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n7punk · 1 year ago
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It’s 3 am now and I don’t know what compelled me to read knifepoint again a couple of hours ago to “wind down” fooling myself that it’ll work because I read the fic and know what happens but I have to say that scene with the gun and Catra saying “mine” and Adora saying “yours” has me in shambles it’s a MASTERPIECE I can’t get over it?? Even though I’ve read it before? Multiple times? And I think I’ll read it ten times more?? I want to contact my past self and ask her for tips on how she just read this scene and somehow got over it and went along with her life
so something has... happened to my inbox. i have 12 messages, but i only see 2, this one is apparently a month old... i dont know, alright??
anyway, belated thank you, i had so much fun with knifepoint and this was a great reminder XD i'm glad you enjoyed
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moonlit-imagines · 4 years ago
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Headcanons for being Natasha Romanoff’s child
Natasha Romanoff x child!reader
warnings:
a/n:
prompt: anonymous: “Hi! Can I request a HC for being Natasha's daughter? I think you haven't done it ^^ In love with your work btw ;)”
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natasha saved you from a terribly cruel family that worked alongside HYDRA, they didn’t care much for you
she decided to take you in since she knew you couldn’t have a normal life after all that you’d already been through at such a young age
“think it’d be okay if you came home with me, sweetheart?”
you were happy to have a nice person in your life
she took off work for a while to help you settle in
natasha wished that she had a loving family growing up, or just anyone to support her
so this was how she was going to make it up
“do you want to talk about anything?”
“when dad was alive he hurt people. i didn’t like the sound of it”
her heart broke hearing such a young child have to be affected by something like that
she made sure you knew how much she loved you
you called her “miss nat” for a while
take your child to work day!!!!
she took you to SHIELD HQ
you LOVED IT you wandered off and watched other ppl work
“agent romanoff, why is your child on agent coulson’s shoulders” -fury
“my child loves to feel like their flying”
“alright, you make a fair point”
nick called you “litte agent” which sparked your inspiration to become a spy like natasha
“miss nat, i wanna be a spy when i grow up!”
“you do? well, you can do that if it’s what you really want”
you suddenly switched from “miss nat” to “momma nat” and she had to backtrack for a minute
“what did you call me?” she was BEAMING omg
“...momma”
she gave u momma bear kisses
over the years, you taught yourself the ways of an agent and a spy, asking momma nat for a few pointers here and there
also uncle clint offered to give you some help
“yeah, kid, just point and shoot”
“clint, i said ‘self defense’ classes, not ‘the most effective ways to murder someone’ classes”
“they go hand in hand, nat, you know this”
“what if i was wanting to teach them myself?”
“well, do you?”
*pulls him aside* “as a birthday present”
you really did well during any sort of training
guess you just take after your mom
when you were old enough, you applied to SHIELD (under y/n l/n instead of y/n romanoff) and passed every test that was thrown your way
“you’re a natural, l/n”
“thanks, i learned from the best”
you wanted to earn respect on your own, so you didn’t tell anyone your relationship with nat
and anyone who did know you before knew not to say anything about it
it was also a good move bc it put a target on your backs if any of your enemies discovered you were family, you’d rather not share bad guys
✨the avengers thought you were awesome✨
“y/n, you are so much cooler than your mom”
“say it again and i’ll dislocate your shoulder!” :)
clint is so entertained by you
tony just loves messing w you
“baby spider in the house!”
“spider? where? shall i kill it?” -thor
“no, thor, we’re just teasing y/n”
“do not joke about spiders, stark. one day, i may not answer your cries because i’ll figure you’re just joking”
“that got serious fast”
nat forgets youre grown sometimes
so she gets all protective of you and then goes 😳 when you kick someones ass for yourself
that’s her kiddo!!
getting thrown into the midst of a few avenger battles
but handling yourself pretty well if i do say so myself
nat hugged you a lot when you were a kid and she still does now
only longer bc she doesn’t like letting go often
“mom? you okay?”
“i just wanted a hug is all”
“oh, okay”
when u hug her back she remembers exactly why she chose to become a mother
she wanted to show you that love still exists in this world, even if you’re not shown it immediately
become sort of a role model/mentor to newer, younger avengers
i mean, wanda was about your age, so she asked you often what it was like to be so young and work as an avenger
you told her that when you’re given a life like this, your age doesn’t matter out in the field. it’s your choices that matter. once you begin to learn the ways of a team like this and you gain each other’s respect, that’s all there is to it
“your mother is the black widow?”
“that she is, mom first, widow second”
PETER PETER PETER
he fanboyed over you so hard when he met you and he had so many questions it never ended
“okay, so first: how do you do it? be so cool as a kid?”
“you take a deep breath and kick some ass”
“better advice than anything mr. stark has ever said to me—don’t tell him i said that please!”
you swore to secrecy
mother/daughter spy missions bc that’s AWESOME
choosing steve’s side in CW and honestly making her very proud of you
going on the run w her and team cap
which made for some very interesting memories
“mom, sam hid the tv remote from me”
“take the widow’s bite and give him a little shock so that he’ll budge”
“thanks! love you!”
big runaway family <3
“i like the new look, mom”
“yeah, i thought blonde might be pushing it but i guess it all worked out in the end”
rogue avengers -> avengers once more
well, those of you who were left
after most of your friends passed in the snap, you and your mom were more attached than ever, she felt like she would die if the two of you separated
sooner or later, it was time to fix past mistakes and go back in time
“i’ll see you in a minute, y/n, be careful” *forehead kiss*
“i will.”
and that was the last time you ever saw her
you ran into clints arms and sobbed
“i’m so sorry, y/n. i tried to stop her. she told me to tell you she loved you and she’s so proud of you”
if that wasn’t bad enough, you were attacked by another thanos and you fought with all your might
“is y/n okay?”
“just let them fight, they need this”
finally, the fighting was over and the avengers were triumphant, but at what cost?
tony’s funeral was held before nat’s
but natasha’s was bittersweet
and every week you bring flowers to her memorial site
the world wont forget her name
taglist: @alwaysananglophile // @rorybutnotgilmore // @locke-writes // @sweetheartliz07 // @queen-destenie // @natasha-danvers // @lokihiddles // @frostedgiant // @emygirl // @lotsoffandomrecs // @johnmurphyisbisexual // @teenwaywardasgardian // @pappydaddy // @captainshazamerica // @freya-xo // @ravenmoore14 // @purpleskiesstorm //
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zmediaoutlet · 4 years ago
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in support of wildfire relief, @jesusonthetortillas​ donated $10, and requested pre-series pining!Sam, with diary discovery. Thank you for donating!
to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)
After his little lesson from Sabrina, the hot librarian's assistant, it's not hard at all for Dean to find what he's looking for. He drops Sam off at the library the way he usually does, and flirts with Sabrina on his way out like he usually does, but instead of going to his shift at the construction site like Sam thinks he's going to, he circles back around, through the library stacks on the main floor, and waits like a dingus by YOUNG ADULT – ADVENTURE, watching the back of Sam's nerdy, nerdy head where he's hunched at the computer banks, getting up to no kind of good.
It wouldn't have come to this, Dean thinks, if Sam weren't so—he doesn't even know how to think about it. He doesn't know when to pin it down. They were doing okay. Sam ran away, a few years back, but since then he's—well, he's always bitching at Dad and bitching at Dean half the time too, but he's done good in school, he's done his part with the hunting. It was sometime at that last school. September in Maryland. Dad was gone a lot of the time, because Dad always was, and Dean went with him on about half the hunts but Sam got to stay behind, got to just call in research tips and last-minute lore checks, and Dean thought he was pretty happy, as much as Sam ever seemed happy. Chill, just doing his homework at the rickety desk, not complaining any more than usual about Dean's usual dinners of fast food or Kraft or Top Ramen. Seventeen and getting tall and mellowing out, and finally hanging out with his little brother was just fine. Dean thought.
That was two towns ago, three months ago. Dean picks his nails with his pocket knife, leaning on one elbow by the Hardy Boys. Sam's still working away on the computer. Anymore he always is. After school he's always angling for Dean to bring him to the library and if Dean won't drive him then Sam walks, even when it's raining, like it is half the time in frickin Washington, anyway. Always finding a free computer and settling in and disappearing onto the internet. Not coming home until the library closes, and moody if Dean's there when he walks in, and Dean just—he thought they were past all this crap. He thought that maybe Sam had—settled. Figured out how things were, how things had to be.
Well. Either way. Sabrina, with the glasses and the sexy dreads and the legs that very much went all the way to the floor under those wide-legged pants she was always wearing—she gave Dean a computer lesson, free of charge, and he's got a way in, now. Sam won't talk to him, won't hardly look at him. Dean chews the inside of his cheek, watching Sam type on the battered public machine. Sam's not the only one who knows how to research a case, in this family. Dean's going to figure this out. He's gonna fix it.
A bell rings, at five o'clock, like the end of a school day. Sam jerks like he's been shocked and looks up at the ceiling, clearly annoyed. He's been engrossed for two hours, typing away, reading. Real frickin' boring, on Dean's end, but he stayed put. Like staking out a house for a job—nothing to do but wait. He takes a few steps backwards, makes sure the shelves hide his face, and there's a general rustling as people leave—a mom and her kid, and tears because the kid's favorite book wasn't here—and when Dean looks again the computer banks are empty, and Sabrina's checking out the last few patrons, and Sam's—gone. Walking home in the rain, little goth that he is. Fine with Dean, if it gives him a few minutes.
When he settles into the chair Sam was in it's still warm. He opens up Netscape Navigator, the library's homepage welcoming him in a friendly kinda way—big yellow smiley face, that's fun. He goes to where Sabrina taught him, in the menu at the top: view, and then History, where it turns out the computer saves all the webpages you went to just in case you need to find them again, and there—oh, jackpot. Gotcha, Sam.
All kinds of crap. A weather website, a bunch of Ask Jeeves searches, something called DiffEQandU. Some mythology stuff, too, and Dean goes to one that turns out to be a history of kitsune. That's something, at least—Sam doing his important homework, in there with whatever other crap he's been working on.
The last bunch of results are all pages from some website called Livejournal, which Dean's never heard of. He clicks one at random and is brought to—huh. A splashy red page, with a big picture on top of kids graduating from high school in those dorky blue robes. He scrolls down, skimming, looking for the important details among the mess, but it's hard to tell what it is. A forum, it looks like. Kind of like the ones Dean's been on where people trade car parts, or swap ghost stories. A square box, dated yesterday, that says WHEN IS HARVARD'S APP REVIEW???, and a panicky paragraph where some chick might die if she doesn't get in. Another, the day before, with questions about the SAT, and a link that says 43 comments that, when Dean clicks it, brings him to a bunch of apparently teenagers all giving each other tips from some test they're worried about taking.
College. Dean's stomach curls into a knot. It's all—college stuff, applications and tests and deadlines. The usernames are all weird shit: tmntpizzadelivery, quistis4ever, willyshakes. Dean can't tell—is one of these kids Sam?
Sabrina's nearly done with her line of book nerds. Dean rubs a hand over his mouth and clicks away, tries another of the Livejournal results in the history. Another forum, this one apparently about—soccer? Jesus, Sam. Another forum, this one about Conan the Barbarian, and that one's at least easy to snort at, with people's shitty drawings of Red Sonja and excitement about a possible remake. There are personal pages, though, too—one titled Delaware Sucks, in which some girl complains about her life—one titled trent reznor rules my soul, featuring a goth kid who won't shut up about Nine Inch Nails and his bitch of a mother. Another, with a plain blue-and-grey color scheme, with the title on the road, and a new post from today—from an hour ago—with the text just reading, I don't know what to do anymore, and six comments underneath, waiting.
"Hey—ready to go?" Sabrina says.
Dean jerks in his seat. Sabrina's raising her eyebrows at him, behind her glasses, a little smile curving her mouth that promises something a little better than book dust and computer lessons. "I'm always ready," Dean says, grinning, and gets her to roll her eyes—yeah, he's in there—but his eyes drag back to the webpage, the posts. He scrolls down, quick—post after post, waiting to be read. "Real quick—borrow a pen?"
She has one—she's a sexy librarian, of course she has one—and he uncrumples a receipt from his jacket pocket and writes down the URL, careful to get it right. rearviewmirror.livejournal.com. He wants to click on the comments, but.
"Come on, the movie's starting soon," Sabrina says, and Dean closes Netscape, folds the receipt very carefully into his pocket, stands up. He's got a date to make out with a hot chick in the back of a movie theater, and maybe a little more, and Sam's whole Eeyore routine has to take a number. Dean will figure it out. He's got an easy way to run a stakeout, now.
*
December 4
Still can't decide. Anyone else going through this?
current mood: agonized current music: motorhead (AGAIN)
Comments:
teenagehamburger: Yes!! I still don't know where I want to go. Mom wants me to stay close to home, but Delaware sucksssss. Where are you looking?
       rearviewmirror: Anywhere. TBH I'm still not even sure I should apply.
               teenagehamburger: WTF?? Of course you should!! College is the big escape, remember?
 December 1
He's driving me INSANE
current mood: annoyed current music: motorhead (again)
Comments:
bloodofreptile: lol you got it bad
       rearviewmirror: right now I just want to hit him with a brick, actually
teenagehamburger: LOL!! Sorry :(  :(
       rearviewmirror: Sigh. I guess it could be worse, right?
             teenagehamburger: Definitely!! He could be the cute cheerleader from 4th period who doesn't know I exist….
                     coppertonebuttgirl: oh, sorry hammie, that sucks <3
 November 29
The thing is, I don't even want anything crazy? I just want to be—me. Just me, without anyone breathing down my neck. Trig teacher says I could get in to one of the top ten, but I just want to go *anywhere that's not here*
current mood: restless current music: Pearl Jam (home alone!)
Comments:
bloodofreptile: i hear you lol. why don't they get that the rules and hovering and all that shit just makes us want to run faster?
    rearviewmirror: Exactly! My teacher keeps talking about college like it's a place to expand your mind and stuff, and that's fine, but lately I just want to expand my horizons. Kind of ironic?
         bloodofreptile: yeah lol haven't you lived like everywhere?
               rearviewmirror: Feels like it.
teenagehamburger: Is You Know Who going to college too?
 November 18
I feel like it shouldn't be this hard. Normal people have it easy.
current mood: indescribable current music: silence
Comments:
coppertonebuttgirl: feel free to talk to me anytime <3
 November 3
Dad's gone again. Didn't say goodbye. We went to the movies and he gave me a beer, and we watched the stars for an hour in the parking lot even though it was freaking freezing. Happier than I've been in a while. Don’t want it to change but it has to change.
current mood: current music:
Comments:
teenagehamburger: OMG, that sounds so romantic?? I can't believe you were drinking!! Aren't you underage?
     bloodofreptile: lol relax it's not a big deal
           teenagehamburger: I'm just saying!!
coppertonebuttgirl: wish it wasn't hard for you <3
bloodofreptile: dude you've got to say something
     rearviewmirror: I literally can't.
          bloodofreptile: ok but it's gonna drive you crazy. do you even know if he's gay? start with that maybe
*
The posts go on, and on. Reading backwards through time, it's a strange piecing-together. rearviewmirror is active in about ten communities and Dean reads through all of them, that week, bringing an illicit cup of coffee in to the library when he doesn't have a construction shift. He reads with his hand over his mouth and by the time he has to get off the computer he's got a headache, every time, his throat dry and aching.
The journal's been active for six months. Dean clicks through the pages to the very start and reads it in the right order, his heart pounding oddly in his ears. I don't know what this place is. A journal, I guess, considering the name. I just need somewhere to talk where no one will listen.
It's not a pouring-out, like some teenage girl doodling hearts around her crush's initials. He holds back. Never says exactly where they're living, never mentions names. To figure out who it was, you'd have to be one of two other people, and Dean knows that Dad can barely turn on a computer, much less go onto the internet and pore over some teenage angst-fest. Dean spends half his time wishing he were the same. Maybe if he hadn't asked Sabrina for help.
At home, Sam's the same as he always is. Comes home after his own stint at the library, eats the dinner Dean gives him. He reads, most of the time. Does his schoolwork. Dean says, careful one night, "Hey, True Lies is on. Wanna watch?" but Sam only gives him a strange, uncertain look and says, "No, I have a paper due," and he shuts himself into their bedroom with the door very firmly closed, and Dean sits there on the couch alone with a beer and Jamie Lee Curtis being sexy as hell on the fuzzy TV, and he—he doesn't know what to do.
He remembers that day, the looking at the stars day. It was November 2. A nasty anniversary, in their family, and yeah, Dad left. Dean got it. He'd thought Sam did, too, by now. It was better to have Dad gone, on a hunt, than trying to drink himself to death at home in the apartment. At least he was working, that way, and not hurting himself. To distract both of them, Dean picked Sam up from the library and they went straight to the movie theater—the Blair Witch sequel, with Dean providing running commentary about how dumb they were about dealing with ghosts, which at least made Sam grin and elbow him to shut up, even if he was laughing too, the liar—and, yeah, afterward they'd picked up Taco Bell, and then after that Dean swung through the liquor store drive-thru and they parked out, and he let Sam have a beer, and they both sat on the trunk and leaned back against the cold glass or the rear window and didn't really talk, much. The stars, big above them. The night, quiet. Sam was pressed against his side, chilled out and not bitching about anything, and Dean tucked his hand behind his head and he was pretty content with the world, right then. His brother, here, and a six-pack waiting, and nothing happening right then that'd hurt them. Sam smiled at him, that night, before he went to bed. It was sweet—like he used to be, when he was little—and Dean had ended up falling asleep on the couch, watching the public access, but his dreams that night were—good, like they never were on the night of November 2, and it had felt… okay.
do you even know if he's gay?
The college prep—that wasn't a surprise. It hurt but it didn't shock. All his worrying, all his whining, wanting to be 'free'—whatever free meant—it was all part and parcel of the last decade. Dean should've known better. Sam wasn't mellowing out. Sam was a stubborn little shit and he'd always wanted to have a life that wasn't—this.
The gay thing. That hit different. One of the communities Sam followed was for lesbian and gay youth, talking about their coming out experiences. Sam didn't post there much but he commented, asked questions. How do you know? What does it feel like? The hamburger girl was from there, a lesbian chick trapped in some Delaware high school. Encouraging, commiserating. They talked about how college would be their big escape, their chance to go to a big city and find their way. Meet people. Only apparently hamburger girl was crushing on the cheerleader from fourth period, and Sam—
Dean makes an excuse the next day. Saturday: no work for Dean, no school for Sam. Alone in the apartment together, all day, after Dean's week of reading—he can't face it. "Where are you going?" Sam asks, eight a.m. with his hair fucked up and coffee clenched between his hands, and Dean looks at him in his pajama pants and his ratty hand-me-down shirt, skinny and tall and hiding things Dean can't handle, and he says, snappish in a way he doesn't mean to be—"Out, Sam, for christ's sake—" and sees Sam's expression shutter before the apartment door slams behind him.
He goes for a drive, out of town. Cold, threatening rain like it always is, but it won't snow. Out—past the airport, past the suburbs, out to Black Lake. They killed the nymph that was drowning people out here, him and Dad, when they first arrived. Sam stayed home. Sullen on the other end of the line when Dean called to say they'd finished the job, and they were getting burgers for dinner, and did Sam want one. Whatever, Sam had said, like even answering was an imposition. That was November, too.
He sits on the hood, heels braced on the bumper, arms locked around his knees. The lake looks cold. He wants to sink into it, wants to feel that freezing shock, like the polar bear dive he did on a dare back in Illinois. The way the brain just goes blank, tv-static filling up everything and washing all the shit away. All the weird crap you don't want to think about, frozen, and the only thing to focus on just—getting out.
He's not going to dive into the lake. It's nine in the morning and he's wearing his only pair of boots. He hasn't gone out with Sabrina all week. He's been piss-poor at the construction site and McMillan nearly brained him with a hammer yesterday, because Dean wasn't paying attention, and the foreman screamed at him in front of the whole crew. None of that feels close, right now. He breathes the wet-clogged air, cold and mossy, turning his ring restlessly on his finger.
Back at that high school they went to in Raton, Mrs. Encinas in 6th period English told Dean he'd be smart, if he didn't just give up all the time. All he needed to do was take the time to read between the lines, to actually interpret what he was reading and not take things on face value. He made some joke. He doesn't remember what it was, now. Like he didn't know what the fuckin Great Gatsby was saying, when he hoped and hoped and never got what he wanted. When happiness always felt like it was about a thousand miles away, on the other side of a lake he couldn't cross, and hope went out like a snuffed light. Dean can read what's not there. He's done it his whole life.
The problem: Sam's little online journal went back six months. They've lived in four towns, in that time. He never uses names, never puts up anything that'd really identify him. They were in Maryland, August-September-first of October, and it was a comment right at the end of August, on the community for gay kids, talking to the hamburger girl: I like someone, too. He doesn't know. He. The same he that carried forward, through all his journal entries, from Maryland to Washington across whole breadth of the country. He likes classic rock. He drives me nuts. He gave me a beer, and I wanted—
Dean curls forward over his knees, sliding his hands into his hair, breathing hard between his knees. He can read between the lines and he wishes that he couldn't. He wishes—god. What? That Sam would just meet a nice girl and fuck her and get it out of his system? Except how he was writing, it wasn't like it was new. It was something he'd been thinking about. When did you know? had read one of the forum posts, and in the responses, among all the dumb teenage crap about formal dances and jerking off to the wrong person in the music video, there was a comment by username rearviewmirror that said, I broke my leg and he carried me to the car and I wanted to kiss him.
Sam broke his leg in July, the summer he turned fifteen. He'd been trying to stay quiet but he'd had this trapped whimper in his throat that he couldn't stop, and Dad had stayed behind to cover their backs and it had been left to Dean, to scoop Sam up, his whole body quivering with the shock—to hug him close between the trees, humid Georgia night making every place their skin touched slick with sweat—to let Sam cling to his neck, shuddering, and to put a hand on his back and whisper, hey, Sammy, it's not even that bad, huh? no bone sticking out, you did good. we're gonna get you a cast and I'm gonna draw you a great picture, okay, Cindy Crawford with her tits out, right there on your shin and Sam had been so shaky that his laugh sounded like he was crying, but he'd nodded against Dean's neck and chattered out sounds cool, Dean, and when Dean got him to the car Sam hadn't wanted to let him go—so they crawled into the backseat together, Sam still half in his lap and with his arms still tight around Dean's neck. Dad got into the front and frowned at Dean in the rearview, and Dean nodded, and when the car leapt forward Sam gasped and gripped at Dean's shirt when his leg got jostled, and Dean put his hand in Sam's hair and said, it's okay, you're okay, and Sam—wanted to kiss him.
He can't square it. It's like there's some twinned version of his brother, in this place Dean never knew existed. All these secrets he's been hoarding, this other person he's been. These wants that make him a stranger.
He goes back home with stuff for lunch around noon. Sam's reading, in the bedroom. "Got pb&j or grilled cheese," Dean calls, down the shotgun kitchen through the thin-carpeted hall, and Sam calls back, "I'm not hungry," which is a goddamn shit of a lie. He grows like an inch a day, he's never not hungry. Dean braces his hands on the counter and counts to five, in his head. He puts the bread away, and puts the cheese in the fridge. He goes into the living room and turns on the TV and it's college football, which is boring as hell, but it fills the apartment with noise. He wishes Dad were home. He wishes he were hunting.
The Huskies lose. Sam hasn't come out of the room, as far as Dean can tell. He's had—four beers? He looks at the table. Five. It's getting toward dark and it's raining, a-fucking-gain, and Dean's still wearing his jacket and his boots and his ears are cold, because the heater in here sucks, and he's shredded the label of the beer everywhere, everywhere. He brushes it off his knees and that just means it's gonna get ground into the shit-brown carpet, but—who cares. He's got other things on his mind.
He gets the last beer out of the fridge. Should've bought more. "Got some spare cash," he says, to the dark hall. There's a halo of light around the half-closed bedroom door. "Thinking pizza for dinner."
Silence.
Dean pushes the beer bottle against his forehead. "C'mon, Sam. It's not going to kill you to prefer pepperoni or sausage. Just say something."
"Doesn't matter," is the response.
Dean squeezes his eyes closed, slams the bottle down to the counter. It's four steps to the bedroom and the door flies open under his palm. "Just fucking say," Dean says, and Sam's looking at him with big eyes, curled up on the twin bed with his back up against the wall, books spread open all around him. Homework, of course. "Just say it, okay? What do you want?"
Sam stares at him. "I don't care! Get—whatever, pepperoni. Jeez, what's up with you?"
