presence.

And all that was left, was one last shot of fear that he could drink off you before going back to pretending to be your friend for a while. So, he did the tried and tested.

He opened his eyes. All of them. Opening his vision to the dimensions, a mere effort on his part for the lifetime of thrill he was about to get from the screams and torture your soul was going to feel right now.

At least that was what he thought would happen till he saw you look at him- all of him- with unadulterated curiosity before stepping forward to touch him- to be precise, his eyes- making him jolt both of you back into your reality, breaking away every other vine of the devil’s enchantment he had on you, finding both himself and you back at that restaurant.

What in the- 

He took in one long inhale to let his human form come to terms with what just happened. He could see you clutching your forehead while taking the support of the table, trying to bring your still swirling brain back to the three dimensions.

No one in his known existence had ever dared to even walk towards the flaming eyes of the devil, let alone try to touch them.

And you? You had managed to do both.

You had taken the Devil by surprise tonight.

A snap led to the entire hall to be flooded with light- specifically the soft LEDs that graced the walls, hence illuminating the space like on giant cuboid- everyone gasping while the waiters went around shielding their eyes as the night vision aids in front of their eyes suddenly glared up.

You looked around, finding comfort in the light, feeling your feet on the ground- though it was just the tip of your toes that were touching the floor through the sneakers- before your eyes rested on Loki, who had a very strange look in his eyes; the eyes that were dead set on you.

You blinked and looked away before coming back to those green pupils that were still stuck on you.

You looked down at the table, your fingers moving the one ring in your dominant hand round and round in the loop of anxiety before you finally let impulse take over.

“You...um...didn’t touch your food either,” you mentioned, your gaze taking in the platter of lobster served as if it was being presented to royalty.

You could see those green pupils narrow just the littlest before the napkin on his lap was dropped on the table and he got up to straighten his jacket. “We’re done here,” he announced before walking out, leaving you to not-so-meticulously drag out your chair, wobble up on your legs, pick your napkin from the ground and rush out to catch him.

She’s putty in my hands, his own words now mocked him as he tried to make sense of his reality.

You, clearly, were no ordinary human. 

At least not tonight.

[elliedearest]

Believing and Waiting, Waiting In A Room

Pairings: Tony Stark X Reader, Past Steve Roger X reader

Summary: Reader finds herself helping Cap and his team safely leave Wakanda to a SHIELD facility. Steve wants to start over, but all that the reader can think about is those big brown eyes that she left home.

by: bigeyes-redmouth

A/N: Enjoy this really long post. The last one will come up really soon.

If You Missed It: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

You walked into your office, cradling a stack of papers to your chest. Darcy Lewis trailed behind you with a stack similar to you.

Your office was one of your favorite rooms in the Avenger Compound. One of the walls was entirely made of glass and overlooking the gardens that Spider Woman had insisted the compound needed. There were original portraits from Monet, Van Gogh, Picasso scattered throughout the pale blue room; a celebratory gift from Pepper for taking over the management side of the Avengers.

Darcy immediately sank into one of the leather chairs in front of your desk and kicked off her pink Louboutins. She sighed and wiggled her toes before reaching over the desk to take her half of the papers.

“Every time I think I’m done with paperwork, more come piling in,” Darcy said, tying up her hair to better attack her pile. “The US government and the UN really don’t like us, huh.”

You looked at your own pile and couldn’t help mentally agreeing. You were pretty sure you had signed these particular forms at least a dozen times.

“I think it might be time to find a couple of assistants,” you finally said.

Darcy immediately perked up. “I’m so fucking on board. Who do you have in mind?”

“Miss [L/N], Miss Lewis, good morning.”

You and Darcy looked towards the door. King T’Challa stood in the doorway dressed to the nines in a black suit.

Ever since the incident in Siberia, T’Challa had become a welcoming presence in your life. He had offered his services readily when you were appointed the new liaison between the UN and the Avengers and he had been such a great help as you navigated this new scary world. He was calm, thoughtful, and incredibly smart. The perfect ally.

“Your Majesty, what a lovely surprise,” you greeted, rising from your seat, ignoring Darcy’s wiggling eyebrows. She did that to every man that walked into your office. She had even done it to Peter.  And that was- ew. no.

You made it across the room, offering your cheek for the customary greeting when you caught sight of Tony. He stood in the hallway, his face drawn and pale, his mouth in a firm line.

“May I have a moment to speak with you?” T’Challa asked. You caught a hint of worry in his eyes.

“Sure,” you said casually, before turning to Darcy. “Let the Ambassador of Ecuador know that I will be a little late for our meeting.”

Darcy saluted. “Ay, boss.”

You took T’Challa’s offered arm and allowed him to lead you out of your office. Goosebumps erupted all over you as you felt Tony’s gaze on your back.

Tony opened the door of his office, wordlessly gesturing for you to go in. He wouldn’t meet your gaze. 

“Okay, what’s all this about?” You finally burst out once everyone settled into their seats. Well you and T’Challa did. Tony kept to the back of the room. 

“For several months now, I've given sanctuary to Captain Rogers and his team," the king of Wakanda said bluntly.   

Your breath caught in your throat. 

It had been over a year since you and the rest of the world had heard or seen Steve. And now you knew why. 

“T-That’s nice of you,” you croaked out, trying not to fidget in your seat. Tony snorted. 

T’Challa ignored Tony and gave you a simple nod. “I did not lie when I said I believed Captain Rogers was a good man." 

“I believe you.” you said. 

“But last week, Captain Rogers and his team managed to slip out of the palace to help a minor crisis in the Congo and I’m afraid they were spotted.”   

You straightened, your hands clenched tightly in your lap. “How have we not heard anything? FRIDAY would have kept us updated." 

“FRIDAY knew,” Tony finally spoke. You turned around to look at him in disbelief. He shrugged.”I told her to wipe any evidence of them before the media caught it. Rogers has been doing well so far. This is their first mistake." 

“But people saw,” you said slowly, something growing in the back of your mind as if the answer to all your questions was just within reach.   

