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nancypullen · 1 year

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Tick Tock

I’m about 24 hours away from what is hopefully my last appointment concerning that stupid kidney stone. Tomorrow they’ll take out the stent and then we shall never speak of this again. The removal has to be done at the surgery center even though it’s not surgery, and the whole thing should take just a couple of minutes. Since I birthed a doctor, I feel free to ask him about the unknowns and this is what he told me when I asked if it really was that quick - “Oh yeah, they’ll yank that thing out like they’re starting a lawn mower.” Imagine how comforted I was by that. At this point, I don’t care - just get it out. But enough about all that gross stuff, how are you? Are you excited to see the December calendar page? Are you loving seeing the Christmas lights and hearing the holiday music? I AM! Tonight is Denton’s Christmas parade, and tomorrow night is the Christkindlmarket. What a great way to start the month! This time tomorrow I’ll be a lot more comfortable and I’m going to be a wrapping, decorating, Christmas tune singing fool.

But for today, I’ve got some laundry chugging and dinner is in the crock pot. For Mickey it’s Mongolian Beef, for me dinner will probably be soup. I made a big pot of chicken soup on Monday and it hits the spot every time. I don’t know the science behind it, but my tastes have changed drastically over the last month. We normally eat pretty clean and healthy, I’d say 85% of the time anyway, but now I don’t even crave the other 15%. I haven’t had a Diet Coke since Halloween and it doesn’t even sound good to me. I’ve been addicted to Diet Coke since 1984! Chocolate? Haven’t touched it. Crunchy, salty stuff - not even popcorn appeals to me and I rarely went a night without a bowl of popcorn. You know those people that get hit in the head and wake up speaking Swedish or something crazy like that? This is my version of that. All I want is fruit and veggies. My lunch today will be red grapes, cucumbers, and maybe a little yogurt. If I’m really hungry a cup of soup. Dinner is the same, or I zap a Healthy Choice frozen meal. There’s a Chicken Marinara that I like. You’d think that thirty days of eating like this would have caused a change in my appearance. Nope. I’ve lost a grand total of four pounds. I swear, scientists should study me. Anyone else would have wasted away, my sturdy Scots and German DNA is holding steady. I can identify with this meme.

I guess I’m built for survival. Ya’ know what? I’m okay with that. 2023 is the year that I stop worrying about it. I’m going to enjoy good health, a good life, and my wonderful family and dear friends. I’m going to put my energy into creating art and being happy. You can do all of those things whether your pants are a size 6 or 16. It. Just. Doesn’t. Matter. The majority of magazine articles and television commercials are aimed at women and the overwhelming message is that we are not good enough exactly as we are. They’re counting on us believing that and throwing all of our money at whatever product promises to improve us. We’re not allowed to wrinkle, sag, gain weight, or ever dare to look our age. I’ve yet to see any ads targeting men with that message. Sure, you see some stuff for bald guys, but everything else is for erectile dysfunction. No one is shaming men for their crow’s feet. For us, it starts before middle school and follows us to the grave - we’re not pretty enough, thin enough, fill-in-the-blank enough. I’m calling BS on all of that. Younger women, thankfully, figured this out before my generation did. They’re out there loving themselves and living their best lives exactly as they are. Bravo, ladies! I’m learning so much from you. I’ve decided to like myself. Well, that went off the rails, didn’t it? I didn’t share even half of what I was thinking once I got on my soapbox. You’re welcome. I actually intended to come here and post my chicken soup recipe (it really is good). I’ll have to share that tomorrow. I’m going to have a little lunch and then sit at my desk and create something pretty. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and tomorrow I’ll take my pants off in front of strangers for what I hope is the last time for a very long time. I may have to enter the Witness Protection Program after this. Sending out loads of love on this first day of December. I hope that your hearts are light and your homes are peaceful. Stay safe, stay well.

Nancy

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theviewfromthebooth · 5 months

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The Mighty Mojo tracks of 2023: The Bubble List

Being ahead of schedule is a rare treat in any aspect of my life, and for that reason I am embracing my decision to release the Bubble List so soon into December, and so far ahead of the Top 50 that will still be released on New Year’s Eve. Some traditions die hard.

In past years I’ve taken my obsession with capturing the year in its entirety to unnecessary lengths. The speed of other actual publications to crown the year’s best everything was always looked on with disdain, as I scoured my regular channels for new music like a desperate man scanning his phone for dealers at 4am. The thought of missing a banger by going too early disturbed me, in large part to ‘The El Camino incident’, in which my favourite album of 2011 dropped in the first week of December. When RTJ3 appeared on Christmas Eve 5 years later with no warning, it seemed to confirm that I was right and everyone else was wrong. Well, this year, the darndest thing happened.

I realised that NO ONE ELSE CARES. I have yet to have someone call me up for a song appearing on my list in the wrong year, in the 13 years I’ve been putting this thing together. I need to chill the fuck out. And so I have.

The other handy element to releasing the Bubble list now, is that it comes hot on the heels of Spotify Wrapped, and the annual debate around streaming royalties. I say annual because that’s when everyone gets involved, but there’s been a steady undercurrent throughout the year of artists rebelling against the system to speak out. I have always been supportive of their stance - it’s disgusting to see the disparity in profits between the people who own the platform (and due to many undiscussed deals, this includes most of the major labels) and those who literally power it with their artistic endeavours.

And yet, I’ve always remained within this crooked system, simply because I believed it to be the only place to find the depth of music I was looking for. Last I heard, Tidal was still quite specific, and a lot of the others were only marginally better. And then there was the library of playlists that I’ve built up over the years, an encyclopaedia that I lean on heavily on a day-to-day basis. There’s a playlist for nearly every scenario my mind could possibly imagine, and that has a worth beyond currency.

I can’t ignore the fact that Spotify’s algorithms have also been responsible for exposing me to many of the people on this list. The sheer amount of Aussies that feature is testament to that, and again that’s only possible due to the buy-in of the music community. There are ways that Spotify is helping young artists. But it’s just not enough.

It’s still a bit of an eye-roller to announce your departure from something, but in this instance I’m going to indulge myself. I’m looking at other options, and I suggest you all do too. If you want more detailed info on the reasons why and the best action to take, follow United Musicians and Allied Workers on socials https://linktr.ee/umaw

*Steps down from soapbox* So, the music then. I really went deep into it this year, racking up over 120 songs in the long list by September. The best part of that is that it meant that I had a long time to live with these songs, sort them in my heart and allow the cream to rise naturally to the top. Aside from the Aussie invasion there’s no real trends - except more of a push to the extremes of comfort in sound. There’s some mad bits in here, and some initially jarring sounds that eventually connect, and when they do it’s all the more thrilling having taken you to the edge. With so much to choose from it was easy to stay within the hardest boundary of the bubble list - outside the odd superstar feature, these are underground/new artists that aren’t widely known or available. In the wake of the streaming debate it feels more important than ever to shine this little light in their direction.

The full Twitter (Some traditions die hard) thread with links to socials and places to buy music/merch will come next week, and you’ll have the benefit of the whole of December to absorb it all before the next hit.

See you in a few weeks.

#best of 2023 #playlist #music #spotify wrapped #spotify wrap 2023 #tvftb #Spotify

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leiawritesstories · 3 years

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Speak To My Heart

Rowaelin Month, Day 15: A bad day

Word count: 3422

Warnings: language, bit of depression, fighting. In short, there is angst in this fic. Hope the ending makes up for the rest.

Linguistics and foreign languages are two of my personal passions, so please bear with the bits of language talk that I couldn’t resist including. Brief word of clarification: a lot of expressions we use in English either translate into something extremely rude or don’t make sense in other languages. Translation companies have been trying for quite some time to make sure they don’t accidentally send a client a translated instruction manual that reads “fuck your mother” instead of “for questions, contact your local energy department.” All right I’ll get off my soapbox. :)

The phrases in foreign languages, marked with *, are translated into English at the end. Enjoy!

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Rowan’s day had been shit. The second he walked through the door, he’d been bombarded with an endless slew of crash reports, malfunctioning equipment, faulty passwords, and best of all, having to rewrite half the security firewalls because one of the rash young idiots in his department couldn’t be bothered to check his work for errors before sending it to management. And management thought it was the department boss’s job to fix all of his employees’ fuckups.

He hated IT.

Even more so since being promoted to department chair.

All he wanted to do was the fun stuff--program design and development, fixing the flaws in his own designs, and of course making those who tried to break into his company’s systems regret their pitiful existence. But Cadre Tech’s bitch of a CEO refused to let the best software engineer on her staff actually do his job.

Most days, he could cope with the pile of useless shit she directed to his desk. Most days. Today was not one of those days. Probably because on top of all the meaningless tasks he’d had to field, he was also forced to sit through one of Maeve’s bullshit “department head strategy sessions,” where every department chair had to pretend they gave a single shit about any word coming from their CEO’s garishly red, pinched mouth.

As if she knew anything her staff actually did.

Thanks to the compulsory meeting, Rowan was stuck in his office at nearly ten o’clock, painstakingly combing through the final draft of the update to CT’s translation program. This program had shot the company to fame and fortune, or at least insane stock value. “A Google Translate that actually translates,” their marketing department called it, and by the gods, that stupid slogan worked. And made sense. Rowan knew the program was just as good as it claimed to be.

He’d put in the hours, alongside a team of linguists, software engineers, designers, and people fluent in at least one other language. Frequent were the sessions where the project whiteboard turned into a jumble of words in twenty or more languages, Spanish alongside Arabic next to a column of simplified Japanese characters spilling over into a row of Cyrillic lettering. Rowan himself spoke German and some Spanish, but even he was lost amid the cacophony of eighteen different people switching from language to language, trying to figure out how idiomatic expressions translated from one language to another and what words should never, ever be placed together.

It took the team well over a year of bickering, or as they called it, friendly linguistic disagreements, to make it from loosely mapped concept to functioning program. By the time it hit the market three years ago, the software had been so well promoted that companies all over the world snapped up their chance to finally communicate properly with the client they’d offended years ago with a bad translation.

At launch, of course, Maeve stood in front of a sea of shouting reporters brandishing microphones, smiling her serpentine smile, and proceeded to thank the creative team for all their “contributions” before taking all the credit herself.

Said creative team went to the bar that had become their usual gathering spot that night to get drunk and shit-talk their horrible boss, not necessarily in that order.

His favorite memory of that night was hearing the chief linguist, an outside contract with multiple advanced degrees who spoke eight separate languages besides English fluently, refer to Maeve as “quella puttana rugosa che non riusciva a convincere un cazzo a venire a dieci metri da lei se si vestiva da figa.*” The Italian speakers on the team were crying with laughter, and so was everyone else, once she translated it.

And then she downed another shot of vodka and hissed something that sounded like “sukya bliyad, no puedo mich betrinken con esta ordures.**” When everyone blinked in confusion, she sighed and relayed the sentiment in English.

Nobody had laughed as hard as Rowan. Aelin Galathynius just had that effect on him.

She brightened his darkest days.

But she couldn’t ease the strain of today.

And it was all his fault.

Aelin glanced up at the clock on her wall and cursed in three different languages when she saw that it was nearly eleven. Without meaning to, she’d spent all afternoon and evening writing lesson notes on idiomatic expressions. She really couldn’t help herself once she got into the topic; it was her pet project.

And the subject of one of her dissertations. Yes, she had multiple.

She’d worked her ass off for years to get through college, then through graduate and doctoral work while teaching at universities to offset costs, then earned a full-time teaching position at one of the top-ranked universities in the world. She got to teach linguistics, her lifetime love, and give guest lectures at other universities and at conferences, teaching people all over the world about the complexities and interrelatedness of language. Hell, she spoke ten; she’d be qualified to speak on linguistic relationships by virtue of that alone.

Gods, she was the chief linguist behind the most successful translation software ever produced. Even if the bitch who owned the rights to said software had literally threatened to sue over ownership rights if any of the people who’d poured their figurative blood and sweat and literal tears into building the program tried to claim a small piece of the credit each of them so richly deserved.

That software and her role in its creation--even though Maeve Ond had claimed the public credit, the creative team spoke at interviews and made news features for their work in Cadre Tech’s massive success--had solidified her credentials as a professor of linguistics, had boosted her into her lecturer spot.

Last year, her university granted her tenure.

She should have been overjoyed, and she was, but not as much as earning tenure deserved.

Because there was nobody to share her joy.

Three years ago, in the wake of CT’s overnight jump to worldwide fame, Aelin fled a love she did not and never would deserve.

She told herself she would never look back. But she did. Almost every day, she looked back at the life she’d shared with Rowan and tried to convince herself that she did the right thing.

Try as she might, she could never silence the whisper that echoed always in her mind.

“You broke both of your hearts”

Someday, she told herself, someday she would be back in Doranelle. Someday, she would have a chance to apologize. Someday, maybe she could fix the Rowan-shaped chasm that gaped wide in her heart.

Yet here she was, sitting in a very nicely appointed hotel room in the university district of Doranelle, typing furiously away as if burying herself in notes and prep for tomorrow’s lecture could make the urge to contact Rowan disappear.

