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chrisevansluv · 3 years

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Here is the 2012 Detail Magazine interview with chris evans:

The Avengers' Chris Evans: Just Your Average Beer-Swilling, Babe-Loving Buddhist

The 30-year-old Bud Light-chugging, Beantown-bred star of The Avengers is widely perceived as the ultimate guy's guy. But beneath the bro persona lies a serious student of Buddhism, an unrepentant song-and-dance man, and a guy who talks to his mom about sex. And farts.

By Adam Sachs,

Photographs by Norman Jean Roy

May 2012 Issue

"Should we just kill him and bury his body?" Chris Evans is stage whispering into the impassive blinking light of my digital recorder.

"Chris!" shouts his mother, her tone a familiar-to-anyone-with-a-mother mix of coddling and concern. "Don't say that! What if something happened?"

We're at Evans' apartment, an expansive but not overly tricked-out bachelor-pad-ish loft in a semi-industrial nowheresville part of Boston, hard by Chinatown, near an area sometimes called the Combat Zone. Evans has a fuzzy, floppy, slept-in-his-clothes aspect that'd be nearly unrecognizable if you knew him only by the upright, spit-polished bearing of the onscreen hero. His dog, East, a sweet and slobbery American bulldog, is spread out on a couch in front of the TV. The shelves of his fridge are neatly stacked with much of the world's supply of Bud Light in cans and little else.

On the counter sit a few buckets of muscle-making whey-protein powder that belong to Evans' roommate, Zach Jarvis, an old pal who sometimes tags along on set as a paid "assistant" and a personal trainer who bulked Evans up for his role as the super-ripped patriot in last summer's blockbuster Captain America: The First Avenger. A giant clock on the exposed-brick wall says it's early evening, but Evans operates on his own sense of time. Between gigs, his schedule's all his, which usually translates into long stretches of alone time during the day and longer social nights for the 30-year-old.

"I could just make this . . . disappear," says Josh Peck, another old pal and occasional on-set assistant, in a deadpan mumble, poking at the voice recorder I'd left on the table while I was in the bathroom.

Evans' mom, Lisa, now speaks directly into the microphone: "Don't listen to them—I'm trying to get them not to say these things!"

But not saying things isn't in the Evans DNA. They're an infectiously gregarious clan. Irish-Italians, proud Bostoners, close-knit, and innately theatrical. "We all act, we sing," Evans says. "It was like the fucking von Trapps." Mom was a dancer and now runs a children's theater. First-born Carly directed the family puppet shows and studied theater at NYU. Younger brother Scott has parts on One Life to Live and Law & Order under his belt and lives in Los Angeles full-time—something Evans stopped doing several years back. Rounding out the circle are baby sister Shanna and a pair of "strays" the family brought into their Sudbury, Massachusetts, home: Josh, who went from mowing the lawn to moving in when his folks relocated during his senior year in high school; and Demery, who was Evans' roommate until recently.

"Our house was like a hotel," Evans says. "It was a loony-tunes household. If you got arrested in high school, everyone knew: 'Call Mrs. Evans, she'll bail you out.'"

Growing up, they had a special floor put in the basement where all the kids practiced tap-dancing. The party-ready rec room also had a Ping-Pong table and a separate entrance. This was the house kids in the neighborhood wanted to hang at, and this was the kind of family you wanted to be adopted by. Spend an afternoon listening to them dish old dirt and talk over each other and it's easy to see why. Now they're worried they've said too much, laid bare the tender soul of the actor behind the star-spangled superhero outfit, so there's talk of offing the interviewer. I can hear all this from the bathroom, which, of course, is the point of a good stage whisper.

To be sure, no one's said too much, and the more you're brought into the embrace of this boisterous, funny, shit-slinging, demonstrably loving extended family, the more likable and enviable the whole dynamic is.

Sample exchange from today's lunch of baked ziti at a family-style Italian restaurant:

Mom: When he was a kid, he asked me, 'Mom, will I ever think farting isn't funny?'

Chris: You're throwing me under the bus, Ma! Thank you.

Mom: Well, if a dog farts you still find it funny.

Then, back at the apartment, where Mrs. Evans tries to give me good-natured dirt on her son without freaking him out:

Mom: You always tell me when you think a girl is attractive. You'll call me up so excited. Is that okay to say?

Chris: Nothing wrong with that.

Mom: And can I say all the girls you've brought to the house have been very sweet and wonderful? Of course, those are the ones that make it to the house. It's been a long time, hasn't it?

Chris: Looooong time.

Mom: The last one at our house? Was it six years ago?

Chris: No names, Ma!

Mom: But she knocked it out of the park.

Chris: She got drunk and puked at Auntie Pam's house! And she puked on the way home and she puked at our place.

Mom: And that's when I fell in love with her. Because she was real.

We're operating under a no-names rule, so I'm not asking if it's Jessica Biel who made this memorable first impression. She and Evans were serious for a couple of years. But I don't want to picture lovely Jessica Biel getting sick at Auntie Pam's or in the car or, really, anywhere.

East the bulldog ambles over to the table, begging for food.

"That dog is the love of his life," Mrs. Evans says. "Which tells me he'll be an unbelievable parent, but I don't want him to get married right now." She turns to Chris. "The way you are, I just don't think you're ready."

Some other things I learn about Evans from his mom: He hates going to the gym; he was so wound-up as a kid she'd let him stand during dinner, his legs shaking like caged greyhounds; he suffered weekly "Sunday-night meltdowns" over schoolwork and the angst of the sensitive middle-schooler; after she and his father split and he was making money from acting, he bought her the Sudbury family homestead rather than let her leave it.

Eventually his mom and Josh depart, and Evans and I go to work depleting his stash of Bud Light. It feels like we drink Bud Light and talk for days, because we basically do. I arrived early Friday evening; it's Saturday night now and it'll be sunup Sunday before I sleeplessly make my way to catch a train back to New York City. Somewhere in between we slip free of the gravitational pull of the bachelor pad and there's bottle service at a club and a long walk with entourage in tow back to Evans' apartment, where there is some earnest-yet-surreal group singing, piano playing, and chitchat. Evans is fun to talk to, partly because he's an open, self-mocking guy with an explosive laugh and no apparent need to sleep, and partly because when you cut just below the surface, it's clear he's not quite the dude's dude he sometimes plays onscreen and in TV appearances.

From a distance, Chris Evans the movie star seems a predictable, nearly inevitable piece of successful Hollywood packaging come to market. There's his major-release debut as the dorkily unaware jock Jake in the guilty pleasure Not Another Teen Movie (in one memorable scene, Evans has whipped cream on his chest and a banana up his ass). The female-friendly hunk appeal—his character in The Nanny Diaries is named simply Harvard Hottie—is balanced by a kind of casual-Friday, I'm-from-Boston regular-dudeness. Following the siren song of comic-book cash, he was the Human Torch in two Fantastic Four films. As with scrawny Steve Rogers, the Captain America suit beefed up his stature as a formidable screen presence, a bankable leading man, all of which leads us to The Avengers, this season's megabudget, megawatt ensemble in which he stars alongside Scarlett Johansson, Mark Ruffalo, Robert Downey Jr., and Chris Hemsworth.

It all feels inevitable—and yet it nearly didn't happen. Evans repeatedly turned down the Captain America role, fearing he'd be locked into what was originally a nine-picture deal. He was shooting Puncture, about a drug-addicted lawyer, at the time. Most actors doing small-budget legal dramas would jump at the chance to play the lead in a Marvel franchise, but Evans saw a decade of his life flash before his eyes.

What he remembers thinking is this: "What if the movie comes out and it's a success and I just reject all of this? What if I want to move to the fucking woods?"

By "the woods," he doesn't mean a quiet life away from the spotlight, some general metaphorical life escape route. He means the actual woods. "For a long time all I wanted for Christmas were books about outdoor survival," he says. "I was convinced that I was going to move to the woods. I camped a lot, I took classes. At 18, I told myself if I don't live in the woods by the time I'm 25, I have failed."

Evans has described his hesitation at signing on for Captain America. Usually he talks about the time commitment, the loss of what remained of his relative anonymity. On the junkets for the movie, he was open about needing therapy after the studio reduced the deal to six movies and he took the leap. What he doesn't usually mention is that he was racked with anxiety before the job came up.

"I get very nervous," Evans explains. "I shit the bed if I have to present something on stage or if I'm doing press. Because it's just you." He's been known to walk out of press conferences, to freeze up and go silent during the kind of relaxed-yet-high-stakes meetings an actor of his stature is expected to attend: "Do you know how badly I audition? Fifty percent of the time I have to walk out of the room. I'm naturally very pale, so I turn red and sweat. And I have to literally walk out. Sometimes mid-audition. You start having these conversations in your brain. 'Chris, don't do this. Chris, take it easy. You're just sitting in a room with a person saying some words, this isn't life. And you're letting this affect you? Shame on you.'"

Shades of "Sunday-night meltdowns." Luckily the nerves never follow him to the set. "You do your neuroses beforehand, so when they yell 'Action' you can be present," he says.

Okay, there was one on-set panic attack—while Evans was shooting Puncture. "We were getting ready to do a court scene in front of a bunch of people, and I don't know what happened," he says. "It's just your brain playing games with you. 'Hey, you know how we sometimes freak out? What if we did it right now?'"

One of the people who advised Evans to take the Captain America role was his eventual Avengers costar Robert Downey Jr. "I'd seen him around," Downey says. "We share an agent. I like to spend a lot of my free time talking to my agent about his other clients—I just had a feeling about him."

What he told Evans was: This puppy is going to be big, and when it is you're going to get to make the movies you want to make. "In the marathon obstacle course of a career," Downey says, "it's just good to have all the stats on paper for why you're not only a team player but also why it makes sense to support you in the projects you want to do—because you've made so much damned money for the studio."

There's also the fact that Evans had a chance to sign on for something likely to be a kind of watershed moment in the comic-book fascination of our time. "I do think The Avengers is the crescendo of this superhero phase in entertainment—except of course for Iron Man 3," Downey says. "It'll take a lot of innovation to keep it alive after this."

Captain America is the only person left who was truly close to Howard Stark, father of Tony Stark (a.k.a. Iron Man), which meant that Evans' and Downey's story lines are closely linked, and in the course of doing a lot of scenes together, they got to be pals. Downey diagnoses his friend with what he terms "low-grade red-carpet anxiety disorder."

"He just hates the game-show aspect of doing PR," Downey says. "Obviously there's pressure for anyone in this transition he's in. But he will easily triple that pressure to make sure he's not being lazy. That's why I respect the guy. I wouldn't necessarily want to be in his skin. But his motives are pure. He just needs to drink some red-carpet chamomile."

"The majority of the world is empty space," Chris Evans says, watching me as if my brain might explode on hearing this news—or like he might have to fight me if I try to contradict him. We're back at his apartment after a cigarette run through the Combat Zone.

"Empty space!" he says again, slapping the table and sort of yelling. Then, in a slow, breathy whisper, he repeats: "Empty space, empty space. All that we see in the world, the life, the animals, plants, people, it's all empty space. That's amazing!" He slaps the table again. "You want another beer? Gotta be Bud Light. Get dirty—you're in Boston. Okay, organize your thoughts. I gotta take a piss . . ."

My thoughts are this: That this guy who is hugging his dog and talking to me about space and mortality and the trouble with Boston girls who believe crazy gossip about him—this is not the guy I expected to meet. I figured he'd be a meatball. Though, truthfully, I'd never called anyone a meatball until Evans turned me on to the put-down. As in: "My sister Shanna dates meatballs." And, more to the point: "When I do interviews, I'd rather just be the beer-drinking dude from Boston and not get into the complex shit, because I don't want every meatball saying, 'So hey, whaddyathink about Buddhism?'"

At 17, Evans came across a copy of Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha and began his spiritual questing. It's a path of study and struggle that, he says, defines his true purpose in life. "I love acting. It's my playground, it lets me explore. But my happiness in this world, my level of peace, is never going to be dictated by acting," he says. "My goal in life is to detach from the egoic mind. Do you know anything about Eastern philosophy?"

I sip some Bud Light and shake my head sheepishly. "They talk about the egoic mind, the part of you that's self-aware, the watcher, the person you think is driving this machine," he says. "And that separation from self and mind is the root of suffering. There are ways of retraining the way you think. This isn't really supported in Western society, which is focused on 'Go get it, earn it, win it, marry it.'"

Scarlett Johansson says that one of the things she appreciates about Evans is how he steers clear of industry chat when they see each other. "Basically every actor," she says, "including myself, when we finish a job we're like, 'Well, that's it for me. Had a good run. Put me out to pasture.' But Chris doesn't strike me as someone who frets about the next job." The two met on the set of The Perfect Score when they were teenagers and have stayed close; The Avengers is their third movie together. "He has this obviously masculine presence—a dude's dude—and we're used to seeing him play heroic characters," Johansson says, "but he's also surprisingly sensitive. He has close female friends, and you can talk to him about anything. Plus there's that secret song-and-dance, jazz-hands side of Chris. I feel like he grew up with the Partridge Family. He'd be just as happy doing Guys and Dolls as he would Captain America 2."

East needs to do his business, so Evans and I take him up to the roof deck. Evans bought this apartment in 2010 when living in L.A. full-time no longer appealed to him. He came back to stay close to his extended family and the intimate circle of Boston pals he's maintained since high school. The move also seems like a pretty clear keep-it-real hedge against the manic ego-stroking distractions of Hollywood.

"I think my daytime person is different than my nighttime person," Evans says. "With my high-school buddies, we drink beer and talk sports and it's great. The kids in my Buddhism class in L.A., they're wildly intelligent, and I love being around them, but they're not talking about the Celtics. And that's part of me. It's a strange dichotomy. I don't mind being a certain way with some people and having this other piece of me that's just for me."

I asked Downey about Evans' outward regular-Joe persona. "It's complete horseshit," Downey says. "There's an inherent street-smart intelligence there. I don't think he tries to hide it. But he's much more evolved and much more culturally aware than he lets on."

Perhaps the meatball and the meditation can coexist. We argue about our egoic brains and the tao of Boston girls. "I love wet hair and sweatpants," he says in their defense. "I like sneakers and ponytails. I like girls who aren't so la-di-da. L.A. is so la-di-da. I like Boston girls who shit on me. Not literally. Girls who give me a hard time, bust my chops a little."

The chief buster of Evans' chops is, of course, Evans himself. "The problem is, the brain I'm using to dissect this world is a brain formed by it," he says. "We're born into confusion, and we get the blessing of letting go of it." Then he adds: "I think this shit by day. And then night comes and it's like, 'Fuck it, let's drink.'"

And so we do. It's getting late. Again. We should have eaten dinner, but Evans sometimes forgets to eat: "If I could just take a pill to make me full forever, I wouldn't think twice."

We talk about his dog and camping with his dog and why he loves being alone more than almost anything except maybe not being alone. "I swear to God, if you saw me when I am by myself in the woods, I'm a lunatic," he says. "I sing, I dance. I do crazy shit."

Evans' unflagging, all-encompassing enthusiasm is impressive, itself a kind of social intelligence. "If you want to have a good conversation with him, don't talk about the fact that he's famous" was the advice I got from Mark Kassen, who codirected Puncture. "He's a blast, a guy who can hang. For quite a long time. Many hours in a row."

I've stopped looking at the clock. We've stopped talking philosophy and moved into more emotional territory. He asks questions about my 9-month-old son, and then Captain America gets teary when I talk about the wonder of his birth. "I weep at everything," he says. "I emote. I love things so much—I just never want to dilute that."