T’Challa nodded. “People saw and they will not stay silent for long. My own people have become suspicious of the mysterious visitors in the palace and that’s a debacle I would like to avoid." 

“You need our help,” you realized, the lead growing worse in your stomach. 

“No, [Y/N], We need your expertise,” the king said solemnly.

You were curled around the toilet, your sweaty forehead resting on the rim. You didn't want to see them again. You had been doing fine without them -- without him -- for a year now. Why did he have to resurface? 

"If you didn't like the omelette I made, all you had to do was tell me." 

You felt Tony brush your hair off your shoulder before planting a kiss there. You turned immediately, burying your face into his neck.   

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," he said quietly, rubbing your back. You tightened your hold on him. "And I'm sorry you have to do this." 

You breathed in his scent, trying to reel in the rage and heartbreak ramming into your chest. It was like Siberia all over again.   

"Why can't Steve leave things well enough alone?" You muttered. 

Tony let out a humorless laugh. "Because he's fucking stubborn." 

"I hate him." 

"No you don't," he said gently, cupping your face with a sad smile on his face. Your gripped his wrists and shut your eyes. 

"No, I don't," you agreed, wishing that you did.   

"It's okay to still love him." 

Your eyes flew open and you stared at him. He tried keeping a blank face, but it wasn't working on you. You knew him.   

"I don't," you rubbed your thumb against his wrist. "I'm much too happy without him." 

"Really?" 

You smiled at the shine his eyes took. You kissed each of his wrists, lips lingering as his pulse quickened in response.   

"Really," you promised, before breaking away from his hold and helping him to his feet. "Come on, help me suit up." 

It felt strange being back in the suit again. Part of you wished you would have done this mission in your office attire, intimidating them with your four inch heels and solid color dresses, instead of this. The suit felt tight and itchy; unease at this old feeling. Maybe because the last time you had wore it you had been trying to save Tony’s life.   

You politely declined T’Challa's offer to sit with him in the front row, mindful of the way his guards tracked you with their eyes, and sat yourself in one of the back tables, wiping down your weapons. 

There was no need for them for this assignment, but it made you feel better. More in control.   

"Your majesty?" 

You looked up to see one of the flight attendant approaching the young king.  He bent down to whisper in his ear, and with a sharp nod from T'Challa, left just as swiftly. 

"We're landing in 5 minutes, [Y/N]” T'Challa said when he caught your gaze. 

You bit back the panic that was rising against your chest like a thrashing horse and gave a curt nod. You ignored the way he gazed at you and focused on wiping the back end of your ICER.   

It felt much too soon than five minutes as you felt the rumbles of the plane as it landed on the tarmac of the palace. For a nanosecond, you kept yourself seated, your eyes trained on the window and the cloudless blue sky. 

It should be thundering, you thought faintly. 

“[Y/N]?” T’challa spoke, gently placing a hand on your shoulder. You looked up into his concern gaze and gave him a smile.   

“I’m fine,” you said, patting his hand before swiftly standing up and tucking your weapons back into their holsters on the sides of your body. “Just admiring the view. I particularly like the giant Jaguar you have over your lawn." 

He laughed and offered his arm to you, leading you out of the plane and into his palace. His guards kept a respectful distance at the King's side.   

The palace was beautiful. The outside resembled the elegance and commanding power of natural royalty, but once inside, you could see how progress and modernity had seeped into the design of it. It was a perfect metaphor of T’Challa and his new role as king. 

He lead you down a long winding hallway through two sets of staircase made out of ivory, down another hallway, and stopped in front of a guarded door. The man bowed deeply to the king and moved aside, but T’Challa didn’t move. He turned instead towards you. 

“They know they will be moving to another facility, but they do not know who is taking them,” He said, searching your eyes. “Let me prepare them." 

“It’s going to be a shit storm either way,” you said, taking a deep breath to steel yourself. “But you do what you think is best." 

He gave a curt nod and stepped through the door, closing it for a moment.  You couldn’t hear a thing. 

You took several deep breaths, trying to remember the lessons that Bruce had taught you about meditation, and prayed that you didn’t puke or punch someone in the face.   

The door suddenly opened, T’Challa standing beside it with a reassuring look on his face, and you knew it was show time. You stepped through. 

The room was larger than expected. The walls were painted a earthy shade of green and the carpets felt soft under your feet. The double french doors on the other end of the room were wide open, wind and sunlight dancing through. There were comfortable chairs and couches scattered all over the room with a giant screen mounted on the wall. It looked like the ex-Avengers were living quite comfortable.   

“[Y/N]?” Steve spoke, standing in the center of the room with shock and a growing sense of hope across his handsome face. He looked so different from the last time you saw him.   

He was obviously still build the same, his muscles practically bulging against his work-out shirt, but he had grown a full set of beard and a different hairstyle. But more importantly, he looked more tired and sad, his beautiful blue eyes seemed lost somehow. 

“[Y/N]!” Clint cried, rushing from behind Steve and the loose huddle the others had taken and lifted you off your feet. 

“Jesus, Clint!” You squealed, automatically wrapping your arms tightly around his neck. “How many times do I have to tell you not to do this?" 

He twirled you around two more times before setting you down gently. He looked different too. There were more pronounced lines across his face and a weariness in his shoulder that seem to echo among the others.   

But he smiled gently, his familiar warm hands wrapped around your arms. “Hopefully many more." 

It didn’t take long for the others to greet you, their hands brushing against your arms and back, and for a moment you could taste the loss and regret so sharply on your tongue. If only the Sokovia Accords hadn’t been push, if only they had stuck together and talked it out, if only, if only, if only... 

You sucked in a sharp breath and stepped backwards, breaking yourself from the group and back to T’Challa's side. There was no point in thinking of the past. They had made their decisions and so did you. 

You ignored the probing looks, especially from your ex-fiance, and smiled politely. “I’m here to escort you to your new hiding facility so I suggest, if you hadn’t done so yet, to gather your stuff. " 

“Hiding facility?” Sam asked, confusion spreading across his face. “We’re not going back home?" 

