#may or may not be inspired by my dad whom i just had to wake up before going to bed myself at 5am

[basicallyjustmuggleremuslupin]

Fleamont is the type of dad who turns off his alarm, turns around, and just continues sleeping without having a backup alarm.

He's also the type of dad to fall asleep on the sofa every. single. night.

#may or may not be inspired by my dad whom i just had to wake up before going to bed myself at 5am #i'm not getting more remus than this #fleamont potter #marauders #dead gay wizards #new hc #(not really but for tagging purposes)

[carbonfiction]

Stay quiet

As a sucker for Bucky and DBF fics it's only obvious that the first piece I've ever seriously written/posted is a mashup of that! With that being said absolutely any feedback is more than welcomed! Also a huge thank you to @becca-e-barnes for inspiring me to finally get out of my own way and pursue something I love! 💕

Pairing- DBF!Bucky x reader

Words: 2.1k

Summary: being in a secret relationship with your dad's hot best friend may be classified as a sin, but teasing him under the table at a family dinner is another.

Warnings: age gap (Bucky's early 40s readers early to mid 20s) lil swearing, secret relationship, reader being a tease, Risk of being caught? hand job, oral (m receiving), Nieve parent's?, a good deal of dirty talk? kinda subby Bucky?? I think that's it!

Minors do not interact, you will be blocked!

you and bucky have been seeing each other for a while in secret. It's something that you've had to both keep quiet about bc let's face it? Dad finds out his (not so little) little girl is actively screwing his best friend? Shit will hit the fan biiiiig time.

You'd always had a stupid schoolgirl crush on bucky since just before before you'd left for college. When you'd first met him he was getting over a divorce and in his late 30s, working alongside your dad. He seemed nice enough, funny and always made sure you felt comfortable around him if he was over and your dad got called away. But it was hard not to see what was in front of you and it just so happened to be your luck that sweet, respectful James "jus' call me bucky" Barnes was also quite possibly the most attractive man you'd ever set eyes on.

You'd had a steady friendship for a while, until Bucky had tagged along on a family vacation and one look at him on that beach, his toned body covered in tiny droplets of water, and in the most delicious pair of black shorts that seemed to perfectly hug every sodden inch of his lower half, had you hooked.

But You'd figured you'd grow out of it soon enough, you'd spend some time around college guys and gals and forget all out your dads best friend.

but that never really happened, your mind seemed to stick onto him,and him alone. No amount of one night stands or date nights with a glass of wine and your vibrator could quell the urge for him.

But then Fast forward to your birthday party and one two many drinks with friends, of whom knew far to much about your little crush. And After being dared to call him, barely able to string a coherent sentence together hes pissed, worried about your safety and decides to picks you up. With drunk words being sober thoughts and and enough liquid courage in you to sink a ship, one thing leads to another and you end up waking naked together, wrapped up in his arms.

And from then on the rest had been history. The time spent not studying was with him. Always with him, even if you were simply laying together on his couch, relishing in a moment of peace. You loved him, and God did he love you back. It was wrong, you both knew it, but from the moment your eyes opened for the first time in his arms? You lost every ounce of guilt or shame. He was it for you, you knew that much.

Dancing around family dinners became an occurrence you'd both grown used too, it wasn't odd for bucky to join your family for Sunday dinners, and after a while, turning up to your front door together was almost natural. Your parents so blissfully unaware and Nieve to believe your excuse that "Bucky's closer to school, said he didn't mind giving me a ride anytime we were both headed this way. 'Sides he saves me catching an uber"

So here you sit, next to bucky and opposite your parents as they talk away, catching up with each other. A smile tugs at your lips as you pop a potato in to your mouth, an idea forming in your mind. Bucky looks utterly delicious, his mix of skinny jeans and a shirt your sure has to be multiple sizes too small.

The way the fabric stretches and clings to every inch him is sinful and from the moment you stepped into his car you've wanted nothing more than to slide over the center console of his car and fuck his brains out. But it was a family dinner you we're attending, and your parents may have been blind to what was going on in of them but if you'd both shown up late, cheeks flushed and clothing Disheveled, it was sure to raise a few questions.

But god, what better way to rile your secret- forbidden- boyfriend up than to tease him under the table. And looking like bucky did, you could hardly of cared if you were caught, at least that way you'd get to go home and screw his beautiful brains out a damn lot earlier.

Bucky's thigh tenses when your hand lands by his knee, slowly raking your fingers up him under the table. And when that's the reaction to an innocent touch? When you do finally reach the already semi hard bulge in his jeans, he just about chokes on the food in his mouth.

Having to play off to your parents that he was fine, just swallowed funny.

You don't move for a while then, hand just discreetly resting over his hardened crotch as you finish off the last few things on your plate. Turning your head as he speaks you can't help but try to suppress a smirk while you take a sip of wine. His eyes are almost wide, panicked, shooting warnings glances so obviously at You.

You know what your doing to him, how he feels about showing any excess affection around your mom and dad, but it's just that that makes it all the more fun.

So it's no surprise when dinners over and your mom insists that you two stay at the table, your hand begins to move once more. Fingers Slowly squeezing over his jeans meanwhile her and your father clean up and get desert ready.

Once out of earshot bucky turns, eyes clouded with lust but the telltale crease of anger between his brows. "What'd the hell are you playing at? Your mom and dad we're right there!" you can tell despite sharpness of his tone that he's struggling, hands trying to grasp your wrist, as his cock protrudes almost painfully against the rough layer of his boxers.

It's almost gratifying in the way He's so obviously trying not to crumble and fuck you over your parents dinner table. But deep deep down, there's this little devil on your shoulder that wants him, no needs him, to do it. To take what he needs from your body, and vice versa, to hell with anyone else.

Putting your plan in motion you begin to snake your hand under his shirt, nails gently raking over the toned skin at the lower half of his abs. The quiet groan Bucky makes at the action is sinful, and does nothing to help the throb of your clit, let alone the tight press of your thighs.

"Come on babydoll, please, please, can't- fuck- can't do this here. Your dad would have my balls in a blender if he caught us"

Bucky pleads, desperation filling his words and fuckkk, you'd be an idiot to say that wasn't one of the hottest sounds to reach your ears, and you'd seen, let alone heard him cum multiple times since the two of you started your relationship.

Despite his desperation to not be caught he can't find it in himself to get you to stop when your hand finally Inches just that little bit lower, unbuttoning him and slipping your warm hand into his jeans.

Your on the edge of your seat and he's hot, heavy and throbbing in your hand. You hear your father and the clattering of bowls as they clean up, mentally making a note that you needed to keep an ear out, just in case either of them decided to venture further out of the kitchen and back to the dining room.

They would be a while yet, your mom's prize desert having to be perfect, but you knew this wouldn't take long. Bucky was already hard and ready from the moment you'd put your hand on his leg.

"Oh baby, you don't want me to make you cum? Don't want me to milk your pretty cock under my parents dinner table? Your hard as hell baby, so Why not hm? "

All bucky can do is quietly wimper, hips fractionally arching into your touch without even meaning to, but you can see in his eyes he's afraid to make any other noise or draw attention.

It's almost criminal how you can do this to him, make him loose all sense of control of his own damn body but god is it one other thing he loves about you.

In any other scenario it should be him doing this to you, fingers buried deep inside your cunt, making you cum instead. But he cant find it in him to care because, fuck, its so wrong you doing this to him, but hell, it feels so damn good.

Bucky struggles to hold in a sound as your hand begins to move in a steady rhythm. using the precum that coats his tip as lube. “ do- do want you t' make me cum honey, jus- fuck- just don't wanna get caught."

"Oh baby, we won't get caught," you pause for a moment, sending him a smirk as you dip down and give a teasing squeeze of his balls. "You jus gotta be quiet, hm? Just be a good boy and stay quiet, I'll take care of you buck"

He has to swallow a gutteral moan at your words, biting down on a hooked finger. You shouldn't do what you do to him, he's sure of that much. Your tone is always Innocent, smooth as honey despite your actions being anything but.

Taking one extra look over to the doorway you up the anti, pulling your chair out ever so slightly and sliding round to face him completely. Buckys cock twitches in your hand, a telltale sign he's close. Good, you think to yourself, you have about ten minutes before you know your mom and dad will be walking back through that door.

Bucky's eyes squeeze shut, face cherry red, as you Lean down towards his crotch. by now he's far too powerless to resist your touch even if he wanted too.

The need to cum consuming any remaining hesitation.

If anyone was to peak around the corner it would look as if you'd dropped something, and by then an easy excuse could roll off your tounge.

But right now the only thing you cared about being on your tounge was Bucky. Your lips wrap around him, salty sweet precum on your taste buds as you suckle at his tip. your hand continues to jerk at the base of him and he's putty in your hands.

"Fu-fuck- gonna cum honey. Dont- god- please don't stop" Bucky's utterly wrecked, Barely able to hold back his gasps and groans.

Your head pops off his cock for a moment, spit coating your chin, just to tease him for a moment.

"That's it, good boy, want you to cum, needa taste you buck. Been desperate for it all night"

And with that your head drops back down, tounge rapidly flicking over his slit. Bucky's teeth dig further into his fingers and it's a Miracle that he doesn't manage to bite it off with the grip. Beside him his Vibrainum hand grasps at the table, wood almost Splintering under him.

It only takes one, two more harsh bobs onto his cock before he's spilling into your mouth, hips jerking wildly. His hand has to clasp over his mouth to smother the deep growl that leaves him, orgasm rushing through his body before his brain can even begin to catch up to his mouth.

His thighs shake, breathing eractic, as he watches you reach his eyes, maintaining eye contact as you swallow his load, salty sweet as it coating your throat. Bucky takes a tremor ridden sip from his water as you begin to tuck his still sensitive but softening cock back into his boxers then re assemble his jeans.

The sound of your mother's voice draws nearer just as you secure the button. Turning yourself around just in time for your parents to become visible in the doorway, bowls in hand. Your father shoots you an odd look at your slightly disheveled appearance but you brush it off, dropping into the regrowing conversation that your laces had come undone and you'd reached down and re Tightened them, hense your flushed face.

But just before your parents can get to placing your bowl down bucky leans over, words barley reaching your ear. "just you wait till we get back in the car honey. We may have a short drive but your not gonna stop cumming over my fingers until your begging me to have some mercy on that pretty little pussy of yours. You wanna Act like a little whore, you get treated like one."

#dbf!bucky #bucky barnes #Bucky Barnes smut #dadsbestfriend!bucky #marvel smut #bucky x reader #james bucky barnes #dbf!bucky smut #bucky imagine #bucky fic #pure smut

[fanfic-gremlin-ft-trauma]

I've been cooking this one up for a while but early 90s (like set between 91 to 92) college au. Mai, Suki, and zuko are goths who does sokka's makeup every chance they get. they would chilling in sokka's dorm, and Mai would be like "someone hand me the white face paint".

the rest of the gaang + azula/ty lee is still in high school. they're doing a HS trip of the college. azula sees zuko and Mai eating lunch. she gets the attention of the tour guide, points at them, and says "I want THEM to tour us." also azula loves calling Mai and zuko, "Gomez and morticia".

she also does not hesitate to call zuko 'koko' in public and she will do it every time she sees him.

when toph is bored, she likes to fuck around with katara's answering machine at the ungodly hours of night. like when all the tv goes off (bc back in those days, the TV literally turned off. like It was just static), she'll call her, knowing she won't answer and just fuck around. katara would like wake up to fifteen messages on the answering message, all from toph. half of them are just her rambling about random ass shit, and the other half is jokes. Gran Gran would be like "your friend surely does talk a lot."

yue comes into town. she ends up going to the college and meets sokka, whom she becomes friends with. she's really heavily impacted katara's sense in fashion and makeup. yue's fashion & makeup is inspired by the 60s and 70s. she wears a lot of flowy dresses, skirts, and shirts. a lot of white, light blue, and other light colors in the blue family. yue teached katara some brown girl makeup hacks bc she knows how hard it is to find makeup for brown skin. she used to take katara shopping too like she was like the big sister she never had 😭

then zhao did some shit and yue & her family had to move.

SO SOKKA HAD A CAMCORDER WHICH WAS HIS DAD'S AND HE USES IT TO RECORD RANDOM SHIT AND DAY TO DAY LIFE 😭. one of the tapes was sokka and zuko trying to bring up their TV up the stairs since they just brought it. suki was recording. sokka's hand slips and the tv goes down the stairs and breaks. it just gasps and a beat of slience 😭.

and POLAROIDS. SO MANY POLAROIDS.

NDJISNDCNUOXSANUAOXSXNOSAUONAXSUUONASXNUO YOU GENIUS YOU INCREDIBLE HUMAN EATING THIS SHOVING IT IN MY MOUTH THROWING UP!!!!

ohhhhhhhh this gives me so many ideas. I could rave about every single one of these. Katara yue Bestiesm yes pls sharing makeup + fashion ideas would be so them. The 90s college vibes in fic are always immaculate and THIS. Sokka would absolutely use a camcorder ohhhhh I can see it. Nothing has ever been more canon than that. Him recording so many little fun aspects of their life and he gives it as a present to the friend group- like a lil memories vhs thingy. ALSO THE POLAROIDSSSS YES YES. omg that’s immediately reminding me of the wonderful @petricorah ‘s All Time art of modern au zukka in a Polaroid. I need more vibes like this I’ll invest actually.

Also thank u for truthing abt Zuko mai and suki gothism bc it’s so important to me. Also that toph and katara anecdote IM ROLLINGGG. SHE WOULD 💀. like she is such A Little Shit and would make Katara’s life hell (also god forbid in a modern modern au someone gives her discord. she’d abuse the /tts command to its full potential.)

Also omg Gomez and morticia so true bc mai is the hot unbothered kick ass goth lady and Zuko just. follows her around. adores n admires. as he should.

oh and I saw this addition and wanted it to be in the same post cuz. it’s just so amazing I’m LAUGHINGGGG

THIS IS SO CANON SO TRUE THEY WOULD DESTROOOOYYY EACH OTHER FOR THOSE YEARBOOK PICTURES. and like. what’s funny is Zuko’s one is kinda canon. Iroh absolutely did his hair in hs bc that boy was an awkward mess and had no time to worry about his appearance.

this is literally giving me life omfg thank u for this

#asks #sofia speaks about herself #atla #princess-irene #<- you’re just gonna get ur own tag cuz atp you’re feeding my hyper fixation and deserve recognition #literally obsessed obseeeeessed w this I’ll die actually #thank u for these asks like I don’t think u understand #had such a shit day this made it 1 million times better #atla hcs

[thedysphoriadiaries]

Entry 52 - 24 May 2023, 1:38am

Instinctively flinch away from a mirror Brain: Look at yourself Why? B: Just do it and see what you feel Ok I look like shit, what are you trying to prove??

Those were the words of someone else in the trans-centric server that I'm in.

If the statistic of a 0.06% prevalence holds (actually, it's anywhere from <0.1% to 0.6%, as observed in the US, but I'll just say, to be safe, that it's a 0.06% prevalence), and if the server really is only accepting of the local demographic, that would place me as one of 2100 possible people, in the country.

Yet, I can't help but refuse to believe that the stuff I felt, and have been feeling, for the past 13 years, make me a part of this demographic.

...

I think about him quite a lot now.

Yes, that's me, about three years ago, at a reunion dinner.

Yet, it almost seems as if I don't recognize him anymore. But I don't know if I am faking it, or am just trying to run from the truth of who I am, whether I'm a cis guy or something else, like a trans person, or trans-curious person.

I wouldn't know it yet, but, I'd meet a girl when I turned seventeen, and begin a relationship with her. I would eventually begin to feel some form of resentment directed towards her, and some form of dysphoria towards my sexed parts and my identity, in comparison with hers.

And eventually, the levee would break. I would wake up with the sole thought that filled my mind up.

I don't want to be a guy anymore.

...

Yet, there was a time when I was okay with being a guy.

There was a time when I was inspired to be like the other guys, or at least, that was a time when I didn't try to run away from my inherent masculinity.

There was a time when I made dick jokes, and 'your mom' jokes.

There was a time when I sheepishly flipped through Dad's old stash of Playboy and Penthouse magazines.

There was a time when I questioned if I was gay.

There was a time if I questioned if I was a femboy.

There was a time when I found the hair growing on my body a little amusing.

There was a time when I felt somewhat proud of my body, and my sexuality, as a guy.

...

With my hair gone, I feel like him all over again.

I feel like the boy who understood that girls were ultimately different from him.

I feel like the boy who wanted to be a girl, or to at least look like, or be like one of them, only to be told that he couldn't, and had to be a boy.

I feel like the boy who tried to be empathetic towards his girlfriend, whom he knew was on her period, but failing, as he barely contained his overwhelming excitement and/or curiosity over what periods were like.