He talks about how close he feels to his family, how open they all are with each other. About everything. All the time. "The first time I had sex," he says, "I raced home and was like, 'Mom, I just had sex! Where's the clit?'"

Wait, I ask—did she ever tell you?

"Still don't know where it is, man," he says, then breaks into a smile composed of equal parts shit-eating grin and inner peace. "I just don't know. Make some movies, you don't have to know…"

Here is the 2012 Detail Magazine interview with chris evans:

The Avengers' Chris Evans: Just Your Average Beer-Swilling, Babe-Loving Buddhist

By Adam Sachs,

Photographs by Norman Jean Roy

May 2012 Issue

"Should we just kill him and bury his body?" Chris Evans is stage whispering into the impassive blinking light of my digital recorder.

"Chris!" shouts his mother, her tone a familiar-to-anyone-with-a-mother mix of coddling and concern. "Don't say that! What if something happened?"

Evans' mom, Lisa, now speaks directly into the microphone: "Don't listen to them—I'm trying to get them not to say these things!"

"Our house was like a hotel," Evans says. "It was a loony-tunes household. If you got arrested in high school, everyone knew: 'Call Mrs. Evans, she'll bail you out.'"

Sample exchange from today's lunch of baked ziti at a family-style Italian restaurant:

Mom: When he was a kid, he asked me, 'Mom, will I ever think farting isn't funny?'

Chris: You're throwing me under the bus, Ma! Thank you.

Mom: Well, if a dog farts you still find it funny.

Then, back at the apartment, where Mrs. Evans tries to give me good-natured dirt on her son without freaking him out:

Mom: You always tell me when you think a girl is attractive. You'll call me up so excited. Is that okay to say?

Chris: Nothing wrong with that.

Mom: And can I say all the girls you've brought to the house have been very sweet and wonderful? Of course, those are the ones that make it to the house. It's been a long time, hasn't it?

Chris: Looooong time.

Mom: The last one at our house? Was it six years ago?

Chris: No names, Ma!

Mom: But she knocked it out of the park.

Chris: She got drunk and puked at Auntie Pam's house! And she puked on the way home and she puked at our place.

Mom: And that's when I fell in love with her. Because she was real.

East the bulldog ambles over to the table, begging for food.

What he remembers thinking is this: "What if the movie comes out and it's a success and I just reject all of this? What if I want to move to the fucking woods?"

Shades of "Sunday-night meltdowns." Luckily the nerves never follow him to the set. "You do your neuroses beforehand, so when they yell 'Action' you can be present," he says.

And so we do. It's getting late. Again. We should have eaten dinner, but Evans sometimes forgets to eat: "If I could just take a pill to make me full forever, I wouldn't think twice."

Wait, I ask—did she ever tell you?

"Still don't know where it is, man," he says, then breaks into a smile composed of equal parts shit-eating grin and inner peace. "I just don't know. Make some movies, you don't have to know…"

If someone doesn't want to check the link, the anon sent the full interview!

#chris evans #cevans #Details Magazine #2012 #interview

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dwellordream · 3 years

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“...The letters, biographies, memoirs, and diaries that recorded Victorian women’s lives are essential sources for differentiating friendship, erotic obsession, and sexual partnership between women. The distinctions are subtle, for Victorians routinely used startlingly romantic language to describe how women felt about female friends and acquaintances. In her youth, Anne Thackeray (later Ritchie) recorded in an 1854 journal entry how she “fell in love with Miss Geraldine Mildmay” at one party and Lady Georgina Fullerton “won [her] heart” at another. In reminiscences written for her daughter in 1881, Augusta Becher (1830–1888) recalled a deep childhood love for a cousin a few years older than she was: “From my earliest recollections I adored her, following her and content to sit at her feet like a dog.”

At the other extreme of the life cycle, the seventy one-year-old Ann Gilbert (1782–1866), who cowrote the poem now known as “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” appreciatively described “the latter years of . . . friendship” with her friend Mrs. Mackintosh as “the gathering of the last ripe figs, here and there, one on the topmost bough!” Gilbert used similar imagery in an 1861 poem she sent to another woman celebrating the endurance of a friendship begun in childhood: “As rose leaves in a china Jar / Breathe still of blooming seasons past, / E’en so, old women as they are / Still doth the young affection last.” Gilbert’s metaphors, drawn from the language of flowers and the repertoire of romantic poetry, asserted that friendship between women was as vital and fertile as the biological reproduction and female sexuality to which figures of fruitfulness commonly alluded.

Friendship was so pervasive in Victorian women’s life writing because middle-class Victorians treated friendship and family life as complementary. Close relationships between women that began when both were single often survived marriage and maternity. In the Memoir of Mary Lundie Duncan (1842) that Duncan’s mother wrote two years after her daughter’s early death at age twenty-five, the maternal biographer included many letters Duncan (1814–1840) wrote to friends, including one penned six weeks after the birth of her first child: “My beloved friend, do not think that I have been so long silent because all my love is centered in my new and most interesting charge. It is not so. My heart turns to you as it was ever wont to do, with deep and fond affection, and my love for my sweet babe makes me feel even more the value of your friendship.”

Men respected women’s friendships as a component of family life for wives and mothers. Charlotte Hanbury’s 1905 Life of her missionary sister Caroline Head included a letter that the Reverend Charles Fox wrote to Head in 1877, soon after the birth of her first child: “I want desperately to see you and that prodigy of a boy, and that perfection of a husband, and that well-tried and well-beloved sister-friend of yours, Emma Waithman.” Although Head and Waithman never combined households, their regular correspondence, extended visits, and frequent travels were sufficient for Fox to assign Waithman a socially legible status as an informal family member, a “sister-friend” listed immediately after Head’s son and husband.

In A Room of One’s Own, Virginia Woolf lamented that a woman born in the 1840s would not be able to report what she was “doing on the fifth of April 1868, or the second of November 1875,” for “[n]othing remains of it all. All has vanished. No biography or history has a word to say about it.” Yet as an avid reader of Victorian life writing, Woolf had every reason to be aware that in the very British Library where her speaker researches her lecture, hundreds of autobiographies, biographies, memoirs, diaries, and letters provided exhaustive records of what women did on almost every day of the nineteenth century.

One cannot fault Woolf excessively for having discounted Victorian women’s life writing, for even today few consult this corpus and no scholar of Victorian England has used it to explore the history of female friendship. Scholars of autobiography concentrate on a handful of works by exceptional women, and historians of gender and sexuality have drawn primarily on fiction, parliamentary reports, journalism, legal cases, and medical and scientific discourse, which emphasize disruption, disorder, scandal, infractions, and pathology. Life writing, by contrast, emphasized ordinariness and typicality, which is precisely what makes it a unique source for scholarship.

The term “life writing” refers to the heterogeneous array of published, privately printed, and unpublished diaries, correspondence, biographies, autobiographies, memoirs, reminiscences, and recollections that Victorians and their descendants had a prodigious appetite for reading and writing. Literary critics have noted the relative paucity of autobiographies by women that fulfill the aesthetic criteria of a coherent, self-conscious narrative focused on a strictly demarcated individual self. Women’s own words about their lives, however, are abundantly represented in the more capacious genre of life writing, defined as any text that narrates or documents a subject’s life.

The autobiographical requirement of a unified individual life story was irrelevant for Victorian life writing, a hybrid genre that freely combined multiple narrators and sources, and incorporated long extracts from a subject’s diaries, correspondence, and private papers alongside testimonials from friends and family members. A single text might blend the journal’s dailiness and immediacy and a letter’s short term retrospect with the long view of elderly writers reflecting on their lives, or the backward and forward glances of family members who had survived their subjects.

For example, Christabel Coleridge was the nominal author of Charlotte Mary Yonge: Her Life and Letters (1903), but the text begins by reproducing an unpublished autobiographical essay Yonge wrote in 1877, intercalated with remarks by Coleridge. The sections of the Life written by Coleridge, conversely, consist of long extracts from Yonge’s letters that take up almost as much space as Coleridge’s own words. Coleridge undertook the biography out of personal friendship for Yonge, and its dialogic form mimics the structure of a social relationship conducted through conversation and correspondence.

The biographer was less an author than an editor who gathered and commented on a subject’s writings without generating an autonomous narrative of her life. Reticence was paradoxically characteristic of Victorian life writing, which was as defined by the drive to conceal life stories as it was indicative of a compulsion to transmit them. This was true of life writing by and about men as well as by and about women. The authors of biographies often did not name themselves directly. Instead they subsumed their identities into those of their subjects. Authors who knew their subjects intimately as children, spouses, or parents usually adopted a deliberately impersonal tone, avoiding the first person whenever possible.

In her anonymous biography of her daughter Mary Duncan, for example, Mary Lundie completely avoided writing in the first person and was sparing even with third-person references to herself as Duncan’s “surviving parent” or “her mother” (243, 297). The materials used in biographies and autobiographies were similarly discreet, and the diaries that formed the basis of much life writing revealed little about their authors’ lives. Victorian life writers who published diary excerpts valued them for their very failure to unveil mysteries, often praising the diarist’s “reserve” and hastening to explain that the diaries cited did “not pretend to reveal personal secrets.”

Although we now expect diaries to be private outpourings of a self confronting forbidden desires and confiding scandalous secrets, only a handful of authenticated Victorian diaries recorded sexual lives in any detail, and none can be called typical. Unrevealing diaries, on the other hand, were plentiful in an era when keeping a journal was common enough for printers to sell preprinted and preformatted diaries and locked diaries were unusual. Preformatted diaries adopted features of almanacs and account books, and journals synchronized personal life with the external rhythms of the clock, the calendar, and the household, not the unpredictable pulses of the heart.

Diaries were rarely meant for the diarist’s eyes alone, which explains why biographers had no compunction about publishing large portions of their subjects’ journals with no prefatory justifications. Girls and women read their diaries aloud to sisters or friends, and locked diaries were so uncommon that Ethel Smyth, born in 1858, still remembered sixty years later how her elders had disapproved when she started keeping a secret diary as a child. Some diarists even explicitly wrote for others, sharing their journals with readers in the present and addressing them to private and public audiences in the future. By the 1840s, published diaries had created a popular consciousness, and self-consciousness, about the diary form.

In 1856, at age fourteen, Louisa Knightley (1842–1913), later a conservative feminist philanthropist, began to keep journals “written with a view to publication” and modeled on works such as Fanny Burney’s diaries, published in 1842. When the working-class Edwin Waugh began to keep a diary in 1847, his first step was to paste into it newspaper clippings about how to keep a journal. One young girl included diary extracts in letters to her cousin in the 1840s. Princess Victoria was instructed in how to keep a daily journal by her beloved governess, Lehzen, and until Victoria became Queen, her mother inspected her diaries daily.

Diarists often wrote for prospective readers and selves, addressing journal entries to their children, writing annual summaries that assessed the previous year’s entries, or rereading and annotating a life’s worth of diaries in old age. Journals were a tool for monitoring spiritual progress on a daily basis and over the course of a lifetime. Diarists periodically reread their journals so that by comparing past acts with present outcomes they could improve themselves in the future. A Beloved Mother: Life of Hannah S. Allen. By Her Daughter (1884) excerpted a journal Allen (1813–1880) started in 1836 and then reread in 1876, when she dedicated it to her daughters: “To my dear girls, that they may see the way in which the Lord has led me.”

Far from being a repository of the most secret self, the diary was seen as a didactic legacy, one of the links in a family history’s chain. Victorian women’s diaries combined impersonality with lack of incident. Although Marian Bradley (1831–1910) wrote, “My diary is entirely a record of my inner life—the outer life is not varied. Quiet and pleasant but nothing worth recording occurs,” she in fact devoted hundreds of pages to recording an outer life that she accurately characterized as regular and predictable. Indeed, the stability and relentless routine that diaries labored to convey goes far to explain why Victorians were so eager to read the poetry that lyrically expressed spontaneous emotion and the novels that injected eventfulness and suspense into everyday life.

Diaries and novels had common origins in spiritual autobiography, and diaries played a dramatic role in Victorian fiction, but although diaries shared quotidian subjects and diurnal rhythms with novels, they were rarely novelistic. Most diarists produced chronicles that testified to a woman’s success in developing the discipline necessary to ensure that each day was much like the rest, and even travel diaries were filled not with impressions but descriptions similar to those found in guidebooks. When something unusually tumultuous took place, it often interrupted a woman’s daily writing and went unrecorded.”

- Sharon Marcus, “Friendship and the Play of the System.” in Between Women: Friendship, Desire, and Marriage in Victorian England

#victorian #history #sexuality #sharon marcus #between women

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bluenet13 · 3 years

Photo

Heroes Tonight

Written for @badthingshappenbingo

Fandom: 911: Lone Star

Characters: T.K. Strand, Carlos Reyes

Prompt: Taking the Bullet

Summary: Life is but a series of split-second decisions, and when you were born a hero, any one of them can end it all in the blink of an eye. Especially when your boyfriend is about to be shot and you don't think, just leap. Or, Carlos and T.K. should have been safe. It was only their day off. But when a convenience store robbery walks in on them, they end up in even more trouble than if they had been on shift.

Links: ff.net - AO3

"This was a really good idea," T.K. says softly, before taking another bite of his cherry ice cream, "thanks for insisting we do something special."

Carlos smiles, and squeezes the fingers that are intertwined in his. "I'm all about staying in bed all day on a day off, especially if it's with you. But every once in a while I like to go out and show the world that the prettiest boy in Texas is all mine."

"You're a dork," T.K. says, a teasing smile on his face, which quickly turns into a fake pout. "But… only in Texas? And what about the other days?"

Carlos sets his mango sorbet down and captures T.K's mouth in his, anything else that T.K. wanted to say dying on his lips, as he parts them in an invitation and deepens the kiss. Carlos' hands now on either side of his boyfriend's face, as T.K's moves his to Carlos' back and draws him close.

When they both need some air, they break the kiss and smile at each other shily. Carlos then grabs his phone and takes a selfie of the two, doing quick work of posting it to his Instagram. "There you go, now the whole world knows... Maybe we can get Marjan to reblog it so even more people know," Carlos lets out with a breathy laugh, then snickers when T.K. playfully smacks his arm. "As for other days... on those I like to show that boy how happy I'm that he chose me." Carlos again continues right from where T.K. left off, his smile only faltering for a second as he remembers a time when a failed past relationship made T.K. choose fear over him.

"I love you," T.K. breathes out, "and if you let me, I'll gladly spend the rest of my life showing you how I choose you over and over again."

"Rest of our lives," Carlos echoes wishfully, "I like the sound of that."

Carlos and T.K. share another kiss, before T.K. interrupts the moment with a chuckle. "I think the rest of our lives is going to be cut frustratingly short if we don't get out of here and to the Ryder household soon."

Seeing the time, Carlos blanches. Quickly finishing the last of his ice cream cone in one swallow, then grabbing T.K's hand and pulling them both towards the parking lot.

Carlos and T.K. had already agreed to meet the team for another 126 hangs before Carlos convinced T.K. to take advantage of the first day of summer landing on their day off to go on an adventure. So they had spent their Saturday on Zilker Park, then playing a round at Peter Pan Mini-Golf, which Carlos had insisted was a real Austin attraction and mini-golf tradition that T.K. needed to experience. Then stopping at The Range after much insistence from T.K. for Carlos to teach him how to shoot. Argument which had been going on for weeks and which Carlos had instantly metaphorically shot down as soon as T.K. tried to argue that it wasn't just for fun, since they never knew when he would be taken hostage again, and learning how to shoot could help him defend himself. At that, Carlos had mumbled that making the switch to paramedic was supposed to be safer, then told T.K. there was no way he would let him handle a gun, as he already was a trouble magnet without adding firearms into the mix. But T.K. was nothing if not stubborn, so today he had sweetly offered to drive when they left the park, and next thing Carlos knew, they were already parked in front of The Range, T.K. smiling up hopefully at him. Never able to deny his man anything, Carlos had begrudgingly agreed. And so they had spent their next two hours in the shooting range, before ending their magical day at the ice cream parlor.

