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waywardwrestlewritingwaif · 4 years ago

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Raise the Stakes, Part 7

Bit of a longer section this time... Don't forget to catch up by reading Place Your Bets and Parts 1-6 of this story, linked in the Master List. (Please forgive me for not posting every link separately just this once.) I'm basically writing this one around whatever is happening on Impact/ New Japan every week, so I know some of the timing is screwed up but I didn't expect that this was going to be picked up as a plotline while I was writing the damn story.

Pairing: David Finlay x OFC (referenced Jay White x OFC)

Word count: 3,206

Content advisory: graphic sexual content, cursing, vaguely stalker-ish behavior that some might find troubling

Impact is a weird place. At least, it seems weird compared to New Japan, where everything is scheduled and organized and planned. Impact seems like it’s always on the brink of disaster but the people who’ve been here a long time seem to enjoy it a little, the happy chaos that makes things unpredictable. Everyone can and does screw up occasionally, so the one thing that’s intolerable here is acting like you’re infallible.

Since you arrived to fill the newly created position of talent liaison between the two companies, you’ve realized how insanely hard you’ve been working for the last few years. You always knew you were doing too much but being at a place that runs so differently, you find yourself worrying that you’re not doing enough. A couple of times, you’ve started helping to move equipment to demonstrate that you’re working hard.

The more low-key atmosphere seems to make everyone friendlier, which means that it hasn’t been difficult for you to get along with people. You’ll join in when everyone goes to a bar, or out for dinner. But the whole time, you’re keeping an eye on him.

You’re not exactly clear on why David and Juice got sent back to Impact when there’s clearly no plan to use them immediately. On the other hand, it’s not like either of them is going to be part of a huge program back in Japan, so it’s probably just a nice gesture so that the guys can see their families and friends before they get featured on TV every week. The nice part for you is that Fin Juice are always brought in for rehearsals, tapings, meetings, all the things that you’re part of, even if they aren’t used on screen. Impact want to use them as much as they can.

You keep your distance. When he’d first seen you, he’d gotten in your face almost immediately, although he waited until there weren’t any witnesses.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he hissed.

“I’m working for Impact now,” you’d answered coolly. “I guess you’re going to have to get used to having me around.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Maybe I just want to show a wider range of experience on my CV.” It was obvious that he didn’t believe a word you said, so you decided to drop all pretense. “I’m here because you’re here. Because I want to be close to you.”

“Well you’re shit out of luck there, sweetheart,” he snarled, “because I don’t want you anywhere near me.”

“I’m not going to get in your way or anything. If you don’t want to be around me, you don’t have to.”

“What sort of weird little game is it the two of you have going? Is he pissed because I haven’t told him that I’ll face him for his stupid title? Or is he just worried that I’ll beat him, again, and he thinks that sending you here is going to throw me off my game? Because I promise, I’m not falling into that trap again.”

“He has nothing to do with me being here,” you explained. “He didn’t even know I was moving. I came here for you.”

He sized you up, obviously still furious at having to be around you.

“Whatever he’s sent you here to do,” he growled, “I don’t care. Whatever we might have been before, we’re not friends, we’re not on good terms. I have no interest in being anywhere near you.”

“That’s fine,” you responded, voice weak with shame. “As far as I’m concerned, I’m just happy to be around you.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“I’m serious. I know you don’t want anything to do with me. So just keep ignoring me. I’ll stay out of your way.”

Immediately, you could see that he was frustrated. He’d wanted to fight, maybe to tell you that you were wrong or that nothing could ever happen between you again. He hadn’t been prepared for you to just admit defeat and admit that you were so sad that you’d followed a man who couldn’t have cared less about your existence all this way.

Or perhaps he’d been angry because he sensed that you’d followed him here because you felt like he did care about you, that all the vitriol he’d spewed in your direction seemed like a cover for the fact that he had deep feelings for you, feelings that hadn’t been obliterated by seeing you back with Jay.

When you’re occupied, this feels like the exact job you wanted. When you went to Gedo and told him that you were going to quit, you’d made a calculated gamble. New Japan didn’t like to lose people and their fragile status because of the pandemic and the hiring of a new president made them all the more eager to hold on to the people they had.

At first, Gedo had just thought that there was a problem with you and Jay and had encouraged you to let it blow over. He hadn’t asked, although he was clearly curious. Everyone knew the man had an appetite for gossip. But as he’d listened to your reasoned case about your job and how you weren’t ever going to move on to something bigger and better, he’d come to agree, which was amazing since you hadn’t even given it much thought yourself until you’d sat down.

You’d been prepared to just quit and go back to the United States, to stake out Impact tapings and live dates if you had to, but Gedo had come up with a better solution. You would be the point person for New Japan with Impact and other American promotions. No one in Japan wanted to manage these things from a distance and the few American employees they had were occupied with the Los Angeles dojo.

You’d asked that you be the one to tell Jay that you were leaving, since you’d worked exclusively with him for so long. In the end, that had taken the form of a note you’d left him when you took off for the airport. You’d blocked him from your phone, from social media, everything. There was nothing wrong between you. There was nothing at all between you. Because if there was anything connecting you, Jay could find a way to get you to do what he wanted, to keep you captive the way you had been for years.

True to his word, David will have nothing to do with you. The other New Japan talents can work with you. If he needs anything, he sends his partner to work things out. You don’t push it because what you’re doing is already bordering on creepy. If you’re wrong and he really doesn’t feel anything for you, it’s well beyond creepy.

When you aren’t thinking about what kind of monster you are, though, the job is fun. It’s great meeting all the new people and, as bawdy and gross as they are, you get along especially well with Karl Anderson and Doc Gallows. They’re legends in Japan, so there’s a bit of a “rock star” aura about them for you. But they’re also just juvenile and dumb and sometimes, at the end of a long day, that can be very welcome.

Karl has been jokingly trying to grab your clipboard with all your notes from you throughout the day, and you’ve been telling him that he’s getting fined every time he does it. He walks by as if he’s not going to say anything at first but as he passes, he reaches back and grabs the clipboard. Your grip tightens immediately and you hug the board to your body. He isn’t even trying and you still need most of your strength to hold on.

The two of you struggle theatrically for a few moments, until he decides to surprise you by letting go. It unfortunately catches you a little too much by surprise and you accidentally smack yourself in the face, the metal clamp nailing you right underneath the eye.

“Oh my god!” Karl puts his hands on either side of your face, trying to get a look. “Are you ok? Are you hurt?”

He sounds legitimately mortified at the accident, which makes you laugh a little. You’re about to crack a joke at him when another voice cuts in.

“What the fuck? What happened?”

Out of nowhere, David Finlay is standing next to you like a chaperone, his eyes demanding an explanation.

“It’s fine,” you mumble, rubbing at your face a little. “Just an accident.”

David’s face flushes when he sees that everything is amiable. You pat Karl on the cheek and give a tough little smile.

“Good.” David grows visibly tense as he says that final word and quickly turns on his heel.

“Think someone has a crush on you,” Karl chuckles once he’s out of earshot.

You laugh but make a mental note. It’s not just you that thinks there’s something there.

This incident pushes you to be just a little bolder and so, when you realize that the both of you are going to be staying a bit later than others, you sneak out to the parking lot and move your car so that it’s close to David’s. It’s because you truly believe that there’s still some kind of unresolved tension between you. As you’re heading back to the building, though, you can’t help but think about how you’d feel if someone acted this way towards you.

The rest of the day, you make sure to stay well clear of Finlay. It isn’t that difficult but you still notice him a few times, popping up near where you are. Is he doing this on purpose? Is he watching you? Although you’re always aware of him in your peripheral vision, you don’t ever look directly to see if he’s got his eyes on you. Somehow, though, you can feel his gaze lingering.

You putter around after you’ve completed your work for the day so that you can accidentally run into him in the parking lot. You exit a few paces behind him and try to figure a way to get him to at least say a few words.

“Thanks for coming to my rescue,” you call as you turn towards your car.

He looks up, glaring, like he wants to start a fight. It’s possible that he does, but that would involve having to talk to you and he definitely doesn’t want to do that. So he just gives you a poisoned look.

“Can you give me something just this once? I’ve stayed away from you, I’ve given you all the space I possibly can. I make it easy for you to pretend like I don’t even exist. Would it absolutely kill you to acknowledge that you were worried about me for three-quarters of a second earlier?”

“Don’t know what difference it makes.”

“Maybe I’d just like the little ego boost?”

“Fine, then,” he grunts, refusing to meet your eyes. “I rushed over because I saw what I thought was someone getting hurt. Karl can be kind of hard to take sometimes and I was worried he was acting stupid.”

You smile just a little at the admission. The second he notices this, he continues.

“If I’d realized it was you, I wouldn’t have bothered.”

‘Could you please stop it?” You can feel tears gathering in your throat and you suspect he can hear it too. He turns to go without another word and for the first time since you’ve arrived here, you can’t just let him go.

“Wait!” You run up to him, grabbing hold of his arms. “I know that you hate me and that I probably deserve that. I know I deserve it. But can you just try being human with me for a second?”

He gives an exasperated sigh and rolls his eyes.

“What do you want?”

He sounds so fed up that you lose your nerve and are reduced to a stammering mess as you try to figure out what you need to tell him.

“I think you did see that it was me who was with Anderson. I think that you came rushing over because you saw me get hit and despite everything, you were worried about me. I think that even though you hate me, there’s a part of you that… that doesn’t. And I want to know if I’m right.”

If he’s affected by what you’re saying, he’s giving you no sign.

“Think what you want. It doesn’t matter.”

He tries to pivot but you hold on to him, grabbing his wrists.

“Are you not even a little bit flattered to know a girl moved from another continent just so that she could be close enough to admire you from a distance?”

“Yeah, you’re not at much of a distance right now.”

“Am I that repugnant?”

His face grows darker and he grabs both your wrists, pushing you back against your own car. His lips flutter like he’s trying to decide which bits of bile to hit you with first. You wonder if the sensation of your bodies being close for the first time in months is having the same effect on him that it is on you. He’s certainly breathing heavily, his chest swelling against yours.

He appears ready to speak but the only word that tumbles from his lips is “Fuck.”

He pins your wrists against the car and presses his lips to yours. It’s not the wild, angry kiss you might have expected, either. It’s hesitant and soft but insistent. After a few moments of this, you loosens his hold on your wrists and you immediately run your hands up his biceps and grab hold of his shoulders. He tenses under your touch, so you can feel the bulge of the muscle there. He’s not carved like Jay, not close, but all that power and strength is still there, hidden just beneath the surface. Although it’s never occurred to you before, it feels intimate and intensely sexy.

The kisses continue, increasing in intensity with your lips opening a little, your tongues dipping into each other’s mouths, until you’re both practically tearing into each other, grinding your bodies against the side of your car. Clumsily, he reaches for the door handle and, realizing what he’s trying to do, you slide your hand over to complete the job. You have to separate momentarily so that you can open the door, but he doesn’t even give you the chance to utter a word, pushing you down on the back seat and climbing on top of you before picking up very much where you’d left off.

He mutters curses when he breaks for air, clamping his hands around your face, as if he had to hold you there, as if this wasn’t exactly what you want to be doing. You can feel the rigid outline of his erection against your thigh and you ease one hand over it, rubbing the palm of your hand along the length until he pushes back a little.

He continues to plant wet, angry kisses over your chest as he works to open the buttons of your shirt with remarkable dexterity. He frees your breasts from the cups of your bra, roughly rubbing them and sucking one nipple and then the other hard between his lips and teeth.

“Play with your tits,” he rasps, pushing himself up and grabbing his belt.

You’re happy to oblige, making a show of running your fingers around the aureole and over the nipple, making each one prick up even more, then licking your fingers before returning them to the tender little peaks.

