#national measure your feet day

[murderousink23]

01/23/2023 is Parakram Diwas 🇮🇳, National Measure your Feet Day 🌏, National Handwriting Day 🇺🇲, National Pie Day 🥧🇺🇲

[annwrites]

⸻ tell me i'm your national anthem. part two. ⸻

· pairing: homelander x collegestudent!reader · type: part of a series · summary: you & john have dinner together again & you finally come to understand him a bit better. at the very least, what you think he wants. and he lets you in just once, wondering if you can be trusted after all. · word count: 2,736

You sleep fitfully that night.

It takes hours before your body manages to calm enough for you to find rest after having exhausted yourself from crying, hugging a pillow to your chest for comfort—utterly terrified that he’ll come back.

Every small noise you hear makes you shoot up in bed, staring at your now-curtained balcony doors, praying to God that he’s gone. That he hadn’t meant what he said about returning. He’d been bluffing, you’re sure.

You need for him to have not been serious.

You drag the next day during your classes.

You stay fairly to yourself, not wishing to talk to anyone. But, of course, all that any of them have on their minds, and seem able to discuss as you pass them in the halls is him. Including your best friend, Emma.

It only serves to turn your stomach. The fact that she worships the ground that his corrupting boots walk upon—that she has no idea that he’s a soulless monster. That he had so easily threatened your life before proceeding to humiliate you before stealing away your first sexual experience for his own benefit.

He’d done it to be cruel, you’re sure. To disrespect you like he’d felt you’d done toward him.

As if refusing to make eye contact while hundreds of others gazed upon him with admiration was anything like what he’d done to you.

Trying to wrap your mind around the incredible difference between who he is in front of a camera versus who he had turned into in your apartment last night… He’s a psychopath, clearly. All you can manage to return to time and again was him staring at you with red eyes, threatening your life. A threat that had rolled off his tongue as easily as asking you about the weather.

You wonder how many lives he’s taken that no one knows about, or that Vought has taken diligent measures to cover up. Wondering why they do it—why they would protect him—has a simple answer: he’s indestructible…right? A man with that much power, and with no remorse—with no weaknesses—is a terrifying thought.

You really fucking hope you never see him again. That whatever he was after he managed to get out of his system last evening. After all, what’re you compared to Queen Maeve, or a model, or fellow actress, or supe?

Thankfully, it’s a slow day at work. Usually it is, in truth. Not many people seem to have much of an appreciation for buying and collecting antiques anymore. Unless it’s Christmas time…the store is almost always dead. A fact you’re quite grateful for today as you arrange a shelf of Precious Moments figurines, avoiding the section of the store dedicated to superheros at all costs.

You ring up maybe half-a-dozen customers in not quite as many hours before heading home for the day, practically dead on your feet.

You take a long shower—the pleasant feel of the hot water nearly serves to put you to sleep—repeatedly telling yourself that you’re safe here. He’s not coming back. This is your home. You’re okay. Everything is okay. You’re sure he’s already forgotten about you by now, anyway.

When you emerge back into your bedroom dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of soft gray sweatpants—ready to just throw something in the microwave so you can go to bed straight after—you halt in your tracks when you see a silhouette with wide shoulders and a billowing cape on the other side of your closed curtains.

Your breath hitches in your throat.

You’re seeing things. He’s been on your mind all day and you’re exhausted on top of that, not to mention starving.

It’s not real. He’s not—

There’s a gentle knock against the glass. “I know you’re in there. I can hear your heart. So, you can either open the door, or I’ll just break a window and let myself in. But, then you’ll end up having to pay to replace the glass, and you’ll have to explain things to your landlord, and, well—”

You come over to the door then, frustrated tears stinging your eyes, and you flip the lock, heading in the direction of the kitchen without a word.

You know it’s useless to try and hide, or pretend like you’re not home.

He lets himself in, gently closing the door behind him.

“Honey, I’m home!” He says in a sing-song tune, following you into the kitchen, leaning against a counter with crossed arms and a smug look on his face.

“So, what’s for dinner?”

You open the freezer, throwing a microwavable dinner on the counter, refusing to even look at him.

And then he sighs, grabbing the meal away from you, throwing it back into the freezer.

He leans down toward you. “What? No home-cooked meal for your favorite superhero tonight? And after all that hard work I put into making a meal out of you just twenty-four hours ago.”

You grip the edges of the counter in each of your hands, dragging your nails across it. “I never asked for any of that. I begged you not to.”

He leans in closer, grabbing your hip painfully as he brings his lips to the shell of your ear. “You’re being very ungrateful right now.”

He pauses. “You’re hurting my feelings.”

Your chin wobbles and your stomach fills with lead.

“Now,” he starts again, sliding his gloved fingers into your hair, gently massaging your scalp. “You are going to be a good little girl and get to cooking. I’m not asking twice. I’ve been hard at work all day. It’s the least you can do for me after bothering to fly all the way here to keep you company.”

You bite your lower lip to try and keep your tears at bay. “What do you want from me?”

“I’ve already told you.”

You turn to the side, facing him, reluctantly looking up, meeting his empty blue eyes. “Thousands—no, millions—of women across the world would love nothing more than to throw themselves at you. To be at your beck and call. What the hell do you want with me?”

He gently caresses your chin between his fingers, smirking softly. “I’m no A-Train, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still love a good chase, sweetheart.”

He smacks your rear then, causing you to squeak in surprise. “Now, feed your man.”

You raid a brow at that. Your what?

You watch as he leans down, removing the milk jug from your fridge and you cross your arms. “I’m not doing all the work while you just sit there and watch.”

He looks at you with a displeased expression from your back-talk, but you don’t back down.

You remove a loaf of bread from the bread box, tossing it on the counter in front of him. “You’re in charge of making toast.”

Quite astonishingly, he doesn’t argue. Instead, he looks at you with a surprised look in his eyes and a gentle smile. “How many slices do you want?”

You have no idea that it gives him a sense of normalcy and home, even if just for a moment. Like you’re a mother instructing her child, giving them a small responsibility to see to at dinner time. You’re making him a part of the process, and he likes that. Appreciates it, even.

You’d begun giggling ridiculously from nerves in the middle of making spaghetti.

Homelander had looked at you with a raised brow and a sour look on his face, until you’d explained, with tears streaming down your own. “I’m cooking dinner with Homelander. You’re—”

You’d gasped for breath, doubling over. “You’re in my apartment! Making toast!”

And then you’d begun to actually cry—your exhaustion catching up to you all at once—hysterically, at that. He’d considered multiple courses of action. One: simply leaving. Two: threatening you to shut the hell up or he’d really give you something to cry about. He’d taken the third option with no fucking idea as to why.

He’d gathered you in his arms, ignored your tiny fists beating against his chest and your demands that he let you go, and held you until you calmed.

Once you did, and your breathing and heart-rate had both returned to normal—the smell of adrenaline no longer coming off of you in waves—he told you it was time to eat.

So, here you sit, slowly eating spaghetti and toast in silence with America’s poster boy.

He takes a long sip of milk, studying you.

“You’re very attractive,” he says, briefly pausing. “In an ordinary ‘girl-next-door’ sort of way, I suppose.”

Your eyes flit to his, swallowing your noodles. “T-thank you.”

He hums in response, a small smile on his lips, fingers splaying outward expectantly.

Your brows furrow for only a moment. “You’re…handsome.”

His smile fades at your unsure tone of empty platitudes. “Why don’t you like me?”

Oh God, not this again.

You shake your head, taking a bite of your toast. “You’re asking that after what you did to me?”

“You mean what I did for you? You seem to forget that I gave you an orgasm without so much as asking for anything in return.”

Bile rises in your throat. “You stole my first sexual experience away from me.”

“I think stolen is a nasty way to word it. I gifted it to you.”

You grip your fork tightly in your fist, having half-a-mind to drive it through the back of his hand. But you know you can’t. You don’t want to even imagine how such an action would end. Probably with your apartment becoming a bloody mess and your twenty-one-year-old life at an end before it ever got a chance to truly begin.

So you set the utensil down.

“You want me to like you?” You ask quietly, having no clue as to why your meaningless opinion of him should matter in the first place.

He shrugs lightly, brow twitching in response.

You fold your hands in your lap, leaning back, staring at him. “Tell me something, then. Something real and that no one else knows.”

He stays quiet, so you continue.

“Because the very opposite of that is why I dislike—no, scratch that—despise you: because you just look like an empty suit to me. Something manufactured by the media. A man unable to think for himself without a teleprompter in front of him instructing his every move.”

He grinds his teeth, his face twitching, his gloved hands now squeezed tightly into fists.

And you immediately fill with regret. Being exhausted typically left you one of three ways—all of which you’d experienced in one evening alone. Giggly and easily amused, emotional, or irritable.

The first two he’d tolerated. This one…you worry it ends with your landlord discovering your corpse the next time rent is due.

“You think they control me?” He asks with a sneer.

“I have yet to find a reason to think otherwise.”

“You think,” he says, leaning in toward you, his boot pressing against your foot beneath the table. “I’m just some puppet manufactured by Big Media? Hm?”

He stands abruptly, chair scraping loudly against the floor and you stand as well, your own toppling over in your panic as he backs you into a corner.

He must like doing this—intimidating. Invoking fear.

He chuckles, cupping your face in his hands. “I’ve done things… Things that would horrify you. Things that even Vought doesn’t know about.”

He shrugs. “They’re just the ones who sign my paychecks. See, they work for me. The whole fuckin’ world does. Including you, honey. I’m the real hero. My little tagline where I say otherwise? It’s bullshit. But the people eat it up. They swallow the garbage I feed them with a grateful smile. You think you’re so…different, though, don’t you?”

You brows furrow and you feel completely terrified, but quickly decide upon trying a new approach.

Aggression is getting you nowhere—it’s only begetting more on his part. And you worry how far you can push him before it ends in catastrophe.

And it’s then that you realize that he does have a weakness after all: he’s desperate for approval. Why the hell else would he be here yet again, demanding to know why he doesn’t yet have yours? Is he just that much of a narcissist, or is it something deeper?

You slowly reach up then, cupping his cheek, your other trembling hand coming to rest gently upon his chest.

Touching him in such a familiar fashion may end horribly for you, but something tells you it's well worth a try.

“What happened to you?” You ask in a whisper.

His features shift—softening—the look in his eyes that of…confusion. He even goes so far as to lean in slightly to your warm, comforting touch.

Your eyes flit between his, taken aback by his embracing your kind, physical gesture. “You haven’t always been like this, have you?”

You take a tiny step closer, bridging the gap between your bodies, since you think this attempt might just finally be getting you somewhere.

“You want me to like you? Trust you? Actually enjoy your company, and, much more, want it? Tell me something no one else knows, then. Something that will make me see past all of it.”

Your eyes trail along his suit, before meeting his own again. “Past this. I have no interest in getting to know Homelander. Because that’s not who you really are, even if you’ve forgotten it. There’s still a man in this costume. A human being.”

You watch with shock as tears gather in his eyes that continue to stare into your own, his lips pressed into a firm line as he remains silent.

You shoosh him softly. “It’s okay. It’s just the two of us. You may not want to believe it, but you can trust me. I haven’t even told anyone about you coming here last night, because I’m not the type to gossip. I have no interest in it.”

That’s not the reason whatsoever, but he can think whatever the hell he likes, so long as it gets him to calm down and give you a moment of vulnerability.

You brush a tear away as it slips down his cheek.

“You want to know what people have told me time and again since I was little? That they feel like they can trust me—even complete strangers. They’ll share things with me that they won’t even tell their closest friends and family. For the longest time I couldn’t understand why—what it was about me—and then I figured it out.”