That's how now Carlos and T.K. were very late. Which wouldn't be a problem if not because they were already in hot water after being no-shows at the last three team gatherings. This time, Marjan had said in no uncertain terms that they were both expected to be there or they would be forced to take a time-out every third shift. Well, that idea had come from Mateo, always the sentimental wanting to keep the band together and preserve the status quo, but Marjan and Paul had easily agreed, much to both Carlos and T.K's displeasure. Judd hadn't particularly cared either way, saying his only job was getting the house ready for the team.

-x-x-x-

"I'll be back in a sec," Carlos says, as T.K. parks the car in front of a convenience store a few blocks from Judd and Grace's house.

"I can go with you," T.K. offers, already turning the key and opening his door.

"Sure?" Carlos inquires softly, "I don't mind if you'd better just wait here."

T.K. shakes his head, shooting Carlos a confident smirk. "I'll just get some snacks while you check the fridge."

Nodding, Carlos gives T.K's hand a quick squeeze before following him out of the car. As much as Carlos always wants to protect T.K, he makes a point to remember that living normally while in proximity to alcohol is a natural part of his boyfriend's recovery.

Intertwining their fingers together, Carlos and T.K. then walk into the store, completely oblivious to the two men arguing next to their car, three spots away from theirs.

Parting in different directions, Carlos goes to pick some beer, while T.K. tries to decide which potato chips brand is better, then meeting back in the center aisle and walking together towards the front. "Wait, I forget Mateo wanted some Takis," T.K. says, cringing, then runs back to the snacks aisle.

As soon as he meets Carlos again in the center aisle, T.K. sees the six-packs discarded to the side, and turning to his boyfriend, he easily recognizes the no-nonsense posture and fiery eyes that Carlos keeps reserved for when he's on shift. But before he has a chance to ask what happened, Carlos moves his finger to his lips in the universal sign for please stay quiet and don't get us into any trouble, and grabs his hand, forcing them both to kneel, as he begins to take quiet steps back.

That's when the voices coming from the front start to filter into T.K's mind, eyes going wide as he realizes what's going on. "...quietly open the register and no one will get hurt. Speak or call for help and you won't live to say another word." A man is threatening in a hushed voice. Then there's silence, and Carlos and T.K. can only assume that whoever is tending the register is complying with the robber's demands.

When Carlos feels that they have backed away enough, he drops T.K's hand after giving it a final squeeze and reaches for the phone in his back pocket.

"We have to do something," T.K. whispers, a broom in one hand, and shovel in the other, his face scrunching as he silently tests which would make a better weapon. Because, of course, and much to Carlos' dismay, he had walked them to a mix aisle containing household, yard and other miscellaneous items.

"We're not doing anything," Carlos warns, "and drop those things!" He exhales long and slow, his hand clawing through his hair as he tries to take control of the situation. "I already messaged my boss, someone should be here any moment now."

"It will be too late, we can't let them get away," T.K. argues, "come on, you're a cop, you can't tell me you're okay with this."

Releasing a pained exhale, Carlos closes his eyes for a second. "Of course I'm not okay with this! But I'm a cop because I know what to do in these situations," he chides, "and I'm not okay with my hothead boyfriend getting hurt either. So, you're staying right where you are," he finished in a low, threatening tone.

T.K. nods and stays put, even if the fighter inside is shouting at him to do anything but that. But with Carlos here, he can't do something stupid and risk his boyfriend's life.

Those thoughts however come to mean nothing as soon as the bell above the door rattles loudly and a mother and her daughter come in, both stumbling and crying out loud as soon as a gun is pointed in their direction.

"Oh, crap," Carlos mutters, turning quickly to T.K. with a pleading look on his eyes. "Please," Carlos tries but T.K. is already crawling forward to get a better look. "T.K!" Carlos hisses but he's too late, and is forced to follow instead.

"You two, come here," the robber directs, grabbing the lady by the arm, pulling her along with the girl, who's holding on to her mother's skirt. "Just stay here, and don't try to interfere," he says, pushing them both down towards the floor, behind a hot bar full of hot dogs, taquitos and pizza slices.

With that done, the man moves back to the register and continues pulling out bills and dropping them onto a bag his partner is holding open. "Come on, man. That's more than enough. Let's go before someone else decides to crash this party." The second robber pleads, speaking for the first time. His eyes looking nervous as he moves them from the register to the front door and back again.

And as if summoned, the bell rings again, and a couple of teenagers step into the store. "Mierda!" One swears loudly as his eyes move between the two men, the cash register, and the terrified store clerk whose back is as far as it would go into the wall, his hands raised and slightly shaking.

"Marcos, vamonos," the older teenager says as he grabs his companion's hand and tries to walk back outside.

"You're not going anywhere," the first robber declares, his gun already being pointed towards the two boys, "we don't need no one calling the cops."

"We won't, we won't. Please, just let us go. My brother and I won't say anything. I promise," the teenager begs in a heavily accented voice. Then out of nowhere, he opens the door and pushes his younger brother out of the store. At the same time a shot rings out and the boy collapses in a pool of crimson.

Back in the rear of the store, the shot seems to set something loose in T.K's mind, because not two seconds later, he's turning to Carlos with an apology in his eyes. I'm sorry, T.K. mouths, then gives Carlos' hand a final squeeze, before he drops it and begins crawling towards the front of the store.

-x-x-x-

Getting to his feet, T.K. raises his hands just as the two robbers notice him for the first time. A lump making its way up his throat as he stares down the barrel of a gun. "I'm a paramedic, I can help. Let me..." he begins to say, but his words are cut short as the gun is pressed directly to his temple.

"And where did you come from," the man asks, "is there anyone else here?"

"No, I was alone, hiding in the back," T.K. explains, releasing a relieved breath as both he and the man with the gun scan the area where he came from but come out empty. "Please, let me help him. He's going to bleed out," T.K. tries again, pointing with his chin towards the teenager.

"Go! But I don't want any more surprises or I'll shoot you both," the man angrily concedes.

"I need a first aid kit," T.K. says. "Please," he adds as an afterthought, because he's open to being polite to the man threatening him with a gun, if it can potentially stop him from getting shot, again.

After getting a nod from the man, the store clerk lowers his hands for the first time, reaching down towards the counter and grabbing a small red bag that he throws to T.K, before raising his hands again just as quickly.

Catching the bag, T.K. wastes no time. Just barely acknowledging the robbers with a clipped thank you, before rushing to the boy and kneeling next to him. By now the boy is unconscious, his wound bleeding freely. Not ideal, but T.K. honestly thinks it's a small mercy as he roughly pushes gauze into the opening. After the wound is packed, T.K. curses to himself when he sees there's no chest seal or sterile medical plastic on the kit. Reaching for his wallet, he instead grabs his credit card, and carefully places it over the hole, then uses some medical tape to hold it in place, doing his best to form an airtight seal on the wound to keep air from being sucked into the wound and preventing the lung from collapsing, while also making sure to leave a small opening to let out air.

With that done, T.K. turns back to the robbers, wondering why the hell they're still here and where the damn cops are, when the boy starts to stir, mumbling in pain. Wishing he could switch places with Carlos, T.K. tries his best to keep him calm, whispering whatever comforting word he can think of in Spanish and promising that his brother is safe. Absentmindedly, T.K. also wonders where Carlos is cause he hasn't heard a single sound coming from the back.

Turning to the rear of the store, T.K. tries to find any sign of his boyfriend, but instead he notices the reflection of blue and red lights bouncing off a potato chips display. Keeping any expression from his eyes and his breathing even and calm, T.K. turns to the door, trying to understand what's happening outside.

Seeing cops beginning to get close, weapons and shields at the ready, T.K. carefully starts to pull the boy towards the first aisle and away from the front of the door so he doesn't get trampled down.

"What are you doing?" One of the men asks, as he and his partner begin to walk towards the door, eyes going wide as they see what T.K. just saw. "Did you call the cops? Or maybe it was that damn brother of yours," he all but shouts, gun going up as his finger tightens on the trigger.

Not knowing what else to do, T.K. raises to his feet and stands protectively in front of the boy, his lips parting as he tries to form words, but before he settles on anything in particular, a voice booms from outside, no doubt amplified by a megaphone.

As a man, who T.K. assumes is commander of S.W.A.T, or whoever came to negotiate their release, asks the men to turn themselves in before anyone gets hurt, the one who's clearly the leader swears loudly, as he begins to take steps back. Then when he feels far away enough from danger, he begins to pace, his gun moving widely along with his thoughts and words.

A telephone ringing is the only thing that stops the pacing, as the man angrily grabs it and starts shouting demands. Not smart, T.K. knows but what can he expect from two guys that took like 20 minutes to rob a convenience store. Not able to hear the other end of the call, T.K. just sighs as the robber asks for a car with a full tank, and for the cops to leave so they can drive away, threatening to shoot everyone if his demands are not met, before he throws the phone into a wall, the device breaking on impact.

Knowing there's no way out now, the firefighter turned paramedic tries to add his two cents in an attempt to get everyone safely out of this situation. "Come on, man. Think this through. The cops are already here, they won't just let you go. Turn yourselves in and I can say this was just a big misunderstanding." T.K. has no idea how he would do that, but he can only hope the men are dumb enough to believe his empty promise.

"But we shot someone," the second man whispers, voice shaking. "There's nothing you can say that would justify that."

What a surprise, the one not in charge is actually the smart one, T.K. thinks and chuckles inwardly. "That's okay. He just came in too quickly and scared you guys. We can explain that to the cops," T.K. tries his best to sound convincing.

Seeing the leader drop the gun to his side, T.K. has a second to think that his words must be sinking in and they will turn themselves in. But there's a reason why he's a firefighter and paramedic, and not a cop. Because next he knows he hears someone shout his name, just as the gun is lifted again and a single shot resonates all around him. Everything happening before he even saw it coming.

T.K. waits for the remembered pain, but it never comes. Instead his mind barely recognizes the voice of his boyfriend as the one who screamed his name, just as the man in question lands on the floor in front of him. Blood already beginning to pool under him.

As soon as T.K's mind comprehends that Carlos just jumped in front of a bullet for him, he tries to run to his side, but the robber is now standing in front of him and as soon as T.K. moves he swings the gun hard against his temple. Stunned, T.K. stumbles backward as tears cloud his vision, and he can only wonder if they're because of the hit or due to the fact his boyfriend just got shot.

Feeling like he has nothing left to lose now, and throwing what's left of his self-preservation out the window, T.K. launches himself forward, tackling the man. Both paramedic and bad guy land hard on the floor and instantly begin to struggle against each other as they fight for control of the one weapon. The robber manages to land the first hit, punching T.K. on the face, but he just shakes his head and swings, connecting with the man's nose and feeling it break on impact. Taking advantage of his bit of good fortune stunning his assailant, T.K. takes hold of the gun and raises to hit feet, backing away from the offender on the ground.

Trying to remember everything Carlos taught him earlier today, T.K. sets his feet down and squares his shoulders as he points the gun at the man who just shot his boyfriend. But before he can cock the gun or even really think about pressing the trigger, T.K. instead disassembles the weapon and throws it to the ground. Not only because his oath says that he's supposed to save people, not be judge and executioner, but because T.K. knows Carlos would never want him to hurt someone on his behalf.

Fight over with and save for the time being, T.K. stands paralyzed as he stares down at Carlos, bleeding out on a dirty store floor in front of him, after being shot with a bullet meant for him.

-x-x-x-

As T.K. took care of the injured teenager, Carlos had stayed hidden in the back. Grateful that his boyfriend was just working quietly and not doing anything special to put himself in even greater danger.

Keeping an eye out on T.K. and the robbers, Carlos had text his boss as the men continued to wipe the cash register clean, moving then to the mother's purse. He had done his best to keep calm as he shared with his boss the internal layout of the store, and information on the number of people inside and where everyone was located. But when the commander of S.W.A.T had started making demands, which were only followed by the leader of the pair making even more demands over the phone, Carlos realized he had seen many stories like this before. And rarely, did any of them end peacefully.

Knowing the men wouldn't voluntarily give themselves up, and not wanting his worst fears to come true, Carlos had begun to crawl forward. Luckily T.K. had been focused on the man with the gun and the injured boy, and the man with the gun on T.K. and the cops, so no one had noticed Carlos getting closer.

When T.K. had started trying to plead with the men to turn themselves in, Carlos had the sudden urge to kill his boyfriend himself. But then T.K. seemed to be gaining ground so he allowed himself a brief smile. Before his cop training kicked in and Carlos recognized the man was not accepting defeat, but preparing to go out in a blaze of glory.

And suddenly Carlos knows what is about to happen. And what he has to do.

"T.K!" Carlos shouts, at the same time as he closes his eyes and leaps.

The pain is instantaneous as Carlos collapses to the floor. Darkness already nudging at the edges of his vision.

With all his energy being used on just being able to take one breath after the other, Carlos barely notices the robber walking towards T.K. before the man is raising his gun and Carlos stops breathing altogether when he thinks he's about to shoot at T.K. again and this time he can't do anything to protect him. But the man just pistol whips T.K, forcing Carlos to release a nervous exhale. Because another hit to the head is not ideal, but definitely better than the alternative.

But then Carlos gets another urge to shoot T.K. himself, because his boyfriend launches himself against the robber and they begin to struggle on the ground. And before Carlos can even try to get up and help, T.K. is standing and pointing the gun at the man, making Carlos curse silently because why did he teach him how to shoot. But T.K. being T.K. never disappoints him, and does what Carlos himself would have done, then seems to lose the remaining of his energy and just stumbles and stares at Carlos with teary, guilt-ridden eyes.

Just then the doors to the store burst open and the scene around them turns to full-blown chaos as cops and paramedics rush inside. Doing his best to ignore everything going around him, Carlos focuses solely on T.K, because he can feel a lot of blood pooling below him and if he's about to die he wants his boyfriend to be the last sight he sees. So, doing his best to clear his eyes, Carlos shakes his head and looks up, smiling at T.K. who just dropped to his knees beside him.

Carlos parts his lips to try to say something to his boyfriend, but he's not listening. "No, no, no," T.K is saying over and over again, his already blood stained hands going to Carlos' chest as he tries to stop the flow of the blood which has already soaked his shirt.

Talking off his flannel, T.K. pushes it into the wound on Carlo's chest. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I know it hurts, but I need to stop the bleeding," T.K. soothes when Carlos grunts and tries to move away. "Damn it! Why is this blood not stopping?" Discarding the saturated shirt to the side, T.K. uses his own hands again, blood seeping through his fingers.

"T.K, it's okay," Carlos tries to say, but stops as he coughs and chokes on a mouthful of blood. "Please stop and look at me," Carlos whispers as T.K. continues trying to stop the bleeding, so he weakly raises a hand and catches T.K's, intertwining their fingers together. "Whatever happens, everything... everything will be okay," Carlos promises, even as more blood trickles down his mouth, "you'll be okay. I love you, T.K."

"No, no, no!" T.K. continues his chant, tears sliding down his face as he desperately shakes his head. "Please, Carlos…"

"I'm sorry," Carlos says with a pained gasp, weakly reaching out with one hand and running it through T.K's hair, stopping on the bruise already beginning on his temple and stroking softly. By now he can hear muffled voices around him but can't make out any words and he knows that he's fading. Then he sees T.K's lips moving and desperately tries to read the meaning behind his words, but his eyes are closing and he's just so tired. When his lids finally close, Carlos can see unshed tears pressing against them, but instead he chooses to focus on the last image he saw. That of two cops grabbing T.K. by the arms and pulling him from Carlos, his boyfriend's teary eyes pleading, as T.K. begged him to hang on and open his eyes.

