#for reasons i cannot put into coherent sentences right now- just know i am deeply overwhelmed with emotions (positive)

[lifemod17]

sending this way earlier than i usually would because snuck outside and caught the most beautiful sunrise i’ve seen

that looks UNREAL oh my goodness??!!

Please know I'm making a stank face as I look at this. You know the kind of stank face you make when you hear a really gnarly, nasty guitar riff? Yeah, that one.

[jungstruly]

From Eden || Lee Jeno

Disobedience, the first sin on mankind.

WORD COUNT 2.4k

GENRE Romance, Demon!Jeno AU

WARNING/S Religious undertone, Suggestive

NOTE Hello, I am back from my hiatus! Here is a peace offering for you all lmao. Thank you so much my lovely @scissorhands1617 for taking the time to read & edit my work! I love you my cute lil froggie úwù. Happy reading! Also, read at your own risk. Even I kept on blushing while writing Devil!Jeno ;)

The tree was calling your name. It rang in your ears like a captivating enchantment, whispering your name and telling you to come. A hymn that you cannot tune out that starts from the rise of the sun ‘till the dead of the night. You tried everything that you can to block it from your senses. You divert your attention to the clouds at noon even frolic in the river with your favorite animals to pass the time. And even tasted every fruit that this huge garden can offer. Except one, of course.

The only tree up the small hill that you were prohibited to do so. You were told that you are allowed to eat anything. Anything but that tree’s fruit. The both of you were instructed to do so without even telling the reason why and it bugged you deeply. You tried to bury it at the back of your mind.

But the more you resist, the more your curiosity heightens. Your desire devours every inch of you. You felt like it was going to kill you any time soon. If one cannot answer your simple why then, it is a matter of time ‘till you figure it out yourself.

The untouched green grass prickles your bare feet but you could care less. The tree was just few feet up from you. Your mouth gets drier with every step. It quirks up as you look behind you. With two shaking pupils, you glance to where you left your sleeping companion just across the river bend. Sure enough, his eyes screw shut in a deep slumber. It was now or never.

Sure, the garden in which you live was beautiful. The place is paradise itself. Every tree was standing proudly. Flowers in every kind dotted the whole place. Creatures in every kind live in harmony but all of these, can’t compare to the beauty that the tree has. The tree alone left you even breathless from your walk.

It has the plumpest red fruit that you have ever seen. It was even bigger than both of your fists combined. You were absolutely sure that it wasn’t your mind playing tricks on you but you swore that the air was sweeter here. A sweet and citrusy scent wafted to your nose. Truly, it was addicting.

The late afternoon sun made the leaves sparkle. You swore that you even saw tiny specks of gold on its leaves. Confusion stirs inside you as you remembered being told not to eat anything from it. Why would anyone stop you from having a taste of the fruit of this pure and harmless tree? It was absurd that you were kept from taking anything from it or merely looking or thinking of it.

Lost in your own thoughts, your hand absentmindedly reaches out to caress the red fruit. You were told not to eat it. Nobody said that you can’t touch it. The sensation of touching it along with its sweet smell puts you in a trance.

“Grab it.”

A faint whisper can be heard from your left ear. It was soft but it made your naked body jump because of the close proximity. The hot breath of the culprit tickled your ear. You turn to the side, expecting to see your companion fully awake but you were wrong.

Two piercing red eyes glowed and met your warm gaze. His long ebony hair parts perfectly, falling at the side of his face in an intricate manner. He looked like he was sculpted to perfection because of his chiseled face. A smug smirk lingers on his red lips. Just like you, he was naked.

It was a man. No, not your companion. It was another man that you haven’t seen in this entirety of Eden ever since you can remember. You tear your eyes from his blazing red pupils as you became conscious of what you were doing. You wanted to see the tree up close, nothing more. But here you are, seconds away from picking a fruit from it.

“We really should not.” Your voice sounded like a hoarse whisper. The man beside you walks past your nervous figure and marches near the fruit that you were holding earlier. “We were told not to do so and-“

A loud grunt comes from him before he picks the red fruit from the tree. Your eyes widen at his sudden action. You were sure that he was absurd but you can’t seem to tear your eyes off of the fruit. The man throws it in the air in one swift motion before catching it right in front of your face. It’s intoxicating smell wafts through your nose.

“You were saying darling?” The loud beating of your heart filled your ears as you tried to calm down your ragged breaths.

“I-I,” You stutter, unable to form coherent sentences to scold him but nothing came out. Your squirming figure only made his smirk grow wider.

Clearing your throat, you tried to swat his hand away and look him in the eyes.“I thought there were only two of us here, me and my companion. How come this is my first time seeing you? Where did you come from? Are you one of us too? Do you have a name? And what on earth do you think you’re doing?”

“Well, it’s to meet you too.” The man’s voice dripped with sarcasm but you were too nice to notice it. The tree that you were under gives both of you a nice shade.

Your cheeks immediately heat up, biting your lip in embarrassment as realization hits you. “Where are my manners? I’m not usually this rude. Sorry,”

“It’s very nice to meet you. Hello,” You blink back at him. “I am Y.N and you are?”

Your wide curious eyes look innocently at him. The sight of you being so pure and almost angelic made the man growl underneath his breath. His mind raced into different directions, but every single one of them involved him breathing your scent and him not leaving any inch of your skin untouched. The dark haired man raised a brow at your waiting figure. Well, how must he put this? What must you call him? He has many names indeed.

Serpent, devil, demon, monster, beast...

You wave your hand in front of his face, still naive of the brooding dark look that he was giving you. He snapped back to reality. His face contoured into a quick smile which you also mirrored.

“I got distracted, pardon me.” What he needs is your trust if he wants to get inside that pretty little head of yours. He didn’t expect you to be this kind and hospitable already but it wasn’t really a surprise. After all, everything is designed to be good and righteous in this garden.

“It’s Jeno,”

A nod is your only response. Questions filled your head but everything seemed to disappear once you got another look at the fruit that he was clutching. A sinister smirk paints on Jeno’s lips as he takes a closer step to you. Your eyes not leaving the fruit.

“Don’t you want to take a bite?” Jeno’s voice is filled with honey yet laced with malice. He urges the fruit closer to your face the moment he sees you gulping. His cold demeanor vanishes once you come back to your senses. You shake your head.

Jeno gives you a knowing look, slowly waving the red fruit in front of your face. His smirk not faltering. “Even just a tiny little bite, darling?”

“No, I’m not supposed to eat that.” Curiosity was eating you out but it still didn’t stop you from doing the right thing.

“Why?”

“Well, I don’t know.” You whispered in all honesty. His question caught you off guard. You glance at the sky. “I think I should go back now. It’s almost night time.”

“But don’t you want to know why?” He presses on. Jeno knew you were listening when he saw you not moving an inch despite bidding farewell. 

He tries to hide his devilish smile while talking. “I mean, I suppose there isn’t any problem with you knowing why you’re not allowed to eat this one fruit. Why not find out right here, right now?”

“I was told that I’ll die if I did.

His loud laugh filled your ears. Once his laughter died down, he raised a mocking brow at you. The smile was still obvious on his lips. “Oh really?”

A nod was your only response. Your face contoured into a face of shock and despair the moment he takes a huge bite from the forbidden fruit. A gasp leaves your lips.

“Oh dear!” You panicked, eyes wide open as you think for a solution to save him from dying.

Jeno on the other hand, moaned in delight upon chewing the delicious pomegranate.

“But I am very much alive?” He shrugs, taking another bite. “You were saying?”

Your mouth opens in astonishment. Jeno gives you a smug look. “Why don’t you take a bite?”

You were persistent. Your head shook no. You tried to push the idea of your creator lying to you away as you try to feed your curiosity. “Well, what does it taste like?”

“As sweet as an angel’s kiss.”

“A kiss?”Jeno finds your curious head tilt endearing. “What is a kiss?”

He stops himself from taking a bite from his fruit. Jeno gritted his teeth. You looked like a cute lost deer, waiting for its prey to eat you anytime soon. That time has come for he has something up his sleeve.

“Do you want me to give it to you?”

“Well if you must,” You held out your hand in front of him, anticipating the ‘kiss’ that he was talking about. Jeno snickered to himself. He wanted to stain your innocence so bad. You were too pure for him in his delight. It was a surprise that he was able to control himself from keeping you all to himself and taking you to his lair.

Besides, the serpent himself isn’t that foolish to begin with. He knew with your inborn goodness, you’ll definitely do what you’re asked of.

“One should stay still. Can you do that for me darling?” Jeno slowly runs his tongue to his lip as he draws closer to you. The taste of the red fruit still lingers on his mouth. “Hm?”

Head bobbing excitedly, you can’t help but to put your other hand out in front of him. This was exactly what he had in mind. If there was one thing you were also born with, it’s curiosity. You were created to have it. A mortal will always have the need for answers. It is inevitable.