"Sure you don't want sausage?" Dean says, kind of nasty, and Sam frowns, shakes his head. Goddamn it. Dean drags a hand over his face, sags against the door frame. He's—a little dizzy. Oh—okay, so maybe he should've eaten, sometime since this morning. "Damn it, Sam," he says, his stomach twinging.
"What?" Give him this—maybe he's sneaking around, maybe he's lying about half his life, but Sam doesn't shrink back from an argument. He's still in his pajamas. He shoves his notebook away, lifts his chin. "What?"
"Been doing some reading," Dean says, and watches Sam's face scrunch disbelievingly. "Rearviewmirror? You don't even like cars."
It's weirdly satisfying to watch Sam blanch. He's been so unaffected the last little while it's almost a relief to get a real reaction. His mouth parts, his eyes go big. He stares at Dean in total silence except the rain drumming on the roof, and then he says, "That's—private."
"Not that private," Dean says. "You're putting shit on the internet for any asshole to read, Sam. It's not a pretty princess diary with a sparkly lock."
Sam's face is white. He licks his lips, his back rigid against the wall. "How did you—you never—"
"I know how to use a friggin computer," Dean says, and watches Sam close his eyes. "So? Got a lot to say to a bunch of strangers. Might as well say it to me. I mean, I'm your brother, right? Family."
It comes out hard but his voice cracks, on the last word. He swallows and some of the anger dissipates. Sam's jaw flexes and he tucks his hands behind his neck and his knees drag in, like defense. Like he needs defense. Against Dean. Like it's Dean who's wrecking things.
Dean's legs go out from under him. He sits down. Right there, in the doorway to the bedroom, the frame hard against his spine. The rain's loud and he doesn't—what is there to say? "You should've told me."
That's really it. Sam looks at him. Disbelief. "How?" he says, and Dean tips his head back against the wall, looks at the popcorn ceiling, says, "I don't know, it's not my damn secret. But you should've."
"Yeah, that would've gone great," Sam says, sarcastic.
Silence. The rain. Dean drags his hand over his face again, clears his throat. "So. You're—queer." For some reason it seems like the simplest thing to start with.
Sam snorts. "I'm not, like, jerking off to JC Chasez," he says, bitter.
"Who?" Dean says, but shakes his head. "God, whatever. Jesus, Sam, I can't—don't talk about you jerking off. You're not—you don't date chicks, either. Ever. So you're—"
"I don't know," Sam says. Kind of firm. Dean closes his eyes to not look at him. "I don't know, okay? But that's not what—" Pause, while he drags in a breath that's audible across the room. Dean curls over, his forehead between his knees. It's too big to hear. Sam blows out air. "You read the whole thing?"
Frail. Cobweb soft, like if Dean breathed too hard it'd break. Dean folds his hands over his head. "I read the whole thing," he says.
"Don't—" Sam says, quick, and cuts himself off. Dean can't stand it—he looks, peeking up, and Sam's made himself small, there at the head of the bed. His mouth is small, his lips between his teeth—his eyes, big and scared. "Dean. I wouldn't—I swear. I wouldn't—"
"Kiss me?" Sam flinches like from a raised fist, when Dean's all the way over here. Dean licks his lips, dropping his hands so they dangle useless between his knees. "Or, what. Leave? Either way it's pretty fucked up, for me, Sam."
"Oh my god," Sam says, very quietly, and—christ. Looks like he's gonna cry.
"Sam," Dean says, and no matter how pissed he is, that's not—Sam fights back. Sam always fights back, he's frickin' annoying that way. He's not supposed to crack like this. Dean rolls up to his knees and Sam's looking away, neck craned unnaturally so that his face is pointed at the broken-blind-covered window so that Dean can't see, but Dean can—Dean can see his teeth so hard in his lip that the skin there's white, and his chest shaky, and his fist clenched in the thin fabric of his pajama bottoms, and, and—"Sammy," Dean says, again, and Sam's eyes close and there is—shit, shit, a tear, running fast out of the corner of his eye, streaking down his cheek so quick that if Dean could blink he might've missed it.
Dean's gut hurts, like he took a punch from a werewolf and he's gonna be bruised for the next three weeks. He doesn't have anything to say to make it better, not when it's this screwed up. This isn't Sam bitching about Dad or whining about crossbow practice or pouting about a move. Sam's been thinking about this for two years and he's managed to talk about it with people, online at least. Dean's coming at it with a week's slow raw realization and he doesn't know how to make it—not how it is.
He gets over to the bed, on his knees. Sam won't look at him, like the view of nothing through the blinds is the most fascinating thing in the world. There's a wet shining trail, down his cheek to his jaw. A damp circle on his t-shirt. Dean says, because he can't think of what else to say, "You really—you want—" and even then, can't articulate it. A kiss. Sex. A kind of close they've never been. He says, slower, "Is that why you want to go?"
Sam drags in air. Sounds like it hurts.
Dean drags his teeth over his lip. There are books all over the bed. He pushes them away, and Sam's notebook. He pushes up—knee on the mattress, and sinking down to his hip, and Sam's close enough to touch, now, and he jerks and looks at Dean like he's an alien. A ghost. Something that can't be real, only they both know that it is. Dean touches Sam's hand, fisted there in his pants, and Sam jerks again, his stiff shoulders back against the wall, and he shoves Dean's hand but no matter the crazy growth spurt Sam's been having Dean's still stronger, still has the reach—he grips Sam's wrist and yanks, gets him off balance, and then he's right inside Sam's grapple and has his hand flat on Sam's chest, pressing him harder against the paint, and Sam stares at him wild-eyed with his breath both fast and deep and Dean leans forward and presses their mouths together. It's a bad kiss—he barely hits on center, and Sam freezes—but there's the touch of warmth, Sam's lips—soft—and the shocked air hitting Dean's face—and Dean drags in breath through his nose and resettles, fits his mouth to Sam's soft open lower lip and makes it better, his head tipping, easy pressure there, just the faintest amount of suction so that when he pulls back a millimeter there's a little smooch sound, and that makes it—real.
He kissed his little brother. No getting around that. No pretending. His nose brushes Sam's cheek and Sam's not really breathing, and Dean—fuck, Dean does it again, pressing in and letting Sam's wrist go so that he can get a hand on Sam's jaw, tipping him so it's good. Sam makes a tiny noise and breathes out hard against his mouth, and when Dean kisses him for a third time Sam meets it, his lips moving finally out of that still shock, his fingertips brushing Dean's arm all careful, his heart pounding under Dean's hand.
Dean pulls back. An inch between them—not enough but all Dean can seem to manage. He swallows. His lips are tingling, and his eyes are closed and he doesn't want to open them, and his fingers—jesus, he's got them tangled in Sam's hair like Sam's some easy hot chick he's picked up at a dive bar, pressing her up against the wall in the bathroom hallway, knowing how the night's going to end.
"We can't," Sam says. Sam. His voice, steady and familiar. "We—Dean. This isn't—"
"No," Dean says, god knows why. He pulls back, though—pulls his hand out of Sam's hair, stands up. His legs wobble for a second. He has to open his eyes and so he drags in a breath and does, and Sam's sitting there with his shoulders high and tight and his hands fisted on his knees and his hair a little fluffed on one side, a little screwy. His mouth parted and his eyes—fixed on Dean's face, looking all over it. Like he's memorizing a trail map, for an unknown stretch of land.
"I'm drunk," Dean says. It's not true. Five beers—he's buzzed but he knows what he's doing. Sam doesn't contradict the lie. "Acting nuts. Sorry, Sam. I—"
"I want pepperoni," Sam says. His face isn't white anymore. He's flushed, dark pink in the hollows of his cheeks. His eyes are dark, wide and fixed on Dean, and there's still that shining trail on his cheek but it's drying. "Order from that place on Melrose. Garlic knots, too."
Dean backs up a step, pins on a smile. "What, you think I'm dumb? Like I wouldn't get knots," he says, and Sam doesn't smile but he nods, brief and fast like Dean's picking up a play in some con they're running, and Dean snaps a finger-gun at Sam—fuck, what is he doing—and turns out of the room, says—"Okay, dinner in thirty minutes or less or your money back!" and walks through the kitchen and out into the living room and out the front door, and closes it behind himself, and leans against it and stares blindly out into the rain, the setting sun still sparking some tiny golden bit of light out to the west, past the horizon.
He licks his lips and tastes salt, not his own. Sam's hand, on his arm—skimming, brushing light through the thickness of his jacket. Like he wasn't sure he'd be allowed to really touch. He drags in the rain-soaked air. He'll drive, to get the pizza. He'll drive, and he'll give Sam time. When he gets back he'll offer Sam half the pie and a beer, and there'll be some movie on TV that Sam probably won't want to watch, but maybe he will. They'll be—brothers. Dean knows how to do that. It feels like it's all he's got left.
*
It's—not easy but it's not all that hard, either. There's a brutal week where Dean's torn between walking on eggshells and wanting to wrestle Sam to the ground, and Sam goes perfectly silent—not pouty withdrawal or furious silent-treatment, but as still and quiet as though he's not even there. Dean can't bear it. It takes Dad coming home to break it—Dad, and christ, when he calls to say he's coming back Dean completely freezes and his mind fills up with—with—but then Sam looks at him and takes the phone out of his hand and says, his mouth's full—what's up? and after that it's like things… settle. It's not okay but it's livable.
rearviewmirror.livejournal.com goes quiet. Dean checks, occasionally, over the months that pass. When he's looking up some random piece of lore for Dad, when they're hunting alone and Sam's stuck back at whatever shitty hotel they stored him at, and Dean's on research duty because Sam's in high school and can't answer his phone. Dean types in the address and checks, and it's still that last post. Anyone else going through this? He hopes, sincerely, not. It's too fucked up for anyone else to bear. At least the Winchesters have practice.
They run PT. Sam does his homework. Dean watches TV. Hunting focuses things. There's stuff to kill and people to save and things aren't falling apart any more than they ever are, so—Dean deals.
Sam leaves.
*
It's January. Dean's in a library, alone. Dad's working a job north of Boise and he sent Dean down to Wendover to take care of a haunting, and Dean's done and Dad called and said two more days and there's this raw wounded spot where Dean should be able to turn, to look over his left shoulder and say—but it's empty there, and so he's in a library.
Sam started posting again, when he got to school. Small stuff. That he was sorry for the long break. That he'd ended up at a university after all. The hamburger girl doesn't respond anymore but the Nine Inch Nails boy does: thought you were dead, he says, no-caps like he's so goddamn cool, and Sam says, Just working some stuff out.
Sam likes his professors. He plays pick-up soccer with some of the guys from his dorm. His roommate snores. He doesn't listen to music at all. There's nothing—real. There's none of the sadboy shit, nothing about what he's feeling, no pondering of what it all means. He picks up a few different Livejournal friends, clearly people from his classes, who crack jokes about Ancient Civ and Linear Algebra. He joins a community focused around civil rights litigation. He might as well not be there.
Dean reads it all. If Sam's not calling then Dean's gonna check in whatever way he can. When Sam left Dean made sure he had at least one good knife in his bag and he said don't forget the salt when Sam hiked his backpack onto his shoulder, and Sam snorted and looked at him like a gunshot but he nodded, and Sam's not dumb, he knows how to take care of himself, but. Dean's the big brother, here. He's within his rights, to check and make sure baby bro's not being a dumbass.
January and it's fuckin cold, in Wendover, but the library's too warm. Dean keeps his coat on anyway, scrolling through the comms. He's kinda turning into an expert, navigating the pages, recognizing the shorthand. He hasn't made an account. Doesn't know why he would. He finishes his scan of the comms Sam's part of and doesn't really see any relevant posts, and no comments from rearviewmirror that he can find. He chews his cheek and goes back to the main page, thinking—okay, he can get out of here. Beer and dinner, and finding a motel that doesn't look toxic, and waiting for Dad to call. Not the worst night he could have. He refreshes, one last time, just in case, and there's a new post. He reads:
January 23
Done with class for the week. Feeling restless.
current mood: current music:
Comments:
lawblog69: we should go out!!
bloodofreptile: go get laid
Dean snorts. At least the NIN kid is consistent. He refreshes again and there's a new comment.
bloodofreptile: go get laid
    rearviewmirror: Not really in the cards.
He takes a breath, sitting there at the computer bank. It's quiet in here—the good people of Wendover aren't much for the library, apparently—but he feels like someone's right there. Like he could reach out and touch, when it's just words on a glowing screen. Still—the speed of the comment—Sam's… sitting there. Right now, on a computer in Palo Alto, looking at the same thing Dean is.
He refreshes.
bloodofreptile: go get laid
    rearviewmirror: Not really in the cards.
        bloodofreptile: still holding onto that? very hufflepuff. how long has it been?
              rearviewmirror: my whole life
Dean presses his knuckles to his lips, hard enough that he can feel his teeth pressing back. Jesus, Sam. He refreshes—another comment, from coppertonebuttgirl, agreeing about the restlessness but apparently she's off to a date with her boyfriend, and Sam responds and says sounds nice :), and jesus, Sam, Dean thinks. Off to have the big college experience like he wanted so bad, off to have that new shiny life, and after five months away he's still all sadsack, still not actually living.
He clicks the comment box. He types, unaccountably mad. He hits submit, and gets a warning that it'll show as anonymous. He waits, and refreshes, and reads:
Anonymous: Just go hit a bar. Live a little. Thought you were supposed to be smart, college boy.
     rearviewmirror: Since when does smart have anything to do with it?
Dean rolls his eyes. He can hear Sam's voice saying it, nettled and trying to sound like he isn't.
Anonymous: You're on here mooning after Cindy Crawford when Claudia Schiffer and Tyra Banks are out there in the real world. Have a beer, get over it.
A pause. Dean has to refresh twice. The librarian walks by with her cart of books and gives him a distracted smile, and Dean's so addled he doesn't actually process and then return it until she's already gone.
rearviewmirror: I don't think it's something you get over. It mattered. It still does, to me.
Dean chews his thumbnail. Sam's face, turned unnaturally, looking out that window at the rain. The wet track, on his cheek.
Anonymous: Matters enough that you're never going to move on?
    rearviewmirror: I didn't think you could move on from family. Maybe I was wrong.
The air goes out of Dean's chest. He turns away from the computer, entirely, swiveling the chair so he's looking out at the lonely bookshelves. He flexes his jaw and swivels back around. Hits refresh.
The thread of comments is gone. He blinks, confused. He doesn't think he was hallucinating—been a while, since he was that tired and drunk. But—oh—in its place, a single comment, under the brief conversation with the NIN kid:
rearviewmirror: Tell me if it's you.
Dean licks his lips. He closes out of the browser, picks up his notepad and keys. On the steps outside it's cold, cold, fucking cold, and this town is bleak. He walks down to the Impala, waiting there in the iced-over grey snow, and braces his hands on the hood, and blows out a long purling winter-dragon breath, and then fishes his phone out of his pocket. Another new phone, but he's got Sam's number memorized, and he almost calls before he chickens out. If it's not actually wanted—he imagines that conversation and he's just not constitutionally capable, right now, of facing how goddamn awkward it'd be.
He texts: It's me.
The response, after seconds: Where are you?
The shitty part of Utah. That's saying something. Easier, like this. Like it's not him kicking down a doorway right into Sam's head.
I don't have class tomorrow.
Could be random, if he didn't know who he was talking to. Dean leans his elbows on the hood of the car, looking at the little box of black-and-white text. He chews his lips and thinks. Before he can respond, another message:
I don't want to move on.
Dean tips his head enough that he's pressing the edge of the phone into his forehead. His fingers are cold. He sniffs, his nose dripping in the icy weather, and types, careful to make sure he gets it right: I'm nine hours away.
Less, if he goes over 100 in the boring parts of Nevada, and if he doesn't stop at all for a catnap.
Stop in Reno for a nap. You get weird when you drive all night. Text me when you're close.
Dean works his jaw, standing there in the cold. He's got nothing to do, for two days. He's got most of a tank of gas. He's got—nothing. Nothing. He gets in the car, and he drives.
It's only 9:30 when he gets to Reno. There were parts of Nevada where he drove very, very fast. He pulls into a truck stop, gets more gas and parks out near where the semis are lined up, the drivers early-birding the night away. Still cold here but less so. He twists around so his back's to the passenger door and looks out the driver window at the neon signs of the truck stop, the cars going in and out of the gas islands. He ate a little but his stomach was all twisted up and he couldn't get much down. A beer would go easier but he doesn't want to be drunk. Well. He does. This is insane. This is—completely stupid.
He pulls out his phone, looks at it. Dials and holds it to his ear, and it rings three times—long enough for him to change his mind four times—before there's an answer, and Sam's voice says, "Dean?"
His voice. Dean closes his eyes, tips his head back against the cold glass of the window. "Long time, no speak," Dean says. It feels rusty.
Sam's quiet for a second, on the other end. "Not really, though. Right?"
"I guess so. It's not the same." Dean listens to the little acknowledging sound Sam makes. There's silence again, for seconds that he counts—one and then two and then three. He listens to the cooling tick of the engine, through it, and then says, before he loses his nerve, "I shouldn't come. Right? This is nuts."
There's some noise, staticky. Like something passed over the mic on Sam's phone. After a beat, Sam says, "You should do what you want to do."
"Oh, should I," Dean says, and it comes out sarcastic, but he doesn't really mean it to be mean. Sam doesn't take the bait, staying quiet on the other end, and Dean opens his eyes again, watching a huge truck muscle past the gas island, watching the normal world go by. He rubs his eye. "I've been—it's been weird, Sam."
Understatement, but he doesn't know why he says it. That kind of stuff isn't for Sam to worry about.
"Go to sleep," Sam says, instead of responding. "An hour or something, just enough so you won't drive off the road. Text me when you're close."
Same thing he said before. "It'll be like three in the morning when I'm close," Dean says, and Sam says, "I'll be awake," and then the line disconnects, and Dean's left there alone again on the bench seat, but it—feels different.
He sort of sleeps, sort of doesn't. He's got a talent for going to bed wherever and whenever he has to—on spare tires and on forest floors and in a closet, once, with a propane tank as his pillow—but his brain won't shut up. He drifts in and out, for the hour Sam asked him for, and then he gets out of the car and goes into the 24-hour c-store and buys a big cup of coffee and a Hershey bar, and points the hood west, and follows the yellow dashed line home.
He texts from a gas station outside Sacramento. Sam texts back in less than a minute with an address. Dean glances at his map of California and responds: 45 minutes, and it's more like thirty when he pulls up to the—yeah, the motel, and he makes a sound that's sort of like a laugh except it doesn't feel like one. He turns into the parking lot and the headlights flash the building, and there, sitting on the sidewalk with his back to a pillar.
Dean parks. Sam has his arms folded over his knees, but he unfurls, stands. Dean gets out of the car and Sam's—jesus, ten feet away, his face totally visible under the streetlight. His hair's a little longer. "Did you get taller?" Dean says, and Sam huffs, his head ducking, and—fuck everything else, it's Dean's little brother, and he drags Sam into a hug, folding his arms over Sam's shoulders even if he has to lift on his toes a little to do it. Sam goes stiff for half a second, but he hugs back, and Dean turns his face in, Sam's hair in his nose like it always is, and feels him—warm, and safe. All Dean ever wanted for him, pretty much.
"You have to get the room," Sam says, when they pull apart. At Dean's eyebrows he shrugs, the corner of his mouth curled. "What? My scholarship doesn't include seedy rent by the hour stuff."
"Oversight much?" Dean says, but he goes in, and he gets a room. Two queens, because that's what the tired miserable little desk clerk says they have available. Means Dean doesn't have to think about other possibilities, and it means that when he dangles the keys off his finger and Sam half-smiles at him, when they've walked down the cold sidewalk side by side, when Dean opens the door and finds the different motel room, same as the first—Sam sits on one bed, and Dean sits on the other, and they look at each other, and it's like it's two years ago and they're just two kids, waiting for Dad to come home.
Sam is taller. Taller than Dean, now. His hair long enough to fall in his eyes, which it does constantly. Newish sneakers, and old jeans, and a hooded sweatshirt, and a denim jacket over the top of that. Not warm enough for the Bay in winter, but Dean bites his tongue before he says anything about it.
"How are your classes?" he says, instead.
Sam's cheek sucks in, like he's chewing it. After a second he says, "You don't want to talk about my classes, man." His head tips. "Anyway. You read about it, right."
It was a mistake not to stop for beer. Dean needs something to do with his hands. "Your algebra professor sounds like an asshole," he says.
Makes Sam smile before he ducks his head, looking down at his lap. "I thought—" He swallows, audibly. He shakes his head, his hair falling down and hiding his face. "Only reason I started posting again was that I wondered if you might still—if you'd check."
It's quiet, honest. Dean hasn't talked to Sam in person for half a year and he's off-balance. Expecting Sam to snark, to be dismissive, to roll his eyes. Small hours of the morning, maybe he's too tired not to be honest. Maybe he's growing up. Dean's not prepared for that.
Sam looks up at him when Dean's silent for too long. His teeth dig into the corner of his mouth and he drags his hand through his hair, gets it off his forehead. "I said I didn't want to move on. You know what I meant, right?"
Dean huffs. "Yeah, I'm not an idiot, Sam," he says, and Sam's eyes tighten. Dean leans back on his hands, tips his head back on his shoulders to look at the ceiling. "Thought this was the whole point of getting out. Getting away, making a whole new life. Being someone else."
"I'm still me," Sam says, unseen. "And it wasn't the whole point. I want a life. That part—whatever, that doesn't matter right now. But I never thought the other thing was going to go away."
He stands up, so Dean can see him. Dean looks at him down his nose, and Sam's—god. Tall. That keeps being his first thought. Tall, and maybe not a stranger, even if he's real damn strange. Sam steps closer, in the little space between the two beds, chewing his lip again. He's gonna make a sore there. "Dean," he says, and Dean raises his eyebrows in response. "You came."
"Yeah," Dean says, rueful. "Well. I'm Cindy Crawford."
Sam's face ripples—a frown, surprise—and then a huffed little laugh—and then he steps between Dean's knees and touches his chest, his jaw. Leans down, slow, telegraphing like they're practicing a fight, and Dean stays exactly where he is, leaned back on his hands, and Sam's mouth touches his—softly. Not hesitant. Dean lets his eyes close and feels it. Puff of air against his face as Sam lets out a tense breath and then another kiss, the damp inside Sam's lip catching against Dean's, and Dean kisses back then, reaching up and getting Sam's jaw, his jacket, fisting the denim and pulling Sam closer. There's a stagger—Sam's knee landing on the bed by Dean's hip, and Dean gets an arm around his lower back and kisses him again, tasting him. Salt, and when Dean kisses him again and presses his mouth open, licks inside, there's coffee-taste, Sam's tongue—slick, tentative—he stayed up, to wait for Dean—his kiss clumsier now, like he doesn't have much practice.
Dean pulls back a few inches. Sam's half-draped on him, his weight nearly in Dean's lap. His eyes are dark but big with surprise, like he didn't expect Dean to go with it. "Sammy," Dean says, and Sam—shudders, his hands closing hard around Dean's shoulders. Okay, Dean thinks, filing that away. He drags a thumb over Sam's jaw, where he's got a barely-there prickle of stubble. "What are we doing?"
Sam shakes his head, licks his lips. "This," he says, holding the side of Dean's neck. "This."
They peel Sam's jacket off, and then Dean's. Sam's still in that hoodie, soft black, and Dean gets his fingers just under the hem of it, barely grazing Sam's stomach, kissing him again—tangled up close on the edge of the bed, Sam's thigh slung over his. Sam keeps touching his face, his chest. His amulet, swinging forward between them when he urges Sam down to his back on the mattress, a knee between Sam's and his hand still there on Sam's belly. Sam grips the amulet and breathes out hot against Dean's face and lifts up for another kiss, which Dean gives him easy, and it's—god, it's good. The lights on, the room warm, Sam wanting underneath his hand. His mouth, slick and open, learning how to press back, how to give as good as he's getting. Dean kisses his cheekbone, his jaw, settles his hand flat on Sam's stomach to ground him, says, "Sammy, you've done this before, right?" Sam hitches breath, nods. Dean sorta laughs, lifts up so he can actually see Sam's expression. "More than once?"
"Twice," Sam says, and when Dean raises his eyebrows he frowns, vaguely indignant. "Jenny Morrison, just before graduation." He licks his lips. "And—a guy. After student orientation, here."
"Playing the field, huh?" Dean says. There's no reason it should make his stomach go molten hot. He rubs Sam's stomach, feels the rise of his breath. "You like it?" Sam nods, again. "What'd you do?"
Sam's cheeks are dark, brick-red. He licks his lips again and Dean ducks back in to kiss him, knocking his mouth open, tasting inside. Earns himself a small deep noise and Sam's hand sliding through his hair where it's too short to grab. He nudges Sam's nose and sits up, peeling off his overshirt. "C'mon. What'd you do? Didn't put that up on your journal, how am I supposed to know?"