The others seem to still. You glanced at T’Challa before slowly shaking your head. 

“You’re still wanted by over 113 countries,” you explained slowly, gauging their reactions. "and the US government is particularly thirsty for your blood. Miss Walker from the Avenger’s Law Department and I have begun the appropriate process to ask for a chance for you all to receive a fair trial at the UN, but until we’re able to submit the paperwork, I’m afraid entering the US is impossible."  

“This is fucking ridiculous,” Clint muttered, turning to kick the nearest chair. Wanda winced and Sam took her hand in comfort.   

“I’ve missed all of my daughter’s events,” Scott said softly, a look of defeat and exhaustion entering his face as he stared at the ground. 

“What if another alien crisis happens?” Steve suddenly spoke, his hands curled into fist against his side. “We can’t just stand by and let it happen. They need us." 

“No, they don’t,” you said, dread filling up your stomach. You knew this conversation was going to come up, but you wished he would have waited. His piercing blue eyes zeroed in on you. “They have the Avengers and they’re perfectly capable of handling another alien crisis." 

“We’re the Avengers,” Clint scoffed. 

“No, you’re not actually,” you said before gesturing towards Steve. “He gave the Avengers to Tony and he gave them to me.  And I replaced you." 

Silence fell across the room. You tilted your head at their horrified and stunned silence. 

“Do you not watch the news?” you asked, “I got new recruits a long time ago. They’re perfectly capable of handling anything the universe will throw at them." 

“They?” Clint asked, his eyes narrowing. “You sound as if you’re not apart of the Avengers anymore." 

You shrugged. “I’m not. I’m in control of management and Public Relations between the Avengers and the UN. It felt more appropriate considering the circumstances we all found ourselves in." 

The silence was painful this time as it fell. Thankfully, T’Challa stepped fully into the room. 

“[Y/N] has been gracious enough to help you navigate into your new home, but as she has mentioned she is a busy woman and I do not wish to take anymore of her time,” he said, with an air of command. 

The others agreed slowly and moved to gather their stuff. Of course, Steve stayed right where he was. His bag flung over his shoulder. Bucky stood beside him like a loyal Labrador.   

You could have almost smiled at the sight of you hadn't felt so nauseous. 

T’Challa placed a hand on your arm, looking at you in concern. You reached up to squeeze his hand reassuringly. You had to face your ghosts eventually.   

“I will be in my office if you need me,” he said lowly, his eyes trained on Steve. 

You also looked at your ex-fiance. Steve was fighting back a scowl, but the white knuckles were a dead-give away. 

“Thank you, your majesty. I’ve got it from here.” you said. T’Challa finally broke eye contact and headed for the door. 

Silence fell.   

Dread filled your body, but you forced yourself to meet Steve’s gaze and it suddenly swung towards Bucky.   

"You're looking better," you commented. He did. His hair was cut short and slicked back, though a few strands still manage to fall across his forehead. His eyes were clear and pain-free, but there was something dark lurking behind his blue eyes, probably something he would always carry with him. He even had a shiny new arm.   

Bucky paused, turning slightly towards to Steve as if asking for permission, before suddenly shrugging, his lips turning into a self-conscious smile.   

"Not being chase does that to a person," he finally replied.   

You snorted and shook your head. You weren't going to step into that land mine.   

"How are you?" Steve asked, sounding a little breathless. You tried not to wince at his earnestness.   

"I'm doing well thank you," you said stiffly, mentally wincing at how awkward this all was. "I wasn't aware that you were living here."  

"Tony wasn't keeping an eye on us?" Steve asked, the corner of his mouth curving up.   

"He was," you said, shifting your feet. "He just never told me." 

Steve seem to curve into himself as if your ire and disappointment were directed at him. But it wasn't. It hadn't been for the longest time. Bucky placed a hand on his shoulder in support.   

“How is he anyway?” Steve said, shoulders straightening back up again as if he was preparing to get hit. It would have made you smile if it weren’t for the question.   

“Fine,” You said in a clipped tone, your skin vibrating, ready to go as far away from them as you could, T’Challa and the UN be damned, you weren’t going to let them hurt Tony, even if by mouth alone. You met his hurt gaze head on. 

“[Y/N], It’s been y-“ Steve began. 

“Can we go now?” You interrupted as you noticed Sam and Scott hovering by the doorway, knowing that meant the others weren’t far behind. “I have a meeting with Prince William and Prince Harry in a couple of hours and I’d rather be presentable and functioning.” 

“Look at you,” Clint spoke up as the rest of them filed back into the living room. He stood the closest to you, his beat-up duffle bag thrown over his shoulder, and smiled down at you. “I thought I’d never see the day you'd wear the power suit.” 

You ignored Steve’s puppy face and shrugged, smiling back. It had always been easy with Clint. “Yeah me neither, but I kind of like it. It provides a challenge.” 

“You did always like a challenge,” Clint said with a little shove at your shoulder.

You let out a little laugh. 

“Well,” you said after a moment, clapping your hands together and gazing at the small group. It hurt your heart to see their familiar faces, wanting nothing more to go back to how it use to be, but you knew that would never happen. There had been too much blood shed and betrayal for things to ever go back. “Everyone hold on to each other, like a huddle.” 

“Isn’t that draining for you?” Steve asked, from a little to your right. Thankfully, Bucky had decided to stand next to you. You shook your head. 

“Even though I’m not an official Avenger anymore, I've been practicing evacuation techniques with the team,” you said, placing both of your hands above the pile and concentrating on the secret facility. “You never know when things can go sideways.” 

“Amen to that,” Sam said.   

With out another word, you teleported them to their new hideout. You bit back a smile as they gazed in awe. It looked like an underground hangar; sleek and black with invisible white lights decorating the walls and ceilings like a frame. Military airplanes and cars were lined up like soldiers as men and women ran around in green jumpsuits.   

Phil Coulson approached you quietly with a small smile, his black suit pressed and neat as always. The others hadn’t noticed yet.   

“Everything good at your end?” He asked quietly. You nodded. 

