#now that i have distance between me and america as a continent

[yakozy]

BACK IN EUROPE I HAVE RETURNED AAAAA

[alotofpockets]

Written in the stars | Reneé Rapp x Lioness!Reader

Where Reneé is dating England's star striker.

Reneé Rapp Masterlist | Words: 1.3k

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You and Reneé decided from the start that you weren’t going to publicly address your relationship, and you would just be and do your things. With the both of you living in different continents, and both having a big online presence your comments were often filled with people trying to figure out what Reneé was doing in England so often, and for you to be in America when you had a couple days off. 

With you playing for Arsenal and England, there wasn’t much time to travel. The same counted for your girlfriend, between her acting and music career, there wasn’t always time to see each other, but you always made the best of it. She had spent some time with you in London while she was recording her album, it was nice having her around so much, and her coming to see you play. 

Of course, the first time that Reneé was able to come see you play at Emirates Stadium, a fan spotted her in the crowd.

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reneerappupdates just posted

reneerappupdates: Renee spotted at Emirates Stadium supporting Arsenal WFC. Source: @wosofan1

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wosofan2: My two worlds colliding!

reneefan: this can't be a coincidence

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People were now definitely convinced that Reneé was dating someone on the team, and the rumours continued. Neither one of you was bothered by the rumours though, the people you both cared about knew about your relationship, and the people that found out along the way, just did. 

“I’m going to miss you so much.” You whispered into your girlfriend’s ear, as you held her close. She was starting her tour in a month, and was flying back home for rehearsals with the band. “I know baby, I’m going to miss you too. It has been amazing having you so close.” You were basking in the cuddles for as long as you could. “You’re going to come see me play here right?” You nodded with a smile, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I wish I could come to more shows.” Reneé shrugged, “You’ve got a league to play and a cup to win with Arsenal, and camp with the national team. They can’t miss their starstriker.” While the distance was hard sometimes, you knew you’d make it work, because the both of you were very understanding of the other’s careers. 

Once you said goodbye at the airport, you poured everything into football. Arsenal was in the top three of the league, and ended up winning the cup final. Reneé was the first one you called when you headed into the locker room. While everyone was partying around you, you wanted to see the proud look on your girl’s face. The team teased you for it, but were also happy you found someone to share these moments with. 

The next day Reneé was performing in London. Between her rehearsal and the show, you and Reneé caught up on some well needed cuddles. A bunch of your teammates joined you to see her perform that night. You loved being able to support her before you had to head to England camp. Seeing her in her element, and watching her enjoy the performance and the special moments with the crowd. Of course, you and your teammates were spotted amongst the crowd.

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reneerapp just posted

reneerapp: LONDON, UK

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reneefan1: best day of my live.

gooner4life: Is no one going to talk about half of the Arsenal girls being here?

↳ awfcfan: first renee at the emirates, and now the girls at her show

↳ gooner4life: she has to be dating one of them right?

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After the concert the two of you parted ways again, as you were headed to England camp, and Reneé had to continue her tour. The two of you facetimed as often as you could, and when times wouldn’t line up, you’d sent voice notes back and forth. When you got back to the hotel after your first match that you tied, Reneé was the first to reassure you. Her tour had started, and she was performing all around Europe, but she watched your match online. She had seen the disappointment in your eyes when the match had ended. “I shouldn’t have missed those shots.” You say in annoyance, while trying to tell her what was going through your head. “You played an amazing game, baby. Their keeper blocked your shots, true, but you were getting all of your shots on goal. This was just the first game, you can prove yourself against Ireland next week.” 

What you didn’t know was that Reneé had planned to take her two days off between shows to fly to Dublin, and surprise you.

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reneerappupdates just posted

reneerappupdates: Renee arriving at Dublin airport. Source: Reneé's story

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reneefan1: Does anyone know why she's in Dublin?

↳ lionessesfan: Maybe the England-Ireland match?

↳ awfcfan: @gooner4life this narrows it down to only a few players!

wosorenee: I need to know which footballer she's dating!

reneefan2: Wait, isn't her Dublin show in a few weeks?

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Reneé’s surprise visit meant the world to you, and you promised yourself that if you managed to score against Ireland tonight, you would dedicate the goal to her. Time and time again goal scoring opportunities were handed to you, but you didn’t seem to be able to hit the back of the net. You were getting frustrated, but you weren’t letting it affect your playing. Another 1-1 score wouldn’t be the worst, but you wanted to win this match to be amongst the top two of the group.

It was the 93rd minute when the ball found your feet again. This had to be it, it was the last moment of the match as the clock was ticking down the last minute of play. With one defender shrugged off, you looked up to see which teammate you could give the assist to, but they were all being guarded by Ireland’s defence. You had gotten yourself in a tight angle, but you had to take the shot yourself. With one look back at your teammates, hoping to trick the goalkeeper into thinking you were going for the assist, you kicked the ball in the direction of the goal. You watched as the goalkeeper jumped to keep it from going in, but it was just out of their reach. The English side of the crowd erupted in cheers, as your teammates ran in to hug you. 

While you were being congratulated by your teammates you looked into the crowd to find your girlfriend. When your eyes locked on her’s, she was looking back at you with pride as she was cheering along with the crowd. 

Ireland got to kick off one last time, but after one pass the final whistle blew. While you were celebrating the win with the team, you felt the pull to celebrate with your girlfriend. You found her eyes again in question, with a nod of her head, you climbed into the stands, ignoring the chaos around you from the fans. 

When you made it to her, you knew that there would be camera’s on you, but you didn’t care. You wanted to celebrate with your girlfriend, so you did. She wrapped her arms around you and held you tight. “You played so well, baby. That goal was incredible.” You smile into the crook of her neck. “That was for you.”

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Celeb News just posted an article

Reneé Rapp and Y/n Y/l/n hint at romance

Celeb News: After fans of popstar Reneé Rapp and star striker for Arsenal and England Y/n Y/l/n noticed that the pair was constantly in the same country, the rumours started. Neither one of them ever commented on the rumours, and let the fans do their thing.

Let's take this back in time a bit. Rapp was pictured at Emirates Stadium first, making fans believe that she had to be dating one of the Arsenal girls. Then Y/l/n and a few of her teammates attended Rapp's show in London, confirming to the fans that Reneé showing up at the match had not just been a coincidence.

Fans finally got confirmation of the player that Rapp has been spending her time with, as Y/l/n ran into the crowd to hug Rapp after scoring the winning goal.

While neither Rapp nor Y/l/n have officially addressed the speculation, their public displays of affection have left little doubt in the minds of fans about the nature of their relationship.

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[abiiors]

self indulgent because i was sad last night and doing the math on time change it was about 9 hours between where i am and where matty is (lol do i have a problem?) currently being attacked before 10 am with his ripped shirt

but maybe reader had a tough day at work and was not as good with communication as they normally would be with their long distance agreements, and just tries to keep it together when matty can finally get a hold of her and ask what’s up and he’s so sweet telling her she can always complain to him about her crappy days he wants to be the one she can lean on when she needs the extra care

aww babe, i’m so sorry. i hope you’re feeling better now tho <3

just something small and fluffy!

you have not left the bed for a few hours now. 

in fact, you haven’t left the bed at all since coming back from work and throwing yourself onto it; work clothes and all. normally, the thought of being in bed with outside clothes would have made you cringe. today, however, exhaustion dictates everything. 

your phone, plugged into its charger, buzzes on the nightstand for the tenth time. you already know it’s matty, sending a reel or a funny tweet or even just a random message about something silly but the thought of extending your arm to pick up the phone is too much. everything is too much. 

and so, matty and his messages remain unseen. 

you close your eyes again, thinking of all the work piling up in your inbox at this moment. no matter how much you do, it seems unending—something new always getting thrown at you when you’re least expecting it. 

your phone buzzes again. and this time it keeps buzzing. it’s a phone call. 

groaning, you inch your body close to the nightstand like a pathetic worm and tilt the phone to look at the caller id. of course, it’s matty. and of course you can’t ignore him again. it would be cruel to make him worry about you when he’s all the way in america; on another continent, in a time zone hours behind you. 

“hi baby,” you answer with as much cheer as you can muster. it’s a facetime call and there’s no other option but to plaster a saccharine-sweet smile on your face. 

“hi my darling,” he smiles before launching into his story. “so you know how i’ve been making a set list for the next show? well, ross and i thought it’d be hilarious if—what’s wrong?”

it’s like his entire mood shifts between one word and the next, the cheeky smile fading away into a frown and you feel yourself grimace. 

“what?” you sit up, propped up against the pillows and acting like you have no idea what he’s talking about. “what do you mean, what’s wrong.”

matty’s lips press into a straight line. he’s not impressed, and he’s not happy with you either. because his eyes are trained on your soft grey blouse which is certainly not something you wear at home or to bed. 

“you’re playing dumb, love,” he scolds lightly, “what’s wrong?”

“i don’t wanna start, matty. i’ll get over it, i promise.” you feel your lip wobbling halfway through that reassurance. still, a deep, shaky breath composes you a little. “i want to hear about the set list. come on.”

but matty’s having none of it. “you can hear about it when you tell me what’s wrong.”

letting out a loud sigh you wonder if it’s worth getting into. this is going to lead to more frustration and crying and he’s not even here to hug you till every other worry disappears. no, he’s not here to dote on you and let you whine like a baby about every minor (and major) inconvenience. 

internally, you curse america and his stupid band and the stupid shows and probably everything else you can think of in the ten second span before matty speaks again. 

“talk to me, darling,” he urges gently, “you’ve not talked to me all day.”

it’s true. you have been rather shit at communicating today. sighing, you give in. 

“it’s work,” a dry laugh, “it’s always work.”

matty’s eyes soften in sympathy. he knows it’s been a bit hard lately. for him too, being on the road is never easy but he knows it’s worse for you. that being away for too long makes your separation anxiety start acting up. 

“tell me more.”

“i don’t wanna complain to you all the time, babe. it’s always the same thing. it gets too much, i get overwhelmed and come crying to you. the same cycle.”

if he were here right now, he would already be letting you cry into his chest, kissing it all better. but since he is not, you have to resort to smushing your face into his pillow and groaning in frustration. 

“okay you listen to me,” his voice is stern but his eyes remain soft and loving. “you never. ever. have to worry about complaining to me. ever. now tell me more about what’s bothering you at work.”

you swallow past the lump in your throat and sniffle lightly. “it’s just all so much, matty. the thought of logging into my emails tomorrow makes me want to cry. there are so many that i haven’t even opened yet.”

he stays quiet for a second, a pensive expression on his face before he breaks out into another smile. 

“alright, time to bring out the big guns.” he walks around his hotel room in search of something—his laptop, it becomes clear a moment later—before plopping down onto his bed. 

“tell me your login details.”

“what?” there’s confusion written all over your face. 

“i’m not doing anything stupid, love. just give me your login details.”

“not that i don’t trust you,” you reply cautiously, “but what are you doing?”

“offering you my precious personal assistant services,” he beams. “they are in high demand, mind you. now come on. login details. i’m just going to sort your emails for you.”

his words unleash the floodgates. through grateful sobs and quiet sniffles, you rattle off the email id and password—it’s his name and your anniversary date which makes him giggle and reveal that his password is almost identical. your name and birthday. 

once you’ve calmed down a bit and wiped your nose on your shirt sleeve like a child, you take a proper look at him—slightly tired, but happy and smiling. and handsome as ever. 

“thank you,” you whisper, “i mean it, babe. this helps so much.”

“anything for you,” he smiles and then narrows his eyes. “next time,” his finger is right in front of you, occupying the better part of the screen, “if you shut down on me again… i was almost worried, you know?”

“i’m sorry,” you pout, knowing it’s his weakness. he has no chance of keeping his resolve in front of the pout. he breaks; shaking his head while trying to contain his smile.

“now," you return his small smile, "tell me about this set list…”

[dduane]

IIRC, the Reavers come from the South and we're told it's generally colder there. I wonder, are the Middle Kingdoms on a southern continent? I'm currently reading The Door Into Sunset, so the answer may yet await me. Sill, I'm curious.

And you're absolutely right! (It's just me subverting stuff again. So what else is new) :)

The somewhat-updated map (and there's still so much work to be done on this to get the terrain correct, but this is close enough...) shows the same compass-rose hint that's been in maps of the Kingdoms since the series started:

As has been implied elsewhere, the Kingdoms are not exactly a huge part of a world that's a near-exact twin of our own Earth in terms of size and mass. The distance from Lamaith in western Arlen to the boundaries of the eastern Waste is about the same as that from New York to Denver. As the Dragon flies, the distance between the Eorlhowe to Bluepeak is close enough to the distance between Vancouver and L.A. And common knowledge of the rest of that world has (up to the events described in the first three Middle Kingdoms works) been limited by relatively undeveloped seagoing tech, and a lack of the kind of trade-driven impetus historically present on our Earth.

...A situation which, at the end of TDISunset, is ready to change. So the mapping necessarily now has to improve.

This work's taking me a while, as the newest species to arrive in the Kingdoms is spacefaring... and the new maps therefore have to be as functional from high orbit as they would be on the ground. Producing maps this complex and detailed would once have been a nightmare. (And they're still not exactly easy... but at least the tech for the amateur mapmaker is catching up.)

For amusement's sake I just plugged a very very rough draft of the current whole-planet map of the Kingdoms' world into the excellent online tool at MapToGlobe.com, and this is what we get:

If you wait a bit, you'll see the North Arlene peninsula come around, about twenty degrees south of that alternate Earth's equator (and indeed the Eorlhowe would lie almost exactly on the 20-degrees-South latitude line).

The lands along the north coast of the Sea, therefore, both because of the latitude and the local prevailing easterlies, are fairly warm. Up by North Arlen, conditions are nearly subtropical; think northern Central America, or the southern Mediterranean and north Africa. Central and southern Arlen and Darthen would map more closely onto southern-tier Europe in terms of climate; though by the time you get down by the Southpeaks, the climate becomes more recognizably prealpine.

The unfavorable weather conditions affecting the "Reaver" peoples resident on the far side of the Peaks have more to do with microclimate issues than the local latitude (which maps roughly to the southern 40th parallel). Land barriers and cultural and political issues have been problematic for them too... but these problems now have the potential to shift.

Anyway: nice catch! :)

[feysandfeels]

thank u! The situation is this, roughly. I'm in my mid 20s and I live in city A, where I'm very comfortable. I have all my friends here, old firndships of 10+ years and new ones. Since I'm not close to my family, they're extremely important to me. In the past two years I've maybe spent 15 days without meeting anyone, being able to socialise and lean on my friends is super important to me. I love my city, I'm comfortable here and I know I wanna spend my life here. However, I cant get my masters degree here, I'd have to do an expensive online degree and I've really been considering moving somewhere else for my masters for a while now, to use that opportunity and get to know a new place before returning here for good. I dont really wanna do an online degree, spending 6 hours a day in my room with no way to socialise and meet new friends. Ive been dating someone since november 22, we just broke up a couple days ago. I think ive sent u asks about him before lol. He lives in city B, 600 km away from me and ultimately the distance was the break up reason, although admittedly there have been other struggles as well. He said if I were to move there, he'd love to date me again for real this time. City B is far away, but it would actually offer me a good (and free) degree, its a vibrant metropolis and I could honestly do worse. The thing is, I'm scared of moving there only to end up depressed and homesick and on top of that back in a rocky relationship. I love and miss him a lot but there is no guarantee this would work out, even without the distance.

