#is shown to be small-minded and obsessed with reputation above all else

[mxtxfanatic]

So @fireandgrimstone and I once had a discussion about how mxtx handles Xie Lian’s crossdressing in tgcf, the gist of which was whether or not it was falling into a gender essentialist trope ("you can always tell when a man is pretending to be a woman!") despite how much of the story tackles a kind of gender fluidity amongst other characters. I said I’d return to it once I reread it again to see how I felt reading those bits in context, so here I am!

The first instance of Xie Lian cross-dressing in the story is during the very first mission: the ghost bride. In order to find out who is kidnapping brides in the area, Xie Lian dresses like a bride to act as bait. When he first gets dressed, this is how he is described:

If you asked anyone to come and see, they would be able to tell with a glance that this was a young boy with a gentle and handsome looking face.

—Chapt. 6: The Ghost Holds a Wedding, The Crown Prince Climbs Onto the Marriage Sedan (Part 1)

You can "tell" that he is still a man, even as he wears the wedding outfit, we are told. However, later on, Little Ying comes and helps fix up Xie Lian so that he looks more like a bride. When next the others see his face, this is how he is described:

How could Xie Lian have known that a girl’s skill in make-up created legendary and mystifying results? Little Ying had only taught him how to fix his eyebrows by drawing them elegantly, how to powder his face with some white powder and how to dot his lips with deep, red rouge. However, if he didn’t speak, Xie Lian looked exactly like a gentle, soft and beautiful young lady.

—Chapt. 9: The Mountain’s Locked Ancient Temple, The Forest of Hanging Corpses (Part One)

A little bit of makeup and reshaping his outfit has transformed Xie Lian from someone you could tell was a man "from a glance" to someone who "looked exactly like a gentle, soft, and beautiful young lady." Even the crowd of men acting as "guards" could not tell Xie Lian was a man, and at no stage in this entire arc is Xie Lian uncomfortable with the act of cross-dressing, at being honestly mistake for being a woman, or Mu Qing and Feng Xin's negative reactions. He is indifferent to it all.

The next major moment we see him cross-dressing is when he is running away from the group of cultivators hunting Hua Cheng:

Behind the curtains sat a woman, her long raven hair hung a loose bun, her neck slender and white with a black choker and a thin silver chain circled around. Her robe was half stripped, revealing her snow white shoulder and a small bit of her back, looking to drape and fall, making one’s face burn and heart race.

When the curtains were pulled, the figure of that woman trembled, covering her face with her sleeves, and whimpered softly, as if she was shocked and terrified by such a sudden and brutish act. Heaven’s Eye instantly dropped the curtains, “I-I-I-I-I-I’M SORRY!!!”

The band of monks and cultivators who followed after Heaven’s Eye all screamed too, “WHAT A SIN, WHAT A SIN!” And they all covered their own eyes. Using this chance, that ‘woman’ whipped around -- who else could it be but Xie Lian? Hua Cheng was sitting in his arms and was only blocked from view by Xie Lian’s body. Although Xie Lian was a man and his shoulders were wider than the average woman, but he only pulled down half of his robe to expose the best angle, creating the perfect effect.

—Chapt. 137: Upon Barren Hills; Rioting the Black Hearted Inn (Part One)

Just as with the makeup and reshaping of the bride outfit, wearing a woman's robe, stripping to show off some skin at an angle, and whimpering a little was enough to trick this group of men into thinking he was a woman. The cultivators are so embarrassed, they run away, but even the passerbies who catch a glimpse of Xie Lian fleeing later in that same outfit have the vague idea that it is a "woman" they're seeing running with a child. Then, in the same outfit, Xie Lian enters an inn and we get this hilarious interaction:

A moment later, the door opened, and several attendants came forward to greet, their faces full of smiles, “Good si...”

They had wanted to say ;good sir’, but seeing the person before them was wearing women’s robes, they changed, “Mis...”

Before the word left their lips, Xie Lian emerged fully from the darkness with Hua Cheng in hand. If there’s a child, then it wasn’t an unmarried lady, so they changed again, “Mada...”

‘Madam’ was still half on their lips and Xie Lian’s face was fully illuminated by the light within the inn. Although this person was dressed in women’s robes and had a gentle countenance, if they must be honest, no matter how they looked it was the face of a man. The attendants all became mute, and it was a good moment before they went back to their original greeting, “Good sir, please come inside.”

—Chapt. 137: Upon Barren Hills; Rioting the Black Hearted Inn (Part One)

None of the attendants are able to tell Xie Lian's gender just from a glance. They rely on context clues (his clothes, the fact that he's with a child, then finally, his bare face) to finally decide that he is a man. Xie Lian is not discomforted by this either, not even to correct them. In fact, the narrative says that he feels no mental or physical discomfort as he is. Mind you, in this world, it is established that gods can and do change their physical forms to match a certain gender, but despite having the power to do so, not only does Xie Lian not take this route but he is still able to successfully appear as a cis woman to both strangers and his closest friends with only the minimalist of effort. Neither he nor the narrative place any expectations on how he "should" feel being man mistaken for a woman, nor do they waste time trying to explain to other characters why he is dressed as one like what one would usually see with this trope. Xie Lian simply exists in the form most comfortable to him and changes minor appearances to produce the aesthetic that he needs when he needs it. No more explanation is needed.

The thing about Xie Lian, too, is that while he is assured in his own gender, this does not translate into him being adverse to either weaponizing gender to reach a certain goal (such as being bait in a mission or hiding from enemies or just finding a dangerous object) or others doing as they please. Shi Qingxuan repeatedly attempts to wheedle Xie Lian into transforming into a female form with him, but though Xie Lian refuses for himself, he never shows disgust that Shi Qingxuan prefers his female form, unlike other gods.

Due to all of this, I don't see the repeated mentions of Xie Lian's maleness within these cross-dressing scenes as meant to reinscribe the gender binary but, instead, to impress upon readers how simple it is to throw gender into question. Gender is just that malleable and its perception so easily manipulated that even one of the most manliest men in the story can be viewed without a shadow of a doubt as a woman. Xie Lian is proof.

[fallout-drabbles-n-stuff]

Hello! Hope you're doing great! I love your blog ❤️

I was wondering how romanced and non-romanced companions would react to Sole being ass grabbed without their consent by a random dude. Thank you!

Romanced (❤️) and Non-Romanced (✨)

Cait:

❤️-

“Oi- look here for a sec..”

Unlike how some may assumed she would act, she would first sneak up on the asshole- waiting until he turned and gave her a nasty sneer before swiftly swinging her fist and making contact with a *crack* to the son of a bitch’s stupid nose. However once Cait got ahold to something, she doesn’t really let go. One punch wouldn’t be enough- this asshole just assaulted you- right in front of her face! Before she knew it, she had reduced the sick fuck into a groaning, swollen pile of bruises and blood. She just couldn’t stop.

✨-

“Hey dickface! I fuckin’ saw that!”

Flashes of the sleazy raiders she knew too well would be the first thing that came to mind- sending cool shivers of terror all throughout her body.

That’s when the adrenaline kicked in.

She’d still beat their ass, whether you like it or not.

Curie:

❤️-

“Excusez-moi, i don’t believe that is proper behavior- oh never mind, I doubt you even comprehend what proper means...”

She wouldn’t outright hurt someone- but damn, she sure wanted to then. Instead of doing it though, she just got all up in the man’s face, sticking her finger in his chest and telling him off. Much alike Tinkerbelle if you squint.

✨-

Kind of the same thing here tbh. I just don’t foresee Curie being the type to be excessively violent.

Danse:

❤️-

“What twisted thought made you think you had the right to do that? No- actually there isn’t anything you could say that would justify violating someone..”

Yes, Danse is composed- but no, he would not just sit idly by and watch someone do such a thing to his love. His automatic reflex is to go into protective mode, which involved him promptly shoving the man away from you- letting the perpetrator fall to the ground- only to pick him back up by the collar of his shirt and practically seethe and he confronted him. Had he not been in the right state and fear causing a too big of a scene- he just might’ve roughed the man up worse.

✨-

“That was an extremely poor decision, civilian.”

Similar to a romanced Danse, he would still be hella

Protective over you. Instead of letting his heart speak too much though- he’d simply grab the little shit and pull him aside, giving him a harsh glare and the promise of being crushed by a power armour boot.

Deacon:

❤️-

“Like how that feels, dickbag? Didn’t think so..”

Instead of causing a huge scene by slitting his throat, Deacon smoothly pressed into the man from behind- his hands leaving an imprinted bruise from how harshly he grabbed the man. It caused said man to yell and turn- but he didn’t do anything- he understood. As a matter of fact, he would shamefully apologize to you, silently pleading for you to tell your lover to stop violating him as well.

✨-

“See? Now we’re all uncomfortable..”

Unlike his demonstration shown above, Deacon would go for the more mild “return ass grab”. A quid pro quo, an uno reverse card if you will. Who even knows how to respond to that? No one. It just leaves the whole lot of you with a mural feeling of discomfort and awkwardness where usually rage and violation would’ve taken place.

