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isitmadness · 4 years ago

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Needed Company

summary: After Umbara, Obi-Wan and Cody find themselves unable to sleep. Both men have different ways of coping, but sometimes coping together is better than coping alone.

characters/relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi, Commander Cody, pre-relationship Obi-Wan/Cody

words: 2.4k

tags: pre-relationship, look at these idiots pining again, mutual pining, post-Umbara, light on the angst - just a dash, i tagged both relationship types, because it is both, and i didn’t want to trick anyone...if that makes sense, Jedi positive

a/n: I saw this tweet and ran with it - “underrated trope: when character a can’t sleep and character b finds them wandering or tinkering or painting and decides to keep them company”

Read it on a03

Obi-Wan strolled slowly down the quiet halls of the Negotiator, hands clasped behind his back, no destination in mind. The Force felt mostly still and calm surrounding the thousands of lives on board, and for that he was grateful. And as it was the middle of the night—such as that was flying through hyperspace—the quietness was to be expected. It still didn’t keep Obi-Wan from passing troopers and officers in the halls, but they were more scarce than during the day.

As he got closer to the training rooms, one Force signature he knew rather well was projecting a lot of hurt and that was concerning. He slowed his steps and finally heard grunts, thuds, and slaps which became louder and more insistent as he rounded the corner. It certainly wasn't a strange noise to be coming out of the training room, but it was out of place in the wee hours of the morning.

He found the door to the room open, light from inside spilling into the dim hallway. Obi-Wan could sense strong frustration, anger, guilt rolling off his marshal commander in waves. He stood in the doorway and leaned against the frame to watch Commander Cody taking out his frustrations on a punching bag.

He moved with precision and finesse, muscles rippling each time he twisted or landed a new blow. His warm brown skin sheened with sweat in the light, and the movement was mesmerizing. Obi-Wan tried not to ogle, but was finding it difficult. He had only very recently realized his attraction, but had attempted to put it out of his mind due to their circumstances. He was Cody's general, his superior in rank, in addition to being his friend, and Obi-Wan couldn't, wouldn't jeopardize that.

But objectively, the man was handsome.

He straightened up when the noise stopped and Cody turned. "You just gonna stand there and stare?" Cody said, unwrapping his hand, "Sir." There was something biting in the way Cody addressed him. Obi-Wan frowned and stepped into the room.

"I apologize for disturbing you, commander," Obi-Wan stood at the edge of the mat, hands still clasped behind his back. “I just heard noises in the hall and thought I would stop and see if I could be of any assistance.”

Cody looked him up and down quickly, attempting to do so undetected. The general looked like he just rolled out of bed, and at this hour, he no doubt had done just that. He was wearing his leggings, boots, and only his undertunic which exposed a V of pale chest covered in darker ginger hair. The lighter sandy-colored hair on his head was delightfully sleep-mussed and Cody found himself with twitchy fingers, wanting to reach out and smooth it down. He was his general—that would be wrong and unprofessional.

He sighed, "You didn't disturb me, General Kenobi." Obi-Wan’s eyes tracked Cody as he walked to the bench on the edge of the mat and grabbed a drink from his water bottle. “You knew it was me already though, didn’t you? In the hallway?”

"Please, just Obi-Wan," Obi-Wan replied. "When we're alone," he hastily added. He winced thinking about how that sounded, and Cody pretended not to notice. “And yes, I knew it was you.”

"Well, Obi-Wan, I was just finishing up, so," Cody said as he wiped a towel across his face, around his neck, and over his chest and arms. "I hope I didn't wake you." Cody knew that was unlikely considering the General's quarters were nowhere near the training rooms, but the Jedi was always so in-tune with the lives around him, he had to wonder if the Force worked like that.

Obi-Wan waved a hand dismissively, "Not at all." Truthfully, Obi-Wan had had a hard time sleeping since the Umbaran mission two weeks prior, Krell's betrayal weighing heavily and irrevocably on his mind. "I was just taking a midnight stroll, if you will, and I heard noise and found you."

"Hmm," was all Cody could find to say as he turned to face Obi-Wan finally, neither really knowing what to say. That was new...and odd.

"I just…" Obi-Wan started carefully, unsure of what he wanted to ask, always afraid he might overstep. "I figured whoever was in here was having difficulties, like I am, and I thought maybe they needed company." Obi-Wan shrugged one shoulder, and in that moment, he looked younger. Cody briefly wondered what he must have been like before the war, when he was just a Jedi, and not a High General, unburdened by the cares of war.

Cody leaned over and picked up his black shirt from the bench and slipped it over his head. He really wanted to shower now, but his general was here—a shower could wait.

"Would you like to walk with me? Or perhaps you'd care for tea in my quarters? Absolutely no pressure, perhaps your destruction of this punching bag did the trick,” he smiled. He knew it was a dangerous question, but he and his commander had been alone in his quarters many times—whether for tea or conversation or to go over battle strategies. It wasn't an unusual question, but the request felt heavier than usual.

Cody debated. He had of course been to Obi-Wan’s quarters before, several times, alone and with others—but this time the request felt different. "I...that would be nice, sir." Obi-Wan looked at him pointedly with a small quirk of his lips. "Pardon, Obi-Wan."

"Very good," Obi-Wan said with a smile.

----

They walked back to Obi-Wan’s quarters side by side, both aware that a gap of a few feet between them would be smart, but instead both finding the nearness of the other a small comfort. Cody wished he had more than his blacks to wear but, well, it was what it was. And Obi-Wan didn't seem to mind the informality, especially dressed as he was.

The door slid open when they arrived and everything was just as it usually was except for an untidy bed—Obi-Wan really had just rolled out of it. There was the usual stack of datapads on his desk, a flimsi book opened facedown on the end of his bed, and his outer tunics draped carefully across the back of his desk chair. "Pardon the mess," Obi-Wan said as they walked in.

Cody huffed a laugh, "You're a real slob, sir."

That made Obi-Wan laugh an honest-to-goodness laugh. "Whatever will you do with me…" he replied, unthinking, as he walked over and filled his electric kettle with water.

"Quite frankly, you're past all hope," Cody added, teasing some more. It felt good to laugh and joke with his general, especially after…

"That sounds like something my old padawan would say," Obi-Wan turned to face Cody again and smiled, a far-off look in his eyes.

Cody became serious again. "And how is he, si-- Obi-Wan?"

"Ah," Obi-Wan leaned against the small counter and stroked his beard. "He is angry, as you can imagine. Feeling betrayed."

"As we all are!" Cody interjected more forcefully than he intended.

"Yes, you are right." Obi-Wan sighed and motioned to the small two-person table in the corner near his kitchenette. "Would you care to be seated, commander? Of course, you’re welcome to sit anywhere you'd like."

"Just Cody," he said with a tight smile and took a seat at Obi-Wan’s small table. Obi-Wan remained standing so he could fix the tea.

"And how is Captain Rex?" Obi-Wan asked, cutting right to the chase. He knew why Cody was awake—it was the same reason he was.

"Angry, as you can imagine," Cody said, parroting Obi-Wan’s words back at him. "And I don't think he's telling me everything. Sir, I--" What could Cody even say? It was a betrayal of the highest order and none of them saw it coming. Rex was taking it very personally and very hard—questioning his choices, his command. Many good men were dead now, by their own brothers’ hands, too. How did you come back from that?

"Take your time, Cody," Obi-Wan said as he busied himself getting mugs and his tea out of the cabinet.

Cody was silent a little longer. He felt responsible, of course he did. As marshal commander, he was responsible for hundreds of thousands of lives, and every good man's death weighed heavily on him. And he knew it was the same for his general. He considered himself damn lucky that his general was Obi-Wan.

He knew the Jedi felt a very heavy responsibility being pressed into command of an army—they were guardians of peace and justice, negotiators, not warriors. They were not created for war like he and the clones were. And, belonging to the Galactic Republic as they did, they could have been subjected to the leadership of more Republic officers, none of whom gave a shit about the lives of mere clones. They were a means to an end. Even to the citizens of the republic, they were just a white helmet. But Jedi like Obi-Wan, Mace Windu, Yoda, Plo Koon...Cody knew that they cared about their men.

The kettle's whistle tore through the silence, startling them both. "Apologies," Obi-Wan said as he poured the water. Unsurprisingly, the silence dragged on as long as it took the tea to steep. "Sugar, honey, milk?" Obi-Wan asked when it was finished.

"How about a little honey?"

Obi-Wan nodded. When finished, he brought the cups over and sat across from Cody, sliding his over to him. They sat in silence for several more beats, enjoying the warm and soothing amber liquid. Cody didn't like the stuff at first, but he had grown used to it, and anyway, this little ritual was something he could share with his general—that alone was worth learning to love the drink.

In the harsh light of his quarters, Obi-Wan was slightly greener and paler than usual, but the artificial light could never truly detract from his handsomeness. Cody buried his nose in his cup wondering why he was thinking these thoughts and desperately hoping that the general couldn’t pick up on them.

"I think, Cody," Obi-Wan started again. "That perhaps Rex, and you, could benefit from a mind healer. I don't want to overstep, but as your general, you know it is my duty to look out for the both of you—all of you. And I think you and I are awake for the same reasons.” He hesitated again, taking another sip of his tea. “I myself have been unable to sleep since…"

Umbara went unsaid. It had been a rough two weeks.

"You're very perceptive, as always," Cody smiled but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

Obi-Wan took another long sip of the tea, letting it warm him from the inside. "I'm sorry I didn't have anything stronger."

Cody chuckled, "Maybe next time."

Obi-Wan coughed lightly, "Yes, next time."

They sat in more silence, the only sound was the gentle hum of the Venator-class destroyer hurtling through hyperspace back to Coruscant. They had grown accustomed to that in a short period of time, too. Sometimes it could lull Obi-Wan to sleep, but other times he missed the quiet of the Jedi Temple.

“If you were ever interested—and others, too, of course—I would also be happy to teach you some meditation techniques. It’s not a perfect solution, but I find it helps quiet my mind,” Obi-Wan finally added. “Anakin never took to it too much, but I think you might.”

Cody gave Obi-Wan a genuine smile and agreed. Before he knew it, he found himself feeling rather drowsy—like the tea was some kind of sleeping draught. "What did you put in this tea?” He asked with a grin.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm feeling oddly relaxed all of the sudden," Cody replied.

Obi-Wan smiled, "Well, I'm glad to hear it. But it's only tea and honey, if you're trying to insinuate that I drugged you." Cody laughed. "I guess I can't help that I'm such a lively, interesting person and I can put people to sleep with my conversation." Obi-Wan arched his eyebrow, teasing Cody.

Cody scoffed, "You're one of the most interesting people I know, maybe the most interesting…" Oh, he was tired and saying too much.

"Hmm, oh I doubt that," Obi-Wan chuckled and took another sip of his tea, finally emptying the cup.

"It's true! Your company is infinitely preferable to many." Forget the sleeping draught—there was a truth serum in here, making Cody confess secret thoughts. Cody finished it anyway.

Obi-Wan smiled again, "Well, that goes both ways." He stood and collected their mugs then washed them out in the small sink.

Oh.

Cody was surely imagining this conversation, he was dreaming up this entire scenario, he was sure of it. He decided that maybe he should go try and get some sleep before he hallucinated any more scenarios where his general told him he cared for him, placed his palm on his cheek and--

He stood suddenly, nearly upsetting the chair, "Well, I think I might try to go get some sleep. I'll be returning to my quarters." Even though Obi-Wan’s bed was right there, looking warm and inviting now...

Obi-Wan stood, too, something aching in his chest. "Yes of course, commander, shall I walk you back?"

Cody chuckled, "I think I know my own way, but thank you , sir."

Obi-Wan nodded with a smile and walked Cody to the door. "Well then, thank you for the company, commander."

Cody turned and gave Obi-Wan a lazy two-finger salute, "Thank you, sir."

"Obi-Wan.”

"Yes, Obi-Wan," Cody returned the smile finally.

"Find me if you can't sleep again. I'll find some topic of conversation to drone on about that'll put you right to sleep."

"Ah, but the sound of your voice would keep me awake," Cody said, wincing internally, and Obi-Wan wasn't quite sure how to take that. The door slid open as they got closer and Cody turned to face Obi-Wan again. "Good night, sir, try to get some sleep."

"Good night, commander," Obi-Wan said as Cody walked through the door.

Cody nodded once more then headed down the hall. Obi-Wan stood outside his quarters and watched him until he turned the corner then walked back inside. He sat on his bed and pulled his boots off then his under tunic and tossed it at the chair. He slipped back under the covers which had unfortunately lost all their warmth. With a flick of his wrist, he turned the lights off and nestled in hoping finally for some sleep.

#my writing #codywan #commander cody #obi-wan kenobi #fanfic #obi-wan x cody #needed company #we play fast and loose with canon

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letarasstuff · 5 years ago

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I like it

A/N: Ok ok, this is like my first Poe Fic (and Star Wars tho) ever, so please don’t be mean to me :c Also, English isn’t my first language

Summary: After having your whole family slaughtered by the First Order, Poe takes you in. Suddenly the base gets attacked by them, when he is not there. How will he react?

Warnings: Language, mentions of death, anxiety, panic attack and bad grammar

father figure!Poe Dameron x Teen!Reader

On your homeplanet there weren't many options to make money. You are either good with mechanics and motors or you look good enough, that the greasy men like you. As one can say, you were lucky.

Your parents owned a workshop. This isn't anything unusual, given the fact there is one at every corner in the bigger cities. But yours was the best. You don't wanna sound cocky, it's just the truth.

So your mother and father taught you the inside of every thing, that has a motor. Before you were even able to form a proper sentence, you could repair any ship on the planet. Still you had a nice childhood, playing with the kids in the neighborhood, going to school and learning new stuff. You are happy to say, that your parents did a damn good job at giving you the best memories a kid can ever have.

But anything good comes to an end, so does this. You were 14 years old, when the First Order came down to your homeplanet. Even though your leaders weren't that nice people, they still refused to be in an alliance with them. Initially they wanted to stay neutral in the war, but as soon as they declined the offer, they tried to get into contact with the Resistance.

Unfortunately, they were too late. When they got their pilots on your ground, nearly everything was burnt down. They swarmed out to look after survivors. Even though they did their best, they couldn't find anyone, who has a beating heart. The sight was heartbreaking. This once living planet was now the aftermath of the First Order's wrath.

The pilots gave up eventually. Nobody agreed to it, but they didn't have many options. The last one to leave the planet was a man, who is known as the golden boy of the Resistance. Poe Dameron. Especially to him it was unacceptable to leave this planet with bare hands.

So he started a last desperate attempt and looked into one of the most destroyed buildings. He shoved a bit of rubble to the side, when he saw a leg. Hope began to rise inside of him. Quickly he put another rather big piece of rubbish to the side to expose a face. It was a young kid, their eyes are closed.

Poe rushed to their side and checked the wrist for a pulse. The sigh he let out, when he felt a light one, has to be the loudest the galaxy ever witnessed. Happy to be the messenger of good news, the pilot told his squadron about his found. All of them cheered, it was kind of a miracle for them.

Now they have to act fast. Poe picked the kid up and rushed them to his own ship. He knew, that a team of nurses would take too long to get to the both of them. So he put them on a seat and secured them with the belt. He was quick to make his way back to base. He told the ground team about the only survivor and let them prepare a team of doctors and nurses to help the kid.

Luckily the kid made it. Just a few broken ribs, a concussion and a few bruises were what they got as a punishment for their leader's decision.

You are a lucky kid.

You spent a few days unconscious in the medical wing, before you woke up to a steady beeping. To be honest, this noise really got on your nerves. So you opened your eyes to be met by blinding lights. After shutting and re-opening them you got used to it. Then you had the time to take your surroundings in. There were a some machines, that monitor your vitals. Seemed like you were still alive. But why were you here?

Out of all sudden it hit you. The First Order attacked your homeplanet. Your parents, who tried to bring you into safety. Then another missile hit the building and everything goes black. What happened to them? What about all your friends, neighbors? Where were you?

Your breath began to quicken. The beeping got faster. This added to your panic and made you more and more frantic. Your throat tightened as did your chest. Everything seemed to break over you and you don't know what to do.

Then you feel another presence. The person put their hands on your shoulders and spoke in a calm and warm voice:"Hey, hey. Breath, ok? Just take a long breath in, hold it and let it out slowly. Try to feel the way it enters your body and leaves it again. We can get through it, but you have to work with me here, buddy."

You do as the someone told you and mimicked their breathing as they showed you the exercise. Your breathing steadied again as did the beeping. Finally you were able to face them. The person, who talked you through your mini panic attack, has dark brown locks and brown eyes. There were also the shadow of a beard on his jaw.

"Better?", he asked you and gave you a glass of water. After savouring every last drop of it, you answered:"Yes, thank you..?" "Poe, Poe Dameron. The Resistance's best pilot." Well, this is an introduction only he can do.

"Then hello Mr Dameron. I'm (Y/N), the best mechanic my age you can find in the whole galaxy." Actually, you were never the person to be cocky around strangers, but with this Poe guy it felt right at an instance.

"Hello (Y/N), just call me Poe and if you want to address me by my last name, do it right. It's Commander Dameron." "Thank you for this information. Where are my parents though? Why are you here, not them? Also no offence, but it seems pretty weird to wait for a random teenager to wake up."

The first answer were a sigh. He explained the whole situation to you, even though he didn't want to be the one to bring the bad news. Your only reaction was crying. You felt so many things at once and this was your only way to let it out.

While holding your crying form, Poe promised himself to take care of you from now on. He partly did it, because he felt like it was his fault, that your family was dead. If he was there earlier, he could have saved them. But the other part was you. Even though he only knew you for a few minutes, he felt a connection. Now it's upon him to protect you.

And he does keep his promise until the very day. The both of you share a room, you and BB-8 get super good along, he helps you to make yourself a name as the best mechanic the Resistance has to offer. Hell, he even teaches you how to fly an X-Wing. To say he is impressed by the skill you already have is an understatement. But neither he nor Leia allow you to tag along missions until you old enough. This also counts for training and wearing a blaster.

