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idabbleincrazy · 5 months

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Never a Wish Better Than This (2/?)

Fandom: Smallville

Rating: M (E overall)

Pairing: Clex

Word Count: 2985

Warnings: s4 fix-it, feelings, angst, birthday fic

Summary: Clark turns 18, Lex takes one last chance at making things right between them.

A/N: more of the same. Next chapter should have smut🤞

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Lex's POV:

"Sorry, Lex, didn't catch that?"

God, it's adorable when he blushes.

"Sugar high kicking in already, Clark?" I question him, smirking to show it's only a friendly tease. The blush deepens, and fuck, am I glad I wore the looser slacks tonight. "I was just wishing you a happy birthday."

"Oh! Right. Thanks."

He still hasn't gotten up from his seat, the absence of the gesture only so obviously noticeable in places like the Kent home, where manners are valued more than the size of someone's bank account. Clark fidgets as I draw out the eye contact and, as I turn my gaze away, I catch the way his shoulders slump in relief out of the corner of my eye. Another one of those moments where I long to read too deeply into it. My cock twitches at the possibility that he hasn't stood up to greet me because he's dealing with a bodily betrayal of his own.

"Eighteen's a pretty important milestone, Clark, glad to see you finally decided to have a party."

There's that blush again, but he's saved by the distraction of Martha's perfectly timed arrival back into the kitchen, her arm slinging around me in a comfortable half-hug.

"We weren't going to let him pass this one by. I'm glad you could make it, Lex; we were starting to worry you'd miss the cake."

I let myself relax into her embrace. Why is it that of the few people whose touch doesn't fill me with unease, two-thirds of the Kent family are at the top of that very short list?

"Speaking of which…" And there's the last third of the whole, the man whose approval I'd probably prefer far more than my own father's, striding towards us from the counter he'd been huddled over since I stepped in. Jonathan's carrying a large, homemade cake in both hands, stepping carefully so as not to disrupt the flames of the glowing candles. "Happy birthday to you…"

I turn my gaze back to Clark as we all join in on the singing, the 100-watt smile stretching his lips as he looks around him proving contagious as I feel my own mouth stretch into an open grin. What is my wealth compared to this? I envy this beautiful young man, surrounded by family and friends who care about him, not what he can do for them, or how they can use him to further themselves. I envy him, and am glad for him.

He purses his lips and blows out the candles, one deep breath extinguishing all eighteen flames in one go, his eyes meeting mine for a fraction of a second before flitting away to scan over the rest of those gathered around.

"Come on, you guys, let's cut this baby!"

I chuckle at Pete's honest enthusiasm and must admit I agree. Martha's baking is the best in Smallville, and there's no doubt she'd go all out for Clark.

Clark elbows Pete into sitting back down, and begins cutting the cake and plating it out for everyone as I take the seat Martha offers me directly across from him. As he hands me a plate, his fingers graze the back of my hand, and it's all I can do not to let my face react. So many glancing touches over the years, and still, my body has not become desensitized to the feel of those impossibly soft fingertips. And just how are they not calloused and rough after nearly two decades of farm-living?

Clark gives me a quick wink, which confuses me until I look down at my plate. My piece is nearly as big as his, and quantifiably larger than those he has handed out to everyone else. My heart tugs at the gesture, though my brain is less apt to catch the obvious significance. Chloe gives him a shrewd look as she accepts her plate, her keen reporter's eyes flicking between her plate and mine. Of all his friends, she's the one most likely to have noticed, probably from the start, the difference in my behavior towards Clark in comparison to anyone else. Maybe I should have gone to her for insight on the way he behaves around me? Then, maybe I wouldn't have to dive into this insane plan with my heart pounding in fear of shattering into so many pieces on the pavement.

No one else reacts to the disproportionate size of their slices, and Chloe shrugs off the slight with a tiny shake of her head. Clark remains oblivious.

"There's still plenty of chicken and potato salad left, Lex, if you want. I could fix you a plate." Martha's offer interrupts my musings, and I turn my head to her. She's always prompting me to eat more, like a good mother should. "Sometimes I wonder if they ever even remember to feed you up at the Manor."

"I'm fine, Mrs. Kent, really. I ate a couple hours ago, I promise."

Martha gives a nod and a smile, placated for the moment. Her instinctive mothering warms me and I push back a bittersweet wave of nostalgia, returning the smile.

"Alright, but I'm sending you home with leftovers."

Clark's soft chuckle sounds in my ears, and when I glance back over at him, I can't help but return his smirk. I think he knows how much I secretly enjoy his mother's subtle care.

The cake is delicious, as expected, and there are sounds of appreciation from around the table, Lois' less-than-quiet moan of satisfaction causing Clark's nose to wrinkle in an amused grimace. The room is in high spirits, even Jonathan has been unexpectedly hospitable towards me, offering me a beer. It's domestic, and a brand I admit I always skip over, but I accept with a small smile of thanks. School my face against the grimace fighting to twist my lips as the bitter tang of the first sip catches me by surprise, as always.

I watch them, this table of Clark's nearest and dearest; Lois, if Clark's constant griping is anything to go by, is merely the former of the two. Watch them laugh and chatter, Pete and Chloe catching up on lost time, their heads nearly touching periodically as Chloe's voice lowers to whisper something or other that makes Pete's eyes widen fractionally. Lana chuckling softly at Lois' complaints of putting up with Clark's teenage-boy habits. Martha's warm voice next to me, checking in on everyone in-between cozy conversation with Jonathan, sitting at the end of the table. As a whole, it's a tableau that makes me ache inside, this Rockwellian perfection that was always missing from my life. Hopefully, this won't be the last time I'm included in the experience. Hopefully, this won't be my last time feeling real happiness.

Clark's POV:

I've blown out the candles, unwrapped the gifts, and hugged Lana, Chloe, and Pete good-night, and now there's just the five of us, me, my parents, Lois…and Lex. I'm pleasantly surprised by his decision to stay and help clean up; dad is just plain surprised. He even goes so far as to shoo my mom and dad into the living room, insisting the three of us will take care of the dishes.

"Wow, Lex, didn't think you knew how to wash a dish" Lois quips from the fridge where she's putting away stacks of Tupperware. I grit my teeth and shoot Lex an apologetic look. "Want a pair of Mrs. K's rubber gloves so your delicate hands don't get all pruney?"

"Lois!"

"No, it's alright, Clark. She's right, Luthor's never wash dishes. We dry."

I can't help but roll my eyes at the smirk he flashes me as he grabs the dish towel from the rack above the sink and sets up shop beside me at the counter. I can feel his body heat, he's that close, his bare arm brushing against mine every so often as we fall into a rhythm, me washing a piece of tableware and handing it over to him to dry and stack. It takes most of my control not to break anything as I fight back my resurging hard-on.

He hasn't given me his gift yet. I know it's there in his left pocket, but I forced myself not to look past the elegant silvery wrapping paper. He seems to be waiting to give it to me in private, though I can't imagine what he could possibly want to give me that he thinks would need shielding from the rest of the group. Maybe it's just something on the more extravagant side that he figures my dad would insist I couldn't accept. But that's the upside to birthday presents, it would be rude to refuse them.

Lois makes a noisy exit upstairs as we finish up the last of the silverware, leaving us alone. Lex takes the fork from my hand, his fingers brushing over mine, and we share a smile at the sound of her grumbling.

"Bet she's gotten you over your desire for an older sibling."

"Oh, yeah. She's the sister I never wanted. But, she's not all that bad. Just very talkative."

"Well, we're not all the silent, broody type like you, Clark."

I roll my eyes at his teasing, glad we've fallen back into the easy banter that seems to have been missing from our friendship these past few months. There's a real grin on his face when I turn around from putting away the plates. I missed that grin. The one that actually reaches his eyes.

"So…no gift? I would have thought today would've been full of deliveries of unreturnable trucks and flashy gadgets."

"You jest, but if I thought your dad wouldn't have shut the door in my face, I would have shown up hauling a 30" high-def television." There's an uneasy flicker that ripples over his face as he speaks, but it's gone before I can make anything of it. "I do have something for you though. I was just waiting for the right time to give it to you."

"Well, we're all done here, wanna come up to the loft with me and hang out for a bit?"

"That'd be great, Clark."

I hand Lex his promised plate of leftovers and quickly head out to the living room to thank my parents and say good-night. At least there's one perk to giving Lois my bedroom; once I head over to the barn for the night, I'm usually left alone.

"C'mon, Lex. Mom and dad are heading up to bed in a bit. Oh, and I already thanked them for you."

Lex ducks his head at that, and I see the faintest trace of a blush on his cheeks. I think he secretly likes someone knowing him so well. I just wish I could let him know me, the real me. He almost did, but Lionel erased it. Sometimes, Lex looks at me, and I almost think some part of those days before Belle Reve resurfaced; but then he blinks and the moment is gone.

As I walk with Lex to the barn, I find that old peaceful blanket of silence surrounding us again, and it makes my heart clench, yearning for this moment to never end. I don't want to keep wondering if Lex is up to no good again; if he's still trying to dig up knowledge that isn't his to know. I love his unending sense of curiosity, but it puts so much in danger when he can't rein it in. Him, me, my family, my friends; it's all set upon a precarious edge, and everything could crumble to ruin with one misstep. Lionel can't be trusted with Kryptonian knowledge, and he has so many eyes on Lex. It was easier when the older Luthor was in prison, but that didn't last, and he's more determined than ever to keep us all under his watchful eye.

I'm dragged away from my thoughts by the sound of Lex's voice in my ear, his hand squeezing my arm.

"Huh?"

"You okay, Clark?"

I shake off the wistful feelings and give him a small smile.

"I'm fine. Just thinking."

"I think thoughts that deep are against the rules on your birthday."

How does he always know? I scoff and lead him up the stairs to the loft, clearing my bedding away from the couch for him to sit.

"Thirsty? I keep a little fridge up here so I don't have to go all the way back to the house." I know, I'm rambling, but I just don't know what else to do now that we're up here, alone, and he still hasn't handed over the little box in his pocket that he keeps toying with.

"Water, if you got it. Thanks."

Lex sits as I grab a couple bottles of water from the mini-fridge in the corner.

"Sorry it's not your fancy kind." And, great, now I'm thinking about Lex's lips wrapped around the mouth of one of those blue Ty-Nant bottles. Why are my hormones the one thing about me that are as normal as a human teenager? "I, uh, had to sneak this into the shopping cart. Dad's strictly a tap-water guy."

"I'm sure the water out here is clean enough for it. Wouldn't be very healthy in Metropolis."

I sit down on the other end of the couch, the easy closeness I felt while we were washing up gone, replaced by an awkwardness that isn't the same as the ones we've fallen into this last year, but just as painful. At least it's a distraction from the ever-returning erection that had begun at the image of Lex drinking water. Christ, Kryptonian or not, being a teenager sucks.

"Clark, I'll give you your gift, but you have to promise not to return it. Even if you never use it."

He's holding it in his hand now, a small cube-shaped package, the moonlight from the window glinting off its shiny covering.

"Okay, I promise." The words fall so easily, just as they always do. Promises are easy to make, even if they're not always so easily kept.

He hands me the box, but stops my hand as I go to unwrap it. The awkwardness isn't so much gone, as shifted, the warm night air charged and heavy. Lex keeps hold of my hand, and I look down, uncertain what might be showing on my face.

"Don't open it yet. Wait until I'm gone, please." He shifts closer on the couch, his knee touching mine, and I look up, needing to see his face. "I'm glad you invited me here tonight. I've been waiting for this for a long time."

"Lex-"

"Please, just let me say this." He waits for me to nod my head before continuing. "Clark, this past year…I've missed this, the way we used to be. I miss us. I'm not good at keeping friends, but it's never really bothered me before. This time it does. I know I've screwed up so much between us since Belle Reve, and nearly lost everything important to me in trying to get back the information on my father and Morgan Edge. And, between that and the search for the Stones, I kept putting you and your family in danger, and…I'm sorry, Clark. If you can forgive that, if you're willing for us to make our way back to where we were, I think this can help us get there. If you think so too, try to come by later? I'll be up late."

Before his speech can really sink in, before I can respond, Lex leans in and I feel the press of his lips against my forehead.

"Good night, Clark, and happy birthday."

I stare down at the gift as he leaves, listening as his car door opens and shuts, as the engine revs and gravel crunches under the wheels of his Jaguar, his heartbeat fast as a hummingbird's as he speeds his way back to the mansion. When I hear him finally pass through those iron gates, I finally blink.

I speed through unwrapping the box, but hesitate on opening it, confusion and so much hope coursing through me. It's a little black jewelry box, plain and simple on the outside. But lined with lead, as I discover when I try to scan through it. I suppress the urge to return to the house, have mom or dad open it, just in case…but I want so badly to trust him, to believe his speech wasn't just some trick in his search for answers. And, aren't relationships, friendship or otherwise, supposed to have moments like this? Where you just have to take a leap of faith?

It's a key. A plain, silver key. He bought me another truck? I pick it up, and beneath it, is a small piece of cardstock. In the light of the moon, I read the flowing, easy script of Lex's handwriting.

If you want to know what your gift is, you know which door this opens.

And I do. Immediately, I know exactly which floor of the Luthor mansion, in which wing, the door resides. Third floor, east wing. Again, I falter for a second, thinking of ways he could be leading me into a trap. The last time I saw the room, he had emptied it of everything except for one large square of crushed metal that once was a Porsche.

I take a quick look through the house, making sure even Lois has gone to bed, and slip the key into my pocket. Before speeding off, I spare half a second to the consideration of leaving a note, just in case, but quickly dismiss it. What good is a leap of faith if you set up a failsafe? Tonight is not a night for half-measures. It's an all or nothing kind of moment, and I'm tired of pretending I don't want everything.

****

@leatafandom

#clex fic #smallville fic #lime

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blindingdutchy · 3 years

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lamentation | SIX

{peter parker x fem!reader AU}

based on All the Bright Places by Jennifer Niven

SERIES MASTERLIST

word count: 3,804

warnings: fluff. lots of fluff. a sprinkle of angst but just a tiny bit.

18+!!! minors stay away!