-x-x-x-

The door opening behind him and a multitude of emergency personnel rushing inside, springs T.K. back into action.

Forgetting all about the boy whose life he just saved, and ignoring the cops and paramedics around him, T.K's only focus is the man bleeding in front of him. He drops to his knees, doing his best to ignore Carlos' attempts to talk, because it sounds suspiciously like his boyfriend wants to say goodbye and he's not ready for that, instead he concentrates on using his shirt, then his hands, as he tries to stop the bleeding. As Carlos grunts, T.K. does his best to push his guilt down, hating that he's hurting him but willing to do whatever is necessary to save his life.

As Carlos continues trying to call his attention, T.K. can only continue his chant and work because if he stops to listen he knows he will break down, and that is not going to help Carlos. But then his boyfriend grabs his hand and squeezes weakly, and T.K. crumbles. Because Carlos' tear-streaked face is looking directly at him, and there's blood on his lips, and he is obviously dying.

But Carlos can't die so T.K. shakes his head and continues to chant, "no, no, no!" His words, a plea for anyone willing to listen. Then he pleads to the man himself but T.K. can see Carlos' eyes are beginning to close and then he's apologizing. Carlos' hand softly caressing his boyfriend's hair, because even when he is bleeding out, Carlos is still more worried about T.K.

As Carlos goes silent, T.K realizes someone else is talking to him, and there are also people kneeling to his side, and someone is grabbing his arm from behind, but he does his best to ignore it all. "I love you, too," he whispers instead, because he didn't say it back and if this is Carlos' last moment, then T.K. needs to make sure he knows. But he doesn't think Carlos understands because he scrunches his face in confusion before his eyes finally slip shut. "Carlos, please, you can't do this to me, to us… please fight… Please, open your eyes." T.K chokes on his own sobs, and then he's being pulled away from Carlos, two sets of hands grabbing him from behind.

"Son, please. Let the paramedics work. And they need to check you out too," a cop, who is not Carlos, but might be his boss, T.K. can't really remember, is saying to him. "That's a lot of blood."

With that comment, T.K. looks down at himself, his stomach threatening to revolt at the sight, but he pushes it down and shakes his head. "It's not mine," he mumbles, pushing away from everyone. He stumbles backwards, almost collapsing, but steadies himself on the same potato chips' display that first alerted him to the cops' presence. If only he hadn't seen them and tried to play hero.

Feeling his anger and guilt begin to overpower him, T.K. uses the last of his strength and swings his arm hard against the display. The sudden movement makes him feel lightheaded, and for the first time, T.K. notices the nausea and headache. Blinking his eyes a few times, he lifts his hand and touches his temple and winces, then frowns when he sees his fingers covered in wet blood. But he focuses on the dried crimson staining his fingers, and suddenly T.K. is stumbling to the back of the store where he remembers seeing a bathroom and standing in front of a run-down sink as he roughly rubs his hands, trying to get the blood, Carlos' blood, out of his skin.

After his hands are as clean as they will be with just water, T.K. stares at himself in the mirror, absentmindedly wondering if the cop had been talking about the blood on his clothes, which is undoubtedly the boy's and Carlos', or about the one that he now sees flowing down the side of his face. Not particularly caring about the answer, T.K. feels the need to strip off his clothes because he just can't keep seeing all this blood that should be inside Carlos' body. But shaking his head, he just sighs and exits the bathroom instead.

As soon as he's back in the front of the store, T.K's stomach drops as he notices the amount of blood on the ground, then the absence of one of the men whose it belonged to, but before he can ask, he sees the stretcher being pushed into a waiting ambulance. T.K. tries to run outside to follow, but with his adrenaline fading, and all his discomforts finally making themselves known, he just swings wildly as his vision dims and he feels arms pulling him down into a stretcher.

"No," T.K whispers, struggling to get up. "I'm going with him. You can treat me in the ambulance... or I can wait until we get to the hospital. Just save Carlos, please," he begs, voice breaking at the end.

The paramedics prepare to argue, but a voice T.K. only heard once but still would recognize anywhere, speaks next to them. "Let him go." Steadying himself on the stretcher, T.K. turns to find Gabriel Reyes staring back at him. "Let him ride with his boyfriend."

"Thank you, sir," T.K. says, then wastes no time and climbs into the ambulance, sitting on a bench next to the stretcher and instantly taking one of Carlos' hands in his.

"Just take good care of my son. I will be by the hospital as soon as we're done here." And by done here, T.K. knows Mr. Reyes means making sure everyone remotely at fault for what happened to his son is sitting in a cell, without any possibility of parole. So he just nods, before the double doors of the ambulance are closed, cutting any further conversation short.

And whatever happens next at the convenience store is lost to both T.K. and Carlos as their magical day ends with another trip to Dell Seton Medical Center.

-x-x-x-

Opening his eyes, Carlos' first conscious thought is asking himself why everything hurts. He then tries to move his hand to rub his tired eyes, but finds an IV there and decides to leave it alone. Trying to move his other hand, Carlos sees no IV or tubing, but his hand still feels glued to the bed, so he turns his eyes downward and sees another hand attached to his, their fingers intertwined together. Following it to its owner, Carlos sees T.K. slumped on a very uncomfortable-looking chair next to him. The sight steals his breath away for a moment, as all the memories of the last day come crashing down on him.

So, Carlos' second conscious thought is wondering how he can still be alive when there was so much blood. Maybe this is all a cruel dream and I'm still in surgery, Carlos thinks, but as soon as his eyes land on his boyfriend again, seeing him unharmed except for a white bandage on his head and brace on his other hand, Carlos pleads with whoever is listening for this to be real. Because if T.K. is okay, nothing else matters.

There's no third conscious thought, as the pull of whatever drugs they're giving him is too strong and Carlos drifts back to sleep. But not before he squeezes T.K's hand, and softly promises that he will see him soon.

-x-x-x-

One of the next times Carlos wakes up, he quickly notices there's no hand in his, instead T.K. is lying on the bed next to him, one of his hands under his head holding it up, the other one carefully set on top of Carlos' chest, as his eyes focus on the rise and fall that tells him Carlos is still alive.

Wanting a moment to take it all in, Carlos says nothing and just stares at his boyfriend, thanking their lucky stars because they're both okay. A few seconds later, still saying nothing, Carlos just moves his free hand and sets it over T.K's, intertwining their fingers from above.

Turning away from their joined hands, T.K lets out a small squeak, tho later he would argue it was only a gasp, then looks up and smiles at Carlos. "Hey babe, glad to see you awake," he says softly, "you really scared me today."

Carlos begins to say something, but his dry throat makes it hard to talk and he ends up coughing instead.

"Here, don't talk yet." T.K. quickly turns to a table next to the bed and grabs a cup of water, setting the straw in front of Carlos so he can drink easily. "Go slow."

Carlos drinks a few, tiny sips, letting the cold water soothe his throat and waits a moment before he tries to speak again. "Thank you."

"Anytime," T.K. whispers, then turns back to the bed and gets closer so he can kiss Carlos' forehead. His lips lingering above as his eyes look down on him with as much guilt and pain as Carlos as ever seen there.

"I'm sorry I scared you, but you also scared me a lot," Carlos admits, barely stifling a grunt as he slowly lifts his head to press a kiss to T.K's lips. "And I'm also glad you're okay."

"You shouldn't have done that," T.K. mumbles, lowering himself back onto the bed as he continues to stare at his boyfriend, as if trying to convince himself that he really is okay. "When you said I wasn't allowed to get shot again, that didn't mean you could just jump in front of a bullet meant for me." With that admission, his eyes glaze over and he squeezes them shut to stop any tears from falling.

"I'm sorry, T.K, but I couldn't just do nothing and see you get shot right in front of me," Carlos says honestly, even when he knows his action forced T.K. to do just that but still not regretting his decision. "Besides, at the moment, I didn't think, I just did."

"That's not how this works..." T.K. begins, but Carlos cuts him short.

"This works however way it ends with both of us alive at the end of the day," Carlos finishes for him.

T.K. opens his mouth to say Carlos didn't know that would happen when he took that bullet for him, that he could have died, but honestly, he doesn't think it matters. Because T.K. would have done the same thing for Carlos, and they both know it. So why delve on it now.

"Thank you," T.K. says instead, "and sorry for also worrying you. I just couldn't let the boy die."

"You saved his life… both our lives," Carlos says proudly, "a doctor came before, the boy is okay. His brother also. He stayed outside and helped explain things to the cops when they got there," he answers the unspoken question on T.K's eyes.

T.K just nods, the events of the day still too fresh for him to say much. So Carlos and T.K. just fall into silence for the next few minutes, eyes locked on each other but no words being exchanged.

Raising his hand, Carlos runs it through T.K's hair, stopping when he reaches the white bandage. "You okay?" He asks softly, breaking the silence in the room.

"You just spent four hours in surgery to fix a hole in your chest and you're asking if I'm okay?" T.K. wonders incredulously.

"I will always worry about you," Carlos says sincerely, "and… I'm very high on painkillers, I can see you're not."

Rubbing his bloodshot eyes, T.K's sighs, for once wishing Carlos didn't know him so well. "I'm okay, or I will be. They offered some OTC painkillers but you know I'd rather not."

"Okay," Carlos says simply. He wishes he could do something to alleviate T.K's pain but he knows he can't. This battle is something T.K. always undertakes alone, but as every other time, he will just be here to hold his hand while he toughs it out. "Come here," he says, pulling T.K to him and running his fingers soothingly over his scalp.

Sighing, T.K carefully rests his head over Carlos' shoulder, mindful of all the wires and tubes around him. "Next time we're not going out, and just staying in bed all day, just like this," he says with a breathy laugh, his eyes beginning to slide shut as feelings of content and relief overtake him.

"And next time you guys don't want to hang out with the team you can just say so, no need to be all dramatic and get yourselves shot and concussed again," a voice says from the door and both Carlos and T.K. groan when they see Marjan, Paul, Mateo and Judd standing by the door, no doubt with Owen and Gabriel closed behind… Both cop and paramedic wondering if it's too late to close their eyes and just fake sleep.

#911 lone star #911 lone star fanfiction #bad things happen bingo #tarlos #tk strand #carlos reyes

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petekaos · 3 years

Note

Hi Rahul! So I finally listened to Enjoy Enjaami and I can't believe I listened to it so late!! I'm obsessed with that song. What's your favourite parts about it??? Also as a tamil speaking person can you talk about the wordplays and stuff that a non speaker would not be able to catch?? also in LOVE with Dhee and Arivu. also omg the kuthu version. -vinnaithandi varuvaya and soorarai pottru anon

hellooo friend!!! ENJOY ENJAAMI SONG OF THE YEAR!! it’s been on repeat in my household ever since it came out and we all adore it to pieces to the point where i’m pretty sure my family could cover it lmao! idk if you know/watch cooku with comali but arivu (and dhee) went on there and did it live with absolutely no hesitation or mistakes and it sounded FLAWLESS! also arivu did a cooku with comali version of his rap which was so quintessentially arivu. the fact that it reached like... what is it at now, more than 140 million views? DESERVED! i’m sooo glad that songs like these and especially arivu and therefore also the casteless collective are gaining recognition.

oh my favourite parts? where to even START... i love absolutely everything about it. the wordplay dripping from the lyrics, the symbolism in the music video, the oppari... all of it honestly. i’ve loved arivu since his therukural album and i’ve been following the casteless collective since their birth so to see them gain so much recognition? it’s so wonderful!

anyway onto the symbolism and wordplay! i think my favourite wordplay in this song has got to be the title itself. enjoy enjaami - the first thing you think when seeing this title is that some elder is dedicating this song to their grandchildren, their descendants. enjoy from english as in ‘to celebrate’ in this case, and enjaami as a term of endearment meaning ‘my lord.’ but again, as arivu talks about in this interview, ‘enjoy’ is also a pronunciation of the tamil ‘yen thai’ or my mother, and enjaami is once again what the slaves used to call their feudal lords when asking for more pay here, holiday there. so the layered meaning of the title itself already sets up the song for what it is - landless dalit people or people of lower caste taking back the land that they were denied by the oppressors but was theirs and celebrating it and their families.

goddd, and the opparipattu that arivu does! oppari is a lament that is sung by women in tamilnadu and in parts of sri lanka that takes place at funerals and expresses one’s grief, normally sung by women. the lyrics of that specific oppari are absolutely my favourite. நான் அஞ்சு மரம் வளர்த்தேன் / அழகான தோட்டம் வெச்சேன் / தோட்டம் சேழிச்சாலும் / என் தொண்டை நனையலேயே (i planted five trees / nurtured a beautiful garden / the garden is flourishing / but my throat remains dry) is such an interesting thirst metaphor for the lands that they worked on but that they were still denied, which is a theme that runs through the whole song and is directly connected to arivu’s family history as tamil people who were taken as bonded labourers to work in sri lanka and who returned to india around sixty years ago after the sirima-shrasti pact only to find their land taken from them. and how this is all of our land, including animals like dogs, cats, and foxes, given to us by the indigenous people (நல்லபடி வாழச்சொல்லி / இந்த மண்ணை கொடுத்தானே பூர்வகுடி or ‘telling us to lead a good life / the indigenous people gave us this soil/this land).

also, the hands! i am obsessed with the hand that grips the soil throughout the mv. how it reclaims what is rightfully theirs, what they and their ancestors have been denied. and the dancers! their alapadma (blooming lotus hands)! taking back classical dances sometimes rooted in sanskritisation! let’s not even forget the parai drum that has been associated with the dalit community for centuries and used in gaana (tamil folk music) being used in both the mv and also the song... it’s all brilliant, i could go on about the mv for AGES.

i love this song and i think my only qualm about it would be the fact that i believe dhee is an iyer (since her mother is meenakshi iyer)? which... it would have been better for a dalit singer to be a part of this because the song is about the dalit struggle... oh well i guess. anyway if you’ve read this far go and listen to the song because it is GOOD and i’m very surprised it gained this much attention! i do wish that internationally it would be less stripped of its very political message though. like it is not just about environmentalism packaged neatly for the general public, but rather about the actual relationship that indigenous people and landless and bonded labourers have with their environment and the land that was taken from them.

#arivu is a king tho i adore him !#sorry for rambling nonnie also would you like a tag? let me know!#arivu #rahul answers

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victoriareyloficlists · 4 years

Text

19 January 2021 Additions to Reylo Friends-to-Lovers

These fics have been added to the Friends-to-Lovers list located here.