One time you ask Poe which age this should be. He answers with:”It’s the same age you are allowed to kiss somebody.” It is this moment, when you realize, that you will never be old enough.

It is another rather calm day on the base, which is quite suspicious. The First Order hasn't pulled any stunts recently. Still everybody has something to do, except for the majority of pilots. There aren't many missions for them now, That's why Poe sits next to you, while you repair an astromech. "And then I saved the whole galaxy", ends the older man yet another of his heroic stories. "Again", you add with an eye roll. He nudges your shoulder with his own and exclaimes: "Well, somebody has to do it!" Laughing you tighten another screw and knock gently on the astromech's head.

"Now you are all done, buddy. But be more careful next time while playing with the others tag, ok?", you speak softly to BB-031. Happily she nods and drives off to her pilot. You turn back to Poe. "When do you have to leave?" "Not in another two hours, that means we can grab lunch together. It's just an abandoned outpost with new activities. I don't even think that this has something to do with the First Order", he reassures you.

You sigh. "I know, but still. So many things can go wrong and I don't wanna be alone again." The both of you walk towards the mess hall. The brown haired man throws an arm around your shoulder. "We are soldiers, as sad as it may sound, it's the truth. We have to keep in our mind that death is always right beside our side. But as long as you are on this base, you will never be alone. Leia is going to take care of you. Always."

You look up to him and smile, a warm and fuzzy feeling bubbling inside of you. The last time you felt like this was with your parents at home.

Before he boards his X-Wing, Poe gives you a last hug and says:"Be good for Leia, ok buddy?" "This sounds like I am four!" "Well, when I think about it, you are like a four year old!", he jokes. With a pout you punch his arm. "Good luck out there and come back in one piece or else I hunt your dead ass down!"

When the Black Squadron left the hangar, you turn back to your own work and get totally engrossed into it. It's just you, your tools and the project infront of you.

That is until a blaring alarm sounds over the speakers. Confused you look up, only to see everyone in the hangar running around like chickens in panic. People throw stuff into bags, others finish their work up hastily and the remaining just run out. And you don't have a kriffing clue what's happening.

You try to stop one of the other mechanics. But to no avail. Nobody wants to explain the situation to you. But then you see the reason for all the commotion:

Outside at the sky are countless TIE-Fighters and it won't take long until the first one reaches the ground.

You begin to scramble and run, but get pushed into a cart with tools on it. With a loud yelp you land on it and get pocked and cut by wrenches and such. Again, nobody pays attention at you. The own safety is the only present thing at the moment.

When you hear the TIE touches the ground, you get up as quickly as possible. Even though your legs hurt from the fall, you run like your life depends on it. And it does.

The hangar is deserted. No pilots, no mechanics, no one is there. Expect for you. You can hear the stormtrooper enter the building, while you dash for the gateaway. Their steps are getting closer and closer. It doesn't take long for the enemies to spot you. Sooner as you want, you have to dodge shots from behind. But this isn't your only problem.

As a kind of safety guard the gateaway closes. You run faster than you ever did before. A quick look behind you tells you, that there is a stormtrooper too close for your liking. So you reach into your utility belt and throw the first thing you can grasp at him. Turns out it's one of your favorite wrenches, but it's not the time to mourn the loss. Saving your own life is way more important right now.

When you are close enough at the gate, you throw yourself on the floor and slide under it before is closes completely. But there is no time to catch your breath. You make your way through what feels like the whole base to get to the safety ships.

When you finally reach them, there's only one left. Leia stands at the entrance, looking for someone. As soon as her eyes set on your form, she seems relieved. The General grabs you by your arm and drag you inside the ship. Once you left the base, she pulls you into a hug while scolding you: "Never ever scare me like this again, (Y/N)!"

The Black Squadron is already on the new base. The news of the attack were spread fast to them, so they were quick to react. After your ship's landing the hatch opens. You emerge out of it into a crowd of nervous, scared and clamouring people. But there is one voice shouting, that stands out.

"Where is my kid? Where are they? Has anyone seen my kid? (Y/N)?!"

It's Poe, who is looking for you. You try to make the direction out from where he shouts. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you see his dark locks. You push your way over to him and so does he, when he catches a glimpse of you. As soon as he is able to he pulls you in for a hug.

Poe strokes through your hair and makes it a mess, but you can't care less. "I was so scared, that I lost you, kiddo." "I'm fine. I'm fine", you assures him. "I don't care, let us get you to the medical wing, kid." "Ok, Dad."

"Did you just call me Dad?"

"Yes, I did."

"Well, I like that. Love you, kid."

"Love you, too, Dad."

#star wars #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron #father figure!poe dameron x reader #father figure! poe dameron x teen!reader #x reader #x teen!reader #poe dameron x teen!reader #fanfic #fanfiction #please be nice c:#i'm a small bean c:

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fortheloveoffanfic · 5 years ago

Text

Put Me in a Movie

Keanu Reeves x Reader (A/n- Obviously, I’m too excited about this to write a slow burn.)

Summary Prologue Chapter1

Warnings- SMUT/NSFW, infidelity, sex while intoxicated, mentions of birth control.

Chapter 2- F**king (Up)

A week had passed since they’d kissed in her hotel room and while Y/n and Keanu had tried to act as if nothing had happened, things had gotten weird between them. They’d stopped having meals together, text messages and phone calls were only exchanged where necessary and they’d even avoided each other when they weren’t working.

Admittedly, Y/n missed Keanu, they had only known each other for a short while, but he had become a close friend and she had never been good at making those. Or really, friends in general. Y/n couldn’t tell if the distance bothered Keanu as well, but deep down, she hoped it did, then maybe he’d approach her and they could tell themselves that the kiss was nothing but a lapse in judgement. Y/n had thought about doing it herself, but she had never been one to do something like that. No, Y/n didn’t do confrontation nor did she ever make the first move. Her mother had always said that an attitude like hers she wouldn’t get far, that she’d have to learn to put herself ‘out there’ if she wanted to get things done. Arguably, Y/n thought that she was doing just fine as is, but that was a different story.

That Friday, Jackson had wrapped up filming around eight and some of the cast and crew had planned to go to a locally owned bar near the hotel for drinks. At first, Y/n had agreed, thinking that a few drinks might be good and might help her open up and make some new friends, but eventually, she had chickened out. So while everyone had returned to the hotel or wherever they were staying to get ready and meet up in the next hour, Y/n had gone back to her room with every intention of having a long soak in the tub, getting into her pajamas afterwards and them being lulled to sleep by some movie or the other.

All was going as planned for a while and after her bath, Y/n had even ordered up a bottle of wine to keep her company. In poor judgement, she finished off the bottle, and already tipsy, she made the even worse choice of cracking the seals on a couple of the tiny bottles of hard liquor in the complementary bar.

By midnight, Y/n was past tipsy moving on to drunk. She was a happy drunk, the kind that became more social after a few drinks. And social she became.

Clumsily, Y/n reached for her phone and unlocked it. Her vision had just started to double and some part of her knew that if she called him, Keanu would definitely know she was drunk. So instead, Y/n texted him, “Hey, are you still at the bar?”

When Keanu stumbled into his hotel room, he was pretty sure that he couldn’t exactly call himself sober. There seemed to be two of everything and he knew that he would probably wake up the next morning regretting the last few drinks. Thankfully, they had the weekend off.

After slapping the light switch at the entrance, Keanu clumsily shrugged off his leather jacket; tossing it to, and then narrowly missing, the arm chair in the hallway. As he made his way through the suite, headed towards the bedroom with every intention of just face flopping on the bed, Keanu’s phone buzzed in his back pocket. Fishing it out took longer than it would have if he were sober, but at the sight of Y/n’s text, he smiled. He had been wanted to talk to her, but didn’t know what to say. “Sorry for kissing you” Seemed weird and “Can we just pretend it never happened?” Was way to harsh.

Squinting, Keanu read her text, auto correct his saving grace as he typed a reply, “No, I just got in, what’s up?”

The device dinged in his hand when her response came through minutes later, “Can I come over?”

“Sure,” he sent, hoping his one word reply would exude an air of nonchalance. Tossing the phone to the coffee table, he cringed at how it sounded hitting the surface, heading to the nearest mirror to try to rectify what he'd be presenting to Y/n; a corrective hand through his hair, a little pull to straighten his black t-shirt and for some reason, tugging on the belt loops of his jeans.

He shouldn’t have been that antsy.

They were just friends

A knocking on his door ripped him away from his thoughts and when Keanu pulled open the door, Y/n stood in the hall, dressed in a grey contrast camisole with a flimsy bow under her breast line with decorative, plastic buttons leading to it and a matching pair of loose shorts. Baby pink lace edged the hems and her top left part of Y/n’s stomach exposed.

The little silver stud was real!

Keanu hadn’t pegged Y/n as the kind of person who had one of those. Not wanting to seem like a creep for staring, Keanu tried to match her soft smile, “Hey.”

“Hi,” she huffed, “How was drinks?”

Awkwardly, he rubbed the back of his neck. He wasn’t sure why he was so nervous around her. Could it be the alcohol? Shouldn’t it have had the opposite effect. Maybe it was the fact that she was so sparsely dressed.

“It was good, yeah,” he nodded slowly, “How was your night?”

“Uh....” Y/n scrunched her nose. She hadn’t expected their interaction to be that awkward. But then again, she wasn’t sure what she expected. At first, all the drinks she’d had made going up to Keanu’s room seem easy, though, Y/n quickly realized that it was because, in her head, she had completely skipped over the uncomfortable conversation and gone straight to the part were things were back to normal. “It was good, you know....I just....hung out....”

“Yeah, yeah,” Keanu nodded slowly, “Me too,” scoffing quietly, he lightly tapped his forehead, “But you already knew that, obviously. Cause you know....drinks and.....well you get it.”

Y/n chuckled, Keanu was never that unsure of himself. He exuded quiet confidence and she had definitely grown to learn that he was the strong, silent type. He spoke when he needed to and certainly didn’t waste time stuttering over frivolous small talk, “Are you drunk?” Something about the question seemed uncharacteristically funny and Y/n was overtook by a fit of loud giggles.

Though he couldn’t readily find the humor in the matter, Y/n’s laughter was contagious, “Maybe,” Keanu leaned on the door frame, folding his arms across his broad chest. He didn’t think he’d ever heard Y/n laugh that loudly and he’d just noticed that her lips were darker that usual, as if she’d been sucking on a lollipop, or even drinking red wine. “Are you drunk?”

Y/n’s giggles intensified, “Maybe.”

They continued like that for a while, though, when another guest passed in while walking down the hall, slowing down at the sight of two celebrities just casually standing there, Keanu invited Y/n inside. “I missed you tonight,” he commented casually. Really, he’d only accepted the invitation after hearing that Y/n was going to be there, thinking that it would have been the perfect opportunity to rekindle their friendship. But when he’d reached the bar asking around for her, a production assistant informed him that Y/n had bowed out at the last minute. Leaving then might have seemed rude; Keanu had already ordered himself a drink and had promised that the next round was on him. So, he had stayed, and quicker than he could object; a couple drinks had turned into more than he could recall.

“You did?” Y/n’s cheeks warmed and she looked even cuter than she had before; all red in face and dressed in girlish pajamas.

“Yeah, of course,” they stood in small living room, not enough space between them. Keanu’s expression sobered, though his state of mind didn’t, “I’ve missed you all week.” Never in a million years did he think he’d admit that.

Y/n dragged her lower lip between her teeth, glancing down at the cream marble floor. “Have you been thinking about it?”

“Our kiss?” Keanu’s tongue darted out to moisten to his lips. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t. By the looks of it, it had been on Y/n’s mind too. “I should have apologized, Y/n I’m-”

“It’s okay,” she smiled softly, finally meeting his gaze again, “It just happened, you know?”

“Yeah,” Keanu shoved his hands into his pockets. He wasn’t sure if she was upset about it, or if it had made her just as confused as it did him. When their lips had met, melting into each others, Keanu had desperately tried to recall a time when a mere kiss had felt like that, eventually concluding that it had been many, many years ago. Keanu knew that the feeling was illogical; Y/n was so young, there was no way she could have any interest in more than friendly affections for a man his age. Besides, she had someone.

Determining that it shouldn’t have happened in the first place, Keanu assured, “It won’t happen again, promise.”

Y/n tilted her head, loose hair falling like a waterfall of silk over her shoulder, “Would it be so bad if it did?”

Keanu folded his arms again, and that time, Y/n couldn’t help but notice the impressive bulge of his biceps, attractively constrained by one of his company t-shirts, “What do you mean?”

Emboldened by all the booze, Y/n didn’t answer verbally, instead, she nearly lunged forward, reaching on her toes to cup Keanu’s face, his beard rough against the softness of her palms as she pulled him down, crashing her lips to hers. It was so out of character for her, that Keanu was left wide eyed.

It took a full five seconds before Keanu responded, his hands falling at her waist. That night, their kiss felt different from the first; feverish and inviting. Keanu’s tongue slipped past the barrier of Y/n’s teeth, massaging hers, the taste of wine and some other kind of booze lingering on her lips.

Y/n looped her arms around Keanu’s neck and his hands skimmed her body, circling around her petite frame to cup her ass. Urging her to jump, Keanu easily caught Y/n in his arms, his lips leaving hers, traveling fervently to her neck, his tongue flicking the warm skin behind her earlobe before making her moan with hot, open mouthed kisses down the column of her neck.

Y/n’s fingers tangled in dark mane, her long manicured nails grazing his scalp. Keanu temporarily set her on the back of the cream Victorian sofa. Pulling away, their pupils already blown with lust, his erection, constrained by his jeans pressed into her inner thigh. “Are you sure?” He searched her eyes, looking for some kind of confirmation.

Smirking, Y/n started fumbling with the fastenings on Keanu’s pants; pulling off his belt and then undoing the button and zipper, “Fuck yes,” she breathed and that was all it took for Keanu to gather Y/n in his arms again, walking them over through the open double doors of the bedroom. When Keanu sat on the edge of the bed, Y/n clumsily pulled his t-shirt over his head. Her own top followed after, the flimsy cotton almost looking fragile in Keanu’s hasty grip as he tossed it away.

Like that, he was almost face to face with her breasts and not thinking twice, he took her left nipple in his mouth as his free hand favored the other, gently pinching and groping. Keanu alternated between teasing her sensitive skin with his teeth and swirling his expert tongue around her hardened nipple. Moaning, Y/n eagerly pressed his face closer to her chest, grinding his his lap, desperately trying to add friction to her growing arousal.

“Keanu,” she pleaded between whimpers and moans. The roughness of his jeans added to the soft fabric of Y/n’s shorts still wasn’t enough and she could feel herself growing impatient, longing for Keanu to be buried deep inside.

“What do you want?” His voice low and husky with desire, “Tell me what you want babygirl.”

“You,” she groaned, “Fuck, Ke....I want you.” Without waiting for anything further, Keanu man-handled her, dumping her on top of the sheets. Y/n’s hair was sprawled out around her, perfectly framing her delicate features. Keanu’s hands ran the length of her body before yanking her shorts down, letting it fall wherever it pleased.

Hovering over Y/n, Keanu came down to kiss her again, biting her lower lip as he pulled away to admire her naked form beneath him. She was perfectly alluring; all perky breasts, unblemished skin that seemed to glow in the low lighting and perfect curves. Being with her seemed almost surreal.

A man his age shouldn’t be with a woman that young.

With the aid of all the alcohol still coursing though his system, Keanu was able to quickly push the thought out of his mind; they were two adults who could do whatever they pleased.

Parting her legs, one of his large hands trailed the inside of her thigh, and he grinned cheekily when the tips of his fingers brushed her drenched folds and she shuddered, “You’re so wet already.”

With his thumb rubbing her cilt, Keanu slipped two digits inside, marveling at how her back arched, longing for his touch, her mouth agape. “God, you’re so fucking tight,” suddenly, he stopped, extracting his fingers, much to Y/n’s dismay. He was drunk, but not that drunk. Y/n seemed confused and Keanu held himself up with hands planted on the mattress on either side of her head, “You’re not a...”

“Virgin?” Y/n’s brows raised in question. Feeling adventurous, she teased, “So what if I was?”

“I....” Keanu trailed off. He couldn’t do that. Sex was one thing, taking her virginity? He hadn’t done something like that since he was in his twenties. Besides, who wanted to lose their virginity drunk?

“I’m not,” Y/n smirked, “Now,” her legs crooked up meet his waist, her toes pushing down his pants and underwear, “Are you going to fuck me or not.”

“Baby,” his low tone almost a rough whisper, “You have no idea.”

With a firm hold on her hip, Keanu lined himself up with Y/n’s ready entrance, pushing into her without further warning. “Fuck!” Y/n moaned loudly, her nails sinking into his shoulder blades, her eyes rolling back into her head as they slipped closed. His girth stretched her almost to the point where it hurt and after a moment, when he started moving, she could feel the bump of every vein roughly brushing her slick walls.

Keanu swore at the feeling of Y/n cocooning his member perfectly, so tight and warm. With a grunt, he rolled his hips faster, his dark eyes trained on how each thrust jerked Y/n’s body up into the pillows, her breasts bouncing slightly.

Y/n’s lips were parted, barely a few centimeters apart as iniquitous gasps fell off them. Urging him closer, with her smooth, soft legs tangled around his waist, she begged, “Faster, go faster.”

With a throaty growl and his lips returning to attack her neck, Keanu’s movements became rougher and faster; pulling out fully only to drive his cock back into her center. Reaching between them, he used the ‘v’ of his calloused index and middle fingers to stimulate her cilt.

Her breaths went ragged and her praises sounded more like incoherent babbles. Her sinful noises only served to to work Keanu up more and just as Y/n’s orgasm quaked her legs, her broken breaths growing shallow as his name left her lips, her mind a jumbled mess, “Keanu!” Everything seemed blurry and Y/n swore fireworks went off in her mind, “Fuck!” Her fingers curled his hair and her eyes were squeezed shut as waves of pleasure coursed through her.