Gage:

❤️-

“Shit, betcha wished you would’ve done something else- huh? Just think about it this way, now you can go into early retirement with your little situation..”

Gage is ruthless.

As soon as the man laid a hand on you- as soon as he saw the look of fear and embarrassment that graced your face..he grabbed the poor sack of shit’s hand and cut it off- leaving him to bleed and cry out. Most likely to die..after all, no one would dare help the man that just tried to cop a feel on the boss.

✨-

“Wrong move, shit stain. *chuckle*, Get ‘em boss.”

He’ll intervene if you do nothing- but honestly Gage just wants to see how you punish the man. Best you set a good example.

Hancock:

❤️-

“You know, it takes a special person to do that...*chuckle*.”

You remember what he did to that man that tried to distort you? That was before he fell in love with you- so what I want you to do is take that event and triple the brutality. It’s exactly that.

✨-

“....damn, think I’ve got a little something on my shirt.”

Again- he stabbed a bitch just for fucking with y-

Macready:

❤️-

“Are you serious? I’ll give you the count to ten, best start running- I’m pretty good at long range target practice.”

It would take every fiber of his being not to beat the man’s face in with the butt of his rifle...so making his life easier and not risking sitting in jail, Mac just threatens the man and proceeds to load his gun.

✨-

“Haha, Youre so funny- bet you get all the ladies by showing them how small your cock is without them even having to see it.”

Have you ever notice how mean Macready can be? Well, now you can hear it for yourself. The man such words were directed too would likely try to beat Mac up for saying it- which by doing so Mac would have no problem whopping him. Remember, he’s scrappy.

Maxson:

❤️&✨-

“I assume you enjoy having hands, correct? If so, I advise you to get as far away as humanely possible this instant.”

Had he been any other person, Maxson would’ve surely knocked teeth out- but seeing as he was so painfully aware of the reputation he must uphold, he restrained himself. If the man was someone in the brotherhood though, he would show no mercy- being court martialed for sexually assaulting a higher ranking officer would be the least of the perpetrators worried.

Nick:

❤️-

“How dare you..?”

Nick is thankfully a very well thought out and morally unquestionable individual. Thus being said, he will do everything within his power to make the man who touched his lover in such a horrid way pay. He may not kill them..but who ever said that death or being beaten is the worst thing to happen to a person? Regardless, remember ghat Nick has connections with the fallout version of the mafia.

✨-

“Dontcha got a better place for that hand?”

Even though he might’ve seemed a little too calm, Nick would be sure to shoo off the perpetrator and have him dealt with later.

Preston:

❤️&✨-

“Look you piece of trash- I don’t know what ever made you think you can just do whatever you want, but there are consequences for being so stupid.”

Despite his peaceful and gentle way of being- Preston would have absolutely no problem throwing hands with someone who threatened the General of the Minutemen.

X6-88:

❤️-

“.....”

Have I mentioned that X6 is borderline obsessive? Have I also mentioned that he can be entirely ruthless? Hope so- because someone sexually assaulting you is a sure fire way for a bullet to find its way into their head with absolutely no hesitation. He wouldn’t even flinch as the blood sprays and soils his clothes- only seeming phased and slightly annoyed whenever he had to take his shades off and clean the gore.

I don’t advise that you reprimand him for such eggless behavior either.

✨-

“Why did you do that?”

Although he was calm, his words soft like rain- the actions that followed shortly thereafter were anything but relaxed. As soon as the man turned to mouth off and say it was “just a joke”, X6 grabbed his hand and squeezed- watching as the appendage turned red and the poor assailant turned victim tried to desperately get away. Poor thing- he wasn’t going to go until he provided an answer that X6 accepted.

Trick is- nothing would satisfy the brutal, still man.

[innocentbi-stander]

The Theory of Pleasure

I’ve had an asexual!Jaskier fic idea bouncing around for a while, so I finally made myself sit down and write it, let me know what you think!

As always, I’m willing to take requests for fics or headcanons!

Jaskier had always known he was broken.

Had known it since he was small, when nothing he did was ever good enough. Had known it when he stumbled through yet another sword fighting lesson, his feet stumbling in vain to find their proper place in the footwork. Whenever he looked up to the balcony of the manor, he’d see the look of disappointment etched on his father’s face. It was an expression that he was intimately familiar with even at the age of 12.

That disappointed expression haunted Jaskier throughout his childhood.When he grew willowy and slight, his features were delicate instead of the rugged broad shouldered build of his father. When he chose music over sword fighting, a passion unbecoming of a nobleman’s son.

Jaskier knew he was broken because he saw it in his father’s eyes every time he looked at him.

He knew he was broken on the outside. But as Jaskier grew older he realized he was just as broken inside as well. As he grew older the other noble children began to cast looks at each other he didn’t quite understand. Jaskier couldn’t help but feel like there was something wrong with him. Whatever was going on between his peers mystified him, and he couldn’t comprehend the sudden fascination, but if there was one thing he had learned under the roof of his father it was how to play a part. And Jaskier was always an excellent actor.

So he crafted a mask. A mask of wit and charm. Objectively, Jaskier knew he was considered attractive by his peers. So he used that to his advantage. He masqueraded his way into dozens of beds, not caring if they were men or women, or if they had a partner waiting for them to come home. All he cared about was a warm bed to sleep in at night.  

Jaskier made himself a reputation. A reputation of jumping out of windows in early morning light, angry husbands a his heels, a reputation of scandal and movement, and being known. His escapades often only lasted for one night, but one night was all he needed. To Jaskier, sex meant exchanging loving touches and connection, but he knew his many lovers bedded him for another reason entirely. It was just another way to be broken.

It still wasn’t enough. He still wasn’t enough. And Jaskier didn’t understand why. He had done everything his father ever wanted him to be. He had stopped his indulgence in frivolous things like music, had learned to charm the members of the court, had learned to choke down the awful taste of his father’s ire and do better. Jaskier pinned down every piece of himself that mattered and tried to fill the mold of perfection his parents had created for him. It was only then he realized, it would never be enough. It didn’t matter what he did or changed, in the eyes of his parents he was irreparably broken and always would be.

So Jaskier ran away.

He stuffed only what was needed in his pack, grabbed his lute and left. He ran away from his unhappy life. Away from a future of arranged loveless marriages, desperate affairs, away from the toxicity of court gossip, and away from his parents. And as he walked down the lone road, his pants crusted in dirt and his ill suited for traveling shoes already aching, he never felt more free.

When Jaskier ran, he ran towards Oxenfurt, one of the most prestigious schools on the continent. It was the first place he ever felt he could truly call home. In the city everyone was eccentric and full of contradictions. He was far from his rigid life in court where everyone tiptoed around each other. Oxenfurt was bright and loud and nothing like he had ever seen before.

Though Jaskier studied all seven of the liberal arts, music was the one that claimed his heart. At Oxenfurt his dedication to music was not seen as shameful, but a blessing. Jaskier practised his lute until his hands bled raw. His fingers danced across the strings with a mindless ease, and strum with the passion his father had always wished he had for sword fighting.

It was at Oxenfurt where he learned what love truly was. There was no place for love in court. People would marry who they were told to, whether it was for power, placement, or peace, love was never considered a factor. They would never marry for the passion that they shared with one another. The nobles in his father’s court sneered at the thought of love, declaring it something for foolish children. A good noble was emotionless and stoic, and that was one of the reasons Jaskier had always failed to fit in. At Oxenfurt, he was shown poetry and immediately became obsessed with it. He lost himself in paragraphs written by people overwhelmed with devotion and feeling. The idea of loving someone so fiercely above all else and being loved in return seemed like the most fortunate thing in the entire world.

It wasn’t long before Jaskier graduated Oxenfurt as a bard, and although the traditional path was to join a court, Jaskier knew he had had quite enough of nobles for a lifetime, instead declaring the life of a traveling bard. The decision to rough it on the road instead of settling in a cushy court was seen as extremely unusual to those who knew him.

Jaskier had always been guilty of enjoying the finer things in life. Fine wine, fine clothes, fine food, and fine company. Even at Oxenfurt, he still craved the intimacy of a fleeting romance, no matter how short. For Jaskier, sex was never about the physical act, but instead it was about the romance of it all. The ooey-gooey parts, the closeness. He was a man who loved love, and often found himself in bed with lovers, despite never feeling the physical attraction towards them he knew he was supposed to. Sure, he loved to flirt, he lived for the back and forth, making someone smile and be happy. Sometimes he can even enjoy the physical activity of sex, the intimate moment, but the attraction he holds for people is never sexual. Jaskier holds onto these moments because he knows they are the only way he is able to get any instant of romance.

Throughout his travels he had quickly learned more often than not that most people are only interested in sharing their bodies and their hearts, temporarily. Some days Jaskier found himself wishing that sex wasn’t necessary in order to have a nice dinner with someon, to simply talk and exchange a soft kiss at the end of the night. He’d learned that in most parts of the continent there was a fine line between a bard and a prostitute, and since reputation was everything to a musician he did what he thought was needed and told himself he was happy.