If I Was A Raindrop (Would You Be My Thunderstorm) by itsnotillegal (AO3 2020 Rated T Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey has the hots for her coworker/friend Ben and decides to finally do something about it and send him a valentines card. While at the shop choosing a card, she bumps into Ben and is too embarrassed to confess the card is for him and lies about the intended recipient. Ben is in love with Rey and gutted the card is not for him!) Five Days by AttackoftheDarkCurses (AO3 2019 Rated T Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: When Rey spends winter break at her friend's apartment, it only takes five days for everything to change.) keep calm and let HR handle it by hi_raeth (AO3 2019 Rated T Complete, 6 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey managed to go a full year without ever directly interacting with her new CEO, but now it seems like he’s dropping by her office every single week.) Road Rage by AverageEpaulet (AO3 2020 Rated M Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey offers to give her super shy new college classmate Ben a ride home. She seems like such a sweet, wholesome girl, Ben accepts eagerly. A violent redhead cuts her off suddenly in traffic; Wild Rey appears. Ben is shocked at the violence of his arousal.) Trip to the cinema: How bad can it be? by StaticTeeth (AO3 2016 Rated T Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: A college AU with Rey, Ben, Poe and Finn. Poe and Finn being Ben and Rey's besties and they set Ben and Rey up together.) Blindsided by KyloTrashForever (AO3 2019 Rated E Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: In which Ben’s anonymous sex isn’t that anonymous after all.) coarse and rough and irritating by frak-all (or_ryn) (AO3 2019 Rated E Complete, 3 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: The first time Ben sees Rey in a bikini, his oafish left hand just sort of spasms around a brand new tube of Neutrogena SPF 100+ face sunscreen, squeezing hard enough that nearly half of its thick white contents erupts—coating his palm, the mirror, and the floor—in one great big mortifying spurt. It’s a metaphor from the universe even he can’t ignore.) Open Your Eyes by bellestar (AO3 2020 Rated E Complete, 7 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Ben and Rey are friends who have feelings for each other but they don’t want to ruin their friendship so they always set each other up on dates, but what happens when one of them gets into a serious relationship?) Bullet Pound by jeeno2 (AO3 2018 Rated E Complete, 4 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: On a whim, Rey watches a porno her friend recommended. To her surprise, she recognizes one of the actors.) Kindle Love by spacewitchase (AO3 2020 Rated T Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey is secretly smitten with Ben. It’s a big blow when she hears that he just got ‘Tinder’ and is really enjoying it. Only he doesn’t have Tinder; what he’s really enjoying is reading books on his new Kindle (and he has a secret crush on Rey).) Let me Dream, Let me Stay by Melusine11 (AO3 2018 Rated E Complete, 12 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey has kept up a charade of a non-existant boyfriend for two years and now that Rose and Finn are getting married, she needs someone to pretend to be said boyfriend, enter her coworker Ben.) Off the cuff by Blueyedgurl (AO3 2020 Rated E Complete, 4 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Poe gets Ben a stripper for closing a business deal. Ben reluctantly takes part to not waste Poe's money. The stripper hand cuffs him and robs him of clothes and money. Rey heads back to the office late night and finds her hot boss cuffed to the office chair in nothing but his tie.) Fight, Flight, or F____ by Blueyedgurl (AO3 2020 Rated E Complete, 2 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey gets a dildo advent calendar for office secret santa. Ben is absolutely panicking, his chance with the cute girl is absolutely toast. Poe would be mad that Ben took the wrong wrapped gift from the counter this morning but he can always buy Finn a new one and this is hilarious.) The Sweater Curse in Reverse by Blueyedgurl (AO3 2020 Rated T Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey and Ben are roommates. He stresses a bit when Rey starts acting strange, she gives him intense looks while she's crocheting at night and gives him lingering hugs when she comes home to dinner made. Ben fears the worst but soon finds out his roommate is up to something.) Teenage Dream by ReyloRobyn2011 (AO3 2020 Rated M Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: They met on the playground in first grade. Ben saw the scrawny girl with three messy buns lining the back of her head from across the schoolyard. She sat by herself on the bench, watching the other kids play. He’d never seen her before; she was the new girl in class. Ben didn’t have any friends and he was too shy to talk to anyone— but there was something about this girl. He felt drawn to her.) maybe i just wanna be yours by akosmia (AO3 2019 Rated T Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Four times Ben helped Rey's friends, and one time they helped him back.) maybe the night (holds a little hope for us, dear) by notkellymarie (AO3 2020 Rated T Complete, 4 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: The inhabitants of The Loft have been invited to a college friend's wedding and Rey's ex-boyfriend will be in attendance. Wanting to avoid an interaction with him due to a messy break-up, she hopes bringing along a plus one will do the trick. Luckily, her friend Ben Solo from 4C is a trooper.) Those We Love by Everren (AO3 2020 Rated E Complete, 6 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey and Ben used to be friends, best friends, until one night and some bad news changed everything. Now, after not speaking for months, Rey is about to make the hardest day of Ben's life take a turn he could never have expected.) Be My (Fake) Wife by paynesgrey (AO3 2020 Rated E Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Ben Solo is in a bad predicament because of his father. He must produce a wife in order to impress the retiring President so he can take over his family's company. The problem is, he doesn't think he knows anyone who can help him...until Rey, his kendo student, offers to fake marry him for compensation. The only problem is... their marriage and feelings may not seem so fake as they get to know each other.) Force du Couer by Stargazer1116 (AO3 2018 Rated T Complete, 24 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Kylo Ren is the CEO of a successful corporation in NYC. In a power play, his board, led by his uncle, demand that he marry to makeover his dismal public image. Rey is an art therapist working with foster kids in Harlem. When she contacts Kylo for possible support, he proposes a business deal that can benefit them both. He has no idea how much this woman with a fierce heart will turn his world upside down. ) Get Over a Man, Get a Dog by PortPowerhouse (AO3 2020 Rated T Complete, 5 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey tells her best friend Ben she loves him. Ben was raised in a household where he was taught “I know” is an acceptable response to “I love you”. Rey gets a dog to help cope with her heartbreak because the real best way to get over a man is to get a dog.) it's always the last place you look by hi_raeth (AO3 2020 Rated T Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Ben is extremely picky when it comes to women, his friends give up setting him up with women. One day they randomly invite their friend Rey to eat dinner with all of them and to their surprise Ben scolds them for not setting them up.) coarse and rough and irritating by frak-all (or_ryn) (AO3 2019 Rated E Complete, 3 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: The first time Ben sees Rey in a bikini, his oafish left hand just sort of spasms around a brand new tube of Neutrogena SPF 100+ face sunscreen, squeezing hard enough that nearly half of its thick white contents erupts—coating his palm, the mirror, and the floor—in one great big mortifying spurt.) by chance or by natures changing course by galvanator (AO3 2020 Rated E Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey joins tinder after a long long dry spell due to her flatmate Kylo’s derision, they argue about why and in a fit of jealousy Kylo screams out ‘use me instead”.) DTF by Somewhere_overthe_Reylo (AO3 2020 Rated E Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Ben Solo has one hell of a night all because of one purple Solo Cup.) secret garden by hi_raeth (AO3 2020 Rated T Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: In a world where love physically manifests as flowers on one's skin, Rey spends a decade hiding a garden's worth of blooms from childhood friend Ben. (And maybe, just maybe, Ben's hiding a few flowers of his own too.))

#reylo #reylo fanfic

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mstow · 3 years

Text

WF4.1.

Part One: The Day the Markets stood still…

Published at M.Stow11.Wordpress.com

1. She.

‘It is like living in a rabbit hutch’ She often said emphatically and metaphorically, and He replied with

a shrug, nothing to say in reply. It was; and it would take long enough to pay for. Four rooms. Eight-floors up,

eight flights of long turning concrete rubbish chute and stairs, and fire escape, for when the elevators did not

function anyway, which was often and took days sometimes to repair. A balcony open passageway at the front,

looking over the street below, now starting to become busy with traffic. They had lived with his parents for a

time, and then after they were married, in a small rented flat in The City, before they needed to afford

somewhere to live together, and to bring-up their two small children.

Both saved, and with some financial help from a relative (deceased) they had managed to get this

place. When the housing market was ‘buoyant’, and mortgages easy to get. The Home was bought with a loan, a promissory note, deposited and co-lateraled together with their combined lives and the home itself. They were

afloat.

Both worked to pay-off the loan, which although it was supposed to re-duce each year did not seem ever to keep up with pay and prices. The loan would anyway be paid-off many times over if they were ever to pay off the debt.

If this place was ever to become their own owned nothing to pay-back; then, if they managed to keep paying-off the loan for the ‘Shelter from the Storm’ as they called Home.

That they did not actuarily now own, and may not ever, actually own, lose-lose. To sell-back at Market Price, the difference between the paid-back buying-price and selling-price, and of which they would have lost completely to The Bank…The Mortgage Company.

TheirHome-Mortgage@rent no(t)()-insurancetheir assured-pension against dire-poverty and homelessness.

No social-recourse and be homeless, to parents and over-crowding again, or with friends similarly fixed, sofa-surfing their home, such as-it-was de-faulted, re-possessed. A two-bedroom apartment, she thought of: kitchen, lounge, shower-bathroom toilet and tiny balcony onto the world below, between them and the sky above. Each day, each month, and each successive year into the unthinkable future; two-thirds of two-lifetimes at least, two-thirds every month of what they were both paid-in wages-for-work earned.

She did the household accounts, and she knew.

The Home. The Loan. Would have been paid for several times over by the time if ever it became theirs

and The Childrens’; and perhaps even their Grandchildrens’ by the time the shared-property many-floored building was un-inhabitable, de-molished land let-again, built-on freehold not-leasehold extended for-bonus payment un-earned…re-build in the new style, in a traditional place, or otherwise breaking into farmland and ocean beyond.

But that is the nature of the human animal, is it no? To do over, and be done-over to again and again she thought: want more and more, for less and less and in the quiet mind wandering moment of pillared door, a room, a table, a bed let go and a bed sheet left behind ready to be buried with perhaps as they did in the olden- times shrouded as now by thin curtains pulled-back.

Each-Day: like a two-step forward and quick-step fox trot later backwards one-step…

Home and Away worked to pay-off the loan on the house and to pay for and cook food, with bills and

extras, clothes, and nights-out occasionally.

Maybe once a month, or not at all.

Then He had been laid-off work at The Bakery.

Three-day-week and three day’s wages.

The Home mortgage was re-negotiated and they continued struggling to pay-off the loan and other

loans, credited and directly debited debt from what they both earned together.

There was never an issue of who would earn more, and be the main breadwinner, they both earned

more or less the same low wages as most the people who worked and they would do the most caring, of each other, and the children: the unpaid responsibilities shared around the home, and in the world of work.

Shopping and holidays and other friends and family out there. All indebted, or in credit day2day.

Week to week, month to next month, years, minute-by-minute.

They were equal, without even having to think about it or confront societies and others’ false

expectations of gender and families. They were equal in debt and credit, and supported each other’s frail and fragile egos with a natural equanimity respectful and loving…

Each contributing their best and differently, in-differently to make the whole, whole.

It’s not all doom and gloom She did often think, and he tried not to think on it. The homily homely

claustrophobia only had to be relieved by going out. To the cinema, to a bar or restaurant. But that was not very often de-finitely now there were children as well.

Sel-dom. did extras make their mark, clothes bought carefully a piece at a time, re-placement rather

than extravagance. The cupboards filled with groceries and emptied by the time the next weeks shopping is

needed and the next week’s earnings…already spent.

She was awake, first this morning, and she got up from the bed on which he still lay awake but not yet awake enough to leave its’ nigh-time warmth. She went through to the next room. The bedroom led across the narrow-passage to the living room, which led directly to the tiny gallery kitchen and balcony on one side and door to the front room, on the other side balcony corridor and more doors along.

Except it wasn’t the front-room, exactly; only, unlike the ‘front-room’ of her childhood playing on the

street and door directly to the rugged ragged matted smell of cooking from the stone wall white-washed country kitchen.

Upstairs two bed-rooms and on the gallery landing for the children and a closet room to flush away with a basin of water from the kitchen sink-tap and toilet-well into the slurry sump, where you could hear it ‘slurry’ all the way down, filtered to spray on fields all around; and then back downstairs to replace the water from the kitchen-tap and outside clean-well.

Pumped-up from the well, refilling the fired china clay bowl for washing and zinc-metal bucket, ready

for the next use.

Log grabbing toughened steel plasma-cutters hydraulic-ram chassis panel welded together. Expertly Put-together giant wheels axle brake.

Pumping-oil to cool the engines’ turbo diesel s-carbed grapple telescopic arms the claw car-crusher

mattress-shredder then the skid-board tracking carbon-fibre e-road automobiles solar panels settled wind farming blades and wave-machines generating heat&power and swimming in clean-air&water:

> Low-No: installation& maintenance-cost yr/yr.

Apparently, free.

At her first childhood home, bed-time children first, then the adults. Rats nested runs, beetles and

cockroaches were kept away by the domesticated cats and dogs that shared the yard and house with horses at the local stables for the carts and filed machinery; to ride, at week-end day-off, and many Holy Days.

Each week, several times into the market town for food supplies, and the children’s treats.

Their whole world a Living Market Place, of Work Trust and Play.

Now, great enclosed parked superstores and supermarkets and factory outlet warehouse. Where goods

are now transported she thought of: to&fro and by foot and horses’ hoofs carried and motor vehicle, train and massive tanker and container-ship electric like cutting through the air or the hydrogen&helium of outer-space a one-metre flight through nothingness baited

> One-click:Low-No-cost subscription no-way out…

< N/nnn…paid-up…again&again.

From the docks and airport, at the city harbour hub humming away, remote yet directing everyday life, everywhere.

Exorbitant-Political

Business-Trips

Media: Holiday Passengers, and Freight Cargo.

The affordable flight, to get-away from-it-all: a change; a charge necessary move, once in a while, and

not at-all.

Every year; but, to visit family here and there and elsewhere, or else you’d go stir-crazy.

Do a night-time flit, flip! leave the rent, the mortgage, un-paid.

Only, to otherwise keep on fighting for the bargains: cheap-est with-in budget, to get through to the

Next-day and the day-after-that.

When debts and fines could not be paid, the debt collector.

Bailiffs, The-Auctioneer: selling- off of the personal possessions; sometimes, on the Global Markets;

and then sold-out: the personal; and, T.V. public…

The laptop computer on-sleep and awakened, opened, placed on the table, booted-up and She blogged

instantaneously her-thoughts:

#We all need a roof over our heads…and to: put Food on the Table! without any other word or contextual continuity that did not remain obvious to this early morning.

Everyone, and anyone in the same and similar circumstances getting the same hastily tapped-out

messages excluding, those without tablet, home or food; and those with patently far too-much.

Those who had an Administration to do that for them and her-thought continued in the context of the

mindful moment and that which we all have to pay extortionately for over and again even when the food is eaten and the crap washed away there remains a nasty stain, a nasty taste.

Original wages sweated over day upon day, and loans ever in negative equity to who?

Them!

Income-Tax&Corporation-Tax paid/un-paid through government-deal(s):

Extortionate debt-interest credit-profit and volatile prices, losses on last-accounts records ever higher BINGO! and pay…ex-terminating…prices collapsed…looking up, and down again now, not in dejection, but circumspection against ever apparent possible failure, with desperate optimism, toward un-realistic perfectionism.

Only mechanized buffer-traffic building-up as soon as into a busy rush-hour congestion be-low… Cars and buses, bicycles, motorbike and motorized delivery truck from here, only another view.

From

two-sides; and every side… the bedrooms along the passage corridor, the sleeping children slept, earlier peekedinto soundless in beautiful dream or dreamless seemingly startling worrying death-checked for breathing.

Crossing from night into daytime TV remotely automatically turned on, confirmation, that

life goes on…

The living-room she entered bore all the chatter and the silence of one who listens.

Still and safe, cosy and secure. The other rooms took over the emotions and needs: sleep and food, love and arguments. The central room, the central chamber, looked on and awaited eventual, almost inevitable, but never certain re-conciliation, and rest. Indulged-in social-(e) vents, noisy chatter and quiet evenings indoors. The furniture was adequate and filled the room. Table, chairs, television, a drawer and shelved cabinet standing against a wall, displaying various special icons; plastic flowers family photographs in frames, a portrait of a film star, or a print of a famous oil painting.