Got any advice? Both options have their pros and cons I guess

Hello My Love,

I'm sorry for the late reply but it was my grandma's birthday and a woman is nothing if not extra and we literally had celebrations for her the whole week. But she deserves it. Fabulous lady, truly.

Anywho, I have been thinking about this a lot and I - do you have a cunty friend? Can I be your cunty friend? Like I will give you hugs and bake you cookies, but can I be the cunty friend?

Because here is what I think: do not include that man or your relationship with him in your decision making process. Even though, I think distance is a valid reason when talking about North America -and America in general as traveling within the continent is not as cheap or easy as it is in other places... I am looking at you "long distance relationships within England"- the fact that you were also having other issues makes me believe that maybe maybe this is not where you should be putting your energy. If you give him a deciding factor weight type of thing then there might be chance you end up in a program that is good but not "the one", in a relationship that shows you that the problems that were not distance related are still there and well with a cup half empty. Personally, and feel free to disagree and be more of a romantic here... but personally I feel that if you guys have only been together a couple of months he should not hold such privilege weight in your life as to be a deciding factor to where you do your MA, that is something that comes with time and dedication.

Even if you do think it is worth a shot please please have a good think about whether it comes from a sense of comfort and of "hey at least I would have someone there" or the comfort of having previously been together. If this dude was not in an emotional position to put the effort to be in a long distance relationship with you then I think you deserve someone who will put that effort and even encourage you to fully look at all the available brilliant MA options you have. There's nothing wrong with him not wanting to do that and peace be with him and all that, but you deserve someone who will be there even when an ocean stands between you two.

Choose your MA because it feels your heart with joy to study whatever it is on, because you love the classes, because the campus seems nice and they have cool clubs and a nice community, because there are cute cafes and the nice restaurants, because the bookstores are amazing, because the scenery is inspiring, because you want to learn... and then jump.

Now for the MA experience and the fear of leaving home. I will not lie to you babygirl, it is daunting and settling in will take a while. This being said it will be an adventure! A great one at that. I feel these experiences allow you to truly get to know you for who you are when your familiar context is stripped away, you learn to spend time with you, to date you, to enjoy your own company; simultaneously it forces you to grow past the beautiful fence that limits your comfort space, to face the horizon and see all that land with boundless opportunity for you to build something from it and cherish it.

I know there's a fear of what if I don't meet new friends? what if my teachers suck? what if there is no cute cafes? what if I feel alone? But during those years you learn to communicate with your loneliness and find company within it; you learn that a smile is universal and most likely people will also be looking to make friendly connections; you learn things that you like about yourself that can help you grow into a new version; your teachers will most likely be lovely; you learn to love and be with people at a distance (you have an online community that literally travels with you, and your friends from home will adapt to you being away and you will not feel alone). Don't let fear of the unknown stop you, because even within the borders of your hometown the unknown will find you.

There's something my MA teacher used to say to me that I have loved ever since: be brave and head into the unknown, you never know which constellations you will find in a new sky.

Hope it helped..

sending you lots of love and light.

Ps: if you end up choosing the MA in the city he is in, make sure you are choosing it because of the program and the city... make sure you would choose it even if that dude did not live there.

Ahora sí, besos mi reina (gn)

[headspace-hotel]

please infodump 2 me, we've been having it rough lately and you sharing an interest might make our day :)

okay, so I was recently on vacation in the Appalachian mountains and I’ve kinda been thinking a lot about this

I visited Mt. Mitchell, which is the highest point in North America east of the Mississippi River, at an elevation of 6,684 feet.

(Here’s the view from the top.)

This is high enough that this area of the Blue Ridge Mountains has a unique kind of ecosystem similar to that found in eastern Canada, of fir, cedar, and spruce trees and many more cold-adapted species.

I love the Appalachians. The blue, undulating waves of mountains seem to melt straight into the sky in the distance. But they are not impressive in terms of height, not really. To someone used to the Rockies, Mt. Mitchell is more of a glorified hill than anything.

Where I live in Eastern Kentucky, the line between mountain and glorified hill blurs. The Appalachians shade from waves of mountains to steep rolling hills with scarcely a transition. They aren’t impressive, staggering peaks. You might even call them unremarkable.

You would be wrong.

The Appalachians are not high, but they are old. They are much, much older than the lofty snow-capped peaks of their more impressive relatives. They are so small because they have been worn down, for hundreds of millions of years, from a height that rivaled that of the Himalayas. In their youth, these soft, subtle curves on the misty horizon were Everests.

The Appalachians were created by a long string of geologic events, culminating in the collision of the African continent with the Eastern coast of what we now know as North America, 300 million years ago. And yes, in those days, that WAS the coast.

Where did all that land come from??

Well, remember what I said about millions of years of erosion? All the land east of this mountainous region…is made essentially from sediment worn off the Appalachian’s eons-old peaks. The entire East Coast is just leftover rubble, carried by erosion, from what was the Appalachian Mountains.

What is left…is old.

Much of Kentucky is sedimentary limestone, forming some of the best fossil beds in the world. The central area of the state was a shallow sea 450 million years ago, and well-preserved sponges, corals, bivalves, gastropods, bryozoans, crinoids, and even trilobites can be found here.

The reason there are no fish is that fish were not invented yet.

In order: Gastropod (snail) shell, a bryozoan (or ‘moss animal’ fragment, more bryozoans, another snail shell, and a shit ton of Strophomena bivalves.

I found all these just…in my back yard.

These are older than our pal Tyrannosaurus Rex, and by older I mean 6.5 times older, as in “the amount of time that separates humans from T. rex passed almost seven times from the time these little guys fossilized to now.”

Which makes it pretty terrifying that the rocks of the Appalachian mountains are much older than that.

At the center of the map above you’ll see the Blue Ridge mountains. This region, at the mountains’ heart, was first uplifted over one billion years ago.

When the Blue Ridge was young, multicellularity was an experiment. Seven hundred million years would pass before fish would try to crawl onto land. Go back to the time of the first dinosaur, when mammals hadn’t been dreamt of, then do that three more times, and that’s how old these mountains are.

Western North Carolina is known for its minerals, especially mica. There’s even a Micaville, North Carolina, and a Kona, named after the chemical composition of potassium feldspar. (Not recommended to visit. We got shot at. 0/10.) The stones there that contain this mineral are schist, a high-grade metamorphic rock, formed under the utmost heat and pressure. Today, they are exposed to the surface, billion-year-old secrets finally relinquished by these old mountains.

The Appalachians may be sanded down by time, but they remember when they towered over a world where life was a little slimy experiment. The dinosaurs rose and fell and they barely noticed. Humans plunder their mineral riches, dreaming of wealth and industry, but those things have no meaning on the geologic timescale.

From the peak of Mt. Mitchell, a large orange wound in the earth can be seen, a feldspar mine. Plaques and exhibits in the museum tell of how we cut down the trees and carved out the minerals, of our power to damage a fragile and ancient landscape.

It should matter to us. The world is our habitat, and we will have to live with the loss of what we destroy. But to the mountains?

Mass extinctions are followed by explosions of life. New organisms evolve to fill the niches left by those that disappear. It is a cycle that repeats again and again, a comforting rhythm.

Horror set in this environment often focuses on the perceived wrong humans do to their environment, plundering them, stripping them of resources. As if the horror of future climate disaster is retaliation, and not simply what we’ve wrought. The Appalachian Mountains are exploited by the greedy, but they don’t punish us. I don’t think they do. They’ve seen all this before, after all.

What can we take from them that matters, when they, as they finally wear down to smooth and rolling hills, will bury us as they have all the others, and not even stir from their sleep?

[lethargicsunlight]

“It’s Beauty and the Beast, but You aren't the monster..” (Fem!Reader X Kirishima)🥀 Chapter 3 “The Beast”

Had to put up a chap on Valentines Day for the big red man himself, right?

Summery: Eijiro Kirishima, Pro-Hero Red Riot, has taken to a new patrol area that recently encountered a rash of random crimes. Villain unknown, he makes it his personal responsibility to ensure this new sector of Esuha City feels safe as the police force conducts their investigation while aided by FatGum’s Agency. After a bomb goes off in one of the Apartment buildings close to the station, he decides to help with the victim’s interview in the hopes of boosting their morale…

Instead, he meets you–who is far from ready to receive any such kind tidings. Burdened with curiosity and his steadfast beliefs, the Sturdy Hero feels swept into your world and finds himself sympathizing with the possibility that–

You might not be the monster everyone says you are.

WARNINGS: SFW, bodily injury, mental trauma, angst, BLOOD

The prince rallied his forces in the West, and prepared for their battle in the Steppes. The carrier eagles spread across the continent, seeking all who were friend to their king that were willing to take up arms against the enemy.

It pained the prince, knowing he would endanger his people once again--but to that end, he would stand with them on the battlefield and face such danger head on like his soldiers.

His red hair--

You flinch in your typing.

Red hair?

You shake your head--surely you had written him with black hair?

Despite having been in the process of writing this rough draft for almost a year, you dash back through a hoard of document files to find the character references.

Sure enough, black hair.

Anger boils in your chest, and you slide the laptop away from you on the hotel's (single) counter top. Not even your secret world could be free from the toils of the real one; you had found that blasted red-headed man almost every time your eyes had shut. Now, it was happening while your eyes were open.

The glimmer of hope you had felt at the cross walk should have been smothered, but somehow it came back every morning. It reminded you of a time when you had wanted to talk to people--when you had wanted people to talk to you.

He just wants information. You remind yourself, picking up your stiff bones to find the hotel's tiny-ass refrigerator. All that stuff he said was just manipulation. And I don't want to talk to anyone. And I don't want anyone to talk to me.

After another go of trying to convince yourself, you switch your focus to something else.

Your apartment's reconstruction was due to be completed within five days. Due to the structure being sound enough (and the fact the construction in bustling cities like Musutafu were required to work rather quickly due to subsequent villain and hero battles) the revival of your home was fast approaching. Thank god.

Unfortunately, being an author didn't allow for fancy insurance perks. You had already received a check for the damage to your items, but it was far less than the accrued worth of your home furnishings. Once again, you would be forced to pay and save and pay and so on--until it was back the way it was. Or at least similar.

The hotel's mini-fridge mostly contained leftovers. Which, that had been your intention but.. Looking at all of it...

It just felt ew.

Dinner out it is then.

🥀

There's something to be said about the food service industry in Japan, perhaps even Esuha City specifically.

If you want your food quickly without a chat and to be left alone at your table, you could find it.

You had ruminated on the idea of leaving before, to put as much distance between you and the Hero Commission as possible. A cottage in the United Kingdom, or a cabin in America; maybe Maine or Michigan.

But.. This was home. Your apartment, the rainy season, the red and golden leaves, the corner-store ice-cream, the sticky summer sweets in the next town over--The Hero Commission may have taken the hope out of you, but damn them if they think they can have your mochi too.

"Oh my gosh..!"

Suddenly the café on your right comes alive. There's a couple, one now standing next to their chair and their partner on one knee--a ring clutched in shaking hands. The crowd 'ooh's and 'awww's.

"Will you marry me?"

"Of course!"

And they hug, and the café erupts into applause. And you stare, from the sidewalk, somewhere between melancholic and exasperated. You really didn't need this today.

"Now ain't that a beautiful sight." A voice says, too close to your right side. You flinch and glance--he's wearing a thick jacket and a fur-lined beanie. His features are so unremarkable, you don't even mentally take stock of them.

"...Uh huh." You drone, than try to speed off so you can pass the café. No offense to the newly engaged couple, but you were trying far too hard to keep up your solitary lifestyle to deal with reminders like that.

🥀

Ugh, finally!

Relief at last, as you waltz into one of your favorite restaurants. There are booths at the front, but closer to the kitchen there are one-person nooks. A tablet, attached to the wall, takes your order and starts up a bill. A drink arrives via a window in said nook only minutes later, and your feet sway in delight.

Or was it... complacency?

NO. You inwardly chastise, taking a loud sip no one could pester you for. This is how it aught to be. This is great. No one to taunt me, no one to treat me terribly or make me feel ugly. I can eat as fast and as sloppy as I want. No one's controlling me, no one's--

It's by chance, pure chance, that you look over your shoulder when you hear the door open and the jingle of their entrance alarm. A movement in your peripheral that catches your attention, draws a quick glance, that usually you didn't bother with. Who cares who just walked in?

Unless it's the same person that tried to talk to you earlier, in his fur-lined beanie. Well, except, now as you pay a little more attention--it's not a fur-lined beanie. It's a fur-lined face. A mutation quirk.

Is it coincidence? Paranoia gnaws into your bones, and you know the truth. Coincidence or not, one way or another, he followed you here.

The jingle comes again, and you watch four more people cross the thresh-hold and join the aforementioned...wolf man? They're all dressed warm, but you're pretty sure the thick jackets and low hats don't just hide their features out of convenience.

Your food arrives through the window in front of you, and you mentally groan. Not only were you being followed by probable villains looking for an easy score, but you wouldn't be able to eat your meal. Or get a refund.

You take one last forlorn draw of breath, taking in the steam and aroma of your would-have-been meal, before reaching to the tablet and paying for it. There's actually a little bit of guilt in your heart, knowing they'll be cleaning an untouched dish from your table. Sorry. I'm so sorry. It's really good, I'm just.. You know, about to get mugged. Gotta call the police. Maybe I'll get take out from here later.

Silently you rise from your seat and walk out. If all went well, you'd just go to another place. If it was a mugging, as you suspected, there was a convenience store near the hotel that you could stop in after writing--another--police report. Wow! Two for two this year.

And, heading further into the well lit streets of Musutafu's most populated ward, all seems well. They didn't follow you out, nor have you seen them over your shoulder for the last three cross walks. Great. Left my meal for nothing.

Maybe you needed to go to a therapist after all. Maybe, you could use a fake name or--was anonymous clients a thing?

You'd accused Red Riot of working with the commission to torture you, and now you had accused warmly dressed people for wanting to just, mug you? You didn't even look like you had money. Sure, it could be more nefarious than that, but with heroes everywhere in the city? What happened to your sense of truth?

They took it away. You reply within, causing your foot steps to slow and your shoulders to hang.

Maybe you had been wrong, but it was better to be careful, right?

You reach for you phone with the intention to check the time. There were still a few places open late but--

Where's my phone?!

Frantically you search for it a second time. Then a third. Had you left it at home? Dropped it? Left it at the restaurant? You turn on a heel and start heading back. The new lap top had already been quite damaging to your funds, you couldn't afford a new phone; muggers be damned.