I feel like the boy who was told that he should have found a better way to express his interest in his potential love interest, back when he was grappling with the intense waves of euphoria that hit him when he got to know more about the girl he was interested in, and expressed it in questionable ways.

I feel like the boy who was angry at how he would never get to experience the same things that women would, simply because of the way they were born.

I feel like the boy who was there when his father stood next to the headmaster of the studentcare center he went to, and told the headmaster that his brother, and he, played with toys meant for little girls (they were little Angry Bird plushies).

I feel like the boy who knew he was different, but could never find the language, emotion, or conviction to voice that out.

I feel like the boy who pored over the pages of his textbook, feeling a strange tingle in his chest, as he read through the content about the female reproductive system.

I feel like the boy who wondered if men could get pregnant. (I did find a case of a trans man getting pregnant, but I just... knew that I was different from him, I guess. I knew I didn't have the parts to raise a life within me.)

...

But it's something I've had to deal with quite a bit.

And, it's funny. Hilariously so, almost. One moment, I remember living in a world where everyone was telling me stuff like this:

You're not allowed to do this.

This is for little girls.

Man up.

You're a young man.

And now that I feel my resentment towards a girl for her ability to be a girl, I get bombarded with these instead:

Oh, but guys can do those things that girls do, too.

Stop fantasizing about what it would be like to be a girl.

It's just a phase.

It's social contagion.

Just think about other things.

Stop comparing yourself with others. (BY GOD THIS IS HOW MY MIND WORKS YOU WANT ME TO JUST IGNORE IT????? I JUST WANT TO BE NORMAL/HAPPY)

It's honestly fucking hilarious how, even in the face of pain, everybody just steps in your face again, the moment you try to establish an identity that isn't based exactly in their observations of you.

It's fucking hilarious, in an unexpectedly depressing way.

Ah Xiang (that's half of my chinese name, which I'm fine with), you're a really strong boy. You're a fighter.

I chose to be like this. It was a choice. It was a choice between seeing the people around me get let down, or me stepping up to be there for them.

I couldn't live with myself if I let them be let down.

But I'm tired.

I have neglected myself.

...

And now I don't even know who's inside me anymore.

Lynn, old me, cis (but massively misinformed) guy, trans girl, GNC guy, who cares anymore?

Does anything matter when you look at yourself and not recognize who you are, at times? (I might be spouting nonsense and gibberish but take it from me; I've been thinking about these things so much that I've literally taken to ranting and venting to unknown strangers on the internet, so, take that with a grain of salt)

...

I'm tired.

Remove the desire to be a girl from me, and I wouldn't know who I would become.

Remove the guy from me, and I wouldn't know who I would have been.

...

Either way, it'll be his face I see in the scanner tomorrow, when I clock in at work.

But, he is me, the same way I am her. It wouldn't be fair to say that he is something entirely separate from me.

I almost don't want to do it.

But I have to.

...

cool songs

#Spotify

[emmys-grimoire]

Lesson 52 - Bittersweet Pseudo-Memories

It wasn’t what I wanted, but it was good for what it was?

When we last left our heroes, they were having their intimate moment intruded upon by Big Majestic Chicken Lucifer, who demands to know who they are. You can try to evade the question, but he continues to be an asshole and you have to relent and continue to pretend you and ‘Sully’ are angels. Lucifer pretends to believe you and proceeds to make you do his chores.

Lucifer proceeds to complain about Raphael dumping all his work onto him and Satan implies that Lucifer is letting the other angel bully him... and he’s not actually wrong. I’m not sure why Lucifer just couldn’t say “no” -- it’s not like he isn’t willing to in other contexts.

But Satan also can’t help himself, and it’s very clear early on that Lucifer knows he isn’t an angel. We are escorted to the library to sort books.

NEEEEEEEERD. Satan is a natural librarian, of course.

Lucifer continues to opine about his situation and Satan continues to needle him about it. There’s a cute moment when Lucifer admits there are few angels he can turn to for help or advice, and by contrast he feels Satan might be worth confiding in because he’s a fellow level-headed intellectual.

D’aaaaw. My only complaint is that he doesn’t really do this in the story; it’s only now being brought up for a bonding opportunity. The most we get is acknowledgement that Lucifer has a high opinion of Satan’s wealth of knowledge and expertise... he hasn’t really taken advantage of it. 

It could be because the Avatar of Pride doesn’t feel he needs advice from anyone else.

The book comes up again, but...

It’s used as a trap to capture ‘Sully’ and reveal he is what Lucifer suspected he was: a demon. 

Yeah I did but the game insists I be an unobservant moron for the plot to continue.

In my lesson 51 analysis I theorized the numbers in the title of the mysterious book related to a particular Bible verse meant to encourage believers to keep their faith, and while I can’t be 100% sure that’s what it was meant to allude to, this exchange seems to suggest it could have been. This arc is meant to instill Satan with more faith in Lucifer, because he’s constantly doubting his intent throughout this lesson.

But we discover that Lucifer has changed from who he was before we startled meddling in time travel dreams, by his own admission. You can probably make a good guess to who is responsible for that change (it’s actually not MC, though, believe it or not!).

Yep, it’s Diavolo.

Diavolo doesn’t act the way Lucifer expected a demon to behave and it’s confusing him.

But he likes him, and he has had some time to digest that. Glory Days Lucifer would never have admitted this to anyone, let alone strangers.

D’aaaaw.

Lucifer then turns his attention towards MC and asks about what they are. If you’re truthful, you get this interesting tidbit of information:

Michael has been scoping out Solomon before the Great Celestial War. Whatever for, I wonder? I don’t think angels offer pacts, and I suspect Solomon was a bit of a troublemaker even before he was given Michael’s ring.

My guess? Michael is Solomon’s guardian angel. It is probably the closest equivalent to forging a pact that angels have.

Yeah... I just told you I was a human lol.

A HUMAN.

(Nah I know it’s pretty obvious that we’re SPECIAL, at this point.)

Lucifer takes us to Simeon and the brothers, who are gathered in presumably Michael’s observatory-to-be. Lucifer decides to hi-jack Michael’s fun and steals the first chance to see the human world’s night sky for himself and his family. It is projected onto the walls of the room.

You can suggest Michael might be mad, and Lucifer makes it clear he gives no fucks.

The other option makes him explain he believes he’s owed this because Michael keeps making him go to the Devildom and never volunteers himself lol

The brothers marvel at the spectacle, and they wonder about the stories behind each constellation. Mammon suggests Michael likely knows all about them, and Satan proceeds to nerd out again AND POTENTIALLY STEALS THAT MEMORY by making himself the one who teaches his brothers about the stars.

But, it’s Satan’s at his best, and he enjoys it thoroughly.

You and the brothers eventually doze off, and Satan wakes you up to share some private reflections.

Cute.

You realize Lucifer and Simeon are nowhere to be found, and run off to go see what they’re up to. They’re having a private moment of their own.

Simeon’s happy but sad. :(

Yeah. I’ll have more to say about this particular moment in my analysis post. There’s a noteworthy parallel at play here.

Ruh roh. I think Simeon and Michael may have suspected Diavolo played a part in pushing Lucifer away from the Celestial Realm. If given the opportunity, I sense Simeon may have tried to talk him out of this doubt.

But he isn’t given the opportunity! We pass out and the screen goes black, accompanied by some creepy heartbeats. When we come to, we’re back in reality and in the care of Luke and Mammon.

Wow you guys had an exciting time being shoved offscreen didn’t you?

They puzzle over what transpired and Luke and Mammon confess they don’t remember anything of what happened after they stepped into the fake House of Lamentation.

Furthermore...

I was correct in my theory that it was an illusion, but it seems it was the work of regular ol’ fairies and not some creepy banshee. That was a red herring, apparently. It’s even more anti-climatic than expected.

Additionally, Satan unknowingly covered himself in fairy crack before he dropped in.

My question is: how the fuck does Simeon know all this? Did he hang out with fairies once upon a time?

They decide to give up the hunt for the fairy ring and return home.

NOOOO THEY MADE LUKE CRY

If it were up to me I would have gone back and punched some fairies into submission until they forked over the ring, Luke. I’m sorry!

Of course, there’s not enough sleeper cars now that Simeon and Satan unexpectedly joined the party. Guess what they proceed to fight over!

You flex your pacts to make Mammon and Satan stop squabbling.

Are we sure Lucifer and Michael are the only angel sadists?

Simeon takes an unusual amount of delight in the suffering or discomfort of others lol

I think he’s just much better at hiding it.

Either way, it’s obvious he’s bothered by something, and after some deflection and prying he finally fesses up.

Michael and Simeon want them back BAD.

We finally get our first opportunity to get all sappy with Simeon here. 

Well I was right about which trial this was supposed to be, at least!

Luke and Mammon are on the roof squabbling about constellations again.

You’re treated to a mini-quiz about them. Have Google at the ready.

You find out there’s a constellation involving the seven brothers in the Celestial Realm, that was created (or at least named) after they fell.

They begin to theorize what the other three stars may represent. Mammon thinks it’s Michael and the stars represent his face.

Satan chimes in with a much better take.

I think Satan’s mostly right, but the stars represent Diavolo/Michael/MC specifically: the three “guardians” of their respective realms, all of whom have deep connections with the brothers.

Solomon can also count as a guardian, but I don’t feel he has the same connection with the brothers that those three have.

And it turns out this was two trials!

I completely forgot that generosity and gratitude were two of the virtues Solomon listed, so it’s not a complete copy of the seven virtues. But hey, it’s now four down and three to go!

We have eight more lessons to complete the remaining three, so we have plenty of time. But... what about the overarching plot? I was certain that something in this arc would finally jumpstart it, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.

But... maybe there was something hiding in there? I’ll go over the more important bits in my analysis post.

There’s still plenty of lore they haven’t covered re: the Celestial Realm and most of it has just been fluff. Satan’s creation remains a mystery: so far we’ve learned the Seraphim are assholes and Lucifer is overworked, but the latter is nothing new and I highly doubt that inspires enough visceral rage to make Lucifer absolutely hate his dad. We don’t know how the war unfolded and we don’t know why Simeon was demoted from his post. How things went is a big determining factor in trying to deduce Michael’s part in everything, and what he’s currently planning.

I’m hoping they get around to all the juicy bits, but I don’t know...

#obey me #obey me! #obey me lucifer #obey me simeon #obey me satan #obey me luke #obey me diavolo #obey me spoilers #obey me lesson 52 #commentary

[blackmarketmummy]

All this talk about Din needing to adopt a certain little girl from Jakku inspired me to do a quick drabble. Obviously, I got carried away, so for your own amusement and consideration: dad!Din & foundling!Rey

Warnings: brief mentions of child trafficking, family fluff

• Boba has claimed the throne on Tatooine, and Din is laying low, avoiding Bo-Katan and other responsibilities involving Mandalore and the kriffing darksaber.

• He checks in with Cara, Greef, and Peli occasionally, seeing where he can help out, as a way of thanking them for helping him in his time of need.

• Fennec cleans up house, releases slaves, and comes across a young slave girl, Rey.

• None of the ex-slaves claim her as their kid, saying she's alone, an orphan.

• Fennec asks Boba what they should do with her, and he suggests she look for Din, knowing that the girl's background might hit a little close to home with him, but also could be a chance for Din to heal after having to let Grogu go.

• Unwillingly, Din adopts her after much bribing from Boba and Fennec: "She needs a home." "You wouldn't let a little kid just live their life on Tatooine alone, would you?" "What would your clan think if you ignored this foundling?"

• When Din stops by to visit with Cara and Greef in Nevarro, he has Rey with him.

• She always sits on his shoulders holding onto his helmet. Din had her promise to never lift it up because "it's important to me, ad'ika" and left it at that, and Rey never breaks her promises. She's had others betray her when she was sold into slavery, so she always promised herself to never break her promises. Din has been her protector for a few weeks now and gained her trust quickly when she quizzed him about Mandalorians and asked, "why do you wear that shiny helmet all the time?" Learning about honor, discipline, and compassion for the widowed and orphaned that the Creed emphasized was enough for her to trust Din with her life after being abandoned and sold like property.

• Walking through Nevarro, Din and Rey cross paths with a certain general and pilots flanking her (and of course Din doesn't keep up well with who the heroes of the galaxy look like -- hell, he didn't know who Boba Fett and Luke Skywalker were until Cara and Greef explained to him they were legends that he basically has on speed-dial now).

• He recognized one of the pilots, Blue, whom he encountered on the icy planet with the Frog Lady, and hoped to avoid an awkward "mAy ThE fOrCe Be WiTh YoU" encounter again, so he tried to haul ass through town.

• However, Rey had other ideas, and wanted to tell "the nice lady general" that she liked how her hair was styled and "Din, do you think she would show me how to make my hair swirly on the sides of my head?"

• Din tried to figure out a way to gently tell Rey that "the nice lady general" was probably too busy to explain hair techniques to a six year old, but the general must have overheard their discussion and walked in their direction.

• "Hey, Mandalorian!" The pilot exclaimed happily to Din, reaching out his hand for a shake, that Din unwillingly returned.

• "Oh, General! This is the Mando I was following a while ago that I told you about. How's your ship by the way?" Smiling up at the young girl on Din's shoulders, amused, he added, "and did you have another kid since I last saw you?"

• "Destroyed," Din flatly answered, "and uh - yeah, you could say that."

• "What's your name, little one?" the general sweetly asked the girl, who suddenly became shy, fidgeting with Din's cape underneath her.

• Din picked up on Rey's bashfulness and patted her leg lightly, "it's okay, ad'ika."

• "Rey," she quietly answered, "what's yours?"

• The general smiled kindly, stretching out her hand for Rey to shake, "it's Leia, and it's a pleasure to meet you and your father," winking at Din, who felt his face blush at the mention of his paternal relationship with Rey, and embarrassed at not realizing who the general was until now (Leia knew what she was doing, she enjoyed teasing people, a trait that Han loved to point out).

• Rey giggled as she shook General Leia's hand, picking up on her teasing. It looked as if Rey made a new friend who liked teasing her buir as much as she did.

• Clearing his throat, Din prompted Rey, "isn't there something you'd like to tell the general, ad'ika?"

• "How did you make your hair look like that? Could you show me and my buir how?" she excitedly asked Leia.

• Chuckling, Leia agreed, only if her buir would allow it, to which the Mandalorian shyly obliged and replied, "only if we aren't taking up your time, ma'am."

• Leia waved her hand to shush Din, shooed away the pilots, and insisted she could spare the time.

• Humbled, Din watched as the general sat with Rey as she braided and twisted her hair, noting how she effortlessly did it, and so he could help Rey learn to eventually do it herself.

• He listened to the general talk to Rey about her own child with long black hair.

• "He can be a grump like his father, but if you met him, I think you'd teach him how to open up and enjoy life more," to which Rey giggled, "he sounds like my buir. He's quiet and grumpy, too, especially when I wake him up each morning!"

• Laughing, Leia replied, "maybe our paths will cross again and you can meet my sweet Ben."

• Din didn't miss Rey's blush at that statement and could only groan at the thought that he signed up to not only be her guardian, but would have to be the one to explain the kriffing birds and bees to her when she was older.

• Kriff, he didn't know if he could handle all of that responsibility... especially after having to experience empty-nest syndrome since Grogu was picked up by the Jedi.

• But when he came to sit down near his ad'ika once the general finished braiding and pinning Rey's hair back, he saw the young girl smile so brightly, he realized...

• As long as he could provide a better life for her -- no matter the heartache he might experience in return -- it was worth it. If she could have that innocent joy that she wholeheartedly deserved, then he did his job well. As her buir.

#the mandalorian #din djarin #with this beskar i thee wed #the mandalorian spoilers #grogu #mandalorian spoilers #the mandalorian season 2 #the mandalorion spoilers #baby yoda #rey skywalker #mandalorian au #star wars #star wars au #found family #adoption #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin fanfic #mandalorian fanfic #dad!din #foundling!rey

[dswcp]

Sequel Trilogy Companion Comics

It has been over a year since the sequel trilogy concluded, and though both other Star Wars trilogies inspired a variety of ambitious and complex spinoff comics during their heydays and wakes, the sequel trilogy has not. “The Rise of Skywalker” has not even gotten a comic adaptation -- the only SW movie to lack this honor. While Luke continued to fight his dad in newspapers and Marvel comics throughout the 80s, and Anakin kept lying to his teacher on the pages of Dark Horse and in early webcomics throughout the 00s, we haven’t heard much more, comic-wise, about Rey and Kylo’s will-they-won’t-they now in the 20s (besides the frustrating “The Rise of Kylo Ren,” which I will review soon).

The future of Star Wars -- both in terms of real-world media and fictional timeline -- is opaque to me. All upcoming projects seem to be prequels or in-between-quels, and there is an upsetting number of unresolved endings, especially for the protagonists. (Will they ever find Ezra? Are Mando and Grogu really separated forever? Will Finn become a Jedi?) So I won’t pretend to understand the lack of sequel-era comics, since I don’t understand even the higher-budget focuses of the franchise right now.