Why wouldn’t he be happy? He was traveling, seeing the world and meeting new people, by this point it seemed that almost half the continent had shared a bed with him. By any other person’s standards he was extremely fortunate, and there were many people who would envy him. Jaskier told himself he was just being ridiculously ungrateful, and he should enjoy what he had. He has his music, and his music was everything that had ever mattered to him, but there was still a small part of him that felt empty.

Then he met Geralt of Rivia in a backwater  tavern in Posada. When he first spotted him sitting in the corner brooding his first thought was fuck he’s attractive, then he thought, I wouldn’t mind spending the night with him. Before he knew it he was walking up to Geralt’s table and recognizing him as a witcher, and not just any witcher, the ‘Butcher of Blaviken’ and he’s spouting some dumb line about bread in his pants.

What starts as an intent to hook his latest bedfellow turns into a quest for inspiration from a man who must have a thousand stories. The next thing he knows he’s been beaten up and captured by a rogue band of elves in the middle of nowhere and watching wide eyed as Geralt exchanges the rest of his coin in order to ensure their release, and that the elves would stop harassing the townsfolk. He could tell the witcher wasn’t fond of him then, with his endless chattering (Jaskier likes to talk), constant lute strumming, and thousand questions as he follows after Geralt and his horse. The witcher would groan and roll his eyes at him but he did not make him leave and so Jaskier stayed.

Days, weeks, months go by and Jaskier remains by Geralt’s side and what began as a hunt for his latest muse quickly turns into a genuine fascination with the witcher. The rumors about witchers were whispered across the continent, stories of horrible monsters with fangs and claws meant to scare children. Jaskier realized after traveling with Geralt that all of these tales were lies.  He was a good man who helped people and always tried to do the right thing. One of the nights in their travels they are sitting by the campfire well after dinner. The stars are shining bright that night and the moon hangs low. The glow of the flames ignited Geralt’s golden eyes and exposed the slight curve of his lips as he laughs, laughs, at something stupid the bard has said and Jaskier thinks, This. This is someone I could really love. And technically he already does, and he knows he would follow Geralt to the ends of the earth if he so allowed.

Months turn into years as he travels by Geralt’s side and Jaskier has never met a single person he’s ever been more invested in knowing. He wants to know Geralt like no one else, wants to shower him in all the love and affection he could, because Jaskier knew Geralt thinks he doesn’t deserve it. They travel together, get to know each other, eat together, tumble in and out of danger together, and they never have to fall into bed to do it.

It’s the happiest Jaskier has ever been while spending time with another person. He found himself falling more and more in love with Geralt every day, despite being certain that the witcher didn’t share the same feelings. While they traveled Jaskier still threw himself at people in desperate hopes of a connection, begging for bits and pieces from those instances of romance. But now he has Geralt.

Geralt, who hates it when others touch him, spares Jaskier a touch of the shoulder, and brush of their hands while they travel on the road. Geralt, who always makes sure to have a meal waiting after Jaskier finishes performing at a tavern. Who buys him new strings for his lute and boots when his old pair fall apart. Jaskier laps all of these things up, the pieces of Geralt that the witcher spares only for him. He collected the moments spent whispering back and forth before sunrise, the small smiles, and the flowers Geralt lets him braid into his hair. He holds them close to his heart and in the darkness he thinks Geralt feels the same.

It all leads up to the dragon hunt, up on a mountain at sunset, sitting closer than close on a boulder next to the witcher, watching the color bleed from the sky. Jaskier locks his eyes on the horizon and tries one last time to reach Geralt, desperate for the romantic connection he’d been craving since long before his years at Oxenfurt. Jaskier felt miles away, despite the fact that him and Geralt were right beside each other. He wants to shout,

Come with me, let’s get away from everything, I love you more than anything, but instead, just like the day they met in Posada, his mouth moves of its own accord and he says,

“I’m just trying to figure out what pleases me” And isn’t that the thing that he’s been chasing his whole life. Why he left his home, why he decided to live a life on the road after leaving Oxenfurt. Jaskier is lost in thought and so he is completely taken off guard when he hears Geralt reply.

“W-what?” He sputters out, rocked by the fond smile on Geralt’s lips.

“I said,” Geralt responds, eyes rolling like this is every other day in their travels and not a moment vastly different than any other in the years they’ve known each other, “and what is it that pleases you?”

Jaskier is thrown back to every other haunted moment of his life. Every other second of his childhood where he was told what he should be, how he should be satisfied and how to please others. He remembers every painful moment, every second he felt broken and like he didn’t belong. Every time he was ashamed of himself and what he lacked. Jaskier remembers his time on the road, of someone pushing him into a mattress and muttering, you should be lucky, I don’t do this with everyone. He thought of all the people who told him what he should be enjoying, what was allowed and what wasn’t. Of every time he forced himself into a small little box with neat edges and longed to be free.

And then he thinks of Geralt. Of long white hair and golden eyes. Of a man who has been told his whole life he is a monster, but tries everyday to do the right thing. He thinks of long nights on the road, of evenings by the campfire where smiles fail to stay hidden. He thinks of a hand on his shoulder, softer than anyone has ever touched him before. Geralt knows all his secrets, how he feels about sex and attraction and never asks Jaskier for anything, ever, only taking what Jaskier is willing to give. Oh, if that isn’t the kind of love Jaskier has been chasing his whole life, and he’s been too stupid to realize it’s been right in front of him this whole time. Jaskier has never wanted anything as badly as he does this.

Suddenly Jaskier remembers himself, and the moment he’s in, the mountain and the sunset, and Geralt beside him waiting patiently for an answer. He turns to his side to face the witcher in the fading light, slightly startled by how close their faces are. He stares deep into those golden eyes, pools he would gladly drown in if given the opportunity. Jaskier exhaled suddenly, his breath leaving him as he realized he has never felt more at home than he does now sitting here with his witcher. He reaches for the hand beside him, rough and calloused from hours of sword fighting and scarred for his troubles, winding their fingers together.

“You,” he breathes into the space between them, “nothing pleases me more than you”.

And as Geralt’s lips connect with his in the most painstakingly gentle kiss in his life, he feels whole.

[softbiker]

Steve Rogers Oneshot

Warnings: some strong language, mention of super soldier butts

Word Count: 2.7k

Summary: Steve Rogers takes a coffee break. It’s good to try new things.

A/N: This is a continuation of Extra Whip - so I recommend reading that first in order to be familiar with who the reader is! It takes place in the same universe as @kentuckybarnes​ Agent 28 and @nacho-bucky​ Agent 41, with permission from both :) At the moment, my plan for these two is a series of one shots; connected by characters and certain events, but not a strong overarching plot. Let’s keep it fun okay? (Can’t believe I’m posting this before I’ve had my coffee but hey, I’m excited). Enjoy! 

A month goes by.

In missions, gunpowder grit beneath his fingernails; in Stark Foundation fundraisers, his bowtie digging too tight at his neck; in karaoke nights - and avoiding karaoke nights, sneaking up to the roof with Bucky for a smoke. Somehow the habit crept back in, between the two of them.  Deeper than muscle, it’s a bone memory - shoulders pressed together on a fire escape, nostalgic for nicotine and other things that won’t roll into cigarette papers. No one knows about their little habit, except for maybe Nat - who cares less about their upstanding reputations than everyone else, and she’ll even share a pack every once in a while. Steve marvels at cigarettes now, the way he marvels at everything that should’ve killed him before he became a miracle. 

So February passes. He eases up on Health Food Reform, satisfied that the good habits seem to mostly stick. 41 continues to slurp on her spinach milkshakes during briefings, and it brings out his big brother smile every time. Every time he wonders who might have made it for her. 

March blusters in with excessive force, with the wind whipping storms on every front and a crisis on every continent. For the first two weeks of the month, Steve doesn’t set foot at the compound, shuffling between safe houses and sleeping on the quinjet, his neck aching in complaint. The team forgoes their long-anticipated weekend retreat to Tony’s cabin in Aspen in favor of a terror attack in Johannesburg. 

“Man, I was not made for this kind of heat,” Sam mutters, tugging at the harnesses of his uniform as sweat streams down his neck and into his shirt. 

“You would’ve been in the hot tub in Aspen, anyway,” Clint teases, taking stock of his quiver, his words slurred by the bubblegum in his mouth.

“Yeah, with a couple of snow bunnies, that’s for damn sure,” Sam bites back, shoving his goggles into a side pocket on his tac pants. 

“Focus, Sam,” Steve sighs over the comm. He’s got eyes on them - opposite rooftop, approximately 100 feet above the epicenter of the chaos. “The sooner we wrap this up, the sooner you can sit in a jacuzzi with your rabbits.” 

Tony’s laughter over the comm line is so loud, Nat has to remove her earpiece for a full minute. 

“What?” Steve turns to Nat, bewildered. She’s got a white streak of dust in her hair. “What? What did I say?” 

She just shakes her head, taming the curl of her lips with a click of her tongue.

“Nobody tell him,” Tony insists, his voice still a wheeze. “Jesus, I am gonna hold onto that for weeks. That’s going in the digital scrapbook - F.R.I.D.A.Y.?”

“Already saved the audio file, boss.”

Steve just hangs his head, resigned. No chance of living that one down. 