🥀

"What are you doing out here?"

"Huh?" Kirishima looks up to see one of the sidekicks from FatGum's agency. "Oh! Hey," He says, but stops. He can't quite remember this guy's name. There were so many nowadays, scouted for and hired in an attempt to help counter the swell in recent villain activity.

"Hey," The un-named sidekick offers a polite smile. "Kinda late isn't it?"

"Oh, yeah. Most of my patrols are during the day but, it was brought to my attention that a lot of the packages were probably delivered at night. Just thought it was a good idea."

"So you're on, like, extra patrol? Without your hero costume?"

"Yeah," Kirishma, not Red Riot, scratches the back of his neck in some form of embarrassment. This guy liked asking questions. "Just trying it out, not looking conspicuous or anything."

"Oh. Okay." Sidekick-guy looks around a moment, extending their conversation into something kind of awkward before opening his mouth again. "Well, I'm heading home, so. Good luck!"

"Er, yeah, thanks. You too..?"

And they're gone.

Weird. Kirishima shakes it off, then continues his stroll. Guess he's just tired though. I should probably go back to the Agency and pick up the roster, it's rude not to know people's names when you work with them...

He comes to a corner and stops, looking up at the hotel--your hotel--for the fifth time that night. Not that he was obsessed or anything, it was just.. On the route. His call with Tsu had been enlightening--though, he wanted to disagree with her on some things; especially the 'giver her time' part. He wanted to fix his mistakes now.

His heart aches when he remembers the first night at their dorms in U.A., so long ago, when he'd unintentionally upset Tsu when he and the others went forward with their plan to save Bakugou. Though it was successful, he was ashamed that he never thought about how Tsu would feel when they directly ignored her advice.

Gah, and it still hurt to think about it!

And thus, he chooses to follow her advice to the letter this go round, and continues on his path to the next street over.

🥀

You know what it sounds like: when someone is following you.

And you, poor you, had made a very bad decision. What had you said earlier---'muggers be damned'?

Yeah, that wasn't serving you too well right now.

The streets' population had thinned on your return trip to the restaurant. Somehow, everything looked darker and more desolate--to the point you wondered if you had perhaps made a literal wrong turn--

Before your eyes you watch a street sign change. The letters, in white, wiggle and shift until it makes a new word--a street you swore you passed several blocks back.

Someone was manipulating your environment. Or, your brain's interpretation of it.

No phone, no real weapon aside from a hotel key card and a dense wallet, (note that you did in fact own a very nice self-defense kit in your apartment but uh--it blew up recently) and the defensive side of your quirk--which was fucking unpredictable at best.

Hence why pro-hero work wasn't really an option.

You stop then, but there's a distinctive sound of shoes shuffling on concrete nearby. This clearly felt like being hunted down, and honestly if not for the peril it was causing you--this would make for some good writing material. You know, if you live through it.

"Okay, I know what's going on." You say, hands up. "Look, I don't know what you want, but I don't have a whole lot. I can give you my credit card if you want it, but I'm just warning you--not a lot on there."

A few seconds of silence pass by at your confrontation. Oh, what, am I being mugged by ghosts? But, the agitation grows despite your mental humor.

Their response comes in the form of visually appearing ahead of you, wiggling and writhing at first like the letters on the sign. After they had solidified, they approaching like predators; low to the ground with hungry eyes beneath heavy warm attire.

Your stance widens.

I don't think they're here for my wallet...

Suddenly, more of them begin to pop and shift into existence--much closer to you than the first few. The way reality seems to flex around them was really unnerving; but it gave you a better idea of what was going on. Whosever quirk was influencing you had a range, and that was good to know. Additionally, though, the original five you remember from the restaurant had at some point turned into about ten, which meant some of them might be illusionary.

And your quirk doesn't work on illusions.

"Okay.. Okay, I see, money's not your thing.." You take a step back, eyes darting between all of the assailants. "You guys know if I scream, a pro-hero--"

"Go ahead~" Someone says, but obviously not one of the entities in front of you. It's a feminine sultry voice with something else, something animalistic. Snake-like. "No one's going to hear you, dear. Not while my eyess are on you."

Shit, shit shit shit--you take another step back, pulling out that hotel room key. Better than nothing. You had some decent self-defense training, they won't take you down without a fight even if your quirk doesn't activate.

"Finally got you talking.." You grumble, holding the (damn near pathetic) hotel key up like a knife. "What are you stalking me for? What do you want?"

"Let me guesss, you're expecting ssome kind of reveal?" The voice, hidden beyond your probably-fake environment, answers. "Ssorry ssweetheart, thiss is just bussinesss."

You threw as many 's's in there as you could, didn't you? You ask inwardly, but your lips remain tightly shut. Angering your opponent probably wasn't a good idea--if what she said was true, it sounded like an arrangement. A mercenary oriented one.

You know. Murder.

"Oh," You utter, grieving a little for not having a witty comeback.

Luckily, or unluckily, your awkward conversation comes to an end by way of a classic knuckle punch, thrown in your direction by one of the more burly looking assailants. You manage a dodge, twisting and moving back enough to see claws as their hands reposition from a fist.

Mutant quirk, animalistic in nature--probably enhanced strength, speed, durability. If I can think fast enough--

A blow hits, right in the side at your lower back. You pivot forward, conveniently back into the arms of your first attacker. There, he lands another blow to your upper chest that leaves you gasping, but your conscious enough to move your body out and away. Well sort of--the rest were encircling you. Surely not all of them were real, but you had no way of telling them apart.

Had you really been out of the game so long, you couldn't hold your own anymore?

Of course.. going to the gym and practicing fighting moves hadn't really been on your agenda since leaving the court rooms.

You cough, righting yourself as they stare at you with smiles and gleaming eyes--like dogs, pouncing on small animals for fun.

"Nice scar," One says, leaning in. "Pity, you really did have.. a kinda pretty face."

You glower at him over your hotel key.

"Almost felt bad leaving the package.."

"Who wants me dead?" You ask, looking--well winded, but more confident than they probably wanted you to look.

"Why does it matter? You're dying today, girly. Who cares?" Another responds, similar in tone. Related, you note--for once you find him amongst the crowd, he is also similar in stature.

"Dying wish then." You retort, with a little shrug.

There's an uneasy, tense, exchange of stares then. A sixth sense, you realize, as they see through your façade and attempt to validate it with their comrades. Like you had something up your sleeve.

And, indeed, you did.

"Save it for your next life," is their answer, followed by another thrown fist aimed at your cheek bones. Veins and tendons bulge as the wallop is tensed, then thrust forward, and it gives you only a few seconds to use your quirk--

But it's enough.

🥀

Eijiro, still walking his rounds around the sector, still dropping glances at your hotel as he walks past, now stands in front of a vintage console store. He heaves a great sigh while watching pixelated characters hop, kick, and dance across the display screens--characters he knew well. One day, they would be selling his old video games, labelled as 'vintage classics'.

The thought depressed him. But hey, time has to move somehow.

...Despite his positive outlook, his mind wanders back to Bakugou--and more importantly, that look he'd given him. The once-in-a-blue-moon glimpse into his friend's actual feelings.

Maybe he was just making things up--maybe he just wanted Bakugou to regret not hanging out, or being a human being for once and establishing relationships with people outside of work--but he was almost sure it had been real.

"Heh.. I can hear it now." He mutters, catching his reflection in the glass that separated him from the television screens. He puffs out his chest, and digs in his eyebrows. "We're heroes, Kirishima. We have to make sacrifices. You can't be the best if you're worried about dumb shit like--" He stutters for a second, almost losing character. "Like--relationships and parties and..."

He falters, the impression sliding from his shoulders and causing them to slump.

"And living." He says with a finality. A final nail in the coffin, as he watches a character get taken out on  the screen followed by big "K.O." written in orange font.

Kirishima had learned long ago that he didn't want to be the best. He denied it at every turn, at every query someone threw at him--even if it was himself in the mirror. You wanna be the best don't you? Work harder!

And, well, he did work hard. Just, not as hard as Bakugou.

Despite the green monster of jealously that might swell in his gut while watching his friend's name rise on the leaderboard, there  were always days like these that humbled him. And plenty of others, when he was actually protecting a civilian or stopping a truck from crushing a bunch of school kids; it was in the doing. It didn't matter where his name was on the leader board.

In fact, there's a deep sympathy that he feels for Bakugou in that moment.

"I wish I could reach out to you man." He says, before going back to his walk. This time, he would be heading back to the agency. "I hope--"

He stops, shoe skidding over sidewalk as a scream splits the air.

🥀

Using your quirk had a tendency to make you feel blind when you otherwise weren't using it.

It's refreshing, despite how much it.. sucks.

Living several minutes, sometimes hours, within seconds of the moving world--between spaces and moments and memories and matter--it's indescribably big.

And it is, perhaps, because of that feeling; that you change.

You remember the doctor when you were young, who tried to explain it to you in words you understood. But, you technically never remembered the words--all you could see was a younger version of them, stealing from a convenience store. Over and over and over again.

In some way, under high stress, your quirk would shift. Usually it was directed as an emitter type; but based on whom you were gazing upon, Judgement would make a decision--and in the face of danger, morph into a transformation quirk. Supposedly, the malevolence of your opponent directly affected the size and duration of this shape-change. This was only negated in a safe environment.

Fortunately for you, these guys were seasoned mercenaries, and murder was pretty high up there on the malevolence scale. So you were big. Just as big, you might say, as the hatred that festered at the sound of their dying victims screams, gurgles, and gasps.

When you come back from the visions, you're thrashing. You're wholly unaware of your features, but your claws digging into the earth below hint at something truly gruesome.

Better than a damn hotel key!

"What the hell--"

"Mizuchi, you didn't say anything about this shit!"

"Ugh, that'ss what you get for taking your time!"

They come at you anyway, brandishing weapons this time in the form of pipes and broken bottles; whatever the street could provide. The first thwack of a pipe to your enlarged form has your back twisting, and you find horns adorning your crown as they knock the assailant backwards.

Nice.

Following him would be another, but you grasp the ability to fight like an animal pretty quickly. There was a maw for biting as well--but despite knowing their horrid truths, there's always something that keeps you pulled back. Some lurking old version of yourself that still wanted to tame the beast.

Yet, even with that sentiment, accidents happen.

One of them screams, as one of your horns protrudes through a shoulder; painting the sidewalk in red. It causes the inner you to lurch, but your physical form only growls in response. By trying to shake him off, you throw him instead. Oops.

You try to step away, but your backed into a corner. One that technically shouldn't exist, but it takes a second before the illusion ripples and fades out to reveal you had instead been fighting in an alley way.

Maybe that will stop them. Maybe, they'll take the hint and move on to someone else--

You would have hoped, if not for the shards of glass that slice through the flesh of your shoulder. Inwardly you might of screamed, but you outwardly roared--clutching at the wound with one arm while lashing out with the other. You nail a good hit, claws bared, and they scream too.

"What the--hey!"

A familiar voice..?

You try to look in their direction, but another bottle cuts into your left temple. You whirl back on them, but the troupe was already leaving. There's an animalistic urge to run after them, and you even step forward--but with your foot (paw?) landing on even more glass, you halt in place. Instead, your frustration leaves your lungs in a loud roar.

Finding your breath, you hear the sound of scraping metal from behind.

"Listen man, we can do this the easy way or the hard way.."

Red Riot? Again?

You go to turn and look at him, but you stop midway. No, I can't. I can't look at him.

"Just come quietly, and we won't have to make this a bigger mess than it already is.."

Oh, shit--he's talking to me.

[keouil]

how you forget to be human

“so is she like,” scott hesitates. “cap’s first lady or something?” rated t. 2k+. steve/nat. also on ao3 / twitter / cc

Scott hasn’t been with the team for a long time, but he thinks he at least has enough working knowledge of how everyone operates.

The Winter Soldier—Bucky to Steve,  James to anyone who dared—quite frankly still scares the living shit out of him, and that’s Magneto on a good day. It didn’t take much to deduce he seemed wholly uncomfortable in his own skin, his jaw coiled perpetually tight and the rigid set of his shoulders always in alert. It was uneasy just being around him, his discomfort bleeding over others and charging the air around his space with its own brand of disquieting; but always, without fail, Steve cushioned whatever apprehension anyone aimed toward his bestfriend.

Most of it came from Sam, and almost always in good nature as if to ease the brainwashed supersoldier into some semblance of normality; and Scott would fear for Sam’s life every time he opened his mouth, were it not for the also very obvious fact the Falcon held his own and didn’t appreciate handouts and the three of them seemed to be getting along uniquely (if not a little oddly) well enough.

The witch was a small problem, however. Simply for the fact she was a witch and Scott is wary because history taught him they burned all of them down in Salem. 

He sees her wiggling those voodoo fingers around sometimes, almost unconsciously, and feels the hairs on his arms rise with every flick of her wrist. The energy around her isn’t suffocating the same way Bucky’s is. It was more a subtle nervous tingling; like she herself was afraid of the gravity of her own powers she had yet to have complete reigns on. Scott is oddly humbled by the fact and even empathises with her a little.

Steve keeps an eye on her and doesn’t bother hiding it, but it’s the archer who gets past her when it really counts. Clint Barton, who, surprisingly is the one he’s on the most similar wavelength with out of all of them: family man and all.

Clint Barton whose also friends with Natasha Romanoff.

.

.

.

Hawkeye who has simultaneously the most complex and impossibly simple relationship with Black Widow.

“I swear to god if you ring me up next time you’re out of goddamn Fruit Loops,” Natasha warns, digging through one of the five grocery bags on the kitchen island. She fishes for a few more seconds, before popping a colourful cartoon box out from under the bag and tossing it to Barton. “I’m bringing you in for real.”

Clint scoffs, placing the carton on the top shelf. “How many times have I heard that before?”

“Apparently not enough,” Natasha glares at him from her peripheral, scooping out Nutella and a pack of store-bought pryanik to lay on the table. Russian biscuits. For Wanda. “If I’m still stopping by an abandoned boarding house in the slums of Siberia every other week. Y’all grown men can’t do grocery shopping by yourselves?”

Scott blinks from his spot by one of the stools. 

Of all the things he expected to wake up to in hiding from 117 countries from possible charges of aiding and abetting a war criminal, Black Widow casually arranging and organising their weekly rationale was nowhere near the top of the list. She did this all the while supposedly fighting for the other team.

This one needs no introduction.

Scott knows who Black Widow is. Scott knows Captain America, after all. 

You don’t grow up in the land of the free without knowing his legacy even in minute passing. The man has been plastered on nearly every surface of the continent since the dawn of America. Scott has seen the news footages, read the official accounts, willingly devoured every single documentary or biopic helmed in honour of their nation’s greatest hero: he knows, down to the bone, the star-spangled man with a plan. 

A forgotten and revered and rebirthed war hero. 