He’s worked his cock free and strokes slowly, his eyes fixed on your chest as you do as you’re told. You try to get his attention on your face, at least momentarily, but he’s consciously avoiding eye contact. After a few minutes, he pushes your skirt up and pulls your panties down a little, increasing the speed of his hand as he stares at your wet pussy. He brings his tip close to your entrance, only to grimace and move back.

Worried that he’s about to run away despite the condition he’s in, you lean forward as much as you can, gently pushing his hand out of the way and replacing it with your own, guiding his engorged prick into your mouth. God, the sounds he makes, half-words and cries tumbling out of him in blind lust. Surreptitiously, you slide the rest of the way out of your underwear and run your hand over his thick thigh, tucking the panties carefully into the back pocket of his jeans. Let him find those a little later, when he’s questioning whether this was a good idea.

He begins to shudder a little but rather than finish in your mouth, he grabs a handful of your hair and shoves you back down on the seat. Once again, he pumps his cock, now shiny with saliva and precum, and once again, he’s taking pains not to look you in the eye.

“Touch yourself.” He nods at you and watches as you let one hand glide down your body, over your aching pussy.

The two of you continue like that, moaning as you both grow more excited. You hold yourself back a little, not wanting things to be over this quickly and also hoping that he’ll push inside you, the way you want so much.

“No,” he grunts, "Make yourself come.”

And so, a little begrudgingly, you increase the pressure on your clit, trying to keep your hand steady despite how slippery it is, watching as his movements grow faster as well. Just as you can feel yourself about to burst, you’re able to find his hand with yours, lacing your fingers through his. He doesn't resist. That contact is enough to pull you over the edge, and at the same moment, you feel the hot streams of his come hitting your chest as he gives a sort of ecstatic, pained cry.

You run your fingers through the mess on your skin, laughing softly. You have to use your shirt to wipe yourself off and as you do, you notice how ashamed he looks, turning his face as far away from you as he can.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I should have asked.”

“It’s fine.”

He doesn’t look reassured by this at all. He looks a little mortified, so you wrap your arm around his neck and pull him into a kiss. For a few seconds, he responds, eagerly even. But then he pulls back, shaking his head.

“No, I have to go, I can’t do this.”

“Can we at least talk?”

He shakes his head again and scrambles backward out of the car, refastening his pants as he does. He doesn’t even bother with the belt, just turns and walks away.

You crawl out of the car, clutching your shirt closed rather than lose the time it would take to do it up again.

“David, come on, we aren’t just going to pretend that didn’t happen.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for… I got a bit carried away. I’ll talk to you tomorrow or whatever.” He never even glances back.

#njpw fanfic #njpw imagine #david finlay imagine #david finlay fanfic #jay white fanfic #jay white imagine #wrestling fanfiction #wrestling imagine #wayward wrestle writing

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samanthaxreed · 4 years ago

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SOLO THREAD

Locale: Sam’s apartment / Oceanside Cemetery

Mentioned: @fireinhislungs, @gracetaylorwilliams, @jessexmarino, @naomixjones

Dinner with her father went off with only a few conversational lulls, far less awkward than anticipated and yet not completely fluid. Like two people rowing a canoe at different speeds, both attempting to turn it in the same direction without being fully in sync. It would come with time Sam supposed and as she began cleaning dishes, bright hues caught sight of her father throwing a cursory examination of the window latches before shifting attention to the folded sweater on her couch. “Are you holding that for somebody?”

It took everything in her not to snort. “Real subtle... It doesn’t belong to some secret lover if that’s what you’re getting at.”

His chagrin at being caught was palpable enough to soften Sam’s raised brow, almost lingering on the edge of amused before he continued. “I worry about you living in this place alone, Samantha. No roommate, no boyfriend, or... girlfriend?” The blonde visibly winced then, hands resuming the task at hand to avoid discussing something so personal with a person she truly didn’t know well at all. Her father, still a near stranger. “Look, take it from me that too much alone time drives you a little nuts and it’s probably safer in numbers around here.”

The audacity to gently lecture as if his brand of advice mattered in the grand scheme when he never deemed it necessary until now. A measured swallow and breath came before she pivoted features to address him in a way that wouldn’t entirely nuke their still rather tepid relationship. The pair lingered a hair away from disaster and the only indication she managed to give was a firm warning. “Dad, I know what you’re trying to say, but I can take care of myself. I’m doing just fine and you’re forgetting that I literally lived here at one point.” With him and her mother, ironically enough. Apparently Oceanside had been worth settling in during her formative years, but once she could choose for herself it no longer suited the narrative.

“You always did have your mother’s stubbornness.” That, at least, managed to ring true and she might have been able to ignore that comment with a scoff or quick humor picked up from his side, but her father always prodded the right button. “I’m trying to keep you safe, okay?” Definitely a hothead like her abrasive mother because the knife she’d been wiping down tightened within Sam’s slender grasp. Hell of a time to start giving a shit, but she digressed. “Because Oceanside isn’t how you remember it and ignoring that fact’s gonna get you hurt if you don’t pay attention... I understand if it brings you comfort being here, but it’s not the same.”

The sharp utensil she had been cleaning finally clattered against metal as it hit the base of her sink, dropped in frustration because it wasn’t his business. None of it. He surrendered that right when the ink dried on her custody papers; parental claim relinquished unequivocally. “I’m not blind. I can fucking see that it’s worse and I’m not walking around the city with rose colored glasses.” Quite the opposite, suffocating every blossom of nostalgia before it could spring out of the dirt... Or ash, depending upon how one looked at it. “The whole me getting poisoned thing shot that down right out of the gate, but I’m not just–– I’m not giving up on this and lots of people I care about live here.” She swallowed against the vulnerability, choking it down like a bad tequila shot. “Which means there’s something worth sticking around for, so if you’re trying to talk me out of it then go ahead and call up Fletcher. Let him tell you how well that worked out the last time somebody tried.”

“Take it easy,” he cautioned with infuriating ease against her rising temper. “I’m only trying to look out for your best interest. If something happened to you, I wouldn’t forgive myself.” The chuckle she gave in response lacked both humor and warmth, practically bewildered at his entire savior complex... And bitter, so unfathomably jaded at this ill conceived timing. Too little, too late. “Yeah, well, you’ve been asleep on the job for twenty-eight years so it’s convenient that you woke up to do it now.”

That must have cut deep because her father maneuvered out of the kitchen doorway, hands raised defensively as if she were still holding the knife. It sort of felt like that, but her tongue became the barb instead. Stabbing repeatedly when he hardly deserved it, angered more at unseen and unresolved forces. “I know I wasn’t always as involved as I could have been, but I did raise you––”

“You didn’t raise me, you avoided me because it was easier to spend time at the casino than come home to the life you picked out. And before you start accusing me of favoritism, Mom didn’t do shit either. You want to talk about romanticizing the past? Take a look in the fucking mirror.” Fists clenched against her side were blanched white at the knuckles, three decades of resentment spilling out in verbal blows that Sam knew she couldn’t take back. Nor did she want to, not tonight. “The Williams raised me. And when they were gone, I raised myself and I did a damn good job at it.”

Some part of her would regret this moment later when his features came to mind, the shame and clear heartbreak written across them undeniable. “I didn’t realize that’s how you felt.” They had backed up fully into her living room, or perhaps she simply cornered her father with truthful criticisms when he’d only wanted to help. So much for repairing their relationship. “Yeah, well... I ruined your lives so I guess it’s only fitting that you ruined mine.” Arms crossed protectively over her middle, both avoiding one another’s gaze out of mutual hurt and then she heard the door unlock.

“I wish you hadn’t come back here, Samantha.”

While sounding bad on the surface, she knew full well it was meant as a last olive branch and proof that he loved her despite the vitriol, but Sam’s throat had tightened too far to respond. He slipped out into the evening air and despite how she wished to move, or scream, or burst into a thousand shards to match her internal schism, both feet remained firmly planted for several minutes.

Then she darted across to her purse, snatching it up along with the sweater draped along the back of her sofa. No phone, she didn’t need to talk anymore. At least no one listed in there.

–––––

One bottle of some cheap rosé from the grocery store later and she was back on the road, navigating some vaguely familiar route down the coast. GPS wound up becoming necessary at some point much to her embarrassment, but twelve years away wasn’t nothing and darkness made fools of everyone. Her car pulled into the cemetery parking lot and for a minute she simply sat with the engine idled, replaying pieces of their conversation in her mind. Not just with her father, but Fletcher, Grace, Jesse, Naomi... People who existed in her former life that now began slotting into this new, convoluted one.

The gate’s lock was either open already or rusted by the sea air, but it hardly mattered because Sam entered without much barrier. Weaving through headstones, she discovered that the path to her destination sprouted from memory which was altered by nighttime shadows and the fickle mistress of time. After getting turned around once, she eventually made it and settled into a small plot of grass, unscrewing the lid of her bottle and toasting in mock cheers to her company.

In Loving Memory of Brooke Williams

The sight alone was enough to tighten something imperceptible within her chest, washed away by the peachy drink and a half-hearted joke. “Sorry for sitting on you, but that should be nothing new. Kick me off if you hate it.” Talking to a ghost as if the long deceased girl were able to hear felt stupid on about three hundred levels, but Sam hadn’t been granted the privilege of catching up for so long. And after arguing with her parent, she just needed her best friend and other half.

“I think that maybe... everything in my life is temporary now,” she admitted to the silence. “And sometimes I can even convince myself that I’m okay with it. Never attaching myself to anybody or anything.” Mostly through her own design, sabotaging any concept of permanence before it, too, could be ripped away without warning. A self preservation measure concocted when she was far too young; no kid should delve so far into their own fear that they only knew how to run. “Except here. I feel like I keep circling back to this place and these people... And you. Always you.” For someone who only an hour previous claimed to raise herself, she truly did an immaculate job at creating an adult who wound up successful, capable, and so unbearably alone.

Maybe she should have called Fletcher instead, the thought interjected itself and became quickly dismissed. Hadn’t enough trouble been thrust upon his shoulders? And Grace’s? Stripped of their entire family in the course of a single night, tossed into a system which spat them back out, and molded to fit a world that clearly didn’t give a shit. The last thing either one needed was a reminder walking back through their door, but she had with such unfathomable selfishness. Perhaps guilt brewed in the pit of her stomach over how she treated her father tonight or that continuous fear of making the wrong move, but uncertainty brought the rim to parted lips once more.

“I’m not sure what I’m doing anymore, B.” It was easier to draw honesty from her bones out here, less like pulling water from a stone with only a bottle and the faint ocean breeze answering back. Rather than eerie or unsettling, the dim light provided a quiet comfort of remaining unseen in the midst of such raw admittance. “I don’t think I belong in this city like I used to, but I’m scared––” There was that thickness in the far reaches of her throat again. “I’m afraid that if I don’t belong in Oceanside then I don’t really belong anywhere. So what the hell do I do?”

She had belonged once, in a flickering memory of happiness that remained pure despite life’s valiant attempts to extinguish it. Friendship bracelets with her name misspelled on accident. Brooke telling Fletcher he could only join their pillow fort if he killed the spider inside. Grace’s laughter from beneath the hood of an old car as she threw a grease laden rag at Mr. Williams. They were supposed to grow old together, buy houses on the same street, live out impossibly normal lives. So beautifully mundane in their cookie cutter regularity. Even after the worst overtook them, she had been naïve enough to believe in some echo of that future; a broken shell, but enough to keep her head above water.

In that alternate time, Grace taught her to drive manual and took Sam to get her license, the pair bonding in a way that she only dreamed of as a child who idolized the eldest Williams beyond words. She would have thanked the brunette for being the only stable adult in her life and the only one worth counting on. In that alternate timeline, she got Fletcher trashed on his twenty-first birthday and sat on the bathroom floor with him all night in apology. She would have told him the truth at some point, even if he didn’t reciprocate. So many what if’s that were robbed before they even began and now she grasped at smoke, unable to hold it between desperate fingers. Why couldn’t she just let things go like a well adjusted person? Why did she leave claw marks etched into every memory?