Three years earlier. Doranelle.

“Knock, knock.”

Rowan’s head jerked up from where it had most definitely not been slumped on his desk. “Wha--Oh. Hi, Aelin.”

“You’re falling asleep, buzzard, let’s go home.” He heard laughter in her soft voice.

“As if you won’t just get home and start cross-checking every single one of the phrases on your ‘potential problem’ list.”

She chuckled, walking over to him. “Fine. We’re both perfectionist work whores. Doesn’t mean we don’t need sleep.”

“I know you too well to believe you’re actually going to sleep.”

“All right, you win. Come home now, I’ll make some food, and you can put me to bed.” She winked saucily at him, leaving very little doubt what putting her to bed would entail, and he was up out of his chair in seconds.

“Hand over your computer, Fireheart,” he grinned as they walked into the small house they shared on the outskirts of the city.

“What?”

“Your computer, love. I’m leaving both of our work bags on the shelf by the front door so we can actually catch some rest tonight.” He pressed a finger to her mouth to silence her protests. “Uh-uh, Ae, we have interviews tomorrow and I won’t let the genius behind this program’s flawless word-to-word be anything but well-rested.”

She sighed, but he saw the love in her eyes. “Here, then, my dear brilliant software engineer. Leave your notebook, too, because I know if it’s anywhere near you, you’ll be up at three in the morning scribbling blocks of gibberish and picking apart your faultless code until you go insane.”

Both of their work satisfactorily put aside, Aelin made good on her promise to cook Rowan dinner.

And then he made very good on his promise to put her to bed.

The next morning, they were both awake with the sunrise, content to lay curled in each other’s arms as the morning light spread across their room.

Rowan drifted back into sleep, waking for good when he caught a whiff of coffee from the kitchen’s direction.

“Morning, you sleepy buzzard,” Aelin grinned, sipping from her mug.

Rowan dropped a kiss on her head as he reached for his mug. He took a long drink, sighing as the milky, sweetened caffeine hit his mouth.

“I will never understand how you drink your coffee black, Fireheart.”

“Not all of us need to sweeten the hell out of coffee to drink it, Ro. Maybe if you can’t handle the real thing, you should go back to your pretty little cups of crappy cafe tea.”

“Mention my pretty little teacups again, Ae…”

She giggled. “You be quiet and drink your coffee-flavored milk, my love. We both know you’re impossibly grumpy until you have caffeine in your veins.”

He grumbled something unintelligible as he drank his coffee.

They were nearly late to work that morning, even having planned an extra half hour to arrive, thanks to Aelin wearing what Rowan dubbed her “sexy professor suit.” She fixed the pins in her French twist in the car, making herself once again a portrait of professionalism, and slipped Rowan’s hand from her leg.

“Two hands on the wheel, Whitethorn.”

He pouted. “But I’m a safe driver and I want to hold your hand.”

“My hands are over here, love, not down by my skirt.”

When he pulled into his spot, Aelin closed her eyes and took a deep, slow breath.

“You good, Fireheart?”

Gods, she loved hearing him call her that. “Yeah. I just…needed a moment to settle myself. To tell myself the cameras aren’t here to tear apart what I say.”

Rowan wrapped his hands around hers. “Dr. Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, the bland reporters are here to stand in awe of your expertise. Not a single word you say will come across as anything but brilliant and beautifully said.”

She squeezed his hands, her usual confidence returning. “I love you, buzzard.”

“I love you too, Fireheart. Let’s go talk about our amazing achievement.”

The day sped by in a blur of reporters, interviewers, teleprompters, practiced speeches, lights, cameras, and crew. When the last bleached-blonde anchor of the last interview of the day cut her crew’s cameras, Aelin flopped against her second-in-linguistic-command, Dr. Nehemia Ytger, the expert on ethnic African languages.

“If I never see a news crew again, it’ll be too soon,” she sighed. “I’m beat.”

Nehemia snickered. “But we’re done talking about how proud we are that Maeve and her marvelous company have done such a grand service to the world.”

Aelin snorted softly. “Right. And now we servicepeople want to go home and take off our heels.”

“Amen to that.”

As the team filed out of the studio, Rowan made his way over to Aelin. “Holding up?”

“Not anymore,” she said, leaning casually into his side. “My heels are killing me, there’s a hairpin stabbing into my scalp, and I really, really need to pee.”

Rowan laughed, deep and husky. “Let’s get you home, then.”

“I’m stopping in the bathroom first.”

Just before she left the ladies’ room, Aelin heard voices in the break area. Familiar voices--Rowan’s, Maeve’s, and the snippy, borderline whiny tones of Remelle Frelau, who worked in the marketing department and had a hell of a boner for Rowan.

“--looking at revenue over--” Maeve’s voice cut out, but from the gasps of the other two, the revenue was through the roof.

“And it’s all thanks to this genius here,” drawled Remelle, who if Aelin had her guess was probably clinging onto Rowan like a platinum-blonde leech.

“Ms. Frelau, this was the product of a team. No single person could possibly have made it happen alone.”

“Oh, call me Remelle, or even better Remy. And you’re the team leader, so you practically did create it by yourself.”

Aelin snickered to herself. Vapid bitch had no idea what she was saying.

“That’s not how teams work, Ms. Frelau. We wouldn’t be here without Dr. Galathynius and Dr. Ytger’s language expertise, not to mention the creative genius of the engineers, graphic designers, linguists, and programmers.”

“Ms. Frelau, though her judgment is clearly biased, has a point, Mr. Whitethorn,” Mave said. “You demonstrated remarkable collaborative leadership qualities throughout this project, and I fully expect that you will continue to do so.” Maeve’s heels clicked away. Rowan’s voice followed her.

“Thank you, Ms. Ond, but I have to credit Dr. Galathynius--”

“Will you stop kissing that woman’s ass?” snorted Remelle. “Gods, she’s not worth your time or your praise; all she does is translate words into different languages and you idiots drool over that like it means anything.”

Aelin jerked like she’d been slapped. She knew Remelle was a self-centered, shallow, spiteful bitch, but she hadn’t known she would do this.

“--did more for this project than you and your useless whiteboard of catchphrases,” growled Rowan.

“I don’t care what she ‘did for the project,’ Rowan, she’s never going to be good enough for you.”

“Thank you for caring about my welfare, Frelau, now please kindly fuck off.”

Aelin chose that moment to saunter out of the bathroom and head straight for Rowan, her face showing no hint of having heard that conversation. She did note with satisfaction Remelle’s vain attempt to march out of the room with some semblance of dignity. Too bad her heel caught on the seam of the hallway carpet and the break room’s tile flooring and she had to grab the doorframe to keep from collapsing.

“You’re awfully quiet, Aelin.”

“Just thinking. Processing, really. It’s been a hell of a day.”

Rowan nodded. “I bet.”

“And hearing fucking Remelle rip into me for being useless…didn’t make it better.”

“Shit, you heard that?”

“Yeah. I heard that.” Her voice was hollow.

Rowan pulled into their driveway and shut off the engine. Reaching across the console, he cupped Aelin’s face in his hands. “Aelin. You are brilliant. You are terrifyingly smart. You are a force of nature. Nothing, nothing you will ever do is useless. Don’t let that jealous bitch make you think you are less than the perfect woman.”

She smiled tentatively at him. “She…she told me before that last interview that I could never be enough for you. Because you--because of Lyria.”

Rowan raked a hand through his hair. “Ae, can we talk about this inside?”

That night, he told her about his former fiancé, Lyria. He told her about their whirlwind romance, their youthful dreams. He told her about the horrific crash that stole away Lyria’s life. A drunk trucker, a narrow pass in the mountains. He showed her the box in which he kept all the memories of that life. He cried. Aelin cried. He curled against her, let her comfort him.

“Sometimes, I wish she was still here. She’d understand everything. She always did.”

Aelin had no response. She let Rowan fall asleep, his weight shifting off her and into his bed, and looked through the box. Everything she saw served as another reminder that this was the first woman he loved, the woman who understood everything.

She was worthy of him.

But was Aelin?

The more she looked at Rowan and Lyria’s happiness, the more the answer solidified.

No.

When Rowan woke up the next morning, Lyria’s box sat on Aelin’s side of the bed, a side that had not held Aelin.

He glanced out the window.

Her car was gone.

He got up and frantically paced through the house.

Everything she’d brought into his home was gone.

As was she.

Present day.

Rowan opened his front door mechanically, pulled off his shoes, dropped his work backpack on its shelf, and was halfway to his bedroom before he realized he’d just opened his front door. His front door that was always locked.

Someone was in his house.

Someone who either had a duplicate key or insanely good lockpicking skills.

Exactly one person owned a duplicate key to his house.

Aelin.

That’s impossible, she lives in Orynth, she can’t be here, he told the traitorous part of his brain that leapt with joy at seeing Aelin’s face again.

He turned around and made his way through the kitchen--nobody there--to the living room. He flicked on a lamp, casting a soft light around the room.

And nearly had a heart attack.

Aelin Galathynius sat on his couch.

For a moment, he just gawked at her. She looked so…different. Older. Gone was the infectious smile that had captured his heart. Dark shadows smeared under her eyes, testament both to the long hours she devoted to her work and to recent sleepless nights. She was twisting a ring on her right hand, a familiar sign of her nerves. From his angle, Rowan could see a hint of dark script on her wrist. A tattoo. The Aelin he knew didn’t have tattoos.

“I’m not a ghost.” Her voice, weary and hollow, broke the tense silence.

Rowan crossed the room, propped an arm on the fireplace. “Why?”

“Why am I here? Why did I leave? Why did I cut you out of my life?”

“Everything.” He couldn’t keep the waver from his voice, but his eyes burned into hers.

She took a steadying breath. “I’m here to apologize, first of all. I’m here to face what I ruined and to try and start mending it. I’m here to come to terms with everything I broke when I left three years ago.”

Whatever he’d expected her to say, it certainly wasn’t that.

“I’m sorry, Rowan. I’m sorry I left like that. I was…I was scared.”

“You can’t just run away from your fears, Aelin!” He couldn’t keep the frustration from his tone. “You can’t just abandon someone when you have a bad day!”

“I’m sorry! I know I shouldn’t have left! I know I can’t run from my fears; I’ve spent the last three years trying and fucking failing to do that! But I don’t know what else to do.”

“Saying something about it would have been a good first step.”

“I’m bad at emotions, Rowan. I tried. It wasn’t enough.”

“That’s not a good enough excuse.”

Aelin flicked a tear from her face. “I know.” Her shoulders slumped. “I’m so sorry, Rowan. I should never have left. I let some stupid comment root into my head and make me doubt myself. I made myself believe I would never be good enough for you. I left you. I loved you, and I still left you. I still love you, even though I’ve tried to suppress it. I can never make up for that. I…I just wanted to tell you how much I’ve regretted that horrible decision all these years. I want you to be happy, Rowan, I--”

“How am I supposed to be happy without a source?” He’d dropped onto the couch, close enough to touch her but still keeping his distance.

“What?”

“You didn’t just take yourself away, Aelin. You were my happiness. I’ve spent three fucking years trying to make myself believe I’m better without you in my life, and I can’t.”

She was unabashedly crying by that point. “What do you want me to do? How can I make up for abandoning you?”

“Stay.”

Her gaze locked onto his, both of their eyes pooling with tears.

“Stay with me, Fireheart.”

“But--”

“I never stopped loving you either.”

A choked sob ripped out of Aelin. Rowan couldn’t hold himself in check any longer; he reached out and tugged her gently into his arms. To his shock, she didn’t resist, burying her face into his chest as sobs shook her shoulders. When she calmed, he tilted her chin up.

“Will you stay, Aelin?”

“Yes. Even though I will never deserve your forgiveness, yes.”

Translations:

* = “that pinched old whore who couldn’t convince a dick to come within ten metres of her if she dressed up provocatively” (Italian)

** = loosely translated as “Fucking hell, I can’t get drunk off this garbage.” (in order, Russian (badly phonetically spelled out because Rowan POV), Spanish, German, Spanish again, French) (the Russian doesn’t directly translate, so it could mean several different variations of expletive)

Might there be a second part? Perhaps......

#my writing #rowaelin month #aaaaaangst

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thefreakishmuffin · 4 years

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Why Cinderella is actually a good Disney Princess (you guys are just mean)

Alright, nobody asked me to make this post, but here we are. I post whatever I want.

People over the past years have come to really dislike the older Disney Princesses. They see them as weak, submissive pushovers who always need a man to save them. But of all the older princesses such as Snow White, Aurora, and even Ariel, the one that I see get some of the most hate is Cinderella. And honestly, as a woman myself who is all for helping empower other women, I don’t necessarily think she deserves the hate.

People like to say that she is just a helpless damsel in distress who lets a man solve all her problems for her. That she never does anything for herself. And while I can see where people are coming from, I have to say that I don’t believe this is true. (And for those who are really salty about Cinderella, it’s obvious that all they know about her is from that one really crappy Cheetah Girls song).