"It was a rush party," Sam says, looking at him. He pulls his t-shirt off over his head, making sure his amulet stays put, and Sam blinks heavily, his lips parted. Jeez—it's weird. Hot. Sam wants him, Dean thinks, and it sends a rush of blood south. "He's—uh. Pre-med, smart."
"Not looking for his biography, Sammy," Dean says, and spreads his hands on Sam's hips, pushing up. The hoodie moves, the t-shirt underneath rucks up—Sam's pale here but still that faint all-over tan, darker than Dean's skin. He licks his lips. "What'd you do? Jerk each other off?"
Sam nods, again, his mouth open. God, Dean can imagine it. On some dorm-room bed, their heads leaned together, Sam's mouth open just like this—panting, his hand fumbling down—fuck, fuck it's hot, Sam nervous and into it and trying, making sure. "You liked it, huh?" Dean says, stroking his thumbs over Sam's bare belly.
"Yeah," Sam says, thin on not enough air, his knee drawing up. "But I—I thought about—when you kissed me—" and Dean kisses him again, groaning. Jesus, Sam's gonna kill him. Thinking about some shitty nervous freaked-out kiss when another guy's got his tongue in Sam's mouth. Sam grabs his shoulders, sits up, and Dean accommodates him easy, letting Sam touch him back—Sam's hands sliding down his chest, around to his ribs, grasping. "Dean," he says, panting.
"Let's get this off, huh?" Dean says, pulling, and Sam yanks the hoodie off in a second flat, his hair all ruffling up behind it. The shirt comes with it and there's just Sammy's bare smooth skin, that same pale tan all over. Small brownish nipples, slim muscles. His body. Dean dips and kisses his bare shoulder, licking there, biting, and Sam's nails dig into his ribs so he does it again, swinging a leg over so he's straddling Sam's lap, taking his time. He scrapes his teeth over the swell where Sam's collarbone dips into the arch of his trap, and Sam grips his neck, his back arching. He's hard. Shit, he's nineteen, he has to be hard. Dean slides his fingers down Sam's belly to his belt, tucking under the waist of his jeans, but Sam grips his wrist, then, groaning, saying—"Wait—wait—"
Dean drops his head to Sam's shoulder, groaning back. "We waited," he says, but Sam's hand is on his shoulder, pushing him back, making him look. "What?"
Sam's pink. "Have you—with a guy?" Dean rocks back but Sam's holding him close, looking all over his face. "Dean. Have you—"
"Yeah," Dean says, and watches Sam's ears go red. Sam doesn't need to know when, but it was all in the last year. Three dudes, hookups that were way too easy. They were good—turns out that Dean just likes sex, any way someone will give it to him—and he learned what it felt like to have a dick not his own in his hand, how it felt to slip a cock into his mouth and make a man groan. He hadn't thought about Sam while he was doing it, not really, but he's thinking about it now, and Sam's eyes have dropped, his lips between his teeth. Jealous? Dean smiles while Sam can't see and breaks Sam's hold on his wrist, and slides his hand down, and cups the crotch of Sam's jeans where he's swelling them out. Sam jerks, eyes flying open. "Means I know what I'm doing. Yeah?"
"Yeah," Sam breathes, and then it's—undoing his belt, and unzipping, and then—god, he's still got his sneakers on. Dean backs off and kicks off his boots, deliberately, and Sam blinks at him hot-eyed with his chest heaving and his jeans half-open looking like a friggin porno, but then he gets with the program, and the shoes thud to the shitty carpet and then they're practically racing, undressing, and when Dean kicks his boxers off to the side Sam's—naked, half on the bed, staring at him. Dean stares back, circling a hand around Sam's ankle. God, to look at him, in the lamplight. Long legs, hairier on the shins and lightly furred on the thighs, and a decent dark bush around a dick that's—jesus, that dick. Big, bigger than Dean's, bigger than—Dean licks his lips and looks up with an effort and Sam's staring right back at him, focused between his legs, his mouth parted. "Like what you see?" Dean says, and Sam doesn't answer, just reaches for him, and Dean crawls up the bed and settles on his elbow above Sam with their legs brushing bare, Sam's dick hot against his hip, and Sam kisses him with both hands on his face, his thigh dragging up against Dean's, his lips almost trembly.
Dean soothes a hand down Sam's ribs but Sam's—fuck. Shaking. They haven't even done anything. "Sammy," Dean whispers, between Sam's needing brief kisses, and Sam shakes his head and kisses him again and then ducks his head down, his nose brushing under Dean's jaw. Dean pulls Sam closer—tips, so they're on their sides—and pulls Sam's leg over his hip, pushes in, and—ah, shit, shit that feels good, Sam's big dick brushing in against his, dragging heavy and hot. "Oh," says Sam, small, and Dean slips his hand further and grips Sam's ass, the muscle tight and small—pulls in, and pulls again, encouraging, and Sam grips Dean's shoulder underhand tight enough to hurt but follows, pushing in with the rhythm Dean's urging. He's breathing fast, hot against Dean's throat, but he's got it—humping in, meeting Dean, making their dicks slide, his cockhead smearing wet against Dean's belly. Dean hums, kissing Sam's temple where he can just reach it, just enjoying the—insane way it feels. He lets Sam's ass go and Sam keeps going—good, good—and he licks his fingers sloppy, and reaches down between them, and for the first time he gets a grip on Sam's dick, feels the heft of it. Sam makes a sound like he's been shot and Dean says shh, easy, slicking his hand down to the base, squeezing hard as he pulls back up, and Sam makes another gulping strange sound, his thigh clutching hard around Dean's hip, his hand crushing Dean's lower back in closer. "That feel good?" Dean says, and Sam—comes. Fast, humping in, spurting up Dean's belly and his own, the slick getting all over Dean's dick, hot and wet, the sensation enormous. Dean squeezes him through it, knowing, and Sam humps in again and grabs his ass, nails digging in. Dean tips his head back, feeling it. God, it's good. Sam. His brother.
He swallows. His dick's throbbing, wanting more, feeling left behind. Sammy shudders and Dean licks his lips, pushes Sam back so his shoulders hit the bed. He flops—boneless, shocked—and Dean drags his hands over Sam's ribs, frames his hips. His dick is still big, flushed and wet, his balls clutched up high, and Dean licks his lips and says, "Okay," to no one, and leans down, and gets Sam's dick in his mouth.
A shock, Sam's body practically lifting off the bed. "What," he says, somewhere Dean can't see him—"What are you, oh—" and Dean thinks, oh, what if no one has done this? What if Jenny just opened her legs and she and Sam humped awkward and teenage in some backseat—what if pre-med only wiped his handful of Sam's jizz on the mattress and passed out—what if Dean's the first one, here, opening his jaw wide, careful of his teeth, slicking down, getting the whole fat length of it in his mouth. Only—he can't, fuck, Sam's too big. He fists the base, pulls off, spits and slicks the wet down. When he glances up Sam's up on his elbows, staring, and Dean grins at him, jerks it again, swallows. He can taste Sam's jizz, leftover from coming before. "Hang on," Dean says, and goes back down, letting the head bust his lips open, slicking tight down to his fist, dragging his tongue hard against the underside, suckling easy. Sam takes his statement as an order and grips his head, his shoulder, his hips cringing up into Dean's mouth, and Dean heaves in air, feels Sam firming up again, thick and needing and good.
He's only done this a few times but he—shit, he liked it. Likes it better the other way around, of course, but like this—his dick pressing into the bed, throbbing—Sam splitting open his mouth—yeah, it doesn't exactly suck. He bobs up and down, making sure to pay special attention to the soft ridge at the head, and Sam's making insane noises, now, up above him, petting his head and his shoulders and gripping, trying to shove up. Dean leans into his hip so he can't, fists his dick, pulls off gasping and licking his lips. Sam's still staring, down the length of his torso, and Dean jerks him through the goopy mess they're making—his spit, Sam's precome, what Sam's already come. "You like it?" Dean says, and Sam—rolls his eyes, the little shit.
"You're smug," Sam says, and Dean raises his eyebrows and says, "You're damn right I am," and lets Sam's dick go and goes down, down, no fist in the way until Sam's dick hits the back of his throat and he gags—breathes through it—slurps up with tight lips and then goes right back down, getting his throat used to it, learning the feel of this massive, awesome dick. Sam moans, pushes his hips up, and Dean lets him, rides it—lets Sam fuck up, lets him get a rhythm, like fucking—Sam, fucking his face—and Dean reaches down between his own legs and fists his own dick, finally, groaning in relief and making Sam shudder as the vibration rumbles through Dean's open throat. Sam grips his head with both hands, holding him down, and Dean drags in air through his nose and holds there, filled up with Sam and choking, spit flooding out of his open mouth—the world dark and just Sam's taste, his smell—and Sam makes a little sound—and Dean grunts and lifts off, breaks Sam's hold and crawls up his body, straddling his hips and dragging his dick against where Sam's is all sloppy-hot, dripping wet. Sam gasps up at him and grabs his hips, his ass, fucking up into him, and Dean grips both their dicks in two hands, fucking into the tight wet channel he's making for them both, and Sam pulls at his ass, spreading it, rocking his hips to help, moaning and looking helpless up into Dean's face, and Dean leans down and breathes against him and Sam still comes first, creaming them both, his dick flexing and twitching in Dean's grip, and Dean braces one slick hand on the bed and fists himself seriously, jerking fast, and Sam moans and kisses his jaw and pulls at his ass with those big hands, his fingers slipping low, dipping—and Dean jerks and spills, his belly seizing, his thighs clamping around Sam's hips, Sam's lips open and dragging wet against his throat, his fist gripping the bedspread so hard that his fingers cramp.
Sam's stroking his hips, repetitive and soft, when he's done panting. Dean swallows, shifts his weight. He's slumped on top of Sam, his face buried in Sam's shoulder. Wet between them, sliding, and he releases his dick and slips his sticky hand out, bracing on the bed enough to get some air between them. When he lifts up Sam's eyes are half-closed, but he focuses on Dean's face right away, and his hands stop their stroking and just squeeze, warm and tight. "You okay?" Sam says.
"My line," Dean says, and Sam rolls his eyes again, squeezes again. Dean sits up more but Sam doesn't let go. "C'mon, we should clean up."
Sam's eyes tighten, just barely. He sits up, keeping his grip on Dean, and Dean rocks back but doesn't tip over. He gets a hand on Sam's shoulder to keep his balance and Sam says, steady, "Don't freak. Okay?"
"Who's freaking?" Their dicks are still pressed wetly together, though Dean's basically soft, now. Sam's still plump, thick. He swallows. "C'mon, we're gonna get cemented together," he says, and Sam's mouth purses but his grip goes light, and it gives enough room that Dean can lift off, get his feet under him. Jesus, there's enough jizz on him that it's rolling down his belly—he claps a hand to it before it can drop, smearing it over his abs. "You come like a geyser, dude," he says, not really complaining, but Sam's cheeks are red when he looks back up, and he feels—shit. He doesn't know.
He goes to the bathroom. Fluorescent light, pink-painted sink. He wets one of the five-cent washrags and wipes himself up, and he's not turned on anymore so his thought is mainly that it's just gross, and that bed's going to be wrecked, and also, what is he doing. What is he doing.
Sam's hand appears, reaching around him. He jumps. In the mirror behind him, Sam's tall, looking over his shoulder. Looking at Dean, even as he wets the other rag, cleans himself up. Dean chews the inside of his lip and can't really turn away. Sam's got red marks on his shoulder, where Dean was biting him.
"Stay," Sam says. He tosses his wet rag back into the sink and settles his hands on Dean's biceps, squeezing. When he steps forward his dick presses into the small of Dean's back and his chest is warm, damp. "Tomorrow at least. We've got the room. Stay."
"You want your dick sucked again?" Dean says, and that time it is mean and he did kind of mean it to be, and Sam's eyelids dip and his jaw clenches, but he only slips his hands away from Dean's arms to his ribs, holding him. It feels… Dean shakes his head. "Sam," he says, but there's not really anything that can go after it.
A big hand slides up and over, flattening on his breastbone. "It's not just this," Sam says, meeting Dean's eyes in the mirror, and it makes Dean's cheeks go hot.
He covers Sam's hand with his. He shivers, for some reason. He says, "I should take a shower, I've been in the car all day," and Sam says, "Okay," and Dean takes a shower and Sam sits on the closed toilet, watches him through the clear curtain. Gives him a towel when he comes out. Takes his hips, when he's dry, and presses him to the tiled wall, and tips his head up, and kisses him clean.
Five in the morning, or later. There's a clean bed and Dean hasn't slept in a day. He lays down and Sam lays down with him, a few inches away until Dean relents and turns over, and Sam curls up behind him, holding on, his mouth against Dean's shoulder. There's going to be a call from Dad, at some point. Dean's going to have to meet him somewhere, because there's going to be something bad that needs killing. He can't stay. He's wired and tired, all at once.
"Sleep," Sam says, and Dean turns his head against the pillow, knows he will.
"Hey," he says, and Sam makes a quiet noise. "If you put this on your journal, maybe bloodofreptile will finally shut up about you getting laid all the time."
"His name is Dennis," Sam says, and Dean laughs, weirdly glad. Dennis. Yeah, that fits. "And this isn't going on the internet."
"Probably a good idea," Dean says, and Sam says, again, "Dude, go to sleep," and Dean tips back into Sam's warmth, and does, and it's the best sleep he's gotten in a year.
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murasaki-murasame · 4 years ago
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Thoughts on Higurashi Gou Ep20
In which Satoko gets sent to gay baby jail for crimes against the aristocracy.
Also I’m finally vindicated in talking so much about Umineko spoilers, lmao.
Thoughts under the cut.
Oh boy where do I even begin with this one, lol.
Well, firstly, I actually like how relatively subdued this episode was, compared to my expectations. Like, Satoko getting sent to a literal on-site prison center is extremely fucked up, but I kinda expected something like her straight up murdering someone. Instead it all started when one of her normal traps ended up giving someone minor injuries, and then after she spent a while in prison, she just went back to school, and ended up going on a trip back to Hinamizawa with Rika and the gang where she stumbled her way into the meta world because haha Featherine go brrr.
Which feels a lot less over the top than I was expecting, but I think it’s a good thing that it didn’t turn into some sort of psychotic mass-murder event or something.
Also, the whole angle of miscommunication leading her to think that Rika ratted her out and got her sent to prison is really neat, and helps make the situation way more messy and complicated without making anyone unrealistically evil or anything. It at least makes it a bit more understandable that Satoko would genuinely blame Rika for her current misery.
I still think they’re both more or less equally in the wrong, though, and they both contributed to the miscommunication. Satoko is basically refusing to adjust to the culture of St Lucia’s, and she’s actively pushing away Rika out of stubbornness, while Rika is leaving Satoko alone to go hang out with her new rich friends, and is giving up on reaching out to Satoko at the slightest bit of resistance from her. So neither of them are really doing enough to communicate or compromise, but it fits with how Satoko is unwilling to change herself, while Rika is desperate to have a place where she can stop putting on a childish act all the time.
It’s kinda interesting how many people seem to fall really strongly into the category of either blaming Rika or blaming Satoko for everything going on here. It probably says a lot about each person’s own personality and their own previous friendships.
I’ve seen people disagree about this, but I actually like that the ‘big incident’ ended up just being that one of Satoko’s normal traps ended up hurting someone. It’s way more minor than pretty much anyone expected, and it feels kinda jarring when compared to all the slapstick comedy stuff in this whole series, but I think that sense of contrast is intentional, and it goes to show just how much Satoko isn’t fitting in with her new environment. She comes from a countryside village where this sort of rough-housing is normal, and everyone’s familiar with Satoko’s traps, and she’s trying to apply the exact same things to a stuck-up boarding school full of rich kids who don’t even know her. Back in Hinamizawa the other club members would just brush off having a metal pot land on their head as part of Satoko’s traps, but in this sort of environment it’s something unprecedented and shocking.
There’s also the fact that Satoko usually sets these traps up in rooms that have much lower ceilings, whereas here she had the pots fall from a chandelier high up in a fancy entrance hall, so it’s likely that they fell a lot further than they usually do, and thus picked up more speed and caused more damage. Which in it’s own way goes to show how Satoko just isn’t used to her new environment, and is still trying to act like she’s back in Hinamizawa where everything’s small and cozy and everyone’s willing to put up with some bumps and bruises as part of having fun.
I still feel like there has to be more that goes on to show how Satoko gets to the point of straight up being willing to repeatedly murder Rika across multiple time loops, as well as hurting all of her other friends along the way, but this whole flashback still isn’t over yet.
I’m also getting more and more convinced now that it actually took a while for her to get to the point of actively trying to murder Rika. I think that throughout the first arcs, she was going through her own whole arc where her motives and methods changed as she became more aware of what was going on.
I’m not 100% sure about a lot of this, but I think that in Onidamashi she didn’t even do anything until the very end. I think that arc was her attempting to just go back to how things used to be, and the stuff with Rena and Keiichi wasn’t planned by her at all. She might have done a murder suicide with Rika to start a new loop afterward, but I don’t think she was trying to kill anyone, or even hurt Rika at all. At least not in that arc.
Watadamashi’s one of the more confusing arcs, but I also get the feeling there that she wasn’t really trying to hurt Rika or anyone else. I don’t think she’s the one who killed Rika in that timeline, and I think her going to the Sonozaki estate at the end of the arc was due to her genuinely trying to figure out what happened to her. Same with her suspicion toward Keiichi.
Tataridamashi’s kinda weird in general, and even after all these flashbacks it still feels weird. But with what we’ve seen of Satoko lately, I really don’t thinks he was spending that whole arc just intentionally lying to everyone about the abuse while not actually being abused by Teppei for some reason. Unless she got told about what to expect from Featherine, a post-Matsuribayashi Satoko shouldn’t even have any experience with a timeline where Teppei shows up, and he doesn’t show up in the first two Gou arcs either, so I think everything with her in Tataridamashi was actually genuine.
The stuff at the end of that arc with Ooishi is still a bit of a mystery, though. Maybe that’s where she first starts actively sending people to go kill Rika, but I’m not sure. The question of why she’d change her motives and methods partway through if she started off with innocent intentions is a bit of a mystery, but I get the feeling that Tataridamashi might have been the turning point, since it would have been the point where Satoko really started to realize just how much pain she herself was going to have to deal with in these loops. So that might have pushed her to try and be more forceful in her methods to try and make Rika change her mind about the village, because she wants to get out of the loops as fast as possible, and she’s also stuck in them until she can ‘win’ against Rika. Which would fit with how in Nekodamashi she seems genuinely distressed and conflicted about having to kill people. I think that rather than her just being some kind of sadist, she’s just trying to brute-force her win condition as fast as possible while dealing with the escalating stress of being stuck in this loop.
And even if she got cured of her syndrome over time after Matsuribayashi, being sent back in time to her pre-teen body might mean that she started slowly developing it again as the loops went on, which might have made her more willing to resort to violence to try and escape.
So basically I think the story boils down to Satoko being given the ability to go back in time with time-looping powers, in a way that’s structured as a game between her and Rika where her goal is to convince Rika to stay in the village forever instead of leaving for St Lucia’s. So at first Satoko didn’t really have any reason or motive to be violent about it, but as time went on and she became exposed to all of the different scenarios with her friends going crazy and killing each other, and in general all the trauma that she basically side-stepped in the Matsuribayashi timeline, she got more and more desperate, and more and more violent.
I at least like the idea of Satoko basically taking for granted that she happened to wind up in the good timeline where everything went well and nobody went crazy and killed each other, and now her attempt to go back and ‘fix things’ has caused her to trap herself in the same hellish loop that Rika was trying to escape from in the first place.
I could also totally see Featherine setting this up and watching it unfold because she knew it’d be fun to watch, lol.
And yeah on that note, Featherine’s officially in the story now. So that’s a thing.
I guess we’ll see how things go next week, but I think it’s kinda fruitless to try and deny that this is Featherine. I could see them not using her name explicitly, but for all intents and purposes this is literally just Featherine, and at some point we’d just be arguing about meaningless semantics.
They did adjust her design a little bit to fit the Japanese mythology vibe of Higurashi more, but I’d say her design is still about 80% the same, and they still included both her distinct memory device and the green sash with the medal on it that has nothing to do with Japanese mythology. They just replaced her cane with a staff, adjusted part of her dress to look more like Hanyuu’s outfit, and gave her some eye-shadow.
I get the feeling she’ll just introduce herself to Satoko as ‘Oyashiro-sama’, to explain what Satoko meant about meeting Oyashiro-sama and being made into their new miko, but she’d still be Featherine at the end of the day.
One detail that might go a long way to explain things one way or another is how Featherine mentions having met Satoko at some point in the past. Which might mean that she’ll just straight up say that she’s a version of Hanyuu and reference the events of Matsuribayashi. I know people still disagree on if Hanyuu and Featherine are the same person, but I think that for all intents and purposes they are. If anything, ‘Gou!Featherine’ might exist to show how that transition happened in the first place. Which is probably along the lines of Hanyuu ‘going to sleep’ after Matsuribayashi, physically maturing and having her personality adjust, and then going on to straight up ascend into witch-hood. But we’ll see how it goes.
I’ve also seen people suggest that it might tie in to the hypothetical connection between Satoko and Lambda, which might just cut straight to the chase and directly bring Featherine’s role in Umineko into this, but that seems less likely. I still like the idea of Lambda being relevant to this somehow, but I’m not sure if she’ll come into play just yet.
It might annoy some people, but I hope that they just commit to having Satoko and Lambda literally be the same person, and just have it be a bit of a time paradox where maybe Satoko becomes Lambda after going through this loop, and she then goes back in time and gives Takano her blessing to trigger the original events of Higurashi. Which might be a bit of a clunky retcon that’d annoy people who don’t like paradoxes, but honestly at this point it’d be the most satisfying way to actually explain who Lambda is, and how her relationship with Bern even started in the first place.
This also feels like exactly the sort of situation where Featherine would grant Satoko the powers of a witch as part of setting up this whole loop, like what Lambda did with Takano and Beatrice. Satoko gets to become a new witch of Hinamizawa for the duration of the time loop, and maybe at the end of it, both she and Bern ascend into full-fledged witches who leave their game board and become voyagers.
Though, like with how I think they’ll avoid outright using the name ‘Featherine’, they might just use the word ‘miko’ as a sort of analogue for the concept of witches, so it fits Higurashi’s setting more.
There’s also the point that, as Satoko mentioned, she had broken into the Saiguden as a child, but I dunno if Featherine is referring to that. Honestly that whole plot point still feels super weird to me. She brings it up in this episode, so it’s not like Ryukishi forgot about it, but then we see that even in this loop, the statue is unbroken, which just raises the question of if it’s some kind of major oversight or retcon about what Satoko did when she broke into the Saiguden as a child.
Anyway, the real question with all this super heavy-handed Umineko stuff is whether or not this is actually going to lead to something along the lines of an Umineko anime remake [or a Gou-style sequel]. It really feels like they’re risking alienating people on both sides of the aisle if they bring in Umineko elements without doing a whole lot with them.
I have a lot of thoughts about how some kind of new Umineko anime could work, but I’ll just make a separate post about that if I want to go into it in detail.
I’m also wondering more and more whether or not they’re even going to be able to wrap up Gou’s story itself in just four more episodes, or if we’ll get some kind of second season. I still feel like we’re in an awkward situation where four episodes doesn’t feel like enough to wrap things up, but even one more cour feels like more than we need, considering how deep we are into the end-game. Unless things massively switch course for a second season, I dunno if there’s that much material left. Considering that this isn’t even acting like a remake anymore, I doubt they’ll go back and cover some of the stuff they’ve glossed over like Meakashi and Tsumihoroboshi. But who even knows.
One option is that Gou could directly lead into a new Umineko anime, especially if they go down the route of doing a Gou-style sequel to Umineko rather than a regular adaptation. There’s a lot of ways they could handle it.
Also, we STILL haven’t seen the animation for the new ending theme, so unless we’re just never getting any, I think it’s probably going to include stuff like Featherine that would have been a spoiler before this episode. The way that they only played the last section of the OP visuals also makes me wonder if maybe they’re going to adjust those as well, even if the song stays the same. I could at least see them explicitly showing Featherine rather than having her be a silhouette.
Anyway, I’m still enjoying this arc a lot, and I think it actually serves as an interesting continuation of the VN’s story, but as a whole I think it says a lot about Gou that it feels more interesting to just speculate about the Umineko references going on, lol.
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honeyhan-123 · 5 years ago
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Doctor Doctor
Summary: With a bullet in his arm, Bucky seeks medical attention and a certain surgeon catches his eye. 