“For the most part, We’re still fighting the council from trying to reveal Spider man and Hawkeye’s identity,” You said quietly, keeping an eye on the fugitives. “But it’s slowly turning to our favor.” 

“Let us know if you need any help,” Phil said.   

You smiled at him. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

Phil gave a nod before straightening up. It was show time.  “Welcome to our new facility.” 

You could barely keep back a snort at the utter shock and disbelief from the team at the sight of the man next you. The amusement faded at the sight of Clint’s pale and anguished face. He took a step forward, his hand outstretched as if he needed to make sure Phil was real. Phil allowed him to, his face open and soft.   

“How are you-“ Clint’s voice trembled, his knuckles white as he gripped the lapel of Phil’s suit. 

For a moment, Phil’s face darken before smoothing out. He wrapped his hand around the younger man’s wrist. “Fury thought it prudent not to lose his right hand man.”   

Clint let out a string of curses, his blue eyes as hard as diamonds. Phil said nothing, but stared up at him impassively.   

You met Steve’s own hard gaze and you could practically hear what he was thinking: the safest hand will always be our own. You stared back at him, hoping that your own message was understood: Not a chance. 

Clint finally relaxed, letting go of Phil, but stood closely at his side. Steve stepped forward and shook Phil’s hand. 

“It’s good to have you back, Coulson,” He said firmly.   

Phil smiled politely before turning his attention to the rest of the group. 

“T’Challa and [Y/N] have informed us of the situation and we will happily open our doors for you until you have gone to trial.” 

“Where is here?” Scott spoke up, his hand raised like a little kindergartner. You rolled your eyes though you did find it a little endearing.   

“You are in one of SHIELD’s hidden facility,” Phil said, gesturing around. He explained the lay outs and what he and the Director would expect from them. You weren’t fond of the new Director, but he was much more straightforward about what he wanted from you than Fury ever was.   

You pulled out your phone and checked the time. You had a couple of hours before your meeting which meant you had enough time to pop over to Tony’s lab and surprise him with lunch. A snapchat from Peter popped up over your lock screen. You clicked it open and couldn’t help chuckle at the sight of an upside down Peter making a duck face behind a scolding Tony and a sad Dum-E.   

“Time for you to go?” Steve asked. You looked up startled, not realizing that everyone had dispersed from the hangar, probably to their rooms. But of course, Steve would stay. 

“Yeah,” you said, putting away your phone. There was silence for a moment. You watched him as he shuffled his feet, trying to meet your gaze but failing. For a moment, it felt like you were right at the beginning, at the old SHIELD facility, and he was standing right in front of you nervously awaiting an answer to his desires. You felt a sharp pain over your heart. “I have people waiting for me.” 

He oh’d, his hands on either side of him, his duffle bag at his feet. 

“Well, I’m gonna go,” you said, jerking a thumb over your shoulder. “Tell everyone to hold on tight.” 

You closed your eyes, already thinking of the warmth of your home, Kate and Peter’s bickering, and Tony’s brown eyes. 

“Wait!” You felt hands on your arms and your eyes flew open. Steve stood incredibly close, his face set in determination. Your heart fluttered. Though from fear or something else, you weren’t sure. 

“I can’t let you walk away without saying anything,” Steve said desperately, his hands tightening a fraction. You bit back a gasp, your heart thundering against your chest. You didn’t want to listen to this. “I’m still in love with you. I know, I know, I shouldn’t be saying anything, everyone has warned me against it, but after seeing you again, seeing you exactly the same and yet so different, I couldn’t help myself. 

“I love you so much, it hurts [Y/N],” Steve confessed, his blue eyes wide and sad and desperate and it kept you captive. “If I would have known that I would lose you, I would have signed the damn papers then and there. Please, please, don’t shut me out. I don’t know what I would do.” 

“I don’t know what you want from me,” you said slowly, staring at the hands that still clutched you. Your skin tingled at the proximity and the strength of his desperation and hope.   

“Take me however you want,” Steve said immediately. You looked up at him in surprised. 

“Steve…” 

“I know I can’t expect you to love me anymore,” he interrupted, a trembling hand reaching out to gently brush against your cheek. You fought to hide the shiver running through your spine. “But please don’t ask me to stay without you. I’ll be a friend or an acquaintance or even another faceless puppet you have to deal with, but just let me be near you.” 

You pulled away as the final words reached you, your eyes wide as you shook your head. This wasn’t a Steve Rogers you were familiar with and it made you sick with sadness and pity that you had somehow turned him into this. Or maybe he had always been heading that way if he hadn’t had found Bucky and lost you.   

“Steve, I can’t ask you to do that,” you finally said, wrapping your arms around yourself. “That would be cruel and as much as I hate what you did, I wouldn’t just give you scraps of my affection like some stray dog.” 

“But I hurt you,” he said quietly. You ignored that for a moment and studied him. The years on the run really did take a toll on him. Or maybe it was the guilt. A sudden urge to know, to speak, clawed its way up your chest and throat.   

“You hurt Tony, Steve,” you said equally as quiet, never taking your eyes off him, no matter how it burned to be under Steve’s gaze. “Do you not regret that?” 

“Everyday,” he said immediately. 

“Really?” You said pausing for a moment. “Or was his feelings never into consideration until I nearly killed you for it?” 

Steve searched your eyes, a sudden hopelessness gathering on his face. You sighed and for a moment, you desperately wished to be in the arms of your lover.   

“I loved you so so much,” you whispered, squeezing your eyes shut. “It took me months to try to stop the gaping hole you left in my chest and then this happens.” 

For a moment, neither of you said anything. Just the noise of engines moving and shutting down. You opened your eyes and look up at him. He looked absolutely wrecked. 

“I think I’m still a little in love with you, Steve,” you finally confessed, trying to ignore the sudden hope that burned through his irises and fight the tears that were aching to burst out of you, "but that’s not enough.” 

“Why?” He asked desperately, taking a hold of your hand. “Why isn’t it? If there’s even a little hope that we can work this out, then why can’t we try again? [Y/N], please, I-“ 

“It’s because I’m in love with someone else,” you blurted out. 

