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madmaru2010 · 6 hours

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Baby Dyke*

How old was she? I don't remember exactly, I only know that I was no older than 10 or 11 years old.

Across the street from my childhood home was a valuable piece of municipal land. Those stretches of land in towns that are like the jokers or the Hogwarts Room of Requirement, a place that becomes whatever you want it to be. A paddock, the setting for learning to ride a bicycle, and from time to time, the temporary home of a traveling circus or amusement park.

I remember, when circuses allowed animals, listening from my bed to the roar of famelic lions that were more sad than scary, or the gray streaks of a rickety elephant. What happened to those critters! The advent of Green Peace and similar organizations, as well as the discovery of ecology, put an end to circuses with Bengal tigers and acrobatic horses. Also with zoos, although don't ask me why I wanted to visit them, the circuses and the zoos. I was fascinated and saddened at the same time to see all those wonderful species, different, magnificent in their eccentricity locked up and condemned to perish.

I don't know why but now I associate that at the same time that the defense of the environment and the species in extinction was taking place in society, coincidentally, homosexuality was no longer considered a disease.

On May 17, 1990, the WHO removed homosexuality from the International Classification of Diseases (ICD), specialists highlighted the widespread consensus that homosexuality is a natural variation of human sexuality and cannot be considered a pathological condition.

Green Peace was born in 1971, when a group of Canadian anti-nuclear activists embarked on board the old fishing boat Phyllis Cormack to protest against the nuclear tests that the United States was carrying out in the Amchitka archipelago, in Alaska. Their goal: to prevent the bomb from being detonated by placing themselves in the center of the test site.

In the summers of 1978 and 1980 the first Rainbow Warrior ship had confronted the whaling fleet still in Spain, trying to prevent their catch.

It always struck me that his ship was named after the same rainbow that represents LGBT rights. And that he was the warrior who defended the most valuable species from the clutches of their predators.

But the memory that this text brings back to me is that of an amusement park that was installed on that property in front of my parents' house when I was still an elementary school student.

I remember the garlands of lights, the creepy music that could be heard every night, a ghost train whose structure, riddled with holes, let so much light into the interior that it was more frightening than frightening, or even scary.

The star of that park that remained in my memory was a huge round-the-world ride. Or at least I remember it as huge. Surely it was a precarious installation, with countless missing or wobbly pieces, with more than one loose screw, a screaming call to the tragedy that we kids from a city with a small-town personality climbed on every summer.

To better understand this anecdote, I suffer from severe vertigo, that is, I get dizzy just getting on the curb. But my best friend, a red-haired girl whose skin was an infinite constellation of freckles, invited me to take the ride around the world and I followed her in rapt attention.

I remember every moment, the two of us sitting on that wobbly stool, holding on to a crossed pipe that acted as a very unconvincing safety bar. I remember getting to the top and staying there, stopped, stranded, shipwrecked. I don't know if it was because of a malfunction or because they were slow in getting people up or down, but I still feel like I'm there.

Vertigo is a kind of painful nausea that strangles your stomach, blurs your vision and your limbs feel like rubber. It's really feeling like you're falling. Any resemblance to falling in love is on the reader.

Up there, in the rocking cart, watching the languid white church tower stand proudly against the blue sky and the evening sun melting into a ruby gold pool on the horizon, vertigo mixed with the happiness of being on top of the world, far away from everything, in that layer of invisibility that height gives, trapped with that red-haired girl who happily laughed at the park, at the experience, and at my vertigo that today more than fear of heights seems like fear of realizing how much I enjoyed that closeness out of sight of everyone, that moment of intimacy with a friend who gave me butterflies in my belly and I didn't know it.

When I think about my approach to women throughout my history nausea was always present. But it's not disgust, I realize today, it's vertigo, it's knowing you're walking through a narrow gap between a land you don't want to belong to and the precipice. That feeling of wanting and fearing to take a leap into that void that is as desirable as it is threatening. It is the irrepressible desire to launch yourself into free fall that beats in every cell. It is knowing that sooner or later you are going to jump.

Vertigo is not the fear of falling, but the desire to jump.” -Milan Kundera

Note: *This word is used in slang to refer in pejorative terms to lesbians or lesbianism in general, especially lesbians with appearance or clothing considered far from the cultural canons of femininity. In this sense, we are in line with other derogatory terms such as “machorra”, “camiona”, “marimacho/a”, “chicazo”, “amachada”, “virago”, “chongo” or “butch”. In recent times, however, the lesbian women's collective itself has made this word its own, reappropriating it to use it in a positive sense. Baby dyke: young lesbian or recently out of the closet. It is also used, within the LGBT community, to refer to lesbians who want to be “butch” but do not succeed.

#·lesbianvisibility #·lesbian #lgbtqi #lgbt #lgb #wri #writing #female writers #writerscommunity

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earliebirb · 3 years

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i’ll save you a seat

steve/tony, established relationship, canon divergence, 1673 words

(inspired by this deleted scene from the avengers [2012])

“Waiting on the big guy?”

“Ma’am?” Steve looks up from his sketchbook, eyes squinting against the sunlight.

He meets the gaze of one of the waitresses working at the café. Her long blond hair flows down to her chest and she is dressed in the café’s signature uniform: pastel orange blouse, black skirt, and a white half apron tied around her waist.

“Iron Man,” the waitress clarifies, lips quirked up in a knowing smile. “A lot of people eat here just to see him fly by.”

“Right,” Steve says, lips twitching at their inside joke. He opens his mouth to say something else, but a familiar silhouette in the distance catches his eye and breaks his train of thought. “Uh, actually…”

He nods at the sky. The waitress follows his gaze.

The object grows larger, approaching at a high speed. It morphs into a blur of red and gold that streaks across the blue sky right above them, sending a gust of wind that ruffles the waitress’ blond locks. The figure lands a short distance away from the café with a distinct metallic thunk — the sound of gold-titanium alloy hitting concrete.

All around him, people begin to whisper among themselves with excitement, some even taking out their phones to document the spectacle. Although Steve can’t really say he enjoys the attention, warmth still blooms in his chest as he observes the approaching figure. He finds himself hiding an involuntary grin behind his hand.

“Always a dramatic entrance, huh?” The waitress chuckles.

“You know it.” Steve sighs with fond exasperation. All eyes are on Tony as he walks toward the outdoor area of the café, the nanotech suit peeling away from his body. The excited murmurs and whispers increase in volume.

When Tony finally arrives at the table, he bends down to plant a kiss on Steve’s cheek. “Good morning, beloved.”

“Mr. Stark-Rogers,” the kind waitress greets with a smile. “The usual?”

“Please, Beth. I told you to call me Tony.” Tony reaches up to slide his sunglasses a few inches down the bridge of his nose, giving her a disapproving look that makes her chuckle. “And yes, please. Thank you.”

“Table’s yours as long as you like,” she says before disappearing into the indoor part of the café to relay the order. Steve knows she means it, too. She’ll make sure of it, just like she always has for the past few years.

The café had been Steve’s favorite café, at first. He visited the place often, especially during his first few weeks in the twenty-first century. He developed a fondness for their sesame seed bagels and the lovely view of Stark Tower from his favorite outdoor table, although the latter is a fact Steve would never admit to Tony even on pain of death.

However, the café quickly became Steve and Tony’s favorite café when their reluctant camaraderie bloomed into friendship all those years ago. Even before they started dating, Steve and Tony already established a weekly ritual of having brunch at the café whenever their schedules aligned.

Tony did eventually admit to Steve that he found the café’s coffee to be subpar. He did, however, insist that the café was his favorite, albeit for reasons different from Steve’s. Not for the bagels, not for the exceptional view of Stark Tower, and definitely not for the coffee, but because the café was a place full of memories. His memories of the two of them, his memories of Steve:

“That café was where I first made you laugh. Like, really laugh. I’d seen you smile or chuckle before, but that kind of full-body laughter? That was a first. And I remember thinking that… I really, really liked the way you laughed.”

It has been seven years since Steve first sat at this very table and sketched the figure of Stark Tower looming before him. Beth is still working at the café, having made her way through the ranks. Now a co-owner of the café, she has developed a friendship of sorts with Steve and Tony — both of whom she claims to be her favorite regulars. Tony likes to joke about how she probably says that to all of her regulars, something Beth always denies vehemently.

Steve turns his attention back to Tony, who has taken off and folded his sunglasses, letting them hang from the collar of his shirt.

“Would it kill you to take the elevator and walk?”

“It’s not like I do this every single time. Besides, why take the elevator when you have a flying suit? That’s just ineffective.” Tony makes a face as he pulls his chair out.

“‘S good exercise.”

“I exercise plenty.” Tony sits down on the chair across from him, scooting closer to the table. Under the table, his ankle brushes Steve’s. “Besides, we just engaged in a vigorous workout session this morning.” Tony bites his lower lip, giving Steve a lascivious wink.

“Tony,” Steve reprimands, but finds himself unable to say anything further, not when the back of his neck is heating up at the memory of what they were up to just a few hours ago. While Steve immediately showered afterward and headed straight to the café, Tony decided he wanted to sleep for a few more hours, promising to join Steve later.

Tony grins before leaning forward on his elbows to peer at Steve’s sketch.

“Which lucky building are you sketching today, honeybunch?”

He squints and frowns when instead of a building he finds a rough and nondescript sketch of a person’s face.

It could be anyone to the untrained eye, but Steve’s pen strokes are sure and confident, having rendered the same jawline countless of times.

Every single time, Tony’s figure never fails to fascinate him. Always so beautiful from every angle, in every light. Steve knows it well enough by now to be able to sketch him simply from an image in his mind’s eye.

Still, nothing beats the real thing. Steve takes in the sweep of Tony’s dark lashes and his coffee brown eyes as he appraises the drawing.

“It’s not a building,” Steve says instead.

Tony hums noncommittally, tilting his head at the sketch and giving it one last look before leaning back in his seat. “How was your morning run?”

“Uneventful.”

“Really?” Tony says distractedly, his attention on Beth who is once again approaching their table with his cup of coffee, black as midnight.

Tony engages in more small talk with Beth as she sets the cup and saucer on the table, asking after her husband and kids. There is an easy and carefree smile on his face, crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes.

All the while, his fingers are fiddling with two sugar packets Steve knows he will only use one of. He is always buzzing with energy, parts of him always in a state of perpetual motion, finding it near impossible to stay still.

Steve also knows that he won’t finish the coffee because it wasn’t made by Steve or himself.

These little idiosyncrasies are details that make up Tony, the little quirks that only Steve knows.

The little things that make you mine, Steve thinks privately. He feels something inside him softening at the thought.

“Sorry, honey,” Tony says when Beth eventually leaves to take another table’s orders, his smile soft and affectionate. “You were saying? Running was uneventful?”

“Yeah,” Steve says quietly, “nothing really interesting.” He admires the way sunlight turns the tips of Tony’s dark hair into a lighter shade of brown. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’re still the highlight of my morning.”

Tony huffs, rolling his eyes, but his lips curve up into a pleased smile and his brown eyes are warm with affection as he meets Steve’s gaze. He reaches for Steve’s hand on the table, giving it a gentle squeeze. The band of vibranium around his husband’s ring finger gleams in the late morning sunlight.

“I better be, after waking you up with one hell of a—”

“Tony!” Steve exclaims, knocking his ankle against Tony’s in warning. “Stop it.”

“What? It’s the truth! You really did enjoy it when I—”

“There are children around,” Steve hisses, casting a furtive glance at a nearby table occupied by a family of four.

Tony laughs softly, his shoulders shaking with it. Still holding his gaze, he brings Steve’s hand to his lips, pressing two feather-light kisses to the back of his hand. He continues holding Steve’s hand against his mouth, and when he speaks Steve feels his lips and the bristles of his goatee brushing his skin.

“Sorry, baby, I can’t help it.” Tony hides a smile against Steve’s knuckles. “You’re just so pretty when you blush.”

Steve looks down, avoiding Tony’s eyes in favor of staring at the cookie crumbs next to his half-full cup of coffee that has long since gone cold. His cheeks are still burning, and Tony’s words are not helping.

“See?” Tony says, before planting a kiss to his knuckles. “So pretty.”

Steve shuts his eyes with a defeated sigh. “Please just drink your coffee.”

Tony chuckles again but Steve hears the clink of ceramic, a cup being lifted from its saucer. “Aye-aye, Captain.”

He only allows himself to open his eyes when Tony gets distracted by some pigeons, immediately launching into a spiel about the one time he was attacked by a pigeon who was apparently really determined to steal his sandwich.

Steve nods along dutifully, reacting at appropriate times throughout the story, but all he can think of is that sitting there, at a café’s outdoor table on Park Avenue on a bright Sunday morning, his husband sat in front of him talking a mile a minute, is that there is nowhere else he’d rather be.

His gaze falls down to where Tony’s hand is still holding his, even when his other hand is gesturing animatedly as he tells his story.

Yes. Steve thinks, smiling helplessly at the twinkle in Tony’s eyes — the one that appears whenever he gets excited. I’m home.

#stevetony #stevetony fic #stony #stony fic #superhusbands #steve/tony #steve x tony #mine #earl wrote something

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blushing-starker · 3 years

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Anon asked for alpha Peter and omega Tony for a baby announcement. Thank you to the wonderful @vaguekiwi for motivating me and sharing her thoughts on the story. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did, anon.

"Tony, Tony? Are you up? It's 7:30am already, you have a meeting with Miss Potts in forty minutes. Tony?"

Soft hands curl into already silver hair, scratching at the strands in an attempt to wake him up gently. Butterfly kisses on a cold nape, a ridiculously hot nose nuzzling everywhere. Peter knows scenting the billionaire is basically the only way one can ensure a calm morning.

Not today. And not for the next few months either.

He loves his husband, appreciates the nearly romantic demeanor, he does. But "unless you have a cup of coffee for me, there is no way in hell i am gonna leave this bed. your child has kept me up with nausea the entire night. I wanna hurl my guts out more than that time Rhodes found Dad's liquor cabinet. please, tell me you have coffee."

"..." Tony is severely displeased by the fact he can read Peter like a book even with half his mind shut off because fine, he's right and dammit all.

"I want that weird drink you make. The one with milk, cinnamon and chunks of brownie. And French toast with waffles. No jam, not too much butter, as much sugar as possible. Now, go before I scream at you for having the only dick that could get a hormone fucked forty something omega pregnant. "

The kid scrambles from bed, practically face plants with all the covers tangling long legs and yup, this is the person that the universe designated as his soulmate. Because Tony Stark can never have a partner with a reasonable, normal amount of enthusiasm, stamina and a sense of balance.

That sounds like he's ungrateful, he's not. But it turns out being three months pregnant gives him plenty of perspective to peer at life in a whole new way that does not include caffeine, alcohol or sex.

Would he kill and die for this amazing human being that makes Tony's heart race no matter the day, that inspires him to be a better version of himself? Yes, no questions asked. No hesitation and no regret.

Would he clobber Peter for doing the impossible and technically causing Tony incredible discomfort on a daily basis thanks to what his doctors can only assume is a superhuman baby he already loves and adores more than life itself? Also yes.

Things aren't mutually exclusive in this household.

Pep, bless her, has yet to find out about their future mini Parker so there's been no respite on the whole 'running a multi billion dollar industry ' thing. And yeah, while it's not exactly easy, he can focus on other things and not fall into a panicky state of mind — because him? A father? Of a super baby? Tony Stark, infamous playboy with a hedonistic streak, a dad?

Just thinking along those lines makes shame and self doubt slither over a metallic plate. Working, dealing with innovative scientists, crafting the new world of tomorrow, guaranteeing the safety of their planet, shapeshifting into a role model, a mentor (for the interns and school kids he visits, not Peter, of course, thank God they left that dynamic ages ago), loyal friend, reluctant errand boy (fuck the assholes in charge of the Accords), great husband, good man, it all distracts a fearful child from thinking, what if I turn into Howard?

"I couldn't find brownies, so cookies it is! Aunt May had a few boxes sent in when I told her work was keeping you on your feet all the time. Said it'd be a good idea to snack along the day in case you—" Peter freezes, tenses with a not-so-narrow back held ramrod straight. Oh, his husband brought him breakfast in bed.

How could he ever think to clobber such a nice, wonderful—

"Your scent is odd."