You gently run your fingertips along his cheek. “I know what it feels like when someone betrays your trust repeatedly. When that one person in all the world you’re supposed to be able to rely and lean upon just…uses the things you tell them against you just to hurt you. Because they’re incapable of empathy. And I refuse to do that to others. Because I won’t be like her. I can’t. I just…I guess people can sense that about me. I hope so, at least. It’s the only explanation I have.”

You pause. “What I’m trying to get at is that you can, too: trust me. You’re safe here.”

He blinks, another tear slipping down his cheek, which you softly wipe away.

“John,” he whispers, finally speaking. “My name is John.”

You smile.

“John,” you repeat, and his chin wobbles at the sound of his name leaving your lips.

“Thank you for telling me. That’s all I wanted: to know something about you. Something that comes from you.”

His face shifts then, his vulnerability quickly vanishing. “If you tell anyone—”

You slip your fingers into his hair. “I won’t. I promise. You have nothing to worry about. It’s okay. Everything is okay.”

His eyes flit between yours, debating, considering.

And then he nods and you release a breath of relief.

He leans down then, pressing his lips to yours—tenderly. A wholly different sensation to how he’d been with you last night.

It’d worked.

You pull back slightly.

“Y/N,” you whisper against his lips.

His own twitches. “I already knew that.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Who was it? You said ‘her’.”

You swallow, chewing the inside of your cheek. “Can we talk about it tomorrow night?”

He likes that you want him back again. That you’re admitting it. That you’re planning on it.

He smirks. “Sounds like we’re finally on the same page, sweetheart.”

[ddarker-dreams]

Can you please rate the current husband rotation (scara,blade and chrollo) based on highest sex drive to lowest?

Btw i love your work your amazingggg <333333

thank you very much!!!!!!!! i'll throw gojo in there for good measure. whether anyone wants him, that's up for debate, but he's slapped into the mix now.

warning for not SFW beneath the cut, obviously, and afab reader. dubcon if you squint.

alright, so, this'll be ranked from 10 as the highest and 1 as the lowest.

scaramouche — 9.

it's bad. it's real bad. you weren't expecting it either. from what little scaramouche has allowed you to know about himself, you considered him the type to look down at sex as debased and pointless. this assessment of yours would've been accurate had you not been in the picture. sadly, you are very much in the picture, and it's a picture he'd stare at until his eyes ceased functioning.

he is clingy, he is needy, he is relentless. it's embarrassing and he'll never admit it, but he views sex as the ultimate connection lovers can experience. two becoming one. he places far more sentimentality on it than you'll ever be privy to. or so he'd like to think, because the tears he sheds into your neck as he enters you for the first time give him away. he'll hold you in an uncomfortably tight grip, almost in a trance. he's inside you, the closest anyone can physically get. sure, there's pleasure to be found, but that isn't the main allure. he can move forward and you'll gasp. pull back and feel how you squeeze him, as if you couldn't bear to let him go, not even for a second.

deep down, does he know this is an involuntary muscle spasm and not some long-awaited reciprocation of his awful love? yes, he knows. he ignores that rational explanation, as he so often does when you're involved. from the second his tip began pushing in, he knew he'd become addicted. for you to encourage him, declare your undying love between moans and gasps, reassure him that he's all you can ever think about.

he'd deliver the seven nations to your feet if it meant experiencing that.

if anyone were to interrupt his time with you, even if it's a report that the sky itself is cracking open, he'd kill them for the infraction.

basically, every second that passes without him being inside you further sours his mood. his underlings dread long missions away for this very reason. one of them made the mistake of consoling his lord that it's just a few more days until he can see you again. scaramouche ordered that his tongue be cut out for daring to speak your name. he's the only one who deserves the privilege. anyone else is entirely unworthy of the right.

when he comes back, you won't be leaving the bedroom for hours. he cannot detach himself from you. he's insatiable, utterly insatiable.

gojo — 8.

satoru thinks you're hot. like really hot. call-to-wake-you-up-at-four-in-the-morning-for-phone-sex hot. he cannot behave and he doesn't want to. if he's driving you somewhere, his hand is on your thigh. when you're taking an important phone call, his fingers will rub circles into your clit through your panties, no matter how desperately you try and shoo him off. the type to send you those memes that if he died in between your thighs, it'd be a happy death. he loves your body, how his name sounds when you sigh it, the scent of sweat on your skin, the taste of your favorite cocktail on your lips.

for as long as he can remember, he's never been the type to resist doing what he wants. he'll be late to meetings with the higher-ups because you fell asleep in his arms and he refused to wake you up. he'll tell a special grade curse he's fighting to wait a second because you sent him a cute text he wants to reread. should he notice someone checking you out, he'll appear beside them, praising their excellent taste. throw in a comment that they can have your phone number if they just approach you. then, every time they try, he'll warp them back a little further at a time.

this isn't to say no one is allowed to admire you, though. that wouldn't be fair. he likens it to if leonardo da vinci kept the mona lisa hidden in some dark, dusty corner. others can appreciate your beauty, so long as it's on his terms. poor nanami gets texted to pick between what dresses he should buy you, with the unnecessary addendum that 'it'll get ripped off at a later time wwww.' the very first time nanami heard gojo speak your name, he knew the strongest sorcerer was going to become infinitely more grating.

satoru just finds every second he spends with you worthwhile. whether it be the two of you lazing around in pajamas and watching a b-movie, or if you've been teasing him relentlessly all day, earning you a sleepless night. you're like air to him. there's something about being around you that has him hooked. which is why he never wants to put out that lovely flame burning within you. no, he stokes it, savors the burn that only you can leave on his skin. if you're his world, he has to be yours.

chrollo — 6.

you can call this man all sorts of negative labels and each one will apply. immoral? depraved? a murderer? all are perfectly true, he won't claim otherwise. from all the potential insults to sling his way, however, impatient can't be found among them. he's anything but that. his patience is impeccable. otherworldly, at times. he will sit there with a soft smile as you get upset in any manner you wish. he doesn't rush you or interrupt, you're allowed to get it out of your system. it's then that you realize the threat you're dealing with can't be properly understood.

from the list of real winners here, chrollo is the closest to being 'classy.' he holds doors open for you. takes your jacket off when you walk inside. pulls your chair out on dates. for anyone else, these acts would be hollow performances, but for you? oh, he adores every second. he wants to make your heart flutter. feel how your breath hitches as he clasps a necklace around your neck, the chain cold against your clammy skin. observe how your pupils dilate when he rolls his sleeves up to help cook, revealing toned arms.

he takes his time with you. would he love to bend you over and rail you against the nearest surface? absolutely. what he absolutely loves, though, is foreplay. testing how long an indulgent man such as himself can deny his base urges. chrollo wants to see the exact moment you realize that despite everything, you want him. you want him bad enough to discard your pride and accept the affections of someone you once called the devil. the thought alone makes him shudder with anticipation. it's how he maintains control when your skirt rides up or when you brush against him in your sleep.

eye contact is a must when you abandon your inhibitions and let him bed you. the expressions you make when his fingers curl against your walls, as he sinks into you for the first time, when you clench and come undone around him; everything is a delight that gives him such a rush. then there's your visage after you're done. how you wince when he pulls out, his cum seeping down your legs. it's like he can hear each neuron of yours firing away to form a rationalization for why you just let him fuck you.

he's patient, but that just means when he does get what he wants, he'll be starved for everything you can give.

blade — ???

blade either wants to go at it like rabbits or has the self-restraint of an ascetic who committed themselves to celibacy for life. there is no in-between.

his mara suggests that he break your legs and fuck you until eternity itself comes to an end. he possesses enough lucidity to realize he shouldn't do that, regardless of the tiny part of himself that coos over the idea. due to the extreme fantasies that'd cause you irreparable harm should he ever carry them out, blade shoves down his desire that's become intertwined with his mara. this works for a time. sure, you might be unnerved by how he's always staring at you, but at least the integrity of your legs is ensured. how romantic.

because truthfully, no matter how curt his words are or sharp his glare is when you test his patience, he likes you. it's such a childish sentiment that it makes him want to groan with embarrassment. he tried suffocating the budding attachment, going as far away from you as he could, only to come crawling back each time. what if you fell in love? what if you opened your legs for someone else? these fears grow to such a degree that it influences his swordplay. he may or may not have allowed his opponent to skewer his heart, to see if that'd get the traitorous organ to stop pounding away at the thought of you.

this cycle of denying himself of you -> returning with an intensified obsession carries over to his sex drive. even blade doesn't know what will tip him over. it could be you saying his name in a particularly cute voice, how you bite your lip while thinking about something, or just him getting a whiff of your shampoo as he walks by. the next thing he knows, he's throwing you over his shoulder and taking you to the closest bed. or couch. even a countertop will do. the abundance's curse on his body extends to his refractory period as well. he gets hard again almost immediately after he cums. especially because you'll be underneath him, out of breath, looking like you're meant to be ravished.

he'll do all the work, you don't have to move a muscle if you're too exhausted. he gives you his release in every way possible. inside you, on your chest, face, mouth, and inside your stomach from all the times you've swallowed his spend.

[witch-hazels-musings]

i'd know the difference

warning -> none, sfw, fluff <3 | happy birthday Diluc

diluc x gn reader | Anthology

His back was tired. Tense muscles ignited by the sunlight pouring through the window. Diluc rolled his shoulder, dug his fingers into his trapezius muscle, and squinted at the sharp pain that ran down his arm.

The forms on his desk hardly dwindled since this morning. He swore they multiplied each time he placed one neatly into an envelope and pressed his seal into the ruby wax.

A knock at his study drew his gaze. "Sir, Diluc, the barrels are ready for inspection." A muffled voice slipped under the doorframe, their movements silenced by the heavy wood.

"I will be there momentarily," Diluc responded as his father's fountain pen glided across the final page of a contract. Another seller from Inazuma. Requests from the sealed-away nation had increased substantially after the Raiden Shogun opened trade routes. While it meant the Winery was bound to see a profitable quarter, he was bound to see many more sleepless nights.

Diluc filed the contract away into a water-sealed container and dropped it into a small, wooden box meant for outgoing correspondence. Three other letters softened the container's fall. He hadn't even made it halfway through.

---

The halls of the Winery were filled with still light, the decorated walls made everything compact but he had grown used to the opulent clutter. As a child, he spent many hours staring at the picture frames. Distant lands he hoped one day to traverse; he did and found that each depiction served little justice to the actual thing. The ornate rug muffled his steps and he moved swiftly toward the stairs. He fussed with his vest until something soft grazed his arm.

A fresh bouquet of flowers was placed on a tall, rounded table near the balcony overlooking the lower floor. A rich, sweet, earthy aroma filled his nose. Shades of royal blue, amber, and honey mixed with lush green. He rubbed a petal with his thumb and index finger, the satin texture unaffected by the roughness of his hand.

The corner of his lips lifted.

---

"There you are," Diluc said from the garden's edge. He had a feeling you'd be out here. Hard at work preparing beautiful arrangements you'd later place in the Winery. If he wasn't careful, he'd be trapped here forever watching you weave through the swaying flowers. He thought to ask a painter to capture the scene, but, in the end, he decided against it - there were some things he preferred to keep to himself.

"Morning," you called out, rising from the flower bed. With the back of your hand, you pushed up your sun hat.

The metal click of the gate rang out as Diluc made his way into the garden, narrow paths made it difficult for him to see where his feet landed while you moved through them with practiced grace. "How long have you been out here?" he asked.

"About as long as you've been cooped up in your study. I figured once you'd ultimately emerged, you'd appreciate being greeted by something lovely," you explained as you shooed a bug away from the ends of his hair.

"So why were you not waiting for me then?" he asked, teasingly, but in his heart he was serious. Your face was the thing he enjoyed most.