You watched in horror as Steve froze; his face losing color before it crumbled. You couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. You knew you should have never come here. You should have fought harder, put your foot down when T’Challa and Tony tried to convince you that this was the right thing.   

He ducked his head, keeping his face hidden. “Who?” 

You tried taking your hand away from him, but he only tightened his hold. “Steve, don’t do this.” 

Steve finally looked up, his eyes bloodshot and puffy. You winced. “Please, just tell me who.” 

“No.”   

He stared at you, his eyes searching your face, before he dropped your hand. “I love you, [Y/N], I’ll always love you.” 

You took a couple of steps back, clutching your hands tightly to your chest and transported yourself away.

Bright lights blinded you for a moment. You heard the bots whirling in surprise, dropped tools and two voices echoing the same curse. 

You blinked rapidly; white and black spots blinding your vision with every blink until your vision cleared and saw Tony standing in front of you with a worried look. Peter stood in the back with an identical look. It was all you needed. 

You burst into tears; throwing yourself into Tony’s arms. He immediately drew you closer. 

“It’s alright, sweetheart, it’s alright,” he said, tucking your head against his chin. You felt little kisses on your crown and hairline, his callus hands rubbing circles against your back. 

You sobbed harder, feeling like you were somehow at square one.

[apparitionism]

Road 5

Lixiviation is a process in which a solvent is applied to a solid mixture in order to extract the soluble part of that mixture; your goal might be to obtain the soluble part, which dissolves in the solvent, or the leftover insoluble part. Percolation and leaching refer to the same thing, but I like “lixiviation,” as a word, because it evokes its Latin root, which is related to liquid and liquidity—different connotations than the other two. Anyway, it’s a useful metaphor in lots of contexts, and I tried for a while to use it in this part. I tried to get a lot of different ideas to work here, and most of them didn’t. What survived all the cuts may not work either, but I’ve spent way too much time already on the succession of minutes that make up this part. Probably part 1, part 2, part 3, and part 4 also. Anyway, if you feel like it, keep lixiviation in the back of your mind.

Road 5

They aren’t ten minutes from the airport when the engine hinks out a warning, a rumble that Myka registers but doesn’t process. Then it coughs, gently, a little artful Victorian consumptive pant, as if into an embroidered handkerchief. Then it stops entirely.

Myka tries not to swear. That belongs elsewhere too. But when she has got the Infiniti on the side of the highway, when she has got it stopped and safe and she is sitting there capable of only the barest rational thought, she utters a purposeful “what the amen fuck.”

She’d had a sergeant, late in her second tour, use that as his daily morning hail, the pronunciation leaving no doubt about his Alabama roots, right down to the ay-men. The proper response had been “Great day to be an American.” No matter what that morning was the morning-after of.

Helena does not give the proper response. Instead, she reaches over and takes Myka’s hand. “You were right,” she says.

“Are you trying to be funny? It broke down.”

“Not about that.” She nods at the jagged horizon. “You said it’s beautiful here, and you’re right.”

The sun idles behind the mountains, changing them to volcanoes.

Myka says, “So many different sunsets. For us, I mean. Desert, beach, mountains.”

Helena doesn’t say anything. She holds Myka’s hand until the fire in front of them fades.

****

In response to a text from Myka, Alicia arrives in the tow truck. It takes her a beat to notice Helena emerging from the sedan, but Myka can mark the exact moment of that noticing, because Alicia whistles. Then she says, to Myka’s mortification, “I bet you’re Myka’s hardcore stalker who’s good in bed.”

Helena turns to Myka and demands, “Do you collect oversharers?” She then focuses on Alicia. “And what conditioner do you use on your hair?”

“I don’t think it would work for you.” But Alicia’s eyes take on a little squint of calculation, and she raises a hand like she might be going to take her glove off and test that dark gloss.

It’s ridiculous: it’s only the idea of someone else—and Alicia, at that, Alicia who has no interest—touching Helena’s hair. That’s all it is, and as something that provokes a bodily awakening, it’s certainly no “tale of asking other women for sunscreen.” But Myka is mortified again: one sting of that idea, and now some itchy carnal toxin is perfusing its way through every one of her vessels and veins.

Helena seems oblivious to Myka’s distress; she is busy telling Alicia, with odd regret, “That is most likely true. But I will say that your braids are lovely.”

“Hey, Myka, your hardcore stalker says my braids are lovely. You could notice, once in a while.”

“I’m not listening to either one of you,” Myka maintains, to cover this embarrassing onset. “I’m hooking up the tow.”

Alicia tells Helena, “She loves to hook up the tow—the wheel brackets. She’s not a cute person, right? But it’s the cutest thing.”

Helena says, “It certainly seems idiosyncratic.” She moves, with apparent disapproval, to stand over Myka.

Myka maneuvers the brackets into place around the passenger-side front tire and tries not to react, other than to say, to the tire, “I like hydraulics. Leave me alone.”

“I like you. And I don’t believe I will leave you alone.”

Alicia, leaning against the truck, watching and not helping, says to Myka, “This is not the kind of girl I thought you’d be into.”

“This is not the girl I was originally into,” Myka tells the tire.

“You aren’t the girl I was originally into either,” Helena points out.

Myka points out right back, “You weren’t originally into me at all.” She stands up. Keeps looking down at the tire, now bracket-ensconced.

“That’s true,” Helena says.

Alicia remarks, “That part I get.”

But as Alicia speaks, Helena murmurs to Myka, “and I’m sorry for that,” and then she is pulling Myka toward her into a kiss, one that Myka is astonished to find herself first not warding off, then not stepping out of. This touch of lips is new, softer, like Helena knows that the kiss is a surprise and so is Myka’s stunned willingness to participate in it. Like Helena is in fact stealing the kiss, from whatever version of Myka would not have volunteered it. The kiss has the additional surprising effect of both stoking the want and making it easier to bear—and it is as if Helena knows that too.