"Yeah, well fuck you too then."

Five seconds of silence.

"I'm bringing you one cup of coffee and the hormone pills."

" Yup, that's a great idea. "

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

Tony’s mumbo jumbo with self loathing is firmly put on the back burner after inhaling a delicious breakfast and chugging that one glorious cup of coffee. Until they go to the bathroom and he sees himself in the mirror.

"We gotta tell them."

"You said you wanted to wait a while before saying anything."

Peter strips, ducks into the warm shower, lets out a pleased little sigh and Tony wants to rip his fingernails off. Is it bad, having sex while pregnant? No! The doctors, every single one of them, said it's a perfectly normal thing to do. It'd be bad if they didn't have sex because Tony, thanks to his crazy hormone production, needs the extra attention for his body to understand this is a happy process that shouldn't include sad pheromones or stressed out moments. Will Peter put him out of his misery and allow a quickie in the mornings? No.

"Take more than five minutes in that shower and I'm joining you."

Listen, he grew up in the 80's and 90's, Tony wasn't immune to peer pressure. Did he cave and eventually do so many squat competitions with Rhodey his butt turned into a duck's butt? There's no evidence, he's made sure, but yes. And Starks have always turned out to be beautiful, doesn't matter your gender or age. Finding a companion for the night has never been a problem for anyone in his family tree.

That, and his work as Iron Man has kept him — well, not ripped like Cap, certainly not as lean and (God help him) athletic as Peter, but fit. Sturdy. Firm. Solid. (Peter once muttered the words 'daddy-like' in regards to his body and he nearly choked on water.)

The passage of time has made him a bit slower, dusted once black hair with, as his husband says, stardust and the corners of his eyes now show how much time Tony spends laughing or frowning. All in all, he looks fucking spectacular for his age and experience as a villain-punching-bag. Thing is, he has a belly. A bump. A curve where it was once, well. Less curvy. Is it a problem for Peter? Nope, as acknowledged every time his alpha tackles him if he so much as looks oddly in the mirror. Is it a problem for him? He'll get back to you on that.

The point is, there's a belly when just a few months ago there wasn't such a pronounced belly. It's great, of course. Proof their child is growing steadily and Tony's body is adjusting to it accordingly. A small part of him, the omega part he actually lets live, is fascinated and proud. He's doing that, Tony's the one growing a human being, creating life out of nothing in his own body. That child, although not the only physical embodiment of their relationship, is a result of his love for Peter. Of how much his husband loves him. They love each other so much they're gonna start another family together. That chokes him up a bit, reminds him how grateful he is for Peter and for the other Avengers. If they hadn't been so accepting of his status, would he have ever considered going through with this?

Anyway, he's not gonna start sobbing this early in the morning when there's no alcohol involved. It's fantastic seeing his child develop, good, warm and fuzzy feelings, yada yada yada, it's also not very easy to hide. And Tony...Tony wanted to hide it from his family because.

Because Peter hasn't been the only partner in all his life that has wondered about a future with a white picket fence. Because when he was Peter's age, in his goddamn prime, a doctor, ten doctors, all the doctors told him the same thing, smashed his dream into a million pieces. Tony was nearly infertile. There was a one in a million chances of him getting pregnant. If he did, they couldn't be sure his body would be able to maintain two hearts. And then the cave happened.

So yeah. It happened to his cousins, his aunt, a few uncles, his grandmother. Tony would do a baby announcement, but only the second that baby was outside of him and safely in his arms. Now there are still several months left and nothing certain. But time is a bitch and beginning to show the world, maybe those extra pounds aren't from eating the Parker's amazing breakfasts.

"Tony, you know I don't wanna risk-" Losing control of my strength. They've been together long enough that Tony can see quite clearly between the lines.

"Hurting us, yeah, I know, I understand. I'm getting too wide, we're gonna have to tell them or Natasha will take one look at me and whoops, impromptu announcement from someone else. It's a miracle she was out on those missions when we found out." Thank God for renegade troops.

He's still looking at himself in the mirror when Peter comes out, barely dries up and slides behind him. His husband is slightly taller now, can easily hook a curved jaw on Tony's shoulder to peer at the image they make. Contrasts, he supposes, have always enthralled Tony. The study of light and shadow. Variations of the same basic components. Where his body is aging, showing signs of wear and tear, Peter's is evolving into something beautiful, majestic. Silver hair, chestnut brown. Scarred canvas, silky smooth and sunkissed skin. Soft, fragile curves, chiseled lines that deserve to be revered more than Michelangelo’s David. But their eyes, their eyes are equally tired.

“We can tell them if you want, have dinner together and just, just say it. Like that -”

“No. It's our kid, we're not gonna act like it's ripping off a band aid. This is special, unique. Dinner is good. Fantastic, actually. Wait for dessert, and announce it. “ Peter comes ever closer, wraps arms that could carry the world around him and how did he get so lucky?

They've lied to each other in the past. Mostly in the beginning, when they were too worried about hurting their new relationship to show their desires and wants. Tony didn't explain the Training Wheels Protocol. Peter tried to fight high level crime on his own. Things got hard to understand, like being in the right place at the wrong time. Puzzle pieces that didn't quite fit together, an extra inch of space prohibiting them from seeing all the possibilities that the truth could bring. They were walking the same path, just in parallel lines that never crossed.

But then he'd been rejected, thrown away and able to realize how fucking stupid it was to let Peter go when being near the kid, it felt like finally breathing after residing in the deep end of a pool for a thousand years. So Tony ran after him one day, crashed into his AP English class, half assed an excuse for the baffled teacher, yanked Peter out of the room and proceeded to have the best make out session of his life with his back against the kid's locker. And now they don't lie, ever.

Which is why it's so hard to accept Peter's, “You're beautiful, Tony. The handsomest man I've ever seen in my life. I loved you before, I love you now, I'll love you forever, Anthony Stark. You carrying our kid doesn't change that, how could it, Tony? It's going to be ok. The three of us will be ok and I won't stop thanking whoever decided I'd get to marry my wet dream.”

Scorching kisses trace his pulse point slowly, sharp nails start dragging against a too thin shirt, but it's the fact that Peter hasn't looked away from him, is confidently holding his gaze through the glass, that makes Tony shudder and stop breathing.

The bathroom is flooded with pheromones, cinnamon and honey assaulting an unprepared billionaire, and he'll die if they stay like this, can't function properly, brain switching gears, trying valiantly to remember baseball stats, past wounds, May's cooking because Peter's gonna wreck his sanity if those hands keep winding down, if those lips don't stop unraveling him like a Christmas present.

“If I'd known you'd get this handsy and romantic, I would have complained about how I look earlier." It's a gasp, half murmur, half plea as Peter grins at him shamelessly. “I know it's rude and wrong and sexist, but I like comforting my omega, acting like a stereotypical alpha. Makes me feel like I'm doing my job of making you happy. “

He quirks an eyebrow, is glad Peter can be comfortable enough to take the reins every once in a while. “You're telling me that assuring me I'm still drop dead gorgeous, “ his husband snorts, nips at Tony's shoulder for that quip, “ makes you horny because you feel like an alpha comforting, and I quote, ‘your omega’? “

Peter reverts back to the shy teenager who could barely ask a girl out to the homecoming dance, ducks his head into Tony’s neck with a blush quickly spreading over damp skin. “Well, I've got news for you, sweetheart. Your wet dream also thoroughly enjoys it so you better break tradition and have sex with me to remind me I'm the hottest man you've ever seen. "

He's actually serious about this, his self esteem hasn't exactly been, you know, the best and Tony's mood always improves significantly after playing around in bed with Peter. Besides, it's a sign of trust. Peter won't hurt him or their child, will be able to hold back his strength. He always does.

Listen, it's not exactly moral, but he has more than enough problems to go ahead and analyze his attraction and dependency on Peter while pregnant.

“So, I can distract you from your bad thoughts by acting sort of possessive and taking you to bed? " Oh, he adores when his husband is afraid of showing a new side of himself and asks for permission ever so sweetly.

“Babe, if you don't, I'll kick you out of the apartment. Give me possessive Peter Parker any day you want, like I'm gonna complain about a gorgeous, brilliant twenty something year old all over me. Now what's it gonna be, alpha dear, bathroom or bedroom? I wouldn't mind the tile but, oh God, I forgot you could pick me up." Tony clings to broad shoulders, can't help but laugh because aren't they a pair?

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

After having what he's sure was the best sex of his life, Tony stumbles out of the bedroom with torn clothes, a dazed look in his eyes and several bruises blossoming around his neck. Peter's halfway out the doorway when Tony whistles, makes sure all their family is paying attention, blurts out, “Peter and I are having a kid. I'm pregnant, woohoo, it's great, it's amazing, save your congratulations for later. We'll do a proper thing soon, if anyone interrupts and they're not dying, I'll kill you myself. See you in a few hours, " and yanks him back in while Friday activates Sock on the Doorknob Protocol.

Rhodey and Nat clink glasses while waiting on the others to pay up on their bets regarding Tony and Peter's odd behavior.

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

Later, much later, like, two days later, they have a proper dinner with their family in the tower. There are balloons and streamers, cake and ice cream, warm hugs and gentle cheek kisses, subtle tears and full on weeping (Happy had to borrow a box of Kleenex), pictures and videos and a pile of gifts taller than Tony.

The most important thing, though, is that the A.I recorded the reaction after Clint asked about baby names. He's grateful they went to the doctor before tonight. The visit revealed a treasure Tony thought he'd never have. Now it's time to reveal it to their pack.

His husband snuggles up to him, is so ecstatic the whole dining room smells like cinnamon and honey, like joyous love he'll never get enough of. Tony grins at him, curls their hands together and repeats the same thing over and over again in his head.

It'll be ok. They'll be ok. If the universe keeps giving Tony the greatest gifts he could ever want, maybe it's time he stopped looking at the horse's mouth. That's how it goes, right? Right.

He turns to look at Peter, loves him so much it aches, feels tiny feet pressing against his stomach. Guesses he's not the only one smitten with this incredible human being.

“We were thinking Marie,” Peter smiles at him, eyes lit up and lovely.

Tony is never going to forget this moment, this warmth in his chest.

“And Benjamin Parker-Stark.”

Their family loses their shit and both Friday and Karen have ample proof.

(@puppypeter look, omega tones! @tonystarkisaslut thank you so much for allowing me to use the prompt board! I am still accepting prompts! Although I can't guarantee getting them ready within a few days, I'll try to finish them on the one week mark depending on how long the fic is!)

#tony stark #peter parker #starker #peter parker x tony stark #ironspider #peter x tony #soft!starker #lovely anon #prompt fill #my writing #baby announcement #alpha!peter #omega!tony #omegaverse starker #did i love writing this?#yes i did #mpreg #a/b/o

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chellerbelles · 4 years

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Rogue/Gambit Fanworks week, Day 7: Alternate Universe

Can also be found here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13495715/1/The-Thief-and-the-Archmage

Gambit cautiously pushed the tower window open. He scanned the ground in front of him and anything else in the nearby vicinity, but saw no signs of anything that might be a magical trap. One could never be certain when breaking into an archmage’s tower, especially one that had a bounty on their head for the last ten years.

He gingerly set one foot inside and on the floor. He waited. Nothing happened. He placed the other foot inside, pull his full weight on his feet and waiting again while continuing to take in his surroundings. Still nothing.

It appeared to be a cross between a study and a sitting room. There was a lounge, a desk, a workbench, and a large bookshelf full of books. Other shelves were full of various small boxes and bottles.

He carefully made his way over to the desk, the carpet muffling the sound of his steps. He inspected the desk from all angles before he dared to touch it.

Gambit reached out his hand and froze. He froze, not out of choice or fear, but because his body felt like it was held in place.

The lights went on. He couldn’t turn his head. He couldn’t even move his eyes, though he did see a blurred figure out of the corner of his eye. The blurred figure came into focus as she moved to stand in front of him.

She was dressed in a simple nightgown, her arms and legs bare. Her hair, brown with a white streak at the front, was unkempt like she’s just gotten out of bed. For someone who had a bounty on her head for at least ten years, she appeared a lot younger than Gambit expected. Perhaps that was just magic at work. She was supposed to be exceptionally powerful after all.

She studied him seriously, and after an extended silence, said: “Curious. Assassins usually try to find my bedroom at this time of night, not raid my desk.”

Abruptly, Gambit found himself able to move his head again. He shook it, blinked a few times with much relief, and then looked into the archmage’s bright green eyes.

“Ah, good evening chère,” he said pleasantly. “Sorry to disturb you, but let me assure you, I would never enter a lady’s bedroom uninvited.”

“No? Just her house?”

“Well, I am a thief,” Gambit went on, figuring that being charming and mostly honest was his best bet. “And this did seem like an ideal place to get valuable loot from.”

“Mmmhmm.” She folded her arms across her chest. “And what makes you think you would’ve even gotten away with it? Did it not occur to you that I could caught you in the act, or track you and my things down later?”

“Life’s no fun if you don’t take risks, ma chère,” Gambit replied smoothly, paused for a moment, then said: “Besides, the mercenary gang, The Rippers, have gathered in force and are planning on attacking you at dawn. There’s at least 40 of them, so I figure, even an archmage of your reputation would have her hands full.”

The archmage studied him thoughtfully. “And why should I believe you’re not a scout for these Rippers?”

“I’m not,” Gambit said flippantly. “But I doubt that I could prove that to your satisfaction.”

“Hmm.” She leaned in and looked deeply into his red and black eyes. “Djinn or demon heritage?”

Gambit blinked in surprise. “Uh, could be either. Might be something else. I’m an orphan. Never met my parents.”

She snorted. “Some people have all the luck.”

“Excuse me?”

The archmage sat back in the desk chair. “My mother caught a djinn once. She used the first two wishes on herself, but in a moment of uncharacteristic generosity, she used the third wish on me: I wish that my daughter would have the ability to absorb knowledge and power from all she has contact with. Of course, djinn don’t particularly like being captured and made slaves so rather than being a blessing, her wish for me became a curse.”

Gambit swallowed, not really sure why she was telling him this.

“Everything I know and can do with magic I stole from other people,” she said, “just by touching them.”

She lifted her hand a mere hair’s breath from Gambit’s face. His heart raced and he didn’t dare to move.

“If you haven’t been telling me the truth, I suggest you tell me now,” she said. “Because I am going to find out, one way or another.”

“I assure you,” Gambit said firmly, “I am but a simple thief who wishes you no harm.”

“That better be true, for you sake, because you won’t wake up again if it’s not.”

She touched him and everything went blank.

—

Gambit opened his eyes.

He was laying on the lounge in the archmage’s sitting room / study. His head pounded: it was the worst headache he had in years. He groaned and sat up.

“Ah, good, you’re awake.”

Gambit looked up to see the archmage walking towards him. She was now dressed in a long, green dress with slits up both sides of the skirt, long sleeves, and trimmed with black. She wore matching leggings and gloves, and knee-high black boots.

“You may call me Rogue,” she said as she stopped in front of him. “How’s the headache?”

“I’ve had worse,” Gambit replied. “Does this mean you’ve decided to believe me?”

“I got the proof from your own head that you were telling the truth. Except for the part about not entering a lady’s bedroom without her permission.” Rogue gave him a knowing smirk. “Apparently you will still do that to steal something.”

Gambit rubbed his head. “People usually keep the really good stuff in their bedrooms.”

Rogue chuckled and the sound surprised Gambit.

“So, uh, how long was I out for?” Gambit asked.

“Only an hour,” Rogue replied and sat down beside him. “I would like to make a deal with you, Gambit.”

The sound of his name startled him. He wondered just how much she had learnt of him from that curse of hers.

“A deal, huh?” Gambit asked warily.

“Yes. I have been thinking for some time now that I should leave this tower,” Rogue said, and sighed. “When I first came here, the area was remote and under developed. At some point, word got out that this was where I was hiding and now bounty hunters come from far and wide to collect. It’s tiresome, and it’s time I moved on.”

Gambit didn’t reply. He just looked at her with a sinking suspicion that he knew where this was headed.

“I would like you to take me with you,” Rogue said. “All I know of the world as it is right now is what I’ve gleaned from those who dare invade my home. That’s not enough for a well-rounded understanding.”