You shudder at his touch. Jeno’s pale hands delicately caresses your cheek before cupping it on his palm. His touch was soft and gentle as if he was holding a porcelain doll. Your soft and warm skin made him crazy. His red pupils dilated the moment he locked his eyes on your plump red lips.

You were about to open your mouth to ask him the kiss’ whereabouts but your words were silenced by Jeno’s lips crashing on yours. It was rough and hard— the exact opposite of his touch. He was going crazy how soft your lips are. The fact that he was the first one to do it to you pushed him to the edge.

His action took you by surprise. You stood there frozen with eyes wide open. This was your first time receiving a ‘kiss’. You didn’t know what to do and you didn’t want him to stop. Whatever he’s doing, he’s making you feel something you haven’t felt yet in your entire lifetime.

Jeno pulls away breathlessly. His forehead still glued on yours as he whispers, tucking a small strand of hair behind your ear. “Close your eyes and just feel it. Let it consume you.”

Obeying his command, you did what he said. With eyes screw shut, Jeno smirks to himself.

“Good girl,”

He attacks your lips once again. This time around, you were much aware and responsive. Jeno’s lips tasted sweet with a hint of citrus. It tasted almost like a fruit actually— a fruit that you haven’t tasted yet. You didn’t know that your body was capable of responding to his actions. Your hands slowly run through his silky dark hair before letting your hands knot itself on it.

Jeno gives out a throaty chuckle when he realizes how much eagerness and hunger you’re giving to the kiss. Not that he was complaining though. He couldn’t blame you either. It’s hard to resist the things that are forbidden. One will have a hard time to quit.

You let yourself indulge in the kiss as much as you liked before pulling away just to breathe some air.

Jeno’s eyes flicker with mischief the moment your eyes linger to his lips and to the tree. You can’t help but to question your creator. How come you haven’t crossed paths with this man in front of you? How come the “kiss” isn’t introduced sooner? Why is eating the fruit from this tree prohibited in the first place when it’s obvious that it is harmless? Why? Why not?

“I-l” You tried your best to meet his eyes, avoiding to stare at his very red lips. “I need to go. It is getting dark.”

He nods his head with a knowing grin before grabbing your hand to place an open mouthed kiss. Jeno’s eyes not leaving you with each passing second. You gulped when he stayed still in that position.

Chuckling at your squirming figure, he releases your hand. “I think you should.”

As much as you wanted to stay here and kiss Jeno until morning comes once again, you know to yourself that you can’t. You give him a wave before skipping down the hill however, you stopped midway.

“When can I meet you again?” Your voice sounded desperate, needy even. He knew that his plan worked and it’ll just be a matter of time until you get banished from this ‘paradise’ and he can all have you to himself.

“Oh sweetheart,” Jeno’s eyes darken as he smirks. The bitten pomegranate fruit went flying in the air before it landed perfectly on his palm. “I’m everywhere.”

That night when you were asked if you have eaten the fruit from the forbidden tree, you answered no.

But you did.

The fruit of evil is indeed sweet. It is addicting. It consumes every part of your soul. The lingering taste of his lips shouldn’t be tasted in the first place. Because Jeno— Jeno became the fruit itself.

[corpsentry]

LAUNCHING MERRILY DOWN THE PATH OF SIN AGAIN

ao3 mirror pairing: atsumu/hinata rating: teens featuring: post-timeskip, side bokuaka, black jackals dynamics, sakusa suffering, author’s weird oral fixation

Hell yeah. Miya Atsumu is in love.

“Shit. I think I cut my gum.”

They’re having dinner together for some reason. Bokuto probably roped them all into it to stave off his boredom, but he offered to pay, so Sakusa went along with it, and because Sakusa went along with it, Hinata went along with it, and because Hinata went along with it, Atsumu went along with it. He suspects Hinata would’ve said yes from the start, but Sakusa started lecturing them on the perils of Korean BBQ restaurants, so Bokuto staved him off too with the cash thing. Sakusa is a practical person. Sometimes.

Anyway, Hinata winces as he says shit I think I cut my gum. Then he smiles like he’s really happy about it and Bokuto’s eyes go all round like volleyballs and he slams his hands on the table. Sakusa tells him not to put his hands on the table. Bokuto ignores him.

“Are you okay?” Bokuto asks.

“Yeah,” Hinata says, making a weird face while he feels around in his mouth with his tongue.

Atsumu tries to think of something intelligent to say and draws a blank. “Let me see,” he says instead. He’s sitting next to Hinata because Sakusa doesn’t trust Bokuto to share a grill with him. Bokuto is sitting next to Sakusa because he can’t share a grill with him but he wants to either try to get to know him better or piss him off. If nothing else he’s definitely succeeded at the latter.

“Huh?” Sakusa stares at Atsumu like he thinks he’s stupid, which he probably is. “The fuck are you trying to see?”

“The, uh,” Atsumu begins, but Hinata opens his mouth for him for some reason and he forgets to finish his sentence.

“I can taste blood on the right side of my mouth,” he offers.

“Uh,” Atsumu says again.

Bokuto stands up and leans over the table because Bokuto is immortal and will not be wounded by the likes of a Korean BBQ grill. “Do you need a flashlight? My phone has a flashlight.”

“Who the fuck doesn’t have a flashlight on their phone,” Sakusa says, staring at Bokuto like he thinks he’s stupid.

“Me,” Hinata offers. Hinata is using an iPhone model from the Stone Age.

“Stop talking and let me look at your gums,” Atsumu says, looking at his teeth. He has made a discovery: Hinata has very nice teeth. This aligns nicely with the other nice things he has noticed about Hinata’s face, like his eyebrows and the softness of his mouth. Hell yeah. Atsumu is in love.

“You’ve been looking at his gums for over a minute, Atsumu. Have you found anything.” Sakusa.

“Yeah,” Atsumu confirms. “There’s a cut.”

“Shit, where?”

“There.”

“Can you show me?”

“Oh, no.” Sakusa pushes his chair away from the table. “Atsumu. Don’t do it.”

Atsumu is really fucking confused. “What am I supposed to not do?” He’s still thinking about Hinata’s face. You have to get really close to someone to look inside their mouth. Close enough to kiss them. Is this what intimacy looks like?

“Are you gonna put your fingers in his mouth?” Bokuto, in a moment of clairvoyance, has caught onto the source of Sakusa’s terror. He sounds proud of himself.

“Are you?” Hinata looks at him innocently.

Atsumu puts his fingers in his mouth.

    ::

    Sakusa Kiyoomi followed Inarizaki’s match against Karasuno in his second year of high school from a livestream on his phone because he wanted to minimize contact with the crowds in the gymnasium as much as possible. The match being an Inarizaki match, had attracted an especially large and diverse crowd of spectators. Nonetheless, they were united by the fact that they were all screaming. At first they were screaming because the Miya brothers were winning. Later they were screaming because the Miya brothers were losing. Then they finished losing, and Kiyoomi scoffed at them behind his mask while he wondered how Miya Atsumu was taking the fact that he had blown his first match at the Spring High.

Later he would recall the way Atsumu had looked at Karasuno’s orange-headed number ten. Kiyoomi, being the calm and logical person he is, would detect the complex twist of fascination and admiration that lay behind the twins’ duplicate of the freak quick. He might even begin to form a coherent thought about Atsumu’s motivation for executing such a shaky attack. This would involve a careful perusal of the few years of friendship between them and an evaluation of Atsumu’s taste in sports, men, and sportsmen. Then someone would cough in his direction from thirteen meters away, and he would get so mad at them he would forget all about it until he met the two of them again as teammates in the MSBY Black Jackals and Atsumu put his fingers in Hinata’s mouth.

    ::

    “Dude you have to tell me why you did that,” Bokuto says. He’s leaning on Atsumu’s shoulder because he’s drunk and it’s a Friday. Bokuto only drinks on Fridays. This is a fact of life. If he could have it his way he would apparently drink on several days but Akaashi the shounen manga editor vows to wipe out seven generations of his family if he does. Therefore he abstains.

Atsumu wishes he would abstain from leaning on his shoulder. “I do?” he wonders aloud. He is drunk as well. Luckily Bokuto is more drunk so Bokuto cannot admonish him. Atsumu holds all the power in this situation.

“Yeah dude you were blushing like crazy.” Drunk Bokuto doesn’t use punctuation. It does not register on his list of things that exist in the universe. One time Atsumu made a bad life decision and crashed at his apartment; that night he overheard Bokuto talking to Akaashi the shounen manga editor on the phone, sounding like a bullet train with a caffeine addiction. Every once in a while Bokuto would fall silent. Then he would make an abrupt sound like a deflating balloon, presumably interrupting whatever Akaashi was saying, and there would be no more silence to be had for the next thirteen minutes. Atsumu felt very sorry for himself all night. He also felt very sorry for Akaashi, but less so since he had chosen to saddle himself permanently with Bokuto unlike the rest of them.