You shook your head and leaned in to kiss his cheek. "I'll remember that for next time." With ease, you turned down the path and made your way to a sun-bleached table holding several bundles of partially trimmed flowers. He followed after you.

Diluc watched you work. Skilled fingers stripping the stems of their leaves, the soft clipping of prunes as you, one by one, measured the height of each flower. He moved in, drawn to you like the bees to the flowers.

"You smell divine," he professed and reached to steal your hat so he could kiss your head. The sun clung to every strand of your hair and warmed his desperate lips.

"Are you sure it's not just the flowers?" you asked, chuckling softly, your hands busy with bundling a fresh bouquet.

"I'm sure." Diluc stepped closer to you, his chest pressing against your back, his fingers trailing down your arm and fixing the shawl that had fallen off while you worked. He kissed the space below your ear and breathed you in. "I'd know the difference anywhere."

You turned just enough to look into his eyes and the sight of your face made his heart beat wildly. He shielded you with your hat and, with a gentle hand he cupped your throat, his thumb held your chin so he could keep you still and let his lips linger against your own until he was satisfied.

Even in a field of flowers, none of them compared to you - none could ever compare to his favorite.

[saveyourblood]

Pretty Boy - Ch 3 (Buddie x Reader)

Summary: You can feel Buck staring. When your eyes meet his, you realize he’s staring at your hand, which is still on Eddie’s knee. You slowly retreat, which makes Buck turn his attention to your face. You smile softly. He just looks out the window. The one where you’re an advanced paramedic, Buck and Eddie are firefighters, and you think you might be in love with both of them.

Ch 1 | Ch 2

Chapter Summary: You have a new, beautiful coworker.

A/N: Ladies and friends, he's arrived Word Count: 3.4k Warnings: somewhat graphic description of a medical procedure, mentions of blood

“You are cheery,” Hen says with a weird face as Bobby walks through the garage.

You and Hen are standing next to each other in your street clothes; she’s just finishing her shift, and you’re starting yours. You were catching up with her when Bobby made his appearance, and now you’re both following him up

“Why shouldn’t I be?” Bobby counters.

“Maybe 'cause you've been like this for weeks, and it's starting to get on my nerves,” Hen counters. “What’s goin’ on with you?”

Buck walks in with his phone over his head in one hand and his duffle bag in the other. “I got another DXA scan, and guess who dropped another half percent!”

“What?” Hen asks.

“A DXA scan measures your body fat; you can see your percentage in every part of your body.”

“You know that’s not why people get them, though, right?” You ask Buck.

He gives you a confused look.

“DXA scans are used to screen for osteoporosis. So the majority of people getting them are post-menopausal women, people older than 50 with fractured bones, and… you,” you explain.

“You’re in good company, Buck,” Hen laughs.

“Hey, can that scan measure the fat in your head, too?” Chim says as he joins the conversation. He gets a laugh out of Bobby.

“Ah, see, that would be funny, but we're about a week away from submissions being due for the Hot Days, Smoldering Nights: Men of the LAFD wall calendar, and I'm already at my goal weight, so it seems like my head is clearly working perfectly,” Buck returns.

“Do you really need to use the whole title?” You ask.

“You could just just say ‘hat idiotic, reductive, sexist calendar that insults the dignity of this organization and furthers the myth that all firefighters are male,’” Hen agrees.

You offer her a fist bump, which she accepts.

“Yeah, that’s not any less words,” Buck argues.

Bobby smiles. “Hen, come on, it's for charity.”

“No, Bobby, you too?”

“Why not? They say a man is at his sexiest when he reaches 50.”

“This is so not a conversation I want to be having with you people,” you interject.

“I think sorority houses all across this great nation are ready for a new Asian sеx symbol,” Chim takes a bite out of whatever he’s eating. “It’s our time.”

You raise your eyebrows. “You know what? I’m team Chimney.”

“I think it's great. You know? I like that you're both going up for it,” Buck agrees.

“Oh, because you don’t think we stand a chance,” Bobby argues.

“Did I say that? I mean, sure, let's be real. They are only picking one candidate from each station—”

“—That is a beautiful man,” Chim interrupts Buck.

“Where’s the lie?” Hen concurs. “And I like girls.”

You follow their line of vision to a man about 15 feet away, changing into an LAFD t-shirt. His abs ripple with each movement, as do his biceps. He has dark brown hair, matching eyes, and god, his face. He might be the prettiest person you’ve ever seen in real life.

“Who the hell is that?” Buck asks, turning back to Bobby.

“Eddie Diaz: new recruit,” Bobby clarifies. “Graduated top of his class just this week. Guys over at Station Six were dying to have him, but I convinced him to join us.”

Your head snaps in his direction. “The probie? My probie?”

“Your probie?!” Buck asks in complete dismay.

Bobby smiles again. “He served multiple tours in Afghanistan as an Army medic, got a silver star.”

“I get to see what he’s made of,” you tell your Captain. You smile wide. “What a niee present, Bobby! And it isn’t even my birthday.”

Everyone except Buck laughs at your remark.

“The air nozzle is embedded in his asscheek,” The mechanic says he walks the team over to the victim, Hector. “I shut it off, but I was afraid to move him.”

The second you lay eyes on him, you know it’s the worst case of subcutaneous emphysema you’ve ever seen. You’ve seen air get trapped under the skin from gnarly chest trauma, but this definitely takes the cake.

“Alright, let’s get him on his side,” Bobby instructs, “maintain pressure on the wound.”

You, Eddie, Buck, and Chim carefully lift on Bobby’s count, then set Hector on the floor. You immediately grab your stethoscope and listen to him while Eddie gets vital signs and Chim starts an IV.

“Systolic is in the 80s,” Eddie says as he takes his own stethoscope out of his ears.

“Hypotension, respiratory distress, and ipsilateral absent lung sounds … what are we look at here, Eddie?” You ask.

He catches your gaze and contemplates. You can see when the light bulb goes off. “Tension pneumothorax.”

“So how do we fix it?”

“Needle decompression,” he says almost immediately.

“I’ll get a 14 gauge,” Buck volunteers, already going through your bag.

“If his systolic is already in the 80s, he needs more than that,” you say calmly as you cut away Hector’s clothes. “What’s your next intervention?”

Eddie smiles in that way only a trauma junkie can. “Finger thoracostomy.”

“Buck, Eddie needs lidocaine, betadine, a hemostat, and a scalpel,” you instruct. “Chim, get us a three-sided occlusive dressing ready.”

“Wait, you’re letting me do it?”

“Have you seen one?” You counter.

“Yeah, in the field once or twice.”

“See one, do one, teach one.”

You take everything from Buck as he hands it to you. You pass the betadine to Eddie. “Prep the site, I’ll draw up your lido.”

Eddie pours the reddish-yellow antiseptic over Hector’s side. You draw up some lidocaine and pass it to him.

“Where are you giving it?” You ask.

“5th intercostal space, anterior axillary line,” Eddie says, using his fingers to find the landmark. “A pinch and a burn here, Hector.”

Hector winces as the medication is injected.

“How big should the incision be?” You ask Eddie as open the scalpel and hemostat packages.

“2-3 centimeters.”

You smile and hand him the scalpel. “Go for it. Once you make the incision, use the hemostat to spread the tissue to get down to the intercostal muscles.”

Eddie nods and makes the incision. When he’s ready, you pass him the hemostat, and he does as instructed. “Now what?”

“Use your finger to spread the muscles and enter the pleural cavity. When you get in, you might have to sweep your finger to release any adhesions. Once you do, you should feel and hear the air come out.”

Eddie nods and inserts his finger into the incision, twisting his hand once it reaches the pleural cavity. You can hear a ‘hiss’ as the air rushes out.

“Nice work,” you tell Eddie. “Leave your finger there until it stops, and then we’ll place the dressing.”

“Good job, both of you,” Bobby praised.

“That was badass,” Chim agreed.

Buck just stared at you both.

After dropping Hector off at the ER, the day’s pace came to a crawl. Rather than sit around and binge-watch something, you decide to sneak in a workout. You already know what you’ll be doing — your local gym has a squat rack, but it doesn’t have a punching bag. There’s something so therapeutic about channeling all of your anger into your hands and just hitting something.

“Need a partner?” Eddie asks from behind you.

You stop, turning to look at him. He’s wearing black sweats and a tank top of the same color. The sides of his shirt are low-cut, so you can see the definition of his ribs peaking out. It should be illegal for someone to look that good.

“Sure,” you say, nodding to the bag.

Eddie gets the memo; he stands behind the bag in a shallow lunge stance, holding each side. You begin punching again, but now, it doesn’t swing as violently. It makes for better strikes and a better workout. After a few minutes, you have to stop because your heart is pounding and you’re dripping in sweat.

“Thanks,” you tell Eddie breathlessly as you grab your water bottle.

“Are you kidding? Thank you,” Eddie says with a smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever done something that cool before, even in combat.”

“Yeah, our job is pretty cool, isn’t it?” You agree. You were always bad at taking praise.

“Well, it helps that you’re an excellent teacher,” Eddie continues, running a hand through his hair. “I mean, you were so calm and collected. I gotta be honest, I was freaking out a little, so seeing that you weren’t really helped.”

“Wow, I… never would’ve guessed that you were scared. You did great.”

Eddie smiles again. “Thanks. It’s just… different, helping civilians instead of soldiers. It’s more pressure sometimes, I guess. I mean, when people hear you made it out of Afganistan, twice, they set pretty high expectations.”

“You live up to them,” you assure with a smile of your own.

“What’s going on here?” Buck says as he approaches.

He changed too, now wearing black shorts and a navy tee with the sleeves cut off. He looks less than thrilled to see you talking to Eddie.

“Just talking about the call between sets,” you say.

“Oh,” Buck says with a shrug. He looks at Eddie. “Yeah, good call.”

Buck brushes by both of you, heading towards the squat rack. You and Eddie share a look. His words were kind, but his tone was not.

“What’s your problem, man?” Eddie asks, approaching Buck.

“Okay… you. You’re my problem,” Buck replies. He puffs up his chest a little; it’s subtle, but you pick it up. “You're-you're not supposed to just walk in here like you've been here for years. It's meant to be a getting-to-know-you period. You're meant to respect your elders.”

“You’re not his elder, Buck,” you point out.

“Look, I in no way meant to, uh, be too familiar or step on anybody's toes,” Eddie raises his hands. “I get you’re frustrated, but you don’t have to take it out on me or be threatened by me. We’re on the same team.”

Buck takes a step closer to Eddie. “Why would I be threatened by you? The only reason you did so well today is because she walked you through everything. If it weren’t for her, you would’ve done needle decompression, and the guy might not have made it. You’re not impressive—she is.”

Something you always hated about working with men? Being dragged into their dick-measuring contests. Upon hearing Buck call you ‘impressive,’ though, your stomach may or may not have done a backflip.

“Glad to see we’re both on the same page,” Eddie agrees.

Now, both of them have called you impressive. Maybe working with men isn’t always so bad.

The next call you go on is to a supposedly detonated grenade. You say ‘supposedly’ because if it actually deployed, you don’t think the man who did it would be the one calling 911. But he did. So it probably didn’t.

Bobby, Buck, and yourself are the ones who enter the house first. It’s clear from everything in the room that the man is a fanatic of the military.

“Militia nut?” Buck says as the three of you follow the muffled calls for help.

“In here!” The man calls out again.

Bobby is the first to open the door, and judging by the way he rushes inside, you know he found the caller. You and Buck follow him.

“What’s your name, sir?” Bobby asks as you and Buck get to work.

“Charlie,” he responds as you wrap a blood pressure cuff around his arm.

“Alright, Charlie, tell us what happened.”

“Damn grenade went off while I was taking it apart,” he replies.