“I’m nor sure if that’s such a good idea—”

“Relax, I’m not asking you to baby-sit me forever. A few months, maybe a year.” She lifted her hand to forestall any objections. “And in exchange, you may take anything you want from my tower, and I will teach you magic.”

Gambit paused for a moment. “I already know magic.”

“You know a few parlour tricks,” Rogue replied with a wave of dismissal. “You’ve barely tapped into the potential of your efreeti heritage.”

“Efreeti?” Gambit repeated, unable to hide his surprise. “How can you know that?”

“I get power as well as knowledge,” Rogue said. “This is hardly the first time I’ve tasted djinni power.”

“This is… all very tempting, chère…” Gambit replied slowly, trying to think straight through his rapidly declining headache. “But taking you with me? I prefer to stay in the shadows, and you have a pretty big price on your head.”

“I know, it’s a risk for both of us.” Rogue smiled knowingly at him. “But you like high stakes.”

“I think I’m beginning to see why there’s a price on your head, chère,” Gambit said grumpily.

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it. My mother is a very ambitious woman. She found all sorts of ways to make my curse work for her.” Rogue sighed. “Ways that I regret to this day.”

Gambit fell silent.

“I think I know a way I can make everyone think I’m dead though. This imminent attack from the Rippers… I think I can solve two problems,” Rogue went on. “I’m going to let them in, and then bring the tower down.”

“You think people would actually think you’re dead?” Gambit asked.

Rogue shrugged. “At the very least, they won’t know where to look for me. The last time I was in public, I was a child. No one who’s seen me as an adult has lived to tell about it.”

“Not even the locals?”

“I showed them an illusory form. An old man,” Rogue said with a shake of her head. “People always seem to think of old men when they picture archmages.”

“Sneaky. But the people who put the bounty will know you’re a woman.”

“Still don’t know what I look like though.” Rogue stood. “I’m leaving regardless. Whether I go with you or without you is up to you. I need to go prepare to demolish the tower.” She lifted a hand as she started to walk off. “If you take anything, I’ll assume that means you’ve agree. And I will know if you take anything.”

Gambit let out a long, slow breath as she walked away, and laid back on the lounge. He did not like the fact that she’d siphoned all that personal information from him. On the other hand, in her shoes, would he have done any different? He wouldn’t have survived this long if he trusted everyone, and she couldn’t afford to trust everyone she met either: especially as most people of late had definitely been after the bounty on her head.

Learning more magic did appeal to him though. It appealed a lot. Many was the time he’d watched mages at work, fascinated by their skills. The most he could do was make things he touched blow up. It was fun, but not a particularly useful skill for a thief, except perhaps when a distraction was needed.

He preferred to work alone, the product of experience working with others. He was reluctant to even just travel with someone else. He wished he had a quick way of finding out if she was trustworthy. On the other hand, it had been that long since she’d last been outside, perhaps she didn’t even know.

He supposed, if they could make things work, she would make for a powerful ally. He could use more of those.

Further possibilities crosses his mind as he mulled it over. He supposed the worst case scenario was that he died, and that was always the worst case scenario. But the best case scenario was rich with rewards, exactly the kind of stakes he loved to play for.

Gambit sat up, the headache now gone. He looked around the room. He couldn’t see Rogue anywhere, but there was a noticable decrease in the number of things in the room. He suppose she already packed.

He picked himself up off the lounge and started looking through the shelves. Most of the remaining bottles and boxes left were empty, but he did find three potions and a couple of oils, all with magical properties, and neatly labelled.

“See anything you like?” Rogue asked.

Gambit jumped and looked over at her. “How’d you do that?”

“If we have a deal, I’ll teach you.”

“I don’t like this, chère. You know enough about me to play me like a fiddle, and I know next to nothing about you.”

Rogue sighed. “I know. I wish there had been another way, but…” she trailed off uncertainly.

“Yeah… Look, if we do this…” Gambit hesitated.

“You don’t want me to touch you.” Rogue said for him. “I understand.”

“Sorry if that seems rude.”

“No, I’d probably ask the same thing in your position. It’s not like I can turn it off.”

Gambit gaped at her. “You can’t turn it off?”

“No.”

“And you were a child when this happened?”

Rogue only nodded.

“Well that’s… that’s…” Words failed him briefly, then he frowned. “Wait, is it even safe for you to leave the tower? The world can get pretty crowded.”

“It needs to be direct skin contact. As long as I’m covered up, there’s no problem.” Rogue gestured to her clothing.

Gambit nodded slowly, still horrified that she’d been so deprived for so long. “Okay, we have a deal.”

He held out his hand to her. Slowly, Rogue extended her own hand to take his, and they shook on it.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

He gave a half-shrug. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for a damsel in distress. And magic. And loot. Especially magic loot.”

Rogue chuckled. “Let me show you the good stuff. Hmm… I think I have a ring of invisibility around here somewhere…”

“Oooh, really? I’ve always wanted one of those.”

#rogue/gambitweek2020 #rogue/remyweek2020

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alliekitaguchi · 5 years

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teaser / opinions needed

so i’ve been working on a new idea for a story and i wanted to drop a teaser to see how many people would be interested......... lemme know!

READ MORE UNDER THE CUT

The day she’d been born, the skies had wept.

Violent, dangerous rain had pelted the side of Winterfell’s castle, rough winds screaming along the stone walls and through the courtyards. Thunder boomed loudly overhead, echoing in the dimly lit chambers and overcoming the wails of Catelyn Stark, who was attempting to give birth to her third child.

Ned Stark had watched, brows furrowed in concern as his wife screamed in pain. It hadn’t been like this for Robb and Sansa, hadn’t been nearly as chaotic. Robb, with only four name-days under his belt, had held his younger sister close to him as she wept, squealing whenever another crack of thunder exploded around them.

Ned held onto his wife’s hand, her face pinched in pain as another wail tore its way out of her throat. Sansa was still sobbing in the corner, only two name-days in, her face stuffed in her brother’s chest. He shushed her quietly, his soft noises getting drowned out by the storm pounding against the castle.

“Robb,” Ned had called, pitching his voice to be heard over the sounds of Catelyn’s moaning. “Take your sister and get out of here.”

“But father—”

“Go, Robb. Find Jon.” Ned had told him, his eyes darting to one of the Septa’s nearby. She had nodded at him, understanding, and gently took Sansa from Robb’s arms, taking the small boy’s hand in hers. Ned had turned back to Catelyn, quietly murmuring, “It’s alright, my love. You’re doing wonderful.”

“Lord Stark is right, my Lady,” Septa Mordane had said, eyes never leaving Catelyn’s open legs. “I can just about see the head.”

“About damn time!” Catelyn had growled, her lovely face twisted in a snarl as veins popped out on her forehead and neck.

“Push, darling.” Ned had kissed his wife’s hand. Catelyn had thrown her head back, gritting her teeth as sweat dripped down her skin. She clamped down hard on Ned’s hand and he yelped in pain as she howled. Ned could barely make out the Septa’s soothing tone over the sound of the wind shrieking outside.

As the babe came into the world, a bolt of lightning touched down just outside the window, the thunder so loud that Ned let go of his wife’s hands to clamp his own over his ears. Everyone in the room seemed to be screaming—the new babe, his wife, his other children from down the hall.

“It’s a girl!” Septa Mordane had proclaimed loudly, pushing away from her Lord and Lady. She had cleaned the baby off as Ned tended to his wife, stroking her hands soothingly.

Catelyn had been panting as Ned looked down at her. She had looked utterly drained, exhaustion seeping into her entire body. She had motioned with her hands and Septa Mordane placed the child in her waiting arms. She and Ned had stared down into the babe’s fresh face, her mouth open as a wail came out.

“She’s lovely,” Catelyn had whispered, her voice croaky from all of her screaming. “She’s a wolf, this one.”

“A fighter,” Ned agreed softly, transfixed by the small bundle in his wife’s arms. “She’s a fighter.”

“Aye, she is.”

“My Lord?” The question had come from one of the Septa’s in the room, who was staring at the window in horror. The panic in her voice made Ned lift his head from his daughter. “You might want to see this.”

Ned had stood slowly, reluctant to leave Catelyn’s side. He had made his way to the window and froze as he peered outside. It was still pouring, though the thunder seemed to have finally stopped. Outside, directly below their window, one of the giant trees along the outer wall of the castle was on fire.

Leaves were dripping from the burning sapling, brilliant orange against the dark sky around them. Licks of fire seemed to climb up higher and higher, reaching upwards until his eyes started to water from the heat. It almost seemed to be reaching for something as the flames crept up the side of the castle, mere feet away from where Ned’s head was poking out the window.

Behind him, his daughter let out another wail.

The flames flickered underneath him.

The rain seemed to have no effect on it whatsoever. The fire continued to rage and burn, sending smoke drifting up towards him. He had stepped back in surprise, swallowing dryly. The smell of burning wood seeped into the room, nearly suffocating him. He had turned to the Septa and said, “Send some men to put that out immediately.”

She had nodded, only once, and strode out of the room. Ned had returned to Catelyn’s side, gently sitting beside her on the bed so he could peer down at his daughter. Catelyn had glanced up as he sat down, asking, “What is it?”

“The tree under our window is ablaze.” Ned had told her.

“In this storm?” Catelyn had raised an eyebrow, aghast.

“It will all be alright, my dear.”

Catelyn had seemed skeptical but turned her attention back to the babe in her arms. She and Ned had watched the small girl wiggle in her furs for a few moments before Catelyn had quietly said, “We need to give her a name.”

The wind drifted in through the window, the breeze suddenly much gentler than it had been moments before. Ned’s hair was blown back slightly from his face and the wind seemed to whisper in his ear. He had looked upon his daughter and smiled. “Arya,” He had stated. “Arya Stark.”

When the next child was born, the sun had been beaming down on Winterfell. Brandon Stark entered the world with a gentle whimper, his eyes opening and taking in the world around him in wonder. Rickon Stark was born under a brilliantly shining moon, the stars twinkling down on him as his pale eyes sought out Catelyn’s grinning face.

As the Stark children grew older, their differences became staggeringly apparent. Robb Stark was tall and handsome, with his mother’s auburn hair and her blue eyes. He was charming and confident, erring on the side of conceited, with the authority of someone who would someday be a Lord.

Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell, grew to be as strikingly handsome as Ned Stark had been as a young boy. His hair was nearly black, curling around his face wildly as he moved. His eyes were the same deep charcoal grey color that Ned’s were and he had the same, determined set to his jaw as the Lord of Winterfell.

Sansa grew up to be elegant and graceful, with her long legs and creamy white skin. Her hair, the color of autumn leaves, was shiny and sleek, always twisted into a gorgeous hairstyle. She also had the Tully look—fiery hair, high cheekbones, and clear, blue eyes. She held herself with the grace of a future Queen.

Bran was still young but was slowly becoming a man. He was often brash and childlike, but was learning from Robb, Jon, and Ned on how to conduct himself as a young man. Catelyn liked to remind him that someday, when he was older, he’d marry a Lady and become the Lord of a foreign land.

Rickon, the youngest of the group, wasn’t quite pressured in the same way Robb and Bran were. He was free to roam about Winterfell, though he often tagged along with his elder brothers anyway—gazing at them with the same adoration Bran once had. He idolized them, following them around no matter where they went.

Arya was the odd one out.

She was the complete opposite of her sister, closer to being a boy than a girl. She absolutely refused to wear anything with a skirt and would sneak into the training yards to watch her brothers practice. No one was ever really sure when or how she’d done it, but over the years, she’d learned to be a talented archer.

Out of all the children, she was the one who resembled the Starks the closest, except for maybe Jon. Arya had the same dark, wild hair that Ned and Jon did, though hers was perpetually messy and streaked with mud. She even had the same piercing grey gaze, slightly longer face, and the grim look about her that her half-brother and father did.

Though their family was close, Arya had always favored Jon. In return, he taught her how to hold a sword, gently correcting her stance and allowing her to swing a few of the practice swords on occasion. He would listen to her chatter day in and day out, giving her the softest of smiles whenever she appeared in his line of vision.

The rest of her family took her fascination with Jon in stride and left her be.

Her other brothers paid her no mind and Sansa was often cruel towards her, so Arya learned to keep to herself early on. She wasn’t quiet in nature—where she went, destruction and chaos seemed to follow—but she learned at a young age to hold her tongue in the presence of her family and any passing guests.

She knew she wasn’t her mother’s favorite, but she was quite certain that her father held her in high regards, though she wasn’t entirely sure. He allowed her to keep the sword Jon gifted her for her thirteenth name-day and even got her a “dancing” instructor, but his eyes still followed her warily whenever she was in the room.

She knew why he was scared of her.

They all did.

Since the day she was born, death seemed to follow closely at her heels.

The storm that had carried her into the world had also taken nine people out of it. Arya’s seventh name-day had brought upon an inescapable snowstorm, one that swallowed up a family’s entire home. On her first journey to Riverrun, two of the Knights guarding her had fallen off the path and drowned in the river.

The first time she had ever fallen ill, a sickness spread throughout Winterfell and three of the villagers died in a single night. Arya’s own illness had passed the same night and she woke up healthy the next morning. The first time she was allowed out riding with her brothers, they found a deserter from the Night’s Watch and had to witness his beheading.

The first time she had appeared on the training grounds, one of the men practicing had been accidentally stabbed with a live blade and he’d bled to death on the ground while she screamed for a Maester. When the Baratheon King came to visit, an assassin was ripped apart while trying to murder Bran in his chambers.

Arya knew that the townsfolk whispered about her. She knew that they told stories of the pandemonium that she seemed to draw. Part of her started to believe them. She often wondered if she was the cause of the death that seemed to loom around her. When her father was executed with her in the audience, she stopped wondering.

#gendrya #gendrya fanfiction #gendrya fan fiction #gendry #gendry waters #gendry baratheon #arya #arya stark #got #got fanfiction #got fan fiction #game of thrones #game of thrones fan fiction #game of thrones fanfiction

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barnesnmrnoble · 5 years

Text

The Fallen Leaf

(GIF not mine. Credit to owners.)

Main Masterlist - Steve Rogers Masterlist

There is a tree in New York, standing y’all in the depths of the greenery of Central Park. It’s a tree that represents the life and death of the city. With each new life brought into the world, a new leaf blossoms from a it’s branches but with each death that befalls the city a leaf floats and falls to the ground signifying its end.

Every Saturday, Steve watches her smile grow somber, her eyes become glassy with tears unshed and watches as her feet carry her away to the city. He never knows where she goes and never dares ask in fear of watching her already dampened smile fade to nothing. Until one day he can’t handle it any longer and follows her.

Word Count: 3168

Warnings: Angst, mentions of death and blood, car accident

A/n: It’s been a minute since I’ve been able to post, school and finals have been kicking my ass so hopefully this is the start of me coming back. There should also be a new chapter of Lost in Time in the coming days! I hope you all enjoy! If you do, leave a like and a reblog or comment! I’d love to hear what you think and honestly I’m human and I need the validation. (This was based of a @writing-prompt-s post )

Read on AO3!

There is a tree, standing tall in the depths of the thick greenery of Central Park. It’s larger than life, standing high above the rest of the forest that surrounds it, from the ground looking up, it almost competes with the skyscrapers that line the blue sky. Though it’s not blue today, it’s never blue when she leaves her home for this. It’s dark and dreary, grey clouds rolling in over the city. It’s a reflection of how she feels on these days.

She remembers when she first learned of the tree, her mother sitting her down on a bench nearby it, overlooking the lake in front of her. Her mother held her newborn baby in her arms, gently calming him when he stirred in his sleep. He was only days old, but already had the biggest personality, just like her own. The wind blew around them, almost drowning out her voice when she quietly asked her mother to hold her new baby brother. Her mother had smiled at her, handing her the small infant, keeping her hands underneath her daughter’s. Her mother leaned down to push a wind blown stray hair away from her eyes, smiling as she retold the story her own parents had taught her at this age. She recited it as if it was a fairy tale straight from a story book she had on the bookshelf at home.