Warnings: non-con, gun play (gun fucking), biker!Bucky, minor descriptions of blood and bullet wounds. 
Word Count: 3k
AN: This was written for the incredible and lovely @the-soulofdevil​ and her 500 follower writing challenge. Congrats gurl, I’m so proud. My prompt was a doctor au. Also, I’ve been watching wayyyyy to much Grey’s Anatomy, pls help me. 
Squares Filled: Biker!AU & Knife/Gun play
My Masterlist 
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Exhaustion held your body captive as you dragged your feet, your eyes fluttering shut every few steps. Your entire body was sore, your neck cricked from looking down at the body on your operating table for so long and your hands were slightly cramping. The CABG surgery had taken far longer than you had expected, and now nothing was sounding better than going home, opening a bottle of sauvignon blanc and taking a long hot bath. 
You eyes the door for the stairs disdainfully. Deep down you knew you should take them. The attendings lounge was only two floors up but you were dead tired so instead, you plodded along to the elevator, jabbing the up button. Looking back on it you really should have taken the stairs.
The elevator finally dinged on your floor, the doors opening slowly and without even looking, you jumped inside. You only noticed the other occupant after the doors had slid closed. He was tall, impressively built, and his eyes were a stunning shade of cerulean blue. You hated yourself for wondering briefly if he was here visiting a girlfriend. 
However you could tell there was something off about him but, maybe that’s what attracted you. You had always had terrible taste in men. You could feel his body come closer, invading your personal space. A hand reached out to your name tag, his eyes flickering over it. 
‘A surgeon huh? So I guess you know your way around the body.’ 
‘Excuse me?’ The words were barely out of your mouth before he reached into the waist bands of his jeans, pulling a gun from it with one hand, his other pressing the shutdown button on the elevator panel.
‘I need you to do me a favour Doc. I need you to get this bullet out of my arm.’ You stared down the barrel of his glock, your mouth going dry as he continued to speak. ‘Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to press the start button and then the elevator doors will open. You’ll take me somewhere private and you’ll quietly and stealthily get whatever you need to get the fuckin’ bullet out of me. If you even think about calling for help I will blow the brains out of whoever is around. Clear?’ Your heart thudded like a hummingbird’s wings and the turtleneck underneath your scrubs felt far too tight around your throat. 
‘I said. Are we clear?’ He pressed the gun directly between your eyes, forcing the cool metal against your heated skin and you nodded. 
‘Yes.’ You barely managed to squeak out your assent.
‘Sir.’ He added for emphasis. 
‘Yes Sir. I understand.’ 
‘Good girl. Are you ready? And remember, if anyone dies, it’s your fault.’ You nodded once more and watched as he pressed the green start button, the elevator coming back to life. He stowed his gun back into the waistband of his jeans, sending you a look that clearly said he could whip it back out faster than you could scream. But his look was unneeded. You weren’t going to call for help. The people that worked at this hospital were like your family. There was no way you were going to risk any of their lives.
You lead him through various hallways, picking up an abandoned supply trolley as you went until you came across an empty patient room. You gestured for him to sit on the bed as you pulled on a gown and gloves before wheeling the stool over and sitting in front of him. 
He grunted in pain as he pulled his leather jacket off, his t-shirt following soon after. Under normal circumstances you would have cut the material away but seeing him in pain gave you a sick sense of glee. But as you stared at his now bare chest, any sense of joy quickly seeped from you, dread taking its place. It shouldn’t have been as much of a shock as it was to see the pitch black ink staring back at you. He had waved a gun in your face for crying out loud. But still, seeing the dark outline of a wolf on his chest sent a chill through you. Of course this man was a White Wolf. 
‘Scared of a little ink doc?’ The man before you teased a smirk taking over his plush pink lips.
‘Of course not Sir.’ You quipped back. It was only half a lie. You weren’t afraid of the tattoo itself, more of what it represented. You had seen far too many victims of the White Wolves over your time working at Seattle Grace Hospital. ‘I’m going to have to go in blind, I hope that’s okay as I assume you don’t want to be checked in?’ You asked even though you knew the answer you would get. 
‘Obviously.’ His voice was a monotone as he rolled his eyes, your hands sweeping over the blood surrounding the torn skin. The bullet didn’t seem to be too deep which was lucky for him. It would make extraction a lot easier. Once the site was clean you pulled over the IV kit, standing to attach the morphine to the drip before picking up the needle and making for his other arm. ‘No.’ He yanked his arm out of your grip with such force that you stumbled. 
‘Excuse me?’ You were confused as you sat back on the stool, the needle still in your hand. 
‘No drugs. Just get it out now.’ He pulled the needle from you, chucking it across the room as he did so.
‘I’m sorry sir but I have to insist. The drugs will help you stay still through the pain as I extract the bullet.’ No matter how much his pain earlier had helped ease your own you weren’t a sadist. 
‘I said no. I don’t want any drugs, I can handle the pain. Just get the fucking bullet out now.’ He growled and you submitted, scared that the commotion might attract unwanted visitors. Quickly you organised your tray and held the tweezers up to the bullet hole. 
To your surprise, the man barely flinched as you pressed the metal against the tender flesh, searching for the bronze bullet that you could barely make out. You had expected him to yield, allowing you to administer the painkillers but he barely reacted, the occasional hiss or grunt escaping his lips was the only sign he felt anything. 
Finally the bullet came free and there was a clink as you disposed of it in one of the metal bowls. Next you started working on patching him up. Some more blood had spilled from the wound as you had worked and he would definitely need stitches. As you worked you heard your parents voices echo around in your head, telling you horror stories of the White Wolves. 
The gang had been haunting Seattle since the early forties and were often used as bedtime stories told to young children to make sure they didn’t stay out too late. While you had taken your parents warnings seriously growing up, you had always thought they exaggerated the cruelty of the gang. Working in the hospital had changed your mind. Their cruelty was unparalleled and perhaps if you weren’t so afraid of what they would do to your family you might have thought about “accidentally” clipping his axillary artery. He would be dead within minutes but you knew the other Wolves would come around sniffing for answers. 
You struggled to keep your hands steady as you worked but finally you did the last stitch and bandaged his arm. ‘You’re going to have to wear a sling for next 4-6 weeks to make sure it heals properly and isn’t jolted around because you don’t want to be pulling your stitches. Also no strenuous exercise for at least two weeks and after then only light exercise such as going for a walk.’
‘What about fucking?’ Your lips parted involuntarily, shocked at how blatantly he had asked the question.  
‘Erm, well that would count as strenuous exercise but after the two week mark perhaps depending on umm… on how you… on your chosen, erm, position then it should be okay.’ You felt your cheeks heat in embarrassment. You talked about sex and other embarrassing topics all the time in post-care but something about the way his cerulean blue eyes were staring at you so intently had you stumbling over your words like a school girl. 
‘Hmmm… that’s a shame. If I had known this morning was going to be the last time for a while I would have made it something special.’ He mused to himself, his eyes drifting over your dark blue scrubs as you pulled off the gloves and gown. ‘But since I’m here, you could always fix me back up if something happened. Couldn’t you doc?’   
‘Excuse me?’ You asked in confusion, blood draining from your face as he got off the bed and began stalking towards you. You backed away quickly, your hands fumbling with the door as you tried to pull it open only to have his uninjured arm slam it back shut. He twisted your body around so your back was pressed against the wood, both his arms pinning you against the wall as he leaned in. 
‘I think you heard me doc. The same warnings apply. Scream and I’ll kill anyone who walks through that door.’ His breath tasted like cigarettes and his body was hot and hard against you. When you gulped and finally managed a nod, he pulled you from the door, bringing you back over to the bed, forcing you to lean over it. 
He pressed his growing bulge against your ass as he pulled your scrub top over your head, the pale blue turtleneck and your bra following soon after. You squirmed in his arms but despite his injury his grip was steel tight. He groaned against the shell of your ear as he palmed your breasts, kneading them until your nipples began to harden. His breath was hot and heavy against the skin of your neck as his hands moved lower, down to the waistband of your scrubs. He slipped one hand in underneath your panties and groaned out. 
‘Oh Doc, you’re already so wet for me.’ He breathed out and you shuddered against him, trying to squeeze your legs together as tightly as you could. He tutted you, pinching your ass through the scrubs. ‘Behave. You don’t want to know what happens to bad girls.’ You choked back your sob as you nodded and allowed him to push you back against the bed, Your chest resting on the cold sheets. He slipped your scrubs down your legs and continued to play with your clit, rubbing it harshly as you tried to force your body not to react. One hand grabbed both your wrists, pinning them both at the small of your back as he moved.
‘One thing I’ve learnt from girls like you is that you always need something inside of you to feel full don’t you?’ You felt him shift behind you and then suddenly something very cold brushed against your thigh. You struggled in his hold even harder, thrashing your body around the cool metal brushed against your heated lips. You didn’t have to see it to know what it was.
He swirled the barrel around, coating it in the slick that had involuntarily pooled along your lips. ‘No. No! Stop it! Get off of me.’ You tried to buck him off but his grip remained like iron, holding you down against the mattress with one hand as the other eased the barrel inside of you. You thrashed wildly as the cool metal juxtaposed the heat between your legs causing an odd sensation to form. 
You hated the way the edges of the gun moved against your walls, making you feel every tiny ridge in the metal. You hated the way your body was responding to it even more. 
You barely managed to hold back your moans as his pace picked up, becoming unrelenting. The urge to roll your hips back onto him had you shuddering with disgust. Your body shouldn’t be responding like this, it shouldn’t be enjoying it as much as it was. But you couldn’t help it anymore, not when he called you his good girl. Praising you for taking his gun so well. 
The moans started tumbling from your lips and soon enough the coil in your belly had snapped and you pulsated in his arms. Your body convulsed as he slowly edged you down from your high. 
‘See? That wasn’t so bad. I’ve always wanted to have a cunt on the end of my gun.’ You shivered at his words, your senses slowly coming back to you. ‘Here, taste yourself.’ He forced the metal by your face and you wanted to shrink away in disgust, yet the tone of his voice told you that wasn’t an option. Hesitantly, you moved your head towards it, licking a small stripe along the side, praying that was enough to satisfy him. ‘Not like that. Suck it like it's my cock.’ You shuddered and cringing inside, you angled your head to take it like he wanted, terrified that his finger would slip on the trigger. 
You forced yourself to slowly bob your head going up and down the gun’s length, his groans echoing in the room as he rubbed himself against you in time with your movements. Suddenly, the gun was gone and you heard the tell-tale clink of his buckle, the fly of his zipper following. 
‘Please you don’t have to do this. I won’t tell anyone, please.’ You could no longer hold back the tears and they fell onto the mattress beneath you, darkening the white sheets. 
‘I’m sorry Sweetheart, but that’s just not how the White Wolves work. You see, when we see something we want... ’ his face dipped down next to your ear as he whispered into it, ‘we take it.’ And with that he entered you with one long thrust. You cried out at the intrusion. Although you were shamefully wet, you hadn’t been prepared for the sheer size of him. ‘Oh fuck doc. Your pussy’s so fuckin’ tight.’ 
There was no gradual build up. Just straight hard fucking. His balls slapped against your ass as he rutted into you, his pace unforgiving. You screamed out underneath him as you felt one hand wrap around your thigh, circling your already sensitive clit. ‘That’s it sweetheart. That’s such a good girl.’ You moaned as his deep sensual voice penetrated your ears. 
You felt his grip on your hands loosen before it wrapped around your throat, pulling you up against his chest. He felt even deeper like this and your tears ran down your cheeks freely. You hated how every stroke of his cock made you shudder in the best way possible. 
Your hands clutched at his around your throat as black dots started to appear in your vision. Between how breathless you were from the fucking and the crying, it was no surprise that you were struggling to breathe. 
‘C'mon sweetheart. Scream my name for me. Let everyone know who’s fucking this pussy so right.’ He didn’t seem to care that you could barely breathe or that he hadn’t even bothered to give you his name so you choked a meager Sir. He seemed to realise his mistake as he grunted his name into your ear. 
‘Bucky….’ Your voice was hoarse. 
‘Louder.’ He growled and you repeated yourself. ‘Louder baby, louder.’ 
With air you didn’t know you had, you screamed his name for him, the waves of pleasure crashing inside of you reaching their peaks as you did. He groaned into your ear as he kept rutting, riding you out through your orgasm as your body collapsed back on the bed. He thrusted a few more times before hastily pulling out, his seed dripping down onto your ass as he moaned unashamedly. 
‘Well fuck doc. How was that for strenuous  activity?’ You couldn’t respond as he laughed, fabric rustling in the background as he dressed. ‘Didn’t even pull any stitches either.’ He mused to himself and you couldn’t bring yourself to move. Shame washed over you like a tidal wave, pinning you in place. 
You saw him walk around the bed, kneeling down as he came into view. ‘Get dressed.’ His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument, but still, you didn't move. ‘Fine. Stay like that and let the next guy who walks in see your wrecked cunt. Like I give a shit.’ It was only at his brusque words and the reminder that this is in fact your workplace that you finally stood sorely. Your hands reached up to brush away the tears on your cheeks and you see him fiddling with your phone that had been in your pants pockets as you dress. 
‘What are you doing?’ You barely manage to get the words out. 
‘Just getting your number. You never know when having a doctor on call will be handy in my line of work.’ You tried to hide your scoff and failed. 
‘Your line of work? You mean terrorising the streets of Seattle.’ You have no idea where this fire has come from and if you knew better you would have definitely kept your mouth shut.
‘No, I mean running a multi-million dollar enterprise.’ You gulp, swallowing thicky as he stands his chest nearly touching yours. 
‘Running?’ You question, even though you’re not sure you quite want his answer. 
‘Yeah sweetheart. Running.’ His hands lift up and he slides your phone back into your chest pocket. And with a wink sent your way he slips out from the room, leaving you with a sense of dread for the next time your phone will ring. 
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ferbmanofactionfletcher · 3 years ago
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Interview Process || The Flynn-Fletcher’s
Candace, Phineas, and Ferb sit down to interview Andrea on why she should get the chance to fill the roll she came to town for. 
[TW: bad parenting, past trauma related to bad parenting]
@oh-phineas @i-want-candy
FERB
A time and place had been agreed upon for the interview of Andrea Martin. (Their house, afternoon.) 
Ferb had no idea how to go about it and proceeded to spend the time leading up to it researching the interview process from the interviewer’s perspective. There were so many techniques, ranging from that of an employer looking to learn about a person that best suited a job to that of a screenwriter looking for research on a subject. He didn’t know which one to employ here since— well he didn’t know what exactly they were interviewing her for. What position was she wanting to take up?
A mother? She already had kids that she had a direct relationship to. And was he supposed to meet them? His half siblings? Or her husband? His step-father? What about—? 
And he mostly got overwhelmed when he thought about it as one question would branch off into an infinite tree diagram. Though to anyone looking at him, he still looked like Ferb always did. Neutral and steady. 
There were questions he had prepared but overall, didn’t know what to expect. But, that was the catch when it came to all people— he could never anticipate the outcome. 
He sat at the kitchen table with Phineas and Candace, opposite to Andrea, who looked to be happily sipping tea. His eyes shifted to the Flynn’s, unsure if he was supposed to say something first since— well she was only here because of him. But they were so much better at speaking. 
Andrea cleared her throat, leaning forward against the table top. “So! Where should we start?” 
PHINEAS
Phineas didn’t really do as much research. His idea of an “interview” was mostly based on podcasts about tech startups and his own extremely limited experience. But he wanted to give Andrea hard questions (and yes, this was partially a result of his own humiliation at his Chapter Three interview). Part of it was a power trip, sure, but the other part was his genuine desire to protect Ferb. If this lady really cared about him, she would have to fight to be a part of his life.
“I’ll start us off,” Phineas announced, glancing at Ferb and at Candace. He signed as he spoke and translated for Andrea-- he didn’t want Ferb to miss any of this. It was his decision, at the end of the day. Phineas fixed Andrea with an extremely serious expression. “How many pennies, stacked one on top of the other, would equal the height of the Empire State Building?”
CANDACE:
Candace didn’t see the point of this. In fact, she thought it was incredibly stupid. There was nothing that Andrea could say that would convince Candace that she was truly back. Parents that left always left. They weren’t parents. They were sperm and egg donors. Nothing more. If only she could make Ferb see that. 
Even if he did, she doubted that he would do the right thing and push Andrea away. He was too nice for that, too much of a pushover. 
Well, if Candace was forced to be his big sister, this was how she would do it. By protecting him from a woman he didn’t even remember. So, even though she thought this whole thing was stupid and pointless, she was going to be here. For every step of it. And she’d expose Andrea for being just as flighty as she was before. People like her didn’t change. She’d make sure that Ferb understood that when all this was said and done. 
She sat slightly slumped in her chair, arms crossed, glaring at Andrea. Phineas’ question wasn’t going to get them anywhere but at least it’d tell her if Andrea was willing to play along. Maybe Phineas would just wear her down by being obnoxious. That would be ideal, since at the very least, Candace knew Ferb would stick up for Phineas. 
Candace didn’t say anything. She just watched. 
FERB
Ferb didn’t really know where Phineas was going with that one. It seemed a little out of left field if they were supposed to be getting to know who she was. But he didn’t protest or shoot him a funny look, he trusted Phineas to know what he was doing— Ferb just blinked and turned to see what Ms. Martin would have to say while he worked it out for himself in his head. 
(The height of the Empire State building [1,454ft, which converted to 443,179.2 mm] divided by the thickness of an average American penny [1.52mm] = 291,565.2632 or, rounding up since you couldn’t very well slice the penny, 291,566 pennies.) 
At first Andrea could only stare, brow furrowed, at the question. She had prepared for numerous things to be asked of her. About her life, about why she had left, about why she hadn’t come back, about her other children, about her and Lawrence’s past relationship— but she had never expected she would have to do maths. 
“The Empire State Building.” She smiled as she repeated him. It had still been such a surprise that Lawrence of all people had found someone to marry in America. Then she hummed, lips pressed together trying to think how she was even supposed to begin.
After a moment she simply shrugged, figuring it wasn’t worth answering something so silly. Surely it was some sort of joke Phineas wanted in order to break the ice? Andrea laughed a little before providing her answer.  “I’m afraid I’ve no idea. I don’t even know how tall the Empire State Building is. I’m sorry.” She glanced between the three of them. “How many is it then?”
PHINEAS
Phineas smiled triumphantly, and scribbled down a few notes that didn’t actually mean anything but just to show Andrea he was taking notes. That he had opinions on that answer. He was going to turn it over to Candace for the next question, but Phineas couldn’t help it. He had to interject with his explanation.
“So, that question doesn’t actually have a correct answer-- well, it would, maybe, if I were interviewing you for an engineering job, but even then, there would probably be more efficient ways to test your math skills than a word problem about pennies and the Empire State Building. That was actually a test to see what kind of problem-solver you are. Whether you would even make an attempt, you know? And if you did, would you go at it from a mathematical perspective, or a more practical perspective? Or maybe you would have a question about the problem, like do the laws of physics apply here, and if not, could I stack the pennies length-wise instead of width-wise?” Phineas explained, a superior smile on his face as he signed the words. “So if you want to make another try, you can, but I think I got what I needed from that question.”
He glanced at Candace. “Did you want to go next?” 
CANDACE: Not that Candace would admit it out loud, but she was actually kind of impressed with Phineas’ logic about the question. She wondered what weirdo interview site he’d read that on. Probably the hiring for Google or something. It sounded like a question they would ask you if you wanted to work at Google. 
And she was unimpressed with Andrea’s answer. 
At least come up with something, yeah? Ask a question? Don’t just give up. It showed a weak sort of character, if you asked Candace. The kind of character that would run out on her son at first opportunity. And would do it again without a second thought. 
When Phineas passed the baton to her, Candace shrugged a little. “Sure, I guess.” 
Candace didn’t know what she wanted to ask. She hadn’t come into this wanting to ask anything. Only looking for the satisfaction of Andrea failing. But, now that the opportunity presented itself: yeah, Candace had a question.
“Why now? Why are you back now? You never said. And I don’t want some bullshit answer. There has got to be a real reason.” 
FERB
In all his research, Ferb hadn’t come across Phineas’ question, which made him wonder if his research had been thorough enough. Then again, that was why Candace and Phineas were here. To fill in the gaps that Ferb couldn’t. 
It also made him uncomfortable once he realized what Ms. Martin’s answer reflected about herself. He couldn’t even muster up the courage to glance her way, knowing the second hand embarrassment would eat him alive if he did. This only grew as he watched Candace’s words popped up along his phone screen. 
Andrea let out a little oh, falling back into her seat at the explanation. She folded her hands, one on top of the other, her confidence level having decreased significantly— and after only the first question.
As Phineas asked his sister if she wished to contribute Andrea picked her head back up, pressing a smile back to her features. Ah, now this she had been prepared for. Even if the way it was said was rather vulgar. That was fine. Even needed. 
“I know it seems a little out of the blue. Believe me, it was for me, too. But— like I had said, I just couldn’t stay away any longer. There was no more reasons I could come up with or excuses that I could push in front of me to blame. I was watching my other children and I— I don’t know but I finally came to my senses. I realized Ferb was going to be a young man soon enough and I knew I didn’t want to miss any more of his life than I already had.” She looked over to Ferb now but when his head remained down, eyes focused on his phone’s screen Andrea returned her attention back to Candace. “I don’t know quite what you mean by the real reason. If it’s finances you think I’m after, I’d obviously be in the wrong place. The house was never in my name, there’s no secret will or treasure said to be buried in the floorboards that’s somehow come to light or whatever else. The only thing here is my son. That’s it, plain and simple.” 
PHINEAS
Phineas liked to pride himself on being scientific and objective with these kinds of things. Logical. Sure, he was an emotional person and emotions often got in the way of good choices, but not with science. And that was what this kind of was, right? A science experiment?
Hypothesis: Andrea couldn’t possibly deserve Ferb.
Conclusion: ...Unclear.
It was getting harder for Phineas to separate his own baggage from this. Because, really, how many times had he imagined this exact scenario for himself? Fred showing up on the Flynns’ doorstep in Danville, begging for forgiveness, saying that he had made a mistake and that he didn’t want to miss another moment of his kids’ lives. Not so much recently, because Phineas had a new life and a new family and he barely thought about Fred anymore. But when he was in middle school? That had been a different time.
“What are you going to do to make it up?” Phineas interjected, his tone different now. Less smarmy, a little more genuine. A hint of a challenge in his tone, but a little bit of fear as well. Hopefully Candace wouldn’t catch on to what was going on here. “If you’re gonna walk out on your kid with no explanation, the least you can do is prove you’re sorry.”
FERB
“I’m not sure that there is any one thing I can do to make it up,” Andrea admitted with a small shrug. (Especially when the one she was even here for wouldn’t spare her a glance!) “Nor do I have any set plan in mind. That’s not really how you gain someone’s trust, is it? You can’t manufacture that. All I can do is make good on my word— which is that I’m here now and I will be for as long as I am welcomed. And even if it takes til the end of my life to repair the damage I have done and to form any sort of relationship with my son, then I’ll do it.” 
This all seemed rather dramatic to Ferb. 
Phineas’ and Candace’s body language read defensive while Ms. Martin was still one giant mystery, but she did seem tense. Immediately he wished he could call the whole thing off. Maybe he could fake an illness or something, say he got a text about some emergency— of course that wouldn’t work considering the only people who would contact him about that were all somewhere in the house.
He wasn’t so selfish to think that all of this was about him. The Flynn’s had lost a parent, one they had actually known personally, and he could guess this was poking at old, but still painful, wounds. But he was so selfish to think that none of this would be happening if it weren’t for him, and it was rather pointless to do so. 
CANDACE:
No, it wasn’t about Ferb. 
Not to Candace. She wasn’t mature enough to separate her own wound from Ferb’s. She projected her own feelings onto him, which was easy to do. He was quiet and reserved. She couldn’t read him, but she didn’t need to. She assumed she knew exactly how he was feeling, because it was how she felt:
Confused. Angry. Hurt. Her whole heart felt like a bruise. A lot of the time, it was easy to ignore Fred’s absence. It had been years and Candace didn’t need him anyway. She did just fine on her own. But, now that Andrea was here with her watery eyes and half-baked promises, Candace’s missing for her father had opened up like a black hole in her chest, sucking everything else into it. 
It made her feel more protective of Ferb than any previous time. He was so soft. Such a pushover. He’d let Andrea back into his life even though she didn’t earn it and then get hurt when she inevitably left again. Candace felt like she had to protect him from this, the way she hadn’t been able to protect Phineas from the heartbreak of their father walking away. 
“And what if he decides he doesn’t want a relationship? And that the damage you caused is irreversible?” 
PHINEAS
Phineas glanced at Candace sharply. That was… an intense thing to say. And even if Phineas had come into this interview determined to drive Andrea away, he was starting to wonder if maybe he had judged her too harshly. 