You aren’t entirely convinced that’s what happened, but you can tell something happened. His thigh is a bloody mess, and without looking closely, you can see shrapnel.

“Why are you taking apart a grenade?” Buck asks.

“I was cleaning it. I’m a collector.”

“No kidding,” Bobby remarks as he surveys for other potential injuries.

“You pulled the pin?” You asked, moving to inspect the wound.

“It ain’t that kind of grenade. It's a 40-mike-mike. A practice round for an M203 grenade launcher. I picked it up at a flea market in Brea, part of my 'Nam collection. My screwdriver must have touched the propelling charge.”

“I see metal and a lot of shrapnel, Cap, and I think the femoral artery’s been nicked,” you explain as you move your flashlight around. “We gotta transport him. Now.”

A few men from another rescue team help you and the boys get Charlie onto the stretcher and out the door. You can see Eddie is waiting in the rig like you told him to, and he helps pull Charlie into the rig.

“Buck, I want you to travel with him to the hospital, help keep him stable,” Bobby instructs.

You’re already climbing into the rig, but you spare a glance at Buck, who looks rigid and unimpressed. “Copy that, Cap.”

“Hey, you gotta learn how to play nice,” Bobby continues. “It’s one team, Buck.”

“I’m guessing you’ve seen a lot of shrapnel wounds, Eddie,” you say once the ambulance takes off driving.

ETA to the hospital is 10 minutes, and you’ve already instructed the boys to apply a tourniquet and bandage the wound. There isn’t much else to do other than trend vital signs.

“My share,” Eddie nods. “Those dressings are soaking through. I’m gonna change them.”

You give him a simple nod.

Buck sits on the bench, simply watching the two of you. When he catches your eye, you shrug. He scoffs and laughs.

Once Eddie pulls the bandages back, the look on his face changes. “I thought you said this was a practice round.”

“It is,” Charlie says.

“What’s going on, Ed?” you ask.

“You see that cap?” Eddie says, pointing to a piece of metal in Charlie’s leg. “Practice rounds have blue caps. Gold caps are live.”

The cap is gold.

You start banging on the ceiling to signal the EMT driving. “Pull over!”

Within 10 minutes, you’re all now standing in a random parking lot with multiple EMS crews as well as the LAPD bomb squad. They took an X-ray of Charlie’s leg, which clearly shows an encapsulated piece of metal.

“He has a goddaamn live round in his thigh,” you say in disbelief.

“I thought the thing already went off,” Buck interjects. “Isn’t that why we were called?”

“The launch grenade has two components: gunpowder which makes it travel and an explosive charge that makes it go boom,” Eddie explains.

“So… why didn’t it go boom?” Buck asks the obvious question.

“It's fitted with a proximity fuse. It's a little smart sensor that tells the cap it's traveled a safe enough distance from the shooter to explode. From his hand to his leg probably wasn't far enough.”

“Well, we can't bring him inside a hospital full of people, not with that still stuck inside him,” Bobby says.

“We called the military for help,” Jim, the bomb squad officer, explains.

“Why can’t you do it?” You ask. “You’re the bomb squad. Isn’t this sort of your job?”

“You can’t diffuse a grenade,” Jim clarifies. “We need to find someone who knows how to pull that thing out of him without setting it off. They're sending someone up from Pendleton. Should be here within the hour.”

“Captain, he doesn’t have an hour, not without a trauma surgeon,” you say.

“I can do it,” Eddie volunteers.

“You’ve done it before?” You ask before Bobby can.

“Well, none of the guys I served with were dumb enough to shoot a live round in themselves, but I'm familiar with the ordinance.”

“I’m in,” Buck says.

“Fuck it, so am I,” you say.

Next thing you know, the three of you are getting strapped into bomb squad attire, which you find kind of silly. If the grenade goes off, you’re all fucked, heavy vest or not. But you aren’t in the position to make smart remarks, so you stay silent.

“You know you don’t have to do this,” Bobby says as a bomb squad tech straps you in.

“Someone has to make sure those two don’t claw each other’s eyes out,” you smile.

He doesn’t laugh.

“We’ll be okay, Cap,” you promise softly. “All 4 of us.”

Once you get back into the rig, you station yourself at Charlie’s head while the boys are to his side. You push ketamine through the IV line, and within a few minutes, he’s out.

“You ready?” Eddie asks, looking between you and Buck.

You give a firm nod.

“Ready,” Buck says.

Eddie instructs Buck to apply pressure around the wound bed, which helps expose the grenade. He begins using the tool given to him by the bomb squad to extract it.

“Pull it out,” Buck says. “Come on.”

“I gotta be careful,” Eddie says slowly, concentrating on what he’s doing instead of Buck’s remark. “The sensor measures the distance traveled based on how many rotations the shell made after the launch. The key is not to turn the shell while we pull it out.”

“Okay, yeah, so don’t turn it,” Buck agrees.

You can’t help but chuckle.

Eddie manages to extract the grenade, and Buck helps him deposit it into the box.

“Well, gentlemen, I say we get the hell out of here,” you remark.

You all do exactly that. Leaving the box with the grenade on the rig, you all carefully move the gurney out so you can get Charlie on a different ambulance. Bobby has a rig on standby, so it’s the easiest task of your night.

“You’re badass under pressure, brother,” Eddie says, turning to Buck.

“Me?” Buck asks as if Eddie would be talking to anyone else.

“Hell yeah. You can have my back any day.”

“Yeah. Or, you know, you could... you could have mine.”

Both you and Eddie laugh.

Eddie offers Buck a hand, which he accepts. “Deal.”

“Nice work, all of you,” Bobby praises. “Glad you made it out of there.”

“Come on, the guy’s a professional,” you say, gesturing to Eddie. “I was never worried.”

Less than a second later, the ambulance explodes. The doors are blown open, and the windshield simultaneously pops off the vehicle and shatters. You all duck for a moment, then turn to look at Eddie.

“You guys hungry?”

“What about GI?” Buck says to Eddie as the latter plays pinball. “Like GI Joe! That’s a great nickname.”

Buck is trying to come up with a nickname for Eddie, which apparently, he’s been doing for awhile. You just haven’t been around to hear about it, either on different calls or not on shift at all.

“More like Gastrointestinal,” you chime in as you finish up charting a case. Hen, who’s sitting across from you, laughs.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Eddie says as he continues playing.

“Alright everyone, listen up!” Bobby says, grabbing everyone’s attention. “I’ve got an announcement to make. I just got off the phone with the people from the calendar, and they have made their choice.”

“Well, no hard feelings, no matter who won,” Buck says to Eddie, offering him a fist bump.

“That's good, Buck, 'cause they didn't pick you,” Bobby says.

“Well, it’s obviously a fix!” Buck replies. “Nah, congratulations anyway, GI!”

Eddie laughs.

“They didn’t pick him either,” Bobby continues.

“Huh. You?” Buck asks.

You all look to Chim, who is crunching on some celery. “No way, you gotta be kidding me.”

“Hah! I called it from the start,” you shout with pride. “Everyone remember that?”

Everyone stares at you.

“Right, not about me,” you laugh awkwardly. “Congrats, Chim!”

“Or should we say, ‘Mr. April’!” Bobby chimes.

Everyone approaches Chimney, offering high fives.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Sergeant Grant says as she enters the loft.

Bobby approaches her, and she apologizes for something. It’s clear that something happened between them, but you have no clue what it is. She grabs his face and kisses him.

You all stare at them.

“What are you all lookin’ at?” Bobby eventually says. “There’s no more announcements.”

You and Hen share a look, then turn to the boys.

“Pay up,” you say simultaneously.

Ch 4

[xxxcryptidxxx]

DRIP DRIP DROP!

(Neuvillette understands the phrase “Love hurts” all too well)

"I'll paint the sky red, all for you." (Ft.Neuvillette)

Character(s): Neuvillette, Reader (Genderless)

Tags: yandere!character, SH, blood, knives, stalking, non-consensual photography, dark topics

——————————————————————————

When the Traveller and his companion came to Fontaine, Neuvillette was indifferent, the sky cloudy, a slight air of gloom washed over the nation.

But when he first saw you, the sky immediately brightened. He absolutely adored speaking with you. It was actually difficult to keep his professional persona. 

The very minute it started to grow cloudy, Neuvillette immediately thought of you, and the skies would clear once again.

He made it a priority to keep the skies clear, just for you. He smiled, assuming you'd love the sunny weather. But you looked up and frowned slightly. 

Neuvillette’s face immediately fell. A...frown? Why in Teyvat would you frown?! 

He wasn't the only one to notice, Aether raised an eyebrow at your lackluster reaction to the change in weather. 

“Something wrong? You don't look too happy…”

You paused, turning to look at Aether.

“It's…nothing really. I just really love rain. I prefer gloomy weather over sunny, warm weather…but it's okay. I heard the rain is the Hydro dragons tears, I don't want to make someone cry.”

You casually mentioned your love of rain and gloomy weather, displaying a slight disappointment at the change in weather type.

Neuvillette’s ears perked up, his heart sputters when he hears your concern for him., he'd never thought someone would prefer gloom over sunny days. No matter, if it's gloomy weather you want, it's gloomy weather you'll get.

Unfortunately for Neuvillette, he wasn't one of those who could cry on command, and there was nothing worth crying over—except you of course. Unable to make himself cry, he simply decided he'd need to take drastic measures. 

He stared at the letter opener on his desk, a determined yet crazed look in his beautiful blue irises. He picks it up, taking a deep breath. Here goes nothing.

.

.

.

.

.

One…Two……Six………Fourteen……

He's lost count of how many times he’s sliced open his pale flesh, a puddle of red pulling on the floor beneath him. A sea itself of tears dripping from his pretty eyes. 

It hasn't stopped raining in days, the sea's are high, and the land is becoming waterlogged. And yet, none of that matters, for his beloved wanted rain, so rain there shall be. 

Each night he stains his wooden floor a deeper tint of red, muffled panting and hissing emitting from outside his door well into the late hours. 

He pressed the letter opener against his arm once again, carelessly running the sharp edge over the same spot, milky flesh parts immediately to give way to a sea of red, each new slice moment digging the blade deeper into muscle tissue. Crimson oozes from his wounds, pooling on the wooden flooring in a uniform puddle at his feet. His eyes burn with tears, but he wants more. He wants—no. He NEEDS to prove how much his Angel means to him.

*KNOCK KNOCK*

“Neuvillette? It's Furina, are you okay in there? It's raining pretty hard…”

Neuvillette curses under his breath silently, hiding the bloody letter opener and wrapping up his hand.

“Yes Furina, I'm fine, I just figured we needed some rain after how dry it's been.” 

Furina wasn't convinced, but she didn't want to intrude.

“O-Okay…just…let me know if you need anything…”

Neuvillette merely grunts in response, a very dismissive reaction. He waits for the sound of Furina's footsteps to disappear before picking his letter opener back up.

His office starts to smell vaguely of iron, his gloves now for more than just aesthetics. The secrets his sleeves hide are for him and only him to know about. Each night he adds a new line to his pale skin, skin and muscle separating, pain receptors do nothing to stop him. The edges of his vision get dark and blurry, his head light from blood loss. 

(Un)fortunately for Neuvillette, he has friends who care and worry about him. Annoyingly caring, can't they see he's busy?! Any and questions aimed to get answers out of him end in short, vague responses. 

He dodges the questions of Furina, waving her off with a poor but plausible excuse. He's gotten surprisingly rude to Wriothesley, especially when Wriothesley was near his beloved, their relationship strains, yet Neuvillette always manages to silver tongue his way out of any tension. Not even Sigewinne can get anything out of him.

He spends his free time following his beloved from a distance, taking note of every little thing said and done. Stopped at a shop to look at some trinket? One of each color is mailed to your residence. 