It had been centuries ago, when the city had started to come to life. Statues and monuments locals saw each day as they walked into their jobs, had been created then. Stories that would be known until the end of time, started here. A man, whose name she couldn’t remember no matter how many times she’d told and been told the story --which admittedly wasn’t very often-- had come to the green space in the city. He found solace in the quietness of the forest, found peace from the world. He’d found a place to rest, a clearing in the trees, and in the middle sat a small sapling, no taller than his hip. It’s color was more potent than what he’d seen, greens of every shade covered the few leaves it had. The man pulled a small brown cloth pouch from his clothing, dipping his fingers into the soft mineral powder inside. The powder gleamed against the sun’s bright rays of light, as the man brought it from the pouch and sprinkled it around the tree.

Her mother continues to stroke her hair and finishes her telling of the story with a flourish, “And the rest, as they say, is history.” She smiles up to her mother, fascination running around her brain like a herd of wild horses. But, she can’t help but pause for a moment, her mother had told her an amazing fairy tale of the tree that grew taller than the rest in the middle of the city, but never once did she mention its significance. When she asked to know more about the tree, to know why leaves of varying shades and colors grew from its branches her mother only grabbed her small hand in hers and lead her to the edge of the clearing. “You’ll understand soon, but you must see it.”

It had truly been magical, that day, hearing the stories told from generation to generation had set her mind aflurry, her imagination running wild. Her mother had taken her to see the tree up close, leaves of every color and shade scattered across branches that never seemed to end. If she’d been counting the branches, she was sure to end in the thousands before giving up. Some leaves had fallen from their branches, dispersed on the ground beneath it, stretching out several feet from its base and covering large roots that measured larger than herself. Her small feet carried her to the edge of where the leaves lay peacefully on the ground, she didn’t dare go further, wouldn’t have even if she hadn’t had her mother still holding her hand. It felt wrong, a deep seeding feeling of disrespect if she crossed the imaginary line in front of her.

____________ . _______________ . ____________ . ___________

She wrapped her scarf around her neck, the soft navy blue one Steve had gifted her a while back, and stroked her fingers over the fabric savoring the comfort it brought her. It was silly, really. To think a scarf of soft fabric could bring her so much comfort on a day that was so hard, but it was what it represented to her that brought her the feeling of a warm embrace, when the cold around her chilled her to her bones. It was the representation of family, of a shoulder to lean on, open arms to fall into when the world pushed too hard, it was the representation of all that she had lost and then gained once again. She never knew a scarf could represent so much to her.

The clouds that rolled in over the sky were dark and dreary, a nipping wind biting at those who dared walk out in the world. The wind slammed against her cheeks the moment she opened the door and slid into the hustle and bustle of the city. It felt like small pricks against her skin, the ever changing pattern of the wind switching the pins from on side of her face to the other every few steps she took. She blended into the crowd around her, just another face, another set of feet moving from point a to point b, at least until she slid from the bulk of the crowd taking a side street into the park. She walked along the path she always took, a back way to avoid the people she just didn’t have the energy to be around and to bask in the nature around her.

The trees were still bare, a few leaves poking through the cold to find the sun. The winter had started to subside and make way for the spring, letting leaves grow in bunches, grass regain its beautiful green hue, and flower bloom underneath her feet. She loved it here. Her mind wandered with her feet, carrying her to the place she always found herself on these days, the tree of the city.

No matter the time of year, winter, spring, summer, or fall, the leaves of the tree always grew against their branches. It was never failing in its beauty or its life. Before she even had realized she’d taken the backpath, her feet slowed to a stop against the outermost edge of the leaves, the imaginary line forced a stop to her feet. She reached into her coat and pulled out the small picture frame she usually kept hidden away from prying eyes. The dark and worn frame, whose paint had been chipped and rubbed away by her loss and anxiously twiddling thumbs, slid to the end of her grasp and escaped the downpour of her tears. Her delicate fingers traced over the outline of the purple colored leaf and over the letters engraved forever on its skin.

Her brother’s name stared at her through the glass frame under her thumbs, twisting the grip on her heart, one that refused to let up, and hadn’t for two years. It had been a dreary Saturday morning, much like today or really everyday she walked the lone path to the tree. She’d still been living at her old apartment down in Brooklyn, her life as an avenger hadn’t started yet, she was still months out from that part of her life. Her brother had come home from University for the weekend and managed to squeeze in just enough time to have lunch with her before he had to get back, it’d been the first time she’d seen him in months.

But he never showed up.

It was a call she never wished to get, a feeling she would never wish on the worst of people. It had quite literally felt like her heart had been torn from her chest and buried six feet under for no hope of ever finding it again. “Your brother’s been in an accident.” She could hear the helplessness and fear that laced her mother’s voice, she could hear her own sobs permeating the soft air of the diner she’d been waiting for him at. She didn’t care for the odd looks she received for her wailing sobs, or the angry stares she got for “ruining” someone’s dinner. She didn’t care.

Her brothers car was a mangled mess when she passed the awful wreck. She wished she could’ve avoided it, put off seeing horrors no one should ever face, but it was the only way to the hospital. Her stomach churned and threaten to let the bile she’d been struggling to hold down up as she passed the car. She could see blood streaking the inside of the car, a gaping hole where they’d had to cut him from the vehicle.

They waited for hours in the hospital, sitting in awful and uncomfortable chairs that made it impossible it find a position to sit in that didn’t make her back ache. Her hand never left her mother’s, both holding onto each other as if it was the only thing holding them together. Though in reality, it was the only thing holding them together.

The world became darker with each passing moment of agonizing waiting, wondering, hoping, and praying. It became a macabre world of black and white, a world of muted feelings to the point of total numbness. The blank wall in front of her eyes became a seemingly interesting story being told, her eyes never wavering from the spot they’d fixated on hours upon hours ago. Distantly she heard talking, people milling about in the hospital, each one feeling much different from the last. Nurses and doctors held somber looks, though some held smiles as they came out a child’s room, or a room from which someone was still living, still breathing, where they were recovering.

One somber face stood out from the rest. It overrode every feeling of numbness in her until she felt everything all at once, letting it quite literally knock her out of her chair. His eyes were tearful, his gait slow and heartbroken. His shoes were covered in blood, his scrubs he wore didn’t look much better, streaks of red striping what once was a sky blue top into a painful red nightmare. She didn’t need to be told, she didn’t, nor did she want to hear the words spoken out into the world, because if they were that would prove their truthfulness and that wasn’t a truth she was or ever would be willing to come to terms with.

Her baby brother was gone.

The pain settled deep within her heart, never once letting her forget that day, or the feelings of guilt and sadness that she felt everyday when she opened her eyes in the morning. She’d thrown herself into work, isolated herself from friends and family, barely ate and when she did it was nothing more than a birds meal. She even begun a new job, on top of her regular job. She had to, sitting at home and wallowing in the pain was doing nothing for her so she did what she knew and kept herself distracted. Eventually leading her into the arms of the avengers, where her anger and guilt could be used as the driving motion to do some good in the world, just what her brother would’ve wanted for her.

It had taken her several months before she could even bring herself to face the tree that had once held her brothers leaf high on the branches that reached upwards until they touched the blue of the sky. Little by little she brought up her courage and pushed away the pain until the one day she stepped past the imaginary line her feet always stopped her at. She’d sifted through so many leaves, sat for hours and hours until she found the jagged edges of the purple leaf, his favorite color, that held his name. And so, every Saturday she slid out of compound at the early hours of the morning to commemorate him and his life. She went early enough to beat the crowds that lingered around the tree, mostly of those who tried to find their own leaves, they were too cheerful for her. And early enough to avoid or arouse suspicion from that of her teammates. But in a building full of trained soldiers, assassins and geniuses, one was bound to see her slip from the gates with fresh tears already making their way down her cheeks.

Steve had seen her a few months ago, slip from her room and quietly out of the compound, he’d made to ask her where she was headed but as soon as he saw her somber smile and glassy eyes, he just opened his arms for her to seek comfort in. And she did, she never told him anything more than a cop-out answer of “it’s a long story.” or “I’m okay, just a hard week.” but he was never one to push it, it wasn’t his place and he wouldn’t be able to handle it if he was the reason her smiled dampened even more than it already was.

It had been months of her tearful gaze and isolation and Steve couldn’t handle the continuing struggle he could see for her to keep her smile from fading until there was nothing and he snapped. She always left, every Saturday in the early mornings, so Steve was awake just before he knew she’d slide from her room and away for the day and followed her.

He followed her down the backpath she took through the deepest parts of the park, her feet slow moving across the dirt packed path. He listened with a heart heavier than lead as she cried with each step she took, she radiated the pain she felt outwards pushing an invisible force down onto Steve that made each step harder than the last as they rounded the last corner to the open clearing that perfectly framed the tree. He’d seen the tree before, mourned over the leafs on the ground etched with names of his past life, but it had taken him time to even make it as far as the clearing. His fear of seeing those names and coming to terms with the lives and deaths of the people he loved most winning out over his need to have the closure.

He remembered seeing the tree back in the 40s, he’d drawn it countless times in his sketchbook. Though never once did he think his drawings did it’s unmatched beauty any sort of justice. To him, he would never be able to capture the emotions, the happy, the sad, the rejoicing, and the mourning done at the base of this tree, no color palette could ever capture the unique colors that scattered the mass amounts of branches that would’ve taken years to finish drawing. Still he tried, spending many a days out sketching in the warmth of the sun and the coolness he felt when it started to fall beneath the horizon. When his mother had passed, Steve had spent less time in the clearing, pushing it away because it held the memories of his mother, the one woman in his life that meant more to him than anything, because nothing else could compare to her sweet, compassionate personality.

Her feet paused at the outermost edge of the clearing, never crossing the line from the dirt path to the soft green grass the spread from the base of the tree. He watched her grab something from the inside of her coat, her weight shifting from foot to foot and her shoulders slumping even more than they already had. Steve couldn’t handle it, he loved seeing her infectious smile and had since she’d started with the avengers. She’d been a breath of fresh air, she was amazingly capable at what she did-- he couldn’t even counted on his fingers how many times she’d saved his ass-- but even more than that she had helped everyone come down from their minds. Without her, the avengers would probably never have eaten or learned how to cook for themselves, they wouldn’t have days where they could just be people and play games and be the family they really were.

“You know, I came here after I lost Bucky. I stood right where you are, to afraid to cross into the clearing, because if I did and I found the leaf with his name on it, it would mean he was really gone, confirming just what I’d seen on the train. I never moved past that line.” His voice came from behind her, sending her jumping away from where she stood. His hand reached out and grabbed her hand, he laced their fingers together and pulled her into his arms. He didn’t need words, he needed her to know no matter what was going on, she had someone to come to. It was a small gesture but it was just what she needed.

His heart broke with her sobs, his arms gripping onto her waist and holding her steady and she collapsed in his arms and took them both to the ground. They sat in the dirt for hours, some just watching those who showed up to admire the tree, to those who mourned along with them, some just relishing in the comfort of having each other. She told stories of her brother, of the silly games they played, of the crazy pranks they pulled on each other, of the day and the accident that took his life. Each story yanked on Steve’s heart strings until they were stretched farther than a rubber band, he was so close to breaking and letting his tears spill over, to letting his resolve snap into pieces like a rubber band stretched to far.

Part of him did snap, he let silent tears fall, trying and failing to quell his shudders of the sobs he quieted. Her heart so hurt, so closed off from a tragedy he’d never wish on the worst of his enemies. To lose someone so close to you, to not even be able to say goodbye, to see them happy and alive one last time, Steve couldn’t imagine it. She was strong, stronger than anyone knew because despite the horrors she’d lived through, the tragedy she faced, she carried on, pushed past the pain to do her job and do to it well. But more than that she never forgot to take the time to mourn her loss, to remember the life of her brother and to remember what brought her to where she was.

He bent his head down pressing a delicate kiss to her forehead and once again hugging her tight to his body.

“Let’s go home.”

#Steve Rogers #Steven Grant Rogers #Steve Rogers x reader #Steven Grant Rogers x reader #Steve x reader #angst #the fallen leaf

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generouskoalaobject · 5 years

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A Bow (part 1)

This is for the 2018 Secret Santa Jikook fic exchange organised by @jikook-love: A story for @jiminslattae who gave a lovely prompt that had me go sparkly eyed and actually daring to try this! Thank you! I hope you enjoy and have lovely holidays! (I’m not finished yet because life’s priorities but I solemnly swear that more will come! >0<)

Thinking back, they had gotten off to a bad start already.

When entering college, Jungkook had made friends with Taehyung, who in turn had introduced him to his four best friends, “and Yoongi”. They had welcomed him with open arms, Jin greeting him with the words “Have you eaten yet?” and subsequently pushing a chicken drumstick into his hand (instant friendship). He had gotten off to a good start with all of them.

Except with Jimin.

Taehyung had walked Jungkook into the kitchen to get him a drink after introducing him to Jin, Namjoon and Hoseok. There he had met Yoongi and Jimin, quickly introducing himself and then helping himself to a beer with lime (because anything else just tasted yucky, if you asked him). Yoongi had just raised his glass of what was probably whiskey in a greeting. Jimin, meanwhile, stared at Jungkook in delighted fascination, a far too full glass of wine in his hands. Watching Jungkook grabbing his lime beer, Jimin cooed. Cooed. As if he was a baby. Jungkook was appalled. The worst thing was, when Jimin realised how much Jungkook despised his cooing, he started to go out of his way to do it any chance he got that evening and every time they met after that. And he only doubled his efforts when Jungkook asked him to stop.

But he had been ready to give Jimin a chance for the sake of Taehyung, when his friend had asked him to get together with everyone and have a fun evening.

“I promise, it will be fun. We’ll play some board games, watch a movie, eat pizza. You’ll get along just fine.”

They hadn’t. But only because Jimin was an asshole (if you asked Jungkook) and Jungkook was a really sore loser (if you asked everybody else). Once Jimin noticed Jungkook’s competitive streak, it only went downhill, Jimin deriving a sick pleasure out of making it as hard as possible for Jungkook to win at any of the games, leaving Jungkook ready to leave the party early if his plan to kill Jimin by pouring an absurd amount of tabasco all over his pizza was to fail. It failed. He had been carrying a deep grudge towards the other boy ever since. The most aggravating thing was that Jimin did not seem to care much that Jungkook had taken a dislike in him. And so, the both of them antagonising each other every chance they got became part of their routine, both of them only toning it down a bit when the group asked them to, which really just meant that they tried to be less obvious when their friends were around. Jungkook’s grudge certainly didn’t grow less because of it.

--------

Over the months Jungkook’s murder plans had only gotten more intricate, as had Jimin’s taunts. Still, Jungkook did not want to miss a chance to hang out with his friends, “and Jimin”, when Namjoon invited him over to his parent’s house. And so he found himself playing a drunk game of truth or dare in the living room of Namjoon’s parents’ house with the six other boys.

“Truth.” Namjoon chose.

“What would you do if you were a girl for a day?“

“Touch myself.” Namjoon said deadpan, making Hoseok immediately burst out in a fit of laughter and Yoongi groan in exasperation.

Namjoon just shrugged “Duh. Don’t tell me you were expecting something noble like ‘revolutionise periods’. Maybe I’d attempt that if I got a second day.”

“Got it, first day masturbation, second day bloody business.” Jin giggled, earning him a deathly stare from Yoongi, leading Jimin to burst out in giggles, triggering Jin to do the same, inciting the whole group to join them. Except Yoongi who just continued to sip his whiskey while judging them.

“Let’s go with a dare.” Jin decided next. Jimin’s eyes lit up and he quickly leaned over and whispered an idea into Taehyung’s ear, Jin immediately growing nervous. Taehyung’s snorted, nodding.

“Go to the bathroom, take off your underwear and put it on your head and wear it on your head for the rest of the game.” Jimin announced, earning him a stinky eye from Jin. Jin returned with a pair of boxers with an alpaca print on his head from the bathroom a few moments later, shaking an angry crooked finger at Jimin.

“Just wait until it’s your turn, Park Jimin.”, he threatened while his boxers swished around angrily, making it really hard to take him serious.

“Truth.” Yoongi said.

Jimin immediately burst out with a gleeful glint in his eyes. “Have you ever made out with someone here?“ he asked, earning him exasperated groans from all the boys, Jin’s underwear angrily flopping above his head.

“Yes.” Yoongi calmly answered, shooting Jimin a deigning look, turning the groans into surprised gasps and a confused squabble of “Who?” “When?” “Was there tongue?” “Ew, we don’t want to know that, Namjoon.” and underwear now flopping excitedly from left to right. But Yoongi simply shrugged and huffed “You only get one question, genies. Next.” A disappointed huff could be heard but they moved on.