“Dude.” Drunk Bokuto says dude a lot.

“No,” Atsumu says.

They have almost reached the train station. Atsumu can see it blinking in the distance with its glowing signs and other artificial shit and he is so fucking glad for it. He manhandles Bokuto into the station and props him up against a pillar once they reach the platform. Bokuto’s coat is slipping off his shoulders. Atsumu pulls it back up.

“Do you think he was weirded out?” he asks later on the train. The soju he chugged after sticking his fingers in Hinata’s mouth is wearing off and primal fear is starting to set in. Suddenly he finds himself deeply regretting everything he has done since Hinata joined the Black Jackals. Spending so much time practicing that quick attack with him was a mistake. Buying him chocolate as a joke for Valentine’s Day was a mistake. Walking back to the train station alone with him after spending too much time practicing that quick attack, watching the way Hinata had laughed at his dumb jokes as they moved through the neon blur of the city was a mistake. Now he's in love and Sakusa's going to make fun of him. Sakusa has alien-like sensors installed in the back of his head which allow him to notice everything important in life before Atsumu does. Ah, Atsumu’s drowning in regret. He’s going to die.

“Nope,” Bokuto says cheerfully. “Hinata’s a good guy.”

Atsumu broods. “Good guys can be weirded out too, y’know.”

“Nah. He likes you.”

“What are you, psychic?”

“Hell yeah I’m psychic.”

    ::

    Bokuto is not psychic. He’s just a fundamentally nice human being who gets an endorphin kick out of supporting every single person who comes within a hundred-meter-radius of him. Okay, Atsumu wants to say. Okay, so you want to support your teammates and your friends and shit. That’s great. But what if two of those teammates are At Odds with each other. What if you have to pick one.

Atsumu and Hinata are At Odds with each other. On the bright side, they’re both old enough to draw the line between work shit and personal shit so it doesn’t spill over into their professional lives. They are alarmingly civil during practice. The Black Jackals continue to get their ass handed to them by the Adlers. On the dark side, Hinata won’t so much as breathe in his direction off the court, which is pretty fucking miserable.

The best part is Atsumu doesn’t even realize he’s being ignored until Sakusa points it out to him. He’s spent the last week in denial and is actually growing kind of comfortable with this new lifestyle. He doesn’t have to deal with the fact that he has feelings for the guy who pissed him off in his second year of high school; he also doesn’t have to deal with the fact that he stuck his fingers in his mouth last Friday. Maybe Atsumu should just end his friendship with Hinata Shouyou. They can start over as business partners. Make a joint venture.

But of course, Sakusa points it out to him. “I know you think you’re being really fucking slick by ignoring Hinata all the time, but I must sadly inform you that he’s actually ignoring you as well,” he says, examining his nails absently. “Plus I think he’s trying harder at it.”

Sakusa smells like eighty-five different brands of shampoo. “I hate you,” Atsumu says.

“Your hatred means nothing to me,” Sakusa replies, unfazed.

    ::

    The first time he and Hinata played together in an official match, Atsumu remembers thinking that he was glad he let Osamu set up his onigiri shop and pushed ahead with volleyball alone after all.

He figures he’ll always be a little bitter about how his high school volleyball career ended. It’s like how he still hates the everloving shit out of spicy food but has developed a tolerance for it due to his teammates’ dietary preferences. The sensation will never be pleasant, but he gets through it. He drinks a shit ton of water. After their meal he treats himself to dessert from a nearby convenience store and makes someone else pay for it out of spite. Sometimes they agree. Other times he winds up paying for his souffle cheesecake himself. But fuck it, whatever, it’s sweet.

The first time he and Hinata played together in an official match they unleashed their new freak quick in front of Kageyama Tobio and like half of Japan’s previous high school volleyball circuit. At the moment in which the ball he set went up in the air and Hinata made contact with it, Atsumu had the distinct sensation that the rules of the world had been quietly rewritten. It was akin to having a fully-grown deer ram its antlers into your chest, shattering your ribcage instantly. He couldn't hear himself anymore. Just the crowd.

Take that, he said with his eyes after Hinata scored that first sweet, sweet point, smiling at Kageyama like a switchblade. Hinata’s ours now.

Upon closer examination, what Atsumu actually meant to say was: he’s mine.

    ::

    Why didn’t he say that, you ask? Because he’s a fucking idiot, of course. By this point Sakusa had already caught on to his feelings. If you had looked carefully at the background you would have noticed him squinting at Atsumu at various points throughout the match with three percent more intensity than usual. The rest of his attention was reserved for the ball, but he devoted three percent to Atsumu. This is Sakusa we’re talking about. Three percent is significant.

    ::

    There is a boring romantic subplot in one of the manga that Akaashi’s magazine serializes. Unfortunately it’s about a boy and a girl, so it was probably destined to be boring from the start. But the brilliant thing about it is both the girl and the boy realize they have feelings for each other in chapter thirty and then proceed to make zero progress in their relationship for the next two hundred chapters.

“Why don’t they just get together?” he asked Akaashi once. They were having hotpot in Bokuto’s apartment. Because it was Bokuto’s apartment they got Akaashi as a freebie. Akaashi had brought wagyu beef.

“The author doesn’t feel like it.” Akaashi’s glasses kept getting fogged up by the steam. He looked like a character from a detective movie.

“Oh. Is the author single?” asked Atsumu, who was single.

“Yes,” said Akaashi, who was not single.

“Are you hitting on my boyfriend?” Bokuto called from the bathroom. They ignored him.

“Aha,” Atsumu said triumphantly. “I knew it. The author clearly has no experience. It pisses me off that they keep hinting at their feelings without getting to the point.”

“That is fair.” Akaashi had decided to take off his glasses at risk of stabbing someone in the face with his chopsticks.

“Alternatively, you could remove the romantic subplot altogether. I doubt much would change.”

Alternatively he could chase Hinata down after practice on the way to the train station. It would be snowing, because snow is pretty and makes everything look soft and cinematic. Atsumu would call out Hinata’s name as he approached him from two hundred meters away. He would be out of breath because everyone’s constantly out of breath in romantic cinema. Hinata would telepathically know that Atsumu was here to confess his undying love for him and hide his blushing face in his scarf.

Alternatively, they could have dinner together at a stuffy candle-lit restaurant. Only this isn’t a manga, and Akaashi isn’t the editor, so Hinata is still practicing serves in the gym when Atsumu appears in the doorway, still reeling at the realization that he’s been ignored for a week.

Well then. He scrolls through Instagram to pass the time.

    ::

      When he’s done, Atsumu offers to help Hinata with clean-up. “Thank you,” says Hinata rather reluctantly, still not breathing in his direction.

“You know,” Atsumu says, feeling very tired. He’s too tired to beat around the bush. He has decided to eat the bush. “I can tell you’re ignoring me.”

Hinata creates distance under the guise of picking up loose balls. “Mm.”

“Why?”

Hinata squats down in front of a ball. Atsumu walks over and squats down beside him. The ceiling lights are fierce and bright above them, and Hinata’s face is tilted away from it. Atsumu can’t read his expression but he can see his ears, which are pink, and the side of his neck, which is pink as well. In this position, from this angle, Hinata’s musculature is even more stunning than usual; biceps, shoulders, back. This shouldn’t be a surprise given that they’re all adults now instead of petty high school kids with grudges as big as clenched fists. But if asked right now what the prototypical volleyball player should look like, Atsumu would point at Hinata and say: that guy.

“Sorry about sticking my fingers in your mouth,” he says quietly, folding his arms together over his knees and resting his chin on top. And then, in a flash of inspiration: “Also, I’m in love with you. I hope your cut healed properly?”

Hinata finally lifts his face up into the light, and Atsumu is reminded of watching the rising sun spill across the surface of the sea in a NatGeo documentary. For a second he looks absolutely lost. Then he knits his brow, stares hard at Atsumu like he’s trying to do calculus in his head or something.

“About the cut,” he says, hesitating. “Why don’t you find out for yourself.”

Atsumu chokes.

    ::

    It’s not like he hasn’t been in love before. In high school he had a crush on Kita Shinsuke that was so debilitatingly bad, he never even told Osamu about it. But Kita Shinsuke didn’t have a debilitating crush on him and he never went pro. They didn’t wind up as teammates again several years later when Atsumu finally figured out how to style his hair properly with gel. Kita vanished off the radar after high school with that unnerving smile of his. They haven’t seen each other since.

Anyway, Atsumu has a lot of complicated feelings for Hinata. At first he was pissed at him for teleporting off to Brazil for two years, and thinking that he could still brute force his way into a Division One team immediately upon his return. Then Hinata actually did that, and Atsumu spent several weeks sulking about their new teammate by refusing to so much as breathe in his direction. Eventually Sakusa sat him down in the empty locker room one morning and looked him straight in the eye from two meters away and said you want to set for him don’t you. After thinking about it for a while he realized that Sakusa was right. He wanted to set for Hinata Shouyou. Back in high school the feeling had arisen mainly out of spite and childish frustration. Now it was genuine.