Riding out her high, Keanu kept his unsteady eyes on Y/n below him, enjoying how she looked like that. Feeling himself growing closer, Keanu’s hips jerked faster until they stiffened, his thrusts growing rigid. The feeling of her slickness coating his cock coupled with the feeling of her throbbing around him, squeezing him, was enough to pull him over the edge. Vaguely, in the back of his mind, Keanu remembered that he wasn’t wearing a condom, and he had no clue as to if Y/n was on any sort of birth control, so, even in his less than credible state, he pulled out, his creamy cum instead coating her inner thighs and staining the light colored sheets. It wasn’t as pleasurable as it would have been to fill her up, but it was the kind of responsible thing to do.

Breathing heavily, Keanu collapsed on his back, right next to Y/n, who was still facing the ceiling, sated. Her bare chest rose and fell with heavy breaths and the light sheen of exertion dribbled down the valley of her breasts. “Would now be a good time to mention that I have an IUD?” Y/n giggled quietly, breaking the steady silence.

“Fuck,” Keanu breathed, frowning, “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Y/n yawned, her lids heavy, her being begging for sleep, “Better luck next time, I guess,” her words were jumbled and she barely seemed to have a handle on her thoughts.

“You could have.....” Keanu stopped when he glanced at Y/n again; her eyes were closed, lashes barely brushing the apple of her cheeks and pale pink lips left slightly ajar by even breaths. Staring at her, Keanu could feel himself being lulled to sleep himself, her serenity, much like her melodious laughter; contagious, and just before he let himself succumb, he pulled the sheets up over her modesty, turning on his side before finally falling into a drunken, sex-satisfied slumber.

*****

Tagging- @fickensteinn @babygirltaina @paanchu786 @fanficsrusz @thesadvampire @harrisongslimited @ladyreapermc

#keanu reeves #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves x you #john wick #keanu reeves fanfic #john wick x you #john wick x reader #john wick fanfic #put me in a movie #ff #fanfic #fanfiction #keanu reeves ff #lana del rey #keanu reeves fanfiction

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softbuckismykink · 5 years ago

Text

The Last Goodbye

So I read that^ and came up with a story and I started writing it... Then when I was about to post I realized opps I read the pronouns wrong... Can’t be bothered to change my story though... so here it is... :)

Not an x-over just borrowing characters from another show. To play Buck’s ex is Clay Spencer from SEAL Team. Now I didn’t watch the show pass like episode ten in season one so I don’t know much about the character or his origin story. I’m just borrowing him cause I can’t be assed to create an O.C. just for a one shot. If you happen to have knowledge of how military/navy works please suspend your disbelief, I did research but honestly it’s just me reading wikipedia so I more than likely have gotten the elements concerning SEAL training and other military stuff wrong. You are warned. Don’t get offended.

Another Warning: This is a Buddie fic but it includes intimate scenes (not sex) between Buck and Clay, if you are a Buddie purist, this is your warning.

X-posted on AO3

Inspired by a tumblr post by @theladyandthewolves (Sorry I forgot to add, I did the linky link thing in AO3 but forgot to add it here)

Summary: In which team finds out Buck has a husband, when said husband turned up out of a blue and asked for a divorce.

********

We were almost beautiful A broken piece of art put on display But we were never possible Another perfect moment thrown away I know somebody out there will love you They'll be the forever we never were 'Cause we were everything that's right at the wrong time

I didn't wanna lose you Leave you with a broken heart But wherever we are, we're miles apart I know that we tried, but this is the last goodbye

Life is going good for Buck. He’s back at 118. His team forgave him and his best friend forgave him, and he’s on his way to forgiving himself. 2019 felt like a sucky year for him with the bombing, recovering from his injuries, the tsunami, the lawsuit, Eddie’s street fighting, Bobby’s being exposed to radiation and weeks of worrying about his found!father dying of either radiation poisoning, aplastic anemia, or some kind of cancer.

Of course there’s no guarantee that 2020 is gonna be better, but Buck likes to feel optimistic about these things. He has to be since it feels like the rest of his found family are the gloom and loom type, so it’s his job to keep the spirits up or they’ll all fall into despair. He said as much to his team as they gather around the side of the fire truck, just having arrived for their shift.

“No seriously look at what happened last year. I got that injury and I was admittedly surly for a while--”

“Oh you were more than surly, Buck.” Hen commented.

“Okay I was, but that’s not my point. My point was I not my usual happy self and you guys were all just affected by it. And I feel like it’s my fault.”

“Not everything is about you, Buck.” Eddie said, shaking his head, though clearly amused.

“I’m just saying, I’m on to something here because all bad luck started with me being injured last year. So this year part my new years’s resolution is to generate enough positive energy to drive away all the bad luck you guys attract.”

“Yeah right, we are the trouble magnets,” Hen gestures to herself and the rest of the crew, “not you who’s pretty much in competition with Chim for the Idiot with the Most Death-Defying Experience Award.”

“Of course, I mean Chim is still winning in that,” Buck said smugly, “which pretty much proves my point.”

“Okay, Buck. Whatever lets you sleep at night.” Chim shook his head, with a laugh.

The good natured ribbing continued until they all noticed a man standing by the entrance of the station. Dirty blond curls and a full beard, in tight henley and cargo pants, he looked out of place among the clean shaven firefighter crew but he walked inside with so much confidence that you’d think he owned the place.

“Clay what are you doing here?” Buck asked as he walked towards the scruffy looking man.

“Hi, Evan.” The man greeted as he met Buck half way, giving Buck a tight hug and, to the young firefighter’s surprise, a kiss on his cheek. Buck could feel the stares bore onto his back. “Sorry to drop in on you at work but I don’t have you phone number or home address.”

“You mean to tell me that years of working with CIA and you can’t even get my contact info?”

“I work as their muscle Evan, I don’t do the intelligence part.”

“We both know that’s bull, Clay. You speak six languages, you are more than just the muscle.”

“And you basically thought me five of those, though I speak nine now, not all fluently but I get by.”

“And you are still arrogant as ever.” Buck sighed, some things never changed.

“Can we talk privately?” Clay asked when he noticed the peanut gallery behind Buck.

No. Buck thought, he didn’t really want to do this here in the station but it’s only the start of his shift and he can’t really leave so he said, “I can’t leave but we can talk inside, I got a couple minutes so it better be quick.”

***

Buck lead the man to the relative privacy that the locker room provides. It’s all glass enclosure and anyone from outside can see in but he knew his colleagues would know not to bother them or listen in.

The moment they were inside the room, Buck turned his back towards the other man, taking a moment to close the door and gather his thoughts. Fucking Clay Spencer, six years and the man still has the ability to turn his day around, making him feel all out of sorts. Buck took a deep breath before facing his husband.

“Not to be morbid Clay, but I figured after I rang that bell the next time I’ll hear about you was when I get a death notification from a CACO officer.”

“Yeah I thought so too.” Clay admitted with a slight grimace. They were young, only 19 when they got married, but they both thought they’ll be together forever. “I mean I did promise ‘till death do us part. I always thought I’d at least fulfill the death portion of that promise. But I also thought I wouldn’t meet another person I’d want to marry again and I did. Her name’s Stella, she’s a grad student at Hudson State.”

“And now you want a divorce.”

“We were over years ago we just never got around to signing the papers for it. I’m getting married in June so--”

“So what you figure you’d come to my place of work, greet me with a kiss like we last saw each other only this morning, not six years ago and what? Demand that I go sign the divorce papers so you could go on living your merry life?”

“Look Evan, I was an ass. Heck I still am, but I wasn’t the one who left. You did.”

“Let be real, we both know I couldn’t stay.” Buck said, because it was true. DADT was repealed but the prejudice lingers. When the instructors learned that yes Evan Spencer was related to Clay Spencer and no they weren’t brothers or cousins, well let’s just say things get ugly. “I was just holding you back. Being a SEAL was your dream.”

“And there was a time that it was yours too.”

“No, I-” It never was. I did it to be with you is what Buck wanted to say but he knew that’s unfair to both of them so he said instead, “I did it because I don’t know what I want back then. But I what I did figure out is that I was never built for that kind of life, Clay.”

“I know. You were always too soft.” Clay commented. Buck glared which didn’t escape his husband’s notice.

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way, Evan. I’m glad you never went through with the training. Of the two of us, you were always the saint--”

“And you are just digging a deeper hole, Spencer. You should quit while you’re ahead.”

“I should, but you know that’s not really my style.”

“You saying it’s mine?” Buck challenged, eager for a fight for some reason, but Clay didn’t rise to the bait.

“You’re putting words into my mouth Evan.” Clay step in closer to him, invading Buck’s personal space. “I never thought any less of you when you quit training. I was actually relieved that you did. You were so determined when you told me you wanted to be a SEAL and I couldn’t say no even if I wanted to. So much. Cause I knew it would break you in ways that I never wanted for you, in ways that would take the best part of you that I loved so much. It was why as much as I hate him, I had Dad pull some strings to get you out of your contract and discharged. I didn’t think you’d take that as a cue to walk away.”

“You think I’m fragile, Clay but I’m not.”

“No,” Clay denied, stepping even closer, close enough that Buck could feel the other man’s breath against his cheek as the SEAL look him in the eye and explained, “I treat you like you are fragile, because that’s how you treat something that’s precious. I’ll admit to that. But I know you are strongest person I’ve ever met, Evan. I loved that about you.”

“Then why did you let go?” Buck said, his words are demanding but his tone is all but resigned.

“Why didn’t you stay?” Clay parried back, equally yielding. They both knew the answer to each other’s question, love isn’t enough to keep them together and that’s their reality. That doesn’t negate the magnetic attraction they felt towards each other.

The SEAL stepped even closer, their foreheads within a hair’s breadth of the other, as their lips slowly gravitated towards each other. Buck felt the brush of the other man’s dry lips against his own. The touch is so painfully familiar, but gone was the spark his memories insist had once accompanied such intimate gesture. Still Buck felt nostalgic and he was just about to give in and press back when he heard a knock. They sprung apart and Buck turned to the person at the door. Buck saw his best friend leaning against the doorway arms tight cross against his chest.

“Buck, Cap wants you for the stand-up meeting.” Eddie said tersely informed Buck while glaring at the other man. “Upstairs kitchen. Five minutes.”

“Okay, I’ll be up in two Eds.” Buck nodded with a strained smile. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“I don’t mind but you gotta hurry or Cap would get pissed.” Eddie said before walking away, but not without directing one last glare at Buck’s visitor.

“Did he just call you, Buck?” Clay asked as soon as Eddie left the room. “You change your surname back to Buckley? Since when?”

“Not that it’s any of your business but about two years ago after the DOD finally let me back stateside, before I started at the fire Academy. Just for work and my direct deposit bank, for now. I never got around to doing it for anything else. I guess I have to now.”

“You don’t have to. No law requires it of you.” Clay made to close the gap between them again only for Buck to step back. “It would be an unnecessary hassle.”

“You are getting married, Clay. To another person. You don’t get to act possessive and ask me to keep a name I’m half way to dropping.” Buck shook his head, clearly Clay hadn’t change a bit, still one with the need possessively attach his name to everything. The sound of a ladder truck returning reminded Buck of the meeting he was called to, “Look I really need to get going. Give me your phone.”

“Evan I-” Clay started but at the firefighter’s impatient glare, he reluctantly hands over his phone. Buck quickly typed in his contact information.

“There you have my contact number.” Buck handed the phone back and turned to leave, saying over his shoulders, “I also put in my mailing address, so you know where to send in the divorce paper.”

“Wait, Evan--” Clay called after him, most likely noticing that Buck never put in his home address. “This is a P.O. box.”

“Where I get my mails delivered to and I know you know how that works.” Buck walked away before the other man could launch another protest.

***

“So Buck who’s the hunk of meat?” Hen asked as soon as Buck reached the landing of the upstairs loft where the kitchen is located. His crew gathered around the kitchen island where Bobby was preparing breakfast, not at all looking like they are about to have any kind of job related meeting.

“I thought we were doing stand-up meeting?”

“No that was just Eddie here letting out the green eyed mons--Ouch!” Chimney’s explanation was interrupted by Hen elbowing him in the sternum.

“You look like you needed a save so I intervened, I didn’t know I’d be interrupting something.” Eddie remarked, a touch snidely.

“You didn’t interrupt anything. Clay was just um, saying goodbye.”

“I didn’t know friends say goodbye with a kiss.”

“Clay’s not exactly my friend.”

“Well, he’s not family not with that kiss. What is he an ex-fling? A phase? Is that why he calls you Evan?” Eddie asked eyebrows raised and suspicious.

“Yeah I wondered about that too, we thought you said everyone just call you Buck.” Chim said, scratching his head, “I mean even your sister calls you Buck.”

“Not exactly an ex. And he’s not a phase!” Buck protested, offended at the word phase. At the surprised looks that his friends are giving him for his unusual outburst, he mellowed, shrugged and said, “I mean Clay is Clay. He always called me Evan. Ever since high school.”

“Why?”

“Um, Clay didn’t like that the name Buck is short for Buckley. Some sort of caveman reason I guessed.”

“Okay so the guy is more than a fling then?” Eddie prodded, not letting the topic die like Buck had silently asking him too, with his pointed looks. So much for best friend telepathy.

Buck sighed, resigned to admitting something he has been mum about ever since starting at 118. “Clay Spencer is my husband, or rather my soon to be ex-husband, he’s filing for divorce so.”

It took a moment for his words to sink in and

“Wait, what the fuck?! You were married?! And you didn’t tell us?!” Eddie asked sounding a little furious.

“To a man?!” Chim added, confounded and unable to think.

“And now you’re getting a divorce?” Bobby said calmly but the twitch of his eyebrow and the way he straightened up clearly betrayed his surprise.

“Wow my gaydar’s needs readjustment,” Hen shook her head, frowning. “I just thought you were hetero-flexible not full-on freewheeling.”

His team spoke one after another, all shocked at his revelation which granted was a little unexpected coming from him, a reformed self-diagnosed sex addict who’s afraid of commitment.

“So what happened?” Hen asked being the first one to recover from the shock of Buck’s surprising revelation.

“Between Clay and I?” Buck asked then continued at Hen’s nod, “Well we were together since freshman year, in high school. Um- we bonded over having absent fathers. I thought we’d be together forever but Clay also wanted to join the Navy like his Dad, so we’ve always kept our relationship low key-ish until DADT got repealed. After that, we said fuck it, and got married. My dad got so mad when he found out, which was more because we were only nineteen back then, not because it was so gay which didn’t help of course but yes more because we were just kids when we got married,” Buck explained trying for casual, as he sat himself in the couch. “Anyways Clay enlisted and got into SEAL pipeline program. I got in a year after him, but I had to quit, we separated, the rest they say is history.”

“So that’s why two you broke-up? Because you quit SEAL training?” Bobby asked leaning on the railing across the couch Buck was seated at. Besides the captain is his best friend, Eddie, who has a blank look on his face that Buck couldn’t even begin to decipher.

“Um he wanted to be a SEAL and I knew I was just holding him back so...” Buck trailed off, noticing how his team look at him with pity in their eyes, “Shit guys don’t look at me that way I’m not some broken piece of glass okay?”

When the pitying looks continued, and Bobby moved as if to comfort him, Buck said, “No, seriously guys, I’m okay. I’m not at all broken up about this at all, so you guys shouldn’t be either. Me and Clay were done years ago. It’s just we got lazy and didn’t get around to signing papers until now.”

“You don’t have to put on front with us, kid.” Chim said moving on to sit in the couch beside his while Hen moved to sit beside him. “We are family, heck you are practically my brother.”

“Chim’s right, Buckaroo. It’s okay to be not okay. We won’t think any less of you if you for it.” Hen added, laying a comforting hand on his shoulders.

“I’m seriously fine. I mean I’m not gonna lie and say it never affected me or that it didn’t hurt. Because I did, years ago when first broke up, cause I really thought we were forever. But now? I’m not even sad or anything.”

“But if you are, you know that we are here for you, right?”

“I know that Bobby. And I appreciate it.” There was a prolonged silence that lingered for a couple of minutes as they all just looking for words to say. Eventually Chimney, as always, broke that silence with a joking remark.

“Okay but seriously how did you land some one that hot?” Chim teased Buck.

“Chim seriously?! Your bi is showing.” Hen smirked.

“What? I’m just saying that is one beast of a man. I’m just wondering what he saw in our Buck.”

“Hey, quit it hobbit,” Hen slapped her best friend in the arm, “Our Buck here is equally as beastly looking if not more.”

“Hen, not that I don’t appreciate the vote of confidence because I truly do, but I don’t think ‘beastly’ is a look I aspire to project you know.”

“Joking aside, did you really go through SEAL training? Did you mean like BUD/s?” Chim asked, curious about Buck’s past but knowing the younger man would rather not talk about his soon-to-be ex-husband. At Buck’s nod Chimney asked again, “Isn’t that only for Enlisted Navy?”

“You said you weren’t in the Navy.” Bobby added, confused.

“I wasn’t, I mean not really. I mean technically I was one but only for like less than 180 days? Which meant I got like an ELS.” Buck tried explaining, only garnering more confused looks. “Entry-Level Separation. I entered the program through SEAL Challenge Contract. I got through ‘Hell Week’ at BUD/s but I DOR’d a week after that. So it was like only give or take 155 days before I DOR’d. Which was why I don’t claim to be in the Navy because I barely was in it.”

“DOR?” Hen asked.

“Dropped on request. Clay I guessed heard about it when he was in SQT,” Buck started but had to clarify again, “er SEAL qualification training. Anyways, the instructors were about to shuffle me into the fleet as an enlisted sailor, which is usually what happens when a SEAL candidate drops out. But suddenly I got an offer that the brass would waive my Navy Enlistment contract if I would agree to work as a civilian linguistic analyst attached to a joint operation between the DOD and DEA that’s based in Chile. It was an unusual offer but I figured Clay’s father who’s a retired SEAL pulled some strings. I took the offer and spent four years bouncing around between bases in South America doing translation work.”