As Myka regains her awareness of a world that is not Helena’s mouth on hers, Alicia is shaking her head and saying “...during that blizzard in ’97”—no doubt a pronouncement on this unprecedented sight. Unprecedented, like a three-feet-of-snow-in-twenty-four-hours blizzard in anybody’s lifetime. And everybody knows what everybody was doing during that blizzard in ’97, thanks to the baby boom nine months later.

Alicia drives the truck back. Helena sits next to her, in the middle of the bench seat, and they have a detailed discussion of how careful Alicia has to be about her nails, even with the gloves. “Not like Myka. She’d just reach in and yank a plug,” Alicia says, and Helena responds, “I’m sure she would.”

Myka sits scrunched up against the passenger-side window and watches her breath fog the glass.

At the garage, everything is routine, but for the shine that Helena’s presence lends to it all. Myka and Alicia let the car down and untether it—and Alicia seems to delight in explaining each step to Helena as they accomplish it. Inside, Manny is still there, and “Manny, this is Helena,” Myka says, like she was always going to be saying that today. Manny takes a step away from the SUV in his bay, but before he approaches, he empties his mouth of tobacco. Myka finds this unexpectedly moving. Courtly, despite the fact that he leaves his hat on as he shakes Helena’s hand and says “hey.”

He and Alicia leave soon after that, which they must have been getting ready to do even as Myka was sending her “need a tow” text. That means Manny waited on purpose for them—and that seems courtly too, even though Myka would bet it happened because Alicia spent some time telling him a story titled “Here’s Why Myka Forgot to Check That Gas Cap.” Manny likes to pretend he doesn’t have a curious bone in his body, but he grew up on telenovelas—he appreciates a plot twist. Those usually happen in Alicia’s life, though, and Myka’s not sure how to feel about taking the starring role in this particular episode.

Alicia, on her way out, says to Helena, “Hasta, stalker.” These gleeful words make Manny run through the fuller version of the cap tic: hat off, other hand through gray buzz cut, hat on. It’s not a laugh, but it’s close.

“They seem very nice,” Helena says when she and Myka are alone.

“They’re good with the cars,” Myka says. Dispassionate, even as her blood is beating alone alone alone.

“That’s delightful to know. They also seem very nice.”

“Yeah. Manny basically couldn’t care less—well, not out loud—and Alicia’s an oversharer, like you said. But yeah.” Myka starts her closing-up ritual: checking locks, storing supplies. Placing tagged keys on hooks. Double-checking each tag. She is aware enough to know that she is keeping herself, and most importantly her hands, busy—a cousin, she thinks, of Helena’s year-ago physical indecision.

“What happens now?” Helena asks.

What Myka should say is, “Now I fix a car,” because she’s got one right there in the back, broken in some way she could expend a lot of effort diagnosing. A lot of hands-busy time. What Myka does say is, “Well, you checked out of your hotel. And you missed your plane. So I guess you’re coming home with me.” The right attitude to take toward that might be joy, or it might be terror, but Myka hews, in the moment, to pragmatism: Helena is coming home with her. It’s a fact like any other fact.

Nothing dramatic happens when they do get to Myka’s house, though Myka spends the entire drive—in her own truck, which thank god is making its right sound—expecting a lightning strike, or an overturned semi releasing terrified chickens onto the roadway, or some other sign. She wouldn’t be able to interpret it, but it would at least be a sign. Instead, she finds herself carrying Helena’s roller bag inside. Finds herself turning around to be startled by Helena here in this space, exotic against a background long faded to drab.

Finds herself asking, “Have you had anything to eat?” When Helena shakes her head, Myka says, “You should eat. I’ll heat something up.” Wear sunscreen, eat food. Look for animal tracks, call me if the car breaks, get some sleep, rehydrate. If she is handing out shoulds? Then she herself should stop telling Helena what to do. Should have stopped a year ago. Should have kept from starting. “But only if you want me to,” she amends.

“That would be fine,” Helena says.

So Myka’s hands get to be busy again, now with a pan, the stove, bowls, because the best she has on hand is turkey soup in Tupperware in the refrigerator. Farther from Essaouira she could not get.

They eat together, and they drink beer, because that and diet soda are all Myka has, and Helena says she doesn’t prefer soda. She says it just that way: “I don’t prefer soda.”

That’s how it goes, like anybody’s evening at home, one in which they dwell on banalities that they had no time for—that were irrelevant—in north Africa. Helena doesn’t prefer soda. Myka crumbles saltine crackers into her soup, and Helena judges this both charming and barbarous. They discover that they have been taught wildly divergent “proper” ways of utilizing soup spoons.

Myka has no idea whether she is on fire or under anesthesia.

“This is quite good,” Helena says, setting down her spoon. “Did you make it?”

“No. Manny did.”

Helena’s head tilts. “Manny makes your food?”

“Not just Manny. Do you know why I fix cars?”

“Because you enjoy it? You seem to enjoy it.”

“I do. But also,” and Myka accepted long ago that she would always be admitting this, or demonstrating it, “I’m terrible at everything else.”

“Everything?”

That question drags in its wake a languid aspect that Myka begins to bend toward, but she says, “Just about.”

“So other people make your food for you.”

“Not always. I don’t ask them to. Manny for example tends to make extra. Since his wife left.”

Helena’s head moves—another tilt. A question.

“It’s not a story,” Myka tells her. “It’s just what happened.”

And Helena’s head moves once again, like she might pursue it, but instead she nods a such things happen nod. She looks into her bowl.

Myka asks, “Was that enough? Are you still hungry?”

“That was fine.”

Myka could stand up and busy her hands again: clear the table, wash the dishes, re-Tupperware the soup that remains in the pot. But sitting at this table, sharing these trivia, has created a thickness between them, something so substantial that dust might settle on it. Movement might frighten it away, so instead, Myka asks, “Do we need to... talk?”

“We talked a great deal yesterday.”

“We did.”

“Do you know what I realized? During that great deal of talking yesterday?”

“I honestly can’t”—Helena’s hand reaches out to hers, through the heaviness, and of course that’s the one right movement, a stroke of thin skin on thin skin, light and cool and interrupting. “Can’t. Can’t imagine,” she finishes.