Hours later, they pile into the quinjet in beleaguered pairs, Clint propped on Sam’s arm, 28 with Natasha - both dusty and bruised but no major injuries, followed by Wanda and 41, with Tony bringing up the rear. Steve takes stock with a keen gaze as they trudge up the ramp into the jet, Buck slouched in the seat beside him, his flesh fingers blackened with gunpowder. More than 10 hours on the ground, with thousands of safe civilian lives to show for it - but no arrests had been made, no suspects found, no bad guys to put away. Not today. A stalemate, which Steve hates. He loathes the ambiguity, the loose ends of this job, the way the world can just never stay safe. 

A knee jostles against his own, and he looks over at Bucky; he’s got one eye cracked open, narrow window on a sky blue gaze peering back at Steve. 

“You good, Rogers?” he mutters, lazily rolling his jaw. 

“Me? Yeah, Buck, I’m fine.”

“Uh huh. Well quit grindin’ your teeth like that.” Bucky sighs and lets his eyes slip closed again. “The one thing your ma never had to fix, those damn perfect teeth.”

It draws a dull, tired smile, just like he intended, and Steve elbows Bucky in the ribs - the two of them exchanging a couple of tired blows, before settling into their seats, pressed against each other shoulder to knee, like they’re still trying to fit in a foxhole. Steve takes a little of Bucky’s weight as he leans over to let 28 pass them and settle into a seat across the aisle, buckling herself in and sending a tired smile their way. 

He accepts a Starkpad from Tony as he passes by on his way to the cockpit. A swipe of the screen reveals a face - a white man, late 40’s, dark hair with white streaks at the front. Nothing noticeable about him otherwise. Beneath the face is a name: Israel Hayes. He stands and stalks his way up the aisle of the jet, careful not to disturb any of his sleeping teammates as he follows Tony. The Iron Man suit dissolving back into the nanite housing unit on his chest, Tony is left only in a soft black shirt and pants - he looks vulnerable, small, when Steve leans into the cockpit, his shoulders crowding the space. 

“This our guy?”

“Seems like it. F.R.I.D.A.Y. cross-referenced his known aliases with similar activities in Europe and Asia - but he’s good. Never shown his face good.”

“Not even on CCTV?” Steve quirks a brow.

Tony shakes his head, lips pursed. “Nope. My guess? He’s got some kind of algorithm like the one SHIELD instituted for our agents in the backseat. You know how we never know what a SHIELD agent looks like?” He gestures towards the passengers with his thumb and Steve nods. “Same thing. As soon as his face is captured on a camera, his server finds it and scrubs it clean.”

“That possible? For someone who’s not SHIELD?”

“If he’s got the connections it seems like he has? Then yeah.” Tony huffs out a breath. “Not that I’m worried - F.R.I.D.A.Y. has found smaller needles in bigger haystacks.” 

Steve just nods, staring at the man’s picture on the tablet in his hands. 

He stares at that tablet for days - at briefings, at the picture, at news headlines, at the picture, at a Buzzfeed article comparing his butt with Sam’s and Bucky’s (sent in a text attachment by Sam, accompanied only by the peach emoji), and once more at the picture. 

He stares at it till he sees the man’s face behind his eyelids, till he could sketch it on a napkin without looking. And he does, actually, by accident - in the margins of his notes during a security briefing with Fury, he glances down to find his fingers tracing the deep set of the man’s eyes, the dark shadow of his brows. Algorithm or no, he won’t be able to hide forever. 

It’s the algorithm he’s thinking of as he continues to take his notes in the meeting, the sketch staring up at him in stark blue pen; there’s another face he wanted to look for, more than once he’d decide to search the SHIELD records, before changing his mind - just opening his browser and poising his fingers to start the search has him feeling like a damn creep. Like the internet stalker in that show Wanda was obsessed with. His ma raised a gentleman - there’s no way he was gonna be that guy.

The next morning, Sam begs off on their run, and Bucky is mysteriously absent from his room when Steve knocks, so he goes for his run alone. It’s not so bad - he’s got a fancy pair of headphones that Tony made last Christmas, and he loves watching the sunrise over the city. He even turns and crosses the bridge into Brooklyn, making a lap through Prospect Park before looping back towards Manhattan. Not so bad. Good, even. Really, really good. 

He slows down and stretches in front of the tower, propping his legs up on the bench out front and massaging his calves. There’s a little bit of a burn, but it melts at the pressure of his fingers, and the pleasant kind of soreness settles in. The kind he’s enjoyed and lived in since his body became sturdy and strong and decidedly anti-fragile - he’ll never say it out loud, but he still gets a little thrill when he manages to break a bone or dislocate a shoulder, goosebumps of pain shooting down his spine as he pops them back into place with a grunt of satisfaction. 

Hand hovering over the biometric scanner, he’s about to go back inside, take the elevator up to his room and hit the showers, when he sees someone at the crosswalk just a block down. 

Pink hoodie - huge, practically a dress - with a denim jacket tugged over it, bare legs trailing down into white combat boots, a backpack slung over one shoulder. She spares little more than a glance at the cars along the street before striding forward, nose turned up and arms crossed in a way that’s so New York it makes him do a double take. That early morning pout, tired eyes, like she’s not totally awake yet. Her steps firm and determined in those heavy boots, she makes a beeline for the green siren across the street, never once glancing his direction. 

It’s the first glimpse he’s had of her in a month. 

Not for lack of trying, but have you seen his schedule? He’s barely been stateside at all for nearly 3 weeks. Not to mention that one of Tony’s interns is always eager to volunteer for a coffee run, and he’s not sure what he would say, a good reason for him to insist to go by himself. 

With a glance at his phone - not due for a meeting for 3 more hours - he takes a deep breath and marches down the street, hands in his pockets, shoulders tucked. Less threatening to the passersby, who notice him, but say nothing. They’re in his neighborhood after all. 

A bell chimes above the door when he walks in, and the same “Welcome to Starbucks!” greets him, but he’s only half-listening as he scans the cafe. She’s at the register, chatting with the barista there who hands her a steaming white mug. 

“Ugh, thanks Chase, you’re a lifesaver,” she sighs, taking a sip. 

“Hey, it’s all part of the job,” the barista jokes back, adjusting the cap on his head. He’s noticed Steve hovering 3 feet back, waiting his turn, and his eyes switch between Steve and the girl in front of him rapidly. 

Their conversation ends, and the girl - the agent - takes her coffee to sit at a small table by herself, close to the windows, far enough back in a corner that she has a view of the whole cafe. Which she scans now as she sits, noting the two regulars in the opposite corner enjoying their customary flat whites, and…Captain America.

Interesting. 

She waits - he knows she’s waiting when he approaches the table, and she pretends not to know that he’s walking directly towards her, nose still tucked down towards her book, one hand poised at the handle of her coffee mug. 

He clears his throat. 

“Good morning,” she smiles when she looks up, the light from the window back-lighting her eyes, and the glow stuns him. “Haven’t seen you around for a while.”

“Haven’t been around,” he shrugs. Are his cheeks hot? He gestures towards the chair across from her. “You mind if I sit?”

“Not at all,” she shakes her head. He slides into the seat and she replaces her bookmark, setting the book aside. Valley of the Dolls. He’s not familiar. 

“Here for your morning Cappuccino?” She quirks her eyebrows as her smile stretches, just shy of goofy. Quite proud of herself. 

“Ha ha. Never been a big fan.”

“No?”

He shakes his head. “First thing in the morning? I like a dark roast. Something to really wake you up, you know?”

“Hm,” she muses. “Sure, I understand.” 

“What about you?” 

“Me?” 

“Your coffee, I mean. You, uh…like coffee?” Smooth, Rogers.

“Oh, yeah. Love coffee.” There’s a laugh behind her smile, and he wishes she wouldn’t hold it back. “Here lately, I’ve had a thing for tall blondes.”

The flush on his cheeks inches down his neck.

“Huh?”

“Tall blonde Americano to be specific - you should try the blonde espresso, it’s really good.” She takes a sip of hers, hiding her dimple behind the mug. “And I always add an extra shot. I like ‘em strong.” 

God, even his ears are red, he knows it. The hell did he think he was gonna do when he came in here anyway, sweep her off her feet? He’s never been that good with dames, not even-

“I’m only joking-” she cracks up a little, giggling. “Sorry, the opportunity was too good, I just couldn’t resist.”

He sighs in relief, offers an embarrassed smile, and manages to relax a little in his chair. 

“So…why are you here? Really?” she lifts an eyebrow, leaning one elbow on the table. 

“Well…” and here it is, here goes nothing. “I thought - that is, I wondered, um, if you��might want to…get to know each other a little better.” Ouch. Thank God Bucky is nowhere near here. 

“Get to know each other?” 

“Yeah. Just, I mean, as friends.” 

“Huh.” 

Steve’s smile is sheepish, but it’s the one that always worked on his mother, and it seems to work on her. He can see the suspicion melt from her eyes, the interested quirk of her mouth as her fingers tap against the table. 

“I’m flattered and all, really, but you should know that virtually everything you could want to ask me about…my past, my qualifications, my education, my current assignment-” she lifts her hands in a helpless gesture. “It’s all classified. Probably above even your clearance.” 