“I can’t choose truth. You all have way too much shit on me.” Jimin mused with an embarrassed grin on his face. “So dare.”

“Interesting.” Jin enunciated, clicking his fingers together in an imitation of an evil mastermind, the impression being completely destroyed by the underwear still on his head.

“Namjoon, don’t you have a little sister?” Jimin’s nervousness immediately increased visibly.

“Yes, hyung.”, Namjoon obediently answered, playing along innocently.

“I really like her fashion sense.”

Jimin immediately began pleading “Hyung, noooo. Don’t!” trying to claw at Jin, who was expertly ignoring him. Namjoon innocently hummed in agreement.

Jin thought aloud, theatrically tapping his chin, “You know how much Jimin is into fashion. I think he would love to try out a crop top.”

“No hyung, don’t make me wear women’s clothes.”

“In fact, I heard him say in his sleep the other night that he would also like to wear one of her chokers.”

“Noooo.”

“And lipstick.”

Jimin started screaming.

“What a coincidence, hyung. All of these items are in my sister’s possession.” Namjoon mused in fake wonder.

Moments later Jimin stepped out of Namjoon’s sister’s room, his previous glee now replaced by embarrassment, a very tight fitting crop top that was revealing surprisingly defined abs and light red lipstick on his lips. Jungkook would have lied if he denied making a double take, yet annoyance quickly took over, because somehow, even in this outfit that was supposed to be degrading, Jimin managed to look good, the choker giving him an androgynous air that caused several surprised shouts of “whoop” in the group. Jimin sat down again with a pout on his face and Jungkook quickly averted his eyes when Jimin caught him looking, breathing out in relief when Jimin did not take the chance to taunt him this time. Next was Hoseok who was already bouncing with excitement.

“I’m so nervous.”, Hobi squealed. “Shall I pick truth? Or a dare? Aaah.”

“How about truth, hyung?” Jimin suggested lazily. Hoseok stared at him and turned visibly white, shouting “dare” without breaking eye contact, making Jimin chuckle.

“Put you arm in the pile of leaves that Namjoon’s parents have been collecting this autumn and leave it there for 2 minutes. To the elbow.” Jungkook suggested.

Hobi began screaming as if he was outside already. “I hate you, Jeon Jungkook!”

When they had convinced Hoseok that he did not need to take a shower after coming back inside because there really was no spider crawling over him, it was Taehyung’s turn.

“I choose dare.” He said calmly.

Jungkook grinned, quickly shooting out, “Let us look through your phone for two minutes.”

He had always wondered how many pictures of his nostrils Taehyung had.

Taehyung’s eyes widened in panic. “I-I don’t have my phone with me.”

“I saw you using it three minutes ago.” Jimin piped in.

“That wasn’t mine.”

But Jungkook had already lunged at Taehyung and wrestled his phone from his back pocket. Using Taehyung’s thumb to unlock the phone, the six other boys pooled around his phone in interest, while Taehyung covered his face in his hands, lying down as if he had already received his death sentence.

Yoongi checked the time while Jungkook quickly opened Taehyung’s gallery. The first folder he saw was named “cute dogs”. Not interested, although “435 pictures of dogs you find cute?!”. “Family”, “If I were a rich man” (879 pictures of Gucci items), “uni bros <3” (“Only 120 pictures of us, but nearly 1000 of Gucci items, do you even love us.” Jimin scolded.) and then the folder Jungkook had hoped for: “The closest view of my brain I can get”, 327 pictures.

Jungkook clicked on it, cackling when he was greeted by a bunch of nostril selfies, with varying degrees of focus, sometimes clearly showing some nose hair, sometimes focusing on pores, sometimes only showing Taehyung’s eyes sharply. A giggle went through the group.

“Even your nostrils get more space on your phone than us, really?!” Jimin complained.

Namjoon was shaking his head, “I would really like to take a look at your brain, too, bro, but not like this.”

“This wouldn’t have happened if you had gone with my Secret Santa suggestion of paying for an MRT scan of his brain last year.” Jin sniffed. Jungkook selected several of the nostril pictures and sent them to his phone. Then he finally exited the folder and continued scrolling down, stopping at a folder simply called “<3”. He had just clicked on it, when Yoongi grabbed the phone out of his hands with surprising speed, locking it again.

“Time’s up.”

Jungkook could have sworn the first object in that folder was a gif of Yoongi himself using a filter, but Yoongi had been too quick to grab the phone to see more. Jungkook watched carefully and confused while Yoongi returned the phone to Taehyung, who seemed a bit less lifeless now that his phone had returned. They returned to their places seats and Jungkook quickly forgot about the folder again when Yoongi pointed at him.

“It’s your turn now, kiddo.”

„Dare!“ he shouted excitedly. To his surprise, Yoongi jumped up and with a determined energy quickly walked over to Taehyung, who had been on the verge of saying something.

Taehyung and Hoseok snickered upon hearing Yoongi’s suggestion, Jungkook half dreading and half anticipating the dare they were going to give him. He certainly didn’t want anyone to know that he was wearing Iron Man underwear today. And he certainly did not want to know how great his potential as a cross-dresser would be.

“Kiss Jimin for five minutes.” Yoongi announced. Jungkook felt his stomach drop.

“Excuse me, haven’t I been violated enough already?” Jimin remarked.

“Not with how you have been playing tonight, Jimin, let’s be honest.”, Namjoon shrugged.

“Will you do it, Jungkook?” Yoongi calmly asked, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Or will you face the dire consequences if you don’t?”

Jungkook swallowed. “Of course I’ll do it.” Except he felt like now would be a good time for the ground to open up. Still, he got up and walked over to Jimin, his eyes darting towards the wall décor that suddenly seemed like the most interesting thing in the room. He came to stand in front of Jimin, feeling his pulse beat in his throat.

“You too chicken to kiss a guy, Jeon?“ Jimin teased, pursing his light red lips.

„No…“. He was. His voice was shaking slightly with nerves. He wished it wouldn’t, it wasn’t a big deal, right? Before Jimin could sneer, he took a breath of courage and surged forward, taking Jimin’s face in his hands and planting his lips on Jimin’s. Yet a spike of nerves immediately made him recoil back when their lips touched, his eyes scanning Jimin’s face, still holding it, who was looking at him slightly flabbergasted, with his cheeks squished together and his lips consequently pouting a bit, reminding Jungkook of a bird emoji on this phone.

“I said 5 minutes, guys. Keep going.” Yoongi clapped shooing away imaginary birds.

“And we wanna see tongue.” Namjoon intercepted, causing Hobi to shake his head. “We really don’t, Namjoon”.

Jungkook really did not know how to go about this. Should he kiss him normally? Should he try to make this as bad as possible? But he didn’t need Jimin teasing him about his kissing skills for the rest of university. Pressing his lips together he decided to ignore his nerves for the next five minutes and how aware he was that Jimin’s stomach was not covered by anything and just do it.

Jimin chose exactly this moment to speak. “See? Chicken.” pulling his face into a grimace.

“Shut up.” Jungkook countered, surging forward again, seeing Jimin’s eyes widening in surprise for a second, before he closed his own eyes in an attempt to not let his nerves get the best of him, his lips meeting Jimin’s again and staying there this time. Jungkook would not have expected a guy’s lips to feel as soft. He heard Jimin draw in a surprised breath when he started moving his lips against Jimin’s. But after a moment he began reciprocating the kiss. This wasn’t as bad as expected, Jungkook thought, he could survive this. If it wasn’t for his hyungs watching them. They seemed to lose interest soon though, conversation picking up again, bags of crisps being opened, so he relaxed a bit. Jimin’s hands came to settle at his waist, making Jungkook’s stomach tingle in a weird way. And then he felt Jimin’s tongue moving against his upper lip and Jungkook’s heart rate spiked, causing him to pull back slightly but Jimin’s lips followed him, being on his again in seconds. Jungkook’s face was starting to feel hot and he felt very aware of every place Jimin was touching him. The urge to push Jimin away and to nip at his lower lip filled Jungkook at the same time. Confused, his hands came to rest on Jimin’s shoulders instead. Another wave of that weird tingly feeling surged through Jungkook when Jimin’s thumbs started rubbing circles into his sides, but at the same time he felt himself relax a bit more, drawing in a deep breath as he felt his nervousness slowly dissipate. As if on their own free will, one of his hands wandered along Jimin’s neck towards his ear. Jungkook swore he heard a slight squeak from Jimin. Interesting. Curious then, he decided to give in to his urge and nipped at Jimin’s lower lip. A sharp intake of breath and Jimin pulled away at the same time that Yoongi announced that the five minutes were over and something about proving his point. Jungkook looked at Jimin, whose eyes widened slightly, his face looking just as flushed as Jungkook’s felt. The red lipstick had spread around Jimin’s lips and before Jungkook could register anything else, Jimin’s hands left his hips and Jimin pulled back, his hand coming up to swipe at his lips.

“You look like the Joker.” He mumbled towards Jungkook, before turning away to find a mirror. Jungkook wiped his lips as well, a light red stain coming off on his hand.

“Here, let me help you with that.” Hobi came up to him and handed him a wet tissue, helping him clean the bits he missed. “Are you ok?” he asked lowly so none of the others could hear.

“Sure.” Jungkook answered automatically. Why wouldn’t he be? He shrugged and sat down again after throwing away the tissue. He saw Jimin returning from the bathroom, any sight of the lipstick gone from his face now. Jungkook quickly averted his eyes, biting his lips while he grabbed himself a bag of crisps. For the rest of the night he told himself that the tingle in his lips came from the wet tissue.

-------

(to be continued because I’m a bad Santa lol)

#jikook fic #enemies to lovers #christmas fanfic exchange #I don't know what I'm doing #title is preliminary too because what is creativity

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brianmight · 5 years

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SAIL ACROSS THE SEA. // Maylor Titanic!AU (part 2/?)

- where to, mr? - to the stars.

[ also posted on AO3! ]

( @eternallystarlight )

10 april, 1912. Southampton. The ship of dreams is about to commence on its long-awaited journey — the voyage of a lifetime, if the papers are not mistaken. The grandiose sight of the vessel in the harbour is plenty to instil awe in all who parade around the harbour, either as future passengers or people who are about to bid their loved ones farewell. Two separate worlds mingle upon the crowded docks — the one of automobiles and the one of wooden carts; the one of many suitcases and the one of few; the one of riches and the one of rags. One belongs to an affluent heir, the other to a wandering street musician. Their backgrounds couldn’t clash more, but that won’t refrain fate from unifying them on the unsinkable RMS Titanic.

Crossing the gangway towards the first class entrance, Roger could already foretell that the irritated tension between him and his fiancée would only evolve into a more hostile form during the journey. If they weren't able to spend one week together on a ship without disagreement, then how on Earth were they supposed to establish a loving marriage? She promenaded alongside him, a baby blue parasol resting on her shoulder next to a luxurious hat, and emotionlessly peeked over the railing at the waves beneath her feet as if challenging the very ocean to a duel.

When he had offered his hand to help her exit the car, Margaret had stared at it like the gesture was the most offensive movement he could possibly have made, knowing he was only being polite because his father had urged him to. God, how he abhorred her! Flawless on the outside, with pearly skin, chocolate hair and gentle facial features, yet so rotten on the inside with vanity. The memory of meeting her for the first time was unfortunately imprinted on the back of his mind: an angelic appearance that'd almost made him reconsider his opinion on arranged marriage, but all was ruined when she parted her lips to give a smug remark on the length of his hair. Roger deliberately hadn't cut it since, purely to get more under her skin as that was the only way he could get at least a little bit of amusement from his engagement.

He cast a quick nod at the steward by the door, who welcomed the passengers onto the Titanic with a proud smile. Certainly, the vessel was something to be proud of, but Roger, having grown up amongst riches and lavish mansions, was not overly impressed. It was a ship, nothing more: a ferry to a new life that awaited him in America. Married life. A shudder ran across his spine at the mere thought of it.

The interior of the ship was majestic enough to match its grandiose exterior. White walls and tiles radiated the illusion that the entrance hall was even more spacious, and the extravagant patterns of art nouveau added a contemporary flair. Through modern lifts, they were guided to their quarters. Roger had one suite with his father and his younger sister Clare, while the neighbouring one was occupied by Margaret and her parents— unfortunately, their two quarters were directly connected through a shared living area. Smacking the door wide open with more force than necessary, Roger entered the suite along with his relatives, only to realize that its appearance completely mirrored that of the hallway, albeit a bit more old-fashioned: panels of the finest cherry wood, scarlet-draped curtains around the beds, their luggage already placed neatly on the carpet floor. Servants were rushing around, installing several paintings of the Taylors’ personal collection and adding some final ornaments in the shape of vibrant flowers.

The young man took the sight in with a hint of suspicion. They shouldn't be able to afford such luxury. Not according to his father's many sermons on their debts. The fact that he was now standing in a fully furnished suite could only mean that their final coins had been smashed into the assurance that their voyage would be just another facade to conceal the family's financial downfall. It wasn’t the lavishness that he loathed— it was the pretentious nature of his loving father, who first tumbled flat on his face and now sought to ascend again through his son, too self-satisfied to do as little as admitting his own fatal blunders. A glare was fired right into the patriarch's back, and Roger was about to deliver a snarky remark when the door opened brusquely.

The person he least wished to have around walked in as if she owned the entire place, followed by two maids and the same crew member that'd fulfilled the role of welcoming committee by his lone self. Margaret cast a quick glance around the suite, arriving at the conclusion that it looked precisely the same as hers apart from the personal decorations, and voiced her thoughts to no one in particular. “Did you see those poor beggars of third class enter? I do hope we won't get bothered by any of them.” None seemed to respond physically to the remark, but Roger noticed that one of the maids, who was carefully unpacking an oval mirror, slightly tensed up — if she hadn’t been here in service, third class would have been her only option to travel across the Atlantic. Certainly, the remark had been a harsh kick to her shins, which would leave an aching bruise at best.

He knew it would be best for all their sakes to leave Margaret’s comment for what it was, but the steward lacked the experience and immediately came to reassure her. “Oh, no miss. The upper decks cannot be accessed from below.” Something in his voice revealed that he wasn't referring to “below” in the spatial sense, but the social one. No way to work oneself up; no way to break the barriers. Margaret exhaled with relief, her attention suddenly engaged by an adorned vase full of amber chrysanthemums, which matched the golden piece of jewellery around her elegant neck. “Thank God— I would hate to have to walk among those folk all day long. Imagine the lice!” Her shrill voice rose with each syllable to the point where Roger was tempted to shush her with a finger to the lips. “Lice can jump rather far, can't they?” he muttered nonchalantly, completely unaware if the reply was factually correct in any way, and added the following upon seeing his fiancée’s wide eyes: “probably as far as two entire decks.” In the silence that followed, a dropped needle would have been more deafening than a gunshot. Clare intervened before a full quarrel was able to burst loose, noticing the obviously upset tinge upon Margaret's facial features. “Oh Rog, will you accompany me outside? I’d love to be there when the ship departs,” she admitted with a beam gracing her youthful face, eagerly clutching to her brother's arm while awaiting his reply in anticipation. Roger suppressed a roll of the eyes for the sake of his sister, whom he hated to disappoint, and gave her an affirmative nod. “Sure, Clare. I could use some fresh air.” Before anyone else grasped the opportunity to tag along, he buttoned his woollen overcoat and opened the door, the freedom of the hallway being a more than welcome shift in atmosphere.

—

Two bunk beds. Four suitcases. Four strangers who'd been fortunate enough to scrape enough money together to afford four individual boarding passes. The cabin was compact, unadorned and barely wide enough for two people to pass each other without backs touching. Brian wouldn't complain— not as long he had basic facilities such as a mattress and running water. It was preferable to sleeping on the streets of London during cold winter nights, which he had endured with great difficulty. Snow would stab his shivering limbs without a grain of mercy as the wind would rob what little warmth he could amass. Fingers would be too frozen for strumming, vocal folds too weak for singing. It was during those moments that Brian was fully convinced that hell was not built upon fire, but ice. The only consolation to his wretched condition would arrive when he glanced upwards and noticed celestial smiles of solace. Those immortal stars, their perpetual presence in combination with the light they omitted, brought hope like no mortal ever could. Miserable circumstances made one appreciate little, and right there, on the renowned RMS, Brian felt like a pampered duke.