More wine, but this time it tasted distinctly of saltwater as the wind brushed over damp cheeks.

#this is too many words #tw death #tw alcohol #tw murder #tw neglect #( x. self para )

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ericsonclan · 5 years ago

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A Touch of Pneumonia

Summary: Violet checks on her girlfriend to find her sick, but with no intentions of following orders and staying on bedrest XD

Read on A03:

Violet stood by the front gates, impatiently kicking the ground. It was well past sunrise. She and Prisha had planned to take a morning walk together, but she’d been waiting over an hour and had still not seen Prisha emerge from the school. Violet swayed uneasily on her feet. She wanted to go in and see if Prisha was in her room, ask her what was going on. But she also didn’t want to be a stalker. What if Prisha had just forgotten? Would she think it was creepy if Violet hunted her down in her room? It was better to wait, even if standing here doing nothing was eating her up inside. Omar emerged from around the corner of the school, carrying a basket of herbs and greens he had taken from the greenhouse. She had offered to help, but Omar had simply shook his head and went on his way. He had his morning routine of breakfast prep down to an art form. Bringing someone else into the process would only irk him. Clem stood up on the watchtower, casting a concerned glance down at Violet from time to time. She’d tried to strike up a conversation once or twice, but Violet was too distracted to keep it going. AJ had gone off on patrol of the grounds, taking Rosie with him. Only Willy, Ruby, Aasim and Louis remained inside. And Prisha. Where was she? Was she trying to send some sort of message that she didn’t want to go on the walk after all? Violet shook her head in annoyance. No, that was stupid. There had to be a valid reason she wasn’t here. Prisha wasn’t the non-confrontational type. “Maybe you should go check on her,” Violet looked toward Clementine. “It’s unusual for her to sleep in this late,” “I guess,” Awkward silence. “If you want to cover watch, I can go in and check on her instead,” Should she take her up on the offer? No, that was stupid. God, Violet, get it together! You can do this – just go knock on her door. Violet straightened her shoulders, steeling her resolve. “I’ve got this. I’ll see what’s up,” With that, she was off in the direction of the dorms.

It didn’t take long before she was standing in front of Prisha’s door. Pausing for only a moment, Violet knocked on it resolutely. No response. What should she do? “Uh, Prisha, are you in there?” “Violet?” “Clementine sent me to check on you,” Coward. Mention the walk! “Violet, I…” her voice cut off. “What was that?” Nothing. “Prisha? Prisha, I’m coming in!” Violet swung the door open, heart pounding. Prisha lay upon her cot, her face flushed and sweaty. Her sheets lay in a twisted heap at her feet, her blanket pulled up to her chin. Prisha’s eyes met Violet’s, hazy and dark. She inclined her head to speak. “I think I have a touch of pneumonia,”

“What?!” Violet spat out. “A touch of pneumonia?” “Yes, but don’t worry. It took me a bit longer to get out of bed, but I’m on my way now,” Prisha sat up, swaying a bit to the right as she did so. She dazedly reached for one of her boots. “Prisha, you look fucking awful,” Prisha tried to manage a smirk. “Is that any way to greet your girlfriend?” “You know what I mean. We need to get you to Ruby right away,” “Please,” Prisha shook her head in scorn. “This is nothing. If I truly had pneumonia, I would have a terrible cough to go with it. One with plenty of hacking and phlegm… but I’m breathing perfectly fine,” As she pulled one of her boots up, her body seized up and she began to cough violently, her body shaking with the force of it. She lifted watery eyes to meet Violet’s. “That was simply an example of what I don’t have,” She’d had enough of this. “Ruby!” Violet shouted, booking it out of the room and down the hallway. “Ruby, get your ass out here now! Prisha’s sick!”

About a half hour later, Prisha was propped up in bed with a plethora of extra pillows, looking quite peeved at the current arrangement. Violet stood by her bedside, arms crossed, daring Prisha to just try and escape again. She had already failed twice. Ruby was crushing some herbs in preparation to give to Prisha. Violet felt like rolling her eyes into the back of her skull. Prisha had been right with her self-diagnosis: she had pneumonia. Apparently her girlfriend was just too much of a stubborn ass to actually follow the medical protocol to get herself better. Ruby walked over to Prisha’s bedside with a small bowl in her hands. “Alright, I’ve mixed the false boneset in with some berries to help improve the taste. Try to eat all of it, you hear?” “Thank you, Ruby,” Prisha said, reaching out from her swarm of blankets to take the bowl. “You really didn’t have to trouble yourself,” “Why, Sug, of course I did! We can’t have you being sick and worrying poor Violet here half to death,” “It wasn’t that bad, really,” Violet glared daggers at her. “Well, if you don’t want to take it as medicine, the juice is rumored to work as a sort of aphrodisiac, so that’s a bonus,” The girls stared at Ruby in horror. “Anyways, I’ll leave ya girls to it. Make sure to stay in bed and drink plenty of the water Aasim brought up. Bye now!” With that, Ruby bustled out of the room. Prisha looked down at the bowl with distaste, but scooped out a spoonful. She gulped it down loudly. “Whoopee,” she croaked. She turned her head to Violet. “Do I look sexier now?” “If it’s an aphrodisiac, it would be working on you, not me since you’re the one who’s eating it, dumbass,” “Ouch,” Prisha scowled. “You’re rude sometimes, you know that?” “I’m only rude to idiots,” “Now that’s taking it a little far, wouldn’t you say?” “You refuse to acknowledge you’re sick, try to sneak out of bed and won’t even take all your medicine! What am I supposed to fucking call that?” “You know,” Prisha said, tossing a pillow to the floor. “A couple years back when I was pinned down by some walkers in an old dental office, I picked up a copy of Scientific American and it said that studies showed there was no proof of causation between bedrest and recovery from the common cold,” She threw another pillow to the ground. Violet crouched to pick the pillows up and began chucking them back on the bed. “Well, you don’t have the common cold, you have fucking pneumonia!” It became a race to see who could get more pillows onto the floor or the bed. Competition was fierce at first, but Prisha quickly grew winded and entered another coughing fit. Violet rushed forward to prop pillows behind her and lay her back against the fluffy mass. She began to place the extra pillows around Prisha’s sides. “Violet, you’re smothering me,” “I’m smothering the illness out of you!” Suddenly Louis popped his head in. “Hey, there. Just thought I’d check in and see how you lovely ladies are doing,” Both girls turned toward him with a look of vitriol. “Get the fuck out of here, Louis!” “Ok, ok! Yeesh, message received!” As soon as he had appeared, he was gone. The girls turned back toward each other. Prisha eyed Violet warily. “If I promise to stay in bed and eat the rest of the medicine, will you stop hovering so goddamn close?” “Fine,” Violet growled. “It’s a deal,” She made her way over to the other bunk and plopped down on it. “But don’t think I’m letting you out of my sight!”

They sat like that for hours, Prisha dozing in and out of consciousness, Violet curled up on the opposite bed, never taking her eyes off her ward. Omar came by sometime in the afternoon with food, stating that Ruby had mixed more medicine into Prisha’s portion. Violet made sure Prisha ate it all and drank half of the pitcher of water on the dresser. The afternoon dragged on, hardly a word passing between the two. Willy and AJ had dropped off some books for their entertainment (and Garbage, though she had immediately scrambled out the door), but Prisha was too tired to read much and Violet couldn’t be bothered to try. Finally, as night began to set in and Violet lit the room’s candles, Prisha spoke. “I’m sorry for being an ass,” Violet was silent, unsure and unwilling to respond. Prisha sighed and continued. “You know I was on the road for years. During that time, I didn’t have a bed. I hardly ever had medicine. When I got sick, I had no one to depend on but myself. I couldn’t rest because I had to keep moving. And I survived. I didn’t let any illness take me down, no matter how fucking awful I felt,” Violet couldn’t meet Prisha’s eyes. “That doesn’t mean you have to do the same now,” “I know. I know I should be grateful that I don’t have to press through anymore, that I have people to take care of me…” Prisha drifted off. “This is going to sound fucking stupid,” “Try me,” “When you came in and saw how sick I was and got Ruby, hauled all these pillows and blankets in here and made sure I was eating and drinking water and lying down…. It reminded me of my mom,” “… Is that a bad thing,” “No, it isn’t.” Prisha let out a heavy sigh, laying back on her pillows. “Whenever I got sick when I was little, she would absolutely bury me in blankets. She made this special soup full of spices and veggies that she said her grandma had made way back whenever my mom was little and got sick, and she’d forced me to eat every last bite. She’d sit with me all day and we’d watch all these Indian dramas on TV, really stupid, soap-opera type shit. She wouldn’t leave me for a single second,” The room was quiet. Violet heard a soft sniffle. Was Prisha crying? She turned to look. Her girlfriend’s eyes shone with tears and her nose was running. She was gazing out the window. “I know I shouldn’t project my own shit onto you. It’s just… you taking care of me made me miss my mom so fucking much,” She was crying now, her sobs catching in her throat. “Hey,” Violet exclaimed, approaching the bed. “Hey, no, it’s alright. That’s not stupid,” “Yeah, it is,” Prisha insisted, burying her face amongst the pillows. What could she possibly say back? Unsure what else to do, Violet crawled up on the bed, laying beside Prisha and wrapping an arm around her. Prisha turned her head back in shock. “No, don’t. You’ll get sick,” “Don’t worry about it. Pneumonia’s not gonna fuck with me,” Violet nestled herself deeper against Prisha, the blanket pile enveloping both of them. Prisha adjusted her right arm which lay above them both, reaching out to gently play with Violet’s hair. Violet felt some of the tension leave her body as she relaxed under the covers. It was a minute or two before she spoke again. “My mom worked three different jobs. She wasn’t home most of the time, and neither was my dad. Whenever I got sick, she’d call my grandma to come over since she couldn’t miss her shift, then head out,” “So you were alone at home?” “Yeah, but that’s how it was most days anyways,” “Did your grandma stay with you then?” “Sorta. She’d come by after a few hours with a can of Campbell’s soup and heat it up in the microwave. Then she’d sit in the living room and watch her shows till my mom got home,” “She wouldn’t sit with you?” “Sometimes I’d go out in the living room with my blanket and watch with her. When she fell asleep, I’d switch the channel to cartoons,” Prisha paused in her hair brushing. “I’m sorry,” “Why?” “My words must have come across as inconsiderate, complaining about missing my mom when yours wasn’t even around when you were sick,” Violet shrugged. “Everyone’s got their own lives. Ours were just different,” Prisha didn’t say anything, but she continued to stroke Violet’s hair. Violet could see herself starting to drift off amidst the warmth of their blanket cocoon. “Violet?” “Mmm?” “Thank you for today. For staying with me,” “Not like I had much else to do,” Prisha chuckled. “If you say so. Oh, and one more thing,” “Yeah,” “Once I have Ruby’s permission to get off bedrest, we’re going on that sunrise walk together,” She’d remembered. Violet felt herself smiling. She was too far under the blankets for Prisha to see it though. “Ok,” “Goodnight then,” “Night,”

The next day, Violet woke with a cough.

#twdg #twdg season 4 #fanfic #twdg prisha #twdg privet #twdg violet

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ts1989fanatic · 6 years ago

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I learned to block some of the noise. Social media can be great, but it can also inundate your brain with images of what you aren’t, how you’re failing, or who is in a cooler locale than you at any given moment. One thing I do to lessen this weird insecurity laser beam is to turn off comments. Yes, I keep comments off on my posts. That way, I’m showing my friends and fans updates on my life, but I’m training my brain to not need the validation of someone telling me that I look 🔥🔥🔥. I’m also blocking out anyone who might feel the need to tell me to “go die in a hole ho” while I’m having my coffee at nine in the morning. I think it’s healthy for your self-esteem to need less internet praise to appease it, especially when three comments down you could unwittingly see someone telling you that you look like a weasel that got hit by a truck and stitched back together by a drunk taxidermist. An actual comment I received once.