Because the truth was, Andrea was right. There wasn’t any one thing you could do to make something like this better. Phineas had never wanted Fred to come back with presents or stories or excuses. He just wanted a dad. Period. It didn’t matter, now, though, because he had Lawrence who was way better and would never disappear.
Sometimes he did wonder, though, what he would do. He and Ferb didn’t really talk about this stuff much.
“I mean, irreversible’s a strong word. Ferb isn’t damaged,” Phineas said quickly. “He’s, like, the most mature person I know. But I get what Candace is saying. It’s up to Ferb. I trust him.” He glanced at Ferb encouragingly. “Anything you wanna say, Ferb?”
FERB
Both Candace and Phineas were wrong. 
Ferb was damaged— but it had not been because his mother had left. It was of his own doing. This was why he felt no anger toward the woman sitting on the other side of the table. Of course, it had hurt to have learned why she did not want him. It always hurt. It had hurt every time he had tried to communicate with someone at school or at the park or— anywhere, really, and they would ignore him. When his teachers would talk to Ms. Thompson instead of him despite it being his words she was translating. When his father would have to take over every conversation on his behalf at restaurants, stores, and just about everywhere else. It was why he avoided it now. The world. He had learned to know better than to inconvenience it with himself. 
He watched Phineas’ question addressing him stare back at him from his phone and after a moment he lifted his head. It took him another to finally turn to find Ms. Martin’s eyes. 
“I don’t want to deny you the opportunity you’re asking for but— you have other children. I fail to see what I could give you that they can’t.” 
Andrea’s discomfort grew at the sound of her son’s voice. It was the first time hearing it. Even as a baby he had been rather quiet. She hadn’t expected it. Which was silly, considering, but still. It was off. Different. Made his lack of hearing all the more present to her. She tried not to let that show.
“Oh, darling, it isn’t about what you can give me! I’m supposed to be giving to you. And even if it were the other way around, you’re doing your part by just being you.” 
There was a pause as Ferb had to read this over. She shifted in her seat. (Again, it grew.) “You don’t know me, though.” 
“Right— that’s what I’m here to do!” 
Pause. (Growing, growing, growing.) 
“It won’t be worth it.” 
Andrea’s smile fell. She blinked, brow furrowing as her eyes went to the other two sitting in front of her to make sure she had heard that correctly. “I’m— I’m sorry?”
“Objectively speaking, it won’t be worth it. Getting to know me. You live in another city where you live with your family and go to work. If you wished to see me you would need to travel which would cost you money and time you would otherwise be able to save. People would expect you to learn sign, which also takes up more time from your life. If you only wished to communicate through technology it would be a written relationship since you can’t call me, which would only take up storage space and, again, time. Either way you would have to contact my father, which he does not seem pleased with. People usually do not respond well to not being liked so your interactions will tax the both of you. And— I’m not worth all of that. You gain nothing from knowing me besides extra hardships which will only result in regret or resentment. Both of which are not healthy.”  
CANDACE: Candace rolled her eyes at Phineas. She hadn’t meant that Ferb was like...broken or something, just emotionally damaged. Because having a shitty parent did that to you. Obviously. It broke your heart and your trust and made you feel like shit. It was damaging. End of story.
Listen to Ferb now! Clearly, he felt the same way.
It was hard to listen to because Candace had shit opinions of herself, but she had some redeeming qualities. And she would never admit to feeling them the way that Ferb did now. It was uncomfortable to say the least. It made Candace want to squirm.
So, she did what she usually did when she was uncomfortable: she turned it into something else. Anger. Anger at Andrea and any parent that thought just leaving a child was okay.
“See?” she said furiously. “That’s because of you. He thinks that way, because of you. He thinks he isn’t worth it because you left him. That’s fucked up and it isn’t something that is easily forgiven. You can sit here with smiles all you want, but what you did was horrible.” 
She looked at Ferb then and she’d been signing this whole time...well, doing her best anyway. She still wasn’t totally good at it and she was too pissed. But, what she said now, she said very carefully and very deliberately. 
“No one should make you feel like a transaction,” she told him, even if she had to spell out ‘transaction’ because she didn’t know the sign for it. “And it’s okay if you’re angry or upset. Just because she’s here, doesn’t mean you have to be polite.” 
God, she wished Ferb had more of a backbone and would just tear into this bitch.
PHINEAS
Phineas, in theory, agreed with pretty much everything Candace was saying. Relationships didn’t work like that, the way Ferb was describing it: they were about love and reciprocity, and genuine care for other people. That was the way Phineas saw it, anyway. Sure, it was nice that Ferb could help Phineas when the projects got too technical and complicated for Phineas to do on his own, but Phineas that wasn’t why Phineas cared about him. It was because they were brothers now, and that was what brothers did. That simple.
But Candace’s tone annoyed him. Why did she know better than Ferb? She always acted like she was so much older and wiser, meanwhile, she was barely a year older than Phineas. She was right, but did she have to be so bossy about it? And even if what she did was kind of fucked-up, if Ferb did eventually want to give Andrea a second chance, what made it Candace’s business?
Phineas didn’t realize it, but he was maybe projecting a little too.
He had a lot of things to say, but it wouldn’t be professional to say them out loud, not in front of Andrea. So Phineas did the thing that was probably ruder— he took out his phone and texted the group chat with Candace and Ferb.
@Ferb that’s bullshit and u know it anyone would be lucky to get the opportunity to be in ur family and like obviously ur worth it
@Candace that being said can you chill with the psychoanalysis me and ferb r capable of making our own decisions
Satisfied, Phineas set his phone down and signed to Candace and Ferb, Check your phone, before turning his attention back to Andrea. “I think what we’re actually trying to ask is what you can bring to Ferb’s life, not the other way around. Let’s focus on that. And based on that, Ferb can make his own decision about whether it’s worth it to him.” Phineas shot Candace a look. 
FERB
If Andrea hadn’t already folded under listening to Ferb talk, then she certainly would have upon Candace’s addition. She found she didn’t know what to say to any of that— and she thought she had prepared for the worst. 
Ferb pondered over Candace’s words and concluded that she wasn’t really talking about him. He didn’t think that way because of Ms. Martin, he had always thought that way. His brain had made it easier with its ability to recall everything it had ever come into contact with. He also hadn’t said that he was worthless, just that he wasn’t worth spending time with. That was a fact, proven by many, many, many failed attempts to prove the opposite. 
And he was upset that Ms. Martin was here, but he had taken to not showing his emotions out of self preservation. It wasn’t out of politeness, though, he did have those hardwired into him, too. 
His eyes flickered down to his phone as Phineas’ texts came through. Phineas was obviously biased, but Ferb appreciated the kindness nonetheless. 
This whole thing wasn’t out of a want for a mother or because he sought to gain anything from this— it just seemed like the fair thing to do. Ms. Martin had asked for a chance. Ferb did not want to deny her that, even if she had wronged him. It was the right thing to do. 
Andrea cleared her throat after Phineas addressed her, nodding. “Of course! Yes, you’re right. I completely agree. I don’t mind traveling at all and I’m certain Lawrence and I can be civil to one another, so, please, you’ve nothing to worry about as far as logistics go.” 
Ferb blinked and she was beginning to think that was a good thing rather than him responding. So far, he only replied with bad news. 
“As for what I can offer, it’s only what anyone else could— myself. And while I know my past record doesn’t reflect that being a very good thing, but I want to be here. I want to know him— you. Ferb. To whatever effect that may be! And not because I feel like it’s my obligation to do so.”  She smiled, trying to get away from all the discomfort of the past few minutes. “We can start with interests! What do you like?” 
Again, Ferb blinked, then shrugged, unsure of how to answer that. It was too broad of a question. What did she mean, what did he like? As in food? Colours? Coding method? Time of day? 
“Right.” She glanced to the Flynn’s. “You two know him better than I do. Is he in anything? Sports? Clubs?”
CANDACE:
Candace ignored her phone because she didn’t care what Phineas had to say. She was right. Everyone here knew it. Andrea didn’t deserve to come back into Ferb’s life. Admittedly, she didn’t know what would qualify as enough penitence to come back into Ferb’s life. She hadn’t ever thought about it. When Fred had left, that had been it. Candace had spent months, crying and waiting for him to come home. Calling his cell phone only to receive a dial tone. 
She had held out hope until her birthday, but when he didn’t show up. Or call. Or even send a card, Candace knew that he was gone and she’d cut him out of her heart then. Of course, it was messier than she liked to think when she look back now, but what was done was done. Every missed birthday, graduation, milestone had only hardened her heart against him. Fred was a sperm donor. Not a dad. If he showed back up she’d—
See, she didn’t know, because she never thought about it. 
Whatever Andrea was doing wasn’t it, though. 
“This is stupid,” Candace declared, pushing back from her chair. “You aren’t even talking to him, himself!” Her hands flew erratically as she tried to sign but was too pissed off to do so very well. 
“Whatever. I’m not dealing with this. If you want to “get to know” Ferb, fine, whatever. But count me out.” And with that, she stormed out of the kitchen, Agent P scrambling at her feet playfully. 
PHINEAS
Phineas was annoyed. At everyone. Candace was being unreasonable, Andrea was being awkward, and Ferb was… well, Phineas figured he probably shouldn’t get to decide how Ferb should feel about his estranged mom showing up, but he wished Ferb would say something. Even if Phineas thought Candace needed to calm down, he did agree that it rubbed him the wrong way that Andrea was talking about Ferb instead of to him. 
He watched Candace storm off and raised his eyebrows, shrugging apologetically. 
“Sorry about her,” Phineas said. He glanced at Ferb, trying to see where he was coming from. “But she does have a point. You can’t just talk about people right in front of them. Anyway, we’ll be asking the questions.”
He smiled and folded his hands, satisfied with his own assertive attitude. “Describe what you would do if Ferb got detention.” Ohhh yeah. This was a trick question. Ferb never got detention.
FERB
Goodness, Andrea thought, but forgave the girl as soon as she left. It wasn’t her fault. That came from upbringing, clearly. And Candace hadn’t really been the person Andrea had been here for anyway. 
“Oh, that’s alright. She’s fine, I understand.” She nodded to Phineas, folding her hands back over one another on top of the table. 
Ferb, on the other hand, felt all the more guilty. He shouldn’t have said anything. He should have just sat there. He shouldn’t have invited her back. He shouldn’t have come down stairs at all the day she showed up. He shouldn’t have—. Well. That list could consist of an infinite amount of answers, or just one that would make everything else moot. 
He didn’t look back at Phineas this time, too ashamed now to do anything but keep his eyes on his phone because surely Phineas would be angry with him, too. Yet he kept his anxieties from manifesting and despite the dread sitting in his stomach like a pit, he remained still and seated, even if he wanted to leave the table, too, to go find a hiding place that would last him for all eternity. 
Andrea didn’t really have to think that hard about this question since she did have experience with figuring out punishments for her own children when getting phone calls from their schools! What she hesitated on was the fact that it was a child who was asking the question. Surely he would deduct points if she answered like a parent should. Or maybe he was trying to see if she would sugar coat it for the sake of trying to appeal to them? 
Oh, she was just overthinking it. This was a child! “Well, depending on what he was in detention for, I would vary the consequences. He would have to apologize to whoever, if anyone, he had hurt, and then probably be grounded for some time, again, depending.” 
PHINEAS
Phineas smirked. “Trick question. Ferb doesn’t get detention. The one time he did was because he covered my ass. So… nice try, but incorrect,” he said, a tone of superiority in his voice as he signed. He winked at Ferb. 
Candace was gone and as much as Phineas wanted to milk this opportunity to be in charge, he figured there wasn’t much point in continuing to grill Andrea. Phineas didn’t hate her, after all. He was a little suspicious, but for the most part, she just seemed like a well-intentioned person who didn’t realize she was kind of in over her head. That was Phineas’s assessment anyway.
“Listen, I wouldn’t take Candace personally. She’s just… like that. I do agree that this is kind of out of nowhere, and I think you have a lot of making up for lost time to do, but the end of the day, it’s Ferb’s decision, not ours. Excuse us for a moment.”
He turned to Ferb and signed, Do you want to make a decision now, or sleep on it?
FERB
Andrea sat there a little shocked. He didn’t get detention? She blinked, jaw slack, as Phineas informed her. It wasn’t as if she had been expecting Ferb to be a troublemaker or anything, but never? On his own accord, anyway? Goodness. Even her other children had gotten punishments at school. A call home here or there for something. It was only natural. 
She only gave a weak nod and smile to match as Phineas tried to apologize for his sister. Again, Andrea really paid no mind to Candace. She wasn’t the one she was here for and nor did she seem particularly close to Ferb in the way the boy sitting next to him was. Andrea sat back, left to twiddle her thumbs as the two of them began to speak in a language she couldn’t even begin to make out. (Which was more from a lack of not trying than anything else.) 
Ferb thought over this question and could see no reason to prolong the inevitable. Ms. Martin had given her answers and she had still seemed like she wanted to know Ferb. For whatever reason. In his mind, it was only fair to give her a shot. She had apologized and said she would do more to make amends. There was really nothing else he could think to ask for. 
Also, this was perhaps a chance for him to make up for his own failings. All those years he had spent trying to actively gain people’s friendship only to be ignored. Now, he was met with someone who had ignored him for years who was wanting to do the opposite. That had never happened before.
Now, he signed, both hands at his ribcage, palms to the ceiling, bobbing up and down twice. He then turned to Ms. Martin and spoke aloud. “Okay. If this is what you want.”   
She nodded enthusiastically. “It is! Of course. Erm— oh here.” Andrea reached across the table to take Ferb’s phone, which caused a spike in his nerves since he 1. No longer knew what she was saying and 2. Well. She had his phone. After a few painful seconds of her tapping at it she pushed it back across to him. “I put my number in so you can call or— contact me whenever!” 
Ferb, having not gotten any of that, just nodded. Andrea smiled, eyes moving to Phineas. “And thank you so much! This was delightful, apart from— well. Anyway, I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other soon!”
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Becoming A Stark? (11) Peter Parker x Stark! femReader
Word Count- 1906
Warning- Swearing
Chapter One || Previous Chapter || Master List
“Boss, Y/N has jumped in the shower with water on only hot.” Not the weirdest thing you’ve done since moving in but apparently weird enough that FRIDAY felt the need to tell him.
“Turn the water to her normal preference so she doesn’t scold herself.” He says, turning back to tinker with the machine in front of him.
“Boss she manually changed it back and told me not to ‘F with it again you piece of S AI’ direct quote boss.” That does sound a bit like what you would say but not to the AIs you’ve lived with. It’s still fall outside, and honestly feels more like summer so a hot shower makes little sense. A cold one sure, but burning? Especially with how hot the water at the tower goes? Maybe tinker time needs a pause and teenage time needs to start.
“FRIDAY what is her blood sugar right now?”
“375 and rising.” Well that might have something to do with everything. So he decides to wait in the kitchen for Y/N to get out of the shower. You come down stairs wearing a black shirt that says ‘Will Commit Sins For Sushi’, some athletic shorts and he’s happy to see your pump clipped on.
“How was school today?” He decides not to start with the blood sugar questions.
“I ripped my fucking site off and didn’t have back up supplies if that’s what you wanted to know.” You mumble as you go looking for some water.
“Why didn’t you call me? Or Happy?”
“So you can drive an hour round trip, pass.”
“Only takes about fifteen minutes to fly there. Medical emergencies trump any tinkering I might have been doing.”
“Why would you fly ther-“ you realize what he means. “Iron Man is not bring me my pump supplies.”
“If Spider-Man can be the friendly neighborhood crime fighter why can’t I?”
“You wouldn’t be fighting crime. You’d be pulling the over protective card.”
“I’d be saving your life.”
“It was only ripped out for the last two periods.”
“But with your commute that’s over three hours without insulin.”
“Hence why I took an injection and a fucking hot shower that your AI tried to fuck up.” 
“Why hot?”
“Helps the insulin circulate faster.”
“Anything else that helps it come down?”
“Water and movement.”
“So I’m hearing we need a dance party.”
“What?” 
“FRIDAY turn on Y/N playlist Tony Stark Can Rot.” 
“How do you know my playlists?” You ask as Under Pressure by Queen starts playing. 
“No time for questions. Only time for dancing.” Your dad says as he pulls you to a standing position. “Come on.” He smiles and sings along with the classic and you can’t help but move your hips with the beat you love. “Watching some good friends scream,”
“Let me out!” You scream sing along. You may feel like shit, but you can’t hate this dance party. You and Tony make it through Minority by Green Day, Back in Black by AC/DC, and Should I Stay or Should I Go by The Clash before your arrow finally points downward on Wallace.
“Even though I may not agree with the title of said playlist, you do have some good music on it.” Tony says as the two of you plop down on the couch.
“So my subpar music education isn’t the worst is what I’m hearing.” 
“I’m just saying there is some AC/DC and some Black Sabbath, so I can allow you to listen to it.”
“How would you know what music is on my playlists unless you listened to it?” You ask, leaning against his arm.
“Because after you waltz around my house in Rolling Stones shirts I needed to make sure your music education wasn’t too badly screwed up.” He explains as if it’s no big deal.
“You could have just asked what else I like listening to.”
“Oh no, hearing your playlist names was much more fun.”
“And I bet you’re the boring person who just puts the date or something like that.” You tease him.
“So what if I do? I know which one is the more recent one.”
“That’s so boring.” You turn to sit on the couch so your legs are hanging over the back of the couch.
“Why do you kids sit like rules don’t apply?” Tony asks, thinking back to how Peter literally walked up the walls the other day while he was pacing before sitting on the ceiling the other day.
“Excuse me?” 
“I’m just saying, there’s a proper way to sit on a couch and it’s not with your feet up here.” He taps your feet, not explaining where his mind actually went. Keeping Peter’s powers a secret from you was a priority for him. You knew too many superheroes so far. But seeing as you seem to be determined to be friends with Spider-Man’s alter-ego, he was determined to keep you from the superhero side of things. The elevator pings and Pepper walks into the living room. 
“Like father, like daughter I see.” She smirks as she sees you sitting upside down on the couch.
“What was that about a proper way to sit on a couch Dad?” You ask as the blood rushes to your head. 
“No idea.” He gets up to greet Pepper, who rolls her eyes at his antics. “How are all the plans for moving day coming?”
“You would know if you attended the meetings you were supposed to attend now wouldn’t you?” Pepper reprimands him. “But everything is going the way it should. We just need to decide if we’re going to stay at the compound or if we want to find a different place in the city.”
“Wait we’re moving?” You flip over, finally hearing what they’re talking about.
“Well the tower is going to become a part of SI so it wouldn’t make sense for us to live here. So we’re between either moving to the Compound or finding a new place in Manhattan.”
“And you weren’t going to tell me that you were going to move me again?” You ask in disbelief.
“I could have sworn I mentioned it to you.” Tony says apologetically. “Do you want to place a vote on where we move to?” 
“You’re incorrigible.” You say as you move out of the living room and towards your room that apparently won’t be yours for much longer.  
“You said you were going to talk to her.” Pepper says looking at Tony. “You promised.”
“I was going to, but then her blood sugar was all out of whack and I was focusing on that and I lost track of time.” Tony tries to explain, but Pepper’s eyes see more than that. He had been avoiding it.
“Go talk to her.” Pepper pushes him towards where you just stormed off towards. 
“Can’t I wait until she’s in range?”
“And have her be more mad at you? Absolutely not.” Pepper gives him another push. “Go talk to your daughter.”
You pull the quilt around your shoulders as you face the wall. You were finally getting comfortable living in the tower and you’re going to have to move again. If you move to the compound, there goes all your friends and your school. Tony probably will pick moving closer to his precious Avengers so you’re just going to have to suck up the fact that he’s going to uproot your entire life again. You feel the tears running down your cheek before you even realize you’re crying. Fuck high blood sugars. You’re not that upset about this whole thing, but with your stupid sugars all out of whack you can’t control anything it seems.
“Hey kiddo?” Your dad’s voice comes from the door, but you don’t say anything but pull the quilt tighter around you. “Kiddo, I need you to talk to me.”
“Fuck you.” You mumble from under your blankets.
“Ok I will give you that. You did talk to me. And I’m sorry I didn’t mention moving sooner, but honestly, it slipped my mind.” His hand falls to rest on your back on top of the quilt.
“Don’t touch me.” You say sharply, pulling away from him. 
“Ok, I’m sorry.” He looks at the pile of blankets in front of him. He feels so lost. All he wants to do is go back to you lying upside down on the couch a few moments earlier. “What can I do to fix this?”
“Let me go back to Nana and Pops. Let everything go back to normal.” You mumble.
“Besides that.” He waits for something, anything to leave your mouth, but nothing does.”I’ll order you all the vegetarian sushi that New York has?” He waits for a reaction, but hears nothing except maybe sniffles. Did he make you cry? God he’s failing worse than he thought as a father. Guess he needs to take a different approach. “We don’t even have to leave Manhattan. Or we can move out to Queens. Maybe get a brownstone or something so you don’t have to go as far for school. I can add a lab anywhere. And Pep will be wherever we are so that doesn’t change.” The covers flap over.
“You aren’t going to just automatically choose moving to the compound?” He wants to push the hairs that are covering your forehead away, but after you got so upset the last time he touched you, he decides against it. 
“Why do you think I would do that?”
“Because you would want to be with Avengers.”
“Pssssh. They can handle themselves. Right now I need to focus on my family. And that’s you and that’s Pep. Anyone else can take a number and wait their turn.” You stare him down, like you’re trying to decide if that’s true or not. But after a moment you throw your arms around him. It takes a second but his arms wrap around you and hold you to him. One of his arms wrap around your waist and the other rises up to smooth down your hair. “Plus if we move to Queens, I could just walk over to your school when you rip a site out. Wouldn’t even need the Iron Man suit.”
“Like you would give up the chance to wear the Iron Man suit.” You mumble into his shoulder. 
“She’s right. You wear that suit all the times you can.” Pepper says from the doorway. “So are we moving to Queens?” 
“Are you okay with moving to Queens?” Tony asks.
“If it keeps everyone in this family from fighting, yes.” Pepper says with a smile.
“Spider-Man might think you’re encroaching on his turf.” You mention.
“I think he and I can come to an agreement.” Tony says with a smile that you don’t understand.
“Right, like you know Spider-Man.” You say rolling your eyes. “He’s way too cool for you.” If only you knew, Tony can’t help but think to himself.
“I think Spider-Man and I would be great friends, I’ll have you know.”
“You’re too old to be friends with him. He’d yell yeet before throwing you off a building.”
“Maybe Steve. But I think Spider-Man and I would be on the same team.”
“Doubtful. Now someone promised me sushi, and you already made me cry once today, so...” You say looking at your father.
“Sushi it is.” He says, before placing a kiss on your forehead.
Becoming A Stark Tag list: @persephonehemingway  @iamaunicorn4704  @furiouspockettoad  @daughter-of-stark  @eternalharry  @huntective-kyeo @riiis-stuff @sunnyoongles @cosmicqueenieb @sovereignparker @bbarnestan @teenwishes08
Permanent tag list: @wormonastringonastick
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phoenotopia · 5 years ago
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2020 May Update
I hope you're all staying safe and healthy during this time of Coronavirus!
We continue towards the finish line, slowly, but surely. Coronavirus did throw a few wrenches in our plans. Our talks with a publisher about a possible sponsored appearance at an upcoming event stalled.
But that was always just a possibility. We have a backup plan. If we didn't win a sponsor, we were just going to pay our own way to a convention. That's what most indies do! Anyway, that's canceled too. It doesn't seem like there'll be any conventions to showcase in the near future...
Nevertheless, we did move forward in other areas. We've got the press materials ready as well as the game's official launch site up. You can view it in its prelaunch state at this link. NOTE, It is in a "prelaunch" state, so some media links are being withheld until reveal time. But there are a bunch of new pictures and artwork you can look at.
You might notice the link reads "phoenotopia.wordpress.com". The plan is to direct "phoenotopia.com" to it in the near future. That means if you wanted to reach this tumblr specifically, you'll have to visit it at its tumblr link, "phoenotopia.tumblr.com" (which, I just noticed doesn't work... huh). Anyway, since this is a dev blog, I'll talk a little bit about the journey of creating the website.
SQUARESPACE vs WIX vs WORDPRESS
I actually tried 3 different services (in the above order), before I settled on wordpress. I did a bunch of researching, and most reviews seemed to point at WIX >= SQUARESPACE >>> WORDPRESS.
I went with Squarespace first, since it was recommended a bunch on some youtube videos I saw (guess marketing works). Even though it didn't win outright in the reviews, my impression of it was "less quantity, but more quality." I tried it and found it serviceable. It was kinda sluggish, with some not so intuitive areas. I had to ask for help a few times for some things that would seem simple ("how do I change the BG and font color and of the music player?", etc).