The lore-heavy Galaxy’s Edge theme park, the Star-Trek-like “Resistance” TV show, and a smattering of excellent books and short-form comics (especially the ones about Rose Tico) prove that the sequels’ setting can work just as well for spinoffs as any other era of Star Wars. But one obvious difficulty in creating more content set during the conflict between the First Order and the Resistance is the divisive, contradictory nature of the latter two films.

In fact, each of the sequel films have such distinct tones, themes, and messages, that I’ve found similar experiences reading comics set in completely different time periods. I wish there were multi-part comics with big casts and intricate themes inspired by the sequels’ settings and characters, but until then, here are three such comics that, in my opinion, could accompany each sequel film in spirit.

The Force Awakens: “TIE Fighter”

The most important thing that the sequel trilogy accomplished and that The Force Awakens established was shifting the focus to an all-new, more diverse set of characters. If the sequels had gone the route of the prequel trilogy and the EU books and comics, the story would have remained with the OT trio, their parents, their kids, and their girlfriends, almost all of whom are white.

Another intriguing premise from TFA is Finn’s stormtrooper backstory. Earlier SW movies had relied upon stormtroopers as cannon fodder, but Finn’s story humanizes them and shows that many are forced into service. This revelation complicates the violence of the OT’s Rebellion, since it is now possible that the Empire’s soldiers also had the capacity for heroism.

Like TFA, “TIE Fighter” features a cast of original characters of different races, and the story explores the humanity behind the Empire’s masks. “TIE Fighter” also shares some of TFA’s limitations: neither story can stand on its own, as they both lead so directly to a follow-up: TFA to TLJ, and “TIE Fighter” to the novel Alphabet Squadron. 

“TIE Fighter,” issue 2. Marvel. May 15, 2019. Writer: Jody Houser. Pencillers: Rogê Antônio and Josh Cassara. Letterer: Joe Caramagna. Colorists: Arif Prianto and Neeraj Menon.

The Last Jedi: “Knight Errant”

I’ve talked before about my love for this series, but I don’t think I’ve mentioned how beautifully “Knight Errant” echoes my favorite movie of the sequel trilogy (and, honestly, one of my favorite movies of all time). “Knight Errant” and TLJ are both stories with big hearts and strong messages about hope, corruption, and searching for one’s purpose in life.

The two stories share similar characters -- a lonely leading lady, a disenchanted old Jedi, an ambiguous traitor, dwindling goodguys and unstoppable badguys -- and similar settings -- a rain-soaked planet symbolizing both depression and passion, exorbitant wealth on top of abject misery, fiery flashbacks of a demolished home. They even have plot points in common, such as the parallel with Luke’s triumphant return pictured above, and heartbreaking, unexpected revelations about our hero’s family. Victory is achieved through not only bravery, but trust (sometimes misplaced) and a clever magical trick that manipulates the villain’s wild emotions.

And unlike the abrupt endings of TFA and “TIE Fighter,” both TLJ and “Knight Errant” have endings that are open yet satisfying. Though the fight is not over, your imagination can fill in the bittersweet path forward.

If you’re going to check out “Knight Errant,” which I highly recommend you do, please keep your mental health safe. There are suicidal characters and themes, though I think they are addressed in an affirming and positive way. The story shows the value of life and hope in a way that has personally helped me through a dark time, just as TLJ’s belief in the power of failure and love has also meant so much to me.

“Knight Errant: Aflame,” issue 5. Dark Horse. February 16, 2011. Writer: John Jackson Miller. Penciller: Ivan Rodriguez. Inker: Belardino Brabo. Colorist: Michael Atiyeh.

The Rise of Skywalker: “Dark Empire”

TRoS was not the first Star Wars property to resurrect the Emperor -- “Dark Empire” had already done that back in the 90s, with a bit more explanation, flair, and nudity, though not necessarily any more purpose. I already reviewed “Dark Empire” back in August; in short, I find it disappointing. But while I can’t say I’m a fan of either the comic or TRoS, I admit that all three of us share a deep and abiding fondness for the institution of the Sith, in all its goth smugness.

Between TRoS, The Mandalorian, and The Bad Batch, Star Wars seems to be leaning into evil genetic manipulation right now, which is a bit too eugenics-y for me to get into. If you’d prefer your resurrections in a more Halloween-like flavor, with a side of lovable old hag and creepy rainbows, look no further than this historical relic of a Star Wars comic.

“Dark Empire I,” trade paperback. Dark Horse. May 1, 1993. Writer: Tom Veitch. Penciller, Inker, and Colorist: Cam Kennedy. Letterer: Todd Klein.

#star wars #star wars comics #the force awakens #the last jedi #the rise of skywalker #lyttan dree #jeela brebtin #ganem kahi #zin graw #gorlan palladane #byss #luke skywalker #r2d2 #original trilogy #sw ancient history #marvel comics #dark horse comics #jody houser #rogê antônio #josh cassara #2019 #john jackson miller #ivan rodriguez #2011 #tom veitch #cam kennedy #1993 #pure jedi content #hot sith content

[maariarogers]

i’m still a little bit yours

Summary: Katsuki took the bullet for Deku and awaits Deku to wake up in Chapter 298. In the meantime, he dreams of a familiar scene from their childhood. Inspired by: This cover. You know the one. Spoiler for: Chapter 298 of the manga!

READ HERE ON AO3!

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It takes him a while to know where he is.

It takes him a while, and an instant. The water is cold, he thinks. Or maybe it’s just lukewarm. Maybe it’s nothing at all, except this wetness, pulling down on his gears and uniform. He is half-submerged in the water, sitting there like he’s - supposed to do something, but he’s forgotten what it is.

All he knows is that there is a sting. He knows it’s supposed to be his head, or his leg. That’s how he’d fallen, after all. A slip during the walk. Except this sting envelops his stomach, runs up to his chest.

Katsuki feels like he can’t breathe.

Which is - fucking ridiculous, if someone asks him. It doesn’t make a lick of sense, because it’s too damn shallow, this small river — not even a whole-ass river, really, just a creek, or a stream; a tiny body of water flowing from one end to another — and he could get up, he’s not drowning, but everything about him how he breathes, how he moves hurts.

“Are you okay?” A small voice cuts through his panic.

Katsuki turns, like he’s startled immediately into a fight and he’s ready to blast anything in his perimeter off, but he stops. Because — Deku. Deku is standing there, waddling into the stream, trying to reach to him. He’s concerned, Katsuki could tell; he could recognise that stupid fucking look anywhere. He used to hate it; used to want to spit at it, want it gone and never appear in front of him again.

He doesn’t need Deku looking at him like that, after all.

Deku’s fucking quirkless. He doesn’t have any fucking business pretending he’s any better than any of them.

But there’s also something about that look that kills any reactions he may have reserved only seconds ago.

Maybe it’s because Deku is — small. He’s, what, five years old? Four? Katsuki isn’t sure, except that Deku really is small, coming up to him right now, with that stitched-together eyebrows he does whenever he’s seriously worried. But as much as Katsuki’s startled by this appearance, he doesn’t voice it out. It almost as if, the moment he could recognise that it’s out place, whatever holds of the reality smoothens out and assured him that it’s okay.

This is normal.

Deku, too, seems unperturbed. Never mind that they were childhood friends, which meant that they grew up together. If Deku’s small, Katsuki should — by all logical explanation — be just as small, or look relatively the same age and height. Yet, even sitting down, saddled in the muddy floor of the stream, but still towering over Deku all the same, the little twerp barely blinks an eye at this change.

Apart of Katsuki feels like he’s swallowing around a rock, like he isn’t sure why he ought to be surprised that Deku doesn’t even care. To the stupid head, it probably doesn’t even matter whatever version Katsuki comes by: young, teenage, an adult. Deku would still extend that goddamn hand. Deku would still come, wanting only to help.

“Can you stand?” Deku asks him, snatching him from his deep thoughts.

Right, Katsuki thinks dumbly. It’s summer. They’ve been out playing - playing God knows what, but they’ve been out almost the whole day. Deku hadn’t shown any signs of having a quirk any time soon, his last visit to the doctor confirmed that, and he’d told Katsuki this, sniffling while Katsuki’s trying to show his latest All Might merchandise

It’s so annoying, Katsuki remembers thinking that night when Deku just kept crying — but, Katsuki also remembers that he’d let Deku cry all the same.

Even begged his Dad to make that chocolate milkshake he knew stupid Deku likes just to shut him up.

They’re friends still - sort of, during this time. Or were forced to, together, because the old hag kept nagging at him about it. But that won’t stay true for too long. Deku never really came to his house after that. Dad never made Deku another chocolate milkshake again.

Katsuki doesn’t know why recalling this suddenly hurts so much.

“Kacchan?” 

Katsuki snaps his attention to the boy again and - it’s surreal, he thinks. Deku is looking at him with that big dumb eyes, and Katsuki wants nothing more than to let Deku continue to look at him like that. Like they’re friends, like Deku knows the only person who would stick by him were Katsuki even when the world failed him. Deku looks at him like he trusts Katsuki, and it’s fucking painful, because Katsuki knows how much he’d torched that trust again and again.

His stomach, he recalls in this faraway after-thought, hurts.

“Kacchan, are you okay?” The little toddler Deku shows sign of panic. He’s coming forward still, as if they’re an ocean away, painfully wanting to help Katsuki, again and again, unfailing, and, for a moment, Katsuki catches himself just staring at the little guy.

There isn’t much else to say. Sorry, maybe. He could try with that. But as usual, his pride is too big for him to spit the apology around. His stubbornness, even stronger. Katsuki remains silent.

Deku, this small Deku whom he hasn’t hurt quite yet, makes frustrated tiny noises.

“No,” Katsuki finally says, his voice rough to his own ears. Like he hasn’t used them in a long time. Like it isn’t his at all. “Stay there.”

I don’t want you hurt, are more things he could never say. I don’t want you coming over and slip on some stupid rock and hit your head, instead. I don’t - want to hurt you more than I did. Not on my fucking watch. Not anymore.

“I can’t let Kacchan stay here on his own!” Deku insists, and his palm is open. There, for Katsuki to grasp. Katsuki finds himself staring at it, this palm, and it’s - heartbreaking, for some reason, to not see scars there. Heartbreaking only, because Katsuki has a feeling that the only reason propelling Deku forward into essentially destroying his body had been his stupid need, to be—what, how had he put it, this image of victory that Katsuki has?

To chase after Katsuki’s shadow. Or - rather, to be rid of it.

After all, being called ‘Useless’ so much, who wouldn’t push themselves to the death proving otherwise?

That’s another thing again, Katsuki considers with this hollowed-out feeling, for him to atone for, he supposes. Just another sin he wants to be cleansed off of, but knows, deep inside, that he will never.

“Take my hand, Kacchan!” Deku reaches for him. Small. He’s so small. Why would anyone want to hurt him? Why would anyone want to— “I’ll help you.”

Idiot, he thinks, feeling his chest tightened somehow. Feeling like he’ll drown where he is, even if the water isn’t nowhere near his mouth of nose. That’s what got you here in the first place.

“I’m fucking fine,” Katsuki finds himself responding, slow. Quieter than his usual tone.

The summer heat burns.

“It’s okay!” Deku tries, cheerful. Smiling. “I’ll help Kacchan anyways!”

“Why would you?” Katsuki asks suddenly, and his voice breaks near the end. His lips are quivering, despite the fact that everything inside of Katsuki wishes he’d shut the fuck up and get it together.

Little Deku is startled. He pauses in his steps. Blinks. “What does Kacchan mean?”

“I mean,” He chokes, and Katsuki can feeling something inside of him crawling up and up and up, and it’s bursting at the seams, and it’s so easy, so easy to fucking yell, because this is familiar. This is what he’s always done. This is where he always finds himself at, “Why would you fucking help me!? Every-fucking-time, Deku. Every time! I hurt you, don’t you fucking get it?! I’ve been hurting you. I pushed you down, I kicked you, I terrorised you. I made your school life a living hell!”

He’s breathing hard, and Deku is still staring at him. He is still small, but he’s not - the look that he had is gone now. He’s just - he's quiet. Confused and, maybe, Katsuki notices with this heaviness in him, even a bit scared.

“Every time,” Katsuki bites out, his voice is a balloon of anguish, and it’s seeping out from that tiny hole that he’d poked. It’s leaking out, and nothing Katsuki could do would contain it right back. “I come back, and it’s you, and I do my best to — to — to fucking destroy you, to demand you out of my life, and every time, you... you’re right there again. You’ll help me out...”

Just like that, whatever burst of a fight he has ebbs away. Katsuki kneels there, heaving. Distraught. His stomach hurts.

“Why?” He asks brokenly, looking at the water that’s passing them by near his knees. He can’t recognise the reflection he’s seeing there. It’s distorted from how much he’s moved. Katsuki thinks that image fits somehow: this jagged version of him.

This incomplete masterpiece that’s only been proven to be faulty and full of holes no matter the kind of temper he uses as a means to cover it up.

It’s all there. His shortcomings, his failure.

“Because Kacchan’s my friend, of course.” Toddler Deku sounds honest.

Katsuki looks up, and he realises his face is wet. Ah shit, he realises pathetically, but does nothing about it. He’s crying.

“I can’t be your fucking friend, stupid Deku,” He manages somehow. “Don’t you get it? I just hurt you.”

“I forgave Kacchan,” Deku says with no trace of malice at all, no trace of contempt. He’s sincere, and Katsuki knows so horribly, so hideously, that that’s true. “I forgave Kacchan a long time ago.”

Katsuki finally wipes an eye. “You shouldn’t, idiot.”

“Well, I did!” the little twerp has the audacity to look mad and that - that makes Katsuki smile somehow. Just a small one. Deku doesn’t look impressed, standing there with his babyfat-dumpling cheeks and impossibly size-of-plates eyes. “Now, let’s get Kacchan out of the water.”

Katsuki, to his surprise, finally — finally — takes Deku’s hand.

“Come on!” Little Deku is impatient. He pulls Katsuki forward. “Let’s get Kacchan out.”

“Stupid Deku.” Katsuki murmurs and then—

Then, the scene changes. They’re out of the water, and the forest is familiar. It’s still summer, Katsuki knows this somehow. And he’s tired all of a sudden. Like he’s been running all morning and night, and his body has finally had enough. It’s time to rest.

Deku is next to him, and Deku is still small. He is holding a box full of cicadas they just caught. The guy seems happy, blatantly making pleasant noises while the creatures inside the white-transparent container hops and moves.

“You’re too fucking easy to be impressed, Deku.” Katsuki says it with a grin, the one that’s a little mad. A little feral, as one of the media had called it.

Deku doesn’t seem to mind it. He hums happily, his feet scraping by the forest floor, tracking mud by the soles. “We just caught so many, Kacchan!”

Katsuki thinks he can stay here forever, just preserving this moment of quietness between them. No arguments, no heads butting. No quirks. Just a summer day with cicadas in a box, and their feet and hands dirty from climbing up trees and pushing past bushes. Deku had looked pink from the sun, and Katsuki hadn’t mind the sweat down his back, no matter if it means the old hag will nag him again for being way too high-strung and ruining his clothes.

Suddenly, there’s a grunt.

Deku turns, his eyebrows stitched together again in that stupid concerned way he has. Katsuki wants to wipe that away. This quiet moment is too short.

Deku puts a hand out and Katsuki realises he’s been clutching at his stomach with a gloved hand. The same gloved hand that’s torn and worn away around the edges. There’s even that familiar smell of burnt caramel that he knows come with each use of his power. Deku presses his open, scar-free palm above the glove. He puts a pressure.

The box of cicadas on his laps are gone.

Katsuki thinks he’s tasting blood at the roof of his mouth.

“Why’d you have to do it, Kacchan?” Deku asks him, his voice is small. Scared.

Katsuki feels like crying again. He doesn’t know why. “Because I want to, dumbass.” He says instead, gritting his teeth together, and convincing himself that there is all to it. He won’t be accepting anymore argument on the subject.

Deku, classic idiot, seems like he doesn’t care. “You’re hurt.”

“Yeah, that’s what taking the bullet usually does to the person who, you know, took the fucking bullet.” He spits, wanting to push Deku’s hand away.

Deku doesn’t answer him.

He looks so serious, so quiet, for a four year old.

Katsuki wants to cry. He wants to have that moment again. He wants to sit with Deku a little longer, and just talk about cicadas and what they’ll be doing tomorrow. Play, more like. Deku trailing behind him. Katsuki leading. But never without the other, even if one is always slightly ahead. Never without the other.