The following morning at school you relieved to see Peter standing at your locker, appearing unscathed aside from the timid and fearful look in his eye as he watched you approach him. You knew that he was probably expecting you to shut him out again, though you were full of surprises that morning when you breathed a quiet sigh and felt all the remaining anger purge from your system entirely. In reality you had been planning to give him a piece of your mind, telling him just how much of an idiot you thought that he was for his stupid idea, but seeing him sent all those thoughts flying away in an instant.

Instead, all that you could think of was how happy you were to see that he was okay. He was tense as you opened your locker, but seemed to relax slightly when you gave him a fleeting once over and nodded to yourself in approval. Peter was standing and didn't look to be in any pain, and that was all you cared about in that moment.

Apparently Peter was full of surprises too, because the second that you closed your locker he pulled you into a bone crushing hug that quite literally knocked the wind out of you. You gasped quietly, freezing in place at the sudden contact, before you slowly melted into his grip and hugged him back. He somehow managed to squeeze you tighter at the return of the embrace.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into your hair, "I'm so, so, so sorry."

A part of you wondered if Peter even knew what exactly he was apologizing for, if he really understood just why you were upset. Did he know the sorts of things that had crossed your mind last night? Could he really fathom all the crazy emotions you had been feeling?

You didn't think he did. Really, how could he, when even you were still reeling and trying to pinpoint all the different reasons you had been so upset? There were the obvious reasons--like the horrible flashbacks to that fateful day when your sister had been tragically killed--but there were also more complex, subtle reasons that you weren't ready to admit out loud.

Things like the fact that you'd never been so enraged about anything as you had been at the thought of somebody hurting Peter Parker. Not even the animosity you felt toward the Avengers could compare to the fury you had felt while listening to him fight and be attacked by those men. It puzzled you; how could that affect you so much?

You knew why, despite your unwillingness to face the truth. You knew, deep down, that you had been so upset because the thought of Peter being hurt scared you nearly as much as you had been that day. It pained you to think of it, and that was a problem.

It was a problem because being friends with Peter, when he lived the life that he did, meant constantly living in that fear. He was a superhero, constantly putting his life on the line for all the innocent people of Queens and the world alike, and that was absolutely terrifying for you. And yet, for some reason, you couldn't bring yourself to push him away like you felt you should.

He pulled away from you slowly, though he kept his hands firmly on your shoulders, and studied your face closely as he asked, "Are you okay? Are we okay?"

Hearing Peter say the word we in reference to himself and you gave you a funny feeling, but you ignored it. "Are you okay?" you parroted, instead, raising your eyebrows challengingly.

"Yes." he stated without hesitation, "I had some bruising, but it's mostly gone now. It wasn't as bad as it sounded, I swear."

You hummed quietly, leading the way to Calculus as he finally released his iron-like grip on your arms. "And was there a reason you didn't come to my window?" you questioned further, glancing back at the boy who chewed his lower lip anxiously.

Peter didn't answer until the two of you had sat in your seats, leaning close to speak in a hushed tone that no one else could hear, "I didn't want to scare you."

The sharp remark was instantly at the tip of your tongue, wanting to spit at him that he already had, repeatedly, but you held back at the sight of his big, brown, puppy eyes blinking at you shyly. He was fiddling with his fingers apprehensively, clearly waiting for some sort of remark, and it gave you pause. This was Peter, and Peter wouldn't hurt a fly intentionally.

You had to keep reminding yourself of that. Reminding yourself that he didn't mean to scare you like he had, and that he meant well even if his intentions didn't quite land right. So, you just whispered back, "It scared me when you didn't show up, and you didn't say anything."

"I--I didn't know if you wanted me to."

Catching one of his fretting hands in your own, you gave him a serious look as you replied, "I always want you to."

The teacher called the class to attention immediately after you closed your mouth, and you turned away with burning cheeks at the star-struck look on Peter's face. Perhaps that had been too bold of a statement, but it was the truth; you did always want to hear from Peter. You always wanted to know if he was okay, even if all he had to say to you was a bland text to let you know he'd survived another night of patrol.

Now, after all the things you had heard, you hoped he'd take your words seriously and let you in like you had for him. Could you go to sleep every night without knowing for sure he had made it through the night unscathed? Easily, the answer was no. You couldn't, and you really wanted him to put your mind at ease.

After gym class, which was spent with you panting whilst running sprints with Peter pretending to be just as winded, he held your bag for you beside your locker and waited patiently for you to exchange your books. You could tell that something was on his mind from the way he shifted from foot to foot nervously, and growing tired of having to chase your bag around, you asked, "What's your deal, Pete?"

He blinked at the nickname, but after a moment finally found his voice again, "Sit with me at lunch?"

"Okay?"

"No, like, sit with Ned, MJ, and I." he reiterated, and you wrinkled your nose. "Come on, I promise they'll love you! There's really nothing to be scared of, (Y/N)."

You opened your mouth to argue, to tell him that there were in fact a million reasons for you to be scared, but he pouted his lips like a child and pleaded with you silently until you caved, "Fine, fuck, just stop making that face!"

And so, you found yourself trailing through the cafeteria awkwardly in Peter's shadow. You could feel the stares on your body even though you refused to look, the stares of all your fellow students watching the resident crazy girl make her way through the cafeteria all year. You usually sat at the table right by the doors and the garbage cans, the one place you could slip in and out without making a spectacle of yourself, but Peter's usual table was all the way in the back of the large room.

There sat Ned Leeds and Michelle Jones, both of whom were watching you curiously as you looked back at them in discomfort. You'd never known them to be mean--well, Michelle could mean in her blunt manner--but that didn't ease your nerves at all. The fear you felt wasn't because you were weary of their judgment.

You were scared of letting more people into your life. More attachments meant more for you to lose, and after all that you had lost, you were rather unwilling to put yourself out there. It was a surprise enough to yourself and probably everyone else that you'd made room in your caged heart for Peter. He was perhaps the most dangerous of all to let in, yet you had.

"Hey, (Y/N), right?" Ned greeted cheerfully, doing a weird handshake with Peter as the two of you sat down across from him and MJ. You just nodded, not trusting your voice to come out should you dare to speak. "How was the Stark Internship, dude?"

Your face pinched in puzzlement, and Peter chuckled at the way you glanced at him curiously. "She knows, Ned." he muttered, nudging your knee with his own as he pulled a smashed sandwich from his bag and unwrapped it. "It was... rough. I handled it, though."

It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that the Stark Internship was a cover story for Peter's secret identity. "She knows? You told her, already?" MJ gaped, "No offense, but I had to figure that shit out for myself."

As Ned and MJ stared at Peter incredulously, the two of you shared a look as you begged him not to say anything and he scrambled to think of any sort of a cover story. "She--she helped me one night when I got hurt pretty bad. Had to take my mask off." he finally blurted, stumbling over his words, and you noticed how his eyes squeezed shut for a moment in frustration at his lame answer.

"Why didn't you call one of us?" Ned interrogated, eyes flickering between your own and Peter's as if he were trying to pick up on any dishonesty.

MJ, blunt as always, just asked, "Is that why you started following her around like a dog?"

You had to chuckle when Peter pouted, sticking his tongue out at Michelle's remark and whining, "I did not follow her around like a dog!"

"You kind of did." you mumbled quietly. All three of them stared at you in stunned silence for a few seconds, shocked by your sudden interjection, and you busied yourself with rearranging your carrot sticks.

Peter's knee bumped yours again, and you nudged his back. He shot you a little smile, pleased with you making an effort even if it was thoughtless, and you found yourself relaxing slightly under his gaze as MJ and Ned continued to joke about how much Peter had embarrassed himself following you around. "Remember when he threw all of his shit on the ground in Calculus?" Ned sputtered through laughter.

The brown-haired boy's cheeks blazed red at the story, and you found yourself laughing along with his two friends as you remembered it. At the time it had only embarrassed you, but now as you looked back on it, you couldn't help but to find it endearing. So, you nudged his knee again and bit back the grin fighting its way onto your face as you kept your eyes on your lunch.

Suddenly, he put his hand on your knee and squeezed it softly, and your entire body seemed to burst into flames. Before you could pull away, scared of the intense feeling it gave you, a voice cut above all the rest, "Penis Parker!"

His hand was gone in an instant, but you remained hot for an entirely different reason. Flash Thompson sauntered up to the table with his typical smug smirk, calling again, "Hey, Penis Parker! Finally find a girl miserable enough to settle for you?"

Peter's face turned red and pinched into a frown, but he just muttered quietly, "Go away, Flash."

"Figures you'd go for (Y/N). The whole dead family thing, right? Does she just get you?"

You tensed, turning your head slowly to glare up at Flash with a ferocity that seemed to even make him falter, though he hid it quickly behind his usual mask. "Go the fuck away, Eugene." you hissed, but he just laughed.

Seeing that he wasn't planning on going anywhere, punctuated by the way he propped his foot up on one of the seats and sneered down at you, you quickly grabbed all of your stuff and stood up. Peter, Ned, and MJ were quick to follow, and all four of you made your way out of the cafeteria as Flash shouted, "Aw, did I hurt your feelings, Penis Parker?"

"Peter?" you called after him, trailing behind as he walked at a brisk pace. Ned and MJ disappeared around a corner, heading off in a different direction, and you were trying to catch up with the boy who seemed eager to shake you off. "Pete?"

He slowed, sighing quietly, and turned to face you with still red cheeks and eyes swimming with anger. "What?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

Briefly, you felt hurt at his attitude, but you brushed it off. You knew that he was just frustrated at Flash, and you were no stranger to misplaced anger. It would have been pretty hypocritical of you to be upset with him after how long he'd put up with you lashing out at him when he just wanted to be your friend.

You walked toward him hesitantly, almost reaching out to hug him, but you thought better of it in the end. You didn't want to push things too far, too fast, and one hug was more than enough for one day. Instead, you rocked back on your heels and asked, "Walk me to class?"

Peter blinked at the question, clearly expecting you to say something else, and after a moment nodded. "Yeah, yeah, let's go." He didn't relax at all as he walked beside you through the still empty halls, though his hand kept bumping yours every now and then, and for a fleeting second outside of your classroom he squeezed your hand before dropping it and walking away.

The rest of the day, Peter was stiff and aloof. He barely talked to you during Speech class, though that didn't really matter considering Ms. Lovell actually lectured that day, but you could tell he was upset. It felt a little strange to suddenly switch roles; he was now playing the part of the closed off one, and you were left trying to figure out how to get through to him.

Making people feel better wasn't exactly your strong suit anymore. Once upon a time it had been, but since your sister's death you'd seemingly lost the ability to even make yourself better. Yet, you wanted more than anything to get him back to the smiling, happy boy he'd been earlier that day.

As the two of you packed up your things after class to go home, you watched him anxiously to see if he'd finally say something, but he didn't. So, you cleared your throat and quietly asked, "Do you want to hang out?"

He paused for a moment, staring down at his bag in silence with tensed shoulders and creased brows, before finally looking up at you and giving the tiniest smile. "Come on." was all he said, zipping his bag and waiting expectantly for you to follow him out of the classroom.

You followed him out of the building, to the subway, onto the subway, and off of it again, all without a single clue as to where you were going. It wasn't until the he lead you into an apartment building that you realized he was taking you to his house, and suddenly you were extremely nervous. "Do you live here?" you asked, immediately cringing at the stupid question.

He just laughed, "Yeah. My Aunt May is home, she'll probably offer you food, but just say no. Trust me."

For a moment you wanted to ask why, but then you remembered how he'd told you when he'd first started following you around that his Aunt May was a truly atrocious cook. Except for cherry pie, it seemed, because he'd raved to you about that over the phone for what felt like hours the other day. Nodding affirmatively, you replied, "Right, just say no."

Peter's home life was far different from your own, even before the incident. His aunt was a bright, lively young woman who was very excited to meet you, and just as much of an affectionate person as you were finding Peter to be. She'd been overjoyed to meet you, letting slip that Peter had told her lots about you, but he'd cut her off before she could ramble about the things he'd said.

Part of you wondered if he'd told her how the two of you had met, but you knew better than to think Peter would do such a thing. He wasn't the type of person to spill others' secrets. How could he, when he had such a big secret of his own?

His room was everything you had expected it to be, though. A cramped little room with bunk beds adorning Star Wars sheets, LEGOs everywhere, and a plethora of computer parts littering every possible surface. He blushed a little as you took it all in, stammering when you smirked at the sheets in amusement, but overall he seemed relieved when you didn't mention the clutter.

It was very Peter Parker. Messy, slightly chaotic, and very nerdy. You sat on the bottom bunk, which you deciphered to be his by the rumpled sheets, and watched as he awkwardly tried to sort out the mess a little. "So," you started, "why don't you stand up to Flash at school?"

He sighed, giving up on his tidying and sitting beside you. "I knew you would ask that." he joked, though the humor didn't quite meet his eyes. "It's a long story."

"I have time, Pete." you spoke softly, and a little smile twitched at his lips.

He raked a hand through his messy hair, the combed style starting to curl from a long day, and you wondered what his hair looked like with nothing done to it. "Well, I guess it all goes back to when I first got... my abilities. You know, after the bite, I kinda went crazy for a bit. I was determined to prove myself, or something--I don't know. I just showed off a lot and got myself into a lot of trouble because of it."

Peter continued when you looked at him expectantly, "My Uncle Ben was going crazy too, trying to figure out what was going on with me. We got into a lot of fights before he--before he, um, died. We got into one the night he died."

"He tried to stop me from going out because he just knew I was going to do something I shouldn't, and we just got into this huge argument. It ended with me telling him he wasn't my dad and to stop pretending he was, and I ran off." He was getting choked up, stumbling over his words and gripping his knees with his hands as tears welled up in his eyes at the memories.

Hesitantly, you put your hand on top of his, and he was quick to flip his hand over and grip yours tightly as if he were afraid you'd pull away from him. As he spoke, it was starting to sink in just how much Peter truly could understand your anguish over your sister. He could understand why you blamed yourself, because he too had blamed himself, and your heart broke at the thought of Peter ever being in a position like the one you'd been in that night.