That was last year, when I *thought* I was near launch and would need a press site soon. One year later (present day), it was time to create a press site again, and since my website with Squarespace expired (I had only signed up for a trial period), it was a good opportunity to try Wix, especially since Pirate had lots of praise for Wix.
My impression of Wix was that it was... too distracting. After I chose a theme, in the editor view I felt bombarded by menus. Everywhere you move the mouse, things kept lighting and popping up. And it was slow. So I guess it was sorta like Squarespace, but maybe even a little worse?
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(Easy ways to preview the website from phones and tablets was one of wordpress’s neat features)
What prompted me to try Wordpress was one of their slogans "35% of the web uses WordPress". If it's good enough for 35% of websites, it's good enough for me! I ended up liking it most of all. It's definitely less featured, which suited me, since I'm not trying to create something too fancy either. Unlike the other website builders which emphasize free-form, wordpress was more rigid. I couldn't drag and drop an element just anywhere - I found that comforting in a "I can't screw this up" sorta way. The most important thing was that it was fast. Loading the editor view to Wix took 11 seconds vs 4 seconds with Wordpress. And the speed advantage of wordpress extends across every action. Similarly, when Chrome launched 10+ years ago, it was also less featured vs Firefox, but it became my choice browser. I guess speed is something I value highly.
Anyway, my experience is from a drag/drop perspective with minimal coding. This is also NOT a paid advertisement. However, if wordpress would like to send some money my way, I would not be opposed... (call me!)
Achievements, Bugfixes, and Cleanup
Lots of small tasks and polish was done over the past 2 months. I finally fixed the time tracking bug - important because the Speed Run achievement depended on it. I also finally finished implementing all the technical stuff for the achievements. There was a bug where some enemies would stack up too many light sources, causing them to appear too bright and drain system resources. That's now also fixed. Lots of other small ones that don't bear mentioning.
A neat trivia about the game is that there's a final super hard achievement for those seeking to prove their mastery over the game. The player has to beat the game having never picked up a heart or energy upgrade. When playing under this constraint, some enemies can even kill the player in one hit! In the game's most current iteration, even I failed to achieve it, so I'm definitely going to have to go in and tweak things a little more.
Age Ratings
I went and got the game's age rating. I did a little research on this - it's quite fascinating. ESRB would be the age ratings board for the United States (where I'm based). But if you were in Europe, you'd get a PEGI rating. Then there's ACB for Australia and so forth. So if you wanted to launch a game globally, you'd have to deal with this process over and over, and each country rates things a little differently... that's a lot of work!
Enter IARC (International Age Rating Coalition), which aimed to simplify the process by being the one standard that you apply to, and from which you could then get the equivalent rating for all participating countries. IARC is an entirely automated process - probably necessary due to the boom of digital titles across all platforms, particularly mobile.
IARC is great for me, because they relaxed the standards for getting a rating. From my understanding, the process used to be more difficult. And you'd have to pay ESRB a hefty chunk to get a rating, but with IARC, it's totally free! So long as it's for digital and it's used only on licensed sites and store fronts. If I wanted to launch the game physically, I'd have to deal with ESRB on an individual basis again.
Without further ado, here's Phoenotopia's IARC ratings:
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Fascinating... Phoenotopia is rated "Mature" in Australia... but for "Horror". Which seems suspect. The horror elements are rare (remember Dreadlands?). But when I was answering their questionnaire, they provided a video example of what they considered "horror", and it was pretty mild. About as mild as my game, so I checked that box. It is what it is...
We also got a "Teen" rating for ESRB for reasons of Fantasy Violence and "Mild Blood". This one is kinda iffy. In the game, if you hit a giant bug, it spits out a few drops of green blood. Does that really count as blood? Ocarina of time skirted by with an E rating 2 decades ago, and it let a dude spit out green blood. However, since IIARC is an automated process, I didn't see any place to dispute. But also, I wouldn't have disputed it anyway. A "T" rating is cooler than an "E" rating!
I'd like to mention this is not a paid advertisement for IARC. However, if IARC would like to send some money my way, I would not be opposed... (call me!)
Submission
I expect to polish the game for about 2 (maybe 3) more weeks. After which, I'll be submitting the game to the console "authority". From my understanding, I'll then have to wait a month while they "inspect" the title. After which, I'm then cleared to have an official launch date - which I'll probably set to be 1 month after getting approval.
So the plan is to have a very short marketing campaign. The reveal trailer will basically drop 1 month before release. And we're going to sprint to the finish line. Some marketing campaigns are 6 months to a couple years. Ours will be one month... Let's hope it works.
Wrench
That's what the plan looks like right now, but there is a possible upcoming wrench in this whole thing. I recently learned that my version of Unity is too old. Games running on old Unity versions are not automatically accepted - so I'll have to apply for an exemption. If the exemption gets rejected, we can't launch without upgrading, which will require *significant* work...
This came as a surprise to me. When I started dabbling in games development a decade ago, the most common advice I found online was "Make Games, not Game Engines." I interpreted this to mean lock in your technologies. There's always going to be a new and shinier bell or whistle, but if you keep chasing it, you're not going to work on the actual content of the game. That's probably what kept me to releasing the original game on Flash. That was a game I was making as a hobby while working a full-time job. By the time I quit my job to go full-time indie dev, Flash had long been a dead technology. But I remembered "do you want to build game engines or games?" And so I pressed forward.
So that mindset could potentially backfire here. If PC was the lead SKU, we wouldn't have these issues since PC is more relaxed as a platform. Consoles, as I'm now learning, have an ever forward shifting window of technologies. If we get rejected for the exemption, there's a couple ways we can play it. One, we go through the pain of upgrading which will take months... Two, we pivot and make PC the lead SKU again, but have to handle porting that plus its specific features, which will also take months...
So why is updating such a big issue? Unity has changed drastically over the years. When I started, it was a lot less 2D friendly. They didn't have an official 2D tilemap solution, so you had to build your own or buy a 3rd party library from their asset store. I used 2DTK for tilemaps - 2DTK is now entirely deprecated. Similarly, I had to search for and purchase a good asset to display crisp text - since you couldn't even do that in Unity back then (heh). That's the story for a lot of old Unity stuff. Think of it as a first mover's "disadvantage".
Hopefully it won't come to that, since I'm pretty spent as a developer. I've been ready for this to be over, and I know many of you feel the same. Hopefully soon! As usual, I'll update in 2 months at the latest (end of June). An update might come earlier if we have some good news to share sooner. Until then!
Fanart and Cosplay
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This first picture comes from roccy_chair and shows Gail basked in light. I like how her pose and equipment together form an "X". That's a neat hidden symmetry. The way she floats also kinda reminds me of Crono's "Shining" spell. Perhaps Gail should have the ability to cast spells? Hmmm...
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Cody G returns with a new art depicting the 2 Moonstone enthusiasts. I like Fran's starry-eyed expression here. That's true love on display. I also like how the Moonstones are depicted as flat and coin-shaped. Very unique! Also note Gail makes an appearance in the back :D
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Thanks to M1shaaa for this cosplay of Gail! There's a lot to like here! The vibrant pink hair. The costume with 3 stitches across the vest. The pose with slingshot, accurate to Gail's depiction in the box art. Amazingly, this might also be the very *first* cosplay of Gail! Will and Pirate both alerted me about it excitedly since they were pretty stoked. We joked that we crossed the final milestone in terms of fandom.
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bowensbyrams · 4 years ago
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✨ Canadian Dream ✨
Okay so I guess @generallybarzy​ has spread the word: I’M FINALLY WRITING MY FIRST FIC!
I’m really excited about it because it’s my first hockey fic and second story I write 100% in English (so I’m sorry if I make any mistakes and/or mess some expression up). So, as a celebration, I decided to post a little snippet here and although I don’t quite understand how this site’s algorithm works, I’m gonna do it anyway.
I’ll probably post the first part on Friday, just to see if you guys like the idea and then maybe we can decide about having a fixed day to post? Idk but we’ll get there.
I really hope you guys enjoy it as much as I’m enjoying writing it!
Ps: if there’s anyone from Montreal around here, I kindly ask you to send me expressions/places/cultural things you guys have so I can make this as accurate as possible!
Well, I guess I’ll leave the snippet now...
“It had been her dream to live in Canada for a while now. Something about that place is special to Y/N and she had always loved it. Her favorite aunt, Mary, used to live in Toronto and Y/N wouldn’t let her parents rest until they agreed it was a good idea to let her spend every summer at her house And, as a true Canada lover, of course she loved hockey. Her family wasn’t much into it, but aunt Mary was a huge fan and that was enough for the two of them to bound even more. When she got her acceptance letter from the Boston University, she couldn’t be happier to go to one of the biggest hockey cities in the US.Y/N was happy there, things were going fine – until Thomas happened. He was a complete jerk and broke her heart into so many pieces Y/N thought it’d be impossible to get it all back together. So, after a long conversation with her parents, Y/N applied to the transferring program and got accepted at the University of Montreal. After packing all her things and saying goodbye to all of her friends, she was finally ready to move on and go to Canada to start a new life – and hopefully, she’d graduate without having her heart broken again. However, she never expected to meet a certain tall, curly haired, French-Canadian hockey player who would, in fact, break her heart – just so he could put it all back together.”
Tell me what you think about it!
Xo,
Lulu
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eirian-houpe · 4 years ago
Text
Cactus
Fandom: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Characters: Belle (Once Upon a Time), Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Prince Charming | David Nolan
Additional Tags: Fluff, Flirting, Courtship, a monthly Rumbelling July 2020, A Monthly Rumbelling (Once Upon a Time)
Series: Part 2 of The Language of Flowers
Summary: Belle and Gold continue their courtship with poetry and flowers and as their relationship grows, Rumple sends Belle a very important gift
Read on AO3
Cactus
Although they had officially been dating for three weeks, he didn’t stop the practice that had brought them together.
He already had some flowers, which he’d pressed prior to their daily arrangement of walking together at dusk, as well as taking afternoon tea on Sundays, just to break up the monotony of the weeks that never seemed to change in Storybrooke. However, he wanted something different now they knew each other a little better; something special.
He began to spend some of the free time he had between customers who came in to the pawn shop, for the repair of mechanical, clockwork trinkets and other assorted trivia, on the Internet. At first his Google searches frustrated him, as he always seemed to put in the wrong search parameters, and got back ridiculous answers such as how to wash a dog he didn’t have, with vinegar and baking soda. He wondered how on earth Google thought this was an appropriate answer when the words he’d typed in were, ‘Flower Lore.’ It was one of the reasons he hated the Internet with a passion reserved previously for such people as the mayor, the proprietor of the Rabbit Hole, and of course, Belle’s no good father. He persevered, however, - as he had done with the three aforementioned individuals - and soon the Internet yielded the results for which he had been hoping, a knowledgeable and consistent web and blog site that focused on flowers, their meanings in folklore, and uses in common-day herbalism and home remedies.
It was for these reason he got into the habit of driving to the nearest town to Storybrooke to visit a rather well stocked nursery and florist establishment. He was becoming a regular, and it suited him well enough that the proprietor knew that he was only looking for the best plants and blooms. Only the best for his Belle.
**
Belle French frowned, a very confused frown, as she stood in the library doorway, looking down at the plant as if it were the oddest thing in the world. She crouched down and very carefully fingered the edges of the soft tissue paper in which the plant was wrapped. Then she looked up and along the street to where she could see the familiar figure of Mister Gold limping along towards his shop.
She couldn’t count the number of stares they’d received from the many people who had seen them out walking together in the evenings, or who happened to be in Granny’s diner when they called in for their tea on Sundays. So many of them were the looks of astonishment at best, and mortification, at worst, and it hurt her heart to think that the people of Storybrooke still reviled Mister R Gold, while she, Belle French, was quickly coming to like him… a lot.
In fact, if pressed while she was working on another of the collages she made of Gold’s offerings, the ones she framed and put around the library apartment to, ‘brighten the place up’ as she would tell you at first, she might just let you in on the secret yearnings that were beginning to stir in both her heart and her body for Storybrooke’s most hated man, and then fix you with a deadly stare that dared you to comment on her taste in romantic partners.
So, she picked up the plant, and carefully carried it inside the library where she unwrapped the blue and white ceramic pot in which it was planted - her favorite kind of housing for living plants that she received, although seldom - and set the cactus, for such was her gift - on the circulation desk for all to see, and until she could decide how in the name of everything holy she was going to get a cutting and dry it to be used in one of her pictures.
It was a gift after all, and she wanted to use it, in spite of the thorns.
**
Through the long, cold day I long for the warmth of your protection against wintry nights.
This time she had slipped the beautifully handwritten note inside the upper left pocket of the vest he wore beneath the suit jacket. Even after their weeks of walking together she still wrote to him, finding hiding places on his person, or in unexpected places around his shop where no one but he would find them. Once, she even managed to slip one into his wallet - and he still hadn’t worked out how on earth she’d been able to achieve such a feat. Not that he wouldn’t have given his wallet to her if she’d ask.
He had found the note when he opened it up at the garage where he had the Cadillac serviced, and his oil changed. He pulled out the cash to pay Michael, the proprietor, and found the note nestled there between the bills. He stood for many long moments just staring at the piece of paper and the words she had written on it. Taking in nothing else for long enough that Michael called his name and asked if everything were okay.
It was. It was unexpected, but more than welcome.
With a smile, when he reached his shop, he walked into the back room where beautiful rainbow dahlia were carefully tucked into a large dome of soaked, green oasis to keep them fresh for the evening, when he could give them to Belle in a small basket he had picked out as perfect for the occasion. He thought the blooms reflected the elegance and dignity that she displayed as they walked around Storybrooke together with her on his arm.
How could she be so patient with others?
Having seen some of the looks she had endured, some of the stares over the last three weeks, it was a wonder to him that he had not simply broken from her gentle hold, taken his cane, and smashed them to within inches of their lives. How dare they look at her in such a way. Still, she would always seem to know when his temper was about to get the better of him, and would tighten her hand around his arm, and give him the kind of smile that made him forget everything around him, and focus only on her.
**
Belle carefully teased the cactus leaf apart and set it to press between two of the heaviest books in her apartment, which she had brought up from the library. That complete, she dipped her pen into the light green ink in the bottle on her desk. She had decided to order some different colored inks to add another dimension to the pictures she made from the flowers that Mister Gold still gave to her, perhaps even more frequently now that they were courting.
She paused, letting the end of the pen come to rest against her lip as she considered the words she had used in the latest of their pictures; a gift that she was preparing for Mister Gold for the approaching holiday. She had a bubbling excitement in her wait for it, for him to see it, and for him to be able to see that her feelings were true.
Hours spent by candle, before the firelight’s glow as the march of time carries us toward full night.
With a smile she set down her pen, and turned the paper to rest it carefully against the blotter, careful not to smudge the lettering while it was still wet, and making certain that - by the time she was ready - the faint aroma of the rose-scented oils she had sprayed upon the paper lingered, completing her poetic missive, and encouragement for more.  Spying the time, she reached for her coat and put the note carefully into her pocket, ready to slip it, unobserved onto Gold’s person as they walked.
True, it was a game she played with him, another way of more openly flirting with him than simply with flowers and poetry, but it was still unknown to the rest of Storybrooke, who looked at her with such unkind, judgmental eyes. Expressions she would, with a steady gaze, return to assure them that she was not ashamed of her growing feelings for Mister Gold, nor would they make her so, with their impolite reception.
Closing the door behind her, she made the short walk back down to the library, from where, her heart full of happiness and a smile lighting her face, she would be collected for her evening walk.
**
After the third of her short, poetic notes that week, Gold finally reached for the courage, at least in his own company, to consider taking their relationship further, but in another crisis of confidence, which always seemed to trigger when he considered how he might progress nearer to his desire for he and Belle.
The Thursday morning saw him staring seriously into his coffee cup in a booth at the middle of the diner, further back from his usual place.
“Did something go wrong?” David asked, still a little too loudly in public, and not for the first time Gold winced and wondered what had made him choose David for his confidante. Still he pulled out the carefully folded, much cherished piece of vellum.
As quietly as all the other times, he slid the folded note across the table between the two of them seated at the table.
“Is this the problem?” David asked again, as Gold seemed reluctant to release the sheet of paper. “She told you something that upset you in a note?
“I’m not upset,” he said, shaking his head, “and again, please keep your voice down. This is a most private matter.”  David raised an eyebrow and gave a soft apology, and Gold doubted that the other man would ever guess the content of the note. He leaned forward in his seat and quietly, confidentially, explained what he could of the growing affections between he and Belle.
David sat back in his seat, a smile on his face as Gold finished his tale. “Well, that’s good news,” he said. “Isn’t it? Why don’t you just ask her. Now… tonight, I mean, on your walk.”
“Please,” Gold said, “It’s most impropitious. Besides, why should I have reason to believe that she shares my growing feelings in any way?”
“Talking to her?” David questioned, and Gold finally lifted his hand from the latest of the notes he had received, this time in the front pocket of his jacket, found after last night’s walk. He watched as David pulled the note toward him and opened it, saw the way his eyebrows shot up as he read. Gold knew the words already, by heart, and even thinking them made it clench and send its always birdlike flutter down into his groin.
And in that night, with you beside me, shall I call your name as you know me.
“Wow,” David said, looking up from the note. “And you doubt she shares your feelings how exactly?”
“Because,” he began, surrendering to a moment of almost painful honesty, “Even after weeks of courting, and walking in public, longing to take things further - when it comes to it, I fear that what I have to offer her is far less then the gift that she can give… and not as much as she deserves.
David regarded him without words for the longest time, meeting his eyes and holding him in place with only his gaze until, uncomfortable, he began to fidget.
“I think you need to let Belle be the judge of that.”
**
Belle wiped off the last of the dust from the circulation desk and a soft sigh escaped her. She had hoped, as before, that Mister Gold might call in to suggest a different course than simply their evening walk, that he might have understood, and for a moment she felt such fierce disappointment that her eyes became hot with unshed tears.
Had her poetic notes been too unclear? Had the cactus been a symbol of his irritation with her in some way?
She looked at the clock on the wall. It was almost ten, and there were no patrons in the library, so as was her desire, she locked up, heade upstairs, and prepared to drown her disappointment in a bucket of tea, and as much foundation as would hide the evidence of her sorrow. It was not at all her usual way, but she just felt… cowed and lonely.
His soft voice began the moment she left the stacks to head back to the desk, rolling like a wave of warmth across the space between them as she came to a sudden halt, her heart beating so quickly it was like unto one continuous drum-roll.
“Safe and warm within my arms,” he purred, “bearing the rose of my kiss.”
He approached her slowly, and it was only then that she noticed that he had turned out all but one of the lights in the library’s lobby, and that he reached for her with an un-gloved hand, his fingertips barely brushing against her skin.
“So that I need not speak, only be the echo of my heart for thee”
She blushed as she leaned toward him, into the soft touch of his fingers on her cheek, and looked up at him with a moonlit ocean for eyes that met the caramel warmth of his.
��Rumple,” she greeted him softly, a little breathless.
“May I?” he asked quietly, passing the tender brush of his thumb against her lips.
Blushing more fiercely, she nodded once, and then stilled, even holding her breath as he leaned closer yet, brushing his mouth softly to hers.
“Belle,” she breathed as he withdrew his touch.
She watched as he retrieved his cane from where he always left it, and then tipped her head in query as he offered her his arm.
“Would you care to share a nightcap with me, at my home?” he asked.
She smiled, and slipped her hand onto his arm.
“I should like that very much,” she said.
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lastoneout · 6 years ago
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A friendly guide on how not to make your local theater workers hate you this weekend
by a former theater worker with 3 and a half years of theater experience at a local theater with no competitors within 30 miles and therefor has seen the end of times
According to some reports many theaters will be working insane extra hours this weekend to accommodate what it’s likely to be one of the biggest movie releases in recent history. As you have probably guessed, this means that your local theater workers are going to be stressed beyond reason, likely working extra hours with no overtime pay, and probably without a break. And believe me when I say that it is an unending nightmare the likes of which most people have never seen. So here are a few quick things you can do to make their lives easier, and ensure they don’t spend countless hours telling all of their co-workers about That Asshole(You) they had to deal with. You don’t want to be that asshole. 
Box Office
If at all possible, purchase your tickets online. This keeps the lines at box office down and helps you get to your theater and out of everyone’s way faster.  
Do not wait in line with you and your entire extended family. This clogs up the line and makes it difficult to gauge how many people actually need to be helped. Send one or two people up there to purchase the tickets, and have everyone else wait off to the side. This doesn’t seem like a big deal but the box office attendants can get in trouble if lines are too long and you standing there with Everyone You Have Ever Met makes it look like the line is longer than it is. 
Have your student IDs, rewards cards, military IDs, and your payment method ready when you get in line. Once again you standing there rifling through your bag trying to find your credit card and rewards number holds up the line and is annoying.
Do not pay in change, and if you do don’t get mad when the employee takes a bit to count it out. They get in trouble if their register is off, and they need to make sure the amount is correct. Save your time and theirs and pay in cash or with your card. 
If you or your loved ones want to get a senior discount, YOU HAVE TO ASK FOR IT. Theater workers are trained to NOT assume that someone is a senior, so unless you specify that you want the discount they will not apply it and you getting mad that it wasn’t added and then standing there fuming while they get a manager to give you your refund is pointless and wastes your time and theirs. Just ask for the discount. 
Don’t get offended if they ask to search your bag if you have a big backpack or whatever. They are not looking for food, and they do not care if you have food. They are looking for weapons, booze, and drugs. Do us all a favor and leave your gun and beer and cigar at home. If you are uncomfortable with them searching your bag you can usually just leave it at the box office, or better yet, don’t bring the bag. 
If you want to use a pass make sure you are at the right theater?? If you have an AMC pass or gift card you aren’t gonna be able to use it at a Harkins or a Cinemark. 
Most theater box offices cannot take Fandango gift cards. If you have one do everyone a favor and use it to buy your tickets online or on their app. 
Ticket Taker/Door Podium:
Once again, have your tickets ready. When you step away from the box office don’t put them in your bag or pocket, keep them out and be ready to hand them off. You will not be admitted without a ticket. 
If you just walk past them rudely or refuse to hand over your ticket they will hunt you down and kick you out. Actually wait there and hand over your ticket.
Also don’t refuse to take the stub. You need it to prove your payed for your admittance and to know where your theater is(especially when 90% of the theaters are showing the same movie) and if you are at a theater with reserved seating you need it to know where you are gonna sit. Take your stub when it is handed back to you.
Keep all of your tickets together. Don’t hand them out to all of your kids and family and make the ticket guy have to take them one by one and rip them. Just hand the stack to them and they will count them and rip them all at once. It’s faster and you won’t have to stand there for eons while every single toddler gently hands up the tickets, and most likely drops them or makes the ticket taker have to use up an extra second picking it up. Seriously, hand them off in a stack. 
If you need to know where your line is, ask nicely. If you need to know where your theater is, ask nicely. If you want to know when your movie gets out, know which theater it is in, when it started, AND ASK NICELY. Often times there are 8 different showings of the same movie and if you don’t know what theater it is in or when it was supposed to start the door person cannot help you because the only way to differentiate between showing is knowing the theater and the time. The question “When does avengers get out” is too vague and therefore impossible to answer. 
THE DOOR PERSON IS NOT A TRASH CAN AND DOES NOT HAVE A TRASH CAN. DO NOT GIVE THEM YOUR TRASH AND FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DO NOT SHOVE YOUR TRASH IN THE HOLES, THOSE HOLES ARE FOR TICKET STUBS AND THEY WILL HAVE TO FISH YOUR TRASH OUT LATER. SERIOUSLY, DON’T DO THIS.
Concessions: 
Now here it is acceptable to wait with your family, since you will need to know what they want and need help carrying it all. But still try to keep the people to a minimum if you can, it helps keep the lines down. 
Wait in a line! Most theaters that still have concession stands aren’t gonna have specific lines so try to stay in a straight line if you can. 
If a register is free and the worker calls you over, just come over. They can get in trouble for not calling people over and not helping guests so if they call you over feel free to head over. 
The workers cannot read each other's minds. If there is more than one person helping you, and one of them asks something you have already told the other person, still tell them. They need to put in everything correctly, so you yelling “I told the other person” helps no one and is seriously rude. 
Don’t leave your trash all over the counter. They aren’t allowed to throw away your garbage on their side of the stand because it is dirty and they need to keep everything clean and food-safe. Save your trash for the cans in the hallways, and don’t leave your straw wrappers at the counter, they aren’t there to clean up after you and can get in trouble for having trash on the counter. A lot of times they cannot see the other side of the counter all that well so if you shove your trash out of site they won’t be able to clean it up and will get in trouble for it being there. 