“Shut it,” Katsuki growls. “I wasn’t gonna let him kill you. You’re not gonna fucking die on me, you hear?! Like I’m gonna let your stupid ass gets handed to you just because you were fucking reckless. Said you were gonna surpass me, my ass. Was that all a fucking joke?!”

“But you could’ve—”

“Doesn’t matter.” Katsuki pants. Shit. It hurts more than it should. The adrenaline must’ve worn off. “It’s done.”

“Kacchan,” Deku calls.

“What?”

“You know I’d do it again, right?” Deku is holding his hand now. Scarred hand, this time. Right in his burnt gloves. Deku squeezes. “Every time.”

And Katsuki knows.

“Deku, don’t you fucking dare—”

Suddenly, Deku is small again. A four year old. And Katsuki, he realises he’s young too. They’re the same height, and he’s not in his uniform. Just some printed shirt and short pants. This is okay, somehow. Nothing is misplaced. Except it’s still too early, and Deku, he - he’s gonna leave.

“I have to go, Kacchan.”

“No, you don’t.” His own voice is small. Stubborn. Angry. “You don’t! Come back here, Deku!”

“Kacchan,” Deku smiles, stepping away. “It’s been really nice playing with you! I’ll treasure it forever, but I really need to go.”

“No!” Katsuki can’t let him leave. They aren’t done yet. It’s not time yet. All the cicadas they haven’t caught, all the heroes game they haven’t played. Katsuki swears he’ll be nice this time. He won’t even care that Deku’s a— “No! Deku, come back here!”

“I can’t, Kacchan.” Deku tells him. “I can’t stay.”

The path where Deku is going, it’s too bright. Katsuki doesn’t know - he isn’t sure if he can keep Deku safe if Deku steps into it. He isn’t sure if he can follow. “No! You don’t know what that place is! Your mom will be mad at you, stupid! Auntie Inko... What will you tell your mom, huh?! You’re gonna make Auntie cry?!”

“Kacchan, it’s okay,” Deku’s hand is so firm. So gentle. He pries Katsuki’s fingers off. Katsuki’s vision is glassier now. The tears are harder to control. “I won’t be long. I’ll come back, okay?”

“You won’t!” Katsuki yells, his voice is breaking in between. Why isn’t anyone else seeing this? Deku is leaving! And no one is stopping him! “If you go, you won’t! You won’t come back!”

“Kacchan...”

“Stupid! Stupid Deku!” Katsuki sobs. “I saved you! So you have to stay! You have to stay here, where I can see you! Where I can keep you safe!”

“It’s okay, Kacchan.” Deku is reassuring him. He’s crying too. Katsuki’s hands on Deku’s wrist is slipping. Deku keeps getting away. “It’s okay. Let me go.”

“No!”

Katsuki wakes up with a gasp.

Deku’s body is still on his hospital bed, and he is still not moving. Still looks like he’s barely breathing. Katsuki acknowledges that it might’ve been a bad idea after all to camp here in Deku’s ward in ICU when his own body is half-healed. Although he’d already threatened the doctors into negotiating this small deal, so - there really isn’t much he could do except pushes it through.

Still, Katsuki finds himself reaching over, buzzing for a nurse.

When an anxious one walks in, he immediately leans back in his chair and he’s - tired, he thinks. Exhausted. Katsuki wonders what time it is, but it must be late. The sky outside is dark, and the hallways are only half-lit.

The nurse looks at Deku disappointedly, perhaps wondering why she’s called when the patient hadn’t shown signs of waking up nor was the monitor displaying abnormal reading. Katsuki decides to end her suffering.

“I think my stitches are open,” he tells her.

He’s right, of course. 

An hour later, he finds himself splayed back on a bed they brought in while a doctor sews him back up. Katsuki is staring numbly at the ceiling. The night-shift doctor is clicking his tongue. “We’re not going to convince you to go to your own ward tonight, huh?”

Katsuki doesn’t even bother glaring. “I’m not leaving him,” is all he says.

“He’ll be in safe hands, Bakugou-san.” Another nurse pipes in.

“No, he won’t,” Katsuki bares his teeth then, sniping. “You don’t fucking know him, and you don’t fucking know us. I’m not leaving him, and that’s it.”

When the doctor and nurses finally leave, reluctantly leaving the bed there for him, Katsuki turns. Faces Deku. He pretends his eyes aren’t shedding a single line of tear that soaks down to the mattress. “You hear that, nerd? I’m not going fucking nowhere. So come back soon, you got it, you piece of shit? I’m right here.”

He whispers, “I’m waiting.”

The medical staff says nothing about the fact that not once has Bakugou Katsuki lets go of Midoriya Izuku’s hand the entire time.

#bakudeku #bkdk #i am here for pain only and not much else

[flutistbyday2020]

Simple Man Part I

This is a Supernatural AU, featuring an OFC (reader). The reader meets Dean in high school, and they face challenges together. They’re separated and reunite after the reader hears Dean sing a song that they wrote together.

Based on the song, “Simple Man” by Lynyrd Skynyrd, but inspired by Jensen Ackles’ version, WHICH I HIGHLY RECOMMEND LISTENING TO before reading this! If you’re a sucker like me, it’ll make you cry.

TW: angst, cussing, mentions of sex (this is probably one of THE tamest things I’ve ever written!!) May make you cry if you’re a weenie like me.

Tags at the bottom. Want to be added to my tag list? Go here.

Characters: Dean x OFC (reader), Sammy Winchester John Winchester(mentioned), Mary Winchester

Part II soon!

Word Count: 3,113

Credit for the image here.

PART I

Dean Winchester remembers his fourth birthday like it was only yesterday. On said birthday, Mary Winchester, belly swollen with Dean’s little brother, patted the couch beside her.

“Come here, baby,” she had said.

Dean can still remember how pretty his momma looked with a baby in her tummy. He padded over to here, and less-than-gracefully clambered onto the couch. Mary pulled him into her lap, cradling him close. Dean was careful not to hurt his momma.

“I want to talk to you before your little brother is born, Dean. I want you to know that your daddy and I will always love you and that nothing will ever change that, okay?”

Dean nodded. “Okay, momma.”

Mary smiled down at her son. “Pay attention, Dean. This is important.” When she knew she had Dean’s attention, she continued. “I want you to promise me when you’re older, you’ll find someone to love as much as I love your daddy.”

Dean looked up at his mom, hanging on to every word.

“You’ll have troubles, but they won’t last, okay? There’s more to life than money, Dean. Remember to pray. Remember to never take anything for granted, and never be greedy for money. Be a simple man, Dean, and you’ll never want.”

Dean Winchester would never forget the speech his mom gave him.

Dean was three months shy of five when his mother died in a fire. She sacrificed herself to save his little brother, Sammy.

“Take your brother and run Dean!” she yelled at her eldest son, and that’s what he did. He didn’t stop until he was three houses down.

Mary Winchester was dead before the firefighters arrived.

Dean crawled into the crib that a local church had provided for Sammy that night. He bit John when he tried to remove Dean.

“I gotta protect him, Daddy!” Dean screamed at his father. John never tried to pull Dean from Sammy’s crib after that.

John remembers Sammy’s first word—he was nine months old, playing with his older brother. The word spilled out of Sammy’s chubby-cheeked smile quickly, almost like he’d said it a hundred times. Sammy reached over and tugged on his brother’s shirt.

“Bean,” Sammy said.

Sure, it hurt John to not be Sammy’s first word, but the love in Dean’s eyes as he scooped up his brother made John smile.

Dean Winchester cried on his first day of school—not because he was scared, but because he didn’t want to be separated from Sammy. He had just learned to walk, and Dean always watched Sammy like a hawk, picking him up and encouraging him to try again when he fell.

Sammy loved following his big brother everywhere and didn’t understand why he couldn’t stay with Dean. “Bean?” he’d ask his brother.

“I don’t want to go, Daddy,” Dean protested, alligator tears streaming down his face. John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I know, Dean. But you have to go to school.” John’s voice was reserved. He’d had this fight every day since he told Dean about kindergarten.

Dean held Sammy closer to his chest, turning so his back was to his father, acting more like a twenty-five-year-old than a five-year-old. “Who will watch him while I’m at school?”

“I will, Dean.”

Dean couldn’t help but roll his eyes, once again acting twenty years older than he was.

John had no interest in being a father. A cool uncle, maybe.

Dean was the primary caretaker of Sammy—fed him, changed him, bathed him.

John provided housing, clothing, and food.

Dean’s teacher came over and knelt to his eye level.

“It’s okay to be scared, Dean,” she said. “Your brother will be fine without you. You’ll be home before you know it.” Her smile was warm and Dean almost felt better. He handed Sammy over to his father and took Miss. Lenhard’s hand. She guided Dean to his seat, but the boy didn’t take his eyes off his father and brother until they were out of sight.

After Dean started school, something changed in John, and his depression began eating him alive. He could barely be bothered to make sure there was enough food on the table, let alone wake up in time to take Dean to school. John didn’t know or care that Dean’s shoes had holes in them, or that Dean’s jacket was tight around the shoulders, or that the onesies were getting too small on Sammy.

John only cared about numbing the pain in his heart with liquor.

So Dean took it upon himself to be a father. He learned how to pickpocket at six—he never once got caught—and used the money to buy shoes, food, and clothes.

His dad taught him how to play and hustle billiards when he was seven. Dean was a natural. It was one of the last times Dean saw a glimpse of the father he remembered.

He’d used the money he won hustling for food, clothes, and even helped his dad pay some bills. Dean never told his father how he and Sammy always managed to have new clothes, but John didn’t care.

When Dean was nine, he held Sammy’s hand until his little brother pulled away from him to meet his classmates. For the first time in four years, he felt at ease. Two meals a day and he didn’t have to worry about his dad neglecting Sammy.

One day, John dropped them off and Dean heard a teacher say, “Good Lord, look how filthy those boys are!” The first thing Dean felt wasn’t anger at his dad for letting them leave the house like that, but fear that he’d be taken from his dad, and therefore, Sammy.

So, Dean got himself and Sammy ready every day— he took his dad’s alarm clock to his room and set it for 6:50 AM— dressed, then got Sammy ready, fed them both breakfast, and woke his dad up to drive them to school. He did this five days a week until Sammy could wake up himself, but he still made breakfast and made sure they were presentable for school so that they wouldn’t be taken away from John and separated.

Dean took shears to Sammy’s hair in an attempt to tame it and he did okay. Dean got better at it over the years, and once Sammy was old enough to cut Dean’s hair, he got good at it, too.

When Dean Winchester was 15, he got his first job and could put food on the table—legally, at least. He got hired on as a mechanic at a local shop. The only time John had paid him any attention as a child was when they worked on the Impala, so Dean was good with cars.

He had been taking care of Sammy for 11 years and thought he was doing amazing, thank you. He was happy. He didn’t take anything for granted like his mom had made him promise.

So when Y/N walked into his life at 16, he was unprepared for how much he had to learn.

******

It was your first day at Lawrence High, and you were nervous. You had transferred from a small town called Arlington, Kansas. Your class had been all of 20 people whom you’d grown up with your entire life, and you didn’t know how to feel about being dropped into a school full of strangers. You were 16, in your second semester of junior year, a band geek, and totally lost.

You groaned, looking over your schedule—homeroom was in five minutes and you had no idea where to go. You turned, desperately searching for clues as to where to go when a wall of a boy ran into you.

You went down in a tangle of limbs and backpacks.

“Oops, I’m sorry—”

“My bad—”

Both of you tripped over your words as he picked himself off the ground. You rolled over to your backside and sat up.

“It’s okay,” you said, shaking your head and smiling. “I wasn’t really paying attention.”

He offered you his hand, and you took it gratefully.

“Thanks.”

You looked up at him—he had to be almost six foot. He was well built for his age, and even though he was on the skinnier side, you could still see his muscles. His eyes were bright green, and freckles danced on his face. His smile was killer, too.

“So, where ya headed?” He asked as he situated his backpack on his shoulder.

You shook your head. “I don’t really know. It’s my first day and I’m lost.”

The boy chuckled. It wasn’t a mean sound, more like amused. “Who’s your homeroom teacher?”

You shoved your schedule into his hands and he examined it. His face lit up, and you couldn’t help but smile at his excitement. “Mrs. Lanning. Me, too. Let’s go!”

He tugged on your hand and took off running. You laughed as you tried to keep up with him—he was almost a full foot taller than you. You kept up, though. You were both out of breath by the time you reached room 207.

The two of you darted into the classroom just before the bell rang.

“Just in time,” he grinned.

You shook your head but returned the grin.

He made a point of sitting near the back and placing his backpack on the empty seat next to him while you approached the teacher to introduce yourself.

Mrs. Lanning smiled brightly as she signed a piece of paper indicating you showed up for class. “It’s great to have you, dear.”

You returned the smile. “Thanks.”

You awkwardly made your way to the back of the classroom and sat at the desk with the boy’s backpack.

“I’m Dean, by the way.”

You didn’t hear him right and you knew it. “Bean?” you asked with a teasing smile.

You could see the wheels turn in his head. He was sad for half a second, but the mood was fleeting. He shook his head and returned his own cheeky smile.

“Dean,” he repeated, emphasizing the D. “Dean Winchester.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Y/N Y/L/N.”

Mrs. Lanning shushed the class and you tried to pay attention, but you felt two green eyes boring into you for the entire period, making it hard to concentrate.

When the bell finally rang, you looked at your schedule again. Math was next, room 412. You groaned.

You stood and gathered your things, noticing that a certain someone was waiting for you. He looked relaxed and at ease with his body, things you were definitely not.

“Where’s your next class?”

“Math with Mr. Alan.”

Dean smiled again. “Me, too.”

You laughed, calling after him as you left the classroom, “Come on, Bean.”

You and Dean got along great. You had three out of seven classes a day together—four out of eight on days with homeroom—and he lived just down the block from you, so he offered to drive you to and from school every day.

Dean teased you relentlessly about being a band geek, but when you started dishing it back about him being a jock—a football player—he dialed it back just a little. Sammy took to you immediately—you bonded over nerdy things like math and history, making Dean roll his eyes. Sam listened to you and soon gave you just as much affection as his brother. You quickly became the mother figure he had to grow up without.

You helped Sam—and Dean—with their homework, helped Dean come up with age-appropriate punishments for Sam when he misbehaved (he was only twelve, regardless of how mature he acted), and taught Dean how to cook something besides meals that came in a box. You even taught Sam and Dean how to cut their hair in a more age-appropriate style.

You didn’t think twice about taking Sam and Dean in—you loved and trusted them both with your life after just one afternoon. It was second nature for you to want to care for them, and boy, did they need you.

Dean Winchester had known you all of three weeks before he knew he loved you.

Dean was careful not to take you home. He didn’t want John seeing you, talking to you… Or scaring you away. He didn’t want you to see the dark, dirty secrets of his life. He worked really hard to make sure that nobody saw what happened behind closed doors. And he wasn’t about to let you see.

Your mom was a nurse who works nights, so you and Dean were in the same boat. Your mom wasn’t absent, though, just busy.

Dean and Sammy spent a lot of time at your house when Dean wasn’t at work. They came over after school and did homework, you would make dinner for them and your mother, and you and Dean would sit down at the piano after dinner was put away and homework was finished. You would play, Dean would try to play, but the two of you sang together.

While you could play the piano, Dean could play the guitar. He loved singing with you—your voices complemented each other. Sammy would always stop whatever he was doing to listen to you sing.

One day, Dean came over with a notebook full of empty sheet music and asked for a pencil.

“Sit at the piano, would ya?” he asked, not even paying attention to you.

“Would it kill you to use manners?” you joked as you sat at the piano bench.

Dean looked up at you and gave you a cheeky smile. “Please?”

You rolled your eyes but turned to the keys. “What am I doing?”

“We are writing a song.”

“Oh, really, now?”

Dean nodded. “You have a better ear than I do, so I’ll sing a note and you’ll match it.”

“And what’s the name of this song?”

A blush crept over Dean’s face.

“I don’t have a name yet, just a few words.”

“Okay. What are they? Start singing, Winchester,” you mock ordered.

He sat down next to you, notebook in hand.

He began strumming his guitar, and the chords pulled on your heartstrings. The words were achingly beautiful, too. He began to sing, a beautiful tenor, almost bass voice coming from the boy who was on the cusp of being a man. You could tell he was trying to keep his emotions in check as he sang, his voice wavering occasionally. He got through two verses before he had to stop.

“Oh, take your time, don't live too fast

Troubles will come and they will pass

You'll find a woman, yeah, and you'll find love

And don't forget son, there is someone up above"

“And be a simple kind of man

“Be someone you love and understand

“Baby, be a simple kind of man

“Won’t you do this for me, if you can”

The words tore at your soul. You didn’t have to pry to know that song was about his late mother.

You easily matched the pitches and rhythms of his tune and helped him write it down. By the end of the day, you only had one verse done, but you could tell Dean had poured his heart into this song. That was the day things changed for you.