“Classified?”

“There’s a reason why we never met, Captain.” He takes comfort in the fact that her smile is a little rueful. 

“Oh.” He sits back in his chair, a thoughtful frown on his lips. Looks out the window at passing traffic as he thinks. 

“Alright, then - how about a recommendation?” he turns back to her, eyes lit with curious confidence that catches her off guard. 

“A recommendation?” she repeats, bemused. 

“Coffee,” he grins, like it’s obvious, a wry quirk to his brows. 

“Coffee,” she echoes again, chewing her lip as she returns his smile. 

“Yeah - I always get the same thing,” he shrugs, eyes dancing. “Figured maybe I should branch out.”

Something she can tell him. Something they can share. 

A quick glance at her watch - 20 minutes before she has to clock in. 

“Alright then.” She stands from her seat, cracking her knuckles. “You wait here - I’m gonna pop behind the bar and make you something.”

He watches as she crosses the cafe, rounds the bar and gets to work whipping up…something. The steamer hisses as the milk is foamed, espresso grinding, and he can see her reach for some kind of syrup to pump into the cup. It only takes a minute or so before she’s done, returning with the cup presented triumphantly to him. The name “Cap” is scrawled on the front of the cup. 

“What is it?” 

“Just taste it first.”

The burst of caramel sweetness on his tongue nearly makes him gag - it’s a lot, whatever this drink is. It’s practically a dessert. Not bad, but he’s not sure how anyone could drink this in the morning. When he says so, she laughs out loud, head tipping back and mouth wide open. 

“I make those for 41 all the time,” she grins. “It’s not an official menu drink - I invented it for her.”

“Yeah I can see this being her drink.” 

“Oh, and when you go back to the tower, will you take her these?” She hands him a pastry bag. “I know they’re her favorite, and we had some that were about to expire.

He glances in the bag - two cookie dough cake pops and one birthday cake.

“I guess it’s not just Clint that spoils her, huh?” 

Across the table, she just smiles and shrugs. 

“I’m just here to make coffee.”

He takes another sip of the sugary concoction. 

“Sure.” 

[silly-nonny-fics-are-for-fandoms]

Seeing Love on the Stage.

Note before you begin this; This is a crossover with the anime/manga Love Stage with a spin on it because Ms. Mama Rei, @ohtakudesu , has gotten me obsessed with this tiny girl named Nomi so I’m crossing it over with a book as well to fit the story. And, obviously, there is going to be some divergence otherwise because it’s not in the character’s nature.

Sinja AU Week, day four: Crossover.

“I can’t believe it, can you, Drakon?? I’m actually going to meet her!” Sinbad said, almost giddy in his seat. It’d been ten years since he last met her, the mysterious girl with white hair, adorable freckles, and those gorgeous eyes… Bright Emerald tinted with sage, and in just the right light they looked gray… Captivating.

“Yes, I’m sure she’s amazing. But, please, Sinbad, you have to get that out of your mind. The shoot it next week, and it’s a wedding commercial. You’re lucky you have the kind of reputation you do, because otherwise she wouldn’t be there.” Drakon sighed as they pulled into the VIP parking at the modeling location.  

“I know, man, but still. She must have grown up to be really cute….”

Drakon rolled his eyes, parking the car. Another day with the world’s most famous lovesick model.

Sinbad had met that girl when they were children, and the girl’s parents were doing a wedding commercial for which they needed two children for the full wedding effect. The girl who was supposed to play the girl couldn’t make it, so they substituted the other girl.

And ever since Sinbad met her, he’d been obsessed.

As such, when the wedding company approached him about doing a follow up commercial ten years later about the two children, he said he’d do it on the condition it had the exact same cast as before. Somehow, by some miracle, they’d made it happen.

“ABSOLUTELY NOT!” Ja’far yelled, hiding in his room. There was one thing he wasn’t going to do; That commercial. He didn’t want to dress up like a girl, didn’t want to have the same reaction he did when he was a child to being on camera, and oh god that person would be there…

“Ja’far, come on! Rurumu and Hinahoho have already agreed to do it, and you need to take responsibility for what you said!” Yamraiha huffed, tapping her foot as she stood outside the bedroom door.

“That was then and this is now! It’s not fair to hold me to what I said while sleep deprived!”

“It’s your fault for not sleeping because of those books! If you don’t come out here, I’ll knock the door down!”

No, no no no no no no Nope. Ja’far got up and walked over to the door, peeking out of it.

“And what if I do come out and agree to do the commercial?”

“I can assure you a day of relaxation, away from everyone else, with a copy of your favorite book.”

“I’ll do it!”

If it got him some peace away from his four siblings and crazy aunt, he’d take it. But he had no idea just how much he’d regret that decision, nor how happy he’d be.

That weekend, he was a big ball of nerves when they arrived at the set. A hotel, he was told, but he couldn’t tell with how much he was shaking in the dressing room. He’d been shown the script and knew it by heart, as he had an excellent memory, but he still trembled. What if he messed up? What if the commercial was totally ruined because of him?

Anxiety clung to him like a vice, squeezing him into a pinhole and stealing his breath.

“Ja’far, these girls are here to help you get ready, and we have the flower girl here too for the wedding scene. Her name is Nomi.”

Ja’far didn’t hear Yamraiha, but he saw the little flower girl. She was small, smaller than the average child, with short brown hair and two little pigtails on the side of her head, though the rest of her hair was down. She looked up at him with big green eyes and clung to Yamraiha a bit, as if she were scared to talk.

Ja’far waved slightly towards her before being swept up by the three stylists and changed into a wedding dress, had hair extensions, and a full face of makeup in less than a half hour, somehow.

They’d given him a long fake braid that matched his silver hair, a long white dress with a corset dress that’s sleeves fell off of his shoulders and a pink sheer overlay on the dress which, now that he thought about it, was more like a cape that came together just underneath where the breasts of the dress were. The cut of the dress came up high enough that it covered any cleavage he would have had if he were a girl. The girls had put a bra on him and stuffed it with fake enhancers and the wire of said bra dug into his ribs painfully.

“You’re so pretty!” Said Nomi, staring up at Ja’far. She’d had a little makeover as well, the little girl now had tiny pearls as hair ties with her pigtails and she had a cute little flower crown on as well, little black-eyed Susan’s and Daisies twirled together with tiny pearls. Nomi had a cute champagne colored lace dress on with a somewhat large tulle skirt and a sheer overlay making up a top which’s solid color cut off above her chest.

“Th.. Thanks….” Ja’far mumbled, embarrassed that she thought he was pretty.

The moment was ruined, however, when the director called action in three minutes.

Nomi left the room with Yamraiha, her place being up by the alter near the man playing the groom and the ring bearer.

Breathe Ja’far, you have to remember to breathe because that’s important. Before he knew it, he was standing behind the large doors about to walk into the set and oh god he couldn’t do this—

“Action!” called the director, and as soon as the doors open Ja’far began to run towards the groom as he’d been instructed to, but in his panic he’d forgotten to hold the skirt of the dress and the ground got closer and closer and then he hit it with a thud.

There was a moment of silence before people began worrying over him and the dress, and Ja’far just moved to sit up, ignoring them all.

And there, right in front of him, was the man playing the groom, in a white tuxedo with blue vest.

“Hey there, I’m Sinbad. What’s your name?” He asked, sitting down in front of Ja’far.

“I… I… I’m Ja… Jacie.” He mumbled the alias he’d been given by Yamraiha, to make it more believable he was a girl.

“Well, Jacie, you wanna try this again?” Sinbad asked, holding out a little cats eye marble that glinted green and silver.

Ja’far cocked his head to the side, visibly confused.

“Remember, when we were little? You used this to calm down.”

And then Ja’far remembered it. After the incident, he’d been crying his eyes out and Sinbad had approached him with a good luck charm.

“You gotta hold it to your chest and say “I am calm, I can do this.” Three times, and you’ll be all better!”

Remembering that, Ja’far nodded and gently took the marble and held it close to his chest, whispering to himself, “I am calm, I can do this…” three times, half not expecting to work.

But it did.

“I… It’s gone…”

“See? Now, why don’t we try this again, Jacie?”

Ja’far nodded, and they got ready for the second take.

‘God, he’s gorgeous.’ Thought Sinbad, staring at the woman in front of him. ‘Calm down, you have to make it through this shoot and then you can do the thing.’

So he stood there at the altar, waiting for the director to start.

“Action!”

The door opened and Ja’far came running down the aisle, holding his skirt as not to trip over it. He ran all the way to the altar and stopped, looking at Sinbad’s face as if it were the loveliest thing in the world.

Sinbad, following the script, cupped Ja’far’s face and kissed him.

Ja’far, having received the script that day, kissed him back and wrapped his arms around Sinbad’s neck, only for Sinbad to pull away and pick him up as if he were a princess, and carried him out of the set.

In this man’s arms, Ja’far found himself relaxing, until he noticed they were going past the doors and towards the dressing rooms.

“Sinbad, what are you doing?” Asked Ja’far, wanting to get out of this damn dress.