Had he ever tried to do what you had planned to do? Your own eyes burned at the thought, and you squeezed his hand back just as tightly. "He came looking for me, and happened to interrupt a robbery. Uncle Ben, he--he was a really good guy. He couldn't just let the guy get away. So, he uh, he tried to stop him... and the guy stabbed him."

"I'd seen the robbery before that, but I'd been so angry I just kept walking. I could have stopped it before Uncle Ben ever showed up, but I didn't, and he got stabbed because of it." Peter coughed to stop himself from really crying, "The last thing he said to me was that with great power comes great responsibility, and I just can't let him down."

You almost wished that you hadn't asked, because it hurt to see him in so much pain, but you felt good knowing that Peter really did understand you. You felt closer to him, and a little part of you felt a little less distaste for superheroes in that moment too. Did they all know such tragedy? Did they all suffer such pain, too?

Peter looked at you, blinking away tears as his voice steadied, "So, that's why I don't use Spiderman unless I have to. I didn't stand up for myself before, so I shouldn't now. I didn't play sports before, so I shouldn't now. It wouldn't be fair, and it wouldn't be right. I have this gift, and it's my responsibility to use it for good. I can deal with Flash's stupid taunting--I was so upset today because of what he said about you."

The fluttering was back, stronger than ever, and you couldn't shove it aside no matter how hard you tried. The moment was too serious--too heartfelt. It was too close.

Doing what you did best, you created a little more distance to keep your heart safe. You weren't ready to admit that maybe you liked Peter in a not-so-friendly sort of way. You weren't ready to let him into that last little bit of your heart.

So, you joked, "Well, he was right about one thing--I do get you." To your relief, he laughed, though he didn't let go of your hand. You didn't want him to, either.

"Seriously, though, you don't have to worry about me. Flash doesn't bother me, not really anyways." Peter continued, and the pair of you smiled at each other like a couple of love-struck fools for a long moment. Peter, unlike you, wasn't so keen on or capable of hiding his feelings. It was written all over his face for you to see that he liked you, and even if it made you feel good it still made you squirm with discomfort.

You were just thankful that he hadn't tried to take things further, though the subtle touches were probably his timid way of doing just that. The touches you could handle. It was what came after--the truly taking things to that next level part--that scared you. If you told him how you thought you were feeling, and he told you the same, then that just made the possibility of losing him that much worse.

SERIES TAGLIST {ask to be added}:

@msmimimerton @zendayasfwb @sweet-symphony

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itsclydebitches · 5 years

Text

Oscar Pine: Treatment and Characterization in Volume Six

It’s Friday! Which means I get to spend my time writing meta if I so choose. Today’s topic is Oscar. Specifically the question posed by @dreanner95 on another post of mine: “How have the characters in the show treated Oscar badly?” (Full asks are at the end of the meta.) I’ve covered this topic at length in my episode recaps, but I want to pull everything together into one post, both for easy, future access---here’s the answer to this question!---as well as to put the whole of it into perspective. Because as we’ll see in a moment, Oscar’s treatment is something slow and perpetual. You’ve got to take it all into account to understand just how badly things are going for him.

To start, though this meta is focused on the material of Volume Six, it’s worth pointing out something from Volume Five. Namely that Oscar isn’t an integrated part of the team yet. Volume Five is easy-going material compared to Volume Six. A whole lot of hanging out around the house as opposed to stressful, traumatic encounters with baddies. Meaning, that was the perfect time to start incorporating Oscar into the main group, but that didn’t happen very much. Not to the extent we need it to. Because Oscar isn’t just Oscar anymore, he’s Oscar housing Ozpin, and it’s Ozpin who bears the focus of everyone’s attention (a problem that becomes exacerbated in Volume Six). The vast majority of Oscar’s scenes feature Ozpin speaking, or are about Oscar’s new relationship with Ozpin, or are more generally about the war and how to prepare for it---see the training scene where Oscar is struggling to learn the basics of combat. For the most part Oscar is not at the center of anyone’s attention, Ozpin is, with the exception being Ruby’s talk with him downstairs. There Ozpin keeps quiet to let the two work out their grief and fears, making it one of the most powerful moments of the volume. But it’s not nearly enough. I’ve spoken before about how we don’t know much of anything about Oscar. Unlike the other characters who all embody details that help us to see them as well-rounded individuals---Yang loves making jokes and her bike, Blake is a bibliophile and invested in faunus rights, Jaune still wears a Pumpkin Pete sweatshirt and trains at night with Pyrrha’s video, etc.---three volumes in and Oscar is still defined almost exclusively by that moment when Ozpin slammed into his head and everything that has happened since then. No hobbies, no dreams, no talk of his family... we’re given only one, narrow lens to view him through. Which doesn’t just make it more difficult for the audience to become invested in him, but difficult for the other characters as well. Oscar doesn’t join the group during their bonding dinner. With the exception of Ruby, he doesn’t get to form strong ties with them. He’s the outsider here, the one person who doesn’t have a year of Beacon friendship and life or death missions to draw on, and it shows. Because though the cast clearly loves him (more on that later) his outsider status remains, making it really easy for the others to dismiss him, hurt him, or shrug him off when things start getting tough. Because he’s not really one of them. This isn’t Jaune with Ozpin stuck in his head. Or Ruby. Or Yang. It’s just Oscar, the random kid who appeared on our doorstep one day, joined our group when we never asked, and who we still know next to nothing about even after three volumes of material. The characters just don’t care about him as much as they do the core group, even though at this point they should, setting up a situation wherein he becomes expendable. Especially when everyone is focused on getting back at Ozpin. They’re willing to hurt Oscar to get at Ozpin in a way I don’t think they’d be comfortable with if it was anyone else. If Nora had Ozpin stuck in her head? No one would be assaulting her or saying she’s doomed to just be his meatsuit her whole life. They’d defend and support her in ways no one is willing to do for the literal child of the group. Because no one has been given the chance to get to know the kid and come to truly care for him.

So let’s rehash what the group actually does to Oscar over the course of Volume Six.

To start, there is that ongoing sense that he has no place in this group. Oscar exists only as a vessel for Ozpin. When everyone is waiting for the train the focus in clearly on team dynamics. “I know you’re worried, Weiss, but trust us. Team RWBY won’t leave your side for a second!” Yang and Ruby are interacting as sisters. Nora and Ren are interacting as a couple. There’s a clear division between RWBY and JNR visually, with the former on the right side of the screen and the latter on the left.

Oscar sits sort of between both, not speaking, not being spoken to until Ozpin makes a joke about the train goons hopefully not being from Beacon. Then Oscar expands on the humor and gets a round of appreciative nods. That’s it though. On the train Team RWBY and their Uncle Qrow all make plans to play video games. We know Team JNR was hanging out because they all arrive together when trouble starts. Meanwhile, we find Oscar in a cabin full of random people. He’s not spending time with or being invited to either group here. He’s just got Ozpin. Ozpin who is the focus of everyone’s attention. When the others arrive Jaune immediately asks, “What’s going on?” and it’s pretty clear the question is directed at Ozpin, not Oscar. Because Oscar just insisted that he wanted to keep control, but now he’s fumbling. He doesn’t know what’s going on and now here Jaune is (unintentionally) reminding him of that. He’s a farm boy, not a huntsmen. Certainly not the huntsmen either. Everyone wants Ozpin around to fix things and if there’s nothing to fix? You don’t need to stay.

It’s a dynamic that’s going to repeat throughout the volume, starting at the farm house. Ruby will go off with Weiss, Blake will go off with Yang... and everyone is going to leave Oscar to stay behind with Maria, doing nothing and being babied.

Team RWBY will go retrieve the relic. Oscar can once again stay behind and figure out how to fix their transportation. Because Qrow will be busy drinking.

And then again in “Dead End,” which I’ll get to below.

After the train we have the punch scene and I’m not sure how else to explain to people how not okay this is. I don’t care how high emotions were. Oscar is bearing the brunt of Ozpin’s (perceived) sins in a truly horrendous manner. He’s intimidated, screamed at, chucked into a tree. Keep in mind this is the body that only started figuring out aura a few weeks ago and we’re shown straight out that Qrow’s punch, a punch from an incredibly powerful huntsmen, hurt like hell. The second Ozpin leaves Oscar is wincing and touching his cheek.

What stands out to me is not that the cast is human and makes mistakes and loses their temper---because obviously all those things are valid---but rather that we see throughout the course of Volume Six that no one is willing to acknowledge, let alone act on, the fact that Oscar is a victim of circumstance. No one calls Qrow out on hitting the innocent kid along with the guy he’s mad at. No one tries to calm things down so that Oscar isn’t shouldering their tempers when he’s done nothing wrong. Everyone is happy to vent their anger and fears on him because he’s convenient. Case in point, even with Ozpin gone Yang is still screaming in his face. She doesn’t care if that’s Ozpin or Oscar. Same body, no difference.

No one cares enough about Oscar as an individual to question how their actions might hurt him along with Ozpin. They don’t care enough about him as an individual, period. With the knowledge that Ozpin is truly gone for the moment, the group segues into ignoring him. Oscar is in the process of breaking down right in front of them---grabbing his hair, yelling about how he needs it all to stop---but the group talks over him, jumping straight to panic about what they’ll do now that Ozpin has left. Oscar is no longer functioning as their go-between. He’s useless, he looks like a man they hate, and he doesn’t have that emotional connection to the group. So why do they care that he’s having a breakdown? They don’t. Imagine if this was literally anyone else in the cast. The group would be all comfort and sympathy. Instead, we’re given a shot that could easily be from Oscar’s perspective. His entire identity is falling apart and all he’s given in response to that is Weiss looming over him, still talking about Ozpin, still only worrying about how this all effects them. A ‘them’ Oscar isn’t fully a part of.

It’s a problem that Ruby tries to address by giving him back his cane, but Qrow undermines that like whoa.

I shouldn’t have to establish how utterly horrible this is. The adult telling the child, ‘No. You’re not your own person. Get over it. I’m a good guy for telling you the hard truth.’ It’s made even worse by Ruby’s silence. She doesn’t challenge Qrow’s words. Her sad expression conveys that she agrees with him---her earlier words were indeed “lies”---and Oscar is left to walk away, once again without any support. What little he was offered was wrenched away from him by an authority figure. Throughout "The Coming Storm” we see just how isolated he is. He walks at the very back of the group, away from everyone else. He looks terrified entering the house, re-emphasizing that he’s not a trained huntsmen like the rest of the group and was never given a choice about adopting this life. When he helps Blake and Weiss move the dresser in front of the door, they hold a short conversation over his head. As Ruby approaches the pictures on the wall, we hear Oscar theorizing about how this room is a study or a library, but no one answers him. Then, as said, they all split and leave Oscar behind, despite the fact that he’s the first to back Ruby’s plan to look for supplies. On their own none of these details necessarily mean anything, but put together they paint a bleak picture---and one that I am personally familiar with. I’ve been in groups where I’m clearly the outsider and this is precisely how I’m inclined to act: try to be helpful even when it goes ignored, try to start conversations even when no one answers. You just keep trying because what else can you do? You feel horribly awkward, but it’s better than accepting that no one wants to interact with you.

Note that all of this is a direct parallel to what we get in “Dead End.” Both moments begin with Oscar trying to help the group, first by giving them a means of accessing the secrets they so desperately want---“Say her name to summon her”---here by starting a pep-talk when Ruby is unable to. “Look, none of this is great, we know,” Oscar says. “But we’re not the bad guys here.” To which Jaune responds with, “Are we sure about that?” Now, suddenly, Oscar isn’t just the bystander who happens to be hurt along the way. He is the immediate victim here. All the dialogue is directed to and about Oscar, blaming him and putting the responsibility on his shoulders: “He’s in your head isn’t he?” “Did you already know about this?” “How much longer can we even trust him?” “How do we even know it’s really him?”

We have another physical assault, this time with Jaune slamming Oscar against the wall and shaking him.

Weiss, Yang, and Ruby yell out, but none of them make a move to stop him. Everyone just stands there, allowing Jaune to do as he pleases. In the past year people have been very uncomfortable with me referring to the group as kids or children, insisting that real life markers of adulthood (hitting 18) trumps their lack of experience and emotional instability. These are adults, Clyde. Okay then. Let’s work with that. This is an adult attacking a child. For the second time in as many days. We have now twice seen an adult use a 14yo as an emotional and literal punching bag, doing whatever they please to the real life equivalent of a middle schooler.

And once again, no one cares. Oscar was just attacked again, he flinches when Jaune walks past, and the first words out of anyone’s mouth are worry for Jaune. Not the kid who just dealt with a much bigger, much stronger, much older man taking his anger out on him. Not the kid who is standing right there and listening to where everyone’s loyalties lie. Oscar learns fully in this moment that when push comes to shove, he’s never going to be anyone’s priority.

We see the split in teams again. “I think it would be best if we had some time to ourselves,” Ren says, clearly talking about Team JNR since they’re all going upstairs together. Team RWBY is left in the living room... with Oscar outside of that.

So he leaves.

Which is when the writing shows us its priorities too. Oscar is housing the most important character in this entire war and, like it or not, he’s supposed to be a part of the team now. If there was ever a time to provide him with space to grow and to give the audience insight into who he is outside of Ozpin’s influence, this was it. Ozpin is conveniently quiet. The group has driven him away. We have a two week hiatus implying a major episode when we come back. Anything could happen, from Oscar getting kidnapped and coming into some power, to him working through his issues and deciding why the hell he should stay with a group that doesn’t need him and clearly doesn’t want him. Instead, we get another episode about Jaune and EVERY bit of potential character development for Oscar happens off screen. All we learn is that Oscar went shopping. Oh, and cooked them dinner.

Notice that Oscar is desperate to prove himself useful; to do things in the hope that it will earn him some form of praise and acceptance. Jaune yells about how I’m a liar and not to be trusted? I get thrown around and no one cares enough to check up on me? That’s fine. I’m gonna give them space, not kick up a fuss, make a nice meal for everyone to come home to... Oscar can’t stick up for himself because if doing nice things---helping you get Ozpin’s secrets, trying to cheer everyone up, etc.---results in violence, what the hell would they do if he actually got mad at them? No, no, no, I’ll just keep being calm, perfect Oscar.