So fine, maybe he likes Hinata a little more than he should.

They’re not high schoolers anymore. They’re old enough to know where to draw the lines between work shit and personal shit and risk-taking and stupidity. They’re supposed to know themselves better by this point. Like what’s your favorite alcoholic drink. What’s your taste in men and sports and sportsmen. Do you believe in miracles.

Do you believe in—?

“—This,” Hinata says. Atsumu realizes belatedly that he had missed the first part of his sentence but before he can try to figure it out Hinata fists a hand in his shirt and yanks him forward.

Oh no, Atsumu thinks. Hinata’s smiling. All crooked like a semicircle of sun. All pretty-like.

“Since that’s out of the way,” he says brilliantly, warm breath fanning out over Atsumu’s cheeks, moving closer still. “I hope you don’t mind if I just—”

Atsumu closes his eyes and lets Hinata pull him in. He’s old enough to know where this leads.

    ::

    They’re having dinner together again for some reason. Bokuto roped them all into it to stave off his boredom because Akaashi the shounen manga editor is in Hokkaido on a business trip, but he offered to pay, so Sakusa went along with it, and Sakusa went along with it, so Atsumu went along with it, and Atsumu went along with it, so Hinata went along with it. The truth is they almost always go along with Bokuto’s whims because Bokuto’s a fundamentally nice human being and Akaashi brings the fanciest ingredients to their hotpot parties. It doesn’t actually matter if Bokuto offers to pay. Someone will start the reluctant-yes-train and then the rest will join in and before they know it, they’re all ducking into the doorway of a restaurant together.

“So was anyone gonna tell me that two of my teammates are dating,” Bokuto says, waving his chopsticks around grandly while Sakusa attempts to shield his risotto from the onslaught of loose rice grains. “Or was I just supposed to find out from Omi-kun here?”

Hinata’s eyes go wide. Atsumu, who had been chewing on a fry, doubles over coughing.

“ATSUMU. ARE YOU OKAY.” Bokuto’s feet are on the table. Sakusa is seeing God.

“Shit.” Atsumu winces, feeling around in his mouth with his tongue. “I think I cut my gum.”

“Let me see.”

“Uh, Hinata, you don’t have to do that, actually—”

“Are you going to do that thing again?” God bless Bokuto and his endless store of curiosity towards all things chaotic and doomed in the world. God bless Sakusa who has ascended to the next dimension. God bless Atsumu's poor gums.

Hinata beams at Bokuto. “No,” he says slowly, bright as a bonfire. “I’m going to kiss him.”

God bless them all.

[xhxhxhx]

Saw something in the further reading section of Michael Kulikowski’s Imperial Tragedy (Profile, 2019) today:

There are countless books on the fall of the western Roman empire, and more appear annually, with variable scholarly trappings but nearly all quite conventional. Still, ripping yarns and neo-Victorian analyses can be found in any bookshop. So, for those so inclined, can thinly disguised nativist tracts on how immigration (and ‘immigrant violence’) brought down the empire. To name names would be invidious.

I thought this was a dig at Peter Heather, Professor of Medieval History at King’s College London and author of The Fall of the Roman Empire (Oxford, 2005) and Empires and Barbarians (Oxford, 2009), so I looked it up and discovered that not only was I right, but Kulikowski has serious beef with the guy:

Peter Heather has been fiercely criticized by members of the so-called Toronto School of History. Michael Kulikowski, who belongs to this group, has accused Heather of neo-romanticism and of wishing "to revive a biological approach to ethnicity". Kulikowski claims that Heather "manifests a clear methodological affinity" to the 19th-century writer of the Goths Henry Bradley.

But Kulikowki’s beef is nothing next to the righteous fury of Guy Halsall, Professor of History at the University of York:

Guy Halsall has identified Peter Heather as the leader of a "counter-revisionist offensive against more subtle ways of thinking" about the Migration Period. Halsall accuses this group, which is strongly associated with University of Oxford, of "bizarre reasoning" and of purveying a "deeply irresponsible history". Halsall writes that Heather and the Oxford historians have been responsible for "an academic counter-revolution" of wide importance, and accuses them of deliberately contributing to the rise of "far-right extremists".

Halsall got so mad at Heather, first at the 2011 Leeds International Medieval Conference and then online, at his blog, that he threatened to leave academia entirely:

Well, it's more or less a year since I started doing this blogging lark 'seriously' (the inverted commas are obviously necessary).  And, as they say, what a roller-coaster of a year it's been.  I've shut down the blog twice, brought it back twice, come to the verge of formal complaints being sent to my university twice (once justifiably, once most certainly not), lost at least one friend, lost 99% of the respect I had for someone I had hitherto held in high esteem, quite possibly lost the chance of a job I wanted because of this blog, taken some pretty visceral abuse, and so on.  All good fun!

On the other hand I have learnt some lessons.  One is that even bastards have feelings.  Another is that if you have twenty-odd followers and maybe 100 hits a day, that (allowing for hits from people looking for something else, like Elizabeth Kostova's novel The Historian or ever-popular balding guitarist The Edge) does not mean that  only twenty or thirty people in the whole wide world read your blog.   Thus you need to be a bit more careful about what you say and how you say it.  I've also learnt that eminent historians don't always read what you write very carefully, and just how deeply-ingrained the elitist culture of the British historical profession is, as well as just how few principles are actually held by the overwhelming majority of the practitioners of said profession.  And this in response to something that I actually thought long and hard about how I wrote.

And as a result of all this I have realised that no good is going to come of me continuing to smack my head against the glass ceiling that those of us not from 'a particular socio-educational background' (you know the one) eventually run up against.  I have instead come to the decision, essentially, to give up on it and 'seek my fortune' elsewhere than in the confines of the academic career-path, as it is now constructed in the UK at any rate.*  I'm actually quite excited about this as I think it offers a lot of possibilities, creatively and ethically.  It's been a liberating decision.  Those of you who know that I set most store by the writings of those co-opted into the canon of the existentialists (almost none of whom ever called themselves by that name) will appreciate exactly why I am proud of this decision.

To some extent it makes up for the bad faith I showed in backing down and removing my post on why it matters to get angry about the lazy and irresponsible (indeed, yes, just downright knuckle-headed) way in which some historians in and/or produced by our most prestigious Thames Valley-based university write about politically and socially sensitive topics like migrations.

Halsall ultimately sanitized the 2011 IMC paper that started the war with Heather --  the neutered version is still up on his blog -- but the original was apparently quite something:

Perhaps unsurprisingly for those who’ve heard him speak or read him on the Internet, this was the one that really started the war. [Edit: and, indeed, some changes have been made to these paragraphs by request of one of those involved.] The consequences, if not of this actual speech, at least of its subsequent display on the Internet, have been various, unpleasant and generally regrettable, and I don’t want any of them myself.

Thankfully, the purged parts of the original were reproduced by some noble soul on the Civilization Fanatics forums before they were lost to the ages:

Thus we can have Ward-Perkins’ sneering parody of late antiquity studies and Peter Heather’s distortions of counter-arguments. In many people’s minds the choices before us are evidently, either, that nothing happened, or, that there was a huge catastrophe caused entirely by invading barbarians. Obviously this is not the case. Plenty of people other than me -- most famously, Walter Pohl -- have written about serious, dramatic change happening in the fifth century without blaming it on the barbarians and without denying that there were migrations in the fifth century. Yet this -- if I dare call it such -- third way seems nevertheless to be very much a minority position.

But I am not convinced that a simple lack of exposure to sensible alternatives really explains the continuing, fanatical devotion to the idea of the barbarian migrations, especially outside the academy.

I have recently said that:

“When a British historian places an argument that the Roman Empire fell because of the immigration of large numbers of barbarians next to arguments that the end of Rome was the end of civilisation and that we need to take care to preserve our own civilisation, when another British historian writes sentences saying “the connection between immigrant violence and the collapse of the western Empire could not be more direct” [a direct quote from Peter Heather’s Empires and Barbarians (Oxford, 2009)], and especially when the arguments of both involve considerable distortions of the evidence to fit their theories, one cannot help but wonder whether these authors are wicked, irresponsible or merely stupid.”

Obviously, these are not mutually exclusive alternatives.

Are these writers setting themselves up as ideologues of the xenophobic Right or have they simply not realised the uses to which such careless thinking and phrasing can be put? You can draw your own conclusions, although it is worth noting that Ward-Perkins has been happy enough to write on this subject for the neo-liberal magazine Standpoint, which regularly publishes pieces attacking multiculturalism. There comes a point when one has to admit that actually the most charitable explanation for all this really is that these writers are simply a bit dim.