Your favorite flower, snack, or some type of gift is always at your doorstep, a handwritten, anonymously sent card attached to each gift. You don't know who it is or how they found your address, but they don't seem to be malevolent so you accept the gifts, keeping them on your desk. 

Neuvillette's heart races each time he sees you accept his presents, smiling like a schoolgirl who's crush looked at her in math class. So what if it's a little creepy that he's been following you home every night? It's just…for protection. 

God's forbid you'd ever express concerns for him to him, his heart might just stop. You're too cute, a mortal worrying about someone thousands of years old? How precious. Even more of a reason for him to protect you. There's a lot of sick people out there who could ruin you. Unacceptable.

Oh and by the way, ignore the camera sounds, he doesn't know how to turn the shutter off on his camera yet. Neuvillette just wants a few hundred photos for his room. Nothing too bad, just some of you walking, eating, sleeping. Totally normal. I mean it's not like he taped a photo of you sleeping to his pillow so he could pretend he was cuddling you. Absolutely not, you have the craziest ideas!

Neuvillette is oblivious to the looks of concern and even the ones of anger. Who cares if there's so much water houses are flooding? That smile on his gloomy Angel's face makes nothing else matter.

Who needs the sun anyway? 

——————————————————————

[callofdudes]

Happy National Women's Day (yesterday, woops) Celebrated with a platonic story for y/n, Laswell, and Farah.

Readers gender is not specified. This isn't beta read because my eyes really hurt today for some reason.

You had just gotten back from a mission followed by Farah's forces and accompanying assistance of one Alex Keller. After getting back the guys were pretty tuckered out. Price and Simon going for a smoke and Johnny going for a long snooze in his bed. Missions usually left you exhausted.

However, this was the week that Laswell got a much needed break from her work and she wanted to spend it well.

She was sat on the couch, watching you and Simon quietly talk. Farah was cleaning her goggles, frowning over a small scratch in the top corner of the lense.

She could see the stress on Farah's face, and just from your posture she knew you needed a break as well. So when Simon got up to use the bathroom she leaned forward.

"What do you two say we get out of here for a couple days?"

You looked up curiously. "What do you mean?? Get a hotel or something?"

She shook her head. "Camping. My brother has a cabin up in the mountains where his buddies and him go climbing. We could go spend some time out there."

"Would it be quiet?" Farah asks.

"Most likely, it's not a big place. The spot we usually go isn't touristy either."

Farah looks to you. "I've never been camping outside of missions."

"If we can get a place with room for three and not get eaten alive by mosquitoes and the like, then yeah."

Laswell nods. "It's a cabin, so I don't think you'll have to worry too much about mosquitoes. But it'll just be the three of us." Laswell stands, stretching and grabbing her coffee. "We'll head out tomorrow after you're packed."

So the next morning you and Farah brought out your backpacks to Laswell's car. She only had a small vehicle but it was enough to fit all your supplies. Laswell brought her climbing gear, and enough food to last you a week at the cabin.

Once you were all ready to go there was one person you had to say goodbye to.

"Simon it's ok, I'm not going to be gone that long, only a week."

"A week... What am I supposed to do until then??"

"Hangout with the guys, take some time off to relax your feet. Read your book. You'll be ok."

Simon grumbled and looked over at Alex who was staying with them. To Simon's dismay.

You smiled softly, and fixed his sweater hoodie. "Only a week." You wrap your arms around him and he hugged you back, squeezing you for good measure.

Soon enough you packed in and set off on your journey. Farah plugged her phone in and played music from the passenger seat. "Any song requests??"

"Remember that one song you played the other day? With the guitar solo?"

Farah smiled and put the song on, and you jammed away in the backseat. Laswell put her son blocker down and set you off to the nearest coffee shop. Because what's a road trip without coffee?

She took the tray from the man at the drive through window and handed Farah her iced coffee and you your drink. “There you go.”

“Thank you mom.” You smiled and leaned back.

“Of course. Now, it’ll be a bit of a drive.” But you guys were ready for that.

You drove for the rest of the day. As you got closer to the mountains, Farah and you both pointed out a fair bit of wildlife you saw along the roadside.

Farah’s entire day was made by seeing baby ducklings going for a dunk in a small pond with their mom.

Laswell pointed out a few deer on the way, and soon you reached the place. Driving up the road and parking in front of a rather nice little cabin. It was old, with a couple swinging shutters and the frame would need some repainting.

“This is nice.” Farah looked around the grassy area behind the cabin that led up into a large hill. A small fire pit set up around some trees and a stone pathway up to the stairs.

“How did you get this place again??”

“My brother rents it most of the summer for his rock climbing. They come every few weeks.”

“Cool.”

Laswell nods, opening the car door and putting her park pass in the window. She tossed you the keys. “I'll go tell administration we’re here so they don't freak out. You two and get the first pickings.”

You and Farah smiled at each other softly. “Thanks laswell!” You called and grabbed out your stuff. You unlocked the house and you two headed inside. In the small entry way was a couple buckets full of wood and a shelf of paper and some lighters.

A tiny kitchen area and a gas stove. It was a cozy little place. Heading into the next part of the cabin there was a small bench, a cabinet with some games and a bed tucked against the opposite wall.

The back bedroom was separated by a curtain, inside being another two beds.

You and Farah looked at each other. “you can have either, I don't mind.” She said softly.

You were quiet for a moment. “You want the one by the window??”

“I'd like that.” She admitted.

You nodded and tossed your stuff on the bed in the corner, and let Farah have the bed next to the big window looking out at the field.

Laswell came back with a bag of some firewood and her climbing equipment. Taking dibs on the bed in the other room and getting comfy.

After which she promptly started on some dinner because she was starving. Until then you two opened her tray of fruit from the cooler and snacked away.

“So where do you usually go rock climbing, Laswell?” Farah asks.

“We usually go up one of the old trails. There's an open section of land that shows off this huge rock face. It's the perfect climb. I think it'll be easy enough for you two.”

“We’re capable Laswell.” You chuckle. You could smell the food waft through the cabin. She plated up, and came over to set down two plates for you two. You moved over on the bench allowing Laswell to sit down, and you all dug in.

Talking and laughing as the sun starts to go down on the field, the food being quickly devoured. Laswell brought out brownies as dessert.

You gasped softly. “Are those….”

Laswell smiled and ruffled your hair. “She said they're all yours.”

You eagerly popped the lid off and snatched one to dig into. “Oh Farah, you gotta try one. Her wife makes them the best.”

Farah smiled softly and reached in and took one out. “What's in it, Laswell??”

“Hm? I have the recipe list here if you want to look at it.” She took it from her bag and passed it over. Farah read through it before biting in, humming happily. “Oh, oh these are good.” She took another bite.

“Can I just…” She slid the recipe back toward herself and Laswell nodded. “All yours”

Farah tucked it into her pocket and you two devoured the brownies. Laswell’s wife was the best, always asking what sweets you guys would like best and sending Laswell out to work with a box or two for you guys.

Eventually you all headed to bed. You crawled into bed and rolled over, falling asleep.

Farah pulled the blanket over her shoulder, and opened the window to look out at the darkness. The cool breeze on her face.

She sighed softly, and closed it. Flopping down and rolling over again. She looked into the darkness, trying to arrange the blanket to try and get comfy.

When she couldn't, she leaned over and grabbed the flashlight off the nightstand, flicking it on low. She went over to you, standing at the edge of the bed for a bit before poking you.

“Y/n?” She whispered. You mumbled softly and opened your eyes. “Farah?”

“I'm sorry… I can't sleep.” She whispered.

You smiled softly, and rolled onto your back. You pulled the blanket back to allow her in. “Come on.”

She pursed her lips and flicked the light off. But she crawled into the bed. You gave her some more blanket and closed your eyes again. Farah laid next to you, sighing and slowly closing her eyes.

She held out her hand and you linked your pinky with hers. Helping her relax and fall asleep.

The next morning Laswell was up first. She got dressed and needed a coffee. She pushed the curtain to the second room open and smiled softly when she saw you and Farah curled up, pinkies still linked.

You two could sleep in.

She tied up her hair and went to the kitchen to put hot water on the stove and look through the food bag for what to make for breakfast.

The sound of the kettle woke you up, slowly rubbing your eyes and sitting up. Farah felt you stir and also opened her eyes. “Hmm…??”

“It's ok, you can keep resting if you want.” You assure, and crawled out around her. You scratched your stomach and headed out to the main room.

“Well good morning.” Laswell greeted you.

“Mornin…”

“Coffee??”

“Please.” You nodded.

You sat down at the bench, and heard the curtain shift. “I'm gonna change.” Farah gave you the heads up.

Laswell handed you your fresh coffee. “What do you feel for breakfast??”

“Eggs??” You gave her the innocent best child ever look. “Please mom??”

“Tell you what, find the carton in the cooler and I'll see what I can do.”

Farah filled up her water bottle as Laswell made breakfast, checking her phone. She snickered a little from across the table.

Without further incentive you rushed to the cooler and dug around for the eggs, bringing them to her.

She chuckled and saw Farah come out from the back room soon.

“What are you chuckling about?” You teased softly.

Farah turned her phone and showed you a photo of Alex around a corner with a blurry Ghost in the background.

“You think he's dead yet??”

“Knowing Simon and Johnny… maybe.” You snickered.

“Those three are going to kill each other.” She fully smiled briefly before looking down at the accompanying texts.

“Well, he's still alive but accidentally took some of Ghost’s gummy worms it seems.”

You cringed a little. “Ooh… ouch. I'll have to talk with Simon to make sure he didn't hurt Alex too badly.”

You both have a chuckle over it and Laswell brings you your eggs.

And without hesitation you dig in, humming happily to have your stomach full of food and happy.

“How long is the hike to the rock face??”

“Not long. Fifteen minutes at most. And I've got all the gear for you.”

“Awesome.”

“Now that you've got some fiber in you, let's get going.” Laswell fills her water bottle and grabs the bag of equipment.

“I can carry it for you??” You offered, but she shook her head. “I got it.”

You headed out down the road and hiked up the trail into the mountains. Seeing the tall trees and smelling the fresh air. Feeling the gentle breeze on your warm skin.

Laswell led you up and off the main path to a small outcrop. And there it was. A tall rock face up the side of the mountain with clearly outlined passages and handholds from how much it had been traversed.

Laswell secured her hair and handed you your gear. You and Farah got snug and comfy. Laswell set up the ropes and pegs in the ground to hold you three.

Chalking up your hands.

“You ready, princesses??”

“Hey!” You huffed, rushing after Laswell. Farah chuckled under her breath and found a small ledge to slide her hand into. And you three started to climb.

Farah scaled it fairly easily, though it definitely felt easier when under the pressure of a mission.

You found another handhold and pushed your foot up, feeling around until you could find a spot to slot your shoe in. Securing the tie on your belt.

“You doing ok Farah??”

“A little sweaty.” She wrung her wrist out.

“Let's pause for a minute.” You secured your line and tugged it a couple times before taking your hands off the rocks, keeping your feet in place to keep you from spinning.

Farah did the same, wringing out her wrists and wiping her sweaty palms on her hips.

“Need some more powder??”

“Yeah, thanks.”

You grabbed it off your belt and handed it to her, letting her resupply, and you did the same.

“I bet Laswell is already at the top.” You chuckled.

Farah looked around, trying to spot her. “Oh she probably is.”

“Let's catch up then, hey?”

Farah nodded, and you continued to climb until you reached the top.

And as you suspected, Laswell was already at the top. “You're fast.” You pushed yourself up, shaking out her legs, looking back down at where you came from.