The guitarist sat on his bed in relative peace as the three roommates had each left the cabin earlier, presumably to explore the enormous vessel or to get their hands on some fresh ocean air. On his lap lay a leather-bound notebook wide-open. Its old pages had turned a pale shade of yellow, its spine was cracked, and various loose sheets had been added as if they embodied several afterthoughts on the penned down words. The book was an extension of his mind; a fountain of lyrics, ideas, and experiences which value-wise could only be outranked by the wooden instrument that slept next to him on the sheets, still in its casket. A sigh escaped through his chapped lips as he casually browsed through the journal, allowing his eyes to relive all the memories that clung to the paper. Some words were concealed underneath dirt stains or had turned simply unreadable due to their pencil streaks being smudged. Among the randomly scribbled thoughts were several entries brimming with facts of mathematics and physics, which he'd overheard on the streets or read in some crumpled newspaper. A fascination for those sciences had emerged at the moment he'd learnt to read, and they'd never let him go since. There was the urge to explore and explain the inexplicable, to find any reasoning behind the unknown, to alleviate his own ignorance. Fingertips traced the syllables of songs that no one would hear, no one but the composer himself. Here the ship sailed out into the blue and sunny morn. The sweetest sight ever seen.

A long-haired head emerged from behind the cabin door — it belonged to a fellow named John who'd claimed the bed above his. “Heard we're about to leave any second now. You don't want to miss this,” was assumed with a promising twinkle in his eyes as he nodded upwards, indicating the outside decks and the unique view it would provide. Indeed, one final honk announced the vessel's long-awaited departure. After safely storing his guitar case underneath the bed, Brian followed his roommate through the narrow halls.

When they arrived on the Shelter Deck, many passengers had already gathered around the ship's railings to bid their loved ones farewell, who were situated on the docks below. Brian had no one to say goodbye to, yet joined in waving at the horde of people, suddenly so full of elation that he couldn't help but bare his teeth into a wide grin. This was truly happening. He was at the gates of a brand new tale of which the famous voyage was only the prologue. The heads among the crowd below, with their handkerchiefs and shouts of adieu, were but ants gazing at a gigantic ark that would redeem past lives and deliver its passengers to a continent of unlimited opportunities. Brian felt the vessel beneath his feet stir, and then slowly come to life. Cheers became louder, resembling a tidal wave of noise that appeared to push the ship further into the ocean. A free seagull hovered by.

That was when his attention was completely absorbed by one particular figure on the upper promenade deck. A young man, staring almost melancholically at the shrinking harbour. Even with the vast distance between them, Brian could notice the air of frustration around the stranger. He thought nothing of it, assuming the guy might simply suffer from early seasickness, and was about to turn away when the other shifted his head slightly, causing their gazes to interlock for the briefest of moments. Brian couldn't blink. Neither could the other man. They were left in a clandestine staring dance, trying to figure out why either of them was unable to look away. Had he been standing any closer, the guitarist would have perceived the vanishing of the deep frown on the stranger's forehead the instant their eyes were introduced to each other. In reality, the moment could only have survived for mere seconds, but amidst the mass of cheering passengers that were solely focused on their ever-shortening connection with the mainland, the brief interval seemed to last an eternity.

“Do you think they're nobles?” John interrupted after following his roommate’s stare at the first class passengers, perceptive enough to see that Brian was glancing at one in particular yet not well enough acquainted with him to provide a teasing remark. “They look posh enough,” he further commented, warming his hands inside the pockets of his tweed jacket. Brian answered absently, now forced to blink and break eye contact with the faraway guy. “I haven't the faintest idea. Not exactly my sort of people.” “Because if they were you'd be up there too?” A shrug. “Perhaps, yeah.” The ends of John's lips turned upwards into an amused smile, not requiring words to convey a clear message: dream on. Fair enough, dreams were the only place where such a reality could ever exist. Maybe the moment Brian had shared with the first class stranger had indeed been mere imagination — a mirage of the most treacherous kind — but it certainly had been more than a king looking down upon a peasant.

#queen fanfic #sailacross #my fics

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writingandsleeping · 5 years

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Everyone always assumed aliens would be far superior to humans, either scientifically or militaristically. Christine never understood that. Why couldn’t aliens be equal? Maybe even lesser? Did everyone want to feel inferior and uneducated? They were aliens after all, not gods. Honestly, she didn’t mind if aliens were superior – didn’t care. All she asked was for some diversity of thought.

Maybe, if there had some open-mindedness regarding aliens, they wouldn’t have fallen into this mess. Maybe she wouldn’t be laying on a table with a tube pumping a baby blue liquid into one arm and another pumping a translucent white liquid out her other. Maybe she wouldn’t be desperately trying to examine the room so she could forget that the same thing was happening to everyone else on the International Space Station, too. Just the thought of her fellow astronauts in the same position she was upset her enough; she didn’t need to see the campers, the young kids entrusted to her, in the same horrible position, too – food for aliens.

They had hijacked the ISS two days before the campers’ mission was scheduled to end. Their ship was incompatible with the Station’s landing dock, so they locked onto it with some kind of giant claw. Michael, a Canadian that the campers called Moose because of his height and accent, had been explaining how vibration-frequency shields protected the Station from asteroids and comets. Dimitri, meanwhile, had glided to the controls to make sure those shields were working. All four professional astronauts knew the force rocking the ISS was far too harsh to be a standard asteroid. In the interest of keeping the teenagers calm though, they followed basic routine without so much as a worried glance at each other. No matter how much training they received, scared kids were still scared kids.

Christine was the first to notice the shadow on the side of the Station that should have been illuminated by the sun. She nudged Kei and directed his attention to the enormous object pulling up next to the window. His mouth dropped open, and he rubbed his eyes. Without tearing his gaze away, he fumbled his hand along the table, groping for some kind of instrument. Christine couldn’t even begin to guess which instruments to use.

“Is that…” She didn’t know how to continue.

“I think we’re being boarded,” Dimitri said softly behind her.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Kei hissed back. “It’s just an–”

A rhythmic banging on the wall next to the door stopped him. Dimitri hesitantly pulled himself toward the noise as Michael ushered the campers into their sleeping cabin. It wasn’t any more protected than the rest of the Station, but at least the campers would be out of the way there. As Michael activated the air-tight door lock to further protect the campers, a tap on the door echoed throughout the main chamber of the Station. Then the hiss of escaping air pierced the silence, and Dimitri backed away as fast he could flail. Alarms blared, and Christine threw helmets to Dimitri and Kei. Michael got to his before she could toss him one, too. As she was securing her oxygen, Christine looked into the sleeping cabin to make sure the campers had fastened their emergency gear as well. Not surprisingly, they had finished faster than the professionals. One or two kids were panicking, but the others were helping to calm them down, and Christine felt a flush of pride for her crop. She couldn’t bask in the feeling for long, though, before the door burst open, and she had to prepare herself to examine the damage to the Station.

Except, there was no damage. There were aliens. Tall, orange aliens.

Humanoid in stature, they had three huge, black eyes, all owl-like in shape, but one was centered just above the other two. In the very center of the faces, beneath the eyes, were slits that Christine assumed were snake-like noses. Though the top of their heads were bald, the lower half of their faces were covered by long, silvery hair, streaked with black. A squat, thick neck leveled off to tall, bony shoulders that began only one of their two sets of arms. The first pair of arms were long and thin with elbows that were almost as bony as their shoulders. All three of the aliens were holding these arms behind their backs, so Christine couldn’t see what the hands were like. The other pair grew out of their midsections so that the stocky, obviously muscular arms wrapped directly around their waists. The aliens’ legs were also stocky and long, with two knee-joints each, resembling the knuckles of human fingers. A long lion-like tail was draped over the shoulder of the alien in the front of the group, though Christine couldn’t see a tail on either of the two behind it.

“Amazing,” Michael whispered. “They exist. I… Where?”

“I agree,” Kei said, as serious as a funeral.

“Um,” Christine paused to track down all of her thoughts, “if they ripped our door off, why haven’t we been sucked into the vacuum of space?” She couldn’t actually see if the door was ripped off. The aliens were too tall, possibly eight feet, and broad-shouldered to see past. However badly the ISS was damaged, Christine couldn’t see it at all.

“You always think critically before beautifully, Chris?” Michael asked.

“Not dying is a beautiful thing, Moose,” she responded.

“I agree with Christine,” Dimitri said from the front of the Station. “Given their method of entry, we should be dead.”

“We took great precautions to ensure your safety. It is not our intention to harm you.” The voice was clearly robotic, sharing qualities with a seriously gruff Siri who had a bad sinus congestion.

“Who said that?” Dimitri demanded.

“None of them moved,” Kei stated.

“Maybe we just can’t see their mouths behind the beards?” Michael suggested.

“Both Earthlings are correct,” the robot said. “My translator is communicating for me.”

Dimitri flinched and floated a few feet backward as the forwardmost alien unwrapped one large arm from its midsection to brandish a metal wrist strap with holograms flashing and whirling above its face. Christine noticed with fascination that the alien’s hand had six fingers, two of which she thought resembled thumbs.

“Your technology can translate a new language as we speak?” Michael asked in clear awe. He shared none of Dimitri’s nervousness, looking as if he wanted to shift even closer to the aliens.

“No,” it responded as it wrapped its arm back around its waist. The tone of the technological voice was strictly dry. “We have been in your orbit for quite some time. We waited to make contact until our translators had fully decoded your languages.”

“Why does one tiny planet need so many languages?” a different robotic voice asked. It was deeper than the first voice and had less of a technological tinny, shriek. Christine thought it almost sounded more masculine.

The original voice hissed, and the forwardmost alien thrust the bushy tip of its tail through the beard of the alien to its left, though the rest of its body remained rigid.

“I apologize for the comments,” the first robotic voice said. “We do not mean to criticize. It is simply surprising to some of our younger stock.”

“Does your entire planet speak the same language?” Michael asked.

“It,” the alien hesitated, “does.” The alien to the right shifted, and Christine thought its eyes dilated. She hadn’t noticed initially that there was a faded purple pupil within the black, which apparently was just an enormous iris rather than the whole eye like she initially thought.

Dimitri, Kei, and Christine exchanged glances. Dimitri clearly shared Christine’s unease at the hesitation. Kei mostly looked excited, like a ten-year-old who was offered a trip to the North Pole in Santa’s sleigh, eager but prepared for disappointment. Michael, however, wouldn’t take his eyes off the aliens. Maybe it was because she grew up in a big city where “stranger danger” was practically a religion, but Christine was concerned about his excessive excitement. As a scientist, she was elated that they were in the presence of alien life, too, but the manner in which the aliens boarded the Station like pirates gave her the worst feeling of foreboding.

“So, why are we still standing in perfect gravity?” Christine asked.

“Before we cut into your starbase we constructed an attachable ante-chamber that would preserve your preferred conditions,” the seeming leader answered.

“Our conditions,” Dimitri noted. “Do you not need oxygen and steady gravity as well?”

“We are not oxygen-dependent as you are. We require a carbon-nitrogen mixture,” it explained. “Gravity does not always concern us. We utilize anti-gravity work boots at all times. They instinctively adjust to relative gravity so that we always feel steady and secure, as we do in our preferred gravity state.”

Dimitri shared an astonished look with Kei. The head engineer and physicist, they were marvelling in such technology. If Dimitri could get past his trepidation, Christine was sure he would be at the alien’s feet, taking in as many features and specifications of the boots as he could.

“Then how are you breathing in here if you matched our conditions rather than your own?” Michael asked. He sounded absolutely breathless, and Christine’s peripheral glance at him confirmed that his eyes were blown wide with exhilaration and his mouth was hanging open. His excessive enthusiasm made sense since he specialized in astro-biology and -botany, but she couldn’t help wondering how dignified they looked as a group and whether it was well-reflective of Earth as a planet. Michael’s childlike wonder, Kei’s guarded excitement, and her and Dimitri’s skepticism made an odd combination at the very least.

“Like you, we are wearing safety helmets,” the aliens’ leader said. The one to its left muttered into the tail still covering its mouth.

The lead alien raised one of her long, skinny arms and prodded the air in front of her eyes. Christine didn’t know if she was more entranced by the air shimmering in response, evidence of a force-field helmet, or the alien’s delicate hand that only had three smooth fingers which looked like suction cups, two inches long and barely a quarter-inch in diameter.

“That is the absolute coolest thing I have ever seen!” a voice behind all of them shouted.

“Hella!” another answered.

“Aliens are standing in front of you, but you think their invisible helmets are the coolest part?” Daisy scoffed.

“Patrick’s right though!” Jake said. “We all know there had to be aliens somewhere, but that technology is bomb.”

“Yeah, somewhere,” Tim argued, “not on the damn ISS! This is incredible!”

“Besides, technology can always be invented and improved upon,” Lizzie agreed. “You don’t meet aliens every day.”

“What are you doing here? Get back in the cabin!” Dimitri ordered. If the kids were afraid of his red-faced Russian rage, they didn’t show it. Only two of the ten campers so much as flinched, and none of them made the slightest move to safety.

“You can’t hog aliens,” Patrick stated, crossing his arms over his thin chest. “We get to be a part of this – this discovery as much as you.” Christine wanted to cry to him that it’s not a discovery when you’re the one commandeered.

“We deserve it after training for almost five years straight,” Daisy added.

Those two had established themselves as the leaders of their year long ago, and their arrogance drove every counselor and professional astronaut crazy. It was true the kids trained for four and a half rigorous years before the top ten percent was taken on a real trip to space, but that did not give them the right to undermine authority like this. Christine knew she should have barred Patrick from the trip when she caught him strapping into the pilot chair instead of the main cabin seats with the rest of classmates. The lift-off countdown had already begun though; forcing him to disembark would have sent the camp and NASA both into hysterics and disarray. Instead she made him watch as she lowered his official ranking and reported a black mark on his record. Until now, that had been enough to keep him in line.

“Let them stay,” Michael agreed without turning around. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the aliens for even a second. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. As long as they stay quiet in the very back of the Station, there’s no reason they shouldn’t be part of this.”

Kei made sounds of disbelief but didn’t actually protest, and Dimitri simply growled. Christine grumbled to herself about stereotypical Canadian niceness but didn’t say anything argumentative either. Now was certainly not the time for in-fighting. She fixed one more glare on Patrick before returning her attention to the aliens. All three new had wide eyes with huge purple pupils. The alien to the left had dropped into a crouch, both knees bent and leaning forward. The alien to the right was now standing with both of its stocky arms wide, looking ready to bear-hug or restrain someone. The lead alien’s tail was thrashing behind its head, and it’s forcefield was shimmering like water affected by vibration. It seemed to be holding the other two in place behind it. Suddenly, Christine’s foreboding was a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

After that, it was a terrifying blur.

Despite their leader seeming to – or attempting to – hold them back, the two flanking it from behind dove forward and grabbed Michael and Kei. Dimitri raised a wrench or something, but the leader’s tail flicked it from his hands as easily as if it was a slicked bar of soap. Christine backed up to guard the children, but before she could even imagine how to defend herself or the campers, the two aggressive aliens knocked her to the ground. She could only watch through heavy eyes as they pulled the campers away from her, each taking two in their stocky arms and one in their sleek arms. She tried to make a desperate attempt to get up and save them, but her elbow and knee throbbed, and she couldn’t move.

The next time she opened her eyes, she was strapped to a table with a gag shoved unpleasantly deep into her throat. Breathing through her nose tickled the back of her incredibly dry throat, and swallowing irritated the gag, making her feel like she was drowning. Christine was also restrained too tightly to shift around on the table much. She could only see directly in front of her and what rolling her eyes could fill in for her periphery. She couldn’t remember being strapped down or even moving from the floor of the ISS. She was here though, in a chair that felt stiff but plushy like a leather-cushioned doctor’s examination chair. What her hands felt of the material along the sides, it was fuzzy like suede and too solid to squeeze. The scientist in her was desperately curious about what it was made from. Was it some kind of manufactured animal hide like leather on Earth or a material humans had never heard of before?