Outside academic circles, it is certainly the case that the adhesion to the idea of barbarian invasion has a heavily right-wing political dimension. Apart from the barbarians’ role as metaphor, already discussed, it is worth, very briefly, thinking about the other reasons why people are so ready to pin the blame on the barbarians. Slavoj Zizek’s Lacanian analysis of antisemitism provides some valuable ways forward. Essentially, the barbarian, like the figure of the Jew, acts as a screen between the subject and a confrontation with the Real, which Zizek sees, slightly differently from Lacan, as the pre-symbolised; things that haven’t been or can’t or won’t be encompassed in a world view. Zizek showed that arguments that “the Jews aren’t like that” are almost never effective against anti-Semites because what real Jews (or actual immigrants, one might say) are like is not the point. Similarly, arguments about the empirical reality of the fifth-century cut little weight with those wedded to the idea of Barbarian Invasion. Just as the anti-Semite takes factual evidence as more proof of the existence of the international Zionist conspiracy, the right-wing devotee of the Barbarian Invasions sees factual counter-arguments as manifestations of the liberal, left-wing academy peddling its dangerous multicultural political correctness. I have read a great deal of this on internet discussion lists -- including a review of my own book, and one of James O’Donnell’s! Michael Kulikowski received a similarly-phrased review from a right-wing academic ancient historian.

The barbarian is the classic “subject presumed to”. The barbarian can change the world; he can bring down empires; he can create kingdoms. The barbarian dominates history. “He” is not like “us”, enmeshed in our laws, our little lives and petty responsibilities. The barbarians -- and you only need to read Peter Heather to see this -- are peoples with “coherent aims” (a quote), which they set out single-mindedly to achieve. No people in the whole of recorded human history have ever had single coherent sets of aims. Well -- none other than the barbarians anyway.

Halsall has never resiled from his belief that Heather was essentially a fascist, nor backed away from his commitment to resign from his post in righteous indignation -- maybe not in 2011, or 2019, but certainly by 2023 at the very latest:

My anger about all this is justly infamous but has been badly misrepresented.  I do think that some things are worth getting angry about, and the misuse of the Barbarian Migrations and the End of the Roman Empire to fuel xenophobia and racism, and the way some modern authors pander to this, is one such.  However, to look at the origins of this ire and animus, I invite you to compare my engagement with Peter Heather’s work in Barbarian Migrations, and its tone, with Heather’s engagement – if you can call it that – with my work, and its tone, in Empires and Barbarians.  I never expect to be agreed with; I do expect basic academic courtesy to be reciprocated.  If people see fit to treat me intellectually as a second-class citizen, the gloves will come off.  That may stem from my own biography as (unlike so many) a first-generation academic not educated at the 'right' schools and universities, but there we are.  I will be leaving the profession within the next four years (well done, guys) so I have nothing to lose by not apologising for that.

Kulikowski might have gotten in a good dig, but Halsall will always be a true master of the art of Being Mad Online.

[darksunrising]

Sola Gratia (11/?)

Masterlist

Rating / Warnings : Graphic descriptions of violence, Viewer discretion is advised (short paragraph)

Fandom : Bram Stoker’s Dracula, BBC’s Dracula, various Dracula and vampire lore.

Part 11/? (2247 words)

Author’s notes : The end of the second act draws nigh ! (also, I see some new followers, if you wanna be added to the taglist, feel free to ask !)

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

“Eris, anyone home ?”

Leah's soft voice dragged me out of the void I'd been staring into for the past... Well, Gods know how long. I raised my head to meet her slightly worried gaze.

“Yeah, sorry. You wouldn't believe how many of those can't make the difference between a century and a millennium, it's appalling.”

She didn't seem that amused at my sorry excuse for a justification.

“Have you seen the bags under your eyes ?”, she reprimanded me in a hushed voice. “How long since you had a decent night of sleep ? You're so pale, you look like a damn vampire.”

I had a dry laugh. She wasn't wrong, to be fair. For the past four days, I barely got any sleep, any noise waking me up in a cold sweat, when I just didn't lay frozen in bed, unable to close my eyes, for hours on end, until the sun got up. Mostly, I only stayed up because of a carefully thought-out blend of coffee and anxiety.

“I'm fine, Leah. I just didn't put on any makeup this morning. That is my face”, I told her, trying to sound offended.

“Don't bullshit me. Go. Home.”

Her tone didn't invite arguing about it. She reached across the table, and took my hand in hers, smiling. She proposed calling me an Uber, but I figured walking would clear my head. I put away my stuff, leaving her to her books.

The library was almost entirely empty at this hour, and the normally automatic lights didn't even turn on as I passed through the halls. I slapped my badge on the door to get it open, and was welcomed by a gush of freezing air from the outside. The sun had only just set, and the orange lamp posts had everything seem grey, except the deep red of the sky, near the horizon. Everything was quiet, save from the intermittent cawing of a crow, or the rustling of leaves, in the light, but biting breeze that had set in with the night.

I started walking. The sound of my boots echoed in the empty campus' streets. At this time, there was about a tram every twenty minutes. If I walked fast, I'd catch the next one. As I started walking faster, I couldn't help but feel followed. That feeling, once it crossed your mind, could only set, seeping into every pore of your being, until you... I turned back. Nothing. Not even a shadow at the corner of a building, a suspiciously flickering light. Nothing. Even so, my chest felt too tight to breathe. Breathe in. Breathe out.

I kept on going toward the tram stop. Focus on that, the tram stop. Breathe in. I stopped, pushing my back against a post. Breathe out. I turned my head, trying to relax my tense muscles. In the corner of my eye, a shadow. I screamed, jumped back.

“I dream of a day where your first reaction to seeing me won't be that of a deer in headlights.”

He stepped in the light, as elegant as always, in his long, dark coat. He looked exceptionally well, about as much as I had to look dreadful. He took a step forward, and I instinctively took one back. He stopped, a look of disbelief painted on his features. He looked almost hurt by me pulling back.

“Is something wrong, Eris ?”, he asked, concerned, but equally demanding.

I tried to find an answer. Yes. Yes, something's wrong. Everything is goddamn fucking wrong.

“I'm gonna miss my tram”, I muttered.

I turned back to the way I was going, and in a second, I felt his hand on my arm stop me. My heart sank to my stomach, and I broke free of his grasp. My heart beat so fast I was almost gasping for air.

“Did something happen while I was gone ?”

“It's just- I don't- Nothing hap-”

My words came stuck in my throat. I didn't even know what to say. Where to start. He placed both his hands on my shoulders, calmly asking me to look up at him.

“You... You are shaking, what on earth... Am I causing this ? Do I scare you ?”

I raised my head to meet his gaze, jaws clenched not to have my teeth chatter. He looked so genuinely confused, I was finally able to take a deep breath.

“Can I trust you ?”, I managed to whisper.

He didn't answer a moment, seeming less ton consider his answer, than what prompted the question.

“Without question.” He was looking straight into my eyes, the intensity of his gaze leaving no place for a lie. Fuck, I wanted to believe him. The weight of his hands on my shoulders made me feel safe. How could it make me feel safe ? Wasn't that just another trick ? Another way to make me trust him, just to make the job easier ?

Tears I didn't notice building up burned my cheeks as they rolled down. He moved a hand to my face, and erased them with his thumb, softly.

“What happened ?”, he asked again.

If we are to stop this creature, we need your full support. For some reason, he trusts you more than most. You cannot tell him about your knowledge of this place.

I gently pulled myself from his grasp, and stepped back, forcing a smile.

“Nothing happened. I'm just tired”, I told him. “I really have to catch my tram, Vlad.”

“Nonsense, I'm bringing you home”, he insisted. “You are very obviously distressed, and lying to me. Get in the car.”

The authoritative tone had me shiver. I knew I didn't have any choice, in the end, and nodded. He opened the door for me, as always. I sat down, buckled up. Focused on the line of led lights, moving in a slow, red wave.

“If you refuse to talk to me”, Vlad began as he started the car, “I can only assume this has something to do with me. Now, understand that I could take a minute and find out, but I meant what I said, when I told you you could trust me.”

He kept focused on the road. I could tell him everything. That would be a risk. If he really was who MINA said he was, if he did... If he did what they said he did... That would most likely be my death warrant. If he started being too suspicious, he could just read my mind, and given how deeply those images were engraved into my brain, it wouldn't be too hard. I had no idea how to go about this.

“I found out the reason why Stephan was putting me off.”

“And that is ?”

“We looked into his family tree, and his mother is a Mary Van Helsing, from the Murray Institute for the Neutralization of Abnormalities.”

I said that on a single breath, and awaited his reaction. His face didn't betray any emotion, but his silence was speaking volumes.

“They found us out pretty fast”, I continued, figuring I was on too deep already. “We were taken to their headquarters, or whatever that bunker was. They were suspicious that I was acquainted with a vampire, posing as the respectable professor Vlad Balaur.”

“And what did you tell them ?”

His tone was frighteningly neutral. “For some reason I still can't explain, nothing”, I replied. “I had them believe I had no idea such things existed, less so that you were one.”