“Oh.” You wobbled a little, stepping back. “It's best not to look down for a minute.” Laswell tipped and looked out at the edge of the cliff. The sun showed out from behind the clouds. It casted down over the lake and reflecting off of the water.

Farah took out her phone and got a picture of the view. Motioning you and Laswell to get close.

You wrapped your arm around her, keeping your hand just off her waist as she attempted a simple smile. Catching the moment with you three.

“Now I'm gonna tell Alex about the fun we’re having.” She chuckled, and put her phone away.

“Maybe I could bring Simon here.” You wondered aloud. You threw sat around the cliff on a small blanket, drinking from your water bottles.

“Hey, I just remembered.”

Farah and Laswell looked at you curiously.

“Happy National Women's Day.”

The two smiled. “That is today, isn't it?” Farah said, and Laswell nodded.

“It is. I almost forgot.”

“I mean, we got the Barbie movie.”

Farah smiled. “I got to see it with some of the girls from my group. Their families said I could come with them.” She fidgeted with her water bottle. “We want to go with Miss Farah.” She remembered them saying.

Laswell looked out at the cliff. “I remember dragging John out with my wife and I.”

You snickered. “Uh oh, how did that go??”

“Oh I think he fell asleep.” She snickered. “It's not his typical movie. But hey, he gave a kicker of a review afterward in the car home.”

You looked down at your hands, looking at all the roughness to your hands. Your battered knuckles and the dirt under your fingernails.

“Do you guys ever feel pressured to look or act a certain way??”

A moment of soft silence went by, letting the breeze drift between you three. “Yes. I think it comes with the territory… but even though I have respect, I still feel mentally challenged a lot to prove myself.” Laswell said.

“Like some of the men in my charge can't understand how I could be as smart as them or understand how to handle pressuring situations.”

"But... Recently a lot of the pressures and beauty standards have been pushed by other women. Which, is sad, considering a lot of them think we need all this stuff done to look pretty or be wanted. But it just isn't true."

You nodded. “Yeah…”

Farah sighed softly. “It feels pressuring every day, to have to dress and act a certain way. Follow a certain code or I won't be respected. I had a man tell me I wouldn't ever have a voice if I didn't have a husband to speak for me.”

You frowned, but nodded. Farah fidgeted a little. “But you know what? I did find my voice. And a voice for many other men and women who couldn't speak before.”

She smiles. “And for every bad person I meet, I've met ten more amazing men I know I have in my corner.”

Laswell nods. “I second that.”

You smile more, happily raising your water bottle. “To the women, and all those who support them.”

You clinked your water bottles and took a large sip. “I'm glad I get to spend the week with you guys. I know it's gonna be awesome.”

“We’re going swimming next.” Farah says quickly.

Laswell and you laugh. “Swimming is next on the list then.”

[howlingday]

Panthera Tigris Tigris Nikos

Jaune: Hey, Pyrrha? Can I have a hug?

Pyrrha: Of course, Jaune! (Hugs)

Jaune: (Sinks into her)

Pyrrha: Would anyone else like-

Nora: (Dragging Ren) MEMEMEME~!

Fun Fact! Bengal tigers are big. Females have been documented to reach 400 pounds, males 500 pounds, and occasionally larger specimens reaching 700 pounds. Royal Bengal Tigers are reportedly even bigger, with one specimen shot by David Hasinger in 1967 was reported to be 857 pounds, measured at 11 feet long, and left paw prints "the size of dinner plates," and it's last meal was a live water buffalo weighed down by an eighty-pound weight. It is displayed in the Smithsonian Institutions's National Museum of Natural History, in the Hall of Mammals.

---------------------------------------------------

Pyrrha: Ready for our run, Jaune?

Jaune: You bet! Maybe this time I could-

Pyrrha: (Ear flicks) Oh, uh, why don't you keep warming up, Jaune? I need to grab something from the dorm.

Jaune: Oh, uh, sure thing, Pyrrha. I'll be right here.

Cardin: (Sitting on the roof) What the hell? Where's Nikos go- (Door swings open, Mauled)

Fun Fact! Bengal Tigers are fast. They can make short sprints of forty miles per hour, which is about the speed of a thoroughbred horse. An incident with a startled tigress mother with her cubs in Nepal in 1974 resulted in the death of a researcher who was hiding 15 feet in a tree. In 2007, on Christmas Day at the San Francisco Zoo, an Amur Tiger cleared a thirty-foot moat to maul three visitors who were harassing the tiger, killing one of them before being killed after four shots to the skull by responding police officer's .40-caliber-pistol rounds. It should be noted that the Amur was a captive tiger, raised from birth in the zoo. Imagine a wild tiger raised in the jungle.

---------------------------------------------------

Pyrrha: Are you okay, Jaune?

Jaune: Y-Yeah, I... Wait, what about the goliath?!

Pyrrha: It's okay, Jaune. I took care of it.

Jaune: But how, Pyrrha? (Holding) Your weapons-!

Pyrrha: (Takes, Smiles) I took care of it.

Jaune: (Looks behind her, Sees dead goliath)

Fun Fact! Bengal Tigers are strong. Their bite force can reach up to a thousand pounds, which is much stronger than a pitbull's and about a quarter of a great white shark. Their prey includes deer, buffalo, bison, bears, rhinos, and elephants. A single blow can break a bear's spine, and easily decapitate a human.

---------------------------------------------------

Jaune: Thanks again for letting us come visit, Mrs. Nikos.

Mama Nikos: Oh, Jaune, don't be so formal. We're practically family, so just call me Mama.

Jaune: Uh... No, I'll just stick with Mrs. Nikos, if you don't mind.

Mama Nikos: Oh, you are just so polite! I'm glad Pyrrha could have such a handsome team leader like you.

Pyrrha: (Blushing) M-Mom...

Nora: Can I have more meat buns, Mama?

Ren: Nora...

Nora: Oh, right! Khm! May I have more meat buns, Mama?

Mama Nikos: They're in the oven.

Jaune: So what do you do for a living, Mrs. Nikos?

Mama Nikos: I'm a personal fitness trainer. It's actually how I met Pyrrha's father. He said he could perform a perfect double twister kick, and I told him it was impossible unless he could twist and launch himself at a 167 degree rotation with a north-northwest gale blowing at 3.5 miles per hour behind him-

Mama Nikos: (Ding!) Oh! Meat buns are done!

Jaune: Huh...

Pyrrha: Don't worry. I didn't get it the first time, either.

Fun Fact! Bengal tigers are smart. Cubs are raised by their mothers for two and a half to three years. There are also notes of tigers imitating deer and bear calls. They will chase larger prey into water, tear at buffalo legs to bring them to the ground, and will flip porcupines from to their backs to avoid spines. There are also records of tigers killing 15-foot crocodiles, 20-foot pythons, 300-pound seals, and a 20-year-old elephant.

---------------------------------------------------

Jaune: Hm? Hey, Pyrrha? Who's this standing with your mom?

Pyrrha: Hm? Oh... That's... That's my mother. She... She's not around anymore.

Jaune: Do... Do you want to talk about it?

Pyrrha: I... I don't know where to begin. She was my hero, but she did something really bad, and she died when I was really young. And I...

Jaune: Hey. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to.

Pyrrha: (Leans on Jaune) I was probably six years old when it happened. She and I were on our way to watch a tournament together, but then this guy came from out of nowhere. He shot at us and broke her jaw. She carried me back home, and then... She left that night. I didn't learn about what happened to her until just after getting accepted into Beacon. She... She went on a rampage and then... Then she...

Jaune: (Holds her) Hey, hey. It's okay, Pyrrha. I'm... I'm sorry to hear that. I'm... I'm sure she was a great mom.

Pyrrha: (Sniffles) She was the best. And, on the bright side, because of her, there's a new standard for huntsman and huntresses to follow. And she's part of the reason why I became a huntress. So I could make sure everyone follows the standard. Follows the example she set. (Smiles) I think she would have liked you.

Jaune: (Looks at family photo) I think I would have like her, too.

Fun Fact! In the first ten years of the 20th century, until her death in 1907, the Champawat Tiger, also known as "the man-eater" killed and ate 436 humans in western Nepal. She evaded capture and continued to kill until she was shot by British hunter Jim Corbett, who speculated the tigress lost her teeth years ago from a gunshot, forcing her to change her prey to much easier humans. He then went on to be an advocate for wild tigers and spent the latter years of his life devoted to their conservation, even having a conservation park in Nepal dedicated to him.

[juniorig0327]

Wrote this in like two hours how do y'all feel about this?

Percy can’t believe it went wrong so quickly.

He was enjoying his well deserved retirement from the demigod life, hell he was getting to a point where he almost believed he deserved it. That’s when he heard his mom call his name.

“-Percy! Hurry come quick!” Sally called out and he came rushing into the other room, clutching his pen.

“Mom? What’s wrong..?”

The only thing she did was point to the radio and turn up the volume.

“…This is KTU in Honolulu, Hawaii. I am speaking from the roof of the Advertiser Publishing Company Building. We have witnessed this morning the distant view a brief full battle of Pearl Harbor and the severe bombing of Pearl Harbor by enemy planes, undoubtedly Japanese. The city of Honolulu has also been attacked and considerable damage done. This battle has been going on for nearly three hours. One of the bombs dropped within fifty feet of KTU tower. It is no joke. It is a real war–”

His hands began to tremble. War? Oh no, oh hell no. He’d had enough war in lifetime. First with Kronos and then with Gaea. He was not going to fight in another war, he wanted no part in it, especially a war against mortals. Killing insane Titans and Primordial beings was one thing, but humans? Humans who bled red? Humans in which the only difference between them is that their ambition wasn’t golden? Not humans. He’d avoided directly killing demigods, people with flesh and blood like him – maybe not like him, he felt more god than human these days, those people were more human than he was weren’t they? – before, but he had a feeling. This might not be something he could escape from. He clenched his fists as they began to tremble and the talking continued.

“The, uh…public of Honolulu has been advised to keep in their homes and away– uh from the Army and Navy. There has been serious fighting going on in the air and on the sea. The heavy shooting seems to be…”

Fuck. Was it just his mind or did everything seem to be closing in on him? It got way harder to breathe, like it was a struggle to inhale and exhale. He could feel shaking at the balls of his feet but he didn’t know where it was coming from. All he could hear was static in his ears. Was he dying? Was this the part where his life would flash before his eyes? Would he open his eyes (he doesn’t remember closing them) and be in Charon’s boat? 

“--Percy!”

Something cut through the static. It sounded familiar, the voice (not like the voices in his head– something real). He heard the voice again, calling for someone. Percy? Who was Percy? Was that him? He didn’t know. 

“Percy. You’re in New York right now and I need you to calm down sunshine.’

Annabeth? That sounded like Annabeth. But Annabeth wasn’t here, was she? (Suddenly it got a lot easier to breathe.)

“Sunshine, I need you to open your eyes.”

Well, if it was Annabeth, he could trust her. He opened his eyes hesitantly to see an IM of Annabeth in front of him. “Annabeth..” He let out a sigh, looking up at her. “... I– we’re going to have to fight. Again. Against mortals.” 

“Percy you can’t think like that.”

“Yeah, you’re right I guess.”

-

“Yesterday the Japanese Government also launched an attack against Malaya. Last night Japanese forces attacked Hong Kong: Last night Japanese forces attacked Guam. Last night Japanese forces attacked the Philippine Islands. Last night the Japanese attacked Wake Island. And this morning the Japanese attacked Midway Island.

Japan has, therefore, undertaken a surprise offensive extending throughout the Pacific area. The facts of yesterday and today speak for themselves. The people of the United States have already formed their opinions and well understand the implications to the very life and safety of our Nation.

As Commander in Chief of the Army and Navy I have directed that all measures be taken for our defense.”