Let’s start out from when Cinderella was born. She was born to a wealthy man and his wife, but his wife died very early on in young Cinderella’s life. And so her father remarried to Lady Tremaine, and she brought along her two young daughters, Anastasia and Drizella.

(Look at the way she’s petting that cat. EVILLLLL!!!!)

But not long after their marriage, the father passed away. (I’m pretty positive Lady Tremaine killed him, but whatever). And so what did Lady Tremaine do? Without a man of the house having a hand in how things are done, and leaving Lady Tremaine as the sole head of the house, this gave her the opportunity to do whatever she wished with little Cinderella. And so she made her a servant in her own home.

You could argue that Cinderella was weak for letting herself become a slave in her own home, but you know what? The girl was like, seven. Maybe eight. So chill.

And so the years pass by and Cinderella is still serving her stepmother and two ugly stepsisters. And this is where I see people start to get upset. “She’s certainly old enough now! Why doesn’t she just leave?” Well, here’s why. This is all she has known. As far as we know, she has no other family or friends (outside of animals), out there in the world to go to. And even if she did run away, what do you think would happen to a beautiful young woman all alone on the streets in the mid 1800s? Any number of bad things could happen to her. And there is also the emotional abuse she has been though with Lady Tremaine. This woman has dominated this girl’s entire existence, likely making her feel trapped.

(Yo dude where do I get magic soap like that? That’s pretty dope!)

In fact, while we’re on the topic of Cinderella’s home life, I want to point out something. I think it’s important to understand that Cinderella was very much a victim here. She was a victim of emotional and verbal abuse by her stepmother and stepsisters. She was growing up in a really crappy situation. If she wanted to play the victim, she had every right to. She totally could’ve done that.

But she didn’t.

Instead of sitting back and moping about how her life sucks and allowing herself to wallow in misery, she instead chooses to look on the positive. While she doesn’t like her situation, she makes a conscious effort to be positive. And honestly, I think the ability to be optimistic and joyful even through the worst of circumstances is a very admirable trait to have. One that I think we can all learn from. She had every right to be miserable, but instead chose to look on the bright side and find happiness in her everyday life, even if it was just a little bit here and there.

(*smiles like Flynn Rider* Guys I want a castle)

And then we get to the ever so important plot point of the royal ball. Wanting to be a grandpa, the king sends out invitations to every eligible young maiden in the kingdom to attend a huge ball so that his son, the prince, my find a future bride. Lady Tremaine, as the mother of some eligible young maidens, receives an invitation as well and reads it to her daughters.

It’s here where people like to say that, “Cinderella only wanted to go to the ball because of the prince, and that’s a dumb, stupid reason.” But really pay attention here. I mean really pay attention. We see the stepsisters get all giddy and excited about the prince, but Cinderella makes no mention of him. Like, none at all. She, for the first time in her life, has actually been invited to a party, and a huge one at the palace at that! She’s not excited about the prince here, she’s excited about having the opportunity to go to a big party in a pretty dress. And you know what? If I had to deal with all her family’s crap for the past several years and never got a day off, I’d be pretty stoked too. It’s not until after she meets the prince that she actually gives a crap about him.

And then we get to the next bit of discourse I’ve seen a lot of people fight over. The Fairy Godmother, and how she swoops in out of nowhere and fixes everything.

(Sparkle baby SPARKLE!!!!)

I’ve seen people get really bothered by this part. Some people don’t like the Fairy Godmother, saying that she’s random and that her helping get Cinderella to the ball is, once again, making Cinderella a helpless damsel. But here’s how I personally view it.

I see this somewhat as symbolism as well as an important plot point in the story. To me, this is Cinderella getting rewarded for all her hard work. She’s worked day and night almost her entire life under abuse and terrible conditions, but has kept up a brave face, positivity, kindness, and grace through it all. But then people argue that, “Why didn’t the Fairy Godmother appear earlier when Cinderella was being pushed around for all those years?”

My response to that question is a quote from the Fairy Godmother herself, when she states, “Even miracles take a little time.” This means that good things will come to you in due time, when they are meant to come to you, if you keep your head up and don’t let yourself be weighed down by the world around you. The pumpkin carriage and dress were all rewards for Cinderella’s life of hard work and perseverance, and though we might not get our miracle in the form of some random sparkles, it can always come in other ways.

And then we have the whole scene at the ball blah blah blah...

And onto the next point the internet likes to whine about! Cinderella needing a...man to save her?

(Not gonna like, those looks painful to walk in. I can barely even walk in regular heels.)

Alright here’s the deal. The prince didn’t do anything. He sat at the palace the whole time. I don’t know where you’re getting this “she needs a man to save her” bullcrap, because it ain’t there, snowflakes.

Around the end of the story, Lady Tremaine locks Cinderella upstairs in the attic, hoping that she’ll remain trapped up there when the Grand Duke comes a knocking with the glass slipper. I’ve seen people get upset about this, but seriously, what else was she gonna do other than ask her mice friends for help? Yes, she could’ve jumped out the window, but she was really high up and that fall likely could’ve killed her, if not at least horribly wounded her. But I do admit that she could’ve screamed really loud for someone to hear her. That makes sense and probably could’ve worked, but whatever. It’s Disney.

And then people get upset that she went and married a guy who only seemed interested in feet, but you know what? Given the options of either remaining a slave to your abusive family, or living in a palace with the chance of becoming Queen one day? I think we all know which one we’d choose. (Also the prince actually is funny and gets a personality in the third movie...which is surprisingly really good).

(Waking up with flawless makeup and hair is #goals, to be honest.)

And there you have it. Cinderella, is in fact, a good Disney Princess. Now I’m not saying that she’s by any means perfect. But this Disney Princess brings a lot more to the table than just pretty looks and excellent cleaning skills.

And if you still want to get up on your soapbox and scream about how she is an enemy to feminism, then I feel really sorry for you. Because she possesses some positive traits and qualities that I think everyone, not just women, should have.

#disney #disney's cinderella #cinderella #movie analysis #disney analysis #disney princess #disney princesses #cinderella disney

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xiubaek-13 · 4 years

Text

Better Off Dead

Prompt: Namjoon + “Hold on, you died” “Yeah, well it didn’t stick.” + “I promise I won’t bite. Unless you ask.”

Setting/AU: Vampire AU

Warnings: Character death, swearing, implied sex, vampires

Word Count: 1,949

“Happy Halloween kids!” You aunt called out as both you and Namjoon descended the stairs from your apartment.

You groaned in unison. “Oh my god, please don’t!” You cried out. Beside you Namjoon choked on his laughter. You smacked your friend for his betrayal.

“Ow! The hell was that for?” He winced as he dramatically clung to his right arm.

You huffed. “You’re not supposed to laugh when she embarrasses me like that. I’m a grown adult, not a kid. Besides, it’s Samhain. Halloween is so… commercial and tacky. It’s a special day, not a day for dressing like a twat and handing out candy.”

Namjoon shakes his head as the two of you continue walking towards campus. “Do you really believe all of the lore surrounding it?”

This was one of the reasons the two of you had been friends for so long. He’d let you rant and rave on your soapbox until you were blue in the face. He’d listen to everything you had to say and when you were done, he’d challenge your logic with questions. It was so nice to debate with someone who didn’t just shut you down. “I mean, traditionally the day is to celebrate the end of the harvest & the Celts held rituals to thank their gods for their harvest & to protect them during the winter that was to come. They honoured the dead as it was considered a liminal time, and that’s where the folklore takes artistic liberty. Really it was just that Samhain was halfway between solstices and they considered the veil between this world and the afterlife to be thin, that spirits were free to roam the earth for one night. It was a peaceful celebration but somewhere along the lines it was twisted into satan worship and tales of terror - demons and ghosts and all of that. Don’t even get me started on the vampire stuff.”

He nodded as you spoke, taking in all of the facts you were providing. “I know all of that. The bonfires, the dancing, the fae folklore about being lured by faeries to their circles and never being able to leave. I asked if you believed all of it and if I’m not mistaken, you did not answer me.” His tone was always matter of fact but when he spoke with you, there was always a hint of teasing involved too, just to rile you up.

“I don’t believe in the ghost stories, the demons and faerie lore that associates itself with Samhain. I do believe the rituals for honouring the dead and thanking the gods for the harvest. I believe it’s a time for reflection and for celebration before the cold months come.” You replied. “I also believe that that answered your question did it not?” You teased.

He chuckled as the two of you reached the campus. “You did, but there is no reason to be smug about it.” He poked your nose. “I’ve got like 4 hours of class coming up so I won’t see you until tonight. That is if you decide to grace our Halloween party.” He grinned.

“How quickly do you think Yoongi will throw me out if I educate the partygoers about Samhain?” You joke.

“Try it and find out. I want to see THAT particular conversation go down.” He grinned. “I think he only just decided to start speaking to you again after you tried to take over his St Patrick’s Day party.” You opened your mouth but Namjoon held out his hand to stop you. “For the love of all that is good, don’t start this again. I’ve gotta run, come by tonight?”

“I’ll think about it.” Is the best answer you can give. It’s good enough for Namjoon because he smiles and turns to run off to class. You still have twenty minutes before your next class so you decide to grab a coffee, a decision that you instantly regret when you set foot in the cafe. “Fucking pumpkin spiced lattes and fucking lame costumes. Gods I hate Halloween.” You mutter to yourself.

Beside you you hear a low chuckle. You glance over to find Yoongi standing next to you. His glare freezing you to the spot. “Please, do not go off on one of your manic rants. I haven’t had my coffee yet and I will kill you if you screech like a banshee as those vapid sorority girls.”

“You hate them too, why not let me have my fun?” You ground out.

“Do whatever you want after I’ve left with my life source. Do it before then and Namjoon will have to bail me out of jail for making an attempt on your life.” He bites back.

“That’s an awful way to treat your fuck buddy.” You smirk. Your words don’t phase Yoongi and honestly you shouldn’t expect them to. You know how he is before that first cup of the day and it’s not pretty.

***

You never ended up going to the party, something you regret every day. You never knew that the last time you’d see Namjoon was as he ran off to class that day. You went straight home after your classes and collapsed into your bed, ordered pizza and binged a season of White Collar. You missed the frantic calls from Yoongi, the stream of messages from mutual friends as they tried to check in on you. Little did you know that the worst had happened.

They don’t prepare you for how to feel when you find out that your best friend dies. You expect that kind of thing to happen when you’re both 80 and at peace with the concept. You don’t expect it to happen when you’re in your early twenties, the prime of your life. But it did. Namjoon was ripped from the earth by a drug addict in a mugging gone wrong on his way to Yoongi’s party. The police told you he died quickly from the stab wounds but that did little to make you feel better. All you could think of was that he was alone as he bled out on the shortcut he always took to Yoongi’s place. It was irrational to think that if you were with him that this wouldn’t have happened but you still felt guilty for not being there, for not being able to comfort him.

You went through the textbook stages of grief, Yoongi going through them as well. The two of you had to cease your arrangement, agreeing that time apart to accept the loss of your friend and to heal in a healthy way was necessary. After a month the two of you started to catch up for coffee and lunch, just to chat and to get both of you outside.

Everything reminded you of him, certain places, songs, topics, foods. Hell, even the rain reminded you of him. You could have sworn that you’d spotted him in the distance a few times, only to feel that sinking in your gut as you reminded yourself that it couldn’t be him. Nights were worse because you could still hear his voice.

***

“Don’t scream. Just hear me out.” He said calmly.

You were anything but calm. Until twenty seconds ago you were peacefully sleeping. Then he shook you awake. You had to be dreaming because he couldn’t be here, he could never be here again. Your eyes widened in shock, you brain telling you to scream. Maybe you were seeing him when it was in fact a murderer in your room. You were too scared to even ask yourself why a murdered would wake you up so gently before you know, murdering you. He let go of you and slowly stepped away from the bed. With every step he took you felt a little more at ease.

“I’m just going to sit at your desk. When you’re ready to talk, let me know.” He said, as though this was a normal visit.

“Why are you here?” You started.

“I… well I missed you.” He said slowly.

“How are you here?” You asked.

“I still have a key to the apartment.” He replied nonchalantly.

You shook your head as you tried to sift through your thoughts. “Hold on, you died.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, well it didn’t stick.”

He was too calm for this. You were freaking out because your best friend, who you missed like crazy, was sitting in your room in the middle of the night because he missed you. This would be less terrifying if he hadn’t died two months ago. You felt your heart hammering in your chest as you tried to process this conversation. “Namjoon. Don’t take this the wrong way but I’m gonna need an explanation here because you fucking died and you cannot be here right now. I’m either asleep and having the weirdest dream ever or I fucking lost it and had a mental breakdown.”

“You’re not crazy, but you’re going to hate what I’m about to tell you.” He smiled tightly. It looked like his smile but the feeling was off.