Yes, Jaune apologies for his behavior, but notably Oscar interrupts him and tries to justify it. I’m worried about the same things too, so it’s totally okay that you expressed those fears the way you did. I’m the expendable one.

It gets even worse when Oscar starts speaking as if he has a terminal illness. Once again he’s buying into the idea that he’s no one now, existing only to ferry Ozpin’s soul, and like out in the snow this idea isn’t challenged by anyone. This exchange boils down to, ‘I’m convinced I’m going to cease to exist so I’ll just keep helping you all as much as possible until I’m gone.’ Oscar is making the claim that helping them---being the good outsider who makes them meals and promises not to worry them again, despite the fact that they’re the ones who drove him off in the first place---is all he's good for now.

And what’s the group’s response to this?

Along with a whole bunch of smiles.

Combined with their overall treatment, this reads as horrendously alarming. Why worry too much about how you’re treating Oscar when Oscar is destined to die, merge, whatever? He’s literally theorizing about a scenario where one day the group won’t have to deal with him anymore, but until then he’ll be as helpful as he can. It’s an easy out for them. Yay! We won’t lose the Ozpin vessel who we technically still need, but now he says we don’t have to worry about his trauma anymore. Those pesky things like terror over his identity are being buried and the problem is that no one is inclined to challenge that. A few days after Qrow claims he’s not his own person, Oscar announces, ‘You know what? He’s right. I’m not. So I’ll just be useful until I disappear.’ And everyone is happy with that new plan. No one cares enough about Oscar to push back against this passiveness, to worry about his mental health, even just to express grief that they may one day lose him. There’s so much concern and care shown among the group, from the big (everyone supporting Yang through her PTSD) to the small (Blake finding an extra blanket for Weiss). But twice now we’ve seen Oscar breaking in front of an audience and no one bats an eye. Twice we’ve seen him harmed and no one cares. The rest of the time he’s barely acknowledged at all. Not unless he’s making himself known and that, as we’ve seen, is dangerous.

I mentioned way at the start that the concept of the group loving Oscar would come back into play. In short, I think you can love someone---or convince yourself you love someone---and still treat them like shit. The group might be “worried sick” when something major happens to Oscar like a disappearance, but on a day-to-day basis they treat him pretty horribly. They care about his physical safety, but not his emotional or mental well being. He’s not truly a part of their teams, he’s constantly conflated with Ozpin, his fears about losing his identity are reinforced multiple times, and there’s now a pattern of the group using him as an emotional and physical outlet when it proves convenient for them. Could they treat him worse than this? Yeah, of course, but they could treat him a whole lot better too. For me, Nora giving a big “OSCAR!” hug or Blake exchanging pleasantries on the farmhouse steps doesn’t mean a thing when, during more significant moments, they don’t stick up for him. Not when he’s being physically assaulted, not when others are emotionally harming him, not when Oscar himself basically announces that he’s accepted a death sentence. The group loves Oscar... but it’s highly conditional. If they love someone else more (like Jaune) or hate someone else enough (like Ozpin) then he’s going to suffer for it. Oscar is not enough of a member of the group for them to ever prioritize and sadly it doesn’t look like that’s going to change anytime soon.

***

#rwby #oscar pine #mymetas

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kenzieam · 4 years

Text

Destroyed - Chapter Four (Chris X Raen)

Rating: M - ***TRIGGER WARNINGS***

Warnings: Violence, language, drama, angst, mentions of abuse and rape

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@iammarylastar @captstefanbrandt @jewels2876 @moonbeambucky @badassbaker @everythingisoverrated @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123 @oliviastan17 @igothroughphasesalot @sashli

I KNOW I’M MISSING TAGS, PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT IN

**************************************************************************

The days wore on, turning into weeks.

Although he wanted to be there every day, Chris forced himself to limit his trips to The Bend to only a couple times a week; sometimes for lunch, sometimes for drinks after dark. He’d learned that Raen often worked both shifts, but he refrained from learning her schedule beyond that, that was just too creepy and stalkerish; but he held his breath ever day that he journeyed to the bar, hoping that when he entered, he’d see the woman who’d become as necessary to him as oxygen.

To his relief, Raen didn’t avoid him; she treated him as a regular customer, albeit with reddened cheeks and lowered eyes, mumbling her responses while she spoke clearly to everyone else; but her manner with others, as Chris observed, thanks to his former training, was formal and somewhat empty. She kept herself closed and untouched, smiling and laughing politely but never engaging more than skin-deep. With Chris there was more, despite her obvious hesitance.

She looked for him, and while she seemed to become more nervous when he was in the bar, she seemed more settled as well, as if Chris stirred feelings in her that made her antsy because they touched deeper inside her and made her feel safer at the same time, perhaps even without her realizing it.

He made sure to remain unfailing gentlemanlike; it was obvious that she was skittish, had been abused in the past and Chris would have to earn her trust, and rightfully so, before attempting to move any relationship they might one day have any further. It was hard for him though, she called to him like a flame draws a moth and his heart ached to see the pain and fear in her eyes. He would find and kill the man who’d put that there, make the bastard pay for daring to hurt such a precious treasure.

“The usual?” Raen asked quietly, appearing at Chris’ table. She already held the coffee pot, biting her bottom lip shyly.

“Yes please, Raen.” Chris felt himself relax, his body taking a proverbial deep breath of relief. “How are you today?” He watched her fill his coffee cup, noted the delicate polish on her nails, it looked good on her and he hoped it meant she was trying to spoil, to pamper herself.

You deserve everything good, baby.

“Fine, thanks.” She paused, as if gathering the courage and Chris’ fist tightened under the table; the effort he expended every single time she looked vulnerable like this, to not drop everything and draw her to him, hold her until that dread melted away, was herculean. And it was growing more difficult all the time.

Never, he vowed, and not for the first time, will I ever make you feel like that baby, I promise.

“How are you?” There was honest inquiry in her tone, this wasn’t just the dance of customer and waitress, empty answers demanded by decorum.

“I’m good. Better now that I’ve seen you.” There was no point beating around that bush, Chris knew his face lit up every time he saw her; if she’d been involved with Silas’ gang Chris would have blown his cover almost immediately.

Her cheeks darkened, lashes fluttering in a way that made Chris’ heart race. Jesus Christ, he had it bad. “That’s quite the line, Mr. King. Does it ever work?”

His pulse sped up even more at the faint teasing in her tone. “It’s not a line, it’s the truth. And does it?”

Tomato red now, Raen looked away and when she turned back, she’d replaced some of her walls. “What can I get you?”

The walls hurt and Chris swallowed uneasily, but when he glanced back up at Raen he saw her small smile, one just for him; the walls weren’t personal, he realized, just a habitual response. Still, he proceeded carefully.

“Is Wayne back there?” He asked, referring to one of The Bend’s regular cooks.

“No, it’s Pete today.”

Chris exhaled in relief, while Wayne was hella good with burgers, for some reason the man completely fell apart when it came to anything else and Chris was definitely in the mood for a good Club. “Turkey Club please, on brown.”

“Salad or fries?”

“If I say fries, will you share with me?”

Raen smiled, a fond look in her eyes that surprised Chris. “Do you ever let up?” Her teasing tone made his heart sing.

“Can’t help it with you.” Again, there was no use denying it.

Raen glanced back at the kitchen, then down at the watch on her wrist. “I might have a few minutes to spare.” Her tone was lighter now and she flicked her gaze back to Chris, who couldn’t stop a lopsided grin.

“I’ll save you some.” Chris replied, no pressure Raen, come to me when you want.

Raen glided away, eyes lowered shyly again, and Chris exhaled raggedly. He’d never had to work so hard to get a woman’s attention before, but it had never been more worth it. What he’d felt for Erin was like a perversion compared to this; he’d never experienced such a strong tie, without any physical contact either. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to survive the inferno this woman stirred in him if he was ever allowed to touch her.

He glanced around the bar, nodding at friends and customers, acquaintances and neighbors. There never been a sense of community or family in his life before, certainly not in the sprawling miasma of Los Angeles, not even in a twisted way with Silas’ gang.

“Here you go.” Her musical voice was back; a breath of her intoxicating perfume, mixed in with her natural scent, stirred fresh want in his chest. She set a plate in front of him piled high with crispy fries and a decent looking sandwich and he looked up to find Raen’s eyes before she left him again.

Chris gestured with his chin to the opposite side of the table. “Got those few minutes?”

Raen blushed again, then caught the eye of the other waitress, nodding to let her know she was taking a short break. She slid into the booth with a sigh, smiling bashfully. Grinning delightedly, feeling like he was five years old and it was Christmas morning in the dreams where he’d had Christmas mornings, Chris pushed the plate closer to her, nudging the ketchup bottle over as well.

“Dig in, doll.”

Raen’s reddened cheeks were matched only by Chris’, once he realized what he’d said but she saved him by smiling and reaching for a fry, dunking it delicately in the gravy.

“Yeah,” he continued, striving for a normal tone, feeling like that teenager again. “I like the gravy better too.”

Raen’s answering shy smile lit all kinds of fire in his heart.

She was only able to sit for a few minutes, and Chris felt a real pang of disappointment when she delicately wiped her mouth with a paper napkin and stood.

“I need to get back.”

“Sit with me tomorrow?” Chris winced at the hopeful tone in his voice, if Raen had any sort of mean bone in her body, she’d have an opening right now to hurt him.

“What makes you think I’ll be here tomorrow?” Her tone was light, even playful and Chris’ poor heart was sent galloping afresh.

“A guy can dream, doll.”

“Guess you’ll find out, Mr. King.” She replied, biting her bottom lip then her shyness flooded back in and she hurried away, taking Chris’ heart with her. He loved the way she called him ‘Mr. King’, not out of any patriarchal kick, but because it was special, her private name just for him, an edge of teasing and sliver of attraction softening the formal address.

Chris was on pins and needles all night, pacing his living room before collapsing into a chair out on his apartment’s small balcony and lighting a joint; a fraught hopefulness having seeped right down into his bones. He felt like a giddy teenager; Christ, like a man in love, and a sudden wave of dread crashed over him with the realization. Was he falling right down the same old rabbit hole as he had with Erin? Was he goose-stepping merrily into another trap?

No. He pushed the thoughts aside. Raen isn’t Erin.

Screaming agony tore him awake later. He’d gone to sleep with gentle musings of Raen, her drop-dead gorgeous curves his to finally touch and caress and mold his body around. Bolts of fiery pain shot through his torso, grotesque mimics of the bullets that had ripped through him, rending him from sleep and a scream of anguish poured from his lips; he could feel the blood coursing from his wounds with each desperate pound of his heart, feel the rough, stained carpet beneath his sweat-slicked face. He clawed at his chest, gasping for breath, his bare legs tangling in the sheets before his naked body tumbled from the bed to crash onto the floor, jolting what was left of his breath from his lungs. He lay trembling and panting, fingers clawing uselessly and he was sure he was dying, certain he was back on the floor of that bank, fooled into giving his life for nothing; Silas towering over him, ready to fire the kill shot.

“Nnnnooo.” He managed to wheeze, tears squeezing out from his lids and for a moment everything seemed to end, oblivion seemed to take him down into the Black then he pulled one last scream from his locked-down chest, shattering the nightmare. He convulsed, limbs slamming against the floor and lay winded and wasted, unable to even lift his head for long, terrifying minutes.

Finally, he dragged himself up off the floor, hands shaking as he pulled himself back into the bed and lay curled in the fetal position, trembling. He couldn’t remember the last time his nightmares had been so vivid, so real and it terrified him. What had provoked this?

Was it…?

No. It couldn’t be…

Raen?

Was his mind trying to warn him away from another fatal mistake? Would it truly be the end…? Would he die this time? It was ridiculous to even contemplate but here, in the stark dark, his body still aching from the nightmare, it became oh so plausible.

What was he thinking? He’d survived once, he’d be a fool to give up his heart again. He was doing the same thing he’d done with Erin, giving up all semblance of himself and tempting that bitch named Fate as he plunged headlong into the spell of another woman.

He lay awake for the rest of the night, shivering, afraid to close his eyes. Work was a chore and, come lunchtime, he glanced at the clock then away. He couldn’t go back to The Bend; he couldn’t continue this. He needed to guard his own heart.

It was the right thing to do. He had to protect himself.

But Jesus God, why did it hurt so bad?

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Raen chanced a glance at her watch, then scanned the bar. Chris was nowhere to be found, again. It had been a week since he’d asked her to sit with him. Even though he’d looked at her with such softness and excitement at the prospect of seeing her the next day, he’d never shown up. Despite herself, Raen felt a tear trickle down her cheek, which she wiped away angrily.

Like sand, he’d begun to seep through the cracks in her walls; like water gradually eroding away stone, he’d started to wear his way past her barriers.

And then he’d disappeared.

What a fool she’d been. She’d just been lucky she’d escaped without literally bleeding this time. Men were all the same, some played with your body, others your heart, but they all left you broken.

Never again.

*************************************************************************

He couldn’t do it any longer.

He’d stayed away from her for a week, but he physically couldn’t anymore. He needed Raen, she’d become essential to his heart and soul and that certainty wore implacably away at the conviction that he would be destroyed by giving them away again. Surely they couldn’t ache any worse than the anguish he felt now.

His palms were sweating as he parked his bike in the Bend’s lot and he rubbed them down his jean-covered thighs, swallowing nervously. What would his reception be? He’d been making inroads with Raen, and then he’d left. It was a shitty thing to do, but in the end, the draw was too strong. If loving Raen meant his destruction, then he was going down in flames.

It had been a week of loneliness, a week of sleepless nights, of tossing and turning and startling awake from restless dozes with a jolt of heart-pounding panic, nightmares twisting his mind into an exhausted miasma of misery. His body was leaden, weighted down with guilt and shame and just plain lonesomeness.

Even Al had noticed, real concern in his aged eyes as he watched Chris work, probed in his typical roundabout way what his problem was but Chris hadn’t been able to voice it. How did you explain something like this? As time wore on his reasons for staying away from Raen grew weaker and weaker in his miserable eyes, made less sense.