“Wait you said you bartender’d in South America, not Schneider’d you way through it.”

“What’s Schneider’d? And when did I say that?”

“Cocaine Wars,” Bobby said as if that alone explains it but of course Evan ‘as far as I’m concerned the world started when I was born’ Buckley didn’t get that reference, so Bobby had to explain further, “Schneider is the name of the actor who is an undercover DEA agent working in South America. And you told me when you were pulling that worm out of that guy who ate a lot of sushi.”

“I wasn’t an undercover agent, I only did translation work in a black site in South America but can’t actually say that in front of strangers so I said the first appropriate thing that came to mind.”

“Bartending is the first thing that came to mind?”

“Well no not the very first thing... um stripping was actually but that seemed inappropriate too?” Buck said, scratching his head. At the incredulous looks he is getting from his team he defended, “What?! Bartending is believable job I could have been doing. I mean Bobby did believe it.”

“That’s not what--” Chim wanted to explain but was interrupted by the sound of the alarms going off.

****

“You were awfully quiet after me telling you guys about Clay.” Buck said as soon as him and Eddie were left alone in the locker room. “You barely talked to me all day too. Is there a problem?”

“No.” Eddie replied, abrupt and clearly not wanting to talk about it but at seeing Buck’s pleading gaze, he relented, “Okay I admit I was a little upset because I thought by now we told each other everything. But then I get a slap in the face and realize I don’t know you at all. I mean I didn’t even tell me you were married. Or that you ex-husband is a slimy squid.”

“I’m still technically married. And I believe military term is frogmen not squid.”

“Well maybe in the Navy, in the Army they are slimy squids.” Eddie huffed. “Seriously though, Buck. Why didn’t you tell me? I mean we talked about our exes before. You told me about Abby. You know about Shannon. Heck I even told you about Alex from boot camp. So I don’t know why you thought you couldn’t tell me about your ex-husband Clay.”

“It’s for the same reason you didn’t talk about your ex-wife back when I first asked you.”

“You asked me that before we got really close. And she’s not my ex-wife, she was my wife. There’s a difference.”

“Exactly, she wasn’t your ex-wife. Just like Clay isn’t my ex-husband. I didn’t talk about him like he is my ex because he isn’t.”

“You were separated, you said you didn’t see each other for six years.”

“I know that. I know in my head we are over and truly broken up,” Buck said while gesturing to his head then he laid his hand on his chest, “But here. Well here it’s stupid, because here there’s hope. So I didn’t talk about him like he’s my ex because then it would be like admitting that it’s truly over, no takebacksies over. I was over Clay but I guess I hadn’t reach that point where my heart’s willing to acknowledge it.”

“You dated a lot after him though, that’s like more than acknowledging it. That’s moving on.”

“It’s adapting a coping mechanism. An unhealthy one at that. I had a long list of one night stands because felt rejected and needed validation. Plus I like having sex but I was determined not to let anyone in again. Then I met Abby, who made me realize I crave intimacy not sex, she made me feel safe to love again, but she left before I could commit to loving her. Which was fortunate cause I don’t know how would get over it if she left me after I learned to love her.”

“I don’t think loving someone could be learned, Buck. Either you do, or you don’t.”

“Maybe so. But my point was I didn’t talk about him cause I thought I wasn’t over him yet. And I would have when I’m ready. I didn’t know when I just knew that talking about him before that would be like--”

“Like poking an open wound.”

“Yes exactly like that.” Buck picked up that metaphor and expounded on it. “What I didn’t realize was that wound long scabbed over. And I left it thinking that if I picked on it, it would bleed again. Only to find out today that it’s all healed.”

“What was the kiss then?”

“The what?”

“The kiss I interrupted Buck.”

“I’m not sure but it felt like a goodbye.”

“I’m not an expert, Buck, but when he kissed you it looked more than just goodbye.” If Buck didn’t know better, he’d say Eddie sounded jealous as he said, “He’s all over you.”

“He isn’t. He kissed me but I’m telling you now, that kiss doesn’t feel like it meant anything to him. Or me. It’s not like what you think.”

“If you say so.” Eddie looked to Buck tryin g to see the truth in his eyes.

“I say so.” Buck said determined as held the other man’s gaze for a few moments, before looking away and shyly admitting, “Besides there is someone else I like.”

The words linger in the air between them as their eyes locked on to each other’s yet again; and slowly they gravitated towards each other without either knowing it. Their foreheads touched, nose brushing. The moment their lips brush, Buck felt the tingle in up his spine making him slightly weak in the knees. He held on to the older man’s waist to help himself stay upright. Eddie lifted his hand to caress the back of Buck’s head as he leaned in to deepen the kiss. Buck can’t help the moan the escaped his lips. And Eddie took that as an opportunity to slip his tongue and explore the younger man’s mouth. If it was up to Eddie it would have gone further further but Buck pulled away.

“I’m not--” Buck shook his head, trying to clear it from the haze. “I like you but you were just widowed, and I still need to get divorced.”

“Okay, but just so you know this,” Eddie said gesturing at the air between them, “this is gonna happen. I’ll be asking you out as soon as you drop the name Spencer.”

“Not if I asked you first.”

“Fair enough. As long as I get to eventually marry you, that’s fine.”

“Sure as long as you don’t expect me to take your name.”

“Maybe I’ll take yours instead. Edmundo Buckley has a nice ring to it don’t you think.”

“Yeah, definitely.” Buck managed to spat out with a straight face. They both look at each other in the eye before laughing out loud at the name.

Fuck Edmundo Buckley sounds ridiculous, maybe just this once Buck would take one for the team and take Eddie’s name anyway. Evan Diaz after all sounded way better.

#Buddie

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jeanjauthor · 4 years ago

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The following quote is from the FAQ page for She Dwarf, a webcomic by Kyle Latino.

Is She Dwarf a bad person? That’s up to you to decide for yourself. Keep in mind, just because She Dwarf is the main character, doesn’t mean that you or I are suppose to agree with her all the time. It only means we are supposed to root for her on her quest and personal growth.

I wanted to talk about this particular, rather perfect, answer in terms of which kinds of main protagonists we can get away with as writers...and which ones we should never touch.

Or rather, which kinds we should never promote.

Let’s strip this down into its two most important pieces, and we’ll remove names & genders so we can insert whatever details we may want for our own main characters:

“Just because _____ is the main character doesn’t mean you and I are supposed to agree with [them] all the time.”

This is an excellent thing, because it exposes the reader to new viewpoints new perspectives, new ideas. Not necessarily good ideas, but it banishes some rather unwanted & unwelcome naïvety from our readers. Being naïve means that, once you get outside your circle of loved ones who have reasons to shelter and protect you, then you become vulnerable to those who would take advantage of you, try to trick you, treat you as the gullible unworldly inexperienced person you are.

On top of that, it helps to teach us that people make questionable calls when it comes to certain decisions, especially snap decisions made with incomplete information. Let’s be honest: if you caught a stranger inside your house late at night toward the end of December, you��d be more inclined to call the police about a burglary or home invasion than you’d be inclined to believe in Santa Claus.

And if you were in a NON-Western/American-influenced culture...would you even recognize the red suit with the white trim, the black boots, the pointy hat and the big white beard? (Contrary to popular belief, American culture isn’t the end-all and be-all of existence, folks!)

So that’s the first half of the important bits. Here’s the second half.

“It only means we are supposed to root for [them] on [their] quest and personal growth.“

THIS part is vital. We DO have a moral obligation for this one. If we’re going to write a character we want our readers to sympathize with, they have to have redeemable qualities.

It takes a LOT of skill to turn a monster into someone redeemable. In the book Silence of the Lambs (and in the movie), Hannibal Lecter was not redeemable in any way, save for one: He spared Clarice’s life. BUT...that was not enough to make us sympathize with him, and not enough to make most of us root for him. He was truly a horrible person. (Brilliantly acted, too.)

Then again...Hannibal Lecter was also not the main character. Now, I haven’t read the book Hannibal, nor watched the movie (horror really isn’t my thing), but I have read over the synopsis...and again, Hannibal Lecter is not the main character.

We never root for him. We never wait for any signs of personal growth. We never cheer him on as he attempts to complete his quests. Yes, he has one redeemable quality, blah blah blah...but he’s never the one we’re rooting for.

This is important, because there are some people who are trying to turn monsters into heroic role models. There are numerous examples of monsters whose actions were whitewashed. “Columbus, the great discoverer & explorer of the Americas” was actually a goddamn monster who assaulted & murdered hundreds, trafficked in slavery and child prostitution, and worse. American History books propagandized his accomplishments and buried as many of his atrocities as they could, in the name of promoting colonization & white supremacy as “Good Things™.”

They weren’t, they aren’t, and they never will be genuinely good things.

White supremacists in the American South constantly tout the disasters & discriminations of the Confederacy as if it was something emulation-worthy. It was literally about owning slaves, of being able to beat to death a privately imprisoned human being, and not be called a murderer.

There are so many truly monstrous people out there that should never be cheered on or rooted for.

Why is this bad?

Because the more that people lionize & idolize those kinds of people, the more they think it’s appropriate to do, and the more they, too, will try to do those things themselves.

We have an absolute moral obligation as writers never to make that kind of person the main character, the “heroic protagonist” in any way that is unchallenged, unexposed, unmocked, and un-truth’d.

We literally cannot surive in a world populated with wanna-be versions of Columbus, Lecter, Hitler, and the like.

When you’re writing your main characters, it’s okay to have them do awful things occasoinally. But there should be reasons for it, and those reasons can be blatantly stated or subtly implied...and there should definitely be Consequences for Bad Decisions. If someone dies or is injured, the main character should grow enough to realize their mistake, to feel bad, to eventually want to make amends...yes, even if they cannot.

Xena of Xena: Warrior Princess...was not a nice character when she first starred on Hercules: The Legendary Journeys. But eventually she has an epiphany, she changes her mind, tries to change her ways...and as she gets and goes through her own series of stories, we find out just how awful she was in the past, over and over, and how hard it is not only for her to make amends, not only to be accepted as a better person now by the people she once harmed...but to accept her own horrific past and the things she could never possibly make amends for.

It’s a great story with a problematic lead character who was very much a villain, is now trying to be a hero, and doesn’t always completely succeed...but she still makes us root for her every time she tries, and cheer every time she manages some more personal growth.

You can definitely write problematic characters...but there has to be growth & learning, & becoming a better person. Don’t try to write main characters who do horrible things and constantly try justifying it because of their horrible beliefs & horrible propaganda assertions, who never take personal responsibility.

You’ll have a very teeny tiny audience of admirers who will try to emulate the many bad things your main character gets away with.

Is that really the kind of world you want to live in?

It’s not the one I want to live in.

#I'm not doing spoiler tags because this stuff is decades old.#and frankly the last 4 years have been goddamn horrifying #based on all the things the forty-shitth's followers have tried to do in his name

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tilltheendwilliwrite · 6 years ago

Text

Of Blood and Roses

Chapter Eighteen

Previous Chapter

Pairing: Loki x Lauren | Word Count: 5957 Warnings: Loki being Loki, smexy, a little fluff

Loki waited until Lauren slept deeply before whispering the words which would keep her sleeping, safe and warm, protected in their bed beneath the Gledeblomstring. He carefully slipped out from beneath her, leaving a pillow in his place so she could have something to cuddle until he returned. He watched her snuggle deeper as he dressed.

Her beauty continued to steal his breath. Her mass of gold and platinum hair. Her softly bronzed skin. She’d been milk pale before their trip to her home and the day spent by the river. Then a light colour had formed, but now as she moved closer to being Asgardian, her flesh had taken on a tone which almost seemed to glimmer. Shimmering as if she’d been brushed with gold dust over all that creamy flesh.

It made him yearn to touch her, almost as if she beckoned him to see if she was real or a creature out of his imagination who would disappear if he tried. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Each day he woke beside her was a gift, a lovely dream he had to pinch himself to be sure was real.

Tonight, though, she would sleep alone. At least for a few hours.

Socks gave a quiet mew, drawing Loki's attention. He stooped to pick the kitten up when Socks rubbed against Loki's ankle and set him gently on the bed. Socks picked his way toward the pillow Lauren hugged and settled down upon it, almost as if he were keeping watch. When the kitten's eyes swept his way, Loki wondered if that wasn't precisely what Socks was doing.

He gave the feline a nod and left, quietly shutting their bedroom doors behind him. The wards he placed on the room and the door were the strongest he knew, ones which would keep even the strongest of magicks or physical strength at bay while informing him of the attempted intrusion.

Once finished, he flicked his hand and opened a portal that led him to the back of Tara’s shop. It snapped closed, submerging him in shadow and silence.

The magic he worked tonight was heavy. Dark. Forbidden for all but the most accomplished. It was a spell he’d worked only once before with terrible consequences. But he’d been younger then. Less than he was now. Mother would not have scolded him for trying it again. Not when the attack had come against his Ástvinur.

A scrape of a boot had him spinning around, dagger and staff at the ready.

“Easy, brother,” Thor murmured.

“Thor. You're lucky I didn't eviscerate you.” Loki put his weapons away.

“I thought you might return tonight to see what you could coax to reveal itself.”

“With one of my tricks right?” Loki turned away.

“Loki.”

Thor sounded contrite, but Loki wasn't in a forgiving mood. “Stay back and stay silent. The last time I attempted this, I blew up mother's parlour.”

“Should you be doing it at all?” Thor asked, his voice an octave higher.

“I'm no longer a boy of no skill. Watch and learn, brother.” The dagger from earlier appeared in one hand, the cloak in the other. Green light slowly began to brighten the shadows until both he and Thor appeared cast in grisly fashion when new shadows formed on them from Loki’s magic glow.

The incantation he whispered as he brought the cloak and the dagger together. “Show me your shadows. Show me the way. Reveal to me the truth. The darkness of lies is my keeping place. No secrets can remain hidden from me.”

The cloak lifted from his hand to hang in the air as if it wrapped around a body. The dagger burned blue then pure white, the light so bright it was suddenly day again at the back of Tara’s store.

Loki stepped closer to the hooded spectre. “Reveal yourself to me.”

The figure turned into the light, glancing over his shoulder before he pushed the cloak from his body and let it fall. He ran down the side alley, and Loki followed, the dagger continuing to light the way. The assailant slowed and walked into the street where he moved around to the front of the shop with the rest of the gathering crowd and waited.

“He was right here this whole time?” Thor growled.

“Yes.” Loki continued to study his new found prey. “He should have run.”

“Loki…”

“You will not stop me. An inch more and he would have hit Lauren. I brought her here for protection, believing she would be safe. Instead, she is assaulted, slighted, and forced to contend with my mistakes. I will remove this threat from her life. She need never know how it was done.”

“You would lie to your Ástvinur?”

“Never. But he will vanish. As Lauren met him only the once, why would she ever ask me about him? If she did, I would tell her the truth. Stabio threw the dagger. Likely it was the whipping he took which threw off his aim. I will not wait till he heals to try again.”

“There are other ways, brother.”

He shot Thor a condescending glare and snuffed out the magic, plunging them into shadows. “It is my right. He was warned. Would you rather I had him thrown in the dungeons where he is fed and clothed? Awaiting a trial which will see him thrown back in the dungeon to live out his days? I won't waste the coin it takes to feed him, nor would I allow Lauren to see such mockery take place.”

“Loki.” Thor grabbed his arm. “Think of Stabino. You may despise the son, but I know you respected his father. Our father has already sent to him of this crime with Sleipner’s children.”

“You grow soft in the head, Thor. Stabio has shamed his father. This will further that shame and pile on dishonour from which the family will not recover. Isn’t it better Stabino never finds out about this? Let him believe Stabio ran to hide his shame.”

Thor sighed heavily but eventually nodded. “Perhaps you're right. Perhaps the secret should die with Stabio.”

Loki nodded and sauntered away. “Are you coming to watch, brother?”

“Norns, no!” Thor muttered but walked along at Loki's side. “I'll be available should you need help with the body.”

Loki rolled his eyes. “Your assistance to hide something of mine has not been needed since I broke mother's lamp.”

“She blamed me for that lamp,” Thor grumbled.

“I know,” Loki smirked. “Thank you for the assistance.”

***

Stabio hissed as he peeled the protective cloth from his back to expose the five deep lash marks. They looked like a giant cat had raked him diagonally from shoulder to hip.

The second and third were the deepest. Both had split the skin. The guard had taken extra pleasure in holding him down and laying the switch into his flesh, but then Ymir had been the one to wield the lash.

Ymir had never forgiven Stabio for the slight he’d paid Ymir’s sister. The man had made sure to bring the switch down with force and precision.

Five blows. One for each mark he’d left on the princess. “Bitch,” he grumbled. “Stupid woman.”

What right did she have to tell him how to do his job? He’d been watching his father coddle the beasts for years and get nowhere. A firm hand was needed. He’d been intent on proving his theory when she had interfered.

Snøwstrom had been a menace for years. Taking up space. Refusing to work under saddle. He was a waste of good horse flesh, but if Stabio could break him, well. He would be a greater trainer than his father ever was.

He’d bullied Baron into helping, knowing the boy would be unable to refuse and would have succeeded in breaking the stallion if she had stayed out of it. But no.

Lady Lauren walks in, and everyone is bowing and scraping. Even the damn horse.

In one fell swoop, he’d lost his livelihood, his prestige, and his home for his quarters were above the stables. Now he was forced to room in a low-end inn, fit for foreign merchants with no coin as he figured out his next move. Only a narrow bed and desk with a mirror hanging above it and a hard-backed wooden chair before it furnished the room with its minuscule attached bath. It was degrading living in such squalor, but he needed to save what funds he had. He needed out of the city. Possibly even off-world after trying to hurt the bitch who’d destroyed his life hell.