Ornaments, statuettes, figures of worship and of novelty. The furniture, the infrastructure, from the

livelihoods and eventually the roof over our heads…’in over our heads’ heard as if originally spoken.

There were unopened envelopes and cajoling leaflet advertisement:

Kill your debts! Die debts!

she thought of letters and bills for payment, propped up behind a ticking clock. There was a picture postcard from someone-else’s holiday forming a picturesque frontage to hide the stack of demands for reply and payment which lay beyond.

She-drewback the curtains and looked out of the window across the balcony, with its unflowering

plants growing in flower-pots. There was a real still rising mistinessoutside from the early morning warming; and she gazed over an area where many lived, and it seemed to her, this morning, where they too just only lived

-out their lives: day to day, week to week, minute-to-minute…

They too thought to-themselves as she looked-out onto the dawn of a gradually opening new day that

the world must have always been this way.

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goffilolo · 5 years

Text

Revival of Midoriya Izuku chapter 3

It’s been 84 years huh? As always the fanfic is up on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16929483/chapters/52652386

also im aware of like some formatting issues with the fic when it comes to tumblr, so reading it on ao3 might be better if you particularly care about like italics and what not, but otherwise it’s all the same stuff.

“Move your ass Boom Boom Bitch, I wanna get there early!” shouted Izuku, as him and Bandit sat on rather stylish, but uncomfortable couch in the Bakugous’ living room that was probably worth more than both of them put together, which probably wasn’t even that much anyway since they’re both garbage, but it’s about the principle of the thing.

“Shut your mouth you Trash Twink, I’ll get there when I get there! And what the fuck are you doing in my house?” screamed Bakugou all the way from upstairs, although with his voice being as explosive as his quirk he might as well be standing right next to you considering the damage he does to everyone’s eardrums.

Speaking of hearing damage “Katsuki!!! Is that how you talk to our guest you rude brat?! Get over here!” exclaimed Aunt Mitsuki.

“Shut it old hag! Deku’s not a guest, he’s just an annoying cockroach that invites himself wherever he wants and does whatever he wants!” which is a fair point, considering Izuku has invited himself to Bakugou’s first day at UA for less than wholesome reasons. Some people might see it as the ultimate bitch slap to Bakugou’s ego (partially true), but for the most part it’s merely a testament of how far Izuku has come, considering he now only sees UA as a place where he can flirt with Tensei’s hot brother, rather than a means of accomplishing some bullshit dreams... But it’s not like Kacchan knows any of this, so he can fuck off.

If you were to ask Izuku what his deal with Bakugou was, he would reply “Best friends, duh” with enough sarcasm to last you the next ten years. If you were to press for any specifics his reply would be more along the lines of “I dunno, get the fuck out of my apartment” followed by having Trash Bandit sent after you. The bottom line was, his relationship with Bakugou was complicated, as were most thing in Izuku’s life, but that’s not unusual.

Izuku’s presence at the Bakugou household though? That’s quite unusual, yet more likely than you’d think.

And although the screaming match between the two Bakugous was ever so entertaining Izuku had places to be, and guys to seduce, so “Leave it Auntie” he exclaims in a dismissive manner “We don’t want to rile him up too much, otherwise he ain’t gonna get that 30-day chip from the anger management that he’s been gunnin’ for” he adds half-jokingly.

“I know, I know” she says “But you’d think he would act a little nicer by now, after all these months of therapy.”

“Wouldn’t expect miracles if I were you Auntie, you know what the say; Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree ” replies the boy with a shiteating grin as he motions towards Bakugou descending down the stairs, not missing the way Mitsuki flinched ever so slightly at his rather obnoxious comment.

“And to think you used to be such a nice boy yourself, I used to always tell your mother how great it would’ve been if Katsuki was more like you” she says in a mix of bittersweet nostalgia and regret.

“Yeah well, considering the shit I got for being nice , I think from now on I’d rather be a bastard and then some” exclaimed Izuku as he got up from the couch with Bandit in tow and made his way towards Bakugou. The other boy was getting ready to leave as well and his excitement for the day was concealed even more poorly than his mother’s discomfort at the current conversation “Have a good one Auntie!”

And with that, the two teenagers and one (1) sheep were on their way.

“Kacchan please , not everything is about you” said Izuku exasperatedly, hurrying over to the only empty seat on the train.

“Like hell it isn’t! This was supposed to be MY DAY, my first day at the school of my fucking dreams, and you’re trying to ruin it by following me around dressed like a dollar stripper!” replied Bakugou in a whisper-scream. He may have anger issues but he wasn’t a dumbass and the two of them were already drawing enough attention as it was. It wasn’t exactly easy to remain unnoticed on a train while carrying a green sheep; a task which fell on Bakugou, because Izuku was a weak-noodle-arm-bitch.

“First of all, I’m flattered that you think I’m worth a dollar” said the weak-noodle-arm-bitch in question “And second of all, this is my best outfit.” Said best outfit consisted of a worn out tank top that had THE HOES written on it in what once was a glittery pink; a pair of booty shorts with ENEMY OF STATE hand stitched onto the backside and rainbow patterned knee socks. The look was completed with a pair of pink platform crocs, because Izuku had standards ... and because he was short.

“God I hate you” murmured Bakugou.

“Don’t I know it Kacchan?”

The rest of the train ride was spent in silence.

It wasn’t until they actually reached the gates of the school that Bakugou had a thought; one that he probably should’ve had before they even left his house, but having a coherent thought while carrying a sheep and bickering with the sheep’s owner about whether the sheep should be referred to as a dog or not is in all fairness not possible.

“They won’t let you in” he said, voicing the sudden epiphany.

“Sure they will” replied Izuku.

“Oh yeah? How? Deku, you don’t fuckin’ go to this school, you don’t go to ANY school!” shouted Bakugou, because they were no longer on the train, therefore arguing with a lunatic stripper looking guy was now acceptable.

Izuku for the most part did not have a problem with that, because not only did he love having petty fights with people, he also loved proving them wrong, especially when everyone and their grandma accuses him of being a high school drop out.

“Shinjuku Metropolitan would beg to differ” he says, dropping the metaphorical bomb on the unsuspecting dipshit that is his childhood friend, after which he continues to walk, crossing the gates of UA High like he owns the damn place.

After about a minute of Bakugou standing frozen in shock, he finally snapped out of it when Bandit decided to start chewing on his uniform “Oi, hold the fuck up!” screamed the blond as he followed Izuku inside, while the sheep was being dragged along like a betrayed ragdoll “Did you just say Shinjuku Metropolitan?!”

“Kacchan, you know I can’t hold you, you’re too heavy” replies the other teen, while pointedly ignoring Bakugou’s question and the looks he’s been getting from the students.

“Don’t change the subject shitty Deku! How the fuck did your ass get into a top non-hero high school in the whole damn Tokyo you bitch?”

“What, like it’s hard?”

“I fuckin’ swear to God-”

“Do it! Pull the trigger piglet!”

“WHAT’S GOING ON HERE?”

Their pointless quarrel, which was on a steady way into becoming a straight up brawl (Izuku having already pulled out his axe and lighted a cigarette using one of Bakugou’s warning explosions) came to a stop when they were interrupted by one of UA’s teachers, although in Izuku’s opinion she made a wrong career choice, considering being a Dominatrix probably paid more.

On another note, when someone asks you ‘what’s going on?’ that doesn’t mean they’re actually interested in whatever is happening at the moment, it means ‘stop’, therefore Izuku’s answer to that question, which usually involves something along the lines of “You see, I’m small, horny and full of rage, and I have no outlet for these emotions” is rarely appreciated. That is not to say that the lack of appreciation is going to stop him from spawning whatever dumb shit comes to his mind when faced with the judgement from authority figures. If anything it makes everything worse.

“That’s just how we flirt” replied the teen instead, all the while looking THE Pro-Hero Midnight dead in the eye and putting out his cigarette on Bakugou’s uniform jacket. Bakugou, for the most part was unable to even be mad at the cigarette burn considering he was busy recovering from being metaphorically punched in the kidneys by that line.

“And why aren’t you wearing uniform?” she asks suspiciously, pointing at Izuku’s attire.

“Oh, I don’t go here” he replied casually.

“Then pray tell , why are you in this school?”

“To get laid”

“TO WHAT?!” screamed Bakugou in surprise.

At this point Midnight took out her phone (no, her costume doesn’t have pockets, please don’t ask where she keeps it) and clicked on one of three contacts she keeps on her speed dial.

“Principal Nedzu, we got a situation…”

After telling Bakugou not to worry and that he will see him later in class, Izuku was dragged to the principal’s office by Midnight.

On the way there he tried cracking up another joke, telling her that his safe word was ‘avocado’. She did not appreciate that one either. For those of you wondering what happened to Bandit, the sheep ended up following Bakugou, much to the blond’s dismay.

Now, being sent to a principal’s office, especially of a school that you don’t even attend is usually a sign that you have royally fucked up. Not for Izuku though, because he had a plan! Contrary to the common belief, Izuku is not dumb. The fall didn’t kill off any of his brain cells, only his ability to give a shit, which made life much easier since he no longer had to worry about things like: people’s opinions, social norms, laws and heteronormativity.

Anyway, back to the plan. Izuku was not dumb, therefore even he knew that wandering around UA while not attending the school would not fly. He needed a way to stay, and for that he needed the guy who runs the whole shitshow; Nedzu.

Which is why the moment Midnight opens the door to the office Izuku stomps in like a man on a mission and stops right in front of an animal of questionable origin in a suit that is allegedly UA’s principal. A little unusual, but if a scumbag like Endeavour can hold the title of No. 2 Hero in Japan, then an animal can run a school.

The principal in question was calmly sitting on a couch and drinking tea, totally unconcerned with whatever bullshit Izuku was about to throw at him.

“Now, what seems to be the issue with this young man?” asked Nedzu.

“This young man-” said Izuku, pointing to himself in a rather cocky manner “has a message for you!”

“And what would that message be?”

The principal’s question was answered with what Izuku can only think of as the ultimate power move, or in this case; a literal ace up the sleeve. The boy proceeded to pull out a Monopoly “Get out of Jail” card out of his shorts (since he technically wasn’t wearing any sleeves) and slam it on the table right in front of Nedzu.

While to an outsider the current situation might seem absurd, it is important to remember that Izuku had a plan; one that could’ve never come to a fruition without a little help from the most unexpected person, which is why that card was no ordinary Monopoly card, but a very specific reminder that only Principal Nedzu would know the meaning of, and when he picked it up and flipped it around, the neatly written message on the back made its presence known.

It read: “You owe me one. - Hisashi”

“My dad says ‘Hi!’ ” exclaimed Izuku, taking one look at Nedzu’s face and knowing that he already won.

Was cashing in on a favour that his dad secured like 10 years ago a morally good decision? Debatable, but it got the job done so he’s not gonna complain. All that mattered was that Izuku now had a pass to enter the UA grounds whenever he pleased and nobody could stop him, and so here he was about to enter the classroom where Kacchan is supposed to be in. The bell hasn’t rung yet so he still had some time and who knows, maybe the handsome guy from the police station was in the same class?

With that in mind he opened the gigantic door and made his way into the classroom and was met with what looked like a pissing contest between his crush and his childhood friend.

“REMOVE YOUR FOOT FROM THAT DESK! SUCH AN ACTION IS INSULTING TO THOSE WHO CAME TO UA BEFORE US AS WELL AS THE CRAFTSMEN WHO MADE THIS DESK!”

“LIKE I CARE! WHAT MIDDLE SCHOOL ARE YOU FROM, YOU EXTRA ?!”

Ah yes, pissing contest at its finest, which meant that Izuku had options . The most obvious course of action would be siding up with Tenya and taunting Kacchan, which is not something Izuku would ever say no to. However , it also happens that the object of his affections had a massive boner for rules and authority, which is the exact opposite of everything Izuku stands for, so siding up with Kacchan it is.

And so he made his way to the pair of bickering teenagers and promptly pushed Kacchan’s feet off the desk, earning a scoff from the blond and an approving but baffled look from Iida, which only lasted for about 2 seconds, because Izuku being the gay disaster that he is simply HAD to ruin it all by claiming the desk as his sitting spot and giving Tenya the most ridiculous bedroom eyes that had Kacchan fake gagging like his life depended on it.

“Umm...Izuku, was it?” asked Tenya, feeling awkward under the other boy’s intense gaze.

“It sure was” replied the boy, feeling happy about leaving enough of an impression to be remembered from all those weeks ago “Fancy seeing you here, huh?”

“Indeed-”

“Oh for fuck’s sake Deku!” exclaimed Bakugou, completely fed up with the cringeworthy display in front of him “Just tell four-eyes that you came here because you wanted to see him and be done with it!”

“WHAT?”

“Kacchan, not now! I’m trying to put on some moves!”

“Well your moves are shit-”

“Hey, aren’t you that guy from the news who stabbed a villain in the eye with an axe?!” shouted one of the students while pointing at Izuku. There was something ironic about the fact that it was his stunt on live TV from 2 weeks ago that got everyone’s heads turning and not his iconic outfit, or inappropriate behaviour, or literally anything else about him. Like that’s just rude ok? And interrupting him while he’s trying to flirt? Also rude.

“Bitch, I might be” he replied anyway, because his reputation was on the line and because at this point literally everyone has gathered around the desk that he sat on, so things were way past the point of return. People were throwing questions and accusations at him left and right, Trash Bandit is nowhere to be found and his quil flask is not full enough for this bullshit. At this point Bakugou simply got up from his seat and sat at the back of the room, as far away from this nonsense as possible.

“It’s you!”exclaimed the boy with dual coloured hair and equally mismatched eyes “You’re the guy who keeps T-posing in front of my house. Can you please stop?!” he asked with the most deadpan face Izuku has ever seen despite his voice being filled with desperation.

“Look, I T-pose in front of a lot of houses so you’re gonna have to be more specific” he replied sarcastically — despite knowing exactly who he was talking to — since it probably wasn’t a good moment to mention that you’re besties with that person’s mom because you were both stuck in the same loony bin and so you already know all the family drama and have dedicated a good portion of your time to harassing her abusive piece of shit husband…especially with like 20 people around you.

“You’re the one who egged my limo!” shouted one of the girls at the back. She was a very tall girl with long, dark hair tied in a seemingly gravity defying ponytail and a kind face. She had an air of a distinguished lesbian about her, which Izuku could respect even if she was rich if the limo comment was anything to go by. He egged several limos in his lifetime because seeing rich people out in public makes him go apeshit, as it should, so really how is he supposed to remember everyone?

“And I will egg it again!” promised Izuku “When I see rich people out and about it triggers my fight-or-fuck response”

“Don’t you mean fight-or-flight?” she asked.

“No”

“Are you ok?”

“Not in the slightest”

And with that more people joined in on the conversation, including a particular girl who very much looked like an alien with her bright pink skin and black sclera who ended up complementing his outfit, which thank fuck someone here actually had good taste , as well as a guy who ended up being Ms Shouji’s son, and the only reason he found out was because the guy recognised his antics based on the gossip his mom told him and isn’t that a small fuckin world? And in the middle of it all laid an inconspicuous yellow sleeping bag that has been conveniently ignored by everyone for the sake of the plot up until now.

The sleeping bag began to seemingly unzip by itself and soon enough Bandit’s head poked out of it.

“Bandit! There you are”

“Baaah!”

“Guys! Look at this dog!” exclaimed one of the students who Izuku thought looked like a personification of weed, but he wasn’t going to say that. At least the guy knew what he was talking about.

“I’m pretty certain it’s a sheep-” added Tenya, taking his role as the last standing voice of reason in this room very seriously, even though his voice has practically drowned in the sea of teenagers chanting ‘good doggo’, similarly to how one might feel if they were standing at a dance floor while Baby Got Back started playing.