Raen was nothing like Erin, where his old partner had held a deep simmering rage at her childhood, at the hand dealt to her, Raen was pure sweetness, her past experiences only making her kinder and more compassionate. Like the analogy Chris had heard once, one that had resonated with him and made him wonder what he was deep inside, Erin was like an egg, tempered and boiled by the heat of her past into someone hard and unchangeable inside, while Raen was like a tea bag, her natural goodness and sweetness coloring her surroundings, improving everything around her.

It was late, after dark and the throbbing music from the juke spilled out as he opened the door and stepped inside, scanning the surroundings. Like the moth he was, his eyes were drawn immediately to her flame, currently standing at the bar loading up her tray for another waitressing round; her body was his kryptonite, did she realize how goddamn good she looked in those fitted jeans? Steeling himself, he approached, leaning casually against the counter to hide the shaking in his hands.

Had he wrecked what could have been the best thing he’d ever had, before he’d even really had it?

“Hey,” he offered quietly, searching to find her eyes when she turned to face him. What he saw, shock quickly eclipsed by hurt and anger, deepened his anxiety.

“What are you doing here?” That empty tone was back, the wall and that hurt worse than any emotion she could have infused her voice with. Emotion meant there was still a chance, emptiness meant there wasn’t.

“Raen, I’m sorry-“

“I have to work, excuse me.” She pushed past him with a loaded tray and his heart began to thump with dread. The bartender, a friend of one of his former booty calls eyed him with derision.

“She waited for you, asshole.” She spat before turning and storming to the other end.

Chris turned, feeling more scared and more hopeless than he had in his darkest moments with Erin, when Arturo was pacing the shabby living room, holding the handgun and goaded into playing roulette, in those endless moments after the gunshots. Her back was to him, shapely hips mocking him as they swayed. Her smile was soft, her lilac-grey eyes almost serene as she spoke to patrons and passed around their orders.

She wasn’t comfortable among strangers, not yet, but she had learned to disguise it and you’d have to be stone sober to notice the distance in her manner. He waited until her tray was empty and she was on her way back to the bar before trying again.

“Raen, please. Can I just-“

“What do you want, Chris?” He was ‘Mr. King’ no longer, her private name for him gone.

“I need to talk to you.” His hand reached out in desperation and gripped her forearm, pulling her away from the main area.

A flash of real fear, hurting his heart, then anger again. “Leave me alone.” She hissed, ripping her arm away.

“Baby, please!” Desperation made his voice crack, then pain exploded in his cheek and he staggered, eyes wide with shock.

Raen glared fiercely, her hand still raised from slapping him. Slowly, she pointed her finger at him with heartbreaking finality. “Do not call me that. You never came back, remember? I owe you nothing.”

Cold grief wrapped icy fingers around his heart as she turned and stormed away.

He didn’t leave, his body wouldn’t obey his commands. The furthest he made was the far end of the bar, the opposite end from where Raen was working and, although he knew Raen wouldn’t send a glance his way, he watched her all the same, cursing himself for his stupidity.

A cold panic had suffused his limbs, he wanted to grab Raen’s arms and shake her, force her to listen to him, to give him another chance, but that meant that he was a bastard, no better than the man she’d ran from before. He’d fucked up, he was the one to pay for it.

Jesus God, it hurt. His heaven was steps away and he couldn’t reach her. He might as well be on Mars.

A dead feeling was spreading through his body. To walk away from Raen tonight was going to cleave him in half, but what choice did he have?

Throwing down some bills to cover his beer, he steeled himself to leave, to walk away from the best thing he’d never had when a crashing sound hit his ears. He whirled, eyes scanning the bar with practiced skill, his F.B.I. training making a reluctant comeback. He reached for his sidearm, remembered he no longer carried one.

A fight was breaking out in a corner, two men pushing each other, their voices raising in drunken indignation and rage. A glass had already been knocked to the floor, alerting Chris, but it was the men’s physical altercation that was starting to get everyone else’s attention. Chris sized up the situation, not seeing any immediate weapons, but who knew if either man was hiding something? Shit, a broken bottle would be enough and these two looked like the violent type.

Then his eyes found her.

Raen. Trapped in the corner, eyes wide.

Somehow, she’d been on the wrong side of the table when these two had started in on each other, and was now stuck, her back to the wall, two brawling men blocking her escape.

Terror and rage like he’d never felt before filled him and Chris didn’t remember his trip across the bar, his tunnel vision only for Raen, he could be rushing into the path of another bullet for all he knew, and it didn’t matter in the slightest, all he could see was Raen, pressed to the wall, eyes wide with fear, searching for escape. Her eyes met his and if he hadn’t been so blinded by the need to save her, he would have seen the relief in her lilac-grey depths.

She reached for him as he barreled through the brawling men without stopping, elbowing the brutes aside and receiving a glancing fist to the jaw as he went and then she was in his arms and he pressed her back into the corner, shielding her from the fight with his body, glancing back over his shoulder before dropping his head to murmur soothingly to her.

“Chris,” she gasped, voice shaking. Her fingers clawed into his flesh as she shook and if he hadn’t been so intent on comforting her, he would have whirled in a rage and attacked the two bastards who’d made her so scared.

“I’m here, baby.” He breathed, curling around her, ready for the blows to come as he sheltered her but they never did and, as he turned to glance back again, he saw the other patrons and the bouncer had finally kicked into action, dragging and pulling at both combatants, hauling their thrashing asses out the front door.

Only then did he relax his hold enough to step back, his hands staying on her shoulders, unwilling to let go.

“Baby, are you okay?” He scanned her frantically, his hand leaving her shoulder only to cup her cheek and his heart lurched as his eyes landed on blood. “Christ, doll.” He pulled at her, drawing her into better light, his heart thudding with fear.

He tilted her head, gripping her chin, eyes running over her skin and he reached over, grabbing a napkin from a nearby table, dabbing gently at her cheek. His thundering heart eased as he saw the damage, not nearly so grave as he’d feared. Three small dots, tiny bits of broken glass embedded in them and glinting in the light marred her smooth cheekbone and more glass fragments shimmered in her hair that he brushed gingerly away before taking her hand and drawing her down the hallway, to the owner’s office past the bathrooms.

Without knocking he burst through the door, startling the man sleeping in his chair inside.

“Goddammit, Chris!” He swore, jerking awake, nearly falling off.

“Goddamn you, Gus!” Chris yelled back. He reached for the first aid kit perched on the file cabinet and gently sat Raen down on an empty chair before wrenching it open and continuing his lecture. “There’s a goddamn fight out there and you’re in here sleeping! And Raen got fucking hurt!” He broke off and turned his full attention back to Raen, who stared at him with a mix of trepidation and reverence. Gently, his hand shaking slightly, he sponged away the blood with a square of gauze then pulled out the tweezers. Raen’s eyes fell on them and widened, then looked back up at Chris trustingly.

“I’ll be gentle, baby.” He murmured.

Gus had shuffled outside by now and Chris pulled away from Raen long enough to kick the door shut behind him. As he reached to extract the slivers of glass her hand grasped his wrist, stopping him.

“Chris, I-“

“Damn, doll. When I saw you trapped back there, my heart-“ he flinched, pausing in his task long enough to cup her undamaged cheek. After a beat, he tipped his head forwards, resting his forehead to hers, relaxing when she didn’t push him away.

“Thank you.” She whispered.

“Anything for you.” He vowed, pulling away reluctantly. Raen followed his movements then closed her eyes as he began to extract the slivers. She remained still, not wincing, but then, she’d experienced worse.

Gus returned just as Chris had placed the last steri-strip and was wiping the remainder of blood off her skin.

“Goddamn Buddy Perkins.” He wheezed. “I told that bastard no more fights. He’s banned now and good riddance.” Focusing on Raen, his tone softened. Gus may have been a lazy old bastard, but he cared for his girls. “You okay, hon?”

“Just some scratches.” She replied quietly.

“Take the night off. Hell, take the rest of the week, I’ll still pay you.” He turned his attention to Chris. “You’ll make sure she gets home okay?” At Chris’ nod he looked back at Raen. “That okay, honey? Can Chris take you home?”

“That’s fine.” She was still quiet, but her hand hadn’t left Chris’, her fingers clasping his tightly.

Gus shuffled and wheezed his way back out, his voice thundering once more, shutting down the bar for the night because ‘you miserable sumbitches can’t behave!’ and Chris looked back at Raen, squeezing her hand, a hint of nervousness accelerating his heart now that he no longer feared for her immediate safety.

“You’re sure? I can take you home?” Chris murmured, too far gone to be embarrassed by the pitiful hope in his voice.

Raen sighed quietly. “Why didn’t you come back? I waited for you.”

Chris exhaled slowly. He would tell her, but not here. “Can I talk to you at your place? It’s kind of a long story.”

Raen looked up, meeting his eyes and studying him carefully. He held his breath in trepidation, trying to convey his utter sincerity through his eyes. She sighed, seeming to come to a decision. “Okay… there’s some things about me you should know too.”

“Only if you want to.” Chris murmured back, standing to his full height and pulling her gently to hers. He hovered protectively behind her as she gathered her things from the staff room and took the keys she held out when they reached the parking lot.

“What about your truck?” Raen asked, concerned as she searched the lot.

“I brought my bike; no one’ll take it. I need to work on it and its hard to start right now.”

“Thieves can’t steal what they can’t get running, Raeny baby, mind your daddy.” She suddenly said, glancing over at Chris with reddening cheeks.

“What does that mean?” He asked as he helped her climb into the passenger side.

“Just something my daddy taught me… it saved my life a while ago.”

Chris searched her face, trying to quell the sudden instinct to crush her to him and kiss away her sorrow but he needed to take her home, he needed to explain himself and maybe then… maybe he’d be lucky enough to have another chance with her. Contenting himself with reaching out and covering her hand for a heartbeat, he sighed and started the truck, threw it into drive and left the parking lot.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky #bucky barnes fanfiction #sebastian stan #destroyer #destroyed #destroyer chris #destroyer chris fanfic #destroyer chris fanfiction #chris x raen #destroyer chris angst #destroyer chris drama #destroyer chris romance

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the-nights-parade · 4 years

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Ocean Park | Hong Kong's Largest Theme Park

Ocean Park is Hong Kong's largest theme park. In fact, it is Hong Kong's only theme park. With its 35 attractions and rides, the park has won several awards, including "The World's Seventh Most Popular Amusement Park" and "33rd Most Visited Tourist Attraction in the World". These are not statistics that I would necessarily brag about, but maybe that's just me.

Ocean Park is a 10 minute taxi ride away from our home, and Sadie has been at least a dozen times with her friends. In fact, her school did a trip there earlier this year and attempted to sell it to the parents as a physics lesson. Right.

I am reasonably informed that watching a teacher get spun around until they puke is the height of entertainment for a teenager. Anyway, I had never been before. I'm not sure why this is, but I guess that it is partly to do with David's lack of interest. I guess I can understand that. Any roller coaster becomes Space Mountain when you are blind, and although I love Space Mountain, I'm not sure that I'd want to spend the whole day riding on it. David is in the UK though, and I thought it might be a fun thing for Sadie and me to do.

This is the latest in a long string of my attempts at mother/daughter bonding. I try to kid myself that Sadie and I really have a close personal connection, that she loves and respects me as much as I do her, and that she actually enjoys my company when in reality what I perceive as bonding is probably just Sadie playing along to get something she wants. Regardless, if that's all I can get, I'll take it.

So, off we went to Ocean Park. I had to queue up for the ticket as Sadie already had a season pass that paid for itself if the first month. The price was comparable to other them parks - about £20 for the day. Now it is time for me to fess up about the real reason I wanted to go to Ocean Park. It has two different sections, one of which has animals, an aquarium and kiddie rides and the other which has thrill rides. The animal section has PANDAS! For a long time, seeing pandas has been on my list of 100 things to do before I die* and I was finally getting to do it!

I am marginally embarrassed by my passion for pandas. I have seen Kung Fu Panda three times and that is really not something of which to be proud. I am completely suckered in by their furry, fat cuddliness and those big black circles around their sad eyes. To be fair, I was also completely suckered in by Pete, the dog from the Little Rascals too. Something about a black circle around an eye. I like to think of myself as mature, urbane, sophisticated, cool and more than a little cynical. Loving cuddly panda bears blows that image. It's like Henry Kissinger saying he loves "My Little Pony". I guess I am out of the closet now.

Anyway, back to Ocean Park. I decided to prolong the expectation for as long as possible, so we visited the aquarium first. It is a pretty good aquarium as these things go - maybe even in the top 50 aquariums in the world.

I couldn't really contain my excitement much longer though. I had to see the bears. I spotted the Panda House from several hundred metres away. I knew it was the panda house because there were 10 metre tall plastic pandas waving to us from the roof. For one brief moment, I actually thought that they were real and waving just at me. We walked up the ramps and into the house. There are three panda enclosures, each with its own panda. They are solitary creatures and don't like to mix much. Thank goodness. The sight of two pandas cuddling or playing might just might be more cuteness than an ordinary human could bear (ha ha - I swear that wasn't on purpose).

There are two parallel ramps in front of the enclosures, and you are encouraged to stroll down one and up the other, giving everyone a good chance to have a look. Good manners went out the window as soon as I walked in the door. I stopped, creating a domino effect of panda watchers behind me. I couldn't move. I was spell bound. There in front of me was a giant panda sound asleep on a wooden platform. He was on his back, mouth open and with all four paws up in the air. I couldn't hear it, but I am absolutely sure he was snoring.

It is not terribly mature or sophisticated to jump up and down and shriek "OOOOH! LOOK AT THAT PANDA! HE IS SOOOOOO CUTE!", but that is what I did. Sadie,even more than usual, pretended that she didn't know me. Finally, someone behind me gave me a good push and forced me to carry on.

The second and third enclosures were empty, so I hurried down to see snoring panda again. Then, just as I was about to go past window number two, out came a beautiful female panda bear. I know it is unspeakably rude, and I am really not proud of it, but I simply would not budge from that spot.

Parents tried to push their eager children in front of me, but I wasn't having it. I figured that I had less time to do the 100 things to do before I die than they did. I took photos and watched her amble around for a good 10 minutes. I probably did more to damage Chinese/Western relations at that point than Tienanmen Square, but my wish was fulfilled. I have seen pandas. I am also the very, very proud owner of a cute, overpriced panda cuddly toy that we have named Bing Bing.