Dean, sitting there, writing a song about his mother, was the tipping point in your relationship with him. It was that day you knew you loved Dean Winchester and would never love another man as much as him.

Eventually, Dean started spending less time with you. You felt hurt and upset, wondering what you did for him to pull back. When you confronted him, you were not prepared for his response.

“I’ll tell you after school,” he said. He looked up at you and his green eyes were dark with grief. You pulled him into a hug and waited for him to hug you back. He squeezed you eventually and you let go.

That day after school, you were anxiously waiting with Sammy in ‘your spot’ that you and Dean had claimed. When Sammy spotted Dean, he ran over and hugged him. It was odd for a 12-year-old to show so much affection, especially to another male, but you just figured that they were really close.

You offered your hand to Dean platonically. You found comfort in his warmth, and he found comfort in your friendship. The three of you started walking towards Dean’s car.

“It’s not gonna be easy for me to tell you this,” he said quietly. “I’m only telling you because I trust you. And if you tell anyone, I swear—”

“I won’t tell anyone,” you promised quietly.

Dean nodded as he looked at Sammy.

“My dad, uh… well, when Sammy was a baby, my mom died. My dad tried really hard to keep himself together… And he did. For a little while.”

Dean started the car and pulled out of the parking lot.

You didn’t say anything.

“But when I started kindergarten, something changed. I mean, I guess I always took care of Sammy. I changed his diapers and fed him when Dad was at work, but when Dad came home he would help. When I started kindergarten, he stopped caring. I had to learn how to fend for myself. And Sammy.“

Your heart broke. You looked over at Dean, tears threatening to spill. Dean glanced at you briefly and you could see that he had tears of his own. You reached out and squeezed his shoulder.

“I did OK. I really did. But Dad‘s been acting really weird lately and… He’s not working as much as he used to. I got a job a few months ago and it helps, but my dad takes my paycheck and buys liquor instead of food. I got into a fight with him a few days ago about it and he left. Haven’t seen him since.”

You gasped.

“How long?” You asked quietly.

“Three days,” Sam answered vehemently.

You turned and looked at Sammy. No tears in his eyes, just hate. You looked at Dean again, and his face had hardened.

“Oh, Bean,” you whispered.

“Is it wrong that a part of me wishes he would leave us alone for good?”

You didn’t have an answer. The rest of the car ride was silent. He had just delivered such an emotional blow and you were reeling. Your head hurt a little. When Dean pulled up to your house, you looked over at him, then at Sammy.

“If you need anything,” you started. Dean just nodded. You made eye contact with Sammy and he just gave you a tight smile.

Your heart was heavy when you fell asleep that night.

PERMA//FOREVER

@kingliam2019

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#dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #dean winchester #supernatural dean x reader #spn dean winchester #spn dean x reader #supernatural reader insert #spn reader insert #spn au #supernatural au #flutistbyday

[terrifictrauma]

How can we let her die?

Shivering, I sat crunched over as the doctor gave me my epidural.  Nothing felt warm despite the warm blanket draped on my legs.  I had my headphones on, playing inspirational music.  I compiled the playlist for months, in the hopes it would help the situation.  I remember her saying, “Just breathe and relax.  Your baby girl will be here very soon.”  I was fighting back the waves of tears.  Tears may be made of water, but I felt flames.  I was consumed with fear and all of it was ignited by this place.  Hospitals, sterile tools, monitors, and the smells of bleach ignited the dread in my heart.

Let’s rewind.  Around three months before this day, I was walking around the county fair with my parents and my five year old daughter from my previous marriage.  My husband was out of town and things had been stressful.  I was trying to give her some good kid fun in the chaos that was our life.  She was riding the rides with my mom as my dad and I spoke about livestock and nonsense.  I had a difficult pregnancy up until this point and was enjoying feeling pretty good for once.  

I had lost my son in the second trimester that January and was gifted my rainbow two weeks later.  Was I stressed? Sure I was, but my grieving was numbed by the excitement of my new baby girl, Naomi.  

As we walked I started feeling sharp pains.  I couldn’t stop them, sit them off, nor drink enough water.  My dad drove me quickly to the local hospital.  I knocked on the door with hope for some relief and was met with, “We can’t help you here.  You need to go to the next hospital over.”  It was my hometown hospital, where I was born 29 years before.  After a sonogram,  I found out that night that my amniotic fluid levels were low.  I had a follow up the next week with my OB.  I was expecting the small and crass little man to tell me I was dehydrated or something.  Then, he urged me to go to a bigger hospital with my high risk OB.  I have type one diabetes.  That lovely autoimmune came to me in college, and gave me my high-risk status.  Anyways, my husband rushed me to the bigger hospital.  If the county fair and livestock talk wasn’t a give away, I’m from a very rural community.  The bigger hospital was five hours away.  We drove on nerves.  We were unsure of our condition, and discussed how everything would be okay, as we drove.

Everything was not okay.  

There, the high risk doc told me they have saved younger babies.  I was given steroids for her lungs, and was expecting her to come then.  My fluid kept getting lower and lower.  My preterm labor was stopped and I was sent home for another follow up with him the next Monday.  

After the sonogram, “The good news is there’s dialysis and kidney transplant available in pediatrics.” Wait, what??  “Your daughter’s kidneys are enlarged and echogenic.  They aren’t making urine.  That is why your fluid is basically gone. I’m referring you to the Children’s hospital.  I have a college buddy that works there, and it’s closer to you.” I recall him telling me of the will of a mother.  He had another patient, whom he was for sure the baby was going to die, and the mother refused to believe it.  The baby lived, even though it was a complicated and trying go.  This was not the story I wanted to hear.  Those were not calming details to learn about my unborn gift.

I was teaching at the time.  I had finally got back into the classroom after moving back to this area, my childhood community, after a rough divorce and a new and wonderful remarriage.  I had finally somewhat escaped my ex and was surrounded with the love and support of nearly all of my family.  Teaching is my heart, my calling.  Have you ever loved something so much that you can’t think of doing anything else?  That was me.  Education excited me.  I loved planning lessons, decorating my room, watching kiddos learn and grow, and I even enjoyed parent teacher conferences.  At the time of the relocation, it seemed that everything was looking up and things were starting to settle in my life...even after the miscarriage.  My custody battle was long and ugly.  Even though that portion of my life wasn’t over, I felt as though there was an end in sight...away from him.  More on that later.  

I drove back to my classroom after the devastating news. I drove in silence; my mind wondering and my heart pounding. I remembered the day I lost my son, Huck, as we named him. I woke up the night it happened with spotting.  I called my OB and she said it would be fine.  She said all the normal things you say to a pregnant chick.  “Drink water, rest, and put your feet up.” I went back to bed after obediently listening.  3 am came with agonizing cramps.  I looked down at the sheets to a puddle of red.  It was a warm coldness that I will never forget.  I looked at my sleeping husband for a second.  Should I wake him?  He looked so sweet and was so exhausted from work. That choice was no longer a choice.  He came to me as I ran to the bathroom, terrified.  Luke, my new love, was staring down at me after calling the hospital.  I told him I didn’t want to go.  I wanted to stay on that tiny bathroom floor forever.  I looked down at my son.  He was so tiny and so perfect.  My hands were red and so was everything.  The bleeding didn’t stop; it wouldn’t.  I didn’t want to leave my lifeless baby, so I put him in a container and we left.  I left him, and it was unbearable.  I had to have emergency surgery that night, a ride in an ambulance to the “bigger hospital,” and a blood transfusion.  The doctor said they nearly lost me, but I felt alone in the wilderness anyway.  Losing a child is a desolate and unexplainable experience.   

We buried our son between our newly planted apple trees.  I thought of those trees in the car. So little...perfectly designed. They had cute little leaves at that time and they were anchored down in the soil next to my garden. They were so petite and yet so full of life.  The irony was too much. 

 That seemed like the longest drive of my life, and I drove a lot in those days.  But like I said, more on that later.  

  It was a catholic school, that I taught at, and after arrival I wobbled in and I told the head mistress what the doctor said and immediately went to the church.  There was no way I could continue with my lessons for the day.  My daughter was in my class.  She saw me in the hallway, and I could see the joy leaving her face.  It was replaced with worry and that made me sick.  I told her mommy was fine, but she knew I wasn’t.   A sweet lady that volunteered at the school followed me.  She tried to comfort me, without knowing me...not really knowing me.  I cried and cried to Jesus.  I was angry, terrified, and anxious.  I recall the altar of the church and how beautiful it was.  I was pissed.  How can this altar be so beautiful, and my unborn baby be marked with some unknown disease?  I know that is a strange comparison, but it truly was agonizing.  My baby was beautiful to me. I had seen her many times in the sonogram. I had felt her wiggles so much, her hiccups, and her kicks.  I adored her as much as I adored the God that lived in that church.  She was from Him, so I had to refocus my thoughts away from despair.  I couldn’t though.  I couldn’t pray it off, kneel it away, or cry to him and receive respite.

  I left the church feeling alone and helpless.  This was a feeling I would feel all too often in my very near future.  

I had an MRI scheduled at the “closer Children’s hospital”.  My husband and I were a wreck.  Our bond grew stronger as our hearts grew weaker.  I had prayed for the intercession of a Saint that provides roses, in times of distress, the days before. I had prayed for my roses to tell me everything would be okay.  I had the MRI and as we walked to the room where we were given the diagnosis I saw beautiful roses on the nurse station desk.  I didn’t think anything of it. I had forgot about my prayers with all the stress of the situation. Little did I know that those roses would change my life.

Once again, I was sitting on a hospital bed getting another sonogram.  I looked at my sweet baby and could see her abdomen was completely full of something fuzzy...her kidneys.  The tech left the room without saying anything.  I could see her expression.  I knew something was gravely wrong before I walked in there, but I wanted her to give me rest.  What seemed like forever later a geneticist arrived.  He was a man about my age, tall and slender.  He was so put together.  He seemed so calm and collected as he told me our daughter had autosomal recessive polycystic kidney disease, and both Luke and I were carriers that’s how she got it.  He said we can get tested, and test for other deformations and genetic diseases.  He mentioned that most parents abort these babies.  He was calm and expressionless.  It was too easy for him.  It was his job, and that was science.  Then he left.  

We were moved to a room full of doctors.  Pediatricians, a nephrologist, a counselor, nurses, my new high risk OB..”the college friend,” and others were in attendance.  Most of it is a blur to me now, but I remember the nephrologist saying, “We like a challenge but she will probably not live more than a few hours to a few days. There is a one percent chance for survivability. If she lives, she will face more challenges than dialysis.  She has underdeveloped lungs and will probably get multiple infections, and will suffer her whole life more than likely.”  The pediatrician said, “We can terminate, or just let her go after she is born.  No one will judge you morally, religiously, personally..” etc.  They kept asking us if we had questions.  Our only question was, “How long do we have with her?”  They had answered it, and we just wanted to leave.  

Another long drive back home as Luke and I fought the idea of letting her die right after coming into the world.  How can we let our baby just die without giving her a chance? I remembered seeing the roses.  Those beautiful roses.  As we were driving we saw a pro-life sign with an infant on it.  It said, “choose life.”  We determined then and there that we would fight for her as long as she was willing to fight too, and that began this story. 

I continued to work after the diagnosis.  Sweetly smiling and teaching through my agony. I would mutter words of hope and faith to others that asked, even though I rarely felt those feelings.  I would look onto the faces of my students and want to cry, because my little girl would never have a sweet smiling teacher.  She would never learn to count, or read, or have the joy of watching the class butterflies hatch from their chrysalises. Everything was melancholic.  All my thoughts were consumed with comparisons to how my perfect little girl was not perfect, and that she would never experience the life that I was then just floating in. 

Then, one day, as I was giving a lesson on the alphabet, I felt those all too common cramps and pains.  They gained aggression and so I drove myself to the emergency room once again.  I was in preterm labor again, and they flew me to the Children’s hospital to a room next to the “diagnosis room” I had been at weeks before.  I was given many drugs on the flight to fight the pain and to hold off the inevitable.  I awoke in my new bed to another doctor saying, “You know there is a zero percent chance this baby will live, right? I just need to be realistic with you.” My husband told him to get out, and I fought off the delivery all night.  My labs came in and I was having a cardiac emergency.  They said my triglycerides were high and I was ambulanced to the the hospital “just for adults.”  The reason for my elevated levels was never fully diagnosed.  I remember one cardiologist saying it was “broken heart syndrome.”  They wanted me to do another test, but it would effect Naomi’s kidneys, so I said no.  There was no way I was going to hurt her little body anymore than nature was already doing. 

  I was hospitalized and on bedrest for most of the third trimester because I kept going into labor.  My body knew. It was trying to get the diseased baby out.  Yet, we fought.  Everyday they monitored me and the baby.  As I stayed there by myself I capsized into myself.  I tried to stay positive, and appeared to be on the outside, but that trauma was so much, I still haven’t gotten over it.  I longed to be home, fat and happy, while my husband doted on my pregnant body.  I wanted the experience to be with him and my daughter at home, and to be normal. I imagined taking pictures in front of the mirror and posting them on social media with comments like, “36 weeks and feeling good.” But, that wasn’t our story. This was not a fairytale.  I drew a picture of an inmate behind bars, and marked the days I stayed there until they decided to do a C-section.  I wasn’t allowed a delivery because of all the complicated aspects of the pregnancy; and there were quite a few. 

 The birthdate was chosen. October 1. I came to find out weeks after the birth that this was the feast day of St. Therese(The intercessory rose Saint). This was the day Naomi Grace was to be born and the day she was to die. 

 Now back to the surgery table. Crying as my legs went numb. I was feeling no comfort.  The only other surgery experience I had was after I lost my other baby, and here I was about to birth another baby that was probably going to die.  I knew I would probably only hold her after she had passed, or as she took her last breath.  I had months to fear and grieve the loss of those precious moments; breastfeeding in the silence of her nursery she would never see, kissing her cheeks as she whimpered for me in the wee hours of the morning, changing wet diapers I had carefully washed and put away in her drawers in anticipation of her arrival months before.  I had already told myself that I wouldn’t get those experiences, and now her birth was even more hideous to me.  There was no joy, and no excitement, and no happiness.  I was terrified once again.  

I heard her cries and they let me look at her, very briefly.  She was irregularly swollen.  I had a five year old daughter, so I knew what newborns were supposed to look like.  I battled wanting to hold her, but they swept her away.  I told myself it was probably better that way.  I wouldn’t have to listen to her gasp for air, or see the light leave her eyes.  My husband, my rock, left me there too.  He watched as they got her ready for her fight.  And I....I laid there crying helplessly with so much exasperation that I thought I could die too.  The typical exhilaration that comes after having a baby wasn’t there.  The relief from successfully carrying a baby for nearly ten months, and bringing them into the world to start their beautiful story, wasn’t there. I felt completely alone in that moment.  Then, my headphones started playing a song about a phoenix, and I closed my eyes, sighed, and prayed.  

#arpkd naomistrong infantloss miscarriage St.Therese dialysis sonogram pray

[drwcn]

I can’t wait for more of your discordance au, I’m a sucker for angsty wangxian! I’m actually really curious about what’s going on with Lan Xichen the whole time he’s gone. Is he recovering for all that time or is there some political plot he needs to take care of? I saw that courtesan Meng Yao tag too which makes me even more intrigued 👀👀👀

Awww you guys >:) Thank you so much for the encouragement. 

Unfortunately, Xichen and Huaisang are not a pair. The hidden agenda of this fic is xiyao (lol sorrah), and I know people tend to feel either YAY or NAY about xiyao so I’ve totally separated the wangixan and xiyao part. You can read one without the other and it wouldn’t make much of a difference at all. At best Meng Yao is mentioned in end of the later wangxian parts once or twice. 

I love Xiyao because I think it’s full of possibilities. Obviously canon!xiyao is tragic and problematic af, but this is an au, so... I do ...what I...want? Meng Yao in this au is his own worst nightmare - a courtesan, and Zewu-jun is the handsome polite gentlemanly amnesiac he saves. 

Below cut are more reasons why Lan Qiren longs for the sweet release of an early qi deviation (arc synopsis of lan xichen & meng yao’s half of the story). 

Lan Xichen’s Arc: where politics turned deadly.

Well, just because Wen Ruohan isn’t a thing doesn’t meant the Yin Irons aren’t a thing. Is there political bullshit waiting to happen? Absolutely. Except our protagonists are proactive this time. 

For months, both Qinghe and Gusu have been getting reports of strange sightings along their Lanling borders. NMJ and LXC have been investigating, and they suspect that JGS may have had something to do with it. Prior to Lan Xichen’s disappearance, he was getting close to finding out the truth. 