Don’t yell at them if things are taking a long time. Popcorn runs out fast on days like these and they are trying their best. Assume that your food isn’t gonna be ready at the drop of a hat and wait patiently. If they got something wrong don’t yell at them either, they are probably tired and stressed and most of the time they can fix the problem right away, so just wait and things will be ok. 
If the concession stand it self serve, be nice and don’t make a huge mess. I know it can be confusing and chaotic but try to resist your animal instincts and be orderly and clean. 
Try to know what you want before you get in line, or at least figure it out while you are in line. Trust me there is nothing more annoying on a busy day to see a person who has been in line for like 15 minutes finally get to the counter only to go “hmmmm idk what I want”. It wastes EVERYONE’S time and makes you look like an ass. Know what you want before you get to the counter. 
Listen to the employee when they explain how refills and all that jazz work. There is nothing more annoying then having someone say they got it and then come back and yell at you for “lying” to them when in reality they just weren’t listening. It gets the employee in trouble and makes you look like an ass. 
If the theater has a refill bag/cup/bucket system keep the bags clean and make sure you wash the cups and buckets. I cannot count the number of nasty filthy bags and cups I have gotten and We Cannot Clean Them For You. Just wash them at home and keep them nice so you can enjoy fresh popcorn and good soda that isn’t gonna taste nasty and get you sick. 
Sometimes you won’t like your food or will need a refund. Don’t be a huge dick during this process. It can take a bit and isn’t as straightforward as “here’s your money sorry”, so if you are taking something back expect it to take a few minutes.  
There is almost always a nutrition book that can tell you what is in things, so if you have allergies and other restrictions ask to see it. 
If you want butter in the middle of your popcorn ask for layers!! Almost all theaters can do this and it saves you from doing those weird, messy “hacks”. Also if you do ask just be clear about how much you want, and don’t be that person who is insanely particular about how it’s done. Trust me, we know how to heavily coat a bag of popcorn with butter, you won’t be disappointed. 
In fact if you do that thing where you yell over the counter trying to dictate the workers every move or insist on watching them you are being an ass. Seriously, just let us do our job. You are gonna get popcorn with butter. It’s gonna be ok.
The Condiment Stand:
Basically all of the same rules as the concession stand. 
Don’t make a mess. There are trash cans there for a reason. It’s annoying and difficult to keep this area clean so do your part and throw away your trash and don’t leave butter/wrappers/flavor powder and other crap all over it. 
If something is out be nice when you flag down an employee to ask them to refill it. Once again, this area is the hardest to service outside of the bathroom because it’s usually swarmed with people so be patient, clean, and nice. 
Don’t do any of those weird butter hacks. As I said, they can layer the butter up at concessions, so just ask for it there and save them a huge mess to clean up. 
Go easy on the butter. Seriously, GO EASY ON THE BUTTER. I have seen people put so much butter on their popcorn that it drips out of the bag and all over the floor and ends up taking industrial grease remover to clean up the puddles. It’s a safety hazard and messy and annoying. Just put enough on and call it a day.
Don’t take 7000000 napkins. Most people who do this end up using two or three and then leaving a huge mess of them around the theater that are a bitch to clean up. Take only what you need and save some paper, and don’t leave a huge mess. 
The Auditoriums:
If your theater doesn’t have reserved seating, SHOW UP EARLY. The longest lines I have ever seen at a theater were the ones with 60000 people mad that there were no seats left in the theater when they showed up 5 mins before showtime. If the movie is gonna be sold out make sure you get there early so you can get seats, and if there are no seats be polite when asking to switch to a different showtime.
In fact, if there’s no reserved seating, get over your social anxiety and make sure there are no buffer seats between you and the people around you. It is going to happen eventually and it saves the theater workers from having to come up and make you move. 
If there is reserved seating, SIT IN YOUR SEAT. I have seen tons of people pick a reserved seat and then just sit wherever. If you do this you will be made to move, and so pick the seats you want and then actually sit in them. 
Also, figure out where your line is and stand in it. Don’t stand outside of the line and cut when it get’s let in, because I have seen legit fist-fights break out due to cutting. 
Don’t loudly complain that you have been in line forever, it takes a long ass time to clean up a sold out theater and you need to accept that. Unless you want to wade through a waist deep pile of trash just shut up and let the ushers do their job. It might take a bit, but you won’t miss your movie and it will ensure you get to sit in a clean theater. 
THE WHEELCHAIR AREAS ARE NOT FOR YOUR STROLLER. Leave the stroller at home. Seriously. They get in the way, block off the aisles, make it hard to disabled people to find seats, and end up being a huge fire hazard. If you insist on bringing your infant, which heads up you shouldn’t its horrible for their hearing, leave the stroller at home or in the car. The box office might even offer to hold it for you, just please don’t take them into the theater. 
Most theaters have seats that are for the companions of people in wheelchairs, so unless you are with someone in a wheelchair, don’t sit there. 
If there is a disturbance in the theater, like a baby crying or a person on their phone or a drunk guy, come get an employee. We can take care of it right away and I know you might miss a couple minutes of your movie but what's worse? Missing two minutes of a three hour film or sitting there distracted and having the whole three hours ruined for you? Besides I'd you feel like you've missed too much they can usually get you into another showing or a refund or both.
If you have an infant and they start crying you need to leave the theater!! You brought you baby and you dont get to sit there ruining the film for everyone by letting your baby scream. Take them out and if they wont calm down get a refund and come back without them. Tbh just dont bring a toddler to a movie for real.
This one might be obvious but for the love of all that is holy PICK UP YOUR FUCKING TRASH. I have seen people lose their minds that it takes so long to clean a theater and then turn around and leave all of their trash behind. Guess what asshole, the reason it takes so long to clean the theater is BECAUSE people like you leave all of their trash!!! Be a decent person and pick it all up and take it out. Seriously, if you follow no other rule, at least take your trash with you when you leave. 
Also booster seats!! Pick those up and take them out with you. They are bulky and make it extra hard to clean up a theater quickly!!!!
Once the movie has completely ended, as in they have turned on the lights and started cleaning, GTFO. You are not allowed to hang out after your movie. It makes it hard for us to clean and wastes everyone’s time. Seriously, just leave. 
Another obvious one stay off your phone and don’t talk during the film??? People have waited years to see movies like Avengers just shut the fuck up and don’t ruin it for everyone. If you don’t want to see the movie and just want to talk and play Angry Birds stay home or hang out in the hallway!! 
Also!! If the previous film in your theater hasn’t ended you are not allowed to just go in and wait for it to end so you can “get better seats”. Not only are you cutting everyone who has been waiting, you are technically sneaking into a movie that you didn’t pay for which can get you kicked out. Plus even if you do get in before the last movie ends once they come in to clean they are gonna ask you to leave so they can clean. Plus they technically aren’t allowed to start cleaning until either the credits end or all the people leave so if you are the only person in there and just wait you have wasted the usher’s time because they could have cleaned the theater quickly but because you were there they had to stand there and wait. Just for real don’t fucking do this. (And I know some theaters won’t even let the ushers go in if there is still a person so for real just don’t go in until they have let in your showing.) 
After The Film:
Don’t talk about the movie on your way out. I have seen people purposely and accidentally spoil the movie for the people waiting in line and the employees!! The theater employees don’t get to see every single movie ahead of time, and a lot of times we aren’t even allowed to get into movies like Endgame free for weeks, since studios like to put restrictions on passes. Don’t be a dick and wait until you get to your car to talk about the movie, and don’t yell out spoilers, even as a joke, even fake ones, at the line. Don’t do this stuff. 
If the ushers are exit greeting, just say a quick hi or thank you, it is little but it makes us feel appreciated. 
Bathroom:
This one is simple, don’t make a mess. Throw your paper towels in the trash, be careful and don’t drip soap and water all over the counters, and don’t shake your hands and get spots on the mirrors. Don’t shove your trash in the period products trash cans. Don’t leave your garbage in the stalls. Don’t leave your clothes in the stalls. Just don’t make a mess. Theater workers can get in a lot of trouble for the bathrooms being dirty so make their jobs easier and try to keep things clean. No one likes using a dirty bathroom. 
This is in no way and exhaustive list, but over all just be nice, be clean, and be patient. The workers are beyond stressed during releases like this, and I have seen people break down in tears over it. Make their lives a little easier and follow these rules, because trust me one stressful days like this the smallest kindness can make all the difference, and help you not waste your time or anyone else’s.
(And this is mostly from my own experience, different theaters do things differently, so if there are any other theater workers who would like to add on to this please do!!)  
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diddlesanddoodles · 5 years ago
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Dumpling ch. 23
Whether he knew it or not, Keral had left her with a great gift.
“...I don’t think ya were ‘is true target.”
Those words were as freeing as rusty shackles being cut from her wrists and she felt as though she could happily burst into song. For months it seemed as though her entire being had been weighed down by her nightmares and the memory of the catacombs and for the passed week, the image of that man. Then all at once it was no longer a great weight, but a feather she could easily dust off her shoulder. She had faith that Keral would track him down and Maevis, now having a sense of the deviant’s magic, would know if another assault was coming. He couldn’t touch her.
Oh, what a marvelous feeling it was.
Sawyer noticed the change in her immediately when it came time to start gathering Nenani’s things and preparing for her to be released.
“I take it whatever Keral had to say was good news?” she asked, rolling Nenani’s dress up her arms so as to better help the girl slip into it. Nenani nodded fervently as she pulled on her slippers and then raised her arms. Sawyer tugged the wool dress down over the girl and gave the hem a good pull before standing. “Usually, folks leave conversations with him frustrated and pissed off.”
“He’s nicer than he acts,” Nenani replied, smiling so hard it almost hurt. “Farris is like that too.”
“Oh, I know,” Sawyer said with a knowing smile and then laughed. “Farris scared the ever living piss out of me when I fist came to live here.”
Nenani grinned. “He says he does that to all the humans.”
“See, Yaesha didn’t both to tell me that I needed to keep my marker on me at all times, so when I went to go ask if he had any dried mugwort, Farris thought I was trying to steal it and it was like the market all over again. He put me in a cage and did his big bad giant ‘gonna throw ya in the fuckin’ stew’ thing. Only got things cleared up once Yaesha came looking for me. He had the decency to apologize, though. But Gods I really thought he was gonna eat me.”
“He did that with me too,” she replied. “Put me in a cage.”
“And you showed up during the feast right?” Sawyer asked with a pitying smile. “Oh, I bet those kitchens looked a proper fright with all the butchering they must’ve been doing.”
“Oh yeah.”
“And I bet them boys had a field day with ya too,” she said.  
“Yale did, yeah.”
They waited on a table underneath the large window looking over the main room of the infirmary. It was cold outside and there was even frost along the window’s edge, but the sky was clear and they were pleasantly warm. When Yale finally showed up to take her home, she was almost giddy with relief. All through her recovery, Farris was the only one Yaesha permitted to visit her and his visits were few as the rebuilding of the kitchens was underway and took up most of everyone’s time. When the dark hair giant stepped into the infirmary, Nenani jumped to her feet and raised her arms above her head, waving like an idiot.
“YALE!” She cried excitedly from across the room, not even caring that the volume made her head ache.
Yale caught sight of her from the doorway and grinned widely, waving his arms above his head and mimicking her movements. “DUMPLIN’!”
Yaesha was very displeased at their volume and hissed at Yale, swatting at him disapprovingly. “If you don’t mind, sir! I do have other patients still recovering!”
“Sorry!” Yale quipped, clearly not sorry in the least, and happily scampered past the physician towards the table. Nenani was surprised when that instead of picking her up, he knelt down until he was eye level with both humans, his chin resting on the table top. His copper eyes sparkled as he took in the sight of Nenani. “Ready to go?”
Instead of answering him, Nenani sprinted over and with open arms latched onto his head. She nuzzled her face into the thick brush of his hair. Yale chuckled, it was a warm and pleasant sound. “Suppose that’s a yes, then?”
“Mm-hm,” she replied. Pulling away slowly, Yale looked to Sawyer who was watching them with a warm smile.
“You two are cute,” she said. “Now, before you go whisking her off, I’ve got some things to go over with you.”
Yale’s exuberant grin faded and he stood up. “Oh? Ah, right then.”
Sawyer grabbed up the satchel sitting at her feet and walked over to the pair. “These are some tonics and medicine for when she feels tender headed or dizzy. And some tinctures to help her sleep. She’s still recovering so she’ll be more fatigued then normal until she regains her strength. Don’t let her do anything too strenuous like climbing table legs or walking the bulkheads.”
“We didn’t let her do any ‘a the sort before!” Yale laughed. He looked down at Nenani and winked. “Guess we’re just gonna have t’ wrap ya in silk and set ya on a shelf fer a week or two, Dumplin’.”
She frowned. “But I’ve practically been doing that this whole time!”
Sawyer laughed, holding the bag out for Yale who carefully took it in one hand and slipped it onto his apron pocket. “I formally release her to your questionably responsible hands, Yale. She’s free to go.”
“Thanks, Sawyer. I – Oi! Wait a minute!”
Sawyer was still laughing as she walked away. “Take her home, Yale.”
Yale grumbled as though he wanted to protest, but his attention was draw down towards Nenani. She was pulling at his tunic. “Can we go now?”
“Okay,” he smiled, easing his hands around her and slowly applying pressure as though gauging whether or not he was hurting her. Once was assured she would break apart like cracked glass, he lifted her up and set her into the crook of his arm. “Really itchin’ to leave this place aren’tcha?”
She gestured for him to move in closer and he obediently bent his head down. When he was close enough, she whispered up to him, “It’s really boring in here.”
“Ah, well that won’t do,” he grinned. “Let’s go find some excitement, then.”
………………………………..
“Just a warnin’ to ya now, Dumplin’,” Yale said as he navigated the corridors. “Avery’s gonna wanna show off his scars. He’s very proud of ‘em.”
“Did you get hurt any?” she asked him.
“Me? Nah,” Yale replied flippantly. “Just fell on my arse a few times. Bart got himself a few nasty ones though. Gjerk almost lost an ear. Ah, but don’t look so down, Dumplin’. We’re all alive and that’s somethin’ to be grateful fer. Could’a been a whole lot worse than it was.”
A silence feel between them as a melancholy fell over Yale’s eyes. He turned left through an open door and ahead of them lied a set of stairs leading downward. The passage was gloomy and Yale paused just before the first step.
“Really thought we lost ya,” he said softly, copper eyes staring back at her mournfully. “No one had any idea where ya were in all the commotion. There was so much debris. We were diggin’ through the ruble in the kitchen when Lolly told us Maevis had ya and ya were alive, but hurt bad. Then Yaesha wouldn’t let anyone see ya...”
She leaned into him affectionately, burying her face into the fabric of his tunic. He smelled like thyme and fresh baked bread. “I’m okay now, though.”
He huffed a small humorless laugh, bringing her up closer to nuzzle her lightly. He closed his eyes and sighed. “I dunno what I’d ‘a done if we’d really lost ya. I promised ye I wouldn’t let anythin’ bad happen to ya and I here I go already breakin’ it.”
There was something inherently wrong seeing Yale so upset and she decided that she didn’t like it. So she slapped him on the nose.
“Ah! Oi, what was that fer?” He blinked at her in confusion. “That...actually smarted a bit.”  
“I’m alright though, so there’s noting to be sad about,” she told him flatly. “So stop that.”
He eyed her with an incredulous smirked at her. “Are ye...are ye orderin’ me to stop mopin’?”
She grinned back him. “Yes.”
“Seven hells, she startin’ to sounds like Farris,” he muttered, but she was glad to see his cheeky grin again. “Lolly’s gonna have a right apoplexy.”  
“If it makes you feel better,” she offered, “I promise not to fight anymore giant lizards.”
Yale laughed at that. A real laugh like she was use to hearing and it brightened her spirits greatly.  
“Aye,” he said with a breathy chuckle. “I’ll be holdin’ ya to that now, Dumplin’.”
At the bottom of the steps, recognition hit and she suddenly knew where they were. Yale stepped of the last stair of the servant entrance and into what remained of the kitchens. It was bare now, all the ruble and debris from the attack had been cleared, but so had everything else. The tables, the tools, and all the food. All of it was gone. The fractured remnants of shelve were bare and in their absence one could fully make out just how much damage had been done. The hard stone floor was shattered with whole chunks missing and the rest covered in cracks that spider-webbed from impact sites. The green door to Farris’s spice pantry was broken with only pieces of the door remaining, hanging limply on their hinges. The windows were broken out and the stone archway was nothing but a gaping hole with wooden scaffolding now supporting what remained of the wall. The repairs had begun, but there was so much more to be done yet.  
She stared in horrified awe of it.
“Depressin’ ain’t it?” Yale asked. “Took a whole slew of us three days to clear it out. Th’ masons are saying it’ll be a few more days before they get the wall and doorway fixed. The floor will be a bit longer since the cement has to set proper. By the end of this month we’ll be back in workin’ order.”
“How are you suppose to cook without a kitchen?” she asked. “Where are you even sleeping?”
“We’re managing alright with the braziers and some good ol’ ingenuity,” Yale explained as he left the ruins of the kitchen and out into the courtyard. “We took over one ‘a Verhn’s old storage huts and set up the cots in there. Little cramped, but it’ll do fer now.”
There was a fine frost across the yard and even a week after the event, Nenani could still see the ruin left behind. The stone walls surrounding them were marred with long gashes from hideous claws and great furrows had been reaped into the earth, plowing up the grass and stones. At the center was a dark spot, a center of charred and burnt earth.
Yale caught her staring. “Aye, that’s what’s left of the bastard. Well, they cleaned up the bones, but other than that...that’s all that’s left.”
Nenani felt chilled and she was not convinced it was because of the weather.
“Can we go?” she asked in a small, disquieted voice. Without a word, Yale was moving away and they left the courtyard behind.
“Sorry,” he said. “That was probably hard to see so soon after. Ye alright?”
“Mm-hm,” She nodded, rubbing her temples and pressing into Yale’s warmth. In her head, she could still see the milky white orbs of it’s eyes staring into her.
  …………………………………
She could smell the cook fires before she saw them. That, and whatever they were preparing, sent wafts of perfumed mist through the air and Nenani’s mouth watered. She hoped there would be bread. They passed several footman and servants, but none paid them any mind as they entered the cook camp. The storage hut was larger than Nenani would have thought and a length of tawny canvas had been strung from the side and secured with stakes at the bottom, creating a make shift lean to which held the surviving lipper barrels. Another large canvas tent was settle on the other side of hut. Bart and Avery were both at a table near the largest fire, brandishing cleavers and hacking up the skinned carcasses of several sheep. Saen was at the cook fire, tending to a large cauldron that bubbled and boiled, leaking plumes of steam into the air. On the other side of the camp, a brazier had been set up and what looked like a giant oversized metal bowl had been set just above and heated by the fire beneath. But they had put it upside down so the curve of the bowl pointed towards the sky. It was there that she could see both Quinn and Kol. Kol was working a wad of dough between his hands, passing it hastily back and forth and stretching it out into a large flat disk so thin that light passed through it. Once he seemed satisfied with it, he slapped it onto the hot surface of the bowl. The dough immediately shrank inwards, bubbling some, and crisping up. In a matter of seconds, Quinn was using a long poker to stab at it and pull it off, chucking it into a basket with many more similar flat breads. Both Gjerk and Herit were pealing rhotas outside the door to the hut and she could see one of Gjerk’s ears had a sizable notch in it. Farris was no where to be seen.
“Oi! Fellas, look what I brought ya!” Yale hollered as he approached, lifting Nenani up above his head. The sudden increase in height startled her and bit down on a cry of surprise, grabbing at his writs for extra security. From all over camp, heads lifted from the focus of their tasks. Saen immediately left his spot by the cauldron and sprinted to meet them. He held out the long spoon which he had been using to stir the stew with and offered it Yale who looked at it confused.
“What?”
“You take this,” Saen instructed and almost as a compulsory reaction, Yale did so without issue. With his hands now free, Saen reached out and plucked Nenani from his fellow’s grasp and turned to walk back into the camp. “...and I’ll just be takin’ the lil’un fer a bit.”  
“Oi now-!” Saen seemed very pleased with himself and only grinned wider as he poked Nenani’s side, eliciting a yelp that slipped into a fit of giggles as she tried to guard herself from the attacking fingers. The giant released his captive onto the table, keeping a grip on her for a second longer to make sure she had her footing before letting her go.
“Good t’be seein’ ya up and about, lass,” Bart said, adjusting his apron. “Ye can hardly even tell ya were almost snapped in two by a rabid wyvern.”
“Oi, Dumplin’, look here,” Avery said, a mischievous glimmer in his eye. He rolled up his sleeve up to his shoulder to reveal three long gashed across his bicep, long scabbed over. “Battle scars.”
“Bah, that ain’t nothin!” Bart snorted and rolled his own sleeve up, just to his elbow. Three similar gashes marred his forearm and the hair from the damaged skin had not yet grown back, making them appear more severe. Avery scowled at the butcher, slowly rolling his sleeve back down.
“Oh, I got one too!” Nenani said, pulling her collar down over her shoulder to expose the long slash. There was still slight bruising around it and the scar was an intense red in stark contrast to her pale skin. Despite it’s unsightly appearance, Sawyer and Yaesha both declared it to be healing just as it should. But at the sight of it, Avery sucked air between his teeth and Bart glowered. Both Saen and Yale were also looking at it with an oddly angry expression. Nenani frowned at their reaction.
“What?” she asked defensively and pointed to the red mark with a frown. “Battle scar.”
That seemed to bring them back and Bart laughed.
“Yer right, lass. That’s worthy of being called a battle scar,” the butcher conceded and then smiling, winked. “Just try not t’be so proud of it, eh?”
Saen barked a laugh at the absurdity of it all. “I’d show ya mine, but it’s not in a place fer polite society.”
Yale walked up behind the cook and smacked him on top of the head with the flat part of the spoon, the sound of it making a loud THWAK.
“SON-OF-A-!” Saen doubled over clutching his head. Laughing, Yale slipped the offending spoon into Saen’s hand. “Fuckin’...piece a….”
“No one wants t’see yer hairy arse, Saen,” he replied with a sly grin. He looked to Bart. “So where’s Farris? Figured he’d be here to welcome her back.”
Bart, having gone back to breaking down the sheep carcasses, only shrugged. “Couldn’t tell ya. He got a note a bit ago and went off. No mentionin’ of where he was goin’ or when he’d be back.” He eyed Yale knowingly. “But ya can be sure he expects this all to be finished by the time he gets back.”
“Aye. Will do. Has anyone started on the duxelle yet?”
“Herit’s still lookin’ fer the garlic,” Bart answered and then gestured to Nenani when Yale would have picked her up. “Ye can leave the lass with us fer a bit. It’s warmer over here besides.”
“Speakin’ of warm,” Quinn said, appearing behind Bart. Grinning, he held something up, held aloft between his hands. “Got somethin’ fer ya, Dumplin’.”
It was her quilt, the one Lolly and Ginger had made her. Somehow it managed to survive the chaos of the attack without even a single tear. The baker held it delicately between his hands as he came up to her and with one fluid motion, wrapped the surprisingly warm quilt around her. It smelled of bread and spices and Nenani wrapped it tightly around her, relishing in it and making a pleased hum. The heat sank into her sore body and eased the dull pain from her many bruises.
“And since I know fer a fact the food in the infirmary is right shit,” Quinn said, reaching into his apron pocket and pulling out a small portion of the flat bread he and Kol had been making. “Give this a try. Since we can’t use the ovens, we’re trynin’ out an Ibronian flat bread recipe.”
It was warm and soft with the underside hard and crispy from where it had adhered to the hot metal it had been baked on. The top was sprinkled with salt and an herb Nenani did not recognize. She bit into it and she immediately started salivating. The herb was lemony and sharp, but not overpowering and had a mellow pleasant finish. She took another, larger bite, cheeks stuffed as she happily chewed. “Mmmmmm...”
Quinn grinned and looked back across the camp towards Kol, giving him a thumbs up and calling back to him, “We got the Dumplin’s approval.”
And suddenly it was as though the passed week and a half had not happened at all. There were jokes and jeers as they all went about their work and the good humor continued on through the afternoon.
She felt warm and she felt safe and that was all she had ever wanted.
………………………………..
Night finally fell and the cook fires were extinguished. Everyone gathered inside the hut and sat in their cots to eat their supper, a simple affair of flat bread and hunks of hard cheese and ale. Still, there was still no sign of Farris.
“I wonder what’s keepin’ ‘im,” Kol mumbled around a mouthful of cheese.
“There’s no tellin’,” Bart replied, peering into it mug. “My guess is it’s somethin’ to do with the rebuildin’.”