Distracting herself from the chair, she examined the wall in front of her. It was the only thing she could see perfectly clearly since she didn’t have to strain her eyes to look at it. There was a porthole that she judged to be eight feet off the ground, which seemed the right height for the aliens. Christine’s neck had begun to hurt from looking up at them on the ISS. The rest of the wall was smooth and shiny, a large charcoal expanse with no seeming disfigurations or blemishes. No nail holes or screwheads or seams, no evidence of construction. Clearly, these aliens knew how to metal-work if their spaceship – Christine assumed – was any evidence or the way the aliens had to quickly and effortlessly sliced and spliced the ISS. What Christine could see of the ceiling was just as well-made. There wasn’t even a seam between the wall and the ceiling. It was as if the entire section of the room was one perfectly smooth piece of material.

The strain of rolling her eyes to their limits was starting to blur her vision, so she snapped her lids shut before the fuzziness gave her a migraine. With her eyes resting, Christine strained her other senses instead. There was a thrumming in the air that also translated into a small vibration in the chair. Christine guessed it was the ship’s engine and was more intrigued by the mechanical whining that pierced the air every seven – she counted several times – seconds exactly. Another rhythm of the engine? Were the aliens working on something? Was it another example of their metal-working? Christine could only hope she would live to find out.

To be fair, Christine would settle with just living, especially since her nose was suddenly registering an increasingly acrid stench. Something near her was burning, something very, uncomfortably close. Her eyes snapped back open, and she fought to twist her head and find the source. One of the aliens had soundlessly entered the room through the wall in front of her. The porthole was a window on the door that was slowly sliding shut behind the alien.

But there were no seams! Not even a hinge!

The miraculous wall rivaled the alien for Christine’s attention, but she focused on the alien when she realized it was smoking. The burning stench was coming from the fish tank contraption around its head. This time, the helmet was perfectly visible and full of fog so thick Christine could barely see the alien’s face. There was a scuba-style mouthpiece that breathed in a liquid and filtered out the fog. With a jolt, Christine realized the liquid was the same color and consistency as what was coming out of her arm.

Dragging her eyes away from the alien’s mouthpiece, Christine began squirming relentlessly in her bonds as the alien approached her. It unfolded its thin arms with the three-fingered hands and held them open, extended straight downward. Christine stopped wriggling but remained rigid, wondering if this was some form of proving itself unarmed, like how humans held their hands up. If it was, she would have preferred to see that its enormous arms were accounted for, not the thin, delicate ones.

“I do not mean to harm you,” it said. A tail lazily draped itself over the alien’s shoulder, and Christine assumed it was the leader that invaded the ISS. With the gag still firmly lodged, she could only glare and growl.

Slowly, the alien reached forward and delicately removed the gag with one suction-cup hand. Christine angled her face as much as she could and spit in the alien’s direction. To her satisfaction, her disgusting glob landed at its feet. “That’s what you said last time,” she finally retorted.

The alien’s eyes dilated to the widest state Christine had seen them. Unlike the pupils she first noticed on the other alien, this alien had much brighter purple in its eyes. They were a bright, violet color rather than the greyish periwinkle Christine had first examined. Why hadn’t she noticed on the ISS when all three were dilated? She was probably too terrified, which she supposed was a decent excuse. Now Christine couldn’t help wondering if the third alien had violet or periwinkle eyes. Or were his eyes a third color? Could it be individualized like humans’ eyes?

“I apologize for the actions of my workers.” The translator was as drawl and emotionless as before, interrupting Christine’s stream of unspoken questions. “I told them we would be strictly peaceful, but when we realized how many life-giving sources were on your ship, they could not contain themselves.”

After a moment, Christine repeated, “Life-giving sources?” There was a lot to explain about the alien’s explanation, but she decided to start there.

The alien, however, did not reply. Instead, it placed the gag on a table beside the chair and began to unhook the tubes in Christine’s arms. The pinpricks gushed a few drops of blood as the needles were extracted, and the alien placed fuzzy adhesives on them. With the utmost care, it capped each tube, turned off the machine Christine didn’t even notice behind her, and fetched containers from beneath Christine’s cushions. A cross between a mason jar and a petri dish, it took two of the squat containers to save all of the white liquid Christine had unwillingly surrendered.

“As I explained on your starbase, we require a combination of carbon and nitrogen to survive,” the alien said when it was done. It held a container in each stocky hand as it surveyed Christine again. “We have yet to find another world that can support us. Until then, we will require your donations.”

“Donations?” Christine exclaimed. “This isn’t a donating. This is stealing!” The alien stared back through the haze of her helmet silently with wide purple pupils. Christine took a deep breath and repeated her initial question. “What life-giving sources am I providing you?”

“There is a chemical in your body that is largely composed of carbon and nitrogen. It is not an exact match to our atmosphere, but it is as close as we will find anywhere. Our tests have shown that it is not a necessary component to your health. Since you do not need it, but we do, we thought the donations only fair.”

“Why do you need to take it at all?” Christine argued. “Why don’t you just go home or manufacture more? Clearly you have advanced technology and intelligence.”

The alien’s tail twitched on its shoulder, and it’s pupils retracted to almost nothing. It walked to an area of the room Christine couldn’t see, and her muscles tensed voluntarily. There was a faint scraping sound, like a hatch opening, and then the alien was in her sights again but without the jars of Christine’s so-called life-giving donations. After a moment’s hesitation, the alien approached Christine again and began to loosen her bindings, beginning with Christine’s head and moving down to her elbows, hands, knees, and ankles. Christine remained still despite her freedom, unsure why she was being set free.

“We do not have such,” it said. Then it began to walk away.

“Wait!” Christine called after it. “What do you mean?”

The alien paused halfway between her and the wall with the porthole. It turned around again, tail thrashing, and studied Christine more intensely than before. “We do not have the technology to manufacture it. We no longer have a home. Some of us do not have intelligence,” it hissed. “Why have you not yet moved? I set you free to…” It trailed off.

Christine narrowed her her eyes and studied the alien just as intensely. “Did you want me to attack you? There’s no point in that, is there?”

“I suppose not,” the alien admitted. It’s tail returned to its shoulder but continued to twitch.

Christine finally sat up, moving as slowly as possible so not to startle the alien or hurt herself. She still wasn’t sure what they had extracted from her body, but she didn’t feel pained or woozy. Even sitting in the straighter position with no support for her back, she wasn’t dizzy or lightheaded. Her vision wasn’t blurred. Her mouth wasn’t dry. Her ears weren’t ringing. Maybe the aliens really weren’t trying to harm them. The appendix was an example of extra components that the human body contained but didn’t necessarily need. Perhaps the aliens really had found another superfluous component. Her specialty was mechanical parts, not human parts. Moose would have known if the alien was telling the truth, but she never would.

Moose! How could she have forgotten about the rest of the crew? Her campers? How had she not asked about them yet. They were probably in the same position she had been, scared out of their young minds. Christine needed to ask about them, but she was more concerned with something the alien had just said.

“What did you mean you no longer have a home?” she asked.

The alien’s tail stopped twitching and dropped a little lower over the alien’s chest. Its pupils retracted yet again, and it carefully clasped its hand behind its back. Christine enjoyed comparing its actions to humans as they tried to compose themselves or gather their thoughts.

Finally, the alien began to say, “This is a –”

“This is a war ship,” a robotic voice boomed in the background.

A new alien was standing in front of the porthole now. Although shorter than the alien Christine was painstakingly becoming acquainted with, it was larger in almost every other way. Its shoulders and waist were broader, its high shoulders pointier, its lower arms stockier. Its eyes were the dull, greyish periwinkle shade. Instinctively, Christine leaned back in the chair again, moving as far from the new alien as she could. Something about it was far more intimidating than the one she was already talking to, even the two who had accompanied this one onto the ISS.

“Why have you stopped draining it?” the new alien demanded.

“Because we have drained her as much as I dare. We are not to harm these people, NAME,” the original alien hissed. Its voice was far more forceful that Christine had heard so far. “As I decreed –”

“The people no longer care what you decreed,” the new alien interrupted. “They have been made to see reason. We will continue to drain the Earthlings for as much as possible.”

“Who do you think you are to give orders to me?”

“I am your replacement,” it stated. Then it turned to fully face Christine for the first time. “This is a war ship,” it repeated. “If you and your stock do not comply with our orders, we will destroy your planet. Our ship is equipped with blasters that have three times the force needed to obliterate your ridiculous, puny world.”

The original alien, who was apparently just deposed, tried to speak again – its eyes almost pure purple – but before a syllable could escape its mouth, the new alien sent a swift, fisted stocky lower arm into its stomach. The hit sent the alien flying into the far wall where it had earlier deposited the jars of white life-giving donation. Christine heard herself shriek, but her eyes glazed over, and she suddenly felt like she was no longer in the room. Rather, she was standing behind a glass, viewing but not engaging. She allowed the aggressive alien to shove her backward onto the chair again and didn’t fight when he lifted her legs back onto the stiff cushion. Had she tried to rush to the other alien? She didn’t even realize she had moved, aside from flinching. With rough, utterly uncaring force, the new alien jarred her face forward again so she was stuck staring at the porthole once again, strapped too tightly in place. The gag was shoved further past her tonsils than the first time, and the tubes were re-inserted.

Once again, Christine found herself straining her eyes to take in the side of the room, but this time, she was concerned about the well-being of an alien, rather than fearing the arrival of one. Vaguely, she knew there was something else she should be worrying about, but as the white, goopy liquid began streaming from her arm again, she found it harder and harder to focus on anything except that new alien walking through the ruins of her hometown and the desperate, despairing loneliness of being millions of miles away in an impossible position to help.

She finally closed her eyes, feeling the steady tears roll down her cheeks.

#mine #writing #amwriting #am writing #writeblr #sci-fi #science fiction #sci fi #aliens #first draft #my work #wip

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adaruthless-blog · 5 years

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What is this fuss about our hair?

Once about 30 years ago I went in Singapore to a hairdresser. The fringe irritated my eyes and the bob in total had grown too long, must have been the very humid air to make my hair grow faster. So I needed a trim. I decided on a salon not quite next to the Raffles and not the Shangri-la, a bit more into a side road. I didn’t want to blow my budget. I also thought that my hairstyle must be familiar to Asian ladies with their straight hair themselves. I stepped into the salon and immediately the young ladies were all over me and my hair. Each one keen to cut it. The first shushed the others away. She and no one else wanted the job, the others retreated. With each streak she giggled. I found it amusing and well aware that my hair must feel very different. The giggles were not admiration more sort of a pity and feeling sorry for me: oh baby hair, so soft, but nice colour she kept saying. I have this very ordinary northern European ash blond, thin hair, straight as spaghettis, not even cooked that would form nicely around my face, no, completely straight like uncooked. But at least with a nice shine and with the help of the sun a natural bleach occurs.

The Asian hairdresser did a fine job after all. The other ladies took a glimpse and I could see they were dying to touch my hair. The offcuts fell onto the floor onto much thicker black hair like a handful of dawns blown away. The ladies wished me well and chattered behind their hands.

It is not uncommon to touch one another’s hair. Especially among girlfriends at school. There was Martina with her olive skin, dark eyes and shiny black hair, wavy but thin like mine, the longer it grew the more curls she had. She sat next to me for a while and I remember the feel of her hair. There was Conny Herrman. Gosh, she had fantastic hair, the same colour as me but thick and long, she seldom had to wash it, she always looked like a filmstar with a huge mane. When we were lying on the lawn during break her hair was like a cushion of hair. I can’t remember the other girls name, she was a ballet dancer. She performed in France at our school exchange program. Her hair was also long and thick, similar colour but a bit more brownish and with long heavy corkscrew curls! That was the biggest attraction on her. But not with a nice feel, it felt rough like a shoe brush.

Hair is definitely something that shapes our appearance. It grows out of the follicles more or less rapidly. We trim it, we cut it, we change the style. We are happy or unhappy with our hair. There are woman constantly unhappy with their hair. I have come to live with my hair.

There comes a moment in life where one just knows what is best for oneself.

My first encounter with African hair was in 1984 at a Pick’n Pay when I tried to buy shampoo. I was strolling along the shelves until I came across a brand name ‘black like me’. I was fascinated. It was my first time in Africa. I thought: “oh, this is nice that Africans can at least find such a big variety of hair products. Their hair must be very different with different needs.’ Beside the domestic worker at my friends house, who did her work quietly with her head under a cloth matching her apron, I did not have any contacts to black people. All the other African ladies I saw had the hair covered in a similar way. The men had their hair short or a shiny bold head. I had seen Rastafarians and I knew Jimmy Hendrix from a vinyl cover but otherwise I had never spent a single moment thinking about black hair. During my travels in and around South Africa I did stroke a black child’s head occasionally and noticed the difference. As adults we just don’t wander around touching other people’s hair. Some years later, when my daughter was about three years old we had the grandchild of our domestic worker staying with us. It was a hot summer day, the two played together, I filled water with a hosepipe into an old bathtub we had as a feature in our garden and put the girls into it. My daughter started scrubbing the girl because the soles of her feet were white. Nandi, the African girl, laughed her heart out. In return she started to put mud on my daughters bleach blond hair. They had a ball. Mavis came running into the yard and wanted to shout at her grandchild. I stopped her and said: “no, no, this is ok, they play and this is fun to watch how they experience themselves.” Mavis was still cautious but glad that I saw it as child’s play. The two girls played that whole summer and had embraced their differences, which were never an issue for remarks, slurs or any other sort of nastiness. This incident had made a deep impression on me. I thought if children are put together with just curiosity they will find a way to understand one another.

A few years later I had opened a children’s theater for puppetshows, shadow theatre, clownery and comedy. I was constantly short of good scripts. So I wrote some myself. I wanted a play for school starters and work on the worries small children might have in an inter racial school. The ‘hair thing’ was looming around in South Africa, African girls had been punished for their Afros, African ladies mobbed for their wigs.

For previous plays I had created a main character, a little bunny by the name of Nogwaja, the clever hare. Nogwaja was worried that the children might laugh about his huge ears, a girl was worried about her curly hair, a boy concerned he was too small, another girl had freckles and glasses. During class they learned that they all were more or less shy, during break they experienced that they were all fun to play with. They touched their different hairs and ears, were surprised about the different feel and recognized that short legs can be fast and freckles look just normal and even cute.

After having this show on successfully for many times one day a mother stopped me and was very upset. In her opinion this play was racist! She does not want her child being exposed to a play where differences are pointed out, we are all the same. She was inconsolable and I stayed puzzled. I took it off the playlist for the simple reason I did not want to have any discussions about racism.

Hairy stories continued in the news and on social media, black lives matter also had posts about hair issues. Apparently blacks forbid not to have their hair touched by whites. I came across an art exhibition in Johannesburg by an Angolan Artist, Grada Kilomba, she had a piece about the ‘hair thing’. She was present. Looking at her I was surprised that she had an issue with this hair thing. She certainly has no extraordinary hair besides it is black and wavy. I thought I had approached her nicely. She was reluctant to talk to me when I tried to explain my little theatre play and if she would see it as racist. Maybe she was not in the mood to discuss my experience of my daughter and the puppet play and she did not want to confirm me that I am not racist about the ‘hair thing’… and hopefully not at all.

And then this weekend came along. I had the opportunity to perform for sixty seconds as a puppeteer in a huge potpourri of a ballet performance at the Soweto theatre. I did it out of friendship to the choreographer, he needed some African handpuppets which I happened to have. Rehearsal plus 3 shows. Each time I had to wait long at back stage for my little performance. I absorbed the beautiful atmosphere. The eagerness of all the dancers. All of different ages. A group of preschool children, a group of primary children, a group of high school pupils and students. The little ones were intrigued by my puppets and as I found out by my hair!

They gathered around me and used the puppets only as a vehicle to be able to be close to me. They wanted my hair! At first a bit shy. Then when they noticed I wouldn’t mind them touching my hair they were all over me. I was sitting in a lotus seat on the floor, they were standing left, right, in front of me touching, stroking, petting my hair, my neck, my arms. I did the same to show interest and to tell them how pretty they are and what beautiful hairdos they have. One girl said: I think your hair is nicer. No, your hair is nicer, I said, and you can do a lot more things with your hair than I can do. Why, they asked. My hair is too thin, it would break, it tangles, I would be bold. They thought that was interesting. I thought their reactions were interesting. I could see that classical ballet has probably established an ideal of beauty. But for my taste and because of this performance where I could watch more than 50 ballet dancers my ideal of beauty has become these beautiful African girls with their beautiful perfectly shaped heads and bodies. It had made me happy to see a curiosity and an appreciation on diversity …on both sides.