“Taking you to my dressing room, I wanna give you something.”

“Put me down!!” Ja’far huffed, struggling in Sinbad’s grip, only to not be able to escape.

Then, he was in a room, and had been set onto a couch in the dark.

“Sinbad, this is kidnapping!”

“No it isn’t, everyone knows where you are.” Sinbad said, clicking on the light and held a bouquet of white roses to him.

“Will you please go out with me?”

Ja’far was shocked for a moment, staring at the man as if he were crazy.

“You know I’m a guy, right?”

“Yes, I know. I was told this morning, and still! I’ve been in love with you since I met you as a child—It doesn’t have to be anything big, just one date!”

Ja’far couldn’t believe this dumbass. But strangely, something compelled him not to be angry.

“… One date, Sinbad.”

Only… One date turned into two, then three, then after two years of “Just one more date” the wedding wasn’t scripted, or for a commercial.

[elvendara]

Werewolf mc and the rfa+saeran reactions ?

What is withthe werewolf thing? Lol

Saeyoung:

“Hey, Saeyoung,I…” you start but he interrupts. “Need to go see your mom for a couple of days?Your friend? Want some alone time? Which excuse is it this time?” “Huh?” you’rereally confused. “Every month you leave for three day, exactly three days, I’vebeen keeping a record. I thought about following you, hacking your phone, eventhe security feed in the area, but, I want to trust you MC, I want to, but,where do you go? Why is it such a secret?” his eyes are sad and heartbroken.“Aren’t secrets what almost ruined us? I admit, those were mine and I wasstupid, but you wouldn’t let me off the hook so easily, so now, it’s my turn.What are you hiding?” he came close to you and held your arms, looking at youwith such love and devotion. Tears sprang to your eyes, “You’re right Saeyoung,it’s just,” you look into his eyes and try to find the courage. “I think it’sbetter if I show you.” “Ok.” He says immediately. You step away from him andbegin to undress, this is your favorite dress, you aren’t going to rip it up.He is watching you curiously but doesn’t say anything, maybe there is somethingon your body that you want him to see. Once naked you let your other form takeover. Thankfully the pull of the moon isn’t very strong yet and you can stillcontrol yourself. “Holy fuck!” Saeyoung screams as he takes several steps back,slamming into the TV stand. He’s watching you with wary eyes as you slowly plodover to him on four paws. You look up at him, your form reaching well above hiswaist, and whine deep in your throat. His breathing is harsh and his eyes arewide. He reaches out slowly to stroke your fur and gulps loudly. You transformyourself back into your human form and reach out to him. He pulls you into hisarms. You cry on his shoulders, afraid of what he will say. “I…I didn’t expectthat.” He whispers into your hair. “Please don’t be afraid of me.” You plead.He takes your face in his hands and tilts it upwards. “Is that why you didn’tsay anything?” You nod. You can see that he is still a little freaked out, buthe hasn’t run away screaming, so this is good. “I love you silly. No matterwhat form you take.” He smiles. “I’ll admit, this will take some getting usedto, but, you can’t get rid of me that easily.” He holds you tight then takesyou into the bedroom to make love to you before you have to leave. The daysbefore and the days just after your self-imposed absence become the best daysto be with Saeyoung.

Jumin:

Jumin asked youto marry him and you said yes, however, there is something the man needs toknow and you have run out of time. “I need you to buy a cage Jumin.” “Excuseme?” his eyebrows furrow in confusion. “A large one, one that I can fit in.”his eyes actually sparkle wondering at the possibilities and what you areasking of him. You shake your head. “This isn’t some weird kink, there issomething you need to know and the cage is for your safety and mine.” He is nowcompletely confused. “After we get married I won’t be able to just leave for afew days will I? without scrutiny or rumors flying around. Not to mention,paparazzi might try to follow me at some point.” “What are you talking about?” Yousigh, because this is really hard after all. “Once a month, for three days,I’ll need to be put in that cage Jumin.” “What? Why?” “Because I’m a werewolf.”There, you said it. He stared at you, stunned and bewildered. “You want me tobuy a human sized cage so that when you turn into a werewolf you can be lockedin it for your and my safety?” he asked, straight-faced. “Yes.” “Ok kitten,whatever you want.” He turned away and went back to looking through thesketchbook the designer had sent over for his wedding suit. You furrow yourbrows and cross your arms. “That’s it? Just like that? You don’t have anyquestions?” he looks up at you with raised brows. “What more is there to ask?”“Well, I mean, Jumin, don’t you want to see me turn into a werewolf? To proveI’m one?” “Not really, not to prove it anyway, I believe you. But, you cantransform on purpose? Then yes, I would like to see your werewolf form.” Hesaid with eagerness in his voice. Your jaw hung open, was he serious? Hebelieved you, just like that? You wrap your arms around him and kiss him beforestepping away, undressing and transforming in front of him. He is taken aback,he didn’t expect you to be so large, but you could easily tear him apart if youchose to. There is a little fear in his eyes, but he keeps his cool as he takesin your new form. “I’ll have that cage delivered immediately” he says.

Jaehee:

As if the poorwoman didn’t have enough to worry about, now she had to deal with werewolf fur.You’d revealed yourself to her and she had gone a little crazy. Walking aroundthe apartment in circles. Muttering to herself. Taking her glasses off and wipingthem obsessively. She would flit glances at you once in a while, but yougenerally stayed out of her way, waiting for her to calm down and be ready totalk. Finally she walked over to where you sat on a kitchen stool. “How long?”“Since birth.” “Oh, it’s, it’s hereditary?” “Yes, my mother is one but myfather is not, there was a 50/50 chance of me being human.” “What about, uh,animal instinct? Are you…are you dangerous?” “Only for 3 days out of the month,which is why I have a safe place to go to. I would never hurt you Jaehee.” “Ibelieve you, it’s just, a lot to take in. What happens in those three days?” “Ibecome mostly wolf, my cognizance of my humanity is low and I become for allpurposes, an animal, with, as you suggested, only animal instincts to guide me.I could be dangerous to humans, but mostly, I tend to avoid them, even duringthose three days, humans, well, humans have a tendency to kill what they don’tunderstand.” You lower your head, you’d had an uncle killed by humans becausethey had seen him on a camping trip. He had not threatened them, but they werescared and reacted. She saw the pain in your eyes and hugged you close. “Idon’t care. I love you anyway.” You return the hug, tears in your eyes and sobquietly into her shoulder. This is all you ever wanted, someone to know whoyour truly are and love you anyway.

Yoosung:

You stood infront of him in your werewolf form. He had screeched so loud you were afraidthe neighbors would call the police and report a killing. You stepped forwardbut he jumped back so suddenly he tripped over his own feet falling to thefloor. You stepped over him and hovered over his small frame. His eyes werewide and terrified. You lowered your massive head and licked his face. “Hey!Stop!” he squealed. You nuzzled his hair and he tried to swipe you away. “Knockit off MC.” He giggled. You transformed back into your human form and loweredyour naked self onto your boyfriend. He was still smiling, only now he wasblushing. “Do you prefer this?” you licked his face once more and he sighed,wrapping his arms around you. “That was…uhm…really something.” He confided. “Ihope I didn’t scare you, but, I don’t want to keep any secrets between usYoosung.” “I was a little scared.” He admitted. “I guess, I still kind of am.”“You don’t have to be, but, well, you should know that there is a 50/50 chancethat if we have kids they could be werewolves too.” “Oh.” “I understand if youdon’t want to take that chance.” You quickly add. “No, it’s…it’s not that, Ijust well, I didn’t realize you were thinking that far ahead. Do you…do youwant to have children with me?” he asked shyly. Is that what this boy wasworried about? You’d just shown him the most dangerous side of you, somethingthat would send anyone screaming in terror and he was worried that you didn’twant to spend the rest of your life with him. You laughed and kissed himpassionately. “More than anything in the world Yoosung, I want to have yourbabies.” He smiled and rolled you over, might as well practice.

Zen:

“Ok, out withit.” Zen said exasperatedly. “What?” you asked, innocently. “Whatever has beenon your mind all day. Honestly, this is my first day off in weeks and you’vespent the entire day thinking about something else, so, what is it?” hiscrimson eyes were on you and you felt guilty because he was right. Somethingwas on your mind and you didn’t know what to do about it. He softened his faceand turned to you, grasping your hands and pulling you close. “Whatever it is,it can’t be that bad.” He smiled and tenderly kissed your lips. There weretears in your eyes, how were you going to do this? Zen had a reputation, he wasa celebrity and getting more and more famous every day. There wasn’t a timewhen you were not followed by paparazzi, how could you still be part of hislife? You chocked up and he lifted your chin to look at him. “You can tell meanything princess, I will always be here for you. Please. Trust me.” He pleadedand you gave in, nodding. You took your clothes off and closed your eyes. You couldfeel Zen’s stare as it traveled your body, but you tried to ignore the fire itwas igniting inside you. It took seconds to fully transform and you open youreyes to see your gorgeous boyfriend’s eyes sparkling in fascination andhappiness. You cock your head, unsure if that is what you are really seeing inhis eyes. He tears off his shirt and pulls his pants off along with hisunderwear and yanks his hair tie off. Suddenly he transforms as well, into alarge silver haired wolf with red eyes. He plods near you and nuzzles into you.He’s beautiful. His red eyes are more vibrant and you feel his throat rumblenext to yours. He licks your snout and you throw your head back and howl. He joinsyou and you both jump around the apartment, on the sofa, over the table, tailswagging, tongues lolling. Finally, you both revert and he grabs you in his armsand playfully nips at you while growling. You laugh and nip back. “I love you.”He says, becoming serious. “I love you.”