“Your voice differs slightly from my memory of it.”

“So it wasn’t me telling you all those things anyway?”

“Perhaps that was sea-level you,” Helena says, and the words might be a joke, but her tone does not reveal it.

Myka swallows a low laugh anyway. “You think it’s the altitude?”

“Sea-level you then. Mile-high you now.” She smiles a sly little curve, like she’s caught Myka in the difference.

“We’re higher than that,” Myka informs her.

“Are we?” Helena asks. She stands and walks around the table, as if Myka has said “come here.” She offers her hand to Myka and pulls her up out of the chair, and then they are standing together, as they might have done a year ago, but now they are regarding each other, no desert or shoreline in sight. No sunset with its impersonal, grand beauty is here to take on any of the weight. There is only Helena, beauty nearly as grand but concentrated, sending Myka wishes-and-wants higher, proximity-and-pheromones deeper, and her bedroom is down the hall. Her head is light, and her body is heavy. High and low, she could pull on this hand holding hers, pull hard, all the way down the hall.

Could. Should? “What if this”—and Myka first intends “this” to mean this thick and thin thing between them, intends to ask something like “isn’t real?”, but she changes her mind, pushes the question in a different direction, two different directions, toward and away from that room down the hall and all its consequences—“is the worst thing we could do?”

“Then you need to take me back to the airport. Right now.” The pressure of her hand on Myka’s doesn’t change, but whatever meaning this hold of a hand conveys is expanding.

Myka raises the hand that Helena is not holding and touches the scarf, still doing its job, still protecting. “There aren’t any flights out, this time of night,” she says.

“So what you are saying is that it is too late.”

Decisions, and when we make them. What we make them about. “What did you really come here for?”

“To find out. To see.” She sighs, and Myka would ask “see what?”, but Helena is already going on, “See whether any of it was real.” She is a mind-reader. “A year ago I could see nothing through my grief. Only vague outlines: you said it yourself, that I wasn’t present. I looked on as someone else acted.”

This hurts Myka in a way she doesn’t want to examine but can’t quite turn away from. “Even when we—” she starts, and she might be trying to twist a knife deeper into herself.

Helena interrupts, again reaching into Myka’s thoughts, “Except for my wanting you, when I hadn’t wanted anything. The terror of it.”

Terror—and Myka is reminded of Helena’s “Do you think it took nothing for me to come here?” from last night, how much all of this has to have cost Helena, every step, every choice. “You came here anyway,” Myka says.

“I did.” She smiles, eyes and all. “And here I stand with you, rewarded. Incidentally, you should know that I was telling you the truth last night as well. About my motives: I did want to make sure you were all right.”

Myka moves her hand up from the scarf to Helena’s hair. Its length embraces her fingers; her blood jumps. And that is very real. “I can be. When I can look to the next minute and see that it’s taken care of, that it isn’t going to be a disaster.”

“Let me take care of the next minute. It will be no disaster. Please, let me.”

The next minute is slow and strange, like some dream of a year ago: Helena is touching Myka’s clothing, manipulating its surfaces with those familiarly busy hands, but it is present-Helena doing so, here in this wrong, dream-weird space. In the real, year-ago version, Myka had taken these actions as signifying only hesitancy, but now, with what might be dream-logic, she rereads them: then and now, these movements were, these movements are, Helena making sure of something she already knew, already knows. Not occupying or distracting herself; instead, readying herself.

Helena leans to Myka’s ear. “I can feel your body thinking. Under my hands. About the next minute?”

“About you. About everything I got wrong.” About how many times she has had to double back, on Helena’s tracks and her own.

In answer, Helena kisses her, a taste high and bright, and that is the next minute. And the next: Helena says, low and grounding, “Not wrong. Not always right, but not wrong.”

And so to the next minute, and the ones after that, as Myka begins to uncover the answers to her questions about Helena’s present body, encouraged by Helena’s own hands. She takes the beautiful opportunity to remove that protective scarf, to begin to navigate terrain that is both familiar and new—terrain that is always both familiar and new. Bodies share features, processes, but each body differs from every other, and each body differs from itself, from one minute to the next. Sickness, health. Age. Reconstructing all the differences that have come before, via traces: wrists, once starved to sticks, rarely rethicken; skin etches itself with straiae to document the swell that accommodates new life. The body records. For future reference.

All that is written on Myka’s outer body is a scar at the top of her right biceps. The buried, mutating evidence of repeated sunburns will no doubt unearth itself over time, but for now, that scar is her only physical testament of what happened. It is so small. Two inches long. Insufficient. Embarrassing.

Helena had kissed that scar, a year ago, and Myka had thought it accidental—her lips were everywhere, so there too. But now she kisses it deliberately, as if reuniting with a friend.

Myka’s entire body is reinterpreting Helena’s year-ago actions, down to the tight grip of her arm, relentless now as it was then. How could she have failed to know, then, that Helena was driving some new magic into being?

It’s Myka’s turn, this time, to break against Helena, and it’s not at all poetic; there’s no moving ocean outside the window to show her how. Yet Helena smiles as it happens, and all Myka can find as a response to this new, unbounded smile is some echo of last night’s stupefied you are saying so many words.

A thousand other things will happen, but they won’t be this.

But what is this?

This is a physical process that is just like any other, for human bodies are nothing but engines. In place of intake, compression, power, exhaust, over and over, here presynaptic terminals are stimulated, motor neurons release acetylcholine, myofilaments slide, muscle fibers contract.

This is a physical process that is unlike any other, for it transubstantiates all of the body’s details and systems and signals into a philosophy—a verb that connects I and you.

This is a physical process that Myka fears the labor of turning back into details and systems and signals. Numbered instructions and lists. Neurons, acetylcholine, myofilaments.

For she can see the next minute, and the next, and the thought of exiling herself from such new beauty is intolerable. But even as she is inside those minutes, she is outside them, asking what about the hours? Will there be empty future hours, hours that she will have to relearn how to fill, now that Helena has come inside and lain here and smiled?

In the middle of the night:

Myka opens her eyes, unsure whether her breath is moving out or in. Or at all.