Percy began packing his bags, staring at the sheet of paper on his desk. He felt a surge of rage and bitterness thinking about it. He was supposed to be done with fighting, all of this. But no, now he has to go fight for a country he’s not even sure he wants to fight for. But he has to fight, he has to fight against another evil, an evil that's not something of the godly world, but someone (thing) so terribly human it disgusts him.

“But always will our whole Nation remember the character of the onslaught against us.

No matter how long it may take us to overcome this premeditated invasion, the American people in their righteous might will win through to absolute victory.

I believe that I interpret the will of the Congress and of the people when I assert that we will not only defend ourselves to the uttermost but will make it very certain that this form of treachery shall never again endanger us.

Hostilities exist. There is no blinking at the fact that our people, our territory, and our interests are in grave danger.”

He slung the bag over his shoulder with the letter in his pocket, taking – possibly – one last look at his room before closing the door. He stepped out to see his mom and Annabeth standing beside each other. He couldn’t help but smile a little as he stepped forward to kiss his mom on the cheek. “I’m gonna miss you both. Ma, don’t get all lonely without me. Don’t forget I’m an IM– or a letter – away, don’t hesitate to reach out.” He couldn’t help but be upset. Paul was at Pearl Harbor and died (in water, in his domain, in his dad’s domain. He can’t forgive himself for that) and now he was being drafted. His mom would be all alone (because of him the voice in head head helpfully supplies).

“With confidence in our armed forces with the unbounding determination of our people we will gain the inevitable triumph so help us God.”

He turned to Annabeth and cupped her face, leaning in for a passionate kiss. He could taste the coffee on her tongue as he brushed his thumb over her cheek. After kissing way too long for being in front of his mother he pulled away. “I’ll be back. I promise. Never Again remember?” He said, his voice shaky, as if he was trying to convince himself more than her. 

“Yeah.” She said back, her voice just as shaky as they pushed their foreheads together for a brief moment. Annabeth was the first one to pull back. “Go.”

“I ask that the Congress declare that since the unprovoked and dastardly attack by Japan on Sunday, December 7, 1941, a state of war has existed between the United States and the Japanese Empire.”

 February 5, 1942 Percy Jackson left for war.

[walkswithmyfather]

Genesis 18:1-15 (NASB). “Now the LORD appeared to him by the oaks of Mamre, while he was sitting at the tent door in the heat of the day. When he lifted up his eyes and looked, behold, three men were standing opposite him; and when he saw them, he ran from the tent door to meet them and bowed himself to the earth, and said, ‘My Lord, if now I have found favor in Your sight, please do not pass Your servant by. ‘Please let a little water be brought and wash your feet, and rest yourselves under the tree; and I will bring a piece of bread, that you may refresh yourselves; after that you may go on, since you have visited your servant." And they said, ‘So do, as you have said."

So Abraham hurried into the tent to Sarah, and said, ‘Quickly, prepare three measures of fine flour, knead it and make bread cakes." Abraham also ran to the herd, and took a tender and choice calf and gave it to the servant, and he hurried to prepare it. He took curds and milk and the calf which he had prepared, and placed it before them; and he was standing by them under the tree as they ate.

Then they said to him, "Where is Sarah your wife?" And he said, “There, in the tent." He said, ``I will surely return to you at this time next year; and behold, Sarah your wife will have a son.” And Sarah was listening at the tent door, which was behind him.

Now Abraham and Sarah were old, advanced in age; Sarah was past childbearing. Sarah laughed to herself, saying, "After I have become old, shall I have pleasure, my lord being old also?" And the LORD said to Abraham, ‘Why did Sarah laugh, saying, ‘Shall I indeed bear a child, when I am so old?' “Is anything too difficult for the LORD? At the appointed time I will return to you, at this time next year, and Sarah will have a son." Sarah denied it however, saying, “I did not laugh"; for she was afraid. And He said, "No, but you did laugh."

“Laughing at the Impossible” By In Touch Ministries:

“God is able to do far more in your life than you can possibly imagine.”

“Sarah was approaching age 90 when she overheard a mysterious visitor tell her husband that she’d give birth to her first child in a year’s time. Sarah thought she was alone and unseen when she laughed in disbelief, but God revealed to Abraham how she’d reacted (Gen. 18:13-15). Sarah tried denying it, but the exchange emphasizes that nothing—not even a weary laugh—is hidden from God.

In fact, it wasn’t the first time Sarah had heard this promise. God had previously told her nearly century-old husband that she would give birth and the boy’s name would be Isaac (Genesis 17:15-22). Abraham had fathered one child, Ishmael, with Sarah’s Egyptian maid Hagar. But now God was saying the son born to Sarah in her old age would be heir to an earlier promise: that Abraham would be the father of a great nation (Genesis 12:2-3).

Sarah’s disbelief did not disqualify her from receiving the miraculous blessing God promised—and which the mysterious visitor had described with such clarity. God’s plans were far greater than her very understandable doubts. And after Sarah’s lifetime of infertility, her pregnancy would drive home an important lesson: Our supernatural God isn’t limited by what we label as “impossible.”

[Photo by Muhamad Rizal Firmansyah at Unsplash].

[murderousink23]

01/23/2024 is Parakram Diwas 🇮🇳, Measure Your Feet Day 👣🌎, National Handwriting Day ✒️🇺🇸, National Pie Day 🥧🇺🇸

[strangelittlestories]

Three weeks into the latest depressive episode A magazine calls - they want me on the cover

I tell them they’ve made a mistake I tell them the only reason I picked up Was for the sticky ‘ew’ feeling Of answering a phone call In this day and age

I tell them I haven’t showered And all I’ve eaten today Is a pack of six bake-at-home cinnamon buns And I feel a bit sick

He tells me I work for ‘Not Okay’ Magazine And we don’t make mistakes

Well, okay, we do Often But most of the time they’re sexy mistakes. We both know he’s lying, But I agree out of exhaustion.

They send a photographer to my flat We agree on a series of tasteful nudes With unwashed laundry And mouldy mugs In all the right places. They ooze attitude They also ooze literal ‘ooze’ Because of the, y’know, mould.

I list my nearest and dearest So they can ask for quotes. The one they print reads: “I wouldn’t really call us friends I haven’t heard from them In years I assumed they were mad at me.”

We chat in my living room Over a single measuring jug filled With expired instant coffee The interviewer breathes in a waft Of bovril-smelling caffeine slurry  And wipes the awe from his eyes Then says:

“A few years ago No-one knew you You were medium sad The human equivalent of a drive-thru restaurant Bad, sure, but everyone knew what they were getting. You were … a C minus.

But now? You’re a landmark A national trust ruin They may as well tattoo ‘This is not a place of honour’ On the small of your back.

My doctor heard I was interviewing you And referred me for therapy  As a precaution. So let me ask the question on everyone’s lips? What’s your secret?”

“What a great question.” I say, wrestling the coffee From his hands Because I deserve it

“It takes a lot of practice. You’ve just got to make time To remap your synapses I try to fit in one life-changingly bad event a year To really forge new wide-ranging roads Through my internal atlas Away from those depots of cloying serotonin I know I don’t deserve. Y’know, something really verve-destroying.

I’ve careened across the map Wheels burning into redundancy town Double-parking at heartbreak hotel (did you know you could fail a break-up?) Getting a ticket on bereavement boulevard A hit-and-run through jury service-ville (leaving my faith in humanity behind)

And of course Pandemic City was a blessing  for all us sad-sacks But an extra spicy affair if you worked in healthcare

Finally, I crashed the metaphor into a river On the coldest night on record But it was pretty shallow And I think the cold probably helped Shock me out of it. Plus, I made it home with my trousers only partially frozen.

We are creatures of habit, Michael Can I call you Michael?”

(He quickly corrects me - Michael is not his name - “I didn’t ask you what your fucking name was I asked if I could call you Michael” He says yes)

“Like I said - creatures of habit If you *practice* If you really dig your feet in If you cut a wide furrow through the mud Some part of you will start to think Of the hole you burrowed in the dirt As home.

Your highest landmarks Are distant skyline and To visit would feel like trespassing.”

At the end of the interview I ask Michael If he’s sure I’m qualified To be a coverperson

After all There are so many people More ‘not okay’ than me Or who have more reason to be Yet remain seemingly functional.

“That’s the beauty of Not Okay magazine,” he says, with a smile like marshmallow “We don’t judge or rank. We ask for one thing: That today you are not okay.

In its own way, every sadness is interesting Even when it feels boring as the road you grew up on Tomorrow you might even be happy That’s okay too. Tomorrow is an impossibility of sunrises. Today - you are seen.”

[pilesofpillows]

Like Real People Do || Attoye Excerpt

Attoye Week Day 1: First Kiss

A/N: Here begins my Hozier Anthology… there will be two Attoye Week fics inspired by my beloved Celtic Bog Faerie.

I hope you enjoy this lil snackie for @attoye-week

The dress was white.

One shouldered with a fitted, intricately beaded bodice, a similarly besparkled sleeve, and a skirt that pooled around her feet— and it was white.

Stark and breathtaking, carefully thought out, beautifully and painstakingly crafted— and it was white.

Okoye stared at the full-length mirror, and a bride stared back at her, somber as she was stunning.

She’d be married anew, cloaked in grief— wasn’t that fitting?

At least her outward appearance would match the inner turmoil rollicking through her body.

“You look beautiful.” Izefia spoke in a reverent tone from behind Okoye, making the final adjustments to the fit.

Their eyes met in the mirror, and Okoye gave the woman a forced smile. The same smile she’d plastered on through every dress fitting and council meeting and treaty mediation and contract negotiation. It was cracked at the edges and never reached her eyes. But it had saved her from endless questions and empty reassurances, so it became the only form of armor she possessed.

Izefia grinned back proudly, just as she had when she’d presented the dress earlier that morning. Okoye didn’t– couldn’t begrudge the elder woman’s pride. Her work was always exceptional, no matter the occasion. It was why she’d been chosen to design Okoye’s wedding dress.

The dress she would wear to marry her new husband and cement her kingdom’s new alliance. The dress she would wear to provide Shuri with a measure of protection while she healed and keep the nation that she’d bled and spilled blood for whole.

“Just one more thing,” the tailor said, gesturing to one of her assistants.

The young woman stepped onto the raised platform with Okoye and Izefia, arms gingerly cradling yet another white piece of fabric. Okoye kept her eyes on the mirror, watching Izefia reach for one end of the garment, delicately lift it, and move behind her. She heard the faintest of clicks, and Izefia’s arms encircled her, careful hands securing a jewel-encrusted belt to her waist with another soft click.

“Oh.” Okoye breathed a soft sigh of wonder as the tailor moved her hands, her eyes fixed on the center of her midsection.

The belt was not white.

The top edge was lined with pearls and diamonds like the bodice of the dress, but the rest was an explosion of color that nearly made her weep. Aquamarines and emeralds swirled with yellow topaz and onyx to form a pattern she knew intimately. And at the center of it all: a sapphire. It’s blue so rich and deep it felt like coming home.

Her eyes watered, and she sucked in a deep breath, meeting Izefia’s gaze in the mirror once more.

The older woman smiled gently and fanned out the skirt affixed to the belt, revealing the familiar blue-dotted pattern of concentric circles and lines. The Border Tribe. Home.

A single tear trailed down her cheek, and Okoye choked on the grateful sob trying to crawl out its way out of her throat.

“Thank you.”

Izefia turned Okoye and cupped her face, carefully wiping the lone tear from her cheek. “You are as much his bride as he is your husband. But first and foremost, you will always be a daughter of Wakanda.”