Swiftie lessons learned:

So based on Taylor Swift’s 30 lessons before 30 I wanted to share a few lessons of my own. As a person twice Taylor’s age and a guy too, you might think there is not that much I could learn by becoming a swiftie at my age.

You like me would be all kinds of wrong

Before 1989 came out I had never really spent any time on SM, but after the album release and my wife and I both deciding it was one of the best pop albums ever.

I bit the bullet and started a Twitter account to share how I felt about the album with others who felt the same, OMG was that a huge mistake. Talk about drama it was insane on there.

So then I looked at Instagram but that’s not for me (hate having my picture taken) and I don’t do selfies my icon picture with my better half is the only picture of me on the internet to my knowledge.

Finally I ended up here on Tumblr and it’s been my go to ever since, the lesson I learned from this experience relates in a way too #1 on Taylor’s 30 I also had to block some of the noise the trolls came after me sometimes relentlessly over my age and gender. At first I used to respond to all the vitriol until I realized I was just feeding the trolls, the block function on Tumblr is as satisfying as trying to have a reasonable debate with the trolls was unsatisfying.

Being sweet to everyone all the time can get you into a lot of trouble. While it may be born from having been raised to be a polite young lady, this can contribute to some of your life’s worst regrets if someone takes advantage of this trait in you. Grow a backbone, trust your gut, and know when to strike back. Be like a snake—only bite if someone steps on you.

Swiftie lesson #2

#2 on Taylor’s list was about being nice to everyone all the time, like Taylor I was raised to be polite (if I wasn’t polite in front of my father I got knocked across the room) that also got me in trouble with the trolls. Apparently it’s creepy to respond to a request for a Reblog with all done young lady or similar phrases.

Or sending new followers a thanks for the follow let me know if you need anything reposted message, I don’t initiate conversations on Tumblr but I politely respond to requests for reblogs or advice.

But apparently being polite and responding like this is creepy, which is stupid to me, at my age most of the people on here are younger than me and most are probably female.

Banish the drama. You only have so much room in your life and so much energy to give to those in it. Be discerning. If someone in your life is hurting you, draining you, or causing you pain in a way that feels unresolvable, blocking their number isn’t cruel. It’s just a simple setting on your phone that will eliminate drama if you so choose to use it.

Swiftie lesson #3

I have learned to do this over the years, it’s happened before and will probably happen again. I used to respond to the trolls but soon realized you can’t have a reasonable debate with unreasonable people.

Now I simply block them for my own peace of mind, it still hurts to be called creepy and a pedophile but I’m a big boy and I have learned to deal with it.

What I really hate is those who come to my defence being viciously attacked and in some cases being driven away from Tumblr over it. That’s not happening with me I have thought about it in the past but never again.

I have three things that keep me here, online friends willing to accept me for who I am and who are willing to risk getting attacked to defend me and my right to be here.

A follow from @taylorswift that’s almost four years old along with a bunch of likes from Taylor “every one of them a Reblog for someone else” I absolutely love when that happens it makes two swifties happy me of course and the original poster.

And finally a sense of community somewhere that I can feel like I belong. A place that being a @taylorswift fan at my age in life is not considered strange by the vast majority of of swifties.

So keep sending the hate I will continue to block the noise, I am not going anywhere. I had close to 40 people unfollow me over the weekend but 10 or 11 others that ignored the noise and made their own decisions.

I learned that disarming someone’s petty bullying can be as simple as learning to laugh. In my experience, I’ve come to see that bullies want to be feared and taken seriously. A few years ago, someone started an online hate campaign by calling me a snake on the internet. The fact that so many people jumped on board with it led me to feeling lower than I’ve ever felt in my life, but I can’t tell you how hard I had to keep from laughing every time my 63-foot inflatable cobra named Karyn appeared onstage in front of 60,000 screaming fans. It’s the Stadium Tour equivalent of responding to a troll’s hateful Instagram comment with “lol.” It would be nice if we could get an apology from people who bully us, but maybe all I’ll ever get is the satisfaction of knowing I could survive it, and thrive in spite of it.

Swiftie lesson #4

I don’t have a sixty foot snake named Karyn but I have learned some valuable lessons from watching how @taylorswift dealt with her bullies. The most important one is too not let the bullies define who you are or too change you in any meaningful way.

I can’t laugh it off because being bullied is not a laughing matter, but I can learn to roll with it and as Taylor herself say Shake It Off.

Have I made mistakes on here in the past yes, will I make mistakes in the future probably but will that stop me from being here and doing what I have always done. NOPE I have always tried to help others get noticed liked followed by @taylorswift that will never change.

Just because a bunch of TROLLS decided they don’t like what I do or say on here will not change who I am or what I try to do after all.

You are not your mistakes.

You are not damaged goods or money from your failed explorations.

You are not the opinion of someone who doesn’t know you.

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disruptedvice · 6 years ago

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May I have this dance (gotg fic)

Starmora week 2018 Day 2 - dancing

Peter hated people who gave themselves self-aggrandizing nicknames.

(Or undercover missions + dancing + jealousy + soft talks = starmora love)

AO3 Link

___________________

May I have this dance? ___________________

A ballroom filled with partners dancing in formal and evening wear might not be what one would first picture when thinking of intergalactic arms dealers, or that the duchess hosting such an affair on her estate would have her fingers dipped in so many criminal pots. She wasn't even duchess of anything, that's just what she called herself.

Peter hated people who gave themselves self-aggrandizing nicknames just to inflate their own sense of importance. Besides- duchess? If you're gonna go for royalty, why not just use queen or king? Even baroness would've been better- there's such a level of pretentiousness that came with duchess. Also, wasn't that like a thing people named their cats? And other pets?

Whatever, he had an issue with this lady's nickname, and it took all his self control not to make a face every time he had to say it because she wouldn't answer to anything else.

Ugh. Peter hated people who gave themselves nicknames, and the ones that went for 'high class' ones were always the worst offenders, the ones who insisted you call them those stupid monikers that implied they were supposed to be rulers of something was always markers of someone you don't want to get to know.

And, to what you're thinking: no. Starlord was different. First- because he didn't give himself that nickname. His mom did. You're in the clear for self-aggrandizing nicknames if someone else gave it to you. It's kinda like why Guardians of the Galaxy worked so well. They would've seemed like such self important dicks if they just started calling themselves that after a brainstorming session for their would be team name. But, because Ronan called them that first (it was even better that he was using it as a put down at the time), and all the people they saved heard him say it before they totally kicked his ass, they were now free to go gallivanting around the universe as Guardians of the Galaxy without seeming like a bunch of dillweeds.

Peter didn't just up and start calling himself a lord one day. Which he can guarantee this duchess lady did. That's why Starlord was different. He didn't nickname himself, because people who did that were the worst.

And he didn't force people to call him Starlord. The Duchess wouldn't respond if you called her anything else, not her real name, or even ma'am or sir. Starlord was different.

He still answered to Peter, or Quill, or even 'hey, asshole!'

He kinda hated these missions where he had to dress up nice and play a functioning member of society and go undercover as a social elite in something fancy schmancy like this.

Actually, that wasn't true. He loved these undercover as someone respectable missions as long as he had a certain someone next to him. Pretending to be upstanding citizens as they infiltrated some gathering was something he always had a ball doing whenever it was him and Gamora pretending to be normal, unsuspecting people. He loved those types of missions.

Safe to say this wasn't one of those missions.

Tonight he was just the well dressed distraction tasked with keeping the Duchess's attention at the gala while the rest of the team actually pulled off the real job.

Gamora had infiltrated the event and was disguised as a guard on the second floor, effectively running point for the team while doing 'walkthroughs' inbetween checking on Peter and watching his back from the second floor balcony in case one of the many disreputable guests in attendance at this ball recognized him for who he actually was. He didn't recognize any names on the guest list, and safe to say he looked pretty damn unrecognizable in a pressed suit with shining cuff links and hair that was actually combed. He cleaned up pretty nicely, if he didn't say so himself.

Plus, it wasn't just the fun type of dancing he was good at. He was good at this stuffy, formal partner dancing too. The one with very precise steps because rich people didn't know how to let loose.

Looking all presentable and dressed to the nines as he held one of the Duchess's gloved hands, his other hand at the waist of her deep midnight blue evening gown (which was too soft to not cost a bazillion units by the way, it was almost too blue, like she could somehow afford deeper colors than the rest of the universe) as they danced around and around in circles with all the other couples there- he fit right in. Nothing to be suspicious about. ___________

Gamora looked out across the balcony, spotting Peter in less than two seconds, still doing fine just like the last time she checked on him. She had to stop herself from grumbling at the sight, knowing that Peter (and everyone else) would be able to hear her through the com links if she did so.

Technically she didn't have to check on him so often and spend so much time literally watching his back since she'd be able to hear on the com links if something were to start going wrong for him, but she did so anyway. Rocket and the other's had their part handled, so she settled in, leaning her back against the wall as she watched him move across the floor below her.

Gamora couldn't help but notice the woman was pretty, this Duchess. Her long orange hair was piled atop her head in a loose style that left locks and curls spilling out to cascade down her shoulders in a messy but perfect way that had to be by design, and probably took hours to get right. Her smile might be what one called demure, or coquettish, with pretty pink lips and warm brown skin that could only be described as beautiful. Her bright hair and midnight dress made her look like night and day. Or like a sunset even. Gamora couldn't tell if that was on purpose, or if she was just one of those beautiful people who always had that thing work out for them, and the affect her dress made paired with the lovely shade of her skin was just an accident.

From head to toe, she was like the sun fading into the dusk fading into the night sky.

It wasn't like this was the first beautiful woman they had come across since becoming the Guardians of the Galaxy. This wasn't even close to the first time the team had been on a mission and used Peter as bait with a target who was an attractive female that he was supposed to go distract and flirt with and buy them some time.

It wasn't how beautiful this woman was that bothered Gamora (though she could do with horrible people being a little less gorgeous sometimes).

The problem was... she was actually a good dancer.

Probably what one would call a natural, as she danced with Peter. Gamora didn't have a good vantage point for seeing her feet, but she was certain that this other woman didn't stumble even once. Neither did Peter, as he led her through the steps with a skill and finesse that she hadn't known he'd possessed. Much more than an instructor, he looked like a professional. They both did. As they moved through the motions with a certain grace and ease, they both looked like they did this for a living, like they were made to be dance partners. The way that silken glove grasped his hand, the other on his shoulder, as she followed his lead with the confidence of someone who knew what they were doing- they way the whirled and twirled, almost floated across the floor with her midnight colors trailing behind them- it was almost like a mirage.

They were both so good at it. Peter never had to stop and wait, never once grimaced in pain because his feet had been stepped on or he'd been kneed, didn't have to direct her or even give her pointers. Like for the first time his skills were able to shine, because he finally had a partner who worked with him instead of against him. He finally had a partner that moved. And when he was paired with someone of similar skill level, for the first time Gamora could see what a truly good dancer he was.

The Duchess complimented him to where dancing looked like one thing they did together, rather than something clumsy or awkward or even a fight. Her movements were fluid, matching his, and Gamora would almost think it was beautiful if the sight didn't fill her with such vitriol. ___________

The job went perfectly, and the mark never suspected a thing. Sure, Peter might have had more fun if he was on the explore the rich person mansion team this time, but he couldn't complain too much. No one got shot at even once, which already had this as a big win in his books. Being a polite version of his usual witty and charming self while moving in circles the whole night was pretty boring. But as captain of a pretty rowdy team, he had to appreciate having a boring night when they were infiltrating a, once again, intergalactic arms dealer's sprawling manor. And dancing was a whole lot more entertaining than standing in the same spot for hours, which he'd had to do on previous 'boring' jobs before (and Peter never was very good at staying still).

After it was finished, Peter kept bragging about his performance and how he put the artist in con artist. So yeah, he was happy for a job well done for a not unimpressive score.