How he came to know of her, however, is an entirely different story: because come the news footages, zoom in close enough you’ll see the infamous shield covering a much smaller and daintier figure; go over the accounts with a fine-toothed comb, they speak of a levelled dynamic between a commanding officer and a shadow leader; and, lest history not forget, the documentaries: Peggy, because behind every great man is a woman, Natasha.

“Now why would we do that if we got you?” Sam. He comes up from behind the hallway to playfully grin at Natasha before enveloping her in a small hug. She returns it easily.

Scott braces himself for what’s to come, because they came in a pair, and so: “Nat,” Steven Grant Rogers, in the flesh himself, pokes his head in not a moment later with a barely indisputable frown on his face. “You came here again?”

Natasha clicks her tongue at him. “Someone had to make sure you boys were fed.”

“That’s not— We can—” Steve stutters as he strides in, and Scott has to very carefully school his features into nonchalance because Captain America does not stammer. He sighs deeply before settling next to her, nudging her with his hip. “Tony atleast know you're here?”

Natasha gives him a pointed look. “Who do you think paid for all this?”

.

.

.

Scott watches their silhouettes grow smaller and smaller by the distance.

Even from afar, he can make out Steve’s absolute hulk of a frame: back impossibly straight in a way that bespoke authenticity, years of rigid military training drilled into his bones; only he seemed to mellow, somehow and very slightly, the fine lines of his shoulders angled in the direction of her voice. And Natasha: brave and lithe, nearly a head shorter and so much more smaller, facing forward in full confidence and a leisurely stride in her steps.

Siberia has a biting night air that seeps deep into the bone. But it’s also comforting somehow; all of them knowing, in one way or another, what it was like to be iced out from society. 

They were all huddled by the makeshift campfire Barton fashioned out of some wooden logs and a matchstick. Sam, in charge of roasting marshmallows, was gently coaxing Bucky into eating one and promising him it’s not poisoned. Wanda was handing out steaming cups of hot chocolate brewed from the pack Natasha brought in a few hours ago, a staple in her weekly grocery runs because apparently the kid witch liked sweets. 

Scott gingerly takes a sip from his mug, some of the warmth seeping into liquid courage he was building up for weeks now. He takes a deep breath before plunging himself into the waves.

“I can’t be the only one worried that the enemy has infiltrated our territory, right?”

To their credit, neither of them kill him on sight. 

Wanda pauses in levitating one of the wooden logs above the hearth, a single bark of kindling hovering uncertainly over the air. Bucky has an unreadable expression on his face when he regards him. A look passes between Sam and Clint, betraying nothing of their inner thoughts at his outburst.

The fire is nice and toasty, but the air is stifling now and Scott has never felt more the outsider than at that very moment.

Until Sam breaks into a hearty laugh. “Widow?” he shakes his head amusedly. “No, man, Steve and Nat are tight. They’re past stuff like that.”

Scott furrows his eyebrows in concern. “But isn’t she—”

“On Tony’s side?” Clint quips, poking at one of the planks. Wanda finally drops the floating bark, and Scott doesn’t miss the flash of something in her eyes when she glances at him from the other side of the fire. He thinks he saw a spark of red for a second. “Sure, I guess. Technically she’s Team Iron Man or whatever that means. But Natasha is also fiercely loyal, especially when it comes to Steve.”

“What does that  mean?” Scott asks in genuine confusion.

Sam opens his mouth to elaborate, words already forming on his mouth; before he seems to come to a belated realisation, blinks, and manages a nonchalant shrug. "Damn if I know,” he admits, turning over a puffy mallow and watching the crackles of fire burn its edges. “But she’s good for him. That’s all I care about.”

“And he’s good for her,” Clint returns easily, not an ounce of hesitation in his voice. “Maybe sometimes it’s just that easy.”

They hear the crunching of footsteps on snow creeping up behind them, and Scott takes this as his cue to stash the conversation for another time. 

He watches them stroll in together carefully.

Steve holds the gate open for her and places a small hand on her back as they advance in the small patch of woods by the backyard. Natasha settles next to Wanda, hands going up and down her arms to warm the younger girl despite being the one having only just gone out for a walk in the middle of Russian winter: because, and at this Scott is now confident, the jacket resting on her shoulders three times her size was keeping her warm enough.

.

.

.

The quinjet doesn’t start up right away.

Scott is slowly panicking, because the realisation that he was truly out of his depth at fighting in the next greatest civil war of the century notches above his pay grade only viscerally begins to take hold. 

He has a family back home, pets to feed, a little life saving every now and then; but never this colossal of a scale, never with the stakes stacked up so high against them, that it really could only ever be toppled down by the likes of fucking Iron Man and Captain America.

But Steve is still confident.

It’s so bloody obvious he was always going to keep at it, gunned down the concrete walls of the airport and clawed his way out of it brick by brick if need be. He was really and truly the good man underneath it all, and at the back of his mind, Scott still finds himself awed at the fact.

But he doesn’t know how on  earth  the man came out of that airport not visibly rattled, not at all unlike how Scott was currently feeling; and, as he processes the rest of their wayward expressions, he knew he wasn’t alone in thinking so.

“Cap,” Sam wheezes by the floor, fighting to labor his breathing with a hand clutched on his dislocated shoulder. “I still got the jeep parked outside. It’s not too late. We can hike the rest of the way.”

“No,” Steve replies, an edge of conviction in his voice. There is not a single tremor in his stubborn hands gripping the wheel. “That’s gonna hold us back days. We just need to be up in the air for now. We need—”

“A woman to come to your rescue again?”

This time, it’s Scott who sighs in deep relief at her voice. This time, Scott doesn’t fight the churn in his stomach at the prospect of having someone who nearly nicked him lifeless not even hours ago this close a range with them again. This time, she is not Black Widow, but simply Natasha Romanoff; Steve Rogers’ friend.

This time, Scott thinks, he will let them be easy just like that.

There was no more a sign of tremble in his voice or hands the entire battle, but at the lilt of her voice, he just crumbles. 

“Nat,” Steve breathes out when he turns to her, hands fisting at his sides in an attempt to regain control. Just like that, he unravels; so easily and without preamble in the face of her steeled strength. “I can’t get it to turn on— And I— We have to get Bucky—”

“Work through it, Steve,” she cooes in probably the most placating voice he’s heard of her, but she doesn’t move to touch him when she comes close. Her hands are going a mile a minute over the control panel, pushing buttons and lifting levers. Steve is hovering by her side like it's the only thing holding him together. “You know how to fly this thing, right?”

Steve is visibly taken aback and angles his body to face her. “You’re not coming with us?”

The question hangs in the air.

It charges the silence around them and quells any of their growing uncertainty, because, clear as it was of Steve’s well-founded and undeniable leadership skills: they also knew, intimately, she anchored him through it all.

Sam was putting pressure around Bucky’s human arm as he looked back and forth at them tensely. He could feel Wanda hitch her breath behind him.

Natasha’s fingers keep flying away at the keyboard, until they feel the telling signs of an engine rumbling underneath and the overhead lights spurting back to light. The whole jet roars to life in the next second, heating fans whizzing and technical sounds beeping. She shifts some gears around and locks in a destination with the GPS navigation.

When she turns to look at Steve, it is then Scott forces himself to pry his eyes away and not bear witness to this part of his already over documented life. In that single moment of uncertainty, the what does that mean is meant like this: an intimate baring of a soul, heart, trust: in a way no words could ever begin describing or should even attempt to put to paper. 

It is friendship at the most intimate level, it is soulmates on the most soul-crushing departure, and it is the everything else that comes after.

“Not this time, Rogers,” he hears her say, and Scott doesn’t have to imagine the slight fracturing of his iron-clad footing in the world swaying ever so slightly, when he replies with: “Then I guess I’ll see you around, Romanoff.” .

.

.

“So is she like,” Scott hesitates. “Cap’s first lady or something?”

They’re some seventy feet off the air above the Pacific Ocean, the moisture from the ocean drifting up to the open barracks and making the air glisten around them. Bucky is fast asleep somewhere down the lower levels with Wanda keeping watch over him, upon the fervent insistence of Steve arguing he needed rest. It came as no surprise that he also self-assigned himself the first watch of the night. 

Sam is sharpening his knives, the grating sound of sandpaper slicing over iron piercing through the silent hum and drum of the night. 

“Please,” he scoffs, looking over at him. “If anything, Steve is her first lady.”

[thenarcolepticone]

You Won’t Believe What’s In Your Local Swamp!

(AO3)

(Part 1 - Here) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4 - TBD)

Summary: Arthur is a recent university graduate looking for a better course of study with his degree. Time to go alligator hunting.

Rating: T

Characters: America/England (USUK)

A/N: The title for this story is different from AO3. This is because I want to make sure Tumblr won't witch hunt me for a title like that. Courtesy of the title goes to mikaku, I love you.

Florida, immediately Arthur concluded, was the worst US state that he could have chosen to live in.

Though, it hadn’t seemed like a bad choice at first. The decision was made after a long conversation with his parents (as most life journeys often began) and after his fourth attempt in securing himself a job. It was a discussion that started with a flowery exposition, about how he was a newly graduated Bachelor in Biology trying to spread his wings in London when the city itself was literally a piss poor excuse of an ecosystem. The wildlife that consisted the roaming street rats, cats and the once-and-a-while aggressive tube hopper was not the ideal image of what he imagined when he received his diploma.

No, Arthur wanted a place of true wildlife. Any place where he could finally implement the taxonomy vocabulary he had spent years to know by heart. He demanded to have a character development arc that found himself invested in the “at first” mundane environments of the other continents.

The real plight was to finally leave the cesspool of human civilization that was the capital of England. It was a place of Arthur’s childhood nostalgia and should only be for childhood nostalgia.

Geographically, Arthur couldn’t stand another minute of it.

The textbooks and online academic articles online always talked about the world beyond the textbooks. Arthur always imagined that that those authors wrote with hands unwashed of dried dirt after being in the field. If Arthur had that chance, he would be surrounded by different species and climates that would be knocking at his door at every minute. It was a thrilling concept.

Of course, London was his home. But the last thing that he wanted to do was to be a Biology major stuck inhaling fossil fuels, pushed firmly against the metal walls of the Piccadilly line train.

“Not here in London,” is what Arthur ended up saying to his mum. And that really was the gist of it.

Arthur knew that he wanted something rural; something completely unknown to him. He wanted to be stumped by the unknown and beyond understanding. The craving was insatiable. And after finally securing a deal with his parents about finally pitching money into his travel and relocation expenses, Arthur scoured the International Job postings on the community board of his Alma Mater.

University had only been a stepping stone and all the certification did was give him a license to act without a filter on what he could and couldn’t explore.

After about several weeks of looking following “The Talk”, Arthur finally settled to focus on the United States. The country was was large and vast, containing an unfair amount of animals with enough geographical distance between each other to be diverse. To have enough geographical distance away from the traditional European hares, badgers and deer.

Which now, returning to the main crux of the problem, Arthur made an absolute mistake on his State roulette, and it wasn’t exactly the job at all; they paid well for an entry level post graduate. Plus, he was offered a rather cheap house with a reasonably distant swamp in the backyard and a one hour commute to the Everglade’s National Park, which had always been a fascinating place for him and a location he had put on his bucket list long ago.

But Arthur had forgotten to calculate that he himself hadn’t ever seen much of the sun since he had been born, as Londoners do, and hadn’t accounted for the fact that this small detail was the absolute reason why he now hated Florida. And the impossible heat waves were only one of many factors that cause Arthur to already develop a list of life decisions that he would eventually tell his kids when he had the chance to.

(Part 1 - Here) (Part 2)

[hb-writes]

The Audit

Summary: It’s 1924 in the Little Lady Blinder universe. Clara and Finn make their annual visit to their mother’s grave.

Inspired-ish by this request: Also do the family celebrate her mums birthday? I think it would be a nice occasion where they celebrate her birthday and it’s nice for the twins especially whilst the boys are away polly makes a thing of it. ( I know nothing like this happens on the show, but I think they should) xxx

AN: So while I don’t think the family would celebrate her birthday, and actually find it painful to talk about her most times, I could see Finn and Clara sharing a little tradition like I’ve written about below. It’s not quite what you’ve asked for, but I hope you still like it!

Featuring: Finn Shelby, Clara Shelby (Shelby!Sister), Shelby!Mother

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Clara’s mind was settled on approximately seven things aside from the path she walked along, paying more mind to the questions in her head than the cobblestones at her feet. Truth was Clara had little need to pay attention to where she was going. She was far more familiar with the cemetery and it’s surrounding landscape than she was comfortable with, having buried far too many in her relatively short life. 

“You’re late.” 

Finn flicked his cigarette away, startling his sister as she glanced up from the pavement. He pushed off the pillar he’d been leaning up against, the entrance a sad excuse for a welcome, composed of no more than two crumbling stone columns and a rusted wrought iron gate.

Clara pulled her coat tighter, frowning as she stepped closer to her brother. “Tommy came back early, said he wanted me to go through some things with him before the… I suppose it doesn’t…” Clara took a breath and met Finn’s eye. “I’m sorry.” 

Finn shook his head, closing the remaining distance to pull her into a hug, his chin easily fitting over the top of her head. They hadn’t seen each other for a stretch of time, both of them overly occupied by the vastly different bits of life that customarily kept them apart, the Blinder duties and generally reckless adventures for Finn, and the Shelby Company Ltd. duties, and school, and family business for Clara. It was the recklessness that usually brought them together, the pair accustomed to passing at least a few evenings a week up to nothing particularly good. But with half the family locked away, they’d all had to step up. While Finn found getting up to nonsense revitalizing, Clara had been too busy for it, and far too tired aside. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he offered, settling his arm around her shoulder as they walked the familiar route from the entrance to their mother’s grave. “At least it’s not raining again this year.” 

Clara allowed herself a light snort, conceded a small smile as she leaned into her brother because there’d been more rainy cemetery visits over the years than not. Clara knew her brother didn’t care for the annual trip quite as much as he used to, had an inkling that he found it a bit asinine now compared to when they were kids, just a couple of orphans grasping onto a handful of wispy memories of a woman they knew very little about. That described them even still. 

If Clara was being honest, she found it all a bit silly too, but the ‘do we or do we not?’ of the occasion was never a discussion between them. The only discourse they ever had on the subject, always initiated by Finn about a week ahead out of custom, was in establishing a time they’d both be available on her birthday. 

It had been nearly ten years now that the twins had been coming to their mother’s grave and although they’d never told the others, never asked for a sibling’s accompaniment or gave a hint as to what they were both doing sneaking off on their mother’s birthday, Clara had a feeling they all somehow knew. 

It was why when not an hour before, as she grew antsy, repeatedly shaking out her wrist to check the time while she sat perched on the edge of Tommy’s desk, something shifted in him. Tommy simply asked his questions about the books and let her go, wordlessly accepting her answer of ‘out with Finn. He’ll bring me home’ when he asked where she was heading off to. 