“Maybe they’ll expand the kitchen,” Avery suggested. “We could do with more storage.”
“Be nice,” Yale agreed, breaking off a small chunk of cheese and handing it to Nenani who sat on his knee, still wrapped up in her quilt. “Maybe re-do the barracks.”
“I wouldn’t be hopin’ too much fer any ‘a that, lads,” Bart cautioned. “My guess is the treasury is balking at the cost and is tryin’ to cut corners.”
Quinn scowled. “Yer probably right too. Remember Thame’s face when Farris sent ‘im the cost breakdown fer the wedding feast? Bastard just about fainted.”
As Nenani chewed on her cheese, she became aware of a strange sound. It started as a low keen and was so soft she was not certain if she had actually heard it until it stopped. A few moments later, it started up again and she tilted her head, trying to pick up the sounds better.
“Ye alright?” asked Yale. Nenani blinked and shook her head as though to shake the low keen from her ears. “Yer head hurtin’ ya?”
“No,” she replied, squinted at nothing in particular. “Well, not very much. It’s just...I hear something funny...”
“Hm? Hearin’ something funny?” They were all quiet and the only sound was the crackling of the fire in the brazier set in the center of the hut. But then, the keen started up again. It seemed to carry on the wind, coming from everywhere and nowhere.
“That!” Nenano said excitedly, looking at everyone’s faces. “Can you hear that?”
There were several nods and murmurs of affirmation as they all strained their ears to pick up the noise. From his cot, Bart perked up as sudden recognition hit him.
“I know what that is,” Bart said grim faced. “Those are funeral horns.”
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cripple-cryptid · 4 years ago
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Getting To Know Me (Again)
It’s been a long time since I’ve really made a serious post that was well thought out and also like, a full update. It’s been a long time since I’ve even really just made a literal “Life Update” as well. So I guess this is a good time. I think it’s important because this blog has changed quite a bit in the past few years, and I think that I need to just make some things clear. This is probably going to get long, and heavy, but I think this is important, and I’m hoping that maybe I can help people in the future after I get this taken care of. Fair Warning: I am literally the worst at organizing this sort of thing, but I would really appreciate it if you read it the whole way through because it would mean a whole lot to me.
Hello. My name is Sava. I’m 22 years old. I’m a transmasculine Agender individual, and my preferred pronouns are They/He. Truthfully, I don’t mind other pronouns as long as they are not She/Her. I am a trans person, and I experience dysphoria. I’m planning on getting top surgery and HRT at some point in my life. I don’t know when, but I hope that it will be soon. I’m also Asexual, and Aromantic. I’m sex repulsed, and romantically indifferent. I am polyaffectionate (thanks to @aromanticpolyamory for the flag on this one, and coining the term as far as I’m aware?) and I have two partners. I love them both very much, with all my heart, even when I am an AroAce. So in summary, I’m a polyaffectionate Triple A (thank you @aro-ace-agender-space for the beautiful Triple A Pride Flag once again I literally love it to death)
I am also disabled. Mentally, and physically. I went most of my life undiagnosed, however I have been tested repeatedly for various things since I was a small child. I was always disregarded, and never got a proper diagnosis for my mental illnesses until I was 17. My physical ailments were ignored and went unnoticed until I was an adult, and I still am working towards a true understanding of what is going on. I am an amalgamation of many things, both mentally and physically, and it is a very long and frustrating process. Everything from my Depression, PTSD, and various other mental illnesses mix with my hEDS, Fibromyalgia, Chronic Migraines, and Insomnia. New symptoms are cropping up, as well as potential new problems. There are many things that make sense to me now that I look back on how I grew up. My old injuries make sense. My weird allergies make sense. Some of the things that I seemed to have inherited from my parents now make sense. But now that I’m older, I’m starting to learn. I have tools, braces, and mobility aids that make life easier. I finally decided that meds are a smart idea, so doing the responsible thing is starting to pay off. I hope.
I’m...not the same person I was when I first joined this site 10 years ago. I was innocent, misguided, selfish, manipulative, lazy, and bigoted. I did nothing to change my views, and didn’t really allow anyone to educate me on things that I did not realize were actually important. I was ableist, somehow sexist and misogynistic, and downright stupid. Despite all this, I thought I was right in all the wrong ways, and never tried to properly justify any of my points. And this is where everything changes.
I am going to put a warning here now. These are my beliefs, and If I receive any hate in my messages or in my askbox because of what I am about to say, I’m not even going to answer them. I am entitled to my opinion, and you are to yours. If I am threatened, I will report the threats. And that is that.
You are allowed to self Dx. I’m not going to say that it’s better than a professional diagnosis 100% of the time, but some people are not capable of getting a professional Dx at that point in their lives. Sometimes, it’s the start of the journey towards finding answers, and that is why I support it. You do not need dysphoria to be trans. Now mind you, I am referring to the umbrella term here. I feel that sometimes, you don’t agree with the identity that you were assigned with at birth, and that it can cause a serious disconnect. This can apply to many different identities, whether that is genderfluidity, gender neutrality, or another identity, it is not for me to say. I am not in charge of your body, you mind, and how your autonomy works. I know that people will argue with me on this, but I think the most important thing is that we all need to support each other in the community, regardless of what labels we use. It’s a journey of self discovery, and sometimes, labels change. It’s okay. I love you no matter what. Aspec People belong in the LGBT+ community. I’m not going to expand on this because I don’t have to. There is plenty of history that you can look up for yourself on the internet, and I don’t have to justify myself. Your spiritual beliefs (or lack thereof) are yours to practice, and I’m not going to shame you for them. I have my own beliefs, and I’m not going to shove them down your throat. I’m not going to tell you that you’re going to hell. I’m not going to try to “convert” you. I’m going to respect you to the best of my ability, and if I need clarification on anything, I will try my best to make sure that I do not overstep any boundaries. I will not shame you for your body, no matter how you look or how it works. It is not my place to tell you how to look, how to dress, or how to take care of yourself. I love you and I hope that you can love yourself, too. Abled people do not have a say in how to treat disabled bodies. You do not know our pain and you have not gone through the same journies that we have. This goes the same for neurotypical people and speaking for neurodivergent people. We know ourselves better than you ever could. POC voices are the only voices that matter on topics that relate to their struggles. White voices hold no weight because we know nothing about what we are saying. BLACK LIVES MATTER. FOREVER.
There are many topics that I have not addressed here, but I cannot think of many more at this current moment. I’m considering making some sort of masterpost, or fixing up my FAQ later on to better address all these things later on. But I have more that I need to and want to say in this post, and I need to move on.
It’s been a long time, and things change. I have changed. This blog has changed many times. I will probably be revamping the appearance of the blog soon as well. so I decided that this long post is a good time to say the things that I need to say.
I want to help people. I might be a bit of a grump, and sometimes, I’m a bit of a wild card when it comes to things that I’ve posted in the past (read as: I’ve posted some really dark shit because I’ve been in some really dark places in the past). I don’t know everything, but I still want to be here to help others. I want to be here for people that are struggling with pain, and need some help. I want to be here for people that are hurting and don’t know how to start the process of healing. I want to be here for people that maybe don’t have the capability to get the help that they need, because they will never have the chance. I want to be the friend that I never had when I was younger. If I can do that, I’ll be happy. This might just be wishful thinking, but I really do want to be a bigger voice in the disabled community, in the mental health community, and in the LGBT+ community. I want to be part of something bigger.
So once again I will say: I’m Sava. I’m 22. I’m a triple A. I’m polyaffectionate. I’m disabled. And I want to help others and make a difference.
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riderdrauggrim · 4 years ago
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Day Unknown. Sat, Sep 26, 2020.
Nervous about randomly hiding in 4G Motorsports parking lot, I'm awake a few short hours later around 6:30. I have the tent packed by 8:30, and huddle beside the bike, waiting for staff.
9:00 rolls around and I approach the doors, making my way back to the Parts/Service desk. A young woman who's family shifts her between Alberta and Toronto seems thrilled to meet someone else from Ontario. We check if they have a replacement battery in stock. They do not. And their mechanics are not in on the weekends.
But!
There's a MAGNACHARGE Battery megaemporium RIGHT across the street!
Heartened my luck might be improving, I trot over.
Nope.
They're closed on weekends.
I trot back to 4G, on the way calling Riverside Honda in St. Albert, the blokes who'd changed my tires. They sold their last YTZ14S on Friday. BUT they'd ordered more and they should arrive at the start of this coming week.
I run over my problems with their parts guy. He suggests I remove the battery and try starting the bike with another random battery attached; That might be able to isolate if it is my battery or my starter system/charging stator/rectifier/words.
Sounds good.
Back at 4G I ask if they have a charger or a booster. The parts girl knows where a tender is, but not how to use it. It's okay, I do. They graciously let me push the bike inside their service bay so I can tinker on it, good thing too as it starts to drizzle outside.
So! My battery: Out and Charging.
My bike: New battery hooked up to test the ignition.
My key: In the ignition, turning to activate the bike-*Crack*.
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One of the few flaws I've found with the NC750 design is the key is needed in a secondary lock. Turn one way to unlock the frunk (front trunk) where the gas tank USUALLY sits on a motorcycle. Turn the other way to unlock the latch securing the passenger seat, this allowing you to lift it up to reveal the gas cap to fill the tank, which sits under the rider. The problem with this lock is the key does not fully insert. It's about 3/4 depth to the ignition proper.
Over time, this has created something of a weak point on the key itself, occasionally twisting ever so slightly if too much pressure is applied, if the latches are sticky, or the frunk is overfull and a bit jammed. This was usually corrected by sticking the key in and turning it the other way, straightening the blade out again. For this trip, due to the tail luggage making lifting the passenger seat incredibly difficult at best, I had opted to outright remove the pillion cover, leaving the gas cap exposed for easy access. All I needed the secondary lock for was to get in and out of the frunk, which I was doing several times a day to fetch out Goose and Hat, or store drinks, or change power banks.
Perhaps it was this excess of one direction twisting that finally did the blade in.
Perhaps it was just six years of use and wear.
Perhaps life just wanted to take the difficulty level up a notch.
In any event.
I was left holding the top quarter of my key. The remainder still inside the ignition. Even if I can get a new battery, I can now no longer turn on the bike.
My coworker who helped fund this adventure texts me to see how things are going. I tell him my key just snapped in half. He says if I didn't have bad luck, I'd have no luck at all. We discuss options. I'm 3,505 km from home. I'm 427 km from the nearest Honda dealership. I just want to Abandon Quest and Hearthstone out of here, but that's not an option. So I work through various plans.
I call Riverside back and get the Service department. Nick remembers me. I fill him in on the last twelve hours. "Wow." Indeed. He puts me on hold and consults his coworkers. If I can get it there, they'll try and squeeze me in and get this sorted. Some people have good luck using super glue to get broken keys out and then jury rigged back together. With my luck, I'll make a mess and fuse the tumblers and need an entirely new ignition system. The key is also a newer blade style, not a normal tooth house lock key. It's supposed to be stronger, amusingly enough. But it's not the sort of thing local locksmiths should be able to replicate, it needs a Dealership. So even if I got a Fort McMurray locksmith to fish the main part out, if he can't make a new one, I still can't Go.
AND there's the pressing matter of the battery.
During all this my battery on the tender has completed charging. I restore it into the bike, or try to, as the damn nut in the contact for the red lead slips out of the holder and falls precisely through the ONE (1) hole at the bottom of the compartment and somewhere onto the engine block. I don't hear it hit the belly pan, and wedging my fingers into every nook, curve and cranny yields nothing but grimy hands.
I call CAA anew. I get the same woman as the night before, so that helped since she already knew the first part of this story. I now have Multiple Problems that can not be fixed locally. St. Albert is outside the Alberta tow range of 350km. But my membership is from Niagara, and I'm covered for 500km. She calls them to approve it. They say 'of course'. One hurdle down.
She contacts the tow company. New hurdle.
Due to the nine hour round-trip commute, they don't run every single broken vehicle south to Edmonton every time someone breaks down. They wait for multiple items, load them all on a long truck, and do a couple runs a week. So. Yes, they can get my bike to St. Albert. Eventuallllyyyyy.
I get it; from a logistics and efficiency and financial perspective it makes perfect sense.
From a "but... my bike..." and waiting for a nebulous amount of time in a hotel somewhere just for it to get TO the mechanics, nevermind the unknown timeframe of the shop having time to look at it, figure out what's wrong, order new parts if needed, and install them.... Hrrrggggnnnnn.
So EMI came with the short bed and picked up the bike from 4G. The logic being, now it's in their secure compound, ready to go, and when they have a load ready, they'll shove it on and take it south for me. Solid.
How do -I- get back to Edmonton.
Well, there's several buses that run the corridor, presumably for the mine workers to get up and back around their shift days. Awesome!
Oh but they don't run again until Monday. Less awesome!
But what can you do.
My bike won't leave until monday at the /earliest/ anyway, so me being there any sooner really makes no difference.
I book a ticket - cheap at 65$! For a nearly five hour trip? I paid 85$ plus tip for the 20 minute taxi ride from Supertest Hill to Fort McMurray the night prior.
Leaving Monday at 8:30am, arrive near downtown Edmonton. Found a hotel for 80$ within a block of Riverside Honda, not as cheap as my beloved Whitemud, but Whitemud Inn being at the south center of the Edmonton bubble, I'd be paying more than the 15$ a night difference in a cab to get up to St. Albert region. So I'll be right nearby the bike if we can get it going, or I need something from my bags.
In the meantime.
I found an RV campsite literally next door to the bus stop. I called the owner and explained my experiances, and my need for somewhere to simply hide in a tent until Monday morning. Sure, I could try and hide -anywhere-, but for my own safety, and nerves, if I can do this cheap and legal, the better for it. She says she can help me out. She offers a site for a price considerably cheaper than the nearby hotels, which I of course agree to. It's a twenty minute walk from 4G, made longer by hauling two drybags of tent/sleeping bag and essentials, and a third partial of food. Plus wearing my gear. And being somewhat small and scrawny. I take several rests. I drink my Gatorades. I make it. She has the sweetest tabby cat with white socks, no tail, and the SOFTEST fur. Name 'Trouble'. Awwww.
Transaction complete, I set up my tent, kindly serenaded by a curious magpie.
I hear a nearby RV owner pull up, truck doors closing, and then I see a giant white monster making a beeline straight for me. My best guess would be Lab/Samoyed. The head was very much the rectangle block and jowls of a lab, but the pelt was definitely a living cloud. It gives an very quick sniff at my tent, and promptly accepts me petting it. I realize I've been pet-starved during my journey. All my stress is put on pause as I scruffle the heck out of this random dog's sides. In fact, twice I tried to move one hand to teach for my phone for a photo, and he turned in annoyance to see why I'd partially stopped. I hear a woman calling, and ask if he needs to go. He makes no move. In fact he tries to push backwards closer. On a whim, I drop to my rear and make a bowl with my legs. He promptly fills said bowl with his rump. Me on my butt and him on his haunches, I came up to his shoulders.
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Good dog.
A woman shouts again, more insistent. I give him a bump with my leg. He resigns himself to getting up and heading home. I realize the owner can't see us, so I pop up and apologize for stealing her dog. She realizes he hadn't just ran off for no reason, and laughs, saying he loves people. Yes, I had learned this.
I needed that.
There's a valley beside the camp ground.
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The trees are spent matchsticks, grey and charred and empty against the sky. New growth slowly fills in around the dead wood. I don't know if this is a remainder of the BIG fire of 2016, or another more recent event. It's a staggering amount of devastation, and only a small fragment of the damage done.
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The clouds out here... I love skyscapes.
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Beautiful.
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jewlwpet · 6 years ago
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Space Pirate Mito, overall impression
This is a shounen anime from 1999. It’s sci-fi, as you might expect from the name. It has a wacky sense of humor, an endearing cast of characters, a fascinating and unique storyline, and some deeply affecting emotional scenes. It also featured numerous LGBT elements, the execution of which was... so-so. Could’ve been much worse, but also could’ve been much better. I do think it tries to present a positive message, and it isn’t always effective, but it is certainly memorable. There are numerous things that could’ve been improved, but I think the show as-is has a lot of value mainly coming from its uniqueness.
If you live in the U.S., it’s available for free (both seasons) on youtube from Nozomi Entertainment, just like Revolutionary Girl Utena is. Season 1 is also on both Crunchyroll and Amazon Prime; I don’t know what other countries this applies to. Piracy sites have this show too, of course, so you have options regardless. It’s also available on DVD for a surprisingly reasonable price, 22.49 USD from rightstuf, and that’s if you get it new.
Here’s the synopsis I like best for season 1, the one from animenewsnetwork:
Mito isn't just another space pirate, she's a three foot tall childlike alien with enough guts to outshine a supernova. She's known as the galaxy's most dangerous pirate, a wanted criminal who destroys a dozen police space cruisers every day before breakfast. But all she really wants is to be called "Mom."
Incidentally, Mito is voiced by the late Tomoko Kawakami, who also voiced Utena Tenjou! This was shocking for me to learn; they sound nothing alike, which just shows the versatility of her talent.
Wikipedia gives the following synopsis:
The first series of the farcical sci-fi title mainly revolves around the small space pirate Mito and her fights with and flights from the galactic police force, as well as her relationship with her half-human Earthling son Aoi, initially largely ignorant of his mother's spacefaring life.
This is basically accurate; however, there’s also a complex and compelling story that begins to unfold in the later episodes.
It’s in the unravelling of this story that the show’s LGBT themes are first introduced. I’ll insert a readmore here, because this post is getting long, so I might as well cut off before getting into plot spoilers: But if any of you goes off to watch it based on the above, there is a high chance you’ll end up checking back here at some point to determine if it’s worth sticking with.
If you’ve watched Simoun--another LGBT-related series that I adore and appreciate for its originality despite some serious flaws--this’ll sound familiar to you.
For Mito’s species, “sex differentiation” happens once a person is 10,000 years old. It’s not something that happens by itself, though; it is undergone by “choice.” I’m putting that in quotation marks because it certainly isn’t a free decision. Children are allowed to be flexible with their gender presentation, but “growing up,” in the eyes of society, means to become either a man or a woman, by fixed, preset standards. Those who don’t are socially ostracized.
In Simoun, at least, if you have your heart set on one role or the other, you can be sure to get it. Here... it’s not really clear, it seems that there is no such guarantee (I’m not sure if it’s just random, or if it’s arranged by one’s parents). Hence, it’s easy to imagine why some would find such an event absolutely horrifying.
One of the characters has a backstory that involves resisting this; I was really impressed with how this was established, except for the fact that this character did happen to be a villain. However, he (the character is shown saying “I’m a boy! I’ve already been differentiated” in his backstory, so that’s what I’m going with) joins the heroes’ side in the second season and is never made to conform, nor are the show’s protagonists ever anything but respectful.
However. For plot reasons that really do make sense in context (...sort of. it’s still contrived), Aoi ends up having to undergo sexual differentiation even though Aoi had been following a human pattern of physiological development up to that point. Aoi has no control over the process, and when it ends, everyone is shocked to find that Aoi is now “a girl.”
...Well, the humans are shocked. The aliens mostly take it in stride.
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Aoi is also queen of the galaxy now, because sometimes that just happens.
For the record, this all happens in the final episode of season 1. This means that we don’t get to see the initial period of Aoi adjusting to this new role. Ultimately, I think that’s probably a good thing because it leads to many of the usual uncomfortable tropes being glossed over, but it also limits our insight into Aoi’s thoughts and feelings about this, which is pretty important. There are some mixed messages.
Something decidedly Bad is the way that the viewers are clued in on what happened to Aoi, which is... a couple of girls accidentally seeing under Aoi’s clothes and being shocked... and then the teacher wanted to look, ugh. That’s as bad as it ever got but it’s Pretty Bad for sure.
Onto Aoi’s reaction.
This is going to require some context. What first happened was that Aoi’s body became impossible for the aliens’ machines to detect as male or female, which led Mito to realize and explain that Aoi must be going through Sex Differentiation now. Only, the one weapon that could defeat the villain requires the user to have undergone it and be recognizably one or the other. This was the villain’s plan all along; he did “experiments” on Aoi to induce this, not out of a desire to cause suffering but for pragmatic reasons which still sound extremely contrived (though I was pleased to find that season 2 actually addressed why the weapons were built like this, whose decision it was, who was benefiting from it and how).
Consequently, Mito was demanding that Aoi “become either a man or a woman immediately.” Because Aoi had no idea how to control the process, the decision was made for Aoi’s (female) love interest to kiss Aoi and potentially “turn him into a man.” The reason I’m bringing this up is because notably, Aoi is not necessarily very keen on this idea, saying, “What about my feelings?” But it happens, and even, annoyingly, works long enough for the weapon to be used. (Not gonna lie, I was totally hoping that the opposite would happen and this would be the catalyst for Aoi taking on her True Form as a lesbian. That would’ve been epic). That said, it doesn’t last, and s2 leaves absolutely no room for the idea that kissing girls is inherently a “male” thing, so I don’t consider it a big deal on the whole, just such a missed opportunity.
Mutsumi, Aoi’s love interest, said in the end that her feelings for Aoi were the same regardless of what happened, but then ruined it by adding “Besides, I’m sure I can turn him back into a man.” (Aoi had not said a single word this point; she just thought that was something she could decide on her own, ugh--Mutsumi has clearly gotten over this by season 2, though; it never comes up again). At this point Aoi ran away “to find a planet where I can become a man,” according to the note left behind. It’s very possible Aoi just wanted to escape from everyone’s incessant comments and questioning, but that’s only speculation on my part. The next thing we see is Aoi being crowned queen, appearing somewhat exasperated and resigned.
Now onto season 2! Things get better... a lot better. Season 2 has its own unique and compelling story arc, with a new, more powerful villain. But the first thing to talk about how it opens, with an OP that seems to show a typical romcom with a scifi twist, one that happens to be about two girls. I love it.
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S1′s OP centers around Mito, with this one centering around Aoi; because of that, it doesn’t feel like “now that we have a Female Protagonist we must make it a Love Story.” Just in case that was on anyone’s mind.
What the song tells us about Aoi’s perspective is interesting, but it can be hard to connect it to what’s shown in the show itself. It starts out with the line, “I’m a happy but lonely girl,” and includes the line “Hey, can you understand a maiden’s heart?” but Aoi certainly makes no such pronouncements withing the show (this would really make the show more comfortable to watch, because then it would certainly be Good and Right that everyone considers Aoi a girl now) and in my opinion would probably not feel comfortable doing so. I can imagine Aoi listening to a song like this and secretly strongly identifying, but that’s just speculation on my part.
I’m probably taking it more seriously than it was ever intended, but I will say, I don’t think it was made to be a mean-spirited joke. It doesn’t feel ironic. The visuals match the lyrics and melody rather than contrasting with them, and the upbeat tone is the same as that of the first OP. My best guess as to the motivation behind making it is that it’s to really bring the point home to the viewers that Aoi is a girl now and that that wasn’t just a silly joke ending to the first season but represented a major change in the status quo.
Early on in the season, Aoi has a dream about becoming a boy again and being with Mutsumi. If you want to believe the OP you could say that this is because Aoi feels that being with Mutsumi (romantically) would necessarily require being a boy. And this is a worry that Aoi canonically had, early on, but I think that most viewers would take the scene at face value and it might not be any deeper that that.
There was one other scene in the season that suggested Aoi would prefer to live as a boy, this one towards the end. In fact, Aoi shouts outright, “I would go back to being a guy if I could.” That said, the context is that a villain is torturing Aoi in an attempt to make that happen. Considering Aoi had already surrendered to that villain to save others (don’t worry, it all works out in the end), this could be as simple as “I would do what you wanted if I knew how.”
What I was hoping for, and what I think would have been awesome, is if at the end, Aoi would get a choice and would choose staying queen of the galaxy over becoming a man. Unfortunately, we didn’t get that. We do see that the experience has made Aoi a stronger person, more confident and expressive, and the show does end on a good note: The galaxy has been saved, and Aoi is free to be with the girl she loves, and looking as happy as in the OP for the first time ever, and has taken control of her life in general at last.
I didn’t mention this, but there’s another girl who has a huge crush on Aoi in season 2, and I was worried she’d be a “predatory lesbian” stereotype, but to my relief, this was not the case, and she ended up being one of my favorites.
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She’s just like Nanami (from Utena--the director of this show actually directed Utena’s third ep, On The Night of the Ball) but openly gay and I LIVE for that. She has some great character development too.
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jqmwol6y-blog · 5 years ago
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Where can i get car insurance for over 50?
Where can i get car insurance for over 50?
looking for a good company that deals with car insurance for 50 years old and over
BEST ANSWER: Try this site where you can compare free quotes :COVERAGEFINDER.NET
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