(sure, the Duchess and her operation was to big for them to take her down or anything, but she'd soon discover quite a few integral things missing that would cripple her weapons trade and some of her other illegal side businesses- but the real win were the documents that Rocket found that would soon find their way into the hands of the nova corp who could do much more damage with the papers than the Guardians could ever do in a single night)

For the first time in awhile it felt like one of their plans went off without a hitch. Plus, being the distraction this time was much easier and much less perilous to his health than it usually was. Why couldn't they all go this smoothly? Instead of them running into trouble half the time- probably more than half the time, actually.

Somebody recognizes them, somebody stabs somebody they weren't supposed to, something goes wrong- not this time.

This one was smooth and easy. Their flawless plan was executed perfectly- no running, screaming, or accidental stabbings- and they made off with the score with none the wiser.

Mission complete, without missing a beat. ___________

Or so he thought.

They made it safely off planet and made sure to get some distance between them and the dangerous criminal they just robbed before contacting the client and informing them that the job was done.

Peter was thankful to be out of the polite and mild mannered persona, Drax and Rocket were doing the whole party animal thing like always after a successful mission, of course wanting to celebrate with alcohol, Mantis was glad everyone was safe and laughing like crazy with the other two, but Gamora...

She was much quieter than usual, after everything. And Peter wasn't sure why. She wasn't in the celebratory mood like the rest of them when they just made a helluva lot of units. Normally she was happy when a job went this smooth- especially when they made off without and damage to the ship or collecting any life endangering injuries. No one got injured at all on this one.

Still- she was off. Quiet and subdued. Even her expressions seemed muted, and Peter was actually starting to worry.

She seemed upset, but not in the normal angry Gamora upset way, she just seemed... like unhappy or something. Like something was weighing on her mind.

She gave their friends non-convincing smiles (they didn't have him convinced at least) as they boarded the Benatar in their normal boisterous fashion. It was almost polite smiles that she sent around the table that evening, but she... she seemed almost sad.

Peter pursed his lips, nursing his beer as he watched her watch everyone else. Normally he would've been all too quick to join the high energy coming from the other side of the table that evening, but with Rocket and Drax drunk enough to be shouting, and Mantis playing mediator when they started arguing over whatever drinking game they were playing, he was much more concentrated on the woman beside him.

A frown tugged at her lips as she picked apart what was left of her meal, tearing off pieces of her bread like it was just something for her to do- looking for a distraction from whatever heavy thoughts wouldn't leave her head right now.

And Peter was just trying to figure out what happened, what had escaped his notice.

This was a good job. This was a good day. Or, at least, it should have been. Even as he ran over everything that had happened in the past 24 hours in his mind, he came up empty. There wasn't anything remotely upsetting that he could think of.

Like yeah, he kinda had to fake flirt with the Duchess in the ballroom that night, but that wasn't a big deal. He's had to do that before- when the team used him as that type of bait for a mission.

While Gamora sometimes did get jealous if a particular target got a little handsy- that just led to her aggressively claiming him that night. Fucking the life out of him, and telling him how much he was hers. And he loved it.

It wasn't like she was the worried type of jealous whenever he flirted with a mark for a job that they were all on. She knew it was for a job, wasn't real, and she trusted Peter either way, regardless of the situation. Sometimes she just felt a little possessive whenever she saw people touching what belonged to her (which Peter had told her many times was “hot as hell”).

Anyways, tonight, there wasn't much to get jealous or possessive over. They weren't dancing at some club.

They were dancing in a fucking ballroom for Christ's sake.

It was all elegant and formal. Definitely no inappropriate touches. The flirting was a lot more subtle than it sometimes had to be for cons. Besides, if Gamora had been upset because of the Duchess lady and Peter she would've been all growly, not quiet. Not like this. ___________

He didn't get a real chance to approach her about it until they were turning in for the night, which was probably for the best anyway. It was late when they got back anyway, so they pretty much just ate dinner and went to bed. The captain's quarters afforded them the best privacy anyway. It was the first chance he'd had to talk to her alone since they got back- but she'd been quiet and subdued the whole time. Through dinner he could leave well enough alone (besides, she was allowed to have her own, private thoughts- serious ones too) so he certainly didn't ask her about it in front of everybody else.

But she was still clearly upset with something eating away at her. And, once she shut their bedroom door, it meant they finally had a moment alone to talk.

“Hey, are you okay?”

“Yes,” Gamora replied immediately, almost automatically. Safe to say he didn't believe her.

She went to the dresser to pull out a fresh changes of clothes- or tried to, at least. She had to walk past him to get there, but Peter stopped her before she could make it to the drawers. He caught her wrist and gently pulled her back into him.

“Hey, Gamora, talk to me,” he said softly, intertwining his fingers in hers.

Gamora swallowed and looked at their hands- the way he held it reminded her of the way he held the hand of that woman as he took lead, as they danced together earlier that night. Now he was holding Gamora's hand like they were in a dance.

When she met his eyes, his expression and the concern written all over his face made her heart thump louder.

“What do you want to talk about?” She asked diplomatically, a tone she had picked up from him.

Peter frowned, clearly unimpressed by her trying to play dumb. “What you're upset about.”

“I'm not upset about anything. I'm not upset.” Even her denial sounded much too subdued- she could hear it in her own voice. It wasn't convincing at all.

“Gamora, clearly something's bothering you. Please. I just wanna... I just wanna help.”

She looked away from him then, casting her eyes to the floor, because she couldn't deal with that outpouring of concern from his eyes. He was worried- she had worried him. She didn't like Peter being worried, especially not on her behalf. She wanted him to smile- not furrow his brows as he tried to figure out what was wrong. She didn't like him looking so troubled. She liked Peter smiling. So she cast her gaze away, subconsciously tightening her grip on his hand.

“You looked nice tonight,” Gamora said quietly, because it was true. All dressed up, he didn't look quite like Peter, but he looked nice dancing, and he was good at it. He looked natural, and it was a pleasurable sight, watching him dance across the ballroom floor like he was made to do it. “I didn't know you knew how to move like that. You were really good at it.”

She was silent after that, and Peter waited for her to start speaking again, but it seemed she didn't mean to pause, she was just stopping there.

She still wasn't looking at him, and she was still holding tightly to his hand.

“Mmhmm,” he prompted, encouraging her to continue.

She stared long and hard at their intertwined hands, her jaw tensing and her expression twisting as she thought.

Suddenly she turned her piercing gaze to him. “Why do you try to get me to dance with you?”

Peter scrunched his face up in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Why you you always try to get me to dance with you?” She asked again. “Still? Why do you still try? I never do-” before he could object, she amended, “Rarely do. And I don't dance well when I barely even dance. I hardly move when you do convince me to. And of the few times I have, I've actually physically injured you. Only two of those times were on purpose. The rest were all accidents. I... I suck at dancing,” Gamora said emphatically, and her using that word like he always did was so endearing- saying something sucked. God, she could be so cute sometimes- without even trying. “I suck at dancing, Peter. So why? Why do you still try to get me to dance with you every change you get? Every occasion and opportunity. Why do you try to pull me into dancing with you at every opportunity?”

He gave her a crooked gin then, like he was about to say something a mix of sweet and charming (though she'd never say those words).

“Because it's fun,” he answered with a good-natured smile, like she was silly for even asking.

“It can't be fun. You can't have fun dancing with me when I never actually dance with you. I never really dance with you, Peter. You can't say dancing with me is fun when you've only experienced something akin to dancing, and even then it's few and far between. Why do you keep trying to get me to dance with you? I never do. I always say no. Why do you still do that? Why do you still try to get me to dance? You are honestly good at dancing. Why would you want to dance with me?”

By that point, it was pretty clear this was about more than just dancing. When he saw all her insecurities written all over her face, it took everything he had in him to not interrupt her to reassure her and tell her how great and awesome and amazing she was.

He knew she had to get this out. He wasn't expecting this deep, personal insecurities stuff to be following her dancing question, but he wanted to comfort her the moment it became clear she was upset about her own (perceived) inadequacies.

But he knew she needed to say what she was going to say, so he listened and waited patiently for her to finish, holding her hand the whole time.

Gamora finally met his eyes again, and hers looked far more vulnerable and uncertain than he'd ever seen them as she looked to him for a response.

And, when she turned her eyes to him, it was like his whole mind went blank. He wanted to say the perfect thing, to say something good, but he didn't even know where to start. He wanted to say the words she deserved to hear, but she had him at a loss for words far too often.

Even though he didn't know what to say, he knew he needed to say something, so he settled on winging it. It'd worked for him before.

“Because I... cause I like to, G'mora,” Peter shrugged, a sheepish, almost self conscious smile spreading across his face. “I dunno, I just- I like getting you to wiggle. It is fun, getting you to wiggle and shift back and forth to the best songs in the world. I always have a good time when we do that. When I do that with you. It makes me... Happy. When I'm with you. And I'm glad you thought I looked good dancing tonight,” he added with a wink, cause he couldn't resist. “But you know what I was thinking the whole time? How it would've been more fun with you. Cause you know, I'm always smiling and laughing when I try to get you to dance with me, cause I just can't help myself. You know how many times I had the urge to laugh tonight? Zero. Zilch. Nada. I would've been in stitches in just two minutes if I had you next to me. I would've been smiling so wide my cheeks hurt in just 30 seconds of trying to convince you to dance with me. Instead of fake smiling with that duchess lady the whole hour on the ballroom floor. So, I mean, that's why. I like getting you to wiggle with me, Gamora. And I like making you laugh and smile like you always do when I try to dance with you. I like smiling with you. I like dancing with you too. Anything with you. Makes me happy.”

From the look on her face, it seemed like he had just said the perfect thing.

Without really thinking Gamora pulled him into a warm embrace that seemed to take them both by surprise. He stiffened slightly- cause of the whole surprise thing- before he wrapped his arms around her waist and held her close. Gamora nuzzled into the crook of his neck, and he placed a soft kiss on the top of her head. It was times like these when she was reminded that they fit so well together.

“Don't stop doing that,” she whispered. “I hope you never stop. Asking me to dance. Don't stop.”

She pulled back just far enough to kiss his lips.

It was a good, long kiss. A great one. And when they disentangled their limbs from each other, they were both smiling in a ridiculous manner.

Then Quill's lips turned up into a smirk, obviously something mischievous in mind with the spark in his eye.

“So...” he started expectantly.

“Don't push your luck, Starlord,” she told him, shaking her head, trying to hide her smile with her hair and utterly failing.

“Had to try,” he offered as an excuse. Gamora rolled her eyes, chuckling, because he was utterly impossible.

She kissed him again anyways.

___________

~FIN~ ___________

Author’s note: I know it’s a little late in the day, but I thought I had this one finished, then I got up today and added over 1,500 words to it. When I woke up at noon today Peter was dancing with nondescript woman on nondescript mission. This fic actually started with “While watching his back, Gamora couldn't help but notice the woman was pretty, and a very good dancer. Probably what one would call a natural, as she danced with Peter. Her movements were fluid, matching his, and Gamora would almost think it was beautiful if the sight didn't fill her with such vitriol.” Maybe I regretted not writing a mission fic for day one after reading some of the other fills yesterday. Who knows? All I can say for sure is the Duchess and Peter’s rant about people who give themselves nicknames didn’t exist this morning.

Hope you liked the additions

Also, it is such a shame that I posted that starmora one shot Dresses, Dates, and Dancing back in June, cause after the starmora week prompts came out and I read them I was just like ‘can I repost it? It works so well for day two, I can pretend I did a first date and dancing fic in one on purpose! I totally combined the starmora week prompts, guys! AFTER the fact!’