Visiting their mother’s grave usually felt a bit like ringing in a new year but with less of the flair and celebration. Maybe an annual audit was a more apt description, seeing as Clara and Finn kept a ledger, a nondescript notebook stashed in the nightstand of Clara’s bedroom at the Watery Lane house, accessible to them both, though Clara would argue that Finn had more access to the archive now than she did, being as he stayed over on the lane much more often. 

Still, neither of them was likely to touch the book between visits to the cemetery, more likely was it that the ledger passed their minds only in the week or so before their mother’s birthday, and even then, neither of them was apt to do more than think on what they’d be marking down, mentally preparing themselves for the occasion, ensuring things went smoothly. 

The book came with rules, a certain etiquette that went unspoken between the two of them from conception to practice. The implicit secrecy of the whole thing, and the way they constricted their documentation to a particular day and place had been precedents set from the start. They’d only write while at the cemetery, while in their mother’s supposed presence, and there were limits on what was documented, the format decided nearly a decade prior, each of the entries nearly identical in configuration though the content varied. 

Finn and Clara recorded what happened in the preceding year, took an audit between the two of them of anything new they learned about the woman, and made a few promises to themselves and each other, intentions expressed just between the two of them. The words held no true pressure for realization, just an assurance of support from the other in the case they chose to move forward. 

This year felt different to them both as they’d prepared though, a bit forlorn and detached and impossible, what with Arthur and John and Michael and Polly locked away, and Ada in America, and Esme and Linda barely speaking with the lot of them, allowing the twins a bit of connection for little more than the sake of the babies, and on the order of their husbands. 

Clara had, on a fair few occasions, pondered what their mother would think of their situation, of Arthur and John locked away, of Clara feeling a bit that way herself while her twin brother was left to flounder, feeling lost and redundant as Tommy did what he did, all of his moves in the name of the family he’d allowed to take the punishment for his sins, and all while Ada played at being a neutral party from a continent away.

They went through the motions without discussions, Finn helping Clara to settle the blanket she always brought and taking a sip from the thermos of nearly cold tea while she found the pen and the appropriate page. 

“Shall we review?” Clara asked, glancing at the page as she marked the year at the top in bold loopy script, 1924. 

Finn took his time with another sip, prolonging the silence with an exhale and with the pen held still against the page Clara trembled, taking no care to pretend that it was only from the cold. 

“She’d be ashamed,” Finn finally said and though Clara nodded, she wasn’t entirely sure of what her brother meant. There was far too much she could be ashamed of. 

Would she be ashamed that her sons and sister-in-law and nephew were criminals of the worst sort? Murderers?

Would she be ashamed that her once sweet, doting Thomas had ordered it all and let the others take the blame? 

Would she be ashamed of the twins? Of their lack of action in the face of the others’ plight?

Despite wanting to fight Finn, despite wanting to say that they didn’t know their mother well enough to say how she would feel, or that they didn’t know Tommy’s plans well enough to decide either way, Clara knew Finn was a bit right, so she swallowed her retort. No mother would wish this for her children, or at least, Clara liked to think that their mother would never wish for this.

And anyway, Clara often questioned those very things herself, pondered if she had put up enough of a fight to Tommy, analyzed at length whether she and Finn and Ada had been too forgiving of it all, but then she thought what choice did they have? Tommy was all they had now, and even if Polly hadn’t been locked away in Winson Green or Ada hadn’t gone off to Boston, Clara didn’t know if she was capable of not forgiving her brother. 

She hoped a certain part of her mother would be proud of her, proud of the advanced education she’d received, proud of Clara’s love of stories, and content with the kindness and loyalty she showed to her family, despite it all. 

Clara took a sip of the tea, grimacing as the cool liquid hit her tongue. 

“Did you learn anything new?” she asked.

Clara hadn’t. The information about their mother, the little anecdotes, usually came so organically, in moments when one of the twins reminded a sibling of some long forgotten trait of hers or when someone was feeling just the right bit of nostalgic, but it had been a busy year, filled with the death and misery and arrests, and very little else. 

Finn’s answer came with the slight shake of his head and Clara felt the same difficult swallow as her brother, her eyes growing wet though she’d told herself she wouldn’t allow it. She’d be strong for Finn today, and for Tommy and Ada and John and Arthur, too.  

Clara took care as she set the thermos down, a small whimper breaking when Finn took her hand. “She’d be proud of you though.”

Clara coughed and cleared her throat. 

“Proud of us,” she said, meeting his gaze.

Something in Finn’s face shifted though he kept his hold on both her hand and her eyes. Clara knew Finn didn’t truly believe it. The sentiment barely registered with him, and she knew that her brother thought that if he had just run a bit quicker, or shouted a bit louder, he could have saved Arthur and John from the current reality. She knew it because despite everything, she similarly held onto the imprisonments, John’s and Arthur’s and Michael’s, like they were her own, like she’d been the one to put them in the cell even if she’d been innocent aside from serving as a bit of fuel to the fire.

Clara put a dash beside the spot she’d designated for the new information and jotted out a few lines below. 

“I think this covers the updates.” Clara turned the book towards Finn. “Is there anything...?”

 Finn shook his head as he glanced at the information she’d inputted, the neutral bullet points that described the past 365 days honest enough though they were far from agreeable. 

“Goals?” Clara asked.

Finn scoffed as she said it and fished out his pack of cigarettes. “You mind?” 

Clara shook her head, watching as he lit the cigarette and took a long draw from it, scoffing again as he looked at her. 

“You know what I wish for?” Finn said, using his cigarette to point at her the same way Tommy often did. “What I long for?” 

Clara shook her head. 

“Nineteen fucking fourteen,” he said.

Clara felt a shiver run up her spine at the thought. 1914. Things had been simpler then, lighter, but Clara only remembered 1914, and the tenderly memorialized years that care before it, like mere glimpses of a distant life. She remembered bedtime stories and the one-off moments that had frightened or surprised or somehow otherwise wormed inside her psyche but she’d not give up the decade between just to go back. 

“I’ll just take having everyone home,” Clara answered. 

“That all?” Finn asked, shaking his head at her. “Can’t believe it would be. I imagine you’re wanting highest marks and employee of the month and a new horse an--”

“That’s what’s most important,” Clara answered, nodding a few times to settle it in her mind. “Fuck the marks and Tommy’s accounting ledgers. I’d just like them all home.” 

Finn smiled. “And I’d like for them to take us seriously for once,” he said. “It’s only Esme who ever really listens.”

“Yeah, cause she’s not an idiot,” Clara said. “And cause she’s nearly the youngest in her own family. She knows what a shit hand it is.” 

“Ah, well, I wouldn’t know much about that,” Finn said. “It’s you who’s the baby.”

Clara shook her head, a smile on her face despite the words she offered. “Fuck off, Finn.” 

Finn smirked at his sister. “Come now, Clara. We’re sitting on mum’s grave, on her birthday of all days, and you’ve gone and cursed twice in less than a minute. What’ll she think of us?”

“It’s been quite a fucking year, Finn. I think she’ll understand.” 

“Yeah,” he echoed. “Quite a fucking year.” 

Finn watched, quiet as his sister etched two words into the bottom of the page, the twins’ wishes for the next year summed up with two simple words, home and respect. 

-----

Read more Little Lady Blinder here.

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🏷:

@beautycinders​ @buckybluebarnes @cecii22me​ @lovemissyhoneybee​ @marquelapage​ @midnight-dreams-23​ @mo-onstarrs​ @ohhersheybars​ @pollyrepents​ @unicorndetective22

[bonjour-rainycity]

Double Heart | Chapter One ~ Cosima

|previous part|

Pairing: Haldir x OFC

Rating: G

Word count: 2100

Warnings: None

**Read on Ao3 under the user “bonjour-rainycity” if you like!**

A/n Thanks for the love on the prologue <3 also, this is the first time I’ve scheduled a post, so please let me know if something looks weird!

Translations: Av-‘osto = Don’t be afraid // Odúlen le natho = I’m here to help you // Pedil edhellen = do you speak Elvish

I was right — the peace deserts me instantly.

A sharp pain pierces my chest, my lungs ache, and my brain throbs inside my skull. A man leans over me. His long, dark hair tickles my neck. He is beautiful and smiling, but I do not know him. Fear quickens my breath. I try to jerk away from him, but he keeps a firm pressure on my shoulders, holding me in place. He meets my wide, panicked eyes with calm, reassuring ones of forest brown.

“Av-‘osto. Odúlen le natho.”

What? I shake my head at him, fear temporarily making room for confusion. The words he speaks, which had proven so irresistible when I was under the weight of the water, now sound only strange and indecipherable.

I stare at him, uncomprehending and very much on my guard.

His brow furrows, and, when he speaks again, it is with a note of hesitation. “Pedil edhellen?”

“I don’t think she does.” Another voice—confident, commanding—comes from my right. I turn my head just in time to see a tall man in peculiar armor slide off his horse. He takes quick strides towards me, then crouches near my side. “What is your name?”

I find myself momentarily silenced by his proximity, as well as his eyes. They are a clear ice blue—beautiful, depthless—but cold and calculating. They hold none of the warmth the other man’s eyes do, only suspicion. As much as I don’t like behind held to the ground by him, I turn my head, searching for the deep, honest brown I met upon awaking.

He meets my gaze with a soft smile. “Do not feel fear, we are not here to harm you. We found you unconscious and alone near the river, and stopped to help.” His voice is light, unsure, and strangely accented, placing emphasis on the wrong part of the words, but I am pleased that I can understand him now. As if to illustrate his point, that I am not in danger from them, he releases his hold on my shoulders and allows me space to sit up.

“Slowly,” he cautions. “I worry you have hit your head.”

That would explain the pounding. I grimace, supporting myself on my forearms, and turn my head to observe my surroundings. It’s all very green and brown, I suppose, though vibrant, not at all like the waters I found myself trapped under. Tall grass, puddles of mud, a river behind me. I see no roads or signs to indicate where I am.

The man to my right answers my unspoken question. “You are near the Gladden Fields on the bank of the River Anduin.” I recoil. None of those words mean anything to me. I search my mind, trying to conjure up an image, a memory, anything that would give me context as to where I am.

But I come up blank.

“I will ask you again,” the man continues. His voice is hard, completely devoid of patience, and though I don’t exactly want to, I find myself turning my head to look him in the eye. “What is your name?”

Well, that answer, I know. “Cosima. What’s yours?” I raise an eyebrow, unable to stop myself from challenging him a little. I don’t like his attitude, how he acts like he doesn’t have the time to deal with me. He is the one who stopped, after all.

“So she does speak,” an amused voice remarks from over the shoulder of the brown-eyed man. I jump, not previously noticing the two others—blond like the man to my right—who sit high atop large horses.

Okay, that doesn’t seem right.

Fragments of memory come to me, brief flashes of tall buildings, busy sidewalks, and honking yellow cars.

America.

The name comes to me just as my own did—suddenly and detached from other clues. I piece together what I can, and am left with only the feeling that this is wrong. There should not be deserted, untouched land, nor men in armor who travel on horseback.

I should not be here, I realize. Wherever ‘here’ is….

The blond to my right stands, and I shrink back, intimidated by his height. The sword at his hip and the bow on his back make me even more wary.

“I am Haldir, Marchwarden of Lothlórien. The ellon to your left is Baranor, a healer respected by the Lady herself. The ellyn on horseback are Rumil and Orophin—my brothers, and wardens of our realm. Where do you come from? Were you traveling somewhere?”

I don’t recognize half the words he says. Their language and phrasing is unfamiliar to me, which gives me reason to believe that I am not in America. My limited worldview expands slightly, and I become aware of the existence of other countries, vast seas and expansive continents. A theory begins to take form. I must be in another country. Perhaps I was traveling, and hit my head, and now I’ve gotten separated from my group. Though, I don’t have any memory of a group…perhaps I will remember them in time. I did hit my head.

Haldir clears his throat impatiently.

“I…think I’m from America. Do you know if I’m close? Or at least which country I’m in?

For the first time, I see the irritation in his eyes break, giving way to something akin to concern. “You are in Arda.”  

I wrack my brain, searching for anything that even remotely sounds like Arda. Africa? Armenia? Nothing helpful comes to mind.

Baranor, still crouched at my side, brings a gentle hand to my temple, brushing his fingers lightly over the tender skin. He notices my wince, and turns back to Haldir. “She definitely hit her head. Her mind is not fully with us…I think that, as she heals, she will speak with more sense.”

“Excuse me,” I huff, annoyed at his assessment of me and them talking as if I weren’t here. “You’re not exactly making much sense, either.”

Haldir purses his lips but gives no other indication that he’s heard me. He turns to his brothers and the three of them engage in quick conversation in that language I do not know.

I keep the three of them in the corner of my eye—just because they haven’t hurt me yet doesn’t mean I should let my guard down—and catch Baranor’s attention. “I can’t remember much—anything, really.”

He nods, looking at me with clinical concern. “I guessed as much. You remember your name and seem to have some idea where you are from, even if I do not recognize the realm. It’s better than nothing—encouraging, even. I believe your memories will return to you with time.”

That’s something, at least.

The one called Rumil hops off his horse and swaggers up to me, crouching low like his brother did. “Are you human?”

I recoil. What kind of question is that? “Of course I’m human.”

He shakes his head, a coy smile on his face. “Do not say, ‘of course’. There are many races in this realm, some much more interesting than the race of men.”

I swallow, pieces of information that I’ve gathered since waking clicking into place.

I don’t want to ask.

Asking might mean confronting, and I’ve only just woken up. I’m not ready for that.

But I have to. Because I’ve woken up in an unfamiliar place with people who don’t speak my language, don’t seem to know anything about the existence of my country, travel on horses, wear armor and, Rumil has just tilted his head to the side, revealing an ear that comes to a point. I bring my hand up to my own ear, checking. Yep. Not pointed.

A sinking feeling settles in my gut. I gather what courage I can. Just ask. There’s probably a perfectly normal explanation. Maybe they’re playing a trick on me. “Are you…not human, then?”

His teasing smile never falters and he gives a sort of mocking bow. “No, my dear lady. You have the pleasure of encountering four of the eldar. We are elves from the realm of the Lady Galadriel. We have been here long before the time of man, and we will be here long after.”

This is ridiculous.

I push myself to stand, Baranor rushing to help. The world sways before me, and I wilt against the cool surface of his chest place. He holds me awkwardly—trying to keep as much distance between us as possible while still supporting my weight.

“I’ve hit my head,” I mutter, trying to fight through the fierce onset of dizziness and nausea. “I-I’ve been in some sort of accident, or had a strange reaction to medicine. Or maybe this is a bizarre dream, and I will wake up and laugh at myself and all this will have been in my imagination, or…or…” My breathing quickens, and I bring a hand to my forehead. My hand is so cold. Is it meant to be that cold?

I pitch forward, and Rumil darts a hand to grip my shoulder and keep me in place. His teasing smile disappears, and he turns to Haldir, looking alarmed. He calls out in that unknown language, and I can’t help but roll my eyes, though the motion makes me feel worse.

“Come on, you’re in my dream, so you can at least speak a language I understand!”