He hadn’t meant to do it, but when he'd watched her walk into the toy store, laughing and happy, something inside him snapped. Following her inside, he hadn't planned on throwing the blade, but it was in his hand and sailing through the air a moment later. He’d know instantly it was a stupid idea. Then it went through Loki's hand, and he’d run for his life, leaving his cloak behind so as not to stand out in the crowd.

So far, no one knew who had dared try to assault Loki's Ástvinur, but everyone was atwitter with speculation. Thankfully, he’d rented his room under a false name.

Tonight he’d shaved his face, removing the thick beard he was so well known for. He didn't want to be recognized or noticed. He just wanted out of the city and knew he couldn't go home. His father treated the beasts in the barns better than Stabino had treated his own children. There would be no comfort or understanding from his father. No hope of receiving help from that quarter.

He had money. Not much but some. The position had paid handsomely, but he’d also liked to play hard and hadn't been stingy about spending his newfound wealth. He had a few friends he could turn to, but they were nose deep in Thor’s ass.

Stabio highly doubted any would be inclined to help him get off world. He would have to find passage on a ship and do it soon before anyone figured out he'd been responsible for the attack on Loki's woman.

Staring at the mirror, contemplating his options, Stabio shivered. “Why's it so bloody cold in here?” And dark. When had it gotten so dark? Had the overhead light always been so dim?

In the mirror, the room behind him was black as pitch. It seemed a hole from which any dark demon could emerge. He wanted to turn around and peer into that void. Search it. Save himself from whatever dire fate waited for him in that darkness.

His heart pounded. He sat locked in place by the fear tripping his heart to gallop. He wanted to look, but he didn’t. He was too afraid to take his eyes from the mirror and the light reflecting from the single candle on the desk to turn around and possibly come face to face with some hideous creature.

Then within the blackness, something moved. A shadow shifted within the shadows. The cold seemed to freeze Stabio right to his bones, and his breath puffed out in a cloud of white.

Movement on the mirror caught his attention. Ice was forming. Crystalline patterns which climbed the edges in small curls and jagged runs, oddly beautiful even as terror filled him.

Stabio returned his gaze to the center of the mirror and cried out in fear when the image reflected had him clenching his muscles to keep his bowels where they belonged. He spun around to face the dark, sending the fire of pain screaming through his spine when he broke open his lash marks only to find no one there.

The hair on his neck rose. The feeling of something watching him grew stronger and stronger until he turned slowly to face the mirror and swallowed when Loki remained hovering in the glass, shadows pulling at his clothing. He appeared half corporeal. The horns which usually adorned his helmet seemed to curl straight out of his wild mane of black locks. When the shadows shifted, Stabio whimpered. They were of bone and gleamed like polished ebony when the candlelight caught them, almost as if the horn absorbed the ray into its inky depths.

Eyes of blood red filled with hatred and loathing observed Stabio like he was an insect Loki was contemplating the best way to eradicate. The shadows peeled back further until Stabio could see the blue tinge creeping along Loki’s skin. He watched the marks and lines of a Frost Giant take over, revealing the real face of the second prince of Asgard.

The candle’s flame shrank as the cold deepened. Sharpened. Became harsher.

“Did you think I wouldn’t figure it out?” Loki asked softly. “That you could attempt to injure my Ástvinur, and I wouldn’t use every speck of magic at my disposal to find out who had dared attempt such an act?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” Stabio whispered, afraid to take his eyes from the mirror a second time.

Fingers of brilliant blue reached out of the darkness. Came closer and closer. Appeared to unfurl into long, spindly, double jointed appendages which couldn’t, in reality, belong to the man behind him. They looked otherworldly hovered over Stabio’s naked shoulder, hanging there in the dark as if waiting for some sign, some movement, which would see him snatched into the endless void reflected in the mirror. He could feel the unrelenting cold seep from them; feel the frost lift the hair on his body.

“I don’t even know why I did it,” Stabio pleaded.

“Don’t you?” Loki murmured. “Jealousy. Anger. Hatred.”

Stabio cringed when Loki moved faster than his eyes could follow and slammed a dagger, wicked looking, the metal a shiny blue encased in gold, into the surface of the desk. The other hand continued to hover over his shoulder, but this new one tightly gripped the black handle of the blade when Loki leaned closer, ducked his head, and inhaled like an animal an inch above Stabio’s skin along his shoulder to his throat. Those red eyes never once lost their connection with Stabio’s, making the experience all the more terrifying.

Loki turned his mouth to Stabio’s ear and whispered, “I can smell them on you.”

The hovering hand finally descended to skim tapered blue fingers over his flesh. The cold burned straight through to Stabio’s bones, and he screamed in agony when his skin blackened and froze.

“They tried to hurt my Lauren on Midgard,” Loki murmured, pulling his hands away while leaving the dagger behind, tip embedded in the desk. “I brought her here because I believed she’d be safe.”

Stabio watched Loki through tears of pain and fear as Loki faded back into the shadows, seeming to flicker in and out of focus in the mirror. “I’m sorry-”

“You’re only sorry you got caught!” Loki snapped, sending a lash of ice up Stabio’s spine.

Agony had him arching, his breath frozen and unable to pass his lips open in a silent scream.

“Asgard was meant to be safe for her. She’s an Ástvinur! Sacred! Blessed! Beloved by the Norns! She should have been safe here!” Loki raged.

Stabio cowered away from him, eyeing the dagger Loki had left behind. Could he? Did he dare? A glance at the mirror showed him Loki pacing on the edge of the shadows. They reached out for him. Curled around him. Appeared to welcome him into their depths.

“She wasn’t safe on Midgard. Oh, no. I felt her pain. Her terror. I swore I would never let it happen again. Asgard would be safe. Asgard would welcome her. Asgard would love her. Then… you happened.” Red eyes glowed and locked with Stabio’s again. “Be thankful your aim was so poor. The last person who injured my beloved suffered a most… exquisitely painful death.”

He smiled, and Stabio shook in terror. “I’ll leave. I’ll leave Asgard. I won’t ever look her way again.”

Loki’s smile twisted. “No, you won’t.”

Stabio lunged for the dagger. It vanished before he could place a hand on it, and crashed to the ground in his exuberance. He laid there in pain, desperately trying to think of a way out of this.

“I knew you were a fool. I didn’t expect you to be stupid,” Loki growled.

“Please,” Stabio begged, his terror erupting in tears. “Please, I’ll go. You don’t have to kill me.”

Loki flicked his fingers and torches burst into flame, revealing the cave of ice and snow. The desk, candle, and mirror faded away like ghosts of a memory long forgotten.

Stabio curled over his knees, his forehead nearly touching the snow-covered ground. “I don’t want to die,” he whispered.

“What do you have to live for?” Loki asked. He fluffed a large fur cloak out around him as he sat on a throne of ice and crossed one leg over the other.

“What?” Stabio murmured.

“What do you have to live for? You lie. Cheat. Steal. People dislike you. You’re considered cruel and unreasonable. You’ve shamed and dishonoured your family. You’re a terrible person who tried to injure the sweetest, most gentle, kindest woman Asgard will ever know. Name some quality of yours which would grant you redemption in my eyes, and I will let you live, open a portal, and drop you on a world far from here.”

“I…” Stabio wracked his brain. What could he say? What quality would so redeem him he could escape his death? “For all my failings, my father still loves me.”

Loki paused, his fingers tapping the arm of ice beneath them. “Such is the way of fathers,” he said softly. “They have faith in their sons, even when it is undeserved. I am doing yours a favour. He will never know of this second dishonour brought upon your family by your hand. The manner of your disappearance remains, still, in question.”

“People can change,” Stabio pleaded. “You did!”

“Did I?” Loki smirked. “Are you so sure? Perhaps I’ve simply learned to hide my wicked ways.”

“No.” Stabio pushed up, so he sat on his knees, the ice so cold and hard beneath him. “You’ve changed. Everyone’s seen it.”

The tapping of those long fingers never changed. Loki just stared unblinkingly at Stabio before he stood in a swift, graceful motion. The blue of his skin warmed into flesh. The horns disappeared in a puff of smoke. Eyes of red returned to blue but burned swiftly into green when Loki cast his hand out at the wall and tore a hole through space. “Go. Leave Asgard and never return. Never speak of the life you lived here. You were never Stabio, son of Stabino. You had nothing to do with Sleipnir's children. Your life before this never existed. Any thoughts of retribution against my woman end here and now. Swear it.”

“I swear it!” Stabio nodded.

Loki stepped closer, his hand glowed green, and a small black serpent appeared in his palm. Before Stabio could move or ask questions, the snake launched itself from Loki’s hand to his chest and struck hard and fast, burrowing its way beneath his skin.

Stabio shrieked and scratched at his chest, trying to rip the creature away, but it was already beneath his flesh, wriggling and moving toward his heart. “What is that? What did you do!?”

“It’s a guarantee you will keep your word. If you so much as breathe about Asgard, me, Lauren, any of us, if you so much as think about plotting against us, my pet will pump your heart so full of venom you will be dead before you hit the ground.”

He could feel the blood rush out of his head, then flow back in so swiftly it made him dizzy. “I won’t say anything.”

“I know you won’t.” Loki waved his hand.

Stabio startled when the clothing settled around his body, and a pack landed at his feet. “Prince?”

“I’m giving you a chance, Stabio, because your father is a good man and believed in you once. Because you are correct in thinking people can change. Don’t make me regret my decision.”

The light in the cavern was fading, the torches going out one by one, leaving two lit to either side of the portal. “Where… where am I going?”

“A world which welcomes immigrants. One on which a person can disappear and become someone else. It will not be easy. They frown upon liars and cheats, but a man who is looking to make a new, honest start will be welcome.”

Loki was being swallowed by shadows, becoming harder and harder to see. “Prince Loki.” Stabio swallowed thickly as he stooped slowly to pick up the pack, his back surprisingly less painful than it had been. “Thank you. If you should see my father, tell him… tell him I’m sorry. Tell him… I left to do better.”

There was no acknowledgement of his request, but some of the biting cold lessened as he made his way toward the portal and looked at the world of desert dunes and hazy rust coloured sky. In the distance, a city of stones and mudbrick rose above the dunes. It certainly wasn’t Asgard in all its shining glory, but it also wasn’t a grave.

As he stepped through the opening and walked toward his future, Stabio didn’t look back when the portal closed behind him.

***

Thor gripped Loki’s shoulder far tighter than necessary when the illusion of the ice cave vanished, and that of the modest inn returned. “Mother would be so proud of you.”

“I sat there and asked him all those questions and felt them resonate inside myself. Why am I worthy of a second chance? What makes one person worthy and another not?” He shook his head. “Lauren’s compassion is wearing off,” Loki muttered, uncertain whether to be pleased or annoyed. “Still. She's protected from him in the future. We all are.”

“Yes, she is, and now you have nothing to hide from her,” Thor beamed. “And here I was, planning not to watch. That was quite the bit of theatre you put on. Even I shivered at the horns.”

Loki rolled his eyes and shifted them to the road outside the inn, leaving a small pouch of coin behind to cover the expense of Stabio’s stay in case he hadn't paid in advance. “I wasn’t going to hide anything.”

Thor snorted. “A lie of omission is still a lie, Loki.”

“Self-righteous prick,” Loki grumbled.

“Cold-blooded ingrate.”

“Rock headed moron.”

“Bilgesnipe.”

“Ignoramus.”

“I am Groot.”

“Thor!” Loki gasped. “That’s going too far!”

Thor burst out laughing. “I only said Strange is a better sorcerer than you.”

“I’m fully aware of what you said! Take it back!”

“And if I won’t?” Thor smirked.

Loki flicked a finger and opened a portal back to the palace. “I won’t tell you what Lady Sif had to say after your encounter on the terrace.”

Thor lunged, but Loki was prepared, having already replaced himself with an illusion which Thor tumbled straight through. “Will you never stop falling for that?” Standing within the entrance to the portal, he chuckled while Thor picked himself off the ground.

“I take it back,” Thor muttered. “What… what did Sif say?”

Loki took a teasing step back. “I don’t know, brother. That didn’t sound very apologetic to me.”

“Loki,” Thor said, turning to face him. “Please.”

Thor’s appearance had Loki moving toward him, the portal dismissed and closed. “Brother?”

“I have been… most foolish,” Thor sighed. “Mother tried to tell me, but I didn’t listen. She said allowing my other gifts to rule me would return to bite me in the ass. It appears she was correct.”

“I will admit you could have been far more discreet in your assignations, but what happened in the past cannot now be undone.” Loki clasped his hands behind his back and continued toward the palace as Thor fell in beside him. “Sif knows the hurt and even slight jealousy she feels is misplaced. It isn’t as if you knew she had certain feelings involved you kept stomping on.”

Thor flinched.

“At least this time you managed to tell her she was beautiful, though you did almost screw it up first.”

“How do you know what was said?” Thor frowned.

“What can I say? Sif tells Lauren. Lauren tells me.” Loki waved a dismissive hand.

“Ah,” the big blond nodded. “And what did Sif have to say?”

“She’s nervous,” Loki admitted. “She’s afraid you will see her as another conquest to be made and sent on her way when you grow tired of her company. If that were the case, she would leave. For good.”

“Her heart is so fully invested?” Thor smirked.

“The longings of Sif’s heart are not for me to discern, brother,” Loki snapped, “but this is not some game! Sif has been a true friend to Lauren, and while we may have once been unable to stand each other, Sif and I have reached a place of mutual respect and understanding. I would name her a friend, and I caution you, brother. Hurt her, and you will feel my wrath.”

Thor appeared momentarily startled by such a statement, then contrite. “Forgive me if I sounded… insincere, Loki. It is just…” he sighed and closed his eyes, letting the moons shine down on his face for a moment before speaking. “You weren’t wrong in your assumption of earlier. I have denied my feelings for Sif for a very long time. The trysts I’ve enjoyed were mostly to take my mind off her until there was Jane. Then the ones after were to help clear Jane from my head. Seeing Sif tonight,” he cleared his throat, “dinner was very uncomfortable.”

Pink flushed Thor’s cheeks and set Loki grinning. “Freya’s tits! Did the God of Fertility lose control of his cock at the sight of our dear Sif?”

“I will punch you so hard, Loki,” Thor snarled.

Loki burst out laughing. “You did!”

“Shut up!”

Thor swung, but Loki only sidestepped him. “Oh, dear! How randy of you, brother to be returned to the state of a lad in his first crush!”

“If you’re only going to laugh and be snide I will leave you here and return to the palace my way!” Thor barked.

Loki snickered but held up his hands. “Forgive me, Thor, but it is amusing.”

“You can’t tell me seeing your wife in some of the things she wears doesn’t tighten your trousers,” Thor grumbled.

“Oh, certainly. But then I pin her to the wall and touch every inch of her delectable body. I’m afraid you’re nowhere near enjoying that pleasure.”

Silence hung between them for a few minutes as they walked on together.

“Is it hopeless?” Thor murmured.

“Nothing is ever hopeless. Something's simply take time, effort, and patience. Sif made the first overture. You, brother, must decide if you will make the second.”

“And what is the second, oh wise one,” he grumbled.

“You have to choose. Do you want Sif? And if you do, in what capacity? Are you ready to commit? Seek a relationship which could end with her your queen? Or is all you feel for her the desire to slake your lust? Then, and only then, will you know what to do.”

“I would have had Jane if she’d been at all inclined,” Thor murmured. “I loved her.”

“Did you?” Loki asked quietly. “Or did you like the idea of her? The way she looked at you? The way she was always slightly awed by you?”

“You speak nonsense,” he huffed and stopped to lean against the railing of the bridge where the group of them had played Lauren’s game.

“Do I?” Loki leaned there as well, bent over his forearms, looking out at the water and the stars beyond the horizon. He was silent for a moment, wondering if he should speak of what Lauren had revealed to him what seemed so long ago but had only been a few short days. It appeared he was inclined to assist Thor after all.

“The day I gave Lauren the Brúðr Steinn, when we confessed our mutual feelings, not once did she mention my being a God or of Asgard as part of the reason she loved me. She admired me because she thought I was brave for returning to Earth, facing the ridicule and distrust. She admired how I could stay poised in the face of their, understandable, anger and act as if their words weren’t painful when truthfully I found it all… intolerable.” He smiled at the memory and shook his head. “She called me a good man, Thor. Me. A good man. Not a God. Not an Asgardian. Not a Jotun. Just a good man. She didn’t love me for my differences, though I freely admit my magic enchants her. She loved me because to her I am a good man first and foremost. Can you say the same? Can you say your Jane didn’t feel a little excited by the fact she was with the God of Thunder? The King of Asgard?”

Thor sighed but shook his head. “No. No, I can’t say that.”

“Do you honestly think Jane would have been happy here?”

“No. I knew she wouldn’t. It was one of the reasons I let her go.”

“For all Lauren’s misgivings, I could close my eyes and see her here. I could see the utter joy she would take in being of Asgard. And though she worries about what being princess means, she’s taken to it like a dream. She’s perfect at it. She belongs here.”

“That she does,” Thor smiled. “She will be a wonder.”

“Yes, she will.”

“I see what you’re getting at, Loki. If I were to pursue Sif seriously, it would be a match which would suit my position.”

“Yes, she would be a suitable match. Sif is well aware of what it would mean to become your wife. Whether that is her intended goal, I can’t say,” because he didn’t want to, “but she would make a Queen fit to fill the void mother left. A warrior queen is one the people can look to with pride. But do not make this decision purely based on her ability to fill the space at your side. Neither of you will be happy if that is your intended goal. Pursue her if she makes your heart flutter when she smiles. If her absence makes it ache. If something amazes or amuses you and your first thought is to tell her about it. If the love you hold for her in your heart is so big, it often feels as if you will burst simply trying to contain it.”

“You’ve become quite the romantic, brother,” Thor snickered.

Loki threw him a wry grin. “And if she makes your cock sit up and beg, of course.”