What happened was this: 

Xue Yang (who will exist solely in other people’s narration) had killed the Changs and taken a piece of the Yin Iron. Upon capture, XXC and SL (both alive and well and doing their own thing) delivered him to the Chief Cultivator, thinking justice has been served. (Lol. no.). Once JGS got his hands on one of those, he began to plan world domination bad things with it and shit started acting fucky right away, eliciting the suspicion and subsequent investigations of the Lans and Nies. 

Jin Guangshan does wonder how his secrets are being leaked, but he doesn’t get to find out until the end. 

Lan Xichen, on his part, is fairly sure of what’s been causing the appearances of these so called “fierce corpses”. He knows about Lan Yi’s barrier in the Cold Cave, and suspects someone has gotten their hands on a piece of the Yin Iron. Both he and Nie Mingjue suspect Jin Guangshan, and have been quietly collecting proof. 

Jin Guangshan, not about to be defeated so easily, sets up a trap and ambushes Lan Xichen during one of his investigations. LXC was in “plain clothes” as part of the investigation, because it’s dumb to go around investigating dressed as the Sect Leader of Gusu Lan, but during the ambush, Lan Xichen loses Liebing and Shuoyue in the process.  The only thing he has on him is Shuoyue’s sheath when he is found by Meng Yao. 

When Lan Xichen wakes up, he doesn’t remember anything or who he is. He sees a pretty young man who introduces himself as Lianfang. Lan Xichen was wearing blue when he was found, so “Liangfang” calls hims A-Lan. 

Meng Yao’s tragic back story that’s actually tragic:

The bullshit - er, the story - as always, starts with Meng Yao getting kicked down the steps at Jinlintai by his Ho™ of a dad Jin Guangshan. In this universe, Jin Guangshan isn’t just a rich powerful Sect Leader, but also the Chief Cultivator. If anything, he has more reason than ever to make sure Meng Yao isn’t around to besmirch his good name (not that he has any good name to bismirch).

Claiming Meng Yao to be a liar, Jin Guangshan ordered his goons to have Meng Yao “taken care of”, but before that could happen, Madam Jin had come out to see what was the commotion. This was Zixuan’s birthday celebration after all, everything had to be perfect. 

What she saw certainly enraged her, but her husband was about to kill a boy, possibly his own son, spill blood on their son’s day of birth celebration. Such cosmic bad karma she couldn’t possibly accept. “You don’t have to kill him, you absolute buffoon, just make sure he never comes back here!” 

She meant buy his silence with money but Jin Guangshan had a more permanent solution.

Before the day’s out, Meng Yao was sold to a brothel, and was told “that’s where you belong”.  Once, perhaps, he had dreamed about gaining the love of his father, but no longer. Now he simply wants his father ruined and dismembered. 

But first he has to live. 

The madam of the brothel had a keen eye for “good merchandise”, and one good look at young Meng Yao with those big eyes, delicate frame and dimples and she knew she could make big bucks off of him. 

(And before anyone asks how old MY is here, the answer is: young. One of the many reasons why I would personally like to volunteer to stab JGS until it looks like he’s been cursed with the Thousand Holes Curse.) 

The first couple of years were decidedly grim for MY. He was kept away from customers (mercifully), but he was a brutally trained in the art of dance and music. They kept him fed enough to dance but not too much to “ruin his figure”. His instructors quickly found that the youth was a quick study and got up no matter how many times he was trampled on (literally and metaphorically). It was no secret that life was gruesome, but Meng Yao survived. Meng Yao made his debut. Meng Yao became famous.

The establishment where he made his debut renamed him Lianfang - to collect/gather fragrance - and so from then on, he became Lianfang-gongzi. Soon, his art (and other stuff) caught the eye of an obliging patron who purchased him from the madam. 

The patron, by all accounts, was a brute of man who had more appreciation for the liquor in his cup than the arts, but he was a cultivator, wealthy enough, connected to many other cultivator gentry familiues, and most importantly, led a subsidiary clan of the Chief Cultivator. As his prized courtesan and dancer, Meng Yao served at his whim, entertained at his parties and made happy his friends, all of whom were practicing cultivators or at the very least connected to the cultivation realm. 

Our evil gremlin would not be our evil gremlin if he didn’t make the best of every situation. Meng Yao quickly discovered that not only was he particularly talented at getting people to divulge information to him, but that men were significantly uninhibited after sex and alcohol. Armed with a sweet face, an eidetic memory, and a hate inside him that longed to see Jin Guangshan severed limp by limp, he began his revenge plot. 

(Here, I took inspiration from Nirvana in Fire’s character Princess Xuanji of the fallen Hua kingdom who was sold into servitude but established Hong’xiu’zhao, a spy network of girls/women who either worked as courtesans or secondary spouses of noblemen. Her goal was to create chaos and dissension within the royal court and government, like mites eating away at a large tree from within.) 

Meng Yao amassed an enormous amount of intels on gentry families and evidences of the many underhanded conducts of the Chief Cultivator himself. He did this through his own work and through the other women working in his network, all of whom have been wrongfully aggrieved in some way. He promised them that one day he would help them to freedom. 

For five years he’s been collecting secrets of gentry families, and had been stirring discord for three, weakening their cohesiveness, and using their growing animosity to weaken Jin Guangshan’s control on his subordinates. Naturally, Meng Yao heard about Xue Yang and the Yin Iron. It was also him who had been drawing attention to it for the other major sects. 

Meng Yao doesn’t know Lan Xichen is the Sect Master of Gusu Lan, but he has no interest in hurting a man from nowhere. “You can stay here with me until you are better. After that, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to be on your way.”

Physically Lan Xichen recovered quickly, but when it was clear his memories wouldn’t be coming back, Meng Yao allowed him to stay. 

The rest, as they say, is history. 

~

Meng Yao has been Lianfang, been the famed courtesan, for longer than he cares to remember. He’s been had, used, and passed around by so many men that their faces are just blurried sillouettes in his memory. And yet, he’s never felt for a moment that he belonged to any of them, not even his patron, who possessed his contract and could resell him back to a lesser establishment and ruin him in a heartbeat. 

But when A-Lan held him in his eyes, warm and dark like a summer’s night, without judgement or expectations, only gentle sweetness and a fond regard, Meng Yao could almost pretend he was just A-Yao, the name whispered reverently by those soft lips. The hand that held his moved to stroke his cheek, almost shy, and Meng Yao realized with a fearful pang that if this man from nowhere with nothing were to ask, Meng Yao could most definitely become his. 

The thought scared him more than he was willing to admit. 

~

The message delivered by the pigeon was clear. Meng Yao crumbled the slip of paper in his hand, then set it aflame in the candlelight. 

The man who’s been living with him for the past four months, who he knew as A-Lan, who he trusted enough to take to bed, was the Sect Master of Gusu Lan: Lan Huan, Lan Xichen.

Zewu-jun.  

Everyone, even a non-cultivator such as himself, has heard of Gusu’s Wei Wuxian, Lan Xichen’s young widower, left alone after not even six months of marriage. 

But if even he wasn’t married, Lan Xichen could never accept him as he was, no matter now much his personal desire wanted him. 

His hands shook. He balled them into fists. 

Meng Yao should’ve known... he should’ve known it was too good to be true. 

No matter, he told himself. This too, is an opportunity, perhaps the only one I will ever have. I will use it to destroy Jin Guangshan once and for all. 

~

Lan Xichen made his way to the window, and gazed out into the courtyard where A-Yao was reading under the willow tree. 

You should go home, a voice inside him said. Go home to relief Wangji of his burden, to release Wuxian from his mourning. Go back to the seat of Sect Master and the responsibilities waiting for you. 

One more day, another voice fought back. Just one more day. 

He doesn’t leave for another month. 

#the untamed #cql #xiyao #lan xichen #meng yao #jin guangyao #discau #discordance #xiyao fic #corie replies #Anonymous #what were you going for five months xichen lqr is going to ask #nothing uncle most definitely wasn't sleeping with a courtesan or anything of that kind uncle #nothing to worry about uncle #yeah it's fine my husband and i are good friends who share a room #it's not romantic #it's fine because he's in love with wangji anyway uncle #mind your own business uncle #lan qire is going to friggin die #of a qi deviation #nmj should give him some advice

[karenninaaa]

Iron Dad Bingo #2- Trope: Baby Stark

I wrote this on a whim while trying and failing to wake up my irondad muse. it’s been so long since i wrote an irondad fic. this idea just came out of nowhere while i was lounging in a coffee shop. you know the drill, not endgame compliant. tony lives. because that’s all i care about. sort of fix it.

title inspired by the lyrics of the song ‘Leaves’ by a filipino indie pop band ben&ben

Summary: A little girl offered Peter a candy to comfort him when Peter was a bit broken inside after the battle against Thanos had been won.

And all will be alright in time.

Peter was crouched down in the hallway of a hospital. The hallway was empty and the strong scent of antiseptic was wafting in the air. Peter lost track of how long he was in that position. It could have been minutes or hours. He didn’t quite remember anymore. The moment the doctors said that Mr. Stark was not in the critical condition anymore, Peter’s feet had started to drag him away, away from Miss Potts –no, Mrs. Stark now and Mr. Rhodes who were visibly worn out from the battle against Thanos and his armies earlier.

He wore a white t-shirt and gray sweatpants and a hoodie. He also did not remember who had given the clothes to him. Because it seemed like his brain was still filled with the adrenaline rush of the battle, of saving Earth and of surviving through. Everything felt like a blur. It felt like everything was moving in a fast forward motion and he was the only one who had remained in a freeze mode. 

He had been staring at that single white tiled floor and all he could think about was Mr. Stark almost dying. Almost. His brain had chosen that moment to keep on replaying in his head. Mr. Stark who was still as a statue, who wasn’t responding and whose heart was about to give up on beating.

Then the arc reactor shut off. The light had vanished and there was this terrible and dead silence that hit them like an invisible wave. It had knocked the breath out of Peter. It had been the longest awful one second of his life. Then there was a portal and Mr. Strange. Mr. Stark was being wheeled into the Operating Room with Dr. Strange in tow.

Then there was the good news.

Yes. Good news, something to be delighted about. But why Peter couldn’t bring himself to smile and instead tears were continuously falling from his eyes. He hugged his knees more tightly as he buried his face at the crook of his elbow.

Don’t get him wrong, it was a huge relief for him that Mr. Stark was alive. It truly was. The tears were for his own heart that constricted and squeezed at the sight of Mr. Stark who had been willing to give everything he got for the universe even if it meant was the expense of his life.

Mr. Stark, who in a short amount of time, had been a huge part in shaping who he should be as an Avenger, Mr. Stark who had filled the gaps of his days. Mr. Stark whom he had looked up to, Mr. Stark who had helped him with the relativistic mass-energy equation. And the thing was the thought that there would be no Mr. Stark in a new world that had been successfully saved, was a scary scary thought.

That was probably the tears were also for.

That he needed to dispense all those scary thoughts so he could finally smile.

“Do you want candy?”

Peter froze. He slowly lifted his head. A girl probably no older than 6 was standing in front of her. He was wearing a pink floral dress and a brown leather jacket partnered with black ankle boots. She had dark brown hair that reached her shoulder. Her brown eyes blinked at him. Though, there was something familiar with her eyes.

Peter blinked back and sniffed. “W-what?”

The girl played with her hair. “Well, my dad always offers me candy when I cried. It’s effective. It makes me stop crying immediately. Also, it makes me feel better. Though, I don’t think mom likes that dad always gives me candy.”

The corner of Peter’s mouth tugged forming a little smile. He cleared his throat. “Well, do you have candy?”

She fished out something in the pockets of her leather jacket. She extended her hand to him holding a wrapped candy. “I was saving it for later but it’s okay. You can have it.”

“Are you sure?” Peter asked.

She nodded. 

Gingerly, Peter accepted the candy. She stared at him, waiting for him to open up the candy. So Peter did. He popped the candy into his mouth. It was a lemon flavor.

“Well?” She tilted her head at him

Peter smiled. The candy reminded him of the candies that Mr. Stark had in a glass jar in the corner of his lab. It was comforting. “You’re right. It’s effective.”

“And you stopped crying too.” She noted.

Peter chuckled. “Did your dad give you this candy too?”

“No my mom did before she had left earlier.” She sat Indian style beside him. “She said she had some business she needed to attend to. I wanted to come because sometimes she let me come with her. But she said that children were not allowed to be there.”

“Why are you here anyway?” Before Peter knew it, he also started to sit comfortably on the floor. 

“My dad’s here.” It was her only answer as she drew circles with her small index finger on the floor.

“Oh,” Peter didn’t want to pry. The little girl frowned. He didn’t want to upset the kid even more.

“Why are you crying earlier?” She looked up at him.

Peter tried to find the right words. He spoke after a moment. “I was scared.”

“Do you want a hug?” She asked.

Peter couldn’t help but smile again.

“Mom and Dad always give me a hug when I was scared. Do you want one? It will make you better too.”

God, this kid was so adorable. Peter couldn’t help but mentally gushed. Instead of speaking, he spread his arms wide.

She beamed at him and stood up. She bent down a bit and wrapped her chubby tiny arms around his shoulder. She gently tapped his back. She spoke. Her voice was oddly soothing. “It’s alright. You’re going to be okay soon.”

Peter’s face crumbled right then. Involuntarily, his body shook when another sob escaped his lips. Then there were tears again.

“It’s okay.” This time, the girl rubbed his back. “It’s going to be alright now.”

Another strange thing was, the little girl’s words were like warm water washing over him. His taut shoulders started to loosen up. He started to deflate like a balloon in her little arms. He let himself believed her words because the war with bad aliens was over. He released the breathe he didn’t know he had been holding.

Peter pulled away from him sniffing again. His eyes were red and puffy. “Where did you learn that?”

Her brows knitted together. “Learn what?”

“Those words. How did you know how to comfort someone?”

“That’s what mom and dad always said and does when I’m upset and scared. It worked like magic, didn’t it?” She grinned at him.

“Your parents are lucky to have you,” Peter said softly.

“And I love them, three thousand.” She raised her three fingers for emphasis.

“Morgan!”

There was a male voice in the hallway somewhere in the distance.

“Oops. That’s me.” She sucked her thumb. “I should go. Bye-bye.” She waved her hand at him as she stepped back.

“Bye, bye.” Peter also waved his hand at her. “And Morgan, thank you.” He smiled earnestly at her as she continued to step back. “Look where you’re going, you might trip!” He pointed out.

She only giggled. “You’re welcome, Peter.” She then rounded the corner and disappeared.

“Yeah-” He froze. “Wait, what? How did she know my name?”

He sprang from his seat and ran to the corner where the kid had gone to. But the hallway was empty as if no single soul had been there a while back.

“W-what the fu-“

Earlier that day was one of the best times of Peter’s life because Mr. Stark had woken up. He was bouncing on his heels as he walked to Mr. Stark’s room together with aunt May. He was holding a bouquet. They stopped in front of Mr. Stark’s room. There was a muffled voice inside then followed by laughter. Peter grinned. He knocked and opened the door.

He stepped inside. “Mr. Stark-!”

He froze on the spot. Mr. Stark was truly awake as he beamed at him as if nothing life-threatening had happened earlier at the break of dawn, as if they hadn’t gone to a battle and fight for their lives. The upper part of his bed was slightly raised so he was in a half-sitting position. The burn on the side of Mr. Stark’s face was still fresh. There was a red bionic arm where his right arm used to be. The prosthetic was glinting under the pale fluorescent light. 

However, what made Peter froze was the kid who was snuggling beside Mr. Stark. His good left arm was wrapped around her. She was now looking shyly at him.

“You-” He pointed wide-eyed at the girl.

The girl only giggled as she snuggled closer to Mr. Stark’s chest.

“Oh, you’ve already met Morgan?” Mr. Stark’s eyes lit up.

“Y-yeah. . .” Peter answered slowly. “W-who is she again?”

Mr. Stark looked around to the people in the room. Pepper, Happy and Rhodey was there. “No one had bothered to tell him that she’s my daughter?”

“Daughter.” Peter echoed.

“In our defense boss,” Happy said. “We didn’t know that they have already met.”

Morgan looked up at his dad. “I gave him a candy daddy because he was crying.”

“Oh,” Mr. Stark’s gaze fell on Peter.

“Sweetie,” Pepper called Morgan. “Come on, let’s buy some cheeseburgers for dad.”

“Cheeseburgers!” Morgan gasped dramatically as she sat up abruptly. She immediately hopped down the bed. 

“God, you’re as bad as your dad,” Rhodey muttered.

“I heard that.” Tony pointed out. “And I take that as a compliment.”

Soon, Tony and Peter were the only people in the room as if their company had an unspoken agreement to give the two some alone time.Morgan blew a kiss to Peter before sauntering off holding her mom’s hand.

Peter remained on the same spot he had been earlier when he had first entered.

“What? You’re going to make me come to you?” Tony asked. “As you can see I’m quite indisposed as of this moment. Come here squirt.”