Back out into the sunlight, no other event that Ocean Park could offer could possibly live up to the panda experience. I have to tell you though, that in the dozen or so time Sadie had visited, she had never before seen the bears. She comes for the rides. So, off we went to the other part of the park.

This can be accessed in one of two ways. There is a cable car that offers magnificent views over the southern part of Hong Kong or there is a train. The trip up is unbelievably steep. There are stairs, but it would probably take me the better part of my life to get up them. I don't think that they are even open for public use. We took the cable car, and it was lovely, but I certainly wouldn't recommend it for anyone with height issues.

Once at the top, Sadie said she needed food. There were a number of food options, most of which involved some form of squid. There is something not quite right about eating something that was one of the attractions we had just visited. I am just trying to imagine how this menu would go down at Alton Towers or at Six Flags.

Thankfully, there were other options than munching on Squidward and Sadie was very happy with her french fries and diet coke. This is the ultimate food oxymoron.

During her feast, Sadie had been eyeing the temporary tattoo parlour. "No", I said, "Don't even ask". Of course, a few minutes later we were sat on the chair inside the booth whilst Sadie got her Panda tattoo. Giving in against your better judgement is a big part of the bonding process.

As foreigners, we are used to being stared at sometimes despite the fact that Hong Kong is one of the most cosmopolitan and ethnically diverse cities in the world. Just recently, I was accosted on the MTR by about 20 teenagers demanding to have their picture taken with a foreigner. Of course, I obliged with my goofiest grin.

Sadie actually attracted an audience whilst her tattoo was painted on. There was a crowd of people gathered round, pushing each other out of the way to get a view. When the tattoo lady was finished, Sadie stood up and the crowd actually applauded!

We then moved onto the arcade. This time I was really going to hold firm, and I set about telling Sadie how all the games are rigged and that it is virtually impossible to win a big prize. Then I saw the shooting gallery. OK, it was a Nerf shooting gallery where you shot plastic pegs with suction cups onto a plastic target, but it was still a shooting gallery. My resolve crumbled and I became the world's biggest hypocrite.

When I was about Sadie's age, I went to a summer camp. It was altogether a miserable experience, except for one thing. I discovered that I was really good with a 22 rifle. I've been hooked ever since. I would NEVER shoot at a living thing (I won't even let Sadie go to BB Gun parties when EVERYONE else gets to go), but boy do I love shooting at a target. I bought 10 rounds and sidled up to the bar counter. Everyone around me was doing rapid firing, but I took my time to line up that bullseye in my site. I felt like Clint Eastwood, Annie Oakley and John Wayne all wrapped up into one. Slowly, I pulled the trigger. Bullseye! I took my time with the rest and managed 5 bulls eyes and 5 in the next circle out. God, I'm good.

On to the rest of the park. It was time to do some rides. We headed off to the log flume. On our way, we saw large groups of mainland Chinese wandering around in packs. Some of them had on matching hats. Others had perky little matching bandannas. All of them had little tags around their necks which I can only presume said "If found, please return to Hunan Provence". Hong Kong tourism is big business in mainland China, and the groups are typically made up of older couples. It's sort of like visiting the Florida of the east.

These groups, with their bad teeth, worse clothes and what I can only imagine is the Chinese version of a hillbilly accent, are treated with complete and utter disdain by the local Hong Kong community. I rather like them. I can only imagine what they must have seen in their lifetimes, yet they retain a certain child-like innocence in the pleasure they take in places like Ocean Park. Then we got to the queue for the log flume.

All innocence was gone as these old folks pushed and shoved like they were in the queue for the last kilo of rice at the state rice store. I'm not kidding, they were vicious. They cut in front of as many people as they could, tread on toes and elbowed their way to the front. Then once on the ride, they looked miserable when they got soaked to the skin. What were they expecting? We got soaked to the skin too, but it was fun.

Then I had a really strange experience (as if being jostled by old Chinese people wasn't strange enough). We were in the queue for another ride (Raging Rapids, if you must know), and I spotted someone I knew in the queue. I knew I knew him, but for the life of me I couldn't thing of how. His was not a face I would forget as he looked like a youngish Paul Newman. I stared for about 10 minutes before he looked up and nodded at me and smiled before he turned away to talk to his very young Thai wife/girlfriend. It finally came to me.

It was a close friend of one of my exes whom I like to call Lucifer (No Grizz and Billy, that is not a nickname I have for either of you). It was driving me crazy because I couldn't remember his name. I remembered that he had been born with a really bad name (Malcolm Pratt), but he changed it by deed pole as soon as he was old enough. Who could blame him? So, although I could remember the old name that he changed before I even met him, I simply could not recall his new name. Then it came to me. Pat. His new name was Pat. Just to test out this theory, I yelled out "Pat" to see what would happen. What happened is that Sadie nearly died of embarrassment and the bloke didn't even turn around. I'm certain it was him though. I had heard to had moved to Asia a few years ago for the women to teach.

After a couple hours of different rides, it was time to head back down. This time we opted for the train. We were waiting for the train in a sort of holding pen with a bunch of mainlanders. Several of the women were staring at me and giggling. I smiled at one lady and she came over to me and poked me in the chest several times. Then, she gave two big thumbs up. All the other ladies then started smiling, nodding and pointing at my boobs like they had just won an academy award. I swear to you this really happened.

#ocean park #hong kong

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maraudersandlily20 · 6 years

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Ovid The Poet

It began with a quarrel. Lily and James knew how to quarrel like it was their own personal business. But this particular argument had many reincarnations, because for some reason, they never reached a solid conclusion. James would remark about muggles in an off-handed manner, opinions he had of them that came from being raised in a magical family. Some were harmless, but some irked Lily to no end. His insufferable behavior toward muggle life pushed her buttons more than any other disagreements they had.

This argument, this specific argument, happened as Peter was reading a popular muggle book. The Scarlet Pimpernel. It was widely known as the first anonymous hero with a double identity. Peter had a penchant for bringing muggle books to school with him. When asked why, he said he’d already read the magical ones. James and Sirius often made fun of him. “Muggles don’t really understand the big picture, Pete. How good can the stories be if they only have half of the information?” This was often James’ argument, but Peter always shrugged him off. He enjoyed the books he enjoyed and he wouldn’t let his friends bully him to think otherwise. But it got on Lily’s nerves.

She loved the Scarlet Pimpernel. She had read it a few times and believed it deserved respect. “You know you only feel that way, Potter, because you’ve never actually read one yourself.” James knew when his girlfriend called him Potter, she was displeased with him.

“No need.” he said. “I have read the magical books, Evans, and I’m not interested in changing that.”

“You purebloods and your ridiculous standards. You grow up with magic surrounding you, having a deeper and more thorough understanding of the world around you, and yet you refuse to educate yourselves further for the sake of basking in your magical superiority. Well, it’s preposterous. While wizards and witches have given their say on the world through books, I think muggles might have some knowledge too. And unless you learn about both sides, James, you’re never going to understand the “Big Picture”, as you said. So maybe you should give Peter a break about his books and try reading one sometime.” And she had stormed off.

After a few hours, James found her and apologized for his narrow mindedness. She accepted his apology, of course, mostly because she hated being mad at him for too long, but reiterated her sentiment that he should try reading a muggle novel. He told her that he had already borrowed a book from Peter and was planning on starting it after classes the next day. This had earned him a sweet smile and a kiss.

James was true to his word, and the next day began reading the classic novel of Pride and Prejudice. To his and everyone else’s surprise, he loved it. Lily and Peter pooled their book resources together and, every few days, James had a new book from a muggle author. He read Sherlock Holmes, Jane Eyre, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and many others. When he finished a book, he would ask Lily questions and they would have a discussion about his findings. It was strange, the change it had on him in regards to the muggle culture. He began asking more questions in muggle studies and was actually curious about the answers.

And then, he went to the library. The library had a whole bookshelf full of muggle works. James wanted to read them all. He began reading ancient texts such as The Iliad, The Odyssey, and others that Lily couldn’t even pronounce. He studied Ancient Greece and Ancient Rome and wouldn’t stop talking about either.

Lily was grateful she had fallen in love with a man who took criticism so well and actively worked to change. His love of muggle literature even seeped over to Sirius. The young Black depended on Remus’ knowledge rather than Lily and Peter, which was plentiful since Remus had been homeschooled from a very young age. Books were his only escape. In fact, as James and Sirius tore through book after book, the Marauders got so into muggle literature that they formed a book club. They discussed novels they enjoyed or hated and then moved on to the next.

It had been two months like this, October coming to a sudden end, and with it the warm weather. Lily knew there weren’t many nice days left, which meant that James “Vitamin D” Potter would be out enjoying the sunshine. Especially on a Saturday.

Lily walked slowly, taking in the warm autumn colors that were painting the earth around her, and pulled her jacket tightly. The brisk air was refreshing. She soaked in the feeling and thought of how much she loved Hogwarts in the fall. The path led her down along the banks of the Black Lake, where James’ favorite willow tree stood. She found him, lounging on a blanket on his stomach, absorbed in the pages of a book. Lily grinned.

“Hello there,” She called. His dark eyes shot up to find her and he returned the smile.

“M’lady. Always a pleasure. What brings you down to the lake on this fine Sunday afternoon?”

“I was looking for my boyfriend, actually.” she said with a smile, taking a seat beside him. “He’s been so wrapped up in his books lately that he’s hardly paid attention to me. I was wondering if maybe I should break up with him.”

“Oh. I see. So you’re saying that, even though you encouraged him to take a liking to muggle literature, you would still leave him?”

She shrugged and wiggled her eyebrows. “I think he may deserve it. He was so against them before, that now his love of them kind of makes him a hypocrite. Don’t you think?”

James’ eyes narrowed. “I suppose. And what should he do to ensure that you don’t leave him? Perhaps he could recite to you one of William Shakespeare’s famous Sonnets? “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and temperate…” Etc. Or perhaps, you’d like it better if he went back to his old ways and denounced his now beloved authors and turn all of his attention on you? Would that satisfy you?” He was speaking dramatically, waving his hands up and down as he spoke and it caused Lily to go into a fit of laughter. He always knew how to make her laugh.

“Madame! This is a serious matter! How shall your one true love win back your favor?” He got to his knees, taking her hand in his and placing a gentle kiss on it. She stared into his big brown eyes that were so full of love and warmth it made her stomach flip

“I suppose,” she giggled, “That it would be enough for him to say that I was right.”

It took him a moment to realize what she had said before his expression fell flat. “Not very original love. But, if that’s what I must do.” James got to his feet, placed both hands over his heart, and dramatically said, “Lilith the fair and true, you are the mistress of the universe, and your knowledge is all encompassing. And your lowly love now realizes the error of his ways and comes before you to say that you were and are totally and completely right. In all things. Forever. Now, will you please take him back?”

Her lips quivered from the effort to keep in her laughs. He had really become a complete fool over this. Finally she rolled her eyes and opened her arms. James let out a whoop before basically collapsing on top of her and capturing her lips with his. They lay, laughing as they kissed, for quite some time before James rolled away from her. Together, they laid on the blanket and stared up at the tree branches above them, intertwined hands between them.

“You know, you were right though. I acted like a complete git about the whole thing and I should have listened to you sooner, but you were right. These books I’ve been reading, they’re phenomenal. Thank you for forcing me to read them.”

She nodded, smug. Her hand graced the book that James had set down in his dramatic actions, and she now picked it up. It was an old book, with tattered pages, and the title simple said “OVID”.

“What are you reading now? I’ve never heard of this.”

James grinned and sits up, taking the book from her. “Ah, it’s amazing. You know how deep I’ve gotten into ancient culture?” Lily nodded. “Well I found this book in the library. Ovid, the author, was a poet during the time of Caesar Augustus, the first true emperor of the Roman Empire. Augustus was the chosen heir of Julius Caesar and he was the most brilliant, charismatic and kind leader that Rome had ever seen. According to most historians of the time anyway, though I think he paid them to say that.” He laughed, and she couldn’t tear her eyes from him. He was so passionate it took her breath away. “But that’s beside the point. While Augustus was Emperor, he wanted the Roman people to become morally better. So he hired poets and orators to create stories that implemented the ideals of Roman society with their words, hoping that the people would listen. Ovid was one of those poets.”

“He was this storyteller who believed in the good of people, you know? His stories are beautiful and they all focus on the fact that if you are strong and kind, you will be rewarded by the gods.”

“Will you tell me a story?” Lily asked.

James looked at her for a second, a soft smile lighting up his face. “Of course. It would be my pleasure. I just finished a really good one. The story of Baucis and Philemon.”

Lily laid back against the blanket once more, her hand wrapped around James’ as he began to weave a magnificent tale to her. “As Ovid tells it, there was this small town outside of Athens, full of the wealthy elite. They’re all well dressed and well fed and all wrapped up in their own problems. One day, into this small town, comes two cloaked strangers. They look old and crippled, and they go around to each house asking for some shelter and some food. These people have so much, you know, that it would just make sense that they could give even a little of it away.” As James speaks, his hands wave about to emphasize his words. Lily is enchanted. “Well, no one lets them in. They all turn the cloaked strangers away without a second thought. So the two figures wind their way through the entire rich village, imploring for a place at the fire and a parcel of food. But the answer is always the same. No.”

James settles down beside Lily again, their shoulders brushing, and he glances over at her now and again as he speaks to gauge her reactions to his words. The smile on her face refuses to leave.

“Finally, the two strangers get to the last house in the village. It’s different from all the others, it’s small and poorly made and looks rather sad, to be honest. But the two knock anyway. And who should come to the door but the elderly Baucis. It’s his home you see, his and his wife, Philemon. They’re both aged and poor, but when the strangers ask for some food, they say of course and let them right in.”

“The poorest people in the village were the only ones to let them in?” Lily asked. James nodded, a look of disbelief on his face.

“Crazy, isn’t it? Anyway, so Philemon tries to clean up, makes the fire bigger to keep the guests warm and Baucis prepares their finest food for the visitors. They do their best to make sure their guests are comfortable and satisfied.