“Bah!” Thor shoved him, making Loki stumble. “I should tell your wife you speak so candidly of cocks.”

“Who do you think taught me?” he asked innocently, grinning when Thor gaped at him. “Lauren is a feisty woman.”

“Please stop speaking of my sister that way,” Thor muttered, face twisting. “What deviant, kinky things the two of you get up to are none of my business.”

Loki chuckled as he sauntered on over the bridge. “I will say she quite likes the alcoves with the heavy curtains. Yes, yes she does.”

“Dammit, Loki!”

Loki only smiled.

***

He snuck into their chambers like a thief in the night and removed the protections he’d placed on the doors. Slipping into their bedroom, he found Socks awake, tail twitching impatiently as if to say, What took you so long? Loki only shrugged, shed his clothing with a thought, and climbed into bed where he plucked the kitten from the pillow and used magic to trade places with it, happy to be back to cuddling his wife as the kitten returned to the tower near the window.

Lauren stirred, sighed, and blinked open her eyes. “Time’s it?”

“Early, or late depending on your preference,” he murmured. “Go back to sleep, my heart.”

She took a deep breath and wiggled closer until he could feel the heat from between her legs against his hip. “Did you find what you were lookin’ for?”

Loki smirked and shook his head. “Why would you ask that?” She should have stayed asleep with the small spell he'd worked, but that she'd notice his absence didn't surprise him.

“You left,” she murmured and wriggled a little more until she was mostly laying on top of him.

“Are you sure? Perhaps you only dreamed I left.” The temptation of her skin was far too great for him to resist, and Loki stroked his hands down her back.

“A pillow doesn’t have a heartbeat, Loki. You gonna tell me where you went? Or am I gonna have to entice it out of you?” She pushed up, letting the silk and furs slide down to reveal her body, cast in the light from the fire when she straddled him fully.

“That’s,” he swallowed to wet his dry mouth, “effective. I went to see if I could ascertain who had thrown the dagger.”

She was in the process of drawing her hands up toward her breasts when she froze for a moment then continued onward until her hands cupped the perfect orbs. “And did you?”

“Yes.��

“Who?” she asked, lightly brushing her nails over her nipples.

“Does it matter?” Loki asked, his fingers sliding between her spread thighs to where her curls glistened.

Lauren sighed and rocked on his hand. “Maybe not. Did they say why?”

“Yes. Does that matter?”

“A… a little,” she moaned when he spread her wetness around.

“Anger. Jealousy.”

“Was it warranted?” She peered down at him, the fire of desire in her eyes.

“Never.”

“Seriously, Loki.”

He watched her ride his hand before sinking his fingers inside her. “I swear it wasn’t. I swear it.”

“I believe you.” The final question was on her face, unasked, but clear all the same.

“I banished him. I didn’t kill him, Lauren. I sent him away.”

“Why?” she asked, evidently expecting a different answer.

“Because when he begged for his life, I asked him what made him worthy of a second chance only to wonder what made me worthy of a second chance. What did the Norns see in me to give me you? I chose mercy and banishment rather than one more death on my hands. I’ve guaranteed he’ll never return and never plot against us. He didn't hurt you, though he tried. And it was, as I suspected, a spur of the moment decision I truly believe he regret-”

Her hand closed over his mouth before she leaned down and replaced it with her lips. The sweet, soft, tender kiss relaxed every one of his slowly tightening muscles.

“Okay, Loki,” she whispered, her hands framing his face. “I trust you. Whatever decision you made.”

He closed his eyes and shook a little, the validation making him gasp having feared he’d made the wrong decision even though Thor had agreed with him. “I just want you safe. I need you safe,” he murmured as he rolled her beneath him, determined to make love to his wife one more time before morning.

If the Gledeblomstring rained their pollen down on the slowly moving lovers again, neither noticed, too intent on getting lost in each other.

Next Chapter

#Of Blood and Roses #Loki x Lauren #Loki Laufeyson #god of mischief #loki laufeyson fanfiction #god of mischief fanfiction #avengers au #asgard au #southern belle

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mockingjayne12 · 7 years ago

Text

Unclear

(Lyatt / Timeless Fic)

Lucy stumbles up the new Lifeboat, her feet always a little unsteady, but as she follows a version of herself she’s completely unfamiliar with, it has her standing on more uneven ground than usual. Hands shaking as she grips the top, her knuckles turning white, as she pauses, one foot inside, the other almost dangling.

The hesitation is there, not sure what exactly she’s getting herself into, but a woman she knows to be her, someday, maybe, with shorter hair, promises that there’s a way to get Rufus back, she finds herself following them into whatever danger may be lurking to save her friend.

Wyatt’s hand, her Wyatt, she finds herself making the distinction, comes to land on her waist, steadying her, as she climbs in, and she can’t help the tiniest flinch in response to his hands on her. It had been so long since she’d allowed herself to think about his touch. Finding it easier to extricate herself from the awkward triangle equation of disaster. But now…now things were changing. They were different.

Her face scrunches, and her injuries pull at the skin, causing a sting to her face, a hiss coming to her lips loud enough to have bearded Wyatt turning around to look at her.

She can’t quite place the stare, the murky glow of his blue eyes in the dark interior lighting causing confusion, but she swears she sees something of nostalgia lingering there, as he almost smirks at her reaction, and she ducks her head quickly, her long hair moving to cover the red tint to her cheeks. Forcing her eyes not to trace the hard, sculpted line of his arms in that shirt, his jaw covered, but his arms exposed. Seemed like a fair trade off to her.

Shifting nervously on her feet, standing in the middle of this newer, somewhat more high tech, if that was even possible, Lifeboat. The panels glow back at her, a series of flashing lights dance across her bruised and battered face, a reminder that she didn’t belong, a warning of sorts.

She can feel Wyatt’s chest closely behind her, his hand having left her waist once she was safely inside, but still close by, as if ready to move her if he sensed any sort of foul play, untrusting of their future counterparts. Her eyes flicker to the movement of his fingers at the ready, aware that that simple gesture doesn’t go unnoticed by the other Lucy, but she averts her eyes, rubbing circles on her finger, like something’s missing, but not wanting to interrupt, stir history in her favor or ripple into disaster at the slightest interference. As if her mere presence wasn’t enough to do so.

“So this is it?” Wyatt asks behind her, his breath hitting the back of her neck, the sarcasm dripping from his words. “So who’s piloting this thing?” His question coming out as she glances around at the empty seats.

“That would be me,” Lucy, future Lucy, says with a quirk of her head and a grin on her face. The pride she wears mirrored in bearded Wyatt, a dimpled smile making its way to his face, before a look is shot towards him by his pilot partner, and he coughs.

A look of confusion passes Lucy’s face, as she watches their exchange, but she can’t help but feel the same surge of pride soaring through herself with a hint of disbelief at the knowledge that she learns to pilot the Lifeboat. Half the time she has trouble buckling her seatbelt, and they’re going to trust her to get everyone safely to another time?

Glancing back, she sees her Wyatt with a look that resembles something of admiration at the information, and she hides a smile, as she silently wonders if he still buckles her seatbelt in the pilot’s seat before they take off. But she shakes her head at the thought, not wanting to become too dependent on the notion that these people are them…in the future, the memories of the day they’d had coming to scream back at her in the form of a headache. The pulse of her wince echoing in the bruises of her face.

“Some of us would like to know what the plan is,” they hear from outside, the frustrated voice making its way into the machine with them.

It’s not missed by either Lucy when both Wyatt’s prickle and find themselves almost rolling their eyes at the comment, but collectively make their way out of the machine.

—————————————

“I see you still don’t sleep,” she hears, causing her to jump a little, her laptop nearly crashing towards the ground. Her head moving to shoot a comment at Wyatt for scaring her, but when she looks back, she finds it’s not him…or rather…not her Wyatt.

“Sorry, ma’am” he says, and the sincerity in his voice seems to be blanketing not just his remorse for scaring her, but all the times before that one was needed, extending as far as back as the first time they met, it seems.

His hair is no longer smoothed back, but instead hanging wildly over his eyes, the dark color contrasting with the blue, illuminating them more than usual in the eery dark light of the bunker.

She moves to sit up, her robe falling a little, as does her guard around the man who’d just referred to her as a pleasantry she hadn’t heard in quite some time. The nostalgia washing over her, bringing a smile to her split lip.

What she looks at as a strange future, he looks back like an old memory.

“I haven’t seen you with long hair in forever,” he says with a tilt of his head, a ducked smile, as he sits in the chair next to her, arms coming to rest on his knees, leaning towards her, his thumb making circles against his finger in a habit she can’t quite place, but one she’d seen short haired Lucy do earlier.

She shifts in her seat, her hand unconsciously moving to smooth down the top of her hair, until she reaches the point of the bun resting at the end. She finds it a funny statement, given that her hair was short when she met her Wyatt. Only recently had it gotten longer, but it seems she’ll eventually work herself up to cut it again, and she can’t help but wonder if it wasn’t a control move. When the rest of the world spirals out of her control, did she cut it to feel like she had a say in something or was it pure convenience?

She’s shaken from her thoughts as bearded Wyatt laughs.

“I just saw that exact worried face five minutes ago before I walked out here,” he teases, and she narrows her eyes at him.

“Lucy was…,” she starts, hesitating after referring to herself, someone else, by name. “…worried? About what? She could kick anyone’s ass in that outfit alone,” she jokes, but the shake to her voice suggests she’s afraid of the answer he might give.

Leaning further into her, almost straining with a conspiring grin.

“Just between you and me…y’all haven’t changed that much,” he says with a soft smile. “Not where it matters, anyway,” and she finds herself smiling back. The comfort she feels in knowing that not everything will be lost in the future. A version of herself that’s unrecognizable, but still her, at the core. “You know her, or you, I guess, going on about the past and not wanting to change anything and the consequences of doing so,” he finishes with almost a shiver of the threat of something changing. Seemingly more invested than she’s ever seen him.

She doesn’t miss how normal it is to be in his presence. There’s an ease to the way he speaks to her, one that only comes with knowing someone for a long time.

“Can I ask you something?” She tries, staring down at her hands, her brown eyes surfacing with tears threatening to spill down her cheeks.

“Uhh, shoot,” he says, but there’s a hesitancy to his voice, as he glances back, as if checking to make sure no one’s listening, like a child making sure they’re not going to get in trouble before doing the thing they were told not to do.

“In the future…” she starts with a heavy sigh, and she sees Wyatt bring his hand to rub at his beard, a tick she’s not quite sure how long he’s had, but one that she could eventually get used to. “In the future, are we okay?”

Her brown eyes plead with him for an honest answer. She’s found herself at a crossroads with her Wyatt, although the writing seems to be on the wall given how frequently she keeps referring to him as her own. Just earlier today she sat on a wall, the same wall they’d declared themselves happy, and he’d told her he loved her.

She knew that if she were being honest, the words were buried in her heart, beating along with the rhythm of who she was, intertwined and inextricably connected. But her tongue had refused to respond, her pain coming from more than just the visible injuries.

Having stared into his blue eyes, clouded with tears, it was unclear of what their future would be, if there even was one outside of that moment. But as she sits on the couch, staring into her future, literally, she can’t help but wonder if the woman with the short hair, but whose worry never ceases, didn’t just want to preserve the past, but her past. And what, specifically, was she worried about keeping in tact, to ensure that it remains the same for her?

This new Wyatt sits there, once again his thumb moving across his finger as he thinks of his answer, of them. A slow smile spreading across his face, the question seemingly easier to answer than what he had expected.

“Yeah, Lu,” he stops, as if catching himself from saying too much. “We’re okay,” he assures her, his eyes refusing to leave her own, as her brow furrows at a nickname she’s never heard him use, locking her into an assurance that she can’t help but hope remains true.

His hand reaches out, grabbing her own with a gentle squeeze, sealing his silent promise. A calm washing over her, if only for a second, at the safety of knowing that.

“What’s going on?” She hears her Wyatt ask, walking quickly into the room worry carried on his face, in his stance, tense as his eyes trace the interaction between the two of them.

“You’ll get there,” the bearded one says with a pat to her Wyatt’s back as he walks away, throwing a wayward glance at her as he goes, the contact bristling the man in front of her, as he scans her face to make sure she’s okay.

Lucy stands, closing her laptop, raising an eyebrow at the Wyatt standing next to her.

“We should get some sleep,” she suggests, trying to walk past him, but he hesitantly rests his hand on her arm, stopping her.

“You okay?” He asks, his concerned eyes refusing to meet her own, as if feeling unworthy of even asking her that question, knowing full well that he’s the cause of a lot of her pain.

“No,” she answers honestly, moving her head so he’s forced to meet her eyes. The full force of her brown meeting his blue, casting a hazel gaze that between the two of them that won’t be realized until much later. “But I will be,” she says, trusting future Wyatt’s words to have been true. Her free hand coming to grip his for a second in the same way her’s had just been grasped by a different man, but one in the same.

He lets his hand drop, his gentle grasp gone, but the warmth lingering on her skin, and he nods.

As she turns, she reaches for her necklace, the one no longer with her. It had been something of a talisman to her, rooting her in the past, morphing into a habit of grasping onto the jewelry, soothing her of what was and what will be. Her hand landing somewhere on her stomach, coming up empty, palm spreading across where it should be.

Her eyes squinting in realization, her thumb drawing circles on her shirt, the same way she’d seen a future Wyatt and Lucy do on their fingers, as if missing something they’d taken off.

“No,” she whispers to herself, shaking her head, looking down the hall in the direction he’d disappeared to.

“Hey, wait, Lu,” her Wyatt says in haste, seeing her standing in the hallway, frozen. “What?” He asks, seeing her eyes grow wide.

“Did you…were you listening to us…?” Her words questioning but trailing off as if she was trying to piece together something so obvious.

“No, why? Did he say something?” His jealous anger almost comical given that it was a version of himself that was the cause.

“Hmm,” she hums. “Lu?” She quirks an eyebrow at him.

She swears she can see the red almost tint his cheeks. “It seemed better than Lulu,” he shrugs, and she cringes at the childish nickname.

“You do know Lucy is my nickname, right?” She teases, her brown eyes twinkling with mischief as she puts him on the spot.

“Yeah, but everyone calls you that,” he admits with a shrug.

She peers up at him.

“No…it’s…fine. I…like it,” she admits with a smirk. “It’s…unique.”

“Alright,” he says, as they walk quietly together down the hall together.

“Hey Wyatt,” she nearly whispers, her mouth pursing before continuing. “Do you think…in the future…that they’re…”

“Married?” He finishes, and she balks.

“I was going to say ‘together,’” she nervously laughs.

“I don’t know, I’m having a hard time thinking anyone would marry me with that beard,” he jokes with a cringe on his face, and she nudges him with her shoulder.

“Really? I like it,” she says without thinking, covering her mouth with her hand.

“Oh yeah? He says, his voice getting louder. “Lucy Preston, a fan of beards, got it. So should I start growing one tomorrow?” He rubs his bare face in the same way future Wyatt had rubbed his beard, their teasing reminiscent of another time, one before everything had gotten so complicated.

She stops, facing him, and he falls in time with her, planted in his spot next to her.

“I’m serious,” she says, not quite a pout on her lips, but enough of a sadness to her voice, that he can sense what she’s getting at.

“Lucy, Lu, as long as you’ll allow me, I’ll be right here, cheering you on, protecting you, whatever you want. I know my word doesn’t mean much now, but…” he gets out, the pain seeping out of him, wanting to make it better, move towards healing, preparing the damage.

“It will,” she assures him, quirking her bruised face with a tilt of her head, peering at him through dark lashes. And she can’t help but wonder if this was how it was always supposed to be. That a bearded version of himself was always meant to lay the groundwork for a time where they were together, side by side, not just fighting for a better future, but a future where they were together. Happy. Married. Okay.

He nods, and they continue walking, hands slightly brushing against each other with every step, the heat trapped between them, threatening to burn them both if they kept it up. Their future becoming more and more clear, decisions allowing them to make the choices that lead them closer to their fate.

xxxxxxx

hello, lovelies! i started writing this the night the finale aired, because i couldn't stop thinking about how damn hot wyatt and lucy were. like wow. WOW. if i die young, bury me with that beard. but as i waited to hear of news for a season three, my mind started to wander about what this actually meant for them as they spent time with their future selves, and how much of what their future versions did would impact their actual future. so this is what happened. hopefully you enjoy, and please review!

#lyatt #lucy preston #wyatt logan #timeless #lyatt fanfic

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classicalafros67 · 6 years ago

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Let's talk about Gender

I feel that this conversation always brings up a can of worms, and that people are immediately ready with prime typing fingers to respond, "lol there are only to genders, male and female," or something along the lines of, "if you have a penis ur a dude lol, no changing biology, sorry." Before I go into that in depth, I believe that, as a really great professor recently told me, I should go into the academic theory of it all. As I mentioned in my last post, I want this conversation to be constructive, so in order for me to even begin thinking of starting this conversation anywhere, I will first tackle the theory of socialization, then identity, then gender. (And hope I can explain it in a way that is clear.) To be completely honest though, this will be a long one folks, and one which I cannot shorten. It is imperative that we understand this before we dive into discussion, however, I invite you to scroll through the discussion (starting in the fourth paragraph) and refer back to the few paragraphs before explaining the theory if you get confused about anything.