It’s also important to note that while all of this was happening, Bakugou who has sat himself at the back of the room was forced to witness the chaotic force that is Izuku interacting with multiple people at once while being able to convince about 20 of them to refer to his sheep as a dog, and in that moment he turned around staring into the void and asked himself “Am I having a fuckin stroke?”

“Nah, he’s always like that” replied the one person who was sat at the back along with him that Bakugou previously did not bother to notice.

“And how would you know, you damn extra?” asked Bakugou somewhat offended, because sure him and Izuku were not on the friendliest terms and the whole incident from last year really changed him and what not. But they still knew each other their whole lives, so really that had to count for something and Bakugou was not willing to compromise on that with some random extra who looked like a Tinky Winky humansona on drugs.

Unfortunately Bakugou was not able to get an answer because the entire class was interrupted by a homeless looking guy coming out of the yellow sleeping bag to shame student kind. “If you’re here to socialise, then get out” he said. Soon enough the room was filled with a tense silence as the students were unsure of what to expect next.

“It took 8 seconds for you to quiet down. Time is a precious resource. You lot aren’t very rational, are you?” asked the man as he walked to the front of the classroom, making it very clear that he was in fact their teacher. The man was rather tall and unkept, his hair was long and slightly curled, similar to Izuku’s own and the outfit he wore could only be described as a goth onesie. There was something very familiar about him but Izuku couldn’t quite make out what it was supposed to be.

However, just because Izuku’s memory aligns very closely with a slice of swiss cheese doesn’t mean that the same can be said about the teacher in question. As soon as he turned around to get a good look at his new class his eyes fell on Izuku and his face has swiftly shifted from that of practiced disinterest to shock and recognition that Izuku honestly was not expecting.

“What are you doing here problem child?” asked the man with a certain degree of disbelief in his voice. Once again there was something very familiar about him and the way he addressed Izuku and wait a minute did he just call me a problem child? That can’t be-

“Uncle Shouta” exclaimed the boy in a way that felt uncertain, yet childishly hopeful “Is that you?”

“Of course it is brat, who else would I be?” he replied with a hint of amusement.

#revival of midoriya izuku #demise!au #bnha #fanfic #midoriya izuku #bakugou katsuki #trash bandit #aizawa shouta #iida tenya

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in-tua-deep · 5 years

Note

First time anon wanted to say I love all of your tua au’s. They are absolutely fantastic and I am soft for all of them. However I did amuse myself with the barking mad au, noticed you never write about Pogo in your au’s (do you not like him btw? No pressure on it just curious), but I just like the thought of him meeting/talking to partially feral!Five and he can’t quite figure out which language (animal or english) is more appropriate to say ‘master five what the ever living F****?!’ in.

!! hello first time anon! thank u for messaging

asdfHJGFSDG you caught me,, i don’t like Pogo and don’t think he should have a place in the children’s lives so I never write him into any of my aus because I lowkey want him to disappear

mainly because Pogo was complicit in their abuse to the point where even after Reginald was dead he was still keeping secrets - like he was complicit in drugging a child almost her entire life and emotionally abusing her by backing up the “You’re ordinary” narrative Reginald built up

and even after his death, Pogo stood up and said their dad left behind a complicated memory but then proceeded to compliment the man because presumably Pogo owed so much to him etc. etc.

Grace I can excuse, because she’s a robot. She functionally had no free will since Reginald was fully capable of tinkering with her programming and forcing her to obey and keep quiet, but Pogo was an adult sentient being capable of free will and he still looked the other way.

Yeah okay you could say maybe he did it because he was afraid that if he turned against Reginald, he wouldn’t have anywhere to go. You could say he didn’t know how to help beyond attempting to be there for the kids and turning a blind eye to some of their shenanigans (like going out to Griddy’s). BUT. After Reginald’s death he continued to keep the kids in the dark about their dad’s plan, withheld information, and made no move to correct anything. Like i’m pretty sure if he told Klaus “the box contained your father’s journal recording your sister’s power, no not allison, actually your dad drugged her all her life and I’d like to set the record straight on her being ‘ordinary’” klaus would have tried a hell of a lot harder to get it back

Grace, after Reginald’s death, was glitched out of her mind tbh but once fixed she made it clear that she did not support Reginald. After all, telling ur son that you’d like to go out when you were never permitted and then telling him that his dad isn’t around anymore to give orders is a pretty cool moment if I do say so myself

and in the day that wasn’t, Grace was going to tell all the secrets she’d been forced to keep over the years in the park as well. She tried to put it right pretty much as soon as she was capable

Pogo didn’t. He purposefully made efforts to continue Reginald’s plan, up to and including attempting to frame Grace for Reginald’s suicide, not telling Vanya about her powers, not telling anyone about that whole skeezy business, fixing Grace but then reminding her to keep secrets (which she rejects), and just generally. continued supporting a man we know to be an abusive piece of shit idk

so yEAH I don’t like Pogo and consider him to be an accomplice to Reginald’s abuse where I don’t hold Grace accountable because there’s free will involved and while he might have advocated for the children, I doubt he ever pressed if Reginald put his foot down which is why i never include him in anything lmao

as far as i’m concerned in all my aus he’s off chilling at one of Reggie’s other properties or something because Vanya doesn’t want him around (and for good reason) so he can live his days in retirement,,, anywhere else

as for the barking mad au, getting back to ur original ask, I think Pogo is?? Too human-ized? I doubt he’s been a proper chimpanzee for many years, a minimum of like. actually when was he introduced to the household? Was it before the kids were there? Average lifespan of a chimp is what, forty years? And he looked older with his cane and stuff so. Probably?

But regardless I doubt he can understand anything Five is ‘saying’ with body language beyond what humans can read, mainly because dogs/cats and chimps are different (though Five also knows some sick birdcalls and can mimic alarm calls and ‘hello!’ and other cool thing) and feral!Five lived with only cats and dogs during the apocalypse. It’s a little like dumping a dog in with a colony of chimps - confusion on all sides rip so while Pogo probably would be like “Master Five what the Fuck” it’s more because Five is behaving like,, well,, an animal. Which all of the siblings are also thinking tbh

dog people or cat people would probably be able to pick up things here and there though. like that specific meow cats do when they Hunger, or the wiggling that says ‘happy and probably overstimulated’, and growls/hisses/showing teeth should be self explanatory tbh but like, there’s other things. Like quietly mirroring to hang out, slow blinks as affection, the way dogs will playfully run up and then run away in an almost crab scuttle to see if you’ll follow to play (with bonus jumping powers!), the either cowering down with metaphorical tail between legs or PUFFING UP to be the BIGGEST when threatened, whines that mean ‘hurry up!! come on!’ when someone is going too slow, the running ahead and running back to check and running ahead again

like look i have a pretty quiet dog all things considered, and i had an even quieter dog before they. She only really barks when people come up to the door tbh, but I Know People who own dogs like huskies who are the most vocal little shits in existence and who WILL scream when inconvenienced or nervous

(my sister, a vet student interning at a vets, has regaled me with tales of huskies brought to the clinic who just screamed like they were being murdered the entire time despite them not even being examined or anything. they were literally just chilling in the kennel.)

Feral!Five is actually more vocal than ur regularly scheduled Five but everyone wishes he Wasn’t (he’s also way less standoffish and very likely to just full body rub himself against his siblings or drape himself across them tbh bc like. if they wanted him to quit all they’d have to do is give a warning snap or growl or grumble and they don’t sO)

BUT HEY if u want to write something for the au then feel free to include Pogo and your idea because it is very cute!! I just don’t like Pogo and refuse to include him in things lmao

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davidmann95 · 5 years

Note

Velvet's battle is a great choice, though I'll always have a special place in my heart for the fight against the Grimm Deathstalker and the Nevermore in Episode 8. That said, what do you think of the individual members of Team RWBY?

I decided to wait on this until I caught up on the series thus far, which I just finished doing the night before last in pretty much the only time in my life I’ve ever really properly binged anything other than comics, and…wow. I knew RWBY was a thing just as a matter of course from being on this site and Youtube, and from watching Death Battle, so I picked up some major beats by osmosis. But my main impression was that it was a charming pseudo-anime online thing of decent quality that unsurprisingly got heavier as it went along as such things tend to do, with extremely rad fights and music along the way; figured it’d be more than serviceable to watch while I was on the treadmill as a disposable distraction from the agony of propelling my wheezing, sweating, loathsome meat-scaffolding forward.

I did *not* expect it to eventually end up after growing pains a - while far from flawless - intensely engrossing story of all-consuming personal and generational pain and people who choose to love and do the right thing in defiance of that trauma and loss and hopelessness, where also occasionally a corgi gets fastball specialed at mechas. Though once it became clear that’s what it is, it pretty clearly sat at an intersection of a hell of a lot of my favorite things, especially when characters copped in-universe in both the main series and spinoff material that this is basically a superhero thing. My initial impressions re: the fights and music were on-point though.

I actually have quite a few thoughts on pretty much all the protagonists of note at this point (other than I suppose Oscar and Maria. Like them both though, and I do hope that nice boy’s brain somehow doesn’t dissolve into the blender of Ozpin’s subconscious), but I’ll just stick with the core four here as requested for now unless someone asks otherwise. Weiss is the simplest to get at the core of, I’d say: her arc is learning that fuck rich people, actually. She’s a seriously difficult character to get onboard for at first - especially if you’re watching those first episodes for the first time in 2019 - as the mean unconsciously racist rich girl who learns to be less mean and racist but still kinda mean. But after you’ve extensively seen the hideously toxic environment she grew up in, and fully understand her efforts to grow past the empty values it inculcated in her in favor of everything she was raised to think of herself as above, she becomes a hell of a figure to root for. Assuming RWBY is gonna go, say, a respectable 10 seasons given it was just renewed through 9, I could easily see the upcoming 7th be the climax of her arc with her return to Atlas and likely further reckoning with the consequences of her families’ actions beyond how they’ve hurt her personally.

Yang is also, in a certain abstract narrative sense, simple, in that she’s built around the very oldest trick in the book for characters whose main deal is ‘can punch better than absolutely anyone’: give them problems that cannot be solved by punching. Except in her case it’s less a material “well, this person is invulnerable to punching!” or “well, actually this other person can punch most best of all” issue blocking her path than “punching cannot solve depression, abandonment issues, questioning whether what she considers her purpose in life is one she’s truly pursuing for noble reasons or if she even has the resolve for it anymore after what’s happened to her, or PTSD”. Yet, while it may not be the kind that manifests in the form of punching people with a smirk and a bad pun anymore (much as she still definitely does that all the time) what ultimately drives her and defines her is still her strength: to move forward, to forgive, to let go, to do the right thing in spite of the risks. Which could easily come off as some unpleasant “you just have to get over your moping!” dismissal - there’s a bit with her dad that means it saddles riiiiight up to the edge of that - but there’s a weight to how her traumas remain a consistent factor in her life and have shaped her outlook even as her circumstances and day-to-day disposition improve that makes it feel thematically like it’s coming from a place of acknowledgment and endurance rather than denial, even if it’s not handled perfectly. Great to see her apparently recapturing some more of her joie de vivre based on the trailer for Volume 7, and how that’ll interact with how she’s grown should be interesting.

Blake is…tough, because you fundamentally cannot talk about Blake without getting into the Faunus, which is maybe the biggest aspect of RWBY that leaves it in the realm of Problematic Fave. It really, really wants to have something substantial to say about the proper response to racism, and every now and then it pumps out a “capitalism greases the wheels of systemic oppression and vice-versa” or “it’s perfectly reasonable for the oppressed to seek to fight back directly against their oppressors, and even the pacifist in the room can recognize that’s a defensible approach that deserves its place”. But then Abusive Boyfriend Magneto literally murders nuance in Vol. 5 episode 2, and it descends into some borderline “but what about black on black violence” respectability politics shit. It’s the classic X-Men setup - this persecuted race of often superpowered folks torn between pacifism and efforts to prove themselves to their oppressors, and those who think they should rise up and annihilate the flatscans - with most of the same pitfalls, but also we haven’t had over 50 years to get used to that just being how it works here, and it doesn’t have the excuse of having to expand as best it can on a metaphor that was originally devised before most of the people currently handling it were born. All of which would be rough enough, but given I watched this right as Jonathan Hickman’s been completely refining the entire X-Men paradigm outside that outdated binary, it especially grates. I’d love to be directed to any solid counterarguments - I’ve heard it might actually be an analogue, and a well-done one, for The Troubles, which I am one million percent unqualified to evaluate - especially since apparently one of the writers grew up in a mixed-race household, and at the end of the day I’m a white guy who may well be talking completely out his ass. But it sure comes off at a glance as some well-intentioned dudes stumbling through stuff that’s not their business, and that’s inextricable from Blake’s character when so much of her story is her navigating through that metaphor. Hopefully with new writers coming onboard this is something that can be navigated more insightfully in the future.

On a purely personal basis however, Blake’s a standout in terms of relatability when her story comes down to a pretty universal shared horror: how to climb back from having fucked up. She tried really hard to do the right thing, was taken advantage of and led into doing things she eventually realized were wrong, was so shaken that she couldn’t tell who to trust, and then the situation spiraled out of control on every possible front just as things finally seemed to be stabilizing. The way a single mistake - enabled and exacerbated by an abusive past relationship in her case - expands into a self-loathing far beyond the bounds of anything she could possibly be responsible for is brutal and completely understandable, and seeing her start put her self-esteem back together with the help of those closest to her and the power of her original convictions is arguably the single strongest, most clearly conveyed individual character arc in the series. I’m very curious where it goes from here: Adam’s finish represents a logical climax and the setup for a happily-ever-after with Yang (or Sun if they end up going that way after all) for her to coast through the remainder of the series on, but the way emotional consequences have played out in the series thus far I doubt her demons are going to be put to bed that simply.

Finally there’s Ruby, and I am contractually obligated to note up front: she is clearly not a Superman analogue. There is precisely zero percent chance that she was conceived as such or was ever deliberately executed in such a way that mirroring him was kept in mind. Though she IS a super-powered idealist raised in the middle of nowhere with a significant deceased parent who wears a red cape, flies, gives inspiring rallying speeches, has black-ish but primary color-tinted hair, and has a mysterious birthright that involves being able to shoot lasers from her eyes, plus she has a dog who also essentially has superpowers, plus she tells someone they’re stronger than they think they are, plus Yang basically quotes a bit from Kingdom Come regarding her in Rest and Resolutions. But it probably goes a ways in explaining why she works so well for me.

There’s more to it than that of course, though it does bring up the closest way in which she relates to the superhero paradigm: she doesn’t go through an arc in quite the same way as the others, instead being an already solidly-defined character who is simply illustrated by how she interacts with the people and situations around her. She learns and grows and matures, but her most basic motivations and goals and outlook haven’t really changed since the day she enrolled at Beacon. She’s a good, caring person, a leader archetype who still has more than enough personality to spare to keep from falling into the genericism that can often plague that role. A big part of the key I believe is that she’s the audience surrogate in a profound way beyond the obvious touchstones of her frequent awkwardness and self-doubt: the reason she does this is because she was inspired by stories. She’s a fan, ultimately, but one who learned all the right lessons, whether recognizing from day one the way reality falls short of the tales she was raised on but still believing in the ideals they represent, or openly holding up Qrow as a role model while being willing to call him on his shit when push comes to shove. It’s a romantic, hopeful perspective that stands out sharply from even our other heroes even as it mirrors their struggles, but as of yet there’s little to suggest it comes from a place of naivete so much as a belief that it’s the only way to bear the pain of the world and continue to believe in it. Bit by bit it’s clear she’s heading for a breaking point, but all signs point to that being a matter of her ability to withstand what she’s been through, rather than any doubt that it’s necessary, and should that time come she’s inspired plenty who’ll be able to help her back onto her feet the way she has for so many others. So while I understand her speeches apparently grate on some, as far as I’m concerned keep them coming, they’re the beating caring heart of the series and often the sole respite in the eye in the storm.