“...new clothes,” her ear feels a voice—a real voice, Helena’s voice—say. Her shoulder recognizes the stroke of a real hand, Helena’s hand. Down, up, down, up, down, up: a palliative repetition.

“What,” Myka rasps, her throat arid.

“You were making noises. Straining to speak,” Helena says. “Forget that dream, whatever it was. Forget it and sleep.” The drag of her hand resumes. “The little match girl. The princess and the pea, the red shoes. The snow queen.” She pauses. “The steadfast tin soldier.” She pauses again. “The story of a mother.” She breathes. “The fir-tree. Thumbelina. The ugly duckling. The nightingale.”

The nightingale; its song. An Emperor’s tears. The real bird displaced by one mechanical, predictable. Yet when the Emperor languishes, only the song of the real sways Death to surrender his prize and depart.

In the morning:

Myka watches as Helena awakens. Her opening eyes are not at all red. Against the white of Myka’s own sheets, her skin is pale and uniform, as if the sun now chooses to shine upon both sides of her—all of her—with equal, respectful delicacy.

Myka lets her hands impersonate the sun.

The next minute. And the next.

TBC

[makesomethingeveryday2k17-blog]

{JANUARY 11, 2017}

THE TWO-BACKED CREATURE

There is a fine line, a line that lies somewhere I’m not sure of That divides passion. Into beautiful, safe passion, And reckless, dangerous passion. Our passion was both beautiful and reckless But a two-backed creature has no eyes to see the danger in that.

From the height at which I now stand, looking down On the canyon of our six-month sojourn I see the sharp rocks that were always there. They crowd my vision, make me cry, “Fool!” Who would jump into that place When the risk was so obvious?

But between those stones grew strange flowers, Soft and white-petaled, The tenderest, most delicate structures. I could cup my hands around them Breathe on them gently And believe I was nurturing their growth.

I really thought I could grow them strong enough To bury the rocks in wreaths of blossoms.

In the beginning, when all was new I could send you a message: “I wish I was sleeping next to you” And in twenty minutes, you’d be there Next to me

We pressed each other as close as possible Clothes removed, squeezed tight Desperately trying to make all our surface areas touch “I want to hold you so tightly that we just fuse together,” You would say, “Then we would become some strange, two-backed creature.”

The days slipped into nights into days No one would hear from me, where was I? What was I doing? And, more importantly, why didn’t I at least call? Under the hazy spell of your presence I lost track of all time.

Your hands never touched me with uncertainty Instead they explored me with confident expertise Methodical experimentation and revision upon feedback, without apology I would moan or command things that make me blush to remember them in the light of day I asked you to treat me like an instrument, to do whatever you wished with me I trusted your choices of action Believing that you had mine, or at least our, best interests at heart.

You gave me glimpses of the brilliance of your mind, The mathematical precision of your thoughts. You saw a world that I did not, but you described it to me, Enthralled me with the the clarity of your observations. Everything around me reducible to specific molecular phenomena, Formulas and logical proofs. You opened my eyes to the stories that exist in every moment, The constant ever-unspooling of events on atomic levels And I got dizzy by the beauty of it all.

But to really explain you, how do I delineate the two parts of you, The logical and the emotional?

In the mornings when I awoke before you, getting dressed for work I would see you curled in my bed, asleep, peaceful My heart would swell with love And I’d snap a picture--I couldn’t help myself. I’d shyly show you later, calling myself a creep But you were flattered You told me no one ever had wanted to look at you so much before.

I tried to grow flowers to cover all the rocks. But how could I fix all of the things that had happened before I came?

Your brain was too much for you to bear sometimes, you said You needed to mute it, to a degree I understood this; I rarely begrudged you it. At times I was persuaded to do the same. But I did it for fun. Being alone with my unmuted brain is not excruciating to me As it was to you.

In East of Eden, Una Hamilton fell in love with a scientist He was described much like you--serious, singular in his pursuits Ruthlessly following a trail of steps to reach his end goal, An invention: Color film. She fastened herself to him like I did you, Went north with him while he worked And Una came home in a casket with broken hands and feet

You too broke me again and again, Every day, demanding sacrifices of me You ordered me to give up everything else I had known Everything else I had loved, To surrender my privacy and my own force of will All for you.

In the end, we became what you wanted. A fusion of two people, but a useless one. Two-backed, with no sight or senses, We stumbled over the rocks, Crashing and bleeding on the sharp corners, While the flowers were trampled underfoot.

***

THIS is the most intimate and personal thing for me to share. It makes me nervous to share it, but I want it OUTSIDE OF ME, finally.

I started writing this poem months ago, trying to deal with the emotional aftermath of a very bad relationship. I could never bring myself to finish it--never sure what to include, trying to make it less ugly, trying to give some sense to it.

I’ve been doing some boring “housekeeping” stuff for the beginning of the semester, including organizing/cleaning out files on my computer. I looked at this today and decided it needed to be dealt with.

I still get sad about the events related to this. It was definitely the worst thing that happened to me in my life, and even though it’s been a year and a half, there are still days when I’m filled with inexplicable grief, disgust, or the idea that I’m somehow “broken” and unfit for future relationships. I never know how to share these feelings with other people or get any relief from them. I feel like they’re ugly to talk about, and I worry about judgment.

But the wound has healed almost completely. It’s like a tender spot with a scab on it that I’ve been leaving alone--but the scab is itchy and bothering me, and it’s time for it to flake off and show me how bad the scar is (GOD don’tya love my gross metaphors).

There is enough temporal distance, and enough physical distance, between myself and all those things that I suppose I feel safe enough to open up a little bit. I know the human experience is a shared one, and I can think of so many times that other people talking about their own problems made me feel less alone. I also would rather be honest and open, no matter how scared I am.

Apart from that, I just wanted this stupid poem finished, banished from my lingering to-do’s. I wrapped it up today, and decided that part of “making something” could include an audio recording. I like going to poetry readings, so consider this an internet form of a poetry slam.

Keep fighting the good fight, friends.