First, let’s talk about socialization. A quick definition of socialization is the process of learning to behave in a way that is acceptable in a society. It is very interesting how socialization happens as we utilize symbols. (symbols will used in a way to portray things that form cultures such as the media, consumer products, linguistics, vernacular, art, and even behavior) Take the example of media – the way people tell the news, or who’s the obvious target for that Axe body spray or Dove deodorant. Consider how these symbols that you grew up with may have affected your world view. Next, think of the ways these symbols are distributed and how. These symbols are distributed through what we call vehicles of influences. We break this up into three parts: intimacy, repetition, and reach. Intimacy being the exposure of symbols through people we know or trust. (e.g friends of family) Repetition being the multitude of times that you are exposed to a symbol. (e.g. if you’ve had a discussion on gender multiple times, as I’ve had, and you’re reading this and probably hearing the same things more than once about gender once we, finally, get into it) Then reach being the weight and geography of people being exposed to a symbol all at once. (e.g. Hasan Piker’s, a host and producer on The Young Turks, reach to expose or repeat symbols towards others is WAY wider than my blog which I’ll assume will only reach a couple people)

After learning this, we are left to ask how socialization is negotiated. According to scholar and professor Nancy Armstrong, “Culture is a struggle among its various factions to control its signs and symbols.” How do we control the symbols to form the desired culture? Like with the vehicles of influence, there are three ways: maintaining (the status quo or current/accepted condition), transforming (deviating from the status quo), or repairing (sactioning the transformation).

Phew! That’s a lot of theory! And we’re not done, but I promise there’s not a lot of theory left. (we’ll get cracking on TRANSFORMING GENDER soon! Radical!!) The last piece is the theory of identity and how that puzzle piece fits into socialization. (although, there’s a pretty obvious hint if you thought about your world view development!) Identity is how you perceive yourself. It is also a performance of expectations of behaviors based upon the category we put ourselves in while interacting with others. The theory of identity breaks itself into four largely entangling parts: self-concept (our expectations of a category or a performance), self-esteem (how well does one/I fit into this category/schema?), expectations (self definitive), and performance.

Now onto gender! I first learned about what gender meant sociologically. In Jeanne H.Ballantine’s third edition of, Our Social World, gender is a, “socially constructed meaning associated with being male or female… and how individuals construct their identity in terms of gender within these constraints” (246). Gender is mostly based off of sex and stereotypes of what is masculine and feminine. Definitions of masculinity and femininity are different in the United States than they are in Spain or Indonesia, and so on. One could even believe that gender is made up accordingly to a society; hence social construct. (It is also important to note that gender and sex, while entangled, are not the same thing.) However, when it comes to the psychological definition in John W. Santrock’s, Adolescence, “Gender refers to the characteristics of people as males and females” (168). And when we consider gender and adolescence together, there’s a group of other things to consider. As one can see, there is not a concrete definition of gender, especially when you consider beyond the biological and stereotypically. I vehemently believe that there will never be a concrete definition for gender when you consider identifications beyond the binary of male or female. I also believe that this scares people because for so long, the symbols of our culture have maintained the bifurcation of male or female with no negotiation of the spectrum of this. Even when one considers the biological makeup of a person, their primary and secondary sex characteristics, their sex chromosomes, (XY, XYX, XXX, and more), there is not a true binary for that either. Another example of this would be someone who is intersex. (Intersex being when one has a reproductive or sexual anatomy/ies that do not seem to fit the typical binary definitions of female or male) So with all this complexity in mind, why do we look at gender and sex as a binary? Why do we sanction a person’s gender identity or even gender expression when it doesn’t fit our concepts or expectations? Actually, it is for that exact reason that we sanction it. We have been socialized (Western culture) to see gender and sex as a binary. (e.g. these are girl toys, these are men’s jeans, that soap is for guys) Think of my Axe body spray and Dove soap examples. To which genders are the products targeting? (Why is there a section in the Walmart dedicated to Men’s Dove Soap?) The transformation of this binary is seen as a threat not only to gender identity, but to expression and behaviors.

When it comes to gender roles, however, the definition is a little more concrete. According to Santrock, “gender role is a set expectation that prescribes how females and males should think, act, and feel” (168). When I think of a cisgender woman (cisgender meaning someone who comfortably identifies as the sex and gender they were assigned at birth), I think of long hair, pink skirt, painted nails and beautiful eyeliner. When I think of a cisgender man, I think of muscles, beard, suit and tie. These are the social expectations that have been placed in my head as to what man or woman should look and act like. Still, that expectation is never the full reality. These expectations of masculinity or femininity are best portrayed in a spectrum versus a binary.

Take me for example. I identify as a cisgender male. I stated my self-conceptions of what a cisgender male should look like, and we have been socialized to know what a masculine man should act like. In fact, the archetype of masculinity would be a strong, in-control man whom is out of touch emotionally. (Lee, Shaw 119) I remember once in a psychology class, when we were asked to name some typical characteristics of being male we could identify with, I could barely name any. I was able to do a better job at naming some typical characteristics of a female. I believe that this is because I grew up around cisgender women, who conformed to scripts of femininity, as a kid. My father raised me with my mom, but I mostly grew up around the women in our family, and I looked up to my mom more than my dad because she was around me the most. Even when I moved in with my dad, the majority in that house were women as well. I was encouraged to like art, nature, and music, and my father did not like that so much because those subjects were not seen as manly. In my mind, especially as I grew up, my father had a ridiculous personality; bottling up emotions, having explosive fits of rage, being irrational, never truly thinking deeply about things and so on. With that, I imitated my mom, who was the exact opposite from my dad. It wasn’t until high school, after I came out to my father as gay, that I tried to imitate his masculinity in order to gain his praise again. I got into sports, tried to anyway, and joined the speech team and so on. The speech team is an example of me demonstrating my report talk which in Deborah Tannen’s definition is the, “talk that gives information” (179). Public speaking is an example of this, and according to her, males are typically good at this. I did not think too deeply into this when I was 14, but I think I somehow knew that public speaking was typically seen as a “boy thing” rather than a “girl thing.” But of course, I quit speech my junior year of high school because I was way better at music than I was at public speaking. Can you see ways that my family, mainly my father, maintained the status quo of masculinity, in this case to the point of toxicity, and attempted to repair my feminine characteristics especially when I came out? Despite my many feminine characteristics, I do believe that I also have some masculine traits due to how I survived my social environment. (performance according to interactions) I was bullied a lot through elementary and middle school for many reasons; I was short, I was skinny, I was black, and I was suspected to be gay even at that time. My parents raised me to believe that when someone bullies you, you stand up to them. This belief caused me to become very aggressive as a child. I got into a lot of fights with many of my bullies. One fight I got into ended with me gaining some permanent scars on my face. Additionally, as a young adult, I weightlift now along with running, and I’m surprisingly strong when it comes to that. I become very aggressive and forceful when I’m in the gym.

I could probably list off a hundred more things that I do that can be seen as both masculine and feminine, but why does any of this matter? Why is so important that I stay healthy? Why does it MATTER how aggressive I am or how many fights I’ve been in? I share my story without taking care to how I talk about it to show you that I am also victim to this socialization. I was victim to thinking that I needed to fit perfectly into the binary of a masculine cisgender male. However, my love for art and music complicated this, my love for makeup complicated this, my open expressiveness complicated this, and my queerness complicated this. At every step of these complications, someone would attempt or succeed in sanctioning this whether it be myself and my low self-esteem (or my “despite my feminine characteristics” quip), the bullying, the suggestions to play football instead of sing in that musical, or the disgusted shouts from grandma if I walked downstairs with eyeshadow on. With constrictive symbols and the refusal to extend or accept the potential symbols into other categories, we effectively repair them, sanction them, and punish those who dare to try to transform these symbols. It is evident that these repairs and even the maintenance itself causes harm. The socialization of gender, sex and expression as a binary in itself isn’t the problem. It is the refusal to accept these categories are more complex than a binary. It is the repairs that we place upon the people who do not fit the binary of these categories.

We refuse to listen to each other, empathize with one another, and effectively continue to discover new, more intellectual and complex ways to see a sign or a symbol. We argue with each other in guise of discourse learning nothing from each other —for the goal is to be right, not to learn. This effectively lets these repairs upon transformation persist especially when it comes the topic of gender and gender expression. And so the cycle of ignorance continues. I know that I did not cover everything,(I’m think that I might have to break this into parts) so please leave some answers to my questions, advance this conversation here and abroad, and be the transformation not the repair.

Sources:

Santrock, J. (2010). Adolescence (13th ed.)

Ballantine J; Roberts, K. (2014). Our Social World (3rd ed.)

Lee J; Shaw S. (2015). Women’s Voices, Feminist Visions (5th ed.)

#discourse #gender #identity #theory #genderstudies #bigpicture #discussion #ask blog #blogging #expression #pride #academic #education #queer #binary #transform

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stretchjournalemerson · 6 years ago

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Endless Island

By Matthew Pifko

I. Coffee, Whole Milk, and 2 Sugar Packets

My mom is drawing on a napkin at the diner while we wait for our food. She sketches out long, parallel lines across the fragile fabric, careful not to tear through the tissue-like surface. She is drawing me a map of Long Island - more specifically, the roads that criss and cross it. I sip coffee out of the stout, ceramic mug. I’m now seventeen, I’ve already decided I like coffee, and it’s too late to turn back. It tastes bitter and sour and it burns my tongue a little bit, but I diligently sip it anyway. I don’t really like the taste, but I do like the way it makes me feel buzzy and present (I never say that of course, because that makes me sound like a drug addict).

“So, this is Sunrise Highway,” she declares, pointing to the thin line of ink. “And that’s connected to 347, right?” I murmur into my steaming cup. “No. Sunrise Highway runs along the south shore, all the way to the end, y’know, like where Montauk is. And the Long Island Expressway runs here, over near us on the north shore, from the city out to the middle of the island. 347 is one of the roads connected to the Northern State Parkway, which is that windy and old road that was built before they had big expressways on the island.”

I nod blankly, and mutter something. Just a noise of affirmation to get her to think my mind is still on the conversation. The truth is that I couldn't care less about the long, flat strips of concrete that connect Long Island. I don’t care what they’re called. I don’t care where they go. None of this matters to me when I’m seventeen, because I’m not going to live here. In fact, pretty soon, my license will be useless to me, since I’ll be soaring on a gleaming bullet of a subway. The second I graduate from my claustrophobic little prison of a high school, I’m going far, far away. As far as I’m allowed to go. At the moment, I have compromised with Boston - a city that isn’t exactly Los Angeles, but is at least a couple hours away from New York. I tell myself there’s a good chance I’ll transfer over to LA in a year, anyway. To me, Long Island was the place to escape from, the starting line of a marathon, a ledge to leap from. This is not to say Long Island is Bumblefuck, Idaho. In fact, the Island is positively teeming with people, and there are more flooding in every day. So many people that they’re packed like sardines into this tiny strip of land clinging to the East Coast, the price tags on their houses going up and up and up until the entire place is swallowed up by the ocean. I was determined to never be one of them. Convinced that I couldn’t be one of them, even if I tried. I knew Long Island wasn’t “for” me, the same way I knew as a child that scary R-rated movies weren’t “for” me. The thing about Long Island, and more specifically, my quaint little homogenized tourist town, is that I always felt like an “other” there. In terms of postcolonial theory, “otherness” is defined as a sort of psychological divide constructed by conquerors to separate themselves from the conquered - to my understanding, this group of conquerors includes Spanish conquistadors, British imperialists, Nazis, and even those wealthy, boisterous, self congratulatory high schoolers who call quiet kids

“fags”. In other words, “otherness” is a weapon used by monsters of all shapes and sizes. As an other, I understood that, on some level, I was lesser than the conquerors. Maybe because I was queer. Maybe because I was Jewish. Maybe because I wanted to be an artist. Or maybe because I just felt like Matt Pifko didn’t belong there, like his brain chemistry was incompatible with the air he breathed in Port Jefferson, Long Island, New York, United States, zip code 11777.

II. Learning

Don’t worry, this isn’t a tragic backstory. In high school, I wasn’t bullied or tormented or even excluded. I had a superpower - I was selectively invisible. That is, “Queer Jew With Anxiety” wasn’t exactly stamped on my forehead. My voice was deep. My hair was straight. My nose was normal. My body wasn’t twitchy or nervous. My face was square enough. My beard grew patchy, but it grew. I was tall, tall enough that no one questioned my masculinity. I laughed a lot, and I was funny. I looked depressed, or maybe just tired, but in a relatable way. After all, what high schooler isn’t “depressed” these days?

“Your face is my mood,” my friend once said to me as I stumbled into the fluorescent white building at 7:18 am.

When you ask people what superpower they’d want, they always say “flying” or “time travel” or some ridiculous shit like that. I say invisible, because being figuratively invisible is great. To walk down the hallway and not feel eyes on you is to feel power in high school. To be invisible is to be able to blend in anywhere, to fit into any friend group, any clique, any niche. Information is power, and the less information, the less control they had over me. I was slippery. Being translucent is even more powerful in a small town like Port Jefferson, where the local mothers gossip on their Facebook forums and around dinner tables, where the same 70 kids who went to pre-k together went to high school together as well. Port Jefferson was a special small town, in that it was a literal port. Located on the North Shore of Long Island, Port Jefferson has a ferry system that constantly shuttles tourists from Bridgeport, Connecticut into our quaint little town. Stepping off this ferry, one looks down the barrel of Main Street, a bustling cardboard cutout of coffee shops, bars, and everything in between. Thus, tourist traps selling useless knick knacks would open and close every season along Main Street, a new vintage board game store replacing the new crystal shop from last year. During the summers, my parents would complain about the mobs of strangers running into traffic downtown. I never understood why it made them so mad until I got a car of my own and almost hit wandering pedestrians on multiple occasions. In Port Jefferson, you’d swear you could actually feel eyes on you. Think 1984, but Big Brother is a network of parents who were once the popular kids in Port Jefferson High School back in nineteen-seventy-whatever. And now, their offspring are the popular kids once again, like some sort of inbred dynasty. To express otherness was to be shunned out of the community. To be invisible was to live on their watch-list. Nothing scared the denizens of Port Jefferson more than invisibility - they had a fear of blindness, of not being able to peer behind the curtain.

This was their town, and they’d be damned if anything or anyone was awry in their town. To these lifelong townspeople, a town had to be possessed. A town had to be owned - and therefore it was their job to own it. To control it. To keep it the same. To keep the others out. I remember going to a stage crew party senior year, and finally stepping into the old fashioned, brick-built mansion of one of these Port Jefferson dynasties. Their son, in my grade, controlled the entire theater department, to the point where he was actually paid to manage the other kids (other kids including me and my friends on the art team). Walking around this palace, seeing the off-kilter smiles of his parents as they greeted me, I felt genuine terror. Could their gazes pierce my thin armor? How much did they know? How much did they see?

From time to time, my invisibility would scare me. I’d think about dying in some horrible car accident on the LI Expressway, my consciousness and interior life gone before I could blink, with no one ever knowing that I was gay. No one ever knowing why I was an irritable and inconsolable asshole from time to time, why I holed myself up in my room listening to Frank Ocean and The Smiths for hours. At my funeral, they’d shrug, and just figure I was a strange boy. Often, I’d think about confessing my queerness on a paper, locked in a box that they could only find after I died.

This is not to say that I had no meaningful friends in high school, or that my parents didn’t know me at all, or that I was dead inside from freshman year till the day I graduated. After all, there were smaller, safer ways of exposing my otherness, whether it was my unwavering liberal political allegiance or my undying commitment to twisted horror cinema. It’s just... when you’re an other on Long Island, in Port Jefferson, you get scared what would happen if you ever truly lost your power. Being slippery is good. It means you won’t get caught. Even when I came out to my closest friends in the sticky spring of senior year, I felt scared. I felt my invisibility fade away, my body now opaque and ugly. I was seen, and I could be caught. Nothing’s worse than feeling like you could be trapped in Port Jefferson.

III. Endless Island

When I try real hard to visualize Long Island, to visualize the idea of Long Island, I always come back to the days I spent canvassing for Suffolk County Democratic Legislator Sarah Anker, a mission that spread from the summer to election day 2017. Trump had already taken over the White House, so there was an element of hopelessness to the whole affair. There was also a little rebellious spark in that uphill battle, making our fight for office a tad exciting.

I had taken up the internship with two of my friends from high school. Together, we traced the windy roads every Saturday, using the dots on our printer paper maps to find the targets of our campaign. Each week, we would get new black and white rectangles of Long Island, the tiny roads threaded out like a spider’s web across the page, the black circles that indicated houses appearing to me like trapped flies. On the page, we could indicate whether that

resident we had spoken with supported the candidate, supported the opposing party, refused to say, didn’t speak English, wasn’t there at all, and so on. Our campaign supervisor was Tim, a tall, slim man in his early 20s. Most importantly to seventeen year old me, Tim was openly gay. Gay. Gay, like how no guy in my high school was openly gay. The very thought of Tim existing, running this little organization, sent excited chills through my body. He was here, he was an “other”, and he was living and breathing just like the rest of us.

Since the three of us Port Jefferson boys had just gotten our licenses, we would swap on and off driving, one of us spending our precious gas money at a time. I drove my beat-up 1996 Lexus that my family had purchased for 3,000. Leland drove his dad’s silver, scratched 2003 Honda minivan. Dylan rarely drove, but when he did, he drove the sleek black Volkswagen that his mom normally used. Leland, with his twitchy hands and manic laugh, was probably the worst driver out of us three (we may have gotten pulled over once or twice), but he drove the most. He liked driving. I liked it when he drove, for in these hours I could just listen to the laughter of my friends, the tinny music coming from the rusted speakers, and the hum of the air conditioning. I would stare out the big rectangular minivan window at the endless rows of box houses, their color changing from tan to grey to maroon to blue to grey to black to tan to grey. When the car stopped, we would split off in three directions, each of us knocking doors, pacing down the pavement in search of potential voters. When we walked during the stretched out summer days, it was always too humid. When we walked during the inky black autumn nights, it was always too frigid. Canvassing, in its essence, was an “other” invasion - we invaded these boring neighborhoods, these undisturbed sectors, infiltrating their tranquil suburbs with our Democrats and our queerness and our papers, our papers that we left on their doorstep whether they liked it or not. They would be forced to see our faces, to hear our voices. Often, I felt like a deep sea explorer, diving deeper into the trenches of Long Island and seeping into their private lives through the cracked roads I once resented. Knocking on these endless doors, peering into endless sets of eyes, was that fertile mix of strange, scary, and thrilling that defines the best moments of adolescence. Sometimes, staring out into the vast Boston cityscape, I miss those ugly houses a little.