He had a short hum, but remained silent.

“They told me you were posing as a vampire they killed in 1896, Count Dracula, who apparently is quite the messiah in the Vampire World”, I jabbed at him. “That you probably manipulated my memories, my emotions, just so I'd end up like the others !”

Tears were streaming down my face, and despite my best efforts, my voice was shaking in anger. I couldn't help but think he could pull over and snap my neck at any moment. Might as well make the best of my last moments.

“Would you please clarify what you mean by 'the others' ?”

He sounded so calm, so composed. I tried not to think on the implications.

“They showed me the pictures, Vlad.” My chest hurt so bad. I barely was able to keep taking. “In retrospect, you were pretty clean with the horse. I guess he deserved better than human beings do, right ?”

“Eris, I don't understand-”

“Don't fucking lie to me !” My voice broke. I had no way to remain calm, the taste of bile going up my throat. “I saw it, I fucking saw the- the-” I slapped my hand over my mouth, desperately trying to catch my breath.

Vlad had the turning signal on, and pulled over. I couldn't stop crying, my face buried into my hands, unable to form any coherent sentence. The car stopped. He didn't say anything. At any moment, I thought I'd feel his hands around my neck, or his teeth. Instead, he only called out my name, softly, barely audible through my sobbing.

“Eris, please.”

I dried up my face as best I could with my scarf.

“You promised. You promised you wouldn't hurt anybody”, I managed to stammer between hiccups.

“I have not-”

“I saw the pictures !”, I repeated. “They showed me- So much blood-”

I turned my head to his. He slowly raised a hand to my face, hesitantly, waiting for a rebuffal. I did nothing, and he pushed strands of hair off my forehead, and cupped my cheek. His touch was so soothing. Not a bad feeling to die on.

“And you believed them ?”

“I- I- Of course, they just- Who else ?”

“I have no idea”, he admitted, his voice soft, and calm. “Eris, I have not, not a single time, done anything contrary to our agreement. I have not taken a life since our second meeting.”

I wanted to believe him, so bad. I wanted to believe he wasn't the monster responsible for the contents of Mary Van Helsing's case-file.

“How can I believe you ? How can I be certain you're not lying to me ?”, I breathed out, still resting my head onto his hand.

“You can't. You can only trust me.” He leaned in, placing a light kiss on my forehead, as was his habit. He pulled away, keeping close. “Do you trust me ?”

“Yes”, I replied, without thinking about it.

I did. As stupid, dangerously stupid as it was, I did. What else could I do ? What was the better option ? Were the MINA guys that much more trustworthy ? Well, if you took into account the fact that they didn't try to kill me yet, probably.

“As for the fact that I would be my own usurper, I don't know how to argue for it, to be honest. I have rarely been faced with the task of proving my identity.”

He sat back behind the wheel, and started the car.

“You would do well to remember that MINA was founded by people who were so terrified of me, they left without assuring themselves of the success of their mission, which led to accounts of my death being greatly exaggerated.”

I couldn't help but let out a small laugh.

“There, I like that better.”

The rest of the ride was mostly silent, which was still arguably better than crying. Vlad finally pulled over in front of my building. I got out of the car, took a few steps, but didn't go further than that. Behind me, I head his door open.

“Should I wait for you on your balcony ?”

I took a deep breath. “No.” I turned on my heels to face him. “You're taking the stairs, for once.”

“I... Beg your pardon ?”

“Just follow me, will you ?”

He shut his door, and I went to open my building's door. I buzzed us in, holding the door for him. Guess he didn't need an invitation for the whole building, huh. What the hell was I doing ? There's a difference between not thinking someone does gruesome murders in his spare time, and inviting them over for a cup of tea ! Especially if their drink of choice isn't your damn Russian Earl Grey !

Well, too late to turn back now. I tried to keep a sense of dignity as we climbed the stairs. It didn't seem to put any strain on him, all the while I'd been living here for years, and was still dying inside. Catching my breath as gracefully as I could, I unlocked my door. Zardoz came running at me, agressively rubbing himself agaisnt my boots, screaming bloody murder, or, in that case, famine.

“You have a... cat”, Vlad stated.

I had a short laugh as I picked up the protesting beast. “What, are you allergic ?”

“They... Don't like me.”

He looked at the animal with some sort of defiance.

“Well, this one hates everyone, don't feel like it's personal.”

He stood at the door, nearly taking up all the space of the frame. Holding the cat in my arms gave me courage, as I felt his low purr against my hands. I took a few steps back, and had a curteous bow.

“Voivode Vlad Dracula Tepes, me and this cat welcome you into our home.”

He smiled, and stepped in.

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Taglist : @carydorse @angelicdestieldemon @bloodhon3yx @thewondernanazombie @battocar @moony691 @mjlock @thebeautyofdisorder @festering-queen @paracosmfantasy

[localobnoxiousbisexual]

A short memoir about all the ways the patriarchy has fucking fucked my personality and self esteem

I remember sitting on the floor sometime in kindergarten, cross-legged, sticking slimy newspaper on top of a balloon as part of some art project we were doing. Completely enthralled in the task, probably daydreaming. Suddenly my teacher pipes up: “Look at Janika being such a good girl, she hasn’t uttered a single word during this entire lesson!” I remember being bewildered, flustered, and most of all proud; I’d been so focused on the task, the thought of saying something (being disruptive) hadn’t even crossed my mind.

No one finds it sympathetic that a girl who as a little kid only received positive feedback for being quiet, at the age of 22 cannot utter a coherent sentence as a response to a cashier making small talk. Who realizes she hasn’t spoken to anyone (except over the internet) for several days on end and whose tongue feels startled into action mid-sleep when a social interaction creeps up on her. No one finds a university educated, grown woman who cannot bring herself to give a straightforward answer to a question in class without hearing her pulse pound in her ears sympathetic - just pathetic will suffice.

(Detour into how biphobia fucking fucked my personality and self esteem: my friends and I used to play fight in overpasses, push each other up against the wall and breath on each others necks, the sort of silly stuff confused and hormonal teenage girls do when boys are still shorter and smell weird and can’t keep secrets. When I came out as bi, it all stopped just like that. No one would touch me and it would take me years to realize how deeply I internalized the idea that I had to prove them wrong, that I’m not predatory and gross. Ever since that time I’ve never had the butterflies and the giddiness because those feelings got locked away with the bad, predatory lesbian all my friends were so afraid of, and now the only way I can tell I’m really starting to be into someone is the fear creeping up my windpipe when I check my phone for messages.)

It’s not the patriarchy’s fault my first boyfriend was shitty, but it kinda is the patriarchy's fault that I thought something was wrong with me when I started to notice that all his friends referred to me as his friend, if they knew I existed at all. I thought I was being crazy, making it all up somehow. Demanding the privilege to exist and be present in his reality would have made me unreasonable and naggy, one of those horrible, manipulative, demanding girlfriends the world is apparently so rife with. If I’m not a reasonable and kind and thoughtful person when I could never become strong and poised and articulated, then what am I if not absolutely nothing?

No one finds a grown, attractive and educated woman who accepts whatever scraps of affection romantic partners toss her way and thanks them for it, because she has learned that she cannot ask for more without being abandoned sympathetic. She should know. You deserve the respect you treat yourself with, after all.

(A detour into the way British exceptionalism/imperialism/whatever the fuck has fucking fucked me: I think about losing my accent the same way most women think about losing weight. I’m gonna buy some books and practise reading out loud until my tongue bends around those difficult s-phonemes in rapid succession, and then people will stop slowing down the rate of their speech and enunciating their words clearer like they’re talking to someone with a language learning disability when I ask them to repeat something because I wasn’t paying attention to them in the first place. People who have never used the word ‘absurd’ in a sentence in their lives will stop dumbing down their ideas when we’re working on group projects like I can’t keep up unless they stick to primary school-level English and people who go on dates with me will stop finding the way I pronounce shit endearingly adorable and ‘exotic’ and will start to listen to whatever the fuck I’m saying. People won’t actually respect me because I’m blonde and curvy and visibly insecure about my ideas, but at least I’ll know they don’t find me intellectually inferior because I happen to be fluent in several languages, unlike them.)

In order for me to feel kind of okay in an intimate relationship I would have to either enter a therapeutic singledom in which I rewire every circuit I’ve wired since kinder-fucking-garden (in this economy?) or just like, finally manage to be with someone who will love me in a way that I don’t have to be so fucking scared all the time. Someone who will want me even if I want, period. But they would have to somehow magically do all that without being told that’s what I need, because putting that kind of pressure on another person is toxic and wrong and manipulative.

I try to imagine who I would be if I were born a man and grew up believing my silence isn’t the best thing I can offer to the world, and my mind draws completely blank. What’s left of me outside of all these pockets and nooks and crevices filled with carefully cultivated shame? I mean I’m smart and compassionate and opinionated, but aren’t all those qualities that I’ve more or less cultivated to battle the perpetual sense of unworthiness planted into me as a little girl?