Saeran:

The boy was on your last nerve. Ok, you getthat he can be moody. Yes, you get that he sometimes wants to be alone, ordoesn’t want to talk, but it’s been weeks and every question or comment is metwith a grunt, or a shrug. You’re done! And you lay into him because damnit, hecan’t just keep shutting you out! But he only looks at you with those eyes andshrugs. He shrugs! “Sorry?” he says…with that giant ass question mark at theend like he doesn’t give a shit. You get so angry you see red. You push himdown and jump on top of him. He is startled because you shouldn’t be thisstrong. He tries to get up but you push him back down. “What the hell MC.” Whichis the most he has said in forever. “Oh, you CAN talk.” “Get off!” “NO.” Hestruggles and tries to buck you off. A growl escapes your throat and you beginto change. His head slams down so hard against the floor he sees stars. When hisvision clears all he sees is your brown muzzle in his face. “Fuck!” he screamsand tries to scoot out of the way. You lazily place your paw on his chest andkeep him down. He tries desperately to push your paw off. You snarl, baringyour teeth and he stops squirming. He lay perfectly still, arms above his head.You snort in his face, and he turns away, scrunching up his eyes, nose, andmouth. “Ugh.” You turn back into your human form and now lay on top of him,naked. “Damn! I really liked that shirt.” It now lay in shreds around you both.“That was my shirt.” Saeran said. Is eyes were still wary and he hadn’t moved. Youraise yourself up a bit, staring him in the eyes. “Have you learned yourlesson?” “Yes.” “Good.” You lean down and kiss him gently, to take the stingout of you teaching him who is boss. “How…how long have you been able to dothat?” he asks. “Since birth.” “Oh.” “Uhh, that wasn’t exactly how I wanted totell you about it. Sorry.” You blush and lay your head against his chest. “Arewe ok?” You suddenly fear he will not want to be with you anymore. His armswrap around you, “Yes. I’m sorry MC. I promise I won’t make you do that againbecause I’m being an ass.” You smile and nuzzle into him. “So, how strong areyou?”

Sorry these are so silly. I mean. If my S/O turned into a werewolf I would piss myself! lol

[johnaffeymuseum]

Green Door: An Excerpt from ‘Case Notes on the John Affey Museum,’ by Annie Leist, BPF

This text was first published in Why Would I Lie? RCA Research Biennial (2015), ed. Susannah Haslam & Peter Le Couteur.

The door to our museum – I call it our museum, though I am not exactly on the staff – is a very specific green. A sort of baize-green like a billiard table, or, for fans of period drama, like the door between upstairs and downstairs. I've just been shown a picture of this door by Dr. Adam Origen, self-styled Assistant to the Directrix, who's clearly had this Ur-door photograph taped to his fridge since he took the picture in Bath in the mid-’90s. It's a fine Georgian six-panelled door, a six-lobed fan light above. Nearly the spitting image of the door to No. 10, actually, barring the emerald green. I find out later that this lame aping of the British Establishment extends to the smallest details of Origen's 'museum'.

I say Origen's museum, and that isn't quite true. There are four people behind this insubstantial institution. The first, naturally, is its founder, he to whom Dr. Origen insists on referring in hushed tones of reverence, and always by his full name – John Henry Affey – whenever he comes up in conversation. Which is frequently. This John Henry Affey – and one really can hear the italics whenever Origen invokes him – is clearly the subject of some fairly deft hagiography. He's being set up (by Origen, if no-one else) as a Great Man in the old style. A visionary. I get two distinct intuitions about Affey, or rather about Origen and Affey. The first is that Origen was deeply besotted with him, and remains so. And I must admit from what I've learned of the man, he must have been seat-wettingly charming. The second is that, if Affey hadn't already existed, Dr. Origen would have had to make him up.

During the early ‘60s, Origen worked for John Henry Affey (1905-1969) as a personal assistant, a kind of valet-come-secretary. Affey was, as far as I can gather, mostly Irish, though raised on a tiny islet called Fey in the north Shetlands. He was short, little over five feet two, had surprisingly dark skin, and piercing pale green eyes. He worked, as did many Shetland men, for Christian Salvesen Limited, back when the company ran the British-Norwegian whaling industry in the Antarctic. During his travels, Affey collected artefacts from the Maori, the South Sea Islanders, the Sámi of the Arctic Circle, the Ainu of northern Japan, and many other indigenous peoples. A typologist in the Pitt Rivers tradition, Affey nursed a life-long dream of opening a whaling museum. Two things prevented him. The first was that he was storing his collection on Deception Island in the South Shetlands. The ring-shaped Deception is in fact the caldera of an active volcano, and eruptions beginning in 1968 caused the Hektor Whaling Station – also being used as a base by the British Antarctic Survey – to be badly damaged, destroying Affey's collection. It seems certain that the stress of this event precipitated Affey's fatal stroke of the following year.

The second thing, which may still prove to be a bit of a barrier (as though the loss of the collection weren't bad enough), is the reputation Affey had acquired as a crank. What queered his pitch to the ethnological crowd (though he didn't limit his... ah... radical conjectures to any one discipline) was his obsession – it's not too strong a word – with a “lost tribe” of the Antarctic he called the Ascensorescetis, the Whale Riders. Ropey Latin, I'm told. The most striking aspect of this lost tribe, and also the one most difficult to swallow, is that many Whale Riders lived their entire lives upon the open sea, never setting a foot upon the land. In fact, or so I was informed gravely by Dr. Origen, there was quite the taboo against it, though they did deign to walk about on ice, and apparently had a great fondness for icebergs.

I should at this point own up to my part in all this, before we're dragged any further down the rabbit hole. I'm an analyst, in the broader Jungian tradition, who works with institutions. I treat institutions as people, and people as institutions. And more than that, I analyse what M. Bachelard would term the poetics of space. Psychoanalytic feng shui. My job (or the reason I'm called in, at least) is to resolve conflicts. I'm hired to ameliorate symptoms when they become unmanageable ~ a loaded term for institutions. Of course, like any psychotherapist, what I reveal about the causes of certain symptoms isn't always welcome, particularly not when I start referring to other 'healthy' or 'productive' aspects of the institution as symptoms too.

Now and then, I work as a consultant with the Eisegetics Institute, a conceptual design firm. The John Affey Museum is a client of theirs, and they've called me in to put J.A.M. on the couch. I'm used to working with small institutions: single offices, focus groups, that sort of thing. I've long been complaining that I can never publish anything I find, an inevitable result of client confidentiality. The Eisegetics Institute offered me this one as a kind of joke, saying they'd found an institution well worth analysing, who'd agreed that any and all material I gathered could be published, as long as they didn't have to pay me anything. I thought what the hell.

As I've already mentioned, the John Affey Museum is really only four people, one of whom – arguably the most important – is dead. The second, Dr. Origen, was the man responsible for keeping the museum alive from the death of its founder in 1969 until his discovery of Affey's grand-daughter, Margaret O'Sullivan, in 1998. Ms. O'Sullivan (she whom Dr. Origen insists on calling the Directrix, which she is apparently fine with) lives in Mainistir na Búille, County Roscommon, Ireland. O'Sullivan's a local historian and genealogist, and works in Boyle Branch Library as an assistant. She learned of her hereditary position as director of the John Affey Museum in 1999, becoming 'Directrix' in 2004 after what I have been repeatedly assured by Dr. Origen was a “rigorous process of authentification.” I've talked to her only on Skype. She seems to view her position as a bit of a lark, Dr. Origen as infuriating but harmless, and she stated, when I asked her about the likelihood of the museum's ever opening: “Well, it'd be a long day's walk, you know, before we catch a glimpse of that. But I'm lighting a candle to Saint Jude, now and then.”

I've got an icon of Saint Jude on the back of my toilet door. He's wearing a fetching emerald green wrap, holding an oar in his left hand and, with the other, absent-mindedly caressing the big golden medallion of Jesus that's hanging around his neck. I forget this, until I see him there, shortly after talking to O’Sullivan. And suddenly remember I forgot to check to see if she had green eyes. Maybe you can't really tell over Skype. And here's where I try to write about how my job really works, which isn't something one can usually publish: it's basically magic. I could call it instead, and probably should, a poetics of synchronicity. Synchronicity is one of those ideas that have been adopted into contemporary culture largely shorn of their psychoanalytic roots; in this case, the idea is Jung's. Like Jung, I've come to believe that dealing with this concept is more than some intellectual game, Gedankenexperiment, or useful working hypothesis. Unlike Jung, though, I usually keep schtum about it, and rarely use it to justify ex-marital dalliances.