“You know what. Try me, because right now I’m processing that I’m talking to a dead guy so honestly, how much worse can it get?” You were pretty sure you were crazy but no one else was present, except for Namjoon and he didn’t count, to tell you otherwise. You made a mental note to self admit yourself as soon as this conversation was over or at sunrise, whichever came first.

He scratched his jaw as he avoided your gaze. Something he used to do all the time when he had to give you information that he knew would be poorly received. “The police report isn’t wrong, it just left out some vital information. I was on my way to Yoongi’s party when a junkie jumped me and stabbed me. I did bleed out in the alley, scared and helpless, but it was quick and my suffering was short. I said my goodbyes in my mind and asked the universe to look after you because I knew you’d blame yourself.” He paused and made eye contact with you. “There was nothing you could have done, trust me.” You felt a tear slide down your cheek as you heard the story of how your best friend died all over again. “What they left out was the bite marks on my neck that the junkie inflicted before trying to cover them up with the stab wounds. The also left out the part where my body mysteriously went missing after they locked the morgue.” He sighed deeply. “I woke up three hours from here in a cabin. I was confused and terrified but glad to be alive. I had no idea how I’d survived but the pain in my guy made me think I was still injured. I later learned that the pain was in fact, hunger. And that I hadn’t survived. Not entirely.”

Something clicked in your brain at that moment. “Fuck. Off.”

He chuckled. “Please, the cruel irony isn’t lost on me either.”

“Are. Are you trying to tell me, ME?! That you, Kim Namjoon, are a goddamn vampire?!” You spat out in a mixture of disgust and disbelief.

“I promise I won’t bite. Unless you ask.” He shrugged.

“I think I preferred it when I thought you were dead. Honestly, of all the things to be real, fucking vampires?! I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”

“I missed you too.” He strode over and enveloped you in a hug.

#kloversnet #thekpopnetwork #kpopwonderlandtag #kwordsmiths #bts fic #bts drabble #bts imagine #bts scenario #namjoon fic #namjoon scenario #namjoon imagine #namjoon drabble #rm fic #rm scenario #rm imagine #rm drabble

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noccalula-writes · 4 years

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What are your favorite games and franchises? Top 5?

OH BOY have I got feelings on this subject.

Please keep in mind - I’m a storyteller and a writer. I fucking /love/ a good story. I DM a DnD game and my biggest weakness is that I don’t often include enough combat because I am so much more interested in telling a story. So for me, there’s got to be an emotional investment for a game to really land. I also hyperfixate like a motherfucker so I often refuse to pick up new things purely because there’s not enough space in my head for them at the time, so I’m slow getting to things as they come out.

So, I’m first and foremost a survival horror bitch. I cut my teeth on Parasite Eve before I played any others - my mother scrimped and saved and fought her way through Wal-mart back in like 1998 to get me the original Playstation gaming console and Tekken 2 (which was my first PS game, I played it in an arcade near her barber shop as a child - Tomb Raider 2 was my second). The old Playstation discs at that time came with demos for different games, including Metal Gear Solid, which I replayed until I could have done it in my sleep because poverty meant I wasn’t likely to get another game anytime soon. I mention this because the Parasite Eve trailer used to give me nightmares but I was super, super hooked.

I am a huge Silent Hill fan. Huge. That is a tragedy I could write a whole ‘nother post about, because as excited as I am to finally get my hands on Death Stranding (again, poverty, so it’ll be another minute before we can get a PS4), we’ll never get another SH game again unless some major reconciliation happens with Kojima and Konami, which is unlikely (and also hard to hope for - I’m happy Kojima now has the creative freedom to go as balls to the wall as he wants).

I am an equally huge Resident Evil fan. I’ve always maintained that my first fandom was The X Files, but my wife pointed out a few nights ago that my RE love started around the same time in the late 90′s, so now it’s a chicken and egg kind of thing. Point being, it’s either The or One Of my longest lasting fandoms/interests. RE and Silent Hill get compared to one another a lot - RE7 did nothing to help that - but they really are apples and oranges to me. Fruit, sure, but two totally different tones and experiences.

I’ve been a huge Tomb Raider fan for forever - my first high school boyfriend was loaded and bought me Angel of Darkness to come play at his house and while it was def critically panned, I do recall enjoying it - so that’s been fun to get those games remade with updated graphics. I’ve only played the one but the others are def on The List.

So now that I’ve talked for an hour, my Top 5 fave games ever -

#1 - Resident Evil 3 I am beyond jazzed for this remake, and a lot of people in the 90′s complained about RE3′s lack of clear cut boss battles, but I don’t know what they’re talking about. The entire fucking game is a boss battle - Jill vs. Raccoon City, and of course, Nemesis, who used to give my mother nightmares and caused me to sleep with a leaf-stabber by my bed for years. Jill is far and away my favorite protagonist in RE; she’s got a resilience of the spirit that somehow isn’t conflated with naivety, which is uncommon in ‘nice’ female protags. She’s savvy but she’s still kind, and she’s committed as fuck to survival - not to mention, as zealotous a Chris and Jill shipper as I am, she and Carlos had hella chemistry and I’m excited to see where that goes (JD Pardo would have made a fuck of a Carlos Oliviera, btw). It was An Experience and it’s forever at my #1.

#2 - The Last of Us

There is no comparison for emotional weight in video games, as far as I’m concerned. SPOILERS if you don’t already know the ending (this game came out in what, 2014?) but to me one of the biggest thing in the game’s favor is that the protagonist made the wrong choice. He had an option to potentially eradicate the cordyceps fungus and maybe save the world, turn the tides back for humanity, and with the weight of the world in the balance, he chose to save Ellie instead. It was, on a global scale, the wrong choice - but it was the human choice. It was the thing that a dad who never properly grieved his dead daughter would do for the surrogate daughter he inherited by accident. As for Ellie, there is no other character quite like her in games, and she’s fucking quality LGBT representation, especially considering how little we see queer children in media. I still cry every time, we play this game twice a year like clockwork and every single time, I still cry.

#3 - Silent Hill 3

All of SH’s games will have a special place in my heart - and if you wanna talk shit about Downpour, I’ll meet you in the Denny’s parking lot at 11, you better square the fuck up because I will defend Murphy with fists - but 3 is the best, hands down. I felt like it did the best job of streamlining the series’ ... uhm... somewhat complicated lore into something more understandable. SPOILERS: The villains are horrific - the Missionaries strike fear into my heart every time I play, and Claudia eating a miscarried god fetus to become god herself? Fucked up on a level you rarely see. I suppose if you didn’t catch it in the last sentence - your protag Heather vomits up a fetal god late in the game. Yes, you read that right. The best thing about this game though? Heather. I could climb up my feminist soapbox and talk about Heather as a subversion to video game tropes all fucking day - she’s a nonsexualized teenage girl whose father is killed for her character development. She’s self-sufficient, tough but still vulnerable, and hard as nails in a fight. As I might have mentioned a time or six, she also voluntarily aborts a god because Fuck Your Plans, She’s Got Her Own.

#4 - Final Fantasy X

Listen. I don’t know how much of this is because of actually enjoying playing the game and how much of it is emotional attachment. As most of you who follow me know, my mother died when I was sixteen. When I was about fourteen, I dated a rich kid who used to bring his PS2 to our very not-rich house and play games for us to watch - the sort of neophyte version of Watching Guys Play Videogames, if you will, which is another rant for another time. He got a Gamecube specifically so I could play RE Zero and Hunter The Reckoning. He was a neckbeard but he was also desperate to keep me from ditching so he did the smart thing and plied my very poor ass with money and food. The #1 game in the watching roster, though, was FFX - and if you know anything about the game, you know how heavily spirituality features into the story. My mother, very caught up in a very Eastern Philosphy Meets Quantum Physics internal seeking about the nature of things, was hooked from the word Go. She used to sit and watch Trey play for hours - we all did, but having her join us and love it that much? Wonderful. Half my memories of this game are both of us crying - crying when Yuna dances to send the souls, crying when Yuna reveals she’s on a suicide mission, crying when she and Tidus fall in love anyway, crying when she sends her Aeons to die in the final fight, crying over ‘the fayts are waking up’, crying when the big reveal about Auron comes up, crying crying crying. My wife bought it in 2011 and I watched her play through it again and while it suffers from the same issue as all FF games - too much filler and weird battle scenarios - it was cathartic. I miss my mom.

#5 - Resident Evil 6

Eat my entire ass. You already knew this was coming. I will defend this game to my grave for the fact that we have complex, interesting narratives surrounding female characters who have actual personalities. Was it perfect? No. Did it take RE out of horror territory and move it more into action? Woefully, yes. Is this series deeply problematic for where it chooses to set down your mostly-white protags and have them kill their way through? Big time. Don’t gloss those facts. But it’s got emotional punch in spades and a few weird character breaks that ended up being kind of brilliant - Chris has been so resiliently relentless in his fight against bioterrorism that a major PTSD break was inevitable. Leon would of course risk life and limb to help Helena, even though she implicated herself in something terrible. The icing on the cake to me was a grown up Sherry Birkin, wide eyed and believing like hell in the fight she thought she was on the right side of and getting knocked down only to get back up. Ada’s entire side campaign was brilliant. I hate some of the control choices they made in this game - the running from the Haos scenes near the end of Chris and Piers’ campaign makes me want to eat my own fist - but so it goes with most RE games (until RE4, moving your protag was like driving a tank). Jake and Sherry are My Unsinkable Ship. There are at least six scenes across this game that never get easier to watch - when the bomb hits the city and the cut scene of the mass infections begin, I still get sick to my stomach - and that, to me, is the mark that this game struck a hell of a chord in terms of storytelling.

This was long.

#noccalula answers #this was fucking long #ask and ye shall receive #vidja games

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buckysforeverprincess · 5 years

Text

Your Hardest Goodbye -Pt 5

Bucky Barnes x Reader, Steve Rogers X Reader

Words: 2338

Warnings: Major character death, angst

A/N: This is the end. I can’t say much or it will give it away...

5 years later…

You were seated on a bench in the park, watching your four-year-old play with a friend from preschool. Noah was running around happily giving chase to the boy, long blond hair flowing behind him as he ran. He was his father's clone but refused to cut his hair when asked; opting for the longer locks. Noah said he didn't want to be like them, conformists. Even used the word in the right context. At four, he was reading books and words most adults shy away from, but not him. He was a wealth of information and wouldn't miss an opportunity to get on his soapbox and tell you the ways of the world. Yeah, he was his father's son.

It was times like these you cherished. When the only thing Noah Rogers wanted to do was run around and play, making friends and building forts. That's what four-year-olds should be doing. Not listening to NPR or watching CNN, like his father.

You were so lost in thought, you hadn't noticed someone sit down next to you.

“Mom!” The seven-year-old belts out.

You turn to look at the mini Bucky and open your arms wide for a hug. “Hey, baby!” Bella moves into your arms. “Where's your dad?” You asked as she broke the hug. She had been with her father, so his absence was a little concerning.

“He's over there getting ice cream!” She points over to the far side of the park, and you see the brunette standing a vendor’s cart handing over money for the cool treat.

It didn't take long for him to join you guys, waking at a hurried pace so the ice cream wouldn't melt. “Noah!” Bucky yelled trying to get the attention of the little boy. He held up the deliciousness and Noah needed no coercion to give up playing for a few minutes to eat his snack.

You watched as Noah walked up to Bucky and a few words were exchanged, before the young boy called his friend over and was also offered one of the ice creams in hand. Without hesitation the boy gladly accepted, thanking Bucky before the two boys walked to another park bench and sat next to his friend’s mother, enjoying their ice cream.

“How's my beautiful girl?” Bucky says when he walks up, holding out another ice cream to Bella.

“Dad…you just saw me!” The girl laughs at her father, but he's not really looking at her.

“Of course, I just saw you…I was talking about your mother.” Bucky looks at you with a sultry look, before he bends down and places a kiss to your lips.

“Yuck, you had onions!” You wiped your lips, and Bucky laughs at your observational skills.

“I had onion rings, and I wasn't the only one!”

He points at your daughter, who is happily eating her ice cream and not paying any attention to the adults around her. Yeah, of course she did. Neither one of your children take after you in looks or personality, and especially not food choices. Everything about them screams Bucky and Steve. You were praying the one you were currently holding in your arms would take after you.

Bucky looks down at the sleeping baby and gives him a fond smile. “You need me to take him?” He always wanted a chance to hold and bond with him. Bucky wanted every opportunity he missed with Bella, opting to stay as close as he could to you within reason.

“No, he's good. Been sleeping for a while. I expect he'll wake up soon and need to be fed. We should probably get going.”

Bucky nodded and agreed, “I'll get Noah and then we'll head home. Bella, help mommy pack up please.”

Bella had just finished her treat and took out a wet wipe, cleaning her hands before packing up the few items on the bench. She even wiped down Noah, when the little boy came bouncing over after saying his goodbyes to his friend.

Bucky helped you place Lucas into the stroller, strapping in the three-month-old securely and began making the trek back home. Bella grabbed the diaper bag and Noah took Bucky's hand as the four of you walked and talked about the events of the day.