#RWBY #Ruby Rose #Weiss Schnee #Blake Belladonna #Yang Xiao Long #Mental Health #Racism #Superman #Analysis #Opinion

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incarnationsf · 4 years

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Nevertheless, She Persisted

Gospel Reading

By the Rev. Darren Miner

Today, in the aftermath of the killing of George Floyd, our nation is in a state of racial unrest. And it was not too long ago that the “Me Too” movement was in the news, protesting the shabby treatment of women. Given current sensitivities, today’s story about Jesus’ encounter with the Canaanite woman is particularly problematic. Even so, we need to hear it and to wrestle with it. After all, Saint Matthew included it in his Gospel for a reason.

The incident begins with Jesus heading off to Gentile territory for some well-deserved rest at the seaside; there he is confronted by a woman with a sick daughter. The woman is identified as a Canaanite. In other words, she is not only a pagan, but the descendant of Israel’s ancestral enemies.

Despite that historical enmity, and despite cultural norms that forbade a woman from addressing a strange man, this desperate woman seeks out the help of this foreign healer, begging him to help her sick daughter. But Jesus’ initial response is stony silence.

Nevertheless, she persists. And her persistence is such an annoyance that the disciples ask Jesus to send her packing. He tries to convince her to give up and leave, by explaining that his healing mission is reserved for the children of Israel.

Nevertheless, she persists. She prostrates herself at Jesus’ feet, crying, “Lord, help me!” Seemingly unmoved, Jesus responds, “It is not fair to take the children’s bread and throw it to the little dogs.” The upshot of Jesus’ graphic metaphor is that his ministry (and God’s grace) are not intended for Gentile dogs, not even the “little dog” who happens to be this woman’s sick daughter!

Now, I don’t have to tell you how harsh Jesus’ words sound to us today. Well, it sounded even worse then. In biblical times, the term “dog” was an epithet reserved for those who were dirty, nasty, and disgusting.

Nevertheless, she persists. The Canaanite woman turns Jesus’ epithet on its head, arguing that even dogs eat the bread crumbs that fall from their owners’ table. In other words, she and her daughter would settle for even a scrap of God’s grace. With a wit fueled by desperation, this woman turns Jesus’ own words back on him, and Jesus stands defeated. Admitting his defeat, Jesus praises the woman’s faith in God (or perhaps her faithfulness to her daughter—the Greek is ambiguous). He declares the sick girl healed, and it was so.

Now, what are we to make of this difficult story? Well, first, let me be clear—I think that Jesus was in the wrong, at least at first! He may not have been guilty of the sins of racism or sexism, but, as one biblical scholar put it, “Jesus is caught with his compassion down.” One wonders then why Saint Matthew preserved this story. It was, after all, an embarrassment to the early Church (not only because Jesus’ behavior toward the woman was harsh, but because Jesus was bested by a mere woman!)

Well, this embarrassing story was preserved, I think, because it marks a critical turning point in the ministry of Jesus and in the history of salvation. Jesus starts out with the perspective that his ministry should be limited to God’s chosen people, the Jews, but he is forced into a new realization by his confrontation with the Canaanite woman. Jesus starts out with the perspective that God’s grace is somehow limited, as if there were only enough to minister to the children of Israel, but he is forced into the realization that there is enough grace to minister to everyone in need.

And from this point on, Jesus continues to perform healings as he travels throughout Gentile lands. As a result, these pagan Gentiles are said to have glorified the God of Israel. Moreover, by the last chapter of Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus’ attitude toward Gentiles has changed to such an extent, that he orders his followers to make disciples of all the Gentile nations.

Now, just about everyone in this parish is a Gentile. And in large measure, we owe our membership in the One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church to the actions of a single desperate Canaanite mother who loved her daughter beyond the bounds of propriety. Her faith in the power of the God of Israel and her faithfulness to her daughter sparked the opening up of Jesus’ ministry, so that Gentiles like us might be welcomed into the household of God. So, let us give our heartfelt thanks to that nameless woman who persisted.

#Canaanite woman #Syrophoenician woman #racism #sexism #gentiles #jewellery #salvation #nevertheless she persisted #sermon #theology #Jesus #episcopal church #episcopal #episcopalian #The Episcopal Church #anglican #Anglican Communion #AnglicanChurch

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fallen029 · 5 years

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Andromeda

"Puppies are so great, Laxus," Mirajane insisted as she bounced along beside him. "But then, you know, adult dogs need home too. And oh, senior dogs are so precious and sweet and-"

"I've agreed to gettin' you get a damn pet," he grumbled up at the overcast autumn sky. Foreboding if he ever saw it. "I don't wanna have to hear about it too."

"Getting us a pet, dragon," she corrected with a giggle as she beamed up at him. "This is going to be our baby."

"This is not going to be our baby."

"I mean, it is, but if you have to pretend it's not, I understand."

"You're about to be a single mother."

"Oh, Laxus, it's a big step, I know," she sighed as she took to just wrapping both her arms around his, "becoming a pet parent. It's not for everybody. But luckily, I am quite experienced."

"You've had," he griped, "a pet before?"

"Well, I like to throw leftovers out into the yard for the local strays to snatch up. Or I did. Before you made me move into your apartment. Have you thought of getting a house with a yard?"

"So you can invite the neighborhood fleabags over to feast? No," he replied. Then, frowning, he added, "And I didn't make you move in with me."

"I felt forced."

"Demon-"

"But oh, Laxus, just think of all the cute little puppies that will be waiting for us at the pound," she gushed, moving right along as she sped up her walking. Now truly feeling drug along, Laxus tried to slip his arm out of her grasp, but Mirajane wasn't releasing him for nothing. "Should we get a little golden one? Then he'd be just like you, huh? Or, oh, you know, I've heard that people don't always adopt the ones with darker fur and I can't stand the thought of- But then again, you have to wonder if we need a little dog. Because your apartment is so small, dragon. But I'll be around to walk him constantly and sis and Elf both agreed to help out, so I guess we could get a big dog. But not too big, because I want him to sleep in bed with us and I don't know if I want a female dog or a male one, but-"

"Just," he cut her off (mostly just to get her to shut up), "go and see, Mira. Which one you want. If you're unable to decide-"

"I won't be able to," she assured him. "I'll want to take them all."

"-then you can have a long rant." Laxus even shrugged. "You might not even like any of them."

"Oh, I already love them all."

"You haven't even seen them."

"I don't have to."

And he believed her.

Still, Laxus felt a mix of nerves as they walked into the Magnolia City Animal Shelter, though it might have more to do with his heightened sense of smell. Because oh, the place smelled godawful. He imagined it did even to a normal person. But Mirajane only grinned as the lowly guy who seemed to want to be literally anywhere other than working what Laxus was sure was a rather stressful (and gross) nine to five gave them the lowdown of the place. After having them sign a form, the young guy led them to the back, where the disgusting smell was mixed with loud yaps and barks of the man dogs caged, awaiting their chance to escape their prison.

And Laxus felt for them. He felt horrible for them.

But he felt for his couch and rug and nice, sleek apartment much more.

Still, Mirajane did seem kind of down recently. Her sister and brother had used her departure from the Strauss household as a wake up call that they too needed to move on with their adult lives. For Elfman, this meant taking his training even more seriously, if it was possible. He was gone constantly, it felt like. And Lisanna was coming to realize all the things she'd almost completely missed out on, so she was off trying to live her second life.

Mira loved living with her dragon. He was certain she did. But given that he was gone a lot too, on frequent S-Class jobs, he knew she was a bit lonely too. A pet would be a good cure to this. She'd only gone on and on about getting a puppy, eventually, anyways and, well…

Laxus just liked for his demon to be happy.

Even if it was to his own detriment.

And she'd swore she'd walk it and bathe it and feed it and walk it and make sure Laxus never even had to look at it, if he didn't want.

Except, you know, when it slept in bed with them each night.

Mirajane was in heaven, rushing from floor length cage to floor length cage, gushing over each and every one of those horrible canine beasts, while the employee gave halfhearted responses to her questions. Laxus couldn't imagine the hell that was showing up to that place day in and day out. The man had his deepest sympathy.

It was as Mirajane walked through the maze of chain link and slobbering dogs that Laxus found himself searching for any kind of escape. Not too keen on interacting with any dog, ever, at all, it was partially his flight instinct kicking in that made him take notice of it. There a door marked QUIET ROOM on one wall and, after giving some glances at his girlfriend, Laxus was quick to go take a peek in there and, hopefully, escape the madness.

The other room was much smaller and seemed to be a sick bay of sorts. There were some smaller cages elevated on a table where he saw a few sick looking, smaller dog as well as a birdcage though, where a colorful parrot or something (Laxus had no fucking idea about bird species) was squawking at him. A huge container with a heat lamp over it was filled with sand and foliage housed a weird looking lizard along one wall and, coming closer, Laxus was pretty interested in watching it flick it's tongue.

It startled him, honestly, when it happened. There he was, leaning in, looking at the weird lizard, when over the sound of the bird squawking and the muffled dogs barking in the other room, there came the softest little mewl he'd ever heard.

Turning, he saw another cage on a table all by itself. Inside, there were three or four kittens, way too cramped together, honestly, and Laxus frowned some, a bit of pity tugging at his heart. He would have probably turned away though, honestly, uninterested in the felines, did his eyes not lock with what might just be the perfect cat to ever exist ever in all of existence, ever.

And he wasn't being dramatic.

Well, maybe just a little.

But one of the three kittens was standing there, staring right at him, with its big, bright green eyes that were really striking against it's gray fur and it had this white spot, right in the middle of it's head and when it meowed at him again, Laxus felt something deep in his core and why was he opening up the cage and taking it out?

Because it was the best cat in the entire world.

And it deserved love and attention and, fine, yes, he couldn't give it that, but Mirajane could, because she wanted to be something's mommy and it needed a mother desperately.

"Oh, dragon, here you are."

He couldn't look away from the kitten in his hands as it held it before his face, staring deeply into its eyes, not really caring at all that his girlfriend was at his side, bouncing excitedly about.

"I've narrowed it down to four- Well, five dogs and I just can't decide and I think that we should just take them all, honestly, and figure it all out later, don't you? Dragon? Uh, Laxus, are you- Ooh, a kitty." coming closer, Mirajane took to look at it as well. "Oh, three kitties! Look at them, dragon, they're-"

"Plebeians."

"Uh, what?"

Mirajane had leaned towards the cage, where the others were looking out after the one Laxus had snatched, but he only continued to stare deeply into his eyes.

"Those," he told Mirajane simply, "are filthy disgusting cats."

"O-Okay, well."

"And this," he said simply as he slowly lowered the little kitten so he could begin cradling it in his arms, "is a precious kitten who didn't deserved to be locked in this place. Especially not with them. It deserves to be cared for and taken care of. Look at it. This is the smartest animal I've ever met. I can just tell."

Mirajane thought he was making some sort of elaborate, metaphor for how she was acting and was about ready to call him a sourpuss, but then she noticed it. That glint in his eye he got when he was really going through something. She'd only seen it a few times, but oh, it was there then, and as she reached out to rest a hand on his forearm, she only nodded her head solemnly.

"It's like all the other slayers, with their super cool talking cats. Like Happy," she explained. "Only, you're a discount slayer, so you don't get a super cool talking Exceed. You just get a pound reject with a weird marking on it's head."

Finally breaking eye contact with his new best friend, Laxus only said, "It's fur is perfect. And I'm not discount; I'm the best slayer ever. The best fucking mage ever. And don't you ever-"

"I guess," Mira went right on though with a sigh, "we can get your kitten instead."

"Do you mean it?"

"I mean, you have to clean her litter box and comb her fur and feed her-"

"Of course," he agreed with a nod. "It's mine." And when Mirajane reached out to pat the feline on the head, he only jerked it away from her much to the bemused look of his girlfriend. But Laxus only added, "And you can't touch it. Except for if you brush up against it in your sleep. It'll sleep right next to me. Every night."

"You do realize you're gone, like, eighty percent of the time on jobs, right?"

"Fine." Reluctantly, he did allow Mirajane to scratch behind the kittens ears. "You can touch it. But be very careful. This cat means more to me than anything."

"You met it five minutes ago. At most."

"I met you a decade ago and it took me years to realize how much I cared about you," he pointed out as he took to staring into the little cat's eyes once more. As it stuck it's rough tongue out, it brushed against his nose gently. "I knew with this kitten here immediately. Imagine our connection."

But all Mirajane could think about was all the connections she had with all the dogs she knew she loved, before even coming into the shelter, and it was so hard. So very hard. To leave them behind. Because she could already picture her life with each and every one of them and she couldn't picture a life with a cat, because cats weren't as loving or exciting and no one came over to play with the new cat.

Gross.

But as she watched the way that Laxus let the kitten nuzzle into his arms and the way he was kind of smiling, for once, maybe, well…

Laxus gave up a lot for her.

A lot.

She knew this and reveled in it, but at the same time…

Mirajane was certain she could learn to love a cat.

She'd already learned to love a dragon and man, that had to be one of the hardest things in the world.

"Andromeda is not for you losers to gawk at," Laxus grumbled later in the day as he held his new kitten close as Freed, Evergreen, and Bickslow came over to his apartment to do just that. "She's special."

"Andromeda," the rune mage mused in response. "I think I understand."

"Understand what?"

"The dragon and the princess," Freed explained. When Laxus only stared at him blankly, he went on. "It's a motif. In fiction." Still, everyone just stared. "In literature, there's a recurring theme across multiple cultures and histories, in which a high-born woman, such as princess, must be rescued from a monster by a dashing man. The monster is frequently a dragon, which must be killed. Andromeda is a rather well-known example."

"Well," Mira thought as the others all blinked, "Laxus is a slayer, so that makes sense, I guess, but I like to call him my dragon." Then she giggled before adding, "But then that would imply that he was-"

"Going to eat the cat?" Bickslow interrupted as he tossed a hand worriedly behind his head, his wooden babies cackling already. "Who eats cats? Huh? Not me. Nope. I've never, in my entire life eaten a cat. No way."

Laxus only stared at all of them, even his girlfriend, for a long few moments, before saying, "No one is going to touch my kitty. So get out. All of you. Now."

"Dragon," Mira complained while Freed only tried to explain he was merely being helpful and Bickslow continued to insist he, in no way, would ever eat that juicy kitty the boss was cradlin'.

"I haven't even done anything," Evergreen complained. But, then she glanced at the gross feline and shrugged her shoulders.

She had zero desire to be around the cat anyways.

"And tell Mira's lame siblings, if you see them, that they can't either," Laxus went on as he led the three of them to the door. "And anyone else. Andromeda is too important for you."

She felt too important for him, honestly, but when Laxus fell into bed that night, letting the kitten snuggle up on his chest, he allowed himself to smile openly and honestly for the first time that night.

"Are you happy with her? Dragon?" Mirajane giggled in uncertainty as she joined him. "Do you feel complete?"

Smile growing when the kitten meowed at the feeling of Mirajane's fingers scratching at her ears once more, he let out a long sigh and, man, had he been holding that in his entire life?

"Very."

#Laxus #Laxus Dreyar #Mirajane #Mira #Mirajane Strauss #Fairy Tail #Fanfiction

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