What I do for a living, really, is read. I read institutions, their members, their narratives and their sites. Particularly their sites: I'm especially fond of reading office kitchens. I get paid hourly, using that cheeky analytical definition of the hour as fifty minutes. (An hourly rate is important, when – at least according to certain clients – the problems “fix themselves”, no thanks to me!) I learnt long ago, during my lengthy traditional training in the dance of transference and countertransference, that not all insights can be shared with the analysand. Often, attempting to do so can seriously harm the therapeutic alliance. Indeed, there is such a thing as a therapeutic lie. What I've developed, over the years, is a Dalí-esque “Paranoid-Critical” method. A kind of house-trained mania. I begin by seeing everything as potentially significant. I trained in the 80s, during the post-structuralist shitstorm, so my method sidesteps the question of meaning. I'm interested in structure. In function. Poetics. That there's always sugar all over the kitchenette worktop doesn't mean. But it can signify. It comes about through the institutional unconscious (again, a term I would never use with clients).

Back to the John Affey Museum, and the final piece of the four-person puzzle: Peter Le Couteur. Le Couteur is a young artist and musician (it probably says something that a 32 year old man seems young to me) who was artist in residence at the Eisegetics Institute's Prague branch a couple of years ago. He's taken on the J.A.M. Project, agreeing to work – I think for free – as the museum's fabricator, researcher and general factotum. Most of the impetus for actually trying to open the museum in some form is coming from him. Le Couteur's taken on the project, I think, as readymade subject-matter for his PhD. His angle is that the museum is “fictive”, by which he seems to mean halfway between fact and fiction, irreducible to one or the other. He apparently views the whole enterprise as a kind of author-less artwork. Actually, this seems like as a good a description as any of the “as–if” state of mind I enter while working. Patently, institutions don't have unconsciouses, but if they did...

So, back to the story. I'm sitting on the loo, with an eyebrow raised, looking at the baize green toga St. Jude is wearing. All of a sudden, Jude looks like he's just swept the cover off a 50s card table, like a nightclub magician, and draped himself with baize the same green as Dr. Origen's fanciful museum door. Origen talks as though this is a photograph of the museum's door; he's rather proud of it, actually, quite proprietorial. “Here's the door of our museum,” he says, with a wink, when opening his elderly refrigerator. I have the feeling he makes this exact joke – aloud or sub-vocally – every time he gets the tonic water out of the fridge (something he does rather a lot). The Sellotape across its corners has darkened to amber; its been there long enough that its initial connotations as a picture he took once of a house in Bath have all but worn away. The mundane significance has been passed by. Robertsonianism would term this the first (and least important) level of exegesis, the Literal. The second level, the moral of the story, Origen himself provides, offhand: “Well, Rome wasn't built in a day, was it?” But he and I continue to stare at this photo of one door, representing another, taped to yet another. There are two levels to go, in this exegetical exercise in a Vauxhall bedsit, but though I feel them hanging in the air, nothing more is said.

Typology, for Christians, involves reading the Old Testament as a prefiguration of the New. Jonah in the belly of the Great Fish – Dr. Origen, having opened the fridge door a few times, coincidentally, let's the italics act slip and begins to call Affey “Jonah” – is read as an allegory of Christ in the Tomb. This is level three. These levels of exegesis, though, were not originally Christian. Walter Benjamin, an avowed Kabbalist, writes about a similar concept as a way of reading history as a metaphysical state, as Messianic Time. From ephemera, the act of criticism – poetics, if you like – allows us to make the jump up to Truth, to Idea. One thing is read in the terms of another, through the form of the other. From this superimposed reading, both elements are changed. Though naturally the Christian reworking of typology always instantiates the type with Christ, so there's that clear hierarchy, typological reading actually swings both ways (don't we all). The story of Jonah adds meaning to the Resurrection, it becomes a commentary upon it, and elements of its structure are added to the type-structure. Time is folded, pinning the two sequences together, and providing – as is inevitable when folding – form in a higher dimension.

But just what is being folded, in that long moment sitting on my toilet as I look at St. Jude's outfit in a framed icon hung on the back of a door? A certain flavour of green. Doors. A typological figure with various accrued attributes and significances: the staff, oar, axe or club; a green robe; a flame on the forehead; the medallion of Christ; sometimes the carpenter's rule, the boat; lost causes. Green eyes, maybe. A door is an eye. The fanlight looked like an eye, or like half a rose window in a cathedral.

I arrange to see Dr. Origen again; I forget to ask, again, what his doctorate is in, and every time I forget, it seems harder to ask. I have an obscure intuition it is in Divinity. This time, we meet at Carluccio's in Covent Garden, a place I believe to be haunted by the ghost of Eliza Doolittle. I'm buying, apparently. Fixing my gaze on the door into the foyer (not green: a kind of chic Georgian grey) I casually ask if Affey ever mentioned St. Jude. He did, it turns out. He wore a silver St. Jude's medal, which belonged to his mother Mary until she gave it to him in 1929. (The fact that “Jonah's” mother was called Mary is utterly irresistible to me, I must confess.) Affey gave the medal to Origen, who kept it in a “lovely little scrimshaw box” Affey had made from the tooth of a sperm whale, before posting it to Margaret O'Sullivan when she was ordained hereditary Directrix in 2004. “It never arrived, if you can believe that. Lost in the post! I was quite distraught about it for a while, I can tell you.”

I think I've finally met my match in Dr. Origen. I absolutely cannot tell when he's concealing something. Or, rather, I always get the sense that he is, and that it's a personal joke of some kind. Reading this museum, analysing it, is a nightmare of countertransference. In a very real sense, of course, that's because there's no museum to read. I realise I've lost my touch. I've become reliant on physical signs, multiple people. I no longer have the one-on-one abilities of the true therapist. I lack a secure attachment. I've become fearful-avoidant. I've developed secure base distortion. I've got disinhibited attachment disorder. Institutional syndrome. I can't rely on my primary object. When one object doesn't satisfy, I seek another, and another. I'll go off with anyone. Dr. Origen is still sitting across from me, half-smiling in that way he has, drinking his camomile tea (he brings the bags with him, asks for hot water, camps up the doddery old dear act like a champ). I'm suddenly worried for him, worried that it's not camomile, that it's birdsfoot trefoil, the plant Affey's mother studied obsessively, and which probably gave her chronic cyanide poisoning; the cause of the premature dementia that landed her on a mental ward in Edinburgh for half her life. My heart is racing. I smile, and lift my coffee.

The above (and you'll have to trust me on this) is success, as I measure it. What the post-Kleinians might call “transference/countertransference”. An up-welling of emotion and association within me, which manifests and mirrors a similar up-welling in... well, usually I call it the institution. Suddenly, a little boy, a toddler, maybe three or four, runs over to our table and bashes a plastic boat onto it a couple of times, setting the crockery and silverware clashing together. “Jude!” It's the mother, across the room, wrestling with one of those huge buggies which look like they might have four wheel drive. “Jude! Stop it, please darling. Leave those nice people alone, they're trying to have their tea. We're not sitting there today, Jude. Come with Mummy and we'll sit by the window. Look at the cars!” Something in this barrage of maternal lacemaking seems to connect, and – handing the boat to me gravely – Jude waddles across the room at speed.

The boat is slightly sticky. (Sugar on the kitchenette worktop.) It's a green plastic rowing boat, two yellow benches. Vintage Fisher Price, with two holes for a figure in each bench, and one in the prow. Glued to the bottom of the boat between the benches is a worn illustration of a collection of items on five wooden planks: a fishing rod, which at first I mistake for a fencing foil; a red lobster in a white bowl of blue water, looking like a hole in the bottom of the boat; a green box for lunch or fishing tackle; a yellow disc, possibly a compass. Certainly not a medallion. I get up, displaying the artefact to Origen in both hands like a shopping television host. I walk over to Jude and Mummy. “Oh thanks, sorry. We always sit over there, usually. He's not usually like that. I'm amazed he gave that to you! It was his Dad's when he was little, wasn't it? Takes it everywhere. It's sort of his teddy, isn't it Jude? Isn't it, you funny little man?” I smile indulgently down at Jude, both sticky palms glued firmly to the widow, fingers splayed, sturdy little legs planted wide in the manner of toddlers and old sailors everywhere, like my father, watching the traffic. Five, I think, walking back to the table. Five seats, five planks. Four characters plus me. Where would we sit? Affey would be slotted into the prow, like a harpooneer. Like Ahab, with his ivory peg leg plugged into the hole. Dr. Origen and O'Sullivan would be on the for'ard bench, with me and Le Couteur on the aft one. I'd be on the starboard side, to the left as you look back from the prow.

When I sit down again, Dr. Origen says, “Of course, there are two Saint Judes.” I look quizzical. “Depending on whether the robe and staff are on the right side or the left,” Origen continues. “Wrote my thesis on them, actually. In Mexico City. Apparently it was because the bootlegged holy images ended up backwards through some artefact of the copying process. San Juditas, Judas Tadeo. He's the patron saint of gangsters, over there, holding his staff left handed. Signifying that the good may sometimes be worse than the bad. You find him associated with the cult of Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte, Our Lady Death.”