“One of the strangers thanks them and asks “How is it that you can give so much though you have so little?” And Baucis shrugs and simply says, “As long as I have my wife, good sir, that is enough.” This touches the strangers so deeply that they throw off their cloaks to reveal themselves. They are Jupiter and Mercury, the strongest and most powerful of the gods.” Lily gasped, solely focused on the story that James weaves around them. She can practically see the action happening. James nods in excitement.

“So Jupiter and Mercury tell Baucis and his wife that they are to be blessed. So the elderly couple follows the pair of Gods up a grand hill, wondering what the gods intend to bless them with. They get to the top of the hill and Jupiter tells them to look back at their village.”

“What happened?” Lily couldn’t help but ask.

“The entire village, save for their hut, was washed away in a huge flood. The gods had seen the greediness and cruelty of most humans in the village and so decided it was time to start anew. But they had found goodness in the hearts of this elderly couple, and so spared them.

“Baucis and Philemon watched as their tiny hut was suddenly transformed into a huge, golden temple meant to worship the gods. They walked back down to admire the new building and when they got there, Mercury said “You have proven yourselves worthy of a gift from the gods. What do you desire?”

James looks over at Lily with a small grin. “Philemon says that all they want is to spend every day of the rest of their lives with each other, never to be separated, and asks that when they die, they die together.”

Lily breathed out, touched at the devotion of the couple in the story.

“The gods were amazed at these two mortals and their love for each other. So they granted their wish. Baucis and Philemon became the tenders of the temple and lived every day together for many more years, happy. And when the time came, they died together. The gods, out of respect of the two mortal lovers, transformed their bodies into trees, made of linder and oak. The trees grew from one trunk and entwined themselves together, never to be separated for all of eternity. And the gods still looked down at those small trees and were reminded that every mortal is capable of great love and goodness. It taught them to hope, to believe in mankind. And according to Ovid, the two trees stand intertwined even to this day.’

James trailed off, his voice getting quieter as the story came to an end. The feeling that surrounded the couple was indescribable, the warmth of the words pushing away the cold October air. Lily could imagine the tree in her mind and felt grateful for some reason that this was the story that James had decided to share.

“Of course, Ovid did live thousands of years ago. So the trees may be gone, but it’s a nice sentiment.” James know-it-all voice broke the reverie and Lily exploded into laughter. James joined her, and though the joke wasn’t that funny, they couldn’t stop themselves from laughing for a while.

When Lily finally collected herself, she rolled over onto her stomach and wiped at the tears of mirth in her eyes. James looked over at her in adoration.

“That’s a nice story.” She said, starting to pull at the loose threads of the blanket beneath her.

“I thought so too. It’s more of a legend than a story, to teach those who read it what kind of people they should try to be. But still, it gives you a reason to hope.”

His girlfriend grew thoughtful. “I wonder, if Jupiter and Mercury came to us, if they would allow us to die together. When we’re old and gray and our children have no need of us anymore.”

“Perhaps, if we ask nicely, they’ll even turn us into trees.”

Lily grinned. “I wouldn’t mind being a tree, wrapped around your tree, for the rest of eternity, if you must know, James Potter.”

He nodded, looking contemplative. “I don’t know. That sounds exhausting.” Lily gaped in mock horror and smacked him on the chest. He breathed out in amusement. “I’m just kidding. If we do become trees, Lily Evans, than I most certainly want to be wrapped around you.”

They grinned, overwhelmed with a feeling of love. After a moment, Lily turned to her side and began tracing her finger up and down James’ arm. “I wonder if we’ll ever have a conversation that doesn’t turn disgustingly romantic by the end of it.”

James pursed his lips. “I don’t think so. We’re just lucky to be in love, lady Lilith, and that means we get to be ridiculously happy about that whenever we please. And besides, when we don’t get romantic, we tend to get angry.”

This made her laugh. “You’re right. Maybe we should aim for having a conversation that doesn’t involve us either jumping each other’s bones or jumping down each other’s throats.”

“I don’t know. That seems like a tall order. I mean, I’ve been in love with you since year one, and you’ve hated me for most of that time. It would make sense for our relationship to echo that.”

He had a point, though Lily would never admit it. She didn’t mind the way they worked in a relationship though. She loved when he was romantic and sweet, but she also loved when he spoke his mind and was honest with her. While the things he was honest about often got them into spats, she didn’t want him to stop being honest. So, with this is mind, she resolved that if ever they were met with two shrouded strangers who would grant her a gift, the gift she wanted would be to spend everyday of her life with James Potter. It seemed like, if that was an option, it would be a good life.

“Well, despite the fact that you may be right, I think I’m going to change it up a bit.”

“What?” James declared dramatically. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to cope.”

Lily nodded, a sly look in her eye. “This is how this conversation is going to end: I, Lily Evans, despite the fact that I am devastatingly in love with James Potter, will now challenge him to a duel. I have it on good authority that there is going to be chocolate cake tonight for dinner. Whoever eats the most, wins.” With this she stood up, holding a hand down to her boyfriend.

“Oh ho, you are on, love.” He said, shaking her hand.

“Good.” She said quickly. “I also bet that you won’t be able to catch me.” With those words, she turned and took off, running back up the pathway toward the castle. James gaped after her before letting out a laugh. He grabbed his small book and his blanket before running after her.

“LILY!” He yelled, her squealing giggles picking up as she watched him begin the chase. He ran after her, leaving the waving branches of the willow tree behind him.

Is my history major nerdiness showing too much in this story? Whoops. I kind of have a thing for Ancient Roman Legends.

#hi kiddos #day 15 of fanfiction #blowing my mind how i can keep this up #jily #fluff #james potter #lily evans #my history nerd is definitely showing in this one #my writing #happy reading

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wcrmtale-blog · 7 years

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001. BASICS.

FULL NAME. Peter Douglas Pettigrew

NICKNAME. Pete, Wormtail, Wormy, Dougie (but very specifically only by certain aunts)

BIRTHDAY. May 21st, 1960

GENDER. Cisgender male

SEXUALITY. Questioning (bisexual)

RELATIONSHIP STATUS. Single

SPOKEN LANGUAGES. English, some poor Latin retention from Hogwarts

ACCENT. All Sheffield, dropping his h’s, making his u’s into uh’s, contorting vowels and dropping plurals, turning behind into be-yind. Pete himself tends to insert plenty of speech breaks, liberally peppered with filler words (all those good ums and ahs), though his sentences tend to blur together rather than having an audible period/pause after every idea. Peter’s a notorious mumbler, always checking himself to try and chin up and speak a little more defined so he and his conversational partner don’t have to play the painful ‘can you repeat that?’ game.

BIRTHPLACE. Sheffield, South Yorkshire, England

ASTROLOGICAL SIGN. Taurus/Gemini cusp. One of the Earth signs, Taurus has a reputation for being a grounded sign, less hotheaded and more reliable and practical than others. A Taurus can be committed to the point of stubbornness and often finds fulfillment in utility. However, Taurus is very susceptible to possessiveness and insecurity and is very resistant to sudden change; criticism hits hard and when a Taurus is in an unhealthy mental state, a great majority of their emotions can be reliant on the people they are surrounded by. What a Taurus wants more than anything is stability and purpose; without these things, the ground feels shaky underneath their feet and can send them spiraling to find a way to fulfill those needs.

EX-HOGWARTS HOUSE. Gryffindor

PATRONUS. Brown rat

BOGGART. An ever changing beast that’s seen many variations. The current most popular switches between two variations of failure -- one in failing in his duty to the Order and Albus Dumbledore himself dishonorably discharging him, the other in facing the rest of the Marauders and finding that none of them remember him. Had Pete been exposed circa his second year at Hogwarts, it would have likely been Minerva Mcgonagall (brilliant, impatient, terrifying).

BLOOD STATUS. Pureblood

ALLIED WITH. Order of the Phoenix

FACECLAIM. Charlie Heaton

002. PHYSICAL TRAITS.

HAIR COLOUR & STYLE. Ashy brown, it’s thin but there’s a lot of it, which makes tangling a nightmare if he doesn’t stay on top of it. The current style is grown out of a childhood bowl cut and the now-longer layers tend to piece together around his face and over his eyes. Peter hates how it looks tucked behind his ears too much to keep it out of the way like that, leading to frequent little jerky movements of his head intended to force his hair back into place for a few minutes at a time. The gesture is hardly a graceful one and sometimes he doesn’t bother; all the easier to hide behind.

EYE COLOUR. Dark brown

COMPLEXION. Pale, sunburns at the drop of a hat

ETHNICITY. Caucasian

HEIGHT. 1.71 m (5′6 ft)

PHYSIQUE. Skinny in the way any post-adolescent boy retaining his metabolism is, a little soft in the stomach where late night stress snacking is just beginning to catch up with him. Narrow shoulders, lines more round than sharp, a body used to having to look up to people.

TATTOOS. N/A

PIERCINGS. N/A

CLOTHING & STYLE. Lots of denim, plenty of layers (jackets, jumpers, undershirts, even when it’s warmer out), single-minded dedication to old white trainers that are worn until the bottoms run through. An especially well loved Gryffindor jumper that gets the most use out of all of them. Brown beanies tugged down over red-tipped ears, thick woolen socks with warming threads sewn into the toes. Henley shirts, red or navy and usually with a flannel thrown over the top. A preference for long sleeves and full length pants that suggests a lack of desire to shown off one’s body – in fact, quite the opposite.

MANNERISMS. Darting eyes hopping between every member of a conversation and a few on the outside, not missing anything. Shoulders hunched up around the ears, a laugh that hesitates, always looking for someone else’s laughter to confirm that it’s warranted. Rubbing hands together in the cold, shifting from foot foot when idle, tucking chin close to chest and curling in on himself. Thumbing repetitively at the filter of a cigarette, always blowing smoke down instead of out. Grabbing at items in his pocket and squeezing them tight. Flinching instinctively when someone approaches too fast, even if that someone is a friend.

HABITS. A nervous fidgeter, all leg bouncing and picking at nails until his cuticles are raw, barely conscious he’s doing it. A semi-conscious chewer too; plastic spoons and straws tend to get caught up in his mouth for an hour after he’s done with them, same with the ends of zippers or the tops of pens. Classic stress eater, often climbing out of bed late at night to dig a snack out of the fridge or from under his bed. Peter drinks milk from of the carton and eats ice cream out of the tub; spoons macaroni into his mouth from the pot rather than into a bowl first and snatches bacon right from the pan, absentmindedly sucking his fingers clean after. His friends are more than used to that specific longing look that means he wants something from your plate but is too polite to ask for it. Pete hums constantly when he’s alone (or thinks he is), especially in the shower. Kicks off his shoes and tucks his feet up to his chest on big enough chairs and couches, never unties the laces on his trainers. Tends to make faces when he makes eye contact with himself a mirror. Prefers to sleep in his Animagus form if it’s safe enough that no one isn’t in the know will burst into his bedroom. After he’s been standing for more than ten minutes at a time, he starts leaning into things: doorframes, walls, tables, Remus...

003. PERSONALITY TRAITS & TYPES.

POSITIVE. PERCEPTIVE, ADAPTABLE, UNOBTRUSIVE, CONSIDERATE, EMPATHETIC, LOGICAL, PATIENT

NEGATIVE. AWKWARD, ANXIOUS, WITHDRAWN, WILLFULLY GULLIBLE, INDECISIVE, SELF-CRITICAL, DEPENDENT

HOBBIES & INTERESTS. Novels, particularly sci-fi. Any kind of new music, muggle and wizard bands alike. Some light art, he doesn’t credit himself with being anything but a doodler but he’s actually got an eye for landscapes and buildings. There’s a newly acquired interest in gardening that’s just recently begun to creep in there as well.

INSECURITIES. Hoo boy.. his physicality: what he looks like, what his strengths are (or more specifically, aren’t. He’s well aware he isn’t exactly toned). His learning ability: everything he struggled to retain in school, how much longer it takes him to pick up most new magic compared to his peers. His personality: how awkward he is at conversation or cracking jokes, how boring he can physically hear himself being every time he talks to another person, how little he has to say about himself that’s interesting or engaging. His roots: entirely unremarkable, the kind of generic that no one remembers. His friends: how easy it would be for them to drop him, how many other vastly more interesting, funny, charming people there are that could take his place, how much more dedicated he fears they are to each other compared to him. Himself in comparison to everyone around him: encompassing all of these previous fears.

MBTI TYPE. ISFP; introverted, sensing, feeling, percieving.

ENNEAGRAM TYPE. Type Two - The Helper

MORAL ALIGNMENT. True Neutral

TEMPERAMENT. Melancholic

DEADLY SIN. Sloth

004. THIS OR THAT.

INTROVERT OR EXTROVERT?

OPTIMIST OR PESSIMIST?

LEADER OR FOLLOWER?

CONFIDENT OR SELF-CONSCIOUS?

CAUTIOUS OR CARELESS?

PASSIONATE OR APATHETIC?

BOOK SMARTS OR STREET SMARTS?

COMPLIMENTS OR INSULTS?

COLD HANDS OR WARM HEART?

005. ASSOCIATIONS.

COLOURS. Washed out colors; pale reds and oranges and piney greens like a chilly landscape under late autumn rain. Dusty brown, like cooking chocolate or dead leaves. The dingey off-white of something well-worn. Once blazing scarlet and gold, sported long after the brilliance of the color has faded. The translucent blue of shallow veins.

WORDS. Hesitant, shuffling, sniffle, blink, curl, small, nibble, snort, resigned, surprised – ‘woah!’, ‘sure’, ‘i s’pose…’

SCENT. Wet wool, dusty books, lived in skin and no cologne, tobacco lingering in hair from his and Sirius’ cigarettes, ash in a fireplace the morning after. Rich earth, a smell like the word ‘verdant’, like Hestia in the greenhouse.

TASTE. A Pepper-Up potion on a cold day, a rolled up slice of plain wheat bread for a meal while on watch, leftovers just a little off from one too many reheating charms, the burn of alcohol forced down, a meaningless kiss from years ago, joining the rest he can count on one hand.