#starmora #starmoraweek2018 #gotg fic #Guardians of the Galaxy #gamora x peter quill #dancing #fluff #starmora week #day2 #fanfic #MCU fanfiction #my GOTG fics #my fic

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leviathangourmet · 6 years ago

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But there’s this thing that still bothers him. It has to do with an incident last year in the computer lab. It was a Friday, near the end of the period, and Ryan waited by the exit. He began absentmindedly opening and shutting the door. This girl he didn’t really know told him to stop. When he did it again, she smacked him in the face. He smacked her back. She clawed at him, and he fell into a row of computers. The bell rang, and the girl ran off. “The teacher asked me to report it right away,” he tells me, “but I had a bus to catch.”

Ryan went home with a cut on his eyebrow, two on his forehead, and another on his ear. Tori told him to take pictures. “That girl could go home,” Ryan recalls his mom saying, “slit the whole side of her cheek with a knife, and come to school Monday and say, ‘Hey, look what he did to me.’ ” That was news to him. He’d never even been in a fight before. In middle school, he and this other kid had agreed to punch each other in the face because they wanted to know what it felt like, but when the time came, they just went home. “I guess girls sometimes just do that,” he says. “It happened once when my mom was in high school. A girl purposely broke her own arm just to get another person in trouble.”

He took photos of his face and went to the principal’s office first thing on Monday, like his mom told him to. “He was so upset,” the assistant principal tells me. “He didn’t know why he was in trouble.” Ryan spent a couple hours in the in-school suspension room. He got a ticket referring him to the municipal court, where he appeared in August. He pleaded not guilty. At a second meeting, Ryan spoke to a prosecutor. At least, “I think it was a prosecutor,” he says. “I think he felt like it was stupid that I got a ticket for this. The look on his face was kind of like, What the heck is this?” Ryan thinks that if he were a girl, he wouldn’t have been punished. “As long as I don’t get in trouble again for a year, I’m okay,” he tells me. “But I had to deal with it for a few months.” The kids in school, “they called me a woman beater. I don’t think anyone actually thought I was. They were just giving me crap. It was just a stressful time.”

The fight with the girl was just one of a long string of recent events, most of them politically tinged, that have shaken Ryan’s sense of self. “Last year was really bad,” he says. “I couldn’t say anything without pissing someone off.” He says it started around the time of the presidential election—the liberal students became enraged and the conservative students emboldened. “Lots of drama over politics,” he says. “It ruined friendships and changed social groups. People were making friends based on their politics more than anything.” Kids started advertising their beliefs by hanging flags and posters on their lockers. They wore T-shirts that promoted Hillary for president, or Trump for president, or LGBT rights, or feminism, or Black Lives Matter. The most popular opinion at West Bend seemed to be anti-Trump. Ryan, raised in Republican households, was surprised by the vitriol. “Everyone hates me because I support Trump?” he says. “I couldn’t debate anyone without being shut down and called names. Like, what did I do wrong?”

The week I visit West Bend, the front page of USA Today reads, Is What Someone Does at Age 17 Relevant? in reference to Christine Blasey Ford’s sexual- assault accusation against Brett Kavanaugh. I ask Ryan if he has discussed #MeToo in any of his classes. “I’ve heard of that,” he says. “What does it mean again?” I also ask him about Trump’s reputation as a misogynist. “He is respectful towards his wife, as far as I know,” he says. “I don’t think he is racist or sexist.” Then again, he thinks the president tries to piss people off a little too much. “Sometimes I think it’s funny,” he says, “but I guess it’s really not that funny in the end.” Seventeen is the age when we begin to make such moral calculations, according to experts I spoke with. It’s when teenagers begin to “look at the world outside of their immediate environment,” says Adiaha Spinks-Franklin, a developmental pediatrician at Texas Children’s Hospital. “They begin to question their own beliefs, and those of their parents and peers.” At the same time, the teenage brain is still a work in progress. “Teenagers are expected to act like adults, but their brains are not ready,” says Pradeep Bhide, director of the Center for Brain Repair at Florida State University. But they’re close: “Everything they need for moral reasoning may already be there,” he says.

This past year, Ryan ran another gantlet: social media. He does not use Facebook or Twitter, which he thinks are mostly for older people. And he has no interest in Snapchat. But he, like most everyone his age, uses Instagram. “I’d post a comment,” he recalls, “and the replies would all be the same thing: ‘You’re stupid and that’s dumb’ or ‘You suck’ or ‘You’re straight, you can’t talk about something LGBT.’ ” One time, on a post he describes as “a feminist thing that said something about what men do,” he commented, “It’s not true, and that’s really stupid to say that.” The woman who’d posted it responded with something like, “What do you have to say? You’re a white man.” Ryan is still confused by her response. “Doesn’t she promote equal rights?” he says. “What if I posted the same kind of thing but about what women do? Like, if I posted a photo of a feminist march? But wait, feminist people hate when white men talk about stuff like that. That would be the end of me.” He pauses. “I guess they think since I’m not a girl, I don’t have an opinion.”

As Ryan grappled with progressive ideas on social media, he noticed that others did, too. Last summer, James Gunn, the director of Disney’s Guardians of the Galaxy, was sacked for a bunch of tweets he wrote several years ago. “He was fired because he said a shower in a hotel felt like a little kid peeing on him,” Ryan’s friend Andrew says. “Totally stupid and not worth the attention,” says Ryan. “Some jokes are pretty bad. But it depends on the context. If you’re honestly kidding, people shouldn’t get offended.

“Also, baseball,” he continues, referring to another incident from last summer, this time with Josh Hader, a pitcher for the Milwaukee Brewers. “Just so happens that something Hader said seven years ago about hating gay people came up the day of a big game. Now he has to go to all these sensitivity trainings.” Ryan considers the leaker’s motivation. “Someone must’ve been jealous of him and said, ‘Oh, I have this message from when he was fifteen.’ It’s like, yeah, you say a lot of stupid stuff when you are fifteen.” (Later, I look up the tweets. Gunn said worse than what the boys mentioned, including, “I fucked the shit out of the little pussy boy sitting next to me!” And Hader, who was actually seventeen and eighteen when he sent his controversial tweets, used the n-word repeatedly and made an allusion to “white power.” One tweet read, “I hate gay people.” Another read, “Need a bitch that can fuck, cook, clean right.”)

Ryan began to feel like social media was more trouble than it was worth. He even thought about erasing his Instagram account. “But I haven’t said anything too bad,” he says. And more to the point, he decided it is better to engage with other perspectives than to drop out of the conversation. He now watches both Fox News and CNN. He says he’s inched toward the center politically, and so have his friends. He’s even changed his wardrobe and now avoids shirts with words or anything else, save for an American flag, that makes a statement. “It’s better to be a moderate, because then you don’t get heat,” he tells me. “We want everyone to be happy.”

#article #interview #archive #men's rights #politics

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xadoheandterra · 7 years ago

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Title: Don’t Write Me A Postscript Chapter: V (I / II / III / IV / VI / VII / VIII / IX / X / XI / XII / XIII) Fandom: Red vs Blue Characters: David Church | Agent Washington | Recovery One, Micheal Caboose | Agent California | Micheal-210, Church | Alpha Summary: He was all sorts fucked up and didn’t want to admit it. Being alone for fourteen months didn’t help matters--except, well, Church was tired of being alone. Tired of people leaving and dying--and he thought, no more. I’m done. I’m out.

Won’t Say You’re Sorry (I / II / III)

Do You Even Feel Compassion? (I / II)

There were a lot of things Agent Washington expected when he interacted with the Sim Troopers. A lack of fundamental understanding of how the army actually functioned, the realization that they weren’t actually in the middle of a civil war, or the knowledge that Freelancer’s where merely using them as training grounds. Wash didn’t anticipate running into a Sim Trooper like Caboose, who had team kills by the hundreds, who talked to vehicles as if they were alive, and who half the time made no sense at all until hours down the road.

Caboose actually reminded Wash a lot of Idaho. He missed the triplets. They used to talk and hang out a lot before he got bumped up to Alpha Squad—and before they went completely missing. Wash closed his eyes behind his helmet and rubbed at the back of his neck where his implants burned with psychosomatic pain. The real kicker though, after Kaikaina ‘Sister’ Grif and meeting the AWOL Captain of Red Team Sarge, was honestly Church. Wash eyed Caboose who stood in front of the base with his arms spread out wide.

“Fuck! I missed him!”

Wash watched as the bullets missed Caboose, sometimes by a hair, and yet the larger SPARTAN-esque Sim Trooper just stood there, happy. It defied logic and reason and Washington couldn’t understand it. Was there something in the water? He has to be hallucinating. That was the only thing that made sense.

Wash sucked in a breath. Breath, David, he’s a shit shot and you are fine.

“This is your friend?” Washington asked, and he felt a part of his throat tighten because what kind of friend fires live arounds at another?

Caboose lowered his arms and turned to look at Washington through his helmet and he sounded kind of exasperated as he said, “Yeah.”

“And he’s…shooting at you?” Washington asked, because he felt like he needed to clarify. Who thought shit like this was normal? Several more shots rang out, followed by ever increasing vitriolic curses, and Wash forced himself to breath. He counted back and muttered under his breath the exercises his therapist taught him.

Wash came back at the tail end of Caboose’s response.

“…something up about me killing him, but uh, that’s only the truth. Uh,” Caboose paused, then hastily corrected, “it’s a joke.”

I had to have misheard, Washington thought weakly.

“You can play along if you want!” Caboose chirped.

“That—that doesn’t—you did—you—killed him?” Wash squeaked.

Three more shots went off, and then Church actually popped his head up and shrieked at them and Washington wanted to bury his head and groan.

“Seriously! Get the fuck outta here!”

Maybe there was something in the water at Blood Gulch? Washington thought while Caboose yelled back—and then Church reached a pitch that went right through his brain and he rubbed at his implants again with a faint grown. Or maybe I’m hallucinating due to starvation or something. When was the last time I ate? That…ration bar? How long ago was that? Yesterday?

“What is wrong with you?!” Church shrieked again, and Washington decided he had enough. He stepped out from behind the rock, then quickly jumped back when a shot hit the dirt in front of him.

Wash raised his hands, sucked in a breath, and shouted, “Open the gate!” because fuck—he felt like he was in some weird film and his head hurt with forgotten memories.

“No can do!” Church shouted back down. At least, Wash noted weakly, he’d shouldered his weapon. “This here is a secure facility. No one in, no one out! So scram! Get! And don’t come back!”

Wash stared up at Church, then glanced over to the caution taped and marked off giant hole in the wall, and then back to Church. He wondered if he should even bother to deadpan a reply. They stared at one another for a moment longer, and Wash closed his eyes.

“You have a giant fucking hole in your oh so secure wall,” Washington said bluntly. “I could, of course, just walk in.”

A beat, a moment of silence, and then a loud groan and a growled response of, “Fine!” Washington waited for the door to grind open on damaged gears.

Caboose tore into the facility first. He practically bounced up to Church and squeezed him into a hug while Washington gingerly stepped along behind him. The place was an utter wreck. Vaguely Washington remembered pulling the files on Outpost 48—the two Sim Teams wiped one another out so completely that Command had issues in filling in replacements and repairs.

“Put—put me down! Caboose! Put me down dammit!”

Washington stared, watched as Church struggled in Caboose’s grip for a moment, and then sighed heavily. This was going to be a headache, he could already tell.

Thirty minutes of Caboose squeezing and chattering on about all that happened at Rats Nest and Church had, miraculously, guided them toward the decrepit kitchenette in the base. Somehow he got Caboose to sit still, and Caboose actually tore off his helmet when Church rummaged through the fridge—he grumbled something about how half the food was rotted and he’d need to put in a request again before he pulled out what looked like orange juice.

“Smell that for me buddy,” Church said and handed the cartoon to Caboose. “Let me know if it’s still good.”

Caboose cheerfully accepted the carton and twisted off the cap. He took a sniff and crinkled his nose before he tipped the carton back and began to drink. Church scrambled to grab the carton away and Wash watched it all with the fascination of a train wreck in progress.