But really, when I think of Long Island, I don’t think of a place. A specific, singular snapshot doesn’t come to mind. Rather, I think of driving through the suburbs in Leland’s creaky minivan, the roads blurring together, the yellow dashes mixing with the white lines, the street lights gliding into one another. Sometimes, after a party that ended too early, or after our parents had come home too soon, we would flee to the car, and just drive in circles around Long Island. Maybe stop and get some shitty fast food. Sit in the parking lot and talk a lot and then settle into a warm silence. Get back in the car. Look at the small towns pass by, peer curiously at the anonymous rows of houses. Go to the beach and creep onto the pitch black dunes. Listen to each others’ shaky breath, and the sound of wind hitting the water. And then drive some more.

Acknowledgments

Joan Didion deserves top billing here, without whom this essay would not have existed. I’d like to thank Mary Kovaleski-Byrnes for giving me the opportunity to create my first piece of writing about my queer identity. Clare Jackson, thank you for bringing this text to where it is now. I will always remember when tears fell down your face as you read my first draft in class. Eitan and Abby, thank you for the further assistance and final touches. Long Island - I don’t know what to say to you.

#culture #island #home #city #matthew pifko #stretch2019

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bittenpath-blog · 6 years ago

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48cm:Opinion: How is Your 'Professional' Hygiene & Time Management?

Instead of talking about the same old apocalyptic industry news and dropping f-bombs on what happened to Interbike, let's back up and take a more intimate look at ourselves individually. If you asked me what I thought was the most significant thing that sets this industry apart from others (there are many), I would say it's each individual's personal and professional attachment to this industry and the very people (consumers), they serve. Elsewhere ... sure, people can care about and be proud of the work they do but not many industries come to mind where just about every individual is passionate to the point of being a customer or advocate of their own ties.

Think about that for a second. Whether you own/manage a shop or head up global sales for Sramano, no matter your role in this industry, you are an end-user and/or cycling advocate (a customer if you will) as well. In short, we are them and they are us.

But do they see us as we see them? How does our "hygiene" compare?

Before we try to "fix the industry" or adapt to what it being what it is, we should first consider how important it is to optimize and balance out personal and professional time management. I discuss this last, but time management is often more challenging to those working in the retail side of our industry. Their weeks don't often sync with many of their friends', family's, (and even customers'), and if not managed, can result in individuals burning out. Once burned out, motivation diminishes and things start falling apart (I recently discovered a sort of fun, analog way of doing something I've done for years ... but in a much more effective fashion and feel it's worth a conversation).

Poor Hygiene and How to Improve It

This isn't about bathing or conditioning your wizard beard, but when was the last time you checked yourself in the mirror or pretended to rub your eye with your shoulder only to inconspicuously sniff a pit to determine if your deodorant had expired? These things are a part of our daily lives because we care about our basic presentation ... yet we often overlook these attributes when it comes to our professional sides.

Stop looking at your hair and worrying about how many times you wore those socks ... (OK, maybe worry about the socks). Instead take a look at where your "Professional" Hygiene stands. What is "Professional Hygiene" you ask? At a glance, it's your professional identity and practices others observe during and OUTSIDE of your regular day to day. Oh ... and "PROFESSIONAL" identity and "social identity" are two very different things.

I looked at a good mix of people I know and know of and was a bit shocked how few either didn't have a LinkedIn account or hadn't updated it in years. Some just had an old profile picture with zero information attached and one of those owns a shop. I was also surprised to find, at the retail level, that mechanics seemed more likely to have an up-to-date account than other shop employees.

But I Don't Need It

But you do. LinkedIn is FREE and common ground for many of your moneymaking customers. Most are there to keep up and interact with others on a professional level as well as seek opportunities to collaborate and learn.

Facebook is social, and frankly, the ineffective white noise of the internet. On LinkedIn, no one is posting their kids' first day of school, there are very few political keyboard battles, and almost everyone is ... well, PROFESSIONAL! There is an unwritten rule of etiquette as LinkedIn is not the place to constantly pimp out everything you're trying to sell, however it is a great, more refined place to expose your own professional interests, events, knowledge, and accomplishments ... WHICH EXPOSES YOU AND YOUR BUSINESS! Who wouldn't love an opportunity to share all of those valuable assets with a likely successful group of professionals who like bikes ... FOR FREE? (Did I mention it was free?)

There are also an unlimited number of blogs and stories being posted by those you are 'friends' with or follow ... to which is yet another FREE resource of valuable information. Blogs like Occam's Razor offer an assortment of simple to understand viewpoints on digital marketing, consumer behavior, and more effective ways to engage them. Also, shops and employees can share everything from BRAIN articles and the latest promotional videos from brands you carry. Sharing pix and information about upcoming and past events, to passively bragging about the training seminars you send your staff too builds your brand's/business's integrity! Here in Atlanta, PMBA just completed a workshop with some great brands training shop technicians on some of their new technologies and assembly and maintenance procedures ... including e-bikes! Most of the attendees I know are sharing it all over Facebook but I only saw it posted twice on LinkedIn (atta boy Josh Boggs. Sorry James Stanfill, you don't get credit for your LinkedIn posts as it should be expected from you ... but it appears to have been a great week).

Every company, retailer, and individual in the bike industry should have an up-to-date LinkedIn account but read the next paragraph before getting too excited. There is a little upfront effort involved and it's important to get it right.

First Thing's First

Even if you've been in the same position for 10 years or own your business, everyone should have a current resume and curriculum vitae. Looking for a job isn't the only reason people build a resume or CV (though it is absolutely required if you are), but I cannot express enough how valuable it is to have an up-to-date record of your work history and accomplishments.

A resume should be a clear, one-page display of your work history with bullet points in order of importance under each employer and association (Include volunteer work as it oozes integrity). Usually no more than 10 years of work history is needed unless there are some key roles that relate to what you're doing or seeking to accomplish. Building a resume is also a great way to reflect on your professional growth and focus on your where you want to go.

A Curriculum Vitae (commonly called a CV) is more centered on actual experiences and accomplishments. Again, it should also be a clear, one-page item but allows you have a little more freedom in how you lay it out. It doesn't always have to be in chronological order and should be laid out based on what you want it to say about you. You can even have a few different versions depending on what you want to accomplish. While a basic, no-frills resume and CV are fine, there are a thousands of examples out there to help you determine your layout as well as services who put them together for you.

Time Can Be On Your Side

I was a great example of what not to do when it came to time management. There was a point in time I almost lost everything I was trying to accomplish ... and that was before I had kids! I Had a full-time job, worked weekend at a shop when I wasn't traveling to races, was a full-time college student, and got up at 5 a.m. to get in a couple hours of riding almost daily. I was used to maintaining a pretty insane study and training schedule in high-school but working so much started causing me to fall behind (and asleep) in class, be late to work, dating ... (what's that?), and constantly stressed. I eventually hit a wall but I wasn't going to settle just yet. I trained on an organized 'periodization' schedule so tried adopting other things to that format by jotting my daily schedule down minute by minute. I began with a block of required sleep time because I knew every other item's accomplishment relied on it. It was eye opening because I then started re-prioritizing my training and race schedule around my work and school load. Before I even put my schedule in play, I had this weight lifted off my shoulders.

Now with kids and some gray hairs, things are a little more predictable to manage, but some common phrases I hear myself say relate to putting off things I wish I hadn't. This includes personal projects, riding, friends, and worst of all, my family. For years I have continued to keep notes in endless medium sized spiral notebooks for both personal and work-related items and I have become a master of all things Google calendar. Well, I recently discovered there is a next level of organization to be had and I encourage everyone with a semi-busy life and ideas and creativity swarming around in their head to look up "Bullet Journaling." The best part is it's fun and instills a feeling of accomplishment every time you use it.

Arm Yourself with Bullets

I'm just going to say it ... I have a fancy little bound notebook with top-notch paper (Leuchtturm1917 A5) and a couple of dedicated pens. I even put it in a nice, handmade leather cover making it even fancier. It's called a Bullet Journal and it's the best thing I've done in a long time. There is an insecure group of men that have referred to it as a BuJo (let's agree, that's worse), but considering I shaved my legs for 25 years and rode everywhere in spandex I don't worry about things like that.

Here's a video explaining the basic format but the way I look at it, a Bullet Journal is a sole, central hub where you manually input everything from your personal and work life, to ideas and positive thoughts into a strategically indexed format. I still rely on Google Calendar as I live by several audible daily reminders, but nothing helps me remember or follow through with something better than opening a book and writing it down. Even seeing my rather well thought out content page triggers things I may have forgotten to address. It also keeps me on task with things I say I want to do to the point I actually follow through with them. For those that always feel they're playing catch-up (raises hand), this takes a lot of the edge off at the very least.

Don't Procrastinate and Take Care of Yourself First

We're in the middle of what some of the country calls 'Winter' and this is the perfect time to prepare for and make subtle changes ... including getting more organized. If you don't take care of your own needs and happiness first, it becomes harder to accomplish the things others, and you, are relying on. Breathe and start by doing something for you. And just create a LinkedIn account already!!!

#48cm road bike #Bicycle Retailer and Industry News

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notyourcityyc · 7 years ago

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In My Life

https://notyourcity.nyc/in-my-life/

IN MY LIFE

ARTISTS

As a 15 year old child growing up in New York City, I was accustomed to a looser set of restrictions upon my personal agency than many other children, and I was exposed to opportunities that did not exist for many other children. I believed it was my right to drink as deeply from the cup of life as I could, by virtue of having had the good fortune to be born into a position of opportunity. This was a mentality echoed by my peers as we began using drugs and drinking, but not by my mother as I began to naturally arrange my priorities according to my interests. I awoke the morning of January the 31st, 2011 to find two hulking goons standing in my doorway, as one of them tossed me a bag of clothes and told me to get up and come with them. They told me they would handcuff me if I didn’t do what they wanted. My mom stood silently in my hallway and didn’t say a word as I left for the next 16 months.

When I touched down in Atlanta, GA, my plane goon transferred me to a different pair of goons. These ones were called Cecil and Paul. They took me to Chick-Fil-A. Then they took me to a remote wilderness outpost where I was made to strip and squat in front of them, coughing once to dislodge any potential insertables from my rectum. My clothes and belongings were put in a box, and I was fitted in a red Gildan tee, khaki pants, hiking shoes and a 60lb pack. They made me sign some forms and enroll as the newest member of Second Nature Wilderness Program, Blue Ridge. Cecil and Paul drove me through the woods for about an hour before coming to a stop on the side of a dark mountain road. Two neon parkas emerged from the trees to walk me to G6, the group of drug addict boys. I was told that I was on ‘Earth Phase’ and would not be allowed to enter the group until I had completed my coursework and a minimum of 24 hours had passed. I was handed a packet and placed under a tarp away from the group of bearded teens. I stayed there the whole night, watching the campfire, thinking about my life, until the rain got bad and they brought me into the middle. That was where we slept that night, under the Big Blue tarp. In my subsequent 19 weeks in the program that never happened again.

Second Nature Wilderness Program is a behavioral modification treatment option for at-risk youth. Children as young as 12 were enrolled in the pediatric version of the program, called Footsteps. There was a voluntary treatment option for adults called Second Nature Entrada in Utah. Maybe there still is. Being 15 I was just past the cutoff to be in the teen drug addict group, where I was classified as an addict and surrounded by a milieu of similarly classified teenagers. The classification is important because that otherization was the central justification for why we were unable to be responsible for our own lives and the center was morally obliged to correct us for our poor parents. Any sort of defiance or contradictory opinion was met with a swift condemnation of the addict that made you say that. We were reduced to barely feeling automatons expected to adapt to change without attachment and accept any consequences outside our control. I did extraordinarily well in some aspects of that. Some of the moments I spent in the woods were the only peaceful ones I’d had in a while.

Life was extremely regulated in the G6 society. Every day there was a rotating list of group jobs, that proceeded according to how long a member had been in the group. Each group member was given a number that advanced as the oldest members left. We called out our numbers in order to identify to staff that we hadn’t run away as we used the bathroom, every 3-5 seconds. There was a piss tarp and shit tarp. In addition to group jobs such as meal prep in which everyone had a designated function, there were group tasks such as camp set up and breakdown that we accomplished in timed cycles. We would be given rewards for meeting objectives within timed constraints, and consequences for going over. This required us to foster an atmosphere of productivity and community, and gave members opportunities to display leadership by actions and speech. We were not allowed to know the time. Thinking about the future was discouraged. Trying to ‘information gather’ or otherwise exert control over your situation was set up as a no win prospect. We were not allowed to conduct conversations out of earshot of staff. We were not allowed to be out of sight for any period of time besides when we used the bathroom or went to bed. Staff collected our boots at night so that we couldn’t run away.

In Fire Phase a group member was expected to learn how to bust a fire with sticks. By bow-drilling using material collected from the environment we made all of our group meals and fires. White pine made the spindles, long flexible sticks the bows, pine or sage or cedar the fireboards (we only got pine). We used hand-shredded poplar bark, called nesting, for kindling. In fire phase you were expected to carve your own wooden spoon to eat with. We used bear gloves to handle knives and fire. Food was stored in bear bags, which were each collected at the end of the night and strung up over a tree to deter predators. I loved throwing the bear knot successfully, yelling my name for 45 minutes while I tried to loop it between two branches.

Days, weeks, months of my life here. Hidden behind a wave of nostalgia and grief. I felt implicitly the premium of my youth slipping away. At 3 weeks I was told I was not going home. No one went home. Aftercare was the de facto recommendation of our therapist Lu Vaughn. A former drugaddict, she was a big book thumping god fearing hurricane of bullshit-calling out. She had snow white hair and clear blue eyes. The first time she met me she played Styx - Angry Young Man from her speaker. I was mad at my mom. I was mad at the world for sending me here. I had lost control of a situation that I thought was sacrosanct. I was reeling and scared. I ran with her dog up and down the hills faster than anyone, she said that’s when she knew I was a crazy person.

In My Life

In my life, I've felt like the odd one out. I was always too hyper, too aggressive, too much for adults to handle. Trouble seemed to follow me wherever I went. I was a socially awkward mess, too smart for my own good and ignorant of how people were supposed to act.

When I Was in th3rd

When I was in 3rd grade, I began seeing a psychiatrist. I was also put on medication. At the time, I didn't know why it was happening, but it made me feel like I had a problem, and I was ashamed when I saw someone takem my medications. I was always angry. I still don't know why, but when something made me mad I would have the urge to be violent. The only way to fully satisfy tha urge was to hit someone. It was verye asy to make me angry

In the beginning of 6th grade, my parents divocred. 3 weeks before, my mother told me she didn't love my father. Even so, I was shocked. That began a depression thaat lasted about a year, for both my brtoehr an I. My mom dind't try to confort me, she was satactly. and we were sad. 6th grade is a blur of aggression and anger, I hated authority and made very few friends, I kep tthe dicvocere I asecret. I'm stil noot sure why.

My mom and I never had a good relationship. I was always the problem child. I wasn't helped when I got hurt and I was punished more than my brother and sister. Even now, despite the fact that my brother and I both smoke and drink, I was the only one t o go to rehab, and the only one to com ehere. My mom is bipolar, like me. She is irrationall and stubborn, and in my opinion a flawed parent. She is a pushover in some ways, and far too obstinate where she shouldn't be. Given the choice, I would gladly live away from her. When I was younger, she made me feel like I was an outcast, a weirdo with problems that no one else has, and it was my fault. She made me feel unloved, and I was. When I became too big of a problem and made her life too hectic, she has no problem cuttin gme losoe.

I missed a lot

of school. Many days in 7th grade, and many in 8th grade. When I started to miss days in 8th grade, my mom had enough. She sent me to Long island to live with my dad. 3weeks or so fatter I had arrived, she put the house we were ivinging in on the market, knowing that my dad had no job and that he was the one paying the mortgage the past 2 years. Eventually, she found a buyer, and my dad and I moved into a room in a man's house, where he lived with a woman we knew as "pink". There was only one bed so we slept together

Throughout my time in that house, IU fell deepr into depression. I had developed social anxiety, and found it almost impossible to make friends in my new school. I began to miss days again, and the school let me stop coming in, on groups of 'emotional illness'? I was sedentary, spending days on end in that small room. I had been stick thin my whol elife for the ffirst time I began to wain geith. My bipolar episodes gerw more frequent, I lashed out at my dad. I didn't see my sister for 3 months. Eventually, I went back to school. I finished the last couple of months. I still failed to make friends

in the summer, I went to camp in the city, for the first time in years. I was happy, I lived with my mother again. Careful to beo on my best behavior. I made friends again, I became close with my twin brother again. Things seemed to be going right. Miraculously, I was able to convince my mom to take me back. My dad was very hurt, but I knew it wawsm y only chance for happiness. In another miracle, I was able to get into a good school, despite my absences and poor grades. Things were finally looking up.

At Elanor Roosevelt High SChool, I discovered drugs. I quickly became a frequent pot smoker, using it was a bway to mond with my newfound friends. I slowely developed social skills again, and even got myself a girlfriend, cameill. all the while, I smoked, and I drank. I couldn't have been happier. Gradually, I began smoking more and more frequentlyu. It became a daily routine. Marijuana recatwed with the medications. I took, and givngme potent fvisual hallucinations and experiences I can't even put into words, I got much higher than my friendsearning me ntickmame "crackhead ed"Graduall, I fell inl ove with CAmille, she was depressive too, had afewtimeswasoveral" dammaged goods" she had been it was my job to help. And I did, I put large emoungs into making her better. Gradually, I began to see results. Once I began to love her, it seemed our relationship took a turn for the worse. She began to have doubts, and became more depressed. When we broke up, the following day I stayed home from school and tried ecstasy. I had been sold fake pills, so it didn't do very much for me. WE got back together several times, but it ddn't last. She had changed, possibley because of me.

MY LIFE

EDWARD BROE2/1/11

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