Even out of the word ‘sympathetic’, which is hardly that desirable in its own right, I’m only left with ‘pathetic’.

[mymarvelobsessions]

Now or Never

Now or Never

masterlist

word count: 2.5k+

summary: Bucky x reader College AU. You and Bucky have been dating for a while, but things aren’t going so great. You love Bucky and want to make the relationship work, but does he?

warnings: light angst, fluff

a/n: This is my entry for @jurassicbarnes writing challenge! Happy Blog-Birthday💕 Based on the song Now or Never by Halsey. Btw this is my first fic ever! Also english isn’t my mother tongue, sorry for (m)any typos! Also, why am I doing this to myself? ~ “I love you.”, you say, exhaling softly and closing your eyes. You wait to hear if he says it back. He doesn’t.

Long after you have fallen asleep Bucky wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you close. “I love you, too.”, he whispers. But you can’t hear him.

Two days later:

You’re in your apartment, which you share with your best friend Natasha, working on your assignment. Or that’s what you should be doing. But really you are just waiting for Bucky to call you back. Which he hasn’t so far. You are used to it though. An hour truly isn’t much. For his standards that is.

It’s been two days since you have last seen Bucky and you made plans two have dinner tonight.

After another hour it happens. Your phone finally rings. As you hear the beginning tunes of ‘Viva la Vida’ your head immediatly perks up and a smile makes it’s way onto your lips. Nat sighs and shoots you a pityful glance.

But when you look down at your cell, it’s not Bucky calling. It’s Steve, his best friend.

You already know what is coming. Bucky has done this a thousand times, using Steve to cancel his plans with you. You really don’t know why Steve still puts up with this. But then  again, so do you.

“Heey Steve.” You pick up the phone, your mood audible in your voice. On the other end you hear Steve sigh.

“I am sorry, Y/N. I really am.”, he says.

“You don’t need to be.” You swallow hard. You meant it. It’s not Steve’s fault.

“It’s just-”, Steve starts to explain, but you cut him off. “No need to make up excuses. I get it.”

“I don’t think you do.” You laugh. Now it is your fault, or what?

“Look, today is not a good day for Bucky.”

“And he can’t tell me that himself?”, you snap.

“Like I said, not a good day.”, Steve explains.   “I GET IT.”, you yell. You immediatly feel sorry for screaming at Steve like that. He definitely did not deserve it.

“Sorry.” You take a deep breath. “Just…, tell Bucky…” You swallow. “Tell him it’s fine. And-” Hesitantly you finish. “Tell him I am here if he needs me.”

“I will.”  ~ “Bucky, you need to stop avoiding Y/N. She doesn’t deserve it.”, Steve says, his eyes piercing through Bucky.

“I am not avoiding her.”, Bucky growels, his stare just as intense as Steve’s.

Steve snorts. “You’re not? Then why did I just call your girlfriend to tell her that you don’t have time for her?”

Sighing Bucky breaks his stare. “You know it’s not like that.”

Steve gets up from to couch to grab another beer from the fridge. “I know that, but does she?” He opens the fridge door, to realize that there is no beer left. Using slightly too much force he shuts the door and turns around to face Bucky again, leaning against the fridge. “You cannot keep pulling shit like this and expect her to stay.”

Bucky inhales deeply. “I am not sure I want her to stay.” ~ “You should break up with him.”, Nat says, as soon as you end the call.

“What?!” You just stare at her. She can’t honestly mean that. She knows how you feel about Bucky and how much he means to you.

“I know you love him, but you need to brace yourself for the possibility that he doesn’t feel the same way about you anymore.” She carefully meets your gaze.

But you are not ready for this. So you go back to working on your assignment that you couldn’t care about less. ~ What Natasha said doesn’t leave your thoughts the rest of the day. Even now, lying in your bed that’s awfully empty without Bucky there.

For a while you just stare at the white ceiling.

Maybe he doesn’t feel the same way about you anymore. You close your eyes, but you can’t stop the tears from falling. A sob escapes from your lips. You quickly cover your mouth with one hand, not wanting Nat to hear you cry.

You really don’t want her to be right, but can’t stop yourself from think ‘what if she is?’. Were two years all you would get with Bucky? There was a time where you actually thought he was the one. And you still do.

But being with someone does not fully commit to you, hell, who does not even make time to see you, is not the way to live.

How foolish of you to think that you could have it all. An apartment close to your dream college with your best friend, the perfect guy and a great relationship with him.

And Bucky was the perfect guy. Handsome with gorgeos blue eyes that you could stare at for hours, if he would actually spend time with you. The right amount smart and funny, you could joke with him just as well as you could have a serious conversation. If he would actually talk to you. He was just… a little damaged. Which was probably why he was ignoring you right now.

It wouldn’t be fair for you to leave him now, just because he was going through a hard time. After all he had been there for you. And that’s what you want. You want to be there for him. But he doesn’t let you. ~ All of a sudden you are pulled out of sleep, your face and pillow drenched in water.

Confused you look around for the reason you awoke and find Nat standing next to your bed with an empty glass in her hand. She freaking poured cold water on you.

Nat smiles apologetically and shrugs. “Get your ass out of bed. Now. We’re late.” And with that she leaves.

Groaning you hoist yourself out of bed. You roll your head to stretch your neck and lightly massage your shoulders.

You hadn’t slept well and now your whole body ached. ‘Good.’, you think. At least now your body matches your soul.

You don’t want to go to class today. You don’t feel well. ‘Not a good day.’, you think and laugh at yourself. But opposed to Bucky you really want to talk to him or just be close to him. A light sob comes out. You take a deep breath. No time to cry. ~ After a quick shower and a cup of coffee you already feel a little better. Well enough to tackle a day of college.

You still needed to speak to Professor Coulson about that assignment. Since you hadn’t gotten anything done yesterday, you doubt it would be finished by tomorrow. But maybe you could convince him to give you more time.

When you arrive you and Nat part ways and head to your lectures. You round the corner and find yourself face to face with non other than Bucky Barnes.

Though you had been wanting to see him for the past few days, now that you are standing in front of him you don’t know what to say.

You immediatly start to blush and turn around. You shouldn’t be embarassed. But you are. So you start walking back only to realize that you are late and you have to get to class. Even if that means having to face Bucky.

Apruptly you halt your steps. Inhaling deeply you gather the courage to turn around.

He is still there. Just standing there, staring at you. Why doesn’t he say something. He just looks at you with those blue eyes, the pain and sorrow visible in his gaze.

He does not look well.  His skin pale as ever, dark blue bags under his truly beautiful eyes. Neither one of you moves. You want to. You want to run away. Turn around and never look back. You want to run into his arms. Wrap your arms around him and never let go.

“Aghm.” A cough pulls you out of your mind.

You both break your stare to find Steve, who just emmerged from the men’s bathroom, leaning awkwardly against the door, looking like wants to be anywhere but here.

“Sorry to interrupt your staring contest, but we are all late to Professor Coulson’s class.” ~ The short walk to the lecture hall was… uncomfortable, to say the least. Neither of you says a word. You wouldn’t know what to say or talk about anyway.

Now you are sitting in the second row, gaze fixed on Bucky’s brown hair in front of you.  You can’t help but wonder if it is still as soft as always. You find yourself reaching out to touch it and quickly pull back your hand.

First you are late and now you cannot concentrate on what the Professor is saying. Great way to show Coulson you deserve more time.

“Now remember that essay we talked about is due ‘til tomorrow.” With that Professor Coulson dismisses the class.

You throw your notebook and pen into your bag, straighten out your skirt and make your way to the front.

“Y/N.” You hadn’t heard his voice in too long.

But you continue walking until you reach Professor Coulson’s desk.

“I wanted to- ahm- ask if- ahm- it would be possible to… maybe possibly hand in the essay the day after tomorrow?”, you stuttered, hands sweaty. Great, you couldn’t even form a coherent sentence.

“Are alright, Y/N?” Brows furrowed your professor watches you intently.

“It’s fine.” You brush a stray hair strand out of your face, twirling it as you do so. “I mean I am fine.” You swallow, masking up a smile that is so obviously fake you don’t even know why you tried. Dropping the smile, you knead your hands together, slightly cracking your knuckles.

“You have until Wednesday.”, Professor Coulon says, a small smile on his lips. “I hope you get better.” Leaning forward slightly he whispers: “I think James is waiting for you.”

You look over your shoulder and see Bucky, James,  leaning casually against the front row table, hands in the pockets of his jeans, gaze focused on the floor as if he was looking for for something. Right in that moment he looks up and his gaze meets yours. His lips curve up just the tiniest bit.

“Thank you, Professor.”, you say, before turning fully.

You start to walk towards Bucky, aware of every single stept you make. It feels like you have forgotten how to walk properly.

Bucky’s gaze never leaves you and that is part of the problem. The 5m from Coulson’s desk to the front row feel like 5km.