Baranor twists to study my face, his frown deepening. He joins the indecipherable conversation.

“Not you, too,” I whine, glaring accusingly at him. Stupidly, I had already come to see him as a sort of ally. All four of them ignore me which is quite rude, considering they’re obviously talking about me. Their discussion grows heated—they’re arguing.

Dark spots dance in my line of vision and I groan, wanting to lie down. Baranor tightens his grip around me, and his voice rises in volume. Does he have to be so loud?

Haldir barks out something that sounds very much like an order, and I focus long enough to see him mount his horse. Rumil releases my shoulder, sparing me the quickest of looks before returning to his own steed. Before I can process what’s happening, Baranor uses his grip on me to guide me towards the tall chestnut stallion.

I guess his intent.

“No!” I begin to fight against his hold. “I don’t want—”

“Hush now, it will be alright,” he soothes, his hands tightening on me as I try to get away. “We do not know of the realm you speak, but we are on a journey to a trusted friend—a wise friend—who may be able to help you. We will take you with us.”

I go stiff in his arms, weighing my options.

I have no reason to trust his word. But they haven’t hurt me yet, and the fact remains that I have no idea where I am. I probably wouldn’t fare any better on the riverbank. I don’t have food, or supplies, or a map. And traveling with them would allow me to see more of the landscape. Maybe we’ll pass a city, and I can sneak away. And from there…

Well, that’s a problem for later.

So, resigned to my situation for the time being, I nod. Baranor gives me a look of relief—I imagine he has no desire to lift a kicking woman onto a horse—and releases my shoulders to kneel and lock his hands together. I don’t particularly like heights, and this animal is much too tall for my liking, but everything about this day has been absolutely insane. I may as well get on the unpredictable beast. Baranor pushes on my foot as I pull on the horses’s mane. A second later, I’m sat firmly on the animal, Baranor in front of me. I look down to see how high up I am—a clear mistake, especially given the dizziness that hasn’t quite receded—and immediately wrap my arms around Baranor’s stomach. It’s difficult, given the armor he wears, but I manage, seeing as it gives me extra insurance that I won’t go tumbling to the ground.

“Get my attention if you feel faint,” he murmurs, taking the reins in his hands. “There is a canteen of water near your right foot if you get thirsty.”

And, before I can contemplate if I have the core strength to reach for the water and stay on the horse, we’re off, racing along the riverbank and leaving behind any chance I have of turning back.

A/n Thanks for reading! As always, comments, likes, and reblogs are so appreciated. Let me know if you would like a tag! See you on Thursday with Chapter Two :)

|next part - to be posted|

|masterlist|

Tolkien tag list: @anangelwhodidntfall @eru-vande

Double Heart tag list: @lainphotography @fangirl-nonsense @themerriweathermage @thophil2941btw

**Strikethrough means Tumblr wouldn’t let me tag you -- check your settings! 

[boogiewrites]

Never Break the Chain Pt. 3

Part 3 of 5

Characters: Javier Peña x OFC

Summary:  Esme keeps her distance and Javier's obsession gets worse. She decides to let him find her and they're both faced with the hard questions they've been suppressing for decades.

Warnings/Tags: Reunited Lovers.  Angst. Yearning. Difficult adult conversations. Regret. Nostalgia. 

Click on my icon then go to my Mobile Masterlist in my bio for my other works and chapters. (Had to do this since Tumblr killed links, sorry.) Please like, comment and reblog if you enjoyed it! It helps out us writers A LOT!

Steve stood staring and ignored by a red-eyed and greasy Peña still hunched over a desk with boxes of old files piling up around him. The boxes obscured half of him, stacks that started on the desktop, now on the floor. His nose twitched from the dust and his eyes burned from lack of sleep.

“Did you ever leave?” Murphy moves a few boxes to sit on his desk that had been commandeered for Pena’s obsession.

As if snapping out of a trance, Javier looks up and around, seeing morning light again through the high windows in the cool-hued room that lacked any warmth in its sterile choice of furnishings. “Guess not.” he yawns and looks back down at the work he’s done.

“You look like shit, man.”

“Thanks.” he gruffs out and stretches, a noise that half groan and half yawn escapes him.

“Did you at least find anything?”

“Plenty.” he pauses and rubs his face. “Unfortunately.” he pushes a legal pad full of scribbled notes with dates.

“These...all her?”

“I think so.”

“Damn Javi, you sure can pick ‘em.” he grins at the expense of his partner.

“She always said she was gonna be rich.”

“The Lucchia Heist?” Steve snorts in amusement.

“Potentially. She’s…” he lets out a slightly crazed but hushed laugh. “She’s fuckin’ good.” he covers his face before resting his head on his palm, supported by the desk. “I’d bet my badge she’s framed more people than I’ve even had time to find. Had a million aliases. Been everywhere from Corpus Christi to Lima. I’ve traced her down the continent.”

“And she landed right in your backyard.” Steve tosses the roughed-up papers, months of research, back in front of him. “You’re not a man who believes in fate are ya Javi?” he smirks.

“She said she didn’t know I was here.” a mumbled response as he begins putting away his research.

“And you believe her?”

He focuses on removing the evidence of his fascination, putting it away in a drawer that’s near full and dedicated to her. He stops and pauses, a thoughtful expression before answering, “I might be another sucker in the long list she’s got but... yeah, I do.”

-----

With the aged bulbs in the generic hotel room, the woman with him was easy to push out of his mind. He outstretched his arm as she pulled on her panties with a jump.

“Who is Esme?” she asks softly, attempting to make a connection with a man she felt she almost knew with as many times as they’d been together.

He didn’t look her way and motioned the hand with the money in it again.

“You’ve had your nights before but… the past few months you’ve... and now tonight? Should I be worried?”

“No,” he states with a bite. It wasn’t directed at her but himself. He tossed the money onto the bed and moved to light a cigarette. “You shouldn’t be no matter how I act.”

She holds in a sigh, a grimace on her face as she pockets the money and dresses. “Are you su-”

“What do you want to hear?” he turns his head sharply her way, brow low, but not aggressive enough to make her fear him.

She knew men, and she knew his problem was a woman, not the job like it usually was. Javier didn't get emotional over work when they were together. He would be rougher sometimes, softer others... but a disconnect was far from the usual. He was a client she was glad to hear from. He treated her with respect, he looked her in her eyes and handled her as if he cared about how she felt while they fucked. It was rare but entirely welcome. She curses herself silently for caring. He was right.

“I’m sorry,” she answers curtly. “You’re right.” she nods and gathers her things. “I’ll go.”

“It’s not you-” he begins with his head down before she passes him at the foot of the bed.

“I know. It’s not my business. It’s... I know women. It's hard to believe you would have trouble with one.” she lets out a smile to break the tension and his face doesn’t tell her if she succeeded or not. “You know where to find me.” she says kindly, something he felt he didn’t entirely deserve at the moment. He could hear her heels patting down the hallway outside when she left, fading until she was down the elevator and gone.

He gives his forehead a hard rub, nails scratching into his scalp before taking a long drag. “Fuck.” he exhales loudly to an empty room. He couldn’t get her out of his head.

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

The heat was something he had grown up with, he never found that part of Colombian weather to be difficult. But the humidity, that was a different experience. He quickly lost any self-consciousness about the sweat showing through his shirts, everyone else's looked the same. Propped against a stucco wall that was radiating the sun's warmth into his back, he partook in his condensation-covered beer bottle and his favorite public activity, people watching. It was an art form for him, once an amusing pastime that he made a living off now. There was no short of things to look for, the Festival of Flowers was in full swing and everyone was crowded into the streets. It was loud, a bit chaotic, and exactly the sort of crowd he felt comfortable observing.

The Discoteca a few streets down was powerful, sending music out over the radios in stalls and stores dotted along the streets surrounding it. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant but that didn’t stop Javier from having an annoyed expression. Songs from his past would play casually, feeling anything but in his head. He knocked back the rest of his drink and promptly got another every time a memory was triggered.

It had been almost a year now since he’d seen Esme. From what he’d learned, he wasn’t surprised. She could keep playing the phoenix forever. She could’ve been across the world by now and he was powerless to pursue her. Of all the possibilities, he still held onto the statistical probability that she was still around. She had good connections here, it made sense for her to stay. This unignorable fact led his obsession to be indulged by his profession, his paranoia fueled by his keen observational skills. A handful of times he would’ve bet he'd seen her. Sometimes he could follow, others he couldn't. Either way, he ended up at a brothel and with a woman who may look like her but wasn’t. The boisterous festival crowds would be a perfect place for her to be anonymous, the plumes of flowers were cover to disappear in plain sight. He wouldn’t admit to himself, but he was feeling hopeful. Or was it the alcohol?

Esme, with her head heavy from the large crown of flowers she wore, matching her brightly colored traditional dress skipped and hopped her way across the rooftops of the lively streets. She held the flowers to her head and jumped from pitch to pitch with her woven shoes. She knew this part of the city in light or dark. Not just for her safety but for means to get the drop on others. Her work with the cartel made sure she was knowledgeable in such things. But it also came in handy for a specific reason she’d been indulging in for almost a year now.

He was moping around his usual watering hole for this part of town. She sat with her head on her hands, between two flower pots, watching Javier from the safety of the rooftop across the street. She’d seen him many times, mostly taking home girls, or spoiling them with nice hotels for the night. Since she now knew the Pena she’d heard of was HER Pena, she asked the local sex workers about him and she wasn’t let down with the gossip they shared. She found out he’d been looking for her, not that any of them knew she was this infamous woman the playboy was hung up on. After a polite offer of employment, she dipped out and felt an odd satisfaction in what he’d become. It wasn’t ideal by any means but he was a good man. That was more than she would’ve guessed he’d become with the company he kept.

Each song from their past hit their ears at the same time, both suppressing a sigh as it floated down the streets, imagining a simpler time with one another. She’d missed him. Just as he had, she’d tried to drink and fuck the pain away for a bit but it didn’t work as well for her. She was left feeling nostalgic and downright amorous about him, seeing him lean, strong, and handsome against that wall. Sweat beading down his neck like it did on the bottle he held. She wanted to pop those buttons right off his shirt and- she knew it wasn’t smart to indulge in such fantasies. But he was the only man left that she even cared to think about when he wasn’t directly in her line of sight. She wanted to see him again. Was she willing to throw away months of laying low for a rendezvous? The summer sun made her feel young, the songs pumping blood to places, like her heart, it didn’t normally flow anymore. It made her feel young again. And at this point, it was a welcome and sought-after feeling.

——

A group of dancing girls covered in flowers with wide sweeping skirts made their way down the street. They wore smiles and the brightest of colors, dancing with each other and passersby as carts of flowers were pushed around them. Esme had been in South America long enough to know how to blend in. It was easy considering she didn’t look like a gringo. Her Latin heritage assured a degree of anonymity and mixing in, adding in the factor of whirling skirts and a blur of color from flowers she melded right in. Her chameleon skills were enviable but Javier’s observation skills were better.

Of course, he’d look at the group of beautiful women flouncing towards him. He seldom passed a woman he didn’t take a second glance at. As he glanced over their faces, to see if any had been friendly to him previously, the set of emerald green eyes grabbed him as they sat deep-set in a heart-shaped face he used to know intimately. Like a dog with a scent caught in his nose, he perks up, bottle discarded as he takes a step towards the street. She separates herself, a clear view of each other for a moment before a smile as bright as the sun beating down on them meets his gobsmacked expression. For only a moment there’s an unbroken line of sight and he instinctively pursues. With a bite of her lip that was a mix of flirtation excitement and a challenge, she spins on her heel and runs to an alleyway. He was fast on his feet behind.

This was where she felt at home, fast and light on her feet through small spaces and over walls. She desired to test Javi, combined with her caring about anyone seeing them, luring him to a safe space. She could hear his grunts and calls of her name like it was a swear as she’d climb and hop drain pipes and fences. All he could hear was the occasional heavy breath and giggle coming from her. They moved away from the busy streets, up higher over every sketchy rooftop, and eventually came to climb onto a secluded and blocked-off rooftop together.

“You've still got it Javi.” she laughs breathlessly, hands on her knees from the far side of the roof he’s slid onto.” her face beams his way, a sheen of sweat catching in the sun as she fluffs back her hair.

“I never lost it,” he grunts, dusting off his jeans. “Can’t afford to.” he pauses and regains his cocky posture.

“You look good.” she offers as a compliment, both closing the space between them to face off.

He takes his time, looking her up and down, unsure of her motives, yet she'd always had that wild streak. He used to love that about her. Now it made it hard to read. “So do you.” he presents in response to her out-of-place compliment.

“It's nice to finally see you up close.” her face is relaxed, too relaxed in his opinion. She touches his chest, hands light on his collar and moving up to tuck back the messed pieces of dark hair from his sideburns.

“That mean you’ve seen me from afar?” he stands stoically still, letting her touch him, not ready to reciprocate.

“Possibly,” she smirks, eyes trailing over his now-adult facial features. His brow had hardened, his jaw rounder but still sharp. Her favorite part, his nose was now proportionate and he was even more attractive up close. She lets a small sigh slip, dedicating his handsome face to memory. “Couldn’t let you pick up on my location could I?”

“Is that why you knocked me out?”

She lets out a chuckle and pats his chest. “That was… an unfortunate mistake on your behalf and a fortunate one for me. I have laced lipstick I wear during jobs. Easy to kiss a man and get away. Less messy than shooting. And far quieter.”

“Poison lipstick…” he nods thoughtfully.

“I’ve spent years perfecting it, dosing myself with tiny amounts to have immunity. Took a note from the Renaissance covert killers.” she smiles proudly. “I’m very proud of it.”

“You should be,” he admits begrudgingly. “I’ve looked up your work. It’s… impressive.”

“That means a lot coming from you. Your career has been notable as well.”

“Looks like we both got what we wanted, huh?” The response was bleeding with sarcasm.

She bites her lip, her shoulders slumping just enough for him to notice. “It is what we said we wanted.” her voice was softer now, less playful and confident as he sees the lump in her throat bob up and down. He lets her sit with her words for a moment, seeing a passing sadness behind her eyes. They seemed even brighter green than he remembered. But memories aren’t always honest.

“Where have you been?” a demand, not much of a sweet inquiry.

“If you’ve looked at my records then you know already. “

“This past year. Where have you been?"

“In Colombia.” She gives a subtle shrug.

“So I don’t get an answer?”

“You want the longitude and latitude? I can’t give you exact locations so you can know where to find people.” She frowns.

“You think I give a shit about that?” His brow furrowed and his head tilts. She’s caught off guard by his defensiveness. “The shit I deal with… a couple of stones means nothing. I want to know about you. That’s why I asked where you had been. Not who you’d been with.”

She felt scolded. It wasn’t something she was used to. Still, he was the only man who could pull it off. “I have a place in the mountains I stay at on occasion. I float around and do jobs. There’s no specific place.”

“You have a place here and you couldn’t come find me?” He sounded almost hurt.