It had taken a long time to get to this point after the fiasco that was your wedding day. You didn't want to see either man ever again, but you knew that wouldn't be a possibility. Bucky was Bella's biological father…they deserved to know each other.

And it worked out really. Bucky gave you the space you needed at first, but slowly began working at your heartstrings, and breaking down the brick wall you built around your heart. It didn't happen overnight, and you can't pinpoint exactly when it did, but you found yourself falling for the man who was your first love all over again.

Bucky had to work for it though. You had been hurt twice over and trusting him wasn't an easy task. It wasn't until Noah was born that you let him in, removing only a single brick of the wall you had built. He was there for you in the delivery room, helping you push out the stubborn little Rogers baby, ushering words of encouragement and letting you almost crush his hand from the intense pain that little Noah Grant had put you through. Once he came into this world, Bucky stayed by your side, watching over you as you held the baby boy in your arms, already head over heels in love with the precious little angel.

Not only was he great with Noah, but he stepped up to the plate and devoted himself to Bella like he wished he could have from the beginning. That relationship started out small, with visits at his mom’s house when she was there during the week. Bucky didn't push you to tell her, just let things progress naturally, and within six months the two of them were thick as thieves. Bella was too young to realize having two dads wasn't normal, but she never questioned it and accepted that Bucky was daddy and Steve papa. It was a win for everyone, leaving neither man slighted.

You continued your walk towards home, the older two getting antsy the closer you got. Turning the corner, you could see the house a few driveways down, thankful you didn't have to go too much farther. Nothing seemed odd to you, so you didn't bother looking for anything out of the norm.

Bucky taps you on the shoulder, pulling your attention towards him and points in the direction of the driveway. “What's he doing here?” Immediately you recognized the vacant car and began to ponder the question.

“Hmmm, guess we'll find out?” Trying to remain neutral even though you were wondering the same exact thing. Bucky just shook his head and gave you an eye roll, dismissing your nonchalance.

Bella was the first to notice as she got closer to the house, running in excitement when she saw Steve's car. “Papa!” She yelled and took off for the door.

Noah was all smiles too, breaking free from Bucky's grip hopping to the entrance in search of his father. You laughed as the kids disappeared, leaving you and Bucky to bring Lucas and the stroller inside.

Walking into the house the noise level was excruciating; the two kids at the kitchen counter excitedly rummaging through a bag of goodies Steve had brought back with him. Holding onto Lucas, you walked into the kitchen eying the man who had both of your children's attentions.

“What?” Steve looks at you like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Don't what me Mr. Rogers…what are you doing here?” There's no heat in your voice, just a question about why he was here and not where he was supposed to be.

“What, can't I come home and be with my family?” He was now making his way over to you. “I missed you Mrs. Rogers.” Steve places a kiss on your lips, and damn if you didn't miss that while he was gone away.

“Excuse me? I believe that's Rogers-Barnes, or do we have to go through that again?!” Bucky says from behind you as he enters the madness in the kitchen.

“Aww... are you mad Barnes that I left you out again?” Steve's tone is playful, and Bucky knows he's teasing.

“Please stop with the testosterone fest!” You commented, handing over Lucas to Steve’s open arms.

Steve takes the baby and places a kiss to his little head. He was absolutely smitten over the child and had missed him over the past week he was away on business. “I've missed you sweet Lucas.”

There had been agreement between the three of you, biology wouldn't matter. Steve had openly admitted he knew Lucas Dayton Rogers-Barnes wasn't his son by blood, but he didn't care. The three of you were all in this together.

Steve had worked just as hard as Bucky to win you back. He gave you three days after the disaster of the wedding to be alone and sort out your thoughts. On day four he entered your shared apartment and begged for forgiveness. It wasn't immediately given, citing all the reasons why he shouldn't have felt that way in the first place. Steve promised he'd do anything to fix things, but you told him you needed time.

The man never wavered and did exactly what you asked. Steve put everything he had into winning you back, even when Bucky admitted his feelings were just as strong for you as they ever had been. However, Steve didn't give up. Even deciding they should work together and not make you choose either one of them; but instead love them both.

Being part of a triad had its struggles. Even though they were used to living out of each other's pockets, it still took time to adjust. That was never more obvious when Steve had asked you to marry him all over again, looking to Bucky in confusion.

It was both of their ideas, they said; wanting to make sure you were taken care of in case something ever happened, Steve having the better job and benefits. You hesitantly agreed but could feel the tension from Bucky. However, with time and the planning of the wedding it was all worth it in the end.

Looking around at your family in the kitchen, everything was complete. Not one person was left out, and everyone was completely happy. You closed your eyes at the scene playing out in your kitchen. Hoping that this time it would last.

“Honey, you ok?” Your husband approached your kneeling form, tears running down your cheeks.

“Um-yeah, can I have just a few more minutes?”

Jefferson gave you a soft nod. “Of course,...take your time.” He turned and walked back over to the bench joining Bella and Noah sitting quietly waiting for you to finish up.

You look back at the headstones with tears in your eyes. “I wish that was the story I could tell our children.” You say through the flowing tears. “Not a day goes by that I don't miss you both...even after five years. I wish you both could have met them...they should have been able to meet you…”

The tears were a full-blown river now, the pain and emotion too great. “It's been five years...and it still hurts me like it was yesterday, but I know you're in a better place, looking out for one another. Jefferson-uh...Jefferson takes very good care of us, and both kids adore him. I love him so much, but I still miss you...always.”

You pulled out the white roses you had bought on your way to the cemetery, putting six on Steve's grave and the other six on Bucky's. This day didn't get any better with each passing year. You kissed your fingers and touched each headstone. “I'm so sorry.” You whispered, standing up from the ground and walking back over to your family.

Jefferson stood up from the bench as you made your way over to him and the children. He walks over and immediately takes his hand and wipes the tears from your eyes before wrapping his arms around you. “You're so amazing.” The brunette breaks the hug and places a soft kiss to your forehead.

“I'm ready to go now.” You gave him your best forced smile, but the man knew it was fake.

“Let's head out guys. We'll be back next year.” Jefferson says to the kids still seated on the bench.

The kids make their way over; Bella taking his hand, Noah grabbing yours. The four of you make your way to your car and prepare to leave this place one more time and come back again next year.

Five years ago, you were supposed to marry Steve. Five years ago, he broke your heart for the second time in your life. Five years ago, you left Steve and Bucky in the church, hating them both for breaking you. Five years ago, they left the church and made their way to a bar. Five years ago, you received a knock at the door that would forever change your life. Five years ago, Steve got behind the wheel of his car-Bucky in the passenger seat, driving too fast around a curve and crashing head on into a semi killing both men on impact. Five years ago, you lost yourself regretting the words you spewed out in a moment of anger. Five years ago, you wanted to die.

This day will never get any easier, no matter how much time goes on; eased only by the faces of Bella and Noah, the exact clones of their fathers. You take a look back in the direction of the two graves one last time. You let out a deep breath and swallow hard. Things won't get any easier, ever. This will always be your hardest goodbye.

End

#bucky #bucky barnes #james barnes #james bucky barnes #james Buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #james barnes x reader #james bucky barnes x reader #james buchanan barnes x reader #steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steven rogers #steven rogers x reader #steven grant rogers x reader

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mycatsarebabes · 5 years

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Hey everybody! I’ve been seeing a lot of back to school posts circulating around my dash, and I thought I’d make one of my own. I mean, I’ve been going back to school for about eleven years now, I must be pretty good at it by now, right? Anyways, I wanted to divide this into three parts: Mind and Body, Academics, and Extracurriculars. So give this post a little scroll if there’s something in particular you want some advice on!

Mind and Body:

You’ve heard it before and now you’ll hear it again: take care of your sleep schedule! About two weeks before school starts, try to go to sleep close to the time you will need to for the school year, and beginning waking up earlier and earlier with your alarm.

Also when it comes to sleep, try thinking about your circadian rhythm! https://sleepyti.me/ is a great source to tell you when to go to sleep and wake up in order to get the most hours of sleep possible and keep you wide awake and energized throughout the day.

You gotta eat, fam. Y’all know you need to eat breakfast, but also don’t skip any other meals. And, when going back to school, try not to reduce or increase how much food you eat throughout the day. This will keep your energy levels at a steady and healthy level.

Keep your earbuds handy! Sometimes school is overwhelming. I hate listening to the complaining and stress and gossip sometimes, so I just plug myself in and tune out the world. This also saves me from wasting all my energy worrying about other people’s problems.

Academics:

Do your summer work now. This one is a must. Having homework left to do the night before school leaves no time for revisions, and that is added stress to your first day that you just don’t need. So get on it!

We all know we love pretty things, so get fun study stuff! Personally, I hate spending tons of money on stationery and school supplies, but if I don’t like my notes I won’t use them. Usually, I just get at least one nice catch-all notebook and some fun pens and highlighters. Be prepared and have fun!

Be sure to brush up on any languages you may be taking. It can be difficult, especially if you don’t have any summer work in your target language, to get back into the swing of thinking in a different dialect. Try watching movies or just listening to music in your target language, but don’t exert yourself too much! You don’t want to get burned out too early!

Extracurriculars:

If you are playing an instrument or sport in the fall, start practicing over the summer! It sucks when you go back into your ensemble or team only to find that you can no longer keep up with them. If there are events over the summer, attend them! Run on your own, practice new scales. Just work to maintain those skills!

If you are involved in a club, do some brainstorming. What do you want to get out of the club this year? What can you do for the club this year? This way, you can come back to school with new insights for the group and a new sense of invigoration!

Most importantly, budget your time. Take out your planner right now, and look at any academic commitments you already have, and then your extracurriculars. Don’t overload yourself right as you’re going in! If you have a different club or activity every night, you may not have time for your homework or yourself. And besides, you can always postpone some things to join later in the year, when you have a better sense of what you will be able to handle with your workload this year.

Anyways, I’ll step off my soapbox now. Thank you for reading, and I hope this helped! If you have any questions, feel free to ask! Good luck going back to school!

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riding-with-the-wild-hunt · 9 months

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i’m sort of enamoured with the cruel servants of celegorm actually. in a story where (a.) we rarely see elves motivated to kill purely out of revenge and (b.) the lord-vassal dynamic is largely shown as strictly either mutual loyalty and affection (ie. finrod-house of bëor) or the vassal was bad from the outset (ie. caranthir-ulfang), they are unique in their role as presumably loving, loyal, til-death-do-us-part companions who are motivated by that love to do a terrible thing—but more importantly, a terrible thing that wasn’t going to accomplish anything. enamoured with the kind of devotion that makes people behave like that….enamoured with an adoration so strong it goes beyond death and cultural taboos and utility…..one of the worst and saddest and most sickening parts of the silm and it was caused by love!!! just bake me into a pie about it!!!

#brought to you by me #every day i wake up + i get on my little soapbox #the professor's world #the silmarillion #elves elves elves #fjshkfjgh!!!!#second kinslaying

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can0n-fodder · 5 years

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MPreg Books & Fics

I told someone I wasn’t into reading MPreg books and fics, mostly those in the A/B/O universe, and they sort of passive-aggressively assumed it was because I thought the gender tossup aspect of such works is cringey or objectionable. I could see the soapbox lecture developing on their face. But...no. That has nothing to do with it. The reason I don’t really like MPreg books and fics is because too often--FAR too often--the stories end up careening down this boring, mind numbing tangent of pregnancy, childbirth, and childcare. I mean whole chapters, thousands of words dedicated to what type of breakfast cereal we have to get for little Sally because of her allergy, or the minute by minute coverage of waking up, preparing breakfast, dressing the kids, cleaning, getting them to the car and OH MY GOD IS THIS PARENTHOOD because thank fuck I don’t have kids, not if this is the actual thought process of every day. Not if my entire identity becomes about skin sensitive laundry detergent and the uber-detailed-universe building of how a “male” character gives birth, while the main plot (if we’re lucky enough to get one) is being glossed over with major plot developments getting second hand reveals in short paragraphs. Do we know the motivations of the villain or how he actually pulled off his scheme? Are we given a decent development or explanation for why the MCs even like each other? Nope, but we sure do know how common it is for new omegas to crave pancake batter in the 3rd trimester, and the difficulty of finding a good pediatrician! We start (if we’re lucky) with a passably interesting character who ends up devolving into a domesticated, child-obsessed BORE. So, no. I don’t really like MPreg books and fics.

#Mpreg #Sometimes you really can feel the author in the work #And it's not great

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nonbinarysalemwitch · 5 years

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Soapbox

So, I am 31 weeks into my first full term pregnancy. I’ve been pregnant 3 other times, but haven’t ever had the “real experience” until now because of all the complications. Because of this, I feel like I came into this experience with sore misconceptions of what it would be like.

The media, for the most part, paints pregnancy with rose colored glasses. It’s a miracle! You have a “pregnancy glow”! Motherhood changes you for the better! Etc, etc. To me, a mother who has had trouble conceiving, I agree that it is a miracle. But, goodness is it WEIRD.