Too soon you reach Bucky and look up at him, now standing in his full height, hands leaving his pockets to hang awkwardly at his side.

His right hand slowly begins to lift and you lift yours to meet his in a very odd handshake.

“I was going for a hug, but I guess this is fine as well.”, he mumbles, gaze dropping to the floor again.

A nervous giggle escapes your lips. You let go of his hand, which you hadn’t noticed you were still holding, and wrap your arms around his waist, before you can think twice about it.

It feels so familiar. And good. It feels so good.

You rest your head on Bucky’s chest. You can hear his heart beating. Fast and hard.

He puts one hand on the back of your head, the other on the small of your back and pulls you impossibly closer.

“I missed you.”, he whispers, mouth grazing your ear.

Don’t you dare say something. Don’t you dare ruin this moment. But then you have never been the type to keep your mouth shut.

“You don’t have to.” You say quietly, head still pressed against his chest. “I am here. And will always be.”

Carefully you look up at his face, not sure if you whether you want to see his reaction.

His teeth are clenched together, lips pressed into a fine line, jawline more visible than usual.

When he sees that you are looking at him, his lips form into a tight lipped smile. “I know baby, I know.” He presses his lips to your forehead in a soft kiss.

You move your hands from his waist to the sides of his face and raise to the tips of your toes to place a kiss on Bucky’s lips.

All of a sudden you hear the door shut. “Oh, you are still here.”, Coulson says, scratching his head. “Sorry to interrupt, but the next class starts in 5 minutes.” He walks over to his desk and sets his bag and a fresh, still steaming cup of coffee on it. “You might want to go somewhere… more private.”

Startled the two of you break apart. Keeping your head down you rush out of the room, mumbling “Sorry.” as you do. Bucky is right behind you, following your every step. ~ “Soo…” You come to a stop in front of a bank on campus. You sit down and pat the spot next to you, motioning Bucky to sit down, too. “Are we gonna talk about what happened?”

“What do you mean?”

You laugh. “Oh come on!” You stare at him, probably not looking as scary or threatening as you think.

“Don’t pretend you haven’t been avoiding me for the past two days!” Your voice comes out louder than intended. You cover your face with your hands, elbows resting on your knees. “I know you are going through a hard time, but… you could have at least texted.” The last part sounds more like a sob than anything else. At this point you are trying very hard to hold back the tears.

Bucky tears your hands away from your face. He grips your cheeks, forcing you to look at him. “I- I shouldn’t have done that.” He lets go of your face and looks down at his shoes.

Not being able to stop yourself, you brush his hair away from his face and behind his ear.

“It’s fine.” You try to reassure him. And maybe yourself. “Really, it’s fine. I am used to it.” At that you just have to laugh. You are actually used to your boyfriend ignoring you.

Said boyfriend’s head snaps in your direction. Wiggling closer, he puts his hand your thigh.

“You shouldn’t be. I shouldn’t-” He looks down at his hand that’s now drawing small circles. “I shouldn’t treat you like this.” His gaze wanders before settling down on yours.

“I am finally in my right mind. I love you, Y/N, and I need you. I have to stop pushing you away.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I was just so afraid. Still kinda am. It’s been so long since I- since I felt this way for someone.” He smiles. Not a small or tight lipped smile, but a genuine one.

A tear falls from your left eye. And that’s enough to break the damm. All the tears you had been holding back stream down your face and soon you’re leaning against Bucky’s shoulder, sobbing uncontrolably.

“Why are you crying?”, he asks, rubbing your shoulder soothingly. “I just told you I love you.” You can basically hear the giant smile on his face.

“Exactly!” ~ As Steve opens the front door to his and Bucky’s apartment he can already hear you giggling. Smiling he steps inside.

You are lying on the couch, head in Bucky’s lap, his hands gently stroking your hair.

“What are you watching?”, Steve asks as he examines the TV.

“Captain America.”, Bucky says, not looking up.

Giggling you point at the TV. “He looks so much like you, Steve!” ~ FIN ❤

a/n: Can u tell I never learned where to put commas. All any of my english teachers ever said was: u don’t have to put as many commas as in German ‘cause there are literally like 10000 comma rules in German. Also I hope someone actually reads this hahaha if you read this pls let me know what you think kay?

[communiteabooks-onlinestore-blog]

Indifference & Reading; Part II: Riding the Train in New York City

I miss reading while riding the train. I preferred to stand so I would, either, find a free space to lean against the side of the car or I’d wrap my arm around a pole, and I would read. When living in The Bronx I would get on the train at Parkchester and ride it, usually to 86th and Lex, but sometimes further. That is a twenty minute ride, at least. I had nearly an hour of reading time every day simply by riding the train. My problem now is the time, where do we find the time to read? Eh, actually, I have more than enough time, but how do we decide to allot our time to one thing over another? ​Sometimes, on the train, something intriguing would redirect my attention. I have too many accounts for it not to be difficult to even come up with one. I do recall one late night when I was riding the train back from Brooklyn—from Brooklyn to The Bronx mind you, so it was a bit of a ride—and a young man, he may have been homeless, and/or just completely out of his mind, sits down next to this older African American woman. He faces her and begins talking to her, only he started in the middle of a sentence, as if an earlier conversation of his had abruptly ended and he arbitrarily decided on this moment to best represent the end of his story—assuming, of course, that there is a discernible ending. The woman wasn’t entirely too phased, her only reaction to this character was to hold her purse a little closer to her chest, although that might be habitual for her, who knows, while she read her book. She was reading. No, but that didn’t stop this guy from talking to her. And, no, what he had to say was not coherent, there were very few coherent ideas coming from his lips, nevertheless it was entertaining, and enough so even for me to put my finger between the pages, marking my place, while I blatantly stared at the happening. His eyes were glazed, I don’t remember him blinking, once. He just stared straight ahead into-, and through the train telling his incoherent story seemingly to this woman but, really, to nobody at all. When he stood to leave. I can’t imagine he actually knew where he was getting off, he must have made the trip so often that the entirety was as automatic as a dog finding his way home after being left somewhere far, far away. He left, and then I continued to read. There is something happening to eye contact. The way people engage with one another. It’s all changing so rapidly, well maybe not even changing, it’s just disappearing, and I honestly don’t think it’s only the way that we interact in person, I, sometimes believe that it’s the undoing of all interactions. How we talk to people and why. I do not recognize this world as the same one I grew up in. And I grew up in the 90’s, I mean, this wasn’t that long ago. Before I moved to New York City I bought a pocket sized travel book called, NFT: Not For Tourists Guide to New York City, and at some point in the book is expressly states not to make eye contact with people on the train. A handful of the stigmas that book created took me a couple of years to unlearn. Eventually I was making eye contact with almost everybody on the train, because that is a human response to other humans. We make eye contact. If you look at people a certain way or are not conscious about what you’re feeling or thinking while your maintain eye contact you might discover some surprising, and unfriendly reactions, but that’s only because we emit what we feel and what we think by how we look at someone inasmuch the same way that we do when we communicate with them verbally, the vast majority of our interactions are nonverbal. So shutting yourself off to the people around you, in the train car, and in the world it isn’t going to create a safer or better place for you, it might sometimes feel safer, but, I mean does it really? This crack head that was sitting on the train telling us his incoherent story was completely out of his mind, but he was harmless because we allowed him to be human—regardless of how different his humanity is from our own. I’m not sure how I got off on this tangent exactly. I know that every time I read a book a big part of the reason that I lose myself in the story is because I am not satisfied with the direction society has gone. We talk about creating a better world, and change, and then we argue about what that means, and we are always wrong. With every step that we take we think that we are headed in the right direction, and still we consistently manage to f$%k it up. Meanwhile I’m trying desperately to lead some semblance of a normal life, but, really, all that I want to do is go build a cabin in some remote woodland area—if I can find one—or to live on my long anticipated dream boat and return to ‘civilization,’ if only immensely dire: such as the imminently problematic, and unlikely event that my boat is sinking. I actually haven’t read anything new in way too long—I’ll leave it up to your own imagination to invent how long is too long in this case, for me—but when you listen to too much news radio and spend even a fraction of the day on Facebook without losing yourself from time-to-time in a good book, or rather when I listen to too much news radio and spend even a fraction of the day on Facebook without losing myself in a good book, it doesn’t matter how green it is outside I know a long weekend of some Golden Milk and several happy pills while binge watching Roku’s background graphic is in store for me or I am going to lose my mind! I suppose that is part of the reason why I miss riding the train, and reading so much. For nearly an hour every day I would both read and be surrounded by people just being people: I would occasionally hear conversations spark up between strangers, random people singing, the occasional argument, but nevertheless everyone on the train, whether aware of the people around them or not, they affected one another—if only for that hour, and my head could be buried in that book so deeply I’ve missed my stop, and the next one, and the next, nevertheless all the people sharing that car with me became a part of that story in ways that I cannot always know.