Peter stiffly walked towards him. He sat on the vacant seat next to Mr. Stark’s bed. Peter needed to sit. He looked down at the flowers on his lap.

He knew without looking that Mr. Stark was staring at him.

“I’m glad you’re back.”

“Me too,” Peter mumbled.

“Pete, look at me.” Mr. Stark said pleadingly. “I still couldn’t quite believe that everyone who had been dusted was back. I need some validation that you’re here.”

Peter looked up at him.

Mr. Stark smiled. “There you go. You’re here.”

“Don’t scare me like that ever again,” Peter said.

Mr. Stark raised an eyebrow at the hardness on Peter’s voice.

“You almost died.” He choked out.

“That’s part of my job.” Mr. Stark said.

“Then just retire already,” Peter said. 

“Oh, I plan on it. Besides, I have to take Morgan to school because Pep will probably be busy being the boss lady of the company.”

“I can’t believe you already have a daughter. “Peter said disbelievingly combing his hair with his hand. “It’s kinda hard to believe that years had already passed in here when it felt like a blink to me.”

“You’ll get used to it.” Mr. Stark assured him. He was looking softly at him. His eyes were bright, the side of his eyes crinkled. He had more white hair than Peter had remembered.

“Mr. Stark. . .” Peter swallowed. “Is everything going to be alright now?”

“Let’s allow ourselves to think that yes, it will be. Our world is messy but I’d like to hope that every passing moment that will come will be something worth celebrating for.”

There was the beat of silence before Tony spoke again. “Why did you cry? Did you cry because of me?”

“Because you scared me!”

“Now you already know what I felt when you’re out there donning that red and blue spandex.”

Peter was silent. He couldn’t argue with that.

He spoke after a beat. “So, uh, we’re even now, Mr. Stark?”

And all Mr. Stark could respond was a peal of hearty laughter as he threw his head back.

Peter smiled.

Yes, it’s going to be alright now.

#tony stark #peter parker #morgan stark #irondadbingo #ficlet #irondad and spider-son #karennina writes #karennina prompts

[ambrxsian]

✧·ﾟ(  hebe + inbar lavi + cis female   ) 𝒎𝒂𝒎𝒎𝒂 𝒎𝒊𝒂 !!  have you seen (   lorelei naji  ) around ? (  she  )  has been in kaos for (   twenty years   ). the (  twenty-eight  ) is a (  cafe owner   ) from (  marbella, spain  ). people say they can be (  envious   ) but maybe that’s not too bad ‘cause they can also be (  vivacious  ). whenever i think of them, i can’t help but think of ( the first golden light of dawn shining over the horizon, the child-like wonder of wishing of a shooting star, the smell of coffee first thing in the morning  ).  ·ﾟ✧

what’s up i’m steph, i’ve got my hat on backwards and it’s time to f*ckin party. and here we have lorelei, the local sweet, resilient, too passive and self-sacrificing café owner. she serves up the modern nectar of the gods: coffee. (luke danes who?) anyways hmu if you wanna plot or are interested in any of the connection ideas below!!

                                                      full bio | pinterest | playlist

TLDR; BIO — (tw: mentions of death)

born as the result of a whirlwind romance turned long-term relationship, lorelei’s and her siblings’ lives were turned upside down when their dad suddenly left after 8 years. packing up her children and her life, lorelei’s mother layla naji moved from marbella, spain to kaos, greece into the home of her older brother rahim and got a job as a curator at the local museum. meanwhile, uncle rahim took care of the kids. his carefree, child-like demeanor made every day fun. lorelei came to idolize him, and hung onto his every word (especially those in the stories of the gods and goddesses he’d tell.) 

he fell ill and passed away when lorelei was a teenager, and as the eldest she took up the role of “caretaker” for the family. placing school second on her priority list, lorelei worked two part-time jobs and deposited her paychecks into the family bank account or used them to buy groceries. her grades slipped, and the deadline to apply for colleges for the fall semester slipped by. 

lorelei never attended college, choosing instead to focus on her siblings success. she did begin taking online business classes, and through years of diligent, hard work opened up her own café called ambrosia & nectar cafe (inspired by the stories her dear uncle used to tell.)

HEADCANONS —

her favorite colors are hunter green and peachy pink

she often has her hair tied back for work, usually with colorful, patterned scarves and bandanas

she barely remembers her father

sometimes she feels she should miss him, but the only father-figure she misses is her uncle

he’s still her favorite person, and she thinks of him often

lorelei often visits her mother at the museum

she loves the stories of mythology and has fond memories of hearing them as a child

lorelei’s mother is from morocco, and has another younger brother who still lives there

lorelei’s younger brother is three years younger than her

her sisters are four years and six years younger, respectively

lorelei adopted her vivacious, youthful personality to fill the void her uncle left

when relaxed she’s peaceful, responsible, amiable, perfectionistic, and often stressed

the woman barely sleeps and thrives off of coffee someone make her take a nap

she rarely takes a moment for herself to rest, and could sincerely use someone with whom she feels safe enough to just relax

she’s an early riser (after so many years, it became a habit) and is often up and moving at 4am

her cafe closes at 3pm and only serves coffee drinks, smoothies, tea drinks, breakfast & brunch, lunch and snacks

she sometimes resents her family for the work she had to do for them, but at the same time focusing on them helped her grieve the loss of her uncle

she has tried to be one of those people who goes for a run, and decidedly is not

at most she’ll ride her bike

she can drive, but doesn’t have a car. she bikes or walks (mostly bikes)

she’s never travelled, but always wanted to

she used to think that she’d go to college somewhere brand new, maybe study abroad for a semester and see more of the world

unfortunately, that didn’t end up happening. she’s only ever been to marbella, kaos, and morocco for her grandmother’s funeral when she was a younger teen

she has moments of envy towards her siblings

she wants to be a plant person, but she can’t keep any plant alive. (she tends to over water them)

but she’s determined to fill her apartment with greenery anyway — but they’re all fake 

WANTED CONNECTIONS —

FAMILY FRIENDS: the naji family has lived on the island for the last 20 years, making them something of a staple in the community. perhaps your muse knew her uncle from elementary school, her mother from the museum, lorelei and her siblings from school, or maybe lorelei babysat for your muse’s family. wherever the relation began, the naji residence is like a second home for your muse. 

BEST FRIEND: lorelei takes on more than any one person should, and almost never lets down and relaxes. your muse would be somewhere she feels at peace, somewhere she can forget about her responsibilities for a moment and simply be herself. lorelei tends to let her friendships and relationships slip in the wake of her responsibilities, whoever this person is would have to be persistent and patient with her. 

DATE GONE WRONG: maybe lorelei was late because she worked too late, or they just didn’t hit it off, maybe it went well but lorelei never texted back. whatever the reason, things are somewhat awkward now (whether it be a mutual awkwardness, or one-sided.) all genders welcome! 

SUMMER ROMANCE: a past fling — it worked because it was never meant to last. they owed each other nothing, but acted as a welcome distraction for both parties. and when they both said their goodbyes after your muse went back to their life (wherever or whatever it may be), they never expected to meet again. ...and yet.

CAFÉ PATRONS: whether they’ve been drinking lorelei’s coffee since all she had was a street cart, or they’re new to the café itself, she values every customer (especially her regulars.) she’d work to remember their names, their orders, and any other tidbits of information they choose to share. 

#kaos:intro #if you're interested in plotting with this sweet (stressed) soul #hmu! #i'm up for p much everything

[andrewguyspeaks-blog]

Purpose Will Live Long After SuperHeroes Die: The Power of Purpose Beyond Black Panther!

The immortal power of purpose in action is undeniably the greatest legacy mankind or better yet, superhero can leave behind. 

Courtesy: Actor Chadwick Boseman(Jay L. Clendenin / Los Angeles Times )

Chadwick Boseman dead at 43 and many people are now wondering if there will be a BP2, #blackpanther2. My answer is an emphatic...YOU BET THERE WILL! Even if #WillSmith had to hang up his Fresh Princely  robe and assume the role of #BlackPanther, without a doubt, a BP2 will emerge. I mean...you can LOL, but they may call me or you to play BP2. You just never know. But all jokes aside... The #Creator of all things, including humanity, is far too creative to not have a future plan. The death of #chadwickboseman, a brilliant expression of creativity-in-motion is a shock to the millions who adored his work as a professional screen #actor, #speaker and performer.

Consider this scenario: The Misunderstanding Many Face.

Imagine you ordered a hot Domino's  pizza on a Friday night as you sat with you boys and or gals waiting patiently for the delivery boy to show up with one slice of your pizza missing...Are you kiddin' Me? Where's that deliver guy? I'm calling TONY! THIS IS RIDICULOUS! I WANT MY PIZZA BACK! Wow, wow...Andrew! Straighten up, Squash the beef and Pump your breaks...who is...Tony? BRUH...! Are you serious? I thought this was supposed to be a SERIOUS MESSAGE to the fans of Black Panther superhero, Chadwick Boseman, your follower and blog readers? Now, who the heck is Tony for #FCOL...For Crying Out Loud? Are you saying I'm supposed to just let this go, bro? Oh no! I ordered a full pizza and that's what I expected; not some crummy leftover pizza with a missing chunk and the delivery boy goes mute while standing at the door with his stretched out dry crusty palm, and beady eyes staring at me expecting a tip. I DON'T THINK SO! NO TIP FOR YOU! Bro, don’t you think you are overreacting here? Some would say. My response...I DON'T THINK SO!  Playing the devil’s advocate is easier said than done. The fact is, anyone would be upset if that had happened to them,  but can you blame me? I mean, who wouldn't be ticked-off, perplexed, and outraged if their expectations were cut short. 

Follow me on this, if you will. Imagine the millions of fans waiting for the sequel of movie that started an unforgettable movement, but only to be cut short of knowing #BP2 (Black Panther II) may not even be played by Chadwick Boseman. What a shock to the visual senses and the cinematic experience of reliving Boseman on the giant screen...hypothetically speaking. I'm sure you would. It's called human beings, being human because they have the ability to comprehend what it means to experience the defeat of loss. In case you missed the purpose and meaning of the message during the Columbo-TONY "Case of the missing slice..."

The metaphorical pun from the pizza animated story is that the pizza is no longer complete if part is missing. Even it’s only a slice. I get it, Andrew, you say. I...get it, bro.  Maybe you do, but you probably don't. Truth is, some will and some won't. BUT there's still a small chance that the light bulb may turn on for some, and the reality of reading between the lines may kick in speedly after knowing that this conversation goes far deeper than the smell of a hot oven or the taste of a risen crust pizza with your favourite toppings. This is not food for thought. The real message is about life, knowing you are going to die some day, living purposefully, understanding your gift, using your talent to skillfully serve others while making a difference and having a positive impact on the next generation. 

It’s about being passionately alive, savouring the meaningful moments as they come, and being able to stand out from the crowd, while fully aware of who you are in this world.

And you say...Andrew E. Guy...WOW! Eureka! OMG! Holy...God, and not the cow!

Andrew, I see it now. Your message is clearly a wake up call to everyone who don't know their purpose for living and those who think they do, but could be doing the wrong life-assignment and living for the crowd.

This is genius. So let me get this right. If I understand this correctly, you are saying #chadwickboseman represents the missing slice of the pizza and while many are hurting because the world will no longer be the same because of Chadwick Boseman's death, the missing slice and a voice in the black community is irreplaceable. 

The Black Panther star will be forever missed.

There have been many deaths this year. Consequently, none of which are coincidental. In each of these death, include that of #GeorgeFloyed, should cause us to reflect on our role in life. 

This leads me to take stock of all the blessings I currently have despite the difficulties I faced in the earlier part of 2020. This year has shock me to the core. It has been a difficult year for me so far: I lost my dad, and my mom got really sick and was hospitalized for many weeks, but by God's grace she made a full recovery. 

Some may call it Knock-on-wood, but I stand on faith believing that time heals all wounds and I'm still hopeful and optimistic of tomorrow and what's to come. We have lost a lot of significant people this year, and my heart goes out to anyone whom have suffered the loss of loved ones in 2020. 

To the Boseman family, his friends, colleagues, business associates and the millions of fans around the globe, this is not the end, but the beginning of something much greater than we've seen in decades.  

And yes, it's sad and it does hurt to see Chadwick Boseman go but even purpose is time-sensitive. And the quicker we accept that everything happens in its time, the faster will be our recovery from the shackles of old wounds and past traumatic experiences. Time is the master, but the Creator is the regulator.  A piece of earth is gone and many have said, that's too soon. But the reality is that even the sports legends and superheroes of our grown-up and childhood dreams must die and go to their perspective places of rest so that new super heroes can take their rightful place in history. Whether you like it or not, we all have to go one day. Some today, others tomorrow....but all one day!

The #goodnews is that the greater part of our legacy lives on...long after the grave.

#ChadwickBoseman will always be remembered, especially for his unforgettable speech on

"The Power of Purpose."

Boseman’s speech is a clear reminder that the most powerful attribute of mankind is the racialization of knowing our purpose in #thecircleoflife, but there's something even greater than knowing.

Any idea what's greater than having the knowledge of something? I'll tell you. It's living that purpose with such passion that others are motivated and inspired by you, but your Creator gets the glory from everything we do. I call this actively pursuing greatness instead of being chased by mediocrity.  

In closing, many have said that there are two major moments in one’s life: the day you were born and the day you die. 

After pondering these cliches and their temporary meanings, It is clear that there are 3 vitally significant areas of existing: the day when you are granted life. 

I call this the gift of life; next is the day when you take action to unwrap your life-gift, discovery your life-assignment (what you were created to do). I call this living; and finally, the greater part of your life and living is the culmination of being ALIVE.

This I call the day when you become aware of who you are, why you are different and so unique from every other creation that you can never be replicated; that one day you will die; that there's only one of you and once your physical time on earth is over, all there is are memories of what you used to be. It is at this time when the cobwebs disappear, the light bulb turns on, your eyes are opened, and your vision, mission and values become so clear that you abandon every other assignments for the purpose and function you were designed to fulfill before you die. Chadwick,  you are the missing slice of our global pizza that the world has seen and behold, and will never taste again, but will only relive the flavoursome moments you've created from your expressed creativity. Thank you for stopping by.  Rest well my brother. RIP. 

About The Author:

Official Website: www.andrewguyspeaks.com Podcast: https://bit.ly/32AyHCN Books by Andrew: Work Your Words | The Anatomy of The Kingdom

Andrew is a bestselling author, best known for “Work Your Words: Finding Your Pathway To Personal Success. He's the host of the Newly Disruptive Podcast “I’M LISTENING I’M READY” ™, a weekly podcast for people and professionals on the go who wants to make positive changes in their lives, where they “LIVE, WORK, & PLAY!”™ ** Sat. @ 10 AM EST

Andrew is a firm believer that "it's not where you start on the track of life, it's how you run the race of living that matters. Through his engaging talks, he inspires executive staff, municipal and city officials, business men and women, developing professionals, school districts, teachers and students,  to develop a deeper understanding of purpose, strive to find meaning in all you do, develop skills, improve relationships, know who you are in your area of expertise.

#chadwick #black superheroes #andrew E Guy #Great blog posts on purpose #Know your life's purpose #living your dreams #ILIR-Podcast #positive messages on purpose #death of chadwick Boseman article #motivational blog posts #goodnews is that the greater #sports legends #Black Panther II #Purpose Will Live Long After SuperHeroes Die #The Power of Purpose Beyond Black Panther! #Creator of all things #chadwick boseman

[keepingupwithlinmanuel]

Lin-Manuel Miranda interview: from Hamilton to His Dark Materials

I know Hamilton remains wildly popular more than four years after it premiered on Broadway because of the intense response to my Instagram post boasting I have tickets to watch it the evening before meeting its creator, Lin-Manuel Miranda. "It's one of my absolute favourite things in the world ever!" raves one correspondent. "It's WONDERFUL and I defy you not to download the soundtrack afterwards," adds another. "I went last night! Second time. You're gonna love it."

The problem, however, is that I'm not sure I will love it. When theatre is great, it's the best thing on the planet, but when it is bad, as I have learnt from the bitter experience of watching three-hour open-air adaptations of Dickens' novels, it is the worst. Musicals are especially challenging: in my experience, you either like them or you don't, and given one of the few I have enjoyed was Avenue Q, which subverted the form, I'm in the latter camp.

Then, on top of this, there is the pressure of hype (and Hamilton has been more hyped than anything this side of the moon landings), and the challenge of taking hip-hop, which I love, out of an urban setting. It can easily go a bit Wham Rap!, or even worse, if you've seen the video, Michael Gove performing Wham Rap!.