“I can’t have anyone know we know each other. They’d kill me. Kill you.” She knew he was accusing her of not caring. Which couldn’t be farther from the truth. “I didn’t want you getting hurt.” She finally averts her eyes, a vaguely familiar ache in her chest growing.

He lets out a harsh laugh. “Should’ve thought about that twenty years ago when I thought you were dead.” He spits out. He sees the hurt in her eyes and he takes a moment to move her hands from him, and take a ragged breath. “You’ve been SO close this whole time. And I didn’t know…” he clenches his jaw and looks away to the horizon. Readjusting his posture he swings his head back her way and flares over her, an accusing finger in her face. “I can’t take this... you running around and not knowing SHIT about it.”

With sad eyes but a firm expression she swallows. “You used to get possessive like this. I remember… I’d-” Her voice is breathy and her hand moves to remove his from her face, a gentle hold that he answers harshly.

Grabbing her wrist, her eyes widen as he stares her down. “Don’t fucking tease me, Esme.”

Her brow furrowed quickly as she tries to tug away.

“I could take you in right now you know. For so many reasons.”

“You wouldn’t though.”

“Would I not?”

She stares with wide eyes that would’ve made him drop to his knees and beg her forgiveness when he was young. His worst fear was to hurt her back then. Now it was her getting hurt from her own actions.

“You have no idea the hell you put me through, do you? All this time not knowing for sure. And you’ve raised from the dead and think you can fuck with a man's head like this?” She could feel the bite of his words as he spoke quietly to her, letting her wrist go after he made his point. “Do you even give a shit or is this another game you’re running? Are you conning me too? Is there some guy who’s fallen for this shit somewhere with a gun on me right now?”

“How could you say that? I’d never.” She holds back a stutter in her throat. She felt something she hadn’t in a very long time, the sting of tears in her eyes. He regretted his outburst as soon as he saw it. He just had so many years of anger and hurt built up it was hard not to explode.

“Did you miss me at all?” His voice a whisper now, eyes wider and opening up like he was trying to.

It broke her to see him like this now. This stoic figure was just a shell covering that young man she left. She didn’t know it would hold onto him this long, that he did love her that much. “If you saw the wear on my rosary you'd have your answer. I prayed you to be safe. For you to get what you wanted.” She clears her throat and tries not to break.

“All I ever wanted was you.” A clear and plain statement. It was a fact.

“I had to make my own life.” She said it as an excuse and she hated the way it sounded coming from her. It made her feel weak. “You wanted yours.”

“We were kids. We didn’t know what the fuck we wanted.” He huffs out a strangled laugh.

She takes a deep breath and her time in answering. “We were. We didn’t.”

It was an admission of guilt on both their behalfs. They got what they said they wanted but was it really what made them happy? They’d been chasing a fix to fill a void of their own making. And now on the other side, the ugly truth of their dreams stares them and their unhappiness down every day.

“I’m sorry.” She adds and lowers her head. “I felt trapped and I knew you’d… do exactly what you are right now if you thought I was out there.”

“You were right.” He sighs and reaches to lift her chin revealing tears falling down her cheeks. He cups her face and wipes them away with his thumbs.

“I shouldn’t have reached out to you again.” She shakes her head.

“No...no, you should have.” He sighs heavily and pulls her into his chest, something she didn’t expect. “I’m sorry too.” He remarks into her hair, closing his eyes and feeling her in his arms. “I’m just…” he trails off. What could he say? I’m lost, I’m tired, unhappy, empty, angry? There wasn’t enough time to explain how he felt about this... about her. “I’m sorry too. I’m glad you let me find you. Okay?” He leans her head back to look up at him.

“I didn’t know you were here. In Colombia. I came here for work.”

“So did I.” He looks away purses his lips. “You know you can’t work for those men.” He wipes away her tears again, his hand smoothing her black waves away from her face. “They’ll kill you, Esme. The second you do something wrong they won’t even blink.”

“Like talk to you?” She arches a brow and gives him a soft smile. “I know, Javi. I know the risks.”

“And you still did it?”

“I missed you.” she admits with a soft exhale.

He pulls her in again, tighter this time. A kiss to her hair as he strokes his hands over her. “You know you need to get going. It’s almost night they’ll be crawling all over soon.”

She nods but doesn’t pull away. “They can’t see us here. There are no lookouts. It’s why I brought us here.”

“You know this place that well?”

“I have to. I don’t have a choice.” It felt hopeless as it left her trembling lips and it reflected more regret as she let it escape. It sounded as tired as she felt. It was as if being in his arms made her aware of how exhausted she was. How worn and hollow she was.

He knew the sound of exhaustion well. He heard it when he would deflect questions from the women he would pay to distract him from the one in his arms. “I know, sweetheart. Believe me, I know.” When she didn’t pull away, he didn’t make her. It gave him the answers he needed. At least what he needed to make it through another day without her for a short while.

@jaegeeeeer​ @likedovesinthewnd​ @inkededucatednnerdy​  @biharryjames @ladamari68​ @past-romantic​ @weliketomoveit @shikin83​ 

[huariqueje]

LATINOAMÉRICA OPINIÓN POLÍTICA

Perú despierta y Vargas Llosa agoniza 

LATIN AMERICA POLITICAL OPINION

Peru wakes up and Vargas Llosa is dying

By José Steinsleger 9 Junio, 2021

Some experts in psychoanalysis and psychiatry describe as schizophrenia the condition that prevents the distinction between fiction and reality, and considering that it is a serious mental illness.

On the other hand, when political issues are discussed colloquially, the term is often used loosely to disqualify those who deny or misrepresent reality. Unfair and unpleasant rapture that undeniably calls into question good manners.

Example: since La ciudad y los perros, I have read almost all of Vargas Llosa's fictional works, and a good part of his political articles, in which he developed, in my opinion, a tortuous vision of reality. Conclusion: unmatched mastery to travel from reality to fiction and vice versa.

Despite this, more than half a century of reading Vargallosian has not been enough for me to solve a dilemma that, I suspect, no disciple of Freud or Lacan could solve: when did Mario Vargas Llosa screw up?

Tributary to the ex-pongo and today Marquis, the Andean-indigenous-mestizo culture has produced unique writers, although marked by their inferiority complex compared to colonial culture. Emblematic case: Alcides Arguedas (1879-46), paid writer for the tin magnate, Simón Patiño. In 1909, Arguedas published Pueblo Sick in Barcelona, ​​making clear his reasoned contempt for Bolivian society..

In Pueblo Sick, the author regrets that the mixture of fatal biological laws, historical reasons and environmental circumstances have made the indigenous a stunted and diseased race. Celebrated by the great Miguel de Unamuno, the book is no longer read. But its contents make it possible to unravel the chronic racial hatred of those who (not only in Bolivia and Peru) are scared when they see that the peoples begin to break the chains of colonialism.

In the antipodes of the Bolivian Arguedas, the Peruvian José María Arguedas (1911-69) and a book published shortly before his suicide: The fox from above and the fox from below, a deep reflection on Peru that Vargas Llosa despises to such a degree, that in 1996 he dedicated a long essay to him: The archaic utopia and the fictions of indigenismo.

The fox above and the fox below alludes to the foxes of indigenous legends collected in Quechua at the end of the 16th century, and they tell of a world divided into two: the coastal zone and the mountainous area, which were the center of the history of the country in pre-Columbian times, as well as the coast would be from the conquest.

Observations that for some mysterious reason, shot me after reading On the Tightrope, Vargas Llosa's latest article, published on the eve of the ballot that just took place in Peru (El País, 5/6). Quickly, I underline themes and passages related to a continent that, according to the master of fiction and reality, seems determined to resurrect the Marxism-Leninism that Europeans and Asians have been in charge of burying.

Brazil: “The judges have released Luiz Inácio da Silva […]. If foreigners could vote, Lula, his darling, would sweep away. Brazilians are more cautious: they remember above all that several sentences weigh on him, for taking advantage of power and for corruption ”.

Chile: “in this country that seemed to have done its homework and grown to distance itself from the rest of Latin America and reach European levels, now it is absolute chaos… with young people of both sexes dreaming of a uniformed nation, with a state-controlled economy that would ruin a a society that seemed to be the first in Latin America to end underdevelopment ”.

Colombia: “[…] It burns everywhere and President Iván Duque is attacked even by his own party and his teacher, former President Álvaro Uribe, accuses him of being weak and of not resorting to the army to appease the violent people who, guided by the Venezuelan hand, they want to take power away ”.

Bolivia: Evo Morales' forces have returned to power and he has a candidate whom he calls brother and cholito… But he is not Bolivian but Peruvian: Pedro Castillo ”.

Peru: “[…] Immediately favorite target for the Cuban, Venezuelan and Nicaraguan axis. If Pedro Castillo wins the election, Marxism-Leninism-Mariateguism […] would be the most ferocious and bloodthirsty dictatorship of all that the country has known throughout its history ”.

And the pearl that Ripley cries out for: Political suicide [in Peru], which would close forever, or for a long time, the country's possibility of recovering its old history when it was, in the pre-Hispanic past, the head of an empire that gave of eat everyone, or in the 300 colonial years, when the Peruvian viceroyalty was the most prosperous in America. All this to become an agent at the service of Cuba and Venezuela.

I understand the dialectic of the converted leftist, which tends to be more eloquent and fierce than the reverse option. But if any specialist can confirm the diagnosis of yore, I am willing to qualify my criticisms and, from now on, treat Vargas Llosa as a brilliant mental patient.

By José Steinsleger 

https://www.elclarin.cl/2021/06/09/peru-despierta-y-vargas-llosa-agoniza/?fbclid=IwAR3rcbPk72HBEEGmTOgwXakvVQzY4vvyy159uViTVWT48wsrVUJDe38g3vc 

[96thdayofrage]

In the first five minutes of Raoul Peck’s docuseries, Exterminate All the Brutes, a subtitle appears on screen. “The Disturbing Confidence of Ignorance: 1836 Seminoles and Maroons.” A determined Seminole female chief (Casia Ankarsparre) appears on screen. Unblinking, she says, “This is the day we fight.” The next scene is a meeting between the chief and a male Maroon leader. In this scene we see a true story that the majority white gatekeepers who control Hollywood rarely include in their whitewashed stories about the history of what we now call “America” — Black and Brown living in integrated community, sharing resources, and resisting white supremacy. As they sit in a circle under a modest covering, the Maroon leader humbly offers to run in order to protect the community. The chief replies, “We’re family now. You stay.”  The Maroon leader emphasizes that he doesn’t want to bring harm, to which the chief knowingly says, “They bring harm to our nation, not you.” The white man wants their land by any means necessary. They decide to fight together to protect one another and their land.

Exterminate All the Brutes is a documentary series that jumps time, brilliantly ripping off the facade of “the American Dream,” allowing the audience to face the reality that America was born as a colonial power and to this day operates as one. Peck wrote and narrates the docuseries, so he literally tells the thinly hidden truths of how America came to be. Exterminate All the Brutes holds no punches, defining white supremacy as a poisonous superiority complex that kills nations in order to thrive.

Peck is one of the most renowned storytellers of our time. After completing I Am Not Your Negro, he says that he felt called to make Exterminate All the Brutes, which deconstructs the origins of white supremacy. Now is the right time for this momentous series. Normally, the documentary filmmaker is “outside” of the film. Peck skillfully inserts himself into the story using home movie footage of his Haitian American immigrant family, grounding viewers in relatable reality as he guides us through over 400 years of imperialism and the impact of white dominance and fascism. We need that in order to bear witness to hard truths. Peck is familiar with dealing with dictators. His middle-class family was exiled during the reign of Haitian president/dictator Francois Duvalier and ended up living in Brooklyn when he was a child in the 1960s. Peck narrates, “We traveled a lot because of another dictator, but it doesn’t feel like an exile. I am with family. I am an immigrant from a ‘sh*thole country,’ like he said.”

ALSO READ‘The Falcon and the Winter Soldier,’ Season 1 Episode 3: “Power Broker” — RECAP

Three books are the foundation of this docuseries. Exterminate All the Brutes, by Sven Lindqvist, exposes the cruel impact of European imperialism on the African continent. An Indigenous People’s History of the United States, by Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz, details the Native American genocide. Silencing the Past, by Michel-Rolph Trouillot, is about how Haiti’s independence in 1804 changed the trajectory of the Western world. Peck unites this circle of intellectual healers to create the extraordinary HBO docuseries and credits these authors, who are also his dear friends, as co-creators of the film.  

History is remembered by the victors. American history has been reinforced by Hollywood. The Civil War ended in 1865. Moving pictures were invented in 1893, and in 1915, The Birth of a Nation (a white supremacist propoganda film) was the first blockbuster film made in Hollywood. We have generations of Americans who believe in the big lie of Western expansion by Westerns that center one white man killing everyone with a gun.

Peck uses his superpowers as a filmmaker to tell the truths of history from the perspective of the colonized. The docuseries not only uses historical footage and newsreels but also Peck has created full narrative short stories within the documentary to add nuance, humanizing the history.  

The white male lead of Exterminate All the Brutes is Josh Hartnett. The character Hartnett plays has no name, but I recognized him immediately. Josh Hartnett is deftly playing white superiority, a character every Black person in America has to endure a daily basis. I have to say, experiencing the way Peck wrote that character and how Hartnett deftly embodies that toxic energy was more frightening than any race-based horror film or series I’ve seen this year. Witnessing the impact of that white man dominating through time was a frightening truth we rarely see told openly. I’m just grateful that I’ve lived long enough to be able to see the truth of this country on screen.  

The parts of the documentary that hit me hardest used animation to powerfully reflect the North Atlantic Slave Trade and the Trail of Tears. I will hold those images in my heart forever. Stories give us the opportunity to empathize. We can look past the superficial differences and see we are one people. White supremacy thrives on simplicity. Exterminate All the Brutes is a rich documentary that uses wise storytelling to clearly share the complexity of the system grounded in white dominance that we are all living under.

The documentary is broken up into four episodes, which are really short films.

Part 1: The Disturbing Confidence of Ignorance

Part 2: Who the F*** Is Columbus

Part 3: Killing at a Distance, or How I Thoroughly Enjoyed the Outing

Part 4: The Bright Colors of Fascism

When deciding to make this film, Peck was encouraged by his friend Sven Lindqvist, who said to him, “You already know enough. It’s not knowledge we lack. What is missing is the courage to understand what we know and to draw conclusions.” As I’ve been watching the Derek Chauvin trial for the murder of George Floyd, Exterminate All the Brutes was a form of catharsis for me. After viewing the entire series, I feel charged up and inspired to continue to do the daily work of dismantling white dominance as our ancestors need us all to do.

Don’t miss Exterminate All The Brutes, written, directed, produced, and narrated by Raoul Peck, now streaming on HBO/Max.    