“Goddammit moron don’t drink it! Fuck just tell me if it’s rancid—you’re going to make yourself sick you stupid—” Church wrestled the carton away and tossed it into the bin before he scrambled for a cup and quickly twisted the faucet for water. He shoved that at Caboose, along with what looked like some sort of pills, and quickly commanded the large man to drink.

“It was okay! Only a little bad!” Caboose said, but he drank as ordered and Washington felt like an outsider. “My stomach is lead-based. I’ll be fine, I think, won’t I Church?”

Church groaned and flopped down into another chair. Washington thought he mumbled something about how it was a miracle that Caboose wasn’t dead yet before he raised his helmeted head to look at Wash and somehow Washington could just tell the man was exasperated as much as he was happy.

“So,” Church said blandly. “A Freelancer Agent. Here.”

Washington blinked behind his mask. “Recovery Agent actually.”

“Even fucking better,” Church spat out and leaned his head back.

Washington wondered if he should just ask—the food was apparently rotted and as far as he could tell there was no one else in this decrepit, rundown base. He sucked in a breath and decided to just go for it. “Uhm, how—how long have you been here?”

Church rubbed at his helmet in the way one would rub at their hair and then glanced up at Wash tiredly. “What day is today?” Church questioned.

“Tuesday,” Washington said quickly.

“Fourteen months,” Church shot back just as quick and Washington wondered what the day had to do with calculating the length of time in High Ground. “To the day,” Church added, and Wash gaped.

“F—fourteen months? Alone? Here?”

“Yeah,” Church said tiredly. “Been great. Just…really fucking awesome.” Church glanced to Caboose. “Caboose, drink all of it.”

“Okay!”

Wash glanced to Caboose as well and watched the man tip back the glass and drank.

Church sucked in a breath and turned back to Wash and said blandly, “So, Recovery Agent, what the fuck are you doing here at High Ground?” After a second he added, “And how did you even know I was here?”

Caboose answered for him before he could—and he looked rather sheepish about it all too. Washington was reminded how Caboose explained that he snuck a look at the transfer papers and how Church hadn’t really wanted him to know.

“Oh that’s my fault,” Caboose said. “Agent Washingtub wanted people who dealt with Omega and you dealt with Omega the most and I knew where you were so I said I’d lead him here! And here we are!”

Church turned to Caboose. “Caboose,” he said, and the words were ground out with frustration. “It was supposed to be a secret.”

“But what if you were in trouble, Church?” Caboose whined. “What if I needed to rescue you?”

Church sighed again and turned back to Washington. “Does Command know you’re here?”

Washington blinked. “Not yet. I haven’t updated them to the situation. Which reminds me I should—”

“Wait, wait! Don’t call Command yet!” Church scrambled across to grab Washington’s hand like that would stop him from activating his radio. He listened, however, curious as to what the man wanted to say. “This is about Omega?”

Washington said slowly, “Yes, and no.”

Church scowled beneath his helmet. “That is not a fucking answer!”

Washington opened his mouth to respond when Caboose started speaking up again. “Church. Church.”

“Oh my god Caboose finish your water,” Church ground out—he didn’t even bother to look at the other soldier.

“But I did. I finished the water. But, uh, my tummy feels a bit weird?” There was a pause, before Caboose continued, “Uhm, yeah, I am going to be sick.”

Church groaned, held up a hand to stall Washington, and quickly started leading Caboose out of the kitchenette.

“This is why you don’t drink spoiled food, rookie!” Church snapped out while he walked away. Washington wondered how he was going to survive being surrounded by morons. Was this divine punishment? Washington wondered, for a long moment, if he really was suffering from some sort of fever dream brought on by hunger.

“Oh my god Caboose in the toilet! In the toilet!”

Wash dropped his head to the table and wished for simpler days.

They left Agent Washington for thirty minutes, and part of that was because fuck did Church miss this, and fuck did Caboose miss this too. After the mess in the bathroom Church helped Caboose out of his armor—minimal help needed, the man knew how to get his own armor off he just liked to get Church to help him. Church discarded his own armor, resolved to dump them off to get clean later because right now he just—

(his caboose)

(he came back)

—just wanted to rest. Caboose wanted to cuddle. They made the best of the mess and settled down onto Church’s rarely used bed, Church with his back to the fortified wall and Caboose half in his lap, face pressed to his lower stomach, arms wrapped tight around him in a hug. Church sighed and let it just be. Subconsciously his hands stroked through Caboose’s hair, and they rested there for a half hour.

(he came back)

When thirty minutes ticked over Church nudged at Caboose.

“Buddy I need to go and get our armor situated,” Church said.

“Dunwanna,” Caboose mumbled.

“I get that,” Church replied calmly, “but if I don’t dump them into the tub to get cleaned they’re going to smell like vomit forever.”

“I dun’like vomit,” Caboose mumbled again. “I’sucks.”

Church snorted. “Of course it does. Should’ve just did what I said rookie and not drank the damn thing.”

“Jus’a little.”

“Nope, we are not doing this,” Church nudged Caboose a bit harder. “Come on. You dragged a damn Freelancer agent into my base. We left him alone for thirty minutes, and our armor stinks.”

“S’nice,” Caboose mumbled. “’Ashingtub.”

“Yeah, yeah I’m sure he’s a real peach,” Church drawled, “but I don’t trust him.”

“’st’me?” Caboose shifted, tightened his grip. Church sighed, his fingers in Caboose’s dark-wheat-like hair, and they tightened slightly.

“Yeah, buddy,” Church mumbled. “Of course I do.”

For a second nothing happened, then Caboose sighed and shifted off of Church. He grabbed at the pillow and buried his face into it, and Church relaxed just a bit.

“’Ome back,” Caboose said, and he shifted to look at Church with one pale blue eye.

“Of course. Just gotta take care of shit,” Church said as he got up from the bed. “Just relax. I’ll get you some more water too. If you have to throw up, for the love of god make sure you get it in the bucket.”

“Kay.”

Church rubbed a hand over his face and resigned himself to having to clean up vomit if Caboose did have to throw up again. The man lived to try his patience sometimes. With a huff and purpose Church strode out of the room. He headed first to the bathroom, thankfully he couldn’t smell, and gathered up the soiled bits of armor.

This particular base had an automated system for cleaning armor. When Church first discovered it he’d stared and wondered why. At Blood Gulch if the armor got dirty they had to clean it themselves. This was higher tech than any Sim Outpost should rightly had. Not only did it clean the armor, but it helped removed unwanted smells that Church and Caboose and Tucker otherwise had to live with when they cleaned their armor themselves. Sure it took longer to work but the benefits outweighed anything. Plus, Church really didn’t want to clean up vomit off of power armor.

Once he’d dumped the armor into place, wiggled and finagled the power to actually get the machine to work, Church headed back to the kitchenette. Agent Washington was not there, and Church cursed loudly. Just fucking perfect. Now he had a Freelancer Agent, Recovery Agent or not, wandering around High Ground unattended. He didn’t like the itch he felt with that. He didn’t know Agent Washington.

(he should be dead)

(he is dead)

(who is this?)

He didn’t know this Agent Washington. Church felt something was off, something was wrong. He hissed a breath and turned on heel. He needed to find the Freelancer, and now.

#rvb #red vs blue #agent washington #leonard church #caboose #alpha ai #fanfic #fic: don't write me a postscript #oh look we're getting into plot #had this actually mostly written after i finished chapter 2 #so yay #agent california #alpha church #sickness #vomiting

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maryofone · 7 years ago

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Good Conscience

I don’t think I can accurately categorize Jon Stewart as an imaginary boyfriend because I fantasize about him being so much more than that. I used to fantasize about him being president, but lately that job isn’t looking super legit, so forget that.

I’m not the only one who’s been longing for him this year. So many of us were so devastated when he left the Daily Show because a) he’s one of the greatest people to ever appear on television; and b) he wasn’t going to be there to guide us through the Trump campaign. And that was before we knew Trump was even going to be the nominee, let alone the fucking. President.

I didn’t resent Jon Stewart for leaving though. That job must have been insanely exhausting. Five nights a week for like 15 years. And he’s not some softy late-night host who cracks a few okay jokes before a bunch of celebrities come out. His shows took WORK to write every day.

This guy was bringing politics and world issues to the minds of fucking TEENAGERS, and making them give a shit. Main reason being he brings people to tears he’s so funny (which will get anyone of any age to pay attention) and because he was talking about how fucked up Washington is in a language we could relate to. Jon Stewart made me care about politics. Not in the sense that I find value in politics, but he made me want to pay attention to what the powerful people of the world were doing. He made millions of people want to pay attention.

I always swooned over Jon Stewart because he’s got an adorable Jewish-looking face (something I’ve always liked for some reason), but he’s also got that gritty New Yorker vibe that I fucking live for. I think he actually lives in Jersey, which is even better. One of my favourite scenes in television history is a monologue he did on Chicago-style deep-dish pizza. He lays on the accent as thick as possible and basically spends 10 minutes smack talking deep-dish pizza like he’s an Italian mobster. The entire scene makes me want to devour him.

I honestly have trouble thinking of anyone who has a better brain than Jon Stewart. He’s so funny and so sharp, and makes such accurate observations about humanity. He’s also super articulate, and has this beautiful way with words. Obviously I get a huge lady boner for that too.

Brain aside, I think the real reason we all love him so much is his heart. If he had just been some cranky comic who talked about the news, he wouldn’t have connected with so many people. He connected with people because his rage came from a good place. A place of compassion for other people. Look at how many years he fought (or is still fighting?) for 9/11 responders to have their medical expenses covered. And look how he’s spending his retirement! Just rescuing and caring for animals? Get atta here. Jon Stewart’s got the biggest heart in the league, if you ask me.

The other day I listened to his interview on Howard Stern and it was like medicine. Just hearing that voice after a while was so soothing. He’s got this amazing way of communicating really clear, deliberate arguments, but speaking so casually at the same time. And then occasionally bursting into that adorable high-pitched chuckle. UGH! Miss himmmm.

He hasn’t even been off the air that long, but he had some interesting stuff to say about what’s happened to political discourse, particularly online.

Years ago he was one of the first voices to really call bullshit on people in politics, and while he sometimes got super passionate or pissed off about an issue, it was ultimately a respectful, intellectual argument he was making. Meanwhile, fans would post clips of these impressive arguments, and title it something like, “Jon Stewart eviscerates congressman” or “Watch Jon completely devastate republican lawmaker.” Suddenly his views were being framed as weapons, celebrated for their destruction. Fast forward a few years and now everyone is arguing their views online constantly, with a lot of people seeming more focused on the anger of their argument than the actual content of it.

OF COURSE he isn’t responsible for the ocean of political vitriol on the Internet, but he said he felt bad because he thinks he may have contributed to the birth of it. And this is ultimately why I love Jon Stewart so much. He’s just so fucking humble. After ALL he’s contributed to our culture, he still doubts himself. Still double-checks himself. Not in an insecure way, just in a human way. He’s all of these incredible things and yet he makes me feel like he’s just like me.

I’m happy Jon Stewart is retired. I’m glad he’s just hanging out on a ranch, naming his cows and spending time with his kids. He deserves it. He got us all to care about politics, so now we have to pay him back and eviscerate Trump together, in his honour.

#crush #Post

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msredo · 8 years ago

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Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie responds to the criticism she attracted for her comments on trans women

Disclaimer : I like Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie a lot, so I may be biased on this, but...I kind of get her point about gender privilege...

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie on transgender row: 'I have nothing to apologise for'

Novelist and feminist has attracted criticism for her comments on trans women, but says hostility of backlash serves to ‘close up debat’

David Smith in Washington, Tuesday 21 March 2017 05.18 GMTLast modified on Tuesday 21 March 2017 05.45 GMT

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, the Nigerian novelist and feminist, has condemned a “language orthodoxy” on the political left after she endured a vitriolic backlashover comments about transgender women.