So for me the hair thing has now been sorted out – don’t touch unless you get touched firstJ

Ada-Ruth Kellow

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artificialqueens · 6 years

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(Baby, don't stop now) (Shalaska) - Arkadia

AN: hi guys! arkadia here with my first fic on aq. it’s a shalaska high school au, inspired by a few of the many anon submitted head canons on @sharonsgf (check out olive's blog, it’s awesome!) as well as some personal experiences… it’s a sad day when you can make chemistry jokes in a fan fic people. trust and believe. anyway, i hope you enjoy it!

Sharon Needles did not enjoy chemistry class – not at all. Between having what must be the world’s worst chemistry teacher in the form of one Mrs Davis – who insisted on being called Kasha and had managed to, one more than one occasion, nearly set herself ablaze by spraying hairspray next to a lit Bunsen burner – and being in a class with what seemed like 80% of the school’s student athletes, it was a miracle she hadn’t killed anyone yet, Mrs Davis and herself included. Despite all of this going against her, Sharon hadn’t gotten anything less than an A in high school chemistry, some of which was down to her close friendship with her lab partner, Sutan. Sharon and Sutan had been friends since junior high when he defended her against some kids who were picking on her because of she was slightly overweight and her recent coming out as a lesbian. They were always together in classes and worked together on any group projects. But that was all up in the air now that Sutan’s parents had made the ridiculous decision to move to Los Angeles over the summer, leaving Sharon alone in a class full of assholes who couldn’t tell their Buckminsterfullerene from their Bud Light. The one upside of Sutan leaving was now there was no one to tease her for her cru- no, it wasn’t a crush, rather a strange fascination with the captain of the girls’ soccer and basketball teams – Alaska.

Ah, Alaska Honard. 5 feet, 11 inches of drama, athleticism and popularity, all neatly capped off by a mountain of long blonde hair held together with her signature hair clip (in a garish green which was one of the school colors). Sharon had watched as Hurricane Alaska swept through the streets of their town the summer before last when the Honard family moved in, surrounded by hype regarding their sports prodigy daughter. Part of Sharon had hoped that as soon as Alaska stepped onto the soccer pitch for her first game, she’d trip over her cleats and expose herself - as a fraud, of course, although the blonde was quite a looker. Needless to say, that didn’t happen. Instead she scored a goal, on the volley no less, 15 seconds into the first half which Sharon hadn’t seen as she’d tripped walking up the stairs to her seat in the bleachers.

Since then, it was like Alaska was Alex Morgan herself, practically worshipped by everyone at the school – male, female, students, teachers! It was crazy. The only people who hadn’t fallen under the soccer player’s spell were Sharon, Sutan and Sharon’s next door neighbour, Michelle, who occasionally worked as a substitute teacher at the school. It was only made worse when she’d scored a hat-trick in the state championship game, winning the school’s first ever state title in the process then following that up with another state title for basketball. The next year Alaska was named captain of both the soccer and basketball teams, which is when Sharon really noticed the mean streak come out. Up until then, the newer girl had been at least civil to most of the unpopular kids and actively tried to discourage her teammates from physically bullying them, but after being made captain, it seemed like she didn’t have the time to care what happened to the “peasants” any more. Bullying at the school began to escalate which took a toll on said “peasants”. Sharon herself had always been pushed around by the jocks, coerced into doing homework and the like, but after one particularly rough shove into the corner of a table which left behind a dark bruise, she had resorted to hiding in the school’s French department at lunch to avoid them.

She remembered that day rather vividly – she had just finished chemistry class and was on her way to meet Michelle in her classroom for lunch when she was pushed from behind, immediately removing the normally permanent smile from her face and replacing it with a grimace of pain.

“What the fuck?!” she’d half-yelled as she turned around to see some of the girls’ soccer team standing there, looking at her expectantly. Alaska stood, nonchalantly checking her phone, at the back. “Well? What do you want?”

“You’ve done the homework for maths after lunch right?” One of the shorter girls – Phi-Phi – barked. Resigned to where this was going, Sharon sighed and nodded. “Good. Give it.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ask fucking questions. Just give her the damn homework. We’ve got places to be unlike some.” That was Alaska. Sharon looked up at her, shocked. Normally Alaska didn’t say anything, she just let the harassment happen but she never got involved herself.

“Okay. Sorry.” Handing the folder containing the homework over, Sharon found herself now staring at the ground hoping that a hole would open up and swallow her whole.

“You should be. I’m bored, let’s go.” And with that, Alaska led her teammates away towards the cafeteria, not before a couple of them made sure to needlessly walk into Sharon, a few of them spitting out insults like ‘fucking brain dead’ and ‘fat dyke’ as they left. Holding back both the urge to cry as well as point out that if she were indeed brain dead, then she wasn’t a good person to copy the homework from, Sharon made her way to Michelle’s classroom, silently vowing to avoid the groups – and especially Alaska – at all costs.

But, sometimes that just wasn’t possible. Sharon was sat in the back corner of the chemistry classroom, her usual seat, and watched as the rest of the class filed into the seats in front. Thankfully, Mrs Davis was off sick that day so Michelle stood in her stead at the front of the class, shuffling around papers, looking somewhat apprehensively at Sharon every few seconds, like she knew something the teen didn’t. Eventually all the seats, except for the one next to Sharon, filled up with no Alaska in sight. Clearing her throat the begin the lesson, Michelle opened her mouth only to be cut off by the prodigy’s slender frame - clad in her green and white Letterman jacket and a pair of dark ripped jeans - creeping into the class and heading towards a seat next to Phi-Phi, only to realise that someone was already sitting there. Looking around the room quickly, Alaska noticed that there was only one seat available – next to Sharon, who had also realised the unfortunate situation and was avoiding all eye contact, hoping that it would stop it from happening but to no avail. With a loud groan, Alaska made her way to the back of the class, noisily dumping her backpack on the desk, half of it landing right on top of Sharon’s left arm.

“Jeez,” Sharon muttered, pulling her arm from under the bag and rubbing the area. It was like Alaska didn’t even notice though, she just sat down and started arranging her notebooks.

“Well, good morning, class. Mrs Davis isn’t in today so I’m taking your class, but she has left me instructions as well as your class test results from two weeks ago which I’m going to pass out now.” Michelle began calling out names from the pile of test scripts in her hand, passing them out once the student raised their hand. “Alaska. Sharon.” Smiling kindly at Sharon, she placed their scripts on the desk before moving on to the next.

As Michelle put Alaska’s test down, Sharon noticed a large 96% in the top right hand corner, right in the same place where her own read 93%. ‘Ah, so she’s just a bitch, she’s not stupid,’ Sharon snarked to herself, only half hearing Michelle talking about the details for an upcoming lab project which would last the full year and for which Mrs Davis had assigned the lab partners. It wasn’t until Alaska nudged her that she paid attention.

“What? What’d I do this time?” Sharon asked, annoyed.

“Calm down, just thought you’d want to know that we’re lab partners.”

No, Sharon Needles did not like chemistry class. Not at all.

#sharon needles #alaska thunderfuck #michelle visage #shalaska #fluff #hurt/comfort #cisgirl au #high school au #arkadia #tw bullying #tw homophobic slurs #tw fat shaming #rpdr fanfiction #lesbian au

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blschaos3000-blog · 5 years

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Its 3:45 pm hazy/humid

Welcome to “8 Questions with……”

One of the coolest things that I have really enjoyed is the complete international flavor of the artists I get to chat with. I now have done over 50 of these interviews and the number of countries that our guests have come from keeps expanding. I have from gone from mostly United States and Great Britain interviews to countries like Romania,Australia,Italy,Egypt,Greece and Germany. To hear and experience other cultures and how they see the world is incredibly enriching to one’s spirit,even if the answers they share aren’t the most cheerful. I rather take raw honesty and openess then fake cheer and a plastic smile,right?

So with this in mind,meet Mehrnaz Mohammadi. Born in Iran and is now living in America where she pursues her dream as a actress. She has overcome many barriers in her short life and its clear in talking with her that she has a fierce independent streak and a thirst for knowledge which used to an American calling card. She is very prolific and has already accomplished so much in such a short time,Mehrnaz is definitely putting in the work to become a success in whatever she chooses to do be it on stage,in front of the camera or calling the shots from behind the scenes. With such a busy schedule,I better dash in and ask my 8 Questions while I still can! I might need some help from Michael,Mehrnaz’s husband to help convince the cheetah to do The Clown School however…….

Please introduce yourself and tell us about your latest project

My name is Mehrnaz Mohammadi. I’m a Los Angeles based actor and currently, I’m in a production of The Caucasian Chalk Circle, one of Brecht’s masterpieces, directed by Stephanie Shoyer at Antaeus Theatre.

You were born and raised in Iran – what was that like growing up there?

Growing up in Iran was just like growing up anywhere else I guess. The human ability to adapt to any situation is fascinating. I hadn’t experienced living in any other country so I had nothing to compare my life to. But looking back at it now, after experiencing living in other countries, I can say it was hard. I had experienced and seen a lot of injustice. That being said, I did have a rebellious nature. I was a fighter and still am. I was very opinionated and always was trying to find ways to express myself and of course, that got me into a lot of trouble. First time I got arrested, I was fifteen years old. I got arrested because of what I was wearing (a tight baby blue long dress, jeans, and a white scarf that covered my hair) which was considered scandalous, and I was talking to a boy. I spent three nights in a holding cell before my court date. To be honest, part of me was proud of getting arrested even though It was really scary because it meant I was alive and I didn’t accept their oppression.

How much artistic freedom did you have living in Iran? Is there an active film community there?

It’s tough being an artist in Iran for sure! Unfortunately or fortunately, I had never got a chance to work as an actor in Iran. I left after I just turned 20 and before that, I had worked as a graphic designer. Not only does the government monitor the artists’ work, but also they censor any work of art from outside of Iran. My major was Graphic design in high school and we had to take art history classes. I studied many Europian painters but I only saw a limited number of their paintings until I left Iran. If there was a naked body or even any body parts in the books, the government would blur out that section of the painting. I never forget my first trip to the Museum of Contemporary Art in Tehran. There was a painting by Picasso and in the middle of the painting, there was a white paper covering the naked body of a woman. Ridiculous, I know. A year before leaving Iran, I had a chance to be a stage manager. I witnessed first hand the way the government censors. In this particular project, an official popped up in one of the rehearsals and watch the play. Then he gave a piece of paper to the director with his edits and cuts, that’s it. No dialogue, no question, no objection. And you have to do it or you can’t go up for the performance. Not much artistic freedom, but what’s fascinating is that I’ve seen some of the best works of art from Iran from poetry to film making. Because of the censorship, the artists have to find a way to express themselves within the confines of the law, and that’s when the magic happens. You have to that much more creative in order to express yourself truthfully while being able to pass through the filters of government censorship. The art becomes complex, sophisticated and revolutionary.

There is definitely an amazing film community in Iran and their work in fantastic. A filmmaker that particularly stands out is Asghar Farhadi, A Separation (won the Academy Award for Best International Feature Film) and The Salesman.

When did you know you wanted to be an actress? What was the reaction like when you let your family know your goal?

I think I’ve always had a fascination for the art of acting, but in my time in Iran, I didn’t really get a chance to cultivate this desire. My family didn’t really know what to think of it. My mom tried many times to talk me out of pursuing acting. I am the only one in my family that I know of who pursues art and above that acting. It was not familiar to them. Although Persians are famous for their artistic nature, it’s mostly in poetry and music. When it comes to acting, I believe culturally acting is not a respected profession. Where was I, oh yes, my family. They thought it was just a passing aspiration and that it would go away eventually. Now here I am almost a decade later and I’m an actor. Sometimes I wish they supported me at the beginning of my acting career. But they’re supportive now and that means a lot to me.

What were the three biggest culture shocks when you moved to the United States?

Racism. Gun shootings. Consumerism.

You have had an amazing start to your career with five projects in 2018 alone How did you land these roles so quickly?

Thank you! When I was in school, I thought when I graduate from acting school, my job is to act. Very quickly I realized that my job is to connect with people and audition and if the stars line up, I get a chance to act. So that’s what I’ve been doing, connecting with filmmakers and auditioning.

You wrote, produced and directed your first short film “ThisHonest”, can you walk us through how this film came about?

In July 2018, I was chatting with my husband Michael (mostly complaining) about it being a quiet summer in terms of auditioning. He is also an actor. Then we decided to write a short film that we can shoot tomorrow if we wanted. It ended up taking a few months and hours of preparation. When I met my husband, we used to play a game to get to know each other better and see how honest we can be with each other. The game goes like this: we’d ask each other “what’s one thing that’s difficult for you to share with me right now?” Then we had to see if we can bring ourselves to tell the truth. So we wrote about that. We wanted the story to be simple and honest. We sent the script to our dear friend Aaron Alpert, he is a talented cinematographer. He liked the script, we met over coffee, I explained my vision. Then over the month leading up to the shoot, I sent him a storyboard and we went back and forth collaborating on the shots and the way we wanted to tell the story. We met one Saturday morning and shot the whole thing. Since we knew exactly what we wanted and it was all planned out, we did one take for the camera, one take for the actors and that’s it.

Where do you want to be in three years professionally?

I see myself being a working tv and film actor (isn’t that the dream?), but more than that, I desire to tell my story, be able to bring my flavor, my artwork, the way I see the world. I also see myself directing theatre and indie films. In addition, I’m writing a non-fiction book and in three years I’m hoping it will be done and published.

What has your college experience been like so far? What have been your three favorites classes and what made them special?

I love learning and I think there is nothing more joyful than being in a classroom. So I’ve been fortunate to have had a wonderful experience with college. I did my undergrad at Concordia University in Montreal. My favorite class was Biomechanics. I got a chance to get to know my body at a very basic level. It was a delight to be reintroduced to my body and I grew a fascination for it, almost like a child discovering her hands and feet. I did my MFA in Acting at USC and my favorite classes were Movement and Text with Andy Robinson and Voice with Natsuko Ohama. These two classes got me in touch with my inner world. They exposed me to my own psyche. In order to learn acting techniques, I had to become aware of the blocks and masks I’d created for myself over the years in order to survive.

What has been the most challenging thing you have encountered and how did you overcome it?

Language. I learned English when I was 20 years old. Language is not just a set of words combined in a correct way, grammar. It has nuances and history. I worked really hard to be able to understand English not only to communicate on a daily basis, but to really understand its soul. Also, because of the nature of the language being an oral way of communication, it’s connected to the voice itself and we all have our history with our voice. I don’t know if I would use the word overcome, but It’s been a journey. The way I approach this challenge is with practicing the language itself on a regular basis and also strengthening my own voice and developing my own authentic sound.

The cheetah and I are coming to watch you act and direct your newest film but we are a day early and now you are playing tour guide, what are we doing?

I invite you to my apartment, I cook you a delicious Persian dish and we talk about humanity and philosophize. Then we would go for a hike at Griffith Park because we need to walking after eating all that Persian food. When we come back, I’ll take you guys to The Clown school to have a day with the clowns. We run around, scream, jump up and down and experience life through the lens of a clown. We go to Malibu beach, lie down on the sand and look up at the stars and talk about the mysteries of the world.

I like to say “Thank You” to Mehrnaz for sharing her story and thoughts. I’m very grateful to have gotten a chance to talk with such a deep and interesting soul. I hope you,the reader,also enjoyed getting to know Mehrnaz.

You can follow Mehrnaz on her IMDb page. You callow Mehrnaz on her Twitter page.

Feel free to leave a comment or question below. Thank you for your continued support!

8 Questions with…………actress Mehrnaz Mohammadi Its 3:45 pm hazy/humid Welcome to "8 Questions with......" One of the coolest things that I have really enjoyed is the complete international flavor of the artists I get to chat with.

#8 Questions With #acting #actress #art #artist #education #family #gun violence #Iran #learning #Life #Mehrnaz Mohammadi #movies #Persia #racism #religion #United States #violence

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