~ magis postmodum ~

A/N 2: It’ll get better, I promise 😅

Thank you for reading! Can’t wait until Attoye Week begins! 💕💕💕

[karenchasity]

hate anons r dumb have my essay instead

The Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument is a national reserve in Pima County, Arizona, spanning 330,688 acres, housing more than 924 species of flora and fauna. The park was established on April 13, 1937, as a way to preserve the beauty of the Sonoran desert for years to come, allowing future generations to enjoy the beauty of the vast desert land that makes up the area.

The desalination pipeline plans to destroy it.

The pipeline itself would need a corridor spanning 175 feet wide, not to mention a power transition line that would need a 150-foot corridor. 

And this line halves the Organ Pipe straight down the middle.

I’m sure you can see how this is a problem.

Organ Pipe is quoted as being “one of the most ecologically fragile places in Arizona,” and, as previously mentioned, is a biodiversity hotspot. It’s rare to see places in Arizona brimming with life, as human habitation has taken over, terraforming the desert into something more livable for us people. We’ve dried up rivers, seeped all the groundwater, practically run the desert dry with the conceited belief that this world is meant for us. That it is our god given right to take what we believe we’re owed. Because, “hey, we’re the most technologically advanced species in the history of Earth, it doesn’t matter who or what came before us! We decide how the environment works!” And then, once we run one resource dry, we just go to the next. But I digress.

The monument houses multiple different endangered species, including but not limited to the Quitobaquito pupfish, the lesser long nosed bat, the Sonoran pronghorn, and the cactus ferruginous pygmy-owl. These species are already struggling to survive, and a major cause is human interference. Is it the wisest choice to cut through their habitat, just so we don’t face the consequences of our actions? Is it the wisest choice to remove their homes, instead of even trying to take the proper steps to better our water use? Do we really want the reason that these species die out to be due to our own personal selfishness? In a world filled with ever growing industrialization, where lush forests turn into concrete jungles, lively fauna replaced by roaring cars, once sunny skies darkened by smog, do we really want to cut through an area on the ever-shortening list of places where we can almost see what the world looked like before we came? Please, take a moment to think about this before you vote.

Maybe you can’t find it in you to see this way. Maybe you can only see the downsides of not cutting through the Organ Pipe. Maybe you can only see the upsides. Maybe you see the pipeline as the perfect solution. Maybe you’re thinking, “Well, sure. Maybe some habitats will get hurt, but we can place more conservation measures for them. And, besides. It’s for the good of the people.” I see your point, I really do. But, I do have to ask: Is it truly better for all people?

Folks, I bring you to the reason why I wrote this essay.

The pipeline would directly cut through Tohono O’odham lands.

Hundreds of years before settlers came to colonize the west, multiple tribes lived in the Sonoran desert area, including the Pascua Yaqui, Hohokam, and, most notably, Tohono O’odaham. The Organ Pipe contains 16,000 years of native culture, with artifacts still being found to this day.

But the problem is bigger than just those tribes. It's bigger than Organ Pipe, even. It’s a problem with America itself.

Native Americans, throughout history, have been swept aside and disregarded. We’ve been chased out of our native lands, forced to live in reservations, our culture hidden, and our voices silenced. Some would argue that this isn’t a problem anymore. “That was all in the past, with the Trail of Tears!”

It’s not. It’s happening to this day. Just look at Hawaii. In O’ahu, Native Hawaiians are forced out of their homes, forced to live in homeless encampments because American tourists went to Hawaii and decided they didn’t want to leave. My native lands are trampled and disrespected, destroyed to make room for shiny new resorts and homes. My people are priced out from the lands in which they lived for hundreds of years. Hula dance, one of our art forms to tell stories, is made into some fun little dance for them to watch at their version of luaus. My culture is made into a mockery of what it once was, into something more ‘digestible’ for tourists. My language is dead. My heritage is dead. I have to cling on to the bits I still have.

Our lands are sacred. That goes for every Native American. If we have a choice, shouldn’t we go with the one that protects the lands of the people who were here before us? Shouldn’t we protect these cultures that existed long before ours, lest we let it die out like Hawaii?

I know what it's like to not know your culture. To feel so disconnected from it you feel like a liar when you say you are. To feel so lost and alone in a world that's cut you off from your culture, your heritage, your people. It's hard. It's hard because you don't feel like you fit. Too Americanized to be native. Too native to be an American. Organ Pipe allows the descendants of the Tohono O'odham tribe to experience their heritage, their culture. You build this pipeline, and you cut off them from ever having that experience. You keep them in the dark of who they are. You build this pipeline, and you do what every American government official has done before: silence native voices. Push them into reservations, take their land, and destroy it. Do you really want history to repeat itself? Do you want to be the cause for a parent telling their child "I don't know" when they ask who their tribe was? Do you want to take away the joy of knowing who your ancestors were? Of going to their lands, feeling the sand between their toes, and feeling the euphoria of knowing who you are? I agree, water is important. But is it important enough to rob one of their roots? To destroy lands deemed sacred? To take what isn't yours to take? I urge you all to ask yourselves these questions when you vote on the pipeline.

I cannot make your decision for you, but I will leave you with this: As someone who is both Native Hawaiian and Native American (to a tribe I have never known and will never know due to suppression within my family), I’ve always felt a disconnect between me and my culture. It feels like hell, not knowing who I am. Every day, I feel like I will never be Hawaiian enough, or Native enough. Like a part of me is lost to time. All I am asking is that, please. Let them keep their land. Just so that someone out there can visit their cultural land, and feel whole.

Thank you.

dude this FUCKS actually. the last paragraph hits HARD

[seyaryminamoto]

Sheesh! Azulon is such a spoiled brat, huh? 🤣

... Yes. He is.

Ngl, I rewatched LOTR's trilogy over the past three days and I was surprised by something in it that I immediately connected to Azulon. I've never seen anyone else draw this parallel with LOTR, instead I only ever see people in the fandom constantly comparing Azulon, intentionally or not, with Tywin Lannister.

... as far as I'm concerned, Azulon is Denethor. Full stop.

Even if you want to think the guy loved his firstborn? He was a twisted, pissy asshole who wanted to cling to power at all costs, that above all else, and his "beloved" son was his best means to achieve that. Hell, I'd argue Azulon wouldn't even be likely to have the "last minute awakening" that Denethor did regarding Faramir... but Denethor's behavior over Boromir is 100% the same as Azulon's over Iroh. "Oh, my perfect, glorious, wonderful son who can get everything right, and whose useless brother can't ever measure up to! I'm going to idealize you and give you all the privileges and glorious missions and pretend you could've achieved anything, while he was worth less than the dirt under your feet!"

So, yes, the way I write Azulon is so much closer to Denethor, specifically in terms of how he treats his family, than to Tywin Lannister and all the fandom's attempts to rationalize and justify his treatment of Ozai, all be it because "baby killed my wife". Worth noting? There's no solid evidence of that: Ilah is as good as a non-character, nobody knows what kind of relationship he had with her, Azulon very well could have used her as a brooding mare and nothing more, for all we know... but along with this? A bastard of Azulon's caliber, who helmed the Fire Nation's war for THE LONGEST PERIOD out of all three canon Fire Lords, does not need any greater excuses to treat his second-born like trash, much like Denethor didn't. :')

Of course, I take Azulon a bit further than most people by depicting his insecurities over his newborn granddaughter... I think there's no logical explanation for him to overlook Azula and be as unaffected by her as he's shown to be in Zuko Alone's flashback. She's a prodigy, she should be a useful weapon for him, at the very least...! And he's completely unconcerned with her. He actually shows more reaction to Zuko than he does to Azula. Hmm. Makes ya wonder, huh? :')

So yeah, I think there are many layers to how twisted Azulon is. Dude really took things to a whole other level of BS and kept doing it until the very end. Fandom can call me crazy as much as it cares to, but I don't think any grandfather who demands for the death of his grandson as a punishment for his second son's impertinence should EVER be given the "benefit of the doubt", or granted any excuses for this behavior just because Ozai was a shitty human being. Ozai sure was one: and he learned exactly how to be that way from daddy dearest himself :')

[odinsblog]

Something I need to get off my chest, for old followers and new:

I do not give a single solitary fuck about communism

If communism blew up and died tomorrow, I would not give one shit about it 🥱

If “communism” is your end all be all about what’s right and what’s wrong in the world, then do us both a favor and block me right now. No hard feelings, okay?

And for anyone wondering: no, I don’t give a shit about capitalism, and definitely not neoliberalism either

Look, sooner or later you have GOT to understand something: some people (neoliberals) get all bent out shape if you aren’t constantly falling over yourself to kiss the ass of whoever the current Democratic president is. That ain’t me. When Biden or Clinton or whoever is wrong, I will hold their feet to the fire and at least try to them accountable (see: Biden Title 42)

And when capitalism fucks up (lol, that’s any day of the week that ends in the letter Y), then I will call that shit out too

Sooner or later, ALL of that shit fucks up. All of it. All of it

None of it is beyond critique

If you think your special little rhubarb (communism, capitalism, religion, libertarianism, etc etc etc) is magically the only one that is perfect and good and right all the time, then you’re just like a little baby who still believes that Santa lives on the North Pole. Please grow tf up

But I am very specifically calling out communism today because several long time mutuals lose their shit whenever I don’t kiss Putin’s ass, or when I don’t blame NATO for Putin invading a sovereign nation that wasn’t attacking Russia, wasn’t in NATO, and wasn’t even applying for membership into NATO when Putin decided to attack them

Is America wrong for all the dirt its done all around the planet? Fuck. yes. Does America bad = Russia good? FUCK NO

Look, everyone has their own personal coda; their guiding principles; their “religion,” their rhubarb. For some, it’s a blind, sycophantic inability to understand or acknowledge that simply being marginally better than Trump doesn’t automatically make centrist Democrats above being held accountable (it’s our job as citizens to always demand better from whoever our elected representatives are—they work for us goddammit)

For other sycophants, it’s a rabid inability to call out capitalism and/or Christianity

And for others still, it’s communism

I guess my problem is, EYE don’t measure how “good” something is by how “communist” it is—I measure it by how much good it does without burying poor people, without harming Black & Brown people, without hurting women (trans or otherwise), without vilifying foreigners, and without burning LGBTQ people (the way Russia and America do)

If you can’t understand that, then your particular brand of blind fanaticism (your rhubarb) is communism, and you are no different from the VBNMW, Blue MAGA sycophants who go completely ape shit whenever you say something even slightly unflattering about politicians who happen to wear the letter “D” behind their name—see where that got us??

You’re no different. You just have a slightly different rhubarb

Communism is NOT my fucking measuring stick. I don’t have communism on the brain, and I sure as fuck don’t have capitalism on the brain either

I love Black people, Brown people , poor people, immigrants, asylum seekers, women, the LGBTQ community, democracy, equality, justice and freedom

And dassit ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I’m on the side of the little guy and the underdog

So anyway, fuck communism, fuck capitalism, fuck “Christianity” and fuck all the other little bullshit unimportant distinctions you far too rigidly use to decide if someone is “good” instead of just looking to see if they’re actually doing good or not

Some of you good little “communists” couldn’t even be bothered to speak up about Brittney Griner because you didn’t want to look bad or say anything bad about Vladimir Putin’s raggedy ass. Lol. You guys suck!

And no, this isn’t me taking a right wing turn like Cenk and TYT (or like Jimmy Dore, or Glenn Greenwald, or any number of the other “previously” progressive media types who are re-aligning themselves with conservatives)

In 2016 I had to break ties with people and bloggers who turned out to be dogged Blue MAGA sycophants, and today I’m fed up with people who can’t go more than two minutes without signaling how “communist” they are 🙄

Sorry, but that shit don’t get my dick hard

(And for added clarity: Republicans and Libertarians, go fuck yourselves with a rusty chainsaw)

If this post makes you mad, then here ya go

</end rant>