It is, however, pretty good. The last thing the world needs is another long review of Hamilton, and I can't say I downloaded the soundtrack afterwards or that I didn't look at my watch occasionally, but using rap to retell the dry story of the founding fathers is inspired, and I'm so relieved that I blurt out my review to the 39-year-old writer and performer when I meet him in a restaurant in Fitzrovia. "I do find that with both Hamilton and In the Heights, my first show," responds the award-winning composer, lyricist and actor, "I get a lot of people who say to me, 'I don't really like musicals, but I loved this.' I attribute that to a very simple thing: my wife, who doesn't really like musicals. She didn't grow up going to see them, or doing theatre. She's a lawyer; when we met, she was a scientist. I have a higher bar to clear than most composers, because my first audience is my wife, and it can't just be a pretty tune."

You might recognise his wife, Vanessa Nadal, whom he met at high school, from the video of the couple's wedding reception in 2010, which like everything Miranda touches, went viral, and shows him performing the Fiddler on the Roof song To Life to his beloved.

Even my withered heart may have been momentarily lifted by it. She has accompanied her husband with their two young sons, aged one and four, to Britain, where he is filming a part in the BBC's slick new adaptation of Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials, though the reason he is in London today is that he has just been the subject of an episode of Desert Island Discs. The New Yorker takes a takes a swig of his coffee, which he tells me he chose as his luxury on his island ("I'm so basic"), adjusts his yellow baseball cap and asks me a question about the unsolicited review: "Why did you feel the need to say it?" There follows the most painful recording I've ever had to listen back to, as I make a bunch of ludicrous generalisations about musicals, speculating that perhaps they divide men from women, or the working classes from the middle classes, or straight people from gay people, or white people from brown people. It only strikes me a few minutes in that not only is Miranda living proof that the generalisations are nonsense, but I am essentially explaining musicals to a world expert in the form - a man who, before the age of 40, has a Pulitzer prize, three Tony awards, three Grammys, an Emmy, a MacArthur Fellowship, a Kennedy Center Honor, two Olivier awards, one Academy award nomination and two Golden Globe nominations to his name.

"Where do you want to start?" he responds with what is, in retrospect, startling patience. "You brought in all this cultural baggage and you're laying it at my feet and I don't know which bag to open." Another swig of coffee. "I think with musicals, it has to do with the way in which you interact with music in your own life. I grew up in a culture where dancing and singing at weddings was supercommon. So, if that's corny to you growing up, or you're taught to believe that's corny or unbelievable, then of course you're not going to like musicals."

...

He spent much of those years doing a bunch of badly paid, disparate jobs, which, given his nature, he nevertheless enjoyed. They included working as an English teacher at his former high school. ("I loved my curriculum. The class was exhilarating once I realised the less I talked, the more they learnt. I saw a future in which I taught at my old high school for 30 years and was very happy.") He wrote for a local paper as a columnist and restaurant reviewer. ("What kind of restaurant reviewer was I? Not very discriminating. If a new restaurant opened, I would go and eat some stuff and say, 'Hey, we have a Thai restaurant. I get to eat first at it. This is great!' ") And he made guest appearances on a number of TV shows including The Sopranos and House. What kind of roles was he being offered at the time? "I wasn't getting any roles! I was always the Latino friend of the white guy in the lead. And so centring ourselves in the drama, telling our own stories, is a big part of In the Heights, my first musical."

An unexpected thing about meeting Miranda is how instinctively he turns to the topic of his first musical, In the Heights, rather than Hamilton - not least when he talks about how he spent one month each year as a child with his grandparents in Vega Alta, Puerto Rico, and was inspired by the gap between his worlds. "In Puerto Rico we were doctors and lawyers. And we're cabbies in New York; we're for the most part the poorer segment of society, and on TV we were always thieves and we were always the Sharks. In the Heights was a response to that. It was, 'Are we allowed to be on stage without having a knife in our hands?' " But then he has spent part of the summer filming a movie version of that musical, which is set over the course of three days, involving characters in the largely Hispanic-American neighbourhood. It is also the project that changed his life most dramatically. The more recent success of Hamilton rather eclipses the fact that his first show, which he began writing in the late Nineties when he was still a student at Wesleyan University, Connecticut, was also wildly successful. After success off-Broadway, the musical went to Broadway, opening in March 2008 and ending up being nominated for 13 Tony awards, winning four, including best musical and best original score.

...

Miranda, described as "a fantasy of the Obama era", has since been active in politics, lobbying and fundraising for Puerto Rico and performing with Ben Platt at the March for Our Lives anti-gun-violence rally in Washington DC on March 24, 2018. Does he feel demoralised by the drift of politics to the far right? "The thing about us all being connected online is that you can read all of the worst news from all over the world and be overwhelmed. You can't let it all in; just act on what you can act on." Should Trump be ignored or fought every step of the way? "It's hard to even discuss it, right, because Trump will have outraged us on two new things in the next [few hours], as soon as he wakes up, and it won't be relevant by the time we're having this conversation. And the same with Brexit, which is just as uncertain."

What did he make of Trump's revival of the phrase "Get back to where you came from" in relation to Democrat politicians? "It's unacceptable. Just because he said it doesn't mean it's acceptable." He leans back in his seat. "Here's my fear of getting into this with you: every time I've done a UK interview, I've said incredible shit and Trump's always the headline, even if I've only said two lines about it. So I'm happy to talk about it, but I'm really scared it's going to be the headline."

I risk another question. Would Miranda ever run for office? "It's funny - I remember when I was a teenager, my dad got approached by pretty serious people about running for a state Senate seat, and he said no. I asked, 'Why?' He said, 'I don't want to have to watch my mouth.' And for me, it's similar. I also have seen in my life, first-hand, the people who get addicted to running, and it's like their moment passed, but they're still running for something, because they're chasing that thrill of winning, and it's about much more than representing the constituents. I would never want to get stuck in that cycle or that pattern. It's more fun writing songs than doing any of that."

Read the rest here behind the Times paywall.

#lin manuel miranda #times uk #hamilton #politics and advocacy #in the heights #Interviews

[thedistantstorm]

Dawning Delights 04: The Sounds of the Season

Summary: Hawthorne invites her newfound family in the Tower to experience a City-Style Dawning with the family that took her in years ago. The holiday is not without it’s charm, or aggravation, and certainly has plenty of surprises in store. A season-inspired, trope-tastic story about a family forged by something greater than blood, finding reasons to enjoy the season - and cherish each other. Main Post

Pairings: Hawthorne/Zavala, Sloane/Amanda, Devrim/Marc

Updated every Tuesday/Friday & both holiday eve and days for Christmas and New Years.

-/

Something is different about the Tower. There’s usually some manner of ruckus, chaos, or conflict that puts the entirety of the wall on high alert, but this is nothing like that. Things are almost… tranquil. Guardians are running around as usual, but Zavala cannot discern any immediate threat or danger, only that there is a deviation beyond the decorations within the Tower proper.

He lingers a few minutes longer. Then, deciding not to press the issue, he heads to the Bazaar to speak with Ikora.

Upon his arrival to the other open air area of the Tower, he discovers that something seems off here, too. However, he’s distracted by Ikora’s presence beside Hawthorne, upon her ledge.  Whatever they’re conversing about, it doesn’t seem to be serious. Suraya’s shoulders are back, not raised and uncomfortable.

He strides up the steps to the tiny ledge, together the three of them are very nearly crowded together.

“Ah,” Ikora hums, stepping into the doorway that leads up to an upper patio. “Good morning, Commander.”

“Hey,” Suraya says, far less formal. “What’s up?”

“Do you notice anything strange?” He asks them both.

“Oh, we have,” Ikora nods. “I’ve heard that infuriating about a hula hoop five times in the last two hours.”

“Song?”

Hawthorne gestures to a speaker woven seamlessly into the bits and baubles that decorate the Tower. “Holiday songs. Golden age ones. I don’t know who this ‘Alvin’ or his ‘Chipmunks’ are, but they’re a special kind of torture.”

“I agree.” Ikora waves a hand. “Perhaps if we send our fireteams out with this heinous assault to the senses our enemies would give up and leave the system.”

“I don’t think a song would-”

The Warlock Vanguard interrupts, her voice stern. “Just wait. You’ll understand it, I assure you.”

-/

It's a catchy song from a dead religion. It takes two hours for him to hear the song on the Tower PA - apparently Ikora had sent Ophiuchus to intervene - but when he does, the strange, high-pitched quality of their voices is incredibly irritating. The melody is… something.

Before he knows it, it's stuck in his head.

Even his Ghost can't take it.

She appears before him, annoyed. "I'm going to see if Eva will turn this off. Or at least change it to something - anything else,” She says aloud, annoyed. “If we have to listen to this for the next two weeks, I don't know what I'll do."

He doesn't get a word in before she zips off, delicately drifting over the heads of officers and Guardians to seek out the celebration's mistress of ceremonies.

When she returns, he feels it. She does not linger in the physical realm.

"Apparently, the frames really like them."

"Like whom?" Zavala thinks back through their link.

"Those... chipmunks."

Zavala turns to look out over the City, and does his best to clear his mind. He has another hour before his lunch hour and the entirety of his afternoon are double booked with meetings and office appointments. Even with centuries of practice in meditation, he cannot seem to escape the abysmal melodies that play.

Across the way, Shaxx is shouting sharply, irked more than usual. Meanwhile, Arcite sways happily to the beat of a song about silver and gold that makes no sense.

He's nearly tuned it all out when:

"ARCITE, IF YOU SING THAT CHORUS ONE MORE TIME, I WILL THROW YOU OVER THE BLOODY RAILING!"

Zavala blinks his eyes away from the Core, white and shining in the distance. He knows that's an empty threat. Arcite is Shaxx's most trusted, unendingly loyal partner. But an outburst like that is bound to cause more harm than good for the Guardians in the Crucible, and, more importantly, Zavala needs to get him sorted out before-

"Nothing changes around here, I see," Comes a growl, further back. Shaxx falls silent, crossing his arms and scoffing.

"Arcite," Shaxx croons almost lovingly to the frame, "Forget I said anything. Sing, dance, enjoy the season." Quieter, he asks, "And see if you can't get the frame in charge of the PA system to play more of those offensive tracks with those squeaking rodents. I'm sure the old man will love them."

Zavala rubs his temples. He can already tell half of his afternoon will be mediating their squabbles. Between meetings in which he is also mediating other people's squabbles. At least his office does not have one of those speakers routed through it.

-/

Suraya returns home late. Nothing of issue, just much to do, and not enough time in the day. He's already in bed, but the sound of the door opening is enough to put him on alert and set aside his crochet. Unlike her, he does know when to set aside his projects before he falls asleep.

He hears the sound of her footfalls, quiet, almost silent across the wood floor. She brushes her teeth, washes her face, and returns to the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of water. Then, he knows, she comes to the bedroom, quietly pushing open the door for fear of waking him on the off chance he's nodded off.

"Hey," She whispers, not needing to be loud.

"Hello." He pats the bed beside him and she begins shucking off her clothes.

When she's down to undergarments, she trades the top half for a shirt that doesn't belong to her and slips between the blankets he's peeled away to welcome her in. "So," She begins, grinning, "How much do you love me?"

He tsks. "That depends. How many laws have you broken?"

"None," She chimes brightly. "Changed woman." Her eyes search his. "Thought you knew that."

"Mmm," He hums indulgently. "And yet, when you ask me something like this, I can't help but wonder what fires I'll be putting out come first light."

"Again, none." He looks at her with the full weight of his gaze, every ounce Vanguard Commander. She doesn't back down, which comes as a relief. Instead, she yields, "I mean, the frames might be a little upset."

"The frames?"

She pushes herself against him, tucking her head against the pillow and looking up at him. He can see the exhaustion on her features from this angle. "I stopped by to see my dad. Grabbed an," She rolls her eyes but her lips quirk into a quick, tiny smile, "Alternative to what the frames have been playing all day. Should be just light enough to keep everyone from a murderous rampage, but also satisfy the frames and their very weird desire to hear bells jingling and whatnot."

"The frames can-"

She nods into his bare chest. "I also asked Ikora to help encrypt the files. They need her security clearance. I offered to add yours, but she's confident no one will get past her."

Suraya pushes his chest, and he rolls onto his back without protest. Despite her tiredness, she swings herself atop him. "So," She asks again, cheeky, "How much do you love me?"

Blue eyes meet hers intently. "You're incredible," He breathes, hands finding her hips. She tilts her head back, anticipating his response, but he flips them, letting her sink into the mattress. She does so bonelessly, eyes sinking shut and opening slowly a few seconds later. "Sleep."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"You know I love you," He rumbles, low and rough, pulling the duvet up and over her. He decides not to comment that she’d absolutely have acted outside of her jurisdiction and used his encryption codes if Ikora had decided it necessary.

"Mmm," She agrees, waiting for him to turn out the lights before scooching a little closer to him. "But how much?" She asks, her words slurring when he nudges his knees against the back of hers, pulling her against him in a loose, one-armed embrace.

"Enough to show my gratitude to you in the morning, Suraya."

"That's a lot," She decides.

He chuckles, soft and warm in her ear. "You have no idea."

-/

"I need to speak with you," Zavala bids him early the next morning. The fires crackle and pop, creating a thick heat that warms Saladin's entire area. Beneath them, Shaxx is already yelling, though he stops to holler a hearty greeting to the Clan Stewardess as she heads to her post for the morning.

"About?" Saladin is curt, but it does not bother Zavala. He's used to things being nearly terse and rather business-like within the confines of the Tower. Though the Iron Lord holds no actual title of power in the City, he is treated as though he does.

"A matter for the holiday." He lowers his voice. "Suraya is having everyone over to her family's home."

Saladin's stern nature is unyielding. "And she wishes to invite me?"

"We both would," Zavala intones. "It's hardly a secret that we have been seeing each other."

"And we're to celebrate with her family.”

"Yes. A casual affair. Food, drink, and found family, as she calls it."

He strokes his chin once. "Hm. That's all?"

"Yes," Zavala agrees. "We aren't doing gifts or anything like that."

"And?"

Zavala muses, "Shaxx is invited, but Amanda has dedicated herself to keeping him in line."

Saladin's eyes narrow. "Anything else?"

"Not that I am aware of."

"You're sure?" Saladin's right eyebrow rises almost imperceptibly.

The Commander shakes his head. "It may get out of hand, I was told these things do," He supposes to his old mentor. "Please don't feel obligated to attend, we just wished to extend the invitation-"

"Obviously I'm going to attend," Saladin interjects. The Iron Lord resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Tell her I would be honored." He turns Zavala around with a wide palm, and Zavala straightens when a large arm bars across his upper back to usher him away. "Let's walk and talk, shall we?" Saladin's usual growl turns lower. "You're sure there's nothing else about this gathering I need to know?"

"I don't believe so."

"No surprises?"

Zavala turns his head to regard his mentor's face, his lips pursing for a second. "I am working on bringing Devrim home, as a surprise for Suraya, but that is a secret. No one knows."

Saladin hums. When they're further away from everyone, overlooking the mountains beyond the wall, he releases Zavala, tucking one fist into the other hand behind his back. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. His head tilts, waiting. "And?"

"And what?"

"Try again, and remember that I speak to Tyra quite frequently."

"Tyra?"

"Tyra Karn-"

Zavala waves a hand. "I know, I know, but-" He stops abruptly, falling still. Those earnest blue eyes are blown wide, glowing brighter in momentary panic.

"There it is," Saladin mutters in his usual growl.

"Devrim would not have told her," Zavala hastily replies.

"He didn't have to. You came looking for him." He doesn't quite smirk back at Zavala, but his gaze is amused. "You may as well waved a flag with your intentions on it."

"I was cautious," Zavala points out.

"Certainly," Saladin barks, "But she doesn't miss a trick." He thumps the other Titan once on the back. There is a passing silence, then, "Well? Explain yourself this instant!"

Zavala jumps, quick to make eye contact and collect his thoughts so that he can comply with the request.

He's nervous, Saladin realizes, but he cannot help himself. As Zavala begins outlining his plan (taking great care to confirm no one is around to overhear), Saladin graces him with the rarest of smiles, proud and true.

"This is what you want?" He asks his former charge, when he's finished. It's a loaded question, but Saladin knows Zavala would consider every angle, even the less pleasant ones of a decision like this. It cannot be taken lightly.

"Yes," Zavala’s reply is immediate. "More than I have wanted anything else." Thoughtful, but without hesitation. Zavala is sure to meet his eyes, to hold Saladin's scrutinous gaze.

The last of the Iron Lords nods. His arm comes around Zavala's back again, squeezing once before releasing. He allows himself to feel that bittersweet feeling, let it honey the gravel in his voice. "Then make it so."

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#destiny fanfiction #commander zavala #lord shaxx #ikora rey #lord saladin #suraya hawthorne #holiday carols #aka those really annoying songs that won't get out of your head #apparently the frames *love* them #shaxx hating saladin hatting shaxx (but not really) #destinydawningfanfic