Here are some things that I was not really expecting to deal with...

Morning sickness: First of all, it doesn’t always happen in the morning. Second of all I had to quit my job because of it. My “morning sickness” was all day, every day for about 8 weeks straight. It wasn’t like they show in the movies, either. Where the mother-to-be has a sudden rush of nausea and runs to the bathroom for a good vomit. No! I sat over the toilet for HOURS waiting for the continual gagging to stop. Most of the time it was like acid reflux gone a little too far. Not quite vomiting, not quite not vomiting...

Waiting: The first trimester is BORING. Most people choose not to tell a lot of others outside of their spouse, close friends or family, because you just never really know whats going to happen. I had to tell my boss, personally, because I was high risk and couldn’t perform a lot of my daily tasks without putting the baby at risk. However, it’s a lot of waiting around for week 12/13/14 to be able to share the good news and a lot of avoiding situations while you’re trying to keep it a secret. I was not ready to tell my extended family as soon as I did, but since I was in the 1st trimester around the holidays it was nearly unavoidable.

Loneliness: In he 1st trimester, not being able to tell your friend groups or coworkers can seriously hinder your social life. A lot of people end up just cancelling all social plans until they’re able to tell, so as to not raise suspicion. But another very real aspect of loneliness that I find creeping up on me is the realization that this reduction in social life will likely be permanent after birth. Friends always say that they will want to be around the baby all the time, they’ll babysit for you whenever you need, blah blah blah. These are all very well intended promises, but in reality... A mother-to-be becomes less fun to be around. Having to take care of the baby can get in the way of conversation, hinders your ability to go out in public spaces, and can frankly make some people feel uncomfortable. It’s not fun to sit awkwardly in someone’s living room while the mother is trying to sooth a screaming baby for 30 minutes. Plus, people have lives outside of you and your child that make it hard for them to keep those promises. It’s something that I’m sure I will resent, but am completely expecting and also understand.

Pain: I’m not talking about birth pain. I’m talking about day-to-day pains. Your body starts changing IMMEDIATELY from the moment of conception, and for many women this means they will develop “tender” breasts. I figured this one would be easy because, well, periods. I was not expecting horrible pain every time I hit a pothole, which is hard to avoid in Michigan! Also, back pain, which a lot of people don’t expect until they start “showing”. Nah, your organs are moving and your bones are adjusting the whole time. It sucks. I bought a heating pad and blanket by the time the 1st trimester was coming to a close.

Pregnancy Glow: It’s sweat. It’s unattractive. Surprise! Hot flashes are not just for menopause. I am so grateful that I was able to have the majority of my pregnancy in the fall/winter.

Headaches: Apparently headaches and migraines are SUPER common for second trimester. Mine were debilitating. From weeks 12-16 I found myself unable to get out of bed some days, definitely unable to leave my bedroom (because we have blackout curtains), and my water bill rising considerably from taking showers to try to sooth the pain. Ibuprofen, historically, is the only thing that helps me with headaches, but I wasn’t able to take it because it’s not pregnancy approved.

No appetite: Media shows a lot of women, from the moment of conception, gorging on all their favorite foods and having cravings constantly. This was not the case for me. For much of my first and second trimesters all food was completely repulsive to me. I couldn’t even be in the same room as someone eating because it would make me so sick. When I forced myself to eat because, well, it’s vital for my survival, I would throw up anything that I ate. I was sticking to vitamin supplement and dietary drinks to try to keep my- and the baby’s- nutrients up. I lost a total of 30 pounds, and I’m slowly gaining weight now. Luckily, I was plus-size to begin with, so it wasn’t too detrimental to either of us. 31 weeks in and I still don’t have a lot of cravings. I just like my food a certain way and have changes in preferences. For instance, I’m basically a vegetarian at this point because my body doesn’t like most meats.

Dietary restrictions: With media showing women gorging themselves on foods all day every day, they don’t really talk about things women can’t, or shouldn’t eat. Hot dogs, for example. Or deli meats. Soft cheeses... Ya know, the good things in life. Most of these things don’t pose a serious problem, but they can, so it’s best to avoid it. I have the app Ovia, which has a list of foods that are super good and super bad, so I took a look at that sucker right away.

Sex drive: I’ve never been an overly sexual person. I consider myself queer, because bi doesn’t quite fit. But because I know that sex is an important part of a romantic relationship/marriage, and I want to make my partner happy, it’s never really been something that I struggle with. However, my sex drive is at an absolute ZERO. I have no desire to satisfy myself or my partner- I even get angry when he brings it up (which I apologize for constantly). Media portrays pregnant people as being very horny, which I’m sure happens to some people, but I’ve found my already desolate libido at an all time low. When I do make the conscious effort to have sex, it’s painful quite often. Again, bodily changes...

Kicking: Kicking really seems like an understatement, since it feels like she’s break dancing inside me. I’ve been told my several ultrasound technicians, nurses and doctors that my daughter is much more active than most babies. She is CONSTANTLY moving. She wakes my up from a dead sleep my kicking me in the spine or ribs. If the cats want to lay on my stomach she will forcefully kick them. Weirdly, though, she seems to know when people are watching, because she almost never kicks in front of people...

Emotional changes: I don’t think I’ve been more emotional, personally. I mean, yeah, I’ll tear up at the occasional episode of doctor who, a cute song, or a sad movie, but that’s all normal. The biggest thing for me was the rage. During the second trimester especially I found myself so angry and I had no idea why I was half the time. Everything irritated me. My husband, but pets, getting a text. I lived several weeks in a state of near hatred toward everything in my life. It was unbearable. Also, anxiety over EVERYTHING. I can hardly get in a car, let alone drive one.

Criticism: This is probably the biggest one that I have battled with. I get told an awful lot that I don’t act like a typical mom-to-be. I haven’t bought a ton of baby clothes, I’m not going all out on the nursery, and I have very realistic expectations of what being a mom/having a baby is like. Which, if you vocalize, people look at you really weird for. I have specifically asked people not to buy clothes for the baby because they’re mostly white or very minimalist. Why? Because babies poop and vomit and spit up, and I would like my baby to wear her onsies more than once. Apparently it’s shocking to people that I unlocked the secret that babies are messy before mine is born. No, I am not naming my child after people in the family, sorry. No I don’t need to buy more maternity clothes because I only own leggings and almost all of my shirts are 3x larger than they need to be already. Please don’t touch my stomach without permission. No, I am not afraid of giving birth, in fact, I’m looking forward to it.

It’s amazing to watch TV shows and movies with pregnant women in them now, because I’m finally experiencing it. I think my favorite thing I have watched though, is the Try Guys Parenthood season. They ask the doctor “what are some of the positives of pregnancy” and she says, “the baby” and leaves it at that. Yep, that’s about it!

I’m not trying to say I’m never going to have another child. I will. My husband and I want 3 to 4 kids. However, people that say that pregnancy is the most magical experience, or beautiful part of life... I think they’re lying.

#pregnant #pregnancy #mom #mom to be #baby #babies #birth

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rambleverse · 5 years

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((The following is a response to this piece.))

“Gnareth,” says an elf crouched over a pile of crusted silks, linens, and the odd bit of burlap. The pile stinks of salt, wet wood, and beer.

“Gnareth,” the elf says getting closer still. With the butt of his pike he taps at the mass like a cat at a long dead fish. He pulls back. Here in the alley beside The Rusted Hole he drew little attention, but glancing about in his blue and yellow livery, Tunerdric “Turney” Helfaen spent the last of his worried patience. Jabbing the pile square in the center, he snaps:

“Gnareth. Fucking wake up.” he says through clenched teeth.

“Hwah!?” says the pile, revealing itself to be an elf after all. Rising out of the silks like a startled half-drowned gull, his head swivels as he gulps in breath. The air of Mistborn Harbor stings his eyes as his nose roils at his own pickled beard. He gets to his elbows coughing and sputtering, black hair a mop wide and weedy strands.He is thirty seconds sober, indebted to three pirate captains, a cheat at dice, and the most ambitious man in the Gilded Lands.

Gnareth Saderis, heir of the Silver Coast, Mistborn, and all the threads out of Silkwater greets the day by retching on to the gray-black stone of the alleyway.

“Fucking��what time, what’s the time?” he asks.

“Three, my lord.” Turney responds.

Squinting at Turney and then to the sky, Gnareth nods in agreement.

“That’s fair.”

Turney takes Gnareth to his feet, with the latter swatting him off. Gnareth sniffs, passing a hand down his beard to scrape the chunks.

“There a reason you woke me up, Turney?” he asks.

The young lordling’s chaperone and stooge takes his charge into the back of the Hole, walking him to a prepared heated basin. The sight of their hold’s heir turns few eyes in the dive, and as Gnareth quickly scrubs himself ready Turney drops the bundle of clothes on the side table.

“Your ‘da’s calling for you.”

“My Lord Father is always calling on me–what’s the problem, Turney?” Gnareth says, bringing a fingernail to his teeth to scrape out the gunk. He presses his tongue to the back of his teeth, then runs it across their fronts. He spits.

“Just hurry.” Turvey says, putting eyes to the side as Gnareth rises from his bath.

Toweling himself off, Gnareth squints at his soldier. Once dry he opens the bundle laid for him, inside are clothes prepared for some kind of apology. A blouse in the colors, an appropriate cloak and chain, a comb, pants. Gnareth squints at these too, but the effort of the morning pounds the inside of his head.

Once dressed he nods to Turvey, grabbing a bit of tough loaf from the top of the bar as they pass. He spits the bite into the ground as soon as they clear the door. Sour. Fucking sour bread? Sour grain? Gnareth’s tasted worse before, he himself could hardly be savory, but sour bread? Hungry and sobering by the minute the pair walk the streets of Mistharbor.

Where a Lord might walk with entitlement, the heir Saderis sauntered with ownership. Cocksure with the thump of his boots, hands scratching at his beard or loosening his chain, Gnareth moves with uncomfortable familiarity between the high stone byways of Old Dock.

From their stalls mongers and merchants alike shout out at him,

“You hear what your father’s gone and done?”

“My my, the heir about! Times are dire inDEED.”

“Saderis stands TRUE milord, Saderis stands TRUE. FAITH AND FORTUNE, FAITh and fortu-”

The fuck are they on about? Merchants shouting was nothing new, and with the blockade they erred on mean, unpolite things for a gentle personage like himself. But aside from houses where “official” business kept itself busy people liked to forget Gnareth had a father in these parts, and Gnareth liked them for it. By design the streets of Mistborn flow to the power of the hold, to the docks and its lordly estate, and so within twenty minutes of harangued banter and soapbox edicts Gnareth scrawls together a piece of the events in his head.

The honor of his father did worsened his mood more than his hangover. For all his pomp and holier-than-thouedness Indaris could hardly be blamed for kneeling. Not honorable, but honor had never done old Thathorius any favors. Instead, it was Gnareth’s willingness to humbly drag his father’s name through the mud that kept pirate, scoundrel, and murderous coin coming to this last safe harbor. Seeing the harbor filled with blue and white gulls squawking and pecking about their steam boats and galleons turned Gnareth’s stomach as well, but not for honor.

So long as Alliance held the port whatever advantage Gnareth carved for himself drifted far, far out at sea. The thought of freebooter money drifting out there, alone, turns his head out to the wake. Somewhere the empire all his own waited for him to give the sign. The urgency of testing a pirate’s patience brought him charging to the high iron gate of the Saderis Estate. A pair of elves, purple elves, stop him.

“No visitors.” they say in northern Thalassian typical of mages. “The lord Saderis is on house arrest.”

“And does that mean his son should go begging on the street for shelter and poverty?” Gnareth snaps, “I am Gnareth Saderis, and I demand to see my father.” The look of unimpressed scrutiny screws up his guts as they pass through.

Mistborn Manor, like the first harbor, rose out of the stone itself. Part carved, part mortar blessed by priests forgotten, the trident of his house still flew above the yard. But where the dealings of House Saderis frequently drew comfort from the goliath bricks of its makers, hardly an ear in Mistborn could ignore the shouts inside.

FUCKING-FUCKING HAVE YOU EVER THOUGHT-

SENT FOR YOU THREE DAYS AGO GNARETH, I AM TIRED OF ASKING FOR MY OWN SON

YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I DO. YOU HAVE NO-

DRUNKEN. GAMBLING. WHORING. IS THIS WHAT I AM TO YOU? IS THIS WHAT YOUR NAME MEANS TO YOU? ARE YOU LISTENING? ARE YOU LISTENING?

Inside the fish goes cold. Vegetables, greens, soup. Fish soup. On either side sits house Saderis. Tathorius, slumped in his chair, rubs his brow. For all his faults he still sat at his own table, still held his own meal, and against his son gave nothing.

“Truefeather will come.” he says, his voice low and eyes dark.

“And what if he doesn’t?” says Gnareth, one foot on his chair, knee drawn to his chin. The glare he bears is legend at every table save this one. In this house he is still only a son.

“He will.”

“And what if he doesn’t?” his son pries.