SOUND. Chaotic conversation while playing observer in the Common Room, all laughter and chatter and friendly lobbed insults. His mother’s favorite songs from the 50′s playing every Sunday morning, the church bells on the walk through town. The confident lilt of James’ voice, the steady cadence of Remus’. Click, pressing play on his Walkman, different from the click-sht of a lighter. A hard sniff, the choked noise of holding back louder tears. The shuffling of sheets and the squeak of mattress coils in a quiet room late at night, turning over and over trying to find a comfortable spot.

MAGIC. Convenience, practicality, repetition. Sneaking off to drill himself again and again until it finally sticks. The giddy rush of that first Patronus, the sheer triumph of that first transformation. Three unregistered Animagi, a law worth breaking, the boy worth breaking it for.

WEATHER. Autumn, cool and overcast. Curling up on the couch in sun beams sneaking through the window, the most satisfying naps he can remember. Dead leaves crunching underfoot walking through the courtyard, going out of his way to step on them. Summer, always a little damp under long sleeves, dizzy and overheated. The heaviness in spring air when rain is on the horizon.

FEELING. Anticipation, queasy anxiety, wanting to reach out and holding back instead. The dread of approaching a classroom without assigned work ready, the exhilaration of cheering on the winning team, the sensation of always having to walk a little faster to keep up. The darker pleasure of seeing someone else be the butt of the joke. The guilty undercurrent of worry watching a close friend laughing with someone else. The guiltier undercurrent of resentment. Wanting. Doubting. Reminiscing. A distant crush from childhood that never quite goes away. The comfort of being touched by someone you care about, an arm around the shoulders, a hand ruffling your hair. The old fears that only get bigger – of not being enough, of never having been enough.

MEMORY. Learning to ride a bike and a broom the same summer, coughing a fit at his first cigarette. Nervously wiping hands on his trousers before shaking Remus’ hand, their first time on the Hogwarts Express. Watching James on the Quidditch Pitch, like trying to stare head-on at the sun. One period of grace when even Sirius felt like a close friend, when everything was right, when school never needed to end.

TOUCH. Damp earth clinging to the soles of bare feet, goosebumps on bare skin. Sliding on a jumper with nothing underneath. Pale grey and soft to the touch, a tiny heart trembling under thin skin. Chocolate Frogs melting onto finger tips. Sirius giving him a joking pinch to the cheek, a hard clap on the back, the pain sore and sweet all at once.

#hcb:dev #&&. the lighter side of being human (headcanons)#y'all i live for this shit this was so much fun to fill out #also it is... almost 5am #i'm going to crash hard and rep to ims tomorrow <3

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thisdaynews · 5 years

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What the Candidates’ Body Language Told Us Last Night

New Post has been published on https://thebiafrastar.com/what-the-candidates-body-language-told-us-last-night/

What the Candidates’ Body Language Told Us Last Night

Ever since the first televised presidential debate, in 1960, candidates have been judged not just for what they say, but also forhow they act. Who can forget George H.W. Bush looking at his watch during a debate (as if he had somewhere else to go)? And of course there was the time candidate Donald Trump walked around the stage behind Hillary Clinton as if he were stalking her.

No one remembers what was said during those two debates, but everyone remembers those moments. Why? Nonverbal cues are humans’ most fundamental form of communication. We use them to assess friendliness, competency, danger and veracity—and even to pick our mates. Nonverbal communication—or body language—is hard-wired into our DNA.

Story Continued Below

I have studied nonverbal communication for 45 years, 25 of which I spent as a special agent with the FBI, where my job was to catch spies often using nothing more than body language. What I have learned is not only useful in catching criminals; it can be used to analyze politicians. From the moment the candidates appeared on the debate stage on Thursday, they sent messages with their walks and their waves, their clothes and their smiles. Here’s the story body language told at the debate. Biden’s glabella

When it comes to nonverbals, psychological discomfort is always an attention grabber. When Julián Castro attacked Joe Biden not once but twice, questioning his recall and his policies, Biden squinted and furrowed his glabella (the small areas between the eyes just above nose). This is a classic sign of psychological discomfort—which could signal dislike, disdain or anxiety.

Castro used an unrelenting, machine-gunning verbal technique to go after Biden, and Biden let it rattle him. When someone attacks you like that, it’s best to pause and take a moment to calm yourself. Some might break the tension with a little laugh, a low exhale or a deep breath.

The fact that Biden’s discomfort was brought on by one of the less popular candidates was significant. Glabella furrowing can elicit sympathy from an observer. (Babies develop the ability to furrow their glabellas at 3 to 6 weeks.) But when you see facial displays of psychological discomfort on someone with 40 years of government experience, brought on by a less experienced candidate who isn’t polling as well, it makes you wonder: Is he prepared for the onslaught that will come when he faces off against Donald Trump?

Booker and O’Rourke’s eyes

Cory Booker and Beto O’Rourke both grabbed attention with their speeches on gun control. Their eyes were focused—they didn’t wander all over the room. Their gestures were expansive and emphatic. When people speak passionately, taking up space with their gestures and focusing their gaze, it’s hard to turn away from them. The strong body language conveys that the speaker is not hesitating or equivocating; in other words, it’s a sign of authenticity.

These moments were also effective because the candidates’ strong, decisive speech patterns matched their body language. The brain prefers congruity, when someone’s tone of voice and manner of speaking is in sync with their physicality.

Harris and Buttigieg’s low energy hand gestures

Kamala Harris seemed less passionate compared with the other candidates, especially in the first hour. Her words were well chosen, but her hand gestures were less emphatic—less outward and forceful—than those of her opponents, particularly Amy Klobuchar and Elizabeth Warren.

Klobuchar and Warren both gestured with their outstretchedhands to demark or highlight their points and would often touch their chest or breastbone to emphasize how they felt about what they were talking about. Touching the chest is a display of humanity. It signals “I am empathetic; what I am saying is deeply felt.” Booker used a similar gesture, touching his stomach.

Butwhen Harris was trying to be emphatic, notice her elbow was tucked in, the arm was close to her body, and she demarked her statements with a closed fist. She might have set herself up for good soundbites, but these small, closed gestures took away from her message. I saw this when I used to do jury consulting. I would ask jurors about the attorneys’ performance, and they invariably thought attorneys with smaller gestures lacked confidence and self-assurance.

It was Pete Buttigieg, however, a former military officer, who had the smallest gestures on stage. Leaders typically should use broad but smooth gestures. (The brain prefers smoothness—gestures that get your attention but aren’t jittery.)

Cory Booker’s precision grip

Cory Booker likes to speak with what is called a precision grip, where he brings the index finger and thumb together to form a circle. This gesture, common in Mediterranean countries, is used to demonstrate that a cogent thought is being discussed, and the gesture is powerful in saying, “I have thought about this and I am talking about it with precision.”

I didn’t see anyone else on the stage make that gesture. Most made points with their thumbs pressed against up the underside of their index finger—a gesture made famous by Bill Clinton. Pete Buttigieg and sometimes Kamala Harris favored making points with a curled index finger with the thumb pressed behind.None of these gestures are as dramatic or effective as a precision grip.

Tieless Andrew Yang

Yes, clothes send nonverbal messages too. Andrew Yang did not wear a tie to this debate. If he thought it did not matter, he was wrong. He also made a mistake by wearing a lapel-pin flag on the right side of his body, when it should be worn over the heart on the left side. These are small incongruities that stick out to observers, who will focus in on things that look odd or stand out.

So what’s the takeaway? During the debate your brain was busy processing images and words, in that order. You might have thought your favorite candidate had a perfect performance; you might feel indifferent about others. But in time, your subconscious will process all these images and words and will make you take notice of some things you might never have thought about. If you find yourself considering someone you ignored before, or growing more accepting of one candidate, it is no accident. It is in part due to your exposure to what you saw Thursday—whether it was a glabella furrowing, a narrow gesture or a missing tie.

#Foreign #language'#night #Politics

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javleech-blog · 7 years

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New Post has been published on Jav Leech

New Post has been published on https://javleech.com/inside-patreon-the-economic-engine-of-internet-culture/

INSIDE PATREON, THE ECONOMIC ENGINE OF INTERNET CULTURE

In 2013, Peter Hollens changed into an aspiring a cappella singer surviving, in his phrases, by using living on ramen in someone else’s residence. Hollens was rarely new to the song business; he’d been a report producer and cruise singer earlier than placing out on his person, and his wife Evynne co-based the college a cappella group that inspired Pitch Perfect. His elaborate, multi-layered covers of father songs had won him a dedicated following, but none of that translated to monetary success. He changed into unsigned, track sales on systems like iTunes have been unpredictable, YouTube advertising and marketing sales become “minuscule,” and in view that he covered other artists’ paintings, sponsor deals have been legally complicated.

Then, Hollens got 3 fast-fireplace messages from lovers, asking him to sign up for a brand new platform called Patreon. Patreon became similar to crowdfunding web sites like Kickstarter and Indiegogo, however rather than pledging towards a one-time campaign, supporters should provide to pay some dollars on every occasion Hollens released a track video, with Patreon taking a five percent cut. Four years later, around 3,600 people are paying Hollens over $thirteen,000 two times a month for a new video, and Hollens is a dedicated evangelist. “I think each single artist and author, every body who desires to make a dwelling, have to have a Patreon,” he advised me at this year’s Vidcon, a video convention in which he completed as a featured writer. “You’re talking to the maximum biased person because it’s actually been the whole lot for me.”

“YOU’RE TALKING TO THE MOST BIASED PERSON BECAUSE IT’S LITERALLY BEEN EVERYTHING FOR ME.” Though now not every body is so effusive approximately Patreon, each at Vidcon and in the large creative network, the service evokes praise that would be nearly unfathomable for most net platforms. YouTube video creators, who comprise much of Paterson’s top echelon, treat their platform with open mistrust — mainly at Vidcon, at a time when many of them see the website’s recent “apocalypse” threatening their income. Meanwhile, Patreon’s undertaking announcement — “helping creators get paid” — drew cheers at a couple of panels.

As its name suggests, Patreon is loosely modeled on the humanities patronage device of the Renaissance, which produced masterworks like Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel. It’s the state-of-the-art flip in the never-finishing cycle of ways people have funded “free” artwork, from federal presents to corporate sponsorships too, most currently, affect-based advertising. While Kickstarter revolutionized how people improve cash for games, devices, and other merchandise, Patreon are aiming for something a long way more formidable: “We need to fund the innovative elegance,” CEO and co-founder Jack Conte tells me. “Ten years from now, we need youngsters developing up and graduating college and excessive college to recognize that being a professional writer is possible. We’re taking pictures for this cultural sea change.”

Patreon isn’t really an alternative for document labels or TV networks, though. Instead, it’s the suitable incubator for niche net subcultures, in which a small but committed institution of fans can without delay guide work they care about. That includes traditional arts and leisure, however also YouTube celebrities, cultural figures, or maybe political moves — a few inspiring, a few troubling. The Patreon model encourages humans to look themselves now not as clients, but as participants of a non-public membership, free from the restrictions of mainstream gatekeepers or mass-market enchantment. And inside the manner, it’s blurred the strains among artwork, artist, and target market in an exceptional way.

In 2013, Patreon’s destiny CEO Jack Conte become referred to as a musician, comprising one-1/2 of the quirky indie duo Pomplamoose. He became conceiving a video for his solo tune “Pedals” — an elaborate 4-minute manufacturing that featured a spaceship-like set straight out of a ‘70s sci-fi film, entire with shifting mechanical parts and making a song robots. Conte estimated that once it turned into complete, the video would possibly get one million perspectives on YouTube over the route of the yr, which might translate to $one hundred in advert revenue. He’d spent 3 months and $10,000 on it.

On YouTube, Conte earned a fragment of a cent for every character who watched “Pedals.” But if even some of those humans placed a dollar in an internet tip jar, Conte figured, that math could change dramatically. And what if people also agreed to support his destiny movies — and every other artist may want to do the same factor? Conte cited the concept to entrepreneur Sam Yam, an old university roommate and founder of mobile marketing business enterprise AdWhirl. Yam cherished it, and after months of development, they released an early model of Patreon in May 2013.

FROM NICHE CREATORS TO SMALL MEDIA EMPIRES Conte had anticipated that humans might pledge a greenback or in keeping with video. But within a couple of weeks, he changed into making round $four,000 for everyone, with the common customer paying a full $9. The films had been still freely available on YouTube, but purchasers were given access to a one-of-a-kind feed of updates, first dibs on stay concert tickets, and other small perks. Early adopters like Hollens began joining the platform, and these days, Patreon boasts 50,000 energetic creators and over one million lively consumers.

Patreon continues to be tiny compared to Kickstarter, in which 13 million backers have funded 128,000 successful campaigns, but it’s rapidly growing. Half its purchasers and creators joined within the beyond yr, and it’s set to method $a hundred and fifty million in 2017, as compared to $a hundred million overall over the past three years. The employer itself has raised $47 million in funding, most recently with a $30 million round in January 2016. Conte is still investment his solo song on Patreon, and so is Pomplamoose, which nets $5,000 a track from around 1, seven hundred supporters.

The Patreon model isn’t that specific from the only museum or public radio donations. At release, some people additionally referred to parallels with the paid club membership for Pete Abrams’ webcomic Sluggy Freelance. But Patreon makes it clean for everybody to installation and control their very own version of this system, and not like a common on line tip jar, it offers a relied on platform with an emblem-call appeal.

Initially referred to as a haven for niche creators, Patreon is an increasing number of investment small media empires. YouTube star Philip DeFranco, formerly part of Discovery-subsidized conglomerate Group Nine Media, left in May to set up a Patreon-funded news community. Complexly, an organisation founded with the aid of Hank and John Green of Vlogbrothers repute, runs a half-dozen Patreons that help guide academic indicates like Crash Course (around $28, three hundred / month), SciShow ($21,800 / month), and How to Adult (a extensively smaller $one zero one / month). Patreon even introduced a brand new, extra buttoned-down layout in June, emphasizing its function as a platform for groups, not just digital buskers.

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lavleech-blog · 7 years

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INSIDE PATREON, THE ECONOMIC ENGINE OF INTERNET CULTURE

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INSIDE PATREON, THE ECONOMIC ENGINE OF INTERNET CULTURE

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