The author of Half of a Yellow Sun plunged into a row about identity politics when she suggested in an interview last week that the experiences of transgender women, who she said are born with the privileges the world accords to men, are distinct from those of women born female. She was criticised for implying that trans women are not “real women”.

But Adichie defended her comments during a public appearance in Washington on Monday night. “This is fundamentally about language orthodoxy,” she told a sellout event organised by the bookshop Politics & Prose. “There’s a part of me that resists this sort of thing because I don’t think it’s helpful to insist that unless you want to use the exact language I want you to use, I will not listen to what you’re saying.

“From the very beginning, I think it’s been quite clear that there’s no way I could possibly say that trans women are not women. It’s the sort of thing to me that’s obvious, so I start from that obvious premise. Of course they are women but in talking about feminism and gender and all of that, it’s important for us to acknowledge the differences in experence of gender. That’s really what my point is.”

The controversy erupted after a Channel 4 interview broadcast on 10 March in which Adichie argued gender is about experiences, not anatomy, and a person who has lived as a man – with the privileges according by society to men – before transitioning has experiences that cannot be equated with those of someone born female. In the face of a number of angry responses, Adichie followed up with a Facebook post on 12 March but described it as a clarification rather than an apology.

“I didn’t apologise because I don’t think I have anything to apologise for,” she said on Monday. “What’s interesting to me is this is in many ways about language and I think it also illustrates the less pleasant aspects of the American left, that there sometimes is a kind of language orthodoxy that you’re supposed to participate in, and when you don’t there’s a kind of backlash that gets very personal and very hostile and very closed to debate.

“Had I said, ‘a cis woman is a cis woman, and a trans woman is a trans woman’, I don’t think I would get all the crap that I’m getting, but that’s actually really what I was saying.

“But because ‘cis’ is not a part of my vocabulary – it just isn’t – it really becomes about language and the reason I find that troubling is to insist that you have to speak in a certain way and use certain expressions, otherwise we cannot have a conversation, can close up debate. And if we can’t have conversations, we can’t have progress.”

Adichie distanced herself from academic feminism and said her new book, Dear Ijeawele, or A Feminist Manifesto in Fifteen Suggestions, is careful to avoid jargon. “I don’t really partake in that kind of language orthodoxy and there’s a part of me that really resists it. So I resist to be coopted into it.”

A campaigner for LGBTQ rights in Nigeria, Adichie is a star of the progressive left and not accustomed to finding herself on the receiving end of its ire. She said: “It was unpleasant, and I think it was unpleasant not because of the sort of criticism and vitriol and hostility – which I’m used to, because I think if you make the choice to label yourself feminist publicly it just comes with the baggage – but in this case it came from my tribe, my tribe being women who believe in equality.

“But really, my position remains: I think gender is about what we experience, gender is about how the world treats us, and I think a lot of the outrage and anger comes from the idea that in order to be inclusive, we sometimes have to deny difference. I think that because human difference for so long, in all its various forms, has been the root of so much oppression, sometimes there’s the impulse to say let’s deny the difference, as though by wishing away the difference we can then wish away the oppression.”

This echoes over-optimistic claims of a post-racial society, the award-winning author continued. “In some ways it’s like the idea of colour-blindness, which is, I think, just a really hollow idea that if we say we don’t see colour, then somehow all the oppressions will disappear. That’s not the case …

“I think there were people who felt I was somehow making a point about the Oppression Olympics: you haven’t suffered enough. It’s not at all that. It’s simply to see that if we can acknowledge there are differences, then we can better honestly talk about things.”

Adichie gave violence against transgender women, reproductive rights, participation in sport and the debate around same-sex schools as examples where such acknowledgement would broaden the feminist conversation. She insisted that she has always stood up for the rights of trans women and would continue to do so.

During a question and answer session, Adichie was asked about issues of “intersectionality”, the overlap of social identities such as race, gender and sexuality. She remained sceptical: “Speaking of language, even the word ‘intersectionality’ comes from a certain kind of academic discourse that sometimes I don’t know what it means.”

Feminism was a useful word to rally around despite understandable reservations, she added. “I think the history of western feminism is one that is fraught with racism, and I think it’s important to acknowledge that, and at the same time to say that feminism is not the western invention, that my great-grandmother in what is now south-western Nigeria is feminist …

“I think white women need to wake up and say, ‘Not all women are white’, three times in front of the mirror.”

#Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie #feminism #transgender #transgender issues #privilege #gender privilege #intersectionality

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blakavalon · 8 years ago

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Black Avalon 1.04

“Woah,” Ivy said. “Who’s she?” I followed her gaze to a knot of people, isolated from the crowd as if by invisible barriers. Her eyes were on their leader, of course, who stood a full head above the others.

“Her?” I said. “You don’t want to get tangled up with her.” Her was Delilah Brood. Tall, loc’d, and darker even than me. Half of her head was shaved, tattooed over with symbols that seemed to move when one looked away. Like her group, she wore clothes that looked expensively casual. Tonight’s ornamental weapon was a rusty-looking sickle hanging from her belt. I hoped it was rust at least. “Delilah’s really bad news.”

“Delilah. That’s a wonderful name.” Ivy was chewing on her lip. “Tangled up, you mentioned?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Listen, Ivy. Delilah and her crew are, uh. They’re, they’re- werewolves, alright?”

“That’s awesome.”

“Yes, but.” I trailed off. Ivy had already made it halfway across the room. You should be careful, I wanted to say, but Ivy was striding across a room full of the night’s children like she had come home. Hell, she had saved me from the folk. She’d manage. I looked out across the wide, crowded room, suddenly alone. Brae’s reassuring presence had drifted away not long after walking in. They wore the smoke and shadows of the condemned speak-easy like a second skin. Me, I felt as much like a spy as I always did. In theory, I was welcome. In theory, I was a friend. A protector, a retriever. A keeper of secrets. A human in the know. But.

A hand beckoned me from a far corner booth and I slid along the wall until I could sit among my people. “Hey, Toolbox.” The voice and the hand were attached, components of a man called named Riley Walters, name here: Hatchet. This curved booth and those adjacent held a smattering of familiar faces. A few were new to me. New to this place. You could always tell the new ones. Their eyes were haunted, instead of just tired. Their movements guarded, instead of that patented hunter pseudo-cool. A whole table of them, now that I looked. A couple more experienced keepers were keeping watch on them, nonchalant as you please.

“Hatchet,” I said, and thumped heavily on the bench across from him. The other patrons gave this section a wide berth. Cast furtive glances. Muttered it under their breaths, or let it slip just a bit too loudly between fanged smiles: hunters. “What’s with the kids?”

“Some bumblefuck tried to call up a succubus in his dorm, you know, for kicks. Showing off,” Hatchet said. “Thing that came through tore him and the half-dozen other idiots in the room, then went looking for more food.” He nodded towards the table, and I looked again. Blood on their shirts. Bandages. Drinks in their hand, amber fluid tinged ever-so-faintly with blue. “The potions will calm them for a while, but they held it off till a couple magi arrived. Good long fight, by all accounts. Never know how someone’s brain’ll respond, eh? How was your trip?”

“Fine,” I said. He wasn’t asking if my time was nice, or easy. Or even if I had lost any blood. He knew those answers. No, no, and of course. Lots. “Yours?”

“Fine,” Hatchet said. “Word is there’s been more activity. Lots more.” Another keeper passed in front of our table, and he tossed me a memory stick. “Folk, holes opening up. Damn hedge-wizards with more magic than brains.”

“You think?” I cut my eyes back across Night City. People, ostensibly, danced or drank or just talked in pairs or groups, across the huge underground space. “Gotta be,” he said.

I nodded, shook his hand, stood. “Good luck on your next trip.”

“You too.”

A couple more updates, a couple more pleasantries. Rumors. A cell lost out in Michigan, maybe to a troll. None of ours on either side of that fight. Keepers said ‘ours’ like a ghoul said ‘keeper.’ Slight sneer. Clear disdain. Heavier on the aggressive side than the passive. They didn’t mean it. Ours meant Night City. The Keepers and People, fanged or furred or whatever, that called this place a sanctuary. At least it was supposed to. Keepers saying ours meant Keepers. Those who had seen too much and been marked for it in some way they couldn’t understand. People that tried to fight whatever strange tide they had been dropped into. Ghouls, ‘thropes, and others said Keepers, and they meant hunters. Monsters who prowled the night, staking and cutting and salting. Inquisitors in the oldest fashion. With gun and fire. A threatening image. An old one.

Sometimes the truth.

“Sefu,” a voice said.

“Lena,” I said, and turned. Lena was a hunter. Not a keeper. A hunter. Everyone knew it. She bristled in Night City, all clenched fist and wide eye. Barely shared information. Barely spoke but for some vitriol spilling out. “Still traveling with that witch?”

“Brae’s a mage, and last I checked, mages were just people.” I stuck my hands in my pockets and laid the keeper-cool on thick. “Brae is good people, whether you like them or not.”

“He’s a tool of the darkness,” she spat. She took a step closer and I could catch the white flash of a dozen teeth hanging from her neck, tucked under her shirt. She glared up at me and I held her gaze. Lena had turned that ruined eye on me in anger enough times that I didn’t flinch anymore.

“Brae is good people,” I repeated, while my mind tried to process whether she had said what I thought I said. I wished I had my wrench, but it was locked tight in Ivy’s jeep, sealed with one of Brae’s spells in the toolbox the other Keepers found so distinctive. Lena was the reason we couldn’t bring weapons in here, of course. Neither could The People, but weapons are a trifle when you can conjure fire or are some invulnerable powerhouse ridden by a warrior spirit, or- whatever the bartender was. He gave a different answer every time. “More than I can say for some.”

“You’d better be right,” she said. “For your own sake, familiar.” Lena laughed, right in my face, turned on her heel, and started back off across the room. She left a trail of bumped or annoyed people in her wake. As always. The keepers around me calmed incrementally. I didn’t. I wanted to go after her. Wanted to yell and scream and curse. Not trade half-whispered barbs like a high schooler. So, act like a child, Sefu. Even better.

“Drink.” One of the staff slid smoothly in front of me, holding a tray on three impossibly delicate fingertips. A single filled glass sat in exact middle.

“I’m broke,” I said, and tried to avoid the server’s glassy-eyed stare.

“Compliments of,” she droned. I started to rebut her again, but she simply repeated, “compliments of.” No more force or emotion in the tone, but still a command. I took the drink. She folded the tray against her chest and walked unblinking back to the bar. People parted for her. The serving staff even unnerved vampires. More than they did humans, which was saying something. Maybe the vampires knew something. Regardless, I followed her.

“Starting trouble, Sefu.” Not a question. The bartender turned bored eyes up at me. Washed a glass. They always washed a glass. Sneaking suspicion, it was always the same glass. “We cannot have trouble here, Sefu.”

“Lena was just trying to get a rise out of me-“

“Mister Walters has been warned,” the bartender continued, drowning out my words. “He has been rabble-rousing, but the thing about rabble, Sefu.”

They fell silent. They did this a lot. Cogitating maybe. There was a rumor the bartender was an android, built by the real owner. That their eerily flawless brown skin had a seam up the back, harvested weekly from victims of their robotic hands. No one had an answer for where they were getting a steady stream of such a thing in a city where the darkest people were a heavily armed keeper and a werewolf princess. I tried not to grin while I waited. This place got the best and weirdest rumors, for any other faults.

“A mob. Trampled upon by the overlords.” The bartender- I wish they had a better name- waited for an answer.

“Okay,” I said. “I won’t get, uh, roused?”

“Your friend Mister Walters is not,” they said. One gloved hand raised, and waved me off. Conversation over, I guess. I wanted to ask what Hatchet wasn’t, but they would never answer me. The bartender spoke when they wanted, and gave no answers.

“Hey, Sefu!” Ivy’s voice cut across the room, and I turned to see her excitedly waving me towards a table of werewolves. Fine.

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#writing #black avalon #modern fantasy

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