“Then I will not give Indaris the satisfaction of selling my house like a whore.”

“Our house.”

The hands at Tathorius’ head go to his lap, and seeing the eyes of his heir draws his mouth shut for a moment. A long moment.

”This isn’t about you, boy.” he says over the table. The sound of wood scraping on stone cracks through the vaulted arch ceiling of the manor. Gnareth looks at the portraits of ancestors, the silver earned by any means lining the table, the wine bought with his own blood. His own.

The hour comes to sunset, and Turvey huddles next to an elf cinching saddle over horse. With night on the horizon, the silver of the elf’s armor glints steely and blue.

“What are you doing

What are you doing, hey-”

Heaving atop his horse Gnareth adjusts his riding gloves.

“Thinking about myself, what else?”

#gnareth saderis #house saderis #the gilded lands #the silver coast #The Phoenix Wars

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rylredrants · 3 years

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20 Years Ago

It’s been 20 years since that day. And just like I wrote in the only ‘memory’ referencing 9/11 on my Facebook, I don’t want to jump on a bandwagon or soapbox. I don’t want to join the throngs of people answering the question that, for those of my generation, needs no explanation… “Where were you when?”

But I can’t not write today.

For me, the where was easy. I was in Colorado Springs.

To say it’s an area with a large military community doesn’t do justice to the sentiment. The Air Force Academy, Cheyenne Mountain Air Force Stations, Fort Carson Army Post, Peterson Air Force Base, and Schriever Air Force Base are all within an hour’s drive, give or take traffic. My new husband was stationed at Fort Carson, a Cavalry Scout.

My mother called me in hysterics- which was not unusual, waking me up earlier than normal. I was working at the Olive Garden as a server. My daughter was 4 years old.

I got up, took her to daycare, and went to work. There was a TV on the same kind of AV cart we got excited about in school sitting inside the server’s station on one side. We didn’t have customer-facing televisions and this was long before smartphones were in everyone’s pockets.

Another military spouse showed up for her shift, unaware of the events. She turned around to go home. She lived on Fort Carson and didn’t get through the gate for several hours.

That evening, I was part of a small sleepover of sorts where a handful of us “Scout Wives” held vigil together- crying and waiting for some kind of news from our husbands. The post was locked down tight. We didn’t get to hold them in our arms until the evening of September 12th.

The “where” is an easy question.

I think the bigger question is “WHO were you when? And who did you become in the aftermath?

Twenty years ago, I was a 22-year-old newlywed. He was my 2ndhusband- a cute boy in a green uniform with bright blue eyes, a grin for miles, and a quirky little gap between his front teeth. He had deployed to Bosnia straight out of basic training. We met in a bar within weeks of his return to the states, around Valentine’s Day of 2001.

The day the towers fell, he still was not old enough to legally buy a beer.

I had already rebuilt my life once when I left California and split up with my daughter’s father. Our new life was just beginning, but when my mother wailed, “You just married a soldier and we’re going to WAR!” I felt it. I felt my entire life unraveling again.

We moved to Germany the following spring where he was almost immediately sent to Kosovo. It was slated to be a 6-month tour. His replacement unit was sent to Iraq as part of OIF 1, so they extended their mission to 9 months. From there, there were moves back to Colorado, a separation, reconciliation, a move to Texas, and 2 more deployments to Iraq.

By the time we separated, I was 30 years old. We owned a home and he was slated for a third deployment to Iraq. The TBI (traumatic brain injury), PTSD, migraines, and back problems were so bad that he did not deploy, and was medically discharged before his 30th birthday.

We stayed on friendly terms for another decade, but every time I saw pictures of his new life and new wife I felt all of it all over again. He still had the big grin, but the sparkle in his eyes was gone.

That man has his name, his fingerprints, and his DNA but little else remained of the boy I married all those years ago. My husband went to war, but despite coming back upright and without a flag draped over his body, he never came back.

This is one of those things that people outside the military community don’t often realize. Whether or not you wear the uniform, war changes you. Military families deal with their own stress, trauma, loneliness, and fear from having loved ones in a warzone for weeks, months, and sometimes years at a time.

Waiting for that telegraph, knock on the door, or news story that mentions their unit… that part has changed over the years but living in that constant state of dread is the same.

It’s a state of anticipatory grief… waiting for the moment when the grief process will begin and be recognized by those around you.

When the same uniform walks through the door, the rest of the world sees the happiness of a homecoming.

But for so many, that happiness is often quickly replaced with learning who the person wearing the uniform has become in their absence.

New kinds of stress, trauma, loneliness, and fear often follow.

The stress of readjusting to sharing your home. The trauma, packed neatly away in their rucksack spills out all over the floor with their gear. Then comes the loneliness when they isolate and disconnect, and fear that you will become the target of their anger.

When my soldier returned, his drug of choice was video games. I called myself a ‘PlayStation Widow’ because he would spend every waking moment outside of work with a controller in hand, often not getting up to eat, drink or even smoke. His anger was most pronounced in his road rage- yelling, swearing, speeding, and tailgating.

I learned to manage his anger with my tears.

The rage would take hold and I would take responsibility for it, trying to figure out how I could have caused it. ‘What did I do? How can I fix this? What does he need?’ Eventually, I realized that he only calmed down once I’d become so spun up into it that I’d broken down in my own panic.

Over a decade later, when my current partner, Pirate, is struggling with his mental health, my first instinct is still to take responsibility.

It’s only because of the therapy, medication, and communication, on both sides, that I’m able to acknowledge and support him without taking it on as my own.

I swore I’d never get involved with military personnel again when that marriage ended.

What I hadn’t considered is that relationships are often brought about by proximity. I’ve lived near military installations for most of my adult life- Forts Carson, Hood, Meade, and Huachuca stateside, plus 2 years in Germany.

Friends, lovers, 2 ex-husbands, and my current partner have all brought their own trauma-filled rucksacks along with them, and into my life.

They each had their own experiences and their own way of handling things.

Dirty D had a picture on his MySpace of himself crouched down, naked, pistol in hand that was taken shortly before he was hospitalized for holding the gun to his head. I was friendly with his wives and girlfriends, including the one he moved to Idaho with to live off the grid on a hand-built homestead.

Taz was working nights as a bouncer when we met. He was sent to Germany only to be medically discharged and returned to Texas because his body was too damaged from previous trips to “the sandbox” to deploy again.

The Postman shared stories he wrote about his time in Mogadishu, Somalia. You probably know that as the place where "Black Hawk Down" happened. We met while he was on leave from Iraq and he later emailed more stories to me from Afghanistan.

The Mad Scientist once talked about being with his unit early on during Operation Iraqi freedom. Food was scarce so they were only getting one MRE a day. He had a stash of candy bars that he broke small pieces off from to share with the guys in his unit that were struggling the most with hunger.

MM also experienced those lean rations and hunger along with going days on end unable to get clean. The bulk of his PTSD revolved around food and cleanliness.

We once drove over 3 hours to go to a ‘Princess Bride’ themed burlesque show. The venue said they had food, and we didn’t have time to get dinner before going to the theater. When he discovered that the concession stand was closed he had a meltdown, leaving me alone to go get a hamburger at a bar down the block.

Pirate has nightmares, crying out in his sleep and trembling so violently that our bed shakes. He was medically discharged from the Army before his unit deployed. He lives with survivor’s guilt on top of the PTSD he developed as a 5-year-old missionary kid in Kenya during a civil uprising.

And none of this takes into account the first responders, civilians, and all of their families who have been impacted by this.

Here we are 20 years later...

I just saw a video where a teacher discussed telling her students about 9/11. She explained that there were 3 targets that symbolized the very idea of America in their own way. The World Trade Center was a representation of the American economic power, the Pentagon is a symbol of military power, and the 3rd target, the Capitol is the seat of our democracy.

20 years later, the 3rd target was attacked again.

This time, the attack did not come from foreign powers but instead from home-grown terrorists, radicalized to believe the blatant lies of a spray-tanned reality TV star who is spending this anniversary as a ringside commentator at a casino boxing match in Florida. I couldn’t make this up if I tried.

We are in a politicized pandemic that quite literally almost killed my own mother last week. I’m living in the hottest city in America where we moved for a job that Pirate was fired from 3 weeks after we signed our year-long lease.

Oh, and the Capitol police have requested the fences be put back up for the “Justice for J6” rally next weekend. These 'very fine people' are gathering to show solidarity for those who literally smeared shit on the halls of our democracy.

Showing support for those arrested for assaults that left several people injured. Five people died shortly before, during, or after the event, and 4 officers who responded to the riot died by suicide in the months since.

Today there are people all over social media posting stories of where they were that day.

But others are the younger people who have been taught to “remember” an event that was little more to their personal history than a scary movie on TV. They were too young or too far removed from it to carry the same scars as those who lived through the events of that day and all that came after.

I’m glad they only have to perform the remembrance rather than experience it. But for the rest of us, I think that it is part of the healing to look back on this anniversary and say,

“I was there. I was present. That day changed my life in ways that still matter to me.”

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violetsystems · 3 years

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#personal

I guess you could count how many of these I’ve written since I’ve lost my job. It’s been six months of my life. The entire process of whatever goes on in the shadows is far longer than that. You start to look back in times of chaos at the things in your life that are stable. I’ve been living at my address for about ten years now. Yesterday I had a chance conversation with my landlord. I asked them how they were doing. They replied not good. Mostly issues we’ve talked about on the property are ongoing. About the only stable thing in my life that is one hundred percent tangible is the roof over my head. I had just created a logo for my consultancy. A nice Edwardian script that turned the LLC into a gordian knot by accident. The website for it references the street address along with the letters ‘vs.’ It’s very simple. I have an appointment Monday with the bank to set up my checking with it. I decided to pay the rent early with a personal check of my own volition. My personal discovery for anyone contemplating a small business is that Quickbooks is the easiest way to stay accountable for deductions. A business check for rent does look nice. It’s also nice if I ever have to hire someone. I haven’t been in a lease for years. My landlord is a family from Poland and not some huge land developer. Largely my experience with being personally accountable for my own behavior and lifestyle is what gets me by in terms of security. Being able to be always on in terms of being a people person is hard. I have become an ‘on the spot’ sort of person by necessity since everyone is either up in your face or on the periphery here in Chicago. People talk and gossip. You can’t really hide anything here. And yet, it’s hard to shake a stable foundation. People talk a lot about clout out here. When you think your history is buried and what you’ve done, it isn’t like you are in Hoffa’s grave or anything. It’ll be dug up eventually. And people will talk about it again and again. There’s a point when stepping up is more like standing your ground. And the more you stand your ground angry, the more people think you are looking for a fight. Fighting is exhausting. So is defending your every breath. For however needlessly complex people process me behind my back, I’m pretty stubborn and predictable. I’ve been on here saying the same thing for years though it has evolved considerably. People ignore me on a level that is psychosocial at best. I get invited to comment on professional threads on LinkedIn and it further proves the point. Nobody listens or pays attention. I’ve said it over and over again. I begin to feel like the invisible man and it chews on my self worth like a meat grinder every day. The basic metrics people use to evaluate their lives don’t really compare to what I’ve gone through. This I know and am patient with. People in business talk about the long term ‘scarring’ of what this economy has done to it’s people. But they’re never in the streets with the people. Their money is locked behind savings accounts, tax write offs, and bricks of gold not on expanding their payroll for professionals like myself. And yet people are still hurting. Nobody hurts more than I do even if I never show it. I write about it week after week seemingly to an invisible audience. An audience that probably feels exactly as invisible as I do.

That’s the trick, Mr. Potter. I love that line. I’ve been referencing it a lot mostly because Prometheus is on HBO. It counts as a Christmas movie mostly because of Idris Elba’s line about time and the holidays. Michael Fassbinder’s David is the one who is obsessed with Laurence of Arabia. The scene is a trick involving a match. The trick is not minding that it hurts. How did I do it? It was already done to me a long time ago. And it always hurts every day the place I find myself in. One might argue this is the human condition. David is just jealous. He gets his body torn in half by the maker. Not his maker of course. He’s just a slave to the Weyland corporation. And later in the movie, the main tool for humanity to finally confront it’s maker. I like the idea the main character is faced with a choice after losing everything. Go back to earth and wait for the inevitable or head out into the unknown and face the truth. The sacrifices are immense and the unknown just as expansive. Just like the last couple of decades of my life. I could go back. Back to the workforce and fit into a tiny expectation of what my true potential is. But nobody cares to know my name for the most part. It does all hurt. Sometimes it hurts all too well. And it’s a familiar kind of hurt that is almost boring to me. Pain for the most part and suffering largely don’t excite me very much any more. I’m over it. It doesn’t mean I’m beyond it. A bass guitar literally came crashing down on my head the other day. I’m over that as well. It hurts more to settle with not being happy. It hurts to be ignored. To interpret the awkwardness of society not being able to meet you eye to eye as some sort of sleight or punishment. The trick to breaking through people’s barriers are removing them in yourself. What holds you back? What overwhelms you deeply when you experience the mere hint of pain? What keeps you from loving a person freely and what holds you back from opening your arms? I don’t make those judgements for other people. That’s love. You wait and you are patient because you are free and open. You don’t mind that it hurts. To care about someone or something without any guarantee or expectation that they think about you at all. The lack of validation does hurt. It requires you to find the confidence to know that you matter. And sometimes we overshoot this especially when our internal life isn’t in balance. We over speculate or underestimate our value all the time. We get ahead of ourselves or fall behind. There is no pacing. No self control. The zen is somewhere in the middle through trial and error. The trick is we feel pain and we work our way through it. Just like I wake up sore as fuck from whatever exercise routines I keep up daily living in total isolation. Being alone does hurt. Having no real solid connections with people in real life sucks. But once you get over that, you start to see the world a little differently. It’s not about you. It’s about the perception. How did you do that trick? Get your life completely fucked over time and time again and still be so cool about everything. That’s the trick. I’m cool as fuck. And it hurts just as much to stay cool all these years.