Episodes: https://www.hbo.com/exterminate-all-the-brutes/episodes

Additional films, books and resources:

https://www.hbo.com/exterminate-all-the-brutes/raoul-peck-essential-reading-films

[fedtothenight]

this competition asked to write a short story in the dystopian genre and my entry's below - don't rb!

the sweetest fruit

The boy gasped, straining against the padded frame of the jeep just as the vehicle slowly came to a halt. ‘Look!’ he shouted, pointing at a spot about a hundred feet from the group. ‘Look, Mum! That’s so cool!’

Half-instinctively, his mother had already grabbed a fistful of his tank-top, ready to yank him back. She had spent the entirety of the trip sitting as still as possible, facing forward, eyes stubbornly fixed on the self-cooling top of the car in a pointless effort to fight her motion sickness: her patience was already wearing very thin without her eight-year-old personal safety hazard trying to get himself killed.

‘Ethan, for the love of God,’ she snapped. ‘I already told you to stop leaning over the frame! Do you realise how dangerous that is?’

‘No, Mum, you’ve got to look!’

‘Emma, darling,’ her husband whispered, a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘You should really look at this. It’s magnificent.’

Whatever it was, even her fifteen-year-old daughter - who had spent the last thirty minutes texting her friends back home without so much as a glance at the scenery - was jaw-slacked, so she slowly got up on her wobbly knees and peered over her shoulders.

In the shadow of a tree, protected from the sweltering heat, two lions were feasting on a zebra. Perhaps belatedly, as it’d taken her a second to drink the sight in, she realised that the poor thing was still alive: writhing as blood, red and hot and pulsing, gushed out from where the bigger lion - the male - had bitten into its back.

The smaller one, the female, soundlessly sank its teeth into the dying animal’s neck, and the latter gave one last weak kick, finally falling limp. When the lioness stood again, it was almost impossible, from this distance, to see her eyes amidst the bloodied mess on her face.

‘Oh, my God, Matt,’ Emma said. ‘This is beautiful. Nature truly is beautiful.’

‘You don’t really get to see this kind of show anywhere else today,’ their guide said from the driver’s seat. He sounded proud, as if he’d hunted and fed the zebra to the lions himself.

Alberto wasn’t wrong, Emma reasoned. Given that they were parked in the middle of the privately-owned biggest North American savanna, he - or rather, his employer - was the one effectively feeding the lions. Like feeding mice to cats. She glanced at her children, glad they could have a window on a reality that was long gone. To think it would have taken a trip around the world to watch this spectacle - imagine the motion sickness then! If only, she considered wistfully, there could be a way of replicating glaciers just as accurately.

‘Honestly, it seems a bit unfair that they get to eat real meat,’ Ethan said at the dinner table a few hours later. He was picking at his plate, moving the fried grasshoppers they’d been served for dinner around, but not really eating any. ‘While we are stuck with insects and microprotein or whatever.’

Emma pinched the bridge of her nose. She was tired and sunburnt, her sensitive pale skin suffering under the blistering sun of the region, so different from the temperate weather back home North. She had a splitting headache, too. She was, yet again, at the so-called end of her tether. ‘Ethan…’

‘You should be glad you get to eat at all,’ her daughter said at the same time. ‘There’s a reason it’s illegal to eat meat. These animals are here for show, anyway. They were originally from Africa.’

‘Shut up, Becca,’ Ethan mumbled. ‘Everybody knows there are no animals in Africa. There’s nothing there.’

Becca’s cheeks were tinted pink, eyebrows furrowed. ‘Of course there were animals. There were animals everywhere before the Climate Crunch.’

‘Both of you, stop it,’ Matt interjected. ‘Ethan, your sister is right. You should be grateful that we are here in the first place. That said…’ He leant forward, voice down to a whisper: ‘I have a surprise for you. Or, well, Richard has a surprise for us. When he arrives tomorrow, he’ll bring us real meat. Bovine meat.’

‘But it’s illegal,’ said Becca.

‘It’s technically illegal,’ Matt acknowledged. ‘It’s not if you know how to get some and no one from Animal Conservation finds out. Do you think our president only eats insects? Please, Becca. Use that big brain of yours.’

‘Yes,’ Ethan snickered. ‘Use your brain, Becca.’

‘That is too generous,’ Emma said. ‘Inviting us here in the first place was, when even he hasn’t gotten here yet. Now this. I wouldn’t know how to repay him.’

Truly, all she felt was jealousy. Her guts twisted with the sheer force of it. Yes, she had known that Richard was comfortable. The gated, heavily guarded estate spanned for thousands of acres, comprised the 5000sqt villa they were staying at (five bedrooms, seven bathrooms, a cinema, marble floors and solar panels on the rooftop), an indoor swimming pool inspired by vintage photos of Amalfi, two indoor tennis courts, and the savanna they’d explored earlier in the day. ‘The biggest conservation area in North America since they repurposed the Midwest,’ he’d bragged in a video call, two weeks before. ‘You will love it. The holiday you deserve. Make yourselves at home.’

But meat? He could get meat?

Matt’s family had designed DeNuketify, which was basically the only effective way of purifying ocean water from whatever nuclear waste Japan kept spewing so that it could be used and, most importantly, drunk. They had managed to flee the continent with the last handful of greencards about the time her family did, too, taking their precious Queen’s accent with them to found Nova London. She was the governor of Nova London now, for God’s sake. The bloody queen herself was long dead but she was alive, and yet, yet - they had never had meat.

‘We don’t have to, Emma,’ Matt said. ‘We just need to remember how lucky we are to enjoy this meal, this house, this holiday. Look at that,’ and he nodded towards the TV screen again. ‘Actually, Alexa!, volume up!, I think the Italians have finally surrendered.’

The war correspondent’s voice grew louder. She - they, Emma reminded herself: Becca always told her not to assume anyone’s gender - was wearing a dust mask and reading from a bundle of documents. ‘The last military hospital in the island of Palermo was destroyed four days ago by a Canadian airstrike,’ they were saying. ‘The rebels surrendered soon after, followed by the group of extremists in the Nebrodi island. Etna had already surrendered last year.’

‘It’s important to remember that these actions were necessary to finally put a rest on the instability of the region,’ they added. ‘Canada will fund a complete restoration of the Southern archipelago. The remaining civilians will be provided with a shelter and then, when the time comes, a suitable job. Nova Italia will be the sixteenth Canadian state, the fourth offshore. There are also hopes to extract petroleum from the seabed of the sunken city of Gela.’

‘Watch them make it into a holiday hotspot,’ Matt commented. ‘The weather is still nice there.’

‘Ooh, I heard about this.’ Becca picked her phone back up and started furiously typing away. ‘There’s this journal entry soldiers found over there, under the rubble, that’s gone viral. It was translated into English. Wait, I’ll pull it up. Alexa, volume down.’

‘I’m not sure I want to hear it,’ Emma said, uneasy. ‘We’re on holiday. Should we not watch a movie? Something funny?’

Becca waved her away, as if she was an annoying fly. ‘It’ll be good practice for my drama class.’

Matt didn’t help—he simply shrugged, half-apologetic, as if to say: Let her do her thing.

Becca made a show of clearing her throat, too, before she started reading from her phone—her high voice now grave, studied, as if she were speaking to a larger audience: ‘I wonder what peas taste like.’

Right then, the scene on screen changed to footage of what looked like a destroyed village, something out of an apocalyptic movie. Emma found herself unable to look away.

‘Nonna used to say that her own great-grandmother grew them in her garden. Figs, too,’ Becca read. ‘They say they were the sweetest fruit.’

Emma wondered if this journal was actually written by a child or a teenager. It didn’t sound like an adult at all. She couldn’t help but picture a girl, a brunette, not much older than Becca, perhaps a rebel, or a trainee nurse on the sweet cusp of adulthood, holding this journal of hers, or perhaps a gun. It violently reminded her that her own daughter, too, would have to serve her time in the Forces in three years.

On screen, the Canadian soldiers walked among the ruins, zigzagging between torn up clothes and discarded weapons, surely looking for surviving rebels under the rubbles.

‘Isn’t it silly that we can hear the fighters overhead and that all I can do is think about food?’ said Becca. ‘I wish we could also eat figs and be happy.’

On screen, the camera zoomed in on a long-forgotten man's shoe, some crumpled photographs, on a pile of bodies in black bin bags.

‘Grandma - I miss her - left me a poetry book, too, from T.S. Eliot. I hope the book is with me when I die, so I can give it back to her when we meet again, afterwards. So I can tell her that T.S. Eliot was wrong.’

On screen, one of the soldiers approached and showed a little trinket to the camera: a bloody, heart-shaped locket that must’ve once been golden, hiding the miniature pictures of two brunette children that would never have a name.

‘That’s enough,’ Emma said. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. ‘Stop reading.’

‘The world may have not ended with a bang, but it didn’t end with a whimper, either: the world didn’t end at all. Sometimes,’ Becca finished reading, ‘I wish it had.’

‘What a load of rubbish,’ Matt scoffed. ‘Everyone should feel lucky to be alive. I bet this journal is a fake. Alexa, turn the TV off.’

As the screen faded to black, Ethan finally popped a grasshopper in his mouth. ‘I can’t wait to have meat tomorrow.’

[mxstyassasxin]

Cuz I Love You (T, 1.3k)

on AO3

After the war, Harry fell. He fell hard.

It had started out okay, despite spending the summer grieving for those he had lost. He held the Weasleys together and they did the same for him in turn. But, when Hermione and Ginny went back to Hogwarts, and Neville and Ron began their training with the Aurors, it was as if life went back to normal for them. Life carried on.

Harry fell when he realised that he had no one else left to fall for. He had already fallen for them all, back at Hogwarts in the forbidden forest. They didn’t need him anymore.

So, he fell for himself.

He fell into silence, shutting everyone out.

He fell into the drink, the pounding, throbbing music of the clubs.

And then he fell into the arms of his childhood nemesis, the two of them struggling to cope with the surprising loneliness of a post-war wizarding Britain.

It wasn’t until he fell into bed with him though, that Harry ran.

He fled to America. The first time he’d ever left Britain, and it was on a frantic whim to the first place he could think of.

He didn’t pack, he didn’t tell anyone. Just disappeared from Malfoy’s bed the morning after and got the first portkey to the States.

The Magical Transport Department of MACUSA were extremely helpful in suggesting somewhere quiet for him to spend a few months, to recuperate from the war, handing him a two-way portkey to Washington – the State that is.

He found the No-Maj who owned a derelict building on a large piece of land and paid to take it off his hands there and then. The western boundary was made up of the edge of a cliff that fell away into the rolling waves of the Pacific Ocean. Spruce, pine and fir trees covered the rest of the land, sheltering his new lodgings from the wild, winter weather.

It was quiet. The wind and the rain through the trees reminding him of the better times he had in Scotland. The sun, when it filtered through the clouds, brought memories of Hermione and Ron laughing as they sat on the banks of the lake.

Eventually though, the clouds and the storms and the swirling sea reminded Harry of other things.

An intense, icy stare that was as far from cold as it was possible to get. That burned through him, filling him with want and pain and regret. The grey-blue sheets that had held comfort and release, talks of pasts forgiven, wrongs undone.

The turbulent waves that rolled - horses, Malfoy had once called them as they sat in a lonely little café near Aberystwyth – reminded him of the patronus he hadn’t been able to cast since the Battle, since he died. The stag that had abandoned him, taking with it the last tangible connection to his parents.

But the waves also morphed as he watched them, twisting into the powerful muscle and dangerous stripes he had seen in the tiger that had prowled around his living room, ensuring he made it home from the club. He chuckled, remembering the scare he’d had the first time, so far gone on the drink and opening the door to see the massive silvery creature pacing the room. Malfoy’s voice from the tiger had shocked him enough into taking a sobering potion. He didn’t know when Malfoy had learnt the patronus charm, nor why his was a tiger, but Harry had seen it every night that he’d left Malfoy a bit worse for wear after their conversations over a bottle of firewhisky.

The evergreen of the trees surrounding the house began to remind Harry of the green walls of the Manor’s study. Walls that had been witness to tales of the muggle world, of pureblood politics, of family who meant well and family who didn’t. Memories of friends who had been lost were spilled before those walls, as were the tears for them. Two boys, forced to grow up far too fast, their worlds brimming with fire and pain, rage and torment. An understanding forming between them.

And then to something more. A bond forming from that understanding, pulling them closer, entwining themselves in each other as they had always done, but in healing rather than anger.

Harry had fallen alright.

He’d ran thinking it was a mistake, but it was this that was the mistake. Running an ocean and a continent away from that comfort, that understanding. Being far from Malfoy, far from Draco. He was lost.

He could see those grey eyes in everything now, his anchor, the lifeline that had held him down on earth, refusing to be severed by distance, strengthened by care and trust and love.

Love.

Harry’s life had always come down to that. First Lily’s, then Narcissa’s, and now, surprisingly, his own for Draco and Draco’s for him.

Harry smiled at the realisation, hope and love and excitement building in his chest. He had seen it in Draco, the touches, the smiles, the words he used. The way he’d curled his lithe frame around Harry the night Harry ran. The way he said Harry’s name, softly, murmured in peaceful sleep against Harry’s jaw.

The rising happiness grew too much, filling him to bursting, silver sparks flying from the end of his wand as his magic sang. The colour familiar in the darkness, a colour of hope and love and life and family.

He raised his wand into the air and, for the first time, in a long time, shouted the words Expecto Patronum, grinning wildly as a form took shape in front of him. Four thick, powerful legs. Paws the size of dinner plates, sleek fur shining, fur that he knew would be jet black if he could see it. A lonesome creature, powerful and unique. Different enough to Draco’s tiger to be his own, to be Harry, but the link was clear.

Harry shouted his jubilation and the silver panther curled around him, sharing in his joy. He wished he could stroke the fur that looked so soft as he apologised to it for sending it so far on its first journey. It would be going to Wiltshire. Informing Draco that he was coming home. That he was sorry.

The first portkey pulled him from the lodge to New York, the second to the Ministry in London after an anxious seven-hour wait. Finally, he was twisting away to the Manor gates, willing them to open for him.

They did and, running down the drive towards him, barefoot of all things, was Draco. Draco, who flung his arms around Harry’s neck before pulling back to check Harry over, throwing punches at his chest when he realised that Harry was fine.

“You prat! You absolute wanker!”

“Hello, Draco.”

“No. You, you don’t get to call me that. You left. Just went and bloody disappeared.”

Harry caught the fists that were still pummelling his chest, holding them tightly in his own, staring into those icy eyes that held so much fire.

“I know. I’m sorry I panicked. Truly, Draco.”

He could see Draco searching the depths of his eyes and whatever he sought, he must have found it because he visibly relaxed and Harry pulled him into a tight hug.

“Did you see my patronus?”

“That thing scared the living daylights out of me,” Draco muttered into Harry’s chest.

“Well, so did yours that first time.”

He heard a short huff from the man wrapped in his arms and they fell into comfortable silence for a minute before Draco spoke again.

“When did it change?”

Harry let Draco out of his arms and began moving towards the imposing building ahead of him, turning to walk backwards when he was a few paces away from the other man, a grin on his face.

“When I realised I love you.”