It hurts less not to have to revisit the same failed ways and history. It’s a lot easier to pay my rent no questions asked. I can generate income doing things I like to do. I can work as much as I want and see the results. I can still look for a job to work for someone for less than what I’m worth as a tax write off. I can wait six months and get vaccinated and be worth five times as much globally. I can still participate in professional discussions and hope that if everyone ignores me the AI will eventually set me aside like Roko’s Basilisk. And I can just keep making cautious decisions with my own investments and see where that leads. I can be ignored year after year and feel like nobody wants me. And then I can realize that every beautiful person I know still thinks the world of what I go through daily. You see if you could look into my heart and see the emotion I feel after all of this, you’d break down and cry. It’s horrendous. I have been through literal shit. And yet, everyone else has their soapbox. It seems everyone’s problems are more important. I’ve stopped trying to sell my victimhood. It’s not a great look if you are sitting in a position of privilege. Which to be honest, I’m not exactly living the same life of privilege as the entire professional network that pretends I died or became a spy. The truth is I am in levels of pain nobody would ever survive. What the world is asking of me isn’t something anyone would willfully put themselves through. And then there’s the trick that I perform effortlessly. How I show I care about someone without ever saying a word? How it echoes through the net and the streets like a pulse instead of a shout. How I never really know anything and yet I know we connect. It’s painful to see the trick everyday expand in front of my eyes. How I survive with little help but my own. How people use me as a talking point and leave my name out of the equation. How I feel like a fucking ghost and the quote echoes in my head like the memories of people that inspired me to even write here in the first place. How nobody says anything remotely of emotional weight in reality. How everything is just a punchline and joke to the horror nobody wants to face. It hurts horribly to know the truth. That it’s worse to get it half right. To perform the trick but lose the magic. To tell and not show. To talk and not walk it. To be the person who isn’t me constantly comparing themselves to someone they’ll never be. To be on trial for the crimes of humanity and stranded just the same. To move forward with little or no fanfare while the lies around you fall apart. I pay my rent just the same. I keep the faith with my friends without a word. And I love you with no baggage other than that Jaguar rolling suitcase I picked up the other day. Big fan of Pete Buttigieg becoming transportation secretary for the record. I heard him say that airports are the most romantic places in the universe. Different strokes for different folks. Either way get used to seeing me at O’hare. We can kiss and ride the train to my office all you want when the world comes together. Just tell Pete to mind his own business. Better than Rahm by a fucking lightyear. <3 Tim

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leviohhsa · 7 years

Text

When I Get Home - Wolfstar Fic

AO3

Chapter 1 (of 4)

“Sirius, where are you?” James’ voice crackled over the phone.

“Um, well… I might be in the city, in an alley out back of a concert,” Sirius winced as he said this, preparing for the onslaught of James’ disguised worry.

He took a deep breath and leaned against the concrete wall.

“And, you couldn’t tell anyone? You’ve been gone for three days, mate. We’ve been worried about you. Why haven’t you been answering your phone?” Sirius could hear James’ anger just beneath the surface of his concern.

He knew he couldn’t tell James the truth. He couldn’t explain that he was suffocating in the apartment with him and Lily. That his days working at the record store were beginning to drag and make his hands itchy. That he had been drinking a little bit more every weekend, getting a little more fucked up each time. Truth be told, Sirius didn’t know what was wrong or why things were getting bad again.

“I just… I needed to get out. I’m sorry, Prongs.”

He could hear James sigh over the phone, “Okay, well, when are you coming home?”

Sirius knew he couldn’t hide any longer. He’d have to return sooner or later. Jumping from bar to bar and spending each night with a different guy was beginning to take a toll on him, anyways. He’d never admit it but, he had missed his friends.

“I’ll be home later tonight. See you then.”

“Okay. And, Padfoot?” James voice got quieter.

“Yeah, mate?”

“Be careful.”

It was three in the morning when Sirius slowly opened the front door to the tiny apartment he shared with Lily and James. Someone had left the small kitchen light on, presumably for him. As he began his way down the hallway towards his bedroom, he heard a noise. Sirius backtracked, peeking into the living room to find Remus Lupin fast asleep on the couch. His knees were brought up to his chest and his hair was sticking up in every direction, seemingly defying gravity. Sirius sat down on the floor, his back leaning against the couch. He knew he shouldn’t wake him, he looked so peaceful but Sirius couldn’t help it. He looked equally uncomfortable.

Sirius shook Remus’ shoulder, “Moony… Wake up… Come on, you can sleep in my bed, I’ll take the couch… Moony.”

Remus’ eyes slowly opened, his pupils trying to become accustomed to the dark.

“Sirius? You’re home. Thank god. I was-I was so worried about you.” Remus mumbled.

“I know, I know. Why the hell are you out here on this couch? You should have slept in my room. You’re way too tall for this rubbish thing. You would have been so sore in the morning,” Sirius laughed at Remus’ expression as he finally stretched his legs.

“I knew you would wake me up when you got home,” and then under his breath, “well, if you got home.” Remus allowed Sirius to take his hand and hoist him up off of the couch.

“I said I would come home and I did. Now, let’s get some sleep,” Sirius voice deepened with authority.

The two tired boys made their way down the hall to Sirius’ bedroom. He flung open the door, not turning on the light as Remus plopped down, instantly pulling the covers over his head. Sirius peered through the darkness. There were still glasses and beer bottles lined up on his dresser, the room smelled stale from being left alone for an extended period, and there were at least three pairs of dirty boxers stuffed up against the wall next to his hamper. If Remus had been fully awake and functioning, Sirius would be enduring Remus’ favorite lecture. James called it the “Mama Remus’ Soapbox” and Sirius endured it at least once a week.

However, Remus was already beginning to fall back asleep. He looked exhausted. The worry lines in his face were just beginning to fade as his breathing got slower. Sirius looked at his dear friend and immediately felt guilty. How could he have left his friends to worry so much? Why didn’t he just tell them what he was doing or where he was going? Most importantly, what stopped Sirius from voicing his feelings? He knew that although their friendship was mostly based around fun times and jokes, none of his closest friends would hesitate to lend an ear or a helping hand.

When James and Lily broke up for a short period of time a few summers ago, James was a complete and utter wreck. The whole group had stopped at nothing to put him back together (including watching “ Dirty Dancing” for two weeks straight while James pretended not to cry.) When Remus got diagnosed with depression last autumn and couldn’t get out of bed for a week, Sirius had come over and stayed at his apartment. He watered his plants and made sure that Remus ate, even dragging him into the bathroom, putting him the shower fully clothed, and washing his hair. They had all been there when Peter’s mom died, accompanying him to the funeral and making sure he could say a proper goodbye. Sirius had watched as Remus had scooped Lily up off the ground when she had had her first panic attack. They were no strangers to each other’s issues.

Sirius rubbed his eyes as the exhaustion of his latest bender washed over him. He looked longingly at the empty side of his bed, not wanting to curl his long legs up onto that god-awful couch. He knew Remus wouldn’t care, they had slept in the same bed more times than he could count. But that was all before Sirius had come out. He didn’t know if things were different now that Remus knew he was gay. At this point, he didn’t care, he just wanted to sleep.

Sirius, not even bothering to change, crawled under the covers and let out a deep sigh.

“Sirius, are you okay?” A small whisper came from deep within the blanket.

Sirius was taken aback, thinking that Remus had been sound asleep. He didn’t know how to answer. He didn’t want to lie anymore.

“Not really, Moony,” He whispered back, matter-of-factly.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“Not really,” Sirius sighed, just admitting that he wasn’t okay was enough for tonight.

He just needed someone to know. Someone to cling onto when his brain was swirling around in outer space.

Without thinking about it, he reached out his hand and found Remus’ underneath the sheets. He held onto it, wrapping his fingers tightly around Remus’ warm hand. When Remus stayed silent and didn’t hold onto him back, Sirius quickly slid his hand out from his.

“I’m sor-“ Sirius began.

“S’okay,” Remus mumbled breathlessly, taking Sirius’ hand back into his own, this time, holding on tightly.

“I get it.” Remus stated, before dozing off to sleep.

Sirius slept better than he had in months.

********

When Sirius woke up the next morning, he was alone. He blearily rubbed his eyes and tried to adjust to the sunlight streaming through his curtains. He looked around and noticed that there were no longer any beer bottles or glasses on his dresser, his dirty laundry was tucked away in his hamper, and the window was open a crack, bringing fresh air into the room. Sirius smirked.

He stretched, letting out a big yawn and piled his mess of long, unwashed, black hair on the top of his head in a bun. He reached for his phone, which he assumed Remus had plugged in for him because he sure as hell didn’t last night. Remus J Lupin: Angel on Earth, Sirius thought as he unlocked the screen. It was 12:30 in the afternoon and he had five unread text messages, two missed calls, and one voicemail. Sirius knew he couldn't deal with all of that before coffee.

He crawled out of bed, finally feeling how dirty his body actually was. He had mud all over his jeans and he reeked of cigarettes and cheap beer. After three days, he longed for a warm shower.

"Look who's home!" A sharp voice sounded from the kitchen as Sirius came out of his bedroom.

Lily, who had probably been up for hours, was brewing a pot of coffee. Her fiery hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail. She was wearing her gym clothes, her sneakers still unlaced.

Sirius sneered at her, "Ugh, how can you possibly even consider going to the gym at this hour?" He took the mug of coffee she offered him.

"Sirius, it's almost one in the afternoon. And, you don't work out at any hour," she retorted.

Sirius rolled his eyes, dismissing the fact that she was right and took a big gulp of coffee.

Lily looked at him with disgust, "What I don't get it how you can drink that black. I need at least three sugars before I can even think of drinking it."

"Not all of us are weak, Evans," Sirius smirked.

Lily, not drinking any coffee herself, opened the fridge and pulled out a protein shake.

"So, Remus slept in your room last night? I caught him leaving this morning." There was an insinuation in her tone.

"Yes, because that god-awful couch you bought at the flea market is the equivalent of sleeping on rocks and there was no way I was letting him take the 3AM bus. He's too fragile."

"Sirius... Do you like him?" Lily was not one to beat around the bush.

He was baffled.

"No! The scrawny ones aren't my type. However, if your boyfriend keeps bulking up, you better watch out." Sirius downed the rest of his coffee and made his way to the shower.

Sirius stood underneath the hot water for far too long, letting it turn his skin pink. He imagined the past three days washing off of him. All the different bars, all the different guys. He closed his eyes and imagined each touch of the skin being erased by the steam that was quickly surrounding him.

But not last night, he thought.

Wait, what?

Sirius' brain halted and his eyes opened.

Yes, he held Remus' hand but that was out of friendship. It didn’t mean anything. Remus was just reaching out to him and letting him know that he wasn't alone. There was nothing more to it! It was just Lily interfering with his thoughts. He could never have any sexual feelings for someone that ironed his socks.

Sirius shook the thoughts out of his head as he turned the shower off and got out. He stood in front of the fogged up mirror, his towel wrapped around his waist. He brought his finger to the mirror and wrote, “Sod off, Evans” in the center of a poorly-drawn heart. He smiled at his handiwork.

He staggered into his now-clean room and made sure to throw his dirty laundry into the hamper as to avoid Mama Remus’ Tirade. He tugged on a fresh pair of dark jeans and a t-shirt. He put his hair back into a bun and stared into his dusty bedroom mirror. He looked like trash and he did not care.

Sirius had almost forgotten that it was a Wednesday night. When they all graduated, it quickly became apparent how hard it was to keep in touch. So, James and Lily decided that it was time to establish a Family Dinner Night. Now, every Wednesday night, the whole gang comes over and Remus and Lily try to make an edible dinner. Approximately an hour later, James orders take out.

Sirius hadn't realized what day it was until Remus Lupin walked through the front door with grocery bags and his heart skipped a beat.

Shit.

#considering bringing this back?#thoughts?#fanfiction #harry potter fanfic #hp fanfic #when i get home #wolfstar #wolfstar fanfic #sirius #sirius black #remus #remus lupin #lupin #marauders #jily

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